Book of The Dead

Tyron started awake and found the indistinct outline of Aryll standing over him.

"Come on rodent, you're on watch."

He blinked a few times as his thought slowly caught up with the situation. Right, he was on watch tonight so the others could rest. He nodded in the dark and the scout patted him the shoulder before she moved away to find her own bedroll. He shook his head a little as he sat up, trying to clear the fog in his head before he pulled himself out of his blankets and threw his cloak over his shoulders before he strapped his sword back onto his waist. It wouldn't be much use in his hands against an actual monster, but it was better than nothing and gave him a slight sense of security.

With the fire still crackling, he walked to the edge of the light and found a stump he could comfortably park himself on as Aryll nestled down into her roll behind him. The three slayers had been pushing themselves hard over the past few days and even with their superhuman endurance, they needed rest. If they were tired, Tyron was exhausted. Without his unusually high constitution for a person of his level, he would have likely passed out ages ago and forced the others into pulling back.

This level of fatigue was still something he could deal with, so he sat and wrapped his cloak around himself as he tried to keep watch for anything that might want to kill them. They'd pulled a long way back from the rifts before making this camp, in truth they were no longer within the broken lands at all, which gave him some sense of security. Even so, he'd been able to find rift-kin kilometres away from here, on the other side of Woodsedge, so there was bound to be many crawling through the area. He just had to hope they wouldn’t find him before he could alert the others.

The light of moon broke through the foliage above in patches, creating a shifting pattern of pale silver on the ground that revealed the bark, leaves and rotting vegetation of the forest floor in fleeting glimpses. Though he had the Night Owl feat, which helped him stay alert during the night, he had nothing to provide more vision in the dark, which meant the shadows were almost impenetrable to him as he tried to stay alert.

All in all it was an unnerving experience and his pitiful collection of skills and spells didn't feel nearly as praiseworthy when he had nothing but himself to rely on.

Everything would be different if he had minions. He'd be able to fight, he'd have extra eyes to look out, he'd be able to safely, or at least more safely move through these woods to find the resources he needed. He glanced behind him to see Aryll was ensconced in her bedroll, hopefully already asleep before he pulled his map out of his cloak.

"Light," he whispered.

He barely charged the spell, providing only enough energy to produce the faintest of lights, so weak he could barely see the ink on the paper despite holding the globe a scant few centimetres away. Seven locations were now marked on the paper, ranging over the west and east sides of the rift. Finding remains had not been nearly as difficult as he'd feared, just by sweeping his eyes over the ground as they'd travelled he'd turned up more than enough bones he could return for.

This was what he'd been aiming for all along, a source of materials that nobody would miss, or even realise were gone. It was the only way he could practice his craft and improve his status without anyone realising what had taken place, which was the only way he could keep himself safe. What he hadn't expected was for there to be so many dead out here. Hakoth hadn't exaggerated when he'd talked about how many died out here in the broken lands.

He didn't know if the bulk of the bones he'd seen belonged to slayers or rats, he supposed it didn't matter. Once the patrol was completed he'd return to town and then have to find a way to get back out here safely to retrieve the remains he needed. The first would be the hardest, he'd be completely on his own after all, but once he had a single minion it would be easier to get the second, then the third. He estimated he probably couldn't support more than three right now, which might change when he reached Necromancer level five and achieved his first class feat.

Something shifted in the dark and Tyron's breath caught in his throat as he froze, only thinking to extinguish his light a moment later. With the globe gone the only source of light became the fire behind his back and the moon high overhead. He readied a magick bolt and pushed a hand out, palm at the ready should anything emerge from the darkness.

For a few tense moments he waited, his eyes darting from side to side but gradually, when no threat manifested itself, he relaxed his stance and lowered his hand. He waited a minute longer before he summoned the light again, a little brighter than the last time, and peered out into the shadows cast by the trees and fallen branches across the forest floor. With the globe hovering above his open palm, he swept his hand out, hoping to catch a glimpse of any rift-kin but met only disappointment when he saw nothing moving.

Then he caught a glimpse of a jagged edge, peeking out from under a log only a few paces away from where he stood.

Tyron immediately felt a slight tingle crawl over his scalp before he turned to check on his three companions, rolled in their blankets behind him. To all appearances, they were sound asleep, though he moved closer to be sure before he returned and approached the log, stepping carefully to minimise any noise. As he drew nearer, he saw that he had in fact been correct in his earlier assessment, that broken edge that emerged from beneath the rotting wood was in fact, a bone. What's more, a human bone, possibly a shin bone, though he was still no expert when it came to a human skeleton.

He would need to be an expert, he reflected to himself. A more thorough understanding of bones and how they were put together would be important information. He wouldn't always have access to human remains that were laid out neatly in a grave, in fact he'd basically given up on gaining access to exactly those burials when he'd decided to avoid cemeteries. No, he'd be piecing together his minions the hard way from this point forward.

Would he be able to buy a medical text of some sort? It would be expensive, no doubt, but perhaps his pay from this excursion would be enough to cover it? Or would it be too suspicious for a young man, clearly not far past his awakening, to be purchasing a volume about the skeletal system?

As he considered this question, he moved closer and dropped down to more closely inspect what he had found.

It was definitely a human skeleton, though a damaged one. The bone he'd seen poking out from underneath the wood had actually been a forearm, snapped off somewhere near the wrist. Unfortunately, the hand was nowhere to be seen, but as he leaned in and peeked underneath he found an almost complete set of remains, albeit with significant damage. No weapon was nearby, though there were signs of rotted leather armour amongst the leaf litter. Probably crushed by the tree as it fell during battle, he surmised, which wasn't a great way to go.

Not that there is a such a thing as a 'good' way to go when fighting rift-kin. Dead is dead.

Heart quickening, he paused to take a deep breath and sweep his light in a broad circle once more. He was still on watch after all and couldn't afford to be too distracted, yet with the chance to utilise his skills and progress his class sitting in front of him for the first time in over a week, he simply couldn't resist. In the back of his mind, the fact that he was locked into a race against time was a constant source of pressure and stress. Here was finally a chance to get some relief.

In particular, there were two things that he really wanted to focus on, the two skills he'd been given when he had received his class in the first place: corpse appraisal and preparation. The two skills felt vague and undetermined in his mind, the fragments the Unseen had given him didn't have all that much to say. As he cast his eye across the bones, he felt he knew more about them than he otherwise should.

The condition of the bones wasn't great, having been left in the open air and under the weather for goodness knows how long. The complete lack of flesh clinging to the remains had something to say for how long they'd been here, or perhaps had more to do with the industriousness of vermin in the area, or perhaps the monsters, than anything else.

Frowning, he tried to focus on his skills and what they were telling him and found that other than slightly more detailed surface information, he wasn't getting much, which frustrated him endlessly. Surely this wasn't enough to improve the skill and level it up? Was it really the case that if he stared at enough bones and thought about them he'd level it up? It just didn't seem right. He felt something was missing.

He fell into contemplation for a moment he ran his eyes over the bones he could see, the yellowed brown shade glowing softly under the light he held over them. Necromancy was the process of magickally animating the dead, be they zombie, skeleton or some other, more advanced variety. Did it really make sense that he would be expected to appraise and prepare corpses with this eyes and hands?

Or was there a chance that magick was involved in these skills also?

He hadn't been provided with the outline of a spell when he learned the skill, but there were many examples of techniques and methods that employed magick yet weren't classified by the Unseen as 'spells'. Perhaps this was one such application?

Tyron crouched down and settled on his heels as he stared at the bones before him, searching inside his own mind in an attempt to stir those fragments of knowledge to guide his actions. How to reach out? How to utilise his magick to assess these remains? There had to be a way, he felt sure of it.

The utilisation of magick was a mix between an art and a science, this was one of the first things his mother had taught him. The energy that permeated the world came through the rifts and could be drawn inside a person, forming their own pool or reserve of magick and it was this that mages drew on to perform their feats. There were several ways to control magick. The words of power, discovered thousands of years ago, were a commonly accepted method. Tyron had no clue if the language had existed before the rifts opened, or if it had a name at that time, but over the centuries it had come to be known as Magespeak, or just as the Words of Power. For more powerful spells that required precise control, complex weaving and a firm mind, the words were by far the best method of casting, the language itself helping to shape and direct the arcane energy, reducing the burden placed on the mind.

For smaller, simpler spellwork, gestures could be enough. His mother had told him of schools of magick that relied entirely on a lexicon of complex symbols and shapes performed in series with the hands. Supposedly the ambidextrous feat was a requirement for such practitioners if they weren't born with the gift or able to train themselves to do it. He himself utilised his hands in casting, though only in the simplified manner he had learned in his lessons.

The final, and perhaps most important aspect of casting was the ability to direct and focus the energy using the mind. One's own magick responded to thought, so long as they were backed by a strong enough will. With a powerful enough mind it was possible to perform even complex spells, but those required the high stats that came with a significant number of levels.

Unsure how to proceed, he simply directed the magick within himself and extended a tendril toward the bones. Under his focused control, the invisible thread of energy touched the edge of what he believed was a shin and then dissipated.

He frowned. Magick wouldn't just flow into a foreign object on its own, it had to be forced or infused, he knew that. He concentrated and tried again, using more magick this time he extended it toward the bone and held in there, pressed against the surface. It was a crude working, but he was feeling his way forward. As he held the arcane energy against the remains nothing happened, but he was patient, his focus razor sharp as he sensed for any change. A minute passed with no response, then five, but still he persisted. He was no expert, but he knew that infusing magick into an object was a slow process, one that shouldn't be rushed.

After ten minutes he finally saw a reward. An infinitesimal amount of his magick began to seep into the calcified bone, like water soaking into a rock. His eyes widened with excitement and he leaned forward, even if the process was invisible, only to frown again a few seconds later as something pushed back against the energy he provided. There was already magick inside the bones, only a bare trace of it, but it was potent. What's more, there was a strange feel to it, as if it were, dark, or hungry, tainted in some way.

Is this death magick?

A rush of air and a snap just behind his head broke his concentration and brought him back to the present.

"Shit," he cursed as he sprang to his feet and flared the light in his hand.

A small monster, no larger than knee high was revealed, a bizarre creature of legs with too many joints and overlapping chitin plates. He concentrated, using his mind and simple gestures to shape the basic magick bolt before his thrust the palm of his open hand forward. The spell darted through the air before it struck the rift-kin in the side, tearing a shallow gash through its shell and sending the creature tumbling to the side.

Eager to follow up, Tyron stepped forward to keep the monster in his sight, another bolt prepared and ready to fling a few seconds later, but his attacker was swift and righted itself in moments, darting into the foliage and out of view. He cursed softly as his eyes darted across the brush and the pounding of his heart filled his ears. Faint rustling sounds could be heard in the darkness as the rift-kin skittered through the fallen leaves and branches but he couldn't see a thing, even when he held the light above his head and flared it bright.

He took slow, measured steps back toward the fire. If he couldn't deal with the creature himself then he'd best wake the slayers. Such a weak creature might be a challenge for him, but it was trivial in their eyes. He planned to move slowly, so he could shake one of them awake. If he were to shout, during the night, who knows what he might call down on their heads? Best to be safe.

Not for the first time he wished he had his minions. Perhaps he'd become too accustomed to his class in such a short time, but he didn't feel safe fighting without a skeleton to protect him, not to mention he wouldn't advance his level without one, no matter how much fighting he did. A faint noise to his left drew his attention and he turned, his light covered palm forward as his breath caught in his throat.

There was nothing.

This stupid critter was playing him like a fiddle! He grit his teeth and took another cautious step backward toward the low burning fire behind him. A few more and Monica would be within his reach. Then he had a thought. Perhaps there was a way for him to win. He hadn't tried the new spell he'd earned from the Anathema class, he hadn't even studied it due to his vague distaste for the premise of it, but it might prove to be just what he needed in this situation. He might not be able to see the rift-kin, but that didn't mean that he wouldn't be able to strike at its mind.

He reached internally for the fragments of knowledge he'd been granted and began to pull them together into a coherent framework. Compared to Pierce the Veil or even Raise Dead, this spell was child's play, but even so it was risky to attempt a spell for the first time in a combat situation. He could still reach behind him and awaken a slayer, leave the situation in their hands, but somehow he didn't want to. If he could deal with it himself, then he could return to his study of the bones for the rest of his watch.

He stared out into the forest as he worked to arrange his thoughts on Supress Mind. After a few long seconds he felt he was ready to make an attempt. It wasn't a long cast, but the spellwork was intricate, forming a conduit between himself and the target creature through which the spell would attack their consciousness directly.

He held the light high and used his free hand to form the gestures he needed as he whispered the vocal component and directed his magick with his thoughts. Once completed, he held the spell at the ready, hoping that it would work as he hoped.

That sound again, from the right this time. He spun quickly to see the monster rushing at him from under the brush just before it leapt at him. He threw himself forwards, turned to his left and flung the readied spell at the monster. Immediately he felt it connect and something strange happened.

The spell encountered the crude awareness of the monster and a war began as it tried to fight back and he fought to press the spell down and crush the monster's thoughts. The physical form of the rift-kin thrashed and writhed as he drove the spell home before he finally felt its resistance break and the monster grew still.

Tyron's mouth twisted with distaste. The sensation of breaking the creature's mind with his own wasn't pleasant, but for now it was unable to move or resist in any way. He drew his sword slowly and stepped forward, ending the monster's life with a quick thrust through the head.

He breathed out heavily. Only a small, weak creature, and it had given him this much trouble. He needed minions, higher quality ones, urgently. He checked the fire to see the three slumbering forms hadn't moved since the fight had started. Letting out a small sigh, he walked to his pack and quietly pulled out his butchering knives. He might as well see if this thing had a core.