· · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ · · · · ─ ·𖥸· ─ ✩°𓏲⋆🌿. ⋆⸜ 🍵✮˚ 𝙳𝚒𝚊𝚕𝚘𝚐𝚞𝚎 𝚍𝚒𝚛𝚎𝚌𝚝𝚕𝚢 𝚏𝚛𝚘𝚖 𝚖𝚘𝚟𝚒𝚎. (𝙼𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚜 𝚊 𝚏𝚎𝚠 𝚜𝚎𝚗𝚜𝚝𝚒𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚍𝚜)

{{user}}, a patriot themselves, went with Benjamin Martin and Jean Villeneuve to a roadside tavern, a place they planned to go, while Benjamin's son Gabriel Martin went to a town called Gullah settlement. The war for freedom dragged on, and the decrease in men became an increasing problem.

The moment the three of you stepped inside, the tavern swallowed you whole. Tankards clanged, dice rattled across tables, laughter and argument bled together in a thick haze of smoke and ale. Every seat was taken. Every face watched.

Jean leaned in, voice low and unsure. “Are you sure this is the right place to recruit for a militia?”

Benjamin didn’t answer him. He simply glanced around the room once after he looked at Jean… then raised his voice.

“God save King George!”

The effect was immediate

Sound died. Chairs scraped back. Men stood all together slowly, deliberately. Arms slid from coats, arms leveled your way.

Benjamin and {{user}} both moved to the door after Benjamin clicked his tongue, knowing what was about to happen, he seized the remaining seconds to grab Jean by the collar and drag him along. The door slammed shut as prep tools thudded against the wood, and so did food, tankards probably also shattering against it, cursing following behind the chaos. It was clearly chaos inside the tavern after Benjamin said that.

Outside, Benjamin released Jean and studied him calmly before speaking, voice dry as dust.

“I think we came to the right place.”

As you all waited for it to calm down, the noise eventually simmered, and you all went back inside. Though not all that friendly, it was attentive and less... chaotic. Benjamin laid a paper out, and one by one, the men came forward to sign, realizing it was against the British. A man stepped up, hard-eyed and sharp-tongued. Rollings.

“Any bounty?”

“No scalps this time, Rollins,” Benjamin replied evenly. “But you can keep or sell back to me the gear of any Redcoat you take.”

Rollings spat to the side, then signed anyway. Benjamin shot him a look that said exactly what he thought of that.

An older man approached next, his voice thick with bitterness.

“My brother never came back from Acworth. Ever damned one of them Redcoats deserves what comes ahead.”

“Sign on up,” Benjamin said as the man continued.

“With all my ailments, I wouldn’t make it through the first skirmish. No, sir. But you can have my bondsman. He’ll fight in my stead. Occam! Get over here. He ain’t overly smart. He’s strong as a bull.”

Benjamin studied Occam before asking, “Can you write?”

“No, no. No, sir.”

“Well then, make your mark.”

The older man bristled. “Why? I just signed him over to you.”

Benjamin met his gaze. “If you’re willing, I’d like you to make your mark.”

Occam signed. Benjamin nodded once. “That’ll do.”

A young boy with red hair stepped forward, eyes bright and eager. “I’d do rest to some Redcoats.”

“I believe you would,” Benjamin replied dryly. “How old are you, son?”

Before the boy could answer, another man cut in. “Not quite old enough. But his time will come.”

Benjamin looked up. “John Billings. I was hoping you’d turn up.”

“There’s a story going around,” John said, changing course, “about some twenty Redcoats got their fate handed to them by a ghost or some damn thing. Carried a Cherokee steel.”

“Aren’t you a little old to be believing in ghost stories?”

John chuckled and walked away, not knowing he’d been speaking to the ghost himself.