At that comment, Altair turns and frowns, temporarily forgetting that fresh blood was dripping off the glint of his blade. He acutely regards the languid man leaning on the crate before him before he dips the feather along the curve of his target's neck.
There is no request for explanation—Ezio knows that already.
But the quirk of his lips as the Grand Master walks away is enough to know that he has caught his attention, one who had so long seemed closed to all admissions.
Two.
Ezio extinguishes all previous tactics that have worked on his other goals. He knows—he has experienced—the all too impatient disposition of Altair, and no man has the desire for candid measures to be taken so greatly but for the latter. Thus, he recoils and strikes without preparations for seduction of the basal necessities: They are null. He can only present the most primal of declarations for the effect to take place.
"Buongiorno, Gran Maestro."
It is simple.
"Auditore."
But it will do for now.
Three.
He does not know what is happening.
Nothing of the sort registers in Altair's mind as he listens to Malik drone on about the day's proceedings, his mind fixated on a thought that ate away at the recesses of his consciousness. A fool he must have been, if the silent inquiry of his advisor's brow could have been any louder—so much that when he sends the other away, his teeth clench at a brief flutter of red and amusement that ring in his ears.
An oath tumbles out of his mouth when he realizes that it was only the wind.
Four.
It is working.
Ezio has never been that bold before, on the day that signaled the last assassination of the year before a new agenda was set forward by the Order. He has invariably shown—played the cards, even—the open palm of his hand through a gaze that allowed every single body to know the obsession that had been elevated to a pedestal. He has proved and taken, countered back in the arts of snaring, but alas, the Son of None does not acknowledge the strain of his labor. That day that he had finally rose to the occasion had been the start of the Manifest.
"Ezio, the Grand Master wishes to see you."
Time can only tell.
Five.
Never in his life has Altair clenched his fist so tightly.
And never has he looked at a man in a different way.
But Altair continues to press his palms against the windowpane of his high tower, looking down at the training arena with his brow knit in utmost confusion. His eyes, he grudgingly notices, are locked onto one man, and one man only, directing recruits to follow his lead in the art of the kill. His lips thin when a fellow student indulges fully in letting his teacher support him in perfecting a certain stance, and he nearly demands a nearby guard to halt the training, just to abate a strange pull in the back of his throat. He damns that fool—damns himself—before he wrenches his eyes away and meets the knowing gaze of Malik.
"Will you yield?"
His fingers sting.
"Or will you seize the day?"
Six.
"Altair has already left, if you are looking for him."
"Maria."
Quickly, he steps around her to the open doorway and maintains his façade, catching sight of the group of scholars that warmly beckons him forward. Their shoulders must not brush, must not even come within a sane distance of each other, lest they both lost their hold on the man that spurned many with an indifferent flicker of his eyes. Ezio does not take too kindly to the Templar woman, not even the aristocratic beauty that others claim as being ethereal—he has no need to pursue but for one man that now displays diminutive cracks in his armor, things he cherishes more than he likes to admit. It is not so much of a game, anymore. Thorpe is one in the sea that creates the void between him and the amber of that gaze.
Carpe (1/3) of [1/1]
"You are mine."
At that comment, Altair turns and frowns, temporarily forgetting that fresh blood was dripping off the glint of his blade. He acutely regards the languid man leaning on the crate before him before he dips the feather along the curve of his target's neck.
There is no request for explanation—Ezio knows that already.
But the quirk of his lips as the Grand Master walks away is enough to know that he has caught his attention, one who had so long seemed closed to all admissions.
Two.
Ezio extinguishes all previous tactics that have worked on his other goals. He knows—he has experienced—the all too impatient disposition of Altair, and no man has the desire for candid measures to be taken so greatly but for the latter. Thus, he recoils and strikes without preparations for seduction of the basal necessities: They are null. He can only present the most primal of declarations for the effect to take place.
"Buongiorno, Gran Maestro."
It is simple.
"Auditore."
But it will do for now.
Three.
He does not know what is happening.
Nothing of the sort registers in Altair's mind as he listens to Malik drone on about the day's proceedings, his mind fixated on a thought that ate away at the recesses of his consciousness. A fool he must have been, if the silent inquiry of his advisor's brow could have been any louder—so much that when he sends the other away, his teeth clench at a brief flutter of red and amusement that ring in his ears.
An oath tumbles out of his mouth when he realizes that it was only the wind.
Four.
It is working.
Ezio has never been that bold before, on the day that signaled the last assassination of the year before a new agenda was set forward by the Order. He has invariably shown—played the cards, even—the open palm of his hand through a gaze that allowed every single body to know the obsession that had been elevated to a pedestal. He has proved and taken, countered back in the arts of snaring, but alas, the Son of None does not acknowledge the strain of his labor. That day that he had finally rose to the occasion had been the start of the Manifest.
"Ezio, the Grand Master wishes to see you."
Time can only tell.
Five.
Never in his life has Altair clenched his fist so tightly.
And never has he looked at a man in a different way.
But Altair continues to press his palms against the windowpane of his high tower, looking down at the training arena with his brow knit in utmost confusion. His eyes, he grudgingly notices, are locked onto one man, and one man only, directing recruits to follow his lead in the art of the kill. His lips thin when a fellow student indulges fully in letting his teacher support him in perfecting a certain stance, and he nearly demands a nearby guard to halt the training, just to abate a strange pull in the back of his throat. He damns that fool—damns himself—before he wrenches his eyes away and meets the knowing gaze of Malik.
"Will you yield?"
His fingers sting.
"Or will you seize the day?"
Six.
"Altair has already left, if you are looking for him."
"Maria."
Quickly, he steps around her to the open doorway and maintains his façade, catching sight of the group of scholars that warmly beckons him forward. Their shoulders must not brush, must not even come within a sane distance of each other, lest they both lost their hold on the man that spurned many with an indifferent flicker of his eyes. Ezio does not take too kindly to the Templar woman, not even the aristocratic beauty that others claim as being ethereal—he has no need to pursue but for one man that now displays diminutive cracks in his armor, things he cherishes more than he likes to admit. It is not so much of a game, anymore. Thorpe is one in the sea that creates the void between him and the amber of that gaze.
"Ezio."
Surely, it cannot be so great.
"We need to talk."