Kaniehtí:io (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
nottheproblem) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
smash_logs2013-08-07 06:28 pm
nottheproblem) wrote in smash_logs2013-08-07 06:28 pm
what am i even doing i don't know i have technology fail
Who: Haytham, Ziio
When: August 02 / Backdated - late evening
Where: Desmond's bar
What: Birthday talk, some serious discussion, some likely witty banter on Haytham's part, and so on and so forth.
Warnings: Highly unlikely
It had been no easy task for Ziio to decide if she wanted to confront things just yet, or to sit and wait. To see how things panned out. Waiting and inactivity almost always seemed to lead to poor things, however, and having seen (and heard) plenty of poor things already, she wasn't keen on adding more to that list. At least not if it was voluntary.
Seeing Haytham was something she had to do for a few reasons. Good reasons. Necessary reasons. Would she have sought him out for any other kind? In older times, yes, perhaps. Yet they weren't that old for her and perhaps that was what prevented her from so readily going to see him.
But a promise was still a promise and Ziio continued to be a woman of her word, which meant locating him. Any place she might have thought him to frequent, and when she did, it seemed an obvious choice. A tavern - the tavern (the Wright Tavern, specifically) - had proven its uses before. Perfect for conversation eavesdropping while not being aware if the man a few feet to the right was doing the same thing. (In fact he probably very well was, but with Haytham's keen sense of observation, Ziio couldn't imagine anyone getting away with that.)
At least observation of an older time.
In the doorway of said tavern, faced with his back, Ziio thought of him as both the same and an incredibly different man than the one whose face found her dreams at night. Dreams of what could have been and weren't. Dreams of what were potentially to arise. An infinite amount of potential and not nearly enough certainty. Yet a man of the past and a man of the present, no amount of his aged lines could particularly erase the ever permanent stain of one impressive Haytham Kenway.
When: August 02 / Backdated - late evening
Where: Desmond's bar
What: Birthday talk, some serious discussion, some likely witty banter on Haytham's part, and so on and so forth.
Warnings: Highly unlikely
It had been no easy task for Ziio to decide if she wanted to confront things just yet, or to sit and wait. To see how things panned out. Waiting and inactivity almost always seemed to lead to poor things, however, and having seen (and heard) plenty of poor things already, she wasn't keen on adding more to that list. At least not if it was voluntary.
Seeing Haytham was something she had to do for a few reasons. Good reasons. Necessary reasons. Would she have sought him out for any other kind? In older times, yes, perhaps. Yet they weren't that old for her and perhaps that was what prevented her from so readily going to see him.
But a promise was still a promise and Ziio continued to be a woman of her word, which meant locating him. Any place she might have thought him to frequent, and when she did, it seemed an obvious choice. A tavern - the tavern (the Wright Tavern, specifically) - had proven its uses before. Perfect for conversation eavesdropping while not being aware if the man a few feet to the right was doing the same thing. (In fact he probably very well was, but with Haytham's keen sense of observation, Ziio couldn't imagine anyone getting away with that.)
At least observation of an older time.
In the doorway of said tavern, faced with his back, Ziio thought of him as both the same and an incredibly different man than the one whose face found her dreams at night. Dreams of what could have been and weren't. Dreams of what were potentially to arise. An infinite amount of potential and not nearly enough certainty. Yet a man of the past and a man of the present, no amount of his aged lines could particularly erase the ever permanent stain of one impressive Haytham Kenway.
no subject
He did not look like a man out spying-- only a truly inexperienced spy would. His pen hovered over a page so crammed with writing it never broke for paragraphs, but his head was subtly cocked in a way that his ear faced a group of semi-intoxicated men conversing several feet away.
He felt the presence of someone entering the tavern through the noise and breath of the doorway, but did not suspect who it was nor bother looking over his shoulder. It wouldn't be the first time she had caught him off-guard, anyway.
no subject
As she approached him, she remained light on her feet, undoubtedly her own form of cautious. She could see what he was doing. Well, partially. The writing had gone mostly unnoticed in favour of how he sat. He really was clever. But in looking around, she couldn't determine if he was listening to a particular group or not. Pinpointing exactly what he was after was not something she could even begin to remotely guess.
At the back of his chair, she leaned over his left shoulder, caring very little if and inevitably when he'd probably feel the weight of one of her braids. Instead, she focused on his writing, finding it without a typical flair she was used to - the fault of the pen. But she skimmed and didn't commit too much of his project to memory.
"What is this?" she asked him curiously, perfectly content to stay put for a few moments at least.