Investigation had yielded some knowledge: he'd found a home that was unoccupied, had aired it, and had begun sleeping there despite not knowing what to think of what was inside said home. Finding a bundle at the foot of his bed, then, had been startling at the least, especially with no evidence of passage - but the clothing inside..!
He had felt palpably relieved to pull on the knee-length dishdasha, its sleeves coming to his wrists. He'd have to slit the sides for the sake of movement, but that could come later. The boots felt snug and comfortable on his feet, and the grey pants beneath had a suitable weight, unlike the oddly-coloured ones he'd arrived in. But most welcome had been the ghutrah and iqal. At last, he could cover his head with something more suitable than the odd hat that had been in his bag.
Feeling more like himself than he had in far too long, Altaïr had decided to attend this harvest feast to see what others would do, and to see what the food would be like. Before he left his little chosen home, though, he took the bow that the whole thing had been tied in and carried it with him. Perhaps he'd find a way to arrange it as a proper sash around his waist.
Masquerade:
The moment of blurriness caught him by surprise, enough that he reflexively tried to look around -- but by then, it was over, and he was fine, though things around him had... changed.
As he looked down at himself, he saw that even he had changed. The clothing that was simple and suitable before had become... "Ornate" was too light a word. There were layers - layers atop layers, and collars that stood out broadly. There was a weight across one shoulder and a length of cloth draping over his entire left arm. He could feel a hood over his head - and at least that felt appropriate, but the heavy belt around his waist had him looking down in confusion to see--
The sigil?!
The curse Altaïr gave was far from the almost-proper 'Al'ama' he'd been heard muttering a few times so far. This outfit was anything but subtle. It all but proclaimed in a public square that he was an Assassin. Now he just had to hope there were no Templars in attendance. And perhaps curse the name of whatever Assassin thought this was appropriate.
Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad | OTA | Magenta
Investigation had yielded some knowledge: he'd found a home that was unoccupied, had aired it, and had begun sleeping there despite not knowing what to think of what was inside said home. Finding a bundle at the foot of his bed, then, had been startling at the least, especially with no evidence of passage - but the clothing inside..!
He had felt palpably relieved to pull on the knee-length dishdasha, its sleeves coming to his wrists. He'd have to slit the sides for the sake of movement, but that could come later. The boots felt snug and comfortable on his feet, and the grey pants beneath had a suitable weight, unlike the oddly-coloured ones he'd arrived in. But most welcome had been the ghutrah and iqal. At last, he could cover his head with something more suitable than the odd hat that had been in his bag.
Feeling more like himself than he had in far too long, Altaïr had decided to attend this harvest feast to see what others would do, and to see what the food would be like. Before he left his little chosen home, though, he took the bow that the whole thing had been tied in and carried it with him. Perhaps he'd find a way to arrange it as a proper sash around his waist.
Masquerade:
The moment of blurriness caught him by surprise, enough that he reflexively tried to look around -- but by then, it was over, and he was fine, though things around him had... changed.
As he looked down at himself, he saw that even he had changed. The clothing that was simple and suitable before had become... "Ornate" was too light a word. There were layers - layers atop layers, and collars that stood out broadly. There was a weight across one shoulder and a length of cloth draping over his entire left arm. He could feel a hood over his head - and at least that felt appropriate, but the heavy belt around his waist had him looking down in confusion to see--
The sigil?!
The curse Altaïr gave was far from the almost-proper 'Al'ama' he'd been heard muttering a few times so far. This outfit was anything but subtle. It all but proclaimed in a public square that he was an Assassin. Now he just had to hope there were no Templars in attendance. And perhaps curse the name of whatever Assassin thought this was appropriate.