Snippet #1444838

"So, how does it feel to be back home after all these years, Master Duncan?"

"It's na home, mate, it's jes' England... an' dinnae I tell ye ta stop callin' me that?"

The driver cast the soldier seated next to him a raised brow and a quick glance at this remark, noting again the dark green of the jacket he wore, as opposed to the standard army scarlet. The 'Green Jackets', as Riflemen were colloquially known, were about as famed for their eccentricity as they were for their fearsome battle prowess; which would go some way to explain why the scarred Scotsman had seated himself beside him on the carriage's front instead of riding inside like a proper gentleman.

Not that he was complaining, mind you, it was actually quite nice to have a conversation on the road for once.

"Well how does it feel to be back in Europe then, Sir?" he rephrased

"Kinda nice, actually." Duncan replied, absently watching the countryside roll past "It's refreshing to be in a land where the probability of being murdered on the duffie nears zero."

The driver felt his professional composure shatter into a fit of laughter. When he'd first seen the man's hard eyes and scarred face, he immediately assumed him to be a cold-blooded, humourless brute; The kind of man he could see Lord Byron associating with. So to listen to the Scotsman's low-brow humour spoken as casually (and perhaps a little honestly) as though he were discussing the weather was more than a welcome surprise, even if the subject matter was... somewhat improper for use around High Society.

...On the other hand he'd yet to meet a Scotsman in High Society, and perhaps there was a reason why.

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"Well, bugger me..." Was all Duncan could offer as he approached the manor on foot, his single bag slung over the shoulder opposite his medals.

Jack, the Canadian carriage driver who had collected him from Portsmouth, had rode off to the stables, leaving the Green Jacket by the front gate as he requested; realizing that he was early and deciding to take the time he had to spare to have a look around- And though Magnolia Manor might not have been as massive or as luxurious as the lands of other nobles, to a man who'd spent the entirity of his life in some of the filthiest places on three seperate continents, it may as well've been bloody Buckingham Palace.

Finally arriving at the front door, the Rifleman paused for a moment to give the tip of his thumb a lick before running it along the lips of his boots, removing the dust that had clung to the otherwise immaculate shine before giving himself a quick once-over in his reflection in a nearby window, making sure his uniform and medals were in proper order and adjusting the ornate kukri that hung on his belt in place of an officers sword with his free hand. Taking one final breath of the outside air, Duncan entered.

“My lord, my lady, Lady Alayna Renoldi is here.”

Came a voice from further inside, followed soon after by another-

“Good evening Lord and Lady Mayfair. I hope I am not too early.”

As he neared the source of the voices, he saw the man he assumed to be one of the speakers turn to briefly stare at him in mild surprise, before noticing the green coat and colonial tan and catching himself.

"...And it would appear that Captain MacCraigh of the King's Royal Rifle Corps. has arrived safely from Africa."