On the march through the root exposed and slick ravined forest leading to Padstoligan’s city, Tim waded through the muck of Surion’s memories for something useful. He ended asking Dryfu to fill in some gaps about the Trolls, their homeland and the bigger picture and let his AF refill with giving it a rest.
Dryfu’s history lesson described Trolls and magic users as a hand-in-hand ally since the first Troll stepped out of a forest on the Hong Ha Island, Kehmoja. Their gifting in environmental resourcefulness led to a deal with a potion brewer, then a booming alliance that soon expanded to Childockia and the rest of their world.
“Like you and many of the varied species on Vignyia, the trolls were brought through a World Gate,” Dryfu said. “Their ability to produce pure ingredients and expertly crafted gear, ships, and agriculture took them far and wide, yet at their center of strength was their home island. Despite their alliances and treasure trove of potions, refined prisms to store and deliver high tier spells, they struggled as a people to fight on so many fronts.
“Those proxy wars forced deals with aura entuned races and an evolution in their class structure. Sigil tattoos, gear so powerful it could not be removed or unequipped, and not to mention the hardened spirit born from endless war; all of it adapted their stance from a magic and resource-focused culture to leaning more on aura-entuned allies and enablement. The Trolls and artisans’ business relationship had been burned at the cost of grander visions in opposition.”
“And why do they hate Childockia?” Tim asked.
“Their World Gate was left open, and as their abilities increased, they realized it was producing a reservoir of aura unlike any they nor Childockia had seen in centuries. Childockia took it, blaming the increasing presence of void-powered classes in the troll ranks on their need to cut off their renewable resource. They were exiled in 177 J.E. to the enclave we visited.”
Tim considered the meager population that he’d seen and where they all were with almost eighteen centuries to grow.
“The enclave is restricted in size and resources. They only recently found a way to travel through via your portal. That’s part of your warm welcome.”
Tim scoffed. “The chief calls that warm?”
“You know what your brother said. Despite your help, you’re still more Childockian and an unknown threat.”
“Threat? I—”
“Are not their greatest threat, just an unknown,” Dryfu clarified.
As they neared the war-ravaged piles that were homes a day before, the chemical stench from spell residue burned at his nostrils and settled on Tim’s skin like a rash with evil intent. They were almost to the intersection and the side street he planned to take; once in the Fivel hideaway Wilqo directed them toward, he’d take a minute to cleanse and see what he could Draw from their aura in the residue.
“We’re all after the tomb,” Tim muttered.
“Yep,” Dryfu said. “You have the jewel; this is all that’s left to turn the tide in their favor. If they get the Tomb, their home, and a place in the Mist, their era of exile will be gone.
“The artisans can’t afford to let them have any of those.”
Amidst the rubble of war, villagers laid bushels of flowers crisp as sunshine onto bodies of loved ones. Bouquets flowing in extravagance absorbed the aura and signs read threats to the corrupt Guard and other insults against the President. Spineless. Greedy. Dutchy sex puppet. Wholesome word pictures like that.
Children both wept and played with those in between, unsure what they felt about one or two less. Their parents and elders looked about as lost, managing movement in wonder and a new pace of observation.
Tim slowed and waved to an old man with a staff glowing blue light on his weathered face. A matching blue mark illumined slashes of a tattoo above his left eye, like a stamp of power or vine growing as he developed whatever ability empowered his staff in matching pulse. He wore a teal robe stained from his interaction with the carnage.
The man turned to face Tim and had a pouch with a severed hand he stuffed inside as casually as a loaf of bread. Tim walked toward him, drawn by compassion to see someone so lost. And mourning. The aura and Spirit Memories Tim had consumed in the last few days, so many from deceased and those hanging with him as a wraith legion, it grew a life of its own. Tim shared a will with them to comfort their living brethren and avenge their loss through victory in battle. The man watched Tim approach with the curiosity of a mouse over a cube of cheese. Tim smiled to ease his concern and laid a hand on his shoulder, careful not to touch the bruise exposed by the tear in his sweater.
He issued Healing into the poor man’s flesh. “I’m Tim Leifman. You’re welcome to stay with me at Open Arms as long as you and your family want. We’re building rooms and an inn as we speak.”
The healing spell passed its course, and a restored stature aligned the man to rest comfortably in his spine. He smiled back and bowed. “Thank you, Priest Leifman.” A clarity in his eyes locked his gaze on Tim, as though remembering an important point. “We brought flowers to help you absorb the aura of our people.”
Tim hadn’t thought of that. The flowers possessed a remarkable absorption and natural containment, but he’d written it off as a trade with the River of the Dead, so to speak. Whatever aura he lost to them honoring their loved ones as they would was fine with him. He loved far more than Jil and his close friends. People like this gentleman he loved without need for names or contracts. “Thank you. We must go, and you should too.”
The man bowed enough to shield his eyes. His name appeared in a window within Tim’s HUD sight:
Wi Uha, Lieutenant Coronel in the Padstoligan Resistance and Conductor Mage, Level 18.
“White Fuego brings light to the lowly. Honor us by using it for your mission. We can work quickly.” Wi Uha picked up a severed foot and put it in his pouch. “He was my nephew. Gifted in polearms and fought with his own fire. He wanted your mission and life.” The man pressed a hand to Tim’s chest. Energy beyond the man’s frail form coursed from flowerbed thru his whitening energy on a direct line into Tim. Aura on a freight train demolished a thousand walls in his spirit, each breaking a birth of new power. Lives lost without the full picture of how their remnant might bless.
Its present power forced Tim to accept with reverence. Brighter blue light beamed from Wi Uha’s staff. Carved from a hard wood, its top was gnarled like a hand molded by fire, with four gems tucked in the knots.
Truth revealed the power within was not of this world. Aura life transferred from the garden around them through this man’s hand and into Tim’s spirit. Ocean met ocean. The swirling intermingling left chills with the wonder. Not about to try resisting, Tim took the test, as Jason said. “Have faith in the feva!” He sang in Jason’s joking Jack Black imitation.
The fatigue and head throbbing destitution the magi-gun shots left him with disappeared, replaced by greater glory. He smiled beyond belief, letting the high ride its last tide. “Thank you.”
The man nodded and shifted to point down the side street. “This way will take you to the artisan’s room. Follow my nephew Rayv’s spirit.”
The wraith emerged to hover beside his unknowing uncle. Red stained eyes bestowed his weariness between his dark brown parted hair. He wore the white collared and dark blue uniform Tim recognized from some of the rebels that had helped them last night. With a fastidious about face, Rayv swept his spear and march-glided down the street. His weapon was an impressive artifact with Diamond blade spirit form. The attack side included a long spike, a hook in the middle and a one-sided axe at the bottom. Stab, retract, decap…itate.
Please don’t rap. My head still hurts.
Dryfu flapped abuzz and in stride.
How can he do that? Tim didn’t want to interrupt the solemn march to his otherworldly errand.
Conductor Mages have many talents in transmitting power into something else. In this case, his staff helped him piece his nephew together into a wraith with his old weapons in aura form, including the bill you’re admiring.
Bill?
It’s a polearm originating six hundred years ago when the last servant uprising combined field tools for hooking their harvest with long shafts sharpened out of rakes. They call it a zen hi, but it’s similar to your world’s bill polearm.
Footfalls echoed across the storefronts pockmarked with explosive gouges. The bricks along the street provided a new source of aura residue to analyze. Tim’s Magic Hunt and Spirit Memories burned through the top of his MP and AF as he tried deciphering clues from the chaos of the last few days. Jipas was right. The Royalists of Wachamia had helped the artisans with traps that spoiled the Padstoligan resistance’s efforts. Some were poisoned in their sleep and carried out in the dark to the tombs below for the processing of aura.
Turns out Tim isn’t the only one Drawing aura life from the dead. He couldn’t read deeply enough to tell if they were harvesting memories or just energy.
The conductor mage’s nephew led them past a side alley with a narrower street where Tim’s Spirit Memories released a blur of shadowed figures carting boxes under cover of night. Tim split a portion of Danger Sense to roam over the disheveled crates and garbage strands strewn and caked to the floor. Its initial scent wreaked of rot and refuse.
The group held up while he pushed it deeper. A similar burnt oil smell hid underneath, and he followed it to a room at the dead end.
Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.
Stacks of empty crates formed a pillar in front of the door, hiding it in plain view and with an Invisibility spell Tim broke through to expose the crease and lever to unlock the sliding door.
Rayv hovered over his shoulder, a look of surprise and opportunity crossed his wraith-wisp floating profile.
Tim’s Danger Sense mapped door hinges and the interior of the room before he lifted the lever. Surion Kosteen had kept this hideout for payments to Wachamia Royalists. Spirit Memories revealed a busier time for this 16 x 16 square foot pad. Surion manned the corner desk with rolls of parchment sealed by the initials of the Grand Dutchess. Soldiers retrieved enchanted items from cubby holes on one side, packaged them into crates like out in the alley, and Surion laid strips of tape across the seal to activate mirage magic over the crates.
Tim’s prior battle with Surion allowed him to navigate the essence rivers flowing through the memories to fit inside the artisan’s memories and read how this magic would last up to three days. The shorter half-life cargo would be delivered to Wachamia Royalists, while the day three cargo would be shipped to various corners of their combined empires. Tim strained to pull contacts from the maze of thoughts and memories. All the typical players but no names or faces. In this deep, Tim struggled to wade through and keep a gauge on his way back.
A cold hand squeezed his spine. Magic ejected him from the past and he fell back into the wall.
Murphy sauntered over, the leather in his straps creaking through the room’s stillness.
“You okay?”
A flash of Spirit Memory surged through Rayv’s grip. They were Royalist double agents.
He saw Surion’s assassin spear Rayv through the back. The breaking of bone and cartilage trapped the memory and passed it off to Tim as a gift.
Inside, Tim saw Rayv spin and slice his hook blade dagger between the crevice of leg armor and the attacker’s guts, spilling entrails and allowing Rayv to steal his pouch and carrying bag. He took these to his uncle and through his warning, helped the Padstoligan Resistance intercept assassins mid-job and redirect the fight through the night.
Had he not, Tim likely wouldn’t have had the help he needed to defeat the artisans and survive to this point.
“Thank you for your sacrifice,” Tim said through chest pains straining his breath. Every one of his now twenty-three wraiths were a boon to the love he felt. Each life resonated with an aura as close as family and which picked him up in kind when he needed it. The memories from Surion filled him with dread and left little trace when he tried punching back. Nothing but flat rejection.
They burned hot and retreated while Tim tried to make a map.
The artisans laid far more traps than paths through, and they knew Tim would come. Killed the Fivels specifically for that. Though the tunnels for Wicker Sea would help their accelerated plans for rogue leveling now that they lost the hunt, they had more than just farming for plans with the catacombs below Padstoligan.
Tim strained with his dwindling AF to mark passageways as off limits of their way of catching the artisans before they reached the tomb. Included in the memories were scenes of mining for the ore they made magi-rifles Feranand used at Chiltonton. There wasn’t anything chill about that. Nor the off the grid, black underground the artisans paid the cartel to run there.
Finding out more was too intriguing to pass up.
He chewed an arm chip and motioned the group to keep going. The aura regen cookie helped him savor the memories a little longer.
Human and animal trafficking with the chaos of the Hunt as how they kidnapped. If someone failed to return home after the hunt, they would be warranted, but the cartel didn’t care because their prisoners would never see the surface.
Tim found far more than he expected with that Draw.
And more problems than you need to worry about right now.
The black underground is well known. Doing something about it without risking a hit on you and everyone you know is another thing.
Don’t I already have that?
Yeah, but there are worse creatures down below that will speed up the process of threatened.
At the Fivel passage, they had to use Frahnk’s claw extension to pry the rock and his void spell to slowly crumble the soil underneath. It collapsed into the hole, exposing a fivel tunnel.
Tim put his half-eaten arm chip into his pouch for later. He’d eaten two since the hideout and the memories were mere shadows in the night.
Yeah, you can stop. Dryfu landed on his knuckle and peered into Tim’s eyes.
The yellow fans on either side of the stykiller’s mouth flushed flat against his throat. When expanded they helped propel the initial stroke into the air. In mannerisms they did far more. Here, they spoke of Dryfu’s concern. “You’re pushing too hard. We haven’t even entered the dungeon.”
“I didn’t plan on killing a president today.”
“Not what I mean. That was good. After, we should have kept going. I know. You found invaluable intel on our trek in, but you can’t keep Magic Hunt on like you do with Danger Sense. As your guide, fair warning is all. Take it easy and let the higher tiers lift the weight a bit.” Dryfu turned and said thru their telepathy,
Your Danger Sense activated a Spirit Memory Chris held back. I didn’t want to say until we were able to rest. That ability is burning hot. Your interest into the Black Underground is pulling on a thread longer than you have spool. You need to rest it for at least a few hours. I didn’t want to explain that part out loud so Chris and the trolls didn’t overhear.
You came, which is great, but let’s not rush to your death. I’ve seen it more than I can count.
Tim raised his hands and mentally released the Danger Sense cast. I hear you. Thank you. Just so you know, I know you know.
Yeah, yeah. Why don’t you hang with your brother a bit and let me talk to Frahnk. I’ve seen what you saw in those memories. I can help them update their maps and reassess our plans without you in the front. You already used your Dose to heal him. The next one won’t help him if it means you burn out with Mana Fatigue before we reach the tomb.
What do you think I should do about Chris?
Smoke a bit and figure out how the two of you can work together to get out alive. Always looking so far ahead when nothing is guaranteed.
Dryfu took off and Chris held multiple doobers between his fingers. The olive toned leaf wrap glowed with healing aura tightly packed inside. His grin spoke volumes above the grim tension permeating through the floor.
Chris handed Tim the spliff. “I appreciate your eagerness as always, first born. There are benefits and strategy to hanging back with me, too.”
Not far ahead, the group thinned as the standing room tunnel leveled out and gave way to a wide cave.
Chris waved Tim to follow him. Murphy joined, a pink pillow of wool around his neck like Santa’s beard.
Tim swiped a finger through the cotton candy substance and enjoyed the sweet aura regen then a puff on the tangy spliff weed.
“I think Frahnk will be relieved he doesn’t have to wait for you,” Chris said. “And it gives us time to buff. The dungeon has already infected us with spores that will slowly slow our reflexes. We’re lucky to be new to the experience.”
“Sounds it,” Tim said, noticing his poison resistance skill getting XP with increasing measure. The inhale hit sharply in his throat, and he coughed. Each clenched breath spread healing tickles from his diaphragm to his limbs.
“Sorry,” Chris said between chokes. “It’s a harsh blend…”
Tim took his next toke at a quarter pull. Still the long razor scratched his throat and zipped into his lung sacs. Good news was he already get the relief. All of his aches disappeared—save for the chill and shrill going on in his wheezing lungs.
“Nizia,” Chris managed, and lifted the ember lit doobie and its pillar of yellow green smoke.
“What’s that?”
“The blend’s chief component. It’s a rare rock weed that only grows with sea salt and osmite stone. There’s other environmental requirements and tertiary species involved. I’m drowning in the deep end with this horticulture sorcery. I love it though. Anyway, the dungeon core produces a plethora of environmental factors mostly suppressed by the gatekeepers and their garden. We’re below that by fifty meters and already the spores are trying to block my blood vessels and mana channels. They’re evolved from interaction with the void aura passing through the Rift, so the progression of dungeon poisoning is quicker.”
Mention of the core sparked memories from Surion and his studies into gatekeeper mythology. A historian named N’tibo proposed five locations on this side of the uncharted Sea where Gate power spread its aura into local habitats. From these rare items, species, sickness and abilities evolved. Gatekeepers were formed from some of the strongest evolved races and the relics they honed to protect their lands.
The artisans arose from a secret faction lying in wait while passively accepting gatekeeper intervention. Dungeons allowed them to explore this world's gatepower at a distance not so closely guarded by the eyes of the weak, like Gatekeepers and Krows. Those who would try to prevent evolution from working its magic.
The fittest will survive, an Earthan artisan once said, and N’tibo believed the fittest would be those who harnessed rather than stifled the powers of the dimensional gateways.
Surion’s plans post-hunt were to steal an Asbo boulder the Cartel excavated from the dungeon, one saturated with enough void aura to forge a magi-cannon.
The Artisans’ goal: blow the garden to smithereens and release the last vestiges of protection it had over the Rift and the monsters that would come through after. The cataclysm to come would set them up nicely if they played their cards right.
Their theory of rogue leveling was only partly for powers and wealth. The other was draining the leveling jewel to the point no one else would be able to stand up and evolve with the new threats, unless they came to them for levels and the rare items they alone could survive harvesting.
After all, artisans had been the best dungeon divers. And have been progressively eliminating Gatekeepers who’d stop them from destroying the gates they set up to hinder this world’s growth.
Surion had believed it would be an artisan who unlocked the uncharted realms through the Mist and beyond. Damn all the Gatewalkers and otherwise who’d try to come in to a war centuries old and think they can do anything to stop it.
“You okay?” Chris asked.
Tim shook out of it like a bad shiver. His head cleared back to the fuzz of the weed smoke. “Turns out Surion Kosteen was quite the historian.”
“Many artisans are.”
Tim’s attention drifted to Dryfu as he flew among soldiers entering the hunt.
Tim figured something else out, connecting what Jipas said about the cartel sending another hit to stop him from opening the gate to the uncharted, with, “They don’t want us around when they return with the asbo boulder and destroy the gardens. No gateway to the uncharted, but consolation prize is an unfettered dimensional gateway transforming this habitat like a black hole, expanding and consuming.”
“Where’d you get that?”
“Surion and what the artisans really want out of that tomb. The asbo stones are mined at the deeper wells and are the hardest known mineral. Their density makes it difficult to mold and enchant. Some are mined with unforeseen powers already infused. This was how they created Princess Pearl.”
The words came out as though from long term memories, which is to say naturally, yet Tim hadn’t been able to clarify them until then. Asbo stone. Infused with void aura. He had some in his pouch with Princess.
“Yet you broke it.”
“I had no choice. The president tried shooting me. He saw the path and stuck his strongest weapon in my way. What he didn’t know was I’d held it before, left my aura on it and took its diagram. That helped me strike the weakest point, where barrel was molded to the base. Coming out of a full mana peel and a gotr blade attack put considerable force into the right spot.”
“Yeah yeah,” Chris choked with laughter. “I just wanted to make sure we didn’t lose you to the buds. It’s a strong blend but it’ll settle deep in them bones so the spores can’t replicate.”
“I’m all for that.” Its body-settling relief eased the burning behind his ears and inflamed muscles shooting pain from his low back down his butt cheeks. Both were relatively new, and a strong reminder to cool off for a bit, even though the hike was unavoidable. He hoped the meds and healing would be enough and in time.
Tim’s intuition kept an eye on the tunnel behind them. Others entered and drifted into the crowds filtering into turnstiles. They’d left a new way in and apparently this place kept busy.
None seemed too interested in him and his brother a good hundred yards from that tunnel and hidden in the dim orange light from nests of glow bugs amassing in ceiling cracks.
Their group was nearly all inside, and Dryfu was flying toward Tim with a mission on his mind. His cheek flaps flat with determination.