Conor stood in his bathroom looking at himself in the foggy mirror. He had wiped away enough condensation to see himself with only minimal distortion. As he closed his eyes, he allowed the Glamour that normally maintained his mortal visage to fall away. As it had been recently, the sensation was growing less and less like putting on a new form as removing a restricting coat that was now a size too small.

He opened his glowing blue eyes and beheld a form that was becoming less and less familiar to him. Conor had always been a powerfully built farmboy; but now he radiated power from corded muscles and sinews. Crisscrossing his luminous skin were blue patterns of whorls and lines that formed Celtic pictographs and knotwork patterns. Even as he watched his naked form in the mirrow, he could see the patterns gently shifting around as if they were alive. As always, his black hair seemed to move on its own as if blown by a spectral wind. He had been “letting his true nature” out more and more, and it was affecting him.

He reached down and picked up a small brass decoration that had been part of the apartment when he first moved in. It was some form of candleholder with a bird drinking from the bowl where the candle would be. Conor crushed it with his left hand and rolled it into a tight ball of bumpy brass. He tossed the heavy sphere up and down gently in his palm, knowing that it probably was heavy, but unable to really detect anything but the faintest hint of weight. He knew, knew with perfect clarity, that if he threw that ball, it would be like firing a small cannon at the wall of his home (and it would do about the same amount of damage).

With a sigh, He set his new paperweight down with a thunk. Wrapping himself in a towel, he restored his mortal appearance. Was this form the real form or was the other?

Conor walked downstairs to his kitchen and did what he knew he had to do. With a sigh, he poured out all his alcohol. He watched much of his hard earned money go swirling down the drain in amber and golden rivulets. It was simple, he just couldn’t afford to allow himself to lose control, not anymore. It would be the best for everyone to remove the temptation completely. If he had to pay money for it at a club or pub, at least then he could control how much – a pint of Guinness or at most a single shot of whiskey neat.

Though he’d probably be considered the better man for giving up the booze; the ability to sit with mortal friends and share stories over alcohol was another tie to his old life. In a very real way, there at the kitchen sink, another piece of Conor’s humanity died.