In a moment of utter clarity, Elia breathed in and didn’t feel like she was dying. Her headache was gone and so were the IVs. One look around and she quickly learned that she was sleeping inside a coffin. She shot up, coughed up a lungful of mud and wet ash only to realize that she was wrong on both accounts: firstly, it was not a coffin, but a sarcophagus as it was made of stone instead of wood and secondly, people didn’t sleep inside coffins unless it was for a prank.
Maybe this was a prank. It may have been a bit too morose for the hospital staff at Providence, but it was just macabre enough for her tastes. If living under constant threat of death did anything for her, it was finding fast friends with those who did find her darker humor amusing.
“Wait, I don’t have any friends.” Elia immediately froze. Why did she sound so… squeaky? “Hello-o?”
She touched her face and felt the cold bite of steel. At first, she thought someone must have hooked up some new medical doohickey to her, but her hand was gloved in a metal gauntlet. Her head felt uncomfortably tight. She tapped a metal glove against a metal helmet.
Helmet. Gloves. Arm plate. Chest plate. Leg plate. Steel tipped boots. Something that smelled like too old leather cushioned it beneath and over her armor there was a… hospital gown? No, a coat of arms? Whatever it was, she delegated it to her new emergency napkin.
This was… fine? This was just another step to the prank. Whoever set it up must still be around. Now, how to turn it around on them?
She looked up and saw a sky she didn’t recognize. She looked left and right. There were at least two desiccated corpses within ten feet of her, and not the Halloween kind. Now that was a reason for unease.
“What the fuck…”
With stumbling gait she wrenched herself to a stand and found everything off, her proportions, her perception and proprioception. She reached the nearby water fountain but it just turned out to be a bowl of tepid water. Brushing aside the generous algal carpet she came face to face with rye-blonde hair, pale blue eyes, and a small square face squished in by some open-faced medieval helmet.
She poked her cheek. She felt herself touch her face.
This was definitely not a prank. This was a fever dream. It was probably three AM and she was passed out in the bathroom from overexertion again.
“Freaky.”
There were more sarcophagi like hers nearby, some neatly rowed against the walls overgrown with dead ivy, some haphazardly stacked upon each other. A few of them held rotten bodies, more were empty and all of them made her ponder that maybe she shouldn’t have binged The Walking Dead the night before.
Oh well. It was time to see how deep this dream would take her. She staggered forward and down the only exit as the maze swallowed her whole.
It took ages for anything to change, always the same scenery leading her into dead ends or overly elaborate loops. At least her body seemed to be doing fine, but that was to be expected from a dream. Every touch felt so real though and she was fairly certain that she was neither a lucid dreamer nor that dreams came with such… pungent smells.
After half an hour spent walking in circles, she happened upon another person wrapped in baggy clothes. She stopped, didn’t yell out at first. Some part of her felt an instinctive unease, but that was just the stupid reptile brain being stupid. This was clearly someone trying to prank her with a jumpscare.
“Hey fuck-nut, jigg’s up.”
The person wrenched their neck skywards and a zombie stared back at Elia, an undead with leathery skin, a missing nose and once-red hair that hung off the rotted scalp in loose bushels.
“Nice walking dead cosplay, but the museum for medieval history is that wa—"
She didn’t get to finish her sentence as a hatchet flew past her and clattered against the stone. It didn't sound like it was made of foam and on second glance that person was missing an eye. A spider crawled out of it and Elia screamed.
The undead chased after her as she bolted down the path she’d come, past a left, down a right, up and over a fallen bit of wall. The undead didn’t let up. For however much speed she had on it, she didn’t know this damn place and had to double back twice as often. Soon enough, the undead had cornered her.
“I, fuck, get back, I have a gun!” she lied.
The undead must not have known what a gun was as it charged, recklessly wrestling her to the ground. Elia screamed, screamed so hard she must have popped her own ear drums. Where were the nurses, where were the other patients, the visitors, anyone?
A dagger cut her, and she felt pain, blinding, sharp, unfamiliar and so, so much of it. She screamed louder then and shortly after not at all as she slowly choked on her own blood.
You have died
You have lost: Nothing
Elia woke up, wide awake in her stone sarcophagus. A shimmering haze of smoke hung near her vision, informing her of the evident and impossible.
“This is real,” she muttered, staring at the sky for a while.
So, she finally bit the dust and god deigned to give her a second chance. Reincarnation. This wasn’t a part of the Christian pact but then again maybe she should actually have gone to her communion instead of skipping church. Maybe she should have taken a different turn. Maybe she should have noticed the sword laying buried with her, but she did none of the above. Instead, she stayed in her coffin, clutched herself tight and tried not to cry.
Finally, something was going right for her, finally she had a chance to do something and live. A second chance? She’d show the world, show it that she was someone. A smile formed in between her tears.
Now, how to get out of this tutorial maze?
----------------------------------------
Her armor was still hot when Elia awoke, and she blinked through bleary eyes only to find herself back among the composting pantry. The knowledge on how to groom, feed and dress all types of equines was gone and every thought straying too close to the tender void inside her head made her wince.
It was fine. She didn’t want to become a renowned horse breeder anyways. It didn’t hurt any more than that memory of her first moments in this world. She still had a good body at the time, past-her should have tripped the undead, twisted its wrist, stabbed it…
Past her could have never done it. Past her was dead and gone. There was nothing to be gained from looking that far back.
“Rye?” she asked, in the hopes of turning her mind to banter.
No answer. Did she have a nightmare? Elia sat up and immediately regretted it as she was bombarded with the past day’s worth of memories all at once. Through it all, the fighting, the drinking, she felt an inkling of an emotion she thought long buried. Shame.
She should have told Rye to stop, forced her if need be. It was only a matter of time until an insurmountable roadblock announced itself with a smack to the face. What if the demon hadn’t taken one of her useless boons, what then? [Heavy Hailstone Bolt] was a strong ranged option, one they were relying on more and more. And [Psychometry]? That boon was half the reason they could navigate this medieval post-apocalyptic world. Given that it didn’t noticeably stress whatever spirit juice Rye’s bolts ran off of, she should have used it more. It was quite possibly also Rye's lifeline. Elia would rather not lose her. Her company was... pleasant, at times. Soothing.
It was then that she noticed something glowing in the hole inside her chest plate. She tried to wrench the armor off but only managed to get her head stuck. As she searched for and found the latches holding the armor together, the front and back fell apart and she had a good look at the round ball of embers sitting atop her chest.
Oddly enough, the fire didn’t hurt to touch. Its glimmer dimmed leaving behind a knot of ashen wood.
Bearing Ash
Ash of a sacrifice given willingly to the flames. Briefly becomes what you need when scattered to the winds.
Those who wish upon a star are met with laughter. Those who wish upon a demon are met with an answer.
As much as she wanted to scream in delight, all she managed was a discontented cough that blew even more ash everywhere. This was it? This was what Rye had burned alive for?
“Become a gun,” she said, holding the ball of ash in the air. “A lightsaber! An AH-64 Apache! A… jetpack? A plane?”
Nothing happened. If it was limited to what could exist or had existed in this world, then her creativity was severely limited.
“I want wings.” Nothing happened. “Dammit.”
On second thought, this was Rye’s reward. Elia didn’t deserve to use it. She owed Rye for becoming piss-drunk in the middle of a dungeon crawl; the resulting screw-up was her own damn fault. It was time to try and make it up to her and the simplest way was saving Pascal.
She got up and made her way to Theodore’s quite large holding cell. The ashen floor was back to how it was before, not a sign of trespass or structural instability. The scaled bird unburied itself, measuring Elia with an arrogant look.
“C’mere chicken. C’mon.”
The ‘chicken’ did not budge. Maybe it was the tone of her voice. Or it was the knife she was holding. Subconsciously, she was still split on whether to roast or bake the chicken and somehow it could smell her intent.
“Oh, come on, I don’t want to eat you that much. I need that.” She pointed towards the keychain half-buried in the ash. “It’s a key item – literally! Can I have it… please?”
She took another light step forward. The chicken cawed threateningly. Worse, it looked Elia in the eye and she recognized a spark of something inside it. It grabbed the keychain with its feet–
“Yes, now give it here you stupid bird.”
–and kicked it further back. Elia bit down a creative insult. The chicken was intelligent enough to understand either her words or gestures. Now, eating it would be weird. Instead, she took a page out of Rye’s book and offered one of the few remaining dried fruits.
“Food for key.”
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The chicken did not look impressed. Elia added five more – the remains of her supplies – to the bargain and suddenly all was forgiven as it picked up the keychain in one foot and approached to partake in the much more enticing offer.
Unlike before, it did not let her pet it. Stupid bird. At least she could get at the keys.
Prison key
Keys to the cells beneath Glenrock Castle. A curious many dangle from an iron hoop, yet where once there were only petty criminals, now all are considered trespassers and Forlorn are stacked high.
Given the choice between encountering tar-sodden knights above and being turned to ash below, it is little wonder so many chose their end in a cell.
“Hm.” That explained the odd hand or foot jutting from the ashen floor. Some undead thought they were brave or smart enough to fight that… thing, possibly blinded by their invincibility. Even as an undead, some fights were too dangerous to attempt without a plan for their inevitable corpse. Elia spied a glittering ring on one and with her greed for loot reawakened, she slowly tip–toed over to it.
Bronze Ring
A ring of bronze is cheaper than pure copper, given that it is less conducive to Ruthe’s magic of metal and stone. This ring has since lost its potency and is now little more than decorative scrap waiting to be smelted.
“Aww.” She still took it, because maybe it would be of worth to someone. Unlike the metal helmet she found lying right next to it, which was blackened by soot and bent out of use by incredible heat.
Smolder helm
Helmet of a faraway knight, melted under great heat. Protects the wearer from fire, but the brittle metal will give easily against bludgeoning force.
The gates of Glenrock Castle remained closed by decree of Lord Captain Hall and he was not seen outside his quarters ever since.
“Because there’s a fuckin demon in his cellar and tarry goop inside his knights! He knows this place is ass, he just doesn’t care!” The chicken eyed her suspiciously as the helmet clattered against the far wall.
God, she wanted to kill that demon, wanted to watch it repeat the same old moves again and again until she knew it better than it knew herself, until victory came through grinding probability. A spiteful victory. Vengeance.
Vengeance.
It was times like these that Elia struggled the hardest against the haze, as it creeped up from everywhere within. She could leave her body on auto pilot, disassociating until everything was cast as vague shapes and impressions. She could also jump off a cliff, because that way she’d at least know why most of her gear was totaled after she came back. If she gave in now, the demon might be dead when she next came to, or she might lose everything she had built up so far.
And then there was Rhuna to worry about. By this point Elia chalked their unfortunate encounter up to chance; she died plenty enough to attract anyone with an ability to detect as much. Worrying down that line led nowhere. It was a shame that the person she had the most in common with was the one she had to avoid the most.
At some point, she found her way back to the cells, numbly fantasizing about all who had to die by her hands. The demon. The mind-screwing knight. The roc. God. What was she doing again, standing in front of the old man’s cell?
Pascal looked up at her from under his bushy brows. “Ah, you are back. May I ask what happened to your hair?”
Elia grasped at her forehead. It was as smooth as a billiard ball. No brows, no lashes, no knotted, ratty hair.
“Lost it.” Now, where was she? Ah, right. Yes, many people had to die, but how? More souls was the answer, big and small, more shards, common and rarer, more gear, good and better, more–
“Apologies. I didn’t mean to be rude.” He coughed awkwardly before his eyes alighted on the keychain in her hand. “Oh. Oh… you found the demon, found the warden. You’re not charcoal and ash either. All for a traitor you don’t even know. Some might be inclined to call you daft, don’t you know?”
“Hm.” Elia hm-ed before throwing the keychain at his feet. “Going ahead. Figure yourself out.”
She went up the stairs past the moldy larder and felt her steps quicken to jumps as she slid past knives and cauldrons to rip open a door and savagely disembowel the man behind.
You have gained: Soul x600
You have gained: Soul shard [Common] x2
“No essence. Nice shards. You should learn to loot better next time, eh Ry–“ She bit her lip.
Right. Rye was asleep and didn't want to wake up. The edge around the fist-sized hole in her chest plate cut uncomfortably at her skin and what felt like crumbly remains of her gambeson chafed against her every time she moved. Despite her boasts to slay a god, despite all her new strength, all her tools, she was still a small fish in a wide ocean festering with demons and worse. Why was she helping this stranger, what was she even doing in this castle, what was the point?
She left the maze to free herself from repetition and find peace, but at the drop of a hat she threw it away only to press on doing the same old, same old. Maybe she really was blood-crazed. Maybe she never would be able to leave the labyrinth behind completely. Or maybe those sodden walls had just been a teaser to how the rest of the world operated.
She walked out the kitchen door, watching the dregs mill about in their little yard filled with weapons, prison carts and the dead. One of them spotted her. It swung. It missed. It died.
You have gained: Bone shard [Common] x1
Did she really expect anything more from this world? Expect a level of fantasy, of quest boards and simple adventure? She should have known ever since the boon lootboxes that this place took what it wanted and let her choke on the rest.
“Lady Rye-grain.” the voice of the old man joined her rumination. For all of his appearance of a walking urn with freakishly long arms and legs, he looked quite amiable. “I–“
“No.”
“I wish to convey my thanks. Wish you–“
“Not interested.”
“But–“
Elia shut him up with a single look as she contemplated murder to gain some peace and quiet. The intrusive thoughts didn’t win out, for now. He didn’t look like he’d be worth many souls anyhow.
The silence stretched as Pascal seemed to consider whether he had the wrong person.
“You are not a polite young girl. Hrmph.”
“Hm.” Elia hm-ed.
Pascal answered with a chuff. “Hrmph!”
“Hm-hm.”
“Hrmph…”
They stood watching a larger dreg fall over as one of the flail heads dragging behind caught on a spoked wheel. With shivering limbs, the undead righted itself, continuing on its path right where it left off. It was almost embarrassing to admit that she used to be intimidated by these kinds of dregs. They seemed so simple, so thoughtless, like robots rather than living beings. That Rye still thought of them as humans seemed equally ludicrous.
“It has become worse, this place. More wretches, more dregs.” Pascal chuckled dryly. “Gods, and all I can do is laugh. They were my family once.”
The image of Pascal drinking with a bunch of rotting undead at table hit her as somewhat amusing. “Bet it feels good seeing them put in their place.”
“It should, maybe. They betrayed me after I betrayed them, but I was first.” He sighed. “I betrayed my service, betrayed my calling. I betrayed myself and now I am left to live for my sin.”
“Oh please,” Elia scoffed, “I bet they didn’t lose any sleep for forgetting you in their cellar. How long did they lock you up for anyhow?”
“It was a short century.” He rubbed his eyes as if the omnipresent half-light was blinding. “Undead flesh is strong , but the mind turns peculiar when surrounded by so much stone.”
“Hm.” Elia wiped her petal knife on her boots. “Mood. Follow me. I’ll clear a path.”
And that she did, mostly by virtue of not being able to sneak past most undead with a doddering old man on her heels. It wasn’t any harder than protecting Rye with only one hand, heck, it was leagues easier even as she had to wait on him rummaging around an old smithy for whatever trinkets he hoped to find. Elia herself hoped that one of the many chest plates might have fit her, but most of it was rusting where they were exposed to the wet air.
“Ugh, that blasted war effort took all my ore. I was a finesmith once, before serving a term under the knights. But whoever made all this, pah, amateurs! All this armor is rubbish, no respect for the metal, for time, or the art. Where is – blast.” He stumbled into a pillar and the wooden roofing, rotten and weighed down by barrels of useless clutter, collapsed on his head. Elia was half expecting him to have killed himself by accident, but he stood up as if the piles of wood and loose masonry didn’t weigh a single bit. “Ouch. Found it.”
He proudly held up a stone device that reminded her of a mixture between a large pot, a furnace, and a pagoda, as well as an unassuming bag.
“For you.” He emptied the bag and gave her a ring. “It was intended for a brave knight. Seems it was destined for a brave Rye-grain instead.”
Wolfbite Ring
One of the knightly rings handed out for exceptional service to the four orders keeping Loften’s borders. The wearer’s wounds bleed less. A useful item, considering wolves aren’t the only things that threaten exsanguination this close to the swamp.
“Oh. Thanks.” She had never seen one of these before. The description was vague and her expectations tame, but loot was loot. “And what’s that thing for?”
“This is a cold furnace.” The man said. He was having difficulty just saying as much under its weight. “It is furnace, anvil, chisel, and more. It is portable and uses no coal, burns spirit and souls instead. A good metal-carver needs good tools after all. How else am I to serve you?”
“You want to serve me?”
Pascal shrugged. “If you would have me. You showed me kindness where others would have given me the wheel. I wouldn’t be ashamed of serving a lady such as you.”
Elia was a bit staggered. Was that how they did things in this place? She had more than enough to care for with Rye, but he was useful. She might just send him to Crossroad temple.
“Sure, I’ll let you help me. So, this might be a long shot, but can you open a lockbox for me?” Elia showed him the lockbox she had snatched some hours ago.
“Hmm.” Picked it up, pinching it in between his two fingers. “Steel. Spring-lock. Sturdy. Have you lost your keys?”
“No, my lockpicks.”
That got her a raised eyebrow, but he soon proved an alright guy as he didn’t dig further. As he caressed the hinges with his thumb, she watched them disassemble where he had touched, rusted metal falling to the ground as the lock sprang open, discharging its cargo of pins and springs nearby.
“Thanks.” She fished a closing pin out of her collar. “But I’m guessing your boon didn’t work on your cell’s lock mechanism, else you wouldn’t have been down there.”
He sighed. “It’s the lot of many a common boon, to be either too weak to matter or too specific to be practical. Mine is quite poorly restricted even before the essence. Would you care to guess what it stipulates?”
“Sure.” Elia had more than her fair share of bad boon experiences. “It only works on small things?”
He laughed. “If only! No, it only works on stolen goods.”
“Hah, yikes. One of my boons tells me the weather through aches in my joints.” And even then, it was faulty enough to only tell her rain was coming soon, when she’d never seen the clouds above move one bit. The boon was worse than bad, it was broken.
This time, Pascal laughed even louder. “You squishy folk are such odd people. You bleed, you get hurt and you die when your bones grow spongy and soft. We stone-folk, we are made for a task, live for our task and when that task is completed we finally sit down and die. Sadly, my task was to smith weapons.”
“And the world always needs more of those.” Elia lifted the lid of the box to reveal a small pillow. Upon it rested a marble, biting swirls chasing each other beneath the surface.
Essence of Rending
An essence of rending force caught within a glossy shell of a pearl-like substance. Swallow to imbue a boon with essence.
“A strong essence,” the metal-carver commented. “You ought to keep it and think about its use thoroughly.”
“Don’t have a boon for it anyways.” And it would stay like that for the foreseeable future. Damn lootboxes.
They reached the field of dead ogres and Elia watched the man make a sign of prayer, pinching thumb and index together to draw a circle on his chest. She caught the coiled conch flung their way and returned it to the sender, mind still somewhere between here and nowhere.
“So Pascal, you’re an old dude, right? What’s the purpose of life?”
“You are assuming a lot and asking much more.” He looked at her sidelong, vocalizing a string of sounds like rolling gravel that might as well be its own language or just a cough. “My purpose is to smith, to make weapons and armor so you may gather souls and shards, to bring them to Loften where all things end. ”
“I dunno, being an undead is kinda overrated and all I’m hearing out of you is a distinct lack of sagely advice.”
He grumbled again, this time like a dissatisfied stormcloud as he turned this way and that. “I am a smith. I know smithing and metal and bother with little else. Do you seek my wisdom for my age?”
Pascal hefted the cold furnace over the precipice of the cathedral, setting it down with a reverent huff some ways away from both bowl and altar. The Wolf was not here anymore, probably off to insult some other undead until they died of shame a second time.
“Then listen, and listen well: Cherish your second life. You are forlorn, but also unbound. If you had a duty before, you are free of it now. Make friends and guard them well. Be happy.”
Elia hmm-ed as she pondered what essentially boiled down to ‘have fun’. How far did that apply? Was having fun at the cost of the mindless dregs more acceptable than at the cost of the more lucid undead? How did one have fun without the luxuries of both modern and medieval times? Was Rye right? Was the only way to be happy to find some paramour to lie with, to fuck and forget how shitty life was in the outside world?
Maybe she should find herself a small, more achievable goal than asking someone out. Maybe she should try to make a burger.
She didn’t have time for further pondering as she felt more than heard Rye blink awake inside her head.