There's something about Altaïr's movements that rings a bell in his memory. A distant one, and with its tone unclear in the midst of the fight he can't decipher what it is. An echo of something else superimposed over the sight unfolding before him - something familiar. Something not usually on his side.
But here: here he can read it all enough to continue working in tandem, falling into a series of steps engraved in muscle memory from training grounds. Patterns learned and kept from towns overrun with bandits to be killed at the church's request, to battlefields where it meant one less enemy, to something at far closer range with intent leveled against him. All those times before might have been with a dagger, a sword, an axe, a bow - but now is no different with only magic. The principles behind it are still the same.
With Altaïr spared, his focus shifts again in time to see the other man drop to a roll. Claude has part of a spell called, ready to loose more arrows conjured from thin air, but there's no need for it. Another blade surfaces in the man's too capable hands that first causes him to drop to his knees, and then it's buried into that mask.
No hesitations, no stuttering before it lands: the decisive and accurate act speaks to incredible skill. If everything in him wasn't tensed tighter than an overwrought bowstring in anticipation of what could be next Claude might even whistle in well-earned appreciation for witnessing such a sight.
It'll have to wait. There's a rustle of snow and fabric just barely discernible but it has Claude snapping back around. The Acolyte he'd felled is standing again and the air becomes malodorous with rot like it was in the cavern. Though he hasn't faltered once, it steels his determination for his next action. Neither of them are going back there.
Reflexes aren't slowed as he darts forth to pick up Altaïr's sword from the ground, and dexterity comes back into play as Claude dodges around the weapon swung towards him. It provides him with the last bit of momentum needed to make it to forcefully sink the blade into the Acolyte's neck. The telltale sound of choking happens once, twice, then no more as they fall back into the snow and he watches with grim satisfaction, hands curled into fists at his sides.
cw: light gore
But here: here he can read it all enough to continue working in tandem, falling into a series of steps engraved in muscle memory from training grounds. Patterns learned and kept from towns overrun with bandits to be killed at the church's request, to battlefields where it meant one less enemy, to something at far closer range with intent leveled against him. All those times before might have been with a dagger, a sword, an axe, a bow - but now is no different with only magic. The principles behind it are still the same.
With Altaïr spared, his focus shifts again in time to see the other man drop to a roll. Claude has part of a spell called, ready to loose more arrows conjured from thin air, but there's no need for it. Another blade surfaces in the man's too capable hands that first causes him to drop to his knees, and then it's buried into that mask.
No hesitations, no stuttering before it lands: the decisive and accurate act speaks to incredible skill. If everything in him wasn't tensed tighter than an overwrought bowstring in anticipation of what could be next Claude might even whistle in well-earned appreciation for witnessing such a sight.
It'll have to wait. There's a rustle of snow and fabric just barely discernible but it has Claude snapping back around. The Acolyte he'd felled is standing again and the air becomes malodorous with rot like it was in the cavern. Though he hasn't faltered once, it steels his determination for his next action. Neither of them are going back there.
Reflexes aren't slowed as he darts forth to pick up Altaïr's sword from the ground, and dexterity comes back into play as Claude dodges around the weapon swung towards him. It provides him with the last bit of momentum needed to make it to forcefully sink the blade into the Acolyte's neck. The telltale sound of choking happens once, twice, then no more as they fall back into the snow and he watches with grim satisfaction, hands curled into fists at his sides.