Wild Beings had hit a snag with their upcoming album, although it was admittedly a creatively difficult endeavor to undertake. They needed to match up music and mood styles with their content and make it their own interpretation; it was fun, but not really easy. But they needed new sources and they needed to refocus.
 
Shela and a few others had wandered off to investigate libraries and Naila wandered off to investigate people while simultaneously doing a favor for her previous Headmistress which was just a clever guise to catch up on her bareback flying of Abraxans.

Multiasking: an art form unto itself; Naila loved it as much as she loved music.

Even as she had been flying around in the drizzling Irish weather that week and searching for leads she was adding things to her todo list: Keep the Abraxan she had grown attatched to, convince Headimistress to let her keep said Abraxan, fix hair, find somewhere to eventually take a nap, and land alongside the wagon strolling across the valley.

As the light shower of the afternoon subsided for cold gusts of wind, Naila leaned back on the winged horse, with a grip on its mane, as it landed and then pulled herself forward to gallop next to the wagon. She relaxed and slowed the horse to a trot next to the wagon. With her goggles still over her eyes and holding her hood firmly in place she looked over at the thing, letting the wind bat at her blond bangs before she smiled.

"Have I happened upon a wandering wandmaker named Mr. McDonough?" she said firmly.

The last time he'd really been 'hip up on' popular music, the Beatles were the newest rage and Celestina Warbeck was still considered a dashing young thing. 

Not that she was no longer dashing...

Oh, Deaglan heard the names of bands and new rising stars everytime he found himself in town and, quite often, heard the tunes spilling out from some youngster's wireless or boom box.  His own tastes, however, usually ran at least a century older than the average modern musician's and, in most cases, older.  He preferred the musical tales of old - songs that told stories of mischievous young women who dressed like soldiers to one-up the army.  Or songs that simply spoke of the natural flow of the seasons.  The ninety-year-old wizard was pretty much now a casual observer to the trendy music scene. 

He certainly didn't recognize his young visitor on sight but there was no missing her arrival.  Bergin[1], Deaglan's leggy wirey-haired dog, had been curled up under the wagon, escaping the rain, when the massive Abraxan started it's descent upon the rise above the craggy runes of Ballycastle[2].  With a sharp bark, the dog scrambled out and trotted half the distance between the Deaglan's camp and the Abraxan, shadowing the animal as it trotted towards the wagon.  Both mare and colt looked up, curiously, at the sudden arrival but quickly turned back to their lazy grazing. 

Rainwater still dribbled from Deaglan's cap as he straightened up from tending the fire.  "That's a good question," he replied to the woman's greeting, an amused grin playing at his lips.  "I've been at this spot for near five days - so, perhaps, I'm more a stationary wandmaker now?  Are you in need of a wand?"  To be honest, he hoped not.  While he didn't necessarily approve of judging others, Deaglan was willing to bet she wasn't the type to bond well with his wands. 

1.	Lurcher, et al
2.	Landscape;  Location

She stroked her Abraxan's mane and steadied it to a stop, on the patches of grass and stone, as she listened to the wandmaker speak in the wading humidity and cold whisps of air. When Naila heard what she had hoped more, a smiled beamed from beneath her goggles.

The rider pulled her eye-ware down with a delightful shrug, "Not an offer I'm going to take you up on, dear," she  shook her blonde hair free of her hood with a with a sneaking smirk, "But I am looking to share the lighthearted company, of a particularly good weaver--." her hands, reaching into a bag slung along her side, wrapped around the neck of a bottle and raised it in front of her, showing  her companion the label; a bottle of single-malt whiskey, "--of tales between history, myth, and magic."

The whiskey was a substitute for Naila's charm, which she tried to resist employing in the presence of the sharper population of elder witches and wizards, but she couldn't hide what came out as the result of her bubbling amusement that she cleverly hid behind her smooth and husky voice, "I hear you indulge in the practice, Mr. McDonough." Her eyes glanced to the side, towards the dog, smile still on her face even though he was on the defense.

"I'd imagine not," Deaglan chuckled and shook his head.  It actually mattered little whether she was speaking figuratively or not.  Which, of course, didn't offer much insight into why she'd come seeking him.  The last time a wizard had sought him out for non-business related reasons, it was to gather information from him that would help the wizard defile the grave of one of their past kings. 

Deaglan had, politely, refused. 

Deaglan didn't mind sharing legends and tales - but, he no doubt did so to keep the oral history alive.  Not to make it easier for one to destroy history for their own personal gain. 

A grin twinkled in the man's eyes at the sight of the bottle of whiskey and he nodded.  "Of course," he offered before calling the dog to settle, again.  "I'd hardly be a proper celt, otherwise, would I?"  He considered the young woman for a moment before arching a curious eyebrow.  "And, Deaglan's just fine.  Though, I am at a bit of a disadvantage without either a given or Christian name." 

"And, it might be a bit warmer inside if you'd prefer.  The rain's liable to come back at anytime and the fire out here won't keep you wet if it's raining." 

"Piove sul Bagnato![1]" she smiled with an Italian chirp, "delightful idea," Naila slid off the tall creature with a solid thud, and settled him in before she batted her large blond locks behind her and stepped towards the older man.

"I'm a bit topsy turvy on the culture part, dear," She waved her hand dismissively as her blue eyes lazil rolled up at the sky, "Aunts with an inhuman passion for breaking hearts, another batch of relatives who think I'm a demonic siren... succubus.. whichever--but you can call me Naila," she leaned into a small bow as she held her hand out to Deaglan. But then she turned her head up, keeping her eyes trained on the wandmaker with a devilish grin, "But if you fall in with the latter group," she shrugged her gaze back at the man with pride, "consider me the prettiest dementor you'll ever meet."

1.	It rains on what is already wet, (too much of a good thing)

"Bin lar't ang lart."[1]  Deaglan was familiar with a number of languages - most of them native to the Celtic Isles.  Italian, alas, was not among them.  Luckily, he suspected she'd understand the Cant just as much as he understood Italian so any mismatch of communication would go unnoticed. 

After gathering a coal from the fire into a small cast iron pot, Deaglan mounted the trio of stairs and tugged the door to the vardo open and led the way inside.  With the help of the coal, a bright fire was crackling in the wagon's small cast iron stove within moments. 

"You've got veela?"  Deaglan asked, an obvious intrigue to his voice that went beyond simply looking for verification.  There was a reason Deaglan's wands were usually one of a kind - he had not consistent supplier.  He bartered and traded for materials wherever he went - his wands were often the product of some experimental pairing of magical material and whatever wood resonated too much to be used as simple salad spoons. 

With an amused chuckle, Deagan settled himself on one of the padded benches and gestured towards another.  The interior of the wagon was just as large - or small - as one might expect from looking at the outside.  Deaglan traveled with and entertained far too many muggle Travellers.  Enhancing the interior like so many wizarding tents would have been, in itself, a moving violation of the statute of secrecy.  And, as willing as he was to flaunt the letter of the law in most situations, he wasn't going to risk his wagon - and therefore his home and livelihood - being confiscated.

"Well, in the event I find myself in the presence of any succubi, like any good wizard, I keep my wand close at hand.  It's kept me safe enough this long." 

1.	Good health

Ah language, there was hardly any failure of communication if you just listened to the sincerity or tone in a person's voice, and she was sure, even though she didn't speak Celtic, that Deaglan McDonough had returned a welcoming greeting--and if he didn't then he was a damn good actor and she would have to get him for being so sneaky.

As she followed Deaglan her gaze surveyed the interior of the wagon, contemplative, critical, and questioning--she was actually just looking for something to pour the whiskey into, but was letting herself get distracted.

Then she arched an eyebrow in response to the wandmaker, "I'm half," she confirmed with a peaking curiosity in her amused tone. She continued to study the elder man, who sat down calmly, wondering why he perked up at the mention of her relation to other species.

But as he gestured to a seat Naila twisted her body to look around the wagon again, "So far?" She questioned with a smirk, "No stranger to trouble, then? Kept safe so far from what?" Naila loved a good tale: adventure, trouble, with a dash of complete disregard for any order or rules. The blond was hopeful that her aged companion had a nice history of them.

After a final turn of the small wagon, and having not figured out where the glasses could be at without rummaging through things she shouldn't, she lifted up her bottle of whiskey by the neck and then guiltily pursed her lips, "Do you mind, dear?"

There were, of course, plenty of rumors and tales out there of part-Veela and Deaglan knew a good number of them.  However, very few of their kind had ever really sought him out.  Especially since he'd passed the stage of life where he could be truthfully considered a young man.  As a general rule, guests didn't usually just happen upon him by chance - she likely had sought him out.  Which all left him even more curious now than before about the reasons behind this visit. 

"I'm sure you're aware of the recent disturbances."  Deaglan was, certainly, not stranger to trouble.  He was an outsider in every sense of the word but confident and content with his being on the outside.  Especially in his youth, that had brought about quite a bit of trouble. 

But, lately, the trouble had been darker - more unsettling.  "The full moon last month was a bit too exciting for comfort.  This wagon keeps the rain off but it won't exactly keep anyone out who's determined to get in.  You're actually safer staying outside - last thing you want is to get cornered.  We'd crossed the channel to England for the spring and had a few close calls.  Returned to Ireland the next day."  It had been a long night all around.  The howling had been relentless.  Bergin had paced all night. 

"Go right ahead," Deaglan invited as the young woman lifted the bottle. 

Naila got a few glasses and poured the whiskey and parked herself next to Deaglan, "Werewolves?" she smiled with amusement as she handed a glass to the wandmaker, "I haven't caught signs of any around here."

The blond witch took a sip of her drink before continuing, "Although I'll be damned if I had to travel by foot during these times of month," not even the daylight was safe anymore, "Seems you fared well though," she leaned back on the bench as she gestured a little, "I don't suppose you have any historical guesses or mythological knowledge on the chaos, as of late?," she looked over her glass as she readied to take another sip,"You can color me impressed if you do."

"There aren't many," Deaglan confirmed.  "Even fewer in Northern Ireland.  The need to find their way once a month to London makes living over here inconvenient for the registered lot.  They're around.  Just, not as common."  But, it really only took one, didn't it?  "Last month just seemed especially hairy." 

The rumors that had circulated in the days following the March full moon had only helped enhance the spookiness of his memories from that evening.  There'd been talk of faulty wolfsbane and abnormal werewolves and nothing seemed to make sense.  "Traveling by foot's about all I've got," Deaglan reminded the woman.  "It's my home and my livelihood.  Can't exactly hide up in a tree whenever there's a full moon." 

Deaglan took a sip of his drink and closed his eyes, the woman's question wafting through his thoughts.  After a few moments, his eyes fluttered open once more and his shook his head.  "There are, of course, countless legends about shapeshifters and lupine ones at that.  Transformations occurring only on the full moon seem to represent the minority of stories.  The oldest stories I know of, of the werewolves of Ossory here in Ireland, speak of transformations lasting seven years.  There seems to be as many theories about transformation as there are individual stories.

"The poor dears, the Ministry does have rather rigid requirements, I can only imagine it getting worse," she lifted her drink to her lips, "regrettably," then she took a sip of her drink.

"Sounds like you spend your time sorting through the Animagi and Transfigurers then," she regarded Deaglan with a bright, teasing smile, "An entertaining endeavor, I'm sure." Naila batted her hair back and adjusted herself into a more relaxed, leaning position as she gave the other man a mischievous look, "I don't suppose you've taken time to meet one, a werewolf of Ossory?" It was ever a cautious thing to do, to go between cultures of creatures, Naila herself knew that just from growing up with Veelas, and they weren't to keen on divulging every aspect of their culture, beyond what makes them a formidable foe, "Or do you even let yourself get so involved?"

Deaglan had never known what to think of the sort.  It was certainly unfortunate when someone was bitten and turned into these creatures.  As one who'd always lived on so little and such meager wages, Deaglan knew full well that one's own soul was really the only thing any man could count on owning.  The thought of losing that soul to whatever darkness there was in lycanthropy was a terrifying thought. 

But, werewolves were still terrifying.  He was certainly grateful that the bulk of them stuck close to London and the Ministry.  The mythology and legends of such shifting creatures might fill his mind with fascination and curiosity but the reality was a truly different beast. 

"I can't say that I have," Deaglan admitted.  "I couldn't even say for sure if the werewolf of Ossory was merely a legend or if it once existed and has sense perished.  Or, perhaps one resides amongst our common werewolves.  I've certainly never heard rumors of sightings of such a beast or even evidence of them.  Much like the legend of Fingal - perhaps there had been a giant who turned into a man.  Perhaps reality was misconstrued.  Sometimes, the magic is in not really knowing for sure."