Fantasy Economics 101 - Chapter 14 (Patreon)

A Campsite Ghost Story

Nights were, for the longest time, struck fear in the hearts of the people of Eksilva. The darkness was the home of many a creature best not encountered, be they common wolves howling at the moon, or the more esoteric and oftentimes regional beasts inhabiting the murky wilderness of the continent. However, humanity was ever-so-ingenious. Be they oil-burning lamps, wax-soaked torches, or mystical stones charged with the eldritch powers of magicks, the dark of the night was steadily pushed out of the civilized villages and towns, and only remained in the deepest depths of the old forests dotting the land.

For some, they were terrifying places evoking instincts ingrained into humanity's collective consciousness; a realm of danger, where one could never know what kind of monstrosities might lurk behind the trees, valleys, and hills just outside their vision. For others, it was a land of opportunity, full of game and, in recent times, gold. Still, even those most daring of adventurers, when the moon hung high in the sky and the shadows grew long and indistinct, would find their hearts encroached by an ancient apprehension. The fear of the wilds at night.

Yet, despite all that, there was a small but bright spot in the woods this night. Lit by a mantled portable lamp, a curious marriage of inventive workmanship and magickal engineering. The bulbous body stood on three retractable legs, painted bright green, with a tall, curved glass chimney on top of it. Inside, a vigorous flame, fueled by an uncanny, sparkling liquid charged with magicka, greedily licked a mantle woven of an incandescing material, filling the tent in the corner of the clearing with a bright light and bringing just a sliver of home and civilization to the untamed woodlands.

If any weary traveler were to stumble upon this place, they would have sooner run away than ask for hospitality from the occupants inside. Near the entrance to the small tent sat a skeleton, his bony visage made even more uncanny by the lights filling his empty eye sockets. On his left, was the ghost of an old man with a face covered in faintly glowing green bruises, a sorry sight even by the standards of spectral undead. Finally, on the skeleton's right, an eerily beautiful young woman, her face no longer hidden by her veiled headgear and her pale skin practically glowing in the lamplight, and her demure smile would've undoubtedly evoked a vertigo-inducing sense of whiplash and alarm in the unfortunate onlooker.

It was a strange group indeed, and their discussion was suitably bizarre as well.

"So… you are Rakan of the Bloody Hand," the ghost of the necromancer spoke in a slow, deliberate cadence. "Except you are not truly Rakan of the Bloody Hand, but an imperial agent, who used his identity to lure the invaders into a trap, and you died, but you had a contract with Unalas, so you want to resurrect yourself, but due to the Wish, you now need a lot of gold to pay for it, so you cooperated with this, this female hermit to summon me, essentially barring me from being properly raised by my fellows from the Guild, just so that you could use my research to summon magickal beasts, creatures, and other monstrosities to gather gold for your resurrection."

After he finished speaking, a long, somewhat awkward silence hung in the air, broken when Raol lifted the cup in his bony hands, carefully poured its content into his mouth, and then mused, "If you put it like that, I suppose my situation does sound rather peculiar."

His comment made the young hermitess chuckle and reach for the portable kettle to refill his cup, but she was immediately startled by the ghost of the old man letting out a livid screech.

"No, you utter fools! You want to talk about peculiar!? Why don't you start by questioning how you can drink that! And eat! And have a Courts-damned astral body! WHAT ARE YOU?!"

"We hoped you could tell us," Raol commented dryly as he held out his cup, and Elkayla happily filled it up for him before doing the same to her own mug.

"I don't know!" the necromancer fumed, "And even if I knew, I have no obligation to tell you anything! You have already ruined me by raising me in this form, and you now expect me to just help you out of the kindness of my heart?!"

For emphasis, he repeatedly gestured at his translucent upper body and his missing legs. The skeleton wasn't amused by his tone, and when his eye-lights formed into a glare, the old man stopped flailing his hands and remained stock still.

"We 'ruined you' by summoning you as a ghost?" Raol repeated after him with an eminently skeptical undertone.

"Yes!" the old man responded vehemently, though less so than before. "I have made a contract with one of my close associates in the Necromancers' Guild precisely for situations like this. If I didn't contact them for more than six months, he would try to remotely raise me as a flesh golem, but because of your frivolous meddling, I'm now stuck in this form! Such indignity!"

"Sorry," Elkayla interjected with an apologetic smile. "This was the first time I had done anything like this, and I only followed what was written in the grimoire."

Sighing, the old man shook his head.

"I'm not blaming youin particular," he responded in an acerbic tone. "I thought that you were a hapless, incompetent apprentice of the Art, but seeing that you could achieve a successful summoning ritual without prior education means you have tremendous talent and show great promise." Pausing, the necromancer turned a pair of thundering eyes at Raol, and exclaimed, "It's all this brutish oaf's fault! Why would you not let her deepen the well of the knowledge of the Art and force her to perform the ritual prematurely?! Just how foolish can you be?!"

After learning of the circumstances of his summoning, the wizened necromancer completely changed his impression of Elkayla, yet because of this, he had been pouring all his vitriol on Raol alone. The skeleton found the affair anything but amusing, but for the time being, he tolerated the ghost's outbursts. They needed his experience and expertise after all. However, it didn't mean he would let the old man walk over him. Rhetorically speaking, of course, considering he had no feet.

"Do I have to give you another lesson in etiquette?" he asked in a low growl, and the old man immediately fell silent again.

"So, Mister…" Elkayla spoke up, but then her brows knit into a troubled frown. "Oh, now that I think about it, we've never asked about Mister Necromancer's name, have we?"

"True." Nodding, Raol turned a questioning gaze at the ghost, and he let out a soft scoff.

"Ha! Do you think I would be foolish enough to fall for such simple tricks? I'm a senior three-skull practitioner of the Necromancers' Guild! Do you think I would give my name away so easily?"

Confused, Raol turned back to Elkayla, and only then did the young woman's face light up with realization.

"Oh, that's right. The book said that one must know an undead's true name to fully bind them to their will." Pausing, she awkwardly stuck out her tongue and added, "S-Sorry. It completely slipped my mind."

"No need to apologize, it's not a problem," Raol reassured her and then turned his attention back to the necromancer. "I have the means to get it out of him."

For added effect, the skeleton put his cup down and theatrically cracked his knuckles. Of course, without ligaments, the act made no popping sounds, yet it still had the desired effect, and after only a breath's time, the ghost raised his hands in surrender.

"Werdner. You can call me Werdner, but that's all I'm telling you."

"Werdner," Raol repeated after him, and to everyone's surprise, the ghost let out a stifled yelp, as if someone just poked him with the business end of a pitchfork.

"Gaaah! Why! Why do I have a connection to you!?"

The skeleton had a hard time understanding what he was talking about, but Elkayla had an idea.

"Oh, wow! Mister Raol really is Mister Werdner's master!" She beamed at the skeleton, and explained, "It must be because Mister Raol completed the ritual."

"That makes no sense!" the old man vailed, holding his head in his hands. "You need to have command of magicka for something like this! How could a lowly skeleton do that!? Do you think it's that simple!?"

"It's because Mister Raol is an arch-wight," the hermitess insisted, drawing another groan out of the spectral man.

"I've told you, there's no such thing! Wights are naturally occurring barrow-dwellers! Whatever this uncought brute may be, he's very blatantly not that!"

"Then what am I?" Raol asked the question they had already tried to tackle a couple of times, and Werdner leveled a flat, sunken stare at him.

"How many times do I have to tell you this, fool?! I have no earthly idea! You should. Not. BE! A skeleton with an astral body capable of consuming food and drink, possessing a vestige of sensory functions, and able to enforce even the most rudimentary control over the power of magick without any kind of foci? Not even the grandest liches can claim that, and they had to work their fingers to the bone to mimic just a fraction of that! Do you think the greatest of necromancers of old spent years slaving away to craft their phylacteries just for FUN?! And you want to throw it all away to regain your weak flesh?! You fool!"

"So Mister Raol is something special?" the young hermitess's eyes sparkled as she stared at the increasingly befuddled skeleton.

"Special or not, it doesn't change the fact that this body is inconvenient in many ways, and missing certain body parts has been a constant source of irritation. So yes, old man, I'd exchange this body for my 'weak flesh' any day of the week."

"Bah! Blasphemer! Heretic!" the old man yelled, causing Elkayla to furrow her brows again.

"Please don't say that. The Seven aren't involved in this."

"Of course n—!" Old ghost Werdner was about to start another tirade, but then his glowing pupils opened wide and he exclaimed, "Ah! Why didn't I think of this before!"

Apprehensive, Raol focused his attention on the ghost, ready to pounce if it was about to try something, but he was soon frozen in place by the uncanny grin on the necromancer's face.

"You must be some sort of Familiar Spirit!"

"That doesn't sound right," Elkayla tried to object, but her words fell on deaf ears.

"What's a 'Familiar Spirit'?" the skeleton cut in, quickly realizing this might be important information. The old man, in return, harrumphed loudly and crossed his arms.

"The pinnacle of hypocrisy, that's what it is! A naturally arising form of undeath, fueled by the fame of a person after they cast off their earthly coil. When a ghast, or a ghoul rises from the grave, it's an affront to Unalas and nature itself, but when it's an influential man slips out of the Courts and returns to the living? The gods are more than happy to make an 'exception', and turn them into their envoys and champions, and Unalas mysteriously doesn't have a problem with that, the hypocritical shrew!"

"Mister Werdner! Please mind your language!" the young hermitess called him out, and the old man responded with a loud 'Bah!'

In the meantime, Raol was lost in thought. His bony hand gently pinched the chin of his jawbone, and the lights in his eye socket flickered for several breaths' time. The idea of the necromancer wasn't without merit, but multiple things didn't add up, and he wasn't shy to voice his misgivings.

"How come I've never heard of these 'Familiar Spirits' before?"

"Mister Raol might've heard of them as Saints or Heroic Spirits," Elkayla explained at once. "They are humans who serve the Seven after death, and can be called upon by the Temples in times of great peril."

"Don't try to put a positive spin on it," the necromances scoffed, followed by an accusative finger. "They are just thralls the Gods use to do their dirty work, and the whole world lets them get away with exploiting them just because they give them impressive-sounding titles!"

"Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't the Necromancers' Guild exploit the labor of the recently deceased for centuries?"

"At least we are transparent about it," Werdner argued back. "And we make them sign and provide compensations when they are still alive! It's different from just grabbing a soul and wedging it into a new form just for your own convenience!

Raol had a distinct feeling that the necromancer's ire was more aimed at him for raising him as a ghost, with the Gods merely serving as a convenient parallel, but he had no time to spare on guilt trips. Instead, he focused on the sense of discrepancy he was wrestling with still.

"Let's just presume you are right," he proposed, and it caused the ghost to turn a pair of pensive eyes at him. "I doubt my fame, either as myself or as Rakan would merit interest from the Seven, nor am I in their service. How do you propose your idea makes sense in light of that?"

"Do I seriously have to explain something so simple?" the old man groaned and dramatically shook his head. Raol was tempted to slap him again, but held back the urge and waited for him to speak his mind. "You said you had a resurrection contract with Unalas, did you not? That means your soul never entered the Courts of the Underworld, let alone the Endless Meadows of Bel-Garath, so you never had the chance to be enthralled by the Gods. As for your fame…" He paused and turned to the young woman next. "It's understandable that he wouldn't know, but are you also unaware of Rakan's renown?"

"Um… I don't know what you mean," Elkayla admitted, looking just as stumped as Raol felt at the moment.

"In retrospect, I should have expected that female hermits would be less than versed in the literacy of high society."

"Hermitess," she corrected him, but Werdner completely disregarded her and turned to Raol.

"Listen, you fool. Rakan of the Bloody Hand is one of the most famous and well-recognized literary characters of our time."

"You mean historical," the skeleton cut in, and the old man directed a withering glare at him.

"I know what I said, imbecile! Don't interrupt me!" After some huffing and puffing, he crossed his arms again, and explained, "Rakan of the Bloody Hand is the villain of a trilogy of historical dramas written by the legendary playwright Hamprecht Günther Weiss himself! Then a century later, Reinhilde Dreyer-Straub of Northalia wrote an entire series of adventure romance books about Rakan, whereas he survived the battle of Upper Raven Rock by getting swept up by the river and saved by a young woman, who then nursed him back to life, and the two of them became lovers while traveling the Empire and getting involved with the other famous historical players of the era. The books were later re-released as a special omnibus edition by the Imperial Legacy press house of the Monarchy, and highly praised by the Luteanum Herald as one of the ten most significant books of the century, focused on its dynamic characters and vivid descriptive prose interwoven with—"

"Stop! What does that have to do with being a Familiar Spirit?" Raol cut him short, his patience running thin, yet the old man sneered at him as if he were an ignorant child.

"Weren't you listening, you brutish fool? I was telling you about your reputation!"

"But those are just stories, written by… whoever those people were!" Raol argued back, to little apparent effect.

"For a Familiar Spirit, it's the fame that matters, not whether or not it's true! So long as Rakan is embedded in people's minds, it grants you power!"

"Is that why you raised Mister Raol as an undead? Because Rakan would make a powerful undead?"

Hearing the young hermitess's question made the old ghost shudder, as if it was a sore spot, and responded with a half-hearted, "Among other things."

"And this phenomenon you mentioned…" Elkayla barreled on, seemingly not even paying attention to his answer. She picked up the worn grimoire sitting near the lamp, and started frantically flipping through the pages. At last, she let out a delighted hum, and repeatedly poked a page with her index finger. "I knew it sounded familiar! In your theory about the link between Miasma and monsters, you wrote that one possible explanation lies in the Anthropogenic Pan-Subconsciousness Field imposing a shape onto the Miasma!" She paused for a breath's time and looked up from the page, suddenly looking much less sure of herself. "I'm not sure what an 'Anthropogenic Pan-Subconsciousness Field' is, but it's written here that it explains the regional variance of monsters by local folklore and beliefs. Isn't that similar to how fame gives rise to Familiar Spirits?"

"Finally, an intelligent observation!" the old man exclaimed seemingly in delight, yet his delivery was still so acidic it might as well have been sarcastic. However, it has been ages since anyone even entertained his theories, and so he was itching to talk about his ideas. "Yes, the effect mechanism is exactly the same! Tell me, have you ever wondered why you never see any young monsters in the wild? Or how, despite the Adventurers' Guild's best efforts, they could never breed them in captivity?"

"As a matter of fact, I have never thought about such things," Raol noted, earning him a disdainful gaze from the old man.

"Silence! I wasn't talking to you, savage!" He turned back to Elkayla, and continued with a very slightly more amicable, "In fact, in my expert opinion, monsters and Familiar Spirits are born in similar ways. A heroic individual leaves behind his legend, and it spreads among the populace. While each human has little to no power, when combined, the collective consciousness of a whole continent can reinforce the soul, allowing it to slip out of the Courts of the Underworld and return to the world of the living. However, when they do so, it's in a form that befits both their legend and the times. I savage hero who died in the Age of Brass would be clad in plate steel armor and espouse wows of chivalry while swearing upon his sword burning with holy flames. Old wise men who lived before the establishment of the Seven Temples would inexplicably wear priestly robes. Scarred and fat old generals who always lead from the rear would return as spry, handsome young men riding on white steeds with sword in hand. This is what made me think: if the collective conscious can impose an image onto the soul of a Familiar Spirit, then what else could it accomplish?"

"So, if I get this right," Raol spoke up, much to the old man's chagrin. "You're saying that monsters are created by the folklore of the people, such as that if they believe there are… What was the name of that bear creature again?"

"Tralokh," the young woman responded with a smile.

"Yes, that. Thank you." The skeleton titled his head in appreciation, and then focused his attention on the old man's ghost again. "So the idea is that the people believe that there's a Tralokh in the woods, and that wills it into existence?"

"Yes, in very rudimentary layman terms, you are not entirely incorrect in that description," Werdner huffed, and wagged a finger at him. "However, you missed a crucial element: the Miasma! Without a clump of Miasma for the Anthropogenic Pan-Subconsciousness Field to act upon, nothing would happen."

"But since the Wish, there's been an excess amount of magicka in the air, which led to an overflow of Miasma, leading to a lot more monsters than before," Raol concluded, and the necromancer nodded, though his expression was reluctant, as if the act was in some ways demeaning.

"You are not wrong. I suppose just like how a rusted, broken, and defective clockwork may still be right about the time twice a day, so does your small mind might reach a conclusion every—"

Before he could finish his sentence, the increasingly impatient skeleton's hand lashed out, and etched another burning imprint into the man's spectral form, this time on the back of his head.

"Aaah! You violent beast!"

"You were asking for it," Raol responded blithely, and crossed his arms defiantly, remaining stoic despite the insults thrown his way.

"How fascinating!" Elkayla exclaimed in apparent delight, ignoring the squabbling in front of her in favor of taking notes, using the grimoire to support her own notebook. "But, if that's true, then even if a necromantic ritual can be used to condense the Miasma, how would one go about giving it a definite shape? Is that what the circle on this page does? Can you please explain to me how it works, Mister Werdner?"

"Hold your horses, girl!" the necromancer hissed, one hand still rubbing the back of his head. "I never agreed to help you two!"

"You're already doing it though," she pointed out with a joyous expression. "I've already learned so much from you!"

"That may be, but…" Werdner stammered, and then after a breath's time, leveled an accusative finger at the silent skeleton. "If it was only you, girl, I might take you as my apprentice. You have the talent and the drive to master the Art, but I'm not going to help this savage fool!"

"Do you have a choice?" Raol asked, sounding rather curious instead of provocative, yet the old man was still outraged. Fortunately, before the two could start arguing, Elkayla raised her hand to gain their attention.

"Doesn't Mister Werdner want to finish your research?" she asked, and it made the old man jolt as if he just received an unexpected blow. "And you said Mister Raol was special, too, because he could eat and have magicka, right? Wouldn't you want to learn more about him?"

"I don't want to do anything with this, this murderous brute!"

"I have said this already, but let me say it again," Raol interjected in a deadpan voice. "You died of a heart attack. I had nothing to do with it."

"You grabbed me and roared in my face about some 'junk', you wretched reprobate! Of course I would—!" It looked like he had more to say, but after clenching his teeth, the old man let out a long hiss and changed his tune. "Fine! It appears I'm stuck with you for the time being, so I'm willing to assist her," he declared, pointing at Elkayla. "But I'm not doing it for free!"

"What do you want?" Raol inquired in the same tone, and the old man responded with an indignant groan.

"First, contact my associates in the Necromancers' Guild."

"And how am I supposed to do that?"

"I'll tell you the details later, fool! Don't interrupt me!" After yelling, Werner took a deep breath and raised a hand, showing two fingers. "Other than that, I want two things: this ectoplasmic corpus I'm currently inhabiting is unstable, and in my estimation, it would only remain usable for three years. Four at most. Then I would be drawn back into the Courts of the Underworld, and escaping again would become exponentially more difficult. As such, I require you to prepare and assemble a new body for me up to my specifications, and fund all the necessary expenses that come with the endeavor."

"Sounds fair," Elkayla noted, and Raol nodded in agreement.

"Secondly, I want you to swear that you wouldn't dare raise a hand against me ever again!" Raol's eye-lights once again mimicked a curiously raised brow, but the ghost remained adamant. "You either swear, or the deal is off."

"And in return," Elkayla spoke up, her pen furiously dancing on a piece of paper laid on top of the grimoire. "You'll promise to help us with our research into summoning monsters with all of your knowledge and expertise, until our part of the deal is complete, right?"

"Naturally," Werdner declared with as much dignity as a ghost with a bruised face could muster. "I swear upon my name to uphold this contract!" He paused and then turned to Raol. "Now it's your turn."

Sighing, Raol automatically put his hand where his heart should've been and stated, "I swear to abide by the terms of the contract as well."

Without prior warning, a flash of pale green illuminated the insides of the tent, overpowering the mantled lamp's warm yellow glow. Once it subsided, its source slowly became distinct in the form of a thick rope, like a twisted umbilical cord, connecting the skeleton's chest to the ghost's. However, before Raol could closely inspect it, it slowly faded out of vision, and his attention was soon drawn to the necromancer's soft, yet grating, laugh. When their gazes met, they turned into outright cackles, and he pointed a finger at Raol's face.

"You utter fool! I can't believe you so easily agreed! Now, the contract binds you, and you may never lay a finger on me in retaliation, no matter what I do to you!" The old man let out a shrill laugh, his face twisted in madness, and he ominously rubbed his palms together. "Get ready, brute! For I shall make you wish you had never been—!"

However, before he could finish whatever taunts he had on the tip of his tongue, a sudden hook hit the ghost's chin, once again filling the tent with a green flash of light. Holding onto his jaw, he reeled back and nearly fell through the side of the tent, but then, as if yanked back by a chain around his torso, he stumbled forward again. His unfocused eyes opened wide, and he once again leveled a finger on Raol.

"Y-You! You can't do that!"

"I just did," he responded without even trying to hide his sour mood and rose to one knee. Since the tent was fairly small, that was the best he could do, but he still ended up looming over the ghostly necromancer.

"N-No, you f-fool! The contract! It took effect! Neither of us should be able to…" His words trailed off as Raol roughly clenched his fingers around the front of his robe. Werdner's eyes finally regained their focus, and after a long breath's time, he muttered, "Just… what are you?"

Tightening his grip, Raol raised a hand again and uttered a single word.

"Angry."