the dark mass of dust on the horizon signifies the coming storm, the men riding across the desert with purpose. their scouts had already been spotted and the town prepared. those who could have already fled, taking their families and their valuables with them on the road to the south, hoping that the bandits they might meet will not take everything. as the sun rises through the mid-morning the slow, deep sound of the horses starts to be heard, barely audible, felt more through the soles of the feet than by the ears. instead of panic a grim determination overtakes those stood at the walls, their armour old and poorly fitting but still strong, their swords are sharpened and ready. as they look out they can see the figures through the dust. a thousand devils approach, wearing helmets wrapped in furs and strung with worn bones of enemies. the sounds of their heathen prayers layer the wind.