Post by catdevil on Dec 22, 2015 18:47:58 GMT -7
1
A small crowd had gathered around the brawl that had started in the street, all watching with expressions of interest or disgust. Well, technically, the outbreak of fisticuffs wasn’t a brawl; it was a ‘justified use of force’ on behalf of the British. Though it was a relatively common event, especially in the high-tension city of Boston, it seemed as if the locals would never bear the lash with acceptance.
A tall redcoat stood over a common-looking man, who was writhing in pain on the ground, clutching his stomach. The British officer had a strangely calm expression, despite the flecks of blood that brushed his face; the blood wasn’t his, though. He was in great shape, compared to the man he had downed; his only real injury were some bruised and bloodied knuckles. To compare, blood was starting to trickle out of the commoner’s mouth, and the longer he spent on the ground, the slower his movements became over time.
Time to leave, the officer supposed. For good measure, he spat on the ground, only missing the man’s face by a couple centimeters. As he turned from the crowd, he announced in a loud voice, “There are to be no meetings unsupervised by British personnel.” He paused. “This is a warning. If there is to be another meeting held without any British supervision, all in attendance will be imprisoned.”
As he walked off, the sounds of his heeled boots echoed through the silent street. None of the civilians dared to speak their ill feelings, yet the officer could feel their incriminating stares and hostile thoughts collecting on the back of his head. It was a feeling he detested, and he doubted he could ever get used to it. Yet, he was instructed to prioritize his job over everything else—including his personal feelings—or else face severe punishment. He knew firsthand how cruel the British could be to their American cousins; he was the one inflicting the punishment, after all.
After a couple more minutes of walking, the feeling of dread only grew. His red coat drew immense attention from the surrounding crowds, and wherever he walked, the officer could feel activity slow to a halt around him. It was then he decided that he needed a drink. So, he changed his course to a lesser known bar on the outskirts of the city, a place typically attended by other British and Loyalists. A friendly face would do him some good.
2
These soldiers were disgusting, Kai decided. They came in day after day, complaining about the colonists and laughing about their misery. Dastards. They did not know how the people suffered, how the soldiers's flagrant disregard for the colonists's lives killed the people in their own way. And forget their tyranny, how does a country stake claim over human beings when their so-called "top men" can't solve the real problems? The people fighting for their rights, that's who Britain truly punishes, but they can't even figure out that the bartender who served most of these wardens was a spy.
Sure, Kai had the features to appear British, because he was European. It wasn't so uncommon for these men to have blue eyes, less defined cheekbones and longer hair (so long as they weren't in the military), but really, a country that crowned itself victor among other nations should be able to pick out the moles. This is why the rebellion would win. They had informants, and people who actually wanted to help.
The bell above the door snapped Kai out of his thoughts as he looked up to find another soldier. Great. He gave the newcomer a once over, checking for distinguishing marks, only to find bruised knuckles. Considering the other's position, his status, and where he had arrived, he has just put a citizen in line. Also great. Part of Kai's talent was observation, he could read anyone like a book in a short amount of time. It really helped with identifying the threats and gaining information. He could "relate" to the officers more easily.
"Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?" The soldier was greeted with a smile, a welcoming expression, a facade. Burn with the devil, along with your King.
3
He barely heard the bartender's words as he walked into the semi-crowded bar: his only goal was to sit down on one of those inviting looking stools. Averting his eyes to the ground, he removed his hat from his head, and the white powdered wig came off with it. It was considered somewhat unsightly to remove the wig in a public setting, but frankly, he didn't care. He set it down on an empty stool next to him, before lifting his tired eyes up to the bartender. It was then that he realized he hadn't replied to his earlier comment; they blew off him like the wind.
"Ah, sorry," He quickly apologized as he ran a hand through his hair. His distinct, pitched British accent rang through the room, which at the time, was full of mostly Loyalists, whose accents had faded. "Um, anything will do." He paused, and then added to his rather vague order. "Whatever it is, make it strong, please. And a lot of it. I need to get, well, out of it," he added, chuckling sadly at his own remark. "It's been a long day, already." He smiled sheepishly up at the man behind the bar, helping it would help him to understand.
As he reached into the pocket of his fitted white trousers, his blonde hair fell from its previously bound position into loose ringlets around his face. After fishing for a handful of coins for a brief moment, he finally found some. He pushed his hair off his face with his free hand and set the coins down with the other, mentally noting to get it cut soon. It was starting to tickle the bottoms of his ears, which was too long for the Crown's taste.
4
It was immediately obvious that this soldier was exhausted in either tiredness or annoyance. Those usually made for a good customer, alongside the joyous officers who continuously drank with their comrades through the night. However, it was peculiar how this particular man seemed, which was almost distraught. It certainly wasn't everyday that a redcoat came in and promptly took his wig off. But currently, Kai wasn't one to complain, only to pry.
"I can see that, sir. I've got just the thing," Kai responded, a light smile painting his features as he moved for a glass. There was no British accent, not unlike many of the Loyalists, but that was because there was only so much the bartender could do. Speaking fluently in one language was one thing, but maintaining the accent of a variation was another in entirety. "Can I ask what is troubling you? Surely it must be serious if you request something strong from me," Kai asked, pouring equal parts rum and brandy into the glass. He was known for making hard hitting drinks, it was his specialty, and an extra strong Rattle-Head from the blond was a challenge to the customer.
After topping off the drink with dark porter and tarting it with lime, Kai showered the drink with nutmeg. The Rattle-Head, a drink whose name is coined from a British term, was a beverage true to its name. Depending on how you could hold it, no one could last after two or three of Kai's recipe. He pushed the glass in front of the officer, who--Oh. Kai quickly grinned, trying to hide his notice of the other's curls with the drink. "I'll wait for your go ahead to keep 'em coming, sir," he taunted playfully before pushing a strand of his own hair back behind his ear. It was one thing for Kai to have long hair, he was in the colonies and not serving for the Crown, but for his customer to be freely showing his slightly-too-long locks seemed a bit too intimate for the setting. The bartender was just being polite.
A small crowd had gathered around the brawl that had started in the street, all watching with expressions of interest or disgust. Well, technically, the outbreak of fisticuffs wasn’t a brawl; it was a ‘justified use of force’ on behalf of the British. Though it was a relatively common event, especially in the high-tension city of Boston, it seemed as if the locals would never bear the lash with acceptance.
A tall redcoat stood over a common-looking man, who was writhing in pain on the ground, clutching his stomach. The British officer had a strangely calm expression, despite the flecks of blood that brushed his face; the blood wasn’t his, though. He was in great shape, compared to the man he had downed; his only real injury were some bruised and bloodied knuckles. To compare, blood was starting to trickle out of the commoner’s mouth, and the longer he spent on the ground, the slower his movements became over time.
Time to leave, the officer supposed. For good measure, he spat on the ground, only missing the man’s face by a couple centimeters. As he turned from the crowd, he announced in a loud voice, “There are to be no meetings unsupervised by British personnel.” He paused. “This is a warning. If there is to be another meeting held without any British supervision, all in attendance will be imprisoned.”
As he walked off, the sounds of his heeled boots echoed through the silent street. None of the civilians dared to speak their ill feelings, yet the officer could feel their incriminating stares and hostile thoughts collecting on the back of his head. It was a feeling he detested, and he doubted he could ever get used to it. Yet, he was instructed to prioritize his job over everything else—including his personal feelings—or else face severe punishment. He knew firsthand how cruel the British could be to their American cousins; he was the one inflicting the punishment, after all.
After a couple more minutes of walking, the feeling of dread only grew. His red coat drew immense attention from the surrounding crowds, and wherever he walked, the officer could feel activity slow to a halt around him. It was then he decided that he needed a drink. So, he changed his course to a lesser known bar on the outskirts of the city, a place typically attended by other British and Loyalists. A friendly face would do him some good.
2
These soldiers were disgusting, Kai decided. They came in day after day, complaining about the colonists and laughing about their misery. Dastards. They did not know how the people suffered, how the soldiers's flagrant disregard for the colonists's lives killed the people in their own way. And forget their tyranny, how does a country stake claim over human beings when their so-called "top men" can't solve the real problems? The people fighting for their rights, that's who Britain truly punishes, but they can't even figure out that the bartender who served most of these wardens was a spy.
Sure, Kai had the features to appear British, because he was European. It wasn't so uncommon for these men to have blue eyes, less defined cheekbones and longer hair (so long as they weren't in the military), but really, a country that crowned itself victor among other nations should be able to pick out the moles. This is why the rebellion would win. They had informants, and people who actually wanted to help.
The bell above the door snapped Kai out of his thoughts as he looked up to find another soldier. Great. He gave the newcomer a once over, checking for distinguishing marks, only to find bruised knuckles. Considering the other's position, his status, and where he had arrived, he has just put a citizen in line. Also great. Part of Kai's talent was observation, he could read anyone like a book in a short amount of time. It really helped with identifying the threats and gaining information. He could "relate" to the officers more easily.
"Good afternoon, sir. What can I get you?" The soldier was greeted with a smile, a welcoming expression, a facade. Burn with the devil, along with your King.
3
He barely heard the bartender's words as he walked into the semi-crowded bar: his only goal was to sit down on one of those inviting looking stools. Averting his eyes to the ground, he removed his hat from his head, and the white powdered wig came off with it. It was considered somewhat unsightly to remove the wig in a public setting, but frankly, he didn't care. He set it down on an empty stool next to him, before lifting his tired eyes up to the bartender. It was then that he realized he hadn't replied to his earlier comment; they blew off him like the wind.
"Ah, sorry," He quickly apologized as he ran a hand through his hair. His distinct, pitched British accent rang through the room, which at the time, was full of mostly Loyalists, whose accents had faded. "Um, anything will do." He paused, and then added to his rather vague order. "Whatever it is, make it strong, please. And a lot of it. I need to get, well, out of it," he added, chuckling sadly at his own remark. "It's been a long day, already." He smiled sheepishly up at the man behind the bar, helping it would help him to understand.
As he reached into the pocket of his fitted white trousers, his blonde hair fell from its previously bound position into loose ringlets around his face. After fishing for a handful of coins for a brief moment, he finally found some. He pushed his hair off his face with his free hand and set the coins down with the other, mentally noting to get it cut soon. It was starting to tickle the bottoms of his ears, which was too long for the Crown's taste.
4
It was immediately obvious that this soldier was exhausted in either tiredness or annoyance. Those usually made for a good customer, alongside the joyous officers who continuously drank with their comrades through the night. However, it was peculiar how this particular man seemed, which was almost distraught. It certainly wasn't everyday that a redcoat came in and promptly took his wig off. But currently, Kai wasn't one to complain, only to pry.
"I can see that, sir. I've got just the thing," Kai responded, a light smile painting his features as he moved for a glass. There was no British accent, not unlike many of the Loyalists, but that was because there was only so much the bartender could do. Speaking fluently in one language was one thing, but maintaining the accent of a variation was another in entirety. "Can I ask what is troubling you? Surely it must be serious if you request something strong from me," Kai asked, pouring equal parts rum and brandy into the glass. He was known for making hard hitting drinks, it was his specialty, and an extra strong Rattle-Head from the blond was a challenge to the customer.
After topping off the drink with dark porter and tarting it with lime, Kai showered the drink with nutmeg. The Rattle-Head, a drink whose name is coined from a British term, was a beverage true to its name. Depending on how you could hold it, no one could last after two or three of Kai's recipe. He pushed the glass in front of the officer, who--Oh. Kai quickly grinned, trying to hide his notice of the other's curls with the drink. "I'll wait for your go ahead to keep 'em coming, sir," he taunted playfully before pushing a strand of his own hair back behind his ear. It was one thing for Kai to have long hair, he was in the colonies and not serving for the Crown, but for his customer to be freely showing his slightly-too-long locks seemed a bit too intimate for the setting. The bartender was just being polite.