Sláinte! Shenanigans are o'foot!

 

     Seamus O'Shaughnessy had never had much of any use for that pompous ass, the Bishop of Armagh. It didn’t matter that the British-Roman interloper had died more than fifteen-hundred years ago. It only mattered that he, Seamus O’Shaughnessy, was still here and nobody seemed to notice!

     St. Patrick’s Day, pah! The only snake in Éire was that run-away slave who came back and started destroying belief in the old ways. O’course, the old ways didn’t die away just because folks stop following them. The children of Danu were too cleaver for that. If the Church could usurp Éiriu’s holy days, then the Danu could usurp them right back.

     For instance, how many people even remembered that St. Patrick’s Day was a saint’s feast day? Few, if any. They thought it was a day for running around saying fake Irish stuff, eating corned beef and cabbage, washing it down with copious amounts of beer, and playing pranks on everyone. Show them a picture of St. Patrick and they will give you a blank look. Show them a picture of himself in full leprechaun regalia and they all yelled, “Sláinte!”

     So here he was in Talbot’s Peak, a lovely mountain town, far from his homeland in miles but cut from the same cloth in spirit. And there, before his eye, were a pair of good Irish lads planning out some shenanigans to celebrate this not-so-saintly feast day! They looked like they could use a little help.

     “Are you sure this was how Mayor Gill did it?” the larger blond boy was saying to his smaller, dark haired companion.

     “No, butt-breath,” the other sighed in frustration. “If this was how Gil did it, it would have worked by now.”

     “Mayhap, I could be o’some help?” Seamus said as he slipped out from under a holly bush. The lads didn’t jump, though he knew he’d startled them both. They turned on him in a flash, their human teeth elongating into pointed wolf fangs. Well, puppy fangs, anyway. They weren’t yet big enough to have full wolf fangs yet. Seamus didn’t flinch, though. It may have been a long time since wolves had the run or Ireland, but he did remember them. Never show a wolf fear if you could help it.

     Once they had ascertained that it was no adult looking over their shoulders, the boys relaxed a bit. The blond one started sniffing curiously while the dark lad glared at him suspiciously. Seamus ignored the lads for a moment and studied the things laid out in the snow behind them. They had a couple of snow-caked scarves, a large collection of pre-made snowballs, a couple of walkie-talkies with hands-free ear pieces, and a bedraggled notebook opened up to a page that looked to be covered in childish handwriting, though Seamus could not decipher the penmanship a’tall.

   “I might be wrong, but neck clothes tend to be more effective when they are wrapped around yer necks and not covered in snow,” Seamus said with an amused chuckle. “Unless, o’course, t’ain’t yer necks you plan to keep warm. But why would ye be wantin’ te warm up a snowball?”

     “We ain’t trying to warm the snowballs,” the blond lad said. “We’re trying to fling them around like on slingshots, but they keep breaking! Ouch!” he said in response to the dark lad’s elbow, which had just nailed in in the arm firmly. Seamus cackled gleefully. Oh, yes, these lads were in need o’help to get their shenanigans rollin’, that was for sure.

     “What if’n I gave you a little help with it,” he asked slyly.

     “What kind of help?" the dark lad asked, suspicious but still interested.

     “This kind of help,” Seamus said as he shook a pair of lovely knitted wool scarves from his coat sleeves. One was a deep emerald green wool with gold tassels and the other was gold with emerald green tassels.

     “We have scarves,” the blond lad said as he eyed the offerings distainfully. The other lad, though, had a look of cunning in his twinkling blue eyes. That one eyed the scarves and then eyed Seamus himself, missing nothing. A slow grin tried to peek out from behind a perpetual scowl, but the lad clamped it down sharply.

     “I supposed these scarves are guaranteed to throw the snowballs?” he asked.

     “O’course they are, me laddie!” Seamus said with a meschivious grin. The other boy, catching on to what his companion was thinking, looked at them closer and then met his eyes.

     “For what price?”

     “Price, me laddie?” Seamus asked, trying to look hurt by their ungreatful questioning. It was fake, but they didn’t know that. Or maybe they did. These lads may be young but they were also quite cunning.

     “Mom said all magic comes with a price,” the blond continued.

     “If those are magic scarves—and since you are one of the wee folk, they probably are—then there’s a price to be paid for accepting them,” the dark lad said, agreeing with his companion. Seamus realized slightly belatedly that these lads were probably brothers, mayhap even twins. That, combined with their obvious knowledge of the Danu and magic in general, meant they were the witch’s pups. He’d have to tread vera carefully lest their mam come back on him with an eye for revenge. There was lots o’mischief that could be done that didn’t have a bad price to pay, though, and these boys were schooled enough in the laws of magic that if he told them upfront the honest truth of things, Marissa’d have no recourse to come back on him.

     “The price for these beauties is the same price as any good prank, me laddies,” Seamus said with an honest grin. “You need to pull them out and give them o’bit o’ use now and then. You canna let them slip from yer keepin’. And you have to pay the piper every St. Patrick’s Day, from this one until the magic fails.”

     “Which piper will hold the toll?” the dark lad asked matter-of-factly. Oh, yes, he liked this lad. He liked him a lot. The laddie knew full well that there were more than one type of toll, and more than one type of toll keeper, and still he was willing to consider the gift.

     “Why, I will, me ladies. And before ye go askin’, my toll is simple. The folks of this land have all but forgotten the wee ones. Once per year, ye must remind them that leprechauns still walk the green rolling hills.”

     “And the scarves? What kind of magic do they hold?” the blond asked carefully. Seamus nodded, pleased to see that both lads knew their stuff.

     “They are full of shenanigans, o’course. What other kind of magic would one of my kind be givin’ out to clever lads like yerselves?”

     “And how long will the magic last? Can we use them at other times of the year, or only on St. Patrick’s Day?”

     “They last so long as ye still have wonder in yer hearts and they can be used on any saint’s feast day,” Seamus finished with a grin.

     “This doesn’t come pre-loaded with bad luck, does it?” the dark lad asked, looking almost convinced. Seamus let a little trickle of his magic slip down his fingers and into the scarves, altering the spells woven into them just enough to neutralize the luck that had been crafted into them when they were made. He’d have rather left those spells in place, but the lad knew enough to ask, and his mam knew enough to know that, so Seamus felt it prudent to not leave himself open like that.

     “The only luck in ‘em is what you make of it, me laddies. Do good or do ill, it’s all up to you. All that I ask is that you do it well, with a little joy in yer hearts and a twinkle in yer eye. So, do we have a deal?” The lads looked at each other for a long moment and then grinned.

     “Deal,” they said in tandem as they reached for the scarves.


Sláinte!

The Knight Cowboy Rescues a Maiden in Distress

No, this is not our cowboy hero, just a fun pic I found.

Howls and yowls, shapeshifter lovers.

Apologies for the late posting, but it just can't be helped given my current schedule.
Hope you had a memorable and fun St. Paddy's day. This flash scene touches on Pat Cunningham's holiday flash from yesterday.
~~~~~~

The Knight Cowboy Rescues a Maiden in Distress

Zakary Dumond touched his heel to Sidewinder, his immortal paint stallion, and they entered the silvery gray whirl of the time-point portal. He was on a mission of mercy.

Long ago, after a cattle drive to Wichita, Kansas, he'd gotten good and inebriated while doin' some fine celebrating with the other cowhands at a particularly routy saloon. He'd ducked out once the fists, bottles, and glasses started flying.

Cursing as he struggled to mount his horse, he'd finally hauled himself into the saddle. Not wanting to spend a nickel on room and board, he'd set out for the campsite. Given most of his pay still jangled in his pocket, he clutched the butt of his pistol as he swayed precariously. 

Zak planned on finding a sweet plot of ground, and starting up a dairy farm. The derisive laughter still rang in his ears, since he'd mistakenly confided his ambitions. But, hell, he'd had enough of eating dust, and chasing cattle through hide-ripping brush.

Even though the nearly full moon lit his way, Zak never made it to the campsite. He'd been about to fall out of the saddle, grabbing for his horse's mane, when a heavy mist formed like a specter coming for his soul. Well, dang, it had appeared like a regular mist, but held not an ounce of moisture as he recalled.

In the blink of his admittedly bleary eye, Zak had been trapped in this strange gray tunnel moving like liquid around him. Stories told to him by an elderly Indian medicine man flashed into his head. A gateway to other times, other worlds.

Yep, and here he was, the cowboy dimensional traveler, as the Guides fondly referred to him. Zak had undergone rigorous training like the Knights of old. Heckfire, he'd jousted with the Knights in the Irish realm as he thought of it, and done himself right proud.

Hence, he'd been summoned by the Celtic King. During the Spring Fire Ceremony his eldest daughter, Khyleara, had been lured through the dimensional veil by the lilting lovely notes of a flute -- given her natural ability to slip into other worlds. 

Before traveling the tunnel to rescue her, Zak had seen glimpses of the shapeshifter enclave -- a town with the handle, Talbot's Peak, located in the state of Montana in the year 2014. With a fair number of ranches in the area, and the Western culture still strong, he'd fit right in as a cowboy.

Sidewinder snorted and tossed his head as they emerged from the fogs of time. Zak took a moment, breathing in the familiar scents of pine, of the surrounding land now awakening from a long winter's sleep. Isolated, Talbot's Peak sat between forested mountains and great stretches of prairie.

Spotting the well-worn trail leading to town, Zak touched Sidewinder's neck with the reins. The stallion stepped into a fast walk, his nose to the brisk winds.

"Yeehaawww!" ... “Erin go broke!” Wild roaring whoops followed, and Zak instantly reined Sidewinder to the side of the trail. Just in time, as two oddly dressed riders on bright green horses galloped by. The smell of beer, of tiger, and magick plowed into Zak's nostrils.

"Come on, stranger," one of the young tiger-men of East Indian descent hollered. "We're rescuing maidens in distress."

Smiling despite himself, Zak loped Sidewinder in their wake. Why not? He figured -- like he'd been informed by the Guides -- that the two youths were celebrating the holiday, St. Patrick's day.

Zak took real serious note on the magick used to turn their horses temporarily green. An ancient Egyptian potion, if he wasn't mistaken. Careful to keep a tight rein on the eager stallion, he stayed a distance behind, so the fumes couldn't alter Sidewinder's coloring.

Maidens in distress? As Zak understood the 'wearing of the green' celebratin' in these times, there were colorful, outlandish parades, drunken singing and brawls, often into the wee hours of the morning...but no games where fair maidens were rescued.

Heck though, chowin' down on corn beef and cabbage, on boiled potatoes, Zak could almost taste it. 'Cause he'd never lost his taste for this realm's food. 

The sudden burn against his chest where he'd pocketed Khyleara's jeweled ring, put Zak on immediate alert. She was close. As a child, Khyleara's energy force had been bonded to the ring's gems, and crystalline structure. 

Letting Sidewinder gallop behind the still 'whooping it up' tiger-men, Zak scanned for the faint, diamond sparkling beam of light that would lead him to Khyleara. The strength of the burn, not only told him she remained nearby, but that she hadn't been harmed in any significant way. 

Mighty relieved, Zak lasered his focus, trusting the paint to keep his stride steady. Renowned for her warrioress prowess, Khyleara would not be easy prey. 'Though, her disappearance had been darn mysterious. Even the Seers failed to picture the sinister flute player.

The clash of long blades suddenly echoed from the forest depths. Zak touched a knee to Sidewinder, sending him off the trail, and onto a downslope where the trees thinned. The stallion picked up speed yet kept his footing over the ground where remnants of snow still remained.

The sight that met Zak's gaze had him hauling back on the reins, and blinking for an instant. Khyleara battled an invisible enemy, her blade whipping and flashing in strikes and countermoves. Glints of sunlight changed so swiftly, Zak could barely follow the moves of her favored weapon.

"Save yourself, Knight Cowboy," she hollered, then whirled from her fearsome foe. Her bare toes skimmed the ground, and her fiery red tresses spun in long ropes.

From the corner of his eye, Zak glimpsed a watery form in the shape of a Phovus giant. Knowing it was now or never, he fast-drew his sorcery-infused sidearm, and signaled Sidewinder by leaning forward.

The stallion leaped, charging toward Khyleara. Zak took his only shot. The magickally altered lead bullet struck the giant's forehead, and he started to materialize.

With a hideous, ear-splitting howl, the Phovus thundered after Khyleara just as Zak leaned to one side. Gripping Sidewinder with only his thighs, Zak caught hold of Khyleara's waist, and swooped the fully naked woman up before him.

Given her natural athleticism, Khyleara seated herself clinging to him in a way that didn't hamper their escape. Once the stallion galloped along the trail, and the giant's pursuit ceased, Zak quipped, "It looks as though this is the day to rescue maidens in distress."

"I am not distressed. Not in the least," Khyleara sharply corrected, her tone affronted.

Zak merely grinned, and did some fine enjoyin' of her naked charms pressed so tightly against him.

~~~~~~

Have a Magickal Shapeshifting Week...  

Savanna

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance

The Riding of the Green

(The serial story will continue next week. Holidays take priority.)

Tasman Ghan kept a large calendar on his bedroom wall, and each morning he consulted it. Every American holiday had been circled in red, even the silly ones like Arbor Day. Thus forewarned, Tasman could steel himself against whatever madness his youngest brother Guri might choose to inflict on the family in the name of foreign traditions.

And still, each year, Guri somehow managed to surprise him.

This year’s surprise came in the form of a hearty, “Happy St. Patrick’s Day, faith and begamma!” and a frosty mug thrust into Tasman’s hand. He had not yet even had his morning tea. Tasman eyed the green, foamy liquid sloshing over the rim of the mug with healthy suspicion.

“Is this … beer?” he hazarded. “Is it supposed to be green?”

“It’s St. Patrick’s Day,” Guri said. “Everything is supposed to be green.”

“Ah. That explains your hair, then. Isn’t it a bit early in the day for beer?”

“Early?” Guri peered out the window. “Oh my. It’s daylight. It was dark when we started.”

“Let me guess,” Tasman said. “You and Sanjay.”

“Holidays never last long enough. We wanted to get an early start.”

“I’m sure.” Tasman carefully set his mug on the kitchen counter. “I will have green tea. Will that suffice?”

“As long as it’s green. Faith and begamma! Erin go broke!”

“I … ” Tasman stopped, at a loss.

“It’s what the Irish say,” Guri explained. “I assume the one phrase refers to gamma radiation. That’s what turned the Hulk green.”

“And Erin went broke buying the green beer?”

“Yes, exactly!” Guri took a swig from his mug. “As much as I miss Ravi, I’m glad we deal with you directly now. You understand American holidays so well.”

Tasman enjoyed a brief moment of envy for Ravi, currently home in India and safe from this country’s odd customs. Then Sanjay burst into the kitchen. He also sported a cap of green hair. “It worked! The potion worked!”

The words “potion” and “worked” spoken together never boded well for anyone. Tasman reached for the mug, just in case. “I know I shouldn’t ask … ”

“The potion wasn’t for us. We bought it from that Egyptian cat at the coffee shop. Come look!”

Now I know why Ravi fled for home, Tasman thought. He took a bracing gulp of beer. It was actually quite good. Fortified, he followed his brothers out the front door.

Not even green beer had prepared him for Guri’s latest insanity. Three horses from the family stables were tethered in the front yard. Their saddles and bridles were adorned with clover chains. Their coats had been brushed to a shine. An emerald shine. All three horses looked hugely embarrassed.

“I hope you did not use gamma radiation on the horses,” Tasman said.

“Of course not!” Sanjay came by his outrage naturally. He loved every horse in the stable, even flatulent Faisool. “The Egyptian assured us the potion wouldn’t hurt them. The color will fade in a week.”

“It had better. Do I want to know what you intend to do with green horses?”

“Rescue maidens, of course,” said Guri. “We will ride into town and sweep the maidens up onto our saddles to save them from the snakes, just as St. Patrick did.”

“I thought Patrick only drove the snakes out of Ireland. I don’t remember any talk of maidens.”

“Legends alter over time,” Sanjay said. “I’m sure there were maidens.”

Or were about to be, Tasman thought. “Then you should go, and rescue as many as you can.” It would get them both out of his hair for many hours.

Guri grabbed him and beerily kissed his cheek. “You’re the best older brother ever. Come with us. Save a maiden. We dyed you a horse.”

“That’s quite all right. I—”

“Then we’ll bring you one. Hurry, Sanjay! Before the snakes get them!” Guri sprang into the saddle, somehow without spilling a drop of his beer. He could be quite agile when it mattered.

Sanjay drained his own mug before mounting up. “Erin go broke!” he cried, and galloped away in the direction of Talbot’s Peak, with Guri close behind.

“And so the world is saved,” a woman’s amused voice said from the doorway.

Tasman turned. His exasperation over his brothers melted away at the sight of his personal assistant. Poised and polished as always, Leila had dressed for the day in a smart gray suit. Her sole concessions to holiday observance were a green ribbon in her white-gold hair and a discrete shamrock pin in her lapel. She nodded at the mug in his hand. “That isn’t tea.”

“No, it isn’t.” He poured the frothy liquid onto the lawn. The grass did not shrivel up and turn brown, as he’d expected. “I don’t know why I indulge them.”

“Indulgence is good sometimes. It helps one relax.”

“Indeed.” Tasman indulged himself in a leisurely study of her curves. Her eyes glistened like emeralds, in dare and invitation. All of a sudden he felt like celebrating the holiday. “Do you require rescue, maiden?”

“I suppose there must be a snake around somewhere.”

“All right, then.” Tasman swept her into his arms and lifted her into the saddle. He leaped aboard. The horse grunted at the double load. At a flick of the reins it set off for the forest at a sedate trot. Tasman’s heels could not urge it into a faster gait. “It seems we’re not to have a gallop,” he said.

Leila snuggled comfortably into his arms. Her body fit to his perfectly, as always. “This pace is quite sufficient, sir. If I may? Faith and begamma.”

Tasman bared his teeth in a wide smile. He nuzzled her smooth, pale neck. Anything more would have to wait until they reached the privacy of the deep woods. He prodded the horse again. It trotted a little faster. “No wonder the Americans have so many holidays,” he said. “Erin go broke.”

SNEAK PEEK SUNDAY: Her Midnight Stardust Cowboys ~ Chapter Twenty-one

Her Midnight Stardust Cowboys

Note: Sherilyn is recovering from her injuries. Dontoya and Zance are feeding her breakfast in bed.

 

First SIX paragraphs from ~  

Chapter Twenty-one:
"He ain't no fashion hound..."  

"He ain't no fashion hound," Dontoya bantered.

He told his shaft to behave like a gentleman as he roved his gaze over his beautiful mate.

Zance took hold of the heavily laden tray, placing it on the bed. Sherilyn's gaze followed, reminding Dontoya of a huntress observing prey.

"Dig in, darlin'." Dontoya lowered himself opposite her, and sat cross-legged.

Zance pushed her bowl closer to her, then broke a biscuit and buttered it for her. "You look hungrier than a she-bear after hibernation."

"I am." Grabbing her spoon, Sherilyn quickly dipped out a taste of the stew. "Mmm-mm." 

~~~~~~

For more Sunday Sneak Peaks ~sneak-peek-sunday.blogspot.com~ 

~~~~~~ 

Blurb & Excerpts for HER MIDNIGHT STARDUST COWBOYS are on my page above.

~~~~~~ 

Have a Magickal Shapeshifting Week...  

Savanna

Savanna Kougar ~ Run on the Wild Side of Romance

  

A SNOWBALL'S CHANCE IN. . . .

SPLAT!   Another object whizzed by Gill. 

“Incoming,” a familiar youthful voice called out.

SPLAT!  SPLAT!

“Dang! Miss Elly’s got a good arm on her,” another voice familiar sounding voice said.

Gill ducked behind the large century old oak near the front of city hall.  He looked behind him.   No one.  A few cars rushed up and down Main Street.

“Be careful boys,” an older male voice called out.  “Age doesn’t always slow you down.”

THWAK!  Followed by two more splats sounding as snow flew around the tree’s trunk.  Gill swallowed hard.  Had someone targeted him with an astral bull’s-eye?  Who had he recently pissed off?  An opponent running against him in the spring election for mayor?  

“That’s what practice and playing softball gets you.”  Was that Miss Elly?  Gill squatted behind the oak and peered around it.  Two familiar faces greeted him.  Hand knitted caps and scarves adorned the heads and necks of Vernon MacMahon and his lovely lady wife Miss Elly.  They waved and disappeared from sight behind a huge pile of snow, not before yelling, “Duck Gill!  Incoming!”

Gill flattened himself tight to the ground.  Snow and dirt covered his clothes and face.

THWACK!  SPLAT!   SPLAT!  THWACK! 

Gill crawled to the steps of city hall.  He crouched behind the bushes closest to the entrance.  He counted to ten before peeking over the bushes.

Two identical male youths waved.  They wore hats and scarves similar to Vernon’s and Miss Elly’s.  Thor and Loki let two snow balls fly in the direction of the snow pile where Vernon and Miss Elly hid. 

“Sorry Mr. Mayor,” Loki yelled.  “Granddad’s got keen accuracy.”

“Yea, he hits what he aims for,” Thor offered before ducking.

“Then there’s my curve ball boys,” Miss Elly yelled. 

 Three more snow balls whizzed by Gill causing him to dive behind the bushes. He cussed and wondering how he walked into the middle of the brawl.  Not that it mattered. More snow balls and taunts flew by him.  Some came closer than others.

A snowball slammed against the staircase railing close to his head.  Enough.   If he was going to stand a snowball’s chance in getting inside unscathed he had to act fast.  Gill reached down and began packing snow into rounded shapes.  He stacked several near him.  Taking off his neck scarf, he laid several of the larger balls on it.  He picked it up and began spinning in a circle just like he did when he shot put and tossed the discuses in his high school track and field days.  He let go of one end and launched his ammunition toward one snow pile.  Reloaded he repeated, until four sets of voices cried out, “Uncle Mr. Mayor!  Uncle!”

Gill shook out his scarf, wrapped it around his neck, and sauntered into city hall whistling.  Behind him he could hear Vernon, Miss Elly, Thor, and Loki discussing his attack tactics.  Gill grin deepened as he caught Vernon’s advice to Thor and Loki.  “Never underestimate your opponent’s size and wiliness.  You never know what surprises they got ready for you.”

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Happy weekend Gang!

Sorry I missed last week.  My computer died and a new one took time to set up.  Looks like Gill made his decision to run for re-election.  As the last of winter eeks its way out on the slow road, remember to keep warm and share a good book or two with your loves and spice.  I know I will!

Until next week,

Solara

Friday Fun!

“Ohmigod!” Penny jumped from her desk and made her way to the rail overlooking the newsroom.  “Ralph, what’s the last digit of your age?”

“What?”

“Last digit of your age?” She tapped a pencil against the paper as she waited.  “Please don’t make me repeat myself.”

“Ah, 6.”

“Okay, and Ralph is your real first name, yes?”

“According to my mama.”

“How about the last digit of your birth year?”

“Well, er, what’s this about, Pen, er…”

Penny shot Ralph a withering glare.  She hated being questioned, especially when she was having fun. “Just give me the number Ralph and the month you were born while you’re at it.”

“Zero and Jan.”

“Ha!  This thing really works.”  Sometimes wasting time on the internet does pay off. “Ralph, your steampunk name and the name you will be known as from now on is Chief Inspector Montague Rumble Bottom.

“WHAT? No way!  Where did you get that hokey thing anyway?”

The newly minted Montague’s indignation was perfect.  She always did like riling the bear up during the spring.  He was grumpier than usual having not slept right all winter.  “I found it online, but it sure hit close to the truth.  We’ve all heard your Rumble Bottom, Montague.”

“Grrr…”

“Oh hell!” Penny turned to take cover in her office when Nick flew through the door, grumbling something that sounded a lot like ‘what did you do’ at her before shifting.  How he always knew from inside his office was a mystery to her.  He went over the rail and landed before the pissed off - post shift bear.

“What’s going on, Penny?”

The newly pregnant Ziva watched wolf and bear square off against one another with a wet sheen in her eyes.  Penny smiled as Z wiped them away with a swipe of her hand and grumbled about ‘damn hormones’.  She was so like her mate in many ways.  The grumbling was just one of those.

“Why are Nick and Ralph in animal form and ready to battle?”

“Well, that could have been my fault.”

“Really.”

“More likely though it’s this banners fault.”

“A banner – really Penny.”

“Check it out, what’s your steampunk name?  Ralph is now Chief Inspector Montague Rumble Bottom, but I’m thinking he’d not crazy about the change.”   

“Ohmigod…” Ziva laughed, holding her still nonexistent baby bump. “That’s damn close.” 

“Right. I thought so too.  Your baby daddy would be Lord Roderick Wraith Wood.”

“HA..Ho, that thing is good!”  Ziva pondered it some more before she shook her head.  “Nope, no way.”

“Yep, you are no longer Ziva, but Baroness Constance Supper Waddle which works perfectly because, sweets, you’ve started to do just that.”

“That’s – that’s…” Sniff “Just mean, Penny.”

“It’s sweet, Baroness Waddle.”

“Stop it!”  The hormonal wolf growled, “What about your new name?”

Penny smiled as they both looked into the newsroom where a human Lord Wood now had an equally human Rumble Bottom pinned to his desk and was talking to him softly, soothing the reporter.

“Me?  Well, mines perfect.  I’m Madam Millicent Knight Topper.”
~~~

Oh my gosh, neither Mistress or Madam P, nor myself could pass this up for today's blog.  We're both suckers for this sort of thing.  :)  So tell me what's your Steampunk Name?

Me, I'm Dame Dorcas Wither Feather.  LOL

Serena