-oOo-
Chapter 5: The Witch's Tower
-oOo-
“Don't forget the targeting algorithm, master.”
“I don't want it to be homing,” Weed retorted.
When it came to direct fire spells, homing projectiles were especially popular. Wizards tended to have a poorly developed agility stat and without it accurate fire into melee combat was difficult at best. Additionally, projectile spells tended to have a low velocity making them easy to dodge at range.
Homing resolved both issues. That benefit came at a price. Increased mana cost and inability to deliver critical hits.
It was the last that made the feature worthless in Weed's eyes.
“You still have to describe the manner of flight,” Bemju explained. “If you do not want homing magic, copy the flight function from Icicle or Frost Spear.”
“I see,” Weed muttered.
Weed followed Bemju's suggestion, pasting entire sections of Frost Spear's runic script. With a little polish, his newest spell was complete.
Ding!
Spell Created: Vile Ice Javelin
Arcane Value: 315
The basic structure of this spell is derivative and the multi-elemental construction makes it difficult to use. However, the ability to deliver poison damage from a long range provides a degree of uniqueness.
Number of spells created: 3
Fame rises by 20 points. (+20 Fame)
Runic Knowledge rises to basic 5
Earth Elementalism rises to basic 7.
Intelligence rises by 5 points. (+5 INT)
Wisdom rises by 3 points. (+3 WIS)
Knowledge rises by 10 points. (+10 KNL)
Learned Spell: Vile Ice Javelin
Mana: 690
Damage: 44-50 x2 Water; 470 poison over 300 seconds
Cooldown: 15 sec
Requires:
Water Elementalism [basic 5]
Earth Elementalism [basic 5]
Incantation:
“Putrid breath of the earth, be frozen into a spear. Vile Ice Javelin.”
Launches a spear of poisonous ice that transverses 100 meters over 2 seconds. On a critical hit, poison damage will be delivered in half normal time.
Weed glowered. “The mana cost is too high.”
“What did you expect, master? The more powerful the spell, the more mana it costs,” Bemju replied with a roll of his eyes.
Weed stood with a sigh.
It was a perfect afternoon in the Citadel of Serabourg. The chill that had gripped Rosenheim had parted in favor of a gentle warmth. The scorching heat that the midday sun had promised was stolen away by a soft breeze. With the weather so perfect, Weed had put aside his ordinary hunt in order to work on more esoteric arts.
“At least the stat gains are good,” Weed grumbled.
His eyes fell upon a shallow basin.
Weed was in one of Serabourg's many parks. The open space consumed an entire city block. Cobble paths and wooden benches split the greenery. Groves of trees provided shelter form the noon-time glare. Nearby was an artificial pool. Fish rippled in the water, rising up amongst the lotuses to consume insects resting upon the surface.
In the tranquil wind, the basin was pristine. The sun reflected off the pool in a sheet of brilliant light. When Weed looked upon it his darkened image could be seen, slightly warped by the undulations of the surface.
Delicate and petite.
Those were Weed's first thoughts. His avatar sported soft, childish features almost feminine in nature. Rounded cheeks and broad eyes. At a glance anyone could mistake his visage for that of a girl. Yet, his rough cut hair stood in contradiction while androgynous robes offered doubt.
The image birthed a twinge of annoyance.
“That damn woman,” Weed muttered under his breath.
“Are you still going on about that, master?” Bemju said, exasperated.
“I lost my chance to dissect a human because of her,” Weed shot back angrily. “Plus ten-percent to critical damage and improved skill effects! Who knows when I will net get my hands on a human corpse.”
It had been two weeks since Weed encountered the beautiful berserker and he still did not understand what had driven the woman to pin him in place for the better part of two hours. It wasn't until the corpses had decomposed, thanks to Royal Road's disposal algorithms, that the woman had let him go.
Bemju laughed lightly. “Face it master, you enjoyed every minute of it.”
Weed glowered, his cheek's heating. “Shut up, Bemju.”
“Yeesh, it's not healthy to deny your feelings, master,” Bemju muttered.
“She patted me on the head,” Weed grumbled petulantly.
Weed hated being treated like a child. From the day his parents died, he had experienced nothing but misery. Years, wretched beyond all measure, had engraved a trauma upon his soul. He wished no reminder. And of the time before? The memories of Weed's parents were tainted by the horror that followed.
If there was one thing Weed despised about his avatar, it was its childish features.
“Poor, poor master. Patted on the head by a loving goddess. The world weeps for your suffering.”
Weed shot the fox another glare, tearing his gaze from his reflection. “Quiet Bemju,” he hissed. His eyes fell briefly on the image once more before looking away with a huff. “An avatar is nothing but a bundle of stats.”
What did it matter what he looked like? It was not as though Weed had any intention of staring into mirrors. With that resolution, Weed promptly dismissed the entire train of thought.
“So, what is next, master?”
As of three days prior, Weed's last tie to to Serabourg had broken. The scarecrow training was complete. His level had risen to the point where wolves offered no challenge when fought in packs. Remaining in the city had become a detriment rather than a boon.
“Before I can do anything, I need a class,” Weed lamented.
While a unclassed, Weed was crippled. Excepting rare circumstances, he was limited to his current set of skills. More concerning, his maximum skill level was just short of intermediate. As such, Weed's character advancement would slow to a crawl around level one-hundred.
“No choice,” Weed murmured.
Weed pulled the small, ornamental butterfly from his inventory. The hair-clip had a fragile beauty, the kind that made girls ooh and ahh. For weeks, Weed had ignored the item, knowing that the quest it hid could prove to be well beyond his ability.
With a grimace, Weed held the butterfly in the light.
“Examine.”
???'s Butterfly
Durability: 998/1000
A precious ornament that was once the well loved treasure of an unknown woman. Faint runes have been carved into the wings, imbuing it with a mysterious magic.
Item Effects are unknown.
Since Weed lacked the Identify skill, the game yielded little information. If Weed wanted to know more, he would have to hire an appraiser. But as greedy as Weed was, he refused to cough up a single gold.
“Obviously this is a key item,” Weed pondered. “But how do I trigger the quest.”
“You could try equipping it, master,”[i/] Bemju suggested with a bored note.
Weed's eyes flashed. “What if its cursed, you useless spirit?”
[i]“It's definitely cursed,” Bemju said, rolling his eyes as though it was obvious. “You did break it once already.”
Weed glared at the fox then his eyes returned to the butterfly. “I see...,” Weed whispered. A sly smile stretched. “So that is how it is. Equip butterfly.”
The ornament vanished from his hands. Something tugged sharp at Weed's shoulder length locks. The game wrenched his hair into a pony tail. At the cusp, where hair met head, appeared the cute, crystalline hair-clip.
You have been afflicted with: ????
You have taken on the appearance of Anastasia Coleman.
????
????
If, after 30 days, the curse is not lifted something terrible will surely happen.
Weed's reflection wavered.
Soft, silky hair stretched into a fountain of gold. Huge, brown eyes became slighter orbs of brilliant blue. Weed's facial structure twisted, growing older, sharper, taking on the features of a young woman rather than a cherubic child.
Weed glanced into the basin, scrutinizing his appearance with a critical eye. The image he cast was the perfect duplicate of that worn by Hailey before the curse was broken.
“As suspected,” Weed said with a nod. He raised his staff, gathering mana at its tip. “Now for a test. Goddess Freya, clear from my sight this profane illusion. Disperse Impure Deception.”
A column of purifying light rained down, sweeping away the illusion. Weed's former visage returned.
???? has been cured.
“Well, that was pointless,” Bemju commented.
“No,” Weed countered. A hungry expression formed on his lips. “I have confirmed my expectations. And with this, the next step is certain.”
The fox's ears perked curiously. “And what step would that be, master?”
“Unequip butterfly. Equip butterfly,” Weed commanded. His image began to warp. Gorgeous, ladylike eyes fell upon the fox. “To question the Count.”
“Ah. Straight to the heart of the matter. As expected of master. If you don't mind, I will stay here. I rather suspect that the Count will be more than a little displeased.”
Weed huffed and strode from the park.
Weed crossed through Serabourg, transversing the busy commercial district. All around him, rumors were awhirl. Weed kept one ear open to ensure that no major event would ruin his plans.
“Did you hear? Lavias was discovered.”
“Really? I thought the flying city was a myth.”
“The king has hired a sculptor. He is to build him a tomb.”
“What a vain man.”
“As long as he doesn't raise our taxes, what business is it of ours?”
The voices vanished as Weed left the city depths. Narrow streets opened up into broad avenues. Pedestrian traffic drained to a trickle. Along the path were gated estates guarded by cadres of armsmen decked in private livery.
It did not take long to reach the Coleman Estate. When Weed did, he received immediate attention.
“Anastasia has returned!”
A pair of guards crowded around Weed in an instant. Seizing both arms, they all but carted him into the Coleman foyer. A maid paused on the spiral staircase, her mouth gaping in shock.
“Oh... Oh! I will fetch the master at once.”
With that, the woman rushed out of sight.
It took but a moment for Count Coleman to emerge. The aged man was dressed in a fashionable, silver trimmed suit. Stern green eyes fell upon Weed. His grim expression cracked, forming the slightest of smiles.
“Anastasia, my love,” the Count greeted. The aged man spread his arms wide, as though waiting for the cursed avatar to step into his embrace. “I had feared you dead. Stolen not just once, but twice. Your father's heart can hardly bare such worry.”
Weed's expression twisted. Love? If Weed's sister had gone missing, he would not have hesitated to burn all his wealth to recover her. To think the Count had the gall to spout such words while waiting lackadaisical for his daughter to return.
“I am not your daughter,” Weed said pointedly, all thought of politeness discarded. With the wave of his staff, Weed unleashed the spell held in preparation. “Disperse Impure Deception.”
In a shower of light the glamor unraveled. The armsmen jerked to awareness. In a blink, four spears were thrust toward Weed's throat, holding him at bay as though he were a common criminal.
“Witchcraft!” the guards shouted in fury.
“Hold!” the Count barked. Once welcoming eyes filled steel. “Tell me freeman, why do you enter my house under the guise of my daughter?”
“Forgive me for my rudeness, Count Coleman,” Weed said. He swept himself into a suave bow. “But I did not believe you would meet with one as lowly as me. As for why I have entered. It is this.”
Unequipping the butterfly, Weed held the ornament aloft for all to see.
“That's!” the Maid gasped.
“Thief!” “Scum!”
The armsmen's faces turned red with rage. Ignoring the Counts orders, they seized Weed's shoulders and kicked his legs out from underneath him. Weed winced, but refrained from fighting back.
“You! Tell us where you put Anastasia. If you speak freely, this will end with a loss of no mor than your head, worthless freeman!” a snarling guard spat.
“I said hold!” the Count shouted.
Stillness fell upon the room. The guards parted, opening a path as the aged man stepped closer. With sharp eyes the Count scrutinized Weed.
“That object you carry, freeman, is a gift I bestowed upon my daughter, Anastasia. Where did you find it? Explain clearly and you might find my mercy.”
Weed stood and pushed aside a spear in irritation.
“Explain myself? You were the one who kidnapped an innocent girl, so if anyone should be explaining, it should be you?” Weed asked, angrily. “Or rather, should you not ask why someone cursed an object so that all who wear it take the visage of your daughter?”
“You dare accuse a Count!”
“Quiet!” Coleman hissed. His green eyes focused on Weed. “Let us dismiss with these accusations. First, where upon did you find that item.”
Weed took a moment to adjust his robes. “I did not. It was given to me by a girl named Hailey.”
“I see,” Count murmured, a grave expression crossed his face. “Then that is on you say I kidnapped. Then to the next matter. You say that the hair-clip has been cursed?”
“If you do not believe me, have the maid wear it,” Weed said stiffly.
Reluctantly, Weed offered the ornament. The Count's lips thinned. He stared at the butterfly as though Weed were gifting a snake. The maid crowded closer, hesitant. A nervousness gripped the room. Even the guards were silent.
“Sir?” the maid questioned.
“Do as the freeman says,” the Count ordered.
Fearfully, the maid grasped the butterfly. With trembling hands, she clipped it into her dark hair. The reaction was instantaneous. The maid's image warped and shimmered. Her short trimmed hair became decadent strands of gold and Anastasia's image was cast for all to see.
“It cannot be.” The Count collapsed to his knees. His hardened visage gave way to weakness. “I had thought her wrong in the head. I went so far as to send for the royal physician. But, my hope was but an illusion.”
The guards stirred with anger. The closest glared at Weed, as though accusing him of striking the Count.
“Sir, let us drag this wretch to the dungeons. We will beat a confession out of it.”
“No,” the Count countermanded. Gathering himself, the aged father stood. “No. What I must do is seek recompense.”
The Count's green eyes fell upon his armsmen. “Find this girl Hailey. I will see that she is indemnified for her trial.” His gaze returned to Weed. “Freeman, can you break this illusion? I cannot bare to look upon the false image of my daughter a second longer.”
“Disperse Impure Deception.”
The illusion shattered, naught but a distraught servant. The maid offered the butterfly ornament to the Count who quickly claimed it. Weed's eyes followed the clip with longing. Now that he knew the butterfly had been the Count's gift to his aristocratic daughter, Weed could not help but recalculate the value to one measured in thousands of gold.
And to imagine, he mistook the jeweled wings for glass!
Count Coleman gestured toward a side room. “If you would follow me, freeman.”
Weed stepped into a small parlor, the dark gazes of the Coleman armsmen following his every step. The room was richly dressed, filled with maps and baubles marking past adventures.
“Sit,” Colman ordered.
Weed took a seat in a stiff wooden chair. The Count settled behind his desk a moment later, after procuring a small decanter and pouring himself a drink.
“When I was young, I did a most foolish of things,” the Count began without explanation. His gaze drifted toward Weed. “Though I doubt that surprises a freeman like you, who was not raised to venerate the nobility.”
The Count gave a soft chuckle and shook his head.
“My error, as so often it is, was one of lust. I sought a woman's heart. She scoured me. Me. A young lordling. Spoiled by my power, I was enraged by her refusal. What was it she despised. Did she not admire my looks? Did she not envy my wealth? It drove me to madness.
“It was then that she came. The Witch. She offered me my greatest desire. A spell of love. And all I had to trade for it was my first born daughter.”
Weed snorted. His eyes delivered to the Count a scorn normally reserved for insects.
“Yes. Fool that I was, I agreed,” the Count said, confirming Weed's suspicion. The old man twirled his liquor in its cup, scowling in remembrance.
“I approached the woman after that, but the more time I spent with her the more sickened with myself I became. Eventually, I turned to a priest and released her from her enchantment. I was duly slapped for my trespass, of course,” the aged man said with a light laugh. “To this day, I am glad that I came to my senses while it could end with just that.”
The Count drank from his cup.
“Until now, I had forgotten of the matter. But it seems that the Witch has not.” The Count's eyes grew shadowed. He stared down at the ornament his daughter had treasured. “This curse, it is her work, of that I have no doubt. Ever was she one to wield glamors that became all to real when cast.”
The Count's jaw tightened. Green eyes filled with searing fire. A gaze of rigid steel fell upon Weed.
“Freeman, I ask you this. Kill the Witch and bring my daughter back.”
Ding!
The Witch's Bargain
The Witch of the Wood has claimed Anastasia Coleman as her due. Free her from the Witch's hand and the Count will owe you a debt of undying gratitude.
Difficulty level: C
Quest requirements: The player must reveal the curse cast upon Anastasia's Butterfly and listen to the old man's story.
Weed trembled in excitement. A C rank quest! A dangerous mission that would be filled with enemies with levels between one-hundred to two-hundred. For Weed, who lacked a class, the difficulty of this quest would verged on the extreme. Yet, he could not help but salivate at the thought. This was a true challenge.
That it offered what Weed coveted was icing on the cake. With the blessing of a Count, Seulroeo's Autobiography was within reach.
“I accept.”
You have accepted the quest.
“You will find the Witch of the Wood deep within the Forest of Serabourg. You will know you have reached her domain when you see the faeries a wing,” the Count said. He offered the butterfly. “Take this ornament. The curse the Witch placed on this object might serve as a clue as to how to piece the veil cast by her magic.”
Weed eagerly accepted the gift, his eyes glinting with greed.
“Do not fear, Count. I will kill this witch. You can be sure of it.”
-oOo-
Rays of sunlight filtered through thick leaves to pour upon the earth in an emerald shower. Flowers bloomed in the scattered light, their colorful petals obscured by brush and bramble.
Crackle. Crunch.
A dangerous beast moved. Black fur and two hundred kilograms of raw muscle pressed against the underbrush. The bear's muzzle quested amongst the darkened holes, turning aside when it found nothing of value.
“Now, Bemju!”
A pair of spiders dropped from the canopy. Sixteen legs clamped onto the beast's back. Sharp fangs plunged down, piercing thick hide and injecting a venomous nectar.
“ROOAAARRR!”
A booming shout shattered the stillness. The great beast shook, its body an ocean of rippling flesh. The spiders scrambled upon the bear's back, clinging to the creature's fur for dear life. Their teeth stabbed down in deadly repetition, perforating the bear's body.
Slam!
Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.
A tree shook. The enraged beast wobbled back a few steps then threw itself into the trunk once more. Slam! This time an arachnid flew free.
The black bear whirled, its clawed forepaws sweeping out to catch the spider.
“Frost spear!”
Weed sprang from behind his tree. He thrust his crooked staff toward the beast and unleashed a lance of frigid ice.
Critical Hit!
The frozen column exploded through the black bear's head. The creature stumbled under the sudden impulse, its life bar dipping below ninety percent. The beast shook its great head then turned upon Weed, eyes filled with savage fury.
“ROOAAARRR!”
Clawed feet tore the earth. With accelerating momentum, the great mountain charged.
“Scatter!” Weed ordered.
Weed flung himself to the side, using the tree as a shield. In the same moment, the last spider leapt from the bear's back. The beast's rush did not slow. It swerved around the thick trunk, claws shredding dirt and root. Weed scrambled out of the way, using every scrap of agility that his tiny frame offered.
With a rumbling growl, the bear continued its pursuit.
“Freezing mist, paint the earth with your breath,” Weed murmured. He twisted hard to the right, his staff sweeping a wide arc. “Ice slide!”
Wintry mist rained upon the ground. A frigid span of ice was born. The expanse was three meters wide and thrice that in length. The bear, running full bore, hit the slick surface in an uncontrolled tumble. A mass of flesh and fur whirled by, sharp claws lashing out at the last moment. Bladed talons struck Weed upon the shoulder sending him spinning across the ground.
Crash!
The bear slammed into a tree with enough force to make wood splinter. The massive trunk trembled, leaves and branches rustling. C-crack! With deafening noise, fiber shattered. Slowly, the trunk dipped, leaning further and further. Roots were unearthed. They stretched, trembled, then held. The tree stopped, its weight shifted a dozen degrees so that it loomed over the bear and Weed.
Weed lurched to his feet. The bear stood on unsteady ground and shook the stars from its eyes.
“Bemju, secure that beast!” Weed shouted.
A pair of spiders burst into view. From their abdomen's they spat sticky strands of silk. The white webbing struck the beast and clung to its fur. The arachnids moved with alacrity, tying the binding ropes to the slumping tree.
Realizing its plight, the dazed bear began to fight. With heavy claws it tore at the spider's silk, swiping, biting, and shredding the bonds in a desperate effort to slow the accumulation.
Adjusting his hat, Weed took a moment to consider the creature before him. “I will run out of mana before I kill that thing,” he murmured with distaste.
The black bear's life was monstrous. A critical blow from a Frost Spear stole no more than a tenth. The creature was simply too big, too strong, and too tough.
And the spider's venom did little to change that. Multiple applications of poison only served to increase the ailment's duration. Five minutes became ten. Ten turned into fifteen. If Weed were to wait all day, the beast would surely die.
But, the black bear would kill Weed long before that.
“ROOAAARRR!”
The black bear let loose its rage, shattering Weed's ear drums. In a sudden surge, the beast tore forward. Silky strands stretched to their breaking point. S-Snap! Snap! Elastic whips fractured and sprang back, cracking against the binding trunk. The tree lurched under the force, tilting two degrees further.
Bemju spat more webbing. The second spider, devoid of mana, leapt onto the bear's back. Its fangs descended, piercing deep into flesh. The bear swung its paws wildly at the distraction, seeking to the dislodge the arachnid that skittered to-and-fro.
Then, in a lucky blow, the black beast caught the creature with its claws.
With brutal force, the bear dragged the spider through the air then slammed it into the ground. The creature's carapace cracked. Long, thin legs flailed in wild desperation, fighting against the bear's crushing weight. The bear let out a rumbling growl then grasped the arachnid between its jaws. With a jerk, the bear tore the spider in half.
Weed's maximum mana shot upward, signaling the bound spirit's death.
A terrible smile crossed Weed's lips.
Bemju flung another length of fiber. “That's the last of my mana, master,” the spirit warned.
“Hold it a moment longer,” Weed commanded.
Closing his eyes, Weed sought the words to a rare incantation. It took a few moments before the lines were recalled. Holstering his staff, Weed clapped both hands together as though in prayer.
“Flesh of stone and blood of earth, flow as I will,” he chanted. Weed slammed both palms into the earth. “Dig!”
The dirt roiled as though it were a whirlpool. The ground subsided, devouring thick roots. The bear's feet scrambled as the earth beneath it turned into a hostile force. With a deep groan, the tree began to tilt. C-c-crack! Roots splintered. The falling trunk picked up speed.
BAM!
With thunderous crash, the tree's trunk smashed into the black bear. The beast let out a shrill cry, its spine fracturing under the force. Pitiful claws scrapped at the dirt, tearing out clumps of root and grass. The creature's struggles meant little to the tree's incredible weight.
“Dig,” Weed intoned mercilessly.
The ground beneath the bear sank further, sucking the beast into the depths. The fallen tree settled atop, pinning the creature inside the newly formed hole.
“Dig.”
The spell was cast a third time. This time dirt filled void rather than creating it. Earth compacted around the bear, leaving it trapped in an inescapable cell. Of the beast great mass, only its head was left visible.
Weed let out a long breath, tension fleeing his frame.
“Against powerful creatures, environmental magic is best.”
“To be fair, master, sane wizards do not fight monsters with a level three times their own.”
Bemju skittered to Weed's side. With all eight eyes, the spirit regarded the beast. The bear labored against its cage, but the dirt at the surface failed stir. With bored casualness, Weed approached. With the butt of his staff, he poked the creature. The bear snarled and snapped. Weed cracked it upon the skull, drawing a sharp whine.
Weed's gaze flickered to the red and blue bars in the corner of his vision. “I'm out of mana,” Weed grumbled. Folding his legs, Weed settled onto the ground. “Keep an eye on the bear, Bemju.”
“Of course master. And if it escapes, I will be sure to glare real hard. I'm certain that will be enough to stop it cold.”
Weed ignored his servant and slumped back against a tree. His eyes traced the forest canopy. Thick leaves formed a viridian sea with speckles of blue shining through. The air here was thick, hot and muggy. The Deep Forest of Serabourg was closer to jungle than woodland.
After receiving his quest, Weed had ventured away from the Citadel and traveled deep into the forest. As he left the city behind, the power of his foes grew rapidly. Herein lived forest wolves, jungle spiders, and mighty black bears. Monsters whose levels ranged from 50 to 100, forming a deadly force for any player fighting solo.
Especially if that player was an unclassed wizard with a level of a mere 37.
“This is a waste of time,” Weed grumbled with aggravation.
Weed's eyes fell upon on the black bear. The animal's hit points dribbled away slowly as poison took its toll.
Normally, Weed would not wait for his mana to recover. When his pool was empty, he fought with foot and fist. On rare occasions, where both life and mana were depleted, Weed would stand back and direct his minions to maximum effect. Ceaseless combat was what Weed loved, and thanks to Seek, he never had to hunt long before finding another opponent.
But, here, in this forest, the enemies were too strong. If Weed were to rush, he would die.
“Annoying,” Weed complained. “If I knew I would spend so much time waiting, I would have brought a book to translate.”
Ding!
Toxicological Study: Ursus [20%]
+2.0% chemical effectiveness
+2.0% chemical effect time
The effectiveness of all skills that depend upon knowledge of the creature's chemistry will be increased
Level Up: Biology [basic 6]
Through the study of the natural world, you can gain greater power over it.
The sudden appearance of a game window caused Weed to jolt upright.
“Toxicological study?” Weed expression transformed into a glower. “Why didn't this show up before?”
“Perhaps you have to observe the poison's progression, master,” Bemju commented lazily.
A nasty grimace marred Weed's face. “Wasting my time,” Weed growled. “Why is this game always wasting my time?”
“Is it really a bad thing, master?” Bemju asked. “Ah. Look the bear has finally hit critical.”
Bemju was, of course, correct. A Toxicological Study was an unquestionable boon. But, Weed could not help but feel miffed. If he had known about this advantage, he would have relentlessly harvested the benefits earlier in the game. Now he could only glare at the window Royal Road offered and wonder what other forms of 'study' the skill Biology hid.
“Skills should come with a manual,” Weed said in irritation. He set his staff against the black bear's head. “Spirit Bind. Antidote. Dig-”
Weed incanted spells for a full minute, emptying his mana anew.
Freed from the muck, the black bear shook its great fur coat. Dirt and dust were flung out in a misty rain. With a grunt, the newly made black bear minion nuzzled up against its diminutive master.
“Show stats.”
Bound Bear [level 110]
Life: 1272/7016
Mana: 943/943
Due to the binder's skill; base stats are reduced by 23%
Weed patted the creature on the head gleefully. “With this, I need not fear anything in this forest.”
“Oh good, then I can go back to watching everyone else fight,” Bemju commented. “Excellently done, master.”
Weed cast a nasty glare over his shoulder. “Don't be stupid. Until my mana is high enough to support two bears, you will be fighting on the front line beside him.”
“ROAARR!” the black bear added with approval.
Weed scratched the creature around the ears. “Yes, that's right, you are a good little meat shield, aren't you? Nothing like your worthless brother, Bemju, who lazes about while eating all my mana.”
“And with that, I have confirmed the wisdom of being master's 'useless' spirit,” Bemju deadpanned.
-oOo-
“Get over here, Bemju,” Weed demanded.
“Like hell.”
The black bear trudged beneath him. Each lumbering step caused Weed to wobble. Thick ropes of spider silk served as Weed's saddle. The jury rigged straps were far from a true harness, but they served well enough to hold him in place.
Branches rustled. Bemju traveled overhead. The spider wove through the trees making sure to stay far out of reach.
“Shut up and get down here, you worthless spirit,” Weed commanded again. “Slaves should do as their master orders.”
“Uh huh,” Bemju noised. “It's a good thing I'm not a slave then, master.”
Weed glared up into the leaves. The spider moved about the tree's limbs, unapologetic. Weed opened his mouth to spit out another demand, but all further conversation was rendered mute when the scenery shifted.
The black bear stopped at a cliff's edge.
It was a harsh break in geography. Forest came to a sudden end when it met sheer rock then resumed again two-score meters below. And it was not just the elevation that changed. The woods below were different. Instead of thick vegetation, the landscape was broken by interlocking meadows. A crystal stream wound through the open spaces, blossoming with curtains of color.
Flower crowded around the life giving liquid. Tending them were creatures a wing. Humming birds, butterflies, and tiny faeries flitted across view in a parade of ephemeral elegance.
“That tower,” Weed murmured.
Several kilometers beyond, situated in a wide clearing, was a squat tower. The tower overshadowed the surrounding forest, stretching twice as high as the nearest tree. Despite that, the ancient stone sagged, forming a crook around the bastion's center.
A single glance was all Weed needed. This was his destination.
Bemju dropped from the forest canopy then meandered to Weed's side. With one, gangly limb, the spider motioned toward the nearest meadow.
“Centaurs, master.”
Weed grimaced. Centaurs, fae born of horse and man. Each centaurs was armed with bow and spear. When those weapons were paired with a centaur's incredible speed, they lent a tactical strength not found in lesser creatures like spiders, wolves, and bears. Worse, centaurs possessed a human's cunning. They hunted in groups and, if given the chance, they could rally into small armies.
And, if that were not enough, the average level of a centaur in Rosenheim was one-hundred and fifty.
This was a foe Weed could not defeat.
“How am I supposed to kill a centaur?” Weed complained.
Avoiding the centaurs was not a possibility. The distance between the tower and Weed was too great. To reach his destination, Weed would have to fight at least a score of the creatures.
“That is master's problem, not mine,” Bemju replied with an approximation of a shrug.
Weed frown remained. “The boss's level is usually half again higher than the surrounding monsters,” he mused. “The Witch is level two-hundred and thirty then? Maybe higher if the tower counts as a separate dungeon.”
“What's the plan, master?”
Weed nudged the bear with his knees, forcing the mount to twist away from the cliff's edge. With heavy steps, the animal took him back into the surrounding forest.
“A level thirty-seven character cannot kill level one-hundred fifty enemies,” Weed said simply.
Bemju traveled along side. “Oh good, we are going to level up first. I was afraid that master would do something crazy again.”
Weed glanced down at the spider trailing him with disdain. Then his eyes took on a dark glimmer. Adjusting his staff so that it pointed down, Weed incanted, “Poison Mist.”
A roiling cloud of green mist burst from the tip of Weed's staff covering the nearby arachnid. A sharp, clicking noise echoed as Bemju took in the poison. Satisfied that his prey had not escaped, Weed leaned over and sucked in a deep breath of vile death.
You have been poisoned!
“Master! So cruel!” Bemju whined.
“Cruel? Who is cruel? Aren't you the cruel one, running off and forcing your master waste precious time doing a Toxicological Study?” Weed retorted.
“....,” Bemju's silence said everything. “Master, I don't think you understand what the word 'cruel' means.”
Weed snorted. “If I were a cruel, I would have already beaten you for your insubordination. How dare a worthless spirit complain when its master is suffering.”
The bear beneath Weed went still. Sudden tension erased all conversation. Weed swept the woods with narrowed eyes.
“We are being hunted,” Weed observed. “Seek: monsters.”
Wolf-like silhouettes were briefly haloed, revealing all five creatures hidden amongst the brush and trees. Weed's expression took on a hungry leer. He motioned upward with his staff.
“Bemju, outflank them.”
“Wait, master! Aren't you going to cure the poison first?” Bemju asked with alarm.
Weed flashed a glare of annoyance. “A pointless waste of mana. Now hurry up and make yourself useful.”
With that said, Weed slammed his heels into the bear's ribs. The animal rushed forward with a deafening roar. Forest wolves burst from their hidey-holes. With slavering maws they flashed forward. Weed met them with joyfully blood lust while whirling his staff overhead.
“Yatz Yatz Yatz!” Weed yelled as a war cry.
“ROOAAARRR!”
The black bear crashed into a forest wolf, bowling it over and depleting half its life. The beast pushed forward, a forepaw lashing out to strike a second wolf that had taken to the air. At the same time, Weed's staff whipped down, cracking against a skull in a clean blow to the head.
“Frost spear!”
Pure, blue ice exploded at the point of contact. The monster's head jerked as though struck by a canon, driving it straight into the ground. The creature's hind rose up as the wolf tumbled head over heels. Weed rolled with the recoil, his staff slashing out to smash into the snout of a fourth wolf that threatened his rear.
White webbing fell from above.
The sticky fabric caught two wolves, entangling them. Bemju dropped from the sky, trapping a third between eight legs. The spider's fangs perforated the canine's skull, dumping globs of venom into its brain with each strike.
The black bear turned, its clawed feet scrapping against the earth. Weed twisted to the rear and took aim, firing an Icicle that caught a forest wolf clean between the ribs.
“ROOAAARRR!”
With increasing speed, black bear lumbered forward. The beast crashed into the wolves snapping at Bemju's hardened carapace, sending one rolling across the forest floor. Weed leapt from his mount and crashed into a second wolf in a brutal flying kick. The wolf whined and struggled to its feet. Weed span and quickly leveled his staff.
“Icicle!”
A fist sized bullet of frost buried itself in the wolf's eye. The animal let out a pained howl. With desperate paws, it scrapped at its face seeking to dislodge the projectile.
“Tch!” Weed clucked. He took a free moment to hook his staff into its holster. “Out of mana.”
Weed waded into combat with a flurry of fists. The nearest wolf retreated under his blows, enduring the strikes as it sought a gap in Weed's guard. With quick footwork, the animal circled to Weed's rear and lunged. A slavering jaw opened wide, aiming to tear off Weed's face.
Slam!
A sharp blow caught the underside of the creature's jaw. Weed's eyes gleamed as the wolf twisted in midair. With a series of kicks, he punished the creature's weakness.
His eyes flickered to the side.
Weed's minions continued their battle. The black bear pinned a wolf to the ground with clawed forepaws. With its jaw, it clamped down on the creature's throat. With sharp tug, the beast tore out the animal's gullet.
“ROOAAARRR!”
The bear victorious bellow made the wolves wilt. Bemju utilized that fear, skittering back to escape his foe. Thick webbing shot out, draping his prey in sticky thread. With a vicious laugh, Weed bludgeoned his enemies, enjoying the thrill of raw hand-to-hand combat.
The battle ended a short minute later.
“Too easy,” Weed lamented.
Weed shook the blood from his fists then knelt at a dead wolf's side. With sharp, sawing motions, he skinned each animal, stripping it of meat and pelt. Rolling the items into a spider silk bag, Weed secured his loot to the back of the black bear.
Restoring himself to his mount, Weed waved for Bemju to follow.
“Hurry up, lazy spirit. There is game afoot and I want to hit level one-hundred before the end of the month.”
Weed's eyes glimmered greedily. Experience. Japtem. The Deep Forest of Serabourg was filled was monsters ripe for the plucking. Weed wanted nothing more than to murder every last one of them.
“Yeah, yeah. Poison your servant. Insult your companions. Why do I put up with you again?”
“Mana thieves don't have the right to complain,” Weed retorted.
“Hey! I will have you know that I was perfectly happy as a fox. I could sit back and tell everyone else to do the fighting. It was master who insisted that I be a spider.”
Traveling onward, Weed ignored Bemju's complaints.