A/N Warning: Graphic depiction of drowning
The tavern smelled of smoke, sweat, and beer.
It was packed shoulder to shoulder with Irishmen who had seen death that day and decided to spit in its face with as much drink as they could pour down their throats.
Tables creaked under the weight of mugs and tankards. The fire in the stone hearth was roaring, throwing gold light across flushed faces. Somebody had started a reel on the pipes in the corner; half the men clapped along, half just shouted over it.
And right in the middle of it all sat Glasán. The hero of the day.
Every few minutes, someone leaned over, slapped him on the back, and demanded, "Come on now, lad! Tell us how ye done it! Was it Saint Brendan himself put the voice in ye?"
Or
"God smote the Northmen through yer mouth, eh?"
And Glasán, grinning like a cat in the dairy, would only take another swig and say, "Sure, maybe so. Maybe it's God's own hand, eh? Punishin' the pagans for their wicked ways."
