Written for Scrapbook Halloween Challenge 2015
Gen, but may be read either way.
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The rain came down in buckets, in torrents, propelled nearly sideways by a savage wind that shook the trees lining the Boston Post Road, and rattled the ancient windowpanes of The Lamb and Scythe Tavern.
Napoleon and Illya tumbled through the door, blue with cold and drenched to the bone. As they stood there shivering, the wind seized the heavy oak portal from Illya's hand, slapping it open against the shingles and nearly tearing it off its hinges. Resigned to his fate, he stepped back out into the storm and wrestled it shut again.
The tavern was dark and silent, the tables empty. The only sign of life was the middle-aged bartender reading a newspaper behind the counter, and the fire popping and crackling in the ash-scarred hearth.
“Sit anywhere,” the bartender said, stating the obvious.