WHAT: Altaïr does the whole assassin thing. Azula does the whole patricide thing. You know how I roll.
WHEN: Backlog, set about a month before the zombiefest of '07.
WHERE: Crescent City's only fancy sushi place, basically because enclosed areas with folding screens are hot?
WARNINGS: Well ASSASSIN sorta sounds pornographic, donchathink? That aside, nothing too terribly much.
Tea had been prepared for the both of them, it sat in small steaming cups on the table, the pot equidistant between them. That her cup was unmoved from its original position indicated that she had not been waiting long - good. She was not over-eager, then, merely efficient, and he did not doubt that she had arrived earlier to get the proverbial 'lay of the land'. He didn't mind, if she felt it gave her the advantage then who was he to refute her belief?
He gave her a curt nod, and with grace and deftness both, he knelt at the low table.
For a moment, he studied the tea. It was unlikely to be poisoned - for a woman in Azula's position, it would bring more risk than reward, not to mention that it would be a complete waste of both time (hers) and talent (his). So he took a slow, purposeful sip and returned it to the precise place from which he'd taken it.
He didn't speak. He didn't need to. And he supposed that she'd break the silence when she deemed it necessary. In the meantime, well... there was just as much to be gleaned by someone's silence as their speech.