Dust on the street [Assassin's Creed, OC, PG]
Fuck grammar, I'm learning me some action.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Dust on the street
The boiling hot sun was scorching the open pathway between the creaking wooden buildings in a serious state of disrepair. In the shadow of a particularly leaning one there stood a hooded figure, his head bowed so that his face was obscured beneath the azure cloth. He wore the equipment of a man ready to fight for his life in every corner, at any given moment, ten small knives tied to his belt's both sides and arms and legs covered with armour.
He was digging the tip of his shoe to the dusty ground, fingering the edge of the blade connected to the piece of armour wrapped around his arm.
He bore every sign of an Assassin, a high ranking one, and even though he looked bored he was alert and as deadly as ever, and the approaching Templar knew this.
A grin crept on the knight's face as he calculated each of his steps to not stand out of the crowd and carry to the waiting man's ears. His hand was gently caressing the handle of his blade as if eager to pull it out, but in reality, he was simply subconsciously fascinated by the manner sun had warmed the metal hot like it had been held above fire.
The Assassin seemed to become more alert. The fingers that had been taking note of every little scratch and bump along his Hidden Blade, suddenly letting it pull back into the cover of its base. He never once rose his head to look, but the Templar knew he was watching.
He stopped in front of the Assassin, his hand now loosely wrapped around the hot handle he'd been caressing earlier, a smirk stretched upon his features. The cat-like, slender man in front of him slowly raised his eyes to face him, his almost black eyes glinting in the sunlight.
”A terrible weather, isn't it?” the Templar spoke in a velvety voice.
”A disgrace,” the Assassin replied, his tone as talentedly masked bored as the rest of his profile, ”Shall we?”
The Templar let out an amused huff and nodded.
”Let's,” he agreed and pulled out his sword as he spoke.
The Assassin bared his Blades, easily throwing his body out of the way of the other's sword as he swung it through the air.
”Like trying to catch a deer with a net made of stone,” the lightly armoured hooded man chuckled, effortlessly cutting one of the leather straps holding the Templar's scabbard at place.
”A deer is as deadly as a butterfly,” the Templar commented, kicking the falling sheath out of his foot space.
”I'd beg to differ,” the Assassin argued and their blades met mid-air, raising a nauseating, screeching sound amidst the whimpers and shouts and screams of their unwilling audience.
The Templar paid little attention to dodging the second Blade missing his waist by mere inches and tearing a hole into the cloak covering his shoulders. He responded by landing a heavy hit on the arm the Blade was connected to with the side of his metal vambrace, but despite the pain inflicted to the Assassin now retreating swiftly a couple steps, he did not flinch or show any signs of receiving pain.
The Templar felt his mouth's corner twitch in unwilling appreciation of the man's superb training. He knew few men who could stand up to pain unflinchingly and never be disoriented by a heavy blow, but these Assassins... The rumour had it they did not feel pain at all, and it had not stemmed from fear or lies as much as the masterful manner these men and women controlled their bodies.
A child was crying somewhere behind the Templar's back as he dodged a flying knife and was momentarily blinded by the sun hitting the metal and shining right in his eyes from the mirroring surface.
He shook his head, gasped and raised his eyes again, but the Assassin was nowhere to be seen. For sure, he had not meant to roll his eyes, but that was what he did anyway, stepping aside in time to watch the azure lighting hit the ground gracefully like a cat exactly where he had stood a second earlier.
Again their blades met. They stood in a cloud of reddish dust the crowd and they themselves had raised off the ground, trying not to blink despite the tears washing off the particles from their eyes and leaving traces behind as the drops pushed through the dirt on their skins.
The Assassin's hood had fallen, revealing a man in his early thirties with deep dark brown, thick and lightly curling hair that reached up to the middle of his neck and framed his face, thin but distinctive brows and a delicately built but sharp and a little crooked nose. He had a careless stubble over his lips and a swiftly trimmed beard on his chin, and his left ear, partially visible from underneath his hair, had ripped all the way up to the middle. He was clearly not pureblooded, having the heavy characterstics of a Romani and the graceful form of an Arab in his jawline and eyes, his skin the curious tone of desert sand the Templar hadn't witnessed in any given race.
He had a scar on his right cheek that ran from his hairline down to the corner of his mouth that had not been there when the Templar had last faced him, and the sight of it made him grin.
”Someone's cut your pretty face, Assassin,” he commented and deflected the second Blade off with his vambrace.
”He paid for that mistake,” the Assassin said in a careless tone, leaping out from the reach of the Templar's sword.
They circled for a moment, trying to find a weak spot from the other's defenses, but there were little to be seen from both sides.
”I think you're getting old,” the Templar continued, brushing aside his light hair, ”your reflexes are not the same they once were. Back then... you wouldn't have suffered a cut like that.”
”Oh, I don't think my reflexes are suffering yet.”
He did not see the Assassin leap, but in a moment's time, his back had hit the ground and he felt the cool metal of the other's blade brush against his throat.
”Quite the contrary.”
Blood trickled down the Templar's neck. He closed his eyes and grinned at the irony.
”Novice,” the Assassin dramatically sighed and pulled himself up once more, cleaning the drop of blood off his blade.
*
The sunset coloured everything the exact shade of the blood orange the Assassin was holding. His legs swung back and forth in the space between the building's front wall and the rooftop's edge they were hanging off from. His right arm was pressing against the warm tiles of the roof, giving him support as he leaned back to watch the city change shape with every passing moment. The voices of the people below echoed from the walls and the hillside the building stood above.
The Templar hesitated - he hated rooftops, and for a reason. Only idiots and Assassins used them for anything other than their given purpose that to the Templar was simply holding off the weather.
He had taken off his boots, finding it hard to find any solid grip for his feet, but even now his breathing halted as he debated moving forwards and staying back. The city below was so far away. He had no idea what madness had driven him there, as it was not a sane man's deed no matter what his reasoning had been.
The Assassin glanced back over his shoulder, bit into his fruit and frowned.
The Templar looked away, drew breath and stepped forwards, feeling his insides roll out of his body and down the roof, free-falling into the bloody city below. When his horizon regained its usual shape and position. He sighed and made his decision. Bit by bit he approached the edge, kneeling down a couple feet off from it and crawled there, his nails digging into the mossy tiling beneath. He grinded his teeth together, lips pursed together, his skin gaining an unhealthy tint of grey to it.
”If I didn't know you, I'd say you're afraid of heights. But of course you're not afraid of anything, so that must be simply my mind playing tricks on me,” the Assassin said in a soft tone.
”One more word and I'll push you off,” the Templar muttered and dug his heels to the roof.
”You know it would do you no good.”
”It would certainly do me a lot of good, Assassin.”
”Ah, but, Theo - it is a dumb thing to do, still. Completely pointless, and you might lose your footing as well. I'd be willing to bet my life on this; you wouldn't survive the fall, nor would you catch the ledge or know how to land safely. There's a lot more to it than praying to gods who do not hear or care.”
”Shut your mouth, Halim, or I'll shut it for you.”
The Assassin laughed, his hands now busy untying his Hidden Blades, the halves of the orange laying on his lap, their red flesh glimmering in sunlight. The Templar reached for the other, feeling dizzy and distracted, unable to move but one part of his body at a time.
The Assassin laid his weapons on their side and stretched his wrists first up, then down and grabbed again the half of the orange he had been eating earlier.
”It's been a long while,” he said, eyes reflecting the buildings bathing in light.
”Too long. It's good to see alive, Halim. I thought our previous meeting would be the last we'd have.”
”Hardly,” the Assassin commented, ”I, on the other hand, cannot understand why you haven't been done away with yet. So close to the inner circle... so crucial to the cause. Nobody knows your true colours and that will inevitably be your undoing one day.”
”I can handle a couple of your people any day, Assassin.”
”Yet you cannot even handle me.”
The Templar laughed, his low voice resembling a bark or a growl of some beast as he did so, hoarse and breathless as his laughter was.
”You, Halim, are a different matter altogether. It'd be a pity to rid the world of the scourge you are.”
”Ah, you and your manners, Theodor.”
The Templar slowly let his feet crawl to the edge of the roof and, holding his breath, pushed them over it. The feeling of the gentle wind caressing his bare skin was relieving and tasted of freedom, and the weight of his legs hanging down rooted him to the surface below much better than hanging onto it with all fours had done.
”The report, then, if you may,” the Assassin requested and laid his dark eyes upon the Templar.
The Templar nodded and spoke.
~*~ ~*~ ~*~
Dust on the street
The boiling hot sun was scorching the open pathway between the creaking wooden buildings in a serious state of disrepair. In the shadow of a particularly leaning one there stood a hooded figure, his head bowed so that his face was obscured beneath the azure cloth. He wore the equipment of a man ready to fight for his life in every corner, at any given moment, ten small knives tied to his belt's both sides and arms and legs covered with armour.
He was digging the tip of his shoe to the dusty ground, fingering the edge of the blade connected to the piece of armour wrapped around his arm.
He bore every sign of an Assassin, a high ranking one, and even though he looked bored he was alert and as deadly as ever, and the approaching Templar knew this.
A grin crept on the knight's face as he calculated each of his steps to not stand out of the crowd and carry to the waiting man's ears. His hand was gently caressing the handle of his blade as if eager to pull it out, but in reality, he was simply subconsciously fascinated by the manner sun had warmed the metal hot like it had been held above fire.
The Assassin seemed to become more alert. The fingers that had been taking note of every little scratch and bump along his Hidden Blade, suddenly letting it pull back into the cover of its base. He never once rose his head to look, but the Templar knew he was watching.
He stopped in front of the Assassin, his hand now loosely wrapped around the hot handle he'd been caressing earlier, a smirk stretched upon his features. The cat-like, slender man in front of him slowly raised his eyes to face him, his almost black eyes glinting in the sunlight.
”A terrible weather, isn't it?” the Templar spoke in a velvety voice.
”A disgrace,” the Assassin replied, his tone as talentedly masked bored as the rest of his profile, ”Shall we?”
The Templar let out an amused huff and nodded.
”Let's,” he agreed and pulled out his sword as he spoke.
The Assassin bared his Blades, easily throwing his body out of the way of the other's sword as he swung it through the air.
”Like trying to catch a deer with a net made of stone,” the lightly armoured hooded man chuckled, effortlessly cutting one of the leather straps holding the Templar's scabbard at place.
”A deer is as deadly as a butterfly,” the Templar commented, kicking the falling sheath out of his foot space.
”I'd beg to differ,” the Assassin argued and their blades met mid-air, raising a nauseating, screeching sound amidst the whimpers and shouts and screams of their unwilling audience.
The Templar paid little attention to dodging the second Blade missing his waist by mere inches and tearing a hole into the cloak covering his shoulders. He responded by landing a heavy hit on the arm the Blade was connected to with the side of his metal vambrace, but despite the pain inflicted to the Assassin now retreating swiftly a couple steps, he did not flinch or show any signs of receiving pain.
The Templar felt his mouth's corner twitch in unwilling appreciation of the man's superb training. He knew few men who could stand up to pain unflinchingly and never be disoriented by a heavy blow, but these Assassins... The rumour had it they did not feel pain at all, and it had not stemmed from fear or lies as much as the masterful manner these men and women controlled their bodies.
A child was crying somewhere behind the Templar's back as he dodged a flying knife and was momentarily blinded by the sun hitting the metal and shining right in his eyes from the mirroring surface.
He shook his head, gasped and raised his eyes again, but the Assassin was nowhere to be seen. For sure, he had not meant to roll his eyes, but that was what he did anyway, stepping aside in time to watch the azure lighting hit the ground gracefully like a cat exactly where he had stood a second earlier.
Again their blades met. They stood in a cloud of reddish dust the crowd and they themselves had raised off the ground, trying not to blink despite the tears washing off the particles from their eyes and leaving traces behind as the drops pushed through the dirt on their skins.
The Assassin's hood had fallen, revealing a man in his early thirties with deep dark brown, thick and lightly curling hair that reached up to the middle of his neck and framed his face, thin but distinctive brows and a delicately built but sharp and a little crooked nose. He had a careless stubble over his lips and a swiftly trimmed beard on his chin, and his left ear, partially visible from underneath his hair, had ripped all the way up to the middle. He was clearly not pureblooded, having the heavy characterstics of a Romani and the graceful form of an Arab in his jawline and eyes, his skin the curious tone of desert sand the Templar hadn't witnessed in any given race.
He had a scar on his right cheek that ran from his hairline down to the corner of his mouth that had not been there when the Templar had last faced him, and the sight of it made him grin.
”Someone's cut your pretty face, Assassin,” he commented and deflected the second Blade off with his vambrace.
”He paid for that mistake,” the Assassin said in a careless tone, leaping out from the reach of the Templar's sword.
They circled for a moment, trying to find a weak spot from the other's defenses, but there were little to be seen from both sides.
”I think you're getting old,” the Templar continued, brushing aside his light hair, ”your reflexes are not the same they once were. Back then... you wouldn't have suffered a cut like that.”
”Oh, I don't think my reflexes are suffering yet.”
He did not see the Assassin leap, but in a moment's time, his back had hit the ground and he felt the cool metal of the other's blade brush against his throat.
”Quite the contrary.”
Blood trickled down the Templar's neck. He closed his eyes and grinned at the irony.
”Novice,” the Assassin dramatically sighed and pulled himself up once more, cleaning the drop of blood off his blade.
*
The sunset coloured everything the exact shade of the blood orange the Assassin was holding. His legs swung back and forth in the space between the building's front wall and the rooftop's edge they were hanging off from. His right arm was pressing against the warm tiles of the roof, giving him support as he leaned back to watch the city change shape with every passing moment. The voices of the people below echoed from the walls and the hillside the building stood above.
The Templar hesitated - he hated rooftops, and for a reason. Only idiots and Assassins used them for anything other than their given purpose that to the Templar was simply holding off the weather.
He had taken off his boots, finding it hard to find any solid grip for his feet, but even now his breathing halted as he debated moving forwards and staying back. The city below was so far away. He had no idea what madness had driven him there, as it was not a sane man's deed no matter what his reasoning had been.
The Assassin glanced back over his shoulder, bit into his fruit and frowned.
The Templar looked away, drew breath and stepped forwards, feeling his insides roll out of his body and down the roof, free-falling into the bloody city below. When his horizon regained its usual shape and position. He sighed and made his decision. Bit by bit he approached the edge, kneeling down a couple feet off from it and crawled there, his nails digging into the mossy tiling beneath. He grinded his teeth together, lips pursed together, his skin gaining an unhealthy tint of grey to it.
”If I didn't know you, I'd say you're afraid of heights. But of course you're not afraid of anything, so that must be simply my mind playing tricks on me,” the Assassin said in a soft tone.
”One more word and I'll push you off,” the Templar muttered and dug his heels to the roof.
”You know it would do you no good.”
”It would certainly do me a lot of good, Assassin.”
”Ah, but, Theo - it is a dumb thing to do, still. Completely pointless, and you might lose your footing as well. I'd be willing to bet my life on this; you wouldn't survive the fall, nor would you catch the ledge or know how to land safely. There's a lot more to it than praying to gods who do not hear or care.”
”Shut your mouth, Halim, or I'll shut it for you.”
The Assassin laughed, his hands now busy untying his Hidden Blades, the halves of the orange laying on his lap, their red flesh glimmering in sunlight. The Templar reached for the other, feeling dizzy and distracted, unable to move but one part of his body at a time.
The Assassin laid his weapons on their side and stretched his wrists first up, then down and grabbed again the half of the orange he had been eating earlier.
”It's been a long while,” he said, eyes reflecting the buildings bathing in light.
”Too long. It's good to see alive, Halim. I thought our previous meeting would be the last we'd have.”
”Hardly,” the Assassin commented, ”I, on the other hand, cannot understand why you haven't been done away with yet. So close to the inner circle... so crucial to the cause. Nobody knows your true colours and that will inevitably be your undoing one day.”
”I can handle a couple of your people any day, Assassin.”
”Yet you cannot even handle me.”
The Templar laughed, his low voice resembling a bark or a growl of some beast as he did so, hoarse and breathless as his laughter was.
”You, Halim, are a different matter altogether. It'd be a pity to rid the world of the scourge you are.”
”Ah, you and your manners, Theodor.”
The Templar slowly let his feet crawl to the edge of the roof and, holding his breath, pushed them over it. The feeling of the gentle wind caressing his bare skin was relieving and tasted of freedom, and the weight of his legs hanging down rooted him to the surface below much better than hanging onto it with all fours had done.
”The report, then, if you may,” the Assassin requested and laid his dark eyes upon the Templar.
The Templar nodded and spoke.