Time flies.
The Saracens' army has already camped at Burullus Lake, and their vanguard has had several small skirmishes with the Crusaders.
Richard the Lionheart, draped in a bright red cloak, bore a bloodstained emblem of a lion, ready to pounce and devour, emblazoned on his chest.
He walked into his camp with an air of hostility. Today, he led a charge, achieving yet another small victory, killing hundreds and capturing dozens of warhorses, but such a small victory was merely trivial to him.
"Damn Philip, Count Henry of Montreal, Count Simon of the Mace family originally expressed their support for me, yet they have appeared in Philip's ranks. Their hearts have been enchanted by that serpent-like poison of Philip's, leaving not a trace of honor in them."
Under his command, there are now over ten thousand men, but there are not many true elites.
