Invergordon Sumit

[TFinnegan]

Tim Finnegan dumps himself back into his seat and smiles genuinely at Doc Holliday - the man who had saved his own life, right here in the very skies they were seeing outside the dome glass - and stuffs half of a pastry into his mouth, covering his beard, vest, and kilt with crumbs.

"Delicious!" he exclaims around the mouthful, showering himself further with detritus. "Me compliments t'yer woife!"

Gulping and wiping the back of his hand across his mouth, he eyeballs the Blood wine with obvious trepidation.

"Oi's afeared me engine dinnae run on such stuff, Doc. S' wheskey or nae fer this ol' salt." He grabs the bottle of Gran Canarian Rum and waggles it, sloshing it about.
"A lad could get used t' this 'ere stuff, though, aye!"

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