Hanging Around

A crossover of Assassin's Creed III and "The Huntsman". Danté and Connor run into each other, and questions are abundant.

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1. Hanging Around

Connor perched on the branch, cold autumn air biting his skin, his hood cloaking his face in shadow, a rope-dart ready in one hand.

A Templar was to be coming this way soon, heading for an important meeting.

Connor had to stop him.

There was a crunching of fallen leaves, and then the man passed underneath; his body bobbed as he moved, his large form wobbling.

Connor waited a second, and then launched the rope-dart; it wrapped around the man’s neck, the dart embedded in the flesh, and then Connor dropped back, ready to hang the man.

The man still struggled, not dead yet, and Connor found himself suspended in the air – the man had been so much heavier than anticipated.

‘Damn,’ Connor muttered.

He pulled on the rope, aware that dropping from this height could have painful consequences. He was reliant on hanging the man properly, and using his weight as a counterbalance.

He let out a resigned sigh, and saw that the man was now dead – there was no way down without suffering a sprained ankle – at least.

‘Having trouble?’ inquired a voice from below.

Connor strained to look, and saw a black-clad, hooded man standing below; the hood peaked like his own.

A sword hung at his waist, and a bow was slung over one shoulder; also at his waist was an ornate tomahawk (which Connor saw was similar in style to his) and a pair of flintlock pistols, both with gold filigree and two barrels.

‘I can cut you down,’ the man commented, smiling.

‘Is that a threat?’ Connor asked, scowling.

‘No, no. An offer.’ The man judged the distance to the ground. ‘You can land that without breaking your ankle, right?’

Connor shook his head. ‘No.’

Hmmm.’ The man paced slightly, inspecting the situation. ‘What’s your name, boy?’

‘Connor.’

‘Connor? You don’t really look like a Connor, dear boy. I mean, maybe if you were Dutch or something, but…’ The man sighed. ‘What is your real name?’

Ratonhnhaké:ton,’ Connor replied, reluctantly.

‘Why do I recognise that name? And those clothes?’ the man asked. He paused, and Connor felt he might have had an eyebrow raised. ‘Are you the Assassin?’

‘Are you a Templar?’ Connor spat.

The man laughed. ‘Lad…you’re not really in a position to ask questions are you…but no, I am not a Templar.’

‘Then who are you?’

‘You must be the Assassin, considering how you asked if I was a Templar…are you sure you don’t want me to cut you down? You’re starting to look a little light-headed.’

Connor took a deep breath. ‘I’m fine.’

‘Okay…look, I am really not sure what’s going on here. I was walking in Boston, when suddenly I went all dizzy, and when I recovered…’ The man sighed once again, and lowered his hood, revealing a neat goatee beard, and heavily shadowed eyes, as well as incredibly pale skin. ‘Everyone was talking about a Mohawk Assassin.’

‘Who are you?’ Connor asked, wanting to jump at the man and hold a hidden blade to his throat.

‘I am Danté Ombraspada, Grand Master of the Brotherhood of Shadows,’ the man replied, proudly. He took a good look, and offered once again. ‘I can cut you down from there if you want.’

‘No!’ Connor snapped.

Danté smiled and engaged his hidden blades. ‘I have the tools.’

‘Where did you get those?’

‘I made them.’

‘No you didn’t.’

‘Yes I did.’

‘No you…’

‘I did, and they have served me well for about 3000 years.’ Danté grinned. ‘Like it or not, I’m cutting you down.’

Connor went to object, but Danté was already in the tree, moving along the branch. He stopped where the rope was wrapping itself around the branch, and began to cut away the rope.

‘Stop!’ Connor cried.

The rope broke and Connor hit the ground with a loud thud. To his surprise he landed on the soft body of the Templar.

Danté dropped down next to him. ‘Humans. So weak,’ he chuckled, offering Connor a hand up.

Connor smacked the hand away and stood up. He glared at Danté, mildly confused. 3000 years?

‘I’ll be seeing you…or not. So long, Connor.’

And then he walked away into the trees and disappeared.

Connor sighed, and went to the Templar’s body in search of important documents.

And as he found a sheaf of papers, he saw two small puncture marks in the man’s neck.

He stood with a start, looking in the direction Danté had walked.

‘No…’

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