D.Patrick Burke

Well now, a fine lot ye all be an' aul Jack sends his regards fer true. Says Himself that he be taken to the very humbles to such warm regards. To those that be proxy in June at Port Washington, he might be inclined to have the Barman stand you one in appreciation. As fer me own self...all that gobshawlin' isna' goin' wi'out note there Cap'n.

Never argue with an idiot. They will bring you down and beat you with experience. ~Unknown

Nollaig faio shean is faoi shona duit!! (A prosperous and happy Christmas to you!!)

agility

Devon scowled, stepping back from the door. Night bird resumed its serenade as the moon crept from gauze cloud shrouding to command silver glow over garden's minions. The breeze lifted again, stirring night blooming Jasmine into intoxicating scent. He glanced about, in near distance equine companion gazed over garden wall in curiosity to row; a low nicker issued as query. Small stone bench took prominence just to his left, moonlight stroking its eloquent wrought. Moving to its proxy, Burke plunked down, setting hat in empty spot and returned his attention to yon alcove; the door it contained. He knew she still lingered, knew the door lay unbarred; his hearing rarly played him wrong. This did nothing to banish bemusement and the blooms in his keeping offered no answers; perfectly content to nod in gentle clasp.

bone

Devon's eyes lifted from flagstones below, blinking increduously to the banshee like delivery of reprimand. Arm dropped unconsciously, though pungent blooms remained in clutch. Deep inhalation was drawn and retort danced on edge of silvered tongue just as door was pulled with force back to closure. He blinked again, near without words...Which was a rare ocassion for Ireland's son. Brow came to deep furrow as empty hand was laid upon doorframe and temper was reined in carefully. Leaning forward, he called to female judge and jury through gritted teeth. "Yer breakin' me heart, lass...Tis a right sin to be showin' such a temper to a fella jus' tryin' to honour ye wit' some flowers...." He shook his head, completely baffled by her actions and whispered to none in particular, "Me own Ma ne'er gave meself lashin' like tha'..." Again the blockade was rapped upon, "C'mon now, gerl...Open the door..."

As the sounding of lock being shot back disturbed night's quiet, Devon straightened leisured poise. The door opened slowly, though not over-wide, and lantern glow stroked facial structure in the bloom of sweet youth. Cork's Native Son backed a pace, offering smallish bow as he addressed her humbly. "Evenin' to ye, ma'am an' beggin' yer pardon fer disturbin' ye...Me own self sometimes forgets the hour tha' most folk be keepin'." Slowly he extended the gathering of floral aray towards her, dropping eyes respectfully to the flagstones at her feet. "Will ye have a place in yer good heart to forgive me...?" Good natured smile crossed his expression as center was kept diverted.

Retracing path that had been taken earlier, edge of garden wall was rounded. A night bird trilled nocturne aria to those that would listen and heavy blooms of tropical facet bobbed their heads to light breeze. It was that breeze that stirred perfumes sweet and pungent beyond wall's parameter; a stirring that inspired Devon to reign in. As before, mount dutifully stopped and Sean turned backed his own to realign. Quizzical expression painted Roberts' face as he looked upon comrade and whispered inquiry. Devon waved off in some form of response and Sean's brow knit to the aloofness. Smallish smile tickled the edges of his mouth as further prodding was issued, "Wha' are ye abou' now?" "Not'in'...." Came the reply as dismount was negotiated. "Not'in' me arse." chidded Sean in return, glancing to the house and back. "Tis not'in' I tells ye....Curiosity, an' not'in' more." "Says ye, Devon Burke. Yer tryin' to have me on, bigh." The statement was punctuated with low chuckle. "Ye go on now. I'm no' ready to settle in fer the night jus' yet an' I'll be catchin' up soon enough. Dig out tha' porter an' we'll play a round er two when I get meself there." Roberts issued stiff salute, stifling the belly laugh that threatened to disrupt the quiet, then urged mount into motion. Devon remained for a matter of minutes before leading his own to sheltering tree and tying off. Fruit offering was delivered to equine companion and affectionate rub before garden gate was entered. He paused, surveying terrain then made careful selection of floral decorum. Removing wide-brim crowning, rear stoop was achieved and quiet knock laid upon narrow door.

Something did not set well with the current goings on and Burke raised a brow speculatively to the Academics words. The thought crossed his mind to argue the point, but it was not his place and a pint sounded more inviting. "As ye wish....Is there an'nathin' else ye might be needin'? If no' , Sean an' meself will find our ways out."

They stood silent, allowing the words to sink in as Academic's footfall faded to next room. Putting table back into proper positioning, Sean leaned close and whispered low to brethren. Devon closed his eyes briefly and nodded before cautiously moving in the direction Trilby just past. Leaning on thresh frame, he cleared his throat and was rewarded with two sets of sights centering on current placement. There was no love to be gleaned in ebony features and the Academic was embodiment of fluster. "Me Mum knew the craft o' healin'....an' she taught some o' it to me own self before she passed on."

Deep inhalation was taken, then released slowly; glance stolen through slat portal and another towards Sean who eased from crevace with hints of mending wounds. Returning to erect posture, Devon kept trigger company until young woman was gathered and safely removed. Tension still clung to the air, Irishmen's eyes falling on Academic with silent demand of explination.

**mischivous grin** As I said....

Life springs from death; and from the graves of patriotic men and women springs living nations.

Oh, yer a right darlin' bigh, Sterling....I'm tinkin' I needs be tellin' Herself abou' ye comin' home drunk as a laird on porter in tha' carriage one night no' overlong ago...I be seemin' to remember the sweet smell o' parfume...An' it wasno' the kind she sports.....**wink**

Oh now...If ye both no' be saints. Notin' but love fer ye...

Devon more than heard the boom of voice and its' threat was far from false. Feeling bottled up with few options, he called out to Trilby. "Ye tell tha' fella to back a pace now, ere I send him ta' the Gates an'na meetin' with Peter steadfast. I don' miss from this distance an'na wan' no doin's with whate'er ye got yerself mixed in. Ye hear me now, cara...There be no healt'y outcome if me hand be forced." Finger tensed ever so slightly to metal crescent and options were quickly reassessed.

There are in every generation those who shrink from the ultimate sacrifice, but there are in every generation those who make it with joy and laughter and these are the salt of the generations. Patrick Henry Pearse

Recognition came to the forefront as the woman moved from the shadows, disheveled appearance stroked by single lamp's cast of gold. Devon started to make quip about bookstore hap stance meetings and reunions when pistol recognition drew his attention and instinct blazed forward. Quick sidestep was made to table's side; edge grabbed without second thought and as damsel's fall was echoed in action by hand cannon, table was swiftly upended as makeshift shield. The acrid smell of spent powder permeated the surround and in near-far distance, Devon heard native brother cough. Tension plucked the lengths of sinew muscle and left hand tightened smoothed wooden grip in response to the deafening crash of door protest. Rolling to balls of feet, he glimpsed a sliver of Robert's form crouched near weather worn barrel as the Academic's voice cut the air with tang of Scotch sarcasm. Through the slats offered by table's construction, Devon eye-spied the towering stature of ebony render. Readiness was re-checked with practiced speed as he whispered under breath with colorful flourish.

"Ho now, Aul Fella...." Devon raised his hands palm out as if in warding off. "Jays, Patrick and Mary, yer gonna' get yer sheep in'na bunch!" Reaching for the decanter, brandy was poured to fill and glass extended in peace offering. Retreating a step back he aligned with Roberts, "So's how be it that ye started taken in wayward lass'....Rich auntie, ye say?" A glint sparked Irish eyes, though smile had extinguished like doused peat hearth. Gaining sober poise, Burke's voice lowered, "Can we be o' service to ye?"

Devon crossed his arms across chest, mirth dominating the planes of his expression, "Seems be I wasno' far off...Ye got a bit o' somethin', fer true." He cocked an ear in fury direction, " An' me senses could be tellin' tales....But, tis man's words rollin' off a lass' tongue." Glance was thrown towards Roberts, who's attention had yet to stray from kitchen doorway; nor hand from weapon. "So how's it stand, then? Lover's spat, ye Scottish Deevil?"

Trilby knew the Irishman was fishing, so he sidestepped the question. He picked up the rumpled package from the table, it's rather skunky oder beginning to taint the air. "Tis always good doing business with your clan, Burke. And as yea ken, I've already paid for this delivery at the bookstore." He gave the package a little wave, hoping the noxtious smell would speed the two men on their way. But lately fate always seemed to play him false. The sound of hoarse-voiced cursing suddenly erupted from his study. Devon's attention centered on feline resting lofty perch while the Academic made segue; Roberts taking small step back away from noxious package. Draught was taken from vessel held and as said container was being placed on near table, explosive verbose split the still. Ireland's sons focused on their host, then towards eruption's hidden origin. Sean's brow pricked upward, hand sliding to traveling pistol within concealed folds and Devon's body language tensed, though widening smile played to Elder. "Well now, bully....Seems the spirits o' this house are a wee displeased..." Feline gargoyle launched from heavenward plateau, and as soft feet found floor purchase, her face held nothing short of disdain.

Is tric a bheothaich srad bheag teinne mor A spark has often kindled a great fire. Old Irish Proverb

Devon threw an over-shoulder glance to Sean who shrugged in reply. They followed their host into the kitchen and packet was laid on table surface. Proffered glasses were accepted and sampled, Devon watching Trilby's flit about. "Tis a fine thin' to share such as this", Devon tilted the glass in the Elder's direction, then sniffed the air tentatively. "So wha' has ye dancin' about? Ye got yerself some fine bit 'o it yer champin' to get on wit'?" No comment was made by Sean, completely content to nurse the offering. Cork's native son smiled with secretive implications...

‘Well, then,’ the Cat went on, ‘you see a dog growls when it’s angry, and wags its tail when it’s pleased. Now I growl when I’m pleased, and wag my tail when I’m angry. Therefore I’m mad.’ The Cheshire Cat~Lewis Carroll