Chapter 86: Otherfolk
“Eh?” I stared at Jared, my mind struggling to keep up. “What are you talking about? Wraiths and beastmen? They didn't change their forms at all.”
The moment he said the word "otherfolk," a vague, half-forgotten memory surfaced in my mind. It was MacDuff, lecturing the orphans. “Listen up, you lot,” he had growled. “If you see anyone who doesn’t look quite human, anyone who looks a bit… different… you leave them be. You hear me? Those otherfolk will eat you and not even spit out the bones. And don’t you dare show them you’re afraid. They’ll notice.” MacDuff, of course, wasn’t concerned for our well-being. He was just afraid of losing his "property," and even more afraid of drawing the attention of such dangerous beings. And with that memory came a definition: otherfolk. A human term for all non-human, intelligent races. So, this world had fantasy creatures. They were rare, it seemed, and mostly kept to the shadows, but they were real. Why hadn’t I remembered this when I saw those monstrous figures in my dream? Was it because Parula herself had never seen one in the flesh?
“Brother Jared,” I asked, my curiosity piqued, “have you seen wraiths and beastmen before? How did you know from my words?” He did look impressive if he could recognize them just by hearing my description.
“I heard about wraiths from the town crier,” he explained. “He said there was one haunting the graveyard, a dangerous one. He warned everyone to stay away. There was a bounty, too, with a drawing of it on the notice. It was a dark, shadowy thing, wrapped in a tattered cloak.”
“The crier even described what they do,” he continued. “Said they’re evil spirits, bound to a place or an object. They can change their shape, and they like to feed on the souls of the living. He told us to report any sightings, said there was a reward.” His description was a perfect match for the shrouded specter from my dream. And the concept of a "bound spirit" or a "wraith" was familiar enough from my old world’s folklore.
“And the beastmen… I’ve seen one of those myself,” Jared said, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Some say they’re people who were cursed, or twisted by some strange sickness. Others say they have the blood of beasts in their veins, and it just… comes out sometimes.”
“Wait, you’ve seen one?” I asked, a chill going down my spine. I remembered the savage, snarling cheetah-creature from the dream. The thought of encountering such a being in the real world was terrifying, knowing that it was not a being who can be reasoned with. Was it possible for Jared to see an beastman and survive, or was it just the hunting scene he saw?
“Where did you see it?”
“Right here in the city,” he said with a shrug. “In the old slum, the one we just left. She was trying to hide it, wearing a black cloak and a deep hood, but I saw her tail.”
“Her? A tail?” I was confused. This didn't sound like the monster from my dream.
“Aye, a girl,” he said, a faint smile on his lips. “A very pretty one. And she had cat’s ears, too. She wasn’t very good at hiding them.” A pretty girl with cat’s ears and a tail? A cat-girl? The image of the savage, bloodthirsty beastman in my mind was suddenly replaced by something… entirely different. And she was just walking around the slums? If she was so easily recognizable, why wasn't she hunted? Perhaps, I thought, we were talking about two different kinds of "beastmen." The creature from my dream was a monster, barely human. But this cat-girl… she sounded more like a human with a few animal features. I explained this to Jared, but he just shrugged. Most of his knowledge of the otherfolk came from rumors and tavern tales. He didn't know the specifics.
“If the mark on your arm bothers you so much,” he suggested, changing the subject, “why not cover it up?”
“Cover it up?”
“Aye. Out of sight, out of mind, right?” It was a simple, childish solution, but I was desperate. I couldn’t very well carve the flesh from my own arm. Jared found a relatively clean scrap of cloth and, using the dagger, cut it into strips. He then carefully wrapped my forearm, covering the writhing, monstrous brand. It looked like a proper bandage. And you know what? It helped. Not being able to see the thing, to watch it squirm, brought a small measure of peace.
We went out to fetch water and buy some bread for breakfast. But as we approached the waterway, we saw a crowd gathered. Bartholomew, the sewer king, stood in the middle of it, his face a mask of grim frustration. He was our "landlord," so to speak, so we went over to pay our respects.
“Morning, Guv’nor,” Jared said cheerfully. “What’s all the commotion?”
“Jared. Good timing,” Bartholomew grunted. “Did you see any of those bastards who were sleeping by the canal last night?”
“No, Guv’nor,” Jared lied smoothly. “The two moons were near converging. I wouldn’t be caught dead out here. We were asleep early.” In truth, we had been up late, first with the witch, then with the grimoire. I had even stepped out to look at the moons myself, the red moon and green moon, just before we went to sleep. I had seen several men huddled around their fires, right where Bartholomew was standing now.
“They’re gone,” Bartholomew said, his voice a low growl.
“Gone? You mean they ran off, without a word?” Jared asked, his mind likely jumping to our own flight from MacDuff.
“No. If they’d run off, that’d be one thing. But their bedrolls, their bits and pieces… it’s all still here. The men I have watching the stairs say no one left last night.” To maintain his control over the waterway, Bartholomew had his men watching the iron ladder entrances at all times. He knew who came and went. Three or four men had vanished into thin air. It wasn't that Bartholomew cared for them, but the fact that someone, or something, had taken them from right under his nose, without a sound… that was what terrified him.
“Maybe they fell in the river,” Jared suggested. “Happens all the time when a man’s half-asleep.”
Bartholomew, also unconvinced by other grunts's guesses, kicked angrily at one of the abandoned bedrolls. “Damn it! I told them! Don’t sleep out in the open when the moons converge! They never listen!”
“Excuse me,” I said, my voice small. I pointed a finger at the bedroll. “What’s that wet spot on the blanket?”
Comments (0)
Please login or sign up to post a comment.