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Feb. 11th, 2018 01:00 pmFirst thing Mad Sweeney finds himself wondering is how she's not freezing her tits off in a getup like the one she's wearing.
It's late. Not many people are out and about this late, but Sweeney doesn't follow any particular schedule and he's been drinking heavily tonight, wanting to keep the bad luck at bay just a little with more than a few shots of whiskey, if it can be managed. Seems that it can be, at least for the moment, and he's on his way home with a cigarette tucked between his lips when he hears the cries for help.
Used to be he'd ignore shit like that. Or maybe that's not right. Used to be he'd care, but be unable to do a damn thing, bound by the laws and rules of what he is. Intervention was only his game when offerings were involved and most of the time, as the Fair Folk were lost to the land of legend, they weren't. But as beliefs have shifted, so have the rules, and for a long time now, at least a hundred years, he's been able to do more or less whatever the hell he wants.
Most of what he's wanted in the past is to be left alone. Now he's no longer sure, so at the sound of the cry, he turns in that direction only to find he might not be needed, because a woman in clown makeup and thigh-high socks has gotten there first and Mad Sweeney is mostly under the impression she's helping. There's another woman, smaller than the clown, and a group of three men and he knows the odds of that fight are still pretty fucking shitty, but he also knows not many women roam the streets at night wearing greasepaint and coming to the aid of others.
Chances are she's not just a woman.
Still, he saunters over, cigarette trailing smoke in the air behind him, the tip glowing in the dark. He moves through the shadows like he had over the rolling fields of Ireland, something only half believed when glimpsed on a starless night, though there's much less romance left in this man than the one who'd taken Essie's offerings and guided her life like a gust of wind.
Maybe he's not needed, but he's seven bloody feet tall and when he walks through the mist rolling off the ocean and comes into focus under the light of a streetlamp, all three of the men turn in his direction.
"Evenin', lads," he says, reaching up to take his cigarette from his mouth. Then he grins at the clown, a fair pinch of madness in that smile. She looks as fucking crazy as he feels some days and he likes her immediately. "Miss."
It's late. Not many people are out and about this late, but Sweeney doesn't follow any particular schedule and he's been drinking heavily tonight, wanting to keep the bad luck at bay just a little with more than a few shots of whiskey, if it can be managed. Seems that it can be, at least for the moment, and he's on his way home with a cigarette tucked between his lips when he hears the cries for help.
Used to be he'd ignore shit like that. Or maybe that's not right. Used to be he'd care, but be unable to do a damn thing, bound by the laws and rules of what he is. Intervention was only his game when offerings were involved and most of the time, as the Fair Folk were lost to the land of legend, they weren't. But as beliefs have shifted, so have the rules, and for a long time now, at least a hundred years, he's been able to do more or less whatever the hell he wants.
Most of what he's wanted in the past is to be left alone. Now he's no longer sure, so at the sound of the cry, he turns in that direction only to find he might not be needed, because a woman in clown makeup and thigh-high socks has gotten there first and Mad Sweeney is mostly under the impression she's helping. There's another woman, smaller than the clown, and a group of three men and he knows the odds of that fight are still pretty fucking shitty, but he also knows not many women roam the streets at night wearing greasepaint and coming to the aid of others.
Chances are she's not just a woman.
Still, he saunters over, cigarette trailing smoke in the air behind him, the tip glowing in the dark. He moves through the shadows like he had over the rolling fields of Ireland, something only half believed when glimpsed on a starless night, though there's much less romance left in this man than the one who'd taken Essie's offerings and guided her life like a gust of wind.
Maybe he's not needed, but he's seven bloody feet tall and when he walks through the mist rolling off the ocean and comes into focus under the light of a streetlamp, all three of the men turn in his direction.
"Evenin', lads," he says, reaching up to take his cigarette from his mouth. Then he grins at the clown, a fair pinch of madness in that smile. She looks as fucking crazy as he feels some days and he likes her immediately. "Miss."
