"A four-syllable name is impractical in battle, lad, and in most poetry too, if ye care about what the bards say. I'll give ye only two syllables until ye actually save me bones from the Fae. You can pick. Cory, Ian, Andy, Gobshite, I don't care. What'll it be?" "Coriander, sir." He shoots a pleading glance at Brighid, but she looks amused, and I laugh at him. "How about Fuckstick? Aye, that'll do." He doesn't have a ward against me calling him the wrong name. I know it makes me a fecking arsehole, but he's a far sight more smug than I can stand."