Visions of the Animus [Reference Material]

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 16:41

Welcome to the
Visions of the Animus

Hosted by:
Beskar & Secura

Rules:

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Players (40):

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Introduction:

Dr. Warren Vidic marched across the corridor that led to the laboratory, each step laced with a sense of purpose and punctuated by a high-pitched squeak as shoe soles grinded against the polished white floor; a large group of employees were struggling to keep pace with the man, their own footfalls failing to mask the fact that they were nervous to even walk in the shadow of such an enigmatic figure.

The personal tour was the culmination of their induction to the Animus Project, a full-day’s pay for a series of briefings on health and safety, the code of conduct and various other trivial rules to abide by; the excitement of finally getting to grips with the Research and Development Division’s pride and joy made the last few hours of administrative torture more tolerable.

The group stopped, having been led into the largest laboratory in the Milanese headquarters of Abstergo Industries; it was a vast room that would have struggled to fit onto a football pitch, filled from wall-to-wall with technological wonders that all but the most fortunate of the company’s staff would never see.

“Animi, as far as the eye can see!”

The doctor swivelled around to face his audience, a wicked grin visible even among his greying, unshaven beard; it was evident that he was proud of everything that his department had achieved over the course of the last year, despite the rumours of rebellious test subjects and the loss of his favourite researcher.

“Our engineers have spent countless hours perfecting this top secret, state-of-the-art facility in order to house our most ambitious project to date!”

Vidic turned around once more, and began to lead the group past row after row of cubicles, his hands gesturing from left-to-right as he explained just how much effort had been ploughed into the project, all in the name of exploring the past to secure a safer world for future generations.

The new subjects were ushered into one of the larger cubicles, where they finally had their first encounter with the Animus; it resembled a bed of sorts, sleek and sophisticated, with a chrome finish and a series of azure blue lights that gave the machine an almost otherworldly glow.
A man lay on the machine; his eyes were closed as though he was immersed in eternal slumber, though his visage told a different story as it occasionally wrinkled into a horrific grimace. A glass panel was curved over the subject’s head, with a series of words and images rapidly flickering across it; the observing scientist sat nearby took notes every so often, sipping from a mug of black coffee in the meantime.

“Your first time in the Animus will be disorienting, a few of you will panic, yes”, Warren continued, noting the mixed looks of concern, disgust and anxiety on the faces of his audience; “you will be eased into the project gently, where your goal will be to find the VIP among your numbers and desynchronise them.”

He left the cubicle with his now rapt audience in tow, before gesturing for some nearby researchers to direct the new subjects to their own cubicles; if there was one thing that Warren didn’t like, it was these tours dragging out longer than usual, it was far more important to get to work as soon as possible.

“So, any questions?”

There was silence for what seemed like an eternity, before the gentle humming of active Animi in nearby cubicles broke the tense atmosphere; Vidic clapped his hands eagerly, he’d won this round.

“Good... then let’s begin!”

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 16:41

Day One

La Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia, Italia - c.1512

As the arched-glass screen of the Animus slides over your head, you recall the grimaced face of the subject you visited a few moments ago and immediately feel an impending sense of doom. The chrome finish, originally so cool to the touch, seems to have grown to near-boiling temperatures and you feel increasingly faint until the machine's humming reaches a blistering crescendo and you fall into unconsciousness.

Seconds later, you gasp, eyes opening wide to the glare of natural sunlight rather than Abstergo's halogen lighting; you find yourself stood in a town square bustling with activity, dozens of people going about their daily business under the overbearing shadow of the Campanile di San Marco. A quick glance about your person and you realise that the Animus has adjusted your attire to suit the time period.

Stumbling slightly as you become accustomed to your surroundings, you recall the instructions left by Dr. Vidic; find the VIP and kill him.

Alive Players (40):

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Phase Ends:
00:00 GMT, 28/02/11

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 16:42

End Of Day One

La Serenissima Repubblica di Venezia, Italia - c.1512

As the sun slid towards the horizon and bathed the Most Serene Rebublic of Venice in an earthly glow, the crowds began to thin in the Piazza di San Marco, and yet the square didn't seem any less populated; masses of people began to emerge from the shadows created by the setting sun, their eyes all fixed with the same sense of determination, the same goal.

The assassination of the VIP.

A knight, decked in the sturdiest suit of polished platemail armour, was showing agility beyond the confines of his attire by keeping step with a lithe figure decked in flowing robes of tinted cream; leaning against a pillar of the Palazzo Ducale, a well-dressed man observed as a figure with a bone-white, bird-like visage ran past him and leaped into a nearby cart of hay without a second thought, as though this was a regular thing to do in Renaissance Italy.

Nearby, a mismatched crowd of thieves, courtesans, smugglers and guard captains had assembled at the edge of the docks, focused on what appeared to be a couple, locked in a staring contest, their eyes glaring at once another while their hands seemed to hover at their waists, ready to draw a weapon and strike.

The man, a hunched-over gentleman dressed in the finest Florentine silk, seemed to be tinkering with a prosthetic appendage attached to where his left forearm should have been. The metallic instrument was comprised of three sharpened blades that gave the impression of claws and, coupled with his battle-ready stance, they gave the impression of a feral beast poised to strike.

The female, on the other hand, retained a greater level of composure and dignity, stood firmly upright, tall and proud. Her gaze never falling from her opponent, she raised a hand and ran it through her vibrant red hair, gloved fingers grasping upon a long, steel hairpin; the nobleman's eyes widened as he realised what she was doing, rose his monstrous appendage to act... but it was all too late.

In a matter of seconds, the accessory had been slammed into his eyes, the crescendo of his agony-laced screams extinguished as she removed the blade to a finale of gushing blood, her own face splattered with the draining lifeforce of her victim. She had emerged victorious... until a loud bang rang through the air and she felt her own life slipping away; collapsing to her knees, the woman began to speak, but words failed her. Within moments, she was also dead.

The ringing sound in the ears of the fleeing crowd were indicative of a gunshot, and yet nobody could determine where the sound had actually originated from; in the shadows, a bearded man, his identity masked by flowing ivory-hued robes, grinned wickedly before leaving the scene. He had escaped unharried, but not without leaving his mark on his fellow agents.

-Round Concluded-
-VIP Target Lost-
Poor show, God Emperor! I expected better!
Diamondeye, you took your eyes off the prize! Do pay attention!

Begin Night One
Ends 00:00 GMT, 01/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 16:46

End of Night One

Abstergo Industries Headquarters, Milan, Italy, 2012

Dr. Warren Vidic paced along the length of the meeting room, deep in thought; three researchers were sat at the oval-shaped frosted-glass table in the centre of the room, nervous eyes flicking from left to right in time with the movement of their superior. They were in trouble, it was merely a matter of moments before Vidic's reaction to their grave news became apparant.

In the early hours of the morning, while the test subjects were immersed in their training, core aspects of the Animus network began to act strangely; firstly, each machine entered a lockdown state that prevented the user from leaving the virtual world, followed by files critical to life support being deleted spontaneously.

This would have been little worry to the researchers under normal circumstances, since these things could be resolved by rebooting the network, but the fact that the administrative passwords had been changed ensured that logging in was impossible without disconnecting the network entirely, which would result in all Animi shutting down, killing the user.

It was a grave situation, and only the project leader was authorised to decide on any course of action given everything at stake; they could not afford any loss of life at this early stage. The loss of an entire day's work was trivial at this point.

Vidic stopped walking, turned to his underlings and gestured towards the two-way window that looked out over the laboratory, though words failed to escape his lips; he was unable to fathom what could be happening, but he had a feeling that the blasted Stillman girl was involved somehow, this had the handiwork of her ilk written all over it.

Without waiting for a response, Vidic left the room, hurtling down the stairs and into the nearest booth, a name plate fixed upon the glass indicating that the test subject inside had been dubbed 'Renata'; she looked peaceful, almost serene, unaware of the danger she faced from this mysterious cyber-attack.

Warren checked the curved glass panel that raised over the subject's head, but the readings made little sense; rather than detailing the usual information regarding the training period she was visiting, the screen showed several locked memory blocks. He turned to the nearby computer screen, and it quickly became apparant that, despite the critical files deleted from the network, the subject's vital signs were fine; she was trapped in the Animus for the time being, but at least she was alive.

"It's the same for every terminal, sir", came an anxious male voice from the doorway; a bespectacled researcher had entered the room behind Vidic, but the project leader made no motion to acknowledge him, his gaze focused entirely on the Animus terminal.

After a few minutes, the silence punctuated only by the gentle thrumming of the machine, Vidic spoke, his voice as gruff as usual; "we continue with the project, this is little more than a minor setback!"

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 16:47

Day Two

تخت جمشید ، امپراتوری هخامنشی, c.465 BC

"More water, my King?"

The soft-spoken female adjusted her balance, shifting the weight of the clay pitcher in her arms; beads of crystal-clear water managed to escape, dashing through the air triumphantly before colliding with upon the stone ground with an audible crash which turned the head of the entire court.

The servant mouthed a series of apologies for her indiscretion, but there was no acknowledgement at all from the despondent man perched upon the edge of a marble throne, his bearded visage buried in his hands; two guards quickly appeared at her side and directed her out of the room, all eyes watching them leave before turning their attention back to their monarch.

There was complete silence for a while, broken only by the occasional cough, until the figure upon the throne finally raised his head and looked around the room; his eyes were bloodshot, the skin around them tinged red. He had obviously been weeping, a rare show of emotion from the usually stern monarch.

"Treachery is abound in Persepolis"

Xerxes had whispered these words as gently as a light summer breeze, and yet everyone present in the hall of the Apadana heard them as though they had been shouted at the highest of pitches; when the God-King of the might Achaemenid Empire spoke, men would be wise to listen.

"There is little news that does not reach these ears", he continued in the same soft tone, all in attendance remaining rapt with attention; "and there is less news still that I share with the entire court".

Xerxes rose from his throne, adjusting his scarlet robes before walking calmly into the centre of the hall and looking around the room from this better perspective. His firm gaze seemed to fix upon each man present; some shuddered, others struggled to keep eye contact, yet each found themselves enraptured by his voice.

"I address you as a whole because the traitors sit among you".

Initially, there were gasps of disbelief, but these were quickly replaced by a flurry of accusations, several protestations of innocence and the stamping of feet in anger; the traitors must be fearless to sit before the God-King while harbouring thoughts of treason!

Xerxes sighed as the noise escalated, before removing a small sphere from the inside of his long robes; it was comprised entirely of gold, with a series of grooves running around the entire orb, and he held it with both the upmost care and pride. Holding the sphere aloft in his right hand, he closed his eyes and squeezed it slightly... and there was silence.

He opened his eyes to see that the entire court had been frozen still, their statuesque bodies flickering with an almost-ethereal golden glow; he had seen this happen before, but it did not fascinate him any less for every subsequent occasion that he used the orb, and it gave him the perfect opportunity to complete his speech.

"The traitors must be dealt with harshly, of course", the King smiled benignly, yet his voice had taken on a harsh tone that his face did not show; "let it never be said that I am unfair, however, as I will allow the court to vote among themselves to determine the guilty party".

Xerxes squeezed the golden sphere once more before concealing it beneath his robes; the members of the court returned to normality, and despite the many questions they now held, they knew better than to question Xerxes and so they promptly sat down and began to discuss the treacherous scum that hid among them.

Alive Players (40):

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Achievements:

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Phase Ends:
03:00 GMT, 03/03/11

New Role PMs are still being sent out, but you are now free to vote. Thanks for being patient! :3

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 16:57

End of Day Two

تخت جمشید ، امپراتوری هخامنشی, c.465 BC

The rest of the day proceeded much as it had started, with elaborate conspiracy theories, bouts of confusion and direct accusations all made under the pretense of a democratic vote; Xerxes often found himself instinctively reaching into his robes for the golden sphere which had proven so useful over the years, but he always found restraint just before his fingers found their prize... it was much better for their ire to be focused towards one another rather than Xerxes himself.

One man had been particularly vocal during the course of discussion, levelling ideas of abstainance at his fellow courtiers which largely fell upon deaf ears; indeed, many took the idea of opting out of the voting process as an afront to the very responsibility that the God-King had bestowed upon them, but there was still hesistancy to follow through their anger with a vote.

At least until 'Pizza' burst into life, regaling the court with tales of athletic gentlemen, powerful warriors and one man's quest for the correct recognition of his name; for some, this was too much, and despite the best efforts of the dancing lunatic to turn his detractors towards someone else, the final tally for the day stood in favour of his execution.

A brutish figure of a man dragged the verbose gentleman before the throne, where his eyes met Xerxes' own; the God-King looked him up and down, immediately recognising the dusty orange robes and the gilded shortsword clipped to his belt... gently sighing, the monarch proceeded to address him with a solemn tone that carried just a hint of uncertainty with it.

"You have been chosen by your fellow courtiers as a possible traitor to the Persian Empire; do you have any last words?"

The man remained silent for a moment, bowed his head and said boldly; "do or do not, there is no try".

Puzzled as to why the condemned would offer such advice, but nonetheless greatful for his final contribution, Xerxes nodded towards his chief bodyguard; relishing the opportunity to act on the whim of the court, the brutish figure drew his sword and proceeded to behead the unwavering knight, savouring each swing of the blade and the accompanying reaction from the more squeamish courtiers.

Once the deed was done, Xerxes hastily ajourned proceedings for the day and retired to his chambers, leaving the members of the court to return to their homes for the night; at the God-King's request, the deceased was afforded a proper burial as befitted his stature.

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Begin Night Two
Ends 00:00 GMT, 05/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 16:58

End of Night Two

تخت جمشید ، امپراتوری هخامنشی, c.465 BC

The courtiers dispersed into the night, but not all of them headed for their dwellings, as the shroud of darkness provided the ideal cover for unscrupulous nocturnal activities that Xerxes would certainly not have approved of; thoughts of food, drink and slumber were the last things on many minds that night.

Upon the steps of the Adapana, two guards were carrying the lifeless form of the executed Pizza, while the brutish bodyguard who had slain the condemned man maintained a tight grip on a bloodstained cloth sack that one would presume held the knight's severed head.

Nearby, four gentlemen approached one of the Immortals standing guard; they were dressed in the finest robes of azure blue silk, carrying sizeable coinpurses from which they proceeded to offer a generous sum of coin to the man, which served to exaggerate their wealth and status. Before they could even speak a word, however, pevergreen had spotted his brothers-in-arms carrying the corpse, and he immediately dropped his weapon and ran over to stop them.

"A fool such as this one does not deserve the right of burial; he spelt my name incorrectly!"

The Immortal tried to push the two guards off-balance so he could defile the deceased knight's body, but no sooner had he thrown his first punch did he find that Artabanus was ready for him; the commander swung the bloodstained bag in an upwards arc, knocking the disrespectful guard to the floor with a sickening, crunching squelch. Before pevergreen could regain his composure, a spear had been thrusted into his jugular, ending his life in one short, sanguine second.

"As the God-King wills it, so shall it be, whelp."

Artabanus levelled his gaze at the four satraps who had approached the fallen guard not a moment ago; they scattered into the night rather than face the wrath of Xerxes' closest ally in the court.

----------------------------------------------

Elsewhere, Beefy was walking back home; the roads in Persepolis were largely crime-free due to the high concentration of guard patrols, but the pathways that led to his dwellings were not afforded such an honour.

No sooner had he left the road, he was surrounded by four gentlemen, all wearing silken robes of the lightest blue and offering coin in exchange for his assistance in court the next day; Beefy found himself unable to respond, however, as four more men emerged with spears and wooden poles.

The two groups stared at one another for some time, the timid Beefy unsure what was going to happen to him; eventually, the satraps realised the futility of their efforts and vanished into the night, leaving the combination of eunuchs and guards to escort Beefy back home safely.

----------------------------------------------

Renata had also been afforded the protection of the Adapana's finest that night, and she walked boldly down the city's main road, something she would have been unable to do during the course of the day; four men walked close by, on either side of her, keeping a lookout for anyone who may bring harm upon their ward.

The group spotted a man leaning against a nearby stone pillar, grinding a jagged stone against the head of his ornate spear. Without looking upwards, he addressed them, his eyes remaining upon his weapon.

"Well, well, well... may I take a look at your companion, gentlemen?"

The guards nodded, acknowledging the voice and moving aside so that the man could get a better look at Renata; the spearbearer looked up and down, paused as if to speak, then gestured for the group to move onwards.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 16:58

Day Three

تخت جمشید ، امپراتوری هخامنشی, c.465 BC

Xerxes peered around at the assembled courtiers, and noticed that their number was considerably lighter than it had been when he saw them together last; the Apple had not alerted him to any danger during the night, and yet three people were missing, so the God-King rose to his feet and walked into the centre of the room.

"Who is missing among your number?"

There was silence initially, as the courtiers began to assess who had not turned up; they began to argue among themselves, each trying to ascertain the whereabouts of the other while maintaining their own innocence. Little headway was made for around an hour before they eventually came to the conclusion that both Nightbringer and Seon were missing.

Xerxes ordered two of his Immortals to find the dwellings of the missing pair and learn their fate, while he assured those present that the perpetrator for these injustices would be punished soon. It did not take long for the guards to return with tales of murder; two clean kills with little sign of a struggle and no evidence as to who was responsible.

The God-King shook for a moment, before staggering wearily over to his throne; two fine men lost to the traitors, but there would be no more if the court was a little wiser and more vigilant today. He nodded his head curtly, and they descended into their second day of discussion.

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Begin Day Three
Ends 00:00 GMT, 07/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:00

End of Day Three

تخت جمشید ، امپراتوری هخامنشی, c.465 BC

The midday sun had begun to drift closer to the horizon, bathing Persepolis in warm, saffron-hued light; another day was quickly drawing to a close, yet the courtiers had not reached an overwhelming majority in their decision, and Xerxes was prepared to intervene if it was entirely necessary.

One group argued against Kagemusha, largely citing the case left behind by the deceased knight from the previous day; he was nonplussed by their accusations, shrugging them off with ease and responding that Warman was a much better bet for being a traitor. The two traded verbal blows for some time, until the balance began to swing against Kagemusha and he finally reached the majority that noone wanted to attain.

Xerxes rose from his throne and walked over to the condemned man; he looked over Kagemusha's robes, possibly for signs of a weapon, but there was nothing. Their eyes met briefly, and Xerxes noted that the eunuch showed no fear, no sign of the hatred that the God-King expected to find... indeed, there was no emotion whatsoever, and Xerxes felt uncertain about the decision that had made.

Nevertheless, the majority decision of the court had to be final, as per the very same rules he had bestowed upon them only a day ago; he signalled for the guards to seize Kagemusha and drag him to the centre of the room, yet this was not required as the condemned man climbed to his feet and gladly walked there, his face still showing no sign of emotion as he was forced to his knees.

Nor when the blade of Artabanus was drawn against his throat. Not even the moment where his life was ended as the sword cleaved into his gullet.

Xerxes watched every moment of the execution, then bowed curtly to the courtiers before excusing himself and retiring to his chambers, leaving his guests to make their way home to return anew the next morning.

Alive Players (35):

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Begin Night Three
Ends 00:00 GMT, 09/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:02

End of Night Three

تخت جمشید ، امپراتوری هخامنشی, c.465 BC

Xerxes paced silently around his chambers deep in the Adapana; the day's events had weighed heavily on his mind at first, but now he was focused on something else entirely. For reasons unknown to his loyal guardians, the God-King had ordered for one of the courtiers to be invited to his chambers where they could talk face-to-face, but Xerxes was still waiting for his guest to arrive.

"You called for me, my King?"

God Emperor, wearing robes dyed a multitude of greens, was stood in the doorway, back arched downwards into an unmistakeable bow; Xerxes nodded in response, gesturing for the man to come inside and take a seat, which he did so somewhat reluctantly. He rested his spear upon the floor and faced the God-King, the nearby torchlight highlighting the attentiveness with which his guest had devoted entirely to the monarch.

Xerxes smiled softly at the eager spearbearer, removing his hands behind his back to reveal the mysterious golden sphere that he had used a few days ago; he turned the orb over in his hands, mouthed something inaudible and incomprehensible to his guest... then a blinding flash of brilliant light engulfed the room.

When it subsided, God Emperor's visage had glazed over somewhat, as though his eyes had suddenly become dull and lifeless; Xerxes knew different however and, after helping the spearbearer climb to his feet and ushering him from the room, he felt at ease knowing that he would have an ally in the voting process the next day.

----------------------------------------------

ArpeggiateTHIS was resting upon a mound of comfortable silk in her private quarters, surrounded by a group of the God-King's concubines; they were all discussing the course of the day's events and what Xerxes may ask of them next when a eunuch stumbled into the room, platter in hand.

"What is the meaning of this intrusion?", Amestris hissed, eyes narrowed at the intruder.

The man bowed before her, reaching out with the platter upon bended knee, presenting an array of fruit to the King's wife; her cold glare turned into a warm smile, and she gladly took the food from the eunuch, who quickly made his excuses and departed.

The elation of the late-night snack quickly turned into a coughing fit as the poison took hold of ArpeggiateTHIS; within seconds, she lay dead, a half-eaten date rolling from her lifeless fingers.

----------------------------------------------

Within a small side-room in the Adapana, Diamondeye was kneeling at a makeshift altar, praying to the Father of Understanding for the safe passage of his deceased comrade; despite the proper burial bestowed upon him at Xerxes' request, the knight could not help but feel remorse for Pizza's death, and he wept softly while pounding his fists against the ground.

"Why do you cry?", a voice behind the knight whispered softly.

Diamondeye turned to look at the newcomer, but his gaze met little more than the sharpened steel of an ornate dagger as it slammed into his left eye; the attacker kicked the heavily-bleeding knight to the ground, taking care not to soil his fine silk robes in the process. Diamondeye attempted to curse his foe, but no words came out, and he died within moments, the earth beneath his body stained crimson.

The satrap sighed heavily befor... turning tai... and lea... the ro... his mis...on acco...ish.......

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:03

Day Four

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

The roar of cannon fire emanates one-hundredfold in the air, leaving a sharp ringing sensation in the ears of the English soldiers as dozens of them hastily slam another cannonball into the chamber from their fortified positions along the coastline; shots impact upon the water's surface, spraying reams of seawater upon the nearby ships of the Spanish Armada.

The Spaniards returned fire, volleys of metal hurtling through the air at an unexpectedly greater volume than the English forces anticipated from galleons of that calibre, cannonballs crashing into the coastal fortifications; the forces on the homeland were besieged with little hope of holding out if reinforcements failed to arrive.

"Stand fast, men!", Sir John Norreys cried, the patriotic furor in his voice evident even above the cannons, "the cavalry's here!"

A single galleon came hurtling over the horizon with the full force of the wind in her sails; the Golden Hind had arrived at last, with both the English coat of arms and the Jolly Roger flying high upon her mast. The appearance of the lone ship seemed to have a profound effect on the bombarding Spanish forces, who immediately turned their ships around and retreated to safer waters before the rest of the English navy could appear.

"What is the situation in the Netherlands? When will the troops be ready?"

Alonso Pérez de Guzmán looks out from the deck of his flag-ship, but there was little more to see than the vast expanses of the sea; he would feel more comfortable if he could rely on the thirty-thousand strong Spanish army currently fighting in the United Provinces.

"My Lord", a Spanish naval officer stammered, "Governor Alejandro Farnesio and his loyalist forces are still fighting against the rebels of Mauricio de Nassau!"

The commander-in-chief of the Armada stamped his foot upon the decking; he knew that Felipe II had interfered somehow, and while the eve of battle was no time for questioning the orders of his sovereign, Alonso knew that even with naval superiority, the Armada lacked a sufficient landing force to overturn the English defenders.

"See to it that Farnesio learns of our predicament!", he continued, "we will need those forces to return the heathens to the yoke of the Catholic Church!"

Queen Elizabeth paced quickly across the courtyard of the Tower of London, her regal gown billowing behind her, guards struggling to keep step; she clutched her staff and orb tightly in hand... there was much to be getting on with.

Alive Players (33):

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Begin Day Four
Ends 00:00 GMT, 11/03/2011.

Scienter has replaced classical_hero
Seon2 has replaced Sasaki Kojiro
Nightbringer2 has replaced Yaropolk

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:07

End of Day Four

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Maurits van Nassau lowered his telescope and sighed, for the arrival of the Spanish Armada that he anticipated with both eagerness and dread had not come to pass that day; he folded the item into it's more compact shape and pocketed it before returning his gaze to the open sea, the smell of saltwater greeting his nostrils as though it were a meeting of two friends.

The Dutch fleet, miniscule in comparison to it's Iberian cousin, currently occupied the capital's harbour as an obstacle to any Spanish efforts to unite with their sizeable military presence in the provinces; Maurits had masterminded this plan himself, fully aware that such a maneuver could lead to repercussions on the mainland, and it had taken many a rousing speech to convince even the hardiest men to join him in this blockade.

That had been two weeks ago, and the prolonged time at sea was taking it's toll on the crew, even when the fleet remained in close proximity to dry land; supplies had been low to begin with and there was nothing more to do each day than the drudgery of standard naval chores such as keeping the cannons maintained and so on.

There had been murmurs of dissent, whisperings of discontent, and yet only one man had mustered the courage to actually confront the stadtholder face-to-face. Sigurd had been talking non-stop for the last forty minutes, perhaps taking full advantage of Maurits' distracted mind to express every single grievance he could imagine; the deteriorating quality of food, the possibility of the Armada ignoring the Netherlands entirely, the inevitability of returning to land only to meet the forces of Governor Alejandro Farnesio... there was a considerable list to get through.

"Are you finished, matroos?"

Sigurd's tirade came to a complete halt; van Nassau had turned around to face him directly, and he now found himself suddenly struggling for breath, as though he was drowning. He gulped, and remained silent as the stadtholder continued to speak.

"I am aware that some of you do not support this blockade, which is most unfortunate."

Maurits began to pace across the deck, Sigurd's eyes following his every footstep yet his mouth still unable to speak; the Dutch leader looked downwards as he walked, his own gaze fixed firmly upon the sleek wood beneath him.

"We need to remain strong as a unit, lest we fall into Farnesio's grasp", van Nassau continued, "and thus I cannot allow dissent among the ranks."

He walked past the nervous soldier, patting his shoulder reassuringly, before clicking his fingers and vanishing below deck; before Sigurd could react, he had been seized by two of his fellow shipmates and thrown overboard. His proficient swimming skill was insufficient enough to help him return to shore, and he would later be found by a fishing vessel later that evening, having died of fatigue.

Alive Players (32):

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Begin Night Four
Ends 00:00 GMT, 12/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:07

End of Night Four

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Nightfall; pitch-black, cold and unforgiving... the perfect cover.

A rowboat drifted onto dry land, the craft's wooden frame cleaving it's way across the soft sand; in complete silence, four men climbed out of the vessel, gathered their equipment and began the short sprint across the beach and into the nearest cover. The group had landed near the village of East Budleigh, sent by the request of the Armada's commander-in-chief to neutralise a top-priority target and, despite the poor visual conditions, the soldados were unhindered in their efforts, quickly dashing across field and fen in search of their quarry.

All of fifteen minutes had passed before they reached a reasonably large cottage; there was a silhouette leaning against a waist-height stone wall, which appeared to carry the assured posture of a gentleman, although the only distinguishable feature was a flaring red light appearing where one would assume his mouth would be. The description of their target in mind, the four soldados inched forward through the shadows, watching intently as the red light was nonchantly discarded and the figure disappeared into the nearest house.

It was time to act; the group rushed to the door and, using the array of tools and wood they had brought with them, constructed a makeshift barricade around the building, ensuring that there would be no escape from fate this time; one of the men swore he could hear cries of ayúdame, but he shrugged it off, knowing that this Raleigh gentleman was an intelligent and wily foe. Within a matter of moments, the building was secure and the bonfire had been lit, a signal to the Spanish galleon that had dropped anchor off the coastline.

Aboard the San Martin, flagship of Alonso Pérez de Guzmán, the commander looked out towards the English coastline, telescope in-hand and raised to his right eye; the gentle lapping of waves at starboard side was all that could be heard in the silence of night. With baited breath he waited until the pre-arranged signal became visible, starting it's life as a mere flickering dot in the centre of his telescope before expanding into an almighty blaze that confirmed the target had been found.

"Fire!", Guzmán roared, lifting his arm into the air; the crew bellowed in response before lighting the San Martin's portside cannons, the pinnacle of Iberian artillery.

Dozens of cannonballs hurtled through the air, whistling over East Budleigh and smashing into all and sundry, though the original target of the barricaded cottage bore the brunt of the attack; the sheer force of the bombardment tore holes through the building, which soon collapsed upon the unending onslaught, the occupant sure to have perished inside. The soldados, having sought shelter during the attack, were soon at the scene; it didn't take much rummaging through the remains in order to uncover the deceased; however, the unfortunate victim happened to be Csargo, his badly-mangled corpse barely identifiable but for recognisable personal effects.

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Onboard the San Marco, the unfortunate outcome of the assault had been glossed over, as the successful bombardment of East Budleigh had been completed right under the nose of the English without repercussions; the ship had retrieved the infiltrators and proceeded to sail further out into the Channel, and now the crew were engaged in recreational drinking activities.

Chaotix was in his cabin, enjoying a tot of rum as a private pat-on-the-back for his part in the night's events. He had begun to pour a second when there was a knock at the door and a group of men filed into the room; this would usually merit disciplinary action, but Chaotix was in a good mood and he welcomed the sailors in with open arms.

"Mis muchachos, come in, come in!" he grinned, shaking the bottle of rum at his guests, "join me for a celebrationary drink!"

However, the men didn't seem to be in high spirits; they remained stone-like in their expressions, slowly closing in on the commander; he realised too late what was happening, but his cries of ayúdame fell upon deaf ears as he was promptly muffled with a torn cloth shirt, restrained with strong rope and shoved into a large burlap sack.

Even within the confines of the sack, Chaotix could smell the sea air as he was slammed down upon the deck; the celebrations died down near-instantaneously as everyone aboard turned to the men and their writhing sack prize, the silence immediately broken by murmured questions and slurred answers, all off-the-mark.

"We found this English scum hiding in the barrels of the ship!"

These words were more than enough for the crew, still high on the euphoria of their midnight raid; jeers echoed in the night sky, and Chaotix winced as he heard several clicking sounds above him, which he instantly recognised as the arquebusiers preparing their firearms. Picked up once more and hastily pushed against the side of the ship, the concealed commander was shot by several rifles, the force of the impact causing him to topple over the ship's rail and into the bone-chilling waters of the Channel.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:10

Day Five

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

"Blasted Iberians attacking a defenseless village?!"

The seething Sir John Norreys marched into the barn that had served as makeshift barracks for the last few days to the sight of his entire personal guard reduced to emotional wrecks; he was accustomed to worse atmospheres than this, having served in the brutal conquest of Ireland only a few years previously, yet the sense of despair and fear in the air was completely alien to him, a foul stench that seemed to have permeated the very being of everyone present.

He motioned to speak, yet the cause of the tense atmosphere in the barn became apparant as he reached the far end of the building where two soldiers were kneeling at the foot of a large haystack, the lifeless form of a barely-dressed man laid peacefully among the straw; Norreys recognised the deceased as Choxorn, a decent lad from Norfolk who had served under him in many a battle.

The decorated war hero didn't wait for an evaluation of the man's death; he ushered his battalion out of the barn and into the fields for further training, his mind playing heavily on both the morning's discovery and the events of the previous night as he sparred with one of his more accomplished men.

Queen Elizabeth I peered at the golden sphere resting in her hands; it seemed to emanate a warmth that she couldn't explain, and she always felt tranquil and at peace whenever she held it for prolonged periods of time.

Today, however, she felt exhausted and the orb only seemed to exacerbate that which it would normally soothe; she had reacted to the bombardment of East Budleigh with her usual indifference, though she had secretly harboured feelings of doubt over the whole war effort, and the reported death of a major Spanish figurehead did little to ease her worry.

The war effort would have to be doubled, and perhaps her own involvement was the best means of rallying the troops; either way, there was much to do.

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Diamondeye2 will replace Beefy187.

Begin Day Five
Ends 00:00 GMT, 15/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:11

End of Day Five

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Looking through the slender gap of the marginally-opened barn door, Chimpyang peered out, waiting for the cover of night to make his escape; the afternoon sun had begun to melt into the horizon, her fiery orange glow gently subsiding to shades of indigo and violet... darkness was beginning to take hold over the Netherlands, yet the hurrling could spot a large number of figures stood in the fields outside, all fixed intently upon his sanctuary.

Earlier that day, during the early hours of dawn when few are awake, Chimpyang had led a group of rebels against a Spanish encampment, setting fire to their supplies and releasing their prisoners before fleeing the scene; across field and fen, they ran from the swift retribution that was sure to follow, seeking refuge among known sympathisers and the churches. Chimpyang had chosen to act as a distraction, continuing to lead the Spanish forces away from his fleeing allies at his own expense.

Now, in the growing darkness of the barn, he began to realise that this would be his final hour, his last stand, a notion that was confirmed moments later when a voice called from outside; it was a gentleman, assured and almost mocking in tone, speaking in fluent Dutch with an audible tint of Spanish in his accent.

"You have nowhere to run, traidor!"

This ellicited a shudder from Chimpyang, and he had to steady himself quickly before he could collide into the door and fall out before his pursuers; he recognised the voice as Governor Farnesio, a man renowned as much for his fierce rivalry with the stadtholder as he was for his keen diplomatic mind and military brilliance. The implications were clear now; if Farnesio was here, then it was definitely all over, he would see Chimpyang hang as an example to the other rebels.

Remaining brave and resolute, he lifted his rifle, quickly muttered a prayer under his breath and kicked the barn door open; he managed to fire a single round, grazing one of the soldados in the shoulder, before he was overcome by return fire. The last thing that he saw was the face of Farnesio, looking down upon him with a look of sheer disgust...

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It appears that we're going to require more replacements; Insanious needs to drop out, so that's at least one... we'd rather not be forced to WOG, because that shortens this game and there's been too much effort gone into it for that to happen.

So, if you know anyone willing to replace, let myself and Beskar know and we'll try and fit them in at some point. :3

Begin Night Five
Ends 00:00 GMT, 16/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:11

End of Night Five

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Under the blanket of darkness, a trio of ships were headed northbound towards the Dutch coastline, but the journey had slowed in the last few hours as the sails had caught little of the westerly wind; the convoy, known as the Flota de Indias, was traveling with a full cargo hold of precious metals, Iberia's finest and other assorted goods, both to assist in financing the campaign against the English as well as convince the United Provinces to lend their aid rather than oppose the Spanish.

The journey had been rocky, the seas particularly bothersome as the convoy sailed around Finistère, but there was very little that the seasoned sailors onboard could not handle; that was, until the lookout starting screaming from the crow's nest, having spotted a single English galleon hurtling over the horizon, wind in her sails.

One of the escorting galleys was ill-prepared to face such a foe, and found herself victim to the Golden Hind's opening volley; dozens of cannonballs slammed into the galley's portside, shredding through the hull as though it were made of paper and crippling the mast, leaving the usually-capable sailors onboard to try their best to keep the ship afloat and retaliate, but they wwere taking on water far too quickly for them to concentrate on returning fire.

One man refused to go down without a fight, however; a gentleman whose name was completely inoffensive, he ran to one of the few cannons to have avoided the water thrown upon the deck and blindly fired it, only for another volley from the English galleon to rock the ship and send the shot off-kilter. The misfired cannon had caused the flailing sail from the mast to ignite; the sailor attempt to snuff it out by dragging the cloth onto the decking and stamping voraciously upon it... in his vigorous frame of mind, the Spaniard failed to notice a stray spark hit one of the gunpowder barrels; he was blown skywards, the ship following suit as the explosion completed the groundwork set by the English ship.

The Golden Hind took a sharp turn, with the wind in her sails, to easily bypass the other escort; the famous ship was barrelling straight for the treasure ship, attempting to move into a boarding position. Unfortunately, there are always overzealous sailors who wanted a taste of the action a little too soon; gibson was one such man, his attempt to jump aboard the vessel falling flat as he thudded against the hull of the treasure ship face-first, dropping into the churning waters below entirely unconscious.

The boarding then proceeded as planned, with dozens of Englishmen leaping aboard, weapons-in-hand; men were fighting openly on the deck of the ship, so much so that even the Spanish bucket boy was using his broom to attempt to stave off the English. In the confusion of battle, several gunshots were fired across the ship, but only one seemed to strike it's target; Warman felt a shot slam into his back lower back, causing him to stumble onto the blade of one of the English attackers.

Nearby, Double A was fighting with an Englishman; sword-slash for mace-swing, blow-for-blow, it was a pretty even match between the two of them. Two other duelers stumbled upon their fight, knocking both themselves and Double A's opponent to the ground; sensing the opportunity, Double A leaped forward to kill his foe, only for the fallen Spanish dueler to thrash out, his sword piercing Double A's neck and killing him instantly on the spot.

As the fight was clearly leaning in favour of the Golden Hind, Sir Francis Drake decided to make his grand appearance; swinging onto the deck of the Spanish treasure ship, Ironside dispatched the battling Spaniards with the upmost ease, his foes unable to cope with his superior swordsmanship, balance and agility. In the heat of the moment, he almost struck the arm of one of his shipmates; he began to mouth an apology when the man swiped his shortsword horizontally through the air, slicing a neat crimson line across the privateer's throat.

As the battle raged on around him, Drake rotated on the spot, his free-hand clasped at his neck as he continued to fight despite his failing strength and fading vision, his curved blade still claiming lives even as he began to die; eventually, he could fight no more, and he collapsed in a heap upon the deck of the treasure ship, cries of "al dragón está muerto!" echoing in the air.

With the death of their famous captain, the English morale began to falter, enabling the remaining Spanish forces to repel them from the ship, though not before the fleeing sailors could carry Drake's lifeless form back to his quarters.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:12

Day Six

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

Queen Elizabeth I stood quietly as she watched the procession walk by, the casket containing the fallen Sir Francis Drake lifted above the shoulders of four pallbearers; she remained emotionless, even when those around her were engulfed in the throes of mourning and despair. Through the service and the burial, she avoided speaking to a single soul, and swiftly departed from the chapel soon after.

Back in her bedchambers, Elizabeth looked down at her pillow, the golden sphere resting upon it as though it were a giant egg in a nest; there would be retribution, and though she did not know how swiftly it would come for the Spanish, she knew that it was merely a matter of time... as inevitable as death and taxes.

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Yaseikhaan will replace Insanious.

Begin Day Six
Ends 00:00 GMT, 18/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:16

End of Day Six

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

The dull clanging of wood against metal echoed along the length of the corridor, heavy leather-clad footfalls providing percussion to the peculiar rhythm; the prisoners within the Tower of London had just nodded off for the day, but the jailor had other ideas, dragging his cudgel across the bars of the cells with a twisted sense of delight.

His patrol ended at the western end of the corridor, at the cell of autolycus; the jailor turned to his captive, who was sat silently upon the small mound of hay that acted as a bed. The jailor always disliked coming this far into the Tower; the condemned man's eyes seemed to gaze into nothingness, as though there was no life left and he was nothing more than a soulless husk.

"T'executioner's axe awaits yer today, lad", he said dryly, attempting to hide the tint of delight in his voice with little success.

The captive climbed to his feet while the jailor opened his cell with a set of rusty keys; without uttering a word, the prisoner hobbled past his captor and down the corridor, his movement limited by the shackles that bound his feet. The jailor was momentarily impressed by such resolve, but the grim reality of what was about to transpire removed his grin within seconds, and he returned his focus to escorting the man to his fate.

Two soldiers were waiting to greet them back in the jailor's room; though he didn't let on, the jailor knew that one of them had taken a bite of the bread roll he had been eating before their arrival, and he was annoyed at how they had taken such a liberty. Nonetheless, he remained polite and straightforward, lest he become an addition to the cells; he nudged the prisoner forward with his shoulder, the man stumbling towards the nearest soldier.

"May God 'elp yer, lad!", one of the soldiers laughed heartily, dragging the condemned from the Tower and into the afternoon sun; the jailor sighed heavily, sparing a thought for the man before returning to what remaining of his supper.

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Begin Night Six
Ends 00:00 GMT, 19/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:17

End of Night Six

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

The scheduled patrol across the border between the Spanish-controlled Netherlands and the United Provinces had started late that night; Governor Farnesio had ordered them to scour the countryside for the remaining rebels that had escaped after torching a Spanish encampment, to little avail. After several fruitless hours, the ten-strong group had finally commited to their usual routine around the stroke of midnight.

The patrol provided ample opportunity for slacking off in the wake of their busy day, and the soldados saw fit to take a break at the slightest opportunity; within thirty minutes of departing their camp, they were resting at a crossroads having constructed a quick campfire.

One of the group dropped his equipment next to his friend and dashed over to the foot of a maturing oak tree, some forty yards away from his fellow soldiers; distracted in the moment, he failed to notice a figure slowly approaching him from the darkness, and within seconds he found himself struggling to fend off the attacker.

Peering into the eyes of his foe, the soldado noticed that the would-be killer's eyes were glazed over as though he had been possessed by the darkest of magicks; he shoved the enthralled man away and called for help, never for a second taking his sight off the attacker's sharpened dirk, glistening with an unknown substance beneath the moonlight.

One of the group had been nearby to keep an eye on his companion, and he jumped into the fray to protect the unarmed soldado; the enthralled attacker slashed wildly with his blade, grazing the new combatant across the left cheek but otherwise leaving him unharmed. Before the Spaniards could retaliate, the figure had seemingly come to terms with the situation and fled with his tail between his legs.

Maurits van Nassau had been preparing to depart from the docks for an audience with the English Queen when a messenger revealed that the harbour was currently being occupied by a Spanish strike force, intent on preventing any Dutch vessels from leaving the country; there was also two galleons patrolling the waters around the harbour, as added insurance.

The stadtholder had little choice but to retreat for the night, his rebels in tow.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:18

Day Seven

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

In his makeshift headquarters, Governor Alejandro Farnesio was poring over a strategic map of the United Provinces, marking various lines across the parchment to denote enemy movements, friendly patrols and supply lines; he had been made aware of the difficulties faced by the small patrol group the previous night, and he was determined to track the perpetrator down and bring him to justice.

A messenger entered the room in a hurry, fumbling through his knapsack and forgetting his manners in the process; Farnesio looked up from his work, annoyed by the apparant disrespect but cautious about reprimanding a messenger who had travelled so far across the provinces. After more searching through his messages, the new arrival found what he was looking for and began to speak.

"M-my Lord, we have news that one of our encampments was infiltrated... during the n-night", he stammered, nervous in the presence of the Governor, "one of our soldiers, Death is Yonder, was slain in the attack."

Farnesio slammed his fist upon the table, rattling his inkwell and sending it's contents spilling across the map in the process; the messenger knew to make a hasty retreat before the Governor's torrent of expletives was directed his way.

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Begin Day Seven
Ends 00:00 GMT, 21/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:18

End of Day Seven

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

"I asked you for the asesino and you bring me this man?"

Governor Farnesio was nonplussed, to say the very least; in the wake of the attacks against both the border patrol and one of their encampments, the Spanish military presence in the Netherlands had been ordered to go through their ranks with a fine toothcomb, weeding our the traitor responsible for the wounding of one man and the death of another. Their conclusion was that ByzantineKnight was the perpetrator.

"Was this not the man that was attacked along the border?", Farnesio asked, his eyes narrowing in suspicion, "what is the meaning of this?"

The various regiment leaders that had brought the suspected killer before the Governor shuffled nervously on their feet, unanimous in their silence; naturally, they had their suspicions as to where ByzantineKnight's loyalties stood, but they had found little time for questions before the summons from the governor interrupted their interrogation.

"Muy bien, capitanes", Alejandro growled, drawing his pistol and shooting the bound suspect dead in the blink of an eye; upon the governor's hand gesture, one of the captains began to rummage through the deceased's attire, but they found little of interest, a fact that only seemed to irritate Farnesio further.

The assembled leaders quickly made their excuses and left to search for ByzantineKnight's belongings, hoping to provide a clearer reason for his execution by the time the sun rose anew.

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Begin Night Seven
Ends 12:00 GMT, 22/03/2011.
Send all orders to Beskar.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:19

End of Night Seven

The Anglo-Spanish War, c.1588

The morale of the English naval personnel had fallen to an all-time low following the death of Sir Francis Drake, the talismanic privateer responsible for many of their victories against the Iberians; while Lord Howard of Effingham still lived, his standing among his men could not match the near-mythical status they afforded the deceased Drake, and it showed as they were beaten time and time again in minor skirmishes in the waters around the British Isles.

On the other hand, morale for the Spanish Armada had reached euphoric peaks following exaggerated tales of a treasure convoy outlasting the Golden Hind in combat and scaring the mighty English vessel back to whence it came; additionally, the death of the Duke of Medina Sidonia had resulted in a more-accomplished admiral taking his place, and thus the Armada was able to overpower the English navy and prepare for an invasion, first stopping by the Netherlands to unite with Farnesio's thirty thousand-strong army.

Queen Elizabeth I had been aware of these facts for little more than a day before she snapped out of her near-catatonic state of shock and set into motion a series of contingency plans that would prepare the entire nation for invasion; these plans had been drafted with the assistance of the white-robed individuals who had so kindly given her the golden orb, plans that she had originally mocked, for the notion of the English navy failing to protect the nation seemed ludicrous at the time.

And now she stood before the standing army of her beloved realm, gathered at Tilsbury to meet the incoming Spanish rowboats fit-to-burst with the strongest soldados they could muster from both the Netherlands and Spain itself; men trained for the sole purpose of taking the British Isles by force.

In comparison, England had largely been reliant on her naval superiority and thus had neglected to maintain a sizeable army; this had led to extensive conscription, with every able-bodied male aged sixteen and above forced to take up arms in defence of the kingdom, the unfortunate downside being that they were given minimal training or mental preparation for the monumental task that awaited them.

Dressed in a less-extravagant variation of her usual pearl-white velvet dress and protected by a newly-crafted silver cuirass, Elizabeth looked the part; along with her suitable attire, along with her proven skill with a blade, she had shown that she was capable of walking the walk... it was now time for her to talk the talk, and she prepared to do just that as she sat upon her regal steed.

"My loving people!", she shouted, her usual reserved tone having been ousted by a stronger and more direct approach, "let the tyrants fear the courage of England!"

"By the grace of God, I have placed my chiefest strength and wellbeing in the loyal hearts and goodwill of my subjects", the Queen continued, her audience rapt with attention, "therefore I have come to walk amongst you, not for my recreation and disport, but because I am resolved, in the midst and heat of the battle, to live and die amongst you all."

"I know that I have the body of a weak and feeble woman, but I have the heart and stomach of a king... and of a king of England too! I think foul scorn that Parma or Spain, or any prince of Europe, should dare to invade the borders of my realm; to which rather than any dishonour shall grow by me, I myself will take up arms, I myself will be your general, judge, and rewarder of every one of your virtues in the field."

Elizabeth raised her sword into the air, eliciting a roar of enthusiasm from the gathered militia, before leading the charge to the Essex coastline, where the Spanish rowboats had beached, soldados storming through the fields under the cover of cannonfire from the mass of galleons and converted trade vessels massed in the English waters.

Twelve hours had passed since Queen Elizabeth I's speech and much had occured in the meantime; with much of the English militia unfamiliar with such intense combat, the initial assault from the Spanish forces had caught the defenders off-guard, a fact that the Iberians used to their full advantage by pushing the new recruits to their limits and making a sizeable advance through Essex in the process, only to have all their hardwork unravelled by a brutal cavalry charge led by Sir John Norreys.

Under the glow of an afternoon sun, lazily crawling across the sky as the day turned to night, the battle raged on as the two sides clashed once more deep in the Essex countryside; the inexperience of the conscripted English had been all but extinguished through a combination of Norreys' dynamic leadership and the sheer adrenaline of the situation, while the Spanish were finding it difficult to maintain the momentum of their initial charge without bombardment from the sea.

Sir John Norreys was right in the thick of it, his superior swordsmanship smiting many a Spaniard in mere seconds as he continued to dominate the battle and serve as a beacon of hope for the English; one soldado, known as TinCow, had managed to hold his own, his skill with a shield proving a difficult challenge for the accomplished English war hero, so much so that he managed to knock Norreys to the ground and gain the upper hand.

Prepared to embrace death after such a long career, Norreys closed his eyes, opening them shortly thereafter to find TinCow clutching his throat, hand stained with blood, with no apparant saviour in sight; breathing a sigh of relief, he retrieved his weapon and dashed several yards over to Queen Elizabeth, who had joined the battle alongside six of the royal guard, all of them occupied with fighting several soldados.

The arrival of Renata had boosted the morale of the English defenders, but in the same breath it had renewed the vigour with which the Spanish attacked, as the easiest means of securing victory was now within their grasp, or would be were it not for the strange gold sphere she held; beams of golden light darted from the artifact seemingly at her whim, striking the soldados fighting her royal guard and killing them all instantly, leaving Spanish and English soldiers alike to crumple lifelessly to the ground.

Wave after wave of invading Spaniards fell in this manner, but their numbers did not seem to dwindle and Elizabeth felt her strength draining with each successive use of the orb's power; she managed a weak smile when she saw a white robed figure approach her through the fray, a smile that quickly turned into a look of horror as he took the artifact from her feeble grasp and shot her at close range.

"Sorry, m'lady, but su... pow..r ca...t be le.. unche...d", the ro.... ...gur... whisp..... polog...ally......

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:20

Day Eight

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

Nicholas II looked around the room, his eyes hungrily taking in their surroundings as though they may never get another chance to do so; his time away from the western frontier were few and far between since the Germans stepped up their offensive and he knew, deep within his heart, that his return to St. Petersburg would not be a long one.

He had often felt that the nobility had a weak opinion of St. George's Hall, enforced by previous generations who regaled their successors with tales of Quarenghi's delicately-painted allegorical scenes upon the ceiling and sleek marble pillars displaying a variety of colours; the new decor was understated, perhaps, but Stasov's renovations maintained the regal aura of the throne room without being so blatant about it.

On this occasion, the great hall was alive with music, dance, fine food and wine; for Nicholas, it bore a stark contrast with the opening of the Duma over ten years previously, where the room was fit to burst with people yet seemed so lifeless, the air poisoned with animosity between the nobility, used to the great hall, and the peasantry who were permitted entry for the first time in the history of the Winter Palace.

The vibrant atmosphere was Alexandra's doing, that much he could be sure of; a grand ball to celebrate his return, but would people have come if they were aware of the truth? The armies of Russia may have been numerous, far more so than their enemies, but their poor equipment and training was slowly faltering under the pressure of the well-oiled German offensive, and Nicholas found himself asking exactly how many were aware of the truth.

Then he saw him, stood by the royal throne with staff in hand, women milling around him like flies to an animal carcass; there were many things said of Grigori Rasputin, most of them quite unsavoury, and yet nobody could doubt that he had been instrumental in helping the Tsarevich through his haemophilia.

As time passed by and Grigori's influence among the Romanovs grew, Nicholas found that he had come to rely on the monk in affairs of the state too, a judgement that he regretted on occasion but soon dismissed when he saw how effectively Rasputin seemed to keep things in check; whether this was due to his own charisma, the loyalty of the people to the Romanovs, the power of the staff or other factors, Nicholas did not know, and nor did he seek to ask.

Yet there were those who did not fall under the sway of Rasputin, those who viewed his hold over the Romanovs as a cancer, eating away at the very heart of the Russian monarchy and corrupting it to the point of no return; gathered here, at this prestigious event in celebration of a returned war leader, they began to plot the downfall of the monk and the potential abdication of Tsar Nicholas II.

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Begin Day Eight
Ends 00:00 GMT, 24/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:21

End of Day Eight

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

If there was but one thing that Alexandra could depend upon from her courtiers, it was that they could organise an imperial ball at a moment's notice; they had been given little time to prepare, but the party was as good as any that had come before it, with the finest champagne on hand and the guests dancing merrily to the pianist's most spectacular compositions.

Nicholas had long since taken his seat upon the imperial throne, tapping his feet in time with the music while secretly hoping that this decadent show of wealth and power would distract the guests from mentioning the war effort; Grigori remained close, staff in hand, his piercing gaze scanning across the room periodically but never straying from the fawning women around him for too long.

As the winter sky darkened as though it were stained by a disturbed inkwell, cheeks grew rosier and chatter louder as the expensive drink continued to flow; some of the guests were unable to control themselves, with the more rebellious elements present finding that the fine wine had wet their tongues and that they were no longer fearful of expressing their anarchic sentiments.

Naturally, Nicholas was furious, but he maintained a sense of dignity and grace despite the circumstances; calm and collected, he rose from his seat, gestured for silence from his guests and then demanded to know who had the audacity to question the monarchy within the halls of their ancestors.... there was momentary silence until a series of small arguments broke loose, hands flailing this way and that until a sense of agreement was made and two candidates were singled out.

The Tsar looked at them, in half a mind to have them both executed for treason before he remembered the last time that such bloodshed had occured and the diplomatic stance he had promised to uphold to the Duma; instead, he nodded curtly to them both and whispered solemnly.

"If you have something to say, say it now."

The first gentleman cleared his throat and approached Nicholas, kneeling before the monarch and bowing his head humbly; Nicholas could not distinguish whether this was in respect or shame, but he did note that the man was dressed in military finery and was clearly a man of rank due to his insignia.

"Apologies, m'lord... this fine wine caused me to have a funny turn", the officer said apologetically, "I made a passing remark about the war effort and that you should leave the responsibility of leadership to us, leaving you with the pressing matters back home. I cannot apologise enough for my loose tongue, and I accept full responsibility for my actions."

Nicholas looked upon the kneeling officer, visibly unimpressed with the question to his authority; however, the man had been honest and forthcoming with his concerns, and the Tsar decided to question the other man instead, gesturing for him to speak.

The second gentleman was clearly a member of the Duma, one of the peasants as indicated by his aroma if not his attire, which caused Alexandra to wrinkle her nose as he approached and bowed before her husband; she had only invited their ilk after Grigori informed her that they should be able to meet the monarch too, and she would gladly have them expelled from the premises if she did not hold the monk in such high regard.

"M'lord, this man has admitted to treason, he cannot be trusted!", the peasant said, a tone of exasperation in his voice.

The Tsar turned his gaze to the officer, who remained resolute despite such an accusation, before turning back to the second gentleman; he motioned to speak, but it was from Rasputin that the next words came.

"Is it true that you are a representative of the Russian Social Democratic Labour Party?"

Slightly taken aback by the monk's sudden interest in the conversation, Nicholas remained silent and allowed Grigori to repeat the question; under the pressure, the peasant responded "y-yes, I am... what of it?", his voice stuttering somewhat.

"Is it true then, that you believe the monarchy should be abolished, and their power given to the people?", Rasputin continued, his voice remaining deep and gruff; this question elicited more than it's fair share of sneers and giggles from the gathered guests which were soon silenced when the monk banged his staff against the floor twice.

"Yes, and I hold to those c-convictions.", the peasant said nervously, his eyes darting from left to right as though seeking an escape route.

"So, despite your questionable convictions, you accuse this man of treason?", the monk asked, his questions continuing to leave the second gentleman blustered, his tongue failing to find the right words.

Nicholas had turned to face Rasputin, the pair of them completely silent as though they were telepathically deciding the man's fate between them; the Tsar then turned back to the man and spoke to the officer, who had remained silent throughout the accusations of the other gentleman.

"Earlier, you stated that you freely admit to your remarks and will accept punishment for them"

The first gentleman nodded once, his head remaining bowed in subservience; "that is correct, my Tsar."

"Bear this in mind; refrain from making such statements again, lest you be held for treason", Nicholas replied quietly, before gesturing for the first gentleman to climb to his feet and return to the crowd; he then turned back to the peasant, eyes burning with anger, voice seething with rage.

"You come into these halls as my guest, revel in the free food and drink while spouting your revolutionary views to all and sundry and then you attempt to shove them onto someone else!", the Tsar spat venomously, his tone reaching fever pitch, "guards, take this man away and deal with him as befits a traitor!"

Two armed guards emerged from the sides of the room, seizing the peasant by the underarms and dragging him from the room to cries of "you won't get away with this, the people will have their freedom!", before a swift blow to the back of the head rendered him unconscious.

The Tsar returned to his throne worse-for-wear, the night's events having taken a toll on what he had hoped would be a relaxing return to St. Petersburg; he barely managed to offer his guests a room for the night before he staggered off to his private chambers, with Alexandra in tow.

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Begin Night Eight
Ends 00:00 GMT, 28/03/2011.
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**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:22

End of Night Eight

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

It had not been long since the Tsar had dismissed the assembled guests, having offered them somewhere to sleep rather than make the journey home through the snow; Andres had been given directions by Rasputin himself, who had offered to accompany him personally before his attention was diverted by a woman with what the monk called 'a need for directions of a different kind'.

Thus Andres found himself making his way through the palace alone, and he found himself noticing additional shadows trailing his own as he wandered through corridors and climbed flights of stairs; he quickened his pace, his breath following suit to move in tandem with his footfalls, and he soon turned the corner to the corridor where his room for the night was situated.

There was a gentleman waiting outside the door, his visage masked by shadow; Andres heard footsteps behind him and it became abundantly clear that these men had been waiting for him to walk into their trap. The leader of the pack approached, looking his quarry over in disgust while his cohorts surrounded the man.

"What gives a low born like yourself the right to criticise the Tsar?"

Despite the overwhelming odds, Andres tried to remain calm, responding boldly with his head held high; "I merely suggested that the Tsar redirect his efforts towards domestic issues and leave the frontline effort to his generals, as is the tradition and the proper form".

Knocked off-kilter by this response, the group opened up, allowing Andres to walk into his bedroom and close the door behind him; he slumped to the floor and breathed a sigh of relief as a few clunky noises emanated from the lock above his head. He had been sealed in for the night.

Andres sighed, shouting through the door that he hoped this wouldn't lead to accusations of tardiness if he turned up late for breakfast in the morning; he didn't want to incur Nicholas' ire for a second day.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:22

Day Nine

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

The shrill ringing of bells had woken the palace's guests that morning as an official summons to have breakfast with the Tsar and his family; while Andres was late to arrive, it appeared that Romanic did not turn up at all, something that many of the guests noted as peculiar due to his superb sense of timekeeping.

Nicholas had left the dining hall to discover what had become of his esteemed guest, but found himself surrounded by a line of guests in their night attire, all waiting to be seated by the palace's servants; a nearby guard informed the Tsar that the baron had been slain in his sleep, a fact that was heard by the queued guests, who immediately descended into absolute chaos as they frantically tried to flee.

Among the mayhem, the Grand Duke emerged from the crowd, elevating himself above the massing guests by way of an ornate marble balustrade, acting as a rallying point to the terrified men and women below him, with several guards attempting to keep order while directing Nicholas back into the dining hall.

"Ladies and gentlemen, please settle down!", he roared, his voice echoing throughout the halls, "this palace contains some of the best guards in the Kingdom, we will quickly..."

A loud bang, followed by the sound of a cascading shower of shattered glass, stopped God Emperor short as he was struck by a single bullet just above his heart, fatally wounding him; he managed to stagger on the spot, turning towards a glass mirror at the end of the hall, half of which was currently smashed upon the floor like a dangerous jigsaw puzzle, reflecting the broken image of a fleeing white figure who quickly vanished from sight.

After a few hours had passed and the frightened guests had been settled down in a secure section of the palace, one of the guards delivered a message to the Tsar; their search for the killer had yielded nothing, though it was apparant that noone had managed to enter or leave the grounds, and thus the killer was still on the loose within the Winter Palace.

Nicholas grieved silently; not only had a family member's life been taken, but a faithful baron's too... the Tsar did not know where to begin, but he knew that justice would be swift once the perpetrator was uncovered, that much was certain.

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Begin Day Nine
Ends 00:00 GMT, 30/03/2011.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:23

End of Day Nine

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

Following the events that occured over the course of the night and following morning, the guests at the Winter Palace had chosen different ways of coping with their predicament; some sobbed incessantly, fearful for their lives, while others were incredibly jittery, jumping at the slightest sound. Then there was Andres, who had taken to alcohol; he clutched a half-drained bottle of vodka in his right-hand, the potent beverage remaining a stalwart companion even when the situation looked as though it could not get any worse.

Despite his claims of being locked away during the night, the guests were adamant that he was responsible for the murders of Romanic and God Emperor, and thus they moved to make their intentions known; a few of the stronger guests forcefully lifted Andres from his chair, dragging the wreck of a man towards the Tsar, who had been sat silently upon the imperial throne for the last few hours.

Nicholas looked upon Andres with saddened eyes; he could not tell whether it was the alcohol or the gravity of the situation that had ravaged the man, but he was clearly a mere shell of what he had been the previous day. In the face of the inebriated officer, Nicholas remained calm and composed, gesturing a pair of guards to accost the man; one of them snatched the bottle from Andres' hand, the transparant contents within splashing violently against the glass as though it were a prison cell.

The drunken man shuddered momentarily, before leaping to his feet and dashing out from the hall and into the corridor, his actions fueled by some manner of heightened awareness despite his drunken manner; unfortunately he had been unable to retain full use of all his faculties, his inebriation impairing his balance and sending him tumbling into another gentleman in the corridor, both men collapsing to the ground in a heap.

The guards caught up, seizing Andres and dragging him from the other gentleman, who was struggling to climb to his feet and regain his composure while rubbing at the bruise that had appeared on his right cheek; wasting no time in dealing with the slippery and unstable man, the guards lead Andres through the halls of the palace and through the kitchens until they arrived at the back of the building.

Trudging through the snow, the group found a suitable wall, sheltered from the view of the palace by several trees, their branches obscuring any possible witnesses from seeing the execution; shoved against a wall, Andres started to gaze around as his senses began to attune to the situation... his claims of innocence were once again ignored as the guards prepared their rifles, each loading a single bullet into their firearm.

"At the ready!", the captain shouted, pacing behind the row of guards and ensuring that they were following the procedures correctly; the guards levelled their aim at Andres, who was whimpering softly against the wall as the effects of the vodka slowly began to wear off and the gravity of the situation grew clearer to him.

"Fire!"

Each rifle fired simultaneously, a row of bullets hurtling towards their target; however, before they slammed into the condemned man, Andres was immersed in a brilliant white light, the bullets seemingly frozen in mid-air as though they were unable to penetrate the unnatural barrier that had surrounded him... the last thing that he saw as his vision faded was the stone-like expressions of both the captain and his men.

The light faded as quickly as it had emerged, and everything seemed to return to normality as a result; the bullets impacted upon the shocked figure who had found himself against the wall, sweeping him off his feet and leaving him lying in a pool of sanguine-hued snow. The captain ran over to the man to find that Link had been shot instead, an unfortunate outcome that not a single soul present could explain; one moment, bullets were hurtling towards Andres, seconds later it was someone else that laid dead in his place.

Both Nicholas and his remaining guests emerged from the palace, with Andres among their number; the guard captain remarked that the military officer sported a bruise on the right side of his face, as though he had come off a little worse-for-wear during a collision in one of the Winter Palace's corridors...
------------------------------------------------

Abstergo Industries Headquarters, Milan, Italy, 2012

Warren Vidic's hands finally ceased their efforts upon the keyboard, and he took the moment to examine the curved glass screen that detailed Andres' vital signs; his heart rate had rocketed skyward, no doubt due to the life-or-death situation he had narrowly avoided within the confines of the Animus, but his other faculties seemed to be matching the predictions accordingly.

The researcher assigned to Andres' compartment turned to her superior, and questioned his reasons for direct interference with this subject, particularly in light of his staunch hands-off approach in this regard; Vidic's answer was direct and to-the-point, offering little information beyond what he felt the researcher needed to know.

"It is better to lose a failed test subject than a highly-valued employee, my dear."

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Begin Night Nine
Ends 00:00 GMT, 31/03/2011.
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**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:23

End of Night Nine

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

The hardship of the last few days had begun to take it's toll on the Romanovs; palace servants would remark about the heavily-distracted Nicholas, the uncertainty of Alexandra, the sheer terror in the eyes of their children... and the cold, unyielding gaze of Rasputin, still a constant presence around the family despite the misgivings of any and all who voiced their concerns to the Tsar.

Yaseikhaan walked hand-in-hand with her husband back to their bedchambers, the grip of her fingers tight despite what she felt to be a disinterested sensation from his hand; no sooner had the pair arrived at their door, a chambermaid rounded the far corner of the corridor and beckoned for the Tsarina to follow her on urgent business.

"I will need to deal with this, do try to get some rest, my love", the Tsarina whispered softly, kissing her husband upon his forehead and following in the chambermaid's wake down the corridor, a journey that eventually concluded in the section of the palace that housed the royal servants.

"I fail to see what could be so important at this hou-"

Before Alexandra could finish her expression of indignation, she found herself roughly grabbed from the shadows, a large hand covering her mouth to prevent her screams from alerting anyone; within the blink of an eye, cold steel slid across her throat, blood flowing down her neck as her life drained away before her faltering eyes.

----------------------------------------------------------------

In one of the many private rooms offered by Nicholas for his exhausted guests, Diamondeye was putting the finishing touches to his latest speech for the Duma; after much soul-searching, he had decided to advocate radical reforms to the political system, designed to appease the disgruntled people and help Russia to emulate the likes of Britain and France by becoming a more open and liberal society.

"Consequently, I suggest instituting a constitution, creating a formal separation of powers...", he read aloud from the last paragraph, though his monologue was interrupted by a loud crash from the door; a white-robed figure had burst into the room and had levied a small firearm in Diamondeye's direction.

The politician crumpled to the floor as the bullet struck him at point-blank range between the eyes, his death instantaneous; his task complete, the robed killer departed into the night through the open bedroom window.

----------------------------------------------------------------

Believer darted across the rooftops of the Winter Palace, the heavy snowfall doing little to impede his escape; after several agile maneuvers and death-defying leaps, he reached his own bedchambers where he proceeded to remove his robes, only to find a dark-hooded gentleman stood by the door.

"So... you are the assassin we have been looking for!", the intruder sneered wickedly, his visage masked his sloping hood but the malice in his voice clear.

Believer took a step back, using a finger on his right hand to unsheathe his hidden blade from it's gauntlet before lunging at the mysterious intruder, who cackled maniacally as he nimbly evaded the attack with minimal physical exertion, leaving the assassin to tumble to the ground.

"It would say it's about time you learnt your place", the dark-hooded gentlemen stated coldly, drawing a dagger from his pockets and slamming the blade into Believer's back, the force instantly extinguishing his life; satisfied, the figure cleansed the bloodied knife on the dead man's white robes before leaving the room triumphantly.

**Secura** · 03-31-2011, 17:24

Day Ten

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

Men and women, young and old; thousands of Russian citizens had taken to the streets of St. Petersburg to observe the funeral procession of Tsarina Alexandra following her untimely and unexplained death.

The event was observed by dozens of the nation's finest soldiers, afforded special leave from battle to ensure that the increasingly radical elements of Russian society would not befoul this tragic day; indeed, many of those who harboured contempt for the German-born Alexandra had blended into the gathered crowds, though their hate-fueled sentiments were largely drowned out by the mourning masses.

Nicholas looked particularly gloomy as he trudged through the snow, leading the pallbearers through the streets; he thought that he would be able to rest easy knowing that his beloved wife's killer had been slain themselves, but the notion of mysterious killers running loose unsettled him... efforts would have to be redoubled to find this figure before they destroyed the entire Romanov dynasty.

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Begin Day Ten
Ends 17:00 GMT, 02/04/2011.

**Secura** · 04-01-2011, 23:40

End of Day Ten

Tsarist Russia, c.1916

With Alexandra's funeral firmly in their minds and hearts, Nicholas' esteemed guests from the last few days returned to the Winter Palace; while the exhausted Tsar wished for nothing more than to sleep, his companions had something different in mind.

As the Tsar made his excuses and prepared to retire to his chambers, the guests turned against the monarch and began to accuse him of killing his political enemies, even going as far as to suggest that the murder of the Tsarina had been orchestrated by Nicholas as a response to her learning about this supposed dark agenda; the tales were long and tall, and matters were complicated further by the growing masses gathering outside the entrance to the palace, intent on overthrowing the monarch.

"Alright! Enough of this, I forfeit the throne!", Captain Blackadder roared loudly, as so to made himself heard over the accusations of his guests, "I do not want to lose what is left of my family; take my throne, take it all, I simply DON'T CARE!"

St George's Hall immediately erupted into chaos, during which the Tsar managed to slip out of the room and make good on his plans to flee with his family; the nobles and peasants argued amongst themselves while the more revolutionary elements within the began to mass into groups to ensure Nicholas would be unable to go back on his abdication.

Amid the overbearing shouting and the shrill smashing of glass, Rasputin stepped forward from his usual place behind the imperial throne; using the mystical power of his staff, the monk soothed the minds of the warring factions, who instantly fell silent as he looked across the room.

"There will be no more riots, no more talk of revolution", he said boldly, his powerful voice amplified by the artifact in his hands, "those that have earnt their standing shall reign over a new Russia; we will look to the industrialists and those who have the right to such power through their wealth, not the colour of their blood."

Despite their misgivings about the mysterious monk who had held a strange grip over the Romanovs for so long, the bourgeois present could do little but cheer and celebrate his proclaimation.

Rasputin walked out into the cold winter air, the rioting masses now motionless as though entranced by an unseen force; the monk continued using the staff as he walked among them, ensuring that they would slowly begin to accept his new agenda.

Later that day, Grigori returned to his own quarters within the Winter Palace and drafted a letter to his colleagues:

"It is done; Russia is ours - R."

He sent for his most trusted messenger to deliver the document; as he watched the young man depart upon one of the Romanov's finest steeds, Rasputin clutched the staff tightly in his grip... it's weakened state could help sway minds, but it could not enforce utter loyalty.

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Begin Night Ten
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