THE SKY WENT BLACK,

[agogemod]

WHO? Everybody!
WHAT? Agoge's inaugural TDM.
WHEN? The Battle of Hattin, 1187.
ANYTHING ELSE? Violence, as always. Please warn in subject lines for anything beyond physical violence, and move to a personal journal if things go beyond PG-13.

FROM JERUSALEM WITH LOVE;

the horns of hattin, 1187: the holy land

read the jerusalem setting infopage

Your eyes open, and above you is the roof of a tent, a heavy woven material that blocks you from what must be an otherwise glaring heat that is beating down. Near you stands a man - you understand him, but you aren’t sure you are supposed to. Aware as you are that he is speaking Arabic, a trickle of words as he dabs water on your brow, that as you go to reply, you realise, you are speaking Arabic too. Urging you to sit up slowly, and now that you are awake -

“Good, slowly does it. You are meant to have heat stroke. Nothing sudden now. The Commander will explain it to you soon - in here it’s safe, no outsiders can come in. Check your BCE, it will tell you what has happened - ”

As he indicates to the small pack that seems to hold your belongings, he explains: you are in the encampment of Saladin, the greatest commander in all of Islam. He has been fighting the crusading invaders since the death of the Crusader King Baldwin VII. But one of the most important was about to start: you are here, at Hattin, though the enemy hasn’t arrived yet. Not that it means it’s time to rest: this is a war camp. There is much to do. Saladin runs a impressive army, and it wins by its discipline, no idle hands here, and for you, newly awakened to it, there is just as much to do. So enjoy the first few moments of reprieve, there won’t be much of it in the coming days.

MISSION OBJECTIVE

The forces of COST-- allied, today, with the armies of Saladin, though they will never know-- aim to win the day.

This is imperative, because Saladin's victory at Hattin makes his next victory possible: he intends to march on Jerusalem, long held by invading Crusaders, and take his city back. Historically, he wins a Hattin and at Jerusalem. But, the Regency supposes, if they could weaken Saladin in Hattin, perhaps even completely defeat him, he would not be so able to take the city.

Preserve the flow of history. Aid Saladin's army. Defeat the Crusader army at Hattin.

A MESSAGE FROM GROTHIA

>>@CMDR

@ALL I don't have time to explain right now, but the transporters have played havoc on the way in and we think that the - nevermind, the techdacts don't make any sense at the best of times. Your memory has been tampered with, one of the Regency's tricks, no doubt. Price for late intelligence, we didn't know until we made the transfer.

Short of it is, I put you all down as having a bout of heat stroke that knocked you out and that’s the story you need to stick to. Even if you don't want to trust me, you're going to have to follow my instructions if you want to live through the next week. We can do our reintroductions later.

Follow our instructions and we’ll all make it through this with minimal casualties.

Welcome back, soldiers. Good to have you with us again.

WIN THE DAY

MEDICAL

Help build up the army after the Siege of Tiberias.

After this battle, Saladin's forces turn toward Jerusalem, and eventually take it from Crusader control. It's imperative, then, that Saladin's forces are strong, healthy, and most importantly, alive. This is war: there are a larger number of soldiers who are wounded and require medical care to maintain the numbers. Saladin's forces are lucky: their medics are some of the best in the medieval world. But there is constant need for more hands on deck to assist. Whether that’s holding down a soldier to cut off his leg - or dress a wound. Maybe it’s just as simple as a soldier that wakes up from his fever wanting water, there is always something that needs doing.

STEALTH

Sabotage the water supply of the crusaders.

All armies march on their stomach, and in the desert, access to water means life or death. Saladin knows this, and the Crusaders are heading for the largest oasis between Jerusalem and Hattin to replenish their stores. Saladin has placed a line of defense at the oasis to stop the Crusaders. Some truly desperate Crusaders are risking death, attempting to break through the defenses in an attempt to get some water. Your orders are simple: no Crusader should be getting to that water.

STEALTH

You know what else armies need? Sleep. For those brave enough, its been encouraged to try and exhaust those Crusaders. Your orders are vague, leaving plenty of room for creativity: psychologically mess with them, mimic loud animals to wake them up, forcibly introduce these 12th century men to Cyndi Lauper at the top of your lungs. Whatever takes your fancy, just try not wake Saladin’s forces, they still need their beauty sleep. And most importantly: don't get caught.

COMBAT

The Crusaders are here: fight them. Crusaders will in heavy chain mail into battle, often with a padded gambeson underneath them. Aim your weapons for the chinks in the points that quickly immobilize: the throat, armpit, inner elbow, inner thigh, inner knee. You will always want to aim for the veins and joints. This isn't about clean, this is about hard and fast. Battles in the desert are made worse for every hour spent in the gruelly heat.

They fight with heavy sword and shield, and the metal they wear makes them more strongly defended, but also slower; they cannot mount their horses without some help, so if you manage to unhorse a Crusader, they must survive the remainder of the battle on foot. Often if you wounded a horse, it can kill the man riding it.

Medieval warhorses are huge animals that can do serious damage with a single kick; however, by Crusader tradition, many are stallions, which are famously willful difficult to control. Being thrown from one of these horses, especially in armor, is no small thing. This is where by contrast Saladin's army comes into its own. They ride a lighter horse more suited to this kind of warfare, and the cavalry works by spiking in quickly, reigning down an attack, then retreating. The Turks are famous for riding by, and shooting down arrows into foot soldiers before retreating out of range again.

Aside from the knights on their horses, keep an eye on hired mercenaries and others of all classes storming into battle. Watch out for crossbows: a single bolt can punch through thick metal, much less whatever you might be wearing. However, the shots take a great deal of time and strength to load, requiring the user to pull the bolt back while standing on the bow. The weapons are not stealthy, and striking an opponent while they load them is the surest route to victory. More traditional archers are far more difficult to defeat; though their arrows can't cut through metal, they can shoot from much farther away and draw another arrow ten times as fast. Other fighters charge in with cudgels, maces, spears, axes, polearms, and the fervent determination fanaticism brings. Do your fellow soldier on the battlefield a favor: try and take out an archer whenever you can. But for those fielding the arrows, don't stay put, they'll always try and take you out first.

The battle of Hattin is one of the most bloody in the history of the Crusades; famously, it is said that its outcome left the sky black for all the birds hungrily circling the carnage. Your job in this battle is twofold: fight to win, and survive.

COMBAT / STEALTH

Capture Guy D'Lusignan.

History dictates Guy D'Lusignan, current King of Frankish-ruled Jerusalem, is captured by Saracen forces, which later leads to Muslims recapturing Jersusalem from Frankish hands. Help the Saracen war parties ride out, make sure they aren't sabotaged, and attack King Guy's war party. Along with them, you'll find Reynard de Chatillion, another nobleman whose capture will herald a collapse of the Crusader forces. Medieval battle isn't like modern warfare, where soldiers fight on in spite of their leader's capture or death.

A medieval battle ends when one side gives up, or when a leader has been killed or captured. Capturing the heads of an army leads to the immediate death of the battle's morale and will to fight. To win the Battle of Hattin, it is imperative that Guy D'Lusignan and Raynard de Chatillion are captured, as they were in history.

read the jerusalem setting infopage

NAV. NETWORK LOGS OOC PLURK DISCORD

Comments

ADDITIONAL.

[agogemod]

[ a place holder ]

>> CMDR: DAWN ANNOUNCEMENTS

[byfist]

[ A little after dawn, the message is sent out: ]

@ALL:

1 ) Don't bother come looking for me in person, not after the mess on entry. All further communication will be coming through these means. I cannot risk our cover being blown.

2 ) For the millionth time: don't take out the BCE in public. If I have to kill one more well-meaning soldier that just ran away screaming to cover your lack of foresight it's you who will be burying them. Let's all do a little better this time around, shall we?

[ ooc: This is free for all characters to respond too. ]

midnighter | dc (rebirth) | ota.

[thingpuncher]

a. MAKE NEW FRIENDS.

[Midnighter's got some questions, like how the fuck he ended up here and how they managed to put more shit in his brain, how he apparently doesn't remember even more crap, and how he wants his stuff back. Really, they're more statements. It doesn't matter. The prospect of taking out his confused frustration on random strangers is appealing. Eventually, he takes the gear they're giving him and leaves the fucking tent. Of course he manages to find robes and a sash in all black. Wrapped around his head, the lower half of his face is almost entirely covered, and his eyes are difficult to see, shadowed in black fabric. It's not quite a leather cowl, but it'll do.]

[He's playing around with a large scimitar, balancing the sharp point on one calloused finger. He doesn't seem to have any difficulty making it stay pointing upward. There's only the tiniest bead of blood at his fingertip.]

Think this is neat, you should see my sword swallowing act.

b. COMBAT / STEALTH.

[He can be quiet if he wants to, but this entire situation is too ridiculous for him to abide by long on the side of common decency. These people are real. The fight computer registers all their reactions as genuine, unique, caught somewhere in that incredible spectrum of thought and feeling that make up normal people.]

[They're also all meideval assholes that Midnighter has precious little regard for. Silent as, uh, midnight, he stalks between the tents on the Crusader's side of camp, sword flashing in the moonlight. This is more snake-in-the-grass than mongoose-vs-cobra, but it's apparently for a good cause. Stress relief, of course.]

[He stalks out of one tent with blood on down his front, making his black robes shine in the pale light of the moon. He hears someone approach, and rushes forward, almost too fast to register to the human eye. He's not as fast as the Flash or Superman, no lie there, but he's still pretty fucking quick. He puts his sword to the throat of whoever was approaching.]

[His voice is deep and grim.] What's the password?

c. COMBAT.

[Midnighter does not, actually, know how to ride a horse, but it takes his fight computer about a hot minute to figure it out. Maybe, like, five minutes. A couple minutes. Whatever.]

[The short story is that he has a horse now. The long story involves a dead guy and a whole lot of blood, some of which is still staining the otherwise white destrier he's riding around on, screaming and charging it into knights. Amidst this bloody chaos, he sees someone lost in the crowd, perhaps fighting, perhaps fallen. He leans down from the saddle, and sweeps them onto the back of his horse (he's named it 'Shithead' because it smells like shit) with impressive strength.]

Destination? My rate is $4 a mile, FYI.

d. NETWORK.

[Eventually, he's gotta try this communicator thing out.]

>>@TRENTCOAT

@ALL a/s/l?

c.

[alsohawkeye]

[ Archers really aren't meant to be in the thick of it--that's kind of the point of a ranged weapon, after all: range. But the lines shifted suddenly, a charge breaking through, a flank sweeping around to meet them, and suddenly Kate went from a nice safe-ish distance with some time to choose her targets to right in the screaming, stinking, bloody center of things. She's picked up a sword off the ground, the long straight blade of a fallen Crusader, and is doing a pretty okay job fending off her immediate attackers, at least in the sense that she is still alive.

When she's suddenly swept up off the ground her first reaction is to lash out, and Midnighter will get a knee jammed into his ribs before she realizes he's very clearly not attacking her. And then even more surprising, that he must be out of place here, too. ]

Man, that surge pricing is a bitch. The high ground over there [ she points over his shoulder ] and step on it. I'll tip you twenty if you can get me there without dying.

bellamy blake, the 100.

[dominance]

a. MEDICAL

[ bellamy doesn't really know what he's doing. ]

[ his face remains stoic as he bandages the arm of a wounded soldier, almost bordering on grim. taking care of people in this way isn't his usual schtick. he's the guy who orders people around to give them a sense of direction, gathers his own cuts and bruises trying to protect his people, and is often tended to for being recklessly stupid. but given the orders he's got, he needs to follow them to ensure that he makes it through the next day. he needs to get back to o. ]

[ too bad he runs out of bandage when he's only just started covering this arm. ]

[ with a sigh, he looks over his shoulder to the nearest person. ] Hey. Can you get me a bandage?

b. COMBAT

[ he wishes he had his gun. making do with a spear, he does his best to mimic the movements the soldiers have taught him in the span of just a few minutes. keep his feet light, arms loose — this is the way of the grounder, he thinks. maybe this is the way he should learn to fight, instead of hiding behind the barrel of a gun. ]

[ speed, endurance, strength — bellamy doubts he has these, but he has to believe in them now. the technique required to move at the speed of light, to be agile despite his bulk build, isn't an overly strange new experience. he's just missing the usual people at his back. ]

[ he doesn't think. moving quick, he does what he's come to do best — infiltrate. when an archer's getting ready to shoot off an arrow at one of his people — or the team here, they're not his people yet — he pierces them with his spear. it's awkward and heavy, but bellamy makes do with it — unfortunately for him, with his back turned, he doesn't see another fighter's coming his way, armed with an axe. ]

c. NETWORK

UN: @BELL

@ALL: Roll call. Who the hell is still alive?

A.

[artifica]

[ Ava is a robot wearing human skin under her medic garb, yet even here she finds it difficult for her to pose as a him. The male medics keep a tight hold on the supplies, diligently guarding precious tools and balms from the clumsy hands of their female colleagues who surely would put them to waste.

As such, she obediently sits on the ground beside an injured woman in Kurdish wear, her own bearing eerily calm in contrast to her patient's labored breathing. Even the way she turns her head to him at his request is preternatural, too perfect for a living thing. She rises to her knees to grab a roll of bandage from beside a male medic, who shoots her a look, which she responds by directing his gaze to Bellamy. An unspoken exchange, a nod of understanding. The bandage she tears in two, then hands one half to him, the other for her patient. ]

Thank you. Without you, I wouldn't be able to.

Balder | Bayonetta 2

[maskedlumen]

Medical

[Heatstroke. A quiet scoff escapes the sage.

While the claim is an absurd lie at best, many of the soldiers here within this tent seems to believe it easily. Is it because of Balder's fair complexion and equally fair hair? Perhaps. The Muslims never quite seen a man like Balder before. He's an oddity here within the encampment, one of wonder and thankfully not of malice. He does well to conceal both his identity and the strange communicator upon his person. The last he needs is to be caught within this web of lies.

Balder doesn't have the option to remain idle as there's need for healers. The Lumen Sage quickly offers his aid to the doctors trying to hold a hollering patient down. He's gentle and firm at the same time, his grip is strong as he holds the wailing patient down. The coppery scent of blood reaches his nose once the doctors starts to undress the warrior's wounds. Balder has seen such gore before but even he flinches in sympathy once that nasty leg injury is revealed.]

Just two inches to the left and he would've been dead.

[Balder comments once he picks up a sanitary white cloth. He wordlessly volunteers himself to aid this man, a testament to the Lumen's boundless kindness.]

Be still, I'll ease the pain. [For someone dressed in such white lavish robes, Balder seems not to mind getting his hands dirty.]

Combat

[In a flurry of swords and a splatter of blood, Balder brutally cuts the charging crusader down off his steed. An inelegant growl escapes the sage as he stabs his golden glaive right through the heavy armor. Vigrid is known for this sages, especially the Lumen Sages who uphold the honor and integrity of the Holy Church. While he indeed a 'traitor' who've crossed into enemy lines considering his affiliation with the Catholic Church, Balder has taken it upon himself to defend the armies of Saladin against the Crusader threat.]

May Jubileus Grace You. [He whispers to the dying crusader before turning his sights towards his next foe. Balder flicks the blood off his glaive uncaringly as if merely fixing a strand of his hair. The brutality of war is known to him judging from his harden gaze. When another armor bound crusade charges forth upon horseback, Balder races toward him head on.]

[Some might think this white clad warrior is absolutely mad to be charging forth but Balder has a plan. He lifts his glaive high and prepares to throw it like a mock javelin at the incoming crusader. He lines the shot just right first before suddenly throwing his glaive with all his might. Like an arrow, the glaive pierces right through the Templar with blinding speed and is properly nailed to an adjacent stone rubble a few yards off.]

[Satisfied with his kill, Balder was about to summon the glaive back to him until suddenly two more crusaders arrive on horse back brandishing swords and axes. While he could easily avoid their strikes for a time, it certainly looks as if the Sage could use some help.]

Taako | The Adventure Zone

[twerkinprogress]

{ medical }
This is not an ideal situation, but it's better than expecting him to get out there and start spearing people like shish kabobs. All the messy, gross bits of battle are meant for people who don't use magic, but naturally they're in a place where he can't use it because people will freak out. So he's sticking to the medical area, pretending he's being of some use. A man is carried by on a litter, screaming and writhing in pain. Taako holds up his hands and stops the men carrying the patient before they can dump him there.

"Whoa, homey! Sorry, I'm uh, uh-- the physician's assistant. I don't handle amputations. You'll wanna get carried over to that guy. Yeah, I'm the papercuts and splinters guy. That's me. Hey, chill! I don't make the rules. You want me to lose my license?" The man keeps screaming and now Taako is frantically waving away those carrying him.

"Okay, I'm over this whole ear-splitting thing now. Bye!" Finally they move on and Taako breathes a sigh of relief. Honestly. Cutting off limbs? That's Magnus's area of expertise. But when a patient comes over with a minor cut, Taako points to a chair.

"Cool, I've got this. You want some tea? Apparently they drink tea here instead of popping pills."


{ network }
@ALL

How much longer is this battle supposed to last? You know, since it apparently already happened? Can we get a countdown clock or something? And has anybody heard where we're going to after this?

Hopefully somewhere with a spa.

[ ooc: No spoilers past Lunar Interlude V: Reunion Tour, please! I'm still catching up. ]

un: @kaldwin

[blacksparrow]

The soldiers seem to be confident. This side has ten thousand more men.

Emily Kaldwin | Dishonored

[blacksparrow]

a. CAMP

[ guess who's found a crossbow and is doing her best to acclimate herself to it. emily's wrapped everything up but her face and eyes, and pauses in the middle of pulling the string back to wipe sweat from her forehead with a wrapped hand. then, she braces, reloads, and shoots. another- brace, load, shoot.

she only has three bolts. it's a repetitive process. dust has worked its way onto her face, saturated in the wrinkles of her forehead, and she's unaccustomed to the unwieldy, flowing clothes. brace, reload, shoot, try not to get tangled in these loose pants.

third bolt in the target, and she really doesn't want to go get it.

she walks over, sets her shoulder to it, and wraps her hand around the bolt, trying to pull it free, when she notices someone walking by. ]

Can you help me hold this? [ she nods her head against the target, which seems inclined to roll off its stand despite her best efforts to keep it still. ]

b. STEALTH

[ she's a shadow in the night- sometimes more literally than others, granted- as she winds her way through the crusader camp, tight against the billowing walls of tents. she's fairly sure she's risen suspicions once or twice, but she was never there when the guards or soldiers came to investigate, or during the closest call, when a group of men walked out of the tent she's been observing for half an hour.

this is not an officially sanctioned trip; she's fairly sure she would have been actively discouraged should she have mentioned it to anyone, but emily hadn't, and it's not as if anyone will notice her gone, anyway. plus, she really, really wants some actual pants, and the ones she's seen the men on this side wearing are more to her taste and skillset than what she's been provided.

sure that no one's seen her, she effortlessly slips into the tent, sure it's empty. the flap falls into place behind her, she turns, rising out of her crouch, and-- ]

What are you doing here? [ she hisses, apparently beaten to the 'rifling through things and stealing everything not nailed down' punch. ]

c. NETWORK

UN: @KALDWIN
@ALL:

Does anyone know what's being smoked in the tent over by the well?

UN: @Sage

[maskedlumen]

If it is not frankincense, then I honestly do not know.

Frankincense has a deep Judo-Christian roots that's also shared with that of Islam. It allegedly helps invigorates ones spirit and acts as a remedy for forgetfulness.

In their native tongue, it is called "Lubaan".

soldier 76 | overwatch | come at me

[mylawn]

a. camp/introductions

[76 doesn’t take this well.

It’s unhelpful that the last thing he remembers is being in a desert, and the sudden change of location has him instantly assuming he’s been kidnapped or otherwise compromised. The things he’s told don’t exactly make sense to him, but what he does know is that his gear is gone, he’s not in his safe house, and Ana is most certainly nowhere to be found. The last realization has him throwing one good swing at the COST soldier, but it’s his own disorientation that prevents him from making good on physical violence. Beating answers out of people seems counterproductive when, seemingly, all the answers are already provided.

The problem is that they're fairly unbelievable, but 76 quickly figures it’s going to be a bad idea to kick up a fuss. The message from the so-called commander seems to imply they expected him, and though he isn’t sure how that can be possible, as soon as he steps outside the tent, he realizes he might have to play along

He gravitates to the weapons, first, trying to find something a little bit familiar, but coming up empty. Swords and spears, sure, fine. He thinks he can probably navigate his way around one, but the bows and crossbows as the only projectile weaponry seem to offend him personally. He didn’t fight his way through The Robot War and Two Subsequent Decades of Various Military Conflicts for this.]

This is it, huh.

[He doesn’t even bother to keep his lamenting to himself. Surely someone’s invented gunpowder by now??]

b. stealth

[All of this is a little hard to swallow (time travel of a sort isn’t unheard of, but it’s not like he ever expected to be victim of it), so he figures the most likely explanation is that he’s strapped to a chair in one of Talon’s creepy basement, wires plugged into his skull, trapped in some kind of bizarre simulation meant to…what? All of this is a little excessive even for a global terrorist organization, but he can’t set aside the possibility that this is it. He’s been captured and compromised. They know who he is, and all he can really do is hope that he finds a way out sooner rather than later.

Perhaps the deeper he goes, the more cracks he might discover. It’s worth a shot. That’s what has him accepting orders. Sometimes it’s easier to do that, instead of think.

In more recent years, he’s foregone stealth in favor of punching the answers out of people with little regard for subtlety, but he can still fall back on covert ops training if he has to, staking out the oasis perimeter. He’s not the best conversationalist, but he’s fairly vigilant and is quick to alert anyone with him (you) to suspicious movement in the dark.]

Three o'clock. [He even points helpfully.] Someone's out there.

c. combat

[He doesn’t have his gun, or his body armor, or his tactical visor, or his biotic emitters, which are all things easy enough to take for granted, especially in a situation like this. If there’s one thing 76 knows, however, it’s war—he’s been a soldier longer than he’s been anything else, and if he pushes the impossibility of the situation out of his mind, falling back on those instincts is almost automatic. So everything here is centuries behind what he’s used to. So what? There’s a mission to complete, a battle to win, and on the field is where he belongs. He can sort out his apparent kidnapping and/or lapse in memory later, once he survives this.

It doesn’t take long for him to realize they have an inherent advantage—the enemy has heavy armor, sure, but it makes them slower. Speed and efficiency will be the name of the game, and it does help that he actually knows how to ride a horse (thanks, literal farm upbringing). Though he isn’t an archer, he can certainly act as cavalry, as it seems prudent to stay on horseback and mobile, following the lead of the soldiers who are actually supposed to be here, striking quickly and then retreating again.

He isn’t so laser-focused, however, that he’s ignorant of anyone on foot who might be overwhelmed by the chaos.]

Need a lift?

[Should you choose to accept, you might find yourself dragged up on horseback with what seems like minimal effort from the man at the reigns (thanks, literal shady government soldier enhancement program).]

I'll ride, you shoot.

[Period accurate? Maybe not, but teamwork in a situation like this seems to be a good idea.]

d. network

[Getting chatty isn’t what he wants to be doing, but sooner or later, he’s going to want answers. 76 is a little skeptical about actually recieing said answers from shouting into the void of a mysterious messaging system, but with little else in the way of explanation, he figures it’s worth a shot.]

UN: 76

@ALL: Who the hell are you people?

c

[rappels]

[ It's strange, being in a situation like this, because it's both familiar and not. She's been on a battlefield before and even lead it, technically, which is an accomplishment that's still weird to think about. It's familiar for the situation, and despite looking fairly young, Aloy seems to have confidence in being here, but for the people she's fighting, it's strange. They're armored and dressed in ways that look completely foreign to her, since even the things she had found and read from the time that Elizabet lived in was nothing like this. She's at least grateful that it's familiar enough for her to know where to strike.

She has her bow and arrows, but as the battle starts to shift her way, she really wishes she also had her spear. She had been more than worried over that for a while, since without her spear, she couldn't control machines, but it became clear enough that it wasn't necessary. At least not here. But it did serve just as much of its original purpose, since when people or machines got in too close, she had a way to fight them still. She's starting to retreat in a sprint, since she needs more distance to fire effectively, but the man on the horse catches her attention. She runs a bit faster as soon as he offers, and it's not as much effort as it might need to be to get her up on that horse. She jumps on as deftly as she can manage, and she's quickly righting herself on the horse so that she can continue firing. ]

Uh, thanks— [ She says, slightly distracted, but she pulls her bow back taught, then fires a shot powerful enough to go into the throat of a pursuer that was coming too close. ]

There are so many warriors— Just how long are we supposed to keep fighting?

Daenerys Targaryen | Game of Thrones

[dorzalta]

A- STEALTH: SLEEP
Daenerys' memory's been tampered with? A likely story. If the voice in her mind speaks true, then her time in Westeros is false. A mere daydream. Twenty-four years of a lie. No, this place is the lie--with its strange clime reminiscent of Essos, filled with warriors who speak a tongue she's not yet heard, yet somehow understands.

The rush of battle still sings in her veins, familiar whereas the setting is not. The tickle of smoke and seared flesh continues to fill her nostrils, Lannister men screaming under Drogon's fury. Dany accepted the task of treading into enemy territory, not because she is competent in combat (battle is for her knights and armies), but because this allows for explorations under the moon's watchful eye.

What she does not expect is another. As she carefully steps outside of camp, blue eyes settle on her partner. There's a moment of silence, an opportunity to size her companion up. "You've experience with stealth?"


B- MEDICAL
Saladin, Jerusalem, the Siege of Tiberias... it all means little to Dany. This is a war between men not of her lands. A war she'd best remain uninvolved in; nevertheless, the people here prove a kindness, shielding her from the brutalities of battle under the guise of dehydration. Her days as a khaleesi provided some experience with cleaning wounds, but she is no witch.

Still, Dany can be found amongst the other healers, expression hard as she tends to the injuries she has enough understanding to address. "I require fresh wrappings, lest we leave this one to bleed out," she says to whoever might be passing by.

Or, you may be helping her as she presses a soldier down, in preparation for removal of his leg. There's a feveredness to the man's look, something which has her expression softening. "Would you care to hear of a legend, my lord, of mystical creatures long believed to be dead?


C- NETWORK
[ This, she would say, is by far the strangest. A mental connection which allows communication with the faceless. It must be witchcraft, no? But as she settles for a break, the yawning loneliness of a sea of unfamiliar faces threatening to drown her, tentatively, she'll dabble. Her initial hostility subsides in the face of exhaustion.

It takes a few attempts after a spell of studying other interactions, and then: ]

UN: STORMBORN

@ALL: Tell me of your worlds. What is it you fight for? What do you wish to return to?

C

[disorderdisgust]

I fight to wipe the plague of Heroes and Quirks off the face of my own wretched planet. All I wish to return to is a world that will be clean. Which, is not a world I am expecting to return to.

[It is a simple answer, really, one he admits almost casually. There weren't any people here who seemed to have quirks from his own observations. Although, they were still plenty unclean as individuals anyways. But he was here, he couldn't leave at this point, so he had to tolerate their dirtiness. And for now, he decided it was best to network the others in this shared situation with him, gather allies, and therefore, power. So maybe he could at least, in all of this chaos, carve out some clean pocket, free from the disgusting things of war and humanity that surrounded him, and just get this all over with with as little dirty on his back as possible.]

angela ziegler ( overwatch )

[heilt]

( medical )

( from one battlefield to the next. angela had been in a tent like this before arriving here, and though it was difficult to shake off the words of the man that had been attending to her when she'd arrived she couldn't let herself get distracted now.

she's attending to a patient, quietly reassuring them when the footsteps around her catch her attention. angela needs assistance, an extra hand so that she can stitch and bandage.

stepping away from her patient for a moment she turns to pick something up, grabbing your attention as she goes back to her patient )

Put your hand here.

( it's war. there's blood. lots of it )

( network )

un: @mercy
@all: How many people have experience in these situations, whether it is combat or medical? Perhaps I should enquire as to whether anyone knows anything of time travel. It seems appropriate, even if I don't expect anyone to answer affirmatively.

A.

[disorderdisgust]

[And it is because of the blood that Overhaul is utterly disgusted by it. Surrounded by people in their most disgusting, natural state. Not that he hadn't seen worse things. He had reduced humans to bleeding pairs of legs missing their entire upper half of their body, he had torn their forms to shreds and reassembled it, taking what he needed. He had seen blood and guts so many times and yet every single time they thoroughly disgusted him, through and through.

[As he is called over by Angela, he didn't know why he complies. He had too much pride to simply obey orders but also he is here and he has nothing better to do. He's playing Doctor because it is something his Quirk is well suited to, just as well suited to it as it is to ridding himself of disgusting people, and he might as well do something he is good at rather than something even more disgusting. He removed his glove from his right hand, placed his hand on the patient, activating his Quirk as he did so. He only needed minimal concentration to be able to reassemble the person, wounds perfectly healed, and he completely disassembled the blood on his hands to remove himself from being stained by it, and he slipped his glove back on.]

"I think you'll owe me a favor for this later."

connor kenway | assassin's creed

[lifescratch]

[ speaking of people who are particularly unhappy, connor ranks rather highly on that list.

a war wages in his mind, sandy dunes overwhelming the lush, green forest of america. mohawk and english gradually warp into arabic but not the arabic he is familiar with, not the creed's. it fuels some kind of rage in him, that he can't remember — can't remember his purpose in its entirety, all he can tell himself is home, home, i must fight for my home, the freedom of my peoples...

it's admittedly not the first time his mind has been tampered with — that doesn't make it any easier to stomach, really. if only the alien gods he knew and oh-so-loved made things like this a bit easier on him... ]

✰ STEALTH

[ connor is, however, an assassin at his core. nothing can change the 20 years worth of socialization that have ingrained stealth into his very being. it's a simple strategy: remain hidden, bring your hands around your mouth and elicit the loud cry of a mighty bird, wait for the victim to stroll on by and slit their throat before they can process what's just happened. afterwards, leave their body somewhere for another poor crusader to stumble upon and...ah, killing wasn't a part of the plan, was it?

oh well! too late for that now, because those bodies have begun to pile up. sorry if you uh, accidentally...stepped on one. connor registers the foreign presence immediately, and his expression hardly shifts. ]

There's nothing of note here.

[ yeah. nobody fucked up at all. ]

...What are you doing, exactly.

[ let's just...change the subject...master plan... ]

✰ COMBAT

[ bloodshed is what connor knows best, and it certainly shows. he is both agile and brutal, and wastes no time exploiting the crusaders' lack of the former trait. it may be a bit disconcerting, but hey, we're all out here killing!

the horses, though...they captivate him much more. he manages to grip a crusader by the foot, forcibly dragging him off before throwing him to the ground. in a matter of moments, connor has mounted the horse.

it's, um, a feisty horse. and practically tramples crusaders and comrades alike once it begins its trek. ]

Charge! And MOVE!

[ wait, actually. ]

...No. You: come with me!

✰ COMBAT / STEALTH / CAMP

[ connor finally...descends from his newfound horse in the midst of the camp. a great idea. a splendid one. he seems to be treating his own wounds for the most part, rather than actively seeking help. as he does, he may throw a few questions in your direction — as irritatingly tenacious as the man is, he acknowledges when he's at something of an impasse. ]

Their leader must be killed — it is the simplest means of ending this. Where is he being held?

stealth

[blacksparrow]

[ emily may have, in her day, created a few piles of bodies. but they were usually piles of still-breathing bodies, haphazardly heaped on top of one another. gingerly checking the sole of her boot for blood, she assesses the situation.

(honestly, it's kind of impressive.)

she looks from connor to the pile, exhales slowly, and bends to pick up the nearest and least-bloody one and drape it over her shoulder. ]

We need to hide these.

[ nothing attracts attention like a body, so what she was doing doesn't apply much anymore. ]

dolores abernathy / westworld

[internal]

1. initial arrival.

Perhaps it is time to accept the way her memory can displace her. The fact that there is nothing to connect where she was and where she now is seems irrelevant when she processed every memory as if she was experiencing it again. Has she been tampered with? Is this a new cycle? The questions occur to her, but she dresses herself anyway, binding her hair into a turban, wrapping the scarf over her face, letting the fabric of the vest drape in a way that conceals what little chest she has. She can't imagine she makes a very convincing young man, but if she wants to fight, that's what she'll have to be.

And Dolores wants to fight. Whether she has been reprogrammed to help, or simply agreed and forgot, it doesn't matter. The initial fear and confusion slide away at the promise, the knowledge, that she has work to do.

Still, when she terminator-strides out of the tent and immediately encounters more people, her expression shifts from determination into something more vulnerable, creased brow and soft slack mouth.

"Excuse me," she says, somehow a twang of that Westworld ranch-daughter accent still slanting her Arabic, enough that it translates. "I don't mean to bother you at all, but I was wondering if you could answer a few of my questions?"


2. combat.

Dolores loses her shield somewhere around the fifteenth soldier she hacks down, and even then she just adjusts her sword to two hands and presses forward through the blood and sand and sweat. She is an avenging angel. She is the personification of death, gore staining the fabrics of the trousers and turban they gave her. No man has any cause to question that she is anything but one of them, because even her movements are masculine now, nothing like how they imagine a woman to be.

A fierce cry and she leaps for the next clash, scimitar bright in her hand as she whirls to step in and strike. When she started these movements were new to her, but Dolores learns through observation quickly. The human man she is confronting shrieks like a stuck pig when her blade finds the gap in his armor and slides to vivisect like a knife into warm butter. She grins through the blood, all teeth, and turns to see who's next.

It's possible that at this point she isn't bothering to distinguish between friend and foe, so long as what she strikes down is human.


3. medical tent.

"If you cut us," Dolores murmurs, feeling out her wounds.

Most of the blood on her is not her own, and there's a part of her, a subprocess, revolted by it. It wants to bathe, even though that's illogical: the blood adds to her gender disguise and marks her for the warrior that she is. (Although right now, stripped down as she is, it's not much of a disguise.)

But right now she's emotionless, quiet, focused entirely on checking herself over for abrasions or injury that she didn't feel occur. She doesn't notice when the flap of the tent loosens and someonenelse enters.


4. choose your own adventure.

(( you know the drill.

as a note: actionbrackets are fine, handwaving dolores into a different combat role is fine, if you want to check something find me on plurk at fsociety. also, while i try not to give out direct spoilers in my tags a lot of dolores' current state and abilities are spoilers for westworld s1. ))

2.

[thingpuncher]

If Midnighter feels at home anywhere, it's on the battlefield. There's nothing unfamiliar, nothing in question, everything is safe and fluid and predictable. He stabs, he dodges, he lets the fight computer dictate his movements and improvises where he wants to add a particularly creative flourish. The fight computer never suggests he hack off someone's leg and beat the next guy with it. It just kind of happens.

Safe to say, when he meets a worthy warrior on the battlefield, he's covered in his own layer of filth and gore. It's not as obvious-- Midnighter has chosen black robes out of habit, and they soak up the redness of blood with ease. His face is covered in black as well, a small turban and a sash to hide the majority of his face. A cruel smile is visible, along with the glint of interested eyes, not much more.

The fight computer alerts him of a coming threat. Combatant approaching, it warns, with above-average strength and speed. He sees the fighter from the corner of his eye, and watches as they take down someone with brutal efficiency. The computer can't analyze whether the strength this person displays is within the normal bounds of human ability-- not enough data.

Well, only one way to find out.

Their sword crashes down on Midnighter's upturned scimitar. There's that grin again. "Care for a dance?"

They're wearing robes and a turban, he notes. This person is apparently on Midnighter's 'side', for whatever good that does. He takes note of it, but doesn't heed it much mind. He isn't here to win wars. He's in the thick of battle because that's where he belongs, and will stay here until it's over. Then he'll worry about getting the fuck out of here, but until then? He's for the fight.

rider (iskandar) | fate/zero

[hellenization]

1. Medical
There had been no surprise that Iskandar's large self was in demand to help hold a man down during the worst of proceedures. He did not question if the treatment being applied was the right or wrong course of action. He was no doctor, and these men were more advanced than doctors were in his own lifetime.

There was also no true strangeness to any of the scenes before him. Iskandar was familiar and comfortable in a war camp, and even if he spent little time in the medical tent himself (he was king, he was general, his treatment was private), he knew the flow.

Strange, what didn't change over centuries.

Eventually though, the need for him to be a strong arm died away, and instead Iskandar was called to help move boxes of supplies around. An easier task, although the length of the boxes meant he walked slowly and occassionally needed to call out a loud, "Excuse me!" to clear the way.

2. Combat
Iskandar, King of Conquerors, was in his element. A battle was a thing of glory, all shouts of men and cries of their commanders, te glorious sound of metal against metal as swords clashed. He himself was no strange to such fights, but he had also long become used to one particular advantage: a horse.

So when he saw a knight fall off of his stallion, the horse rearing and bucking, Iskandar waded through the thick of the fight to go over to try and claim the thing as his own. He was more effective this way, even if having amount invited further attacks.

He wasn't surprised that the poor thing was not having the best of times. But it also was not injured, which meant that the split second that it seemed not to be panicking, Iskandar mounted it instantly and grabbed onto the reins.

"There!" he said proudly, before taking his sword in hand and spurring the horse onward. Onward towards the crusades, onwards towards saving those on his side, onwards to the next fight.

He opened his mouth and let out a great cry, happy to herald his approach.

kate bishop | marvel 616

[alsohawkeye]

⤜⟶ stealth

[ Stealth may not be Kate's strongest skill--she's no superspy or assassin and when Hawkeyes need to remain discreet they usually manage it by keeping their distance--but she's one of the smaller, lighter members of COST's little band here, and less immediately identifiable as a threat if spotted. And so she finds herself tasked with infiltrating the enemy camp, like it or not. She'd hoped maybe hiding out on the edges and shooting some holes in their water barrels might do, but the arrows have either plinked off the taut hide wrapped around the casks or plugged the holes they made (duh)...

...so here she is. Crouched down alongside the pile of water butts, working the cork out of the largest one by one and pouring in the herbal decoction she was given for this purpose, and muttering under her breath as she does, ]

Somebody's poisoned the waterhole!

⤜⟶ combat

[ Archers are positioned behind the lines and at an elevation where the Saracen position makes that possible, sweeping down in a pincer from the Horns themselves to crush the Franks between. Kate is among them, a quiver on her hip and another brace of arrows stuck into the dirt in front of her, pulled in ones and twos with remarkable speed as she sights, shoots, draws, and sights again, picking out targets below with unerring accuracy. A knee here, elbow there, swordhand, shoulder, ankle. Non-lethal locations only, but debilitating all the same and what happens to her targets after she's done her work, well. That's a moral conundrum she'll grapple with later.

Or mostly unerring, anyway. She can account for the breeze, for the billowing dust, for the charge of a horse or lunge of a body, but the chaos of the battlefield makes perfect aim impossible, even for the best. Below, someone tumbles from the saddle, lands on someone else, shoving them into--blah blah, unexpected things happen. A body moves in front of another body. An arrow thuds home into the wrong colors.

Kate winces, lips pressed thin, furrow deep between her brows. ] Shit. Sorry, stranger dude.

⤜⟶ network

>>@HAWKEYE
>>@ALL
>> so does anybody else totally not remember signing up for this?
>> like i'm going with it for now because being anti-crusader seems like probably the right call regardless
>> but time travel is always a bad idea i can't imagine i would've volunteered for this crap

⤜⟶ wildcard

( hit me up with some other scenario! )

stealth

[hurtcomfort]

It's not a hole.

[ The voice seemingly comes out of nowhere. But if Kate turns to look around, she'll see a skinny, slightly sickly looking, pale and fair-haired young man, crouched on the ground as he examines her actions with a small frown. Two daggers hang by Cole's side as he watches Kate

Except...he wasn't there before. Was he?

Needless to say, Cole's looking over all of this with a slightly worried frown on his face, as if he's not entirely sure what to make about poisoning water. They need to stop the Crusaders. That was what was best for everybody, that was how he could help overall. But surely there had to be another way? Surely there would be something better than poison?

Those thoughts prey on Cole's mind as he just kind of stares at Kate, watching her as she works. ]

That's a barrel, [ he adds helpfully, not understanding the witty pop culture reference in the slightest. ]

D.Va | Overwatch

[ggs]

stealth

D.Va can't help but be a little miffed. Here she is practically dropped into the plot of a video game, and she can't select a female character if she wants to fight! So she's dressed as a male and has had to lower her high pitched voice among the historical troops here. The turban conceals her hair and the scarf her lack of facial hair, and it's honestly been kind of fun to cosplay and fool the men. But now it's time to get serious! There are troops stationed at the oasis, but it hasn't been stopping some Crusaders from trying to sneak through. The plan is simple: poison the water. Here D.Va is thinking an actual bottle of poison, but suddenly a cart full of dead goats is wheeled up and she makes a disgusted noise.

"Seriously?"

combat/stealth

This is it: the boss battle of the game... war... whatever. D.Va has managed to get herself assigned to the group that are going after the King's war party. Even though she really has no clue how to fight without a controller or keyboard and mouse, she's going to do this! D.Va does not lose. Armed with two long knives, she's ready to win!

Let's hope she doesn't accidentally slice into an ally.

"Bring it on!" she yells, before jumping into the fray, looking out for the two best dressed guys of the group, since they'll be the ones they need to capture.

network

@ALL

So is there like a scoreboard for this?

network; un: @76

[mylawn]

This isn't a video game.

[Or maybe it is. Who knows!!! Probably he's gone crazy.]

élise de la serre | assassin's creed

[boutefeu]

1. CAMP.

[ in a remote corner of the main encampment, Élise pauses in practicing her swordplay. Lowering her scimitar and shield, she tugs her slipping wrap back into place around her face for what seems like the hundredth time. Even though the sun has long slipped beneath the horizon, sweat still spreads in dark patches on her robes. Her breathing comes ragged, her arms ache with the weight of still-unfamiliar weaponry—yet she soon squares her shoulders and slips into a fighting stance again. Not one Mr. Weatherall taught her so many years ago, but one she gleaned from watching Saladin's soldiers spar with each other earlier in the day.

Recalling the way they fought, she imagines herself facing an unhorsed Crusader. Where does she place her feet? Where would she strike? As she spins and parries and cuts at empty air, she forces herself to keep her motions slow and sure. Speed will come later, and improper habits can kill on the battlefield as surely as ineptitude with a blade. Still, impatience burns in her. If only she had a small sword or even a rapier. But her usual style is ill-suited for a weapon designed for slashing like the scimitar favored by Saladin's army. Her necklace with the Templar cross dangling from it is already tucked deep within her clothing; she doesn't need any accusations that she's working for the enemy or foreign force. Or other unwelcome attention.

Intense as her concentration is on her movements and her phantom enemy, Élise still notices someone passing close and stopping. To watch? She keeps her eye on them as she moves through the imaginary fight. When several moments go by without them leaving, she exhales sharply and stops. ]

If you're not interested in becoming my sparring partner, I would suggest that you be on your way. [ mindful of her current guise as a male soldier, she pitches her voice low. ] There are plenty of other tasks to attend to elsewhere.

2. COMBAT/ STEALTH.

[ cut off the head, and the body will die. While later generations may never read about the war between the Assassins and Templars in the history books like she read about this one, the principle is the same in both. Her father hadn't been buried for a day before the vultures masquerading as his comrades descended, tearing the order apart from within. An army without a leader to guide and inspire will fall to pieces just as quickly.

The sooner the better, she thinks as she crouches in the shadows next to one of the Crusader's tents, attempting to eavesdrop on the conversation within. Any scrap of information about tomorrow's battle plans could help in locating the men to be captured. And then, after this affair is over, she'll have the opportunity to obtain some real answers about her circumstances than brusque communiqués over a device which is still a mystery to her.

That, and why she needs to be paired up with someone else to help her with reconnaissance. Élise doesn't mind having someone fighting at her side when blades and blood are flying. Stealthier undertakings are another matter. But her training and experiences have taught her the merits of swallowing her pride and holding her tongue. After all, it would be madness to do their enemy's work by arguing among themselves.

Still, some of her frustration with the situation seeps into her voice as she addresses her partner. ]

They're not saying anything of worth. We should move to another tent.

3. NETWORK

UN: @SERRE

@ALL: Does anyone know anything about 'the Regency' which was mentioned earlier?
Or know for certain that it is the one which has tampered with our memories?

3. un: @HAWKEYE

[alsohawkeye]

only what they've told us here
so nothing
i don't see any reason to trust that story until we know more but at least fighting to keep history the same seems like it's probably better than trying to change it

Lillian Page | Guild Wars 2 OC (blind ranger /o/)

[blindarrow]

SABOTAGE

[Deft hands finish tying off a rope, it's a visible trap. A visible trap that leads into a near invisible trap placed with her inate magic as a ranger. Stepping onto it will cover the enemies inside the controlled area in flames, severely burning them for the few seconds the trap is active.

Her head tilts to the side, listening to the approaching footsteps.]

I wouldn't come any closer were you. [Uncertain if they're Saladin's men or a traveller like herself, she casts her voice deeper.] Littered the whole pass here with traps, their only choice to avoid them is a path that will put them out of their way for a week. And that's a week without their water they probably can't survive without a few casualties.

[The white wolf at her side, seemingly docile, wags its tail slightly.]

Have we syphoned what we can out of it?

STEALTH

[Who needs to make animal sounds on their own when they have an animal to do it for them? Granted, she does a pretty good howl impression herself. So Woof (the wolf) is in a safer place than herself, a good fifty yards away, howling every so often and growling when a patrol gets close. But for a white wolf he stays pretty out of sight.

Lillian moves with a small team, her hands free for the moment, crouched and shifting behind a tent. Deep in her throat she'll start growling eeirely similar to her wolf, might startle those nearby her.

But her main goal is to snip some tent strings and cause some minor collapses, slip into unoccupied tents and puts rocks as well as noisy debris under sleeping mats. Perhaps you've encountered her slipping out from one of these tents? Or perhaps are yanking her back before she sneaks out and is spotted by the enemy? Hard to distinguish sounds sometimes in a crowded environment like this, especially when your eyesight is limited.]

WILDCARD

[You might also spot Lillian and Woof in the medical tent, out of disguise, helping tend to the wounded. If you've come to borrow something from her area be prepared to be talked to sternly for moving something out of her carefully set up area.

Or perhaps you're out on the field of battle, behind ally lines, getting ready to head out. She's got a longbow in hand and seems to know how to use it. Though she also seems to be waiting for Woof to make an approving noise before firing, head tilted to the side afterward to listen.

Or make up something else! I can be reached on this journal~ Send her a message on the network @bullseye]

siegfried || fate/ series

[gerechtigkeit]

[camp.

Honestly, things like this actually don't catch him off-guard as it does with other people. Being dead and being a Heroic Spirit often go hand in hand with crazy and unexpected. Siegfried knows better than to argue about being called a "soldier," at least for now. Better to go with it and understand what's going on.

So, if there's anything he's tried doing, it's kept mostly out of people's way. He's not the greatest at conversation, or the best at being sociable unless being asked for something. He stays towards a smaller group of people, watching everything around him. It could also be that he's 6'2", is trying to hide his white hair under his helmet, and the glowing sigil that runs up his neck and cheek.

Luckily enough, the man inside COST's tent was able to cover it up enough with the scarf supplied. And most of the time, Siegfried doesn't really allow people to get that close to him anyway. Or, he tries to.

Maybe you're carrying too much as you're walking. Maybe someone crashed into you and now Siegfried's a bystander. Whatever it is, he's stepping out and lending a hand in whatever way he can.]

Here. [A beat as he considers his words.] I can help.

[combat.

There's fights, and then there's fights. War is no different, no matter who or what you fight for. Siegfried knows this well enough. Be it an actual war or a war for the Holy Grail, this is where he thrives best.

So it comes as no surprise that he's out in the middle of the fray, and wielding a battle-axe against the enemy. The weapon doesn't feel as right as Balmung does, but it's easy enough to use and he can adjust rather quickly. Has to, in this case, as he's being surrounded by a group of men, and an incoming charging horse. His mind quickly thinks about how to approach this with as little damage to himself as possible.

A moment later, the horse and his rider goes down as Siegfried slams the blade into its legs, barely missing an incoming blade aimed directly for his neck. Another soldier tries to jump him, lance aimed to strike against his armor, and he manages to shove him off just in time.

Help really isn't unwelcome at this point.

network.]

UN: DRAGONSLAYER

@ALL Whoever is unnerving the horses by the armory tent, stop. They're bred for war, not entertainment. They're going to need as much rest as everyone else.

[hellenization]

[Iskandar is fighting with a borrowed sword, but it feels perfectly at home in his hands. It has been a long, long time since he has fought like this - the Grail has given him a chariot and his army after all - and it feels good to be in the thick of it. Familiar.

And just as familiar as the clash of blades and the joy of trading blows with an opponent is the distinct feeling that a comrade is in trouble. So it is when he turns to see Seigfried nearly overrun by men and a horse. Knowing that the thing with four legs is a greater problem to bear (he has been on both ends of such an attack), he ends his current engagement to lend an assist.

The rider is gone for, but Iskandar grabs the reins of the horse and tries to pull it around, urging it to trample one of the knights just to Siegfried's side who is making another attack. The motion is smooth and fluid, and accompanied with a loud, bellowing cry.]

Dive left if you don't want to be crushed!

joe pitt | already dead

[dickforhire]

DAY | Camp

A desert. It’s a desert.

Fuck if he’s going out there, straight to cancer of the everything. But when answers aren’t forthcoming and no one will take his bait, when he can’t sit and smoke because there’s nothing to smoke, when waiting gets too hard to do without ripping someone’s head off a little more literally — he finally covers himself head to toe in the palest fabric they’ve got and bolts hard for the next tent, hand pressed over his eyes with a prayer they won’t boil behind their lids.

It’s how he comes charging into yours, cursing, the heavy flaps wrenched shut behind him. The tiny exposed strips of his face bubble in an angry streak of red.


NIGHT | Enemy Camp

Dark falls and he’s gone: Slips past larger groups, passes over those still busy at dying.

(Too many others who might take issue with what he's here for — as if it’s any kinder to pick the field for a better pair of boots, for some sorry asshole to scavenge back into the fight.)

There’s enough blood and shit and sweat on the field to make navigating by scent more or less useless, but it’s still not difficult to pick his way toward enemy lines. The first guard to find him is young, the hair of his neck patchy before it’s rent open onto blood.

Distracted as Joe is, it’s easy to get close. Some knock of noise finally betrays you, and he looks up from the wound he’s been buried in, mouth working reflexive at the air. The lower half of his face is drenched in gore.

day

[dorzalta]

This is an insult to her. The clime is fine; even the sun is fine, though it threatens to turn paled skin red in too short a time, likely in recompense for carelessness. Daenerys is no stranger to breezy scraps of fabric, having lived in them for a good span of her life. No, what's insult is that the men here--in this army which is not hers--scorn women. That there is a requirement to be covered from head to toe.

"These armies would burn if Drogon were here," she snaps to no one in particular, struggling with the wrap which had been shoved into her arms. The emphasis placed on covering her silver hair was an additional insult. Commanding her, a queen!

She's half a mind to tear the fabric to shreds when the flap of her tent makes a slapping sound. Near instantly, Dany's spinning around, fisting the pale fabric, glaring at whoever thinks it wise to walk uninvited into a queen's tent.

"What is it?"

sandra the unseeing | pyre.

[beyonders]

medical.

[ For someone who can't see ( for someone with their eyes closed ), she works with a surprising amount of efficiency.

She seems to know what she's reaching for, at least — her closest shave is nearly picking up the scalpel by the blade, but since that hadn't happened yet, her record is still pristine. Her actions measured and precise, almost strangely so; it looks like she's had a lot of practice with basic first aid, if nothing else, which is what she's concerning herself with at the moment.

Sandra settles down beside an occupied cot, lays out her equipment on the side. Nods at the patient in greeting, sort of, she's not really paying attention to them just yet — at least until she pauses. Pointed, and if she could roll her eyes now it would be the perfect time. ] Stop staring. One does not need to see to know that you look like a bumbling idiot right now. [ Maybe you should have found someone nicer. Then, as her head tilts to the side: ] Now, show me your wound. [ Some... how... ]

stealth.

[ And while she should continue to stay in the medic tent, she doesn't. Not when there's still so much to see ( "see" ), and so much to do. So she sheds the medic robes, and dons new ones — darker fabrics, lightly armored. The owner will not miss them while they sleep; she's doing them a service, after all, sneaking into the enemy camp like this.

If she were younger ( and stodgier ), she'd have a meticulous plan, along with at least 3 back ups. But those days are long, long behind her, which is why she's loitering at the edges of the barracks, because surely the longer she sticks around the more likely it is something will come to her. ]

Now, if we were to set their tent on fire— that would solve most of our problems, would it not? [ She suggests, a smile playing at her lips ( voice low, lest anyone hear them, she's not completely reckless ). Head turned towards her nearest company, though her eyes remain shut. How she recognizes them is a mystery, but she does, regardless.

Either way, someone should stop her before she burns an entire camp down. Or encourage it, because technically, this is their job ( just a very flashy way of going about it). ]

wildcard.

( alternatively, comment here for a customized starter of your own!! bonus points if you pick a prompt, will also accept wildcards. )

medical.

[smartaleck]

[ Jack is offended enough by the suggestion that he looks a bumbling idiot — he looks a very debonair idiot, thank you very much — that he makes a sound somewhere between a scoff and incredulous laughter, then immediately groans when it hurts his wound. ]

Oh, of course. I, ever the bumbling idiot, will now proceed to flash my grisly wound in front of you, confident in your abilities despite the complete and utter lack of encouraging factors present before me.

[ He is not proceeding to do this. ]

This has been a well and lovely little talk — dare I say, eye-opening — but given my current state of being, which is one that involves a dire need to keep my blood inside of my body, I would very much appreciate if you were exchanged for a real medic, preferably one with the use of their sight. I assure you this is nothing personal — and believe me, if it were, I would have no qualms telling you so — but my belief in your abilities is little to nonexistent.

Morrigan | Dragon Age

[courtintrigue]

[ playing doctor (a) ]

Having just spent a year of her life crisscrossing Ferelden in a grand effort to amass an army that wanted to be amassed about as much as cats want to be herded, Morrigan is not pleased to be inserted into someone else's war.

Worse, a war in a time and place where she is expected to cover her face. She does not pass for man well, in her opinion, and she makes a minimal . While she has very reluctantly been convinced to cover her face for the sake of blending, she takes a contrary sort of pleasure in noting when her golden eyes unnerve someone.

One man, weak from blood loss, has a near instant dislike for her despite the measures she has taken to blend in with those around her. He points a trembling finger in her direction and refuses to let her be the one to dress his wounds. She all but shrugs, not at all unwilling to let someone else go to the trouble. Fools who would sooner die are always welcome to take their chances.

She pushes the bandages she holds into the hands of the nearest person. "You are welcome to him."


[ playing doctor (b) ]

An herbalist separated from potions and many of the plants to which she is most accustomed, her particular brand of medical expertise only goes so far here and now. Still, she is not afraid to get her hands dirty, does not flinch at the sight of blood, and has no problem being the one to deliver bad news or help hold someone down when a limb is to be removed.

At one point she finds herself delivering a drink of water to a man fighting off infection as he wakes from a fevered nightmare. With him she shows less prickliness. Only weeks ago she slept beside Aedan, waking with him when dreams of the Archdemon plagued him. She learned the hard way that not even her sleeping draughts can ease a Grey Warden's nights during a Blight.

She is careful as she helps the man drink, even dabbing the sweat from his forehead before she leaves him. Walking away, she nearly collides with a face familiar if only through moving in the same circles today. Her tone offers little

"Is there something you need?" Her tone does not promise an eagerness to help.


[ girls just wanna have fun ]

Though no stranger to battle, she is not yet convinced she wishes to risk life and limb for a cause she has not exactly chosen. Avoiding the chaos of direct combat for now, in the middle of the night she finds herself with a partner, attempting stealth. They are to make sure that the enemy gets no rest but she is not supposed to draw attention to herself? A waste of her talents.

Careful to get the pair in her line of sight without alerting anyone, she plants Horror in their minds with a single graceful gesture of her hands. Within moments both are in a panic, yelling and running around as though a dragon has swooped down upon the unsuspecting camp.

Dropping quickly back into a crouch, she watches with a slow half-smile of satisfaction.

"Not as cathartic as fire," she acknowledges in a low voice, "but it will do for the moment." Her eyes flick to her companion. "Only a temporary effect. Do you have another idea?"


(As always, happy to match brackets if that's your pref! For any potential canonmates I'm looking at a shortly post-Origins Morrigan, so early-to-mid twenties and romanced but no ritual and a dead Warden.)

b.

[smartaleck]

"I suppose a warm welcome is too much to ask for, then?"

Jack has stumbled in holding his left side; his clothing there is ripped right through and blood-soaked, a nasty gash beneath it courtesy of an enemy soldier's sword. In truth, he should have expected this. He has never been the best fighter — perhaps not even the 'okay-est' fighter, if he's being honest — and all of his victories have come from fighting dirty. It stands to reason that, eventually, he would come face-to-face with a man just as good at cheating as he is.

"You're clearly very busy. No, no, don't mind me. I'll just bleed out over there, if it doesn't inconvenience you too terribly." Of course, this is hardly what he staggered in for, but belaboring the point endlessly is a weakness of his. He just loves to hear himself talk and talk and talk.

"Or, if you'd be amenable — considering you've chosen to station yourself in the medic's tent, where one might happen to go looking for medical assistance — I certainly wouldn't turn away some bandages." He hobbles over to a cot and nearly falls over onto it, still holding his side. This wound is nothing he hasn't already experienced, but usually there's someone a bit more concerned with his welfare at his side. "Oh, and a stiff drink, if you've got one."

alphinaud leveilleur // final fantasy

[arcanistic]

[medical.

He isn't one who's unfamiliar with war. If anything, Alphinaud has been thrown into wars more than he wants to admit. It does seem par for the course, considering he travels with his friends these days. Vheras carries adventure wherever she goes, and being the Warrior of Light makes avoiding the realm's problems impossible these days. Not that he would shy from them, if given the chance.

What Alphinaud is unfamiliar with is the brutality of battle with no magic; no healing spells to mend the wounded, no calming antidotes or potions to ease pain or settle illness. The cries of agony are heartbreaking, and knowing that he has to blend in rather than stand out hurts him even more. Standing here in the tent and watching other medics help the suffering causes his feet to feel like lead weights, the scarf around his face feels like it's trying to suffocate him. He is no babe when it comes to how truly horrific war is, but he wasn't prepared for this.

Please come help the disguised teenage elf boy find his senses again, before some medic ends up yelling at him and making this even worse.]

[network.]

UN: @arcanist

@ALL While we're all from different places, how many of you are familiar with magic? Or anything similar, be it in another form or term you're familiar with?

medical

[dorzalta]

[ Daenerys is not one for unnecessary touches. This speaks of a familiarity shared between those she is closest with; nevertheless, she recognizes the look of prey, however temporary or untrue the descriptor may be. Fear and surprise can take any unaware, particularly those unaccustomed to the harsher aspects of war.

She's witnessed the slaughtering of villagers under the khalasar's hand. She's caused the shrieks of pain and agony as fire cleansed her enemy's lines. Even now, the echoes of Lannister men offers her a comfort likely not provided to her fallen allies. ]

Come, [ she murmurs softly, her hand gently curling around the boy's elbow. Already healers are ducking around him, casting the two dark looks. Provided he stirs into motion, she'll guide them off to the side, where the frenzied footfalls of healers at work do not reach. ] Are you well?

Chloe Frazer | Uncharted: Lost Legacy | (disguised soldier)

[totallytrustworthy]

I: STEALTH ATTACK

Hang onto this for a minute, will you? [Slipping in from behind, there's a weighted hand dropped across your shoulder. A quick, passing glance before a section of corded rope is dropped off into your lap without any further explanation, the armored footsoldier responsible for it slipping past to hunker down at the cliffside ahead: he seems to be scoping out a nest of sleeping crusaders in the valley below, tired from marching for days on end, no doubt.

Whatever you're now currently holding (one look over your shoulder would reveal the rope is tied off to a cluster of...oh, horses. Snorting, weary horses.) might be related to that attentive scan he's conducting only a few steps ahead.

Still, charming as he might think he is, that doesn't mean you're his errand boy (or girl, or anything else).

You know, unless you want to be.]

II: A THIEF AMONGST YOU

Memory loss my ass.

[He's clearly stealing, this veiled soldier. Picking through unattended tents in a bid at pulling something worthwhile from this mess he's found himself in. Being walked in on— his gloved hands around the neck of a silver pitcher— clearly doesn't seem to faze him.] Until this place figures out wireless HD streaming or the miracle of iced coffee, I'm not anyone's soldier.

So. [He turns to face his newfound company (i.e. you), lifting his haul just a little higher as his opposite hand slides down towards the sword at his hip.] You in?

III: WILDCARD

[Feel like doing a little down and dirty fighting? Some on the fly espionage or wound-dressing? Feel free to make up anything you want and I'll run with it!

One small ooc note: I'm still updating icons to reflect Lost Legacy's canon point— it won't take me too long, hopefully, but until then just pretend 90% of my icons are a little older, a little wiser...and a little snarkier.]

II

[pointedlook]

[ Curiously, there's been a man poking in and out of tents for the past half hour. Arthur's hyped up on too much adrenaline to do anything useful at the moment, so he's been watching. The dusky skyline makes it easy to miss the person, who is clearly going for stealth and remaining unnoticed.

But, he didn't earn the title of best point man in the business by being an unaware slouch.

Smoothly, he stands up from his blanket perch on the sand, allowing another soldier to take a seat by the fire. He ducks into the most recent tent the supposed thief has gone into, unsurprised to find them holding a finely crafted silver pitcher in both hands. ]

Historically, electronic communication won't be invented until the late 1700s, early 1800s. Those aren't bad priorities, though. [ Maybe he would've placed iced coffee a little further down. Indoor plumbing would be excellent. ]

Depends. What am I "in" for?

arthur // inception

[pointedlook]

m e d i c a l

[ He's no licensed doctor, certainly, but he knows enough to skate by. And in this timeline, that's a great deal. When he isn't out attempting to better himself with archery, he's found in the medical area, refilling bowls with clean water, changing bandages, keeping injured limbs straight and raised. The duties are endless, even with the amount of help they have.

Whoever happens to be passing through will get a roll of gauze shoved into their hands. ]

Hold that for a moment. [ Arthur doesn't even wait for acknowledgement, setting to work unfurling the rest in order to wrap a patient's arm. ]


s t e a l t h
[ Maybe it would've been less risky to take the stealth operation that's keeping the Crusaders away from the water, but here he is. Doing risky. Somewhere in his mind, he curses Dominic Cobb for ruining his sense of safe. He nestles into the sand of the dune a little more, propped up on his elbows as he peers down at the Crusader encampment. Binoculars would be killer to have right now.

Even without, though, he's seeing a few ways to cause a stir amongst the sleeping soldiers. Turning to his nearby companion(s), he keeps his voice down as he addresses them. ]

I've got a few ideas. You?


n e t w o r k
>>@point
>> @ALL

I feel as though someone wished to meet Saladin in a Buzzfeed quiz about "which historical figure would you like to talk to".

arthurrr <3 stealth!

[dorzalta]

[ This task goes beyond her area of expertise. No dragons, no armies, no experience in the throes of battle--Dany is at a distinct disadvantage, to put it lightly. Still, she accepts the task and her partner without complaint, a queen hunched close to the ground, pale hair pulled back tightly in its plaits. Her braid boasts of the ferocity of a Dothraki who has yet to face defeat in battle, though she may not wield an arakh.

Her companion breaks the silence, and she tears her gaze away from the camp below them long enough to spare him a look. His build's akin to that of her knights and Unsullied, not the khalasar. Intelligence sparks in his eyes. ]

My strength lies in flames. [ Were Drogon here, this would be an easy task. She points to the scattered fires throughout the encampment. ] It would require swift feet and a quick hand. A diversion to draw their focus from the fires.

Speak your ideas.

Zaratras | The Seven Deadly Sins | OTA

[whiteknightling]

Medical:

[As a druid, it was important that he extended his aid to anyone in need--especially those he was immediately allied with. Zaratras, by nature, couldn't abandon anyone even if it tempted the risk of being discovered as a magic user. Attempting to at least remain somewhat incognito, Zaratras was forced to pull his hair back into a ponytail and slip on a mask to cover his mouth.

So, he went from soldier to soldier, checking and assessing their bandages under the claim that he was experienced with some forms of medicine. From person to person, he used druidic magic to purge infections and purify water for them to drink. On occasion--he used a bit of healing to ensure a leg wouldn't need to be amputated or even prevent permanent nerve damage. He hadn't usually been among the druids responsible for healing in Liones before, so he felt out of practice--sweating quite a bit by the end of it despite his usual affinity for stamina.

Eventually, he came to sit down outside of one of the tents, huffing and puffing while trying to squeeze water out of a skin over his mouth.]

Sir Meliodas certainly wasn't joking. This place is hot. [His tongue hung out a moment--something he regretted. It dried out the moment it left his mouth. He whined to himself, just before forcing himself to stand and face the person closest to him. He was startled.]

--I'm not slacking!

-

Combat:

[Fighting on uneven ground was nothing new to Zaratras, but he nearly regretted wearing his armor by the mid-point of the first charge. It was heating up quite a bit in the sun, already. Though he had been safe in the confines of his armor for the most part, he worried that safety would change when he became a makeshift oven. After a few exchanges with the infantry up front, Zaratras allowed a sword swing to come dangerously close enough that he could use it to take his helmet off. His helm rolled to the ground just before he smiled and offered a word of thanks to his attacker. Zaratras cut him down in an instant, stepping past him before taking note of where his helm fell for later reference. After that, things seemed to clear up just a little.

He wasn't the best swordsman in the country but he was skilled enough to make roughly trained infantry look meager in comparison. With properly timed blows, he disarmed opponents and dealt them minor injuries--enough to scare them into retreating or at least looking for cover from allies. After he established himself as a target, Zaratras ended up leaning away from a sound akin to the buzz of a hornet. Arrows. They came fairly close to hitting his center of mass--something he really didn't want to have riddled with holes. Cover wasn't particularly abundant, so he charged directly, dismounting a man on the back of a warhorse by jamming his sword between the mechanism of his crossbow and yanking him down. At that point, Zaratras was surrounded--using the unfortunate horse that had been rushing him as cover.]

--Well, I guess this is what I get for standing out too much, I suppose.

[Of all things, he didn't look very distressed even as death seemed to be closing in on him.]

-

Network:
>@liones

The fermented fish is really, really good. Does anyone not want theirs?

Combat

[hellenization]

[It was easy enough to determine who else had been suddenly dragged into a strange and exciting battlefield. The arms stood out, or else the look on their faces, or some other small slight that suggested that this place was not where they expected to be. Iskandar knew he looked much the same in the eyes of others, and he wore that fact as proudly as he did with any other aspect of himself.

His eyes caught the movement of the poor horse being used for cover first. The movement was not natural, and when his eyes caught the sight of a person behind said horse, there was no time to waste.

A shield was attached to an arm of a deadman. Two dead men with two shields. Even better. Iskandar sheathed his sword in order to grab both shields, and he made his way to Zaratras with all due haste.]

Let go of the horse!

malia tate | teen wolf (post-6a)

[wildkingdom]

S T E A L T H

[You know a really easy way to sabotage someone's food and supplies?

Have animals get into it.

Malia isn't sure if coyotes were a thing at this point in time and she probably confuses the shit out of whatever teammates are with her when she starts stripping out of her armor not far from where they're going to enter the camp, but after stashing it safely somewhere out of sight, she quickly sprouts fur and a tail before sneaking back towards the camp again.

She can smell the food as they're getting closer, storing it all in one place. She doesn't smell anything that would really draw a coyote in, but coyotes are opportunistic by nature. She finds one of the tents, quietly noses her way through the tent flap, and goes to town.

A jug of water spills down around them, and bags of grain are torn open by claws and this food is probably not going to be very good for eating when the time comes.]

M E D I C A L

[Malia is not a medic.

She's useless in a medical tent, covered in more layers of fabric than she could ever want to wear, playing the part of the women of the army. It sucks, and she hates it. She especially hates that she's been relegated to the area of the tents where the worst off people are. Probably because she's useless and being used as more muscle than anything else to whoever may need it.

She gets to hold down someone who's particularly bad off, and she can feel the pain radiating off them in waves. She pauses, focusing like Scott taught her too, and black lines begin to run up her arms and the patient starts to relax, feeling the tension release now that the pain is gone.]

It's okay. It'll be okay.

[She's lying, but maybe she can do it convincingly enough.]

W I L D C A R D

[Hit me with anything you like! Or feel free to PM with any questions.]

stealth.

[thingpuncher]

[You know a really good way to sabotage someone's army?]

[Kill them.]

[Sure, the mission outline said some crap about keeping them awake and making weird noises and fucking with their food. That's the sort of tactical thinking that Midnighter is more than capable of, rest assured, but he's not really interested tonight. This fight isn't his. This isn't a cause he cares about, however noble or important. He's here to get his, entertain himself before he gets the fuck out of dodge.]

[He doesn't really care who sees him. Stealth is another thing he's definitely capable of, swaddled in black robes as he is, cloth and turban obscuring the majority of his face. But rather than sneak on by between the tents, Midnighter saunters through the darkness, whistling faintly and covered in a liberal splatter of blood.]

[He hears a crash, and instantly is on alert. But it's just a spilled jug of water, and... is that a dog? It's some kind of dog thing, who knows. Midnighter is a city person, and his interest has never been in the animal kingdom. He comes up behind the dog thing and looks over the trash supplies. It's convenient, huh?]

[Still not convenient enough to be suspicious. But convenient all the same. He smiles down at the dog thing.] Huh. Guess you snuck past the guards, huh, little guy? Should'a come later, you wouldn't've had to.

[Because, uh, that's their blood.]