Post by ∬: Gero A. Fritz on Mar 22, 2011 2:39:03 GMT
Country:[/b] Germany
Time:[/b] 20:45(PM)
Weather Conditions:[/b] Heavy rain.
A young man sat idle at the bar with his left leg perched neatly over his right thigh and a cigarette snipped between two of his fingers elegantly. His ash blonde hair was waxed with a parting right down the middle and a kiss curl extending from the lip of his fringe; blue eyes shaped like winter icicles glistened against the shady light of the tavern’s musky lanterns and the smoke from his cigarette drifted like an early morning mist across the bar-top residing beside himself. The smart attire he wore, was perhaps what separated him from the crowd - everyone else in the room - perhaps maybe it was the elegancy and stature in the way he had perched himself upon the barstool even? Legs entwined with a feminine fold and his chin poignant with a raise, as if he turned his nose up to those surrounding him? Whatever had separated him from everyone else, Gero had noticed and was met with the chilling glare from the man’s two rounded icicles staring directly at him.
The smell of urine lingered once more and Gero looked to the dregs in the bottom of his pint glass in distaste, but rather averted his eyes cautiously away from the mysterious male who was sitting at the bar. As far as he knew, he hadn’t done anything wrong? Gero’s thoughts muddled over the possibilities of the Gestapo stalking him; preposterous thoughts. Why would the Gestapo be interested in him in the first place? He had a mild mannered criminal record; urinating on an officer’s vehicle and neglect for rudimentary discipline of rank, however meaning, he didn’t salute enough to his superiors. He was paranoid and tired, he needed to get home and sleep, call it a night.
Steadying himself against the table he sat at, Gero slowly raised himself and curiously glanced to the bar where the mysterious male was sitting. Feeling his heart momentarily jump and his eyes uncontrollably look around himself subtly, as if searching through the mass of people in the tavern, Gero was faced with an empty barstool. The man had disappeared and a small urgency engulfed Gero’s body and mind; perhaps he was Gestapo and had been following him? Gero never trusted the Nazis, he was a simple man simply trying to make his way through this war without much more than scathing his teeth on the surface. He didn’t want to be known as a hero, he didn’t want recognition for the horrific bidding he was made to do and he certainly didn’t want anything more, than a simple existence whilst the war raged on by him. He was making his way through the conflict, one day at a time.
Collecting his few belongings from off the table, Gero pocketed them and made haste towards the tavern’s exit, having wormed his way through the crowd and staggered towards the double doors. Pushing his way through, Gero stepped out into the downpour of rain and shivered as the weather crept into his veins. The intoxication helped numb the sensation that chilled him to the bone, but didn’t pay diligence to his stability, as he staggered along the sidewalk and outstretched his arms for anything within arm’s length to stabilize his balance frequently as he attempted to walk along the street.
Footsteps. A second pair of footsteps sounded behind himself. Gero’s paranoia only grew and with an uncontrollable urge, he twisted his head to look behind himself; his heart jumped once more and his eyes widened gradually by the awe of what he was looking at. It was him; the blonde hair man that was once sitting at the bar, with the canny, yet feminine folding to his legs. It was him. He was following Gero - an umbrella gripped with one gloved hand and his adjacent hand pocketed inside of a long leather trench coat he now wore. Why was he following him!? Perhaps he was Gestapo…?
Feeling himself become slightly worked up, Gero attempted to keep his nerve and to continue walking; the second pair of footsteps echoing constantly behind himself. If only Gero had a weapon. He was dressed within a casual attire this evening and wore no emblem or recognition of his uniform. If anyone was to know his true identity as an SS-Unterscharführer, then they would undoubtedly have to be within his uniform of the SS or otherwise, Gestapo or Police who have made rudimentary research through his records. If it were either, why would they be stalking him out of a tavern? Gero possessed no traits of fraternizing with the enemy or breaking the law. He had, for once, no reason for the police or Gestapo to be questioning him, keeping tabs on him, yet someone was stalking him…
Turning a sharp corner, Gero made a sluggish dash for some immediate cover and slipped into a doorway, hoping the blanket of nightfall would suffice for keeping him hidden foremost. Leaning his head ever so slightly out of cover, he watched the end of the street for the man to appear. Holding his breath, Gero waited with anxiety and lack of nerve. A few minutes passed, yet nobody appeared around the corner and Gero began to question himself; was this all in his imagination…?
Time:[/b] 20:45(PM)
Weather Conditions:[/b] Heavy rain.
It was crowded, noisy and mildly stuffy.
Laughter would embellish the air one moment and a merry song the next.
Someone raised a toast, a majority of the loitering patrons echoed the gesture with their beverages raised up high.
The faint smell of urine wafted from the toilets each time someone moved past, carrying the breeze behind them.
A clashing gaze knocked him from his differing senses. His being watched.
[/center] Laughter would embellish the air one moment and a merry song the next.
Someone raised a toast, a majority of the loitering patrons echoed the gesture with their beverages raised up high.
The faint smell of urine wafted from the toilets each time someone moved past, carrying the breeze behind them.
A clashing gaze knocked him from his differing senses. His being watched.
A young man sat idle at the bar with his left leg perched neatly over his right thigh and a cigarette snipped between two of his fingers elegantly. His ash blonde hair was waxed with a parting right down the middle and a kiss curl extending from the lip of his fringe; blue eyes shaped like winter icicles glistened against the shady light of the tavern’s musky lanterns and the smoke from his cigarette drifted like an early morning mist across the bar-top residing beside himself. The smart attire he wore, was perhaps what separated him from the crowd - everyone else in the room - perhaps maybe it was the elegancy and stature in the way he had perched himself upon the barstool even? Legs entwined with a feminine fold and his chin poignant with a raise, as if he turned his nose up to those surrounding him? Whatever had separated him from everyone else, Gero had noticed and was met with the chilling glare from the man’s two rounded icicles staring directly at him.
The smell of urine lingered once more and Gero looked to the dregs in the bottom of his pint glass in distaste, but rather averted his eyes cautiously away from the mysterious male who was sitting at the bar. As far as he knew, he hadn’t done anything wrong? Gero’s thoughts muddled over the possibilities of the Gestapo stalking him; preposterous thoughts. Why would the Gestapo be interested in him in the first place? He had a mild mannered criminal record; urinating on an officer’s vehicle and neglect for rudimentary discipline of rank, however meaning, he didn’t salute enough to his superiors. He was paranoid and tired, he needed to get home and sleep, call it a night.
Steadying himself against the table he sat at, Gero slowly raised himself and curiously glanced to the bar where the mysterious male was sitting. Feeling his heart momentarily jump and his eyes uncontrollably look around himself subtly, as if searching through the mass of people in the tavern, Gero was faced with an empty barstool. The man had disappeared and a small urgency engulfed Gero’s body and mind; perhaps he was Gestapo and had been following him? Gero never trusted the Nazis, he was a simple man simply trying to make his way through this war without much more than scathing his teeth on the surface. He didn’t want to be known as a hero, he didn’t want recognition for the horrific bidding he was made to do and he certainly didn’t want anything more, than a simple existence whilst the war raged on by him. He was making his way through the conflict, one day at a time.
Collecting his few belongings from off the table, Gero pocketed them and made haste towards the tavern’s exit, having wormed his way through the crowd and staggered towards the double doors. Pushing his way through, Gero stepped out into the downpour of rain and shivered as the weather crept into his veins. The intoxication helped numb the sensation that chilled him to the bone, but didn’t pay diligence to his stability, as he staggered along the sidewalk and outstretched his arms for anything within arm’s length to stabilize his balance frequently as he attempted to walk along the street.
Footsteps. A second pair of footsteps sounded behind himself. Gero’s paranoia only grew and with an uncontrollable urge, he twisted his head to look behind himself; his heart jumped once more and his eyes widened gradually by the awe of what he was looking at. It was him; the blonde hair man that was once sitting at the bar, with the canny, yet feminine folding to his legs. It was him. He was following Gero - an umbrella gripped with one gloved hand and his adjacent hand pocketed inside of a long leather trench coat he now wore. Why was he following him!? Perhaps he was Gestapo…?
Feeling himself become slightly worked up, Gero attempted to keep his nerve and to continue walking; the second pair of footsteps echoing constantly behind himself. If only Gero had a weapon. He was dressed within a casual attire this evening and wore no emblem or recognition of his uniform. If anyone was to know his true identity as an SS-Unterscharführer, then they would undoubtedly have to be within his uniform of the SS or otherwise, Gestapo or Police who have made rudimentary research through his records. If it were either, why would they be stalking him out of a tavern? Gero possessed no traits of fraternizing with the enemy or breaking the law. He had, for once, no reason for the police or Gestapo to be questioning him, keeping tabs on him, yet someone was stalking him…
Turning a sharp corner, Gero made a sluggish dash for some immediate cover and slipped into a doorway, hoping the blanket of nightfall would suffice for keeping him hidden foremost. Leaning his head ever so slightly out of cover, he watched the end of the street for the man to appear. Holding his breath, Gero waited with anxiety and lack of nerve. A few minutes passed, yet nobody appeared around the corner and Gero began to question himself; was this all in his imagination…?
