Marching on Mississippi

"To Her Majesty, cheers!"

The glasses clinked, splashing amber liquor.

Inside the Miner's Tavern, a group of miners with coal dust on their faces and sweat stinking from their bodies drank heartily, washing away the day's exhaustion.

A young man dressed in somewhat old-fashioned silk finery pushed open the door, making the wind chimes jingle sharply.

The bartender pointed to a sign nearby. "Friend, this is the Miner's Tavern."

"You don't serve other customers?"

"Of course we do, it's just..."

The bartender looked at the guest's fine clothes. That Noble Bearing of his had nothing in common with the miners nearby. What was such an important figure doing in his stinking little tavern?

If anything happened, his tavern could not afford the consequences.

The man sat down without a care and said with a smile, "Good, then."

The bartender felt helpless. Didn't he realize that the moment he walked in, this little tavern had become much quieter? Those miners aren't people to be trifled with. By now, who knows how many of them have their eyes on this fat sheep?

The man pointed at the drink menu. "Bring me your house specialty. This one, 'Iron Ore.'"

"Fine."

The bartender turned around to mix the drink.

At a table, a miner dressed somewhat more neatly than the others could not help striking up a conversation. "You have a new face. Just arrived from Europe, right? Where are you from?"

The man showed no airs and replied with a smile, "I suppose you could call me German."

The miner could not help laughing. "You don't look as stiff as they are."

"Perhaps because I'm from southern Germany."

Lothar shrugged. The differences between northern and southern Germany were far more than just High German and Low German.

The profound effects left by the