There are few true magics in this world. Those forces that truly defy the laws of causality and physics. Yet, they are known to exist and always have been. What assaulted the town of Timberbrook, however, was as potent as any ancient magic ever unleashed upon the land. Cheese fought an undead Nekomata, a being that stood at the pinnacle of power in this young world. These creatures, known to the elder races as "fire-tails," were beings of pure, fierce magic. Yet, seeing not only the one Cheese battled but two others corrupted was a revelation—a dark omen that should have called adventurers from across the world to their small town.
But all was not well in the wider world. This incident was neither isolated nor unique. Cheese’s father had fought down one of the other creatures himself. It had taken every ounce of skill he possessed, but he had triumphed, emerging unharmed. The third was slaughtered by the combined efforts of the local adventuring party. None of their members survived the clash, but they managed to subdue the beast that had ravaged them.
A council was swiftly convened, calling the most influential citizens together, and three messengers were sent out. One sailed down the river to the nearby township of Fairhaven, another journeyed south to the county seat of Kongsraveth, and a third rode to the distant capital. It was a long journey some miles to the north, but the messenger went on horseback as swiftly as he could. By the time Cheese awoke, only the man who had gone downriver had returned. He hadn’t even completed a day's journey, for before he reached the port, he saw a column of fire stretching miles into the sky and immediately turned back. Yet, on the third day after Cheese was struck down by the undead feline, a message finally arrived.
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Cheese’s dreams were a fever of muddled scenes and frantic motion. He was a child, a young boy of five. He chopped and sliced with his small axe as his father and grandfather looked on, or ran with Ibron, laughing and chasing friends through the lumberyard. Then, he was a teenager, felling slender trees alongside his father to master the mechanics of a tree’s fall. He climbed the towering timber, taking in the vastness of the county. His grandfather had taught him that trick years ago, showing him how scaling those natural giants allowed one to almost see the entire world. No building rivaled the towering heights of those ancient trees. That was his true playground among them.
But then the struggles began. The wall. His grandfather had left them, and his progress stalled. His father tried to help, but there was little he could do for the troubled youth. Cheese yearned for his grandfather as visions of chopping and cutting flashed before him. They were visions of his stalled potential. Yet... hadn’t he already overcome this? Yes. He had. Cheese refuted the visions of helpless struggle, and then they changed.
Finally, he was there again. Standing before the rotting Nekomata as it slaughtered the first men to reach it. Yet this time, as he stared, Cheese felt something… strange. A tug, as if his vision was being directed down two paths. The young man knew that one of the paths was to follow his earlier steps and fight the beast, to enter into its range and slay it. That path now felt wrong, as if to accept the blow would be to unmake himself. He focused in a way he never had before, and then Cheese sensed… something around the creature, and he knew that this was the other path, the one that would save both him and the being before him. Then it appeared—the tail. But as it emerged, Cheese felt that tug intensify. The tail was not simply a tail; true, it looked like one, but within it was a small, horrified energy. The Nekomata guided the tail as it whipped around, striking down anyone near, yet it was as if the tail had a momentum and will all its own. Cheese suddenly realized it was a creature of fire, a kind of spirit working with the undead cat. And what’s more, he sensed a connection to it. Cheese pulled on that connection, but it resisted.
Cheese felt a barrier between him and this power, and as he pushed against it with his will, he sensed the entity’s balance—it was braced, leaning away from him. So Cheese pushed harder. He had never done this before, but instinctively he knew that if he just focused and… yes, he thrust with a sharp snap, and the creature faltered. Cheese dug his will in and yanked on what he sensed.
He heard a voice out of the darkness that enveloped him, and it said, “Oh now, this will not do. What is it that has latched onto you, young axeman? No, it won’t do at all. Let me help.”
And then Cheese began screaming. He hadn’t thought this through; in truth, he hadn’t thought at all. That was how Cheese awoke—engulfed in flames and screaming into the night.
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Rook sat in the dimly lit council chambers with his fellow elders and listened to the recounting of the secondary scouts sent to Fairhaven. In days past, he would have never believed the harrowing accounts the men told him, yet since the brutal battle here in their once peaceful community, nothing truly came as a surprise. The Priest of Many Gods was calling it the Unbinding. He had given testimony to the elders the day before on the matter. The Shrine of Aiden, the God of Spring, had been sundered the night before; the sacred statue simply crumbling to powder during the morning dedications. Many other shrines had begun to disappear, some in small ways, simply falling apart, others in far more catastrophic ways. The gods were dying.
And yet, with all of this—the terrifying monsters, the cities crumbling, and the gods themselves disintegrating—Rook could only think of one thing. His son was dying.
He tried to fulfill his role as councilman, and had he truly needed to, he likely would have been able to. Yet, Rook knew deep in his soul that he could do nothing in the face of this devastating chaos. True, he had fought down the horrific undead monster, but he had been too slow, too hesitant. And because of his ineptitude, his eldest son had fallen, and now the poor boy lay rotting on the cot in the next room. When he had faced the Nekomata, Rook had known instinctively never to let it strike him. He was unsure why that gut-wrenching feeling was embedded in his mind, yet he had done everything possible to avoid its blows. It was as if an invisible, primal will had directed him as he slowly dissected the vicious beast, one cautious step at a time, and eventually, after a grueling, protracted battle, he had severed its head from its shoulders. Rook had taken his time, fought with reserved precision, as was his nature, and it had cost him his son. His son, who had been so agonizingly close to overcoming the wall he had ground his will against for two long, brutal years.
It had torn the old man apart that he could not tell his son the secret to overcoming the wall. Perhaps, if he had been able to, he would have saved the boy. Yet, it was widely known that if one was handed the answers too easily, their ascent would eventually stagnate, and they would no longer rise in mastery. That was a fate that none of their family would ever wish for, so he had kept his silence, and this had been the tragic result. His boy, cut down in the first days of this harsh new world. Perhaps it was for the best. But there was a strange, aching pride in the sorrow. His boy had done it. He had grasped the elusive concept of infusion. He had managed to press his raw will into his axe and perform a strike that separated not only the physical fibers, but also the intangible spirit of his opponent. Cheese had long ago overcome the wall—at least from an experience standpoint, his sudden leap to 16 proved that. All that had remained for the boy was to understand that to truly cut something, to truly sever it and make one into two, you needed to sever it at a far deeper, spiritual level. That was why you could not simply tell someone how to do such a cut. Aye, you could explain it to them, and they could pass the wall, but the sharpening of will that was required to make that final leap had consequences that were essential for further progression. It took a will of immense, unyielding strength to do such an act without even knowing what it was truly doing. And his son was one such being, one who possessed an indomitable, unbreakable will. And he was dying.
That is what Rook thought of as the scout droned on and on. Giants, yes, giants. He keyed back into the conversation and tried to push his grim thoughts away. Fairhaven was a grand port, second only to the county capital in size. It housed some 20,000 bustling families. It was the seat of Baron Gelroy, a fat, pompous man who was inexplicably a level 26 Merchant. How such a vile, slippery bastard managed to get anyone to take a deal was beyond Rook’s comprehension. He lived in a lavish castle in the heart of Fairhaven, perched atop a solitary, prominent hill—or he had. The hill was now crushed under the weight of a colossal, 10-meter-tall gargantuan figure who was naked save a loincloth and held a massive club. It was this being along with two more that used the fat man's castle as a seat. The castle had been obliterated, and the shattered rubble piled into a makeshift chair for the giant.
Fairhaven was gone. And with it, access to the outside world. Not that that truly mattered to Rook and his people. Their kingdom boasted one of the strongest, most feared navies in the world, as befitted a small island nation nestled between two vast continents. Fairhaven had been the primary port on the island, which boasted a flourishing population of some two million souls. Well, it had. The gods only knew how many survived. Yet, Rook had never left the island. His great-great-grandfather had been one of the first settlers some 150 years prior. Rook had lived his entire life in one remote lumber camp after another. That was their family’s way; they would travel from area to area, chopping and clearing farmland for those who came after. It had been his grandfather’s passion, his father’s, and now it was his and his three sons' mission in life—Cheese, Waff, and Char. Well, it had been. By night’s end, he would likely only have two sons. The dark green sickness was devouring his eldest, as it had devoured all others who fell to the Nekomata’s vicious strikes, and without any news from the ships of the greater world, who knew how long even that would last?
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The scout delivering the report stated that they had sighted two of the large, bloated ships sitting far out at a great distance from the port, but it was at such a daunting distance that they were unable to signal it for fear of alerting the giants to their presence.
As the scout concluded his report, there was a commotion at the door. They had sealed the room for fear of eavesdroppers reporting the words to the people and causing even more of a panic. It was not that they would not pass the news on; they simply wanted to converse before pressure from the townsfolk tainted their minds. A guard presented himself. It was Maren, the mill's foreman. He entered without any fanfare and looked directly at Rook, saying only, "Cheese." The elder jumped up and rushed forward, his movements seeming unnaturally fast to those around him. He had sat at the fore of the meeting, as was now his place. This quick movement showed exactly why that was. In an instant, he was through the door, quicker than any of the other councilors were able to even begin rising.
Rook brushed past his friend and took three swift steps through the doorway where his son had lain dying. He prayed that he was not too late, yet as he entered, he saw not the necrotic, decaying form he had feared. He saw his boy, his son, wreathed in a brilliant, roaring fire. Cheese’s mouth was opened in a silent scream, as if he were in excruciating pain, yet no words came out of the boy. Rook stood frozen in the doorway, waiting tensely as the flames grew brighter and continued to climb his son’s form. He watched, unmoving. Eventually, a sister of the Many Gods rushed back into the room with a large bucket, but Rook stopped her and said, "Sister, look at how the skin reseals, I beg you. Do not douse him."
The sister looked and saw that the elder was right. The flames licked at Cheese’s skin, but they didn’t harm him. "But his face," she said worriedly.
Rook nodded solemnly; he could see the immense pain his son was in. The boy's features were a twisted, contorted mess of agony. Yet somehow, he managed not to thrash about as he screamed silently.
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God, it hurt. It burned. Not the flames—no, the burn was not that of fire; it was the pain of intense cold. The pain of death. Every inch of Cheese's body was so cold he could not feel it, and that cold was approaching his heart. The pain came from there, right at his core. It was like his body was a battlefield, and his forces had centered themselves there, fighting against an ever-encroaching enemy. That was the pain he felt—the slow death of the soldiers fighting back against an endless tide of death. And with each icy swing, he felt his very being begin to die, step by step. He was fighting back, and he was losing.
Then the fire swept in. It was the exact opposite of what had assailed him: a soft heat that rekindled his flesh. Yet even that came with its own pain. As Cheese became aware of his skin, he felt the energy slowly battle along his form. It was as if the army of necrotic burn was surrounded, and it responded with aggressive stabs of energy toward his core. The slow drawl of his death was replaced with a race, as both energies tried to consume him. One consumed him, and the other tried to free him. He could feel that neither energy was sentient; they were like water flowing along their natural course. Cheese felt the rate of decay and awakening and knew instinctively that the fire would lose if nothing changed. The cold death was simply too close to its goal, and his forces were almost depleted. So the boy pondered, even as he decayed from the inside. He felt along the ever-collapsing edge of the cold force, and slowly he began to exert his will. He latched onto the cold with a tendril of energy, throwing it out like a squad to sacrifice at an unthinking enemy, and then, when the force collapsed onto the squad, Cheese would encapsulate it and drag it deep into himself. He did this many times, thus slowing the ever-encroaching cold. It slowed the progress, but not enough.
Cheese kept at the task, but he knew he needed to do more. He needed to find a way to truly overcome this force, to trick it—but he was running out of time. That’s when a thought struck him. Why was this force trying to reach his core? What was his core? Why was it the goal of this cold energy? Cheese turned his attention inward and found... nothing. There was nothing at his core. No spark, no chamber. The only thing at his core was him—his perception. It was as if he was looking at himself, not some immovable organ or energy. It was Cheese himself that this force was after, surrounded by vital, life-giving energy. So Cheese simply opened a channel of energy to the front lines of the battle and began preparing to hack away at the energy. He was no general to stand in the back and direct his forces; he was Cheese, and Cheese was an Axeman. Cheese was a warrior. So he put his being in the fore and welcomed the invader to try to take him down. And try it did.
In the palace that was his soul, Cheese felt a cold wave approach. A tendril of power lanced forward at him. Then his mental image shifted, and he found he truly was in a palace. It was a longhouse filled with a central fire. Furs and pelts lined the walls, and Cheese had in his hands the axe his father had given him. He looked down at the axe and realized he had not named it. Cheese looked at the beautifully unadorned handle and spoke the only words that fit: "Varn," which in the language of the gods meant "protector." That was what they were, the two of them. They protected. And today, they would do battle and protect what was theirs.
As Cheese looked up, he saw it enter the room. The great doors slowly opened, and a gargantuan green shadow slunk in. It began slowly creeping forward to the flame in the center of the room, and Cheese knew that he must not let it touch those flames. He acted instantly, jumping over the flames and pulling his axe in a sweeping arc. A gash formed across the energy; it was deep and fiery. As Cheese recovered and brought his axe around for another strike, he saw flickers of flame burn at the creature's form. Yet it did not falter. Instead, it began encroaching from another direction, its form pushing out around the room on all sides. Cheese swung again, and another vector of approach was stalled. He began chopping and cleaving at the energy as he felt the oppressive darkness encapsulate him. For so long, the young man chopped away, stalling the energies. Yet while he could stall them, he could not push them back. With time, he became conscious of a pressure at the gates. But that pressure could not enter his meager palace. Cheese’s soul was full and could not hold the energy at the gates. This battle was for him and him alone. So, in the night, he continued his work and beat back the darkness trying to claim him.
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Two more days had passed. The flames had not died down on his eldest son. As he looked up, Rook saw his youngest enter.
"Char," he said as the boy walked over to him.
"Father, how is he?" asked the dark-haired boy. His father had named him Char for that hair—it was the color of charcoal: dark and endless. He patted the seat beside him as his son sat. Char was 23, and the only one of his sons who had not continued with the family business. He was his own man from the day he was born, a stubborn child like his brothers but in a unique way. On his tenth name day, the boy had run away and slept in the forest for three nights, returning only when he had finished the task of collecting three wolf pups and making them docile enough to return with him. The reason? He said his god demanded it of him. You see, Char was an acolyte of Yid, goddess of nature and boundless plenty.
Of course, the goddess had not actually spoken to the child, but he claimed he had heard the whining of the wolf pups in his sleep and had been compelled to follow. At first, the boy had not known why he did so, but when he found the pups in a cave in the dead of winter, he felt that this was why he had come. Their mother had died in the winter, and the three were in need of a savior. Upon returning and finding that the whole town was in panic, the small boy had smiled faintly and asked if he could please speak to the priest of many gods. That day, he had pledged his life to the goddess, saying simply that it felt right.
Rook nodded at his eldest and said, "Your brother persists. He has not changed."
The small man nodded and reached into his cloak. He pulled out a single leaf, handing it to his father. "I’m sorry it took so long, but here it is. Do you honestly think it will work?" As he spoke, one of the great wolves walked into the room after his son. It sat beside the boy. The beast's head came up to his son’s chest.
Rook took a long moment as his eyes locked onto the leaf, and he shook his head as he grabbed it. "No, I am not. But I can feel the energies in your brother. One assails him, and the other is similar to what I feel in this leaf. How did you find it?"
Char’s hand fell to the head of his great wolf. This one was Tonn, or Tooth, in the old tongue. As he did, he replied, "I had felt its energy before. There exists a tree a day’s travel away. It is a place where I worship my goddess. The tree resides there."
Rook nodded and gingerly asked, "How... how does your goddess fare?"
The boy’s face was unreadable as the question hung in the air. Then he turned and walked toward the door without answering, yet that alone was answer enough.
For a moment, the great wolf stared at Rook, and then it got up and ran after its master. No—after its father. For that’s who Char had become when he had saved them from the snow.
Rook turned and began making tea with the leaf. He had quite the cooking skill; over the years, it had passed all the way to 14. As he prepared this tincture, infusing his spirit into it, the skill ticked up further. Yet that was not all. Surprisingly, Rook was met with two notifications:
[New Skill: Alchemy 1] [New Skill: Potions 1]
Alchemy? And what was a potion? The old man shook his head as he prepared the tincture. It took longer than he expected, yet he was patient as he slowly watched the juices seep into the water that he had asked the priest to bless. Finally, after many hours, the drink was ready. He looked at it and activated a skill he had gotten many years ago when he broke through the bottleneck but rarely used: [Observe: 3]. He looked over the tea and was surprised by the description: [Blessed Tincture: Imbue the drinker with vitality granted by the fallen goddess Yid. This life-preserving tincture will unlock new pathways for any who drink it. However, if splashed on a foe of the goddess, it will instead burn away the unnatural energies.]
Well, there was his answer, at least. Yid, goddess of nature and life, had fallen. Rook looked up and sent a silent prayer of thanks to the goddess anyway. Fallen or not, she had managed to send this gift of life to his son, perhaps it would change the balance in the boys favor.
Or, perhaps it was unnecessary the old man thought to himself as he changed his view to his sons indicator in the party menu. He smiled as he saw the number he had watched the previous two days tick up yet again. [Axework: 24]