CLOSED, INCOMPLETE.
Who: Altaïr (excarnates) & Desmond (mnemotechnics).
When: Not long after Desmond arrives.
Where: Some random rooftop, idfk.
Format: Paragraph, present tense. PAST TENSE. Present tense. YEAH, WE'RE GOING THERE.
What: Secret assassin things. No beggars allowed. :|
Warnings: Probably some minor violence. Language? Likely TL;DR. Other than that, it'll be pretty tame!
Altaïr is almost always a man that tends not to be phased by very many things, but his nerves can really only take so much after a certain period of time. And maybe most of it has to do with bad timing, or maybe Desmond just has a death wish -- either way, he doesn't need this right now, not with everything else going on, not with the other goals he needs to accomplish.
The city is full of people he's never seen before, strange people, each one different from the last. Templar, though on the losing side of the battle, were evasive, determined, intelligent, their passion made up for their ignorance, and he doesn't think for one second that different forms of them don't reside here, as well.
This Desmond seems to know quite a bit about him, so when he finally shuts off the odd communicating device to make his way toward him, he's almost positive that he knows much more than he actually should. Much more than anyone should, really, aside from those who had heard of his failure in Jerusalem and humiliating punishment carried out by the hands of Al Mualim in Masyaf.
So. He doesn't travel over the rooftops.
Instead, he uses the streets, weaving his way through the sea of unfamiliar faces, limbs taut and tense beneath the white fabric of his clothing. Most of the passing glances sent his way tend not to phase him in the slightest -- he's used to it, accustomed to people cringing from him and turning abruptly on their heels to head in another direction at the mere sight of him. But this is different. This isn't the same at all, and every time a stranger looks his way, he feels his fingers curl into his palm until they go numb.
( Paranoia finds ways of eating at a man until there's nothing left but brittle, broken bones. )
It's almost sad, if he thinks about it, how much that fear of being discovered controls him when there is literally no one around to do any discovering. Aside from one person, apparently, one person he'd never even heard of, never even spoken to, and part of Altaïr is irritated that he's even wasting his time, could be a trap, could be pointless, could be a lot of things, and the other part doesn't know what to think.
He's witnessed a lot of strange, unexplainable miracles ( or nightmares, depending on how one looked at it ) these past few days, and even now, it's difficult to remember those words he once abode by.
Anything is possible. Even the impossible. Anything. Anything, anything, anything, he doesn't even know what the hell that means anymore.
Yet this is only one more obstacle out of many. In the grand scope of everything he's faced, everything he's done, it's nothing, but -- to underestimate his situation is to be both foolish and unwisely arrogant, and he's already traveled plenty far down that path once before.
Still . . . Nothing about any of this sits right with him. For many reasons.
Much like the day of his arrival, Altaïr wedges himself into a dimly lit alleyway, glancing once over his shoulder before sliding his fingers along the rough stone of the building and heaving himself up. It takes less than a minute for him to steady himself on the edge of the roof, and -- yes, there he is, definitely, standing a mere five or ten yards from him, waiting. Desmond had been right in his belief that finding him wouldn't be difficult, but then again, he hadn't exactly made it much of a challenge.
He straightens, eyes flitting down over his form ( somehow strangely familiar, but he's having trouble putting his finger on it ), silently assessing.
"You have five seconds to explain yourself," he says finally, and it's as calm as everything else he does, even as he advances forward over the roof, flicking his hand out to trigger his hidden blade. "My generosity, as well as my patience, is limited."
Right to the point. See, Des, this is why we don't waste Altaïr's time. Silly.
When: Not long after Desmond arrives.
Where: Some random rooftop, idfk.
Format: Paragraph, present tense. PAST TENSE. Present tense. YEAH, WE'RE GOING THERE.
What: Secret assassin things. No beggars allowed. :|
Warnings: Probably some minor violence. Language? Likely TL;DR. Other than that, it'll be pretty tame!
Altaïr is almost always a man that tends not to be phased by very many things, but his nerves can really only take so much after a certain period of time. And maybe most of it has to do with bad timing, or maybe Desmond just has a death wish -- either way, he doesn't need this right now, not with everything else going on, not with the other goals he needs to accomplish.
The city is full of people he's never seen before, strange people, each one different from the last. Templar, though on the losing side of the battle, were evasive, determined, intelligent, their passion made up for their ignorance, and he doesn't think for one second that different forms of them don't reside here, as well.
This Desmond seems to know quite a bit about him, so when he finally shuts off the odd communicating device to make his way toward him, he's almost positive that he knows much more than he actually should. Much more than anyone should, really, aside from those who had heard of his failure in Jerusalem and humiliating punishment carried out by the hands of Al Mualim in Masyaf.
So. He doesn't travel over the rooftops.
Instead, he uses the streets, weaving his way through the sea of unfamiliar faces, limbs taut and tense beneath the white fabric of his clothing. Most of the passing glances sent his way tend not to phase him in the slightest -- he's used to it, accustomed to people cringing from him and turning abruptly on their heels to head in another direction at the mere sight of him. But this is different. This isn't the same at all, and every time a stranger looks his way, he feels his fingers curl into his palm until they go numb.
( Paranoia finds ways of eating at a man until there's nothing left but brittle, broken bones. )
It's almost sad, if he thinks about it, how much that fear of being discovered controls him when there is literally no one around to do any discovering. Aside from one person, apparently, one person he'd never even heard of, never even spoken to, and part of Altaïr is irritated that he's even wasting his time, could be a trap, could be pointless, could be a lot of things, and the other part doesn't know what to think.
He's witnessed a lot of strange, unexplainable miracles ( or nightmares, depending on how one looked at it ) these past few days, and even now, it's difficult to remember those words he once abode by.
Anything is possible. Even the impossible. Anything. Anything, anything, anything, he doesn't even know what the hell that means anymore.
Yet this is only one more obstacle out of many. In the grand scope of everything he's faced, everything he's done, it's nothing, but -- to underestimate his situation is to be both foolish and unwisely arrogant, and he's already traveled plenty far down that path once before.
Still . . . Nothing about any of this sits right with him. For many reasons.
Much like the day of his arrival, Altaïr wedges himself into a dimly lit alleyway, glancing once over his shoulder before sliding his fingers along the rough stone of the building and heaving himself up. It takes less than a minute for him to steady himself on the edge of the roof, and -- yes, there he is, definitely, standing a mere five or ten yards from him, waiting. Desmond had been right in his belief that finding him wouldn't be difficult, but then again, he hadn't exactly made it much of a challenge.
He straightens, eyes flitting down over his form ( somehow strangely familiar, but he's having trouble putting his finger on it ), silently assessing.
"You have five seconds to explain yourself," he says finally, and it's as calm as everything else he does, even as he advances forward over the roof, flicking his hand out to trigger his hidden blade. "My generosity, as well as my patience, is limited."
Right to the point. See, Des, this is why we don't waste Altaïr's time. Silly.