The end of winter left soft specks of snow around the various towns and camps. The world a chill in the morning fog, just barely given life by the faint hint of sunrise just beneath the edges of thick, ominous clouds. As they loom, they whisper of potential snow fall.
There was only one place to really find any kind of shelter, or warmth. She had been sneaking around, ducking in and out of small structures to try and escape the cold. Her hands were frozen, her cheeks red from the chill with mismatched eyes searching the area as far as she could see.
The sound of a fire nearby drew the young, Irish woman towards a small gathering of soldiers at a fire pit. They were eating their breakfeast, laughing and conversing trying to drown the daunting atmosphere that accompanied the war. New faces.. Always new faces, as so few survivors. She had seen many dead as she wandered in search of peace among the chaos.
But that was not her sole purpose for being here. She had escaped Ireland’s famine only a decade before the start of the Civil War in America. In Ireland she had a different name.. But here, in this free land so riddled with war and death, she was called Maeve (Maebh in Ireland).
Her purpose as an Assassin did now waver, however. She watched her husband ripped apart when he was caught by their enemies, and her child, only five, slowly succumb to disease. She was left alone in a world she thought she once understood.. And now.. all she’s trying to do is survive.
The guards from the fire followed behind her.. She seemed familiar to them. Perhaps she had been seen around the small towns that had survived the initial uprising of war? One circles around in front of her, forcing her to stop, while several others move in behind her. There’s a lot of shouting at first, then faint screams before a woman’s scream is left drowning out what remained of those of the men.
Maeve was forced forward over a barrel as her hands were bound behind her back with rope sharply before shoving her off onto the ground to kick her roughly. She had killed two of the soldiers, and another few writhing on the ground in pain from deep, dangerous injuries likely to lead to infection and death.
The air inside the green dragon tavern was enough to keep away the chills of frostbite, ravaging the outside world. Men huddled in close, hurrying in with chattering teeth as the sought out the warmth a tall mug of watered down ale would bring to their bellies. Cold never seemed to bother William Johnson too much, as he had always preferred the colder months, much to the opposite of his home’s natural climate for mild winters.
As he sat in his usual chair, his fingers lightly tapped against the hard wood of the table, eyes focused hard on the documents in front of him. His work was spread out into even piles, organized in a fashion of top priority to the least, the man working hard despite the noisy clatter going on below.
William’s concentration was only broken by the sudden shouts of men at the door. Soldiers had been killed, and a few wounded, right outside of the building. The news alone sent up red flags in his mind, but the calm-tempered Templar kept his thoughts steady. Was it an assassin? Perhaps a native or a slave acting out, and causing trouble? A civilian riot? Either way, his curiosity, and work as superintendent, convinced him to at least give in a small peek. After all; if there was a conflict that he could step into and resolve quickly, the less work he knew would befall his brother in arms; Jonathan.
Tucking away his things, William quickly withdrew from his spot at the table, and hurried down the steps and into the streets. He kept his beloved sash tied tight around his body to help keep him warm, as he hurried to the sight of the incident.