The clurichaun lay over the top of an empty side-turned barrel, his back bending with the curve of the wood. His swollen belly bulged toward the ceiling, expanding hugely with each deep snore. His feet were dangling towards them, one missing a shoe, his head lost from sight over the other side of the barrel. A clay jug dangled loosely from the tip of a relaxed finger. Another barrel stood open next to the clurichaun’s makeshift bed, still upright. It was not simply tapped, but the entire top was pried off, showing the contents of dark ale near half gone.

“Relative?” Padric asked, a wry grin cracking his face. It was the first time he had smiled since killing the skin-changer.

Rosheen snorted and grabbed the clurichaun by the ankles, tugging sharply. The barrel rolled forward, dumping the wretch onto his rump on the ground. His head fell back against the barrel, but he kept snoring. Coarse stubble covered his face, his curly hair oily and matted. Rosheen grabbed the front of his stained shirt in her fists and gave him a good shake. His head thumped soundly on the barrel with a woody echo, but he did not wake. She released him and slapped him across the face, giving a second strike with the back of her hand on the return. The clurichaun rewarded her efforts with a reeking belch, but slumbered on. She brought her fist back and took aim at his nose.

“Rosh!” Padric admonished her.

“Oh keep quiet,” she replied, but dropped her fist. “He is well beyond feeling anything. Now help me.”

“Help you what? I’ll not beat on him!”

“Don’t be daft. Pick him up.”

Padric frowned at her and leaned over, grabbing the back of the clurichaun’s vest, hoisting him from the ground one-handed. The little sot dangled at the end of Padric’s outstretched arm, oblivious. “Now what?”

Rosheen tilted her head toward the open barrel and raised an eyebrow.

“Waste of good ale,” Padric said.

“From the smell of him, he’s already been swimming in it,” Rosheen countered. “Now dunk him.”

Padric sighed and held the clurichaun over the barrel.

“Head first,” Rosheen corrected.

Padric reached down with his other hand and gripped the clurichaun’s ankles, slowly spinning him around until his arms were swinging freely towards the ground. Wrinkling his nose distastefully Padric lowered his burden into the barrel. The curly head went under, the open mouth sending up a deluge of fat, gurgling bubbles. Padric held him under for some time, looking more sheepish with each passing second, but the clurichaun did not wake. No ale erupted in a fit of froth and waves, the stubby legs did not kick or jerk in Padric’s grasp. Padric gave Rosheen a withering glare and pulled the clurichaun dripping from the barrel.

“Mayhaps he can breathe it, too…like a fish,” Padric said.