sixthiterationlogs | Three | My Confidence Shaken

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Three | My Confidence Shaken

WHO: Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad
WHERE: South Village
WHEN: December 3-ish
OPEN TO: One on the path in, anyone afterward.
WARNINGS: Most likely some frank discussion of mental health.

Flickers of Doubt: (Now locked to Shiro.)

His trip to the Bunker had taken a deliberately long time. The device called a 'pod' promised a faster trip - he'd read that in the village codex - but that particular mode of transportation was limited to those who could swim. That excluded him. In the end, though, that mattered little. He'd needed the time as much as he'd wanted to investigate. And even once he'd gotten there, he'd found more reason to take time, more reason to walk slowly, to take the lay of the land, to practice climbing trees and, one night when he'd tried to start a small campfire, learn to control the sudden appearance of an ability that he never could've predicted. He didn't like it, but it wasn't the first thing about this place he hadn't liked.

Altaïr had taken care to spend a shorter amount of time in the Bunker than he'd truly wanted. The arrival of Evie Frye had taken him by surprise, but it had been a second incident the likes of which he couldn't afford to recur. Once, he'd been convinced there would be no afterlife. Now, he was convinced this was no afterlife, but this new youth kept his past on his mind. He could remember with too much clarity, felt heartsore for those he had left behind who hadn't gotten this chance. There were people here he cared for, and while that was a gift he wouldn't overlook, he couldn't help but wonder why he was here but poor Sef, dear Malik, his love Maria... Why had this been denied to them?

And so he had walked. He had thought, he had walked, he had given himself the time to mourn all over again. And he had cemented in his mind that Takashi was not Malik through he could make use of Malik's lessons, and that Miss Frye was not Maria, no matter how strong the resemblance and the accent. He had begun to make plans for instructing Takashi in Malik's methods, and to speak with Evie with the respect she was due rather than the unfortunate familiarity their first meeting had taken.

With his emotions back on a steady footing, he returned to the Village, his pace one that could easily have been sustained for days. At the least, he could say that his stamina had returned and he was confident in his ability to stay on the move as he once did long ago. At the best, he felt like he could have more honesty in his interactions with the people who now counted on him. And that was definitely an improvement.

Regained Confidence:

He knew he owed multiple apologies and they would be words gladly given, but now that he had gone to his home, washed both himself and his clothes, and had a chance to dry both, he stepped back out into the village. There were more arrivals here than he'd expected while he'd been gone - more people to speak with, to check on, and if he wasn't the only one with the ability to call fire to his hands, he didn't doubt there were people to reassure or perhaps even make certain they had a roof over their heads whether they were a new arrival or not.

With Connor in his house, he didn't think offering space would be wise, but he could offer to look around with anyone, to see if any of the other houses would suit them, and to help clear the dust.

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It startled a quiet laugh out of Zevran, the awareness, the offer, the knife held out when for the most part they were scarce. "Handsome and generous. Today must be my lucky day."

He accepted the knife with some flourish, testing the balance by spinning it across his knuckles, giving it a flip. Toying, teasing things one does when learning how to use a blade, flippant and foolish and enough for him to get a good idea for it's worth. "You have my thanks."

"You are most welcome," he assured, ignoring how sure he was that at least something of a blush had crept onto his cheeks. Compliments still eluded him, but he could overlook them easily enough.

The knife itself was a simple hunting blade, not a true blade meant for fighting. It was passable. Not ideal, but functional - and certainly better than none. "It throws well," he said, motioning to the knife, "and it strikes a fire well enough, though that isn't something so necessary at the moment."

And with that said, he held up his own hand - showing that Zevran was not the only one who could call flames.

"So a few weeks ago, many people are ill. Now? We can all use fire magic?" The laugh returned, higher and brighter as he secreted the knife away somewhere upon his person. It was a magic trick, of sorts, but not one so unfamiliar to assassins. He held his hands up, palms full of flame like paintings of Sacred Andraste, and cocked his head to the side.

"How is your control? It is spirited stuff without having actual spirit. There is this...it is too thick to be oil but not solid like sand, a gel of some sort? An ooze, that when mixed and struck with fire burns even on the water. It feels a bit like that." But hungry. Something about it ached for- well. Everything.

The image Zevran posed was an interesting one. He couldn't be human, he thought. His movements were familiar enough in method, but there was something about his joints, something about his eyes, that was slightly different.

"I had a few days of travel to practice - and I needed it," he said. "It began when I took flint and steel to start a fire and my hands caught instead. I knew that I had no choice but to continue experimenting - for my own good. I knew that, given the chance, this would end ill."

"You know, I am still waiting for the other boot to drop, as we say." We being Antivans but that went without saying. "In my world such magics come at a great cost- your soul open and vulnerable to the machinations of demons. To be tempted to possession. But I have slept as soundly as I ever do, not a single thing different."

Idly, or at least giving the appearance of being idle, Zevran tossed the palmful of fire into the air and called forth a third, juggling. It was a simple enough pattern to hold to, one he'd mastered as a boy. The only new variable? Was the fire. "I suppose magic here is not the same as magic in my home."

Altaïr's answer was a shrug: "Magic is not something we have in my own world. Nor beings who are other than human, despite all of the stories. I know of the Iron Bull who is not human. Might I ask what your race is called?"

He had assumed the man's name as well - and that would come next. They were speaking of magic at the moment, after all.

"Bull is Qunari, and a massive one at that, even for his kind. I am an Elf. Or, I suppose if one went about the Dalish way of calling things, one of the Elvhen, but the Dalish are assholes so I go by 'elf'. Or 'gorgeous', I do like being called that." All the while he continued to juggle, occasionally adding in a new ball of flame to make things more challenging.

He may or may not be attempting to show off to make a better first impression.

He was very much showing off.

"It can mean a great deal to some but for myself? It matters little. I am me. I simply happen to be prettier for being an Elf."

"You put a great deal of stock in your looks, then," Altaïr said, watching with a degree of interest. He was very practiced, that much was easy to see. Nimble, quick - and obviously skilled with a knife.

He wondered what the purpose was to this particular little display, but such things, he couldn't question too far. "It seems you should put more stock into your skills."

"I put as much stock in them as others do." He made himself lovely because it was expected of him. Made himself appear attractive because it made the job easier. Honeypot gambits were difficult to pull off if you were ugly as sin. "Perhaps my vanity is a front. If I appear thoughtless and absorbed in my appearance, I am not assumed to be as skilled or dangerous."

It was all in how one presented themselves, even here.

"Mm." It was a point - and an interesting one. Not one that he, himself, had ever bothered with, but... to some, he supposed it could work.

Altaïr stroked his beard thoughtfully. "An interesting approach, to say the least. I tend to prefer from behind, through the kidney."

"You know-" And he stopped with the juggling, catching each ball in his hand to squeeze them, snuffing out the flames. "My old masters would very much feel the same way. Well. A third of them. Half the job, much like in stage magic, is in misdirection. The other-"

He crackled a quiet laugh, snuffing out the last ball of flame. "The kill. You are no Crow- but you are some manner of Assassin, yes?"

"I would thank you to keep the word quiet, but yes," he said. "Though I believe our worlds had different definitions for the term."

Though what Zevran had said was true. Misdirection. Remaining in hiding until the last moment. Distracting the target. All needful in their chosen path.

"What do you fear?" He cast his eyes around, brows lifted. "This is no sprawling city with guards and law and mistaken intent. It is a small, humble village where, for the most part, our skills are not required."

No need to hunt men, to lull them into a sense of security, to kill. There would be no gain to such a thing in this place.

He exhaled. "Assassins of my world have enemies who often use artifacts of great power to do such things as have been done here," he said quietly. "Until I know more certainly what's been done here, until I can be certain our enemies are not behind it, I would rather not paint my own target on my chest."

"With all due seriousness and the utmost respect, Ser-" Zevran's hands settled back in his pockets, his head cocked to one side, ears perked. "What in the Maker's name makes you feel so special that it must be your enemies pulling this particular parlor trick? A great many here have some manner of curse or villain or organization that could do the same."

But after a low sound, not quite a laugh, Altaïr shook his head. "You could be easily right, and I am not so pigheaded anymore as to believe that this possibility is the only possibility.

"But years of experience have taught me that coincidences are not to be trusted, and that the word 'Assassin' seldom wins friends. And here, I wish to be seen first as who I am: a man who wishes to help. Not a blade in the crowd."

"A man that wishes to help that happens to hold the knife." His eyes narrowed for a moment, gaze turning critical. Age can bring great wisdom, he knew this to be true, but those with...intentions, noble or not, of their sort? Were few and far between in his world. The humans of the village, of their respective worlds, were quite different from those he knew best and, again, that was something to consider.

"You are a sly one, aren't you?"

He lifted a shoulder. "That would depend on what you mean by 'sly.' There are too many possibilities for me to answer. I have no great plot. I do very little for my own gain. I am too old to bother with much in the way of machinations. All I want, here, in this village, is for these people to survive. And if I can put things in motion that will assist - then so be it.

"But," he allowed, "I have also seen far too much to trust that everyone else will be so altruistic. And thus, the knife."

"Overt organization with such a disparate group- at least with a singular mind in play or personality making to take charge- would not go over well." He remained quite still, the earlier juggling, fiddling, humanizing motion of his stance locked down as he considers the logic- and the man- before him. "But nudges where appropriate, suggestions- this will go over easier."

A beat.

"You are quite sly, and wise as well."

"One does not live for ninety-two years without learning something of the world and those who live in it. Though your kind is still new to me." His gaze fell to Zevran's ears. The height was not so surprising; some men never grew tall, and he tended to stand taller than most he had known. Though Zevran's height was... unusually small. "There are many worlds represented here. I believe more and more are arriving from places other than Earth."

"We are a strange, mysterious race, elves- even to ourselves!" But that is what happens when humans sweep in and burn what they do not care to know or use for themselves- or at least so he has been told. Where he falls on the spectrum of caring about such things he has not quite yet decided. There was no point of it in The Crows.

Now?

There may be no point for he is the only such thing in the village. "There are three others from Thedas, from what I understand."

He nodded. "I count Hawke as a sister, the Iron Bull as a brother. And Dorian is a friend and kindred spirit," he said. "It is quite the diverse world where you are from. I am more than curious about it - and sorry that I will never be able to see it. I also lament that I could not see more of my own world, though - more than maps or images. That is the danger of life." He glanced up, shaking his head. "So many missed opportunities."

"You are a man with a large, strange family." A beat. "You've a terribly kind heart under the sly machinations, do you not?"

It's said with a smile, not unkindly. This kind of softness, of sentiment- is dangerous in his own line of work. But should the man be as old as he claims? He had more than earned his right to sentimentality. "Oh, Thedas is lovely. Full of color and danger, but lovely. I will be happy to share my world with you over a cup of wine, perhaps?"

Easy to answer, that last: "I do not enjoy wine, myself, but I would enjoy the chance to sit with you and hear of your world. Curiosity is one of my greatest vices and a downfall I cannot regret. Please."

He motioned toward the Inn. "Lead on."

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Three | My Confidence Shaken

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