Evening Awakening (closed)

[fiannaofdunluce]

Fianna vowed not to keep to herself. She started by moving down one street at a time and now she found herself in a more adventurous mood. This wasn’t her childhood, she reminded herself—not one of the times she almost came to peril before being sent away. It was exhilarating, walking out on her own, unchaperoned. Fianna noticed a man walking his children home down the street. The gentleman tipped his hat to her and she responded with a nod.

She couldn't imagine a presumably married man with children would have ill will towards her, but she noticed the gaze of the guards shift temporarily towards the fellow as she walked towards the boundary that was the city wall. For the first time in her life, Fianna felt safe enough to explore something than her own deep-rooted spirituality.

"Thank ye, God, fer affordin' me such an opportunity."

She was relieved. Fianna took this safety and security as a sign--God had forgiven her for being honest with herself and leaving the nunnery before taking sacred vows. It was because of children that she did it--since helping care for orphans a few years ago, she knew she wanted children of her own. Fianna was still wracked with feelings of selfishness over the issue.

Completely naive, she fantasized about being matched up with a man who would gallantly care for her and allow her to raise a small, God-fearing brood. The only problem, of course, was that Fianna had little experience so much as even talking to men or anyone else beyond the nunnery. Now as she walked by the guarded wall under the protective gaze of those who watched it, her heart fluttered with the sudden desire to thank them for allowing this freedom.

Instead, she caught her breath, turned, and doubled back, still along the wall, in the direction she'd come. Speaking first was nearly as dreadful as speaking out of turn. Wearing the plainest, most modest green dress one could imagine, Fianna still felt naked among strangers. Perhaps it was best time to head back to the inn--while the light of Saint Mary's moon was still willing to guide her.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

It was easy to want to keep to yourself. If she had known what the woman was thinking, she would have said that a similiar assessment of situation went dancing through the mind. At least, in Evangeline, it danced. By the time it infected her feet with the will to move, the urge became a disease that pushed air under her heels to bring about a pace that seemed to derive on the balls of her feet. No, she did not know yet the woman who decided not to be a shut-in in a city of strangers. "We be like the pilgrims, n' this be the New Jerusalem aye?" the lit of Eire went round-about the breeze to end up in the ear of her maid on one end, and to guard, at the other, "There be not wrong n' walkin' the way before we fall to our knees tae pray before the saints?" Idolatrous little things, the saints. Intercessors whom at times held more sway than the one who appointed them. Well, if a little idolatry carried her up with Dublin settled between her petite shoulders, than so be it.


There were things in Turas Lan that she was enamoured with: public warrior women who were neither lacking men nor deemed mad enough to forsake their breasts for imagined phallus. Fair sex in public office. A caste system that served as conduit as folk rose and fell on whim of their fortunes, cleverness, or tom-foolery with no locked gates to good hard work. Underneath a white moon the world shone in stark contrast to the one some hours, some days on the sea. It wasn't that hard work wasn't rewarded in Ireland, but more of a cultural expectation. Reward was you lived, that God let you go on one more day. Since her acceptance of a Griffin figurehead, Eire had known some prosperity that only a monarch could provide, but most of her could be said to be as poor as when she tried to fight for her solitude. What was a slight point of interest in Turas Lan was stark, hard in contrast. To be poor was to be bare foot dirty in a hut with seaweed soup for supper. To be rich and poor was to hold on to the good semblance a few pieces of clothes made while having better shelter than most, but still eating seaweed soup for supper. In either case, she had been both rich and lauded, rich and poor, rich and destitute, and rich and angry.

On the woman's way down from the wall, Evangeline opened her mouth with little to do for her wanting it or no. It was merely her way to greet the world with better than it might give to her. Her take upon strangers: No one would be after a good greeting. What happened later would prove whether they would be steadfast friend, begrudged acquaintance, or something you wanted to kick away like the pebble in your shoe.

"A lovely evenin' is it nay, m'lady? View from up 'ere lookin down on city n' out tae the country is as pretty as picture."

[Jack Trades]

While the two maidens walked about with enough sunshine in their eyes to bring day to the moonlit night, a shadow stirred. A heap of black oilskin cloth topped with a broad-brimmed hat, each faded and wrinkled with use, shifted as if made more of the shadow in which it rested than man. A meaty and calloused hand parted the folds of oilskin cloth, holding a dented tin cup that it shook lightly while a pebble rattled around inside. A hearty voice rumbled out from under the weather beaten brim as it swiveled towards them. "Aye, it be a great evening. Alms from the lovely ladies? Ye two seem fresh tae this town. Perhaps a token in exchange fer a tour?"

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

She waited for the reply of the other woman when the man made his appearence from a slice of shadow onto the side. Here was a dark little figurine, rattling a bit of tin while calling for alms. He promised a tour of the city. For a woman with no escort it could mean a tour that she returned not from, or if she did scathed in a way that could never be spoken of. This woman of sunshine eyes was sensible enough to travel with both lady's maid for virtue, and guards for sense.

What sense, though, would mean she looked over to the other while still pulling out a piece of shiny metal to help the 'unfortunate' soul? Purpose yeilded the necessary caress of one aid for another. There would be things to learn that only those without pretense could show, that she wanted to remember. Besides, was not this a voyage to make of memories?

"So long as it nay be a tour of ye trews n' tunic, it sounds a right treat."


She looked out to the other woman, "What say ye, m'lady? An adventure?"

[fiannaofdunluce]

Fianna was normally rather jumpy around new people. She wasn't awkward, but she wasn't graceful, either. She was almost as a child here, learning her way. The woman approaching her was like a warmth in the evening breeze rather than a menace or a cause for alarm, and as she turned to the greeting, the emerald of Fianna's inexperienced eyes took in the beauty of a potential friend. Those words, spoken as warmly as summer, brought images of a gentle closing harvest to Fianna's mind. Fianna trusted that God or perhaps Saint Mary herself had given her what others might deem a 'good instinct.' The telltale Irish lilt had much to do with it; Fianna relished in the familiarity of it.

Fianna clasped her hands together and offered the woman a hesitant smile.

"Aye, it is," she replied, a voice timid and gentle, like an inexperienced healer's hands. "God has blessed us with such a vision, m'lady."

Fianna nodded her head briefly, eyes cast downward. Inwardly, she hoped that this woman who reminded her so much of summer might someday be her friend. Fianna had enjoyed the privilege of friendship back in the nunnery, but most of those girls had gone on to take vows by true devotion, or because their lives offered them little choice. Aside from the small wave of prosperity that had come to Eire, Fianna had relied on her good name to escape the confines of the nunnery. She had confessed honestly. It wasn't that she disliked chastity--it was that she wanted to have children. She was bold enough to confess this to the priest, before God, in ultimate truth through her vision of Mary--holiness was one thing. But to say it here, in a new and strange land, out in the open? She might be miles from that.

With thought and admiration, she closed her mouth seconds after she stopped talking, hoping that this woman might prove to be some sort of guide to her.

When the fellow came out of the shadows, Fianna took an instant step back and placed a nervous hand instinctively towards the other woman. Men and shadows terrified her, though she rarely said no to the poor in need--even if she had little coin herself. Fianna looked to the other woman's guards and felt slight reassurance--though who was to say all of these men would not attack?

It hadn't ever happened to her--but she had been more than led to believe that it would, if she went out in the world. The evils of men--and then 'trews 'n tunic' mentioned! Fianna blushed evenly in the dark. She took a small coin from beneath her cloak, but did not pass it to the beggar offering the tour. Instead she rested it in the other lady's hand--a kindred spirit. She wanted to pay for her half of the tour.

"I suppose it would be well...that is, if we stuck together, aye?"

She wasn't exactly saying yes--she was waiting for this potential friend--no, role model--to make the decision. Fianna had barely made any decisions in her life; the nunnery had made most of those. The first decision she'd really made for herself was to come here, and that was already providing more than enough excitement.

She'd leave the rest to divine providence, though shot a wary look at the beggar fellow, wondering with fright about his many likely vices.

[Jack Trades]

"Careful now, lest ye offend me sense of fashion."

There was a slight rustle as the heap of oilskin cloth rose in a single fluid motion to silhouette a hulking figure. A few moments passed as the stolid figure stood motionlessly. The bright moonlight only made a sharper contrast with the wrinkles of oilskin and deepening the shadows lurking under their crests. With the cup still proffered, the hearty voice rumbled again from the shadow under the brim.

"Adventure? Methinks that might be a bit ambitious of ye lass. Yer friend here looks as if she'd bolt if'n I so much as sneeze. Though fer the right coin ye'd both be in better hands than ye know. Let me eat fer a day, and I'll provide ye safe passage this night. What draws the likes of ye two out on a cold night like this anyway?"

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

"Pardon then sir. Must nay offend our guide. Twould be poor manners."

If it was one thing that Evangeline possessed, it was manners. To touch upon black humor one might even say they were beaten in to her within an inch of her life, more times over than she cared to recollect. It wasn't a time for now, though. A free woman of her own esteem she cavorted with slick oil-skin clad man and dallied with dainty maidenhood waiting for a cue from her. What a world this was.

Offering up a smile that would have made the Papacy forgive the most vagrant sodomite, the woman pushed more coin into the tin cup. Clank, clank. Money earned for service not yet rendered. Evangeline was anxious for the experience so she stepped back with hands gone behind her back. Her maid shuttered at her mistress' bold tendancy, but who was she to disuade the Duchess of Dublin her death-won freedom? She turned her head to look at Fianna before offering a hand that said come, we will go together. no one will hurt you but all will embrace you. come with me.

'Evangeline O'Cathsaigh, o' Dublin. Wot is yer name good lady, n' where be ye from? Already knew the moment ye spoke the homeland was in yer mouth. Wot part? We will talk o' it as our silent friend 'ere starts us tae move about this fair city.' She, too, was indeed of friends. Newfound confidence had yet to be excersised. The innocence of the woman bid her protect it for she had such innocence ripped of her long before the age of eighteen. Where would they go, what would they do?

As for what they were out upon a cold night like this for: "The stars sir shine better in winter did ye nay know, n' fer some the cold is merely brisk air."

[Jack Trades]

As the coins clanked into the cup, there was no motion. The sunlit smile brought no reaction, nor did Evangeline's questions, as if the oilskin clad shadow before them was made of nothing more than a few propped up bales of hay. Though her talk of shining stars tilted the wrinkled brim enough to allow a minute gathering of snow to slough off and cascade down the moonlit poncho and into the darkness below. The hearty voice rumbled flatly, "Aye, I know..."

The meaty hand retracted, slipping under the folds of oilskin cloth while the voice continued from the shade under the brim.
"Now then, most of the tourist world be closed at these hours. There was an owl that realized that the less he spoke, the more he heard. Why cannae we all be more like that wise old bird?
The brim dipped slightly as the hearty voice fell. It stayed as silent as the bright moon passing serenely overhead. Several moments passed and the figure still stood as if some impertinent gnome had suddenly cast him in cement. A cold breeze rustled the loose ends of fabric. A city guard shuffled his feet from long hours of standing. A door opened in the distance. Two people wished each other goodnight, and the door shut. Someone sneezed in the chill. A cat meowed plaintively in the dark before padding off quickly through the snow. The cold breeze changed direction. Seemingly carried on the wind as if it were a scent, came the faint trill of a tin whistle. The weather-beaten brim swiveled into the wind and then back to the ladies.
"Fair tourists of mine...follow me."
With that, the stolid frame finally moved, and hob-nailed boots thumped rhythmically towards the sound of music.

[fiannaofdunluce]

Timidly, Fianna reached out and offered the man a coin as well. Amused, she listened to it clank into the cup along with her new friend's. She forced herself to move steadily, to avoid recoiling--which would of course show that she was afraid of this man's snake-like strike!

Doing her best to put her faith in his abilities, she nodded to the man and turned away. She seemed to reflect the quietness in the air with those gentle movements, though inside she was still trembling in fear--or was it anticipation and delight? This adventure was certainly a first for her. With a jolt of excitement, she smiled widely and took her new friend's hand. It was as though she had one guide--showing her the direction of this place--and another, here to show her friendship and reassurance. Fianna was entirely unsure of how women truly carried themselves beyond the nunnery; perhaps this lady would be a fine example. The wide-eyed young lady certainly hoped so.

The other woman earned much respect from Fianna as soon as she displayed those good manners. Fianna had been taught that good manners were holy in importance, and that her savior was never selfish with his bread nor coin. She was proud of herself, too, for having given to this man, though she'd have to watch her coin for the rest of the week lest she find herself unable to tithe.

Evangeline's name was like music. Fianna feared finding few Irish here, but already she had one ally, hopefully.

"Fianna O'Neill is ainm dom, of Dunluce, Ulster," she said, head bent but a glint of pride in her eyes, "Cousin to former Ceannfort Mairi's first husband, the old admiral who was lost at sea."

And that was it. Fianna had little to show for herself but a good name and a partial education in both Irish and English, and she was yet to meet her second cousin, the child Seanna. She loved children, though, and hoped to eventually work with them as a tutor or caregiver of sorts.

When their guide moved forward, Fianna nearly giggled and whispered to Evangeline, "Aye, but I find the weather so warmed by the thrill of a new place, ye know? This feels so dangerous. Do all dangerous things feel so exhilarating?"

[Jack Trades]

The walking shadow in front of them strode on without breaking gate. Broad shoulders shook slightly with mirth as a chuckle rumbled within the barrel chest. The voice trailed back over a shoulder to the entourage.
"O'Neill, ye say? Cousin tae a dead admiral? Here we have a doe-eyed lass already thrilled by chancing new danger, being led down the street by an angel and a demon. Oh this should be an interesting night indeed."
The chuckle rumbled again as the sound of music began to grow. Drums and pipes heralded the group's rounding of a corner and walking into the orange glow the lights of a pub as they cast their warmth onto the street. As the group neared, the music changed. The tin whistle fell silent and a set of bagpipes droned a slow and sorrowful tune. The hulking frame gave pause at the change.
"Remember, that things nae always be as they seem. Me fair tourists, bring ye tae pay respects at a wake."
With that, a calloused hand opened the door for them as his bulk bent in a flourishing bow more befit a gentleman than one dressed as he. Inside they would find a family and their friends drinking and communing. An open coffin rested on a set of chairs with a body wrapped in winding sheets. The beer was high and voices were low while the pipes cried their melancholy notes. One family member sat vigil by the coffin. The walking shadow nodded while a neighbor stepped through the open door with an armload of extra peat for the fire.
A second calloused hand darted out from under the oilskin cloth to beckon the group onward. "Come, come, quickly now - lest we keep the door open and they fear the departed soul will find a way back intae the house."

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Fianna had every right to be afraid of men. Not all women were as Cleopatra, having men coil in their hands over offered figs she supped upon, taking their strikes with grace. The way a man could have a honey tongue so glib, the contradiction found on the dark,hard side of their hand was a fall from the grace of white moon to black. Fear was the substance you ingested to fuel the necessity of invention that came next; survival, genius, and escape. God be kind to Fiana O'Neill.

"God keep yer kindred, lass. Good people, they. Ne'er had the chance tae see the Ceanfortt for m'self but her name crossed many a mouth, n' the Lord-Govenor, the admiral, be a good man."

The night air chimed with their voices as the oil slicked demon led them through the streets. What vice would he offer? Nothing that Evangeline would allow to taint the young woman of impression and good name. The question remained how much could a tainted woman only newly freed keep at bay if she were willing to trade dance steps for secrets with the devil's cohort under the pale moon light? Aye, she'd paid for this little adventure.

To pay the boatman would mean a 'river' to glide upon in dark alley, away from the main thoroughfare. Evangeline remained close to Fionna as she allowed her own curiosity to run rampant five paces ahead of Jack Trades. The eecentric young widow stifled the sound of her merriment to be led towards a wake. She wondered what lessons they were to witness in reverance toward the dead, and whom they were to meet. "A wake, be they short on folk for rosary?" She was prime in skill when speaking through a stuck smile. Beer flowed to toast the departed while it was the living that made the most use of it. Whispers mixed with the occasional laugh at a good memory. Was this soul a good man? Had he been loved, hard working?

When Paul was buried, she joined the secound round'bout at nightfall that danced upon his Grave in thanks that God saw fit to do away with the Scourge of Dublin. She could drink in honor of a good man, though. Like the laughter in the room she could make music of the same sort.

[Jack Trades]

Once inside with the door shut, the boatman made no haste, but patiently observed. The weather-beaten brim swiveled over the room's expanse. Many people were gathered, but an analytical gaze parted the haze of social interaction. There was a darkness in spirit - a sadness in the eye - that left the family members as plain to him as if they had all sat in a corner together.

As they stood near the entrance, a young good looking man in fine clothing approached with a pint in hand. His cheeks were rosy and his grin was broad. His speech was a little thick with alcohol, but he introduced himself in a formal manner to Fianna. He invited her to have a drink with him, making no attempt to mask the fact he found her quite pretty.

While the man exchanged pleasantries with Fianna, the hulking framed leaned close to the angel, the hearty voice rumbling smoothly in her ear, "Ask them yerself. Look there. The family members circulate about that table where the old woman is sitting. Note their clothing. This be a poor family. The man chatting up Fianna be an auctioneer. If it has nae already happened, they'll be auctioning off possessions of the deceased tae pay off his debts, and pay fer taenight's revelry."

A calloused hand very lightly patted her on the shoulder as if to wish her luck before the walking shadow casually strode towards the bar. A short exchange brought a pint of short beer to the bar top. A coin that Evangeline would have recognized joined the pint on the smooth wood. The bartender objected to accepting payment, but the hearty voice insisted that it was for the family. The bartender acquiesced and the boatman moved over to an unoccupied section of the wall. After raising the pint in a silent toast to the family's table, the oilskin shrouded figure nursed the pint stolidly.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Two Irish women should stay together, but the proximity of one may interfere with the chance for the other to live. Evangeline wouldn't deprive Fianna of an experience. It wasn't for her to say yeah or nay, while at the same time she sought to fathom the setting to which they had been ferried. Candles flickered equal parts of shadow and light; mirroring the reflection of water it danced on the body of the deceased, his living counterparts, and the drinks used to remember him by. The food nourished bodies that continued to live in homage where one couldn't. Evangeline stepped out into the fair, manuevering through the people after Jack told their story.

The family were dressed in black, humble garb while she joined them devoid of her mourning tones. She'd worn them in public for a month after the death of Dublin's head, her husband, and that was a month longer than he deserved. A pitcher of beer was being passed between them. The old woman reached with frail fingers out toward the mixture, which the noble of them lifted in her own hands, pouring it forth into the woman's waiting cup. "Here now, mistress. There. A drink fer the livin tae whet the throat. Mah prayers tae the soul o' yer departin gae. Wot happened, if I may ask?" Preened, manicured digits then passed the plate of food closer to the person on the old woman's left. They would all die one day, passing from life toward the next life beyond flesh, taking none of the world with them.

[Jack Trades]

As the short beer was finished, the boatman stood stolidly at the wall, dressed very much for the part of ushering souls. The darkly dressed figure stayed where it was until there was a little tug on the oilskin poncho.

The wrinkled brim dipped to center on a little girl dressed in a black long-sleeved dress with shiny black buttons and buckled shoes. Carrying a small leather ball, the girl looked up at the darkness under the brim that was accentuated by the artificial light with big blue eyes. She smiled widely and giggled, setting her fiery red curls to bounce. She spoke sweetly as happy little girls do.

"Thank you."
"Fer what?" the hearty voice rumbled.
"For being gentle. It made Momma feel better too."
The brim canted slightly at the child's words, but the voice rumbled softly,"Always remember that kindness be scarce in this world. Cherish it whilst ye can."
"Wanna play ball?" she asked while proferring the ball towards him.
Broad shoulders rose slightly in a shrug, "Sure".

A calloused hand extended to her as his bulk stooped, and she "threw" the ball by twisting her upper body and flinging her hands at him. The ball more dropped than flew, and rolled to a hob-nailed boot where it was picked up. The ball was sent back with a slow soft lob that went through her arms to bounce off her stomach to the floor. This repeated several times before the girl picked up the ball and squealed excitedly to the family table.

"Momma! Momma! Look! It's the Angel of Death! Just like you said! An' he's not scary or anything! He's gentle just like you said he was to Daddy! I like him!" She pointed with glee.
The proclamation instantly brought the event to a halt. Silence reigned for an awkward moment, and all eyes were now fixed on the shrouded frame.

The brim quickly shook from side to side.
"Nae, the child mistakes-"
"The child is my daughter!" A tearful mother stood up, setting the child down as she quivered with rage. "How dare you!? What kind of monster are you!?"
The hearty voice tried again, but was quickly drowned out by the noise of others standing angrily. "Now hold on. There's been a misunderstanding."
"Understand this!" a voice shouted as a bottle careened through the air at Jack. The throw was on target, but the hulking frame shifted slightly and the bottle slid off the oilskin like so much water before dashing itself upon the wall behind him. Half a dozen men started walking towards Jack. A second bottle was launched. Without any warning other than the slight rustle of oilskin cloth, the bottle shattered in mid-air, spraying the oncomers with alcohol and bits of glass. A long curved blade, black as the night they had come from, protruded from under the poncho with the point held towards the angry group. A grumbled roared with Jack's barrel chest like thunder peeling off its fickle creator. "That's enough!"
At the neighboring table, a seated patron's hand slipped under the table.

With a small flourish of oilskin cloth, a second black blade leveled itself on the patron. The gravel-laden grumble soured further as it reverberated off the walls, "If any one else accosts me, the whole lot 'o ye are gettin' reaped TAENIGHT!"

With that, the burly figure backed slowly to the door, blades still unwavering in their stare at the patrons. Without turning his body, the toe of a hob-nailed boot hooked the door handle and opened it. For the breifest of moments, he paused. The brim centered on the little girl that now cowered under a table, clutching her ball and crying. The walking shadow spun out the door, and a few quick, smooth strides carried him out of the warm glow of the pub and into the chilled winter night.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Evangeline felt weeks pass in hours. The story of the departed was told by young, sweet voices steeped in innocence and old voice that crackled like the whisper of the crone just one moor over. Mystery was steeped with washer-women at fords washing blood-stained garments for the dead or the ghosts who kenned for the next to become an ancestor. Beer crossed her hands to be shared with the relatives before she took her own cup. A fine lady in no mourning black fit in easier than a man in black who a litle girl fancied the angel of death.

Another sip of beer crossed her lips, the moisture going stagnant on her mouth in the moments that the tour guide became Death incarnate. Gentle? Well, he wasn't gruff by comparison. A man of ill intention would have long since plied the women he escorted with drink to take virtue, or left them for dead if it was their baubles he wanted. The stark, sharp shadow left by the fluttering oil skin was devoured by his hat brim as he spoke. He stood to defend himself after a bottle shattered at his feet. Where she sat, she saw a cousin of the departed stand up to defend her.


"He seems a crazed sort."

"He isn't tha' at all, only different sir. Anyone can plainly see the man be breathin, wot need o' death have for air? Please pass another pint if we are gaein tae this tom foolery"

"M'aunt is real deep in religious things m'lady. He looks e'ery inch o' death and can't say she's wrong. "

"He looks e'ery inch o' death and believe it, he will if someone tries tae harm 'im, becuase he be e'ery inch o' angry."

She crossed her legs at the knee instead of the ankle, not as if the difference were much noticed in the many skirts that compromised her gown. Her lady's maid was a stickler for concealing god given limbs for modesty's sake, to which Eva didnt' argue. She leaned forward, watching Jack's departure. Intent on following, she couldn't get comfortable in her new posistion yet found the hand of said cousin to her shoulder.

"If he's Death, are ye the Angel of the Lord instead? You are light enough?"

[Jack Trades]

A guard trotted down the street towards the sound of yelling, his armor rattling noisily with each stride. A few of the pub's patrons had followed a short path into the street, but gave up their search at the edge of the pool of light, and meandered back inside. The guard arrived as the music and socializing resumed, peered quizzically in the windows, and then turned back out into the street. He looked around for a few moments before turning and walking off the way he had came.

After several minutes passed, a shadow stirred within a darkened alley. A weather-beaten brim tilted toward the sky, and a melancholy puff of breath clouded in the muted moonlight before the brim dropped again. The hulking frame shifted and settled onto a convenient crate, melding back into the shadows which was no small feat for such a large figure. His stomach growled. He grumbled something under his breath about the coin he had given to the family. A calloused hand produced an apple. In the cold darkness, the fruit was eaten in near silence while the shadow watched the pub's revelry continue. The apple core was tossed further down the alley, and the scurry of surprised rats and other vermin held his attention.

After a few more minutes, the calloused hand produced a small ornately carved wooden box sporting gold and silver inlay. A meaty finger opened the lid, and the music box's melody tinkled in the crystalline air. Within the box a tiny alabaster figure turned and bobbed gracefully to the music, her angelic face upturned to the darkness that shrouded her audience. As the song ended, the lid was tenderly shut, and the box slowly slid back under the folds of oilskin.

Both the moon and the shadow held silent vigil over the pub.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

There was nothing to police; a guard's presence faded back in to the laughter of people making memories beer stained to make swallowing grief easier. A man who touched the arm of a good woman had since settled, finding that the heel of the woman's flexed foot was hard enough to disrupt the a sense of feeling anything but pain in his soft soled shoe. People wept. People drank. People ate and discussed the meaning of Death personified in black skins. A disappointed child had her image of an angel with no ill intention shattered, and the shards of glass were already swept into the refuse pale.

No one else cared for Death.

Evangeline did, however, wonder after him where others didn't. It had been many heartbeats and several jests agone since she'd seen where the soft spoken Irish lass had taken herself. She failed at being a suitable guide, but youth was to be youth. Fianna was swallowed up in a vibrant world to counter the world of piety she left behind. Now free to maneuver, the chair was left agape. A foot found it, at any as she took to pushing past the gathered throng to go out in to the night again. She saw him, but did not approach right off. Green eyed glory watched Death perform no miracles of life withdrawal from man or beast. He craddled something in his hand, something that gave him pause. Did Death reflect, too?

"Quite the Tour. Nay one told me ye'd be mistaken fer the Angel o' Death n' a great play would come in tae the fray. Did nay put enough in yer cup fer tha'," she crossed her arms over her body, drawing the shawl close. This city was her 'New Jerusalem', the people all worshipping an image of God self-fashioned. The side of it with alleys, rat eaten cores, and stagnat water puddle allowed a traveler to recall parts of home that remainded the same all over.

[Jack Trades]

As the angel approached, the shrouded frame remained seated as if now a fixture in the alley. Death resided amongst the crates and barrels that lined the frozen space like silent tomb markers in a crypt. At first, there was no reply to her statement, but then the brim swiveled toward her as a somber baritone rumbled quietly.
"Consider the play a windfall in yer favor. The girl was more accurate than "wiser" heads though."
The brim centered on the warm glow of the pub with a slight pause.
"I've lost one of me charges, though she doesnae seem tae be suffering fer it. Maybe she'll wake from this dream happily wedded and pregnant."
The brim returned to Evangeline.
"Though I promised safe passage this night, and ye've come out intae the cold tae find yer boatman. Morning still be a few hours away. What would ye prefer tae do with the time?"
At this, the hulking frame rose slowly in an even motion and faced the angel now standing in his shadow.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

"Ye could inflict Death, nay qualm on tha', but Angels o' Death dun nay breathe or live as we dae. If Death did tha', would he then stand to be tempted by the world around him? God would have a poor servant." If Death were a man or woman, he might crave company, flesh, food, or wine. He might want to laugh at what was funny, and cry with humans over the natural condition he afflicted or cured. It depended on your viewpoint to which end Death upheld. Evangeline perched on crate's edge, brushing at skirt hems. A new move was to be decided.

"The young one was moved fer what e'er youth has in store for her. We shall see heragain her soon enough. I'm sure. Now, safe passage through the night fer the one charge tha' remains. Ferry meh on boatman. Another tavern, another scene."

[Jack Trades]

The brim canted and the hearty voice responded. "Ye be correct, but nae fer the reasons ye say. God would have a poor servant. If Death thought as a man does; was swayed by his emotions, insolence, short-sightedness, and selfish desires..." The last words hung before the timbre rumbled ominously, "...there'd nae be a man left alive."

With that, the hulking frame turned and uneclipsed the moon from the angel. The rhythmic thump was eerily silent as he moved, until resuming at a full metered stride on the stone streets. Most of the city was cold and dark now, and a guard they passed thought it quite odd to see a lady so bright in appearance trailing after such a dark figure. A few minute's walk took them to where the lights were never completely extinguished - the lavishly adorned steps of a brothel. The weather-beaten brim tilted up towards its facade before swiveling to the angel in tow. "What say ye, me fine tourist? Care fer a drink inside?"

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Brothel girls were outside with their necks leaning back in invitation, a coy smile on several coquettes who found a John to pay a penny so he could soothe his ache. Their necks were being showered by greedy kisses as waists were captured in thick, meaty hands. Some men discussed wanting a particular 'fancy' while others wanted any old rug that would do. It was harsh coversation for genteel ears, but to say she wasn't intrigued would be to lie. Good Christians didn't lie, and lying was a greater sin than seeing the oldest profession in the world at work. Sucess must be nigh, for the lavish steps wouldn't be apart of some rag-tag system under a dock or thrown aways back in the alleys, but still houses of repute were subject to certain laws. Where they would be, how they would operate, and all matter of who and who couldn't patron them were as engrained in law as conduct on the Sabbath day.

At least where she'd been from.

"Aye, Ah'm parched Death," she tossed at him after their short walk, hitching her skirts to step 1,2,3 up the steps with a merry little jaunt. Did he catch a peek at the delicate ankle held in silk only to find no silk clung to it? Nothing but peach-pale cream inside of a fashionable wee shoe.

[Jack Trades]

"Death be always amongst the living."
A whisper had quietly usurped the hearty timbre, and the words breathily pushed past the lewd invites of the gathered prostitutes.

The rhythmic stride followed in kind, without changing for the cat calls or the newfound spring in the angel's step. Once inside, the brothel opened up to them in a broad but shallow-set lobby that housed a bar and a dozen couches. Some were paired with tables, and others with love seats. All had a velveteen or crushed velvet upholstery. The lamps were all turned low, giving the room a dusky appearance. Some of the unoccupied ladies lounged upon the amply stuffed cushions while others hung over the railings of the staircase and the balcony above that was backed by a wall with many doors.

A calloused hand clasped Evangline's slender shoulder just as it had in the tavern prior, and the whisper continued. "Let me know when ye wish tae leave."
As he walked past Evangeline towards the bar, one of the ladies sat up a bit at one of the couches, tilting her corset toward him and letting her cleavage show. She gave an eager smile, "Well, you're different. I can show you and your lady a good time!" She bit a fingertip coyly.
The hulking frame thumped past her without a response. The prostitute gave an annoyed "pft" and muttered something angrily to her nearby coworker. Arriving where his steps were pointed, his bulk settled on a convenient stool, eliciting a creak of protest from the fixture. A coin that Fianna would have recognized was produced, and passed over to the bartender. The man was dressed in stiff formal clothing and looked quizzically at the new patron. An order was filled without ceremony and a bottle of scotch was left within reach of the walking shadow on the smooth bar top. One of the ladies on the staircase descended slowly and gracefully. He corset bobbed from side to side in time with the sway of her hips. A white feathered fan flitted over the bare top of her bosom as she settled slowly next to the boatman. The hearty voice rumbled without any motion from the weather-beaten brim.
"I'm sorry, but I nae be worth any money to ye."
"well then," she cooed softly, reaching a gloved hand closer to him and resting it n the bar, "what did you come here for?"
"Can I nae enjoy me drink in peace?" The reply came simply, and was punctuated by a calloused hand gripping the bottle. Though it was interpreted as gruff, and the lady retreated. The neck of the bottle disappeared under the brim while the bottom swung toward the ceiling in a swig.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

"Death tae me seems more earnest n' jovial company than e'en the most lively whore." She replied, settling the long hem of her gown over her arm. Across polished floorboards, velvet chairs, and low lights women promised men by ones or pairs a good time that would never be forgot. The men who came needed to feel a woman's touch to know life. A whore was wielding her sex as power while at the same time paying forfeit with her own life. How much disease and despair lay under the glitter of a rouge stained pout or between soft, creamy thighs? How much disdain could white powder cover on a face? What shocked Evangeline most was that the women in this brothel were not merely white. It provided her the first glimpse of bronze bodied ladies beyond the gypsy market she had ever seen up close. The men wanted them most, but at the same time she noticed the scars under the face puddy. With a cup of sweet mead in hand, she could not help but to lean forward to the bar keep and ask, "How much dae the bronzed women charge?" Or were they kept by pimps, the fee set by some who wanted to charge for the exotic? In the side shadows a small black child who was too old to be infantile but too young to be a woman was caught somewhere in between. Lifting up trays of food and drink to the customers, she was told by madame and pimp alike to pay attention, to learn lessons well.

Jack turned a master of the lesson away. How kind of him to refrain from the brothel's goods in her presence, or did he always refrain from such goods? The swell of breast was near to spilling out in Evangeline's lap as the woman passed by, staring at her. "Enjoyin' ye first?" the woman quipped, sizing up the Irishwoman. Here, her station mattered little. Here, it was better than Evangeline function devoid of it anyhow. Being the cast aside, abused wife lent itself to how well she did as a semi-solitary eccentric widow. "Ye might say tha'. Suppose the spell be tae hard tae break lass. Ah'm sorry, ye will have tae look elsewhere," Evangeline retorted, lifting one slender brow before applying her lips to the rim of her sweet mead cup.

[Jack Trades]

A slightly gnarled thumb absently played with the lip of the bottle. The stolid figure did not shift, but the hearty voice rumbled softly to the mead-sipping lady.

"Fer an angel ye judge them pretty harshly. 'Tis renown as the oldest trade, and nae that dissimilar from elements of others. The loyal Serf learns tae farm at an early age, spends their life supplying themselves and the lords that rule over their land, and never receives the means tae change that. Risking one's health and life is a regular duty for brave soldiers wielding the power of a sword. Enchanting merchants smile and make their clients feel good about giving them money. These women make a livelihood."

The bottle rose and fell again to the tune of sloshing amber.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

Evangeline took offense; pretty eyes cut to ribbons the slight of hand supposistion of the man who was called Death. The Angel, for her part, shrugged there after before shaking her head. He wasn't the first man who proved thick headed. Spirits only provided more water for sensible thought to drown in when coupled with the ocean to form in the vast space between two ears. No, Jack was not the epitome of this, her own asscertation. She could be judgemental, she could be judged. Tonight she passed no judgement but her own curiosity. "Ah'm askin an honest question, nay judgin a soul. Ah wanted tae know how much the ones with the bronze skin charge or fetch, they must make more than the pale lot as they be exotic. Fer an insightful bein' o' the beyond, yer a little lackin' on findin' the mark." She drank her own sweet beverage before offering a smile. "Ah'm familiar with the worlds eldest profession, ye find many a heart woman about them."

[Jack Trades]

The calloused hand lightly swirled the bottle in time with the slosh of liquid while she spoke. Another swig was taken and the bottle came to rest on the smooth bartop. While the voice rumbled casually, the hand plucked the recently freed cork and turned it over idly inbetween thick digits.

"I heard what ye asked. I heard what ye said afore that, and the disdain it betrayed - or were ye tryin' tae flatter me? Ye wear a good face and treat them courteously enough, tae be sure. Go ahead and hide behind yer question. Though one wonders if'n ye'll find much refuge there, as it raises other questions. Ye understand that a premium can be charged fer the exotic, so then why ask fer the precise figure? Why insist tae me that yer nae a stranger tae this realm?"

The hand hovered over the opening of the bottle with the cork poised with the curved top facing down. It remained motionless for a moment or two before letting the cork drop onto the mouth of the bottle, the curvature coming to rest just inside the opening. There it rested like a crude top hat for a moment. Once the cork was pluckedagain, the bottle rose and fell again.

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

"I heard what ye asked. I heard what ye said afore that, and the disdain it betrayed - or were ye tryin' tae flatter me? Ye wear a good face and treat them courteously enough, tae be sure. Go ahead and hide behind yer question. Though one wonders if'n ye'll find much refuge there, as it raises other questions. Ye understand that a premium can be charged fer the exotic, so then why ask fer the precise figure? Why insist tae me that yer nae a stranger tae this realm?"


"There be nay disdain, n' if ye are flattered well be as ye will. A man will feel how ye feel. Ah think one who points has his own judgements tae make while professin' tha' others be the ones tae dae it. Why state it? Because there be good women among whores just as there be asses among those tha' are nay. M'curiosity may nay be a fine flavor tae yer palet, but tis a question all the same. Hidin' behind a question? No m'sweet, Ah think ye are hidin' behind yer disdain fer the likes o' one tha' would ask such a question. Ye assume tha' Ah dun like whores but am in a brothel, nay doubt because Ah be bored, a'wantin tae move about the fringes? Perhaps m'ignorance gives ye pause tae drink a might deeper?" There was not a shred of animocity in her voice or a hint of irratation. The mead was too fantastic, and the company too fascinating. Another cup was poured as the Irish woman found being so born allowed her the better aspects to hold such discourse with him. Indeed, what irritated her prior to her release of the emotion was his assumptions, but was he not free to have them? Oh he had his own. No doubt against such people clad in good clothes or good station like herself, but he still drank with one.

"Ye dun 'ave tae be in a brothel with hiked skirts n' breasts o'er bodice tae be a whore, m'fellow. Some are sanctioned under Christ tha' dun show an ankle, e'en watched in their takin by bishops n' comely folk. Ah'll ne'er judge a whore when nay e'en station made difference, n' all were equal some years afore Paul's death. At least these whores had a choice, nay? Nay, the women of Babylon 'ave a place in the world as any other, nay the worse nor the better. Men seek release n' beauty. They nay how tae unleash it, and are beautiful. "


She would add some food to her que, enjoying some bread laced with raisins and currants. To enhance the flavor, she paid a handsome some for the commidty of honey. Overhearing the conversation, a man leaned over to inquire of her from the left, "Are ye courtesan then? From that Guilded Lily House. Maybe beginning another? Perhaps more competition, equal as refined n' a bit more fiesty?" Evangeline looked over her shoulder with an endearing smile. "Mmm, nay fellow. Ah've only e'er been one man's whore n' nay mans courtesan, n' if Ah was the man whom holds such a place would nay be willin tae share. N' alas, nay openin a brothel either, nor a courtesan house. Ah'm only gaein tae sit in them, n' drink, n' ponder. Speak with m'friend here."

"Tha's a terrible pity. I'd pay ye handsomely."
"Pity indeed. At least ye let me know I'd fetch good price."

She then stood up after biting from her treat, before moving through the room. In the brothel, the women spoke between themselves. A pale woman with refined clothes was either the special treat of a pimp, a madame, or indulging in her own want for treats beyond the raisin bread. When she came upon the bronzed skin jezebel, the woman lifted her comely breast by straighteing her back. Evangeline smiled "Pardon, mistresses, but ah was askin n' none could answer. Tis an impertinent question tae be sure, but pertinent. How much dae ye charge fer thy service, good lady of the bronze flesh? Tis a beautiful thing.."

"Do you wish a taste, finer than any wine or honey.."
"Ah've ne'er tasted a woman, but nay taenight."
"Should you desire, I charge..." finger beckoned, and Eva leaned in to listen as the beauty whispered a salicious number. Putting her fingers to her mouth, Evangeline couldn't help but to gasp, and the harlots all laughed. "It is only on special occasion, too. I am going to gather the exotic women to offer soon. You could say I am nearing retirement."


Evangeline flushed for she was not immune to the effect of heady social climates on her good baring, despite the unorthodox heavy additions of sass to her being. She smiled, curtsied to the woman, who in turned curtsied to her. The two would cross paths again as sure as rain fell from the sky, but tonight she returned to the side of Jack Trades. Picking up her mead for drink was needed immediately, she answered "Ask n' ye shall recieve. Now, ferryman, shall we return tae drinks n' a tit for tat between the two of us. A story, one question asked, tae one answer on each side, back n' forth. Irish folk like stories. Dae ye?"

[Jack Trades]

He did not speak while the replied, nor as she left his side to get an answer to her question. While she exchanged with the patrons and employees, the stolid figure sat silently and drank.

When she returned, the casual rumble parroted her words with a matching accent. " 'Death tae me seems more earnest n' jovial company than e'en the most lively whore.' "

His bulk shifted to turn slightly towards her, but the timbre still thrummed as easily as if discussing the weather.
"Let me express this in a more direct way that does nae get entangled in what ye think that I think. I nae be that good of company. Tae prefer me company is tae hold theirs in disdain. Some of the public would take offense at the comparison, and revile ye fer it. I wonder why ye would prefer tae drink with me than be warm and pleasured in a soft bed....but..." Broad shoulders rose slightly in a shrug. "Ye didnae pay me tae quibble about this, and ye need nae tell me."

A short swig punctuated the sentence.

"Stories, eh? Very well. I'll let the customer have first choice. Would ye like tae tell a story or ask a question?"

[Evangeline O'Cathasaigh]

"Death is damned delightful compared tae most women o' the evenin, let us be polite now," she scolded him with gentle tease. Lifting up her cup to her mouth she drank more of what she had before while listening to him go on. The sounds of the trade were evident around the allure of the music, the decorations, and the scent of perfume. "The public will think wot it thinks n' dae wot it does. Opinion rises n' has impact afore it passes away like autumn or winter. There is much reason ah have tae let opinion be as it is, and m'self be as m'self. Tha' is all there is, Death. M'bed isn't cold nor is your company lackin, sae wot care should they be shown other than the genuine civility they have been? As it is all Ah'm daein is blockin' the fine women from makin a livin off of ye, sae if I be in the way o' wot ye desire merely tell me if tha' is the meanin."

"First a question, a question, a tale, a question a tale. Where be ye from? Ye sound Irish but Ah can nay truly tell."

[Jack Trades]

Broad shoulders lifted slightly in a shrug as oilskin cloth rustled. "Civility at the cost of honesty sounds much like politics. If'n ye cannae see that I could act on carnal desires, then there be little point in discussing headier subjects."

Another swig punctuated the subject shift.
"I was afraid ye'd ask me that. Unfortunately this will be a short tale, as I cannae tell ye. I make nae claim tae any of the local families or clans, high or low. I apologize fer the poor tale. I'll let ye ask another question in its stead. "