Assassin's Creed Allegiance
Chapter 1
A pleasant, lukewarm breeze blew across the English countryside enveloping the solitary hooded figure trudging through the wheat fields. The pollen-filled wind made his eyes water. His hay-fever was one of the many inconvenient reasons that he had moved to the city in the first place and going back didn't just irritate his eyesight.
He pulled his collar up. It was getting colder and dark clouds were starting to form in the sky, not the best sign considering the nature of his visit.
Not far now. The house was less than a mile away, barely visible through his raw, tear-ridden eyes. His boots making a rough scraping sound whenever they made contact with the wheat in the field.
He was at the front door now. The house was tiny and of old fashioned construct. With mortar that looked about as old as time itself, cracked and murky glass windows and doors and window panes made of wood that even the termites didn't seem to fancy. Surprisingly, in contrast to the building's seemingly fragile state, it looked quite strong. The mortar, though old, was strongly and skilfully bonded together and the tiles on the roof were fashioned and fitted with the same care and precision as an artist spends on his masterpiece.
The man that the hooded figure had come to see had actually built this very house. He was old fashioned, had a strong belief that if a man wished to do something right then it could only be done by his own hand. He was a skilled craftsman although that was not his profession, not at all.
The hooded figure sighed heavily. He sincerely hoped that this was not a wasted journey.
He turned the brass handle on the front door and walked inside, not the wisest decision he had made in his life. He realised this as the throwing knife came at him at blinding speed and pinned his sleeve to the wooden door before he had time to blink.
He rapidly pulled his hood down with his free hand, "Stop master it's me!" he cried out as his assailant raised a second knife.
His cry was directed to a man in a coffee coloured armchair in the middle of a small living room with only a blackened stove, an oak table and a gigantic bookshelf which took up one whole wall for company. He was holding a small book in one hand while, almost casually, holding above his head a silver coloured throwing knife that was a twin to the one pinning his guests sleeve to his front door.
He lowered the blade and placed it on the oak table in front of him and resumed reading his book as if nothing had happened while his guest freed himself by pulling the blade out of the door and stood there awkwardly, unsure of what to do next.
Finally, the man in the chair spoke, "Will you close that bloody door and sit down Dick? Stop standing there like a lost mongrel pup!" His accent was thick but had an air of sophistication and intelligence, not the kind of voice you would expect to hear from a country bred Englishman.
The man, Dick, started grinding his teeth, "I've told you before that my name is Richard."
"It's shorter, besides," The man in the chair looked up and smiled widely, "It suits you rather well Dick."
Richard, with his face red and jaw clamped shut grabbed one of the wooden chairs in the corner and sat down opposite his 'master'.
He wore a simple plain shirt and trousers, both black. His face was like dark stone, tanned and close to emotionless. That smile that he had cracked was one of the few Richard had ever seen despite his many years as his apprentice. He placed the book back on the table.
"So," he intertwined his fingers and leant forward, "Why does the student return to his master after so long a gap? How long has it been, four, five years?"
"That sounds about right." Richard shrugged in response.
The man stared at him intently.
"Look," Richard splayed his hands, "The order sent me ok? They need your help with something."
"Not interested, there's a reason I live out here you know, I want to enjoy my retirement in peace."
"Assassins do not retire!" Richard urged," we either get lax or end up dead, you are neither one." He says while pointing at the man. "Besides you're not even forty yet!"
"After that business six years ago it's a wonder I haven't been hanged yet." He mumbled in response.
"Trust me we're all surprised that you never ended up swinging from a rope years ago." Richard laughed.
"Likewise, now what is it that those old fools want?"
Richard placed the throwing knife on the table, "Ok, it's like this we have a… how do I say this? A situation down in London that is…. causing an awful stir to say the least." Even as he said this Richard started to nervously fidget and bite his nails. An old habit, the man in the chair noted, reserved for only the worst of circumstances. He was starting to like this 'visit' less and less by the minute.
"Will you just spit it out already, I'm not getting any younger?" the man snapped.
"I…I'm sorry master… I haven't been sleeping much recently." He reached into the rawhide bag which he carried on his back, pulled out a newspaper and slid it along the table towards his master, who leant forward intently. It was a copy of the 'London Times, dated the 1st of October 1888, it read;
Savage Killer Claims Third Victim in One Month
The late Elizabeth stride is the latest in a clearly linked series of monstrous killings to occur in the Whitechapel district in the East end of London. She, along with fellow victims Mary Ann Nichols and Annie Chapman, was found strangled and severely mutilated. Her body was discovered in an alleyway, like the others, and had, according to the coroner James Roberts just died less than 6 hours before her discovery. However, unlike the others, the perpetrator was caught in the act by a passer-by who could only make out a figure in a long black cloak and a wide brimmed hat which obscured the face. He didn't see much though because once he saw the poor woman's body slumped against the wall and the glint of the murderer's blade he ran as though the devil were at the back of him, which, as far as all decent folk are concerned, he was.
The man looked up from the picture of the disfigured corpse beneath the article, his face like granite but his eyes sparkled with electricity and life.
"What is this Richard? What is happening that makes my apprentice tremble so and also make you're superiors desperate enough to call back they're so named 'loose cannon' back into their ranks?"
"Well," Richard began while drumming his fingers on his knees, "I guess I had better start from the beginning. Have you…" He stopped suddenly, his voice caught in his throat.
Only when he saw the mixture of concern and impatience in his master's face could he bring himself to speak again.
He swallowed hard.
"Have you ever heard of Jack the Ripper?"