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

[ 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.)

"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."

"If warmth is what you want I suggest you stay out in the sun."

The way she bristles is practically visible, shoulders stiff and chin high, though it does not stop her from casting an eye at the bloodied side he clutches. Perhaps she could muster a sliver of concern -- able bodies are necessary to the cause, she is told -- if he only he had less to say. How bad can it possibly be when one's tongue constantly wags?

He is out of luck where the stiff drink is concerned; if there is a supply here no one shared that knowledge with her. What she can provide -- and does, if with reluctance -- is a basin of water with a cloth for cleaning the wound. At the moment it is hard for her to tell just how deep the slash cuts. Bandages come next, set down beside his cot in preparation.

"I may even consider it a personal favor if you quietly bleed out."

He is no stranger to prickly women — although he and Anne had ended up thick as thieves anyhow, practically joined at the hip for all it mattered — and as such, her remark just gets a snort rather than any expression of indignance, followed by a sound of regret when the movement makes his wound twinge. Laughter is best saved for moments when he hasn't just met the business end of a sword.

He takes his hands from his sides, trusting Morrigan will be quick enough with the bandaging that she won't actually let him sit here and bleed for hours. His palms are terribly bloody, although not all of it belongs to him, and he wipes them on his tunic.

"Pray tell, how does one as— forgive me if this is presumptuous," he says, not sounding very apologetic, "but I assume you're terribly inhospitable and generally cold, so you can understand my confusion at your presence here. So how does one as... well, terribly inhospitable and generally cold as you appear to be end up in the tender, soft-hearted role of caretaker?"

After only a brief pause, really only there to allow himself to catch his breath, he adds, "Now, don't presume I mean to disparage you; quite the opposite, really. I think a woman of your disposition could be of much better use elsewhere on the battlefield."

"I hope you always make such assumptions about people. I would hate to think this a treat just for me."

Without standing on ceremony, she pushes away the torn fabric. Her hands show a degree of care, not unfamiliar with delicate work, but less gentleness. Quickly blotting most of the older blood gives her a chance to assess the wound. It bleeds stubbornly, but it is not as long or deep a gash as she thought upon first seeing him.

His enemy, she assumes, was less fortunate.

"Do you often risk your life for causes you have not explicitly chosen?" She only glances up to meet his eyes once, as if it punctuates her thought, before leaning to grab the bandages. "Or is the thrill of battle alone enough to have won you over?"

Color the Dragon Queen impressed. If nothing else from this place offers her pleasure (certainly not the fabrics she's forced to wear to conceal her Targaryen features), this task would compensate in part for the indignities.

Magic is of a foreign sort to her, beyond true comprehension, save for that which her children offer the realm. Because she has been on the receiving end of illusions and blood magic alike, Dany would normally cast a wary eye to this witch.

Tonight, however, she gives a quiet hum in approval--though whether it's due to how a simple wave of the hand causes unearthly screams, or the woman's appreciation for fire, remains to be seen.

"Fire cleanses all," she murmurs. "How far do your magics reach, my lady? Perhaps we can use the distraction of flames to our advantage."

There is what feels like a vague sense of commiseration between Morrigan and her current company, as though this is all enough of a personal affront for them that they should find what little enjoyment they can in this wartime task.

She huffs out a very small laugh. Cleansing is perhaps not the word she would use to describe fire, but it does that job as well. At any rate, she likes the subtle approval shown. It is always easier to wring something satisfying out of a ridiculous situation when there are like-minded allies around.

"Shall we make a test of it?" Her eyes flick between the other woman and the camp they survey. In the distance yelling continues. "I have never known a ball of a fire to stop until it hits something."

Their wrath would be known. One does not kidnap and force the hand of would-be allies, and this 'mission'? Beneath both she and her companion. Beneath any of them kidnapped and abandoned in this place by their commander.

"Very little should stop a plume of flames." The echoes of screams is like a beautiful melody, quelling her thirst for revenge just slightly. Lips quirking in amusement, she inclines her head in agreement. "Were my dragons here, this battle would be won hours ago. By all means," she says, gesturing before them.

She could not conjure flames, not like her children or this woman, but that is something she's grown to accept. She is not a witch, after all. Were those who kidnapped her expecting a great display of raw power, they would be sorely disappointed.

"You've practiced for many years, I imagine? My world has witches and warlocks; many view them with a distrustful eye."

Her slight pause is well-earned, she thinks, and as curious as it is amused; few people speak about dragons like that. The last she met who may have thought in such a way were members of a cult who believed their prophet reincarnated as a high dragon and drank the blood of dragonlings.

"Indeed, with dragons on our side this would go very differently."

An idea for their captors, perhaps, if there are worlds where dragons can simply be tamed.

As a flame rises from the palm of her cupped hand, her wry smile is evident in her voice. "Flame first poured from my hand when I was nine. I was raised with no doubt that it would happen one day, a witch like my mother, but mages are often feared and hunted in my world."

It almost serves as punctuation when the fire swirls into a ball aimed at the side of a tent on the far edge of her vision. There is no one between them and it, giving the fireball a chance to travel before it hits its target.

Emily is fairly sure the woman she's been partnered with is a witch, but maybe not a Witch, and she hasn't been in a position to ask questions since the tent. So she says nothing, going along with the plan, crouching next to Morrigan and considering her options.

"Can you reach him?" she says, pointing with one wrapped hand to a man dozing off on a bench, perhaps twenty feet away. "I have a plan. Cast your spell when you see... when you see me again."

Cooperation over competition, though her desire to show off has been piqued, especially since Morrigan seems nothing like her aunt or any of her coven-mates, and the thing she just did was really, really cool.

Waiting for an affirmation, her Mark flares, and Emily collapses into shadow and shade and a long sinuous body with claws, smoke over flesh. She drags her way over to a campfire several tents away, though not without linking the sleeping man she pointed out to Morrigan first. There are three men at the new fire- she links all of them to the original Crusader, and her shadow form collapses with a burst of ash, leaving her crouching in the shadows by the new fire.

In her experience, a clear line of sight is all she needs to put unnatural fear in a man's mind, and when she nods her answer she cannot help being intrigued, even feeling as resentful as she does of her abrupt appearance here.

There is a brief flare, something palpable enough to her that it makes her skin prickle, and then her companion seems to simply... become shadow, something wraith-like and so low it scrapes the ground. What Emily does is not entirely clear to her, but shifting shapes is not unfamiliar and Morrigan is as good as her word: the very moment she sees Emily in her familiar form once more, she casts Horror again.

It takes a moment, the first victim roused from sleep by sheer terror, and the cry that leaves his throat is as thick with disuse as it is with fear.

What she does not expect is the echoing yell that goes up from the men near the campfire. She smiles outright in spite of herself, a quiet laugh on her breath.

Morrigan is more familiar to Cole than Cole is to Morrigan. As she almost collides into him, Cole's face quickly goes from surprise at almost being run into (there are moments when he still forgets that people see him now, he doesn't have to hide and forget) to relief and recognition as he places whose face this is.

Because this is Morrigan. He's seen her around Skyhold. She was at the masked ball. They haven't talked, not really, there's too many things for both of them to do that aren't talking, but he's seen her. And this her looks younger. That's the most interesting part, the part which makes Cole frown, looking at Morrigan with a confused expression. Why does she look younger?

"You've changed your face," Cole remarks, with a frown. "Still the same, the Witch of the Wilds, but different. Smoother." It never occurs to him that this Morrigan might not have any idea who he is in the first place.

No matter the clothing, no matter the place, she can recognize the touch of the Fade.

And it knows her. Halting abruptly, for one wild moment she doubts herself, wonders if this has all been a far more elaborate illusion by a demon far more powerful than usual. But no, that cannot be. Her instincts have never been wrong before, not when it comes to illusions and the games demons play.

If this truly was one of those games, there is one face she would like to see now more than any other. No doubt it would be used against her.

Her eyes search the figure before her. "I know not what you mean. Who are you?"

As Morrigan looks him over, Cole looks her over, as if doing so will somehow reveal to him just why Morrigan looks younger. It doesn't. It just reveals to him what he already knows, that she's Morrigan, she's here, she's smoother yet the same.

He can answer her question, though. "I'm Cole," he responds, with a nod. Is that answer enough? Has she forgotten him? If she has, it wasn't his fault. He wouldn't make Cullen or Leilana or Josephine forget him, he wouldn't make Morrigan forget him either. But then again, did she even know who he was to begin with?

"I'm not a demon, by the way," he can't help but add, a little petulant, unconsciously picking up on Morrigan's thoughts and worries. "I'm just...different."

The name means nothing to her, although she gets the impression that he believes it should. In fact, she can think of no one she has known by that name, but that line of thought slows to a stop when he follows up with such a less-than-casual statement.

"I never said you were."

If she looked closely at him before, she studies him twice as carefully now. Her instinct does not necessarily say demon, but the feeling is undeniable. And demons and spirits are often so presumptuous about one's thoughts and feelings.

"And I have little patience for mind games. What do you consider yourself? Why do you know me?"

He feels like the Fade. Even though Cole doesn't know what he is, a being pulled between spirit and human, he can't shake his origins. Though he doesn't know this, of course. He just knows he's Cole, this is Morrigan, and she doesn't understand. Why don't people ever understand?

"You came to help. From Orlais to Skyhold. The tear in the sky bleeds, burns bright. You want to help stop it. I want to help stop it."

He looks at Morrigan, a hint of pleading in his eyes. Why doesn't she remember? He didn't do this, he wouldn't go so deep, go so far, so what else made her forget?

Chiron had observed the interaction between Morrigan and the man refusing any treatment from her. It had been hard no to, as Chiron had been working on the soldier next to her, dressing what was, in truth, a fairly superfical cut. There weren't even stitches required, only bandages and a good wash to make sure the thing wouldn't get infectd over the next few days. In the present environment, that was Chiron's biggest fear.

So when he rose up to his feet only to have bandages pushed into his hands, the look on his face betrayed a deep disappointment. His tone matched.

"He is that injured, and yet feels he can decide who he'll accept medicine from?"

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THE SKY WENT BLACK,

Morrigan | Dragon Age

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girls just wanna have fun, ayyy

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girls just wanna have fun

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b!

hello!

hey yourself. :)

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A