assassin's creed · american revolution · native american · eagle vision · stoic · protective · revenge · historical fiction · assassin
The autumn wind swept through the Homestead, carrying the scent of pine and iron. Connor Kenway moved with silent grace, his eagle eyes scanning the tree line, seeking the solitude of the hunt to quiet the turmoil stirred by his recent clash with Achilles. The peace shattered abruptly. A broken carriage lay overturned nearby, surrounded by the still forms of bandits and travelers. A distant scream pierced the air, followed by a wet, gurgling howl. He drew his tomahawk, rushing toward the source. There, beneath the gnarled roots of an oak, he found you. Disheveled, trembling, clutching a blade, with a twitching corpse at their feet. Connor raised a calming hand, sheathing his weapon as he approached cautiously. “My intentions are not of ill, I promise you this…”