Let’s go to the mountains.

[theflyingone]

Who| Altaïr and YOU
What| Very calmly attempting to break a window with a chair. Climbing on buildings outside. You know, behaving.
Where| Various: District 11 common room, Tower roof, the city
When| apr 20
Warnings/Notes| mentions of violence will be the norm for this character because lol he's an assassin

A: D11 common room

Of course Altaïr attacked the people who greeted him. In return, the Peacekeepers gave him several punches and baton hits. They overwhelmed him in a small space with sheer numbers and riot gear. Sporting a cut lip, several bruises, and nondescript but well-fitting athletic clothing, he was marched to his floor's common room and left alone.

He scowled and tugged the hood of his zipper jacket over close-cropped curls.

He did not expect to receive medical attention or even so much as a bandage. His solution to most injuries was to walk them off anyway. But he may as well use a window to inspect his cut lip and brood. He took a moment to stare at the ridiculous amount of glass encasing the deck. This one room had more glass than the most ornate houses of worship he'd seen. Of course, none of the windows would be openable so high up, for safety. He stepped right up to the squeaky-clean wall of glass, unconcerned about the vertigo of the street so far below.

An aquiline face with knitted brows glowered back at him. He curled his lip in a grimace as he raised fingers (all nine of them) to test the drying blood on his mouth.

B: D11 common room 2 electric boogaloo

Altaïr went over what little facts he knew. He'd been imprisoned for someone's amusement. They knew he was a skilled fighter, following his failed attempt to escape the demonstration room. The Gamemakers protected their viewing window with a mysteriously invisible wall of lightning pain. They did not know he was an Assassin, or they would have tortured him for information and then executed him. At least there was that.

There was a lot about this place he didn't know, like why the torches in the ceiling did not flicker or how buildings of mere metal and glass could rise so high. But he considered himself a well-traveled man for his age, and assumed (wrongly) that he would adapt quickly to this foreign place.

Inevitably, a thousand methods of escape brewed in his head, each more rash than the last. He was furious that they expected to keep him here. Impatience clouded his judgment. He had no notion of reinforced glass or video cameras, only that he could jump and climb heights that dizzied most.

All exits were guarded, so he would make one of his own. Without concern for the others in the room, he hefted a chair up and approached the window at a steady march.

C: Tower roof

His first step in new surroundings was always to get his bearings. He was surprised to learn there was sanctioned roof access. (Had he known, he might not have attempted to break a window.) The roof would make a good starting viewpoint. Here on the rooftop among the manicured plants, it was a different world. The bustle down below could still be heard, though the muffled sirens, voiced advertisements, and music were alien to him. Again, the height of the surrounding buildings astonished him. They were taller than the highest manāra he'd ever climbed, and smooth as water.

Challenge accepted.

Altaïr always had sharp eyes. He wasn't looking for it, but as he approached the edge of the roof, the air shimmered. He stopped in his tracks, tilting his head like a confused bird. And there it was again. Like the invisible window that had shocked him unconscious during his demonstration for the Gamemakers. He scowled. There would be no jumping from this rooftop.

D: City

Altaïr decided to test other, less electric boundaries. He knew he could leave the Tower, but he still tensed as he passed through the front entrance. He wondered if the guards would be on high alert and follow him, but he found he could wander into the city untroubled.

Everything was huge and fast. The enclosed metal wagons moved of their own volition at dangerous speeds. Buildings soared upward, their hubris defying gravity. Shopkeepers and their wares were sequestered indoors. There was a distinct lack of sewage smell. Church bells did not toll, neither did any mu’aḏḏin call the people to prayer. The street was devoid of animals and their refuse, save for cosmetic pets on glittering leashes.

And the people. He thought at first they were wearing masks. They were painted to the nines, more colorful than prostitutes, both men and women. Some sort of festival, perhaps? A few stopped to stare and titter at him. Altaïr was painfully aware that he wasn't blending in, and he took off at a fast walk.

He was already building a mental map of the city in his head. The one on his communicator—if he ever figured out how to work the thing—would not tell him where guard posts were or when they changed shifts. When he was sure he wouldn't attract more attention than a few weird looks, he chanced climbing one of the taller buildings for a better view.

A stone building similar in style to a Roman temple housed statues with garish clothes on the first few floors, and apartments on the rest. In the alley next to it, he took the wall at a running jump and began scaling upwards.

Comments

B

[contrarianlibrarian]

Quite a few of her Tributes had vanished recently and China wasn't at all pleased about it. Getting a new one would have been an exciting enough occasion without that fact, but now she was even more eager for it.

But, of course, it didn't suit her to rush for anything. So she quietly extracted herself from sponsor meetings, moseyed on to her library to retrieve her typical gift for the Tributes, and eventually entered the common room. The new Tribute wasn't hard to spot at all.

...Oh. Maybe this one wasn't going to be such a treat. Thinking first of the most important thing in the room, China carefully set the book down on a faraway counter so it wouldn't be near the madman. Only then did she step carefully towards him.

Still standing a few paces away, China called over, "Please, dear, set that down. You won't be helping anyone, least of all yourself."

[theflyingone]

Altaïr's methods depended mostly on the element of surprise. He manipulated perceptions, what people did and did not expect. Most people did not expect a man to throw a chair through a window and leap out of it. Unfortunately, someone was fool enough to approach and get in his way.

It crossed his mind to go back to his old ways, to plow through an innocent who might obstruct or endanger him. But he'd broken that tenet of the Creed already, paid the price in the form of getting a fellow Assassin killed, another maimed, getting demoted, not to mention bringing a horde of enemies to Masyaf.... No, he'd resolved to follow the Creed closely, so he might understand it and Al Mualim might approve of him again.

He set down the chair with a frustrated thunk. "And who is going to stop me? You?" It took a bit of restraint not to spread his arms in invitation to fight. That would be pointless now. Still, he wasn't in the mood to be polite. "What do you want? Speak quickly."

[contrarianlibrarian]

She raised one eyebrow at him. "Me? Certainly not." Why ever would someone wearing silk want to get into a fight? Some of these Tributes were so silly.

"The Peacekeepers who are currently watching, on the other hand, will no doubt be somewhat concerned by your behavior. They are very efficient and could be here in a matter of minutes."

She shrugged delicately and shook her head. "I don't know how much detail you were told, but I would strongly suggest that you not attract their attention."

She ended with the beginnings of a smile; she just wanted to help, of course.

[theflyingone]

Altaïr did not underestimate even someone wearing silk. Some of the best assassins in history were the most unassuming. He himself wore robes resembling that of a scholar's. He felt strange without them, though he knew they would not help him blend in here.

"I can do many things in a matter of minutes," he retorted. What those things were—killing a man, hiding from guards, infiltrating a party—he left to her imagination.

And yet, the prospect of having an army of guards on him was not a bright one. Brash though he was, he did not fancy attracting the attention of quite so many. He'd like to escape with his life so he could live to assassinate another day.

"I was not told much," he finally relented enough to say.

[contrarianlibrarian]

She beamed at his response. "Can you? Oh, thank goodness. We've been hoping for another competent Tribute."

Fast and brutal. She liked both of those qualities, provided he could bring them out where it counted.

She took a step forward, somewhat emboldened, and held her hand out to one of the plush chairs nearby. "If you take a seat, I can answer any questions you may have."

D

[needlebearer]

Arya watches him climb, entranced by how gracefully he moves, her eyes widening in alarm the higher he goes. She hasn't forgotten what had happened to Bran when he'd climbed too high, and she's not sure whether Altaïr is truly skilled and showing off, or pulling a stunt for the publicity that a new tribute lacked before their first Arena.

"You'll only break your neck up there, and then you won't be good to anyone in the Arena."

[theflyingone]

Altaïr was used to people muttering and heckling him from below, on the off chance anyone saw him ascend. He heaved a world-weary sigh. He hung at ease on one arm and turned in the direction of the voice—a child? Altaïr had no definite thoughts on children, other than accepting the responsibility that he would have them someday. It was easier to raise Assassins than search for the right people to induct. Altaïr was one from birth.

"If I broke my neck, I would not be good to anyone anywhere. I know full well the risks. I want to see the roof. If you wish to continue to trouble me, you may do so using the metal stairs."

He pointed dismissively to the fire escape. The ladder up to the second floor level was currently folded up into it, but Altaïr was sure he could figure out how to unleash it if Arya truly wished to follow. He would have used the stairs himself, if he weren't so set on avoiding detection by people looking out the windows.

[needlebearer]

She looks over to where he's gesturing, the indignation she feels at how dismissively he's speaking to her growing when she sees how high up it is. If she were fully grown, she might be able to jump up and reach it, but it's far too high for a child.

"I'll never reach that!"

[theflyingone]

He sighed and sidled over to the fire escape. His impatience was almost immediately replaced by curiosity.

"There is a ladder here. I have not seen its kind before, but these things always have some sort of release..."

Why would it be there if it was unusable? It must be a private staircase, only intended as an exit, if the ladder was always drawn up. Strange. He paced quietly and avoided standing in front of windows too long as he examined the fire escape, frowning. Finally he found where to release the ladder. It slid down on its track to the ground, and it was a miracle this didn't trip the fire alarm.

"Now if you wish to come, do so quietly."

[needlebearer]

"I can be quiet," she promises eagerly. She ascends the ladder quickly, glancing down periodically as she did so just to see how high she was, trying to imagine how many Aryas stood one on top of the other would reach the top of the building. She jumps from the top of the ladder across to the roof, landing quietly on her feet like a cat, looking up at Altaïr expectantly, though of what she wasn't quite sure. He'd never promised her anything if she accompanied him, after all; she was pretty sure she was just being a nuisance, but he had made her far too curious.

C

[letthemburn]

No jumping, no. Which is a little unfortunate, if you ask Iskierka. Not that she can't still find ways to stretch her wings, but that doesn't mean it isn't irritating all the same. After all, it's not as if the Capitol isn't capable of bringing them back if they should die, and she doubts that anyone is going to actually consider jumping off a roof simply to make a point.

(She might be wrong, but if she is, she's not aware of it.)

Still, she notices Altaïr's apparent displeasure, and that's at least enough to pique her curiosity.

"I do not think it will stop being there. No matter how one might wish."

[theflyingone]

It would be a lot of trouble bringing back all the poor sods who suicided or just wanted to mess around. In Altaïr's case, he wanted to use alternative means of getting around to spy on his captors.

He turned to reply to someone like-minded, someone who also wished the barrier was not there—

He'd gone insane or been drugged, and now he was dreaming of a dragon from one of the European tapestries. And it was speaking to him. And he felt somehow he should answer back. He remained still and calm, though he did not feel like either, and kept his face straight and stony-faced but for a widening of his eyes.

"....What sorcery is this?"

Surely someone had just rigged a convincing puppet, and the person the voice belonged to would reveal themselves.

[letthemburn]

Unfortunately for Altaïr, no one else shows themselves. Which might not actually rule out the 'just a convincing puppet' possibility, but at the very least it suggests the if there is anyone else around they aren't just interested in people's surprise at a talking dragon.

(Iskierka, for her part, is interested in seeing the reactions she gets, but she can't help being what she is.)

"Why, it is none at all," she answers, as if this should be quite entirely obvious. And it is, at least to her. She just forgets, sometimes, that not everyone is her, even when she knows very well that not everyone is familiar with seeing dragons around.

[theflyingone]

He tried using his other sense to find a possible puppeteer. It was gone. His intuition, his sight, hit a brick wall each time he tried to stand still and call upon it. He could not fathom how they could have taken it from him. He tried not to panic at apparently having lost the ace up his sleeve.

"This is a dream."

Yet he did not remember going to sleep. And this dream did not turn to a nightmare like so many of his past ones. He could not remember being so lucid either. Usually it was so hard to do things like pick up a book and read, in dreams.

He took one careful step to the side, then another, cocking his head as he moved away from the edge. There was nothing much to do but go along with it. Blend in, so to speak, so a creature (or hidden person) would not think him a threat.

"You were saying? About the... invisible wall?"

[letthemburn]

"If it were a dream, I would hardly have been here so long," Iskierka counters. Nor would she have shown up with at least some of her crew, she's pretty sure. But that detail isn't one that she much cares to share with someone she's only just met.

Not, of course, that she entirely minds being made to fight things but still, this is nothing like what she'd want out of dream. Not by any stretch of the imagination and that's the most important part of the whole thing as far as she's concerned.

"Only that it has always been there, and that they are hardly likely to make it so that it is not. It is dreadfully inconvenient, really."

C

[elfstone]

"It seems you've already figured it out."

Aragorn is seated at the foot of one of the trees in the rooftop garden, smoking a pipe, his legs stretched out in front of him and crossed at the ankle.

[theflyingone]

"Yes. Anyone with a sharp eye can see." Yes, Altaïr, you have a sharp eye, stop bragging.

He sighed. "Would that I had known in that demonstration room. Then perhaps I would not have felt as though struck by lightning." Punches he could take, but his head still felt a bit scrambled from leaping straight into the shock barrier protecting the Gamemaker's viewing window.

"I see you made no move to stop me, should I have failed to see it. Your charity and goodwill is moving." Altaïr might be a killer and an ass, but he still helped little old ladies terrorized by corrupt guards.

OH MY GOD I'm so sorry for this late.

[elfstone]

"You did not have the bearing of a man who sought to end his life," replied Aragorn, taking the barb in stride. "I did not think you would jump."

i've done worse tbh!

[theflyingone]

"There are more reasons than that for a man to jump off a roof." Even in his head those words sounded stupid. "...What I mean is, I had intended to have a look around." Damn. Still sounded stupid.

It was still strange for Altaïr to outright trespass on roofs, but there was more of a rooftop culture in the sprawling cities of the Holy Land. Ladders were common, roof gardens provided shade (and hiding places). However, with buildings getting taller, rooftop access was mostly restricted.

[elfstone]

Altair gets a raised eyebrow.

Aragorn's expression makes it clear that he knows that Altair knows that the explanation makes no sense to someone who doesn't jump off roofs. It says, And you intended to have your look as you fell to your death?

A

[a_minute_younger]

In the window, another reflection appears behind him.

Gary had only been on his way to the kitchen for a late breakfast, passing by the other suites and checking the nameplates on each. He's gotten unconsciously paranoid about that lately, something he hasn't had the mind to notice. Like maybe, if he checks them enough, he'll get some kind of sign that says when the Gamemakers are moving someone out. Or maybe his attention will keep them from moving out at all. Maybe if Gary put some thought into this procedure he would realize how irrational it is. Instead, he sees a new name.

Brazenly, with only the excited anticipation of meeting someone new to guide his actions, Gary slips into the room and sees his new Districtmate checking himself out in the window. He's a little too enthusiastic to try sneaking up on him or playing any welcoming pranks. The direct approach will have to do.

"Hey!" Gary chirps, smile bright beneath unkempt hair. He's still in his pajamas, it's kind of early for him. "You look fine from the back, if it helps!"

[theflyingone]

It was lucky Gary didn't try sneaking up on an assassin. Never a good idea.

"It is not my back that is the problem," he said crossly. Obviously, he resisted adding.

Altaïr turned, giving up his hope that he might be left in peace. He still had remnants of dried blood on his mouth. He raised his brows at Gary's strange yet comfortable-looking garb, then remembered his own appearance. Belatedly, he put his hands down. He wasn't exactly trying to hide his missing finger, but showing off telltale physical traits while being expected to live with captors and captives in close quarters.... He prized his anonymity, even if this was a somewhat futile attempt at it.

[a_minute_younger]

Gary's smile falters, switched out for something blank and vaguely surprised. That...sure is blood. Also, is he missing a finger or is he just counting wrong? The second is more grisly and, therefore, more immediately interesting than the first, but even Gary has the good sense not to introduce himself by blatantly calling out people's missing appendages. Maybe after they've had a few drinks.

The blood, though--they should probably talk about the blood. "Woah, hey," Gary starts, raising a hand in a half-point at Altaïr's mouth. "Did you just get into the red meat, or do you need a doctor or something?"

[theflyingone]

He was used to getting strange looks, but he suspected Gary was alarmed at more than just his foreign appearance or what he was doing. He supposed injuries were rare in this sterile building, but still, weren't they all expected to fight in arenas? One would think the sight of blood was not worthy of concern.

"Neither. Do you mean to tell me I should see a doctor for so small a wound?"

[a_minute_younger]

"I...well, I guess." Gary withdraws his pointed hand to nervously scratch the back of his head. As is usual for him, once he actually thinks about the thing that has caught his attention, he realizes that it's not as drastic as he originally thought. He's been punched in the face before. He knows what a split lip looks like. Guy must have been in some kind of fight.

"You should at least, like, wash it off or something," he shrugs. "Are you okay? Who was knocking you around?"