The sands of Israel gave way as hundreds of mounted knights ascended the dune and stopped on its crest. Surcoats fluttering in the desert wind, the chainmail that they partly obscured glowed brightly under the harsh sun. Restless steeds, heavily armored as their knights were, stirred under their reins, and the heavy helms at the front of the formation dipped downwards as grim faces observed the sight below: the Saracen militia had engaged theirs while the trusty light cavalry raised from Breton lands had intercepted the Moslem knights, preventing an attack from their counterparts. Half a minute went by, and when the right wing of the formation took shape, the company commander, Cadwal of Godwyn, raised high his sword with his left hand and shouted high, his voice lilting over the sounds of clashing iron:

"Battle-brothers! Noble warriors of God! Today, we drink from the cup of glory! [b][color=red]CHARGE[/color]![/b]"

It was a short rallying cry, but the proper speech had been given before the battle by Lord Godfrey. And so the knights followed the ranks in front of them as they began their descent, lances couched. Wind made capes of the loose-fitting surcoats of some warriors as they gained speed, and as the enemy grew larger to the eye as the distance closed, fear melted away into exhilaration in their hearts as they accepted what was to come. Cadwal, appropriately enough, was the one to deliver the first blow: his lance breaking into splinters as it caved in the back of a filthy Moslem. And as the charge brought its full weight upon the miserable peasants in arms, the enemy began to flee in fear. 

The battlefield reflected itself on [url=http://www.roleplayerguild.com/topics/75166/posts/char#post-2323135]Timothy[/url]'s spectacles as he adjusted them. A rolling of the scroll wheel zoomed him out from the view, and he ordered his light cavalry to retreat from the heavier ones they were harassing with a mouse click: perhaps a little unnecessary, as his knights' charge had broken the enemy so much that it freed quite a number of his spear militia, a unit of which was automatically beginning to harry the Moslem heavy cavalry.

He watched as crude, two-dimensional blood spurted from the headless neck of a dying enemy and as the red fountain bathed the dismounted knight who made the kill, and found it good. The battle was all but won, and he would march to the gates of Jerusalem in the next turn.

Wearing headphones in the corner of his room, Tim was having fun with Medieval II: Total War on his laptop.