Book of The Dead

Sword still embedded in him, Tyron staggered toward the largest building in town. He needed paper, badly.

“Kid? KID? You still alive over there? Please, by the melons of the mother, don’t be dead. I don’t want to spend the rest of my life in a glass case being studied by mages. Tyron? You alive?”

“Shut… up… Dove,” the Necromancer squeezed out as he walked past.

“Oh thank FUCK. How the hell did you manage to win? Swordsman is a shitty matchup for you, maybe the shittiest. Wanna turn me around so I can take a look at you?”

“Wait,” he said.

In the back of his mind he pondered just what he was going to do to get out of this mess. Could he treat his wound? Was there anything he could use in this village to help clean and bind it? Another part of him was wondering what the consequences of killing a Slayer would be. There must be a cleanup crew not far from here. Surely they would hunt him once they learned what had happened. How much time did he have? Did this mean he would continue to be pursued even after the stray rift-kin were eliminated?

Another part of him dwelled on the sinking feeling that his dream of one day being accepted was now more remote than ever, if not dead entirely.

I killed a Slayer. Damn it all.

He hadn’t had a choice. That was starting to be a recurring theme. He never had a choice. Would he ever be in a position to choose for himself again? The last time he’d made a meaningful decision about his own fate was when he chose to run rather than give up his Class, his chance to rise.

He shoved the door open with his shoulder, careful not to catch the sword still lodged in him on the frame as he entered.

“Light.”

He rummaged around with blood-slick hands until he found what he was looking for, a town-ledger, used to track births and deaths in the village as well as other comings and goings. Hands shaking, he ripped out a page and made his way to a table.

Breathe. Just breathe.

Adrenaline was only now starting to leach out of his system. The pain was incredible, worse than anything he’d ever felt. Should he remove the sword? Or would that hasten the bleeding and make things worse? Medical knowledge had never been a speciality of Tyron’s; he was paying for that now.

One thing he did know, only his higher than normal Constitution was keeping him standing. Thanks to his Necromancer Class, he was far more durable than a person had any right to be. It was the only thing that gave him any chance of surviving this mess.

Which was why he needed to perform the ritual. Should he gain a few levels, it would toughen him up further. He could only hope it would be enough.

One hand on the paper, he enacted the ritual and watched the letters form. No need to cut himself this time, blood still ran in bright red rivulets down his forearms where he’d been wounded.

Eyes swimming, he skipped over the bulk of the messages. He had no interest in learning if his Cooking had increased again. After a time, he found what he was looking for.

You have raised the dead, honed your craft and done battle with your minions. Undead Weaver has reached level 25. You have received +3 Strength, +6 Constitution, +9 Intelligence, +3 Wisdom, +3 Willpower, +3 Manipulation and +6 Poise.

That was excellent, a new spell or skill along with a feat. It had been worth making this trip to gain these levels. Unfortunately, directly beneath was something else he didn’t want to see.

Your patrons delight in the chaos you sow. Like ripples expanding from a stone dropped in a pool, your actions distort the future in so many ways. The Dark Ones remain most entertained, you are safe from their hands, for now. The Scarlet Court watches with interest as your mind continues to grow, their desire for allegiance grows apace. The Abyss hungers, only secrets and souls will sate them, and not for long. Anathema has reached level 14. You have received +6 Constitution, +6 Intelligence, +6 Willpower.

The stat gain was welcome, as was the chance to choose new abilities, but the acknowledgement of his ‘patrons’ was not.

“Enjoying the show?” he spat as he glared at the roof.

Distant powers and their observations could wait, the ritual required his focus for the time being. He was in less than ideal condition to be choosing new abilities, but he would do the best he could. Time pressed.

His eyes fell to the bottom of the page where he was required to make his choices.

Better get to it before I bleed out on the floor.

“I’m surprised Yor hasn’t shown up to offer a twisted deal,” he muttered.

“Oh, I wouldn’t be so crass as to assume you are on your last leg, yet,” came her voice from behind him.

Tyron didn’t turn, but smiled briefly.

“And here I thought you might be losing interest.”

“My Mistress remains interested, but the terms she desires are not ones you would be willing to accept in your… current condition.”

“I have a sword in me, just how much worse does she think it’s going to get?”

“Much.”

Well, that’s comforting. Though, I suppose it simply confirms that Yor expects me to survive this on my own.

The pain was overwhelming, but he was able to endure it, if only just.

Focus. Finish the ritual. Look for something that will help you survive.

There were two new choices for Undead Weaver, along with the previously declined Ghoul Flesh.

Bone Animus - Replaces Bone Stitching and increases the maximum level to 20. A finer weave allows more strength with less magick.

Empowered Bone Armour - Replaces Bone Armour and increases the maximum level to 20. A modified spell to enable greater protection.

Neither was an aid to him in his current circumstances, but both were choices he otherwise liked. He placed a bloody mark with his thumb next to Bone Animus and moved on to the feats.

Zombie Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Zombies.

Skeleton Focus III - Improve the quality of Raised Skeletons.

Spirit Focus I - Improve the quality of Raised Spirits.

Flesh Mastery - Increased skill with flesh based undead and abilities.

Bone Mastery - Increased skill with bone based undead and abilities.

Spirit Mastery - Increased skill with spirit based undead and abilities.

Minion Controller - Improve the capacity to direct undead.

Undead Specialist - Increase the maximum level of Raise Dead by ten.

Intelligent Dead - Improve the minds of undead minions.

Boon Giver - Spells and abilities that empower the dead are strengthened.

Much as he had suspected, each of the feats was related to his minions. That fell in line with the direction of the Class, and under normal circumstances, he would be pleased to see them. There were many he would like to take, though he could only select four. The sight of Skeleton Focus III was a jolt of energy. If there was a three, then there may even be a four. Since he was stacking bonuses, then stacking them as high as he could was a good choice.

He wished there was more time to consider each option, consult with Dove, but there wasn’t.

A thumbprint was placed next to Bone Mastery and he moved on.

Hopefully, the patrons had something he could use to assist in his current situation.

Anathema has reached level 14. Choose two of the following:

Two choices to make, four new abilities. As a last resort, Blood Healing may serve his needs, but he would rather avoid it if possible.

Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.

Pain - Inflict the target with severe pain.

Invasive Persuasion - Open a weakness to manipulation in a suppressed mind.

Fear Implant - Leave an impression of fear within a suppressed mind.

Blood Healing - Convert the blood of others to a healing serum.

Eyes of Blood - See sources of blood nearby.

Glamour - Conceal your features.

Rot’s Favour - Encourage Infection

Abyss Tongue - Commune with the realm between.

Soul Transfusion - Consume a Soul to heal the body.

“Huh,” Tyron grunted.

He wasn’t surprised to see an ability like Soul Transfusion pop up. Almost exactly what he needed in his current circumstances. He had an abundance of souls around him at the moment, vile killers every one of them. He could conjure one and consume it in minutes, easy as snapping his fingers. And after he’d done it once, how easy it would be to do it again. He could already feel the justifications becoming less and less difficult to find. How long until he didn’t care at all anymore?

You think because I’ve sacrificed one soul, I’ll be prepared to do it again? And once I do, it’ll be so easy to turn around and offer more to my ‘patrons’.

The ground felt slippery beneath his feet. Dark Gods, Vampires and Abyssal Deities, those were the source of the abilities the Anathema class offered. Corruption, deception, domination and death, that was what they wanted to give him. It wasn’t hard to see what they wanted to make of him, the path they seemed so determined to set his feet upon.

They can fuck off.

He grit his teeth and put a mark next to Glamour and Invasive Persuasion. Both abilities would prove useful in his attempts to try and deflect people who happened to come across them. He hadn’t wanted to manipulate anyone that way, but that’d been naive.

Better to dominate their mind and have them forget they ever saw him than to kill them.

As for his wound, he would need to survive as best he could on his own. He’d been wrong to think he could rely on anyone else. The patrons would help, but only on their own terms. Choices made, he grit his teeth, grasped the sword and slid it out of his guts before he ended the ritual, letting the weapon clatter to the floor. The sudden rush of power was shocking, as always. New knowledge etched itself on his brain even as the Unseen reached into his body, changing it from within.

He grew stronger, tougher, smarter, more persuasive, more determined. All of it was welcome, but the toughness was what he cared about right now.

“Thank goodness for it.”

He could finally appreciate why the Necromancer Class received so much constitution. Of course everyone would ignore the minions and come for his head if they could. The only way to survive was to be able to take a hit and keep going.

Clutching at his wound, he staggered about, looking for something he could use to bandage himself. An old curtain had to suffice, torn in strips and bound around his midsection.

Job done, he went outside to find Dove hollering at nothing.

“Kid? Kid! You still alive? The fuck is going on?!”

“Shut it,” he ground out as he made it back to the table.

“Holy shit! Are you alright?”

“No, I’m not alright, I had a fucking sword in me. I got some levels, hopefully it’ll toughen me up enough to survive. Now try and shut up, I’ve got a ton of things to do and this hurts like…” he laughed and then grunted in pain, “... a stab wound.”

“Things to do? Did your fucking balls land on your head? You need to get out of here!”

“Can’t leave yet,” Tyron said as he cast his eyes about for stones. “There’s too much here I can’t afford to leave behind.”