“You cannot be serious. Clearly you have drowned what little rational thought you once possessed in wine and opium.” Altair said nothing, merely pulled himself to his feet and looked down, steeling himself against the vertigo it caused. A startled sparrow fluttered away at his elbow, and Altair’s gaze lit on a haystack on the ground below the tower.
Malik leaned against the parapet and rested his face in his hand.
“God help me, he is serious,” he muttered to himself, and Altair ignored him. Even his wine-dulled senses pricked in excitement at the prospect of such a high jump, despite the protests of his stomach.
“It is the only way down,” Altair stated rationally, as he pulled himself up to crouch on the edge of the parapet. He realized that Malik was beside him, the light breeze fluttering their robes.
“I will be sure to land on you,” Malik snapped. Altair did not reply. He took one last look at his target far below and jumped, bending his body into a smooth arc, arms outstretched. The familiar exhilaration of flight swept through him as he fell: the fear and euphoria and few moments of absolute freedom that made him dizzy with adrenaline every single time.
His landing sent waves of nausea rolling through him as his vision whited out momentarily. He regained his senses and his heartbeat slowed, as he waited for the second reassuring whump of Malik’s descent. Still half-stunned, he was unprepared for the hard elbow in his stomach or the heel of Malik’s boot smacking his cheekbone.
Malik groaned as his head struck Altair’s knee and stars exploded behind his eyes. Both men lay still in the cool darkness of the hay. Malik’s elbow shoved into Altair’s ribs.
“Get up. I fear what has happened to the fortress in our absence.” ---
Altair prodded the unconscious doorguard with the toe of his boot and then gave up when the man refused to wake. He himself was hardly a shining example of sobriety and moderation at the moment anyway. He was grateful for the relative darkness of the fortress as he and Malik walked down the long corridor and into the dining hall where Altair vaguely remembered counting the empty wine bottles on the table next to him the night before.
The place was a mess; clearly the party had been enjoyed by all, and Altair noted the few assassins sprawled on tabletops or curled into corners. He currently lacked the energy to address any aspect of the mess and the longer he remained upright, the more his sore body reminded him that it would much prefer to be laying down.
He stared blankly at the trashed dining hall, and Malik’s light tap on his shoulder brought his attention to his friend’s finger pointing up. Confused, Altair followed Malik’s finger until his eyes reached the high ceiling, where numerous white-clad figures were awkwardly draped over the rafters. As he watched, one man slowly slid from his precarious position over a beam and dropped limply to the floor, to land in a softly moaning heap.
Re: Fill!: why does my head hurt and why am i naked on top of an eagle point 2/2
Malik leaned against the parapet and rested his face in his hand.
“God help me, he is serious,” he muttered to himself, and Altair ignored him. Even his wine-dulled senses pricked in excitement at the prospect of such a high jump, despite the protests of his stomach.
“It is the only way down,” Altair stated rationally, as he pulled himself up to crouch on the edge of the parapet. He realized that Malik was beside him, the light breeze fluttering their robes.
“I will be sure to land on you,” Malik snapped. Altair did not reply. He took one last look at his target far below and jumped, bending his body into a smooth arc, arms outstretched. The familiar exhilaration of flight swept through him as he fell: the fear and euphoria and few moments of absolute freedom that made him dizzy with adrenaline every single time.
His landing sent waves of nausea rolling through him as his vision whited out momentarily. He regained his senses and his heartbeat slowed, as he waited for the second reassuring whump of Malik’s descent. Still half-stunned, he was unprepared for the hard elbow in his stomach or the heel of Malik’s boot smacking his cheekbone.
Malik groaned as his head struck Altair’s knee and stars exploded behind his eyes. Both men lay still in the cool darkness of the hay. Malik’s elbow shoved into Altair’s ribs.
“Get up. I fear what has happened to the fortress in our absence.”
---
Altair prodded the unconscious doorguard with the toe of his boot and then gave up when the man refused to wake. He himself was hardly a shining example of sobriety and moderation at the moment anyway. He was grateful for the relative darkness of the fortress as he and Malik walked down the long corridor and into the dining hall where Altair vaguely remembered counting the empty wine bottles on the table next to him the night before.
The place was a mess; clearly the party had been enjoyed by all, and Altair noted the few assassins sprawled on tabletops or curled into corners. He currently lacked the energy to address any aspect of the mess and the longer he remained upright, the more his sore body reminded him that it would much prefer to be laying down.
He stared blankly at the trashed dining hall, and Malik’s light tap on his shoulder brought his attention to his friend’s finger pointing up. Confused, Altair followed Malik’s finger until his eyes reached the high ceiling, where numerous white-clad figures were awkwardly draped over the rafters. As he watched, one man slowly slid from his precarious position over a beam and dropped limply to the floor, to land in a softly moaning heap.
Beside Altair, Malik chuckled, shaking his head.
“Novices.”