Post by Seek on Apr 24, 2013 18:20:44 GMT 10
Title: Dangerous
Rating: PG
Word Count: 526 words
Pairing: George/Roger
Round/Fight: 1C
Summary: Assassin’s Creed AU. George watches the Conte Duke fight.
Warnings: None.
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The Conte Duke was a dangerous man. George knew that; he’d dealt with his share of dangerous people. What was interesting was the whispers. He’d done his share of eavesdropping and tailing. Duke Roger of Conte was a much-loved figure, even next to his cousin, Prince Jonathan. Charming, a skilled sorcerer, and the next in line to the Tortallan throne after Prince Jonathan. George crouched in the fork between two thick branches of the old tree overlooking the practise yards, and watched.
The Duke was a very good swordsman, he thought. He flowed from strike to strike with the dangerous fluidity that marked the very best fighters. His squire was even better. Alex of Tirragen, the one Alanna and his eyes at the Palace had spoke of moved cat-like, always perfectly balanced, always turning aside the Duke’s attacks. Steel clashed on steel. George had used a sword a few times, a very long time ago, and he didn’t care much for the weapon. Still, he could follow the flow of the practice duel.
He hadn’t gotten to where he was by underestimating his enemies, and the Conte Duke presented a sorry little puzzle. He trusted Alanna’s instincts; she blazed with fierce bright Conte blue to his Sight, but to his Sight, Duke Roger of Conte was the bright gold of significance and George wished he knew what to make of that.
Alex of Tirragen was less interesting; he burned a dangerous scarlet, and George marked the threat and dismissed him, even as the Duke executed a clever little twisting block that brought Alex within range of an overhead blow that would have split him from crown to navel had it landed. But Alex was twisting away like a cat. He broke free, rolled backwards, got back on his feet with a gymnastic ease that George marvelled at. It had taken him years of training to get to that stage.
How was the Duke holding his own? George frowned. He was a noble, for sure, and they always taught the sons the sword but the Duke wasn’t a knight, said he hadn’t the inclination for it. And then they’d shipped him off to Carthak and that was that. As far as he’d heard from the Brotherhood in Carthak, there was nothing about the Duke except for whispers. No sign that the Templars there had approached Roger. Except, something in George’s brain whispered, if the Templars here had already made Roger one of theirs, long before he’d taken ship for Carthak and the university there.
He should have been the bright flaming red of danger, then.
But he gleamed a burnished, stubborn gold to George’s vision anyway.
George frowned. The Duke glanced up, and lips quirked in a slow smile.
Had he seen?
The Master Assassin stood stock-still, and felt Roger’s gaze pass over him. Chance, then. Perhaps. The Duke was skilled, and perhaps a key player in the events to follow. But he didn’t know. Not yet.
As the Duke and his squire walked off from the practise yards, talking, George waited a few more moments. Then he slipped down the tree with practised alacrity and followed.
Maybe once we'd have seen it during Smackdown!