circle7 | the historian's secrets (cologne)

Vico brushed into the room with a clear air of irritation, obvious from even the sound of his footfall as he stomped up the stairs, and clearer yet when he all but kicked open the door and slammed it shut again, throwing his heavier weapons onto one of the beds of the room they had rented during their (hopefully) short stay in Germany. Foreign missions, higher in priority, also cost higher, in terms of resources and time spent, and it was customary for recruits to be gone up to an entire week while carrying out the Brotherhood's orders in unfamiliar lands. There was situating, scouting, and planning involved, all made more difficult because neither of them knew the streets of Cologne quite like they knew those of Romagna, and the patience required in the preparation stage of the mission was wearing on Vico's not-quite-infinite supply of patience.

When he pulled down his hood, mussing up the brown curls on the top of his head, Vico rubbed at a particularly impressive bruise forming on his left cheek, small, compact, and shaped like a rounded rectangle. They had seen enough of such bruises to know that it was probably the work of a well-timed and well-aimed punch, most likely one that Vico had returned with just as much accuracy and probably three times as much force. "These Germans are more skittish than the pigeons in Italy," he muttered, as means of explanation, perhaps. "They jump at every little thing, it is ridiculous!" He waved an arm, expressive as his Italian blood made him, and threw it up at the ceiling as if cursing some imaginary god up there. "You so much as breathe the wrong way and they start pointing their spears at you!"

Adamo simply looked amused as he carefully set his weapons onto the opposite bed, settling at the foot to appreciate the room. Even the small inn's room was much different than Italia's. While Vico ranted, he wondered if the tavern had any good German beer to offer. Maybe he could drag him downstairs and ease him over a drink.

"You are overreacting, amico," Adamo said, standing to lean against the window sill, looking out at the view. There wasn't a scratch on him, unlike his friend. "You bumped into a guard and started spouting off in Italian. Of course he's going to take the defensive."

Luckily for Vico, Adamo had a bit of experience with German; just enough to calm the two men down and settle the dispute. They were both reluctant - understandably so with their manlike pride - but eventually let up. Adamo still had to half-drag Vico to the inn, however.

Compared to their wild chase last night, morning in Cologne came peacefully. People began filtering into the streets come first light, even before the birds began their chirping from the rooftops. These were sounds that Vico was used to, even if the voices outside were speaking a language other than Italian, and so, these were also sounds that Vico was entirely accustomed to sleeping despite of, also.

The pain had woken up a few times in the night, and he had spent a few minutes every time just gritting his teeth and waiting for it to subside. By some grace of the heavens, it always did, and overcome with tiredness, he had fallen asleep just as quickly. His last bout of fitful sleep was apparently a very good one, because even when the mid-morning rays of light began filtering through the shutters, Vico was still softly snoring away, a pillow pulled over his head and the inevitably-mussed hair on it, face down in the sheets. He was not a sprawler, but he slept like a log.

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