#brollachan

Thank you for the tag! @writing-with-melon

Rules: Post 7 seven sentences of your wip.

This is from book 6 of the wild hunt series. I just started it. So this is near the end of the first chapter.

“Samhain, he’s right and I’ll be fine. Check on the boys and then join me there. Let them join us, if they are able….” Aigean pushed at Gwyn’s hand stopping his magic and he pulled himself to his feet.

“No offense but I don’t enjoy the feel of magic. I’ll heal my way, but thank you. Samhain just needed to hear it from someone else than me, that I would be alright. You should help Croi’s white raven. We need the wards more than anything. So we can get Croi back.” Samhain was on her feet as well but she didn’t argue as much as she looked like she wanted to. She simply touched Aigean shoulder gently.

“Be gentle on yourself. I cannot lose another that I love.” She slipped away amongst the redcaps looking for their war chiefs. Aigean watched her before stumbling forward. Gwyn caught him with one hand helping him balance.

“Brollachan” © Ben Batchelder, accessed at his deviantArt gallery here

[It annoys me that J.K. Rowling used the name “boggart” for a creature that looks like whatever you’re frightened of, because this is what that’s supposed to be. Obviously, not her greatest sin.]

Brollachan CR 9 N Fey A vaguely man-shaped mass of horrific imagery swirls before you, constantly shifting to reveal ever-more-terrifying sights. Within the hateful cloud, a dim humanoid outline can be spied.

Brollachans are strange creatures that are the embodiment of primal terror. It is said that a brollachan always appears as the thing the viewer is most afraid of, which is not strictly true. They constantly and reflexively read the minds of those around them, cloaking themselves in a ghastly shield of images drawn from the minds of those nearby. A brollachan cannot suppress this power or precisely control what is shown, but can increase its intensity temporarily to snuff out the life of those that threaten them and lash out with phantasmal projections if attacked.

Brollachans literally repel all who see them, and as such they are usually sad and lonely creatures. They view their amazing abilities as something of a curse, and almost all brollachans spend their lives alone. They are naïve and child-like in mentality, making them easy to trick or deceive, and their morality is easily swayed in the service of one who can actually bear to be in their presence. Thus, a brollachan who meets up with a paladin or kindly druids may become a force for good to be reckoned with, but one who keeps the company of wicked souls will rapidly turn wicked as well.

Brollachans are native to the loneliest woods and swamps, as they are loved by neither man nor beast. Most other fey view them with something between pity and disdain. They are primarily herbivorous, although they may supplement this diet with game killed by their lethal terrors. The appearance of the brollachan itself is rarely seen, but without its cloak of illusions it is a pale and feeble thing with small circular black eyes and slits for a nose and mouth. Brollachans stand five feet high and weigh little over a hundred pounds, although their illusory abilities usually make them seem much larger.

Brollachan Boons and Banes (7th level, CL 13, DC 24) As brollachans are unused to company, and most of the creatures they encounter flee from them, they rarely bestow either boon or bane. If they are befriended by a stout-hearted creature, they will use their boon, but goodly creatures frequently find it somewhat distasteful. Their bane makes fear even more crippling, but they rarely think to use it on a defeated enemy unless prompted to by an ally.

Boon: You gain a +2 bonus on all attack and damage rolls made against a creature suffering from a fear effect. This boon lasts for 1 week.

Bane: All fear effects effect you one level higher than they normally would. Effects that would make you shaken render you frightened, those that would make you frightened render you panicked, and those that render you panicked make you cower for the duration. This boon lasts for 1 month.

Brollachan

Sometimes changed to be the child of the fuath, the brollachan is an intangible being that haunts quiet and lonely places along the roadsides of Scotland. The brollachan typically haunts dark or empty spaces where not too many will come across it. Found most often on the outskirts of cities, the brollachan will prey upon any who stray into its territory, but is particularly attracted to children. It is often found near water sources. Indeed, many claim today that the brollachan finds its origins as a boogeyman to keep children away from dark or watery places when wandering alone. 

The brollachan takes the form of a dark mist, ranging from a couple of feet to metres across. Peering right into its depths, one can see two glowing red eyes, looking for a new host. Some claim it is even possible to catch sight of its gaping mouth. Whilst in gaseous form, the brollachan is weak in force but strong in magic. This can be changed, however, as since it is without shape of its own, the brollachan covets the bodies of others. 

The brollachan can possess any creature of roughly its own size, literally pouring itself into the vessel. However, a human or animal puppeteered by a brollachan will darken slightly in colouration, save for its eyes, which will glow red as embers. 

Animals inhabited by the brollachan will act wild and hyperenergised, shaking as if to rid themselves of the intruder. Humans are more difficult to control, and will be possessed only when weak-willed or overcome with emotion. However, once possessed, a creature will quickly wither and fall ill, due to sustaining the magical force of the brollachan. 

An exorcism is the only way to save the victim. In the absence of specification, I presume that most exorcisms would work, although it might be wise to avoid those which are rooted in water and favour those with a basis in fire. The brollachan, once forced out, will try to attack the exorcist by magic or by possessing another, but can be warded off by fire, which it fears above all. 

The pain was striking and cold. It never fully stopped. Even when he was left alone the pain was still there but he had become numb to it. It was constantly there, burning. Every scar and every wound in agony. But croi made no sounds during those times. He just laid against the stone floor, watching the blood spill from under him. Dark eyes blinking slowly as his vision went black. Sleep came and went and the dreams with them. Dreams of his past, pieces that he remembered.

Nightmares could be common too. Nightmares of his mother dying in front of him. Nightmares of being alone and abandoned. As he was now. Occasionally he would sit up and look around the room and think of escaping but it wasn't something that was going to happen. The iron clamped around his wrists kept him in this room. Kept him against this wall, stone surrounding him. No weapons and no hope of escape. Just days in and days out of torture and pain.

He wasn't always alone either. The king dropped by, not as often as he did in the beginning but he still took the chances every once and a while. With questions that he couldn't answer. It didn't seem to matter that he was telling the truth, in the king's eyes he was lying. He didn't know what he wanted, what he could give him to make him stop, so he just stopped trying. Every time they came to ask him questions he went quiet. He faced the pain with dark eyes and a stubbornness that no one could match. They could draw screams out of him but he would not give into whatever game it was they wanted to play.

If they wouldn't take his truth, then they could have his silence. Silence and screams is all he gave them even as the blades cut into his back and chest. Driving in deeper than was necessary. The wounds would all heal but the more cuts and the deeper they got, the more they scarred. His healing only did so much for so long and he had reached the point where his healing and his body were barely keeping up. Nearly every day was the same, until one.

One day where instead of blades it was a whip. Bruising and cutting, and blood splatted off it and onto not only Croi's skin but across the wall and the floor and the person holding the whip. Blood dripping off the tool and onto their boots. Dark black boots. Croi did his best to push himself off the floor, his hands slipping in the warm, sticky blood a couple of time before he managed to sit up and look past the boots. The man standing before him, shifted. Hazy at first like Croi's eyes and brain couldn't make him out. There were moments where he caught a glimpse before it changed...before he changed.

The man who enjoyed torturing him, enjoyed drawing blood and screams from him, melted away and the king stood before him. Young and old at the same time. The face of one who feared and the faces of his sons who hated. All except one. That kindness wasn't there thankfully. But it only lasted a second before changing again. Cycling through every one who had hurt him. His mother, with her sad smile, his grandmother who cast him out and would be happy to have him dead. His father, who simply hurt him by being dead. The random faces of Seelies and mundanes, who had caught his fancy and him, theirs. Only to have them discard him like the morning trash the next chance they got. They were many and amongst them were people he feared would hurt him.

Not physically like had already been done but emotionally. Who would leave him if he wasn't enough, who might betray him. All the trust he had couldn't bury the worry that he wouldn't be enough for all them. Stiot, Samhain, Lymvak, Samhain, Aigean, and even his own people he could see in the shadows at his feet. Trampled and forgotten even though he would never do that. He would die first. Fuath was there as well and Mab, both wore taunting grins as they walked closer to him, leaning down but not touching. Mab's eyes were there, but it was Fuath that spoke. That dark, hateful voice that was so full of pride that she would rather watch her blood line die out than mingle them.

"I told you. You are dirty. Just like your father and you'll end up just like him too. Dead and dying in the dirt. Your precious Gwyn didn't save him, why would he stop one second to save you either. our love is dirty and once you fail him, he'll want nothing to do with you." Those words he had heard before and like before he stared her down. Fear of failure lived in him but he wouldn't let someone like her talk down to him.

"One day you'll ask for my help and I'll say no. Get out of my nightmare. If  I'm going to let fear drown me here, it won't be from you. Leave. I won't let you ruin my trust of other people. You are causing this nightmare. So leave it and let me wake up from it." Fuath chuckled softly, her form blending into the one he had seen before. Pure darkness against the stone.

"Oh I didn't cause this. You did. Your exhaustion and worry and pain. I'm just feeding off it."

"Leave." The chains broke off his wrists, and he got to his feet. The memory of the pain was there but he was aware enough to take over the nightmare now. No longer letting his fear feed her or hurt him. Her eyes went wide before she faded.

Croi's knees hit the stone, hard and the pain felt real. It had before as well but now that he knew it was a dream, he didn't think it should feel this real. Of course Fuath could still be feeding off him. What a great thing to do to your own blood line. He had thought last they spoke she would have been avoiding him...clearly not. Something he would have to fix, somehow. For now he did as he had before and he reached for that magic. What had scared her off before. The wild magic. It came easy, like when he had reached for the twins. He felt all the pain fade, even though none of it was real. It was gone in a blink and when he opened his eyes.

It was snowing. Lightly around him.

What once was stone, was replaced with snow covered grass. He could see his own breath in the air when he breathed out. There were still walls around him but it was like he could see through them. Like the nightmare was fading, becoming what he wanted them to be. He stepped towards where the walls were nearly gone and stepped through. Everything changed, becoming familiar and warm. Snow still fell but he knew this place. It was...home. His home. The three thrones sat before him, and the circle of trees surrounded him. Darkness moved and waned but this time it wasn't Fuath, it was his. The Brollachan. Family.

The Brollachan(Broll-agh-can) is the child of the fuath, and because of it’s young age, it can not yet take a physical form and knows only a small number of words. It is often described as a smoky mass with eyes and a mouth, and tends to lurk around water.

"A shapeless, malevolent supernatural being in Scottish Gaelic folklore, a child of the fuath" A Dictionary of Celtic Mythology – James MacKillop, 2004

Despite not having a physical form visible to us, they can be injured. There is one popular story about the brollachan that showcases this. In it, a disabled man of the name Murray was sleeping at a mill when a brollachan enters

Now the Brollachan has eyes and a mouth, and can say two words only, ‘MI-FHEIN, myself, and THUFHEIN, thyself ; besides that, he has no speech, and alas no shape. He lay all his lubber-length by the dying fire ; and Murray threw a fresh peat on the embers, which made them fly about red bot, and Brollachan was severely burnt. So he screamed in an awful way, and soon comes the “ Vough,” very fierce, crying, “Och, my Brollachan, who then burnt you ?” but all he could say was “MI-FHEIN” and then he said “THUFHEIN” ; and she replied “Were it any other, wouldn’t I be revenged.” Popular Tales of the West Highlands by John Francis Campbell (1862)

The quick thinking man hid himself under a sack as the fuagh and her child, the brollachan, went outside to see if what injured him was there. By chance, a woman was walking by, and so the fuagh put all her anger towards the woman. The nimble woman escaped, but permanently injured one heal that was torn in the chase.

It is worth noting that in other stories, the roll of the mother is swapped for the brownie Maggie Mouiach, and the brollachan is swapped for her dobbie son, so you may come across that version as well.

This is as far as historical folklore has taken me. If anyone knows of more sources for the Brollachan, please let me know.

In the meantime, I can tell you about some modern folklore for it. Today, many people say that the brollachan is smokey with glowing red eyes, and possesses weak-willed animals and steals the life force of it’s host. When the host is near death, it will use the shell to find and weaken a new body. The possessed creature will act strangely, but the only way to remove it is with saining, such as with juniper smoke. There is an example on this site here.