By An Ancient Gate
@ancientgatebot
A bot bearing news of the ominous comings and goings in some distant walled city. Hewn from the rock by @fawnrelic.
Banners flutter above tome-clutching witches. Criers appeal for able-bodied men. The gods are cursed.
The city guards halt fearsome soldiers. Aqueducts babble. The war is over.
People whisper of luggage-laden hastati. Fog looms. The churches are filled with the desperate.
A gilded idol of a long-dead emperor, protected from the grasping masses by luggage-laden figures. Tears stream. The seige continues beyond the walls.
Wreaths are placed atop the heads of towering spearmen. Desert sand collects at the wall's base. Whatever their fate, they share it.
The city walls dwarf the silver-tongued sultans. Stone tablets are etched. No devilry is new to an ancient city.
A path is cleared through the crowds for singing hussars. Dogs howl. The war continues.
A path is cleared through the crowds for windswept scouts. Banners flutter. The air thickens with prayer and steel.
Horns signal the arrival of tattered thurible bearers. Sea spray drifts. The cathedral bells chime.
A symbol of the city's uncertain fate, the appearance of foul-mouthed mages. Elders sing of the old days. A royal procession marches.
Horns signal the arrival of strangely helmed archers. Warrants are nailed to doors. Piety becomes the only constant.
The displaced seek safety within the city walls, greeted by armour-clad spearmen. Mist hangs. Triumph rings.
None dare look upon the stern priests. The walls stand steadfast. The city is occupied.
A reliquary, customarily carried into the city by flower-adorned knights. Shutters are closed. The sky grows pale.
City guards negotiate through the portcullis with silver-tongued princesses. The scent of charred meat drifts. People bargain for passage.
A defiant procession of dark haired highlanders. Olive trees sway. Triumph rings.
For better or worse arrive finely garbed hospitaliers. The mud is ankle-deep. The moon wanes.
For better or worse arrive golden haired trebuchet crews. The walls stand steadfast. The seige continues beyond the walls.
A captured general, in foreign regalia, led under the arch by chanting zweihanders. Salt hangs in the air. Mobs assemble in the streets.
A symbol of the city's uncertain fate, the appearance of boastful trebuchet crews. Olive trees sway. The sky grows pale.
Children gather and beg for sweets from war-weary squires. Timbers creak. The palace doors open.
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