Eddy's hand fit better around the glass than it did the pencil. Small mercies, he guessed as he sipped his drink. The bourbon wasnt so painful as that last bottle. It still burned but it was kinder about it, a tantalizing reawakening rather than a harsh obliteration of the senses, holding a smokey almost sweetness that gave the vaguest impressions of cherries in black syrup.<br/><br/>Eddy contemplated the taste just to avoid talking. He was glad Luke was here but he hadnt a clue what to say. Small talk had never been his strength, despite all the high society parties he's attended and all the interviews he had given. He had purposely played the part of an eccentric, mysterious artist just to avoid the tedium. So, to return to form, Eddy let his art do the talking and offered Luke his sketch book.<br/><br/>It was just a nod, a silent invitation to go through the pages if he wanted to.<br/><br/>There wasnt much in there, many of the sketches abandoned halfway through, some little more than the vaguest of outlines or straight up scribbles just to loosen his hand and vent his frustration.<br/><br/>There were still lives of bottles with warped reflections in the glass, their labels painstakingly rendered as accurately as possible. There were angles of the bar seen from Eddy's perspective behind the counter, shaded as dark and moody as the atmosphere. A cat made several appearances, body sleek and gaze severe and judgemental. But mostly there were monsters.<br/><br/>Humanoid bodies elongated and twisted, some gaunt and thin, others bulging with inhuman musculature. There were heads adorned with horns, gaping mouths filled with too many teeth, yawning too widely, hands curled and twisted with wicked claws at each finger tip. Goat heads and wolf heads with too many eyes. Spider legs thrusting out of black masses.<br/><br/>Each monstrous creature was born out of scribbled lines, form shaping in the tangle, trapped and struggling to be realized. Yearning to be defined.<br/><br/>Eddy could commiserate.