Post by destry emile whitmer on Dec 9, 2012 21:51:16 GMT -5
There was no purpose to his visit here other than to satisfy the needs expressed to him by the general. It was a beautiful place, yes, but the suffering of his home was the reason he had travelled days to reach the gorgeous city, filled to the brim with extravagant culture and its people fleshing out ideas for the new world. He'd been told this was the birthplace of humankind's revolution, where the race as a whole would leave no stone unturned - but Milivoj was still extremely skeptical. At the very least, their Assassin connections could provide a useful alliance to aid his primary objective, but the country would have much more to prove to him yet.
Stepping off the edge of the polished stone platform, the very earth under his feet felt more dangerous than foreign. In his homeland, people were at times struggling to survive, the military so weak it could no longer protect the Ottomans from invading. Cities and towns ransacked and destroyed from the lack of governmental protection. But here, people loudly communicated in the streets, free from fear, held hands with plump children and preened over their own embroidered dresses, filling the marketplaces like excited ants.
Right. That's exactly why he was here.
Shaking his head, Milivoj tightened the straps of his belt before moving into the crowd, his dark olive skin standing out, with hope that none would become too curious before he reached his destination.
Reciting broken Italian in his head, and cursing himself for not memorizing it earlier, the hooded man slid silently through the crowd, his eyes sharp and critical of his surroundings, keeping them open to catch the familiar insignia he trusted his life upon.
Ah, there it is.
Resting on the top of a gateway, somewhat meekly hidden with illustrations of attractive grapevines and flowers, it was placed above a small crest with some Latin words. What they meant, Milivoj did not know nor particularily care; probably something loyal and brave to satisfy the authorities, he suggested to himself, shrugging it off.
The dark-skinned man invited himself into the archway, dropping his bag to his inner elbow and reaching a hand out to knock loudly on the wood door, not knowing who would answer.
Stepping off the edge of the polished stone platform, the very earth under his feet felt more dangerous than foreign. In his homeland, people were at times struggling to survive, the military so weak it could no longer protect the Ottomans from invading. Cities and towns ransacked and destroyed from the lack of governmental protection. But here, people loudly communicated in the streets, free from fear, held hands with plump children and preened over their own embroidered dresses, filling the marketplaces like excited ants.
Right. That's exactly why he was here.
Shaking his head, Milivoj tightened the straps of his belt before moving into the crowd, his dark olive skin standing out, with hope that none would become too curious before he reached his destination.
Reciting broken Italian in his head, and cursing himself for not memorizing it earlier, the hooded man slid silently through the crowd, his eyes sharp and critical of his surroundings, keeping them open to catch the familiar insignia he trusted his life upon.
Ah, there it is.
Resting on the top of a gateway, somewhat meekly hidden with illustrations of attractive grapevines and flowers, it was placed above a small crest with some Latin words. What they meant, Milivoj did not know nor particularily care; probably something loyal and brave to satisfy the authorities, he suggested to himself, shrugging it off.
The dark-skinned man invited himself into the archway, dropping his bag to his inner elbow and reaching a hand out to knock loudly on the wood door, not knowing who would answer.
