It had taken him half a day to find the place. Colonel Flashman, a merchant by trade did not spend much time in the capital. Indeed, most of his years were spent at the coastal harbor city from whence he operated his business. But those days were long over. The royalty had personally pinned an Iron Cross on his chest - one of those decorations reserved for valor on the battlefield, and he'd rather not have to wear it in public. Neither did he willingly carry out the action that earned him this bit of tin and ribbon, for after all, who in their right mind would charge on horseback head-on into a battery of artillery? The pompous twit, Lord Cardigan thought that it was a good idea to order the charge and sit far back on the rear echelons whilst he watched his Light Brigade get ripped to shreds by the artillery.<br/><br/>But that was a part of history now, and so was Flashman. Deemed too valuable and famous to sacrifice in the field, the other aristocratic poofs decided to use the Colonel's decoration as a recruitment tool for more eager young men to die for that same bit of tin and ribbon.<br/><br/>Dressed in his freshly-pressed dress uniform with cane in hand, the Colonel struck a sharp, imposing figure coupled with a ice-cold steely glare and grimly-clenched angular jaw. While not at all pretty, pale and florid as was the fashion in the capital in recent years, Flashman was a darkly-tanned, and well-built man to show for his years spent in the harsh jungles and desert of the frontier, and his rugged, and even gruff disposition composed a rough handsomeness of its own. The heavily-burnished Iron Cross shone brightly on his chest, and Flashman wore it more like a burden than a matter of glory when he walked through the doors to enter the lobby of the famed Teahouse, tapping his cane repeatedly on his floor whilst waiting to be greeted by the help.