circle7 | 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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"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."

the historian's secrets (cologne)

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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