After spending a few hours finding ways to continue busying himself, mostly with further embellishment to his inner sanctum, Malcom felt he was running out of ways to distract himself from summoning his new spellcasting unit. With the increased generation, he was able to produce a single one, but he felt it was a bad idea to immediately tank his mana reserves right away all over again. To give himself something to focus on as a compromise with his instincts, a small amount of energy flowed from the core to create one of his Crowforged. The mechanical avian soldier took longer to form than the Picantch had. 'Is that because the summon is physically larger, or is it simply because there's more magic involved in the process? It could also be an issue of complexity. Hmm...' While the Picantch formed in seconds, the Crowforged took several minutes to materialize.
With the added curiosity of a new question, as well as the concern that he would need to have the spellcaster prepared well in advance of actual need to use it, Malcom began the creation of a Spellcaster Mechanical alongside the Crowforged, trying his best to ignore the returning intensity of hunger the lack of mana forced back onto him. More silver-hued mana flower from his core to begin forming the summon, but the energy simply swirled in place nearby without taking the first steps to form into the new unit.
Please select spells.
Each spellcasting-capable summon may know a single spell of each tier.
Spellslots of higher tier may be occupied by lower-tier spells.
Current summon tier: Diamond-Tier
Malcom devolved into angry swearing, cursing choices he had made during the level-up process he had been so pleased with prior. 'Fuck! If only I had been more patient, I didn't strictly need the mana generation increase. It's nice, but now I'm left without any spells higher than silver-tier! I could have had access to something incredible now if I hadn't been pressured by the damned hunger.' In the midst of his raving, the Crowforged completed its summoning process, the mechanical avian-man dropping to a knee and bowing its head toward Malcom's core. "Ready to serve." The voice was noticeably synthesized, and pitched just a little too deep to be comfortable to listen to. Almost as much deep humming in the tone as there was actual words. It didn't seem to display any impatience as Malcom didn't initially respond, scrolling through the list of available spells. It merely waited in its kneeling posture.
'At least it's not a total waste, I can put in a larger variety of spells due to the caster being of a higher rank, even if those spells may not be as powerful or have as much utility as higher-ranked spells. I hope that I get to re-do selection for each summon, but just in case these are the only spells that the Mechanical Casters get as a whole, I should make sure I give myself options. Now I don't have enough mana to summon another to check! Damn it! Should I learn from my impatience and wait to finish this selection until I can summon another caster? But the mana from this summon is still connected to my core. It's hasn't separated just yet... will I lose the mana if I try and cancel the summon?' Circles of worries and logical guesses plagued Malcom's thoughts, worried that any decision he would make would be sub-optimal. The glowing light of his core intensified, held, and then dimmed again as he took the mana equivalent of a deep breath. 'Relax. What's the hurry? It's not like anyone's banging down my door, and I'm not even in a rush. I've already started this process, let it finish, and deal with the other issues as they come.'
In a calmer state of mind, he returned to making his selection from the spell list. 'I don't want to lean too heavily into a specific elemental attribute, do I? I could pick a variety of elements, but with only four spellslots to work with, I want to leave some available for defense and utility. I'll stick with something neutral and hope for the best.' He was required to take a single bronze-tier spell, as the first slot only accepted spells of that level. He decided to go with 'Force Bolt', which seemed akin to the magical equivalent of shooting a crossbow at someone. Now that he had three slots capable of accepting silver-tier spells, Malcom went with 'Mana Shield' to give his caster some ability to resist damage beyond merely its metal body for the second slot. 'Lesser Blink' took the third slot. The spell allowed the caster to teleport short distances, but required the caster to remain completely still for a minute, and could be interrupted. It wasn't going to see much use in the middle of combat, but he felt that the possibilities it gave for element-of-surprise ambushes or terrain traversal were worth it.
'Offense, defense, and at least some mobility are covered. What should I pick for utility?' The final spell Malcom eventually settled on was 'Mana Meditation'. It required the spellcaster to constantly engage their mana to follow a changing pattern to attract the local ambient mana in the air to them. It was listed as a way for a mage to recover after a battle, but he had high hopes that by seeing his spellcasters put this spell into use, it would help him learn the magic himself. It would give him a way to more actively deal with his mana-hunger, to feel like he had options beyond sitting there grumpily and waiting. With the selection finalized, the strand of mana connecting his core to the construct separated, the summoning process beginning properly. This seemed to be progressing significantly slower than the Crowforged had, so it was likely the amount of mana that determined summoning length. At least that's one curiosity addressed.
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Malcom's attention redirected to the kneeling Crowforged, and just now realized it was kneeling toward him. 'Stand up. There's no need to kneel. Tell me what you are capable of.' As the figure rose from its kneel with a nod, the deep, bass-laden synth-voice reverberated through the room. "My current skills are as follows: Farsight, darkvision, talon fighting, uncanny precision, natural armor, and overcharge. I am a capable scout, skirmisher, and if need calls for it: sacrificial combatant." 'God, it's so nice to be able to ask a question and get an answer. This beats playing charades with the bloody birds a hundred times over.' Malcom wanted to know exactly what the hell happened to the massive influx of experience he had received, though it was clear that some kind of massacre had taken place. With the dregs of his mana, Malcom summoned another four Crowforged, his core sending a pulse of near-blinding hunger through him in protest, to an absurd degree. It was so distracting that the new summons had time to form and kneel toward his core before he came back to his senses.
'Take the new summons with you. Take a Picantch guide if you need it. Scout the site of the massacre. Are there survivors, or did they kill them all? Find out what happened. Quietly, if possible.' Jarring, short sentences ripped from him in frustrated hunger, nearly blinding his ability to think. 'More mana. Bring back the mana! I need it. I need more mana. Force it from them. Take everything with mana. Everything. Everything. I'm so hungry- No, stop. Just scout. Find out. Come back. Quietly. GO.' The warring sense of opposing thoughts came to bear again, and Malcom just barely managed to side with rationality. He was sending five scouts, he wanted information. Everything else could- would- wait until later. The Crowforged rose and strode from his core room, the sharp clicking of the metal talons resounding off the obsidian stone at an increasingly rapid pace as they sped up their pace once out of his inner sanctum.
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"The Lord suffers to bring us into being. He is willing to give of his last for us, so we must give all of ourselves in return." The lead Crowforged spoke as they traversed winding tunnels, each leaping stride carrying them forward a half-dozen feet at a time, despite the casual posture of the upper body of each member. Aside from slightly leaning forward into the massive, leaping strides there was no sign of effort to their haste. The following members nodded in agreement, having felt the desperation of their Lord as they were called into being. "He stands upon the brink of drawing too far upon himself. We must ease his burdens. Our Lord should be a font of mana for our home, not wring himself dry due to the interference of those Outside." The rumbling voice distorted slightly with that last word, placing special emphasis on those not belonging to the dungeon. Multi-lensed eyes whirred as the view focused more intently on the tunnel before them, lenses overlain with each other, expression narrowing into a violent glare. "Our Lord suffers. It is only right they bear greater than they inflict. We must simply do so in accordance to our Lord's wishes. Quietly."
Upon reaching the spiral staircase upward, the surrounding walls were packed to the brim with roosting Picantch. Every jutting spike of obsidian stone, every fractured crevasse in the walls, the birds roosted quietly, watching and waiting for further orders from their Voice. All but one of the Picantch, at least, which was circling the upper reaches of the staircase and waiting for the Crowforged to reach the apex, taking to wing out the entrance tunnel with them following closely behind. Despite the speed of flight, the ground-bound mechanical forces following managed to keep pace simply by leaning more into each sharp leap, talons digging deep furrows into the ground with each heavy thump of impact. They dashed forward in leaps that grew longer, faster, crossing the sweeping grasslands in surprisingly short order, and vanishing into the opposing line of trees.
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Smoke billowed high into the sky above Kremston as the clean-up efforts began. Wagonloads of bodies- or at least parts of bodies- were carted out the gates in a steady stream. The contents unceremoniously dumped into one of many growing piles, waiting to be lit up like the rest once enough had amassed. The roads inward were still all but dyed black with the blood of the fallen, the substance drying between the cobblestones. Hopefully the next fierce rain would help wash away the stains upon the town, but the memories of the demon-flock were going to linger for far, far longer. The worst part for the common worker was not knowing where they had left, and if they were coming back. The only way that Kremston had prevented a mass exodus the moment the skies were clear was by maintaining a vice-like grip on the food supplies. If anyone wanted to leave the town, they were going to do so with empty packs. The reserves served out just enough for every working member to have a satisfying enough meal, but never any excess. No one was able to build up any stores of food without resorting to stealing from others, and the guards were coming down on the few attempts with savage harshness.
Despite the attempts to clean up the town, there was one corpse that lingered, dangling from a noose. It was clear the corpse was a victim of the bird's assault, more fortunate than many as it was still intact enough to hang, but it was being displayed in the town's gallows regardless. Beneath the blood and beak-wounds, the figure wore poorly-fitting leather armor, stretched across its lanky figure. The left arm was missing in its entirety, and the eyes had been pecked out by the birds during their scavenging, but the face remained otherwise mostly intact and recognizable to the few that wanted to find him. A hastily-made sign dangled around the figure's neck from a loop of rope, with black-painted letters. 'Crowcaller', it read, and many who passed the figure spat in disgust, or leveled glares at the corpse swinging slightly in the wind. After all, he had brought the first of the damn things into the town, and folk needed a place to direct their anger and sorrows...