Book of The Dead

Chapter 18: Friendly Faces

The next morning Hak rose with the dawn, as was his habit, and carefully rolled out of bed so as not to disturb his still slumbering wife. The woman had a fierce temper when she didn't get enough sleep and he was wise enough to know a little care on his part would pay dividends down the line. In the near darkness he fumbled until he was able to light a single candle by which he was able to dress himself and make his way downstairs.

After a simple breakfast that he prepared himself, that Cooking skill really came in handy at times, he walked out the door and into the brisk morning air. When he finally arrived at his shop he was more than a little surprised by what he saw.

"Good morning Mr Hak," the young man greeted him a little awkwardly.

The Butcher shook his head slightly as he walked towards the door and drew a heavy iron key out of his pocket.

"Yer don' need to call me Mr," he grumbled. "Feels unnatural."

The lad shrugged to indicate his lack of feeling on the matter and silently followed the older man inside.

"Wasn' sure I'd be seein' yer face today," he said.

"I figure a lot of people don't come back after a first day like that," Tyron replied.

"S'true enough."

"I had a think about it and to tell the truth I suspect that might even be the point."

Hak grunted and continued arranging his knives for the day.

"I feel as if there might be several days of gruelling menial work in my future before I get to practice butchering."

There was no judgement in the young man's voice, just a simple statement of his thoughts. As the Butcher eyed him sideways, Tyron waited patiently for instructions. Finally Hak broke his silence.

"M' daughter will be here today. She 'elps with the store."

The combination of tone and glare from the burly man delivered a secondary message loud and clear: keep your filthy hands off my daughter.

"What do you need me to do?" Tyron asked.

Your message has been received loud and clear, his demeanor replied.

Hakoth grunted and frowned. This kid is too quick on the uptake to be doing what he's doing, he thought, still, it's not my place to care about that.

Pushing that aside, he gave the first instructions of the day to the kid and almost felt irritated at how readily the lad leapt to obey. How many times had he seen kids in the same position break down before the first day was even done, let alone show this level of enthusiasm on day two? Certainly none that had actually realised they wouldn't learn shit until Hak was good and ready to teach it. For his part, Tyron kept his head down, ignored his protesting muscles and got to work. He understood the position he was in perfectly. He'd follow through on the agreement he'd made as best he could, which meant working his ass off for the surly Butcher, and he could only hope that Hakoth would do the same. It certainly wasn't ideal, but he was the powerless one hoping to leech some levels from the tradesman, so the terms were to be expected.

Two hours later the bell over the door rang out and Tyron put down the knife he was sharpening to poke his head through the door to see who had entered the front of the shop. He was quite surprised to see a gorgeous young woman with bright blonde curls and clear blue eyes closing the door behind her as she stepped into the store. Since he'd been instructed to watch the door he stepped out to enquire.

"Excuse me, miss. How can I help you?" he asked, quickly wiping his hands on the cloth he kept tucked into his belt.

Keeping your hands as clean as possible was the first rule he'd learned from the Butcher, one that the stone-faced tradesman enforced with fanatical intensity. Hearing his voice the girl turned and gifted him a dazzling smile.

"Oh, hello. I'm here to work. Are you a new apprentice? I'm Madeleine."

She stepped forward and extended her hand for him to shake. Tyron stared blankly for a moment before something in his brain clicked.

"You're Mr Hakoth's daughter?" he smiled stiffly, scarcely believing his own words.

"Mr Hakoth?" she giggled, "he must hate that."

Her hand was still extended between them and Tyron's eyes flicked down to it as if it were a deadly viper before he glanced back up to her far too pretty face. He was supposed to believe that she was related to Hak?! Some things simply weren't genetically possible!

"Too smart to shake hands with my daughter are you?" a deep voice rumbled from just over his shoulder.

Moving a little unsteadily Tyron lifted his hand and gently grasped the dainty hand extended before him for a brief second before he released it, stepped around the imposing Butcher behind him and made his way back to the low seat with the sharpening stone embedded in it. Madeleine giggled again at the wooden display and looked up at her father who smiled and winked.

"Customers here soon, lovely. Make sure you're ready."

She rolled her eyes and shooed her father back through the door. Did he really think she needed to be told that? Soon after Tyron managed to recover his senses he heard the bell sing out again as the first of what would become a steady flow of customers entered the store to engage with Madeleine, who would display both charm and canny business sense as she closed deal after deal for her father. Quite impressive for a young woman who, if he didn't miss his guess, was a year younger than him and therefore hadn't awakened yet. Not that it was any of his business! In fact, he had little time to think about the Butcher's shockingly attractive daughter since the man was even more determined to work him to the bone than he had been the day before.

Is this because I shook her hand? He couldn't help but wonder as his arms and legs shook from exertion as he unstacked another wagon of meat.

The sheer volume of animals that passed through this one butchery was almost enough to make his head hurt. Was every day like this? But when he thought back to something his mother told him, it made a kind of sense.

"Slayers are simple creatures, most of them, that is," she said with some level of distaste, which shocked him considering both she herself and the man she married were Slayers.

"Most of them," she emphasised with a smile when she saw the look on his face. "There are exceptions to every rule, and it just so happened that two such people managed to find each other. The rest of them?" she waved a dismissive hand, "not worth the time. Like animals, all they want to do is fight, feast and fuck. If you actually want to progress in the profession, it's best to avoid most of the people in it."

Tyron had picked up enough titbits of information around town to know that there were roughly a thousand Slayers in the keep right now, with another thousand out in the field at any given time. The entire economy of Woodsedge revolved around those thousand people, which was why half the town consisted of healers, weaponsmiths and armourers, and the other half taverns, inns and brothels. Hakoth was not the only local Butcher and it was likely no exaggeration to say that every one of them did the same level of business that he did. By the end of the day Tyron was even more exhausted than he'd been the previous one, but he grit his teeth and farewelled the gruff man at the door before he turned and staggered back to his inn. Some food and water helped him recover and then he went up to his room to collect his notes and back out into the town. He didn't have much time left.

The next two days passed as a blur to the harried young man. Sleep was hard to come by and he leaned heavily into his constitution and Night Owl feat to push through. Every morning he would be standing by the door as Hakoth arrived to work and he would leave a shaking wreck at the end of the day. He did his best to ignore Madeleine's attempts to draw him into conversation whilst not being impolite, he got the feeling she just wanted to tease him and annoy her father a little but Tyron was perfectly aware that he would be the one to suffer if he engaged. At night he continued to work on his project, writing copious notes and doing his best to unravel the magick until finally he felt that he might be ready.

His last status had been a stark warning, one that he wouldn't ignore. He had no idea who or what the 'Abyss' might refer to, but anything powerful enough to voice its displeasure through his status ritual was not something he wanted getting too ticked off at him. He felt strongly enough about it that he had decided to take some risks in order to do something about it.

His legs throbbed with pain as he crouched low, keeping a close eye on the patrols. Luckily these weren't official marshals, just private mercenaries hired by the merchants office but getting caught would still land him a painful spot. He waited for the right timing, when the guard stepped around the corner of the far warehouse and then he stole forward a few metres, listening intently. When the footsteps had faded enough he checked behind himself again, making sure the other patrol hadn't deviated from their usual pattern. When he saw nothing he steadied himself with a deep breath before he rose slightly and broke into a light run, still bent at the waist to reduce his profile.

He weaved his way through pallets of goods and crates containing goodness knows what, probably more meat for him to unpack tomorrow before he reached his goal and knelt down as he leaned against the wood panels to catch his breath and massage the cramps out of his legs. He could see the glow from the lamp carried by the second guard now, growing stronger as he approached the place Tyron had been hidden only a minute before. He quieted his breathing as he waited long seconds before the second guard arrive back on this side of the warehouse. As they drew closer the two men paused, the light of their lamps melding together as a low conversation broke out between them and Tyron rolled his eyes.

Stop gossiping and get back to work, idiots! I can't wait here all night!

Only thirty metres separated him from their position and he wasn't prepared to move a muscle while the two of them were still there, so he waited until ten minutes later when the two finally decided to continue their routes. The moment the two were out of sight he rose and made his way around the other side of the building where he found the window he'd worked on during his previous visit. He carefully checked it and found it still open, so he pulled it wider before hopping up onto a box he'd positioned and carefully wiggled his way through the gap.

It'd be nice if there was a wider opening he could use, but part of what made this space perfect for his purposes was the very few places light could leak out, which meant small windows were a definite plus. As he continued squeezing himself through he put his hands down and found the hard wooden surface he was looking for, supporting himself with his hands as he pulled his legs through. Good thing he was still fairly slender, he doubted someone with more meat on them like Rufus would be able to fit at all. The thought of his old friend caused a sour expression to wash over his face but he pushed the emotion away, he had no time for it right now.

Gathering his bearings in the dark, he fumbled about until he found the blanket and pinned it over the window, being sure to pull it closed first. Only when this was done did he create a soft globe of light and look about. He'd been lucky to stumble on this place during his first night of explorations. With the frankly huge amount of goods moving in and out of Woodsedge it only made sense that there was a sizeable depot for the merchants to receive and send off merchandise. This collection of warehouses and storage was exactly what he needed, and when he found this particular building, basically a shed for storing wagons or carts, unused and covered in a fine layer of dust, he'd decided it suited his purposes.

He moved with caution, conscious to try and keep any noise to a minimum as he placed three more soft lights around the space to give him the illumination he needed to continue his work from the previous night. He tiredly rubbed at his eyes before he clapped himself on both cheeks and looked down at the dust on the floor, or more accurately, the mostly completed spell circle he'd drawn. When he'd reached Anathema level two he'd been given the choice of three spells, Dark Communion, Appeal to the Court or Pierce the Veil and he'd chosen the latter. Just like with Raise Dead, the selection granted him a measure of knowledge, placed in his head by the universe itself, that would allow him to cast the spell. However, just like with Raise Dead, the knowledge he was given did not also grant understanding, or come close to the full extent of what could be known about the magick. He was given the basics, an introduction, and it was up to him to learn and develop the rest.

Which he'd tried to do. Pulling out his notebook he flicked through several pages of notes where he'd tried to break down the fundamental principles of this spell. He summoned another globe of light just above his head to better allow him to see the pages as he frowned down at his own work.

It wasn't enough, not even close. This magick was complex, almost as difficult as the Raise Dead spell itself and that was the most intricate spellwork he'd ever come into contact with. There were elements to Pierce the Veil that he had simply never seen before, some that were a little familiar and others that were utterly bizarre, breaking his own understanding of how these things should work. Tyron was honest enough to admit to himself that he was quite talented when it came to magick, especially on the theory side, but even he wasn't confident of a successful cast. Under better circumstances he would spend weeks practicing the separate parts of the spell, unpacking the theory and examining the spell forms until he had mastered as much as he could without performing the magick, but he didn't have the time.

With a long, slow breath he focused himself, consulted his notes once more and then got back to work on the circle on the ground. The pattern needed to be as precise as he could make it, each line a channel for arcane energy that would help fuel the spell and hopefully guide it to its successful conclusion. He tried to work without making sound as he paced back and forth, adding a stroke here, correcting a curve there, comparing his notes to the collection of half-memories in his head. As far as he could tell, the circle itself acted as a kind of anchor, a steadying barrier that locked itself and everything inside it within a point of space and time. The rest of the spell was far more esoteric and involved a 'reaching out' and as suggested by the name a 'piercing', but what exactly he would be poking through, he had no idea, nor what he would find on the other side.

He could only assume that the entities that had granted him the Anathema class did so to help rather than hurt him. From the messages he'd seen so far, he got the feeling that was the case, but he couldn't be certain.

One more time he walked around the circle, bringing the light lower to inspect his work once more before he sighed and snapped shut his book. It was as good as he could make it under the circumstances, there wasn't much point delaying any longer. He placed the book down on the side bench with care and then withdrew two items from his inner pocket. The first, a waterskin which he took a long draw from, careful to wet his throat, this would be a long cast and he wanted to ensure he didn't lose the power of speech at the end. Likewise the second item was to protect him from running out of resources, mage candy.

He took another deep breath, centred himself before he stepped with great care into the centre of the circle, ensuring he didn't scuff any lines. With that done, he extinguished each globe in the room, returning his surroundings to total darkness.

Then he began to speak.

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