*#1 in Dungeons and dragons for 3 months in 2020*
Deeply traumatised by his past, Clarence must find the courage to rescue his friend from a place he swore he would never return.
Clarence O'Leary, A Leprechaun, is determined to live his life as a f...
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The Flying Dutchman Tavern existed in eternal smog. Every morning, the landlord aired the fug collected the previous night by opening all the doors and windows. On the still days, it formed a low carpet of silver mist, ebbing and flowing like the waves that crashed on Bresco Bey.
Clarence stood at the bottom of the stairs fussing to get his pipe lit. He could smell the fresh morning air, the hot sunbaked dirt, and hear the whistling of his landlord as he cleaned in another room. With any luck, he would get through this day without a single person wishing him-
"Happy Birthday."
His head snapped to the right, jaw tight, eyes narrowed. His victim took a step back.
"Who are you?" Clarence demanded.
"I'm-"
"Shut up."
The well-wisher trembled. His skin was clammy, and his eyes were bloodshot.
"Well?" Clarence jabbed his pipe at the man's pocket. Owing to his obvious exhaustion, he easily worked out who he was and where he had come from.
"Oh!" The exhausted well wisher turned to a sack hanging from his belt. His hand got caught in his cloak as he tried to draw out his package. Clarence watched him fuss with a mean smile. They kept sending younger and younger messengers, pathetic, weak and fresh from the Leprechaun Jump Unit. They hoped he wouldn't be too cruel to them. It was too hot for a cloak, Gelding Town was a furnace. He couldn't fathom why the boy was wearing it other than to make himself look more official. "Here!" the exhausted messenger handed him a letter, hopeless relief played around his eyes. What did he want? Congratulations? Thanks?
Clarence took the package like it contained faeces. "You can go."
"But-"
"But what?" The words rolled off his tongue like acid.
"I've got another two days before I'm strong enough to Jump back to England." He couldn't meet Clarence's eye. His body turned sideways as if he expected Clarence to hit him.
"The Ship Inn has beds," Clarence said. Not that you could call a wooden plank with a moth-eaten deer skin chucked on top a 'bed'. He would not offer the messenger a room in the Flying Dutchman. The staff at the Ship Inn would find it entertaining to host a Leprechaun. They would charge him four times the amount the room was worth purely because the idiot could afford it. The boy took a few steps backwards, turned and stumbled out the open door into the strong sunlight beyond.
"Twenty-six." His landlord whistled, slapped down a wet rag and cleaned the sticky film from the wooden bar. "You were polite to that one." He nodded towards the door. Using his beard as a pointer.
In response, Clarence held the letter up to the light and curled his lip. "Can't they leave me in peace?" he grumbled. "I've done as they wished and lived a quiet life for the last five years."
