Lights burned late and ale flowed freely in the Pub-on-Styx, Harlem. The Public House was a rickety patchwork of an establishment that flowed out of the landscape with distinction, which was no mean feat in a borough of distasteful architecture. Inside, Knucklebone sat hunched over a stein, aimlessly tapping the pewter vessel with a bony hand.
WHEN DOES IT WEAR OFF? he asked in a hollow resonance that morphed over the brimming head of ale. No-one could quite fathom how he consumed the stuff, or any foodstuff for that matter, but in the first instance the stein was full, and in the next it wasn’t.
Ernest was down on all fours beside the hearth, lapping greedily at his own ale. “What?” he asked.
THE POTION.
“Inside two hours, usually after one,” reported the werewolf. “That’s if it works in the first place. Why?”
I BELIEVE I AM STILL AN ELF.
The werewolf looked up, the pupils of his eyes pinpoint and his maw dripping beer and an uncapped well of saliva. “But it’s been two days!” he yelped.
YES.
“And you are still agile, well, more agile than normal?”
IT’S IN MY MARROW.
“Then you are,” Ernest confirmed matter-of-factly before turning back to his bowl.
Knucklebone hesitated. I SUPPOSE I AM, he said. COULDN’T THROW ANOTHER LOG ON THE FIRE COULD YOU?
The last peat log was consigned to the flames, leaving only the preserved remains of Altdorf’s forefathers in the fuel box, their presence a reminder of the great change that has befallen the Wight.
Nice post Matthew, way to give add some character to the team. You Inspired me to do likewise.
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