The King's Porch

Sharing a Beer With The Hound in Black...

“Well, the real throne’s down the hall and to the left if you need it.”

With his jet-black fur finally attaining that salt-and-pepper sheen that came with age, Leonard Ford Godred still looked as regal as the cowboy could in the setting sun. Flanked on his right as always was Eric, the red-furred mechanic kicked back with his work-boots on the rail of the porch. Sat on the table between them were two steins big enough to swim in, though they were so seldom touched between the long treatises on everything from rattling off specs to philosophy to war stories.

Between the time he took the battalion over the top on the earliest of Haven’s hovertanks and his tenth sip, Godred looked up to the horizon and froze. The black wolf stood silent and statuesque as he gazed out into the distance. Eric knew his old friend could get rather stoic from time to time, but this was different. Something had caught his eye.

“Hey Leo, whatcha thinking?”