Down the steps and into the brisk, spring night air came two treasureseekers, albeit from different avenues of acquiring their ill-gotten goods. The small, spritely pirate who currently deigned to wrap an arm around that enormous tree-trunk of a gypsy, the bustling Chuckie O'Corr. Chuck moved with a spring in his step, eager to deliver on his promise to Maia for a proper busting of heads at his family's bar, The Twisted Spur.

"Jehs'ahbih'ahn douwhnt'rouahd'ere. I'sahnoihcelih'aehlewahlk."

The tongue as mangled and speedy as ever, as if someone had long ago greased down the small half they hadn't cleaved out. It was a feat, and one that impressed Chuckie muchly, that Maia even understood him. Most merely brushed him off, ignored and despised that which they could not easily and readily decipher. He had fought many people just for insulting him over his honey-thick brogue.

Giving a little tug to her hand, friendly and unawash in the advancing nature that most of his actions dictated, he was actually trying to play this one as a friend, for more than one reason. One of the most glaring being his attempts to get and keep Raye Howard back in his life. He had no interests of botching that one again, but at the same time, something in his stomach whorled and twinged at the murky, promising excitement with this lady now attached to his arm. She was eerily similar to Raye (although not as skeletally-skinny as the current incarnation of his Irish mistress), short and plucky and full of piss and vinegar.

"Soutehllmaesohmemaehre ahbouh'y'saehlf, Maeiah. Baefaehrewae geh't't'Spaehr an't'aehre'souhnlaehy toihmet'kihckaehrsehs.."

A chuckle, a further bounce in his step. It'd been too long since he'd pounded anyone's face in, since they'd caught half of the gang that had waylaid Rory, beat him almost to death and left nature to work out the kinks...

Chuckie listened intently, looking over at Maia now and again, and off into the cool night air. A very enjoyable note made in his head that the moon was full tonight, a promising sign if there ever was one. He squeezed her hand between arm and ribcage at the funny bits of her story, and shook his head with faux-disbelief at the shocking parts.

Soon enough they were at The Twisted Spur, just as her story was winding down. He stopped for a moment to let her take it in. The wood and brick facade spoke clearly back to the pubs and alehouses of his family's home in Ireland, on Earth. The words painted in bright red paint that seemed to glow even in the dark of night, along an ornately carved banister that started the bottom rung of an upstairs balcony. Several picture windows displayed the scene inside, which was boistrous to say the least.

The door seemed to be on a rotating base, given the frequency with which it opened and shut; each time banging on its hinges as a red-faced, tall irish lad yanked it shut. He was halfway through another yank of it closed--a whirling dirvish of a fighting dustball having just been tossed out--when he noticed Chuckie and his guest.

"Oi! Chuhckaehy! G'yerblaeehdin' aehrse ihn 'ere an' knahck sohme'ah t'aehse 'aeahds t'gaet'aehr!"

Chuckie snickered, bumping Maia's hip with his own low-placed nudge, and pointed to the door.

"Tha'baem'youhngaehrbrot'aehr Wihll. Whone'at'trihpleh's."

A pause, and as he started to head them towards the door, the sounds of a growing brawl from inside seemed to really be gearing up. Somewhere deep within, the high whines of a fiddle and fife and cacophonous drums belted out an almost-hypnotic tune. This was no place for the weak of will or heart, or liver. That much was certain the moment you entered the door.

"An' nae, Maeiah, Oiwihllnaebae laeahvihn'y'. Naef'gaehrlsohrtrouhbaehle. T'ihnkt'aehre'saenaehywhone ihnt'aeihrew'okihn ou'rouhghmae?!"

A snicker at the thought, which was kind of hard to imagine, looking at the massive, heavily-tattooed frame with which Chuckie had to work from. He yanked her in the door, giving a nod to Will and lickity-split introductions.

Inside, the noise was almost deafening. The band was really getting going, and several tables were singing along to what should have been a wordless song. There were rarely singers in the joint, as the whole crowd knew the tunes, and just booed whomever off-stage anyways.

The floors were hot and slightly slick with a mixture of booze, sweat, blood and mopwater. An enormous, horseshoe-shaped bar curled out from along the back wall, with an entrance on each side into a back kitchen, and two breaks for waitresses, bartenders, and the hummingbird-shimmerquick moving barbacks, who were constantly replacing all manner of liquor bottles (although mostly whiskey) and shattered pint glasses.

The crowd ran from pirate to rugby player, from thief to cardshark, from alarmingly rich-looking playboys and their trophy girlfriends out for a night of slumming, to the genuinely-destitute, drowning themselves in the last two silvers left from out-turned pockets. At least one quarter of this assorted rogue's gallery was currently bashing in the face of, or having their face bashed in by, their neighbor and most likely up-until-recently drinking partner.

Chuckie couldn't have looked more thrilled. His shirtsleeves were already rolled up and he rubbed his hands together. Jungle canopy-green eyes wide with excitement and he looked to Maia.

"Raeahdaehygaehrgeouhs?!"

Chuckie took the moment to survey the room a bit deeper than he first had. At the bar, he saw Mark and Rebecca serving drinks at a frenzied pace, shouting in the mangled tongue of the O'Corr family at anyone who didn't pay fast enough, or tried to fleece an extra drink.

Molly, who made an appearance or four at The Red Dragon Inn as a barmaid, was doing the same here. Using her feminine wiles to squeeze every last half-bit out of the drunken crowd, and always balancing a tray or two to different tables.

At the door was of course Will, and with a squint through the dizzying waves of cooking heat, Chuckie could just make out Jack and Mary in the back kitchen, hurriedly preparing meals. He didn't see Rory, but that was usual as of late, most likely working on the house he was building for Charna and himself.

Now, on to the possible receivers of an arse-whoopin'. Petey The Sailor was busily smacking someone around, and didn't seem to be in the right mood. A slow look around the Spur, and Chuckie found the group he was looking for: a tablefull of perpetual nonpaying louses, thinking themselves gangsters and number-runners who were trying to close in on some of the out-lying O'Corr territory.

He snickered, and decided to fan the flames a bit before Maia came back. Chuck moved through the crowd with a confident stride--why shouldn't he?--a few uncourteous shoves to those who got in his way en route.

Two enormous hands on each edge of the table, leaning into the four roughneck's conversation.

"Wehllwehllwehll. Ihf'ni'aeihn't' BouhwraehyBaehys...

A beat, he looked from one to the next, and on.

"Aehrey'lahs'?"

A lift of one fiery red eyebrow, his forearms flexing a little, as they gripped the table.

"Yer a bit outnumbered, ain'tcha, Chuck? Kin barely hear you through that mangled tongue, gypsy-mutt. Perhaps yer best runnin' off ta Mama an' leavin' us ta our drinks."

The lead Bowery Boy snickered, looking to his comrades and raising his glass in a faux-toast to Chuckie. Chuckles and cackles from everyone else in the group, and they drank. Chuckie nodded and gave them a sweet smile.

"Saehrproihs'dy'waehre ae'ehnsaehrv'd ihn'ere, t'bae'ahnehs' wi'y'. An'Oi'mraehrelaehy ou'nuhmbaehr'd, ehspeshuhlaehyihnm'ouhwn baehr..."

Hopefully, Maia would be sauntering up within the next couple moments, and throw the group even more off-guard with her compact, nonthreatening-looking frame. At least to idiots like The Bowery Boys, who couldn't gauge a person's real threat unless they were built like Chuckie. He looked around a little, trying to spy her through the crowd.

A hard cackle, watching Michael Bowery get smacked as hard as he deserved.

"Shoi'e! Behs'wahtchyertouhngue 'rouhn't'ihswhone ayeMoihke?!" The first of the Bowery Boys was already up and catapaulting at Chuckie. Snakes struck slower than the gypsy moved, he was out of the way and left just a bit of one foot. A thundering shove at the back of Charlie Bowery (who no one ever called Chuck so as not to offend Chuckie), and he sent him sprawling Maia's way, completely off-balance and an easy first blow.

The next two were already coming at Chuckie. Donny and Blake. Blake was the smallest of the bunch, but also the quickest. The Gypsy looked to Maia, and then swung with a wild haymaker that caught the too-eager to strike Blake square under the jaw. Lifted up off his feet for a second, and he hit the ground. A minute at least, of Blake-free time with Donny.

There was still Edward Bowery to deal with, still seated and wiping a thin rivulet of blood from the corner of his mouth. Maia'd hit him nice and hard, and he was trying to figure out what to do about it.

Chuckie caught Donny with a foot to the chest that sent him stumbling back a few feet. A sickening sort of cackle/laugh at it, and Chuck ran after Donny, fists out and swinging with mad abandon. Sure, Chuckie'd had proper boxing training, but he liked to let fly from time to time.

He caught a hard set of knuckles to his own jaw, and there was a little wince.

"C'roihs'! Y'puhnchloike ahgaehrl, Dahn! An'naetha'foihnepreh'aehyt'ihn' tha'sbaeah'ihn' t'stuhffihn' ouh'ahyerbrot'aehr!"

More cackles, and he got heavier into the tussle with Donny, trying to look over and see how Maia was actually faring with Charles...

Chuck grinned wide, brilliant white teeth lighting up that gorgeous gypsy face. He was breathing a bit, had caught a few hard knuckles to the jaw, temple, and more than his fair share of hard blows to the body. But he seemed to be not at all worse for the wear.

He was halfway through saying something witty to Maia when two Bowery's found their way back to reality long enough to bumrush him. One launched himself at Chuckie's midsection and the other swung a devastatingly-hard haymaker at the O'Corr's jaw. A sack of bricks, soaking wet. That's how hard Chuck went down.

"Och!"

That was all that could be heard from Chuck, before he fell, sideswiped from all angles by two, now three Bowery's. Mark and Rebecca O'Corr were losing their voice shouting at their younger brother Will to get his arse over to the fight and help out--not stop it, mind you--, and there seemed to be a whole crowd forming around them now, screaming and shouting and clinking steins and pint glasses together, money furiously changing hands.

The only thing heard above it all, in a voice not injured or hurried, just demanding, was Chuckie O'Corr.

"Maeiah! Y'gih'yerfoihneaehrse ihn'erean'staehr'breahkihn' bloouhdaehyskuhll uhn'ihlly'saeemoihne!"

Three of the Bowery Boys had managed to get Chuck down, and were busily trying to whoop the tar out of him, by the time Maia came sailing in--quite literally--from the sky. O'Corr just closed his eyes and waited to see where she'd land, a forearm up over his face just in case she miscalculated. He bet she hadn't calculated at all.

Chuckie had somehow not gotten beat that badly, he was so large that most blows failed to do much damage. His hearing was half-shot for the night, though. Donny Bowery had been hammering away on one side of his head for the better part of their scuffle, and it was leaving him with a very irritating ringing.

Donny was the only Bowery left, not busily trying to make mincemeat of Maia, and that was very bad for him. The Bowery's had once again underestimated Chuck (you'd think they'd stop doing that by now), and Donny had his back turned to the Gypsy Rogue.

Chuck gauged the distance and was right, rewarded with a very, very hard mule-kick to Donny's back. The treasureseeker was up on his feet like a bolt of lightning, two devastating hammer-blows of fists to the back of Donny's head, the second was unnecessary and given as Donny was already on his way down. He had started collapsing to the right, but the second right hook pushed him back like a teeter-totter, and he flumped to the ground towards the left, out of the way.

A guttural, low growl from Chuckie O'Corr, and he grabbed one of the Bowery Boys by the neck, hauling him back and away from Maia. She could handle herself, no doubt with both of them, but he wanted to knock another one of these louts out himself.

"T'ihnki'sgouin't'bae tha'aeahsaehyt'puh' maedouhwn, d'y'Blaehke?!"

No time given for a response. He pounded a fist into the man's stomach, a hard uppercut once Blake had doubled over from the first punch. The man was lifted clean off his feet, and sent flailing backwards into the crowd, who only stepped aside and let him hit the floor with a sickeningly unconscious thud. Chuck was breathing a bit heavy, wiping some blood from up above one eyebrow, and looked over to see if Maia was done yet.

"Raeahdaehyf'ahdahmned drihnkyeh'ohrw'a'?"

A beaming, fiendish smile. His blood was boiling, and his energy through the roof. He calmed himself as best he could, taking the time to watch Maia in action. A little bite at the corner of his bottom lip. My, she was a vision. A glance around the bar, hoping he'd not been staring so long as to get caught.

Chuckie grinned wide, pushing back fist-fulls of fiery curls. He'd finished off the rest of the Bowery Boys, the ones Maia hadn't knocked out already, that was.

His knuckles were already swelling up, bloodied and raw. He licked at one corner of his mouth, where one of the bastards had split him open.

"An'w'a'stha' y'wahn'ahdrihnk'ah?" Cocking one brow high on the adorable irishman's face. He was a complete gypsy, but leaned much more towards his father's Irish heritage than his mother's Scottish. All rogue and banter.

"T'ism'fahmihlaehy's bahr,y'knaouhw. Kingi'y'w'a'ae'er y'wahn'!" Wide grin. He cleared a path towards the bar, without having to move a hand towards anyone. They made a clearing, respecting the barrel-chested fighter who had broken almost all of their own skulls at one time or another.

A rite of passage, making it through a real O'Corr fight and still having the strength of character to drink here. You made it here, and you could make it anywhere in Rhy'Din.

Chuckie made little effort to hide his checking-out of Maia, post-fight. It was obvious he was turned on by a woman who could throw a quick and good punch, who could hold her own and be up for a drink immediately after.

He was enthralled.

Markie O'Corr made Maia a stiff scotch. The best bottle they had behind the bar--which wasn't the best bottle they had, that was down in the cellar, but it was the best at hand--and it was damn good. They all knew it. A big grin on his face as he poured it, leaving the bottle next to the glass.

Chuckie then poured his own glass of the same scotch, watching it fill up and he toasted her right back.

"T'bahddaecishuhns'n geh'ihn' 'ahmmaehr'd! Och, an' laeh'enoigh's'n trouhbaehle."

He grinned wide, tossing back the scotch and slamming the glass onto the bartop. A single flick of his head in one direction, and Rebecca O'Corr, who had been paying as much attention as any sister with a penchant for gossip would, was over in an instant to pour the shot she knew her brother wanted for the both of them. He didn't need to say the words.

Chuck was still bleeding over one eye, and he rubbed up at it with a dishcloth that Rebecca had brought him, from time to time. Otherwise he seemed fine. The split of his lip was par for the course, and the rest wasn't anything out of the ordinary from any other day of drinking at The Twisted Spur.

Once the shots arrived, he set the glass of scotch down, and raised his own glass.

"T'foigh'stha'ehn' wehllan't'ouhse tha'd'nnah." And the drink was gone, but his roving Gypsy eye wasn't.