qu'est-ce que tu fais ici? [faithfulguardian]

[citizen]

Much as he loved his soldiers, Sacha was sometimes infuriated by being trapped in their camp. At last the weather was growing warm enough for him to venture out in anything less than a bearskin coat, and he was expected instead to reteach his men how to march, them being somewhat out of practice after a long winter. He exited his officer’s tent with an air of urgency, taking the direct path to the front of the camp. He walked with confidence, although he wasn't entirely sure where he was planning on going, because he knew leaving at all was not was he had been told to do. However, it was unlikely he would be stopped so long as his steps came quicker than the beat of the drums. For a moment Sacha’s eyes flicked over to where his horse stood, grazing, but as much as he hated to leave him behind, it would draw far too much attention to his departure. He mouthed a silent “etre prudent”, be careful, and carried on, past clumps of chattering patriots of and fields trampled grass. Though there was no fence around the camp, boundaries were clear simply because the people ended; no one lined the road leading into the forest and, from there, the city. He picked up pace on the short stretch before he disappeared into the trees, praying silently but out loud that no higher officers would catch him in this moment of vulnerability.

Sacha’s paced slowed significantly once he was in the clear, though it was still far from leisurely. Several times he considered turning back, being propelled onward only by his thirst for a good drink and the memories of past escapes from camp. Besides, he rationalized, his men would appreciate the day off, and he cared far more about them than his superiors. The typical bevy of forest sounds surrounded him, as well as the faint beating of drums, both from the camp and from patrols in the woods, soothing him as he further rationalized his desertion until he was once again wholly confident in himself; the natural order was restored. He began thinking ahead to exactly what business he would conduct in the city, deciding that just a simple trip to the pub would be enough to disperse his unrest. Finally trees gave out once more to the open air and Sacha passed the last few farms before entering the city.

Boston was too red for Sacha’s taste. The buildings were red, the clothes were red, and despite patriot control, it was littered with redcoats. He rolled his shoulders back, proudly displaying the blue of his French uniform, sauntering- almost marching- down the middle of the street with the arrogance necessary to be willing to humiliate himself so fully. Refusing to yield his path even for carts and horses, Sacha’s presence caused a scene, as he secretly had hoped it would. Only when a band of American soldiers came to investigate did Sacha graciously step to the side, bowing exaggeratedly and apologizing. It was propaganda, of course; the men who had just been shaking their fists at Sacha were now watching the patriots leave with reverence in their eyes, impressed by how quickly they had put the inconsiderate Frenchman in his place. Sacha smirked and continued along on the side of the road, growing parched in anticipation of a real, quality drink. He realized he had a while longer to wait than previously expected, though, when he passed the same building for the third time and remembered that he was not in Paris and he had no idea where to go. Furrowing his brow, Sacha explored a bit more before yielding and scouting out a general store, begrudgingly planning to ask for directions. In front of the store it appeared several men were trading furs.


Note: Upon investigation of some other threads on this site, I realized my post is fairly wordy and I'll try and cut back inmy response.

[faithfulguardian]

It was a rare day indeed that Akwiran:iate strayed far from him wooded sanctuary in the forests of the Mohawk territory. Today was that rare occasion, unfortunately, so here he was in the stinking and suffocating city of Boston. It was for a reasonable cause, however, that he had crossed the Neck and stepped onto the city's cobbled streets. It was his cousin, Tekiahonwake's wedding ceremony back home, and Tey needed to trade his furs in order to get a worthy gift for the relative. Even though the two had been adopted as god-children of two different white men when they were young - Tey by the Loyalist Leader John Butler and his cousin by the great Indian agent William Johnson - they were still very close friends, and Tey was happy to choose a worthy gift for the lately christened 'Jacob Johnson'.
Bringing his heavy pack to one of the few shops in Boston that would still trade with the Mohawks, Tey set it down outside; both for the reason that he didn't like the confined space inside, and the fact that the owners preferred to do business with his kind outside anyway. It was only after a long wait for the whites to finish their business inside that the owner acknowledged the warrior standing outside his shop. he nodded through the small diamond shaped windows and sent his apprentice out to do the dealing.
The boy could not help but stare at Tey while trying to evaluate the fox, beaver, and deer pelts. the Mohawk looked down at his apparel and wondered if it was wrong for the city. deerskin leggings and a loincloth covered his bottom half along with a pair of soft moccasins, over his chest he had pulled out an old white cotton shirt usually only saved for winter cold but brought out to help him blend in a bit better. Over his left shoulder he had thrown a red broadcloth blanket with a white stripe, also used usually for winter. his hair was the same as it had ever been, plucked around the scalp save for a spot at the back where three plaits fell to his shoulder-blades and covered in bear grease. The eagle feather that usually danced happily at the back of his head now fell silent in the crowded and close air of the Boston streets.
A sudden bit of commotion caused the apprentice to turn away from his work and study of the Indian to look down the street. Tey followed his gaze and watched a man in a bright blue coat striding down the middle of the street with all the arrogance of a man familiar with an easy life. Tey snorted and turned away, not interested in the least with his show and pointed instead at the beaver pelt the boy had been holding.
"No arrow or bullet holes. means better price." he said, trying to regain the lad's attention. out of the corner of his eye he could see the bright blue coat had moved to the sidewalk and was heading in their direction.

OCC: lengthy posts are fine with me, the more detail the better! I'd rather have two paragraphs than two sentences!

[citizen]

There had been a time when Sacha had considered becoming a trapper. The idea of sailing to America with nothing but some clothes and a gun, being forced to live off the land, and then somehow amassing a great fortune from him skill had once been very enticing to him. Some of his childhood friends or sons of his father’s business partners had gone off to do it (though with much more preparation than Sacha was imagining). However, Sacha decided it was not for him when he realized the only time he heard of these people was their departure; once the initial excitement died down, they were all but forgotten. In contrast, every time Sacha visited home from the military, everyone around him knew every tale he had written home to his parents about, even if it was as boring as “today we focused on hand-to-hand combat instead of marching”. There was no glory or pride in being a trapper; unless you stumbled on a great unfound lake or river or something of the sort, you would be just as forgotten after your death as you were after you left home. Though Sacha enjoyed his fantasies of a romanticized trapping experience, he yearned for the legacy of a military career, not just in the battles he won of losses he suffered but in the influence he had on the many people and places he touched.

All these old thoughts flooded back when Sacha approached the trapper outside the general store. He sneered upon noticing the fellow’s unique attire, identifying him as a native from the surrounding lands. Though Sacha had never encountered one of them outside of the woods before, he desperately hoped it was not common practice for them to dress in their traditional attire when visiting cities. It bothered him, to say the least, that this man before him was bold enough to flaunt his incivility. Despite the hypocrisy of it, considering his overt nationalism, Sacha despised how he, and therefore they, were so blatant when separating themselves from the colonists. For God’s sake, he thought. is it really so difficult to dress like a gentleman every once and a while? Sacha brushed past the heathen, hastily reaching for the door of the shop, stopping himself just before grabbing the doorknob and instead turning on his heels. In an exceptionally haughty voice he proclaimed, rather loudly, ” Qu'est-ce que c'est? I’ve never seen one of your kind in the city before!” As per usual, Sacha exaggerated his French accent and shook his head, laughing a bit, at the end of the statement. Then he examined the entire length of the native, his face displaying obvious condescension. The moment his eyes fell upon his unconventional hairstyle, Sacha’s gaze turned steely. ”Ah, monsieur, I assume you are red in more than just your skin.” Sacha knew of the Mohawk people, or rather how most of them aligned with the British, and by extension that made them British to him as well. Though Sacha had begun their encounter jokingly, he now looked the native in the eyes and crossed his arms impatiently, expecting an excuse for why he dared show his face.

[faithfulguardian]

It was a comment or two Tey expected from this man in the bright blue coat when he came striding over, he stood as straight as he could using all of his height and leaning slightly on his back foot. the man walk by swiftly and headed for the door, but before Tey could turn and resume his business, he stopped and the first comment came out. Tey turned his head slowly to gaze at the man, taking in his thick French accent. A white man with no knowledge of the place he now occupied, no care for the land just beyond the Boston Neck, no learning of the people who lived on that land first. Tey's people.
He tried his best to ignore the comment, kept his mouth in a thin line, and tried to stare down the short Frenchman. but the man was studying him now that he had noticed him, and his gaze rested on the hair. the second comment shouldn't have stung, he had heard many like it, but somehow the sharp tongue of his accent was like a lash upon his cheek. his temper flared and the boy who had been counting furs beside him took a visible step back.
Tey shifted his weight from the back foot to the front and towered a head over the man, his gaze unbreaking and dark. "I have not seen the French here for many years, not since my English fathers chased them all the way to the Canadas." Normally Tey would never speak a sentence so long in the white tongue, but he was insulted and angry. "I am amazed you found your way here with that wine-soaked nose of your kind. Now go and do your business, I did not come here to kill white men. not today anyway." He leaned back again and turned to his wares, his fingers itching to hold the tomahawk tucked into his belt. the apprentice gave a visible sigh of relief at his last comment.

[citizen]

Sacha couldn’t help but smirk when the native spoke back to him. He was honestly quite surprised that it spoke English well enough, both to understand his remarks through the accent and then to form complete sentences in rebuttal. He didn’t think the British would have allowed them to learn their tongue; it would certainly make them harder to subjugate. Regardless of how well they were spoken, the sharp words stung less coming from the Mohawk. Sacha felt, though not consciously, that he couldn’t possibly fully understand his words, and it wasn’t just because of his general views of the natives; Sacha was distrustful in even his own multilingualism. There was more weight in words than a simple definition could communicate, and he felt that even if you were fluent in a language, you could speak it for a thousand years and never have the same understanding of it as a native speaker. It was one of the reasons, arguably the least pretentious, that Sacha littered his English sentences with French phrases; it was the only way he truly felt he knew what he was saying. Still, he was thankful the redskin wasn’t scolding him in the native tongue; it would deny him the opportunity to defend himself.

”Oh yes, they chased us back to Canada, and in the same way they’ll chase you and the rest of the demi-monde back to West once they’ve got their little vache a lait under their heel once more. Tu me pèles le jonc, heathen. You know nothing of the British; I doubt you know much of anything at all. Leave politics to the adults; we’ll civilize you yet. “ Sacha would think it funny if it weren’t so sad how the native thought he understood what his people had gotten into. Not one to be ignored, Sacha grabbed the native’s shoulder, intending to turn him back to face him before continuing to speak. Unintimidated by their height difference, Sacha balled his fists at his sides, fully prepared to put up his dukes. ”You are obviously not welcome at this establishment. You are not welcome in Boston. You are not welcome anywhere here. Your kind is ignorant and stupid, trying to involve yourselves in matters you could never hope to comprehend. What do you know of the tyrannical king with whom you side? What do you know of my country, my people, to dare insults, outside of what les Rosbifs tell you? My people, who fought for the land we rightfully owned? You have to right to involve yourself in these affairs, or to even give your opinion of a conflict that’s been going on since before your people knew how to talk without killing each other; or perhaps that time has yet to come. Your audacity disgusts me, bête.” To truly make his point, Sacha spit on the native, narrowly missing his foot, and then turned to stride into the shop.

[faithfulguardian]

Tey steamed under the verbal attack of the frenchman, it was hard for him to understand some of the words he spoke, but for much of it there was no denying what it meant. he had had the option of learning French in the white school his father had sent him to, but Tey had found English hard enough without adding a second language on. he now wished he had picked up something a little extra.
When the little man grabbed his shoulder to spin him around, Tey almost went for the hatchet in his belt. he did not like being touched, nevermind directed, by any of these white dogs. but he saw the man was ready for him, fists tight and eyes watchful for the first move to be made. Tey was not interested in going to a white jail for killing this man. instead he stood stoically and brooding as the man gave his second angry rant. his face flushed red with anger but he did not move. the man ended by spitting at him, and Tey watched him turn around and walk into the store.
"The land was our home long before you owned it, dog." Tey spat, this time in his own native tongue. as the door slammed shut he turned to the apprentice beside him who jumped like a frightened rabbit when the Native's gaze fell upon him. "What Price?" He asked of his wares.
The boy shrunk into himself and cast his eyes down at the furs. Ummm...I can give you 12 shillings for the lot." said he.
It was a reasonable price for the time, but Tey had decided he did not want to deal with the whimpering boy. "No." he said, picking up the bundle and heading for the door of the shop. He was going inside.
But, wait! I-" the boy began to protest, Tey turned slowly, his eyes half lidded and dark. "I'll-get the door for you." said the boy.
Tey entered the shop, cautious as a wildcat walking among wolves, his moccasined feet making no sound on the paneled floorboards. he walked to an empty space by the counter beside the Frenchman and with a large thump planted his wares on the counter.

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OOC: my French sucks, and its Canadian French at that, but I think I got most of what Sasha said, please could you tell me what "Tu me pèles le jonc" means?