Eamon-Ail tightens his fingers around the old, rotting boards of the noble's coach, and sneezes.

Stealing rides on the underside of a carriage is cheap [i]and[/i] effective, but the dust stirred by the prance of the noble's steeds and the wheels of the damned contraption whirls around an individual's face and into their mouth and nose. Not really that pleasant, especially when said individual owns one pair of sweaty palms that cause them to feel as if they were going to fall from the coach at any moment and crack their head on the rocks below. Especially when they have no idea if they're going where they need to go.

So when the coach stops, Eamon drops, [i]"Bualadh craicinn....cac!"[/i] 

And because it wasn't wise to curse so loudly, Eamon scurries out from under the coach and looks around. And He has absolutely [i]no[/i] idea where he is. And it might be time to ask for some directions and get away from the scene of the crime.

And, ay, there's a few people over yonder that he could ask--a woman and a white-haired boy? Convenient! 

"'LO?" He redoubles his efforts to conceal his accent and his high-pitched voice. "Ye know--by any chance--what land I've dropped into? Am I near the City Redmont?"