Rye woke with a start, and everything hurt. From the headache to her limbs and belly to her legs, everything was flavored in a different taste of ugly aches. No roof of the Crossroad Temple greeted her eyes. Only a few tree branches leaned low past the broken walls as her mind flashed with jumbled memories.
Undead. Home. Magic. Car. Dogs. The ambush–
Voices. Close.
Three armored individuals huddled in a corner, vehemently whispering about catapults and… machicolations? That wasn’t a word and instantly the roaring cacophony of the dream that was not hers echoed in her mind. It was an odd experience, living the memories of another, feeling them while knowing that neither the sights nor the smells or tastes were hers. Especially the sights.
The loud metal creatures were not creatures at all, but carriages. Without grug or horse to draw them, they moved at breakneck speeds across the dark stone and played at a dance to lights on intersections as large as she never had imagined. Elia’s strain of barbarians had great roads (not as great as the empire’s of course), but a critical question remained: What was a smoothie?
Rye could not sit still without an explanation, bumping what to do next and whether she should escape or not into second place. The giant stone bowl set behind the leaning doors and crumbling rock marked the next checkpoint mere feet away. If only she could crawl there, she could stop the hurt and clear her mind.
“Elia.” Rye whispered. “Elia!”
FUCK!
“Ack!” Rye ack-ed in surprise “W-what is it?”
I totally forgot I had a goth-phase. I feel all slimy and ugh. Bleh!
“W-well, first off, we seem to have switched control. Again.”
Again? Shit, being knocked out counts as being unconscious. We need to be more careful from now on– wait, hostiles. Three to the front left, melee mostly, shields, spears–
On a squinting second peek, Rye recognized them. “Those are the legion soldiers! Sextus, Tertius, and Alexander from the temple. I… think they saved us?” A look down confirmed it. Her wounds were bound, her legs and arms decidedly not, and the thick earthen smell of wyckwax wafted from underneath. She smelled of blood, too.
And there came the dizziness again, with reinforcements.
Rye. We need to move.
“Um, why?”
Are you kidding? You’re a small woman. You’re basically defenseless. We’re in the middle of nowhere and those are three grown ass soldiers from the good ol’ medieval times, with certificates in pillaging, raiding, and raping. Do you have the self-preservation instincts of an egg or do you get it yet humpty?
“Elia! Those are soldiers of our holy empire. What’s more, they’re cavalry. Disciplined, learned men.”
And?
“And they would never, never accost any lone traveler for no reason. They are disciplined, dutiful, and honorable. And I’m a free citizen of the empire as well, not some bekki half breed or slave on the run. They will help us. Honestly, I can’t believe what you were insinuating.”
Yeah. And the blood on that wooden club definitely doesn’t belong inside my nose. Our nose.
As if to punctuate that, Rye snorted a clot of blood. That got the attention of the three men and after a short discussion, the larger one stood up and went to crouch next to her.
“Finally awake, sleeping beaut’?” Sextus asked.
“U-uhh…” Rye stuttered, confidence failing to manifest. “M-me?”
He grinned and nodded. “Ya snuck up on us, ‘fraid Tertius over ‘ere convinced us you was some assassin, or spy from the castle, or a looter. Man’s a bit paranoid after the mud crab incident, ‘pologies. An’ no fears, th’ dregs don’t approach these here bowls without provocation, bless Ruthe.”
“I-I’m not a–“ she broke into a string of coughs, some of them slightly bloody.
“Aye, yer but a wee lady, but still a soldier o’ misfortune much like the rest of us.” He smacked his dry lips, undeath having extended the cracks running through it all the way up his cheeks past the missing nose. His visage was not a kind one, marred by thin lines that told stories of past brutality. “Shame about yer arm though. ‘fraid we’ll have to amputate.”
For a moment, a string of doubt ran through her. They shared a stare. She tried hard not to tear up.
My ass will he chop anything. Rye, he’s not a licensed medical professional, go for his neck. He won’t expect a dagger.
The man laughed. “Oh, gee, I can’t keep a straight face like that. Ya look like someone kicked a particularly puzzled puppy. Was a joke, jus’ a silly gag. Th’ water ‘eals anythin’.”
Oh. Stupid jokes. Now she just had to find out how the water would ‘eel’ anything. How did one ‘eel’ something?
“R-rude…” Rye frowned, before letting out an indignant squeak as the man picked her up with his wiry hands. There was still muscle hidden beneath and since he carried her like a princess, well…
A tingle ran up her face.
I can’t believe this is all it takes for you to blush. He LOOKS like he eats people. You should be running, stabbing, screaming fire and death and whatnot. This is the feudal post apocalypse, not a my-medieval-romance light novel!
Before Rye had a chance to answer, he let her down in front of the bowl.
*Gong*
“Can ya see it still?”
She stared a bit incredulously at the checkpoint ahead. “The bowl?”
He shook his head. “Th’ water. Only undead can see it, drink it. Bit o’ a gift o’ th’ gods, for our long journey methinks. Disappears when dregs are nearby. Like it ‘ates their guts or somethin’.”
“Uh, y-yes.” She took a few probing sips, imaging the taste of creamy warm milk and the water acquiesced. A distant gong rang, and she felt invigorated once more. “Thank you Sextus sir for saving my life.”
He raised an eyebrow, scanning Rye more seriously know. “… but if ya ain’t a spy as ya say, then ‘ow’d ya know me name?”
“I’m Rye. Remember? Bedsheet girl from Crossroad Temple?” Suspicion increasingly grew along his face as Rye tried to remember what it was that ticked him off. “I’ve come to do the scouting I promised. You are still trying to get through the castle up ahead, right? Glenrock castle?”
“I knew she was a forest-damned spy!” Tertius called from behind as he and Alexander exchanged a small bone shard.
Sextus just laughed nervously at the whole shtick as he brushed through his oily hair. Rye did not find this funny at all, but upon seeing the other man’s grin, she figured it was just another unspoken joke.
“…well, I ‘ope ya have some explanation as to how ye know ‘bout our humble undertaking, or else Imma have ta’ ask you some uncomfortably physical questions.”
Not good. Not good! Getting mafiosi vibes over here and he’s like three times our weight. I’ll shank his nuts and then you run for it.
“What? No– uh, I mean, because you told me?” Did undead have bad memories? “You do remember volunteering me as your scout, right?”
The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.
He turned visibly confused. “Only caught a glimpse of ye. We never spoke a word.”
“N-no, I’m pretty sure… I mean…” Rye’s face fell into a frown.
Rye. Before you get us killed, let me remind you: You talked to them on your first loop. After I touched the checkpoint for the first time and you died five times in between then and now. They don’t remember. They can’t, for them, the conversation never existed.
The unwelcome attention was turning her panic inwards. This is what Elia meant with turning back time. Setting the undead curse aside, no death mattered when she could succeed once in the end. In an ironic reversal, any rapport she had built would become just as useless, forgotten unless she managed it on a successful loop.
Tertius standing at the edge of the chapel, right next to the only exit. Just as she was about to stammer the sentence that would probably get her and Elia killed, she felt her face and throat tingle. Someone spoke with her mouth and voice, but not her.
“Hey, big guy. Your name is Sextus. You and your friends are part of the 41st legion of the empire, the best legion. Now, I’m gonna trust you all. I’ve got a boon, real good one with an essence of ego, let’s me gain some information on things I touch.”
There was an exchange of hand-signs in the back.
“She’s not’ lying.” The suspicion was still evident on Tertius’ face, but Sextus relaxed visibly.
“Well, that’s that. I hit ya quite ‘ard as well. Apologies, again. If ya need anythin’, me an’ me mates, we’ll be over in that corner divining schemes and whatnot. Now that yer cleared, yer welcome to join. I’m sure none of the lads will deny a lass our help.”
Phew. Am I ever glad they didn’t ask any difficult questions. Seems one of them has a boon for truth telling. Dangerous stuff. Let’s be careful around them, yeah?
Rye was left confused and sat on the floor, more than a little tuckered out. Elia didn’t lie, but she didn’t tell the truth, either. The legionnaires would threaten her, but they believed a barbarian just like that? It rankled her, tugged on twin vines named jealousy and indignant anger.
Hey, do you know how to trade boons?
“Dunno. Go ask your soldier friends.” If Elia noticed the anger in her voice, she gave no sign. It was better this way than having yet another argument.
Well, I sure am glad we didn’t have to fight our way out. Not looking forward to respawning here in the middle of THAT conversation. Anyhow, we can take our 20-minute break here if you want. Also, Quibbles wants to take a dip in the swamp.
Elia followed up her demand with a tingling pressure that made Rye think she’d take over by force again if she had to. Not like she understood any other language. Stupid barbarian.
“I’ll let you take over if you let me practice magic for as long as I want.”
Nuh-uh. An hour, tops.
“Five!”
Two. Take it or leave it.
“Ugh, you… fine, two hours of uninterrupted lobbing of magical bolts. But don’t blame me if I can’t hit anything after that little time. Sheesh.” It went unsaid that five hours wouldn’t help that much more either. There was reason to think that entire institutions of learning weren’t dedicated to something anyone could learn overnight.
Having a stand-off with herself was becoming an oddly routine feeling. Not that it made her look any less weird from the outside. She could already feel the green-scarfed Alexander staring at her from across the broken chapel.
Alright. I can dig a bit of a training arc. Now chop-chop, times a-wasting, let’s get those bolts a-flinging.
Rye stood up, making sure to take as much time as she wanted. “If time turns back when we die, don’t we have infinite time?”
Only if we have infinite lives and at about eleven to thirteen deaths, we literally start falling apart with every further one, in body, mind and soul. Time loop or not, we lose when we forget who we are. Now c’mon, let’s double that accuracy to thirty percent.
“Could have worded that a bit nicer and less existentially terrifying,” Rye mumbled before walking out behind the chapel, over two undead’s corpses and onto the small island in the middle of swampy bogland. There, she took the most rotten looking tree, aimed, and fired.
The bolt formed, slowly over roughly five seconds, before a force pulled it forward at her command. It missed the tree, plonking into the muddy swamp water. She disregarded the shot and focused on another.
And another. And another. The fifth one was her limit but a quick trip to the checkpoint bowl alleviated her mental exhaustion and the accompanying nosebleed. Sets of five, then a short trip back, possibly small talk with the soldiers, then another five bolts.
The magic came to her naturally, an instinct like a well-practiced gesture of the hand. Magic. Magic! It felt too good to be real, a dream come true if she only disregarded the purely violent applications of her singular spell. Getting into a rhythm was easy but keeping it up while errant thoughts drove her mind into dark and grumbly places kept her from consistent concentration. A distraction would be welcome.
“Tell me, how those metal carriages in your dream work. Do they have little critters pushing them forward underneath? Does the road itself move them forward? Are they even real?”
A cheshire grin bloomed inside her mind.
Cars are easy. All they require for fuel is the following: Magic, the blood, sweat and tears of the common worker, and a furby chanting pig Latin backwards. What’s really hard is how to make them and let me tell you, I was the best automobile crafter once…
The time they spent went by in the blink of an eye.
Soul count: x2521
Shard count: Bone shard [Common] x4 [Uncommon] x0
----------------------------------------
… and that is why the pharmaceutical industry makes a bigger profit off of keeping you half sick than curing you outright.
“Well, at least their medicine works, from what I hear.” Rye focused on a nearby tree, letting her magic flow through her arm. It didn’t feel any less exciting even after doing it over a hundred times and she had to admit that watching the ice form made her heart flutter a little. “Hard to tell if the apothecaries in Arvale are selling you official cures or just something that will make you even more sick.”
She put all her focus into the next, willing it to wait for her command to surge forward as long as possible.
The projectile flew, missed the thick trunk by nearly a foot. She bit down her frustration, deciding to glare at the tree instead. Quibbles croaked, swimming happily in the swamp.
If only you didn’t need to sell your soul for a three-month supply of insulin. But y’know, with enough money–
“–you can pay a king for an arm and a leg.”
Yeah, that. What a weird adage.
“It’s not like yours are any better. What even is a ‘fiat punto’? What do you mean when you say you ‘farmed undead’? Half the time you don’t make any darn sense and the other half you’re making jokes I don’t understand, probably.”
I think that might be due to the translation going on. I can tell you right now, everything you say comes to me in a weirdly accented English.
Another shot. A near miss, though only a grazing hit. “And for me, you sound the way some street-rats mangle the holy language of our empire, empyrean.”
Gee, give a medal to whoever came up with those two names.
Like always, she tried and failed to manifest a sixth bolt. Her arm was frigid, shivering like after a day of exhausting labor and whenever she tried to go above her limits, all that manifested were headaches and nosebleeds. Magic had its advantages, but a solution to all her problems it was not.
But wow, imagine the look on the faces of her parents when she returned with a boon of magic. Uncommon as well. Sam would be surprised but happy, Mum would be overjoyed; marriage prospects would be so much better with an uncommon. Da would be satisfied for sure and Marcus and Cali would twist themselves into knots with envy. Marcus always wanted to go to the legions and become a soldier like Da’, but Da’ never let him. He was the second in line, an important role should anything happen to Rye.
Something did happen, something that resulted in her death and branding with the curse of undeath. She couldn’t remember it, not how she died, not when or why. Maybe she should ask Elia. Then again, how could she trust a word out of her mouth?
Her thoughts were jumping hard today, possibly a side effect of conjuring ice again and again. It was time to stop soon. She’d rather not lose more of herself. Memories, personality, ability. Identity. Sacrificing a boon didn’t seem so unreasonable anymore, not when the alternative was a loss of everything else.
But not her magic. Anything but her magic. There had to be a cure. If there wasn’t, then…
“Think happy thoughts. Happy thoughts, Rye,” She muttered.
Puppies. Kittens. Salami. Warm milk.
“Thanks.” She swallowed once and let her mind settle on a less existentially horrifying conundrum. All would be well, as long as they reached Loften in appreciable time.
With a leaden sigh, she returned to the bowl of healing water for another sip. If she could have chosen her magic, it would have been one that did her chores for her, that would make everyone love her or allowed her to fly. The first step was done, she had a spell she could cast. The next was finding a teacher, then study and then, and then… maybe she could become a real mage.
If she could somehow learn it on the way home. A bolt flew. It missed her target.
“I think I noticed something different this time. A slight tingle. Do you think I’m getting better?”
If you’re trying to bulk your mind-muscles or something, don’t bother. Nothing ever worked for my muscle-muscles. Did push-ups once, shattered my wrist. Might be the undeath working. Whenever I hit, I have to swing with my entire body for less than stellar results. Of course, since I’m awesome, I still kick ass. You’ll have to rely on gaining pure, raw proficiency. Stats will come with the big souls.
“O-oh.” All the work puffing herself up immediately deflated. “Oh…”
“Oi lass,” Sextus called out. “We’re ‘eadin’ out, ya with us?”
“Um,” Rye um-ed, ever a paragon of confidence. “I don’t suppose we have time for a short nap…?”
He shrugged. “We’ll go on ahead then. Be seein’ ya.”
As he turned to leave, Rye felt a sinking dread return. “W-wait! I’ll come with. I… I’d rather not be alone.”
“Depends, what can you do for us– ow!” Tertius got slapped above the head by Sextus, who just gave Rye a grinning smile.
“We ain’t cruel enough to deny anyone our company. Better four than three anyhow.”
Aren’t you forgetting someone? Rude. Hey, that’s actually pretty fun to say. Rude, rude, rude.
With apprehension and just a bit of anxiety, Rye scooped up Quibbles and followed them out from the protecting walls onto a small half-sunken path through the swamp. Everything was quiet as the anticipation of disaster ate its way through her bowels, leaving a hole for every ill thought to take root in.