Yoric approached the red garbed beast, arm outstretched as to hand the bottle of satispice mead to it. The Clurichaun wasted no time in grabbing the drink. Nails like short claws grated against the glass. Yoric looked to the side to see Abe cringing from the noise. He was. The man could not handle nasty sounds of the sort. Yoric didn’t like them, but Abe had spoken of going deaf in order to stop hearing high pitched scratches more than a few times.
“You’ve a name, shite-stain?”
“Yoric. You?”
“Alastor.”
Funny.
The beast erupted with laughter. “Oh, my boy! No need for so much gloom and doom! It’s the name I’ve chosen. Not much to do about it.”
“Fine, Alastor. May I call you Al?”
“Aye. You may, shite-stain.”
“I just gave you my name.”
“Was a formality. I did not remember, as I ain’t very formal.”
“Fine. We’ll start with this bottle of mead. Does that work with you?”
“Aye,” he replied as he stuck a nail into the cork. He pulled it out, a soft pop following. “Has this been uncorked? Did you poison this, you forging shite!?” Darkness was plastered on the beast’s face. Yoric only turned his head from side to side as he took a seat and crossed his legs.
“It has been uncorked. We did not poison you. Poison doesn’t work on Clurichauns, Al.”
Al burped in response as he took a seat. “Aye. Knew that, I did. ‘Course. Big ol’ Clurichaun like me drinks poison for breakfast, I do.”
“Aye. To breakfast, then.”
“To breakfast.”
They clanked their bottles together and drank.
Heaven in a bottle. Yoric loved elderberry mead. Grape wine was fine, it was, but something about the honey in mead just stood out to him in a way that the grapes did not. Wine could have complex combinations of grapes; seasons, flavors, size, types, textures, all of it could come together to create an intricate symphony of a drink.
Yoric just enjoyed getting drunk. Appreciating wine was a different game. If you had to take your time with the drink in order to appreciate everything about it, then the drink was not for him. Mead got him properly wasted in an orderly fashion and it tasted good!
Yoric took his lips off the bottle to take a breath. The bottle was half-way empty, give or take. The Clurichaun was staring at him, a hint of a snicker on its lips, humor alive in its bright blue eyes. Looking down, he saw that the beast’s bottle was empty and laid about on the floor. Yoric’s eyes took longer to focus than he would’ve liked. His mind was beginning to swim a bit. Had he eaten today? He couldn’t remember. Tagging out early, even after this bottle, was likely necessary. He needed to be in fighting form in case things went south.
Even if it meant being ridiculed by this wee man of a beast.
“Oh no, it’s fine. Pace yourself, child. Wouldn’t want you to drink too much at once.”
Yoric continued to drink.
“Takes one hell of a family life to create a drunk of a child.
Yoric continued to drink.
“Takes a hell of a mother to raise a drunk who can’t drink right.”
Yoric finished his bottle and reached for a knife as Abe placed a calming hand on his shoulder. Yoric nodded, the motion processing half a second after it happened, and got up.
“Relax,” Abe whispered. “If you put it down like a dog, it’ll just come back like an Alden.”
He was not wrong. A beast that came from the human subconscious, also known as a geist, would either have to pass on its own terms or come to terms with the mind that created it. Dory’s emotional state made the latter unlikely, so the former was necessary. The beast would still come back if it passed on its own terms, but doing so without the leftover essence that death by another’s hands would provide was much more difficult.
Abe, who had been holding two bottles in one hand, handed one over to the Clurichaun.
“Is the child finished?” it asked.
“I’m not sure. Are you?” Abe replied. “I’m not sure I’ve met a boy so unruly as yourself. Where is your mother?”
Darkness flashed across the beast again before it downed the bottle Abe had provided. More satispice down.
Smart. The beast had been created from Dory, and Dory’s relationship with his mother had been disastrous.
Abe jumped on the beast’s error. “We didn’t toast. That one doesn’t count.”
Al frowned again, though he proceeded to nod. Clurichauns appreciated the spirit of a competition. Abe stood up, grabbed two more bottles of drink, and sat across from the beast again. Clanging their bottles together, they chugged their drink with a frightening speed.
Yoric had always been impressed with Abe’s ability to down any beverage put before him. Many a night spent in taverns had provided Abe with ample opportunities to showcase this particular skill set of his. While his tall friend might not stand up to Bors, Aramin, or any other lifelong degenerates, Abe could hold his own against most. A geist that was forged by the drink would prove his best challenge yet. Where Yoric was a lightweight, Abe was a brick house who could drink enough for the two of them and more. Both took another bottle. Both drank it down. That was the last of their satispice.
Yoric felt another wave of inebriation wash over him, the woozy feeling intensifying. If it came to it, he could use his Prominence to bypass the intoxication. That would only make things worse later on, as both body and mind would be forced to operate at an optimal speed despite a large handicap. The physical and mental aftereffects would of a Kova hangover were not to be trifled with. Abe could do the same with Red Hues, since that level of magic was nearly identical to Basic Prominence. Red hangovers weren’t as bad, as Ether was easier for a mage to work with than raw Spirit was for a normal person like Yoric. Mages processed Spirit into Ether just by existing.
Another bottle. Another clang. Another down. Abe was three bottles in and would likely be nearing his limit. Three bottles was a lot for anyone- even an experienced drunk.
Experienced, though we’re only seventeen. How sad.
It was no wonder his mother was frequently disappointed in them. His father had been an incredible mage, even if he was an utterly controversial figure.
Better a drunk than a destroyer of crowns and nations.
Better a drunk than the apathetic monster I was.
Those stones were better left unturned. Yoric decided to focus on the geist.
The small beast’s posture seemed the same as before. Arse on a crate, back hunched, slowly tipping himself left and right. The tipping was less controlled, to be sure, though Yoric could not tell if that was a legitimate observation or not. The drink in his system had done more than he figured.
Yoric tossed them two more bottles. One to Al, to prevent angering the beast, and another to Abe. They had finished the rest of the mead. They now pulled the corks off of wine bottles from the Autumn Isles- a land renown for their superb drinks. Not just ale, not just wine, but any drink one could think of. The companies on the Dwarven half of the isles had progressed the profession of brewing into an art. It was a shame that such nice bottles would be wasted on this vulgar geist rather than pleasant times with some friends of the evening.
The fourth bottle of this bout came and went like a joust; both man and beast swinging their lances at one anothers’ sobriety. Both struck at the shield of tolerance, the lances shattering as they were thrown to the ground. Abe stood up and walked away. Drinking any more would make fighting, even with Red Hues to avoid the inebriation, much more difficult. The geist said nothing. As Yoric understood, Abe had held his own to some extent in the eyes of the beast.
Bors swapped places with Abe immediately, arms wrapped around a dozen or so glass bottles. All liquor. Southern whiskey, Frontier Rum, fruit flavored Schnapps native to Raniford, and so many more. Dorian held an extensive number of wares for his repeat customers.
Bors, almost looking like a child from behind, sat right across from Al without a moment’s hesitation. One might even think him a Huntsman.
Bors picked out two rectangular bottles of schnapps from the bunch, one peach flavored and the other blueberry. “Which one do you prefer, boy?”
The beast said nothing, his face growing red from both irritation and intoxication. His tipping turned into swinging- annoyance shining through his body language.
“You can be upset. I’m older than shit. Boys here say yer a few hours old. You say yer old enough to put yerself in a woman. I’m Forging older than that times two, at the least, so that makes you a boy to me. So, you’s gonna pout or are you gonna pick out some fuckin’ schnapps?”
Yoric reached into his coat instinctively, if not a little bit slow. He breathed in and out, finding the calm spaces between anxiety and thrill.
Sobriety washed over Yoric as he activated Prominence. Everything began to process a little bit quicker. He noticed the minuscule beads of sweat on the Clurichaun’s forehead, the faint noise of air leaving its nostrils. Smells of Nightcrop, which had been phased out due to exposure, came roaring back. Strength and clarity came to Yoric in heaps and bounds. The beast would be dealt with the hard way. Dorian would have to go to Ilya for therapy.
So be it, he thought sadly.
Steam erupted from Al’s ears. Raucous laughter erupted from the geist, causing him to shake uncontrollably as he continued to teeter from side to side.
“Ain’t no one talked to me like that since me mum! Hah!” Al tried to breathe in as another outburst of laughter took him. “I like this one! Better than the other two, I’d say!” Laughter unlike anything Yoric had ever seen had infected the beast. An ear to ear smile displayed filed golden teeth. Al sounded even more like Dorian. The laughs were nigh on identical despite Al’s rasp breaking through.
Yoric sighed, taking his hand away from the knife in his coat. If Bors could break through-
The red beast fell forward off of its box.
It landed on its red sleeved arm, right atop the bottle Abe had shattered moments prior.
The air laid still for one second.
A pulse of power exploded from the beast, sending the shattered shards of glass in all directions.
Yoric Blinked, grabbing Bors as he swapped places with a shard. He Blinked again, swapping places with a box on the other end of the room.
“Go. Get me my hammer or my knife! Find Dorian! Tell him I’ll deal with Benjimak! Now!”
Bors did not wait. With an unbecoming squeal, he ran off in the direction of the staircase that led up to Dorian’s bar.
Yoric looked to the Clurichaun. Al was easily seven feet tall, if not more. His blue eyes now matched the reds of his now shredded vest. His already stocky torso had widened, formerly stubby limbs were now elongated; every bit of the beast was bulging with muscles and veins.
Words were not spoken. Abe unlatched his wand. Yoric pulled out his knife. The beast roared with an inhuman rage. The ceramic planters, despite being full of Nightcrop, chattered up and down due to the beast’s power. Yoric felt every inch of his body vibrating. His skin, bones, teeth, the hilt of his knife upon his hand; all exacerbated by Prominence. The Red Hues meant for the plants disappeared, leaving the vast chamber void of light save for the Clurichaun’s crimson glowing eyes.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Abe whipped his wand. Eight Red orbs the size of a human head were placed around the room, providing illumination for the two huntsmen. They could have fought in the dark, but Yoric and Abe would not have seen anything. They’d have had to rely on their ability to process their surroundings without light.
With the light above and pure strength within, the huntsmen engaged.
Abe whipped his wand again. A stream of Orange light, like liquid metal, shot toward the beast. Yoric moved to close the distance between himself and the red monster. The Clurichaun moved to the side, not risking the burns, and grabbed a handful of shattered glass. With another roar, he chucked the shards in Abe’s direction. Abe pointed his wand toward the ground, then toward the ceiling. A wall of Green, the Hue of wards, sprung up from the ground- creating a wall of neon translucence. The shards sank into the glass with a multitude of thumps.
Abe’s eyes widened in surprise. Yoric’s worry exponentiated.
The glass was infused with Ether. The beast has Dorian’s knowledge of magic.
They were not just fighting an enraged geist. They were fighting an enraged geist that also knew what it was doing.
Yoric continued charging the beast.
Just a few more steps-
Al, with ridiculous speed, appeared right before Yoric, his fist swinging at the Huntsman. Yoric, with the assistance of Prominence, bent his neck to the right, putting the tip of his knife just under the space the beast’s arm would cross. Blade and skin connected. As Al’s arm blasted past Yoric’s head, the knife cut into the Clurichaun’s wrist, moving down the arm as the punch continued. Yoric threw the knife behind him, forcing it to spin on its vertical axis. The timing would be pertinent.
The beast roared, another pulse of power blowing away anything close to it. Yoric struggled to keep his footing.
Luckily, the knife was not thrown off of its rotational axis. It had only been thrown further away by the pulse.
Al raised his head and opened its mouth. Bright reds reflected off its golden, filed teeth.
He’s going to bite me!
As the beast prepared to bring the weight of its head down on Yoric, the Huntsman Blinked, swapping both place and momentum with his knife right as the tip was pointing toward them.
Al brought his head down and bit, screaming as the knife’s blade protruded from his lower jaw.
Yoric righted himself. Swapping momentum with a knife was not so bad, as his mass did a fine job of balancing out the acceleration. The direction had almost knocked him onto his face, and it would have seven years prior, but his years of training held strong.
There was little time to waste. Yoric looked to Al. Ether was leaking out of its right arm and jaw like steam. The knife had been ripped out as Yoric had righted himself, and the beast’s long tongue hung out from the newly created orifice. Geists did not bleed like normal beasts. They were created from Ether and the Human Subconscious. The Subconscious could not be physically bled out; so they bled misty, pink Ether.
A thud sounded off behind him. He looked back to see his hammer with its wide, blunt steel head and long, oak handle on the ground. Toward the staircase, Yoric caught a glimpse of Bors running up the stairs.
How did he throw it so far?
Giving them no time to think, Alastor began to charge Abe. Yoric grabbed his hammer and, with Prominence infused strength, moved to intercept the beast.
The idea was a good one. Abe stood still as a statue as he cast his powerful magic. Fighting Yoric would leave Alastor open to all sorts of ranged attacks. Making the mage uncomfortable would alleviate some of that pressure. Abe would be forced to reposition while Yoric would have to make more defensive decisions.
Yoric had no knives to swap places with. He couldn’t Blink with his hammer, as he’d just be defenseless. His Aegis Kova wouldn’t stand up to this beast’s claws or jaw. Orange Hues formed on the beast’s hand. A fist of fiery orange would scorch the insides of anyone it past through. Yoric just had to be faster. He needed to be faster.
- - - -
Dorian sat on one of his stone stools, buckets of sweats streaming down his forehead. The roars of the beast had shaken the building. He could feel the residual Ether from the deafening bellows. Yoric and Abe were fighting an absolute monster on his behalf. For that he was thankful. They would deal with it, but Benjimak would be a different issue. Yoric could put on a bravado, but even he didn’t have the resources to fight someone with the backing that Benjimak did. Rumors of support from the Frontier, criminals who were higher up on not just a regional scale, but that of entire continents. Dorian could not hide from the man. He didn’t even know what he looked like.
The nervous shakes racked Dorian. He reached for a drink before remembering that the boys had borrowed all of his stores for the beast below. Sighing, he pulled out his pipe and a small bag of bakky. Dropping the small grains into the bowl, he brought his wand up to the pipe. A small Orange orb sat at the wand’s tip, heating the bowl and igniting the bakky. Dorian put his lips to the mouthpiece, holding his finger over the hole on the bowl. He inhaled, collecting his stress into a breath. Exhaling, he took his finger off of the hole as he allowed his worries to leave him for just a moment. Hardly a healthy habit, but a perpetual worrywart would take any relief he could.
He continued the process. Inhale, exhale, those little exercises that folks who were a bit more stable than everyone else always swore worked when it came to stress. Those didn’t work for Dorian, not without bakky.
Yoric had spoken of a woman, a therapist of sorts. A newer art, one that Dorian wasn’t sure he entirely believed in. Speaking to someone, allowing someone to provide him with an unbiased contextualizing of his emotions? When Yoric first spoke to him about her, Dorian and the other men had laughed. Emotions didn’t need sifting through, or so he thought, so long as they had substances to alter their minds. Yoric had disagreed, stating that her therapy had changed him from the monster he had been into something else. Dorian figured the boy couldn’t have been that bad, but one never really knew.
Dorian had created a monster, though. A real monster. A tangible beast that could bring danger to the people in the Ward should those boys below fail to deal with it. His emotions had coalesced into something horrible. Even if it wasn’t for the bettering of himself, surely the safety of himself, his business, and those around him could warrant some therapy?
A large, shining object erupted from his chest. Metal, a blade smothered with blood. His own blood. He screamed, trying to move away. He was stuck between the blade and his bar. When he tried to edge himself forward, he only pushed against the fixture.
He continued to scream. Bloody murder. He was being bloody murdered. Pain struck like a whip of Orange Hues. Blood leaked from his chest, the blade, his mouth. Screams were stifled as liquid life flew from his throat, his lips, his nostrils. His wand was on the floor, his pipe broken, granular bakky strewn around the stone ground. He tried to turn around, but the grip on the blade was firm, keeping him in place. All the struggling amounted to was more blood loss, more cut skin.
It all hurt so terribly. This is what he feared more than anything- the pain. It had come for him. He knew it would. The beast had gotten out, then. The boys had failed. Why else would Yoric’s Sosin blade have been stabbed through his chest, destroying his heart, ending his life? It pained him to think that he didn’t care so much for their failure, their demises. He liked them well enough, he was just so afraid.
“You were right, lad.”
The voice was old, though it was not that of the beast. Deep, strong despite the age.
“The beast is doing a number on the crop.”
Bors? Bors?!
Dorian tried to scream out, to yell for help, to let the boys know. They would save him if they knew.
They’re fighting. No one’s coming for me. Bors is going to kill me. Why, Bors? Why?
Nothing save a groan and bubbled blood escaped his lips.
“It’s bad business, it is.” Bors pulled the blade out of Dorian. More pain erupted in his chest as blood flooded out from both ends of the wound. Bors turned him around with a strength Dorian would not have associated with the man.
Bors cut his finger with a tiny blade. Why would he do that?
The flooding ended.
No, that’s not right, it’s…
The blood floated in the air, gravitating towards Borsun’s cut. Blood magic. The man was a Hemorian, one who could feed on blood.
One of Benjimak’s Hemorians then. Dorian had failed the man, and his retribution was being exacted.
“Benj…. That……Benj….” Dorian was growing cold, slow; his life force leaving his wounds and entering the other man.
“No need for me to send your regards, lad.
“I’m the man himself.”
Dorian would have been surprised, had he still been alive. He died with fear in his heart; just as he had lived.
- - - -
He was faster. The beast had slowed down for just an instant. Yoric’s last bound got him ahead of Al, giving him just enough time to kick his boot off. Yellow Hues were forming at the tip of Abe’s wand, but the mage needed another second or two before the spell would go off. Yoric planted his left foot hard, using the rest of his enhanced movement to rotate toward the beast. The rotation, the Prominence, and the slowing of the beast allowed Yoric to slam a blunt side of his hammer up into the Clurichaun’s jaw. The red beast flew upwards from the force, grunting from the pain.
Yoric Blinked, swapping places with his boot.
Abe unleashed a barrage of Yellow Hues, slicing through the beast with each light that struck home. Yellow Hues were sharp to the touch. Al, the Clurichaun, was sliced into little bits. Yoric thanked the Father that the beast was made from Ether. Those little bits did not fall to the ground. They remained in the air, floating, slowly dissipating as they changed from Ether to Spirit again. The bits of beast, like mist, rejoined the air around it- becoming one with everything, so small that one could no longer point it out.
Yoric reached out to Arlox before giving up his Prominence.
Arlox. Please go get Raina. It’s safe.
He let go of his Prominence, succumbing to inebriation and exhaustion.
- - - -
Guards surrounded the bar. Normally these men would not have bothered, but this job had been much different. Gerald Heret, age fifteen, felt as though he had a lead for the first time in ages. The Solrusian lass, Raina, stood beside him as the guards brought the unconscious Huntsman out from the basement. Yoric had been hurt, despite her obvious worries. He must have been worn out. Either way, they had done a fine job. They should have asked for help, considering that the handling of Nightcrop fell under the jurisdiction of the justice system, but they had stopped a beast from raging against the people of the Ward and greater Theralyn.
The second one- a great tree of a man, walked up the stairs after the guards. Raina ran over and hugged the man, him being a head and a half taller than her, and he hugged her back. Relief was plain on his face until he saw the body at the bar. Gerald approached the man, realizing he wasn’t much of a man at all. He was very young. Maybe even more so than the other Huntsman. Gerald should have kept tabs on them, considering they were the only huntsmen for fifty miles or so, but had always been so busy. Gerald hadn’t even learned the name of the common one, as the folks who got a hold of them in times of need were well below his station. They weren’t a part of his daily life at all.
The Huntsman noticed Gerald, getting down on one knee as his liege’s heir approached.
“My Lord.” The man stumbled. The scent hit Gerald like a horse on race day.
“Are you drunk, soldier?” he asked, exasperation lining his voice. That was not becoming of Theralyn’s heir. He cared not.
“It’s a long story, my lord.” The large man nodded to Raina, as if he didn’t have the cognitive power to explain at the moment. She nodded, turning back to Gerald with a similar exasperation to her movement.
This is normal, then.
She began to explain. The beast had been a Clurichaun, a geist that fed off of alcohol. She went on a quick tangent about the Human Subconscious and its ability to manifest such things when mixed with Ether. Some of it he knew, some of it he did not. He imagined it didn’t have to do much with what answers he was looking for. She moved on to the competition. They had planned to challenge it to a drinking competition, which it looks like they succeeded in. She nodded back to Abe.
“Your turn, Abe. Fill in the rest.”
“It pissed itself off, my lord. Fell on some shards of one of its broken bottles. Went into a blood rage despite the fact that we were well on our way to beating it. We fought it, sliced it into etheric bits, and here we are.”
Beasts could be volatile. That was understandable. The challenge makes sense. They had approached the ordeal in a manner that would prevent violence. Gerald could respect that.
The explanation still gave no answers as to what happened outside of the farm. Why had the owner of the bar been found murdered by a Huntsman’s Sosin knife? Why was there no blood on the scene, despite the wounds?
“What happened after, soldier?”
“Yoric fell asleep. He had used his Prominence most of the day, and using it to hold off the intoxication deepened the exhaustion. I sat down, dozed off for a bit, and then you all woke me up. my lord.”
“What do you know of that body then?”
“I know who it belongs to,” he said, a sad sigh following. “I’m afraid I don’t know much else, my lord. A good man.”
“A good man who ran a Nightcrop operation in his basement.”
“Plenty of good men do things that circumvent the law. Doesn’t make them bad. Just misguided, My Lord.”
“Whose job is it to guide them, then?”
Another voice spoke up. “I’d say your guards who enforce the laws, my lord, but they don’t tend to frequent this part of town.” The other Huntsman, Yoric, had gotten up. Some tears streamed down his face, his cheeks red. If he had been sobbing, he had done so very quietly.
“Are we going to debate the politics of the Sad Ward, Youngclaw?”
“No, my lord. I was just answering your question.”
Tears. On edge. Obviously exhausted. Gerald, despite just meeting these two, was sure that they had not murdered the man. The Youngclaw of old may have, but all sources indicated he had reformed himself. If the beast had been kept in the basement, then someone else had been the culprit.
“Was anyone else with you guys?”
Both of their eyes widened.
Abe spoke first. “I hadn’t considered him.”
“There’s no way,” Yoric replied. “No way in any of the Three Hearths that Bors did this.”
“Bors?” Gerald asked. “Who is Bors?”
Yoric responded. “He basically lived here with the lads you probably saw waiting outside.”
“There were no lads outside.”
“They’re always there. They always wait outside the tavern when it isn’t open. They…” Realization settled in his eyes. The anger Gerald saw further exonerated the Huntsman. Any doubts he had were gone.
Gerald nodded. He’d get as much information from the huntsmen as he could before reporting to the Aegimari. Drugs had been plaguing this town for too long. Nightcrop was not so bad on the grand scale, but he had a hard time thinking that the people in charge of this operation were not involved in the other schemes that had popped up around the town.
“Huntsmen, I need descriptions of these four lads you speak of. Once we’re done, I’ll send you home with some guards to keep you safe in the Ward.”
The men nodded. They all spent the next hour talking of appearances, mannerisms, and all of the different ways one could explain a group of supposed degenerates.
- - - -
Yoric laid there, dazed, staring at the ceiling of his room. Sleeping through the night had done little to fix Yoric’s mood. It had been a very, very long time since they had lost someone on a job. They hadn’t even lost Dorian to the beast. A beast, sure. Only a Hemorian could deal with blood that quickly. It had to have been Bors. It had to have been. There was no one else in there. The place had been locked up. No one had broken in. The locks had no residual Ether on them. Bors had used Yoric’s own blade to kill Dorian, likely on Benjimak’s orders.
Yoric slammed his fist down onto his book stand, the top of it shattering. Splinters fell onto the books below. His hand was covered in blue Aegis. Anguish filled him. Dorian was one of the few men who went out of his way to do good for the Ward. The men he had helped had turned around and put him down like a dog.
Tears flushed down his cheeks. There was so much hatred in the Ward. The hateful preacher boy had been murdered by some hateful urchin. A man who did good was murdered by one he went out of his way to help. Women like his mother were cast aside for political alliances. Women like his mother had their lives taken from them for having a child with the man she loved.
None of it made sense. None of it ever had.
He sobbed until he could no longer; his throat dry and his cheeks drenched.
“I’m sorry,” he cried. “I’m sorry,” he whispered as he stared at the blurry ceiling.