[Amid the chaos and destruction, there stands a very tall man and a very small woman. The man, Niall Lynch, is wildly handsome in a dark and strange sort of way. The woman has a burlap sack over her head, tied at her delicate throat. He's dressed head-to-toe in black, and she in a green gown that appears vaguely medieval in style. He's too tall for her to rest her chin on his shoulder, but she's trying. It's a task made more difficult by the ropes that keep her hands tied behind her back, throwing her off-balance.]

Muiread.

[He's speaking to the woman, though he only tilts his head just slightly in her direction. His accent is Northern Irish, plainly Belfast to a local.]

If you really want to make yourself useful, find my son.

[And by that he means the only son worth finding.]

[Others may not have five-star accommodations, but this particular scoundrel has somehow found himself a bed. Not a sleeping bag or a cot, but a massive canopy bed fit for a king, draped with velvet curtains and ermine blankets to keep away the chill of night. He's placed it at the center of a small clearing, where the moonlight can illuminate it like a stage set.

Niall's still awake, so the drapes are open, leaving him in plain sight as he sits at the foot of the mattress and pens something in a small leather-bound journal. His daemon, Muiread, sits on the forest floor in front of him, her wrists tied to the bedpost to keep her from attempting to join him. Niall rarely glances at her, dividing his attention between his book and the bottle of whiskey beside him.]

( Hit me. )