Easy enough to jump across to the other roof, landing with a distinctively light step. "They were gifted to me before a harvest banquet," he said, smoothing down the chest with his left hand. His four-fingered left hand.

There was something familiar about him. About his eyes. His colouration. The way he moved, the way he spoke, how his eyes traced over distinctive features. He would not presume, but he did assume his hand would draw some sort of reaction. All the easier to guess who it was that stood before him.

As if his next words would not.

"My name is Altaïr Ibn-La'Ahad. And you?"