sixthiterationlogs | One | Altaïr Can't Swim (it's a trending tag on AO3)

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One | Altaïr Can't Swim (it's a trending tag on AO3)

WHO: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
WHERE: South Village fountain
WHEN: Beginning October 28
OPEN TO: Anyone who wants to find a half-drowned and confused Assassin.
WARNINGS: Arabic cursing. (Both cursing in Arabic and an Arabic man cursing.)

Water.

It would permanently be his bane.

He had expected his afterlife to be anything but that, if he was to have one at all. After all he'd seen, he'd more suspected that after death came nothing. A lack of existence. An ending, and nothing more. If he ascribed to the Christian notions, he would surely be relegated to their hell for the lives he'd taken, and for a moment, it occurred to him that this was it. A form of eternal torment by the water filling his lungs, his hands finding no purchase. Was he to spend the rest of time dying over and over again in water?

But his body had panicked for him. Fighting against the water, struggling, flailing wildly and completely without skill. He could feel his lungs burning from what he'd inhaled before he'd begun to hold his breath, the ache of a cough wanting to break free but he knew that if he opened his mouth, only more water would rush in--

He coughed. His lungs filled further, and fear took hold of his heart. No. No, he could not spend eternity this way, dying again and again with what looked like sky past the water's surface. Again, he coughed. His lungs were getting heavier, his vision dimmer. No!

And then--

And then, even in the depths, he could breathe, except it... it wasn't breathing. Water was still passing into him, but his vision began to clear and his limbs felt less sluggish and his mind slowly climbed away from the base reactions of survival toward true and rational thought.

He was breathing water. How?

His mind sought reasons, but with his calm came buoyancy. He began to rise toward the surface, a hand reaching out toward the nearest wall, touching stone, able to use it to push upward, and when he broke free and took hold of the stone with his entire arms, he bent over it. He coughed once, twice, water pouring from his mouth and nose in a painful rush, but then he was breathing air. Clear, cool air.

Willpower pulled him over the edge, onto the ground, where he laid on his stomach and relished the simple act of breathing. He'd been short of breath for years, coughing with any exertion, but never had it felt so horrible as that. "Al'ama," he groaned, head turned sideways to rest on the ground before, with excruciating slowness, he pushed himself up to sit. "'Ana kabir fi alsini lihadha."

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Bull had been passing by the fountain on his way back to his house with a load of firewood on his back when he had seen the commotion of a new arrival but there had been plenty of people there and he knows he can be intimidating to most people so he holds off until it looks like they got the new arrival taken care of. He drops the wood off at his cabin and then heads for the inn, it was around lunch time anyway and he might as well see if this new arrival was someone he knows.

He steps inside the inn and looks for the face he doesn't know and then heads for him. "Hello there."

((OOC: I figured it was best not to crowd him at the fountain so I assumed he got to the inn at some point. If that doesn't work, let me know and I'll write up something else. ))

[OOC: That's fine with me!]

Once he'd been directed to the inn, that, at least, was simple enough for him to work through. After finding a bit of privacy, he had dried off, changed into the set of clothing in the pack he'd found nearby - the colour was still odd, but if it was dress in this shade or go naked, he'd dress, even if it seemed... not enough. He'd grown used to layers in his old age.

Of course, he had also grown used to old age. Being young again was more than a surprise, and one he was still adjusting to, looking down at his hands and seeing strength instead of frailty. He had heard an approach, but he had expected... Not what he saw. As Altaïr looked up, and then further up, one thing certainly became clear:

"If I had any remaining doubts that I have left the Levant, they have just been erased."

"I have no idea what or where that is, but I take it that is not somewhere with Qunari." He gestures to himself as he moves to sit down.

"You were the one who came out of the fountain not that long ago?" He offers his hand. "I am The Iron Bull."

A word and definition to remember: Qunari. Giants with horns and skin that resembles stone. The Apple had never shown him the like - which, to him, meant that there was no such people in the world from which he'd came. The structure of the word felt familiar, which was interesting, but sometimes, a coincidence was a coincidence.

"I am," he said, and though he did offer a gesture in return, it wasn't a handshake. It was the clasp of his arm, though his hand couldn't encircle this giant's the way it could a fellow human's. "I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. But to judge by the form of your name, perhaps I am better called Eagle, Son of No One."

Bull smiles and the clasp and quickly changes his grip to adjust for it. He likes it.

"Shanedan, Altaïr." He says the name with the tone of someone who speaks a similar language and the qunlat word before it gives the whole thing away.

"It is more a title. I chose it when I moved to the human lands since the title I had before wouldn't make much sense to them. Qunari don't have names, not the way you do. We have a title based on our job."

"As-salāmu ʿalaykum," he answered. "It seems odd to me, to take away someone's name in favour of their purpose - but that is something I shouldn't protest. More people have called me Mentor for the last years rather than my own name. Perhaps the practice is not so alien as I first thought.

"But I wonder. If you chose the title 'The Iron Bull' to reflect your work, what sort of work is it that requires an iron bull?"

If he looked closely, there was a bit of humour in Altaïr's face, mostly at the corners of his eyes and a bit around his mouth, one corner slightly tightened, as if almost ready to smile.

"It isn't taking away a name if you're never given one. We are bred for a purpose in my culture. It is a bit complicated and different than how humans seem to do it." He shrugs. He'll go into it if Altaïr wants to but he knows it bothers a lot of humans.

"It was more about choosing a name that they could understand and pronounce and also my title well... It was Hissrad. Meaning keeper of illusions." He pauses a moment to let Altaïr work out what that means. "My cover was that of a Tal-Vashoth, an exile, so it wouldn't make that much sense to have a name that sounds too Qunari."

Keeper of Illusions. Now that was interesting, given his own history. His thoughts immediately went to the Apple and the things it had shown him, the illusions it gave, but something in this felt different. Bred for the purpose - hm. Secrets, then, Altaïr decided, instead of literal illusions. And a keeper of secrets was either a sage - and this man's body was not one of a scholar - or he was a fighter. Which meant operating in similar shadows to those he, himself, had occupied.

Ah. And yet, odd. Unless all were his size where he was from.

The thought came to him: what if The Iron Bull was actually small for his race? Al'ama.

But his was not to judge or to assume. He felt sure he had the concept correct, but Malik had taught him years ago that there was no such thing as true certainty. There was always an aspect that had been overlooked, even to the keenest observer. So he focused on the rest of the conversation rather than pick at something he figured he had no right to. "An interesting idea, to choose your own name. I knew a young man who did that for his own safety. Had they known his name, he would have been put to death for it. Your opportunity seems to have been of a different reason, at least."

"Yeah. I like it though, especially since... Well I am Tal-Vashoth myself now. It is a bit of a complicated story but the gist of it is that I made a choice that sacrificed a whole warship of Qunari soldiers. The Qun doesn't allow for that." He sighs. "I don't regret the choice either."

"That is... familiar, but unfortunate. Your Qun - it reminds me of my Brotherhood in a way. I was once sent into exile for refusing a corrupt man information." It was enough truth that it came easily to say. The Apple was information. And Abbas had been corrupted by his own certainty. "In return, he killed my son, my wife, and my dearest friend. Often, doing what is right is more important than doing what one has been taught - even if one has been taught from birth - and even if the cost is high."

Bull nods at that, not a story that is too strange considering some of the stuff he had done in the Ben-Hassrath. Except that the Qun ould have seen it is as a waste of resources to kill them.

"This is true, but it is still an adjustment. An uncomfortable one at that. Especially when you realize all the things you have done have been for a corrupt reason."

"Yes."

And that was always true. He still remembered hearing the words from Robert de Sable, the accusation that had become far too true. Even now, more than sixty years later, it still put an uncomfortable twist in his stomach. Al Mualim - Rashid ad-Din Sinan. The man he had all but called father...

"Yes. That is a pain like no other, and a wound that does not want to heal," he agreed, voice quiet and sincere. "A difficult weight to bear. I am sorry that you know it, Akhi."

"I don't think I know that word." Bull says, but he can guess the meaning based on the tone. "And same to you, since it sounds like you know it as well." He shakes his head with a sigh. "All we can do is learn and not repeat our mistakes."

"The word 'Akhi' means 'my brother.' Your story is too familiar for the term not to be true." As was the rest of what had been said. Mistakes were to be learned from, though-- "Though we must not lose sight of hope."

That made all the difference.

"My brother... I like that. Akhi." He smiles and says the words a few more times to practice getting the right sound. "And no. There is hope and when there isn't that there are friends and people who matter."

"Two of the grand things in the world worth fighting for: hope, and the truth. One can most always be found in some way. The other, always uncertain - but worth pursuing." But he already knew the truth, in his way. Nothing was true. There was no underlying great knowledge of the world, no one fact that tied everything together. But there were smaller truths, and that thought made him ask, "How long have you been here, Iron Bull? I tend toward curiosity, and now wonder what sort of place I've found myself in."

"Four months, give or take a few weeks. Been trying to find out what I can do to help. I am trained for battle and while that is all well and good that isn't what we need here day to day."

That brought his brows together. "Are there no patrols?" he asked. "None watching the forests or the roads? What of hunting or scouting? Teaching those who haven't trained in fighting? Construction, perhaps - I saw no walls or towers." None of it was accusatory. No, it was reactive, the thoughts of a man long-used to finding uses for warriors in a village that would otherwise be besieged. But then he raised a hand, shaking his head at himself. "Forgive me. It isn't my place to say these things."

"There are a handful of us doing patrols and plenty of people hunting but it doesn't have the security I should it have." He sighs. "I was raised for one purpose, spotting things like that and either taking advantage of them or pointing them out if it is our people."

Altaïr nodded his agreement, exhaling a deep breath. "I feel similarly. And wonder if perhaps this might be the reason people like you and I were brought here. You are used to seeing these things. I am used to acting on them." And though he would disparage none, he did feel that many of these people weren't the type used to seeing to such needs. "A false sense of security is no security at all."

"No, but I do envy the ones who don't think like that." he has a feeling Altair is used to figuring out how to kill everyone around him as well. It is something Bull does without even thinking about it now. "Maybe we were. Our job is to make sure these people are safe."

Nodding his agreement, Altaïr slowly exhaled. "I have had much practice in that. Masyaf held civilians as well as fedayeen. Soldiers, in this language. There were times they had to be evacuated into the citadel for their own safety. The fedayeen unfortunately turned the village into a target from time to time."

"That will happen. That is one of the benefits of living on an island, our civilians are all protected by being there. We still had to protect them though. At least you had a citadel. Not all places I've seen have that."

"That is one thing I've seen here," he said, motioning around him. "There is no fortification. No wall in sight. This land is too open to be sustained against a greater threat than wildlife." It reminded him too much of the sparse villages throughout the kingdoms, between the greater cities. And those cities had walls for good reason.

"And we've had that. Big monster came in, killed someone in the village. I had just arrived here when it happened."

One | Altaïr Can't Swim (it's a trending tag on AO3)

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