Against Fate - Chapters 3, 4, 5.

People seemed to enjoy what I put of Against Fate (working title. Give me something better if you got it, I hate naming) so after a bit of stuffing around here is the rest of what I have. Pretty much everything regarding this story is up for change. The Attributes I stole from DnD and I'm not sure if I'll keep them that way. The names of everything can still be changed as well as every detail of how the system works. I've already made changes since the first post, adding Mysteries as a sort of Dao equivalent. Not sure on language as well. Since it's meant to be dark I've begun to include swearing (warning). We'll see how it goes. I might make a channel in the Discord for the story as well so people can make suggestions there instead of just in the comments. Enough from me, enjoy!

Chapter 3: Search

The town library was unusually busy at this time of day. Normally when Tyron visited he would nearly have the place to himself, but as more people unlocked their Class they would head here to consult with the town Scribe and research prospective paths and careers. It wasn't as if you couldn't do this sort of thing in advance of the Awakening, but most didn't bother. Tyron himself had done a great deal of research, trying to cover his bases and have at least some idea what his future would like, regardless of his eventual Class.

However, none of that work had included anything to do with Necromancy.

After running home and hyperventilating on the floor, Tyron had tried to calm down and think about what he should do next. His first thought was that he would have to renounce his new Class, consequences be damned. His father had told him he didn't care if he was a Thief or a Thug, but how would he feel about a Dark Mage who could raise the dead to unlife?! Probably not good! Even if he wanted to keep it, there was no chance he would be able to. He was expected to be Appraised by Mrs Barbury within five days. The moment his Class was revealed he would be forced to have it revoked and that would be that. If he wanted to avoid the Appraisal then he would need to somehow flee town, avoid the marshals and survive on his own in the wilderness without the support of family or friends. 

Not to mention the complete and utter lack of survival skills. He might be able to hunt a rabbit or two, thanks to his mother, but Tyron wasn't exactly the outdoors type. No. It would be impossible for him to flee, and even if he succeeded, how was he supposed to survive and raise his level living in the wilds like a savage?

Was there really no other choice but to revoke his Class? Maybe he could. Perhaps he could get Scribe training and be a village Scribe somewhere. Perhaps his parents would be able to afford training for him to take on Alchemist training. There were options out there. Maybe he'd grow slower, maybe he'd never reach a higher level, but did that matter? He could live a safe and productive life somewhere, he could be useful and help people. Was it really important that he be exceptional?

As he lay on the floor and tried to convince himself to accept his fate, part of him refused to accept his reasoning. What had the voice said? He wanted power. He wanted to control. As he tried to piece his thoughts together, Tyron could admit it was true. His parents were exceptional. Both of them were high level, in demand Monster Slayers, heroes of the people who roamed the wilds and defended civilisation. Deep down, he'd just expected that he would be the same. Maybe not a Slayer, but extraordinary, special. He wanted to stand out like they did. He didn't want to live in their shadow for his entire life. And what would say. What sort of look would they give him when he told them his Class was gone, that he was going to be a Scribe his entire life?

Reluctance, anger and grief slowly crystallised within him to form a newfound determination. He was exceptional. The Class he'd received proved it. He refused to give up on it without at least trying. Having formed his resolution he'd been able to pick himself up and ransack the books in his home. His parents had a small smattering of books on Classes and Skills about the place, things they'd picked up to use as a reference, along with many bestiaries. Tyron had read them all before but now he flicked through them, desperate to find any reference to Necromancers.

Unsurprisingly, there wasn't any. Unsanctioned Classes were illegal, therefore there was no reason to put any information about them in a publicly available text. The knowledge he'd have no guide or reference to work from hit Tyron hard. There were thousands of books dedicated to explaining Classes, detailing Feats and Skills that were available and useful, entire essays that discussed prominent holders of the Class. There would be none of that on Necromancy. Famous Necromancers were anything but celebrated. Throughout history there had been several who'd done significant damage…

History books!

That was when Tyron realised he'd been looking in the wrong place. He'd never get information from Class guides, they were useless. But there were references to Necromancers in history books. It wasn't nearly as useful, but something was much, much better than nothing.

Because Tyron didn't know much about Necromancy. Why would he? It was an illegal Class and therefore not discussed during Lessons or written about in textbooks. His parents had never talked to him about Necromancers they'd worked with. Come to think of it, he'd never heard them mention Necromancers they'd worked against either. If he weren't as well read as he was, he may have never even heard of it at all.

So he'd hunted down every historical text he could find in the house, a grand total of two, and scoured them for any reference for Necromancers. After ten minutes of relentless page flicking he'd finally found a hit. He eagerly seized the sizeable volume in both hands and brought it closer to his face. After a few moments he threw the book back in disgust. There was hardly anything. A slight reference to the devastation wrought by 'Arihnan the Black' in the Empire of Granin, to the West. A few lines about cities burned and armies destroyed before the Mage was finally brought down outside the walls of the capital.

At first Tyron was discouraged, but then his mind began to turn. Armies destroyed? Cities burned? A single Mage had almost brought an entire Empire down. How had he done it? By raising Zombies? That didn't make any sense. Brow furrowed, Tyron grabbed the few bestiaries in the house and tore through the pages, looking for references to Undead.

He found what he was looking for in the second volume, an entire chapter dedicated to Undead creatures, their characteristics, strengths and weaknesses. Zombies were weak, slow moving and easily dispatched Monsters that could be threatening in large numbers. They were often found in locations of great death where mana was thick. Some advanced forms of Zombie were able to pass the curse of undeath onto their victims, thus growing the horde. Any such monsters should be put down urgently.

Surely one Mage with an army of weak, slow Zombies wouldn't be much threat to anyone? There must be more to it. He flicked over the pages and read about Skeletons, Ghosts, Bound Spirits, Undead Mages, Vampires, Liches and other, nightmarish creatures. The most common were generally considered soft, full of exploitable weaknesses and easy fodder for proper Slayers. The more powerful Undead were rare and seemed to have little do with Necromancy. Vampires were created by existing Vampires, apparently passing on some sort of curse to their victims.

There were small hints here but it was frustrating. One Necromancer was capable of bringing down cities! What incredible power! But how? What did this Arihnan actually do to build that sort of strength? He needed to know more.

Which is why he reluctantly decided he had to go to the Library, where he now found himself huddled over a small table toward the back of the reading area, pouring over texts relating to the history of the Granin Empire and studying bestiaries on Undead. The bestiaries were pretty useless, not containing anything he hadn't been able to learn from those he'd read at home, but the history books were different. After an hour of searching through the modest History section, he'd been lucky enough to locate a volume dedicated to the Granin empire and found an entire chapter dedicated to the disaster that had been the uprising or Arihnan the Black.

The book spoke glowingly of the valiant warriors who had stepped up to defeat the evil Mage, of the Priests and Paladins who had taken up arms to put down the evil that threatened their people, but precious little time was devoted to discussing the Mage himself. Other than describing him as a 'Necromancer of great power', very little time was given over to the man. Where was he from, where had he lived before his uprising, what made him try to bring down an entire Empire single handed? Nothing. It was baffling. Surely such a figure of historical importance warranted more than a casual mention?!

Still, there was some meat to be had. In the descriptions of the battles the author detailed the ranks of Skeletons bolstered by Dark Robed figures who had flung out curses and dark bolts of eldritch energy. There were monsters who'd been risen from the dead as well, wyverns with flesh dripping from their bones but nevertheless flew aloft and hounded the empire from the skies. Even skeletal knights on dead steeds who thundered forward, heedless of danger, throwing themselves into the ranks before them to cut down as many as they could before the magic that held them together was broken.

And it was magic that held them together. The book detailed the moment that Arihnan had lost his head in excruciating, flowery language. One thing was clear though, the moment the Mage had died, the entire army withered away and fell apart. Somehow, that one man had been holding the entire thing together.

Though he had no ambitions of destroying empires or burning cities of innocents to the ground, Tyron felt a sliver of excitement coiling in his gut. How many Classes could boast of this sort of power? The strength to control literal armies? What could he do with that sort of strength? Forget being a Slayer, he could conquer huge stretches of the wilds, exterminate monsters across land equivalent to a kingdom. Maybe he could put his own parents out of business.

He chuckled to himself at that thought but quickly sobered. If he were able to accumulate that sort of strength, the sort that Arihnan had possessed, but used it for good, he would be excused for his Class.

"Is everything alright, Tyron?" A soft voice spoke beside him.

"Gah!" Tyron jumped in his seat, his arms flinging out over the open books in front of him before he turned his head.

"Mrs. Barbury! How - How are you?"

The woman in question eyed him with a cool gaze until he started to sweat.

"I'm well, thank you," she answered finally, "I was curious what you might be reading back here." 

She cast her eyes over the books on the table. "History?" She asked with one brow raised.

"Uh, yeah. Just brushing up on a few topics I found interesting. Nothing big."

She nodded slowly and pursed her lips and Tyron was taken aback, not for the first time, just how attractive the town Scribe really was. To the teenagers and kids in Foxbridge, she was 'old lady Barbury', but in reality she was only in her thirties. Behind the plain clothes and serious demeanour she was smooth faced and possessed a pair of intelligent, sharp eyes. 

"I thought I'd find you studying up on your Class. I don't mean to pry, of course, your Class is your business outside of the registration..."

Tyron forced a chuckle, his throat dry. "Naturally," he wheezed.

"… but I wanted you to know that if you wanted to discuss your options, you can look for me. I'll be moving between the Town hall and the Library for the next few days. I'm happy to talk anytime."

Puzzled, Tyron forgot to be nervous and tilted his head as he gazed up at the Scribe as if she were a puzzle. Suddenly, it clicked.

"The Mayor sent you," he said.

Mrs. Barbury nodded and smiled wryly. 

"Too smart for your own good, young master Steelarm. Yes. He mentioned that you hadn't looked too… delighted, after your Awakening. He asked me to check in on you and offer my advice."

He supposed he should feel grateful for their care, but instead he felt threatened. They probably imagined he had acquired a boring Class and was distraught at the plain future laid out before him. There were always several people in that boat every year. No doubt the Mayor kept a sharp eye out for them and tried to settle them down before they did something stupid. But one thing still puzzled him.

"But why you, Mrs Barbury. With respect, this sort of thing falls outside your normal role."

"That it does," she said drily before she gathered her skirts and sat down at his table. "It isn't something I talk about often, but I myself renounced my Class after Awakening."

"What?" Tyron was shocked. "Really? Why?"

"It's a common enough story, there are people all over the place who've chosen to renounce their first Class. It's not the end of the world. With hard work and a Trainer, it's possible to pick up almost any Class at all. Plenty of people have gone on to do great things after choosing a new Main Class. As to why, my family didn't approve of my Class and I didn't see a future in it, so I changed it. After six months working with a Trainer, I acquired the Scribe job and took over duties here in Foxbridge. See? Not the end of the world."

"Can… Can I ask what your original Class was? If that's okay.. I mean." Tyron stuttered, realising how inappropriate it was of him to ask.

The first Class was quite personal and people could get quite touchy about it. Mrs Barbury hesitated before she answered.

"I received the Dancer, class. I quite enjoyed dancing when I was young."

Tyron could see it. Even now she moved with a certain grace that she surely didn't have the Dexterity to justify. Having said her piece, the Scribe put her hands on the table and pushed herself up. 

"Remember to come and look for me if you need advice, alright? Make sure you talk to a range of people before you make any decisions."

Tyron would if he could. 

"Thanks, Mrs Barbury. Tell the Mayor I appreciate his concern." 

"I will."

With a final smile, she walked away to check in with another group and left Tyron to his books. Though he felt a little shaky at this unexpected intrusion, he returned to his study, hoping to find more examples of Necromancy throughout history. After another hour he was successful. As he flicked through a dense volume that dealt with the dealings of the Sand Folk to the south, he found reference to certain cultural practices that sounded a great deal like Necromancy. Supposedly able to summon spirits and bind them to service as well as passages that described those 'devoid of life' being used to supress rebellious villages.

He rose from his table to search for volumes related to the tribes and returned with a few promising texts within ten minutes. Before he could sink his teeth into them, he was interrupted once more.

"There he is! I knew he'd be stuck in a book!" Rufus boomed through the hushed library.

Not now. He didn't want to deal with this now! But he didn't have a choice. When he turned away from his book he found Rufus already striding across the room, headless of the disruption he caused, with Elsbeth and Laurel trailing behind him.

"Hey Tyron! Sorry I didn't see you after your Awakening," Elsbeth greeted him.

"It's fine," he said, "I know you had to talk to your parents and sort out stuff with the church."

She blushed and nodded.

"Was it that obvious?" she asked.

Tyron forced out a smile.

"It was, yes. Congratulations on becoming a Priestess."

"I told you it would happen," Rufus broke in, "nothing was more sure. I got the Swordsman class as well. The group is coming together! I'm telling you guys, we are purpose built for Slaying!"

Tyron turned to Laurel.

"I assume that means you got the Ranger type class you wanted?"

Laurel's eyes twinkled as she smiled.

"Maybe," was all she said.

Tyron felt his heart clench in his chest. His friends had all received the Class they wanted and now they were here without a care in the world, the future rolled out in front of them like a red carpet. He struggled to shove his bitterness down. It's not their fault he received the Class he did. If anything, it was his own. This was the Class he was most suited for. Who else but himself could he blame for that?

"So," he broke the silence, "Elsbeth. Have you put any thought to the Deity you want to serve? You have to pick one, right?"

"That's right," she said, "I shouldn't be surprised you know about that."

"I researched a lot of classes."

"It shows," she laughed. "I have to choose before I can get Appraised, since it permanently affects my Status and Class. It's not entirely up to me though, the God's have their say."

"You want to pick Seren, right?"

She brought her hands up to clasp the symbol of Seren she wore around her neck, a flower, wrought in silver that she'd had for years. Seren was the Goddess of Purity and Healing. Most of her followers were women and Elsbeth spent most of her volunteering time with the Sisters who worked out of the local church.

"I hope so. My family wanted me to appeal to Seren as well."

"I'm sure you'll be accepted. And there are tons of villages and churches crying out for a Priestess. You'll do well."

Rufus shifted his feet before he broke in.

"Elsbeth can worry about that later, It's time to celebrate! We've Awakened! Let's hit the town! Get off your butt and let's go!"

Tyron leaned away from his friends exuberance.

"Ah, I'm fine. I think I'll just stay and read for a bit before I hit the hay. I haven't checked in with Uncle Worthy yet either, he's probably worried." 

That was very true. His Uncle had expected him back as soon as the ceremony was done, which was five hours ago. He had to get back there.

Elsbeth broke into his thoughts.

"You didn't say what Class you got, Tyron. Is it alright if I pry?" She smiled, her eyes dancing with excitement.

His heart froze in his chest. He couldn't tell them. He tried to play it off.

"Ah, nothing special. I don't think there'll be any Slaying in my future."

There was a heavy silence after he spoke as the three friends tried to think of something to say. Tyron waved his hands.

"It's fine! Nothing dramatic. Look, you guys go celebrate. I need to get back to the Inn anyway."

They looked at him with complicated gazes. Considering his family it was almost inconceivable that Tyron would have an ordinary Class. Elsbeth in looked equal parts shocked and saddened. Tyron rushed to slam all his books closed and pushed through them.

"See you," he muttered.

He couldn't take their pitying gazes. He rushed out of the library as quickly as could but he couldn't help but hear Rufus' voice behind him

"Look, forget him. Are we going to celebrate or not?"

Feeling irritated, Tyron rushed back to the Inn to reassure his Aunt and Uncle that he was well and endured their curious, concerned looks before he retreated back to his parent's house. He needed to think.

Chapter 4: Working Nights

Graverobbing was less exciting than Tyron had expected. He'd expected that sneaking through the night and stealing into the cemetery would have been difficult, with him having to dodge Town Guards and Marshals before having to outwit the cemetery keeper and sneak away with his rotting prize. Reality was somewhat different than his imagination. As night fell the travellers and newly Awakened youths were out in the streets and Inns of Foxbridge, drinking, celebrating and making a general nuisance of themselves. The Guards were therefore out in force, inside the town, keeping a watchful eye on drunken behaviour and trying to stop fistfights. The marshals sent from the province were nowhere to be seen and the cemetery keeper was passed out drunk in his house. All his preparations now looked somewhat foolish.

So it was that Tyron Steelarm found himself standing in the grave of Myrrin Jessup, the elderly matron of a farming family on the outskirts of town who'd passed away three months ago, shovel in hand and conflicted look upon his face. 

He'd fobbed off his Aunt and Uncle when they pressed him for details on his Class, telling them that he'd be happy to fill them in tomorrow but for now he just wanted to rest. He'd been up for several days in a row after all. Uncle Worthy had reluctantly agreed and Tyron had rushed back to the safety of his own home and tried to decide what he was going to do.

In his panic this afternoon he hadn't even stopped to investigate his new Class through his own Appraisal, nor had he thought to ask any questions at all about his sub-class, Anathema. He cursed his stupidity but ultimately he couldn't be too hard on himself. Lack of sleep combined with the unique pressure of his current situation meant his decision making was not what it should be. He seriously considered just going to bed, casting Sleep on himself if he needed to, just to get the rest he so desperately needed. He decided against it, but only narrowly. He had very limited time available to him and he needed to make the most out of it. He was in a race against time and he couldn't afford to lose. 

With a sigh of exhaustion he grounded his shuffle and leaned on it heavily. Was it really necessary to bury them so far down? His shoulders were on fire and his lower back had a definite ache. Almost everyone his age was getting drunk in town and here was shovelling dirt dressed in his darkest clothing. He'd even smeared dirt across his face and bought the Sneak General skill for this outing. A complete waste of effort. 

After he caught his breath he gipped the shovel once again, cursing when his raw hands rubbed on the wood. Desperate times… Once again he put his weight behind his hands and started to cut into the soft earth. After an hour of digging he was over a metre down and desperately wishing that he didn't have much further to go. With every spadeful of dirt he moved his conscience whispered in the back of his mind and every time he pushed it away. Living normally was not an option to him, not if he wanted to keep his Class. If he wanted to learn more about his Class, then he no choice but to try and level it up. The message had been loud and clear during his Awakening. To level up his Necromancer Class he had to raise the dead.

So here he was. He'd performed an Appraisal on himself and found exactly what he'd expected to find. Neither his Necromancer Class, nor his Anathema Class provided options for purchase at level one. Almost every Class was like this. A person received the basic abilities of the Class upon receiving it and then further options upon levelling up to the second level. After that choices usually came every five levels to customise and tailor the Class to the individuals wishes.

THUNK.

The tip of the shovel bit through the dirt and bit into something solid. Trepidation rising in his heart, the young Necromancer began to scrape away the dirt and widen his hole, another thirty minutes work, until he was looking down on the partially rotted casket of poor old Mrs Jessup. Before proceeding further Tyron climbed out of the grave and rummaged through his pack which he'd placed on the ground nearby. It wasn't easy in the dark but he refused to cast Light. Even if everyone else was casual about security in the graveyard, he wouldn't be. After a moment he had what he wanted, a ball of wax he'd prepared for this part of the task. He cursed his raw and filthy hands but took the wax and softened it by rolling it between his palms before he broke it in half and used the two pieces to plug his nose.

He'd never smelled a two month old body before and he didn't want to start now. The stink had already been rising when he'd finished digging and he wasn't tempted to get a full dose once he'd opened up the casket. Job done he pulled out a coil of rope which he used to tie around one end of the partially rotted wood. As quietly as he could he began to haul the remains of the beloved farmers wife and her wooden resting place out of the ground, but it was slow going. He really didn't have the physique for this. For a moment he was tempted to dump his free points into Strength but he chased the thought away. That would be a stupid waste. 

Cursing under his breath, covered in sweat and grime, Tryon pulled, hauled and heaved until he'd succeeded in his excavation. He collapsed onto his back and heaved a few deep breaths of the cool night air before he stood once again. His work wasn't done, not even close. Careful not to disturb the rest of the cemetery he dragged the wooden box forty metres to the Arryn Mausoleum. The mayors family had built the thing almost a hundred years ago and generations had been interred inside since then. It wasn't enormous, roughly the size of an average house in Foxbridge, but no other family could possibly afford the extravagance of a stone house in which to place their dead. 

Tyron carefully lowered the casket and wearily trudged back to his pack. He picked it up with one hand and felt around with the other as he walked back. By the time he arrived in front of the looming stone edifice, carved with likenesses of the Five Divines and 'Arryn' written in flowing script across the entrance. It was locked, of course. A thick chain bolted shut ran through the iron banded wooden doors and Tyron knew he'd have no hope of forcing it open, certainly not quietly. Being the son of two prominent, perpetually absent Monster Slayers did have a few advantages however. Moving with care in the darkness, Tyron unfolded the bundle of cloth and withdrew a clear glass container within which sloshed a small amount of dark green liquid.

"Door away," his mother had cheerfully described it. They'd purchased a supply of the stuff to complete a job that had required they assault a crumbling ruin some madman had renovated to breed monsters. What he held was all that remained after they'd finished with the place.

Holding his breath he carefully uncorked the bottle, nearly splashing the stuff on himself when his hands slipped.

"Fuck." He swore.

His hands were raw and numb, his arms and shoulders burned like fire. He was mentally and physically exhausted, but he couldn't stop now. He took a deep breath, then another before he brought the bottle to the lock. Holding the heavy steel lock in one hand he dribbled a tiny amount of liquid on the metal threaded through the chain. The fluid immediately bubbled and steamed and Tyron jerked back to avoid the fumes. In less than a minute the lock had been chewed through and he was able to slip the chain loose, the metal clinking with every movement, and pull open the door.

Dust, darkness and cobwebs greeted him on the other side. 

"Of course, spiders." He muttered as he turned and dragged the casket inside.

Once he had it past the threshold he let it drop and slapped at his robes to dislodge the cobwebs and brush off half imagined crawlers he thought he felt creeping on him. He grabbed his pack, brought it inside and then shut the door, closing himself inside.

"Light."

His tired brain worked the magic with ease after his years of practice and a small globe of light appeared in his palm. Concentrating briefly he raised his hand and then opened his fingers with a jerk. The globe hung in the air as if suspended from an invisible string, illuminating Tyron and Myrrin's new abode. There were four rooms in the mausoleum arranged in a cross. This particular space appeared to be an entranceway, the floor clear to allow traffic deeper into the building. Which suited Tyron just fine. 

His shadow flickered across the carved interior of the tomb as he got to work opening up the box. In the end he had to use a few more drops of Door Away to get a purchase. The lid popped off after another heave, sending him stumbling backward until he thudded his head into the arch around the door. More swearing, a few moments to gather himself, then he stepped toward the open casket.

He wished he hadn't. He wished he hadn't cast Light. He wished he wasn't here at all. The corpse was a disgusting, fetid mass of rotting flesh, barely recognisable as a person. The smell was so overpowering that even his improvised nose plugs were not enough to keep it away entirely, causing his stomach to heave. Acid burned the back of his throat as he gagged but he forced it back down and spat on the floor.

It's not as if he wanted this. He didn't want to be here, doing these things. If he had his way he'd be drinking with Elsbeth in town, drinking in the sight of her golden hair and bright smile whilst he celebrated his Wizard Class. But Necromancer he was and so here he was doing Necromancer work. He spat again, as if to hurl the self-pity out of his body. He had no use for it. 

Time to get to work. 

Skills and Spells that were granted as part of a Class or purchased with Skill selections were odd things. Instead of building proficiency through practice and study, they were like a bundle of instincts that you hadn't earned. Over time that understanding would come and build a more coherent framework around those instincts, but at first you just had to go with your gut.

Which was what Tyron did. Corpse Preparation and Corpse Appraisal were the two Skills he'd received from his Class at level one and he relied on those instincts to guide him as he ran a critical eye over the body. He didn't feel that he needed to do much to prepare the remains for his Spell, rather there didn't seem to be much he could do in his current circumstances. His Appraisal Skill was telling him that this body would make a particularly poor undead. A frail old lady when she'd passed away there wasn't a lot of meat on her bones when she'd been buried and there was precious little of that left. He did feel confident that the Spell would take. If all went well then Myrrin Jessup would rise as a Zombie under his control. 

He took a deep breath to steady his nerves and immediately regretted it. Between the dust and stench of rot, the air tasted thick and foul.

"Just get it done," he growled to himself and moved to his pack. He removed a small leather bound book from the bag and flicked through it to his notes. 

Just like his Skills, the Spell he'd received was an outline, a sense, rather than a full and complete picture. As he practiced, levelled up the Skill and grew more experienced then he would be able to develop his understanding of the Magic and cast it as easily as he had the Light spell. A large part of his preparation for this task was spent preparing these notes. Using his knowledge of Spellcraft theory he'd teased out as much as he could in the limited time available. It was a complex magic, one that would take almost his entire pool of Magic to cast, by far the most potent spell he'd come across. 

From his limited understanding, the Spell contained three main components. First, the construction of a magical animus, a crude bundle of instincts that the zombie would use to control its body and make basic decisions. The mind and soul of the body's original inhabitant were long gone and thus would need to be replaced. Following that, a conduit of Magic would be established between himself and his servant, enabling it to draw on him for the Magic needed to sustain its existence. It was obvious that a body in such an advanced state of disrepair wouldn't be able to move under its own power, he would be required to supply the fuel. Third, came the binding, an invocation that would chain his newly created creature to his will. 

Each individual part of the Spell was more complex that the Sleep Spell he'd learned and it was insane to even attempt it in his condition. But he felt desperate. He felt as if an unseen eye was watching him every moment. As if hands were clawing around his ankles, desperate to drag him down into mediocrity. He refused to accept that!

He snapped the book shut decisively and placed it back in his pack. He strode two steps to stand at the head of the corpse, spread his hands and began the invocation.

Magic was a science and an artform rolled into one, so his Mother had told him. A high level Battlemage, she was bridged the divide between rough and ready cantrips that could be thrown out with a word and more powerful Spells that demanded concentration, extended cast times and often consumed material components. This Spell was assuredly the latter. Tyrons hands drew arcane sigils in the air as the words of power rolled from his tongue and echoed off the dust covered walls in this cramped hall of stone. His long hours of study and Spell Crafting Skill showed their effects now. Despite his exhaustion, despite the crippling lack of sleep, he enunciated each word clearly and shaped the magic smoothly, the arcane energy draining out of his body and pouring into the vessel before him.

So much energy. The Spell drew deep on his reserves as sweat began to run in rivulets down his face. He wanted to grimace and clench his teeth but he couldn't, the invocation mustn't be halted once it had begun and slurring his words could prove disastrous. Moment by moment he battled with his own body and waged war on his own mind. His arms were as heavy as lead, his thoughts as sluggish as molasses, but he refused to yield. If he failed now, he may as well give up on every dream he'd ever had and resign himself to bookkeeping his entire life. 

For twenty minutes he fought tooth and nail, his voice growing hoarse and his body shaking from the exertion. The final words flew from his lips in a shout before he collapsed to his knees, completely spent. It had taken every drop of magic in him to complete the Spell, but he'd done it. It had gone as perfectly as he could have hoped for, given his circumstances.

He panted, head down as his vision swam before his eyes.

"Might have… Overdone it a little," he rasped.

But he couldn't keep a lilted smile from his lips. He'd succeeded. He'd actually done it! Who else could have performed such a difficult feat of magic like this with as little preparation as he had? A laugh bubbled in his belly but only emerged from his shredded throat as a croak. 

"Hrrrrrrrrrrrrr." Came a long slow moan.

Tyron raised his head to see the putrid, rotting remains of his new servant slowly push itself up until its sightless eyes were staring back it him.

"Looking good there, friend," he wheezed.

Then the last drop of his Magic left him and he knew no more.

Chapter five: First Steps

He awoke an indeterminate amount of time later, a headache pounding against his temples. His mouth was dry, he felt bruised and battered all over. What happened? Am I hung over? He groaned and winced as he shifted his body and slowly began to pick himself up. It was completely dark inside and he almost tapped out of Magic. 

"Light," he rasped.

When the light bloomed and illuminated his surrounds his memory flooded back to him. The Zombie! Where was it?! He scrabbled onto his knees, his eyes frantically scanning the enclosed tomb only to find the body of Myrrin had collapsed back into the casket. Just to be certain, he ran his hands over his body to make sure he hadn't been eaten. When he found no bite marks in his flesh and all his digits still attached he heaved a sigh of relief. As he steadied his breathing and waited for his heart to stop pounding in his chest he turned his mind to what had gone wrong.

The answer came to him after a moment's thought. He had used all of his Magic in order to raise the zombie, which meant the moment it tried to move it had drawn on his reserves, which were empty, and he had passed out from the strain. Without an energy source, the Spell had fallen apart on its own, causing his new servant to fall inert once more. His relief only lasted long enough for him to realise he had no idea how long he'd been passed out for. He scuttled to the door and ripped it open only to find the dark of night still hung over the graveyard. He heaved a sigh of relief. He can't have been out for more than an hour. This was fine.

Exhausted and in pain he gathered his things and repacked his bag before he exited the mausoleum, chaining the door and slipping the lock through to give the appearance nothing had changed. With that done he returned to the open grave of his victim and spent another two hours refilling it and disguising his work to the best of his ability. It wasn't great, anything more than a cursory inspection would reveal that something had been done, but it was the best he could do right now. Job done, he staggered back to town and slipped in the back door of his house. Even the raucous celebrations had died down at this point and the people of Foxbridge were abed for the most part. According to the clock it was almost four in the morning. Barely conscious, Tyron stripped and cleaned himself mechanically, the cold water doing nothing to alleviate his drowsiness, before he collapsed into bed and passed out.

He awoke at midday feeling little better than when he went to bed. Muscle pain wracked his arms, shoulders and lower back every time he moved as he levered himself out of bed. He needed water and food, badly. As his dreariness fell away a powerful urge to Appraise his status and see what he had gained the night before, but he resisted. He'd taken a massive risk last night and for the moment it appeared that he had gotten away with it. He needed to be calm and settled before he made any decisions. According to the clock he'd slept a bit over eight hours. Not enough to catch up but enough to freshen his mind. He'd head over to visit his Uncle to eat before coming back. Problem was, what would he tell Worthy when he inevitably asked about his Class?

The truth? Impossible. The odds that his Uncle shared the same cavalier attitude to illegal Classes was slim to none, simply not worth it. Tyron may still end up having to renounce his Class, but he would only do so if he'd exhausted all other avenues available to him. He couldn't afford to take the risk. So what would he say? He could only lie. It would hurt to have to lie to his family, especially his Aunt and Uncle who'd cared for him for so long, but it was only the way he could keep his activities under cover. He'd pretend he'd achieved a boring Class and put his odd behaviour down to being depressed.

Plan's made he left his house and walked down the road to the Steelarm Inn.

"There you are!" Came the exuberant greeting the moment he put his foot through the door.

A crowded common room was revealed as Tyron stepped inside, the many travellers in town for the ceremony eating the midday meal and nursing their hangovers before they registered their Class and headed home. With so many patrons the only way his Uncle could have picked him out so quickly was if he'd kept constant watch on the door.

"Hi, Uncle!" He called over the chatter and waved an arm as he made his way toward the kitchen.

"Oh no you don't!" Worthy put down the glasses he was filling behind the bar and bustled in front of the door to block his nephew off. "I've barely seen hide nor hair of you since yesterday morning lad. Goin' to catch some words before you disappear again!"

The words were serious but there was twinkle in his Uncle's eye that gave away his mirth.

Tyron feigned a resigned shrug.

"What do you need, Uncle? I was just going to get something to eat and head back home."

"Home?" His Uncle quirked an eyebrow in surprise. 

Tyron was entitled to sleep at home and could do so whenever he wanted, but he seldom did. Well, if he wanted to avoid the crowd and noise it would make sense. The Inn had been loud until late last night and if he wanted sleep he wasn't likely to get it here.

"Your Aunt and I are just concerned, lad. We didn't hear from you much after the Awakening and we - "

"Clerk."

"We didn't want… uh, what?"

"I'm a Clerk." The boy shrugged. "Can you imagine, the son of Magnin and Beory Steelarm is a fucking Clerk."

Worthy almost staggered and utterly failed to keep the shock from his face.

"What? Lad, you're sure?"

His nephew looked down and nodded confirmation, as if unwilling to look his Uncle in the eye.

"I just want to get some food and go home, Uncle. Can you talk to Aunt Meg for me?"

Worthy mastered himself and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder in an attempt to give comfort.

"Sure, lad. Whatever you need. You grab yourself a seat and don't worry about a thing. When your parents get home we'll figure things out."

Still staring at the floor, Tyron nodded and brushed past his uncle to find a seat in the corner of the common room at a nearly empty table. It was more difficult to lie to his Uncle than he thought and frankly, he was lucky to get away with it. Someone with as much Charisma as Worthy was extremely adept in social situations even before accounting for his no doubt well levelled Skills. If he hadn't been shocked he would've no doubt noticed something was off about his brother's son.

Keen to avoid further contact with his family, he slid into a seat at the table and did his best to look miserable. He didn't want to interact with anyone if he could help it. It was unfortunate that circumstances didn't seem to allow it.

"Elsbeth? Is that you?"

Seated opposite was a person lying flat on the table with their hair splayed out in a messy golden puddle. The figure let out a long groan before they lifted their head and Tyron found himself staring into the bleary eyes of his friend.

"Whazzat? Tyron? Not so loud please."

Tyron blinked. She was obviously hungover. 

"Elsbeth, what the heck happened to you last night?"

"Last night? I went out with Laurel… and Rufus." Tyron noted the slight hesitation in her voice and colour that rose in her cheeks when she mentioned the newly minted Swordsman.

"And you obviously got drunk. What the hell happened? This isn't like you 'Beth."

She blinked owlishly at him before she frowned.

"What'd you know anyway? You shoulda been there with us. What happened to you, huh?"

He leaned forward and whispered.

"I've got my own shit to deal with, alright? I couldn't go out with you guys."

No, he had to go defile a grave and desecrate the remains of a respected community member. Inside the locked mausoleum of another respected community member. He felt a wave of bitterness rise up.

"Why would you want me there anyway? Are you sure I wouldn't just get in the way."

Her eyes widened.

"W-What do you mean? Of course I wanted you there," she said, her voice rasping with each word,

He shoved down his emotions and clenched his jaw. He didn't care. He had no time to deal with his friends and their issues right now. 

"You're hungover. Eat something and drink some water then go back to sleep. If you want to talk, I'll do it then."

Then he stood up and walked away from the table to the opposite corner where he sat with his back toward her. He refused to turn around and never saw the shocked expression that turned into hurt before Elsbeth gathered her things and walked out of the Inn. It was fine. So long as Tyron refused to surrender his Class then there was no reason for him to hold onto old attachments. Whatever had come before, it no longer had anything to do with him. That's what he told himself.

Soon his Uncle came over with a jug of clear water and plate filled with steaming lamb shanks and spring vegetables. He placed both items down without a word, only pausing to tousle the boys hair before he sighed and moved back to his work, his body moving with mechanical ease. There had not been a Steelarm in living memory who hadn't taken on a combat Class. Beory had declared her son was a certainty for a Wizard. What would those two wandering fools say when they found their only child was a powerless desk worker? Sure he could take on other Classes, even revoke his first and put the work in to acquire another, but it was massive delay with guarantee of success. He'd heard the same rumours that Magnin had as an adventurer, he knew that giving up the initial Main Class meant mediocrity for almost everyone. He'd had such high hopes for that boy. What had gone wrong?

As his Uncle pondered morosely, Tyron ate. Aunt Meg's cooking had truly ascended to a new height and he hoovered in the food, pausing only to guzzle the water. He was starving, it was true, but he also needed to get home to check his Status and he was burning with curiosity.

With the food and water dealt with he pushed his chair back and hurried out of the Inn, not wanting to remain at the scene of his deception. Lying to people who'd looked after you most of your life didn't feel right and left a sour twist in his stomach. He rushed home, not paying any mind to the people he passed on the road and locked the door behind him once he was inside.

He wanted to ensure that there wouldn't be any witness to the ritual so to take no chances he moved to the trophy room and placed the required materials on the ground before he sat on the floor. The trophy room was where his parents stored the various items that struck their fancy during their adventures. It featured no external access and a very strong door, perfect for his purposes. Technically even he shouldn't have the key but he'd found it rummaging through his father's things a few years ago whilst they were away. To a younger Tyron the things held in the room had been wondrous treasures, monster remains and enchanted weapons that glittered with light. Now he viewed them in much the same way his parents did, mementoes of the past, not relevant to the future. Why they bothered to lock them up, he had no idea.

The Appraise Status ritual was a simple one, so simple there wasn't even a Skill or Spell entry for it. The dumbest back alley thug could perform it just as well as the brightest mage. All that was required was a flat surface and a drop of blood. Tyron jabbed his thumb with the pin he'd prepared and pressed it to the centre of the clean sheet of paper he'd prepared. He spoke the words of power and winced as his blood flowed out onto the page. After a few seconds, his Status was ready.

Name: Tyron Steelhand.

Age: 18

Race: Human (Level 10)

Class: 

Necromancer (Level 2).

Sub-Classes:

1. Anathema (Level 2).
2. None
3. None

Events:

Your attempts at Stealth have increased proficiency.

Your study of the Raise Undead Spell has increased proficiency. 

You have examined a corpse. Corpse appraisal has increased proficiency.

You have raised an Undead with your first attempt. Raise Dead has reached Level 2. Necromancer has reached Level 2. You have received +3 Intelligence, + 1 Constitution, +1 Wisdom. New Choices available.

You have pleased the Darkness by embracing your role. The Dark Ones are impressed with your desecration of a tomb consecrated to their foes. The Court delight in your twisting of a beloved elder to a creature of death. The Abyss is pleased with your hunger for arcane mastery. Anathema has achieved level 2. You have received +4 Intelligence, +4 Constitution. New choices available.

Racial Feats:

Level 5: Steady Hand.

Level 10: Night Owl.

Attributes:

Strength: 12

Dexterity: 11

Constitution:20

Intelligence:23

Wisdom: 16

Charisma: 13

Free points: 10

General Skills:

Arithmetic (Level 5)

Handwriting (Level 4)

Concentration (Level 2)

Cooking (Level 1)

Sling (Level 3)

Swordsmanship (Level 1)

Sneak (Level 1)

Skill Selections Available: 2

Necromancer Skills:

Corpse Appraisal (Level 1)

Corpse Preparation (Level 2)

General Spells:

Globe of Light (Level 8)

Sleep (Level 4)

Mana Bolt (Level 1)

Necromancer Spells:

Raise Dead (Level 2)

Mysteries:

Spell Shaping (Initial): INT +3 WIS +3

Necromancer Level 2. Please Choose an additional Spell:

Flesh Mending - Repair dead flesh.

Bone Stitching - Weave together bones.

Anathema Level 2. Please Choose a Skill:

Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.

Appeal to the Court - Attempt to commune with the Red Court.

Pierce the Veil - Seek Guidance from the Abyss.

Tyron felt lightheaded by the time the writing had finished forming. Quite a difference from his last Status! He had grown as an individual in this world, at last, and the writing in front of him was the evidence of that growth. He felt a heady rush when he realised he had levelled twice thanks to his efforts the previous night. The fierce joy that seized him wiped away the last remnants of guilt he had felt due to his actions. In its place now blazed a hunger that he could only feed if he continued on the path he was now on. Look at his Attributes! The moment he completed the ritual his body would begin to change to accommodate his new abilities, an experience that all young people yearned for prior to their Awakening. He was going to grow stronger, finally!

But first he had to read through the events and make his choices. Both classes were going to grant him a choice at level 2, an unexpected benefit. He frowned as he read the descriptions of the Anathema level up. This was touching on things he hadn't wanted to deal with after he'd received his Class. Clearly the Anathema Class was associate with three separate entities or organisations and he had pleased all three with his actions. The problem Tyron had was that he'd never heard of any of them before. The only Deities he was aware of were the five divines who'd been represented on the tomb he'd broken into. Apparently the 'Dark Ones' were opposed to the divines? A separate Pantheon?! The Red Court asked for blood and sacrifice and were pleased when he defiled the body of Myrrin. He had no idea who or what they were. Lastly the Abyss. Forbidden knowledge? Arcane mastery? He couldn't guess who these were.

It appeared as though he was going to be forced to make a choice, however. He would deal with that second. First was his Necromancer Skill choice.

Flesh Mending or Bone Stitching. He knew from his studies that it was possible he would be able to come back later and select whichever Spell he failed to choose now, but it wasn't always ideal. For him, the choice was straightforward. Although the descriptions were vague, he could intuit quite a bit. Flesh Mending would enable him to magically repair the rotting flesh of a corpse in order to produce a more powerful zombie. Whilst magically powered, a zombie still required a bit of meat in order to get work done and the better the condition, the more powerful the zombie.

Bone Stitching on the other hand, was a ticket to a whole new type of Undead. Skeletons. Unlike zombies, skeletons had no need for flesh at all and instead required far more magic and preparation. Unless he missed his guess, this Spell would enable him to prepare bones so that they might be animated by the Raise Dead spell. Since skeletons were more powerful than Zombies (not to mention they smelled less) it was a no brainer for Tyron. He used his thumb to make a mark with his blood next to Bone Stitching.

Then he contemplated the three choices Anathema presented. He wished he could go research the three groups before he made a commitment but he couldn't, he had to choose now or he would waive the choice and lose it. He mentally kicked himself. He should have done his research the moment he had a chance, then he might have been better armed with knowledge than he was now. He had nobody but himself to blame for his ignorance. Never shy away from knowledge, Tyron you fool!

Arm heavy with reluctance, Tyron placed his mark next to Pierce the Veil. Without any information, any choice was as good as the next. The mentions of secrets and magic where enough to draw him in. He hoped he wouldn't come to regret this choice.

The moment the final selection was done he ended the ritual and for the second time in as many days, passed out.