The door, and freedom from the wind and snow, is merely a step or two away when Haytham cuts in front to block the way. It doesn't seem to occur to him that it is a dangerous move to make. Hesitating, the Templar holds up a hand as if to help underline his explanation. 'Perhaps it would be best if you wait here. A Mohawkman is likely to raise suspicions, if not muskets.'

Rolling his eyes is the only obvious response to Connor. 'It is not so uncommon for my kind to come to such places. I have experience enough to go just as unnoticed as you.'

'You are clearly armed.' He points it out and the teenager genuinely has to take a moment to check before he realises what is being referred to.

'Oh yes, because the bow is known to be such a feared weapon at close quarters.' Scoffing at his concerns is too easy, they are so ill-founded. 'I am perfectly capable of handling myself.'

With that he steps up, place one hand squarely on the man's chest and gently pushes him aside to slip past through the doorway. Welcome warmth hits him straight away, along with an initially cacophonous wave of sound. His suspicions were right; every table is occupied, if only by a single soul in some cases, a number of customers are clustered around the bar whilst others lounge against the various walls. Perfect conditions for eavesdropping.

Behind him the door swings again, closing with a light snick that his ears pick up over the noise. His senses adjust quickly. Already two separate clusters of red have caught his attention from among the drab crowd. This should be easy. Behind him, the door swings shut with a soft snick and a small rush of cold. After a second's pause Haytham heads off in the direction of a group of artillerymen engaged in closed debate over by one of the windows. As he passes one hand brushes lightly against the novice's. He chooses to read that as something of an apology. Noticing a space open up at the bar, not two men down from the soldiers complaining loudly at its end, Connor takes the opportunity to make himself inconspicuous. Ducking his head, he concentrates on listening in.

'I can't stand being quartered there...' One particularly vocal grenadier bemoans. 'The crashing of the waves, the sting of the salt in me eyes, and the goddamn gulls shrieking and shitting everywhere.'

'Aye, I say we start using 'em for target practice!' Another exclaims, standing up abruptly and wobbling so badly that he nearly ends up on the floor.

'Hear hear, one of the little bastards shitted on me boots right in the middle of an inspection.' Infantryman number three chimes in, voice turning deadly serious as he recounts the incident. 'You should've seen the Bulldog's face when he saw the state of 'em. Thought I was for the chop right then and there.'

'Ha, yeah, we did see his face. Hilarious that.' Each syllable of the longer word is dragged out in emphasis, mug raised and sloshed around as if in tribute to the grand memory.

In the pause caused by the chaos of the drunkard's antics another gap opens up further down the counter. Even the regulars are starting to tire of such a spectacle, at close range anyway. That is when Haytham appears, taking up his own post to start eavesdropping on the rabble. A look of sympathy passes between the pair of them.

Things have mostly calmed when the third announces: 'Well, I heard that the Bulldog's putting together another Expedition. If we're lucky we'll be out of Necessity and rid of those goddamn gulls by the end of the month.'

'Huzzah!' Much banging together of tankards accompanies the small company's cry.

'So, that's what they're calling them now, hey? Expeditions?' Under the sound of their comrade's sudden mirth, a rather sinister voice makes inquiry.

'Aye.' He replies. 'Smart too, you slap a fancy name on something and all evil is excused.'

A low chuckle that follows confirms that he has heard quite enough. That sort of tone reminds him far too much of those days he had spent captive in Boston. Peeling quietly away he moves for the exit. By the sounds of things Fort Necessity is their best bet for finding Braddock, so there is no need to waste further time near such company. Connor is a little loath to go back to the cold when he has only just warmed up again. Nevertheless he can cope well enough. Glancing quickly in Haytham's direction he sees that the man has already come to a similar conclusion and is on his way to the door.

It almost seems as if those concerns about trouble arising were unfounded. But then, naturally, a slightly slurred shout thunders across the room. 'Oi! Where you going cully?'

Turning, Connor instantly realises that it is not him being addressed. Cursing his luck, he tries to covertly shoot a look of warning to the, unsteadily, advancing redcoat. To pick a fight with the Templar grandmaster is a very, very bad idea. Even more so for a clearly inebriated footsoldier. But it rather looks like the fool has got his head stuck on violence.

'Me?' Haytham's tone is light and innocent, belying the danger beneath.

'No, the other cock robin.' As if provoked by the mere fact of response, another of the group from the bar joins in with the taunting. The rest are beginning to perk up with interest and look very much like they think it's a good idea to get involved as well. None of them seem able to take a hint.

'Well, I was leaving.' Pointedly glancing back at the door, he nevertheless starts to visibly tense in readiness. Peaceful resolution is becoming increasingly unlikely.

'Oh?' Aggression practically oozing from him, the first soldier sneers and takes a few steps closer with an impressive amount of steadiness for his condition. 'And now?'

'Well...' His whole demeanour darkens. 'Now, I'm going to feed you your teeth.'

Face in hand, the Assassin can't help but comment; 'And you thought I was going to be the one who caused problems?'

Any comeback is prevented by the flying of the first punch. It is countered with ease but then chaos descends, as every redcoat in the building decides to come to the aid of their drunk, threatened comrade. If any of the other Assassins ever ask, Connor will explain that he is merely working to balance out the uneven numbers when he chooses to join the fight. He tells himself that as well. That and he tries to be slightly more gentle in his disabling of opponents.

Two go down quietly before anyone seems to register that he's even involved. Haytham is already doing an excellent job on his own of course, throwing assailants through tables or smacking them face-first into the nearest wall. Although the man is clearly irked by this turn in events he doesn't seem to be using any weapon other than his own hands, which are more than capable of dealing out injury. It's a relief. Some of the attackers however do not have the same qualm. Slightly too late the novice realises that his latest opponent has a knife out, the blade catches him sharply across the cheek before he manages a suitable counter. Grabbing and twisting the arm responsible, he slams them into one of the wooden beams with slightly more force than strictly necessary. The next one barely gets within striking range before he's being knocked out for the count.

Just as suddenly as it starts, the fight is over. Pained groans rise from the floor, although at least a handful of the soldiers are completely unconscious. Maybe now they will learn to take a hint when they start provoking strangers. With a little guilt Connor notes the amount of damage that has been dealt to the premises and quickly follows his companion out. Best to get away from the scene before any of the idiots decide they want to try again.

Outside darkness is beginning to truly fall, the night drawing in with the increasingly bitter, biting wind. Fortunately there is no new snowfall yet, but the novice does not remotely relish the idea of sleeping up in the trees tonight. Perhaps if he is lucky he can find an empty barn to shelter in instead. Already at the roadside, the Templar seems to be debating options of his own. There is certainly no chance he'll be able to make use of that particular inn for some time to come.

After only a second's hesitation Connor joins him, wrapping his arms around himself against the chill. 'Are you always so popular?'

'Hardly.' The man gives a wry smile.

Abandoning his internal deliberations on the road, or so it seems, Haytham turns to look at him and promptly frowns. Subconsciously the teenager has already positioned himself closer than he would have normally, for the sake of heat, but now his companion steps even further into his personal space. This time there isn't a wall, or a wolf carcass, or a tree trunk, or any other sort of barrier to keep Connor from automatically retreating. However, before he can take the opportunity to move back, one hand latches onto his shoulder while the other takes hold of his chin, carefully tilting his face to one side.

'You're hurt.' His apparently genuine concern throws the Assassin, even more than the proximity this time.

'It is nothing, just a stray knife.' Dismissiveness seems the best tactic, particularly as Connor finds himself rather incapable of pulling away. In all honesty the cut isn't that bad after all.

'Hmm.' Gently running a thumb along the length of the injury Haytham looks him in the eyes. 'You didn't need to do that, we were already even.'

He knows he's in real trouble, he knows he shouldn't be letting the Templar get to him like this, but right now he can't quite bring himself to care. Common sense flies out the window as he brings his own hands up to wrap in the man's cloak, pulling him slightly closer. 'Oh? I am not quite so sure...'

In all honesty he isn't quite sure which of them it is who closes that final gap. But he is certain that he enjoys the feel of the other man's mouth against his own far more than he should.