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Post by Captain Gojira on Mar 16, 2009 19:52:50 GMT -5
Hidden in the murky shadows of the cavern, his torch's embers casting a shade of powerful red across his face and warming him, Vincent watched the unaware men and kept still; he wanted to learn more of what was happening. Curiosity captivated the man and his mind wandered, rhetorically questioning what this place was, who these men were... and of course, if there was anything of value. He had no desire to make himself known, nor to attack the men, but it seemed like an instinct telling him to stay here, to outmaneuver the men and search out any valuables hidden in the cavern. Of course, considering he'd come to what appeared to be a dead end, Vincent decided perhaps nothing of value was here to be found.
He crept a little closer to the meeting, crouched down, set down his torch beside him, and took out his crossbow, keeping it ready in case he was discovered. Training his ears, the European treasure hunter listened closely to the group of figures, waiting until they took further action. As they did so, he slowly drew an arrow and set it into his weapon, ready at any moment to take aim if they should spot him. From his position, if Vincent should happen to be detected, he could quickly draw back and hide in the shadows, evading the sight of his own torch. Stealth was not his specialty, but combat was, and with the advantage of a crossbow, he was more than ready to take on the men if necessary. Until they took further action, of course, there was no need. Whatever these men were up to, Vincent wanted to know - and perhaps partake in.
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Mar 16, 2009 20:35:23 GMT -5
Several months earlier City shrine, Novgorod
No one turned around when the heavy wooden doors to the opened and closed. The newcomer stopped and crossed himself before kneeling and touching the wood floor with his fingertips. Then he straightened and there was a shuffling of feet as people moved to make room. The congregation continued without pause. Candles adorned the corners, and dozens of elaborate icons hung on the walls. Items and icons were adorned in gold and artistry, and the far wall that separated the altar and back areas was painted in images of Eastern Orthodox saints. The roof of the Church was erected in a large dome, and painted across it lay Christ the savior.
The gathering of people was formal and quiet. People were simply dressed, and women covered their heads in cloth shawls. Older people sat on small benches by the walls, but everyone else remained standing, heads bowed and hands clasped over their waists. The visiting Bishop preached in Ruthenian, swinging a bronze censer back and forth as he circled the church. The room was hazy with the smoke from the frankincense, the wisps dancing back and forth in the dim candlelight. The Bishop was dressed in beautiful white robes, trimmed in golden colors with a large, triple-barred Orthodox style cross embroidered on the back. He circled around the people and made his way back to the raised portion near the front of the church, just before the altar. He never spoke normally, but only sang, his beautiful melodic voice carrying over the mass of people. At the front of the Church, he stopped and turned around, swinging the censer to the right side of the congregation. Everyone in that direction crossed themselves and bowed. The Bishop swung the censer to the left, and the people there bowed too. Then he turned around and swung the censor toward the altar and bowed, everyone present copying the motion. When he straightened again, he stepped forward to the altar and closed the gate behind him, and then drew the deep velvet curtains across it, obscuring himself and the altar from view. Four young boys, no older than sixteen, dressed in ornate robes, walked through the arched doors recessed in the wall that separated the Sanctuary Altar from the congregation. They carried long bronze poles with them. Flickering candles were set in red glass cups on top of the poles, and the boys lined up by the Sanctuary wall, facing the Altar and holding the candle poles in front of them like staves. They stood as still as statues, like holy sentinels. In a loft above the back of the church, a choir began to sing.
Eastern Orthodox churches were divided into three main areas. There was the Nave, the Sanctuary, and the loft. The middle and rear portions of the Church made up the Nave, where the public would gather. It was richly decorated, with many beautifully adorned tapestries, candles, icons, and architecture. Even the faithless could not help but be stunned by the sheer power that could be felt here. Above the rear doors of the church was a second floor loft, with a balcony watching over the mass. Here was a choir, although there weren't any musical instruments. And most importantly, at the front of the Nave was a huge wall spanning the Church from side to side. This wall was arched in paintings of saints, and in the middle of it was a Holy Gate. This wall separated the Nave from the Sanctuary, the Altar. Common folk were not permitted to enter here, and no woman was ever allowed, only men and boys of the Clergy. The Sanctuary was divided into three rooms, with the center room containing the Altar itself. The Altar room was semi-circular, with the curved section facing away from the Church. The servants were allowed to walk around behind the Altar, but never in front of it. Only priests and Bishops were ever able to step in front of the Altar. On the left side of the Sanctuary was a changing room, where the robes were held for priests and servants to change. In this room a back door led outside, were a series of metal bells hung in rows, ranging from tiny to simply huge. On the right side of the altar was a preparation room, containing incense, water, wine, and other such items. It was here now that the Bishop stepped into. He stepped through the wooden door into a small, tidy room, and turned to his left. On the wall was a wood and glass cabinet, containing censers and incense. Still singing the teachings of Christ along with the Choir, he opened and hung the Censer in the cabinet, crossing himself as he did so. Then he closed the cabinet and turned around to prepare for Holy Communion, and found himself face to face with Kochevnik.
The Bishop blinked, his mouth slightly open in quiet surprise. Outside, the beautiful voices of the Choir layered upon one another, drowning out all quiet speech. And then Kochevnik rammed the kitchen knife up under the Bishop’s rib cage and through his heart. There was no one at the head of the Orthodox Church. It was considered that Jesus Christ himself was the head of the Church, and no single Bishop led it. The Bishops all guided and preserved the traditions of the Church as a group, and despite the fact that there was no leader, the death of a Bishop was a major catastrophe. Rus was ruled by religion even more so than by the Knyas, and this incident would have lasting repercussions.
Kochevnik hugged the Bishop as his body stiffened in shock and then went limp, his eyes widened in pain. The assassin gently lowered him to the ground, pulling out the knife as he did so. He leaned in close to the Bishop’s ear and whispered, without any emotion in the word, “Sorry.”
The Bishop’s robes were rapidly turning the color of wine, and Kochevnik respectfully closed the Bishops eyes and laid him flat on his back, in a somewhat more dignified position, with his hands folded over his chest. Then he wiped the blade of the knife off on the Bishops robes, nearby where they were already bloodstained, and replaced the knife in the drawer where he’d found it. The choir was still singing softly. Kochevnik left the preparation room and crossed through the Altar room, moving around the back of the Altar as was custom. He even gestured to the large painting of Jesus Christ on the wall, and to the ornate Cross on the Altar. It was impossible to tell what his gesture signified; respect or mockery, but it was a recognition. He crossed through the changing room and stepped out the back, onto a grass field where little boys played games. Completely alone, he walked across the grass in the cool morning air, vaulted over a low iron fence, and quietly walked away, his head bowed as if in prayer.
------------------------- Present Day
Kochevnik took a step back, giving him a second of breathing room. His eyes stabbed to the side, taking in every detail, his body as tense as a rabbits, face drawn in a stone snarl. And then he capitulated, putting his hands out in front of him in a gesture of surrender. The citrus fruit rolled from his fingers and dropped to the deck.
The bastard French. The damned French bitch's sons. Kochevnik hated the pigs like he did the filth warring this land. They paid these scoundrel to pirate and pillage, so long as it was against Frances enemies. How despicable could they possible get? Like letting criminal dogs rape little children, so long as the children weren't French. Kochevnik's open hand curled into a fist.
The Corsair roughly grabbed Kochevnik's forearm in a painful grip, yanking him forward to the other passengers. Kochevnik had the full image of cooperation, stumbling forward without resistance. And then he tripped slightly, dropping to his knee. He wrapped his arm around the Corsair's shoulder by reflex to keep his footing. The Corsair snorted in disgust, and just as he was about to shove Kochevnik forward, Kochevnik placed his left hand on the back of the Corsair's head, pushed it down, and discreetly rammed the knuckles of his right hand forward. The crunch of bone was lost amidst the shouting of the pirates, as Kochevnik's fist crushed the man's throat, the short motion masked from view by the Corsair's own body.
Kochevnik was on the wrong side of the Lateen. He was by the far-side railing, away from the coast and pirate ship. He had to get to the other side, to get jump across the gap. And to do that, he needed a battering ram. The Corsair's dying body would see to that.
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Post by Blade Knight on Mar 18, 2009 15:44:55 GMT -5
"What, is something wrong? Get out of my way, useless dog!" The large Corsair with the thundering voice had spotted Kochevnik's "stumble", and backhanded his captor out of the way without even realizing what had happened, assuming that the other pirate was simply being clumsy. He failed to notice how that man did not even rise again after he was knocked to the ground. But, unintentional as it may have been, Kochevnik's maneuver had been ruined either way. And now, the giant of a man was face-to-face with Kochevnik. A ring of pirates formed around the pair as he just stood there staring curiously at Kochevnik's foreign face, having never seen a Slavic man before. "You look strange…" he muttered stupidly. He was one to talk, having a dark, weathered face with long wild hair and bad teeth, but his fellow pirates laughed at his lame comment anyway. He must be their leader. The big man was wearing filthy pants and that's it. His feet, as well as his broad, sweat-slick torso was bare, with the exception of a leather baldric slung diagonally across his chest. He wore a curved dagger on a chain around his neck like a necklace, complete with rows of shark teeth dangling alongside it. And in his hand, he clutched a long, single-edged curving saber that dripped with blood. Up close, Kochevnik realized that this man was in fact an Arab, as were most of the other pirates. It would appear that the term "Corsair" had come to refer to all Mediterranean pirates, rather than just the original French ones. "I know not where you come from, strange man, but you seam strong. You will make an excellent oarsman." He took a step closer, and the ring of surrounding Corsairs tightened. By now, there was barely anyone left on the ship; they had all been captured or killed. As the pirate leader leaned in uncomfortably close, he whispered, "Nice coat…" And then someone bashed Kochevnik's skull with the butt of a sword…
"…No! I won't!" "Row! I said row, damn it!" WH-CRRRRKK!!! "Gwaahh!!! …I… I will not… be your slave!" WH-CRRRRKK!!! "Uhh-ahhh!!!" "How about now? Have you had enough?" "Ahh… N-never…" "Fine then. Have it your way." "AAAEEEEIIIII!!!" "We have plenty others to replace you."
By the time Kochevnik's eyes slowly fluttered open, he would find himself slouched upright on a bench alongside two other men. He was bare-chested, his coat was gone. A long streak of dried blood ran from his temple down the side of his head, which throbbed horribly. His feet were locked in place at the base of the bench, secured tightly by a wooden stockade-like shackle. The bench itself slanted backwards toward the stern of the ship, and the other two men were busy pushing and pulling the handle of a massive oar. He could feel a rocking motion, and upon investigation of his surroundings would discover himself in the darkness of the pirate galley's lower deck. He was one of many prisoners in the rows upon rows of benches that ran the length of the ship, an oar in front of every bench, which sat three men. A single aisle ran down the center of the deck, which was patrolled by burly pirate slavemasters with whips. There was a shuffle behind him, and a pirate went past Kochevnik dragging a body by the legs. The corpse had raw whip-marks, welts, and a bloody gash that left a dark red trail behind as it slid along the deck. The pirate caught Kochevnik's eye, and merely said, "Row. Or else."
Acre, rich district The wind blew strong way up at the top of the tower and chilled Azra'il's fingertips and caused his garments to flap and flutter in such a way that one might fear being blown off balance. Yet it was partly due to this fear of danger that made the experience so powerful, so thrilling. Perched atop his tower, Azra'il possessed a commanding view of the surroundings, Acre's rich district. While commonly referred to as the "rich" district due to the wealthy estates and businesses that could be found in the area, it was in fact not that much different from the rest of the city. Magnificent buildings of all shapes and sizes sprawled out beneath him, a busy and complicated assortment of people and structures that, when viewed in its entirety, took his breath away. From his viewpoint, the assassin could easily pick out other towers, the tallest of buildings, and of course, the unmistakable shape of the colossal Acre Cathedral in the distance. As he scanned for signs of the bureau, he would notice the tiny figures of individual guards spread across the rooftops, armed with bows and patrolling the city from above. He could see courtyards and balconies and platforms, wooden poles and rooftop gardens, but there was no clear indication of any possible entrances to a secret assassin headquarters. But Azra'il did find a feature that caught his attention: It was a plain building with no features whatsoever, not even doors and windows. It blended seamlessly into the crowd of identical buildings, save for one interesting detail. A large, rectangular portion of the roof was made of wooden cross-hatching intertwined with thin green vines. A man-sized square was cut into the end of this feature, a possible entryway through the roof of the building…
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Mar 22, 2009 18:22:36 GMT -5
Azra'il's keen eye, even from that great distance, crawled across the building. He winced at it, examining it as hard as he could, then leapt down to the rooftop he had just climbed from, so short a drop below him, and took off towards the side of the roof. As he made it there, he leapt outward, spinning on his heels, and with deft agility his fingers wrapped around the edge of the only available flat surface. Clinging to the roof with fingers honed in the practice, he found a small ledge, the one of the windowsill he had used to climb in the first place, and he stood atop that. Balancing upon a singular foot, the assassin then lowered his body, arms held at right angles to either side, and brought his other foot down till the toes could feel the lower ledge, before he purposely slid from the ledge, his feet now hanging in air, and caught the top of the window he had stood upon with his feet. He let go from there, catching himself once more upon the ledge. It was a rush, an exhilarating thrill ride for the jolly and deadly man. He found fun in it, and that made it all the easier. From the bottom edge of the windowsill, he dropped again, catching the next windowsill, then quickly realized that soon, he would miss a drop by the odds of probability alone. He looked to either side, and, spying a nearby window-sill ledge, jumped sideways, grabbing on to the ledge one jump lower than he'd previously been. From there, he made the maneuver again, continuing in this sidewinder-style climbing for the many feet, the dozens of windows to the rooftop of the building adjacent to the tower, as he had before. He made his way across the make-shift bridge, an unseen wraith, as he had before, once more, and quickly made his way back through the alley. He dropped back once he had turned the corner to the ground below, landing with a dull thud on the parched and sandy road. From there, he quietly walked through the alley-way, emerging in to the packed crowds below. He walked slowly, moving between crowds, a bald fisherman with a 6-inch beard screaming but two feet from him to sell his wares and a beggar nodding and saying something to a man of likewise dire straights beside him. Azra'il continued through the thick mobs of people of all professions, through the 'rich' sector of Acre, taking turns through thick roads lined with places of business and stores, darker back-alleys with cats and the homeless, and populated meeting-places for every manner of man and woman in the Holy Land. He took it all in, every footstep bringing a new sound or sight from amidst the dry, water-less heat to his awareness. He made his way as they all did, occasionally joining groups of women carrying water or mobs of people, off to see some spectacle or watch some event, keeping his pace steady and his eyes forward as he made his way to where he knew the building would be. It was in a darker section of town, yes, a place where people would not notice him, but to his great dismay, upon his arrival he realized there was no easily accessible place to climb to reach the top of the mysterious building, the ivy-lined roof and inconspicuous hole still calling to his feet and hands. He looked about, noticing yet another alleyway, much like the one he himself had just used to reach the tower nearby, with plenty of ledges about it. Smiling beneath a drawn-up hood, he made his way towards the alleyway, a casual stride masking the urgency he felt to make it there. He found himself within the alleyway, eyes darting from place to place, before he finally turned to the way he chose to get up; a cart lay, wheels removed, nearby, and it would make a perfect ramp to one of the numerous wooden beams running along the higher areas of the back-road. He ran forward, running up the wooden bars designed to keep the horses going parallel to one another, then along the floor of the cart, and finally leaping up to the back and off, upward, his fingers wrapping around a beam. He continued to swing forward, kicked slightly, his feet flying through the air and he brought them up, missing a horrible crushing of his fingers by centimeters atop the relatively thin piece of wood. He rose upward, looking about, and searched with peeled eyes to see if he could spot an archer, lurking about somewhere amidst the nearest rooftops before he made his move...
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Post by Blade Knight on Mar 24, 2009 20:49:22 GMT -5
As luck would have it, no archers were present to impede Azra’il as he neared the vine-covered crosshatching. Under the gleam of the high sun, the shadowy interior of the building could be observed through the large gap in the structure. Upon inspection, the assassin would discover exactly what he was seeking… A stone wall directly beneath the opening had carvings sculpted precisely from it’s clean, white surface, with a little fountain of clear water at its base. Carved into that wall above the fountain was confirmation of his discovery: the A-shaped insigna of the Assassin Brotherhood. The room was long and rectangular, with little squares of sunlight sparkling on the rug-covered floor from the cross-hatching above. Little potted trees adorned the windowless room to add comfort, and there was a pile of cushions beside the right-hand wall for visiting members to sleep upon. In the far left corner of the room, an open doorframe led further into the bureau, where the shadows swallowed further details. Curled in the cushion pile lay the resting figure of another man, light grey garb with black sleeves and hood. Other than this, the room was vacant, although faint shuffling noises could be heard from beyond the doorway. With nobody around to see him go in, now was the perfect time to drop through the opening into the building, an easy one-story fall for the trained professionals who frequent the place: the Acre Assassin Bureau.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Mar 25, 2009 14:06:45 GMT -5
Azra'il smiled, his teeth glinting ever so slightly in the light that shone, in stark contrast to the darkness his hood provided over the upper half of his face. He walked across the wooden beam as if it were a thin wire, pretending to struggle before gracefully front-flipping on to the nearest roof. He turned to that building, looking over the route that presented itself almost instantly to trained eyes from that rooftop to the bureau he so longed to enter since his trek across the desert. Hanging gardens and wooden beams comprised its majority, an easy route for him that many normal people would have found nigh impossible. He ran forward along the rooftop, his legs filling with adrenaline and energy as he readied himself, his focus directed forward, towards a hanging garden devoid of plant life, still yet to be used, not at his feet as some others might have, where tiny clouds of dust billowed forth where each footstep silently landed. He brought himself to the edge, its lack of any protection against falling aiding him well as he pushed off, his jump sending his body through the air and on to the hanging garden, its swaying wooden frame providing the exact edge he needed. As the ropes, taut and clean, sent the garden swinging backwards, Azra'il launched himself again, not a second from his first dive into the abyss, using all the force of the motion to send himself to the next rooftop, gliding like a hawk through the air. Three gaps now seperated the assassin from his goal, and they were as easily bypassed as the one before. He turned to the first, the edge of this tanned, stone building complemented by a small wooden guard at the edge, the slightest elevation he would need across the otherwise unmarked leap. He ran forward, his steps taking him to the edge, and with his right foot's toes positioned squarely on the raised edge, he propelled himself off of the roof, landing with a roll upon the next but 3 and a half feet from the first. Now, but one building stood between the young man and his objective, his quest's end to find the bureau. He continued with the momentum of his roll with a run, leaping forward across the next gap, an open stretch with the building next a good story taller, a likewise distance as the latter separating the two buildings. His fingers wrapped around the taller building's edge, his hardest feat met with surprising ease. He pulled himself up, getting to the top of the tall structure with proficiency, a lack of exertion made possible through practice, and then slowly, he walked to the edge of the flat roof, to the very line where stone crossed into air and a story drop lay between him and his goal. He simply jumped, for the fall did not look or seem ominous, rolling with it just to be safe and jumping up, finding himself before the entryway, the gate, to the Acre Assassin's Bureau. He smiled softly to himself, dropping in through the hole and rolling with the fall, leaping to his feet as he had at the previous building and at so many bureaus before, and looked over to the man. Azra'il looked about, then turned to the hooded man, walking forward and saying, once he had reached about arm's distance, "So, where here am I to find a place to work?"
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Mar 25, 2009 20:31:54 GMT -5
Gritting his teeth, but otherwise keeping his face statue-like, Kochevnik gingerly touched the laceration over his temple. The pain was mostly a heavy ache somewhere behind his eyeballs, flaring up with every pulse of blood. While he lightly massaged around the wound, careful not to rip open the dried blood, he glanced around the deck from between his fingers. It was bare. Just prisoners and oars...along with droplets of fresh blood splattered all along the floor. The air smelled of sweat and that sick goat-like scent of fear. He saw the bloody lacerations on some of the mens backs. Whips...then the man next to him lightly elbowed Kochevnik in the ribs, his eyes terrified. Kochevnik looked at him, then gripped the shaft of the long oar with his hands, waited a second, and began to row in phase with the other two. He lightly pushed his ankles against the shackles, just testing them. He couldn't see from this position, but it was good to know just how he was chained. Some people just chained the legs together, others chained all three men together, and still others would just chain it to a thin plank of wood, which could be broken.
But then again...he was getting a free ride was he not? Doing his best to keep his mind calm (and not doing so well), Kochevnik kept his head down and continued to row, not making eye contact with anyone, not even the other prisoners. He's been in such situations before. Not on a ship, but still...there would be a chance to escape later. There always was. Question was, could he survive trying to do it?
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Post by Shagrath on Mar 26, 2009 8:16:07 GMT -5
The small purse flew through the air the nondescript brown cloth was tied together with a little length of string, it's cargo of coins jingling as Ivy caught it with both hands with little effort. It didn't feel like much, but it was enough to keep Fatina entertained for the evening and that was good enough for her. Fatina being the closest thing she had to a friend here in the holy land.
The chador cloak and niqab... Those horrible sexist robes worn by the women here in the holy land because of that hateful religion. Why should I have to be forced to wear one despite not being a follower of Islam? Bah... I don't even believe in god... That couldn't get out though, these were the crusades, I'd be hung if that got out. Not like they don't have enough reason to want me dead as it is. Ivy frowned slightly and sighed an almost inaudible sigh and then smiled, even though it was a fake smile, it light up her face as if a lantern had been light in the room before her. "Of course I do Fatina. Why wouldn't I? Come, lets go get ready and I'll take you out wherever you wish." She gestured towards the coin purse in one hand. "Abdul, I'm taking Fatina out around the town tonight, don't worry she'll be in safe hands." And with that, they ascended the stairs once again, being careful not to miss a step or slip on those narrow wooden planks. "So where would you like to go Fatina, or shall we just go where ever the wind takes us?" She said with a smile.
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Post by Blade Knight on Mar 27, 2009 15:46:41 GMT -5
Acre, Abdul's Tavern "It matters not where we go, Ivy. In truth, I was about to ask you the same question. We have all day, so I figured we could go wherever you wished, and I would act as a guide." Fatina smiled, then added. "Although, I am certain you could find you way around just fine yourself." Returning to Ivy's room, Fatina fetched the veil and cloak for her. The linen garments were white in color, with the long veil of the niqab leaving only a narrow slit for the eyes, and the simple chador cloak large enough to wrap her entire body within its folds. It had no clasps or laces—it was a just a large cloth that had to be held together by hand or left to hang across her shoulders. "These will keep you safe from the sun," said Fatina, handing them to Ivy. "…As well as to help you blend in. But they are also very light, and will not suffocate you in the heat." Fatina excused herself momentarily to her own room down the hall, and returned wearing a large sandy-brown cloak that hung over her body like a giant rain poncho. Her head poked out of the single hole in the garment. It had a hood, but Fatina elected not to flip it up. "I'm set!" she declared. "Let's go!"
Acre Assassin's Bureau The other man lounged in the pile of cushions, his back leaning against the wall with an arm resting over his bent knee. He laughed softly, as if Azra'il had just said something amusing. "Where can you find some work?" he repeated darkly. "You speak so casually, like a job-hunting serf. One does not show up at the Assassin's Bureau seeking employment just for the sake of it—you are here because it is you duty to the Brotherhood. Al Mualim must have something in mind for you, no doubt." Rising to his feet, he observed Azra'il with dark eyes that glittered beneath the shadow of his black hood. "I do not seem to recognize you, brother. It has been long since I last set foot in Masyaf. Are you a novice?" With barely any time for Azra'il to reply, a voice quickly sounded from the next room. "Shahïn, have you awakened?" The other assassin glanced to the doorframe in the corner, then beckoned for Azra'il to follow. He glided through the entrance, his long, loose garments billowing around him.
"I have," Shahïn replied. In the darkened room, there was a long wooden counter behind which the Bureau Leader stood. He was dressed in white scholarly robes under a black cloak, the hood of his underrobes raised over his head. He was holding in his hands a small bird that Azra'il recognized as a homing pigeon. "Good. Now that you have rested, you are ready to proceed," the Bureau Leader said. He pulled a long white feather from beneath the counter and placed it in front of Shahïn. "I need not remind you, but be cautious just the same. Fare you well." Shahïn swept the feather from the countertop; it disappeared beneath his wide, swishing sleeve. "It is my destiny to serve the Brotherhood, to forge peace through blood. I will not fail," he muttered, and strode out of the room, scaled the carvings above the fountain to the roof, and was swiftly gone. The Bureau Leader considered Azra'il for a moment, thoughtfully stroking the bird in his arms. His face was not necessarily harsh, but it was certainly calculating and strict. The men selected to head each Bureau were of the elite, and renowned among the Brotherhood for their cold, no-nonsense conduct. It was they, after all, who managed all Brotherhood activity within their city, with all the dark and bloody details that goes hand in hand with such grim responsibility. "Now, what is it you want?" he finally said, his voice lacking any friendly emotion. He watched Azra'il carefully, as if secretly evaluating the assassin's response.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Mar 27, 2009 16:11:02 GMT -5
"I wish to serve in whatever way you see fit." Azra'il replied solemnly, his eyes penetrating, even from beneath the hood, to the Bureau Leader. He had come far in his travels to this place, and despite that journey, he was willing as ever to do his part. Azra'il stood, body squared towards the Bureau Leader, arms hanging to the side and face adorned with its usual, resting position, a fairly straight face with but the hints of a smile at the sides. This inkling of insight into his joker personality was framed with the thick lines of his goatee and mustache, the midnight black hairs laying smoothly over tan skin. His eyes remained locked, focused, on the Bureau Leader, the dark brown orbs glinting, even in this low light, with a tiny, wavering point indicating the moisture that covered them and the focus that caused its wave. The long, loose sleeves of his clothing, tighter around the torso, served to obscure from eye his thick leather bracers, and now wrapped around open palms, loose, relaxed, at ease in the one place a member of the Brotherhood could be truly safe; A Bureau. His slightly tighter, gray pants fell over the padded boots which so effectually cushioned his feet, allowed him so easily to walk undetected even when within breathing distance of armed men. This appearance, his relaxed frame and solemn reply coupled with that tiny smile, gave the indication of openness, though not necessarily trust, for trust was a hard thing to come by in the mind of someone who's entire profession was built around a single thing, a single, grim ideal that was the only way that warfare did not erupt openly in the streets of the Holy Land; to shed blood for the sake of peace, to be a wraith-like harbinger of death who plunged blade into flesh for the sake of the common good. This was the way of the Brotherhood, the way laid before Azra'il Al Abolhassan for long. It was the only path he knew.
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Post by Blade Knight on Mar 31, 2009 22:59:45 GMT -5
Wilderness, Kingdom of Jeruselem, hidden cave Abd al-Azîz was pushed roughly to his knees by two of the mysterious Arab men, forced into a bow before the man they called “Zafïr”. (ZA-FEER). The so-called Shadow-Master chuckled softly in the darkness. Still only a blackened figure, nothing of his appearance could be made out in the scant light; not by Vincent, nor by Abd al-Azîz, who was only a few paces away. Nothing that is, except for a single glint of light upon his chest: a dagger hanging around his neck on a chain. “You are expected, Abd al-Azîz,” he said in a quiet voice thick with the same middle-eastern accent that Vincent had heard so much by everyone here in “Outremer” as the Europeans called the Holy Land. “We must talk in private, we have much to discuss. Stand guard men, let no one disturb us until we have concluded our business!” Turning around, Zafïr’s outline flicked aside the long, ominous banner to reveal a man-sized crevice in the wall, leading to some darkened chamber. The heavy cloth had concealed the faint light of a few candles in the secret room, which now spilled out to just barely allow Vincent a split-second view of the interior: a pair of human skeletons impaled upon spikes flanking the entrance, with long daggers in their skulls--their sharp points protruding from mouths frozen forever in mid-scream. Abd al-Azîz was shoved through the crevice after Zafïr, and the banner once again fell into place. From behind it, the Shadow-Master’s voice could be heard commanding, “And let not any of you desert rats forget: Be sure to kill any intruders on sight!” The bulk of the men remained stationary, guarding the secret entrance. But a murmur sounded in the quiet cave, “Go check the horses,” and three of them began to walk back the way they came. Within seconds, they would blunder right into Vincent as he hid in the shadows of the narrow passage! With no space to let them pass, they would surely discover the fortune hunter if he did not react quickly!
Pirate ship, lower deck Time passed. Unending, agonizing, torturous, dehumanizing… all were ample words to describe Kockevnik’s experience as he was forced to suffer within the bowels of the Corsair galley. The dark and dank lower deck was almost constantly wet from seawater that lapped in through the openings in the hull the gigantic oars stuck out of. It also stank heavily, a rancid odor of human sweat and vomit. Many prisoners were affected by awful seasickness and could not bear the heavy labor of rowing the huge oars all day, thus death became an all-too frequent occurrence. Despite his superior physical condition, even Kockevnik must have begun to feel ill-affects… By the time a fifth of the prisoners had perished, there was no longer any possible way to determine how long they had been slaves at sea, be it days, or weeks, or even months. The pirates would allow their captives only minor rest breaks, when they would be stuffed into a crowded cargo hold and another shift took their place for while. The hold was even worse than the oar deck, and was filled with the dead and uncleaned waste materials. It was inhumane, the horrors they suffered. They wasted away in that confined wooden hell until eventually, the ship stopped. The pirate captain descended to the lower deck via a ladder near the bow of the ship. Much to Kochevnik’s certain outrage, he was wearing his coat! It flapped around him as he descended the rungs until he reached the uneven floorboards. The captain grinned at his Corsair slave drivers, holding out his arms. “We are at dock!” he announced. “One of you, stand guard over the prisoners. The rest of you, come with us!” A short burst of cheer rumbled through the deck as pirates flooded out, leaving only a single man behind. He stood roughly five paces ( 1 pace is roughly the equivalent of 1 meter) ahead of where Kockevnik sat, his back to him as he focused straight ahead. And so, several minutes elapsed, leaving the weary and barely-conscious prisoners to rest where they sat. Due to the inactivity, Kockevnik would eventually notice that the shackles around his ankles felt looser than usual… the bolt that locked the heavy wooden clamps together, old and rusted and strained constantly, must have snapped! Nobody but he was aware of it, and a glimmer of hope suddenly began to shine… He was free!
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Post by Captain Gojira on Apr 1, 2009 16:14:38 GMT -5
As Vincent witnessed the meeting conclude in secrecy, he jolted with surprise as three men left their post, then quickly drew back in the darkness towards the tunnel where it eventually curved, moving out of sight for the moment and giving himself time before the men caught up. He retreated quietly until a point where even when the approaching men spotted him, the others would not realize his presence, and then emerged from the shadows and stepped in the middle of the path to block it. Watching their shadows draw closer to his position, Vincent stood expectantly in wait for the men, his crossbow drawn, and allowed them to come within sightline before acting.
Then, as soon as the three men trotted into view, the treasure hunter raised his crossbow, pointed at the men, and motioned for them to stop with his hand, putting out a palm that indicated "halt."
"Drop your weapons and slide them over," he hissed at them in a whisper so the others wouldn't hear, keeping his promise with the crossbow if they dared try otherwise.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 2, 2009 15:48:19 GMT -5
The three men stopped in their tracks, caught off-guard and utterly surprised. For a moment, they just stood there, bewildered and unsure of what to do. But that moment was short-lived, and they hesitantly removed their sword belts and tossed them aside. "You speak our language?" came one whispered query. The men exchanged darting glances between each other, but otherwise made no move to resist. At least for now, they were willing to comply with the demands of the foreigner with the crossbow. "Pray you do nothing foolish, infidel," they warned Vincent in hushed tones. "You have but one shot, and we are many. Now, what is it you want?"
Acre Assassin Bureau The bureau leader considered Azra'il for a long moment. Not just his reply, but his mannerisms and body language, too. His soul was being searched by the senior assassin as they stood in silence in the bureau. Eventually, the bureau leader sighed, apparently satisfied for the time being. "Very well. An appropriate answer." He put the bird he was holding in a tiny wooden cage on the counter and set it aside. Then, opening an old, dusty book, he bowed his head to read from it. It appeared as though Azra'il had gone ignored until he finally looked up again. "I know who you are, Azra'il. While you are not the model of discipline or subtlety as of yet, but your wit and acrobatic talent merit you a chance to prove yourself. I have received word from Masyaf of your arrival." The man scratched at his white beard. He was an older man, a rafiq (RA-FEEK, leader) of many years and much wisdom as a result. His eyes had a keenly intelligent, piercing gaze as he continued to survey Azra'il. "I am to make use of you here for a time, but I wish to know more of your abilities before I assign to you the task I have in mind. Go seek a brother informant in the city. Have him give you something to do, and report back to me with word of your performance." The bureau leader returned his book, and spoke no more to Azra'il.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Apr 2, 2009 16:45:25 GMT -5
Azra'il nodded, his hooded head bobbing in a quick fashion before he turned to the opening in the ceiling. He turned on his heel, and then quickly dashed forward, jumping against the wall, then backward from there and grabbing on to the edge of the hole in the ceiling, pulled himself up. He never did like going to see the bureau leaders, never enjoyed having to maintain such a strict demeanor, but it was necessary for him to do his duty and do what he had been born to do; slay one man to save many. And now, the cycle began all over again. He walked slowly to the edge of the building, flattening himself as he neared the edge and peering over. He noticed that it was vacant, and smiled to himself, for it was a fall of but two stories, and that he could take the simplest route to the ground pleased him. He back-flipped off the edge, keeping close to the ivy-lined perimeter of the roof, and caught it with deft fingers practiced in that art. Then, hanging there by his hands, with his feet between his torso and the building, he leapt off, flipping through the air, and rolled as he hit the ground, a dull pain going through hands as he used them to help with the roll. But the ache quickly dissipated, and the assassin found himself alone in the dark courtyard, ready to leave to find an informer. Perhaps Ajib would be a good man to look for... He though on this as he walked out of the courtyard, towards a more well-lit, busy, and bustling street nearby. He slid into the hustling mass, and, as a loner, made his way through busy crowds, hiding in plain sight as he made his way through the horde of the numerous and unique people of Acre. He found his way through streets and between huge buildings of sandstone, topped with a gleaming roof of bronze or gold in the shape of a turnip, or through streets of flat-topped houses bustling with the life of those inside. He walked swiftly through the city, doing his best to keep moving and still look inconspicuous as he made his way through the huge crowds. Eventually, however, he reached his destination; brimming with boats and salesman from foreign lands, crusader guards everywhere he looked, the smell of the sea and the sight of the wooden, heavily built docks and boats bombarding his senses, he had made it to the harbor. He did not expect Ajib to be in public, but either way, he narrowed his eyes with concentration and focus, searching everywhere for the wrapped head of his informant friend, a man who could easily get him work if he so asked, as he had said himself. His eyes scanned every face for that of his friend, and he also looked hard for alleyways that he could use to reach the rooftops and look harder for his companion, or maybe a dark place where Ajib could be in waiting for any assassin's in need of work. Anywhere that the man could be, Azra'il's eyes wandered, until he was sure that the wrapped face of the Brotherhood informant could not possibly be within visual range. As he did so, he made his way to a bench with a good view of the entire harbor, sitting at the empty public seating so as not to look out of place as he conducted his survey of the many faces of the harbor. His entire mind focused towards one end, he still kept his ears open, for the signs of danger, or those of Ajib's call.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 3, 2009 19:04:08 GMT -5
By the time Azra’il arrived at the docks, it was afternoon. With the sky still overcast with grey clouds and the wind blowing in from the sea, it was proving to be a cool afternoon at that. Flocks of gulls cawed and circled overhead, coasting on the refreshing winds. The entire area had a wonderful aroma to it that smelled of sea and fish. The port itself was a majestic, yet jumbled sight, with no order or organization. There were both narrow and wide docks that zig-zagged all over the place, mooring poles and raised platforms that rose from the slightly choppy waters at random places, and many various ships that were docked in the maze of it all. In addition to all this, like everywhere else in the city, it was busy with crowds of people. Perhaps not as densely packed as other areas, it still boasted a sizable population. Most people kept to the wide coastline walkway, but there was still a few people traveling the docks and ships that bobbed around at their moorings. The bench where Azra’il sat was right against a building at the edge of the walk, next to a covered market stall where a shirtless man cut fish with a long knife on a blood-covered table behind the front counter. Barrels of live, wiggling fish sat beside the table, as well as one that the man used to deposit the guts and bones as he worked. As the assassin sat there, scanning the harbor for his friend, he became aware of a sudden tugging on his clothes. Beside him, a small boy with long hair and an extremely oversized, dirty white linen shirt was beaming at him with big brown eyes. “Wow!” he exclaimed in an awed, tiny voice. “You’re amazing! How is it you do all those amazing things… the climbing and the jumping?” The child must have been watching Azra’il ever since he left the Bureau, his acrobatics most likely catching the lad’s eye. He must have followed him all the way here, and now stared merrily up at him, anticipating the reply of the man that had so awed him.
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Apr 3, 2009 20:10:10 GMT -5
Time lapsed into the kind of flashes of life that one might feel when their heads were nodding onto their chests with drowsiness. Sensation would dull, slide into a darkness where nothing existed but some habitual motion that he set his mind on, and then for a brief instant he'd be alert again, locking his bloodshot eyes on the cause of the disturbance. Then his head would sink down again, his arms continuing the unconscious motion of rowing. Push forward (Pain flared up in his pulled shoulder), pull back with his body weight. Repeat. He lost track of time, it didn't matter anymore. He'd gone through these kinds of things before, and this gave him one huge advantage over many of the other passengers: his sanity. He withdrew into himself, a perverse kind of mediation that more than anything resembled subdued unconsciousness. While others might slowly lose hope or sanity; begin thinking that they were done for, Kochevnik completely ignored it. Well, mostly. He couldn't fully block out the weariness and pain setting into his body, but he could stop it from going to his head. Even though his body cried out for fresh air and sunlight, and his mind was screaming at him that he was slowly suffocating, he knew from sheer experience that sooner or later he'd get out of it. It kept his sanity intact, because it meant that he no longer had any hope to lose. Not that it made him feel much better though. The cargo hold in particular felt like he was drowning each and every time, so much that he actually preferred rowing, until his arms gave out that is.
Kochevnik slowly lifted his head, the motion almost drunk. His eyes remained closed as he listened to the sounds. He gently but sharply shook his head to the side, waking himself up a little bit. He opened his eyes just a bit. It was an old trick that he'd learned long ago with some of his mates, you could open your eyes just far enough to see through your eyelashes, but no one could tell that your eyes weren't closed. In the long,...what was it, weeks? Weeks....that he'd spent here, he'd learned among other things to avoid eye contact, or indeed, look at the pirates at all. Despite his physical stature, Kochevnik could have a very timid appearance around him, which at this point wasn't too difficult. His teeth clamped together with painful force as he stared at the captain. In his mind, only one sentence sounded, That's my coat...
“One of you, stand guard over the prisoners. The rest of you, come with us!”
Kochevnik closed his eyes and listened to the footsteps stamping on wooden deck. Then he opened them again. The toned muscles of his arms and torso were covered in a sheen of sweat. A streak of shit was smeared along his arm, and he stank like a dead goat. But as his eyes focused on the back of the single guard, it was like a splash of cold water in the face. A surge of adrenaline coursed into his blood as the old, usual resolve returned. This was it. He'd been waiting for this, and this was it. It was over, just like he'd known it would be. He slowly pulled his right leg up and felt the shackle slide down over it. Then he lowered it back to the ground, checking out how loose it was. He briefly glanced to his right and to his left, looking at the slaves to his sides, doubting whether any one of them would care what he did, unless of course, it gave them a chance at freedom. He just hoped they wouldn't be stupid enough to make a sound. Reliance on other people, no matter how slight, usually led to complete failure. Kochevnik bit his tongue, deliberately shooting a bolt of pain through his head.
He smoothly leaned over, ignoring the hot streaks of pain running up the sore muscles of his back and arms, and closed his hand around the shackles, so that they wouldn't rattle about. He gently lifted out his foot, twisting it almost vertically so to slide out through the loosened circlet of iron. The small clanking would hopefully go unnoticed, as such sounds were completely ordinary aboard a rocking vessel filled with chained prisoners. Setting both of his feet flat against the floor, Kochevnik felt the wooden deck, noticing every minor protrusion and texture. Then he slowly stood up, keeping his balance as a wave of dizziness flooded into his head. He shook it violently from side to side, clearing it up a bit despite leaving behind a pulsing headache. Then he slowly walked forward, just like he’d done dozens, even hundreds of times before. He walked in a slightl crouch, weight extended and balanced, and each step he took rolled from the heel to the toes, virtually eliminating the sound of footsteps. Not that it’d help against creaking or anything like that, but Kochevnik was hoping the pirate wouldn’t notice.
If the pirate started to turn around, he’d lunge forward and take action from there, performing his preferred strike by wrapping one hand around the guys head and slamming his fist into the brittle throat. Otherwise, he’d continue quietly over to the guard and then wrap his left hand around his mouth and nose, cutting off his breathing while jerking his head back as his right hand would come around and backhand straight into his throat. With the throat crushed, the man would be incapacitated and unable to make a sound, during which Kochevnik would violently twist his head around in a vertical circle-like motion, snapping the bones of his neck. It shouldn't take more than four seconds.
If all went well, he’d take a minute to strip the pirate of his clothing and any items he might have, and replace the body in Kochevnik’s previous position for rowing, slumped up against the oar as if asleep or dead from work. Then Kochevnik would try escaping the vessel as quietly as possible, using the pirates clothes for as much cover as he could. If fortune was with him, he could simple walk right off the vessel. If not, he'd have to take a more aggressive approach. He just hoped his body could hold up to the strain after so much stress on it.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 5, 2009 16:42:48 GMT -5
The slow, uneven rock and sway of the vessel made it awkward for the escapee mercenary to balance in his weakened state, but even so, his steeled resolution and past experience came through for him, allowing for an undetected and smooth dispatch of the pirate guard. CRACK! “Uhhnn…” The almost inaudible noise was the last thing uttered by the careless Corsair, his neck expertly snapped. In the dark hold, the other prisoner-slaves almost seamed not to notice the sudden action. They slumped like dead men in their seats, heads lolling and quietly moaning to themselves. Kochevnik’s stealth was not disturbed. After a moment, the body occupied Kochevnik’s place on the bench--a lovely surprise for the rest of the crew when they returned. He now had the pirate’s few belongings in his possession: a grimy, black rag of a sleeveless shirt damp with seawater and sweat, dirty white strips of cloth that had previously wrapped his hands and feet, and a long, ragged black sash. These garments would do him little good in disguising him should he be recognized by other Corsairs, but at least he had some clothes to wear should he choose to. Also on the pirate was a scimitar that had been thrust through the sash.
It had a curved, single-edged blade and a handle wrapped with black cord. It was in surprisingly good condition, a weapon of quality that did not well match its owner. A curious find indeed… Now, Kochevnik was free to escape the belly of the wretched ship. A short climb up the ladder would bring him up to the top deck, where he could once again finally breathe in fresh, untainted air. The sun and sky above were hidden behind a veil of grey clouds, and the multitude of sounds and smells of a large port found their way to his senses.
The deck of the ship was abandoned. The huge lanteen sail had been removed, leaving a skeleton mast towering above the galley, which floated beside the dock it was tethered to. But just before Kochevnik could dismount the ladder and rise to the deck, an abrupt rhythmic thumping of boots on wood vibrated from the side of the ship. Voices could be heard as what sounded like two men walked up a boarding plank from the dock to the deck of the ship. “… have not just yet. We have picked up the weapons from Tyre and replaced our force of oarsmen. We will continue after we resupply here.” “So be it. Just do so quickly. You are behind schedule as it is, and the master does not like to be kept waiting.” The pair stopped near the stern of the ship, by the helm. The first speaker, with the guff voice, was in fact the pirate captain, still wearing Kochevnik’s coat. The second, a thinner man dressed in white robes and a headscarf, crossed his arms as the captain snarled a retort at him. “Do not scold me! You’re ‘master’ does not frighten me, one who has braved God’s fiercest storms! I will get the job done, but I do it my way! Understand!? Now get off my ship and deliver those weapons!” The captain grabbed the other man by his flapping robes and tossed him roughly to the deck. He glared back up at the captain, leering. “I hope you fail, Hasan. This world would be a better place without you in it!” “Be gone!” growled the captain. “I wish to see no more of you and you’re pathetic complaining today.” The other man ruefully got up and left, leaving the captain fuming on the deck, glareing absently at the water off the side of the ship. A gust of wind caused Kochevnik's coat to flutter around him, revealing the metalic glint of his sword at his side. Little did he know that Kochevnik was loose and watching him from the other side of the vessel...
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Apr 6, 2009 12:54:34 GMT -5
As the vertebrae parted from eachother, there was a series of brittle snapping sounds, as if someone was crumpling the ribcage of a chicken. The man's body instantly went limp and fell backwards, straight into Kochevnik's arms. He actually almost dropped him; after so much time lacking exercise, such a strain took a heavy toll. Supporting the body with his knee, Kochevnik quietly lowered him to the deck and began a quick and practiced strip. He untied the sash around the mans waist and for the first time noticed the blade that had been carried through it. He blinked and shook his head again, disgusted with his lack of attention, although considering his position, he could hardly be blamed. He pushed it aside for a moment, could examine it later, and got to work.
Without showing any hint of revulsion with what he was doing, Kochevnik quickly stripped everything off the man but his pants, and then grasped the body under the armpits and dragged him over to where Kochevnik had been rowing. He turned him around and gently lifted him up and settled him back down onto the seat, letting the limp corpse slump forward against the oar with his head lying down on the crook of an elbow, as if asleep. Then he leaned over and slid the mans feet into the shackles. He didn't bother taking the time to tighten them, this wasn't meant to be perfect. Of course anyone would recognize him if closely examined, but it wouldn't be for a while, not until they started rowing most likely. The point was that if anyone decided to check the hold they wouldn't notice a missing slave, and a slumped over Arab looked exactly like just about every other prisoner, and his face was hidden for the time being.
Kochevnik's problem with disguises with his very skin itself; he wasn't Arabian, nor was he a desert wanderer. His complexion was pale by nature, and he hadn't spent the time under desert sun for it to darken. He doubted any pirate there would recognize his face, but the fact that he wasn't one of them would be all too obvious. But he did have one thing for disguise that was, strangely, more useful than the pirates shirt. Excrement and filth. He already had streaks of dung and urine running along his skin, a testament to just how replaceable labor was on the Corsair's ship. His skin was a much duskier color than it was normally, hopefully it would resemble pitch or dirty grease.
Less than a minute later Kochevnik had disguised himself as best he could. He was tense as hell, and was afraid to spend another minute down here. He wore the sleeveless shirt from the pirate, his hands were wrapped in strips of rags, and as he left his feet bare, he used the other strip to wrap around his forehead, just a little piece of clothing to add onto the image of "No, I'm not a practically naked escaping prisoner, look, I have clothes!".....so much for optimism.
Last, he spent a few seconds examining the scimitar. In his eyes, it was an absolute beauty. This was the kind of weapon that he liked, it was strong, heavy, and excellent for slashing attacks. Something like this could rend a mans chest like it was a loaf of bread. He held it in his extended right hand, then switched it over to his left, getting used to the balance of the weapon. Then he tested the edge on his thumbnail, feeling the minuscule cutting motion and imperfections in the blade. Decent. Not great, but decent. Either this Corsair was lazy or he actually knew what he was doing, but the blade of the scimitar was not razor sharp. A thin edge wasn't a good idea for something like this, else it'd chip with a single blow against another sword. This one had a proper edge, much thicker than a good knife edge, but sharp enough to slice right through flesh and bone with a good slash. It had been a long time since Kochevnik had handled a weapon such as this, and he curiously glanced back at the corpse slouched behind him. Hm...
With the scimitar slid between the sash and his waist, Kochevnik climbed up the ladder. He kept the blade on the left side of his waist, with the edge facing to his rear, in the manner of Turkish nomads. He could draw it with either hand, in proper grip or reverse grip (An exotic and perverse fighting style that he mostly used with short swords).
Kochevnik paused near the top of the ladder, forcing himself to wait as he listened to the footsteps and speech above him. His Arabic was rusty, but he could still understand it quite well, and it wasn't easy to just hang there with cool tendrils of fresh air slipping down to him, or pale sunlight on his face. He gritted his teeth, aching for the outside once more, and waited. As the second man's footsteps faded off, Kochevnik pulled himself up to the top of the ladder and peered out across the deck, his eyes instantly locking on the captain.
He climbed out onto the deck and straightened up, looking around. He was forced to squint, his eyes unaccustomed to such light, even though it was such a cloudy day. The cool sea air wrapped around his limbs, and Kochevnik felt like a little child again, tempted to run around in merry circles. Unlike a child however, he had a different way of celebrating at the moment. The deck was absolutely clear, save for the captain, who was facing out across the sea, no doubt rather pissed off. Kochevnik turned on his heel and marched straight toward him. He walked almost silently, his barefoot feet rolling across the wood without actually impacting it, but he didn't crouch or anything like that, he walked straight and casual, so that if anyone watched from off deck they would just see another crew member walking over.
As Kochevnik neared the captain, he couldn't stop himself from grinning, giddy adrenaline building up in his chest. He noted the captain's sword on his hip, and a quick plan formed in his mind. Some called it payback time, Kochevnik called it the time to send a message. He couldn't run the captain through, oh no, that would just ruin his coat. He had a much more satisfying idea in mind. No crushing of the throat or breaking of the neck this time, no, nothing quick for you my dear Corsair...
Just a pace away from the captain, Kochevnik took action. It would be a short and very simple maneuver, but one that was virtually inescapable by one man. Kochevnik would wrap his right arm around the captain's throat in a simple chokehold, but instead of the way many people did it, his right hand would be placed onto the biceps of his left arm, which would then slip behind the captains head. The result would be that the captains head would be locked between two arms which would apply pressure in a scissor-like motion. Not only that, but at the same time Kochevnik take a step back and throw his weight backwards onto the deck, dragging the captain down so that he would be lying on top of Kochevnik's chest as he strangled the pig. Down on the deck it would be out of sight from the port, and absolutely inescapable, and although Kochevnik could strangle him by such a technique in as little as five to ten seconds, he'd drag it out, make it last as long as half a minute maybe. Then he could leave the rest of the crew a little message....
If, by some twisted humor of fate, the dog decided to turn around at that moment, it would change little. Kochevnik would simple grab the mans shoulders, twist him around, and proceed as desired.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 6, 2009 18:53:22 GMT -5
Ironicly enough, fate’s humor did twist indeed, as expected. Funny thing, destiny. Cross your fingers in hope that something does not happen, and sure enough, it happens anyway. Kochevnik was still about ten paces away from the captain, too far to act with necessary swiftness, when he randomly turned to go off on his way, his short-lived brooding coming to an untimely end. Catching the advancing figure out of the corner of his eye, the large man glanced over his shoulder. “Hmm?” It took him an instant to realize what must have happened, and broke out in deep, unexpected laughter. “Ha ha ha… It’s you!” he chuckled, recognizing Kochevnik from before. “Of all our prisoners to escape, why am I not surprised that you’re the one to do it? Ha ha, you are becoming rather troublesome…” He turned to face Kochevnik, folding his arms in front of his massive chest. “It won’t do to simply capture you again," he declared intimidatingly. "No. If you are this difficult to contain, it’s better off we were simply rid of you.” [Play background music] The captain flung his arms down by his sides, allowing Kochevnik’s coat to slide off his shoulders to the deck behind him. “That’s a nice coat, by the way. Although strangely heavy at the bottom, I will be happy to take good care of it for you when you’re gone!” The pirate flexed his arm muscles, his dark skin undeniably muscled. His dagger-necklace hung over his chest and reflected what light it caught from the clouded skies. His dreadlocked hair fluttered in the breeze as he drew his sword, a striking resemblance to the one Kochevnik had. He held it one-handed in front of him, and thrust it’s point challengingly at the mercenary. “I am not in a happy mood, stranger. It will be good to wash away my frustration with your blood! Aarhhh!!!” With a snarl, he dashed directly at him, swiftly, but not recklessly. His blade held high as he came in for the attack, there was no choice for Kochevnik but to ignore his fatigue and fight! [End background music]
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Apr 6, 2009 22:21:45 GMT -5
“It won’t do to simply capture you again," he declared intimidatingly. "No. If you are this difficult to contain, it’s better off we were simply rid of you.”
Kochevnik had to stop himself from facepalming. Oh dear... These people were all the same. Ranting and rambling, and oh why couldn't they ever just start fighting and save him the dribble. Nonetheless, he looked up and fullfilled his role in traditional banter, speaking in a hoarse but absolutely light-hearted tone,
"Well see, all I wanted was that coat. Killing you in an extraordinarily painful way would have been a nice bonus, but I could have gone without it..."
Apparently the guy wasn't in the mood for conversation. Shame. As the Captain displayed his blade, Kochevnik drew his slowly and almost half-heartedly, though fully prepared to wrench it out if the guy lunged first. He pulled the scimitar from the sash and held it in his right hand, the tip pointing down by his right side, and waited. If only for a second, the Captain charged a bare moment later.
The man had made one fundamental mistake. Kochevnik's coat was as good as plate armor. Removing it had fully exposed his torso for Kochevnik to slash open, as there was no way he would have cut open his own coat. It was a very strange attachment he held to it, but he had it. Kochevnik could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage as his body tensed up, his breath quickening along with his thinking. There was no rage, but a kind of dull shock. Sounds seemed to wash out as a dull throbbing pulsed inside his head, and his eyes instantly processed what he saw, thinking, calculating.
As the pirate lunged forward, Kochevnik only had a second to react, but it was enough for him to run through processes as fast as any reflexes. In most cases he played the defensive in a slow manner, dancing away in blocking. This time though, he relied on crude mathematics to perform a quick counterstrike. It was a simple fact of life that swinging a blade would never be as fast as thrusting one. The Corsair was holding his blade up high, which most likely meant he'd be coming down with a slash, which while fast, wouldn't be fast enough. If he decided to thrust though, he'd have a little surprise waiting.
Instead of backing away, Kochevnik instantly lunged forward, taking two rapid paces and closing the distance before the pirate was close enough to begin swinging his sword first, and bringing up his own scimitar straight ahead of him in the process. He ducked down low, lower than the pirates own sword hand was, and stabbed forward, straight at the Corsair's chest. The point of this maneuver was to stop the Corsair pirate from thrusting; Kochevnik was now under his sword hand and stabbing forward, which meant that if the Captain decided to thrust he'd be impaled first by a mere half of a second. While his sword was already in the perfect position to slash down, slashing at Kochevnik would have the same effect as thrusting, leaving him run through by mere fractions of a second before his blade would reach Kochevnik's, which would hopefully force to turn to the defensive. Kochevnik was already bringing his left hand up to support his sword hand, ready to take the brunt of a parry if need be and continue pressing forward.
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