asscreedkinkmeme (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
Entry tags:
Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
Fill Only
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Join or Die
✩ Comment anonymously with a character/pairing and a kink/prompt.
✩ Comment is filled by another anonymous with fanfiction/art/or any other appropriate medium.
✩ One request per post, but fill the request as much as you want.
✩ The fill/request doesn't necessarily need to be smut.
✩ Don't flame, if you have nothing good to say, don't say anything.
✩ Have a question? Feel free to PM me.
✩ Last, but not least: HAVE FUN!
List of Kinks
Kink Meme Masterlist
New Kink Meme Masterlist
(Livejorunal) Archive
(Delicious.com) Archive
#2 (Livejournal) Archive
#2 (Delicious.com) Archive
(Dreamwidth) Archive <- Currently active
Part 1
Part 2
Part 3
Part 4
Fills Only
Discussion
Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 3/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-18 10:59 pm (UTC)(link)"Calm, child. You've had a bit of a shock," murmured Achilles' voice, floating from his right somewhere.
The softness brushed his back again. Connor jerked, trying to push the blanket off when it hit him that he didn't have a blanket over him. He sat up. Why was he on his belly? It was a bad idea, the room spinning, his head light with dizziness.
"Connor, look at me."
Wait. He'd been in the Frontier. This was home - the last he remembered was trotting from the second encampment, the cloudiness in his head hazing his vision and logic. Surely his ill-tempered, fussy mare hadn't taken him home, she couldn't navigate herself from a paddock by herself.
Achilles cracked his cane on the floor, leaning on it to peer into Connor's eyes. Connor snapped to attention.
"Get it off," Connor croaked.
"Good morning to you too," said Achilles. "Get what off, specifically?"
"The blanket."
In desperation, Connor reached around at his back, fingertips scrabbling for the weight on his back. Whatever it was, it had to come off. It was snagging against the injury (it had to be an injury, perhaps from a tree branch or an infected knife wound) and it hurt. He growled in frustration as Achilles gently took one of his hands. Yanking it back, Connor managed to grab a handful of the blanket - feathered, for some strange reason - and pulled.
The pain shot through him, radiating from his back, making him slump forward in shock. Unrestrained tears welled up. It was attached to him. He glanced at Achilles, trying to hide his anguish.
His mentor was holding a mirror. Connor squinted at it, his vision coming into focus. There was something large looming behind him, but when he turned around, it wasn't there.
There was a gentle knock at the door, and Myriam entered, a tray of food in her hands. As the young assassin moved to face her, he finally realised what he was seeing in the mirror. For a moment, his brain didn't accept it. Connor couldn't take his eyes off his own reflection, a mixture of horrified and fascinated.
Massive brown and white wings flared behind him, the feathers sleek and glossy. Wings. Bile rose in his throat. What foul creature was he? Was this the fault of the woman who'd turned him into an eagle? They were too big to hide. They flapped - he flapped them, he had control over them, and for that much Connor was grateful. Their span was huge - he had no doubt he'd be able to fly - and their position arched.
No, no, this wasn't right. This wasn't real. It couldn't be real. Humans did not just spontaneously grow wings - hell, they don't grow wings, full stop. But they felt real. They looked real.
"Have I been drugged?" he demanded, breaking his gaze from the mirror. "Who did this to me? Tell me or I will find out by myself!"
"You've not been drugged, although it is a logical assumption," Achilles said.
Myriam set the tray down and plumped a few of Connor's cushions. Still shocked, Connor allowed himself to be manhandled into twisting around to properly sit in bed, back timidly pressed against the headboard, protected by cushions. A real blanket was thrown over him to prevent shock.
"And we don't know the who, when, where, and why yet, love," added Myriam. "Just the what."
She patted him on the knee comfortingly. Connor flinched, wings still arched in alarm. What had he done to deserve such misery and confusion in his life, he asked of the spirits. What crime had he committed that was so grievious that his mother had to die, his father was a Templar, his people were being forced off their land (their life, their sacred sites, their culture and stories), and now he had wings.
"You look a bit pale."
Myriam held out a spoonful of broth for Connor to consume, which he did readily and hungrily, stomach grumbling for more. No sooner had Myriam handed over the tray, the smell of the food had overwhelmed Connor's senses and he tore into it, his body screaming to replace the lost sustenance. His meltdown was halted for the moment.
"Chew it," scolded Achilles, and Myriam snickered at the sight of the big, bad, serious assassin gulping down food like a child.
Not that she knew he was an assassin, but Connor suspected that most of the homestead suspected something about him, and that included Myriam, in a bit of a mutual "I know that you know that I know" circle. He almost choked on a piece of bread soaked in broth. Achilles didn't even bother to sigh or roll his eyes. Connor coughed and thumped his chest twice. As he'd been eating, his wings had lowered, curving around him protectively but they flicked straight up again when he finished.
"Tell me what you know," said Connor, licking the last crumbs from his fingers.
"You came home a week ago, tied to your horse, drenched straight through and blood staining your back. When I peeled away your shirt, all I could see were two bloodied lumps in your back, shifting around. So I called Myriam up to help and we've been looking after you ever since."
Connor rubbed his temples. It wasn't clear at all, he couldn't remember a thing. He had some pretty bizzare and violent dreams, and it was difficult to keep a grip on reality when tossed so carelessly between the conscious and unconscious worlds. Maybe if he concentrated hard enough, he'd wake up. Perhaps he ate something rotten or the Templars got him. Perhaps it was a drug. Maybe he was dead. Maybe this was a dream as well.
"The fact is, you have wings," stated Achilles. "Can you fly with them? Maybe. Will this change things? Yes, without a doubt. If you don't remove them, then you'll have to make adjustments to your life. You won't be able to go into Boston or any other city, your clothing has to be modified, you'll probably experience clumsiness until you get your balance back. Astonishingly, you'll have to eat even more food, if only to fix those ribs that I can see sticking out. Devouring a bear might help, although I doubt it considering you were already eating bears before this happened."
"How can you be calm about this? My physiological structure has changed permanently."
"We're anything but calm. We've had a week to adjust to the fact that you're the human equivalent to a bald eagle. Now, if you'd take a deep breath and put those wings down before they take out the display cabinet, that would be most appreciated," replied Myriam.
It was easier said than done, the wings arched high due to stress, and Connor becoming more stressed because he couldn't get them to stay folded up, which only made the problem worse. Myriam took the tray from him, laying it on the ground and made him scoot forward, kicking off her boots and sitting behind Connor. When Achilles raised an eyebrow at her over one wing, she shrugged, and began to massage Connor's shoulders to work out the knots. She was careful not to tear any of the stitches around the base of the wings, which were healing well. A couple were pulling in his stress, which made it all the more important to get Connor to relax.
"Mousey - I mean, Norris won't mind. He understands," she said to Achilles.
"Wait, you and Norris are-?" Connor trailed the question off, suddenly quite shy of the question.
"He's courtin' me, yes. He gave me that knife that saved my life and we're happy together, so why not get engaged? He's a wonderful man," replied Myriam, smiling to herself.
"You have my - ah - my blessing."
He felt a knot disappear, the others loosening in the process. The warmth of the room and the strong motions on his shoulders made him feel content. Sleepy. He stifled a yawn, leaning into Myriam's hands now. Sometimes it hurt, but the pleasure after was worth it.
"Oof, you're getting heavy, Connor," exclaimed Myriam. "Might get you on your stomach now."
Connor let her escape from behind him and roll over, wings flopping over the edges languidly. She stepped over one and continued to knead at the knots until there were none left and Connor was snoring lightly into the pillows. Retreating she glanced at Achilles then to Connor.
"What would you boys do without me? I'll be at Norris' house if you need me. He should be out for a few hours at least, the overgrown pup."
With a final goodbye, Myriam was gone. Achilles stared at his young ward. It was clear that Connor had mixed feelings about the wings - personally, if he were in Connor's position, he'd cut them off - but somehow he didn't think Connor would agree. It would be a discussion for when the young man was lucid. Affectionately, he gave the man a ruffle of the hair.
He was a good kid. He didn't deserve this life, even though he was made for it. Maybe if Haytham hadn't switched, hadn't betrayed the Brotherhood, then Connor would have both of his parents. Maybe. But Haytham had turned traitor and it was of no use to speculate on fantasies. Every man and woman was dealt their hand and learned to cope with it, good or bad. Achilles hoped that he could teach Connor to cope with his.
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 3/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-18 11:25 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 3/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-21 01:16 am (UTC)(link)The characters would appreciate your hugs, but be careful of Connor's back! Remember, hug under the arms and wings, and not around the neck! XD
Thank you for reading, and I hope it continues to please you!
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 3/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-18 11:34 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 3/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-21 01:21 am (UTC)(link)Thank you for reading!
Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-20 11:30 pm (UTC)(link)There was a sharp popping noise as bones shifted and settled into place. Connor leaned into his chair, hugging the backrest, trying not to stiffen in response. His wing felt numb for a moment, but feeling came flooding back, more delicate, nuanced feeling, as the nerves properly communicated and the bones moved without scraping over each other. He could feel Achilles' hand, gripping the primary muscles.
His other wing fluttered, twitching and jerking as he tried to gain finer control over them. Many of their actions were determined by instinctual emotion, particularly when threatened or alarmed. They were strangely beautiful, in a way. Their colour wasn't anything special - they weren't jet black, like his hair - but under strong sunshine, he could make out russet and gold. Moving them felt good, almost pleasurable, the flexing of the muscles leaving a nice pang of connection.
Connor's toes wriggled as Achilles straightened a few of his feathers. It was a ticklish feeling, but he let the grooming go on, curving his other wing around to inspect it. A couple of downy feathers fell out as Connor fiddled with them. Satisfied, he pulled them in, folding them against his back. It was almost a velvet texture against his back, like the fabrics that they used for curtains in the fancy buildings he sometimes visited.
The primary feathers only just brushed the ground as he walked, a relief for keeping them clean. He may have had a big wingspan but the feathers were broader rather than longer. He used to slouch, much to the chagrin of Achilles who'd tried every trick in the book to make him stand straight, including a stack of books on his head. The wings forced his back into a perfect posture. It made Connor feel uncomfortable - such military-esque precision and control only served to highlight the obvious physical similarities between Haytham and himself.
If he was honest, truly, deeply honest, then Connor hated his face. He wasn't a vain man but anyone not entirely blind (and even then, Connor was sure that a blind man would be able to feel it) could see that Connor was related to Haytham in some way. If they had half a brain cell, they could figure out that Connor was Haytham's bastard. The only thing he liked about his face were the freckles, and that was stretching it since they had faded considerably in his adolescence. Therefore, he hated his straight posture even as Achilles rejoiced. He kept quiet - if it made his mentor happy then it couldn't be half bad. It made him feel sick regardless.
"I need air," he said abruptly, almost knocking over his chair as he stood.
"Take the shawl," replied Achilles.
The older man was entirely unfazed by Connor's switch in moods. It happened regularly enough that he could almost time when it was going to happen. Something about being inside made Connor snappish and restless. Now he had another reason for his burning desire to sty outside.
Flinging the brightly coloured, long, thick shawl over his shoulders, Connor tramped outside, not bothering with shoes. It had rained recently and the mud felt good between his toes. Aimlessly, he walked to the stables to check on his mare. She was cantankerous as usual, tossing her head when she discovered he'd not brought her any carrots. Someone had been grooming her in his absence for her coat shone and her hooves were free of muck. Connor gave her nose a quick rub before she tried to snap at him.
The sun was setting, the homestead bathed in a serene pink and orange light, a light which was rapidly fading into the twilight. Connor stared at the woods, at the glimmering lights beyond, where the people of his community were settling down for the night, unseen but happy and safe. He looked over his shoulder to his beautiful ship, her sails tightly furled, her lanterns extinguished so she couldn't be spotted from the ocean by bounty hunters. Noises - animals calling, crying, reuniting, hunting, sleeping, a sigh and rustle of leaves like a thousand ghosts sharing secrets in a language that nobody knew; the smells - pine needles, moist earth, rich and heady, a tang of smoke from distant fireplaces, the fragile scent of the night flowers, and soon, the scent of dew. Nothing would accurately describe how the wilderness affected Connor, how he needed it in order to keep his spirit healthy, how the experience of just standing somewhere and letting it play out around him transcended any form of love he had known or will ever know. It was pure. A meditation. A contemplation. It stripped away all of the hate, fear, and betrayal that coiled and grew in his heart, it gave him focus.
Connor opened his eyes again, realising he'd dropped his shawl and was standing on the end of a tree-trunk overlooking the cove, arms outstretched. His wings were spread, testing the winds - there was a good updraft, a strong starting point for his first attempt at flying. The water below would break his fall if he failed.
Then logic got to him. The water would drag him down, wings too heavy to swim with, the breeze was just that - a breeze, and was too erratic to sustain him, and most importantly, his wings weren't strong enough, the bones and muscles twitching from the last physical session with Achilles.
Oh, but what a feeling it would be to fly. Even better than falling from the top of buildings to land in hay. Better than jumping from tree to tree, building to building, making each leap appear to be easy enough that anyone could do it.
Folding his wings, Connor lightly hopped from the branch, retrieving his shawl and wrapping it over his shoulders to appease Achilles. With one more wistful glance at the bay, he went inside to wash the mud from his feet.
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-21 12:14 am (UTC)(link)Nothing would accurately describe how the wilderness affected Connor, how he needed it in order to keep his spirit healthy, how the experience of just standing somewhere and letting it play out around him transcended any form of love he had known or will ever know. It was pure. A meditation. A contemplation. It stripped away all of the hate, fear, and betrayal that coiled and grew in his heart, it gave him focus.
*whimpers and curls up in a blanket* I could read this all day!
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-21 01:13 am (UTC)(link)Connor, to me, is slightly moody, angry, but a decent and humble person. He's lived most of his life in a village with really open housing structures. I just can't see him being able to forfeit his connection with nature to move into a city, despite it probably being easier, quicker, and cheaper for him to operate as an assassin while based in Boston or New York. It's a sensory cleansing, where you just stop and feel the world, and understand that you are a part of it. It doesn't have to be a nature-based thing either. I imagine that Ezio would do the same while perched in an alcove of a cathedral - Altaïr simply watches the Masyaf courtyard from his office, and Desmond runs until he can't run anymore, panting, perched up high to see the stars.
Ahahahaha, I'm just going to stop rambling now. :) But thank you. Thank you so much.
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-21 04:39 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-24 06:25 am (UTC)(link)Not gonna lie, I'm hoping this goes Haytham/Connor, but I'll still read it no matter the pairing, or even if it's gen. You've got me hooked writeranon, now take this where you will. :)
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-24 11:22 pm (UTC)(link)Annnnnnyway, thank you for reading and I am so happy that you're enjoying it so much! I'm not a Haytham/Connor shipper, so it most likely won't go in that direction. I just unlocked Ellen on the homestead and I'm beginning to feel the love between them. Besides, Connor's got to get his clothes altered somewhere he can trust. ;) I hope that's not too disappointing for you!
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-25 06:54 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-24 11:25 pm (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-11-27 04:54 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 4/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-08 03:43 pm (UTC)(link)Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.1/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-08 03:41 pm (UTC)(link)There was screaming, there were tears, there was a scuffle worthy of Prudence and Warren's pride, and finally they subdued the terrified seamstress. She'd sat in the corner, whimpering and dabbing at her eyes with a handkerchief, crying partially from shock and partially from shame at her reaction. Connor sat in the opposite corner, ready to pounce if she tried to make a second attempt at fleeing. His wings were spread, his knees drawn up, watching her with large brown eyes. As uncomfortable as holding up his wings in this position was, it didn't outweigh overcoming Ellen's fear. If she saw them enough, Connor reasoned to himself, then it would take away the fear because it wouldn't be an unknown anymore. He fiddled with the hem of his shawl.
After an hour she still hadn't moved, although her tears had dried. Restless, Connor rose to approach her. Ellen squeaked.
"I am not going to hurt you."
"I know," she replied timidly.
"There's no need to be afraid."
"I'm not."
"Then why does your body shake?" Connor asked.
Ellen buried her head in her hands, breathing deeply. Women were finicky to judge. No matter how long he spent trying to puzzle them out it always ended in more confusion than when he began. As she soothed herself, her body stopped shuddering with minute wracks of distress. It made Connor hurt in the chest when Ellen was upset, a giant's fist gripping his torso and squeezing, making him most disconcerted. He had not a clue what it meant and Achilles had only given him a faint smile when Connor had pressed him for answers.
Finally she looked up. Her eyes were rimmed red and her hair was a mess from the earlier struggle, but Connor didn't mind. At least she hadn't attempted to run again.
"It's a lot to take in," she sighed. "I will have to come back tomorrow."
Her chair scraped across the floor.
"Stay the night," said Connor abruptly.
"Maria will be home soon and I still need to fix her supper. I can't leave her unattended. I'm sorry, but I need time to mull this over. Privately."
Connor nodded. A pang of shame ached where he'd been neglectful as to have forgotten Maria.
"Of course. You must not speak a word of this outside of this outside, not even to Maria."
"Understood. It would cause an unnecessary scandal," agreed Ellen.
She left without another word, and was long gone before Connor realised she'd left her handkerchief behind. Delicately, as if his large hands would tear it, he picked it up. It smelt salty, even from a distance, so he left it to soak in the laundry for an hour while he did his stretching exercises. Once they were done (and he was noticing the difference in control and overall strength of his wings), he rinsed the lace out and pegged it next to his shirts to dry.
He didn't expect Ellen to come back - hell, she was probably packing to leave right now, to get away from the bizarre creature he'd become. Connor didn't blame her, any sane person would.
Yet, at seven in the morning, Ellen was at his door, rapping on it smartly and her work-basket over her arm. Caught off guard, Connor hadn't even bathed yet, taking the opportunity of a surprisingly restful night to rise early to cook a hot breakfast for Achilles when the old man woke for his daily dawn watching over the bay. Embarrassed by his state of undress, face smudged with grease and soot, nightshirt grotty and roughly slit at the back for his wings, Connor ducked away.
The door almost slammed in Ellen's face before Connor recovered enough to let her in. He ran upstairs to wash, while Achilles - already dressed and chuckling - was left to amuse the hardy tailor. Connor didn't put much on, except it was clean, and he returned with a bag of shirts and two coats, Ellen's handkerchief neatly folded on top. Connor would deal with his robes later.
"Very good. Where shall we begin?" Ellen asked, her head held high, staring at his wings with determination.
"Wherever it may please you," replied Connor, honestly and earnestly.
****
5.2 will be up later - it's half written and connects to this bit, but I felt guilty over my slow upload schedule, so here you have the first half.
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.1/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-09 06:11 am (UTC)(link)Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.1/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-09 02:42 pm (UTC)(link)Poor Connor! He doesn't even know he has a crush, but it must feel awful to think she's going to leave the Homestead over this! *hugs Ellen* And I love that her first thoughts once she'd calmed down were for Maria, and how totally cool and businesslike she is the next morning.
Also: YAY! Connor/Ellen!!
Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-11 11:48 pm (UTC)(link)"You know, Connor, when most men ask for their clothes to be let out, it's because they've split the back seams from their beer belly," she mused, giving him a bright smile when he looked over his shoulder at her.
"I am not most men," replied Connor.
He fidgeted, nervous, scratching at the back of his neck. Reflecting him, his wings twitched and fluffed themselves. One brushed against Ellen's face and she laughed, ticklish, then pushed it away to avoid being swatted.
"Sorry," said Connor, shoulders and body tense.
"Do not fret. I'm trying to figure out where to cut into your existing shirts. Would you mind spreading your wings as far around your front as possible? Oh, excellent," replied Ellen marking the cloth with chalk.
Connor could feel the worn nub of the stick drag over his back, one line dropping from between his wingblades to his tailbone. He forced back his reactions (mainly 'enemy, weapon, disarm') to the cold metal of her scissors as she cut open his shirt, making a second line to form a t-shape. She widened the horizontal cut, tugged on the fabric, and began to pin it.
With her right hand, she held the back of the shirt shut, while with her left she tidied the feathers, smoothing them down where she had disturbed them.
"Is the movement restricted?" she asked.
Rotating the sockets and finding his movement as free as if he'd not been wearing a shirt, Connor nodded.
"Good. I'll stitch this and sew in some lace holes."
She pulled the shirt over his head. Connor tucked his wings back, brushing against Ellen again. With a long, smooth caress, she made it fold tightly, Connor's body jolting in surprise as the touch released a shiver through his body that had nothing to do with the cold. Ellen seemed quite unaware of it, focusing on the neat stitching of her craft, and Connor, having nothing else he could do, sat next to her, swinging the chair backwards to watch.
Back and forth deft fingers plucked at the silver needle and thread, working into corners that Connor could never hope to. When he looked at her, it occurred to him how tiny she was and that his handspan wasn't much shorter than the width of her waist. Such a petite woman - it made him angry to think of her ex-husband beating such a kind-hearted lady, which must have shown on his face, for Ellen tapped his arm.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"Your former husband," he growled.
Ellen seemed to contemplate this for a moment, her exterior calm. The only giveaway was the slightly vicious stabbing she gave her pincushion.
"He's gone now."
"Forgive me for saying so, but he was bad blood. I didn't like him."
Waving her hand, Ellen got stuck into her sewing before saying, "Well that goes without saying. It is a better life here. I knew he wasn't going to change his ways after I had Maria. It went downhill when she wasn't born a boy."
"Ah, but the benefit of a little girl is that she is smart, unlike us silly boys. Maria climbs better than any boy anyway, and can throw a rock further and fight lightly and quickly. She will do well, I am sure," Connor said.
And he wasn't just saying that either - only days before he left for Boston, before his wing-fever, he'd caught her climbing the trees like she was born from them, a true spirit of the forest. Her mother may complain of Maria's scraped knees and wild hair, but the frontier had given them both a healthy glow to their skin. They were healthier here, without having to constantly watch themselves, the stress of such activities draining their body and mind.
"She's trying to imitate you, you know," murmured Ellen.
She stopped stitching - looked straight at him, an unwavering stare - then shifted her attention to his wings. Connor shifted back, feeling much too crowded. Ellen didn't seem to mind the closeness, and for several seconds, their world shrank to just them, caught in a weird mix of pride, anger, fear, their presence to each other soothing old wounds that they didn't realise they still had. For her, it was conflicting - for all her bravado, se had been genuinely afraid to have been beaten so mercilessly that one day she would never get up again, leaving Maria behind. For him, it was a haze of emotions that had been brewing since the fire that had taken his mother - Connor didn't know how to handle the two-faced nature of both sides of this war, questioning what the hell he was actually doing, running around, killing. They took comfort in that they had both seen and done things that they bitterly regretted.
"The idea of this is that it laces here."
The strange moment had passed. Ellen pointed out how the shirt worked, and started bouncing ideas off him as to how this would translate into heavier clothing. He didn't really hear her and she didn't really need to say anything - Ellen knew that Connor didn't understand most of what she was saying, but they had to fill that gaping hole with something. Humans were such complex and surreal creatures, thought Connor, himself included.
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-14 07:00 pm (UTC)(link)Aaaww... how old do you think Maria is? I actually picture Connor playing with the Homestead children
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 5.2/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-20 01:51 pm (UTC)(link)Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
(Anonymous) 2012-12-20 01:53 pm (UTC)(link)"I'm going!"
"No!"
"I need to know how to to use them."
Silence. Checkmate. They'd been arguing over this for hours, and had finally come to a more civil volume.
"It'll be a waste of time. Don't get upset if it doesn't prove fruitful."
A warning that wouldn't be taken lightly.
"I won't. I'll see you soon, old man!"
A promise and the sound of hooves dashing the ground. Achilles could only hope that Connor wouldn't return to them in worse condition than last time.
***
Water was dripping down his collar again. Connor supposed it was because he had the first few buttons of his waistcoat and shirt undone, allowing a small glimpse of his chest, his necklace sitting like a possessive claw above it. Despite Ellen's best efforts, they hadn't managed to fasten them, even after she'd let out the seams. He resisted the urge to squirm as the cool droplets slid over his stomach and soaked the waistband of his trousers. It was only a mild discomfort. He could stand it.
His wings were tightly tucked against his body, a heavy cape pinned to his shoulders disguising them as a hump in his back and keeping them dry. Connor yanked on it to cover his chest, the textured black fabric helping him melt into the shadows as a crippled beggar, damaged by the war and begging for alms. Putting on a false limp, Connor ignored the jeers and insults as he passed by the door of a tavern, and circled the building to arrive at the temporary encampment on the other side. A certain figure caught his eyes, tucked away to the side.
He snarled. Haytham. Father. Why was he at such an insignificant camp? The tall, enigmatic figure of his father was partially hidden by shadow, sheltering under the ledge of a nearby building as he spoke to whom Connor assumed was the captain. A glimpse of matching rings told Connor all he needed to know. The Templars were attempting to seize control of the district once more. Connor had to warn his brethren to deal with it before it got out of hand. Dobby would be up for it - she always had enjoyed knocking a few heads together, especially idiotic men.
He ducked his own head to shake some of the water from his hood and was about to leave when the ledge shadow moved. Connor froze, staring, realising that if he was currently sitting in the gloom then the weak sun couldn't possibly be casting shade over Haytham as well. The angle was completely wrong.
He stared longer, thinking it could have been his imagination, and suddenly it moved again, twitching in a very familiar manner. The outline of the shape became clearer as it folded into an arch, disturbing the thick wool of Haytham's coat, and the light caught the edge of one of the shapes and the black exploded into jewel-like colours, reflecting the sun into emeralds and sapphires with flecks of amber. It wasn't a pure black - more grey, now that he looked at it closely, maybe natural, maybe from age - and the undersides were mottled with cream and brown stripes. Connor reluctantly admitted to himself that it was rather beautiful.
It was also obvious. Connor had to find out how Haytham was hiding it - there was a small chance that the captain was aware of the extra limbs extending from Haytham's body, however that chance evaporated as soon as one considered the few citizens that had braved the seasonal downpour went past without a second glance. (Well, there were second glances, but it wasn't for the wings. Connor couldn't deny that his father was a handsome man.) Neither they nor the captain seemed to notice.
Shifting his wings under his cape, Connor could only watch on in envy as Haytham stretched and flexed his wings, letting them fluff and move and generally be comfortable. Connor had learned the hard way that his wings had come with an ingrained instinct to express his emotions, sometimes spreading to their full span if he was invested in the topic at hand. They also ached if he had to keep them perfectly still for long periods of time.
Haytham turned to leave the captain with one wing carelessly brushing his subordinate's face. The man shivered.
"Are you cold?" asked Haytham, his deep tone clear as the wind changed direction.
"No, sir. Someone walked over my grave, sir."
'Interesting,' thought Connor, 'I wonder if all of the "grave-shivers" are caused by wings?'
Haytham slipped down the alleyway opposite, and Connor took to the rooves. He would find out how Haytham deflected the attention. When Connor had seen Haytham before, Connor certainly hadn't spotted any wings. Maybe it was different now that he had his own? The trick that Haytham used might not be effective on other winged beings. Whatever it was, it was good, and Connor desperately needed to know so he could continue his work.
***
As expected, it would be quite unlike Haytham to give up the secret so easily. Connor dropped from the rooftop, slamming his hand into the vulnerable flesh at the base of the wing in hopes that he might daze Haytham for a moment, if not dislocate the socket entirely (and hadn't that been a delightful education in pain when Achilles had discovered the weak spot, exploited it, then popped Connor's wing back in.) However the muscled cords that wove around the base were thick and strong with age, and the wing wasn't shifting quite as easily, despite a promising pop. Given a few more moments and Connor was sure he would have had it from it's socket.
But he didn't have that long with Haytham and Connor found himself thrown into the wall, then delivered to the ground with a sweeping kick under his feet. He cursed inwardly - his balance was off, but he didn't want to reveal his secret to Haytham yet. He felt too heavy at the back. Connor rolled and narrowly dodged the knife that embedded itself into the mud where his head had been. He lunged, knocking the second knife from Haytham's hand, and landed a square punch before being tossed to the ground again.
"This had better not be about Charles. My dear boy, you are in very poor fighting condition - were you sick? Or have you simply lost your nerve? I can't say that I've seen worse balance than on the greenest soldiers."
Haytham tilted his head in an avian manner. His eyes swept over Connor's body, taking in the cloak, the slightly hollow face, and the awkward back arch Connor was trying to keep.
"It is not about Charles," spat Connor. "It's about an inheritance."
"I deal in many, keeping them safe, so unless you're a little more specific -" replied Haytham, trailing off.
He planted his foot on Connor's chest and pushed down. With that sort of force, it was impossible for Connor to keep his wings tucked up as they were, instead splaying enough so he was lying flat. Connor gasped, feeling them shift, and tried to pull them back but with his father's foot still firmly on him there was no room to do so. A smirk appeared on Haytham's lips.
"Of course. Your inheritance. Your only inheritance, mind you, the rest belongs to the Templars or a distant cousin. Not entirely my choosing, but then again you don't exist on paper."
Flipping the cloak's hem from Connor's body, the wings were revealed, and the pleasure at this development was clear upon Haytham's face.
"You are so much like your mother, yet these," he gestured to the wings, "These are the mark of a true Kenway child."
Kenway. He was nothing but Kenway. Connor was doubtful that Haytham even remembered Kaniehtí:io's face after this many years. The attempt Haytham was making to soothe Connor was disgusting, implying that he could barely be physically recognised as kin, insulting the memory of a dead woman. A diversionary tactic.
Connor snarled, trying to get up, but Haytham kept firm, his patterned wings flapping to maintain the pressure and stay balanced. Mud was soaking into his feathers, through his clothes, and not only was it cold, but it reeked of human and animal waste. Carefully, avoiding the wild fists Connor was throwing at him, Haytham pulled at a wing, stretching it as far sideways as he could. Those dark hazel eyes never left Connor's body, judging every thought and expression, calculating and extrapolating upon the variables his mind presented. He followed the sharp snapping motion Connor's wing made as his son finally found the strength to pull away.
"They're not much more than two months old," Haytham murmured, "Core strength is still building, span is broad but short feathers, reminiscent of a migratory raptor, capable of above average speed, although your strength lies in the endurance of flight. Curious."
As Haytham removed his foot, Connor lurched up to face his father standing, raising a hand to block an incoming blow. Now that he wasn't concerned about keeping them hidden, his wings spread, lifting the cloak up. Clutching at the fastening with his other hand, Connor tore the fabric off to let it fall in the mud.
"And what exactly are you?" he snarled.
"Falcon. Peregrine," replied Haytham. "I thought it would have been clear from the markings."
Ah, another white man's name for some poor bird.
"And what exactly is that supposed to mean?"
Haytham took a step back, bending his knees as if ready to pounce, immediately putting Connor on the defence.
"It means that if I were inclined to leave you behind - " His wings stroked the air with power Connor hadn't quite expected, launching Haytham into the air, " - you would not be able to catch up."
His cloak was whipped this way and that by the wind his wings generated, and Connor swore as Haytham caught an updraft and glided over several streets before dropping of of sight entirely. The man had the advantage in crowded landscapes, not to mention a superb vertical take-off, years of experience, and probably proper guidance from other Kenways. Connor slammed his fist against the lumber of a solid cottage squeezed in between two brick buildings. Begrudgingly he collected his cape, made even more unpleasant by the mud soaked into the heavy fabric.
Achilles had been right - this trip had been a waste of time and he was still no closer to getting back into the field. There wasn't even the slightest chance that Connor would be able to find his father now. On alert, the man didn't allow people to follow him. Those who did tended to end up at the bottom of a river or bled out in a dark corner behind a fence. Haytham's mind screamed "Templar", but his body ignored it, revealing his Assassin origin. Connor didn't place too much on Haytham returning. The older man did have a knack for running away from confrontation - he was never there when you needed him and always there when you didn't. Stupid man.
Re: Fill: Anatomy of an Assassin 6/?
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