Crusader Quest: Deus Vult

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Through out the night the fires of Ascalon burned, a hard red glow on the horizon. Flames licked up behind the towering walls of the sea-side fortress, and the anguished cries of the defenders rang out. Men and women screamed, children wailed, and there was the distinct crack and collapse of homes taken by the fire, bowing inward as their supports were eaten away.

The Christian camp sat a watch upon the inferno, launched as it was from the great arms of their war machines. They chanted holy verse loud as they could, or blew horns and beat drums, they made a racket of holy noise to keep the Saracen awake and frightened. Those Christians who did not join this noisome watch, this celebratory vigil on the fires of the alien city, slept the night away.

On watch on the western edge of the camp were men of Tripoli, old campaigners of Northern Jerusalem. One yawned into his hand, eyes gummy, waiting for his shift to end so he might curl up in his tent with his plump seamstress. His neighbour hung almost half asleep on his spear, a younger man confident of their security at this distant perimeter.

Such youthful arrogance could lead to danger for all...

> roll 1d100, best of three

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Rolled 36 (1d100)

DEUS VULT

FOR JERUSALEM

Rolled 42 (1d100)

Malik comin to fuck up our shit.

Rolled 58 (1d100)

Rolled 23 (1d100)

'tis not be a good sign. rolls are meh.

LORD PRESERVE US

Either Malik pulled one on us or the walls are bloody tough

The boy yawned.

An axe came out from the the night, end over end. The boy dropped with a scream, the axe tearing open his face. The gummy eyed man was at once awake, spear ready, shield up.

"Christ be damned, attack!" he screamed as turbaned men came slinking fast out of the dark, spears, swords, axes and clubs in hand, "Attack!" He thrust his spear forth to see it knocked aside by a sword. A club came down upon his head, turning his legs to jelly. He fell with a groan, knees slamming into the dirt.

"Takbir!" fire brands were lit. He saw a big man, bearded, black faced in the dark, the light throwing gold shade across his face. He groaned in horror as the man leveled pointed sword. "Death to the infidel," the man said in Broken Greek, and the sword thrust forth, spitting the Tripolian man-at-arms.

-

You are Wilhelm, Lord of Ramla, and the scream of 'Attack!' roused you. Your concubine Chihirizahd rolled away from you as you sat up, her eyes wide with fright. Nude, she slipped from your bed to fetch your sword as you still struggled with your blankets. From out of the camp a dark boy, your squire Alexius, ducked in.

"My lord, my lord!" he gave a panicked cry, though his eyes went wide on the sight of Chihirizahd's form, clad only in the sword she clutched.

"I know boy, I know, fetch my maille," you said, shamelessly nude as well. The boy went to your chest and drew it out, along with your surcoat and lion helm. He fussed nervously at the pools of intricate metal weave in his fingers. "Easy Alexius, breathe slow, deep," you advised. The boy nodded, thumbing the metal, doing as you said while you drew on a plain white doublet. Over it with Alexius' help you pulled on your maille, the length dropping to your knees. You pulled on a padded cap, then over it a coif of mail, at last mounting it with your lion's helm.

You reached out toward Chihirizahd, who gave you your damascene sword, then she pulled herself against your chest and drew from you a deep kiss.

"Be safe master," she said, stepping away lightly. You nodded, looking to Alexius, the boy you called shit-for-brains. His dark face was narrowed with terror.

"Ready lad?" you asked. He nodded but choked on a frightened sob. You stepped out of your tent. Sabeen was armoured, ready, and Hugo beside her. Solomon stood with Tancred, Franz and Etienne. Orlando and Sir Hector were still arming themselves.

Your body of troops were gathering, men-at-arms and gentleborn knights clustering. From the camp you could hear screams, and the sound of fighting. The glow behind Ascalon's walls was being answered by flames mounting in your own camp, tents set ablaze, horses screaming their inhuman terror as they burned in their tethers.

"Orders my lord?" Etienne asked, drawing his sword. Jacques was beside him, grim with a spear in hand.

> give your orders, send men to do the following:

> priority targets are as follows:
> the Queen
> the war machines
> the camp at large
> your own camp

>The War Machines
>The Camp at Large
>The Queen
>Your Own Camp

>> the Queen
>> the war machines
Etienne and half the men got to Queen the rest under Wilhelm go to the warmachines.

> the war machines
> your own camp

send unarmed servants to alert the other camps priority one the queen

seconding

Are we supposed to list in priority or just say where to send them out of that list.

This

The queen can look after herself, her guards will be focused on only protecting her.

We should look to repel the attack and defend the war machines.

Lost my trip.

Where to send them.

> the war machines

I'll elaborate very quickly, but the point isn't to pick one or two options and go whole hog. Pick characters to fill certain tasks, because if you don't send at least one of your characters to do a task there are potentially devastating consequences.

That is unless you are comfortable with leaving your personal camp unprotected.

about how many troops are available to us and how far away are the War Machines from our camp?

have Tancred rally our camp while Ettienne takes some men to secure the Queen, Solobro will come with us to the war machines while Orlando tries to organize with the rest of the camp

really how far away are all of these options, for now we should protect our personal camp, gather troops and prepare for a counter assault.

Solomon and Hugo to the queen, if something befalls her we are in deep shit, yes she's at the center of the camp but her tent is obvious and her moral worth is undeniable

Etienne and our best men to the Engines we MUST save what we can before they are unsalvagable, furthermore we should protect our camp as much as possible, anyone with half a brain knows we're in charge of things and if we're fucked everything is fucked

the rest of the camp can look after themselves

Ah cool, thanks HF.

Sabeen and her Lancers are to defend our camp. I'd not risk them running off into the night where some idiot might mistake them for the enemy. Our foreign friends should also remain the defend our camp.

Valeran of Gascony and Solomon along with his wing of troops under him are to move to repel the attack.

Arnold of Nassau and Etienne should rally their men to defend our war machines.

Hugo, Tancred and our own personal retinue should go to defend the Queen.

supporting this.

user at least try and not samefag, I mean you make good points but still.

not me, mate

Also supportin'

"Sabeen, you and your men guard the camp," you ordered, "Protect our people." Chihirizahd ducked out from your tent dressed in a plain white shift. Father Desmond, the servants, all clustered around her.

"Sir," Sabeen drew her sword, face iron, her lancers doing the same around her.

You looked to others, to the commanders of your forces. "Valeran," the Frenchman stepped forward, strapping his shield, "Take your men, take Solomon and all your troops, and get out there. Drive these bastards off."

The Frenchman grinned, drawing his sword and saluting. "Oui mon signeur," he said with a courtly bow, then turned and barked French at his soldiers. Solomon drew on his nasal bar helm, drew his shotel.

"See you at dawn," he said, thumping your chest.

"Fight hard," you replied, hitting him back. He chuckled, giving low sweeps of his inward curving sword.

"Arnold, Etienne," the German and your major-domo stepped forward, "Get to the warmachines, make sure they are unmolested and kill any bastard that gets in your way."

"Sir," Arnold clicked his heels.

"Your will, my lord," Etienne replied, securing the strap of his helm, "Came, Jacques." He strode forward, spurs clicking, his gambeson clad squire a quick step behind him.

"What about us? Hugo asked, leaning on his spear. You looked to Tancred and your Ramlan men, to Franz and Orlando and Sir Hector.

"We get the best job," you said, "We go to protect the Queen." Tancred's lantern jaw lowered as he gave a toothy grin, and Hugo's face went resolute. Orlando looked ill, but drew his sword.

"Well then let's not wait," Sir Hector said, "Time is pressing."

Before you left you saw Hugo give Sabeen a last kiss, his thumb trailing her cheek. She kissed him again, a fast but heavy kiss, before they separated and he followed after you.

"Let's go," you said, striding toward the high white peak of the Queen's camp, path lit by burning tents.

> roll 1d100, best of three

Rolled 19 (1d100)

god willing

Rolled 1 (1d100)

Rolled 20 (1d100)

>20 is highest

Fuck this shit. I am so going to bed. My heart cannot take it.

I'll be right back.

...are these good or bad rolls?

oh god

someones getting raped I can tell, dont even have an appropriate reaction for how much of an Adult Im going to need.

Jesus christ HF please be fucking merciful we only just started the thread

Queen is captured and raped, Orlando is dead and so i solomon, Wilhelm is dead and Mathilde raped and dead.

Everyone is being raped and dead.

Rolled 65 (1d100)

Hopefully the worst thing that happens is that Wilhelm almost dies. And has to be out of comission for a long while.

>these rolls

Rolled 17 (1d100)

Let's get a act of God to happen

its like CQ never went on hiatus.

May-maybe Wilhelm is the only one who dies or almost dies and we play as Hugo or Mathilde for a while.

please let us Salvage something from this,at least on a few of the Individual paths

fucking hell this may just be the worst thing to happen since the fucking Zoe incident

Rolled 55 (1d100)

>tfw Welf isn't here to save us

I need an adult

>chiri will lose her husbando

Wilhelm is going to lose an eye or an arm

youtube.com/watch?v=4zLfCnGVeL4

youtube.com/watch?v=2KYYVrBX4v0

RIP Orlando

oh god

You strode through the burning camp, the shouts, the clash of steel on steel, the screams in languages alien to your ears. Not just men but the camp followers. You gazed on in shock as a woman camp bursting from a burning tent, her hair ablaze, her clothes on fire. She hit the dirt tearing at the cloth, scratching at her hair, screaming to Christ in heaven. It turned your stomach, but you could do nothing for the poor woman.

A Saracen, turbaned and armoured, came running forth with an axe in one hand, hide shield in the other. You stopped his axe blow with a simple parry, Hugo darting in to gore him with his spear. He swung again for you. Tancred ended him with an axe blow to the back of his neck. The big Frank spat on the dead Muslim. You strode on.

The Queen's camp had been hit fast, you heard the fighting before you saw it. Men lay dead in groups of two or three, cut down from every angle, blood pools around your feet as you pass them. You stop at the sight of Old Theodore on his knees. It takes you a moment to note the severed arm, the arrows in his back, the skin hanging in bloody flaps from his face. He had died with spear unbloodied, broken at his knees.

"The Queen," you thought, then said "Mathilde!"

You ran, your men ran with you. The sound of fighting all around, a scream. You saw the body of a maiden in blue and your heart stopped, til the flick of camp fire showed her locks to be light brown and not black. You breathed relief, but turned your eyes again, hunting for the foe, for sight of your sister and your queen.

They stood at her tent, the Queen armoured, spear in hand, your sister beside her with sword and shield, one-eyed Batard and a trio of men-at-arms. They were a thicket of spears, holding back a press of Saracens. All clad in dark shades, armed with weapons for raiding rather than pitched battle. Cudgels, hatchets, short blades. One threw his cudgel with such force it brained a man-at-arms, smashing inward his helm.

The Queen's gold hair was a banner in the firelight, unbound around her shoulders, a mane around her snarling face, armoured in her white-gold maille, fighting with spear meant more for show than combat. Your sister was her small dark shadow, fearfully beating away probing attacks.

You pointed your sword and gave a shout. "The Queen, Melisende, Melisende!" you roared, leaping forward, your men surging around you.

The Saracens turned to meet your charge and at once you were thick to your arms in battle, striking out at every side. Pain lanced across your face and you howled. Men fell around you, friend and foe alike. You could only focus on the fight in front of you, hacking your way forward, Damascus blade shearing through wood like paper, cleaving deep into hide bucklers and punching through heathen armour.

You broke through the Saracen cluster, stumbling to the line of the Queen's defenders, gasping for air as if you'd breached the waves of the sea. Melisende took you in her arms, her eyes gleaming from the firelight. She turned you to face the foe.

"The fight is not yet done my lord," she said, and with you walked towards the fight.

You saw Orlando drop with a hideous scream, and Sir Hector step above his body, lashing out with leopard quickness, the arc of his blade clearing space. Hugo, Tancred and Franz fought back to back as men-at-arms, boys you had brought from Ramla, fell screaming beneath Saracen knives. There was a woosh as the queen's tent went up in flames behind you, startling the men. You looked around bewildered.

"I am the scourge of God!" a man stepped forward, a bearded, big man, grinning wickedly.

"Nabil," your sister said. The traitor assassin.

You moved toward him. He checked your blow, you parried his. You saw Hector collapse back, coughing on a sword point driven into his chest. Damn it all!

Nabil's eyes flicked to the combat ranging and he grinned. "You shall be punished for your sins," he said, and threw his sword at you, darting away into the camp. You knocked it aside, started after him, but tripped. Your chest slammed into the dirt and you looked back to see a dying Saracen grabbing your ankles. Your sister moved above him, finishing the man with a thrust to the neck. The fight still raged around you.

Tancred's axe drew a bloody arc in the night. Hugo's spear darted, teeth grit, face running with blood. Franz looked grey and old. Your sister stood over you with the eyes of a hawk, mouth puckered in cold fury.

> follow Nabil
> stay here and protect the queen

we have to lose somebody
I kinda hope its Sir Hector desu

>> stay here and protect the queen

>> stay here and protect the queen

>Theodore
>Orlando

NOOOOOOOO

oh fuck Orlando ;.;

> follow Nabil

>> stay here and protect the queen

>Theodore, Orlando and Hector

Fucking hell, nooooo

Rolled 69 (1d100)

>> follow Nabil

VENGEANCE FOR ORLANDO!

NO MORE FROM THE SARACEN!

>> stay here and protect the queen

> stay here and protect the queen

> stay here and protect the queen
where are our physicians? go send for them and secure the area.

Will got himself a nasty wound on his face

so we're agreed that the gloves are off right?

>Orlando
>Theodore

Malik had his chance let's burn this city to the ground

this, one of our companions might only be mostly dead.

So should we use the dead to bombard the city?

It will at least serve as a morale drainer and help spread disease

hector also has a sword through him fuck.

Its war though. We'd still give his crew fair passage but gloves off for the rest.

Heads and bodies.

But right now I'm afraid we might have more christian dead then saracen.

all the same for us to return the favour tenfold, oh boy I hope the chance for vengeance comes soon.

Im annoyed no one wants to end Nabil though

Because the Queen is far more important. Gotta keep her alive, get healers to our wounded.

Did we just get our face slashed open ?

probably, we von Doom now!

shhh no tears only sleep

We did.

Probably a chuuni scar.

Hopefully, but knowing this quest not bloody likely

If its not a chuuni scar, we're gonna be missing an eye or something.

You do not give chase. Mathilde helps you to your feet. You brush her hair as you stand, staggering away from her to the queen. She and Bayard were in the thick of it, crashing against the men encircling your own, her surviving men-at-arms joining her in the assault. She was no natural born warrior, but the sight of her beauty thrown into the danger of combat emboldened the men around her. You felt a stirring in yourself, and staggered into the fight, tackling aside a Muslim that tried to flank her.

The fighting does not last much longer, the few Saracens standing taking the example of the Assassin and fleeing into the camp. Your sword drops from limp fingers and your hands comes up to the pain lacing your face, eyes moving along the ground of the queen's camp.

"Who lives?" you said, "Call out if you stand."

"I'm here," Tancred.

"Standing," Hugo.

"Barely," Franz with a wheeze.

"I'm not dead yet," Hector climbed to his knees, teeth grit, a small hole punched in his maille. He knelt beside Orlando. "He needs a surgeon, Mohmed, or Ibrahim," his free hand gripped Orlando's tabard.

You stumbled over to them. Orlando's face was pale, mouth open, body shaking. He didn't need a surgeon, he needed a priest.

"Wil," his voice strained through his dying body, eyes flickering. You dropped to a knee.

"I'm here," you said, taking off your helm, taking off his. You drew his head into your lap.

Orlando gave a weak smile, blood on his teeth. "Are they safe, Wil?" he asked, "Is the queen..."

"She lives," you said, stroking back his matted blond hair. He smiled.

"Did I..." he choked, smacked his lips, "Was I worthy? To call you friend."

"You're my friend Orlando, a worthy friend," you hugged him close.

"I'm sorry I...I'm sorry..." he gasped, body shook in your arms, then he lay still, eyes staring up unseeing, mouth half-open.

You closed his eyes, lowered him to the dirt with a kiss on his brow. "Rest in God's love," you said. You were shaking now, tears running down your face.

The Queen had taken command, arranged to have fires smothered or doused, had the wounded carried, fetched her personal physician. She came to you and raised your head with a touch to your shoulder.

"You need care," she said, not quite touching the ravage done to your cheek. You nodded dumbly, rising to your feet. Hector and Hugo both wept openly, your brother covering his eyes with his arm but his shoulders shaking, Hector just staring at his dead friend.

Tancred went from Saracen to Saracen, making sure they were dead with a thump of his axe. You made no move to stop him.

The fighting in the camp ceased. Soon enough someone would have to take stock of the damage, but for now you were given over to the care of the queen's personal physician, a dusky man with a gloomy eye.

> roll 1d100, best of three +20

Rolled 38 (1d100)

death to the Saracen

Rolled 75 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

AAA

DEATH TO THE FUCKING FOLLOWERS OF ALLAH

Rolled 17 (1d100)

Rolled 62 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

Rolled 13 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

a pox on their souls.

Rolled 84 + 20 (1d100 + 20)

Good roll
>95

I hope Orlando will say hi to welf when he meets him for us

Orlando, you will be fucking missed. Should have left him behind at our camp.

so we were going to do this honourably but that just got thrown out the window.

how do we do this
Stealth Invasion by boat?
Flamethrower when we breach with a siege tower?

I just hope this is the worst of it...

We will throw dead animals and corpses over the walls.

Flamethrower with siege tower was always going to be a thing.

We will also catapult launch saracen heads at them.

And then we will launch saracen headless bodies at them.

that doesn't seem like enough though, we were hit hard and the lust for revenge doesn't seem to be sated by just that

I wonder what the chances of a flamethrower burning our siege towers down is?

Goddamnit Orlando you piece of shit. Cant you do anything right ?

Just goddamn you...

Say hi to Welf from us...

>Implying he didn't die like a fucking champ

I know we talked shit about Orlando but I will fight you user

He didn't live. I just wish he'd not died.

We had plans for him. Plans with a high rank, where he would help manage ascelon. Damn you Orlando for wrecking them.

I didnt want him to die at all. I wanted him to stay in Ramla and made sure everything was runnin smoothly

The physician laced up the side of your face, cleaning reattaching the skin. It pulled a little at your mouth, but he assured you it would cause no deformity, though it would leave you with a scar that went from cheek to jaw.

"An inch higher and you may have lost an eye," the physician said, clapping your shoulder as he went to se other, worse off men.

"Can't recommend that," Bayard thumbed the black patched that covered half his face. The man needed a shave, his jaw was covered in patchy brown whiskers.

"You did well out there," you said, "Protecting my sister."

"Just doing as I was told," he said, drawing a water skin from his belt. He took a mouthful then offered it to you. It was like the headiest liquor after all that, delicious down your throat. You gave it back, and he went to check on your sister, who sat upon a chair staring across at the battlements of Ascalon. He touched her shoulder, she gave him a tired smile.

Dawn was breaking on the horizon. Your men were making a litter to carry Orlando. Tancred and Franz, Hugo and Hector, an honour guard for your friend. Not the first you had lost, you hoped it would be the last. You looked to Ascalon's battlements, the flutter of Saracen banners on the wind.

Your queen came to you, running a hand over her face. "I'm calling a council to take stock," she said, "You will be there." It was not a question. You rose from your seat. Grief hung upon her eyes, and you saw Old Theodore's body wrapped in cloth, wrapped by her own hand.

"You did well," you said. The sight of her fighting, it had been quite an image.

"I did what I had to do," she replied. "We will repay them ten fold for this," she said, fist clenched by her side.

A horse galloped up, Valeran of Gascony upon it, "The camp is secure my lord."

"Any dead?" you asked.

"A few, not many," his eyes searched your own party, taking notes.

"The war machines?" you asked.

"They burned a trebuchet, that is all," he said, "Arnold took injury but lives."

"And our people?" that worried you most, but you were answered by the march of Sabeen through the camp, her lancers behind her.

She thumped her chest, spear straight at her side. "Ramla stands!" she called.

The call was carried. "Galilee stands!" "Jaffa stands!" "Maine stands!" "Foix stands!" "Tripoli stands!" "Sidon stands!" and so on, until the Queen herself stepped forward.

"Jerusalem stands!" she called, and a cheer went up from the camp, a cry of 'God wills it!' and the drumming of spears on shields.

The Lords of the camp were gathering, some wounded, others not. Count Foix clutched his belly, while Elias looked fresh save a bloody streak on his chin. Raymond of Tripoli stood with his father, swords bloody, gore up to their arms. Raymond grinned wildly.

"What now, my lady?" you looked up to the Queen.

She gave breath. "We rest, continue the bombardment of the walls, and prepare for an assault on the morrow. This attack must be answered." She looked to you for validation.

> sounds good
> offer an alternative (write-in)

> sounds good
> offer an alternative (write-in)

"I want the heads of the saracens removed.

We never invited them to our camp. We should send them back."

We'll send their disfigured and maimed bodies and heads back at them.