(I changed the circumstances of Connor finding out a bit, hope that's okay with you OP!) Lightning cracked across the sky, briefly illuminating the forms of six red-coated men and a lone assassin. Thunder rumbled and the rains poured down, running in rivulets off the men's hats and down their faces. The road had been reduced to a swamp of mud, and Connor's robes were more brown than white.
One of the redcoats charged forward, and Connor hooked the soldier's rifle with his tomahawk, twisting the intended blow aside before stabbing the man in the neck with the hidden blade he extended from his other wrist. The man fell, his dying groans drowned out by the thunder and cracks of lightning.
Connor had been on his way home to Davenport, after a trip to Boston to restock his armory with the latest weaponry and try to recruit more for the Brotherhood. The first mission had been successful, though the second had not. He had heard some odd rumors from various Assassin sympathizers, rumors that the leadership of the Templar Order had switched hands. He dismissed these as misinformation. His father would not give up the position to a rival so easily. The bastard was perhaps as stubborn as Connor himself, and twice as scheming. It had threatened rain all day, and as night drew close he had spurred his horse faster, eager to be home and out of the weather.
He had had the misfortune of running into a unit of redcoats whose leader had clearly recognized Connor, as he had tried to ride subtly by them. One of the had, by sheer luck or skill, managed to hook his arm around Connor's leg and yank him to the ground before he could gallop off. The ensuing fight had dragged on, though the leader of the redcoats was now dead, along with several of the others.
The storm had only energized him, filling him with a wild sort of energy. He had felt in tune with the world, with each strike of lightning and each strike of his blades. He was a force of nature all on his own, unforgiving and brutal.
But he was tiring. The redcoats fared worse, but the fight had dragged on far too long. His horse had fled, frightened by the storm and the clash of weapons, and his attempts to run away on foot had been routed. Another redcoat down, but his comrade got a blow in on Connor's shoulder, the sharp bayonet slicing through the thick fabric of Connor's uniform, to meet the flesh beneath. Connor bared his teeth and swung at the man, slashed him across the chest with his tomahawk. The redcoat staggered, but did not fall.
The sounds of hoofbeats on the road was muffled by the rain and thunder, but still audible in Connor's sharp senses. He tensed, long before the redcoats became aware of the sound, fearing reinforcements, but not turning his attention from the fight.
A horse materialized out of the downpour, galloping past the redcoats. There was a flash of metal, and there were only three redcoats for Connor to contend with. The fourth was lying on the road, his throat slashed by a blade. The horse and its dark-cloaked rider wheeled, riding back to run into the soldiers. The rider jumped off, easily finishing off another redcoat.
The remaining two froze, staring at the man who had appeared to help the assassin. Seemingly without any communication between them, they turned and fled. The familiar dark-cloaked man jumped back onto his horse, and went in pursuit. A few minutes later he returned, and Connor had no doubt that the soldiers would never make it home.
"Haytham," he called, having to shout above the thunder. "I said I have nothing more to say to you. I did not need your assistance."
"I suppose gratitude is too much to answer," the Templar grandmaster said, swinging himself down from the saddle. He leaned down to wipe his sword and hidden blades on the coat of a dead redcoat. "You didn't seem to be faring well in that fight."
"I have nothing to thank you for, and far more reason to kill you," Connor replied, half of him wishing his father would ride back off. As much as he loathed the man, he didn't want to kill him. Achilles had accused him of naïve attachment, much the sentiment that rung in Haytham's accusations as well, but he could kill him if it was needed. He knew that now.
It would merely not be the most pleasant mission.
"What is your purpose for coming here?" he continued. They were only a few miles from Davenport, and it made him uneasy a Templar would appear so close to the last safe harbor remaining to him. After the misunderstanding, his village only seemed to echo accusations and betrayal, even if many of his people had forgiven him. He would never forgive himself.
He had expected his father to have a quick answer, but instead there was only silence. He heard his father draw a breath, in the silence between a clap of thunder and a strike of lightning, and seem to struggle over his answer.
"I have come to... discuss things," Haytham said stiffly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Perhaps we can get out of this rain, and speak properly." His father's tone was crisp, but beneath his characteristic smug confidence there was something... hesitant almost.
"As I said, there is nothing more to discuss. I suggest you return to your associates," Connor's tone was cold. "You have made it evident that no unity can exist between the Assassins and the Templars."
Again, Haytham seemed to pause before answering. Finally he said, so softly that if it weren't for Connor's keen senses it would have been drowned by the rain "I am not longer the leader of the Order, nor a Templar."
all that which I cannot say (should be clear to you) 1/?
Lightning cracked across the sky, briefly illuminating the forms of six red-coated men and a lone assassin. Thunder rumbled and the rains poured down, running in rivulets off the men's hats and down their faces. The road had been reduced to a swamp of mud, and Connor's robes were more brown than white.
One of the redcoats charged forward, and Connor hooked the soldier's rifle with his tomahawk, twisting the intended blow aside before stabbing the man in the neck with the hidden blade he extended from his other wrist. The man fell, his dying groans drowned out by the thunder and cracks of lightning.
Connor had been on his way home to Davenport, after a trip to Boston to restock his armory with the latest weaponry and try to recruit more for the Brotherhood. The first mission had been successful, though the second had not. He had heard some odd rumors from various Assassin sympathizers, rumors that the leadership of the Templar Order had switched hands. He dismissed these as misinformation. His father would not give up the position to a rival so easily. The bastard was perhaps as stubborn as Connor himself, and twice as scheming. It had threatened rain all day, and as night drew close he had spurred his horse faster, eager to be home and out of the weather.
He had had the misfortune of running into a unit of redcoats whose leader had clearly recognized Connor, as he had tried to ride subtly by them. One of the had, by sheer luck or skill, managed to hook his arm around Connor's leg and yank him to the ground before he could gallop off. The ensuing fight had dragged on, though the leader of the redcoats was now dead, along with several of the others.
The storm had only energized him, filling him with a wild sort of energy. He had felt in tune with the world, with each strike of lightning and each strike of his blades. He was a force of nature all on his own, unforgiving and brutal.
But he was tiring. The redcoats fared worse, but the fight had dragged on far too long. His horse had fled, frightened by the storm and the clash of weapons, and his attempts to run away on foot had been routed.
Another redcoat down, but his comrade got a blow in on Connor's shoulder, the sharp bayonet slicing through the thick fabric of Connor's uniform, to meet the flesh beneath. Connor bared his teeth and swung at the man, slashed him across the chest with his tomahawk. The redcoat staggered, but did not fall.
The sounds of hoofbeats on the road was muffled by the rain and thunder, but still audible in Connor's sharp senses. He tensed, long before the redcoats became aware of the sound, fearing reinforcements, but not turning his attention from the fight.
A horse materialized out of the downpour, galloping past the redcoats. There was a flash of metal, and there were only three redcoats for Connor to contend with. The fourth was lying on the road, his throat slashed by a blade. The horse and its dark-cloaked rider wheeled, riding back to run into the soldiers. The rider jumped off, easily finishing off another redcoat.
The remaining two froze, staring at the man who had appeared to help the assassin. Seemingly without any communication between them, they turned and fled. The familiar dark-cloaked man jumped back onto his horse, and went in pursuit. A few minutes later he returned, and Connor had no doubt that the soldiers would never make it home.
"Haytham," he called, having to shout above the thunder. "I said I have nothing more to say to you. I did not need your assistance."
"I suppose gratitude is too much to answer," the Templar grandmaster said, swinging himself down from the saddle. He leaned down to wipe his sword and hidden blades on the coat of a dead redcoat. "You didn't seem to be faring well in that fight."
"I have nothing to thank you for, and far more reason to kill you," Connor replied, half of him wishing his father would ride back off. As much as he loathed the man, he didn't want to kill him. Achilles had accused him of naïve attachment, much the sentiment that rung in Haytham's accusations as well, but he could kill him if it was needed. He knew that now.
It would merely not be the most pleasant mission.
"What is your purpose for coming here?" he continued. They were only a few miles from Davenport, and it made him uneasy a Templar would appear so close to the last safe harbor remaining to him. After the misunderstanding, his village only seemed to echo accusations and betrayal, even if many of his people had forgiven him. He would never forgive himself.
He had expected his father to have a quick answer, but instead there was only silence. He heard his father draw a breath, in the silence between a clap of thunder and a strike of lightning, and seem to struggle over his answer.
"I have come to... discuss things," Haytham said stiffly, clasping his hands behind his back. "Perhaps we can get out of this rain, and speak properly." His father's tone was crisp, but beneath his characteristic smug confidence there was something... hesitant almost.
"As I said, there is nothing more to discuss. I suggest you return to your associates," Connor's tone was cold. "You have made it evident that no unity can exist between the Assassins and the Templars."
Again, Haytham seemed to pause before answering. Finally he said, so softly that if it weren't for Connor's keen senses it would have been drowned by the rain "I am not longer the leader of the Order, nor a Templar."