The city is ravaged by war.

The gates are breached, then secured, then again breached and again secured.

The Palaiologan ensign is still displayed proudly above the imperial residence.

Wherin the final emperor like his city clings stubbornly on to his life, though stricken by Turkish cannon.

The princes of that realm have deserted the city, they dress in pilgrims robes and travel with all they own upon their lonely beaten backs.

For they have the foresight and understanding to know that even now, the tides of history are turning and their land will become like an island poking it’s head above the raging waters of cruel time, that will wash over our mortal world, sending the raiders from the steppe into their oblivion, that one day they might return.