(The thread's title, covered by 16 Horsepower.)

Shadows had reclaimed the Hogshead for their own, stretching across the floor and hanging as heavy in the air as any chill.  The snow that had fallen earlier in the day had discouraged all but the Thursday evening regulars from venturing out, and even with the few scattered figures lurking inside, the tavern seemed oddly hollow and empty in the darkness. 

Kurby had taken his usual table, situated in a corner grim enough that he never noticed whether or not his mug was really clean enough that he ought to be drinking out of it.  Shades and shadows were part of the charm of the Hogshead; that was what he chose over the warmth of the Three Broomsticks, the glamour of Signature, even the grim resentment that lurked under the surface in the Black Chimaera.  He liked the darkness.  The lurking gloom offered some protection from the light, and he was content to let it cover him, basking in the anonymity that it brought. 

All in all, it hadn't been a bad week, although that could be said for most periods of time that didn't include a full moon.  He had already gotten through the majority of it without  murdering any of his co-workers, and an evening spent unwinding in his usual haunt would help him survive the sole remaining day.  It was a small victory, but with the way that life at the Ministry had been going recently, still a victory to be counted nonetheless. 

Kurby leaned back lazily in his chair, keeping a half watch on the rest of the shadowed tavern.  For as long as he'd been coming here, the Hogshead had never had much in the way of community.  Most of the regulars knew each other, but it was more of a hazy awareness brought on by a mutual occupation of the same space rather than any sense of belonging or brotherhood.  Even the faintest sense of camaraderie vanished here when the chips were thrown down.  When a fight broke out, no one helped; hooded figures looked away, faces disappeared back into their drinks.  He had no doubt that there were others there who knew that he worked for the Ministry, but even that was never mentioned.  Affiliations vanished at the Hogshead's door.

These were the nights that he liked the best here.  No arguments, no conversation, no prancing socialites determined to turn his life into a walking misery by consistently humiliating him in public.  If it hadn't been for the incessant squeaking coming from behind the counter, where the barman had been stubbornly polishing what looked to be the same decrepit glass for the entire time that Kurby had been there, there wouldn't have been a sound to cover the whistling of the wind outside.

Kurby was hardly the only denizen of Hogshead that enjoyed the anonymity of the looming shadows. A man sat alone at the far end of the bar, opposite the werewolf hunter, enveloped in the dank, dusty shadows like a well worn cloak or perhaps his own definition of a warm hug. It was hard to imagine that the atmosphere of the Hogshead was anything close to warm and inviting, but it was still preferable to the empty and featureless hole he called home.

With his head down and the ratty hood of his cloak hiding his face, the only indication there even was a man at the edge of the bar was the warm glow from the tip of a smoldering cigarette hanging listlessly from his lips. It would move now and then as a thin yet wiry hand slid from the shadows and picked up a filmy glass of amber liquid for a drink.

Now and then, the dim lights would glint off of the hooded mans eyes. They were intense yet empty, devoid of any sort of mirth or good temperament. Dark orbs of barely concealed rage clawing to the edge, eager to be released. Lit by the dull glow of the cigarette, they glinted fiercely as they roamed the room in search of someone to fight. It wasn't long before they fell upon the gloomy visage of one Kurby Bagnold. The rage flared and lent the hunters eyes a manic glint.

With a leonine grace, the figure rolled to his feet and approached Bagnold slowly, almost nonchalantly. The remains of his whiskey on the rocks splashed in one hand as the other pinched the cigarette in his mouth as he took another drag. Without a word, he took a seat across from the younger man and flicked the crumpled end into the ashtray before taking a drink from his whiskey. He offered no introduction or even explanation, choosing instead to finish his drink in a single swig before slamming the glass on the table.

Crossing his arms, he leaned forward so that the candle revealed the face underneath the hood. It had angular features covered by pale skin marred with stubble and dark circles under the mirthless eyes, which twinkled with convoluted joy as the thin lips below curved into something akin to a smile. "Well if it ain't me ol' punching bagnold." he breathed, the smell of whiskey and bad tobacco tainting the already rank air.