Book of The Dead

Tyron thought seriously for a time before he replied.

“Some of them we’ve discounted. Acolyte is the generic choice and I think we can safely dismiss that.”

“As I said, sometimes these generic choices are the right ones. We can assume that picking this will advance you down the path you’re currently on. You’ll get the option to summon new undead, more feats along the line of what you’ve already seen. Options to upgrade existing skills. All that shit. Maybe fatter zombies.”

“You know how I feel about zombies,” Tyron tried not to sound elitist.

It wasn’t that zombies were bad, per se, but he just felt they were inferior. Why not make a skeleton out of that body? They were tougher, faster, stronger and didn’t stink to high heaven.

He knew exactly why. Zombies were quicker and dirtier to create. A slaughtered village could be turned into a mass of shambling horrors in a relative flash. To make his preferred minions, a lot of labour was required to butcher and stitch them, a waste of time to a Necromancer who wanted fast levels.

“Yeah, yeah. You hate the fleshy types. All about bony boys. Well, I have good news for you, Skeleton Master sounds like it's right up your alley.”

“Would it actually be worth it?” Tyron pondered. “I do prefer skeletons to the other undead I’ve had the option of creating so far, and since I already have skeleton mastery feats, I’ll always want to make them a focus of mine. But does that mean I want to take this class? It might narrow my options too much.”

He wouldn’t care if he could no longer progress by summoning zombies, but if he couldn’t create anything other than skeletons, he might be limiting himself.

“I don’t think you’d have no variety,” Dove mused, “but you would definitely have less. There are stronger types of skeleton than just the basic junk you’ve been running around with, and I don’t doubt that this class would give them to you eventually.”

The Necromancer could remember a few things he’d read in his parents’ manuals on different sorts of undead. In terms of skeletal varieties, he could only recall Revenants and Liches as being distinct from basic skeletons. A Revenant was essentially a spirit bound into the remains, similar to Dove’s situation right now, except with complete control of the whole body. A Lich was something else entirely, essentially a mage who had turned themselves into an undead in order to avoid death.

There was only one way for Tyron to make one of those and he wasn’t particularly keen on the idea. He quite liked his flesh, thanks very much. Besides, if he wanted to become an unliving nightmare made manifest, he had an option to hand. Whether Vampirism or Lichhood was the preferred method of eternal life, he didn’t want to consider. Zero steps down that path was the correct number of steps.

More potent varieties of skeleton were certainly a powerful draw to Tyron. He was so proficient at making them already, having invested time and effort to improve at bone stitching and butchery. In terms of short term power, this was undoubtedly the best choice for buffing up his minion options.

When it came down to it, the short term might be all he had.

“Is it really necessary to trap a spirit in order to create a Revenant?” he asked. “I don’t want to enslave the spirits of the dead to create my minions.”

“Oh, you don’t, do you? Funny, I never noticed,” Dove retorted sarcastically.

“Can you just answer the question?”

“Fine. Under protest. In short, I don’t fucking know. Knowing about undead is not the same as knowing how to make them. Revenants are certainly a step up from basic skeletons, though, much more feared and able to utilise aspects of the Unseen in a limited capacity.”

“Like using Skills and abilities?”

“In a very minor way. Even that is enough to put them way higher than your regular troops over there. If those advantages don’t come from a living spirit, then I have no idea where you’d get them.”

If his minions were actually able to utilise simple skills, such as swordsmanship, they would become far more deadly. The prospect was enough to excite the young mage, but not enough to wipe away the negative association he had with enslaving the dead. He may eventually be put in a place where he had no choice but to engage in such practices if he wanted to progress, but he hoped not.

He thought of the stone in his pack and then wrenched his thoughts away.

It was this line of thought that leaned him away from Spirit-Tuner. It would likely be a powerful option, giving him immediate access to ghosts as minions, or at least quickly. Until he could reconcile the practice with his morals, though, he would rather avoid it. Besides, if he stepped over the line and began to perform tasks that others would see as truly immoral and unforgivable, then what path back to society remained for him? It was a narrow thread of hope that he clung to, he knew there was almost no chance he would ever be accepted, but he refused to let it go. He needed that hope. He was dangerously close to losing it already. He thought of what was hidden in his pack, but wrenched his thoughts away. He had to focus.

Horde Initiate and Dark Ritualist were both dismissed after little consideration. It was impractical for him to run around with a huge number of minions anyway, let alone difficult for him to secure that many remains. Quality over quantity had been Tyron’s Necromancer motto from the beginning and he wasn’t going to change now. As far as the ritualist went, he wasn’t interested in sending his class down a sideways path like that.

There was no point pursuing a different aspect of his magick than the one he was on. He’d already poured everything he could into improving his minions, it would be a massive waste to throw away those gains and focus on something else.

Which left the Undead Weaver. This was what he had unlocked for mastering the basic skills.

“I know what you’re thinking, kid. Skeleton or Weaver. With the lack of information we have, the choice basically boils down to power now, or power later. My guess is that picking the Bone Master will give you access to a spell or skill that would immediately improve your skeleton creation. I don’t know what it would be, bone hardening, bone stiffening, rigid bones, glory bones except only effective in the morning.”

“You done?”

“I’ve got more….”

“Pass.”

“Fine. Weaver is more likely to boost your initial skills, building up a firmer foundation, and then possibly give you access to similar abilities as the other classes, but further down the line.”

“A strong foundation is what all the best Slayers have,” Magnin laughed. “Having swordsmanship at level thirty might not be as sexy as ten levels in ‘legendary dervish style’ or some bullshit, but it’s ten times as effective. People chase the flashy stuff way too early, it’s a classic mistake. As long as you progress, the flashy stuff comes on its own in time. Running after it is a complete waste of time.”

“Undead Weaver,” Tyron stated confidently.

“You sure, kid?” Dove queried.

“Positive.”

“Alright, stick a paw print on that sucker and get ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“You’ll find out,” Yor smiled.

Not sure what they were on about, Tyron swallowed and pressed his bloody thumbprint next to the Undead Weaver entry on the status page. Then he ended the ritual.

At once, a sensation he had felt before swept over him. He was pulled from his body and into the endless void of darkness and light once more.

The Awakening.

The voice of infinity spoke to him once more. Was it the gods? Or did the words come from the Unseen itself?

Tyron Steelarm. You have dedicated yourself to the pursuit of your dark craft and have chosen to pursue it to perfection. Your embrace of the Necromancer path shows your Class was no error. Control you desire, and control you shall have.

You are Ascending.

+10 to all stats.

You are able to advance Mysteries to the next stage.

You have received the Class: Undead Weaver.

A seeker of perfection, the Undead Weaver is an expert crafter of the minions for which they are feared. To advance, create Undead, have them fight in your name, and improve your craft.

Class Attributes per level:

Strength +1;

Constitution +2;

Intelligence +3;

Wisdom +1;

Willpower + 1;

Manipulation +1;

Poise + 2;

The maximum Skill limit of Raise Dead has been increased to 20.

The maximum Skill limit of Corpse Preparation has been increased to 20.

The maximum Skill limit of Corpse Appraisal has been increased to 20.

You have been granted the Skill: Minion Modification. This allows you to change and improve undead that have already been created.

The knowledge flooded into his mind, then he was slammed back into his body. Every inch of him burned, physically and mentally. He groaned slowly and slumped forward.

“It's fucking wild, right?” Dove chortled.

In the ruins of Woodsedge

Beory looked out over what remained of the former frontier town from atop the city wall. At least, atop a stable piece of it. When the rift-kin had come through the area, they hadn’t bothered to use the gates. Enormous gaps had been smashed through the town’s defences by the big critters, allowing the smaller ones to run rampant throughout.

After all this time, one might have thought the signs of conflict would have faded, but they were still there to see for someone with an experienced eye. Sun bleached bones, picked over by wildlife, were scattered here and there. Dark, rust coloured stains that some might mistake for dirt, or soot, Beory knew to be blood.

Many had died in the catastrophe here, too slow to escape the oncoming horde. She struggled to bring herself to care.

Impatient, she tapped her foot on the wall as she looked into the distance. The trees were still thick enough to block her eyes, but to her arcane senses, the rift was as clear as day. The energy there still swirled chaotically. One realm smashing into another tended to have that effect. Yet it was much subdued compared to what it would have been as little as a week ago. The magick unleashed in the collision had dispersed now, returning the rift to a ‘normal’ state.

Although it would never go back to exactly what it had been before. After the break had occurred, the rift would be wider, more powerful kin would be able to squeeze through. One step closer to this world falling into the abyss, just as the others had.

“What’s taking him so long?” she muttered under her breath.

There was a twitch at the edge of her senses and she huffed. By the time the breath had passed her lips, Magnin stood next to her on the wall, a broad grin on his face.

“You’re looking as beautiful as when I last saw you, my flower,” he said.

“That was five minutes ago,” she replied.

“That explains it then,” he said, rubbing thoughtfully at his chin. Beory rolled her eyes.

“Enough of that. Did you see it?”

“Of course I saw it. What do you think I was doing over there?”

“And?”

Magnin gestured indifferently.

“It’s wider. Of course it’s wider. What the hell did they think was going to happen? You have a break, the rift gets wider.”

“How much wider, I think, was the question they wanted answered,” Beory rolled her eyes. Her husband, as usual, was being deliberately obtuse.

“I’ve got the readings,” he said, rolling his shoulders. ”When the ro’klaw catches up with us I’ll be able to send them back.”

He cast his eyes down across the ruins of the town. His expression hardened.

“This didn’t need to happen,” he said.

“Do you feel guilty?” Beory asked him.

He looked at her, a brow raised.

“No. Should I?”

“Of course not,” she scoffed, “but I wanted to make sure. You often get the wrong idea stuck in your head.”

“Worry not, my dearest. I save all of my loathing for those who deserve it, rather than myself.”

Beory nodded, satisfied, before her eyes grew misty.

“Tyron was here,” she said quietly. “I can sense his magick.”

“What?” Magnin panicked. “Do you think he made it out?”

“He was here after the break. I can tell.”

“That’s a relief.”

Beory wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.

“I want to see him, Magnin. I want to see my boy.”

The swordsman stepped forward and embraced her gently.

“We can’t do that. You know we can’t do that. Not until the end.”

“I know. But it’s hard.”

“Of course it is. It was your idea.”

They remained like that for several long minutes, balanced atop the wall around Woodsedge.

“It’ll start again tomorrow,” Beory said, freeing herself and wiping her eyes. She looked up into Magnin’s eyes, letting him see the steel in her own.

“It’s been a nice vacation,” he grinned. “I was almost starting to miss getting tortured.”

“How long can we hold on this time?”

He shrugged.

“A couple of weeks. Maybe. I think they’ll go harder this time. The powers that be want this mess done and dealt with. They’ve run out of patience.”

“They’ll get their wish. I just hope they come to regret it.”

Magnin laughed.

“Of course they will. We made sure of it.”

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