Simon shakes his head. "It was dark," he admits, "and I was piss drunk. Not my finest hour. It was a man, that much I remember. Fast, and that was surprising because I'm fast." He blinks, rubs his temples and tries hard not to think about how weird it feels to do that since he doesn't actually have temples to rub any more. "Was fast. I guess. Not fast enough. I think he was a bit shorter than me; he had to reach up to grab me. Dark clothes. Sharp teeth."

That's not much to go on. He's a pretty poor witness to his own murder.

"I know I punched him a couple times before he got me, but I reckon that's probably healed by now. Oh. One more thing. He smelled like smoke. Not cigarettes or marijuana or anything like that--wood smoke. Like a campfire. It was in his hair and his clothes."