circle7 | the historian's secrets (cologne)

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the historian's secrets (cologne)

Vico brushed into the room with a clear air of irritation, obvious from even the sound of his footfall as he stomped up the stairs, and clearer yet when he all but kicked open the door and slammed it shut again, throwing his heavier weapons onto one of the beds of the room they had rented during their (hopefully) short stay in Germany. Foreign missions, higher in priority, also cost higher, in terms of resources and time spent, and it was customary for recruits to be gone up to an entire week while carrying out the Brotherhood's orders in unfamiliar lands. There was situating, scouting, and planning involved, all made more difficult because neither of them knew the streets of Cologne quite like they knew those of Romagna, and the patience required in the preparation stage of the mission was wearing on Vico's not-quite-infinite supply of patience.

When he pulled down his hood, mussing up the brown curls on the top of his head, Vico rubbed at a particularly impressive bruise forming on his left cheek, small, compact, and shaped like a rounded rectangle. They had seen enough of such bruises to know that it was probably the work of a well-timed and well-aimed punch, most likely one that Vico had returned with just as much accuracy and probably three times as much force. "These Germans are more skittish than the pigeons in Italy," he muttered, as means of explanation, perhaps. "They jump at every little thing, it is ridiculous!" He waved an arm, expressive as his Italian blood made him, and threw it up at the ceiling as if cursing some imaginary god up there. "You so much as breathe the wrong way and they start pointing their spears at you!"

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Compared to their wild chase last night, morning in Cologne came peacefully. People began filtering into the streets come first light, even before the birds began their chirping from the rooftops. These were sounds that Vico was used to, even if the voices outside were speaking a language other than Italian, and so, these were also sounds that Vico was entirely accustomed to sleeping despite of, also.

The pain had woken up a few times in the night, and he had spent a few minutes every time just gritting his teeth and waiting for it to subside. By some grace of the heavens, it always did, and overcome with tiredness, he had fallen asleep just as quickly. His last bout of fitful sleep was apparently a very good one, because even when the mid-morning rays of light began filtering through the shutters, Vico was still softly snoring away, a pillow pulled over his head and the inevitably-mussed hair on it, face down in the sheets. He was not a sprawler, but he slept like a log.

As Adamo returned to the room, he rubbed his arm gently, closing the door silently behind him. Unfortunately he liked to sleep on his left side, and his arm made that difficult throughout the night. He eventually settled on his stomach, but then his back became agitated again. A couple of times Adamo thought his constant fidgeting had awoken Vico, but realized soon enough that it was something more significant; the arrow's wake left through his leg.

While it certainly wasn't a cure, small comforts like food when you hadn't eaten since the last evening should be nice. He walked up to Vico's bed, nudging him by the shoulder, setting down a wooden plate with sausage, cheese and bread on the nightstand.

"Hey. Svegliare."

Adamo was greeted with a groan first, before sluggishly, Vico pulled the pillow away from his head. It was no less difficult to make out a face from the mess of hair below it (with all these missions lately, Vico's bird's nest that he called his hair was getting a little long), but he cracked an eye open, glancing first at Adamo and then, more pointedly, at the plate on the nightstand, attention drawn by the smell.

"German food," he declared, and though he tried to sound sour, his interest was clearly piqued. Vico pushed up to his elbows and yawned. "You ate already?"

"Just be thankful I turned down the sauerkraut," Adamo said with half a grin, padding across the room to sit on the edge of his bed. Vico's hair was just as poofy and prominent from a distance. "I did. Figured you needed the rest, so I waited. Talked with our amico Winfried, as well. Says we should be clear to leave. His friends are providing distractions around the town."

Taking the plate from the table and with some difficulty, but only a little, sitting up, Vico eyed the German sausage before biting off the end. It was not as rich as the Italian renditions, but there was a strange mix of spices in it, coupled with the rarer cooking method, that actually was pleasing to the palate. In fact, it was actually good, and Vico frowned down at the meat on the end of his fork with some degree of suspicion, considering it was, after all, German. Busy chewing, however, he did not voice it, and goodness knew Adamo had had enough of his nationalistic griping for the week.

"Horses?"

Adamo interpreted that glance down at his food as distaste, but simply shrugged. If Vico wanted to complain, he would complain. (He was surprised when he didn't, actually.)

"One," he answered, starting to pull on the rest of his outfit. He went downstairs with his undershirt and breeches rather than his hooded shirt and belt, as not to raise suspicions. "For you."

"I am going to leave you in the dust," Vico declared, high-handedly, rather than complain about how that treatment was unfair or what an insult to his pride that was. Those were petty, trivial arguments left to men with greater pride. Vico had long since learned to accept what graces were given from living in the poor districts. With a vicious bite, he downed the rest of the sausage and flashed a smirk at Adamo. "And then I will collect all the reward money for myself, and you will be too poor to go seek out your 'Maria's."

"Is that how you treat your best friend?" Adamo said with a pout as he fastened his belt around his waist. "Honestly. I could leave you for those German guards."

"You mean, after they are done with you?" Vico asked, brows raised innocently while he spooned the rest of the plate's contents into his mouth.

"Now why would I get myself caught?"

"Because you could not get a foot past the gates with a face like yours. You would walk right through and the bells would start ringing, because you, amico, would simply have, 'I just sold my friend to the enemy because I am a bastardo' written all over it."

"And what a handsome bastardo I am," Adamo said as he turned with a grin, even as he very well knew Vico did not like talk of betrayal and traitors. "They might just let me go with a slap on the hand and a 'don't do that again.'"

Vico scoffed. "I would not hope to be so lucky. I have heard the Germans, like the Borgia, partake in...certain activities that are perfect for any handsome face they take interest in." A haughty sniff, and he added, "I would rather be left to the dungeons."

His mouth twitched, grin faltering. Vico had gotten damn good, he had to admit, at witty banter. Usually because he killed it with his logic, but nonetheless. He tended to win more and more these days.

"Anyway, I'll ride with you," he responded as he tied a bracer in place.

Vico hid a smile around the end of his fork, but that didn't stop the slight shake of his shoulders as he laughed. "I hold the reigns."

But Adamo noticed, his brow dipping. "Fine, since my arm is no good at the moment. I'll be sure to hoist you up though, principessa."

"It would do you good to remember," Vico snorted, setting the plate down at last. The food had disappeared in an alarmingly short amount of time. "That I am not the one who looks in the mirror every morning and tells himself how bellissimo he is."

He slid off the bed, testing his weight on the leg. Considering the bolt had gone clean through the muscle, the pain was still there, and strong, but it was no longer crippling. He would still be hobbling by himself, and an extended horse ride would no doubt irritate it with all that jolting, but as assassins, they had and would live through worse, so Vico did not ask for assistance as he hobbled over to the basin set aside for washing up. (Besides, no help in the world could tame that hair after just waking up.)

"We can leave as soon as I am done. You have settled all accounts? I do not want to owe anyone here and risk having to trek back to this country."

"That does not make you any less in need of assistance," he retorted, rolling his eyes. Vico wouldn't understand something like self-appreciation. (Although it was more like an inflated ego.) Especially not with hair like that; though by now, he found the look suited his friend.

"Yes, I paid our friend," Adamo answered, strapping his sword to his side. "He threw in some rations for our trip. We'll pick them up on the way out."

"Bene." Vico splashed water onto his face, rinsed out his mouth, and only ran a cursory hand through his hair in a vain attempt at fixing it (only so that he could say he tried). Despite his injury, despite both their injuries, he was glad to be heading home, and eager to get on their way. Limping back to the bed to strap on his armor, weapons, and grab the parcel with the stolen papers they had retrieved from Celtis, Vico threw a hand out towards the door, bowing at the waist in mockery of the only real princess here between the two of them. "Your majesty."

With a scoff, Adamo lifted his chin, waltzing gracefully through. "Grazie, peasant. Take me to my horse at once."

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the historian's secrets (cologne)

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I am reminded of that pickle sassy creed. you are such a turn off vico

I was not aware Vico was supposed to be turning you on here.

why do you think he got him sausage-

BECAUSE IT'S GERMANY

and what a good excuse it is

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you can wrap up sooooon

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