It was stormy. It was always raining in Ireland; all my goddamn memories of Ireland are raining, but this was a real storm. Lightning belched from the sky, day as black as night. Like the whole world was coming to an end.

I was at The Sheep and Cross, like most nights, drunk as can be. Don't remember much of evening, honestly, but I do remember when he came in. Thunder didn't shake the bar, we didn't go silent at his arrival and no, he didn't say something impressive to the accompaniment of a bolt of lightning. He sat down and ordered a drink. Let's say it was whiskey, that's a good Irish drink; although he seems more a scotch man to me.

So he sipped his scotch and made small talk with various people although most were slightly concerned about his paleness and asked him why he didn't remove his hat. Probably found it unsettling how it kept his eyes in shadow. Other than that the man seemed normal. He drank, flirted with the girls, and discussed the town. Most people must have thought he was, I don't know, an adventurer or something. Not sure about them but I knew he was different.

My uncle, he had been something that we call a Seeker but my dad had called him a wizard and a pagan. I had rather liked my uncle; he wasn't one of those crazy types who thought that there was a real purpose to Seeking other than for power. Sure he wasn't capable of doing anything substantial, but luck started looking up for him when he got his Object and he survived damn well longer than most when they burnt him.

The point is I knew something of Seeking. The way a Seeker looks, for instance, and I knew not to mess with them. So I stayed good and out of his way until the man came up to me. I remember the first thing he said to me was, "You're a London Boy".

I said yes and asked him how he knew. I was falling down drunk at the time and had lived in the town, more of a hamlet, for the past three years. He said he could "smell" it in the way I carried myself. I asked what that was supposed to mean and he chuckled a bit.

"Can't die in London. City won't let me; not that dying is a problem anymore. I was there when it was born. Or grew. I've been with it for a while," he chuckled. "Might as well say I raised it." He laughed at his little joke. "Why are you in Ireland, boy? Didn't just come here to get drunk, did you? 'Cause that isn't healthy."

I would've told him to piss off but I knew he was a Seeker so I tried to be a little more dignified. What I think I said was, "I'd rather keep it to myself," but I was piss drunk so I'm not exactly certain. The next thing I remember is him asking for my name. I tell him it's Mr. Flint.

"Flint? That's a terrible name, doesn't fit you at all. You're not an arsonist, not from Flint; no, I won't be calling you that." He looked me over and a smile came to his face. "Good to meet you, Mr. Filth, I'm Mr. Jack."