Chapter 35: Death Rising
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Chapter 35: Death Rising
I might be starting to get used to this.
After another few days in the wilderness, sleeping in his bedroll and enduring the isolation his profession had forced on him, he was beginning to see that he might be more suited to this life than he'd originally thought.
Was he a spectacular outdoorsmen? Not even remotely. What he was, what he could do, was endure isolation gladly, and though the lack of comforts bothered him more than he'd like to admit, Tyron found he very much liked being left to his own devices.
No one to bother him when he was thinking. No tasks, no errands to run. No expectations or pressure bearing down on him. No one seeing the shadow of his parents every time they looked at him.
In fact, he found that the only people he really missed were Magnin and Beory. He also found he increasingly looked forward to his conversations with Dove. The wiry Summoner was a foul mouthed example of precisely what his mother had warned him about, slayers who killed all day and indulged in vice the moment they returned to civilisation.
Even so, he'd proven to be a knowledgeable and competent mage when it came to matters of minion based magick. During the supply drop he'd picked up yesterday, the two had discussed the ins and outs of Tyron's spells in depth, and the older man had been more than helpful.
As he trudged through the woods in the fading light, he cast his mind back to their conversation on spirits. It was a topic the mage had been happy to share his expertise in.
"Spirits are pricks," Dove had confided sagely. "And I'm not just talking about the Astral spirits that I deal with, I mean all of them. Universal pricks. The main difference between the entities I summon and what you might call a 'ghost' or 'spectre', is that Astral Spirits aren't dumb as fuck."
Tyron had been surprised.
"I thought Astrals were considered quite intelligent. Aren’t you being a bit harsh on them?"
"No," Dove snorted. "You give them far too much credit. With training and under the influence of a Summoner of great talent like myself, they're capable of far more than they are on their own. Ghosts on the other hand, are plain fucking stupid."
"You've seen them before?"
"Of course I have! I'm a slayer aren't I? If you find a group of people more likely to hang around places that reek of death than slayers let me know."
Tyron stared at him.
"Necromancers don't count."
"Right."
"This is beside the point I was trying to make! What I'm getting at, is that your minions are going to be stupid. Right now your bony friends are running on constructed intelligence, right?"
"I-... I'm not sure what that is. You mean they have instincts that I created through magick?"
"Doesn't even know what it is... you've done it well enough anyway, haven't you?"
Dove stared at him as Tyron shrugged uncomfortably.
"Fuck you."This chapter was first shared on the Ñøv€lß1n platform.
"What?!"
"You just piss me off sometimes. Where was I? Right. Constructed intelligence. Obviously you can get a lot better at it and a 'mind' made using magick can become quite sophisticated, you ever heard of golems? They run into them sometimes in the south, I think the desert people down there make them. They can be quite smart, comparatively. Even so, you won't reach the level of thinking a real person is capable of. That's where the spirits come in."
"You're not suggesting I use the soul of a living person are you?"
Tyron leaned back at the suggestion. This was exactly the kind of forbidden practice that caused Necromancers to become so reviled in the first place. If he ever hoped to return to society one day, then he couldn't rely on such crutches.
Dove simply laughed.
"Living? Of course not. They have to be dead first."
"I won't do that!"
"By the sweet spheres of Selene, why the fuck not? Ah, look, it probably doesn't matter. All I'm suggesting is that you be on the lookout for ways to get bigger brains in your minions. If you have to micromanage them all the time then you won't be able to build out your numbers the way that a Necromancer is supposed to. Leave the quality to us Summoners. Yours is a numbers game."
All in all, he was more than pleased with the improvements his choice of Feat had granted him. His new skeletons weren't suddenly twice as good as before, the difference wasn't that dramatic, but a general increase in performance in multiple areas made for quite a difference when it was taken as a whole. They were more responsive to his commands, moved more fluidly and drained less power for the movement that they used. It was even more tempting for him to take the follow up feat if it was available when he reached level ten. Combined with the strides he was making in Corpse Preparation, Bone Stitching and Raise Dead, the servants he created were getting stronger every day.
A certain tang in the air reached his nose and Tyron froze on the spot, before he dropped into a crouch and ordered his skeletons to the trees. He moved cautiously to cover, his senses alert for any sign of danger before he began to creep forward. He knew that smell, after working for a short stint in a butcher shop, he didn’t think he would ever forget it.
Blood, the air was thick with it.
The metallic taste clung to the back of his throat as he breathed and Tyron grimaced. He could already hear the flies buzzing, what he would find wasn't going to be pretty. The chance that there may be cores he could extract kept him moving forward. He lived the life of a scavenger at present and he couldn't afford to turn down free money. If a team of slayers had come through and left a pile of dead rift-kin for him to rummage through, he was in no position to turn it down.
And frankly, he was getting used to dealing with the dead. It was amazing what a person could get used to, given the right circumstances.
He continued his reserved advance, not wanting to startle any remaining monsters that might have wandered into the area. As he progressed, the signs of battle became more and more obvious. Scorched trees and rents in the ground wider that a person and metres deep were all he needed to be convinced that high level warriors and mages both had been involved in the conflict. Whatever they'd fought, it must have been a serious opponent. The thought chilled him. This wasn't that far from his bungalow. If more powerful beasts had already come this far out...
He shook the thought as he bent back a branch in front of him, trying to get a peek without making a sound. His hand was steady as he glanced about. More evidence of fire, even the rocks were blackened. They were lucky the fire hadn't spread, even if flame produced by magick was far less likely to propagate itself. The heavy rainfall a week ago may have helped with that.
He was about to emerge from behind the bush when something caught his eye and he froze. Beneath the rubble over there, it almost looked like, a boot. A chill raced down his spine as he confirmed it. Yes, it was a boot, he could see what he had originally thought to be leaf litter was in fact brown pants. He swallowed thickly and stepped closer. It was a slayer, dead, eyes lifeless and staring at the forest canopy as the flies crawled across an unmoving face.
He'd died with his blade in hand, a horrific puncture wound in his side. The stench was horrendous. Tyron gagged before he brought his hand up to cover his mouth and nose. It helped, a little.
There were remains from dozens of rift-kin in the area of varying sizes, from the little scuttlers he'd been fighting himself, all the way up to horrific, horse-sized nightmares of blades and chitin that would cut him apart in seconds should he face them in battle. Things like that couldn't even get through the rift in Woodsedge normally.
Things are far from normal right now.
He stared down at the dead slayer in a daze before he shook himself and continued to look around the area. The fight here had been intense, it was rare for teams to take on this many at once unless they were operating in a larger group. Either multiple teams had swept through the area or something had gone very wrong.
He found the second body on either side of a tree. He only looked at it long enough to recognise what he was seeing before he turned and staggered away, sweat breaking out across his brow. His stomach heaved but he managed to hold onto it.
Divines. That's... not right.
Nobody deserved that, least of all someone who fought to protect the weak for a living. He took several long steadying breaths before a memory tickled at the back of his mind. He'd only seen the face for an instant, a rictus snarl frozen on features covered in blood, but did he recognise that face?
"No, no, no," he groaned.
He didn't want to. He hadn't. These were all strangers to him. They had to be.
He tried to convince himself as he began to move around the site of the battle faster, hoping not to see what he thought he might.
Another body, then another, back to back. They must have gone down fighting together.
A confident grin, teeth flashing white under the sun. Short cut hair. The woman with the hint of laughter in her eye.
He could remember the words that Rell had said and they rang in his ears as he stumbled around one carcass to the next.
"That's Marion's team. Same group she went out with the first time. Good group, good rep. Hopefully she'll be fine."
He found her last. She'd been caught in the back and fallen forward. It looked as if she'd been running toward the fight, instead of away from it. Reckless courage. She probably wouldn't have survived even if she'd run. Probably wouldn't.
Tyron stared numbly down at the lifeless body of Cilla, the girl he'd met on Victory road. She's probably been dead for two days, he thought. Maybe three.
She'd been so confident.
He didn't know how long he stood and stared. Perhaps it was only a minute. It felt like an hour. Eventually a thought wormed its way into his unfeeling brain.
You need remains.
He twitched as the thought landed. A slight shake of the head. He thought of the butcher tools carefully stowed in his bag.
He ran to the side and vomited until nothing came up.
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Chapter 35: Death Rising
I might be starting to get used to this.
After another few days in the wilderness, sleeping in his bedroll and enduring the isolation his profession had forced on him, he was beginning to see that he might be more suited to this life than he'd originally thought.
Was he a spectacular outdoorsmen? Not even remotely. What he was, what he could do, was endure isolation gladly, and though the lack of comforts bothered him more than he'd like to admit, Tyron found he very much liked being left to his own devices.
No one to bother him when he was thinking. No tasks, no errands to run. No expectations or pressure bearing down on him. No one seeing the shadow of his parents every time they looked at him.
In fact, he found that the only people he really missed were Magnin and Beory. He also found he increasingly looked forward to his conversations with Dove. The wiry Summoner was a foul mouthed example of precisely what his mother had warned him about, slayers who killed all day and indulged in vice the moment they returned to civilisation.
Even so, he'd proven to be a knowledgeable and competent mage when it came to matters of minion based magick. During the supply drop he'd picked up yesterday, the two had discussed the ins and outs of Tyron's spells in depth, and the older man had been more than helpful.
As he trudged through the woods in the fading light, he cast his mind back to their conversation on spirits. It was a topic the mage had been happy to share his expertise in.
"Spirits are pricks," Dove had confided sagely. "And I'm not just talking about the Astral spirits that I deal with, I mean all of them. Universal pricks. The main difference between the entities I summon and what you might call a 'ghost' or 'spectre', is that Astral Spirits aren't dumb as fuck."
Tyron had been surprised.
"I thought Astrals were considered quite intelligent. Aren’t you being a bit harsh on them?"
"No," Dove snorted. "You give them far too much credit. With training and under the influence of a Summoner of great talent like myself, they're capable of far more than they are on their own. Ghosts on the other hand, are plain fucking stupid."
"You've seen them before?"
"Of course I have! I'm a slayer aren't I? If you find a group of people more likely to hang around places that reek of death than slayers let me know."
Tyron stared at him.
"Necromancers don't count."
"Right."
"This is beside the point I was trying to make! What I'm getting at, is that your minions are going to be stupid. Right now your bony friends are running on constructed intelligence, right?"
"I-... I'm not sure what that is. You mean they have instincts that I created through magick?"
"Doesn't even know what it is... you've done it well enough anyway, haven't you?"
Dove stared at him as Tyron shrugged uncomfortably.
"Fuck you."This chapter was first shared on the Ñøv€lß1n platform.
"What?!"
"You just piss me off sometimes. Where was I? Right. Constructed intelligence. Obviously you can get a lot better at it and a 'mind' made using magick can become quite sophisticated, you ever heard of golems? They run into them sometimes in the south, I think the desert people down there make them. They can be quite smart, comparatively. Even so, you won't reach the level of thinking a real person is capable of. That's where the spirits come in."
"You're not suggesting I use the soul of a living person are you?"
Tyron leaned back at the suggestion. This was exactly the kind of forbidden practice that caused Necromancers to become so reviled in the first place. If he ever hoped to return to society one day, then he couldn't rely on such crutches.
Dove simply laughed.
"Living? Of course not. They have to be dead first."
"I won't do that!"
"By the sweet spheres of Selene, why the fuck not? Ah, look, it probably doesn't matter. All I'm suggesting is that you be on the lookout for ways to get bigger brains in your minions. If you have to micromanage them all the time then you won't be able to build out your numbers the way that a Necromancer is supposed to. Leave the quality to us Summoners. Yours is a numbers game."
All in all, he was more than pleased with the improvements his choice of Feat had granted him. His new skeletons weren't suddenly twice as good as before, the difference wasn't that dramatic, but a general increase in performance in multiple areas made for quite a difference when it was taken as a whole. They were more responsive to his commands, moved more fluidly and drained less power for the movement that they used. It was even more tempting for him to take the follow up feat if it was available when he reached level ten. Combined with the strides he was making in Corpse Preparation, Bone Stitching and Raise Dead, the servants he created were getting stronger every day.
A certain tang in the air reached his nose and Tyron froze on the spot, before he dropped into a crouch and ordered his skeletons to the trees. He moved cautiously to cover, his senses alert for any sign of danger before he began to creep forward. He knew that smell, after working for a short stint in a butcher shop, he didn’t think he would ever forget it.
Blood, the air was thick with it.
The metallic taste clung to the back of his throat as he breathed and Tyron grimaced. He could already hear the flies buzzing, what he would find wasn't going to be pretty. The chance that there may be cores he could extract kept him moving forward. He lived the life of a scavenger at present and he couldn't afford to turn down free money. If a team of slayers had come through and left a pile of dead rift-kin for him to rummage through, he was in no position to turn it down.
And frankly, he was getting used to dealing with the dead. It was amazing what a person could get used to, given the right circumstances.
He continued his reserved advance, not wanting to startle any remaining monsters that might have wandered into the area. As he progressed, the signs of battle became more and more obvious. Scorched trees and rents in the ground wider that a person and metres deep were all he needed to be convinced that high level warriors and mages both had been involved in the conflict. Whatever they'd fought, it must have been a serious opponent. The thought chilled him. This wasn't that far from his bungalow. If more powerful beasts had already come this far out...
He shook the thought as he bent back a branch in front of him, trying to get a peek without making a sound. His hand was steady as he glanced about. More evidence of fire, even the rocks were blackened. They were lucky the fire hadn't spread, even if flame produced by magick was far less likely to propagate itself. The heavy rainfall a week ago may have helped with that.
He was about to emerge from behind the bush when something caught his eye and he froze. Beneath the rubble over there, it almost looked like, a boot. A chill raced down his spine as he confirmed it. Yes, it was a boot, he could see what he had originally thought to be leaf litter was in fact brown pants. He swallowed thickly and stepped closer. It was a slayer, dead, eyes lifeless and staring at the forest canopy as the flies crawled across an unmoving face.
He'd died with his blade in hand, a horrific puncture wound in his side. The stench was horrendous. Tyron gagged before he brought his hand up to cover his mouth and nose. It helped, a little.
There were remains from dozens of rift-kin in the area of varying sizes, from the little scuttlers he'd been fighting himself, all the way up to horrific, horse-sized nightmares of blades and chitin that would cut him apart in seconds should he face them in battle. Things like that couldn't even get through the rift in Woodsedge normally.
Things are far from normal right now.
He stared down at the dead slayer in a daze before he shook himself and continued to look around the area. The fight here had been intense, it was rare for teams to take on this many at once unless they were operating in a larger group. Either multiple teams had swept through the area or something had gone very wrong.
He found the second body on either side of a tree. He only looked at it long enough to recognise what he was seeing before he turned and staggered away, sweat breaking out across his brow. His stomach heaved but he managed to hold onto it.
Divines. That's... not right.
Nobody deserved that, least of all someone who fought to protect the weak for a living. He took several long steadying breaths before a memory tickled at the back of his mind. He'd only seen the face for an instant, a rictus snarl frozen on features covered in blood, but did he recognise that face?
"No, no, no," he groaned.
He didn't want to. He hadn't. These were all strangers to him. They had to be.
He tried to convince himself as he began to move around the site of the battle faster, hoping not to see what he thought he might.
Another body, then another, back to back. They must have gone down fighting together.
A confident grin, teeth flashing white under the sun. Short cut hair. The woman with the hint of laughter in her eye.
He could remember the words that Rell had said and they rang in his ears as he stumbled around one carcass to the next.
"That's Marion's team. Same group she went out with the first time. Good group, good rep. Hopefully she'll be fine."
He found her last. She'd been caught in the back and fallen forward. It looked as if she'd been running toward the fight, instead of away from it. Reckless courage. She probably wouldn't have survived even if she'd run. Probably wouldn't.
Tyron stared numbly down at the lifeless body of Cilla, the girl he'd met on Victory road. She's probably been dead for two days, he thought. Maybe three.
She'd been so confident.
He didn't know how long he stood and stared. Perhaps it was only a minute. It felt like an hour. Eventually a thought wormed its way into his unfeeling brain.
You need remains.
He twitched as the thought landed. A slight shake of the head. He thought of the butcher tools carefully stowed in his bag.
He ran to the side and vomited until nothing came up.
Chapter 35: Death RisingI might be starting to get used to this.After another few days in the wilderness, sleeping in his bedroll and enduring the isolation his profession had forced on him, he was beginning to see that he might be more suited to this life than he'd originally thought.Was he a spectacular outdoorsmen? Not even remotely. What he was, what he could do, was endure isolation gladly, and though the lack of comforts bothered him more than he'd like to admit, Tyron found he very much liked being left to his own devices.No one to bother him when he was thinking. No tasks, no errands to run. No expectations or pressure bearing down on him. No one seeing the shadow of his parents every time they looked at him.In fact, he found that the only people he really missed were Magnin and Beory. He also found he increasingly looked forward to his conversations with Dove. The wiry Summoner was a foul mouthed example of precisely what his mother had warned him about, slayers who killed all day and indulged in vice the moment they returned to civilisation.Even so, he'd proven to be a knowledgeable and competent mage when it came to matters of minion based magick. During the supply drop he'd picked up yesterday, the two had discussed the ins and outs of Tyron's spells in depth, and the older man had been more than helpful.As he trudged through the woods in the fading light, he cast his mind back to their conversation on spirits. It was a topic the mage had been happy to share his expertise in."Spirits are pricks," Dove had confided sagely. "And I'm not just talking about the Astral spirits that I deal with, I mean all of them. Universal pricks. The main difference between the entities I summon and what you might call a 'ghost' or 'spectre', is that Astral Spirits aren't dumb as fuck."Tyron had been surprised."I thought Astrals were considered quite intelligent. Aren't you being a bit harsh on them?""No," Dove snorted. "You give them far too much credit. With training and under the influence of a Summoner of great talent like myself, they're capable of far more than they are on their own. Ghosts on the other hand, are plain fucking stupid.""You've seen them before?""Of course I have! I'm a slayer aren't I? If you find a group of people more likely to hang around places that reek of death than slayers let me know."Tyron stared at him."Necromancers don't count.""Right.""This is beside the point I was trying to make! What I'm getting at, is that your minions are going to be stupid. Right now your bony friends are running on constructed intelligence, right?""I-... I'm not sure what that is. You mean they have instincts that I created through magick?""Doesn't even know what it is... you've done it well enough anyway, haven't you?"Dove stared at him as Tyron shrugged uncomfortably."Fuck you."This chapter was first shared on the Nvl1n platform."What?!""You just piss me off sometimes. Where was I? Right. Constructed intelligence. Obviously you can get a lot better at it and a 'mind' made using magick can become quite sophisticated, you ever heard of golems? They run into them sometimes in the south, I think the desert people down there make them. They can be quite smart, comparatively. Even so, you won't reach the level of thinking a real person is capable of. That's where the spirits come in.""You're not suggesting I use the soul of a living person are you?"Tyron leaned back at the suggestion. This was exactly the kind of forbidden practice that caused Necromancers to become so reviled in the first place. If he ever hoped to return to society one day, then he couldn't rely on such crutches.Dove simply laughed."Living? Of course not. They have to be dead first.""I won't do that!""By the sweet spheres of Selene, why the fuck not? Ah, look, it probably doesn't matter. All I'm suggesting is that you be on the lookout for ways to get bigger brains in your minions. If you have to micromanage them all the time then you won't be able to build out your numbers the way that a Necromancer is supposed to. Leave the quality to us Summoners. Yours is a numbers game."All in all, he was more than pleased with the improvements his choice of Feat had granted him. His new skeletons weren't suddenly twice as good as before, the difference wasn't that dramatic, but a general increase in performance in multiple areas made for quite a difference when it was taken as a whole. They were more responsive to his commands, moved more fluidly and drained less power for the movement that they used. It was even more tempting for him to take the follow up feat if it was available when he reached level ten. Combined with the strides he was making in Corpse Preparation, Bone Stitching and Raise Dead, the servants he created were getting stronger every day.A certain tang in the air reached his nose and Tyron froze on the spot, before he dropped into a crouch and ordered his skeletons to the trees. He moved cautiously to cover, his senses alert for any sign of danger before he began to creep forward. He knew that smell, after working for a short stint in a butcher shop, he didn't think he would ever forget it.Blood, the air was thick with it.The metallic taste clung to the back of his throat as he breathed and Tyron grimaced. He could already hear the flies buzzing, what he would find wasn't going to be pretty. The chance that there may be cores he could extract kept him moving forward. He lived the life of a scavenger at present and he couldn't afford to turn down free money. If a team of slayers had come through and left a pile of dead rift-kin for him to rummage through, he was in no position to turn it down.And frankly, he was getting used to dealing with the dead. It was amazing what a person could get used to, given the right circumstances.He continued his reserved advance, not wanting to startle any remaining monsters that might have wandered into the area. As he progressed, the signs of battle became more and more obvious. Scorched trees and rents in the ground wider that a person and metres deep were all he needed to be convinced that high level warriors and mages both had been involved in the conflict. Whatever they'd fought, it must have been a serious opponent. The thought chilled him. This wasn't that far from his bungalow. If more powerful beasts had already come this far out...He shook the thought as he bent back a branch in front of him, trying to get a peek without making a sound. His hand was steady as he glanced about. More evidence of fire, even the rocks were blackened. They were lucky the fire hadn't spread, even if flame produced by magick was far less likely to propagate itself. The heavy rainfall a week ago may have helped with that.He was about to emerge from behind the bush when something caught his eye and he froze. Beneath the rubble over there, it almost looked like, a boot. A chill raced down his spine as he confirmed it. Yes, it was a boot, he could see what he had originally thought to be leaf litter was in fact brown pants. He swallowed thickly and stepped closer. It was a slayer, dead, eyes lifeless and staring at the forest canopy as the flies crawled across an unmoving face.He'd died with his blade in hand, a horrific puncture wound in his side. The stench was horrendous. Tyron gagged before he brought his hand up to cover his mouth and nose. It helped, a little.There were remains from dozens of rift-kin in the area of varying sizes, from the little scuttlers he'd been fighting himself, all the way up to horrific, horse-sized nightmares of blades and chitin that would cut him apart in seconds should he face them in battle. Things like that couldn't even get through the rift in Woodsedge normally.Things are far from normal right now.He stared down at the dead slayer in a daze before he shook himself and continued to look around the area. The fight here had been intense, it was rare for teams to take on this many at once unless they were operating in a larger group. Either multiple teams had swept through the area or something had gone very wrong.He found the second body on either side of a tree. He only looked at it long enough to recognise what he was seeing before he turned and staggered away, sweat breaking out across his brow. His stomach heaved but he managed to hold onto it.Divines. That's... not right.Nobody deserved that, least of all someone who fought to protect the weak for a living. He took several long steadying breaths before a memory tickled at the back of his mind. He'd only seen the face for an instant, a rictus snarl frozen on features covered in blood, but did he recognise that face?"No, no, no," he groaned.He didn't want to. He hadn't. These were all strangers to him. They had to be.He tried to convince himself as he began to move around the site of the battle faster, hoping not to see what he thought he might.Another body, then another, back to back. They must have gone down fighting together.A confident grin, teeth flashing white under the sun. Short cut hair. The woman with the hint of laughter in her eye.He could remember the words that Rell had said and they rang in his ears as he stumbled around one carcass to the next."That's Marion's team. Same group she went out with the first time. Good group, good rep. Hopefully she'll be fine."He found her last. She'd been caught in the back and fallen forward. It looked as if she'd been running toward the fight, instead of away from it. Reckless courage. She probably wouldn't have survived even if she'd run. Probably wouldn't.Tyron stared numbly down at the lifeless body of Cilla, the girl he'd met on Victory road. She's probably been dead for two days, he thought. Maybe three.She'd been so confident.He didn't know how long he stood and stared. Perhaps it was only a minute. It felt like an hour. Eventually a thought wormed its way into his unfeeling brain.You need remains.He twitched as the thought landed. A slight shake of the head. He thought of the butcher tools carefully stowed in his bag.He ran to the side and vomited until nothing came up.
