Oh goodie. A Celt. Of course. It had to be one of those Emerald Isle snobs. All hoity-toity, the whole lot of them. And here she had a cranky one on her beach. How wonderful.
Rosmerta rolled her eyes, and didn't bother to hide it. Why should she? It wasn't like he was taking any pains to conceal his current mood. In fact, he was going out of his way to make sure eeeeeeverybody saw his little temper tantrum. A case of “look how nasty I can be when you make me mad,” she supposed, but really, showing people that they could get under your skin and upset you was basically handing them an invitation to do it again. And that's just what was going on here. That was made absolutely plain by one word: Romans.
Of course it was their fault. What wasn't?
“I never thought you to be foolish, Manannan Mac Lir,” she called to him, her voice still raised over the howling winds he'd brought with him. “Yet here you are, having a hissy fit on my beach and saying things that make you sound utterly daft. But I'm tired of yelling, and you're ruining my crops, so if you don't knock it off, I'm going to get cranky. Stop making such a mess of things, and I'll make you some tea and we can talk.”