A thanks to ComingWinter for helping me flesh out my narrative.
It's a cold afternoon in downtown Chicago when Mike Fleming walks into his favorite bar. It's been his place to come after a stressful day at the museum, with warm cherry colored woodwork and polished brass. A cold honey colored beer slides under his nose as soon as he takes his usual spot, five seats from the flatscreen tv.
"You gonna sit there all staring at it or drink up?" the Bartender asks, raising one eyebrow.
Mike laughs and puts a hand through his short, dark brown hair. "Sorry Bill, been a long day at work." As he raises the glass to his mouth, the entrance opens and a gust of cold wind comes in and blows over him. Standing at the door is a young man, no more than twenty five, but tall with broad shoulders and piercing gray eyes. He is wearing a long black wool coat against the cold, making him that more intimidating. He pulls up and sits a seat away from Mike and gestures to Bill.
"A club soda with lemon," he says in deep voice, "if I may." Bill nods casually and ducks beneath the bar for a clean glass. He fills the glass, squeezes half a lemon and slides it deftly to the stranger.
"Chilly weather today," he remarks, sipping his soda.
"Aye," says Mike, trying not to look at the man's face again. Something is odd about his eyes, the way they seem to see right through him.
"What do you do here," he asks, looking at Mike.
Mike shrugs and says hesitantly, "I'm a curator at the local history museum. You?" The stranger smiles broadly, "James Merrilin, entertainer, magician, illusionist and story teller, and you won't find any better!"
"I would not have guessed," replies Mike taken back, "you don't look the type."
"Not many people do," James laughs loudly. Mike is somewhat relieved, the inner anxiety at the stranger somewhat abates. "A storyteller are you?" asks Mike. "I guess you and I have both that in common," he smiles broadly, "but my stories are of more fact than fiction."
"Oh my stories have plenty of fact in them." says James.
"What stories do you tell?" Mike asks, drinking from his glass.
"The recounting of Trebius Germanus, and the event he recorded about the attack of werewolves on the town of Locketside," replies James.
Mike begins to laugh, "I thought this was going to be a story of fact! You started off well it seems the fiction has just started."
"Indeed," says James almost reprovingly, "Just listen to the story and be a judge of it when it ends."
"Now where was I? Ah yes."
"It was in the year 126 A.D. Trebius Germanus had just finished the first phase of Hadrian's Wall."
"As you know, the land to north of the wall was Valentia and to the south lay Maxima Caesariensis," looking up at Mike, who was getting intrigued by the story.
Mike nodded and James continued on.
"Hadrian's Wall was being built to keep the Picts out of the fertile lands of Roman Britian, giving farmers there peace to plant their crops and settle the land. Locketside was a small town just a stone's throw north of the wall. An encampment mainly, used for the soldiers and their families for shelter as the wall was being built. One day terrible strange things began to happen; foraging parties began to go missing and the dead they found bore gruesome wounds. Wounds no instrument of human hands could make. Huge claw marks were found in the trees outside the town, higher than any bear could reach. Stories spread through the town of men that could change their shape and become giant wolves that terrorized at night. No man or beast was immune to their attacks, for they could outrun any horse and neither fire nor steel held any fear for them.
Trebius and his generals convened at the town, as at this time, the panic was so great that most of the citizens had fled, leaving a handful of men.
They gathered in the great hall, and around the hearth fire they made their deliberations as how to find these wolves."
Day 1 Starts Now. Begin Posting!
Today's Deadline is December 19th at 12:00PM EST.
With 12 alive, it takes 7 votes to lynch.
