[The first time Altaïr arrived in Libertas, he thought he had seen its citizens at their most unfortunate. Victims of a bombing without warning, struggling to pick up the pieces of their shattered lives — he is a stoic man, but he was not left unmoved. At least things would get better for them, he'd thought. Unless and until true war arrived at the city's borders, they had come through the worst.
The appearance of the walking dead has forced him to revise this opinion somewhat.
He's no soldier, but he's not about to turn his back on this fight. He's battled the living; how much more difficult can to be to fight the dead, decayed as they are? He pulls his sword from its sheath and joins the fray, noticing the amateurs and the experienced alike among those who have done the same. His own skill is evident as he moves to fight beside one man who clearly knows what he's doing. Altaïr doesn't hesitate to strike decisively — but he's caught a little off-guard when his blade slices cleanly through a ghoul's head and it lands on the ground, only to continue chattering its teeth in apparent rage.
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The appearance of the walking dead has forced him to revise this opinion somewhat.
He's no soldier, but he's not about to turn his back on this fight. He's battled the living; how much more difficult can to be to fight the dead, decayed as they are? He pulls his sword from its sheath and joins the fray, noticing the amateurs and the experienced alike among those who have done the same. His own skill is evident as he moves to fight beside one man who clearly knows what he's doing. Altaïr doesn't hesitate to strike decisively — but he's caught a little off-guard when his blade slices cleanly through a ghoul's head and it lands on the ground, only to continue chattering its teeth in apparent rage.
That deserves at least one wide-eyed stare.]