By way of apology for some sub-standard blogging of late, may I present my first crack at the back-story for my Comic-Con character. Unfortunately I have to assert my intellectual copyright here as this is my own work and I don't want it distributed without the proper accreditation, but please feel free to comment with suggestions or other feedback.
Also, if Ubisoft are reading, I'm available for hire.
That being said, are we sitting comfortably? Good, then I'll begin.
Assassin’s Creed: Frontier - Stand
The room fell silent.
Three men, each considering the weight of the burden ahead as destiny
drove a wedge between them, their fates forever set by the actions of the next
few minutes. Joseph was the first to
speak, addressing his friends in an earnest attempt for them to see sense.
“We need every able man here to hold line. We must -” Crockett
waved his protest aside with a gesture and exhaled audibly.
“No, your path lies elsewhere. We will hold them here as long as we’re able,
it should give you enough time to be away from this place. If the Alamo falls our enemies cannot find what
we’ve fought so long to protect. You’re
a worthy shot, but one more pistol won’t stop them if we can’t already without
you. We have canon, strong walls and resilience
on our side, but I fear with or without you my friend, a breach is inevitable.”
“He’s right,” whispered Bowie, his voice still heavy with
fever, “as much as I don’t want to face it, you being here just means one more
dead man walking. Take the gold, use the
chaos to flea and put it beyond their reach.
It must not fall into their
hands.”
Crockett stood, crossed the room and past the window to a
small cupboard set into the white stone wall.
Lifting the latch, he opened the door and removed the various books,
bottles and other items from the bottom shelf.
Running his hand along the back of the empty shelf, his fingers sought
the camouflaged latch, disguised as an exposed nail head. Pushing the head, there was an audible hollow
click as the shelf lifted to expose the hidden depression beneath.
Returning to his companions, Crockett placed an oil-cloth
covered object on the table between him and the others. They sat for a moment before Bowie loosened
the binding and upturned the cloth into Joseph’s hand.
No-one spoke. Joseph
turned the object around in his fingers, a mix of wonder and incomprehension
filling him as he tried to fathom the meaning of what he held. He had heard talk of a precious treasure being
held in the Alamo, but this was far from what he had imagined. Larger than a man’s fist, the object seemed a
perfect sphere, golden coloured and metallic to the touch. Its polished smooth surface was broken in
several places by geometric lines and devices of uniform thickness, glass-like
in appearance but warm, almost as if lit from within. It was then that the pulse began, almost
imperceptible at first but building, ever so slowly and with a foreboding
patience, each that much stronger than the last. With it came the light, growing in strength
with every measured pulse, sickening and alluring in equal measure as it grew
to illuminate the three men intoxicated by its lurid brilliance. That light held within it the wonder and
promise of all the world’s beauty, at once mixed with the coldness and weight
of the abyss.
The silence shattered with the guttural bark of a
canon. Seconds later the splintered
crack of iron splitting stone and the sound of bugles filled the air.
“There’s no time,” started Crockett, standing and removing
his pistol from his belt, “take this, you’ll need it if you’re spotted.”
Joseph nodded and tucked the dark wood pistol through his
belt, quickly re-wrapping the golden orb in its oil-cloth and placing it into a
belt pouch.
Bowie shuffled to the window, still wrapped in his sleeping
blanket for warmth, to steal a glance at the approaching hoard, turned back and
crossed the room to the rack of hanging coats by the door. After a brief search he threw a bundled coat
to Joe and rolled up his sleeve to reveal a slim metal object strapped to the
inside of his left arm.
“Here,” he said, loosening the leather straps and handing
the object to Joseph, “take this.
Stealth will be your greatest ally; there are other weapons at your disposal
less clumsy and loud than a pistol.”
Bowie smiled and threw a glance to Crockett, who could do little
restrain his own. Noticing Joseph’s obvious
confusion, he continued.
“You don’t earn a reputation like mine without knowing a
thing or two about knives. Sometimes it’s
best to let your opponent think you’re unarmed, and sometimes it pays to have
one more blade up your sleeve, just in case.”
Joseph strapped the metal box to his arm, fixed the buckles
and slipped the plain metal ring over his index finger, an almost invisible
wire connecting it the body of the device.
He shook out the coat Bowie had thrown to him and paused a moment before
putting it on. It looked similar enough
to his own duster, but off-white and of a good sturdy canvas. Split for riding, the most conspicuous difference
being the large hood that sat in place of a regular collar. As a second canon announced its presence he
shrugged into the coat and settled his belt and bandoliers, sheathing his knife
and hatchet.
Turning for the door, Crockett caught his arm and pulled
Joseph around to face Bowie, who was now in the far corner of the room, running
a hand along the bottom of the wall, close to the floor. With a sound of stone upon stone, the
straw-covered floor slid down and sideways, revealing a series of rough-cut
steps that disappeared into the void below.
“Here, this will be a safer route,” said Bowie, stifling a cough. “Take the stairs and follow the path into the
hills, there’ll be a horse and provisions waiting for you. Ride North as swiftly as possible, one of our
number will find you.”
“How?” asked Joseph.
“They’ll find you.
Ride north and don’t stop for anyone,” answered Crockett, guiding him to
the stairs.
“And what about you, what will you do?” said Joseph.
Crockett considered, “We stand.”
Until next time.
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