#thread x.

          A storm had blown in over Novigrad, a banshee wind screaming above the           crackle of thunder && cold, harsh lightning. Dark clouds rimmed blood red           by the setting sun bubbled above the city, the shadows flickering with the           crimson tone of raw flame. By time the sun set the streets were awash           with oily rain, the downpour an echo of black ichor raining from a battlefield.           Altair stood hunched beneath a low wooden awning, hood drawn up over his           head, golden eyes flashing the darkness of the alleyway. Across the muddy           thoroughfare two witch hunters stood in the glowing light of a torch, their           shadows on the street resembling monsters; they spoke in low tones,            unaware of the Nilfgaardian mage lurking in the dark that encroached on            their small bubble of light like hungry wolves. One of the men turns, eyes            tumbling over his surroundings with harsh disinterest. Then he looks back            to his comrade, their conversation continuing in a whisper.

           After a moment of pause the black haired man presses forward into the lane,            eyes on his prey, pace slow && delicate. The hunters don’t even realize they            have been hunted until one lays on the ground, blood bubbling from his lips,            the other pressed to the wall, a knife protruding from his back. Quickly Altair            removes the blade, slipping it back beneath his cloak. He crouches next to            the fallen witch hunter, gloved hands slipping into the man’s tunic pocket to            remove a parcel wrapped in rough cloth. Standing, the mage opens the cloth            to reveal the lightly glowing amulet inside. Smiling tightly, he covers it again            && stashes it away, gaze turning to the alley mouth when he feels another            presence. He immediately goes into a defensive state of mind, stepping            back from the bodies, hand slipping to the hilt of his blade.

          With a low sigh the prince rubs at his forehead, elbows resting on the           long table where he && his council sat; they’d been bickering since           dawn, arguing about the impending war with the neighboring empire.           Scouts had been seen in the border mountains, near the dragonrider           fortress of Karnil, && battle plans had been the topic of debate for the           past several hours. Altair shields a yawn, glancing out over his seated           advisers with sharp golden eyes. At the moment they’d come to a           stalemate, glowering at each other in uncomfortable silence. Finally           he decides to break it, standing up, palms pressed to the table.

          “No more of this!” He says calmly, gaze falling on each man in turn.           “Debating like this does nothing; we must act, && we must prepare           ourselves for the inevitable. I want the riders readied; send a unit to           Karnil && the other border fortresses; I want a spy in the outpost on           the border, along with a sentry in the nearest village. Double the           guard outside the keep, && send word to the other holds, immediately.           Do whatever must be done to unite the holds && get the support we           need, but I want it quiet. I want reports daily, && I want the efforts of           the recruits && the riders redoubled. If we are to be prepared we must           stand together. Now let’s do this. Reconvene after dusk, && we can           make adjustments from there. Council dismissed.” His tone is low,           but intense, every word heavy with the situation. Before anyone can           interject he pushes his chair back && turns away, Malik peeling away           from the wall to join him as he exits the war room.

               The man with brown eyes had come to the shore often, walking among                the shallow pools at low tide, sitting on the rocks at high. Altair had                been watching him for weeks now, from the water &. from land, noting                everything about him; it had been some time since the merman’s last                capture, &. the man had left him captivated. Hungry.

                It takes every part of him to appear human, though he can only maintain                 it for short periods of time. He often paced the shore, golden gaze                 roving over the sand with nonchalant interest, looking for another victim,                 another essence to steal from, to purge. He rarely spoke to anyone, he                 just watched, but today, as dusk broke over the waves, he moved to                 stand beside the brown eyed man, his target. Standing so close made                 the hunger burn in his throat, made his human fingers tremble with                 ecstasy at the idea of a fresh kill. Slowly he reaches out, touches his                 shoulder, the cloth of his shirt damp beneath Altair’s fingers.

               When the day grew late, or clouds covered the sky, &. the river                water became cool, even in the depths, it became prudent to                swim a little closer to the surface, taking in the remainder of the                light &. warmth, if there was any. On especially dark days one                grew tired quickly in the shadows of the bank, &. finding refuge                in the still waters of ponds that diverged from the great river was                the best idea to keep oneself occupied, &. relatively warm.

               Though it had snowed earlier within the week, the sun had melted                most of the frost, despite hiding behind grim clouds now. The                water was cool, the current strong but icy, carrying the melt from                inland to sea. So Altair had maintained an occupancy in a small                pond not far from his usual swimming grounds. It was quiet, a                bit warmer than the river, &. isolated enough from humans that he                could swim peacefully, &. near the surface.

                His sandy tail flicks through the still water, leaving nary a bubble                 trail in his wake as he makes short rounds, often coming to a pause                 on the rocky pond bed, no more than a 100 feet below the surface.                 The catshark is relaxing there now when a shadow falls over the                 water, startling him into movement beneath the lip of the shallower                 bed. He watches the shadow, tail stirring slowly in apprehension.

               “You are... are... I have no words... so beautiful. I                am... lucky, a lucky man. I love you. We can...                finally be at peace. No more war... just you. I...                love you so much.” It’s a mix of alcohol &. pain                relieving concoctions; he really shouldn’t be                drinking, injured as he was, but it was time for a                celebration. Even if he usually refused to touch                alcohol, this was a special occasion. “So much.”

               “Was this your plan all along, Stark? Get me to drink                your... fancy alcohol, get my tongue loose, my truths                out in the open? I swear, if you think...” He shakes his                head, slightly wobbling on his stool. “If you think I will                bend to you in this state, I will not.”

               “Holy fuck, I’m going to die. I’m not ready for this shit. I’m                not like... I can’t... I just can’t. Bruh. This is epic, but I’m...                I’m going to go look at stuff. I’m in fucking London during                 the industrial revolution, holy shit! This is awesome! I                just... have to watch out for people. Things. Stuff. I can’t                kill anyone. I can’t do anything. Fuck, I’m going to mess                up history. I’m going to do something stupid, I can feel it.”

               This isn’t an overreaction, no, Murphy is perfectly calm.                She has everything under control... everything. No, she                can’t swallow the anxiety building up in her chest, can’t                restrain the thoughts running errant through her head. It’s                the 1800′s, it’s amazing! It’s going to be amazing! She                just can’t... do anything. God does the butterfly effect suck.

               “&. there I thought you weren’t going to show up.” The                assassin remarks, looking up from under his hood. “I                had no desire for this meeting, mind you, but there is                a greater power that wishes for you to... be useful.”