Damnit Desmond why do you think so much? This took way to much time to write because of his pov /shot --
The sky outside the window was wide open without even clouds to mar it’s surface except for at the horizon where the startings of one of the seasonal sand storms sat like a lion on the horizon ready to pouch upon the city. Or maybe an assassin ready to strike with blinding speed. The city before him look his breath away, as it always did because it was beautiful. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the city before recently either since so much of his childhood had been spent away from here and away from these lands and instead he’d been locked in a world where he might as well have been deaf and mute for how well he understood the language. He could barely remember his own parents, let alone this city and all he knew of them were through his brother’s eyes.
Below him stretched the city of Masyaf. It was not a city like the ones from that other country which sprawled across a vast landscape and consumed everything it touched, but instead was small in comparison and robust. It was not a jewel of a city, it didn’t glimmer in the sunset, but it was beautiful. Unlike the cities of the other country that were fragile as glass Masyaf was like a knife, efficient, beautiful and strong. It was the city of the Assassins, a safe haven from storms of nature and of steel and no one had ever found it. Much like the Assassins themselves Masyaf was invisible unless it wanted to be found like a desert oasis that when up came upon it was really just a mirage and water was still out of reach. The city spiraled out from the center piece of everything, the proverbial center of their existence, the great fortress of Masyaf with it’s many levels and winding hallways and vast grounds where you could constantly see novices training. At the highest levels you could hear the true howls of the wind, especially during a storm. You could also hear the hum of the Animus which was a constant drone like a prolonged bell tone.
On the other side of the room there was a knock at the door, a quiet and polite knock making Desmond turn away from the glass window and the beautiful city and the storm that was coming in from the west. He padded quietly over to it and opened it just a bit, as wary as ever. One of the black garbed guardians stood there, his hood up and it shadowed his eyes and upper part of his face. They were the protectors of prophets who lived at this high level and tended the Animus. “Yes?” he asked holding the door so he could close it if need be.
“Divinus,” the guardian bowed his head politely to him when he spoke, “your Sicarius has returned from his mission,” he said, his tone measured, reserved, and respectful.
Desmond fought a moment to keep his composure, “Thank you for telling me,” he said managing only that before he closed the door and finally that smile broke across his face. He threw himself down onto the rug covered floor and pulled on his shoes tying up the laces quickly and grabbed his coat from where he’d left it on the floor. It was not cold out but the fabric was light and represented his rank since he did not chose to display his full sleeve tattoo to the world. Once he’d taken the time to at least button one button he left his room, he couldn’t be bothered with the rest.
Outside in the corridor it was quiet with only the distant hum of the climate controller to be heard and the just as distant throb of the Animus which permeated every inch of the upper floors and if you put your hand on the walls you could feel them vibrating. The walls at these upper levels were made of sandstone and lined with large glass windows that let in so much light the normal beige stone was practically white. As he made his way to the stairwell he passed a few of the dark robed guardians and as he did they uttered a soft greeting and dipped their heads in respect before he was already out of sight of them and climbing down the warm stone staircase that led to the lower levels.
Clipped (21a/21)
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The sky outside the window was wide open without even clouds to mar it’s surface except for at the horizon where the startings of one of the seasonal sand storms sat like a lion on the horizon ready to pouch upon the city. Or maybe an assassin ready to strike with blinding speed. The city before him look his breath away, as it always did because it was beautiful. He couldn’t remember ever seeing the city before recently either since so much of his childhood had been spent away from here and away from these lands and instead he’d been locked in a world where he might as well have been deaf and mute for how well he understood the language. He could barely remember his own parents, let alone this city and all he knew of them were through his brother’s eyes.
Below him stretched the city of Masyaf. It was not a city like the ones from that other country which sprawled across a vast landscape and consumed everything it touched, but instead was small in comparison and robust. It was not a jewel of a city, it didn’t glimmer in the sunset, but it was beautiful. Unlike the cities of the other country that were fragile as glass Masyaf was like a knife, efficient, beautiful and strong. It was the city of the Assassins, a safe haven from storms of nature and of steel and no one had ever found it. Much like the Assassins themselves Masyaf was invisible unless it wanted to be found like a desert oasis that when up came upon it was really just a mirage and water was still out of reach. The city spiraled out from the center piece of everything, the proverbial center of their existence, the great fortress of Masyaf with it’s many levels and winding hallways and vast grounds where you could constantly see novices training. At the highest levels you could hear the true howls of the wind, especially during a storm. You could also hear the hum of the Animus which was a constant drone like a prolonged bell tone.
On the other side of the room there was a knock at the door, a quiet and polite knock making Desmond turn away from the glass window and the beautiful city and the storm that was coming in from the west. He padded quietly over to it and opened it just a bit, as wary as ever. One of the black garbed guardians stood there, his hood up and it shadowed his eyes and upper part of his face. They were the protectors of prophets who lived at this high level and tended the Animus. “Yes?” he asked holding the door so he could close it if need be.
“Divinus,” the guardian bowed his head politely to him when he spoke, “your Sicarius has returned from his mission,” he said, his tone measured, reserved, and respectful.
Desmond fought a moment to keep his composure, “Thank you for telling me,” he said managing only that before he closed the door and finally that smile broke across his face. He threw himself down onto the rug covered floor and pulled on his shoes tying up the laces quickly and grabbed his coat from where he’d left it on the floor. It was not cold out but the fabric was light and represented his rank since he did not chose to display his full sleeve tattoo to the world. Once he’d taken the time to at least button one button he left his room, he couldn’t be bothered with the rest.
Outside in the corridor it was quiet with only the distant hum of the climate controller to be heard and the just as distant throb of the Animus which permeated every inch of the upper floors and if you put your hand on the walls you could feel them vibrating. The walls at these upper levels were made of sandstone and lined with large glass windows that let in so much light the normal beige stone was practically white. As he made his way to the stairwell he passed a few of the dark robed guardians and as he did they uttered a soft greeting and dipped their heads in respect before he was already out of sight of them and climbing down the warm stone staircase that led to the lower levels.