If you'd like to apply to Snowblind and would like to test the waters first or get a sample set up for your application, this meme is for you! We've even provided some prompts for you to use if you want (but feel free to make up your own). Here's how it works.
✭ Reply to this entry with a character you're considering apping into the game. You can include the name of your character and the fandom in your subject line. ✭ Comment around to others on the meme, whether you're in the game already or not. ✭ Now you have a sample ready for your application! ✭ So go reserve and apply when reservations and applications are open. ✭ Seriously, do it.
Network Prompts
ONE: WAKEY WAKEY You're drawn out of your slumber when your tablet emits an earsplitting SCREECH. No amount of shaking it or hitting it will get it to shut up for five whole minutes, but at the very end it cuts itself off what sounds like a piercing scream. Well, that was weird. Maybe you should check in on the network - someone might have an idea of what that was. Or maybe they'll be just as lost as you are. At least you can all be confused together...
TWO: DON'T LET THE BEDBUGS BITE... It's past curfew, and you've been locked in for the night. But for some reason, you just can't manage to get to sleep. Nightmares giving you grief? General insomnia problems? Well, at least you've got the network to keep you company. Maybe you can get someone to tell you a bedtime story.
Action Prompts
THREE: INCONVENIENCE STORE Congratulations, you've managed to stumble upon the Mallard River Market! But you're not alone. Among the shelves of junk food (just as well-stocked as you would expect from any normal store) you'll find one - or more! - other people there with you. Here's hoping you're not both after the same box of Frosted Toaster Pastries, because things could get ugly fast. Don't linger too long, either; at 7PM, you'll be compelled to leave whether you want to or not and will only have about an hour to find somewhere to take shelter...
FOUR: RUN RUN RUN AS FAST AS YOU CAN It's late. It's cold. There's a bunch of snow around you and you can sort of make out vague shapes in the distance that might be buildings, but in these conditions it's hard to tell. Regardless of what they are, though, you're going to want to hustle - if it hits 8PM and you're still outside, you're not going to make it through the night. Perhaps that person up ahead can help you? Or - if you're already safe and sound - maybe you should head outside to get that poor soul struggling outside in to shelter before they freeze. Good luck!
The long and cold nights in the desert climate of Syria could not match the harsh bite of this night. The only light was the pale reflection of white from the sliver of moon far above, making the snow almost seem to glow with a blue-silver hue which reminded him of iron. The harsh air nearly felt like knives in his throat, and in his eyes. Altaïr blinked a few times, ridding his eyelashes of frost as he made another push forward through the thick snow.
It would be too late for him soon. That feeling of a push towards survival against uncomfortable odds was not new to him and Altaïr struggled against the snow drifts and howling wind with ever growing determination. Even as his body was affected by the deadly elements, he pushed himself harder, his will to survive only grew as his fingers went numb.
Altaïr knew of the phenomenon of mirages, although he had never experienced one he was starting to doubt himself as he thought he saw a new light source up ahead. Anything at this point was worth investigating and the assassin shifted his cold feet to head towards the light instead of the path he had been on.
Altaïr. Vlad recognized him for the off-white robes and red sash he wore, crimson and significant. A beautiful blush to this chilly storm of white frozen winter. Without shelter the man would freeze and suffer greatly before death would take him. Why was he out here on such a hour to risk the irreversible consequences.
He would find out, if he could drag him back successfully into his home.
Vlad was not particular to the extreme elements, though he had grown to enjoy rain –– London had more than it could handle and the streets washed from its imperfections and impurities for it. Gutters overflowed, loitered garbage swiftly riding the tide like proper row boats being sucked into the mouth of a turning wave. Rain could be gorgeously destructive.
But snow, Vlad did not hold the same appreciation for snow as he did rain. Respect, absolutely, but he did not love the pristine killer. As he stepped from the comfort of his home he immediately felt a chill sink into his bones and his lifeless body breathed in the winter's kiss and he felt his very insides begin to frost.
He was quick, however, to get to the man and place his hands upon his shoulders with, "Come! Or death will take us both!" It felt most appropriate to say, regardless how much he believed that to be true. "This way! We do not have far!"
"Lead," Altaïr managed with a hoarse voice he didn't like to recognize as his own, for how weak and affected it sounded. The assassin allowed the touch, more because he had no choice -- he was nearly to collapsing and leaning against the other man allowed him to reserve just enough of his waning strength to continue moving his numb feet. His robes, and his leather, were no more meant for this weather than he was.
Altaïr continued leaning on the man until they were inside and the difference in temperature immediately had his face turning red. It felt as if the indoor heat were thawing his very throat and he began to cough because of the irritation. Whatever surface he was nearby to (chair, table, stool) he did not care, he moved himself to lean over it rather than against the man.
Once he had Altaïr in his home he shut the door tightly and moved for the hall to fetch a blanket. The thick blanket looked freshly made, perhaps a year old, and the quality of the yarn used in its making was warm and cream colored. He handed the Afghan blanket to Altaïr and then turned his attention to the crackling flames in his hearth.
Of course this house really wasn’t his but for the few days he’s been here already he has fixed it up to be comfortable. It would be only a few more days before he would need to move on or else his mind would take to an illness his vampiric status could not guard against. Like much here, he’s come to find.
Once he feed more wood to the fire he turned then to look at the other. “What .. were you doing out there so late?”
Even though he was struggling badly still, he was also doing his best not to show it. He was proud enough, and blind enough to his current situation and the fact that he put himself there, that Altaïr ignorant thought he was pulling off looking fine. He did not in reality look fine at all. His face was bright red, there was frost on the sparse five o'clock shadow he had, and frost embedded so deep in his clothing that that they were stiff.
Altaïr was slumped against a chair, struggling to even remain standing as he tried to use one hand to wrap the blanket over his clothes. The other hand was planted on the chair arm to keep himself upright. As much as it felt as if he were hurrying, Vlad was suddenly back and looking at him, and asking him a question. Only one shoulder was covered in the blanket.
The truth was not something he was ready to admit, that he had been paranoid, hallucinating, and driven from his previous shelter. "I had to move. I could not find shelter."
”Ah, as it is.. we all… must move.” Vlad watched the other for a moment and found himself feeling a small pinch of pity. Having lived as long as he had Vlad considered that some of his biases came from his long lived years. For insistence he found himself more concerned on Altaïr’s mannerisms than what the other was currently saying — were he to take everything into consideration he would have perhaps concluded that the Syrian was dazed and confused rather than stubborn or modest. Either way, “You need to take those clothes off and I will set them by the fire to dry..” He said flatly.
“It is best to do our moving at day break —“ strange for myself.. to say such a thing. Vlad did not often do anything at morning’s first light.
The vampire moved to the fire and turned his back to Altaïr.
It was still an insult that his weapons had been stripped from him, even his hidden blade, and all that it symbolized. The hidden blade was more than a weapon of his Brotherhood, it was the instrument with which they enacted change, justice, and freedom in their world. Now, in this place, his own freedom was stripped from him and he was grossly unequipped to do anything about it at the current time.
Altaïr would not strip his clothes, not to this man who in that moment symbolized the injustice of his situation and the freedom he now lacked. If it was his choice to remain hidden in this last vestige of his Brotherhood, he would do so. It was his pride, it was his identity, and he refused to shed it.
Instead, he pushed himself carefully around the chair to sit on it rather than lean on it. Slowly but steadily he began getting the blanket more properly around him although he could not yet feel the heat it might offer, through his thick robes.
If he froze, Vlad thought with some benefit to himself, he’ll take the bit of life left in the other for himself. Terminally stubborn, however, was this man’s diagnosis. “Mm.” He was quiet a moment as he thought about the situation he was in as an equal like the others. If he had stayed out there any longer than he would believe himself to truly die, regardless of his many years of immortality he felt the risk of death here like he hadn’t felt it for over centuries.
Vlad then traced his steps to the window to watch the falling darkness — even standing here with the glass panel between himself and the winter death he felt its threat.
The two of them had spoken before, over the network, but they were still strangers here. That, as well, troubled Vlad for he was not accustomed to not being the worst force on earth, here it was this damning winter.
The silence suited him well, as the heat from the far and the comfort of the blanket began to seep through his frosted clothing. The more they thawed, the more wet and heavy they felt, and the assassin began accepting the heaviness of his limbs and tremble in his hands. Altaïr closed his eyes and huddled against himself for several minutes. With some luck, the man would go to bed and leave him to quickly try himself and get some sleep as well.
Before then, he would take this opportunity to learn more of the other. Altaïr opened his eyes and found Vlad in the room again, by the window, and he wondered for a moment if he had dozed off or if it was only a few minutes as he thought it had been. "Vlad, have you lived in this house for long?"
”Three days.” He said with a slow shake of his head. Vlad stood with his arms behind his back and his hands clasped together. His head was lowered and he was slouched, his eyes narrowed out into the darkness and his pose suffered its usual good posture so that he might chance a sight at some sort of answer in the blur. “And I will leave in two.”
Vlad straightened and turned to face Altaïr, his arms moved to his sides and he took a few steps toward where the ancient Syrian sat. “I have been here long enough to understand there is some correlation to the toxic that grows in my mind and the length of time I spend in the shelters that I find.”
That explained what had happened to him, Altaïr realized and felt the same way he did when Malik would give him a tongue lashing for his short-sightedness. Altaïr gave a small sound from his throat, which turned into a cough, which was interrupted by a loud sneeze. He shifted uncomfortably in the chair before looking up to the man from under his hood. The hood was starting to drip as it thawed out, making the stubborn man look even more ridiculous than he already did in his stubbornness.
"I stayed too long, it seems," he was willing to admit. Thinking of Malik had a calming effect on him, and he found himself strangely longing for the bruising, sandy, blistering hot winds of the desert. Right now that sounded much better than this.
"Do you know where you will go?" Altaïr thought to ask, blinking up at Vlad again before another, harder sneeze shook him.
Vlad gave a small nod, his eyes went to the bottom of Altaïr’s chair where droplets of thawed ice collected in pools of water beneath the other. His eyes then slowly moved up to the shadowed darkness that would be his face. The only real shapes he had been able to make out thus far through the interactions he’s had with Altaïr was the man’s jaw, his lips, and a teasing glimpse of the man’s throat.
His blood would be warm. Vlad thought on that for a moment before the fingers on his left hand curled into a fist. I could have him easily, he is still half frozen and only just barely coming out of his dazed confusion. Temptation was so easy as he lived, breathed, and flocked with his food — a true wolf in sheep’s wool. Vlad’s lips parted and he exhaled before taking in a fresh breath through his nostrils. The scent of the other came strong beneath the winter’s stale chill that coated Altaïr.
“Wherever others are..” He answered slowly. “Some place close..” Vlad wondered if he would find some more helpful items on the way. Such as this Afghan blanket Altaïr drenched more than he allowed it to warm him due to his stubbornness. Or embarrassment? Vlad cocked his head and he addressed this, “why do you choose to suffer.. with your … frozen, wet, robes?”
"..." Altaïr opened his mouth but no sound came out as he wondered on whether his reasons would make sense to the man or not, or what business it even was of his. He recognized his stubbornness as it reared its head again and he ended up looking away as he considered his options.
Perhaps Vlad was owed an explanation after he took him in from the cold, but Altaïr did not feel like sharing. Instead, he gave the man the satisfaction of knowing he was he was heard: Altaïr stood up and turned his back to Vlad and began disrobing. Off came the boots, the leather straps, the useless bracers, and finally his hood, outer robe, and undershirt. Altaïr left the trousers on, and kept his back to Vlad while reaching behind him to grab the blanket.
He turned the blanket inside out and wrapped it around himself, essentially creating a new hood out of the blanket so that when he sat back down, his face was still shadowed. He didn't say a word.
Vlad had to recognize the satisfaction he felt in Altaïr’s recognition in how ridiculous his handling of his well-being was. He was glad the Syrian decided on a smarter resolution to his predicament. Vlad also recognized his hunger thriving at the bared skin before him, but he kept a distance and would not feed from the Syrian. For a few reasons the predominant one being that he found a comfort of familiarity within the other and he rather liked the feeling of home that came with Altaïr’s ancient descent from the past. Despite the few centuries between himself and Altaïr, the other was the closest reminder of his very old life.
There was a dusty rug in front of the hearth but he was sure it would satisfy Altaïr for the night if he chose it. For himself, he would sleep in the mostly decayed living room chair that sat off to the side, a few feet from the fire and a few feet from the window. There was no other heat source to the home and they would have to share this fire for adequate comfort through the chill of night.
“You are welcome to stay, I do not have much.. but you may use what you can find. Myself, I will sleep there,” he gestured to the chair, “and I will not disturb you any more this night.” With that Vlad took his seat, stretched out his legs, rest his arms over his lap, and settled his head back against the chair. It was uncomfortable but his body was too tired to care, and sleep would have him like it had him centuries ago.
Jun may not have recognized him personally, but the cut of Altair's hood and the red of his sash was more than enough for her to pull a scarf over her nose and mouth and get out in to the cold to help him in. A Brother was a Brother, no matter how foolishly out in the bitter cold he was.
She stabbed the end of her dart in to the doorframe, using it as a tether if the snow got any thicker. Warmer dressed men and women had frozen to death feet from their front door for want of a clear path in winters she knew of.
"Come, Brother! I have fire!"
Edited (Naming conventions are hard to remember switching between ) 2015-07-02 08:09 (UTC)
By then he could hardly see, and it would not be until a minute later that he would recognize the style of her clothes marking her as an ally. It didn't matter in that life-or-death situation regardless: Altaïr would have gone with almost anyone in that moment of weakness.
His hand reached out for hers and once she took it, he used her strength for his own in getting inside of the shelter. Altaïr struggled inside and fell to one knee, with labored breaths which felt like shards of ice in his lungs and throat. The irritation had him coughing as he huddled his hands close to his chest before he rubbed them together. In a small attempt to warm his fingers he blew on them but his breath was no warm balm at all.
Altaïr relaxed, despite still feeling cold to his core, now that he knew he would be able to eventually thaw out. It was then that he looked over towards the woman who had brought him in to safety and he looked over her dark hood and red sash. "Who are you?" he asked across chattering teeth, his obvious accent that of a Middle-Eastern man.
It was a relatively small shelter, though there was a closed door that likely led to some other room. There were curtains covering the windows as well as another currently tied aside to give access to the door. It's enough that the fire doesn't need to be larger than needed for cooking, and there's a pot of something bubbling faintly over it.
"I am Shao Jun. You will get warm faster if you take off your robes." She said, her own accent faint but still evident, crossing towards him and taking a blanket that was still warm from her own use and draping it over his back. She then went to the fire, picking up a bowl and pouring some of the contents of the pot out for him. "Broth, it is weak but hot."
"Shao Jun. Thank you." Altaïr was not yet so far gone he did not understand that she had very likely saved his life. Already he felt better, despite how the warmth of the room almost hurt against the cold of his skin. His robes were wet and heavy, cold and doing him no good. Altaïr ignored the logical advice regarding their removal, despite that.
He did go for the broth however. Altaïr settled himself on the floor and stretched his aching limbs before he reached up and took the bowl. For the moment he did not take a drink; he let the bowl warm his hands, and the steam warm his face under his hood. While the warm air relaxed him and rejuvenated him, the assassin glanced several times up at the woman. Female assassins were not unheard of by any means, but they were not nearly as common as the men, and he did not know much of the other sects outside of Syria. Her robes were unique to her sect, he would guess, as he had not seen their like before. "I am Altaïr."
Jun's lips pressed together in disapproval at him keeping his robes on, but lifted a shoulder in a shrug. "I could not leave you outside my door to freeze, Altair. Brother or not, it would not sit well with me to do so."
She settled across the fire from him, watching him from the depths of her own hood for a long moment. He was interesting; the cut of his robes was reminiscent of those she'd see in her travel to and from Italy, and the missing finger jiggled something in her memory of tales.
"Which of our Brotherhoods are you from? I do not recognize the style you wear."
"I would say the same," murmured with his eyes closed, face still bent over the hot bowl. Only when he felt ready did Altaïr take a few careful sips of the broth. If it had been poisoned she may as well have left him in the cold, he reasoned, and had an easier time of his death. Altaïr did not think she meant him any harm but he could not help the thought which crossed his mind passingly as he swallowed.
A sigh left his mouth as the first real warmth seeped into him thanks to the hot liquid down his throat. It felt like a god send. Altaïr took one more sip before he lifted his head to answer her question.
"I am from Syria, by the Byzantine Sea." She had no reason to know it was specifically in Masyaf just as it was safer for him not to know where exactly her local bureau or master sect was housed. "You?"
Jun hadn't had another bowl, the thought to take a second hadn't occured at the time and she hadn't really needed one either. There was enough to carry as it was, and every little bit of weight mattered in the end.
"China, though I have seen many of our brothers and sisters between there and Italy." She answered, nodding. "This is not my first time far from home, though I prefer most other places I have been to here."
Even the prison hadn't been as unpleasant as here, as much as hanging in a cage had been an annoyance there was a known plan of escape then and the chance to do so. There was also the fact of being short every weapon save herself, but there was little to be done about that at the moment.
"Are there others here? We should stay together either way, there is safety in numbers."
"In numb-- in numbers..." Altaïr stopped and stared to the side, fighting against a giant sneeze which came despite his best efforts to quell it. The hot soup sloshed in the bowl thought with some luck only a little spilled onto his hand. Altaïr squeezed his eyes shut and cleared his throat before looking up to the woman again.
"...in numbers we draw more attention to ourselves." Generally speaking anyway, when on missions. Sects of assassins were more efficient for a gathering place of training, shared knowledge, and decisions on tactics and targets. Altaïr frowned slightly then shook his head. This was not a situation like he had experienced before. Sometimes he had been very alone in his missions against poor odds but he was able to rely on himself and his combat skills to get through.
Here, he did not know who his enemy even was, as it seemed it was the land and weather itself! These were not conditions in which he was able to use pure strength and perseverance to a winning advantage. "Perhaps here, it will be a risk we must take," he had to admit. "I know of no others but us two."
Jun ducked her head, hiding her amusement at his sneeze.
"Two is better than being alone." She nodded, adding a bit of wood to the fire. "Especially when we do not yet know who we can trust at our backs or when our eyes are closed."
Even then, she had heard stories both old and more recent of Assassins turning on their own. Betrayal was hard on them, worse if it caused the end of a group of them. They always recovered though, and rebuilt. Ezio had done it in Italy and it had been enough for her and her own Mentor to make the journey to meet him and learn.
"Forgive me, but how are you in unarmed combat? I can help you practice, if you need it. Motion will help you warm up some."
His limbs felt heavy and tired, and Altaïr wanted little more than to curl up there and sleep. However, his pride would not let him, and neither would her words which seemed a challenge to him. It was not within his personality to take any challenge to his abilities lightly and her words earned her a long look from him before he took another sip from the bowl.
The broth felt warm and revitalizing, and Altaïr gathered enough strength to stand up and set the bowl aside. He shrugged off the blanket and began stretching his back, shoulders and fingers. "I am better with the blade," he admitted, not being humble but rather stating a fact.
"Sadly we do not have blades on hand." She pointed out bluntly, rising in a fluid motion.
There was a certain grace to the way she moved, one born of a perfect awareness of her own body and how it can or cannot move. Good as she is with a sword in hand, she's spent far more of her life using her hands and the blade usually in her foot to end lives when needed.
She moves around to face him, balance shifted to the balls of her feet.
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snowblindmemes2015-06-23 03:54 pm
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad || Assassin's Creed
The long and cold nights in the desert climate of Syria could not match the harsh bite of this night. The only light was the pale reflection of white from the sliver of moon far above, making the snow almost seem to glow with a blue-silver hue which reminded him of iron. The harsh air nearly felt like knives in his throat, and in his eyes. Altaïr blinked a few times, ridding his eyelashes of frost as he made another push forward through the thick snow.
It would be too late for him soon. That feeling of a push towards survival against uncomfortable odds was not new to him and Altaïr struggled against the snow drifts and howling wind with ever growing determination. Even as his body was affected by the deadly elements, he pushed himself harder, his will to survive only grew as his fingers went numb.
Altaïr knew of the phenomenon of mirages, although he had never experienced one he was starting to doubt himself as he thought he saw a new light source up ahead. Anything at this point was worth investigating and the assassin shifted his cold feet to head towards the light instead of the path he had been on.
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He would find out, if he could drag him back successfully into his home.
Vlad was not particular to the extreme elements, though he had grown to enjoy rain –– London had more than it could handle and the streets washed from its imperfections and impurities for it. Gutters overflowed, loitered garbage swiftly riding the tide like proper row boats being sucked into the mouth of a turning wave. Rain could be gorgeously destructive.
But snow, Vlad did not hold the same appreciation for snow as he did rain. Respect, absolutely, but he did not love the pristine killer. As he stepped from the comfort of his home he immediately felt a chill sink into his bones and his lifeless body breathed in the winter's kiss and he felt his very insides begin to frost.
He was quick, however, to get to the man and place his hands upon his shoulders with, "Come! Or death will take us both!" It felt most appropriate to say, regardless how much he believed that to be true. "This way! We do not have far!"
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Altaïr continued leaning on the man until they were inside and the difference in temperature immediately had his face turning red. It felt as if the indoor heat were thawing his very throat and he began to cough because of the irritation. Whatever surface he was nearby to (chair, table, stool) he did not care, he moved himself to lean over it rather than against the man.
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Of course this house really wasn’t his but for the few days he’s been here already he has fixed it up to be comfortable. It would be only a few more days before he would need to move on or else his mind would take to an illness his vampiric status could not guard against. Like much here, he’s come to find.
Once he feed more wood to the fire he turned then to look at the other. “What .. were you doing out there so late?”
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Altaïr was slumped against a chair, struggling to even remain standing as he tried to use one hand to wrap the blanket over his clothes. The other hand was planted on the chair arm to keep himself upright. As much as it felt as if he were hurrying, Vlad was suddenly back and looking at him, and asking him a question. Only one shoulder was covered in the blanket.
The truth was not something he was ready to admit, that he had been paranoid, hallucinating, and driven from his previous shelter. "I had to move. I could not find shelter."
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“It is best to do our moving at day break —“ strange for myself.. to say such a thing. Vlad did not often do anything at morning’s first light.
The vampire moved to the fire and turned his back to Altaïr.
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Altaïr would not strip his clothes, not to this man who in that moment symbolized the injustice of his situation and the freedom he now lacked. If it was his choice to remain hidden in this last vestige of his Brotherhood, he would do so. It was his pride, it was his identity, and he refused to shed it.
Instead, he pushed himself carefully around the chair to sit on it rather than lean on it. Slowly but steadily he began getting the blanket more properly around him although he could not yet feel the heat it might offer, through his thick robes.
"Agreed."
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Vlad then traced his steps to the window to watch the falling darkness — even standing here with the glass panel between himself and the winter death he felt its threat.
The two of them had spoken before, over the network, but they were still strangers here. That, as well, troubled Vlad for he was not accustomed to not being the worst force on earth, here it was this damning winter.
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Before then, he would take this opportunity to learn more of the other. Altaïr opened his eyes and found Vlad in the room again, by the window, and he wondered for a moment if he had dozed off or if it was only a few minutes as he thought it had been. "Vlad, have you lived in this house for long?"
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Vlad straightened and turned to face Altaïr, his arms moved to his sides and he took a few steps toward where the ancient Syrian sat. “I have been here long enough to understand there is some correlation to the toxic that grows in my mind and the length of time I spend in the shelters that I find.”
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"I stayed too long, it seems," he was willing to admit. Thinking of Malik had a calming effect on him, and he found himself strangely longing for the bruising, sandy, blistering hot winds of the desert. Right now that sounded much better than this.
"Do you know where you will go?" Altaïr thought to ask, blinking up at Vlad again before another, harder sneeze shook him.
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His blood would be warm. Vlad thought on that for a moment before the fingers on his left hand curled into a fist. I could have him easily, he is still half frozen and only just barely coming out of his dazed confusion. Temptation was so easy as he lived, breathed, and flocked with his food — a true wolf in sheep’s wool. Vlad’s lips parted and he exhaled before taking in a fresh breath through his nostrils. The scent of the other came strong beneath the winter’s stale chill that coated Altaïr.
“Wherever others are..” He answered slowly. “Some place close..” Vlad wondered if he would find some more helpful items on the way. Such as this Afghan blanket Altaïr drenched more than he allowed it to warm him due to his stubbornness. Or embarrassment? Vlad cocked his head and he addressed this, “why do you choose to suffer.. with your … frozen, wet, robes?”
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Perhaps Vlad was owed an explanation after he took him in from the cold, but Altaïr did not feel like sharing. Instead, he gave the man the satisfaction of knowing he was he was heard: Altaïr stood up and turned his back to Vlad and began disrobing. Off came the boots, the leather straps, the useless bracers, and finally his hood, outer robe, and undershirt. Altaïr left the trousers on, and kept his back to Vlad while reaching behind him to grab the blanket.
He turned the blanket inside out and wrapped it around himself, essentially creating a new hood out of the blanket so that when he sat back down, his face was still shadowed. He didn't say a word.
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There was a dusty rug in front of the hearth but he was sure it would satisfy Altaïr for the night if he chose it. For himself, he would sleep in the mostly decayed living room chair that sat off to the side, a few feet from the fire and a few feet from the window. There was no other heat source to the home and they would have to share this fire for adequate comfort through the chill of night.
“You are welcome to stay, I do not have much.. but you may use what you can find. Myself, I will sleep there,” he gestured to the chair, “and I will not disturb you any more this night.” With that Vlad took his seat, stretched out his legs, rest his arms over his lap, and settled his head back against the chair. It was uncomfortable but his body was too tired to care, and sleep would have him like it had him centuries ago.
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She stabbed the end of her dart in to the doorframe, using it as a tether if the snow got any thicker. Warmer dressed men and women had frozen to death feet from their front door for want of a clear path in winters she knew of.
"Come, Brother! I have fire!"
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His hand reached out for hers and once she took it, he used her strength for his own in getting inside of the shelter. Altaïr struggled inside and fell to one knee, with labored breaths which felt like shards of ice in his lungs and throat. The irritation had him coughing as he huddled his hands close to his chest before he rubbed them together. In a small attempt to warm his fingers he blew on them but his breath was no warm balm at all.
Altaïr relaxed, despite still feeling cold to his core, now that he knew he would be able to eventually thaw out. It was then that he looked over towards the woman who had brought him in to safety and he looked over her dark hood and red sash. "Who are you?" he asked across chattering teeth, his obvious accent that of a Middle-Eastern man.
no subject
"I am Shao Jun. You will get warm faster if you take off your robes." She said, her own accent faint but still evident, crossing towards him and taking a blanket that was still warm from her own use and draping it over his back. She then went to the fire, picking up a bowl and pouring some of the contents of the pot out for him. "Broth, it is weak but hot."
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He did go for the broth however. Altaïr settled himself on the floor and stretched his aching limbs before he reached up and took the bowl. For the moment he did not take a drink; he let the bowl warm his hands, and the steam warm his face under his hood. While the warm air relaxed him and rejuvenated him, the assassin glanced several times up at the woman. Female assassins were not unheard of by any means, but they were not nearly as common as the men, and he did not know much of the other sects outside of Syria. Her robes were unique to her sect, he would guess, as he had not seen their like before. "I am Altaïr."
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She settled across the fire from him, watching him from the depths of her own hood for a long moment. He was interesting; the cut of his robes was reminiscent of those she'd see in her travel to and from Italy, and the missing finger jiggled something in her memory of tales.
"Which of our Brotherhoods are you from? I do not recognize the style you wear."
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A sigh left his mouth as the first real warmth seeped into him thanks to the hot liquid down his throat. It felt like a god send. Altaïr took one more sip before he lifted his head to answer her question.
"I am from Syria, by the Byzantine Sea." She had no reason to know it was specifically in Masyaf just as it was safer for him not to know where exactly her local bureau or master sect was housed. "You?"
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"China, though I have seen many of our brothers and sisters between there and Italy." She answered, nodding. "This is not my first time far from home, though I prefer most other places I have been to here."
Even the prison hadn't been as unpleasant as here, as much as hanging in a cage had been an annoyance there was a known plan of escape then and the chance to do so. There was also the fact of being short every weapon save herself, but there was little to be done about that at the moment.
"Are there others here? We should stay together either way, there is safety in numbers."
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"...in numbers we draw more attention to ourselves." Generally speaking anyway, when on missions. Sects of assassins were more efficient for a gathering place of training, shared knowledge, and decisions on tactics and targets. Altaïr frowned slightly then shook his head. This was not a situation like he had experienced before. Sometimes he had been very alone in his missions against poor odds but he was able to rely on himself and his combat skills to get through.
Here, he did not know who his enemy even was, as it seemed it was the land and weather itself! These were not conditions in which he was able to use pure strength and perseverance to a winning advantage. "Perhaps here, it will be a risk we must take," he had to admit. "I know of no others but us two."
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"Two is better than being alone." She nodded, adding a bit of wood to the fire. "Especially when we do not yet know who we can trust at our backs or when our eyes are closed."
Even then, she had heard stories both old and more recent of Assassins turning on their own. Betrayal was hard on them, worse if it caused the end of a group of them. They always recovered though, and rebuilt. Ezio had done it in Italy and it had been enough for her and her own Mentor to make the journey to meet him and learn.
"Forgive me, but how are you in unarmed combat? I can help you practice, if you need it. Motion will help you warm up some."
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The broth felt warm and revitalizing, and Altaïr gathered enough strength to stand up and set the bowl aside. He shrugged off the blanket and began stretching his back, shoulders and fingers. "I am better with the blade," he admitted, not being humble but rather stating a fact.
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There was a certain grace to the way she moved, one born of a perfect awareness of her own body and how it can or cannot move. Good as she is with a sword in hand, she's spent far more of her life using her hands and the blade usually in her foot to end lives when needed.
She moves around to face him, balance shifted to the balls of her feet.
"When you are ready."