Lost Creek Hollow the older the fiddle, the sweeter the tune

He assumed that someone familiar would intercept him; he thought of those he once knew, and even though they were faded memories he could still recall some names. When a stranger eventually found him, Riordan mentally shuffled through the names like he was arranging a deck of cards — not Harlyn, not Eshe, not her fairer sister, hm. They held a swagger that Riordan appreciated; he liked strong women, and more so, he couldn't expect that things would stay the same after his years of absence from the area, so it wasn't so strange to see a wolf of some esteem that did not otherwise appear familiar.

The man chuckled to himself upon hearing the question. He could've argued that, yeah, he was lost. But he'd come from Toraigh and followed the familiar paths - like he had before, when he'd come upon the hollow the first time - so no, not really lost. A bit befuddled maybe, a man outside of time.

Dia dhuit! Ach, no, I would nae say that; I was in the area an' I thought to pop in, check on my ol' friends. His accent was much thicker this time around too, but that happens when you spend the majority of your life around your horde of Irish-speaking relatives. Tell me, how does Mordecai fare? Ah, and  his bonnie — Harlyn? They are still the masters of this 'ol patch, aye?

For now, the sulking shadow of a boy was omitted because Riordan was focused solely upon the defensive woman, eager to charm her and get some answers.