asscreedkinkmeme | Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5

Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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✩ 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!

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Part 1
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I would give all the Internet money to see an AU where Haytham saves Connor from the slavers instead of Ziio. They go on to work together and there are snarks and eventual feels. Obviously in this AU Haytham isn't Connor's papa so it's up to anon if Connor is full Mohawk or if he just has a different English daddy.

*BONUS* I would love to see Connor as an Assassin (yay rivalries!). Maybe if the story is on the longer side Connor can be working with a younger Achilles on the side.

This is an AMAZING idea. Here's to hoping someone fills it!

YOUNGER ACHILLES?? yes please!

What a great idea! :) I've got some stuff queued up but I'll love to give it a shot.

I also would love to see this filled :)

I will be bookmarking the gay out of this post <3 <3 <3 <3 <3

Yes please wow this is a great prompt

This is probably going to be something of a long fill, so bear with me. Also, Connor's about 17 in this AU. Hope OP isn't too disappointed.

--

Rain whips across the street, not heavy but the kind that sticks, leaving anyone exposed to it almost wetter in the end. Connor shifts, taking care not to draw too much attention to his movements in case any of the redcoats get the wrong idea. Sitting point on the wagon isn't exactly the prime location for someone in his situation, it's both exposed and exposing. As easily the youngest of the captives he was apparently the obvious choice for the spot, despite the fact that he is capable of putting up much more of a fight than the sicklier men shut in the back. Then again, those same qualities that make him a greater potential threat are part of what renders him the most valuable part of the shipment, and thus best kept under closest watch. Accordingly his restraints are more substantial than anyone else's.

His wrists are starting to chafe painfully under the manacles and his current clothing is hardly doing a good job of keeping him warm or dry. Captivity has worn thin before they're even in sight of the fort. To take his mind off it he goes over the number of troops again, mentally counting his way back through the ranks of the convoy. Thirteen in total, all carrying bayonets at the ready for the least sign of trouble. It's almost as if they are waiting for an attack to happen. He wonders who it is they think would go to such effort simply to free a handful of fresh slaves. An overkill that only draws more attention to themselves, that's what this is. If Silas were really so worried then they should have made this transfer more covertly.

Beside him the driver continues to stare vacantly at the ground just beyond the horses' hooves, pipe hanging from the side of his mouth. Despite appearances, the man is still alert enough to lash out for the least perceived threat, or simply at any movement great enough to catch his attention. Violence that had been discovered the hard way. Something also learned thus is that the soldiers guarding the cart really don't care for staring. While not allowed to explicitly harm the commander's new property they are free to prod at the captives as hard as they want with the butts of their muskets, so long as there is no blood. A loophole that these particular soldiers are quite happy to take advantage of.

Fortunately Connor has had much practice at observing his surroundings surreptitiously. Keeping his head low, he lets his eyes wander. Now that the convoy is approaching the outskirts of Boston the street has expanded in width and degraded in quality, providing a bumpier and muddier ride for all concerned. Buildings are gradually starting to thin out, with vegetation beginning to reassert itself over the immediate landscape. It's not visible, but he knows that the water is drawing in on either side as they come closer to the thin neck of land on which Southgate fort stands. Most residents of the area appear to have remained in shelter, other than a few who move hurriedly up and down the road. None spare the cart a glance, it is only the soldiers who draw the least bit of attention from these people, because of their unusual number no doubt. A familiar anger threatens to rise at the thought, but he pushes it to the back of his mind for the time being as he frowns and narrows his eyes.

Up ahead, on the crest of a rather steep, peaked roof is the undeniable silhouette of a man, standing and watching the convoy. Whoever they are there is a distinct lack of red about their clothing, which does not bode entirely well. His attention remains entirely fixed on the static figure, whose posture remains straight and at attention in spite of the wind. As the building on which the stranger is perched draws closer a second man, more unsteady on his feet, joins him for a few moments, before quickly scuttling back out of view. Interesting. A cautious glance around at the soldiers establishes that they are none the wiser to what appears to be an imminent threat. Not for the first time he wonders who it is that trains these idiots. When he looks back however the cloaked figure is gone. Regardless, he knows what he has seen, his senses do not lie to him. Something isn't right.

As the convoy rounds the corner into a rather ill-placed square it becomes clear to him at least. It's only exit is a gap between two thick fortification walls, wide enough for only one vehicle at a time. Sitting right in front of that exit is a wagon turned neatly onto its side that looks suspiciously like a makeshift barricade. A trio of mismatched men stand around it, apparently at a loss as to how their vehicle came to be in such a position. Confrontation of some sort is inevitable. Letting his eyes close momentarily, the teenager steels himself against an oncoming headache.

'The hell is this?' Already irritated, the captain doesn't hesitate to march ahead and begin waving his bayonet threateningly at those apparently responsible for the blockage. Delays are something that Silas does not take kindly to.

'A thousand apologies sirs, it seems we've had ourselves an unhappy little accident.' Speaking up for the group is a man with arrogance clear in his eyes despite the ingratiating expression on his face as he holds his hands up in placation.

Bringing the tip of his blade up so that it is the merest of breaths away from the offending man's jugular, the redcoat says each word with calm venom. 'Get it sorted. And quickly.'

'Of course milord.' He takes a step back and pauses, gaze wandering tellingly towards the rooftops, clearly waiting for something. The same sense of preoccupation radiates from his companions and none of them seem in any hurry to move, despite the soldiers' clear aggression. As the tense silence draws on further, the man seems to feel the need to stall some more. 'At once.'

Connor can see from the set of the captain's shoulders that his patience is about ready to snap, the musket seconds away from becoming lodged in the nearest throat. A foot lifts in preparation for a step and the man promptly crumbles to the ground. The sound of a single shot reverberates through the still air. Apparently that is all the signal needed for the blockaders to draw their own weapons and attack.

From the outset it is obvious that this is a completely uneven match. The ambush is joined by another individual, dressed in crimson uniform, who is of particular viciousness, together the four make pretty short work of the soldiers who come their way. Intermittent shots from the rooftops on either side serve to sheer down the numbers even faster. In a matter of moments the battle is over, the teenager has barely time to flinch or even wish that he were free to join in. Immediately they get to work on dragging away the bodies and removing any evidence of the altercation.

Remarkably slow on the uptake, the cart's driver only now pulls himself together to make a belated attempt at escape. His chances aren't all that bad, considering that every one of the ambushers' backs is currently turned to the vehicle. They are too preoccupied with disposing of the dead to notice the one hostile member of the convoy left alive. But Connor hasn't forgotten him, not in the least. As the man attempts to leap down and make a sprint for safety he manages to stick out a leg in order to trip him up. It jars, sending a burst of pain through the teenager's body. He's going to regret it later no doubt. Still, he can't bring himself to care about that as face hits dirt with a satisfying smack, vengeance is sweet.

Unfortunately the fall isn't quite so hard as it could have been. Blind fury is written on the driver's face as he staggers back to his feet and wipes mud from his eyes. 'Why you damned sav-'

A blade abruptly bursts through the man's chest, quite effectively cutting off the slur and whatever violence he might have been planning to exact. With a sharp pull the impaling sword withdraws, allowing the body to slump to the ground in an undignified heap. Standing in the space, wiping the blood from his weapon, is the same man who had been watching from the rooftop. He has discarded his earlier attire in favour of one of the dead men's uniforms, it rather suits him. 'Well now, that was a rather foolish move.'

Although it isn't clear to whom exactly the comment is directed, several moments pass before the weight of the man's gaze gets to Connor, who feels the need to defend himself. 'He deserved it.'

'So it would appear.' His rescuer responds with a small smile.

Now that they are at close quarters Connor takes the opportunity for a proper evaluation. The man is tall and relatively dark in complexion, for someone with such a distinctly clipped English accent. His moderately long hair is tied back with a ribbon while the hat does little to shade his face. Red looks remarkably good on him, the uniform hugging his frame nicely. He practically radiates an air of command. Attractive, undeniably so. Knowing that he's staring, the teenager forces himself to look away as his cheeks start to heat up. While the situation is becoming more complicated by the moment the threat of the headache has retreated, to be replaced with a burning self-consciousness. Thankfully there are other, more urgent things for his watcher to focus on than him, for the time being.

With the last of the bodies disposed of the ambushers gather at the other side of the cart to discuss their next move. Or, rather, to take orders from their leader. It doesn't really surprise him that it's the voice of the watcher that he hears taking charge. 'Charles, you and William serve as vanguard. Let no man reach us.'

'What about me?' Naturally it's the sardonic one who asks the question.

'You and John will follow on from a distance and keep watch over us. I'll signal you when I have need of your services.' His assured tone brokers no argument, making it clear that there will be no more questions put forward. There is no denying who leads this group.

Listening closely yet surreptitiously, Connor notes the movements of the various individuals even as he determinedly looks the other way. His hunter's senses tell him when half the group splits off, putting distance and buildings between themselves and the scene. The others don't move much, simply checking over their newly acquired muskets as they wander into position ahead of the horses. Their plan almost seems to be to carry on with the delivery as if nothing had happened, which is a little strange. A new weight climbing up beside him shifts the cart and breaks his train of thought. Even though there is only one person it could be, he gives in to the instinct to look, and finds himself again meeting the eyes of the watcher.

'We're here to help you, along with those held inside Southgate fort.'

'And here I thought you were going to all this trouble just to steal me.' Much to his horror, the words are out of his mouth before he even knows he's saying them.

The man's lips quirk. 'Tempting, I'll admit. But there are rather greater things at stake here.'

'I don't doubt it.' Connor goes to cross his arms, forgetting his situation momentarily and having to abort the movement half way through. The part of his mind that is not getting thoroughly twisted up in knots by the presence of this individual is focused on trying to work out just what these people are doing. This isn't a mercy mission, of that he is sure, at least it can't be entirely so.

Jerking the reins to spur the horses into motion, the watcher takes a few moments before he turns to business. 'I don't suppose you happen to know anything of Silas' operation; how many men we might expect or the nature of their defences?'

'No more than you I should imagine.' So, the plan is to breach Southgate then. For a fight by the sounds of it. But there still remains the question of why, and his curiosity quickly wins out. 'What is it you want with him?'

'Justice.' It's about as much of an answer as could be expected.

'Sir?' From in front of the horses, the one referred to as William interrupts, pace not faltering despite his uncertain tone. 'We've enemies ahead. Shall I engage them?'

Not too far up the road, on the edge of a rather ill-placed corn field, stand a pair of redcoats at rest. They don't appear to be paying much attention to their surroundings. He makes out tell-tale flashes of scarlet flitting stealthily through the vegetation, clearly heading in the direction of the potential problem.

His companion leans forward, hands on his knees, expression turning instantly serious as he gives the situation a fast evaluation before responding; 'No, let Jonathan and Thomas take care of it.'

Sure enough, the inattentive soldiers are abruptly pulled backwards into the field without so much as a cry. Skilful assassinations, without a doubt. The more he sees of these men the more concerned he finds himself becoming.

'You must be rather important if you were given your own escort.' It's a sudden query, one that makes the teenager flinch despite himself.

'In a way. He strikes me as someone who wants his property well protected.'

'A sound assessment. You've met him?'

'Seen him.' Connor corrects, bitterness rising like bile and constricting his throat. 'Slaves don't exactly get an introduction to the prospective master.'

One of the man's gloved hands reaches over, carefully wrapping over one of the native's own. 'You won't have to suffer him further, you have my word.'

Shocked, but not unpleasantly so, Connor finds himself making no attempt to shy away from the contact. It isn't that he dislikes people touching him as such, rather it's a matter of cultural etiquette. Among the Iroquois it is not normal, not polite. Only those you've known and trusted for years, those with whom you are truly familiar, are supposed to touch you. Yet Colonists and foreigners alike have such an extreme tendency towards casual contact, even with virtual strangers, it has always remained somewhat confusing to him. Not quite as confusing to him as his own reaction now, or lack thereof, to such a gesture of intimacy however. Even after the somehow reassuring pressure of the hand is gone he can still feel its ghost burning into his skin. He isn't as embarrassed, or even angered, as he probably should be.

How long he just stares down at his hands he doesn't know. Everyone seems to have lapsed into silence, allowing his ears to pick up every creak of the harness, every shift of the other captives. He senses the approaching checkpoint before the backs of the false escort begin to tellingly tense up. Understandably so, one wrong move and the rescue, or whatever this is, will be over before it has even begun. Glancing up, he sees the frown that darkens the face of one of the guards. Trouble.

With a quick word to one of his fellows, the redcoat moves forward from his post and into the path of the convoy with a hand readied on the hilt of his sword. 'Halt! Identify yourselves! Where is Lieutenant Jones? What is the meaning of this?'

A gesture from the watcher has the soldiers swiftly dispatched with ruthless efficiency. The horses get barely any rest as a result of the hold-up, the cart having stayed in motion. Impressively the delivery is almost back on schedule. Half of the escort make themselves scarce again, ready to be called back into action at a moment's notice. One reappears barely twenty yards further on in order to silence a rather canny patrol dog, closely followed by the accompanying redcoat. It is almost a shame that none of the patrols or clumps of soldiers have had the presence of mind to realise that anything is wrong until they already have a blade buried in their backs. It it too easy for them this way. More enemies fall without a sound. Connor soon stops watching and instead focuses on giving his increasingly sore wrists a ginger, slow flex.

'Aha; bringing fresh meat hey?'

It's a tone that he has become increasingly used to in the last few days, it is one that tends to be directed at him more than any of the other captives. Partly he blames it on the absence of women from the shipment, leaving him as apparently the next best thing. He already knows what is coming and does his best to keep his attention focused elsewhere. A glance is chanced just in time to catch the way his companion's jaw tightens and the almost imperceptible nod that follows.

'Pull over. I want to take a look before Silas-' Mercifully the redcoat's throat is slit before he gets to finish.

Connor is painfully aware of what could have easily happened to him were circumstances somewhat different, could still easily happen to him even. He may be more than capable of defending himself normally but in his current state, restrained as he is, he wouldn't be able to do much. That the cart's former driver landed a blow is indication enough of his relative helplessness. A bruise beneath one eye and the soreness of his wrists acting as a constant reminder. The thought of what he would be unable to fight off is enough to make him shudder anew. Freedom cannot come too soon.

Beside him the watcher heaves a shallow sigh, remorseful in tone; 'We must seem despicable.'

'No.' He shakes his head, speaking honestly as he turns slightly in order to meet the man's eyes. 'Not all of you.'

From there it doesn't take long to reach the fort, although the number of corpses dressed in scarlet continues to pile rapidly up. Not one sound escapes to raise the alarm, every new soldier just as surprised by his fate as the last. Any thought of talk ceases as the wagon draws nearer to its destination, tension catching faster as the other members of the escort move back into formation. Nerves are causing Connor's stomach to twist unpleasantly, all the more so as the ominously thick and tall stone walls of the fort loom large. Instinctively his hands twitch, unable as they are to indulge in his habitual fidgeting.

Several redcoats stand around the open gates, conversing amongst themselves but undeniably alert all the same. One catches sight of the approaching convoy and gives a knowing smirk as he elbows the grenadier who appears to be in charge. Sluggishly he moves forward, raising a weary hand to signal the wagon to stop. He doesn't seem especially suspicious or even particularly interested; indifference makes for a nice change.

'Evening gentlemen.' Connor's companion on the cart reins in the horses, cool and calm as he addresses the guard.

Gruff and to the point, he demands; 'State your business.'

'Delivery, for Silas.' If nothing else, the accent is certainly in order.

The redcoat moves closer, expression unreadable beneath the shade of his cap, and gives the vehicle a quick once-over glance. He doesn't bother paying any particular attention to the escort, which is quite fortunate as every one of them is guaranteed to be an unfamiliar face. Finally, with a rough jerk of the head, he steps back. 'Go on then.'

And just like that the fort's defences are breached. It has proven to be a surprisingly simple and, dare he say it, easy feat. Getting back out again, now that part might prove tricky. For Connor, and for the ambushers-cum-infiltrators. Rather than plotting an escape route, his first priority, upon regaining full usage of his hands and legs that is, will be to find himself a weapon. There are guaranteed to be plenty of spare muskets lying around the fort, so pilfering one shouldn't be too difficult. While he is quite capable of defending himself with his hands he still feels rather naked and exposed without something more substantial at his disposal. Once he is armed he is sure that things will start to feel significantly more under control again. But then, he reminds himself, he still doesn't know what the plans of his apparent rescuer and the false escort are. The situation has been complicated; he isn't prepared for this.

Within the fort is quiet. As the night begins to draw in the guards are getting ready for a change in shifts, the other redcoats gathering in round their fires to discuss whatever it is that such men discuss. The perfect time. Up on the battlements eyes are directed outwards, towards the town and the sea, for fear of attack by the French armies. So preoccupied with the more obvious, more distant threat that they completely overlook those much closer to home. There is nobody nearby as the convoy pulls to its final stop, no one to give them as much as a second glance. It's almost tempting to think that the hardest part of this infiltration, rescue, or escape is already over.

'Well, here we are.' Throwing down the reins gladly, his companion turns fully to him and reaches over to work at gently removing the restraints. 'There is no need for this any longer.'

Even with the care taken it still stings, Connor is unable to hold back a hiss of pain despite the relief of being freed. The damage is worse than he had expected, his wrists are bruised with the skin rubbed raw in places. He's going to have to watch that he doesn't exacerbate it. 'Thank you, I appreciate the help.'

'The pleasure was mine.' A small smile accompanies the response as the man draws his hands back, hesitating slightly.

Acutely aware that time is wasting fast and that the other members of the false escort are paying an increasing amount of attention to him, Connor swings himself down from the cart only a little reluctantly. It feels as if weeks have passed since he was last able to properly stretch his legs, which are somewhat stiff but will soon enough remember their strength. If things are to get back on track he needs to get moving.

As he is turning to leave that same commanding voice calls out; 'It would be best if you were to lay low for the time being.'

'Believe me, I am in no hurry to draw attention to myself.' He gives a quick smile and incline of the head as he takes a tentative step backwards, pivoting into a less than dignified sprint for cover.

Luckily British officers do not seem to much concern themselves with ridding their strongholds of vegetation. Pressing himself down to the ground under the nearest of many clumps of bushes Connor closes his eyes and focuses on breathing. Counting slowly to a hundred should give them time to move off, so he stays still and tries not to listen to the low voices of their discussion as he waits. Disregarding any personal feelings he might have regarding his companion on the cart, the teenager is almost certain that he knows who, or rather what, they are. He sincerely hopes that he is mistaken, for more than one reason.

Footsteps move away as his count reaches fifty. It has already been too long a delay, he is sure, so he pulls himself slowly from his hiding spot. Keeping low and a good step away from the water that edges the area, as some poor form of natural defence no doubt, Connor makes for the wall. The others will be waiting for the signal, getting more anxious with every extra moment that passes before his call. He wonders if they will know of the complication yet, unsure as to how close an eye they have been keeping on him. A lot of time will be saved if they have, needless to say. As he casts a quick look back towards the tents and fires of the fort, he is all too aware that time may be very much of the essence now.

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [1.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-01-04 06:33 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [1.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-01-11 01:07 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [1.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-01-15 04:27 (UTC) - Expand

Once again Connor finds himself surprised by the laxness of the fort's security. Its outermost wall is tough, yes, but the cityward side doesn't even reach the water. There's a good foot or two of solid land left on either side of the thick, stone battlements which makes it relatively easy to slip into the fort from Boston, and vice versa. That makes a sort of sense, he supposes, Southgate's function is to keep attackers out of the city rather than keep people in. Something of a flaw in design, but it is a useful flaw nonetheless.

His whistle barely has a chance to sound before the first hooded figure detaches themselves from the shadows of a clump of buildings across the wide, empty square. A second, slightly shorter individual, is quick to follow. Thanks to the infiltration party there appear to be no guards left on this side of the gate to get in the way. It is a deceptively easy start for the pair. Connor wonders if they have any idea of what awaits inside the fort, of what potentially stands in the way of their assignment here. Regardless, he is glad to see them again. Some of the unease he's felt these last few days dissipates, although he knows that he won't feel entirely comfortable again until he has his own weapons and his own robes back. He still feels far too exposed to be at ease.

Worry is clear on both faces when they join him at the wall, the delay was noted. Neither of them looks particularly impressed by his condition, although he knows it could have been a lot worse. Apart from a bruise to the face and the painfully chaffed wrists the teenager is essentially fine. In fact, he's ended up with much more serious injuries in training, they all have. But this is different, of course, and so it stirs up all of his older companions' protective feelings. He is tougher than they give him credit for though. Fortunately the relief of seeing him walking around in one piece works quickly to dispel any lingering concerns.

While Connor is slightly the worse for wear, neither Duncan nor Dobby have changed in the least. His attempts to grow a beard are still bearing limited success, while her hair is just as short and raggedly cut as ever. Even the mud splatter on the hems of their robes seem unchanged. It shouldn't surprise him but these three days in captivity have felt like months. He feels tired.

Something serious must immediately show in his expression, as the pair exchange a quick glance before the Irishman leans in closer and lowers his voice to inquire: 'What's wrong? Did somebody see you escape? Do they know we're coming?'

'No, no, nothing like that. There is...' It takes a few moments to figure out how to adequately sum up the situation. He sighs. 'There has been a complication.'

'A complication?' Raising an eyebrow and folding her arms, the former pickpocket is clearly unsatisfied with the attempt at an explanation. Beside her Duncan's frown deepens.

Very conscious that giving them the whole thing from the start will take far too long, Connor knows that he has to be blunt. There isn't any way he can put this that will soften the impact after all. Taking a deep breath, he gives voice to the word that has been plaguing him since he first caught sight of the watcher on the rooftop. 'Templars. Six of them.'

The effect is immediate. While Duncan instantly goes as pale as a sheet, Dobby gives a long, low whistle. Naturally they all know the gravity of this 'complication', they know that just how much danger that word carries with it. They've heard all the stories, but as of yet none of them have ever encountered anything more than mercenaries acting on behalf of the Order. This is something for which they are essentially unprepared. Even Achilles or one of the other fully fledged Assassins would hesitate here.

It is Duncan who finally breaks the silence. 'In the fort?'

Connor nods. 'Looking for Silas.'

'Christ.' His hands go to his head as he begins to pace backwards and forwards. The oldest of the three, by only a few years, he is considered to be the de facto leader here and thus responsible for the others. It's a duty that Duncan takes very seriously. 'You're absolutely sure they're Templars?'

'Certain.' As much as he wishes he weren't. There simply is no other explanation. 'I have seen them kill, there can be no doubt about it.'

'Then we need to get moving.' Straightening up, Dobby takes several steps in the direction of the main building in which their target is holed up. The decision is made as far as she is concerned, but as it becomes clear that they aren't following she turns and adds: 'I don't know about you two, but I don't much fancy the idea of going home empty-handed. Not from this one.'

Her meaning would have been clear even if she hadn't glanced tellingly at Connor when she spoke. Admittedly the idea of having spent days in captivity for nothing is an unpleasant one, but he also remembers the ruthless efficiency with which these men kill. Yet if they turn back now they will lose the chance to obtain valuable information. And that is a setback the Brotherhood can ill afford considering.

Duncan meanwhile stands his ground, very much concerned by the possibility of a conflict. 'Half a dozen Templars weren't part of the plan.'

This argument could easily go in circles for hours, both of them are certainly stubborn enough. So really it falls to Connor to break the deadlock, and quickly. How Assassins can ever work in even numbers when on equal terms is quite beyond him. Some degree of stubbornness seems to be pretty much an obligatory characteristic for entry into the Brotherhood.

'Plans change.' He cuts in firmly. 'Their aim seems to be to free the captives first, which is going to take time. If you can get Silas to talk fast then they shouldn't have to know we were ever here.'

Even with the majority opinion against him, Duncan hesitates. But the fact remains that he is outnumbered, and the assignment remains an important one. He spends some moments weighing up the options before he holds his hands up in defeat. 'Okay, we'll try it. Dobs, you'll come with me to have a little chat with the commander. Connor, you keep an eye on these Templars of yours. If they start heading our way cause a distraction, buy us as much time as you can. But stay safe.'

Inexplicably pleased with the decision, Dobby smiles and claps the taller novice round the shoulder. 'Atta boy. This'll be over before you know it.'

'That'd be what concerns me.' He shrugs her off gently, wasting no time as he swiftly sets about scaling the rampart. Surprisingly that appears to be the quickest surreptitious route to Silas' rooms, not that it's an easy task by the looks of it.

Together the pair of them watch him scramble up the masonry. Upon reaching the ledge he pauses momentarily, listening, before abruptly hauling himself up and over onto the top of the battlement. His robes have barely swished out of sight when the body of a redcoat tumbles to the ground in front of them. A quick, silent kill.

'All things considered that tomahawk of yours isn't the best idea right now, so you're gonna have to make do with this for the time being.' Turning back to her remaining companion, Dobby pulls a knife from the inside of her boot and offers it to him. She must have picked it up off a target. As he takes it she pats his shoulder and lowers her voice to offer a final piece of advice; 'Stick any of the bastards who come near you.'

'Deborah.' Coming from above, Duncan's harsh, impatient whisper startles them both. His hooded head is visible craning down at them from one of the battlement's gaps.

There is little that annoys the female novice so much, or gets her so quickly back on task, as calling her by her given name. She bristles slightly, glaring back up at him. With a last, parting pat on the arm Dobby strides purposely towards the wall and launches herself up the stonework. Already knowing where to put her hands and feet, she scales it quickly and soon vanishes over the top. He is left alone again.

All in all that went about as well as expected. Connor can't say that he's thrilled to be consigned to the grounds of the fort, but at least he's finally armed. On closer examination the knife proves to be nondescript, anonymous, yet of a good quality nonetheless. It's the sort of weapon that won't give him away as anything more than he appears to be. Perfect when he's liable to run into the Templar infiltrators again before the day is done. Reassured, he slips quietly away from the wall.

Cautiously he retraces his earlier steps, acutely aware now of the quietness that seems to hang over Southgate. Hopefully freeing captives poses more difficulty for the invaders than picking off redcoats did. Flattening to the ground to avoid a patrol, Connor tries to figure out just how much time Duncan and Dobby will need. Interrogations take time and Silas does not seem the type to give ready answers. He settles on a course of action, deciding that it is better to stake out the gate than go actively searching for the Templars. Picking a good spot from which he has a clear view of the approach to the fort's wall, and the building in which its commander resides, the teenager makes sure to swipe a stray musket, which lay discarded beside a pile of hay, before settling down to watch and wait.

For several good long minutes nothing happens. Connor sits and tries to stop his mind from constantly wandering back to the watcher, the Templar leader. The man didn't seem all that evil. But appearances can be deceiving, he knows that. Liberating captives cannot be their true aim here, there has to be an ulterior motive. What is it they could possibly stand to gain by this? What game are they playing?

He is no closer to an answer when the sound of footsteps disturbs him. Two redcoats walk past his hiding place, heading towards the gate. Only half listening to their conversation as they move away, he initially doesn't pay them much heed.

'Say, ain't that the delivery cart over there?' One interrupts the other.

As he sees the men stop in their tracks, both frowning in the direction of the abandoned vehicle, Connor's heart sinks. After some consideration the second soldier replies; 'That it is. I thought Jones was supposed to come get us when the merchandise arrived.'

'I haven't seen hide nor hair of him all day. And that cart looks awfully empty to me...' He pauses, clearly thinking and weighing up options. Abruptly he turns to his comrade and orders; 'Raise the alarm.'

Before he can think to stop himself, Connor has thrown the knife. It buries itself neatly in the back of the first redcoat and he rather wishes that Dobby had given him more than just the one. It's certainly one way to create a distraction.

Not OP, but anon is super enjoying this. :)

Your Connor already seems somewhat torn with regards to that dashing man who rescued him (hehe), but unfortunately is an enemy. And I can't wait to read Haytham's reaction to the fact that Connor is an Assassin.

It's like star-crossed lovers! X_X

As fate would have it, the remaining guard was looking right in his direction when the knife flew. The vegetation in which he remains crouched doesn't provide enough cover to hide him from an alerted pair of eyes. It was sloppy work, he knows that, but the situation didn't exactly call for finesse or subtlety at this stage. Still, as the redcoat lets out a cry and raises his musket, a second throwable weapon would have come in handy. Connor grabs hold of his pilfered firearm and executes a quick roll to the side, putting himself safely out of the aim of the first incoming bullets.

'Escape! Seal the gate! The goods are loose!' The thwarted guard hollers at the top of his voice, presumably feeling the inevitability of his rapidly approaching death. His errant shooting will have already done enough to raise the alarm however.

True to form, within a matter of seconds there are shots sounding out from all over the fort. Chaos is remarkably quick to descend. Trained professionals indeed. He wonders if most of them even know what they are supposed to be shooting at. Relatively satisfied with the result of his impromptu attack, the young Assassin finally silences the still-yelling soldier and puts him out of his misery. Having little relish for open conflict, he plans to return to cover for the time being and goes to retrieve his knife. It slides back out of the dead man's flesh easily, at just the right moment for the reinforcements who come running through the gate to observe the act. Fortunately those sounds of battle that originate from the direction of the tents are fierce enough to draw away the majority of the new arrivals. Half a dozen decide to stick around in order to avenge their freshly fallen comrades.

It is now that he really misses his normal weapons of choice. The bayonet is a rather unwieldy thing in such close combat, a stark contrast to the fluidity achievable with the hidden blades, the tomahawk or any small weapon for that matter. Even so, Connor is not at a disadvantage. When the first man approaches him it is decidedly slowly and uncertainly, as if they are unsure as to whether they should be keeping him alive or not. He has no such indecision to contend with. Telegraphing his ill-fated lunge long before he makes it, the redcoat is easily dodged and then dispatched with a swift retaliatory plunge of steel through his back. Twisting, the Assassin whips the legs out from under the next soldier, slitting the throat of a third before he finishes off the downed man. This sort of senseless killing may not be something he particularly enjoys but he doesn't hesitate. The rest of the attacking group are soon dead.

Pulling the bayonet out of the last man's skull with a wrench, Connor takes a moment to assess the situation. Battle rages around the tents. A fair number of liberated captives have gained weapons and form the virtual centre of the fray, their muted colours standing out clearly amongst the small sea of red. Superiority of numbers does not appear to be doing the soldiers any good, the presence of the Templars no doubt creating confusion within the ranks. The smaller force know who they are fighting at least. He is sure that the infiltrators must have managed a good few silent kills at the start. A fair number of redcoats have already fallen.

More soldiers are massing at the gate. Instinctively he steps swiftly back into the shadows of the loathsome cart, in order to shake off any attention he might have already aroused. His caution is seemingly unnecessary as they show no signs whatsoever of entering the main grounds of the fort. Odd, considering that the plight of their comrades is clear even from such a distance. Frowning he watches as they mill aimlessly around. Connor hopes that Duncan and Dobby have had enough time, and that the pair of them have already managed to escape. If they haven't those troops in the quadrangle are certain to get in the way. Either way he will not be able to know for sure until later. Any signal of theirs will only be lost in the cacophony that consumes Southgate.

Straining his ears, just in case, he notices that the force blocking the gate are shifting around. It takes a few moments for him to realise what the purpose of it is, as they still show no signs of going to the aid of the quickly diminishing number of their fellows. With trained efficiency they are reorganising themselves into several successive lines, swinging down muskets from over their shoulders and loading. Firing lines. Rather than joining the chaos these troops will hold back, wait until it is over and then deal with whoever is left standing. For it is almost inevitable that it will be only Templars and captives who survive the fighting. His blood runs a little cold at the thought.

With a glance back towards the fray he picks up movement. Two redcoats are beginning to slowly peel away from the conflict, heading his way, although various soldiers keep desperately reengaging them. And promptly dying. There is no mistaking the identity of one, the Templar leader naturally draws his eyes with that distinctive air of command and poise. His sword-work is equally striking. The other, who fights with less style and a much rougher aggression, is a sour-faced man with a scarred nose. Silent and resentful, he appears to be interested in more than simple justice. However neither of them can really hope to get past the firing lines that now wait within the arch of the gateway. Aggression or skill cannot best so many waiting bullets, but determination can try.

He is certain that if the Templars are here to kill Silas then they are going to make sure that they do. But surely they, well, their leader isn't foolish enough to run straight into a firing squad which is three lines deep. The man must have another idea. If not around the wall, or through, then... Beside him the cart is sturdy and of a decent enough height. A step back establishes that it is positioned near perfectly, situated below one of the wall's indentations to provide an easy route to the walkway beyond. Coincidence, or a contingency plan? Something tells him that it is the latter.

Throwing aside the musket, Connor makes a snap decision which he will probably live to regret. Once certain that both approaching Templars are sufficiently distracted he pulls himself up onto the roof of the cart and promptly dives through the gap. In front of him is the upper storey of the main building, various windows and doors with no clue as to what lies behind them. Silas' rooms are among them, that he knows. The thought sends a slight shudder down his spine. Thankfully the place is deserted, for the time being. But even as he starts to get to his feet he hears voices coming closer. For lack of a better option he darts around the corner of the building furthest from the sound, pressing himself against the brickwork in the hopes of remaining unnoticed. Heavy footsteps approach, two pairs of boots mounting the steps, somewhat sluggishly all things considered.

As the grenadiers reach the top of the stairs, coming into sight, one of them remarks: 'Surprised he's not out here shouting at us yet.'

'I know, right, the boss ain't that heavy a sleeper.' His companion nods.

As they approach their destination, doubtless the door to Silas' rooms, their feet seem to drag further. Neither of them looks like they want to be the inevitable bearers of bad news. Watching, Connor knows that even if his fellow novices are still inside they are more than capable of dealing with these men. Still for simplicity, and the sake of time, he hopes that they aren't. One of the soldiers has his fist raised to knock when the door bursts violently open, banging so hard against the wall that it shudders in its frame.

Bristling with rage, Silas bears down upon the pair. 'You incompetent buffoons! They are escaping!'

A confused look passes between them. 'That's what we came to tell you sir. The fort is being sealed-'

'Yes, yes, all good and well but they are getting away.' With an impatient gesture he waves aside their explanation. He only gets more frustrated as his words fail to generate anything more than a greater confusion in his subordinates. Pressing a hand to his face in annoyance Silas clarifies his meaning, speaking slowly and with a deceptively calm deliberation. 'The pair of louts who broke into my chambers and left out of that window not a minute ago. Get after them!'

An accusingly extended finger indicates the direction. Even though the grenadiers don't look like they entirely comprehend what their commander is going on about, his obvious anger gets them moving on the double. They probably can't believe their luck as they jog away as fast as their dignity allows, clattering back down the same set of stairs. Not only did they escape a berating for the captives being loose and causing chaos in the fort, but they ended up being ordered to go completely the opposite way to the fighting. Quite a stroke of luck for them, as it is painfully clear that nothing but death awaits them here.

There is no chance that the soldiers will ever catch up to the fleeing Assassins now, not with the lead they already have. A nice, safe wild goose chase. Connor has to admit that its a relief to know that Duncan and Dobby have managed to vanish so easily. Things are almost back on plan, in a rather messy way. So long as they've extracted the necessary, or even just useful, information the risk will have been worth it. Perhaps not entirely worth braving a group of apparently high-level Templars, but it's certainly experience.

Anger immediately dissipating once his men are out of sight, Silas visibly sags with an apparent weariness. It seems a little out of character from what the teenager has seen of the man, but perhaps he has been forewarned of his inevitable fate. The knowledge that your death is swiftly approaching can do stranger things. Passing a hand across his forehead the commander moves to the edge of the battlements, forcing himself to maintain posture as he surveys his fallen domain. Scattered gunfire can still be heard, along with the regular clash of metal, yet the sounds are rapidly quieting. Southgate is lost to him. Ready to leave the man alone with his regrets, Connor pulls back into the full cover of the wall and turns to leave.

'An hour of quiet.' Silas' voice is low, defeated but frustrated, as he addresses the air. 'Was that so much to ask?'

'Perhaps it was.' A familiar voice provides the unexpected answer. The Templars have arrived at last it would seem.

'Who are you?' It is easy to pity the man in that moment, in spite of all his obvious transgressions, as the old mixture of confusion, resignation and exasperation colour his words. His tone is that of a man about to die.

'The name's Haytham Kenway. You don't know me, but I believe the two of you are well acquainted.' His civilised manner deceives no-one.

Presumably it is the sour-faced one who speaks next. 'I made a promise to you Silas, one I intend to keep.'

Connor hears the gunshot all too clearly. He presses himself back fully into the shadows, flattening himself against the bricks, and momentarily closes his eyes. Some men undoubtedly deserve to die. Silas, with his cruelty and disregard for the value of others' lives, was one of them. That is not what concerns him. Even in death an enemy should be respected, so the creed teaches. It seems that Templars really do not share that belief. But why should he be surprised? This is what he needs to remember. If Haytham had known that he was an Assassin he would surely have killed him at the first opportunity, helpless or not.

Time to leave, he tells himself pushing aside the feeling that thought provokes. Silas is dead, Duncan and Dobby have gotten themselves clear of the area, the captives are free, and the Templars do not have any reason to suspect that Assassins were ever here. There is no reason to doubt that the other Iroquois are now safe. For whatever reason Haytham and his men seem to have some stake in freeing them, some benefit that they hope to gain from the exercise. What that may be is a matter for later, for the Brotherhood will undoubtedly need to know. At this moment however, self-preservation can take precedence.

Casting a wary glance down the stairs, just in case any redcoats happen to still be lurking around, Connor steps away from the wall and promptly collides with somebody. It throws him somewhat off balance as he instinctively jerks back. A moment later he finds himself with his back up against the wall again and with a firm but gentle grip on one shoulder. His immediate impulse is to struggle but he already knows who it is. That doesn't mean he feels entirely comfortable though, especially not with the resultant proximity of the Templar. Wishing he could take a step back he reluctantly looks up to meet Haytham's eyes.

With a sly quick of the lips he speaks; 'I was hoping that I might run into you again, although perhaps not quite so literally.'

It takes a moment to straighten out in his head, the adjustment back from imminent enemy and threat to rescuer and... He knows that it's best to cut that train of thought short, he needs to keep his guard up. Still, as Connor gladly notes the man's lack of injury, it's clear that it'll be easier said than done. Caught between self-consciousness and uncertainty he ends up just gesturing weakly and offering a somewhat broken apology in response. 'Sorry, for that.'

'No harm done.' Haytham dismisses it, pleased enough with the result of the collision. 'Although this is not what I would consider laying low.'

Relaxing just a little, Connor pulls his wits together. 'What better place to hide than where they least expect to find you? Besides, I wanted to make sure that he did not get away.'

'You doubted me?' It's hard to tell if the tone of insult is entirely feigned or genuine.

'Forgive me if I do not make a habit of trusting people I have only just met.' He is a little more hostile than he means to be. Almost all he can do is doubt the Templar, trusting him is really not an option.

'Wise, if a little harsh.' Understanding words, but they do not prevent the short silence that follows. After several moments, he continues; 'Silas is dealt with.'

'So I heard.' Connor maintains eye contact, there is something of a challenge in his manner.

It's a challenge that is met as Haytham leans in closer. Only a small gap is left between them, faces less than an inch apart, eyes locked on each other. His voice is little more than a murmur. 'I am not your enemy.'

He doesn't know how wrong he is.

'Sir, Southgate is fully under our control.' The interruption of the one by the name of Charles breaks the moment. Much to his distress Connor finds that he isn't sure whether he should be grateful or not.

Instantly Haytham reverts to business, stepping back and withdrawing his hand. If there is any hesitation it is gone in a second, he does not linger as he turns his attention fully to the other Templar. 'Good, although not for very long I suspect. Word of this will be quick to reach-'

Connor doesn't stick around to find out who word of the fort's fall will be quick to reach. It is too perfect a distraction to pass up. He manages to slip away silently enough, breaking into a sprint as soon as he reaches the ground. Once he catches up to the group of former captives slowly heading for the frontier he knows that he's safe. Pausing, he glances back. Nobody is following. All of the Templars appear to have withdrawn to the rampart in order to regroup. It's hard to believe that after all that effort, all that death, they are simply letting the liberated captives walk free. There is something more that they want here, there has to be. Simple justice or even revenge do not explain this.

Looking back at the battlements he spies the watcher again, leaning on the ledge beside one of the cannons. Rather than chasing he seems content to step back and wait. Confidence. Their eyes meet, Haytham smiles and Connor understands. This will not be the last they see of each other, he will be making sure of that. Allowing himself a small smile in return, the Assassin turns away, hoping despite himself that next time they will not be meeting as enemies.

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [3.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-01-26 02:59 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [3.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-05 01:18 (UTC) - Expand

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [3.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-01-29 07:06 (UTC) - Expand

Warning: The following chapter contains an abundance of Assassins talking. (And goodness if it isn't hard to try and capture Achilles's voice)

When he reaches the manor the sun is only just starting to break over the horizon. For him it has been a night of broken sleep, fraught with dreams of dark eyes and the slow agony of cold steel piercing his chest. In the end it was easier to forego any further attempts at rest, to simply press on. After some hours of moving mostly through trees he had reached the familiar mountain pass and had looked down on the silent valley as the stars began to vanish with the gradual lightening of the sky. Thinly shrouded in mist, the homestead was still as welcome a sight as ever. He realises then just how much he had missed it. Strange, how in the years it has become more of a home to him than his own village. Knocking on the door, just loud enough to announce his presence yet quiet enough to keep from disturbing anyone sleeping within, he hopes that he doesn't look in too much of a state.

He is considering giving up and trying one of the other buildings when it opens. Abigail stands in the doorway, a wooden spoon in hand, an expression of motherly concern on her face. Refraining from asking any questions, yet, she gently ushers the teenager insider and shoos him in the direction of her kitchen. That is the one room in the manor where her word carries more weight than her husband's, where matters of the Brotherhood must give way to what she deems the more important considerations of a hot bath or a good meal. There is no argument that she provides a perfect compliment to Achilles, especially his stricter side. Her offers of warm blankets and fresh breakfasts have made many an early morning easier. It is hard to imagine the homestead without the maternal yet wilful woman, sometimes she reminds Connor of his own mother.

However before she can smuggle him into the safety of her domain the wall beneath the stairs swings abruptly inward, allowing a head to poke out into the corridor with a cheerful exclamation. 'Aha, we thought we heard the door.'

Tom, the man who said head belongs to, is fairly infamous for his extremely talkative nature and a certain sense of gleefulness that he tends to exude at even the most serious of moments. Though he is a good few years older than any of the novices the Englishman is still the homestead's most reprimanded resident, by a fairly large margin. Nevertheless, he is an able Assassin and an excessively impressive marksman when the occasion arises.

Not that Abigail seems at all impressed by his appearance, spoon waving threateningly. 'No, the boy needs his rest, he looks like he's been walking all night. You will all just have to wait.'

'Sorry, ma'am, but it's really quite urgent that we hear what he has to say.' Apologetic in tone, he warily eyes up the potential projectile weapon being wielded against him.

'Then you can come up here where it's warm and comfortable, rather than skulking around in that basement of yours.' Her hands go to her hips as she stares her adversary down. 'It's not as if I'm a stranger to these matters.'

At present all Connor really wants is to be allowed to just sit down. His legs are actually rather sore and it's not like it's a comfortable place to be either, being argued over by his elders like he's a small child again. Somewhere nearby a floorboard creaks. Casting his eyes around he spots Clipper and Jaime carefully craning around the doorway of the study, trying their best to be silent and inconspicuous. The pair are too young to be included in real Brotherhood business, neither is old enough to have earned their robes yet, so naturally they feel the need to resort to eavesdropping at any opportunity. It was the same when he was younger. Hence why Achilles always makes sure to conduct the more important meetings, those dealing with matters of secrecy, down in the basement.

'-beyond the reach of little prying ears.' Tom finishes a sentence, echoing that very sentiment, even as he shoots a quick grin in the direction of the young novices. The seriousness of his voice when he looks back and goes on is not to be argued with however. 'My apologies Abigail, but this is a very serious issue.'

Begrudgingly she relinquishes the argument and withdraws to the kitchen, none too happy to be thus beaten but accepting that such is the way of things. Abigail knows as well as any of them that sometimes even simple basics have to be put aside in the name of the Brotherhood. Besides, there are always worse things to sacrifice than breakfast, far worse things.

Ignoring an unpleasant twisting sensation his stomach that isn't hunger, Connor follows the older Assassin through the dark opening and down the narrow staircase. With dismay he belatedly realises that his hands are fidgeting, a clear nervous tell of his. This is not the first time he's visited the basement, nor is it even the first time he's been worried about what awaits him down there. He shouldn't be anxious like this, but telling himself that doesn't seem to have any effect. Perhaps it's just the lack of a decent night's sleep.

Lamps have been lit around the basement, which create something of an eerie atmosphere when coupled with the stone walls. One solitary window, relegated to the openly adjoining armoury, will provide some natural light to the chamber once the sun is high enough in the sky and soften the look. But that point in the day is still fairly far off. A number of mismatched chairs are spread in a wide circle across the floor, mostly occupied. In the far corner, sticking close together, are Duncan and Dobby. They seem entirely unharmed, which is good, but both of them pull rather peculiar expressions when they see him, which is less so. On their right is a female Assassin, Yvette, a French master who has been living and working on the homestead for nearly a decade. Her arms are crossed, her intent look unsettling. The empty chair beside her obviously belongs to Tom, the marksman being her personal apprentice-come-assistant despite his years. Tallmadge, the New York Assassin who had found Dobby all those years ago, occupies the next seat. Then comes Achilles, the mentor himself, sitting between two empty spaces with his back to the stairs. Oddly enough the circle is completed by Robert Faulkner.

'So, Connor, it seems that you have had your first encounter with the Templars.' Indicating for the novice to take the seat to his left, Achilles speaks softly and watches him closely. Presumably taking in what injuries he has sustained on the one hand, and evaluating his demeanour on the other.

'Not converted yet I take it?' Tom flops into his own chair with a smirk, one that is promptly wiped from his face by the resultant withering glares are directed at him by everyone else.

Brotherhood meetings rarely run smoothly, as interruptions, diversions and sidelines have a habit of cropping up frequently amongst even their smaller gatherings. A fair share of disagreements occur too. Thus used to having to regain the attention of a room, the mentor clears his throat loudly. The desired effect is created as all eyes turns back to him. Satisfied, Achilles mercifully leaves Connor be for the time being, turning instead to address the whole gathering more generally.

'For some time now we have been unusually fortunate here in the colonies. The absence of a significant Templar presence has afforded us years of prosperity and the chance to build up a strong Brotherhood. However the moment is approaching when that strength must be put to the test.'

Straightening subconsciously in his chair, he heaves a heavy sigh. 'This news from Southgate is not the first I had heard of the Order's return to our shores. Several days ago I received word from London, warning of an impending threat. In April one of their most ruthless and dangerous agents secured passage on a ship known as the Providence. An Assassin, posing as a member of the crew, laid a trail in their wake so that a vessel of our own might intercept them. However, since their departure not a word has been heard from either him or the pursing ship.'

He pauses deliberately, allowing them all to understand the same unspoken conclusion. Failure and the presumable loss of a good few lives. Looking around the circle the mentor continues. 'Given what we already know of yesterday's events it is safe to say that a new grandmaster has arrived to lead the colonial Templar forces. He has, in fact, been in Boston for some weeks and has not been idle, while we were none the wiser. Such a lapse in attention will not occur again. It is imperative that we learn all that we can about this threat, as soon as we can. We must know what it is that they want here-'

'Fairly obvious, wouldn't you say?' Half-raising one hand, with a deep frown creasing his face, Tallmadge interjects. 'The Templars want the same thing here that they always want, to impose their so-called order and control on others. It never changes.'

'Their actions at the fort imply differently.' Yvette makes a small gesture as if to push his words to one side. Her accent is light, as the result of many years spent away from her native land and a concerted effort to sound more politically neutral.

Tom nods sagely. 'Never heard of a Templar doing anything that didn't benefit them or their cause in some way before. Just need to figure out what they get out of freeing a bunch of slaves.'

'Indeed.' Achilles agrees, if he is annoyed at the interruption he doesn't show it. He fixes each of the novices with a somewhat apologetic look in turn as he explains further. 'Templar involvement at Southgate was not something any of us had anticipated, if we had the three of you would never have been put into such a situation. As it was, you all adjusted excellently, if a little riskily. Silas and his papers have yielded us some useful information, which is especially so given recent turns in events. In particular, our suspicions regarding General Braddock have been proven well-founded-'

'There's a surprise.' Rolling his eyes, Tom earns himself a discrete kick from the Frenchwoman.

'It is now clear that he has broken with the Order, a quite remarkable stroke of luck, had he been in their support we would have been in very considerable danger. However, while not on the side of the enemy any longer, his animosity towards the Brotherhood is unlikely to have changed. Time will have to tell if he can be of any use to us.' Letting that particular subject rest, the mentor rounds back at last on the young native. 'Now, Connor, I believe this would be the moment to give us your report. Shed what light you can on matters.'

Trying but failing to keep his hands still, the teenager feels the uncomfortable pressure of everyone watching him as he begins. Going right back to the beginning of the assignment, skipping over the more unpleasant bits regarding his first few days in captivity, he quickly sums up what he learnt of Silas and the man's operation. That is all essentially superficial now but he feels the need to include it anyway, if not just to delay the inevitable. It's clear that they are all waiting for him to talk about the Templars, nobody interrupts or tries to speed him up however. For that he is grateful. When he finally comes to the ambush of the cart he happily details their various strategies, what he could gather of their fighting styles, their appearances and given names. In terms of events he is perfectly honest, about his own interactions he is much more circumspect. Facts are what are wanted here, nothing else. While he makes sure to mention the concern placed on the safety of the captives he omits the entire incident on the stairs, and gives nothing more than a vague idea of what had passed between him and Haytham.

Silence ensues as the rest of the room slowly absorbs the information, most of them pulling expressions of deep contemplation. This goes on for some minutes, making him start to feel more than a little self-conscious, until Dobby lets out an annoyed huff. 'Silas wasn't even the real reason they were there? Typical.'

'What peculiar good fortune.' Tallmadge abruptly comments, to the confusion of them all. It takes rather longer than it should for him to realise that his remark requires a little more explanation, which he provides with a somewhat miffed look of his own, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. 'The Templars are particularly interested in the natives, we happen to have a native of our own.'

'You are suggesting that we throw the boy to the wolves.' Expression unreadable, Achilles speaks calmly. Inevitably stronger objections follow.

'No.' Unimpressed, Duncan says the word like his simple negation is all that is required to shoot the suggestion down in flames.

Dobby meanwhile leaps out of her chair in disbelief. 'You've got to be joking.'

'That's madness!' The loudest objection by far comes from Faulkner, who has long since developed a particular fondness for him as the only one of the other Assassins with any particular affinity for the sea or captaining a ship.

Connor honestly appreciates the show of indignation on his behalf, but even as the room descends into another, more heated, argument the idea has already begun to take root in his mind. A plan of sorts starts to take shape against his will. If the Templars want to establish trust with the Iroquois and make connections, for whatever reason, then he is the obvious person for them to follow up. It is simple and it seems so easy when he thinks about it. Common sense tells him that he's goading fate, that this is a terrible idea and is likely to only get him killed. The memories of his dreams haunt him, later he will think to blame this whole thing on a lack of sleep. But, for better or worse, his choice was really already made when he left the fort. Wolves or not, he is going to do it.

So, so, SO delicious.

Love the Assassins talking and arguing. For some reason, anon finds them very...cute. :)

From that last paragraph, it looks like there are yummy times ahead for Connor. Can't wait to read them!

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [4/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-02-12 14:22 (UTC) - Expand

Aw, you guys, thank you for the lovely comments. It makes my day to hear such feedback and to know that people are really enjoying this. ^^

At present, wolves are something of a problem in the woods around Lexington. Winter is already drawing in, snow thick on the ground and hunger rampant among the predators of the wild. Not exactly the best conditions for camping without shelter. Connor has spent some days now in the shadow of the town, sleeping on hunter's platforms in the trees, simply watching and waiting. This is all he is allowed to do, he is to leave signs, a trail, behind him until the Templars take the bait. Which Yvette had assured him was inevitable the night before he left. He is starting to doubt it however. Years of living within the manor's brick walls have somewhat lowered his natural tolerance for the cold, to his dismay. Only the day before he had made an, admittedly brief, appearance at the nearest inn, as much for the sake of warming himself as creating an obvious trace to be followed up.

Lounging leisurely in the boughs of a particularly accommodating and well-situated tree he rubs his hands together. Even without the warning sounds of a nearby wolf pack the Assassin would not have felt the need to light a campfire. Flames bring him no comfort, quite the opposite. Still, he has to admit that he doesn't want to spend many more nights outside in this weather. A few more days and he will have to acknowledge that the plan hasn't worked. That idea disappoints him far more than it should.

It had taken quite a considerable amount of argument, debate and reconnaissance for this assignment to finally be condoned. Had Connor not had such a strong desire to do it then it would almost certainly have been dropped and an alternative course of action determined upon. Thankfully nobody had thought to wonder why he had such a keen interest in the idea. He knows that most of the others on the homestead still think this is a terrible mistake. Achilles himself had never given any particular clue as to his own opinion of the matter but his hesitation had nevertheless been clear. Quite a round of warnings and cautions had followed the teenager out of the door the day he departed. A part of him knows that this is dangerous, stupid even, yet still he remains, perched in a tree awaiting the arrival of a sworn enemy.

The dreams haven't stopped. If anything they have only become worse, more vivid, as time goes by. He can see it becoming something of a problem.

Approaching voices abruptly catch his attention, carrying on the wind along with the crunch of snow shifting. Even straining his ears he can't quite make out any words yet, but he can hear the distinct tones of two men. On horseback by the sounds of it. Connor tenses, quashing down a flare of hope that threatens to bloom. Being tracked and found is still counter-intuitive so he moves quickly and quietly up to a higher branch. Best to remain in cover until he is sure. As he waits he notices that the wolves have gone quiet, probably having moved on in their quest for sustenance.

'Braddock is insisting I return to service under him. I've tried to beg off to no avail.' It's a voice he is confident that he recognises, belonging to the one known as Charles. Not someone he is overly keen to interact with, along with all but one of the other Templars.

There can be no mistaking the identity of the one who responds however. He releases a breath he hadn't realised that he'd been holding; Haytham. 'No doubt he's still angry about losing Pitcairn, to say nothing of the shaming we gave him. Do as he asks, in the meantime I'll work on having you released.'

By murdering someone or other most likely, the novice tells himself. It probably isn't a good thing that he keeps needing to remind himself of something so fundamental, that whatever he may say or do, Haytham Kenway is and always will be the enemy. Nothing can change that. Assassins have died at his hands. Of course, such thinking really only serves to make him hesitate over the sense of what he is going to try and do.

'I'm sorry for the trouble.' Charles does sound very apologetic, almost as if he is worried about losing the approval of the grandmaster. Interesting.

'Not your fault.'

Moments later the pair ride into view, slowing to a halt at the edge of the clearing. Their attentions are focused on ground level, neither of them sparing more than a fleeting glance upwards towards the branches. Fortunate, for Connor is quite happy to simply observe them for the time being as he seems to be in no danger of being spotted. Yet. Haytham is the one to dismount, throwing his reins to the other man, in order to better examine what trail has been left for him. There isn't much: a patch of cleared earth, some footprints, a small pile of sticks that could be used for a fire, and tracks leading off through the snow in a misleading direction. Some habits are hard to break, the teenager doesn't entirely like the idea of being willingly hunted down.

From his present angle he cannot make out the Templar's face as he crouches, investigating. He can make no guess at what is passing through Haytham's mind, other than hoping for the best. The examination of the meagre clues does certainly seem to be fully occupying his attention.When the man addresses his companion again he dismisses him without looking up. 'You should return to Braddock, Charles, before he grows suspicious. I can handle things from here.'

His hesitation and dismay is clear, an impulse to be of use seeming to compete with the need to do as told. 'But sir-'

'But nothing, go.' Haytham's tone hardens, having no taste for the contradiction of his orders.

Biting back another protest, the subordinate hovers still for several long seconds before he thinks better of it. Without daring to disturb again he turns his horse, to start ploughing back through the snowbanks to return to the road. Connor isn't sure whether he intends to lead the other steed off with him, but he does. It doesn't take long for the sounds of the animals to fade, the wind picking up as he tries to keep his breathing quiet. Now would be the obvious time to reveal his presence, to approach the Templar, but he is wary. He doubts that it is a good idea to appear as if he had been spying and listening in on their words, even if that was in actual fact what he had been doing. Best not to appear too suspicious. More than that though, he finds himself becoming nervous. For the first time the pair of them are truly alone together, which is as worrying a thought as it is a strangely exhilarating one.

Trying not to think too much at all, the Assassin watches as his supposed camp undergoes a rather thorough examination. It is almost endearing to see the older man doing his best to decipher everything he can from the meagre traces. Clearly not much of a tracker. However when Haytham glances up, he scans the clearing with an unsettlingly intent look to his eyes. His head ducks back down again, still having paid little attention to the treetops. An oversight he will probably never be able to rely on again after today.

Judging that enough time has passed to justify his appearance, Connor shifts in his perch as quietly as he can and readies himself to make an unobtrusive entrance. That is when, out of the corner of his eye, he catches movement. Silent, bodies pressed low, a trio of wolves are approaching the crouched figure. They spy an easy meal. Already the alpha is almost at striking distance, the muscles in its legs visibly tensing in preparation for attack. Another second and it will strike.

The first Haytham appears to know of his stalkers is a loud, startled yelp. Hidden blade springing out, he spins only to be faced with the sight of two tails disappearing back into the woods and the body of a third wolf crumpled on the ground not a meter from him, an arrow impaled neatly through its neck. As his eyes visibly trace the line of the trajectory back to Connor's tree his body noticeably relaxes a little, weapon retracting. He doesn't perceive a threat, good. Shouldering his bow, the young Assassin swings himself down and slowly approaches the man.

'You should pay closer attention to your surroundings.' Hopefully Connor sounds more confident than he feels at that moment, as he turns his attention quickly towards the downed wolf. While he does wish to check that it is truly dead and that the kill was relatively clean, it does also give him a good excuse to avoid looking at the Templar properly just yet.

'So it would appear.' His tone is dry, yet it almost sounds as if the near miss has shaken him slightly, almost.

Running a hand along the creature's belly Connor feels protruding ribs. It is no wonder that the towns in this region of the frontier are being encroached upon, the harsh conditions are already depleting the stored fat of the animals. Nevertheless, this was still a healthy beast and he silently utters a small prayer for the wolf. A shame to fell it without making use of its remains but he has neither the time nor the need to do so at present. If the alpha is in such a state then its pack-mates will be worse, more famished and even more desperate. They will return, soon, for the readily available flesh of their kin if not for the temptation of the two currently exposed humans. No doubt they will also bring more.

Such is what he intends to communicate when he straightens, but that plan is somewhat derailed when he turns to find that his personal space has all but disappeared. His first, natural reflex is to take a step back, or ten. The dead wolf on the ground behind him rather impedes his ability to do so however. Not risking the challenge of looking the man in the face yet, he crosses his arms, turns his face away and takes the bluntest tack he can think of. Unfortunately the words come out more flustered than he likes. 'Why are you here?'

'It isn't obvious?' Haytham speaks, low but gentle, and that is exactly why this whole thing is a very bad idea.

Best not to play along, Connor decides, his posture not shifting in the slightest. 'Seems a lot of effort for little reward.'

'That remains to be seen.' Whether that is a threat or a promise he cannot be sure. There is a contemplative silence before the man prompts; 'A name would be a good start.'

'Ratonhnhaké:ton.' That at least he will freely give. Upon a moment's consideration he quickly raises a hand to cut off any inevitably poor attempts at pronunciation. As amusing as that could have been. 'But, outside of my village I go by Connor. It is easier.'

'Indeed it is.' His minor relief is audible and without thinking the teenager glances up to meet his eyes. Lips upturning at the small triumph, the Templar makes his own, unnecessary, introduction. 'I am Haytham.'

He really is in trouble. Just remember why you're here, he tells himself, why you're really here. It is a stroke of both great fortune and terrible luck that a chorus of howls promptly erupts from the surrounding woods. Mind quickly refocusing on the greater present danger, Connor breaks the dangerous gaze and casts his eyes around the edge of the clearing instead. Nothing visible, yet. Thankfully Haytham also takes the cue to move back somewhat, his hidden blade out as he intently surveys the tree-line himself. The wind is picking up again however, raising swirls of snow from the ground, whilst the sky is already beginning to turn dark. Bad conditions in which to be facing an onslaught by a hungry wolf pack of unknown numbers. Cautiously he reaches for his bow, not yet stringing an arrow but keeping one hand hovering over his quiver at the ready. He can't be certain what direction they are coming from, although he has a worrying feeling that the pair of them are being surrounded. Hunger is clearly motivating the beasts, making them desperate and reckless. Connor has no desire to fight them.

Both of them instinctively draw closer together, virtually back to back, as the young Assassin weighs up the options. It is a very bad situation, that much is obvious, but it is not an irredeemable one. Thinking fast, ever tense and watchful for the least sign of the imminent attack, he shoots a question over his shoulder. 'Have you climbed a tree before?'

'Can't say I've ever had much reason to do so.' His reply betrays little in the way of worry, his tone kept carefully clipped but tense nevertheless.

'Now is probably a bad time for your first lesson then.' A streak of grey in the shadows has Connor turning, fluidly notching an arrow yet finding nothing but snow in his sights. Subconsciously he takes another step closer to the other man. They are fast running out of time. 'We need to make for higher ground.'

'I'm afraid I rather doubt our chances of getting very far.'

Wolves are fast, true, faster than a man over distance. Should they trigger a chase then the pack will undeniably overtake them with ease. To run is to become exposed and vulnerable. He senses that the trap is rapidly closing however, as the barks and howls get louder. Virtually every advantage seems to lie with the starving beasts, the loss of their alpha has hardly impaired their hunt. An idea flares in his mind then. Of course, the carcass. A distraction.

Edging away from the relative safety of the Templar, he moves to the body as fast as he dares. The scent of fresh blood should be irresistible to the famished creatures. Keeping his ears alert, he crouches down quickly to slit the dead wolf's belly wide open. Red runs freely from the gaping gash, staining the snow beneath. He hopes that it will be enough, that the smell will carry enough to fog the senses of the pack and make them forget their still living prey. A telling pause in the cries from the beyond the trees seems to confirm his theory. If the pair of them are to escape unscathed then they need to move now.

Fortunately, a little disconcertingly, he finds that Haytham is half-watching him even as he monitors the clearing's edge. Already moving cautiously and quietly away from the growing pool of blood he beckons. While the man's eyes may narrow he still follows, much to the native's relief. Connor's plan is to head for a rocky outcrop that overlooks Lexington, or more specifically its inn. That should afford some greater safety. They have achieved a fair distance when the telltale noise of a feeding frenzy rises behind them, and while neither relaxes fully just yet, he shoots a sly smile at his companion.

'You doubted me?'

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [5/?]

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'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.

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [6.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [6.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-03-08 20:15 (UTC) - Expand

Apologies for how long this installment took, but at the same time thank you so much for the wonderful comments. On the plus side though, this one did end up being quite long (although whether that's a good thing is debatable).

Never compromise the Brotherhood. Connor remembers with clarity the first time he heard those words. He had only been at the manor for a couple of days when Achilles had sat him down for what all the novices fondly referred to as The Talk. Several hours later the mentor had finished his highly condensed history of their cause with a strong reiteration of the creed's three tenets. It had been a lot to absorb at the time but he had been fresh, keen and burning with a curiosity to know more. However he could never forget the emphasis that had been placed on that last one; yes, you should never harm an innocent, that was a given, and yes, you should be a blade in the crowd, but the last came above all. Compromising the Brotherhood is the gravest of transgressions. Time and again after that day it had been drilled into him, into them all. The repetition seems to have been rather in vain though.

Somewhere, in a part of his mind that isn't entirely preoccupied with the invasion of his mouth, he knows that he's doing a very dangerous thing. In failing to pull away he has already failed the creed. It should worry him how little he actually cares about that prospect, but there are more important things to focus on, such as the hand slipping round his waist and pulling him closer. To be fair, if he's honest with himself he was already compromised before this mission was even conceived. Haytham has been figuring all too prominently in his thoughts and dreams ever since the liberation of Southgate, there can be no doubt that he's fast developing feelings for the Templar that he shouldn't. Maybe once he can think properly again he'll do something about the serious problem. Or maybe he won't.

Needing to breathe is what ultimately separates them, even though they remain mostly tangled together. Neither of them seem particularly inclined to let go of each other just yet. Connor tells himself that its the coldness of the bitter wind that makes him duck his head to rest against the man's chest, burrowing slightly closer. A sense of safety and protection floods through him as the arms wrap a little tighter around him in response, of a strength he hasn't felt in a very long time. Even so he knows that he's in real trouble now. This wasn't supposed to happen, not by a long shot. But he can still turn this to his advantage, he can still pretend that this is all just part of the plan.

A loud crash from inside the tavern causes him to lift his head, body immediately tensing. He almost misses the way Haytham's grip on him reflexively tightens at the suggestion of danger. Both of them fix their attention on the door, each glaring without the other noticing. Apparently whoever is on the other side of it senses the sheer weight of displeasure being directed their way as it remains distinctly shut. Nevertheless the distraction has served as enough of a reminder. Not safe.

'We should move on.' Sufficiently called back to his senses, the young Assassin firmly pushes the man away and takes a decisive step backwards. It takes a great deal of restraint for him not to take a fair few more. Running feels like his best option right now, as it is becoming quite clear that he cannot seem to safety spend any time alone in close quarters with the Templar. He already has useful inside information, the others wouldn't blame him for retreating.

Respecting the move, Haytham tucks his hands calmly behind his back and agrees. 'An excellent idea.'

Together they move off down the road, keeping pace, to head deeper into the sparse collection of buildings that make up the frontier town. It makes sense as a course of action, there could easily be another inn within its limits and for his companion's sake Connor hopes there is. Even he would be reluctant to return to the woods were he bound to stay on the ground, as starving predators made bolder by cover of night are no doubt lurking near the edges of the settlement in search of easy prey. Anyway he sincerely doubts that the grandmaster would want to attempt sleeping in the treetops, not to mention the problems he'd have just getting him up there unless there was a ladder close to hand. But, having taken his leave so abruptly last time, the teenager remains somewhat uncertain as to what exactly happens next.

A not-uncomfortable but still expectant silence hangs between the pair as they walk. Keeping his eyes down, making sure that he doesn't look anywhere near Haytham's face, the novice tries not to think too much. Obviously they are going to have to talk about what happened between them there at some point, for as much as he tries to pretend otherwise he doesn't want to act as if nothing has changed. And although the other man is giving him space, he gets the feeling that his companion doesn't either. Not that he's actually giving him much space. It's as if the Templar expects him to bolt or try slipping away again at any moment. Only a small step away he is clearly ready to put quick a stop to any such attempts at escape, Connor's not sure whether he should be flattered or worried.

Ultimately they don't have to go all that far before finding themselves in the shadow of another inn, much to the younger's relief, one that looks a little more promising in terms of peace. A warm glow falls through the windows onto the snow and he has to admit that it does look rather inviting in comparison to the alternatives. The timely arrival does throw up a problem however, given that the pair have yet to speak or make any sort of tactical decision. Although this doesn't seem to occur to Haytham who is quick to head for the promise of shelter as if there is nothing to be discussed first. Uncertain and caught between warring impulses, however, Connor hesitates.

His companion senses the pause, halting after only an extra couple of steps and raising an eyebrow. 'Necessity is at least half a day's travel from here. There is no more that can be done about it tonight at any rate.'

Already at work mentally weighing up his best options, the novice simply nods by way of acknowledgement. He's fairly confident that Lexington's outskirts should offer a barn of some sort, or maybe even a stable, with a decent stock of clean hay to bed down in for the night. A bit of a risk, true, but one he's happy to take under the circumstances. It'll be much warmer, and generally safer, than returning to the trees or trying to find anything further out in the wilderness. If he gets moving soon he can probably find such shelter and be properly settled before the snow starts to really fall again. Daybreak will wake him naturally enough, so he can be back here in plenty of time to make sure his 'ally' hasn't had a change of heart and decided to disappear on him.

Keen to get out of the rapidly declining weather as soon as possible, Connor tries to decide which direction would yield the fastest results. His foot has barely moved to take the first step before a hand latches onto him, accompanied by the unamused inquiry: 'Going somewhere?'

'Apparently not.' Forced to meet the pair of interrogative eyes the Assassin finds himself abruptly at a loss as heat rises to his face. Ashamed of himself as he already is, he still knows that given the opportunity he could quite easily find himself kissing the man again. He can practically hear Achilles telling him what a fool he is. Self-consciously he weakly tries to pull away, more as a gesture of discomfort and defiance than actual escape attempt.

Haytham practically growls in response. 'I didn't go through all that just to let you go walking off into a blizzard.'

'I am not your responsibility.' Crossing his arms, as much as possible given the way that the man just won't let go of him, Connor bristles and stands his ground. Of course, he'd rather not go walking off into the blizzard thank you, but this is a matter of principle. Not to mention sanity.

'No, but that doesn't mean I will leave you out here to freeze to death.' Tone exasperated, his manner indicates that he would much rather be having this conversation in the warm. Or that he would rather not be having it at all.

'My people are perfectly used to coping with these sorts of conditions.' Internally warring with himself over whether to close off and pushing his companion away, he ends up adopting an increasingly defensive stance. It's not what he wants and it's no good for the mission but he's still very much tying himself up in knots. Really the teenager thinks he manages to pull off a very convincing retort, which is almost immediately undermined by no fault of his own as an unfortunately-timed shiver courses through his body.

Taking that for an invitation, Haytham promptly step right into his personal space. 'That may be, but you're already half-frozen. Don't make me drag you inside.'

It is clearly meant as a serious threat, from the look being directed at him Connor knows that it will be carried out with no hesitation. And he could really rather do without that sort of embarrassment. Still a little reluctant, he nevertheless gives in. Spending the night within the walls of an inn is an undeniably alluring prospect, almost better even than that solitary sleep in a barn. Of course, it is hardly the best of ideas under present circumstances. He's really not sure he trusts himself to be sharing quarters with the grandmaster. As much as he would like to get the chill out of his bones, he doubts that he'll end up getting much sleep this way. No is obviously not being taken for an answer however.

Although, he reasons as Haytham insistently shepherds him inside, the more time he spends in the Templar's company the more likely he is to discover other information of use to the Brotherhood. Besides, the whole point of this exercise is to gain the man's trust and confidence. Obviously to do that he has to take some risks, do some questionable things. They can't blame him, really. As the door swings shut his companion seems reluctant to withdraw too far, although he does at least let go now. He probably still thinks that the teenager is going to bolt at the first chance. However as Haytham moves off in search of the premises' proprietor he leaves him where he has stopped, with a few backward glances. The frozen novice barely notices, his attention already captured completely elsewhere.

Compared to the main room of the tavern it is fairly subdued, with no conversations rising above the general murmur and absolutely no loud, drunken soldiers. Focal point of the space is a large, roaring fireplace around which a fair number of patrons have pulled up their seats to better appreciate the ample heat it is giving off. It is one of those individuals clustered near the flames that arrests Connor's attention. For draped across a chair, with boots propped up casually on an adjacent stool, holding a newspaper up at a somewhat odd angle, sits a rather nonchalant-looking Dobby. He knows without a doubt that she's aware of him even before she lowers the paper to shoot him a small, surreptitious yet jaunty little wave. Making only a vague gesture of recognition and greeting in return, he has to admit that he's more than a little thrown. She can only be there for one reason; the Brotherhood is keeping an eye on him.

Really that ought to reassure him, it really doesn't. Achilles can't already doubt him, can he? Mentally shaking himself, the young Assassin does his best to squash the suspicion and the sudden rush of guilt it provokes. Maybe he has compromised the Brotherhood, just a little, but he hasn't done anything that serious. All he really did was kiss the man, it's not like he announced his affiliation or handed over directions to the homestead after all. No need to feel this way. Besides, the others are probably doing it in order to make sure he's safe, and alive. Watching out for him instead of just watching him. Yes, the thing to be feared here is the Templar grandmaster. Unless, that is, someone else saw what happened earlier, but then Dobby wouldn't have waved cheerfully at him like that. Would she?

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [7.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [7.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-03-21 07:50 (UTC) - Expand

You guys really are awesome ^^

'More snow. Wonderful.' Surveying the already snow-laden landscape Haytham seems decidedly displeased with the onset of this fresh storm. It had held off for almost the entire journey from Lexington, only once they had come within striking distance of Fort Necessity had the clouds finally burst. Already their footprints are beginning to fade as a fresh layer of snow whites out the world, obscuring anything more than a few feet away.

Huddled over slightly to better protect himself against the wind and its whipping flurries of ice, the cut on his cheek stinging, Connor perches on a nearby stump frowning into the gloom. Having been confined to travelling on the ground he is a little sodden, from all the snow he has had to trek through, hence his taking this opportunity to escape the ice for a moment. Sight of the fort continues to elude him, although he knows that it is not that much further up the hill. Were conditions not so unfavourable they probably would have run into a boundary patrol by now. Weather like this really does tend to favour the attacker, or the infiltrator.

He rolls his eyes almost fondly as he turns his fullest attention back to the other man. 'It is winter, you expected something different?'

'Something a little less severe perhaps.' It is as clear as ever that the Templar is used to milder seasons, even though he does remarkably well at hiding any discomfort the cold causes him. Then again, he is dressed far more warmly. Almost as an afterthought, as more of a remark than a question, he asks: 'How do you ever survive in this climate?'

'With practice.' Which he is slightly out of these days, not that he'll admit to it of course. His shrug helps to disguise and avert another small shudder. Today he is faring better against the cold, partly out of a determination to avoid any mentions or suggestions of sharing heat. Even though he had slept unusually well last night that could easily have been due to the fact that he was back in a bed rather than having anything to do with the warmth and comfort of being curled up next to Haytham.

Refusing to let himself go down that road of thought again, he focuses on the more important matter at hand. What will happen if they find Braddock here he does not know. Well, obviously the Templar is going to kill the man. He is fairly certain of that at least, given just how determined his companion is to find out more about the key he carries and what it might open. But what next? It's hardly as if he can really ever show him the cave, that would go against everything the Brotherhood has taught him. He has no idea what he is supposed to do, other than to kill the grandmaster. But that doesn't even bear thinking about right now.

Oh he is in trouble. Gritting his teeth, Connor pushes all those thoughts to one side to focus on the present. One obvious advantage of the weather seems to have passed the other man by so he decides to point it out, gesturing in the general direction of their target. 'The storm can be used to mask our approach.'

'Our approach?' Eyebrow raised in inquiry, Haytham's tone is far from encouraging as he turns to regard the teenager.

Slightly stung by the implication that he has already been discounted from any plans to infiltrate the fort, in spite of everything, the Assassin's hackles are quick to rise. Expression a mixture of determination and annoyance he relinquishes his perch in order to better square up to his companion, arms folded. 'Yes, our. You barely let me out of your sight yesterday, now I am returning the favour.'

Sensing an oncoming objection he continues with finality. 'How can you expect me to trust you when you barely seem to trust me? Have I not already proved myself to be a useful ally? There is no saying what might happen in there, I will not be left to just sit here and wait. What if your life needs saving again?'

Discussion over, he turns to head off towards the road, picking his way carefully through the shallower patches of snow and still leaving clear footprints for his companion to follow in. If the Templar has any objections then he'll damn well have to keep them to himself, they are doing this together or not at all. Connor's not quite sure when he came to that decision, or when Haytham's opinion started to matter so much to him. Keeping a close watch is exactly what Achilles and the others would want him to do though, of that he is sure, so that's what he's going to do. That's all he's going to do, he tells himself, knowing his resolve now won't do him any good.

Reaching the edge of the greyish-brown track the novice finds himself a decently sized bush to duck down behind. Soldiers have apparently been charged with keeping the road clear, as its snowy covering is conspicuously patchy and there are large untidy piles of white accumulated at intervals along its sides. Various dips, bumps, potholes and grooves mark the wide way, with slush and presumably ice accumulated in many of them. A veritable deathtrap for the foolish or overly speedy. Now just about visible uphill through the storm, the heavy gates and high wooden walls of Necessity loom. It forms a more formidable and ominous prospect than Southgate had all those weeks ago. There are no obvious flaws in its design, no convenient way to slip in around the side. Although, looking up, he thinks there could be a chance of getting over the walls by use of an overhanging or overlooking branch that isn't really an option either. Maybe he'll have to teach Haytham to climb trees.

Having arrived quietly at his side, the grandmaster is conducting his own analysis of the fortress and is apparently having just as little luck finding any obvious way in. 'It's too well designed. We will have to use the cliffs...'

That is not an idea the Assassin likes, already imagining the freezing winds, the stinging salty spray of the sea and the roughness of the rock. His hands wouldn't fare well, at all. Rubbing them together in unpleasant anticipation of the pain, he spies an alternative which allows him to slyly suggest: 'We could go through the front gate.'

Lamp swinging erratically with each step of the straining horses, a lone wagon is slowly struggling up the slight incline, on its way to the fort no doubt. Hunched in on himself as far as possible, its driver has a hood pulled up tightly over his head yet has his hands still exposed to the elements. He could almost be frozen in place, so tight is his hold on the reins. A long ride most likely, not really dressed for the weather, the man must be desperate to reach his destination. And the back of his cart should do just the trick.

Following his look, Haytham gives a slight smile. 'Hijacking another colonial convoy?'

'Speak for yourself.' After all, he was a perfectly legitimate part of that last convoy, technically speaking.

Picking up speed in apparent anticipation of the warmth and shelter that awaits within the confines of Necessity, the cart pushes forward to cover the last stretch of road all the faster. While it did not look overly comfortable before, now its movements seem to promise soreness and bruises for any extra passengers. It shifts from side to side, juddering roughly over the dips and grooves of the icy track, wood creaking and cargo audibly shifting. Even so, Connor has endured worse rides. His main concern is that there is still the space left to accommodate them, for considering the way the wheels sink into the slush it is a well-laden vehicle.

However there is no way to be sure other than to try it. So, as it is better to find out sooner rather than later, the novice gauges the distance and promptly breaks cover. He is certain that there would not be good enough visibility for the guards at the gate to spot him sprinting for the wagon until it was virtually on top of them anyway. The snow storm could hardly have come at a better time. As soon as he is close enough the teenager braces himself and dives through the unfastened flaps of the cart's back. Thumping down hard, his landing is fortunately cushioned by some well-placed sacks, which must also do something to muffle the noise as there is no sign that the driver is any the wiser. A sigh of relief escapes him, before he begins to delicately clamber his way deeper into the wagon's bed, to both take better cover amongst the assortment of boxes, barrels and sacks, and to avoid being the cushion to his companion's landing. It doesn't take long for him to ensconce himself securely in a rather decently sized gap towards the front of the vehicle.

Only as the cart is jolting to a stop does Haytham join him, swinging himself up into the cover and nearly immediately tumbling over. Again the incursion goes unnoticed, the driver now fully occupied in conversation with one of the men at the gate. Keeping his ears open to the muffled words of the outside, Connor reaches a hand out to the Templar to help pull him into better concealment.

'… full inventory.' One of the soldiers demands, in an agitated tone that implies he'd be already doing a proper inspection were it not for the weather. It can only be hoped that they stick to that decision and forego the extra work, or the element of surprise will be quite lost.

'As you wish. Uh... let's see: two barrels of salt, twelve pounds of pork, ten pounds of beef, seven dozen eggs, sixteen wheels of cheese – none of it French, don't worry – five bottles of whiskey, a couple of dozen new uniforms, boots, leather for patching, blankets, feed for the horses. What else?' It's an impressively confident account, although it does fall woefully short in missing out the Templar and Assassin also onboard. Although the voices are muted by the fabric there doesn't seem to be any suspicion. 'That's it, that's all there is.'

All the acknowledgement that seems to be offered is a vague grunt. But then comes the unmistakable sound of the gates being swung open, the cart jerking abruptly back into awkward motion. Choosing that moment to readjust his position, pulling slightly further away from the other man, Connor is promptly thrown off balance as one of the wheels hits a snag and the whole vehicle rocks wildly to one side. Thankfully he doesn't hit the canvas, which would doubtless have alerted the guards to their presence, if he didn't end up falling through it. Instead he finds himself sprawled half on top of the Templar, who was equally knocked over by his fall. As if laying next to him last night hadn't been bad enough.

First impulse being to get up and extricate himself from the mortifying position posthaste, the novice manages to push himself up slightly before being pulled right back down. Haytham shakes his head, with an explanatory gesture towards the outside. Someone might see, or more likely hear. They can't risk moving too much yet. Frowning he reluctantly accepts the situation, even though he is sure the Templar is being overly cautious about it, possibly out of some ulterior motive. Hiding his face, painfully aware of the heat that is already spreading through his cheeks, Connor tries not to relax too much in spite of the arms that have already wound their way around him. At least there cannot be far to go before the cart comes to a final halt.

Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [8.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [8.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-04-08 23:35 (UTC) - Expand

Seriously you guys, I love you. Words cannot convey how awesome it was to read such lovely comments as there were on the last part. Also, I promise you that even if it does take me a little while sometimes, I will not stop updating this fill until it reaches its end (which is currently looking to be some way off, ^^; probably past the 20 part mark but we'll see).

Just as he'd expected the cold, salty spray of the sea makes it an extremely unpleasant climb. An unforgiving wind is battering continuously against the cliff, although that does at least help to keep him pressed against the slippery rock-face. Moving as cautiously but still quickly as he can the Assassin has already suffered a number of slips and momentary losses of footing. It would admittedly have been a lot faster and easier for him to just take a leap of faith off and dive in after the idiot, but the fact is that he is keen to stay out of the waves unless absolutely necessary. Getting himself drenched as well will do neither of them any good and there is always the map to think of, securely tucked away as it is in the folds of his clothes.

Hazarding a quick glance back upwards he can make out no sign of detection, no sound of the alarm being raised. It seems that they have gotten away with it, just. And while Braddock has unintentionally evaded death this day they now have a detailed idea of his plans. Assassinating him is going to take somewhat longer than anticipated, but really Connor quite likes the sound of that. The longer this can be dragged out, the longer he gets to spend with his present companion. Of course, he will have to convince Achilles and the others if he is to continue this assignment further, seeing as he has really already learned a great deal of useful information. He will make sure they understand the benefits of this arrangement.

Allowing himself to slither down the last foot or so, he reaches a convenient shelf of rock that juts out from the ridge just above the water-level. Finally turning, the novice allows himself to properly survey the water. Much to his relief he finds that Haytham is swimming in his direction, already most of the way over, looking none the worse for wear other than having lost his hat to the ocean. Waiting he carefully dips a finger into the water, confirming that it is as cold as feared. Too long in there or even too long in wet clothes will certainly put him in danger, death from such exposure is not so uncommon after all. Trying not to think too far down this line of thought, Connor focuses on his priorities; getting his companion back on dry land and into shelter. The latter of which is going to be very much easier said than done. To make matters worse darkness is fast starting to close in as the weather begins to worsen further.

'Cold?' Helping him up onto the ledge he can already read the answer from the lack of heat in the man's skin. He masks his worry with exasperation. 'What made you think that jumping into an ocean in the middle of winter was a good idea?'

'It was that or risk being seen.' Sitting back, dripping wet, eyes closed and breathing deeply, Haytham does seem to be starting to slightly regret his choice in spite of his words.

'Of course...' Connor frowns, still not entirely pleased. Crouched on his haunches at his side, one hand absently rubbing the man's back in a vague attempt at warming, the novice looks up at the cliffs.

There is no question of them staying where they are for any length of time. For one thing the tide seems to be on the rise, for another the harsh winds will only serve to freeze his companion faster. However he can see that it is a long way back to the top, a tough climb considering the Templar's condition. Not to mention that it could well take some time to locate anywhere suitable to bunk down for the night, time that they really do not have. It is not as if there are any settlements within easy distance of the fort. So when he spies a decently sized cave that is not too much higher up, yet still above the tideline, there isn't really much of a choice about it. Besides, it looks large enough to accommodate them fairly comfortably, is at an angle to the wind and will undoubtably be secure against any threat of redcoats descending on them in the night. All things considered it is not a bad option.

Indicating the opening with a motion of his head he asks; 'Can you climb to it?'

'Wet and cold, I may be, but I am still quite capable of climbing a few rocks.' Eying it up with disdain, the grandmaster visibly shivers.

Wishing that he had better supplies to deal with this, Connor simply nods acknowledgement and gives his shoulder a brief squeeze before standing. The sooner they get into shelter the sooner he can start really helping his companion. Thus he wastes no time in setting about picking, and demonstrating, the easiest route to the cave, aware that his every move now is being watched closely. Given that Haytham seems capable of scaling buildings then it is probably safe to say that he can get up a few meters of cliff-face, even in his current condition. After all, just because none of the other Assassins can stay up a tree for the life of them, they are all still perfectly able to race up the side of the nearest steeple.

It thankfully isn't long before he pulls himself up onto the floor of the cave, relieved. Despite the still treacherous nature of the icy rocks the teenager managed to avoid any slips or missteps this time. Giving the place a quick look over confirms that it's an adequate size, stretching back a fair way to provide ample cover from the wind. There's enough room for them both to sleep without having to lie right next to each other. Most importantly, it is fairly dry. Obviously it isn't ideal but it'll certainly do. Testing the dampness of the rock, Connor reflects that what his companion could really use is a fire, for drying his clothes off quicker if nothing else. The very idea of the thing, in such a confined space no less, repulses him however, so even if there were some way of finding useable wood in this weather he would be loathe to try it. Still, some extra protection against the chill would be welcome. What he wouldn't give for his sleeping mat, or a blanket... But it's not like he'll have any luck finding anything like that out here in the-

The supply wagon.

Caught by the sudden burst of inspiration, the young Assassin abruptly turns and collides with the other man. Thankfully they aren't standing near the edge, or else the collision might well have sent them both back into the water. Arms quickly coming up to steady himself, latching onto Haytham's shoulders, he also manages to keep himself from getting wet by close contact. He can feel his underlying shivering, which is in reality a good thing he reminds himself. It's if the shivers stop that his companion is in real danger.

Now comes the tricky part. Well, the embarrassing, mortifying part. Refusing to meet his eyes, Connor faces the inevitable and rushes the order out as fast as he can while still making sense. 'You need to take your clothes off.'

Cocking his head to one side, giving a slight smile, Haytham makes no move to comply. 'Are you offering to help?'

Fairly sure all the blood in his body has now gone straight to his head, the teenager takes an instinctive step back as he tries to get his thoughts straight to reply. 'Yes. No. I... I am going back to the fort.'

'Back?' He frowns, crossing his arms, unimpressed by this announcement. 'Whatever for?'

Still slightly wrong-footed, his response is blunt and to the point as he adopts a similarly defensive posture. This shouldn't be such a surprising decision all things considered. 'Blankets.'

'Connor...'

'Do you wish to freeze to death?' The Assassin snaps, opting for directness because really this is all wasting time.

'Of course not, but-'

'You are going to need protection against the cold and I know exactly where their fresh supplies are. It will not take me long.' Dismissing any further argument he hands over the map for safe-keeping and walks away, retreating to the edge ready to get the climb over with. Of course he doesn't relish the idea but he knows that really needs to be done. This should make keeping his companion warm and alive significantly easier after all.

A noise of frustration definitely follows his departure, but to his relief there is no sign of him making any serious move to follow. Hopefully the man isn't so stubborn as to ignore his main instruction, although he does rather doubt it all things considered. Taking a different, more direct route up the novice is still plagued by a multitude of slippery grips and icy footholds. It's an unfortunate knowledge to know that he's going to have to do it all over again on his return. On reaching the crest Connor finds himself on what is a fairly sized stretch of excess land that sits between the high wall and the abrupt drop. From where he stands he can make out clear routes to either of the cannon posts, one of which would be the obvious choice, but he also notices that a tall tree somehow clinging to life in its marooned position has a number of thick branches that overhang the defences. Without a partner to worry about he is, after all, quite free to exploit his full arsenal of skills.

Around him the air is still thick with snow, the storm showing no signs of abating any time soon. If anything it only seems to be intensifying. The tree could certainly be both the fastest and easiest way back in, and speed is his priority at present. Besides, he feels safe in assuming that the low visibility will prevent any guards from noticing him too quickly, even if they do feel like glancing in that unlikely direction. Decidedly not thinking about the reason he's doing this, the Assassin shimmies himself up the trunk and onto the lowest load-bearing branch. Swinging to the next limb he fast rises to a level equal with the tough wooden walls, unconcerned by the cumbersome spikes that top them. As he settles into a secure crouch he focuses his vision, shifting through the fogged view to pick out a few bright patches of red below. This shouldn't be too complicated.

From his branch vantage-point he can jump to the rooftop of a hut, seemingly empty, and from there he should only have to dodge one lone patrolman to sneak around the main cluster of buildings. Beyond those the wagon still sits, unmoved, unattended and hopefully untouched. The supplies were arranged quite neatly in its back so once he gets to the vehicle finding what he's after should be a simple enough job. Getting back out again shouldn't pose too much of a problem, given the various escape routes he already has mapped out. Only a handful of easily avoidable redcoats are wandering the grounds, all on predictable routes by the look of it. Easy. He could be in and out within a couple of minutes.

What he doesn't count on, however, is the black ice. Landing on the roof on all fours as he does, he isn't quite as badly thrown as he could have been when one leg slips completely out from under him. His ankle twists awkwardly, sending a spike of pain up his spine. Scrabbling for purchase on the icy roof he only just manages to save himself from falling off it entirely, hoping that there isn't anyone below who can hear him. So much for the easy mission. Laying as flat and low as possible, Connor waits several moments, listening for any sign of movement beneath, before he dares move another muscle. Coast apparently clear he slides himself over the side, dropping into a small bank of snow and instantly feeling that same leg jar. Testing it gingerly he determines that the injury is only a sprain, nothing more, and it is mostly capable of taking its share of weight without automatically buckling. So long as he grits his teeth he won't be slowed up all that much.

Limping at top speed he covers the ground to the first clump of grasses easily enough, rolling into it to narrowly avoid being sighted by the guard wandering past on his way up the various steps of Necessity's tiers. Clear, the novice moves on, picking his way through the shadows, avoiding the patches of light thrown out from the windows of the buildings. Vaulting a fence, stumbling on landing, he finds himself in the cover of another strip of vegetation and pushes on, cursing his foot all the while. Just up ahead, nestled close beside a pine tree, is the wagon. This time he eases himself into the cart's back rather more gently, adjusting his eyes for a moment and then beginning his search. Rooting around he probably discovers half the items given in the overheard inventory before he locates what he is really looking for. Thankfully whoever sent the supplies was generous, as there is a decent selection of large, thick blankets on offer. To be safe he takes a couple, sure they won't be missed, as he wouldn't be opposed to having one of his own. However he has a feeling that there is going to be more mention of sharing heat before the day is done.

Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [9.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [9.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-05-02 08:19 (UTC) - Expand

Ah guys, I really do apologise for the long delay. Unfortunately a dissertation and other final deadlines have been rather eating up my time recently. Once those are over though, which will be soon, I'll be free to focus back on this the way I want to. Although I'm not completely happy with it, hopefully this installment is somewhat worth the wait.

Wakefulness comes slowly. Rather than coming to fully with the sudden jerk to which he is more accustomed the teenager drifts only gradually back to awareness. Even so, his senses quickly start to register that something is not quite right about this situation. For one thing the ambient noises are all wrong; the crash of waves breaking against the rocks is too loud, too near and un-muted for the homestead. For another, the slight chill of fresh air on his skin rather conclusively proves that he is without the enclosing walls of a building. That in itself is not so strange, he is more than used to sleeping out of doors, but given the choice he would rarely sleep anywhere so near to the sea. Trees are after all his usual bunks of choice. Noting that he is sprawled over something rather soft, comfortable and most of all warm Connor sluggishly supposes that must be to do with his departure from habit. As he adjusts himself he comes to the delayed realisation that his makeshift pillow is slowly rising and falling, breathing.

Oh.

Memory comes back in an abrupt flood, promptly expelling any remaining traces of sleep. It is a miracle that he doesn't simply bolt up with the force of the realisation. Instead, concentrating on making himself breathe calmly, Connor keeps still with his eyes firmly closed. His cheeks are burning, from a painful awareness of their states of undress. And to think that yesterday he had thought waking up merely next to the clothed Templar was the worst situation he could end up in. However, he had survived that, somehow, so he can get through this as well. Shifting only very minutely the novice confirms that yes, Haytham has got an arm wrapped around him again. Obviously the man is still not entirely convinced that he won't disappear given the slightest chance. While that fear is, mostly, unfounded he would rather like to get some distance and decency back. From the feel of the skin beneath him there is no more need for shared heat now, no lingering risk of exposure to keep him there.

Extricating himself from this position is nevertheless going to be easier said than done. Particularly given just how good the grandmaster's hold on him is, even when apparently fast asleep. Against his instincts the Assassin tries to relax his tensed frame, listening more closely to the strangely reassuring sound of his companion's breathing. Heavy and even, it seems to indicate a state of continued deep sleep. Yet he knows from experience that this is a somewhat deceptive appearance, that even the slightest of disturbances could still quite easily alert and wake the Templar.

After some moments of internal deliberation Connor decides that his best option is going to be to slide down, under the blanket and thus out of the protective grip in which he is trapped. It is a far from ideal route, especially with his ever-heightening awareness of the older man's persistent nakedness. But, short of waking him, there simply is no other way out of this situation. He will just have to keep his eyes closed and ignore certain details. Easy... Naturally, when he cautiously adjusts himself in preparation a complication of sorts makes itself known. Biting back a groan of mortification he can't help but despair that this couldn't have happened yesterday instead. That wouldn't have been quite so much of a problem.

Provided he takes this slowly and carefully enough it should be fine, he tells himself. This doesn't really change anything, aside from slightly impairing his range of mobility. Of course, it is hardly as if he has ever had the need to practice this particular manoeuvre before, but how hard can it be? It is simply a mission of stealth, of a more intimate and awkward nature. He resists the temptation to crack an eye open, even if just to check. Trying not to think, other than willing himself to stop being so foolish, he begins the torturous process of gradually edging down the side of his companion's naked body.

'I rather doubt that you are disappearing down there for a reason of which I would approve.'

Foiled, he has barely moved a few inches, instinctively freezing as the body beside him shifts. Thankfully he has managed to adequately reposition his hips at least, shielding them from that particular embarrassment. Haytham does sound suspiciously lucid, but when he reluctantly looks up to meet the man's eyes the traces of recent sleep are clear. It's a different sort of nakedness that confronts him. Were he a little closer, and not quite so aware of certain facts of the situation, the novice would be tempted to kiss him.

As it is Connor instead takes the opportunity to readjust himself into a mostly sitting position, apologising; 'I did not want to disturb you.'

'If that was your purpose you would have done just as well to stay where you were.' Grumbling, Haytham runs a hand coaxingly up his back.

It is tempting to be drawn back into the warmth, the comfort and the supposed safety. But even as he leans into the touch he remains quite conscious of the pressing reason against giving in. If nothing else that is enough to hold him back. Besides, now that Haytham's skin seems to bear no lingering evidence of the ocean's cold there is really no justified reason for remaining under the blankets with him this way. Part of him absently wonders if the Brotherhood would have rather that he hadn't gone to such lengths to keep the Templar alive. He quickly shies away from that thought, returning instead to the more urgent matter of his current predicament.

Assured that at least some of the blood in his body is capable of flowing up to heat his face, the novice struggles for an adequate response. It doesn't help that the feel of the man's hand stroking up his spine is really very distracting. 'Yes, but I..'

Unfortunately the older man reads him perfectly. His expression is a mixture of amused and predatory. 'Having trouble?'

'I... um...' His hands have started to fidget nervously.

This is fast descending into territory that the Assassin would much rather avoid for the foreseeable future. Especially given that they are so decidedly alone down here and are very unlikely to be disturbed. There is certainly no threat of another Assassin bursting suddenly in on proceedings, an intervention for which Connor might almost have been glad right now. It is not his fault that his body reacts like this.

Avoiding eye contact, or looking anywhere that isn't either unassuming blanket or cave wall, the novice can nevertheless feel the intent look that he is being given. He is fairly sure he can guess what his companion is thinking; it both terrifies and excites him. Not least because there is an insistent part of him whispering that he has already betrayed and compromised the Brotherhood, that to go any further would be a very bad idea. And yet...

'I could help you with that, if you would like.' It's frightening how easily he says it, as if such a suggestion isn't incredibly forward.

How his voice manages to come out so decisively he will never know. 'No.'

'No?' Obviously this is not quite the response he was expecting.

Compelled to explain himself further Connor fidgets his hands. He both does and doesn't want to refuse the offer. It's not as if certain dreams of his haven't supplied similar sorts of scenarios to this and he is quite unmistakably interested. The way his problem has only worsened since Haytham's waking is testament to that. However he has never come remotely close to doing anything like this before, frankly he's scared. Besides, everything is already confused enough without adding to it. But then he snatches a glance up at the man's face and finds himself more afraid than anything of having pushed him away completely.

In lieu of the various more valid objections he can only offer; 'Such casualness is improper.'

'And sleeping with me while I'm naked is not?' An eyebrow quirks in query.

'That was different.' He crosses his arms, feeling quite defensive all of a sudden. Just because he had half-stripped and curled up with the man to keep him alive doesn't mean he is interested in doing anything else. He is, but that's beside the point.

Challenging, Haytham sits up, moving right into his personal space. 'So, your problem has nothing to do with any of this?'

Biting his lip, the Assassin feels his blush darken. He really can't deny the accusation, while he is tempted to try he knows that wouldn't help him now.

'And yet you say no.'

Resolve fast crumbling, he snaps; 'I did not think your people were comfortable with such relationships.'

Bringing a hand up under his chin Haytham forces him to make eye contact. 'What any of them thinks is of little importance, this is between the two of us. Why did you think I spent so long looking for you?'

'Because you knew I spoke your tongue?' Even as he speaks he remembers the way that Yvette had pulled him aside upon returning from the scouting mission to Boston, how she had lowered her voice and urgently told him; he's searching for you, Connor, just you.

'Well, there was always that,' the Templar lightly concedes with a smile. His hand slips round to cup the back of the teenager's head, he leans closer, voice dropping. 'Mostly, however...'

Actions really do speak louder than words, he thinks, making no move to retreat this time and allowing Haytham to claim his lips. It's only getting harder to resist the man with every encounter. Although he does faintly reason that his prior state of arousal may have more than a little to do with it in this instance. That is certainly what he will blame for the way he throws restraint to the winds, kissing back urgently and pulling him closer. The extensive feel of skin on skin is thrilling, even more so now that there is no threat of exposure to be staved off and he can truly savour the sensation.

Dragging his fingertips reverentially down the smooth skin of his partner's back earns him a low noise of approval, prompting the hand that has found its way down to his hips to tug him fully forward. A jolt of pleasure rises from the shift, the sudden increase in contact in just the right place. Belatedly the novice realises that his companion is just as clearly affected as he is, it's quite probable that he has been this entire time. Vaguely he's aware of the world tilting and then next thing he knows he is pressed down against the blankets.

This is when he should break it off, pull away and extricate himself because it's clear that this could easily end up going somewhere that it really shouldn't. Part of him, a part that is still capable of rational thought, balks at what he's doing, what he's allowing to happen; it goes well beyond all ideas of objectivity. If he hasn't already compromised himself then this certainly will. But, he tells himself, this can only help his assignment. What better way to cement the Templar's trust and move further into his confidence? It's not like this could ever hurt the Brotherhood, not really. Besides, Connor has to admit that he isn't especially keen on the idea of stopping, not now.

Naturally a pause for breath comes just as he reaches this conclusion. He lets out a slight whine when Haytham pulls back, much to his own embarrassment. An amused smirk crosses the man's face, while the hand he isn't using to support himself trails lazily over the native's chest.

'Would you still rather not have my help?' There is a quiet confidence in his voice but it is clear that he is still giving the teenager a choice in the matter. Although declining would leave them both in rather awkward, less than ideal situations.

Connor's mind is already made, even though he knows he should really be taking this chance to change it. Propping himself up slightly on his elbows, he makes eye contact only briefly before looking away, shy. 'No, I would like that.'

Hesitating, rather than simply launching straight back into it, the man asks; 'You haven't done this before, have you?'

Not quite sure whether this is a positive or negative observation, the novice shakes his head with a little reluctance. 'No. Never.'

Apparently this is a pleasing confirmation. Slowly Haytham leans in closer, that almost predatory look returning to his features as he smiles. 'Good.'

His mouth abruptly dips to the novice's neck, lips brushing against the skin only briefly before he bites down. Any pain swiftly gives way to pleasure, Connor's head falling back with a moan while one of his hands comes up to tangle in his partner's hair. He knows that the attention is going to leave a bruise, a substantial one, although he has a feeling that is exactly the idea. That thought alone pleases him more than it should.

Pressing another small kiss to the already darkened area of skin, Haytham relinquishes in order to inspect his work. When the novice cracks open an eye, a little impatient at the pause, he witnesses a rather intense look that sends a shiver through him. Oh he is in trouble. Locking eyes they meet each other halfway, lips crashing together. Pushed fully down onto his back again, without resistance, he subconsciously arches, craving the press of further contact. Gladly obliging, his partner moves to settle more fully over him. Rather than feeling claustrophobic or oppressive the firm weight of the warm body is satisfying, reassuring even. It feels good, right.

It is safe to say that he has ceased thinking much beyond the moment. A coiling heat is fast building below his waist and he is keenly aware that he won't end up lasting much longer at this rate. Dimly Connor muses that this would have really been a much easier way for them to share warmth the night before. As another press of hips makes him gasp he feels that perhaps it might be a good idea to be rid of his little remaining clothing. Later he will be glad not to have to explain any undue stains. Besides, he can't help but want to feel more.

Having apparently similar thoughts, Haytham's fingers trail down to linger on the hem of the material. 'May I?'

Taking a moment to properly register the request, and catch his breath, the teenager eventually nods. He doesn't know how true his next words are until he has spoken them. 'I trust you.'

Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [10.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [10.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [10.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [10.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-05-29 10:27 (UTC) - Expand

So, good news, no more university for me. And, even (hopefully) better news, a new chapter.

It is a blue sky that greets him as he finally reaches the top of the mountain pass, the veil of ominous clouds that has dominated the skies for weeks having dispersed after a final burst of snowfall during the night. Glancing back Connor frowns at the distinctive tracks he has left, his persisting limp having created a telltale furrow with every dragging step. Doubtless the sprain, combined with the less-than-accommodating weather conditions, can be said to have slowed his progress significantly. By now Haytham should be back in Boston, back with the Templars where he can do damage and back under the watchful eyes of Yvette and her spies. He pushes those thoughts aside, trying not to dwell on it in much the same way that he's spent the entire trek trying not to dwell on it. The two of them have parted ways, perhaps for good, so he needs to keep his priorities straight.

Still, making his way slightly closer to the cliff's edge and the familiar valley below, the teenager feels a need to linger here. In his present state of mind this home is simultaneously both inviting and foreboding. Watching the distant wisps of smoke rising from the manor's chimney, he wonders if it would have been easier simply to have done the foolish thing and taken his companion's offer. Of course it wouldn't, he knows that, but still... When he has not been concerned with decidedly not thinking about the grandmaster, and all the complications the man is creating, he has been worrying that somehow Achilles will know. The gruff man is keenly perceptive, surprisingly so. Maybe all it could take is one good look for him to figure out what the novice has done. Because no matter how much he tries to convince himself that he believes otherwise, Connor is still aware that he is treading a very thin line these days.

Although he sincerely doubts that anything has really, perceptibly, changed about him the nagging fear persists. Haytham's sudden switch from the golden yellow of a target to the calming blue of an ally could be entirely innocent, he tells himself. His sense and perception of the man doesn't have to have altered so drastically, it could simply have been because of his mission's effective ending or a temporary side-effect of what had happened in the cave. It doesn't have to mean so much, it doesn't have to mean anything.

None of that has prevented the nightmares of finding the homestead suddenly populated by red silhouettes though. He is quite conscious that after two nights of broken sleep and then hours of sitting awake there must be shadows developing under his eyes. It doesn't help that he remembers how much easier his nights had been in the Templar's company, if anything it only makes him feel worse. For once he is thankful for this bracing cold. Shivering slightly, he folds his arms tighter around himself and does not miss Haytham or his warmth.

He cannot stay up here and delay forever though. Even if hunger or discomfort don't drive him down back to the house then someone is bound to come through the pass eventually and discover him there delaying. A fairly regular flow of messengers and Assassins travel to and from the homestead after all, and Dobby may not even have returned from her surveillance post in Lexington yet. The longer he puts this off the harder it is going to be. With a little reluctance, and difficulty, he finally pulls himself up from the fallen tree-trunk on which he had been sitting. Stiffness makes him slightly unsteady on top of the dull ache of his ankle. Rather than face the long, unpleasant slog down this side of the pass he has already set his mind on taking that old, much favoured shortcut. Carefully he picks out the designated spot and takes the leap, although really it turns out as more of a controlled fall than an executed dive. In those few seconds before he hits the pile of ferns beneath the weight briefly lifts from his shoulders.

Breath temporarily forced from his lungs by the force of landing Connor lies there, recovering and stalling. The usual sounds of the woods around him are absent, due no doubt to the oppression of the snow that lies thick over the land. There are no leaves left for the wind to rustle reassuringly through, and there is no wind today either for that matter. Straining he catches a faint crunch of footsteps which, slow and deliberate as they may be, resound loudly in the relative silence. Most animals will still be in shelter, so he doubts their success. Any creatures venturing out today will surely be spooked by their approach long before they get a chance at a shot. He has just braced himself and regained his feet when a rifle discharges nearby, closely followed by a rather loud curse. Of course Clipper would insist on coming out even in the cold.

'You don't honestly expect me to believe that there was a misfire, now do you?'

'Was distracted is all. By all your loud breathing and moving. I had the shot lined up perfect and then you went and moved.'

He barely has to walk ten paces into the trees before he finds them; Duncan smirking while the younger novice scowls indignantly, a long rifle slung casually over his small shoulders. It isn't entirely surprising that the Irishman is the one on watch duty, for all their squabbling the two of them always do seem particularly inclined to each other's company. In spite of their respectively being the oldest and youngest Assassins-in-training, one is usually not far from the other around the homestead. Clipper never is particularly happy to be reminded that at eight years old he is effectively the baby of their group though. It certainly doesn't make him any less deadly with a rifle.

It is the Irishman who spots him first and raises a hand in greeting; 'Hey there, Connor, back in one piece I take it?'

Feeling nervous despite himself, he shrugs, managing not to let it show too much. 'Mostly. How goes the practice?'

'Pff,' Clipper immediately scoffs, already affronted, 'it'd be better if someone weren't so unrepentingly loud. I-'

'Can pop a muskrat's head from a quarter of a mile away, we know.' Duncan cuts him off, ruffling his hair. All of them realise just how much better off the muskrat population in Virginia is in the absence of their little sharpshooter. But rather than launching into any further teasing as he would normally, the man glances at Connor and switches tone. 'Now, how about you go ahead and see if you can't find us a horse or two to give Connor here a hand?'

Looking between the two of them with a mixture of frustration and hurt on his face, the young one clearly realises that he is being left out of something. He bites his lip, hesitating. While he's always naturally excluded from the major matters of the Brotherhood the boy isn't blind, he's seen all the tension and worry that've been plaguing almost everyone else recently. That keen curiosity clearly wars with his impulse to do as he's told and be helpful, ultimately losing. Clipper's feet only drag for a few steps before he speeds up, possibly realising that the sooner he goes the sooner he can be back.

Watching until the small figure is out of sight, Duncan is finally free to round on his newly returned comrade in search of information. 'So, did you find him?'

'Yes, I found him.' Connor sighs. Although reluctant to go into further detail he has a feeling it may prove wise to practice answering the questions that must naturally follow his absence. Certainly the older novice is a far less intimidating listener than their mentor, or any of the master Assassins for that matter.

'That bad, hey?'

'No, just...' He struggles to find the right word to explain it. Well, maybe not quite the right word but a safer one. Ultimately he settles for the mostly truthful he can think of; 'Exhausting.'

Duncan nods sympathetically, having already drawn a similar conclusion from his appearance. 'It was always going to be that way I suppose, having to be around a Templar like that. You don't think he suspected anything, do you?'

'I do not think I would not be here if he had.' Connor frowns; that possibility and its consequences hadn't really crossed his mind.

'Probably not, from what I've heard.' The Irishman seems to quickly think better of his words, quickly continuing and switching subjects before anything can be made of it. 'So what happened to your leg then?'

'Slipped on some ice.' At the incredulous look he receives the native feels obliged to amend somewhat and add; 'I was jumping from a tree onto a roof, over the wall of a fort.'

'The last thing I would have thought you would've had to worry about was slipping on ice.' Duncan laughs. Any tension, imagined or otherwise, between them evaporates as he claps him on the shoulder.

Nevertheless he is grateful to hear the approach of the returning Clipper, who comes trotting back towards them dutifully with a pair of saddled horses in tow only to find that the prohibited subject has already been discussed. There is no doubt in Connor's mind however that he's going to be cornered later, at least once, in order to tell the full story. Dobby for one will be keen to worm as much out of him as possible, especially given what she saw at the inn, and the Irishman is hardly going to be giving up after a tantalising morsel like that. The only escape he is likely to find from the various interested parties is if he hides out on the Aquila, and even then the questions will just wait until he resurfaces. Better to get it over with sooner rather than later, in theory at least.

While he mounts with only the slightest of troubles it takes the others a little longer to negotiate sharing the second horse. It's nice to have been pushed from the centre of attention, at least for the moment, giving him a proper chance to gather his thoughts again. He doesn't dare look for the auras of his friends, not yet at any rate. Happy to see them as he is Connor can't deny that he feels an unpleasant tension in his stomach, one that he doubts can be blamed on his lack of sleep. This is probably just because he's had to continuously keep his guard up recently, he reasons, it will go away as soon as he readjusts to being out of imminent danger. It means nothing, just as that blue aura meant nothing really.

After some squabbling Clipper finally ends up settled in the saddle in front of Duncan and they are free to set off for the manor; a short ride, true, but it provides a welcome break. An amicable hush hangs over the journey for the most part. However the sharpshooter keeps shifting around in his position to make quiet little inquiries of his riding partner, using the opportunity to try and drag at least something out. This strategy doesn't look to be paying off though as the young one sinks into further and further into a pout as they go. Connor on the other hand itches to ask questions of his own, about the Brotherhood and about any developments in Boston, but knows that this is not the time for them. The last thing he really needs is to get into extra trouble with Achilles for mentioning such matters in front of the inquisitive boy.

He certainly can't bring up the subject of General Braddock, and the potential assassination he may be preparing to mount on the man in partnership with the Templars. In hindsight he wishes he'd said something about it when he'd had the chance, then he might have at least gauged the sort of reaction the news could provoke. This might easily be the single worst thing he has to report, given that a number of more compromising episodes are not going to get any sort of mention here. How he deals with Haytham is simply not relevant right now. But still... Glancing over at his companions he is worried that perhaps he has crossed a line, done the wrong thing. Perhaps the Brotherhood would have rather he found out what he could and then simply let the grandmaster die when he had the chance, retrieving that artefact of Eden while he was at it. If his stomach twists even more unpleasantly at that thought he pretends he doesn't notice it.

Upon their reaching the stables it's pretty clear that nobody else is in the mood to brave the cold, the yard deserted and still. This is something of a relief to Connor, allowing his minor struggle with dismounting to go unnoticed. On the other hand it all but confirms his suspicion that Achilles will be waiting, in his study most likely, ready to grab the teenager for an extensive debriefing as soon as he hears his footsteps in the hall. If he's really unlucky Tallmadge or one of the others will be waiting with him. He could always take his chances, sneak in the back door and try for the temporary sanctuary of the kitchen...

'Don't worry, Connor, you go on ahead.' Already having commandeered his animal and started leading it away, the Irishman easily waves off any attempts at an objection.

Irked by his exclusion still, Clipper has already disappeared into the stalls with the other horse. Despite not being quite tall enough yet to deal with the task of unsaddling them alone he is apparently determined to stay and do as much as he can. Another one of his stubborn protests that he's old enough to do this so surely he's old enough to know at least some of what's going on. It won't work of course, it never does.

Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [11/?]

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^ Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [11.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [11/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [11/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [11/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-06-18 12:22 (UTC) - Expand

Hi guys, remember me? ^^; Sorry for the stupidly long delay, writer's block abounded and this chapter then went through about five different drafts before I was anywhere near happy with it. Hopefully the (pitiful) suspense hasn't killed anyone...

It had been a week before an aggressively-mothering Abigail was convinced to let her injured ward so much as leave his bed, another has almost passed now and he has yet to be permitted further than the stairs. Even the smallest sign of disobedience or protest from him has the effect of producing much unamused muttering about the sheer foolishness of teenagers travelling long distances on a sprain and needless exacerbation of damage. An implicit threat always lurks behind these lectures; while Achilles's wife may not be a trained Assassin, she is perfectly capable of resorting to force if necessary. There is a reason she has always drawn, and warranted, affectionate comparisons with a grizzly. So, despite itching to get up or attempt escape through the nearest window, Connor has little choice but to submit to the well-intentioned sentence. That the binding around his ankle feels rather more bulky than necessary seems like an extra, subtle precaution to make sure he rests as instructed.

This torture of being confined to such a limited space is only exacerbated by a persistent lack of any attempt by Achilles to continue their previous conversation, the promised 'later' still hovering over him at some unspecified distance. Forcibly bedridden as he was, those first few days had been spent doing little more than waiting for the inevitable, his anticipation making him keenly feel the suffocating oppression of the brick walls in a way that he hadn't in years. There was simply no distraction to be found, his nights being spent near-sleeplessly with only his thoughts and Duncan's loud snoring for company. A progressive staleness of the air and the ever-increasing weight of expectation every time the door opened had started to wear on his nerves. Thankfully daily doses of valerian began making their way into his meals once the increasing shadows under his eyes were noted, after that his nights were a lot shorter and confinement became a little more bearable.

However, with so little to otherwise occupy and satisfactorily divert himself, the novice finds himself repeatedly meditating on his situation. As frustrating and worrying as it may be the subject does help eat away at the hours, if he's particularly lucky it can take almost a day just to go in a circle. None of this however has left him any closer to resolving anything, or to determining if his mentor had meant anything by that last comment. Until he sees the old man again he can't be sure either way. Nevertheless, as each successive day draws to an end this continued silence begins to feel more and more like a punishment.

Hearing the stairs creak with a tread that has become all-too familiar, he doesn't feel the need to immediately look up when the door opens enters, this particular routine being so set. As always Abigail is bustling with efficiency, her day already planned out into any number of tasks. Bandages in one hand, she retrieves an old stool from its resting place against the wall in order to set it ready by the foot of the bed. Only then does she turn to give him a cursory once-over, as if to gauge by sight alone whether he'd broken any rules last night and moved around too much. 'So, how are you feeling this morning?'

They go through this every time; no matter how well he insists he feels it makes no difference. His judgement, in this area at least, isn't especially trusted, but he still tries. 'Better, thank you.'

'Still bored out of your skull then, hmm?' She tuts, absently moving a hand to arrest any movement of the injury in question as the teenager sits up further. 'You should just be glad you're something of a quick healer.'

Admonishment delivered, she wastes no time in setting about her re-examination. Letting the leg in question go limp Connor waits patiently in hope of a more positive verdict this time. Silent cooperation can only really improve his chances. It is a relief when the bandage comes off, even if it will only be for a short while. The extra swelling that had resulted from his trek is gone although the area around the sprain remains discoloured in its intermediary stage of healing. Some slight pain comes from her firm, doctorly prodding, but it isn't enough to make him flinch. Humming to herself the woman gently flexes the joint, gauging, testing. She comes to a decision quickly enough, wrapping the ankle back up with rather less material than before, still giving the sprain support but not obviously impairing his ability to use it.

Tying the dressing off, she briefly checks her handiwork over before straightening up to deliver a stern look. 'The worst of the damage has cleared up but the muscles are going to be a bit weak from disuse. Some exercise should do you good, come down and you can help Deborah see to the pigeons.'

It's only to be expected that she wants someone to keep an eye on him, prone to push himself as he is, but that doesn't mean it dampens his initial excitement of finally getting outside again any less. As much as the solitude of this room has oppressed him, he would have rather avoided the company of that particular novice for a little while longer. Nobody has been watching him closer than her, whenever she gets the chance to visit the room she always seems to be waiting for some sign in his body language or slip in his words. Dobby has clearly not forgotten Lexington. Her opinions however are less obvious. Regardless, he has little doubt that she will take full advantage of this exercise to properly broach the subject, and drag as much as she can out of him about it, persistent as she is.

'Don't tell me you've grown a liking for staying in that bed all day.' Supplies gathered up, ready to depart for the next job on her mental list, Abigail gives the foot of the bed a quick kick; 'Daylight's wasting.'

Connor has been all too aware of that these last weeks, how fast time is passing and wasting away, another source of anxiety on top of everything else. He may not know how patient Haytham is but he's sure that much more of a delay is a bad idea. That and he wants to be doing something useful again. It isn't that he finds himself missing the man's company, or worrying that he might be forgotten, not at all. Of course, the fact remains that he might not be permitted to continue with the plan, dangerous as it is. If he carries on one wrong move could quite easily get him killed, or worse. This choice is not his to make however. Already he has accomplished what he was sent to do and brought back good, usable information, there is no need to risk going further. Not to mention that his mentor might have seen and heard enough that first day to have decided against letting him anywhere near the grandmaster again. It's an unpleasant prospect.

Stretching, he gingerly swings first one leg, then the other, over the side of the mattress, testing each with a little weight as he perches there. Only once he has counted Abigail's descent of the stairs does he try actually standing. It's a nice change, not to have someone hovering over his every movement, both his pride and his modesty are thankful for the returned privacy. Naturally he's initially a little unsteady on getting up, having to readjust his balance, whilst some of his muscles ache after too many long hours without proper exercise. Glad there are no witnesses, the teenager manages to keep himself upright and after a few steps feels confident that his ability to walk hasn't abandoned him. With any luck this could be the end of this tedious recuperation period, and then he can start doing something with himself again. Vaguely he wonders how soon will be considered too soon for him to start climbing or tree-running again.

Urge to stall warring with his need to get out of the house, he doesn't take long to slip into his waiting Assassin robes, providing him with both warmth and comfort. Privately this simple gesture reaffirms his allegiance to and his identity within the Brotherhood, helping to drive away any of those small lingering doubts momentarily at least. His weapons, which have all been cleaned repeatedly, he leaves set carefully to one side, it being mostly pointless and also rather suspicious to arm himself for this simple enough task. As he limps for the door the drag in his step starts to grow less pronounced, muscles waking up. The bandages still somewhat hinders him though, ensuring that the staircase takes two, if not three, times as long as normal to navigate.

Routines unchanged, the rest of the manor's inhabitants had risen to go about their business hours ago. At the crack of dawn he had heard Duncan leave, no doubt having gone to rouse his youngest charges and shepherding them off either to hunt or train for the day. Presumably Achilles is ensconced in his study, dealing with all manner of Brotherhood matters, or perhaps has decided to take advantage of the good weather to survey the property. Unable to avoid the infamous creaking step the teenager winces. Now that he is deemed capable of walking he anticipates a further interrogation from his mentor more than ever but, as much as he would like to get it over and done with, he'd prefer his fresh air first.

Upon passing the mentor's study without incident he is relieved, moving without delay into the warm sanctuary of the kitchen. With the exception of the dark basement, it is the most earthy of the manor's chambers, with its unclad stone walls, bare brick floor, and the various bunches of herbs and cuts of meat hanging from the ceiling. A large wooden table dominates the space, long benches presently tucked underneath it; most of their meals taking place in here. Its sizeable fireplace keeps the flames set back from the room and partially obscured by the metal grill, which itself is usually covered with an assortment of pots, pans or kettles. Unintentionally this makes it the least offensive to Connor's senses, to the extent that he barely notices it anymore, despite the fire being lit near constantly. This is the one room in which the teenager has always felt most at home, the closest any brick or stone colonial house comes to reminding him of his village.

Currently taking pride of place at this end of the kitchen table is a substantial metal bucket of bird-feed. Dobby lounges next to it, with her legs leisurely splayed out and elbows resting comfortably on the surface. Her mouth twitches up into a playfully sly smile as he enters. 'Morning, invalid. I'm getting the feeling that you might be wanting to skip breakfast in favour of a little fresh air today.'

'You know me too well.' Connor smiles back, leaning on the doorframe, supporting himself in what he hopes is a subtle manner. His enthusiasm for freedom is fast returning.

Springing up, in an entirely unladylike manner, she comes forward to formally present him with a long wooden stick in the same way as if she's offering a sword. 'Here; it'll keep you from putting too much weight on that foot of yours, and it'd make an excellent improvised weapon in a pinch.'

Not entirely convinced by her assurances Connor nevertheless accepts the proffered crutch, well aware that objection is futile and that he does need the extra support for the time being. During the brief struggle to readjust his balance yet again he hears the scrape of metal against wood as his companion retrieves the bucket from its resting place. Even if he wasn't currently handicapped she would have insisted on carrying it anyway. Without any further ado Dobby proceeds to lead the way to the back door. Both novices move slightly quicker than necessary, even though Abigail doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry to re-materialise from wherever she has disappeared off to in order to insist on his eating something before leaving.

Cold air blasts them as soon as the door opens, prompting the pair to cross the threshold quickly to keep from chilling the house. Duty to those still indoors discharged, Connor is quite content to pause right there on the steps for a while and drink it in. Everything feels fresher, clearer, out here as the horizon stretches back off into the far distance and the world expands around him once more. He is unspeakably glad to be liberated at last from the confines of that claustrophobic bedroom and back where he really belongs. No matter how accustomed he is to living here on the homestead, inside a brick building, or how much he has grown over the years to better appreciate the colonial way of life, he just can't cope with being deprived of the wide expanse of land, sea and sky.

Gull cries, the rustle of wind through the vegetation, distant sounds of the water in the bay below; every noise pure and unmuffled by a restricting pane of glass, soothing. A few thin patches of snow linger on the ground, presumably where the drifts had once been deepest, although the sky is now quite clear of clouds. Winter has not yet set in properly, but it will not hold off much longer. It will be some months before Braddock and his troops will be at all capable of launching their so-called expedition to the north, the weather of the coming season too unpredictable and temperamental to be conductive to a successful campaign. Fortunately for the pair of young Assassins the well-worn dirt track at their feet, which leads back towards the base of the valley, is quite clear and relatively dry. No trace of ice to twist another ankle on.

Breathing deep, the nervous tension in his stomach beginning to unknot, Connor takes the opportunity to look out towards the bay. He is disappointed to note the absence of a familiar tall mast that should be visible between the trees. Nothing particular had been mentioned to him of Faulkner or the Brotherhood's naval pursuits, indeed most subjects were summarily banned from his hearing in the name of letting him rest properly.

'The Aquila is at sea?'

'They're off having another look for any traces of that ship we lost when pursuing the Providence from England. Among other things.' With a shrug Dobby goes to take the steps down, only to find that there is a turkey all but standing on her feet. Caught off guard but not at all surprised by the overly friendly apparition she angles the bucket behind herself, trying to shoo him away with her free hand; 'No, Yusuf, not for you.'

Completely undeterred, the bird waddles closer, cosying up to her on the vague chance that a handful of the feed mixture might come his way. Infrequently indulged by some, he is always ready to try his lot with anyone, much to the bemusement of visitors. Several rounds of shooing are required before Yusuf is convinced to give up, wandering off begrudgingly in search of more generous company, possibly plotting revenge. On previous occasions the bird has rushed bucket-bearers, causing them to dump whole loads of feed onto the floor, much to the delight of the nearby wildlife. Well aware of that risk, Dobby watches until the last of his tail-feathers has disappeared around the corner of the building before finally descending the steps.

Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [12.5/?]

(Anonymous) - 2013-08-25 17:55 (UTC) - Expand

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? [13.5/?]

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Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13.7/?]

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Re: Fill: Who Will Save You Now? [13.7/?]

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^^; It really has been far too long. Things rather got in the way for a while there, and you're probably sick of reading me apologising like this in front of virtually every chapter. So, I just want you all to know that this fic will not be abandoned, I care too much about both it and you to not see it through to the end. That end may still be a little while away, but I am going to be doing my best to make sure that I speed that along as much as I can. Happy holidays, and here's to quicker updates in the new year.

'I was almost beginning to doubt your word.' Haytham regards him with something that is almost approaching disappointment, his tone a little more curt now despite an edge of concern.

Trying, and failing, to ignore the keen, prickling awareness of the nearby Assassin Connor finds himself unable to relax even slightly as he might have done otherwise. Perverse as it may be, he feels naturally more at ease around the grandmaster even now than he does around his mentor and elders. It's a thin line he has to tread here; not giving the Brotherhood any reason to think him compromised yet not distancing himself from the grandmaster and jeopardising whatever there is between them. Nonetheless now is hardly the time to be deciding which of those possibilities is the lesser evil.

Aiming for what is hopefully neither too much nor too little sincerity, he offers a small, apologetic shrug. 'Things took longer than I was expecting. But, I told you I would come, so I am here now.'

That earns a small smile. 'So you are.'

As tempting as the idea of staying crouched down here on ground level may be, what with how it effectively cuts him off from any sudden, incriminating advances, he'd much prefer to take any further conversation inside, and away from extra scrutiny, as soon as possible. That and having to keep looking up from this angle hardly makes for comfort. Inevitably his first shift towards standing prompts his companion to step closer, one hand wordlessly extended. A simple enough gesture, but one that causes Connor pause as he begins to second-guess his impulse to accept the help without hesitation. Would it seem too out of place to their observer? Too familiar? Or would she dismiss it as a mere concession to the assignment? Would she even give it a thought?

Oh, damn it.

The warmth of the limited skin contact as he accepts the proffered hand feels far too welcome, sending a small shiver down his spine. His thoughts are too easily distracted by it; the softness, the heat, the memories. Were that sensation of eyes scrutinising the back of his head not so persistent the teenager could have forgotten himself all too easily. Sufficiently steeled he takes a step back rather than forward, dropping his eyes and ignoring the faint burn of heat returning to his cheeks, left somewhat uneasy despite the various feelings that are all returning full force now that he is in the grandmaster's presence again. Extracting his hand proves rather more difficult though, as the hold on it seems to have only strengthened now that he is back on his feet.

'You're half frozen...' There's an intensity to the way Haytham says it that has him slightly panicking; no, not now, not here, anywhere but here.

For the sake of self-preservation the novice slips the grip, crossing his arms and closing himself off as much as he dares. Any damage this withdrawal causes can be fixed later; he can explain being distant more simply than he can ever explain the alternative. 'Half frozen is diving into the sea in the middle of winter. I am slightly cold, that is all.'

'The result of needlessly sitting out here for hours no doubt.' Unimpressed, there is not even a hint of amusement to his words.

'Not needlessly, I-' Connor resents the suggestion yet cuts himself off, shifting awkwardly, with the discomfort of being compelled to explain, to justify his actions. He can hardly admit his trepidations, distinct uneasiness he feels at the thought of scrutiny from the other Templars. But what he can admit is just as true and uncomfortable; 'I needed to be sure before I went in. The frontier towns are one thing; here, in Boston, it is... different.'

Over the years his once painfully acute awareness of his own skin has certainly diminished, almost to the point of fading entirely. The obvious blend of his Mohawk mother and an unknown British father had served to single him out even within the relative safety of the village, his difference a source of comment at the very least. Only amongst the Brotherhood has he felt no sense of importance being placed upon what are ultimately such minor, inconsequential details; what really matters is on the inside. Cities and larger towns however never fail to draw that old self-consciousness back out, even if it is now mostly confined to an awareness of the need to cautiously skirt around the prejudices of others and to avoid attracting too much attention or trouble simply by virtue of existing.

'Of course...'

'It is what it is. I just find it better to avoid having to draw attention to myself unless I have to.' Cutting off any unnecessary expressions of sympathy or understanding that the man might have been considering the teenager tries to put as firm an end to the subject as he can. This is not what he wants to be talking about, especially not if they have to stand around out here to do it.

'A wise strategy, but perhaps not at the expense of your own comfort.'

'Not everyone is so ill-adjusted to the cold as you.'

Mouth quirking up in a wry smile, Haytham delicately tilts his head in the direction of the Green Dragon. 'Then I really think we had best step inside, considering how we are both so concerned with each other's ability to withstand this wretched chill.'

Relief washes over him at the prospect of moving away from the ever-vigilant eyes and ears of the master Assassin at his tail; a dangerous sign, he realises. It is for the sake of the Brotherhood that he is here, not for his own foolish reasons. He is simply a means to an end as far as the Templars are concerned, which is ultimately all that Haytham should be to him. Unfortunately, remembering those distinctions is already, all too easily, becoming difficult again. Taking a step to follow the grandmaster the novice chances a quick glance back at the rooftops in search of some sign of approval or acknowledgement. There is nothing though. Alone again, or so it would seem.

Thankfully his companion seems to have no particular desire to linger out here, marching off across the wide street with that already familiar assurance in his stride. Whether this impatience bodes well or not is really a matter of secondary importance though, something that should not be dwelt on when there are more pressing concerns. A phantom spike of pain shoots up Connor's leg forcing him to slow slightly,caused by a combination of the cold and having crouched too long he guesses. Tackling this whole thing at speed however seems the more appealing route now, less complicated. At the back of his mind he wonders which of the other Templars he may soon find himself facing, it's an aspect that has been all too easy to forget in amongst everything else about this moment there had been to worry about. Certainly he has some preferences already, and it is quite the reassurance to know that at least one will be absent, even if it is the uninitiated individual. For some reason that he cannot quite pin down Charles Lee feels like the greatest threat to his position here.

Haytham patiently holds the door open for him, a gesture that is not entirely expected. It could mean anything, or it could mean nothing. Inside it is both darker and quieter than one might expect of a thriving drinking establishment, although the fact that the weak winter sun is not yet being high enough in the sky to penetrate the windows probably has something to do with that. Only a handful of patrons are dotted around the room at various tables, stools and chairs, with the most dense grouping centred on the large fireplace half-obscured under a cloud of smoke from their pipes. Some heads rise at the sound of the door and the blast of chilled air that heralds their entrance but most remain preoccupied with their drinks. No familiar forms jump out at him, so he feels safe in the assumption that if there is anyone in here to keep an eye on him they will be from Yvette's quasi-guild of thieves. Still, it is another uncertainty that he is just going to have to deal with. Stepping to one side he pretends to blend with the wall; company or no, this is still enemy territory.

Closing the door behind himself, the grandmaster sweeps his eyes around the room, all the remaining inquisitive heads ducking back down. Voice dropping to a low murmur, he leans almost imperceptibly closer and indicates the stairs, just as expected. 'It'll be best to discuss things away from prying ears and eyes.'

Nodding his assent, rather than risk speaking and drawing attention to himself, the novice waits for his companion to lead the way, so that he can better keep his own head down. Years ago, Achilles had been quite relieved to find that his newest student already had something of an aptitude for moving unobtrusively through crowds and remaining undetected under unfriendly eyes. Hunting always had required similar principles. There is however only so much that can be done in any given situation. With the staircase set dead-centre in the large room and a handful of patrons whose interests are already piqued in the intervening space Connor knows he won't pass unnoticed. A low hiss of 'stinking half-breed' from one table confirms it. Times like this remind him of just why Boston isn't all that enjoyable a place to be.

Only once they have reached the top of the stairs does Haytham send the barest of lingering glances his way, almost as if to check that he is still following. It's exactly how it should be, to all intents and purposes, but it's not to him. An increasingly tight knot of tension is forming inside him, one that is equal parts nerves, uncertainty and something else he doesn't want to try naming. Rounding a final corner reveals the relatively well-lit rectangle of previously-dead space that is now the centre of all Templar activity in the colonies. On another day it would almost have been amusing, how utterly unimpressive the spot is. A large table and several chairs completely dominate the space, the group seemingly lacking anything more in the manner of tangible assets. Lurking in the shadows like this is not so strange a tactic, being one that the Assassins have also had frequent recourse to over the centuries. After all, the less attention the Templars draw to themselves at this point in time, before they have managed to begin properly securing their hold, the better. Truly an unfortunate stroke of fate for them to have chosen for their ambush the one slave convoy in Boston harbouring an Assassin.

Haytham/Connor You're Not My Dad! AU

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