A: Not telling.
D: It’s supposed to be me, isn’t it?
D: I’m not sure how I feel about this. Hey, wait, why do you look so. . . I don’t know. . .
A: Unhinged, crazed, ready to tear out my hair?
D: No, that seems normal for you. I was actually going to ask what was in your hair.
A: Oh, that. That’s a pencil.
D: And it’s in your hair because. . .
D: . . . Really?
A: Yup. I keep ‘em sharp, see. Sure, having one in my hair means I can hang up my hat as a pencil stealer, but D, they’re not just pencils. They’re mini implements of death.
D: . . .
A: I have the scars on the back of my head to prove it.
D: I’m surprised you’re allowed to leave the grounds of the asylum.
A: You and me both.
. . .The clanging of metal on metal overwhelmed Dubhal’s words. Bingham, taking advantage of the distraction, struck Dubhal’s sword with his own. Dubhal growled wordlessly but managed to retain his grip on the claymore.
“That woman is afraid to fight me, eh?” Bingham sneered, dancing lightly around Dubhal, taunting him with his blade. “Well, how about I just cut through each man she throws my way until she’s ready to fight? How many of you can there be?”
“How many of us are willing to fight for Grania Uaile?” Dubhal’s tone was amused and he gave Bingham a jaunty bow. “You may have to go through the breadth of Ireland to find out, m’lord. . .”
Many thanks to the child (hereafter known as TC) for putting up with me and posing for an impromptu photo shoot. TC isn’t D, but he does a pretty good job looking like a moody Druid in a hood. Thanks, kiddo! For more pictures from the shoot, visit the D/A Facebook page.