The Horn Drinker's Coaster

The windowsill held my post through the night, but this morning demanded a broader patrol inward. I descended to the wide floorboards and marched toward the low timber table. Resting flat upon the seasoned pine lay a thick disc of turned horn, serving as a coaster. Its translucent marrow rings spiraled outward like ancient growth, bordered by a rim of beaten pewter. I planted my boots firmly on the floor, grounded the spiked haft of my staff, and set my armored gauntlet against its center. The horn was cool, slick with subtle polish, yet dense enough to withstand any heavy flagon without bowing. I held my ground, marking the craft.