Al leaned back to a roaring chorus of “Happy Birthday” that was anything but musical. Although he enjoyed the spectacle of it all, he refused to get close enough to the flames to blow out the candles. He made Olly do it for him.

“Shame to let all this cake go to waste,” Olly said trying to force a plate in front of Al, while Ms. Dagmar began to cut the cake. 

“Oh, no you don’t. You know damn well I don’t eat that shit,” Al warned, sensing what was coming. 

“Aww, c’mon Al, I’ve never seen you eat anything besides pickled eggs,” said Wen, the freckled girl sitting next to him.

“Das right,” Al chugged the last of his beer, “an’ ya never will!”

“Oh yeaaahhhh?” Olly grinned.

“Don’t you dare!” the words were hardly out of Al’s mouth before Olly was shoving and splattering cake all over the birthday boy’s face.

“You son of a bitch!” Al punched him square in the jaw, while Olly grabbed a handful of his hair, ready to yank him down to the floor.

“I beg your pardon?!” a stern Dagmar Smith stood with her hands on her hips.

Olly’s foster mother wasn’t particularly tall, but none could be more intimidating, especially with a knife in her had. Both shrunk beneath her gaze, and with that, the potential bar fight ended before it had even started. 

“Bwahahaha!” Brennen and Astrid Smith emerged from behind the counter, laughing at the two young men now with tails tucked between their legs.

“Humph!” Ms. Dagmar nodded curtly as she passed them. 

“That’s my rose, my sweet angel, my delicate flow-”

“Dad, stop, please,” Astrid rolled her eyes, “My ears are bleeding. Ugh!”

“So how old are ye this year young Mr. Dirk? Thirty-five? Forty maybe?”

Alistair, who didn’t look a day over sixteen, rolled his eyes, “Twenty-nine.”

“Right then! Twenty-nine pickled eggs commin’ right up!”

Astrid plopped down next to Earnie Wren just in time to get blasted by a billowing cloud of vapor escaping Al’s lips.

“Gack! Gross Dude!”

“Blegh!” Earnie agreed, “What do you have in there?! Rotten fish oil? Isn’t the whole point of those things is that they smell better than cigarettes?!”

“Not for everyone,” Al pursed his lips and looked down at the odd-looking vaporizer rolling between is fingers, “Some people use ‘em to try n’ quit smoking, y’know.”

“Oh, come off it Al!” Wen Duffy piped up next to him, “I’ve never seen you smoke a cigarette in my whole goddamn life!”

“Well, that's ‘cuz I don’t smoke,” Al grinned his trademark creepy grin, cake and icing still crusted on half of his face. 

“Bah! Can someone get us another round if we’re to put up with all these devil women harassing us!” Olly hollered to no one in particular. 

The town was much bigger, and busier, than Sabre had expected. She even found herself turned around several times. Though, she always managed to make her way back to the main thoroughfare, creatively named “Main Street.” The hours flew by as she popped in and out of shops. The only place she really spent any time in was the bookstore, and the tea shop next door called “The Fairy Wren.” While there, a boy that looked to be about her age, stopped dead in his tracks to gawk at her. Then put on a polite face and handed her a folded-up brochure from the magazine rack. 

Well, at least Sabre was happy to have a map. She continued her exploration until she reached where the road slowly turned from cobblestone to gravel and mud, sloping sharply down toward a bustling marina. She paused at the last shop and looked up. 

“Al’s Oddities & Curiosities,” she read outload. 

The tall but run-down building had all manner of bizarre antiques and useless junk strewn about the window display. When she reached for the door, she saw a sign written sloppily 'Closed for Birthday.'

“Heh,” she laughed ironically, “Oh well.”

She briefly toyed with the idea of going further to check out the docks but decided against it, as it was growing colder by the minute. Time had flown by, and she assumed the two Sisters would be waiting up on her. A few blocks back up Main Street, on the opposite side of the road, was the bar, “Brennen’s.” She swung open the door. 

The moment she crossed the threshold into Brennen’s, Sabre was accosted with a cacophony of loud fiddle music, jeering and laughter, glasses and dishes clinking and clanking. She recognized the band, Flogging Molly, that was playing on a juke box. 

This building is more alive than I am, Sabre thought listlessly. 

She stood a moment to take it all in. There was a long bar top with one of those clunky computer consoles with dumb bar games on each end. To her right was a room with several billiard tables and dart boards, along with some other kind of game table covered with fine sand and a sort of puck. Just to the left of the entrance was a sprawling screened-in patio that was clearly for old men to smoke cigars and pretend they were not playing cards. 

She wondered is gambling was illegal here too. Her thoughts were interrupted when it suddenly seemed as though a fight was about to break out at the furthest table in the corner. 

Over a cake of all things? She heard yelling, between someone and a guy named ‘Olly,’ but the ruckus died down as quickly as it had started. Sabre searched the bar for an open seat. 

A good place to make friends indeed, Sabre snorted at Sister Tulla’s advice and wondered if the sweet little nun had ever even been inside this place.

Sabre found herself in the only unoccupied seat, square in front of one of the video game terminals. She hated it. Every inch of the pixelated touchscreen made her burn with anger and frustration. But before she had the chance to give into the urge to shatter the glowing mockery the life she'd lived up until six months ago, a huge man with a ruddy red beard slammed his heavy paws down in front of her.

“And what can I get for you, my exotic blooming Iris?” he wiggled his eyebrows.

“Uh...”

“Don’t mind him, dearie” and older lady, built like a tank, with a crooked nose, and burnt, frizzy hair, smacked the man in the back of the head as she passed behind him with an armful of dirty dishes.

“Yes, my dearest, of course! Where are my manners? Let’s start ya’ with a drink! Sumthin’ in yer eyes looks like you could use a stiff one, eh?”

“Um... yes, a drink,” Sabre looked desperately for a menu, but was exasperated to find none, “I’m sorry. I... What is the legal drinking age in Scotland?” 

“That’ll eighteen my dear, but y’know,” he said with a wink, “it can be lowered if ya order somithin’ eat too.” 

“Oh, well, I'm eighteen today so... um then I guess a white wine, maybe a Reisling?” 

“Aye... uh,” the hefty man scratched the back if his head, “best I could do is Lambic.”

“Um sure, that’ll work,” Sabre had no idea what a Lambic was. 

He quickly returned with what looked like a small dark green champagne bottle, and a tall thin glass, “Birthdays all around today! We’ll never make any money like this hahaha!”

“Oh, shove over ya’ big oaf,” the lady with the crooked nose had returned with renewed vigor, “You’re always lookin’ for an excuse to be giving hand-outs! Go make yourself useful in the kitchen!”

With a tip of his imaginary hat, toward Sabre and then the woman she could only assume was his wife, he stealthily disappeared into the back. The woman regarded her for a moment.

“Sabre MacGregor, is assume?”

Sabre choked on her first sip of the sweet beer she’d been offered. 

“Oh, don’t be startled love, Sister Tulla rang us this morning and told us she'd set a lost little rabbit free in town.”

When Sabre thought of herself, the phrase “lost little rabbit” was the least analogous animal to her character that she could think of. If only these people knew the wolf she was in disguise, the things she was capable of doing... the things she had done. Would they still be so eager to help her?

“Seeing as how introductions are in order, I’m Dagmar Smith. My good-for-nuthin' husband over there run this here pub with our daughter Astrid, and our boy Oliver,” she motioned toward the table packed with a group of young people, rolling her eyes and making her wrinkles even more animated, “Boy, that one’s a handful... Anyways! Enough about us, what about you lass?”

“What about me...?” Sabre was reserved, unaware of where this conversation was leading. 

“Lookin’ for a room to rent I assume? If you intend on staying more than a fortnight, hm?”

“I guess... I suppose I am,” Sabre took another sip. She had no idea what a fortnight was, but she had the clear impression that she was wearing out her welcome at the mission. 

She mentally took stock of the money she had on her pre-payed card. Months before, in a locker, at the airport, her mother had left her plenty of money, but it would not last forever. She would need a job too, eventually. But... she didn’t have any sort of plan at all. She no place else to go, no family, and her only means of making money had just been made illeagal for her. Sabre sighed. She supposed she’d be stuck here for now. She drained her glass, taking a second to wallow in her own misery.

“I know just the thing!” for such a large man, Brennen seemed to be able to pop up out of nowhere.

“I am hesitant to ask your solution to the problem Bren,” his wife cautiously retorted.

“Sabre, am I right?!”

She was genuinely surprised at their ability to pronounce her name properly. And she supposed it showed judging from Brennen’s quick retort.

“Aye then, poor lass, did ya’ think you’d found yourself in some back-water fishy town full of uneducated hicks and simple folk?”

“Oh, um, n-no,” Sabre sputtered, lying through her teeth, “Not at all, sir.”

“Bahahahaha!” Brennen exclaimed, slapping the bar top so hard it shook every glass perched along it, “Well you’re right! Hahaha!”

What a boisterous character, Sabre stared, cautiously, unsure of how to deal with such a forward person.

“Sharp as the blade you were named for, I can see,” he said twirling his finger through his beard, “And wary too, I bet.”

He wasn’t wrong.

“Well, I doubt the Duffy’s or the Price’s will take ya’ in, though they have the room, the cheap bastards-” 

He was cut off sharply by a firm elbow to the gut from his wife, whom Sabre was becoming increasingly fond of.

Someone from the far table in the corner called for another round of drinks, and Ms. Dagmar bustled off to the tap to fill pint glasses. Mr. Brennen leaned in close, glancing back at his dearly beloved wife, as if to making sure she wasn’t listening. 

“How’s about this. There’s another birthday celebration going on here,” he said in hushed tone, Sabre had noticed, “Al Dirk’s the birthday boy there, and he’s always on the hunt for some spare coin, anyway he can get it. Plus, I know for a fact he’s got an empty appartement above his shop. What say I introduce the two blades in this place and see-”

“Bennen Amos Smith!” Ms. Dagmar to appeared out of nowhere, just as stealthily as her spouse, to grab her husband by the ear, “Don’t you dare send that little rabbit into the fox’s den!” 

“B-but my dearest! My love!” he protested as he was dragged off, “Al is harmless!”

“Says YOU!” 

“And he’s in such good spirits besides! It’d be the perfect- OW! The perfect opportunity to get him some new company!” 

“Not another word! Get BACK to work!”

With that, the proprietors disappeared, leaving Sabre to enjoy her drink, which magically kept refilling itself without request. She continued to observe the increasingly raucous group as it relocated to the smokey billiard room, zeroing in on a sickly pallid young man with stringy black hair, mischievous green eyes, and an unnervingly wide smile.

Al Dirk... hm, she thought to herself.