Clurichauns were not natural. They were not classified by a genus and species. Reproduction was not a biological mechanism they possessed. Any excrement they’ve produced turned out to be manipulated Ether rather than anything of the actual sort. They do not possess all seven qualities required to be named a ‘living thing.’
Clurichauns were not unnatural. There were patterns which could, in most scenarios, be replicated in order to form these creatures; though these methods were not particularly scientific. They were not like the harpies. Mages had not created them in some laboratory. The ways of the Forge were involved in their creation in some way or another.
Clurichauns were supernatural, as they belong to neither of the aforementioned categories; a classification where the known unknowns were thrown. One knew not the science behind their creation, though the Ether-based ‘excrement’ gives us a clue that the Arcane is somehow involved even if indirectly. Many often confuse the supernatural side of a huntsman’s work for hullabaloo. Nonsense created to scare the common man out of their coin. These beliefs did not stop Clurichauns, or other beasts, from showing up where they did. They did not stop us from learning how to kill them.
-The Personal Bestiary of Bianca Rosamund
- - - -
Bianca taught us about the widely accepted theory regarding the Mortal Subconscious and how it ties together both the Arcane and Emotions; how different beasts might have come about, should the Void and the Meadow not have been sealed by Wintertide or the Dawn’s Laugh. It’s fascinating, though I can’t help but think how difficult our jobs would be with even more beasts roaming the Massif.
-The Personal Notes of Abraham, Age 12
- - - -
The science matters not. Clurichauns, like all beasts, can be put down.
-The Personal Notes of Yoric Youngclaw, Age 12
- - - -
The stone roads of Theralyn passed under Yoric’s feet in great lengths. Prominence Kova strengthened his muscles, allowing his legs to cover distance quickly. It felt as though liquid power ran through his veins. It was, in reality. Prominence infused the blood with one’s Spirit, which in turn enhanced the capabilities of the body. Strength was not the only quality that was augmented. Informational processing, reaction time, and balance all followed suit. One could read and retain a large amount of text in a short amount of time, react quickly to any outside stimulus, and balance on anything that could prove to be challenge without the power.
Yoric had used Prominence to compensate for his lack of experience and form with the woodcutting. The power had been the one thing keeping his swings straight. He now used it to run with great speed and stamina. The Spirit complimented the oxygen in the body, increasing his ability to sprint quickly and at greater distances without running in to others. He ran, moving from his left to his right in order to provide pedestrians, carts, and horses alike with a wide berth. He dodged and jumped as soon as soon as he processed the location of another obstacle, at which point he had nearly processed another and was planning his next move. Individual decisions made in matters of seconds allowed him to traverse the wooden town in moments. Arlox flew above him, matching both speed and urgency. Time saved now would be lives saved later.
One knew when they stepped into the Sad Ward. There were fewer guards. No Arc-Wood buildings were present. Only brick, stone, and other materials which struggled in the cold made up any and all of the structures. Wood could not be afforded to make a home here in the Ward. Wood was burned for warmth, something there was little of in the Ward.
Windows were smashed in. Most of these buildings were abandoned, full of squatters who cared not for the state of the structure. No one really owned them; the only ones who lived in them were those who could fight for a small space where near-Winter winds could be eluded for the night.
Folks were poor in this part of town. Beggars lined the sides of the street. Small children walked down the stone road in no less than pairs. As did women. Men walked alone, each and every one of them shifty eyed. One had to look in all directions in the Ward. Either they were looking for a victim or they were looking to avoid becoming one. Most everyone, even the children, had knives that Yoric could easily identify. A warning. A way to say they will not be an easy victim.
Even then, in a place such as this, it was those with knives that were harder to find that one had to look out for. Everybody had one. Most had two. If a blade could not be seen on their person, it was a threat more disturbing than the previous. A threat which served doubly as a plea. “Try me,” it seemed to say.
Preachers stood on the corners of most blocks. Men yelled of the blessings of the Arcane, the scriptures of the long-dead Sage Arts, the holy trinity of the Arcane Soul, the Earth Mother, and the Night’s Matron. One preached of debauchery and degeneracy, of how the denizens of the Ward would never rise in the eyes of the Arcane Soul if they never abandoned their drinks, their drugs, their vices.
One, an older man, spoke warmly of the Earth Mother. He spoke of how all humans were made in the image of the All Father, how they were made from the Mother’s love. They were her children, her heirs, and she was gone. The concept of noblemen owning the land and creating arbitrary barriers between them was blasphemy. To believe that one was more entitled to the land than another was nonsense. To love the Mother was to love one’s self, and to love one’s self was the first step toward a better life.
Yoric did not listen to these men too thoroughly. These messages were cried day in and out. They joined the cacophony of whimpering children, quick squeals of pain, and cries of “Robbery!” as noises that one expected to hear. Yoric did hear a different message as he ran through the Ward, though. One of hate. One he did not particularly fancy.
One man, a bit younger than he might expect, screamed of the Mother’s hatred for Solrusians. He cried that whilst the Mother loved her own children, she had a disdain for those who favored the Void. Solrusians were the children of Calamity, patrons of the Void who held the night not just in their hearts, nor their darker skin, but their very being. Solrusians, so long as they existed, would always be thrown into the Sad Wards for it was the fate of those who descended from the Earth Mother’s murderer. It was as they deserved, for they were beings born of hate.
Yoric only grit his teeth when he saw a metallic glint of light just behind the preacher. He almost shed a tear for the child who held the blade; for she was not a product of the Mother’s hate, but that of man.
He said nothing, did nothing, felt nothing, as the youthful crier fell to the ground with a knife in neck. Blood gurgled in his throat as he attempted to curse the assailant. Life faded from his eyes, though the hatred did not.
Yoric continued on to Dory’s. They were losing daylight. More would die if they didn’t get the job done.
- - - -
Dory’s was just a bit easier on the eyes than the rest of the buildings in the Ward, though that was like saying a harpy was the most pleasant to deal with out of its brood. The establishment actually had two intact windows; one to the left of its large wooden door and another to the right. Dorian, the owner, was well versed in Orange magic and enjoyed using it to meld together or reshape pieces of broken glass. Since there was plenty of that lying around the ward, he possessed a slew of replacements. One could also purchase a window from Dorian if they were in need. They were not particularly cheap, but they were cheaper than those in Theralyn proper.
Yoric approached the bar, slowing down as he allowed his Prominence to dissipate. The fatigue he had been forcefully ignoring now set into his muscles. A mild cloud of fog seemed to set over his mind. The clarity provided by Prominence made the baseline brain feel much slower than it really was. Multiple frequenters sat or stood outside the door. Yoric knew their faces. Though he had been here a few times, it was not his bar of choice in the Ward. That went to Singer’s.
The four of them, all smelly and scraggly-haired men, avoided eye contact with Yoric though they did nod as he passed. He didn’t ask them why they were waiting outside of the bar. They slept in the common room. If Dory’s was closed, they likely had nowhere else to go. These men wanted a quiet place to languish for the rest of the night; the rest of their days, really. Singer’s would not provide that. No tavern in the city would cater to someone who smelled or looked of Sad. Bouncers would be on them before the proprietors.
Yoric nodded back. He either didn’t know their stories or failed to remember them, but the Sads deserved acknowledgment. Anything was better than indifference. His earlier feelings regarding the hateful, youthful crier weighed on him heavily. Old habits could not be done away with so easily as a life.
Nevertheless he moved forward, opening the door to the bar.
The bar sat to the far side of the room. Stone extended from the floor into separate, uneven rectangular prisms. The closer of the two boasted a gray coloring which was complimented by stains of many different hues. The palette of stains matched the drinks that sat on the other counter. Blue wines, red ciders, golden ales, and green spirits stood tall in organized rows. These were normally amplified by pink, etheric lights that Dorian created in order to add to the ambiance of the establishment.
Abe and Raina sat on gargantuan cinder blocks in front of the bar. Dorian used to provide wooden chairs, but the Sad Ward had a bit of an arson problem. His regulars were not any different once the drinks were flowing. Abe had a stool-leg-shaped burn mark on his back from a particularly eventful evening.
Dorian was between the bar and the drinks, anxiety apparent on his furrowed brow. This was nothing new. Dorian was a middleman for Nightcrop, a normally recreational drug, in the greater Theralyn area. One would only need to venture into the basement of Dory’s in order to lay witness to a sort of farm. Yoric had only been down there once. There had been enough five-leafed plants to fund a small kingdom. Yoric himself did not partake. His vices had a firm enough grip on him. There was not a need to take on another.
That being said, Yoric understood why Dorian was such an anxious fellow. Especially now. The old heads in the underworld were not to be trifled with in any sense of the word. They would not care if a Clurichaun was the reason behind their losses. They would not see the Clurichaun. They might not even believe in the Clurichaun.
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They would only see dwindling profits. Dorian would catch the brunt of the punishment. Yoric would have to knock some sense into an old fart or two in order to keep the middleman alive. Dorian was hardly older than Yoric though he looked beyond his years. His blonde hair was wispy, the hairline having already receded to the top of his skull. The young man simply had too much stress on his shoulders. Growing up in the Ward did that to a man. Working as middle management in the Nightcrop business made it worse. Yoric admired the barkeep. It took a good man to try and bring a safe place into the Ward.
On top of that, a fight with the underworld would bring about more trouble than he wanted, but he would cross that hypothetical bridge when and if he arrived there.
“Dorian,” Yoric said.
“Oh Gods! I’m happy you’re here, lad. This beast is going to be the death of me, the bar, the-“
Yoric held up his hand, looking to Abe. “Drinks?”
“A few kegs. Multiple bottles. It’ll run through Dory’s stores by the time the evening is up.”
“The Crop?”
“Not interested. I don’t think it’ll touch it until the Blood Rage.”
“B-b-blood Rage? You said n-n-n-nothing of the sort, Abe!” Dorian interjected. “The Crop will be ruined! Benjimak will do unspeakable-“
Yoric held his hand up again.
“There will be no such thing if we take the proper measures, Dorian. If anything were to happen, you would be under my protection until any extraneous matters were dealt with.” Dorian nodded, his shaking starting to cease.
“Your protection, Yoric? Not the Guild’s?”
“Not the Guild’s.”
Another nod from Dorian. A raised eyebrow from Raina. Yoric would not elaborate. There was no need.
“Raina,” he said.
“Yes?”
“We’ll need a Guild Note for two silvers. For Dorian.” This was on the lower end of Yoric’s estimations, but he was willing to cover the rest.
“For damages?”
“Losses.”
- - - -
As Raina left, Yoric and Abe walked down toward the basement with Dorian. Abe held a wooden crate. Glass clattered with every step he took. The stone set of stairs was much larger than the standard. Small machines lined the sloped ceiling above. They had four metal panels, each attached to a central anchoring point. From the middle, the panels rotated in a clockwise manner, causing a small breeze to flow toward the basement. Yoric had heard of these ‘fans,’ though he had never seen them in action. Another arcanist creation. Those seemed to be showing up by the dozen nowadays.
Dorian whipped his wand around as they descended, the wooden tool emitting gelatinous orbs of pink ether. The fans greedily soaked them up, and the speed of their rotations seemed to increase.
Yoric was more impressed with how confident Dorian seemed with a wand in his hand compared to, well, how he usually acted.
“You’re good with your wand, Dorian?”
“I’m fine with it. Better with simple things like power and lights than I am in a fight, but I’m fine.”
“And this Benjimak frightens you?”
Dorian was silent for a moment, a grimace painted on his face. “I said his name then?”
“Aye,” Abe replied. “You’d have spilled all your secrets if Yoric hadn’t stopped you.”
“Ah.” Dorian muttered. “I shouldn’t have done that. No, I shouldn’t have.” He looked back to the boys as he latched his wand back onto his belt. “The man is a monster. While he’s only got a couple of mages under his brim, it matters not. I can only fight off so many of the depraved, broken men he likes to surround himself with. I’d have to go into hiding, though they’d find me anyway. And it’s good that they would. I’ve no skills ‘sides middling. I don’t even plant the Crop down here. Just maintain it. I’ve no skills in a world where one’s life has no meaning if they’ve no way to produce something of value. I couldn’t survive on my own.”
Yoric scowled as he blew air out of his nose. “You give those men out there something to do every night. Merriment is just as valuable as firewood or homes; more-so when you have neither.”
“Merriment will not buy me a room. It will not fill my stomach or provide safety.”
“Bards and fools would argue otherwise. Learn some stories. Learn the lute, if you’re so worried.”
They walked in silence as they closed the distance between themselves and the bottom of the stairs. A plain stone wall was the only thing they could see. Dorian unlatched his wand again, causing Yoric to ponder why he put it up in the first place. Dorian stopped. He did not look back.
“You’ll keep it a secret, yes? That I told you his name?”
“And that he’s a man?” Yoric replied. “Aye. Ease your anxieties, my friend. We keep ourselves distant from other criminals. All I ask is that you get out of here. I don’t need you freaking out when we see the beast.”
“How’re you going to deal with it, m’lord?”
“By doing what we do best,” Yoric said while Abe rattled his wooden crate. Bottles of alcohol clanged together. Almost all of Dorian’s stores had been thrown into the box. “It’s what your band of degenerates does best, too. Take your leave, but send them in. We’ll need their livers.”
Nodding, Dorian whipped his wand. Red strands of light flew out of the wand, moving along the wall as a slinky flips and flops down stairs. Lines formed a square in the stone. The rubbing of stone on stone could be heard as the square began to rotate, leaving a growing opening in the middle of the wall. Yoric turned to thank the innkeeper, but Dorian was already halfway up the stairs.
- - - -
Borsun waddled down the grand stone stairs. His hair was long and thinning, as though a Geist had loosely attached its wisps atop his head and decided to make a home of it. Thin as a hammer hilt, short of both height and teeth, he’d hardly known more than forty years.
He was a character of many talents. His self-stated profession was drinking. His greatest non-drinking related talent was being able to fall asleep on the stone seats of the bar, or the bar itself, without any trouble. The floor was a different beast, but he was making progress. Just like he was with adding double digits. He was brave, as shown by the fact that he was willing to confront the Clurichaun in order to get a drink when the other two were not. He was a bum. A brave bum.
Today, Borsun All-Liver would be a hero.
The man had the shakes. Yoric uncorked a bottle of elderberry mead, placing it in Borsun’s outstretched hand as he reached the bottom of the stairs. Enough to calm the shakes, but not enough for the man to get properly sloshed. He took a good, long drink. Very little of the mead remained.
“Good lads,” he said in a deep baritone. Yoric always thought he would have been a wonderful singer with proper training. “Who knows if I could make it teh tomorrow without.” He finished the bottle, placing it gently on the ground. Borsun might be a bum, but he was a bum with self-respect. No broken bottles here.
“Still might not,” Yoric replied. “Dory tell you about the beast?”
Borsun burped as he said “Aye.” He wiped his mouth. “’Scuse me. Aye. Said it can forging drink more than me, he did. Can’t believe it.”
“More than all of us combined,” said Yoric.
“Also said it kills when it ain’t got enough. Least our bodies have the decency to die on us when we don’t have enough.”
Abe chuckled. “Not all of ours, Bors.”
“Ah right. Some of ya don’t have the appreciation for the drink that I do.”
“Not sure I want it,” said Abe.
“Course you do. That’s why I’m here.”
They stood before the entrance to the basement farm. Scents of alcohol and Nightcrop crawled out, quickly followed by the occasional ring of a shattering bottle. The beast was going through its stores rather quickly. Taking their time was not an option.
“Do you have a weapon or anything of the sort, Bors?” Yoric asked.
“I dun. Should I-“
“No,” Yoric said, unlatching the leather belt which held his sheathed Sosin knife, latched hammer, visible throwing knives, and two hidden knives. “The beast will go into its Blood Rage if it sees anything which suggests we mean harm.” He placed a knife on a leather latch inside of his coat, pulling a strap around the base and clicking a button into place.
“We do mean harm, dun we?”
“Aye, but not so directly. Grab that bottle.”
Yoric tossed a packet of powder to Bors as he stood back up. Satispice. The drunk’s eyes widened.
“The plan is simple.” He walked through the stone entrance. Both men followed. “The beasts has already drunk quite a bit. I’ll challenge it. Drink with it until I’m at the point where any more will render me an incapable fighter.” As they walked down the stone hallway, Yoric took the empty bottle of mead from Bors as well as a bottle of ale from Abe’s crate.
He poured the frothy brown ale into the elderberry bottle as Abe readied another bottle for him to take. Elderberry mead. The same they had given Bors.
Yoric carefully exchanged his empty bottle with Abe’s. “Thank you.” Abe nodded, putting the bottle back into the crate. The smell of the farm and ale were growing more pungent. Yoric couldn’t understand how people enjoyed the scent of Nightcrop. Who liked the smell of skunks? Every Crophead he knew swore by the smell. Must be acquired, or something of the sort.
Yoric pulled out another packet of powder and tore it open. He poured it into the bottle which actually contained mead. Brown, granular flakes sizzled as they fell into the golden liquid. Yoric continued to pour until the sizzling ended. The mead’s alcoholic content had spiked dramatically. Once the reaction ended, one could expect their drink to boast a potency about three times greater without the diminishing of other flavors. The taste of the elderberry would remain unaffected.
The Arcane was a truly beautiful thing, even if it could be forging expensive.
Bors whistled as he realized the ruse. “That’s diabolical, m’lord. Forging diabolical.”
“Gotta out-devil a devil, Bors.”
“Speak of the devil,” spoke Abe softly, “and he appears.”
Stone walls gave way to a massive room. Rows upon rows of planters sat on the floor. The smells of vice could have been picked up by someone with anosmia. Pungent felt too small a word for the blue, five-leafed plants that lined their ceramic containers. Red etheric light floated above the Nightcrop. Yoric knew very little about the tending of the plant, though Abe had once explained that the arc light allowed for both growth and an exponentiation of the desired effects.
How long would the light last without the gardeners? Was Dorian already in deeper trouble than they had figured before? Yoric turned to Abe when a raspy, high pitched chuckle rang out across the farm.
Yoric looked in all directions. The acoustics played with the laugh just enough to leave him unsure of its location. He reflexively moved his hand to his Sosin knife, though he grabbed nothing but air.
I’m much jumpier than I thought I’d be. Why am I so nerv-
A shattering of glass. The group moved towards the sound, passing rows of pink-lit planters. Shards of glass were all over. Yoric found himself sidestepping them frequently. The beast had been moving as he indulged.
Taking time to smell the flowers, I reckon.
Another bottle cried out as it was smashed into the ground. Not a good sign. One could tell how temperamental a Clurichaun was based on how kindly it treated a bottle. Should the beast treat the vessel of its succor with reverence, it might be easier to deal with. Less likely to enter a Blood Rage. One who happily threw them on the ground without a care in the world was one to be weary of.
Yoric stopped and put his hands out, gesturing for them to slow their pace. A Clurichaun with a temper might find faster movements threatening. Abe nodded. Bors grumbled, but they continued on.
The beast sat atop a crate. He was short. His legs, which were not as stubby as Yoric had thought they’d be, fell quite short of reaching the ground. Red buckled, black leather shoes kicked back and forth as he drank aggressively. The beast wore a sanguine vest over his stocky torso though he wore no shirt under, exposing a chest with more blonde hair than a bear had fur. No beard, blue eyes, a receding hairline, an angry look upon his face. The look was familiar to Yoric. Where had he seen it? It mattered not. The beast was running out of drink and-
“Oi, lad,” whispered Bors. “Dun the guy look like Dory?”
Yoric almost smashed his fist into his palm. He refrained out of respect for the Clurichaun’s mood. The beast had noticed their approach and was watching them with equal parts skepticism and amusement.
Bors was absolutely correct. Yoric and Abe shared a quick look. Very rarely did a beast look so much like the source it pulled emotions from. Dory’s stress, mixed with his arcane power, must have created the perfect situation for a Clurichaun to be summoned from Ether.
“Are you going to stand there gandering, or are ya gonna give me some of that drink?” the beast said. Though the voice was raspy, it still took on Dory’s soft tone. Yoric felt that the softness only made the inherent threat more menacing. The beast was ready to take every sip of booze from them. The Father only knew what would follow after those were gone.
Yoric stepped forward. His throat felt dry. Ages had past since they dealt with a beast with the power and willingness to kill that this Clurichaun possessed. Yoric, bottles in hand, cleared his throat.
“Why would I give you these drinks? Two bottles for one wee shite? I’ve a half bottle somewhere in that crate, if you want.”
The little man’s face burned as red as his outfit. Not for the direct insult, but that which was implied.
“You think you can drink more than me? Just because you’re larger? A ‘wee shite,’ you say? I’ve more whiskers on my chest than you on your head. I’ve been in more women than you’ve eyed, aye, I have! I’ll up and disappear the day a shite stain and his little friends can drink more than me!”
All of that was false, to a certain extent. The beast had just formed earlier today. It could be argued that the Clurichaun had done all of this if Dorian had, as the Clurichaun was a manifestation of Dorian’s emotions and, therefore, was a part of Dorian. Yoric cared not. The beast had worked himself up into having a competition with minimal prompting. The first hard part was over.
Now, they just needed to out-drink the beast.