There was blood upon the dance floor. There was blood upon the mike. There was blood upon their clothing, on the tables, on the lights.

Through it walked a little man, a tiny man, a man of diminutive size but massive presence. Though his hatted head did not even reach the knee of most of the patrons, it was impossible to overlook him, despite how far below the eye he was. Tendrils of smoke, thick as a dragon's sleeping exhalations, slowly curled up from the pipe clenched loosely in his shining white teeth, and in his unarmored hand was a blade thrice his own height and twice his girth, a blade of silver, with a hilt of rosewood meshed in oak and imbued with various religious symbols.

It was this dripping blade that had caused the bloodshed, bloodspray, bloodbath; and it was this hand that had guided it upon its path. Why? It was his duty, and he had been assigned to kill certain lurkers within the tavern-come-dance-club.

Now that it was over M the Masque, Leprechaun, quietly cleaned and reslung his sword across his back. This, considering its height in relation to his own, was not nearly as easy a task as using it had proved. He then collected his various knives of the same craftsmanship and imbuing from the carcasses and tipped his hat to the proprietor before taking another tankard of drink and resting at a table.

A bushy head of flaming orange curls in a corona under his hat shone in stark contrast to the large, measuring, and meticulously calculating dark green eyes set in his freckled face. A second blooming bushel of hair made up his beard, redder than the hair of his head by a hardly noticeable tint, and distending his face almost half again in length. A green of far brighter and more lovingly lively tint than his empathetic but unsympathetic eyes made up his coat and hat, a degree of suit and frippery eschewed by many and that on a less clearly serious fellow might have been as silly and ostentatious as it was cheery. The overall effect was of a blindingly obvious fellow who apparently meant serious business.

Despite this, the crow's feet bestriding and entrenched in the skin around his eyes revealed in physical fashion the weariness of age, time, and worries. So too did the slight wrinkle of his forehead reveal where often the hunting man had furrowed his large and brilliant mandarin-tinted brows in many a time of puzzled bafflement, and the laugh and smile lines grooved round his face refined more than unveiled the cheery fellow that had been, yet was, and would continue to be in spite of circumstance and duty. Masque or not, Leprechauns are irrepressible in nature, no matter how many natures or professed professions and mindsets they may have.

The knives he tucked with care onto a bandoleer thicker than a kitten's body into tiny sheaths of edgeworn and lined steel that kept them sharpened on every draw by virtue of the grind and pattern of the metal. Occupying a whole hip of the weapons belt was a single pistol of archaic and careworn but exquisite design, made, like the knives and heavy greatsword, of silver and rosewood in intricate etchings, patterns, and symbols. The hilt was inlaid with black pearl and white mother-of-pearl, and the bullets filling the bag slung on a simple and ordinary black belt of the opposite hip were forged of alloyed elements uncommon to the gun; adamantium, mercury, celestial bronze, silver, and raw, red iron, to be specific. A more modern gun would have difficulty firing the massive misshapen pellets- it could be done, but it could not be done with as much ease as the equally flawed, if pretty, oversized and underpowered pistol of a passed age.

It was not for prettiness he kept either, nor for age, attachment, or sentimental value.

The weapons were designed in mind to his work; they had belonged to a different Masque of a different time, all but the bullets, which he had to replace regularly lest they tarnish and cease to be of use to him. Every metal in them was deathly poison to a different type of foe, and often, multiple to the same. There were laws not easily circumvented governing the strengths and weaknesses of creatures, and he was prepared for nearly all.

For now, however, the only foe he faced was a tankard on the table in front of him. The little son of the Lands of Ire valiantly faced it in many rounds of its ever-evolving form, from cup to pint, pint to quart, quart to gallon, gallon to multi-liter, liters to jugs, jugs to barrels; he drank until it seemed a Giant's belly would have brast and burst from the effort, let alone a tiny man who could not stand at a Halfling's shoulder and could fit inside one of the barrels quite handily. Yet putting it away somehow he did, until his hundred and thirty seventh, at which point the heavy drinker collapsed in all his gear.

A far harder fight, he would assure you, then simply killing the mangy curs that had pestered the inn.

Harder also by far than the disagreement the next morning with the proprietor when the man discovered that M had neither currency nor intention to repay. Smoking heavily from three pipes to clear his head as steam rolled from his ears, the Leprechaun protested that he had believed the drinks were on the house. The proprietor rejoined that only the amount of ruffians slain were reimbursed for free in the form of drink, and that the following hundred and fifteen rounds were entirely due from the Masque's wallet.

M promptly vanished. The bill remains unpaid to this day, although it's believed to be a highly exaggerated hyperbole. Then again… he is a Leprechaun.

///////

"Gotcha!" the man cried, pouncing, and promptly hit his head on a stump as the green coated little man sidestepped and shook his head. The human rubbed his head, snarled, and tried again, with similar results. Only this time when he slammed his head on the same stump it was largely because the Leprechaun had kicked him in the stomach and propelled him into it, despite being several times smaller.

"An' what ye be wantin' to 'got' m' fer?" demanded the not altogether happy little man, eying the strangely garbed stranger, "Yer makin' a fool o' yerself an' no mistake, laddie, an' it's pi-ty-full enou' thar oi ain't just be killin' ye."

"Need... your pot of gold..." the other panted, placing a hand on his head and groaning. "Didn't think... leprechauns... were so rough..."

Indignant, M spat to the side and glared. "Rough? Ye a wee babieeee or jus' a yellah-bellied spineless cur? Ye even a man, man? Rough?? Oi aint e'en drawn a blade and yer cryin' like a milksop fer yer mommy."

Then the glare eased slightly and he tilted his head. "M' pot of gold? Ye ain't from 'round here, are ye?"

The man in the McDonald's uniform nodded, trying to understand why the Leprechaun's brogue was so botched and how someone about a fifth of his size could hurl him. That wasn't how physics or musculature worked, the college student reflected, though he did note that his prior basis was education on the human body. Not magical little men with green jackets and pots of gold.

"Well, oi might be tempted enou' te share summ, ye bein' a Lostie, but oi already ate it," M declared with a crossing of his arms and a shifting of his three pipes.

The boggled look on the human's face was priceless. "You ATE it???"

"M'boy, if ye value somethin', ye keep it in a chest, wallet, alcove, safe. Ye put food inna bluddy pot, na treasure-"

"You- but- why?" the confused and distressed Earthman asked, a vague part of him reflecting that neither had introduced themselves to the other, and he was increasingly sure that he was either very inebriated or not at all where he'd started from. A look at an altogether too bright and twenty-pointed star hanging from a spider's thread in a tree nearby didn't really swing him either way.

"Boy, oi'm smokin' three pipes at th' same time an TALKIN' te yer silly outland arse. Oi ain't got three hands, ye know; takes a lot of dexterity an jaw muscles like yar wouldn't carr te believe te do this," puffed M, then blew out a large volume of smoke. "Gets it by eatin' gold. Soft metal, malleable, so hard to chew in chunks. An' it is metal. Gerra a few pots of it in a lifetime, ye can do thin's OI wouldn't want te know or believe wit a mouth."

"..." said the young human eloquently. "... People just let you eat a valuable mineral people fight wars for?"

"Ach, hells no!" the Leprechaun winked, "Pisses 'em off royal. Pisses royals off too, fer tha' matter. An' we get ragin' back. Thas why they call me 'ome the "Ire Lands"; lots of drinkin', ragin', war, and life te go around."

"You live in Ireland?" the suddenly slightly less confused and despondent man in a strange world with a stranger individual asked.

"THE IRE LANDS. Wit a space, bucko. But aye, all Leprechauns are from King Scot's Land or the Ire Lands." answered M proudly, then blinked. "Oh, a portal?"

With a slight cry the human man vanished and thumped down back in his establishment of employ, fixing his nametag and dazedly asking for sick leave from his manager. The bruises concerning the man, this was granted, on the provision Jerry see a doctor. This was done.

M closed the pesky portal and resumed his prior objective for the day- trail the merchant caravans and espy any smuggling endeavors they might be undertaking. He had to move fast to catch up.

////

There. You got a picture and two stories for the price of one read-through. ;3

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