Lords of the East - Library
This thread is for players of the Broken Crescent 2.02 Hotseat - Lords of the East. Players and guest AAR writers are free to post creative writings related to the game here. These can take the form of full or partial turn write-ups, battle reports, stories or other creative writings inspired by the game, so long as the posts are consistent with and related to events in the game.
Last edited by Quirl; 04-29-2010 at 14:12.
Qara-Suu Khağanate
Qara-Suu Khağanate
The Northern Ghūl
Updated Turn 20
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Last edited by Quirl; 04-15-2011 at 17:38.
Ghosts from the Sea
Ghosts from the Sea
The black sea stood as still and quiet as the night air itself. The only noises came from the wildlife. Crickets played their usual instruments, but there was a certain discord in the way they played them .The birds had all left the area, only a few stragglers now rushing off and cawing their frantic goodbyes. The squirrels dug deeper into the hearts of their trees; the wolves retreated farther into the darkness of their caves; and on the ebony surface of the water treaded the ghostly visages of the fog, the only movements which now shown under the silver light of the moon. But it was what wasn’t being seen that would change this night.
The stillness on the black sea’s surface began to crack and slight ripples moved across the surface of its waters. Oars pushed through the black, moving the boats of their masters across. Torches began to come through the fog; below them were men draped in shadow and smiling silver masks. But underneath these masks, underneath the armor, were not men. They had no souls like men. They had no emotion like men. They had no thought, ambition, or desire like men. They were the ghul, the disenfranchised peoples of the tribes these lands had never before heeded—an untapped power which was only now united. They were the future of these lands, come at last to claim them.
The winds began to pick up…
From the black sea they came. Like the ghosts they were so named after, no one saw them coming. I remember that day. There was no tolling of the alarm bells. There were no shouts from the messengers. No proclamations from the khan! There was only silence… then screams.
The ends of the boats fell onto the shores. The men and their horses swarmed off of them like a quiet breeze, moving across the blades of grass like merely a wind. In the midst of a moment they were on the shore, and they wasted no time in continuing uphill through the fog and to the lights of the sleeping village beyond…
I remember their faces. The smiling faces of their helmets—approaching you like about to tell you a secret, before they drove their swords through you like it was all a game. But I remember one that was there—one man whose mask did not smile. There was no merriment in the way he directed the others. There was no idle glee in the terrors he was unleashing. Only the calculatory presence of something so beyond such emotions that one might justifiably wonder if it were at all human. The others called him “Qara-Khagan,” the black khan. We called him Karakura, a demon of the night.
When the smiling men had finally broken through the gates, the city was already overrun. Men continued to crawl over the walls like rabid spiders, and those swarming through the broken gates now loomed through like a tide of insects. Those on horses began to simply charge through the city, killing everyone they could, and those on foot hacked away at the few defenders still brave enough to die standing…
And it was then that I saw her. The woman of the ghul. She moved through the mayhem as simply as a leaf might through the storm, gliding across those dying and those killing, and seeming unnoticed by both, but somehow by me. Underneath the thick hood of her cloak, it was difficult to make out her face; but I knew somehow that she had seen me.
I was hiding in my room when she approached me. Such a small boy was I then that I thought such a feeble hideaway could protect me. She extended her arm to me, her frail brittle arm like dying oak or rustic metal, and she smiled. When I looked into her eyes, I saw only glossy white there. Somewhere underneath the cataracts I saw the dim glow of her pupils, staring away from me—beyond me—to the eternal shadow that must have been her vision of the world. Yet, somehow, she had known I was there and when she extended her hand to me, I took it. It was warm, the warmest thing I had felt all through that cold winter night. They pulled me up and I felt safe. We walked through that battlefield like it was all a dream. The men around us either ignored us or didn’t see us at all. We passed through the shattered gates of my hometown and I knew then that I would never look at it again—or, at least, not with those same eyes...
…And I have not looked back! And I have not regretted that day. In those times these lands were enthralled by weakness. Now they are without such chains and are as wild and as untamed as the great Khaganate itself! No longer do we slave ourselves over the question of nation or identity. No longer do we sit in our tribes and feud over meaningless bloodlines. The only nation that exists is that of ourselves and the only blood that matters is that of which we spill.
We are servants to the Black Khan, the scowling Ghul! He has united us—made us stronger—made us something more than we could have ever been on our own. And now we only smile. Now we are Qara-Suu!
…And the little boy walked off with the witch, watching behind him as his village burned.
Last edited by Quirl; 04-12-2010 at 04:38.
A History of the Omani Admiralty
A History of the Omani Admiralty
Volume 1: Of the Sea
“The Omani are a people of the sea. For too long we have been led by tyrants, content with only dirt under their boots and their greedy eyes ever facing inland. Legend says the Omani rose from the sea and to the sea we belong. I do not wish to carry the burden of leadership, but if that is what it will take to free my people, then I shall bare it on my shoulders with honor, through the wind and waves from the deck of my ship.”
-Grand Admiral Walid, 1175 AD
Chapter 1: History of the Imamate
When Allah’s word first made it to the Oman coasts around 700 AD, most Omani were simple fishers and merchant sailors. Towns and cities were usually managed by elder councils. The introduction of Islam was a unifying force for the people of Oman. Religious leaders stepped up to govern the people and the Imamate of Oman was formed. These leaders guided the people justly till about 950 AD. As trade among the Islamic nations increased, more and more valuables and riches passed through the hands of Omani merchants. Soon the Omani leaders grew greedy for these riches themselves. They constructed vast mines, but when they could not get enough people to work the mines, they started enslaving their own people. They recruited massive armies to enforce their rule and keep the mine workers in line. In response, the Naval Council was formed, and elite marine training programs were started in the coastal cities. The Naval Council vowed to protect the coast, but the growing interior was left to the whims of the Imamate. The armies of the Imamate were too strong for the navy’s marines to take the interior, but too weak to enforce all of the Imamate’s laws on the coast.
Chapter 2: Fall of the Imamate
When Murshed came to power in 1149 AD, most of the Omani interior resources had been depleted. Although he still had his slaves and armies scouring the mainland for resources, Murshed realized colonies were his best bet for new resources. This gave the Naval Council the chance they were waiting for. Admiral Walid used this chance to make friends in the Army and insert naval spies into the army ranks. On the long journeys to capture colonies, sometimes uncooperative generals would conveniently be “lost in a storm”. While transporting Murshed’s chosen diplomat to the peace council in Baghdad, Captain Amr, under Grand Admiral Walid’s orders, threw the diplomat over and took his place at the court. When Murshed found out, he realized the Naval Council was getting ready to make their move against him. With the Caliph’s declaration of a Fatwa on the Seljuk, Murshed saw a chance to gain support from the other Islamic nations for his rule. Unfortunately, his diplomat/assassin was no match for Captain Amr and Amr was able to warn Grand Admiral Walid and the Naval Council of Murshed’s coming strike. When three battalions of soldiers stormed the council chambers, they found it deserted, but when they tried to leave they realized they were surrounded by marines. When Murshed welcomed back into his palace his victorious soldiers with a captured Grand Admiral Walid in toe, he was overjoyed; he realized only too late that they were actually marines in disguise. As Captain Amr led the marines against the palace guards, Walid chased Murshed to his throne room, where he cornered him. Murshed quickly surrendered, begging to be spared.
Chapter 3: Rise of the Admiralty
Against Captain Amr’s advisement, Walid chose to spare Murshed and the ruling family. He believed they were needed to perform the duties they were always supposed to, be spiritual leaders to the people. The ruling family was left as ceremonial and religious leaders, while the generals were allowed to live as long as they took an oath of loyalty to Walid and the Admiralty. To keep Murshed out of the way, he was banished to the most distant Omani colony. With the armies now under control, the Omani Admiralty was official. Walid’s first act was to free all enslaved Omani and abandon all fruitless mining operations on the mainland. The celebrations of the fall of the Imamate and the rise of the Admiralty lasted for weeks among the general population, while some sailors were reported to have continued the celebrations for months.
Chapter 4: Afterword
Many problems still lay ahead for the Omani. Many prosperous inlanders will miss the luxuries they enjoyed under the Imamate and the loyalty of the Armies is still shaky; not to mention, who knows what troubles lay beyond the Omani borders. It will take hard work and long nights for Grand Admiral Walid to keep the Admiralty together in the coming days, but for now things are looking bright of the people of Oman.
For Rome! Got Rome!!For the Admiral!
Myths of the Omani: Volume 1
Myths of the Omani
Volume 1: Rise of the Omani
Introduction
Before the light of Allah came to the lands, man’s heart was ruled by fear and darkness. In these dark times the ocean was something to be feared; the water’s surface the only barrier that separated man from monster. Many still whisper the tales of old, although one is whispered above all the rest, the rising of the Omani. No one can quite agree on the origin of the Omani. Some say they where explorers from a distant land, turned mad after spending too much time lost at sea. Others believe they were sailors who traveled too close to the ends of the earth and went crazy at the sight of the unending nothingness beyond. The more religious have said they were sailors out to sea at the time of the great flood, and through pacts with dark spirits, survived at the cost of what humanity they had left. But one origin is feared and repeated above all the rest. It claims that the Omani where not men, but demons bred in the murky depths at the ocean floor, for the purpose of waging a war for control of the underworld, but they were too feral for even their demonic masters to control. They escaped from their masters to ravage the lands of the living. Although their origin might be uncertain, the bloodlust and ferocity of the Omani of myth is a story told far and wide. Few along the coast have not heard the tales.
Chapter 1: The Storm
In times of old, when most people lived in but simple farming communities along the coast, war was a thing of distant lands and the Emarii (people of the coast) were left in peace. The Emarii feared the open ocean and the beasts that lay beneath its waves. They rarely ventured into its waters, and then only short distances to fish or bathe. The Emarii elders had long talked of a great ‘storm’ that they called the Oman, which would one day wash away their peaceful civilization. Few ever took them seriously, for they had been predicting this great storm for countless generations, yet the Emarii had weathered every storm that had come. One day the elders were particularly worked up, yelling and shouting that the Oman was coming, but the skies were clear that morning except for a few black birds, not native to this land, circling over head. Most people went on about their day as usual, but by noon the skies had grown grey and by mid afternoon the skies were black as night and strong cold winds began to blow in off the ocean. The worst storm ever had come to the Emarii coast. People ran for higher grounds as the ocean crawled up the coast, lashing out with wave after wave to pull unfortunate souls to its murky depths. As the night drug on the storm only got fiercer. Lightning lit up the night sky and thunder shook the mountains. From caves high in the hills the Emarii waited out the storm. Sometimes brave souls would go to the entrance to check on the progress of the storm. Over the wailing of surviving elders that ‘the end had finally come’, they would tell the others what they saw. How each flash of lightning revealed the ferocity of the storm now clawing at the base of their mountain hideaway. Some described it like the lions of distant lands; how the storm had pounced on the earth and now tore at its sides, ripping away at its flesh. While others recounted stories of seeing massive ships floating among the waves, as if Sheppard’s of a flock of wolves that were the waves. The storm grew steadily worse even as the elders ran out of breath and energy and succumb to asleep. The storm raged on through the night, with some claiming the water levels reach as high as the mouth of the lowest cave.
Chapter 2: The Omani
The people of the Emarii awoke to find the sun streaming into what they had feared would be their stone graves. As the first few stumbled out of their caves, their hearts sank at the sight that greeted them. Once fertile farmlands were now salty marshes, proud stones had been reduced to pebbles, and houses lay in pieces up and down the shore. But then they noticed something was off, there was way too much wood and debris for just their buildings. It appeared as if the wreckage of many other settlements had washed in. This was great, for wood and other building materials were hard to come by in these parts, plus they could make quite a profit off of selling what was left over. With new hope in their hearts they gathered together and headed back down the mountain. As they walked down they talked and boasted how, although their settlement was washed away, they had survived the Oman. Once they reached the wreckage they started right away to sift through and sort it. Everyone was helping, even children. One boy was searching in the shallow tidal waters when he tripped over something. It was a rope. He was suddenly filled with the urge to tug it; overwhelmed by curiosity about what was on the end of that rope. He tugged on it once. An elder near him gave a sharp yep, turned towards the boy and started shouting for him to stop, but the boy ignored him. He tugged it a second time. Loud piercing screeches filled the air. Many looked around to find all of the elders crumbled on the ground clutching their head as if their inner eye was burning with the intensity of an inferno. Their screeches turned into one drawn out word “Omaniiiiiiiii...!” However, the boy did not care, did not even notice. His mind was consumed by one thought, one care. His entire world revolved around what was on the end of that rope. He gave it a third tug and out of the sand and water popped an anchor. The screams of the elders subsided. As some helped the elders up the rest gathered around the boy’s discovery. Unnoticed by the gathering crowd, the water had stilled itself to an almost mirror like surface. The boy picked up the anchor, fascinated by the decorative pattern on it, but after only a few seconds it began to burn, searing the boy’s hands, until he let go. The anchor fell from the boy’s hands. He watched it slowly falling; followed it with his eyes, until it landed without a splash in the water. The only sign that it had even fallen in water was a single ripple that spread out in all directions. As if waiting for the signal, the water around the Emarii started to bubble and splash. “Ahhhh,” people started screaming and running as figures, dressed in light armor and carrying swords, started rising out of the shallow water. Those unfortunate enough to get close to the pirates saw only a cold bloodthirsty fury in their hollow soulless eyes. Their attack was quick, but after the majority lay slain and the waves turned red, they took their time torturing the rest; leaving only a few alive to go and spread the rumors and fear of the Omani attack. The boy, one of the few survivors, reaches the top of a hill, but before continuing he turns around one last time and is struck with horror at the sight of five massive ships on the horizon, with black birds circling their masts, bearing the same colors as the Omani pirates that just attacked them. The boy stands there horror struck, frozen to the spot. An Emarii man, with a bloodied face and a limp arm, swiftly picks the boy up with his good arm and carries him off.
Important Notes
Although many sailors and more cultured Omani enjoy this myth for a good laugh or as part of an old culture, others (often those from smaller religious communities) find it offensive for the Omani to be portrayed in such a barbarous way.
Interestingly enough, Latin merchants, trying to establish trade with the far east, enjoyed this story so much that they started using the word omen, mispronouncing Oman, to represent a sign of something to come.
For Rome! Got Rome!!For the Admiral!
Captain for Life: Chapter 6
Captain for Life
A biography of Captain Amr
Chapter 6: The Ivory Sword
[Intro: This chapter covers the story of how Captain Amr earned the rank of admiral. Many may wonder at this point why then does everyone still call him ‘Captain’ Amr. It has to do with when he served under Admiral Walid, then only a captain himself (see Chapter 3). Amr had such a high respect for Walid’s strategic genius that he feels Walid will always be his superior. He has since insisted on always being addressed as captain, even occasionally threatening those who try to insist otherwise. His respect for Walid is such that he considers Walid to be the only true admiral in the fleet and addresses all other Omani admirals by their sir names occasionally adding the title of captain for those he holds some respect for. Now on this particular occasion, Captain Amr had been sent by the Naval Council, then led by Grand Admiral Nashmit, to discover why Omani trade vessels had been disappearing along the African Coast.]
The dim glow of the crescent moon was all that lit the dark desert night. A soft breeze blew in off of the ocean, making it surprisingly cold for the desert. At a sentry post on top of a dune, a small fire illuminates six guards sitting around it. The guards, charged with patrolling the beachfront, were instead sitting around the fire, telling jokes and warming themselves on this unusually cold night. After one apparently good joke, the whole group burst out laughing, but they were cut short when their commander stepped out of the tent behind them and ferociously started yelling at them for not being out patrolling. He stopped for a second to catch his breath, but screams of agony broke the silence, as six daggers flew from the darkness and dug deep into three of the guards, killing one who had got hit multiple times. As the guards drew their swords to go and meet their unknown attackers, the commander looked for the warning horn so he could send out the alarm. There it was, on the belt of the fallen guard, but before he could get to it six figures jumped out of the darkness behind the guards; cutting down half the guards before they could even realize they had been surrounded.
Captain Amr stands by the fire, surveying the bloodied guard post as his pirates rummage through the tent and corpses for anything of worth. A soft gurgling sound draws Amr’s attention to his feet were a guard lay coughing up blood; his eyes pleading for mercy. Amr snorts at such a futile act, but kneels down anyway, grabbing the guards arm to pull him closer. Amr leans in close to the guard’s ear and whispers “die with dignity.” He pauses, laughs a bit, and says, “or at least die,” and with a quick thrust of his sword ends the guard’s life. He says to the others, “leave the junk, keep moving.” The twelve pirates recover their daggers from the corpses and head off down the beach, back into the darkness.
They were heading for Nashadem-klujak, the palace of a powerful African warlord. Days earlier, at a popular trading port, Captain Amr had learned that this warlord had recently decided that it was easier to take trade goods then buy them. His fleet had been ransacking every trade vessel that tried to pass into the Red Sea. Many thought him mad, since he was practically declaring war on every nation whose vessels he attacked. Many believed that his madness was caused by his powerful ivory sword, which was called Olmonguhl. At this, Femr Ushem, Captain Amr’s first mate, got really excited, for Olmonguhl, was supposed to be a magical sword of Omani legends, lost centuries ago. It was said to drive any but its rightful owner mad with power lust. Amr, of course, dismissed this as legend. After slipping a few coins into the outstretched hands of some Dark Contacts*, Amr and his crew were heading for the warlords base, with schematics of its defenses and garrison in hand.
The pirates took out two more sentry outposts, before making it to the outer walls of Nashadem-klujak. They grappled over the walls at a blind spot in the city watch and quietly made their way into the town surrounding Nashadem-klujak.
Inside the palace of Nashadem-klujak, the African warlord paced in front of his throne as he ranted and raved to the generals that surrounded him. They all cowered as he pointed to the pile of treasures at his feet and then back to them, continually insisting that they were holding out on him, that there should be more treasure. From the shadows along the outer edge of the throne room eleven pairs of eyes stared past the pile of treasure and greedily at the ivory handled sword hanging from the warlord’s belt. Although Amr had continued to insist it was only a legend, Femr still spread the story about Olmonguhl to the rest of the crew. Now Amr was having to work twice as hard to keep his crew under control. The throne room guards were too distracted taking bets on which general they would get to behead today that they did not notice the Omani pirates moving into position. At Amr’s signal, his crew jumped out of the shadows taking out most of the throne room guards before they knew what hit them. As the remaining guards fruitlessly called for help, for their reinforcements lay in pools of their own blood back in the halls the pirates had entered from, the generals pulled their own swords out to engage the attackers. With the rest of the room locked in battle, Captain Amr was free to challenge the African warlord. The warlord grinned and laid his hand on the ruby studded ivory handle of his sword. In one swift movement, he pulled it out and brought it down with all his strength, cracking the stone floor where Amr had just been. Amr, agile for his height, had jumped out of the way and now assumed a defensive stance. Although the blows of the African warlord seem to carry more power than the thin ivory sword should have been able to deal, he was not fast enough to land any significant hits on Captain Amr. After a few minutes of parrying and dodging blows, Amr seized an opening to disarm the warlord. As the warlord stumbled back, a few finger short, the ivory blade landed at Amr’s feet. The warlord dove for the blade, but Amr had already grasped it. The warlord tried to scramble back to his feet, but Captain Amr, using both swords, beheaded him when he was still on his knees. (Later, when questioned if he ever tried to negotiate with the warlord, he responded, “I offered him the same deal he gave to our trade vessels ‘Either you agree to let me kill you and take you treasures or I’ll kill you and take your treasure.’ He chose the later of course”)
With the ivory sword in Amr’s hand, the remaining guards and generals laid down their weapons, apparently fearful of the blade. It quickly became apparent that the people of Nashadem-klujak also believed the sword to have magical powers, because none offered resistance after seeing Captain Amr use the sword for the public execution of the remaining generals. In a matter of weeks Amr had shortened the name of the city to Klujak (thinking it easier to say) and turned it into a colony of the Imamate of Oman. (It remained a colony of Oman till it was wiped out by a plague nearly five years later.)
Once Captain Amr had returned to Oman he was promoted to Admiral for his bravery, leadership, and ‘establishment’ of a new colony of Oman. Amr was noticeably absent from his promotion ceremony, but Admiral Walid made sure the promotion stuck anyways.
* Notes: Dark Contacts are a loose network of spies, pirates, and other well informed nefarious characters willing to share information, for some coin of course. They operate along the coasts of the Persian Gulf, Red Sea, and Indian Ocean. Omani captains usually set up their own list of Contacts, but will often share Contacts with others that they trust. Many believe Captain Amr to have more Dark Contacts than most Omani captains combined, although it would be hard to prove, since he rarely shares. Even Admiral Walid does not know the extent of Amr’s connections.
Last edited by Thanatos Eclipse; 01-02-2010 at 04:17.
For Rome! Got Rome!!For the Admiral!
The two Freds
The guards escorted the exhausted messenger up the hilltop in the gloomy dusk towards the large, gold-fringed tent at the summit.
As he stepped into the firelight he saw the two Freds sitting across a table playing dice.
He cleared his throat.
The dark-haired one (Swabia?) turned to him and grinned broadly.
Well good sir, I expect you have come to tell us what we're doing next, eh? Did Baldwin send any women with you? Ye gods, I'm sick of this fellow's company after weeks aboard ship!
He laughed, clapping the fair-haired one (Barbarossa?) on the back.
The messenger fumbled in his satchel for the scroll, while Barbarossa fetched him a chair.
Sit down good sir, you must be tired after your journey. It's a long way indeed from the Levant to Nicaea!
Swabia laughed again.
Yes, I suppose I must take the blame for that one - we stopped off along the coast here for provisions at my urging, before the storm blew up and wrecked our ships. The worst thing is, they went down with all the wine aboard!
The messenger had finally located the scroll and placed it in the centre of the table without a word, before leaving the tent swiftly.
Both Freds reached for it at once and laughed, before each with exaggerated politeness bade the other to pick it up. After a moment or two of this, Swabia finally grabbed it and read its contents quickly before tossing it to Barbarossa.
Well, this is interesting indeed is it not? I'm not sure his Holiness would approve of these orders! What do you think Freddie?
Swabia shrugged.
Baldwin has some balls, I'll give him that - first he makes a pact with the Saracen and now this!
He thought for a moment.
I say we go along with it - he's a sharp fellow and I'll wager there's a great deal in it for us if we follow along like good soldiers. We can always go our own way later if we don't like the cut of his jib.
Barbarossa picked up the die once more, looking Swabia in the eye.
I'll roll you for Tarsus.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:45.
frogbeastegg's TWS2 guide....it's here!
Come to the Throne Room to play multiplayer hotseat campaigns and RPGs in M2TW.
Deal With The Devil
Deal With The Devil
In the middle of the misty woods the witches set the fire. It shot up in a brief pillar of flame before collapsing into a wildly burning pyre. The nine women all stood around it—watching each other over the flames—waiting for it to begin.
There was the sound of distant crows—some murder startled by the cracking of the flames. A wind picked up, swirling the pyre like a miniature cyclone in the burning twigs and branches. Then the first witch stepped forward.
She held above her a jar. She watched only it as she continued to walk, the jar reflecting the moonlight into her eyes, making them almost glow. Then two other women scuttled forward, laying a long stick above the fire. They twisted the device in its place and let the thing hang above the flames. Then the first women laid the jar atop it.
Then all the women stepped back from the fire and began to dance. It started off slowly—whispers coming from their chapped lips—slow steps kicking into the frigged snow. Then it began to pick up. Some woman hurled her hands above her hood as she sang in her various dead languages. Another merely began to shake her head like a rabid dog, saying nothing which was decipherable.
The dance picked up. Women began tearing bits of their robes, revealing the cracked, white skin underneath. Others began clawing their skin, like holding back some insatiable ecstasy threatening to burst out from inside them. One woman screamed and another soon followed. And as the flames continued to be picked up by the wind, it casted shadows across the nearby trees and stones. Other figures soon became visible—still ghosts inside smiling masks. More shadows danced across and more men were revealed. Then a ray from the moon crept out from beneath the fog, revealing an entire host of smiling ghūl.
The women continued to dance and one man stepped forward. His mask scowled and his armor seemed almost as black as the night. He extended his claws forward and gripped the jar from the burning fire. He held it up and one of the women snatched it from his hands.
The woman with the jar danced to another at the opposite end of the flame. The woman there was not dancing, but stood as still as the army around her. In her hand she held a paper—a contract—a deal from their new employer.
The woman with the jar and the woman with the contract began to walk forward to the great masked man on the other side of the flame. Soon, another women joined them, holding the tattered standard of the Qara-Suu.
The other women continued to dance—howling, screaming, gnashing their teeth—casting their shadows and screams on the army of still ghūl around them.
The three witches carrying the jar, contract, and standard now stood in front of the great Khağan. The woman in the middle produced an object from beneath her robes and dipped into the smoking jar. The hot wax inside the jar trailed a bit as she pulled out the stamp. Then she took the contract and the stamp, and sealed it onto the banner the other witch held. Finally, the middle witch took the banner and handed it to the Khağan, smiling and bowing away.
The man in black armor took the standard and slowly began to turn around to face his army. The three witches behind him soon stepped back and melded with the others—continuing their mad dance around the frantic flame.
The Black Khağan held up the flag—the contract attached to it flying in the wind—calling for the death of an entire nation—and the army of ghūl around them began to scream.
The Black Khağan remained silent as the others howled their anticipating war cries. Then he slowly tipped the banner and the contract to the southeast, motioning his armies forward. Soon, his army began to move and there were shouts of "FORWARD" and "HO" echoing in the night air. Torches began to light, showing only then their true numbers—the woods were ablaze with them.
And as the army began to move out—the Black Khağan himself soon following atop his great horse—the women continued to dance. They danced the rest of the night—long after the smiles and ghosts had departed them. And they kept the blaze alive for several hours until the morning sun had finally come over the horizon...
... a red dawn.
Last edited by Quirl; 04-12-2010 at 04:39.
Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Tegin Savalat: the Black Bear)
Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Tegin Savalat: the Black Bear)
Dvin (December 15, 1182)
“We hold in here!” Abaaq screamed to his troops—the last few of his few brothers left alive after the fall of the city. “When they come in… we slaughter them!”
Held up inside the governor’s pitiful mansion, one of the guards looked outside. It was dusk. The sun was just beginning to set over the city’s palisade. The pink hue of the falling day filled the dim city, reflecting off the gray and blue armor of the scurrying “ghul” outside. His guard looked back at Abaaq, some worry crackling in his voice. “They haven’t tried to push through, yet.”
“But when they do,” Abaaq said, slamming his fists together and smiling in grim anticipation. “Take as many of them down as you can... before you embrace the glories of paradise.”
His men nodded, then another turned back to him from the window. “Lord, they’re organizing but… they don’t seem to be coming in for an attack.”
Abaaq turned to him. “What?”
Outside, the ghul stood around the mansion. The smiles of their masks refracted back to the men inside from the shadows. The creatures were hunched over, gripping the air with an excitable eagerness. But they merely stood there.
There were whispers coming through windows—soft words none of the men inside could understand, but which haunted the mansion nonetheless. Then, a man stepped out from behind the crowd of ghul.
Savalat stepped out from behind his soldiers, several sizes taller than any of the ghul around him—and easily several sizes larger than Abaaq. He wore a great fur helm over his stone face. His brow set heavy over his eyes, casting a thick shadow there that made his face expressionless. Then, one of his ghul handed him a spear and another threw one of Abaaq’s captured soldiers onto the cobblestone in front of his master. Then, in an instant, the giant bear, Savalat, thrust his spear into the writhing prisoner below him. Abaaq watched from the window as the bear’s eyes locked onto his, the giant mercilessly rolling the spear into the prisoner’s spine back and forth—back and forth.
The screams from the prisoner below the demon made Abaaq churn. He fell below the window, trying to block out the noises from the outside. He could not. Those black eyes and those screams still scraped against his skull, like fingernails on his mind. Finally, however, the man stopped screaming. The squishes of the spear silenced. He was dead.
Abaaq closed his eyes, then breathed a heavy breath—not sure whether to feel relief or pain. Not too far away, he could hear one of his guards beginning to weep.
Then, suddenly, another "CRACK!" came in from the outside. Abaaq thrust his eyes out the window one last time to see yet another prisoner below the Qipchack general. Savalat's spear was also now in his back and the giant twisted it left and right—left and right—letting the man’s screams fill the mansion as he watched on callously.
“Infidel!” Abaaq screamed, but the giant outside did not acknowledge him. He merely continued to turn the spear methodically left and right, indifferent to the choking screams of the man below him. “Infidel!” Abaaq cried again, and the man below the giant finally fell silent.
Abaaq closed his eyes and put his hands over his ears, just in time to hear the faint and sudden “CRACK!” of another victim outside—and the left and right turns of the spear into the muscles and spine of yet another of his fallen comrades.
“DOG!” Abaaq cried, getting up from where he stood and pulling out his scimitar. “God will judge you for what you have done this day!”
Suddenly, on the outside, the door to the mansion burst open. Abaaq’s men ran forth—their scimitars glistening in the coming night—their eyes filled with vengeance before the coming paradise. Then Savalat stepped back into his ghul and the smiling soldiers around him held up their bows. Their claws pulled back on the arrows and some strands of dust flew off their strings. They pulled back and there was the sound of tension echoing in their weapons. Then their fingers flicked up and they released their arrows, the daggers flying off from their masters like rabid cobras or drops of rain. They whizzed through the night air towards Abaaq and his charging soldiers, burrowing little tunnels through the winter fog.
Then it became very quiet. Then the sun had finally set.
Last edited by Quirl; 04-12-2010 at 04:39.
A roll of the dice later...
The two Freds sat across the banquet table from one another in the Great Hall at Vakha, picking at a hastily-assembled meal of roast hind and mead and casting dice for the ceremonial arms that lay abandoned around the chamber, the last relics of the dynasty of Takavor Reuben.
In just over a month the entire Kingdom of Armenia had fallen to the concerted assault of their zealous crusading armies.
Aside from some minimal resistance from the Takavor's troupe of bodyguards, who could be heard slowly dying in the courtyard outside as their horses were surrounded by spearmen and riddled with crossbow bolts, none now contested the claim of the Crusader Kingdom to Cilician Armenia.
Swabia to Barbarossa: "Well sir, where to now? Aha! The bronze buckler is mine!"
Barbarossa to Swabia: "Well, we made a pretty penny out of Baldwin's last proposal - I say we go along with this one too."
Swabia: "Aye, a pretty penny indeed, the prettiest part to you from the treasury at Tarsus. How much of that will Baldwin see I wonder?
He grinned.
Barbarossa: "Freddie, that's for me to know, for you to wonder about, and for Baldwin never to discover."
Swabia: "So we head north to parlay with Prince Guy?"
Barbarossa: "Aye....Damn! That ivory dagger was a prize. Keep it well lest I steal it from you later!"
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:45.
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Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Kobyak: The Wolf)
Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Kobyak: The Wolf)
Telavi (December 21, 1182)
Dear Caliph…
Kobyak began, scribbling the words onto the paper just as quickly as he crumbled it up and tossed it onto the floor. “No… that won’t work,” He said. Then he grabbed a new sheet and dipped his quill into the ink bottle again, starting over…
Dear esteemed Caliph,
It is most regrettable that this war has come between us. I remember the days when the Seljuks were our common enemy, and behind the curtains we planned together—drank deep the cup of conspiracy together.
But now the Seljuks are your subjects and we must…
“… We must…" Kobayk continued. "No…” He picked up the paper again and tossed it to the side. The sheet fell down the walls of his tent, blowing a bit with the wind coming from the outside. It found its place amidst a pile of other such crumbled up letters. Kobyak turned to look at them and let out a sigh. Then he put his head into his hands and began to stroke his beard. Under his breath he was humming a tune. Just what tune the man on the opposite end of the tent couldn’t tell.
He had been watching the strange Qara-Suu do this for a number of hours now. The man’s name was Sokhmen—the disgraced defender of Telavi. Sokhmen’s mouth was gagged, his hands bound, and his weapons and armor dangled on a table not too far away—the place his eyes constantly stole to every few minutes. He didn’t know why this Qara-Suu warlord had decided to bring him in alive to his tent. He didn’t know why he was writing a letter to his Caliph while he sat around and watched. And he didn’t know why the Northman had attacked Telavi at all—hadn’t the Seljuk and the Qipchaks once been allies?
The only thing Sokmen knew for sure anymore was the shame of losing his city. Telavi fell too quickly and too easily to the advancing tide of ghul. He had simply had too few men. He had simply had too little time. But in the end that didn’t matter. The shame of it all—the guilt—it was still there. And now he was this madman’s concubine—locked in his quarters whilst he scribbled away notes and hummed strange, exotic tunes.
“What would your Caliph like to hear from me?” Kobyak suddenly asked him.
Sokhmen was surprised to see the Qara-Suu speak to him. He didn’t immediately know how to react.
Kobyak stood up and began to walk towards him. Again, Sokhmen didn’t know how to react and he pulled away for an instant. Then Kobyak smiled at him and took off his gag, asking again, “Do you know what the Caliph would like to hear from me?”
“The Caliph does not want to speak with you!” Sokhmen suddenly found himself saying. The response had caught even himself off guard. Where did that come from?! Sokhmen wondered. Suddenly, he found himself looking into the cold, green eyes of the Northman above him, waiting for what felt like an eternity for his reply. Finally, the Qipchak’s brow rose and his lips parted.
“Why not?” The Qara-Suu merely asked. “I am Muslim… just like you, Sadiq.”
“I am not your sadiq!” Sokhmen replied, again taking himself by surprise. Running off more adrenaline now than thought, however, Sokhmen continued, “you are no Muslim, infidel! You defy our Caliph! You defy our God!”
Kobyak frowned at the man and placed the gag back onto Sokhmen. Shaking his head and letting out a final sigh. “Fine,” he said, tying the last knot around the gag. “I suppose I will merely have to continue trying myself.”
The wolf got up and dusted off his claws, smiling to his prisoner below him. Then Kobyak turned around, poking his head out of the tent, and yelled something to the guards that Sokhmen could not understand.
“Onu al! Lütfen onu çabucaköldür!”
Some ghul in smiling masks suddenly came inside, picking Sokhum up by the arms and dragging him outside. He didn’t know just what the Qara-Suu warlord had said to them. He didn't know just what the Qara-Suu warlord exactly intended for him. But he knew now that he was going to his death. He closed his eyes and bit down on the gag in his mouth. The smiling ghul then took him away to the foggy dawn outside.
Back in the tent, Kobyak sat down once again. Throwing back the bulky sleeves of his robes and dipping the quill in the ink jar again, he once more put his pen to paper…
Dear exalted and blessed Caliph,
I am sorry that this war is upon us now. I pray to God that it ends soon.
You will be happy to know, however, that I have killed most of your men quickly, sending their souls to blessed paradise with all my love…
Last edited by Quirl; 01-25-2012 at 19:40.
At the Muster (pt. 1)
Marching through the night, the two crusader armies merged into one great mass of clanking, whinnying bodies, illuminated in pools of torchlight. At their head rode Barbarossa and Swabia, the two Freds, each of them eager to reach the muster and put an end to the dusty journey.
Progress from Northern Armenia had been slow, dragging as they were behind them the giant war machines they had brought all the way from the forests of Germany. These engines were both blessing and curse - the time they wasted on the road was amply compensated for by their ability to swiftly end a siege - all the better for keeping a volunteer army well fed and engaged in the task at hand. Thus had the Cilician kingdom fallen - with a crash and a thud, a splintering of wood and a shattering of stone; and thus had the minor fiefdoms of Anatolia toppled in turn as the crusaders made their stately progress east towards the muster at Mardin.
Some few hours before dawn the army crested a rise and looked down into the valley of Mardin, where the sleeping town was barely distinguishable, a faded outline in the midst of a mass of tents and campfires.
After making camp and a quick change of clothes, the two German princes were summoned by a page boy to the royal tent, in which they assumed resided Prince Guy.
Stepping through the tent flaps into the warm interior they were suprised to see not only Guy, a plump dandy with cossetted beard and gaudy attire, but also a slim figure in plain robes, sitting on a stool facing the fire with his back to them.
As they approached, he turned to face them, stood and drew himself up to his full height, fixing them with a piercing gaze. It was King Baldwin himself!
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:44.
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At the Muster (pt. 2)
Barbarossa left the tent as soon as he was able and caught up with Swabia who was making his way back to their shared camp. He put his hand on his friend's shoulder, only to have him shrug it off as he turned angrily to face him, tears in his eyes and stabbing one finger into his chest in accusation.
"You could have stood up for me in there! After everything! We had a deal!"
"Freddie..."
"Don't 'Freddie' me you snake! Why shouldn't I run you through like the traitor you are?"
"Baldwin is King - it's his decision who rides with him."
"And I suppose you think it's just fine that I come all this way from Germany only to be relieved of my command and put in charge of some dusty village full of camel traders in the middle of the desert? While you prance off with His Majesty to save the world? You're a piece of work."
"Freddie, it's not like that - he needs a good man to stay behind and help Prince Guy prepare the rearguard. In case things go wrong.."
"I'll tell you what's wrong - it's YOU, leaving me behind after all we've been through together. I always knew you'd do it one day..after all, you're the heir to the Empire and I'm just poor little Freddie of Swabia, might be Duke one day if his brother dies.."
"Freddie, I'll share the treasure with you - we can roll dice for it, like before!"
"Sod off Fred, I don't want your charity!"
"Come now.."
But it was too late. Swabia had run off into the night. Barbarossa let him go - he'd calm down and after all there was nothing to be done. The decision had been made.
Two armies would set off from Mardin the next morning to seize the fortress at Mosul and break the peace with the Seljuk Caliphate, and King Baldwin and Frederick Barbarossa would be at their heads.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:44.
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Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Yilmaz & Batudai)
Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Yilmaz & Batudai)
Ganja (October 19, 1183)
Yilmaz sat across from Batudai, the chunks of flesh and bone mashing between his teeth—some blood and oils dripping onto his obese frame. Across from him, the smaller Batudai remained more silent. Incased inside his armor, his fingers twitched on the armrests of his splintery throne. Between the gauntlets and chainmail, the flesh underneath shown brown and boiled in the tent’s candlelight.
Yilmaz stole a glance up at his friend, watching his fingers click and click next to his knee. Yilmaz smiled—a big, toothy grin wrapped in cooked flesh and meat—and nodded to Batudai. “How are the shakes, youngling?”
Yilmaz’s voice echoed inside the tent, traveling to the other end where Batudai sat. Batudai’s helm—the metal face of a frowning man—turned upwards to face his fellow Qara-Suu. “Fine,” he said, his words carrying much more hoarse and quieter between them.
Outside, a wind rocked the tent and Yilmaz let loose another smile. Turning again to the feast of flesh below him, he continued to banter, “So… what do you think of these lands, youngling?” A rip of flesh reverberated as Yilmaz stripped another bone. “They are quite beautiful, no? The Seljuks had something nice here… and the Georgians before them…”
“Grass and dirt,” Batudai replied, his words quiet and indifferent beneath the helm.
Yilmaz laughed. “Aw… come now,” he said, stopping his feast just long enough to extend his arms and grin. “You must… every once and awhile… taste the beauties of life, youngling. What does one gain,” he leaned forward, resting his chubby cheeks on his arms, “by ignoring beauty… sensation… pleasure?”
Batudai lifted his head again to face Yilmaz—the fingers at his knees twitching louder and louder on the splinters of his throne. “The more you have, the more you are scared of losing… before you know it.... fear controls you…”
“One should conquer his fear,” Yilmaz replied, turning away from the boy. “Ignorance does not bring bravery.”
“Bravery is not needed,” Batudai retorted, “if you do not know fear.”
“You mean to say, sadiq... that you do not fear, Batudai?” Yilmaz smiled from across the other end of the tent, wrapping his giant fingers across his lips.
Another wind rustled the tent’s exterior, and the masked boy shifted in his throne. “We all fear,” he replied, his words heavy and slow—calculating and cruel. Then Batudai tilted his head. “But I fear less than you, fat one.”
“HA! Perhaps so,” Yilmaz replied, turning away from the boy again and sinking his teeth deeper into the juicy slab of meat in his hands. “Perhaps so…”
Outside, another gust of wind rustled the tent. Some horses there snarled at the encroaching dusk. The whispers of the ghul outside also carried through the tent, along with the crunching of Yilmaz eating inside.
Batudai lifted his head and nodded, “How is the captain?”
“He tastes delicious,” Yilmaz replied, licking his lips and turning to face his comrade.”I can feel his power coursing through me.”
“Can you taste his fear?” Batudai asked, a genuine curiosity in the otherwise unreadable tone.
Yilmaz stopped chewing for a moment and lifted his head. In the shadow of the now almost completely dark sky, only a few candles illuminated the stitched animal hide of their tent. Yilmaz's cheeks retracted, like the curtains being pulled back, to reveal a dark and hungry smile underneath. "This man was ripe with fear," Yilmaz replied, "and that is why I can taste his beauty."
Last edited by Quirl; 03-07-2010 at 09:08.
The Traitor of Baghdad
After weeks of riding with him at the head of the Crusader host, Barbarossa was still none the wiser about Baldwin.
The King kept himself to himself and only infrequently had Barbarossa been summoned to his tent to discuss practical issues such as the proper upkeep of siege engines or the correct method for rationing water and supplies. Since they had occupied this city of Samara some days ago he had heard nothing from Baldwin and had spent his time among his troops, gambling, drinking and making merry with the local women in order to pass the time.
Now that he thought about it, perhaps it was for the best that he was not often in the King's presence, for the rumours of his affliction by leprosy persisted among the men and grew more lurid and fantastic by the day. Fred had no desire to depart this earth lying prone on a gurney - let the blades of the infidel cut him down first!
So it was with some surprise that he now hurried in the dead of night to the Royal tent having been aroused from his slumber by a messenger bearing the King's personal seal.
Stepping through the drapes and into the circle of torchlight he saw Baldwin in conversation with a hooded figure across a table of charts.
Barbarossa cleared his throat to announce his entry and the King turned and beckoned him join them.
'Barbarossa, come hither and meet our loyal friend - this is Monsieur Bland who has been our inside man at the Caliph's court.'
Bland stood to greet him and pulled back his hood, revealing a boyish face and long well-kempt dark hair. His blue eyes glittered in the torchlight.
'Frederick Barbarossa I presume?'
Fred offered his hand and was surprised at the softness of the stranger's grip. Bland's skin was smooth...like a woman's...with no callouses from the bearing of arms - he had clearly not seen battle in his few years.
'Indeed sir, that is how I am known...'
There followed an awkward moment as the two men regarded each other warily. Baldwin broke the silence.
'Fred, our young friend has brought us plans of the Baghdad defences. It appears there is a weak point in the city walls where our rock-throwing engines could be brought to bear. We could create a breach which would spare us the bloody job of taking the gates.'
Bland continued.
'Indeed. In addition my sources indicate that at any rate the city is ill-equipped for an extended siege. It has been only a year or so since the Seljuks took the city from the former Caliph of the Abbasid dynasty and they cannot depend on the populace for loyalty. It is likely that the garrison will prepare to meet your forces in battle outside the walls in an attempt to defeat you outright, so as not to test the mettle of the people who they fear will arise and overthrow them if they are made to feel the hardship of a siege.'
Baldwin nodded thoughtfully.
'Sir, you will be richly rewarded for this information. Fred, ready the men..at dawn we ride on Baghdad.'
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:43.
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Meanwhile, back at the ranch...
Freddie Swabia was bored bored bored.
He sat on the low stone wall hurling pomegranates at goats until the young goatherd finally dared to berate him and was pelted savagely with fruit for his troubles. The pomegranate salesman knew better and instead silently kept track of the missing fruit - he would present an invoice to the quartermasters at the Latin camp later.
Mardin was no place for a bright young thing to be stranded. There was nothing here but dust, more dust, goats, camel-salesmen and pomegranates.
Even Prince Guy had stuck around for only a day or so after Baldwin's and Barbarossa's departure before disappearing into the desert on some flimsy pretext ('securing the King's retreat by capturing desert settlements') leaving nary but a cloud of dust in his wake.
Now Swabia was in charge of the rapidly dwindling camp and bore the lofty title of 'Governor' of Mardin. So far his gubernatorial duties consisted mainly of procuring booze and women to keep the garrison happy whilst arbitrating in disputes between rival camel-salesmen.
He was royally fed up.
One goat came rather too close for safety. It looked a bit like Barbarossa - Swabia picked out a particularly large pomegranate and readied his arm.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:41.
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King of the Muslims
Baldwin pored over the brittle pages of the ancient illuminated Qu'ran set before him on the mosaic reading table in the Great Library of Baghdad.
Since the capture of the great capital of the Caliphate the young King had spent the majority of his time just here, taking in the accumulated knowledge of the Islamic world in an attempt to better understand his new subjects. At first he had been motivated by a simple desire to minimise the risk of a violent uprising by demonstrating a cultural sensitivity. After all, it was no secret how the people felt about being ruled by the Christian King of 'stolen' Jerusalem. The Crusaders were hardly thought of warmly by the Islamic world.
However, as he read more he began to find his interest piqued. His education by William of Tyre had imbued him with an inquiring mind, and he soon began to find himself asking uncomfortable questions about such weighty topics as the nature of God and the relative merits of Islam and his own faith.
Even putting such metaphysical quandaries aside, he began to develop an admiration for the simple and moral lives led by these humble yet proud folk. Their devotion to family and respect for one another seemed to display a nobility he had not reckoned on encountering. Perhaps Saladin was not the only Arab to display an innate understanding of chivalric values.
So here he was, deep in the Qu'ran, looking for answers and finding only more and more questions.
He sat up for a moment and re-engaged with his surroundings. A few meters away a group of Benedictine monks were engaged in a vociferous debate with a huddle of Imams, through translators evidently not skilled enough for the subtleties of the discussion.
Baldwin allowed himself to imagine a future in which he ruled over an Empire housing a multitude of faiths, living side by side in harmony, their differences only adding to the rich fabric of a varied and vibrant society where all the talents of men were recognised and encouraged, regardless of faith, colour or creed.
An Empire not unlike, in fact, the Ummayad Caliphate at its peak, if the Arab histories he had been reading yesterday were to be believed...
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:41.
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Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Nasreddîn Tasköprülüzâde: Lord of Terror)
Qara-Suu: Rogue's Gallery (Nasreddîn Tasköprülüzâde: Lord of Terror)
Baghdad (November 8, 1185)
The boy sat silently in his quarters for several minutes, licking his lips. There was a question on them.
In the other end of the room, Kamelya was bathing. Her robes were laid down beside her, crumpled up like a thick patch of dirt on the fine marble floor. She was running a sponge over her shoulders, clinching them so that the water inside would fall down her dry skin—then she would dip the sponge again in a nearby bucket, repeating the process.
The boy peaked inside, seeing the old woman sitting in the middle of the floor. He saw the fair white of the witch’s skin, cracks running down it like aged oak. He saw patches of freckles on her shoulders, areas scarred by the sun and aged by time. But the woman wasn’t ugly. Indeed, she had a strange allure about her even a boy as young as he could recognize. Not attraction; but something... else. So, the boy just continued to watch, waiting for his master to finish before he could ask his question.
But Kamelya asked first...
“Boy.”
Her voice surprised him. He had not known she was aware of him. He swallowed hard, unsure how she might react knowing he was spying on her.
Then the woman turned around to peak from behind her freckled shoulders—her blind eyes looking directly at the boy. “You stalk as if wanting to ask something…” Again, the boy swallowed. He was still unsure of how to react. “Well?” Kamelya continued, and the boy looked up at her. “What is it?”
“The people here…” the boy began, stopping for a moment to avoid appearing too eager in his questioning—looking down at the floor and struggling to find his words. “They speak of the ghūl and of their successes in the North. They speak of the Qara-Khağan and of his prowess in battle… and how of he is not human.” He swallowed. "I... I even hear they call him Terör Efendisi now—Lord of Terror. But..." He cleared his throat, shuffling his bare feet on the cold marble floor and, again, trying to find his words. Then he looked up at her, “but I know so very little about the Khağan… of Nasreddîn.... of where he came from... of who he is... anything.”
The old woman narrowed her eyes and at first the boy thought she was angry with him. But the witch made no sudden movements. She merely continued to hold the sponge on her shoulders—resting it there as it continued to drip a few more stands of water down her spine. Then the woman nodded. “What is it you’d like to know?”
“Where did he come from? Who is he? What is he?” The boy stood there ashamed for a few moments at his outburst of questions, embarrassed at his own curiosity. But as always, Kamelya stood perfectly still—perfectly unreadable.
The woman set the sponge on the floor and pulled her robes up over her shoulders. She tied it around her neck and then held her hand over her head. She waved for the boy to enter and he did—coming inside and standing just behind her… eager to hear of Nasreddîn from the the only person to have known him before he came to the steppes.
“I come from a land very far from here,” Kamelya began. “Very… very far from here… where very few have ventured and returned.” She sat on the floor facing the wall at the other end of the room. She didn’t bother to turn around to tell her story to the boy's face, but she knew that he was listening—she knew he was hanging on her every word. “I was exiled, you could say… and I have wondered the world for a very long time.” She smiled. “On one such wandering, I came across a desert.” She turned around just for a moment to smirk at the boy over her shoulder. “Not like the deserts here… no… sooo much more vast was this desert.” She turned back around and placed her fingers into her lap, focusing her blind eyes back onto the wall. “No trees… no rocks… no animals… nothing but sand and sky. And in the distance… mountains so large they held up the clouds.”
“In the Far East?” The boy asked.
“Yes,” Kamelya replied—a little surprised he had heard of such a desert. “I suppose some merchants here travel through it when wishing to avoid the lands of the Qara-Khitai.” She sighed. “But… regardless… that is the place Nasreddîn was born.”
“In the desert?” The boy asked, a confused look on his face. “How? Why did you go in if you were pregnant? Where were you going?”
“I was going nowhere,” the woman replied, turning around again for a moment to return the stare of the boy. “When you’ve lived as long as I have, you realize there is no place to go... one place is just as good as another here.” She turned around and began clicking her fingers together above her knees. “As for the birth… I was not pregnant when I went in.”
“Then how?” The boy asked.
Kamelya sighed and narrowed her eyes on the far wall. Though she was blind, the boy could tell she was staring at something—perhaps actually seeing whatever memory she was recalling now inside her mind. Finally, Kamelya shifted on the floor and began to roll her head, letting the old bones inside crack as she let out faint grown. “What a memory…” she began. “Hard to recall it all.” She stopped her squirming for a moment and let out a cryptic smile. Then she continued, “I can barely recall it all now… but one night I fell asleep in the desert—just lying there in the vast nothingness that place was. The sky was dark—black clouds hiding an orange dusk… or was it dawn? I can’t recall. But... regardless… I fell asleep there. And when I woke up... there was a man.”
The boy shifted. “A man?”
“A figure… rather—one I would suppose was a man. He was on top of me when I awoke—tearing off my robes and grunting wildly into my ear. I resisted… but I was no match.”
The boy stayed silent for several seconds. Unsure of what to say.
Kamelya continued. “I awoke the next morning... unsure of what had happened. My robes were torn and I bore the marks of his assault… but there was no one in sight… no foot prints—nothing left behind. Just... me... the desert.... and the sky.”
“What happened next?”
Kamelya smiled. “I reached the edge of that desert and stepped on the first blade of grass I had seen for months… ahead of me were the mountains… snowy peaks and green trees I forgotten the beauty of. And I set up camp at the base there… the desert at my back and the snow at my front.” Her smile dropped. “I had been vomiting… cramping… feeling weak. I thought leaving that desert would help, but…”
“You were…”
“Yes,” Kamelya replied, tapping her fingers on her knee and taking in a deep breath. “I was pregnant.”
“How'd you make it past the mountains in such a state?”
The woman smiled and began to stand up, turning around to face the boy—her blind eyes turning downwards to meet his. Then, suddenly, her smile dropped and her milky white eyes suddenly became very serious. Her voice grew hoarse and she replied, “Willpower.”
The boy nodded, inquiring nothing further—unsure of what to think of the story and the woman herself, now.
The grin on the woman's face resurfaced and she started towards him. She laid a hand on the boy's head and rustled the hair there. Then she began to walk away—exiting the room and leaving him behind her, the boy standing quietly at the doorway as she left.
But as she continued to walk away, he suddenly spun around on his heel behind her. He had one last question to ask—a question he wasn't sure he wanted the answer to, but one he had to know—he had to ask. "My Lady..."
Kamelya turned around slowly to face the boy—the white glow of her eyes catching on the dim candlelight in the next room—her wiry gray hair masking slightly the image of her face.
"What..." the boy swallowed, unsure of how to ask—unsure of what he wanted to know and unsure of the implications of knowing. "What... is he?"
In the candlelight of the next room, Kamelya smiled at him. She just stood there with that smirk, no evidence of an answer tracing her grin and no words coming to offer aid. She simply stood there... then turned around—heading off to her bed chambers and leaving the boy standing there at the doorway.
The boy stood there for what seemed several minutes. His eyes kept wandering to the lone candle on the other end of the room. He watched it fidget on the wick, moving back and forth attempting to put itself out. His eyes wandered then to the shadows it cast on the walls—the shadows that seemed, to a boy's imagination, like the monsters and demons he'd sometimes see in his nightmares. But he was awake now and the monsters seemed very real. In fact, overall, it seemed to him the lines between dreaming and awake were being blurred...
... and monsters were real.
Last edited by Quirl; 01-25-2012 at 19:52.
An Audience with the Pope
In the dead of night, deep in the dark recesses of an imposing fortress in the eternal city of Roma, a meeting is taking place between two men who between them control the destiny of Europe.
Who are these men?
Well, the first is surely recognisable by his distinctive garb: white robes are draped over his gaunt frame and hang from his wizened limbs like bed sheets from a tree branch. Atop his bony skull is a tall and pointed white hat and around his neck dangles an over-large gilded cross on a heavy gold-link chain.
He sits, hunched, tiny and ancient, dwarfed by the cushions of the immense throne, his frail old hands folded on his bony knees, and stares intently at the other man with gimlet eyes sunk deep into their sockets.
He is Pope Urban III.
Our second participant is imbued with less celebrity but is no less influential for it. He is garbed in fine thread, embroidered with a double-headed eagle which is the symbol of imperial Germany. He is down on one knee in seeming deference to the cadaverous and sinister old Pope, but something in the way he holds his head indicates that any respect he might feel for the pontiff is tempered by equal measures of suspicion, arrogance and self-regard. In fact, he is so much taller than the old Pope that despite his position of obesiance he is still able to meet him with a level gaze.
This man is Henry the Lion, Duke of Saxony, scion of the Welf dynasty.
The Lion gets up from his knee, sits down in a chair facing the Papal throne and the two man begin to speak.
They speak of Baldwin of Jerusalem and his request for assistance. He has made a pact with the Saracen, notes the Lion. This displeases us, whispers his Holiness.
The room is chill in the night air and puffs of steam are exhaled from the two mens’ lips.
They speak of Frederick Barbarossa, and his cousin Frederick of Swabia. They will join him there, breathes the Pope, I know that you fear and hate him but I will bless his crusade. He will be a hero. The Lion wants to roar at this. Why would you do so? Do you not wish for Baldwin to restrained? For Jerusalem to be returned to you? And what of me? What have I done but serve your interests? Why would you turn your back on me now?
Indeed, says the old man with a wry grin, I wish to rule Jerusalem and you wish to rule Germany, but such things are not achieved except by considerable cunning. We shall allow Barbarossa and his simple-minded cousin to gather great renown and influence, enough to challenge Baldwin for the crown of Jerusalem itself. And while he is away…
The Lion grins, I shall unite Germany and seize his throne.
And I will crown you Kaiser, the old man hisses.
The high-pitched scream of some slain night animal is heard through the leaded glass of the windows. It sounds for all the world like a child being throttled.
Listening at the doorway is another man, clad in the uniform of the Swiss Guard. At that moment he decides that on the morrow he will seek passage to the Levant to make contact with Baldwin and share with him this secret plot. Riches and renown will be his, far above what he ever could hope to achieve here.
This man is already known to us: his name is Orloomo Bland.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:40.
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Deep in the Mountains of Iran
The great grey mountain bear thundered through the sleeping camp site, enraged by the pin pricks of the first volley of javelins hurled at it in terror by the fleeing sentries. With great cuffs of its enormous paws it sent pots and pans, racks of weapons and equipment flying through the air. Pausing for a moment, it let out an almighty roar, head thrown back and paws clenched into angry fists at its side.
Barbarossa moved quickly in an encircling motion some yards away from the beast, which was now occupied with investigating a large cooking pot which rested in the embers of last night’s fire. He tried to flank it, keeping low and watching it for a sudden move while he searched around for a suitable weapon with which to take it down. It hadn't noticed him yet, it’s large head buried inside the great iron pot, snuffling around for leftovers.
The racket of the bear’s arrival had woken the rest of the camp and as Freddie found a clutch of hunting spears he was aware of company around him, a circle of emerging rivals for the skin of the great beast.
Hoping to steal a march on them he ducked around a tent and let out a sharp whistle to attract the bear’s attention. With a snarl his hairy adversary spun around, the cookpot forgotten, and fixed its baleful yellow gaze on the young German prince.
It stood some two feet higher than the prince and it’s muscles rippled as it roared once more before dropping to all fours and bounding once, twice, to clear the distance between them.
Barbarossa let fly with a hunting spear and time seemed to slow down to a crawl as it flew, true and straight at the big bear’s heart.
Then he felt a collossal blow to his face as the bear’s giant paw smacked him in the side of the head and onto the ground. The spear had lodged in the beast’s chest but had not penetrated deep enough to cause a fatal wound. Dazed, Freddie rolled over onto his front and scrabbled for one of the remaining spears as the great bear loomed over him.
His hand outstretched….the spear just out of reach…the shadow of the killer darkening his sight….Barbarossa knew he was about to die.
But what was this? The dawn rays again bathed his hand in sunlight and he grabbed the spear. Flipping over onto his back he saw the great bear struggling, an enormous arm wrapped around its neck, belonging to a large, black-bearded Persian riding its back, stabbing repeatedly into its neck with a long dagger held in the other hand. The bear let out an agonized roar which became a gurgle and a croak as it slumped to its knees.
A mob of the Persian’s comrades had arrived and gathered around the melee, jabbering excitedly to each other in their native tongue while their friend jumped down from the bear’s back and stepped away, cautiously circling the mortally wounded beast which writhed around on the ground in a mass of tangled tents, bedding and fodder.
To a great cheer from the crowd he skipped forward once more and plunged his dagger deep into the bear’s chest, into the wound left by Barbarossa’s spear, twisting the blade sharply to the right before dodging back again. The bear crumpled to the ground, chest heaving as the life left its great body.
Freddie gingerly got to his feet, stepped up to the man and offered his hand in gratitude. The bearded Persian had saved his life this day and he would not soon forget it.
Barbarossa would ensure that this man, named Hashim, was promoted to lead this party of scouts, who rode in advance of the main crusading army to find safe passage through the treacherous mountains of Iran. And when, as they soon must, they reached Shiraz for their final confrontation with the Seljuk Sultans, he would shower the man in riches and make him his chief attendant.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:39.
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A Twist in the Tale
Orloomo Bland found Baldwin, eventually, in a small masjid tucked away in the depths of the grand souq, a place that the young King had taken to using as a refuge for quiet reflection. It was an unremarkable, squat and unattractive building which would have gone entirely un-noticed except for the twenty-strong unit of Crusader Royal Guard who stood around the entrance, armed to the teeth and shifting uneasily in the afternoon heat as they accosted any passers-by foolish enough to pass by.
Of course Bland had no trouble gaining entrance. The Crusader Royal guardsmen knew Bland.
Everybody knew Bland.
Baldwin was sat in a corner of the prayer hall watching the imam lead the faithful in the afternoon prayer. Bland sat down beside him and said in a low voice.
You see, it is just as I predicted. The German prince has gone native and declared himself Sultan of Isfahan. I hear he has even appointed a Vizier, a Persian by the name of Hashim, who saved his life from a bear.
Baldwin snickered.
Yes, I hear they are calling him 'Bearbarossa'! Well, let him have his eastern Sultanate. He's well out of the way there and frankly I don't give two pfennigs for the bountiful wastelands of Iran. They are his to play with. You have done me a great service Bland, by tipping me off to that old bastard Urban's plan. How dare he and that trumped up German baronet try to play politics with me! By separating the two German princes we have neutralised their power. Let Swabia continue in the service of Prince Guy, and see how far that gets him.
Bland inclined his head respectfully, secretly brimming with pride as the King continued.
And what of...the other thing?
Bland cleared his throat.
It is begun your Majesty.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:46.
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Eyeless in Gaza
Raynald de Chatillon was a God-fearing man. He saw God in everything: in the rays of the dawn sun, in the flight of birds, in the zephirs that stirred the sands of the desert. He heard God in the call of the sea birds and in the crash of the waves upon the shore.
He even tasted God in the salty brine that misted his face as he stood here at the prow of his warship, heading a fleet which crested the waves off the Palestinian coast, ships packed to the gills with soldiers of Christ.
Only once in his life had his faith been tested - when his young sire Baldwin had made his pact with the accursed devil Saladin, and had given up the Holy City of Jerusalem to the infidel heathens of Egypt. He did not at first see God in that decision, although he looked hard for Him in the eyes of the young King.
His doubt had persisted these long years, as he sat idle at Acre minding the fort while the German prince and Baldwin conquered the Sultans and Caliphs of the east. A nagging, insistent voice which was pervasive at the time of prayer, at the time of communion. A wedge driven between Raynald and his Christ.
Until late one afternoon the hooded figure of Orloomo Bland had arrived at his door and they had spoken in hushed tones, and Raynald had heard his God once more, clear as a bell.
The truce was to be broken, the treaty dishonoured, the Holy City regained. But not by Raynald - John de Ibelin had that noble task. Raynald had been sorely disappointed, until he had heard the rest of the plan.
So here he was, leading his Crusading armies, like an avenging Samson, his sight restored, returning to Gaza to light the flame of war, to break the back of the Mamluk armies at their very base.
And he could not wait to show his God to the accursed heathens.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 05-14-2010 at 02:38.
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In the deserts of Baghdad...
Umarah read the pamphlet that had been being passed around throughout all the tribes in the land--calling for all willing mercenaries to join the Qara-Suu--calling for them to become ghul. His eyes scanned the paper thoughtfully, his hands stroking his beard and the nearby candlelight illuminating the thin oils on his face. Behind him, his captain Wadi sat picking his nails with a knife. Wadi wore a smile and hope on his lips. But Umarah was cautious. It was in his nature to assume the worst--this pamphlet was no different.
"Umarah, sadiq," Wadi finally spoke up, laying the knife aside and grinning. "What is the matter? This is a great opportunity for us. Finally we can pick ourselves up from the sands. Finally we can make something of ourselves. Finally we can bring our little band of warriors and raise them into something..." his smiled broadened. "Wealthy."
"Do not be so eager, Wadi," Umarah cautioned, not bothering to turn around--his eyes still on the pamphlet in his hands and the dim candle still dancing shadows on his face. "The ghul are not mere mercenaries to sign on with..."
"How so?" Wadi stood up, making his way slowly towards his commander. "Is it because they destroyed that pretender Caliph? The Caliphate died when the Seljuks invaded Baghdad. Now a Western King sits on the throne. The world is changing." He knelt over and placed his hands on the back of Umarah's chair. He spoke almost into his friend's ear, "We need to start thinking about the future."
"And just what is the future, Wadi?" Umarah asked.
"The ghul are the future." Wadi threw his hands off his commander's chair and started to walk away, seemingly disgusted. Suddenly, he turned around and began to pace around the dark tent, his eyes on Umarah and a passion growing in his voice. "Nothing makes sense anymore, Umarah. We can't rely on old traditions and faith anymore." He shook his head. "Our band is being pushed to the edge. How long do you think we can last? How long do you think we can go on like this? Soon we will starve. Soon we will have nothing! It is no different anywhere else." He took a heavy breath, his words hard and dark. "Truly... we are cursed."
"These ideas," Umarah said, narrowing his eyes and holding out his fingers. "This desperation... men will do terrible things in such fear... trust things they should not in such fear."
"Don't play high and mighty with me, Umarah!" Wadi shouted, cutting the air with his hand. "I'm being a realist! If we are to survive, we have to change with the times! If not this, then what else? The Caliph is gone. God has forsaken these lands! We can't turn down money just because the infidel offers it! Just because the infidel holds the coin purse!"
"Do not take me wrong, Wadi," Umarah said, turning around to look over his shoulder. "I am considering this offer... but I want to be cautious about it." He looked back at the pamphlet on his desk--to the wavy black seal at its bottom--to the runny letters written on its aged parchment.
"Be cautious then," Wadi replied. "Take your time. Arrive to the same conclusions I have." He turned around and began to leave the tent. He held up its exit and turned his head, looking at his friend sitting silent at his desk. He frowned. "You know I am right Umarah," then his frown softened. "Just think about it." And with that final word, Wadi left--the tent closing down behind him--Umarah was alone.
When Wadi had left, Umarah exhaled and closed his eyes. He let out a drawn out sigh and opened his eyes again. They narrowed down on the parchment in his hands. The candle lit up his face. He brought his right hand up to his beard and continued to stroke there, grabbing the black and gray strands of hair and running them through his calloused fingers. The times are changing, Umarah thought. Then he bit his lips. But are the ghul simply a symptom... or are they the harbingers of this change?
Umarah sat back and continued to read the pamplet. He would sit like that the rest of the night...
Last edited by Quirl; 06-02-2010 at 01:34.
The Third Siege of Baghdad
So the great city was under siege once more. The people, grown accustomed to such matters, went about their business barely disturbed by the news. Of course the merchants complained at the fall-off in their business but otherwise most seemed to assume the siege would end as the previous two had done - with an orderly transition to a new and mildly diverting set of rulers who would change the emblems on the flags which flew from the great palace but little else.
This complacency seemed rather unwarranted to those who had heard the stories from the north of the terrible ghul and their bloodthirsty destruction of the Seljuks.
Up on the battlements of the high walls of the city, the young king Baldwin and his vizier Orloomo Bland surveyed the besieging force.
Qui seme le vent, recolte la tempete! breathed Bland.
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The Battle of Asyat or The Last Stand of a Nation
Shahanshah kicked the Crusader banner and watched it fall into the mound of slaughtered Christians. They had come to his land, breaking the truce his brother Salahuddin, may he rest in peace, had signed. His brother had been a great conqueror, a liberator and unifier of thousands. But he had also been naive, and a dreamer. Peace with the heathens was never going to last, and it didn't. They came to these lands to fight. They were not going to settle for peace, honourable and prosperous as it might have been.
Their betrayal had come swiftly and harshly, and Salahuddins successor, Shahanshahs nephew Al-Aziz, had been slain together with the entire Royal Army, garrisoned at Gaza. The nation his brother had formed crumbled swiftly underneath heavy hooves and armoured feet. The Nile delta was swept away from Ayyubid hands, aswell as the holy city of Jerusalem and the rest of the faithful lands in the Levant. The new sultan Al Muizz was the grandson of the great Salahuddin, but except for being an extremely pious man he showed little of his ancestor's valiance. He hid away in his palace in the southern lands, and tasked Shanshah with the defence of a once great nation, now on the brink of utter destruction.
He had rallied whatever remained of the army, scattered around the provinces, and called to the people to rise against the foreign invaders. The royal family had swiftly gathered behind him, in the abscence of the sultan himself. The greed and vicousness of the Christians combined with their military superiority had turned the water of the Nile red, and the brave Egyptians into cowardly sheep. Despite seeing little hope himself, he had planned a trap for the advancing servants of Satan. A trap they walked right into at the village of Asyat. Sitting on a hill, with easy access to the rich waters of the Nile, it allowed a good defensive position and control of the lands between Al-Qahira and Al-Uqsor. Or so the proud and arrogant Joscelin de Cyprus must have thought when he fortified his army there.
Thinking of all that had passed made it hard for Shahanshah to decide whether to laugh or cry. His people had had little to smile at these last few years. Until this day. Until he had finally triumphed where so many others had failed. He had beaten back the invaders. He had stopped the scourge of greed and metal that had scoured his country, if only temporarily. He, Crown Prince Shahanshah, had lit a light in the darkness that clouded the future of the Ayyubids, descendants of the Great Sultan Salahuddin. It was but a faint and flickering flame, but he would make sure to fuel it. In the name of Allah and the Sultan, he would see to it that the Ayyubids would once more flourish, and that Egypt would once more be free of oppression.
The Great Seljuks, Winner of the "Broken Crescent: Commanders of the Faithful" hotseat
At a Crossroads
Deep in the desert, somewhere between Edessa and Damascus, a small force of armoured men collapsed exhausted in a wadi as the sun began to rise. They made camp and erected their linen tents to provide shade through the heat of the day. They would rest until nightfall before continuing their long trek.
As they settled down to doze under the cloth bivouacs, a bedouin rider arrived by camel bearing a message with the royal seal of King Baldwin. It was addressed to Prince Guy, who snatched it from him and began to read its contents.
Freddie Swabia watched from a distance as the Prince's eyes darted eagerly over the scroll. He took on a sardonic grin as he rolled it up and began to discuss its contents in a hushed tone with his group of close advisors.
Freddie was not part of this group. He had the feeling the Prince did not altogether trust him. Guy had been displeased with the general state of the encampment at Mardin when he had returned from his jaunt into the desert. Freddie, long since sick of minding the fort, had let an element of chaos and anarchy seep into the day to day running of the camp, and if there was one thing Guy did not seem to like it was feeling that he was not in control.
Freddie recalled the day that the Prince and his small army had returned from their mission into the desert. He had been sitting out in front of the garrison house at Mardin throwing dice with a group of the newly-arrived young noblemen from Europe when a cloud of dust and sand had announced the return of Guy.
In a flurry of activity the Prince and his men had commandeered the best lodgings, wine and supplies for themselves while driving the local traders, fortune tellers and camel dealers out of the camp and back into the village. In the centre of the camp they had erected a set of poles upon which they planted various heads that they had brought back from their excursion.
Later that night at a feast hastily arranged to celebrate his return Guy had bragged incessantly about his bravery in vanquishing the host of saracens installed in the castle at Anbar, and of the fierce fighting and resistance he had encountered in capturing the fort for the glory of God and the crusade.
Freddie had detected more than a note of exaggeration in the tale and indeed, on inspection the heads did not seem to be those of mighty warriors but appeared to be those of wizened, old and malnourished men. Secretly Freddie began to suspect that Guy had conquered nothing more than a group of old peasant farmers and that the castle at Anbar had been largely unoccupied.
In the weeks and months that followed, Guy reigned in terror over Mardin, implementing strict martial law and a cruel and unjust system of punishment for any perceived infraction, particularly by the local Muslims, many of whom were tortured or summarily executed for little more than stealing food or saying the wrong thing to one of the Prince's men.
So harsh and unremitting was the administration of the camp that the locals deserted the village entirely and soon it was barely populated by any other than the installed crusaders.
It was at this stage that the Prince, upon hearing the news of Raymond de Chatillon's attack on Egypt and John of Ibelin's recapture of the Holy City, decided to up sticks and move the camp en masse back to the Levant, where he intended to install himself as governor of Jerusalem in Baldwin's absence.
So here they were, somewhere in the desert, thirsty and tired, their numbers whittled down by the long and difficult march through the dry and unfamiliar lands.
Tired of waiting for the Prince to share the news with the rest of the men, Freddie shouted over to him.
Your highness, what news?
Guy scowled at Swabia before responding.
The accursed Qara-Suu dogs have betrayed our King and attacked the eastern lands, cutting off your Barbarossa from the King who remains under siege at Baghdad. The King tries to negotiate, but to no avail so far. It seems Baghdad may fall.
Swabia jumped to his feet.
Why, then we must be away at once! To his aid!
Guy sat down on his pile of cushions, poured himself a glass of wine and smiled a cruel smile.
No my young prince, we must not. What sense is there is our getting killed for nought? I am the heir let us not forget. It is my...responsibility to stay alive and...protect the kingdom. Besides, Baghdad is nothing to me - that was Baldwin's fantasy. Let Barbarossa retake it if he cares.
We go on, at nightfall - if I am to be crowned King it shall be at Jerusalem.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 06-08-2010 at 14:35.
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Re: At a Crossroads
On the banks of Ganges, under the majestous walls of Golden Temple of The Holy City of Varanasi a great pyre is prepared. On the pyre lies the body of Maharajah Vindhyavarman daubed in saffron. His heir the new Maharajah Devapala aproaches with a lit torch and sets the pyre on fire while devotees chant Vedic hymns to the clashing of cymbals and beating of drums reaching a crescendo. Then a deep silence follows interrupted only by the sounds of burning pyre and one by one the many wives of the deceased Maharajah walk into the flames to follow their beloved husband and master to the next life. The fire burned for hours untill the sunset then the ashes were scatered in the holy waters of the Gange.
Now the Rajputs have a new master, Maharajah Devapala. He stands on the top of The Great Tower of the Delhi Fortress and watches the endless plains of India with their many meandering rivers and the Himalya Mountains on the background. He meditates on his father's many heroic deeds and great achievements, to the Empire he founded and the many wars and battles him, Prince Devapala, as a child and young man, took part as an aprentice and right hand of his father. He then turns his eyes to the mountains where the Sun sets down dreaming to new oportunities and new worlds that expect him ...
Last edited by CiviC; 06-10-2010 at 16:45.
The Untimely Death of Baldwin IV
Baldwin IV, Crusader King of Jerusalem, Antioch, Edessa, Cairo and Baghdad stood on the small viewing platform, at the top of the tallest minaret and watched as the invading Ghul drew up an enormous battering ram and brought it to bear on the massive gates of the Grand Palace.
How had it come to this? Had he been so blind that he had ignored the threat of these mercenary horsemen? Why had he not anticipated that the Sultan of Egypt would set them against him in a final act of spite before going to his grave?
With a great crash and an explosion of wooden shards the gates flew open and the bloodthirsty mob burst through, slavering like wolves. In the maze of courtyards and passages below the denizens of the palace had erected barricades in self defence, pitifully small and easily breached by the veteran warriors of the Qara-Suu. The plaintive screams of their victims rose to his ears, distant and muffled as if from a dream long-remembered.
Why had he foolishly pushed his advance so far to the east instead of consolidating here at Baghdad? Why had he remained here, defenceless and arrogant, reading in the library like some cloistered monk?
Head in his hands, he thought bitterly of his great, lost dream - an empire of all the faiths, with he at its head like a modern-day Alexander. How idealistic and naieve that now seemed. Baghdad was falling and Guy (that odious worm!) would take his place at the head of the crusade, in his cruelty and avarice undoing all his good work at a stroke.
He hammered his fist against the stone ramparts until the flesh was torn and his knuckles bled. It did not hurt. It could not.
He stared at the pouring blood, distantly aware of the ring and clash of steel on steel as the Crusader Royal Guard battled valiantly and in vain to retain the inner fortress. They were too few and their foe too many and there was no chance of relief. Good men died, far from home and their passing went un-noticed.
Baldwin came to his senses at the clatter of mailed boots on the stairwell. He stood poised over the hatch, hefting his blade from hand to hand. Almost as an afterthought, he ripped off his facial coverings.
Let them see me, he thought, let them see what manner of King am I.
The hatch burst open and with a mighty two-handed blow Baldwin beheaded the first man to venture through. His twitching body, blood spurting from the neck, fell back on his comrades sending them tumbling on the stone stairs with a crash and an array of foreign curses.
Then they came through in a pair, blinking in the bright light. Across the circular stone platform they saw a demon, face a hideous mask, long hair whipping around in the wind, arms outstreched and coming straight for them.
With an exhultant scream Baldwin tackled both men, hitting them at full force and wrapping his arms around them in a deathly embrace. His momentum carried them up against the rampart and with a final surge of energy he propelled all three over the edge and into the void, laughing as he went.
Last edited by phonicsmonkey; 06-11-2010 at 05:28.
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Farewell Freddy...
They had attacked at dusk. They always attacked at dusk. Freddy Barbarossa looked up on the dark hills surrounding him. The mounts lied in front of the blood-soaked and setting sun, where the cavalry archers fired at them as they dashed in circles. Men wrapped in cloth and stitched leather masks let loose their arrows with surgical precision—too meticulous to be normal—too cold to be human. Below, the mercenaries—not true Ghul, but clumsy, fanatical Saracens hired from the deserts—attacked his men with axes, swords, spears, hammers, clubs, and anything else they could grab a hold of.
It was slowly becoming a massacre.
The Crusaders fought valiantly against the onslaught, but it was just too much. Soldier after soldier. Arrow after arrow. The sun had completely set now and Freddy thanked God he could not see the horror in the darkness. But he could he hear it. He could hear it all around him. Screaming. Squishing. Cursing. Laughing? What hell was this he stumbled into? What nightmare was this that he just couldn’t awake from?
He turned to his side and his commanders had all turned into Ghul. Their masks looked up at him—silver faces smiling with beady, black eyes. They looked like they were about to ask him a question.
He pulled away and fell off his horse. The ground came hard and fast. Dirt flew up from the fall, staining his blonde hair and fair skin. He held up his hands and there was blood all over them. He looked up, and the ghul around simply looked down at him—pitying smiles on their unreadable faces.
Off in the distance there was a woman singing.
More arrows flew by like locusts, hissing and spiraling around him. The ghul began to encroach and reach out their fingers. Freddy threw his hands over his eyes and screamed. Then he awoke…
***
Frederick’s eyes darted open, running back and forth—confirming they were out of hell. He looked to his right. Then to his left. He could see nothing but blackness and stone. Above him, he heard chains rattling. And in the darkness, he heard a woman singing.
“Who’s there?!” He shouted.
Suddenly, from inside the dark cell, he saw something stirring. It began to pick itself up off the floor—like a shadow come to life. But as it picked itself further up and came into the light, Freddy recognized who it was.
The woman wore a heavy brown cloak and had white, silky hair. Her eyes were milky and seemed to reflect what little light was left in the chamber--almost like they were glowing. She approached and held something in her hands. Freddy couldn’t quite make it out in the darkness, but his nose quickly told him what she carried.
“Would you like some food, sadiq?” the old woman asked, holding up the bowl of hot stew—the tender meat inside bobbing up and down as she held it in the air before him. She smiled. “You’ve been without any for so long… I thought you could use a proper meal.”
“Curses on you, lady of the Ghul!” Freddy yelled back, rocking forward on his chain and seeming to snarl at the woman in the shadows. “You have not broken me yet! And you will not tempt me with food now!”
“Oh, no master,” the woman said, continuing forward. “You misunderstand me… the time for torture is over.” She tilted her head sideways—smiling—cooing. “And that was Qarabey Kobyak, sadiq. I wish no information from you.”
“Then what is it you want, witch?” Freddy replied.
The woman smiled, dipping a spoon into the steaming bowl and holding it before Freddy’s nose. “To feed you, sadiq. Nothing more. Now… will you not accept the food this old woman has humbly prepared for you?”
Freddy remained quiet for a moment—stalwart. Then he looked both ways and ran his teeth together, slowly leaning forward and clasping his jaws together over the hot spoon.
“There we are,” Kamelya replied, dipping the spoon again into the bowl and holding out another bite. “You must recover your strength.” Freddy took another bite of the stew held in the woman’s hand. The old lady smiled and began to take another spoonful from the bowl. “I wanted to know if I could ask you some questions, sadiq.”
Freddy scowled, almost spitting some of the soup out of his mouth and glaring at the witch. “So this IS an interrogation!”
“No! No,” the woman replied. “This has nothing to do with the Qara-Suu. This is strictly between you,” she laid her finger on his chest, then slowly retracted it to her own. “And me.”
Freddy glared down at her, but the food was too good to resist. He had resisted the torture for days. He had told them nothing. He was fully prepared to die for his God, but death was coming all too slowly. He was starving and he wanted more. He knelt his head down and said nothing—staring down, instead, at the food and preparing for another bite.
“There we are,” she said, taking another spoonful out from the hot bowl and placing it gently into Freddy’s mouth. “And there is no reason I cannot feed you while we talk. No?” Freddy made no reply and simply continued to chew. “No,” she repeated. Then she continued. “I… heard of your unwillingness to bend to Kobyak’s torturers. You made him quite angry,” at this, the old woman seemed to laugh. She took another spoonful and fed it to Freddy. “He’s so unused to men sticking up to him. I personally admire the… tenacity. It’s what compelled me to come down here and talk to you myself.” Freddy continued to remain silent. Chewing in quiet, he didn’t even return her stare. Nonetheless, he could see the old witch smiling at him from below his own brows. “You crusaders are an interesting breed,” Kamelya continued. “Like the Muslim caliphates, your empire is steeped in religious conquest… and yours has been certainly more successful as of late. Yes?” She shrugged. “And I wondered if your own tenacity… that trait so admirable and which prevails even against a man like Kobyak… is in itself religious?”
Freddy looked up at her—a mix of fear, anger, and curiosity in his sweaty, beaten expression. Then he looked away, staring off into the shadows. He sighed, “I… don’t know.” Then he snarled, turning to her. “Not everything,” some shame added to his expression. “Not everything. And before you now, witch, and God in heaven… not everything I have done as a soldier for Christ has been in His name.” He sighed, looking away again. “I have not been all I could have been… and perhaps now,” he paused, biting his lips. “Perhaps now that tenacity is regret. I have lived a life of fortune seeking—trying to find myself through title and recognition. But now… in my final hours… what have those things afforded me?”
“Do not be so humble,” the woman said—not in an accusing voice, but a serious one nonetheless. “Your name will now be laughed at… cursed even. The one who failed to rescue Baghdad. The one whom God abandoned to the Pagans in the desert.” She smiled. “You abandon your title seeking because you no longer have a title to seek.”
“And how now,” Freddy countered, “do I wish my entire life had been so. I wish I had been a poorer man—not so blinded by money and titles—by birthright and honor. How now do I wish I had been perhaps a stable hand… brushing the horses and knowing meekness—not having the distractions of life fog my sight of heaven… as I so clearly see it now…”
“You must be joking,” the woman said. For the first time in their entire conversation, she seemed genuinely irritated. “In the black… in the darkness… you claim to see light? You hold on to that illusion? That is where your tenacity flows?” She held down the bowl and dropped her smile, looking up at him. “How hard I have worked on the Qara-Suu. How long it has taken me to create these ghul. And to see this… this… misunderstanding of all I am trying to do for the world is...” She sighed, closing her eyes and looking to the floor. “discouraging... what a disappointing experiment.”
“What,” Freddy began, glaring down at her, “exactly, are you trying to do for the world, old woman?”
Kamelya again sighed, keeping her blind stare to the floor. “Since the Qara-Suu have come… so many have begun to question. So many have begun to search.” She looked up to him, smirking. “We began that, sadiq. I began it. The world has seen what can be accomplished if we drop these antiquated ideas of nation, identity, and divinity… and seek only that which benefits ourselves.”
“What are you saying?” Freddy asked.
Kamelya smiled—a dark, cruel smile. “For how long have you labored, master Barbarossa? How long have you toiled for your God? You say you wish your title, power, and self-fulfillment had not blinded you so. But I ask you… even now without such things… where is God?”
Freddy said nothing, merely continuing to stare forwards. The old woman shook her head, cooing again. “Surely you have noticed, sadiq… that the God of the universe seems very hard to see. His presence is obvious… but why does he hide?” She lowered her head. “And why… if he is so loving… do we suffer so? No, lord Barbarossa, the facts are so much more horrifying. God… hates us.” Freddy leaned back and Kamelya walked away. She began to pace in the dark, the white glow of her eyes sticking out from her silhouette in the shadows. “We are his play things… his unaffectionate ragdolls. We are a form of entertainment to a superior being, sadiq! Like a child playing with ants. And yet we so submissively continue to endure his manipulations… his indifferences… his cruelties. And why? Why do we not try to be free?”
“What are you saying?” Freddy asked again, pulling a bit on the chains above his head. “That we should kill God?”
Kamelya turned to him. Even in the shadows, he could see the darkness on her face curl upwards into a smile. “Exactly.” She walked excitedly forwards, stepping just a few inches away from Freddy. “Have not the Qara-Suu come so close already? We have robbed these lands of their gods, sadiq. Do you not see it?! The mosques are empty. The churches are barren. Holy places have been defiled. Holy wars have been stopped in their tracks… and for seemingly no reason! ‘What is this new change? Why is God so powerless to stop it?’ the people will begin to wonder… and it is that wonderment—that questioning—that signals the first hammer stroke.” She smiled, brushing Freddy’s cheeks and leaning in closer, speaking into his ear. “I will reveal the weakness of God…" she smiled. "...and for once... we will be free…”
Freddy began to chuckle into Kamelya’s ear. The old woman pulled away and looked into his face. The man was smiling, keeping his mouth closed but looking as if he were almost unable to contain his laughter. Kamelya frowned and stood motionless. “What are you laughing at… dead man?”
“You,” Freddy replied, keeping his chin down. “Is it not obvious?”
Kamelya’s eyes narrowed, then she suddenly smiled. She brought up her hand and ran it through her hair. “Oh?” She said. “Do I have something in my hair?”
“No,” Freddy laughed, looking up at her. “But this whole time I looked at the Qara-Suu as something to fear. But now,” he shook his head, no longer laughing. “I almost pity you and what will come to you all…”
Kamelya stood in the shadows, her black silhouette standing quiet and motionless before Freddy. A wind passed in from the outside, blowing between them and rattling Freddy's chain. Somewhere on the outside as well, a crow could be heard.
The old woman knelt down, picking back up her bowl of soup. She got back up and began to sift her spoon through the stew. “Very well, sadiq… I can see you are too far gone to understand what I am trying to do for you.” Then, suddenly, from the bowl she pulled a dagger and thrust it into Freddy’s mouth. Barbarossa let out a brief gag and then there was crack as Kamelya quickly turned the dagger inside.
Freddy’s head lumped forward—lifeless and without any further word. Kamelya knelt over and placed her ears near his mouth, looking up at him. “What, master?” She asked. “No longer hungry?” She pulled the dagger out of his mouth and it snapped out violently. She put the blade back into the stew and began turn around. “Then farewell," she said, pulling open the cage door and stepping out into the shadowy hallway outside...
"Farewell Frederick Barbarossa…”
Last edited by Quirl; 06-20-2010 at 01:56.
Kolachee Landing
Kolachee Landing
As the Admiral stands on the deck of his flagship, the Harbinger (named after a ship of Omani myth), he scans the horizon, contemplating the coming battles. Although dark clouds filled the sky, the ocean was comparably calm and there was a strong easterly wind. ‘It seems Allah smiles on them this day.’ the Admiral thinks to himself.
Then on the horizon a dark shape appears, seeming to rise from the ocean itself. “Death shows himself!” yells an engineer, “Turn back now! We are not welcome in these waters.” The dark shape quickly assumes the form of a mighty black ship. The sailors just laugh as many of the Harbinger’s civilian crew panic at the sight of the black ship.
Admiral Walid allowed himself a quiet chuckle, for this ship was not the demon they feared, but one born of Omani hands. It was the Black Wraith; or at least her latest incarnation. The Black Wraith, one of the finest ships in the Admiralty, was the personal vessel of none other then Captain Amr. Walid marveled at the Wraith’s slender form as if glided smoothly over the water, like a shadow, quickly overtaking the Omani Fleet. As the Wraith draws near, they hoist an Omani flag, calming the Fleet’s panicking civilians. Walid searches the Wraith’s deck, but Amr is nowhere to be seen. ‘Probably in his cabin preparing letters for his Contacts’ the Admiral concludes, something he should be doing himself. As soon as they landed he was planning on sending letters to both of their new easterly neighbors, the Rajputs and Khwarezm; something he was yet to start. With a heavy mind the Admiral heads to his cabin to take a stab at the first true effort at foreign relations, since the rise of the Admiralty; he could only hope things would go smoothly.
From a hilltop overlooking the Indus delta, Admiral Walid watched as more troops disembarked from the Fleet to go and join the siege of the nearby city of Kolachee. Turning around he walks into his command tent. Amr, sitting at a table and surrounded by his usual pile of letters, talks to a shady looking character. As soon as the Admiral enters, the figure is dismisses and Captain Amr addresses Walid, “We have received word from the Rajputs, but the Khwarezm remain silent. The Rajputs seem eager to welcome us to these lands, and they are even eager to help us rid them of the Malikate’s influence.”
The Admiral ponders this news for a second, then responds “The silence of the Khwarezm troubles me. They have proved in the past to be quite aggressive when it comes to claiming lands they see as their own. It may prove prudent to form an alliance with the Rajputs; but that aside for now, what of the Malikate’s forces?
“I’m compiling that information now and shall have it to you shortly, but for now,” Amr suspiciously grins, “I have an offer you will be most interested in.” Amr indicates an Indian man sitting in the tent’s corner, “This mercinary commander wished to offer his serves-”
“Mercenaries!” Walid furiously interrupts, “We’re not here to support the Malikate’s left over scum, we’re here to free the people of Sindh.”
Amr patiently waites for the Admiral to settle down before continuing, “I think you’ll feel differently about these noble warriors. Have you ever heard of elephants?”
Last edited by Thanatos Eclipse; 06-12-2010 at 17:22.
For Rome! Got Rome!!For the Admiral!
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