Nicoli Ezio Salvatore, better known as D’Angelo which meant the Bringer of Angels, leaned against the outside of a wooden building at the entrance to a dark alley. It was littered by refuse and the homeless, the sort of alley that mothers warned their children not to go down and guardsmen didn’t bother with. This alley was one of many that coursed through the city in an interwoven web of passages that most folk ignored. The alleys had likely been streets long ago, but now they were too small and narrow, dark and buildings had been erected to form jagged turns and dead-ends that no cart could navigate safely.

Too someone like D’Angelo it was a means of transportation, a way to get to one end of the city quickly and a place where City Guards would not enter without force. To D’Angelo it was a refuge and presented the true nature of the city. He lingered on the edge of that haven now, his cloak pulled around him with the cowl low to hide his dark eyes. The cloaks magic worked well to blend him in with the drab and dreary colors of the city though he probably didn’t need it, hidden and unmoving as he was in the shadows the casual passer-by wouldn’t notice him without close inspection.

The sun had just descended below the horizon, but its rays still casted oranges and reds across the sky. Though the sun’s rays would surely dwindle as the stars became more and more apparent against the darkening curtain. They did so with no moon this night and clouds on the horizon promised a beautiful summer storm in the hours to come, but would surely block what light they would give.

Knowing that a thunder storm was only hours away D’Angelo wanted to finish this quickly, he hated the rain. It made everything more difficult, heavier and sluggish. It slickened roofs and cobblestone alike, cut visibility and simply made the environment miserable. This contract was unlike others though, it was not an assassination, but rather an invite to meet on the open street and settle things. D’Angelo represented an offended party, whom exactly he did not know (or care), it was a job like anyother.

The Veiled-Ones had been hired to deliver a message and while D’Angelo was better suited than most to meet in ‘fair’ combat, others of his organization were taking steps to ensure his targets family, friends … or something of the sort, he couldn’t remember exactly, were being held. A letter had been sent to his target, explaining where and who to meet and that the information needed to save his loved ones was on D’Angelo’s person. A rather ham-fisted approach as far as D’Angelo was concerned, but generally effective.

Now all he had to do was wait.

While the Veiled Ones had sent out their invitation to the Nobleman of the family Brighton, the letter didn't manage to make it to the man's hand. Instead, it was given to a hired mercenary of their own. They normally would have sent out their younger son to fight in their oldest's place, but this was far too suspicious to be taken lightly by a lesser trained duelist. The mercenary they had hired was the renowned martial master, Solomon Ross. The Brighton family actually met Ross through their oldest son, Alexander, as Alexander trained with the same master. Though for a much shorter time.

When Solomon was brought to their abode, and given the note that had been sent to them, he knew that this was a trap. Or at least an incredibly untrustworthy challenge to a duel. Who knows how many men would be waiting in that alleyway for the young Alexander. With a small payment, and a bit of convincing, Solomon was sent off to take care of the challenge in his stead. In any case, Alexander was currently out, and hence couldn't accept in the first place.

Now that he had the note, a small payment, and a lesson to teach to a young mercenary. Solomon set off to his "adventure." In reality it only took a few days to find the alleyway, and he had no intention of tarrying.

The old man walked with intent through the alleyways of the great city, the clamor of the numerous weapons on his back made passerbys look upon him with quizzical expressions. A weapons merchant in these times? Questions such as those ran through the masses, their confusion was reasonable, his appearance was odd. With a map in his hands, he looked lost, but he was really right on schedule. The day and hour were perfect, and he rounded the corner into the alleyway just as the sun set on the horizon. The long shadow of the old man crept its length across the feet of D'Angelo. The homeless folks that littered the alley raised their hands to him, and he placed a few coins in their open palms.

Peering down his crooked nose at the man in the hood, Solomon raised an eyebrow to him. "You there, young man. I think you might be the man I'm looking for."

The clattering of weapons drew D’Angelo from his thoughts, dark eyes watched as an Oldman laden with a plethora of weapons on his person on a map in his hands navigated the dying streets of the city.
When the Oldman rounded the corner and addressed D’Angelo concern briefly touched his features. He knew the magic of his cloak and stillness with which he stood in the depths of the shadows should have made him difficult to detect. Yet, the old man stood purposefully before him.

Looking down the length of his nose at Ross, D’Angelo gave a grunt and smiled faintly. “You look a little old to be the Brighton boy.” He remarked as he continued to study the old man. D’Angelo’s own cloak was around him, concealing his arms and hands, which rested on the belt pouch he wore at his waist. This could always be a set-up he told himself.

“Move along old timer. This is not your fight.” He said simply, leaning off the wall as if ready to go..

With a bit of a huff, he pulled his lips back slightly and sniffed in through his nose. Rocking his lips back and forth across his teeth wordlessly for a moment before rolling the note up and sliding it in between two of his belts. It was another moment before he actually spoke, and as he did he reached slowly for the large mass of spiked death on his hip. A morning star with quite a substantial weight would show this young man that he means business. "You're right, I'll admit. I'm not Brighton, but I am a friend." Though he was reaching towards his weapon he had no violence in his face or movements. As though he were simply bringing his hand backwards to cradle himself in a very stereotypical old-man sort of way.

Deception never works, but he's always got to give it a try, y'know? "And the family of Sir Brighton has to regretfully inform you through me, that Alexander is not currently available." Again he rolled his lips across his teeth, following them with his tongue to wet his gums. "Unfortunately for you, young man, I was sent in his stead as a 'champion' of sorts." With his hand safely on the handle of his morning star, he teetered slightly backwards to better position his legging in preparation of this mercenary's likely immediate attack.

"You might recognize me, if you've ever peered into a scrying pool you know. I'm rather well-to-do among the higher echelons of warriors." A not-so-humble brag pushed between his teeth, halfway pretending to be a lunatic and halfway bragging to himself. "You might know me as an Extreme, though I doubt you've got much to do with magic, my dear boy." While he spoke his face lit up like a Christmas tree, his cheeks raised and his mouth turned upright into a broad smile. His eyes shut tightly, or so they seemed.

Rather, they were narrowed down to a pinhead's width and he was glaring through the false visage of jovial behavior. Solomon did not like this boy already, not only for being hired to kill his friend, but also for how he seemed to brush off the elderly. Plain rude if you ask him.

The plan never went according to plan, not once had something gone off without a slight snag for D’Angelo. He sighed and pinched his nose as the old-man began to speak. Of course he was here at the behest of the Brighton family he thought. Why else would the walking armory have specifically sought him out? It was clear to D’Angelo that this old-man was here to fight, not mince words.

Deception rarely did work, and against some specifically trained to utilize and recognize it, it had a much smaller chance of success. D’Angelo was such a person, yet he wasn’t really worried and was confident in his own abilities to handle whatever it was that the old-man tried.

“You’re right, I don’t recognize you.” D’Angelo said as he turned around and began to walk away from the old-man. “All old men look the same.” He said nonchalantly. Of course, as he turned to move the hands that had been resting on his belt reached into individual pockets. One hand would hold a small vial and the other a ceramic ball no larger than a coin.

“Now go about your business and tell the family that we will be coming for them. In force.” Continuing to walk into the darkness of the alley. Deception didn’t always work, but, that didn’t meant he wouldn’t try himself.

Of course it didn't work, the both of them were having failed plans of deception. Though he did figure that Salvatore's deception was less intelligent than his own, because turning away from a man who is as incredibly well armed as Solomon, it's strange what kinds of plans people come up with. "You should never turn your back on me, young man."

Solomon grasped the handle of his mace and swung it around towards the now turning Ezio, aimed towards the back of his head. A quick and painless death for the man who threatened his friend's family. Far more than the deserved, but settling this quickly was certainly a task that he'd prefer over a long winded exercise in combat with a man less than half his age. Let alone one with such a smug attitude.

Though, unbeknownst to the assassin, he was already swinging his left hand in a longsword mid-riff chop. The mace was not a feint, but a distraction with a deadly side-effect, if that can really be considered a distraction. Just as his mace would either be deflected or entirely miss, the mace would vanish from his right hand, and his straightsword would appear in his left. Already being swung before even appearing in his hand, it would teach a swift lesson, whether or not Ezio survived.

If he survived, it would teach him to never underestimate an old man.

If he didn't, it would impart the same wisdom with fewer words.

(@LeeRoy Sorry for the late response)

D'Angelo had not been lying when he said that he didn't know who the old man was, history was not one of the assassins strong points. What he did know was that nobody carried a plethora of weapons if they didn't know how to use them. How efficient was this old man? That was the question that needed answering. D'Angelo's words and movement were calculated and planned, he wanted the old man to attack, he wanted an opening to see if he could end it in one stroke or if there was more to his opponent than what he appeared to be.

There was a flurry of action, everything happening in such a short span of time that if someone normal were to be looking upon the two they would no doubt miss the intricate and perfected motions that came into play. The old mans attack came as D'Angelo was turning affording him the chance to see as well as hear his opponents movement, the turn would end up becoming a side-long step to bring D'Angelo out of harms way by a couple feet.

As he stepped his left hand, the side facing his opponent, would throw a pellet straight down, the result being that the small alley would be covered in a thick dark grey smoke centered on D'Angelo and quickly expand thirty feet out in all directions. The vial in his right hand would be held for but a moment, giving the smoke time expand then it to would be thrown, a flick of his wrist would send the alchemist fire low, about waist level, and directly at where the old man had been standing. If it hit than the old man would find himself engulfed by a flash-fire that while not lethal, would be painful but brief unless there was something on his person that could catch fire. If it missed it would likely hit the ground with a brief flash of light and heat, doing nothing more than leaving a black mark on the stone streets.

Regardless of the results D'Angelos left hand would pull the gnomish lens device he wore over his eyes and flick it to a red lens. In that same moment, D'Angelo would leap up and backwards, towards the wall behind him, his feet would find easy purchase roughly eight feet above the ground, all thanks to a magical device he wore in his left boot. What's more is that unless his opponent had some way of hiding himself the red lens would show D'Angelo his opponents body heat and allow him to plan his next attack accordingly.