Book of The Dead

Tyron sat at the kitchen table, eyes closed and the empty plate that not long ago had held his breakfast before him. With multiple hot meals and a full night of sleep in a soft bed, he felt better rested than he had at any point since he left. The higher his level went, the less he felt the need for basic human comforts like food and sleep, but he did still need them.

Also, he couldn’t deny the warmth he felt being around his only surviving family. Worthy and Meg had raised him more than his own parents, and their love and care nourished his starving spirit.

Despite that, his attention was now far, far away. In the ruins of the Western Province, his horde descended on Cragwhistle. Now abandoned, the town was filled with nothing but ghosts. Ghosts and rift kin.

Monsters prowled the streets, creatures of ice and magick hungering to devour and destroy, to convert this world into the same type of wasteland as the one that had spawned them. Fortunately, the rift here was still small, newly opened, and couldn’t allow the passage of the more frightful creatures on the other side. Faced with an overwhelming force, they were swept away while barely putting up a fight. Not even breaking stride, the undead strode up the mountain, blades leaking black smoke as they advanced.

Indeed, the main trouble he had was getting the relay up the mountain. Without a proper road, he was forced to use nearly a hundred undead on each of them, hoisting them up onto their shoulders to be carried up the uneven terrain. Fortunately, the drop in combat-ready numbers mattered little, and soon the rift was secured.

Tyron opened his eyes slowly and breathed out. It would take several hours of concentration for him to tame the rift, time he didn’t really have right now. His wights were under orders to secure the site while his demi-liches prepared the necessary materials and undertook the simple preparatory steps they could handle without his oversight.

Briefly, he checked in on the workshop, still operating in the ruins of Weighbridge. Thousands of undead had been raised there, along with matching constructs and relays, swelling the horde even further. All of a sudden, Tyron’s need for more minions was inexhaustible. The garrison at Woodsedge needed to be reinforced to ensure that the rift remained under control. He would also need to leave a force behind at Cragwhistle to secure that rift, and his horde would soon be on the move to Skyice. Another mighty battle was sure to take place there and his skeletons would need to be further replenished in the aftermath.

Already, Weighbridge had seen thousands of undead march out of the crumbling city walls, freshly summoned and dispersed to reinforce his existing horde. An equal number, however, had gone in completely different directions. Weighbridge was possibly the most central of all the cities in the Western province, with many other settlements around it. His minions were still scouring the outlying villages and towns, still sending a steady flow of materials in towards the main workshop. Yet Tyron had already set his eyes further afield.

A relay and full complement of undead had been sent north, to Lotsford, a medium-sized town built on the shores of Lake Wister. Another had been sent to the southwest, to Cluffton, the city on the southern border that sat closest to Dustwatch Keep. After raising the dead, they would reinforce the main horde once it had finished at Skyice and turned east. From there they would tame Dustwatch, and then continue to Endless Sand Keep, then Havercroft, Reynold Keep and then to Kenmor itself.

Yet more undead had been directed to the northeast, to Northwatch. If he could raise enough dead there, he would march them straight into the twin rifts at Blackrift and Undermist. Both interested him greatly, as the fallen worlds they linked to were filled with death-aligned magick.

So far, he hadn’t sent an expedition into Kenmor. If the Golden Legion were watching anywhere, it would be there. Best he not show himself until he was prepared and the province was fully harvested and fully tamed.

Having checked on the progress of his various undead, Tyron withdrew his attention back to himself once more. The number of times he had cast the Raise Dead ritual through his minions was rapidly climbing into the hundreds. What had once been a taxing, mind-numbing process was quickly becoming routine. He’d cast it while eating his breakfast.

Struck by a thought, Tyron pulled out his notebook, always kept on his person, before he started slapping his pockets looking for ink. Almost without thinking, he turned to his side to ask Filetta to fetch it before he realised she wasn’t there. For a brief moment, he felt genuinely disoriented. She’d been constantly by his side for such a long time now that her absence was almost shocking.

Mentally, he reached out to her. She wasn’t far away, standing guard outside the house. She queried him back, but he withdrew his attention. He’d thought of some revisions he could investigate regarding the Raise Dead ritual, but there were other things he should be doing first.

Flicking to the back of the notebook, he tore out a blank page and once again cast the Status ritual. It wasn’t easy to draw blood with his cutlery, his skin was simply too tough. In the end he had to go into the kitchen and cut his thumb with the knife his aunt used to slice his morning bacon, a rare treat.

As the blood flowed over the page, Tyron was pleased with what he saw. He had indeed gained a fourth level in his new Class. Along with the generous helping of attributes it gave him, he was also rewarded with a new ability selection. Though not in the same way he had seen it before.

His new spell was also represented. Interestingly, the notification from the Unseen was… unusually positive?

You have devised your own, original ability, ‘Soul Spike’. An efficient and well-crafted creation. It has been added to your status.

Tyron’s brows rose slightly. He didn’t even get to name it himself? How in the lost name of the realm did the Unseen even have the capacity to analyse and name it appropriately?

Soul Spike was… well it wasn’t incorrect, he supposed.

At the end of his status, listed amongst the others, a new Mystery had appeared, only at the initial stage, but it was still a welcome sight.

Spell Weaving (Initial) INT +3 WIS +3.

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Turning his gaze toward his new ability selection, Tyron re-read the blood-red text with interest.

You have reached level 84. You may make one ability selection.

Choose one ability to add to your active Crest.

Followed by a list of every Skill and Spell he possessed which hadn’t already been added to one of his three Crests. It wasn’t hard to determine which was active, that was the one his current Class emphasised, which meant he could choose an ability related to the crafting and creation of his minions and have it immediately upgraded to a higher version of itself.

There were a few options he could consider, his current Crest related to the creation of minions and constructs, the core fundamental craft of the Necromancer Class. Already, the key components required for raising the dead were part of the Crest, but several important Skills were not. Bone-Soul Fusion, the discovery that allowed him to create Revenants, embedding the soul within the bones and fusing it to the threads that controlled the skeleton. What might an upgraded version of this ability look like? He genuinely couldn’t think of an avenue that the Unseen might use to improve it. Unless… no, he wouldn’t let himself get distracted.

Making his Revenants stronger would be a significant boost to his forces and enable him to be more efficient with his magick. After all, wights were incredibly expensive to maintain, as much as five times a Revenant. Improving their ability to contribute overall would have a larger impact than it might seem on the surface.

Spirit-Flesh Formation, the outgrowth of Bone-Soul Fusion that facilitated the creation of wights. An advanced technique that allowed Tyron to create an ethereal blend of spirit and physical material that he could bind to a skeleton and enable the creation of a higher form of undead. Tyron needed his wights, he certainly couldn’t continue to control his ever growing horde without them. In addition, they were the anvil, the solid wall that held his lines together when his weaker minions were in danger of being overrun. He’d already found a way to improve the wights on his own, but the Unseen could help him push that advantage even further. If he was able to raise their level cap even higher….

Lastly, he considered Arcane Marrow. In many ways, Tyron’s spell wielding undead were his greatest strength. Even the humble skeletal mages, capable only of throwing out the single spell that they were engraved with on creation, were helpful, increasing the sheer volume of magick he was able to throw at his opponents. The peak of that force were his demi-lich’s. Powerful, intelligent and capable of drawing on far more magick, storing it within the marrow the Skill created, they were, to Tyron, his most important minions, especially now that he could act through them.

Finding a way to unlock their power even further, perhaps even creating a full lich, was very tempting. He already had thoughts in that direction, ways he could try to resurrect himself after death, but he was keen to see what the Unseen might have thought of.

Not wanting to make his selection in haste, he restrained himself and looked through the list once more. Most of the key aspects of undead creation had already been added to the Crest, but there were others he could pick. His capacity to create anything other than the most basic of ghosts could do with improving. He’d seen in the Realm of the Dead just how powerful spirits could become as undead, but he truly was deeply committed to his skeletal horde.

After carefully perusing the full list, Tyron made a decision. He placed a bloody thumbprint next to Arcane Marrow.

This was an interesting process, he mused to himself. If he created new abilities relevant to creating undead, then he would have the opportunity to add them to his Crest? And when he did, they would take advantage of his Class and become upgraded by the Unseen?

He rubbed his hands together slowly, considering the possibilities. Although he had no idea what type of Skill or Spell he could create, he may well be able to come up with something….

Still mulling over the possibilities, he ended the ritual.

New knowledge trickled into his mind, a sensation he could never quite grow accustomed to. When he had the time, he would begin to unpack what he had been given, examine and expand upon it to see what he could create. For now, there were things to do.

Pushing himself back from the table, he walked to the door and pulled it open just as Elsbeth was reaching out to open it. Startled, she pulled back, then smiled warmly as she saw him.

“Tyron!” she said, stepping forward to give him a one-armed embrace. “You surprised me. How did you–the undead, of course.”

“I have a lot more than just one set of eyes,” he said with a shrug, stepping to the side to let her in.

Many things may change in the realm, but Elsbeth, it appeared, did not. Shining gold hair, fair skin and warm smile, she appeared much the same as she had before her Awakening. The same light of optimism in her eyes, the same generosity of spirit radiating around her.

Yet, he knew it wasn’t true. She may appear the same way, but Elsbeth had changed, had learned to recognise and adapt to the ways that others wanted to use and abuse her, to take advantage of her willingness to put others first. It was a good thing, Tyron thought, that someone like Rufus wouldn’t be able to hurt her as easily as he had before.

“Here to see Worthy and Meg?” he asked.

“I saw them in town,” she replied, sitting at the table and inviting him to do the same with a laugh. “They’ve been telling everyone that the hero who defeated the Empire has returned.”

“That’s a bit of an exaggeration, putting it mildly,” he said, taking her invitation and sitting down once more. “Rather than talk about me, I’d rather hear from you. There’s been a lot of changes out here while I was gone.”

Elsbeth raised a brow.

“Nothing quite as exciting as reaching platinum rank and fighting a pitched battle against thousands of the Empire’s Soldiers, but sure, we can do that.”

Tyron winced.

“Just what are those two saying out there?” he grumbled.

“Everything they can, to whoever they can,” Elsbeth grinned. “The whole city is in an uproar. There’s celebrations starting in the square, looks like it might go on all day.”

“Blood and bone,” Tyron cursed. “I was going in there later today.”

“I wouldn’t,” she advised him sagely. “You’ll get mobbed.”

He gave her a skeptical look, but she merely laughed.

“Spirits are high right now. I don’t think even you could avoid getting swarmed. There’s barely any alcohol left in the city but I think they’ll have finished the lot by morning.”

“It’s not as if the war is over,” he stated, confused. “One battle hasn’t made them safe, don’t they know that?”

“Of course they do. However, until a few hours ago, they were afraid their deaths were only a few days away. There’s a lot of relief. Also, you’ve shown that there is a chance, no matter how slim, that you will actually win. It’s the only way they survive the Empire, so…” she shrugged, “people are happy. They feel like they might actually have a real future for the first time in a year.”

She looked him in the eye.

“You’ve done a good thing, Tyron. You’ve given these people their hopes and dreams back. Be proud of that.”

He looked away.

He probably should feel proud, should feel a sense of satisfaction. Instead, he felt the rage starting to kindle in his chest. Like a bloodthirsty demon, it had been sated at the battle, glutted on the souls of the Empire’s most loyal troops. Now, it stirred once more. It wasn’t satisfied.

He wasn’t satisfied.