Author's Note: This chapter's mostly just an introduction, actual story starts in the next one. Takes place pre-Assassin's Creed 1.
Assassin's Creed: Raptor's Bane
Chapter 1
The poor district of Acre was exactly like that of any other city, Altair mused distractedly, weaving his way through the late afternoon crowd. Crumbling homes and strings of washing, hung with threadbare clothes, lined and crossed the dusty streets. From seemingly every corner, beggars cried out desperately to passersby, imploring for money and aid that none heeded. Their sorrow wrought pleadings fell on deaf ears, for how different was their situation from those they called to? Everyone's family was sick and dying.
This was the Assassin's third day in the city, but he had yet to find any leads. The rafiq of the district had been less than helpful, acting detached and hesitant to face the issue at hand, likely due to shame. Altair did not blame him. The leader of the Bureau was chosen to protect the Assassins who entered his district, offering assistance varying from information gathering, to medical attention, to simple sanctuary. Failure to do such would merit a stain on their role as Keeper.
Al Mualim had personally sent Altair to this port city to find a group that had recently spawned from its slums, a new third party in the Holy War gripping their land. Their presence had been detected long ago, the Assassin informers of the citadel hearing whispers of a faction gathering strength, men and weapons around itself. However, their intentions had only come to light little than over a month ago.
The group of Acre remained faceless and without a name, a lack of identity similar to the ones they seemed determined to rid the world of: the Assassins. It was unsettling that they were incredibly adept at it—already three had ended up dead within the city's walls. True they had been little more than novices, newly fledged, but the loss was felt by the Brotherhood all the same.
Few even believed the Assassins to exist, most dismissing the group as simply fabled ghosts of death, bringing vengeance on swift wings—those who knew otherwise were bound by fear or respect of them. Little information of the men and their Creed was known outside the knowledge of the Brothers or the walls of their fortress. Thus was it so difficult to comprehend how an enemy had managed to hone both skill and force to not only find them, but end them as well.
Altair had wandered the streets of the district since his arrival, head bowed and ears pricked, sweeping the city in hopes of pinpointing a source of information. He had little help; even after the handful of Acre informants had been ordered into the crowds. Fear had gripped all but the hardiest, confining many to a narrow area, close to the Bureau where they might feel safe. If anything, he realized, their enemy had at least not yet found their base of operations. All the deaths had occurred in the roads or back alleys, but whether out of luck or by arrangement, they were still unsure.
It was because of this unsettling and unnatural situation that al Mualim had given him leave to wield his blade as he pleased, killing as he chose. Altair had accepted the permission with all seriousness, realizing that random deaths, especially of enemies as dangerous as these murderers of Acre, held consequences—a reason why the Brothers allowed themselves to be tools, wielded by their wise and trusted Master. It was a time-tested arrangement, and Altair worried that their enemy was so unpredictable that they were forced to abandon it.
The Assassin brushed past a city guard lazily going about his rounds, ignoring him as he attempted to track the breathed mention of the "murder of the scholar last week" he had managed to catch. The latest Brother felled had been written up as an unfortunate intellectual and had thus been carried through gossip as such. Altair found the source of the conversation in a rather ragged pair talking by a lichen-twined stone cross, towering man-high in the center of a small square.
Tugging a bit consciously at his hood, the white-robed man settled against a nearby pillar, arms folded and facing away from the two. He shut his eyes, focusing on the exchange of words behind him, all the while seeming as if he were simply resting or perhaps waiting for someone.
"That was the second killing this month wasn't it?" the younger man queried softly, leaning close to his friend as if fearing unfriendly ears.
"Third," the middle-aged one corrected, thoughtfully tugging at his tangled goatee. "Funny in't it? Someone must have it in for them smart types. Goes to show that knowing too much ain't good for you."
"Yes, but still, it's strange. Of all people to kill, why those who've never harmed anyone?" the first insisted. "I mean, if it were me, I would at least go after those scheming knights, always parading around like they own the place—"
Suddenly, the older man violently shushed the other after catching sight of a pair of approaching city guards, disappointingly ending the conversation. The two scuttled off hurriedly inside one of the dwellings to continue their exchange somewhere more private. Altair watched them go over his shoulder, frowning at the lack of new information. Tongues were tighter in this district, it seemed, fearful as they were of threats seen and unseen. This did not help him in the slightest.
He straightened and continued into the crowd again, noting the shrouded sky as dusk began to settle over the city. Merchants were closing shop and slowly joining the milling stream of people as they headed for their homes. Altair decided to follow suit, hesitant as he was to once again return to the shelter of the Bureau empty handed. As he thought of the prospect of rest though, he admittedly noticed the exhaustion from the fruitless search creeping through him. He was tired, and perhaps tomorrow would bring him more fortune.