The bar was still open though, and there was one young man that stood outside the red painted door, near the streetlight. He had a scruffy beard and wore a printed tee shirt over cargo shorts. He had been smoking, but the cigarette fell unnoticed from his fingers as his eyes focused on us.
“Mother of god,” he said, with misplaced reverence.
He had to tilt his head far back to take us in, as Cashlin walked toward him with slow, heavy steps. Ceallach drew the war horse in at the edge of the curb, in the no parking space. The street lights glinted in a dark and strange way on the lacquered surface of Ceallach’s armored arms and turned my dangling, dirty bare feet a deep orange color.
“Could you tell us the date, please?” asked Ceallach, politely.
The young man gave a quick, high laugh. “Yeah,” he gasped. “Right: the date. I really gotta stop drinking Jagerbombs.”
“Just tell me what year it is,” repeated Ceallach, gently. Cashlin stamped his heavy foot, his harness jingling.
“Um… god. Gimme a sec… Uh…” His face brightened, as he pulled himself together enough to remember. “2008. Just who the hell are you, anyway?”
“Thank you very much,” Ceallach replied, his voice brightening. He turned Cashlin back into the street. The young man stumbled off the curb after us.
“Wait!” he called. “What are you? What’s going on?”
"We're from the Renaissance Festival," I called back, taking pity on him.
He stood in the empty street, his arms at his sides. "What Renaissance Festival?" he asked, half to himself, puzzled.
"That's a killer custume you've got, by the way," I said to Ceallach.
"Ha ha," he answered dryly. "Very funny."