Book of The Dead

Chapter 17: Next Steps

Chapter 17: Next Steps

The rest of the day was taken up with eating, drinking and sleeping as Tyron recovered from his journey. He kept to himself an focused on getting his energy and focus back as quickly as possible. His overuse of mage candy had stretched his tolerance quite a bit and he would need time to detoxify his system. Frankly, he was embarrassed at how badly the journey had played out. He'd taken far longer to arrive here than he should have and lost so much along the way. Without the little forethought that he'd managed to summon he could have lost everything and arrived at Woodsedge a stumbling pauper!

No point crying over spilt milk, he scolded himself. Learn from it and get better.

And he would. The first thing he did was to take steps that he didn't draw any notice to himself. He took his meals in his room and kept to himself as he committed to his convalescence. He refused to take any action until he was back to full fitness, not in his body, but in his mind. The fatigue and stress he'd endured had left him listless and vague, not something he could afford to be, so he leaned on his dwindling supply of coin to buy himself two full days to recover.

So he slept, and ate, and thought and then slept some more until he rose the following morning, his muscles still contained an echo of the pain and stiffness he'd endured, but his mind felt fresh and clear once more.

"Here we go," he muttered to himself.

All of the sudden the nervous energy and desire to advance that he had bottled up came gushing forward and it was difficult to pull his boots on due to his hands shaking. He couldn't afford to waste any more time! There was almost zero chance that word of a fugitive hadn’t spread, one with a forbidden class and possibly with a sizable bounty to boot. He wasn't a petty thief or smuggler either, those sorts of bounty notices were a dime a dozen. For a Necromancer it was likely that the Baron would pull out a much more significant purse.

Thankfully the Keep had seen a constant influx of young people over the week according to the gossip he'd had from the kitchen maids, which meant he was just one face among hundreds. That also meant competition would be heating up and he couldn't afford to wait any longer.

He moved at a quick walk that morphed into a slow jog once he was out onto the street in the early morning light. Luckily he was able to find what he needed without too much trouble, though he had to part with a gold sovereign for it. With his prize tucked under his arm he rushed back to the inn he boarded at, grabbing a plate of breakfast which he took to his room. As soon as the door was shut behind him he sat in the centre of the room, put the plate down to his side and carefully ripped a page from his freshly acquired book.

Given how important a supply of blank paper was to literally everyone, he hadn't realised just how expensive it would be to buy. Even allowing for inflated prices due to being out on the frontier, he'd been shocked at the amount the store clerk had demanded. It was possible he was getting fleeced, but no matter how he'd tried the man hadn't budged on his price so he'd just given in and paid. He'd never had to buy a book, or paper before, since his parents kept a healthy stock of it in the house, so he had no idea how much the small, leather bound bundle of clean white sheets under his arm would cost back in Foxbridge.

Still, he couldn't bring himself to care at this moment. He'd been waiting so long for this! A small prick on his finger using the tip of his knife and then he was ready to perform the status ritual.

Events:

Your attempts at stealth have increased proficiency. Sneak has reached level 2.

Your use of Swordsmanship has increased proficiency.

Concentration has increased proficiency. Concentration has reached level 3.

Your Minions have battled on your behalf. Your minions have fallen in your service. Necromancer has reached level 4. You have received +4 Intelligence, +2 Wisdom and +2 Willpower. New Choices Available.

The Darkness continues to be pleased with your progress. They urge you to continue on your path. The Abyss grows impatient.

Name: Tyron Steelhand.

Age: 18

Race: Human (Level 10)

Class:

Necromancer (Level 4).

Sub-Classes:

1. Anathema (Level 3).
2. None
3. None

Racial Feats:

Level 5: Steady Hand.

Level 10: Night Owl.

Attributes:

Strength:

12

Dexterity:

11

Constitution:

20

Intelligence:

26

Wisdom:

18

Willpower:

24

Charisma:

13

Manipulation:

11

Poise:

13

General Skills:

Arithmetic (Level 5)

Handwriting (Level 4)

Concentration (Level 3)

Cooking (Level 1)

Sling (Level 3)

Swordsmanship (Level 1)

Sneak (Level 2)

Skill Selections Available: 2

Necromancer Skills:

Corpse Appraisal (Level 1)

Corpse Preparation (Level 1)

General Spells:

Globe of Light (Level 8)

Sleep (Level 4)

Mana Bolt (Level 1)

Necromancer Spells:

Raise Dead (Level 3)

Bone Stitching (Level 2)

Mysteries:

Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3

Necromancer Level 4. Please Choose an additional Spell:

Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.

Please Choose an additional Skill:

Empower Servant - Feed mana to your minions.

Death Magick - Attune to Death.

Two levels at once! Tyron sucked in his breath at this. Reaching level five would have been incredible, since it would grant him his first class feat, but he couldn't be disappointed with this. Level four was enough for him to get his next skill or spell and it would be an important choice given his circumstances. He was disappointed to see that Anathema hadn't levelled, and the message received about the Abyss sounded ominous to say the least. He had no idea who or what the Abyss referred to and he certainly hadn't become more enthused about the idea of contacting them via some ritual, but he felt a tinge of fear at the thought of having something so powerful it could grant him a sub-class angry at him.

Pushing that aside, his lack of growth as a human was also grating. Level ten at his age was definitely on the low side, usually people gained roughly a level a year. Being as isolated and anti-social as he was had cost him in this regard. It hadn't really bothered him in the past, but now he felt a need to progress in his racial levels keenly. He needed access to more general skills, which he gained every second level, and more importantly, he needed the human racial bonus that would open for him at level 20.

That extra class slot would be so important down the line, especially since he'd lost a slot to Anathema through no fault of his own. The sub-class gave him fantastic stats per level, that was true, but he had no idea how useful it would be or how legal it was. He suspected it might even be more hated than Necromancer. Thank goodness there was no way for anyone to know he had it outside of a full Appraisal. Something he had to avoid like the plague.

Before he did anything else, he carefully wrote down on the page a few words using his own blood: New General Skill: Butchery.

His face twisted a little as he wrote, but he didn't hesitate to do it. This was necessary for the next step and as much as he didn't want to admit, the skill would likely come in handy for his class as well. He carefully tried to avoid thinking about that as he brought his eyes to the bottom of the page. As expected, he was still able to select 'Flesh Mending', the choice he'd ignored at level 2. He felt no urge to take it this time around either, he'd moved on from zombies to another form of undead and he didn't see a reason to go back. His new options were skills rather than spells and he read each of them carefully.

Empower Servant felt intuitive to him. When he raised a minion a large part of the process involved forging a conduit between him and it, a connection that allowed the minion to draw on his magick to fuel its actions. The energy that allowed a skeleton to move had to come from somewhere, it certainly wasn't burning body fat! This skill would teach him how to push magick through the connection manually, granting the minion additional speed and strength. It would definitely be useful, but he had to consider the cost. He suspected that for the early levels at least, the skill would be horrendously inefficient. Which was a major problem, since he struggled to support even two minions at present. The additional stats he gained from levelling Necromancer would certainly help, but he was hesitant to take a skill that he may not be able to use at present.

Likewise the next choice had similar drawbacks. This kind of skill wasn't uncommon, although this particular one might well be. He knew for a fact his mother had several such skills, namely Fire Magic and Earth Magic, that allowed her to cast those spells with greater ease. These skills could also act as a prerequisite for spells, feats or even classes. It wouldn't do much for him right now other than helping him cast Raise Dead a little easier, but the potential benefits were large.

Tyron was a little nonplussed that both new offerings weren't very useful for him in his present circumstances, but then, not much could have been. Both were potentially very useful and he could see himself coming back to take either one in the future.

He considered his choice carefully, as he stared down at the blood letters for several long minutes before he marked his desired choice with a drop.

Death Magick it would be. He was sure it was illegal, but what did that matter to him? His Status page was already outlawed, possibly several times over! He couldn't be positive, since he still had no idea how the Necromancer class would proceed and what spells and skills he would be offered, but he felt that it was a safe bet he would seeing enough choices related to Death Magick that he would get more than enough value out of the skill. The knowledge that it could act as a prerequisite for many things helped seal the deal.

With his selections made, he ended the ritual and immediately swooned as the change came upon him. He didn't fall unconscious, but it took him over an hour before he felt comfortable pushing himself off the floor. By now his breakfast had become cold but he forced himself to eat it anyway, he'd need the energy and couldn't afford to skip meals that he was paying for anyway. That was another consideration, should he move somewhere cheaper? He currently had no source of income and this place was probably in the mid-range of inns in Woodsedge. If was to live within his means, he'd need to find somewhere much cheaper… but part of him hesitated.

For now, he decided to stay. The food was good and the security was excellent. If he moved to a cheaper place to save money and was robbed, that would set him considerably more than paying double for a room. If he was careful with his remaining coin, he'd be able to stay here for a long time yet, months if need be. If he was able to start earning some sovereigns, then that time could stretch out to a year or more.

And that was his next concern. Having rested and completed the ritual, he needed to move onto the next step. He gathered his plate and stood, squaring his shoulders before he marched down the stairs and into the common room, making sure to lock his door behind him. This next part was going to be unpleasant, but it was a necessary step if he was going to succeed. Tyron avoided being pulled into conversation by the serving maids, each of them giggling as he walked past and trying to extract gossip out of him and walked purposefully out into the town.

It took a little while for him to find what he was looking for, and a little while longer to work himself up to the point of actually stepping in the door.

When he did, the first thing he noticed was the smell, it was overpowering. Blood, and a lot of it. The second thing that drew his notice was the temperature. It was noticeably colder inside than it had been outside.

Is that why the door was so heavy?

He turned to stare at the thick-panelled wood for a moment before he curiously glanced around the shop. It had to be enchantments keeping the temperature down this much, nothing else could do it. He couldn't spot where they were, but he'd be keen to take a look if he got the chance. He knew a couple of runes, picked them up off hand by poking at his parent's enchanted stuff, and he wouldn't mind -

"You gonna stare or are you gonna buy sumfin'?" a gruff voice rumbled out.

Tyron jumped and turned to see a squat man with the thickest forearms he'd ever seen folded across his chest. Even then it was easy to see the red stains that covered his fingers.

"Ah, hello," Tyron tried to smile but failed utterly. He was so useless in social situations. "I was… uh… hoping to talk to you … as a matter of fact."

"Spit it out lad, I don't have the time."

"Right… I'm wondering if you'll allow me to… volunteer. Here. Do some work. For… free?"

Even he had to wince at how his voice trailed off under the steady glare of this rough looking man. The fellow looked him up and down and then sighed minutely to himself.

"You kids, runnin' off here and lookin' to get yourself killed. Every damn year. You think I wan' your help jus' caus' you smart enough to come here first?"

Tyron stood a little straighter.

"I took the Butchery skill, sir."

The Butcher's eyes narrowed a little at that and his demeanour thawed oh so slightly.

"At least you got tha' much commitment."

He paused and considered for a moment.

"You willin' to work fer free?"

"Yes, sir."

"Don' call me sir. I work fer a livin!"

After a hard glare he rolled back on his heels.

"Tell you what. I want a month, eight hours a day. No less! Do that an’ I'll teach ya' sumfin along the way. Deal?"

Tyron winced. A month was longer than he'd wanted to commit for, but he could see how it wouldn't be worth teaching him anything if he was gone after a week. It wasn't all bad though, if he worked here long enough it would help normalise his presence in Woodsedge, help him build a routine and connect with the locals. He firmed his resolve.

"Deal."

"Right. Get in tha' back."

Without another word the burly man turned and walked through the open door behind him from which the potent stench was wafting, leaving Tyron standing on his own in the entrance. After a dazed second he scrambled to move around the counter and through the door. Inside he found the temperature even colder, and the stench even stronger. Seemingly immune to both, the butcher strode up to a long bench covered in treated wood from which he pulled the largest cleaver the young man had ever seen with one hand from where it had been wedged.

"Got a delivery o' elk packed in crates. Crack 'em out and haul 'em in one by one."

This time Tyron did as instructed without pause and so followed the longest day of physical labour he had ever done in his life. The butcher drove him as hard as a slave driver, as if to make sure he extracted every ounce of value from the free help that he could. So Tyron opened crates, hauled corpses, ran deliveries, sharpened knives, so many knives. All the while the stout man executed the methods of his trade with inhuman precision. Beneath his hands whole carcasses were skinned and sectioned with ease that belied the absurd level of strength and skill he possessed.

By the time dusk rolled around, the young Necromancer was thoroughly exhausted, his forearms and back burning from the unfamiliar work. What galled him the most was not once during the entire day did he perform a single activity that might see him increase the level of Butchery. As he leaned against the wall to recover the butcher was packing up with the same efficiency he had done the rest of his work. After the last of his tools had been cleaned to a mirror shine he turned and spoke.

"My name's Hak, short fer Hakoth. I'll see yer early morn' tomorrow."

"Sure thing, Mr Hakoth," Tyron forced out.

The grizzled man snorted at his words and jerked his head to the door. Not needing an invitation, Tyron practically ran out the door before he turned to give a brief wave to his 'employer' and then made his way back to his residence. A full meal, taken in the common room this time, was a welcome distraction for him after the day's events and he found himself eating with far more appetite than was usual for him.

A lot of farmer’s boys in Foxbridge had mocked him over the years for being a soft prince with a silver spoon in his mouth and he'd always hated that description, but in this moment he couldn't really fault them. He'd worked hard before, sure, extremely hard on occasion, but generally he was used to doing most of his heavy lifting with his mind.

Something most of those farmers, with a few notable exceptions, were totally inept at. Which he had reminded them of. Frequently.

Though his muscles already protested and gave warning hints of the aches to come in the morning, Tyron knew his day wasn't done. With a sigh he pushed his chair back and headed back out into the fading light. Finding a spot for this next task would be a touch tricky…