Thank you for the support, fellow wing loving anonymous assassins! I will reply properly tomorrow morning as I am literally falling asleep where I stand. **** Connor paused in the shadows stretching over his shoulder to rub at his shoulderblades. They had been inflamed and itchy for the last couple of days, the combination of sweat and rough linen making it worse, creating two mounds on his back, perfectly aligned. Rolling around in leaf piles was no longer advised. Too many variables. Connor suspected it was just a bad reaction to a scratch, but as soon as he finished his work here, it would be straight back to the homestead to clean up.
Sitting in the rain, motionless, Connor wondered if Achilles missed him. He had been away for nearly a month now. Probably not. The older man had a thing for a well-stocked larder, and Connor reluctantly admitted to being the main culprit in cleaning it out. It was entirely unfair - he was a working man, shaking off the last threads of childhood, filling out the robes of the Brotherhood more and more by each passing day. It wasn't as if he had a choice when it came to eating. He either had enough or he didn't.
A cold droplet rolled down Connor's nose, threatening to make him sneeze. He muffled it, all too aware of the redcoats on the balcony below him. Had the weather been better then his target would already be dead. But it was raining, and his target stubbornly remained inside.
Shifting his weight, Connor stared at the guards. If he didn't catch a cold from this, then he'd be amazed. White men and their diseases and illnesses - Connor found himself misfortunate enough to have an immune system that hadn't experienced these things, and as such, spent a considerable time miserable in bed after his first contact with Boston. But somehow he managed to pull through. He wondered if it was his mother watching over him, warding off the poisonous afflictions.
Ah. The Templar had emerged. Foolish man. But he felt nothing as Connor leapt upon him, snapping his neck and tossing the body into the startled guards. It provided the confusion and distraction for Connor to escape. Against his better judgement, Connor slipped into a haystack. He scratched his back against the wooden edge.
The sneeze returned, and Connor held his nose in hopes that they wouldn't alert the searching guards to his presence. But they prevailed and Connor groaned as he leapt from the hay, sneezing every few paces, unable to stop until he'd run the guards all over Boston. Twice. He huddled under a small patch of roof, watching the rain pour down and began to shiver.
Fuck. He'd better not get sick from this otherwise he'd would never hear the end of it. He was supposed to go on convoy duty with the Aquila when he got back - he couldn't afford to be slumped over the wheel in delirium. Pulling his hood further over his head, he waited for the rain to stop. At least it wasn't as itchy with fresh water soaking into his robes.
Connor sighed. The guards had given up, and nobody in their right mind would be out today so he had a clear path to home. Slowly he rose from his hiding place, scanning the area for enemies. His back complained, pain briefly shooting across his shoulders, but he chalked it up to the awkward hunch he'd had while hiding. After an uneventful walk across the town, Connor found his horse, untying her from where he'd left her.
She was dry, munching from the bag of oat mash Connor had left her. With a fond pat he packed away the bag, tipped out her water pail, and let down her stirrups. Whickering, she bumped her nose against his arm, showing her disapproval. Connor wasn't sure whether it was because he'd taken away her food or that they were about to get wet. Probably a bit of both. The mare was temperamental at best, wild, demanding, but quick on her legs and a fine jumper.
"Come on," he said soothingly. "It'll be a short ride today."
Tossing her head, she eventually let Connor on, and they set off at a brisk trot. The jostling movement caused his robes to pull at his back, sticking to the insect bites. They started to itch again.
It was about half-way to their first camp that Connor started to feel dizzy. He put it down to dehydration mmand drank more water. It was two thirds of the overall journey when he actually slumped from his horse. He drank more water and lashed himself into the saddle. It had become obvious from the way his back froze up or spikes of pain that he was far from dehydrated.
By the time he rode into the homestead, Achilles was horrified to find Connor almost dead in the saddle. And then the fever kicked in.
Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 2/? ((warnings for gore, blood, and extreme pain))
****
Connor paused in the shadows stretching over his shoulder to rub at his shoulderblades. They had been inflamed and itchy for the last couple of days, the combination of sweat and rough linen making it worse, creating two mounds on his back, perfectly aligned. Rolling around in leaf piles was no longer advised. Too many variables. Connor suspected it was just a bad reaction to a scratch, but as soon as he finished his work here, it would be straight back to the homestead to clean up.
Sitting in the rain, motionless, Connor wondered if Achilles missed him. He had been away for nearly a month now. Probably not. The older man had a thing for a well-stocked larder, and Connor reluctantly admitted to being the main culprit in cleaning it out. It was entirely unfair - he was a working man, shaking off the last threads of childhood, filling out the robes of the Brotherhood more and more by each passing day. It wasn't as if he had a choice when it came to eating. He either had enough or he didn't.
A cold droplet rolled down Connor's nose, threatening to make him sneeze. He muffled it, all too aware of the redcoats on the balcony below him. Had the weather been better then his target would already be dead. But it was raining, and his target stubbornly remained inside.
Shifting his weight, Connor stared at the guards. If he didn't catch a cold from this, then he'd be amazed. White men and their diseases and illnesses - Connor found himself misfortunate enough to have an immune system that hadn't experienced these things, and as such, spent a considerable time miserable in bed after his first contact with Boston. But somehow he managed to pull through. He wondered if it was his mother watching over him, warding off the poisonous afflictions.
Ah. The Templar had emerged. Foolish man. But he felt nothing as Connor leapt upon him, snapping his neck and tossing the body into the startled guards. It provided the confusion and distraction for Connor to escape. Against his better judgement, Connor slipped into a haystack. He scratched his back against the wooden edge.
The sneeze returned, and Connor held his nose in hopes that they wouldn't alert the searching guards to his presence. But they prevailed and Connor groaned as he leapt from the hay, sneezing every few paces, unable to stop until he'd run the guards all over Boston. Twice. He huddled under a small patch of roof, watching the rain pour down and began to shiver.
Fuck. He'd better not get sick from this otherwise he'd would never hear the end of it. He was supposed to go on convoy duty with the Aquila when he got back - he couldn't afford to be slumped over the wheel in delirium. Pulling his hood further over his head, he waited for the rain to stop. At least it wasn't as itchy with fresh water soaking into his robes.
Connor sighed. The guards had given up, and nobody in their right mind would be out today so he had a clear path to home. Slowly he rose from his hiding place, scanning the area for enemies. His back complained, pain briefly shooting across his shoulders, but he chalked it up to the awkward hunch he'd had while hiding. After an uneventful walk across the town, Connor found his horse, untying her from where he'd left her.
She was dry, munching from the bag of oat mash Connor had left her. With a fond pat he packed away the bag, tipped out her water pail, and let down her stirrups. Whickering, she bumped her nose against his arm, showing her disapproval. Connor wasn't sure whether it was because he'd taken away her food or that they were about to get wet. Probably a bit of both. The mare was temperamental at best, wild, demanding, but quick on her legs and a fine jumper.
"Come on," he said soothingly. "It'll be a short ride today."
Tossing her head, she eventually let Connor on, and they set off at a brisk trot. The jostling movement caused his robes to pull at his back, sticking to the insect bites. They started to itch again.
It was about half-way to their first camp that Connor started to feel dizzy. He put it down to dehydration mmand drank more water. It was two thirds of the overall journey when he actually slumped from his horse. He drank more water and lashed himself into the saddle. It had become obvious from the way his back froze up or spikes of pain that he was far from dehydrated.
By the time he rode into the homestead, Achilles was horrified to find Connor almost dead in the saddle. And then the fever kicked in.