Last night I was sitting in the Anchor's Point taproom, nursing a mug of rum posset while poring over Ralliballah's Eleven Ritual Forms, when suddenly my quiet corner was invaded by a tall, armored figure. I asked if he would stand somewhere else, as he was blocking the light, but he replied something to the effect that a handsome woman shouldn't be wasting a moons-lit evening on reading, set a frothy tankard on the table and sat down next to me.