Mairead Dunlop liked the night, usually. The forest was peaceful then, and the moon cast a lovely glow on the leave-strewn ground, perfect for hunting nocturnal beasts.

But Mairead was no longer in her beloved forests, nor was she in Scotland anymore. She was in Whitby, in England, and tonight was the opposite of peace. Drunken men wandered the streets, making a pass or two at her until they noticed her bow and quiver, and singing of the same intoxicated man wafted from the open doors of stuffed taverns, and shouting over a game of darts drowned out the merry playing of a wandering fiddler. Mairead, much more used to the loudness of the quiet than the noise of humans, desperately wanted to cover her ears, but she was drawing so many stares already, she tried to ignore her discomfort.

Supposedly, there was a private investigator who might help her in the search for her missing father, or so said a policeman she'd paused on the way into town this afternoon. So far, she'd searched eight taverns and found no sign of the man she'd been referred to- Investigator Marcus Tillman -and Mairead was growing weary and frustrated. Weeks of walking had brought her to Whitby, and she needed to rest, but this evasive investigator was keeping her from finding an inn to stay at for the night.

Pushing past a group of drunken singers into the last tavern on the street, Mairead scanned the room, but noticed no one standing out. Still, she approached the bar and shouted a question of the investigator's presence to the bartender- and, finally, he pointed out a corner table where a man sat, leaning over a vessel of alcohol. Mairead walked on over, scraped a chair on the floor as she pulled it to the table to announce her presence, and sat at the other end of the table.

"Investigator Tillman?" she asked, her expression rather unreadable but her thick Scottish accent drawing many a look from nearby patrons.