Hey, guys. You may notice that I switched; between Altair and "Thomas", that is. This story will focus on the present-day Order and the old Order, noting the differences between the two while providing good-old blood and gore. I mean, several dramatic fight scenes. Enjoy! Also: Anyone who provides me with one of the references from the names will be rewarded. With cyber cookies.

Irlav Jerol: Killed.
Pietr Pamun:
Gladin Muafun:
Mikhail Mounce:
Ari Commin:

"It is done, Master." Altaϊr laid the bloody feather on Al Mualim's desk rather grimly for someone who did this kind of thing weekly, if not daily. Al Mualim looked up from one of his many books, all of which were written in Latin. He was a bit of a show off, at times.

"Ah, my boy, I have indeed received word that this is true. You did well; no one noticed until well after he was already dead. For this, you have honored yourself." He looked back down at his book, mumbling that Altaϊr should go down to the training grounds and show Malik and the boys how it's done. Of course, he didn't phrase it like that; but that is what he meant, nonetheless.

Malik wasn't at the practice grounds, nor was his brother, so he had to settle for practicing with his fellow Assassins and the soldiers they trained. He stepped into the ring and cracked his neck, taking the practice blade that was offered him. It was forged of fine steel; balanced well, too. Then again, so were all the other swords the Assassins used. Only the best.

Altaϊr spun the sword a bit, getting a feel for how it handled, and then nodded to the senior trainer. Another man stepped in- although this one was closer to a boy. He was barely out of his teen years, at most. Altaϊr allowed his soon-to-be combatant to practice as well, and then, when he had nodded to the trainer, readied himself.

They circled each other for a few moments before the other man struck, lunging forward in an attempt to drive his blade into Altaϊr's heart- because the Assassins don't play around. If you weren't fast enough, you were wounded, sometimes seriously- of course, most of the Assassins went easy on each other, simply for practicality's sake. Injured fighters were useless in times of war.

Altaϊr stepped to the left and guided the tip of his opponent's blade to the right- his right, in any case. He used the tip of his own blade to do this, and suddenly snapped it downwards, changing the motion from gentle to violent. The boy was confused by this, and allowed his blade to strike the ground before trying, in vain, to retreat. Altaϊr approached his enemy swiftly and kicked his right wrist, causing him to drop his sword and rendering him weaponless. Then he moved in for the killing blow.

Or what would have been the killing blow, if he hadn't pulled back at the last moment. He swung his sword at the man's neck and stopped, twisting it and slapping the boy with the flat of his blade. "Finite," he muttered, unable to resist the theatrical touch. The boy hung his head in shame and stepped out of the ring, handing his sword in on the way out. "Now, who else wants a turn?"

Altaϊr noted a group of four men speaking in hushed tones on the sidelines. After a moment of silence, all four of them grabbed swords from the barrel and stepped into the ring- or, as it was also known, the killzone. The trainer stepped up to Altaϊr and whispered, "You don't have to do this. There is no shame in yielding to such odds." He looked at the trainer and replied that he relished the challenge.

Altaϊr gave his sword a whirl again and motioned for the men to come at him, taunting them with his eyes. They all looked at each other and nodded, before turning to Altaϊr and charging. They came at him in a row, each with their sword in a different position. He noted that the man on the left end had it extended outward, as if planning to simply skewer him. That was a mistake.

Altaϊr waited until they were almost upon them and spun towards the man on the left, jabbing into his unguarded foot as he passed. This resulted in one enemy on the floor sobbing, with the rest of them a lot less confident. This time they advanced slowly, allowing Altaϊr time to move directly into the center of the ring. Seeing this, the other three formed a triangle around him. Now it was time to see if the man would live up to the legend.

They all began closing the gap slowly until they could circle him, and started taking jabs at him. None of these were serious, and he could avoid them all. He was waiting, waiting like the eagle waits for the snake... and then the eagle swooped. He leaped at one of the men, shoving his sword-hand outwards and jabbing him in the neck with his fist. Then he spun on his heel, kicking another man's legs from beneath him and stomping on his stomach, although not hard enough to do any real damage. The final man looked at him with wonder.

He barely had time to gasp before Altaϊr was upon him, delivering a vicious backhand and planting a knee in his stomach before pushing him to the ground triumphantly. Secretly, he breathed a sigh of relief, noting that he had a few scratches on him. Still, it was all in a day's work. Now he could relax and unwind before proceeding to his next target.