'It's been six days, Quil. Six days. They were supposed to be gone two.'

Quilliam shifted in his seat. 'I'm sure they're fine, cousin,' he reassured Abban. They were at their regular table at the Emerald Cup in Sudhalin, owned by Abban's brother Eber Dunmoch, each a cup of morning small beer.

Abban took another drink and sighed into his cup. 'Dammit,' he muttered. 'I should've gone with them.'

'Merrick can take care of himself. And gods know Carthan's stronger than both of us put together, sixty-three summers and all.' He leaned back and forced a smile. 'Remember that time we decided to catch eels in the lough, and we lost our oars a couple hundred yards out? And Carthan - and I don't even know how he found us, we didn't tell anyone we were going out - he swam out with a rope and dragged the coracle back to shore with the bloody thing in his mouth?' He laughed. 'Like a hunting hound bringing back a goose!'

Abban finally smiled, chuckling in the back of his throat. 'We never did catch any eels, did we?'

Quilliam laughed. 'Not a one! And we got our arses beat for losing the oars.'

Abban shook his head smiling as his laughter subsided. 'You know, I caught Sheila about to do the same thing last week. She was -'

Abban stopped as he heard a commotion outside: shouting, and the sound of many feet rushing across the cobblestone. He and Quil looked at each other a moment before heading out the door with the rest of the patrons. Quil looked down the road and nudged a man in the crowd. 'What is it?'

'Collam's come back. He's got someone with him.'

'Oh?' Quil said. Collam had gone out looking for Carthan and Merrick two days before, taking two fresh horses with him. 'That's good news, right?' he said to Abban. The cousin only bit his lip, brow furrowed and he looked down the road. A figure came into view, Collam on horseback. There was someone riding behind him in the saddle. As they approached and the crowd stepped back, Collam looked unusually pale. That distracted for only a moment until Quilliam saw who was behind him: Neirin, Merrick's footman, whose left arm was now a stump from his shoulder wrapped with dripping red cloth. Quil and Abban rushed forward and helped him off the horse.

'What happened?!' Abban demanded, looking back and forth between Collam and Neirin, who struggled to stand and leaned heavily against Quilliam.

Neirin coughed, his face bearing scratches and scabs. 'It was the Alltaculla,' he panted. 'The wolves. They got to Merrick first. I- I tried to stop them...' He began sobbing. 'Carthan pulled one off me, but it already had my arm. We got away for a while and he bandadged it up, but they cut us off at the river...' Tears streamed down his face and he looked at Quilliam. 'Quil, I'm so sorry. I tried. I- I tried...' He fell to his knees, a weeping mess.

Collam dismounted and stared at Quil. 'What happens now?' he asked, sounding desperate.

Quil looked to Abban, jaw agape. He shrugged. 'What do we do?'

Abban stared blankly for a moment before blinking the look away. 'We'll send him a party to retrieve their bodies. We'll give whatever of them we can find a proper burial.' He bit his lip, then looked Quil in the eye. 'But you need to prepare.'

Quil looked dumbfounded. 'Prepare? For what?'

'Succession,' he said with a nod. 'Merrick was Carthan's only living son. And if your uncle is dead, you're next in line.'

Quil blinked. 'In line? For- ' He froze. 'For the headship.'

Abban nodded. He turned to the crowd. 'Carthan M'Cladach is dead,' he announced, the newly gathered towns folk gasping in response. 'Long live Quilliam M'Cladach, the head of clan Cladach!'

History

In the most ancient of days, before mankind flourished, Siogal was a diverse and magical land. Magical beings of every type lived here, mostly in harmony, but clinging mostly to their own type. When the great races of the world - elves, dwarves, man, and so forth - settled, they lived peacably with the others, at least for a time. Many even intermarried - fae with mortal, elf with man - bringing magic into the Siogalish folk bloodlines.

As with all things, this peace did not last. Man is ambitious and combative, and soon the Siogalish folk established their own power structures based on heredity and patriarchy. The most basic structure was the nuclear family, the strongest men granting power and authority to their strongest sons. And when two families disagreed, their conflicts soon turned to violence. Gradually the ancient magical races either left or went into hiding, ashamed of the folk whom they once considered brethren but were now coming to blows and blood over the smallest slights.

But the family structure the early Siogalish people established remained. People continued to align themselves by kinship, and recognize one another by their ancestors. The powerful families took their progenators' names as their own - a man named Eogan might call himself 'Eogan of Thomond' after his great-great-grandfather, if the name was still prominent enough to be used by his kin. The eldest of the descendents of Thomond would have the greatest authority, serving as a chieftain to his extended family, distributing control of land and wealth, settling conflicts, and speaking for his kin against against outsiders. Thus the family structure became a political one.

When Káellugra of Cronach declared himself king, he shed his family name to establish a new clan after himself. To his close cousins and political allies in other clans, he gave parcels of land and positions of authority. This created a new dynamic: aristocracy. Now some some clans drew their prominence from not only their personal wealth and military power, but commission from the monarchy. Káellugra's declaration shifted the balance of power in the clans, with many families that had broken off to start new lines rushing back to draw lineages to their now powerful kinsmen. Kings after Káellugra established a writ of law ensuring aristocratic clans their positions of power.

The aristocracy retained such status until the fall of Tir Siogal after the death of King Mathyalin V. A foreign power took control of Siogal, executed many aristocratic leaders, and cowed the rest into denying their old birthrights. Although the favored status of the aristocratic clans was dissolved, they continued to hold much of their wealth and status by sheer momentum, but the dissolution of the aristocratic laws provided an opportunity for ambitious clan leaders to put their kinfolk into positions of power. As it is currently, the comparative status of clans is rooted in the wealth of clan holdings and trade arrangements; political influence in the seven townships of County Sigoal; and prestige, respect, and arrangements recognized by the heads of the largest clans.

A deep bellow echoed through the hall. The revelers quieted and turned to see its source: Big Owain Cladach, ploughman by trade and a favorite character in Sudhalin. He raised his wooden tankard with a meaty fist, his graying beard still bearing froth from the heady beer. 'My dear kinsmen, I should like to raise a toast. By your leave, not to you this time, Cousin Quilliam,' he nodded to the man of the hour. 'You'll hear plenty more of those this evening, hopefully from other people if Fion ever shuts up.' He paused as a rumble of laughter rolled through the room. 'No, I will toast the man to whom we all owe a debt, without whom any of us would be here, whose name so many of us proudly bear, our patriarch of old and chieftain forever, Cladach of Dun Moch.'

The already quiet room stilled to a reverent silence. Owain continued. 'May we never forget that it was Cladach who served in that first great Warband, driving out the Makkarish invaders with bronze and flame, earning him the name Brightspear. It was Cladach who aided Mathyalin against the traitorous Wrathking, and built Dun Mathyalin brick by brick. It was Cladach who sired Edan, Timond, Brigid, and Mairead, who took their hands to the plough and sword to make fortune for their kin. The name Cladach brought our people through the plague years. It brought us through the fall of the Tir. It brought us through the barley blight.' Owain's volume began to rise. 'The name Cladach will never be brought low. Not before fire.' A grunt of approval came from the gathered clan. 'Not before steel, nor arrows, nor chains.' The grunts had turned to a chorus of shouts puncutating each declaration. Owain was near shouting now. 'Nor black magic, nor the machinations of our rivals, nor the domineering tyrants who would quash our way of life. We are Cladach!' A roar of cheers burst from the crowd, mugs and tankards banging together and spilling drink.

Over the din Owain shouted, 'And whether his scáil is in Tir Anam with the angels or in Tir Scáth with the bloody tricksters, I know that Cladach of Dun Moch smiles knowing his descendents are now led by a man so cunning, bold, and wise as Quilliam M'Cladach!' The cheer rose again and the band began playing the clan anthem.

Owain pushed through the crowd to embrace Quilliam, who stood speechless by the Cladach Chair. 'Your grandfather would be proud,' the ploughman spoke into Quilliam's ear as he squeezed.

'Thank you,' was all the knew chief could answer, his eyes welling with tears. 'Thanks.'

Clan Organization

While there are subtlties and differences of organization in each clan, all tend to follow the same rough structure. Each clan has a head or chief who settles disagreements between its members or speaks on their behalf in dealings with other clans. The clan head appends their name with the title 'M', (e.g., Jeremey M'Lannigan, chief of clan Lannigan), an Old Siogalish definitive article, essentially denoting that when speaking in authority the chief is the clan, and his decisions carry the weight of the whole clan. Chiefdom is traditionally passed on in a primogeniture fashion, the eldest sons succeeding their fathers. In recent times, however, many clans have passed on the chiefdom to the eldest born regardless of gender, particularly in lean times when few children survive to adulthood. Though the practice was once rare and considered illegitimate, it has for the most part been accepted by the greater clans.

The clan chief has rights over any property collectively held by the clan. In Siogal, this is generally a manor house where the chief takes his residence; some town property, such as an inn, smithy, or some other business; a considerable deal of farmland. Siogal is largely an agrarian society, and as the property is legally held in the name of the clan, the chief wields considerable power over the average citizen. Chieftains are looked to for leadership in determining many aspects of Siogal's political and economic life: changes in plans for crop rotation, the start of new business ventures in town, dowry negotiation in marrying kinfolk.

To assist in managing the needs and decisions of his clan, a chieftain may appoint - formally or informally - advisors and lieutenants. The first of these will be his children, mostly sons but often daughters, giving them valuable experience when their time to succeed the chiefdom comes. Close family members like brothers and first cousins are likely next, but also prominent members of allied or cadet clans to manage their collective affairs.

Affiliated & Cadet Clans

While every clan has a head, a mere handful of Siogal's clans wield any great sum of power and wealth. To get ahead and ensure their own welfare, the smaller or less prominent clans make alliances and affiliations with the greater ones. These affiliations can be offically codified in written treaties, but often they are arrangements based on honor and mutual obligation.

'Never thought you'd be the one,' Jeremey M'Lannigan remarked.

Quilliam shrugged. 'Neither did I, to be honest,' he replied. They were sitting on a hill overlooking Athy, the town looking cheery and quaint in the mid-afternoon sun. Jeremey had summoned - well, invited - him to personally congratulate Quilliam on his succession and welcome him as a fellow clan chief. Quilliam, who'd heard his father talk many times of Carthan's dealings with Jeremey, knew most of that was shite. Jeremey wanted to remind him of his place.

'I am sorry of his death. Carthan was a good man. Smart, generous. Loyal.' The word lingered in the air a moment. 'Merrick, too. His father's son.'

'I will surely miss my grandfather and uncle both, sir,' Quilliam answered. 'Mer went before his time. Like my father did.'

Jeremey grunted in agreement. He uncorked the bottle of poitín again. 'You don't need to say 'sir,' lad,' the old man said, filling the two small pewter cups he'd brought. 'We're equals now. Lannigans and Cladachs have always enjoyed mutual respect and friendship.' He raised a cup, offering the other to Quilliam. 'I consider your a brother.' They tipped their cups and both drank.

There it was. The test. Quilliam wiped his mouth with a shirtsleeve. 'I appreciate that, Jeremey. And in that spirit of friendship, I can give you my word that I'll honor all the agreements and contracts my grandfather made with you. We share such a great many mutual interests, what's good for clan Lannigan is good for clan Cladach.'

Jeremey put down his cup and looked Quilliam in the eye. He paused for a long while. 'All our agreements?'

'All of 'em,' Quilliam nodded. Jeremey began to pour again, looking at Quilliam through the corner of his eye. He began to rattle off the contracts. 'Proprietorship of the workshop in Sudhalin, the rent of the Siodratch pastures, our annual donation to the old temple - '

'And the mill...?' Jeremey cut in, raising a hoary brow.

He nodded. 'Our Dunmoch cousins will continue to truck their grain to the Lannigan millhouse in Glen Nerry. The Kurgrill bastards in Torwyth will never see a grain of Cladach-owned barley touch their grindstone.

Jeremey snorted and wagged a finger at him, beginning to chuckle. 'Not a bloody grain?'

Quilliam grinned. 'Not a single. Fookin'. Grain.'

Jeremey cackled and slapped his knee. 'Not a single fookin' grain for the bastards!' he repeated. He shoved a cup into Quilliam's hand and tapped them together, quaffing the poitín in one go. 'I had my doubts, son, but I think you'll do fine for clan Cladach, just fine,' he praised, still chuckling.

Quilliam smiled. 'Thank you, Jeremey. And, of course I will - like my grandfather - count on your aid when concerns of our mutual interest demand it.'

Jeremey's laughter faded and he looked at Quilliam suspiciously. 'Aw, you're not gonna bring up business talk here, are you? I thought we were here to drink and shite on the Kurgrills.'

Quilliam ignored the complaint. 'Gorric Lannigan, your dear and distant cousin, continues to forbid the marriage of Lianna to Dugan Cladach.'

Jeremey let out a groan. 'What have I to do with that? Take it up with Gor!'

'Gor won't hear it, so I'm asking you. It's a good match! They get along splendidly, Gor would have one less mouth to feed, and Dugan can stop his damn pining.'

'You're forgetting the most important part: the dowry! It's no good! Gor's not a rich man, Brogan's asking too much.'

'A few acres and a decent plow is all. Worth it to have Lianna out of the house. At least get him to talk to me, Jeremey.'

The old man sighed. 'He won't even speak with you?'

'Said he already talked to Carthan and it was settled.'

Jeremey chewed his lip. 'That weren't right. He should have at least met with you.' After a long moment, he rolled his eyes. 'Alright. I'll talk to Gorric, try to get him to see the sense in it. I won't force his hand, mind, Lianna's his favorite and Brogan's going to have to give in on the dowry. But we'll see what we can do.'

'That's all I'm asking,' Quilliam said. 'I'm grateful for your help.'

Jeremey grumbled and waved his hand. 'Yes, well. Alright, help me up. Enough business. Let's go eat.'

Quilliam opened the door quietly as he could. It was late - beyond late. It was practically morning. Eber had kept the Emerald Cup open late as a makeshift meeting space for Clan Dunmoch business. It had been barely a fortnight since Quil's ascension and already the work was overwhelming. He snuck into the house quietly, hoping not to wake his family.

It was apparently for naught. 'You're a tad late, husband,' came a voice from the kitchen table.

Quillliam let out a sigh. 'I'm sorry, Moyna,' he started. 'I had no idea it would take this long. It was just one thing after another.'

Moyna dropped her feet from the table and stood. She pointed at the oil lamp and the wick lit. 'Sit down and tell me about it. You hungry?'

Quil nodded and sunk to into the wooden chair, rubbing his face with both hands. The relatively well-appointed Dunmoch manor still didn't quite feel like home yet. He wondered if it would be too crass to bring in the old furniture from his more modest old home.

Moyna opened the lid to the pot still in the hearth, the ashes below still smouldering slightly. She scooped out a helping of barley soup into a bowl and placed it before Quil, who gratefully scooped the barely warm meal into his mouth. Moyna sat in the chair beside him. 'So, what business kept you tonight?'

Quil gulped down a mouthful of soup. 'Everything under the sun. The Lannigans are pressuring us to renew our agreement to send Dunmoch grain to their mill. The