*
Ragnar enjoyed walking through the light flurries in the solitude of the quiet, dark lanes of sleepy Ballaghadaere. As he soon learned, the village was picturesque and welcoming in a relaxed, antiquated fashion. The day before, he'd used a touch of glamour to obtain a room at a B&B not far from the center of town. As the only tenant in tourist off-season, he spent the evening in conversation with the older couple who owned the business.
Ragnar, still using a borrowed name, told of his recent travels to Norway and Sweden, although 'recent' was a subjective term. In turn, the nice couple told him of recent local events, which was quite a compendium considering the rural location and small population. After their pleasant chat over hot toddies, he retired to his room and listened to various radio stations until slumber overtook him.
Despite the next day's cold rain, Ragnar took a long stroll through the surrounding countryside to get a better appreciation for modern life in northwest Ireland. Along the way, he was greeted by two friendly sprites that ventured from their glade, but they quickly moved on.
Compared to Ragnar's last visit, the styles in construction and attire had changed somewhat, as did modes of transportation and communication, but the rustic spirit and vitality of the people remained the same. The few locals that drove by him either honked or waved, and one old gent even stopped to offer a ride. Having seen enough in his lengthy pedestrian tour, and being soaked as well, Ragnar accepted.
The old man was in fact the village priest, but made no talk of his faith. He dropped his passenger off on one of the two main streets of Ballaghadaere, in front of a diner that advertised Irish stew and apple barley pudding. Ragnar hoped they had enough in stock.
After a filling meal, where the serving staff observed with mounting unease his ravenous amount of consumption, Ragnar finally moved on. He stopped in other shops before they closed for the day, mostly just for social interaction and the old-fashioned ambiance of the stores. Even with simple greetings, he felt the warming glamour of contentment of those who crossed his path.
Ragnar realized that he was coming into contact with only a small portion of the community, but was surprised with the overall cheer that pervaded the area. Besides being a thin place for efficient portals, he could see why so many so many fae kept havens there. As the local humans were contented, then so too were the fae that visited regularly; glamour was easily garnered from a happy community. Ragnar wondered how the resident fae would react when winds that whispered of aggression blew through the area.
With night settled in and the light snow illuminated by street lamps, Ragnar ambled across the hushed village square. As he crossed a deserted street, he came to a sudden stop, his eyes wide in surprise. Ragnar felt a presence, a familiar essence of fae - his own.
Only two humans had Ragnar ever given the grace of his own essence. The first was to Erich Olander, a Swedish Viking, in the Verden year of 1020. The other was to the young son of Jerry Lynch, an American laborer, in 1988. He thought of Lynch's boy being nearby, in that specific village and at that specific time, having trekked thousands of miles away from the Midwest of the United States; the likelihood of simple coincidence was almost laughable.
With the theory of mere chance removed, all that remained were questions. Ragnar was immediately curious for the answers.
The only nearby sign of activity was within the wide, yellow building in front of Ragnar. He approached one of the large windows lit from within and saw that only two tables were in use; the smaller of which held four older folks, and the larger was ringed by humans ranging from middle-aged to a small child.
'The big man', the disguised troll thought to himself with certainty, 'that is the child of Jerry Lynch'. Ragnar only glanced at the other patrons to watch reactions; the others seemed to know young Lynch well, and the relations appeared to be easy and genuine. A few questions were answered, but others filled the voids.
As Ragnar continued to watch like a voyeur, he came to wonder if young Lynch was somehow involved in all the interest that the little village was providing.
Ragnar scanned the table once more and saw a young woman - a few seats away from Lynch and facing the window - stare back at him. As if witness to a horror, her eyes went wide and her face went pale. And then she screamed. The power and pitch of her brief shriek, borne of pure terror, was beyond the audible range of humans - but not so for fae. Ragnar clapped his hands to his ears from the unexpected sonic attack.
Glass and dishware shattered on the table. The humans, with their mundane hearing, reacted to only that. In the distance, dogs began a chorus of howls. A range of chaotic movement followed in the restaurant.
Ragnar's mind whirled; the girl had the gift of the siren. Just as alarming, if not more so, she could apparently see through his manifestation. He had little time to figure out how that could be; more eyes turned in his direction. Another woman looked at Ragnar, most likely the gifted girl's sister by the resemblance. She, in turn, alerted the big man, Lynch. Those two shared a quick word with the gifted girl, who hid behind them.
Ragnar shared a moment of eye contact with Lynch; the brawny human then shot from his chair and hurried toward the building's doors with a dark, aggressive look on his face. Another man, the one with straw-blonde hair, followed Lynch with haste. Inside at the table, the older sister of the two kept dark eyes of unearthly recognition locked on him.
Backing to the edge of the wide sidewalk, Ragnar muttered to himself, "Who in the elements are these people?"
From a short distance to his left, a soft, feminine voice replied, "Quite the collection of humans, are they not, elder Ragnar?"