Author's Notes: This has been lying around on my computer for far too long. Let the world see *unveils*
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Cool night air rushed in as the window to the castle was opened silently, and a dark figure jumped into the moonlit room. Carefully replacing the lock, the figure snuck along the walls, leaving no trace behind. A guard, clad in gleaming metal and a thin cloth robe adorned with a red cross, stood in the doorway, head dipped low in slumber.
A nearly imperceptible 'click' and a hand covering the Templar's mouth later, the man lay dead on the floor. The assassin sheathed his hidden blade, ignoring the blood it left on his gloved hand and continued forward. His pale robes rippled behind him as he walked around the still-warm body, his sharp mind drawing a mental map of the fort.
Turning sharply around the corner, he investigated the great halls and passageways, searching for the infamous slave trader, Azhar. Golden eyes glinted in the low light and his scarred mouth crooked upwards in a wry grin. It was a simple assassination really, a quick kill in the dead of the night. Altair hardly worried about the body he left behind; he would be miles away before anyone raised the alarm.
Slinking up the grand stairway to the master bedroom, he appeared before the tall wooden doors. Flicking his hand, the hidden blade was called forth once again for the final kill.
A flutter of grey caught the assassin's eye and he slowly turned his hooded head toward the interruption.
A young boy, clad in a servant's nightgown, stood erect not ten feet from the assassin. He held a small candle, it's flame flickering gently in the breeze. The serf's turquoise eyes were wide with shock and fear, mouth agape as he stared. A wave of realization washed over the boy as he recognized the robes and the weapons adorning the assassin's body. Altair lunged at him as the servant shouted as loud as he could.
"ASSASSI-"
Altair's blade disappeared in the boy's throat, cutting off his warning mid-cry. He fell to the floor, the candle tumbling down the stairs, flame extinguished before it hit the bottom. But the damage had already been done, as alarmed shouts of those who had heard the serf alerted the castle of the assassin's presence.
Determined to not leave without success, Altair burst into the bedroom, pulling out his short sword. Azhar stood at his bedside awake, though disoriented and confused, clutching a jeweled dagger in his hand.. Spoiled rat Altair thought to himself with a smirk, darting forward without warning. The slave trader sluggishly jumped back, but it was too late. The assassin's blade sliced through his stomach, sending blood spattering the wall behind him. With a quick jerk, the short sword was removed from the dying body and calmly cleaned on the bedsheets. Azhar fell to his knees before collapsing before Altair, still gripping his precious dagger.
Working hastily, Altair sheathed his weapon and pulled out the grey feather. He first dipped it in the growing pool of blood around the former slave trader, then tucked the stained feather between his robes. But before the assassin could make a quick escape, the great doors once again burst open, several guards rushing forth, armed and ready.
The smell of blood, the rush of battle, and the fear for his life gave him an irresistible high that pulsed through his veins vigorously. Altair drew his sword and crouched low as several men charged towards him. With a cocky smirk, the assassin swung at the nearest soldier, striking the man's rapier with a loud CRACK. The guard shouted in surprise and alarm as another fist was hurled at his chest, the impact stilling the man's motions, his sword falling to the ground with a loud clatter.
The assassin curtly pulled his hand back, revealing his hidden blade, coated in blood. He kicked the soldier in the chest, bringing his lifeless body to to the floor. A second of silent shock passed before the remaining soldiers charged at Altair, wildly swinging their knives in the name of their dead companion.
Moments later, they lay in a heap on the carpet, a single throwing knife embedded into each man's chest. The assassin swiftly pulled them out, returning them to their sheathes around his waist. He threw open the window and leaped out, landing cleanly on a lower rooftop.
Altair continued along the rooftops of Jerusalem, heading in the direction of the best place for refuge; the bureau. There were no soldiers pursuing him, the air silent spare for the clacking that his harried footsteps created. Although he was not being followed, he decided to take a roundabout route, just to be sure. Better safe than dead. Altair thought with a grimace. Too many novices led guards straight to their hideouts when they took direct routes. He jogged over to a nice tower that overlooked Jerusalem; one of his favorites.
Swiftly climbing the citadel, Altair took a seat on the slanted roof. His gaze swept across the horizon, the buildings silent and the people asleep. At this hour, the city seemed quiet and lazy, a great contrast to the hustle and bustle of daytime. The stars in the pitch-black sky twinkled a soft blue, and the crescent moon cast a slight shadow across the marketplace below him.
A single archer had observed the entire assassination from his post, watching silently. The white background of his Templar robe almost glowed in the low light, but he was safely concealed behind a stone wall, watching through a peephole. Recognizing the man as an assassin, he drew his bow and set it with an arrow. Aiming at the white figure, he waited for the opportunity to strike.
Feeling content, the assassin peered over the edge to see a mid-sized haystack lying at the bottom. Perfect. he thought to himself. Altair stood calmly on the roof before spreading his arms, preparing to jump.
Seeing his chance, the archer fired. Almost too quiet for Altair to hear, the bowstring snapped back and a barbed arrow whizzed through the air. The assassin turned to the sound, drawing a throwing knife, but it was too late. The arrow struck his thigh, embedding itself deeply in his flesh. A cry of pain escaped his lips, the force of the impact pushing him off the tower. Disoriented from the agony clouding his mind and his off-balanced tumble, Altair smashed into the haystack roughly, nearly crushing his foot from his dead weight.
"Assassin! There is the assassin!"
I need cover...now... Grunting with effort, the mangled fighter pulled himself from the hay and into the deserted street. His legs, bloodied and useless, dragged behind him, staining the cobblestones bright red. Biting his lip with enough force to draw blood, Altair continued to haul himself into an alleyway, behind a few crates. Still conscious only by sheer will, the assassin blearily drew a dagger from his belt, ready to fight to the bitter end.
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The Assassin's Bureau was silent, save for the light scratching of the Dai's quill on parchment. Brows knitted in concentration, he carefully sketched out the streets of Jerusalem, noting areas of interest in the margins. Completely absorbed in his work, he almost missed the shout of a guard outside.
Freezing, the Dai sat behind the counter, quill stilled in his single hand. Anxious shouts and the clatter of armor echoed across the sleepy streets of the city.
Malik rubbed his face in irritation. Altair. Pulling on his belt and robes that he had shed during the heat of the day, the Dai ran outside to the ladder leading to the rooftops. He followed the guards, sprinting ahead but keeping them within his sight. The former assassin leapt to the ground, landing with a soft thud. He slunk along the alleyways, keeping an eye out for the approaching soldiers while searching for Altair.
Turning a corner, Malik scanned the marketplace, spotting a pile of hay spread across the street. He trotted over to it, smelling the blood before he saw it splattered on the ground. His casual irritation at Altair dissolved into panic as he found more and more blood littering the street.
Suddenly fearing for his comrade's safety, the Dai pulled out three throwing knives in his single hand, silently cursing himself for being unprepared, and took off.
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The world spun and rocked in a violent, erratic pattern. Altair swooned in his crumpled position, head swaying slightly while trying desperately to stay upright. His grip on the dagger loosened and it fell to the ground, ringing softly before going still.
Closing his eyes, Altair prepared for death.
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Author's Notes: Hooray for cliffhangers! (I'm an ass, aren't I?)
I have no idea if and when I'll ever finish this. I still love Assassin's Creed and I can't WAIT UNTIL REVELATIONS AAAAAH *flails*
So yeah, hope you like :3