Author's Note: Yes, so I finally caved against my better judgement and decided to write an AC fic. I cant guarantee I'll update it often, but I'm blocked everywhere else and I do so love my assassin men. WARNING: I obviously do not own Assassins Creed or Altair. Astarte Sangreal, however, is my character and I'd like you to ask for my permission if you wish to write about her yourselves. ANOTHER WARNING: You may notice as your reading that there are a veritable ton of references to Christendom. This is because it is appropriate for the time period. Anything negative about this outlook that Astarte may imply IS NOT the author's personal view or an attack on any religion, simply the individual feelings expressed by a character used to further the plot. In any case, please R&R if you'd like me to continue this!

Astarte Sangreal rolled her shoulders back and stretched her neck as she emerged from the dank hovel, sighing into the rag that covered her nose and mouth. Exhalation was the best part of breathing in a city like Acre, where the smell of plague victims and unwashed bodies was so thick it practically formed a poisonous smog. Horrid times had brought her to this Christian outpost of the holy land, and even the fact that she was helping save what lives she could did not improve her mood. Especially not when she knew the lives she saved were sneaking about and spreading vicious lies behind her back, lies that could very easily earn her an honoured place at the next public execution.

Taking shallow breaths to try and avoid the stink of the middle district, she turned onto a narrow side-street, walking briskly and gripping the handle of her athame with white knuckles. It didn't do to linger long in dark alleys, especially not with the sheer number of soldiers patrolling the place. Ha, in any normal and godly world, soldiers were there to make the streets safe. Not here, not in Acre. It wasn't safe for a young woman of eighteen to wander the streets alone and armed with only a dull herb knife and her own wits for protection.

Something white and red flashed out of the corner of her eye and Astarte's gaze snapped upward and she fairly flew to put her back against the nearest wall, the brilliant sunlight blinding her as she attempted to catch a glimpse of her possible attacker. Blinking in the harsh glare, she was forced to cast her gaze downward.

"Witch?" Astarte jumped as a piece of roofing crumbled and a peasant boy emerged from behind a dilapidated stone building. Recovering her breath and sense, she reacted with exasperated annoyance:

"Herbalist. Doctor. Healer. Not a witch, do you understand? Do you know how quickly they'd have me tied to a stake and who knows what else if they heard you call me 'witch'? Who'd help you then, you uneducated, squalid fool?" She sheathed the herb knife and decided she must have been jumping at shadows, or at the very utmost she'd leapt about in terror because of a seagull. Something red and white and feathered all over…she snorted and pulled her hood up further over her head, feeling nonetheless distinctly unsettled.

"I don't know what you mean…miss?" The boy hesitated, unsure of what to call her despite the options she'd provided for him. Sighing, she decided it didn't matter as long as the taboo witch did not crop up again.

"What do you need?" Astarte let the subject drop as she followed the lanky preteen through a winding array of back allies and crowded streets. Astarte kept her eyes focused on the ground like the rest of the poorer population, despite the effort it took to do so. It was much safer then running the risk of a guard or knight taking too close a look at her. Chivalry and courtly love was for the noble ladies, or those who could at least be recognized as such and had not fled their duchy in Northern England. Peasant women could be taken by force if a man of higher rank so wished. She'd like to keep her maidenhood for a bit longer if she could help it.

"My sister was scratched this morning by the blade of a man saving her from the guards. I just remembered what you said about keeping it clean but it's very deep…I'm worried." The boy wrung his hands as he lead her into a blacksmiths and up the stairs at the back of the shop. This lead to yet another hovel building filled with rats and grime. Astarte winced and tightened the cloth around her face as they took a flight of stairs up to the second floor. A bedraggled young woman sat on a bed in the corner, gazing out the window, a three inch long slice tracing a clean red line down her arm. As Astarte entered, she put a hand on the boys shoulder.

"Did you boil water?"

"Yes! Where do you want it?" Astarte rolled her eyes at the stupid question but gave explicit instructions nonetheless. The girl in the corner watched her with a mildly interested expression as she dug into her cloth bag and removed some clean strips of linen and a few packets of herbs. Astarte, unsettled by the gaze of a woman so close to her in age, reached for the girls arm.

"What's your name?" Astarte asked as she gripped the her slender wrist and surveyed the wound.

"Magdalyn." She replied, staring out the window as though searching for something. Just to be safe, Astarte stood up and gently palpated the girls skull.

"Did you hit your head?"

"No, just the arm…" Magdalyn watched Astarte work, a willing and docile patient. "He saved me, you know."

"Who?" God. Astarte knew this would undoubtedly be the answer. Obvious by the girls name and by the air of serenity that pervaded her mentality.

"The man in white, he runs on rooftops. I've seen him, you know, he flies like a bird." Magdalyn looked suddenly fervent, gazing out the window with a renewed intensity. Astarte froze for a millisecond in the act of tying the girls bandage, only to lean over and add a few ingredients to the girls restorative tea.

"You don't believe me?"

"Er…tell me more about him, Magdalyn." Astarte knew from past experience that angering a patient with a concussion did much more harm then good.

"He's a bird with only one talon, the one that sliced me when he leapt from the sky-" Flying priest from the sky carrying blades?

"Well, that looks about finished. I've got to be going. Keep it clean and dry and drink the tea." Astarte stood up and rushed down the wooden steps, hurrying out the door and back into the smithy.

"You. I need payment for my services…it's five shillings at least and not a penny less. Otherwise I die of starvation and your all left to your own devices so pay me." At first, she'd been hesitant about demanding money. But that was before she'd realized what perpetual hunger felt like.

"I'll give you two shillings, that's all I can afford." A burly smith stepped forward, looking menacing as he thrust the money at her. Astarte sighed in frustration and put her hands on her hips.

"No. The price is the price and its nonnegotiable. Besides, I just saw you pocket three times that much and your prices per horse shod are on the side of this building. Six shillings a horse. So give me the money, or shall I go consult those knights and ask them to bargain with you?" She held out her hand insistently only to have the man spit into her palm and call her something exceedingly rude in French.

"Go away, witch. I'm not paying you a farthing."

Forced to admit defeat, Astarte trudged off, dejected and infuriated at the same time. She pulled the rag off from around her mouth and tied it around her neck, wincing at the smell but resolved to deal with it. She shoved her hands deep in the pocket of her loose fitting tunic, scuffing her almost completely worn boots against the aged stone. The outfit she wore was an androgynous one, the wool cloak was itchier and more unpleasant then she would ever get used to. But at least it stayed warm all the time, even when wet. Warmth was important to her, despite the sweltering weather she now mucked through. The nights were frigid and exhausting, often she could not fall asleep for fear of being caught by surprise.

Tonight would be no different from the other interminably long nights spent in Acre, her own personal purgatory.