Book of The Dead

Chapter 5: First Steps

He awoke an indeterminate amount of time later, a headache pounding against his temples. His mouth was dry, he felt bruised and battered all over. What happened? Am I hung over? He groaned and winced as he shifted his body and slowly began to pick himself up. It was completely dark inside and he was almost tapped out of magick.

"Light," he rasped.

When the light bloomed and illuminated his surroundings his memory flooded back to him. The zombie! Where was it?! He scrambled onto his knees, his eyes frantically scanning the enclosed tomb only to find the body of Myrrin had collapsed back into the casket. Just to be certain, he ran his hands over himself to make sure he hadn't been eaten. When he found no bite marks in his flesh and all his digits still attached he heaved a sigh of relief. As he steadied his breathing and waited for his heart to stop pounding in his chest he turned his mind to what had gone wrong.

The answer came to him after a moment's thought. He had used all of his magick in order to raise the zombie, which meant the moment his new servant had tried to move it had drawn on his reserves, which were empty, and he'd passed out from the strain. Without an energy source, the spell had fallen apart on its own, causing his friend to fall inert once more. His relief only lasted long enough for him to realise he had no idea how long he'd been passed out for. He scuttled to the door and ripped it open only to find the dark of night still hung over the graveyard. He heaved a sigh of relief. He can't have been out for more than an hour. This was fine.

Exhausted and in pain he gathered his things and repacked his bag before he exited the mausoleum, chaining the door and slipping the lock through to give the appearance nothing had changed. With that done he returned to the open grave of his victim and spent another two hours refilling it and disguising his work to the best of his ability. It wasn't great, anything more than a cursory inspection would reveal that something had been done, but it was the best he could do right now. Job done, he staggered back to town and slipped in the back door of his house. Even the raucous celebrations had died down at this point and the people of Foxbridge were abed for the most part. According to the clock it was almost four in the morning. Barely conscious, Tyron stripped and cleaned himself mechanically, the cold water doing nothing to alleviate his drowsiness, before he collapsed into bed and passed out.

He awoke at midday feeling little better than when he went to bed. Muscle pain wracked his arms, shoulders and lower back every time he moved as he levered himself out of bed. He needed water and food, badly. As his dreariness fell away a powerful urge to Appraise his status and see what he had gained the night before, but he resisted. He'd taken a massive risk last night and for the moment it appeared that he had gotten away with it. He needed to be calm and settled before he made any decisions. According to the clock he'd slept a bit over eight hours. Not enough to catch up but enough to freshen his mind. He'd head over to visit his uncle to eat before coming back. Problem was, what would he tell Worthy when he inevitably asked about his Class?

The truth? Impossible. The odds that his uncle shared the same cavalier attitude to illegal Classes as his famed brother was slim to none. Even less chance he'd be happy to hide an Anathema. No matter how much he wanted to trust in his family, Tyron felt it wasn't worth the risk. If he was wrong, after he revealed the truth, there would be no turning back and no chance of escape. Tyron may still end up having to renounce his Class, but he would only do so if he'd exhausted all other avenues available to him. He wanted to keep his fate in his own hands as long as he possibly could. So what would he say? He could only lie. It would hurt to have to lie to his family, especially his Aunt and Uncle who'd cared for him for so long, but it was only the way he could keep his activities under cover. He'd pretend he'd achieved a boring Class and put his odd behaviour down to being depressed.

Plans made, he left his house and walked down the road to the Steelarm Inn.

"There you are!" came the exuberant greeting the moment he put his foot through the door.

A crowded common room was revealed as Tyron stepped inside, the many travellers in town for the ceremony eating the midday meal and nursing their hangovers before they registered their Class and headed home. With so many patrons the only way his Uncle could have picked him out so quickly was if he'd kept constant watch on the door.

"Hi, Uncle!" He called over the chatter and waved an arm as he made his way toward the kitchen.

"Oh no you don't!" Worthy put down the glasses he was filling behind the bar and bustled in front of the door to block his nephew off. "I've barely seen hide nor hair of you since yesterday morning lad. Goin' to catch some words before you disappear again!"

The words were serious but there was twinkle in his uncle's eye that gave away his mirth.

Tyron feigned a resigned shrug.

"What do you need, Uncle? I was just going to get something to eat and head back home."

"Home?" his uncle quirked an eyebrow in surprise.

Tyron was entitled to sleep at home and could do so whenever he wanted, but he seldom did. Well, if he wanted to avoid the crowd and noise it would make sense. The Inn had been loud until late last night and if he wanted any sleep he wasn't likely to get it here.

"Your aunt and I are just concerned, lad. We didn't hear from you much after the Awakening and we - "

"Clerk."

"We didn't want… uh, what?"

"I'm a Clerk." The boy shrugged. "Can you imagine? The son of Magnin and Beory Steelarm is a fucking Clerk."

Worthy almost staggered and utterly failed to keep the shock from his face.

"What? Lad, you're sure?"

His nephew looked down and nodded confirmation, unwilling to look his uncle in the eye.

"I just want to get some food and go home, Uncle. Can you talk to Aunt Meg for me?"

Worthy mastered himself and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder in an attempt to give comfort.

"Sure, lad. Whatever you need. You grab yourself a seat and don't worry about a thing. When your parents get home we'll figure things out."

Still staring at the floor, Tyron nodded and brushed past his uncle to find a seat in the corner of the common room at a nearly empty table. It was more difficult to lie to his Uncle than he thought and frankly, he was lucky to get away with it. Someone with as much Charisma as Worthy was extremely adept in social situations even before accounting for his no doubt well levelled Skills. If he hadn't been shocked he would've no doubt noticed something was off about his brother's son.

Keen to avoid further contact with his family, he slid into a seat at the table and did his best to look miserable. He didn't want to interact with anyone if he could help it. It was unfortunate that circumstances didn't seem to allow it.

"Elsbeth? Is that you?"

Seated opposite was a person lying flat on the table with their hair splayed out in a messy golden puddle. The figure let out a long groan before they lifted their head and Tyron found himself staring into the bleary eyes of his friend.

"Whazzat? Tyron? Not so loud please."

Tyron blinked. She was obviously hungover.

"Elsbeth, what the heck happened to you last night?"

"Last night? I went out with Laurel… and Rufus." Tyron noted the slight hesitation in her voice and colour that rose in her cheeks when she mentioned the newly minted Swordsman.

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"And you obviously got drunk. What the hell happened? This isn't like you 'Beth."

She blinked owlishly at him before she frowned.

"What'd you know anyway? You shoulda' been there with us. What happened to you, huh?"

He leaned forward and whispered.

"I've got my own shit to deal with, alright? I couldn't go out with you guys."

No, he had to go defile a grave and desecrate the remains of a respected community member. Inside the locked mausoleum of another respected community member. He felt a wave of bitterness rise up.

"Why would you want me there anyway? Are you sure I wouldn't just get in the way?"

Her eyes widened.

"W-What do you mean? Of course I wanted you there," she said, her voice rasping with each word,

He shoved down his emotions and clenched his jaw. He didn't care. He had no time to deal with his friends and their issues right now.

"You're hungover. Eat something and drink some water then go back to sleep. If you want to talk, I'll do it then."

Then he stood up and walked away from the table to the opposite corner where he sat with his back toward her. He refused to turn around and never saw the shocked expression that turned into hurt before Elsbeth gathered her things and walked out of the Inn. It was fine. So long as Tyron refused to surrender his Class then there was no reason for him to hold onto old attachments. Whatever had come before, it no longer had anything to do with him he told himself.

Soon his uncle came over with a jug of clear water and plate filled with steaming lamb shanks and spring vegetables. He placed both items down without a word, only pausing to tousle the boy's hair before he sighed and moved back to his work, his body moving with mechanical ease. There had not been a Steelarm in living memory who hadn't taken on a combat Class. Beory had declared her son was a certainty for a Wizard. What would those two wandering fools say when they found their only child was a powerless desk worker? Sure he could take on other Classes, even revoke his first and put the work in to acquire another, but it was a massive delay with no guarantee of success. He'd heard the same rumours that Magnin had as an adventurer, he knew that giving up the initial Primary Class meant mediocrity for almost everyone. He'd had such high hopes for that boy. What had gone wrong?

As his Uncle pondered morosely, Tyron ate. Aunt Meg's cooking had truly ascended to a new height and he hoovered in the food, pausing only to guzzle the water. He was starving, it was true, but he also needed to get home to check his Status and he was burning with curiosity.

With the food and water dealt with he pushed his chair back and hurried out of the Inn, not wanting to remain at the scene of his deception. Lying to people who'd looked after you most of your life didn't feel right and left a sour twist in his stomach. He rushed home, not paying any mind to the people he passed on the road and locked the door behind him once he was inside.

He wanted to ensure that there wouldn't be any witness to the ritual so to take no chances he moved to the trophy room and placed the required materials on the ground before he sat on the floor. The trophy room was where his parents stored the various items that struck their fancy during their adventures. It featured no windows and a very strong door, perfect for his purposes. Technically even he shouldn't have the key but he'd found it rummaging through his father's things a few years ago whilst they were away. To a younger Tyron the things held in the room had been wondrous treasures, remains of powerful rift-kin, monsters and enchanted weapons that glittered with light. Now he viewed them in much the same way his parents did, mementoes of the past, not relevant to the future. That they even brought them back at all was so out of character for them, he had ended up wondering why they'd done it at all.

The Appraise Status ritual was a simple one, so simple there wasn't even a Skill or Spell entry for it. The dumbest back alley thug could perform it just as well as the brightest mage. All that was required was a flat surface and a drop of blood. Tyron jabbed his thumb with a pin and pressed it to the centre of the clean sheet of paper he'd prepared. He spoke the words of power and winced as his blood flowed out onto the page, forming itself into letters and numbers by the power of the ritual. After a few seconds, his Status was ready.

Events:

Your attempts at stealth have increased proficiency.

Your study of the Raise Dead Spell has increased proficiency.

You have examined a corpse. Corpse Appraisal has increased proficiency.

You have raised an Undead with your first attempt. Raise Dead has reached Level 2. Necromancer has reached Level 2. You have received +2 Intelligence, +1 Constitution, +1 Wisdom and +1 Manipulation. New Choices available.

You have pleased the Darkness by embracing your role. The Dark Ones are impressed with your desecration of a tomb consecrated to their foes. The Court delight in your twisting of a beloved elder to a creature of death. The Abyss is pleased with your hunger for arcane mastery. Anathema has achieved level 2. You have received +2 Intelligence, +2 Constitution and +2 Willpower. New choices available.

Name: Tyron Steelhand.

Age: 18

Race: Human (Level 10)

Class:

Necromancer (Level 2).

Sub-Classes:

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

Racial Feats:

Level 5: Steady Hand.

Level 10: Night Owl.

Attributes:

Strength:

12

Dexterity:

11

Constitution:

18

Intelligence:

20

Wisdom:

16

Willpower:

20

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 2)

Mysteries:

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

Necromancer Level 2. Please Choose an additional Spell:

Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.

Bone Stitching - Weave together bones.

Anathema Level 2. Please Choose a Skill:

Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.

Appeal to the Court - Attempt to commune with The Scarlet Court.

Pierce the Veil - Seek Guidance from the Abyss.

Tyron felt lightheaded by the time the writing had finished forming. Quite a difference from his last Status! He had grown as an individual in this world, at last, and the writing in front of him was the evidence of that growth. He felt a heady rush when he realised he had levelled twice thanks to his efforts the previous night. The fierce joy that seized him wiped away the last remnants of guilt he had felt due to his actions. In its place now blazed a hunger that he could only feed if he continued on the path he was now on. Look at his Attributes! The moment he completed the ritual his body would begin to change to accommodate his new abilities, an experience that all young people yearned for prior to their Awakening. He was going to grow stronger, finally!

But first he had to read through the events and make his choices. Both classes were going to grant him a choice at level 2, an unexpected benefit. He frowned as he read the descriptions of the Anathema level up. This was touching on things he hadn't wanted to deal with after he'd received this Class. Clearly the Anathema Class was associated with three separate entities or organisations and he had pleased all three with his actions. The problem Tyron had was that he'd never heard of any of them before. The only Deities he was aware of were the Five Divines who'd been represented on the tomb he'd broken into. Apparently the 'Dark Ones' were opposed to the Divines? A separate Pantheon?! To think he'd never heard of such a thing. The Scarlet Court asked for blood and sacrifice and were pleased when he defiled the body of Myrrin. He had no idea who or what they were, but that sounded ominous. Lastly, the Abyss. Forbidden knowledge? Arcane mastery? He couldn't guess who they were either.

It appeared as though he was going to be forced to make a choice, however. He would deal with that second. First was his Necromancer Skill choice.

Flesh Mending or Bone Stitching. He knew from his studies that it was possible he would be able to come back later and select whichever Spell he failed to choose now, but it wasn't always ideal. For him, the choice was straightforward. Although the descriptions were vague, he could intuit quite a bit. Flesh Mending would enable him to magickally repair the rotting flesh of a corpse in order to produce a more powerful zombie. Whilst magickally powered, a zombie still required a bit of meat in order to get work done and the better the condition, the more powerful the zombie.

Bone Stitching on the other hand, was a ticket to a whole new type of Undead. skeletons. Unlike zombies, skeletons had no need for flesh at all and instead required far more magick and preparation. Unless he missed his guess, this Spell would enable him to prepare bones so that they might be animated by the Raise Dead spell. Since skeletons were more powerful than Zombies (not to mention they smelled less) it was a no brainer for Tyron. He used his thumb to make a mark with his blood next to Bone Stitching.

Then he contemplated the three choices Anathema presented. He wished he could go research the three groups before he made a commitment but he couldn't, he had to choose now or he would waive the choice and lose it. He mentally kicked himself. He should have done his research the moment he had a chance, then he might have been better armed with knowledge than he was now. He had nobody but himself to blame for his ignorance. Never shy away from knowledge, Tyron you fool!

Arm heavy with reluctance, Tyron placed his mark next to Pierce the Veil. Without any information, any choice was as good as the next. The mentions of secrets and magick where enough to draw him in. He hoped he wouldn't come to regret this choice.

The moment the final selection was done he ended the ritual and for the second time in as many days, passed out.