“Gods almighty, my fucking head…” Bron grumbled into his uncomfortable bed, wincing at the cold unforgiving wind blowing in his face. Weird, he could have sworn that he’d patched that hole up last week. The bark shouldn’t have rotted off already.
Wearily cracking an eye open, and recoiling from the headache-inducing light, Bron swore.
This wasn’t his house.
Hell, this wasn’t even a house.
He was lying face down in the dirt, a few meters from the bar. A miner’s wife was eating some porridge on its shoddy veranda, giving him a very judgmental gaze.
Bron grunted at her, swearing something about ‘pig skinned harlots’ and propping himself up. Rubbing his poor aching skull. It’s been a long time since the grog had knocked Bron off his arse like that. Maybe the stumpy little git hadn’t been watering them down?
Judging from the red sun's position just over the forest, it seemed Bron hadn’t quite missed work. Damn shame that.
Some memories were gradually coming back to him, something about getting electrocuted, some annoying voice, him threatening to rip out a man’s throat and feed it to him.
It was always dangerous to come between Bron and his grog.
Well, at least the annoying voice is gone. Gods above, that was unbearable, Bron disliked talking, but he hated listening.
[No, I’m still here, just fascinated by your suns. A red giant orbitally locked with a dwarf star, amazing. Does it have much effect on tidal processes?]
Bron roared at the gods who cursed him, shocking the miner’s wife into spilling her cold porridge.
----------------------------------------
[So, don’t you care about what I am?]
“Couldn’t give a rats arse.”
[Or about what I can do?]
“Can you shut up?”
[Hypothetically… yes.]
“Mornin’ Bron, heard you had an interesting night.” The lead-man remarked, marking something on his dumb little sheet. Bron was pretty sure it was blank and quite sure the man in front of him couldn’t read.
Bron grunted at the man, which could mean anything between ‘I hope you get crotch rot’ to ‘you have a lovely day’ in Bron speak. The man decided to preserve their working relationship and assume the latter as Bron trudged into the mine.
[I’m telling you anyway. I am a crucible, a tool forged by the greatest scientific minds and quantum magick engineers to ever grace the sequada]
Bron took a right, to the deep shaft ladder and started slowly climbing down. His pickaxe clutched in one hand with his sack. Today he’d have to fill it up two-fold, thanks to a certain voice that WOULDN’T SHUT UP.
[A crucible is used to make warriors into weapons by reshaping their very molecular making up, we do this by utilising a specific mana energy wavelength called ‘Quelaticmafergadors wavelength. I know, long name.]
“I don’t know, nor do I care, what that means,” Bron spoke to the ladder, still clambering down one-handed. Which wasn’t as difficult as one might think.
[Quelaticmafergadors wavelength is a very special type of mana that’s only present in the cores of living fauna, no one is quite sure why, but that’s unimportant. What is important is that I can use this mana to reshape you, make you better. Whatever you want, I can do it.]
“Can you make me deaf?” It was a trait Bron had always wished he was born with, especially now.
[Yes, but I can also make you stronger! Faster! You want wings? You get wings! You want two more arms protruding from your kneecaps? You’ll never bend over again!]
This all sounded like a lot of effort. And effort was something Bron had in very short supply, that and money. Particularly money, Bron’s grog wasn’t free, unfortunately.
[Regrettably, I am the ‘Arena’ model, so there are some… rather annoying restrictions.]
“Make me deaf.”
[I cannot, first of all, you have no Quelaticmafergadors wavelength mana. If I use yours it will quite literally kill you.]
“Dead, deaf. I’ll take either.”
Bron thought out his options and considered something he honestly believed he’d never do.
Make conversation.
Maybe if he talked to the annoying damn voice, it might be satisfied for a second and finally shut the fuck up. It was worth a try. And so, with a long, long sigh. Bron tried.
“How would I get this… Quel-whatever mana?” He questioned to empty air, still moving down the ladder.
[Let’s call it Q-mana, and as it’s essentially tied to one's lifeforce, you would need to kill something. Anything really, so long as it’s fauna.]
“hm…”
[And you don’t need to talk aloud, I can read your thoughts just fine.]
Oh good, now Bron would never escape the fucking thing, not even in his own mind.
[Ouch.]
“I have work, food, a home and grog. Why do I need you? And what’s it going to take to make you go away.” Bron’s deep growling voice seemed to fill the narrow shaft as he worked his way down the ladder, his words bouncing off the walls and coming back to him in short angry bursts.
[… I’ve already integrated with your Q-mana Bron, I can’t be removed.]
Bron considered this daunting new information, and his only consolation was that soon, he might die of old age.
[And your work can literally be done by an 8-year-old, your hut is built from garbage and your ‘Grog’ is little more than anti-bacterial wash.]
…
Bron kept climbing down.
----------------------------------------
Clang!
Clang!
Clang!
Pausing for a breath, Bron leaned on his pickaxe. Waving a hand around to disperse the obscuring dust he’d thrown up.
[You’ve lived in this glorified mud pit almost your entire life Bron, I’ve scanned your memories.]
Bron huffed and shouldered his pickaxe once more.
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
Clang!
[I saw what happened to your parents Bron, it’s understandable for a young child to hide somewhere nobody can find him.]
CLANG!
[But it’s been nearly 70 years, surely you wish for more? More than… this?]
CLANG!
[This planet is simply a wonder! Mana levels here are unlike anything my supplied metrics have ever seen! First of all, this planet is massive! So massive that gravity should be squashing you right now! (Maybe it’s hollow?)]
CLANG!
[Entire continents untamed by man! Great and powerful monsters lurking below and above! Immense seas dominated by bloodthirsty pirates and colossal creatures!]
CLANG!
…
Bron threw down his pickaxe and began angrily shoving large shards of coal into his bag, uncaring of the sharp debris that cut into his hands.
“What’s it to you? You’re just an annoying fucking parasite, why do you care?” He snarled at the voice that questioned his entire life, now Bron didn’t know much about social etiquette, but that was probably pretty fucking rude.
[There’s an entire world of adventure waiting! Doesn’t that excite you?]
“No.” Bron gathered his sack, grabbed his pickaxe, and began the long trek back up.
[…. ]
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“Evening Bron, meet yer’ quota?”
Bron handed the man his coal-bag, now brimming with the dull rock.
“Enough mineral to cover the tab.” Bron grunted at the annoying man.
[Actually, coal isn’t a mineral. It’s derived from an organic source so it’s actually a sedimentary rock.]
Bron audibly sighed and trudged down the beaten track back to town, thinking of grog and its wonderful amnesia inducing properties.
[It usually starts off as plant matter that gathers below lakes, before being buried by sediment carried in by rivers. Then overtime the plant matter turns into ‘peat’, before the pressure and heat of the planet finally converts it to coal.]
“Fucking gods and their curses…”
----------------------------------------
[This again?]
Grog sure tasted like shit, but that never stopped Bron. He absent-mindedly pondered if he had an alcohol dependency but realised, he didn’t really care. Grog was the only thing in the world that brought him some semblance of joy, fuck what other people think.
[So close Bron, so close.]
The bar this time was quite busy, full of chatty miners eager to get out of the stuffy shafts and talk over some good beer. Every table was packed, except for Bron’s.
Just the way he liked it. No shitty conversations, no annoying co-workers. Just an Orc and his grog, it was perfect.
[Are planet-quakes ever a problem in the mines?]
Well, almost perfect.
[Your cranky shtick is getting old Bron.]
“I am old.” He replied into his pitcher, giving anyone who glanced his way the stink eye.
[Okay, I’ll make you a deal Bron.]
… “I’m listening.” A phrase Bron honestly thought would never leave his mouth.
[I’m curious about the magick of this world, just tell me how people develop their own.]
“And?”
[And until you finish drinking, I’ll shut up. And you don’t even need to talk out loud, just project your thoughts.]
Bron considered the deal.
It was a good one, drinking was quite sacred, it was a holy time that needed no distractions. Especially talking distractions.
‘Fine.’ He thought, resigned to the fact he was about to… talk, probably a lot.
[Thank you.]
‘You call it Q-mana, the magick that makes up our beings. We call it our Core.’
Bron asked for another two large pitchers, he would need to wet his throat for this. The fact he wouldn’t be using it was irrelevant.
‘Every living creature has a core; through it we gain strength and can powerful magick spells. There are 4 main physical traits, strength, speed, endurance and recovery. And 2 Magick, soul and spirit.’
‘A young mud ape with a fresh core will always only grow in primarily strength and speed. This is the same for its entire species. But a sapient core is unique for the individual.’
[I see… So one man might grow in strength, and another speed?]
‘Correct. For example, you might grow primarily in strength and endurance, with a secondary growth in speed, and little to no growth in recovery, spirit and mind.’
‘But someone else could have no primaries, secondaries in 4 traits and nothing in the other two.’
[I see, so there’s a set number of traits you can specialise in, to keep things fair and equal across the board. Do you know the specifics?]
‘No, I’m not a bloody scholar. I’m just an old miner who’s heard a few things. Are we done?’
[Almost, just two more questions, how do you grow?]
‘No one’s sure, but fighting shit seems to work best.’
[And… what are your traits?]
‘We call it growth. And my growth is none of your damn business. Besides, can’t you check my memories for that? Hell, couldn’t you have checked my memories for all of that!’ Bron shouted in his mind, suddenly realising the damn… whatever it was, may have played him.
[I could have, but it would’ve been difficult. Looking through memories is a lot of data, especially mundane memories. It’s far easier for me to look at specific memories that stand out to you, since they’re much easier to locate.]
Bron took a long swig from his pitcher, downing the swill with one extended gulp.
[So, what is your growth?]
Bron looked into his empty pitcher, seeing his white bearded reflection in the dull metal.
‘Probably mostly strength, with a secondary recovery and endurance.’
[Probably?]
‘Yeah, probably.’
----------------------------------------
“Hurry the fuck up you sacks of Propoid shit!” Even as Rodain screamed, the naval galleon drew closer, it’s deck already teeming with soldiers.
“Fuck! Cap’n they’re trying to board!” One of the crew shouted from across the ship, with his sword hand shaking so much it was a wonder he still held the blade.
“I have fucking eyes, Xeres! And that’s ‘CAPTAIN’, I told you to lose the bloody accent!” Rodain swore back across the ship but kept his eyes on the galleon, seeing the their crew loading the cannons once more.
Piss and shit! This was the last time he followed a damn tip, he should have known it’d be a trap. They always fucking are. And this trap was a bad one, a fully stocked naval war galleon, someone must really want him dead.
Or alive, they’d been trading cannon shots for a while, but since both ships had a barrier specialist on board the going had been slow. Though both ships bore various holes and scrapes, the mages weren’t all-powerful.
But Rodain got the feeling that if the other ship wanted them dead, he wouldn’t be breathing right now. With any luck, he could use that.
“Hard to starboard!” He shouted, throwing the wheel to the right with every ounce of his weight. The second the enemy ship came into view of the cannons, pandemonium ensued.
Great booms shook the air and the entire ship was simultaneously deafened, smoke swallowed all vision and the crew took cover behind anything at hand.
The enemy ship was suddenly alight with vibrant spinning disks of light, repelling the iron balls that slammed into them, after the first few cannonballs though, the disks abruptly faded, allowing a few shots to hit the ship unimpeded. Rodain tool pleasure in seeing the enemy crew ravaged by wooden shrapnel.
He decided to target the enemy crew, since sinking a galleon of that size would be damn near impossible with his dwindling ammunition.
The galleon swung around in response, at great and sudden speed. In a matter of seconds, they were in direct line of the enemy cannons.
“What?” Rodain shouted, before seeing a thin but taught anchor line from the ship leading into the ocean. The fuckers had done a club haul! Where on Dranaut did they find such strong rope? The desire to take the enemy ship swiftly grew tenfold for Rodain, good rope like that was extremely hard to come by.
THUNK! THUNK! THUNK! THUNK!
Instead of their deck being devastated by cannon fire, powerful grapple lines had been fired into their hull, and with a jerk, the two ships began growing closer, and closer.
“You four, keep firing into their deck, avoid sinking it, I want that fucking anchor. EVERYBODY ELSE! Grab something pointy and get ready to kill some FUCKING ELVES!”
Rodain unsheathed his longsword, and with a slight flex of his mana, it roared alight with an intense purple flame.
“It’s time to teach some leaf-lickers why you don’t fuck with the Dusk of Dawn.” His crew answered with a resounding roar as a multitude of weaponry was drawn, the pirate crew’s bloodthirst now suitably ablaze.
Dozens of soldiers leapt aboard, answering with a war cry of their own. Within seconds, the deck was teeming with violence as sword met axe and warriors clashed.
Rodain faced a heavily armoured man wielding a Warhammer, the soldier had the emblem of the Fahar kingdom Tank division proudly printed on his chest plate. Rodain narrowed his eyes in disdain.
“By order of the Mage King, you are hereby under arrest, Pirate captain Rodain. Come in peace or come in pieces.”
Rodain snorted, fucking pompous officers. They get one or two promotions for being ‘slightly above average’ and suddenly they’re hot shit. Well, Rodain would be more than happy to give the dumbass a flaming reality check.
Darting forward with his startling speed, Rodain slipped past the hammer swung in his direction and viciously slammed the point of his sword into the soldier's open-face helmet. With one hand on the pommel and another gloved hand on the blade, he had more than enough leverage to push the scorching sword into an eye socket and scrape the back of his helmet. Luckily, Rodain didn’t have to fear his own mana-fire.
And with the ever so familiar stench of burnt flesh, the man dropped like a sack of rocks.
“Huh, easier than I thought,” Rodain remarked, surprised. Usually, officers were made of sterner stuff than that. Maybe a hasty promotion?
Even so, the officer had quite a lot of men. Men who were currently cutting down his crew like weeds.
Seeing his first mate emerge from the hold, Rodain navigated his way through the battlefield to greet the mage, cutting down the occasional challenger. Once he reached his first mate, the dwarf mage threw up a quick barrier spell to keep out any enemies. Rodain had been very lucky to convince the diminutive barrier specialist to join his crew.
“How were the slave rowers?” Rodain asked, he usually kept a few dozen slaves in the hold to propel the ship through the dead wind, and unfortunately, he saw the ship take a few hits to the hull. And now that he noticed it, the ship was sitting a little lower in the water.
“Hold flooded, they all drowned. We’re going to need more rowers before we cross back over the dead sea.” Jas told his captain, his bearded face neutral.
“Piss. Any idea where we can get some more?”
“Well… There is a remote village nearby…”