❝ you, jacob frye, are either as mad as the devil or the most dauntless man i have ever met... and I love you more than the stars for it. ❞
NOTHING IS TRUE. EVERYTHING IS PERMITTED. Love is rarely found amongst war, and London is a Te...
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THE GLASSHOUSE TAVERN, by sundown, was absolutely filled with excitement. It was an establishment particularly famous with those commonly found in Devil's Acre- which was no place for the faint of heart. That particular pub was owned by none other than Nikolai "Kol" Dalager, who oddly enough wasn't there for such a noisy celebration. Instead, it was his younger sister who sat at a table in the center of all the celebrations. A pint of rum that had been illegally imported all the way from Cuba sat infront of her, legs plopped on top of the table with her ankles crossed.
The Hallows were absolutely smug with achievement after their successful attack against the Blighters. Most of them were already smelling like alcohol, getting into whatever trouble they could. Other patrons were wise to leave when the purple donned street gang entered the tavern, as things have gotten more than just a little rowdy when they arrive.
A small grin was plastered on Scarlett's face from where she sat, toying with one of her daggers and her came sword resting at her side. She watched as a pair of gang members were engaged in a furiously competitive arm wrestling challenge, while in another corner, a man seemed to be trying ( and failing miserably ) to flirt with one of the women Hallows, who simply looked at him bemusedly, her companions sharing her thoughts exactly. Just another day in London, the redhead then thought fondly.
"Don't you look dapper with pride, cap'n." A familiar voice said, causing Scarlett to look up and grin upon seeing a well-dressed man donned in robes similar to hers and a simple bowler hat.
It was Johnathan Smythe, her quartermaster and right hand man, as well as a member of the American Brotherhood, although considering she hasn't been at sea for a while, the two haven't seen each other in quite some time. He was a few years older than she was, with an athletic build and sun-kissed skin that was mostly covered in different styled tattoos he collected over the years. On his forearm, there were dozens of strikes that marked every one of his kills.
"Smythe! You didn't tell me you were in London, you bastard!" She said affectionately, holding a hand out to him, which he clasped firmly and the two shared brief hug and a on the other's back in a brotherly manner.
John gave a chuckle, taking a seat beside her. "The last time I wrote to you about visiting," He started in a thick American accent. "You had my entire visit planned out and almost burned down half of Whitechapel."
"And I wasn't even trying to." She boasted, flashing him a smirk as she motioned to the bartender with her hand to bring another round.
"That's not something to be proud of, you know." The American Assassin told her, thanking the waitress who brought him a tankard with a generous amount of rum and refilled his captain's mug. He raised his own glass, grinning at her, "May we always get what we need,"
"But never what we deserve." Scarlett finished the end of the mantra the two had made long ago during a trip to the West Indies and clinked their glasses together. "Salud!"
