Assassin's Creed IV Black Flag: Retribution
1
May 1722, Havana, Cuba.
It was afternoon on a particularly hot Wednesday. Any particularly eagle eyed individual may have seen the blonde, bearded male making his way cautiously through the crowd - but only for a minute, as he was gone as soon as spotted - with the crowds. He was dressed in a peculiar white outfit - with blue highlights and a red belt - and a hood shadowing his eyes. Most distinctive was the four pistols - in holsters - two on his chest, two on his belt. Two gleaming swords hung at either side of him, with no scabbard. On his back was what looked like a blowpipe, and in various places were pouches, most likely containing ammunition. On his wrists were hardened leather bracers- with a strange contraption on their underside. The uniform had been heavily modified but looked like it had once been a sailor outfit.
The man walked- slowly but cautiously -through the dense crowd that had gathered in the town square to witness a public execution. The 'guilty', was in fact, an innocent man, a merchant. However, he was - fairly - taking up the business of another, a Frenchman by the name of Thierry du Calors - and an influential member of the government of Havana - a snake in the grass. Thierry had paid for his rival to be arrested and executed for a crime he had not committed - and to be the leading judge in the case.
The hooded man had come to stop this.
As he came nearer the man heard the harsh voice of Thierry du Calors.
"The accused, Henry Oakwood, has been charged with piracy - on multiple occasions - during which you have allegedly stolen over 10000 royals of goods. What say you, in your defence?"
It was clear Oakwood wad confused and traumatised. His hands were bound behind his back, and his face was bruised from beatings.
"These accusations are preposterous!" he cried, "I am but a mere merchant!"
Du Calors smiled cruelly. This was no fair trial.
"The accused has refused to confess! This man has no reasonable defence, and so is clearly guilty, and we can only hope that God takes pity on his poor soul. I sentence Henry Oakwood to death, by a shot to the head!"
Henry's mouth was open, speechless. The bloodthirsty crowd was jeering, but by now the hooded man had made it to the front, and drew his blowpipe.
Oakwood was being forced to his knees by 2 yellow uniformed Spanish guards, while du Calors had been presented with a ceremonial pistol by a third. He trained this at Oakwood, who was struggling. The blowpipe was now loaded and at the hooded man's lips. He breathed in, and was just about to unleash a deadly dart, when a loud bang from a pistol rang out - but not from the Frenchman. He stood for only a second, dumbfounded at the wound that had appeared in his side - not a killing blow. The shock had caused him to drop his pistol as he grabbed his wound. The hooded man snapped into action - killing his target now would be foolish - he needed to secure the innocent man's safety first. Like lightning he sheathed the pipe and dived onto the stage - his target was moving too much for a clean shot. In one movement he slashed through Oakwood's bindings and threw him off the platform, and he took his chance, sprinting away. The hooded men stood, but now spotted another man in a hood in the crowd discard a pistol and make to walk off. The total of six guards had spotted this too - and the man who had dived onto the platform.
"HALTA!" they screamed, and the second hooded man broke into a run. The first jumped off the platform and made a break for him, with the guards following both in hot pursuit. The crowd parted like the Red Sea. Even at 29 the man in white was incredibly fit, and followed his target through alley after alley of the labyrinth of streets that was Havana. The guards were keeping up too. Finally, after about five minutes of running, they reached a dead end. The two men turned to face. The second man was in a white and green outfit not dissimilar to the first man, but with only one sword and two pistols. He was no older than 18.
"Name?" growled the older man, in a Swansea accent
"Will. Will Thatcher." The man spoke with a slight Yorkshire twang to his accent.
The older man flinched slightly at "Thatch" as that was the last name of a friend he had failed to save - Blackbeard.
"Well, Thatcher," he began "You'll explain about your issue with du Calors later. I'm Edward Kenway."
The two grasped wrists with mutual respect earned from the chase, but Edward was cautious. This man could be dangerous.
Suddenly the six guards came wheeling around the corner - swords drawn.
Edward drew his two top quality blades of Toledo, a two of a kind set, and Will drew his - a British cutlass, kept in impressive condition.
The guards advanced.
"So Will," grinned Edward. "How's your sword arm?"
"Raring to go." returned Will confidently.
"Good." They both took down their hoods. Edward had messy blonde locks, while Will had brown hair and an untidy fringe. With that, the soldiers charged.
It was a slaughter.
The duo's swords whirled. It was clear they had both practiced all their lives. They didn't tire in the sweltering heat, and the soldiers had been trained in efficient blows, and weren't capable of keeping up with the fancy swordplay. In minutes five dead Spaniards lay, their blood quickly caking to the cobbles in the hot sunlight. The last one dropped his sword and made to run.
"Wait!" yelled Will, grabbing the man's wrist.
"Si señor?" answered the Spaniard, in a scared whisper.
Will changed immediately and became deadly serious, "You tell du Calors that his crimes are not forgotten. And tell him that while this remains true he is not safe. There will be retribution." Will shook him roughly. "Savvy?"
"Si, si muchos gracias señor!"
Hardly believing his luck, the soldier turned and bolted down the alley.