a place holder just so i can have a rad email
Ah, the penny. A humble coin, nearly worthless to most—but to the Brigade, it was sacred. Each member carried one, worn smooth by time and thumb, said to be given in exchange for a favor, a secret, or a song. Some say the pennies were cursed. Others say they were enchanted. Most just used them to buy another round.
🍻 The Rites and Revels The Brigade had no rules, only traditions—passed down in slurred toasts and half-remembered ballads: Never drink alone, unless you’re with ghosts. Always toast the absent, for they may be watching. If you forget the story, make it better the next time. They wandered from faire to faire, pub to pub, always arriving just after the trouble started and leaving just before the bill came due. They wore no uniform, save for a glint in the eye and a song in the heart.
Some say the Irish Penny Brigade still roams, hidden in plain sight. You might find them at a dusty tavern on the edge of a faireground, or hear their laughter in the wind that rustles the banners. They don’t recruit. They don’t advertise. But if you find a penny on the ground, and it’s warm to the touch… well, you might already be one of them.
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