| Laures, Fida'i of Alamut |
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| Awaiting picture of Laures |
| Life bestowed itself upon Laures in Moorish Grenada. Born to a General in the city's grand army, destiny had a fairly laid out its path before a choice could be made. His brothers would grow to become local religious leaders, but the first born, Laures, was doomed to follow in his father's footsteps. Years of schooling granted Laures a brilliant mind, but his schooling was cut short after the Christian crusades lay their blade upon the Moors. Torn from his studies, Laures was forced to join the army. His tantalizing intellect and seemingly innate ability with a blade quickly drew him through the ranks, eventually becoming a batallion commander. Little free time was granted to him, but with what time he was given, he was able to marry and have a son.
After a two years of mild squabbles with the Christians, a day came when the true battle began. For weeks the brave Moors fought off the Christian forces, and eventually pushed them back. At least for the time being. Unfortunately(and unknowingly), however, Laures had taken the life of a high ranking warrior in the Christian armies. This would come back to haunt him twice.... The first such instance would come only days after the bloodiest scuffle in the war thus far. For in the middle of the night, the Christians infiltrated Laures' and his family's modest home, setting it ablaze and charring it to the ground. Luckily, he and his family escaped unharmed. After this, Laures decided to take his family away from this mess, and from the war. He would take them to a place where he believed no one would find him. The Christians, as they called themselves(Ventrue, in reality), would not allow him rest, for vengeance to these kindred was nearly as sweet as the blood upon which it is wrought. Their beheaded compadre would need to be avenged. Little did Laures know of their abilities to collect information, and after a year or so of his new nomadic lifestyle, fate would again come calling, in the form of horsemen in the night. 'The distance between the hilt and tip shall be judged by your flesh. Ride now or learn this truth.' The words echoed in the silence of the desert. Laures dark eyes stared unwaveringly at the masked riders. His blade stood steady, awaiting the first hint of agression. Behind him, his wife and child huddled together, shivering either from the cold desert night, or from the fear which crept up with the riders. Torchlight flickered on Laures stoic, dark skinned face, his henna tattoos barely visible in the darkness. The robes adorning him swayed loosely in the breeze, coiling seductively with the dancing of the torches. 'Trouble me no more. I have left Grenada and your holy war and seek no more bloodshed.' The riders, laughing, left him alone that night. Eight days later, Laures found that their peaceful leaving was merely a ruse to allow their attack its stealth... Laures awoke to a warm feeling on his face and the sound of a gurgling brook. Upon opening his eyes, the warmth that for a moment felt so soothing showed its true face. A few shakes and another coughing gurgle and his wife, who lay next to him, took her last breath, spitting and coughing the last blood her heart would pump- into the air in a crimson geyser. Behind her, the tent, slashed open, flapped in the breeze. Before the sleep had even cleared his mind, Laures shattered the rattling silence with a blood piercing cry. He stood quickly, looking next to his wife at his four year old son, whose fate shown the same as his mothers. Beside him lay a shield bearing the inscription 'Regere Sanguine, Regere In Veritatem Est' (Ventrue slogan, unknown to him 'to rule by blood is to rule by truth'). Left to mark the owners of the deed, the inscription would never leave Laures' mortal mind. Outside, a group of riders galloped away into the desert mirages, accepting Laures being spared as more a punishment than death itself. The simple moorish warrior lay in the tent with his wife and child's corpses for three days, unable to defeat the grief overtaking him. Three days he spent, mourning, though not a single tear shed. He would lay waste to the foolish Christians, but first he must seek allies, and more powerful ones than his Moorish company in Grenada. Several years would pass, each marked with three days grief on the day of his family's death. Laures would travel much of the African north as a nomad, seeking shetler in whatever small tented village or cave he was able to find. He rarely spoke to the gypsies or nomads, though he would listen intently to their campfire stories. Many such stories told of a great band of 'assassins' whose strength and stealth surpassed even that of the growing Christian armies. Deciding that he would befriend them, and seek their council (if in fact they existed), Laures set his steed to gallop towards Damascus, a great mountain, and to the so called Saracens that stalk the desert shadows. He hoped that these stories proved true. Present day: Laures rides slowly into the tent city that lay at the foot of the grandeur of Damascus. The bustling market teems with the days activities as people make and spend their days wage. Vendors call in a series of local languages for business and the shady underbelly of the town slinks around making its own way. Laures takes in the grandeur of the place for a moment, then chooses to seek out the local seer. Perhaps fate, or perhaps the lack thereof, leads him to a small tent at the edge of town, just far away enough from the commotion to drain the potence of its noise. He enters the tent, laying his last coin money at her feet. 'You ought know what I seek seer, though I shall make it easy for you. Tell me of the warriors who call this place home, for it is their counsel I have traveled for all these years.' he demands. 'The Damascene guards traverse the city well. Surely you have not come here to find them-' The seer, gathering the coins, freezes in place. Her last words cut short, a look of questioning crosses her face for a moment. 'No, indeed they are not the warriors you seek. Though you would be best to let your curiousity die, or you yourself may suffer just such a fate.' Her cataract ridden eyes do their best to examine Laures. 'Foolish woman, mere curiousity has not driven me across the great expanse of the desert in my wake. I seek vengeance, now tell me what I seek!' The seer, unwilling to spin the tale any further, crosses her arms in defiance after tossing the coins back to Laures. 'I will lead no one to such things, even IF they exist. Leave this place now.' Laures, angered and disappointed, gathers his coins and leaves the tent. His heart now sets itself on finding the truth behind the tales, and if possible, the allies with which to seek his vengeance on the Christian (or so he believed) murderers... To be continued? |