agogelogs | THE SKY WENT BLACK,

THE SKY WENT BLACK,

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

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

"So you're a suit kinda guy? Fancy."

Midnighter sees the knights streaming toward them, horses screaming, swords out. The lucky thing about this shitty situation is how big the horses are. He can use that.

He's at a disadvantage on the ground when his opponent is on a horse, he could figure that out without the computer screaming warnings through his cerebral cortex. Where the computer comes in is all the ways it suggests he can shift the balance back into his favor. In two seconds he has one hundred scenarios, in three he has five hundred, and by the time the crusaders are in range, he's picked his favorite.

Charging forward, Midnighter dodges left at the last minute, and sinks his sword into the horse's flank. Unlike last time, he uses the sword as leverage, spinning around to climb onto the back of the horse. A moment after, the crusader slumps forward, and Midnighter has the reigns. He stops next to his suit-loving friend.

He's grinning like a fiend as the other knight circles them, swearing in Occitan. Midnighter extends his hand, "get on if you want to live."

That he is. Henry doesn't have much incentive to reply back to a rhetorical statement except for a grin, eyes still trained on the terrifying scene ahead. He'd like to think himself a fast thinker, able to work with any given exciting situation to his advantage, but he's nowhere near as fast as Midnighter. Not that he could tell from here.

As Midnighter dodged to the left, Henry darts to the right with his blade poised behind him ready to strike should it need be, but it looks like his new war buddy has already gotten a good control of the situation. Might as well go along with it.

"Right, then—" and with no hesitation, he grasps around his wrist for a steady hold and quickly swings himself up over the wounded horse's backside. His free hand grips the side of the saddle, other hand extended out with the scimitar. The unsteady galloping beneath him is worrying, however.

"Sure this old boy will hold up?"

The other crusader seems prepared to avenge his comrade, ready to charge in a second's notice.

That's Midnighter, alright. Inveterate showoff who is having way too much fun in the thick of it. He's grinning like a madman, and the wind waves the cloth in front of his face around enough to give little snapshots of his expression, wild-eyed and blood-splattered.

He shoves the knight's body off the horse, which is still nickering dejectedly from the aching wound in its side. It's a destrier, sixteen hands high and just under three thousand pounds. If it ran over either of them, it would be a very painful, but inarguable, death sentence.

"I think Lucky over here's seen worse, haven't you, boy?" Midnighter pats Lucky's head in a parody of kindness. The horse whinnies as it sees the knight streaming toward them, lance out as though he expects to joust. They don't have anything nearly as long-reaching, just their scimitars and their giant, stupid horse.

Midnighter doesn't seem bothered by this. "Sword out, fucker!" And he's surging forward, edging Lucky along.

It's only when Henry is this close to the guy now that he can detect the heavy smell of blood on his clothes, absorbed into the blackness of it. Sure, it hides it well enough, but he can recognize that smell anywhere. Like the blood, it paints a pretty accurate picture of a man who's as bloodthirsty as the people Henry surrounds himself with. Seems only natural to team up with him now.

"All right," he says with a sort of incredulous sigh following right after. "I'm holding you responsible if we're thrown off and crushed by a bloody wounded horse."

Despite his tone, Henry finds a real sort of thrill in this and it shows. Jousting on horseback with a great handicap (wounded horse) with only a scimitar, being steered by a crazy man covered in blood is something he can get behind. Perhaps literally in this case. Sword out, he prepares to go along with whatever the hell Midnighter has in mind. If anything, Henry is prepared to jump ship and do things his own way should it all start going south. He's got his ridiculous agility and acrobatics to thank for that. As the opposing soldier rushes at them, he keeps an eye out for any surprise ambushes.

Bad situation or not, he's prepared.

"Yeah, you can file a report," Midnighter says, sarcasm out of the side of a pointed grin. He's leaning forward, all attention on the point of that spear. He'll survive, he's sure. They'll both survive. He'll pick the scenario where they do.

And then he does.

The spear connects just below his shoulder, hooking him in without ripping apart any essential muscles. It's in that moment he launches forward-- his feet were never in any stirrups-- and uses the lance to vault forward, breaking the pointed tip off as he soars forward. In a moment, he's on top of the crusader, riding the other horse.

He forgot to give his companion the reins. Eh. He'll figure it out.

Before the spear even connects with his driver's shoulder, Henry had a feeling he was gonna go all-in with this dive. Whatever his plan was afterwards he can only guess, but he can already tell it's going to be reckless and insane for any normal human being.

Henry is already lunging forward into the empty space left behind to snag the reins in his free hand, nearly slipping off the saddle but still somehow managing to stay on. Lucky freaks out, reasonably, the sudden shift in weight surprising him.

"Whoa—!"

He straightens up in his seat, dragging the reins and Lucky whinnies, hooves stuttering from the pain. If he wasn't so preoccupied with not falling and dying that he can't feel sorry for it. He'll put him out of his misery soon enough, but for now, he needs to make sure he won't die the moment he stops moving and catches up with the other horse.

The wounded horse draws the attention of crusaders around him, and he fights them off while Lucky's speed decreases. The likelihood of jumping off to fight them off on foot seems much more likely.

"Just left me with the lemon, eh?" He yells over the carnage, not really caring if Midnighter catches it or not.

Midnighter has never known when to leave well enough alone. He comes on strong and outstays his welcome. Blood blossoming out of his shoulder, the fabric ripped almost entirely off, he doesn't seem much bothered. If anything, he's invigorated, grinning like a maniac on a dapple grey stallion three times his size. He catches up to his erstwhile companion, and holds something out-- the broken, bloody spear that pierced his shoulder moments ago.

"Don't say I never get you anything."

Edited (so tired..............) 2017-09-22 03:08 (UTC)

Nothing says impressive like a dude coming up to you on a giant horse with a broken spear while their entire shoulder is just bleeding all over the place. Henry pulls down his mask, the heat of his laughter building up uncomfortably behind the cloth. Makes it easier to hear him, too, over all the noise.

"This almost makes up for it."

He accepts the broken spear, chuckling at the bizarre presentation of it all. Then almost as if on cue, Lucky decides he wants to collapse right there. He can't blame the poor thing, hobbling along and losing a great amount of blood while toting him along through a battlefield. Instead of crashing along with the beast, he flips off the saddle as gracefully as he could manage. Upon landing, he uses the spear to give Midnighter a salute of thanks.

He's... laughing? He pulls off his mask, and his face is handsome and bright. Amidst the gore and the pain and the adrenaline rushing through Midnighter's system, that's almost heartwarming. He brushes the fabric in front of his face aside, revealing his own expression, strangely light (if blood-splattered and a little dirty).

Midnighter takes the spear, holding it over his wounded shoulder. He extends his good arm to help his companion up.

"Midnighter, by the way." He should probably clarify, but fuck it. "Or you can just call me 'M'."

It never fails to surprise him to find the face beneath the crazy to be altogether pleasant. If he'd seen this guy on the street somewhere, it never would've struck him as a face that belongs to a violence-loving maniac. He likes that contrast. It keeps things interesting.

He glances down at the arm briefly, perhaps out of small concern for putting any sort of weight on his arms, but the guy doesn't seem bothered at all by his wound. So with a slight shrug, he grabs his arm to quickly hoist himself back up.

"Henry."

Fortunately for Midnighter, nicknames or codenames don't phase him enough to ask. It's so commonplace back home, he barely gives it thought, and simply takes it as it is.

"Get stabbed by spears often?"

Midnighter's grin turns wry. He trots the horse around, surveying the battlefield from a distance. "In a manner of speaking."

He turns to stare at the wound in his shoulder with a detached expression, before pulling a length of cloth from his side and cutting it off in a strip. He ties it around his arm, securing the wound and making sure it doesn't get worse before he has time to stitch it. He's fixed himself up before, but now isn't the time.

While he does this, he looks over at Henry. "You're a hell of a fighter. What year?"

Unable to see the expression, Henry doesn't note any change in his mood, and seeing him quickly dress his wound had him less inclined to ask about it again. The murderous scene in front of them is enough to keep his attention, only now starting to feel the gravity of his situation once everything had calmed down.

It takes him a second to realize what Midnighter is asking him. The fact that they're not in the present still hasn't fully sunken in yet, even as he's currently in the process of doing it.

"2010," he says, "and I could say the same thing about you. You've got amazing reflexes."

Edited (wow im so sorry) 2017-09-23 03:11 (UTC)

"Yeah, it's the computer in my head. Calculates the trajectory in advance. And 2015."

He says it pretty casually, like everybody's got computers in their heads. They don't, and doesn't he know it, but it's just a fact of life for Midnighter. He's never known a life where his mind wasn't shared with a device constantly calculating the best thousand ways to kill everyone he comes into contact with.

Midnighter brings the horse up to a trot, and begins the process of kicking some of its extra armor off. The horse doesn't need armor; it's just extra weight.

Henry grins behind him, tempted to call that cheating, but he saves that sort of snark for people he's gotten to know a lot more. Instead, he just makes sure his feet and hands aren't in the way as Midnighter dismantles the horse's armor.

"Something you control by will, or is that just...on? All the time?"

There were weirder things out there in the world, but he's glad that even outside of being transported through time and forced into a war there's still weird things to discover. He keeps a look out, scimitar still strong in his grip along with the broken tip of the spear, wondering if there's a specific direction they should head first. More action the better, he guesses, at least before one of the armies issue a retreat to regroup.

"Telling me a hundred different ways to kill you right now," he says, again casual. This is all old hat to him, the only way he's ever been, the only way he remembers being. It's nothing to gasp over. "And everybody else around."

More of the horse's armor falls clanking to the ground as he pulls it along, idly flicking a fly off its twitching ear.

The casual delivery only makes it that much easier for him to chuckle at it instead of feeling worried for his safety. Not that he thinks Midnighter can actually kill him (he's pretty confident like that), but sometimes you just never know what might happen. Whether or not Midnighter actually can is a different story, but again, not really his top concern.

"Looks like it'll come in handy. This Saladin bloke's still got a long ways to go."

And in a strange, unexpected way, Midnighter appreciates that. People always get so weird about the computer, even Andrew used to poke and prod, asking questions about what it was doing or telling him. Drawing undue consideration for the thing made it that much harder to ignore the shit Midnighter didn't want to deal with, like how he's run through thousands of simulations on how to kill all his friends.

It's like remembering to breathe; once you start thinking about it, you can't stop. Best leave it to your subconscious and get on with the business of living life.

So Midnighter kicks off the last of the horse's armor (he thinks he'll name this one Dopey, because it hasn't seemed to remotely notice the death of its master) and keeps the thing trotting along the sidelines as he searches for an opportunity for more violence. He slides the turban and veil back on, obscuring his face once more in a mess of loosely wrapped fabric, now tatty and bloody but still dark as when it was first dyed.

"You think so, huh? Apparently he won, last time. This time. You know what I mean."

His own curiosity can be his downfall in a lot of cases, but usually when it's something that can be used against the other person. Right now, he gets no benefit from trying to figure this guy's brain computer out. Maybe later if he ever runs into him again. If ever.

Surveying the very busy landscape as well, he follows suit by wrapping his face again as the dust starts to billow up in the wake of the horse's footsteps.

"And apparently we're here to keep it that way. What I'm wondering is if they wish to preserve history, isn't our very presence here putting that at risk? Did something change?"

While not overly interested in the political motivation of this all (if that's what it is), he doesn't like being thrust into situations that are pointless or redundant. It'd be just a huge waste of time.

"You'll have to ask the bozos in charge of this operation. I'm just here to punch things until they stop moving."

He knows what Andrew'd say to that. Lucas, you have to have some sense of personal responsibility. How else will you make the world better?

And Midnighter would say by killing the people who make it worse and pretend like he didn't care, but late at night, it'd be all he thought about. Now, in the midst of an ancient warzone, what a great time to get nostalgic about old boyfriends with finely developed senses of justice. Fuck.

"Let me know what they say," Midnighter says, as though in afterthought. "Because if they can't cough up a good answer, they're on my list."

Henry lets out an amused hum, all to casual and unconcerned given their circumstances, but filing those words away into a mental profile. Punch first, ask questions later. He can respect that on some level. He lets the conversation lapse into a comfortable(-ish) silence until Midnighter speaks again.

"Oh, I imagine they should. There will be a long line for their heads if they don't."

He wonders if he will run into Midnighter again, though. The nature of these so-called missions is still new to him so he can't predict the chances of running into the same again, but if he had to run into anyone else again, he certainly wouldn't mind it being him. Seems easy enough to work with, for one.

"But if not, you'll be the first to know should you not find out yourself."

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THE SKY WENT BLACK,

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pulls completely rando improbable* year from out of ass

¯_(ツ)_/¯ its all good bro

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