#( anne was just the cameraman for the kenways )

[visiblesecrets]

@paddyfuck said: "I think you'd like this." She was an old woman, now, and moving around her home was no easy feat. John had done his best to repair the loose florboards, though they still groaned under the weight of her boot. As she reached into the drawer, she moved to pull out an old pistol of his grandfathers. Oh, she remembered how it felt when he'd gifted it to her after she had thrown her own at the face of a member of the royal navy, and how miserable she'd been when it had scuttled across the deck and into the ocean, never to be seen in again. "It belonged to your grandfather." Anne turned to Connor with a wry smile, and made her way over to him. "Even has his initials carved into the wood of it. Don't know if it'll be much use, but sentimentality is something I've never been able to kick."

Drafty wooden beams seemed to sway in motion to the breeze as if wind had caught in its sail, had it not indeed been a home in solid need of repair. Yet it suited its occupant, pealing paint flaking and chipped bespoke of better days - weathered and worn a face that matched, etched with wrinkles of adventures long past. However, the eyes that set themselves in the woman that bade him closer, told that they had never changed despite all that had. Soothing, salving, searching his own in mute keenness that told him she knew more than what his letters had prescribed. Though in truth, she had been the unexpected one, eager in her way to help him regardless of the cause that haunted and nearly destroyed all that the kenways held dear. To all affected in unseen explanations of greater power, simply omnipotent.

Sure of foot were steps poised as if he were traversing the weakest point of a branch -- wincing everytime a creak sounded from too much pressure, only to shift on feet balancing like a dancer to mitigate some of his hulking weight as he met her approach in gentle strides. Fingertips grazed the spontaneous curves and grooves that rough hewn wood had been carved to make such a barrel nearly a century old and water logged to the point of warping -- its mass some how heavy compared to the ones hidden in his robes.

"I hope I have not disturbed you at all.", hesitant at first came softness of speech, digits tracing the cracking lettering at the base of the weapon now firmly cradled in his mits. Caramel hues lingering there momentarily, unwilling to look into her gaze that at times seemed to nearly read every thought lain bare in his. Their introduction at her door had been brief, but it had felt as the universe was on its edge, every breath humming with a decision not yet made.

"I was hoping I could learn more about my grandfather. Through your eyes." He continues, his grip on the pistol tightening as if it were going to slip from him -- as he were a child again holding on to a security blanket despite nearly being twice her size. What had remained of his family had only been materialized and no matter how hard he pushed the thoughts away, still there was a shred of him that wished to know his own father. How unless it was to dream of people that no longer existed.