UnfortunatelyMortal – Well, I can't help being brilliant in my own way. Also, please note that Harry is not fourteen. It will be explained later.
On a side note: The ranks of the assassins were created by the author Blue Sigma, author of Zuleika's Creed. The ranks have been taken from his story and are solely his creation. Used with permission.
All props to him.
Masyaf Fortress, July 30, 1994…
The dining hall of Masyaf was filled with noise as the assassins talked and ate, speaking of missions, friends and brothers and sisters long gone. Many left their seats to congratulate the Grand Assassin who killed the Templar Council
Al Mualim stood up, raising his goblet in the air. "I would like to propose a toast."
The multitude of assassins throughout the hall, paused in mid-sentence, stood and turned to face their Grand Master, raising their assortment of mugs, glasses, and goblets.
"To Harry Potter, our newest Master Assassin," shouted Al Mualim, his voice echoing throughout the hall. All the assassins threw back their drinks and began to clap and cheer, turning to look at the newest member of the Master rank.
The assassin in question fell back into his seat, shock washing over him as he realized what his Master had just said: He'd been promoted. He was now the youngest Master Assassin since Ezio Auditore, who had attained his Master status around the age of twenty five, according the Archives.
"Harry, please come up here," said Al Mualim, putting his goblet down and beckoning to his youngest Master Assassin.
Still numb, the assassin stood up to thunderous applause and walked to the head of the table, standing beside the Master.
"For your recent actions against the Templars, I, along with the council, have decided to award you your Master status, despite what I told you a few weeks ago," said Al Mualim, pulling a folded white over-robe from behind his chair.
The assassin smirked as he removed his various weapons, armor plates and belts, stacking them on the table. He shed his old robe and donned his new one, the hem of the robe nearly reaching his ankles. He quickly reapplied his weapons and gear, standing at attention before the Master and the other assassins.
"Behold… Master Assassin Harry Potter!" shouted Al Mualim, placing a hand on the assassin's shoulder.
The other assassins burst into applause, roaring their acceptance, shaking the hall with their voices alone.
The assassin smiled as he walked back to his seat in the corner, subjecting himself to the congratulations and back-slapping of the rest of his brothers and sisters.
Masyaf Fortress, July 31, 1994…
The assassin walked out of his room, heading for the courtyard. Talal had asked for the new Master to help with his novices, saying they seemed to not understand what it truly means to wield a blade. He was asked to perform a demonstration, showing the novices what a true assassin should be able to do with a sword, dagger, hidden blade, or otherwise.
As he stepped out into the sun, Talal's voice rang out, echoing throughout the crowded courtyard.
"Master Harry! Please, join us!" called Talal, beckoning to his young friend. His students smiled, stared, and gazed in awe at the sixteen year old Master.
"Good morning Talal, everyone," said the assassin, throwing a glare at Talal as he walked past, stopping at the wooden fence that surrounded the combat arena. He just had to pick a class made up mostly of novice girls…who did I piss off in a past life?
It wasn't that he disliked the female assassins. The problem for him was that most of them liked his legend and reputation as an Assassin rather than the man himself.
"Good morning, Master Harry," intoned the class, bowing their heads in respect.
"Akh Talal tells me that you wish to see a Master's skill with blades. I have, at his request, come to perform such… demonstrations," said the cloaked assassin, his expression blank as he looked at the hoods of the twenty students, most of the girls blushing as he looked them in the eyes.
"Are there any questions for Master Harry?" asked Talal, looking down the line at his students.
"Akh, please call me Harry."
"Of course," Talal said, smirking at his brother in arms. Out of the corner of his eye, a novice at the end of the line raised his hand. "Yes, Adham?"
"Can I fight him?"
Talal looked over at his friend, who nodded. "I guess so. He is a Master, so are you sure?"
"He doesn't look like much," sneered Adham, fingering the hilt of his sword. "I'm sure all the tales of his prowess are the result of him putting his tongue to the Master's boot."
Before Adham, Talal, or any of the other novices could blink, the assassin lunged forward, crossing the distance between him and Adham in an instant and glared at him beneath his hood, killing intent washing over him.
Talal began to sweat as he felt the brunt of his friends killing intent. A quick look behind him saw the novices come close to falling to their knees, some near fainting. Adham quickly backed up a pace, nearly tripping over himself in his haste to put some distance between him and the assassin.
"One more word, brother, and I'll put my blade to your throat, novice," he growled, eyes glowing green in the shadow of his cowl.
Just as the killing intent flared up, it disappeared. The assassin smirked as he turned away and walked to the ring. "Perhaps you can put my tales to rest. Come."
The assassin leapt lightly into the ring and walked to the center.
Adham looked at Talal, silently pleading for him to get him out of this. Talal grinned savagely and pointed to the ring, his meaning clear: get in there and get what's coming to you.
Adham entered the ring and stood a distance away, nervously shifting from foot to foot.
The assassin bowed his head, respectfully, though Adham clearly did not deserve it.
Most assassins, in practice duels, began with the small formality of respecting each other, sometimes exchanging greetings or wondered how the family was.
And then some merely nodded at each other. It was the unspoken language of the badasses. The nod meant "I am a badass, and I recognize that you, too, are a badass."
Adham, as soon as the assassin's eyes left his, charged, raising his sword to perform an overhand slice. He smirked as he began the slice, his blade arcing towards the assassin's unprotected head.
As the girls gasped, Talal hurried forward, drawing his own blade, intending to stop Adham's blade. They all froze at the new sight in front of them.
The assassin hadn't even drawn his sword, much to Talal's surprise. He had stepped into the attack and threw a punch, knocking Adham back a step. Dazed from the blow, Adham momentarily forgot about his attack.
The assassin, not allowing Adham a second to recover, used the same arm to snap an elbow strike into his opponent's jaw and then punched him with his left, leaving him to fall flat on his back, knocked unconscious.
Talal smirked, shaking his head at his friend. "You always liked to use your fists over blades, don't you?"
"The human weapon, when used correctly, can be one of the most effective weapons known to man," replied the assassin, looking over his shoulder at his ex-mentor and the rest of the class. "Any questions?"
Ten minutes later, the novices were practicing simple disarming techniques. Talal was circulating, pointing out flaws, adjusting stances and movements, and giving guidance on proper technique.
The assassin had paired himself with one of the students, since Adham was still unconscious and there were an odd number of students left.
"When I attack, step forward, throw a punch at the jaw, grab the wrist with your left hand and use your right to break his elbow. From there, pull the weapon out of his hand," said the assassin, demonstrating the action against an imaginary opponent.
"May I try?" asked the female assassin, stepping forward into her senior's range. "I think I understand it now."
"Let's see," said the assassin, smirking as he adopted his customized fighting stance. The novice dropped into the standard attack stance, waiting for the assassin's next move.
The assassin stepped forward, swinging his sword down and across, as if do slice the female novice from shoulder to opposite hip.
She stepped into the attack, throwing a punch to his jaw as she blocked the sword arm with her forearm. Her fist stopped a millimeter from his face, close enough to feel the power behind the blow.
Looking over her fist, the assassin tilted his head, his smirk growing larger as he realized she could have knocked him out, if she had connected.
Grabbing his wrist, she pulled her arm back and slammed into the underside of his arm. If he hadn't twisted his arm at the last second, she would have made his elbow exceed one hundred and eighty degrees, an incident that he'd experienced before at the hands of Talal, back when he was training.
From there, she pulled the sword out of his grasp and quickly stepped out of arms reach, returning to her attacking stance.
The assassin clapped slowly, smiling beneath his cowl. "Good. Very good."
She blushed at his praise and tossed the sword back to him. As he snatched it out of the air, she asked, "Again?"
He smiled, stepping forward, on the attack once more.
Two hours later, the bells rang out, signaling the eleventh hour. All the students slumped, allowing themselves to fall out of their stances, exhausted, as the bells also signified the end of their combat class.
Despite the two hours of exercise, the two Master assassins stood side by side at the center of the arena, as if they hadn't done anything strenuous.
"What do you think, Harry?" asked Talal, watching his students stagger tiredly out the gate of the arena, a smile flickering across his lips.
"Adequate," replied the assassin, his face expressionless.
"That's all?" asked Talal, turning to glare at his friend. "Adequate?"
"They've only trained for one year," said the assassin, turning away. He walked out of the arena, heading for the main gates. "I've trained for fourteen…"
Masyaf Outskirts, Midnight…
Two assassin ran across the desert, heading for a crowd. "Come on! We're gonna be late!"
A crowd had assembled in the desert; their only illumination was the light of the full moon.
Despite this late hour and limited lighting, many had paired up and began practicing and/or sparring, not seriously, just warming up.
The bells of Masyaf rang out twelve times, signifying the end of one guard shift and the start of the unofficial Fight Club of Masyaf.
"So what are the rules again?" asked the second of the pair, pausing just before the start of the fight ring.
"The seven rules are and always were simple: Never talk about Fight Club…Never talk about Fight Club…No weapons other than fists and feet…If someone says stop, goes limp, taps out, the fight is over…One fight at a time…No tattoo-runes…No names…No mercy…" intoned his friend, staring at the center of the ring.
Due to the fact that everyone the Council questioned denied the existence of the battle club, they let it pass as long as no one died. Their reasoning: It's more training for the assassins.
All competitors wore their hoods and a face mask, making it difficult for any of them to accurately choose an opponent who would be an easy challenge. This forced most lower class assassins to watch and wait, looking for the one slip up that would separate a weaker opponent from the crowd. A useful skill for when the assassins go out for jobs around the world, since, in their line of work, they have to identify their target, his or her bodyguards, and any undercover guards as well.
Traditionally, the club had been formed for the sole purpose of training, despite the fact that many novices risked ending up against a Greater-, Grand-, or, the absolute worst, a Master Assassin. Over the years, competitors began to bet on the winner of the fight. In addition to the outside betting, both of the competitors would bet an amount and the winner would take all.
Most novices braved the ring as a way to increase their income, since very few missions were of their level.
To start a fight, one merely had to walk into the center of the ring and wait. That person always ran the risk of being challenged by higher ranks, since most could tell by the way he moves what rank he was.
One such assassin stepped forward out of the crowd. He began to draw his weapons, putting them blade first in the ground. A Syrian blade, short blade, hidden blade, and various throwing knives soon littered the ground like a small garden of steel.
Unfortunately, most of the regulars recognized the assassin who now stood in the middle of the circle.
Most assassins wore the typical assassin garb, though some had their own custom modifications, such as more pouches or extra knife slots. It was much harder to tell a veteran from a novice since they all look nearly the same.
This assassin, however, had changed his robes to be unique. His white robes were now matte black, a shadow amongst the white crowd. The sleeves were cut off at the shoulder, displaying black tribal tattoos and leaving muscular arms bare to the elbows.
Veterans of the fight club had nicknamed him Altaїr, in honor of the famed Masyaf assassin of the Third Crusade, due to his prowess in battle. He had taken on all comers, in varying numbers, and beaten them with what appeared to be relative ease.
Out of all the participating assassins, he was the most dangerous.
The first assassin swore, shaking his head. "Shit. Altaїr's come out to play. Who's gonna fight him now?"
"What's up with him?" asked the second, confused.
"This guy has taken apart every opponent he's fought. He took on fifty Masters at once and came out without a scratch."
"Shit."
A second assassin stepped into the ring, smiling beneath her hood.
Like the assassin, her uniform was made to stand out in the crowd. The sleeves of the white over robe had been cut off at the shoulder, leaving her arms bare to the elbows, where the typical assassin bracers were. Rune tattoos marked her left shoulder, running from her bicep to the top of her shoulder. Ancient symbols for speed and strength, noted Altaїr, watching her approach. Most assassin tattoo runes were invisible unless active
The robe was also cut just below her the bottom of her rib cage, displaying a lean stomach, a silver hoop glinting at her navel in the moonlight.
The wide leather belt that all assassins wore hung low around her hips, more like a sarong than anything else.
She appeared as if she was stalking the assassin in the middle of the ring, a seductive, predator-like roll in her hips. Altaїr smiled, allowing himself to enjoy the sight of feminine hips swaying in all their splendor.
This assassin was the second to become a noticeable competitor in the Club. They called her Dancer, since most of her attacks looked like dance moves rather than actual strikes to the untrained eye. She was the best female assassin in the Club.
"Oh, great! Dancer versus Altaїr… this is gonna be quick, one way or another."
Altaїr and Dancer had never fought against each other, both taking time to analyze the other by watching various fights. Now they knew each other's movements almost as well as they knew their own.
"Finally… the famed Altaїr…" purred Dancer, slowly walking in front of Altaїr, trailing a finger across his chest. "It's a… pleasure to meet you."
Altaїr watched her, turning his head as she walked around him, always keeping an eye on her. He fought a smile as she realized her usual tactic of unnerving an opponent wasn't working, though he nearly smirked as he allowed himself to enjoy the feeling.
"Dancer…" rasped Altaїr, his voice like sandpaper. His head dipped, as if he was looking her over from head to toe, and licked his lips. A flash of green could be seen beneath his cowl as he said, "Perhaps we could arrange a better time for such... pleasantries."
Dancer blinked, surprised and instantly wary. No one had turned her own technique on her before, a fact that made her feel a slight twinge of fear. He's not a normal assassin, I know it.
Altaїr allowed the smirk to emerge as he started his own circling, keeping Dancer in front of him. He switched his stance, changing from his right side to his left, prompting the same from Dancer.
Dancer had the traditional fighting stance: both fists up, one guarding with ability to strike while the other acts as the main strike. She leaned back slightly on her back leg, both legs bent, feet in and L-style stance.
Altaїr's style was unique, developed over a period of years and refined through hours of practice. Due to its uniqueness, he rarely used outside the Fight Club. If he did use it, it was when fighting enemies who would no longer be around to recognize it.
His back hand was raised, just under jaw level, fingers splayed as if they were claws. His other hand was in a low knife hand, ready to block almost any low strikes and kicks.
They continued to circle, looking for any weaknesses. As they moved, they tightened the circle, soon coming within arms reach of each other.
Altaїr stomped his leading foot, acting as if he were about to charge. Dancer sprang back, easily jumping a meter away, landing in her stance.
She looked to find Altaїr in the same position, his boot's heel still in the sand. The assassin just stood there, smiling. The assassins around the ring megan to whisper to each other. They all knew he was good at faking his charges, making them seem real enough. Most competitors thought the fake rushes were real and the real ones were fakes. It was an amateur trick for him.
Damn him, thought Dancer, clenching her fists in anger. He's making me look like a fool.
They resumed circling. Dancer launched a few jabs at Altaїr, though they were ineffective. Every time her fist came close enough to strike, Altaїr leaned to the side, missing her fist by the narrowest margin possible.
His own blows were the same, missing by millimeters, brushed aside by lightning quick hands. His attacks, however, had a simple purpose: to latch onto Dancer's wrists or shoulders so he could bring her into range of his Kyoshu-jutsu.
After a couple of revolutions, Altaїr stomped again, once again causing Dancer to retreat, though she stopped herself from jumping that far away. What she didn't expect was her back foot to be off balance, as if she had stepped back on to a ramp. She looked down, wondering why she was losing her footing.
Dancer had stepped into the depression made by Altaїr's boot, created when he first stomped the sand.
Off balance, she slipped out of her stance for an instant, trying to regain her footing. She looked back up, trying to find her black-clad opponent. Empty desert surrounded her, ringed by the other assassins who were as confused as she was.
"Altaїr 3:16," said the assassin, his voice seeming to come from every direction at once.
After checking every direction, Dancer had a sinking feeling. There was only one direction she hadn't checked: up.
"Death from above," said Altaїr, falling from the sky, a fist raised for a punch.
Dancer raised both arms in a defensive position, ready to block. Then Altaїr did something unexpected: he didn't punch. Rather, he grabbed her right arm as he flipped over her head, bringing her to the ground with him. Dancer twisted as she was dragged down, trying to land upright.
She succeeded… mostly
This ended with them in a rather awkward position: Altaїr on his back, Dancer's right wrist caught in his hand; Dancer on top, straddling the black-clad assassin.
"Well, this is a predicament," said Altaїr, grinning up at Dancer. Before she could react, whether to pummel him or try and escape his grasp, he quickly reached over and tapped a series of points on her arm, starting at the crease in her elbow and leading up to her neck.
fiveprecise strikes, each hitting a pressure point in the right sequence. Dancer's eyes rolled up under her hood and she collapsed, falling headfirst into Altaїr's shoulder.
The assassins around the ring were struck dumb by the result. The fight had only been a few minutes long, though the skill level displayed was far beyond what most of them could achieve.
Altaїr stood, lifting Dancer in his arms, and walked towards the border of the ring. As he approached, the assassins parted, letting him pass through unopposed.
A snap of his fingers had all his weapons flying after him, causing some assassins to duck out of the way or be perforated. As the blades reached him, they sheathed themselves. After the last click of a knife sliding home, he disappeared, the afterimage of him walking fading to nothing.
Sahara Desert…
Dancer sprang upright, sore but instantly alert despite being unconscious for about half an hour. A bed was beneath her, black sheets pooling around her waist. Where am I?
A quick look around saw ancient stone both above her head and behind her. In front of her were stone columns, worn but strong. Many papers were stuck on the walls, held firmly by knives, tacks, and other various pointy objects.
Between a pair of columns, Dancer could see a patch of dark sand, indicating it was still dark outdoors. How long have I been out, she wondered as she threw back the sheets and swung her legs over the edge of the bed.
"Are you feeling better?" rasped Altaїr, sitting Indian-style on the roof, just behind her head.
Dancer leapt out of the bed with a shriek, landing about seven feet from the bed. She spun around and dropped into a fighting stance.
"Apparently…" drawled Altaїr, putting a palm on the ceiling and used it to lower himself to the floor. "Any side affects?"
"Where the fuck are we?" yelled Dancer, still in her stance.
"Sahara desert, my 'lair,' as it were," he said, tilting his head as he looked over Dancer. A flash of green tinted the shadow beneath his cowl. "Well, no lasting damage anyway."
"How do you figure?" asked Dancer, dropping her fists and straightening out of her fighter's crouch.
"I redid my HUD runes. My hood is more advanced," said Altaїr, walking to one of the walls, pulling a paper from the wall. "Take a look."
Altaїr tossed her the sheet, which she caught. A quick look saw about thirty different runes, all connected by thick black lines.
"I know most of the common runes, even some of the advanced ones…" muttered Dancer, looking for a familiar rune. "I can't find a single rune I recognize."
"Well, Farah, I invented those," said Altaїr, leaning against the wall.
As the recently identified Farah looked up in shock at the mention of her name, Altaїr smiled.
"What? You think I didn't know?" he asked, dropping the raspy voice. He began to chuckle, knowing her response.
Farah froze at the sound of a familiar voice. Dropping the rune covered paper, she walked over and pushed back 'Altaїr's' hood, revealing messy black hair and piercing green eyes.
"Harry?"
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