Oldgamer45

Malik slammed the paper down onto the wooden table inside the Assassins’ Bureau in Jerusalem with a scowl. The pigeon that had brought fluttered in fear to its cage. The letter’s contents were the cause of the anger. Al Mualim had written to say that HE was being sent here to kill a slaver named Talal. It also mentioned Garnier de Naplouse of the Hospitallers in Acre but briefly – just a passing reference to his work there. Malik had word already that Garnier was dead. His man had brought word 2 days back. By whose hand he had no need to ask. The best man, if any, was Altair, now Malik himself was incapacitated. Bitterness rose

The sun was rising, spreading its fingers of light across the land banishing darkness for another day and bringing to a close another sleepless night, another battle with his conscience. Altair shifted uncomfortably in his chair, his bones sang out in a loud cracking voice of their discomfort at spending another night in this unforgiving position.    He was 72 now and his body had been neglected these past years. Always active and healthy, but after their flight to Alamut, he had afforded no consideration to his physical well being. As always the apple was set on the table before him, still in the pouch he used to carry it.   The only physic

Assassin's Creed A/N: This fic switches perspective a few times between Malik and Altair. I've indicated these switches with asterisks. Malik removed the message from the pigeon's leg and unrolled it. The directive contained in the message from the Master was unmistakable. “How?” he muttered aloud, slowly pacing the confines of the front room of the Bureau. When the first reports came that someone was systematically killing dozens of Crusader and Saracen soldiers, wiping out entire companies, the Rafiqs were initially unsure what to make of it. The few surviving witnesses began to appear, completely traumatized from what they had

By the time Eleanor had given up on her search for the traitor the worst of the storm had subsided. Having returned her redcoat uniform to its hiding place in her closet she stood naked in the centre of the room looking at her reflection in the murky mirror. Her hand still gripped the scrubbing brush she had just used to clean her flesh to the point where it was raw but she wasn't looking for wounds she was looking for any part she might have missed with the hard wired brush and stringent smelling soap. The face of the old minister was banished from her mind but the smell of cigar smoke and whisky had clung to her like a shroud and even now

Jaffa to Caesarea: 1185 C.E. The man in white passed through the crowds of Jaffa. No one paid him heed. There were a lot of armed men around these days and so long as they did not draw their weapons in public they were treated as part of the general populace. The only thing that might have made the white-robed man noticeable was his height. He towered by head and shoulders above the average citizens as he walked. This allowed him to keep eye contact with his prey. On his face was written an intense concentration, which nevertheless did not ignore his surroundings. His five senses registered everything and stored the information for later per

Masyaf, Summer 1188 CE The comb went through the dark brown hair, along the shimmering shine the tresses had in the midday light. The hair was smooth and long, a little curled from the braid it was worn in often. There was a measured pace to the movement of the comb through the woman’s hair. The quiet almost sibilant hiss of the hair parting as the comb’s teeth untangled its length. The arm wielding the comb was strong and muscled using the instruments of war and womanly arts with equal ease. The face in the polished bronze mirror before her was distorted but she did not need to see herself to know that she’d been changed. Ch