Sawn-off shotgun, two barrels, often discharged together. Capable of drawing on the wielder's energy to fire shots capable of damaging foes that can ignore typical weaponry. Short range, wide spread, slow fire rate. Hits very hard, very suddenly, and very loudly.

Being born to a couple of Irish immigrants came with some perks. The first being that their natural language is quite charming in its way, the second is the accent. Third is their way of handling the drink. Well, maybe that came to Knoll naturally. Another perk, perhaps more due to their superstitions, was Knoll's knowledge of Gaelic lore.

His father was a preacher and a grave digger for a backwater town in the middle of the boonies. In his off-time, he ran a communal farm with local men and women that helped supply the small town's food market and brought in some extra cash that he often put towards the church. Though a superstitious man, he was a god-fearing one that had plenty of stock in Catholicism. Had a habit of putting back the alcohol led to a dangerous reputation among townsfolk when he got to a dark place. The role he played to the people however, earned him enough respect to keep his privacy.

His mother was a quiet woman, lacking in both presence and power. She lived a life of being held to the standards of the preacher's wife, upholding ideas both religious and virtuous. Behind the curtain, she took the brunt of her husband's rage for reasons instilled in her upbringing. It was not a happy life, but she lived it with a silent vigilance. In her own way, she was admired by others for the solidarity she presented herself with.

Knoll was raised up simultaneously fearing and admiring his father, whom he sometimes believed to be some kind of holy warrior who kept demons at bay, and other times believed had a demon inside himself. During those times, his mother was the closest thing he had to a hero. When she could, she put herself between the two whenever she thought her son risked being on the receiving end of his father's beatings.

Outside of school, Knoll spent much of his life working the farm, studying Gaelic lore, reading books, or even out and about among the woods and graves with a small group of friends. As he grew, he began to care less for the church and stayed out more with his friends. And, as friends do as they age, gradually they took up one bad habit or another together.

In his father's words, Knoll was beginning to live a sinful life. The response was, as you'd expect, one fierce beating after the old man had enough drink in him. The youth wasn't able to put up much of a fight in the process. Given time to heal in the weeks after, Knoll packed a bag and, with his mother's quiet blessing, left home and the town to pursue a different life.

Over a decade passed wherein Knoll lived, letting his own demons out. He spent it working, drinking, and fighting one day to the next. No consistent job held him in one place for the longest period of time, but there was always one way or another to make cash without legitimate employment. Enough to get him to tomorrow and possibly another place to set himself up.

Somewhere along the way, he met one interesting character that introduced him to the world as it really was; fey, monsters, half-breeds, humanoids, magic and more. He took it in stride at the time, with slow realizations coming as time went on. Selective knowledge of Gaelic mythology had helped him pick out creatures that derived from it, and opened the doors to seeing more of the world than he ever thought logically possible. As time went on, he began to wonder if there was more to his hometown than he thought at the time. What if his father had had his own reasons for being what he was?

It would be another year before Knoll made his way out that way, taking with him skeptical theories and a deeply-hidden wish that perhaps his old man wasn't quite the monster Knoll remembered.

With few roads actually going that direction, Knoll's hitchhiking would only get him so far. So it was with a somewhat eager heart that he exited one last truck and wished its driver farewell and thanks that he made his way into the forest surrounding the town. At least this way, he'd be able to see the world that lay hidden under the old town with his own eyes.

Nightfall settled as he ventured inward. With hours past, he'd spotted some supernatural creatures, but refrained from making contact with any. The last time he'd lived in this area, they'd never made to talk to people that he was aware of, why change that now? But in the dark there was a particular figure that seemed to approach him almost directly, if only from afar. A nightly mist had settled among the trees and obscured his way, leaving it difficult to navigate.

Knoll's eyes found a light in the distance. Yellow-orange, like that of fire, contrasted sharply against the fog. He called out to the light source, though it gave no response. Assuming it must've been a campfire, he made for it. Though he crossed the land and shrubbery and forest floor to it, it came no closer to the man. Perhaps there was something more to it. A flame in the distance, guiding a lone traveler? Gaelic lore spoke of this one.

Stingy Jack and his jack-o'-lantern of infernal embers. Will-o'-the-wisp. Knoll called out to the wisp, telling it he wouldn't be fooled. The wisp remained quiet, though Knoll believed he made out a small shiver of its form. Perhaps that was as much response as he would get. The mist thickened, and Knoll's only sense of direction came from the flame in the distance. His only options would be to follow the light or not. In his stubbornness, Knoll chose to sit on the ground. He refused to be led astray while this fog blocked his way, and to follow the wisp could be dangerous. What else could he have done?

Hours passed. Knoll, tired and hungry, laid out his bed roll and ate his rations while he daydreamed, eyes never leaving the curious flame. It flickered in the distance where it lingered, he somewhat imagined it to be watching him too. A sort of stalemate ensued, or so he believed. Hard to determine when you have a creature you didn't understand in a tie.

Boredom settling in, Knoll began to talk towards it. It never responded, but he questioned it and spoke at length. He talked about his travels and the people he met, even talking of the creatures seen and sometimes fought. Did the wisp know how hard a human-looking troll could punch? Knoll had learned the hard way when one stepped into a fighting ring with him. Cost him a good pay out that day, too. Did it know of the fairies that lived out in the forest? Were they their own community? Had the wisp traveled far, or stayed here its entire life? Knoll told it about his life, not start to finish, but why he'd wanted to leave, and why he was coming home now with little bits in-between. A one-sided conversation, for sure. But it kept him from losing his mind amidst the fog.

More time passed this way, between questions and conversational points, though Knoll remained the only one talking. The mist endured for however long it was that he spoke to it, until finally he decided to sleep. Whatever happened, would finally happen. Whatever the wisp did to him, it would have its chance.

Knoll awoke later on, having slept peacefully, in the forest. No mist, in a familiar portion of the forest that didn't quite match where he had been. No sign of the flame lingered in the distance, nor did he observe any other creatures around. He gathered his bedroll and garbage and headed towards the town, following old once-thought-forgotten memories of his way home.

Entering the town from a familiar edge was much the same as he remembered. The farm had grown, the church bell gleamed, the graveyard behind it had more plots than Knoll remembered. Among the gravestones, a familiar face wiped sweat from its brow, shovel in hand, dirt piling next to him, a head of hair with far more gray than red; Knoll's father. He called down to the old man, an excited grin on his face.

The presence of the creatures in the forest gave him hope that his dad was definitely a warrior of sorts who protected people from the dangerous ones that might live among them. Like that wisp. The reunion was gleeful, if awkward. Son and father returned to the old home, where Knoll met his mother again. She looked less like a wilted flower than he recalled, maybe there had been something that changed between them in the years before.

Days that followed were happy. Catching up with old friends, getting to know them all again, learning of events that transpired in his absence was all a thrill. He shared his experiences in turn, talking of his travels and what he'd gotten to experience. Pointedly, he left out much of his day-to-day activities. Certain things just didn't make for good table talk.

Then a night came in which son and father went out to the pub together. They drank their fill, laughing loudly and having a grand time. Old Warren could hold his drink better than his boy, they said. Knoll proved them wrong and slammed their expectations. Questions were thrown his way, and in his drunken fun, he told tall tales of his life. Tales that did include some things he probably shouldn't have spoken of. Fairies, trolls, goblins, and more. Even the wisp in the forest on the way in. He tried to make it sound grand and interesting, the way one of his books would tell it.

Even pubs close after a while, though. Knoll and his old man stumbled back to their home, the elder grumbling under his breath in what sounded like frustration. The young man dismissed it as drunken rambles and just nodded his head along. As they made it into the house, Knoll got his man into his old recliner and took a seat on the couch, still happily abuzz and near to passing out.

Something seemed out of place. A creak of wooden planks. A heavy breath. Angry voice that raised to a roar. Eyelids parted just in time to see his father standing over him. Fist raised, coming down to meet Knoll's face. He took it in the cheek, shook his head as wakefulness started to come to him.

Caught the next swing with his forearm and raised his leg to push the old man off, missed and had to block another swing by his father. He raised his leg again, this time bringing it down to shift his weight forward. Knoll rose, shoving the old man back with his shoulder and trying to get his stance. Still drunk, however, he stumbled uselessly. More flashes of fists as he took more punches, one to the jaw and another to the eye socket. More came after. Followed by yet more.

Between each contact, he barely heard his father's words. Something about "them", the "monsters", "shouldn't talk about'em." The meaning was lost between each blow. Knoll couldn't understand.

He remembered blood and pain. Being almost blind in his left eye. Flashes of the floor having droplets of blood. His father had walked off. Distantly, he could hear voices, an exchange between father and mother. Father won, as he always did. Knoll tried to get up on his arms. Legs wouldn't work.

Heavy footfalls. Couldn't turn to see. Up on one arm, had to move. Didn't get the chance.

A kick to his gut made him curl and roll. On his back again, he saw his old man bending down over him, a glittering knife in hand. A muttering of the word "monster" right before the tip sank into his breast. Pain beyond pain that he knew. Couldn't move. Blood rose. Choking. Black fog rolled over his vision.

Was that the end of his life? Was that how death came for people? A feeling of numbness slowly took him from the spot in his chest where the knife pierced.

A gravelly voice, like ash in a man's throat, met his ears. "Dealraíonn sé mar shaol peaca, domsa. Ní bheadh ​​an domhan thuas ag iarraidh an ceann seo riamh, sílim. An iomarca díobhála. An iomarca cac." With it, a faint yellow-orange light came to the edges of Knoll's vision, though he couldn't move his eyes. That voice spoke in Irish?

"Sé cad?" The voice asked. Who was it talking to? "Hee hee, bhuel is cosúil gur spraoi é sin." The light was coming into focus. A yellow-orange orb emanating a light not unlike a flame hovered over his face. The voice had come from elsewhere, not this thing.

"Bhuel, gan mórán ama. Deirim go n-éirí linn leis seo." A face, pure darkness with features that remained indistinct peered into the edge of his vision, looking over the paralyzed Knoll. "Dealraíonn sé gur thaitin duine de mo pháistí leat. Deir go bhfuil siad ag iarraidh dul leat. Ní féidir an fhoraois a fhágáil, áfach. Náire, nach bhfuil? Páiste nach bhfuil in ann an domhan a iniúchadh. Is féidir leat comhbhrón a dhéanamh ceart?"

A question. One Knoll understood, mostly. The light above him was giving something off, an impulse, an impression. Something about excitement? Did it depend on his answer? But, he couldn't take it anywhere. He'd be dead.

"Ó an rud beag seo? Ná bíodh imní ort faoi, socróimid tú i gceart. Mar sin, an déileáil é?"

The man understood. And, Knoll would be alive if he accepted? Then yes. Yes! My life doesn't need to end here! I'll take the wisp anywhere! Just bring me back!

"Ansin mar sin a bheidh. Mar chuid den chomhshocrú seo, tugaim duit cuid de mo mhallacht. Bíodh na seomraí seo ionat. Lig dóibh imbue tú lena lasair. Dófaidh an saol as an nua, go dtí go bhfaighidh an lasair bás leat. An áit a dtéann d’anam ina dhiaidh, ní bheidh a fhios agam. Siúil an talamh le chéile."

The words echoed, the wisp seemed to have taken a cue from it. Its glow dimmed, the core of deep black embers lowered itself to his wound, where the knife no longer seemed to be. Bit by bit, the embers fed their way into the open flesh. Warmth and pain alike arose inside of Knoll.

Black fog vanished, his vision returned, his father had just lifted the knife. In his chest, Knoll felt a burning sensation like none he'd ever felt. He screamed and cried, curling into a ball as his father screamed obscenities in the room.

A sensation of heat and awareness burned Knoll to wakefulness. He got to his feet with some stumbling involved, the sensation growing more and more as the seconds ticked forward. His father, his attacker, abuser, murderer leered at him with silver knife in hand. Behind eyes that glowed with their own radiance, he saw fear in the man. Didn't know what he was seeing? Fair. Knoll didn't know what he was feeling, just that it was better than dying.

He charged. All signs of intoxication had faded in lieu of this heat. With a more focused movement than he had any right to, his hand wrapped around his father's wrist and twisted. A disgusting snap followed as the knife fell from his grasp. Knoll swung a fist out and met his father's cheek. It had felt so fragile in the moment of contact...the sound it had given was that of bone shattering.

Old Warren was on the ground, unconscious, seared flesh on his concave cheek where he was struck. His wrist was twisted at a bad angle and burned from Knoll's grip. Painful groans came from his throat. Knoll stepped forward, hand outstretched to his father, but his mother arrived first. She placed her body over his, getting between them, just like she had in his childhood.

Mixed emotions began to rise in Knoll's throat. There was no relief, no joy, no elation among them. He roared something animalistic at the man on the floor. Whatever sound came out carried with it pain; from being killed by his father, from his mother still standing beside him, and from the extreme heat that burned within. It felt monstrous. He felt monstrous.

He ran from a home that wasn't a home for the second time in his life.

The rest of that day is a blur in his memory, as are the next few that happened after. Knoll still remembers his meeting with that figure with the will-o'-the-wisp. After coming to his senses, some ways down a road, he came to the conclusion it must've been Stingy Jack. Jack had been a figure from folklore who, in one way or another, had gotten the better of the Devil on more than one occasion. On the day he truly died, Jack hadn't been able to enter Heaven nor Hell, and the Devil gave him embers from Hell to help light his way as he walked Earth for eternity. Those embers had become the foundation for jack-o'-lanterns and will-o'-the-wisps. The man Knoll met in that space, between life and death, had referred to the embers of the wisp as one of his children. Folklore didn't have all the answers, but it provided clues as to what he was dealing with. Maybe.

For now, he couldn't deny that there was a heat in his chest where the knife had stabbed him. There was a wound that hadn't closed up all the way even days later. It caused him pain, but the wisp within let him know to just keep going. It would heal over time. While the being within didn't speak to him in any words, it had thoughts of its own that Knoll identified separately from his. It was an odd sensation.

Part of his pact with "Jack" meant bringing this wisp of his around to see the world. Which absolutely meant that getting the hell out of town had been good for him in more ways than one. He'd need to scrounge up money, get far away from town. Maybe a new identity if things called for it. There was a lot of living left to do, and this wisp was new to it all. For now, they'd start by enjoying a nice, long bus ride West.

just with talon like feet and long talon like fingernails and red hair.