November 22nd Approximately Noon
Hill of Tara - Ireland

James was partially excited and hoping that he had found a solid lead.  The books he bought from Borgins and Burke indicated that some novice potioneer was experimenting with variations on veritaserum when an accident caused the potion to drench a muggle ruler’s sword.  The sword got named "The Answerer" after that because when people got close enough to the sword, they were unable to lie.  After that, the sword was passed on for a few generations it wound up being buried with some guy named Conn.  While James was not one to really care for archaeology, James did not have a hard time figuring out the obvious value of the sword.  ’An infinite well of veritaserum, if the legend is true’ James thought to himself.

That was what brought him here, to muggle Ireland.  Tara was easy enough to find, there was the group of protestors trying to prevent something called an EMM-Three from being built.  That was not the problem.  The problem was that the roads to Tara had either been overgrown or the muggles had built on top of it.  As such, he was currently looking for a road to Tara, and would then check the ground for signs of burials.  Apparently he had been buried in some form of earthen and stone tomb, and James had already checked the rocks and earthworks in Tara itself.   As much as James liked learning about a bunch of dead people, he really just wanted to get the sword and head back to Gringotts.  While he understood the value of what he was doing, he did not understand why his family did not send his Ravenclaw brother who actually liked history and other cures for insomnia.

Sighing, he continued to check the ground for signs it had been trampled over a number of times but the Emerald Isle was too #%@#$%@ green.  He doubted he would find any unmaintained roads older than a decade at the most.  James wanted to try a point me spell, but he was in the middle of a muggle tourist sight, and looked decidedly out of place.  He did not want to attract more attention to himself, and he certainly did not want to use magic when so many muggles were about. 

Wondering if he should take the time to go back into the Wizarding World to find a tour guide, he decided against it.  Not only would he have to answer what he was looking for, he would probably have to deal with even more people looking for the sword.  Though the value was obvious, the location was not.  James was fairly certain that was the only reason some family had not yet placed it in their Gringotts vault. 

He was about to look for the umpteenth time when he noticed an old man.  While he did know him that well, he did recognize him as a peddler from a number of the towns the Tornadoes had visited.   The man looked like he was old enough to know if a route had changed.  Deciding it could not hurt to ask, James turned to the old man and said,

“Do you know where the road to Tara was?” placing emphasis on the past tense.

No doubt, Deaglan McDonough was also a bit out of place, though for very different reasons than the younger wizard.  But, unlike James, it was his out-of-placeness that Deaglan sought to capitalize on.  Even though the typical grey, wet Irish winter was setting in, a steady supply of tourists were still dotting the landscape.  These tourists were a healthy source of revenue for the paarttime wandmaker, parttime wood carver. 

The hillside was sprinkled with its usual peculiar mixture of pilgrimaging pagans, history buffs and world travelers all who hoped to find some true Celtic heritage in the area.  To the last two groups, the stone-walled crypts, tall stone pillars and smooth, clean hilltops were an intriguing peculiarity, to the first, it was a place of solemn importance.  To each of the groups, the ninety-three year old man was as much a part of the Real Celtic Experience as the music-filled pubs and the cold, damp mist that covered the hills each morning. 

The bay gypsy cob mare was tethered along the side of the wagon, continuing to happily grab up mouthfuls of the lush, green grass.  She, more than any of them was grateful for the abudance of green.  The heavy hand of winter was well on the way to closing around northern Scotland when Deaglan had set the mare heading South from Hogsmeade.  Still none-too-interested in grass, the mare's spotted colt lingered nearby, occasionally driven by its insatiable curiosity to investigate the occasional flowery sweater or faux-fur coat lining of an unsuspecting tourist.  Grazing had been scarce until they'd reached Ireland.  One of the few luxuries of magic Deaglan took full advantage of, travel between the two British Isles was much simpler for him than it was for his fellow muggle Pavees.  He, along with the wagon, dog and mare had arrived in Dublin a few days ago and were casually making their way northwest.

With just a quick stop near Navan to make a few quick sales. 

A small folding table was set up on the side of the highway, just out the back of the round-topped, wooden wagon.  A variety of hand-carved, wooden wares were arranged across the surface of the table: wooden serving utensils, a hand-carved, celtic-themed chess set, bodhrans and tippers as well as simple though surprisingly lucrative hair sticks.  Deaglan's first and foremost passion was wand crafting even though his reputation as a an old Pavee wizard limited his market.  Selling wood crafts to muggles (and the occasional witch or wizard) represented the majority of his income. 

"Now, me fair colleen, those salad spoons have already been seasoned but they tend to dry out during long flights."  Through decades of experience, Deaglan had learned there was no better way to seal a sale than to call overworked, stressed American mothers fair colleens.  "I'd recommend giving them a good rub down with some light oil when you get home.  Food grade, obviously.  Almond's ideal but olive will work in a pinch.  No corn oil though.  Those aren't Idaho crafted."  Or Ohio.  Or Iowa.  Wherever the corn came from. 

A few Euros exchanged hands and the woman got back in her car, tucking the 'authentic Irish salad spoons' in her roller bag before driving off.  The approaching wizard crossing the grass stood out much in the way only wizards could.  "If yer on the no-sale list, I can't help you," he offered preemptively.  Due to his lack of a proper shop, ex-Azzies frequently tried to appoach him, especially when he was away from London, in hopes of getting a wand. 

"Not unless you've got - Tara?"  The fellow's question wasn't typical and gave Deaglan pause for thought.  Assuming it was the usually question from a tourist, he glanced up from rearranging the utensils to feel the gap left by the last sale.  "Depends on what you call Tara.  The tourist books would say you're there already.  But, they tend to call everything Kells and Drumree Tara." 

As James heard that they tend to call everything Kells and Drumree Tara he inwardly cursed.  ‘Great.  For all I know this could be the wrong Tara,’ James thought to himself.  Not looking forward to a prospect of searching the emerald Isle by himself, he decided to see if he could not pump the old man for some more information. 

“Ah.  Perhaps you can help me then.  I am looking for a burial site of a particular muggle King.  I believe he is called Conn of the Herded Addlers or something similar…the pronunciation/translation I got was sketchy, so that might not be the exact name.  All I know for certain was that he was a muggle king of some importance and was buried on the road to Tara, not Tara itself.  I am assuming this is Tara – though I could be completely wrong,” James politely asked the man, hoping that the traveler would give him a useful answer .

James did realize that he was trying to get something for free.  He pondered for a couple of seconds if a slipped galleon or sickle might speed this process up, but decided to wait before he actually spent any coin.  As he waited for the old man to respond he noticed the shop contained lots of trinkets made primarily of wood.  Remembering that the guy mentioned something about a no-sale list James inwardly shuttered.  He would probably go insane if no one offered to sell him a broom.  He (and any other number of squibs) could get by without a wand, but James was pretty sure he would not want to live in a world where he could not fly. 

Taking note of all of the trinkets in the stall and how much of it seemed to be made of wood, James asked the peddler, “Is all of your woodwork mundane, or do you do stuff that is more magical?” with a curious expression upon his face.   James had always wanted to make his own broom, and it seemed that the guy in front of him might be a good source of information.  If nothing else, James was willing to gamble that the man in front of him knew enough about wood crafting.  James was hoping he would know enough about the charms and enchanting, but James figured he could hire someone to teach him those things. 

As he thought of magic, he also wondered if the peddler used magical tools in his craft.   It would not be unheard of for a squib to take advantage of various advantages the wizarding world gave them and then proceed to make their fortune in the muggle world.  Though James thought that was slightly distasteful, he guessed life was like a quidditch match: if the referee (or the ministry) did not see it, no foul was committed.  Though the man in front of him did not look like he was making a fortune, James had long ago learned that appearances could be deceiving.  For all he knew, this could be some wealthy wizards retirement project   cure for boredom.

There had been truth to the old man's words, though, like most questions, there were lots of answers that could be deemed 'the truth.'  Deaglan had chosen to provide the stranger with a particularly narrow and vague answer.  But, given the man's out-of-place appearance, Deaglan assumed the question wasn't the curious query of the lost tourist who needed to see all the sights.  Either the young man would take the answer at face value and move on his way or the exact whereabouts of Tara would prove important enough for the man to pursue further. 

In the end, Deaglan was far from disappointed.  The elaboration the stranger provided to pique the old man's curiosity even if it made him scowl in a moment of confusion.  "Herded Adlers?" he repeated, for a moment trying to gauge if the fellow was pulling his leg.  It happened sometimes.  Someone would 'make up' a legend in hopes of catching 'the old storyteller' off guard.  If it weren't for the name 'Conn,' Deaglan would have likely written the fellow off as just peculiar. 

"Conn," he repeated, his eyebrows arched curiously as he let the name move over his tongue.  A fallen king of old, buried in this region named Conn?  "Conn Ced-Cathach?" Deaglan asked, watching the fellow for verification.  It made sense.  Conn of the Hundred Battles might have been misinterpreted as ... Conn of the Herded Addlers.  Whatever Addlers were supposed to be.  "From the second century?" 

Now that the who and the what had been identified, one question seemed all the more important: why.  Quite clearly, as evidenced by the use of the term 'muggle,' the man wasn't a muggle himself.  What interest would a wizard have with an old Celtic king?  As far as Deaglan understood, the old king had been muggle though, back in the days before Christianity had taken hold in the Isles, those with magic moved freely amongst those without.  The king, undoubtedly, had had a court magician in his employ.  "What brings a British wizard seeking our old king?" 

A young woman approached the table, drawing the old man's attention away from the wizard.  She looked to be a college student - perhaps, on a quick tour of Europe or perhaps over here for a year of study.  She was searching the wares, her eyes clearly lingering on one of the painted bodhrans.  "Ever played one, miss?" he asked, picking up the instrument and gave it a few casual beats.  His attention fully diverted from the wizard to the sale, he ducked around the table, slipping the drum over the young woman's hand and giving her a brief, encouraging demonstration.  "Moving your hand across the inside of the skin changes the tone - gives it that almost musical quality.  Only forty euros - fifty with a tipper." 

The sale completed and the girl at a safe enough distance, Deaglan turned back to the other wizard as he tucked the fifty euros into a small box.  "The mundane stuff's the money maker.  The market's bigger.  But, I'm first and foremost a wand crafter.  I've got a fairly ... select clientele in that market."  With now two shop-based wandmakers in London, most of his wand customers were repeat business; new customers were extremely few and far between.

"From the second century?" the peddler asked. 

“Yes, that would fit.  I dug up a cross-reference pointing the Annals of Four masters, which would match the time period,” James confirmed the old man’s suspicion. 

The old wizard then asked the obvious question.  "What brings a British wizard seeking our old king?" 

James knew that this question would probably be brought up, but he did not think he would have to deal with a wizard when answering it.  He had an appropriate mundane response, but James knew his poker face could not fool a toddler.  Taking a deep breath, he decided to give a truthful answer, leaving out that entire mess about it being doused with veritaserum variations.

“Legends say he had a magic sword.  I found a couple of other sources that would lend credence to that legend.  As near as I can tell, Conn was buried with his magic sword and it has not re-appeared since. I am trying to prevent the sword from falling into mundane hands, so I figured his tomb would be the first place to look,” James explained. 

After handling the euros, the older wizard turned back to James and explained how his clientele and selection worked.  James did not come here for a wand, but he could see the point in having a second one.  The more James thought about it, the better the idea sounded.  James knew Knockturn was not the best place to spend most of his time.  However, James would not quit going there unless Cinaed changed the shepherd pie recipe.  While he might offer the wizard in front of him a commission at a later date, right now he wanted to focus on the sword.

“Hmm…I might have need of that service later.  Actually, I will need that service later.  The wizarding world has gotten rough recently, and werewolves are running around like school children these days…completely unsupervised and unchecked.  Could you make a wand that makes it significantly easier to transfigure things into silver or conjure silver objects?  Actually –scratch that.  We will have to discuss that later.  Nothing personal, I just do not want to make a second trip to Ireland in the near future,” James thought aloud.

He was slowly beginning to get a feel that maybe the peddler actually needed to sell his wears, judging by how quickly his attention was taken away by a potential customer.  James was now wondering if a bribe would be well received, and how much should he should give the man.  James had five galleons & a few sickles on him, but he did not know how well that translated into muggle currency.  James was also wondering if he could convince the older wizard to share his knowledge about the magical properties of various trees.  Right now though, James needed to get back to the task at hand.

“I don’t suppose you know where I should start looking?” James asked the gentleman, trying to keep himself focused.

"Can I offer you some tea, lad," Deaglan offered as it started to become clear this wasn't going to be a simple, fleeting question.  "Or some Irish coffee.  There's not much more to be done with the morning's old coffee.  Sure not good for drinking straight." 

At least, that was the reasoning that always seemed to work for Deaglan.  It was worked well for over sixty years on the road. 

The current trickle of tourists seems seems to have come to a brief lull.  After a precautionary glance around, Deaglan tugged out a long, well-worn, slender yellow-wooded wand and gave it a slight flicker.  The various wooden wares sprang up on end and shuffled into small boxes and crates which all marched promptly into their respective cupboards and nooks inside the wagon.  "Legends say lots of things," Deaglan pointed out as he tugged off his wool-lined boots and followed the crates into the wagon.  He gestured towards one of the benches, inviting the fellow to sit.

"All the Kings of old had swords, of course.  Most boasted magical powers.  Even muggles remember that.  Takes a goblin sword to penetrate a rock, that's for sure."  It was a mystery why, over the centuries, muggles had awarded the goblin's metalworking accomplishments to their versions of elves.  Or in this king's case, fairies.  "It might have been buried with him, or it might have been passed on to to his surviving son.  Or, it might have been taken by his victor when he was slain.  Even if a sword was buried with him, you have no way of knowing if that was the one."

Unless one tried to use it. 

Suspicion crossed Deaglan's features as he looked down at the fellow.  If he was following this conversation properly, this wizard was seeking treasure.  "So, you're looking to steal from our king's tomb?  You're a grave robber?"  Of course, Deaglan held no personal loyalty to a sovereign who'd been dead almost two millenia  but it was more the historic principle of it.  "I know exactly where Conn Cétchathach's tomb is.  However, I'm not exactly keen on disturbing an old man's rest.   Why are you seeking the sword?"

 “Tea would be fine.  I think its still a bit too early to start drinking,” James commented in response to the old man’s offer of Irish coffee.  Usually, James did not drink anything until sometime at or near sundown, or at least until after practice was over.  As it was, he mentally began calculating if he would have to drink a little bit more water to account for the caffeine content in the dried leaves. 

Following the invitation to sit, and the brief explanation how most ancient Kings had magic swords, James did his level best not to role his eyes.  ‘No !@%.  What divine piece of insight are you going to grant me next?  Tell me that hippogriffs can fly,’ James sarcastically thought.  Fortunately, he was able to hold his tongue long enough to respond to Deaglan’s comment about the sword being patrilineal. 

“Near as I can tell, the first person to have it was Manannán of the Sea, if the translation is correct.  As I said before, Conn was the last one known to have it,” James commented off hand.  James was surprised by how hostile the man was becoming.

"I know exactly where Conn Cétchathach's tomb is.  However, I'm not exactly keen on disturbing an old man's rest.   Why are you seeking the sword?"

Ah.  So the old man thought he was a grave robber.  James really had no great moral qualms about stealing from the dead, but James did not exactly make a living out of it either.  Still, now thought James would be a good time to offer him something tangible for the old man’s efforts.
 
“I have no use for a dead king’s gold.  If you want, I can pay you for the time…either through Gringotts or through barter - whichever you prefer.  As I stated before, I believe the sword is magical and I am trying to keep it out of mundane hands.  As much as I do not like the ministry, they are correct in keeping our worlds separate.  Ordinarily, I would just write a letter to the Misuse of Magical Artifacts department, but I did not feel like finding out which person I would need to bribe in order for them to actually do their job,” James snarled, wondering if he over did it a little.  He idly wondered if he had been hanging around Cinaed too much, since James knew the bearded man hated the ministry more than enemas. 

Crossing his arms in front of his chest and standing up, James tried to keep a neutral expression on his face.  He clenched his right arm a few times, and took a couple of deep breaths.  Sitting back down, James looked at the man.  He knew he needed to stay calm, but being accused of being a grave robber made him a little hostile, even though that was exactly what he was doing.

Deaglan gave a slight shrug of his shoulders as he poured two cups of tea.  One, he handed to James without any alterations.  He set a small, divided box with sugar on one side and powdered milk on the other on the countertop for him to doctor his tea as he saw fit.  With no source of refrigeration in the simple wagon, fresh cream was a bit of a luxury for the old man - and usually reserved for when he got tea in town.  His own cup was spiced with a small splash from a bottle.

"Legends get retold and retold through the generations.  Y'ever play that game, operator?  Well, no.  Suppose that's a muggle game.  Shame.  But, a message gets whispered to one person.  That person whispers it to the next 'til it goes through some twenty people or so.  What the last person says never matches what the first person says.  Legends are the same.  Except over millions of people and thousands of years.  I'm not saying your wrong.  There's, unfortunately, no way to know if you're right.  Or even if the magic in the sword is anything more than myth.  Could be just a piece of rusted metal by now." 

History was history.  Legend, legend.  It was there for people to reflect on the past.  Not to be used as a treasure map.  Deaglan certainly held no personal affection for the dead king but Conn Cétchathach was a piece of his history.  It was a matter of respect.  Despite the slight curiosity this tale might percolate. 

"I suppose I can see that argument."  Actually, that had been a blatant lie for the sake of civility.  Deaglan saw no benefit to the separation of their worlds.  Magic could, of course, provide many answers to the unique challenges he faced, such as refrigerating cream without electricity.  But, Deaglan chose to travel as freely between the magical and mundane worlds as he traveled between the Ireland and Great Britain.  He gave that particular law little regard; amongst fellow Travellers, he neither hid nor flaunted his magical ability.  He just merely lived his life.  However, this young lad was already proving edgy; he didn't appear to be an amusing partner to debate politics with. 

The man was clearly quick to annoy.  It was, therefore, the old man's usual dry tongue-in-cheek humor was probably not the best avenue to take but Deaglan was far too old and set in his ways to change course because of a young man's overeagerness.  "So, a sword that has lain where it has been for near two millenia needs you to come along right at this very moment to keep it safe from muggle hands?  Because, falling into these muggle hands might lead to something devastating.  Like being placed in a museum?"  Deaglan shrugged. 

James rolled his eyes at the old peddler.  Yes, he had heard that of rumour mills before, but books tended to write things down.  Given that he had problems with the translation of the original text, James was guessing that he did not need to particularly worry about that too much.  There were too many cross-references all pointing towards the same thing.

“True – rumour mills are notorious for exaggeration.  However, the sources I have are written – not oral.  I doubt the book decided it needed to exaggerate its contents.  Though you do have a point – I do not know if the sword has been displaced from the tomb.  All that being said, the sources I have all point to Conn's tomb as the last place it was known to be,” James said, keeping his tone rather neutral.  After hearing the peddlers comment about a museum, James held in a snort.  Like any magical artifact would ever be held in a mundane museum for a prolonged period of time. 

“Unless the muggles have come up with some explanation as to why something would be glowing in broad daylight – I think the sword would be replaced fairly quickly and a team of obliviators dispatched.  The sword has very little use otherwise.  It can cut through rock like most goblin weapons – but that is about it.  If you did not interact so frequently with muggles – I would even be tempted to leave it with you.  If I knew you were going to be this hostile about it – I would have asked someone else for help.  Actually, I did ask the ministry first but I was told that they would not help unless some gold fell into their lap,” James spoke in a manner that would make his lie believable.  The short truth was that James did want that sword, but saw no reason to let the old man know that.  He was also lying about the swords luminescence, but figured that once he found the tomb he could apparate back to it later. 

James could not help but wonder why this man was so against bothering a long-dead king.  He could understand respect for the dead, but James highly doubted that the king would rise up from the grave and start swinging his sword at the next person who disturbed his rest.  Figuring it could not hurt to ask, he questioned the gypsy if “Forgive me for being so blunt – but why are you so hesitant to give me directions or show me where this tomb is?  I sincerely doubt a dead king still needs a sword.   He fought his last battle years ago,” James asked the old man, wondering what he would say.

"Perhaps it's there, then.  Though, if it is indeed goblin made, I'd suspect they retrieved it many centuries ago.  They tend to do that." Deaglan conceded with a shrug.  Of course, this so-called written source was likely not be an original either.  Deaglan doubted the fellow was referring to a written source that was, indeed, two millenia old.  And, most written tombs were the transcriptions of oral.  But, it was unlikely Deaglan knew any better than James so he was content to leave it at that. 

With a shrug, Deaglan took another sip of his tea.  "Muggles have found explanations for stranger things.  But, if you're so certain that's what would happen should muggles find it, I admit I don't see the concern.  If the sword would just be returned by the Ministry if it fell into Muggle hands what's the harm in leaving it there?"  If the man was, indeed, truthful about wanting to find it to protect it from Muggles then that simply made no sense.  Thanks to their ever diligent Ministry, the sword's safety was ensured.  The fellow had said so himself. 

He was being hostile?  Simply by being curious about the man's motivations?  "Well, there's always still time to seek others if you grow wary of my hostility," Deaglan offered, a clear hint of humor to his voice.  "I'm sure there's plenty of other wizards who share my curiosity for old celtic legends.  And, who are far more willing to disturb an old man's rest without asking questions." 

"I suppose I don't share your concern for the safety of the sword," Deaglan offered, initially, in explanation.  "If it is, indeed, still there it seems it'll be just as safe for the next two thousand years as it was over the last two thousand years. And, I'd prefer not to disturb the rest of a fallen king."  After a moment's thought, he added, "I take it, you'd have no objections if I went and dug up your grandparents or great grandparents and took their wedding rings from their fingers.  By your reasoning, they have no further need for them, right?  It's not like they have to prove their love to anyone else anymore."

Unable to deny the point the peddler made about his grandparents, James struggled to come up with a suitable reply.  Unfortunately, his skill was with a broom, not in convincing suspicious peddlers about his motivations.  He decided to try some small talk.

“I guess you do have a point.  Though at this point I am sure his descendants have been through Europe enough that both of us could probably be related to him in some distant manner.  Kind of an interesting thing about genealogy, people all go to a single ancestor eventually,” James commented, not really thinking about his remark one way or the other.  He and six other pureblooded families had a common ancestor, it would not be too farfetched for him and this guy to share some distant relative, but James kept his mouth shut on the subject, not knowing if the man was sensitive about it one way or the other. 

“I wish I had as much faith in the ministry as you did.  As far as I know, most of their resources are being taken up by the recent rash of werewolf strikes,” James started, thinking once again of his rather strange encounter in broad daylight.  James decided that he had focused enough on the sword, and wondered if the man’s knowledge of the supernatural could help him on a different quest for information.

“I apologize once more for the change in subject, but have you ever heard of a werewolf that attacks in broad daylight?  I could probably use any information – legendary, exaggerated, or otherwise on those types of werewolves.  The reason I am asking is you seem well versed in lore, and though I hate to admit it I have heard nothing about them one way or the other.  I am almost willing to chalk it up to hallucination, but I lost someone fighting it,” James wondered why he was telling this to a complete stranger.  Wondering if he should be talking about this to Cinaed about this instead, James decided not to.  Though his favorite bar tender probably could offer advice, it just was not the kind of thing he talked to Cinaed about since it was completely apolitical. 

As James waited for the man to reply, he wondered if this was going to wind up being a lost cause.  He did not know if the sword was still in the tomb, he did not know if the sword was a functional well of veritaserum, and as of right now he did not even know where the tomb was located.  Wondering how he was going to get the conversation back on track, he decided to see how the man replied to his last comment. 

Deaglan expected the young man to grow even more frustrated with his old nonsense and get up and leave.  Certainly, the way his temper had been progressing before, it seemed a logical expectation.  It was surprising to find the young man not only remaining but acknowledging Deaglan's argument. 

"Ahh, perhaps," Deaglan conceded to his counter argument.  Though, in both of their cases chances were probably pretty slim.  Unless the poor old King had a number of illegitimate offspring floating around.  Which wasn't unlikely.  "Though, he is muggle-" which brought into question James' blood status.  "And, I'm Pavee.  I'm more likely to be related to his court magician.  Not that I believe there's a statute of limitations on respecting the dead.  Just because no one living can stand on the grave and defend their ancestor doesn't mean he's not worth defending." 

The old man's raspy laugh echoed in the wagon and he shook his head.  "Don't mistake presenting logic for faith in the Ministry," he offered with a slight grin.  "The Ministry and I share little faith in each other."  Of course, especially at ninety-some-odd years, Deaglan was hardly watched as a hardened criminal but he did have a bit of a file in the Ministry.  As did he have a bit of a criminal record in the muggle world.  Most of the charges were from years long past and referred to simple misdemeanors.  Nuisance charges.  Leaving his wagon double parked on a busy street in Dublin.  Loitering in a nice London suburb. 

"But, that whole werewolf thing - I admit that's got me a little jumpy.  It's been years since the thought of staying the night of the full mean at the Three Broomsticks has crossed my mind.  Usually, refraining from sleeping outside the vardo on full moons seems sufficient - nowadays, I find myself wondering if the thin plywood's enough."  Werewolves and full moons were particularly disconcerting to one who spent most of their life sleeping in the open. 

Werewolves attacking in broad daylight?  "Broad daylight?  Well - again, the line between myth and reality is a difficult one.  In Irish legend, the Ossorian werewolf had the ability to transform whenever he desired though this was a very different situation than what we know of as werewolves.  Their bodies didn't transform - their soul or spirit assumed the form of a normal wolf while their body remained in a comatose state.  But, these creatures were benevolent not malicious.  But, I've never heard of any evidence in the muggle or wizarding world of such beings existing."  How much of a help that response was, Deaglan didn't know.  But, it was all the information he had to offer.  "There was a werewolf attack during daytime hours?"

James was surprised at the old man’s raspy laugh.  Apparently he did not get along with the ministry either, which James could see if he crossed the two worlds with such frequency.  Deciding the old man's business with the bureaucracy was probably of no consequence to him either way, James tried to think of a way to use these politics for his own gain.  Not really coming up with a viable plan one way or the other, James decided to discuss the werewolves, since it appeared the man had more interest in that particular subject.

“Yes.  Would not have believed it myself if I had not had been there.  It had an allergic reaction to a sickle and everything.  Effodio seemed to work well against it, but it turned tail and ran after getting hit with that.  Unfortunately, we lost one of our number before someone managed to hit it with that curse.  I have yet to hear of an investigation or anything else coming from the DMLE, so I think there is something rotten in the entire affair.  People just do not cast spells like that in broad daylight without someone noticing,” James commented.  James actually was partly relieved that the Aurors had not contacted him about the incident considering the spells he cast, but was fairly sure he could claim justifiable self defense.  Though the more he talked to this peddler, the more he was seeing Cinaed’s point of view.

As far as an Ossorian werewolf existing, James was skeptical though he realized the difference between legend and reality was always great.  James knew the werewolf he saw was malicious.  He doubted that Eudora was evil enough to cause a werewolf out of legend to pop into existence until she died, and then magically cause the werewolf to disappear back into legend.  James voiced his thoughts.

“I doubt the lady in question was evil enough to generate a benevolent werewolf out of legend just to kill her.  However, stranger things have happened.  Still, even for the wizarding world that makes absolutely no sense.  Then again, no one has ever accused magic of being logical.  I apologize – I am rambling,” James said.

Still wondering how he was going to get this conversation back on track, James wondered if he could somehow state that the weapon he was looking for would help him fend off werewolves.  James thought about that for a moment then discarded it.  A man who lived in travelling wagon would have far more motive and far more justification for keeping the sword.  Deciding that the werewolf tactic was his best option for now, he decided to repeat his previous question.  Though Ollivander spewed something about the wand choosing the wizard, James had his doubts about that.  James figured that it just took practice to use a different wand, just as getting peak performance out of a new broom took practice.

“Would you be able to make a wand that makes it easier to transfigure objects into silver?” James asked, wondering how the old man would respond. 

In reality, Deaglan was neither for nor against the Ministry.  He simply didn't give it enough thought for there to be any strong prevailing emotion one way or the other.  Indeed, as a wizard, he was subject to the jurisdiction of the Ministry of Magic.  But, when he crossed into the muggle world, he was, technically, under the jurisdiction of the settled people's government.  He learned to follow their rules to keep his freedom; but that was as far as his loyalties went. 

"That's disconcerting."  There wasn't any other word for it.  Werewolves attacking in broad daylight on the full moon.  "And, if it attacked, I'm assuming that means it hadn't been taking any wolfsbane.  Isn't the Ministry supervising that stuff?"  That stuff being werewolves and their regulation.  Not that Deaglan had any problem with the creatures as long as they kept their distance.  But, they posed a threat and they needed to be supervised and regulated.  Full moon nights were long enough without having to worry about whether attacks would come during the day.  "Never knew such a thing was possible.  It goes against all I know about the creatures.  And, they have no explanation?"   

Deaglan shook his head though the gesture was in agreement with the fellow.  "No - I doubt she was.  And, I doubt that was what it was.  That was just the only story I know about any such werewolves.  Shame about the woman, though.  Not a pleasant way to go." 

This was, definitely, proving to be a strange meeting.  The topic had somehow managed to move from digging up old kings to diurnal werewolves to using wands to make things into silver.  Not that Deaglan minded, it just wasn't the typical conversation he had with strangers.  "A little specific?"  Deaglan grinned during a moment of personal amusement as he shifted into a more comfortable position on the cushioned bench, taking a sip of his drink.  "Wandmaking's not an exact art.  You can make guesses but you never know what, exactly, the outcome will be until you've got the finished product in your hand.  The more specific the requirements, the harder it becomes.  Making a wand that's good at transfiguration is easier than making one that transfigures things into silver.  Likewise, making one that helps transfigure wood into, specifically, silver coins would be even harder.  I don't know of anyone who could claim that feat on the first try."  At least, not without without a few little ego-boosting white lies. 

"With time, yes, I think I could manage one.  Of course, custom making a wand isn't cheap, especially given how many trials it's likely to take.  Are you planning on this wand being a secondary or replacing your current wand?"

”And they have no explanation?” the old man asked him.  James could understand the skepticism.  He still was not completely sure he believed it himself, but James knew what he fought.

“Near as I can tell – no.  I would like to chalk it up to something as relatively harmless as a potion gone wrong, but the entire thing reeks.  There is also a rumour flying around that a Wizengamot elder was recently attacked by a werewolf as well.  There is something off about the entire situation, and I have the distinct feeling that I am going to be dragged into this more before I get out of it,” James replied to the old man’s query.

After the man elaborated on wandcraft, James was intrigued by the subject.  It sounded fascinating, and James would have liked to learn more, but James needed to put food in his stomach first.  Though James had time for a few things on the side; he doubted his ability to budget enough time to sleep, eat, work, and start learning a new craft.  It would be something to consider at a much later date if the wand maker was still around.  Right now though, James needed to focus on the present.

“The reason I am asking for a wand that would make it easier to transfigure objects into silver is because I want a weapon that can counter werewolves effectively.  I was also thinking of purchasing a silver spear or halberd and place a shrinking charm on it, but that would probably cost me a bit more than a second wand.  The fact that a wand has a large number of secondary uses as well is simply a bonus.  That said, if you have a better suggestion, I am all ears.  Do you have an estimate as too how long this would take, or is divination not your strong suit?” James asked the man, wondering what his response would be. 

If the old man said it would take awhile, James would try to switch the subject back to goblin made weaponry.  A goblin sword forged of silver would be an excellent defense against a werewolf, provided it was long enough.  James was confident that he had an angle to work with since it was doubtful the old man had the neccesary strength required to fence effectively.  Even if he could fence effectively against wizards, James doubted he could pull off the same trick against a werewolf.  Regardless if they found the sword or not, James still planned on commissioning a wand from the peddler.  James still wanted to find Fragarach, but doubted he would be telling the peddler anything remotely close to the truth.  Though it was possible the peddler could surprise him, James doubted that the old man would take to grave robbing so easily.  Especially since Deaglan had a large amount of loyalty to the dead person James wanted to rob.