Disclaimer: I don't own Altair, the eagles or anything Ubisoft invented, except for an Altair action figure (yes, I am sad).
Author Note: This is an experimental snippet I came up with late at night. I'm not good at writing this type of short, so I'd be grateful for any input.
Crouched atop a building like a pale, stone gargoyle, a figure clothed in white robes waits. Patient, unflinching; he simply waits for the time to strike. It is his purpose, his calling, his life.
White is the ancient colour of death, despite what the Christian heretics preach. A pure colour. And he has come to cleanse their evil from the land. He has no name while he hunts and is but a blade in the crowd; silent, hidden and unseen before the kill. None mark his passing. He is but a flicker at the corner of an eye, an unnoticed shadow flitting across a crowded street.
Above him the eagles soar and swoop, delighting in the thrill of the hunt, of the kill. They are birds of a feather, he and they; bound by an understanding that transcends mere species. The creed of the predator tempered by the creed of the assassin. Or is it the creed of the assassin tempered by that of the predator? In the end, it matters not, for their actions lead to the same destination.
For a moment it seems as though a smile might crack the expressionless mask the assassin wears. But instead, in one smooth movement, he stands, poised on the edge.
The time of the kill draws near.
The eagles call to him, their strange, wingless brother; the harsh cries urging him to take flight and seek his prey.
He hears them and leaps into the void, his robes rippling silently on the wind.
It is time to hunt.