Information
Altair_Ibn-La-Ahad
Legacy Name: Altair_Ibn-La-Ahad
The
Common RreignOwner:
Age: 14 years, 4 months, 5 days
Born: November 12th, 2011
Adopted: 14 years, 4 months, 5 days ago
Adopted: November 12th, 2011
Statistics
- Level: 5
- Strength: 10
- Defense: 10
- Speed: 14
- Health: 10
- HP: 10/10
- Intelligence: 0
- Books Read: 0
- Food Eaten: 0
- Job: Unemployed
Profile Graphics by Deja_Vu, Coding by FallenSamurai, Story by User not found: librarian
They say I moved with a grace unknown to our people, a swiftness that was paralleled in none before or after me. I became their leader, their redeemer, their guide. But not at a price. My humanity was lost. For one who kills for a living, it is said, has his soul die a thousand deaths every time he snuffs out another. And I have killed thousands. True, I was the founder of our world, the creator of the Guild, but for every great work in the world, there is a price. And mine was dear. Very, very dear.
I was born for my fate, as they say. I was lean, strong, yet quick and good with a knife. My father trained me from a young age to be the best, and soon I surpassed him. By my twenty fourth year I had become master, only to have it stripped from me at the fall of Masyaf. But that is a story long told in the bars and taverns, for you have not come to hear of me rambling a tired old tale. You are here to learn the story that is not told: the story of my first kill.
It was slightly after dusk that night, but the air was still buzzing with the voices of those in the bazaar. They were moving about their lives, never thinking that they could lose what little they had at an instant. My father was by my side, watching the throngs of people move like so many ants below us. We were on the roof. Why he chose the roof I cannot tell even now, but that sly scorpion had his ways, and I did my best not to argue with him. He was staring at the groups now as they wound their way to and fro. Every so often he would point. “See there, Altair,” he would say, pointing to an obscure corner, “that man is wealthy-look at his chains.” Or “…that woman is a vedova near (black widow), see how she waits like a crouching lynx for the man who is foolish enough to go to her bed.” Only on this night he was waiting for something, I could see it in his eyes. “There, look, my son,” he elbowed me and pointed at a tall night from the east with a red cross on his back. “There is the enemy.”
“Him, Father?” I asked, looking at the thin European man with a puzzle look, “He is but a poor stolto, a fool!”
My father took me by the arms and looked me in the eyes. “No son, not a fool. He is a killer. A cold blooded killer. It is our duty to our people to kill him before he can kill us.” He sat back down again, watching the streets. “But yes son,” he said with a slight smile as the man followed the vedova near into her doorway, “he is a fool.”
Father stayed perched on the roof top until long after the bazaar was empty, save for a few guards and the occasional rat or scorpion. He waited until the lights flickered off along the street, keeping his eyes on the door way that led to the vedova near. That was when he sprung up like a coil, moving to the ladder with those soft footfalls that I had learned to hear. He turned slightly, waiting for me to follow him. In a flash I was behind him, and we were off to our prey.
The streets are never more silent then when the night is fallen, as if all nature is watching holding its breath, waiting to condemn those who visit the night, for their acts and deeds are best covered then. We stole to the door of the vedova near, my father lifting the latch silently, as he had taught me to do hundreds of times. We moved through the door, donning the hoods of our black capes. My father looked at me for a moment, and then slid his ornate ivory dagger into my hand. No words were spoken, but the meaning flitted through his eyes. I had seen eyes like that only once. It was a summer long ago. A lion had walked through the street, and, as if sensing it's end was near, had walked into the shop of the butcher and stretched out his head neck for the man's knife. Or so the tales go. My father fell into step behind me as we came into the room. There was a slight scuffle behind me, but I thought nothing of it. I could see the man on the bed, lying as a child after he has had his fill of stolen goods and drifts into a short blissful sleep. Yet the man was not to be my kill, another had gotten there before. The bed was stained red with cold blood, and all too soon did I realize my mistake. I turned to see the vedova near drive a knife through my old father's heart. He collapsed to the floor, the red blood staining the white lining of his robe.
“A fool's death,” the woman said, licking her lips and looking at me. The room was dark but I could see the red shine of blood on her lips.
I cannot remember how exactly I moved, nor how I knew to strike, but before my mind had realized what it was doing, my hands had slit her throat. My first kill was the maker of fools. The maker of fools, then, created me. What does that make me?
Pet Treasure
Twilight Harvester Raincloak
Murders 101
Poison Tipped Qwirl Quills
Pet Friends
Ezio_Auditore_da_Firenze
Welcome, my friend. A toast to the death of more Templars!
Essa_Cavazza
So it is you that is adding your mark to the wanted posters. It certainly annoys the Templars.