What blood was wrought from me and mine, I have taken back tenfold.
The quill in his always-gloved hand fell still. The light from the campfire flickered sedately, casting an evening hue well after midnight. It was the first night in fourteen months and five days he hadn't kissed the bottle.
He stared down at his own writing, lifted the nib to dip to more ink, then carried on with more fervour.
