Arn woke to the morning sun peeking through the trees, sticky with gore and surrounded by bones. Daylight didn’t help Arn identify the source of the bones that surrounded him, but he spotted a small gem heart in the largest set of bones and was content. Mostly. Pain Resistance doesn’t do much when one of your grime-crusted eyes sticks every time you blink, and certainly doesn’t help one ignore buzzing and biting insects. Arn hoped to run into a stream, but was more than willing to settle for getting the Hells out of the forest.

Arn counted the kill notifications from last night as he walked . . . sixty-seven, plus the forty-one from the prior hunt. Lets see, add in the four from the failed hit-and-run, that’s one hundred and twelve since the last level up. So probably soon?

Arn spotted a few ravagers scurrying around in the distance, but most of them seemed to be just gone. Arn solved the mystery a short time later, stabbing one in the backside as it dug back into one of the holes. One hundred and thirteen. Should I dig in the holes to get a few more? Na, they probably go deep unless you catch them just so. If it was easy to dig them out, there wouldn’t be any left.

After an hour of walking, Arn came upon a corpse of something still covered with ravagers. Not willing to let the opportunity pass, Arn drew both daggers and started stabbing. The ravagers apparently didn’t take kindly to kill stealing, and jumped on him en masse. Arn had a moment of panic when one landed on his head with its clawed legs scrambling for purchase near his eyes, but for the most part just stayed calm and didn’t take any serious wounds thanks to his were-bear armor. Arn ignored the kill notifications that popped up, but paused when he finally leveled up.

CONGRATULATIONS! YOU ARE NOW LEVEL 9! +4 Constitution and +4 Attribute Points (8). Resurrection Timer reset. Would you like to go to the Attribute distribution screen?

Forgot to distribute the points huh? Well, maybe that is for the best. If my plan to buy a mana potion fails to help me summon the phoenix, maybe I’ll put a few points in intelligence.

By the time Arn dismissed the notification, the few remaining ravagers had scuttled away. The beast’s remains looked like a crystal bomb had gone off, and Arn found he had little interest in sifting liquefied entrails for the small chance of a gem heart. Arn hurried south, emerging from the forest perhaps an hour before noon.

* * *

The group left the north gate in low spirits. The Mayor’s doom-and-gloom had sunk in, and all realized it was unlikely that they would find Arn – if they could even get to where they left him. Shortly after leaving, Princess began growling deeply as the group headed up a small hill on the path to the forest. The group drew weapons and assumed a ready stance, as a large gore-spattered bear . . . “Arn!!!!” Keana screamed, running towards him. Arn dropped his sack and opened his arms wide. At the last second, Keana danced away. “Ewe…no! I’m really glad you're back, but not that glad! Bathe then I’ll prove how glad I am to you!”

Arn smiled from ear to ear and said, “that just became my second priority then!”

“Back ten seconds and already showing all kinds of stupid. Good ole Arn” Pepper said. “I’m glad to see you too. Real pity Keana’s about to stab you.”

“Now just wait a minute! I’m the Phoenix Titan now! Just need a mana potion to manifest the awesome power of the phoenix so that all know my glory” Arn said jokingly. Keana grabbed a clean spot on Arn’s arm and said, “I don’t know what you’re babbling about, but you really need to stop shouting about having a legendary class. There are people that will try and kill you just to say they beat a legendary classer. Plus, where are your priorities? I haven’t even shown you my new dance!” Arn shut his mouth, and pointed towards town.

* * *

One hundred and twenty miles to the northeast, at approximately the same time:

Mable tried to keep the younger girls calm, but she wasn’t going to lie. “It won’t be that bad,” or “you’re strong enough to get through anything” might have helped the crying thirteen-year old beside her, but you don’t put a tiny bandage over a sucking chest wound. A burning village and nine girls chained together in a slaver’s caravan was a familiar story, and not one with a happy ending. The time for wishing and hoping was past.

Mable was a farmer’s daughter, and a farmer herself. Things go wrong for farmers. Drought. Miscarriage. Insects. Beasts. Pretending that things would be ok wasn’t something farmers did. Farmers got up each day and worked impossibly hard, and above all else, dealt with reality; they had no choice.

The caravan travelled through largely open fields, and there was little cover. In a just world, patrolling kingdom knights would find them easily and harvest the slavers like so much wheat. In a just world, the kingdom’s two princes wouldn’t conscript armies to fight and die in a pointless war, tearing the kingdom apart because each wanted to sit in the gilded chair. No knights were coming, and even this close to the border, walking in the open, there was surely little danger to the heavily armed slavers.

Mable tried to accept her new reality, but was having trouble. The last few years, there had been a story, and try as she might, Mable couldn’t put it out of her mind. Hope was folly. And yet, as the caravan neared the border, the slavers grew more nervous, not less. They fingered their weapons, looked over shoulders and looked almost as miserable as the girls.

The story told of a town that tried to fight, and slavers that stacked the bodies of the town’s men and boys in an enoromous pile. In the pile of the dead, someone or something was reborn, an impossible horror with an unending thirst for vengeance. They called him, or it, Graveborn, and the Slaver’s Nightmare. Watching the murdering slavers act afraid, Mable felt a dangerous stirring; hope. Yet she knew the reality was that the slavers were just people – horrible, evil people, but people just the same. And people sometimes listened to empty stories of gods, heroes and, in this case, twisted horrors from beyond.

Mable tried to hold fast to reality, to accept it, and to view what was to come as simply the next obstacle to work through. The reality was that there was no help for them. Until, perhaps, there was. A piercing twisted wrong scream sent a spike of fear through Mable’s very bones. Fear that turned to hope as every slaver stopped, drew weapons, crouched and cursed, terror stamped on their faces like a brand. Wonder of wonders, they weren’t afraid of an empty story after all.

A slaver flew. The thing – Graveborn – was revealed, still for an instant. It looked vaguely like a flayed man with red oozing flesh, thick ropelike cords of muscle, large clawed hands and masses of bone sticking out of the shoulders, elbows, knees and criss-crossing the chest in odd patterns. The slavers, despite their fear, quickly managed to surround Graveborn blades drawn, but then he started to move, and slavers died. Several limbs and heads went flying, and even slavers that were merely backhanded didn’t get up. One-by-one they were cast aside like broken dolls, crumpling to the ground in unnatural positions. When it was clear they couldn’t fight, they ran, or tried too, but none got far.

The crying and wailing of the chained girls turned into raw screaming as Graveborn began to eat, jaws opening impossibly wide, and closing to the sounds of snapping bones. Mable watched with both horror and a deep if uncomfortable satisfaction. The stories mostly said Graveborn didn’t kill slaves, but whatever happened to them, at least the slavers got everything they deserved and more. After a time, Graveborn rose and stood still for a moment, then visibly shuddered as his flesh began to morph and shift. A naked man of ordinary stature began to emerge from the twisted horror of flesh and bone, and slipped behind a bush, emerging in simple workman’s clothing. He appeared to be an unremarkable twenty-something, somehow mostly clean, with a few stray flecks of blood on his cheeks.

“Um, hello” he softly said to the quivering women, although Mable doubted many were sufficiently present to hear. “I’m sorry you had to see that, but . . . that is the only way. I’ll free you now.”

The sound of clapping drew attention to a group of four men that simply appeared from nothing. Illusion magic, Mable reasoned. One stepped forward, a too-handsome young man wearing gleaming chainmail with a large broadsword strapped to his back, grinning. “Oh bravo” he said “terrific show! Worth far more than the price of admission.” His three comrades were each dressed differently, in some variety of leathers, but were united with the same mocking and deeply amused smiles, and the same tattoo on their hands – a skull with the eyes pierced by daggers.

Mable didn’t fancy herself brave, but when there was work to be done she did it. “Change back into Graveborn quickly. They are here to kill you” she said. The apparent leader of the newcomers looked at her in surprise, and clapped with delight. “Oh my!” he said. “How wonderful! A beauty with a brain and a spine. Perhaps I’ll keep you for a bit. Unfortunately, while I’d love a bit of a challenge, I don’t think our friend can change back, not yet.”

Graveborn spoke hesitantly. “I just came for the slavers and to release the women. It had to be done.”

“Oh don’t worry,” the leader said while flashing his too-broad smile again. “I’m a big fan. Crawling from a pile of bodies to avenge your family and friends! What a backstory! We are good at killing too, but not nearly so frightening looking. We could use a monster like you. Come kill for us. What do you say?”

“Uh, who would I have to kill?” Graveborn asked hesitantly. The man threw his arms wide and answered, “everyone. Wonderful yes?”

Mable tried to quietly get close enough to one of the guards to look for keys, but it was hopeless. There wasn’t enough loose chain, and her neighbors were past reasoning with.

Graveborn answered slowly, visibly considering options. “I only kill those that deserve it. So no thank you.” At this, the leader of the newcomers threw back his head and laughed heartily. Turning back to Graveborn he said, “the shy horror with a heart of gold. Classic, truly classic. But a pity.” Mable saw the barest hint of movement, and saw a hero die to a sword in his belly, while a true horror smiled.

The man casually cleaned his sword on the grass and turned to his companions. “I’ve word of two more, a tiny young girl and a giant of a young man. Neither as formidable as our friend here, so we’ll split up.” Clapping his comrades on the back and eyeing the women, he added, “still, I suppose we can spare ten minutes.”