Book of The Dead

The frontier of the western province had a reputation for breeding hard folk. There was little in the way of law out here, the various farmsteads and villages left to fend for themselves more often than not. When three burly looking farmhands stepped out of the trees around him, Tyron was quick to throw his hands in the air and try to look as harmless as possible. Which was quite simple considering he was alone and unarmed.

"Hello there," he tried to force a smile through the greasy feeling of fear that bloomed in his stomach.

The three weren't interested in talking. Instead they advanced on him from three sides with their hands raised. Getting robbed was not part of his plans for this part of his journey, but it wasn't exactly something he hadn't considered would happen. Although he hadn't expected his first experience with it would be at the hands of farmers. They beat him, not too badly all things considered, before they shook him down. Frustrated at not finding any further coin, they beat him again, worse this time, before they left him lying in the dirt.

Tyron gingerly felt his ribs one by one, wincing when he prodded any sore spots. He didn't think anything was broken, he might have gotten off lucky there. Working a physical class like they did meant they had plenty of strength, perhaps only his unusually high constitution for being so low level saved him from worse injury. After ten minutes of resting and gathering his breath, he forced himself to stand and took stock of the damage.

Most of the food he'd bought was ruined, though crucially, not the water. He'd managed to hold the waterskin underneath him as they'd put the boots in. His face was bruised but at least he hadn't lost any teeth. With a groan he began to walk and took the long way around, just in case he was still being watched. Eventually he made his way back to the place he'd buried his money and left his two minions.

The skeletons stood stock still, as they had when he'd left them.

"Lot of good you two were," he grumbled at them.

They watched him with that same steady fire in their eyes that they were born with, as if judging him.

"I know, I know," he sighed. "It was my decision."

Could he have defended himself with his minions? Perhaps, perhaps not. If he'd revealed himself to be a Necromancer he would have put the marshals back on his trail in an instant. If they'd still attacked him regardless, he might have been forced to kill in order to survive, something he wasn't willing to do. He'd taken a chance and come up short.

"Ah well," he winced, "let's take it slow for a little while."

He paused.

"I need to stop talking to the skeletons," he said.

Progress slowed considerably from that point. He walked with a heavy limp due to a kick in the hip he'd received, not to mention the numerous aches and pains that flared up as he moved. Despite the pain, he did his best to focus his attention on the surrounding forest, wary of encountering any further rift-kin. Each of the creatures he found was a danger and an opportunity. Unless he happened to stumble upon a recent gravesite, he wasn't likely to get his hands on any remains he could use to practice his signature magick, which meant the only way he could gather the proficiency necessary to increase his level was to have his skeletons fight.

He was sorely tempted to turn around and try to hunt down a few frontier farmers, but he tried hard to squash that grudge. It would be morally wrong, he knew that, but he also knew that he would more than likely get himself killed if he went storming back there looking for trouble. He may have grandiose visions of walking at the head of his own undead army one day, but at present he was level two.

"In the grand scheme of things," he remembered his father saying, "once you have a class and pump a few levels into it, sometimes even before then, depending on the class, you can basically kick the shit out of anyone who hasn't awakened. The abilities they grant are just that good. Maybe there's a few exceptional people out there who raised Swordsmanship to a high level by the time they reach eighteen who can still defeat a level one Swordsman, but those types are rare."

"Why don't I practice my skills then," a younger Tyron had asked, keen to extract the wisdom of his powerful father while he was feeling talkative.

"Waste of time," Magnin shrugged. "You learn skills related to your class about ten times faster after you've awakened compared to a non-classer. That's the unseen helping you out along your path. You could spend four years practicing the blade and reach level five in the skill, or you could do that in four months once you got the class. Kids like you should just be having fun."

He'd reached out and ruffled his child's hair at that point. As his son, Tyron had been painfully aware of how hard it was for his father to control his strength. They'd lost more than a little furniture over the years. Even so, he treasured these moments.

"But don't forget, a newly awakened classer is still a piece of garbage in the broader context."

Tyron had glanced around quickly.

"Don't worry," Magnin grinned, "your mother is shopping. Now. Until you reach level five, you don't even have a class feat and your abilities are low level garbage. Once you reach level twenty and advance your class, then you'll start to have some real power under your sleeve. Until then, you're just small fry. That's why the Slayer academy exists. Once you've awakened, you can go there and they'll help you through the early stages when you're too weak to do much. Or you can come out with mother and me, we'll show you the ropes!"

He smiled at the memory even as he tried to avoid aggravating his bruises. He had to keep in mind that he was still a 'piece of garbage’ as the great warrior Magnin had phrased it. He also didn't have the ability to rely on his parents or enrol in an academy to help through this weak period. He had to push through the power trough on his own, which meant being a small target and not drawing attention to himself as much as possible.

No matter how much he wanted payback on some fat-fisted farmers.

Eventually he stumbled across a creek and stopped long enough to wash his wounds in the cold, murky water, scrubbing out his hair while he was at it. Perhaps it didn't help his cleanliness all that much, but at the very least he was able to confirm he wasn't bleeding from anywhere under his clothing.

For two further miserable days he travelled in this way. Sleeping was almost impossible, given his wounds and the lack of anything soft to lie on. He encountered several more rift-kin, fending them off with the skeletons but he wasn't able to come out unscathed. Not that he himself was injured, but the skeletons began to accrue damage. Another gem biter, but larger than the first he'd seen, managed to crack the left leg of one of his minions. The skeleton was still able to walk, though slower, it was still enough to keep up with his own hobbled speed, problems arose when he noticed that it took much more of his magick to keep it moving than before.

If he wanted to keep the minion around, he would need to stop more frequently, or be constantly using mage candy in order to sustain the necessary flow of energy. He was close to the keep now, or at least, he should be. But if the beasts he encountered continued to grow stronger, he would need all the help he could get. With reluctance, he placed another of the magick filled crystals under his tongue and drew on it to allow his wounded minion to continue to move.

In a strange way he was attached to these two unthinking bone creatures. They were the first real steps he had taken on his journey as a Necromancer and he would always remember them, even if he became much more proficient at raising his servants in the future. In fact, he needed to become more proficient. If he never raised anything more useful than these two, he would be in trouble!

When he finally stumbled into the edge of the clearing in which the Slayer Keep was situated, he was a mess. A fever had seized him the day before, suggesting that he might have suffered some internal injury from his beating, and many of his bruises had yet to fade. His injured skeleton had been lost fighting another gem biter, though he'd been able to finish the creature off with his second skeleton and recover the sword at least. He was forced to sacrifice his one remaining servant a few hours prior when a hulking rift-kin had found him as he hobbled amongst the trees. As large as a bull, the beast had been a nightmare of gem encrusted flesh that he had instantly decided he could not defeat. Ordering his skeleton to engage the beast, he'd turned and run as best he could in the other direction, his heart pounding in his chest the whole time.

Losing both of his minions was a painful blow, the magickal connection that bonded them to him snapped as they ‘died’, taking a portion of his spent energy with them. It was strange. His servant’s felt no pain, nor fear, nor any emotion at all. They met their deaths the same as they met everything else, with cold obedience to his will.

His first two undead, lost, just like that. First proper undead. Zombies don’t count.

Fortunately, the creature hadn't followed and he had arrived here shortly after. Far from relief, all he felt was a resigned acceptance of just how weak he really was now that he was out in the world. What should have been a short and easy journey had turned into him being robbed and losing both of his minions to relatively weak creatures from the rifts.

He squashed his rising bitterness and tried to focus his exhausted mind as he stumbled toward the keep.

Woodsedge, he reminded himself, on the outskirts of the Allthorn Forest. Find some lodgings and try not to get robbed. Again.

The trees had been cleared for over a hundred metres beyond the outer wall and Tyron had to limp quite a distance around before he met the road that led to the gate. There were only two ways in and out of Woodsedge, one that led back toward the province, and one that led straight toward the broken lands within the forest itself. Of the two, the gate he preferred to use was obvious. Due to the recent danger the road was mostly empty and he was glad to join a very short line behind only a few wagons seeking to gain entry in order to sell their wares inside. When he finally stepped to the front of the line he tried to fix a harmless smile on his face as he approached the two guards on duty.

The effect of his efforts did more to make him look deranged rather than cheerful. Corporal Northran was shocked to see such a ragged looking kid out on the frontier, let alone one with such a frightening countenance.

"Holy shit, kid," he exclaimed, "you look like death."

"Ran into rift-kin out on the road," Tyron said. "I, uh, didn't have the best time of it."

"That much is obvious," Northran waved his partner to deal with the next cart in line. The inspections took time and this one didn't look like he could hurt a newborn lamb. "If you can't handle a few of the weaker beasts then you really ought not to be travelling out here."

"I didn't think I'd see that many so far from the keep…"

He tried not to sound too accusatory as he spoke but the guard picked up anyway.

"We’ve had an outbreak this week, it's true. I think some big shot Slayers have been called in to squash it before anything too serious happens. Anyways, what's your business in Woodsedge?"

"Visiting," Tyron tried to shrug but a stab of pain rocked him halfway through the motion. "Looking for work," he finished lamely.

Corporal Northran looked him up and down. This kid couldn't be more than a month or two past his Awakening and already he'd fallen into such a state.

"Are you able to pay the gate fee?" he asked dubiously.

He was even more surprised when the lad unhesitatingly reached into what remained of his cloak and pulled out a silver sovereign.

"My parents paid for my trip," the kid tried to smile but failed, "but I don't have much left. Is there a healer I can see inside?"

There were many in fact. Curing the wounded was a major industry around any Slayer Keep.

"Alright then. You've paid the fee, let me take your details and then you can go get yourself looked after," Northran sighed. It wasn't his business to question the decision of every glory seeker who ran to the broken lands the day after they Awakened. It was his job to take their money and their names and get on to the next one.

"What's your name?" he asked, readying his ink and clipboard.

"Uh…"

For a moment Tyron obviously blanked as he forgot the fake identity he had prepared for himself. He blinked and tried to force his sluggish brain to move.

"Lukas… Almsfield."

"… Uh-huh. I'll put you down as 'seeking employment'… 'Lukas'. If you need a healer but don't have much coin then I suggest you head to Iron Square. Most of the cheaper places are there."

"T-thanks," Tyron stammered before he stepped passed the guard and through the open gate.

Behind him Corporal Northran shook his head as he watched the kid walk inside Woodsedge. This time of year, kids like him where a dime a dozen. In two months, most of them would be dead or will have seen sense and run home. For those who dreamed of being a Slayer but couldn't pay for entry for a college, running away to a Keep was the only path left for them to pursue their dreams.

"Poor parents," he sighed to himself as he turned back and waved the next in line forward.

A huge weight rolled off Tyron's shoulders the moment he was out of sight of the gate. His biggest fear was that he wouldn't make it here before word spread of his flight. If that happened then the odds of the guards demanding a verified status before allowing him entry would skyrocket. As it was he was just another kid on the road who didn't belong there. Exhausted and feeling increasingly delirious, he did his best not to draw attention as he tried to navigate the haphazard town outside of the Keep. He'd heard a long time ago from his mother that almost every keep, even the most inhospitable ones, were host to some sort of settlement. Slayers had money to burn, but nowhere to go. Which meant that merchants and services had to come to them if they wanted to gouge the profits. With merchants came mercenaries, shopkeepers, inns, brothels and all the other machinery of society.

After he finally asked for directions he was pointed in the direction he needed. The Iron Square, so named since only the iron ranked Slayers would go there, unable to afford anything better. After being bandaged and fed some foul smelling concoction by the apothecary to deal with his internal bleeding, Tryon was shoved back out onto the street feeling overcharged and even more exhausted. He resorted to pinching and poking himself in his wounded leg to stay awake as he made his way through the narrow streets. He was on the verge of collapse before he finally found an inn he was satisfied with. After arranging for lodging for the night and forcing himself to eat a few slices of bread with stew, he staggered upstairs, found his room and collapsed into the bed, asleep before he hit the mattress.

He woke a few times over the next twelve hours, the first time because the pommel of his sword was digging into his hip, so he drowsily undressed before climbing into the bed proper, the second because he was dehydrated and in desperate need of a piss. Eventually his eyes dragged open and he spluttered back to wakefulness. Aches and pains riddled his body, he felt nauseous and hungry at the same time, and his mind was still sluggish from lack of sleep, but he felt he wasn't going to improve if he stayed in bed beyond this point. He looked around the cramped room he found himself in, with one window, a small cupboard and vanity, a single chair with a tiny table and sighed. This was as good as things were going to get for the foreseeable future. For someone who spent many night sleeping in an attic, he'd thought this wouldn't bother him, but back then he'd always had the option of going back to his house if he so chose. Now, he was stuck with this, and for that reason it grated on him.

"Get over it, Tyron," he scolded himself. He had more important things to worry about than the state of his lodgings.

His pack remained on the floor where he'd dumped it, which was lucky since, to his chagrin, he'd not bolted the door after walking in last night. Cursing himself for a fool, he quickly checked his belongings and sagged with relief when he found nothing missing. If there was one thing he could be grateful for, it's that Woodsedge was well policed. It had to be if they wanted to keep the Slayers in line.

As he stood with a sigh, Tyron reflected on his last week. It'd cost him a good chunk of his coin, both of his minions and a massive knock to his ego, but this first, smallest part of his journey had finished. From here it was only going to get harder. He had to grow his skills and abilities without allowing anyone to learn of them and he had to do it right under the noses of the authorities. Still, out here he had access to the two things he needed most: rift-kin to fight and … bodies.

He was going to need a lot of bodies.