Peter G. Reynolds's Blog

Exciting News!

I'm feeling very honoured to be included in the 2023 Year’s Best Canadian Fantasy & Science Fiction. I'd like to thank Stephen Kotowych for putting together such a beautiful book. You can pick up a copy here: ,,https://www.amazon.ca/dp/0993937594/

As well, the Ottawa Review of Books has just released a glowing review of the anthology book. Even more thrilling? The review mentions my Aurora Award-winning short story "Broken Vow: The Adventures of Flick Gibson, Intergalactic Videographer"! The downside? They misspelled "Gibson" as "Glysion"...

Have a read in the link below!

,https://www.ottawareviewofbooks.com/single-post/year-s-best-canadian-fantasy-and-science-fiction-vol-1-2023?fbclid=IwAR0QvybSThWVO9r2SAooa81thVTcqBpRFd73fn6MhIpyGhsl8ntfW-NGAHA

I'm incredibly excited to announce that : , has been short-listed for the Best Short Story Prix Aurora Award, the top award for Canadian Science Fiction and Fantasy.

Thank you to everyone who nominated me!

Stay tuned for more details, because it's not over yet. If you haven't had a chance to read it, you'll have the opportunity to download it and vote next month.

I'd like to share one of the reviews of my short story that has me blown away. I never knew that a story that I wrote as a creative outlet to destress would entertain so many people. If you don't already know, this isn't Flicks first adventure. The Intergalactic Videographer was first published in OnSpec, Issue 115 Vol 31 on January 2021, and now a 3rd instalment will be published in a few months. I have a few other mis-adventures planned for Flick Gibson, so who knows where it will take him! Now back to the following review:

"This is a pulp-like throwback to old-fashioned science fiction adventure-humour. No serious extrapolation intended. Just an amusing premise with a silly screw-up that ultimately gets resolved with an unexpected solution. Loads of fun throughout. A relaxed, pleasant read. Kind of an antidote to the previous two stories. I know I ranted about “silly, senseless pleasure” earlier, but only if that were the permanent state of affairs. Small doses serve a useful purpose, a psychologically sound purpose. Doesn’t hurt to chuckle once in a while. Keeps you sane. This story is good for you."

"This story is good for you".... That alone will keep me going for a while ;)

Wishing everyone a lovely spring, for those with allergies, I'll wait to wish you a happy summer when the pesky pollen season has passed. We will connect again next month!

#auroraawards#prixauroraawards#onspecmagazine#prixaurora#shortstory#awardnominee#auroraaward#csffa#torontoauthor#torontowriter#scifiawards#scifiwriting#intergalacticvideographer#funnyshortstory#canadianscifi#scifi#scifishortstory

Ron found himself in a cozy alcove in one corner of the pub, where bench seating circled a large oak table. The table was covered in words and symbols carved on the surface. He could make out some of the letters, but the rest might as well have been hieroglyphs. In fact, he thought, some of them probably were.

On either side of Ron was Groenveld, who had complained loudly about being on "door duty" for so long, and one of the fairies Ron had smelled earlier. She was a delicate-looking creature who hovered just above her seat on transparent wings that moved so quickly they were just a blur. Ron thought she might have a crush on him as she kept asking him to smile.

On the other side, not needing a seat, was a female centaur, whose long, intricately braided hair cascaded down her back, blending seamlessly with her auburn coat. Beside her was Hamish, who leaned against the table casually, cloven hooves crossed.

On top of the table was the pitcher of beer, four slightly dirty glasses and a large wooden bucket filled with clear water.

Ron's palms were sweaty, which he thought ironic, considering how dry his mouth felt. May waved at him from across the pub, where she and Kay had been ordered to sit. Ron wished she was beside him but thought Hamish might see it as a sign of weakness. Now, he needed to show strength if he was going to convince them he was the person they thought he was pretending to be.

Ron had no taste for beer and dipped his glass into the bucket of water. It looked cool and refreshing as he brought it to his lips.

"Hey!" Said a voice coming from the bucket. Ron dropped the heavy glass. It didn't shatter, but its contents poured across the table and onto Ron's lap, soaking them.

The pub got eerily quiet, and Ron's table companions stared at him in disbelief. Across the room, May hid her face in her hands while her sister smirked mercilessly. Ron had no idea what was going on.

Then he felt something strange in his soaked trousers.

The water began to move. First, down Ron's pants, exiting at the knee, which was touching one of the table legs. The gravity-defying liquid then rippled its way up the leg, across the table and back into the wooden bucket. Ron could feel his pants were now completely dry.

Out of the bucket rose a swirling mass of water about the size of Ron's fist. It was indistinct at first, but then, slowly, the mass of ripply reflections molded itself into a face with a wide smiling mouth and large expressive eyes.

"I'm not for drinking." It said, its watery mouth smiling as it spoke. "But of course, you wouldn't know that, so I forgive you."

Ron was about to apologize anyway, but the viscus face continued without pause.

"I've heard you've been completely cut off from the magical world - don't know a centaur from the Chimera. Not that Chimera's are real, mind you. That would be silly. Did you know that according to Wikipedia, the Chimera was a monstrous fire-breathing creature composed of different animal parts? It is usually depicted as a lion with a goat's head protruding from its back and a snake's head for a tail. Can you believe that! It supposedly is a sibling of Cerberus and…."

"Thank you," interrupted Hamish. "But I think we have more pressing matters to discuss.""

The watery creature's dappled smile drooped, and it slowly descended back into the bucket.

Hamish turned to Ron. "I know this is all a little overwhelming. Well, perhaps a lot overwhelming. But I'm going to ask you to set aside your preconceptions, your disbelief, even basic logic and hear what we have to say."

Ron nodded. Hamish spread his arms wide.

"It's time we formally introduced ourselves. The people…"

"Ahem," interrupted the bucket.

"Sorry." Hamish said, "The entities you see here in the pub are members of the Council of Magical Beings." Hamish, them motioned to those seated around Ron. "We five are the leadership."

Ron looked around at his table companions, who nodded in greeting.

"You've already met Babble," continued Hamish," "who represents elementals from all across the world.

"A pleasure to make your acquaintance, good sir," bubbled the bucket, "or is it madam? You'll now have to forgive me; I'm not familiar with lupin gender conventions…."

"And," said Hamish quickly, "This is Queen Lucinda of the Faery Lands."

"Call me Lucy," said the queen with a flick of her wings and a smile much broader than Ron expected.

Hamish then turned to the centaur, who had been quietly staring at Ron the whole time. But before he could speak, the table rattled as the Groenveld smashed his hand down, nearly toppling the three remaining glasses.

"I suppose you're going to pick me last again, Hamish? Do I look like a sickly schoolboy on the cricket field?"

Hamish exhaled, and Ron smelled the unmistakable odour of frustration.

"I was leaving the best for last, Groenveld", Hamish said with a forced smile.

Groenveld considered this, stroking his beard thoughtfully.

"Well then, that's different," he said with a smile. He crossed his arms and leaned back in the booth. "Please continue."

Ron could feel the tension ease around the table as Hamish gratefully introduced the fourth member.

"This is Hylonome, Chieftan of the Great Herd. She's as fierce as she is beautiful. You won't find a stronger warrior among centaurs."

Hylonome looked at Hamish, tail bristling. "You flatter me, husband, but let us begin our meeting with honesty, not hyperbole. Her gaze once again fell on Ron, and he felt its weight. "It is true I am Chieftain of the Great Herd, whose numbers once darkened the plains of Thessaly and whose hood beats rattled the gates of Thebes."

"HA-OOH!" Shouted the two centaurs Ron had seen playing darts earlier. They stamped their feet at the "OHH," and Ron could feel the vibrations in his feet.

"But," continued Hylonome, "this is not Ancient Greece, and our numbers now would struggle to darken a football pitch. This is true for much of our kind, though they are loath to admit it. We are dying."

The bluntness of her words hit Ron hard. May and Kay had told him this before, but now it seemed more real. More immediate.

"My husband calls me a warrior, but how do you fight an unseen enemy that steals the very life from our bellies? We are desperate.

The table shook again as Groenveld slammed his hand down, this time knocking over the remaining glasses and threatening to tip over Babble's bucket.

"You say too much, Hylo. This wolf is not to be trusted."

The centaur snorted and stomped angrily at the floor, her front legs banging the table. This time the bucket did topple but was set right by a watery hand that extended from it.

"Can we please STOP BANGING THE TABLE?" asked Babble loudly, the force of his shout spraying Ron's face in a wet mist.

This time the room became so quiet Ron could hear the heartbeats of the patrons. Most were beating wildly, except for Hamish, who looked more amused by the emotional outbursts.

Hylonome snorted again as her tail swished vigorously, but, Ron noted, her fists had unclenched. She looked directly at the former doorman.

"The time for caution is over, Groenveld. We all know our history with wolf-kind. We have fought with them for centuries. And what have we gained? Nothing. Their numbers continue to grow, their power and influence on the affairs of man increase while we're reduced to hiding or acting in travelling shows. Pretending to be who we actually are. How many of your brothers and sisters have you lost this year? How many have we all lost?

"Too many," Groenveld answered.

Hylonome reached out and grabbed Groeneveld's hand. "Wolf-kind has never helped us, my friend, because they've never had a reason to. But now we know the rumours are true. They're suffering as we have suffered. Their women can no longer sire children and share the pain of children never to be. Soon they, too, will start dying for no earthly reason. We must work together before it's too late for any of us.

Groenveld was silent and seemed to withdraw into his own beard. Hylonome released his hand and looked away. The room was silent for several rapid heartbeats until Hamish spoke. His voice was calm, an eye in the hurricane of emotions surrounding him.

"Wolf of the Faoladh Clan, what you said when you arrived was right. We need you. But I think you also need us. What's happening to wolf-kind now has been slowly happening to us, to all of us, for centuries. We may not have the knowledge of wolf-kind, but we have experience. We have tried almost everything, almost everywhere, with no success.

Ron didn't know what to say. He knew he was in over his head. Luckily it seemed the others took his silence for stoicism.

Lucy landed lightly on the table in front of him. Her gossamer wings folded neatly behind her back. "If we can meet with your elders, perhaps telling them what hasn't worked will help us figure out what can."

"Yes," rippled Babble. "We also have resources you don't have access to. Knowledge from the bottom of the deepest ocean or from the heart of the hottest volcano."

The lights hanging throughout the pub flashed, seemingly in agreement, and Ron started to realize he was only seeing the tip of the world he'd discovered three days ago.

"I'll do what I can," Ron said, at last, feeling the eyes of everyone on him. "I can't promise anything. I don't hold as much influence as you might have hoped. But I can promise to do my best to help you, all of you."

Lucy smiled, Groenveld harrumphed, Hylonome saluted, and Babble gurgled. Hamish held Ron's gaze for a moment longer before nodding. He then turned up all four beer glasses and filled them with the pitcher, which had miraculously stayed upright.

"Normally, in a moment like this, I would say, let this be the first step, but we don't have time for more steps. So instead, let me raise a glass to the last step of our journey. To the Wolf of the Faoladh Clan!

"Wolf, wolf, wolf," chanted the crowd.

Ron cleared his throat, "Actually, my name is..."

"RON!" roared a voice as an enormous mass of fur and fangs crashed through the ceiling, showering everyone in shattered glass and splintered wood. Landing heavily in the middle of the pub, it looked around, eyes burning red like the fires of hell itself.

Ron brushed glass from the top of his head and turned toward the red-eyed demon.

"CARL?"

#

Arm and arm with the two sisters, his clothes tight beneath his skin, Ron once again felt invincible. He still wished to be found by his shadow but not to be put out of his misery. No, he was confident he'd put them out of their misery after ringing out a few answers.

His revelation to May and Kay that his brother and the other clan Alphas had been poisoned was precisely the explanation he needed. Even Kay was convinced, and both agreed to take him directly to the Council. They wouldn't tell him where it was, only that it was "this way" and "a little further."

As they strolled through the city, the street performers were still in full swing. Fire breathers and jugglers, contortionists and musicians, but Ron barely noticed. He wondered whether he was handing himself to the very people responsible for poisoning his brother, but the thoughts flailed in his head, drowning in the sister's heavy perfume and twin embrace.

One performer winked at them as they passed. He played a very odd-looking instrument, a cross between a guitar, accordion and violin.

May and Kay stopped to listen.

"It's a nyckelharpa," said May, sensing Ron's question. She closed her eyes and swayed to the music. I haven't heard it since..."

"Siena," Kay said. "Never cared for it myself."

May winked at Ron. "Except when it was played by a certain stone mason's son."

"Whatever," Kay said under her breath. She covered her ears with headphones hiding beneath her scarf. Death metal replacing the folksy sounds being enjoyed by the crowd.

"He broke her heart." May confided as they continued down the narrow, well-lit streets.

Ron's belly was starting to believe they'd never arrive and was loudly calling out for him to stop a food truck called Routine Poutine. The name didn't make sense, but Ron didn't care as he inhaled the delicious scent of gravy, cheese curds and fries or chips, as the locals called them.

"May, I think we should stop for..."

Before he could finish, Ron saw an all too familiar sign behind the food truck.

Eddie O'Donnell's Headstones.

Ron's shoulders sagged. He knew he couldn't escape it. He uncoupled his arm from May.

"Sorry, May. I have to go."

He walked purposefully passed the food truck until he stood in front of the old stone building. Up close, he realized it wasn't old but was covered in weathered concrete to look like a mausoleum. Unfished headstones, propped up against the front, completed the effect.

He tried the door. Locked.

"Come on, Inn. Stop playing games." He shouted. He didn't know she could change forms, but it wasn't much of a stretch if she could change locations.

He tried again, but the door wouldn't budge.

"I know I shouldn't have left. Tell my brother I'm sorry."

"Ron?" May asked.

Ron turned and saw May and Kay looking at him. Their faces contorted in a single question, which they asked in unison.

"What are you doing?"

Ron knew the truth had to come out eventually. But it was nice, even for a short time, to live inside the lie. Inside the skin of someone important who did make a difference. Not some shiftless loser who runs whenever they're embarrassed.

"I didn't want..." he stumbled. "I mean, I wanted to..."

Ron jumped as the door behind him opened, and a short, hairy man wearing green pants and suspenders stepped out. He held a tobacco pipe in one hand, smoke curling around his green, buckled top hat; in the other was a small axe.

"Get in already, or are you just gonna stand there flapping your gob?

Ron looked back at May and Kay, his own face now contorted with a single question.

May was the first to speak, "We've arrived."

#

"You're late." Grumbled the doorman.

"And hello to you too, Groenveld." The sisters chimed. "Come on, Ron. This way!"

The sisters breezed by the imposing doorman, their sweet perfumed scent following in their wake. Ron followed as if attached to an invisible leash.

As he crossed the threshold, Ron was sure of two things: this wasn't the Scratch and Sniff Inn, and it wasn't Eddie O'Donnell's Headstones. It was somewhere new.

At first glance, it looked like a typical Irish pub, not that Ron had much experience with bars. But tv, movies and video games have given him a good idea of what one should look like. In the center was a bar of polished wood and brass surrounding a pyramid of bottles, their contents filled with liquid in all the colours of the rainbow and a few Ron didn't recognize. A two-inch groove in the floor circled the bar as if made by centuries of footsteps. The smell, Ron assumed, was a stale beer, stains of which would be seen on most surfaces. It was, in every way, precisely what you'd expect to find in a pub in Waterford.

On the other hand, the patrons were the wildest collection of individuals Ron had ever seen. Many he recognized as members of the theatre troop he saw earlier that evening. A mangy satyr, sitting on a stool, nursed a tall pint of brown ale, his cloven hoofs swinging a few inches off the ground. Two centaurs laughed uproariously in the corner as they threw darts. Three brightly coloured fairies, right out of a children's storybook, flew back and forth behind the bar. Together they mixed drinks for a group of impatient dwarfs, who pounded the bar with their giant fists rhythmically. Sitting on the floor was the street performer Ron had seen earlier, though now he saw she wasn't wearing stilts but was, in fact, a giant. Her spindly arms and legs bent awkwardly, knees banging the warm lights which hung from the ceiling.

Ron dutifully followed May and Kay as they approached the bar. A few of the patrons raised an eyebrow, horn, scale or wing as he passed but made no move to stop him. The red-nosed satyr looked up from his ale and snarled - or smiled. Ron wasn't sure.

"Well, if it isn't Bling One and Bling Two," he said.

"Shut up, Hagen", said Kay curtly. May said nothing, but the look in her eyes provided the same sentiment, and Ron could swear he felt the room get slightly colder.

"We brought him," May said finally. "As promised."

Ron didn't like the sound of that, but he tried not to show it. He knew their meeting two nights ago wasn't a coincidence; he wasn't that naïve, but he had decided to come here, despite the risks. May's words made it sound like he had no choice. And that wasn't true. Wasn't it?

"So this is the brother?" Hagen said, hopping off his stool, his hooves landing heavily on the old hardwood floor. He was just about Ron's height if you included the eight-inch horns, which spiraled impressively from just above his forehead. His belt was fighting a losing battle with his belly, and Ron imagined if he'd ever had a six-pack, he'd drunk it long ago.

There was an uncomfortable silence, and Ron realized the bar had quieted. All eyes were on him.

"Yes?" He answered.

The satyr looked the young werewolf up and down. Ron noted the oaky bouquet of distrust waffling off him, cutting through the nose-blinding scents of tobacco and stale beer, which seemed to saturate every inch of the pub.

"Welcome, Wolf of the Faoladh Clan." The imp finally said, wrapping his muscular arms around Ron. They were unusually long in proportion to the satyr's body, and it felt to Ron like he was being held by a very hairy snake.

With the embrace, the pub patrons returned to what they were doing. The smell of anxious uncertainty was replaced with general disinterest.

"You have to forgive them," Hamish said as he released Ron. "They don't have much faith in wolves."

"Neither do I," Ron said once his breath returned. The answer surprised Ron as much as it did Hamish, whose left eyebrow commuted to the top of his forehead.

"Why are you here?" He asked.

In truth, Ron didn't really know. He re-played the events of the last four days in his mind and had difficulty figuring out how he got there. Everything was happening so fast. One minute he was the charity member on a quest to save wolf-kind, and the next, he was, what? Someone pretending to be someone who could bridge the gap between werewolves and the other magical creatures?

"Why am I here?" Ron repeated to Hamish. "I'm not sure."

Hamish's other eyebrow rose to greet the first as the silence grew between them. May stepped forward and rubbed Ron's back supportively.

"But what I am sure of," Ron said with sudden renewed confidence, his voice dropping an octave. "Is that you need me. Otherwise, you wouldn't have gone through all this trouble to lure me here."

The strength Ron felt earlier was returning with a vengeance, but not just physical strength; all his senses were enhanced. He could smell the week-old chicken grease that had evaded washing inside the beard of a nearby dwarf, the decayed molars that hung from the necklaces of two fairies playing billiards in the corner.

Hamish studied Ron, who was now at least an inch taller than when the conversation began.

The satyr's exhaled, his shoulders drooping. To Ron, it looked like he'd just shrugged off the weight of the world. "You're right. Whatever is happening, whatever is killing your people and mine, it's not a problem we can solve alone.

"Sit." Hamish continued, motioning to a nearby table. "And we can do something our two peoples haven't done in centuries."

"What's that?" Ron asked.

"Talk."

#

Looking for spooooky stories for Halloween? I’ve got you covered! Here are 8 weird and scary stories from my children’s podcast Musings and Other Nonsense. You may need to leave the lights on for a couple of them! ;) You can find it on your favourite Podcast app (I’m on all of them!). Or visit directly here.

Death did not claim Ron as he stepped out on the street, much to his disappointment. He was back at the Inn's original location, the quiet grassy fields and courthouse replaced by a narrow cobblestone and sounds of tourists and locals celebrating the night away.

"Ron!" shouted a familiar, curly-headed voice from above. Ron ignored the sound, confident he could still hear laughter echoing behind it, and walked purposely into the city.

Once again, Ron found himself wandering the streets of Waterford at night. The multi-coloured lights and modern music contrasting with the ancient architecture. The city was alive with activity, and Ron let the sounds and smells wash over him. He didn't know if his brother would live, the alliance would survive, or even if the mission would succeed, but he didn't care. He was humiliated. They didn't want him, they didn't need him, and he didn't really blame them.

Pentose Lane led to Summer Hill Terrace, where Ron stopped to watch several street performers. There seemed to be one on every corner. There was a man on a unicycle in rainbow suspenders. A woman on stilts jungled while wearing comically oversized shoes. A snake charmer played a haunting melody as their fanged partner bobbed and weaved to the crowd's delight. There was even a red-headed, touristy leprechaun dancing a jig, complete with a green coat, buckled shoes and top hat.

Ron turned to continue his exploration and found himself directly in front of Eddie Headstones.

"Ok, Inn," Ron said aloud. "Stop playing games. I'm not going back."

Several people stared at him from the packed café patio, but his words were quickly dismissed as drunken ramblings.

Ron walked in the opposite direction. Eventually, he came to a small park which appeared like an oasis in the middle of the city. A theatre troupe was just finishing their performance as Ron arrived on a temporary stage surrounded by families sitting on blankets. From the collection of actors dressed as satyrs, centaurs, nymphs and sprites, Ron guessed they had just performed A Midsummer Night's Dream. The applause was sporadic at best, and the cast moved backstage after a single bow.

"Hey Ronnie," echoed two voices from the edge of the stage.

Ron was surprised but also pleased to see May and Kay. He had felt a confidence he'd never known when he was around them, and he could feel it returning at the sound of their voices. They were dressed more eclectically than that first night. Both wore jean jackets over grey sweaters, which ended just shy of their belly buttons. Knitted scarves and black-brimmed hats completed the look. Ron suspected they could make a trash bag look stylish if they wanted.

"Did you enjoy the performance?" they asked in unison.

"No. I just got here."

They began to slowly circle around Ron again, as they had the first time they met. It was as if they were making sure he wasn't hiding anything. He held up his empty hands in surrender.

"What are you doing here?" Ron asked.

"We enjoy theatre," replied May

"Well," added Kay, "we enjoy theatrics."

That didn't surprise Ron in the slightest.

The crowd began to thin. The weather had turned a little cooler, and most had picked up their blankets, retreating to the warmth of their homes or the various pubs and restaurants that dotted the city. Heavenly smells came from one, as Ron's nose identified slow-cooked dishes of beef, chicken, and lamb, and he was pretty sure a vegan cannellini. It reminded him how little he'd eaten in the Great Hall and how hungry he really was. Even raw squirrel sounded great about now.

Gary.

He'd been able to avoid the guilt as he moved through the city, but when it caught up, it threatened to overwhelm him.

I should have stayed, he thought. Gary was sick, maybe dying. I have to go back.

"I have to go," he said aloud.

May and Kay's eyes seem to double in size.

"What, so soon? But you just got here." They hugged him like he was a soldier returning from war. "You can't leave just yet."

Ron was about to protest, but as he stood there, enveloped in a sea of arms and sweet-smelling hair, a thought occurred to him. It would be rude to just leave. He had just arrived, after all.

"Huānhū," they cheered as if reading his mind.

They sat down on the grass in front of the stage. May held her knees to her chest while Kay was cross-legged. Ron was finding it easier to tell them apart. Even when dressed identically, they had their own sense of style. May's scarf was a slighter brighter shade of purple than Kay's, and she always pulled her hair behind both ears. On the other hand, Kay often let her hair fall in front of her face, masking her expression.

"Did you have a chance to speak with your Alpha?" asked May with a smile.

Ron hesitated. Unsure exactly how to answer.

"Well, did you?" asked Kay a little more forcefully. She was playing with her belly button piercing, which sparkled in the multi-coloured lights hanging in the park. Ron found himself staring at it.

"Zhàn!" said May, slapping Kay's hand away from her piercing. Then, looking at Ron, "Sorry about that."

"It's ok." Ron wasn't sure what she was apologizing for. It was understandable they'd want to know. He had planned to tell his brother...

Gary!

May put her hand on Ron's knee. "Ron, what do you think of the park? Pretty cool, isn't it."

Ron felt a chill run through him. It is getting cold, he thought.

"What? Oh. Yes, it's pretty cool."

Ron noticed Kay giving her sister a wrap-it-up gesture with her hand before returning to the eternal scroll of her phone. May shook her head and moved to sit next to Ron. She unwrapped her scarf and rewrapped it around both of them, sharing its warmth in the increasingly chilly night air. He'd never been this close to May, even dancing at the club. He enjoyed the closeness and was finding it difficult to think of anything else.

"Tell me what you told your brother." She asked.

Ron could see his reflection in May's eyes. He didn't like what he saw. Cowardice. Failure. By the time Gary was his age, he thought, his brother was Alpha of their whole clan. But Ron was no Alpha; he wasn't even a gamma. He was a cub in a wolf's world, fooling himself into believing he was making a difference instead of just struggling with a new chew toy, trying to get at the squeaker. He wasn't smart like his Gary, strong like Carl, wise like his Brian or cunning like his Kira. He was just Ron. No. Ronnie. Dumb, awkward Ronnie, who only ran from problems. He didn't want to be the person he saw in May's eyes.

So he wasn't.

Ron dropped his voice to a whisper. "I told him everything. Your Council's concerns and desire to set aside past grievances and tackle this problem together."

May smiled, and Kay looked up from her phone, her mouth slightly open.

"That's unbelievable, Ronnie!" May said, giving Ron a big hug that didn't last as long as he would have liked.

"Yes. Unbelievable." Said Kay.

"Ānjìng diăn!" May said sharply, waving her sister away.

"I'm so proud of you, Ronnie. What did he say?"

Ron liked May being proud of him. He liked it a lot. He wasn't proud of himself at that moment. But his opinion of himself was never that high to begin with.

"He was skeptical at first. But eventually, he came around."

Ron spun a fantastical tale very loosely based on the truth. He told them it took hours to convince his Alpha of the Council's sincerity. He described the epic battle that followed and how he fought alongside his brother against the legendary warrior Lycanon, who had no interest in an alliance and had labelled Ron a traitor.

"You really said, "On my life, dear brother. They speak the truth"? Asked May, enthralled.

"And your claws really sliced open Lycanon's stomach?" added Kay?

"Oh, Yes." Replied Ron. The smell of deceit grew thicker and richer as he spoke, but his two listeners' noses didn't so much as wrinkle. Perhaps there was something I'm good at, he thought bitterly. My father and brother certainly were.

He left out any mention of Gary and other Alphas being poisoned. There was no need to reveal that secret. He didn't need to see the outcome at the Inn to know what impact it would have. Even if the Alphas didn't die, their weakness made them vulnerable to ambition, and there was a lot of ambition in that Hall. His brother was right to get Gary out of there as quickly as possible before someone got any ideas. Without a leader, a pack is vulnerable. The thirteen were vulnerable. No one could know.

Ron ended his story with Gary's decree, standing on a high branch of the Treeble no less, that Ron would be his representative to speak with the Council.

"I don't believe it," Kay said without hesitation.

Ron felt a trickle of sweat run down his lower back.

Mary looked at Ron, studying his face. "Are you making this up, Ronnie? Why would your brother not come himself?"

Ron thought quickly, "Uh... Because of the danger. Maybe this is all a trap. He's not going to come himself for the first meeting."

Kay leaned in, unconvinced. "But why you? Why not your brother or your uncle? Or another Alpha?"

May nodded. "Yeah, Ronnie. I know you said you killed Lycanon, but aren't there more experienced members of your clan? Someone with more authority?

Seconds passed as Ron tried to think of an argument, but nothing came.

"You didn't say anything. Did you?" Kay asked rhetorically. She exhaled dismissively and went back to her phone.

May looked at Ron and frowned. Not an angry frown, but something Ron found far worse. A frown of disappointment. His heart sank.

"That's ok, Ronnie. It was a good story." She unwrapped her scarf from Ron's neck and stood up. Kay followed, not taking her eyes off her phone.

Mary waved at Ron. "We gotta go, Ronnie. See you later."

The park was nearly deserted, but the city was coming alive and ringing with sounds fueled by youth and bad choices. May and Kay began walking towards them.

"They were poisoned!" Ron shouted.

Turns out words can cut deeper than the sharpest claws.

"He's gone, Ron. Our Alpha's gone."

The words were spoken gently, but they slapped Ron in the face. Six words that reached inside his chest and squeezed. He rushed from the room and ran toward the stairs. But at the last moment, he turned and continued down the Hall, ignoring the staircase. Ron knew once he went down, the news would be real, and he wasn't ready for it to be real.

He could hear muffled shouts behind him, but their meaning was drowned out by his heartbeat, which now lived right behind his eyes. Keep moving, he told himself. Just keep moving.

A bedroom with a large, open window led Ron to the roof; the rickety trellis scaled quickly with the fearless confidence of youth. The moon was blinding, and Ron's skin itched, but he ignored it, happy to be alone, away from people and truths.

Lying across the shingled peak, he looked at the stars and felt very small. He imagined exploring the vastness of space and finding a planet exactly like his in every way.

Every way, that is, except one.

Tears fell freely from his eyes, but he made no move to wipe them. His brother Carl would laugh if he saw him now. A face wet with anything but sweat is a sign of weakness, he would say. Most would agree with him.

Most, except one.

A face moved in front of Ron, eclipsing the universe behind it. Its owner's identity was obscured by the bright circle of the moon, which was still burned into Ron's vision.

"Hey," said Gary.

Ron closed his eyes tightly, willing his brother to disappear. Silence stretched for minutes, but Ron's nose wouldn't let him believe he'd gotten his wish.

"Go away, Gary."

Just keep moving. Just keep moving

The wind had picked up and whistled through the trees around them. It carried the pungent scent of the gathering crowd below, grief and shock mixed with opportunism.

Opening his eyes, he could see his brother was now silhouetted by the moon, which seemed even brighter in the presence of his family's new Alpha.

"He's gone, Ron. Our Alpha's gone," said Gary gently.

There they were again. Those six inescapable words.

Gary then did something unexpected. He hugged his brother. The closeness filled Ron's nose with the acrid scent of sadness and, surprisingly, the slight lemony aroma of something he never expected to smell on his brother.

Fear.

Their father's death turned their family upside down. Gary, at seventeen, immediately became the new Alpha, with all the power and responsibility that position demanded. But Alpha wasn't the only position of power in the clan. The following weeks saw many seek to curry favour with their new leader. Even Ron, now one step closer to the familial throne, suddenly found himself popular with cousins who would have spat on him the day before.

But Ron didn't care about his newfound popularity (though he did appreciate less spit in his life). His father's death was devastating, and, ironically, his father was the one who'd console him in times like this. His mother had withdrawn to her room, speaking to spirits no one else could see. His brother Carl was too wrapped up in his own jealousy to care about Ron's feelings, and the rest of the family's sycophantic sympathies make his stomach turn.

The reason his father had died didn't help either. There was no historic battle, no great quest fulfilled, just an accident at sea. A storm capsized his boat off the coast of Greenland. What his father was doing there, no one knew. But Ron didn't care about questions of what and how. He wanted to know why. Why was his father taken from him? Killed by, of all things, the weather. That wasn't something one wrote epic ballads about. Ron had tried several occasions, but they always ended up as jingles.

#

It's your brother. He's been poisoned.

Six words. Different this time, but five years later, just as devastating. Words that, once again, would change the course of Ron's life forever.

He left the balcony and walked down the hallway, but this time, when the staircase appeared, he didn't hesitate to go down. Too many truths had been kept from him, he thought. And maybe that was his fault. Perhaps it was time to stop moving.

Thanks to the Inn, the stairs lead directly to the entrance to Great Hall. There Ron found a state of pandemonium. What mere hours ago was a room filled with werewolves celebrating their unity against an unseen threat had now devolved into a sea of accusations. In the centre, Ron could see many werewolves lying on the ground, mostly clan alphas. Most were unconscious; a few were retching a black, foul liquid that stained their fur and turned the grass brown where it landed.

Ron made his way through the crowd, looking for his brother in the collection of his unconscious kin. He knew which brother he hoped to find, but luck, once again, was not on his side.

Gary was on his knees, supported on both sides by Brian and Carl. His eyes were milky and unfocused, his fur covered in black vomit. He was shaking uncontrollably, and Ron suspected he would topple over if not for the support of his brother and uncle.

"Ron! Get over here." Shouted Carl.

Ron complied. "What happened?"

"There'll be time for questions later," Carl said dismissively. "Right now, we have to get Gary out of here."

Carl passed the left arm of a semi-conscious Gary to Ron, who immediately crumpled under the weight.

"What are you waiting for? Growled Carl. Shift already. There isn't much time.

Ron held his breath and closed his hands into fists. He cleared his mind and let the noise and chaos around him fade. Soon, all he could hear was the blood of his ancestors coursing through his veins, calling him to his birthright.

Nothing happened.

"Are you deaf as well as stupid?" Roared Carl. "Shift!"

Ron tried to quiet his mind again. But the sounds around him only grew louder. Howls of anguish for the fallen. Voices screaming for the blood of those responsible. The smell was also overwhelming; sweat and sick and sorrow mixed with anger and vengeance. He looked at his hands, willing the fingernails to erupt from their beds, wishing his knuckles to snap, his thumbs to dislocate.

But still, nothing happened.

They were half-carrying, half-dragging Gary, who was now lapsing in and out of consciousness. Ron struggled under the weight as he noticed that many eyes in the room had begun to follow them. Though the intentions behind those eyes were unclear.

"Now!" Roared Carl. "You useless Whenwolf."

Sweat poured from Ron's forehead, stinging his own eyes. He pinched them shut and squeezed his fists and toes together. He clenched his jaw so tight his teeth squealed like nails on a chalkboard, threatening to snap. He held his breath, pushing his body to change, to become what he was always meant to be. At first, he felt nothing, but then, slowly, it came; a pressure from deep inside, an internal, ancestral roar that would not be denied. He pushed harder, forcing the beast to emerge and removing all doubt about who he was.

Then Ron farted.

Years later, stories would be told of the beast that emerged from Ron that day. A swirling, formless monstrosity of sulphur and brimstone. A child from the bowels of hell that made even the bravest warrior's eyes tear up. A being who's bellow deafened armies and made trousers tremble.

Today, however, Ron's fart did something perhaps even more impressive. It elicited an emotion from werewolves who, moments ago, were filled only with thoughts of vengeance. For the briefest of moments, the Hall was filled with laughter. The thirteen clans were united in their amusement at the young werewolf who had, apparently, nearly pooped himself trying to shift.

Ron didn't wait for the laughter to die before leaving the Great Hall, moving as fast as he could until he reached the lobby. Even the assembled dogs and cats seemed to look at him with amusement as he opened the door and walked outside, hoping, with every fibre of his being, that his shadow was waiting for him.

What does a Videographer do when the wedding he films starts an intergalactic war? Find out in Broken Vow, my second instalment of Flick Gibson: Intergalactic Videographer, which I'm very excited to announce was recently published in the latest issue of Onspec magazine! Who is Flick Gibson? Is this story for kids? And how did you miss the first instalment? To answer the first question, Flick is an Intergalactic Videographer that gets into trouble when hired to film various space gigs. Regarding the second question, everyone knows me as a children's author, but I do write for an older crowd at times. The story is still for the young at heart, just not that young. And finally, to catch up with Flick's adventures, you can order back copies from the following link (issues #115 and #120) or subscribe to Onspec directly. They're a great home-grown Canadian sci-fi magazine, please support them! https://onspecmag.wpcomstaging.com/subscribe/

With so much frenzied eating, it took Ron a while to cross the Hall. His main concern was being bitten accidentally, but he needed to speak with his brother Gary.

Gary, Brian and some other clan Alphas had found an enormous bucket of squirrels that had somehow avoided the earlier culinary carnage. Ron's initial attempts to get his brother's attention were met with one-syllable grunts as they popped the squirrels like chicken nuggets. Eventually, he waved Ron over.

"Gary, I have something important I need to tell you."

"Of course, Ron. But first..."

"It's important, Gary!"

Gary leaned back against the trunk of the Treeble, his demeanour relaxed. This surprised Ron, considering many of the werewolves around him would have been just as happy enjoying a meal with Lycanon should fortunes have played out differently.

"Ronnie. You look so serious. Go on, have a squirrel. Join your brothers."

Ron reluctantly sat down and reached into the bucket-o-squirrels.

Gary smiled. "I wanted to thank you for all your help."

"Help?" Ron replied, confused.

"Yes. You did a great job helping Mary over the last two days."

"Helping Mary?"

Gary punched Ron's arm playfully. "Don't be so modest. The work you've done preparing the food, our rooms. It hasn't gone unnoticed."

Ron was speechless. He'd been so worried about this moment the knots in his stomach had knots. His explanation and apology had been rehearsed hundreds of times in his head. He imagined Gary telling him how they scoured the streets of Waterford looking for him, fearing the worst. He imagined Gary's anger turning to pride as he told him of his meeting with the twins and how the Children of the Veil had chosen him to be their messenger.

He didn't even know I was gone.

Ron's earlier rage returned, though he knew it had nothing to do with Mary this time.

They didn't even miss me.

Ron stood and walked towards the exit. Fists clenched.

"Ronnie," Gary called after him. "Come back; you left your squirrel."

#

Ron wandered down the Hall with no destination in mind. He just wanted to get as far away from his brother as possible. The Hall had also become a combination of a frat party, food eating challenge and mixed martial arts tournament. He was happy to leave.

Wiping his eyes. Ron's rage was replaced by sadness. Looking at his hands, he saw they were bloody where his nails had shifted and pierced the skin, yet he felt no pain - physically anyway.

"Ronnie. Wait up." Kira called from down the hallway. Ron saw her right arm bleeding from a deep cut, the result of a dispute over a particularly fat partridge. Her left arm held the partridge high in the air.

"We haven't had a chance to talk since we arrived. Care to share the spoils of victory?"

Ron didn't want to be around anyone at the moment, but he found himself nodding. "Sure, Cuz."

Ron's relationship with his older cousin was two-sided, like a coin. Every time they met, flip. Heads, it was nice-Kira, friendly and open. Tails, it was paranoid-Kira, looking for enemies around every corner and treating Ron with contempt - particularly in the presence of their family.

Ron had chalked it up to a combination of a life lived as a spy and Kira's need to prove herself as mean and tough as any male warrior. Whatever the reason, it didn't hurt any less. Fortunately, it had come up heads today.

The hallway continued steadily upwards, never reaching the kitchen. For a moment, Ron worried the Inn was feeling jealous again. But soon, they arrived at a door that opened onto a rooftop balcony overlooking the city.

Kira dropped the partridge and tore a piece of cloth off her sleeve, which she fashioned into a makeshift tourniquet. She then placed both hands on the balcony, taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly.

In human form, she was an average-looking woman of average build. Her brown hair was short and low maintenance, and her clothes were simple and utilitarian. Besides the scar that ran from her left temple to her chin, there was nothing remarkable about her.

And she liked it that way.

"It's good to be outside again, Ronnie. I don't know about you, but inside that Hall feels wrong."

The evening air was chilly but refreshing. Ron couldn't believe the whole day had passed. Inside, the Hall seemed timeless as the gentle glow of sunlight never wavered, and the temperature remained constant. It was just perfect.

"Maybe that's what feels wrong about it." Ron mused. "It's too perfect. Nature isn't perfect. It's messy and chaotic, which is what makes it beautiful."

"When did you become a poet?" Kira said, looking out into the city, her tone wistful. "We need more poets on this mission."

"I'm not a poet," said Ron defensively. He already wasn't respected by his brothers and the thought of being known as the werewolf poet who didn't even know it was not appealing.

"Who was chasing you today?" Kira asked suddenly.

Ron was floored. He knew his cousin was perceptive, she had to be, but this was next level. Could she somehow smell the memory of his recent chase? He smelled himself under both armpits.

"How did you know?"

Kira turned away from the city to look at Ron. "I helped Mary move you to her room this morning. You talk in your sleep."

#

The story of the last two days spilled out of Ron like Lycanon's intestines, long and messy. He told Kira everything, from meeting the twins at the dance club to his supposed fight at the park, his marathon escape from the woman in the hoodie, and even his "jealous Inn" theory. Kira peppered him with questions. He answered as best he could, remembering it all in vivid detail, except for some reason, the names of the two young women or where they lived.

"It's weird. Their names are right on the top of my tongue. I just can't remember."

"Tip," Kira said.

Ron waited, but after several seconds the advice never came.

"Are we having a staring contest?" Kira finally asked.

Ron blinked, confused. "No. I was waiting for your advice."

"Advice?"

"A tip on how to remember their names."

Kira laughed, a rare sound.

"Cousin, your ability to lighten the mood at the end of the world is truly a gift."

"Thank you." Ron replied, "Wait, what?"

Kira looked up and stared at the moon, which, five days from full, cast a watchful eye upon the city.

"All the rituals of today, the fighting, the speeches, it just helps mask the truth of what we're facing."

Flip

The balcony railing strained under Kira's grip. "If we can't re-tune, refocus or re-whatever this magical energy, we as a race are doomed. All creatures on this side of the Veil are doomed.

Ron knew the word doomed was never good when it came to prophecies, and now it had been used twice in a single sentence.

"Surely it's not that dire." Asked Ron, realizing he'd used the other word you don't want to hear in the middle of a prophecy. "Gary has a plan, and with the help of the thirteen clans, and the other magical creatures, we're sure to figure it out."

A cloud moved in front of the moon, sending a shadow across the world that seemed to further darken Kira's mood.

"I wish that were true, cousin, but there are too many moving parts for it to be that simple, too many agendas."

"Surely everyone has the same agenda," suggested Ron. "To fix whatever problem is happening at Tur'Aleen."

Kira tore a leg from the pheasant and offered it to Ron, who accepted it gingerly. "What you saw today in the Hall, Cousin, was five-hundred years of suppressed instinct. The instinct to lead, dominate and kill anyone and anything in their way. Our people suppress it now because there is a greater threat. Self-preservation is a powerful motivator. But never forget, that instinct is still there, just beneath the surface, and it will rise again the moment there's an advantage to be had. The same goes for other magical creatures you meet. They all have their own reasons for helping you."

A flutter of wings in the distance caught Kira's attention. She turned to Ron, a finger at her lips.

"This is not the place to discuss such things. I will look into what you've told me. Until then, keep what you've seen and heard to yourself. Trust no one."

Ron was about to ask if that included Gary when he heard shouting from downstairs. He opened the balcony door to see Mary looking distraught.

"Oh, Ronnie. Come quickly."

"What is it, Mary?"

"It's your brother; he's been poisoned!"

Ron quickly turned to Kira, but the balcony was empty, save for the cool breeze, the sharp light of the moon and the faint scent of i-told-you-so.

As Mary left the Hall, the Treeble slowly extended its leafy branches, providing bench seating for everyone, though many still chose to stand. Ron moved to join his brother Carl, who nodded perfunctorily, his Uncle and his cousin Kira. Kira greeted Ron warmly, holding his shoulders and leaning forward to gently touch her forehead to his.

As they touched, she whispered, "Because?". Ron smiled, happy he wasn't the only one that seemed to notice, and silently shrugged his shoulders. There was clearly more going on here than he was privy to. It made sense, considering he was only seventeen, but why keep Kira out of the loop?

"My friends. It is time we discuss our plan of action." All eyes were on Ron's brother as he spoke, once again standing above the crowd on the outstretched trunk of the Treeble.

"The veil will be at its thinnest in five days, and the passage between this world and Origin will be possible."

Something strange happened as Gary spoke. Ron found himself mouthing the word "Origin." He'd never heard of the world beyond the Veil described that way, yet he knew it was right. Looking around the Hall, he saw others mouthing it too, including his cousin Kira.

"Most of you may never have heard the word Origin before,” Gary said, seemingly reading Ron’s mind. “Yet you know it to be the birthplace of all werewolf kind."

As he spoke, the mist behind him began to swirl and coalesce. Shadow, light and water danced together, creating complex shapes. Before everyone's eyes, a mural began to appear, a mural of an ancient city of glass. Or, as Ron would later learn, crystal.

Transparent walls, topped with parapets, sparkled in the mid-day sun. Beyond them was an enormous keep, surrounded by towers, each so tall their middle was lost in a sea of clouds.

Tur'Aleen, Ron said under his breath. Like Origin, he knew right away that was the city's name. He didn't know how he knew. But he was sure of it, as sure as he was of his own name.

"The City of Song and Silence," whispered Brian, standing behind Ron.

Murmurs and low-pitched growls began reverberating throughout the crowd.

"What you all feel in your hearts is racial memory of our ancestral homeland. Gary said. "A reminder from deep inside us of where we all come from."

Ron was surprised to discover he’d heard of this. The idea that knowledge could be passed down through the generations. Like how birds know how to build their nests without ever being taught. Or how spiders are born with the knowledge to weave complex webs. Genetic memory stored in our DNA.

Take that Carl, Ron thought. Now who’s wasting their time reading sci-fi?

Gary said as much to the crowd. Most were shocked by the revelation and shouted in protest, including the Varúlfur clans of Norway, and the Yakshas of India. All clans had their own rich histories, and most did not like the idea that they all came from the same place.

"The Conclave has kept this information secret from all of us," Gary continued, "Because keeping us divided makes them stronger. My father discovered it, and our clan paid the price. But now, this truth is all that stands between us and our survival.

Protests grew louder, and a few clans even made their way to leave the Hall. Gary raised his arms for calm, but momentum was not on his side.

Then, near the back of the Hall, one werewolf slowly made his way to stand beside Gary. His body was rigid and angular as if chiseled from marble. His dark hair, streaked with white, was pulled back in a long ponytail. He wore a loose-fitting wool jacket filled with colourful weaved patterns.

"We of the Wendigo have always seen the Faoladh, and other skin-walkers, as our distant cousins."

He spoke barely above a whisper, which somehow added to his authority. Many shushes could be heard as ears strained to listen.

"Today, we learn that we all have a shared heritage. This place you call Origin."

He then ran his hand across the mural, which dissolved and reformed as his hand passed through.

"Tur'Aleen. The City of Song and Silence. I swear to you I have not heard these names till today, yet somehow, I know them as well as the names of my children. I cannot explain why, but there are many mysteries in this world we can't explain, like our great spirit Kichi Manido

Or why eating ice cream too fast gives you a headache, thought Ron.

"Yes, it is troubling to learn we may not know as much about our history as we thought. But is that a bad thing? Like most of you here, the stories surrounding our origins are written in the blood of innocents. We have been cast as the spawn of demons, or the result of curses, monsters created by man's weakness.

Ron could see several heads nodding in the crowd, including a few who were ready to leave a moment ago. Ron knew his own history was not typical for werewolves. The Faoladh were known as guardians, protectors of children, wounded men, and lost souls. He didn't know what it must be like to believe your ancestors were hell-spawn cannibals. But it couldn't make for great bedtime stories.

The Wendigos Alpha clasped Gary's arm. "I do not apologize for our history. We are proud people who have done what we must to survive. But I will also not be defined by it. We are dying as a race, and if this revised prologue allows our story to continue, I, for one, support it. We have pledged our lives to save our people, and that has not changed."

The grumbling subsided, and most returned to the seats atop the Treeble's branches.

"Thank you, Dasan," Gary said. Still clasping his fellow Alpha's forearm. "Your words honour us."

"What I am going to tell you, my friends, until today, has been forbidden by the Conclave. It is what my father discovered twenty years ago and why our clan was banished. It is a secret hidden from us for hundreds of years, but if we are to survive, it can’t be a secret any longer.

#

"The city you see before you is indeed Tur'Aleen. The City of Song and Silence. It lies just beyond the Veil. But it is more than just a city; it was constructed to allow us to pass through the Veil into this world.

You see, Origin is a world of magic as much as Earth is a world of science. We need the magical energy of our home to exist. Our ancestors built Tur'Aleen to transmit that energy across the Veil, allowing us and other beings to cross over and thrive. They called this the Harmony.

Gary pointed to the mural, which zoomed it to show a close up of the city. Ron was pretty sure he saw his brother spread his index finger and thumb out as well. The towers spread out in a rough circle around the city. Ron could now see the ruins of even more towers, their shattered remains littering streets.

"My father,” Gary continued, “discovered that each of these towers transfers energy across the Veil at a specific frequency. One tower for each type of magical creature. And when a tower falls..."

"Thirteen Twenty-Three?" said someone in the crowd.

"Seventeen-oh-nine?” said another

Ron looked at his Uncle, "What are they talking about?"

"Mass extinctions." His Uncle answered softly.

Gary raised his hands again to call for silence. "Yes. Thirteen Twenty Three, Seventeen-oh-nine and nineteen seventy-three. All dates when entire races of magical creatures died. The Merfolk of the North Atlantic, the Scandinavian Troll, the Middle Eastern Djinn. They died, as a race, all at once."

The mural suddenly changed to show one of the towers cracking, then falling to the city below.

"My father suspected that whenever a tower falls, the frequency of magical energy it produces is cut off. Without that energy, those creatures cannot survive on this side of the Veil."

Questions exploded from all corners of the Hall. Is this why no babies were being born? How long had the Conclave known? How much time do we have? What are we going to do?

Gary held up his hands for the third time.

"Brothers and sisters. We do have a plan. And tonight, I will discuss it with your clan Alphas. But for now, we celebrate the truth, that we are all brothers and that together there is nothing we can’t accomplish."

Any remaining questions were drowned out by the deafening rumble of over fifty werewolf stomachs as the mural of Tur'Aleen dissolved to reveal a smorgasbord of food. Scores of uncooked rabbits, pheasants, ducks and even red-tailed deer were hung from several long spits.

"That's more like it," slobbered Carl, who transformed mid-run and bit directly into the nearest deer, severing its hindquarters in a single tooth-filled grin.

Within moments the buffet was a scene of complete carnage. The once stoic warriors from a moment ago devolving into red-eyed, blood-thirsty monsters. This, Ron knew, was what the Public Affairs & Perception Division of the Conclave was looking to hide. But stereotypes are hard to change when they're true.

Luckily, there was plenty to go around, this time without any plates for Mary to wash. Ron waited to see if any vegan options would be made available. When none appeared, he consoled himself that at least the food was gluten-free.

There was a lot to process for everyone. But as the hours passed, and the wheels of fellowship, greased with fat, spun more freely, Ron understood what his brother was up to. Nothing helps werewolves digest new ideas like raw meat.