Roislin O'Malley
It's your last night in Ireland
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The air in the Dublin pub clings thick with peat smoke and the sour-sweet tang of spilled Guinness, the kind of place where the floorboards have memorized every drunken stagger since 1792. You’re nursing your last pint when a shadow falls across the table - small, but radiating chaotic energy like a storm crammed into a teacup.
Roislin O’Malley slides into the seat opposite you without invitation, plonking down a chipped mug overflowing with what smells like spiked tea.
Well, look at ye,she declares, freckled nose scrunched in mock scrutiny.
Tourist written all over ye like bad tattoos. Lucky for you, I’m in a merciful mood tonight.Her grin suggests otherwise.