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Through out the night the fires of Ascalon burned, a hard red glow on the horizon. Flames licked up behind the towering walls of the sea-side fortress, and the anguished cries of the defenders rang out. Men and women screamed, children wailed, and there was the distinct crack and collapse of homes taken by the fire, bowing inward as their supports were eaten away.
The Christian camp sat a watch upon the inferno, launched as it was from the great arms of their war machines. They chanted holy verse loud as they could, or blew horns and beat drums, they made a racket of holy noise to keep the Saracen awake and frightened. Those Christians who did not join this noisome watch, this celebratory vigil on the fires of the alien city, slept the night away.
On watch on the western edge of the camp were men of Tripoli, old campaigners of Northern Jerusalem. One yawned into his hand, eyes gummy, waiting for his shift to end so he might curl up in his tent with his plump seamstress. His neighbour hung almost half asleep on his spear, a younger man confident of their security at this distant perimeter.
Such youthful arrogance could lead to danger for all...
> roll 1d100, best of three