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asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
asscreedkinkmeme) wrote2012-10-29 11:35 pm
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Kink Meme - Assassin's Creed pt. 5
Assassin's Creed Kink Meme pt.5
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Part 1
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l'aigle et le révolutionnaire 3/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-25 06:47 am (UTC)(link)He had thought Lafayette only had a vague idea of what cause Connor served, but if his wife followed the Creed, then surely he must know of the Assassins. Or had she kept it from him?
Connor shook his head. It wasn’t something he could sort of now. He would have ample time to confront Adrienne about it during his stay, as much as he wanted to march back down the the parlour and bombard Mme de Lafayette with questions. It wouldn’t be polite, and would likely get him nowhere. Intruding on peoples’ sense of propriety was a good way to wire their jaws shut in terms of useful information.
For something to do, he examined the room. It was even more spacious than his room back at the Homestead, with a large canopied bed and a desk in the corner, next to a washbasin. He walked over to the desk, opening the drawers curiously. They were all empty, yielding no clues to any of these new puzzles.
It took him less than ten minutes to unpack his trunk. He had brought little other than the practicalities- his Assassin robes, a set of civilian clothes, his weapons, and an inkwell and pen. His few sentimental positions he stored away out of sight. A eagle feather, collected back when he had time to climb to every nest he could find in search of the discarded feathers, the broken hidden blade bracer he had taken from his father’s corpse, with its rusted and cracked Assassin insignia, and his father’s journal. He lingered over the last item for a minute. He carried it to remind himself that he could never know his targets well enough to judge them completely. He could never know them as an ally or a friend might, and he had to make convictions based on little information, and despite the uncertainty, carry them out.
He tucked the tome away in the desk with a small sigh. That was years behind him now, and the journal’s pages were worn and brittle, from the many times he had read it. Trying to decipher double meanings to the words, trying to understand what drove the Templars to such destructive ends. Trying to understand his father.
He forced his thoughts away from this melancholy path, and walked to the window. Outside he could see across the rooftops of Paris. Smoke from furnaces and factories rose into the air, creating a smoggy pall over the view. He longed to explore the rooftops, and the bustling streets below, to put his mind to mapping out each crevice and hiding spot. His muscles itched to be tested once again.
For ease of movement, he switched out of his naval clothes into his assassin robes. The same trusty old coat that Ellen had repaired countless times. He smiled, shutting the trunk and going to the window again. He wore his hidden blades always, and saw no need to bring other weapons on this expedition. It would only provoke suspicion.
After testing the window, he discovered it slid upwards, and slid it up to crawl out onto the roof. The bitterly cold wind swept again him, making the edges of his uniform flap and try to tug him off his balance. He smiled up at the cloudy sky, balancing with barely a wobble on the slanted roof. Taking a moment to get his bearings, he memorized the appearance of Hotel de Lafayette, and took off running.
The layout of Paris was perhaps more chaotic than Boston or New York, sprawling out over decades of expansion instead of being so recently built, but in practice it was not very different. He ran over rooftops, leaping and hung onto the frames of windows, scrabbling up the sides of buildings until he reached the roof again. Still, everything felt slightly different underfoot, and he often misjudged the distance between building and ended up barely catching himself on a ledge or rolling onto the dirt and cobblestones below.
After about a half an hour he had gotten more acclimated with the Parisian streets, leaping with ease from balconies and windowsills to rooftops and towers. For the most part he remained unnoticed, a shadow above the grimy streets. The people had more important matters to concern themselves with than an unusually acrobatic shadow. As he neared the slums and poverty-stricken neighborhoods he caught more whispers of revolution, but the aura of tension and desperation pervaded everywhere. Even the gleaming streets of the lords seemed merely a pretty façade, over a crumbling structure.
Lurking in the shadows, he watched guards patrolling, trying to get a grasp of when they patrolled where and what provoked them. He saw several minor incidents, a gang of unruly students picking fights with some guards, a pickpocket being dragged into custody. But the soldiers were not unaware of the mood of the populace, and skulked, letting many crimes pass unpunished for fear of retaliation.
Connor dropped down to the streets, to walk among the people. These were the thin-faced, hollow-eyed men and women he had seen from the carriage ride to the Hotel de Lafayette. He tossed a few sous to a grubby beggar child, and was immediately swarmed by others, having to resort to cuffing one of them on the side of the head to stop him from stealing his purse. He tossed them a few more coins and disappeared as they scrabbled for them.
Walking further down a street, a hubbub of raised voices met his ears. The low murmur of discontent had rose to a shout, one single voice clear and strong over the others. He pushed through the crowd that had begun to form, to look up at a young man, perched on an overturned crate.
“- while the chienne in the palace feasts upon the finest delicacies in the world, we starve by the hundreds!” the speaker shouted. He had a finely-featured face, and brown hair had been left unchecked to fall to his shoulders. His clothes were rough and worn, but sturdily made. “While she wears silk and damask, the people of Paris are left to wallow in their owl filth!” His speech seemed to be winding down. Angry murmurs rippled through the crowd, becoming louder with each word the young man spoke.
Connor edged his way to the side of the crowd, focused on the speaker. The air was thick with pent-up animosity, and the Lafayette had made it clear the rulers had already begun to lose their people’s trust. Connor had been involved in more riots than he could count, and he knew this situation could turn ugly in a split second.
Suddenly the people quieted, their murmurs of agreement turning to sharp protestations as they were shoved aside by a group of guards, calling for the crowd to disperse. The uniformed men pushed through the crowd to the young man, and two of them seized his arms, breaking off his speech in the middle of another tirade against the King and Queen. He pushed one of the soldiers, trying to shake free of their grip.
“See how they answer the people’s cries!” the man shouted. “With only th-“ He was silenced when one of the soldiers brought the butt of his rifle down on the man’s head. He swayed and would have fallen, if the other soldiers hadn’t grabbed him roughly again and pulled him down from his makeshift pedestal.
It was enough to light the fuse.
“Disperse! Disperse and repent, and you will escape punishment for treachery!” one of the guards, presumably the leader, called above the growing din. This only served to enrage the men and women further, and suddenly one of the men closest to the soldiers drew out a pistol and shot one of the guards point-blank in the chest.
With a cry the remaining guards dropped their prisoner, raising their rifles. Connor jostled through the crowd, trying to see where the young speaker had fallen, but it was impossible through the tangle of bodies that the fight was quickly becoming.
The trapped soldiers attempted to form up and fire at the citizens, but it was impossible in the confusion, and so they lashed out with their bayonets. Screams replaced the shouts in the air. Connor made his way to the storefront of the bakery the young man had been making his speech in front of, and climbed up the door frame to jump onto the sturdy metal rod the held the bakery’s sign. He stared down at the crowd, ducking instinctively as a pistol went off in the crowd.
Of the young speaker he could see no trace, but at the edge of the crowd he spotted a man, eyeing the entanglement with the same measured calculation as Connor himself. He was around Lafayette’s age, with a sharp nose and curly brown hair just beginning to gray. As if suddenly making a decision, he pushed his way into the crowd. Before he disappeared into the mass of bodies Connor could have sworn he saw a flesh of metal, a blade at the man’s wrist.
Before he could contemplate this further he caught a glimpse of the cloudy gray coat the young instigator had been wearing. It came so naturally, to aid such people, and so he didn’t hesitate to leap down into the fray from his precarious position. He came down hard on a soldier, piercing the back of his neck with one of his hidden blades. Crashing to the ground on top of the soldier, he rolled off and jumped to his feet, pushing a bayonet-wielded guard away from him before spotting a flash of gray-blue again. Remarkably, the young speaker was on his feet again, though there was blood matting his long brown hair, and clumsily parrying blows from a bayonet with a short knife.
Connor shoved away another soldier, and stepped forward to cut the throat of the one of the young man was fighting. As he fell, one of his comrades dealt another blow to the speaker’s head, and this time he lay where he fell. Connor seized the young man’s wrist and dragged him to his feet, pushing back through the crowd. It was more difficult to maneuver with the deadweight hindering him, and he could only barely deflect the baynot blows aimed in their direction, the thick baynots scraping against the metal of his hidden blade.
Suddenly the guard attacked him stiffened, and Connor saw blood beginning to seep through a hole in his neck, before the blade of his unexpected ally was yanked out and the soldier fell to the ground. Standing behind him was the curly-hair man Connor had observed at the edge of the crowd. He stood a few heads shorter than Connor, but seemed unfazed by the fight. He grabbed the young speaker’s other arm, and helped Connor drag him away from the growing riot, to a squalid alley a few yards away.
They dropped the young man there, and Connor knelt to make sure he was still breathing. His pulse was steady, but the two bleeding wounds on his head could have caused great damage.
He looked up to thank the mysterious man, to find he was already gone. He shook his head, and returned to examining the young man. He glanced around, looking for something to press to the wounds to stop the bleeding. The material of his coat and robes was too thick to rip.
“Gilbert wasn’t exaggerating when he mentioned your penchant for getting into trouble,” e soft voice commented from behind him. He spun around, half rising from his crouched position.
A slim feminine figure was standing at the mouth of the alley, seemingly completely at home in the filth and squalor. She was wearing a long, old-fashioned cloak, and the hood of the uniform she wore beneath it obscured her face.
“Mar-“
Adrienne raised a finger to her lips, and he broke off, feeling foolish. He gestured to the young man. “Can you help?”
She pursed her lips and knelt by him. “I don’t have much experience in medical matters.” After a moment’s hesitation, she threw off her cloak and began to tear strips off of it. He took the moment to look at her uniform, entranced by the idea of foreign Assassins, and their customs. The basic form of her uniform was similar to his own, but built more like the coats of the French officers, with a high collared mantel. Her uniform buttoned across the front, to the left side, and came down only in the back. It was a dull gray color, but she wore a white band around her arm just beneath the shoulder. On this there was embroidered the fleur-de-lise.
She wore a short sword at her hip, and a holstered pistol was tucked into her coat. She wore a bracer on one wrist, with the unmistakable emblem of the Assassins glinting in silver on its front.
Connor took the strips of cloth from her, and bound them around the young man’s head, covering up the wounds. Adrienne watched him, her hands folded in her lap in a strangely ladylike gesture, for one dressed for battle.
“Why did you save him?” she asked. Her words carried no accusation, merely curiosity.
“Did you see what happened?” he asked, without looking up from his task.
“Yes,” there was a hint of a laugh in her voice. “You cannot slip away so easily, Monsieur Davenport. Not from me, in this city.”
(I feel like there was some kind of historical note I wanted to add but I can't remember what it was so.
Ahaha recruits.
Also sorry for the lack of Lafayette I promise next chapter will have more :D )
Re: l'aigle et le révolutionnaire 3/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-26 04:32 pm (UTC)(link)Adriennekickingassandtakingnamesisveryappealingyes.
Re: l'aigle et le révolutionnaire 3/?
(Anonymous) 2013-01-27 06:27 am (UTC)(link)Adrienne is awesome
Fan art already
(Anonymous) 2013-01-26 07:21 pm (UTC)(link)PLEASE keep this up it's incredible
http://niccolomachiavel.deviantart.com/#/d5ssq9h
Re: Fan art already
(Anonymous) 2013-01-27 06:30 am (UTC)(link)I love his freckles and the hair and uniform and this is awesome.
I'm really glad you enjoy it :D