[Dark Ages] Between Heaven and Hell
Jan. 23rd, 2011 08:01 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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writing_shadows((Some IC impressions of Dark Ages. Apologies to anyone whose characters I have shoe-horned into a brief sentence, thanks for a fun game))
Across the seas, in the far off lands of Outremer, lonely Acre stands resolute. It is a city caught in the twilight of the world, where Heaven, Hell and our own pathetic existence mix into a heady wine that all must drink deep.
It is a citadel that knows the truth of itself. Built in a land of relentless heat, surrounded by a harbour brimming with broken ships and shit, even the towers bear the names of the unique mix of wretchedness on the edge of the divine: the Towers of St Nicholas and St Anthony sit alongside the Accursed Tower, and the Tower of Flies.
In Acre, noble sons mix with the chattel of the lower classes. All life is there, all in its magnificent spectrum of individuality. A visitor may arrive at any point, be he an impoverished noble seeking wealth and prosperity in a new world; a proud warrior still living in past glory; or an enigmatic foreign power yet to fully reveal himself. Once there, he is engulfed in the deadly games of that Holy land.
First, the table of nobility. While the lords sit in corners and play games of chess with men’s lives – as is their right – lesser games are played by the high born. There are the creatures of court, chiming in with barbed wit and counseling war or peace as they choose; there are the warriors already proven, steadfast and less boastful than those yet to be sated by Infidel blood; there are the Venetians or Genoans, richly adorned in finery and power, who openly admit to trading with heathens should it benefit their own purses; and there are the men to watch, those whose daggers will be quick and relentless if they wish to turn them on you.
And always, desperate to feed on the scraps of their betters, swarm the villiens. They, too, come in all forms: the mad priests, preaching sermons of relentless hate, never doubting the Word, never flinching from their duty to Christ; the true believer, clutching to a relic with filth-caked fingertips, none willing to ask the nit-strewn simpleton from whose pocket he lifted it; the exotic women, both mysterious and alluring, unbowed by wealth or status, fierce and glowering in their independence.
It has been many days since I left that harbour on the shores of the Kingdom of Heaven. A lifetime of memory and incident has drifted between that strange land and I. Throughout my travels, both in life and death, I had wondered if I would ever see that mix of paradise and purgatory again.
I didn’t expect to find it all lurking in the shadows of Canterbury’s walls.
Across the seas, in the far off lands of Outremer, lonely Acre stands resolute. It is a city caught in the twilight of the world, where Heaven, Hell and our own pathetic existence mix into a heady wine that all must drink deep.
It is a citadel that knows the truth of itself. Built in a land of relentless heat, surrounded by a harbour brimming with broken ships and shit, even the towers bear the names of the unique mix of wretchedness on the edge of the divine: the Towers of St Nicholas and St Anthony sit alongside the Accursed Tower, and the Tower of Flies.
In Acre, noble sons mix with the chattel of the lower classes. All life is there, all in its magnificent spectrum of individuality. A visitor may arrive at any point, be he an impoverished noble seeking wealth and prosperity in a new world; a proud warrior still living in past glory; or an enigmatic foreign power yet to fully reveal himself. Once there, he is engulfed in the deadly games of that Holy land.
First, the table of nobility. While the lords sit in corners and play games of chess with men’s lives – as is their right – lesser games are played by the high born. There are the creatures of court, chiming in with barbed wit and counseling war or peace as they choose; there are the warriors already proven, steadfast and less boastful than those yet to be sated by Infidel blood; there are the Venetians or Genoans, richly adorned in finery and power, who openly admit to trading with heathens should it benefit their own purses; and there are the men to watch, those whose daggers will be quick and relentless if they wish to turn them on you.
And always, desperate to feed on the scraps of their betters, swarm the villiens. They, too, come in all forms: the mad priests, preaching sermons of relentless hate, never doubting the Word, never flinching from their duty to Christ; the true believer, clutching to a relic with filth-caked fingertips, none willing to ask the nit-strewn simpleton from whose pocket he lifted it; the exotic women, both mysterious and alluring, unbowed by wealth or status, fierce and glowering in their independence.
It has been many days since I left that harbour on the shores of the Kingdom of Heaven. A lifetime of memory and incident has drifted between that strange land and I. Throughout my travels, both in life and death, I had wondered if I would ever see that mix of paradise and purgatory again.
I didn’t expect to find it all lurking in the shadows of Canterbury’s walls.
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Date: 2011-01-23 08:40 pm (UTC)Also, Mark says would you mind if he posted this on the Dark Ages wiki? We have a character fic section there...
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Date: 2011-01-23 09:07 pm (UTC)I have posted it on the wiki, as requested.
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Date: 2011-01-23 11:14 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2011-01-24 10:17 am (UTC)Although I would like to go on record saying Michael did not steal the Bible...
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Date: 2011-01-24 10:24 am (UTC)My arrogant, condescending alter-ego, on the other hand, suspects you're probably a thief. :)
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Date: 2011-01-25 02:29 am (UTC)