Fantasy Writing - long post

I just wanted to share a good bit of writing with you.
The role play group i am part of runs long stories and plots for the characters to be a part of and act withing. As part of the ref team we sort of sheppherd this plot (filling in the gaps that can’t be role played by characters) and set the scene for players to deal with. The current major plot is that the city where the game is set has been under siege from the Wessex army and is now under attack and soon to be invaded (unless they stop it). we are getting ready for a big Medieval War. consequently we had to take the unusual action of writing out a big description (below) of what is going on in the city. Even though i am involved in running the story and know what is going on the writing is still so good it made me excited and realy want to know what happens. A great bit of writing from our head ref which i thought i would share:

[I]There is a city in the North[/I]
[I]Where Heroes sally forth[/I]
[I]I don’t suppose you want to?..[/I]

For two months, the city of Durholme has stood under siege from the army of Wessex. Quietly they have lingered, persistent in their vigil but slow to take action. But the quiet before the storm has ended. If Durholme had forgotten for even one moment that it was in peril, it was soon awakened from the dream.
Great thuds emanate from the walls as stones launched from the Wessex siege engines strike the firm walls of Durholme. The bombardment intensifies and moreover takes a sinister character - the homes and houses seem the target as much as the walls and gates, with fires bursting out and roofs collapsing. Though the damage to the city itself is limited, the attacks are a sign of malicious intent. On the defences, the mighty Wessex war machines take their toll - the south wall crumbles in an number of places, opening the city invasion, while many of the fine towers collapse under the barrage. Only at night does the pace of the bombardment slow, only to begin with renewed vigour at dawn. Few in the city do not awake to the cracking and breaking of stone.
The defenders find themselves hard pressed. The Wessex longbowmen daily close on the walls, pinning down the defending forces and causing wounds where they can. Durholme’s retaliation is limited - without the skill nor numbers of the Wessex archers, they are forced to cower behind the crenelations and hurry across the ramparts to avoid being wounded or slain. The soldiers are tense and unsure, inspired by the words of their leaders but troubled by the odds that seem against them.
Within the city itself, the mood is quickly soured. News quickly spreads that Kal’Darran has declared martial law and with the support of the army is levying all able men to man the walls. Many resist, calls to Saint John are heard by all in the streets as men of all ages are taken away for treason. Others submit, resigned to their fate or perhaps truly inspired to fight in defence of their city. Young boys, too weak and small to fight, dash about the city with messages for captains that lead the men. Few are happy - many men stand untrained and unwilling upon the walls, mothers weep for their husbands and children cry out for their fathers. But in this war, perhaps their sacrifice will be necessary. Surely, the soldiers do not lament the additional bodies upon the walls. Perhaps it will be enough.
Many houses in the city are abandoned as the weaker folk are taken into shelter. The citadel is quickly filled with resisters to the levy, and the temples of Saint John, Humact and the Balance become the sanctuaries of these people. Many seem keen to help where they can, washing clothes and preparing bandages and salves for the wounded. Others keep control of rowdy and terrified children, while a gang of seamstresses busy themselves with the fashioning of tabards for the soldiers. And these tabards do not bare only the crest of Durholme, but the great Red Cross of Saint John, surrounded by a golden circle of Balance. The gods are bound to this battle as much as the mortals who fight it.
At this time, it seems, faith has more strength than fealty. Days before the climax, a column of Wessex soldiers enters the city, not with arms, but in peace. Led by Lord Wiltshire, in an open display of defiance they march out of the Wessex camp and seek refuge in the city. Thoughts of trickery or treachery are quickly cast aside, as the Wessex turncoats are shot upon by the Wessex archers. Hundreds fall, a taste of what is to come and Wiltshire himself is slain, a dozen arrows piercing him. For Durholme, this is a boon. Yet it is coloured at best and perhaps an indication of the wrath the Wessex force brings with it.
Upon the Saturday morning, after a week of wracked nerves and anxious waiting, the Palatinate awakes to the blare of trumpets. Outside the city, Wessex soldiers array and are drawn-up, flags and banners fluttering high. The standards of the elite of Wessex are overshadowed by those depicting iron-clad fists and great Red Roses embraced in chains. Upon the ramparts of Durholme, it is not the city colours that fly but those of Red Crosses. As the siege comes to its conclusion, one might mistake this war as being not between Wessex and Durholme, but between Saint John and Malan.
Drums sound and horns blaze. Ladders are taken up; towers braced and rams prepared. But as the battle opens, volleys of arrows once again grinding upon the defenders, a small band of heroes prepares to sally forth. Their place is not upon the walls - instead they hope to strike at the heart of the army and cut it out. As they descend into the sewers, whether they know it or not, the outcome of the battle depends upon them more than anything."