Where the Werewolves Roam

"This rounds' on me boys," Rory yelled, holding her shot glass high in the air as the jukebox struck up a fast little number that had her twisting on her bar stool. She'd only been in town a little over two months but already she was considered a regular at Tully's Bar and Grill. Of course the fact it was the only place that served alcohol for forty miles and had some of best burgers she'd ever eaten made it hard to resist. Tonight the place was boasting its best crowd for a Friday evening, a whopping twenty patrons.

Rory, aka Rordelia Bastian, had moved to the land of pine trees, cold winters, and moose to escape the looks of pity and hushed whispers facing her at every corner in her former home town, the result of an engagement that ended in an explosion that is likely still the talk of the town. It tended to make a lasting impression when one came home early from an evening at the area dojo to find her fiancé and maid of honor bumping uglies in her bed. But then no one blamed the hometown hero, former all state football player and Army Veteran. They all swore Rory must have done something to make such an honorable man stray.