Late autumn settles on Ireland in coats of grey and green. Thick clouds, like the thick woolens we should all be wearing this time of year, hang heavy, pendulous. You'd swear it, that if you raised your hand you'd be able to skim them. And the grass and ground are wet. Emerald green this time of year for all the rain. It is raining even now.
     Did you know there were hundreds of variants for 'rain' in Gaelic. Including directionals. Slantwise rain. Light. Heavy. The tears of God. Ah well, it's usually only the sentimental types that call it that. Those moody at our country's history. And they've only witnessed a part of it. Think about all you've seen. I try not to think on my own memories much. Course, I'm a foreigner.
     Irish, by way of Normandy. Shh, lass... let's keep that between us, wot?
     So it's at the little village near the Boyne Monument, I sit. In a pub -- well, it's four walls, a floor and a ceiling -- but at least the Harp and Guiness flow. And it's as much as a man like me can ask on a Saturday night free of Dublin. I have been watching the crowd for a while. But... none as of yet who shall make my dinner sweet. Oh, well. I'm the one in the back. Dark, wind-swept shortish hair. Handsome... it's a curse, trust me. Grey-blue eyes. And, aye, thick grey woolens. A hand-knitted jumper, to go with trousers, ending in boots suited for walking the rough land. Ah, and that'd be a pint of Guinness -- my third -- barely tasted, resting at my large right hand.

     The pub seems protected from the rain, warm and cozy. The staff have tossed more logs in the stove to add to the warmth and dryness of the room. All of this is disturbed, however, as the door is tossed open...letting in a bit of the rain and dampness within. The newcomer enters, soaked to the bone, closing the door behind her.
     Yes, her. Her locks hang in limp waves to her waist, heavy from the rain...but the colour has not faded much...no, indeed, it's darkened to a deeper copper. Her emerald gaze flickers to the bar as she strides confidently up to it, peeling her greatcoat from her body. "A pint o' Guinness, sir, aye, to chase th' cold away," her Irish brogue says clearly, even cheerfully despite her damp state. The barkeep nods and sets to getting the glass as a serving girl offers to hang her coat near the stove to dry. "Aye, thank ye, lass..." comes the woman's reply. Already, her Guinness awaits her upon the bartop and she gratefully reaches for it.

     Ask, Niall, and ye shall find. You know... you really should get to the kirk and give the Almighty a bit of a nod. Ah well, maybe next century. No need to be a nuisance. Afterall, your last confession was in 1909. Lips pucker with a thought, and a chair is kicked out. "Welcome to the drying ward," says the dark-haired man toward the back but not so far that he is hidden. He appears to be about twenty-eight. Bright-eyed. Handsome, but ... well, who would trust that smile? Not even his own mother most like. A hand lifts and gestures to the nearby fire. Small stove hearth, actually. "I'm only damp, I'll give up my seat if you join me..." That's a way to do it, Niall.
     He appears tall, his shoulders are broad. Made of years of hard work and toil and armored warfare. Would you believe it? But he seems congenial enough, doesn't he? Typical Irish rogue type. Keep your hand on the wallet, miss -- ah, but would it be so bad a time?

     Her face turns to look toward the voice, her green eyes flashing with curiosity. Beneath her great coat, she had a beige sweater and a pair of black jeans, with a good pair of hiking boots upon her feet. Now, it looks like the only part of her that isn't damp are her feet. Hearing your words, she pauses, as though considering the offer.
     Perhaps she might have ignored it on another occasion, but the chills could set in if she doesn't warm up soon...besides, he seems friendly enough. Her wallet is close to her, and probably near to impossible to remove from a pair of soaked denim jeans, and so she raises her glass to you and says, "I thank ye for yoir hospitality... I shall take ye up on th' offer." Moving across the floor, leaving wet footprints upon the floor, she finds herself at your table, and seating herself upon the offered chair.
     Holding out her free hand, she says, "Thank ye... They call me Una."

     "Easy it is to be hospitable with someone else's chair," his baritone voice comes in a lilt. A native speaker of Gaelic -- his English gives the tale-tell signs of it. Rolling R's and lilting L's. Light. As you approach, he stands... and aye, he is tall. Some six foot. For an Irishman, he's a giant of a man. Still to this day. Ah well...if ye knew it was the French in him that made it so. His hand is large, but they're not blocks. The shake is welcoming, warm and firm... but not so much that he'd break your hand. That'd be rude. "Niall o'Dubhlain," he says, with a spreading smile. "Pleasure, Una ... here..." And the old knight gives up his seat.
     The small stove puts out heat but not light. It'll warm you soon enough. He moves to sit in an adjacent chair, reaching over to pluck up the Guinness. "I was out touring the Boyne when it caught me. Quite a storm. Passing through or is this your village I'm taking up space in?"

     Her own handshake is not one of a typical woman. It is firm, not dainty. "Well, 'tis a pleasure, Niall....may I call ye tha'?" she asks, smiling brightly as you give up your seat near the stove. Seating herself, she sighs happily, enjoying the warmth and dryness the spot offers as she makes note, "'Twas very kind o' ye to give up yoir seat fer me. Whether 'tis yoir chair nor nae, 'twere yoirs 'til ye stood up." Her smile is charming and is echoed in her emerald gaze...genuine. "Ah, I am but a weary trav'ler meself, kind sir, looking fer a warm place to rest and enjoy meself within. I was born on this fine isle, however...just not in this particular village."

     I find modern women refreshing. Ah, and the Irish variety? Lively. Like your green eyes. "You may, aye... please do..." He tugs at his trousers and he takes a seat beside you. There is a casual kind of ... what. Nobility? A man who knows his place in the universe. That's more it than anything. And he is lovely to look upon. Closer to him now as you are. Fine features, dark brown hair with a bit of a wave to it. If it were long, it'd be curly sure. Steel blue eyes, blue-grey. With the grey sweater, more grey than blue. A smallish nose. Fair skin. And a beard he has, but he's shaved in the last twenty-four hours. He smiles easily. "And I, as the name might tell you, am a native of Dublin...a woman of Erie is free to take my chair any day..." He inclines his head as he settles back in his chair. Hand lifting the Guinness for a sip. "And what do you do when you're not out and about getting drowned...?"

     She first takes a sip of her own Guinness, the second step to getting warmed up, it seems. Then, she smiles at you and remarks, "Well, ye are certainly a gentleman then..." Nothing wrong with a little flattery, now is there? Her eyes don't seem to leave you long, even if she glances away or at her glass...perhaps she is admiring your appearance. Certainly, she thinks you are handsome...perhaps she does not bother to hide that from her gaze. With a slight slant to her grin, she says, "Aside from being drowned? Well, wandering about, seeing the sights...enjoying life... What else is there, really?" Her laughter is light, yet hearty, coming from deep within her.
     Now that she is near the stove, her hair is beginning to dry, regaining the bouncing curls that they are accustomed to. "I've nae been t' Dublin in many years," Una adds, "an' so I must try t' make it there again sometime soon. An' ye, Niall? What do ye do when yoir nae havin' a pint an' keepin' warm in a pub, stayin' out of th' pourin' rain?"

     I could not tell you, darlin... even if my foot was put in the flame. But I cannot help but smile when you ask it. What shall I tell you? That I'm a musician? An artist? A devil among men?
     "You should come to my city," and he does say it with a bit of ownership. "I'll roll out the red carpet for you, lass... as for me? I try not to work, but they make me. But, at least I work out of me own home. Ah, the computer age. So, I can keep out of the rain and a handful of Guiness -- I find it most convenient. So... how many years is many? Shall you need a guide when you get there? And if so... aye, I'm offering. My hospitality knows no bounds." He laughs, it makes him lovely. In so many ways, it makes me human. Oh, lass, if you only knew...
     I watch the curls of your hair begin to dry and bounce. Spun bronze. I want to dip my hands in it and test the metal of it. I only sip at my Guinness for now. Smile at the conversation that washes over me. Over you. "Tis a nice thing to see, this Boyne. Sad though it is. But... we should never forget that which divides us..." Niall stops himself with a cocking grin, "Sorry, Una... lass... first and last political speech of the evenin...I promise."

     Copper lashes lower for a moment...a bit of colour coming to her fair cheeks. Did she notice your gaze upon her hair? Or is it only the combination of the warmth from the stove and the warmth in her belly from the drink? Once more the emerald orbs raise to look upon you, watching your moves, being attentive to all that you say. Una replies, "I've been to Dublin a few times...but it seems so long ago. Perhaps a guide might be prudent, for certainly the city has changed much since I've been there..." She nods to this, causing the curls to bounce some more, the corners of her mouth lifting into another smile.
     Her sips of Guinness become more proper mouthfuls...proper for such a drink. Guinness is no sipping drink. Soon, she'll need to ask for another. "Ah, well, Boyne... I like to come here, to think, to remember...and just to admire the beauty of it," her voice says with even her smile echoing within that, also. And now, she's flagging down the serving girl for another glass..."Did you want another?" she asks you.

     A swallow of Guinness -- I call it the blood of Ireland. And I like to drink it nearly as much as I do the latter. Though, for a draught of you, lass... I would forgo a thousand tankards even of Guiness.
     They'll have to pry the tankards of Harp out of my cold, dead hands...
     He laughs -- a warm sound that warms his features. Eyes crinkle at the corners, crow feet. He's seen a bit of sun. Well, not lately. Course, you'd not know it by any obvious means would you. You'd have to see him at noon -- watch him turn into a Norman-Roman Candle. Ha! And don't think there aren't those waiting for that. "Very well then, ere you go tonight... I'll give you my number in Dublin. You visit, you call me." He offers his hand. Like to shake it and seal the deal. "As for admiring beauty... I have to say, and you'll pardon and forgive me for it, Una, the best beauty of Boyne is sitting here at m' stove and warming her hands around a pint. Ah, alright... had to be said. But like the politics... I'll leave the flirting if you prefer it..."

     Your number is taken and her hand is placed within yours to shake...but before she gets a chance to shake it, your comment is heard. Her fair cheeks deepen to a crimson, a blush overtaking her features easily and quickly. Those who know her would say this is odd...that she doesn't usually react this way to flattery...it usually rolls of her shoulders. But there is something about you which seems to set her just slightly off-balance...and so, she reacts genuinely to the compliment.
     Smiling, blushing profusely, and almost at a loss of words, Una manages to stammer out, "I, well....thank ye, kind Niall...surely I dinnae deserve such praise..." Ah, words spoken to try to counter it...to push away the focus upon herself...and yet, you might sense, being what and who you are, that she did take pleasure in hearing your words about her. It, indeed, sent a small thrill through her...and she has not heard such words about herself in a long, long time.

     It is what I do best. Well, second best. Aye, against your palm you find a small card. It has a Celtic triple dragon upon it and in Gaelic lettering, his name. On the back, a number in Dublin. His personal number. What is it that makes him do this? Is it something he can sense? Can Time be seen upon a person, like qualities of loveliness or emotion? Can it be sensed that you have seen the world turn even longer than he has? Niall lifts your hand to his lips before releasing it. A bend of his head. A kiss left behind it. "Ah, no thanks give to me... speaking Truth is easy..."
     But I don't want to overdo it...
     Fingers leave your hand behind, a soft touch, a little press. As if to tell you... aye... it'd be worth your while to linger. Niall settles back and finishes his third Guinness. "May I buy you another, Una? I'm about to give call for a refill..." He tilts his head, a look given to how your skin blushes. Ah, the blood runs quick and warm. You have not lost your touch, prince...

     Eyes never leaving you as you touch her, kiss her hand, and even speak her name...then blink as you mention another Guinness. Smiling, almost shyly, she nods her head and murmurs, "Aye, another pint might go down smoothly right now..." It's a small distraction, but it gives her a moment to look away, toward the bar as though to -will- a waitress to approach. It isn't that she fears you...or even fears what she might be getting into...but that this is all getting rather intense and she could easily be swept away by you, and she knows this.
     Mind you, would it be so bad? From your appearance and demeanor, she would not think so. And even if she would deny it to herself, she is already under the sway of your charms.
     The hand that so recently held your own lifts to give the barkeep a wave. "Jake, two more pints...you're a mate, aye..." They share a grin. He must come in here from time to time? Or does he charm everyone like he is charming you. Niall turns his attention back to you and shoves his empty to the other side of the table. Arms lean upon the old, varnished wood. The sweater pulls a bit. Some of the thickness of it is due to the knit... but also to the build beneath it seems. "You must have a forgivin' job if you're able to travel at will... you know... tis a blessing of this modern world... that we can be anywhere we want, and yet anywhere we need to be, aye?" A pause. "So... how's the stove workin' for you....?" I can tell your hair is drying. And he takes a moment to study you. Grinning.

     The waitress approaches the table with the two Guinness. An understanding look on her face. Aye, tis a dangerous spot sitting close to the flame. She sets the drinks down. "Seven pound even..." Irish pound notes are removed from his pocket. A stretch, a tug, and then money is exchanged for beer. Ten pounds even. The rest is tip.
     The build beneath does not escape a quick glance taken by her...if asked, she could excuse it as a glance at you as you moved nearer and say it was nothing more. But you both know that she is stealing glances when she can. Flashing you a slanted grin, Una replies, "Well, let's just say that travel suits me well an' it fits into me life well." Ah, she is going to be vague now...but is it any more vague than you've been? Her clothing seems to be drying out, but the jeans are troublesome to dry...that is typical of denim. "Aye, th' stove is warmin' me up some," she replies...leaving off a statement she thinks to herself...something about how she'd rather warm up in your arms. But, again, that is unspoken and she looks up as the waitress brings the new Guinness. She is thanked, then Una looks to you and says softly, "Thank ye...yoir more than kind..." and reaches for her own pint.

     "Then you're as fortunate," says Niall, glass lifting in toast to you, "...as you are lovely, my dear. I salute your liberty..." A sip to you is taken and then the glass is set aside. "You know... I hear Mrs. McHenry across the way... over a' the B&B cooks a mean scone and serves the best tea in all Ireland. Which my own mother would protest were she here," and still alive after eight centuries and had ever known of tea, but that's not the point, "...care to join me there after the last Guinness?" Niall grins and leans in toward you. "She has a fire burning..." he murmurs. An actual fire, with actual flame. Besides... there is always the promise of interesting conversation over a plateful of scones. "I don't know about you, lass, but travelin' always puts the hunger in me..."

     Maybe it's the way you say the word, or the closeness of you, but as you say hunger, she blushes. She can't help it. Smiling, she tilts her head and replies quietly, "I would be delighted to join ye..." Had you thought she wouldn't? Trying to hide her blush a little, she downs a few gulps of the Guinness, letting it warm her from the inside out. She even closes her eyes a moment, savouring the taste of it and the combined warmth of the stove. But the warmth of a fire...and maybe some close company....that proves to sound very, very appealing to her. It seems she will be getting through this glass a lot quicker than the last one..

     A healthy thirst. And I shall be twice the beneficiary. Had I known Boyne were this lovely, I'd have escaped the confines of Dublin for her banks more often. As it is, it's turning out to be quite the vacation...
     "Ah," and his smile lengthens the whole of the way across his mouth, and color seems to lift to fair features. "... now I'm delighted. If we keep this up, lass, we won't need the Guinness..." Dark brows lift up to that. Oh, dear Niall. Shall you get a slap for that? It is as if he waits for it, his grin slanting with the expectation and anticipation of feeling your hand. But it wouldn't be the first time he was slapped by a red-headed Irishwoman. He remains leaned in toward you, as if to keep the rest of the small pub from being privvy to every blessed word. His hands toy with the glass of Guinness idly and then lift it. A healthy swallow. A swipe of tongue for the foam and the grin remains.

     For a moment, perhaps it might seem like you would get slapped...but no, she merely isn't quite sure how to react to your comment. Opting for laughter, Una chuckles a bit and looks distractedly into her glass, holding it with both hands. After a moment, emerald eyes look up from beneath lashes as she murmurs, "Perhaps not..." Then she looks away, smiling slantedly at her own boldness. Clearing her throat, she brushes a stray lock of hair from before her face with a slender hand, looking back at you. "So, well, at least I'm dry now," she comments almost weakly.

     Though he has melded quite into the space of the chair, becoming, so to speak, one with it, Niall makes a readjustment. A settling back. Perhaps to give the young woman space. Perhaps out of a more natural kind of restlessness. But he grins -- smiles never far from him indeed -- and the Guinness is cradled, lifted. Steadily diminished. Eyes both blue and grey are full of the devil's fire when he looks to her, that sparkle that seems innate in the men of this island. "Ah good on't," he mutters to the red-headed woman sitting nearby him. Both sitting nearby the room's stove. "The fire then shall do you wonders... without worry on getting McHenry's chairs damp ... course... might end up gathering more moisture on the way out... " Eyes go to her Guinness. How much more? Another healthy swallow of his own does he take. "How .... long did you say you were going to be visiting the lovely country ... or... did you say, Una?"

     It is the middle of nowhere. Certainly it's on a path to be found, but for the latest entrant? He looks little like a tourist.
     The door quickly opens and closes. Busy evening. The man who arrives twists to let the door close without hindrance, a figure in all black. There is no sheen to the fitted shirt he wears, black matte into which no light reflects. So with his jeans. It seems more the mark of someone interested in not being seen, instead of simply choosing a color that's the height of fashion. A heavy black sweater covers him, with sedate leather patches at his elbows, currently unzipped. Even his boots are dulled, any sense of couture dimmed down. Looks good, but is eminently functional.
     His brown eyes scan the room...ah...he is looking for someone. The door dealt with, he enters, dark hair clipped trim and neat, if damp.
     Ach, prey. After a wave at the bar -- not with much familiarity, mind you -- the man makes a line around tables towards where visiting is discussed. Absolute minimalist as he approaches...the man is most certainly well-structured. Military? Nah, there is an element of style awareness, however subdued. Random wanderer? Definitely not. English hooligan comes to mind, but hey, who's judging?
     "Well, there you are, you fucking bastard," a rush of Gaelic tumbles from his lips, tainted London, "...I've been fucking looking all over for you!" Well, at least in the last few hours. Oops. He smiles at the lady present, clearly having forgotten his manners. "Sorry," hand landing on Niall's chair as he violently shakes it. A weak smile is offered to Una...and the chair shakes again.

     The tender at the bar, not a terribly old man -- family to most that call this village on the outskirts of Boyne home -- lifts brows to the Gaelic. As surprised to hear it come out of that Limey looking bastard's... I mean, the newest arrival's mouth as he is to hear what was said. Before he can say: Mind the Lady... the gent's apologized. So he goes back to idly watching. Someone in here to give that scamp a tossing. Well...can't say as I'm shocked...

     Again, she chuckles, looking into her Guiness for a moment. Perhaps she would actually answer the question, but is interrupted by the burst of Gaelic from the newcomer. If she were leaning toward Niall moments before, she is sitting straight up now. She seems genuinely surprised by the sight and falls silent for the moment, only offering a stunned nod at the gentleman in black and watching for Niall's reaction.

     Precious drops of Guinness threaten to spill uselessly upon the ground! As soon as fucking bastard was uttered on that voice He Knows Too Well, Niall was turning about in his seat, a grin already to his lips -- but then... it's all about rescue, isn't it. Hands steady the beer for the shaking. Steel eyes widen, legs go out, and the grin turns to a smirk. "If a drop of this lands on the floor, laddie, you'll wish you never found me!"
     But then the grin erupts with laughter behind. "Alright, dammit... stop... now that you found me, Edwina... mind cutting back on the quakin? Sit like a gentlemen... are all of you Brits heathens to a man?" Well, you're not British but French, but sooner be you British in Ireland than of France. It's all a matter of degrees. Niall turns his head, dark hair dipping downward where it was combed to the side. "I suppose I'm going to be forced to introduce him to you or m' Guinness shall not be spared. Una... this is Edward... Edwina... this is Una... my stove companion... "

     "Brilliant!" Edward smiles, charmer to his heart and his words now in English. Yes, he did hit Niall in the arm for calling him Edwina, but that's another story. "Good 't meet ya, chicky," he says, extending his hand to you, Una. A good guess is it's pretty strong. "Sorry ye get to share the stove with the likes of him, no good..." words falling into a mumble as he pulls chair out with his free hand.

     A slanting grin reappears upon Una's face as she watches the two men, who are obviously old friends. Soon, she's chuckling again and watching this show with glee. Thankfully, though, she managed to scoop her Guiness up off the table in enough time to prevent it from getting shaken upon the table. "Pleased t' meet ye, Edward," the red-head replies, taking Edward's offered hand. She shakes it with a hidden strength...she's stronger than she looks, aye. Shrugging a bit, she replies, "Why, he's been a very gracious stove companion... he was very kind to share it with me."

     Handshake gets a smile, then "Pish," Edward murmurs, twisting around to see the bar with the look of 'why isn't my Guinness here yet?'. He sighs and looks at you both, head bobbing as brown eyes shift left, then right. "Guess I know why then," he finally pipes up in awkward time, "...you" his gaze looking at Niall accusingly, "...aren't in Dublin? And don't you know how to carry a celphone?" He does apparently. "Why doesn't he have a celphone...Una?" That was the name, wasn't it? Rolling his eyes, Edward reaches into his pocket, fishing out a cigarette and a silver lighter when all the rustling is done.

     The hit to his arm was of no disturbance to the Guinness and it was a slant-wise look to Edward as he moves in on his would-be dinner... ah... dinner companion. "Edwina's an old friend," Niall needlessly explains, "...with some of familiarities worse habits..." Slate eyes, silver and blue both, sparkle with the wink. "But... you know... he's like moss to a rock. Good for something though we're not sure what..." With that he turns the full force of his attention to Edward, "I have a cellphone. I just leave it off..."
     A swallow of Guinness. Two more, and it'll be done. Settling back into the comfort of his seat Pre-Edward, Niall kicks back. Half of his glances given to the young woman. Aye, lovely... still warm? I'm still pondering a greater fire. "I needed a few days out of the fair city and Una here has been most entertaining. I take it ...it's important then since you've come all this way..." Leaning back, Niall raises his hand, signalling the bar for another. Guinness of course.
     The tender finally responds, the sound of the tap being touched follows after...

     Looking between the two of you, the red-head says, "Um, perhaps I should be lettin' ye boys be talkin' by yoirselves?" She begins to stand, seeming a little awkward in this moment. If it is something important that Edward has to speak with Niall about, perhaps she's just being a third wheel...

     Oh really? Edward smirks as if knowing something. A glint is tossed in Una's direction, but he'd really not dare to call you crumpet of the week. "No, no," Edward waves off, "I've got Time," word seeming so frought. "It was true, I was looking for the boy earlier for a specific reason, but not anymore. We can deal with that later." The smile is sweet again, but disingenous. "So...Una...how'd you meet this waste of space, eh?" Cigarette is placed between his lips, and Edward flips the lighter open, sending a spark to the stick's tip.

     And if you had called her the crumpet of the week, you'd likely have her fist flying at your face rather rapidly. Don't be fooled by the pretty looks...this woman has an attitude when she needs to. Hearing Edward's words, Una settles back into her chair, saying, "So long as you're sure..." There's a bit of a thankful look, however...she really didn't want to move away from the warmth of the stove. Waste of space? Hardly, in her eyes... but she replies, "Well, I walked in, soaked from the rain...and he offered me the closest chair to the stove. So we got talking. That's all there is to the story, really."

     "Aw!" Edward smirks, elbowing Niall's ribs. "Yer a gen'rous man, Niall," he claims. Then his face falls. "Who died?"

     Crumpet of the week's a bit much -- I just met the girl! Should she live through the first night, then we can talk something more...committed. Like a week...
     As soon as light was to cigarette, Niall was sitting forward, hand extended. Yes, you're going to share. And in a moment of harmonic convergence, the other Guinness arrives. "Gentleman as always," he quips about himself, and with the self-effacing smile. As if he and the rest of you should surely know better. But in a congenial way, of course.
     "Chivalry reborn, that's me...ha!" A laugh. He never knew so much of chivalry as all that. Though he could claim its rewards upon the supple young women of his region well enough. Still does. "And no one died, Edna... but, well you know, the queue is always forming...as of now, you're first..." In all this time, Una has risen and set, like the sun she is. Niall grins, "Oh aye, lass... no need to make way for the likes of him. We only brake for God's creatures around here..."

     The Guinness is set down before Edward by the tender's neice. She's nothing special, but she's cute enough. You can pay her later.
     "Thank ye, lass," Edward chimes, slipping back into something more cockney. "I guess you've been known to be alright," he murmurs, turning attention back to Una. The cigarette is drawn, and set down, soon replaced in hand by the Guinness. "I think this is where I came in, eh? You...travelling, Una? It's not a bad area, even if you meet bawdy types, like the Ulsterman, here..."

     A smirk plays upon Una's lips as she watches the banter between the two old friends, her emerald gaze bouncing back and forth. Sometime during all this, she manages to drain at least half of her pint of Guiness.. Aye, she's used to the drink, it seems...but not enough to evade its effects, fearfully. At least her voice isn't slurred yet. No one but her should know that sight's getting blurred. "Chivalry..." she begins, "should be required as a law, I think..." Grinning like a cat, she then says, "Aye... I am travelin'. But, this is my home...the Green Isle. I shall know no true other, I fear."

     Edward bobs his head as Una explains things. He offers little in the way of responding to chivalry, leaving that topic to Niall to sort out. Instead, he lifts his pint to the table at large, taking a heavy swallow of the heady drink.

     Well, there's nothing he can say to that but sit back and grin. Which he does. Niall glances back and forth between the two. But to words of chivalry-by-law, Niall laughs. Boisterous and rich. "Ah... wouldn't that be grand business, Edward...?" Eyebrows cock up and silver glints. "Mandate by law to do the most outragous things... all in the name of Honor..." The chuckle clings to his throat, even as he finishes off his own pint. His third or fourth by his reckoning. Five by the tender's. A lift of his hand, and he calls for another. "I could do with a touch of that. Least... from what I know of it..." Which may not be much. What's a lad from Dublin know anything of chivalry. Tilting his head, eyes land upon Una. "Cry out in distress and you'll find yourself across my shoulder..."
     The expectation and anticipation of a slap returns to his expression. A look to Edward. Back me up...

     His brown eyes slip sharply to Niall. That was too easy. Girls over shoulders? Instead, Edward picks up with, "I dunno, lad, chivalry don't see to be cracked up t' be, you know? Having to live by some weird rules, having to..." and he smirks at Una, "...do what birds tell ya?" He shakes his head negatively, "Not my lot in life," Edward concludes, tipping his drink up and opening his throat.
     Now that that's gone...
     "So, why y' think chivalry outta be a law, hmm?" this to Una. "I mean...what would we get?" Well, a mandate to do outrageous things in the name of Honor. Edward blinks, that thought finally making sense, and he looks at Niall, the light bulb blazing. "Oh wait. Maybe y' got a point there, laddie..."

     Niall touches his finger to the side of his nose and then gestures to Edward. But... he is quiet... turning to look at Una. Interested in what she should say to that. Modern women and their notions of the Middle Ages and Romance...

     The smirk turns into a devilish thing as Una looks at Edward. Call me a bird, will ye...? But, no, she leaves it be for now. But, hearing all this talk about tossing her over shoulders and the like causes her to burst into gales of laughter. Once she calms, Una replies, "Well, chilvalry an' courtesy goes both ways, does it nae?" Ah, yes, the Middle Ages would not be a time where ladies were always treated as such...no, there were always ulterior motives behind the cloak being thrown over a puddle, weren't there? As to specifics, however, she merely grins and drinks more of the Guinness. Leave them guessing...aye, that's the best way to handle this. Let them think what they will.

     Edward stops, then looks at Niall. Easy answer...
     "No."
     Oops. Spoken like the voice of experience. Too fast.
     "What I mean is...is someone gonna wear my pinion an' be forced to have a relationship with me...while I'm married?" Cynic that he is. Tsk. "God love it, I need another," he twists, holding his empty pint in the air.

     "Ah now... no one ever said that chivalry -equalled- courtesy...and never did it go both ways by anything I've heard tell. That's Hollywood, that..." A nod to Edward. Although there were times when it helped in the raping and pillaging if you did say 'please' and 'thank you' on occasion. Never hurt anyone. Niall grins, checking on her progress through her Guinness... even as he receives another. "I think we're better off with... whatever it is we have now... I like liberated women..." His voice lowers, held in his throat. Quite like a growl. A half-growl. Aye, the freer the better. God love them. "Long night, Ned?" A thousand nicknames he has, for every man and woman, for every occasion.

     The tender is already pulling on the tap. Damned observant. Course, then there's only you three left in the pub...

     "I dinnae think it would go that far... Besides, it was mostly said in jest, Edward," Una says with a grin, then raises her glass to you both. This has to be her third or fourth... or more? She's not counting. "Aye...perhaps we shoul' keep chivl'ry t'ourselves and jus' have fun wit' it, hmm?" she suggests, then downs the rest of her pint. The tender had make that two pints he's serving up... or maybe not. The red-head is no longer sitting straight up in her chair any longer, kind of slouching and leaning on the table a lot. But, if someone told her maybe she'd better slow down, she'd likely tell them off..

     "Aye, liberated," Edward agrees, pint thudding on the table again. "Or whatever," he grins, shrugging his shoulders. "No, mate, not liberated," realizing his miscue, "...the modern girl. Aye, that's it." He bobs his head at Una, retrieving his cigarette again. Smoke flutters, a light scent.

     "I'm going to have to carry you to your room... see... though we try, no matter, honor always raises its head..." A chuckle for that and a look to Edward. Pity Plantagenet is not here to get in on the honor action. He always had philosophy he could pull out of his arse on a given moment. Niall leans in, arms to the surface of the table, bending to catch Una's gaze. "I think he's giving you heavier pints, lighter glasses, bonnie Charlie!" he calls out to the tender. Sitting back, Niall rolls a gaze to Edward. "You up to having fun with it?" he chuckles warmly. God only knows what that means.

     Her emerald gaze is easily caught as she lazily smiles at Niall. "Hmm? Pffft, nah! I've be'n drinkin' Guiness fer years... I'm ffine..." Aye, she's fine with that slur that's beginning to surface. She's not so drunk that she'll pass out or fall asleep, but she's fairly well-pickled that she gets herself into a sudden giggle fit... It seems to be a reaction to having Niall looking directly in her gaze. Looking away, stifling a giggle with the back of her hand, she slurs, "Edwar'....tell 'im I'm fffine..."

     He's not doing any such thing. Edward looks to his latest pint, slipping cigarette back to the tray. "No.." his voice low to Niall, "I'm on a schedule." Whatever brought him there in the first place. Edward smirks though, brow furrowing as he looks at Una again. "By the way lass, I think he already knows..."

     Even if he wanted her for dinner...as a dinner companion...she's too deep in the sauce. He'd never get into the ground in time for the staggering. She's eye deep in Guinness. Niall sits back with a smirk. "Well, lass... I think that's our cue... " He turns about in his seat, a glance for the tender. "I'll settle for the group..." he says. Aye, drinks on him. It is a bland expression, utterly knowing. Oh, well she may not provide him his supper sweet, oh, but that doesn't mean she won't provide. He's in a mood, for certes. "So... Edwina....heading back to Old Blighty," England, "...tonight then? If it's important, I can meet you there by tomorrow... "

     Glancing up at Niall, still with that silly grin on her face, Una just sits there for a moment. Once she realizes he really means it's time to go, her expression gets a little bit more serious...but not too serious. Smoothing out her sweater a bit, she clears her throat, looking like she's trying to pull her dignity together. Good luck, Una...with that much Guinness? She manages to pull herself up to her feet, but she's wobbly. For now, she'll stand there till it's really time to go, looking at the two men as they make their arrangements.

     "Nah, lad, I'll be here till morning..." Edward glances at his watch, "...they do last already?" Damned early Irishmen. He's waiting on something. Eyes return to Una, "You too?" It's departure time already? Oh. Edward blinks at the two of you, then raises a brow at Niall. Translate: Did I interrupt? Food always comes first, you know. He picks up his pint again, filching cigarette with his other hand.

     Well, she did promise Niall she'd head over to Mrs. McHenry's place for scones and tea...not that she'd be able to stomach either after all the ale in her gut. Nor is that Niall's plan, perhaps...? She has no clue at this point, nor is she worrying about it much... standing without falling over is taking much of her concentration. Nodding at Edward, "Aye... 'tis time fer me t'be off, too."

     "Oh good then!" Oh sure, Niall has asked to settle up the tab, but that doesn't mean he's moving right this second. He looks to Una as she stands, grinning as she wobbles. "Now, remember, girl... what I said about crying out in distress now... My legs are as solid as druid oak..." No effects of Guinness on him. He looks to Edward again, even as the neice of the tender strolls over with the tab. Leaning back, his hand disappearing in his trousers -- for the money, mind your thoughts! -- Niall chuckles at the look. "They haven't called for it, no... but I thought I'd settle for the now. I figure... upon the fifth I should wait and not tempt God's mercy..." There was no true interruption, really. He looks to Una, and holds out a hand. Oh sure... for steadying purposes.

     Alright, he can't stand it anymore. Besides, he's gotta see on something. "Maybe y'should help her back, lad," Edward says, crunching out his cigarette before opening his throat again for Guinness' easy disappearance. Thud on the table and voila! it's all finished. "Chivalry and all." Who knows what's in the area that's got him occupied. A push of his chair and the legs squeal upon the floor. "Twas a pleasure t' meet ya, Una-bird," Edward chimes, fishing...for a fresh cigarette? That has got to be habit. He rises as well, a grin for the young woman's wobbly legs.

     At first, Una looks at though she intends to move unaided. The first step is taken and remains stable...and the second...on the third, she wobbles and grabs Niall's outstreched hand. "Yow! P'rhaps I drank more than I thought... couldn't have... Hmm...this should be int'resting." Hearing his comment about crying out, she chuckles a bit, trying hard not to giggle...and feigns a 'help, help me...' obviously joking. Looking to Edward, she offers him a genuine smile, saying, "'Twas good t'meet ye, Edward... Take care."

     Irish bills are tossed upon the table. Oh look, there's uncle. And a few St. Patrick's with fancy Latin lettering, with harps and salmon. All the old druid symbols conveniently meshed with Christianity. Ah, the Irish way. His other hand takes Una's, fingers curl, and strength bears her up. Even as slate blue eyes turn to Edward, even as he himself begins to rise. "I'll be the very gentleman me mother raised..." he quips. "I'll see you on the morrow then, Edward?" That seriously said, and warmly so. His free hand comes out to pat him on the arm. "Good to see you... don't head back to that heathen country before giving me a farewell...it's been an age and a half..." Well, a few months at least.

     "Call me when you get a moment," Edward says soberly to Niall, then smiles brightly at Una, "You too, eh? Don't be a stranger!" Wot? In her own land? Alright. Edward chuckles and passes behind Niall, patting him on the back.
     Nothing much else to say really. With a toss of his hand towards the bartender, Edward Meurelle heads to the exit, slipping easily into the darkness, becoming invisible.

Posted by rowan at February 05, 2001 09:36 PM