Up above, the constant moon was full and bloated, hanging in the sky like a pristine wheel of cheese. Thankfully, it was a clear night so it cast enough light for the wanderers to see their surroundings, which was just as well because there wasn't a street lamp anywhere.
“It's a bit quiet,” said Stitches. “This is normally the busiest time of the night. I can't even hear Boris and he's usually in full swing by now.”
Boris Console was a poor, sad individual if ever there was one. Seemingly suffering from some sort of mental disorder, he was a ghoul who was utterly convinced that he was a werewolf, meaning that on most nights he could be found wandering about the forest on all fours, wearing an old fur coat and a set of comedy teeth, and howling at the dark sky above in a very unlikely man
