Quiet evening at Scids tonight. It hasn’t taken long for the refurbishment to attract the levels of grime and general seediness people in the town remember. The beer taps in particular were installed less than four years ago, yet have already accumulated a patina than most pubs take decades of dedicated squalor to achieve. When it comes to building an ambience, the greatest writers of D’ni itself can’t hold a candle to George Watstatt and his oily rag.

Mayor Gower popped in for his usual gin and tonic. I’ve never asked what happens to anything he drinks, given he no longer possesses a working digestive system, and I don’t think I ever will. I strongly suspect it’s for show, though if so he has little reason to worry. Most of the town have put the Mayor’s undead condition behind them long ago, to the point where I suspect if someone ever sounds the alarm in City Hall about a crazed zombie on the loose, the staff’s first thought would be to find the Mayor and ensure he was unharmed.

We spoke briefly. Asked after myself, Thakbor and Edward, which I appreciated. Even bought me a fresh scotch after a small mishap involving one of his fingers. Decent fellow, not many like him running things these days, more’s the pity.

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