To be fair, the first mission he had during his time as a Quincy was in Paris. While it wasn't as beautiful as Rome, it had its places where it did hold a candle to his home town. He was supposed to get some new clothing, and the best tailor that Gwynevere knew was located somewhere in Paris.

And so, here he was. Following his 'queen' and her orders. He probably shouldn't have called her his queen, however, no matter her standing in the Quincy order, he was sure that was a false title to call her by currently. But he couldn't go around and call her 'punchable bitch'.

Stepping outside of the train station and into the street, he made sure that he could find the closest bar. Perhaps that was his power. Stepping out and beginning his walk, he could notice the people themselves walking around. Some were in hurried rushes, others not so much. But the one person that seemed to strike him as... different was the person who's energy seemed wilder. They certainly weren't like his Quincy bretheren. But maybe it wasn't harmful making a new chum. Maybe someone who could drink him under the table? Or suffer quietly as he drank them into submission. Whichever worked.

One of the trips I made out to the reaches of Europe resulted in me seeing the capital of France, which immediately reminded me that I hadn't had any alcohol in..... wait, how long had it actually been? I mean I grew up in Scotland, so going without was akin to a sin. Here in Paris, admittedly not the tourist destination I'd pick.... Wine was everywhere, so naturally there were bars and taverns and the like in many places. As I walked into the first one that suited my tastes, I realized something, a presence... As it'd turn out, what used to hurt me now felt useful. In fact, I could now semi-accurately figure out where they were...

I sat down beside a man whose grin looked to be too big for their face, haplessly ignoring any clamoring of people behind me. As I sat there, his aura.... seemed... oppressive with an aftertaste of whisky and... I swear there was a hint of cotton candy. Regardless of that, I looked to him. "Not that it'd make a difference who I asked, but I take it ye ain't from around here, are ye?"

And the man sat by him. Perfect. The contestant walks willingly into their alcoholic grave.

"Nah. Rome, where the women ain't as pretty as they is here, but a few drinks can make them the prettiest in the world!" He figured being friendly was the easiest way to make a new friend. It was literally in the word. He looked at the younger man, stroking the facial hair he had around his mouth and then grinning. "And yous ain't from around here either, huh? Your voice sounds like one of them Irish boys." Scotland, Ireland, what was the difference to the dumbest Quincy known to mankind?

As I sat by the man with the comically wide grin, his smile seemed to double in width, as though a lost wonder of the world had suddenly reappeared within 5 feet of him. Wait a fucking minute... THE CHAIR SPACING. Me, perhaps? He did address me, saying he hailed from Rome, that he preferred the women here. For some reason, he couldn't keep his hand away from what facial hair he had, seemingly stroking it until it was ready to fall off. He then proceeded to pull the dumbest call anyone can make... He called a Scotsman an 'Irish boy'. Time to give this man the old what for, my way "I'm... Scottish, thank ye. Oi. Scotch for me and this daft cunt over here."

I would show this man exactly what for. Scot style. Drink him right under ye old table.

"Ohohoho. We really doin' this." Daft cunt was a word of offense, but he knew how them Scots and Aussies were. Cunt was a word that basically replaced every known word in the language. Brody thought, in this instance, that it was replacing 'Friend'. Ignoring the word before it, of course.

"And make sure ya' put this on his tab!"

When the drinks came in, Brody grabbed his quickly and held it towards the Scot with a toothy grin. "Ya' ready to kiss your liver goodbye?"

One shot down, and the Scot in me was fully stirred. First words out of my mouth were "DAMN RIGHT WE ARE, 'NOTHER ONE. NOW." The man to my left immediately followed with the addendum to put it on my tab "SURE, WHY NOT." As the burly man seemed to grin ever wider, "Ya' ready to kiss your liver goodbye?"

Which the angry Scot could only give one reply to, "Only if yer prepared to kiss yours goodbye." Throwing back another shot, I'd stare down the man, praying my Scottish tolerance was enough to counter the fact that I was much smaller...

This man would be fun for someone so small. It was about fuckin' time he had some fun.

He slammed back the shot, and the second one almost as soon as it was poured, making sure to keep match with the small Scot who thought he was probably larger than life when it came to drinking. But ain't no one met Brody and out-drank him. Yet. Maybe a spiritual being was different. Or a Scot. Fuckin' something!

In a manner of showing his absolute fuck you dominance over the man, he grabbed his own shot in one hand, and then Kin's in his other, slamming them both in consecutive order and grinning. "Figured I'd help ya' finish that, yaknow?"

I was fully prepared to down the next shot, but this bastard did it for me. As I looked over to him, I shot him a look of pure murder. You do not stop a Scot from drinking. "Aye. So bloody helpful ye are. It's about time someone other than yer mum taught ye manners."

That's when I decided I'd beat him an entirely different way. If he wanted to drink me under the table, he would, aye. He'd drink himself under the bloody table. "Barman, pour 20 shots. We'll go rapid fire." I'd go for one at a time, pacing myself, and hoping he took the bait. The man's cheeky dominant grin would be his downfall.

Twenty Shots? That was beautiful. He may have just found himself a new best friend.

As the liquid that Brody prefered over water was poured into the shot glasses, Brody watched with an almost child-like glee. He kept his face low to the table, the cool lacquered wood chilling his chin as he watched each glass become full. A cheeky mockery, but nothing short of what adoration Brody could exclaim, the Italian patted the man on the back and spoke. "Aye, ya' done this cheeky cunt a great blessin'!" And, of course, it was in a Scottish accent. Or, at the very least, what Brody could manage.

I'd already start taking shot after shot, though doing so at a hushed pace. As the man with the ever-dancing grin poured his face over the layout of shots being poured faster than I could take em.... I waited for him to take yet another shot. However I was halted by him thanking me for making him a happy cunt of a man, all the while trying a real shit Scotty accent. "Aye, now drink before I beat you to it, ye lightweight. Not stoppin' on account of ye creamin' yer pants over twenty bleeding shots." At which point I downed another, leaving 17 shots of the 20 I called for gone. I was already starting to feel it, not that I could tell him that. The bartender still had that horrendously confused look on his face, unsure of if he should have even given me the 3rd shot.