... I must be', he thinks to himself.

*trying to ignore the word "worlds" as well as a Sidhe sitting on the bar not too distant* Tell me, sweet lass, have I died and gone to Tir na nOg? Nay, don be answerin' that. *drains the glass dry* Let me have another, and it will all sort out in the morning, eh? Sliante'!

*Draining the next glass, the sound of the music sounds crisp and he feels as if he should be dancing in the group, but not too close to the overly large Roman in armor.*

Call me Oswald, young lass.