A Fight of the Ages

[Basil]

 
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A reincarnation rp mostly based off of Gaius Octavius and Mark Antony of Rome with Lucyfer
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Generation 1:

Spoiler

Time: Ancient Rome, circa 12 BCE


Cast:


Lucyfer -


Gaius Octavius as himself


Janus as himself


Basil -


Iannath as Gaius Maecenas


Mark Antony as himself

Generation 2:

Spoiler

Time: The Third Crusade, circa 1191


Cast:


Lucyfer -


Gaius Octavius as Adrian Devereux


Janus as Nasir Al-Ma’arri


Basil -


Iannath as Edgar de Lacy


Mark Antony as Osama Nejem

 

[Basil]

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It was a horrible beast, the monster of war. Everywhere the eye could see was dead ground, deep mahogany stains seeping into the dirt, ashen corpses strewn about like forgotten weeds. His own corpse, the bulky body of one Edgar de Lacy, a knight of the crown. What a mess he had gotten himself into, indeed. Heaving a sigh, Iannath's wispy body trailed above the ground, milky mists sliding across the rotten earth in a lingering touch of regret. He couldn't do anything for these men, never ever. This was their fate, the only way things would end.


Looking up to the sky, he frowned at the roiling clouds, the air crackling an angry warning. "I hate the rain," he murmured, sounding almost ponderous on the thought. A fitting end to the fight, he was willing to admit. A loud, stifling bout of nothing but misery from the heavens, leaving behind a fresh slate. An open space for more destruction, more anger. Why was he even here anyways? He'd already offered Octavius his options, and the boy had already made his choice. There was no reason to follow him into the eye of the storm, but here he was. And he was down one body for it. Ugh, this was a mistake.


Where was Octavius anyhow? Iannah had the spent the better half of the afternoon dying, choking on a combination of his own blood and regrets. Taking a spear up the ribs wasn't as immediate an end as Iannah really would have hoped, more suffering than anything. He'd lost track of his charge shortly after collapsing into an old horse's corpse. Hopefully he hadn't done anything too bad, Iannah couldn't do a whole lot in the physical world like this, stuck halfway between his world and his obligations.


Taking a second to readjust his form, smoothing aside stray wisps of essence, Iannah started forth, following that slight tug from the very core of his being to the location of Octavius. He slowly shifted from a grassland, trampled and strewn with decomposing bodies to the broken pavement of the outskirts of a city. Was he headed to the city? Perhaps the Crusaders had succeeded in taking Acre once more, although Iannah was a touch skeptical. It would be a better option than finding Octavius inside the city, still Egyptian-run. Picking up his speed, Iannah's transparent figure's essence started to pulse in worry, concern threaded through him. These guards were not christian, which meant only two things - Octavius was already dead, or just tiptoeing the edge of the afterlife. He phased through buildings, the usual loud magnificence of the architecture failing to give the spirit any pause in his quest.


Slipping into the damp cave of a cell, Iannah nearly cried in shock. His charge had already suffered by the looks of it, and the spirit was struck through with guilt. If only he was a better swordsman, the art of war had never been a hobby for a creature such as he, and all he could feel was regret for not being there.


Shifting to a crouch, Iannah gently cupped a hand on the other's cheek, an otherworldly chill circling from his palm. "Oh, I am so terribly sorry. How useless I am," he murmured, remorseful. He could not even heal the wounds scattered across the body, as powerless as he was.

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Down a long, slightly damp hallway, the curved ceiling extending up over a robed man, glints of metallic armor and gold detailing reflecting dim torchlight onto the dark depths. His nose turned in what could only be a permanent scowl, thin lines tracing between his brows and along his forehead. Above him was the sound of others marching about, the general hustle rather accurate for the aftermath of a battle. And a successful one, at that. He had been informed once, quite a few years ago, that the one he was looking for would be delivered, already broken, to this place. He could only assume it meant a prisoner, given the context of the situation. In a dark, almost perverse way, he relished the thought. Mark Antony, or Osama Nejem as he was now referred to as, loved the feeling of control and thrived on the the regrets of the powerless. Especially of one human being in particular...


Slowing his striking steps, Antony breathed in deep, eyes closed in contemplation. He had worked hard, damn hard, to be where he was. As he was, so young and in charge of an entire section of prisoners of war, he had his fair share of difficulties to get to where he stood. Nevertheless, in respect of his position, he was recently informed of the new influx of prisoners. He had been through quite the same thing for a good many battles now, and it was starting to wear down on his patience. How long would it be until he could finally finish it all? Scrubbing a hand back over his face, Antony huffed angrily. He'd just have to hold it in for now, he'd managed 24 years so far, he would manage more. For now. He had prisoners to examine, a job to finish.


Focused once again, Antony continued his march down to the dungeons, metal clinking ominously in the empty air as he clutched his sheathed saber in one white knuckled hand. "It's only a matter of time," he hissed to himself. His slicked, dark hair had slipped down to frame an expression of pure menace. Soon, he insisted to himself, soon he would get what he sorely needed, and frankly deserved. 

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[Lucyfer]

Adrian Devereux should have died out there on the field of battle, but by the grace of God he had lived, only to be taken in by the heathen’s. He still remembered the sight of his dear friend, Edgar, stabbed through with a lance. He was not able to go to him as he wanted, though he had cried out his name. Fury had taken hold of the blond man then, and he rode down the one that slew Edgar, before someone killed his horse to get at him.


He had never been the best warrior. He found it tedious, truth be told, and would have preferred to stay back. It was where he began this fight, among the archers, but rank broke, and he broke with it. It was no good staying back and firing arrows at that point, so he took a horse that lost a knight and rode. ‘And when I return, Richard will laugh.’ Adrian had thought then, naively imagining his return and how Richard would look upon the lean man and laugh to think he rode into battle with a sword and lance.


Well, it had been a stupid idea.


The horse fell upon him and he couldn’t get up, couldn’t lift it. It broke his leg in the fall, and to live, he had to stay conscious through the pain, or he would have been trampled by movement of other horses and soldiers. That was how he was found, though, at the end. Not by one of his compatriots, but by a heathen who did not speak his tongue, but did not kill him, either. He had struggled under the horse, and when the rain began, he thought he might be able to slip out when the dirt turned to mud - but he hadn't stayed still to wait for that. The three lions rampant had been ripped from the overtunic by the heathen and he was pulled from under the horse.


‘Prisoner, is it?’


Adrian had let himself slip into unconsciousness, then, the green eyes not opening until he was in the dark, in a cell. The pain struck him then, harder than before, and he let out an unashamed cry. Then, the young man of nineteen years tried to move a bit, to sit up straight. He did succeed, and leaned his back against the wall. Through gritted teeth, he tried to examine his leg with his hands, to see if he could feel any bone jutting out, or something to explain the pain.


‘Yup.’ There it was, right under the knee, where the blood had all but painted his slacks. ‘Oh God if you have brought me here to these heathens, then please, please let this pain be worth it. Please see me home.’ He was kept alive, because of those three lions. Richard’s seal protected him, and he was more than glad then to have gotten in good with the Lionhearted king, even at such a young age.


He always knew where power was. Adrian might have told the world he was here for God and Country, and he was sincere – but only so far. He was there for himself, for family, as well. If he could fight in Richard’s war, there was a chance to win it, or save Richard’s life, and earn power from the king. Not to mention, God would reward all his faithful Crusaders with a place in Heaven, but he wasn’t really looking to that.


He hadn’t even seen the seat of the Pope in Rome…Edgar always spoke of that.


‘Edgar….’ Was his friend here, somewhere, wounded as well?


He shivered then, a comfort rushing through his veins, and he knew – no, Edgar wasn’t. Edgar was dead. ‘Then look after me.’ Hadn’t he promised that, too? They’d see Rome together, and he would always look after him. Become a saint if necessary to intercede for him. So Adrian shut his eyes and again, prayed for relief from the pain.


~***~


Janus, or so-called, Nasir Al-Ma’arri did not take part in the battle that had waged nearby – at least, not directly. The dark-skinned man had played at field medic for those protecting their lands from the English invaders, doing what he could as swiftly as he could, without revealing the truth that his body hid – he was not human. He played at human because it was easier to do so and stay near his charge, the once great Marcus Antonius, now the man known as Osama Nejem.


He played the role of one of those who assisted his mother in bringing him into the world, and now he stayed near his side, going to help those who were harmed in the war, but more than that, going to help Osama if he did not recognize the entire reason they were here – Gaius Octavius, once Emperor Augustus, once even Gaius Caesar, when Julius adopted him, but forever the boy who wronged Antony.


Janus was known as a creature of passage, a demon to some, a god to others, and at the gates of passage between one world to the other, he had met the angry spirit who was not meant to pass through again, and struck a deal with him – he could have his revenge, but in another life. It took nearly a thousand years of arranging it. Getting a soul out that wasn’t meant to leave was not easy work, though after the first time, it would be easier.


Not that they should need it again…but Janus just had a bad feeling.


So the dark-haired man walked hastily, even then, upon hearing of the man marked with Richard’s own seal. He slipped into the dungeons and found the one raving about it, thinking they had a good ransom for their own captured. “Ah, but not if he dies,” Janus said, and their attention swiftly shifted to the man with wrinkles of a life well-lived at his eyes and lips, the black beard well-cared for, as well – even if gray was starting to show, there. “Has Nejem been told?” Then, “Never mind, tell Nejem I am with the lion-sealed one.”


He did not ask who it was.


When his brown eyes fell upon the boy of blond curls and a bloody leg, he knew – he could see through to the fiery soul of Octavius, the soul that screamed its very nature out to him like a beacon that demanded respect. It was how Octavius began life at 19. It was likely how this one would do it, returned from war to his king, to go on to greatness. Perhaps to marry a daughter of Richard, and be king next himself.


‘No.’ No, not this time.


This time, Octavius had no lion like Caesar to protect him.


This time, he was thrown to the lions. ‘With you.’ Of course. He didn’t address the other figure there, not audibly, though as the demon stepped into the cell and came to kneel at Octavius’s side, he batted it away like he would a fly, offering it a glare, before he reached for the armor over Octavius’s knee and tossed it aside, along with the man’s shoes.


The fury that burned in Octavius’s eyes when they opened was enough for Janus to know he was going to be kicked if he didn’t explain himself, but fortunately, Janus knew the tongue. He knew most tongues, of course, “Patience, little lord, I am here to treat your wound.”


He saw how Octavius’s nose wrinkled, no doubt trying to figure out if it was an error of translation, or an insult, that he was called little. He ended up accepting it with a mild, “Thank you,” before Janus ripped the cloth to get to the wound. He would need to set the bone back in place and stitch it.


“This will hurt.” He stated idly, before he began, and did not even waste his time trying to be gentle.


The Little Lord cried out again as the process of setting the bone began, but to Janus’s own surprise, he didn’t seem to pass out even without antiseptic. His paler fingers flexed and relaxed endlessly.

 

[Basil]

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Feeling the shiver of something insidious approach, a murky aura seeping in from beyond the bars, the remorseful ghost that had quietly settled himself beside his young charge was very suddenly alert. His head rang with discomfort and unease as he observed the inky tendrils slid across the flooring towards the pair. He gulped, his edges slowly swelling over Octavius in a protective shroud, his form billowing out like a puffy blanket, quietly shielding the other in a cloudy haze as he clutched the boy's shoulders from behind. Preparing what nerve he could for the unknown, Iannah sucked in a deep breath shaking as it left him once more. The clapping echo of boots striking stone alerted the man standing guard at the door way. Each one stepping respectfully out of the way, the muted glow of dull steel shuffling in disquieting resonance


Watching the medic stride in, confidence oozing out of the of the seemingly unassuming, aging gentleman, Iannah's form sparked in anxiety. He condensed, icy fingers curled in apprehension and concern over Octavius' shirt. There was something here, concentrated in a disturbing mass around the practitioner. Iannah had rarely ever met anything of real supernatural significance, his experience within this plane limited to only a few human generations before he firmly stuck his powers and influence to the one before him. Only stories, tale much older then he was told of anything feeling even close to this level of pure menace. His mind swam in a sea of confusion, echoing a quiet, horrified 'Who are you.'
 
Those piercing eyes flickered briefly, observing the area, and the spirit shuddered in unease. With a quiet flick of the other's hand, the Iannah's form shriveled, his milky edges charring a deep dark red in reaction to the touch. He suddenly released his hold on Octavius, his calming pressure forcefully detached in a pained gasp. How? /How?/ His abruptly scattered form rippled in the aftershock, a feeling of pins and needles permeating his flickering aura. This was obviously something that housed itself in the in between spaces, especially if it could affect Iannah as he was, so torn between there and here as he was. Perhaps some demon from purgatory? But why would any such thing be here, now? Albeit the crusades were supposedly holy in nature, Iannah did not delude himself about the facts. It wouldn't be a lie to assume nearly half the knights were here in large part for the pillage. The treasures of the Muslims was tempting, their obvious flair for the regal and golden like a shining beacon for destruction. However, none of this meant that anything so nefarious would find it interesting. War happened all the time, this one wasn't particularly special. Suspicion laced through Iannah, but there was little he could truly do here. Shrinking his form back into a more solid form, he kept his eyes on the two, helplessness strung through him.


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Hearing the quiet tramp of a messenger's slippers tapping the ground in a hurry, Antony leaned away from the bars of some cell with a single raised brow. He had been quietly observing all of the new prisoners, one by one, silently intimidating them in the hopes that one might spew out something, or reveal themselves to be exactly who he was looking for. He truly didn't expect it, but he couldn't rest until he'd given every single one a solid staredown. It was helpful for the job, anyways.


He had however asked the guards to step away for a moment, so the sound of someone marching at speed towards him was rather surprising. It's not as if his position required much immediate action, he worked damn hard to secure and keep these christians tamed, breakouts were not commonplace.


"S-sir!" the teen called, waving a hand in greeting, "Nasir Al-Ma'ari has called for you, and wishes you be told he is with the lion-sealed one." he stated, coming rest in a prim standing position, nervous sweat only lightly dotting his brow.


Antony's surprise only grew, "Oh, is that so? Did he inform you as to why?" The tall Egyptian inquired, stately face neutrally disposed. The teen shook his head to indicate that, no, that was the full message, and Antony hummed contemplatively. It was rare to see the demon he had acquired... found... The demon he had happened upon? It rather preferred to fetch him by himself, if at all. It was quite self-sufficient in Antony's opinion, something he could respect, all in all. Perhaps it was... oh, he shouldn't get his hopes up just yet, he  still needed to see the soldier favored by the 'Great English King' before he could determine if this was who he searched for.


Thanking the messenger in a offhanded murmur, he headed to the further end of the dungeon, reserved for the ransomed victims. There had to be another reason why the demon called him, right? Maybe this was a simple mistaken prisoner again, or perhaps the wounds were especially grievous and he required assistance? Antony had heard someone mention something about blood stains on the stairs leading down to this level. But would it really call him to help in a patch up? Truly, Antony did not feel as if he was the best option to heal a prisoner. Corpse cleanup also didn't require his direct supervision, just ask a guard to be rid of the body immediately, before the smell sets.


Quietly rapping on the wall to announce himself, he using the stone as a support as he leaned slightly to get a hard look at the prisoner. He appeared to be a young knight, although not as bulky as he's seen most Englishmen. Perhaps he was more of support based fighter than a front line attacker? He seemed rather weak, disappointingly enough. The blond was nondescript. English. Nothing much stood out to him, except the pants leg, soaked through with a dark mahogany below the knee. The blood flow appeared to have ebbed, at the very least, so he needn't be concerned about dealing with a rotten body.


"Why am I here?" the muscled man asked of the demon before him, irritation ringing in his voice and echoed in his drawn brows and thin lips. This was just a soldier. And a bad one at that, to be captured by enemy forces and imprisoned.


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[Lucyfer]

The knight before him was wonderfully resilient, Janus could not help but think. Even though pain was expressed in sounds and clenching fists, Octavius did not black out again, though he did shut his eyes tightly as the bone was finally set once more. His breathing was forced to be deep and slow, his focus entirely on that, until the sound of Antony’s rapping fists disturbed him. The eyes opened again to fix upon the stranger who appeared.


Janus gave a long-suffering sigh at the question, “Really, Antony?” He spoke that in Arabic. He did not bother with nicknames there. This one had always known who he was. There was no true identity confusion, as could happen with some reincarnations. That was the potential problem here, although Janus wanted to doubt it. After all, Octavius had that thing hanging around him. “Well, I suppose he always was unassuming enough. That’s how he surprised you.” Despite speaking of the enemy before them, Janus continued to treat him, cleansing the wound. “This is Gaius Octavius.” For that, he shifted to English, so the boy before them knew what was being discussed.


He said it as if it should have been the most obvious thing in the world. He had told Antony that the boy would come here, broken. His limited abilities to see into the future let him see just that, just as he’d known Octavius would be born into this era. So was Antony, though Antony came before. More time to prepare himself. More time to be ready.


Adrian looked only confused as he was introduced by a strange name. “My name is Adrian Devereux,” he offered to the one treating his wounds, “I’m not Gaius Octavius,” he wasn’t sure if it was a nickname or not. He thought he heard the name ‘Antony’, but he couldn’t be sure. He did not truly understand Arabic.


Janus met his gaze, “There’s no need to play coy.” Though as the confusion remained etched on the young man's face, he feared that Octavius wasn't.


“I’m no—” he cut himself off, gritting his teeth together then as pain rushed through him once more, black spots appearing over his vision. He didn’t lose sight, but he did shut up, tried not to think too hard of harming the man before him. He was just doing his job. Healing hurt. But why was he calling him Octavius? Who even was Octavius?


Janus had reached for cloth. He set his hand down, hard, over Octavius’s wound to grab the cloth and a piece of wood to tie alongside, tight, to keep the leg straight. Not that it would matter, but Janus had a role to play. He had to be a competent medic and set the leg as if the break would be given time to heal. No, Antony would see to it that this one didn’t have the time to heal fully. "Most that reincarnate do not remember," Janus spoke to Antony, "but they can." Pity. This would have been much easier if he remembered. Well, no matter. There was time enough.


'Apparently his guardian does not care if he remembers or forgets.' Janus thought with some annoyance. A better guardian would have let the boy know. After all, he was running into quite some danger. His enemy wanted to come back from beyond the grave to kill him. Well...the guardian didn't know that, did it? No, of course not - Janus had been careful.