Post by kyle on Apr 1, 2012 16:59:12 GMT -1
This is what I wrote for my English Creative Writing Controlled Assessment, though more descriptive and added to as I had a word limit of 1000 in school. The ending was different for school as well, with the main character's dying, but I scrapped that now what-with it being a shit ending in my opinion.
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Prologue
"You have my blessing, Child."
"Thank you, your Excellency." The man bowed his head forward, dark brown locks falling in the indicated direction, covering his face. He straightened up once more, his hair falling back into it's rightful place, showing his face; as if it had been chiseled from stone, thrown about a bit then had a nose stuck on it - it was, by all means, the face of one who'd seen much fighting. He wore a complete suit of chainmail armour, odd parts of armour plating stuck on here and there to provide extra protection.
A tabard was slung over his shoulders, kept tightly in place by the leather belt around his waist: white, with a red cross, the English flag of St. George, but also a common banner standard used by the Christian armies of the time. A wooden kite shield was strapped to the left side of his waist, bearing the same emblem as his tabard, however, with three golden lions adorning the cross - kept at his side to be out of the way, not needing to be worn at all times. Underneath the shield was a leather sheath, poking out from the end a finely-crafted and jeweled hilt, most likely smithed from steel, like the blade that rested within.
Holding his visored, steel helmet in his left hand - which was hooked around his front, just to make him look all the more superior -, he was a sight to be taken in. A Lion by no doubt, carrying every stereotypical attribute of the animal, from it's thick, brown grizzly mane - which covered not only head, but face, too - to it's commanding pressence, the one that could command the armies of millions of men. Of course, these features only added to the meaning behind his alias, the name he was known by all, and the name by which he would be remembered throughout history: Richard the Lionheart, otherwise known as King Richard III of England during the Crusades.
Richard bent low onto one knee, his free right hand raising and taking the other man's - a portly man, a rich man - left hand in his own. His head bowed once again, bringing the man's hand to his lips, he kissed the ring on is index finger - a ring bearing the mark of the Catholic church, a sovereign. He raised up onto his feet to address the man again. "Then I shall be going, your Excellency."
"Yes, you shall. I am sure you are eager to spread the message to your brethren." this man, revered so much by Richard himself, spoke in a thick Italian accent.
"I am, your Excellency," he turned on his heel to leave, taking a step forwards. "Goodby-..."
He was cut short, interrupted, "But, Richard, do not fail me for a third time. Rid us of these heathen's."
Richard stopped, nodding his head slowly, not looking back, "Of course, your Excellency. This, I promise you." He began to walk again.
"Yes... Goodbye, Child. God bless you."
Richard was gone.
Only mere days after Richard's departure from the room, did word reach to his 'brethren' all over Europa - Germany, France, Spain, England and, of course, Italy: "The Pope has given his consent, the third crusade's are to commence in two month's time, have your armies ready."
Chapter 1
Archer's lined the sandy walls of the great holy city, bow arms relaxed, though bowstrings tensed - they were loaded. Staring out into the distance, they were watching the great shadow swarm towards them; a dark mass of people and war contraptions alike, swallowing up all they walked upon and leaving ruin behind.
They reached the city in four day's of solid marching, resting when they were a mile away from the city and setting up camp to rest for the night.
The next morning there was hardly any warning. Archer's were on the walls, yes, but no one inside had the faintest hint of an attack. It happened so suddenly.
The sounds of crashing and smashing filled the calm atmosphere. Rock and sand were thrown in every direction. The roaring sounds of battle-ready men was heard from being the wall, though it was not long before these sounds could be heard from within the city. Almost every citizen who could hold a weapon had come to the aid, preparing for the wall, gates, tunnels to be opened, preparing to strike. The citizen's were shooed however, when the Islamic soldier's finally arrived, sent to any nearby Mosque's, and if those were full, then the next one along, sending them to safety.
Soldier's then set up formation - pikes, swords, shields - behind the gate under siege, as archer's were picked off one-by-one by the English longbowmen and French crossbowmen on the outside, tumbling backwards of the walls and to their deaths.
A sigh was heard from by a nearby building as the latest archer fell with a loud thud to his death. A tall man was standing in the shade of a nearby building, and oriental tint to his skin and long, fair black hair, tied into a loose and rugged ponytail. He wore a full suit of leather armour consisting of cuirass, greaves, bracers and boots. On his left bracer were strapped an array of seven primitive needles, simply small, metal projectiles, laced with several deadly poisons.
Sheathed to the right side of his waist were two daggers, smithed from simple iron and rusted slightly; several vials sat in straps, each containing the same mixture of potent poisons the needles were coated with.
His head was hung, eyes on the ground, waiting for an opportunity to move. "How long do you s'ppose they will hold out this time, Brother?" He spoke with a thick middle-eastern accent despite the hue of his skin.
"This lot? I would guess at least another few years or so, again. They're a persistent bunch, these Christians," came a second voice, with an accent just as strong, from the denser shadow.
"Honestly, I do not see the problem if they succeed or not. Either way we make business. The Coterie will still survive under Christian rule."
"Bah!" spat the second man. "It's a sense of pride, my friend; we may not be the most up-standing citizen's, but our work is done for the good of the people, if our method's are not. These are still our people, and this is still our home. I'd have thought you'd understand that, with your sense of honour - you are 'bound' to my family or whatever, are you not? By a sense of honour."
"Hmm, I suppose you are correct. We've never suffered as much hardships as three wars in little over a decade, or at least, not recently. But, yes, you are right."
"Yes, Rainak. Now, when and whom at do we strike?"
"We wait for an opportunity, Isaan," said the man now identified as Rainak. "Then follow me."
The man, Isaan, nodded, stepping out of the shadows. He worse almost identical equipment, minus the needles, poisons and his daggers were less rusted; his skin a darker tone, tanned, native of the region, which flowing black hair.
It took barely any time for that opportunity to arise; a large cannonball, bathed in oil and set aflame, collided into the front walls, ripping the bricks apart and setting what remained alight - throwing more archers tumbling to their demise.
With this distraction at hand, Rainak set forwards. He kicked his feet up against the building opposite him, pushing up, arms grabbing for a ledge. Hanging, he threw himself up, grasping another handhold, only narrowly succeeding and pulling up onto of the house.
Again and again, he continued to navigate the rooftops, Isaan hot on his tail. Reaching the broken wall, he threw himself forward, grabbing a stray rock and pulling himself to another one, climbing up.
The houses on the other side of the gate were hosting about five soldiers, carrying buckets full to their brims with water and dousing the flames; they were shouting across at Isaan and Rainak, telling the "thugs", "assassins", to get down.
Scowling, they reached the top, diving behind a barricade and out of sight of any Christian's, peering down at the army gathered.
"Who do we strike for?" inquired Isaan.
"The strongest. Keep your eyes and ears open."
"There!" exclaimed Isaan, for he had discovered who seemed to be the strongest of the current unit: a Teutonic knight, he wore a mass of chainmail and a black tabard, bearing the white cross of the Knight's Templar, and a full-face iron helmet.
Rainak scanned the unit some more, he was hoping for better, a Commander or... something. "I see him," he resigned to agreeing with Isaan, this knight was the strongest. "Wait," hissed Rainak, stopping Isaan who seemed to be contemplating just diving off the wall, dagger's glinting. "Watch."
His right hand swung across to the opposite side of his body, drawing three needles and taking one in his left hand. "Watch him closely, Isaan." Swiftly popping up from behind the barricade, he slung the needle down with near perfection at the knight, crouching once more and looking at Isaan. "Did it hit?"
"No."
"Shit! Did they notice?"
"No."
"Excellent, keep watching him." He repeated the action again, this time spending a longer period stood up, carefully aiming and throwing for the knight's left - sword - arm; crouching once more. "Now?"
"Yes!" shouted Isaan, going to stand up.
"Wait," replied Rainak. "It takes about five minutes for the poison to work. I can get his legs. That much poison, especially on the left side of his body, not just his arms and legs will be incapacitated, I suspect his heart will either slow or stop completely if I hit correctly." Standing up, he threw his last needle for the knight's left knee.
"It hi-!"
"I know. Stand up."
Isaan nodded, raising to his feet and observing.
The knight dropped his sword. Arm went limp.
"Sir?" asked a soldier.
Leg next. Fell to one knee.
"Lieutenant?!"
Hand clasped his chest. Gurgling.
"Lieutenant Reischek!" the soldiers surrounded him now, archers tensing their strings and looking around.
He coughed. Spluttered. A vat of blood erupted from his mouth. Fell forwards. Limp. Dead. Hysterics.
The chaos, it went on and on; people shaking the dead knight's body, calling his name, his full name, peering around, blaming their own comrades. It was a perfect opportunity, though they didn't move, they were stopped.
The crowd was suddenly silenced and parted. A man stepped through; a man dressed in full chainmail, blue tabard, white cross. He carried the sense of superiority one who wields the power to command armies does.
"What eez zhis?" he spoke his English with a thick French accent, butchering each syllable he uttered.
"Commander! Lieutenant Reischek suddenly dropped. Some sort of seizure. We know not what of."
"Idiot!" He raised his right arm, smacking the soldier across his cheek with the back of his plated gauntlet, sending the soldier to the floor. "You zhink zhis iz normal? Adolf Reischek waz een peak condition, not a single thing wrong with him." His head shot up to the city walls, eyes narrowing, squinting to get a better picture of the two figures. "Look!" he pointed to them. "Worthless imboceeles! Soldiers, check zhe Lieutenant's body for any arrows or projectiles! Archers; get zhem!"
Shit. We got the wrong person.