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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 13, 2009 16:10:48 GMT -5
[Play background music]Their fight began with an explosion of movement from each combatant. As Kochevnik thrust his newly acquired scimitar at the charging captain, the Corsair made no move to slow down. His torso twisted sideways as he angled his upraised blade down in front of his leading right shoulder. With a sharp noise that sung through the air, their blades grinded against each other. The captain slid along the left side of Kockevnik’s pointed weapon until their hilts met, the crossguards clanging together and the two swords became locked. “Heh heh ha ha…” chuckled the captain as the two men struggled. He smiled, surprised at the strength displayed by his former captive. “You’re strong, ferengi. I can see fire in your eyes. I will enjoy this fight!” At that time, one could physically feel the winds begin to pick up. Beneath their feet, the deck wobbled as the galley bobbed around in the water, as did all the other ships in the harbor. The Corsair’s hair and the long tails of Kochevnik’s headband fluttered lightly around them as the captain held the lock for another instant, testing his might against his Slavic opponent, then broke free with a sudden, ferocious swing. His blade flashed—a flurry of vicious horizontal strikes directed at different targets. Chest, legs, neck, stomach… the heavy blows came with savage speed…[End background music]
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Post by Captain Gojira on Apr 13, 2009 17:32:32 GMT -5
Cautiously watching over the men, his crossbow firmly trained on them at all times, Vincent trotted over to the surrendered swordbelts, collected each of them, and fastened two around his wait and slung the third over his shoulder before responding to the asked question, a weapon now hanging off of him on both sides. Then, turning back to the man who'd talked to him and staring at him with his deep, haunting hazel eyes, the treasure hunter said in a calm, sincere voice, "Do not see me as antagonizing, my good man. I have not come to cause harm to anyone, and I do not wish to harm anyone either. Do as I ask, and I promise your well-being."
He lowered the weapon to his waist now, though still pointing it forth as a precaution, and smiled sympathetically at the group, a gentle raise of his subtle lips. Kindly, he continued, "If you could tell me, who is this 'Zafir' that had been there shortly? And would he be a man willing to recruit a foreigner by any chance?" In saying these last words, Vincent considered, and expressed, the idea of allying with these newfound characters, a concept that while surprising to even him seemed an inviting gesture. Even as he awaited an answer, Vincent found himself eager to meet the shadow-master, a man that may be able to help his desire.
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Apr 13, 2009 19:02:02 GMT -5
Disappointment surged through Kochevnik as the Captain twisted out of the way; he hated extended conflicts, and had been hoping for this to end rather simply. At the same time, he was quite pleased. At least the man wasn't a completely gutless piece of filth, he actually had some skill. Just a moment before it was too late, Kochevnik twisted his blade around so that the Corsair's struck the flat side of his scimitar and not the edge. Proper parrying required as such, or the blade's edge would soon look like a jagged molar.
The jolt of impact ran up his arms, and before Kochevnik could withdraw, the Captain's blade slid down his own and the two locked. Kochevnik grunted at the painful vibration that blew through his bones, but he managed to muster the strength to keep his blade forward, putting his hips behind it for added force. He hardly listened to the Corsair as he spoke; banter during combat was not one of his strong suits. He might have been slightly grateful for this, as only an amateur would lock two swords together such as this, or...a very experienced swordsman who treated the weapons as disposable and didn't care if he damaged the edge. Kochevnik sincerely hoped it was the former, but in a few moments, the hope was dashed.
He ducked under the slash and whirled back, only to be met with another one. His arms moved of their own accord, and he instantly danced to the side, parrying the blow with the flat of his sword as he did so. As he was about to counter, he instantly found himself retreating again, as blow after blow was swept at him. Damn it... The Corsair was the worst kind of opponent for Kochevnik, partially because of the way he was now armed. He liked the scimitar for it's weight and cutting power, but it came at the expense of speed, and while Kochevnik was faster than he was strong, the Corsair was strong enough to slash his weapon as if it weighed nothing. Fluidity won over brute force, but with this scimitar, Kochevnik couldn't do it, he didn't have the speed for such a heavy blade.
He settled into a defense play, dancing back as often as he parried. He didn't consciously think about the movements, nor did he consciously anticipate the oncoming thrusts; he worked off reflex, natural knowledge from experience that let his body block by itself without slowing him down to think about it. He wouldn't even realize that he had blocked or dodged a blow until after it had already happened. He parried by striking the upper third of the Corsair's sword with the lower third of his own. The resulting leverage was the only way he could overcome the sheer strength of the pirate's slashes. He simply dodged out of the way of straight stabs, though those were uncommon. This couldn't last for long, dueling of any sort was required an extreme amount of exertion, and even if Kochevnik hadn't been completely exhausted, the pirate obviously had better endurance for this kind of sword-play. Kochevnik won by relying on speed and fluidity, turning parries into instant slashes, or completely dodging an attack and slashing back before they could recover, ending duels with only one or two blows. Drawn out fights were not something he excelled at, and with each blow he could feel himself wearing down. Not only that, but he was quickly running out of room. He had to end this soon.
As the Captain came with yet another rapid slash, Kochevnik broke his previous pattern and lunged forward, straight at the Captain's blade. He stopped the overhead swing from connecting by slamming his own blade up against the Captain's. Normally there was no way this would be strong enough to stop an overhead strike, but Kochevnik timed it just so the blades met at their fortes, the lower thirds, and locked together, putting Kochevnik in a strong enough position to hold the pirates blade up, and before he could withdraw and swing again, Kochevnik twisted his body sideways, and swung his right elbow at an upward angle toward the Captain's face, aiming for the nose.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 15, 2009 15:26:11 GMT -5
[Play background music]Their duel became a blur of blows and a chorus of clanging steel. The captain’s strikes were unrelenting, but Kochevnik held his own admirably. Even though he was not in tip-top condition, his swordplay technique was solid. He weathered the assault, toughing out every shock of each hard blow. And then, he got the opening he needed. The large, angry Corsair was abruptly halted mid-barrage when he tried to bring his sword down for a crushing downward slash. Kockevnik blocked just at the right time and jammed the attack at its apex, right before he could bring it down. Having broken his attack, the captain was caught open for just an instant… The next thing he knew, Kochevnik’s elbow had been driven into his face with the sound of a devastating crunch. His head snapped back and a hand went to his face as he uttered a muffled cry of pain and his eyes squinted with rage. He reeled backwards, off-balance, blood pouring from his nose and trickling between his fingers. [End background music]
Hidden cave In the murky blackness of the secret cave, the three Arab strangers stood rigidly in place. With narrowed eyes glaring out from their black headscarfs, they remained tense despite Vincent’s reassurance that he wished them no harm. And other then a noticeable widening of their eyes upon hearing him utter their Shadow-Master’s name, no other expression could be discerned. The men remained coldly silent for a while after Vincent finished speaking. Even the lowering of his crossbow did little to ease the confrontation. Only the faint sounds of the horses stomping outside at one end of the dark tunnel and the hushed voices of idle conversation back at the other end could be heard for those long, uneasy moments. Eventually one of them took it upon himself to break the silence and give answer to the foreigner’s query. He drew himself up defiantly, foreshadowing a negative reply before he even began to speak. “We know not who you are or how you found this place, but I assure you, the Shadow-Master is not someone a ferengi dog like yourself should be concerned with. It was most foolish for you to spy on us, infidel, for now you have invoked the wrath of the Shayateen… and now you die!!!” With that explosive shout, they all burst into motion! One of them spun around and immediately ran back towards the others down the tunnel, yelling, “Intruder! Kill him! Death to the infidel!” The other two had instantly moved to block Vincent should he aim for the retreating man, fiercely charging at him and brandishing concealed daggers! Without regard for their own welfare, the rushed headlong at him, their battle cries thundering through the narrow rock enclosure. The treasure hunter had no choice: react or die. And not only did he have to deal with these two, but within seconds he would have the entire gang bearing down on him…
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Post by Captain Gojira on Apr 15, 2009 20:12:27 GMT -5
Any hope of establishing peace with the thugs went dead. Vincent could tell, even before the men responded, as they coldly stared straight at him without a word, that he had said something wrong. It must have been the Shadow Master's name. Zafir. As soon as he uttered that word, the treasure hunter saw these figures did not want him to know of his name. A terrible mistake.
As one man retorted back to him, Vincent's smile quickly flipped into a frown, something much easier seen on his face than a smile. He closed his eyes gently, sighed, and dismissed the regret in his mind almost indifferently. So these men were not willing make allies. Oh well. A deep shame, but for whom more?
But almost immediately, they burst into movement, one of them turning and running back to the crowd while the other two confronted him and drew what looked to be concealed weapons. With surprise and widened eyes, Vincent regained his attention. He saw the oncoming attack happen as it inevitably did, but did not show fear to it. In fact... it reminded the European of something quite funny, a few years ago back in Europe...
Three years earlier, when Vincent had still been a bodyguard for the higher nobles, he had escorted a man named Geoffery to a tavern in England. It had been one of those dingy places, a tavern that even he showed slight disgust at, but the client was insistent about going. So there, in the loud, crowded tavern, he stood guard over Geoffery as the man ordered one drink after another, quickly intoxicating himself and coming to the agitation of the other customers. Before long, he was ranting, swaying, and slurring as any drunk would have, though Vincent, a mere bodyguard at the time, did not show his irritation to this.
But he did spot a rather thick-skinned man, along with two others, turn and notice Geoffery, apparently unhappy with something he had done. He was not sure how, but somehow these men became enraged with the wealthy man and converged on him. It was easy to spot the bar fight as it prepared to take place, and that was, as he knew, his cue. But it had been one of Vincent's first great fights as he remembered it. The bar thug came at Geoffery, slipped a hand in his pocket, and pulled out a dagger, raising it and preparing to hurl the weapon. Not two seconds later, his hand was caught and stopped by Vincent's. Not two minutes later, all three men were subdued.
And now, three years later, here he was in the Outremer, faced by the same situation again. Except now it was two men and more weapons than he cared to bother counting. Inside, Vincent felt that nostalgic warmth of memory and wondered if these men felt anything like it.
“Intruder! Kill him! Death to the infidel!"
The alarmed shouts snapped Vincent back to attention, and with bulged, glaring eyes, he braced, hunkered down, and took up the crossbow as the men charged at him with their daggers. The treasure hunter stared sharply at them with a challenging scowl, leering with the eyes of a wolf. There was no other chance to do what he did next.
Vincent quickly propped up the crossbow held at his waist, turned its aim to the man on the right, and pressed down the lever-trigger, propelling the first bolt through the air and for the Arab's abdomen. Immediately after this, he trotted backward a little, lowering the cross bow with it held in his left hand. Splaying out his arms as if expecting a hug, he next watched, waited, and calculated the remaining attacker, tracking his weapon with narrow eyes.
He was still two paces away when Vincent reacted, and then the treasure hunter slid back his left side out of range of the attack, reached inward with his right hand, and grasped for the wrist of the hand holding the dagger, intending to catch the attack and either stop or redirect it.
Then, with a firm hold on the man's hand, he would jerk his arm backward to pull the opponent in and thrust up his knee just in time to strike his gut, a painful and hopefully stunning technique. At last Vincent would dispatch the men by reaching across with his left hand, still holding the crossbow, and pressing the blade embedded into the shaft against the skin of the throat. With one swift slash, the treasure hunter would slit his enemy's throat, then release his hold and let the body drop.
Battle was one thing he enjoyed... but killing was quite another. Even if these men threatened his life, Vincent felt regret for them, that they would risk their lives so heedlessly, and backed away from the combatants as soon as his maneuver was done. He stared at them with a sorrowful expression, then looked up ahead to the approaching crowd. Regretfully, he turned and left, striding through the cavernous tunnel and back to his starting point. Outside, he could take one of the many horses left behind by the Arabs and escape quickly to Damascus.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 18, 2009 1:31:17 GMT -5
[Play Vincent theme] These men, these “Shayateen” who hide in the darkness with bones and ghosts, suddenly became like mad men. Their berserking rush was unlike anything Vincent had seen before in Europe. They were wild, out of control, as if eager to be slaughtered. A demented fury lit their eyes as they charged. Vincent’s crossbow bolt loosed with a crack that thundered through the narrow cavern. It flashed through the dark, blasting into the man who had rejected Vincent’s alliance. It caught him in the side of his abdomen, and his battle cry twisted into a pained shriek as he went spinning to the stone ground. The other man was already lunging with his bloodthirsty dagger not a moment after the shot was discharged, but Vincent was ready. As a result, the fanatic found himself smoothly countered and cut down by the treasure hunter’s efficient maneuver. He too hit the stone, the blaze in his eyes now gone and blank, and his blood stained the dark rock. It had lasted mere moments. But even as the two attackers dropped, a sudden roar of outraged voiced were already echoing their way to Vincent’s ears, and getting rapidly louder. Upon exiting the cave, Vincent would find himself amid the herd of tethered horses that waited outside. They were Arabian horses, and thus were not as enormous as the powerful European breeds, but they were sleek, beautiful creatures renowned for their endurance and sheer speed. None were heavily laden with gear; most only had a small saddlebag or two, or else had none at all. Aroused by the growing commotion, some had begun whinnying and pulling at the ropes that secured them to either the cliff face or a nearby tree. Above him, the sky was dark with grey clouds, and the wind was blowing hard enough to cause his cape to flare out and flutter beside him. The wide valley ahead stretched in two directions. South, where it grew rockier and narrower and led deeper into the Holy Land towards Acre and Jerusalem, or north where he came from, where he could exit the valley and go east to Damascus. From behind, the sounds of the approaching horde threatened to engulf Vincent should he delay any longer.
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Post by Captain Gojira on Apr 18, 2009 11:31:53 GMT -5
As Vincent rushed out into the dark, windy night, his cape flapping out with the wind, he stopped to breath quickly and heavily, looking around for the herd of horses. Surely enough, they were there and waiting as before, a few of them already anxious to escape. Without hesitation, the treasure hunter approached them in a jog, looking for a horse with a saddlebag to take. The species difference of the horses became apparent as he came closer, surprising him Vincent with interest as he slung his crossbow over his back again. Still, he was more concerned with approaching Shayateen, and went to work as he rushed through the herd.
Drawing one of the swords he had claimed from the men, Vincent jogged from one horse to the next, cut their reigns free, and shooed them away, hoping he would make pursuit harder for the mysterious Arabs. After releasing about five of them, the treasure hunter then came up to one of the already startled horses, quickly untied its reigns, and calmed it a little bit, holding tight so it would not escape. With a single hand and strained 'hopping' motion, he mounted the creature, took its reigns in both hands, and balanced his posture leaning forward, trying to follow typical equestrian etiquette in his hurry.
Finally back on his original route, Vincent pulled back the reigns, turned the horse north, and flicked the reigns enough to get the horse running, racing fast and far from the cave and toward the city of Damascus in the east. As he rode away into the night, hoping he wasn't followed, the European looked down at the swords he had collected from the Shayateen. He remembered the bloodthirsty charge they had assaulted him with, the recklessness with which they attacked, and thought of it for a minute. Such determination was rare - if not inexistent - where he had come from and many places he had gone. Fight to the last breath. That seemed to be the philosophy these Shayateen showed him. It was, as Vincent realized, one of the many things he would learn in Outremer in his journey.
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Apr 18, 2009 14:13:45 GMT -5
While Kochevnik was sorely tempted to draw out the captain's misery, he'd seen far too often how the results could end up...undesirable. Without allowing the Captain the slightest chance of recovery, Kochevnik quickly lunged forward, grabbing with his left hand for the wrist of the Captain's sword-hand, and at the same time slashing his own scimitar in a diagonal slice at the mans stomach.
He couldn't spend the time choking the damned life out of him, but he certainly wasn't going to kill him quickly. If he managed to spill the Captains guts out onto the deck, he'd ensure that he stayed down with a quick stab to the throat, and then leave. After recovering his coat of course.
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Post by Shagrath on Apr 18, 2009 17:53:54 GMT -5
I apologize for the extremely long period of time between this and my previous post. As well as for the briefness of this one. _________________________________________________________________ It was still hot and sticky outside. It could have been tolerable had the two girls; Ivy and Fatina not been in their chador. At least, to Ivy at any rate. Fatina was having no issues, being a native to this heat. Ivy was so much more used to the cool dampness of Western Europe still. But she wasn't about to complain. It was a crowded main street. Like so many others in the city. People where running about going to their business but it was getting late in the day now. This wasn't the busiest area of the market though, quite the contrary at the time of day. Many of the vendors had already closed shop. And it was quiet, for the amount of people on the streets.
"So, show me some of the local sights Fatina? Your favorite spots in the city. I'm paying tonight." She said with a slight giggle to her voice. "Anywhere you might want to go is fine with me."
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 18, 2009 19:00:06 GMT -5
[Play background music] As he staggered backwards in pain, the injured captain’s sword arm flailed around wildly. Kochevnik was upon him in an instant, determined to end the fight before it could draw out any longer. As he closed in to seize the Corsair’s arm, it suddenly whipped across his face, his blade carving a stinging, eye-watering cut that ran diagonally from the left side of his nose to his cheek. He could feel something warm run down his face to his jawline… Then, his arm was in Kochevnik’s iron grip. Before the captain could even divert enough attention from his nose to try and struggle away, the Slavic mercenary had split him open. His eyes suddenly went wide. His dagger necklace clattered to the deck right at Kockevnik’s feet, it’s chain severed by the great slash. [End background music] [Play Kochevnik theme] “Uhh… ahhhh…” he gasped, his body suddenly weak. He sank limply to his knees in front of Kochevnik, his eyes clouded and dazed-looking. “I… I lost… Me, the master of the waves…” His body shuddered, and he coughed twice. The second one sent blood spitting out his mouth. “I’m surprised… uhh… t-that you defeated me after… what we put you through. Grrr… Who… Who are you?! Who are you…” Covered in blood and no longer speaking, Kochevnik’s quick death blow finally laid the Corsair to rest. He collapsed to the deck, spasmed once, and lay still forevermore. The ship suddenly seamed very still, silent as the grave. Kochevnik’s headband flapped in the wind as he stood over the captains body beneath that dark grey, overcast sky. Nothing impeded his attempt to retrieve his coat, which was undamaged and in fine condition. His short sword concealed within the garment was undiscovered and untouched, still safely hidden inside. And then, just after picking up his coat and before he could even move to get off the ship, the quiet moment abruptly ended. [End theme] “Captain? Captain!” The pirate crew had returned. They were coming down the crooked dock to the galley, and upon seeing Kochevnik standing there, immediately began to shout and run after him. If ever there was a time to go, now was it…
Northern Wilderness [Play Vincent theme] The ropes split apart easily at the touch of Vincent’s sword. Five of the nervous horses ran free, dashing away, and leaving the herd greatly reduced. As they disappeared into the shadow-filled valley, the animal he selected tugged against his grip, almost threatening to yank the reigns out of his hand. Fortunately for him, the beast settled as the German calmed it with gentle strokes. It had a regal head and neck, with a small muzzle and large, dark gleaming eyes. It had a fine silver-grey coat and a long mane and tail of darker grey. It’s tail swished and it nudged Vincent’s shoulder with its muzzle, and it allowed him to mount it without any problem. In the short time it took to execute his brilliant tactic, the angry marauders spilled forth from the cave, a mass of flapping clothes and flashing blades. “Hey, that’s Wind Spirit! The infidel stole the Shadow-Master’s horse!” “Death to the infidel!” They cursed and shouted, but Vincent was already riding away before they could catch him. The Shayateen quickly mounted up and rode furiously after him as he and Wind Spirit flew over the desert wilderness. It quickly became apparent to Vincent that this horse was by far faster than any he had ridden before. Whisking like the wind across the landscape, it was almost frightening. The enraged men behind had no hope of gaining on them. But just when they had begun to stretch the gap between them, maybe one hundred and fifty paces, a shrieking whistle shot past Vincent’s ear! The arrow fell into the sandy ground, soon followed by even more! So it would seam that they would not give up so easily… [End theme]
City of Jerusalem, poor district The grand city itself, the center of the Holy Land, was a huge collection of tan sandstone buildings of every shape and size. Jerusalem was bustling with people, Arabs and Muslims all. The holy city remained safely defended by Saladin’s Saracen army; there was not a single Frank or German or Englishman to be found for miles and miles.
In this revered place, somewhere amid the grandeur and awe, two dark figures ran through an abandoned, narrow alley that was filled with the shadows of dusk. They met a dead end, and gasped disbelievingly at their misfortune. They turned franticly to exit, but another figure was already blocking the mouth of the alley. The pair stared with wide-eyed horror, and men’s voices emanated from the folds of their white keffiyeh headscarves. “N-no! Please, Azzran! It wasn’t our fault!” pleaded one of them. “Yes!” agreed the other. “It was that accursed thief again! We had it, we swear! B-but it was stolen from us!” “It was not us, we swear! It was the thief! Please, don‘t kill us!” Their begging was directed at the fearsome figure cloaked in tan and dark brown that blocked their escape. There were no doors or windows at all to save them. They were completely at the mercy of this dark marauder.
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LoneWolf
Warrior
Companions are a luxury I can't afford|--|Lime gr
Posts: 249
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Post by LoneWolf on Apr 18, 2009 19:31:24 GMT -5
(Sorry for the mistake, guys. it won't happen again) -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The Marauder grinned wickedly at their cries for mercy. You couldn't see it because of the thick veil that covered his nose and mouth, and the hood that left only his dark-brown eyes visible. His long, tattered cape flailed weakly in night air and his loose, sand-battered tunic and leggings were made frightful by the two wavy scabbard's tied across his back. at the mouth of each scabbard had a handle that was expertly constricted by a long, thin strip of leather. At the end of both handles was a circular metal orb that 4 cone-shaped spikes placed evenly around its circumference, and a single spike at the bottom.
Azzran Havva'id stood inert for a long while, taking in the other's helpless pleas, while enjoying the night sky. He finally nodded solemnly at their pleadings. The night would help him disappear when he did what he knew he had to do. He could kill them. Easily. And he would. But not just yet.
"Thats terrible news for you, as it is for my employer. Now, you better get this question right." The Marauder warned, his voice tinged with anger, and a sadistic eagerness to slaughter the duo. In a flash he had removed both of his Yataghan's from their leather scabbards. Azzran held the twin blades hilt-forward, relaxedly hanging at the marauder's side. The black, wavy blades and bladed hilt looked extremely menacing to the two terrified underlings. "Your lives depend the quality of your answer. Who and where is the thief? I shall find him and kill him, that i promise you. Whoever answers first will have better chances of escaping." with that, Azzran smiled, waiting contently for a response.
The night was still young, with seemingly no eavesdroppers or anyone nearby. This could turn out to be a short night indeed.
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Post by Captain Gojira on Apr 19, 2009 15:32:56 GMT -5
Something whistled through the air beside Vincent's head, and in surprise, the treasure hunter ducked down his head, crouching low and holding tight to Wind Spirit as he watched the arrow that nearly hit him miss and land in the sandy ground. His move had been fast, but the Shayateen's rash marksmanship was the only reason his ear was still on his head. So these men had crossbows as well, it seemed.... not that it should have been surprising. But the arrow had come uncomfortably close, especially considering that horseback archery was far more challenging than typical ground archery, more so with a moving target.
More arrows came from the direction of Vincent's pursuers, all streaking through the night air and landing in the desert ground around the rider. Still, he kept up the pace, hunching low and vigorously atop the horse as it sped over the wilderness, his cape fluttering out behind him. The speed of this sleeker horse was helpful in evading, but also unexpectedly exhilarating to the European, much to his concern. In fact, he hardly dared to move, even as the Shayateen behind opened fire, for fear of falling off while the creature raced away. But to remain in this situation would be dangerous as well.
So, slowly, while keeping Wind Spirit in a straight path out of the valley, Vincent reached back one hand to his quiver that held the rest of his arrows, grasped about three of them, and pulled them out, keeping his left hand on the reigns of the horse. Next, with both hands holding onto the reigns and the arrows, he tugged at the right side of the reigns, directing Wind Spirit into a sharp curve in that direction. Then, as the horse banked right enough, Vincent looked right to the Shayateen, who hopefully had not adjusted their course too quickly.
By doing this, he allowed himself a reasonable aim at the pursuing riders, at the cost of making himself more of a target. Finally, Vincent stretched out his left arm, unslung his crossbow from his back with it, and brought it up in that one hand, aiming it to the right and for the chasing men. It was difficult to load the arrows while keeping at least one hand on the reigns at all times, but Vincent quickly managed one in, slid back the drawstring to its apex, and aimed for the closest Shayateen behind. Then, hoping for the best, he fired, sending the arrow sailing through the desert air and at the rider. Twice more, Vincent did this, at which point the horse would already be on a straight path and the pursuers probably as well.
If it was necessary, he would perform the same maneuver again, this time in the opposite direction, and then again, until either they were all gone or retreating.
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Apr 19, 2009 22:29:37 GMT -5
"Chort!"
It was an instant, reflexive curse of pain and fury. Kochevnik's head jerked to the side from the impact, and even though he wasn't able to feel the blood, he already knew from the quality of the pain alone that the edge had cut through.
His hand locked around the Corsair's wrist and he instantly dug his strong fingers into it, twisting the blade out and away from him. A snarl escaped his lips, filled with hate, pain, and pure rage at what had been done to him, the same rage that kept him going despite the exhaustion he felt. Without thinking of anything else, already forgetting about the wound across his face, he wrenched the pirates blade-arm out of the way, brought the scimitar high over his head, and slashed its full weight into the mans side.
The upper quarter of the blade rent through the pirates skin and ran down along his ribcage, slicing a thick groove through each rib of bone as it slid along the torso, until there was no more bone to stop it from sinking in. The metal slipped off the ribcage, and instantly sank into the soft flesh with a ripping sound resembling cloth tearing. Kochevnik thrust it through, and wrenched it sideways, cutting the entire left side of the abdomen in half. A spray of blood lashed across Kochevnik's abdomen and splattered onto the deck below. The pirate didn't scream, there was just a sick, muffled groan of shock, and he stumbled backwards, falling over onto the deck.
Kochevnik stood there, gasping for air. He hardly heard the dying mans words, struggling not to vomit after so much exertion after all his time below deck. He touched his hand to his face and drew it back. His entire hand, from palm to fingers, was covered in a sheen of the now cold blood that had run down his face. It was already dripping off his jaw-line. Even minor wounds to the face always bled like a horses cut throat. He cursed and felt along the wound with his fingertips, hissing at the sharp sting it brought. It wasn't too bad, not by his standards. While deep, it hadn't cut completely through the muscle. He was very lucky, just a little deeper or closer to his nose and he'd have been just as incapacitated as the captain. He slipped his fingers under the headband, yanked it away from his head, and pressed the rag to the wound, ignoring the sharp pain it caused. The flareup faded after a few seconds.
Pressing the cloth against the gash with one hand, Kochevnik quickly slid both flat-sides of the scimitar across his pant leg, wiping off most of the blood. He'd clean it properly later, and he slid the blade back into the sash circling his waist. The completely random thought occurred to him that he'd have to make a proper, over the back sheath for the scimitar. The waist interfered too much with running and horse-riding. He stumbled over the deck like a drunken man, still breathing hard. He was in absolutely no shape to exert himself like he had just done, despite all his skill, and for several moments he felt light-headed and dizzy. He kneeled down on one knee and picked up his coat, quickly glancing it over and relieved that it was absolutely intact. He could tell by the weight that his sword was still inside. He flung the coat over his right shoulder and turned around, pulling the rag away from his face and glancing at it. It was completely soaked in bright red now. Growling like a wolf, he moved the rag over so a cleaner portion was pressed up against the wound, and turned back to the pirate captain's body.
His voice, spaced between gasps for air, was quiet and very hoarse now, "Znayesh, you might have been a bastard, but you sure as hell could fight, I'll give you that. Haven't had a fight with a single man last...longer than two seconds for a very...long...time."
He crouched down beside the body and picked up the dagger, as well as the severed chain still attached to the hilt. He glanced it over, but didn't take the time to examine it well. He didn't have the time to do much of anything, right now, he just had to get the hell out of here. He wrapped the rag he'd been keeping at his wound around the blade of the dagger and placed it in one of his coat pockets, so that the blade wouldn't rip it open.
“Captain? Captain!”
All weariness and pain was instantly washed away in a fresh surge of adrenaline, subsiding to a dull throb somewhere behind his eyes. His head jerked up with the speed and precision of a hawk, focusing on the rapidly approaching figures. Damn it..., this just wouldn't bloody end. He couldn't fight all of them, not in his current state.
Before the pirates were even thirty meters away from him, Kochevnik leaped back from his crouch, instantly gaining several meters of distance before he spun around and sprinted away. He didn't run to the stern of the ship, but ran directly to the side railing, holding on tight to his coat so as not to lose it. Two meters from the railing, Kochevnik jumped off a single foot in mid-run, completing a large leap to the rail. His other foot landed directly on top of the railing, and without even needing to keep balance for such a short period, he kicked off, propelling himself far out into open space.
Moored at the dock, there was less than a meter's space separating the Lateen from the deck, and about as much vertical space between the railing and ground. Kochevnik's leap took him several meters out and he hit the ground in the same technique used for drops much higher than that. He landed on the space between the balls of his feet and toes, tensing his muscles and dropping into a crouch to transfer impact force away from his knees, and used his forward momentum to drop into a forward roll. Kochevnik didn’t even lose his forward momentum, having transferred it into the roll, and now he was sprinting across the docks at full speed, slipping around passer-bye with rapid agility. He knew that people were staring, some noticing the blood splashed over his torso, others just wondering if he was a madman.
He was drawing far too much attention, and at any moment guards might come after him. He just had to get out of the docks, to get out of sight. The moment he turned a corner or got into the streets, he could throw on his coat and vanish amongst the crowds and beggars.
He hadn’t even spent a day in this country and already....he hated it.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Apr 21, 2009 16:33:57 GMT -5
Azra'il looked down kindly at the amazed youth, a twinkle in his eyes hidden from all but the boy by his hood. "I have always liked acrobatics, and have trained since I was a youth in them. Simple practice, little one, is how I attained those skills. Perhaps one day you will be as skilled in something too. What is it that YOU want to do when you grow older and more able." As Azra'il asked, he let his eyes quickly dart over the dock once more in search of his informant friend, but if he did not see him, he would simply look back to the boy in wait of a response. He began to take in his surroundings as he did so, allowing the slightly salty smell that always accompanied the sea, the slight drafts of cool air, even the hard wood of the bench he now sat on. His ears tuned to the boy's answer, still picked up the sounds of gulls cawing above the blue, frothy ocean. Azra'il simply smiled as all the sensations wafted over him, waiting with contented anticipation for his little admirer's next syllable, word, sentence.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 22, 2009 20:34:47 GMT -5
“I want to be…” the lad’s big eyes shimmered as he looked up solemnly at Azra’il. “…the greatest thief in the world.”
Kochevnik’s world had suddenly reduced to a blur of movement, speed, and instinct. [Play background music] He went racing through the port as the pirates chased after him, a crowd of shouting, shirtless pursuers hell bent on ripping him apart. Their arms pumped madly, their faces livid with rage. The rumble of feet stomping across the wooden dock and the obscenities the Corsairs were shouting were loud enough to capture what felt like the whole port’s attention. Still, it was a busy place. Most people tried to stand clear as they passed, but Kochevnik, being the spearhead of the wild chase, still managed to find people in his way. “Huh? Whaaahh—” An old fisherman leaning over the dock to haul in his net was knocked off the dock and sent plunging into the sky blue water. Kochevnik would only barely hear the splash. He had to weave between surprised citizens as he ran, forced to zigzag through the crowd. The enraged pirates had a bit more of a direct approach to crowd control; they brutally tackled past people and shoved away anyone unfortunate enough to be between them and their prey. One poor woman previously carrying a clay pot on her head was knocked down and trampled underfoot at their passing. Clearing the docks, Kochevnik had to race down a wide street alongside the harbor until a gap between buildings opened up for him. Taking the turn, he would find himself entering a wide market square. The Corsairs were practically right on his heels. He just did not have the strength left in him to outrun them, much less get away or hide.
There was a sudden uproar of voices. The child and Azra’il looked down the street just in time to notice a great mob of people running straight towards them! The child jumped up onto the bench beside Azra’il just as the man in the lead flashed by—a big man with a coat—closely followed by quite a few very obviously angry people. They surged through the street, knocking people over and streaming curses. One of them even stomped carelessly on Azra’il’s foot as he rushed madly by. Just as suddenly as they appeared, they were gone around the corner, leaving a trail of disorder in their wake. People got up, checked injuries, and brushed themselves off. Many were still shouting after them. The man slicing the fish in the stall stared down the street in bewilderment, and the kid jumped off the bench again. “Wow,” he murmured. “What was that?”
The square was ringed by covered market stalls, shops, and street vendors. Usually it would be busy in the mornings and afternoon, but the crowd was thinning now that dusk was approaching. The surrounding buildings, Kochevnik noticed, while despite being in a middle-eastern city they had a definite European flavor to them. But now was not the time to admire architecture... The pirates had caught up to him just as they were crossing the square! One of the large men reached out his hands and made a diving lunge as Kochevnik passed by one of the stalls. Kochevnik was shoved roughly, and went sprawling forward off his feet. The pirate went rolling across the ground, and Kochevnik hit the stall’s wooden countertop, slid across and sent piled fruits flying everywhere, and crashed over the edge onto the ground. Tasting dirt as he lay sprawled on the ground, Kochevnik would find that his legs couldn’t move. He’d been worked to near death for days, if not weeks. It was a wonder he had made it this far… but no more. His body was finally giving out, his vision blurring and his eyelids drooping. This was it. The Corsairs rushed in, swords raised and ready to maul him where he lay. The man in the lead was just one pace away from him, and with frenzied eyes, he pulled his arm back for a devastating attack… [End background music] …And was blown off his feet, clothes-lined by a flash of silver. The other pirates stared with mouths agape as he crashed onto his back, feet still in the air over his head, and slid a good two meters before collapsing to the ground as motionless as a sack of camel dung. The sword that had struck him down now hovered protectively over Kochevnik. Its wielder, standing between him and the corsairs, was none other than a fully armored knight! He was tall and broad-chested, with arms of plate mail over his chain mail hauberk. He wore a long, flowing surcoat that flapped in the wind, as jet black as the night and emblazoned with a white cross on the chest. His face was unreadable and his words slightly muffled by his shining steel greathelm.
“Desist now, heathens, and be gone!” he hissed fiercely in some Frankish dialect. “Your savagery is not tolerated here.” The six other similarly clad knights who had been following him on patrol had now begun to form up behind him, creating a defensive perimeter around the fallen Kochevnik. The people in the market square became hushed and apprehensive, with all eyes on the scene. Some of them discreetly fled, fearing a fight. Murmurs could be heard, whispering, “Hospitallers…” Two of the knights crouched down beside Kochevnik. “Are you all right sir?” one of them asked in French and then in Latin in hopes that one of the languages would be understood. “Don’t worry. You’re safe now.”
Northern wilderness, entering Syria [Play background music] Vincent pulled Wind Spirit to the right. Sighting down his reloaded crossbow, he could see six riders gaining on him. Their arrows darted past him, fired not by crossbows, but rather by recurved Saracen shortbows. Despite being fired by men on horseback at a moving target, their aim was disturbingly accurate, with one slashing a hole through the end of his windswept cape and the tip of another plunging into the right-side saddlebag. In this part of the world, horseback archery is something of a cultural specialty. In fact, the army of the great Sultan Saladin was composed almost entirely of cavalry archers. It was due to Vincent’s lucky choice of a mount as speedy as Wind Spirit that he had not been turned into a pincushion by now. Fortunately for him, he also had another advantage. While he could not return fire as quickly as the Shayateen bowmen, his crossbow was much easier to aim. When he fired his first shot, the bolt streaked over the landscape with a whistling cry and caught the nearest rider in the chest, sending him flipping right off the back of his horse. Seeing this, the others fell back a little to put even more distance between them. Afterwards, for every turn Vincent made, they would turn the opposite way to constantly remain at his back and force him to twist uncomfortably in his saddle if he wanted to line up more shots. It was apparent that they would never catch him, so they adopted a new strategy: Remain at a distance and rain missiles upon him while making it as difficult as possible for him to return fire. In their unrelenting barrage, they would get him eventually... And so the high-speed chase continued. More than once, a lucky shot would graze so close to Vincent that he could hear the deadly whistle in his ear. Sooner or later, he would run out of luck. But then, that’s when he spotted something in the distance: a small cloud of dust! No more than tiny shadows, there was a column of horsemen making their way through the desert plain up ahead! [End background music]
Acre, rich district “Follow me!” Fatina said to Ivy excitedly. The dancer girl led the way out into the city. They passed through many streets, wide and narrow, past buildings of many shapes and sizes from simple wood-and-sandstone houses to shops to mosques. The people were just as diverse. Traders and merchants, both Arabic and European, mingled in the same streets as wandering peasants, chanting priests, patrolling guards, and even the occasional knight. As Fatina pulled Ivy through the crowds, she pointed out and explained various sights in her usual cheerful manner. “Here’s the Accursed Tower. Many frightening battles were fought here during the siege. It’s hard to imagine all that had happened just last month…” “And that’s the estate of some Italian noble. A businessman, I think.” “That’s the headquarters of the Knights Templar. There are lots of rumors about them. I’ve heard that they are the most powerful, frightening force our armies have ever faced.” “Oh! And this is the great Acre cathedral! This is one of the biggest, most magnificent monuments in all the Holy Land! It may be a Christian building, but isn’t it pretty?” “That long, narrow place with the arching roof over the street is all one big marketplace. There’s all kinds of stuff in there.” She just went on and on. The two of them continued on all day long, until eventually the already cloudy sky began to darken, the sun a mere orange disk behind the western horizon. “Huh?” Fatina said, her head turning to the side of the street. “Ivy look! It’s a street performer! Let’s go see!” [Play background music] Ivy found herself being tugged to the forefront of a small crowd that had gathered at the side of the road. A man in a white turban was crouching in front of a basket on the ground. His cotton shirt was rolled up and tied around his waist like a sash, revealing a chiseled, muscular chest. He had a handsome face with shoulder-length hair and bangs that swayed in front of his mud-brown eyes. He was blowing on a long, flute-like instrument called a pungi. He waved the instrument back and forth as he played, almost like he was doing a little dance as he crouched by his basket. Then the crowd gave out little gasps of surprise as a large sand-colored serpent rose out of the basket and locked eyes with the man. It was an Egyptian cobra, with large, glaring eyes, broad snout, and a wide hood. They gasped again as it hissed, revealing a glimpse of long, curved fangs. But the man kept playing, and the audience watched in amazement as the snake actually began to sway from side to side, as if seduced by the charmer’s song. Gradually, he leaned in closer and closer to the cobra, until he was within striking range. The audience held its breath. Would the creature bite him? His face betrayed no fear, only a calm, relaxed expression as he briefly removed his lips from the flute and actually kissed the serpent on the head, demonstrating complete confidence in his control over the animal. He leaned back and resumed playing, and impressed onlookers tossed coins at his feet. Fatina was completely enthralled with the performance. But whether it was the snake charming or the man’s rugged good looks that had caught her attention was difficult to determine. “Did you see that!” she said to Ivy. “Amazing!” [End background music] With a few quick, final notes, the man concluded his song. He stood up, smiling at the audience. “If you liked that, just wait until you see what’s next,” his Arabic was smooth and rhythmic. “But first, a volunteer? Anyone? How about… you!” He pointed a finger at Ivy. “He picked you! Go on!” Fatina urged. “It’ll be fun!” “Don’t worry fair lady,” the snake charmer said reassuringly. “No harm can come to you. You’ll be fine, trust me…”
Jerusalem, poor district, deserted alley The two men shuddered, quaking in terror before the frightening harbinger of death. “The thief?” one of them stuttered. “Uh…” “Acre!” declared the other. And, to be as helpful as possible, he added, “The item you seek, the scroll, had something to do with Acre. There would be no point in taking it without going there. We don’t know exactly why; we had instructions not to open it.” “And this thieving infidel probably would not be delivering it to any employer, either.” continued his partner. “He was slight of build, shorter than the average man by a head’s height, and dressed in simple coverings to conceal his identity. Such a meager bandit can only be a local street rat. Only professionals would be hired by an employer.” “So,” the other man said in conclusion. “He must be keeping it for himself, and must have gone with it to Acre. If he rode immediately after taking it from us last night, he should most likely be there right now.” Having finished their explanation to the best of their ability, their eyes rose to the dark clouds above, as if beseeching Allah to aid them. “Please, don’t kill us!” Perfectly on cue, a voice whispered through the darkness. “Hmph. And why not?” Leaning out from around the corner of the building beside Azzran was a very tall man, his body wrapped in a green cloak. His head was shaved bald and bore many scars. “You have failed me.” The cloaked man said grimly. “Meet your replacement. Azzran, I tire of these curs’ incompetence. Now that you know what you need, I have no use for them anymore.” He strode out from the alley with a swish of his cloak and waited beside the building for the marauder to finish. He gazed up at the heavens and watched as an ominous moon appeared through a small gap in the clouds. “Tonight, it begins…”
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Apr 22, 2009 20:49:52 GMT -5
Azra'il glared as the corsairs passed him, wincing with the sudden jolt of pain through his foot, then straightened his features and turned back to the boy. Smiling slightly, he said, "A thief, you say? Well, then, you should get all the practice you can. I'm afraid I've nothing to be stolen, but if you hang around the city long enough, and work hard enough, I'm sure you can be the greatest thief in the Holy Land. Tell me, what's your name?"
Azra'il longed to leave, follow the men who had so rudely charged by, find out who they were and what they wanted, but he did not want to be discourteous to the boy who had taken such admiration to him. It would be by far worse to insult the boy by leaving without so much as a name or means of talking to him again, than the crime of losing the thugs who had charged through the crowd.
As Azra'il sat patiently, anticipating the boy's response, he continued to feel a dull ache where the large man had stepped upon it in his haste. The pain grew and grew a little bit with each pulse of his blood, every beat of his heart, but Azra'il could easily bear it; It would be a poor assassin indeed who was not tolerant of pain. So, as the pain grew, Azra'il waited, watched the boy and patiently waited for his response.
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on Apr 22, 2009 23:30:20 GMT -5
Kochevnik rolled over onto all fours, panting in sheer exhaustion. He felt a hand on his arm and heard one of the Knights speaking in a language that he completely didn't understand, though it sounded familiar. Then the Knight switched over to Latin, and he understood. At first he could only nod, words completely unable to find their way to his tongue. Then he quickly said, "Da...sic, thank you", retched, turned his head to the side, and vomited.
He was struggling to remain conscious, but he was half starved, dehydrated, sick, and every muscle in his body was screaming against each movement he made. All in all, he felt like a horse dying of heat-stroke. Gray was creeping in at the edges of his vision, and he rolled over onto his back again, looking at the pirates beyond the Knight's sword. Hospitallers...am I in Jerusalem?
For a brief moment he slid his hand under his coat and wrapped it around the hilt of the pirate's scimitar, his brain still thinking of fighting, and then he let his head fall back against the ground and forgot about it. It didn't matter anymore, he couldn't do anything. He started wondering if he was going to black out or not, and then forgot about that too.
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Post by Shagrath on Apr 23, 2009 8:09:31 GMT -5
Fatina had been dragging Ivy at almost a blindingly fast rate, they'd passed over so many things, a tower, mosques, some aristocrat's home... So many things they had flown by. She'd never been to this area of the city. If it weren't for Fatina, Ivy would likely be lost for days here in this giant city. It was a feeling of helplessness that she didn't like. Then they had come to the snake charmer. He was handsome, strongly built, his dark skin glistened with sweat, despite being shirtless, and even though it was getting cooler now that the sun was beginning to fall. He had a strange flute with what looked to be a gourd on it mid shaft, it was painted elaborately. A large cobra was swaying with the music, in an almost trance like state. But by the end of the display he wanted a volunteer. The man pointed a bronze finger at Ivy. “But first, a volunteer? Anyone? How about… you!” “He picked you! Go on!” Fatina urged. “It’ll be fun!” She was bouncing up and down under her cloak. Grabbing at Ivy's arm almost like a little girl who'd just been told she was going out for the day. How could Ivy shoot her down? “Don’t worry fair lady,” the snake charmer said reassuringly. “No harm can come to you. You’ll be fine, trust me…” Ivy shot the man a smirk, that no one could see from beneath the hood she wore. "Would you like me to remove this cloak first?" It was still hot, and she had begun to sweat a little from under it, despite its supposed insulating properties. The man didn't have Ivy's trust, but she walked towards him, her head held high like no native woman here would do. Pride comes before the fall.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 23, 2009 15:28:43 GMT -5
Kochevnik could only hear voices arguing. The Hospitallers must still be fending off the Corsairs. “He is no concern of yours!” spat one of the pirates. “His head belongs to us!” “We will not allow this violence to continue!” “You dare stand against us, infidel? You are sorely outnumbered! Do not think you can save him!” “He will not be left to die.” “Then you choose death!” Sounds of battle ensued, but Kockevnik could not focus on the fight. He could feel the two knights each pull one of his arms over their shoulders and lift him up. “Navarre! He’s fainting!” “Fall back to the priory, we will hold them off! Go!” ... and everything finally went black.
The child smiled at Azra’il’s kind words. Needless to say, he’d probably never actually had anyone encourage his ambitions to become a master thief before. “I’m—” “Zaki!” he was about to answer when a shrill voice cut him off. The little boy cringed and turned with a shameful look to where an older girl was storming down the street. She had a fit, slender physique, bright eyes, and shiny hair that all suggested excellent health, but otherwise looked just as poor as the boy. Her knee-length sleeveless dress was torn and ragged, covered with scuffs and scratches, and may once have been white. She only had cloth wrappings to cover her feet with, which were also filthy. More scrap cloth was used to secure a large pouch to her waist and wrapped loosely around her neck to lift over her face when confronted with blowing sand. Her dark hair was long and straight and tied back in a loose ponytail that swished back and forth as she rushed over to the boy. “Zaki, you know we don’t talk to strangers!” she said sternly, kneeling next to him and staring him in the eye. Her own were a fiery amber color, the same as his. Judging from her voice and appearance, Azra’il could judge her age to be about seventeen or eighteen. “Now, are you hurt? Those men who passed by…” “I’m fine,” he responded sullenly. “Good. Then come on, we have to go.” She looked rushed, eager to leave. Turning to look at Azra’il, she said. “I’m terribly sorry sir. I’m sure he didn’t mean to disturb you.” She took little Zaki’s hand and tugged him away. “Aww, but Khalisah…” he protested. “Let’s go Zaki, now!” As she led him away, he turned back to Azra’il and gave him a sad little wave until they disappeared around the nearest corner. And still with no sign of Ajib, he was once again left to himself.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on Apr 23, 2009 17:58:28 GMT -5
Azra'il smiled to the girl, trying to explain that the young boy, Zaki, wasn't a bother at all, but before he could, the young woman took the youth around the corner, disappearing with a little wave. Azra'il was slightly confused at first, all of it having happened so first, and still curious as to Khalisah and Zaki's story. Growing more bored by the moment, the young assassin elected to follow the young boy and the young woman who had led him away, as Ajib was nowhere to be spotted amongst the crowds of the dock. Azra'il walked forward, slowly snaking his way through the crowd with his curiosity exponentially increasing every second. He walked to the bend which Zaki and Khalisah had disappeared around, walking forward through the crowd and looking with as much discretion as he could to see if he could find any trace of the duo. It had been scarcely 30 seconds since they turned the bend, so he assumed that they could not have gone too far. As his eyes darted through the crowd, he hoped he could find a way to the rooftops, where he could more easily watch for Ajib and follow the young street rats without being spotted.
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