sixthiterationlogs | [MINGLE] Saints & Sinners Masquerade

[MINGLE] Saints & Sinners Masquerade

WHERE: Corn field next to the inn
WHEN: 31 October, all day and night
OPEN TO: ALL - MINGLE
WARNINGS: Please warn as appropriate in your subject lines
NOTES: Please make sure you have read and understand the event details! If you have questions, drop them here. RECOMMENDED BUT NOT REQUIRED: Put your SCRUBS COLOR in your OTA subject line for folks doing bingo. Time your OTA for the harvest feast, the masquerade, or both. Costume matches and details for folks who did not get matched are here.

This morning, our intrepid villagers awoke to a surprise of the nicer kind: A bundle of clothing left at the foot of their bed, tied with a bow. There is also a note: Put on your new outfit and join the festivities in the corn field next to the inn.

You may be thinking, what corn field next to the inn? The one that sprung up fully-mature overnight, of course.

In the middle of the field, villagers will find an autumn feast: Tables piled with harvest time food and drink, warm and rustic decorations, the day's sunshine fending off any chill in the air.

Tuck in and enjoy, villagers, but take note: Things often look different in the dark, and you might be one of them.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

His first response is, "Which is that?"

But then it occurs to him what's being said. It's something he's never had to question. Masyaf is small and isolated. They had no room for restrictions on food; it was too needful just to have food, no matter what it was. But in Jerusalem especially (occasionally Damas, seldom in Akka), such things were commonly questioned. And that was when he turned to the man addressing him and gave a respectful, and grateful, nod. "I understand your sentiment, Akhi, but I am no Saracen or Jew. I thankfully have no such concern. You are kind to warn of such things, however, and I am grateful for your thought."

"Far end, next to the roast goose and potatoes." Sandwiched neatly between, in fact. He hasn't tried enough of anything else to be sure of the presence of pork or pork products in it but- he can offer that much. He's not sure what it is, exactly, that takes him by the lungs and squeezes when the man explains himself- maybe the word, maybe the lilt of his voice and formality of his language that reminds him so fucking much of-

Swallowing past the knot in his throat, he nods, shrugging helplessly. "It felt like a reasonable assumption to make, it's been awhile since I've had company that kept Halal or Kosher and I know they'd....rather have the warning."

He has had many, many years of practice in seeing past what's said and reading reactions. This man's discomfort is obvious to him, and that it's a reaction to him makes him wonder. He's wearing nothing that marks him as an assassin. He's used no words that would give reason - he thinks. Which leaves him to think that perhaps this man was once in an ill situation somewhere in the Levant. With his own mode of dress being noted, he would guess his new acquaintance had perhaps seen the darker side of the Saracens, if not worse. Reason enough for Altaïr to take a thoughtful step back. "I mean you no discomfort. If the actions of some of my countrymen have harmed you, I can offer my apologies - and my assurance I mean none of the same. My people fought for freedom where the Saracens took slaves."

"What- oh. That's not-" He shakes his head with a quiet crackle of bittersweet laughter, rubbing at his temples. "That's not it. At all. I owe my life to the man I'm thinking about. Twice over, really-"

He shifts a little, rocking back on his heels, arms looping around himself as if to ward off cold or discomfort, the half smile smaller, his voice softer. "I wasn't able to do the same for him. That's what this is."

It's been awhile since he's been so easily read- let alone by someone not immediately trying to flip it around to their advantage. "Apologies and assurances not required, trust me. We're good."

And in those words, Altaïr sees those he owes his own life to. Maria. Malik. Darim. Malik the younger. Even Niccolo Polo. A life he'll never see again. It's his throat that closes then, but he takes in a slow, deep breath and bows his head in understanding before letting the moment go and saying, in a voice quiet but steady, "I am Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. You have my sympathy for this pain that too many share."

With his face exposed by the ghutrah rather than hidden by a cowl, it's easy to see that, in this, he is utterly sincere. There is no malice. Only kindness that he will force no further than this. He has had time to learn, and one of the things he's learned over all the years is not to push comfort. Such things can only be accepted.

"Tony Stark." His lips twist in something bittersweet- it's a shitty thing, outliving someone that's done you a good turn, or just...outliving anyone. Most of the Avengers know that feeling, such as they are. Were. Whatever.

Normally he doesn't bother with extending a hand to shake for various reasons but it feels a little uncouth to not, if they're sharing this level of empathy. Tony offers his hand. "Best we can do is keep going, or that's what I keep hearing."

The English handshake is something Altaïr had never bothered to learn. He clasped Tony's forearm instead. More brotherly. Less intimate. "You have heard correctly. I lost twenty years to my own refusal to move on. I will not lose more.

"But I will lighten the conversation as such things can only turn to dark moods. Tell me of your name, instead; it holds little resemblance to any English or French name I've yet heard." Easier conversation. Lighter. Speaking about one's homeland tended to bring out some fair memories, even in this place.

Very Thor, the forearm clasping. Thor who's gone with the rest of his people and- right, shoving that thought all the way back and ignoring it. Ignoring the hell out of it. The bright little tidbit dangling between them has Tony squinting int Altair's face for a long moment. "...You were either a very deep toddler or have a truly epic skin care routine."

Or, maybe, has some fountain of youth bs going on like Rogers and Barnes.

"Technically Stark's English. Or German. Dad wasn't ever all that specific as to where his parents came from, honestly? But Tony is short for Anthony or Antonio from my Mother's side of the family, Italian." The Carbonell's had been good to him, in her absence.

For a moment, he looked confused - but then memory came, and he touched his own face, his short growth of beard, amusement in his almost-unnaturally-yellow eyes. "Before my arrival here, all of my ninety-two years were plain on my face," he said, "but I arrived here as I died, and I suppose that whomever orchestrated all of this needed me young enough that I would make none of you tend to a doddering old man whose memory was slowly leaking away. Perhaps in an effort to preserve some of what I saw."

Through the Apple or through his own eyes. Just now, there was no way to know. But what he could do was add one bit of information: "For most of you, from what I have seen and heard, it was far in my future. Close to eight hundred years."

"...So the super soldiers are still peak of human perfection, you get everything you know in the body that's at it's prime- and I wake up half drowned in a tube while bleeding out." Forget whatever Samantha said about the Overlords playing favorites- well. Maybe not, clearly people from his world keep getting yanked in for whatever reason.

But if they're playing favorites? Tony's not on that short list. Which shouldn't bother him, it truly shouldn't, but the twist of his lips is on the sharper edge of wry. "Who do I have to bribe to get the rest of my lungs back? Seriously."

Life isn't fair, death isn't fair, war isn't fair, but this? This is some kind of bullshit.

"I did wake up in a fountain, not knowing how to swim, though I know that is no consolation," Altaïr offered.

Half-drowned, in a tube, Tony had said. That fit with some of what Dorian had mentioned. Bleeding out, however - and missing part of his lungs? Immediately, Altaïr thought of the Shroud, but that was now, literally, a world away, and he doubted its cost would be one anyone would want to pay. What he did, instead, was ask, "Have you arrived chronically ill? I do know of some herbs that help breathing, but I don't yet know if they exist in this place."

"Technically, not an illness so much as a limitation." He reaches up to rub the center of his chest, grimacing. "Call it a war wound. As long as I don't overwork myself I can manage fine. It was easier back home where I wasn't doing as much of my own forging."

Keeping tabs on his O2 levels was easier with Jarvis or Friday on hand. Here it's just- listening to how he's breathing and hoping he hasn't made himself dizzy and useless for a day or two while he recovers.

Nodding his understanding, for one swift moment, all Altaïr could see was Malik and his demand that his sword arm was still as strong as it had ever been, while the opposite arm of his robe had been pinned to the shoulder so as not to hang loose.

His fault.

But thinking of that now would do nothing.

"Forging," he echoed. "I've no experience in a smithy, but I do know some formulae and schematics that you may find useful, depending on the resources you have at hand."

"One of my many skills. I'm an engineer and do a little of everything, design, fabrication, right now my biggest project is fortifying the village but- resources are limited." He sighs, looking out past the cornfield to the buildings beyond. "We don't have enough wood to make a fence that'll surround all of both, so it's a question of what is and isn't vital, what can we manage, etc. Trying to get the Mill set up for hydroelectric is the next step but it's slow going."

There's only one of him and he can delegate plenty- but the actual forging? Comes down to him. "So whatever you have that you can offer? I'll be glad to see it."

"Mm. You mention wood, but I agree that wood is fallible for many reasons. We were fortified with it for many years at Masyaf, even until the Mongols came. Much of what made Masyaf impregnable was its position." As he spoke, he gestured, considered, and began to look around them. This village was situated unfortunately in the way of defenses. There were no natural barriers but a river he had heard of to the north - but even then, that was flawed, as the northern village was the nearest anyone had to contact.

He'd seen a map, but a map meant nothing without the feel of the place in mind, and as yet, that was one thing he'd not gotten. He would need to climb - and the inn wouldn't quite do. Trees, he thought, would. Which meant he would need to take time.

"Wood may be limited, but what of stone? There is a method to make stone behave as both stone and metal - impervious to the explosive powders of the East and to battering force, given that is sunk deeply enough in the ground to counter the impact." Again, he looked around, this time for something to write with, but he found himself stymied. He found more and more he missed, and having pages and ink and quill close to hand was one of them. "So long as all of us are caught here, I have no reason to keep this knowledge to myself. We all must survive."

"We're in the middle of a forest. Good for terraforming, kind of shit for establishing a defensive line." Or giving anyone somewhere to fall back in the long run- there's a distinct lack of any sign of defenses around the village, not even an attempt at them. Whoever set this place up? Isn't paranoid enough for Tony's peace of mind. The woods are full of large boar, moose, LSD snakes, and apparently? Wendigo. That last one is the most worrying, even if it's only happened once.

Trusting it to be an isolated incident is just asking for trouble.

"Don't have many tools that can break it, or a means of transporting it aside from rolling slabs on logs. The larger boulders found in fields that get cleared for farming are broken up from what I've heard." He hasn't found anywhere he'd call set for a quarry, but he's working on that. "...Stone like stone and metal- just in resistance to impact and combustion or in how it can be shaped?"

Because that could solve a lot of their problems, right there.

He turned up a hand-- "We were able to shape it as we wanted in the Masyaf forge, and Masyaf was far from having the resources of Damas. Once it is treated and cast, it cannot be recast. The form is permanent." And that was when Altaïr began counting off materials. "We began with common stone - limestone, some marble, what we could get without raising eyebrows. Gypsum, basalt, quartz sandstone. Having one great slab would have made our enemies curious, and when we were working this stone, we had too many enemies as it stood. The method we used could combine them, make a grand amalgam. Had I the means, I would write it down for you."

It was how the fedayeen began, how they worked - what the Assassins strove toward. The protection of humankind. Though now, having seen the Iron Bull, perhaps that needed some amending. Personkind, perhaps.

"...I'm going to need a bigger crucible is what I'm hearing." To form and cast stone like metal- he flicks through the chemical compound of the listed materials and- he can't see how that'd come together to make anything so strong. Maybe it's in the ratio or heat treating? Running the math will take awhile going longhand. At least he won't have to figure it out with no direction (a la badassium, thanks dad), he'll have an outline and an expert. Could be worse. "I've got charcoal and space on the wall in the forge. Come by anytime and talk me through it."

It'll be useful and possibly cut down on the rest of everything else they'll have to carve from the forest, leaving wood enough to keep everyone warm come winter.

At the mention of a bigger crucible, Altaïr pulled a face and motioned to the size of the one in Masyaf - which was easily within the span of his arms. "I will do what I can to aid you. If this is to be my afterlife, may it be used to help others."

And perhaps he could use the information of Those Who Came Before to save another world. He had done his best for the Prophet. He had left behind all he could. Now, he would use what he had brought with him.

"I am also making an effort at investigation," he noted. "I know others have as well, but there are things here that remind me of... things I've seen. Machinations I have unwittingly been a part of before. And I have something of a reputation for tenacity." And anger, but that had tempered with age. "Would you mind if, after I have gathered my own thoughts into more sense, I asked you of what you've seen here?"

"...yeah I'm going to need to expand the forge." He'd been planning on it anyway- at least there's a better reason on hand than his own need to keep busy and have more space for tools. Still. Doable.

In theory, at least.

"There's a history of all the events from the moments the first round of villagers woke up here two years ago up till now. It's fairly detailed, that can probably help you. Aside from waking up in the bunker and heading down once to investigate- I've spent most of my time in the forge. People need things built and I need work." Not want, need. Something to keep his hands and his mind busy, something to be productive. "But I mean to go back down there sometime soon."

"I believe Dorian and I may be intending to attempt to find the one to the north. He mentioned that no one has arrived in the northern fountain, but that the northern village is a reflection of this one. The reasoning fits." More than that, his training in stealthy approach would likely come in handy - at least in part. This was nothing he wasn't used to, approaching a location and trying to stay out of sight. He only didn't like that he was... mostly unarmed. One knife was not the armament he preferred.

"If it's a mirror- it'll be close to the fountain when you find it." A relatively short walk, with or without the burden of a few buckets of water. "I don't think anyone lives up there- or at least no one I know does."

Much as he appreciates his privacy, living in a mostly empty village? Would drive him crazy with the quiet. He needs life, noise. Stimulation. Otherwise his brain starts shredding itself with layer upon layer of anxieties. "If you bring back any tools or- pretty much anything you can carry that's not nailed down? It'd make my job easier."

"If there are carts here - wagons? Beasts of burden? I would gladly take it with me to the village edge. Perhaps I should plan multiple trips. The first to scout and report back, the ones following to retrieve what can be located." He had no fear of any of this. No worry. No concern. "If I can be provided with charcoal and a large enough page or cloth, I would make a map as I was there. I am no true cartographer, but I can write what I see."

The plan helped, even if the thought of maps made him think of the bureaus scattered through the Levant, of dropping into the courtyard to be welcomed by the rafiq. Or scorned, if it was Jerusalem.

"But first, I have my own skills to relearn."

"Not that I know of. I think one of the guys had a few moose? Not sure where they went but they seemed docile enough for carrying. For notepaper and pens I can ask Bruce, he got a box of them not long ago." He can't exactly volunteer what isn't his to share, but this is scouting, resource management. Bruce would understand. He's about seventy three percent sure of that.

"I'm not sure if it's all that different from here- unless there's a cornfield that sprung up overnight up there too. That'd be useful to know." A beat. "Relearn?"

The word "Bruce" sounded familiar. Was there some mention of that by the Crusaders? He would have to think further - but he thought it was a name, especially in context. A lead, then, and one he'd remember. Also 'moose', which sounded suspiciously similar, but... Surely no woman would name a child after a beast of burden.

But then there was a question he could answer - and he did, motioning down at himself. "Before my arrival here, I was a man of ninety-two years. Quick movements, all of the skills I was taught as a young man - they had had decades to erode. My lungs gave me a chronic cough. Climbing from the bed each morning was a struggle. My son had to help me. This body is mine, fit and strong, but my mind is used to a slower pace."

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