Events:

Your attempts at Stealth have increased proficiency. Sneak has reached level 3.

Concentration has increase proficiency. Concentration has reached level 4.

You have performed a successful cast on the first attempt. Pierce the Veil has increased proficiency. Pierce the Veil has reached level 3.

You have continued to please your patrons. The Dark Ones revel in the chaos you stir. The Court delight in your madness. The Abyss is pleased with the taste of your mind. Anathema has achieved level 4. You have received +2 Intelligence, +2 Constitution and +2 Willpower. New choices available.

Name: Tyron Steelhand.

Age: 18

Race: Human (Level 10)

Class:

Necromancer (Level 4).

Sub-Classes:

Anathema (Level 4). None None

Racial Feats:

Level 5: Steady Hand.

Level 10: Night Owl.

Attributes:

Strength:

12

Dexterity:

11

Constitution:

22

Intelligence:

28

Wisdom:

18

Willpower:

26

Charisma:

13

Manipulation:

11

Poise:

13

General Skills:

Arithmetic (Level 5)

Handwriting (Level 4)

Concentration (Level 4)

Cooking (Level 1)

Sling (Level 3)

Swordsmanship (Level 1)

Sneak (Level 3)

Butchery (Level 1)

Skill Selections Available: 1

Necromancer Skills:

Corpse Appraisal (Level 1)

Corpse Preparation (Level 1)

Death Magick (Level 1)

General Spells:

Globe of Light (Level 8)

Sleep (Level 4)

Mana Bolt (Level 1)

Necromancer Spells:

Raise Dead (Level 3)

Bone Stitching (Level 2)

Anathema Spells:

Pierce the Veil (Level 3)

Mysteries:

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

Anathema Level 4. Please Choose an additional Spell:

Dark Communion - Beg intercession from the Dark Ones.

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

Air of Menace - Surround oneself in a dread aura.

Suppress Mind - Attack another's will.

Pleased to touch his mind, huh? Tyron shuddered. If he never had to deal with the damned Abyss again he'd be more than happy. The entire experience had been a nightmare. The spell had pulled more out of him than he'd expected, how he'd managed to finish it he had no idea. If he'd attempted the spell shortly after he'd attained it he'd have had no chance and whatever had reached out to claim him would no doubt of succeeded. The memory of that alien presence within his mind, clawing at his consciousness as something reached through the veil was enough to give him nightmares for days to come.

Guess I'll be relying on the Sleep spell for my shuteye in the near future.

After he woke up feeling much refreshed he'd decided to perform the status ritual and check for any changes. He was unsurprised he'd earned another level in Anathema after what he'd managed. Whoever these patrons were, they seemed to be enjoying themselves at his expense, when they weren't trying to kill him. Still, the stats were nice to have and who knows what might have happened if he'd waited longer to cast the ritual? Would things go even worse for him? If he'd never cast it, would those voices have found a way to punish him regardless? He had no idea. Worse, he had no way of finding out.

"Relax," he told himself as he took deep, slow and steadying breaths. "You're still alive."

Had the situation in Woodsedge gotten worse? Absolutely. But he had survived another trial, gained another level and as of this moment, he wasn't in prison awaiting execution. Look for the positives.

He sighed.

Good to see Sneak gain another level, considering how much of a workout it'd had recently. Butchery still at level one stung a bit, but he hoped that would start to pick up soon, he needed money, badly. His two Necromancer Skills still being stuck at level one pained him much more. He knew that class skills were key to raise and as much he wasn't looking forward to 'preparing' a corpse, the thought was almost enough to make him physically sick, but he knew it would be a key component of what would make him successful in his class. Other than that, Pierce the Veil had increased in level, not that he intended to cast it again anytime soon. If ever.

He could think that way for now, but there was little doubt that their messages through the status ritual would become insistent again eventually. When that happened, he would have to choose to enact the spell once more, or take the risk that they could not harm him. At least if he did summon the courage to attempt to cast Pierce the Veil again, the added levels would make it easier. With more research he might be able to build better protections into the magick as well. Some sort of barrier for the mind? He had no idea how to construct such a thing, but with study…

He shook his head. Already he was considering how to cast it again safely. Was he even sane anymore?

He was lucky the modifications he'd made to the circle had worked to his advantage. His mother dabbled on the edges of summoning magic at times and the texts he'd read spoke repeatedly and urgently on the importance of some sort of defensive measures being built into the spell. Something else that was emphasised most strenuously was the importance of being able to end the spell when you wanted to. Neither of those elements had been present in any form he understood in the base spell that had been planted in his mind, so he'd been sure to add them as best he could. It hadn't worked perfectly, but it had worked well enough.

But now he had another choice to make: Anathema level four spells. The two choices he'd passed over previously were still here, as expected, along with two new choices. Air of Menace sounded… odd. Some sort of intimidation magick? A dread aura? What the hell would be the point of that? Her was trying to keep his head down as much as possible, not advertise his presence through some area spell. At his level, even someone like Hakoth would likely be able to shrug off the effect and cave his head in, let alone an actual Slayer. This choice didn't appeal to him much.

Suppress Mind. This one left a poor taste in his mouth. Cast a spell to attack someone's mind? That felt a little too much like what had happened to him when he'd performed the ritual, having his thoughts invaded and disrupted had been a horrible experience, one that he wouldn't wish on anyone. If he had to pick one of the two new abilities though, he might just reluctantly pick this one. He could at least see it having a use as opposed to the other.

He also had the option to choose another contact spell, but after what had happened last time, he didn't think he'd be doing that. He had no reason to assume that he'd get a better reception from the Dark Ones of the Scarlet Court than he'd gotten from the Abyss and the thought of going through that again scared him, he could admit that to himself.

No, those are out. Suppress Mind it is.

He marked his choice with blood before he ended the ritual and allowed the changes to roll over him. Growing stronger wasn't something he was likely going to get bored of any time soon and feeling his new power settle in his mind, along with the fragments of his new Spell he couldn't help but smile and feel that his recent risks had been worth it. Hopefully he could now ignore the Anathema sub-class for a while and devote himself to more Necromantic pursuits in the near future. Though first, he had some butchering to do.

Once he'd steadied himself and grown accustomed to his new self, he disposed of the status sheet in the traditional way, by eating it, before he headed downstairs to wash it down with some proper food and drink. With that done, he waved goodbye to the kitchen staff who were surprised the gesture, used to the young man sliding more or less silently in and out of the inn, before he ran over to Hakoth's shop just in time to beat him to the door.

"You're lookin' better," the butcher greeted him gruffly.

"I'm feeling better. Just needed a good night's sleep," he replied, standing as tall as he could.

That got an amused grunt from the man and the two of them headed into the store for another long day of work. Despite his more complete rest his muscles still ached fiercely and the more physical tasks he was set to still hurt, but with his head so much more clear than the previous day it was a comparative breeze. He thought he might have gotten an approving nod from the butcher at one point, though he only caught it out of the corner of his eye as he shifted crates around. When she arrived, Madeleine poked her head through the door into the back room to check on him and he thanked her again for what she'd done for him the day before.

Despite the hard labour, the day went by quickly enough and by dusk he once again stood outside the door, rung out as he waited for the butcher to lock up. The two said their goodbyes and went their separate ways. This time when he got back to the inn Tyron took a little time to speak with the staff and enjoyed his meal in the common room, trying to establish himself as 'Lukas Almsfield' in the minds of a few more people. If he wanted to blend in and appear less suspicious then he needed to come out of his shell a little and start talking to people. With his meal done, he retreated upstairs once more but instead of going directly to sleep, he decided to use the time to practice another Spell he would likely need in the days to come.

He hadn't had much cause to cast Mana Bolt ever since he'd earned the Spell. Teaching oneself magick wasn't an easy task and it had taken him over a year to get the hang of it, or at least learn it well enough that his status acknowledged his ability by having appear in his 'general spells' list. It had been a gruelling effort of trial and error, mostly error but it had been worth it for the smile on his mother's face when he'd finally revealed it. He smiled at the memory before he focused himself on the here and now.

Concentrating, he channelled the magick, spoke the words of power and thrust his palm forward, carefully managing the amount of energy he pushed into the spell. There was a flash of light as the spell manifested directly from the centre of his palm, flying in a straight line forward until if puffed harmlessly out against the wooden wall of his room. Just to be sure though, he walked over and carefully inspected the boards. It wouldn't do if he was to scratch obvious spell marks into the walls of his room when he was trying to keep his head down.

Satisfied there was no damage, he walked back to the other side of the room and concentrated again.

There were several aspects to the spell that had challenged him a great deal when was trying to learn it. The first of which was forming magick into something more corporeal that you could then project to smack into something. It was in the formation of this 'projectile' that most of the difficulty lay, actually shooting the thing out wasn't hard at all. The palm gesture wasn't strictly necessary, merely an aid to concentration, though he'd need to work on eliminating it if he wanted to look competent. Proper mages never needed to wave their hands around in a fight, using the prodigious power of their minds to achieve all that they needed. He'd certainly never seen his mother have to thrust out a palm or fist, she could unleash her entire arsenal of spells standing stock still.

For now, he didn't worry about it, he was much more focused on improving the formation of the projectile itself. For a perfect cast, it should be almost invisible, none of the energy wasted on light or heat, and it needed to be quick, fast enough that he could snap it out in the heat of battle. So he continued to practice, cast after cast, pausing every now and again to make notes in his book as he worked on his proficiency with the spell. He needed to be able to cast it much faster and under pressure for it to be useful and there was a lot of work to go before he achieved that level.

Deep into the night he continued to work, the slow, repetitive grind was soothing to his otherwise troubled mind and he kept at it until at last exhaustion gripped him and he slipped into bed.

Despite his immense physical and mental fatigue he struggled to fall asleep. The memory of the abyss crawling through his head, like someone scratching at the inside of his skull, refused to go away. He tried to distract himself, to think of other things, but that didn't help either. He thought of his parents, where were they? What were they doing now? Had they found his note? How did they react? Flashes of memory bubbled up without his prompting. He remembered the tear streaked face of Elsbeth as he brushed past her in the mausoleum, the shit eating grin on Rufus' face as he pressed down on Tyron's sword.

Filled with anger, fear and regret he finally gave up and cast Sleep on himself, allowing the magick to pull him down into the darkness where dreams and nightmares could not touch him.

The next day.

CHOP!

With one ham sized fist Hakoth brought his cleaver sharply down, the power of his class and skills behind the strike giving it almost supernatural precision and power. Flesh and bone parted beneath the knife like paper as the leg was sheared from the carcass so cleanly that if you held the two parts together it would be almost impossible to see that they'd been cut at all. Hakoth knew this for a fact, since it was the test his old master Bellag had demanded he pass before he'd been able to leave and establish his own shop.

Across the room the lad leaned over the grindstone, focused on his work, aye, but even so the Butcher could tell that he kept sneaking the odd glance at him as he worked, trying to pick up the tricks of the trade through observation alone. He tried to contain a snort and kept working. If it were possible to learn by just watching then the kid would be the one to do it. He was smart as a whip and never made the same mistake twice, something that the old man appreciated since he hated having to explain himself more than once. He had a bright future ahead of him that lad, or at least he would have had.

Once again he felt his heart sink a little in his chest as he contemplated what lay in store for young Lukas. Too many young ones went down that road, and so few came back.

He shook his head. It wasn't any of his business. Tyron wouldn't be the first to try and learn his skills only to go and get himself killed in the broken lands and he sure as hell wouldn't be the last. Being young and a false sense of invincibility went hand in hand after all. It wasn't like Hak couldn't remember feeling the same as a youth. It was just such a damn waste.

He drew back his hand for another clean slice only to be interrupted by a powerful knock on the front door. Interrupted mid-swing, he threw down the knife with a muttered curse and stomped out of the work area and into the front of the store. Madeleine wasn't in today, busy helping her mother so he was forced to man the desk himself, something he hated doing. Despite his best efforts, he could never manage to hold onto decent staff for long. Apparently he was 'difficult to work with', whatever that meant! Barely trying to keep the irritation off his face he yanked open the door to see a young man dressed in spattered and filthy armour on the other side.

"What?" he growled.

The slayer flashed a quick and easy smile despite the clear signs of weariness and fatigue around his eyes. Clearly he'd been out on the rifts for some time.

"Got sumfin' for me?" he rumbled to the man stood waiting outside.

"Hey there Hakoth. Remember me? I'm Tillan, the Shieldguard."

Hak grunted and peered at him for a moment.

"Two months ago? Big armour bug?"

Tillan grinned.

"That was us. Got another one for you if you're interested. A runner this time."

Hak raised a brow.

"Pay?"

The Shield guard's smile slipped a little.

"Same as before?" he offered.

The Butcher grunted and turned to walk back through the door.

"Bring to tha back door," he called over his shoulder.

"Already done!" came the cheerful reply.

When he opened up the double doors at the back of his shop, sure enough he found the rest of the Slayer team who he vaguely recalled, with their kill on a sled. It looked fresh, which meant they likely came across it on the way back. He took a deep breath through his nose and felt the tell-tale sting of magick burn his skin. Even the kid could sense it, Hak could see his head jerk up from the corner of his eye. The 'runner' they'd brought was a nasty critter from Nagrythyn, weighed over a ton but was quick as the wind. The two bladed arms at the front were sharp enough to slice through a fully armoured man with enough force left over for the man next to him.

"How long?" he asked.

"No rush on it," the lady who no doubt had pulled the sled, judging by the size of her, said. "We won't be out again for a week most likely."

"'Aight," he rumbled.

Ignoring the slayers, he stepped forward to grip the reins at the front of the sled and with a monumental effort he slowly pulled it into the shop. Used to his attitude, the weary fighters brushed it off and headed back to the keep with a wave. After he'd positioned the monster, Hak closed the double doors and locked them before he turned back and sized up the beast once more. It was a big one, not as large as the critter he'd done last time, but that had been a different variety entirely. This one was a killer, no doubt about it.

As he slowly stepped around the creature he could see the kid was fascinated with it, though he tried to keep his head down and at his task he kept sneaking little glances at it when he thought he wouldn't be noticed.

For a long moment the Butcher pondered until finally he let out a long and weary sigh.

"Come on then lad. Git here," he rumbled and waved him over.

Confusion flickered over the face of the boy before he carefully placed down the knife he'd been working on and stepped away from the grindstone.

"Yer daft enough to go an' git killed tryin' ta fight sumfin' like this?" he gestured to the horrific killing machine on the sled in front of them. "Yer a hard worker, an' smart too. Way too smart ta waste on runnin' errands for slayers. You sure you wanna do this?"

The lads brows rose as the Butcher unexpectedly tried to talk him out of his course of action, but there was never any hesitation in his eyes. Without bothering to defend his decision, he simply nodded.

"I'm sure," he said.

Hak was surprised to feel a slight pang in his chest at those words, but he quickly shook it off. He must be getting soft in his old age.

"'Aight then. Time you learn sumfin' about it then."

The kid hesitated.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "This soon?"

Hakoth stared at him.

"Ya want me ta work you harder first?" he drawled.

The boy came to his senses and shook his head emphatically which pulled a chuckle from the old butcher.

"Then let's see here. What sorta monster we got here then?"

"Warrior caste cutter. Often referred to as a 'runner' due to their speed. Fastest monster out of Nagrythyn," the lad rattled off.

Taken aback, Hakoth peered at the kid for a moment.

"'Kay, Lukas. If yer so smart, what do ya think is the valuable parts o' this 'ere beastie?"

"I have no idea," Tyron shrugged.

"Guess."

"Probably the blade arms, they look useful. Some of this chitin might be good, looks like the sled might be armoured with something similar. The core obviously, but I'm not sure where it might be. If any of the organs are useful for alchemy or anything, I don't know, though I suppose they would be."

"Aye," the Butcher nodded. "The tendons in the legs are good, strong and flexible, use 'em fer bows n' such. The chitin here, here and here is a good shape for a chest plate. Dependin' on size the sections here can make thigh n' arm guards. We'll get to organs tomorrow. Bring me the cleaver you was workin' on and I'll show you how ta get started on these critters."

Filled with enthusiasm Lukas, jumped to obey whilst Hakoth just felt old and tired. Another young one set on running to the rifts who likely wouldn't make it back. Too many heard of the broken lands and all they could think of was the glory, the money, the levels and power. The Butcher had been around long enough that all he associated with the broken lands was death. No place for a young man two weeks from his awakening. If he lived long enough, hopefully Lukas would learn the error of his ways. When you see enough dead bodies, people usually worked it out.