Post by lachlanmackenzie on Aug 23, 2008 18:28:57 GMT
About you
Name: My own, but you may call me Illu. Everyone else does. ^^
Age: 17
How to contact you: MSN & Email, therianthropic@hotmail.com
Role playing experience: Approx 6 years + Admin & Modding
Other Characters on this Site: James Butcher
About your Character
Name: Lachlan Mackenzie (Lock-lan Mack-en-zee)
Nickname: Come up with your own
Age: 24
Current Location: England
Country of Origin: Scotland
Accent: Scottish
Position: Deserter
Job: Ex-Farrier / Ex-Crusader / Currently Unemployed
Eye Color: Grey
Hair Color: Black
Height: 6 ft 2 in
General Appearance: Lachlan looks a lot older than he is, more early thirties than barely in his twenties. Be this because of an emotional burden, lack of personal care, bad genetics or a combination thereof it’s not really certain. He does have a distinct look of rough keep though. His clothing looks old, usually blacks and greys to hide the dust and certainly isn’t cleaned often; any foul odour is usually masked by the pungent smell of alcohol. His clothing, face and hands often have smudges of dirt from God knows where and he shaves somewhat irregularly.
As far as the rest of him goes, he’s medium height, with black hair rather than the stereotypical red and his eyes are grey. Thanks partially to England’s famous lack of sun and his preference to being indoors his skin tone is bang-on even. Though he looks like once he could have thrown a good punch if he had to, he now bears a distinct look of a criminally malnourished fellow who has only recently been putting some weight back on. There really isn’t a moment when he doesn’t look sleep deprived and inexplicably tense.
If you need a formal means of the identification, his time in the Crusade has given him a large number of scars on his hands and arms as well as two large ones; one on his back and another on the right over his ribs.
Likes:
- Peace and quiet
- Strong alcohols
- Horses
- Being armed
- Knowing what’s happening at all times
Dislikes:
- Large groups of people
- Sudden/loud noises
- The rain
- Saracen men
- Being asleep
- The night
- Armed people
- The dead
- Nobles
- The Crusade
Personality: Those who knew him before his departure to the Holy Land would have probably described an amiable fellow that always smiled, who was confident to the point of recklessness and highly social. Sadly, whoever this man used to be is long gone and replaced by a stranger.
As of late, Lachlan has become a textbook case of full-blown Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He is plagued with graphic nightmares, avoids anything related to the war and can’t even bring himself to mention it. He is scared of losing control in any given situation and can become violent when certain things don’t go his way. Sleep deprivation is taking a toll on his health thanks to a constant state of hyper-vigilance, and he has trouble in social situations due to a sensation of detachment from mankind. He can no longer focus on certain tasks and becomes obsessive with others. Though the thought has never directly crossed his mind, he has the feeling his life will be cut short in one way or another and as such cannot envision or strive for a future for himself. Despite his numerous problems, he's not a coward because of it.
Other than his clinical symptoms, he’s highly intuitive and has a good eye for detail. Lachlan always attempts to be as polite and friendly as possible as he can in an attempt to seem more normal, yet he never genuinely smiles, doesn’t laugh and has a constant pessimism which can really kill a mood. You can still see signs of his old chirpy, charismatic self if you strike up the right topic, though it’s becoming more and more fleeting.
The alcohol changes everything again. He’s taken to a strict drinking routine as is it is the only thing that works in stopping the nightmares. He’s not a happy drunk in the least, and you can usually tell when he’s had something by the sudden spike in irritability. In fact, when he’s completely off his face almost anything will trigger a flying rage that he’s certain to regret the next day. Still, he always comes back for more, better that than the nightmares.
Those he truly gets along with the best are his two animals, the horse in particular. He knows well the mind of a prey animal, almost having one himself. The constant fear, the lurking threat of attack be it real or imagined, and the inability to sleep well at night.
Family:
Caelin Mackenzie – Father
Ansleigh Cunningham - Mother
Like Family:
Moira Douglas - Ex-Fiancée
TL;DR History: (For those who don’t care to read the full version below.) Went on the crusade with promise of freedom and fortune but found only horror and death. He got as far as Ajrah, then overcome by what he had seen tried to go home. He couldn't go back to Scotland as he was a deserter, so he teamed up with a woman named Zafirah to go to England and they arrived at Nottinghamshire together and parted ways.
Background: He was twenty two when the call to the Crusade first came to his small corner of the world. A rabble of men led by a short monk on a mule arrived, calling everyone capable to bear the cross to follow in Gods quest to rid the Holy Land of the infidel Saracen.
Lands that were once milk and honey ran with the blood of Christian sacrifice, Holy Churches burned and looted, sainted sites destroyed. They were promised riches, spoils, honour in battle, protection for the families who remained behind, and an eternity in Heaven at the feet of the Lord. But most of all: Freedom, freedom from servitude, freedom to live life how one willed. No more Liege Lords, no more taxes, no more allotments. They would go to France to join their colossal armies, and the Crusade would be unstoppable. “Join us,” many from the ranks called out loudly, “Kill the Pagans, and sit with the Lord in Heaven!” Many people Lachlan knew all his life, some just boys, ran to get their possessions and merged into the ranks. Farewelling Moira, his fiancée of three years, he soon fell in among them, reassuring her that this would secure their future forever. “I’ll be back in a year,” he promised.
It was ten long months of marching after reaching the European coast - months so long and gruelling, so lacking in all provision, he could mark them only by the sores oozing on his feet and the lice growing in his beard. They marched through the Alps and Maritimes, then into the craggy mountains of Serbia – each step treacherous, ripe with ambush. Many a loyal soul eager to fight for the glory of God was swept screaming into vast crevasses or dropped by a Serb or Magyar arrow months before the first sign of a fight. All along, they were told the greater armies lay months ahead, slaughtering infidels and hoarding the spoils while the nobles of Lachlan’s company sat bickering and the commoners like himself trudged like beaten livestock in the blistering heat and cold, and bargained for what little food there was.
At Civetot was the first sign of the enemy. A few straggling horsemen, turbaned and cloaked in robes ringed the ranks, lofting some harmless arrows then fleeing into the hills, like children after hurling stones. Civetot seemed deserted as they arrived. However, on the outskirts a grim odour pressed on everyone’s noses. Lachlan knew the scent from burying the dead, but it was magnified a thousand times. First he thought it was just slaughtered livestock, or offal, but as they got closer they saw Civetot was smoking like burning cinders.
When they entered, there were corpses everywhere. A sea of naked body parts: heads severed and gawking, limbs cut off and piled like wood, blood drenching the parched earth, men and women hacked up like diseased stock, torsos naked and disembowelled, heads charred and roasted, hung up on spears. Red crosses were smeared all over the walls – in blood. Lachlan wasn’t the only one to turn away and puke his guts onto the now red sand.
Out of the trees some stragglers appeared. Their clothing was charred and tattered, their skin dark with blood and filth. They all bore the wide-eyed, hollow look of men who have seen the worst atrocities and somehow lived. It was impossible to tell if they were Christian or Saracen.
That night they slowly told the story, the dead men before them where not infidels, but crusaders. The fortress lacked all water; after an early victory they were simply waited out by the Seljuk horde and slaughtered to a man.
A nauseating anger boiled up in Lachlan’s stomach. He stood up and excused himself to his friends and wandered to the edge of the camp. It took six days straight to bury the dead.
In Caesarea, they joined forces with the Dukes of Flanders and Bohemond, two powerful French detachments. Everyone’s spirits were bolstered; the once fledgling troop was now over forty thousand strong. Nothing lay now between them and the Holy Land except the Muslim stronghold of Ajrah. There it was said Christians were being nailed to the city walls and most precious relics of Christendom, a shroud stained by the tears of Mary, and the very lance that pierced the Saviours side on the cross, were being held for ransom. But nothing could prepare them for the hell they were about to face.
First, it was the heat; the most hostile Lachlan had ever felt in his life. The sun became a raging red-eyed demon. Hardened Knights, praised for their valour in battle, howled in anguish, literally boiling in their armour, their fingers blistering at the touch. Men simply fell as they marched, overcome, and were left, uncared for in the places they lay. And then the thirst. Each town was scorched, run dry of provisions by the Saracens themselves. He saw once proud men, now clearly mad, guzzle their own urine as if it were ale. Everyone’s bodies cried but they trudged on; hearts and wills, like the water, slowly depleting.
Jagged mountains then appeared, chillingly steep and dry of all life. Narrow passes, barely wide for a horse and cart cut into the rising peaks. At first, they were glad to leave the inferno but the further they got, a new hell awaited. Sheep, horses, carts overladen with supplies had to be dragged single file and pulled up the steep slope. A mere stumble, a sudden rockslide, and a man disappeared over the edge, sometimes dragging a companion along with him. Each summit cleared brought a new peak, each more deadly than the last.
They came to a high ridge overlooking a vast, bone-white plain and there it was: Ajrah! Beyond that, Jerusalem! Ajrah was a massive walled fortress, seemingly built into a solid mound of rock, the biggest Lachlan had ever seen in his life. The sight sent a chill through his bones. The fortress was built on a sharp rise; hundreds of fortified towers guarded each length of the outer wall that appeared ten feet thick! They had no machines to break such walls, no ladders that could even scale their heights. It seemed impregnable. Knights took off their helmets and surveyed the city in awe. Some crossed themselves. The same sobering thought pounded through each of their minds. They had to take this place.
On approach, they saw large white rocks, spaced at intervals equal to a man’s height before the city. Each one was painted with a bright, red cross. One boy ran ahead to throw one at the walls, and then stopped dead. They were not rocks at all, but skulls. Thousands of them.
There were some fools among them who believed Ajrah would fall in a day. On that first morning they lined up, many thousands strong, a sea of men massing along the eastern wall. The trumpet sounded and they ran, everyone swept up in the tide of the charge. From behind there was a large whoosh as a wave of arrows flew towards the city and fell harmlessly on its massive walls. The return volley came back and men fell, clutching at their heads and necks as blood spurted from their faces and gruesome gasps escaped from their wretched mouths. At the walls heavy rocks and fiery arrows rained down. Men screamed and toppled over, either pierced or trying to beat the flame from their bodies. The first battering ram reached the gates only to be toppled by burning pitch. Men writhed on the ground, kicking and screaming, their tunics ablaze with tar. Those that stopped to help them were only engulfed in the same boiling liquid themselves.
It was a slaughter: men who had travelled so far, endured so much - Gods call beating in their hearts – cut down like limbs of trees. It was only luck to avoid death at any point. Lachlan was sure he would die there too.
The assault turned into a rout and as they fled, the mighty gates opened, unleashing a wave of turbaned Turkish horsemen flashing long, curved swords. They swept upon them like hunters chasing hares, yelping mad cries Lachlan recognised as “Allah akbar!” – God is great. They even ran into large groups of Crusaders as though hell-bent on suicide. Although he had never killed anyone before, that day Lachlan hacked and slashed at any man that came out of those gates as though he had been bred for it.
The siege took months, and for a while it seemed the glorious crusade would end in Ajrah, not Jerusalem. It happened the same way every day. Assault upon assault. Every day that Ajrah held, the crusaders spirited weakened. Food was down to nothing. Even the dogs had been slain with the cattle and oxen. Water was as scarce as wine. Lachlan was only slightly advantaged, with Noblemen sometimes trading a pittance of food for him to tend to the feet of a favoured mount, oftentimes no more than a small piece of stale bread. All the time, rumours reached them of Christians inside the city being tortured, holy relics desecrated.
It was now a year and a half since he had left. Would his family even recognise him now, beared, thin as a pole and blackened with grime and enemy blood? Would they laugh at his jokes and tease him for his innocence after all he had seen and knew? Would his fiancée still stroke his hair, now that it was filled with gore and lice? ‘I’ll be back in a year’. His promise to her was now a mocking refrain in his ears. How far away they all seemed right now.
Word spread from battalion to battalion. “Get ready, full battle gear. We’re going in; tonight.” There was a traitor in the city. Ajrah would fall not by force, but by treachery and greed. A single torch shone from one of the towers. The signal. After this, it was Jerusalem, and freedom! The big bronze gates opened right in front of their eyes but instead of Muslim horseman streaking out, their own conquering army spilled in. English, German, Norman, Spanish, Templar, Tafur and many more, side by side, with one purpose, one mind: “Show them who’s God is one!” the leaders cried.
Everyone made their way helter-skelter through the streets. Buildings were torched. Turbaned men rushed into the street and were cut down in bloody messes before they would even raise their swords. Cries of “Death to the Pagans!” and “Dues Vult” – God wills it – echoed everywhere. Lachlan ran with the pack, with no great malice towards the enemy but fighting whoever confronted him. One defender was cut in half by a might axe-blow. Battle-thirsty men in red tunics lopped off heads and held them aloft as though they were treasure. In front of them, a young woman ran out of a burning house, screaming. She was pounced upon by two marauding Tafurs, who tore the clothes from her body and took turns mounting her in the street. When they were done, they ripped a bronze bracelet from her wrist and bludgeoned her lifeless. In her fist there was clutched a small cross. Lachlan took a sharp intake of breath. Good Lord, she was Christian.
All around madness and lunacy boiled out of control. Red-crossed soldiers stormed through the streets, running from house to house, looting, and burning. Children wailed for their mothers before being tossed into the raging flames like kindling. Crusaders, mad with greed, slaughtered Christian and infidel alike, stuffing anything of value into their filthy robes.
What kind of God inspired such horror? Was this Gods fault? Or mans?
Something in Lachlan snapped. Whatever he thought he was fighting for, whatever dream of freedom or wealth had brought him there burst, and there was nothing in its place. He did not care about Ajrah; he did not care about Jerusalem. He only wanted to go home, back to his family, back to his future wife. He had finally set himself free, free from his delusion.
His comrades went on, but Lachlan remained, consumed with grief and rage. He didn’t know where he was going; just that he could no longer fight in their ranks. He staggered around, wandering the burning city, passing from horror to horror. Men, women and children were being flayed alive, carnage and screams were everywhere. The streets ran ankle-deep with blood.
Finally, he crossed a Christian church. Sanctum Christi. St Paul’s. It almost seemed funny, this... this old tomb was what they were fighting for. This empty block of stone was what they had come to set free.
The church seemed empty, and, desperate for anything, he loosened a gold cross from over an altar and stuffed some trinkets into a pouch. He had earned that much. The cries of more dying men hit him as he stepped outside. Mayhem and was still rampant in the streets. The conquering throng had gone deeper into the streets, cleansing the city of anything infidel. Bloody corpses were scattered everywhere. A few newcomers in fresh armour rushed past him, eager to share the spoils.
There were awful cries of death further up the hill, but Lachlan wasn’t going there. He turned and took a step – the other way. Away from the senseless killing and his comrades in arms. Back towards the city gates.
He would never see Jerusalem in this lifetime.
He was going home.
He lost track of how long it took to get back to the coastline. He wanted to get as far away from his murderous army as he could. After passing Constantinople he was able to strip himself of his bloody armour and donned the clothes of a serf whose corpse he stumbled upon. He was now a deserter. All promises of protection made by the Church were revoked.
Lachlan travelled by night, crossing across the mountains to Acre, a port now held in Christian hands. There, he slept on the docks like a beggar and in listening to the local talk slowly came to realise he could not return to Scotland. Being caught as a deserter was a one way trip to being tried and hanged as a traitor, if he was discovered then Moira and both their families would be forced to suffer for it. It was the hardest choice he ever had to make. England was the next best option. However, he couldn’t just buy his way onto a ship, the country was rife with deserters and why else would an able, penniless man be running from the Holy Land?
Another week passed in desperation before he was found by a half-Arabic woman who introduced herself as Zafirah (Profile Link. Click.) She too claimed to want to escape to England and wept, telling him about her abusive husband and miserable life of servitude. Lachlan was sympathetic despite his by now ingrained distaste for her race, and asked if he could help. The woman came up with the idea to feign that they were married and she was pregnant and they wanted to escape to England for somewhere safe to live in light of the war. Unaware of any other ulterior motives she might have, Lachlan agreed as it provided them both with a way to get to where they needed. He sold the golden cross for a princely sum and bargained their way onto a trading vessel.
Now in England, he used the leftover money to purchase a horse, and Zafirah offered to take him as far as a place called Nottinghamshire. On the way, he met a trader very interested in the numerous Saracen arrowheads and other trinkets he had picked up. He sold a few and was able to get enough to last him nicely for a few months, and even offered a discount on one if he could take the man’s underfed, miserable looking dog too. Despite its conditions, there was a distinct look of spirit in the animal’s eye he couldn’t walk away from. Once they arrived at Nottinghamshire’s outskirts, he parted ways with Zafirah and went off on his own.
Anything else: Owns one dog he picked up from a trader, a large grey scruffy Irish Wolfhound named Huan and a heavily built 16hh half-draft bay roan gelding called Cecil. Also, still has a few leftover items pillaged during the Crusade he can sell if he's in need.
Face Claim: Gerard Butler
RP Sample: Removed, owing to it being a waste of space. (Admin Approved)
Password: Oh, la di ah!
Name: My own, but you may call me Illu. Everyone else does. ^^
Age: 17
How to contact you: MSN & Email, therianthropic@hotmail.com
Role playing experience: Approx 6 years + Admin & Modding
Other Characters on this Site: James Butcher
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Lachlan Mackenzie
Lachlan Mackenzie
About your Character
Name: Lachlan Mackenzie (Lock-lan Mack-en-zee)
Nickname: Come up with your own
Age: 24
Current Location: England
Country of Origin: Scotland
Accent: Scottish
Position: Deserter
Job: Ex-Farrier / Ex-Crusader / Currently Unemployed
Eye Color: Grey
Hair Color: Black
Height: 6 ft 2 in
General Appearance: Lachlan looks a lot older than he is, more early thirties than barely in his twenties. Be this because of an emotional burden, lack of personal care, bad genetics or a combination thereof it’s not really certain. He does have a distinct look of rough keep though. His clothing looks old, usually blacks and greys to hide the dust and certainly isn’t cleaned often; any foul odour is usually masked by the pungent smell of alcohol. His clothing, face and hands often have smudges of dirt from God knows where and he shaves somewhat irregularly.
As far as the rest of him goes, he’s medium height, with black hair rather than the stereotypical red and his eyes are grey. Thanks partially to England’s famous lack of sun and his preference to being indoors his skin tone is bang-on even. Though he looks like once he could have thrown a good punch if he had to, he now bears a distinct look of a criminally malnourished fellow who has only recently been putting some weight back on. There really isn’t a moment when he doesn’t look sleep deprived and inexplicably tense.
If you need a formal means of the identification, his time in the Crusade has given him a large number of scars on his hands and arms as well as two large ones; one on his back and another on the right over his ribs.
Likes:
- Peace and quiet
- Strong alcohols
- Horses
- Being armed
- Knowing what’s happening at all times
Dislikes:
- Large groups of people
- Sudden/loud noises
- The rain
- Saracen men
- Being asleep
- The night
- Armed people
- The dead
- Nobles
- The Crusade
Personality: Those who knew him before his departure to the Holy Land would have probably described an amiable fellow that always smiled, who was confident to the point of recklessness and highly social. Sadly, whoever this man used to be is long gone and replaced by a stranger.
As of late, Lachlan has become a textbook case of full-blown Post Traumatic Stress Disorder. He is plagued with graphic nightmares, avoids anything related to the war and can’t even bring himself to mention it. He is scared of losing control in any given situation and can become violent when certain things don’t go his way. Sleep deprivation is taking a toll on his health thanks to a constant state of hyper-vigilance, and he has trouble in social situations due to a sensation of detachment from mankind. He can no longer focus on certain tasks and becomes obsessive with others. Though the thought has never directly crossed his mind, he has the feeling his life will be cut short in one way or another and as such cannot envision or strive for a future for himself. Despite his numerous problems, he's not a coward because of it.
Other than his clinical symptoms, he’s highly intuitive and has a good eye for detail. Lachlan always attempts to be as polite and friendly as possible as he can in an attempt to seem more normal, yet he never genuinely smiles, doesn’t laugh and has a constant pessimism which can really kill a mood. You can still see signs of his old chirpy, charismatic self if you strike up the right topic, though it’s becoming more and more fleeting.
The alcohol changes everything again. He’s taken to a strict drinking routine as is it is the only thing that works in stopping the nightmares. He’s not a happy drunk in the least, and you can usually tell when he’s had something by the sudden spike in irritability. In fact, when he’s completely off his face almost anything will trigger a flying rage that he’s certain to regret the next day. Still, he always comes back for more, better that than the nightmares.
Those he truly gets along with the best are his two animals, the horse in particular. He knows well the mind of a prey animal, almost having one himself. The constant fear, the lurking threat of attack be it real or imagined, and the inability to sleep well at night.
Family:
Caelin Mackenzie – Father
Ansleigh Cunningham - Mother
Like Family:
Moira Douglas - Ex-Fiancée
TL;DR History: (For those who don’t care to read the full version below.) Went on the crusade with promise of freedom and fortune but found only horror and death. He got as far as Ajrah, then overcome by what he had seen tried to go home. He couldn't go back to Scotland as he was a deserter, so he teamed up with a woman named Zafirah to go to England and they arrived at Nottinghamshire together and parted ways.
Background: He was twenty two when the call to the Crusade first came to his small corner of the world. A rabble of men led by a short monk on a mule arrived, calling everyone capable to bear the cross to follow in Gods quest to rid the Holy Land of the infidel Saracen.
Lands that were once milk and honey ran with the blood of Christian sacrifice, Holy Churches burned and looted, sainted sites destroyed. They were promised riches, spoils, honour in battle, protection for the families who remained behind, and an eternity in Heaven at the feet of the Lord. But most of all: Freedom, freedom from servitude, freedom to live life how one willed. No more Liege Lords, no more taxes, no more allotments. They would go to France to join their colossal armies, and the Crusade would be unstoppable. “Join us,” many from the ranks called out loudly, “Kill the Pagans, and sit with the Lord in Heaven!” Many people Lachlan knew all his life, some just boys, ran to get their possessions and merged into the ranks. Farewelling Moira, his fiancée of three years, he soon fell in among them, reassuring her that this would secure their future forever. “I’ll be back in a year,” he promised.
It was ten long months of marching after reaching the European coast - months so long and gruelling, so lacking in all provision, he could mark them only by the sores oozing on his feet and the lice growing in his beard. They marched through the Alps and Maritimes, then into the craggy mountains of Serbia – each step treacherous, ripe with ambush. Many a loyal soul eager to fight for the glory of God was swept screaming into vast crevasses or dropped by a Serb or Magyar arrow months before the first sign of a fight. All along, they were told the greater armies lay months ahead, slaughtering infidels and hoarding the spoils while the nobles of Lachlan’s company sat bickering and the commoners like himself trudged like beaten livestock in the blistering heat and cold, and bargained for what little food there was.
At Civetot was the first sign of the enemy. A few straggling horsemen, turbaned and cloaked in robes ringed the ranks, lofting some harmless arrows then fleeing into the hills, like children after hurling stones. Civetot seemed deserted as they arrived. However, on the outskirts a grim odour pressed on everyone’s noses. Lachlan knew the scent from burying the dead, but it was magnified a thousand times. First he thought it was just slaughtered livestock, or offal, but as they got closer they saw Civetot was smoking like burning cinders.
When they entered, there were corpses everywhere. A sea of naked body parts: heads severed and gawking, limbs cut off and piled like wood, blood drenching the parched earth, men and women hacked up like diseased stock, torsos naked and disembowelled, heads charred and roasted, hung up on spears. Red crosses were smeared all over the walls – in blood. Lachlan wasn’t the only one to turn away and puke his guts onto the now red sand.
Out of the trees some stragglers appeared. Their clothing was charred and tattered, their skin dark with blood and filth. They all bore the wide-eyed, hollow look of men who have seen the worst atrocities and somehow lived. It was impossible to tell if they were Christian or Saracen.
That night they slowly told the story, the dead men before them where not infidels, but crusaders. The fortress lacked all water; after an early victory they were simply waited out by the Seljuk horde and slaughtered to a man.
A nauseating anger boiled up in Lachlan’s stomach. He stood up and excused himself to his friends and wandered to the edge of the camp. It took six days straight to bury the dead.
In Caesarea, they joined forces with the Dukes of Flanders and Bohemond, two powerful French detachments. Everyone’s spirits were bolstered; the once fledgling troop was now over forty thousand strong. Nothing lay now between them and the Holy Land except the Muslim stronghold of Ajrah. There it was said Christians were being nailed to the city walls and most precious relics of Christendom, a shroud stained by the tears of Mary, and the very lance that pierced the Saviours side on the cross, were being held for ransom. But nothing could prepare them for the hell they were about to face.
First, it was the heat; the most hostile Lachlan had ever felt in his life. The sun became a raging red-eyed demon. Hardened Knights, praised for their valour in battle, howled in anguish, literally boiling in their armour, their fingers blistering at the touch. Men simply fell as they marched, overcome, and were left, uncared for in the places they lay. And then the thirst. Each town was scorched, run dry of provisions by the Saracens themselves. He saw once proud men, now clearly mad, guzzle their own urine as if it were ale. Everyone’s bodies cried but they trudged on; hearts and wills, like the water, slowly depleting.
Jagged mountains then appeared, chillingly steep and dry of all life. Narrow passes, barely wide for a horse and cart cut into the rising peaks. At first, they were glad to leave the inferno but the further they got, a new hell awaited. Sheep, horses, carts overladen with supplies had to be dragged single file and pulled up the steep slope. A mere stumble, a sudden rockslide, and a man disappeared over the edge, sometimes dragging a companion along with him. Each summit cleared brought a new peak, each more deadly than the last.
They came to a high ridge overlooking a vast, bone-white plain and there it was: Ajrah! Beyond that, Jerusalem! Ajrah was a massive walled fortress, seemingly built into a solid mound of rock, the biggest Lachlan had ever seen in his life. The sight sent a chill through his bones. The fortress was built on a sharp rise; hundreds of fortified towers guarded each length of the outer wall that appeared ten feet thick! They had no machines to break such walls, no ladders that could even scale their heights. It seemed impregnable. Knights took off their helmets and surveyed the city in awe. Some crossed themselves. The same sobering thought pounded through each of their minds. They had to take this place.
On approach, they saw large white rocks, spaced at intervals equal to a man’s height before the city. Each one was painted with a bright, red cross. One boy ran ahead to throw one at the walls, and then stopped dead. They were not rocks at all, but skulls. Thousands of them.
There were some fools among them who believed Ajrah would fall in a day. On that first morning they lined up, many thousands strong, a sea of men massing along the eastern wall. The trumpet sounded and they ran, everyone swept up in the tide of the charge. From behind there was a large whoosh as a wave of arrows flew towards the city and fell harmlessly on its massive walls. The return volley came back and men fell, clutching at their heads and necks as blood spurted from their faces and gruesome gasps escaped from their wretched mouths. At the walls heavy rocks and fiery arrows rained down. Men screamed and toppled over, either pierced or trying to beat the flame from their bodies. The first battering ram reached the gates only to be toppled by burning pitch. Men writhed on the ground, kicking and screaming, their tunics ablaze with tar. Those that stopped to help them were only engulfed in the same boiling liquid themselves.
It was a slaughter: men who had travelled so far, endured so much - Gods call beating in their hearts – cut down like limbs of trees. It was only luck to avoid death at any point. Lachlan was sure he would die there too.
The assault turned into a rout and as they fled, the mighty gates opened, unleashing a wave of turbaned Turkish horsemen flashing long, curved swords. They swept upon them like hunters chasing hares, yelping mad cries Lachlan recognised as “Allah akbar!” – God is great. They even ran into large groups of Crusaders as though hell-bent on suicide. Although he had never killed anyone before, that day Lachlan hacked and slashed at any man that came out of those gates as though he had been bred for it.
The siege took months, and for a while it seemed the glorious crusade would end in Ajrah, not Jerusalem. It happened the same way every day. Assault upon assault. Every day that Ajrah held, the crusaders spirited weakened. Food was down to nothing. Even the dogs had been slain with the cattle and oxen. Water was as scarce as wine. Lachlan was only slightly advantaged, with Noblemen sometimes trading a pittance of food for him to tend to the feet of a favoured mount, oftentimes no more than a small piece of stale bread. All the time, rumours reached them of Christians inside the city being tortured, holy relics desecrated.
It was now a year and a half since he had left. Would his family even recognise him now, beared, thin as a pole and blackened with grime and enemy blood? Would they laugh at his jokes and tease him for his innocence after all he had seen and knew? Would his fiancée still stroke his hair, now that it was filled with gore and lice? ‘I’ll be back in a year’. His promise to her was now a mocking refrain in his ears. How far away they all seemed right now.
Word spread from battalion to battalion. “Get ready, full battle gear. We’re going in; tonight.” There was a traitor in the city. Ajrah would fall not by force, but by treachery and greed. A single torch shone from one of the towers. The signal. After this, it was Jerusalem, and freedom! The big bronze gates opened right in front of their eyes but instead of Muslim horseman streaking out, their own conquering army spilled in. English, German, Norman, Spanish, Templar, Tafur and many more, side by side, with one purpose, one mind: “Show them who’s God is one!” the leaders cried.
Everyone made their way helter-skelter through the streets. Buildings were torched. Turbaned men rushed into the street and were cut down in bloody messes before they would even raise their swords. Cries of “Death to the Pagans!” and “Dues Vult” – God wills it – echoed everywhere. Lachlan ran with the pack, with no great malice towards the enemy but fighting whoever confronted him. One defender was cut in half by a might axe-blow. Battle-thirsty men in red tunics lopped off heads and held them aloft as though they were treasure. In front of them, a young woman ran out of a burning house, screaming. She was pounced upon by two marauding Tafurs, who tore the clothes from her body and took turns mounting her in the street. When they were done, they ripped a bronze bracelet from her wrist and bludgeoned her lifeless. In her fist there was clutched a small cross. Lachlan took a sharp intake of breath. Good Lord, she was Christian.
All around madness and lunacy boiled out of control. Red-crossed soldiers stormed through the streets, running from house to house, looting, and burning. Children wailed for their mothers before being tossed into the raging flames like kindling. Crusaders, mad with greed, slaughtered Christian and infidel alike, stuffing anything of value into their filthy robes.
What kind of God inspired such horror? Was this Gods fault? Or mans?
Something in Lachlan snapped. Whatever he thought he was fighting for, whatever dream of freedom or wealth had brought him there burst, and there was nothing in its place. He did not care about Ajrah; he did not care about Jerusalem. He only wanted to go home, back to his family, back to his future wife. He had finally set himself free, free from his delusion.
His comrades went on, but Lachlan remained, consumed with grief and rage. He didn’t know where he was going; just that he could no longer fight in their ranks. He staggered around, wandering the burning city, passing from horror to horror. Men, women and children were being flayed alive, carnage and screams were everywhere. The streets ran ankle-deep with blood.
Finally, he crossed a Christian church. Sanctum Christi. St Paul’s. It almost seemed funny, this... this old tomb was what they were fighting for. This empty block of stone was what they had come to set free.
The church seemed empty, and, desperate for anything, he loosened a gold cross from over an altar and stuffed some trinkets into a pouch. He had earned that much. The cries of more dying men hit him as he stepped outside. Mayhem and was still rampant in the streets. The conquering throng had gone deeper into the streets, cleansing the city of anything infidel. Bloody corpses were scattered everywhere. A few newcomers in fresh armour rushed past him, eager to share the spoils.
There were awful cries of death further up the hill, but Lachlan wasn’t going there. He turned and took a step – the other way. Away from the senseless killing and his comrades in arms. Back towards the city gates.
He would never see Jerusalem in this lifetime.
He was going home.
He lost track of how long it took to get back to the coastline. He wanted to get as far away from his murderous army as he could. After passing Constantinople he was able to strip himself of his bloody armour and donned the clothes of a serf whose corpse he stumbled upon. He was now a deserter. All promises of protection made by the Church were revoked.
Lachlan travelled by night, crossing across the mountains to Acre, a port now held in Christian hands. There, he slept on the docks like a beggar and in listening to the local talk slowly came to realise he could not return to Scotland. Being caught as a deserter was a one way trip to being tried and hanged as a traitor, if he was discovered then Moira and both their families would be forced to suffer for it. It was the hardest choice he ever had to make. England was the next best option. However, he couldn’t just buy his way onto a ship, the country was rife with deserters and why else would an able, penniless man be running from the Holy Land?
Another week passed in desperation before he was found by a half-Arabic woman who introduced herself as Zafirah (Profile Link. Click.) She too claimed to want to escape to England and wept, telling him about her abusive husband and miserable life of servitude. Lachlan was sympathetic despite his by now ingrained distaste for her race, and asked if he could help. The woman came up with the idea to feign that they were married and she was pregnant and they wanted to escape to England for somewhere safe to live in light of the war. Unaware of any other ulterior motives she might have, Lachlan agreed as it provided them both with a way to get to where they needed. He sold the golden cross for a princely sum and bargained their way onto a trading vessel.
Now in England, he used the leftover money to purchase a horse, and Zafirah offered to take him as far as a place called Nottinghamshire. On the way, he met a trader very interested in the numerous Saracen arrowheads and other trinkets he had picked up. He sold a few and was able to get enough to last him nicely for a few months, and even offered a discount on one if he could take the man’s underfed, miserable looking dog too. Despite its conditions, there was a distinct look of spirit in the animal’s eye he couldn’t walk away from. Once they arrived at Nottinghamshire’s outskirts, he parted ways with Zafirah and went off on his own.
Anything else: Owns one dog he picked up from a trader, a large grey scruffy Irish Wolfhound named Huan and a heavily built 16hh half-draft bay roan gelding called Cecil. Also, still has a few leftover items pillaged during the Crusade he can sell if he's in need.
Face Claim: Gerard Butler
RP Sample: Removed, owing to it being a waste of space. (Admin Approved)
Password: Oh, la di ah!
