Etudes: #03 - Ascalon, from below the rising sun

In the hazy, delusional manner of cities beheld in the distance
from the desert, Ascalon meets your eye, still ungodly
leagues away, appearing below Jerusalem's rising sun. In the
silence of the foreboding morn, the port city screams and
boils ahead; the dark, unnatural city of zealots and bigotry;
the walled citadel of artificial nation, it is carved out of
bleached bone in an unparallaled triumph of human futility.
As you ride towards its unconstant silhouette, sweat runs
down your back in wide streams; drenching and underlining all
your steeled suits; pure white helmet in your hand. The heat
of the morning belies the stance of the day, and your armor
sizzles in the sheen, ignoring all the layers of white linens
covering and shading it. Even the cross itself seems withered
and weary today; red on white background; that ensignia is
carried high before you; that herald of austere determination.

You don't belong here, that much is clear. Its a land of
shepherds, land of camels and their riders, and every
chancely palm seems to jeer at your constant need for water.
While there is beauty here, it is the stark, merciless beauty
of the desert; waxing and waning might of the ungovernable land,
and the melancholic splendour of lost cultures, destroyed or in
the process of blind destrucion. Somewhere behind you, the
unvanquishable massif, the obstinate titan of the Krak stands
in denial of all this; throwing its long shadow over
desolateness not worth the trouble, it guards the ideals of
unbecoming race. Yet, seeing the mists break, and Ascalon
emerge in all its ungainly pomp and bustle, the strength that
fills you has nothing pitiful in it; it's the strength of
faith; or rather, the strength of conviction.

Slowly, the din of the crossroads hits you, the babbling
multitude of alien tongues; the repulsive and simultaneously
rejuvenating stench of sin that seems to emanate
from every alike harbour. As you hear some distant
trumpet play for the emergence of some unknown military,
you are struck by the shine of the sun: who would willingly
choose the other path? What is there in the world,
that makes men turn their back on more vivid life?
As if to reinforce your demand, the fifty-three towers of Ascalon
finally appear from the dusky view; standing tall in
their ungarrisoned might, they proudly display all
their gaping holes and scars in the shape of out-carved
crescents. It's a fine view; glorious in thousand hues,
magnificient in all it's contrasting emotions;
a view one could almost die for.