A few in-game characters are named dropped, some explicitly, some note. You will know who they are.

He overheard once they are called 'The Crows', a group of men and one woman dressed in black with hoods pulled low over their faces like the curled plume of nightshade.

Whenever Thomas had difficulty remembering, it came back to him like the thud of hailstones against glass: once, in a visit to the Hôtel de Ville to discuss a petition with his lawyer, he saw a young woman in the foyer, pacing on the parquet floors with her boots caked with dry mud. She wore a dark cloak with her periwinkle peasant's farm dress peeking out underneath that swished with her impatient feet. When the door opened and a valet arrived to announce a new arrival, an enormous man came thundering in, the servants rushing to keep up with him and passersby leaping to get out of the way. The young woman stopped pacing, unconcerned with the reactions of the others, and turned with her back to Thomas, speaking to the larger man. He could not tell if they were father and daughter or uncle or niece.

They, too, had been dressed in black but unlike these 'Crows' they carried a different aura about them: instead of the nefarious, covert nature these hooded people logged about, they held a confident, domineering presence which both drew attention and made them aloof in the eyes of others. When they walked down the hall to where the Crows were meeting, they walked side by side as equals as if sex and class made no difference to them. One of the Crows, a man with a white beard and a cross hanging low on his chest, turned quickly at the sight of them, ushering the rest into a room before the couple made it across the threshold.

Thomas had not meant to eavesdrop or listen to the pair speak in excited, hushed tones as they approached the now-closed door, but sitting in a chair with the upholstery coming apart and with fetid smells worse on the inside than the outside, it was a needed distraction. Interesting people made interesting art subjects, and already his fingers were caked in ink with his newly bought English metal pen scraping across the pages.

He did not forget their brooches of black eagles with ribbon red tongues and black crosses dangling from golden talons on the lapels of their waistcoats. The Crows, in contrast, covered their necks with scarves or cravats, with the lone woman baring hers with a necklace dangling down to her bosom. Her cross was a simple silver, whereas the crosses belonging to the giant man and his daughter (or niece, Thomas didn't know), were worn openly and with extravagance. Were this a conspiracy, meeting at the Hôtel de Ville wasn't very discreet – not with all the subtle pomp and closed doors.

He thought then it wouldn't have affected him. He was there for a simple petition which required his signature and off he would go for a job interview in an ever shrinking market. He was literate, he could work with his hands, and he still had his strength. Someone had to have work for him, somewhere...

Minutes passed. Hours. Then the door of the meeting room opened and out came the two female Crows. One had her hair braided with entwined daisies, a headband keeping the errant strands tame atop her head. Her black gloves of lace went up to her elbows, pulled here and there by dainty fingers to fix the creases. Her dress was a forget-me-not blue, the stomacher and petticoats an ivory white. Beside her, the hooded woman with muddied boots had bared hands with short, if not broken, fingernails and what looked like a blister on her left thumb. The class differences were obvious and they did not speak as if they were utter strangers to each other; as if each other's presence was abhorrent and not worth recognizing.

The men followed behind with a red-headed man looking manic like a stray, rabid dog and the elder man with the white beard keeping his gaze to the floor. Thomas couldn't understand why, until the red-headed man yelped when the monstrous man thrust him to the side and almost into a nearby statue. The glower the man gave him was defiant, but it quickly turned into that of a terrified mutt once the taller man glared over his shoulder.

There Thomas could discern the stranger's features, and while the man was by no means unpleasant to look at, he cast a terrible pall over those who encountered him. Well over six feet tall, the man had close cropped dark grey hair with salt-and-pepper stubble covering his powerful jaw. The nose was long and prominent, the cheeks smooth and full despite the man's middle age. The forehead was prominent, the legs powerful and thick from horse-riding or years of military service. Wherever he walked, only the young woman with the periwinkle dress was not afraid of his energy or his presence. The lone noble female Crow danced to the side as he approached, watching him uneasily as he made his way down the hall. The black eagle bounced on the lapel of his coat. Thomas knew at first glance it was the Prussian coat-of-arms.

Was that why the Crows, these strange people, were so afraid? It would be an easy answer for Prussia and France were not allies and likely would not be in the foreseeable future. As it turned out, the easiest answer was the most incorrect one and the most simplistic in light of the truth.

How foolish he was, and how foolish he was now that he could not interpret the knowing, piercing glance of the huge Prussian man, grey eyes distant and menacing like approaching winter clouds. He could still hear the clap of his polished leather boots on the freshly cleaned floors and the snap of his long black coat, coupled with the skip of the young woman behind him with the tapping of her dirtied heels. A glance, a mere glance was spared to the sketch he was working on, a muse of his which had bothered him the whole week and whose attention had enraptured Thomas – well, almost enraptured.

The Prussian did not stop but slowed his pace to a cautious stroll. He watched Thomas over his shoulder, never looking away even as valets and servants rushed to press themselves against statues to avoid his judging glare. Thomas kept his gaze lowered for modesty's sake, but he did not understand why this man was paying attention to him. He was beneath him in class and station and his clothing showed his economic situation. What good could he serve? He wasn't looking for a confrontation, and he did not want to get involved with the affairs of people who very likely did not mean well. He couldn't afford it with livres for one, and his life wasn't worth that much to risk it, either.

The huge man eventually broke eye contact, turning to his young companion, who'd since matched his pace, and spoke to her. She, too, cast him a glance but he did not commit her face to memory. While the other female Crow had her face uncovered, all Thomas could see of this woman was a splotch of freckles near the chin and a pair of blonde braids.

They left the building and Thomas was left alone – or so he thought. He did not see the Crows leave; it was likely they took an alternative route or simply decided to leave individually without drawing attention. He simply thought he'd never see them again. He would have liked to admit he didn't want to; to return to his meagre life and hope things would go smoothly for him.

What he could not, and cannot, admit now was that he liked being embroiled in the one currently sucking him in like a vat of wet mud. Conspiracies were fun to read about and were meant to be enjoyed in the comforts of a salon, with Saint-Domingue sugar cubes and les régals à gloire in fine china mugs; they are infinitesimal at first before bursting forth with all intensity and constricting power.

The conspiracy Thomas didn't think he'd ever be involved in started with an accidental encounter.

He sometimes regretted ever showing his artistic skills, but there was no saying 'no' to a 14-year-old Thérése Cabarrus.

The July of 1788 was uneventful for him until that summer. Unusual weather had marked the past five years, with unseasonably cold winters, dry summers, and occasional heatwaves which ruined the harvest in the autumn. The soil was either too wet or too dry, and the peasantry suffered all the more for it. His trips to the countryside were nonexistent, but when he had to attend familial matters, the bare subsistence the people endured were enough to turn his heart to ash. It was a hard sight to see.

Days prior, a horrific hailstorm whipped through the capital and the countryside, sending hailstones through windows and onto exposed heads. Untold profits were lost from dead cattle and livestock, and horses were felled in the street. Others died when the tennis ball sized hailstones thumped onto their heads. After a break in the storm, Thomas wandered through the Marais district on business in his father's stead, and sat on a bench observing the damage when the debris needed to be cleared from the streets.

In his bag, he had a simple sketchbook and drawing utensils and began to sketch what he saw. He had time to spare. One of these subjects which so caught his eye was a young woman standing next to an overturned carriage, whispering sweet things to the horses which had slipped on a few errant hailstones and were snorting in pain. One of them managed to get up on teetering legs, but the other's situation was grave. A leg had been crushed beneath the carriage's weight, and blood had started to leak into the wood. Its painful snorts became whinier and whinier as people tried to move the weight off its leg. It was clear it had to be put out of its misery. Despite being faced with such a decision, the woman accepted the situation with grace and severity.

He sketched her kneeling there besides the animal, a pale hand stroking its forehead paused for a moment in time. He caught the serenity of her face, the drying tears on skin once sun-kissed. It was a major contrast to the wild-eyed, panicked stare of the animal. The ripples of her dress, the light dancing of the feather in her bonnet, the hair falling loose onto her cheek, all of it made for a perfect, albeit solemn and chaotic moment.

In the silent air, the young woman looked up. Thomas was too busy in his work to notice her approach, and he was startled when she sat beside him and started speaking.

"Who taught you how to draw?" she asked, watching as he resumed sketching. He was filling in the details now, adding shade where it was needed and cross-hatching in other areas. If she was offended at him ignoring her, she didn't show it. In fact, she seemed quite enamoured with his work.

Maybe she simply appreciated a quiet, solemn man alone who didn't ask many questions and was easy to speak to.

"Myself," Thomas replied. "I didn't have enough money to study at the art institutes."

"Oh, quel dommage (What a shame). But you are very good, monsieur. You managed to capture my likeness better than the men my father commissions to paint my portraits, and I'm sitting still for hours with those." She shook her head. A few curls came loose, bouncing in front of her long eyelashes.

If he was young he would have blushed, but when he was young he scarcely earned the attentions of women. He earned them now not because of his appearance, but because he never denigrated them. Still. A 14-year-old noble shouldn't speak to him so freely.

"You flatter me, mademoiselle," he said quietly. "I hope I have not offended you in capturing your likeness?"

Thérése laughed. It was light and serene with underlying maturity; not the laughter of a frivolous girl keen on simple excitements. She took the horse's death well all things considering. Perhaps she'd seen plenty die in her youth. It wasn't a secret many were felled as soon as they broke their legs or collapsed from hard riding. It was a part of pastoral life and Parisian life. Life was, for the most part, worthless.

She smiled at him, her thick, brown Spanish hair coming undone from beneath her bonnet. "Not at all! I quite appreciate it, really. I'm used to posing for stuck up, stuffy artists who can't hold a decent conversation. Though I confess I've never seen an artist sketch so quickly and capture the environment so well. Do you mind if I watch you for a minute?"

"Non, go ahead. But I cannot stay for long – I am only sitting here until the street is cleared. I have business in Marais," Thomas explained.

"Is that so?" Thérése asked. "Well, in exchange for you capturing my likeness so beautifully and with such skill, why don't I take you there? You can accompany me in my carriage. You're a well-behaved man, so I know you won't say anything rude to me or to my friends. Will you accept, monsieur?"

Thomas paused while shading in the horse's flanks. He bit the inside of his cheek. He wasn't a completely unlearned man, and he knew what would happen if he refused a noble like Thérése Cabarrus. Diable, he could be whipped or burned with hot iron if Thérése decided she did not like the way he was drawing her and viewed it as an affront to her image (Thomas had been approached, anonymously of course, to draw lewd portraits of the Princesses of the Blood engaged in dramatic encounters with animals of varying sizes and endowments). But, as it turned out, Thérése was more level headed than Thomas imagined, and considering she was sitting next to him – a man far below her station and her means – and speaking to him as if both of those things didn't matter, maybe it was an extension of gratitude. Just a mere token of the heart.

Still. It would be rude to refuse, and Thomas was short on money. "If it pleases you," Thomas said finally.

"It will." Thérése beamed at him. "And there are people, I think, who would be pleased with your skills as well."

That conversation would lead him to the Hôtel de Ville one year later, in the same seat, and in the same room.

June 14th, 1789

Thomas was surprised when a messenger boy ran up to him at the gates of the Hôtel des Invalides and plopped a letter in his hand, breathless and dancing on the heels of his feet. The child didn't look older than eleven or twelve and was a ragged if not wretched thing. His hair, if cleaned, would be wispy and thin like river weeds, but with grease and soot caked in his scalp it resembled a seabird stuck in oil. He felt pity upon seeing his clothes: the too-tight shoes, the culottes with patchwork repairs. He was tempted to offer him a livre, one he didn't have the right to give away, when the boy looked at him and went, "Well?"

"Well, what?" Thomas asked, taken aback. He stared at the boy, watched him continue to hop on his soles impatiently, as if the youth had somewhere else to be and Thomas was wasting his time with his useless questions.

"Aren't you going to open it? I was told to deliver it to you post-haste."

"Post-haste for what? Who sent you?"

"Just open the letter, monsieur," the boy said, exasperated. "I have other letters to deliver, maintenant, dépêche-toi! (Now, hurry up!)"

Thomas sighed dramatically, throwing his hands up in the air as the boy promptly turned on his heel and sprinted away. The satchel he carried around his shoulders bounced at his stride, and Thomas hoped the boy wouldn't lose the letters he so needed to deliver post haste. Gah. The nerve!

However, his own curiosity took over. The letter had no seal, but was tied together with simple red yarn, frayed at the ends as if someone had used it previously. Thomas had to raise a brow at that. Had the letter been tampered with, or was the boy serious when he said he needed to deliver the letter post haste? It seemed to be the latter, and when Thomas opened the flap and peeked inside, there was a note with enamelled edges with a black cross in the top right corner and a black eagle on the left.

Both brows were raised when he spotted it. The eagle had a red, elongated tongue with a gold crown atop its head, the coat-of-arms of France's rival, Prussia. When he held the note close to his nose, he caught a whiff of what he thought was a woman's perfume – rosewater - overlaid with a twinge of smoked bark. On the ivory tinted paper was handwriting not exactly neat – in a child's hand, almost – and briskly jotted, the 'ts' and 's's sharp and cutting into the stiff paper.

It read:

Monsieur Thomas,

Yes, it is I. I require your services again. Your artbook of the subjects I commissioned was fantastically done, and my uncle was most pleased when he viewed the drawings himself. He has offered to pay you ahead of time, and double, if you are able to draw a subject much on his mind.

There is a catch – the commission must be completed promptly, within the next 72 hours. I will be at the Palais du Luxembourg this afternoon. Go to the entrance hall and speak to a man named Dietrich. His French name is Jules – he will know who you are when you call him by this name. He will take you to my quarters.

Unfortunately, I will not be alone as I have been the previous times we have met. I am meeting with an associate who has begged me for a meeting and my refusal was impossible in light of his persistence. Wait in the hall until you are called. I assure you, you services will be rewarded, and I have already informed de Launay of the reasons for your absence. Your lost wages will be reimbursed.

Make haste as soon as you receive this letter. Whatever it costs you for a carriage, I will reimburse you for that as well. Arrive safely. I cannot rely on anyone else but you.

- AA

A thin and reedy breath escaped Thomas' chapped lips. A commission in 72 hours...it wasn't impossible, and he could complete quick sketches in hours if he had the time, but time wasn't what he had as of late. Aside from his missed shifts at the Bastille, the political situation with the Estates-General and the dissenting priests and Mirabeau's radical speeches and all the riffraff over that, coupled with the increased security at the Hôtel des Invalides made leisure and spare time difficult. Under all the pressure Thomas felt like he was a tiny boat in the middle of a great wave about to be splintered by the powerful waters.

He couldn't refuse this request, and to be honest, he didn't want to. He wanted and needed more money, what with a sudden surgery being scheduled for his father's leg – the good one – turning gangrenous and infections resulting from that. There was also a need to soothe his mind. Grave-digging was a sedate affair and while he was appreciated for that gruesome task it wasn't one he wanted to be known for. Truth be told, the licentious de Sade had rubbed off on him. He wanted something glorious to be remembered by. He wasn't a writer and oil painting was out of the question. Sketching, therefore, offered him a mental and monetary peace.

He would be a hypocrite if he said this affair didn't put him in better straits.

He hailed a carriage which took him to the Palais du Luxembourg. He passed Sainte-Chapelle and Notre-Dame, watching the shadows of both Gothic cathedrals grow long in the afternoon light. Traffic was heavy, both carriage and on foot, and when the throngs of people became too thick Thomas paid the driver with what he had and made the rest of the way on foot.

The Palais fared no better. The streets outside were crammed with people, peasants hawking items at hastily set up stalls and women forming huge groups where they bickered and shouted at rival groups of men over politics. When the men looked like they were going to raise their hands to the women, a gang of poissardes emerged, fish knives glittering against their massive thighs, and it promptly put an end to that. For now.

A few gendarmeries milled around the gates, warily eyeing the crowds and hoping there wouldn't be a riot. It looked like these people were evicted from the gardens earlier, and if Thomas could ascertain anything from the boisterous, angry conversations, they were evicted for protesting something or other in favour of the Estates-General. Inside the courtyard proper there were few people, and inside the building itself there was no telling if there was anyone inside.

Thomas knew approaching the gendarmeries directly would cause a scene. He spotted one mingling by himself near one of the adjacent buildings. He made his way through the crowd, hugging his satchel close to his person. He didn't have much in the way of coins, but being robbed in this kind of situation would be a real damper on his mood. Luckily, he found the gendarme without incident.

"Excusez-moi monsieur, but I have an appointment inside the palace. Could you help me get inside?"

The gendarmes, a man not much younger than him with freshly laundered clothes eyed him suspiciously. "How do I know you're not trying to sneak in and open the gates from the inside?"

"I'm here to meet a man named Jules," Thomas said. "I received a letter and it told me to ask after this man. Could you go in my stead and look for him?"

The man rolled his eyes. "Très bien. Wait here by the gate. If I see the crowd get rowdier, I know who to blame."

Thomas leaned against the gate as he was told. He watched the crowd as it swayed back and forth like a moving school of fish, cloth, leather and steel melting together like scales. Women would throw pamphlets up in the air, demanding compensation for lost property or for proper representation. More demanded bread, shouting how there was not enough grain to go around and how they suspected the nobles were hoarding it. One group looked to be overtly suspicious: the most prominent figure among them was a woman in a blue riding habit, tattered petticoats and a wide-brimmed hat with a bright red feather hanging off the rim. She waved around a flintlock pistol, rallying the other women next to her and calling for a proper demonstration on the palace.

For a moment, Thomas caught her attention. Though they were quite the distance from each other, Thomas could see the woman's mouth move. Her face was hard, but not with cruelty or condemnation of him. She held a curious stare with him, her dirtied cheeks stilled and the flintlock pistol close against her chest. He thought she would come over and speak to him, this lonely fossoyeur on business he had yet to know about. Once this strange firebrand decided he wasn't a threat, she did indeed begin to make her way towards him, slithering through the crowd with ease, a group of now quieted women behind him.

Before this flintlock-bearing woman and a gravedigger could strike up a conversation, the gendarme was at his side, breathless like the messenger boy he met earlier.

"Right this way, monsieur. They're expecting you."

Thomas didn't look behind him. He followed the gendarme obediently, hoping he wouldn't be splayed like a gutted fish once he came out. He tightened his grip on his satchel, hoping for the best. If he had a rosary, he'd pray. But Thomas wasn't a particularly religious man, and this wasn't a good place to beg God for favours.

He had to play it safe, and hope his skills worked out in the end.

The inside of the Luxembourg palace, with its chandeliers, painted ceilings and red carpets which stretched from end to end, was majestic. But it was, for the first time in many years, nearly empty. Parisians had free reign of the gardens until recently, and the sudden evictions of them from an everyday activity, combined with everything else happening in the capital, was bound to kick up a fuss. He could still hear the brays of the angry crowd outside, but within the empty hallways it sounded like the buzz of angry bees.

The man he was supposed to meet, Jules, was standing in the foyer. Thomas knew at first glance this man was not French. From the letter his true name was 'Dietrich', and said Dietrich was almost as imposing as the Prussian he'd seen with the Crows: while not as tall, he was exceptionally well built, with a wiry frame and a spryness about him Thomas instantly disliked. The typical Germanic features were all there: blue eyes, hard jaw, sculpted cheeks, and a smattering of blond hair hidden beneath his hat. 'Jules' did not smile when he saw Thomas, but nodded once and motioned for him to follow him.

Thomas spent more time eyeing the paintings on the ceiling and feeling the musty carpet beneath his thin boots. It'd been some time since fêtes were thrown here. He almost thought he could smell and see the hair powder floating in the room like the dust motes from the open windows; hear the music of violins and laughter of nobles as they danced and drank the nights away. They passed the Salle des Conférences with all its gilded gold and Delacroix paintings. All this time, Jules did not speak.

They eventually reached the door to the palace's trophy room. Outside, a few chairs had been set up for visitors, and in one of them Thomas noticed a young girl, 13 or 14 or so, with a mess of dark red hair playing with a ball of yarn in her hands. Jules cleared his throat. The girl looked up.

The girl was the definition of 'mousy', with a pert nose, small mouth, and dark chocolate eyes which spoke of timidness. When she stood, Thomas thought he noticed how her legs were bowlegged.

"Tell the madamoiselle her guest has arrived, s'il te plaît."

"Un moment, monsieur. She is speaking with her guest and will need at least five minutes before I can announce the newcomer's arrival."

"As you wish." Jules regarded Thomas a moment. "I'll be waiting in the foyer until you are finished. Félicie will guide you out."

Before Thomas could say anything, Jules turned on his heel and marched away. He shrugged his shoulders and sat on the chair across from the girl, staring at his hands.

It was not even a minute until Thomas could hear voices on the inside.

"...I must confess I am a bit taken aback by this. I did not expect your branch of the Rite to become so interested in ours."

The voice was masculine, easy and rolling with expert dictation. If the man was truly taken aback, he hid it well. His controlled timbre gave the indication he was used to fearsome debates and used to coming out on top.

A female voice responded, "My uncle has decided the French Rite has become too mercurial and – shall we say? - loose in its goals. The death of de la Serre has not made things easier. You are aware he wanted a truce with the Brotherhood, correct?"

The man humphed. "de la Serre was a misplaced cog in the machine. The Rite will move forward without him."

"You are lucky the Brotherhood is as incompetent as the Rite at this moment," the woman shot back. "Were this during the days of de Molay, his men would have never scattered their resources as effective as they did."

"You do not have to remind me," the man responded coolly. "We are not blessed with men like Kenway anymore – and a peaceful sleep to him all the same. Nonetheless, you do not need to worry about the Brotherhood. After all, if your Uncle has his way, they'll be exterminated like the Prussian Brotherhood - an event, I must say, was quite effective. I hear the Assassins still carry nightmares over those executions."

The woman was silent. The man continued, "By the way, I am curious. You are a member of my Rite, are you not? Your loyalties are stronger to the Prussian Rite. Is it not fair to accuse you of having dual loyalty? How am I to believe your motives are for the betterment of our Rite, when your respect is for another?"

There was a sound of a heel twisting on parquet floors. Another foot was stomped down for emphasis. "I am a Knight Hospitaller. I was born into the Rite, yes, but I am a mediator. Remember, Germain, that I am the one who is the canary on your shoulder. You have no eyes in Paris. I have every Assassin and their profile on my desk. You do not. Now, you tell me who has the strongest loyalties!"

The young girl, Félicie put her ball of yarn on the chair next to her. She stood up and moved to the door. Before she knocked, however, she turned to Thomas.

"Can you keep a secret?" she asked.

Thomas raised his brows. After everything he heard...could he? Was he even meant to hear all that? He wagered no, but nonetheless it was illuminating. Who were these people?

Félicie continued, "Pretend you heard nothing. Keep your head down and nod like an idiot. They may not believe you but they will respect your honesty. It will prevent the moving shadows from knocking on your door at night."

Moving shadows? What on Earth - ?

No time to think about that, since Félicie began lightly rapping the door with her knuckles. The impatient, tapping heels paused and clicked to the door. The woman who had been arguing with the man peeked out of the slit in the door. Thomas could see a flicker of braided hair and the smidgen of a periwinkle dress. So. This was the second female Crow. Who was the other one?

Félicie stood behind him, lightly pushing at his back. "It will be fine, monsieur. Just act like an idiot, like I said. If Adrienne asked for you personally it usually means she respects you. Bon chance!"

Nom de Dieu. Was it too much to ask for a cognac?