Would you believe that not only is this the longest chapter to date (three parts!) but that this installment also pushes the overall word count over 50,000? This thing is getting long. (But I still love it, and I love you guys too).
It is a thin line he is walking, that much is clear. Concealed within the line of trees marking the end of the wilderness and the beginning of the town Connor waits for darkness to fall. He's been sat here for hours now, settled down amongst the undergrowth resting against the thick bole of an elm, following the progress of the sun towards the horizon. Slipping back into Boston unnoticed is of the utmost importance, in no small part due to his strict orders to rendezvous with Yvette before doing anything further. Being seen with her would go a long way towards exposing the truth of his identity to the Templars, something they are still trying to avoid for the foreseeable future. Even now, so close to his destination, he can't quite believe that he's being allowed to do this. While Achilles's tone had made it clear that he wasn't entirely happy with the arrangement he hadn't gone so far as to actually accuse the novice of anything, yet. Were this not such a delicate juncture he'd have faced tougher consequences, of that he is sure. As things stand though the opportunity is one they cannot rightly refuse.
Rather than filling him with relief though the decision to send him to the Green Dragon has only caused him greater stress. These last few days in particular there has been little distraction from the tangle of confusion his thoughts have become. Dobby's words have stuck in his mind, festering and reigniting all of his previous doubts and fears about the grandmaster. Yet a part of him continues to hope. As reasonable as her argument may be, he remains reluctant to entirely dismiss everything that has happened between them. He might want to pretend otherwise, that it was all part of the plan, but the fact remains that he feels something for Haytham. This couldn't all be just a manipulation, could it? With a growl he buries his face in his hands. One thing is certain; if he is ever going to regain any peace of mind then he needs to see the man again, soon.
To his relief, night is fast setting in now, with the gloom under the trees growing. Shifting, the novice concentrates on assessing what lies immediately ahead. Between the woods and Southgate's outer wall is a strategic stretch of open grass. Other than the well-beaten road that cuts through its middle, the swathe of land is almost entirely featureless. It is quite flat, save for a few minor bumps, with only the odd tussock or dying bush naturally punctuating the stretch. Laid out closer to the walls are a number of chevaux de frise, the large menacing frames of wooden spikes only really a threat to those not on foot. Hardly any chances for blending, which is rather the point. Still, in the absence of daylight crossing the stretch and picking his way around the side of the fortifications won't be too difficult, so long as he's careful. It's not as if he hasn't taken this same route many times before. Were the sea not already so cold with the onset of winter, he might have be tempted to consider swimming instead, to take an even more direct course. Had he been heading straight to the Green Dragon that might not have been such a bad idea at all... Face already heating up, Connor lets out an exasperated breath; his thoughts keep doing this, finding excuses to turn in that direction whenever he finally manages to fix them elsewhere.
Closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands hard against them he tries to focus, willing it all away. He can't afford more lapses like this, at least not when there is anyone else to notice them. Dobby might be understanding and Achilles might be forgiving, but Yvette is uncompromising. No one drills the principles and tenets of the creed harder. Supposedly it's a French thing, this level of fierce devotion to the cause, coming from an upbringing in one of the most heavily contested sites in the centuries-old struggle. If anyone is going to detect his conflicted feelings and confront him now, it will be her – the very Assassin spymaster whose resources and attention are tirelessly trained on the Templar base of operations. And if she should decide that his actions are compromising the Brotherhood... But that won't happen; he'll remember the warnings, remember that the grandmaster is trying to use him, and not let himself fall any further for it. Simple enough, in theory.
Shouts signal as nearby soldiers make ready to close the outer gate for the night. Southgate had been restored to its secure, fully operational state within days of their ill-fated raid, naturally. While there is no doubt that they'd lost a fair few men that night, it seems the British had little difficulty finding replacements. Connor has no idea who is now in charge of the fort, but he doubts that they are going to be too much of an improvement over Silas. Progressing so far in the army ranks requires a certain way of thinking, after all. Still, he is confident that once it is dark enough he won't have any more difficulty than before in making his way past the walls and the barracks. The water gives them a false sense of security, as if they think they are still on an isolated island rather than a mere peninsula. And if there was ever something to benefit an Assassin it was the overconfidence of others. He realises, however, that the same could just as easily be said for the Templars.
If only they could have waited a few more years before coming here, then he wouldn't be finding himself in this position. With more experience, and with his days of training fully behind him, he would have had no problems following his orders rather than creating such a mess. True, it's a mess that might still prove to be advantageous to the Brotherhood, but it's still a mess nonetheless. Getting to his feet and brushing himself off, he checks over his weapons one last time, delaying. Again he is back to just the basics: knife, bow and quiver. Even so, it's more than he had when he made this journey last, for which he is thankful. Inventory taken, he bends to tighten the straps of his moccasins. While Abigail had allowed him to leave the homestead without his ankle still wrapped up in supportive bandages she had given him strict instructions to keep the joint well-supported and not push himself too soon. And yes, that did mean no jumping around in the trees. He's abiding by that, for now. His other concern is simply to keep his feet as dry as possible, for though he has no plans to swim today his route will likely require some measure of wading. Can't risk illness after all, for any sort of weakness is to be avoided on a task like this. Besides, he's not sure he'll be able to stand being bedridden again for some time.
In the distance a clock tower strikes the hour and the gates are dragged shut with an ominous clang, supposedly sealing the town off from the dangers of the outside for the night. Remaining within the shade of the trees even as the last streaks of red drain from the sky, Connor finally makes his way towards the water's edge. It's an uneven, rocky terrain but, with barely a trace of his limp noticeable anymore, it poses little in the way of a challenge. Hopefully the eyes of the watchmen will be mostly trained on the road tonight, as they usually seem to be. His senses tell him that there are no soldiers on the ground out here, which is to be expected, yet those guards stationed on the battlements are still capable of doing a lot of damage should they detect his movements. Taking no chances he stays low, almost to the point of moving on all fours, and steals forward.
Once he reaches the outer wall, pressing his back up against the cold, reassuring stone, he pauses to draw in a slow, quiet breath. This is good practice if nothing else, and after being cooped up it's refreshing, an exhilarating burst of adrenaline. Hugging the masonry the novice edges his way around the corner, allowing his feet to slide softly into the water when he can no longer avoid it and dragging them gently in order to minimise the disturbance. One should never make the mistake of underestimating an enemy's ability to hear; some of them might be remarkably dense but others can be uncannily quick to notice the least trace of something out of the ordinary. There's never any telling which is which until the moment of truth when it matters most. However with the fort shut up for the night its inhabitants, for the most part, will be relaxed and at rest, indulging in their time off duty. His presence should easily go unnoticed, barring any stupid mistakes, passing like a breath of wind through the grass.
Small peaks of flame, each set amid a circle of tents, mark the location of the majority of the troops. A quick check, slightly shifting his perspective, reveals numerous distinct patches of red grouped around the fires, individual forms blending together from this distance. There also looks to be a pair on the move, currently meandering their way along the main through-road, patrolling. They could be a bit of a problem, depending on which shore they choose to take, but other than that his way look as clear as ever. It's only fair for something to go smoothly for a change. When the guards turn in the opposite direction he steals forward again, only a little disappointed, sticking to the very edge of the shore. As he moves past a group of tents that are pitched a little closer to the line of the water than he likes a telltale whining strikes up, the unseen dog starting to bark before he can take another step. He freezes, tensed to bolt at the least sign of movement, but nobody pays the alert any heed. By the time the patrol is halfway along the other side of the perimeter Connor has safely reached the inner wall and slipped away.
That doesn't mean he's completely in the clear though, the outskirts of the town can be just as dangerous as the fort itself, if not more so, and the narrow backstreets are little better at this hour. It wouldn't be a surprise for him to catch sight of at least one potentially hostile individual before he reaches the safety of the Brotherhood's hideout. Should they or, more importantly, any other patrols afoot spot him it would not bode well, a lone native clearly sneaking around within their secure borders after dusk is something they wouldn't take lightly. His brief time with the slavers gave him a taste of what to expect, he doesn't dwell long on that thought. There is substantially more cover out here however, leaving him free to stray from the shoreline as he moves between the shelter of bushes, garden walls, and the odd field of corn. Losing a pursuer wouldn't be too difficult should it come to that.
Although at one point he does hear what seems to be a drunken soldier stumbling around on the road, quickly ducking behind an outhouse and forgoing the risk of looking, Connor encounters no real trouble. Soon enough the denser mass of the looming town-proper is within sprinting distance, the more permanent protective shadows of enclosed streets inviting from where he crouches at the edge of the older town-wall. Ten paces, he guesses it will take. Checking around for any hints of red, or even white, that might pose a problem he tenses, ready to make the move. Then a loud hiss suddenly comes out of nowhere, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin instead.
His moment of panic is quickly cut short by a burst of muffled giggling. 'Oh, you should've seen your face there, hilarious.'
Poking over the edge of the disused fortification, silhouetted against the night sky is a white hood, one that shakes with further suppressed laughter in spite of the glare directed at it. In the absence of any further acknowledgement or response the Assassin soon huffs loudly, flipping himself down to land beside the teenager with a light thump. Tone petulant, he pouts. 'Some way to greet your welcoming party.'
'Some way to be a welcoming party.' Arms crossed, the novice makes it clear that he is not particularly impressed with this turn of events. Scare aside, he hadn't been expecting company so soon, not until he'd reached the actual safe-house at least. An ambush like this feels rather counter-productive if anything.
Objection sensed, Tom raises his hands, defensive. 'Mademoiselle wanted me to make sure you didn't get waylaid by our friends in red is all. They're getting even more belligerent than usual.'
'So you decided to lie on a roof?'
'Yes.' His face is entirely straight, although the sides of his mouth start twitching up into a grin as he shrugs, completely unrepentant. 'Someone needed to lighten the mood a little.'
Sometimes it is all too easy to forget that this is a seasoned Assassin he is talking to rather than a raw recruit. How the Englishman has ever managed to survive for so many years within the Brotherhood while maintaining this sort of nonchalant, airy attitude would be completely beyond him, were it not for having seen the man shoot. Tom is absolutely deadly with ranged weapons, be they guns or throwing knives, becoming almost an entirely different person altogether whenever he has a target in his sights. A rifle at least is on his person at all times, currently slung over his shoulder, serving as a reminder of the calm precision and capability that lurks behind the cheerfulness and playful irreverence. In all likelihood his decision to wait on the roof was as much due to a habit of seeking out the high-ground and best lines of sight as it was to a desire to scare the novice.
'But... we'd better be getting a move on. Don't want to keep Mademoiselle waiting, now do we?' The last syllable has barely left his mouth before the Assassin is off, bounding across the exposed stretch and dramatically throwing himself into the shadow of the nearest alleyway. Thankfully it isn't really all that far to the safe-house from here.
Following Tom's lead, albeit at his own, much more measured pace, the novice resists the urge to ask any questions yet. Experience has taught him that it's better to wait to speak to someone else, as any answers he'd get now would be cryptic at best or lengthy digressions at worst. Besides, he doesn't think it's a good idea to encourage his chaperone to talk while they're still outside. Every time the man dives exaggeratedly across a street or rolls dramatically under a lit window, silent though he may be, Connor can't help wincing. Anyone would think the robed individual completely mad, but then that's probably the impression the Englishman is trying to encourage. Unless he's just showing off, that is. Mercifully they see no one.
Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13/?]
It is a thin line he is walking, that much is clear. Concealed within the line of trees marking the end of the wilderness and the beginning of the town Connor waits for darkness to fall. He's been sat here for hours now, settled down amongst the undergrowth resting against the thick bole of an elm, following the progress of the sun towards the horizon. Slipping back into Boston unnoticed is of the utmost importance, in no small part due to his strict orders to rendezvous with Yvette before doing anything further. Being seen with her would go a long way towards exposing the truth of his identity to the Templars, something they are still trying to avoid for the foreseeable future. Even now, so close to his destination, he can't quite believe that he's being allowed to do this. While Achilles's tone had made it clear that he wasn't entirely happy with the arrangement he hadn't gone so far as to actually accuse the novice of anything, yet. Were this not such a delicate juncture he'd have faced tougher consequences, of that he is sure. As things stand though the opportunity is one they cannot rightly refuse.
Rather than filling him with relief though the decision to send him to the Green Dragon has only caused him greater stress. These last few days in particular there has been little distraction from the tangle of confusion his thoughts have become. Dobby's words have stuck in his mind, festering and reigniting all of his previous doubts and fears about the grandmaster. Yet a part of him continues to hope. As reasonable as her argument may be, he remains reluctant to entirely dismiss everything that has happened between them. He might want to pretend otherwise, that it was all part of the plan, but the fact remains that he feels something for Haytham. This couldn't all be just a manipulation, could it? With a growl he buries his face in his hands. One thing is certain; if he is ever going to regain any peace of mind then he needs to see the man again, soon.
To his relief, night is fast setting in now, with the gloom under the trees growing. Shifting, the novice concentrates on assessing what lies immediately ahead. Between the woods and Southgate's outer wall is a strategic stretch of open grass. Other than the well-beaten road that cuts through its middle, the swathe of land is almost entirely featureless. It is quite flat, save for a few minor bumps, with only the odd tussock or dying bush naturally punctuating the stretch. Laid out closer to the walls are a number of chevaux de frise, the large menacing frames of wooden spikes only really a threat to those not on foot. Hardly any chances for blending, which is rather the point. Still, in the absence of daylight crossing the stretch and picking his way around the side of the fortifications won't be too difficult, so long as he's careful. It's not as if he hasn't taken this same route many times before. Were the sea not already so cold with the onset of winter, he might have be tempted to consider swimming instead, to take an even more direct course. Had he been heading straight to the Green Dragon that might not have been such a bad idea at all... Face already heating up, Connor lets out an exasperated breath; his thoughts keep doing this, finding excuses to turn in that direction whenever he finally manages to fix them elsewhere.
Closing his eyes and pressing the heels of his hands hard against them he tries to focus, willing it all away. He can't afford more lapses like this, at least not when there is anyone else to notice them. Dobby might be understanding and Achilles might be forgiving, but Yvette is uncompromising. No one drills the principles and tenets of the creed harder. Supposedly it's a French thing, this level of fierce devotion to the cause, coming from an upbringing in one of the most heavily contested sites in the centuries-old struggle. If anyone is going to detect his conflicted feelings and confront him now, it will be her – the very Assassin spymaster whose resources and attention are tirelessly trained on the Templar base of operations. And if she should decide that his actions are compromising the Brotherhood... But that won't happen; he'll remember the warnings, remember that the grandmaster is trying to use him, and not let himself fall any further for it. Simple enough, in theory.
Shouts signal as nearby soldiers make ready to close the outer gate for the night. Southgate had been restored to its secure, fully operational state within days of their ill-fated raid, naturally. While there is no doubt that they'd lost a fair few men that night, it seems the British had little difficulty finding replacements. Connor has no idea who is now in charge of the fort, but he doubts that they are going to be too much of an improvement over Silas. Progressing so far in the army ranks requires a certain way of thinking, after all. Still, he is confident that once it is dark enough he won't have any more difficulty than before in making his way past the walls and the barracks. The water gives them a false sense of security, as if they think they are still on an isolated island rather than a mere peninsula. And if there was ever something to benefit an Assassin it was the overconfidence of others. He realises, however, that the same could just as easily be said for the Templars.
If only they could have waited a few more years before coming here, then he wouldn't be finding himself in this position. With more experience, and with his days of training fully behind him, he would have had no problems following his orders rather than creating such a mess. True, it's a mess that might still prove to be advantageous to the Brotherhood, but it's still a mess nonetheless. Getting to his feet and brushing himself off, he checks over his weapons one last time, delaying. Again he is back to just the basics: knife, bow and quiver. Even so, it's more than he had when he made this journey last, for which he is thankful. Inventory taken, he bends to tighten the straps of his moccasins. While Abigail had allowed him to leave the homestead without his ankle still wrapped up in supportive bandages she had given him strict instructions to keep the joint well-supported and not push himself too soon. And yes, that did mean no jumping around in the trees. He's abiding by that, for now. His other concern is simply to keep his feet as dry as possible, for though he has no plans to swim today his route will likely require some measure of wading. Can't risk illness after all, for any sort of weakness is to be avoided on a task like this. Besides, he's not sure he'll be able to stand being bedridden again for some time.
In the distance a clock tower strikes the hour and the gates are dragged shut with an ominous clang, supposedly sealing the town off from the dangers of the outside for the night. Remaining within the shade of the trees even as the last streaks of red drain from the sky, Connor finally makes his way towards the water's edge. It's an uneven, rocky terrain but, with barely a trace of his limp noticeable anymore, it poses little in the way of a challenge. Hopefully the eyes of the watchmen will be mostly trained on the road tonight, as they usually seem to be. His senses tell him that there are no soldiers on the ground out here, which is to be expected, yet those guards stationed on the battlements are still capable of doing a lot of damage should they detect his movements. Taking no chances he stays low, almost to the point of moving on all fours, and steals forward.
Once he reaches the outer wall, pressing his back up against the cold, reassuring stone, he pauses to draw in a slow, quiet breath. This is good practice if nothing else, and after being cooped up it's refreshing, an exhilarating burst of adrenaline. Hugging the masonry the novice edges his way around the corner, allowing his feet to slide softly into the water when he can no longer avoid it and dragging them gently in order to minimise the disturbance. One should never make the mistake of underestimating an enemy's ability to hear; some of them might be remarkably dense but others can be uncannily quick to notice the least trace of something out of the ordinary. There's never any telling which is which until the moment of truth when it matters most. However with the fort shut up for the night its inhabitants, for the most part, will be relaxed and at rest, indulging in their time off duty. His presence should easily go unnoticed, barring any stupid mistakes, passing like a breath of wind through the grass.
Small peaks of flame, each set amid a circle of tents, mark the location of the majority of the troops. A quick check, slightly shifting his perspective, reveals numerous distinct patches of red grouped around the fires, individual forms blending together from this distance. There also looks to be a pair on the move, currently meandering their way along the main through-road, patrolling. They could be a bit of a problem, depending on which shore they choose to take, but other than that his way look as clear as ever. It's only fair for something to go smoothly for a change. When the guards turn in the opposite direction he steals forward again, only a little disappointed, sticking to the very edge of the shore. As he moves past a group of tents that are pitched a little closer to the line of the water than he likes a telltale whining strikes up, the unseen dog starting to bark before he can take another step. He freezes, tensed to bolt at the least sign of movement, but nobody pays the alert any heed. By the time the patrol is halfway along the other side of the perimeter Connor has safely reached the inner wall and slipped away.
That doesn't mean he's completely in the clear though, the outskirts of the town can be just as dangerous as the fort itself, if not more so, and the narrow backstreets are little better at this hour. It wouldn't be a surprise for him to catch sight of at least one potentially hostile individual before he reaches the safety of the Brotherhood's hideout. Should they or, more importantly, any other patrols afoot spot him it would not bode well, a lone native clearly sneaking around within their secure borders after dusk is something they wouldn't take lightly. His brief time with the slavers gave him a taste of what to expect, he doesn't dwell long on that thought. There is substantially more cover out here however, leaving him free to stray from the shoreline as he moves between the shelter of bushes, garden walls, and the odd field of corn. Losing a pursuer wouldn't be too difficult should it come to that.
Although at one point he does hear what seems to be a drunken soldier stumbling around on the road, quickly ducking behind an outhouse and forgoing the risk of looking, Connor encounters no real trouble. Soon enough the denser mass of the looming town-proper is within sprinting distance, the more permanent protective shadows of enclosed streets inviting from where he crouches at the edge of the older town-wall. Ten paces, he guesses it will take. Checking around for any hints of red, or even white, that might pose a problem he tenses, ready to make the move. Then a loud hiss suddenly comes out of nowhere, causing him to nearly jump out of his skin instead.
His moment of panic is quickly cut short by a burst of muffled giggling. 'Oh, you should've seen your face there, hilarious.'
Poking over the edge of the disused fortification, silhouetted against the night sky is a white hood, one that shakes with further suppressed laughter in spite of the glare directed at it. In the absence of any further acknowledgement or response the Assassin soon huffs loudly, flipping himself down to land beside the teenager with a light thump. Tone petulant, he pouts. 'Some way to greet your welcoming party.'
'Some way to be a welcoming party.' Arms crossed, the novice makes it clear that he is not particularly impressed with this turn of events. Scare aside, he hadn't been expecting company so soon, not until he'd reached the actual safe-house at least. An ambush like this feels rather counter-productive if anything.
Objection sensed, Tom raises his hands, defensive. 'Mademoiselle wanted me to make sure you didn't get waylaid by our friends in red is all. They're getting even more belligerent than usual.'
'So you decided to lie on a roof?'
'Yes.' His face is entirely straight, although the sides of his mouth start twitching up into a grin as he shrugs, completely unrepentant. 'Someone needed to lighten the mood a little.'
Sometimes it is all too easy to forget that this is a seasoned Assassin he is talking to rather than a raw recruit. How the Englishman has ever managed to survive for so many years within the Brotherhood while maintaining this sort of nonchalant, airy attitude would be completely beyond him, were it not for having seen the man shoot. Tom is absolutely deadly with ranged weapons, be they guns or throwing knives, becoming almost an entirely different person altogether whenever he has a target in his sights. A rifle at least is on his person at all times, currently slung over his shoulder, serving as a reminder of the calm precision and capability that lurks behind the cheerfulness and playful irreverence. In all likelihood his decision to wait on the roof was as much due to a habit of seeking out the high-ground and best lines of sight as it was to a desire to scare the novice.
'But... we'd better be getting a move on. Don't want to keep Mademoiselle waiting, now do we?' The last syllable has barely left his mouth before the Assassin is off, bounding across the exposed stretch and dramatically throwing himself into the shadow of the nearest alleyway. Thankfully it isn't really all that far to the safe-house from here.
Following Tom's lead, albeit at his own, much more measured pace, the novice resists the urge to ask any questions yet. Experience has taught him that it's better to wait to speak to someone else, as any answers he'd get now would be cryptic at best or lengthy digressions at worst. Besides, he doesn't think it's a good idea to encourage his chaperone to talk while they're still outside. Every time the man dives exaggeratedly across a street or rolls dramatically under a lit window, silent though he may be, Connor can't help wincing. Anyone would think the robed individual completely mad, but then that's probably the impression the Englishman is trying to encourage. Unless he's just showing off, that is. Mercifully they see no one.