BOD Chapter 19 - Butchery (Patreon)

Quite a fun new character in this one. Next chapter on Monday!

Words of power rolled sonorously from his mouth as he concentrated on each syllable, ensuring that no errors were made. At the same time he split his focus, directing a portion of his attention to the circle beneath his feet into which he began to direct a steady flow of magick. The power built over time as he continued to speak, the sweat already beginning to bead on his brow and he tried to remain hushed without breaking the flow and enunciating correctly.

"Remember Tyron," his mother told him, "a misspoken word can be as good as a death sentence with high level spells. Diction. Saves. Lives."

As good as the advice was, he pushed the memory away, he had to focus.

Beneath his feet a dark purple flame began to flicker around the soles of his feet, causing shadows to dance along the floor and walls, dimly at first, but with growing intensity as the flame spread through the channels he had created with such painstaking effort. As he continued to intone the spell the fire grew, directed by the circle he had drawn. The ethereal tongues of flame spread through the pattern with deliberate slowness as he controlled the trickle of energy.

Sweat had already begun to drip from his face as he maintained his dual focus, speaking the words and empowering the circle at the same time. He knew he had to control the pace of the spell with great care. If he advanced too quickly without the proper activation of the circle the spell would fail, with disastrous consequences, but if he ignited it too early, he wouldn’t be able to maintain the drain of magick, causing it to fail when he needed it most. Already the drain on his reserves was beyond the point he would have been able to sustain before he'd received his class. Without the precious levels he'd gained, this spell would have been impossible for him to cast. In fact, if he only had access to the Necromancer class and not the bonus stats from his two levels in Anathema, he'd have no hope either.

Moving with tremendous care, he brought the arcane crystal in his hand up to his mouth as he continued to speak, waiting for a pause between syllables to slide it under his tongue. For one horrible moment the crystal shifted in his mouth and his tongue twisted to prevent it from sliding loose. He managed to settle it just in time as he sucked in a quick breath and continued, only the slightest hitch detectable in his otherwise steady voice.

Even so he rubbed his palms across his shirt to try and prevent them from shaking. That had been close to a disaster.

For the next minute he concentrated only on speaking and drawing deeper, steadying breaths in the breaks and only once he felt he had calmed down, when the pounding of his heart in his chest had settled, did he once more begin to channel power into the circle.

To an outside observer the scene would have been equal parts beautiful and disturbing as the young man stood rock still, lit from below by purple fire that oh so slowly drew an intricate pattern of loops and whorls on the floor that turned, connected and broke in a never ending dance that entwined itself in a neat circle that spread in a two metre radius from his feet. Perhaps more disturbing than that was the vague darkness that had begun to form, wavering in the air directly in front of the youth. It was so thin, and blended with the shadows so well, one could be forgiven for thinking it was nothing more than a trick of the light, but how then to explain the strange sense of foreboding that began to permeate the room.

Tyron felt it, how could he not? He was the one actively summoning it.

He wouldn't be distracted. He closed his eyes and spread his hands wide as the words continued to roll from his mouth, giving form and shape to the magick that flowed from him in a steady stream. Wary that the trickle of energy he drew from the candy was no longer enough, he split his focus once again to draw on the crystal more actively, compensating for the resources he was losing to power the spell.

His calves burned, his shoulders ached, a headache pounded in his temples and his throat burned, but Tyron refused to bend as he continued to direct the flow of power, forcing it to bend to his will. Before he had received his class, such a feat would have been beyond him, but now he could barely manage. He waged a constant battle as the minutes ticked by, each element he sought to control growing more unruly, more difficult to contain as more power fed into them.

Why the hell wasn't I given any nice cantrips to cast from these damn classes?

The thought flickered on the outskirts of his awareness and he paid it no mind as he directed the spell. By now the flame had permeated all through the circle he had drawn, the pattern complete as the fire danced around his boots. With the protection complete, he was free to move into the final phase of the spell which he did without hesitation. He couldn't afford to waste time, even now the reserves of magick within him were falling low, despite the inflow from the candy under his tongue.

His eyes still shut, he spoke the words, each one ringing in the air, infused with power as they added to the shape that continued to form in the air.

After another five minutes through which Tyron mastered himself time and time again the vague and indistinct shape had become more clear. A wafting curtain of pure darkness hung in the air, rippling as if brushed by a wind that none could feel. It wasn't large, barely a metre wide circle, but from that unnatural cloth came an aura that soaked the room in dread. Still Tyron continued to speak, his hands drawing closer to his chest as he focused, crafting the final aspect of the spell as he fought to maintain the disparate elements he had created.

Sweat flowed freely down his face, dripping into his eyes and mouth, another hurdle that he had to adjust for in order to pronounce each word with perfect clarity, not daring to shift his posture at this key moment.

Slowly, slowly, the final piece began to form as he raised both hands into the air in front of him, reaching out toward the drifting curtain before him without touching it. Then, slowly, slowly, he drew his hands down again, lowering them from the level of his eyes down to his waist, and this time the spell responded to his action. As his hands fell, the cloth parted. As the final words rolled from his lips the darkness solidified.

Pierce the Veil.

It was done.

Wrung out, Tyron drew a ragged breath as he tried to still the trembling in his limbs, but he did not shift from his position, nor did he allow the flow of magick to the circle beneath his feet to falter.

For a long second nothing happened until Tyron slowly opened his eyes to glimpse into something that should not be seen.

In an instant his mind was assaulted as a voice forced its way into his head, babbling incoherently in a language he could not recognise. He rocked back on his heels, both hands flying to his head as the pain intensified a hundred fold. Unknown to him, blood had begun to flow from his nose and ears as the voice scratched and clawed within his skull.

Allo'kruak al'atha! Shub grinu'ak kal'kragg oleth a'lel orrani'kk!

An endless scream of one voice that quickly became a chorus, each pushing, stretching inside his head until Tyron could contain it no longer and a long groan leaked out his mouth as he fought the presences in his head. On and on they babbled as he felt as if his headache might split his forehead open right in the middle, but he did not move from his spot anchored to the centre of the circle and he did not cut off the flow of power.

Which saved his life.

As he continued to fight for his sanity, the dread aura within the room only intensified, the shadows deepening to a perfect darkness that suppressed the light of the flames until they barely seemed to illuminate anything  at all. Tendrils of otherness stretched through the opening, hesitant at first, then with growing confidence as they met no resistance on the other side. What started as one quickly became a dozen, then a hundred, than an uncountable number as they writhed through the air like roots seeking water. As if sensing the life within the young man, they homed in toward him, drawing ever closer as he continued to battle the voices.

With a shout Tyron threw his hands down, palms facing the floor before he bit down on the crystal, shattering it in his mouth and cutting the underside of his tongue. He grasped hold of the last flow of power from the gem and flung it down to the flames through his hands which he then clenched into fists.

At this motion the fire roared, climbing up until it licked against the wooden ceiling without burning it. This wasn’t a fire designed to consume the mundane, the building was in no danger from it. The tendrils on the other hand, reacted immediately, pulling back from the fire as a frustrated shriek vibrated through the veil and rattled against Tyron's consciousness. As the purple flame roared, the Necromancer once again found his mind clear, the voices forced out for a few seconds and he acted decisively.

He squeezed out the last ounce of power within himself as words once again echoed from his torn throat. With a deliberate motion he brought his hands wide before he forcefully brought them together in front of his face. He felt resistance, but he didn't allow it as with a large surge of mental energy he forced the veil to close.

Then it was all gone. The fire, the veil, the strange presence and voices, all of it, vanished. Tyron stood, swaying on his feet as he continued to leak blood down over his mouth and from his ears, utterly exhausted.

It would be so easy to collapse right here. So easy. Part of him yearned for it even, for the hard times to be over, but that wasn't his path and he had turned away from it before.

He almost sobbed as he forced himself to move. First one step, then the next, until he reached the bench, he gathered his book before he stumbled back and did what he could to drag his foot through the circle he had drawn, obliterating the lines. With the last of his energy he climbed onto the bench, uncovered the window and pushed himself out, almost uncaring when he flopped hard onto the ground on the other side. He lay there for a few minutes to collect his breath and had to pinch himself to delay the onset of sleep.

When he was ready he gathered himself and began to make his slow way back to the inn. With any luck he'd get some sleep before he had to be at the butchery the next day.

Within the Slayer keep.

"What the blazing fuck?!"

Rogil sat up instantly in bed and reached for his blade, crashing through the door into the lounge of his team's group suite a few seconds later. Only the Lowlight Vision feat prevented him from slamming his shin into the low table in the centre of the room as he cast his eyes about, seeking out the danger.

"Dove?" he barked, "talk to me!"

"Fucking fuck!" the voice echoed from the mage's room and Rogil leapt to the door and ripped it open, tearing it off its hinges in the process.

Inside he found the bearded man staring directly into a wall, magick circles ignited above his eyes as he stared at something nobody else could see and continued the steady stream of curses. From the other rooms he could hear the sounds of the rest of the team waking up and rolling from their beds, far too slowly for Rogil's liking. He'd drill them on it later.

"What is the danger, Dove you idiot?!"

"Wha- fuck, what?"

"Is there a threat?!"

"I should fucking… oh good lord, it's gone. Thank shit. Thank you holy goddess. Thank your pure melons and your blessed, firm ass."

"Dove," Rogil ground out, "can you stop blaspheming long enough to tell me what's going on, or am I going to have to pound you into a bearded pile of goop first?"

The magick faded from the Summoner's eyes as he finally seemed to realise his team leader had arrived in the room, followed by the rest of the team as they gathered outside his door.

"Are you telling me you didn't feel that? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"DOVE!"

"An abyssal!" he threw his hands in the air. "Someone tried to summon a fucking abyssal! Here!"

"In the keep?!"

"No, in town somewhere. They failed, thank goodness. Can you imagine…" the mage trailed away as he shivered.

"What is going on and why can I see Dove's balls?" Aryll the scout drawled as he peered over Monica's head.

Dove looked down at his exposed genitalia, only realising in that moment that he'd gone to sleep with a shirt on, but no pants. Deciding to lean into it, he turned toward the door with his feet planted firmly apart.

"Allow me to explain," the Summoner gestured with his hand, managing to brush his nightshirt out of the way of his junk in the process, "what is going on, is I felt someone perform a ritual somewhere in town, a ritual that tore the veil. As to why you're looking at my balls, that's because you're a raging pervert, but it's okay, we love you anyway."

Rogil rolled his eyes.

"I couldn't care less about your dick oryour balls. Try to imagine for a moment that none of us are specialists at pulling weird creatures from even weirder places and break this down a little for us?"

"And put on some pants, please," Monica begged, her hands firmly cupped over her eyes.

"Fine!"

Dove strolled back to his bed and found his pants as the rest of the team lit a few candles and took a seat in the communal lounge, Dove joining them a few moments later.

"Okay. In basic terms, it's like this. There is a barrier that separates our reality from some truly heinous shit. That barrier is called the veil. Someone in Woodsedge poked a hole in the bloody thing and something truly heinous tried to creep through it."

"You mean they tried to open a rift?" Aryll frowned, "they were summoning rift-kin?"

The Summoner slapped a hand to his forehead before he looked up again.

"Actually, it might make sense to explain it that way. Yeah. Think of the veil as something behind which a particularly horrendous brand of rift-kin lives, except under normal circumstances, rifts do not form between here and there. Ever. Think of it as the walls being too thick, or the destination being too far away. Got me?"

"I think so," Rogil nodded.

"So the only way to bring these particular rift-kin over is for someone to manually create the rift and let them through. It's a big no-no. One of the biggest no-nos. If I did something like that I'd be strung up by my testicles above the keep gate before they started torturing me."

Aryll winced.

"Of course, this is a simplification, abyssals are not rift-kin, they are much worse, and bringing them here is both easier and harder than opening a rift."

"You said they failed?" Rogil said.

"Yes, they failed. Would I be sitting here in my nightclothes if there was a fucking abyssal wandering through town?"

"You're sure?"

"Of course I'm fucking sure! By the perky spheres -"

"Dove," Monica warned.

"… ahem. By the perfect name of the goddess. Yes. I'm sure."

Each of them sat back in their chairs as some of the tension drained out of the room. Except from Dove. The Summoner clasped and unclasped his hands as his leg bounced up and down.

"So what happens now?" Rogil turned his mind to the future. "Is this going to impact the team at all?"

Dove frowned.

"Maaaaaybe?" the pitch of his voice rose toward the end of the word. "I can say a few things for sure. I'm not the only one who felt that summoning, not by a long stretch. There'll be guards swarming through town as we speak, looking for the ritual site and trying to kneecap the summoner. It's possible that the Keep might prevent expeditions leaving for the next few days…"

"Don't give me that shit! We were heading out in three days!" Aryll swore.

The Summoner raised his palms.

"I know, I get it. But I can tell you this for free, the first suspect is going to be the Slayers, which means I'm likely to get my ass dragged off to jail before the night is done."

"What? Why?" Rogil blinked.

"Summoning a motherfucking abyssal is serious business. Serious. Business. You think some punk kid can pull that kind of magick? No. Someone with levels did this. Probably not too many, otherwise they likely would have succeeded, but levels nonetheless."

"Which means Slayers are the primary suspect, as always," Aryll said.

"What are you going to do?" Dove shrugged. "There aren't many people with the kind of control and power needed to pull this kind of shit. I'd come knocking on my door first if I was looking for a culprit, and there'll be a few others dragged out of the Keep tonight as well."

At that moment a deliberate and urgent knock rang out from the door, several raised voices coming from behind it.

Dove stood casually and straightened his nightclothes before spreading his hands towards the other members of his team.

"How do I look?"