Assassin's Creed: Vengeance

When Angélie Delacroix's mother is killed in front of her very own eyes, she wants answers.
She is the daughter of an infamous Assassin and while blessed with beauty and courage, her strength is also her downfall. She must venture to Paris to join the elite Assassin Order her father did so much for, however nothing is quite as it seems.
In a world of love, hate and betrayal, how will she ever learn who to trust? Or rather...who should be her first target?

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1. Chapter One

A/N: As this story was written over two years ago, I'm currently (slowly) severely editing each chapter. I do hope to finish this one, so expect updates! - July 2015 (Also, credit to my friend Dario for the ending to this chapter)

 

 Dijon, France

~ 1462 ~

 

The sound of stone crunching under boots echoed across the street, the cold morning breeze whistling through the air, a fierce bite to whomever stood in its path. Jean-Luc Delacroix pulled his alabaster hood further across his face, gliding like a shadow through the busy streets of Dijon, the town of which his wife had been born and raised. Juliette. His wife. His true love. His soulmate. One thought of her beautiful face was enough to melt his icy heart and bring a smile to his stony features. And soon she would be giving birth to his child, the heir to the French Assassins and he already knew - felt it deep in his gut - that whether it be a male or female, they would make history. It was inevitable.

The day's dawn painted the sky the blazing scarlet of fresh blood and the newborn sun set the edges of Jean-Luc's body alight with gold as he weaved through the crowd of early risers, completely incognito. He was searching thoroughly for his next target; an eagle watching for its prey. The kill was to be that of a doctor turned murderer, a wicked being who had been wrongfully trading salves and elixirs intoxicated with venoms and poisons to innocents. He was of the Templar Order. Oh how the Assassin's blades itched to be embedded in his throat...

Ever so slowly, the sun inched it's way up the horizon, lighting everything in its path and raising the sleep-ridden residents. The occasional door opened to reveal mostly balding, rotund vendors and merchants preparing for the day's market to bring home a hefty profit for their wives and children. Jean-Luc snorted under his breath as he brushed past one particularly burly man, sporting imported robes and dark sweat stains, who was tragically busy bragging to another about his unending fortune...so busy, in fact, that he did not hear nor feel the Assassin's hand reaching for the pleasurably gorged coin purse on his belt.

"Rich bastard..." he mumbled, pocketing the purse discreetly. The cry of a wild peregrine lifted the Assassin's gaze to the skies and before his smirk had faded, Jean-Luc's boots were already flying between slated roofs Leaping from one home to the other, his movements were perfectly fluid, as though the man knew exactly what he was doing - which, of course, was precisely the case. After a few solid minutes of leather hitting stone, heart pounding against the hard muscle of his chest, a large cobblestone square swam into view, the beautiful monster of the famous Église Notre-Dame its background. Large tudor-esque buildings stood proud around the pavilion, a grand fountain featuring a beautiful stonework mermaid, pouring crystalline drops of water from an equally intricate jug. The angle of the sun, now having risen significantly, allowed for beautiful shafts of golden light to dance along the few carts and animals already prepared for the day, as if the sun god Apollo were entertaining the two stray cats that pawed curiously at the light.

Jean-Luc sighed in the crisp air as he squatted on the rooftop, his silhouette hidden for the most part due to a bulky chimney, to his left. His piercing blue eyes scanned the square, probing every shadow and crevice for the familiar beaked mask of the man he'd been tracking for the past week, the black robes that billowed wide with his dramatic hand gestures and the tiny red cross on his arm which was the key to finding him. The town hall sounded six o'clock in the distance. Excellent. By this time, several other carts had ricketed their way in front of the church, putting their goods on show for the - mostly - rich customers of Dijon, their raspy voices calling, "les fraises à vendre! Un livre!", "Meilleurs pains dans tous Dijon!" and so-forth. However Monsieur Delacroix wasn't interested in the price of strawberries or whose breads really were the best in Dijon. No...his attention had been grabbed by the shadowy figure loping along the entrance to the church, swathed in a robe of shadows and a beaked mask. Yes, there he was. From the distance between them, the Assassin could only make out a speck of crimson on onyx, smaller than a fleck of dust to his eye - it was, undoubtedly, the Templar Cross. A smirk tugged on the Assassin's lips, his thoughts veering to the methods of death he could serve to the bastard. Of which would be the most gruesome. The most painful. The church loomed above the Templar in question, mesmerising Jean-Luc with its snarling gargoyles, gothic arches and--

A viewpoint mere feet from the Templar's emporium. It was in prime position; simply a long drop between the roof and death itself, complete with a scythe and skull for a head. Adrenaline coursed through his veins like opium, the thrill of the hunt truly setting in.

The peregrine cried and, moving as a blur, the Assassin spurred into action making his way to the the sun-bleached viewpoint and, without a second thought, leaped silently off the tall structure, the only sound the 'shing!' of his silver hidden blades, drawing themselves almost as an instinct, rather than a skill, and the shocked cries of the alarmed citizens watching Death Personified deliver final judgement. The descent stirred a rush of air, sending his deep brown locks sifting through the wind, the red sash he wore flew out behind him, as bright as the blood that was soon to be spilt. Not even a second passed and Jean-Luc was upon the wicked Templar, his finely tailored white robes contrasting to the doctor's, however the splash of red was a common factor for both parties. One could almost say it looked like the blood they'd both taken. The Assassin took a second to examine the familiar Templar Cross before grandly raising his wrist, his godlike muscles tensing as he brought the blade down, ready to--

"Wait!" the Templar hissed, his voice like sandpaper on glass. That one word was enough to falter the Assassin's confidence. "Wait!" Reluctantly, Jean-Luc halted, blue eyes blazing with hunter's instinct, the peregrine still circling above. He hated when his prey talked. It almost made them more...human. They were harder to kill that way. "Please! I...I have a wife! And child!" A barking laugh escaped the Assassin's lips and he pressed the blade further into the Templar's neck, nicking the skin. The man's choking was the only sound as the people of the square retreated, horrified and silent. He ripped the beak mask off and spat in his face, growling with a lion's ferocious nobility, chin held high.
"Menteur!" he snarled, viciously, the blade pressing harder. "Liar. I have tracked you for days...you live alone in the suburbs with no one for company but a mangey cat that isn't even yours." His teeth bared. "You're nothing but Templar scum, killing innocents!"

The plague doctor laughed, a hoarse, unpleasant sound. "Templar, maybe," he reasoned. "But the only scum I see here is you; je t'emmerde! You murder for money and display it as 'justice'." His sneer revealed cracked, yellow teeth. "At least I admit my crimes!"

"Yes... Murdering those who murder," Jean-Luc mused. "A truly shameful business, non? Why, I ought to be hanged, surely!" The ice in the Assassin's eyes threatened to engulf his prey. He watched the Templar's eyes rove over his features, narrow in confusion and then:

"Mon Dieu..." he breathed. "Merciful heaven above, save me..." The Assassin smirked. "T-The Walking D-Death! No...Please! Anyone but you!"

He laughed, slowly, calculating. "Ah...so I see you've heard of me? Then you know why I'm here. Oui?" The Templar had been reduced to sobbing and sniffling, his eyes red and wild as he beheld the French Master of Assassins in all his terrifying glory, the sun casting his features in shadow. Everything about him oozed deadly promises. "Let's play a game shall we?"

The blade was removed from the man's throat however he didn't dare move from where he quaked, knowing there was no escaping his fate. "W...What? W-Why?!"

Jean-Luc idly examined the detailing of his hidden blades, fully aware of the effect his presence had on the other man. "I want you to pick a number between zero and one thousand. Any number. Can you do that?" The Templar just sat quivering on the floor, unable to speak. Monsieur Delacroix waited patiently before cocking his head to the side. "Non? Very well...I shall have to pick one for you. How about..."

"N-N-No..." the man sobbed, seeing the predatory gaze he was given. He gulped a breath. "I...I pick zero..."

"Zéro?" The Assassin let out a mirthless cackle that echoed off the stone walls of the silent square. "Very well...

Jean-Luc retracts his blade, Templar and crowd tensing in its crisp sound. "Zero cuts shall be made…" Jean-Luc's hand lurches forward and clutches the Templars throat, tight as an iron vice, instantly raising his free hand to a fist. Striking his prey with one powerful strike he forces him to the floor. Again he strikes, breaking the Templars nose with high crack that made the peregrine screech. He strikes once more, then again and again. Small droplets of blood begin to shower his captive audience, his prey's pleading moans become gargling grunts until, at long last, the street lay silent.

Jean-Luc pulls himself from the now cold body, admiring his crimson artwork of broken bone. "The smart ones always learn the hard way."

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