I have written my post and send it to be delivered by my fastest footman. No doubt it is reaching the field now, where it shall stand as a missive which only one such as I might grant. My warband is chattering around their fires, hungry for the blood of battle. Perhaps with this, a GM post may be soon achieved. Only General Pavone knows for certain. In the meantime, you are all invited to my longtent (and in the case of low turnout, a proceeding adjurnment to the neighbouring shorttent) for giant smoked bird legs and fine, frothy ale.
Do not mistake m'lady Matilde for a serving wench, as she is a warring wench and is likely to sever your arm. Instead, rely upon the services of Katrine, my serving wench. Also, you may rely somewhat on Karl, my serving fool.