The night HE came home! And puked and pood!

The very first issue of MeadMagazine features an interview with yours truly! God, does anyone say ‘yours truly’ anymore? I shouldn’t have.

The herding tribes of the tundras call him Foal Stricken, a formless terror that blights their livestock and fertile women. Here in the castle we don’t so much have heaps of that good stuff as we have the fealty of our battle-brothers, who the monster had so recently predated upon. In search of him I went, probing the stankiest and jankiest rafter shadows. A eye-blearing smell from the last corner assaulted me, and deep therein, his Mars-touched eyes shuddered open.

It’s harvest season for the website.You are all revelling at the great feasting-table at the heart of the Meadhall, celebrating this hallowed month and its bounteous bad movies. The sugary drink gradually loosens your tongues and drunken singing flies up the ancient walls into the vaulted darkness above. Rings and torques reward priceless fealty amid platters of roast duck and sleek gravyboats. Your stupor smiles out from your wine-slackened mouths. How could this grand gala be surprassed?

Out of befuddled annoyance your heads loll upward at new noise, a skittering, now a pounding, from the hidden rafters overhead. Your hard-won torpor quickly compacts into a spike of alarm as a grotesque shadow quits the o’erhanging shadows and dives clear down onto the table! THUMP! Under an incredible strain, the table holds as the shape hunches its way to the center of the grand spread–what is the thing? an ape? a demon? ape-demon? No, that’s stupid. But something waaaytoo big for a normal size!

Contemptuous, curiously ageless eyes peer redly from its horrible face as it addresses the Comitatus: