Faolan hated travelling by boat. Vast stretches of never-ending black water as far as the eye could see, cramped, tight quarters surrounded by other men, sick and weak passengers, livestock that were jammed into crates so tight they could barely move...yes, he much preferred his feet on the ground. Unfortunately, they hadn't yet perfected a plane that wasn't used for war, so he was out of luck if he wanted to get to America by air. The sea was in his blood, but he didn't have to like it.

Faolan especially disliked boats because of how cramped the sleeping quarters were, not to mention the lack of privacy. At six-foot-five, he was a beast of a man; broad shoulders and long legs made sea travel more uncomfortable for him that almost anyone else. During the trip, he would be spending most of his time on the upper decks with the sea air in his face. They would make everyone go inside when it was time to depart, but he wasn't about to waste a second of fresh air.

He was leaning over the side, looking out into the dingy streets of Bordeaux, happy to say goodbye. If ships were his least favorite places to sleep, cities were a close second. What did they think they were doing, anyway, covering up the green French countryside with monstrous buildings of brick and stone? A waste. Cool ocean breeze pushed his long red hair off of his forehead and sent it dancing around his shoulders. 

The sound of a scuffle interrupted his thoughts. He didn't have to look to know what it was about, he could smell the alcohol on the breath of the Englishmen from the second they set foot on the dock. The young man, a native of France by the sound of his accent, had sparked their ire. 

[b]"Listen to 'im mates, what a puss! [i]Could you let go of me...please?[/i] What tripe!"[/b] Faolan's lip curled at the sound of their rough accented mocking. They were pathetic, picking on someone nearly half their size.

Another of the men chimed in: [b]"Haha yeah, a puss! What don't you [i]make[/i] me let go, Frenchy?"[/b]

They was the sounds of more struggle behind him and Faolan's lip curled into a sneer as his paw-like hands gripped the freezing metal railing. The metal screeched quietly as it began to buckle. If those Black and Tan pricks said one more word...

[b]"What're you gonna do, little froggy, cry? Where's your mummy, froggy, huh?"[/b]

That was it. Faolan turned on his heel and stomped with authority down the deck towards the commotion and called out to them in a thick Irish accent, [color=a36209]"Oy, haven't you gobshite's had enough?"[/color] He towered over all four of the men, the Frenchman especially, and glowered down at them with bright green eyes that flashed with fury. That, however, wasn't the most intimidating thing about him. A massive circular scar, like a bite wound, peeked out from his shirt collar and curled around his neck and shoulder. 

The Englishman who was holding the boy by the arm looked up at this giant of a man, startled, but did not let go. [b]"What's it to you, Bog-Trotter?"[/b] He said with a sneer, trying to hide how intimidated he was.

[b]"Yeah, this your girlfriend, eh?"[/b]

[color=a36209]"I'd watch the next thing you say."[/color] Faolan's fingers tightened into fists.

The Englishman paused a moment, looking like they may be re-thinking their decisions, when the third and obviously least intelligent of them chimed in by spitting a glob of snot right at the Irishman's feet, [b]"Pooffter."[/b]

That was enough for Faolan. He grabbed the third man by the shoulder and slammed his forehead down into his so hard the "crack" was audible to those nearby. The Englishman immediately crumpled to the floor, unconscious. Faolan pulled away, a small trickle of blood leaking down his forehead.

There was a moment of silence, of shock, before the Black and Tan let go of the Frenchman's arm, raised his hands and took a step back. Another beat passed before they English bent to grab their companion and dragged him off, his nose smashed and face bloody. The man who had started the fight kept his eyes on the ground, [b]"Our apologies, sirs, we didn't mean nothin' by it...we'll be on our way."[/b]

Faolan watched them go in silence, his brow furrowed and his mouth set into a hard frown. He hadn't broken anyone's nose in a while and had nearly forgotten how good it felt to see British blood spilled.