A [Priest] might smite you and a [Paladin] might crush you, but at least they'll be quick about it. A nice swift death, most of the time. See, people tend to get right to the point when they've got Gods looking over their shoulder. Keeps them honest.
With a [Sorcerer], or a [Warlock], though... those are an entirely different story. As for what's looking over their shoulders? I don't even want to know.
....
The night was ruined, and it was mostly my own damn fault.
Standing there, holding my breath, I had one small hope. One which might redeem everything that had just happened, and make the whole night worth it. Trapped there, behind that door, I prayed that I would at least get the small satisfaction of listening to Roggar get a few of his teeth knocked out.
I was met with disappointment.
Instead, based entirely on what I could hear, I have to assume that Roggar beat the piss out of someone. By my best guess, I think it might have been the man I'd overheard before, named "Posh." Which is a terrible name, but this was turning out to be something of a terrible world, filled with terrible things, and I'd more or less accepted it as a matter of course.
Quite a few people tried to stop him- again, from the sound of it. Which then led to him throwing one of them into the door I was hiding behind. The impact, even blocked, knocked the wind out of me, and almost keeled me over. After that, there were more shouts. Someone used a skill that made it sound like a sledgehammer hit the wall. Sharp bits of stone flying everywhere, and someone actually skidded down the hall a good ways...
And these events pretty much solidified my decision to wait behind that door until I died of old age.
While I felt confident that I could probably set someone on fire, I wasn't nearly as confident that it would kill them before they punched my head clean off my shoulders. And if Roggar was doing this kind of thing to people he liked, I sure as hell didn't want him to notice me.
So, I waited.
Still, silent... I was one with the door. No longer was I just some silly Hero with a skill that made me harder to notice, I was a part of the timber. I was strands of fiber, long-dead, but put to a purpose...
Needless to say: my wonderful night of adventure had quite the damper put on it.
I spent an undefined amount of time waiting there, and then another twenty minutes or so stuck beside another door coincidentally opened in a similar manner by several people trying to see if "Posh" was actually going to die, or just sort of going to die. Because, apparently, there was a difference, and that difference was held on a scale against angering the fort's [Healer] by waking them up in the middle of the night.
The things you can only learn by experience, I suppose.
After some time, though, they did leave. With the sounds of dragging a cloth covered sack of flesh down the hall. I crept out form behind my hiding place and began to walk along with a surpising pace, to wind my way back through the fort, all the way back to my room.
There, I sat down, lay back, and found within the span of what felt to only be a single blink, it was morning.
Just like that.
It was morning.
The thought of going out onto the field and swinging a spear around made me want to die. Yet, rise to my feet I did, and without the need to dress myself, at that. Putting on a pair of wool socks and fitting into my boots, I opened the door-
To find someone waiting for me.
The [Scribe] stood, face wrinkled, expression like that of a sour grape, left in the sun. Thick robes, scent of dust and candle smoke, he eyed me as if I was a stray dog he'd happened upon and found pissing on his garden.
"The Baron has returned." He announced, dryly. "Follow me."
....
The [Scribe] named Neriah was not happy, and he hadn't been all morning, since arriving at my door and leading me to the Baron's chambers.
He wasn't happy at all.
Not with what the Baron was asking.
Not with my presence.
Not with life itself.
He didn't have a choice but to accept all of the above, of course, but the old man's expression as he glanced me over made me wonder if the man had sat upon a sharp bit of wood. Or, maybe, several sharp bits of wood.
"I predicted as much, and I understand your intentions, Baron." Neriah said, as we waited, just outside the undefined region in which the healer of the fort seemed to have laid claim: Bloodied bandages strewn about the floor, stripped and jagged pieces of armor tossed at random, and stained with deep specks of corruption upon the polished metal surfaces. "As you command, I will see what I can make of him."
"Make of him? Lad's no use as a [Mage] if he can't fucking read: I expect results, Neriah." The Baron answered, lip curling as another layer of bandages wound about his shoulder. "Just put him to better use than if he were down in the yard, swinging a stick about. I've heard he's terrible at it."
"As have I." Neriah replied, smugly.
Under more normal circumstances, I feel that I probably would have taken a little bit of offense. Both to the blatant disrespect to my abilities, and in the manner of conversation that seemed to disregard that I was standing right next to them, in the very same room. But "Normal" was long gone at this point.
And, quite frankly: I was terrible.
Not by my own standards, true. I honestly had a inkling I'd be relatively impressive if I randomly landed back on Earth with all my abilities. Yet, by this world's standards I was scraping the bottom of the barrel. Especially when compared to the man in front of me.
Even if the [Lord] was sitting, half-naked, as a [Healer] fussed about him. Dressing what seemed to be a massive set of bite marks, encompassing his entire torso, along with a deep gash on his shoulder.
Like I said, it was best to forget normal.
"Watch the bloodly salve, woman." The Baron muttered, as the woman diligently applied some greenish paste to the shoulder wound, working her way down to the cresent of gouges below. Though these weren't deep, the cresent shape dotted along with regular intervals seemed far more terrifying to me: both in the fact that the man seemed to have been entirely clasped in the jaws of some horrifying beast, and that the beast had actually managed to wound the man in the first place.
The Baron's strength and presence might have been intimidating, but the idea of being forced to acknowledge there were even more dangerous things lurking out in the world was a concept I found myself actively trying to avoid.
Perhaps catching the surprise on my face, the Baron huffed out a short laugh as he raised a open hand of meaty fingers.
"The easiest way to kill a monster is where the skull meets the spine. One good hit, lad! That's all you need." He chuckled, closing his fingers into a fist, in a manner that was somehow quite audible. The noise was similar to metal cords, stretching under pressure. "Found I had to approach the method from a different angle, is all."
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"Risks you do not need to take, my [Lord]. The Guild is more than suitable for such tasks." The Scribe, Neriah, grumbled. "To the pressing matter at hand, though: as the expression goes, I cannot make gold from lead." With a scowl on his face, the [Scribe] seemed keen to avoid looking in my direction. "While I assure you, I will find some responsibilities for him, if he is entirely unable to read..." Neriah trailed off on that statement, as the [Healer] circled past.
"Out with it." The Baron prompted, impatiently.
"It's just, my [Lord], such teachings takes time. There are many other responsibilities I must attend to. With the Kingdom's Fyrd approaching, this is hardly a recommended time to invest in someone-"
"I would appreciate it greatly, if you hurried to the bloody point." The Baron stopped him short. "Speak."
"It is a simple request, Sir. If you would allow permission to aquire a Scroll that will grant him the basics, then, perhaps..." The [Scribe] trailed off, as the Baron's expression shifted. No longer impatient, but flat. Blank and clean, like the ocean waters had been near Gregory's shack, before a storm.
"A Scroll." His voice growled, as I watched two massive hands curl into massive fists. "By all the Gods. Next you'll tell me that coin grows on trees." The Baron growled, volume increasing by the second. "You realize, I just killed a fucking Hellspawn and half a dozen fucking beasts in the past two days, just to make even with the Guild."
"[Lord], Baron, Sir, if I may-"
"Just to make EVEN, Neriah." The Baron continued. "To clear the books, so we can hire them again this coming season."
"I understand, Sir." Neriah's clear admission of defeat might as well have fallen on deaf ears.
"I've brought you a bloody HERO! Not some bumpkin raised in the woods, or some illiterate goat farmer! A fucking HERO!"
"I understand, I only asked-"
"Nay, you do not ask, you lazy, wrinkled, fool!" Reaching to his beside table, the Baron lifted a heavy book, to throw down at the [Scribe]'s feet with a heavy crack. "Take this, take any other number of binded texts, and bury him in scripts until the sky opens up, or lightning strikes, or the Gods themselves come down and shove the Skill up his ass. Until whatever the fuck else it is that grants his type their miraculous fucking abilities, happens!" The Baron shouted, voice almost deafening as he rounded on us. "Do I make myself clear?"
"Perfectly, sir." The [Scribe] croaked, eyes wide in terror.
Looking about the room with a similar expression, I found that the [Healer] had already escaped. An excellent decision, on their part, as I wished I could, and continued to wish, repeatedly, as the Baron stared us down for a long moment. Not just a man, but a giant. Even seated on the bed, covered in bloody bandages, his presence instilled fear.
"I expect results." He repeated. "So, get me results. Both of you."
There was a small moment of shared terror there, I think.
Brief as it was, Neriah and I left the room as equals.
Then, as they always do, the moment passed. I soon turned to my newly appointed educator, and found that the scowl he'd had before had returned. This time, though, it seemed much worse.
So began my education.
....
I've always been the kind of person who felt more at home behind a desk, than most anywhere else in the world.
Logical thinking, as I liked to generalize it.
Give me problems, give me paper, give me a pen, and let me see what I can do. Let me, perhaps- pun somewhat intended, work my magic. With numbers, with puzzles, with questions needing answers... There are aspects of life someone might feel an affinity for, as this was mine. All that said, it's not difficult to imagine that, in some ways, I was thrilled with this assignment.
I hadn't been ordered out on the battlefield.
I hadn't been told to go and kill a monster, or set a bunch of people on fire- or whatever it was a [Mage] serving a feudal [Lord] might be expected to do in their normal job description.
I was told to read books.
This was, in theory, an oasis.
My oasis.
The chance for respite, answers, and mental recovery, before setting back out into the world of shit that awaited me.
Here it was. Finally, the chance to throw myself into something I was actually suited for. No more forced confrontations with the Guards, no more wasting my time with weapons, when I could be practicing with my wits. I was being given the chance to learn real, valuable, information. Knowledge that might be almost endless, considering the massive library of dusty tomes and books shelved all around the large room that Neriah the [Scribe] brought us to...
And yet, the irony of my unfortunate combination of talents, was palpable.
I might comprehend and speak whatever language this world relied upon. I might do so flawlessly, mindlessly translating idioms to their equivalents and all other sorts of madness the normal human mind might stumble with, by the power bestowed upon me by the Passive Skill of [Language of men].
But, despite this: I was completely, and utterly, illiterate.
A puzzle, to be sure.
Surrounded by books. Dozens of shelves, each filled to the brim with knowledge, capable of answering questions I hadn't even thought to ask- and they might as well have been solid walls of stone.
I couldn't read any of them.
I couldn't even scratch the surface.
Perhaps there was information on Magic, on history, on all manner of things I wished so badly to learn! Yet, they were unreachable.
Whatever I'd felt when trying to light a fire, whatever I'd felt when starving at the hands of my captors, or being forced out on the battlefield to die a miserable death: this was somehow worse. And it wasn't long before I found a a deep rooted irritation had begun to build itself. Rising up with each and every failure.
"Again." Neriah demanded, slapping his palm on the table. "Again!"
My quill worked, metal tip furiously stabbing into the parchment, as my so-called instruction loomed behind me.
"Wrong!" The page I was working with, now utterly covered in black ink, was snatched away, replaced with a blank page. "Repeat!"
The urge to set things on fire was becoming increasingly difficult to resist. Grinding my molars together didn't seem to be the best coping method, either. Willpower held the line for a good while, though. By my best best estimation, it was eight hours in total: a full morning and afternoon combined, before I found myself silently wishing for the training field.
While physical exhaustion might put a damper on one's spirit, it can be mindlessly pushed through, even when mentally exhausted from a lack of sleep. Staring at foreign scribbles in the hopes they open up a world of knowledge, on the other hand, is not nearly so simple a task. The previous nights escapades haunted me, like a curse.
"Wrong, again." Neriah hissed, looking up from his own work to stab a bony finger at the symbol on the parchment I'd handed him. "Another." He turned the page over to me, shoving the sheet to me. "Now."
My quill moved in repetition of the previous attempt-
"Wrong." The [Scribe] hissed again. "You illiterate fool."
The sun was waning, in the skylight above the dusty room. The scent of wasted ink, paper, and glue settled heavily, as I valiantly resisted setting the old man to "deep-fry."
It was becoming more and more difficult to do, as the hours stretched on, and I suspected it was well within my ability, considering the man was a [Scribe] and not some sort of warrior Class.
... But I was trying to focus on the positives. Which, there actually were.
For once.
This was what I wanted, I told myself. Almost like a mantra: "This was what I wanted."
The Baron had ordered me to go exactly where I would have wanted, saying that I'd have had any real control over the situation. Well away from weapons and danger, surrounded by familiar concepts, and things I might actually have a knack for. I'd spent a large majority of my life on Earth, wrapped up in exactly this: sitting in a classroom, or a lecture hall, or an office.
And yet, I'd never considered the problems that come from complete ignorance.
Speaking and reading, it seemed, were two entirely different things, and I quickly learned Neriah had little interest in my knowledge of English. My efforts to show him such, only seemed to anger the man further- and his attempts to remedy that "problem" were down right brutal.
As it turns out, being able to learn how to read and write an entirely different language isn't nearly as simple as snapping fingers. And, it certainly didn't help that there was almost no effort to teach me much of anything, either.
"Repeat the page again." The elderly [Scribe] grimbled, pushing a brand new page in my direction.
Of course, I did as instructed.
Apparently, this was how I was supposed to learn.
Neriah the [Scribe] had selected several different pages of, what I assumed, were basic scripts. Then, he had me attempt to replicate them. No further instruction, mind you, just a quill and some rough looking paper that seemed a step removed from tree bark, and probably wasn't deemed for any purpose other than kindling.
Just rewriting the same dense page of foreign letters, over and over.
And over.
And over.
A slog? Yes, that's what it was.
Meaningful progress, I found, was not something I came across during this process. Positive reinforcement for the work applied, was mostly nonexistent. Still, my quill worked tirelessly. Much like a very inefficient and somewhat inaccurate copy-machine, or some long-forgotten monk in the mountains of old-age Europe, trying to scribble a copy of some religious text. There I sat, grinding away as I waited for revelation...
"You lack the most basic of education. That you can speak properly is nothing but a miracle." The man muttered, rising from his seat. "Repeat the page ten more times before I return."
He rose and stepped away, letting the door close behind him. The sound of footsteps traveling off until I was left with silence.
What a relief it was.
I had little doubt that the man might know his craft, but his craft certainly wasn't in education. It might be complaining, or looking like a moldy grape, but it certainly wasn't teaching.
Thankfully, with him no longer grumbling over my shoulder, I found some of the puzzle began to sort itself out. The scripts, initially impossible to discern, did seem to fit a logical set of patterns, that were becoming increasingly recognizable as my quill continued its journey across the parchment. While I had doubts I would make sense of specific meanings without any context, I had a loosely formed concept of simply asking what a word was, and memorizing through brute force.
In theory, considering I could speak due to a Skill, I assumed that I could probably learn enough to get myself a foothold to work with. If I applied myself for a few days, chances were I'd be able to start putting the pieces together. Even if they were Tarzan-like sentences...
I carried on, determined.
A few hours later, a glowstone I hadn't noticed in the ceiling turned on.
A few hours after that, I found that the door had locked behind him.
Books, as I soon found out, make for terrible pillows.