Tim rode the Murphinator back to Squire’s Castle while Hot Pepper and the Village People jogged through war-earned wounds to keep him surrounded. Keeping close allowed Murphy’s healing aura to bless them for their sacrifice.
Their time working together showed in the seamless effort they exerted to clear the narrow paths often overgrown with pricker stalks high enough to cut you in the eye. Their foreman sent a first wave to chop those down. Middlemen with cavernous bags swept in after to catch the stalks and refuse—fruit, mushrooms, critters, whatever and whenever; they were a swarm and Hot Pepper was their fiery eye.
Tim couldn’t wait to get their first leveling spell going. They would be well rewarded for their help. Their essence billowed over with XP reflections, and if he had to guess the source, teamwork and craftsmanship were ready to explode with levels.
So much to do, but building the leveling inn had to start as soon as possible.
He’d been reading the procedures for building the inn, the acolyte process, from ordination to clothing and cleansing rituals… straight up Leviticus style, and he loved it. As a security guard struggling to force his, how would he describe his former body, doughy, unreliable, stiff, cranky, and on, once his kick boxing injury healed, not long after he recovered from that his back gave out. He hadn’t made the cut to be a police officer or a detective like on TV. It left him feeling unfulfilled.
Here, not only did all three classes influence the style of his townbuilding architecture and advancement paths–don’t get him started on the Oil and Water Mage spell tree bonuses to crafting and Spywear—not only did he have that going for him, but also felt purpose in each class individually and collectively. He was like a trinity of not godhood, but power beyond himself. His sympathy for Hot Pepper and the Village Peeps was off the charts as a priest, then add to it his Ranger instincts that wanted to hunt their killers, laying traps that would scare their great grandchildren into mutism. He also had the Aura Mage battle scars from the aura burns, the XP brewing in the scar tissue would evolve most efficiently in the mission to rid them of this plane.
Even in just the style, the Ranger class added a darker flavor in its jungle green secondary tone to the flat tops of the white sandstone structure. The light base and holy hands are carved into ornamental pillars like half-melded columns connecting floor to ceiling in a stripe on either side of the main entrance. Pink and purple fire rose from the sandstone steps, glistening with aura to bless the feet of those who climb.
So much sandstone. “Sali,” Tim called out when he saw the young man. He looked the least winded of his friends and had asked Tim if he wanted to race when they got back—he’d give him a week to sleep and get ready; and Sali would wear a blindfold, haha. Now for playful payback.
“Yeah, White Fire.”
Tim shook his head. They knew it was getting old, and yet they persisted. “You know of any sandstone around here?”
Sali squinted as though you know he did, why insult him by asking? “How much you need?”
“500 tons, more or less.”
“No problem, White Fire. I pray for it.” He winked and flashed a self-confident smile born from youth and an amazing resiliency in the face of tragedy. “You have elephants?” he asked, then tapped a flexed bicep and turned to wave some friends into the woods.
“I—” Tim started,
Wise choice, Dryfu said. They know the area and as long as they don’t get murdered by Crimoan, they should become a nice new slave gang to build your new palace. You should’ve bid them find you grapes on the way back.
“Come on. That’s the actual amount I need, and he asked. I asked if he knew where it was because I figured he’d know; I can get Murphy to help. Once the supplies are here, I have to direct the building. So back off.” Tim brushed a hand in the air, soft enough to show he didn’t mean anything.
Dryfu knew. His dude. Corners in his smile hinted at him being excited to try out that gem evolution.
“I got you. Don’t have to go calling me slavemaster to get me to give you first ride on the ol forearm.”
“That’s gross, even for you.”
“That’s where the gem goes. What are you talkin—ew. Dryfu…”
Next to the plan was the Ranger element of Watch towers. His HUD offered the extensions on four corners of the inn, upwards of fifty feet if he wanted. He chose the tallest option, partitioning stored XP in a way he knew but couldn’t explain. Similar to the feeling of helping Hot Pepper’s people while also mourning theirs and his losses. They’d bled to get this far together, and as priest, he was called to shepherd these people to a safe, thriving society. His or otherwise. For now, they graciously, though maybe not entirely altruistically, offered to help him build his castle in exchange for free leveling and room and board, plus a percent of the town’s income, as Tim insisted.
As he told them, their people gave their lives to save him. This whole thing ends back there in an alley without their help showing him how to sneak in the side door. The right info at the right time is worth its weight in gold. He intended to reward them for theirs. Not to mention the sweat and tears they’d share building it.
Spirit Memories brushed off and interacted with what he’d already absorbed in their battles. He felt it in his bones. The Chilton Crew were here to stay. You better believe it.
Are you going to rap now, or can I stay?
“Dryfu, come on. I like the name.”
Technically, they’re Kiszeny, but hey, White Fuego does what White Fuego does.
I love you right back, dykiller.
Such mature pleasantries, sir priest.
Tim didn’t need to change the conversation because the sight of Squire’s Castle did it for them. Around the bend in their trail, Squire’s Castle emerged with a pile of bodies fifteen feet high, stacked into a pyramid. The limbs and decoratively placed pieces were an altar for their message written in blood on a bare-chested torso. White Fuego, it said in the local dialect. We rule this land. You work for us now.
The hell I do, Tim thought, cursing the Crimoan for the lives they took to insult him.
Rage twisted his insides into its own battlefield. Flies buzzed around the wretched discarding of so many precious lives. Their aura glistened in the blood. Spirit Memories waiting for redemption.
Tim wrote his message for Khempal’s messenger birds, requesting the fleet to the northern shore for their Mevelius support, and included an update from Chiltonton and this massacre of locals staining his land. With the enchanted white bird off on a wing to find his HTC partner, he forced steps toward the task of burying the bodies. Tim braced for the Spirit Memories dripping in their blood. Aura absorbed into his pores, whispering their parting passions into his soul while he promised them rest.
S’Trace and Dryfu helped him lay out Aura blankets underneath and then gently on top of the corpses while Tim placed piece by piece to recreate their former shapes.
The Crimoan did not kill these with magic bullets. That would have been too clean for the message presented here. They had suffered mutilation under the power of creatures with more than sharp claws and fangs to tear them apart. Dark magic left a scorched scent and a blackening at the rips in flesh and severing of bone. They’d delivered a message of more than death; it spoke of torture and the promise of more if he did not bend his knee.
That would never happen. The unity of those spending the night in his castle promised his fight would live on long after he left. He was a stranger to this war yet welcomed in his efforts to join them.
While Tim gave the helpers tasks, carrying the bodies to rest would be his job alone. He took his time to ensure he absorbed the full extent of every soul. Memories of full lives lost in their youth or spent well into gray hairs carried him through the weariness of the work. He loved these people to tears and an inner strength greater than the weakness in his body.
At sunset, he put the last pieces into the final grave. Some of the stragglers who came into town while he was working had picked up shovels to dig plots at the front steps, where Tim pointed them.
“Their sacrifice will be buried but not forgotten. The Crimoan are cowards and fools. Their mistake in taking these lives will be a banner to everyone who visits; Open Arms remains and will thrive in the face of her oppressors.”
“As do the Krows, your brothers and sisters,” Gregor said. Krow blood stained his iron armor. His parade rest posture exuded duty beyond sorrow, and endurance built by many days like this.
“And my brother and I,” S’Trace said, followed by the crowd stepping forward as one.
Tim didn’t have much more than that to say to the onlookers with weary faces, yet the tone of his words held their attention as though it were cool water to their parched spirits.
“I’m so proud to have every one of you here with us, fighting for their memory as they live on in all of us.” A thought sparked an idea of crafting spirit memories into armor to literally carry the dead with them. Like Aaron’s priestly garment carrying a gold embossed gem for each tribe, he could carry the spirit of the lost on his robe.
Wandering close to necromancer territory with that one, Dryfu said, but not impossible. Might be benefits to charisma? I haven’t seen it done.
Priests have brought the dead back without becoming necromancers. Seems like semantics. I carry their spirit.
Tim didn’t have the strength to say much more. In a somber display of collective honor for the dead, the survivors of Squire’s Castle shoveled and carried dirt to lay on their people. As darkness crept into the city, they cast the last bits of loose soil spread smoothly over the mass grave.
Tim marked the back side with aura-infused stones and their names and something they loved, written in their aura on their tombstones. He stacked the tombstones facing those who entered the city. The cost of their freedom and the honor they deserved would be at the forefront of the light his castle would show the world.
Afterward, with the villagers dispersing to bed, Tim wrote a new poem weaving the Spirit Memories of the lost and the innocent into a new Protection spell along the exterior walls. Spending freely from the aura he gained by the lost, he poured everything into ensuring the Crimoan couldn’t break through this one. The prior one took heavy damage in their offensive just to get to dumping the bodies. This one would keep them out, he hoped, at least a hundred feet from all sides of the castle.
Support the author by searching for the original publication of this novel.
Gregor paced with him, pouring his Protection spell and poem in interwoven threads born from his own passion against the Crimoan. Added incentives against the leader, Chane, and his betrayal of Gregor wrote promises Chane or any of his warlords and servants would suffer under if they tried stepping anywhere near these walls.
Once they completed the spell, Tim joined the villagers in setting up beds and ensuring every soul was cared for before he parted to his room on the second floor. While he was helping with water distribution, S’Trace and Dryfu had carried his tent to Aeu’s former room. They’d already taken the beds to use for families with children. The team effort of special forces members hefting furniture once occupied by Aeu’s family combined somber honor with the ever-present reminder that they were still alive and protectors of families here to see Aeu’s mission continued.
At first, Tim had protested being moved from the heartbeat of those sleeping on the courtyard floor, but S’Trace insisted. Gregor set up his room on one side, and S’trace and his brother on the other.
“They’re watching,” S’Trace said, his face shielded from the courtyard and collage of shadows and glistening eyes. Whimpers continued on through the grieving that settled over the calm.
It had been awhile since Tim had wept for his younger brother, yet their raw emotion cut through to a reserve threatening to break. S’Trace, Hur and Gregor’s brotherly love at joining his side made him long for his brother to join them. Whatever he was mixed up with in the COIL alliance and the Troll’s secret enclave, the knot in Tim’s gut said it was trouble. More than he could overcome tonight.
For now, these people wanted his help and serving them would take plenty of work. Tim prayed that it would work out and provide the oasis he dreamed it could be.
“You’ve shown a greater love to these people than they’ve known for some time,” S’Trace confided to him.
His interruption driving into Tim’s heart distracted his efforts to reel in his Danger Sense ping in the distant forest. Different sets of eyes watched him back. Lit by magic and a predator’s hunger. The monsters lurking had something keeping them under cover of the forest shadow, and he didn’t think it was just his Protection spell.
The din of insects and non-threatening creatures hiding in the prairie grass and safe within the river created a false sense of peace compared to what he knew lurked beyond the terrain visible to his eye. Their Protection spell was a high enough level to prevent the standard goblin and panther from breaking through. It was the warlords and their plotting that worried him. His spell with Gregor would withstand a lot, but if they sent wave after wave…
“Any word from Papa?” Tim asked, surprised that his wraith had not sent an update.
“Nope,” S’Trace said. Disappointment hung on his response, but not defeat. “Wraith are wandering creatures. And persistent. No doubt he knows you’d want them protecting Padstoligan over losing forces to deliver an update.”
“Exactly, which is why I’m worried.” If his hands weren’t so sore, and really all over, he’d start aura crafting tonight. The wraith needed special bags to transport items through the rings. One of Papa’s missions was to find the rings, if Padstoligan still has them, then send someone back even if he couldn’t come. Tim didn’t want to send them back without supplies.
“You need to rest.” Gregor said, setting a hand on Tim’s shoulder and waiting.
Tim looked up from his cut-ridden hands clenched like claws and shaking with tremors of exhaustion. His AF burned like paper soaked in gasoline and refilled like wet concrete.
“Tomorrow,” Gregor said, once Tim looked him in the eye. “We’ll start building the Leveling Inn.”
“And the bags of holding for the wraiths,” Tim added.
“Yes.”
“I can help with that,” S’Trace said.
Tim might have argued with anyone else. When his mentor said he’d help, Tim needed to trust it would be okay. He smiled and nodded to S’Trace. Help, being the key word to indicate Tim wasn’t off the hook entirely.
“Thank you,” Tim said, then scoped out the city. The second-floor vantage point gave him a better vision for how the city would build out from the stone foundation and square courtyard surrounding the train tunnel entrance. First, the Inn would be in the clearing between the courtyard and the front gates to his left. Eventually, he planned to get the train tunnels working and visitors would then stream in the front gates to see an inn built facing the tunnel as well. This 45-degree angle setting provided a view of the courtyard to front gate visitors, as well as offering a setup at the entrance to have double doors on both sides of the angle.
Tim thought back to one of his old churches and how they renovated over the years to expand the building in sections. The first design would connect into the second floor and build along the side, reinforcing the fallen section of the tower. In time, they could expand underground, then outside or through the northern wall behind him, expanding the castle perimeter as their needs grew in proportion to their funding.
Ultimately, his goal was an enclave transportation system that enabled train cars to portal from depot to depot, between this realm and the enclaves he created, or discovered, in the case of when he could go after his brother. Maybe, I could build underground and make our enclave entrance connect to the train tracks and run perpendicular to the inn entrance basement access. Like a parking garage with a valet to our other locations.
I like it, Dryfu telepathed from his shoulder. I can help you plan that. Could use a Packer like Thron to help with firming up the walls underneath.
Agreed. His work on the wall was great. He has his own work to do for now, going back to Childockia safely. I hope Jil takes care of him.
Lord, protect them all, Tim prayed. Help this whole thing. Who am I to build anything? Let alone without you.
Tim envisioned a network of shops where the locals could earn a living much better than they had, from Chiltonton and the surrounding towns to farms formerly controlled by the Crimoan or Wachamia corruption. This place was a graveyard unburied. Its suffering had no mending. He hoped the funeral tonight would be a start to that for all of them. His heart ached for their past suffering, and present…. With that sympathy, he would mind any burdens his city might create for them. This is a refuge, first and foremost.
Once they built the Inn, they could add watch towers and then shops and industry before he could bother with more comfortable living arrangements.
He had a lot to do before the one-month mark and their inspection. No doubt, plenty of adversaries would do their best to prevent his success in that.
For now, they needed to survive the night and build smart in the coming days and weeks. Even the children seemed to understand the costs of war, laying their heads where their surviving parents and or relatives and family friends helped soothe their souls to sleep.
Regret over the ambush at Chiltonton pushed him to the discipline of trying Danger Sense on passive for a full charge before bed. He would level up this skill several times before his first night in the leveling inn. The spell could shoot out on a line drive hurled as far as he could, or he could let it flow from his pores in a breathing, aura pushing exercise like what S’Trace taught him. This hover version allowed him time and space to control his regen to percolate a longer-lasting spell. With practice, he hoped to build a comfort level that allowed casting this form while managing other, increasingly difficult tasks.
Danger Sense wafted out and descended to the courtyard. The city was resting, and Tim longed for his. Not yet, his duties to their protection overruled his exhaustion. On the ride here he’d worked on this wafting style to spread his sense, which enabled him to grow familiar with their essences. In turn, this helped him create an invisible dome of his Danger Sense over their city, recognizing any intruders for now. Later, when they opened for business, this light touch oversight would help him identify any of his citizens in danger.
He spread his sense to the scooped-out dirt where the Squire’s tower had been behind him. Tension squeezed his diaphragm as though gripped by sudden strength.
The underdeveloped section of the town transformed into a well-kept northeast side area left of his balcony view. In this strange vision, sandstone tiles formed a rectangular meeting area facing a golden rod spanning fifty feet wide. It floated three stories above ground with the suddenness of an alien vessel emerging from a cloak.
Tim couldn’t believe his eyes. Positioned on the northern edge of this new temple court, white feathered rings glimmered with an enchantment empowering its levitation. Both wings floated on a gentle air stream, its buoyant spectrum spanning ten to fifteen feet top to bottom, all the while maintaining perfect balance on the rod riding the light hidden wave between them. Tim’s heart carried in the same rhythm of weightlessness. Looped around the rings hung a white cloth draped to within hand’s reach of the tile floor. On the northern side of the banner was a wooden wall crafted like two flat seas converging in the middle, the highest wave peaking just beneath the rod.
This higher wave symbol represented the sign of the Wind God, Huann, most prominently worshiped in Childockia, but also some interior islands southwest of the HTC territories. Whatever Tim believed about God before, this new revelation called him to build, and he lacked a single cell of defiance. When he finished replicating this beacon of light and healing, their city would be blessed beyond imagination. To deny his people this blessing would be as foolish as a skull plant from a high ledge. As surely as he knew that obedience to this vision would bless future buildings in the name of Huann, so too did he dread the suffering priesthood he would endure to accomplish.
The banner flapped and cracked the air like a mighty flag for a nation long honored. Not white in the Earthen symbol of surrender, but in the sense of healing and impartial help to any in need. Light was meant to bless, but it also meant war when it met Darkness, especially when it occupied lands within his responsibility. He would wear the black of Krow might, along with the underlining of righteous white to solidify his stance against Darkness.
Pixels of the vision parted back to the present, then swaths of the banner transformed into green vine. Blinking, Tim fought the pain throbbing in his temples. His vision became a roiling sea unwilling to be tamed. The banner and hovering rod faded and was replaced entirely by the vine and the goblin shopkeeper.
“Your brother’s in over his head,” the goblin said. His distance carried from too far to be able to speak in such a hushed tone, yet also perfectly audible. “I had a brother,” the shopkeeper added somberly. Taking his time to emphasize a point. “Wouldn’t want either of you to know that loss. I can tell you love him.”
Dang, man. Way to drop a heavy on me.
The shopkeeper and his vine-propped store faded, replaced by clumps of dirt and clay in the hole he’d have to fill before they started work on the banner. His plans for the perpendicular train track and basement exit would be right under the Banner and its court. He liked that.
Tim turned to his room to find paper scrolls so he could begin drawing and writing out instructions. Thoughts filled his mind as though direct from the source; he just had to spit it out before he forgot.
The rail of worship was a golden rod with a cylinder running in the middle for his aura to channel an ever-rippling wave into the three hundred pounds of fabrics alone. An enchantment on the Wing Rings formed a lightning rod to boost a regen on the spell keeping it afloat.
The casting cost of Float on the Winged Rings to keep them afloat indefinitely was more than he had in MP max by two hundred points. Plus, many levels across crafting and worship points.
It felt like yesterday he was adrift in this new world as a Ranger with magical powers; now he was a priest with a flock to tend for, whether he planned it or not.
He could always say no to the class and force his time and strength toward leveling Ranger and Aura Mage, but he didn’t feel like tempting a lightning bolt from the heavens. Nor Jil’s wrath if he were to meet her father while thumbing his nose at their God.
Not that he wanted to, and he pushed that niggling demon from his other shoulder.
I appreciate no jokes about me being the other demon, Dryfu said. For what it’s worth, I think all three classes fit your character. You’re more humble than my last host by miles.
Tim didn’t want to comment on his humility because it pointed to all the areas where he knew he wasn’t; he was just good at hiding it.
To Dryfu’s other point, he considered the validity. He loved adventure, so Ranger would keep him out in the fields and exploring. Aura Mage tickled that inner Fantasy reader he discovered about himself in Middle School with Dragonlance and Stephen King. Tonda played her best Cujo for his defense, and going Full Aura, Peeling, throwing Aura Blades, and all that was some of the most fun and mentally exasperated he’d ever been.
Add to those two becoming a Priest where he would be forced to supplement caring for the needy into his other endeavors as Ranger and Aura Mage.
Worship Points opened up in his notifications beside HP, MP and AF. The description summarized they could be added by any number of means through his and his nation.
First, with the members inside. In the morning, he would tell the people of this vision and his intentions to create the banner first. The quest seemed to come out of left field compared to the days and weeks before, yet them’s the bones. Adapt and survive, and as a Priest, he had to feed his flock. Their following of him into worship would create worship points to spend on erecting the Banner, which would in turn exponentially increase their WP.
Tim used to play as Egypt in Age of Empires, an old RPG about building your nation faster than the competitor within a 4x4 3D map. He remembered the little characters bowing at the temple, times playing with friends across LAN lines, and how small his problems used to be.
Worshippers of Huann sang in their worship and hummed and whistled that joy in their daily lives, even if that joy was a sacrifice in pain abounding.
Which brought him to his brother and the vision’s warning and the looming trial to help him. Tim rubbed some gunk from his eyes. Then closed them to smooth the dryness begging for relief. He needed sleep. Chris would have to wait. He had to take care of this city first.
After the betrayal, he’d lost Tim dropping everything to come to save him.
Tim took this somber notion to the aura mat laid out beside his bed and began his stretching routine, reminding himself of this needed discipline if only for the sake of his Aura Mage class and the ideal strength of body required to evolve.
Dryfu took wing and crawled into the small safe they converted into a stykiller home.
“Good night, buddy,” Tim said. “Thank you for all your help today.”
“You’re welcome. We’re building a good thing, here. I don’t care what Murphy says about you.”
Tim smiled and let their night transcend into silence and his focused breathing. Maybe a few pained moans as he stretched.
He’d survive.
----------------------------------------