He'd avoided jumping straight into drawing the buildings, wondering he he'd be suspected of trying to memorize their facades for easier climbing. Perhaps after this next flower.... There was a young (presumably European) boy fiddling with papers nearby, but Altaïr ignored him until he approached. He had already occupied the table in this corner of the garden, and it hadn't occurred to him to share.

His accent was strange, different than the native citizens of this city, but Altaïr paid that about as much mind as he did all the other languages and customs he could encounter back home, even within a single city; he noted it, then filed it away as simple fact, and not something to ogle or point out. The tawny man met Europeans on pilgrimages or (unfortunately) Crusades, and even learned three of their languages. That helped him listen in on their conversations.

"They sell them in stores around the city, though mostly just to artists and craftsmen. The ink is different than the ones I remember. Otherwise, it seems everyone prefers to write with the kind that stays in the pen."

He pointed to one of the ballpoints with his free hand to show him. There was no getting around the fact that his missing finger was more noticeable here, trapped in a building full of people he was forced to see again and again. This sort of situation had him questioning the Brotherhood's tradition of removing it for the use of the hidden blade. If the blade's design could be altered.... But that was a problem for another time.

"I am neither an artist nor a craftsman, but I do enjoy the hobby."