TheRealDissonance
patreon
Book 3, Chapter 8: Marked For Death
🕑 Added 2018-03-17 04:47:39 +0000 UTC Necromancer and Co., Book 3: The UnderearthChapter 8: Marked For Death
[Alen]
Alen exited the courtyard in silence. The Underearth sky was dark, the crystals that hung from the ceiling silent, asleep. Instead, the glow of the City of Pillars lit up the world below. Alen stood in front of the railings, looking down at the city below. It glowed a warm orange, the buildings and pillars sporting stones that simmered with a fire-like glow. In the streets below, street lamps stood over the empty roads of the upper quarter. Below that was the lower quarter, where the lights of the busy city lip up the silhouettes of the still-active citizens. He leaned on the railings, feeling the cold breeze on his face.
It was strange how civilization felt so foreign to him now. He almost couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a city that struck him with a sense of awe so powerful. Gram? It was a model of practicality. A city erected with the same raison d’etre as that of a fortress. It wasn’t what a prospering center of civilization should’ve looked like. This place? It was art. The city even seemed to breathe in the darkness, every inhalation and exhalation fueling the ever-constant motions of the people that resided within it. This was a city that lived. Alen could appreciate that.
And so, he did.
The night was surprisingly silent in the upper regions of the City of Pillars. Unlike the bottom, cool, fresh winds swept through the upper quarter. Alen had changed out of his armored robes, so he couldn’t help but shiver. It was cold, and yet, there was a warmth in his chest—a sense of satisfaction. Yet again, he’d seen another view that would stick with him for the rest of his life, however short it would be.
He smiled bitterly. Were his thoughts always so dark? It was a change he felt complicated about welcoming. It gave him a sense of urgency. There were no days where he lazed around anymore, not when death was just around the corner. However, he still felt like he’d lost something in the transition. The calm and… normalcy of his usual days were gone. Alen had always wished for an adventure. He never thought he’d reach a point where he just wanted to be bored for once. It was a strange thing; how often he took his old life for granted.
He’d been in this world for three months now, and the old homesickness that plagued him had both intensified and faded somehow. It was a weight in his chest, but his goal of coming back home felt so far away that it was almost like a dream. It didn’t feel urgent. He didn’t feel panicked. He felt calm about it.
Alen guessed he’d just been too busy to think about it lately. It was a good thing, in his opinion. Better he spent time getting things done that sulking in a corner. His efforts had actually brought him something. His friends. He was far from home, but he’d somehow wrangled a piece of it back. He smiled.
Footsteps rang out from behind him.
“Hey man,” Sam’s familiar voice said. “I know jumping seems like the best choice, but it’s not. Things get better. Keep hoping, and good things will happen. Things like finding a penny on the street. Or getting conned into heavy labor for three dollars an hour. If you’re particularly lucky, you might—might even land a job as a Starbucks barista.”
“Starbucks doesn’t exist here,” Adam’s voice echoed out from behind them, the young man leaning against the railing to Alen’s left. He wore a simple shirt over some rugged pants, looking quite cold in the consistent breeze of the city’s upper region. He gave Alen a bitter look and shook his head. “You’re screwed, man. There’s no other way of saying it.”
“Oh,” Sam slowly bobbed his head. “He’s right. I think you should jump, Alen. You’re fucked dude.”
Alen laughed. “I’m already sick and tired of falling from heights. No thanks.”
“I can always tie you a noose,” Adam offered.
“My neck’ll chafe.”
“He’s right, you know,” Sam nodded understandingly.
“I am,” Alen agreed.
Adam smiled and looked out at the city below. Silence reigned over the three as they looked down, and for a moment, Alen felt at peace. It reminded him of back home. Sitting in the rooftop as the sun set, surrounded by his friends as they snacked on bags of chips and drank whatever they could get their hands on. Things were a lot simpler then, and even though that simplicity was now a memory, Alen felt that as long as he had people to anchor himself to, he could keep going. Keep walking.
Nights like this were great, in his opinion. Silence, peace, and quiet understandi—
“So,” Adam broke the silence, grinning. “Let’s talk about the elf.”
Alen groaned.
Sam snickered. “I baited the shit out of him man,” he said. “You have no idea how surprised I was to see him traveling with a girl, of all things. Like, whoa, dude. I didn’t think he had it in him to talk to the opposite sex.”
“I didn’t think he had it in him to talk to—much less travel with—anyone,” Adam added.
“Fuck you both.”
“Hey man, it’s not our fault that you only made like, twelve-something friends who stuck around after a decade,” said Sam.
“Hush, Sam. That’s unimportant. We’re talking about the elf. The elf,” Adam enunciated. “So, we’ve been here for around four months, and you first mentioned her the first week in, I think? That’s a long time, dude. Plenty, even. I’d refuse to believe that nothing happened in those three or so months while you two traveled together, but it’s you, so…”
“There were three of us. Me, Lynn, and Roland.”
Adam looked at him disdainfully. “You were third-wheeling? Ew.”
“He’s twenty-four.”
“And she is?”
“Nineteen.”
Adam shook his head sadly. Sam patted Alen on the shoulder. “I hate to break it to you, but she’s on the smashable range for him, man. I’m sorry. We were expecting too much of you.”
“Can we leave me alone? Please?”
“We’ve never done that. Like, ever.”
“It was worth a shot,” Alen sighed. “Listen, I have too much shit to worry about to think about that. Like nearly dying. That happens to me a lot. And finding the rest of our group. And uh, getting home and all that shit.”
“Excuses,” Adam shook his head.
“Yo dude, I got an idea,” Sam excitedly said. “Wingmen.”
“Don’t,” Alen glared. “Stop right there. No. Is this revenge for what Adam and I did to you and that girl in eighth grade? I swear, that was a mistake.”
“Yooo, that’s a great idea,” said Adam, ignoring Alen.
Alen sighed and let them prattle on. There was no getting out of it, really. Plus, they never took things too far anyways. It would be a minor annoyance at most. Like a really persistent Adam and Sam-shaped itch. On his eyes and ears.
He doubted they’d carry it out anyways. There were too many things they had to take care of. This was just a stress-relieving talk in his expense, most likely. They wouldn’t do it.
Would they?
The discussion stopped, and Alen raised a brow at the sudden pause. “What’s up?” He asked.
“Sam just mentioned what Dieter told us,” Adam replied. “What do you plan on doing?”
“I went up here to think about that, actually,” said Alen. “I… don’t think I’ll go with him.”
“Really?”
“He leaves tomorrow,” Alen sighed. “I know he wants to find that Kara girl, but I haven’t had a good rest in months. If I keep going further, joining him in a massive expedition through uncharted territory in the Underearth just after getting here? I can’t do it. I won’t. I can’t handle that much stress, not with how dangerous that trip would be.”
“Me neither,” said Adam. “I’m not trying to be a dick, but I won’t rush into a situation like that and risk my life for a girl I barely know.”
“So we aren’t looking for her?” asked Sam.
“No, we will,” Alen said. “We owe them at least that much. What I’m not saying is that we won’t do it now. Not so soon. We’ll have to explore this place and find a way out anyway, so we can just look for her while we do that. Right now, though? Let’s rest for once. Recuperate.”
“Yeah,” Adam agreed. “Speaking of resting, it’s eleven hours to morning, Alen. Let’s go to sleep.”
“I forgot the time of day here was fucked like that.”
“Forty hours a day, yeah,” said Sam. “They wake up like, really early though. Monsters are least active around dusk, apparently, so people want to make the most of it to explore and gain some money by mapping uncharted areas.”
“We’ll do that too, I guess,” Alen said. “I don’t know if we’ll stay around this courtyard for long, but we have to eat too. There’s also equipment to worry about. I can always make newer, stronger robes, but I need someone to put this gem into a staff,” he said, reaching into his robes to retrieve a small, thumb-sized stone that glowed with an emerald light.
“Magic stone or mana stone?” Sam asked, curious.
“There’s a difference? All I know is that it’s of a Necrotic type.”
“That’s cool,” he yawned, “and yeah. I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. I’m going to crash,” he said, stretching. Sam gave both of them a final nod before walking off, heading back to the courtyard with his blue robes lazily billowing in accordance to the breeze that blew against him.
“Well, I’m out too,” Adam said, the yawning infecting him too. “If you could do me a favor and jump off the ledge after I leave, it’d be great.”
“Sure thing,” Alen noncommittally replied, smiling lightly at the city below.
“Aight,” Adam said, walking off. “See ya dude.”
“See you,” Alen yawned, alone once again.
He turned his back on the city and leaned back against the railing. He tilted his head upwards and took a long, drawn out breath. “I really need a drink right now,” he said, staring up at the dark sky above. Alen glanced down at the ledge and pursed his lips.
Was it worth it?
Alen shrugged, clambered up the railing, spared a second to admire the city one last time, and then, he jumped.
The fall was… invigorating, now that he had a guarantee that he wouldn’t turn into a red blotch on the ground below. The lights of the pillars and towers turned into blurs, looking like cars speeding past a civilian on the highway. The cool breeze that roamed the entirety of the Underearth swept past him with a howl, and as he descended farther and farther, Alen felt a rush of excitement thrum inside of his chest, the beating of his heart roaring within his ears.
He’d had powers—magic for so long that he almost couldn’t believe that he’d never just… let loose. Winding ramp passages rolled and twisted all around the city, leading to the upper and lower levels. Alen fell past one, five meters shy of hitting it. His eyes scanned the ground below, and with the perception his Intelligence stat granted him, he could still pay attention to the tiny details as time seemed to come to a slow. The mother walking home with her child, the group of drunkards disappearing into the alley… Everything was alive. The City of Pillars wasn’t a place that was lived in, no. It was a place that lived. It breathed and exhaled, and the people within it served as the blood of the city, keeping the place alive by circulating through it. Resources, money, favors, it all cycled around endlessly.
Alen took in a breath. It was fresh, and it smelled of baked bread. A bakery stood below him, rushing to meet his descent. The necromancer smiled and with a surge of his magic, a keratin parachute exploded out of his back and slowed his descent. With a soft tap, Alen landed on the roof of the building, the parachute disintegrating behind him.
He jumped off from the roof on the building into a side alley, descending a good fifteen feet on the way down. Aside from a relatively awkward stumble upon landing, he barely felt any pain, much less any broken bones—an effect of the stats that he had been raising for so long. Alen cupped his chin. Assuming physics worked the same and this world had terminal velocity, then maybe his last fall into the water wouldn’t have killed him? No, he would’ve been gravely injured if Lynn hadn’t stopped the fall. He could imagine it, his legs broken as he slowly drifted down into the dark abyss. Alen shuddered and shook his head.
With a glance outside, he stepped out of the alley and entered the bakery. Alen noted the people inside. A group of late-night workers, likely in an administrative role, a hooded man, sitting alone near the window, and a group of people his age clustered around a table, playing a game of sorts. Alen suppressed the curiosity he felt and walked up to the counter, where a young girl with short barbs and horns protruding out from her forehead and cheeks.
“Hello,” Alen greeted, pointing at a piece of bread depicted in the menu. It looked like a baguette, if baguettes were made out of cotton candy and clouds. Interest piqued, he smiled at the young girl and nodded at the illustration. “Can I get one of these?”
“Sure thing,” the girl beamed, showing small, white teeth. She disappeared into the interior, and came back soon after with a dark paper bag in her hands. She gave it to Alen. “That will be…” she counted on her fingers, “seven kris!”
Alen reached into his pocket and stopped. “What?”
“Seven kris! No other place in the city charges so little for bread this good, mister. Give ours a try and you might even add another minute to your lifespa—”
“Wait,” said Alen, panicking. “Crap, uh, do you accept these?” he said, bringing out Redarian coins from his pocket. He regretted his choice as soon as they clattered onto the table.
“Ooooh,” the little girl crowed, “I’ve never seen coins like these before. What metals are these? Orin? I don’t know many metals, let me call my dad! I’m sure he can recognize it. He was a metalforger once before, you know.”
“No, you don’t—“ Alen’s shoulders sagged as the little girl disappeared into the kitchen once again. When she came out, a lanky middle-aged man followed behind her. For someone who used to be what Alen assumed to be a blacksmith, he looked more like a housewife. Clean-shaven, pink apron, and wooden ladle. He raised a brow at Alen as he approached.
“I haven’t taught little Mila everything I know—far from it, but she should at least be able to identify what common metals look like,” he began, studying Alen up and down. Nodding once, he extended his hand out. “May I?”
“Well—“
The man’s hands flashed, and faster than even Alen’s mind could register, he plucked the coins from his grip. Alen’s eyes constricted, and he backed away, wary. The man pain him no heed, instead studying the coins in his hands. He frowned and murmured something under his breath. Alen began inching towards the door when the man looked up at him. “Wait,” he said, his daughter looking up at the both of them.
Alen winced and considered running, but he had no doubt that this man would probably catch up to him easily. He kept his distance, though, his mana running through his clothes, ready to retaliate. “…What is it?” he asked.
“These coins are… very interesting,” the man looked up at him, a glint in his eyes. He pointed at a table to the side and motioned for Alen to follow. Reluctantly, he did. The man continued to speak as if he didn’t notice his discomfort. “The material is nothing like the ones in the Underearth,” he spoke, sitting down. “Bronze, if I’m correct?”
“Copper,” Alen carefully said, sitting down across the man, a window to his left just in case he needed to bolt.
The man laughed loudly, pushing the coins into his pocket. “I see, I see. Excellent. I haven’t made an incorrect identification in decades. Did you know that? It matters not. Mila, hand this young man what he ordered. If he wants anything else, consider it on the house,” he ordered, and his daughter immediately nodded, standing at attention in front of the counter. “And you,” he nodded at Alen, lowering his voice, “if you have any other samples of… surface metal, come here and I’ll see if I can forge you something. I am retired due to certain circumstances however, so we’ll keep it clandestine, alright? No complicated orders, either.”
Alen pursed his lips. “You obviously aren’t the typical city man,” said Alen, remembering the man’s speed, “but if you’re really what you say you are, why are you baking bread?”
“Many reasons. Complicated ones,” the man said, waving the question off. “Regardless, my reputation is very concrete. I do not lie. Craftsman’s promise,” the man nodded, as if his words alone were a guarantee. “Where were we? Yes, the metal. Quite the interesting sample, I must say. Doesn’t seem to be made here, but it’s certainly not old. Newly made, if anything. Say, you’re a new arrival, aren’t you? How much did you pay to enter this district?”
He frowned. “Yes, it’s the… recent currency where I’m from,” Alen said. Not a lie, but it would lead the man to assume that it had come from his old world—a much easier conclusion to arrive at compared to a person finding their way into the gods’ prison for the races that had sinned. He hesitated at the latter half of the man’s words, however. Gauging the man’s reaction, Alen spoke. “As for the second question, I don’t feel compelled to answer.”
“So you didn’t pay,” the man smiled. “Interesting. A new arrival. That explains where you got this coin, then. However, what piques my curiosity is the fact that you ended up here.”
“What do you mean?”
“You don’t have that lost look in your eyes like most fresh new arrivals do, so I’m certain you haven’t just appeared in the plaza outside,” said the man, “and I’ve seen enough to know, which means that you’ve been in the Underearth for a good amount of time already. Tell me, how is it that you don’t know anything about this city? Like the fact that seven kris is horrendously expensive for a piece of bread—“
Alen’s eyes widened. He glared at the little girl named Mila. She smiled brightly.
“—and that in the middle district, the entrance fee is enough to empty the coffers of most families in the lower end? Forgive me when I say this, but you don’t exactly look rich. I may have offered a good deal for your coins, but that’s because the material is rare. Copper, from my memory, is far weaker than any other metal in the Underearth. No sane forger would buy it for any other purpose besides curiosity.”
Alen frowned. He didn’t feel any hostile intent from the man, but he wasn’t sure if that would last if he let it slip that he was from the surface. “I don’t see why that’s important. I only went out for a drink,” he said, breaking the flow of the conversation, “so I’ll be heading back home.”
He stood, then walked for the door.
“My previous offer still stands,” the man said. “My name is Talesin, quasi-master forger. I’m well-known around these parts. Look for me.”
“I’ll see,” Alen gave a noncommittal reply, stepping out of the front door. Talesin said nothing more.
As he walked, Alen cursed himself in his head. He’d left out of fear of having his connection to the surface fund out, which would definitely lead to problems further down the line, but he forgot to take advantage of the man’s offer to take anything on the house. Moreover, he’d forgotten that the currency used in Redaria wasn’t viable to use here, even if Sandsea-based traders accepted Redarian coins. So now, not only did he come without money, but he might have even caused problems for himself further down the line. All because he wanted to go out for a drink he wasn’t even capable of getting.
“Stupid, stupid, stupid,” he muttered, cursing under his breath. He looked at the wrapped bread in his hands and sighed, indignantly biting into it as he walked. It was soft, melting in his mouth. Fresh. Sweet. Minty like morning dew, but somehow managing to retain the taste of well-made bread. It was a good make, but Alen couldn’t bring himself to appreciate it.
Alen saw one of the roads that led up to the higher regions of the city a few kilometers ahead and felt his head begin to ache. If what Talesin said was true, and that the middle parts of the city required an exorbitant entry fee, then what about the top levels? Alen didn’t recall getting any identification, so what if he was denied entry? Where the hell was he supposed to sleep?
“Fuck,” he cursed. They’d entered the top level so easily that something like that had completely passed his mind. Alen turned a corner, then looked up as a shadow loomed over him. A hooded figure. The one at the bakery, his mind immediately registered, his guard flaring up. If this man had seen his coins and discovered his lies, then…!
The figure reached out. Alen’s boots exploded. He shot back, his feet dragging across the polished street. Immediately, he’d increased the distance between him and the figure. Alen pointed his palm at the stranger, black and white Deathfire burning on his fingertips.
“Stay back,” Alen warned, “or else.”
The silhouette of the man stood still, the warm, flame-like lights of the glowing stones above casting a shadow over his face. The man breathed an audible sigh, and Alen watched as he reached up and removed his hood.
Red scales, golden pupils, and long, leathery hair.
“No way,” Alen sucked in a breath, eyes widening in surprise. “Alexandrius?”
The lizardman in front of him frowned, gaze sharpening. “You,” he said, voice soft and velvety, “how do you know that name?”
Alen held his arm in front of him defensively, Deathfire burning on his sleeve. It drained his mana, but the effect was clear. Even from afar, it seemed that the lizardman could sense the powerful aura that radiated off of it, similarly keeping a wary stance. Alen studied him. Same eyes, same scales, but there were differences. This man had a wider lower mouth, giving him something close to an underbite. Tattoos and scars peppered his face, the markings glowing golden even under the light of the lamps above.
Not Alexandrius, he thought, breathing a sigh of relief.
“Who are you?” asked Alen.
“I asked the question first,” the lizardman spoke, his voice almost a whisper, and yet, fully understandable despite the distance between them.
Alen licked his dry lips, staring at the man. He really didn’t want to get into a fight. Not when it wasn’t clear how strong his opponent was. He decided to try his hand on talking. “I worked with him once,” said Alen, carefully, “Alexandrius, I mean. In the Sandsea. He hired us to help with his expedition into the Crawling Canyon.”
“Us?” asked the man.
“Came with two others. Got separated from one when we first got here.”
“And Alexandrius?”
“I don’t know,” Alen shook his head. “We retreated into a temple after getting injured and activated what I assumed was a teleportation circle. Alexandrius stayed outside, fighting the Manticore.”
“Did you bring my blade?”
“Your blade?” Alen’s brows furrowed as he tried to recall. He remembered it. The blade. Resting against the wall, red like magma. Tirilius, the elf traveling with the Cava’tal, had mentioned its name; the Drakeslayer. He shook his head. “We didn’t bring the Drakeslayer.”
“Good,” the lizardman said, pulling his hood back up. Wordlessly, he turned, and began walking away.
“What? Hey, wait!” Alen called out. “You’re from the same place as I am, right!? Have you found a way out? Who the hell are you?”
“Vexxaron of the Cava’tal,” said the man, flicking a coin in his hand. Alen recognized the glint of the Redarian gold coin almost immediately. “Be careful where you bring those Redarian coins out,” Vexxaron said. “Not every person is as cooperative as Talesin, despite how stubborn he is about his current predicament. As for a way out?”
The man stopped walking, then glanced back at him.
“Where do you think we are, right now?”
“The Underearth,” Alen said. “I don’t know how far, but we should be below the continent, right?”
Vexxaron shook his head. “If we were simply below, they would’ve dug a way out of this place already. They’ve had ten thousand years, after all. The gods have put them in a place no mortal can escape from. Much like new arrivals like you are stuck in the playground of the gods, these people are trapped here, in the Underearth.”
Alen felt something click into place in the back of his head. A book he’d once read in the Draenys library in his search for clues on how to get home. “No,” he said in disbelief, “then the only way back is…”
“To tear a hole through dimensions. To open a portal back home,” Vexxaron confirmed. “It’s what those lunatics in the Cult of the Dark One are trying to do; to awaken a deity that might not even exist in order to open a way back into the largest of the Mortal Realms.”
“That’s why they’re killing the priests?”
“Priests? Ah,” Vexxaron faced him, “you mean the chosen.”
“The what?”
“Chosen. Champions. Priests. Representatives. The god-touched. People who have received the attention of a deity. Like me,” he said, pointing to the glowing tattoos on his face, “and like you.”
His finger pointed at Alen, and immediately, the gem in the necromancer’s chest pulsed. The flames on Alen’s arm flared in response, roaring a soundless roar. Alen immediately cut the flow of his magic, and slowly, the gem’s pulse—like the beating of a heart, weakened. The Deathfire sputtered once, twice, before finally dying.
“You’d best be careful, newly chosen,” Vexxaron warned. “Your aura is still weak—not enough for a sacrificial rite just yet, but other chosen like me are bound to notice if you don’t take measures to hide it. The worshippers of the Dark One are hunting down ones like us. Stay away from one of their chosen at all costs, or you’ll be marked for death.”
Alen felt a cold feeling settle in his chest. “…Who are these chosen?”
“I only know of three,” the lizardman admitted, “Slayh, Voluura, and Sieth. There are more, but they appear far less. None know their names. Stay safe,” Vexxaron said, nodding at him one last time. The lizardman turned his back and began to walk.
Alen quietly watched him leave. Sieth. That woman in the forest—the one that nearly killed him—had mentioned his name. Alen remembered the man who had stood in front of Grizelda. The one who had led the attack. His words rung out in Alen’s head.
We are not finished, necromancer. Far from it. There is a role in this you have yet to play.
Slowly, he reached into the inside of his mental space. “Selerius?”
Yes? The lich responded, no doubt aware of his previous exchange.
“…Was that man in the village a chosen?”
Yes.
The voice rang out clear in his mind, the lich’s calm voice betraying the severity of the news he’d just delivered to his new host. It almost echoed, reflecting off the walls of the buildings around him. Suddenly, he felt exposed, as if a dagger could sink into his back at any moment. All of a sudden, the lights of the city felt too dim, and the middle of the street stretched too open. He was a sitting duck to the true powers. A stationary target.
A chill crept down Alen’s spine when he remembered the look Seith had given him. He had to leave, and he had to get stronger quick, because another fatal threat had just made its way into his life.
“Fuck,” Alen hissed, before breaking into a sprint towards the upper districts.
Alen's end-chapter status:
| Status: Alen, Human, 15th Threshold, Necrotic Mana |
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
| Health: 100% | Stamina: 98% | Mana: 89% |
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
| Strength: 27 | |Dexterity: 28 | |Agility: 25 |
| Constitution: 34 | | Vitality: 29 | | Resistance: 25 |
| Intelligence: 66 + | | Wisdom: 89 +++ | | Control: 74 ++ |
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Skills: Mana Programming, Dominate Undead, Deathbolt, Necrotic Blessing, Numb Senses, Numbing Mist, Summon Greater Skeletal Minion, Rotfire/Deathflare Blast, Deathchill Grip, Deathchill Nova, Bone Spear, Skeletal Rupture, Vitality Drain, Drainblast, Blightwater Surge, Raise Undead
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
System Applications: AutoBone, System Notepad
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Comments
Thanks for reading man! Glad to see you the coming plot points are great.
Grevis165
Ooohhhh, motivations are revealed, new social plot points, Allen progressing as a person, and now this Chosen stuff... you have answered some questions, like about the Underearth and the cult, and opened many new doors. I really like where this arc is heading. :D.
