The levels of sandstone were the oldest in the great fortress, though technically built last they had never been touched but severe alterations or renovations out of fear that they would somehow disrupt the Waters of the Animus. When he left the staircase a few floors down he was greeted by the darker stoned hallways where the warriors lived and trained and worked. There was far greater activity down here than in the halls of the prophets with people moving in and out between rooms and down the hallways. As he walked the halls he received very different reactions from each level of warrior. The pale gray robed novices shoved themselves up against the wall, heads down barely able to look at his shoes and whispered a subtle greeting that Desmond could have barely heard even if he had been paying attention. There were also the regular warriors who gave a poised greeting as they stepped around him as well as a dip of the head their own white robes marking them as above the novices. Their greetings, though loud enough to hear, also went unnoticed, they just went right through Desmond’s head because he was intent on his task.
Then of course there were the few and proud warriors who from their very existence and near perfection gave their entire people their names: Assassins. They wore the same white as a normal, winged, warrior, but wore a mix of leather and metal armor that did not accompany usual warriors who simply traveled the desert. They all wore beaked hoods up, hiding their faces but not their intent and the few that passed Desmond looked at him with the greatest respect but also desire because of what he was. The assassins were the takers of feathers, the strong arm of the prophets, who ventured out beyond the borders of the desert to kill those deemed punishable by them and they all strove for the same thing, for the same glory, to become a guardian of the sandstone stories. When Desmond passed them they did not offer words, merely a bow of the head, though he still felt their eyes on him, coveting him and all others like him.
When he stood for one of the elevators everyone gave him room and no one got on with him. Only the uppermost stories were not connected to the rest of the fortress in this way because to do so would cut strait through the Animus. But in the lower floors there was this connivence. Below the dark halls was where the rest of the fortress worked, where the city was run and where the normal populous was allowed to go. It by far was the largest part of the fortress though not nearly important as it might have wanted to be. Yes it kept Masyaf running, yes it ensured that the city was always well defended and stocked with food, water and luxuries, but no one doubted that those of the higher levels responded to a higher calling, ones closer to God.
On the first floor was the grand foyer from which everyone had to pass through to get anywhere in the fortress. The foyer was by far the largest open space in the entire building with a huge golden mosaic that depicted desert flora and fauna and covered most of the floor between the two large winged staircases made of green and white marble and gilded silver that ran in curved arcs along the side of the room. Desmond stopped at the landing at the top of the stairways and leaned against the cool banister watching people walk in and out of the building or across the foyer. Now he had to wait. The guardian had said he was here, of course that just meant he’d come home to the city, that wasn’t literally here.
He drummed his fingers across the stone, ignoring the people around him as best he could as they passed and spoke quiet greeting. He could still feel them though, watching him, their eyes fixed to him like glue and he repressed a shutter of dislike. Then he perked up when a familiar figure crossed over the threshold. “Altair!” he called as he scrambled down one of the stairways.
Re: Clipped (21b/21)
Then of course there were the few and proud warriors who from their very existence and near perfection gave their entire people their names: Assassins. They wore the same white as a normal, winged, warrior, but wore a mix of leather and metal armor that did not accompany usual warriors who simply traveled the desert. They all wore beaked hoods up, hiding their faces but not their intent and the few that passed Desmond looked at him with the greatest respect but also desire because of what he was. The assassins were the takers of feathers, the strong arm of the prophets, who ventured out beyond the borders of the desert to kill those deemed punishable by them and they all strove for the same thing, for the same glory, to become a guardian of the sandstone stories. When Desmond passed them they did not offer words, merely a bow of the head, though he still felt their eyes on him, coveting him and all others like him.
When he stood for one of the elevators everyone gave him room and no one got on with him. Only the uppermost stories were not connected to the rest of the fortress in this way because to do so would cut strait through the Animus. But in the lower floors there was this connivence. Below the dark halls was where the rest of the fortress worked, where the city was run and where the normal populous was allowed to go. It by far was the largest part of the fortress though not nearly important as it might have wanted to be. Yes it kept Masyaf running, yes it ensured that the city was always well defended and stocked with food, water and luxuries, but no one doubted that those of the higher levels responded to a higher calling, ones closer to God.
On the first floor was the grand foyer from which everyone had to pass through to get anywhere in the fortress. The foyer was by far the largest open space in the entire building with a huge golden mosaic that depicted desert flora and fauna and covered most of the floor between the two large winged staircases made of green and white marble and gilded silver that ran in curved arcs along the side of the room. Desmond stopped at the landing at the top of the stairways and leaned against the cool banister watching people walk in and out of the building or across the foyer. Now he had to wait. The guardian had said he was here, of course that just meant he’d come home to the city, that wasn’t literally here.
He drummed his fingers across the stone, ignoring the people around him as best he could as they passed and spoke quiet greeting. He could still feel them though, watching him, their eyes fixed to him like glue and he repressed a shutter of dislike. Then he perked up when a familiar figure crossed over the threshold. “Altair!” he called as he scrambled down one of the stairways.