The cold winter air was still leaving the world in undisturbed peace and detail. Nothing moved, espesially not the air, it was unnaturally silent, refusing to let even the smallest breath disturb the pristine eviroment that settled in Mohawk Valley, 1775.
The sun had slowly begun to peak over the horizon, increasing the warm glow to sluggishly settle into full daylight. In a small village life began to stir, and eventually the entirety of the valley awoke to a full swing.
In the village, children ran about outside wearing warm fur-lined coats with fuzzy mittens and warmly padded moccasins, throwing snow and laughing, under the watchful eyes of their mothers of course. The small Mohawk village was happy that day despite the trouble brewing as of late.
The women made idle talk about the location of their settlement while keeping their gleeful and oblivious children in mind. This particular tiny village was rather insignificant to the whole of Mohawk Valley. It rested dangerously close to the eastern border of the territory, where the British settlers were situated, and where they were extracting the resources from the fertile landscape.
Men worked feverishly, the morning was coming to a close and a group of them were headed to hunt for the small communtiy during the midday when the animals were most likely to be risen from their shelters.
The talking hushed as a man walked past. His hood shadowed and concealed the part of his face above his nose, and he was decorated with many weapons. People watched the mysterious hooded figure clad in white and blue, very different from the brown and gray furs and hides most of the Native American town bore.
His shoulders were carefully embroidered with traditional patterns of blue and gray and his weopons glinted in the midday sun, one easily reconized as an unusually crafted tomahawk.
Even the children stopped their blissful play to look at the stranger. But no one dared say anything. He looked dangerous and lethal, similar to that of a freshly sharpened knife, able to cause harm even with the slightest movement.
He eventually entered the nearest inn. And everyone in the streets returned to whatever it was they may have been doing though most of the talk turned to the topic of the towns newest visitor.
The small group of five who had left just minutes before missed the minor event and left town early. They were tracking a small gathering of deer when an unusual sound found its way to their ears. Even some of the townspeople picked up.
They abandon the trail to investgate the offending sound. When they found the source of the noise they were enraged to see it was none other than the sound ot crashing foliage. Trees were being dragged from the border by men clad in dusty and snowy red and blue coats.
One of the more daring members of the small mohawk crowd, spoke up in anger, unable to realize that the newly proclaimed British hadn't yet crossed the border into mohawk territory.
"Do you realize that you are breaking the treaty?" He shouted catching the attention of to whom he spoke.
A man riding a horse clad in red and decorated with embroidery and clear superiority. "We have not yet crossed the border. If you haven't noticed."
"I don't think you would hesitate to! Your people have before!" Another one of the mohawk claimed.
"I hate to think of what you may be implying."
The relations between the two peoples, British and Mohawk, were already uneasy, and the slinging of petty insults and insinuations quickly spiraled into something more serious. Though it was unclear who threw the first blow the small skirmish escalated dangerously in to a full battle, and the severely outnumbered mohawks retreated now only three with two of them wounded, the British followed the trio back to the town without hesitating to cause chaos.
Children ran for their parents who most of were running. The men were quick to counter attack and the women gathered the children to hide in the local inn.
Connor Kenway, traditionally named Ratonhaketon, watched from the window in his room on the second floor. He watched the unusual behavior of the Redcoats with interest, and eventually noticed the deadly familiar red cross on the shoulders of the invaders.
In seconds the window was open and he was on the rooftop drawing his tomahawk. In a graceful yet lethal swoop the man on the horse was dead and flying off the horse with a crack in his skull.
The other British men turned to face the new threat. Though the small axe in his hand bore the blood of their leader, the man himself, unnaturally calm, had not a drop of scarlet on himself. He twirled the semi-traditonal weapon in a showful manner, flicking the blood of of it in the process.
He charged at the offenders and moved with agility that would normally be impossible for someone of his volume. Blocking and axe with his tomahawk he spun just in time to sink his hidden blade into the jugular of another mad about to strike him, with one dealt with he disarmed the man with the axe with a skillful flick of the wrist. Slitting his throat he moved on to the next Templar, dealing with each one in a deft and graceful manner.
He left the scene quickly heading into the forest, leaving the bodies and bloody snow in his wake. Despite killing the Templars so quickly he managed to stay clean save for a drop or two of crimson on his sleeves.
People watched in morbid fascination as he walked away, but one little boy struggled in his mothers grasp finally breaking free and running after the hooded man.
"Wait! Wait!" He called desperately.
The man stopped on the border between the town and the forest and turned his head to the side so the boy could see only his nose and chin.
"Who are you?" the kid asked in fear and curiosity.
There was a pause and the man seemed to freeze for a moment. A moment that lasted far too long, it seemed as though and hour had passed when he finally answered.
"That doesn't matter. Forget what you've seen. And if you ever see me again, keep walking."
The launched himself to the lowest branch of the nearest tree and leapt deftly to the next, swinging and jumping until he was gone from sight.