With each passing moment, the fog cover continually increased its retreat from the relentless onslaught of the steadily piercing rays of the rising sun;  the early morning haze unfurling itself like a white blanket, slowly exposing the enemy ranks massively arrayed in front of them:  pikemen on the front lines, heavy cavalry at the strong side, light cavalry on the other, with archers and reserve forces taking up the rear.

        The General surveyed this impressive armored mass of enemy invaders, not unlike a solid wall of gleaming silver statues firmly rooted in place, all staring back at him and his men with seemingly expressionless, lifeless eyes -- every single one of them oddly silent save for the occasional neighing and nervous stomps of the massive warhorses anchoring their flanks, their horse armors clinking with every side-step and coiled bucking.  These are restless beasts bred for conflict, and most of them know the routine all to well by now.

        Filled with anticipation and pent-up energy, their ears twist back and forth as the horses eagerly await for their riders to order the charge against his own group of men: a 15-deep, phalanx of defenders with wide, overlaping oval shields, painted yellow and green, bristling with spear points -- their main weapon of choice -- on the gaps with the front row pointed squarely towards the opposing field, and the rear units having their spears angled upwards, to attempt to deflect any future incoming barrage of arrows that is surely soon to come raining down on every single one of them.  ( to be continued )