Wine Drops

Important (long) Note: Okay, Ranger's Apprentice is one of my many obsessions at the moment, currently coinciding with Assassin's Creed. Those unfamiliar with Assassin's Creed need to at least see a video or trailer of it. So many details, descriptions, and settings are based off of it. Simply wandering around a city could ellicit so much inspiration that it's incredible. Every time I sit down and play the game I'm itching to write.

If you're religious, I'm not quite sure what reaction you'll get from Assassin's Creed. I'll try to explain the theories as best as I can, but if you have any questions don't hesitate to ask. I'll mix everything together and switch things up so it's not as controversial. Just wanted to warn you guys, though. I'm trying to aim for a 15+ chaptered story. Hopefully it'll work, LOL.

So to make things easier, I'll lay things out for you: All Ranger's Apprentice characters, settings, and concepts are going to be used. Only Assassin's Creed concepts are involved, characters and settings are to make no appearances. A lot of things have changed and some characters tweaked, but... it's just a crossover. Just watch and see how it'll lay out. I know the Italian in this is seriously marred; in fact, that's the purpose. If you look at Flanagan's books, you'll notice he changes things here and there to make the language 'his own'. Translations will be at the bottom. Although the culture and political upstandings are in the 1450-1500 AD range, did anybody know that Ranger's Apprentice actually takes place in 643 AD? I was pretty shocked when I found out. It's on the Australian website if anybody's interested, on the map. Another thing I have to address, is that yes, the story starts off a bit slow. I've been told by a very reliable and trustworthy source the many parallels the Ranger's Apprentice world has. To make things easier, I'll list only a few of them that relate to this story.

Toscano - Italy (Most likely named after Tuscany)

Araluen - England (Not quite sure where the name came from)

Gallica - France (Again, not quite sure)

Characters have been tweaked a little to display certain traits, but gradually they'll begin to develop and you'll see them transform. Updates are most likely not going to be continuous. I'm horrible with schedules. I'll keep the ANs to a minimum, this is the only exception.

And a huge, enormous, gigantic, -insert an adjective to describe something bigger than life itself- thank you to Elfpen, the very reliable and trustworthy source. Seriously, guys. I don't know what I'd do without her. She's an amazing writer with amazing ideas and an amazing sense of humor. She's what made this story the way it is and if there're any reviews to be made, credit goes to her as well. So thank you, Elf. I really, really, REALLY appreciate what you do :D

Another long, very, very, very gratitious thank you goes to my little sister Tigeress8520. Without her, this story would very easily go down the toilet and simmer there like something bad. It's thanks to her you've been able to get most of the ideas and outrages writer's blocks that are bound to come up. She is the pavement to my plotholes. When there's a long break between updates, and I've told you I'm out of ideas, just give her a short message and ask her to please help when I'm too proud to do it. I love you, sis, I really do, but sometimes my big head gets in the way, LOL.

Enjoy!

-GtG

Prologue
"Long Live The King!"

"It is not flesh and blood
but the Heart
which makes us
Fathers and Sons."
-Johann Schiller

War — it is a word often associated with a story, such as a tale of a great battle single-handedly ended by a handsome young man on a white horse. He would courageously fight his enemy, slay the commander, and claim victory in the name of his country. He would then be honored by the king himself and marry the beautiful princess.

Happily ever after, right?

It was not so. Fear is not often something associated with war, but as a man hefts a heavy sword and stands in battle formation, waiting for his leader's command and hoping his leader knows what he is doing, he stares at the dark blob of the enemy in the distance and realizes that his dreams were not accurate. This is actual war: a bloodthirsty and horrid thing where the average man is not atop a massive steed wearing protective armor. The grass underfoot is very real and wet, as are the screams of death and the crunch of swords slamming into bodies. He is on the front lines, next to people who copy his example, where a man says his final prayers and hopes that his family can live well without him.

But what one must know is that not all wars have to be fought on a battlefield. In fact, the tale of this story is a tale where magnificent horses, battles, and festivals are absent; instead, it is a tale of secrecy, corruption, and treachery, where in the end the brave warrior does not receive his recognition or the princess. It is a tale that provokes hatred, unfairness, and a carnal sense of revenge. A tale that has yet to bring forth a satisfying ending to be told as bedtime stories to children.

Because happily ever after is for fairy tales. And this... this is most certainly not a fairy tale.

At noon, the king was to be dead.

The figure checked the sun's position, craning his neck, exposing the long, jagged scar under his jaw. Noon was almost here. In a few minutes, the king would choke, gag, and then topple from his dining table. The poison in the wine would kill him in just half a minute. He increased his pace, reaching for the windowsill of the tower and hoisting himself up. His arm shook dangerously, and for a moment, perched precariously on the edge of a tower almost ninety feet in the air, the boy thought he would die. Fatigue was taking over his body. Quickly, he stuck his hand through the opening and locked his fingers on the sill from the inside. He wanted to groan. The walls were about three feet thick, and he had to stretch painfully. His other arm was still gripping onto the outer edge and his legs were weak from the climb. Somebody was bound to notice him. A body climbing through a window — a window into the king's dining hall, nonetheless — would hardly go unnoticed. His head pounded and slowed his thinking. The window was barely a slit in the castle wall. How was he supposed to fit his body through it?

He'd have to try. Much more than a king's life was at stake here. He inched his other arm through the opening and secured his grip. Now his stomach dug into the edge. With a grunt, he used all his arm strength and thrust his body into the window. He had forced himself sideways to fit, his left shoulder scraping against the stone. His stiff, throbbing legs were the only thing outside now. His face was bright red from exertion and sweat soaked his clothes. He did his best to stay quiet, a feat more difficult then the climb itself. Grunting and breathing hard would hardly do, especially so close to the king. He wriggled himself through, his legs kicking to inch through the extremely small space.

He toppled lightly from the window, a wooden beam breaking his fall with an oof! Getting inside had cost precious time. He couldn't stop to rest. Patting his vest, he felt the outline of his throwing knives with satisfaction. If worst came to worst, he would have to physically intervene. His smooth plan might not come to a head. Kill the Templare, dispose of the wine, and then get out. Simple as it was, the task seemed much more daunting. Climbing the tower had been a much larger problem than he had anticipated.

Dust swirled around him. He tried to suppress a sneeze, but a cough managed to escape. He resisted the urge to sniff and rolled onto his stomach. Now that he wasn't in danger of falling, he could concentrate on his surroundings. He squinted downwards. A dining table was about thirty feet below him. The occupants — including the king — wouldn't be able to see him. The wooden beam he had fallen on seemed to be the skeleton for another floor. He was perfectly concealed amidst the wood. Luck seemed to be shining on him that day, for noon was when the sun was directly at the top of the sky and not at an angle. His shadow wouldn't be noticed.

He slowly gripped the beam with two hands and dragged himself forward. His slender body — though protected by thick leather armor — was scarcely a hairsbreadth wider than the support beam. Splinters dug into his hands. He was panting at this point and his vision was slightly blurred as he tried to peer closer at the diners. It was a meeting with all men in fancy, tailored clothes. Their rich, flowing robes spilled out of their designated chairs, as did most of their stomachs. Fat men, he noted with disgust. Nothing but fat men at a party. He focused his attention at the head of the table. A young man, perhaps in his mid-thirties, was seated in a chair more decorative than the other men. His hair was cropped short and blonde, and though he was too far away to see what his face looked like, the air around him looked to be extremely bored. The boy smiled, a white streak on his dirty face. This was King Duncan, ruler of Araluen.

His smile faded. The king was about to die in less time it would take to tie a bootlace. His eyes searched the table again, looking for his target. His heart stuttered when he saw him. As fat as any of the other men, the Templare was different if only in his clothing. The boy's lip curled in disgust. Balding, graying, and with enough blubber to rival a whale, the Templare laughed at what another man said. His back was to him, but it was sheer instinct that told the boy that was the man. The corrupted official. The assassin.

His smirk returned. It was a good thing he was a better assassin. Worming his fingers underneath him and into his jerkin, he pulled out the hilt of a slim knife. He kept it low to the beam, not wanting to risk light glaring on the blade. He'd have to wait until the wine bottle appeared. Using his elbow and knees to keep his balance, he used his other hand to grab another knife. One for the wine, the other for the Templare.

A minute passed. Had he already missed his deadline? No, the king was still alive and looking very much bored. He didn't want to take his eye off the dining men, but perhaps he could nip it in the bud and destroy the wine before it even reached the table. He swiveled his head to look on the other side of the beam, noticing a small wooden door that was perhaps for the kitchen staff. That was where he'd have to be careful. If experience proved anything, he knew servers carried glass bottles against their chest, the ghost of a cradle forming in their arms. Unless the one pouring the wine would be in on the conspiracy, killing an innocent would expel him from the Brotherhood.

The door swung open and a young girl, no older than him, came stepping out. His breathing increased. She was holding a wine bottle. Purple liquid sloshed in the glass, and his hands suddenly turned sweaty. It was at this moment, so close to completing his project, when he noticed something out of the corner of his eye. Another man, this one dressed like a woodsman.

The girl neared the table, a pleasant smile forming on her lips.

The boy's mouth ran dry at the sight of the plainly dressed man. Tall and lanky, the woodsman had a look on his face that betrayed his inner feelings. Like the king, he was bored. Unlike the king, he was making an effort to cover it up.

King Duncan noticed the girl and eagerly held up his cup. Anything to help the headache he had forming. The woodsman frowned, something that made the boy's stomach churn. The woodsman looked as if he knew more than what he really led on.

The woodsman was a Ranger.

The serving girl was already at the table. Dammit! He'd let himself get distracted! The purple alcohol was already in his majesty's glass. Shaking his head, he hurriedly reached into his vest once more and pulled out his second-to-last throwing knife. He hoped he didn't miss. His mission was to kill the Templare, not anybody else.

He didn't have time to clear his head and take aim. Instinct was going to have to guide him. Short of screaming and jumping to the ground for a distraction, the boy knew his knives could very well save the king's life. He jumped to his feet, a loud noise that caused a few heads to turn in confusion. Dust fell like a curtain to the ground. Not even taking a moment to remained balanced, his arms had curled into his sides and flung the three knives into the scene below.

Barely audible, a small whistling noise accompanied each knife as it flew through the air. Glass shattered and liquid splashed. The wine bottled exploded in the girl's arms, glass shards slicing into her skin and face. The king's wine glass exploded as well, dumping the contents on him and mixing with his own blood. The sound of the Templare's death was masked by the girl's scream. The boy watched with satisfaction as the fat man jerked in his seat and slumped, a thin knife appearing in his neck. Dead.

Suddenly, another noise alerted him. Another knife. But he had only thrown three! His last one was still...

He had just enough time to remember the Ranger before something smashed into his temple. Dazed and blinded, he grappled for the wooden beam before he realized he was already falling. The girl's scream was like a distant buzz, or maybe his ears were ringing. He didn't know. He vaguely felt his body smash into the ground. He was lucky — he landed on his side. Nevertheless, despite being delusional with pain, he felt and heard a distinct crack before lying limp on the ground. Shadows danced before his eyes. A figure neared him, but before it could grab his collar and demand his identity, the boy was unconscious.

In his mind, the feeling of a warm smile spread through him. Missione compiuta.

Mission accomplished.