Book of the Dead 1-11 (edited) (Patreon)

Still a little rough and there's some inconsistencies but these are the edited chapters that are up on royal road. 

(This is the new title for the necromancer side story by the by).

Chapter 1 - The boy in the attic

The tolling bell warned Tyron that he didn't have much time left. With a sigh he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his tired eyes, smudging ink across his cheek as he did so. With any luck, this would be the last time he would have to pull an all-nighter keeping his uncle’s books. As much as he appreciated the income, the hours he was forced to keep put a lot of pressure on his sleep schedule. Sitting up straight, he closed the ledger in front of him, cleaned his brush and capped the ink before storing it away. The pot found its place atop a row of volumes neatly stood on the desk, the spine facing outward. Behind the books, on the wall itself, page after page of handwritten notes covered the surface, each neatly pinned into place, each filled with sigils, strange iconography and diagrams.

The sun had already begun to rise, the weak morning light streaming through the upstairs window and into the attic that had become his home away from home, as well as a makeshift office. As much you could call a bedroll in the corner a home, or a worn down table covered in worn books and paper filled with runes an office. As Tyron stood, he stumbled, his muscles more stiff than he anticipated. He cursed and paused for a moment to stretch before he gathered his ledger and walked toward the ladder. It may not have been glamorous, or even comfortable, but he felt at home here. Everything in the room was where it was because he had put it there. It was his own in a way his family home had never quite been.

The dust was starting to gather in the corners again, he observed with a critical eye. Also, it appeared the spiders were beginning to think he'd declared a truce, and had begun to creep back in, industriously weaving whilst he worked. When he returned in the evening, he'd need to disabuse them of that particular notion. The war on arachnids never ended, and Tyron was ever ready to rejoin the front lines. The young man creaked as he walked, his eyes felt dry as sawdust after a full night of work. He needed to freshen up.

Careful not to slip, breaking a foot was not something he cared to repeat, he climbed down the wooden ladder and was greeted by his uncle, Worthy, the moment he reached the bottom.

"There you are, lad!" came an enthused cry before a heavy arm slammed down on the youth's shoulders the second he reached the floor. "I'd begun to think you'd already headed out for the day!"

Tyron staggered under the weight of the former Hammerman's enthusiastic greeting before he held up the ledger and waved it in his relative's face.

"I've been doing your accounting, remember? You aren't going to forget to pay me are you? Again?"

Worthy Steelarm's bright blue eyes darted away for a second before coming back to rest on his nephew's face, once more bright with mirth. "That was only the once, lad! No need to keep bringing it up! Anyway, forget those damned books, don’t you know what day it is?"

The older man snatched the book away with ease and tossed it carelessly onto a nearby table, his shorter nephew still trapped under the weight of his arm.

"I'm hardly likely to forget my own Awakening, Uncle," he squeezed out, "it's all anyone's wanted to talk to me about for days. You included!"

"Is that why you've been hidden in my attic?" his uncle laughed. "You only go through the Awakening ceremony once, after all! I've been waiting a long time for this day. A long time. Can't believe that little screaming pile of cloth is all grown up! It's a damn shame your parents weren't able to make it back in time."

Emotion billowed up in his chest but Tyron reflexively shoved it down.

"They tried," he shrugged, "you know as well as I do that they go where the wind takes them."

"Aye, I do know that. Born to adventure, those two. I've always said it." Worthy's eyes softened as he looked down at his nephew. He withdrew his arm and ruffled the boy's hair with one hand. When the lad looked up at him, indignant, he just chuckled and clapped him on the shoulder.

"Born to it they were, lad. Like nothing I ever seen. But that don't mean they shouldn't be here for this. They'll be right ashamed of themselves the next time they roll into town. As they should be! I'll be givin' 'em hell about it for the next twenty years! At least! As for you, make it fifty years! Hound them into the damn grave with it! Just promise me that you'll forgive them. Alright?"

Tyron felt a surge of affection for the gruff old man and awkwardly hugged him with one arm.

"It's not like I can hold a grudge against them. You know what they're like."

"Aye, I do. That's why I forgive them their lapses, but it doesn't mean they get a free pass. Now you go and wash up. I can't have a member of my family showing up at their Awakening looking like they haven't slept for three days!" He paused and his eyes narrowed. "When wasthe last time you slept?"

"Uhhh."

"I knew it! Get the hell out of here and into a cold shower you daft boy!" With a playful shove, his uncle sent him staggering toward the kitchens before turning to greet the staff walking in the door.

The young man chuckled to himself as he stumbled out of the common room and into the inn's kitchen where he was greeted by his aunt Megan. The older woman looked up from the porridge she was making, no doubt the breakfast for this morning and smiled.

"Hello there, Tyron. Heard the grouch giving you a hard time. As if you weren't up doing his own work for him," she sniffed, "well I won't have you thinking we don't appreciate it. Come in here and sit. Let me know how the porridge tastes. I levelled up my Cooking Skill last night and I'm excited to know the difference."

Never one to turn down his aunt's cooking, Tyron was all too happy to take a seat and partake of the morning's offering. That Megan was the finest Cook in Foxbridge was beyond debate, and a large part of the reason the Steelarm Inn drew the customers it did. That she'd managed another level just meant her already formidable advantage would be stretched even further.

Soon, a steaming hot bowl of porridge landed on the bench in front of him and he pulled up a stool to settle in. After he blew on it, he took a sample from the edge to test it.

"Sensational, Aunt Meg. Even better than before," he said sincerely.

"What a nice boy you are," she beamed, proud of her achievement. "Now eat up. You're so thin that people will start saying we don't feed you and we can't have that!"

"Yes, ma'am," he grinned and started to eat whilst his aunt nattered on behind him.

After getting a dose of the town gossip and what the old birds around town thought what Class everyone would get today (apparently he was a shoe-in for Clerk), Tyron excused himself and made his way out behind the inn to wash up. Cold water from the barrel and soap worked its magic, as it always did, and he felt much refreshed when he made his way back inside to find the inn already clicking into gear.

The kitchen hands had arrived, as well as Lauren and Gwen, the two maids, who'd begun to make the rounds of the common room, serving the morning clientele. Uncle Worthy did as he did best; pulled drinks and wowed the audience with tales of his adventures. You'd think the man had been a Bard before he retired, given his easy charm. He was already deep into the Mountain Drake story when Tyron snuck past and out the door, the bell over the door his only witness.

He sighed with relief as he ducked his head and made his way back down Leaven Street to his own house, just a few doors down. Foxbridge was coming awake by this time, but today there was a particular, nervous frisson in the air. It was Awakening day. Yet another year’s worth of children would transition into adults and receive their Class. A big day for any child and a proud day for any parent. If they were here.

He shook thoughts of his parents out of his head and choked the coiling excitement in his belly until it had fully receded. What will be, will be. No need to get nervous or excited, he warned himself. As he walked toward his own, familiar door, he couldn't help but recall the advice his father gave him regarding his first Class.

"Now, this isn't something that you'll hear about in your lessons," he'd said in his charismatic drawl, "but it's something that a lot of us Monster Slayers and Delvers know."

He'd leaned back and taken a long draw from his pipe. A habit he'd developed during a recent expedition visiting the mountain folk, much to his mother's disgust.

"They say the Primary Class you're given is chosen by the Gods themselves. That they use the stone to peer into your heart and look at the person you are before they give you the power to realise your dreams. I don't know if that's true, but what I do know is that the Primary Class is tailored to the person. It can't be just random chance. But here's the thing..."

He'd leaned in at this point, his bright eyes dazzling to the young Tyron.

"Nobody who renounces their first Class has risen to the top. Not one. Sub-Classes will never make up the loss, even for a human. That's why I'm telling you, keep your Class. I don't care what it is, Robber, Thief, Prostitute, heck, even a filthy Merchant." He spat for emphasis. "That is the Class that fits you and your Mother and I don't care what it is. We'll accept it just as we accept you. Okay? Stick to the path laid out before you. There's no such thing as shame between us."

It was impossible for Tyron to hate Magnin and Beory Steelarm. They were terrible parents. He could admit that, and so would they. But what they did do was love him unconditionally, and for that he was grateful. They accepted him for who he was, much like they accepted themselves. Rather than bottle up their wanderlust, grow resentful and bitter until they hated each other, they indulged it. Once he turned fourteen, they'd offered to bring him along on their travels, but he never felt comfortable accepting the offer. That was their world and he suspected he would feel like an intruder, even if he was their son. He wasn't sure he wanted to be a Slayer in the first place. Who knows? Maybe he wouldwind up a Clerk.

As he pulled his heavy iron key out of his pocket he chuckled at the thought of his father's face if he found out his son had earned a Bookkeeping Class. He turned the lock and walked into the still house. The dust had accumulated over the last few days, or maybe it was closer to a week now? When he thought about it, he wasn't sure how long it had been since he was home. As always, the air felt heavy here. So much space with nobody to fill it made the house feel uncomfortable. That was why he hesitated to stay here by himself even after his uncle had decided he was old enough.

Not wanting to dwell on negative thoughts, he walked to his room and pulled out a clean set of clothing to pull on. A minute later and he was done. Although he owned bright coloured clothes, most of them gifts from his mother, he only wore them on sufferance. Today he would wear his usual, neutral greys and dark colours which helped to hide the ink stains. Not like his parents could complain since they weren't here.

Once he was dressed and found his good boots he took a little time to tidy around the house. He didn't need to get to the town square for a few hours yet, although some of the other eighteen year old townsfolk were sure to be there already. He couldn't blame them. Some of them had been waiting for this day their whole lives, as if everything up to this point had been a waste of time. Eighteen years of life, all in preparation for this day.

After an hour of futile wiping and rinsing, Tyron gave up and collected his documentation from the kitchen table where he'd last left it. The Mayor was a stickler for the rules and those rules required that a Status reading performed within a fortnight of Awakening be presented on the day before the ceremony. Not wanting to get caught in the late rush, he'd gotten his reading from Mrs Barbury the town Scribe thirteen days in advance. He glanced down at the page, noting the clean hand it was written in.

Status Report Dated 14/6/5447

Name: Tyron Steelhand.

Age: 18

Race: Human (Level 10)

Racial Feats:

Level 5: Steady Hand.

Level 10: Night Owl.

Attributes:

Strength:

12

Dexterity:

11

Constitution:

15

Intelligence:

16

Wisdom:

15

Willpower:

18

Charisma:

13

Manipulation:

10

Poise:

13

General Skills:

Arithmetic (Level 5)

Handwriting (Level 4)

Concentration (Level 2)

Cooking (Level 1)

Sling (Level 3)

Swordsmanship (Level 1)

Skill Selections Available: 3

General Spells:

Globe of Light (Level 8)

Sleep (Level 4)

Mana Bolt (Level 1)

Mysteries:

Words of Power (Initial) : INT +3 WILL +3

It was short and to the point but it communicated the entirety of Tyron's eighteen years of life. Strange, how so much of a person could be contained within such a short list. Yet, he had to admit it painted a rather complete picture. Almost everyone levelled up their Race to ten by the time they turned eighteen, many were able to push it higher than that. Since experience was gained through what they were taught to call 'human experiences', such as socialising, forming emotional connections and engaging in community activities, it was a small miracle Tyron had gotten it to level ten. He had his aunt, uncle and small circle of friends to thank for that.

Some people liked to save their feat selections until they knew what their class was, but Tyron had decided some general purpose feats with a wide variety of applications would be fine to choose. He didn't like the idea of not moving forward at all with his life until he Awakened, so he'd chosen his feats as soon as he could. He'd been helping keep the books at the Inn since he was ten, so the Steady Hand feat made sense to him. That had helped with his penmanship and would surely prove useful for almost any class he received. Mages needed exceptional fine motor skills, Craftspeople, Archers, even Clerks.

Since he was trying to balance studying, practicing his spellcraft and working for his uncle, he'd found his nights had gotten later and later. The Night Owl feat kept him alert at night and helped to alleviate the fatigue he felt from lack of sleep. That was a choice he'd never regret. Many overlooked this feat but it had been a lifesaver for Tyron.

His attributes were fairly normal for his age. Higher mental attributes as opposed to physical made perfect sense, considering his build and lifestyle. Sorry Dad, it looked like your child had taken after his mother in this regard. Hopefully Magnin had given up hope his son would inherit his Swordsman Class years ago as it was certain it wouldn't happen. Higher than usual constitution was nice, he was rarely sick and could handle all-nighters like a champion. His Charisma managed to hold at barely above average thanks more to his inherited appearance than his own personal charm. His father's piercing blue eyes and mother's silky dark hair were surely worth a few points, which no doubt compensated for his generally awkward demeanour and soft spoken voice.

He'd followed the wisdom of his elders in not using all of his Skill choices. These were rare and he might need those selections to shore up his weaknesses or push harder at his strengths depending on his eventual Class. The Skills he had were a testament to his hard work. Alright, he hadn't earned Arithmetic or Handwriting the hard way, but bought them using his Skill Selections, however the rest were all him. His father had insisted he train until he earned Swordsmanship and Tyron had almost cried with relief two years ago when it finally appeared. The endless drills had been far more draining than the hunts his Mother took him on where he'd learned the Sling.

His crowning achievement was the Words of Power Mystery alongside his small selection of Magicks. That wasn't easy to earn outside of a Class and without any of the bonus Attributes mages had access to, but Tyron had persisted until the endless theory grinding had paid off. Mother will be so proud when she finds out, the last time she'd seen his full status had been a year ago and he hadn’t possessed a mystery at that time. The Spells he'd learned were fairly basic, he used Light rather than candles to work at night since it was cheaper and helped him train. The Sleep spell had been tricky to learn and so far had been exclusively used on himself to fight off insomnia. Mana Bolt was the basic offensive Spell that anyone could cast. Spending his time wrestling with books rather than monsters had meant he hadn't had much chance to level it up.

With everything he needed to hand he might as well get going. Destiny awaited.

Chapter 2 - Awakening

Tyron didn't even make it to the door before there was a modest knock. He frowned, it was unusual for anyone to try and find him in this house, since he was almost never here. This person must have seen him come in. That narrowed the list of suspects quite considerably. He approached the thick wooden door and paused.

"Elsbeth?" He called through the door.

"How did you know?" came the muffled reply.

"Intuition."

He smiled to himself and turned the latch, opening the door to the day and the bright young woman on the other side. He was greeted with a wide smile and warm green eyes that danced with excitement.

"Hey, Tyron! Are you ready for the big day? Are those cleanclothes I spy?"

"Ah, yeah. I thought I should … dress up, a bit."

"You look good! I thought I'd dress up a little myself. What do you think?"

She performed a quick twirl for him, letting her long dress flutter in the wind as she giggled girlishly. The dress itself left her slender arms bare whilst reaching down to below her knees. Tyron idly noticed that she also had her best shoes on for the occasion, and maybe… was she wearing a hint of powder?

"You look great," he said, honestly.

She calmed herself with a hand to her chest and smiled.

"Thanks. I know I shouldn't have bothered, but I just couldn't help but get excited! I can't believe it's finally happening..."

She was so animated and full of life it was almost blinding to see, Tyron glanced to one side as he wished that smile was only for him.

"Yeah. It's getting close to time, are you ready to go?"

"Ready? I've been ready for hours! The only reason I'm out here is I've been waiting for you! The others are already waiting at the library, so hurry up!"

"Fine, fine," he grumbled as he stepped through the doorway and locked it behind him. "Nobody told you guys you had to wait for me."

Elsbeth just rolled her eyes.

"Oh sure, after ten years of class together we'll just drop you on the last day. Now come on."

She grabbed him by the arm and hauled him down the cobbled street, her soft shoes barely making a sound on the road. He put up with it for a moment until he felt uncomfortable and pulled his arm free.

"I'm coming, okay? You're going to ruin your shoes, let's just walk."

"Fine," she huffed and set off at a brisk pace toward the centre of town.

Foxbridge wasn't a particularly large or important town. It held no strategic value or rare resource and its relatively rural location doomed it to mediocrity. What it did have was a fairly central location in this province, relative safety and a river. The Blue River flowed from the ironically named Red Stone Mountains and carried its way toward the central province near the capital, which meant the little trade that occurred out here all went through the town. The end result was a quietly prosperous rural hub, perfect for a family to live quietly and start a business or farm, or for a roving pair of Slayers to drop their child in his uncle's hands.

There were a few amenities that most children in the outer edges of the Kingdom wouldn't have access to, such as the school, library and among other things, a fully charged Awakening Stone. Which meant on the year they turned eighteen, people from all over the outer edges of the province would travel here for the ceremony. Tyron hoped the Mayor had a good night's sleep, he'd be watching over the ceremony from midday to close to midnight in all likelihood.

Indeed, as the pair approached the square, the crowds grew thicker and the faces noticeably more hairless. By the time they'd closed in on the library the bodies were shoulder to shoulder.

"This is why I wanted to get here early," Elsbeth threw him a mournful look as she raised herself onto her toes to look for their friends. "Ah! I see them! Let's go."

She started to push her way through the crowd with a determined set to her face, leaving Tyron no choice but to sigh and follow, apologising as he went. Thankfully, nobody took any serious offence and they were able to make their way to the wooden railing in front of the library in one piece.

"Took you long enough," Rufus smirked, "I told you he would sleep in. You didn't need to wait for him."

Elsbeth waved a hand to brush off the criticism.

"There's no harm done, we're all here now. Right, Laurel?"

The fourth member of their small circle just shrugged her shoulders.

"It's fine. How're you doing, Tyron?"

"Tired," he sighed, "but I'm here."

Rufus threw him a baffled look, as if wondering how he could possibly be tired after sleeping in to such an hour, but Laurel just nodded.

"Had any more thoughts on what Class you'll get?" she asked.

Naturally all anyone had wanted to talk about for the last year was their Class, indeed, most of their childhood was focussed on this topic. It created a lot of pressure and excitement amongst most kids but Tyron was just bored with it. They'd talked about it around and around in circles for almost a decade already. Nobody knew anything for certain until the event happened. Making up endless plans that may never come to fruition was a waste of mental energy.

"No," he sighed, "to be honest, I'm just looking forward to getting it done. I want to get my Class, read up on it and go home. I'm ready to move on with my life."

"Always the books with you," Rufus scoffed. "We should get out and celebrate! We're awakening today!"

"What if we get an unsanctioned Class?" Elsbeth fretted. "If I got something banned, I don't know what I'd do."

"Get it removed," Rufus shrugged, "work on getting a new Class. You don't even need to leave town to get it done since that old bat, Barbury is here."

"Remember two years ago when that guy got Thief and refused to give it up? I'd never seen the Mayor so mad," Laurel laughed.

A sour feeling turned in Tyron's gut. That man had tried to flee town back to his village without having his status read after the Awakening. After being caught by the marshals and dragged back to town he'd been Appraised and then refused to renounce the Thief Class. The mayor had cut off both his hands. Without the ability to steal, the would-be Thief would never be able to level his Class, crippling him for life.

"I don't know why you're worried Elsbeth, you're practically a guarantee for Priestess," Laurel teased.

"Don’t even say that!" Elsbeth raised both hands and shook them in denial. "Priestesses are rare! Just because I help out at the Church doesn't mean a thing."

Silently, Tyron agreed with Laurel, if anyone was going to be a Priestess it was Elsbeth, but then, who knew? The Gods were fickle, after all. At the talk of the Priestess Class, Rufus' eyes flickered and he raised to voice to speak to the group.

"Have you guys put any thought toward my suggestion?"

Tyron's shoulders slumped a little when his old friend brought up the topic. He'd known this would come up, it always did.

"We don't even know what Classes we're going to get, Rufus. There's not much point pledging to be Slayers together now, is there?"

"Always a doubter, Tyron." Rufus mocked. "Look at the four of us. We've got a great mix, waiting to happen. I'll be a Warrior or Swordsman, no question, Laurel will be Ranger or Archer, Elsbeth will be our healer and Tyron can be the Mage. It's a perfect setup."

It wasn't as if Rufus' plan was entirely without merit. Rufus was a blacksmith's son and had built the muscle required to help at the forge, but spent most of his time doing weapon drills in the School practice yard. With his fiery red hair, solid skills and irritable temper, he had a bit of a reputation about town as a trouble maker. Laurel was a quiet, dark skinned girl who picked up hunting from her father. She was often away for week-long stretches tracking weaker monsters in the woods. She'd confessed to Tyron once that her Archery Skill had reached level five, a massive achievement for her age. Elsbeth was likely to be a healer of some sort, given the time she spent volunteering to help the sick and her natural disposition. Having access to healing magic in the field was as rare as hen's teeth. Any group would be begging Elsbeth to join should she get such a Class. Which just left Tyron.

Even he had to admit he was perfectly set up to be a Mage of some type, be it Conjurer, Elementalist, Summoner or one of the other countless varieties. His Mental Stats were high for his age, he'd worked hard on his Spell Working theory and his practical Skills had progressed nicely. Secretly, Tyron hoped for the Wizard class. They weren't suited to working as a Monster Slayer, since their magicks were generally too broad in scale. If he could rank up to Arch-Wizard then he'd get his own tower somewhere and be left to his own devices until the Kingdom needed him to drop a comet on something, then he could go back to his books.

Still, he would commit to whatever Class he got. He just hoped it wasn't Dancer or Musician. Having to perform in front of crowds to level up would be a nightmare. Also, the idea of having to work so closely with others just … rubbed him the wrong way. He could like his friends without wanting to spend weeks on end with them, right? Although if Elsbeth joined…

"Maybe if I get the Swordsman class your dad might finally train me. You'll ask him for me, right?" Rufus asked.

Tyron shrugged again.

"Rufus, you've asked him to train you, I'veasked him to train you. I don't think he wants to teach anyone."

"He taught you, didn't he?" Rufus refuted.

"He taught me some drills so I could pick up the Swordsmanship Skill," Tyron reminded him, exasperated, "you know that."

"I don't know why he wasted his time," the other boy muttered, "he could have trained someone who actually wantedto learn how to handle a blade."

"Oh, I think it's about to start!" Elsbeth cut in, keen to avert an argument.

Tyron shook his head and Laurel flashed him a sly grin before they all turned to face the front. The Mayor had taken the stage and had begun shuffling his papers in his too large hands. The man always looked out of place at formal events. In Tyron's opinion, he was far more suited, and happier, behind a plough working his fields. Since his family had slaved and saved for generations working the land, they had become quite prosperous by rural standards. Deserving folk if there ever were any.

Mayor Arryn wiped one hand across his dark tanned forehead to clear the sweat and steady himself. He hated this event. He had to put on his good shirt, buttoned all the way up to his neck for twelve hours straight, by far the longest public engagement of the year. Right in the middle of watering season as well. Idiotic timing and he'd told the Baron as much to his face. There was no changing that fat toad’s mind so there was nothing for it. He rolled his broad shoulders once and began to speak.

"Welcome all to this year's Awakening ceremony. I am Mayor Arryn of Foxbridge and I greet you all. There are many from out of town here today and I welcome our friends from across the province. Break the law in my town and I'll have you run out by the marshals without a stitch of clothing on your back."

Silence.

"Glad we understand each other." He coughed. "Regulations around the ceremony are the same as last year. A five day grace period is allowed during which you must register with the Scribe to have your Status Appraised so your Class may be registered. Hopefully it doesn't come up, but any Unsanctioned Classes must be revoked. That is the law. We will get started in the usual order, locals first, travellers after. If you've come from out of town, please move to the back or better yet, get out of the square, you won't be needed here for a few hours."

So saying, the Mayor jumped down from his podium and walked to the small plinth outside the town hall which housed the town's Awakening Stone only for this day of the year. Tyron had tried to learn what he could of the Awakening Stone, but there wasn't a lot to go on, at least in the texts he was able to find. They'd been used for thousands of years to help Awaken people to their Primary Class, supposedly helping to channel the energy of the Gods. Mother had said they were just high quality Mana Stones that acted as a conduit between the vessel (person) and magical energies that filled their world. Whatever the case, everyone would get their Class once they clapped their hands on that rock.

"You heard him, let's go."

Rufus jumped down and began pushing his way through the crowd, using his height and strength to tunnel a path. Laurel and Elsbeth followed eagerly in his wake whereas Tyron moved a beat behind. Which naturally meant he was jostled from start to finish by irritated farmers who'd travelled a long way and now had to wait for these soft city-folk.

Grimacing behind his rigid smile Tyron pressed forward and joined the others of his age group from Foxbridge. There weren't many who turned eighteen this year, only thirty three, which was a decent enough group for a town of this size. Most of them had attended school together, not all had been as frequently in attendance as Tyron. Most of them were farmers' kids, or from merchant families or even dock workers and most of them spent their time helping the family trade. The Steelarms were in the monster slaying business and Tyron sure as hell wasn't helping out with that. But slaying certainly paid well, especially for veterans with high levels like his parents, so Tyron had the luxury of being able to attend his lessons every day and get his head stuffed full of history, magical theory, monster biology, politics and mathematics.

Of course this meant his reputation as a stuffy bookworm was cemented amongst his peers.

Whilst Elsbeth, Laurel and Rufus greeted the others and engaged in excited banter as they formed a somewhat orderly line, Tyron held back and kept to himself until he could take his place toward the back. As he stepped behind the doughy form of the baker's son he felt ice creep into his veins and his heart begin to thud in his chest.

He took deep, calming breaths. No big deal. Doesn't matter what Class comes out. Just stick to it. Simple as that. You'll get other Classes down the road anyway, this is just the first one.

Just your primary one.

He silently cursed the traitor voice in his mind and tried to master his emotions. Be calm. Don't worry. It'll be done soon, you can go home and relax, study your new Class. You've been waiting to do that for a long time. As Tyron tried to settle himself, the ceremony began at the front of the line. Four burly town guards flanked the Mayor, who was larger than all them, who stood in front the brightly glowing Awakening Stone. The plinth the stone rested on was roped off from the crowd, though many pressed forward to watch the youths undertake this rite of passage. At the front of the line, naturally, was Rufus. He stepped forward confidently and half listened as the Mayor told him what to do. As soon as he was given permission he stepped forward and placed both hands on the stone, almost covering it with his large hands.

To those watching it looked as if his eyes went blank, the consciousness behind them gone, before they filled once more with life and a broad grin split his face. His jubilation was clear to see and those observing let out a smattering of applause. It was always good to see a young one getting a Class they hoped for. Brimming with excitement, Rufus stepped to one side and nodded absently as the Mayor reminded him of his obligations, his eyes already scanning the line for his friends. When he found Elsbeth and Laurel toward the front he grinned excitedly and clenched his fist. When he found Tyron at the back he flashed a gleeful look and waved.

Well, at least he's happy. Must have gotten a sword-oriented Class like he'd hoped for. Tyron knew he'd be getting pestered about asking his Father to train him until his parent's next came home. At least it wouldn't be long. His parent's had intended to get back yesterday but had been delayed on the road. They were four days out according to their last letter, a week at most. He could tolerate Rufus for that long. If worst came to worst, he'd retreat to his 'office' in the attic, it had worked before and would work again.

The next person stepped up, then the next and then it was Laurel's turn. Her reaction was far more subdued than Rufus' had been but Tyron could tell from the slight upward curve of her lips that she was delighted. Which was interesting, since Tyron had never really pegged down what sort of Class she wanted. She tended to agree with whatever the person in front of her would suggest without ever offering her own opinion. She might tell him what she had, but most likely she wouldn't. She might have counted him as a friend, but she tended to keep her cards close to her chest.

There was only one person between Laurel and Elsbeth and soon it was the young girls' turn. Her bright blonde hair sparkled in the sun as she nervously stepped forward. He silently cheered her on in his head as she nodded dumbly to the Mayor's words and then staggered forward, almost falling onto the stone but catching herself by planting her hands directly on it.

There was a moment of silence as her eyes went blank. When the light came back to her she was still and silent for a moment longer before a dazzling smile broke out on her face and tears formed in her eyes. To one side Rufus clenched both fists as his eyes blazed with triumph. Even Laurel looked shocked for a moment before she recovered her poise. It was harder for Tyron to see but from the stir at the front and Elsbeth's body language it appeared as if the long shot had indeed come through and had become a Priestess.

"Good on you El," he mouthed to no-one in particular as the girl in question collected herself and dashed toward her mother who had closed the tailoring shop to watch the big event.

Shortly afterwards Elsbeth, Laurel and Rufus disappeared from the square leaving Tyron alone in the crowd. He tried to shrug it off. They had family to celebrate with and planning to do, their futures suddenly so much more clear than they had been a moment ago, whereas he still had to wait another half hour. It still stung. But no matter. He'd relied on himself thus far, he would cross the final hurdle the same way.

Person by person, the line diminished as each youth stepped forward and learned their fate. With every step forward Tyron had to master himself all over again as nervousness and anxiety rose to try and drag him down. By the time he finally reached the front he felt exhausted and a headache had begun to form in his temples. It could have been the lack of sleep, or the sun beating down on him or the repeated waves of emotion but as he stepped to the stone and the Mayor's mumbled words reached his ears he felt physically sick.

Almost done now. One step forward, throw your hands on the stupid rock and it's finished. You'll be able to make your own way, like you've always wanted. It's right there in front of you. Just TAKE IT.

And he did.

He drew a sudden, deep breath, took a long stride forward and slapped his hands down on the stone.

Immediately he felt as if his mind had been pulled from his body and into a vast space of light and darkness. He felt infinity. He felt cold. He didn’t feel anything at all. Time stretched out before him until he couldn't begin to guess how long he'd waited, then a voice spoke, the vibrations sending waves throughout his being.

Tyron Steelhand. You seek power. You seek control, both over yourself and your fate. What's more, you seek control over those around you, to ensure they will not hurt you, to ensure they will act according to your will. You have made the darkness your home and the study of the arcane your passion. Solitude and Authority are your desires. They shall be granted.

You have received the Class: Necromancer.

The Mage of the Dead, the Necromancer can summon spirits, create Undead and call upon Dark Magicks. To increase your proficiency, you must engage in the core pursuits of the Class; Raise the dead and drive them to battle on your behalf.

Class Attributes per level:

Intelligence +2;

Wisdom +1;

Constitution +1;

Manipulation +1;

Skills granted level one:

Corpse Appraisal.

Corpse Preparation.

Spells granted level one:

Raise Dead.

He felt his brain burn as the new knowledge was inscribed upon it. Half-understood whispers and slivers of thought were shoved into his head as he weakly tried to withstand the process. Then his mind slammed back into body and his senses returned. For a moment he didn't move. Couldn'tmove. What Class was this? What had just happened? He stood in front of the stone, his hands still clasped on it, stone still and gaping like a fish. Before he could formulate his thoughts, another voice burst into his mind and spoke directly to his soul. Where the first voice had been powerful and righteous, this one was dark and sinister.

Tyron Steelhand. The strings of fate have been woven tight around you in ways we find most amusing. With our aid it's possible that you may survive long enough to provide greater amusement still.

You have caught the Eye of the Dark Ones, The Scarlet Court and the Abyss. They have granted you a Special Class.

You have received the Sub-Class: Anathema.

You are the enemy of the righteous and villain in the eyes of the Gods. You have drawn the attention of those who lie beyond, but not their favour. To increase your proficiency, perform those acts that will please your dark patrons. Give worship and spread the Will of the Dark Ones, offer sacrifice and blood to The Scarlet Court or plumb the forbidden mysteries of the Abyss.

Class Attributes per level:

Constitution +2;

Intelligence +2;

Willpower +2;

Skills granted level one:

None.

Spells granted level one:

None.

On the heels of his first shock, the second numbed him almost to insensibility. He just wasn't able to process what he'd just heard. A Special Class? Anathema? Enemy of the Gods?! Frozen in place with his hands on the stone his mind raced to try and catch up until he heard a polite cough from next to him. Tyron turned his frantic gaze to the side to find the Mayor kindly looking back at him.

"Everything alright there, lad?"

Tyron reflexively forced a smile to his face and nodded.

"Of course! Everything's great!"

He stepped to one side to allow the next person through and managed to keep his feet steady as he walked back into the crowd. He pushed through until he reached the edge and clear streets opened up before him.

He ran.

Chapter 3 - Search

The town library was unusually busy at this time of day. Normally when Tyron visited he would nearly have the place to himself, but as more people unlocked their Class they would head here to consult with the town Scribe and research prospective paths and careers. It wasn't as if you couldn't do this sort of thing in advance of the Awakening, but most didn't bother. Tyron himself had done a great deal of research, trying to cover his bases and have at least some idea what his future would like, regardless of his eventual Class.

However, none of that work had included anything to do with Necromancy.

After running home and hyperventilating on the floor, Tyron had tried to calm down and think about what he should do next. His first thought was that he would have to renounce his new Class, consequences be damned. His father had told him he didn't care if he was a Thief or a Thug, but how would he feel about a Dark Mage who could raise the dead to unlife?! Probably not good! Even if he wanted to keep it, there was no chance he would be able to. He was expected to be Appraised by Mrs Barbury within five days. The moment his Class was revealed he would be forced to have it revoked and that would be that.

Even more troubling was the mysterious Sub-Class. During all of his research, Tyron had never heard mention of something like the Dark Ones, Scarlet Court or Abyss, let alone their ability to convey some sort of Special Class. Anathema. The name alone marked him an enemy of the good and righteous. If he actually did turn up to renounce the Necromancer Class and have it burned out of him, how would they react to his sub-class? The Church wasn't known for its tolerance of things that stank of dark magic. Would he be strung up on the spot?! Surely not… his parents would probably burn the place down when they got back. But could he take that chance?!

If he wanted to avoid the Appraisal then he would need to somehow flee town, avoid the marshals and survive on his own in the wilderness without the support of family or friends. Not to mention the complete and utter lack of survival skills. He might be able to hunt a rabbit or two, thanks to his mother, but Tyron wasn't exactly the outdoors type. No. It would be impossible for him to flee, and even if he succeeded, how was he supposed to survive and raise his level living in the wilds like a savage?

Was there really no other choice but to revoke his Class and Sub-Class? Maybe he could. Maybe they would just remove them and let him go about his way. Without his Primary Class slot and missing a Sub-Class slot, he'd be permanently crippled, but he'd be alive. Perhaps he could get Scribe training and be a village Scribe somewhere. Perhaps his parents would be able to afford for him to take on Alchemist training. There were options out there. Maybe he'd grow slower, maybe he'd never reach a higher level, but did that matter? He could live a safe and productive life somewhere, he could be useful and help people. Was it really important that he be exceptional?

As he lay on the floor and tried to convince himself to accept his fate, part of him refused to acknowledge his reasoning. What had the voice said? He wanted power. He wanted to control. As he tried to piece his thoughts together, Tyron could admit it was true. His parents were exceptional. Both of them were high level, in demand Slayers, heroes of the people, who roamed the wilds and defended civilisation. Deep down, he'd just expectedthat he would be the same. Maybe not a Slayer, but extraordinary, special. He wanted to stand out like they did. He didn't want to live in their shadow for his entire life. And what would they say? What sort of look would they give him when he told them his Class was gone, that he was going to be weak his entire life?

Reluctance, anger and grief slowly crystallised within him to form a newfound determination. He was exceptional. The Class he'd received proved it. He refused to give up on it without at least trying. Having formed his resolution he'd been able to pick himself up and ransack the books in his home. His parents had a small smattering of books on Classes and Skills about the place, things they'd picked up to use as a reference, along with many bestiaries. Tyron had read them all before but now he flicked through them, desperate to find any reference to Necromancers.

Unsurprisingly, there weren’t any. Unsanctioned Classes were illegal, therefore there was no reason to put any information about them in a publicly available text. The knowledge that he'd have no guide or reference to work from hit Tyron hard. There were thousands of books dedicated to explaining Classes, detailing Feats and Skills that were available and useful, entire essays that discussed prominent holders of the Class and how they'd structured their choices. There would be none of that on Necromancy. Famous Necromancers were anything but celebrated. The opposite more like. Throughout history there had been several who'd done significant damage…

History books!

That was when Tyron realised he'd been looking in the wrong place. He'd never get information from Class guides, they were useless. But there were references to Necromancers in history books. It wasn't nearly as useful, but something was much, much better than nothing.

Because Tyron didn't know much about Necromancy. Why would he? It was an illegal Class and therefore not discussed during lessons or written about in textbooks. His parents had never talked to him about Necromancers they'd worked with. Come to think of it, he'd never heard them mention Necromancers they'd worked against either. If he weren't as well read as he was, he may have never even heard of it at all.

So he'd hunted down every historical text he could find in the house, a grand total of two, and scoured them for any reference of Necromancers. After ten minutes of relentless page flicking he'd finally found a hit. He eagerly seized the sizable volume in both hands and brought it closer to his face. After a few moments he threw the book back in disgust. There was hardly anything. A slight reference to the devastation wrought by 'Arihnan the Black' in the Empire of Granin, to the west. A few lines about cities burned and armies destroyed before the Mage was finally brought down outside the walls of the capital.

At first Tyron was discouraged, but then his mind began to turn. Armies destroyed? Cities burned? A single mage had almost brought an entire Empire down. How had he done it? By raising zombies? That didn't make any sense. Brow furrowed, Tyron grabbed the few bestiaries in the house and tore through the pages, looking for references to Undead.

He found what he was looking for in the second volume, an entire chapter dedicated to Undead creatures, their characteristics, strengths and weaknesses. Zombies were weak, slow moving and easily dispatched monsters that could be threatening in large numbers. They were often found in locations of great death where mana was thick. Some advanced forms of zombie were able to pass the curse of undeath onto their victims, thus growing the horde. Any such monsters should be put down urgently.

Surely one mage with an army of weak, slow zombies wouldn't be much threat to anyone? There must be more to it. He flicked over the pages and read about skeletons, ghosts, bound spirits, undead mages, vampires, liches and other, nightmarish creatures. The most common were generally considered soft, full of exploitable weaknesses and easy fodder for proper Slayers. The more powerful undead were rare and seemed to have little do with necromancy. Vampires were created by existing vampires, apparently passing on some sort of curse to their victims. Liches were formed from powerful mages trying to extend their lives beyond death, most of them being Necromancers themselves, not something Tyron would be able to create.

There were small hints here but it was frustrating. One Necromancer was capable of bringing down cities! What incredible power! But how? What did this Arihnan actually do to build that sort of strength? He needed to know more.

Which is why he reluctantly decided he had to go to the library, where he found himself huddled over a small table toward the back of the reading area, pouring over texts relating to the history of the Granin empire and studying bestiaries on Undead. The bestiaries were pretty useless, not containing anything he hadn't been able to learn from those he'd read at home, but the history books were different. After an hour of searching through the modest history section, he'd been lucky enough to locate a volume dedicated to the Granin Empire and found an entire chapter dedicated to the disaster that had been the uprising or Arihnan the Black.

The book spoke glowingly of the valiant warriors who had stepped up to defeat the evil mage, of the Priests and Paladins who had taken up arms to put down the evil that threatened their people, but precious little time was devoted to discussing the mage himself. Other than describing him as a 'Necromancer of great power', very little time was given over to the man. Where was he from, where had he lived before his uprising, what made him try to bring down an entire Empire single handed? Nothing. It was baffling. Surely such a figure of historical importance warranted more than a casual mention?!

Still, there was some meat to be had. In the descriptions of the battles the author detailed the ranks of Skeletons bolstered by dark robed figures who had flung out curses and dark bolts of eldritch energy. There were monsters who'd been risen from the dead as well, wyverns with flesh dripping from their bones but nevertheless flew aloft and hounded the empire from the skies. Even skeletal knights on steeds of bone who thundered forward, heedless of danger, throwing themselves into the ranks before them to cut down as many as they could before the magic that held them together was broken.

And it was magic that held them together. The book detailed the moment that Arihnan had lost his head in excruciating, flowery language. One thing was clear though, the moment the mage had died, the entire army withered away and fell apart. Somehow, that one person had been holding the entire thing together.

Though he had no ambitions of destroying empires or burning cities of innocents to the ground, Tyron felt a sliver of excitement coiling in his gut. How many Classes could boast of this sort of power? The strength to control literal armies? What could he do with that sort of strength? Forget being a Slayer, he could conquer huge stretches of the wilds, exterminate monsters across land equivalent to a kingdom. Maybe he could put his own parents out of business.

He chuckled to himself at that thought but quickly sobered. If he were able to accumulate that sort of strength, the sort that Arihnan had possessed, but used it for good, he would be excused for his Class, perhaps even celebrated. Was this another path for him? He'd be reviled at first, sure, but with enough good deeds to his name, he'd be welcomed home, surely.

"Is everything alright, Tyron?" A soft voice spoke beside him.

"Gah!" Tyron jumped in his seat, his arms flinging out over the open books in front of him before he turned his head.

"Mrs. Barbury! How - How are you?"

The woman in question eyed him with a cool gaze until he started to sweat.

"I'm well, thank you," she answered finally, "I was curious what you might be reading back here."

She cast her eyes over the books on the table. "History?" She asked with one brow raised.

"Uh, yeah. Just brushing up on a few topics I found interesting. Nothing big."

She nodded slowly and pursed her lips and Tyron was taken aback, not for the first time, just how attractive the town Scribe really was. To the teenagers and kids in Foxbridge, she was 'old lady Barbury', but in reality she was only in her thirties. Behind the plain clothes and serious demeanour she was smooth faced and possessed a pair of intelligent, sharp eyes.

"I thought I'd find you studying up on your Class. I don't mean to pry, of course, your Class is your business outside of the registration..."

Tyron forced a chuckle, his throat dry. "Naturally," he wheezed.

"… but I wanted you to know that if you wanted to discuss your options, you can look for me. I'll be moving between the town hall and the library for the next few days. I'm happy to talk anytime."

Puzzled, Tyron forgot to be nervous and tilted his head as he gazed up at the Scribe as if she were a puzzle. Suddenly, it clicked.

"The Mayor sent you," he said.

Mrs. Barbury nodded and smiled wryly.

"Too smart for your own good, young master Steelarm. Yes. He mentioned that you hadn't looked too… pleased, after your Awakening. He asked me to check in on you and offer my advice."

He supposed he should feel grateful for their care, but instead he felt threatened. They probably imagined he had acquired a boring Class and was distraught at the plain future laid out before him. There were always several people in that boat every year. No doubt the Mayor kept a sharp eye out for them and tried to settle them down before they did something stupid. But one thing still puzzled him.

"But why you, Mrs Barbury. With respect, this sort of thing falls outside your normal role."

"That it does," she said drily before she gathered her skirts and sat down at his table. "It isn't something I talk about often, but I myself renounced my Class after Awakening."

"What?" Tyron was shocked. "Really? Why?"

"It's a common enough story, there are people all over the place who've chosen to renounce their primary Class. It's not the end of the world. With hard work and a Trainer, it's possible to pick up almost any Class at all, once enough time has passed. Plenty of people have gone on to do great things after choosing a new Primary Class. As to why, my family didn't approve of my Class and I didn't see a future in it, so I changed it. After six years of waiting, then months working with a Trainer, I acquired the Scribe job and took over duties here in Foxbridge. See? Not the end of the world."

"Can… Can I ask what your original Class was? If that's okay.. I mean." Tyron stuttered, realising how inappropriate it was of him to ask.

The first Class was quite personal and people could get quite touchy about it. Mrs Barbury hesitated before she answered.

"I received the Dancer Class. I quite enjoyed dancing when I was young."

Tyron could see it. Even now she moved with a certain grace that she surely didn't have the Dexterity to justify. Having said her piece, the Scribe put her hands on the table and pushed herself up.

"Remember to come and look for me if you need advice, alright? Make sure you talk to a range of people before you make any decisions."

Tyron would, if he could.

"Thanks, Mrs Barbury. Tell the Mayor I appreciate his concern."

"I will."

With a final smile, she walked away to check in with another group and left Tyron to his books. Though he felt a little shaky at this unexpected intrusion, he returned to his study, hoping to find more examples of Necromancy throughout history. After another hour he was successful. As he flicked through a dense volume that dealt with the dealings of the Sand Folk to the south, he found reference to certain cultural practices that sounded a great deal like Necromancy. Supposedly able to summon spirits and bind them to service as well as passages that described those 'devoid of life' being used to suppress rebellious villages.

He rose from his table to search for volumes related to the tribes and returned with a few promising texts within ten minutes. Before he could sink his teeth into them, he was interrupted once more.

"There he is! I knew he'd be stuck in a book!" Rufus boomed through the hushed library.

Not now. He didn't want to deal with this now! But he didn't have a choice. When he turned away from his book he found Rufus already striding across the room, headless of the disruption he caused, with Elsbeth and Laurel trailing behind him.

"Hey Tyron! Sorry I didn't see you after your Awakening," Elsbeth greeted him.

"It's fine," he said, "I know you had to talk to your parents and sort out stuff with the church."

She blushed and nodded.

"Was it that obvious?" she asked.

Tyron forced out a smile.

"It was, yes. Congratulations on becoming a Priestess."

"I told you it would happen," Rufus broke in, "nothing was more sure. I got the Swordsman class as well. The group is coming together! I'm telling you guys, we are purpose built for Slaying!"

Tyron turned to Laurel.

"I assume that means you got the ranger type class you wanted?"

Laurel's eyes twinkled as she smiled.

"Maybe," was all she said.

Tyron felt his heart clench in his chest. His friends had all received the Class they wanted and now they were here without a care in the world, the future rolled out in front of them like a red carpet. He struggled to shove his bitterness down. It's not their fault he received the Class he did. If anything, it was his own. This was the Class he was most suited for. Who else but himself could he blame for that?

"So," he broke the silence, "Elsbeth. Have you put any thought to the deity you want to serve? You have to pick one, right?"

"That's right," she said, "I shouldn't be surprised you know about that."

"I researched a lot of classes."

"It shows," she laughed. "I have to choose before I can get Appraised, since it permanently affects my Status and Class. It's not entirely up to me though, the Gods have their say."

"You want to pick Seren, right?"

She brought her hands up to clasp the symbol of Seren she wore around her neck, a flower, wrought in silver that she'd had for years. Seren was the Goddess of Purity and Healing. Most of her followers were women and Elsbeth spent most of her volunteering time with the Sisters who worked out of the local church.

"I hope so. My family wanted me to appeal to Seren as well."

"I'm sure you'll be accepted. And there are tons of villages and churches crying out for a Priestess. You'll do well."

Rufus shifted his feet before he broke in.

"Elsbeth can worry about that later, It's time to celebrate! We've Awakened! Let's hit the town! Get off your butt and let's go!"

Tyron leaned away from his friend's exuberance.

"Ah, I'm fine. I think I'll just stay and read for a bit before I hit the hay. I haven't checked in with Uncle Worthy yet either, he's probably worried."

That was very true. His uncle had expected him back as soon as the ceremony was done, which was five hours ago. He had to get back there.

Elsbeth broke into his thoughts.

"You didn't say what Class you got, Tyron. Is it alright if I pry?" She smiled, her eyes dancing with excitement.

His heart froze in his chest. He couldn't tell them. He tried to play it off.

"Ah, nothing special. I don't think there'll be any Slaying in my future."

There was a heavy silence after he spoke as the three friends tried to think of something to say. Tyron waved his hands.

"It's fine! Nothing dramatic. Look, you guys go celebrate. I need to get back to the inn anyway."

They looked at him with complicated gazes. Considering his family it was almost inconceivable that Tyron would have an ordinary Class. Elsbeth looked equal parts shocked and saddened. Tyron rushed to slam all his books closed and pushed through them.

"See you," he muttered.

He couldn't take their pitying gazes. He rushed out of the library as quickly as could but he couldn't help but hear Rufus' voice behind him

"Look, forget him. Are we going to celebrate or not?"

Feeling irritated, Tyron rushed back to the Inn to reassure his aunt and uncle that he was well and endure their curious, concerned looks before he retreated back to his parent's house. He needed to think.

Chapter 4 - Working Nights

Grave robbing was less exciting than Tyron had expected. He'd expected that sneaking through the night and stealing into the cemetery would have been difficult, with him having to dodge Town Guards and Marshals before having to outwit the cemetery keeper and sneak away with his rotting prize. Reality was somewhat different than his imagination. As night fell the travellers and newly Awakened youths were out in the streets and inns of Foxbridge, drinking, celebrating and making a general nuisance of themselves. The Guards were therefore out in force inside the town, keeping a watchful eye on drunken behaviour and trying to stop fistfights. The marshals sent from the province were nowhere to be seen and the cemetery keeper was passed out drunk in his house. All his preparations now looked somewhat foolish. He'd even smeared dirt across his face and bought the Sneak General Skill for this outing. A complete waste of effort.

So it was that Tyron Steelarm found himself standing in the grave of Myrrin Jessup, the elderly matron of a farming family on the outskirts of town who'd passed away three months ago, shovel in hand and conflicted look upon his face.

He'd fobbed off his aunt and uncle when they pressed him for details on his Class, telling them that he'd be happy to fill them in tomorrow but for now he just wanted to rest. He'd been up for several days in a row after all. Uncle Worthy had reluctantly agreed and Tyron had rushed back to the safety of his own home and tried to decide what he was going to do.

In his panic this afternoon he hadn't even stopped to investigate his new Class through his own Appraisal, nor had he thought to ask any questions at all about his sub-class, Anathema. He cursed his stupidity but ultimately he couldn't be too hard on himself. Lack of sleep combined with the unique pressure of his current situation meant his decision making was not what it should be. He seriously considered just going to bed, casting Sleep on himself if he needed to, just to get the rest he so desperately needed. He decided against it, but only narrowly. He had very limited time available to him and he needed to make the most out of it. He was in a race against time and he couldn't afford to lose.

With a sigh of exhaustion he grounded his shovel and leaned on it heavily. Was it really necessary to bury them so far down? His shoulders were on fire and his lower back had a definite ache. Almost everyone his age was getting drunk in town and here was shovelling dirt dressed in his darkest clothing. The thought of Elsbeth drinking, dancing and making merry flashed through his mind but he angrily shoved it away. She didn't matter right now and probably never would again. Their lives were on very different roads after today.

After he'd caught his breath he gripped the shovel once again, cursing when his raw hands rubbed on the wood. Desperate times… Once again he put his weight behind his hands and started to cut into the soft earth. After an hour of digging he was over a metre down and desperately wishing that he didn't have much further to go. With every spadeful of dirt he moved, his conscience whispered in the back of his mind, and every time he pushed it away. Living normally was not an option to him, not if he wanted to keep his Class. If he wanted to learn more about Necromancy, then he no choice but to try and level it up. The message had been loud and clear during his Awakening. To level up his Necromancer Class he had to raise the dead.

So here he was. He'd performed an Appraisal on himself and found exactly what he'd expected to find. Neither his Necromancer Class, nor his Anathema Class provided options for purchase at level one. Almost every Class was like this. A person received the basic abilities of the Class upon receiving it and then further options upon levelling up to the second level. After that, choices usually came every five levels to customise and tailor the Class to the individual's wishes. Since he had no idea what sort of things the 'dark patrons' wanted him to do to level Anathema, something he was somewhat happy about, he focused all of his attention on Necromancy.

THUNK.

The tip of the shovel bit through the dirt and bit into something solid. Trepidation rising in his heart, the young Necromancer began to scrape away the dirt and widen his hole, another thirty minutes work, until he was looking down on the partially rotted casket of poor old Mrs Jessup. Before proceeding further Tyron climbed out of the grave and rummaged through his pack which he'd placed on the ground nearby. It wasn't easy in the dark but he refused to cast Light. Even if everyone else was casual about security in the graveyard, he wouldn't be. After a moment he had what he wanted, a ball of wax he'd prepared for this part of the task. He cursed his raw and filthy hands but took the wax and softened it by rolling it between his palms before he broke it in half and used the two pieces to plug his nose.

He'd never smelled a three month old body before and he didn't want to start now. The stink had already been rising when he'd finished digging and he wasn't tempted to get a full dose once he'd opened up the casket. Job done, he pulled out a coil of rope which he used to tie around one end of the partially rotted wood. As quietly as he could he began to haul the remains of the beloved farmer's wife and her wooden resting place out of the ground, but it was slow going. He really didn't have the physique for this. For a moment he was tempted to dump his free points into Strength but he chased the thought away. That would be a stupid waste.

Cursing under his breath, covered in sweat and grime, Tryon pulled, hauled and heaved until he'd succeeded in his excavation. He collapsed onto his back and heaved a few deep breaths of the cool night air before he stood once again. His work wasn't done, not even close. Careful not to disturb the rest of the cemetery he dragged the wooden box forty metres to the Arryn Mausoleum. The mayor's family had built the thing almost a hundred years ago and generations had been interred inside since then. It wasn't enormous, roughly the size of an average house in Foxbridge, but no other family could possibly afford the extravagance of a stone crypt in which to place their dead.

Tyron carefully lowered the casket and wearily trudged back to his pack. He picked it up with one hand and felt around with the other as he walked back. By the time he arrived in front of the looming stone edifice, carved with likenesses of the Five Divines and 'Arryn' written in flowing script across the entrance. It was locked, of course. A thick chain bolted shut ran through the iron banded wooden doors and Tyron knew he'd have no hope of forcing it open, certainly not quietly. Being the son of two prominent, perpetually absent Monster Slayers did have a few advantages however. Moving with care in the darkness, Tyron unfolded the bundle of cloth and withdrew a clear glass container within which sloshed a small amount of dark green liquid.

"Door Away," his mother had cheerfully described it. They'd purchased a supply of the stuff to complete a job that had required them to assault a crumbling ruin some madman had renovated to breed monsters. What he held was all that remained after they'd finished with the place.

Holding his breath he carefully uncorked the bottle, nearly splashing the stuff on himself when his hands slipped.

"Fuck." He swore.

His hands were raw and numb, his arms and shoulders burned like fire. He was mentally and physically exhausted, but he couldn't stop now. He took a deep breath, then another before he brought the bottle to the lock. Holding the heavy steel lock in one hand he dribbled a tiny amount of liquid on the metal threaded through the chain. The fluid immediately bubbled and steamed and Tyron jerked back to avoid the fumes. In less than a minute the lock had been chewed through and he was able to slip the chain loose, the metal clinking with every movement, and pull open the door.

Dust, darkness and cobwebs greeted him on the other side.

"Of course, spiders," he muttered as he turned and dragged the casket inside.

Once he had it past the threshold he let it drop and slapped at his robes to dislodge the cobwebs and brush off half imagined crawlers he thought he felt creeping on him. He grabbed his pack, brought it inside and then shut the door, closing himself inside.

"Light."

His tired brain worked the magick with ease after his years of practice and a small globe of light appeared in his palm. Concentrating briefly he raised his hand and then opened his fingers with a jerk. The globe hung in the air as if suspended from an invisible string, illuminating Tyron and Myrrin's new abode. There were four rooms in the mausoleum arranged in a cross. This particular space appeared to be an entranceway, the floor clear to allow traffic deeper into the building. Which suited Tyron just fine.

His shadow flickered across the carved interior of the tomb as he got to work opening up the box. In the end he had to use a few more drops of Door Away to get a purchase. The lid popped off after another heave, sending him stumbling backward until he thudded his head into the arch around the door. More swearing, a few moments to gather himself, then he stepped toward the open casket.

He wished he hadn't. He wished he hadn't cast Light. He wished he wasn't here at all. The corpse was a disgusting, fetid mass of rotting flesh, barely recognisable as a person. The smell was so overpowering that even his improvised nose plugs were not enough to keep it away entirely, causing his stomach to heave. Acid burned the back of his throat as he gagged but he forced it back down and spat on the floor.

It's not as if he wanted this. He didn't want to be here, doing these things. If he had his way he'd be drinking with Elsbeth in town, drinking in the sight of her golden hair and bright smile whilst he celebrated his Wizard Class. But Necromancer he was and so here he was doing Necromancer work. He spat again, as if to hurl the self-pity out of his body. He had no use for it.

Time to get to work.

The base knowledge of the Skills he'd received along with his Class had been imprinted in his mind, but that didn't mean he was fully proficient with them. From what he'd read, it was akin to having instincts and impulses shoved into his brain and only with application and practice would he be able to make that knowledge his own.

Which was what Tyron did. Corpse Preparation and Corpse Appraisal were the two Skills he'd received from his Class at level one and he relied on those instincts to guide him as he ran a critical eye over the body. He didn't feel that he needed to do much to prepare the remains for his Spell, rather there didn't seem to be much he could do in his current circumstances. His Appraisal Skill was telling him that this body would make a particularly poor undead. A frail old lady when she'd passed away there wasn't a lot of meat on her bones when she'd been buried and there was precious little of that left. He did feel confident that the Spell would take. If all went well then Myrrin Jessup would rise as a Zombie under his control.

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and immediately regretted it. Between the dust and stench of rot, the air tasted thick and foul.

"Just get it done," he growled to himself and moved to his pack. He removed a small leather bound book from the bag and flicked through it to his notes.

Just like his Skills, the Spell he'd received was an outline, a sense, rather than a full and complete picture. As he practiced, levelled up the Skill and grew more experienced then he would be able to develop his understanding of the magick and cast it as easily as he had the Light Spell. A large part of his preparation for this task was spent preparing these notes. Using his knowledge of Spellcraft theory he'd teased out as much as he could in the limited time available. It was a complex magick, one that would take almost his entire pool to cast, by far the most potent spell he'd come across.

From his limited understanding, the Spell contained three main components. First, the construction of a magical animus, a crude bundle of instincts that the zombie would use to control its body and make basic decisions. The mind and soul of the body's original inhabitant were long gone and thus would need to be replaced, which was the purpose the Animus fulfilled. It was complex work, creating a structure out of arcane energy that would allow the risen dead to perceive and react to its environment. Albeit in only the crudest possible ways. Following that, a conduit of magick would be established between himself and his servant, enabling it to draw on him for the magick needed to sustain its existence. It was obvious that a body in such an advanced state of disrepair wouldn't be able to move under its own power, magick would be the engine that animated the creature and he would be required to supply the fuel. Third, came the binding, an invocation that would chain his newly created creature to his will.

Each individual part of the Spell was more complex that the Sleep Spell he'd learned and it was insane to even attempt it in his condition. In fact, this entire escapade was madness. But he felt desperate. He felt as if an unseen eye was watching him every moment. As if hands were clawing around his ankles, desperate to drag him down into mediocrity. He refused to accept that!

He snapped the book shut decisively and placed it back in his pack. He strode two steps to stand at the head of the corpse, spread his hands and began the invocation.

Magick was a science and an artform rolled into one, so his mother had told him. A high level Battlemage, she bridged the divide between rough and ready cantrips that could be thrown out with a word and more powerful Spells that demanded concentration, extended cast times and often consumed material components. This Spell was assuredly the latter. Tyron’s hands drew arcane sigils in the air as the words of power rolled from his tongue and echoed off the dust covered walls in this cramped hall of stone. His long hours of study and the power of his earned Mysteries showed their effects now. Despite his exhaustion, despite the crippling lack of sleep, he enunciated each word clearly and shaped the magick smoothly, the arcane energy draining out of his body and pouring into the vessel before him.

So much energy. The Spell drew deep on his reserves as sweat began to run in rivulets down his face. He wanted to grimace and clench his teeth but he couldn't, the invocation mustn't be halted once it had begun and slurring his words could prove disastrous. Moment by moment he battled with his own body and waged war on his own mind. His arms were as heavy as lead, his thoughts as sluggish as molasses, but he refused to yield. If he failed now, he may as well give up on every dream he'd ever had and resign himself to bookkeeping his entire life.

For twenty minutes he fought tooth and nail, his voice growing hoarse and his body shaking from the exertion. The final words flew from his lips in a shout before he collapsed to his knees, completely spent. It had taken every drop of magick in him to complete the Spell, but he'd done it. It had gone as perfectly as he could have hoped for, given his circumstances.

He panted, head down as his vision swam before his eyes.

"Might have… Overdone it a little," he rasped.

But he couldn't keep a lilted smile from his lips. He'd succeeded. He'd actually done it! Who else could have performed such a difficult feat of magick like this with as little preparation as he had? A laugh bubbled in his belly but only emerged from his shredded throat as a croak.

"Hrrrrrrrrrrrrr," came a long slow moan.

Tyron raised his head to see the putrid, rotting remains of his new servant slowly push itself up until its sightless eyes were staring back at him.

"Looking good there, friend," he wheezed.

Then the last drop of his magick left him and he knew no more.

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.

"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.

Chapter 6 - Rebirth

Several hours later, Tyron awoke to find himself lying on the floor, his entire body stiff and sore from resting on the hard wooden floor. Above him his parent's treasures glittered from their places mounted on the walls but he had no thought for them. The influx of stats he'd gained had changed him forever. He marvelled at the change, at the way his mind felt sharp and clear, his body tougher and even his thoughts seemed more firm and sure.

For someone just going from level one to two, he'd gained a lot of stats, way more than was the norm. His Class provided a lot of stats for being in its initial state, five was above average for sure, but six from the sub-class was unheard of. Even four would be considered good. He thought about it a bit more as he levered himself up from the floor.

Considering he still didn't really know how to level Anathema, or at least, the ideas he had were all bad, it kind of made sense the rewards would be high. He wasn't going to go around desecrating holy sites or seeking out recently deceased beloved community members to purposely raise as undead. The idea was to keep a low profile, not piss off everyone in town and leave a trail to follow. As he stood and took his bearings, Tyron steadied his thoughts and tried to calm down. He'd read about this sort of feeling, the euphoria that came from the first level up.

The stats of a human rose naturally as they aged, but always slowly such that it was hard to notice a difference when they changed. After someone received their first Class and gained three or four stat points at once, the feeling was incredible. After gaining an incredible elevenstats, as well as two new skills, it was little wonder that he'd been unable to remain conscious.

Normally a person would want to lay low after making such a dramatic change to their body and capabilities, allow themselves to slowly adjust to the new normal, but Tyron rejected that line of thinking. He didn't have the time to take things slow, tonight was another chance to test his new Skills and he wasn't going to waste it.

He took care to destroy the ritual paper covered with his Status information before leaving the room, burning the paper to ash using one of his father's flame enchanted weapons on the wall. Being meticulous, he gathered the ash and spread it on the hearth. Since he hadn't been living here much, there was no coals there at the moment, but he would soon fix that. Once the remains of the paper had been spread amongst the remains of a wood fire, no-one would be able to trace the ritual he'd performed.

Given that it was early afternoon, Tyron rushed to make his preparations for the evening. He gathered together the money his parents had left behind for him, usually far beyond what he would need but he found himself grateful for their careless attitude towards money for a change. Funds in hand, he hurried to the market to acquire what he needed. The town was still suffering from the previous nights of revelry when he walked the cobbled roads. People moved in slow motion, nursing their sore heads from too much drink and more than once he was forced to alter his path to avoid suspicious stains on the ground.

He was a little concerned that the market wouldn't be open but was pleasantly surprised to find the stalls and shops doing a quiet trade. He made his purchases without issue, refusing to stop and haggle, much to the disappointment of the traders. They increased their proficiency much faster with vigorous haggling and it was considered rude not to give them the opportunity to flex their skills, but he didn’t want to waste any time.

The moment he arrived home, he dropped his goods on the table, separating out the logs he'd filched from behind his uncle's inn and getting the fire going immediately. He watched the wood smoulder and crackle with satisfaction before he turned to his next project. The butcher frequently traded in bones, usually purchased for pets to gnaw on and such, but he was a touch surprised when young Tyron had entered the shop and asked for a full lamb carcass. Didn't the boy live on his own? Maybe he was putting on a celebratory feast after getting his Class sorted, or welcoming his parent's home? They’d be right pleased to see such a filial son.

Heart filled with warm feelings, the butcher had handed over the produce as Tyron had run a critical eye over the bone structure.

With the carcass on his kitchen table, Tyron could feel himself itching to get to work. First, he meticulously inspected every inch of the ex-lamb, running his hands and eyes across each sinew, poking and prodding at the bone and joints as he tried to understand what his Corpse Appraisal Skill was telling him.

Since the body was incomplete, missing the head, feet and offal, it was not possible to raise a proper zombie, even if it were human. To even animate the thing would take a monumental effort that the budding Necromancer was confident he wasn't capable of. That wasn't what he'd made the purchase for anyway. Satisfied that he'd learned what he could, Tyron unlocked the trophy room once more and emerged with a gleaming dagger in his hand. Of all the short blades in that room, he was confident that this was the sharpest. He knew this since he'd tested most of them over the years, when his parents were away.

Corpse Appraisal had done all it can, now it was time for Corpse Preparation to take the stage.

For the next hour, Tyron took a crash course in butchery as he tried to remove as much meat from the bones as he possibly could. It was tiring work and his aching body, not nearly recovered from his exertions last night, protested fiercely as he worked. It was a rough job. If the butcher had been able to see the miserable pile of hacked up and shredded flesh he heaped next to the skeleton, he'd have wept at the poor knife-work just as much as the waste. Hands and sleeves stained red from his work, Tyron was satisfied with the result. He took a moment to catch his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, staining his face without realising it, and thought about his next step.

During the ritual, he'd learned a new skill, Bone Stitching. With the bare knowledge nestled in his head since awakening, he knew what it was for, but he knew he'd want to practice before trying it on human remains. A Zombie required some flesh to remain in order to be raised, the fresher the body, the better the zombie would be. The reason being, as Tyron understood it, the magic provided acted as the catalyst to allow the creature to utilise the rotting flesh to move, supplying the difference when that flesh wasn't up to the task. The older and more desiccated the body was, the more inefficient the zombie would become, drawing on the necromancer deeply in order to move at all.

The skeleton was different. It had no flesh, in fact, the less organic tissue attached to the bones, the better, as it would interfere with the magick. Instead, the Bone Stitching Skill would provide the means through which the undead would move itself. From what he was able to interpret of the skill after waking, it was somewhat akin to magical sewing. By weaving threads of magick, the Necromancer was able to bind the joints together and provide the 'sinew' that would allow the creature to move. The better quality the thread, the more skilful the 'sewing', the better the skeleton would be able to move.

If Tyron was going to raise a human skeleton, he didn't want to do a poor job of it. That would be disrespectful. While he was at it, if he was going to take the risk and infiltrate the graveyard again, then he wanted his next minion to have a more promising and useful life than his first. Poor Mrs Jessup, she deserved better.

The incantation was simple enough, almost a cantrip; it was so short. Tyron successfully cast it on his first attempt and admired the glowing points of light that appeared on the end of his fingers. He looked down at the mess of animal bones on the table, took a deep breath, and got to work. After two hours of painstaking, finger aching work, he gave up and collapsed face first into the table.

Utilising the technique on the lamb bones had been more than difficult. His rudimentary understanding of the skill was designed for use on human, or humanoid remains, not sheep, which posed an immediate challenge. He'd expected that to be a problem and wasn't surprised by how poorly his weave fit onto the lamb. What had taken him aback was just how uncoordinated his fingers were at creating the weave in the first place. His SteadyHand feat had certainly helped keep him still and smooth when he needed to be, but the finger dexterity required to loop the threads of magick around and through each other in the proper manner was something he lacked.

"Holy shit," he swore, massaging the back of his right hand with the thumb of his left, "that stings like hell."

He sat at the table working on one hand then the other with a pensive frown on his face. Would he need to consider purchasing some sort of weaving skill? Maybe it was more akin to playing an instrument? He'd seen travelling bards and minstrels perform at his uncle's inn over the years, playing a variety of different musical implements. The lute or the harp might work, both required extremely quick and precise movement of both hands. He was about to rise from his seat and go back to the trophy to perform the ritual and buy a musical skill when caught himself and steadied his nerves.

"It's the euphoria," he told himself, "just relax. No rash decisions."

He still hadn't adjusted to his new body and mind. He felt giddy and unbalanced. He needed to think five times before he made any plans or selections he couldn't take back. Buying a skill to play the lute? This was hardly the time. Tyron forced himself to sit at the table for a full five minutes, breathing deep and slow. When he decided he was calm enough, he moved to tidy up the waste from his work. The armload of mangled off-cuts would need to be dropped in the midden at some point, probably after dark, the bones he could keep to practice on more tomorrow, but he had to hide them somewhere they wouldn't stink too much. The cellar was the ideal place for that. Although it was cramped down there, it was cool and even if found, the bones wouldn't look too out of place amongst the other foods stored on the shelves there.

After that was done, he took the time to scrub down the table, only now regretting he hadn't used a cloth to cover the wood surface. Keeping secrets was not something that had been part of his life until the day before. He'd had nothing to hide and nobody to hide from. He could acknowledge to himself that he was a bad liar and poor at concealing information, something he could no longer afford. Perhaps in another four days he’d give up his Class and continue to live as an honest cripple, but if not, then he'd need to learn how to hide his activities and fast.

Because a day had passed. It had been twenty four hours since Tyron had become a Necromancer and he had only four more until he would be forced into a final decision. Until that time, he would learn as much as he possibly could.

As he cleaned up after himself, Tyron briefly considered the other skill he'd learned: Pierce the Veil.

Supposedly it would allow him to communicate with some entity called the Abyss, one of the three groups responsible for bestowing the rather unpleasant 'Anathema' sub-class on him. It'd be a lie to say he wasn't curious about it, but far more than curious, he was cautious. He didn't know anything about this 'Abyss' or what it wanted. He was not willing to cast a spell or ritual when he wasn't confident that he knew what the outcome would be. In this case, he knew nothing at all about what would happen, and unless he was truly desperate, he wasn't going to resort to this measure.

For the rest of the afternoon, Tyron continued to lie low, recover and prepare for the night's excursion. The only time he left his home was when he decided to show his face at the Inn for a meal. If he burrowed into the house and didn't show his face too much, he'd only cause his family to worry and keep an eye on him, something he would much rather avoid. Far better to turn up, get a warm meal, and give the impression he was getting over his 'disappointment' gradually.

The Inn picking up steam when he arrived in the early evening. The dinner had been served and customers were starting to arrive. Some prepared to continue the previous night's revelries, others just looking for a hot meal before they turned in for an early night. A healthy mix of locals and travellers occupied the tables, a low murmur of conversation giving the space a comfortable atmosphere as Tyron pushed open the door.

For a man who spent most of his youth smacking people in the face with a hardened piece of metal, Worthy Steelarm certainly knew how to create a convivial atmosphere. The fire crackled cheerfully, the tables were cleaned to a shine and even at this relatively early hour, braziers were lit around the common room to create a warm and comfortable scene. As he'd expected, his uncle had an eye on the door and welcomed him cheerfully before he'd even managed to close it behind him.

"Ho! My favourite nephew returns, twice in one day! Must be my charming personality," the big man beamed.

Tyron sighed and made his way over to the bar. As he passed between the tables, he scanned the room and was relieved to see none of his friends in attendance. After his earlier run in with Elsbeth, he didn't want to have any more experiences with his friends. He could only imagine how insufferable Rufus had become. And Laurel… who knew what Laurel thought?

"Probably has more to do with Aunt Meg's cooking," Tyron said.

His uncle clutched at his chest in mock pain.

"You wound me, nephew. To think my care was worth less than a pot of stew."

"To be fair, have you tried the stew?"

Worthy stood still for a moment.

"It's a pretty damn good stew," he admitted.

A laugh came from the kitchen behind him, followed a moment later by Meg herself, wooden spoon in one hand and apron on, she looked every bit the plump innkeeper's wife.

"You heard me coming," she accused her husband with a smile as she prodded him with the spoon, "you knew you'd be eating stale bread and bones if you had ought to say against my food."

The high levelled Harmmerman pretended clumsiness as he fended off the spoon assault of his wife.

"I'd never dream of talking down on your food. Oi! Would you - … Leave off woman!"

Finally growing tired of the relentless poking, the doughty innkeeper's hands blurred and Meg found herself suddenly spoonless. Non-fussed, she shrugged her shoulders before turning her beaming smile on her nephew.

"Nice to see you again, Tyron. Hope you're ready for a feast! I've made extra tonight."

Looking at the goofy pair, the young man knew that this cheerful act was half natural and half put on to help him feel better. He felt his throat constrict as his emotions threatened to rise to the surface. His aunt and uncle were good people and it was hard to deceive them. For a moment he felt he should be open with them, reveal his situation and trust in their advice, but something stopped him.

He forced out a smile.

"Thanks, Aunt Meg. I'd love something to eat."

The Cook smiled warmly and seized back her spoon from her husband before bustling back into the kitchen to serve him a bowl. Worthy just chuckled and shrugged defensively.

"To think I used to smite beasts and monsters for a living. Now I get bullied in my own Inn."

"And you've never been happier," Tyron told him.

"Aye, that's true," Worthy grinned before reaching out a large hand to rustle his nephew's hair. "Don't worry about what you told me earlier lad," he said, "once your parents get home, we'll work out the best path for you. Whatever you want to be, your mother'll know a way to make it happen. That woman knows more about the hammer Classes than I do myself!"

Tyron looked down and swallowed the lump in throat before he nodded. Mercifully, his relatives gave him some space once they'd put food in front of him and he ate it with haste before he cleaned up after himself and quietly left. Deep down, he didn't want to tell his family the truth, because once he did, the decision of what to do next would no longer belong to him alone. As much as possible, he wanted the choices that would decide his future to be his own. He recoiled from the idea of surrendering that control.

Perhaps the Gods were right about him after all.

\

Chapter 7 - The thing about bones

The Arryn mausoleum welcomed Tyron back with open arms. Or at least, an easily penetrated front gate. As far as he could tell, nobody had noticed his earlier intrusion to the cemetery. The grave of old lady Myrrin remained clearly tampered with, the dirt visibly disturbed and the depth of the site much lower than it had been. He'd taken the coffin out, after all, and not replaced it with any dirt. He didn't see what he could do about it for the time being and retreated quickly back to the mausoleum.

He did not want to be found lurking around a disturbed grave. Would anything scream 'necromancer' more than that?! Skulking through the shadows wearing dark clothing was not really his habit, but the Sneak Skill proved its worth and helped him somewhat navigate the process of remaining hidden. The real trick had been stealing out of town without anyone noticing. The marshals had been more visible this time, making their presence known in Foxbridge and showing their faces as a warning to anyone who might cold feet about their Class. The show of force had been unnerving to Tyron, but he'd managed to control himself enough to act casually until he was well out of sight.

Compared to the dim streets of town, he almost felt more comfortable amidst the dust and webs of this sealed stone building. In here he had absolutely nothing to hide.

"Light," he incanted.

With a familiar gesture he conjured a soft globe of light and suspended it from the worn ceiling above his head. The resulting scene was not a pretty one. His zombie remained where he had left it, half slumped out of the coffin, the rotting flesh broken and in places sloughing off the body onto the floor. He flinched back and felt grateful he'd remembered to replace his wax nose plugs before opening the door. There was little doubt that, could he smell, he'd be gagging on the stench of rot. He was almost afraid to breathe in case he tasted something in the air he rather wouldn't.

If he had time, perhaps later he would return the former matron to her place of rest. She'd done enough for him already and he didn't need to raise her again as a zombie. He was much more interested in a more powerful type of servant.

Holding his sleeve across his face, Tyron moved deeper into the crypt, waving his prepared broom in front of his face to clear the webs. He didn't want to get bitten, but at the same time he didn't want to explain why he was covered in thick layers of webbing and dust if he were seen walking back into town. The crypt was divided into three main chambers, each holding members of different generations of the Mayor's family. The oldest remains at rest here were a little over a hundred years old, he assumed those bones had turned to dust long ago. The more recently deceased though, there was a chance with them.

The family members had been interred in simple stone coffin made from slabs, each marked on the side with the details of the person inside. It didn't take long for him to find the most recent member of this exclusive resting place.

Nolath Arryn.

Husband, Father and Friend.

Your support was like a steady rock in troubled waters.

You will be missed.

5348 - 5439

Nolath had been the current Mayor's grandfather, a bull of a man who'd lived to the ripe old age of ninety-one. Not an unusual age for a farmer to reach, the class bumped constitution significantly, especially after advancing. Perhaps all that toughness would help preserve the bones? He could only hope. Tyron eyed the heavy stone lid of the coffin with a weary expression on his face. He hadn't expected a class that involved such powerful magick to involve quite this much physical labour! He fumbled with his robes for a moment before he pulled out the cast iron fire poker he'd strapped to his leg before leaving home. Hopefully the thing wouldn't snap…

It didn't, but he suspected it came close. After almost two hours of scraping back and forth, trying to clear the encrusted dust of almost a decade, then carefully prising at the lid, he managed to shift it. What followed was gut busting, back breaking effort as he tried to push the lid off the coffin without making too much noise. A difficult prospect as stone scraping on stone tended to be anything but quiet. Then came the issue of lowing the stone to the floor without dropping the thing. He managed it, but only barely.

The young necromancer sat and gasped for air on the floor, his hands several layers of skin lighter than before. The scrapes stang as the omnipresent dust in the air clogged the wounds. With a sigh he picked himself up and rummaged in his bag, taking out his water bottle which he used to clean his hands. He winced as the cool water ran over the scrapes, but he couldn't take any chances, he needed his hands in good condition for the next part.

Once he got his breath back and stopped sweating, he moved back to the coffin to assess the state of his newest subject. Surprisingly good, was the answer. Not good, but better than he'd expected. Nolath had been buried here for almost a decade and was clearly in a highly advanced state of decay. The flesh was almost completely rotted, devoid of any moisture it looked similar to a dried web that clung to the bones. The skeleton itself was in much better condition than he'd expected. The fear had been that they'd have been reduced to powder or cracked beyond repair, but it seemed that the hardy constitution the farmer had cultivated in life had indeed done something to help preserve him, or perhaps bones were just more durable than he’d thought?

They weren't perfect though. The bones were clearly softened in places and many a hairline fracture could be seen under close inspection. Tyron listened to what his Skills told him and the impression he got wasn't ideal, but was good enough. The bones would serve to make a skeleton, with some work. It wouldn't be a great skeleton, or even a good one, but it would be a skeleton.

There was little doubt that things could be done to improve the condition of the remains and he felt frustrated that he just didn't know what they were. There must be ways to properly cleanse the flesh and remaining grime. Acid perhaps? Or would that be too strong and destroy the skeleton? It should also be possible to strengthen the bone in some way. Perhaps using alchemy or some sort of magick? He racked his brains but nothing came to mind. He could only sigh in frustration. Yet another topic he would need to research in greater depth. He needed information on the care and treatment of remains, as well the materials to carry out whatever he found. Neither of those things would be easy to find and would draw a huge amount of suspicion on himself the moment he went looking.

The life of a Necromancer was a difficult one…

For now, Tyron could only push such thoughts from his mind and deal with the here and now. Using his knife, he scraped clean the bones with the utmost care, wary of causing any unwanted damage to his precious subject. The work was painstaking and slow, but when completed he was able to look down on the now mostly clean bones of Nolath Arryn.

Now for the hard part. After a short break to flex and massage his fingers, the Necromancer got to work knitting together the fibres of magick that would allow the loose collection of bones to move. He'd made numerous notes on how he might proceed and he consulted them frequently as he worked. Turns out the human body was quite complex, who knew? The threads, when woven correctly, would become the sinew and muscle that would allow the skeleton to move, this much he knew from the knowledge he'd gained when learning the Skill. He had also been granted a basic understanding of how to form joints using the threads. What he hadn't been granted was an understanding of how the whole system of threads would work together. For example, he knew he needed a knee and ankle joint, but what about the feet? How did that work? And how did it all connect together?

As much as Tyron enjoyed the challenge, he couldn't help but wish he could snap his fingers, push a little magick into the bones and they'd leap up, ready to fulfil his every command. Such a thought was patently ridiculous though. How were bones supposed to walk around on their own? Was he supposed to provide the magick necessary to move them all constantly? He'd be drained in seconds! What about the animating consciousness of the bones? Did he just whip one together in moments? Springing new servants out of the grave in a few seconds was pure fantasy. Only through painstaking work and preparation would useful undead servants be created.

And it was painstaking. Not being the sort of person who tolerated failure in matters arcane, Tyron cursed and grumbled to himself with increasing frequency as he concentrated on his work, his fingers dancing in the air above the bones as he wove. Several times he was forced to cut the threads and re-do a certain joint. He had to do the hips three times. Three! By the time he finished his hands were an aching mess, he was sweating profusely and a headache pounded in his temples. He stumbled away from the stone casket and retrieved his water skin from his bag. He drunk deep before he released a satisfied sigh.

Considering this was his first true attempt at bone stitching, he was quite satisfied at the final result. With practice and research, he would make vast improvements at his speed and efficiency in creating the weave, as well as being able to increase its quality. For now, he was fairly confident that the skeleton would be able to move once he raised it. For all the effort, the final product was almost invisible to the eye. When pulled tight, the threads had shrunk together and clung to the bones as they faded from sight. The final result would look as if the bones moved almost without being attached, but that was far from the truth.

He upended the water skin on his hands and then used the moisture to cleanse his face. It was a small thing but he felt much refreshed. The dust was so thick in the small mausoleum he felt constantly clogged and suffocated by it and even a moment of relief was nice. Hours of darkness had passed as he'd worked on his newest project and there wasn't much time left before dawn arrived. Tyron made a decision to let the remains rest for now. The magical threading would deteriorate over time, but would easily last long enough for him to return the next night and raise his servant.

What to do then with the time he had left? He certainly couldn't afford to waste it. He cast his eyes to the sealed casket lying beside the one he'd been working on.

"Well, Nolath, I guess we better see how your Mrs is doing these days."

As the first rays of light began to creep over the horizon, Tyron had returned to his family home. Exhausted beyond words, encrusted with dust and webs and reeking of the grave, he stripped down and pumped some water to wash himself, even going so far as to scrub himself with one of his mother's precious soaps before he collapsed into his bed. Sleep came quickly to him, tired as he was, and it wasn't long before his soft snoring was the only sound in the house.

Mayor Arryn rose early that morning, as he did every morning. He crept out of bed before dawn, careful not to wake his slumbering wife as he dressed himself in the dark, habit guiding his hands more than his eyes. Once his feet were firmly planted in his boots he went to rouse his children from their beds. They blinked owlishly at him as he leaned down and shook them gently before climbing from their blankets and getting ready to face the day. He smiled and nodded approvingly at them when the two boys and girl met him outside a few minutes later. Younger than ten, it was important that they learned good habits in their youth in order to set them up for whatever Class and whatever future they chose for themselves.

So just as he had done with his brother when he was young, he led them through the morning chores on the farm, tending to the animals, opening the gates, sweeping, cleaning, milking, directing the farm hands as they arrived, inspecting the tools and the million other minute but important tasks that kept a farm running smoothly. There was never enough time to get everything done, but according to family tradition, if you worked your guts out, you could get damn close.

By the time the sun had risen over the horizon the family had already put in several hours of work and the Mayor collected his children and took them inside where Mrs Arryn had now arisen and baked them all a hearty breakfast.

"Much on today?" Merryl asked.

He grunted.

"Too much, as usual. The Water Mages are due in town today and you know what a fuss that always is."

The children brightened at his words and shared excited grins around the table. Watching the Water Mages work in the fields was a yearly treat. The mages could conjure massive jets of water that they would blast into the sky to rain down on the crops or combine to flood water into the reservoirs.

With one rueful eye on the children, Merryl walked behind her husband and massaged his shoulders.

"Don't push yourself too hard, dear," she warned, knowing it was useless, "there's such a thing as overwork."

He smiled and caught her hands over his shoulders.

"I'm tough as mountain bones woman, stop fussing."

He gave her hands a quick squeeze of affection before he turned and rose from his seat. He snatched up another slice of fresh bread and lathered it heavily with butter as he made his way back to the room.

"Don't forget the children have lessons today," he called as he quickly changed from his work clothes to something that could be considered remotely respectable. He might have the Mayor sub-class, but he was still a Farmer damn it. He refused to dress up like some city ponce for official duties. Once he was ready, he farewelled his family and saddled his horse for the ride into town.

One short and dull ride later, he tied his horse up outside the town stable and walked with brisk steps into the town hall. A grand description for a relatively modest building that housed a few offices, the record keeping room and the strongbox for tax collection.

"Good morning Mayor," a gruff voice greeted him the moment he stepped within the door.

The Mayor didn't break stride as he made his way towards his desk, waving the marshal captain to follow him.

"First, call me Jiren" he said, "we've worked together for eight years Markus. When do you plan on dropping the formalities?"

He settled in behind his desk and sighed when he noticed the generous stack of papers arranged in a neat pile awaiting his attention. Ririta had clearly been in already this morning. How could a town with as many cows as people produce this much paperwork?

"Still need that list from you Mayor," Markus said, refusing to yield his white knuckled grip on his respect for the office of mayor, no matter how much the Arryn family would have it otherwise.

Jiren thought for a moment before he reached to one side and pulled open a draw. From within he removed one sheet of paper covered in his own neat, utilitarian handwriting.

"Here you go, Markus. Every kid who looked in any way suspicious during the ceremony. I don't know why you don't rely on your own list, it's not like I don't have enough work to do this time of year."

He gestured with one hand at the stack of paper he had to deal with as he ran his eyes over the list one more time. Chances were all of these names were just twitchy kids who were overwhelmed by the occasion or who imagined they'd get some grand 'God Slayer of the Heavens' Class and ended up a Shepherd. Every year there would be a few rude awakenings for those who squandered their youth, or those individuals who were just miserable with the Class that had been given. The trick was separating out those who were just unhappy with those who were looking to break the law.

Just as he was about to hand over the sheet to the outstretched hand of Markus, he hesitated.

"Just a second," he said, "I'm going to add a name."

It was probably nothing. It was definitely nothing. But it didn't hurt to keep a bit of an extra eye on the kid. His parents cast a mighty long shadow in Foxbridge, being the only truly high level Slayers in the entire province. He would have had high expectations for his Class no doubt. Jiren could remember the shock on the poor boy's face the moment he'd snapped back into focus. Face pale and sweating, hands clutching the Awakening Stone tight. He'd seen it so many times before.

"Just to be thorough," he said as scratched the name "Tyron Steelarm" under the last name on the sheet before handing it over.

Markus ran his eyes down the list and whistled when he saw the name on the end.

"Hol-ee shit," he drawled and shook his head. "If we actually bring that kid in, what do you think would happen here, Mayor?"

The Mayor didn't even want to think of it. It was hard to reconcile Magnin and Beory with their reputation sometimes. The couple were humble, full of laughter and a pleasure to interact with every time he'd met them. That didn't mean they couldn't bury Foxbridge in an avalanche of violence in minutes if they chose to.

"It won't come to that," he said firmly, "I just want us to keep an eye on him. There's a lot of pressure on that boy and I don't want him to do something stupid and ruin his future while his parents are out of town. That's all it is."

Chapter 8 - Desire to Slay

Laurel rose and stretched in the early morning light, totally unashamed of her nakedness. Cat-like, she extended her arms forward and arched her back, sighing in satisfaction as the joints loosened with faint popping sounds.

"I still don't know why you do that every morning," Rufus asked from the bed.

"I don't hear you complaining," she said as she began to gather up her clothes and put them on.

"You're leaving already?" Rufus asked, surprised, "I thought you'd want to hang around this morning."

The hunter's daughter rolled her eyes.

"Despite what you might think, I have better things to do than lie in bed with you all day."

"Like what?" the newly minted swordsman asked, his face darkening.

"Like getting levels." Laurel finished dressing herself and started lacing up her worn boots, her nimble hands dancing across the knots. "I'm surprised you aren't out there already, trying to find monsters to kill now that you've got what you want."

She could hear Rufus grunt from the bed as he pulled himself out from under the sheets and began to rummage around her room for his own clothing.

"There's plenty of time for that later," he muttered, "there's other things I have to settle first."

"Like Elsbeth?" Laurel asked archly.

The burly young man froze a moment before he turned to face her with a smirk.

"Is that jealousy I hear?" he said. "From you of all people, I'm shocked."

With barely a pause, she strode toward him until there was barely a hand between them. Confronted by the cool glare of his lover, Rufus drew himself up to his full height, his muscular frame loomed over the slight woman. Undeterred, Laurel smiled for an instant before she drove her fist into his gut at the same moment she stomped her booted right foot down on the swordsman's unprotected toes.

Having the wind driven out of him at the same time his foot exploded in pain left Rufus with little option but to fall back on the bed, wheezing and cursing in equal measure as Laurel stared down at him.

"You might be a decent lay, Rufus, but don't think for a second that I would be jealous over you. You want to screw Elsbeth over? I couldn't care less. If I had other options it might not even be you I shake out of my sheets in the morning."

Rufus glowered at her from the bed as he caught his breath and rubbed his foot.

"Who else? Tyron? That bookworm doesn't have the stamina."

"I'd be willing to find out," she shrugged, "and I would have, if he didn't shoot me down."

"What!?" Rufus gaped.

"Make sure you lock up when you leave."

Unwilling to put up with the muscle-brained antics of the still naked oaf, Laurel turned on her heel and gathered the last few things she needed. Her bow and string in hand, her pack and quiver over her shoulder, she was out of her room in moments and out the front door a few seconds after that. The wooden cabin she shared with her father quickly vanished behind her as she rushed out into the forest, her eyes wide to catch the dim light and her ears alive to the sounds amongst the trees. Her pulse quickened as she stopped to string her bow, bracing the yew with her foot as her hands slipped the string into place without her having to look.

Her father was out here somewhere, just as he almost always was. On days like this she couldn't find it in her to resent him for it. Just like her, he was addicted to the hunt and he could be in the woods for a week before he'd had his fill. Breathing deep, she scented the air and began to scan for prey. She had skills and a class now, like hell she was going to wait.

Back in the cabin, Rufus swore viciously under his breath as he hopped into his clothes. The pain in his stomach flared a few times which caused him to collapse back onto the bed and wait for it to subside. It took longer for his anger to cool and he was out the door and into the cool morning air before he'd managed to calm himself down. Laurel was the kind of girl who never held a grudge. Whatever he'd done to tick her off, she'd likely have forgotten about it by the time she got back. Since he needed her for his plans, he'd put up with the indignity.

It was coming together possibly better than he had even imagined and the young man let out a laugh as his face split into a broad grin. After waiting his whole life, it was finally going to happen. His father was already at work in the smithy when he arrived, the sharp ring of the hammer on the anvil audible from hundreds of metres away. Rufus didn't particularly feel like arguing with the old man, so he snuck in the back door in order to help himself to some breakfast. He was halfway through some cheese on bread when he realised the steady beat of the hammer had stilled.

"Nice to see your manners haven't changed with your awakening then," came a growl from the doorway and Rufus looked up to see the imposing figure of his father looking down at him.

He choked down the suddenly dry bread before he replied.

"H-hey Dad. Didn't want to bother you at work, so I thought I'd just grab a bite before I headed out for the day."

Brindle, the Foxbridge Smith just grunted in reply before he stomped into the room and helped himself to a generous wedge of cheese. Rufus frowned as his father's massive hands came into view and he turned his head to hide his expression.

"Where's mother?" he asked.

"Still sleeping," Brindle replied through a mouthful of ripe cheese, "says her bones hurt."

A flash of anger stole across the younger man's face before it was gone, vanishing as quick as it had appeared. He pushed back his chair as he stood to his full height and looked his father in the eye.

"I'll be heading out then," he said.

Before he could turn to leave, his father spoke again.

"Still planning on going through with your idiot scheme then?"

Anger sparked in Rufus' eyes as his jaw set but he refused to rise to the bait.

"I am," he said.

The Smith wiped his thick hands absently on the leather apron he wore as he shook his head.

"Fool boy," he rumbled, "all you're going to do is get yourself killed and break your mother's heart. For what? So you can dream of being some big shot Slayer in the city?"

His temper flared again and the new Swordsman struggled to contain himself as he stared into the soot covered face of his father. Not trusting himself to reply, he simply stood and glowered, his fists clenched by his side. His father paid this display of anger no mind. Full grown and now with his Class, Rufus was strongly built and physically imposing, but next to the Smith he was a cub next to a bear. Despite not having a combat class, Brindle was likely the second physically strongest person in Foxbridge after Magnin Steelarm himself. If he so chose, he could pick up his son with one hand and throw him through the door. And they both knew it.

Brindle stared hard at his son as he waited. When it became clear Rufus wouldn't rise to the challenge, he leaned to one side to spit before he turned back to the smithy, the door creaking shut behind him as he left. Rufus didn't move for several long seconds, breathing deep as he calmed himself down. He wouldn't achieve anything by trying to fight his old man, he'd learned that lesson the hard way. His time would come, just not yet. When he was ready, he finished eating and made his way out of the house, his mood lightening the moment he set foot outside. He turned to look toward the upstairs window beyond which his mother was resting for a few long seconds before he turned the corner of the Willison's house heading into town.

With a final deep breath, he put his family out of his mind. These next few days would be crucial if he was to realise his dream and he refused to let the chance slip out of his hands. He wasn't going to be buried in Foxbridge, slaving at the forge with Brindle until the old bastard died. He was going to be a Slayer, he was going to be a shield between the darkness and the light. When he came home, he'd be rich as a king and as powerful as Magnin, then things would change.

His mind filled with visions of his triumphant return, a small smile broke out on Rufus' face as he made this way through the morning traffic. Distracted, he arrived at his destination almost before he realised it. The Ranner household where Elsbeth lived with her parents, brother and two sisters was unusually quiet when he arrived and he quickly shook the fantasies out of his head so he could concentrate.

Trying to look nonchalant, the young man walked down a few houses before he turned down a side street, checked behind him and then leapt the fence to his right. Moving swiftly, he kept moving and after surmounting one more fence, he found himself in the Ranner's small yard just outside Elsbeth's window. He tensed for a moment, listening for any sign that he had been discovered, but he heard nothing except quiet weeping coming from the room in front of him. He approached the window in a crouch and tapped gently against the glass, careful not to make too much noise. Not that it did him much good. A moment later, Elsbeth threw the window open and flung her arms around his neck.

"I was rejected by the goddess," she sobbed into his shoulder, "the holy mother shoved me out of the sanctum. What am I going to do, Rufus?"

He raised his arms and gently embraced the girl as he whispered comfort into her ear, trying to keep his voice from betraying the broad smile on his face.

What a waste it would be for you to be locked away in the Church of Purity, healing cripples for scraps of coin. This will be better, you'll see.

It didn't hurt that he would get a rare and powerful healer Class for his burgeoning Slayer team either.

Back in his house, Tyron startled awake and immediately felt a sharp pain in his back. And why the hell was it so dark?! Could it still be night time? Had he slept through the entire day?! Only after he flailed his arms a little did he realise he couldn't see because some paper was stuck to his face, covering his eyes. When he pulled the paper away, light returned and he realised he'd fallen asleep at the table again. Numerous pages covered in his neat scrawl covered the surface, only slightly marred with his drool. Still groggy, he pushed his chair back and stumbled outside, a huge yawn cracking his jaw as he went. He stumbled around the corner from the kitchen and found his father's outdoor shower, installed at the insistence of his mother due to the stink of the man after his outdoor training sessions.

Tyron nearly forgot to disrobe but caught himself just in time before he stepped onto the polished stone and waved a hand in front of the enchantment plate. A few seconds later a burst of cold water rained down on him, instantly shocking him awake.

"Holy shit!" he chattered, rubbing his arms against his suddenly frozen torso, attempting to slap some warmth back into his skin.

After a vigorous scrub he was able to rid himself of the accumulated dust and cobwebs from the previous night's activities. Only when he couldn't stand the cold anymore did he leap out from under the overhead pipe and wave a hand in front of the plate once more, shutting off the flow of water. Now he finally knew why father wanted a fire stone installed along with the water stone behind the plate. His mother would never allow it, she was far too tight with the family purse, pointing out that having an enchanted outdoor shower was already an extravagant expense to begin with. Reminding her that she was the one who insisted it be installed did Magnin more harm than good, which never seemed to stop the man. Thinking of his parent's endless, good hearted bickering brought a smile to the young man's face as he waited for the sun to dry him off before he went inside to find clean clothes.

Much refreshed, he rummaged around for some breakfast before he sat back down to go over his notes. Absentmindedly chewing on his stale bread, he quickly remembered what he'd been up to.

Spellwork. Specifically, the Raise Dead spell. The signature spell of the Necromancer Class and his most powerful weapon. If he to decide to keep his Class and try to survive on his own, outside the law, this spell would either make or break him. The description of the Class was clear, he couldn't get experience and level up by fighting himself, it didn't matter if he slaughtered a thousand monsters on his own, he wouldn't gain a thing. The only way he could improve was by creating undead and having them fight on his behalf, which meant his minions would need to be as powerful as he could possibly make them.

The more he thought about it, the more certain he was that there would be a huge number of things he could do to better prepare the remains before it even came time to cast the spell. If he were an alchemical master, there might be some way to strengthen the bones using a solution or infusion of some sort. If he were an enchanter it might be possible to saturate the remains with magick, or do a hundred other things to improve their condition. All of that was out of his reach for the moment, he had no knowledge and no resources with which to make it happen, so he fell back to what he did understand and what he was good at: Spellwork.

The budding Necromancer continued to munch away on the hard bread as he was drawn back into his work, his free hand fumbling around the table for his pen and ink as he thought. Before long, he was back at it, scratching away at the pages and trying to unravel the secrets of the complex spell, one layer at a time. His mother's training came alive whenever he did this sort of work, the long hours of studying phrases, the drudgery of pouring through her seemingly bottomless supply of diagrams. If he was honest, it was twice as taxing as his father's sword training, but he enjoyed it far more.

"Concentrate, son!" his mother would rap him on the head whenever his focus would start to waver. When he would give her an indignant look she would smile broadly and his ire would melt away as she ruffled his hair. "If you become a mage, I won't have you throwing spells around like some back-alley Hedge Wizard. A true mage understands their magic, they don't just use it. That's how you level your spells."

"What if I don't get a mage Class?" he could remember the young Tyron protesting. "This will be a complete waste of time!"

His mother had stared down into his eyes from her seat beside him at the table, the sound of his father performing sword drills outside the only other sound they could hear.

"But you might be a mage. And if you are, do you want to be mediocre, or do you want to excel?" she asked.

Faced with that, he'd had little choice but to throw himself into his studies until she was satisfied, and ultimately he'd ended up continuing them even when she wasn't home to make him. Despite never learning many spells, he was confident his fundamental grasp of spell structure and magick were at least decent for his age, especially compared to other kids from the outer provinces. His Status acknowledging he possessed some understanding of the Mystery of Spell Shaping was all the proof he needed.

He could feel that Mystery at work in him now, a faint trickling of sensation that would vanish if he tried to focus on it. It wasn't well understood how they assisted people with tasks, only that they did. Ever since he'd earned it and it’d appeared on his status sheet, he could tell that they were aiding him in some intangible way. He didn't bother focusing on them now, the spell itself was engrossing enough for him. He needed to level up his Raise Dead spell, and to achieve that he needed two things, practice and understanding. It would be hard to practice, he needed relatively fresh corpses for that and it wasn't like he could pop down to market in order to get one. In fact, the two skeletons he prepared the previous night may be the last he would get his hands on, which meant this was the only way he could try to empower the spell before then. With luck, he would be able to raise the level of the spell once through study before he needed to raise his next servants.

There was some debate about whether it was a spell's level that produced increased power, or whether it was the improvement of the mage themselves that was reflected by the level change. His mother believed there were elements of both.

"The Unseen rewards your efforts," she'd said, "if you learn and grow, stretch yourself and your abilities, then you will be granted more power to match."

Tyron was inclined to believe his mother when it came to things like this. After all, who would better understand the workings of the Unseen better than a high-levelled Slayer? A higher levelled Raise Dead spell would mean more powerful skeletons, not only because his own skill would improve, but because the hand of the Unseen would push a little harder for him, which could make all the difference.

For several long hours he continued to scratch away at the page until his hunger forced him to put down his pen and seek out a meal. He stood from the table and stretched, the crack and creak of his bones elicited a quiet laugh. His father would lament he was sinking even further into 'bookworm-hood' as he had phrased it, sitting hunched over a table for so long. Tyron had long suspected that Magnin still held out hope that his son would follow in his footsteps with a warrior style Class, but he had only grown more bookish over the years.

It was close to midday when he emerged blinking into the sun once more and made his way to Leaven St, keeping himself to the edge of the street and allowing the traffic to pass him by. He  tried to be unobtrusive as he slipped into the inn, but he should have known it would be a waste of time. He was no more than three steps in the door when his uncle's voice rang throughout the common room.

"AHA!" he shouted. "If it isn't my favourite nephew!"

Immediately half the eyes in the room turned to see the young man standing sheepishly near the wall, observing him for a quiet moment before turning back to their meals, the murmur of conversation rose back to its previous levels. Uncaring of the general mood of the room, the large innkeeper strode across the floor, weaving his way through the tables until he clapped his nephew on both shoulders with his hands.

"How are you doing boy?" Worthy asked, looking sincerely down at Tyron with clear eyes.

The younger man winced under the pressure from those powerful arms. He might run an inn now, but Worthy was once a Slayer and a proud Hammerman at that. His physical stats were no joke and it wasn't uncommon for the man to forget to control himself from time to time.

"I - I'm fine, uncle," Tyron said, trying not to look his uncle in the eye. "Just getting a little hungry and thought a hot meal would be pleasant."

Worthy threw an arm around his shoulders and laughed as he steered him toward the kitchens.

"Of course, a hot meal fixes every ill! Especiallywhen cooked by my wife! I swear by the stones of Sazz himself I've seen her stew knit flesh and mend bones. Isn't that right, darling?"

Unimpressed with her husband's antics, Megan gave him a level stare before turning a more welcoming gaze onto Tyron.

"Hello there lad," she said warmly, "come on in and I'll get you fed. As for you, you'd best get back behind the bar before my wooden spoons finds stones of a different sort."

She waved said implement threateningly and Worthy backed away, his hands raised.

"Threatened? By my own spouse? I'm wounded," he feigned an injured expression, poorly and Megan snorted.

"I'll give you wounded," she threatened him before turning back to her work, her hands flashing over the bench as she chopped, stirred and tested the dishes sizzling away on her stove.

With a final wink to his nephew, Worthy vanished back into the common room and only moments later Tyron heard his bellowing laugh roar out as he exchanged jests with the regulars and he didn't fail to notice the small smile that graced his aunt's face.

"He has a way with people that one," she said to him as she served a generous serving of stew, tearing some bread off a fresh loaf and tossing it into the bowl before putting it down in front of you, "which is why I suspect he's right to be worried about you."

She looked down at him kindly and Tyron felt guilt and shame rise hot in his chest. His family were good people and he was making them worry about him. It wasn't a good feeling, but he just didn't know what else he could do.

"It'll be alright, Aunt Megan," he tried to sound confident as he sought to reassure her. "I just need a few days to sort myself out and then I'll be able to move forward. Things just didn't turn out the way I expected, that's all."

She gave a sigh and reached out to pull him to her in a hug.

"I know you'll be okay, lad," she said. "You're brighter than you've got any right to be and I know you'll land on your feet, no matter what the Gods throw your way. You just need to have that confidence in yourself. It's not the Class that defines a person and only fools think that way."

She pulled away.

"Eat up and go rest. That's all you need to focus on. I'll tell Worthy to make sure that you get your space."

He sat and ate in silence.

Chapter 9 - Minions

Deep into night on the third day and Tyron Steelhand found himself once again shuffling through the gloom trying to look unobtrusive as he crept out of town to the graveyard. The damp was out early and his shoes were sopping wet by the time he arrived, dragging soft curses out of him as he squelched through the fields. He probably could have just taken the road, nobody would be using it, but he wanted to minimise risk, which meant he crossed through the Grady family's land and their knee high grass.

"Stupid," he muttered to himself, "probably left a track through the field a blind, noseless dog could follow. Why not just stick to the road?"

Even as he cursed himself, he knew why: the marshals were out and about. He'd seen them wandering through town as dusk fell, spotted a few on the roads on the outskirts of town. It spooked him enough that he'd been determined to take extra steps to try and cover his tracks, only to mess up. When he finally reached the Arryn mausoleum, he was half an hour behind schedule, dripping wet and freezing cold. A fantastic start to a night of difficult spell casting.

Hands shaking and teeth chattering, he slipped the chain from the entrance to the mausoleum and moved inside, muttering a light spell once he'd closed the door behind him. The now familiar sight of dust and webs greeted him once more and he sighed. At least it was private. Throwing off his bag, he started unpacking. He had a lot he wanted to get done tonight and not that much time to spare considering how much he'd wasted already. This was already the third night since the ceremony, he only had two more before he would be forced to report on his Class and relinquish it, crippling himself in the process.

If he was going to hold onto it and preserve his future, he needed to make as much progress as he possibly could. In his head, vague plans were beginning to take shape of running away into the wilderness, making his way to the border towns or the Slayer Keeps close to the rifts. It would be hard, but if he  managed to become strong enough, anything was possible. He needed levels.

And to get those, he had to have minions. The Class description was clear: raising the dead and having them fight for him were the only ways he could progress. He had a suspicion that simply raising minions would only get him so far. If he wanted to reach level twenty and achieve the first Class evolution, he would need to have his minions fight.

Which was why tonight was so important. According to the admittedly limited research he'd been able to conduct, pouring through his parent’s archives to read descriptions of undead monsters, he'd quickly abandoned the idea of relying on zombies. Slow, filthy, able to be smelled a mile off, weak in small numbers, zombies didn't appeal to him at all. Their advantages, namely being easier to create and cheaper to maintain in terms of magick might have been appealing if he'd had an abundance of fresh corpses to work with, but that simply wasn't the case.

What he had were bones. Stronger, faster, capable of wielding weapons albeit clumsily, the skeleton was an all-round more appealing minion than a shambling pile of rotted flesh. More difficult to create, a more intensive drain on magic, there were certainly downsides, but he was going to do the best he could with the resources he had to hand.

Spreading light throughout the dim, narrow corridors of the mausoleum, he brought out the cloth he'd prepared and started to swat away the webs that blocked his path. The eight legged pests sent shadows flickering across the walls as they skittered away from his marauding muslin, the soft glow of his light magick catching them in the act. When he was done, he had a little more clear air and turned back to finish unpacking. He took a long draw from his water skin and munched on the jerked meat he'd packed as he consulted his notes, running through the spell forms one more time.

Reluctantly, he closed the book, rose and stretched.

"Alright then, time to check on Nolath and his blushing bride."

He moved around the corner to see the two caskets he'd opened the previous night. Eyes lighting up, he walked straight to the stone bed of Nolath, leaning forward to inspect the bones and the careful threading he'd performed. There had been some decay, the magick weave he'd so painstakingly created had begun to fray as the energy dissipated. He'd expected it to be worse than it was and quickly set to repairing the damage. He paid careful attention to the areas around the joints, this was where the finest weave was required and where loose threads were hardest to spot. It wouldn't do if he spent all this time raising his first skeleton only to find it couldn’t walk!

After an hour, more than half of which was spent needlessly fussing over every little detail, he finally rocked back on his heels and stretched out. He grasped the back of his neck and rolled his shoulders as he looked down on the two assembled skeletons, still lying in their open stone caskets in front of him.

"No point delaying any longer," he muttered, "might as well get on with it."

It was frustrating, but he didn't have enough time, resources or know-how to do any more preparation. He knew that given a few more days he'd be able to make further improvements to his understanding of the remains and the intricacies of the Raise Dead spell, resulting in more powerful skeletons, but he was denied that luxury.

Fetching his notebook, he hunched over it for a few more minutes as he ensured he had committed everything he needed to memory. With a final nod, he snapped shut the book and moved to stand at the feet of Nolath's remains. Raising his hands, he began the incantation, feeling the magick begin to stir within him as it was summoned by the words of power.

For long minutes the words rolled sonorously from his mouth as the magick flowed and twisted through the air, leaching into the bones which began to glow with dark light as more and more arcane energy filled them. The fine weave of magick thread he'd laced around the bones ignited, drawing close and fusing into the remains as sweat began to drip down his brow halfway through the cast. Still, it wasn't done, and Tyron didn't let his focus slip for a second as he allowed the spell to take hold and consume his mind.

On and on it went until at last, after almost an hour, the final syllable was drawn from his lips and he collapsed, his throat raw and body drained. With shaking hands, his wiped the sweat from his forehead and watched as the final vestiges of energy flowed into the bones. For a moment, nothing happened and the only sound in the dusty tomb was Tyron's laboured breathing as he collected himself and waited.

Despite the massive complexity of the spell, he was confident in his ability. It worked. He knew it had worked.

A few seconds later, a soft light, so dark as to be almost black, but Tyron thought he detected hints of purple, appeared in the empty sockets of Nolath's skull. As excitement built in Tyron's eyes, he detected the almost imperceptible movement of the bones as they began to draw together, the femur pulling toward the tibia, the patella rising to its place atop the joint. They moved was almost as if a thread, loosely sewn through a cloth, was ever so slowly being pulled tight, drawing all the disparate parts together.

Which was exactly what was happening. The hours he spent threading were now coming to fruition, animating and pulling the skeleton together. It was a gradual process, one that the budding Necromancer watched with rising enthusiasm. As the skeleton grew more animated, Tyron could feel the drain on his remaining store of magick grow as his new minion drew on his reserves to, quite literally, pull itself together.

"Come on now, Nolath. Up you get," the young mage urged his creation like a child would speak to a new pet.

In many ways, it was. The Raise Dead spell formed a connection between the two of them, a master and servant bond that now flickered to life. Tyron had spent a great deal of time examining this portion of the spell matrix, since anything to do with the mind was well outside of his knowledge. As part of raising a collection of bones to life, there were many elements that were necessary, a way for the bones to move, a source of energy to power it, and a mind to control it. Part of the magick he had just performed, perhaps even the most significant part, was constructing a crude mental 'shell', he hesitated to call it a mind, it was far too crude for that, that would allow the skeleton to control its own body without him having to direct its every movement.

Little more than a set of directives his new servant would follow to the letter, the shell was useful, but only in a limited sense.

Fuelled by his arcane power, the skeleton climbed from its grave, climbing with surprising dexterity from the stone casket to stand on its own two feet, a servant, willing and waiting on his command. Now that he actually saw the fruit of his labours, Tyron couldn't help but feel a giddy wave of laughter bubble up from his belly. He'd done it! Not only had he successfully raised a skeleton, the second level of undead, on his first attempt, it was only his second attempt at casting Raise Dead in total!

He didn't have any base to compare his own ability to another necromancer, for obvious reasons, but he felt confident that his own progress was at least a little exceptional. He refused to believe that any newly Classed spellcaster would be able to handle as difficult a piece of magick as reanimating bones without extensive training and education.

He himself was lucky to have the intermittent instruction his own parents had been able to impart, but even with this advantage, he was rather proud of himself as he shakily rose to his feet.

"Dammit," he muttered as he reached for his bag, his hands fumbling with as his fingers refused to obey the demands of his brain.

With some effort, he was able to reach inside and wrap his fingers around the item he was searching for. When he drew it out, the soft blue light it emitted, was almost blinding in the darkness of the tomb, his own light globes having faded with his diminishing mana reserves.

"Mage candy," the voice of his mother sounded inside his head, a memory of her holding up a crystal just like this one in front of his younger eyes. "Very useful in small doses, extremely toxic in large ones. If you end up being  a spellcaster, it's a good idea to start building up an immunity early, because if you're anything like me, you'll be chewing through these things," she grinned, "like candy."

Good thing she kept a small stash of the stuff in the house in case of an emergency. Good thing he'd found out where it was when he was eleven. Not that he'd ever needed them before now. Crystal in hand, he settled himself on the floor, sitting cross legged on the freezing cold stone as he brought his hands together in front of his chest before he placed the gem into his mouth and concentrated.

It was slow at first, so slow he almost couldn't notice the trickle of pure magickal energy leaking into his body, but as the minutes trickled past the flow increased in speed until he was receiving a steady stream of magick, lifting his reserves from their woefully low state. Gradually, his hands began to steady and his body regained its strength. Casting the spell to raise a skeleton had taken him to the edge of his reserves, even after his level up and the resultant surge of stats. To make matters worse, when he had been on the verge of running dry, the skeleton had stood up, using his magick to do so. All in all, it had been a close call.

Ten minutes later he spat out the crystal to find the glow that had emanated from the crystal had diminished considerably, but he felt much improved. He rose from his seated position to find his minion still standing at attention, the dull glow of ethereal energy flickering in its hollow sockets. He could feel it in his mind, an emotionless pocket in the corner of his awareness. He had to admit, it was a little unnerving being in the tomb with it. The skeleton stood with perfect stillness, and would do so forever, until he provided an order or the mana that sustained it exhausted itself.

He was specifically careful not  to give it an order. Any movement it made would resume the drain on him, which was something he could not afford right now, he had plans for the magick that infused him now.

"Alright Nolath," Tyron muttered to himself, rubbing his hands together, "about time you and the Mrs were reunited I would say."

A second casting of Raise Dead in one night. It would be a risk, and if he hadn't brought  a small collection of mage candy with him, he wouldn't have had enough energy to do it. The danger wasn't that his magick wouldn't be sufficient, but the toxic effect of the crystals on his body. When  he'd made his plans for the evening, it had been something he had deemed would be worth hazarding. His time limit was just so short. In two more nights he would be completely cut off from society unless he renounced his Class.

As he stared into the faint flames that burned in the eyes of his skeleton, he simply couldn't imagine giving it up. This was the first step, the first hurdle. A Necromancer was capable of creating not just a few servants, but an army. This was merely the beginning of what he would be able to achieve if he pursued this Class.

Faced with a future in which he moved through the world as a powerful mage with a horde of fearsome undead at his side, or one in which he slunk through town as a cripple, no Primary Class to speak of, he couldn't imagine choosing the latter. He was a Steelarm, son of Magnin and Beory. He'd spent his entire life in their shadow, how could anyone think he would be content to remain there for the rest of his life?!

He didn't want to live beneath them! He wanted to bethem!

And when he'd swept through the wilds and destroyed the rifts at the head of his legion of the dead, they would sing his praises in the streets and he would be celebrated alongside his parents as a great slayer of the age.

Eyes hardening in determination, Tyron withdrew another crystal from within his bag and popped it into his mouth, the cold surface of the gem freezing on his tongue even as he felt the trickle of power begin to flow from it.

This would be difficult. He rolled the candy in his mouth until he had it firmly pressed under his tongue against the back of his teeth. Gem secured, his hands began to move and the words of power began to roll from his tongue as the dead air within the mausoleum stirred once more as his power thrummed.

Outside, the wind rose and clouds began to creep over the horizon, heralding the storm to come.

Chapter 10 - Troubling signs

Worthy sighed heavily as he moved through the common room of the Steelarm Inn, shifting tables and pushing chairs. It was the little details that made a good common room, this was something he'd learned over his years as a slayer. Travelling from town to town, barony to earldom and city to city in search of the next contract meant a lot of time spent sleeping in beds that weren't your own and although none could accuse him of being the sharpest weapon on the rack, Worthy had an eye for the little things.

His inn wasn't the most patronised in Foxbridge and the wider duchy because he traded on the family name, though it certainly helped. His brother's exploits might bring the patrons through the door, but it was the quality service that kept them coming back.

When the chairs were crooked, it showed a lack of care, made the atmosphere feel off. After all, if the Innkeeper didn't bother to straighten the chairs, where else might corners be cut? He'd made it a point across his career to only stay in businesses with neat chairs. When the tables weren't arranged properly it made it harder to move through the space, made life more difficult for his servers, made it harder for the patrons to reach the bar. Best to head off trouble before it had a chance to make itself known in his estimation.

It was that kind of 'fussing over the little things', as his brother put it, that made sure the Steelarm Inn enjoyed a stellar reputation and operated as regular as a clock. Which was why he was so concerned about his nephew. Gaining a Class was a big deal for a kid, it was the moment you finally became an adult, a fully functioning person. For someone like Tyron, who'd lived with the constant expectation that he would do incredible things when he grew up, just like his parents (and to a lesser extent, his uncle), the shock of getting such a humdrum Class would be world shattering.

The poor kid. When he'd come to eat over the past few days, it hadn't been hard to notice the growing bags under his eyes, the sallow skin. It was easy to see that he hadn't been sleeping. At least he was getting food into him. If all went well, then his damned parents would show up in a few days at the latest and then they could sit down together and work out what the boy would do for his future.

Being a Scribe wasn't a great start, but it's not like there's nothing that you can do with it. With the right mix of secondary Classes, he could turn himself into a reasonable spellcaster. Enough to support Slayer groups on expedition if he worked hard. If he wanted to, Worthy was confident that the boy could be a hell of a Scribe though. If he levelled it enough, chose his secondaries carefully, he'd make money hand over fist working for a lord, or even the royal treasury.

He'd be getting paid better than half the slayers in the kingdom without any risk of getting eaten. Didn't seem like a bad deal to Worthy.

Though in his heart, he knew it wasn't what the kid wanted for himself. Tyron liked to play it cool, act like he wasn't bothered by it, but deep down he longed for the sort of renown that the legendary Slayers received. Defenders of the people, warriors of light, wardens of civilisation. It was all nonsense as far as Worthy was concerned. He'd been in the business long enough to know that there wasn't any glory there, just blood and guts and shit.

But he could remember what it was like when he was a boy, how he'd longed to go into battle, fend off the creatures from the rifts. He saw that same burning ambition in his nephew and having that dream crushed before it could even begin was a mighty sad thing.

Every chair in its place and every table properly arranged, the innkeeper stepped back to appreciate his work. Not so rigid as to look sterile, but just organised enough to make for a smooth day of business. Perfect is what it was. Now for the cleaning. With a little more life in his step, he moved to the storage cupboard and removed the enchanted gear he kept stored. The bucket which heated the water and kept it near boiling point. The sponge he'd had to order special from his sister-in-law. Only her contacts would allow him to get his hands on something like this.

Death magick enhanced, the sponge would suck the life from everything it touched, leaving a trail of death in its wake. With his powerful defensive stats and build, Worthy himself was immune to the effect, but the bacteria on his tables were not. With a savage sense of glee he got to work, swiping the piping hot water which he could barely feel across his tables, imagining devastated armies of microbes begging for their lives as he approached each wooden surface.

"No mercy," he rumbled, thoroughly wiping down another table with grim satisfaction.

Tables done, he was about to head into the kitchen for the morning clean down when the door opened unexpectedly. Worthy turned, surprise written plain upon his face, to see Tyron standing in the doorway, swaying on his feet, his eyes half-focused as his hands grasped at nothing by his sides.

"Boy?" Worthy asked as he walked closer, "are you alright?"

Tyron's hands rose and seemed to search for the door. Not finding it in front of him, he took a few staggered steps into the common room, that same semi-vacant expression on his face. A sense of alarm began to rise in Worthy as he drew nearer, the boy didn't look right, not at all. It was something beyond just fatigue and sleep deprivation, something that tickled at his memory.

"Hey, uncle," the boy slurred, "any chance I can… get something to eat? I'm… I'm starving… I think?"

At his side now, Worthy gripped his nephew by the shoulder to steady him and took a good look at his face. Eyes close to bloodshot, face drawn and covered in dust, black marks and streaks across his skin, the kid looked like hell.

"Holy shit, boy. What in the ninth rift have you been doing?"

The kid was still unsteady on his feet, even with the powerful slayer’s hand steadying him. At the question, a slight smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

"Magick, uncle. I did magick. I wasn't sure if I could, but I did it."

"Magick? You can do magick any time, why would you stay up all night doing it, you mad boy?" Worthy berated him even as he felt his heart pang.

He could easily imagine Tyron, unable to accept his fate working through the night to develop his magical talent. Even so, that shouldn't put him in this state…

"Fuck!" he swore.

Of course! How could he miss it! He almost pulled up his death sponge to wipe at the kid's face but stopped himself at the last moment before he threw the cleaning tool into the corner with another curse. Megan emerged from the kitchen wiping her hands on her apron, an expression between disapproval and amusement on her face.

"What's all this cursing so early in the morning, husband?" she mock scolded before she saw Tyron and gasped. "Tyron! What's happened?"

"Get me a cloth woman!" Worthy bellowed as he reached down to scoop the boy from his feet. "And warm water!"

"Uncle?" Tyron asked, a faint tremor in his voice, "what's happening?"

"Shut up, lad," Worthy said as he carried him swiftly into the kitchen, laying him down on the table as one of the kitchen staff held open the door.

"Here's the cloth."

"Ta."

With one hand, the former hammerman gently brushed the hair back from the boy's face as he used the cloth to wipe away the dust and grime around his mouth. After a few moments, he leaned closer to get a better look before he swore explosively.

"FUCK!" his hand smashed down on the table, smashing an imprint onto the treated wood, made to be hard enough to prevent knives from cutting it.

"What's wrong with him, Worthy?" Megan asked, frightened by her husband's unusual expression of anger.

For the moment, he ignored her, his hands tightening around his nephew's head.

"How many boy?" he whispered, voice trembling from suppressed rage. "How many did you have last night?"

"Uncle? I.. Don't know what you mean."

"The crystals boy. How many crystals? Try to think."

The urgency in his tone seemed to do something for Tyron, his eyes almost focused for a half second, before it vanished, his mind retreating into the fog once more.

"I-I'm not sure. Crystals? I'm so … tired."

"No! Don't sleep!" Worthy slapped him across the face, hard.

"Worthy!" Megan was almost in tears at this point. "What's wrong!?"

With a visible struggle, Worthy mastered his temper as he continued to lean over his nephew, his focus never leaving his face.

"This idiot has been up all night casting spells. Which would be fine, normally. It's not smart to do it, but it's not like he hasn't done it before. Except this time he must have burned through all his energy and decided that he should use some arcane crystals to top himself off."

His wife gasped.

"Isn't that?"

"Fuckin' dangerous? Yes, it is," he growled. "If the little idiot used too many, then he's already dead."

With barely any effort, Worthy slipped his arms underneath Tyron's increasingly limp form and hoisted him up.

"I'll put him in the back room, make him comfortable. Send someone to run and get the apothecary, tell the old bastard to move his ass, I don't care how early it is. Megan, pull together some of the leftovers, if we can get some food into him, that can help."

As the small crowd that had gathered in the kitchen raced to do as he'd said, the broad shouldered man carried his nephew as gently as a baby to a spare room on the ground floor.

"Don't you dare die lad. Not before your father comes home and kicks your arse over this first," he muttered.

Ten minutes later, the town apothecary, a leather skinned old codger named Yarrus, was dragged into the room by Berry, one of the kitchen hands. Worthy gave her a nod as the healer drew himself up, cursing the youth and their lack of respect for their elders.

"I'm here Worthy, what is worth dragging me out of bed for?"

"My nephew. He's used arcane crystals, I'm not sure how many."

"Magick toxicity?" the old man sucked in a deep breath as he rushed to the bedside. "That's not good."

"No shit," Worthy growled, "can you do anything for him?"

"I can," Yarrus confirmed, a sly tone creeping into his voice, "but perhaps we should first discuss the matter of payment?"

In one motion, the innkeeper snatched the old man up off the ground by his neck, holding him there as easily as if he were a sack of potatoes.

"How about you heal him first? Worthy rumbled, fire dancing in his eyes, "or maybe you'd like to explain to Magnin why his only son is dead because you wanted to argue about the price?"

The apothecary frantically clawed at the hand that gripped him, but couldn't budge it so much as an inch. Worthy slowly lowered him until the tips of his toes touched the ground before loosening his grip just enough to let the man breathe.

"This is assault!" Yarrus gasped, "you think you can do this to me?"

"You heal this boy or I'll do far worse. I'll pay your fucking coin when you're done! Get to it!"

With a face filled with contempt, Worthy released the apothecary who slumped to the ground before crawling to the bedside and rummaging through his robes. The old hammerman watched him carefully as the healer began to pluck various herbs from his pockets, fetching a mortar and pestle from the bag he'd brought with him to start grinding away.

"It's advanced quickly," Yarrus muttered, mostly to himself, "you can already see the veins in his face turning blue and the bruising around the mouth. His temperature is... normal enough for now, but that will change in the next hour or so. Judging by the rapidity of the spread, I'd say he had three crystals, at least."

Worthy sucked in a breath, his brow creased with concern. Three crystals into someone who hadn't built up a tolerance was a high dose. Three in one night was a high dose for someone who'd been using them regularly for a long period. He didn't have much experience with mage training, having never gone through anything like it himself, he'd still worked with plenty of spellcasters over the years, and most of them wouldn't take more than one crystal at a time, and only when they had to.

Just what had the kid been doing last night? Why did he have to push himself this hard? And where the hell did he get his hands on the things? They're restricted!

The answer was obvious, but he couldn't believe that Beory would be so careless with her own equipment that Tyron had gotten his hands on them. Had he bought them himself? With what money? He had a small stash of funds to take care of himself, certainly not enough to purchase arcane crystals, not that anyone in Foxbridge sold the damn things.

"You're lucky I did my rounds at Skyice Keep," Yarrus said as he pulled a series of needles from his bag and began coating the tips in the mixture he had prepared, "I treated many for this condition during my time there."

A grunt was the only reply the apothecary received and his face soured as he drew the first of the needles out of the compound he had prepared.

"By placing these at the nexus points in the extremities, I'll be able to draw away some of the excess magick in his body. Hopefully, it will be enough to prevent the worst ramifications of his overdose, but as with all things in life, there is no certainty."

"Get to it," Worthy said.

Moving with the utmost care, Yarrus allowed his experience and skills to guide him as he turned over the boy's arms so the palms faced upward, tracing the needle along his veins. When he was satisfied, he inserted the thin rod of tempered medicinal steel at the midpoint of the forearm, quickly replicating the effort on the other arm. With this done, he rolled up the boy's pants to mid-calf and inserted two more needles above the ankle on each leg.

After a few minute of patient watching, the four needles began to emit a soft light.

"There," Yarrus nodded in satisfaction, "a portion of the energy is being drained away. I must caution you, should too much magick be taken from his system then there will be adverse side effects to that as well. Monitor the needles carefully. When the light is half as dim as it is now, remove them immediately, lest he suffer as a result."

"Is that all we can do?" Worthy asked.

"With the resources we have to hand here in Foxbridge? Yes. If a high level Arcane Healer were in town, they could do much more, but alas you are stuck with me."

The old man pushed himself to his feet with a grunt.

"And I expect to be paid."

Avarice glinted clear and bright in the apothecaries eyes. The Steelarms were the wealthiest family in town and hardly suffered from as much as a cough across the years. The opportunity to dip his hands into those deep pockets was near enough to get him salivating.

"You can settle accounts with Magnin when he gets home. He shouldn't be more than a few days away."

Worthy dismissed the apothecary with a few words and knelt by the side of his nephew, taking the boy's hand in his own. A range of emotions writhed across Yarrus' face as he contemplated trying to wring funds from a powerful slayer. Greed, concern, fear followed quickly by glum acceptance.

Magnin might decide to shower him with gold, or just as easily short change him and there was absolutely nothing that he, a small town healer could do about it. Someone like Magnin was worth a thousand of him in the eyes of the kingdom. If the warrior decided to cut him down in the street he likely wouldn't be punished for it.

Grinding his teeth, Yarrus stalked out of the room and stomped through the inn, unheeded by everyone. Instead, their focus was on the semi-conscious young man in the back room.

Chapter 11 - Sleeping

Sunrise of the fourth day since the awakening ceremony and Elsbeth Ranner woke numb and tired, the patter of rain on the slate roof of the family home a constant drum in her ears. After she lay in her bed for ten minutes, she finally sighed and pushed her blankets off, having managed to summon the energy she needed to prepare for the day.

So much had changed since the awakening. Everything had changed.

It was normal, in a way. Getting a Class and transitioning to an adult, it was a momentous shift in everyone's life, and she'd known that going into it, but even so she hadn't expected… this. She'd even gotten the Class that she'd been hoping for, she was a genuine Priestess. Somehow, she couldn't find it within herself to celebrate that fact this morning.

She brushed her hair and dressed herself before she left her room, turning left down the corridor she opened the door to find her family at the table eating breakfast. The air sat heavy in the room and silence lay beneath it like a blanket.

"Sorry I'm late," she muttered to no-one in particular and dragged a chair out to sit down.

Her mother flashed her a brief smile that faded as quick as it appeared. Her father sat in stony silence as he stared straight ahead, chewing his food with a mechanical rhythm. Elsbeth nodded to her mother in thanks for preparing the meal and raised her hands to pray before she hesitated. She'd been praying to the Goddess so long that the words of the morning prayer had come to her lips unbidden, but, she couldn't pray to her now, could she?

Her father slammed a hand down onto the table before he stood, the legs of his chair scraping over the floor in the way he'd always hated.

"Thanks for the meal," he ground out, his entire posture radiating suppressed anger.

It was so unlike the loving father that she knew. Tears welled in her eyes but Elsbeth kept her head down as the man who had raised her tidied his plate before he stomped out of the dining room, slamming the door behind him.

She nearly jumped when a hand gently touched her shoulder.

"He'll be alright in a few days," her mother said, "he just needs a little time."

The gentle tone and warm support broke the last of her defences and the tears spilled over.

"What about me?" she sobbed as her mother drew her into her arms, "it isn't any easier for me!"

Angine Ranner didn't answer her daughter, just held her close and rocked her side to side as she had for all her children when they were upset. Eventually the tears ceased and she helped wipe Elsbeth's face her hide the tracks of her weeping.

"What are you going to do today?" she asked.

Elsbeth blinked. She couldn't just keep hiding in her house, she had to go out sometime.

"I'll go and register my Class at city hall. No point waiting until the last day, better to get it over with."

Angine nodded in approval.

"That's the way. One door closing isn't the end of the world. You'll find that there are many opportunities for a bright girl such as yourself."

She smiled.

"Thanks mother."

The two women shared a hug before they parted ways, Angine to see to her chores and Elsbeth to get ready to head into town. She almost lost her nerve. Once she had her boots on and found a warm coat to keep off the rain she made it to the front door before she froze. After a moment, she screwed up her courage and shoved open the door, the grey and dreary weather greeting her the moment she did.

It was probably thanks to the rain that she managed to get from her house to the town hall without being noticed. Once she got there and pulled back her hood it was a different story. The entrance hall which stood deserted most of the year was packed, even at this early hour. Young adults, all here to register stood or sat around the room in small groups, muttering quietly to each other.

The moment she entered, all eyes turned to her and the whispers stopped for a conspicuous second, before they returned, louder than before. Her face reddened but she refused to back out now, instead she strode forward to the secretary who stood outside the mayor's office, parchment and quill in hand.

"Elsbeth Ranner, here to register my Class," she said.

"No problem, Elsbeth, take a seat. It's likely to be a little while," the woman said apologetically.

It was two hours before her name was called. For two hours she sat in one corner by herself and endured the whispers and sidelong glances of people she might have considered friends once. Twice she'd tried to start a conversation with someone nearby and twice she'd been rebuffed with a sneer.

News travels quickly in small towns.

When she heard her name, she practically flew out of her seat and into the mayor's office where she found Mayor Arryn and Clerk Barbury seated on the other side of the desk.

"Good morning, Elsbeth," the Mayor smiled. "This is all standard procedure and we'll try and hustle through it since there's still quite a few waiting. I don't know why but people always seem to wait until the fourth day. Day two you could have swung a cat out there."

"We'll ask a few questions about your awakening, then we will get you to perform the status ritual here in front of us," Mrs Barbury explained. "Then I'll use one of my skills to inspect your status and we compare the two results, then your paperwork goes away for filing. We keep one copy here and one copy goes to the record house in Dorrun."

"I understand,'' she nodded."

The whole process took fifteen minutes to complete, with Elsbeth happy to answer the simple questions that were asked. Her status sheet was inspected with care before Mrs Barbury utilised her own method to produce an identical status sheet. Inspection complete, the young priestess was all too happy to leave the reception room behind her and head back out into the rain. By now it was almost lunchtime and after a brief hesitation she decided she didn't want to go home just yet. The frosty, repressed anger of her father was still a weight on her mind that she wasn't prepared to deal with at the moment.

Instead, she turned down Leaven street, stepping carefully on the slick cobblestone road as she made her way to the Steelarm Inn. Pushing open the front door, she was greeted by a burst of warm air and the welcoming din of a lively common room. She shook off her coat before she entered, hanging the damp clothing over the back of a chair, she sat at a table close to the corner and waited to be served.

As she looked around the room, she couldn't help but notice Worthy wasn't present. Normally the jovial, chubby man would be holding court, roaring with laughter as he served tables and pulled drinks, making every guest feel welcome with a broad grin and a story of old heroics. She frowned for a moment before she brushed it off. He was probably fetching something from the cellar, or perhaps was in town making a purchase. She didn't need to overreact to him being absent the moment she entered the room.

So she sat and waited and it wasn't long until Nica, one of the serving girls, arrived at the table, returning shortly after with a bowl of steaming beef stew and a cup of mulled wine. She'd barely begun to enjoy her meal when two familiar figures slid onto chairs at her table.

"Rufus! Laurel!" she gasped around a mouthful of stew and immediately blushed at her own lack of manners.

"Hey there El," Rufus winked as he sat down.

Laurel didn't say anything as she took her seat. The tanned girl's eyes wandered about the inn as if searching for something. Not finding it, she faced Elsbeth directly.

"Tyron not around?" she asked.

Elsbeth started when she realised she hadn't thought of her friend at all since she'd entered the inn. Her eyes flicked around the common room guiltily before she replied.

"Umm, no? I haven't seen Worthy this morning either. Do you think everything's okay?"

The huntress shrugged carelessly and Rufus snorted.

"I can't believe that Tyron wouldn't land on his feet, no matter what happens. Even if his Class isn't what he wanted, he can rely on his folks to sort him out. To be honest, I'm still laughing at how embarrassed he was after the awakening. You remember the look on his face?"

"Rufus!" Elsbeth reprimanded the Swordsman. "He's your friend, remember?"

The young man pulled a face and opened his mouth to retort but Laurel cut him off before he got a word out.

"I don't believe he was given a boring class," she said.

"Believe it or not, you saw him for yourself," Rufus shrugged, a grin splitting his features. "He sure as shit didn't look happy about whatever he got."

Laurel casually reached across and cuffed the smith’s son hard across the head, which made him flinch and forced a giggle out of Elsbeth.

"You aren't listening, blockhead," Laurel said evenly, "I don’t believe his class is boring, or weak."

As he rubbed at the side of his head where he'd been struck, Rufus' face darkened.

"Why? Because of who his parents are? You think we're all carbon copies of our fathers? Or mothers? That's bullshit. Magnin and Beory are top shit, but Tyron's always been weak.

Elsbeth wanted to speak up to defend their friend, but the acid in Rufus' tone made her reluctant to speak. Only a few days ago the four of them had hung out together constantly. Since the awakening, things had changed so quickly…

For her part, Laurel just rolled her eyes before she fixed Rufus with a level stare.

"Just because you want him to be weak, doesn't mean that he is," she said simply. "He sucks with a sword, can't fight for shit and you think that's enough to make him useless? He's smart. Real fucking smart. He started teaching himself magic before he even had a class. I don't care if you feel a desperate need to pull your dick out and measure it against his constantly, but at least try to see the reality in front of your eyes. Thatkid ended up with some boring and useless class? I don't believe it."

"So, what, you think his class is something incredible and he didn't want to tell us because he thought we'd feel bad?" Rufus slumped in his chair sullenly, anger tightening the muscles in his neck. "That'd be right."

"Or," Laurel spelled it out for him, "it's illegal."

A silence fell over the table as the other two absorbed that thought in shock.

"No!" Elsbeth gasped.

"You seriously think so?" Rufus grinned.

"I don't know," Laurel pursed her lips, "but I think it's possible."

"But that's terrible! We have to help him!" Elsbeth cried.

"First time I ever heard a priestess wanting to help a criminal," Rufus observed acerbically before softening his words with a smile when she shot a hurt glance in his direction.

Silence blossomed once more amongst them as each considered the possibility of this news in their own way. It was several minutes before anyone spoke and it was none of the three young people. From the kitchen door, Worthy emerged looking somewhat haggard. The normally boisterous former slayer swept his eyes across the room and stilled when he noticed his nephew's friends seated in the corner. With wide strides, he made his way across the common room, dropping a muted friendly word here and there as he did so, finally arriving in front of the trio before they had noticed his approach.

"Fancy seeing you three here," he greeted them with a small smile.

Laurel, Elsbeth and Rufus jumped at the sound of his voice, jolted from their thoughts they turned to see the portly Innkeeper looming over them.

"Worthy!" Elsbeth spluttered. "I was wondering if you were home!"

Laurel and Rufus both greeted the large man with a murmured "Mr. Steelarm".

Though he may have developed a belly since retiring as a slayer, Worthy was still an imposing physical specimen whose reputation alone commanded respect. His history, as well as his jovial nature and boisterous laugh made him a favourite amongst the children of Foxbridge. The three of them had looked up to the man since they had been able to walk.

The innkeeper's face turned downcast in response to Elsbeth's words.

"Well, I suppose you wouldn't have heard. Young Tyron has gotten himself into a spot of trouble. The fool boy is recuperating in the back room, his aunt hasn't left his side all morning."

"Oh no!" Elsbeth gasped. "Is it serious?"

Rufus and Laurel exchanged glances.

"He could have died," Worthy said simply. "Since the awakening he's been beating himself up and pushing himself too hard. You four have been friends since you were wee munchkins. It'd mean a lot if you could spend some time with him when he wakes up. Try and cheer him up."

Elsbeth immediately apologised profusely for not visiting earlier and pledged that they would all spend time with him the moment he awoke, but Rufus had other priorities.

"What did he do?" Rufus interrupted the young Priestess. "To hurt himself, I mean?"

Worthy frowned but didn't see any reason not to answer.

"He overdosed on magic, pushing himself to cast spells that he shouldn't. I can only assume he got the stuff from his mother's supply somehow." He shook his head. "Not getting the class he wanted has hit the boy hard. It'll be good for him to see that he hasn't lost his friends."

"Of course he hasn't" Elsbeth said firmly and the others offered muttered agreement.

"Thanks," Worthy smiled at them, his usual bright grin dimmed to a muted glow. "I'll have the kitchens send out something extra for you kids."

Having said his piece, Worthy finished his rounds of the common room and vanished back into the kitchen, most likely to sit by his unconscious nephew once more.

"Poor Tyron," Elsbeth said, "I can't believe he'd do that to himself. He's always been so careful…"

"It's almost like he's pushing his illegal class to its limits before time runs out," Rufus leaned forward and whispered.

"Or," Elsbeth glared at him, "he's compensating for having his dreams shattered by pushing himself too hard."

"Maybe," Rufus shrugged and leaned back in his chair.

"It's almost like you want him to have an illegal class. Why? You want him to have it ripped out of him, to live as a cripple?" she demanded hotly.

"Keep your voice down," Rufus hissed. "It's not like that," he continued, "I just think we should listen to what Laurel has to say."

"And do what? I still can't believe either of you think this is real, but what are you going to do if it is? Help him escape? Or something?"

"There's a bounty on catching runaways," Laurel mused with a straight face.

Both of her hands slammed into the table before she even realised what she was doing.

"I can't believe you, either of you," Elsbeth was on the verge of tears, "I'm going home."

Her chair screeched as she rose from the table and stormed out, half the eyes of the common room on her as she did so. The moment the door slammed behind her, those eyes turned to the two youths who remained.

"Nice and lowkey," Laurel murmured.

"As if it isn't your fault," Rufus scoffed, though he took care to keep his voice low. "You really don't think you could have been a little more tactful than that?"

"It's your job to wrangle the princess, not mine," Laurel said, bored. "Though I'm not sure if trying to catch Tyron and turn him in would be a good move, if he has a banned class."

"What do you mean if?" Rufus said, "you were the one who suggested he did in the first place!"

"It's possible, not certain."

The young man pondered for a moment.

"But if he does… that bounty could help us. It's not cheap to become Slayers, every little bit could help us out."

Laurel watched the blacksmith's son with level eyes before a slow smile spread over her features.

"You do want him to have an illegal. You want to drag him back into town and watch it ripped out of him. Don't bother denying it, I can see it in your eyes."

Rufus didn't reply.

"You are such a petty bastard," she said as she rose from the table, draining the last of her cup. "I'll help you, because I think it's hilarious to see how far you'll go for a childhood grudge, but I don't think you'll get the princess on board."

"Leave her to me," Rufus said.

Laurel stretched like a cat, the lithe form of her body catching Rufus’ eye.

"Even if I'm right, the marshals will get him before we do," she said as she turned toward the door.

"The marshals are watching everyone. We only have to watch him."