Post by Tyler D. Brentwood on Nov 19, 2009 0:54:37 GMT
Country: Burnham-on-Sea, Somerset, England
Current Time: 21:00
Weather Conditions: Cool, dark, and cloudy evening. High chance of thunderstorms.
The British Sergeant's eyelids flickered opened swiftly, a brilliant beam of light from the crescent moon flashing in the sensitive pupil. Brentwood grunted bitterly, shifting over onto his right side as if he wanted to return to his sleep. There was an ever so gentle tug at his shoulders as he did so, which he quickly learned to ignore. "Tyler. Tyler. Tyler! You okay, mate? You took quite the fall there..." the raspy voice of Michael Sullivan rang in the disgruntled Sergeant's ears. Bitterly, he rolled back over onto his back and suddenly rose from the comforting... wet cobblestone? With a sharp sting of pain that rushed up and down the man's spine, Brentwood looking onward with confusion. "What, Sullivan? What is it?!? And where the bloody hell am I?"
Steadily regaining consciousness, Tyler grew more aware of the situation. Three British privates huddled around their dazed Sergeant in the dark recesses of a back alley. One by one, Brentwood's gaze washed over the trio as he studied their faces through the shroud of darkness. He recognized the face of Jacob Merton, the cowardly lion of the group. The young soldier, fresh out of his teenage years, had a heart of good and a mind quicker than most. But often, he froze in fear and felt himself inadequate to every man in the 7th Armoured Division. The reality of it was that Merton was one of the finest soldiers Brentwood had ever laid his eyes on. Furthest to the left stood Richard Hawk, who hunched over his Sergeant to see the look on his face. For some reason, Hawk appeared overly excited at his superior's wounds. Hawk was a natural prankster and overall the worst behavioral-wise in the group. The boy, who was only a few years older than Merton, had a knack for getting himself in trouble.
And last, but not least, stood the broad shouldered Michael Sullivan who gazed upon Tyler with a look of friendliness and support. The middle man was a mixture of Merton and Hawk. Wise and mature, but also mischievous and at times disobedient. Sullivan found himself in several heated situations, the main reason he hadn't reached the rank of Corporal yet. He outstretched his hand for Brentwood to grab on to, which the Sergeant gladly did. Latching onto the man's strong hands, he rose off the wet stone. The back of his uniform was soaked with the previous day's rainwater which gathered in the alleyway. He had stinging sensation from the back of his head all the way to the bottom of his ass. Catching the confused glance of Brentwood, Sullivan quickly explained, "Hawk decided to make a dare. You...uh... didn't quite win."
Now hysterically laughing, Hawk took a moment to calm himself as he pointed to the wall of a building. " I bet you ten pounds you couldn't run up that wall and you called it bullocks. You slipped, fell, and knocked yourself out. I won." Brentwood grunted, grimacing as he bitterly looked at Hawk. The money was out of his pockets and in his friends hands with moments, before the Sergeant turned and lead his men out into the street. The streets were dim and quiet, filled only with the British night life. Some soldiers walked up and down the street, comingling with the civilians. A drunkard or two stumbled into others, harassing them as they did so. The bright headlight beams of automobiles illuminated the road as they sped past the group of soldiers.
The men made their way down the road for a few moments, walking in the peaceful night. The weather had been vicious the last few days, throwing storms down on Britannia from across the Channel. Hawk and Sullivan preoccupied themselves with an extensive conversation, not caring to leave out the other two walking besides them. The two men were practicably inseparable and rarely did you hear their names spoken alone. Hawk and Sullivan. Hawk and Sullivan. The two men weren't particularly fond of the cowardly boy that often tagged along, Merton. But they often found themselves near Merton, because Brentwood took a liking to Merton. And you didn't question Brentwood. Ever.
Where was the blasted inn? The strong gusts of wind started to pick up again, tugging and pushing at the Sergeant. Tiny specks of rain transformed into a gush of water, that pelted the four men like bullets. The storm was picking up again, lightning flashing in the sky and thunder booming and shaking the world below. The Traveller's Place Inn, this was the place. A soaking wet Sergeant pushed the door open and stepped in, followed by his three cronies. The boisterous cheers of the drunken soldiers already scattered within were interrupted briefly as they shifted to see Brentwood and his cronies entering. Most shouted greetings to the Sergeant, who only smirked and found a suitable table. A few chose not to pay any attention to the man's entrance, either too fearful of the man or too despising of him.
"Merton, grab us some drinks, will ya?" the Sergeant ordered, sending the nervous Private off towards the bar. Pulling out the seat from under the table, Brentwood got comfortable. Raising his wet boots up onto the wooden table, he leaned back in the cheer. As he balanced himself, Hawk and Sullivan took their places at the table and continued their exclusive conversation. Tyler slicked his wet hair back with his hands, before pulling out a lone cigarette and sticking it between his lips. He played with the cigarette between his lips momentarily, before lighting it and taking a drag.
Current Time: 21:00
Weather Conditions: Cool, dark, and cloudy evening. High chance of thunderstorms.
The British Sergeant's eyelids flickered opened swiftly, a brilliant beam of light from the crescent moon flashing in the sensitive pupil. Brentwood grunted bitterly, shifting over onto his right side as if he wanted to return to his sleep. There was an ever so gentle tug at his shoulders as he did so, which he quickly learned to ignore. "Tyler. Tyler. Tyler! You okay, mate? You took quite the fall there..." the raspy voice of Michael Sullivan rang in the disgruntled Sergeant's ears. Bitterly, he rolled back over onto his back and suddenly rose from the comforting... wet cobblestone? With a sharp sting of pain that rushed up and down the man's spine, Brentwood looking onward with confusion. "What, Sullivan? What is it?!? And where the bloody hell am I?"
Steadily regaining consciousness, Tyler grew more aware of the situation. Three British privates huddled around their dazed Sergeant in the dark recesses of a back alley. One by one, Brentwood's gaze washed over the trio as he studied their faces through the shroud of darkness. He recognized the face of Jacob Merton, the cowardly lion of the group. The young soldier, fresh out of his teenage years, had a heart of good and a mind quicker than most. But often, he froze in fear and felt himself inadequate to every man in the 7th Armoured Division. The reality of it was that Merton was one of the finest soldiers Brentwood had ever laid his eyes on. Furthest to the left stood Richard Hawk, who hunched over his Sergeant to see the look on his face. For some reason, Hawk appeared overly excited at his superior's wounds. Hawk was a natural prankster and overall the worst behavioral-wise in the group. The boy, who was only a few years older than Merton, had a knack for getting himself in trouble.
And last, but not least, stood the broad shouldered Michael Sullivan who gazed upon Tyler with a look of friendliness and support. The middle man was a mixture of Merton and Hawk. Wise and mature, but also mischievous and at times disobedient. Sullivan found himself in several heated situations, the main reason he hadn't reached the rank of Corporal yet. He outstretched his hand for Brentwood to grab on to, which the Sergeant gladly did. Latching onto the man's strong hands, he rose off the wet stone. The back of his uniform was soaked with the previous day's rainwater which gathered in the alleyway. He had stinging sensation from the back of his head all the way to the bottom of his ass. Catching the confused glance of Brentwood, Sullivan quickly explained, "Hawk decided to make a dare. You...uh... didn't quite win."
Now hysterically laughing, Hawk took a moment to calm himself as he pointed to the wall of a building. " I bet you ten pounds you couldn't run up that wall and you called it bullocks. You slipped, fell, and knocked yourself out. I won." Brentwood grunted, grimacing as he bitterly looked at Hawk. The money was out of his pockets and in his friends hands with moments, before the Sergeant turned and lead his men out into the street. The streets were dim and quiet, filled only with the British night life. Some soldiers walked up and down the street, comingling with the civilians. A drunkard or two stumbled into others, harassing them as they did so. The bright headlight beams of automobiles illuminated the road as they sped past the group of soldiers.
The men made their way down the road for a few moments, walking in the peaceful night. The weather had been vicious the last few days, throwing storms down on Britannia from across the Channel. Hawk and Sullivan preoccupied themselves with an extensive conversation, not caring to leave out the other two walking besides them. The two men were practicably inseparable and rarely did you hear their names spoken alone. Hawk and Sullivan. Hawk and Sullivan. The two men weren't particularly fond of the cowardly boy that often tagged along, Merton. But they often found themselves near Merton, because Brentwood took a liking to Merton. And you didn't question Brentwood. Ever.
Where was the blasted inn? The strong gusts of wind started to pick up again, tugging and pushing at the Sergeant. Tiny specks of rain transformed into a gush of water, that pelted the four men like bullets. The storm was picking up again, lightning flashing in the sky and thunder booming and shaking the world below. The Traveller's Place Inn, this was the place. A soaking wet Sergeant pushed the door open and stepped in, followed by his three cronies. The boisterous cheers of the drunken soldiers already scattered within were interrupted briefly as they shifted to see Brentwood and his cronies entering. Most shouted greetings to the Sergeant, who only smirked and found a suitable table. A few chose not to pay any attention to the man's entrance, either too fearful of the man or too despising of him.
"Merton, grab us some drinks, will ya?" the Sergeant ordered, sending the nervous Private off towards the bar. Pulling out the seat from under the table, Brentwood got comfortable. Raising his wet boots up onto the wooden table, he leaned back in the cheer. As he balanced himself, Hawk and Sullivan took their places at the table and continued their exclusive conversation. Tyler slicked his wet hair back with his hands, before pulling out a lone cigarette and sticking it between his lips. He played with the cigarette between his lips momentarily, before lighting it and taking a drag.
