Most people who weren't in garb use the shadows and interiors of the cars to change back into it, with a few exceptions. (Raoulin wraps a camouflaged cloak over himself and near abouts disappears.) 

Sergia eats one Oreo and determines that 1) they don't really suit the ambiance and 2) she's too full of anticipation to experience it properly. She puts her tunic on over her shirt and swaps her jeans for leggings under cover of its length, then exits the car. If other folks are armoring up she'll go to the trunk and get hers.

Other folks are armouring up, and they're armouring into nicer gear than Sergia normally sees - pulling out relics that would be too nice to let people batter with rattan for practice, and in some cases too nice to admit owning without inviting questions. 

Nicole is visibly not armouring up. She disappears into the back of a car for a bit and re-emerges wearing a spotless white dress and a noticeable amount of jewellery. She's cut the dress well above her knee and slitted it, too, so she can move in it - but it otherwise looks like a fairly accurate medieval French outfit. A very simple steel sword hangs at her hip from a hanger of thin silvery chains and wrought steel, the hilt wrapped in wire and white leather.

"Sergia! You all ready?" 

Sergia gets armored up! None of her stuff is super nice, because she only recently became confident she wasn't going to get any taller, but it's well made and well maintained, with a lamellar cuirass and gauntlets both in stainless steel. She's dug the nice cloth covers for her plastic thigh and forearm pieces out from the bottom of the bag and put them on too, for this, and her helmet is tucked under her arm so she can see what she's doing for a little longer.

"I'm ready."

"No you're not!" Flavia protests enthusiastically. "How will we possibly find you if you get lost in the dark?" 

"You don't smell of the household," Raoulin agrees. "Traditionally this can be fixed by licking people-" 

"Or peeing on them!" Lluwellin interjects slightly too gleefully. "Like cats, and wolves!" 

"I don't know, Sergia, do you have any ideas as to how we could make sure you smell of Rosemary? Maybe we all need to share gear and develop a nuclear level shared fighter funk?" 

Nicole is rolling her eyes because she thinks this household tradition is very silly but she's willing to play along because everyone else finds it wildly amusing. 

"We could all take up smoking," she says, because it's Wrong Answers Only hours. 

"That would make us worse at fighting," Oste objects mildly. He is still doing up straps on his armour but has moved over to stand nearby and listen. "Maybe some kind of flavour vape? Flavia, do the youth these days like flavour vapes?"

"I guess we could use those. But I don't think any of them would uniquely identify us?" Flavia answers with mock thoughtfulness, chin in hand. "They're all stupid smells like watermelon or pink lemonade." 

"What smell could possibly identify a house named after a feminine personal name from fifteenth century England?" 

"Roses!" Colyne offers, because it is Wrong Answers Only hours.

"Cinnamon?"

"Great idea. Sir Nicole, do you have any cinnamon on you?" 

"I only have this stuff," Nicole answers apologetically because she is playing along with the bit.

Nicole has a handful of the rosemary she bought earlier. She will toss it over Sergia's head like confetti. "Does this help?" 

Sergia grins, and tries and fails to catch a piece out of the air (she wouldn't have succeeded even without her gauntlets on, but with them it's utterly hopeless). "I think it does!"

"Oh yeah. Now I can tell she's one of us," Raoulin agrees enthusiastically. He also throws a handful of rosemary at Sergia. 

Flavia has accumulated a giant fistful of rosemary through various nefarious means and is determined to get it in Sergia's hair, down the back of her armour, into Sergia's socks, and up her own nose. 

Pfffffhahaha. She picks some bits of rosemary out of her shirt and throws them back at Flavia. "This is definitely the best I have ever smelled while in armor." She has a household and they're so good! 

Ludmila gently pours her handful with a tilted hand over Sergia's head as though baptising her.

Oste and Johannes each have a fistful which they bump Sergia's shoulder with.

Lluwellin flicks a few of the bits at her playfully, like he's darting up and throwing knives.

Colyne and Fearchar and Violet all throw rosemary over her head like confetti from different angles.

By the end she smells very thoroughly like the household, and so does everyone else who got it all over themselves.

"Our war cry is For l'amour, for Adele's really good French cooking, especially for baked camembert with rosemary in and also for - for - for -" Flavia cannot keep a straight face long enough to commit to the bit. "FOR HONOUR AND GLORY!" 

Nicole sort of thinks a hug might be appropriate here but she isn't anywhere near in the right mindset for that, not with all her battle jewellery on. All the silver makes her too spiky.

She offers Sergia a clasped hand and some serious eye contact instead. "We will talk about squiring you properly later, but for now welcome to Rosemary." 

Handclasp! "Thank you! It's good to be here."

"Let's go kick some ass."

Deep within the shadowed woods, an Atlantian banner is flying.

To the banner gather the dragonslayers. Flickering orange torchlight reflects off their steel armour, gilds the soft edges of their cloaks and their hair, and catches in their eyes. When the world is bathed in sunset orange, it is impossible for the eye not to be drawn to the places where magic sparkles and glimmers; a silvery slender blade here, a bright glint of green in an amulet there, a pale blue light around the king and his banner. 

Atlantia answers the call. 

As Rosemary thread their way through the trees to the banner, someone somewhere lifts up a voice. It is an old warrior's voice, rough-hewn but strong:

Picked up a sword when I was young...