[ a tall, gaunt sort of fellow stands in the center of the entrance hall. by 20th century standards, he looks a bit unkempt -- hair in tendrils that help his scruffy facial hair frame his long face (at the center of which lays a nose sharp enough to rival hit wit). he stands rail-straight, an invisible rod running up his spine that doesn't allow for even the slightest degree of a slouch. those trained as such will recognize him as a military man, likely. ]

Ill-crafted... misbegotten-- [ the rest of the air occupying ichabod's lungs is forced outward in a moment of unbridled frustration, hissing as all grace leaves him and he just ... shakes the insufferable device in both hands before himself. ] I'll give you a wipe if you don't earn your keep post haste!

Hark! ‘tis Freedom that calls, come Patriots! Awake!

[ ichabod stands atop one of the tables, double-fisting two steins, flushed red with drink. certainly you didn't think him so dull as to avoid a dip into the bar, hmm? ]

To arms my brave Boys and away; ‘Tis Honour, ‘tis Virtue, ‘tis Liberty calls, And upbraids the too tedious Delay!

[ he sways then, table creaking beneath him as he recites. and it doesn't sound as if he's wont to stop any time soon... ]

[ large tomes surround ichabod where he lords over the four tables he's pushes together through last night into this new-dawned morn. those who know him are certainly used to the way he flits about, this way and that. his hands in constant motion as the pages turn back and forth. and back and forth.

and yet again, back and forth. ]

Please, I implore you-- please. This is no court promise. As certain I am that the sun will rise, I will make my way back. I just-- [ the pages turn back and forth again. ] I just need some time.