#levantinementor

It was late in the day, it was the shamed assassin’s second day in Jerusalem. The sun casting a golden glow across the sun baked tops of buildings, the rooftops Altair jumped across with grace and skill. His soft footsteps and ruffle of his coat tail muffled by the activity of the streets. He moved, light foot pads beating on stone before he saw the garden lattice work on the distant roof. The Bureau. Safest place for the assassin in the city. 

Altair was hurt a bit, tired and sweating in his armor. He ran to the opening, dropping down into the cool, shaded garden. The trickle of the cold fountain on the far wall. The flutter of pidgin’s wings. He flopped down in the pile of colorful pillows, grunting as he did so under his hood. With rough hands he started to remove his armor. Peeling it off to get at the cuts on his body that stained his outfit red. 

Send me a ❖ and my muse will kiss yours.

     Darkness had fallen by time the white-clad assassin had returned to the bureau in Jerusalem, and he entirely expected the Rafiq to already be at rest for the night; it surprised him to find otherwise to be true: Malik was up, working on his maps by the light of an old candle that cried fat drops of dirty white wax. 

“Safety and peace." Altair greeted his fellow assassin from the doorway, standing there a moment before entering the inner sanctum of the sanctuary. The Rafiq looked up, a scowl crossing his features as he straightened. 

“You’re late, Altair." The man said, and the assassin dipped his head in acknowledgement of the fact, his blood stained fingers clenching into fists at his sides. Seemingly the other assassin caught the movement and huffed impatiently, expecting a response. 

“Nothing could be done of it; at least my target is dead." He finally replied, withdrawing a blood-soaked feather from within his robes. Malik nodded, though he continued to scowl. 

“Something can always be done, Altair, but fine." The Rafiq responded, waving his one hand in a gesture of irritation at the novice’s thoughts on the matter. Once more Altair dipped his head in respect for the man’s words, but still he lingered. Exasperated, Malik continued. ”I excuse you to your rest now; you can leave in the morning for Masyaf, but I shouldn’t have to tell you that, should I?” At his words the assassin gave a scowl of his own beneath his hood but for the moment said nothing. Sensing his discontentment the Rafiq huffed once more, then set back to his work.

Altair lingered awhile, not saying anything. Then, finally, he approached the desk at which the other assassin worked and stood there. With another huff Malik looked up at him, a scowl still marring his face. ”Yes novice?” He asked bitterly, and the assassin bit his lip, shaking his head. 

“Nothing." What was he so nervous about? Why didn’t he just leave? The other man continued to grimace at the assassin, watching him as if expecting him to start bleating like a goat. Then, after a long moment of this watchfulness, he returned to his work. Silence settled over them again, that was, until Altair reached out grasped the Rafiq’s hand, drawing the man’s attention once more back to him.

When Malik looked up again the assassin leaned forward, catching his mouth in his own for a long kiss. The other assassin stiffened, eyes wide, and Altair could feel the thrum of the other’s heart between the fabric of their robes. They remained locked like that for a few moments more, and then the Syrian pulled away, a sheepish look momentarily crossing his features. 

“What was that for?" The Rafiq demanded angrily, though the assassin could sense a tone of uncertainty in his voice. Why? Surely Malik didn’t share his feelings…? Or maybe… he did? Shaking the thought from his head, the assassin stepped away, then turned without answering and went to the door.

Ask my muse questions about their relationship with another character.

Send 'don't leave' for my muse's reaction.

     Altair balked at the statement, stopping a few footsteps from the door of the sanctuary, his back to the Rafiq standing sentry at the counter behind him. He exhaled and swallowed, then, with fists clenched at his sides, turned to face Malik once more; the assassin’s gaze remained indifferent, though inwardly he questioned the sudden command.

                    Why didn’t the other want him to leave?

                                                  The possibilities made his heart flutter in his chest. 

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Opinion on;

Character in general: Malik is a babeHow they play them: magnificently The Mun: my bby

Do I:

RP with them: YesWant to RP with them: FUCK YES

What is my;

Not like the Journeyman could blame him - Kadar had been his baby brother, even as he had been her brother in training. With Altair having emerged from his sleep of the dead and on a path of 'redemption' as a Novice...

Rami's back teeth ground together.

Altair.

His very name made her want to spit, to curse. The man was a bane upon the Order; it was his fault Kadar was dead and Malik maimed...

The Journeyman weaved through the crowd, dressed in the same generic garb as most the male populace of Jerusalem. Her ind was wandering but her training kept her on the alert for pickpockets and any other stealthy threat.

The last time she had seen Malik...she had been helping to hold him down in his fevered delirium after they had to take his arm. Zahara had been working alone then - with the siege there was so many others wounded that they couldn't justify spending time on a man many of the healers had written off for dead...

...dead like Kadar, whom she had brought home tied to her back, into the hell that was the siege. If it hadn't been for Rauf helping her get Kadar's body to safety...

Not that she had really accepted that he was dead. She wondered if Rauf ever forgave her for breaking his nose in her wild flailing when he dragged her away from Kadar's body.

...her father had taken Kadar's death hard. Faheem had been one of Rahman's dearest friends, and knowing that his son, whom Rahman had trained had died.... Baba blamed himself. She blamed herself - she should have gone with them, even though she had not been ordered to.

If Zahara hadn't expressed her concerns, Kadar's body would have been left to rot in Solomon's temple, his spirit unable to rest...

When she dropped into the Jerusalem Buerau from the rooftop entrance, she wore her Journeyman's greys. Steeling herself, she walked into the Bureau. The Rafiq's robe looked good on Malik...

It seemed like only yesterday she and Kadar had been trainees trailing after Malik in his Journeyman greys with Zahara toddling along behind them. Those days...she wished they had never ended.

Did Malik long for those days too? Of the days of she and Kadar training under the watchful eyes of her Baba and himself, with tiny Zahara playing with her doll at their feet?

...now Zahara was helping take care of Malik, keeping food and drink at his elbow, making sure he took medicine for the pain of his lost arm. Did he resent her little sister for the change in their dynamic, from him being her protector from Abbas and Altair's bullying to her becoming Malik's nursemaid?

"Forgive my impertinace but...everything aspect of an individual says something about the possessor." He seemed to be eyeing up the missing arm of the man before him before eye contact was made.

While your character was comforting mine, in their emotionally unstable state my character kisses yours and asks them to spend the night. How does your character react?

     Altair remains quiet after the kiss, his heart throbbing in his chest as he watched Malik speak and stay near; that was all he wanted in that moment, and he was grateful of the other assassin’s presence. Of course, he’d never admit it openly, but he truly cared for and appreciated the Rafiq of Jerusalem. Malik had every right to hate him, he knew, which made him believe himself a fool for feeling as much, but he considered them more than bound by brotherhood, to say the least.

                              “Thank you, Malik.”

     The assassin finally responded, his gaze averted to the floor. Partly in shame of what he’d done in his exhaustion, and partly in fear of finding the other man’s feelings on his features. Never before had he cowered such as this, but he was tired and sore and that seemed to be more than enough reason to condone his own actions.

     Hesitantly he reaches out with his left hand, pauses several times, then rests it over the Rafiq’s hand. He traces shapes on his olive skin then pulls back, raising his head as he stands; the assassin wavers a moment before regaining himself, and he leans to aside to dip his head in respectful acknowledgement of Malik’s aid.