Book of The Dead

"You sure you got 'em all?"

"Ten was what you asked for, ten is what you've got."

Mr Allop, the gruff and balding mayor of Ridgerton knuckled his moustache and nodded slowly.

"Thas true," he said, "I'll be thankin' ya then. Tho I can't see how ya did it."

Tyron looked down at the row of ten skulls on the ground before turning back to the mayor.

"Mr Allop, I'm fairly sure you don't want to know."

There was a hint of fear in the man's eyes as he nodded once more.

"Right ye are. Here's yer pay. Is all there."

He held out a small cloth bag that jingled pleasantly with coin, one that Tyron was happy to receive. "I still need supplies," he said as he tucked the pouch into his belt, "any chance I can spend my newfound wealth in the village?"

He tried to employ a disarming smile, the type he'd seen Worthy use so often with truculent customers. It probably made him look constipated, but it was worth a shot. To his relief, the mayor readily agreed.

"Folks'll be mighty pleased fer it. Coin’s tight about now."

No doubt.

After the break wiping out the villages further east, cutting off trade, the bandits had squeezed what little these people had left. In a way, Tyron sympathised with the criminals. Farmers who'd lost crops, labourers with no way to pay for food, transporters who'd lost home and family while out on delivery. What options did these people have? For some, the choice had been simple, theft or death.

The same choice ultimately. If Tyron hadn't gotten them, someone else would have, eventually.

At least this way, the remains could be put to good use.

With a cloak on, he moved amongst the town and freely dispensed the coin he'd received from the mayor. He didn't haggle on prices, even though a few overcharged him. In exchange, he took food, blankets, a few cookery items, a change of clothes, some rope, and any other travelling supplies he might need for the next few weeks.

He had no need of the money they'd paid to remove the thieves plaguing them, considering the wealth he'd taken from the ruins of Woodsedge. Much better that he exchange it for things he needed and put the coin back into the struggling community.

Though they trusted him little, they were more than happy to part with odds and ends and get the silver back in their hands. When it was all said and done, he shook the mayor's hand and departed, his goods on his back and little fear he'd be robbed.

They thought he'd killed ten men, after all.

It took him an hour to get back to the cave. The light still shone, though weakly, as he ducked his head under the low opening and made his way inside. After navigating a few turns, he found the camp much as he left it, Dove sleeping on a rock and Yor sleeping… wherever she slept.

At least the skeletons were awake.

"How are we, squad?" he asked the ten minions, fully aware that they couldn't answer back.

They existed in the back of his mind, a tiny knot of connections that bound them to him, allowed him to transmit his thoughts, and allowed them to sustain themselves on his magick. He'd felt that link so constantly now, he almost didn't remember what it felt like to be without it. It was like a warm blanket, a reliable presence that could be depended on.

He was starting to see why Dove argued so strongly in favour of Summoners and the like. Be they Astral beings or mindless undead, it was good to know you had allies on your side.

He didn't know how much 'sleep' Dove required in his current form, but he decided to let the Summoner rest. In silence, he commanded his minions to help him pack the camp, dousing the embers, tidying the belongings, packing his bedroll away.

By the time Yor walked into view as if stepping from a shadow, he was almost done.

"I trust our business has been concluded in this place?" she asked.

"All done. Payment collected, goods purchased."

"Did you find a suitable dress?"

Tyron shook his head, apologetic.

"Sorry, Yor. The people out here don't have much. Coming across something that you would deem appropriate will be… difficult."

She nodded, disappointed, but understanding.

"It is a pity your realm has so small an understanding of my kind. There are places where kings and queens would rush to fill my every desire, upon simply learning that I was present."

"I suppose you could make more vampires while you were here," Tyron said, "if you were inclined to do so."

She looked at him sideways.

"Permission is required, to bring another into the fold. Doubly so, for one of my blood. For the Court to have any sway here at all, a vampire presence is required, but is clearly still operating in the shadows. It is often done this way. The Court likes to rule openly, with an iron fist, but also enjoys pulling strings from behind the curtain. It appears the latter approach has been employed here."

Was a secret cabal of vampires calling the shots? With everything that had happened to him lately, Tyron wouldn't be surprised.

"Well, it's time for us to move on. Once I'm finished packing, I'm planning on heading down to the plains. Get some hunting done, work on a few things. Are you going to travel with us this time? Or would you… rather make your own arrangements?"

How the vampire got from place to place, Tyron had no idea, but she did it very quickly and very quietly. It seemed as if she wanted to preserve her secrets, however, since she remained assiduously hidden from view as they travelled. After Tyron had set up camp, she would swan into view, not a hair out of place, and sit down by the fire shortly after the sun went down. If she told him she could teleport, he would have come close to believing it.

"I will travel separately," she said after a moment's thought, "I dislike sitting on the… cart."

Her expression curdled at the thought of their mode of conveyance. Tyron smiled wryly.

"It has a certain rustic charm when you get used to it," he offered.

"… I'm sure," she said, her expression letting her doubts be known.

"It's your choice, obviously," he said. "I wouldn't dream of telling you how to travel."

"Wise."

Tyron didn't know exactly what the vampire wanted from her time travelling with him, but he hoped it would be over soon. She was intelligent, articulate and gave good advice on occasion, her company could be quite pleasant, so long as he could forget what she was. On the other hand, she was an undead monster that fed on blood, her flawless beauty nothing more than a tool to lure her prey.

Being around her was unnerving at the best of times, and somewhat terrifying at the worst. He wouldn't be too sad if she gave up on her quest and turned back to her realm.

"You should perform the ritual before you leave," she advised. "I will be interested to see what progress you have made."

This would be the first time he’d performed the ritual in a week. Fingers crossed his hard work had paid off.

Events:

You have engaged with others and forged bonds with them. Race: Human has reached level 13.

Your attempts at cooking have increased proficiency. Cooking has reached level 2.

Dismembering remains has increased your proficiency. Butchery has reached level 4.

Intense study and application has increased your proficiency. Corpse Appraisal has reached level 7.

Intense study and application has increased your proficiency. Corpse Preparation has reached level 7.

Your creation of new undead and your manipulation of the spellform has increased proficiency. Raise Dead has reached level 8.

Your use of the spell Bone Stitching has increased proficiency. Bone Stitching has reached level 6.

Your use and study of Death Magick has increased your proficiency. Death Magick has reached level 6.

You have raised minions and they have fought on your behalf. Necromancer has reached level 17. You have received +2 Intelligence, +1 Wisdom, +1 Constitution and +1 Manipulation.

Your patrons continue to delight in the seeds of chaos that are strewn wherever you tread. Your call is awaited.

Name: Tyron Steelarm.

Age: 18

Race: Human (Level 13)

Class:

Necromancer (Level 17).

Sub-Classes:

• Anathema (Level 10).
• None
• None (Locked)

Racial Feats:

Level 5: Steady Hand.

Level 10: Night Owl.

Attributes:

Strength:

12

Dexterity:

11

Constitution:

49

Intelligence:

69

Wisdom:

34

Willpower:

36

Charisma:

16

Manipulation:

26

Poise:

13

General Skills:

Arithmetic (Level 5)(Max)

Handwriting (Level 5)(Max)

Concentration (Level 5)(Max)

Cooking (Level 2)

Sling (Level 3)

Swordsmanship (Level 1)

Sneak (Level 3)

Butchery (Level 4)

Skill Selections Available: 2

Necromancer Skills:

Corpse Appraisal (Level 7)

Corpse Preparation (Level 7)

Death Magick (Level 6)

Bone Mending (Level 3)

General Spells:

Globe of Light (Level 5)(Max)

Sleep (Level 5)(Max)

Magick Bolt (Level 4)

Necromancer Spells:

Raise Dead (Level 8)

Bone Stitching (Level 6)

Commune with Spirits (Level 3)

Shivering Curse (Level 3)

Death Blades (Level 3)

Bone Armour (Level 2)

Minion Sight (Level 2)

Anathema Spells:

Pierce the Veil (Level 4)

Appeal to the Court (Level 2)

Dark Communion (Level 1)

Suppress Mind (Level 4)

Repository (Level 2)

Fear (Level 2)

Necromancer Feats:

Skeleton Focus II

Magick Battery I

Anathema Feats:

Repository

Wall of Thought I

Mysteries:

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

Words of Power (Initial): WIS +3 CHA +3

As he poured over the numbers, Tyron felt a surge of triumph. His three key skills, the foundational building blocks of Necromancy, were progressing nicely. After weeks of study, he was finally closing in on the coveted level ten.

It felt too slow to him, given the pressure he was under, but he could appreciate that this pace was extremely quick. Some took a year or more to master their foundation before they advanced their Class. He’d barely been at it for two months.

Just in time, too. He’d reached level seventeen after creating his latest minions, just three to go before he advanced his Class.

It was commonly held that most Classes really only began to shine once they reached this point. Better feats, improved abilities, and more stats per level all contributed to a rapid rise in power for those who managed to advance through this point.

His father had warned him multiple times that it was also the point where most slayers died.

“Overconfident,” he would shake his head and say. “You get your hands on stronger abilities but don’t master them. What else could possibly happen? Some kin kicks your head in, and bam. Another bronze rank bites the dust.”

It was all moot to Tyron. He had a few steps to go before it was relevant. Master the basic skills, only then would he push to level twenty. To do that, he needed more remains.

Corpse Appraisal and Preparation were level seven. Just three levels to go… the hardest levels… but still just three. He hadn’t had much time to play with his other abilities, but there were a few gains he was happy to see.

Cooking going up was unexpected, but welcome. He was doing all the food preparation for himself now, and the taste was… less than stellar.

Another level in his race was amazing. He was closing in on another racial feat. His current choices, Steady Hands and Night Owl, had proven to be inspired choices for a Necromancer. No doubt there were other options that would be just as helpful.

Raise Dead was level eight, a fantastic result. Bone Stitching had reached level six, along with Mending growing to three. His ability to handle bones continued to grow and the gains would show when he created his next group of skeletons. Other changes were minor. He’d been happy to max out the Sleep spell, and his handwriting skill. All the scribbling he’d done in the back of the cart had paid off. These improvements wouldn’t have a big impact on anything, but seeing the Unseen acknowledge he had reached the limit of what it would provide was pleasant at least.

When he’d reached level fifteen, he’d chosen Magick Battery I, deciding to expand his personal magick reserves. Despite the gains he could make in creating more efficient minions, he’d decided that having extra magick to utilise his surprisingly healthy variety of spells in battle would be more useful.

His new ability, Minion Sight, hadn’t grown, which didn’t shock him. He’d not practised it at all after his initial experimentation. It was a simple spell that allowed him to perceive what a minion did. That was when he’d learned just how poor their vision was.

Turns out those glowing purple orbs were pretty poor excuses for eyes. Just another thing he needed to work on to improve his creations.

He told the others of his major gains and they reacted positively.

“Looking good, kid,” Dove remarked. “You should reach your goal if you keep at it.”

“Indeed,” Yor said. “Your speed of development has been… remarkable.”

Tyron smiled, happy for the compliments and pleased with the results of his efforts.

“Still a long way to go,” he sighed, “but I’ll get there.”

He quickly destroyed the evidence of the ritual, throwing it into the embers of the fire and watching it burn. He had to nudge it with his boot a few times, just to make sure no trace of the writing remained.

“What’s the plan now, kid?” Dove asked.

“I need resources to continue to study, and I think I’m ready to increase the number of minions I keep around.”

“No shortage of dead bodies around,” Dove remarked. “Things are fucked down on the plains.”

“True,” Tyron sighed. “We’ll head down there and see if we can find a village or farming commune. If they’re alive, I can help out, maybe snag some coin or supplies, if not… more to work with.”

Shortly after, they hit the road. The cart bumped along the poorly maintained dirt trail, pulled by a team of skeletons as Tyron sat on the back, Dove next to him as he pored over his notes.

Things were going well. Hopefully he would get a little more time.

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