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Post by Captain Gojira on Apr 23, 2009 18:01:59 GMT -5
Only shortly after the pursuing Shayateen reformed their tactic against him, Vincent, now unable to land a clear shot at the riders, ceased fire, focusing solely and only on the one thing he could do: Steer and attempt to outmaneuver atop Wind Spirit. He managed a glimpse at the weapons the Shayateen were using - a particularly similar weapon to other European bows - and considered acquiring one for himself, though that would be rather difficult in the current situation.
So, as Wind Spirit stormed over the vast desert plain with rapidly beating hooves, Vincent kept hunched and held tight, laying low to avoid any arrows fired overly high. He also came to realize the amazing marksmanship these Shayateen displayed, especially discomforting with enormous amount of arrows they had available. More so, he started to truly recognize the uncomfortable situation he was in.
Vincent was out here on his own, racing over the desert on an unfamiliar steed, closely pursued by an entire party of enraged marauders that would stop at almost nothing to stop and kill him. As a treasure hunter, Vincent was entailed to face danger much of the time. He would venture to unexplored wilderness to Europe's east, endangered by the wilderness itself. He would escort merchants into territory ruled by ruthless Nordic, all the time at risk of unseen attack. At one point, Vincent had nearly even started a national-scale war and become a foreign criminal, a danger he narrowly avoided. But even these feats, these past experiences that had accustomed Vincent to adventure, were not on the level of this pursuit. There was a terrible churning in his stomach, an unnerving feel over his body, the sensation of one who realized his predicament. Vincent was, in every respect, risking his life.
One of the arrows shot through the back of his cape, and in great surprise, Vincent threw back an alarmed glance, growling a little from behind clenched teeth. More and more of the projectiles came in his direction, beginning to strike even the saddlebag. Frantic, Vincent looked around the plain, searching for something to help end this chase.
The separate group of horseriders ahead came as a interesting sight to Vincent, who, upon spotting the sand they stirred in their wake, widened his eyes a bit. Immediately, the treasure hunter became conspicuous of their presence. It was a relief to spot something that might be helpful, but for all he knew, they were even more raiders, traveling under the cover of the desert night. There was no telling that they would help, even if his immediate welfare was at risk. On the other hand, there was nothing else to try at the moment, and the arrows slowly found their way closer to him each time. Still, something had to be done. Dying was the option Vincent wasn't going to take.
Quickly, with the enraged, arrow-shooting Shayateen still pursuing behind, Vincent lashed the reigns again, hunching low and vigorous as possible as he directed Wind Spirit to pull ahead and race directly into the team of approaching horseriders. The arrows continued to streak and whistle by, but the Treasure hunter ignored them, disregarding all but his horse's speed and the oncoming herd of equestrians. He would race directly through them, hoping either they would disperse or miss him completely, and then let the Shayateen confront them afterward if they followed, sufficiently slowing the pursuers.
As a final maneuver, he slipped out one more arrow, loaded it into his crossbow, and veered just a small bit to the right in his course. Then, when the pursuers turned left to avoid his aim, he would take the weapon in his left hand, stretch back that arm and point it at the Shayateen while keeping on course, and fire off the arrow before returning to his course: Straight into, and past, the herd of oncoming horseriders.
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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 23, 2009 19:36:04 GMT -5
Azzran grinned beneath his shroud, ecstasy pumping through his body at his employer's command to slaughter the strangers. Now he would do what he did best. The marauder glanced joyously back at his departing proprietor. Once he was out of sight, he surged forward, eager to slaughter the seemingly unarmed men.
He moved with a fatal grace, twisting his wrists to twirl the blades through the night air in a deadly act of diversion. With a sudden leap, the bandit was in the air, spinning with ease only accomplished from years of practice.
The veil on his face quavered from the sudden movement, and his hood flapped viciously at him. After his second full spin, his hood gave way, flipping backwards onto his back, revealing something gruesome. Azzran's scalp was ridged with uneven scars, and spotted with clumps of dirty, matted hair. The sickly yellow, brown and pink skin that was evidence of his scorched skin, was only complimented by the foggy film that trekked what was Azzran's right eye. Another gruesome detail that made up the scorched bandit was the begginings of a deep gash that had long since initiated healing. The scar itself ran diagonally down his face, across the top ridge of his nose, and lost itself behind his heavy veil.
His tattered capped flapped raggedly behind him as he spun, only diminishing once he landed right in front of the underlings. As soon as he landed, he grabbed the mouth of his brown hood, and promptly placed it back on his head. Now he could not afford to let the duo escape.
Azzran rocketed forward, his curved Yataghan's blade's positioned towards the mouth of the alley, the hilts facing forward at his waist. Next, he slashed his right Yataghan upwards diagonally at the one who was hesitant in answering him.
Azzran thought he heard the man scream, but he couldn't be sure. His mind was elsewhere, while his body moved to the next one, who had been first to respond to his inquiry. The bandit quickly placed the tip of each blade at the opposite side of his opponents neck, in an X-shape. Before any words had escaped his foe's mouth, Azzran had already jerked both arms back to the side they originated. This whole process was completed in a little more than two breaths. If everything went right, that would rip open his adam's-apple, and both would be slain.
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 24, 2009 18:39:20 GMT -5
Quick and precise as the hands of death itself, Azzran’s blades sliced through cloth and flesh. Blood spurted eerily in the moonlight, accompanied by a soft, wet gushing sound as the two men collapsed. Large red smears splashed onto the walls and dusty ground, and they uttered their last, gurgling breaths. Throat cuttings were never a pretty sight. It was a gruesome mess and a horrible way to die. But it was quick, simple, efficient; when done professionally, of course. Someone going for a quick kill without Azzran’s expertise could easily botch the attempt, and the result could be even worse then a proper throat-slitting. But Azzran’s executions were flawless, and the men died quickly, if not painlessly. His employer awaited him out in the street. He stood with his back to Azzran as he looked up at that glowing moon. “Azzran, do you believe in God?” he whispered in his hard, deep scratchy voice, his eyes not moving away from the heavens. Usually when he spoke it would scare people’s turbans off, but whenever he lowered his voice, he could be bone-chillingly creepy. That was Al Rais for you. Rumor has it that he had killed thousands of men, survived hundreds of battles, and could never be defeated in combat. He was a living legend in Outremer’s underground. Al Rais the Invincible. Al Rais the Devil. After Azzran’s reply, he continued, “If there really was such a being, then why would He let people be brutally slaughtered in His Holy Land every day? There’s always a new Crusade to be launched after the previous one fades into history. Crusade, Jihad, whatever it is people call it. It’s war, pure and simple.” He now turned to look at Azzran. As his head turned over his cloaked shoulder, Azzran saw that his right eye was covered by a black eye patch. “I know war, Azzran. War is my life. It is everything that I know, that I am.” An avian screech rang out from the sky. A dark shape swooped down from the darkness, golden feathers streaking towards Al Rais. He stuck an arm out from beneath his green cloak, and the golden eagle circled above him once and landed on his outstretched arm. It beat its huge wings, causing great flapping noises as it let out another shriek, then settled on its perch. Al Rais stroked the large, magnificent bird, then turned back to Azzran. “You know what you must do. Find that scroll, bring it to me. I will meet you in Damascus when you have completed your mission, and I give you the information you’ve been seeking, as I promised.” Once again, he turned away, and the devil slowly strode off into the shadows. Even after he has completely disappeared into the night, his words still carried through the darkness. “Do not disappoint me, Azzran. War is coming.”
Syria, Northern wilderness [Play background music] As Vincent rode furiously towards the column of horsemen, the Shayateen continued their desperate barrage of missiles. Several dark wooden shafts flashed by, but did not hamper the treasure hunter as he feinted right and fired backwards to the left. His bolt struck home, but he did not see the rider fall. By now, the unknown travelers ahead had slowed to a wary trot. On the wide-open plain, it would take a completely oblivious rider to not notice the wild chase headed their way. They must have seen what was happening at about the same time Vincent had spotted them, and now slowed cautiously. When it became apparent that Vincent wasn’t going to deviate from his head-on course, the large group put spurs to their mounts and began to gallop away… save for one. As the lone horseman suddenly broke away, Vincent thought he could just barely hear an alarmed shout over the sound of the wind in his ears. “Nein! Warte Komtur!...” Wind Spirit, unbelievably, was still picking up speed, as if the horse was putting everything it had into the mad dash. Vincent would start to feel uneasily balanced in his seat, struggling to control the foreign beast. Then, his earlier fears regarding the unaccustomed speed were realized as he unwittingly steered Wind Spirit towards a small rock he had failed to notice. The horse, refusing to collide with the obstacle, jerked unexpectedly to the side, and Vincent was violently thrown off! He would go crashing back to earth after a gut-wrenchingly long flight, the force of his momentum sending him rolling far across the scrubby ground. Wind Spirit galloped into the distance without him, and the sound of hostile hoof-beats reverberated through the ground around him as he lay sprawled and dizzy… After regaining his senses, the next thing he knew would be the towering form of a mounted Shayateen marauder right in front of him! It was the man he just shot with his crossbow; the bolt protruded from a limb left arm, preventing him from using his bow. So instead, he drew a saber and recklessly charged forth with his blade held high over his head. He was so close, Vincent could see the bloodthirsty eyes glaring down at him… Only then did he become aware of the thundering gallop sounding from directly behind him. Before the saber could swish down and cleave his flesh, a monstrous shadow flew right over him—a shadow with hooves! The horseman swung his own gigantic sword as he came down from the sky, and the Shayateen flopped from his mount and landed next to Vincent… minus his head! The horseman now turned his steed to face sideways in front of Vincent as he stared at the oncoming marauders. Sitting astride his gargantuan white horse, he held his sword, a huge German zweihander, at the ready. Swirling around him was a great flowing white cape, and he wore an equally pure white surcoat emblazoned with a large black cross. His arms were covered with gleaming armor, and his greathelm was decorated with a pair of large, curving metal wings. As the Shayateen approached, drawing back their bows, the knight hurriedly dismounted and pulled a heavy shield off his horse. After slapping it in the side to send it galloping away and out of the line of fire, he raced over to Vincent, slid into a crouch in front of him, and raised up the shield without saying a word. As the rain of arrows was loosed and came down, he held up his shield to meet them… [End background music]
Acre, rich district The snake charmer grinned at Ivy. “Not necessary, my lady. All I need you to do is to stand right…” he offered her his hand so he could lead her in front of the crowd. “…here. Now don’t move. Be as perfectly still as you can.” He took hold of the cobra behind the head and lifted the snake out from its basket. The serpent was at least the length of his arm. He gently draped the animal across Ivy’s cloaked shoulders. It hissed at her once its master had released it, frightening the crowd, but it did not strike. [Play background music] It’s head hovered dangerously in front of Ivy’s face until the snake charmer had picked up his pungi and once more began to play. The serpent’s attention switched to follow the song. It waved, back and forth, back and forth, right there in front of her face until the man began to circle her. The snake followed him as he went around her statue-still body, and it slithered around her veiled head. It spiraled around her neck and up her head until it sat like a coil of rope at the very top of her skull like some sort of living hat. The audience had never seen anything like it. They cheered (softly, so as not to upset the snake) and ooed and awed. Light applause even began in time to the snake charmer’s tune. And all the while the man just walked around her, smiling lazily as he played his flute. When he was finished, he simply reached down for his basket and played one-handed, holding out the container to Ivy’s head. The cobra’s eyes followed his rapid finger movement, the way he swished his head from side to side as he played, and obediently slid off Ivy’s head and into the basket. [End background music] Having replaced the lid on the basket and thus sealing away the deadly serpent, the crowd gave the man one final, enthusiastic cheering applause, and rained coins at his feet. Grinning thankfully, he made a low, gracious bow. “Many thanks, my dear. You are certainly a bold one.” he said once his back had straightened. He flicked one of the coins to her, then proceeded to sweep the rest off the ground. Having been dismissed and sent back to the crowd, all seamed well. People complimented her kindly on her bravery to have literally offered herself to the mercy of the deadly beast, but there was one person’s praise whose was missing. Fatina’s. A quick glance over the crowd would reveal that the girl was nowhere to be seen. Fatina was gone!
Acre, port district Azra’il slipped through the crowds after the youths, hiding in plain sight, as invisible as the Djinn. They were utterly oblivious in their hurry to the Assassin who was stalking them. The girl, Khalisah, pulled Zaki behind her as she squeezed her way along the road past a nearby marketplace, where some kind of brawl was going on. Azra’il almost lost them in the throng of people running away, but quickly regained sight of them as they bypassed the marketplace and continued deeper into the city.
Khalisa led Zaki out of the flow of traffic into the open mouth of an alley that was covered by an overhead tarp. A heavily worn wooden bench lined the wall of one building, and there was only about three other people in the alley, so she decided it was a safe enough place to stop. She let out a soft breath and sat down right at the entrance of the alley. Zaki stood in front of her as she pulled one aching foot over her knee and rubbed it. “Zakiriya Ibn Abdul-Rashid,” she scolded, using the boy’s full name for emphasis, “What am I ever going to do with you? How many times have I told you to never run off without me, and to never EVER talk to strangers!?” The lad’s gaze drooped to his bare toes. “I’m sorry Kali. But that man was just so… so amazing! And he was really nice, too…” Khalisah blew one of her long stray bangs out of her face with an annoyed sigh. “Then you got lucky. People aren’t nice, Zaki, you just have to learn to accept that.” she undid her foot-wrapping, shook it out, and began to rewrap it. “And what made this man so amazing?” “He was doing these flips and stuff, running along the rooftops. Just like you, Kali!” Khalisa stopped cold. She pictured the man she saw sitting calmly on the bench by the harbor, and tried to imagine him dashing across the roofs of Acre. “Kali? Kali is something wrong?” She had let her mind wander. She shook her head, then turned back to the little boy. “No, nothing.” she said. “Zaki, I don’t ever want you to talk to that man if you see him again, am I clear?” “Why?” “Because he could be one of the bad people. Am I clear?” she demanded again. “Yes, Khalisah.” “Good boy.” she shook out and rewrapped her other foot and took a few deep breaths to calm down. She couldn’t afford to let him see her lose her cool, but the kid was sharp. And highly tuned to his big sister’s mood. “Okay, now I want you to be a good little brother and wait here for me, okay?” “Where’re you going?” “I’m going to try to find us something to eat. I’ll be right back.” Khalisah gave him a tiny little smile and ran a hand through his long hair, then wandered out of the alley. I have to be more careful, she thought as she merged with the crowd. For his sake. Oh God, how am I ever going to get us through this? Zakiriya slumped onto the bench and sat quietly, watching his sister go.
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Post by Captain Gojira on Apr 24, 2009 21:34:11 GMT -5
The approaching horsmen came exponentially closer with each passing moment of Wind Spirit's rush, to the point of which Vincent could actually examine their speed. For a moment, he was sure that he would pass through their numbers. But as the pursuit drew closer, he saw them slow, stop, and eventually, make a complete retreat. Nearly every equestrian ahead stopped full force when the chase came closer and turned away, storming off into the night... except one. A single man among them stayed, and for a moment, Vincent picked up his head and tilted it, staring inquisitively ahead at the rider. He thought he heard something shouted, but it was not clear at first.
Indeed, there was a holler of some kind, but with the excitement and pursuit going on, Vincent was unable to distinguish the words in time. That and something else coming his way.
Then, his worst fear confirmed itself. As the treasure hunter uneasily dashed over the desert atop Wind Spirit, flying with a blurring speed, he saw exactly what Wind Spirit did before him. A rather small but obstacle rock formation in his path, hidden under the cover of the night until he was too close. At the speed Wind Spirit had attained, Vincent was not able to spot the rock in time, nor steer clear of it under his own control, and the horse beaked right too sharply for him to hold on.
There was sickening lurch in Vincent's stomach, sudden enough to make him grunt, and with a blunting ache in his gut, he suddenly felt weightless. For a moment, the treasure hunter did not understand what happened. He felt lighter, faster... farther.
Then, with fright and realization in the same moment, he watched Wind Spirit gallop away into the night without him. Then he felt the force of being hurled across the ground. Wind buffeted his body, which soared for a few meters with a trembling discomfort, and he finally hit the dry, desert ground with a thump. Pain and pure shock rattled his muscular build, and Vincent grunted fiercely as he tumbled violently over and over to a rough stop.
Throbbing, paralyzing ache was all he knew for the next few moments, lying blind on the scrub land while clenching his teeth and searing a little.
"Mein Himmel..."
Painfully, he opened his eyes, noticing the dark shadow of someone towering over him. A defiant scowl stretched over his face, and the German's narrow eyes slowly turned up to meet the glare of the Shayateen, seeing him impaled by an arrow yet still wielding a saber in one hand. With the same war-like demeanor, the Arabic horserider charged at him, the sword raised and preparing to strike Vincent. Quickly, however, the heavy beating of hooves from behind came audible--
A shadow passed overhead the stunned hunter, and with a single fell attack, the Shayateen was dispatched. His body dropped down and thumped next to Vincent in the sand, who stared in amazement, eyes wide as orbs, at the sight of the decapitation. Immediately, he looked to his rescuer, a powerful knight atop a horse with an immense cape and a sword that by typical required two hands to carry. The recognition of him as European was immediate, calming and ensuring Vincent.
As the man came over and shielded them both from the oncoming rain of arrows, the treasure hunter stared at him with a suddenly hearty expression, grinning in joy and glinting in his eyes. All the pieces came together. The voice he had heard was German, and apparently calling out to stop the others. A Komtur he overheard, meaning this man may have been a procurator, leaving his commander to help the stranded Vincent. Uncontrollably, Vincent started to laugh loudly, joyfully, giving complete awe in his expression. A true, German knight, of all odds, had come here in the desert in his time of need. Himmel may have been watching over him after all.
"Mein Held!" He exclaimed to the knight. Not even expecting an answer back, he blurted out, "Wohin haben die andere gingen?", hoping the others would return as well.
But only moments later, Vincent realized the storm of arrows from the remaining mauraders was coming in, and quickly scrunched up under the shield as he heard them whistle in. He waited, still and silently, until he could hear the thumping of the arrows on the shield, which was probably metal. Then, when the first barrage was through, the treasure hunter would awkwardly turn over on his stomach, unfumble his crossbow from his back, and pull out another arrow to load. Moving was painful and laborious after such a rough landing, but slowly, with great care in his movements, he could manage the ordeal, laying down his crossbow on the ground and propping it up on one hand.
He would move a little so he could look under the shield, to the approaching herd of Shayateen, and then align his eyes with the aim to get a clear shot. Like this, he was lying on his stomach and shielded from above while aiming at the horseriding marauders from the ground, trying to get a clear shot at the riders or their horses. He would wait for a few moments for them to get closer, line up the end of the weapon in sight with the distant figure of the closest rider, and then, sliding the arrow into its place and pulling back to its apex, fire the shot at the Shayateen. Afterward, he would repeat this with the others, shooting one arrow after another until it was no longer necessary. Either they would retreat or fall to the arrows, or something else Vincent would have to adapt to.
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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 24, 2009 22:24:09 GMT -5
Like A wraith, Azzran moved silently from the shadow of the alley, and stopped behind Al Rias, his calm eyes probing the Devil's back. Another successful kill. The heaven's be praised.
"Azzran, do you believe in god?" Al Rias asked. Azzran thought solemnly for a moment, finding the right words. He'd never been asked about religion.
"I have quelled and evaded death for over 15 years. Its hard to believe there isn't a divine force guiding us along on a path of fate." The raider replied slowly, his voice lacking any sort of emotion.
Al Rias had long been an iconic figure to Azzran, and respected and feared him. But Rias would never suspect his fear, and Azzran Havva'id was not one to show emotions.
“If there really was such a being, then why would He let people be brutally slaughtered in His Holy Land every day? There’s always a new Crusade to be launched after the previous one fades into history. Crusade, Jihad, whatever it is people call it. It’s war, pure and simple.” Al Rias shifted his gaze towards the lone marauder. He couldn't depict his employers face, but the gaze in itself and the response struck him like an arrow. Azzran could not think of a reply.
“I know war, Azzran. War is my life. It is everything that I know, that I am.” Havva'id nodded understandingly. Fighting was the only thing he knew, and would probably be the only thing he ever knew.
The loud call of an eagle of some kind, that flew with large beats of its strongwings. It circled above the two, appearing as a heavy black outline of what it was. It finally swooped down, landing swiftly on Al Rias' extended his arm, where it quickly became comfortable.
“You know what you must do. Find that scroll, bring it to me. I will meet you in Damascus when you have completed your mission, and I give you the information you’ve been seeking, as I promised.” With that, the Devil turned, and left Azzran in the dark abyss of the night.
He felt out of his element. The Marauder was use to the hot air of the Negev desert, with no cover with the exception of 30-foot sand dunes. Here, was the exact opposite; it was cool, with lots of cover.
Without a sound, he moved back into the dark alley to finish what he knew he had to do. First he checked each body for anything interesting such as gold, trinkets he could sell, or food. Next, Azzran moved to one of the corpses, grabbing it by the wrists' and dragging it into the nearest corner. It wasn't the greatest hiding spot, but it was not so obvious. He quickly disposed of the second body the same way, stacking it atop the first one like a piece of meat.
With the bodies disposed of, Azzran exited the bloody alleyway, and started his long journey for Acre. he couldn't wait to get started.
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Post by Shagrath on Apr 27, 2009 8:02:47 GMT -5
Ivy stood there with her arms folded in defiance as the snake coiled around her body, the man was making it dance around her head like nothing she'd seen before. Ivy was mildly impressed with him. But after traveling in the circus as she did for so long, Ivy knew his secrets. He was just more talented than the charmer they had had at the time.
When the performance was finished the crowd had showered the snake charmer in coins and bathed Ivy with compliments and praise for being so brave. The charmer had even tossed a coin at her, for helping him.
Something was wrong though. Ivy scanned the crowd of people, it was a large crowd, but someone was missing. There was no high pitched squeals of amazement from someone who never got out... And then it dawned on her.
Fatina was gone.
That, was a giant blow to the stomach for Ivy. Fatina was her only friend here in Acre, her way back to the tavern, her link to friendship. And she was gone. Even if Ivy knew the way back to the tavern, she couldn't return without Fatina. Not to leave her to the wilds here, unprotected and alone, possibly in the arms of a stranger... Beaten... Raped... Killed... Sold off to another form of slavery... There was no way, that Ivy could do that to the poor girl.
She spun on her heels and grabbed the nearest person. It was a man, he didn't look that old. Her grip was like steel.
"You! I came here with a companion, a woman. She's not here now. Did you see what happen to her? Did she run off somewhere?"
In the back of Ivy's mind, she knew that Fatina hadn't run off anywhere. She wasn't that kind of girl, Fatina would have stayed to watch this and then bounce like a small child around Ivy after the display had happen. Something must have happened to her. And Ivy wouldn't rest until she had the poor girl back in her possession (so to speak).
When the man didn't respond quickly enough she spun again, called out Fatina's name and grabbed another asking the same question.
Her fans bounced heavily on her hips, their weight reminding her that she wasn't without a means to get her back. Or dispose of the men who took her. If something happens to Fatina, there will be hell to pay...
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Post by Blade Knight on Apr 29, 2009 15:54:09 GMT -5
After receiving awkward apologies and strange looks from the people she questioned, Ivy finally came across a man, skin as black as ebony, who launched into a lengthy string of incomprehensible sing-song sounding words. When he realized she had no idea what he was saying, he simply pointed down the road. His dark finger quivered at the mouth of the third alley on the left. There was no sign of Fatina from where Ivy stood, and there was a thick, slow-moving crowd of people blocking the spot, but the man nodded confidently at her and nodded in that direction.
Jerusalem, poor district Lost to the shadows of the dark alley, the bodies would likely remain hidden for quite a while before anyone stumbles across them. The gore splatter, on the other hand, would remain highly visible. It might scare people away, or in the case of city guards, draw them in to investigate. But it would not matter either way, for Azzran would have long since disappeared. His search of the bodies rewarded him with a small draw-string bag containing six gold dinars. The coins were worn from passing through countless hands and the bag itself was no more than a cloth rag. Each man had a simple knife on him that they had evidently dared not use. They were not razor-sharp, but balanced and shaped well enough to possibly serve as impromptu throwing weapons. Other than these items, they possessed nothing more than their now blood-stained clothing. They had been petty thugs, and no more could be expected of them. Now all that faced the dark marauder was the empty alley and the dawn of his new mission.
Syria, Northern wilderness The arrows came raining down upon them, deflected away with loud clangs by the knight’s metal kite-shaped shield. The barrage only lasted a moment, and in the lull before the next wave, his winged helmet turned to look at Vincent over his shoulder. “Sie denkt du war eine plünderer und geht weg, aber Sie kommt jetzt schnell!” The Shayateen were splitting up, trying to shoot in from multiple angles. The knight’s head scanned back and forth to watch them all as he turned to intercept the missiles. From his prone position, Vincent managed to accurately snipe another rider off his horse while the knight covered him. Every time Vincent heard the shriek of another arrow, it would feel as if he were about to be hit. But every time, the whistle would be met with a resounding CLANG! and be deflected away. After a few moments of tension that seamed longer then they really were, the knight’s fellows finally caught up. There was a good twenty of them, some dressed similar to Vincent’s rescuer, but not quite as elaborately decorated. As horses flew past them to engage the Shayateen, one of the horsemen pulled up beside Vincent and the knight. “Komtur! Bist du verletzt?” The knight rose and looked up to the rider, a man with a chain mail hauberk beneath his surcoat and an open helmet that revealed a concerned face. “No, sergeant, I am not injured,” replied the knight, returning his sword to its sheath. “We’re so sorry commander,” the sergeant continued. “We saw the approaching bandits and turned to leave without realizing you had rode off…” “Forget it,” The knight reassured him with a dismissive wave of his hand. “Confusion is commonplace when unexpected situations arise. You are not at fault.” “Ja, I suppose you are right. Thank you sir.” Now looking to Vincent, the sergeant said. “And besides, had you not acted so decisively, who knows what would have befallen this man here? I say, are you a knight?” he asked Vincent, looking over his cape and chest armor. Vincent’s rescuer, the knight commander, reached out a hand to help Vincent to his feet. “Not just any man, sergeant,” he said. “This man is kin. Like ourselves, he is of German birth. But first things first.” He lifted off his helmet and tucked the winged greathelm under his arm. His hair was shoulder-length and rusty-red in color, and had gleaming eyes of light grey. His smile showed even, well-kept teeth. This man had an air of nobility about him. “Ich heiße Sir Raynard von Helfried,” he introduced himself. “Komtur von der Orden der Brüder vom Deutschen Haus Sankt Mariens in Jerusalem. Wie heiß du?”
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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 29, 2009 16:27:57 GMT -5
Sticking to the safety of shadow, Azzran moved silently from the dark maw of the alley. He was eager to kill this so-called thief, and snatch the scroll from its cold, dead hands. Azzran chided himself. Anxiousness would surely get him killed. He would have to remain absolutely detached until the right moment. Then he would butcher anyone who stood in his way.
First, he would have to get a horse, camel, or some other type of transportation. Next he would have to find food, and a single day's rest before he would travel to Jerusalem.
Azzran turned eastward, towards the nearest stables, where he might aquire a horse. He shuffled quietly in the darkness with a light heart.
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Post by Captain Gojira on Apr 29, 2009 18:43:01 GMT -5
As the remaining knights returned and dashed past Vincent and the komtur on their horses, he raised his gaze from the crossbow and looked around, smiling a bit in relief from the assistance. One of them stopped by the commander and quickly explained himself, Vincent merely lying by and watching them converse. The knight turned his attention to the treasure hunter, and, feeling suddenly in familiar presence, the German grinned in a hearty expression, slinging his crossbow over his back again.
Asked whether he was knight by this man, Vincent gently closed his slender eyes and chuckled a little, reminded of something yet again from his younger years in Germany. Many years ago, he too was to become a knight, being the son of an old and retired ritter. He had been trained as a page, squire, and even briefly had the privilege of acting as a procurator under a noble's command. That, unfortunately, was short-lived, due to Vincent's "election" as a vanguard. Somehow, his masters felt, Vincent was suited to a solitary role. Since then, he had never thought of himself as any kind of knight.
"Heh heh.... not quite, sir," he said solemnly in a slightly gruff voice. Opening his sleek, hazel eyes again, he took the commander's hand and raised himself tall. He looked at the komtur's face once his helmet was removed, noticing the shade of gray in his eyes and the shoulder length hair he beared. He listened intently to the commander's introduction, then politely made a half bow with one arm over his abdomen when asked for his own.
"Mein name ist Vincent Schwehtshlaggar von Goslar, ein shatz jager fur die reichliche adlige. Es ist glucklich sie zu treffen, Raynard," he formally introduced himself. Then, raising up again, he explained his situation to the knights.
"I was on my way to Damascus this evening when those bandits attacked. They were meeting someone in a cave, and then chased me out to the desert when they discovered me. Tell me, would you men be headed there as well or possible have a horse to lend?"
He then cast a glance to remaining Shayateen while waiting for a response, trying to get a look if they were still resisting against the knights.
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Post by Blade Knight on May 2, 2009 10:27:44 GMT -5
Sir Raynard smiled and gave a surprised chuckle, “Is that so?” he said. “We were indeed riding forth to Damascus as well! By God, that is lucky! Perhaps it’s destiny…” He too looked off to where the Teutonic knights were routing the enemy Shayateen. The men were already trotting back, leaving riderless horses running away and the last of the bodies to lie in the sand. Only one man was left, and he was already no more than a dark shape on the horizon. “Komtur!” One of the knights approached, leading two horses by the reigns. One was Helfried’s massive white stallion, and the other was Wind Spirit. “Danke schön,” the commander replied, taking the reigns. “This is you’re mount, is it not, Herr Schwehtshlaggar? Such a magnificent creature!” He handed over the reigns to Vincent, and Wind Spirit whinnied quietly and nudged Vincent’s head with his muzzle. “Ha ha! He certainly likes you!” laughed Helfried. He pulled himself up onto his own horse, secured his shield back on the animal’s flank, and replaced his helmet back over his head. He yanked on the reigns, and his horse snorted, circled, and turned to point east. “Well my friend,” the Teutonic commander said. “You are certainly invited to ride with us to Damascus if you wish. We will set up camp shortly, and I am most interested to hear more of your experience with those bandits.”
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on May 3, 2009 6:56:48 GMT -5
Azra'il turned away from the conversation he had just heard, confusion swirling through his mind, a dense fog that allowed no other thought until it was suppressed. He easily slipped back into the crowd, walking slowly along as he pondered what he had just heard.
To himself, the assassin thought, 'Are they wanted by the guild? Or someone more sinister? And what did the boy mean by 'like you, Kali?' Was she an Assassin too, maybe a former assassin? Or again, is there a third party at play?' The man felt he had to sit down, and so, easily as he could, worked his way back to the docks, where he knew of a bench he could sit upon. He walked as quickly as possible without drawing attention to himself, pondering these two mysterious children.
After he had finally arrived at the bench he had sat at for such a short time before the young boy, Zakiriya, had appeared. He tried to find answers for all of his questions on the matter, no small task. He thought long and hard on the subject, he wracked his mind for any small hint he may have missed from the two that provided any idea as to their identities. But, no matter how long he thought, no matter how deep into his recollection of the conversation he delved, he could not find a clear explanation that made sense. People didn't LEAVE the Brotherhood, and a girl of her age had a small chance of ever having been a member, or a serious member at least. Possibly their parents were, but then why were they orphans? The Assassins could very easily have allowed the parents to return to civilian life, with the threat of an assassin in the night to keep them in line.
Then, a spark appeared in Azra'il's brain. If that had been what had happened, and they HAD stepped out of line, the assassin-in-the-night could have missed them somehow, failed to capture two children of an assassin with all the training that the two parents could have provided. Now, they're on the run from the Brotherhood.
With his mind finally at rest, Azra'il resumed searching for as long as he could, for his informant and friend Ajib. He knew that the man was hear, and so searched for him with all of the optical might he could bring to bear, scanning the docks again and again, until the white wrappings of his head finally surfaced from amidst the crowds of people.
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Post by Captain Gojira on May 3, 2009 10:06:29 GMT -5
While the remaining armor-clad knights rode back from their defeated enemies, Vincent solemnly, stoically stood beside Raynard and watched, listening to the Komtur's words. When he was done, the treasure hunter vaguely responded, "Yes.... perhaps it is - Destiny..." He continued to stare in the direction of the knights, but was now looking past them, far out into the distance and at the sole remaining figure on the sandy plain of the desert.
He kept a cold, apathetic gaze fixed on that one spot, his face solid and unmoving, and even his eyes became narrower as he glared at the distant man. Vincent could tell, but scarcely, that it was a surviving Shayateen, apparently still alive and now retreating to report back to his master. He hadn't been forgotten either. Zafir...
Standing at the back of the shadowy, torch-lit cavern, masked by the darkness and surrounded by his followers in praise...
“This is you’re mount, is it not, Herr Schwehtshlaggar? Such a magnificent creature!”
Vincent blinked, lost the memory, and turned to give a blank stare at the Knight that now stood before him. At seeing Wind Spirit, he gave a surprised gesture, not having expected to see the horse after it rode off. He thankfully took the reigns, let Wind Spirit nudge his head, and returned the gesture by raising a hand and stroking the side of the horse's head, giving a subtle, modest smile.
"He is impressionable, isn't he?" he returned Raynard's comment. Then, leaning closer to Wind Spirit, he whispered only loud enough for the two to hear, "Aber wie mussen eist uben, nah?" Chuckling, he patted the horse, reached over its back, and swiftly mounted the creature as the Komtur did, settling in the saddle and taking the reigns.
"I will travel with you then, Ryanard, and tell you all you desire to hear," he called out to the Knight. "But first I must attend another matter. Go ahead for now, and I will catch up."
With that, he turned Wind Spirit around and lashed the reigns, directing the horse to ride toward the bodies of the nearby Shayateen. With a brief run, he came over their bodies, dismounted the horse, and crouched down, checking for any arrows the men left over and taking them for himself. Then, once restocked, he stood up and mounted Wind Spirit again, taking off after the group of knights. As he rode with him, Vincent felt more homely now, surrounded by Knights from his own country. He was not alone in the outremer after all.... and for just the time, he forgot about the Shadow Master and his Shayateen followers.
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Post by Blade Knight on May 3, 2009 21:30:04 GMT -5
Of the three slain marauders, they had between them two full leather quivers of long, eagle-feathered arrows. They had sturdy shafts of dark wood, and finely pointed bladed tips. Fine weapons all things considered, with one exception. The arrows were simply too long and not properly shaped to fit a crossbow, which required their own specific ammunition, bolts, to fire. However, this minor problem could be mitigated by simply selecting any one of their composite shortbows to use with the arrows. The fine bows were constructed from a variety of woods and sinews, and were pulled incredibly taught by their drawstrings. These weapons were curved against the pull of the string, adding extra devastating force to any missile they loosed. And there was a whole three of them for the taking. Once Vincent fell in place with the traveling knights, commander Helfried turned his head to speak with him as they rode. “Fine weapon of yours, that,” he commented of Vincent’s crossbow. “A most excellent one, in my mind. Although others may not agree, I do not see crossbows as inferior weapons at all. With such ease of use, power, and accuracy, one would be a fool to ignore their battlefield potential. Fortunately for us, this Crusade makes it possible for us to use them. After all, it was the pope himself who banned all crossbows back in 1139. ‘Too evil’ he called them, seeing as they could kill an armored knight with little effort. But seeing as we’re fighting Muslim infidels here, not Christians, it’s perfectly acceptable to use them. I should show you my arbalest sometime.” “Forgive the komtur,” said the sergeant from before. “He could rant all day about weapons and warfare.” Sir Raynard just chuckled, the sound ringing from inside his helmet. “Well, I try my best. God knows I do everything I can to further the glory of our noble order. Did you know, Vincent, that the pope is due to officially recognize us of the Teutonic knights by next year? Then we may step out of the Hospitallers’ shadow and make a name for ourselves, for all Germans…” “Here he goes…” whispered the sergeant to Vincent. “But anyway,” Raynard said, checking himself. “What is your tale? How is it you came across those vile criminals and found yourself in our company?” His voice suddenly became serious. “What do you know about them?”
Acre, port district With that familiar, soft-spoken voice, Azra’il was snapped out of his ponderings. “Ah, Azra’il! I had hoped to see you soon, but you surprise me with the swiftness of your visit!” Ajib suddenly melted out from the thinning crowd of people to sit beside his old friend, a smile hidden somewhere beneath the folds of his keffiyeh. He looked out across the harbor, across the endless waves that were now purple with the dimming light of dusk at the final orange rays of the setting sun. “Is something wrong?” the brother Assassin asked. “You look…thoughtful. Was your meeting with the Rafiq so unfavorable?”
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on May 4, 2009 5:45:51 GMT -5
"No, it's... it wasn't the Rafiq. I simply had a very interesting stay here in the harbor. I've actually been around for a while now, looking for you."
Snapping himself out of his daze, he looked up at the wrapped head of his friend, the white cloth circling him like a serpent coiling the life out of its prey. Azra'il glanced once more back out into the dock, watching, almost expecting the young Zaki and his older sister to burst once more from the crowd, as they had before. But, they did not come.
Azra'il turned back to Ajib, his eyes now meeting the other's. "The Rafiq said I should find work from one of the informants around town. So, do you know any good informants, old friend?" he said jokingly, a smile playing across his face. "Before he will send me on any mission, he said that I must prove myself. Know of anything interesting, that will reach the Rafiq's ears and let him know I'm ready to fulfill my duty in Acre?"
Azra'il smiled at his friend warmly, waiting for the message and for his first test in Acre to finally begin.
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Post by Blade Knight on May 4, 2009 15:28:26 GMT -5
“Is that so?” Ajib replied. “Then I shall help you prove yourself to the Rafiq. Hmm… I know! There is to be an assassination tonight. Shahïn the Night Hawk is to take the life of an evil innkeeper and his brother. It will be a particularly difficult mission, and no doubt he could handle it alone. However, the deed could be done more smoothly by a well-coordinated team than by a single man.” Glancing at the orange glow of the setting sun, Ajib continued to speak rapidly as his thoughts formed. “Here’s what I will do for you Azra’il. Demonstrate the wide scope of your skills by investigating the targets. As you know, the Assassin has many tools at their disposal. Among them, you can eavesdrop, you can pickpocket, or you can use violence to intimidate. You do not have much time. Gather all the intelligence you can before Shahïn arrives. You are to walk amongst the people and learn what you can about the targets, Ghassan and Tamam. Then present your findings to him, and persuade him to let you aid him. If you do this, and the mission is successful, I will inform the bureau leader of your skill. Perform well enough, and you should receive an assignment of your own for sure.” As he finished describing his ideas, he dug around in a large bag at his waist for something. He pulled out an object the length of a man’s forearm wrapped in cloth. He offered the bundle to Azra’il, which felt surprisingly heavy. “This is an Indian katar, Azra’il. A punching dagger,” he explained. “As I recall from the last time we met in Masyaf, you had forsaken our Brotherhood’s signature hidden blade for a more… unique weapon. I assume you still use it, yes? Well, I was thinking you might benefit from a weapon better suited to direct combat, should the need ever arise. Go ahead, take it. It has a thigh holster for quick draws, and its blade is marked with an inscription I think you will enjoy. ‘Nothing is true, everything is permitted’. The words of our master, Al Mualim himself. Now go, my friend. If you have no further questions of me, then you should go to the caravanserai in the middle district. It is a large, multi-story building in the shape of a square. God speed Azra’il, may Allah’s blessings be upon you.”
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Post by Captain Gojira on May 4, 2009 16:50:36 GMT -5
With all the arrows and Shortbows looted, Vincent quickly mounted Wind Spirit and settled himself in the saddle again, taking up the reigns in his gauntleted hands. He had slung both quivers over his back across the one for his crossbow, and hung two shortbows on the quivers with their strings hanging around them like a cloth hanger. The third he simply put into the saddlebag on the horse's side. He realized he was starting run out of room for carrying items, with a sword even strapped to his shoulder now. But the treasure hunter simply shrugged at this, thinking to sell one or two of the unnecessary weapons at a bazaar we would find.
Then, sitting atop the Arabian horse and ready to go, he looked down at the bodies in the sand before them, raised up a hand, and motioned the cross in an honorable gesture to the fallen riders. Even after their attack, Vincent wished them a peaceful death and afterlife. He finally turned the horse around and rode off, catching up with the Knights.
He trotted along with the group and pulled his horse next to Raynard's, but kept mostly quiet as they traveled over the desert. When the Komtur suddenly turned and commented on Vincent's crossbow, the treasure hunter returned his gaze. He looked ahead, closed his eyes, smiled, and chuckled. "Thank you, Raynard," he solemnly said.
"But while it may seem strange to say it, my crossbow is less of a weapon than it is an accommodation." he continued. Opening his eyes again, Vincent explained, "The threat of harm, I find, is often more effective than harm itself. A man would do as he is told rather than die a quick and meaningless death.... at least this is what I believe."
As they continued on the conversation, Vincent eventually heard Raynard mention the Shayateen. He wanted to know more of them, it seemed. He looked over at the Komtur, staring at the winged Greathelm from under his blond fringes, and sighed.
"So, the Shayateen...." he started in a melancholy tone. "This what the men called themselves before they attacked me. I first discovered in the south somewhere, hiding in a valley cave and awaiting someone. That man...."
He looked to sky and gazed at the night before continuing, "I do not know who he was or why he was there.... but I followed him and witnessed the crowd gathered in a cavern of some sort. They had apparently been waiting for him, and led him deeper into the cave. That is when I trailed them out of suspicion, and saw whom I suppose to be the leader of the group. I did not see his face. But his name was,"
Vincent cast a grim look to Raynard and nearly shuddered with the word.
"Zafir.
Their meeting took place in secrecy, and that was when they found me. I attempted to build reason with the Shayateen, but they were unwilling to do so with a foreigner. I should have known better... to try and befriend marauders like a fool would."
He scorned himself with the last few words, and looked downward in disappointment. Vincent knew it must have seemed a terrible thing to these men, but remained open of it. Deeper down, he felt a regret to have ever encountered them.
"The men you dispatched were over half the remainder I saw. There could not be more than four left behind, but I am certain there are others. This is all I know of them," he finished.
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Post by Aseigan Cetanu on May 5, 2009 15:35:33 GMT -5
Azra'il reached for the bundle, the white, smooth cloth surrounding what felt far too heavy to be any normal trinket. "This is an Indian Katar, Azra'il. A punching dagger." Ajib remarked. Azra'il's eyes danced with the prospect of his new weapon, a weapon suited for direct combat. He slowly unwrapped the cloth surrounding the Katar, and nearly gasped at his prize. A simple steel handle, coated in bronze, extended down from the blade, two parallel lengths of the material extending where his forearm would be in any fight, an inch down from the hilt of the blade the black-leather wrapped handle positioned. At the end of the two bars, a half inch wide ring of bronze-coated steel, used to stabilize the blows of the weapon, lay, the entire handle as simplistic and stable as possible, with the sheen of the bronze gleaming with an Arabian radiance akin to the sun over a bright oasis. The hilt was a single, straight steel bar, as usual coated in that gleaming mixture of copper and tin, from which the steel blade protruded, the two curving blades slicing forward even as the rested to where the single point would be, if it were not for the most ingenious feature of the blade. A line ran down the very center of the weapon, to the hilt, a rectangular space devoid of any material but the surrounding atmosphere. At its base, just before the hilt, the blade had a circular space similarly devoid of steel that was clearly all part of this peculiar disarming feature. With that groove, a sword could easily be captured and disarmed as if it were held by nothing but the air. Along the base of the outer edge of each of the two blades, large serrations formed a good implement for the shearing of flesh, an excellent tool for the stabbing blade. The best part, though, was the flowing Arabic text, one line on each side; Nothing is true; running along the top of the right blade in a brass inlay, Everything is permitted. similarly running along the left blade in brass. Beneath it in the bundle was a plain, leather sheath dyed a shade of gray quite close to Azra'il's pant color, oddly so in fact, with similarly dyed lengths of leather extending from its back, with leather thongs at the ends of those protruding from the sheath's right side and holes from the left. Azra'il removed the sheath, tying it to the outside of his right-side thigh, and then slowly sheathed the blade. Quickly, once again, he reached down to where he had sheathed the weapon, and drew it as easily as a breath, bringing it up as if blocking a sword. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- The blade is similar to this, but slightly lengthened and thinner, and bladeguardian has asked me to show you this image so you can get a better idea of it: ---------------------------------------------------------------------------- Azra'il looked back up at Ajib, a smile upon his face as he resheathed the weapon. Thank you once more, my friend. This is truly an astonishing gift, and I am in your dept for it. Allah be with you, my friend. Azra'il's eyes danced as he turned from his friend, saying a few more goodbyes as he walked forward. He slipped back into the crowd, his new weapon firmly fixed into position on his right thigh, and within moments, was gone. The assassin made his way with practiced ease through the city streets, a phantom of the night. He recalled as easily as he could how to find the shortest route to where he was headed, walking along the roads and keeping his ears open for any mention of either of those names, Ghassan and Tamam. And with all the speed that one could muster without being conspicuous, he found his way to the caravanserai.
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Post by Blade Knight on May 6, 2009 22:46:02 GMT -5
??? His world was one of blackness, of nothingness. The darkness was permeated with soft, faint murmurs he could not understand. Kockevnik could barely hear them; it was like the whisperings of far-off singing angels. Was he dead? Pain… His body ached, and the sudden realization that he could feel proved he had not gone to heaven. At long last, he was finally waking up… Slowly, as his senses returned to him, he could absorb his surroundings. He was lost beneath a high, vaulted ceiling of dark grey stone, with warm sunlight gleaming on his face through wide glass windows. He could feel the soft cushion of a feather mattress beneath him and thick wool blankets on top of him, a comfort he hadn’t experienced since before his voyage. He was bare-chested and bare-footed, but his pants were still on beneath the sheets. And aside from being stiff as hell, he felt extraordinarily well-rested. “Hmph. Look who’s alive after all,” muttered a low, gruff tone. The room Kochevnik was in was long, with stone buttresses running up the walls every ten paces or so. The huge, arched windows located in the space between the buttresses filled the room with light, and there was a bed positioned in front of each window. There was a man across the room from where Kochevnik lay, leaning against one of the buttresses with his arms folded across his chest. Gone was his armor, but he still wore the distinctive Hospitaller surcoat and mantle over his black clothes. He had a large black headband wrapped around his forehead, with his vivid green eyes hanging just below it and his dark brown hair sticking out above. His face looked rough with a thin shadow of hair along his jawline as he frowned at Kochevnik. “And here we were about to pray for you,” he grunted. “Welcome back.” As the soft murmur of voices in the background continued, he finally recognized that it must be the sound of people praying in a chapel outside. Put together with the sight of the black-mantled knight before him, he could safely assume that he had been brought to the priory of the Knights Hospitaller. “Maybe you were, Navarre,” came yet another voice, this one surprisingly close beside him. “I’ve been praying for the last two days.” Sitting on a stool beside him, Kochevnik realized, was a woman in black robes; the hood of which was pulled over her head, but long raven hair still spilled out to sweep across one side of her face. She had a tender smile and striking amber eyes. Navarre grunted again. “Why am I not surprised?” The woman ignored him. Turning to Kochevnik, she said cheerfully, “Good morning, sir. It’s good to see you’re finally awake.” “Give the man some space, Velia,” said Navarre irritatedly. “He’s obviously been through a lot. Get him something to eat and give him some time to collect himself without you nagging him.” With that, he straightened and left the room. Velia just shook her head at him as he went. “Don’t mind him,” she told Kochevnik. “That man just doesn’t smile. He’s not what you’d call the most hospitable of Hospitallers, but he is an excellent soldier. And apparently, he does care enough to check in on how you were doing every once in a while.” Offering a friendly grin, she introduced herself. “My name is Velia. How are you feeling? Your face was cut and you were practically dead from exhaustion when Navarre’s patrol saved you. Is there anything I can do for you?”
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Post by E-Stalin [Orthrus] on May 8, 2009 20:06:59 GMT -5
Kochevnik dully opened his eyes, looking up at the ceiling. He didn't realize at first what he was feeling against him. The weight of the blankets and the soft comfort of the linens. It was something he was not familiar with by any means. He was used to waking up to the early dawn sky, or to the dirt roof of a dug-out shelter, or even a cheap wooden lodge. The things he slept under and next to were his coat, dirt and leaves, or a horse. He had virtually never experienced real luxury, and this was a feeling that was alien to him. Ironically, he didn't savor it, but rather found it disconcerting.
His head loosely rolled to the side at the sound of voices, briefly igniting pain in the stiff cords of his neck. He slowly sat up as they continued, wincing and quietly groaning at the sharp pain in his abdominal muscles. Navarre, he recognized it. At the time he'd thought it was some foreign word, but now he realized that it was a name. He looked down at his hands and saw that they had already started healing up. The skin had been ripped open from long days of rowing, clotted over during the night, only to be ripped open again later. Now the abrasions were black, stripe-like clots over his palms and fingers. He knew that these would leave scars, but it didn't bother him much. Scars weren't an important thing to him.
His eyes followed the Knight...Navarre, out of the room, and then turned to the woman. He did not at first take in her name, he rarely thought of people by name, but he still committed hers to memory. He really didn't know what to say at first, there were so many things to say. To thank them, something that couldn't be done in words alone, to ask where he was, or to ask if he could repay them, there were a myriad of things to offer, to explain.
So he asked the simplest thing, in rusty Latin, the only European language that he knew decently enough to be considered fluent, "Water...please."
He might have been stunned at the rusted, hoarse sound of his voice, but at the moment he didn't much care about that, considering that he'd been in much worse shape than just his voice. The thirst however, could not be ignored. He hadn't drunk for at least an entire day and a half now, and the dry burning in his throat was all but killing him.
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Post by Blade Knight on May 10, 2009 21:43:53 GMT -5
“Of course,” said Velia. Her Latin sounded natural, her voice soft and kind. She picked up a nearby wooden bowl filled with crystal clear water and handed it to Kochevnik. “So you do speak Latin? One of the knights thought you did. When I was a girl growing up in Italy, my mother had me learn Latin, seeing as how we had connections in the Vatican. That’s how I came to join the Hospitallers.” She waited politely for him to finish, then tilted her head curiously. “Pardon me for asking,” she said. “But may I inquire as to where it is you come from? I can’t place it. I want to say… Dutch? German? But I don’t want to be rude.”
Syria, Northern wilderness “Shayateen…” Sir Raynard repeated quietly. “They name themselves after devils. Interesting...” The commander then fell strangely silent, his helmeted head drooping slightly with thought. At that time, the Teutonic sergeant fell in on Vincent’s other side to join in on the talk. “Don’t feel bad,” he said reassuringly. “You are no fool. It was they who provoked hostilities, not you. And besides, not all men in this land regard foreigners with such distaste. In fact, we ride to Damascus to meet with one such open-minded soul, do we not, Komtur?” “Hmm? Yes, quite.” Helfried replied. He looked around a bit, then declared to his men. “We rest here for the night! Set up camp, and we resume before sunrise tomorrow!” The men dismounted and unpacked their bags; spreading sheets on the ground, unwrapping foodstuffs, and gathering things for a fire. As preparations began, Raynard motioned for someone to bring Vincent a spare bundle containing three wool blankets to use as he will. After dismounting his steed and spreading out his own beddings a comfortable distance from where the fire would be, he sat cross-legged with his helmet, sword, and mantle removed and set beside him. He ran his fingers through his hair, but did not bother to remove his armor, nor did any of the others. He was still oddly quiet as he stared at nothing.
Acre, middle district Night had fallen by the time Azra’il arrived in the heart of the city; his time was dwindling with each star that appeared overhead. Fortunately, the caravanserai was not difficult to locate. The expansive, multi-story building was in the shape of a giant square just as Ajib said. The walled exterior had a wide gate on the northern side that could allow heavily-laden beasts of burden passage, which was currently opened to a large courtyard inside. Wide roads surrounded the impressive building on all sides that even at this hour were occupied by busy people. There were many places to seek information, and Azra’il had little time.
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