Cool white light poured down from the setting full moon, illuminating the remaining leaves on the trees, sparkling off hoarfrost already on the grass, and spilling in shattered brilliance across the ripples of the stream visible from the field.� And on a silver-tinted boulder, two very drunk men steadily lowered the remaining volume in a good bottle of Scotch while arguing vociferously-- and loudly.

"I'm telling you, MacLeod, you louse," the blond slurred, "that you're defaming the character of a lady."

Dilated, half-blind eyes tried to track extravagant hand gestures and failed.� Instead, the person addressed simply raised the bottle and drank again.� Hugh FitzCairn, bon vivant, lady's man, and inebriate, stole the alcohol and continued to complain, "And you're being downright greedy with the booze, you, you-- Gael."

A sly chuckle answered that attempted slur.� "Aye, well, we all know who the Sassenach is, now, don't we?"

"And you let them chase me all the way to the borders of the camp, MacLeod!"

"It was the Hunting of the Sassenach.� And she laughed, too," Connor pointed out cheerfully, if drunkenly, pulling a silver flask from his sporran, and saluting a nearby tent with it.

"She's far too much a lady to have laughed," Fitz denied, waving the bottle for emphasis.� Fortunately it was almost empty; no whiskey was wasted.� "And you, you rotter, have been insulting her."

"I've been a perfect gentleman!"

"Oh, indeed!� Not a compliment you've given, not a hand offered, not a pass made!"

Connor stood unsteadily and settled the folds of his kilt with the offhand--if uncoordinated-- precision of years of practice, and announced, "You're drunk."

The solemn pronouncement visibly annoyed the other immortal.� "Philistine!� A glorious paragon of femininity, and a dab hand with a sword, and what do you do, you wretch?� You spar with her!� That is not the right sword to be using, you muttonhead!"

"Fitz, the lady's not available!"

Disgusted blue eyes spat sparks at him.� "You thick-witted dolt!� You dunce capped ninny!� Have you been trolling for young boys?� Do you not recognize such curving perfection when you see it?"

"Lying spalpeen!"� Connor straightened indignantly and vainly, listing a few degrees to the left.� "Do you think I'm blind?"

"That or stupid!� Call yourself a man?� You chicken-hearted, lily-livered, puling, mewling excuse for a man.� What do you keep under that fancy-folded blanket, hmm?"

That took a few moments to penetrate the alcoholic haze.� "Did you just call me a coward?" came the outraged -- and absurdly loud -- query.

"I wouldn't bet against it," came the chuckled reply from her brunette friend.� "Do they sound sober?"

"Not even close.� Should we interfere?"

"Gods forbid.� They're bonding," the brunette laughed, only the faintest trace of irony in her voice.

"Well, I'm going to watch the fun."

"You don't need blackmail material."

"You don't get into enough mischief lately, Mistress Prim and Proper.� What happened to the woman who went skinny-dipping with Haresh Clay?"� The redheaded immortal slid off her cot, dragging the thick comforter with her toward the front of the tent.

"He was more interested in Carter, but you may have a point," the brunette murmured, scooting forward herself.� "I'll get the tent zipper.� I don't suppose you know where the camera is?"

"You've gone too far!� No true son of the MacLeods would stand for such an insult from a man named after a grave!� I demand satisfaction!"� Connor attempted a threatening advance, only to stagger sideways as the ground proved a bit unsteady.

"Well, if you'd flirted with the lass, you might have had a chance at it.� But you're simply not my type, Highlander," Fitz replied smugly, turning away to adjust the lace of his cuffs.� "And it's probably too late, anyway.� She seemed rather taken with that black-haired Frasier who was hovering at the ceilidh tonight."� Gauntlet thrown, he dug around for his pipe -- in the wrong pocket of his coat, but he had no clear recollection of when he'd last had the meerschaum, so he kept looking.

"A Frasier?� She wouldn?t!"

Fitz shrugged in complete unconcern, finally finding his pipe purely by accident and promptly forgetting where the tobacco was.� "I'm sure you'd know better than I would, Highlander.� I've known her longer, and I'm older than you are, but by all means, man, don't let minor details confuse you."

"That did it!� Draw your sword, you mendacious, lice-riddled mongrel descendent of half-a-dozen German tribes who couldn't even keep their own land!"

"At least in my day, you wool-rolling, sheep-chasing, intestine-eating barbarian, the damned French hadn't invaded yet!� I didn't take orders from degenerate, wine-swilling fops who can't even pronounce their own language properly!"

"At least I've not run from women and children," Connor dug at him slyly.

"They were wielding hammers, MacLeod!"

"They were throwing them, you simpleton.� It's a contest.� Don't you know anything?"� The Scot tried to pull his sword, but drunk as he was, he forgot to hold the scabbard in place.� The sheath slid along the belt, and the blade stayed in place.

'I know how to draw my weapon," Fitz said grandly, bowing with an extravagant hand flourish to balance himself.� "Unlike certain Scots."

"Ah, but a Scottish blade is worth the time of drawing," Connor leered.� "Unlike an Englishman's shortsword."

"I always suspected that he at least knows how to use it.� He'd have to, to keep so many women happy."

They looked at each other and chorused, "The men on the other hand?.."

The rising voices outside the tent caught their attention, and the brunette said thoughtfully, "Should we be worried?� They're very drunk."

?No, I don't think so," the redhead murmured, toying with the crystal pendant around her throat while peeking out the tent flap.� "I really don't think either of them could lift a sword far enough to reach a neck."

The brunette pointed out gently, "I'm not sure they can stay on their feet, either."

"All right -- that could be a problem," the redhead sighed, rearranging her blankets around the two of them for rapid exit into the night beyond if necessary.� "Well, if it gets too serious, we'll go take their swords away from them."

In unison, they chuckled, "Men."

"You did have a little trouble lifting the caber, didn't you?" Connor chuckled.

"Ah, you always were a man for jealousy.� All because my team won the clan tug-of-war, MacLeod?"

"Bloody Sassenach, you aren't part of any clan!� You sweet-talked that little blond Campbell into letting you 'help' her."

"You were too busy trying to win the 'bonniest knees' contest," Fitz laughed, remembering.� "You would have made the top three, MacLeod, if you hadn't insulted the head judge."

?" kept remembering the look on her face when she got tangled up in the border collie's leash."

"Chowderhead!� You should never have asked her if she liked being tied up!"

"Ah, but did you see the legs on the lass?"

"Well, why didn't you say something about them, instead of the leashes?"

Connor shrugged and took another sip from his flask.� "I have a thing for leather?"

Fitz rolled his eyes in disgust, and brought his pipe up for another puff.� "Try subtlety, next time, MacLeod," he muttered around the pipe-stem.

"What's wrong with offering to find her better material?"

"You're supposed to be suave, not offer suede!"

Both men laughed, and raised the empty bottles, trying to get more alcohol.

"You were in the harping contest.� Connor did do well in the bonniest knees contest, until the judge slapped him.� He spent too long at the whiskey tasting, I think," the redhead mused.

"Do you suppose Connor deliberately forgot to tell Fitz about the chasing of the Sassenach?"

"Wouldn't you?" was the dry response.

"Well--.� Yes."� Both of them muffled their giggles and went back to listening to the men.

"Good eye, Connor.� Light on her feet as a feather, and the sweetest--."

"Mouth?"

"I was going to say cider, MacLeod; you know I never kiss and tell," Fitz told him indignantly.� "How dare you impew-- importu-- no, damn it, insult my honor, like that!"

Connor sighed in regret.� "I think we're sobering up."/FONT>

"Not yet, MacLeod.� Some of us travel prepared."� Fitz pulled another bottle out of his coat pocket.� "Have some more."

"For an Englisher, you're not too bad," came the contented reply as Connor reached for the alcohol.

'For a Scot, you can almost dance,' Fitz told him cheerfully.� "I saw you and that little redhead.� How did you talk me into coming to this?� I mean, really, Connor, a tent in October?"

"That's why you have blankets.� And all I had to do, FitzCairn, was tell you that two lovely ladies were coming along.� Besides, there's been dancing, and some very good bards at the fires after the ceilidh."

"I will say that you Celts know how to throw a party."� Fitz nodded and took a swig from the bottle himself.� "Ah, now there's real Irish whiskey."

"And what's wrong with Scotch?" Connor demanded.

"We're out," Fitz pointed out.