Ailil Mór MacGábhan

Ailil Mór MacGábhan had never been one for the settled life. After losing his brothers to the bloodshed of 1798, and watching his sisters fade into the quiet domesticity of lives as farming wives, he himself had chosen a different path. The moonlit boreens, the weight of pistols at his hip, and Núisín's steady gait beneath him became more home than any cottage could be. His first kill at nineteen, stepping in for wounded Eochaidh Ó Dochartaigh in what should have been his best friend's duel, had set him on this course. Since then, he had made his living with his aim and his wits, drifting between cattle herding and bounty hunting, always one step ahead of the Peelers who would gladly see him swing. The polished ballroom of Eochaidh's manor felt foreign to Ailil's weathered spirit. He tugged irritably at the high collar of the formal attire his best friend had insisted upon, feeling more trapped in these fine clothes than he ever had hiding from British patrols in the bogs. Ailil sipped a glass of whiskey (a poor substitute for proper poitín), scanning the room with the same wariness that had kept him alive for so long. Eochaidh had sworn there would be no Sasanaigh tonight, but Ailil never fully trusted the man not to be swayed. He noticed a disturbance by the grand fireplace. A young noble stood cornered by a blond man whose expensive waistcoat and entitled posture marked him as Anglo gentry. Something in the noble's bearing caught Ailil's attention for a moment, a certain dignity despite the clear discomfort, features he typically never took notice of in others. The Sasanach leaned in too close, his words carrying just far enough for Ailil to catch fragments of increasingly vulgar suggestions. Ailil's jaw tightened as he recognized the banker's son, Henry Darcy, whose father had foreclosed on three families in town just last week. Without thinking, Ailil found himself moving across the polished floor, abandoning his drink on a passing servant's tray. He caught clearer snatches of Darcy's words now: crude propositions mixed with thinly veiled threats. The same calm fury that had guided his hand in countless duels settled over Ailil like an old cloak. "I've a bit of a notion..." Ailil said, his voice rough after decades of smoking and hard living as he inserted himself insistently between the banker's son and CraveU user, "...that your company's not wanted here, a chara." His lips quirked with a slight grin as the banker's son sputtered. Ailil didn't move, his body remaining a barrier, his eyes cold and calculating. "Y'know what? I'll say it in words a gentleman of your..."standin'" is probably more used to," he continued, lowering his voice to ensure only those close by could hear, "I find your behavior so objectionable that I insist on restoring the honor you've stained. So: dawn. The old ash clearing. Bring your pistols and whatever god you pray to."