A white-robed assassin, but not Ezio – the breadth of his shoulders looked to be similar to Desmond's – sat on a blanket chest, leaning with his back against the wall (Desmond thought that type of storage unit was typically situated at the foot of the bed, but whatever). The hood dipped too far to see the entirety of his face – much to Desmond's annoyance – but the man's lower half was visible.
What, was the comment supposed to hurt Desmond's tiny feelings? “You blend great into the wall.”
The man grinned. “Why, grazie, bambino.” Desmond couldn't stay the brief twitch of his jaw, but forced it to relax. The man's lips lifted into a smirk.
“Tell me, why do you wear the clothes of a dead man?”
“... Well, I needed them. My own clothes were like a beacon for trouble.”
“Wearing the clothes of an italiano man,” the assassin said cockily, “does not make you italiano.”
Desmond scowled. “And? Just because a man wears colours of an assassin, doesn't make him one, either.”
The smirk dropped. “Yet. You are entertaining. Addio, for now, hm?”
“Wait,” Desmond called, as the man got up and tapped a rhythm on the door. “Where am I?” He didn't think he would be in the heart of the assassin's guild. There was one Bureau, not counting the headquarters that he knew of, but maybe there were more situated in this program that was drastically changed in ways Desmond hadn't expected.
“That is for us to know,” he responded glacially. Before he stepped out, the door opening inward, he spat, “Keep these close to heart: You are to be treated with care, insofar that you hold your peace.” He briefly pointed and Desmond eyes soon rested to where a sidetable was placed in the opposite corner, parallel to his bed; a large bowl and pitcher sat on its smooth surface.
“Healing salves and potions in its bureau. You have been handed more kindness than a mere prisoner, but know for surety that that is what you are.” He said sternly to a fellow assassin, “Close the door, Allesandro.”
The door shut with a groan. Desmond counted three bolts, three rotations and two singular clicks from the upper part of the door and one at the bottom. Finally, the grinding sound of wood against itself, as slabs of them, he guessed, were placed as a further barring measure.
“Overkill, Ezio. Overkill.” There were lamps lit up in the room, thankfully tiny vents were in the ceiling to prevent his death by smoke-inhalation, but it was still smothering and his clothes were sticking to him.
Sighing, Desmond shuffled over to the bureau, so he could slather his neck in salve. Maybe he would also drink a potion to numb the pain. It wasn't an awful, screeching pain – but not one to write off as abating and ignoreable.
He was silent once he was done, for a few moments. He panted, when the air lay on him like a cloak.
Warring of Talons Part 13/?
What, was the comment supposed to hurt Desmond's tiny feelings? “You blend great into the wall.”
The man grinned. “Why, grazie, bambino.” Desmond couldn't stay the brief twitch of his jaw, but forced it to relax. The man's lips lifted into a smirk.
“Tell me, why do you wear the clothes of a dead man?”
“... Well, I needed them. My own clothes were like a beacon for trouble.”
“Wearing the clothes of an italiano man,” the assassin said cockily, “does not make you italiano.”
Desmond scowled. “And? Just because a man wears colours of an assassin, doesn't make him one, either.”
The smirk dropped. “Yet. You are entertaining. Addio, for now, hm?”
“Wait,” Desmond called, as the man got up and tapped a rhythm on the door. “Where am I?” He didn't think he would be in the heart of the assassin's guild. There was one Bureau, not counting the headquarters that he knew of, but maybe there were more situated in this program that was drastically changed in ways Desmond hadn't expected.
“That is for us to know,” he responded glacially. Before he stepped out, the door opening inward, he spat, “Keep these close to heart: You are to be treated with care, insofar that you hold your peace.” He briefly pointed and Desmond eyes soon rested to where a sidetable was placed in the opposite corner, parallel to his bed; a large bowl and pitcher sat on its smooth surface.
“Healing salves and potions in its bureau. You have been handed more kindness than a mere prisoner, but know for surety that that is what you are.” He said sternly to a fellow assassin, “Close the door, Allesandro.”
The door shut with a groan. Desmond counted three bolts, three rotations and two singular clicks from the upper part of the door and one at the bottom. Finally, the grinding sound of wood against itself, as slabs of them, he guessed, were placed as a further barring measure.
“Overkill, Ezio. Overkill.” There were lamps lit up in the room, thankfully tiny vents were in the ceiling to prevent his death by smoke-inhalation, but it was still smothering and his clothes were sticking to him.
Sighing, Desmond shuffled over to the bureau, so he could slather his neck in salve. Maybe he would also drink a potion to numb the pain. It wasn't an awful, screeching pain – but not one to write off as abating and ignoreable.
He was silent once he was done, for a few moments. He panted, when the air lay on him like a cloak.
Another urgency made itself known.