Chapter Twenty-Two
Guild
Art never expected to have another thought again. Sensation, future, life, he had sacrificed all. Whatever awaited him in the afterlife was a mystery, but he was not expecting to open his eyes to soft even light and the smell of greenery. Sitting up with a shock, Art whipped his head around. He had not imagined death to leave him so many memories of what had just transpired. The fight with the demon, the last harrowing moments before the Weirs crushed he and the thing together were a blur, but clearly present in his memory.
Looking down at his body, his wounds were gone, his clothing intact. Next to him was Weir Hewn, bloodless and clean, sitting in soft grass. Picking up the blade, he turned slightly when Meliveraze floated near him. Cocking his head gently, Art removed his glove to reach for the lantern but recoiled when he found his hand was changed. Though his own, the skin was onyx black, the fingers bearing a talon-like shape. Turning it over revealed faint but glistening orange red veins beneath the dark flesh. It looked very much like the demon’s hands.
Confused, Art rose to his feet, the lantern shadowing his movements. He flexed his hand. Everything felt normal, the skin was cool to the touch. He had no explanation. Sheathing Weir Hewn, he looked around. Nothing was the same as he had left it. The world was bathed in warm moonlight, a forest clearing. Before him stood a cottage, covered in ivy a structure reminiscent of the home he grew up in but much more beautiful. Amber light lit frosted glass windows casting color on the greenery around the cottage.
Art was walking towards it before he could access it. The door opened for him and he passed through to find a large house within it. There seemed to be no roof, though Art could not have discerned that from the outside. The moon was overhead but near the east corner he could also see the sun. The mixture of both cast glorious light into the space.
Though furnished with things that Art would have loved, great arm chairs, a large bed, a fire place to read by, and more books than he could dream of, the man was drawn to a singular thing in an attached sun room off to the left of the main house. Walking through the doorway, Art stood in awe of a huge structure, wood and curving metal. The black iron looped and circled bent and flourished in beautiful elaborate designs, fluid and natural in its elegance. The frame was carved just as intricately as the metal was forged, but all of that was unnoticeable to the thing in the center of huge wooden barrier.
There was no mistaking that the great thing was a Haunting Weir. Art had never seen one with a sculpture mounted in the center like a figurehead on a boat. It was buried waist deep in the Weir, its arms shackled by the iron flourishes. The horns protruding from its head were also chained in the same way. The hair was long, hanging about its shoulders, smooth and braided elaborately, the color like Art’s dark blond. It was the face that scared the man the most, as it was as much his as it was the demon's.
Cautiously, Art approached it. The figure was unmoving and he was uncertain if it was carved out of the wood of the Weir. As he inched closer, the thing’s eyes burst open and it turned its head towards him, the metal of its shackles giving to allow its gesture. The eyes were black and Art recognized the smile that spread over his twinned face.
“Artcainecru,” Art breathed, completely bewildered.
“The same,” the demon spoke, his voice more like Art’s than ever before, though smoother and a touch deeper. It lacked the heavy demonic pressure sending only an uncertain feeling through the man, rather than an evil shutter. “Yet, changed. You have bested me, Art Storygrove.”
The man wished he knew what that meant. Even though he had somehow orchestrated whatever he was experiencing, he was clueless to what had come of it all. The thing took a rooted breath, its skin deeply black but also bearing the slight texture of the dark wood it was now a part of. Bare chested and wearing Art’s handsome face, it looked more like a forest god than the sinister creature that had plunged its hand into Art’s chest.
“I have bested you?” Art asked, suspicious.
Artcainecru tossed its head back and laughed, the Weir rattling but it did not seem to give at all. The demon was a part of the thing now.
“Oh I should be swelled with rage that you have changed me so. Yet you have no clue as to the feat you achieved. Yes, child, you bested me. The Weir prison could not hold me. You could not defeat me, so instead you consumed me. You took me into yourself, absorbed both your parent Weirs and with your own life and blood bound me to you. You, a life born of a Haunting Weir, now have the most powerful Weir ever created with a demon as your mantelpiece. You have filled me with life and robbed me of my demonic hunger.”
Art knew his face mirrored his dumbstruck awe. He had intended to crush he and the demon with the two Weirs, hoping that force would destroy them both. What had happened was more than a surprise.
“It is now apparent that you were born to keep me from entering the physical world. Your soul grew to consume me, as I could have done to you. Clever and infuriating. It will take equal cleverness on my part to discover the key to the shackles of your soul. But for the time being it looks as if we are chained to one another, I as part of you and, it would seem, you as part of me.” His dark eyes fell on Art’s blackened arm. “An interesting future awaits you, Weiriman, should your Guild allow you to live it.”
The thing was laughing again, amused, but it lacked all the heavy madness Art had sensed before. He truly had found a way to contain the evil, and it no longer perforated his soul. Its cold evil was not inking its way through him. His mind was his own, his thoughts pure again. Somehow, he had been exorcised through he was still gazing at the demon on his newly formed Haunting Weir.
Suddenly Art was moving. His soul was flying and in a blink of an eye the man was awake, heart hammering his blood through the veins in his neck. He was alive!
“Art! Art, are you alright?” Orchid was in front of him, her hand on his forearms. He could feel her warming, healing magic pulsing through him. The ache of his body was pronounced but not the pain he had expected.
Eyes wild, Art lifted his hands and gripped the woman by her shoulders before crushing her in an embrace. She was real. He truly was alive. She was startled but he released her as Ever put his hand on Art’s shoulder.
“Storygrove! What happened?!”
Art muttered an apology and released the dryad, taking a few shaky breaths before grinning widely. Lucid was next to him, a smile equally as wide over his face. Overjoyed, Art embraced the boy, slapping him on the back before getting to his feet. In rushed explanation, he told all that had transpired. The small group was stunned but happy, the Weaver nodding all the while.
“Well done, boy. Well done. You are all my guests tonight. Come!”
The Weaver turned out to be a better host than Art had expected. Dinner was an odd mixture of foods Art had never tasted before, but flavors were more vibrant, smells more appealing, and the wine sweeter than he ever could remember. He was truly happy to be alive. The storm of the incident had dispelled and he slept well for the first time in what felt like years.
Art half expected to be plagued by nightmares or even to have to visit the demon chained within his mind’s eye. When morning came and he was blissfully without memory of dreams, he allowed himself to truly breath easily again. Rising just as the sun started its climb, he found Lucid and the Weaver in the living room Art had first spoken with the Weaver in. The fairies were gathered about again, listening intently to the conversation unfolding.
“But he’s well now, you can stay here,” the Weaver protested. “His demon arm is just a side effect. It might even give him new abilities, time will tell. But he is out of mortal danger, at least from the demon inside him. But he’s a Weiriman; his life will always be on the hunt for evil. Why do you want to go with him?”
“It is time, Father.” Lucid smiled, his eyes curving into little half moons with the gesture. “We are brothers.”
The Weaver pouted for a moment then noti
ced Art in the doorway.
“You did this! You made him interested in that dark world out there! Now he wants to travel with you, turning back evil and putting his life in danger. He could stay here with me, where it is safe. The world is touched by so much pain, so much ugliness.”
“It is,” Art said gently, “but as a Weiriman, I try to alleviate some of that. Surely you can see Lucid has a gift for it as well. A dreamcatcher purges nightmares, just as a Weir keeps the demons out of a soul. We have to do what we’re meant to do. Isn’t that what you meant when you told me to do what I was born for? The boy’s right, Weaver, we’re brothers.”
Lucid nodded, rounding his cheeks up at Art’s words. The Weaver did not look happy but patted Lucid on the shoulder before rising.
“I see I won’t change your mind. But you promise to protect him out there, Storygrove. I’ll hunt you down myself should you let harm come to him.”
“He’s my little brother, I’ll protect him. Don’t worry.”
The Weaver stared for a long, hard and uncomfortable moment before rolling his eyes and sighing heavily. He took one last glance at Lucid, then walked by Art and patted him on the shoulder.
“You should depart toady. You still have unfinished business, Weiriman.”
Art nodded and watched the Weaver go. Lucid walked up to him but not before waving to several fairies, who flew down to play in his hair, kiss his cheek, and weep a little before returning to their perches and little houses circling the room.
“You sure you want to go with me?” Art asked when the youth came to stand next to him.
Lucid nodded.
“I don’t know what’s going to happen with the Weirimen. I don’t know what they will do.”
“We are brothers,” Lucid said, his blue eyes clear. “But you are wrong about one thing.”
“Oh?” Art cocked his head to the side, smiling at Lucid’s sudden seriousness.
“You are younger, Brother. I am older. I am eighty-four.” Lucid gave him a wide, full smile before passing him and heading into the kitchen after the Weaver.
Art’s mouth popped opened, stunned.
The Weaver gave the group fresh supplies and after a few more threats about keeping Lucid safe, Art, Lucid, Orchid, and Ever departed the Weaver’s house heading for the path between the two woods.
“Storygrove, I want to inquire about the condition of your arm,” Ever started when Orchid floated up next to him, giving a quiet shushing noise.
Art turned and the dryad smiled at him apologetically, which made Art smile back.
“It’s fine, Orchid.” Art shook his head. “I would want to know too. I’m not really sure to be honest, Ever. The Weaver thought it might be a new source of abilities but what those are yet, I’m still wondering myself. The only thing I really know is I no longer qualify as possessed, but the arm and the demon in my Haunting Weir, that’s all going to have to be explored.”
Before Ever could comment any further, a figure appeared on the road ahead of them. At first Art did not recognize them, but as they drew closer he realized he knew them.
“Senny?” He called and the woman removed her hood. Though still wearing her Sin Breath mask, Art could easily tell it was his schoolmate.
“Stop there, Art,” she commanded, her voice wavering a little before she lifted a crossbow and pointed it at him.
Ever’s bow was out and drawn before Art could stop him. Before any arrows were exchanged Art’s hands came up.
“Wait!” he ordered.
The elf did not relax. “She is not alone,” he growled, stepping in front of Orchid who dropped down behind him. Her current clothing was more practical for travel than the dress she had worn as a ghost. It did not billow as she moved, and she fit snugly behind the Knight, only peeking over his shoulder.
Art stepped between Senny and Ever just as a party of Weirimen descended upon them. They had to have been laying in wait for Art, weapons drawn, and masks up. Art scanned the group, recognizing only a few but knew clearly the man who rode up on horseback behind Senny.
“Storygrove.” Professor Minevur squinted his eyes. “Glad to see we are not too late and you have not released the Pith demon on the world.”
“He is no longer possessed,” Orchid said, popping her head up before Ever shifted his eyes to her.
“Who is that?” Minevur demanded but Art ignored the question.
Lifting his chin Art spoke clearly, “She is correct, Professor. I am no longer possessed. There is no need to execute me. I have remedied the problem.”
Agitated, the man dismounted. Squaring his shoulders, he marched up to Art, his hand on the blade fasted at his hip. The group of Weirimen did not move, their crossbows still trained on Art. Minevur walked right up to the man, much shorter than Art’s tall form, and looked up into his face. His brow crease hung so low over the professor’s eyes that they looked even more like two shiny beetles embedded in his face.
Art held his breath as Minevur’s eyes rimmed silver then flashed into a shimmering gunmetal as he looked inside Art with his Weiriman’s abilities. If Art had desired it, he could have fought Minevur’s intrusion into his mind. He was far more talented than the stumpy professor, but he needed him to see Art’s condition for himself to verify what Art was saying to be truth. He allowed the man to feel with his mind for the signs of possession, the inking darkness, the heat of a burrowing demon working its way into someone’s soul, or in this case, out of Art’s Haunting Weir.
Finally, after an unnecessarily lengthy and thorough investigation, the professor scowled saying gruffly, “You are no longer possessed, but you still harbor the demon within you! It is attached to your Haunting Weir! Permanently!”
Art felt the flurry of thoughts, feelings, and confusion rise and exchange in the minds of his fellow Weirimen.
“You have made a pact with this demon for your soul, haven’t you?!” Minevur accused, stepping back as the others looked to one another for clues if they should attack Art.
“No!” Art shook his head. “I haven’t. I’ve made no such pact!”
“I don’t believe you. There should be no way to have stopped a Pith demon with your abilities alone, not without blackening yourself.”
Art knew the term blackening was applied to those who had made pacts, deals, or contacts with demons for power, abilities or other such rewards. Particularly mighty demons could bestow lavish might upon those willing to do unspeakable acts to nourish the beasts. Once the person died, their soul was usually forfeited to the demon as well. The Blackened were hunted by the Blackenmancers and hated by Weirimen, but not regularly dealt with by them.
“I have done no such thing,” Art insisted removing his gloves. “See! I have no Scorch Scars!”
The Blackened always carried a mark of their covenant with the demon, known as Scorch Scars. Over time they became hidden, only detected by Blackenmancers, but a fresh bargain would still be visible on him. He instantly regretted his action when his strange black demon hand was revealed.
“What is this?!” Minevur shrieked, pointing to the arm.
“It’s a side effect of my battle and imprisoning of the demon to my Weir. It’s not a Scorch Scar! There’s no rune, see!” Art thrust his arm towards the man who jerked back but did not take his eyes off of the obsidian colored flesh.
“How do I know you have not taken the mark somewhere else? It is usually on the hand, but you are a clever one, Storygrove. And this! I’ve never heard of someone suffering something like this. It could be a sign of an even more evil pact with an unfathomable demon!”
“I have made no pact!” Art protested. “Would you have me strip down right here in the road to prove myself?! There is nothing written anywhere that a Scorch Scar would look like my arm! Isn’t it enough you no longer sense the evil perforating my soul?!”
“No!” Minevur grimaced. “I say you are a Blackened or some form thereof. Your fate is c
lear.” He brought his hand up to signal a man on his right, who took aim.
“You will not kill him before I kill both of you, Weiriman,” Ever warned.
“You cannot kill all of us, Scarborough Knight. Be gone. This is no business of yours!”
Lucid had started to step forward but Art, brought his hand up.
“You can’t kill me here in cold blood. I demand you take me back to the Seminary and have the Grandmaster and the others examine me. I am no threat to you.”
“He’s right, Professor,” Senny spoke from behind and the two men turned to her. “You said yourself on our graduation day that our gifts and skills are a rarity. In a world threatened by such tangible evil, we are a treasure and needed necessity. If he is not afflicted nor tainted by evil, would it not spit in the face of all you said to waste someone as gifted as Art Storygrove?”
Art was stunned she spoke for him. He could hear the whispers of the thoughts of those around him. They were all concurring with Senny’s wisdom. Minevur was visibly angered. He was not keeping his personal feelings towards Art very quiet, or perhaps Art could just hear thoughts more clearly now. He had always disliked Art: his natural gifts, his ability to carry on even without the aid or acceptance of others. His confidence, his good looks, even the silent admiration the others, especially the professors, harbored for Art despite his lack of peer acceptance, enraged his jealousy. He hated that now Art had befallen a misfortune, it would be Minevur who would be escorting Art back to the Seminary, unharmed.
Taken back by the fact that this man would rather see him dead than help him, Art was at least grateful he was Weiriman enough to bend to the logic Senny presented. He knew that slim fact would get he and the others to the Seminary. Art had always thought the Guild protected their own like a family would, jealously and rivalry aside, when it came to a life. Art’s glimpse into how much Minevur hated him further jaded his feelings towards the Guild, making him wonder how his trial would actually end. Should the other professors entertain dark feelings towards him, he might end up beheaded just for having the demon within him, even though it seemed contained.
As the group gathered around Minevur, discussing their path back to the Seminary, some eyeing Art suspiciously, Ever moved to Art’s side.
“You don’t have to come with me,” Art spoke lowly to the elf. “I…I don’t know how this is going to end.”
Orchid popped up over Ever’s shoulder, her eyes wide.
“You think they could condemn you after all you have been through, after what you have accomplished?!”
Art dipped his head, his hair spilling over one eye. The past events since his Weir test had taken a dramatic toll on him. Though still handsome, his eyes were darkly rimmed, face pale. He was thinner, his skin a touch gray, lips slightly dry. He gave a long sigh.
“I don’t know. But I wanted to be a Weiriman and I’ll stand before their justice now to end this trial one way or another. It’s what I want. But, it could end badly and I don’t want you to have to be there if it does. You should take Lucid and—"
“Brother, we will go with you.” Lucid looked up into the man’s face and patted him on the arm. “We will all go with you to whatever end.”
Both elf and dryad did not say anything but the looks on their faces and the quiet way they smiled at him, told Art all he needed to know.
The trip back to the Seminary had been quiet. Not even Senny spoke with him or anyone in his party. From the thought whispers alone, he could tell everyone was curious as to why Art was traveling with such an unusual collection of folk, as much as they wanted to know about his journey and truth of his condition. All that curiosity was overshadowed by his impending fate when he was finally led into the observation hall at the Weirimen’s Seminary. It had been Art’s home for many years, but now it felt cold and foreign.
Art had never expected to be in the observation hall under the threat of a trial for his life. The Weir test felt like months ago, even years, after everything that had befallen him. He was a different person standing before the judges and the audience that had gathered in the seats around him. The audience had been empty when he had done his final Weir trial. No one had cared enough to see if he could graduate and join their ranks, but so many were present now to see if he would keep the life he had fought so hard to render back from the invading demon.
Cindervail was at the middle of the judge’s panel just as she always had been. Art took a slight comfort in knowing she had at least gone looking for him when he did not return from the Weaver’s. However, should he be a threat, she, like the others, would choose the world’s greater good over his life. It might even be her to end him. Art held his fears in check.
“This branch of aging crows could not invoke more terror in you than I did, Art.”
Art almost startled out loud when he heard the demon’s voice in his head. Without its demonic presence and aura it was almost like his own dark inner voice speaking to him. He did not entirely like the fact that it almost brought him a hint of comfort.
“They hold my fate in their hands.”
“Surely not,” Artcainecru mused to him. “If you were to use my strength, your abilities, and the aid of your odd allies who stand with you now, surely you could escape these walls of mere stone.”
“To what end? And by what means?” Art asked in his mind. “I won't be hunted by my own kind again.”
“None that judge you now are your kind, Art Storygrove. You are unique and should not stand judged by these lesser than you.”
“You’re wrong. These people hold a line between the minds of the innocent afflicted and the darkness that birthed you. If I am a threat, I might not even know it. I’m not so arrogant that I would say in my battle with you, that I know now the ebb and flow of that line. I’ll stand judged and accept what they pass over me.”
“Even though one that sits on this panel is so jealous of you that he would rather have murdered you on the road than bring you here?”
Art flinched at that. He had always known Minevur did not like him but he had not expected to hear the depth of those dark thoughts. After a long moment Art nodded.
“Yes, even knowing that, I would rather trust this system than fight against it. I must be on a side, light or dark, and you, demon are the darkness. Though I hold you in check inside myself, I will trust the world I was brought up in now. I still believe there is real goodness in this. I still stand as that goodness, even though I harbor you now within me.”
Art felt the demon within him smile.
“Art Storygrove,” Cindervail’s voice was louder than he expected and Art jumped. “We have looked inside your mind and seen your trial. We have heard your thoughts and know of your experience.”
Art blinked in shock. He had not even known the trial had begun.
“With the help of a Sootsayer Seer, we have looked deep within you, seen all that has befallen you since your Haunting Weir was cracked open. Your suffering has been great, your danger far more dramatic than we had originally thought. In hindsight, it was wrong for us to have let you leave the Seminary and break out on your own. Many times, the demon could have broken free of you, devoured your soul, and been set loose on an unsuspecting world.”
Art’s blood was running cold, his hands and feet numbing. He could see none of the other faces, only Cindervail’s and her expression conveyed little comfort.
“Yet, here you stand before us, alive, intact, and in command of an evil not even all of the skills of this judgment council could turn back. You have achieved the impossible, not only by being who and what you are, Storygrove, but by taming an evil long fought by this institution, claiming many precious lives. Even in the light of what you have accomplished we cannot accept you. We cannot have one embedded with such an evil force among the ranks of our guild. Your origins are strange to us and your life could be unpredictable, even for that of a Weiriman. Should you be granted life yo
u would be without a Guild, alone. There are none here who would partner such a bearer of darkness. If we are wrong, let him or her speak now.”
Art’s shoulders were tensing up. If no one spoke for him would he be banished from the Guild? What would become of his life, should he even be allowed to keep it? Gingerly his eyes went to Senny, who sat in the front row of the observers. When their eyes met he ignited a tiny hope she might speak for him but when her gaze shifted and dropped, his heart did the same. Even the one closest to him in school would not risk working with a Weiriman carrying the very thing they were sent to destroy.
“Art is not in need of a guild.” Ever and the others were standing behind him, near the great doors of the observation hall. He strode to Art’s side now, Orchid and Lucid following. “He has previously been accepted by a company. We stand before you now willing and committed to assisting him in whatever capacity he should require to pursue his calling.”
“You, elven Knight, we have learned of your story and what Art Storygrove did for you and Orchid Sarathone. Are you not free to return to your garrison, now liberated of your previous affliction?”
Art’s eyes were wide. He had fully expected Ever to return to his life once Art was cleared or condemned. Scarborough Knights had a calling to keep their world safe from Demon Touched.
“I am,” Ever confirmed. “My former garrison would have me back. In addition, I have an invitation to join the Birchwood Garrison under Captain Finnafor as second in command, an honor and privilege. However, knowing this man, his life, his quality, and his dedication to the defense of our world, I would gladly serve that purpose at his side as the greatest honor I could be afforded.”
“I too feel this way,” Orchid spoke. “Though my life has always been about nature, beauty and harmony, I have been inspired by the heart of this man, his sacrifices and courage, to take up arms and also defend our world as aide to him.”
“He is my brother,” Lucid crossed his arms over his chest and smiled broadly, feeling all that he needed to say, he said.
Art was stunned and for a long moment there was much psychic talking happening between the judges, locked away from Art’s mind. Finally, after the longest moments of his life, the discussion ended and Cindervail’s attention returned to Art.
“Art Storygrove, it is this council’s judgment that you will be ejected from the Weirimen Guild, as one who carries a demon cannot be among its official ranks.”
Art’s heart sank into his stomach.
“However,” Cindervail added, causing his heart to leapt back into his chest and climb into his throat. “Since you have been declared one of the most gifted among us, even since a time before the Weaver graced us with wisdom, it is our judgment that you will be licensed and labeled the first independent Weiriman. To each Guild House, it will be up to their Grandmaster should you be allowed to use their facility, but you will have all the authority and prestige afforded one that has earned the right to call himself one of us. You have come through a darkness that would have defeated all who sit before you now. Though we cannot have you among us as a peer, we salute your skill and moral core, Art Storygrove. Welcome to the Weirimen.”
The Haunted Weir Workings will continue in Book Two:
Shadow Confectionary Preview
Prologue
Knife
Shadow Confectionary; a profession of opposites, spinning sugar and candy from evil and darkness. The very idea of taking Sin Breath and dark energy, polluted into the world by demons and their ilk, and purifying it into something that could actually aid a person in staving off their invasive force was revolutionary. It began with hunters. There had always been hunters. Since the time evil started to invade the physical world, hunters of many different kinds had risen up to defend and drive back the monsters that sought to devour souls.
From these hunters, developed the Haunted Weir Working professions. Weirimen exorcised and protected the Haunting Weirs: the door to the mind’s eye and the gateway demons had to breech to break inside a person. Scarborough Knights of the fey and elven races hunted packs of demon infested and touched animals that turned more beast and monster than earthly creatures. Blackenmancers specialized in hunting down the Blackened: those who made covenants with powerful demons, devils, and lords of evil. Pitch Threaders created toys and novelties to protect and ward against demonic stalking, haunting, and nightmares. There were many others. So many professions had developed to stand against the darkness and protect the weirs of the world.
The Shadow Confectioners had risen out of this lot. Like the Pitch Threaders, they found a way to take the evil miasma, leaking into the world that turned people’s thoughts and hearts dark, into an anti-version of darkness. Like some of the other professions, many families had talent that ran through the generations as strong as blood. Great families rose to stand as institutions to their chosen calling. One of the first and best had always been the Bohurst bloodline.
Many long years ago when the first Bohurst came to the city of Riftenshire, even then a place tormented by nearby haunted ground, there was a man who had made a pact with demons, becoming one of the Blackened. He was said to be the first master of the Shadow Men demons. Then, the Bohursts were Blackenmancers. The city had been fraught with negativity from Shadow Men and their master. These lesser demons could only become stronger by feeding on the negative emotions of people. The stronger the emotion, the more powerful the Shadow Man would become. Shadows themselves could hold nothing and the life force they collected could only last for a short while within the demon. Their master siphoned most of the energy. This created the ever-hungry drive of these creatures. Shadow Men only lived to consume and bring misery to those they fed on, an unbreakable demonic cycle.
Riftenshire had been at its worst back then, covered in a black haze of dark feelings. It trapped the people inside, feeding off them for a dark purpose and no clear end. Into this bleak situation, Knife Bohurst, a relentless Blackenmancer, had come. He brought a unique and unusual solution. Finding and thwarting the Blackened and his Shadow Men was only the first step. There was the matter of cleaning up the environment corrupted by the evil. Where the Blackened had made his home, was now even more potent haunted ground and would always spawn evil. If the town was to be saved, there had to be a continuing solution.
Though brilliant hunters, the Bohursts had a love of making candy. Through this interest, a strange and palatable solution was forged. It was said that Knife could slice away the evil that plagued the town straight out of the air. He could draw the Sin Breath in with his abilities and purge it like a Weiriman would exorcise a soul. The left over substance became known as Umbra Sugar. Through these unique techniques and ingredients, the profession of crafting Umbra Sweets birthed the Shadow Confectioners.
Knife Bohurst saved Riftenshire with his Umbra candy and drove the Shadow Men infestation out. A new industry in warding off evils had been created and the great name of the Bohurst Shadow Confectionary would stand as a pillar and example to all the Shadow Confectionaries that would spring up in every major city and place that could be bothered by the demonic.