The Ritualist, It Must Be Admitted, Has the Least Association With Tedium of All Classes
Graduation! The faculty of Todelk University's school of ritualism had again succeeded in its mission. A crop of callow, undistinguished Zeroes had been cultivated into bona fide Ritualists capable not only of supporting the modern society that depended so heavily on the rituals they alone could conduct with any assurance of success, but also of furthering mankind's knowledge of rituals in order to bring about a tomorrow more splendid than today.
The superstitions of the past that insisted rituals must always be done this one certain way lest the gods be enraged had long since been beaten back by Reason's sharp brand. Courageous academic Ritualists transformed the very concept of “ritual” into something meant for mankind alone and went on to impart a love of rigor and experimentation to their students, who would go on to become academics themselves bubbling over with theories of improvement, world travelers eager both to gather and distribute ritualism techniques suitable to encourage human flourishing, and practicing Ritualists testing those same techniques every day against reality in order that the best might be recognized and the rest discarded. By the efforts of all the branches of the Ritualist brotherhood, an increase in the prosperity of humanity was assured.
No less would the students themselves benefit. Their names might ever be inscribed in the eternal monument that was the history of the class, their status in society bolstered by the respect owed their accomplishments and learning, and, though perhaps crass to mention, commercial Ritualists made pretty good money. Whatever the particulars, every student there, now former student, was guaranteed a productive and respectable career owing to what had been learned over three years at Todelk University and its school of ritualism, the sixth-most prestigious institution of that kind in all Greater Enloffenkir.
Soot covered every inch of the template drawn on the cold stone floor. Dirant Rikelta, recent graduate and level 6 Ritualist, finished dragging crates to their proper positions while muttering the required words. No artful cadence enlivened the chant, and he made no effort to make it intelligible for the sake of a non-existent audience. Perhaps a layman would have been moved by the poetry of the invocation, but the Ritualist had said the whole thing so often that it meant nothing to him, much as when a financial analyst stops to make sure “quarter” is a real word and not something he made up.
Dirant set all the produce-filled crates designated for processing within the whorls and squiggles he had marked in soot, let his muttering trail off like the end of an anecdote he had never wanted to relate to people who obviously were paying no attention, and tapped the ferrule of the staff once venerated as the sacred instrument of the goddess of the hearth against the floor. Modern Ritualists understood a staff with a ring on the top end to be nothing but one of dozens of tools, even if the exact mechanism which necessitated that particular type be used had so far eluded them. On the third tap he felt as if a knot inside him had been undone, a sensation familiar to him as the signal delivered by his Ritual Judgment ability to inform him he had just completed a genuine ritual, as in one that had an actual effect. Not what the effect was, but there was no real doubt about that so long as he followed the steps.
“Rejoice, rejoice,” he intoned while he swept the staff across an arc that included the processed crates and turned to face the still-imaginary audience, bouncing the implement in the air as if he were tapping the celebrants. That was improper. Every Ritualist graduated by Todelk University knew from the lectures of the sixth-finest professors in Greater Enloffenkir about ritualism as it was practiced over the centuries, including the cosmetic flourishes past Ritualists added to ceremonies as a means of impressing the gullible crowds of those ignorant times with the alleged religious solemnity of the occasion. What the contemporary Ritualist desired was to do what was necessary and not a motion more so as to capture the beautiful purity of the ritual itself. Dirant desired that for the first ten times, became indifferent over the next thirty or so, and began to adopt increasing amounts of pomp afterward.
“The janitor will look in a year from today and be unsure whether to get rid of the many candles, music boxes, gongs, and other distractions I gathered up to amuse myself while I work. A ridiculous outcome I see no way to avoid.” Dirant thought that rather than said it, since his mouth was busy with grunts as he shoved back against the wall the crates formerly filled with perishables that his ritual had rendered imperishable and also inedible. He next inscribed the ritual stone that would allow what he had done to be undone without difficulty, whether by him or another Ritualist, and logged the affected crates and how long the Preservation Ritual would last, which amounted to four times his Receptivity in hours.
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> Ritualist
>
> xxxxxxxx
>
> LV 6 650/1000
>
>
>
> HP 220
>
> Muscle 34
>
> Coordination 43 (+4)
>
> Verve 40 (+1)
>
> Sticktoitiveness 54 (+3)
>
> Discernment 65 (+1)
>
> Gumption 23
>
> Tit-for-Tat 42 (+1)
>
> Receptivity 86 (+5)
>
> Panache 44 (+2)
>
>
>
> Class Abilities
>
> Ritual Judgment
>
> Ritual Completion
>
> Ritual Memory
>
> Ritual Delay
>
> Ritual Humility
>
> General Abilities
>
> Adaban (Fluent)
>
> Heweks (Fluent)
>
> Tabidgeir (Intermediate)
>
> Dvanj (Intermediate)
>
> Yumin (Intermediate)
>
> Desurvyai (Basic)
>
> Saueo (Basic)
>
> Mercantile Fundamentals
>
> Horse Riding (Basic)
He did have a functioning memory, but he checked his Receptivity anyway. To be sure of the duration of course, not to remind himself of why he chose Ritualist as his class in the first place. It was an elite class after all, not a basic one such as Workman or Small Fry people fell into for a lack of options. There was something of constraint in Dirant's stats since most physical classes were out of his Muscle's capacity, but never mind the lows when the highs were right there. Few had the 72 Receptivity, the stat which governed open-mindedness and the capacity to understand the quickly changing modern world, required to become a Ritualist. He far exceeded that at base, to say nothing of the five points he had gained over the past three years or the sixth that surely would follow soon, the seventh he could acquire after hitting level 7, and so on. Given his rare Receptivity, to enter any other class seemed in insult to the very nature of stats and to society as a whole, regardless of what he did with his class abilities. Which was the Preservation Ritual, again and again. His employer wanted to sell foodstuffs out of season at a substantial markup, after all.
Wishing to inform the Ritualist supervisor Donnlink Espahalpt of the completion of the task, he opened the door of the back room and walked into the central area of a massive warehouse large enough to accommodate most sports along with the parents of the children forced to play them. The available lighting sufficed for such activities owing to the large window openings high up that were covered by sheer mabonnpaper, a favorite in low-wind areas. Various doors on two sides led to storage for products that required particular arrangements, whether a certain temperature, total darkness, or regular ritualization. Wide gates in the remaining walls opened on the road or the river's countless boats.
Sounds of steps, scrapes, coughs, and the occasional frustrated utterance censurable in a more formal setting added variety to the monotonous scritching made by clerks at desks along the warehouse's sides as they completed paperwork that ever replaced itself in bold defiance of the concept of progress. It would have been easy to lie down and fall asleep there were it not for the odor that waged a permanent, low-intensity campaign against the nostrils of everyone inside, the inevitable aftereffect of the Mold Prevention Ritual usually masked by other scents in establishments less focused on ledgers. Such were the signs that one was in a facility operated by the eminent mercantile concern Stadeskosken, one of several rented warehouses in that single city, to say nothing of others across Greater Enloffenkir.
“Mr. Donnlink, the assignment has been carried out. What new ritual awaits me?”
The supervisor looked up, a man who had risen to his position no doubt by climbing a ladder made of hundreds of Preservation Rituals. When they first met Dirant had wondered what prompted his supervisor to grow a tidy little beard so unusual in their country, but he had come to feel the draw of novelty almost as deeply. “No further rituals, Mr. Dirant. Not for another two weeks, unless your Receptivity has changed. Has it? Then I will give a special gift to our filing system by having you correct labels.”
“Certainly, Mr. Donnlink.”
Dirant marched to an indicated corner desk. On the way he checked the detailed view of his abilities to ensure he possessed sufficient qualifications for the task set him, so great was his dread of disappointing his supervisor and himself.
Adaban (Fluent): Literate; Kitslof Dialect; Kitslof Accent (Heavy)
The anxiety dissipated. He could in fact read and write his native language. He further did so in a dialect distinguished for its precision in both pronunciation and expression, and what was more, he managed not to sigh at any point, the truest test of the capable drudge. Those incorrect, incomplete, or outdated labels which threatened to send shipments to the wrong locations or make a false record that such had happened could have no chance against level 6 Ritualist Dirant Rikelta, who crafted superior versions full of truth just as the errors of the past inevitably succumbed to modern improvement.