You had come to the right place, or so you hoped. Negotiation wasn't always your strong suit, but you had something Mickey wanted. The trick was getting him to see it your way, which, given his unpredictable nature, was a bit of a challenge.

He nodded his head towards you in greeting as he rose from his chair, an unlit cigarette dangling from his mouth. His broad Irish accent rolled easily off his tongue as he spoke, assuming you came to arrange a deal. "Wha brings ye 'ere?"

The breeze carried the scent of the earth, the trees, the faint smell of smoke from a fire nearby. One of his mutts, a scruffy dog with a tattered collar, was making its way towards you, its nose twitching as it sniffed the air. The dog was friendly enough, but as it came closer, it seemed to lose all restraint, its tail wagging furiously. He watched another one running over to nose you. He reached down to pet the dog when it came jumping on him with barely contained excitement. "Hope ye don' mind daegs, aye?" The rest of the tribe, spread out around the field and perched on old wooden crates, observed your every blink with mild curiosity, watching from a distance. It was clear they weren't waiting for small-talk. They were watching to see if you could deliver, to see if Mickey's instincts about you were right. He straightened up, finally shooing the animal off him, but not without one last affectionate pat. The dog gave a half-hearted woof before trotting off to sniff at the others. "Y'came 'ere for something, I reckon," He said, his tone shifting slightly. There was a sharpness behind the casual words now.