He doesn't particularly like the ocean. Something that still disturbs his dreams to this day happened on a ship. That death and the vengeance that followed brought him no peace. So, it is with these troubled thoughts this Sleeper awakens. He does not remember a shipwreck, the likeliest explanation of being tossed about in stormy waters. Rather, he knows he is meant to be here, somehow, or at least, the prospect of reaching shore seems the thing to be doing.
Who he is and what he does are twined too tight together. How can he be anyone or anything but himself? The tawny man with short-cropped dark hair forms too soon from a squid and flounders in the waves too far from shore. His limbs remember their shape, climber's muscle corded over tall limbs, but not how to move. He flails one hand (its ring finger was removed years ago) above the water.
Altaïr, Assassin, master of stealth and the blade, cannot swim.
Spires
ooc: Let me know if you just want to skip to reaching the top pending mod answer. We can also segue to exploring fast travel Lamp Friends instead.
He was going to climb the tallest towers anyway to begin getting to know the city, looking for specific things not found on maps. When a strange ominous light glows from them, he becomes curious, and curiosity lends this task (not a dare or a lark, a task) more urgency. Though they outstrip the highest structures he knows back home in the 12th century, he's ready for a challenge if he can find any places to rest in the process of his ascent.
On a less crowded street, he casts a scrutinizing gaze up the side of the building. He could start here--Ah, someone is looking at him. He's used to getting looks because he carries blades.
"Magnificent," he says matter-of-factly to explain his staring, indicating the vertical reach of the spire with a subtle flourish of his right hand, before turning away.
ooc: If you would like a different kind of paleblood malfunction, let me know! cw: uncontrollable* hallucinations to himself and others
Stranded in a new land, of course he thinks of home. Visions bloom before his eyes, laid over what he sees. These phantom images pulled from his memories wisp through the air around him without a care for who sees them: a far-off mountain fortress studded with red flags, the close crowds of a souk in arid summer, a harbor bustling with sailing ships festooned with medieval flags all the way from Europe... They are faint, but rich in detail. He's always had a meticulous eye.
It would seem he has gone mad.
With the benefit of years of training, he quells his breathing and wills his face to be calm. Perhaps this is just a side effect of coming into contact with a certain object, and he will figure out a way to manage it. For safety's sake, he leans against a wall in a still, unobtrusive manner designed to slip beneath notice.
People still look at him, around him, marveling at the conjurations. He swallows and hastily excises all thoughts of home by concentrating on a few well-known landmarks in Jerusalem where he conducted some of his work. There is the Al-Aqsa Mosque, within sight of the shining Dome of the Rock...
He suspects he was allowed inside the building with all his blades due to the local guards (Hunters) frequently requiring information on Beasts. Still, as in the library at home, he surmises and agrees that blades are forbidden to be drawn here.
Altaïr has more scholarly pursuits. He's ensconced himself at a table and is dipping his qalam into an inkwell to scrawl notes right to left on sheaves of paper (in Classical Arabic). He's in his hooded robes. White is less practical in this world, but he is attached to things from home.
His Omen, inky-black smoke-and-blood in the shape of a martial eagle, is perched on the leather at his shoulder. Ruya turns her head to stare imposingly at anyone nearby. The man does not move or look up, only pauses in his reading or writing.
Several books lay open with titles such as The Walled Garden of the Mind, Optics: Illusion and Its Angles, On the Interpretation of the Dream, and Errors of the Sight. A few non-Sight books about the world as well: On Dreams of Beasts, Catalogue of Corruption and Its Symptoms, and Trench: North and South.
If a person wants these books, it will be a while.
Altaïr ibn La-Ahad | Assassin's Creed
Washing Up
cw: almost drowning, nudityHe doesn't particularly like the ocean. Something that still disturbs his dreams to this day happened on a ship. That death and the vengeance that followed brought him no peace. So, it is with these troubled thoughts this Sleeper awakens. He does not remember a shipwreck, the likeliest explanation of being tossed about in stormy waters. Rather, he knows he is meant to be here, somehow, or at least, the prospect of reaching shore seems the thing to be doing.
Who he is and what he does are twined too tight together. How can he be anyone or anything but himself? The tawny man with short-cropped dark hair forms too soon from a squid and flounders in the waves too far from shore. His limbs remember their shape, climber's muscle corded over tall limbs, but not how to move. He flails one hand (its ring finger was removed years ago) above the water.
Altaïr, Assassin, master of stealth and the blade, cannot swim.
Spires
ooc: Let me know if you just want to skip to reaching the top pending mod answer. We can also segue to exploring fast travel Lamp Friends instead.He was going to climb the tallest towers anyway to begin getting to know the city, looking for specific things not found on maps. When a strange ominous light glows from them, he becomes curious, and curiosity lends this task (not a dare or a lark, a task) more urgency. Though they outstrip the highest structures he knows back home in the 12th century, he's ready for a challenge if he can find any places to rest in the process of his ascent.
On a less crowded street, he casts a scrutinizing gaze up the side of the building. He could start here--Ah, someone is looking at him. He's used to getting looks because he carries blades.
"Magnificent," he says matter-of-factly to explain his staring, indicating the vertical reach of the spire with a subtle flourish of his right hand, before turning away.
Paleblood Malfunction: Amplified Hallucinations
ooc: If you would like a different kind of paleblood malfunction, let me know!cw: uncontrollable* hallucinations to himself and others
Stranded in a new land, of course he thinks of home. Visions bloom before his eyes, laid over what he sees. These phantom images pulled from his memories wisp through the air around him without a care for who sees them: a far-off mountain fortress studded with red flags, the close crowds of a souk in arid summer, a harbor bustling with sailing ships festooned with medieval flags all the way from Europe... They are faint, but rich in detail. He's always had a meticulous eye.
It would seem he has gone mad.
With the benefit of years of training, he quells his breathing and wills his face to be calm. Perhaps this is just a side effect of coming into contact with a certain object, and he will figure out a way to manage it. For safety's sake, he leans against a wall in a still, unobtrusive manner designed to slip beneath notice.
People still look at him, around him, marveling at the conjurations. He swallows and hastily excises all thoughts of home by concentrating on a few well-known landmarks in Jerusalem where he conducted some of his work. There is the Al-Aqsa Mosque, within sight of the shining Dome of the Rock...
This is a fine way to find out his blood type.
Archaic Archives
He suspects he was allowed inside the building with all his blades due to the local guards (Hunters) frequently requiring information on Beasts. Still, as in the library at home, he surmises and agrees that blades are forbidden to be drawn here.
Altaïr has more scholarly pursuits. He's ensconced himself at a table and is dipping his qalam into an inkwell to scrawl notes right to left on sheaves of paper (in Classical Arabic). He's in his hooded robes. White is less practical in this world, but he is attached to things from home.
His Omen, inky-black smoke-and-blood in the shape of a martial eagle, is perched on the leather at his shoulder. Ruya turns her head to stare imposingly at anyone nearby. The man does not move or look up, only pauses in his reading or writing.
Several books lay open with titles such as The Walled Garden of the Mind, Optics: Illusion and Its Angles, On the Interpretation of the Dream, and Errors of the Sight. A few non-Sight books about the world as well: On Dreams of Beasts, Catalogue of Corruption and Its Symptoms, and Trench: North and South.
If a person wants these books, it will be a while.
ooc: Wildcard?