REBIRTH

Several hours later , Tyron awoke to find himself lying floor, his entire body stiff and sore from resting on the hard wood. Above him his parents' treasures glittered from their places mounted on the walls, but he had no thought for them. The influx of stats he'd gained had changed him forever. He marveled at the change, at the way his mind felt sharp and clear, his body tougher. Even his thoughts seemed more firm and sure. For someone only going from level one to two, he'd gained a lot of stats, way more than was normal. His Class provided a lot of stats in its initial state—five was above average for sure, but six from the Sub-Class was unheard of. Even four would be considered good. He thought about it a bit more as he lifted himself up from the floor. Considering he still didn't know how to level Anathema—or at least the ideas he had were all bad—it made some sense the rewards would be high. He wasn't going to go around desecrating holy sites or seeking out recently deceased beloved community members to purposely raise as undead. The idea was to keep a low profile, not piss off everyone in town and leave a trail to follow. As he stood and got his bearings, Tyron steadied his thoughts and tried to calm down. He'd read about this sort of feeling, the euphoria that came from the first level-up. The stats of a human rose naturally as they aged, until they reached the age of eighteen, but always so slowly it was hard to notice a difference when they changed. After someone received their first Class and gained three or four stat points at once, the feeling was incredible. After gaining an incredible eleven stats, as well as two new skills, it was little wonder he'd been unable to remain conscious. Normally a person would want to lay low after making such a dramatic change to their body and capabilities, allow themselves time to slowly adjust to the new normal, but Tyron rejected that line of thinking. He didn't have time to take things slow: tonight was another chance to test his new skills, and he wasn't going to waste it. He took care to destroy the ritual paper covered with his Status information before leaving the room, burning the paper to ash using one of his father's flame-enchanted weapons on the wall. Being meticulous, he gathered the ash and spread it on the hearth. Since he hadn't been living here much there were no coals there, but he would soon fix that. Once the remains of the paper had been spread among the remains of a wood fire, no one would be able to trace the ritual he'd performed. Given that it was early afternoon, Tyron rushed to make his preparations for the evening. He gathered together the money his parents had left behind for him, usually far beyond what he would need, but now he found himself grateful for their careless attitude toward money. Funds in hand, he hurried to the market to acquire what he needed. The town was still suffering from the previous night of revelry when he walked the cobbled roads. People moved in slow motion, nursing their sore heads from too much drink, and more than once he was forced to alter his path to avoid suspicious stains on the ground. He was a little concerned that the market wouldn't be open but was pleasantly surprised to find the stalls and shops doing a quiet trade. He made his purchases without issue, refusing to stop and haggle, much to the disappointment of the traders. They increased their proficiency much faster with vigorous haggling and it was considered rude not to give them the opportunity to flex their skills, but he didn't want to waste any time. The moment he arrived home, he dropped his goods on the table, separating out the logs he'd filched from behind his uncle's inn and getting the fire going immediately. He watched the wood smolder and crackle with satisfaction before turning to his next project. The butcher frequently traded in bones, usually purchased for pets to gnaw on and such, but he was a touch surprised when young Tyron had entered the shop and asked for a full lamb carcass. Didn't the boy live on his own? Maybe he was putting on a celebratory feast after getting his Class sorted, or welcoming his parents home? They'd be right pleased to see such a filial son. Heart filled with warm feelings, the butcher had handed over the produce as Tyron had run a critical eye over the bone structure. With the carcass on the kitchen table, Tyron itched to get to work. First, he meticulously inspected every inch of the ex-lamb, running his hands and eyes across each sinew, poking and prodding at the bones and joints as he tried to understand what his Corpse Appraisal skill was telling him. Since the body was incomplete, missing the head, feet, and offal, it wasn't possible to raise a proper zombie, even if it were human. To even animate the thing would take a monumental effort the budding Necromancer was confident he wasn't capable of. That wasn't why he'd made the purchase anyway. Satisfied he'd learned what he could, Tyron unlocked the trophy room once more and emerged with a gleaming dagger in his hand. Of all the short blades in the room, he was confident this was the sharpest. He knew this since he'd tested most of them over the years, when his parents were away. Corpse Appraisal had done all it could—now it was time for Corpse Preparation to take the stage. For the next hour, Tyron took a crash course in butchery as he tried to remove as much meat from the bones as he possibly could. It was tiring work, and his aching body, not nearly recovered from his exertions last night, protested fiercely as he worked. It was a rough job. If the butcher had been able to see the miserable pile of hacked-up and shredded flesh he heaped next to the skeleton, he'd have wept at the poor knifework just as much as the waste. Hands and sleeves stained red from his work, Tyron was satisfied with the result. He took a moment to catch his breath and wiped the sweat from his brow, staining his face without realizing it, and thought about his next step. During the ritual he'd learned a new skill, Bone Stitching. With the bare knowledge nestled in his head since awakening he knew what it was for, but he knew he'd want to practice before trying it on human remains. A zombie required some remaining flesh to be raised—the fresher the body, the better the creature would be. The reason being, as Tyron understood it, was that the provided magic acted as the catalyst, allowing the creature to utilize the rotting flesh to move and supplying the difference when that flesh wasn't up to the task. The older and more desiccated the body was, the more inefficient the zombie would become, drawing on the Necromancer deeply in order to move at all. A skeleton was different. It had no flesh—in fact, the less organic tissue attached to the bones, the better, as it would interfere with the magick. Instead, the Bone Stitching skill would allow the undead to move itself. From what he was able to interpret of the skill after waking, it was somewhat akin to magical sewing. By weaving threads of magick, the Necromancer was able to bind the joints together and provide the "sinew" that allowed the creature to move. The better quality the thread, the more skillful the "sewing," the better the skeleton would be able to move. If Tyron was going to raise a human skeleton, he didn't want to do a poor job of it. That would be disrespectful. While he was at it, if he was going to take the risk and infiltrate the graveyard again, he wanted his next minion to have a more promising and useful life than his first. Poor Mrs. Jessup: she deserved better. The incantation was simple enough, almost a cantrip it was so short. Tyron successfully cast it on his first attempt and admired the glowing points of light that appeared on the end of his fingers. He looked down at the mess of animal bones on the table, took a deep breath, and got to work. After two hours of painstaking, finger-aching work, he gave up and collapsed face-first onto the table. Utilizing the technique on the lamb bones had been more than difficult. His rudimentary understanding of the skill was designed for use on human, or humanoid remains, not sheep, which posed an immediate challenge. He'd expected that to be a problem and wasn't surprised by how poorly his weave fit onto the lamb. What had taken him aback was just how uncoordinated his fingers were at creating the weave in the first place. His Steady Hand feat had certainly helped keep him still and smooth when he needed to be, but the finger dexterity required to loop the threads of magick around and through each other in the proper manner was something he lacked. "Holy shit," he swore, massaging the back of his right hand with the thumb of his left, "that stings like hell." He sat at the table working on one hand then the other with a pensive frown on his face. Would he need to consider purchasing some sort of weaving skill? Maybe it was more akin to playing an instrument? He'd seen traveling bards and minstrels perform at his uncle's inn over the years, playing a variety of different musical implements. The lute or the harp might work—both required extremely quick and precise movement of both hands. He was about to rise from his seat and go back to the trophy room to perform the ritual and buy a musical skill when he caught himself and steadied his nerves. "It's the euphoria," he told himself, "just relax. No rash decisions." He still hadn't adjusted to his new body and mind. He felt giddy and unbalanced. He needed to think five times before he made any plans or selections he couldn't take back. Buying a skill to play the lute? This was hardly the time. Tyron forced himself to sit at the table for a full five minutes, breathing deep and slow. When he decided he was calm enough, he moved to tidy up the waste from his work. The armload of mangled offcuts would need to be dropped in the midden at some point, probably after dark. The bones he could keep to practice on more tomorrow, but he had to hide them somewhere they wouldn't stink too much. The cellar was the ideal place for that. Although it was cramped down there, it was cool, and even if someone discovered the bones, they wouldn't look too out of place among the other foods stored on the shelves there. After that was done, he took the time to scrub down the table, only now regretting he hadn't used a cloth to cover the wood surface. Keeping secrets wasn't something that had been part of his life until the day before. He'd had nothing to hide and nobody to hide from. He could acknowledge to himself that he was a bad liar and poor at concealing information, something he could no longer afford. Perhaps in another four days he'd give up his Class and continue to live as an honest cripple, but if not, he'd need to learn how to hide his activities, and fast. Because a day had passed. It had been twenty-four hours since Tyron had become a Necromancer, and he had only four more until he would be forced into a final decision. Until that time, he would learn as much as he possibly could. As he cleaned up after himself, Tyron briefly considered the other skill he'd learned: Pierce the Veil. Supposedly it would allow him to communicate with some entity called the Abyss, one of the three groups responsible for bestowing the rather unpleasant "Anathema" Sub-Class on him. It'd be a lie to say he wasn't curious about it, but far more than curious, he was cautious. He didn't know anything about this "Abyss" or what it wanted. He wasn't willing to cast a spell or ritual when he wasn't confident what the outcome would be. In this case, he knew nothing at all about what would happen, and unless he was truly desperate, he wasn't going to resort to this measure. For the rest of the afternoon, Tyron continued to lie low, recover, and prepare for the night's excursion. The only time he left his home was when he decided to show his face at the inn for a meal. If he burrowed into the house and didn't show his face too much, he'd only give his family cause to worry and keep an eye on him, something he would much rather avoid. Far better to turn up, get a warm meal, and give the impression he was getting over his "disappointment" gradually. The inn was picking up steam when he arrived in the early evening. The dinner had been served and customers were starting to arrive. Some were prepared to continue the previous night's revelries, while others were just looking for a hot meal before they turned in for an early night. A healthy mix of locals and travelers occupied the tables, a low murmur of conversation giving the space a comfortable atmosphere as Tyron pushed open the door. For a man who'd spent most of his youth smacking people in the face with a hardened piece of metal, Worthy Steelarm certainly knew how to create a convivial atmosphere. The fire crackled cheerfully, the tables were cleaned to a shine, and even at this relatively early hour braziers were lit around the common room to create a warm and comfortable scene. As he'd expected, his uncle had an eye on the door and welcomed him cheerfully before he'd even managed to close it behind him. "Ho! My favorite nephew returns, twice in one day! Must be my charming personality," the big man beamed. Tyron sighed and made his way over to the bar. As he passed between the tables, he scanned the room and was relieved to see none of his friends in attendance. After his earlier run-in with Elsbeth, he didn't want to have any more encounters with his friends. He could only imagine how insufferable Rufus had become. And Laurel… who knew what Laurel thought? "Probably has more to do with Aunt Meg's cooking," Tyron said. His uncle clutched at his chest in mock pain. "You wound me, Nephew. To think my care was worth less than a pot of stew." "To be fair, have you tried the stew?" Worthy stood still for a moment. "It's a pretty damn good stew," he admitted. A laugh came from the kitchen behind him, followed a moment later by Meg herself. Wooden spoon in one hand and apron on, she looked every bit the plump innkeeper's wife. "You heard me coming," she accused her husband with a smile as she prodded him with the spoon. "You knew you'd be eating stale bread and bones if you had ought to say against my food." The high-leveled Harmmerman pretended clumsiness as he fended off the spoon assault from his wife. "I'd never dream of talking down on your food. Oi! Would you - … Leave off, woman!" Finally growing tired of the relentless poking, the doughty innkeeper's hands blurred and Meg found herself suddenly spoonless. Non-fussed, she shrugged her shoulders before turning her beaming smile on her nephew. "Nice to see you again, Tyron. Hope you're ready for a feast! I've made extra tonight." Looking at the goofy pair, the young man knew this cheerful act was half natural and half put on to help him feel better. He felt his throat constrict as his emotions threatened to rise to the surface. His aunt and uncle were good people and it was hard to deceive them. For a moment he felt he should be open with them, reveal his situation and trust in their advice, but something stopped him. He forced out a smile. "Thanks, Aunt Meg. I'd love something to eat." The Cook smiled warmly and seized back the spoon from her husband before bustling back into the kitchen to serve him a bowl. Worthy just chuckled and shrugged defensively. "To think I used to smite beasts and monsters for a living. Now I get bullied in my own inn." "And you've never been happier," Tyron told him. "Aye, that's true," Worthy grinned before reaching out a large hand to rustle his nephew's hair. "Don't worry about what you told me earlier, lad," he said. "Once your parents get home, we'll work out the best path for you. Whatever you want to be, your mother'll know a way to make it happen. That woman knows more about the hammer Classes than I do myself!" Tyron looked down and swallowed the lump in his throat before he nodded. Mercifully, his relatives gave him some space once they'd put food in front of him, and he ate it with haste before he cleaned up after himself and quietly left. Deep down, he didn't want to tell his family the truth, because once he did, the decision of what to do next would no longer belong to him alone. As much as possible, he wanted the choices that would decide his future to be his own. He recoiled from the idea of surrendering that control. Perhaps the Gods were right about him after all.