FINAL CORE - Chapter 80 (Patreon)

I just realized that I'm behind on chapters. I'll get us even again before the weekend is over, apologies!

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What is the difference between ‘level’ and ‘skill’?

A level is a system’s given value to a person that dictates the measure of their ability. Levels range from 0ne to one-hundred. A level one person is weak. A level one-hundred person is absurdly strong.

‘Skill’ is someone’s proficiency at a task.

A person can be a level one-hundred fighter, but have never touched a blade — if we assume they paid in gold to have other people join their party and ‘carry’ them through the dungeons of the world.

A level five adult with a training sword can spar for a decade and become a master, yet he remains level five because the gods decided that fighting monsters is the only way to get experience-points — fighting other people does not.

What is the difference between these two? If they were to fight, who would win?

In a contest of pure swordsmanship, the latter, the level five, would win. They have a mastery of form and stance that the former could never know.

Yet, in raw, physical combat, in a duel of life and death, the level one-hundred, despite being untested, has access to so many potent abilities, that these alone could carry them to a defeat of their specific foe.

In noble society, it is not uncommon for the members of their bloodlines to be carried through dungeons by teams of experts, so that they may gain power for only the mere price of gold. They do not tarnish their hands with dirty work that is viewed as beneath their station, but they will readily reap the rewards of it.

~ Excerpt from Barnatus Barnacious’ Big Book of Dungeons - Of skills, levels and such things

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Perchta

???, Female, Witch

Location: The city

“Witch Perchta,” says Witch Spillaholle. The white-haired woman is sitting sideways on the side of a bookcase, perfectly straight as she sips her tea and watches. “Do you not think that this will cause more trouble than it is worth?”

Perchta turns her head, looking at the woman. “Spooky-bones,” begins the witch, walking over to her.

“— Witch Perchta. Do not call me that.”

Perchta places a finger against the woman’s heart. “You need to deepen your sense of adventure a little, you know?” asks Perchta. She looks around, trying to find her smoking stick. She placed it somewhere, but now she can’t seem to remember where. “Gotta have some fun before we die.”

“Witch Perchta,” says Spillaholle, setting down her teacup, the contents of which stay perfectly balanced, as if she were sitting normally. “Why do we not simply stop this?” asks the woman. Perchta turns back her way. “You are welcome to live with Witch Gauden instead. Far, far away from here.”

Perchta purses her lips together. “And then? What happens after I retire far off as a bitter, old woman that life beat down?”

“— Then you die,” replies Witch Spillaholle, calmly sipping her tea.

Perchta purses her lips, rubbing a little dew out of one of her eyes. “You’re such a good friend, Spider-goo,” says the woman, almost crying as she walks up to the sideways witch and awkwardly wraps her arms around her. “But I can’t live with you. We fight when we live together, remember?”

“Witch Perchta,” begins Spillaholle. “I did not ask you to live with me, and why do you not understand personal space?”

“That’s just you being shy, Spicky-Bricky,” says Perchta. “It’s okay. You can hug me back. We’re alone.”

“Witch Perchta,” sighs the still sideways, white haired woman, setting her saucer down on the rightside-up standing Perchta’s back, resting the tea-cup on it. “Consider this my warning to you. This black ink in your brain will lead only to your own misery.”

Perchta sighs, leaning forward and draping herself over Spillaholle as if she were a railing. “I won’t be sad as long as I have you, Spilli,” says Witch Perchta. The woman straights herself up right again and then plants a foot onto the lowest shelf of the bookcase, her hands against Spillaholle’s side as she pushes herself up.

“Do not.”

Witch Perchta clambers up, turning around, and sits on the sideways turned waist of Witch Spillaholle, who is still there, as if glued to the left-hand exterior of the bookcase. Perchta’s legs dangle down normally. “Do you think they’ll be here soon?” she asks.

“I choose to hope so,” replies Witch Spillaholle. “My tea.”

“Huh?” Perchta blinks, looking at her in confusion. “Oh!” She laughs awkwardly, bending around to grab the tea-cup and saucer that are still stuck to her back, and then hands them over to Spillaholle.

“Thank you,” replies the witch.

“Sure thing,” says Perchta, looking around, still not able to find her smoking stick. “Hey, can you scoot for a second?” asks the woman. “I think you’re sitting on it.”

Spillaholle sighs, setting her tea-cup down. “…Witch Perchta,” says the witch. “I am not sitting on your smoking stick. Consider the logistics of this feat if it were the case.”

Perchta purses her lips and turns her head, looking to the side at Spillaholle’s thighs that are sitting on the side of the bookcase. She bends over, looking at Spillaholle’s leg from up close. Perchta squints, trying to pry her leg off of the shelf by sticking her fingers beneath it.

“Witch Perchta. Constrain yourself. We are merely acquaintances.”

Perchta gasps, sitting upright, tears immediately welling in her eyes as she looks back at Spillaholle. “S-spilli!” says the witch, overjoyed. Her lip quivers and she begins to cry. “Y-you finally admitted that we’re f-friends!”

“Witch Perchta. I did no su-”

— Perchta, sitting on the sideways ‘hovering’ Spillaholle, flops over on top of her, holding her in a hug and crying in a loud howl.

“Witch Perchta. You are crying into my tea,” says the woman.

Perchta howls.

The door opens as Witch Gauden returns. A man enters behind him, taking off his hat and lowering his head.

Perchta sniffles and turns to look at them. “Gaudi!” she says, delighted as her eyes wander to the other man. “Oh. I remember you,” says the woman, her tone drying immediately. “The ant-wall-guy.”

The new man holds his hat against his chest and bows. “Brother Anderwal,” says the man, reintroducing himself. “Enchanted to meet you once again, Witch Perchta. Witch Spillaholle.” He lifts his head. “We have come to serve.”

Perchta looks at him and then nods. “Your first job is to find me a new smoking stick.”

“Of course,” says Anderwal. “Cherrywood. Your favorite?” he asks.

“You got it,” replies Perchta.

— Anderwal reaches into his coat and pulls out a neatly packed, elongated package, holding it out to her. Perchta narrows her eyes in suspicion and then jumps off Spillaholle, walking over to take it from him.

She opens it, looking inside.

There’s a brand new smoking stick of exotic cherry wood that looks exactly like her old one.

The man came prepared.

Perchta sniffles, feeling new tears come to her eyes. She takes it, placing a hand on Anderwal’s shoulder. “I just realized how much I missed you guys,” says the witch. “You’re alright, Anty-pants,” says Perchta.

“I serve.”

Perchta sighs, walking away to light the thing. Maybe next time when she retires, she’s going to hire some servants instead of living alone.

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Witch Gauden

???, Male, Witch of the blue-rot

Gauden sighs in relief, shutting the door behind himself, and then quietly chuckles. He got away with it.

The man looks down into his pocket, where a green slime wobbles around, chewing on the last pieces of cherrywood from the smoking stick it had snatched before. It’s gotten very large, having easily doubled itself in size since Perchta let him have it.

“You’re gonna get in real trouble if you keep eating like that, big guy,” says Gauden, rubbing his hands over the emerald green slime. It quivers, wobbling around his fingers. “You’re pretty lucky,” he says, staring at the monster.

Lucky… huh…

He picks up the glob, holding it up to his face. It oozes around his hands, picking at the gaps beneath his dirty fingernails to eat them clean. “Green and lucky.” He nods. “Shamrock,” says Gauden, poking the slime. “Like a four-leaf clover.”

The slime wobbles, as slimes tend to do.

“That’s your new name, bud,” says Gauden. He slips the big slime back down into his coat, which is beginning to sag a little from the creature’s weight. He gets ready. The whole plan is starting soon. The city doesn’t know what’s coming, and neither does the tower.

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Jizalia

Human, Female, Master Herbalist

Location: The city

Jizalia straightens up the house as best as she can, a pot lid rattling on the stove as water starts to boil.

What is she supposed to do now?

The alchemist looks over to her little sister, sitting at the table.

Their mother had gone out and then never returned. For days, the girl had been here at home by herself, just waiting for someone to come back, but nobody ever did. The house fell into disarray, the food that could be eaten as is was eaten and the rest, well…

Jizalia looks at the thin wraith of a creature and then back to the tubers she’s cutting.

She walks over to the table and sits down. “Look, Sisi,” says Jizalia, showing her the tuber and the paring knife. “With this, it’s important that you cut out these black spots,” says the woman. “One or two are fine. But if you eat them for a long time, you’ll get sick.”

The pale girl nods, watching her.

She can only assume that their mother is dead. The woman would never abandon her youngest. Jizalia would swear her soul on it.

It’s good that she came home, but…

— The pot rattles and hisses. “Ah!” the herbalist jumps up, setting her handiwork down as she rushes to the stove, as she takes the overboiling water off of the heat.

She wasn’t expecting this.

Is she just… supposed to take care of her sister now? Who else, if not her? There’s nobody else left. She wishes she knew what happened to their mother, but…

Jizalia looks back at her sister, Tulsi, who has started cutting the tubers now, as she saw her do.

With the tower here, things are getting turbulent. The witch is down here too, in the south, and she had to move because of the tower. Maybe this is all too much for a child to be near.

Jizalia stares at her sister, wondering what to do. This old house is all they have. She can support them both with her profession, but she needs to be gone outside for long stretches of time to do that — which would mean leaving the girl alone again.

The herbalist sighs, shaking her head.

She’ll take the time to work through her distraught confusion later. For now, she has a stomach to fill.

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Isaiah

Isaiah wanders down through the tower, heading to floor eighteen.

Red was so worried, it was perhaps a little unsettling to see. If coming here will calm her heart, then it is a small errand to run.

Beulah is a reclusive person. There is nothing wrong with that. Isaiah would like it if he spent more time with everyone else, upstairs, but that is not its choice to make. If he likes being down here by himself, then so be it.

It wanders into the shrine, looking around the place.

— The floor is very well maintained. Beulah has been doing excellent work.

Looking around the shrine, it walks forward, grabbing a sliding door and pulling it open.

Isaiah stands there, staring at Beulah, who sits on the floor with crossed legs. A shrine-maiden stands behind him, holding his hair in tufts and smelling it. Another one has his arm out at length and gnaws on his elbow through his robe, and the largest one sits there in front of him, holding an assortment of rocks.

Everyone turns to look at it.

— Smoke blasts out as the three shrine maidens vanish in an eruption, three tiny foxes scampering off into the shadows amidst the distraction.

“I can uh… I can explain,” says Beulah, as Isaiah stares at him through the smoke.