The Three Broomsticks is crowded in the evenings. A fireplace acts as the central source of heat, bathing oak paneling in an autumnal glow. Silver stones with copper undertones adhere to its exterior, scuffs accentuating age. Blood splatters along the jagged stonework; it rests pristinely and untouched. Similar stains have ingrained in the wood fibers and fused to the fur of slain animals. In the firebox, red vines of flames twirl to permeable wind streams, bellowed laughter, intakes and breathy whispers of gossip.
Sitting close by the fire is Efrain's old man. Walton Grier soaks in the searing warmth. His crookedly rests against a wooden rocking chair, a woven blanket with frayed edges thrown across his lap. Beneath his feet, is the fuzzy skin of a bear, an essence similar to the trapper hat atop his head. There are many who frequent the pub after unyielding days, and Walton Grier is among them. He's deep within the clutches of sleep. Each labored snore billows pungent smoke from his signature pipe. The old codger is not himself without it.
Eagle-Eyed Walton Grier caught the decor. There is no man as keen, as precise and formidable. Feisty wintertimes, assailing torrents, flooding downpours—nothing can stop his swift rise to victory. Nature has tried, and it has failed. Legends are allotted to valiant men lost to time. Walton Grier is a legend walking. Everything he wears, he skinned; the food he consumes, he slayed; even the pipe he smokes is made from the bones of a griffin. Rings, necklaces, cufflinks all descended from fallen creatures. Trophies, warnings?
Above the petrified wooden mantle of the fireplace is the head of a boar. Gaffer Grier killed it. There's a photograph below it; he's standing over the bloodied beast with his foot atop the unmoving mound, and he's grinning. A mad sort of grin, crazed at the edges, and it gleams with the teeth he stole from previous game. Fangs. Every villager has heard the tale. A roughened tussle in the woodlands (it always involves a forest), fighting tooth and nail; Merlin's beard he barely made it out alive! Yet, he does, every time. The beast has yet to walk free. Except for one.
The boar is ever watchful, casting unbridled judgement upon onlookers. Its knifelike tusks are curved outwards, crimson dots the ends. Whose blood? Its snout has been stitched into an ugly, dreadful snarl. What must've it been like, in its prime? Carefree, wild, curious. Innocent. Foraging across the deep woodlands, sinking into cooling morasses. A beast known for aggressive, misunderstood in its nature. Flame-light drenches the head in hellfire. The sockets are caverned, hollowed with eyes wide in terror. They can mold the face, but the fear will always remain.
Eyes are open, ever open, yet it cannot see.
Two eclipses attached to an all white frame.
Remus blinks, and he tears his gaze from the creature. Every night, he's seen it but he's never dared to stare. To his left, drunken compatriots clink mugs of unfavorable beer to cheers. They're all so loud. At night, no one is recognized by their titles; they are free spirits partaking in the fruits of their labor. Carefree, like the sinless boar. Who shall dislodge their heads? Vern Marsh, the cranky miller, bellows a censurable ditty to the rhythm of clapping hands and stomping boots. Liquor sloshes on the man's clothes and rolls down his pimply chin.
How easy it is for others to discard their masks.
Low, guttural groans weave in and out of his ears, and Remus rolls his eyes. He clutches his glass of fire-whiskey, raising it to his lips. "That's not funny, Sirius."
Across the table, Sirius Black is attempting to imitate the undead. He extends his arms over the table, voids his eyes, rocks in place, and lets his tongue loosely hang for added measure. Simply, he mocks Remus.
