Assassin's Creed © Ubisoft Montreal
Low Place Like Home © Sneaker Pimps
Original Characters & Low Place Like Home Fan Fiction © ZomBrie
Low Place Like Home
. . . An Assassin's Creed Original Story . . .
Remember that you must die
It was an unclean cut.
His shrieks of sheer agony and promises of the axe wielder's damnation were heard half way across the land. As a thick gooey substance gushed from the blow on his head, the soldiers backed away to what they deemed a safe location.
When she squinted her eyes, she could make out a pale mass of something forcing its way through the opening of the Dead Man's skull.
At the call of the Old Prince in the pretty blue tunic, the gargantuan elephant-boar-man monster – the one with the dark cloth shielding its face (and hideous yellow tusks, she was sure) from the crowd – quickly exchanged its heavy stagger for another swing of its large axe, flinging red paint as the blade came down.
Unfortunately, like the one before, there wasn't enough power behind it.
The screams increased in both volume and length, and if there was any other sound in the crowded square it was drowned by the banshee's cackle. The realization of its mistake (both of them) finally dawned, and knowing the hell it'd catch from the prettily clad man, the Demon proceeded to hack through the Dead Man's neck (and shoulders and head) until the sixth swing. By that time, the Dead Man was silent, bone and overlapping red fabric [1] were completely severed, and the only line that kept the Dead Man's head attached to his shoulders, the only bit of evidence that proved he too once possessed a neck, was a tiny shred of flesh.
The Demon discarded its paint-drenched axe on to the platform. Its large grimy claws embedded themselves into the Dead Man's (was he even a man anymore?) scalp, and it retracted its burly arm. The bulging iron under its skin clenched, the threads of that thin strip of flesh surrendered, and the Dead Man's head was dropped into a dirty sack unceremoniously. Red paint began to seep through the cloth, so laden with paint that it dripped on to the platform, mixing in with the Red Lake [2] leaking into the wood.
The Demon wiped its dripping claws on to its brown-stained pants, leaving trails of sticky crimson to dry into the material and to the collection of stains. Its hands erected above its head and ensnared the black sack between its claws. It lifted the cloth (which made her breath hitch) from its person, and it shook its head from side to side. But when its black eyes trapped her and her mother in its murderous gaze, there was no denying the recognition.
Large hands that would find purchase under her arms; thick legs that would serve as a chair with an oppressive belly that'd shake with each bellowing laugh; a long back that would help her reach the very tops of the trees; a mouth full of broken black and yellow [3] teeth; a heady musk of bitter metal, and a pair of unusually dark eyes glistening with familial mirth.
The Demon was no monster, nor an elephant, nor a boar, or any combination of the three. It was a man, a very large and very intimidating one, and that man wore her uncle's face.
"Now do you see?" It was the Old Prince (he had to have been one to afford such finery) that had addressed the gathering. "Treason brings naught but your demise!" Each word was decorated with a flourish of arms and deep sweeping of hands. "Allow this day to serve reminder, for there will be no mercy to give should this occur again!"
The Dead Man had spoken about assassins, she remembered that day, and how they fought for the same peace as the Knights Templar. The Old Prince was wearing glossy green when he approached the man. A one sided heated discussion erupted between the two, and the man was thrown to the ground, and once he found his knees a blade was forced into his mouth. It caressed his tongue oh so wickedly. The glossy green was stained after that, discarded, no longer a pretty emerald but an ugly brown.
That day was a Red Day too.
A cry broke out of the horde, people scattered and scrambled over each other where the gathering had been thin, and someone let loose another screech. So very high-pitched, it became apparent whom the disruption belonged to.
She remembered the woman from that day as well, dressed in light robes, and standing off to the side in paralyzing fear.
"You bastard! I will kill you with my own hands!" The woman shrieked.
With the slightest of tilts of the Old Prince's chin, the soldiers dispatched and descended the platform in two groups. As they flocked around the Dead Man's wife and seized her arms (- "I will kill you! Damn you all to Hell!" -), the scorching midday sun kissed the metal of their armour, which obscured the ever clear red cross branded on their chests. Momentary blindness accompanied with the tiny black dots, she turned herself away from the sight (and her stoic mother) to clear her vision.
White. The man's (a lack of a feminine physique made her assume) robes were a starch white, clean pristine and with barely a speck of dust. The next detail that had captured her attention was the red sash wound tightly upon his waist ("Yet another reminder that this is a Red Day"), and the glistening triangular emblem clipped to the cloth. The emblem was familiar to her, though she knew not how, and her eyes lingered there – probably a moment too long to be considered polite. Then there was the leather bracer clad on to his wrist, and the missing fourth finger [4] ("That must have hurt terribly"). She lifted her eyes to his face, and would not avert them due to her child-like curiosity. That didn't mean that the sight caused her heart to leap into her throat. His robes bore a hood, one which was pulled over his head and hid his face from anyone's vision. But not his golden eyes.
What a pretty color, she thought. She was so enraptured by his lovely hues that, naturally, she failed to notice that said hues were staring straight at her. She recalled the intensity, the over whelming sense of confidence and assurance that possessed his eyes, from somewhere distant. There was an inkling of a memory she attempted to grasp, one she knew would haunt if her if she didn't.
The golden eyes vanished, replaced with the white hood. She blinked a few times, then once more, and finally came to realize that he had turned away from her. Her own eyes followed (to the best of her young abilities) the path his took, a sudden blast of blue invading her sight.
The Golden Eyed Man pressed forward, brushing all nine (or was he missing the finger adjacent to the one gone?) fingertips against the arms of few, ghosting but never touching, blended but never a part of the crowd.
"They wear a thousand faces of all shapes and colours, but they have none to claim their own."
Words uttered by a mouth so pretty. It was a mouth she had hoped to possess as she grew older.
"Don robes of white for they seek to maintain what innocence is left, and red to remind them of the means for this end."
The Golden Eyed Man drew closer to the platform.
"We fight for peace, as do they. Our hands are stained, as are theirs. Our blades are no virgins, and they've danced with their tainted steel."
The Demon-or her uncle really-was the first to notice the iconic white robes.
"Though the two are perceived as the enemy, recall this if nothing else: the line between good and evil is thin and poorly defined [5]. We've taken life just as easily as prolonged it. We are murderers, and they are killers. The distinction between the two is hard to find."
"We" meant the Knights Templar, easily recognizable by the cross-blazoned on armour and clothes. "They" meant the Assassin Order, or Brotherhood in other parts of the land. She was never told what had personified them.
Until today.
"Assassin!"
That was her first encounter with the Brotherhood.
Jacqueline was seven years old.
[1] Considering the main character is a child, I wouldn't really expect her to know what muscle actually is, let alone what it looks like.
[2] "Sea" what I did there? I think you do.
[3] It was unintentional, yet inventible. That ever-loving song…
[4] I really wonder how they managed that one. After all, there's a vein that connects directly to the heart, so you cut off that finger…Hail to cauterizing! Huzzah!
[5] Often times, depending on personal beliefs and the like, it's not. One can look at a pretty something and think "Oi! I'm not going to steal that, no matter how lovely or bad I want it. That would be wrong." But due to the AC Universe, and for the sake of the story, we'll say it is.