'Well, you can't say that our meetings aren't eventful.' Some minutes have already passed since they reached the relative safety of the rocky hilltop when Haytham breaks the silence.

Still crouching and watching the woods, just in case, straining to make out any hint of aggressive movement or colour in the deepening gloom, Connor rolls his eyes. That is something of an understatement. Miraculously their luck had held, the pack being sufficiently distracted by the meaty offering to forget the prospect of a better hunt and meal. Faint howls are now starting to carry on the wind once more, but he is fairly confident that they are getting quieter. Good, he has had quite enough of fighting off wild animals for the day. However, as he slings the bow back over his shoulder, the young Assassin knows that he is just as alone with the Templar as before. He isn't entirely sure whether that's good or bad yet.

It doesn't help that when he turns the other man is still watching him. Haytham hasn't let him out of his sight for more than a second at a time. Which is somewhat worrying and even a little unnerving, although it doesn't seem to be as much scrutiny as simple observation. Moving up to the top and taking a quick glance over the edge he establishes that, yes, the hay cart is still there. He takes a breath, leans lightly against the pile of rock's solitary tree, crosses his arms and finally matches his companion's stare.

And as there is no time like the present. 'Perhaps now you will tell me why you are here. Why you are really here.'

As expected, Haytham hesitates over the demand. In a perfect world this would be when he would explain the entirety of the Templars' plan. Then this whole thing could be over with. Instead, he gives a sigh of pseudo-defeat, reaches into his jacket and pulls out a small disc of glowing green that makes the teenager freeze. 'What can you tell me about this?'

Taking it when offered, against his better instincts, Connor already knows enough. Closer inspection only confirms it, another relic of those who came before. He has seen their craft before, there is never any mistaking it, although he rather wishes otherwise. This complicates things. A lot. Were this item to have been shown to anyone else from his village it would not have registered as so great a thing. To them it would have merely been something akin to the sacred cave. Not so for him. He knows of the spirits, has even had the dubious pleasure of a first hand audience with one of them. He also knows of the various artefacts they have left behind, the Pieces of Eden, their powers and the role they have played over centuries in the conflict between Templars and Assassins. And if this is what has brought the Templars back to the colonies there is going to be real trouble.

Admittedly, as far as he can tell, the amulet is of no special danger or design. It distinctly lacks the strange and advanced construction of other Pieces of Eden, but nevertheless it worries him. One should never underestimate the importance of something so relatively, seemingly unimportant. He takes some moments to form adequate, wary words. 'Where did you get this?'

'From an old friend.' Who you killed no doubt, the novice mentally adds. Keenly watching for any clue in his reaction, Haytham speaks again with a greater undertone of urgency. 'It means something to you?'

'Not as such.' Without regret he hands it back, glad to be free of it. Only in retrospect does he think that perhaps that would have been a good opportunity to remove the piece from the possession of the enemy. Achilles and the others will not be happy to hear of this. Aware that his companion is not entirely fooled and expects more of an answer, he tries to construct an evasive yet mostly honest answer. 'The markings... I have seen similar ones before.'

'Where?' Even that small tidbit immediately has the man's full attention, a note of almost desperation creeps into his voice. If there was any doubt that this was the real reason he had come out here that kills it. So, the Templars are really interested in those who came before.

A number of reasons hold Connor's tongue. Frowning, more at himself than anything, he tries not to question which of those it is that prompts his surprisingly coy reply. 'Somewhere forbidden to outsiders.'

Something dark flares in Haytham's eyes as he steps closer. Memories of nightmares rise up and the novice is convinced that he has made a bad mistake. Certain in that moment that he is about to die he subconsciously glances down in search of the hint of the hidden blade. As his back presses up against rough bark he silently curses himself, for making it so easy to constantly corner him. Maybe if he-

His internalised panic halts at the feel of a hand sliding gently up the exposed skin of one arm. An entirely different panic threatens to take over. But then the man speaks in a low, but entirely matter-of-fact manner. 'I saved your life.'

Slightly flustered though he may be, Connor has no trouble responding to the attempt at bargaining. He'll have to do a lot better than that. Somehow he even manages to keep his nerve and his voice entirely steady as he meets the challenge. 'And I saved yours.'

That point can't be argued, although the Templar looks almost tempted to try. He sounds rather hurt when he responds; 'You still don't trust me.'

'I already trust you more than I should.' It's a slightly painful admission that he shouldn't be making, but which is out before he can stop it. Trust is beside the point, on his side at least. Or at least that's how it should be. Needing to re-establish control he is quick to amend; 'But not enough for that.'

'How can I convince you otherwise?' If nothing else the wounded expression is gone, replaced by a smile that does things to his stomach.

'You can't.' Connor impresses himself with how firm he manages to make the statement.

'Really? I can try.' Haytham raises an eyebrow, obviously prepared to do just that.

In all likelihood at that moment it would be remarkably easy to win the young Assassin round, at least temporarily, he knows as much himself. The longer they play this game the more dangerous it will become. And the harder it is going to be to remember his reason for being here, his real reason. Avoiding having to acknowledge the man for the time being, his attention alights on the tavern below. A vague idea forms and it'll have to do.

Aware that he is about to make the whole situation even messier than it already is, he takes a deep breath and hopes for the best. 'British forces in this area pose a threat to my people. They enslave, destroy, kill... burn. All on the orders of the one known as the Bulldog.'

'Edward Braddock.' Nodding, the Templar accepts the seemingly sudden change in topic, expression thoughtful as he backs off slightly. 'He is not a man to be reasoned with, there is only one course of action if we intend to put a stop to it.'

'What are you proposing?' The question is redundant, he can already guess what's coming.

'That we kill Braddock.' Haytham's delivery is eerily calm, as if he is suggesting something entirely reasonable. 'But first, we have to find him...'

A minor problem, in the grand scheme of things. Besides, he really needs to keep the Templar distracted for as long as possible, and spend as much time with him as possible. For the sake of the mission. Naturally. Already knowing exactly where to start the search, he nods in the inn's direction. 'Simple enough.'

Rather than waiting for a response Connor goes ahead and takes the leap of faith without hesitation. Those few moments of falling are greatly cathartic. As always he lands safely in the cushioning of the hay below. Jaime has a theory that friends of the Brotherhood roam the colonies simply positioning such haystacks, piles of leaves, and carts filled with either under any likely jumping points. The rest of the novices have always laughed at the suggestion, but the fact remains that there are an awful lot of those convenient landing spots around the place. He is still dusting himself off and wondering when a thud announces the arrival of his companion.

Luckily no one is around to see them, the graveyard in which they are now stood just as deserted as the road beyond it. Correspondingly, the inn is likely to be busy, which will serve well. Redcoats are nothing if not talkative after a drink or two. The prospect of some warmth has him heading for the building without delay. Another blast of cold air promptly sends shivers through the Assassin's frame, his hands instinctively go to grip and raise his hood but he manages to abort the move in time. At least he hopes that he did. Even with his back turned he can still feel the other man watching him.