Frank spent several torturous minutes stuck in that timeless place. Weighing pros and cons and unable to decide. Mercy was tempting in the sheer immediate relief it would deliver. Letting him heal and carve more often, as well as returning his blessed flesh. But he still dismissed it early. They were coming back, if slowly. He didn’t come all this way for something he was getting back anyway.
He wasn’t interested in anything on the first screen, or in smothering the embers. Frank wanted to keep his magic, and so long as he had his stones, he did not fear regular cold. After all, he could wear furs now, which reduced the possible utility of the only entry on the first screen he may have considered, Frostblood.
A return of his Charisma would mean a return of a much larger mana pool. Presence governed the size of it, as he’d learned when his own went up in the Academy. The illusionary exercises mixed with full contact battles had been unlike anything he’d ever experienced. They certainly pushed him to his limits and beyond. It was tempting and would open many doors. He could again be an effective Commander or leader of his own group. That would be a maybe, if not for what came after.
Celestial Resilience II and Frostfire. The first would raise his Body to five when it recovered, where every Attribute started mixing with magic and entered what would be supernatural back home. It might allow him to develop a corresponding skill to adapt to the scars and the Embers, or to heal from them, over time. The boon could be not only an increase in Body and a strengthening of his Celestial nature, but also a return over time of the six Ability points Scorched was denying him now.
The trouble was that while they’d studied famous examples and what high Attributes could do in class, the lessons were for regular curses. Body five and six was where one became able to fight back against magical maladies, true. But the curse he had was more than magical.
“Nothing short of Heaven or Divinity can lift this Curse.”
And Body five wasn’t that. Celestial Resilience didn’t mention curses. It meant that he could not trust it to do the job. He wanted Celestial Resilience. No matter how tempting a possible second source was, the idea that he was supposed to summon fires, fires that he couldn’t control and would then burn not only the Curse but Frank as well? It was stupid.
The possible second source was tempting, but not that tempting. Trouble was, if nothing else would let him deal with Scorched without losing his magic, he was six Attributes down. Frank only gained five in thirty months of dedicated Hero training, with enchanted support, and some of the best personal trainers in the Empire. When he also didn’t have to worry about funds, food, or how to pay for any of it.
That kind of progress was reserved for high nobility who could afford to sink a fortune in training up their kids. Or once in a generation summoned Heroes whose training was funded by the Emperor.
He didn’t have anything like it or a way to get such perfect conditions again. “Perfect for progress, anyway.” If someone offered Frank a ticket back to that hell, he’d run the other way. Frank had come out much stronger out of the Academy, but many had broken, or fallen to vice, and Frank knew he had scars from it too. The kind that didn’t show up on his skin.
Point was, it would take him years of effort to try and raise his Attributes, and he still might not get three Attributes, let alone six.
Frostfire was the most exotic of the options, what he would have said to have the highest pre-requisites, rarest. In a game, it would mean more powerful. In this world, it wasn’t always so.
The one thing that nearly made him choose something else was that the description said nothing about Frostfire being Divine or Celestial itself. And if it somehow wasn’t... he was screwed.
Frank still made his choice-
Frostfire
You may focus your Health into the Embers within you. Burning your life away and feeding the embers. The sacrifice of Life to the Fires of Creation shall, through your nature and His gift, birth temporary Frostfire. That which burns the ephemeral and the alien: spirits, undead, voidlings and outsiders. As well as Curses.
-because the Worldvoice wasn’t malicious as best he knew. If it offered something as an option, it should help. The world started moving again. The roots pinning him in place along with the flowers were frozen and shattered as he yanked his hand back and blacked out from the sudden wave of pain erupting from his hand as it too shattered.
***
When he woke up, Frank expected to have no Health. Or for it to be mostly gone, along with his hand.
Health = 40/42
Mana = 0
It wasn’t. The memory of everything that happened was still vivid in his mind, but there was no sign of the injury. He hadn’t woken up in the tunnel either. Instead, Frank had woken up on the shore of the pool and there was no sign of the start of the climb he had taken.
Only checking his Lifecord had reassured him he hadn’t imagined it. Sitting in his Instinct skill box was the boon he’d gained.
Instinct = 3
-Empathy 1 (0/20)
-Reflexes 2
+Bargaining 1 (7/20)
+Survival 1 (4/20)
+Channel 1 (12/20)
-Frostfire 1
It was a Skill.
Frank couldn’t access it until he slotted the Skill in. He needed Bargaining more than Survival, as coin and trade helped him more than knowing how to handle the wilderness on his own. They helped pay for supplies and the caravan including the escort on the way here and back. He promptly removed Survival and slotted in Frostfire.
Instinct = 3
-Empathy 1 (0/20)
-Reflexes 2
+Bargaining 1 (7/20)
-Survival 1 (4/20)
+Channel 1 (12/20)
+Frostfire 1 (10d)
Since this was only the first tier of the skill, it would take ten days for it to finish settling. Survival would be long gone by then, probably after the second day. Skills and skill slots were just one of the things Frank was forced to adapt to, and each tier took about ten days to settle in, when switching.
“You only have three Instinct? Well, you can only slot three Instinctive skills, and only up to tier three of a skill. If you don’t have the Attribute for it, the skill doesn’t work.”
Like his Red Sun spearman skills. The whole style had a Strength three base floor. No Strength three, no using the style. It falls apart.
In theory, he could start practicing Frostfire now. In practice, it was best to let the Skill slot in at least halfway before practicing it, to avoid injuries. With a dangerous skill like this one, he’d wait the full ten days before attempting to use it.
The other change, one that was a pleasant surprise was to his recovery times. Though in hindsight, maybe it shouldn’t be. He was trying to touch and reach something Divine, or at least Heavenly.
All the timers for his Hero recoveries had jumped a month ahead, from 105 to 130.
***
Frank left the circle through the same gate he came in. The next pilgrim got going, while the rest greeted him.
“Well, you’re still ugly, but from the look of you, it didn’t fail. Not that any had thought it had, when the storm blew in all the way to the walls! They say that’s a sign of the bloom.” Cherna greeted him.
Deli firmly planted her elbow into her side, causing Cherna to dance away scowling. “Hey now! You took Health off with that!”
“All is well, Frank?” Deli asked him, ignoring the other woman’s grumbling.
“I think so. It should be. The Worldvoice is not deceptive by nature. If it offered me a boon to help fight of a malaise, it should work on the one I made the pilgrimage for, right?”
“Right!” She agreed, nodding firmly.
“Then I need but wait until the boon settles.” Frank told her, trying to reassure her. A part of him was worried he’d just wasted the whole trip, but it was a small part.
“Will you wait with us for the other Pilgrims?” She asked, hinting he should stay.
Frank looked around. The tents were gone, and the benches served well enough. With those two around, they were about as safe as anywhere in these mountains.
“I don’t think I can. We’re set to return in the morning, and I have trinkets to sell.”
Deli pouted at him, but nodded. “I understand. We all must do what we have to earn our survival. May your trades be just and prosperous, Frank.”
“And your watch unchallenged Deli.”
They gave each other slight head tilts, and parted ways.
The local market shouldn’t be hard to find. He wanted to see how well the stones would sell here. He was running a bit high on them, between the trip, and how the people of the last town tried to bid for them at nearly half the price the other towns went for.
***
As it happens, the Tree was the cause. He’d read something about it among the choices and still missed the implications. Child of Cold. Why wouldn’t people who lived under the Tree touch it, every one of them? Or those who lived in towns close enough to make the trip in the summer, with relative ease?
It was exactly the kind of blessing a lot of people living in this environment would pick. And had, over many generations. So much so, that Child of Cold had turned into an inherited trait. One of the wealthier local merchants had explained the whole thing to him, while buying two stones as curiosities, and something to perhaps resell, on his next stop.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
He did not buy them for a pittance, but it was hardly full price. Still, the sale was enough to pay for a few meals and for Frank to refill his supply of travel rations. Which left his savings untouched.
Last Light, as the town was called, did not have much of a market, not this late in the year. Mostly it was growers selling their shrooms, coldbeeries and Ilvir tubers and hunters selling their catches. Frank bought two baked Ilvir tubers, before heading out to a stream on the outskirts of town.
The baked tubers coated in hot grease reminded him of French fries back home. The skin wasn’t edible, but once baked, it peeled easy. The sellers would give a nice touch of the fire, before smearing on a layer of grease for a great snack on the go. They grew them all over the mountain range, and in every basement. The tubers were native to it, growing among forest roots and in caves. While they benefited from the sun, they could grow without it.
It was a quirk of the region. Like the coldberry bush, many local plants benefitted from sunlight, but didn’t exactly need it. So long as the ground was properly fertilised during the summer, they could survive the winter, even buried in the snow.
He wasn’t clear on the actual mechanisms of it, never having had the time to dig into it. But they were tasty, or filling, and sometimes both. Travel bread was usually made from a mix of the two, with the more expensive variants having coldberries baked in.
In taste, they reminded him most of fresh blackberries, but he’d only tried a few. They weren’t cheap.
Frank kept an eye out for any wild plants. The people of the town had probably already harvested them all, but with his Survival skill still up today, maybe he’d find something they’d missed.
***
He didn’t, but he did manage to find the stream. The fresh water flowed around the outer walls at one part, not far from the small gate he left the town from. Frank followed it along the walls, collecting smooth stones and pebbles that looked like good blanks. He still wasn’t sure if the type of rock mattered. He’d tried to keep them all straight in his head, and in a small table in his notes, but so far, the effort was fruitless.
He wasn’t a geologist, he was an ecologist.
While Frank was often frustrated by his inability to do the basic exercises that all fire mages were supposed to learn first, like rolling and throwing flameballs and unleashing burst of flames from his hands, the stones on him helped a lot with not freezing to death while walking by, and sometimes in, a frozen stream.
Which was neat.
With how poorly sales in town had gone, Frank didn’t want to deplete his funds for some furs here. Not when this was the cheapest he’d ever seen it, for this kind of wood. He’d been saving up for the occasion, but it seemed that even with the poor sales, he’d have leftover coin for emergencies. He could get new clothes in the next town, or better yet, the one after that, when the prices were sensible again.
A staff made from actual holy wood was a much better purchase here. It didn’t look like much, but if the tales were true, and the wooden axes lent some weight to them, wood from the Eternal Tree could strike ghosts and other such monsters.
Multiple times on his walk along the stream trying out his new walking stick, Frank heard something rustling in the bushes nearby. He kept his head sweeping the sparse forest and bushes, until one of the noises started getting closer. While he was itching to try out the staff for real, it wasn’t for animals. Frank slipped a hand into his deteriorated Runes bag, and poured a full mote of wild, agitated fire into it. Not the focused thing from his carving, but fire rampart, burning, like he had felt it when his own flesh cooked.
Instead of trying to hold, shape and control the flames, he let them out.
It had taken some time to get used to echoes of the fire, while Channeling. While the memories made his burns ache in phantom pain, when he threw the empowered stone in the general direction of the shuffling bush, it released bursts of flame that spread out randomly. The randomness didn’t truly matter, in this case. Wildlife in this biome hated and feared fire. The thing ran, and he was not disturbed again. Frank never even saw what animal had their to sneak up on him.
***
The next morning found Frank in an argument. Well, less in one, and more a witness to it. It was still important. Gathered before the gates and packed to go were the leaders of the caravan. The Empire Lord, the Dunerider, the Captain of the guards, the caravan master, and the leader of the departing pilgrims, whose numbers had grown by two.
Which was Frank.
The caravan master glanced nervously towards the northern sky. “And I tell you, my Lord and Rider, the Winter Winds have come early. We cannot delay if we mean to leave the mountains before the Day of Trials. We’ll be snowed in.”
The Day of Trials was the last day of the year. Frank wanted to be much further east and south before the New Years.
“I will not be moved by some weather.” The Lord drawled. “We’ve put up with your pace in respect to the Gods, but now the important part of the Pilgrimage is over. I will not surrender the visits to what little civilisation there is in these parts, merely to assuage your fears. I am not afraid of the tales of cravens, nor of some snow.”
It was clear what he was implying towards the Dunerider and his people. “If you wish to challenge the cold, my people will oblige grass muncher. We know it well from the desert nights.” The Sands noble replied coolly.
“But my good Sirs, we must travel south first to outrun the Winds!” The caravan master insisted.
“Silence.” The Lord ordered, coldly furious. “We shall depart as was planned, towards Hightop and the Empire! Only cowards will balk at a little snow!” he challenged.
“You are foolish Lord, and my people shall bring news of your passing to your family.” The Dunerider cut back, riding out as well. Their parties followed, leaving the caravan master in visible distress.
Once they were around the bend, he muttered to the guard Captain:“Well, there go our free monster hunters.”
The Captain frowned, before spitting to the side. “Well then, it’ll be time me and mine earn our keep.”
Neither paid much attention to Frank.
“Excuse me?” He interrupted politely. It wasn’t easy. Both of them, as well as the nobles, had an aura about them, one that demanded attention, respect.
But Frank was used to buckling authority and convention, and he had his own. One of the perks of a decent Presence he’d managed to keep. He may be ugly, but his scars were the intimidating kind.
They turned to him in surprise. Had they actually forgotten about him and the other pilgrims?
“We paid for protection and resupply from Hightop to Last Light and back.” He raised his voice so the guards by the gate could hear him. “I do hope you’re not trying to break that deal and abandon your duties to returning pilgrims.”
Pilgrimages were a big deal. Returns less so, then heading out, where the God might take personal offence at interfering. It was still an unspoken rule: don’t mess with pilgrims. It’s bad for everyone. Even if some demon doesn’t take the chance to empower a vengeful ghost raised by the desecration of a pilgrimage, the story will spread.
The guards from the gates took a step forward, glaring at the caravan master.
“No, no! Of course not. We’ll just be detouring a bit! I’m sure traveling further for the same price will be to your liking!” He quickly denied.
Frank considered it. Clearstone was further than Hightop, and it was a nearly direct line south, from what he could recall of the maps. He didn’t think there was an established trade route though.
“Are you quite certain you won’t get us lost, good master?” He probed formally.
“Oh, of course, of course. That will be no trouble at all.”
Frank wasn’t exceptionally good at telling when someone was trying to trick him. But as far as he could tell, while the merchant was putting a shine on the option, he did consider it the better one. If not to a degree he was trying to sell it as.
“I’ll talk to my people.”
***
As they marched south, Frank couldn’t help but ask: “So what is the problem he wasn’t willing to admit to?” of the local pilgrims.
“The Winter Winds are blowing. Tis the start of the deep snows, and the raiding season. Each village will raid its neighbours and traders for firekeepers.” Cherna explained, voice angry.
“Muscles for brains, too lazy to do their own wintering.” She ranted. “Taking honest working women and men from behind walls who aren’t used to the outside. Servants for the winter, to keep their fires, cook and clean.” Her face twisted in hatred.
“And entertain them.” She spat.
“Winter husbands and wives.” Deli continued, her voice carefully calm. “It is custom to release them at the thaw.”
Cherna growled.
One of the recent additions, a local man by his wild hair, reassured her: ”We needn’t worry. We’re pilgrims.” He turned to the rest of them.
“If the traders have a spot of bad luck, don’t fight. It breaks custom, forfeits the protections. Worse happens, we’ll winter in some remote hamlet, or a raider cave.”
He shrugged.
“We’ll still need to serve, but there are rules on that. Cooking, cleaning, washing. Maybe some hunting. We keep our coin, our supplies. Barter service for the food we’ll need if we end up stuck somewhere. None of the rest of it, not for pilgrims. Heavens forbid touching a maiden!” He said, outraged.
“The honourless fool who dared to force the issue would be cut down by every one of his companions, before the Gods cursed them all.” He claimed confidently.
Frank wasn’t as sure. He’d seen some ugly things in the Empire, between superiors and servants. None here, not yet, but then, he hadn’t seen much of the underbelly of these lands. Maybe it all came up once everyone was buttoned up for the long winter.
He liked the Confederation, for the most part. Frank didn’t want to learn it was as ugly as the Empire. If he had to leave another human nation…
“Besides, the raids keep those sheltered from the real world on their toes. Drives them to grow. Ain’t a single warrior that would prefer a tumble in bed, to a round on the field.”
“It ends the same, someone gets fucked.” Cherna spat, venomously.
“Well sure.” The man shrugged. “But at least with the second, it’s the winner that chooses. Even if they lose, they’ll be getting training how to fight every time. If they don’t like it so much, they’ll get good at it, right quick. Past that, the problem solves itself.” He said, waving at the snow carelessly. “The fools who can’t tell what’s pushing and what’s breaking will get themselves killed and spare all of us the burden of greater woe.”
His voice grew grim.
“Last time a competent tyrant rose in these parts, his own people called in a Warlock to deal with him. Then the rest of us had to go clean out the demons he called before they spread. Best such fools kill themselves by their victims while they’re little tyrants, not big ones.”
“And what about the ones they drag down with them?” Cherna asked, pointedly.
The man chanted, like a prayer, or a song: “The winds blow and the cold comes. Live or die, child of frost, none will do it for you.” His voice was badly off-beat.
He continued:
“If they couldn’t figure out how to cut their host’s throat, or poison lunch, they’ve no one but themselves to blame. Ain’t like any here keep slaves. What use is a chained or bound firekeeper?” He asked, as if he was making an obvious point.
Frank listened to them argue about it. He judged them, but only a little. “Different world, different cultures.” He reminded himself. Truth was, surviving adversity here did make one stronger, as long as the experience didn’t cripple or break them.
Did that justify any of it? Not to him. But Frank wasn’t one of the locals. Didn’t grow up with it. He was still very much an outsider who had only take a college class on how environmental impacts could shape cultures. He knew just enough to know he wasn’t qualified to judge.
Cherna wasn’t happy with it, but it felt personal with her. Deli followed along without much comment. Neither visibly concerned nor surprised.
It occurred to him that there may be more than one reason she was still a maiden. Why someone as focused on Attributes like Boulderdash might frown on another who used her maiden status to avoid that kind of trouble. The strongman would probably say “a bit of pain’s good for them. It would help their Attribute progress.”
Frank just didn’t think it worth the price. Not for him, or anyone he cared for. Hell no.
As far as Frank was concerned, he’d fight monsters over people, any day. But if someone tried something like it, there’d be blood.
If he could make a difference. He wasn’t about to throw his life away.
In the Confederacy, life was cheap. The monsters were always there, waiting. Not a threat to someone ready for them, but deadly to the unwary and the uninitiated. It was why pilgrims needed escorts. The Confederacy had not had a true inner war for centuries. Everyone already knew the results from history.
Whoever the victor, everyone would lose as the monsters fed on the dead and overran weakened towns. While Last Light had not fallen during the last one, every town and village near it had.
There was a reason why, while the Empire bordered the region with multiple provinces, they did not encroach past the southern foothills. It wasn’t worth the price in spilled blood and lost steel to try and hold the land. They settled for taxing some of the towns with easy access and spending more than those taxes brought in to supply border patrols. Which still weren’t enough, as something would regularly make it past and ravage the border.
This was one of the world’s history lessons that had stuck with him, because it was an example of something stopping the Legions. They could and did invade to punish a King, if one grew into a problem, but not hold ground.
Beyond the foothills, each town was an island of humanity surrounded by stone giants. The peaks and slopes teeming with things hunting each other, and the occasional passing human.
Part of Frank thought himself mad for willing to settle here. Every time he wavered, he simply reminded himself of the webs of lies wrapping around him, and knots of plots manoeuvring everyone in the Empire.
It always helped.
At least monsters could be killed. How was he supposed to deal with the third daughter of the Baronet four towns over starting a war among his servants over wanting the Hero to use her tea at the upcoming birthday celebration?
Frank had long since grown sick and tired of smelling blood and finding new red stains in his room at the mansion. Right before one of the staff got to them and they disappeared as if nothing had happened. Much like his servants did after leaving them.
He just couldn’t take it.
Life might be cheap and at times cruel here, but it wasn’t treated with the same disdain and carelessness as the lives of ones and twos were in the Empire.
Not that the Confederation had much, in terms of those limited to only ones and twos. They usually didn’t make it out of childhood.
Trying to clear his dark thoughts, Frank interrupted the brewing fight before it could get too heated:
“Deli, sing us a song will you?”
Deli grinned and stepped up, taking up the lead position for the march. They were going uphill, so she couldn’t do it for long, but it would help morale. He’d be sure to give her a shoulder to lean on as the day went on.
“Many nights the snow grew red.
Fields fallen as jorn(1) balked,
in moonlight, empty bed;
gone the child, a warrior walked.”
Her voice rose, crystal clear and steady:
“In fell night, in their stead,
her feet shadows tread.
Axe held high, above her head,
mother, child, wife;
sound the horn,daughter of life!
Here come the dead!”
They all joined on the final line. The chorus felled snow from trees and sent every bird nearby running.
It also spooked the bulls pulling the trading carts. The caravan master came over to yell at them only for Deli to slip into his space in the blink of an eye and boop him on the nose.
“Dead.” She said with a faint smile.
The master looked at her, frozen in place.
He looked back at his servants and guards, struggling to contain the commotion.
Sighing in defeat he gave a small bow to the group of pilgrims that had caused it.
“Point.”
***
(1) Jorn (Eversnow) – A craven, a coward, not merely in nature, but one who walks to a fight with his company but abandons them once the blood starts flowing. False courage, death of others.