Post by gustave on Jan 28, 2013 15:52:31 GMT -5
Gustave Desjardins had been off duty for an hour and he'd already changed out of his uniform which had been folded and hung with ornate care in the tiny room he rented, it was barely big enough for his huge frame to fit through the door and he found the tiny bed to be less than adequate, so he did as any thoughtful soldier would do. Removed the mattress from the bed itself placed it on the floor and curled up under his blankets to go to sleep. His sleep was restless and he often was lucky to catch more than four or five hours of a night. No matter a soldier like he was more than used to living off a limited amount of sleep particularly on compaign. Gustave had no Germans or Austrians or Italians to fight now, no Russians in green-coats retreating into the swirling mass of white that would eventually envelope and annihilate the Grande Armee.
Gustave slammed back another glass of brandy, he could feel the burning of the watered down alcohol as it passed down his throat. He was already in debt to whoever happened to own this damnable excuse of an inn. He drank another glass. "Oui put it on my tab." the bartender growled something about Gustave having not paid off his last tab. It was Gustave's turn to growl. A deep, hard rumbling sound that echoed out of his voluminous chest, the bartender backed up slightly as if threatened by some sort of large beast that had taken on the guise of a man and now it sat drinking the houses best brandy for little more than a promise of monetary compensation.
Gustave cared little for the complaints of some weedy barkeep, he whistled a tune to himself as he drank another glass and tapped it on the table. "Another." the word carried an aggressive tone that threatened to spiral into so much more if the command was not heeded. Another glass of the spirit was produced and was promptly drank, Gustave was starting to feel a little tipsy, the familiar tingling of alcohol cloying his veins and altering his consciousness was beginning to slowly filter to his brain. Of course he was by no means drunk, but he was certainly beginning to enjoy the drinks. Too the point where he decided to move.
A decision he made, standing and sitting. He looked like any of the other commoners, cap on his head, dirty clothes. The only thing that marked him out at all as any different from the others was the neatly trimmed facial hair. His age in fact marked him out as someone different from the other people who seemed to be much younger than him. Or at least perhaps he felt so, perhaps they had not seen the great tragedies he had, witnessed the great massacres, seen friend and foe alike scorched by cannon fire, raked by the lead shot of a musket, seen men swept away by canister shot.
He'd advanced or watched as other men advanced into the meat grinder of British and enemy musketry. He'd watched friends turned aside by the force of a shot propelled into their head, he'd seen divisions too slow to form square be completely overrun by cavalry and chased down and cut down like dogs. Gustave Desjardins had seen it all and more and that is why he drank at a table on his lonesome with his neatly trimmed beard and his melancholic grey eyes. It's why he was covered in scars and bruises and it was why that he clung desperately to the Police Force for something, anything to do, anything to allay the sense of death and decay that he felt hang around him like a bad smell that drove everything he wanted or loved away.
Gustave was fairly depressed as he waved his hand for someone to serve him. Crashing that heavy fist onto the table. "I asked for service Goddammit!" the whole place went quiet as if some sort of titanic fact had just been evidenced. One man began to chat then another and the cacophony resumed. Gustave's grey eyes only grew more wistful. "When were the ideals of my life so easily abandoned for the chasing of alcohol and of women who have no place being seen around a desolate fool like myself."
Gustave slammed back another glass of brandy, he could feel the burning of the watered down alcohol as it passed down his throat. He was already in debt to whoever happened to own this damnable excuse of an inn. He drank another glass. "Oui put it on my tab." the bartender growled something about Gustave having not paid off his last tab. It was Gustave's turn to growl. A deep, hard rumbling sound that echoed out of his voluminous chest, the bartender backed up slightly as if threatened by some sort of large beast that had taken on the guise of a man and now it sat drinking the houses best brandy for little more than a promise of monetary compensation.
Gustave cared little for the complaints of some weedy barkeep, he whistled a tune to himself as he drank another glass and tapped it on the table. "Another." the word carried an aggressive tone that threatened to spiral into so much more if the command was not heeded. Another glass of the spirit was produced and was promptly drank, Gustave was starting to feel a little tipsy, the familiar tingling of alcohol cloying his veins and altering his consciousness was beginning to slowly filter to his brain. Of course he was by no means drunk, but he was certainly beginning to enjoy the drinks. Too the point where he decided to move.
A decision he made, standing and sitting. He looked like any of the other commoners, cap on his head, dirty clothes. The only thing that marked him out at all as any different from the others was the neatly trimmed facial hair. His age in fact marked him out as someone different from the other people who seemed to be much younger than him. Or at least perhaps he felt so, perhaps they had not seen the great tragedies he had, witnessed the great massacres, seen friend and foe alike scorched by cannon fire, raked by the lead shot of a musket, seen men swept away by canister shot.
He'd advanced or watched as other men advanced into the meat grinder of British and enemy musketry. He'd watched friends turned aside by the force of a shot propelled into their head, he'd seen divisions too slow to form square be completely overrun by cavalry and chased down and cut down like dogs. Gustave Desjardins had seen it all and more and that is why he drank at a table on his lonesome with his neatly trimmed beard and his melancholic grey eyes. It's why he was covered in scars and bruises and it was why that he clung desperately to the Police Force for something, anything to do, anything to allay the sense of death and decay that he felt hang around him like a bad smell that drove everything he wanted or loved away.
Gustave was fairly depressed as he waved his hand for someone to serve him. Crashing that heavy fist onto the table. "I asked for service Goddammit!" the whole place went quiet as if some sort of titanic fact had just been evidenced. One man began to chat then another and the cacophony resumed. Gustave's grey eyes only grew more wistful. "When were the ideals of my life so easily abandoned for the chasing of alcohol and of women who have no place being seen around a desolate fool like myself."