A Kradʹi the Skai's Lʹim [Steven M.]

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Country: Southern England, on the coastline.
Area/Setting:
If you look south, you see the English channel, the heavily-guarded gateway to the troubled lands that are the rest of Europe. If you look north, there are only cliff-ridden hills, and patches of shrub and bush.

Current Time: 07:30 - bright and early!
Weather Conditions: A fair breeze blows up from the south, carrying with it the taste and smell of saltwater. It's cool, simply because it's mid-March, but nice enough out.

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It was warm enough that a fire wasn't needed, but the coolness was a wet one, and Niamh felt like she needed the warmth. The day was young, the sun having risen only a few hours or so earlier, and she was going to be relaxing today anyway. She had made a good few pounds working in a stable for the past week, so she could spoil herself that day.

Yawning, the Pavee sat down on a rock she had placed the firepit near, having made it into a makeshift seat. Drummer was grazing nearby, enjoying the seaside grasses lightly dusted with salt from the Channel. It had been a long time since they had been in this part of England, this far away from the city, and it was quite refreshing for her. After all, after her parents had stopped travelling around, they had lived on the Irish coast.

Pulling out a book of matches, Niamh lit one, then dropped it into some kindling she had set up. The fire slowly took, tongues of flame washing over the slightly damp twigs. Plumes of smoke began to rise, dark and smelling heavily of wet charcoal. That was the only thing Niamh hated about making a fire in England - they all burned messily, and could be a great big sign pointing to her camp. Add that to the fact that the Germans were probably watching the Channel now, just waiting to drop a bomb on a little ol' Pavee's head...

She shook her head vigourously. No, that wouldn't happen. Besides, being out so far in the middle of nowhere, who would be insane enough to venture out into this particular...metaphorical neck of the woods?

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OOC - The title is in Shelta, translated to the best of my ability. It means, "Standing At the Sea's Edge". Also, if you're reading this, Lief Bielski, this'll take place before I meet your character.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

OOC: I wasn’t sure exactly where this thread was based, so I took the liberty of mentioning “somewhere in Kent” during my post. I can easily change it if you had other plans.

Within the short distance, a burly masculine figure trotted along an open field, heading into the general direction of what seemed to be a dirt-road cutting through the greenery. Partially slumped forwards as he walked, it seemed as if he were almost watching his own feet whilst he was walking, but in actual fact, he was bending the laws of gravity to help accommodate the heavy burden of his infantry gear against the flats of his back. He’d already slept awkwardly in someone’s barn the night prior and was barely awake whilst he was numbly walking through the pasture of green laid bare beneath his feet; The tight leather of his boots causing minor blisters to erupt across the groove of his heel.

Squinting against the sun’s morning rays, Master Sergeant McMillan ventured onwards, strangely feeling at home once again - yet he was completely lost to an extent. Born and raised in Ireland for a rough sixteen, maybe seventeen or more years (he couldn’t quite remember), the strange feeling of being home arose from the stagnant corners of his mind once again; The familiar outline of scenery, the climate change, even the odd rock or daisy littering the greenery he walked upon, looked just like it was back in Ireland all those years ago. For the first time in many years, he actually began to feel an inner peace arise from within. Being lost wasn’t so bad after-all.

He was heading for a makeshift base somewhere in Kent, he didn’t quite catch the village’s name, but from what he gathered, there were thousands of American troops heading there. It wouldn’t be so hard to get some directions once he got closer, with the help of some ol’ English folk or fellow Americans making the same travels along the way. From what he could fathom, having tasted and smelt the sea-air alluring amongst the wind, he wasn’t too far the village housing the main barracks now. He only hoped there was a spare bed awaiting his company, it had been several nights since he was shipped to Britain, landing at Portsmouth, spending a good few nights there to start with; Then came the rush. The British barely had any transport trucks left to spare and accommodating civilian automobiles was out of the question…

Thirty transport trucks and the odd Lancaster aircraft available to make troop runs was spared, which pretty much covered a good few hundred troops, but everyone else was left high and dry. In any case, the Americans were being homed all over Great Britain - a bulk was immediately transported to Scotland, another bulk was sent to Wales, but the great bulk of them were scattered throughout England. Northern England, Southern England, not so much London though. With the regular German bombings, it didn’t seem a good idea, neither did England’s capital reserve any formidable standing structures to home them. London was barely standing as it was. So Steven’s destination was somewhere near the coast of Kent, but ironically, when his ticket was called to be shipped out to France, he’d be going all the way back to Portsmouth again, to catch the next shipment that would haul his ass to hell.

Noticing something within the short distance, Steven looked cautiously to the black-smoke billowing across the clear sky, becoming ever curious. Perhaps it was a transport truck? British motors were known to kick out their smog, or perhaps it was someone in trouble!? If there were any functioning fire-services, they’d have a tough time making it out this far to the coast to respond in time. As Steven’s mind ran a little wild with the different scenarios, he eventually noticed a little more, his body having automatically changed it’s walking path - now heading towards the precarious black smog, which was now nothing but a camp-fire; Although, something else caught his attention more interestingly, a horse.

Glancing between the animal grazing and the campfire, only noticing someone sitting beside it, Steven quirked a questioning look and decided to approach slowly. The soft jingling of his helmet straps tapped against his back, as his helmet was tied to his rucksack and his left hand knitted under the shoulder strap to help cushion the burden of the strap digging into his shoulder. “Hey there…” he called out to the person quietly oblivious to him, a brief smile crossing his lips as he slowly came to a stop; A rough fifteen to twenty yards from the young woman. Waiting until she noticed him, Steven slowly began to casually walk towards her, not wanting to seem like a threat or startle her; His eyes wandering towards the horse momentarily, admiring it quietly to himself, not having seen one since he was in Ireland, working on the neighbour’s ranch.

OOC: Wow, my post sucked. Sorry. Just read through it.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

OOC - Actually, I was basing my post near East Prawle, but I can work with Kent. And no, it did not suck. It was very good. ;D Plus, a fun fact: now that I think about it, Drummer was partly inspired by the Budweiser Clydesdales.

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The sound of footsteps caught the ear of the grazing stallion. Ears pricked, he raissed his massive hazed, the blaze-adorned face turning to see what was coming. A shrill whinny broke the morning air, meant to catch Niamh's attention, and the Pavee's head turned to face whoever was coming.

“Hey there…”

"'Ello?" called out the Pavee, sliding around to better face the newcomer. It was a soldier - your typical burly fellow, shoulders hunched, looking worked and worn. He reminded Niamh of her father after a long day in the stables. Nearby, Drummer snorted, nickering slightly. The young woman found herself standing up, and walking over to the man, who had also found himself in the middle of nowhere.

"If you're 'ere because of t'e fire," began Niamh, her heavy Irish accent heavier due to her slightly tiredness, "e'eryt'ing's fine, laddie. Me horse and I justh made camp here for t'e night - not'ing more, not'ing less. Or are y'losth, laddie? Kenth's noth thoo far from 'ere..."

Drummer continued to stare at the soldier for a few moments, ears swiveling as his tail idly flicked from side to side. There had not been a lot of people around - it had been only him and his master for miles - and the horse was curious. Who else would be insane enough to be out here, out in the middle of nowhere where anything could happen? Most people would be either up by now for work or school, with a few still in bed for their own reasons.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

OOC: Oh, durr. I just realised you mentioned channel island. I’m so sorry, I should have said somewhere like; Plymouth, Bournemouth or even Portsmouth, like I did in my last post. Kent!? Lol! I’m so sorry, I obviously not with it tonight.


Observing the young woman who arose from her planted seat beside the churning fire, Steven’s eyes lisped over her physic briefly, as if recollecting what she was wearing and her average build. The Master Sergeant had a knack for adding people up on first encounters; Size, weight and possible flaws in their presentation. As strange as that may sound, it was the minor flaws displayed upon someone’s physic which told a lot about the person - Well Steven believed. Having trained and been around more than his fair share of troops in the military, an undone button or scrawny collar told a lot about the person. Whether they were lazy, forgetful, not-bothered; Qualities that could unfortunately cost lives on the battlefield. Would they be bothered to shoot their rifle? Forget their location? Accidentally pull the pin on a grenade? Because they simply didn’t bother listening during training. So it did tell a lot about the person.

As the young woman approached him, Steven straightened up and softly watched her with his damp tired eyes. Her accent was thick, but worrying, Steven understood every word. Even if he hadn’t been living in Ireland for quite sometime, sadly, his own accent did change somewhat from just living in America. From a fresh young Irish accent he once had, it was more American now than it had ever been. Being a sergeant of the ranks, well, he had to husk his voice out one way or another and that meant saying goodbye to the tongue-twisting Irish mouth he once had. He never forgot his roots though.

“Well…” he started, pausing briefly to look over towards the fire. “I can’t help feeling let down, I was expecting a damsel in distress” he joked some, before breaking a small smile, gazing off towards the general direction he’ll be heading into for Kent, having heard the young woman confirm his suspicions on being close. “No - no” he slipped out repeatedly, as he turned to face the young Irish woman again. “No I’m not lost now” he sentenced out for her, so she understood what he was responding too.

Rolling his shoulders, Steven twined an uncomfortable look and plucked his thumb out from under the left strap that was strewn over his shoulder to the rucksack. “Steven --” he introduced himself sharply, putting his hand out, feeling a little rude if he didn’t introduce himself. “Wouldn’t mind if I sat down for ten minutes would you? Feeling a little light headed” he asked shortly after, lisping a weak smile upon his lips, as his tired and weary face hoped she would invite him to relax for a moment. Also, now seemed the best time to eat his dwindling rations, he was obviously riding on a low sugar count - all he needed was passing out and then feeling like death afterwards.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

His eyes examined her closely, as if he was trying to figure her out from a first impression. He honestly looked horrid, and when he spoke, he sounded husky and withered. He held out his hand, and Niamh took it, giving it a firm, quick shake. The next question was inevitable, seeing as how his fingers seemed as loose as jelly.

“Wouldn’t mind if I sat down for ten minutes would you? Feeling a little light headed.”

"Go 'ead," Niamh replied, motioning towards the rock she had turned into a seat. "I'm hospithable, noth going tho bithe your head off if y'do. Name's Niamh, by t'e way."

A quick smile graced Niamh's lips, and she walked over to her tent, only a few feet away from the damp firepit that was now crackling loudly. Ducking inside, she fished through the old rucksack she carried around with her, making a mental note to one day buy a backpack to carry things in. There was some tinned beef somewhere in the thing, not to mention the tin-coated steel pan her father had made...

"Aha!" came a cry from within the tent. "There you are, you little bugger! I thought I'd already bloody eaten you..."

While all of this was happening, Drummer was trotting over, his curiosity reaching its peak. Slowing down as he approached Steven, the stallion paused, then reached forward with his muzzle. It would stop a few centimetres away from Steven's face, and the horse would inhale, taking in the man's scent.

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OOC - Did I? I meant the English Channel, then.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

OOC: Sorry my post is late, I had to visit a friend in hospital and then things came up, keeping me tamed from the computer.


Smiling briefly to the woman, Steven felt his limp hand fall back down against his side and his body soon lurched forwards to accommodate the heavy strain of the backpack strung heavily down against his broad shoulders. It was hard to think he had all of his belongings in one simple object, since leaving Ireland, Steven was never one for collecting souvenirs too often or ever settling down in any way. He had no house to go home too during leave, neither did he have any living relatives he knew off, that was worthy of a visit during his military break -- no, Steven was alone now. Edward was pronounced missing and he was never a brother to begin with, they met the odd few times and the feeling was barely mutual between the two.

Slowly, Steven approached the damp fire and momentarily struggled to get one of the tight straps from of his shoulder, before the whole backpack merely collapsed from off his exterior to thump against the dirt. Immediately, Steven’s posture straightened up and his eyes lisped closed as he rolled his broad shoulders, feeling incredibly light and incomplete since detaching the backpack from off himself. “Steven -- The name’s Steven” he replied after the woman as she approached her makeshift accommodation, a short lived smile spreading across his lips, whilst he looked after her, almost admiring her silently.

Inhaling deeply, he noticed the horse approaching him slowly and curiously, Steven’s lips soon forming into a grin as he gradually turned to his body to face the animal inspecting him. “Hello there big-feller” he spoke softly, reaching out to comb his fingers through the stallion’s mane, finding it incredibly hard to not remember his youth back in Ireland, working on the ranch. “Aren’t you handsome, eh?” he pet talked to the horse, softly laughing to himself afterwards, giving the stallion a firm pat, before turning to his own backpack laid solemnly dormant beside the campfire.

Glancing to the tent, Steven wondered about the young woman’s stories momentarily, wondering how she’d come to be in England during such a formidable time of war; The old paddies weren’t much liked in this part of the world, partly being the fact a lump of the Irish were siding with the Nazis, even Steven knew that. Brushing the daunting thoughts of the young Irishwoman being apart of the Nazi regime and possible member of the IRA infiltrating English defences, he decided to plough into his backpack, taking a kneel down beside the campfire in doing so. His hands fished inwards, pushing and pulling at a few of the belongings within, searching for his ration pack, which seemed to have grown legs and taken a walk -- “Oh C’mon you bugger” he mumbled to himself incoherently, before eventually pulling out tin can, that had so thoughtfully been tied together with a pack of his rations with the use of two elastic bands.

Placing the food and tin-can down beside his backpack, he quietly glanced about himself, before sliding out his combat knife from within the backpack, unsheathing it to place inside of the tin-can with a clang; Obviously, this was going to be his utensil for cooking and eating, unless the dear old Irishwoman thought otherwise. Strapping his backpack up again, Steven licked his lips and bellowed out a long sigh once again, planting himself down against one of the rocks set up aside of the campfire. “So Niamh…” he said firmly, hoping to grab her attention from inside of the tent. “You alone out here?” he asked curiously, his eyes slithering to the tent silently, awaiting a response, whilst his hands made dab-work in collecting his ration pack and tin-can together, before wielding the combat knife tightly; Looking a little conspicuous, whilst he cut the elastic bands from off the ration pack and tin-can, vaguely keeping his eye on the tent whilst he awaited her company.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Drummer nickered gently, his whisker-ridden lips nibbling at the short military crop that adorned Steven's head. The stallion's pink and white muzzle would then drop down to the visitor's trousers' pockets, his nostrils flaring as he smelt for treats. Unfortunately, his attempts at finding something tasty failed, and the stallion snorted, most likely in irritation. One front hoof pawed at the ground, and then, with a shake of his great black mane, he would trot off. The grass would give him more then Steven could.

Niamh, meanwhile, had finally gotten herself sorted out. Along with the tin of beef, she had found a bottle of antibiotics that she had bought off some soldier, and an old leather waterskin one of her uncles had made. Feeling in the mood for a little makeshift beef stew, Niamh quickly exited her tent, strolling over to the fire with the needed items in hand. Bending down on one knee, she, too, pulled out a knife, and quickly began prying open her breakfast. She had heard Steven's question in the tent, but the had been so busy sifting through her belongings, she hadn't given herself a chance to respond.

"Yeah, I'm alone outh 'ere - 'cepth for Drummer, o' course," the Pavee muttered. "Don'th worry, Stheven; unlike whath t'e gossips say, I'm noth outh tho stheal your money. I work, I thravel around tho do ith, and t'ats why I'm 'ere. Simple as pie, and simple as t'at. Ye outh here alone, thoo?"

The tin's lid popped off with a loud sound, and Drummer's head lifted up, the horse slightly surprised. However, seeing his mistress in no danger, he merely snorted and began to feast on grasses again. Niamh poured what water remained in her waterskin into the tin can, then carefully placed it at the edge of the flames. The way she had placed it, the fires would brush against the metal and heat it up, allowing it to cook slowly, and she could still get at it easily without having to worry about sticking her food into the heart of the fire. If she did such, there was a chance that the beef could get burned, as well as her hand if she tried to pull it out.

"So, I thake ith you're on your way tho somewhere?" Niamh asked, leaning back on her heels. "Or are ye on a mornin' walk, laddie?"

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

After cutting free his rations from the standard military tin-can that would be used to platter the ‘divine’ military dinner into, he glanced to the tent once again, watching as the young Irishwoman eventually revealed herself again - thankfully, with no pistol or armoury within her grasp. Steven wasn’t stereotypical of people, but it didn’t hurt to be cautious or wise, he’d heard enough stories during his time, of Purdy young woman befriending and then taking advantage of the situation with a boot-knife or pistol concealed within their undergarments. Most of these woman ironically being Irish. Desperate times called for desperate measures, since his short lived stay in Britain, he’d noticed the locals would do anything for a ration of tea.

Breaking open the silver pouched foil that held his ration’s contents, he poured the liquid looking substance into his tin-can and almost grimaced as chunks of what seemed to be meat followed. Wondering whether he was about to eat dog-meat or not passed through his mind, but even then, that food was more than nutritious for a soldier - right? Sighing at the thought, he looked to the young woman who began to speak, preparing her more luscious looking content of food, his eyes momentarily becoming frozen as he watched her place the contents over the open fire.

“Eh --?” he muttered a little dumbfound, before laughing to himself softly to nod. “Oh yeah, I’m out here alone” he answered, only realising what she had asked. Biting his lower lip, he picked up one of the rocks and cautiously pushed it closer to the burning fire, so the rock was half in and out of the crackling wood. Sliding his tin-can forwards to balance against the edge, so the heat would warm up the tin-can, he leant back and watched as his so called luscious food began to warm through. He could eat the contents cold, but nothing tasted great cold.

Unbuttoning a couple of buttons upon his tunic, he freed the constricting fabric from beneath his throat and looked to the woman as she curiously asked him a question regarding his destination. Smiling a little, he picked up a small twig nestled between the grass and fiddled it between his fingers whilst he answered to her curiosity. “Yep. I’m making my own way to a base of operations in Kent” he simply stated, giving her a long look from beneath his rough physic; A mild scattering of stubble across his jaw line. “I wouldn’t surprised if another dozen or more soldiers came crawling through this way in the next day or so. We were left to make our own way to Kent, due to a shortage of transportation” he said afterwards, not seeming all that impressed with England already, but then they had been fighting the war for a good number of years already. Their resources were understandably going to be thin and sparse in between.

“So where are you heading?” he asked suddenly, changing the subject. Giving her a firm look, almost seeming a little intimidating with his rough exterior, but Steven didn’t know how to act around woman anymore. He was a man’s man and forming a rough bulky exterior was all he ever done - being relaxed was never in his mind. Whilst he awaited a response, Steven dragged over his backpack and opened it up once again, remembering he had some cigarettes hiding somewhere… He thought.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

OOC - I apologize for the amount of time it has taken me to post. I have no excuse, other then a muse who wouldn't pipe up when it was supposed to. -_-;

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For the first time in the few moments he had been there, Niamh noticed some of the similarities between her and Steven. He was alone, having to provide his own transportation, a little rough the edges and eating a can of meat for breakfast. There was a hint of an Irish lilt to his voice, although the American-sounding mask it wore was effective at disguising said lilt. Soldiers travelled, fighting wherever they were needed, and there were stereotypes out there surrounding them. One could say she was looking at her mirror image, incarnated in the form of a tough-looking man.

Steven went on to explain he was on his way to Kent, to go to some sort of military base or another. Niamh nodded as she looked over her shoulder, then said, "Aye, I see. Say, is t'at m'horse o'er t'ere, or is t'at some sorth o' milithary thruck or somet'ing? Or am I goin' off m'nut?"

Niamh would then point from where Steven had come. If she succeeded in distracting him, she would quickly switch the two cans of beef, glancing at the "dog food" Steven was cooking up. Truth be told, it looked disgusting, but then again, it also smelt very nice. Even if it was tasteless, she would still eat it, and the soldier could have her "normal" food. Sure, Niamh was risking being called a thief for this, but she thought it was a nice gesture, and Niamh also wanted to see how he might react. It might sound strange, but for some reason, she had suddenly felt a twinge of mischief when he had begun to use her fire. Maybe she was just bored...?

As soon as the cans were switched, Niamh would stand up, and shield her eyes from the sun. "Eh...mustha been m'imaginathion," the Pavee said, shrugging afterwards. Moving off to the side, she would plop herself down beside the rock with a sigh, arms slung over her bent knees. Stretching her legs, she breathed in deeply, then let out another sigh. It sounded a little overdramatic, but no one was judging her here...well, maybe except the soldier.

"Me? I'm off...somewhere," Niamh replied to his question, asked while she was moving away from the fire. "I heard 'bouth a job nearby. Someone needs his wagon fixed."

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Rummaging through his backpack, Steven couldn’t quite find the cigarettes he was looking for, but did find something he hadn’t seen in quite a while. Going abruptly silent, Steven gazed into the backpack almost admirably, before he put whatever it was he was looking at, back into the deep dark corner of where it came from; Simply pulling out a map within it’s place. He may as-well begin plotting his next leg of the journey, as far as he was concerned, he was in no real big hurry. He was ahead of schedule by a couple of days remarkably and could do with a well earned rest - somehow, he’d also preserved his rations of a week, that could serve for an additional two days. Not eating properly and being a petty thief in one of the market’s he’d travelled through, done that though.

The taking of a few apples and leather gloves, which he traded later on in the nearby pub for half of someone’s meal, served well in preserving your own food for the journey. Steven wasn’t a crook, he just done what he had too in order to keep going. A couple of apples or pair of gloves weren’t about to break the bank in any Englishman’s pocket, he was sure of that, but neither was he Robin-Hood reincarnate. The thought merely chuffed a smile, as he looked to the young Irishwoman, her accent, demeanour and simplicity of beauty reminded him of someone back in Ireland when he was a teenager.

Her name was Lily Andrews, the farmer’s daughter of the ranch he worked on for a few years for a good day’s pay. She never was ‘a love’ neither a ‘girlfriend’, but he couldn’t help but admire her from afar and hope that one day she’d notice him. The day never came and when Steven left Ireland without a moment’s warning, in pursuit of a better life and rumour of a brother, he chased the American dream for it was worth. Any child back in the day was easily succumb by such dreams, Steven being one of the fools, he never did get rich and neither did he find anything remarkable in America. However, the pay was better and finding a job wasn’t so hard for a man like himself, but the American Military however, was supreme than any other he’d seen. Now he was bestowed the privilege of a senior rank, but with it came a double edged sword, as yet another war broke out.

Looking to the young woman through a clouded vision of thought, Steven fell for the old trick almost instantly, as he turned his gaze off to look into the general direction she was pointing off too. After a moment of looking, he slowly turned back to the young woman and pulled a questionable look. “I… Didn’t see anything” he slowly said, having to look again to just make sure. Easily fooled. His attention was soon again caught by the young woman as she arose from her seat and stretched, Steven’s eyes trailing down her body slowly, before he decided to lay his devilish eyes onto the map he’d pulled out - trying to make himself busy, as to not seem rude.

Then the woman spoke again, answering his question. Steven merely looked to her for a moment, before nodding. “Fair enough. Say, the way I just came, they needed some workers to help rebuild the town-hall’s rafters. I think Jerry got a bit lucky in one of their bombings, but not lucky enough. If you’re good with wood, with your hands, I don’t see why they wouldn’t hire you” he confidently suggested, giving her a warm smile. “I would have taken up the job myself, but something like that would take a few weeks maybe. The nearby pub had rooms going cheap. Drummer wouldn’t be a problem, the landlord seemed like an animal lover” he said jokingly, but seriously at the same time. He was just trying to help her out, he knew how hard it could be to find work during a time like this, not just that, but being Irish altogether didn’t always help. He’d experienced the problems first hand in America, no-one wanted an Irish boy driving their cars, serving their food or even making their cookers. Why? Maybe incase he tampered with it!? Who knew.

Sighing to himself, he placed the map flat against his lap and leant forwards to look at his food, perking a brow slightly as he double looked, not quite knowing if his food had suddenly started looking better or whether it actually looked like that to begin with, but he didn’t notice? The thought of the young woman exchanging the foods never crossed his mind, until he glanced over to her tin-can. “Wait… Did you…” he asked a little unsure of himself, before realising she had. “Oh - Niamh, no, please take your food back. I didn’t come here to ask anything of you, other then your company” he said politely, a little too politely for a grunt? Leaning forwards, he clasped the can with the nimble-ends of his fingers and slowly looked to her, offering to give it back, knowing she’d be much better eating her own food than his watered down grime. The lady always came first in his mind and she deserved to eat properly, the bad-food he had wasn’t her problem.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Niamh gave Steven a long, hard look, one that said, "You could've not noticed." Apparently, he was still alert enough to distinguish a difference in food, and thus, was trying to act all gentlemanly. To add, he had done after he had the nerve to peek at her like she was a bauble!

With no warning but raised eyebrows, Niamh suddenly spat into the can of military-grade beef. "Well, ya cannoth eath ith now, can ya, laddie?" the Pavee said dryly. She then fished around in her coat pocket, and retrieved a tin spoon her father had made for her travels. Sticking it into the can of beef (or was it something else?), Niamh stirred the food around for a moment, then brought a spoonful back up to her mouth. She paused for a moment, glancing up at Steven, then went and took a bite.

It was a little soggy, and a little on the tasteless side...but otherwise, Niamh had had worse. At least it wasn't that burnt hedgehog meat she had tried to make a month or so ago; that been a disaster.

"I dunno why you soldiers say t'is sthuff is wort'less," the Pavee said between bites of beef. "'Tis acthually preththy good. No, don'th say I'm bein' nice, 'cause I've had to eath a loth o' t'ings, includin' a hedgehog. An' no, I'm noth crazy, I was hungry. T'ere is a difference 'thween t'e thwoo, alt'ough one can lead tho craziness. An' finally, t'ank you fer t'e thip. I'm gonna go check t'at outh lather."

Niamh took a few more bites, quickly devouring a third of the can within minutes. As she got closer to the bottom, she eventually found the flavour, making a mental note that most of it sank to the bottom when prepared. At least, that was her opinion; whether it was true or not, Niamh didn't know. She was just hungry.

"Y'know, ye should be a lil' more subthle when you're lookin' at a girl...y'know, lookin'?" said Niamh suddenly, licking her lips to remove the juice from them. "Or bethther yet, don'th look ath 'em ath all, and noth t'at regular look...I mean, t'e look. If I were a bith meaner, I'd probably thoss ya o'er t'e cliff, noth meanin' tha scare ya here. Justh somet'ing to mull o'er durin' breakfasth, y'know."

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Steven quietly slumped back against the rock, watching as the young woman spat into the food and bragged about not being able to eat it now. A grim look befell the man’s face, wondering what type of human he was dealing with here. For a brief moment, she almost seemed like a young bloke, as the English was put it, full of spunk and little else; babbling on with a mouthful of food rolling about within her mouth, something about a hedgehog and not being crazy.

Taking a few mouthfuls of the warmed through food in the tin, Steven barely said a word, listening to the gabbling the young woman went on to blabber about something or another, before threatening to throw him over the cliff for catching ‘a look’ he must have subliminally made at her. A wide grin slid past Steven’s lips, his fingers coiling around his combat knife wielded within his hand, as he looked to the young woman. “I wouldn’t go threatening me to begin with…” he said in quite a firm tone, not seeming as impressed with her as he first did, as he stabbed a piece of beef in the tin-can to draw to his lips. “You know, there’s some men out there that would do more then give you an admirable look. I would take it as a compliment, before I threw you off the cliff” he said quite stubbornly, giving her one firm stare, before taking another bite of his food.

Steven was obviously a little insulted by her boisterous remarks and threatening behaviour, he had little time for child’s games and people who held him in a bad esteem. Was it so wrong that he gave her a paused look? She had nothing to feel self-conscious about in his mind, neither anything to be rude about. The wandering thought of her standing up to a German soldier passing through her wouldn’t have gone smooth and he failed to see how she trusted him so quickly… Sure, he wasn’t going to do anything, but insulting someone like himself didn’t get you anywhere further into his good books.

Dropping the tin can down against a small rock by the campfire once he’d finished, Steven licked the blade clean and continued by wiping his lips across his tunic sleeve. The awkward silence for a moment had Steven cringing inside, wondering if she was like a kettle ready to burst, by being stubbornly stood up too, or whether she was actually lulling over a bit of thought about what he said. Either way, he made himself busy and threw a few pieces of gear back into his backpack, not seeming like he wanted to stay around for long now she’d given him a stiffened lash of her sharp tongue. She quite obviously didn’t like the company and couldn’t stand someone even thinking about admiring her, so he felt the need to leave and abruptly climbed to his feet, sheathing his combat knife in the process.

“Well I guess it was a pleasure to meet you” he said with a sigh, brushing himself down to look at her, wondering if she was about to tackle him or clasp and kiss him farewell - he’d be dreaming. Leaning down to begin doing up his backpack, he tried to avoid giving her any eye contact, not really wanting to set her off on a goose chase of thinking he was looking at her in some abrupt way.

OOC: Sorry, don’t have a clue what to write and I feel our characters are pretty much voids, then magnets.

[Niamh Dunlevy]

He was like a young steer facing off against his arch rival, standing his ground and going on the defensive when the other calf made a move. That smart-looking grin of Steven's turned into a stubborn glare, his lips in an almost comical pout. Niamh frowned as the soldier threatened to throw her off the cliff in return, and she sighed somewhat tiredly. A few more bites of the beef ration were taken before she looked back up at her company.

"Y'know," the Pavee began, "I mean no throuble, sir. Noth hiththin' a nerve or anyt'ing - ath leasth, t'at wasn'th my inthenthion. I was justh thalkin' justh tho thalk; do ye know how ofthen I geth company? Hm? Almosth never. So please excuse me for bein' rude, sir, I respecth soldiers a loth, an' I don'th mean tho upseth 'em like I did wit' you."

What followed her words was an awkward silence. Steven seemed a little wary, or maybe Niamh was just misreading him and he was just mad. He dropped his empty tin by the rock he had been sitting (and then sliding down to lean) against, and his tongue ran over the blade of his knife, removing any juice left from his makeshift beef stew. Niamh's eyebrows went skyward; her Uncle Riordan had a habit of licking knives after they cut through something tasty, like a cake or a pie. Her lower lip turned slightly upward into a small smile, and Niamh quietly added, "Huh...you remind me o' someone when you do t'at."

Steven didn't seem to be listening. Instead, he busied himself with packing up and leaving, saying how he guessed it was a pleasure to meet the Pavee. At that moment, the young woman realized just how hard she had hit a nerve, and Niamh frowned again. He didn't make eye contact - the poor man was probably worried she'd bite his head off - and Niamh briskly stepped forward, grabbing Steven by the nearest wrist.

"Oi!" Niamh barked. "I said sorry, okay? Calm down, I'm noth shovin' ya off. 'Thwould be ruder t'en rude tho do so. Besides, ya still look thired, sith down for a lil' while, okay? I mean no harm."

A sudden, harsh snort caught her attention, and the Pavee's head snapped around. Drummer was neear the cliff, alert and stiff, ears swiveling wildly. His highly-held tail was whipping this way and that, and his eyes were fixed on the ground at the cliff's bottom. Years of being around horses immediately told Niamh something had sppoked him, and her frown deepened as she moved over to him, slightly concerned.

"Whath is ith, boy?" the woman asked, slowing as she approached her horse. "You see somet'ing?"

Drummer took a step forward, but then stepped back suddenly with a short squeal, surprised when a heavily-accented voice came out from below. The language was harsh and alien, and Niamh wondered what was going on down there. She slowly stepped forward, then got down on one knee, peering over the cliff.

"Whath t'e...."

There, at the foot of the cliff, a small rowboat was being pushed into the sandy shore by several men, a few staying in the boat. The harsh voices sounded almost soldier-like, and there was about six of them, a small knot forming in the Pavee's gut as the group came ashore.

[MSG. Steven J. McMillan]

Lugging the heavy backpack up to hang over his shoulder, Steven loosened the strap a little to gain some comfort from carrying the heavy gear and rolled his shoulder soon after to collapse the strap into place, hoping it’d rest within the groove of his collar-bone, as to prevent anymore sores erupting over the firm skin of his broad shoulder/s. What a nuisance they were, having sores on your shoulders, it was bad enough on the feet! Motioning his body forwards, hardly making a step away from the campfire, he felt his wrist being grabbed and almost instinctively, as if he was a war-mongrel, Steven’s hand snapped quickly to his hip, tightening a grip around his combat knife’s handle; Almost ready to unsheathe it…

Shivering coldly, Steven slowly looked to the young girl’s hand on his wrist and almost seemed to melt within, as he tried to recall the piece of emotion he was feeling? He couldn’t quite put his finger on it, wasn’t love, not at all, but a warmth that almost brought back a dozen lost memories within the caverns of his mind; Thoughts of when he used to hold his mother’s hand when crossing the roads and the few girlfriends he’d experienced within his rugged life, the feminine touch. Embarrassingly, Steven loosened his hand upon the grip to his combat knife, not knowing the last time he’d been physically touched by another human being. Thoughts of the tough struggles he’d endured with the Nazis in tight spots were the only times he could recall being physically touched, other then that, Steven was a rough diamond and the girl’s gentle touch had him speechless as to how to respond?

Before he could think of something constructive to say, the young girl’s horse reared up and caught both of their attentions, as the young woman abruptly let go of his wrist and approached the scene in which the horse was startling towards. Quietly, Steven rubbed his wrist a little, as if to try and get rid of the warm touch she’d put on him, knowing it was most probably he’s only weakness and he wasn’t about to give it away to anyone, if it could be helped. Seeing the moment as an opportunity to slowly walk away without the woman’s notice, Steven turned away and took a couple of steps into the direction in which he was first heading, knowing anymore time he spent around the dainty, but husk toned woman, would only demoralize his feelings all the more - Steven was a very lonely man, hardened by war. It seemed to be all he knew right about now.

As the soldier walked away slowly, shuffling the backpack against his back, he heard the young girl shriek a small cry of question, which had Steven stopping within his tracks, looking back curiously for a brief moment. Could he really leave her so easily? Obviously not, as he leant his body sideways, dropping the backpack from off his body to hit the dirt. His Thompson was hanging from his opposite arm, quite comfortably resting against his hip without a hitch; “What’s wrong?” Steven questioned worriedly, approaching the young woman’s position against the cliff-edge, not exactly making a low posture as he didn’t realise what may have been on the other end, until he strode up beside up, looking over for himself. “Holy --” he spurted out in shock, dropping down to his knee, noticing several men huddled around a row-boat, equipped with German rifles and a few holding MP40s; That were quite apparent to see from afar.

The men were plain clothed, their weapons only giving them away for visual judgement, until a few of them opened their gobs and spoke in the husk tone of the German language. “We need to go, right now!” Steven hissed out from between his teeth, trying not to speak too loudly as he placed a hand on the girl’s shoulder, dragging her away from the Cliffside, as if he was not about to take no for an answer, until; “Dort! Schauen Sie!”[/b] one of the men cried out to his comrades, pointing directly at them, alerting the others immediately as they pointed their weapons upwards to the cliff’s edge, one of the others yelling out - “Halt!”. The clumsy fools had compromised their mission already, if they were supposed to be spies. What on Earth were they doing with German weapons and speaking German!? Perhaps they were actually doing something else on the beach? Who knew, but all Steven did know, was that they wasn’t about to stay around and find-out.

Once again, Steven pulled at the young girl to get away from the cliff’s edge, but in doing so, the Germans noticed Steven’s Thompson hanging at his hip and immediately figured he was a soldier. BANG! one of the rifles blew open and a deafening crack zipped past the two on the cliff’s edge, narrowly missing the both of them, but a split second after, another rifle burst open and this time, the bugger had a luckier shot. THUMP! Steven’s body stumbled sideways, as blood splattered outwards against the young girl’s clothes, apparently showing that he’d been hit - “Oh fu--” Steven angrily spat out, not exactly feeling the pain just yet, but rather shock instead, as he stumbled forwards, clutching onto his left shoulder where the bullet had sped through the flesh, winding him.

“Move.. Move!” he yelled, dragging his feet across the dirt, ducking somewhat as yet more shots rang out overhead of their bodies. Steven’s shirt becoming blooded almost instantly, as he clutched to keep as much of his bodily fluids inside of him, not exactly knowing how bad his wound is…

OOC: Thought I would spice it up!

Translations:[/b]

Dort! Schauen Sie!
- Up there! Look!

[Niamh Dunlevy]

Translations

*Min'urt kadog! Gush siirt! = Now stone! Sit down!
TOARI NASDʹAISH!! = COME HERE!!

*This the command given to Drummer that tells him to be ready for action.

+++++++++++++++++++++++


"Ah!" cried Niamh as she was dragged away from the cliff side, a little too loud for the situation at hand. Those below turned their heads skyward, and barked out a sentence in a scratchy, rough language. Steven's pace quickened, and by then, Niamh was running along with him, trusting the soldier's judgment. Loyal as always, Drummer cantered after them, ears erect and body tense as he sensed the pair's fear.

BANG!

The sound of the gunshot caused Drummer to squeal, and he bolted forward as something whizzed by him. His owner pushed Steven roughly out of the horse's path, just another bullet fired off. Before Niamh could even blink, something red flew out from the man's shoulder, and he yelped as blood stained the Pavee's clothes. With a small cry, she stumbled forward, the burly soldier nearly dragging her down along with him.

"Move.... Move!" cried Steven, clutching at his wounds, face tight with pain. His was now dragging his feet along the ground, struggling to stay standing. Niamh, not wanting him to fall victim to the gun-toting men behind them, grabbed him arm and began dragging him along. She grunted, putting two fingers in her mouth, and whistling sharply.

"DRUMMER!" the woman yelled. "TOARI NASDʹAISH!![/b]"

Drummer ran forward a few more metres, but then stopped and spun around, nostrils flaring. He ran toward Niamh, who promptly yanked Steven to the side allowing Drummer to pull up beside the pair. Niamh loudly barked, "Min'urt kadog! Gush siirt!" and the stallion's legs folded. Hastily, the horse eased itself onto the ground, just as the shouts from the men below became closer.

"Geth on, ye bloody gith!" snapped Niamh, practically shoving Steven onto her horse. Once she had helped him get on right, Niamh barked the word, "Up!" and the horse did so. Deciding she could come back later to get her belongings, she grabbed her horse's neck, and jumped upwards. Hefting herself onto her horse, the woman spun around as fast as she could, all the while shaking her dark jacket off.

"You'll be fine!" the woman practically screamed. Her fingers worked frantically at turning her coat into a bandage, a hastily done, semi-loose knot soon made over Steven's wound. "I swear to the almighthy God, you'll be fine!"

Once she had made sure the coat-bandage was tight enough, Niamh swung back around, yelling, "'OLD ON!" Grasping her horse's black and white mane like reins, she kicked her horse's side, and he immediately began to speed off. Niamh balanced herself as best she could, her strong legs gripping her horse's sides tightly.