Ezio Auditore found himself in that situation again: the straw scratching his eyebrows; the dust tickling his throat; the guards yelling 'trova il bastardo', multiple streets away. His leg hurt, that much he admitted, but what would you expect from landing in a haystack from six stories up? He swiped the hair from his eyes- black and sleek, it was- and clambered from the haystack to the surprise of numerous bystanders.
It was a warm, summer's day in 1475, The Year of Our Lord- the year Ezio would come of age. The sun beat him like a sauna in his noble kit; black surcoat and white undershirt with frills on the sleeves. The sun amplified the smell of hay and shit about him- luckily he was close to the Arno; the great river of Firenze.
As he sped through the streets- to the jests of bards and whores, the smell leaving a trail behind him- a stitch formed in his lower left side, which didn't cease when he clambered down the stone steps and flung himself into the crystalline waters of the river. The water felt cool against his moist skin- which was the colour of olives- but evaporated immediately. His clothes now felt heavy against him.
He spotted many revellers and bathers along the river's banks. Some were naked- the women's breasts as white and pure as milk- but some merely dipped their feet in as the ferries passed by, their captains chanting elated covers of Latin hymns.
What a time to be alive, Ezio thought, as he waded his way towards the banks of the Arno, beside a man who smelt strongly of piss and ale. He desired the taste of ale against his lips- his mother and father had strictly prohibited its consumption, other than at family get-togethers, but Frederico had promised to take him into the streets before his time arrived.
Ezio heard the shouts again; screams about a boy making a move on a nobleman's daughter and beating an aristocratic brat. Only part of it was true- the daughter wanted him, he knew it! She called herself Cristina Vespucci. He had heard tales of her beauty, but none demonstrated the truth. Her hair was dark and silky; the hips full and bountiful; her figure immaculate- like a goddess'. His time was only a week away- the ripe, young age of sedici. Ezio could not wait; the tension building inside of him ate away at him, morsel by morsel, cell by cell. He had been so close to kissing her, but then the guards accused him and fondling and raping and then he found himself in that haystack.
Ezio lowered his head under the water, allowing the pressure to bring his mind to rest.