Francis sighed and looked out of his train window. He hated London, he hated the people, the weather, the tourist's that visited his country and most importantly, the assassins. London was known for its assassins ever since the take over by the Frye twins the Templars lost the syndicate, lost the control and they were now losing there members. Whether they were joining the creed or dying to them. The Templars were losing everything and soon Francis was to join them.
Francis Bonnefoy was a Templar , always has been and he always will be. His father before him was a Templar and his before him there had never been a Bonnefoy who wasn't a Templar or at least worked for them and as Francis was well aware, being an only child in his family it was job to find a wife and continue the name ,bloodline and legacy. In France his family were praised for there dedication and passion towards the order however this did leave most Bonnefoys with a superiority complex and Francis was no different he loved the fact that his training started at the young age of 8 and relishes in the knowing that his bloodline will forever remain pure. His family would never allow a their offspring to marry anybody other than a Templar, the last person who did tragically died from a freak accident. His name was Antonio he was Francis's half cousin but family is family and they accepted him into their harts and the order 'It was his own fault' Francis always had to tell himself this when he remembered Toni he was with him when Toni fell for the assassin and was there when he died. They were on a mission, just to spy on the enemy and Toni spotted him...the damn assassin. They started seeing one another and of course when the Bonnefoy's found out they were furious in a fit of rage and anger they hatched plan to stop the two from ever seeing one another again they tricked Toni into thinking Lovi was hurt and force him to confess to the crime after wards they would judge whether he should live or die. The plan worked, no less, and Toni was cornered he confessed to loving the man and waited for his judgment. From that day forward his family had a cruel joke to say whenever somebody brought Toni up 'he fell for the assassin and...well...the chandelier fell on him' however Francis could never laugh at this joke. A part of him always wanted to though. The assassins were dirty, impure monsters and he simply couldn't allow his half cousin to get away with such a monstrous crim as that 'its his own fault…' he repeated to himself and he gazed out of the window praying that God would be forgiving on Toni and hopefully on him as well.
He was torn between the right and the wrong after the Toni died he never believed he disserved that suffering. First he believed the love of his life was in danger, then he was betrayed by his own family and finally they killed him. Both him and toni knew the consequences for betraying the Templars and Toni still when for it. He was doomed from the start and Francis debated to this day whether Toni knew this or not. Francis shook his head to try and change the subject, he didn't dislike remembering Toni, he loved his half cousin in life and despite what his family say he still loved him in even in death, he just couldn't stand the end that came to him for falling in love. Surely death is too harsh of a crime even if it was an assassin he fell for. 'damn it Francis…' he sighed and shook his head once more. He hated debating the subject so he looked out of his window again trying to change his train of thought. He would soon be in Whitechapel and more importantly on his own. His long hair covered his face as his tired eyes looked out at London and he furrowed his brows at peculiar sight. There atop the train station stood a man, he only saw him for a second but he was there. Francis couldn't see his face due to it being covered by a black hood bur he did see his clothes, he wore a fine black coat to match his hood. With a red penny coat with a white undershirt, black pants and boots to match. Not may things puzzled Francis anymore but that man was a marvel. Firstly, did he expect to be seen? If so why did he move so quickly when Francis spotted him and if not then why was he crouched like that. His eyes widened when he realised who and what the man was. He was an assassin and they already knew that Francis was here and he was no longer safe.
Francis became slightly concerned with the situation. He was told when he arrived he wouldn't have to worry about the assassins knowing him, he was given an alias and they sent over a decoy so how did they know about his arrival? He breathed deeply trying to calm his ever growing nerves. The assassin had saw him and he knew he was in London. But that was it. The man couldn't possibly know his address or his face, as his hair covered it, and judging by how fast the assassin left he was not expecting him and he was more than likely there for another reason only spotting Francis last minute and running to tell his allies. He knew he had to work fast as to stop the assassin from tracking his moves. He coated himself in expressive perfume and decided to take a little detour to his new home. He quickly exited the train moving up and down the stairs around the train three times and, if Francis did say so himself, every other damn corner of the train station to stop him from being tracked. He had arrived in Whitechapel so it was only a small walk to his new home in the city of London, he looked behind him as he left the station to see if the assassin was behind him, nothing. He smiled at how small the assassin must feel. Seeing one Templar and runny for cover. Ha. Pathetic. He walked outside and looked around it was definitely not as classy as Paris but it had...it was… unique. In its own way. He walked towards a main road and hailed a carriage to take him to his home. He looked behind him one last time to check if the assassin was there. He looked behind him and still nothing. 'I must have scared him off' he thought with a smirk and sat down in his comfy chair watching the people pass on with there normal live unaware of the bushy
furrowed brows glaring daggers at him from atop the local pub
There was no doubt about it. He was a Templar and he was in London, his home city, his home and another Templar had entered to try and take it away from him. Arthur Kirkland, an assassin born and bred on the streets of London had just witnessed the arrival of the snivelling, uncaring, bellend of a man. Arthur had heard of the Bonnefoys from his Brother. A master assassin who travelled all over the world, and he had heard about the horrid crimes they committed against the assassins and what they did family who betrayed them. But how?! How was he in London?! Usually when a Templar arrived in London he would simply kill them when they entered the strand where he would corner them, make it quick if they didn't seem to harmful. But that was not the Bonnefoys. He was going to enjoy hurting this Bonnefoy, not like death was a pleasant thing In the first place but there was one thing still on his mind. How was he living? He had cornered him in the strand, he made it quick but yet here he is. Riding off on his carriage to his home but that doesn't matter now, what matters is that he is breathing and that needs to end.
Arthur scowled and as he jumped down and landed in front of the pub and closed his eyes as he breathed slowly. He calmed himself and opened his eyes again to activate his eagle vision. This vision aloud him to track and kill many other Templars before Mr Bonnefoy. It used sight, logically, and sent to track his pray. He opened his eyes again with a smirk on his face 'this should be eas-' he cu off his thought proses as he looked towards the station. 'wh-what the hell?' the whole station was covered in yellow foot prints and the coach that escorted him away, couldn't be tracked. 'what? Why isn't my eagle vision working?!' his eye twitched all he could see where the yellow prints from his target before they stopped right outside the train station. Arthur thought that perhaps he'd worked himself too hard and his sight was not working due to that. He sighed knowing he wouldn't be able to track his target anymore. He decided to track and kill his target another time as he turned around and started to walk home for the night.
He loved his London. It was his home, his city and nobody was taking that away from him. His name was Arthur Kirkland and he was an assassin, always has been always will be and he loved being one. He loved the silence, the wind in your hair as you leaped from home to home, cliff to cliff and he loved hurting those who he hated. Especially if they were Templars. He walked down an ally way avoiding the eye of a couple doing the unthinkable to, what Arthur presumed, his girl friend. He opened the door to his pie shop and screamed. All of the flour that he used to make the crust of the pie was everywhere. Every nuck and cranny was filled with the white powder "Mathew…" Arthur said sternly "I know this was you and I'm giving you until morning to clean it and pay for all of the flour you've wasted, understand?" despite not being able to see him Arthur knew Mathew was in the room. Arthur and Mathew were brothers and Mathew lived with Arthur since their parents died it wasn't the best of arraignments but it did have its advantages, arthur inherited the pie shop only problem with this gif of inheritance was that Arthur couldn't cook. At all. Mathew, however could and business was better that ever since he took over. Arthur was only 21, Mathew was 14 their other brother Allistor was 23 but he wasn't around as much since their parents death so all the caring, teaching and training was left to Arthur. He slowly walked passed the flour and to his room before collapsing on his bed. Closing his eyes and praying he had the money to pay for the flour.