Book of The Dead

Chapter 12: Awakening

Fragments of thought rolled through Tyron's mind, flickering from one to the next as he slept, like a fever dream. He saw bones, and dust and smelled rotting flesh and mildew. Spiders crawled over his body, weaving their webs through his ribs and in the holes of his eye sockets. He felt cold, a deep, bottomless cold that swelled and rose and pulled him down into a world of shadow that buried him in its heart. In his heart he thrashed and fought, tried to free himself from the vortex that pulled him away from the light, but it was useless. No force of man could possibly resist that which had hold of him now and soon he was lost. Lost to sight and sun, time and touch as his awareness was smothered in darkness.

With a gasp like a drowning man thrown up on a beach, Tyron sat upright in bed, the sheets falling from his chest.

For a moment he was completely disoriented as he tried to reckon the world around him with the nightmare in his mind. His hands grasped for a hold on reality as his eyes rolled in his head, the light almost painfully bright. He heard a woman's voice call out in fright and he came back to himself with a shock, sweating and heaving for air as he steadied himself on the bed. This was the inn. He knew this room. He turned his head to see his aunt Meg, a hand on her heart as she stared at him with eyes wide open.

"Dear gods boy!" she wheezed, "you nearly scared me to death leaping out of the bed like that!"

She recovered from the her surprise in a moment as she leaped from her chair, the crochet she had been working on falling to the floor as she swept him into her arms.

"You little fool," she whispered through the tears that spilled over her eyes, "you could have died, Tyron."

In an instant the shame swept over him and the young man was thrust back into his memories, sobbing in his aunt's arms as a child whilst his parents adventured for months on end. This woman had practically raised him, she deserved better of him that this. His arms shook as he raised them to embrace her, still clammy with sweat.

"I'm sorry Aunt Meg," he said. "I'm really sorry."

They sat like that for several long minutes as Tyron tried to hold in his tears whilst Meg openly wept. She always wore her heart on her sleeve, Aunt Meg did. Eventually she released him and pulled back to wipe her eyes using the apron she still wore.

"I'm sorry," she hiccupped, "but you can't blame an old woman for getting emotional when her nephew almost winds up dead now can you?"

"No," he replied. "No I can't."

Now that he was awake and she was no longer frightened that he would suffer permanent damage, the fear that had lingered in her heart faded away to be replaced with anger. He could see it spark to life in her eyes, though she controlled it well.

"Now I suppose you'll need to be explaining yourself, young man," she said sternly, the effect only slightly ruined by the wet tracks that still glistened on her plump cheeks. "Your uncle and I have been worried sick! What could have possibly possessed you? Even if your class is poor, there's no need to be this extreme!"

For a moment, he almost told her everything. He wanted to. Not only did he want to unburden himself, to explain how he felt and what he had done, share the secret that was lodged in his chest and no longer carry the weight of it himself, he also wanted the freedom that would come from no longer having to decide. He could it put it all on his aunt and uncle. His parents had not returned and wouldn't be able to shield him, or advise him, only these two were here, with him, as they'd always been.

He opened his mouth to speak, then froze.

Meg watched him with patience as the gears turned within his mind. Could he do it? Really? Selfishly pushing the burden onto them? Did that really serve them? Or himself? A bad situation didn't necessarily get better just because you shared it around. He was in the shit, that didn't mean his entire family needed to climb in with him. If he really wanted to help these people who had loved and cared for them, it would be better if they had no part of his plans. Better that he carried the whole burden himself.

"I… I got impatient," he averted his eyes and muttered. "I just don't want to see my dreams collapse into nothing, Aunt Meg. I can't stand it."

That last utterance, at least, had the ring of perfect truth and his aunt's eyes softened at the pain in his voice.

"It's going to be alright," she reached out and patted him on the head, "you can trust us, Tyron, you know that."

Another stab of pain flared in his heart, but he just nodded dumbly, not trusting himself to speak. Meg's eyes widened as she rose hurriedly.

"I need to get your uncle! He only just went to bed, bless him. I'll be back!" she hustled from the room.

Tyron couldn't help but chuckle warmly at the sight before a thought struck him cold. His uncle had gone to bed? What time was it?! He scrambled to find a window but this spare room had none and soon enough his uncle stormed into the room and dragged him into a bear hug which left him little room to breathe.

"You little idiot," his uncle rumbled as he squeezed him tight and Tyron gasped for breath.

He didn't know how he managed to get out of that room without confessing. The comfort and support that his family lavished on him warmed him and buried him in guilt all over again, but he held his tongue. Both of them demanded that he stay in the inn overnight and wouldn't hear of letting him go back to own house. His entire plan was almost destroyed until he managed to persuade them to allow him to sleep in the attic as he usually would. After a thousand apologies and a thousand more hugs the two of them returned to their own chambers, but only after they had watched him climb up the ladder and close the hatch.

"Light" he whispered to the darkness.

The soft globe of light sprang into existence and he levitated it into the air for a moment as he looked about his 'office' and home away from home. The desk with the old wooden chair, the dusty pallet and blankets he had set for himself in the corner, his collection of worn texts he had brought over from his mother's collection so he would always have something to read. He'd spent a good portion of his youth up here, when he didn't want to stay in his own house by himself anymore.

He was tempted. So tempted. He could just lie down, drag his blankets over himself and sleep. When he woke in the morning, he could go register his class and it would be removed, then he could go on living in Foxbridge, probably for the rest of his life. He could pick up a few sub-classes, maybe work for the mayor's office, or work as an accountant? He already kept the books for his uncle after all.

Even as he rolled the thoughts over in his mind, he knew he wouldn't do it. He felt as if he were to actually lie down, then he wouldn't be himself anymore. He'd no longer be Magnin and Beory's child, no longer be a Steelarm. Even if it was hopeless, he was going to try and decide for himself how his life would go. The awakening ceremony might have dealt him a bad hand, but he refused to walk away from the table.

There wasn't much that he could use here, but he rummaged through his things anyway, making sure to keep the noise to a minimum. None of these books would be particularly useful after he left, but he couldn't help flicking through them one more time. He waited for an hour, idly turning pages and gathering a few odds and ends he might want before he extinguished the globe and moved to the window.

He suspected that his aunt and uncle knew full well about the rope he kept hidden in the attic but he hoped that on this night, with everything that had happened, they wouldn't remember it. He moved as carefully as he could, opening the window a centimetre at a time until he lowered the rope and oh so slowly levered himself onto the window sill and then shimmied down. He was puffing by the time he got to the ground.

I'll have to work on my fitness if I'm going to be roaming the rifts by myself, he thought wryly. Father would be pleased I finally got motivated to exercise.

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Not that Tyron was overweight, he didn't eat enough for that, but he was certainly unfit. He knew that tonight, the fourth since the awakening, the marshals would be on the highest alert for runaways, so he had to be careful. Heart in his mouth, Tyron crept towards his home, keeping to the shadows, relying on the instincts his Sneak skill gave him. Luck was with him, and he was able to climb the stone fence and flop into his backyard without rousing any suspicion. Once inside, he quickly gathered the materials he would need to sustain himself out in the wild.

Gold, mage candy, some hardtack that he used when he couldn't be bothered going to the inn to eat. He rummaged through his mother's books until he found a few tomes that he thought would be useful as well as valuable in case he needed to sell them. A monster almanac, since he wasn't as well read on these as he would like, a tome of spell forms that dealt with magick transference and another on sigil work. These he carefully wrapped before he placed them on the table along with everything else. He also raided his father's store cupboard where he found a few travelling cloaks that didn't really fit him and some spare swords. He needed three blades in total and carefully selected these, keeping in mind a few things. He could open up the trophy room and take out the best and most powerfully enchanted weapons his father owned, but his skeletons wouldn't be skilled enough to use them properly, and the moment anyone saw as much as the hilt he would likely be robbed.

No, what he wanted were the kind of blades his father favoured: plain, well made and with utility enchantments to prevent rust. He took two of Magnin's spares and grabbed his own sword and belted it onto his waist. He looked down on the unmarked sheath with mixed emotions. He'd never thought he might actually have need of the sword his father had bought him, and hopefully, if all went well, he wouldn't have to use it all.

The skeletons do the fighting, he reminded himself, but you still need to defend yourself.

Two years ago, when his parents had first invited him to join them on their travels they had surprised him with a full set of travelling gear. Though he had turned them down in the end, the gear itself he had kept in his room as a reminder that they were willing to share their lives with him. He went through it all methodically, ensuring it was still packed correctly and ready to use. Rain proof cloak, sleeping roll, camping supplies, it was all still here. He brought it all to the kitchen and started to pack everything he had gathered. Not being used to this sort of thing, it took him a few goes to get it all to fit snugly into the bag, and a few more to work out how to get it onto his back and strapped in place.

With the fully laden pack and three swords hanging off his belt, he was far from stealthy, which worried him considerably. After he took all of the gear off again and considered it, he decided he would have to make two trips out to the mausoleum. The three swords he could take on the first trip, along with maybe the bedroll, then the pack on his second run. It would take longer, but he doubted he could get through town unnoticed when burdened by so much stuff.

He didn't feel guilty at all going through his parent’s belongings like this, taking their money, weapons, books and equipment. He knew for a fact that the two of them didn't care one bit for any of it, least of all the money. If he'd ransacked the trophy room and sold everything inside, he doubted his father would have batted an eye, though his mother would likely be furious at such a display of poor character. Odds were, they left all this stuff lying around for the express purpose of making it easier for him to travel should the desire ever take him.

As he made his final preparations, Tyron sat down and wrote a letter to his parents explaining his situation which he sealed in an envelope, then he prepared himself once more to undergo the ritual to view his status. If all had gone well, he would have improved his skills, and with a little luck, maybe levelled one more time.

He spoke the words, broke the skin on his thumb and pressed it to the paper. A wave of dizzyness washed over him briefly as the blood poured from the wound to form words on the page. He needed more rest, he still wasn't fully recovered, but he didn't have time. Once he steadied himself, he eagerly leaned forward to read the words on the page.

Events:

Your attempts at stealthhave increased proficiency.

Your study of the Raise Dead Spell has increased proficiency.

You have examined multiple corpses. Corpse Appraisal has increased proficiency.

You have practiced applying threads of magick to remains.Bone Stitching has reached Level 2.

You have raised two Skeletons. Raise Dead has reached Level 3.

The Darkness continues to be pleased with your progress. The Dark Ones see your corruption of the sanctified and take note. The Court see you raise minions with glee. The Abyss still waits to hear your call. Anathema has achieved level 3. You have received +2 Intelligence, +2 Constitution and +2 Willpower.

Name: Tyron Steelhand.

Age: 18

Race: Human (Level 10)

Class:

Necromancer (Level 2).

Sub-Classes:

1. Anathema (Level 3).
2. None
3. None

Racial Feats:

Level 5: Steady Hand.

Level 10: Night Owl.

Attributes:

Strength:

12

Dexterity:

11

Constitution:

20

Intelligence:

22

Wisdom:

16

Willpower:

22

Charisma:

13

Manipulation:

11

Poise:

13

General Skills:

Arithmetic (Level 5)

Handwriting (Level 4)

Concentration (Level 2)

Cooking (Level 1)

Sling (Level 3)

Swordsmanship (Level 1)

Sneak (Level 1)

Skill Selections Available: 2

Necromancer Skills:

Corpse Appraisal (Level 1)

Corpse Preparation (Level 1)

General Spells:

Globe of Light (Level 8)

Sleep (Level 4)

Mana Bolt (Level 1)

Necromancer Spells:

Raise Dead (Level 3)

Bone Stitching (Level 2)

Mysteries:

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

Seeing that his level in Raise Dead had increased, Tyron pumped his fist. Obviously it was no help for him now, but the next time he used the spell it would have a little more power behind it, something he wouldn't complain about. Sneak not levelling was disappointing, since that would have helped him tonight. He'd hope for another level in Necromancer, but hadn't expected it, he hadn't actually done any fighting with them after all. Luckily, Anathema had increased, giving him the boost to his stats that he needed. To continue fuelling his minions, he needed stronger mental stats to increase his magick reserves and regeneration.

That message he'd received from the Abyss was a little ominous. They were waiting for his call? They'd have to keep waiting. He wasn't about to try and commune with something referred to as part of 'the darkness' which had lumped him with a sub-class called Anathema until he knew a hell of a lot more about it. He could only hope that decision didn't come back to bite him in the rear.

With a wave of his hand he ended the ritual and rocked back as he felt his body change to reflect his new status. He hadn't managed to retain consciousness the first time but thankfully this wasn't a repeat performance. It was a strange sensation, to say the least. His eyes swam as he felt something invading him, changing him from the inside out. Time seemed to fade into the distance and sensations passed beneath his awareness as his mind began to drift away from his body until he was suddenly snapped back.

Tyron came back to himself with a start and blinked rapidly as he processed what had just happened, only to realise he simply didn't have the time and forced his legs to move. He stood from the table and took his letter and the status sheet into the trophy room, unlocking the sealed door and placing both inside on the floor. Barring the townsfolk knocking down the walls of two powerful and respected slayers, there was no way anyone other than his parents would find them here. Being careful, he made sure the door was properly locked before he returned to the kitchen. Pulling on his rainproof cloak, he gathered the three blades, extinguished the light and slipped out the back door.

Heart pounding in his chest, he scaled the back fence once again, pausing when he reached the top to peek over the edge and check for marshals. Seeing no one, he threw his legs over, one before the other, and dropped as silently as he could down to the ground. With three swords on his hip, it was much harder to do than he'd expected. As he crept away into the shadows, the clouds above which had threatened to open all day, now did so, unleashing a steady downpour onto Foxbridge.