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[Good morning, Asgard, your bracelets are currently being serenaded with the sounds of crashing glass and muffled yelling and bunch of shuffling going on. It's probably not the first sound you'd expect, coming from this bracelet in particular, but after the recent escapade made by the Assassins who knows these days.

The racket you hear is continued for a few minutes, with breaks of actual words heard every so often- "let go," ""Ya Homaar!" "CAZZO!" The voices are somewhat distinguishable, and somewhat not. But when the sounds finally die there is a sound of a very frustrated Italian running his mouth off in a frenzy of insults.]

Ha una faccia tosta testa di merda! Sono incazzato! [There's sounds of angry struggling, and more incomprehensible swearing.] Let me go, stronzo!!

[For those within the shop A Needle in a Haystack, you can hear this entire commotion going on in one of the back storerooms. Which is getting entirely destroyed, by the way. You're welcome.]

Not until you speak the truth! Who are you, and what is your business here? What is this place?

How should I know, you are the one who's causing trouble!! Faccia di merda! GET OFF ME!

[There's a large WHUMF and the camera flicks on and smacks into the ground, the bracelet sliding off Altaïr's wrist and clattering across the floor. There's two men among the mess of what looks like a storage room, in white robes, one pinning the other to the floor. For those who know the voices, they will recognize that Altaïr is the one holding the other down- and the one on the ground sounds awfully familiar. Like Ezio, only… younger?]

I will ask you once more. Give me your name and return my blades, and I may spare your life.

[Ezio hisses angrily.] I don't have your blades! You have mine! Give me back my father's blade now-

Enough of your foolishness. You had your chance.

[With a sudden twist to the side, Ezio manages to escape Altaïr's pin and rolls to his feet. He rushes Altaïr in an attempt to gain the upper hand, only to essentially be suplexed and hit the floor with a loud thump. A cry of pain escapes him as the wind gets knocked out of his lungs, and Altaïr lets go long enough to grab the bracelet and cut off the feed there.]

[ooc: As punishment for their hubris as the ringleaders of this little expedition, Altaïr and Ezio have been cursed to become younger versions of themselves—Ezio is 19, and just from his killing of Vieri di Pazzi and Altaïr from one day before the incident at Solomon's Temple. Which means they're jerks now. The curse will last for three IC days. Have fun! Also, threadjacking is highly encouraged.. Bracelet replies will come after an IC delay once they stop fighting and get curious about the talking jewelry.]

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[ For once, Malik isn't paying attention to his bracelet. He heard the beginning of the ruckus, but after the fiasco with Thor, he has no desire to get involved with whatever it is that's going on. He does, however, hear the mirror of it down below, though he can't make out the words. The only thing he can make out--albeit just barely--is Altair's voice, and he figures the other assassin would be able to handle whatever it was that was going on down there. If not on his own, then with whoever was watching the shop.

Once everything has seemingly settled down, Malik goes to find Altair, curious about the incident. ]

Altair, what was that commotion? An unhappy customer, or was it one of our own? [ It seemed unlikely, the recruits didn't seem the hot-headed type, but it was something he couldn't rule out. ]

[Altaïr is more than ready to be done with this place and these people. Their lies, so transparent—as if he knows or would ally himself with any of them. All he wants now is to find a way back to Jerusalem, then to Al Mualim, who must be told of this. In fact, he's almost out the door before he hears a familiar voice, and he stops where he is and turns to face it, gladder to hear it than he'll admit.]

Malik. So they took you too? I shouldn't be surprised, but where—

[Where is Kadar? The words never leave his mouth, for the man who stands before him is not dressed in their traditional robes, carrying a hidden blade as he was on the way to Solomon's Temple. In fact, he can carry nothing on his left side.]

What happened to your arm?

[ Malik stiffens, his body tense, alert as though hit by an unexpected attack. What? He almost asks, thinking perhaps he misheard. Altair should know full well what happened to his arm. Unless he was finally showing his true colors? No...no, that does not fit. Though that does not change the fact that something is very wrong here.

He switches to the defensive almost imperceptibly, the tenseness in his shoulders no longer from surprise, but to be ready. Because whatever is going on, and no matter how out of place Altair's actions seem in Asgard, this is not unfamiliar to him at all. Malik takes a few steps forward, watching Altair closely, expecting answers just from his body language and expression. ]

Do not play this game with me, brother. [ His voice is tense, controlled, though his expression is dark, confused and angry. ]

[For his part, Altaïr is absolutely perplexed. Other Assassins have lost limbs before, though it's more common for them to be killed outright if they're outmatched in battle, and certainly Malik's skills are less than his own. But even if the man did find himself over his head, how could it have happened so quickly? Just how long did he sleep before awakening in that dingy room?]

I play no games. Explain yourself, Malik. [It's very much an order from one of superior rank.] How did this come to be?

You are how it came to be.

[ The words are out before he really thinks about them. He does not see the order. Does not see Altair as a superior. All he sees is the cocky man from Solomon's temple. ]

You acted rashly in Solomon's temple, Altair. You led me to this, and my brother--[ The words catch in his throat. ] Kadar is dead because of your arrogance.

Speak sense. I did nothing of the kind.

[He bristles at Malik's accusation, which can be no more true than anything else he's heard here. Al Mualim set them a simple task, and he has no doubt they'll succeed.]

We approached the temple only hours ago, and then I found myself here. I'd thought myself alone among madmen.

Perhaps you have not done so yet, but you will. Your arrogance will cost us everything, not that you will look past yourself enough to see that.

[ His mind is a jumble. An angry, irrational jumble. He thinks of his brother. Of his arm. Of so many things. Part of him wants to grab Altair by the collar and shake him. Scream accusations that will do no good and change nothing--and his arm lifts as if to do so, but stops, his hand tightening to a fist before dropping once again to his side.

He breathes.

It doesn't help. ]

You are alone, but they are not the ones who are mad.

Edited (I am so sorry for all of these edits.) 2013-11-20 05:34 (UTC)

[Altaïr goes perfectly still, not moving an inch even as mind rushes through the possibilities of what is going on here. None of what Malik is saying makes sense, yet he has never known the man to be a liar.

A flicker of doubt makes itself known, but Altaïr pushes the thought away. He knows better, damn it all, and Malik's words cannot be true, no matter how trustworthy the man has been in the past.]

I didn't know you were a fortune teller, Malik.

I am not playing the part of a soothsayer, my arm should be proof enough of that.

Proof enough that I've missed something, yes.

[He hates to concede anything, but there's no argument good enough to win against a missing limb.]

What is it you claim happened in the temple? Our mission was to be a simple retrieval.

Robert de Sablé himself was there, and instead of acting with caution, you took it upon yourself to call attention to us and go against him yourself.

[ He scowls down at the ground. ]

He did not kill you--he wanted you to act as a messenger--and threw you from the room, blocking it off so you would be unable to lend us aid.

I'm no messenger. I am your superior, and more than capable of handling one such as de Sablé.

[Really, he must be slipping if Malik would ever believe otherwise.]

Even if what you say were true, surely you and Kadar could have handled him between the two of you. Or are you not Assassins?

[ Malik's eyes narrow, his expression colder than it's ever been. ]

You are my superior no longer, your rank stripped from you when it should have been your life. So do not speak to me of what you are able to do. I know full well you failed against him, leaving me and my brother--one experienced and one not--to face off against an army and its master.

And if you are unable to accept that then I will leave. I have no attachment to you, to this place. You are not my master, nor will you ever be.

[ Any semblance of respect that had grown for the Altair he had come to know is tossed to the side, replaced with only the need to get away from the person that does nothing but haunt him. ]

[Malik's narrowed eyes match Altaïr's own, and his face is no less cold. He doesn't betray any of what's in his mind.

It could be true, under the right circumstances. No poorly-trained Assassin is allowed to bear the hidden blade, and Kadar has less experience than most he has partnered with. The French Crusaders who've come to the Holy Land to fight for their king are powerful—it's conceivable that they could overpower two men of Masyaf.

Altaïr could allow himself to believe it. But he won't.]

There is no need. I will leave this place myself.

[He turns to do just that.]

Stay if you like. I'll find my own way out.

[ He doesn't try to stop him, remaining rooted in place, glaring daggers at Altairs back. ]

Finally, an action we can both agree on.

[ Part of him wants to be done, to crawl to his room in Odin district to lick his wounds and curse this place until there's no breath left in him. ]

And do not return. You are unwelcome within these walls.

[ He almost adds 'until you have come to your senses' but refrains, too angry to offer the possibility of the future. ]

I've no plans to.

[He scowls over his shoulder, his expression full of disdain and the slightest bit of disappointment—that Malik would asssist in painting this bizarre picture of reality in which he's found himself—that reality itself is not as he expects it to be.]

Safety and peace, brother.

[There's no warmth or well-wishing in the familiar words. And then he's gone, just a blade in the crowd.]

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