Jump a few years back and a slight ahead to a backcountry outpost, at the border of Maryland and Virginia. Scattered houses, in shambolic rows of disorder eaten alive by the surrounding woodland. No families. Desolate faced men and whorehouse women making a living here where all else had churned them out unwanted. Alcohol flowed freely, arguments turned from meagre shouts to unruly brawls with the fall of a feather. It was an area of no importance. Within a decade following this date of 1811 the houses would be abandoned and reclaimed by the forest fully. But it offered secrecy, a place to meet without the hazard of Templar espionage. At the hostelry of the outpost, the only wooden shack lit on this dark night, three horses were tied to posts.
A forth rider trampled explosively through the unhewn road. He panted heavily. He was on the shoreline of Massachusetts when the letter had reached him. Matthew had ridden nonstop with hardly a specter of rest ever since. Damn these Southern roads! He cursed. Upon arrival, he had strayed confusedly throughout the region. It had taken questioning several locals, some less friendly than others, to produce a mental map of where to ride. A drunken tobacco farmer, his pants hanging open, belched and dropped his beer in rude awakening as the horse sped past mere bits past his nose. The bearded man swore at the rider to stop and pay for the drink, but Matthew did not stop. The farmer swore again and called for several of his equally drunken friends to join his side.
"This should be the place." Matthew said as he looked up at the tavern. The front door was on the second floor, up a flight of stairs. He had dismounted his horse when suddenly the rock made a splat in the mud next to its hooves. Whirling around, he saw a group of about six men lurching towards him.
"Y' made me drop me drink! Hic hand me some hic dollars to pay for 't!" The farmer demanded.
"I'm sorry. Am I to blame for your own incapability of keeping a damn mug in your hands?" Matthew shrugged unapologetically and walked away. "Buy another, drunkard. All of you can afford to, worthless wastes." The last bit he whispered beneath his breath.
"Ooh, I bet you are hic one of them fancy pants Harvard graduates up North who thinks he be better than hic 'mon 'olk! 'ell I'll hic let you know one thing! I was champion of the 'oston 'rawlers for two years strai-" The farmer was moving towards Matthew, drawing his right hand back and curling it into a fist. There was a slight flutter of wind, a few leaves displaced from their dying branches. The fist was traveling through the air like the bullet. Ready to connect with Matthew until abruptly to the farmer's surprise he whirled around and swatted the fist off course. With a vast blow that sent the terrible cries of cracking ribs through the empty dead air, the farmer fell to the ground. His friends screamed, sobered instantly, and ran away.
"And look where that got you, fistfighting. No better than an animal." Matthew spit. "Try that again…"
He showed the farmer his hidden blade.
"You'll see just what sort of man I am when angered, you inbred drunkard."
A slight tip of the head. And he walked away.
The Homestead
The baker's shop was warm inside, the wafting scent of confectionary and sweet bread. The baker's name was Donald. Connor had found him haplessly wandering outside of Cincinnati a few years back when he was making his final trip around the states looking for potential recruits. Like many of the Homestead residents, Connor had employed him and brought him back to Davenport. For the most part, Donald was a happy man. He was friendly with Connor and the rest of the Homestead residents. But today, something was off. He had spent the entire day walking around town with a bottle in his mouth. Currently, Donald was slouched on a heap of flour bags behind a stack of cakes and buns. The sound of the door opening alerted his ears, slightly shaking the baker out of his stupor.
"Yeah… yeah… whadya want." He mumbled as he looked at the unfamiliar man who was named Sallow.
"Um… I have hoping to get a bite before I do my business here."
"Hic… have one. Free of charge… hic." He tossed a loaf of bread at the man.
"You don't seem to be a very pleasant mood right now…" Sallow commented.
"Of course I'm not. Do you have any idea what it's like to have done nothing but bake bread for the last ten years of your life?" Donald sobbed. "I never wanted to be a baker anyways… my mother pushed me into it hic!"
"So, if not a baker, what would you have become?"
"I wanted to be a lumberjack. Leaping from tree to tree as they float down the mighty rivers of British Columbia. The giant redwood, the larch, the fir, the mighty Scots pine, all would fall before my axe! The smell of fresh cut timber! The crash of mighty trees! With my best girlie by my side… that was the life for me! But no…. I just had to listen to my mother! Now, I'm too old and fat so I'll just be baking bread 'till the day I die… if it wehicren't for the smiles of the hic children I would've killed myself long ag" the rest was incoherent sobbing so the man took his bread and walked out.
"What a curious, pitiable individual." Sallow looked up at the mansion on the hill in the distance. "Hopefully he's still home."
The new Assassin mentor was a man named Winters. He was a frontier hermit who lived in the farthest reaches of the American west, not the most sociable lot. But still, the eremite was very dedicated to the Creed. Or at least what he made of it in his nut. Winters was among five candidates who were potentials to take his spot. One measly vote at their election was all it took to make this ostracized recluse to take the mantle. He had little time to devote to formalities, jumping straight ahead to business.
"Matthew Kenway. You are late." He said sourly.
"My apologies. There was some unfriendly wildlife outside. I would have gotten here quicker had you chosen an actual city to meet."
"The city is no place for me."
"A deviation you are, then." Matthew shrugged. "We were born to thrive in the cities."
"We have spent a good deal of time waiting for you."
"We?"
"Two others. One of them is a fellow Assassin, and the other is merely just a contact. You have been selected for several very important missions and they may be of some use."
Matthew followed the thin, lanky Winters through the depths of the tavern bowels. There was a table in the farthest corner, furthest from any of other patrons. There were two men seated at the table. On the table were a slab of beef and a bottle of cheap cider. One of the men, short black haired, wore the garb of a simple frontiersman, his clothing drab and weary tan. Around his shoulder slung a rifle and pouch of ammunition. Slid into his belt with a shining knife. On his right arm was the bracer and upon that bracer was the brand of the Assassins.
"Matthew, meet David Crockett. Your fellow brother in arms." The two of them shook hands. "He will be enlisting himself in his state militia to keep an eye on the actions of the Americans, and lend a subtle push to make sure that their goals align with ours."
The other man was curly-haired, dressed more formally in a suit that looked downright extrinsic in the rough of the tavern. He offered his hand to Matthew, but the Assassin declined.
"This is your contact, Francis Scott Key. I personally do not like him, but he is very resourceful. He, along with David, shall keep you updated in case you need to catch up on events as this war drags itself out. And now that the formalities are out of the way, Matthew, why don't you have a seat? Here's what you are going to do…"
Sallow walked up to the front door of the mansion. He knocked on the doors. To his surprise it was not Connor who answered. Rather, a slim woman with black ashen hair tied back of above-average height in a white dress tied with a red sash. She was the first to speak, and when she spoke she spoke with an accent that hinted towards origins in the south of England.
"Hello. Are you here to discuss a shipping contract?"
"Um… no. But I am an old acquaintance of the house master… hrrm. I don't ever recall seeing you in my previous visits. An employee of the help, I presume?"
"You'd be wrong to presume." She flashed a wink at him.
"Ah… I did suppose that even he would get around to such a thing eventually. I am sure that he told you about the previous lady, Mrs.?"
"Alexandra Barker Kenway." She curtsied. "And yes, I do know about his previous marriage and his other child."
"Other child?" Sallow asked.
"Yes. A daughter."
"Hmm… well, is your husband home?"
"Yes, my luv is inside right now. I left him with our daughter, and I think you would like to meet her as well. I'll take you to them. Let's go now, guv."