Book of The Dead

Tyron walked through the ancient forest, every gnarled tree twisted with unfathomable age, whispering secrets of a lost age that he could not quite hear. Ahead of him, a hooded figure strode, leading the way deeper, toward the heart of the woods. Overhead, the fluttering of a raven’s wings could be heard, flitting from one tree to the next, its razor sharp claws slashing the branches wherever it landed. Just ahead of Tyron, scuttling almost underfoot, a rat waddled, turning every now and again to impale him with its decaying gaze. From the shadows, he caught glimpses of a wizened woman’s face, leering at him from between the roots of the trees, her toothless grin mocking his every step.

Then the dream twisted. The forest was gone, the air no longer heavy with the passage of countless years. In its place, there was nothing. Darkness beyond darkness, void without void. In the Abyss, nothing existed, except for those things made from that nothing. They were all around him now, curling and drifting, reaching and whispering, the bubbling madness that came with their presence creeping into his mind, gnawing at the edges of his sanity. Such knowledge they promised, the deepest, blackest words, long ago lost to the realms of the real.

The Abyss saw it all, the Abyss remembered.

He could almost see it now, the world they had built from absence and want. Pillars so large he couldn’t see where they began nor where they ended, writhing with limbs and hidden repositories of knowledge. Everything he had ever wanted to know, he could find here, all he needed to do was lose his mind.

Again, the dream changed. Gone was the Abyss, the darkness and void, replaced by a red sky dominated by a blood-red moon shrouded by blood-red clouds over wide fields of endless, unceasing red.

He continued to walk, the ground wet underneath his feet. All around him, mortal creatures, some human, many not, twitched and groaned, fighting against the bonds that shackled them, flinching away from the razors lodged into their flesh. Blood flowed from their wounds, a drop here and there, freely flowing, pooling at their feet and then running over the ground. One trickle joined another, which joined another, turning a trickle into a flow, then the flow became a stream, then the stream became a river, fueled by the blood of thousands upon thousands.

Upon that river came a living boat of blood and flesh, flowing soundlessly without sail or oars. Upon the deck, robed figures of unknowable age gazed at him, the boundless hunger in their eyes almost a physical sensation against his skin.

Tyron awoke. Above, the shaped stone of his aunt and uncle’s roof greeted his eyes, the rare, woven blanket they had provided tucked up under his chin. Sleeping two days in a row? When was the last time he had done such a thing? Could he even remember? Even before his Awakening, Tyron had been a night owl, prone to going without sleep while lost in his books or practicing his magick.

Now, this much sleep simply felt… unnecessary, he hadn’t been in the least tired when night had come, forced to use his Sleep spell to put himself out. Waking up, he felt… almost lethargic, drained, as if his body were growing sluggish from lying still for too long.

Throwing off his blanket, he stepped out of the simple cot and found washing water had been provided in a simple basin, along with some soap. He washed himself thoroughly, taking the time to clean his hair while he was at it, before pulling on some clothing and a simple robe over the top.All the while, he considered his dreams.

Not normal nighttime imaginings, these, but visitations from impatient patrons, knocking on the door of his mind, eager to be let in.

Despite all that he had done for them, they still had their hooks in him, keen for favours, willing to offer dark bargains, to dangle the things he wanted most just out of his reach. Tyron was not a put upon participant in these pacts, he had reached out to his patrons many times, and paid a dear price for the things he received.

Even to the point of feeding the souls of the dead to the god-like being that hovered in the Abyss, eager to reach through the Veil and consume the realm whole.

Well, so long as they were willing to pay Tyron’s price, there may well be some deals they could strike. Despite his newfound strength, growing with every passing hour thanks to his forces spreading throughout the Western province, he was not so arrogant as to think he didn’t need help.

After all, he still hadn’t yet learned how to kill a god.

For now, the patrons could wait; he had other matters to attend to. Heading downstairs, he greeted Worthy and Meg who smiled and laughed before welcoming him to the table and heaping his plate.

Grilled vegetables seasoned with what little salt and herbs were available. Somehow, with her Unseen-granted abilities, even this simple meal was transformed by his Aunt into something delicious. After he complimented her on the food, he gave each of them a brief hug, they wouldn’t let him leave until he did, before he stepped outside.

“Sleep well?” Filetta asked, waiting just outside with his small force of undead on the road.

“I probably should have stayed up,” he said. “It feels…strange to sleep so much.”

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Filetta laughed.

“I bet. I don’t think you ever slept two nights in a row even when I met you as a human. You didn’t even go to sleep after–”

“We need to get moving,” Tyron said abruptly, cutting her off. The wight laughed behind him as he hurried along, refusing to look in her direction. He wasn’t embarrassed, not really, but there was no need to discuss such things in public. It wasn’t seemly.

There were many people he needed to see and entities to contact, but first he wanted to touch base with his students. Georg, Richard and Briss could possibly be silver ranked Necromancers by now. Perhaps they would have some insights for him, something they may have discovered themselves, or perhaps the abilities the Unseen granted them might provide some knowledge he hadn’t come across himself.

Also, though he likely wouldn’t admit this aloud to anyone, he enjoyed talking about magick, and the branch of the arcane arts he knew the most about happened to be Necromancy. There was no one able to speak with him on his level, but his students, personally trained by him, were as close as anyone was going to get for quite some time.

Arriving at the entrance to the underground complex beneath the temple, Tyron was a little disconcerted by the shock and awe with which he was regarded. Some, it seemed, didn’t recognise him at first, unused to seeing him wearing such casual clothing, or perhaps they simply hadn’t seen him much before. Startled by the moment of recognition, they either stared at him, or turned away, as if desperate not to meet his gaze.

Without his armour on, Tyron was hardly an intimidating figure, in his own opinion, at least. He was a little taller than average, and relatively thin compared to most Slayers. Why did they react this way when they saw him?

Were Filetta to realise what he was wondering about, she would have laughed in his face. Perhaps he didn’t realise because he spent little to no time in front of a mirror except when shaving, but his eyes burned with an intensity that was difficult for normal people to meet. There was a heat there, wild and raging so hot it could almost be felt as a physical thing, scorching anyone who dared to meet his gaze. It was one of the reasons she had been so attracted to him during her life. It was rare to meet anyone who experienced such an intense, all-consuming emotion.

Sadly, for Tyron, it wasn’t passion or drive that ate him from within, but grief and anger, rage and despair.

Unable to explain the reactions of those he saw, Tyron drove straight into the heart of the complex, heading towards his old rooms and those of his students. They had surely heard he was back by now, it’d been an entire day, after all. He brought a small number of his skeletons in with him, sending one to Briss, one to Richard and one to Georg so they could summon them on his behalf.

His old living space, as expected, wasn’t especially well kept, though it did show signs of someone coming in to sweep and tidy it up a bit in the last day or so. The fireplace was, thankfully, still functioning, and he lit the enchantment, feeding it with his magick as he steadily grew the blaze to take away the chill. This deep under the temple, very little warmth penetrates the thick layers of stone. It didn’t bother him overmuch, but his students, he knew, were more susceptible to the cold.

Job done, he turned and sat in his chair, settling in as he waited for them to arrive, taking a few seconds to cast his mind through the relay that had been left in the street outside.

So far, everything was going well. The rift at Woodsedge had proven to be more difficult than expected to defend, with huge waves of kin bursting through at an absurd rate, but the reinforcements had allowed Tyron to mount an offensive push through the rift to clear out the monsters amassing on the other side, lessening the pressure. They would need to make a similar push at least once a week, judging by the pace of monster spawning.

The main horde continued its southward journey to Skyice, the relays now being carried up the uneven roads to the Slayer keep built close to the rift. The fighting was already intense, with great snowy beasts charging at his skeletons and winged creatures of snow and ice darting down from above.

Another day and they would fight their way to the rift itself. Likely he would need to personally intervene in order to minimise casualties and take control of the rift. Another sizeable garrison would need to be left behind once that was done, but thousands more skeletons were waiting to replace those. His workshop groups were out in force, settling into several abandoned cities and beginning to comb them for materials.

He would be casting the Raise Dead ritual multiple times a day soon, in multiple locations.

A tentative knock at the door was followed by Briss poking her head in. She smiled when she saw him seated in his chair and stepped inside, bowing her head to him.

“It’s nice to see you again, Master Tyron.”

“Nice to see you as well,” he said. “Take a seat. I’m keen to hear how you and the others have been doing in my absence. Lots of progress, I hope.”

Briss hesitated for a brief moment before she nodded and moved to her seat.

“Leaps and bounds,” she assured him. “Richard and I have been helping the Slayers and they’ve been kind enough to feed us some levels.”

She hadn’t changed much in the time he’d been away, but perhaps she was a little more confident than before. Still a small, almost rodent-ish figure, there was nevertheless a hunger and steel about her that spoke to the great spirit and determination that Briss possessed.

“They’ve been a lot of help,” Richard said as he walked through the door.

If there had been a slight change in Briss’ demeanor, then Richard’s was startling in comparison. Clear-eyed, he no longer hung his head and rounded his shoulders, but spoke and moved with a confidence that Tyron had never seen from him before.

“Master Tyron, it’s wonderful to see you return,” he said, bowing before he took his seat.

Tyron raised his brows.

“The two of you make it sound like my return was in doubt.”

His two students shared a glance.

“It was,” Richard said, shrugging. “Nobody knew if you would survive. Or return to us even if you did.”

“It was a close run thing for a while,” Tyron admitted freely. “But I can talk about that in more detail when Georg arrives.”

Richard frowned, then flicked his eyes towards Briss.

“Has… nobody told you?” he said, sounding a little like his old self as he hesitated to speak.

“Told me what?”

“Georg… he’s… he left.”