Lover of spooks and metal and writer of wordy things
I've drunk a lot over the years. I still remember the first time I ever tried alcohol on Christmas Day when I was 14. It was a beer, a pretty famous brand that I barely finished because it quite frankly was genuinely terrible. My thoughts on my first taste of alcohol? It was not a 'good call' I've jumped between beverages since, wanting to try as many flavours as I can, find what I could undoubtedly consider 'My Drink'. I went from Rums, to cocktails, back to rums, vodka's, beers, cocktails again (I'm still partial to them, they're delicious). But when I first started trying whiskeys, that was when I felt something in the back of my mind. I felt something in the flavours and the years of aging that seemed to almost resonate within me. I realised from then that whiskey is the most honest drink. Because if you look at the whiskey a person drinks, you can know them as deeply and intimately as you know yourself.
The year is 1931: Edgar awoke to the startling wail of the steam engines whistle. It’s shrill, perennial song caused a sharp pain in his ears and instinctively he clasped his hands over his ears. When it subsided, he was roused from his trance by a deep, silky laugh just in front of him. He sheepishly released his small, perky ears and looked up to see quite frankly the most resplendent individual he’d ever cast eyes on. The man’s coat was a deep red, that had a beautiful shimmer to the material that Edgar assumed was silk. It flowed like oceanic waves and was offset by a parade of shiny, thick, black buttons that Edgar couldn’t help but stare at for a moment. There was something oddly hypnotic about them, a depth in their darkness that was like looking into the deepest abyss. The coat was open, revealing a black waistcoat of a similar material to the coat, perfectly complimenting the buttons. He looked to the man’s face, hardly defined in the dim light of the carriage they were in and thought he seemed rather pale (in this light at least) His cheekbones protruded proudly, and a sharp jawline was adorned with a shortly trimmed beard. He had a thin moustache, as dark as the buttons, that stretched across his face and had a shine that suggested he oiled it. His face was framed with long flowing hair that rested just below his shoulders. He noticed Edgar’s gawking and composed himself swiftly.
There weren't always dragons in the valley. There was a time when they had faded into myth, the subject of campfire stories and bedtime tales to scare children into behaving. After 300 years of peace, history turned to fiction and the past was slowly forgotten.