“Master! Your hiccups have stopped.”
“Yes, I know.”
Worm stomped down the stairs for the last time, not pausing to give Mrs Bramble more than a quick and dignified nod of the head.
The old lady didn’t notice. Her breath hissed as she caught sight of Daisy’s new uniform.
“You foul perverted fiend!”
With those words ringing in his ears, the Necromancer led Daisy out into the morning gloom.
If she noticed Mrs Brambles’ outburst, his minion didn’t seem bothered by it. She skipped along behind him like a delirious child on the way to a candy store.
“It’s been so long since I took a carriage somewhere far away,” she babbled. “The last time was my cousin’s wedding. She got married in Portsmouth. A quaint little town on the coast. Have you been there?”
Grinding his teeth, he squeezed his words out into the light morning fog. “No. No, I bloody haven’t.”
“It’s very exclusive. The mineral springs are excellent for your skin. Mummy still goes once a year, although I fancy she needs to go more often. Her skin looked so dry yesterday. I was very worried for her.”
Worm grimaced at thought of Daisy’s mother, who he’d met once at the courthouse. The woman’s shrill voice was like chalk on a blackboard.
“Warty old bat,” he muttered.
“What was that, Master?”
The Necromancer hesitated to speak at first. Then realized who he was talking to and whirled to face her. Putting as much venom into his voice as he could, Worm gave his opinion to her like a knife to the heart.
“I said, she’s a warty old bat. She looks like troll excrement left in the sun. Her voice is the sound of a donkey being kicked in the unmentionables.” He gave her the full fury of his snarl. “And she smells of mothballs and dried month-old prawns!”
He had a grin waiting in reserve just in case a tear managed to break across the beach of her eyes, but instead she proved herself a demon from the darkest pits as she let out a thoroughly delighted laugh.
“Oh, Master! You say the naughtiest things!”
Scowling, Worm thundered down the street with the musical sound of her giggles in his ears.
His hatred for her grew with every passing day.
----------------------------------------
“Tickets, please.” The Attendant spoke with an imperious tone reserved for customers he didn’t like. The buckles on his shoes and buttons on his coat were gleaming and bright.
The rest of his uniform was dark and mournful.
It matched the station which was built of tired old wood but whose brass fittings were polished and gleaming.
Worm thrust two stubs at him. “Here.”
“Hrmmm.”
The Attendant made a show of examining them, then handed them back with a greasy little smile. “Your seat is number Two, and the lady’s is number Three. Please ensure your seatbelt is buckled for the duration of the journey. Do you have any luggage?”
“Not on me, no.”
“And are you carrying any fruit from Derbyshire or have you visited a strawberry farm in the last two days?”
“I ate an apple yesterday. I don’t know where it came from. Is that important?”
His ugly smile didn’t waver. He was a true professional. “Lunch will be served at midday. Your Guild has selected the bread and cheese option. Do you wish to upgrade to something more palatable?”
“Does it cost extra?”
“Access to the VIP menu would be thirty gold coins, sir. It also includes a seating upgrade.”
Worm’s stomach growled, but he couldn’t afford its complaints. “Forget it.”
“Oh!” Daisy stepped forward, fingers dipping into her ruffled skirt to pull out a petite enchanted purse made of soft pink velvet and a solid gold clasp. Fishing out thirty shiny new Imperial gold coins, she handed them to the attendant. “I’ll upgrade mine, please.”
“Very well, Ma’am. Your ticket has been upgraded and your seat is now number Four.” He glanced at the Necromancer with a look he hoped conveyed the entirety of his contempt and disgust before presenting her with his warmest smile. “I hope you enjoy your journey with us and we at United Carriages look forward to serving you.”
Worm gawped at Daisy as the attendant moved to harass the next customer. “You have gold?”
“Oh, yes. Even though I was cut out of the inheritance, Daddy didn’t want me to be poor.” She rattled on before he could speak. “Of course, Mummy made me promise not to spend any of it on anything which would benefit you, Master. But I assured her you could support us both and I would only use it for special occasions. And, well, I can’t eat cheese as it upsets my poor tum tum. And the bread on these journeys can be a bit too tough for my teeth. I do hope the cushioning is soft. I once took a carriage without cushioning and my bottom hurt for weeks.”
Worm’s brain absorbed her words with a growing sense of fatalistic unease.
“Right,” he said. “Cushioning. Bugger.”
----------------------------------------
The cushioned seats of the carriage were indeed soft. Springy suspension made it feel like they were yachting rather than bouncing down a rough country road. That, and the seat could recline. A little cushioned footrest slid out to keep one prone enough to make sleeping an enjoyable and pleasant experience.
At least, that’s what Daisy told him.
For himself, the Necromancer sat on what could generously be described as a park bench slotted into the carriage facing the rear. His spine felt every pebble the wheels clattered over.
After an hour, Worm was beginning to feel queasy.
The three cushioned seats in front of him were all taken. Daisy sat by the window, and a gentleman and his wife took the seats beside her.
The gentleman told Worm he knew who he was and thought what he’d done was deplorable. He offered Daisy his sympathies.
Daisy told him how much she loved the Necromancer and how her whole life was perfect now.
The gentleman’s wife tutted. “Oh, you poor brainwashed thing.” Then turned to Worm and growled. “Perverted little man!”
Given his Undead Servant had been maliciously lifting her skirt whenever she caught him glancing in her direction, he didn’t really know how to respond to that accusation so kept silent for much of the journey.
He did, however, add both their names to the growing list in his grimoire.
Mr and Mrs Gunstone of Filby Parks.
One day, Worm was going to feed them to his ghouls.
That thought made him feel better, but not enough to keep motion sickness from making him vomit regularly into a paper bag.
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The Necromancer sat aside from everyone for lunch and tried not to let flashbacks from his time in the Mages Guild upset him too much.
The small crust of bread and thin wafer of hard cheese would have been a disappointment if that’s all there was to it. The footman serving lunch told him brightly that he was being given extra food today in the form of a vegetable.
That’s provided mould counted as a vegetable.
Worm was too hungry to refuse it and sat on an old log nearby to contemplate whether it was or was not a vegetable as he chewed.
Daisy lounged in a reclining chair beneath a large umbrella, sipping on sparkling wine.
She’d just finished a four-course meal which included buttered roast potatoes and wagyu steak in an exotic red wine sauce and smooth onion gravy as main.
Her side of asparagus had been steamed to perfection to leave it both sweet and slightly crunchy. She gave many compliments to the beaming cook who returned her praise with an additional chocolate-coated strawberry on her dessert slice of Randolian sponge cake.
Mrs Gunstone hovered close to Daisy, offering to lend her a proper lady’s dress for the trip.
“Oh, I couldn’t do that,” Daisy protested loudly. “Master really likes my uniform, and I wouldn’t want to disappoint him.”
The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.
Everyone stared daggers at the Necromancer who began contemplating in earnest the many ways he could destroy his Undead Servant.
There had to be a way.
He couldn’t spend the rest of his life with her.
He just couldn’t.
As though aware he was staring at her, she shifted her leg to give him a full view of her thighs.
Worm scowled.
Life was so unfair.
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That evening, Worm discovered accommodation was also not provided by the Dungeon Masters Guild.
Daisy handed the Innkeeper a handful of gold coins. “I’ll take the upgrade,” she said cheerfully. “And would it be possible to get a hot water bottle and maybe some extra pillows? I don’t sleep anymore now I’m undead, but I do like to sit in bed and read.”
He gawped yet again. “You have books?”
“Of course! Daddy let me take some from the family library. Mummy told me I couldn’t take more than a hundred, though. My Inventory is very full right now.”
The Innkeeper tucked the coins away before giving the Necromancer a scowl. “Ye poor lass. Don’t ye fret. I’ll get ye all the pillows ye want. And would yer like some hot cocoa, perhaps?”
“Oh, yes please! That would be divine!”
Two Barmaids stood aside, wiping their tears with their aprons.
One shot Worm a venomous look between wipes, her face pale with revulsion. “How could you? You evil bastard. You make me sick to my stomach.”
He dipped a hand into his Inventory and pulled out a paper bag.
“Take it,” He sighed. “I have plenty.”
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The Necromancer slept in the barn on a small pile of hay.
“Yer lucky to get that much,” the Innkeeper growled. “If it were up to me, I’d just string yer up by yer neck and leave ye.”
Back stiff and everything aching, Worm didn’t feel like arguing. He just nodded thanks and fell onto the relatively soft bedding.
He told himself it was a chance to get in touch with his primitive side. The side who dreamed of hunting and gathering. Of hitting things with sharp stones or heavy wooden clubs or eating a raw liver pulled steaming from fresh-killed deer.
There’s nothing wrong with sleeping on the floor, he told himself.
It’s natural.
In the morning, as he washed in the trough, he reflected on the numerous flea bites covering his body and decided he didn’t much like nature after all.
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The stats which affect everyone’s lives are relatively simple to understand and are mostly instinctual.
Intelligence raises mana capacity and power. Agility affects how fast a physical body reacts and moves. Strength affects how powerful a physical body can grow.
And so on.
Constitution is one of those stats which is often ignored by those looking to maximise their gains specific to their class. It affects how the body responds to life’s little challenges.
Like poison, disease, or allergies.
More attractive to Worm on the fourth day of his journey were the mitigating effects which Constitution could have on motion sickness.
If only he’d been smart enough to put a few measly points into it when he had them.
Instead, he’d poured everything into Intelligence.
Which, if you think about it, wasn’t very intelligent.
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“Stand and deliver!”
The words rang out as the carriage lurched to a stop with a huffing squeal by the horses and a shouted curse from the driver.
Daisy stuck her head out the window like an eager puppy while the Gunstones began to quiver in fear.
“Oh, Harold! The pearls! You can’t let them take my mother’s pearls!” The old woman clutched at the dull string around her neck.
Panicked, the gentleman banged his cane on the roof of the carriage. “Driver! I say, driver! Carry on!”
“Can’t, sir,” the driver called down. “They’re all level twenty-fives!”
Daisy pulled her head back in, grinning wildly. “There’s ten of them, Master. I saw two Rogues, a Fencer, three Scouts, two Harlots, a Bishop and a Mercenary.”
“A mercenary? Really?”
“Harold!” The old lady wailed. “Do something, Harold!”
The old gentleman gripped his cane, his face pale. “Twenty-fives?”
“The Bishop is level twenty-six,” Daisy said. “But one of the Scouts is twenty-four, so it balances out, I suppose.”
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Bishop Carlton Clough wasn’t a religious man unless he had to be.
He’d originally wanted to be a Paladin but couldn’t raise the Strength stat in his youth. He’d hoped if he took Priest, he could respec into Paladin later on.
Unfortunately, that’s not how things work and he found himself stuck with a fistful of Healing spells he didn’t like to use. Healing wasn’t an exciting profession and Carlton disliked sick people.
One evening, drinking at a local inn, a grubby little man had sat next to him and, before he could say bugger off, the little man said; “Not much coin in religion, mate. Ever thought of trying Banditry?”
Carlton hadn’t, but he was interested enough to find out more.
----------------------------------------
Two years later, Carlton thrust his rough-looking head through the window of the carriage. Bald and flushed red from the heat of the day, his smile looked cheerful enough.
“Come on out,” he invited. “Let’s get a good look at you.”
“Harold!” Mrs Gunstone squeaked. “Harold, hit him. Hit him, Harold!”
“Best not do that, Harold,” the Bishop said with a regretful expression painted ironically on his face. “I’d have to kill you for it. Well. I wouldn’t kill you myself, of course. I’d have someone else do it.”
Mrs Harold gasped. “You wouldn’t dare! Why, my cousin is very well known to the King’s aunt.”
“Really?” Carlton Clough raised a bushy eyebrow in surprise.
“Yes. Yes, she is. So, you’d do well to let us go, you miscreant!”
“Well, I have a brother who once worked for the King’s gardener. Used to fertilize his carnations, he did. Every year.” The Bishop smiled kindly. “He loved them flowers did His Majesty.”
“I don’t see what that has to do with anything.”
“It means as much as your cousin, my lady. Now, if you’d be so kind as to exit the carriage before one of my lads gets a bit knuckle-happy with their bow and you catch an arrow in the throat.” He rapped a knuckle on the carriage door. “I’d hate to get blood on that perfectly good string of pearls around your neck.”
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Worm was doubled over, trying to control his heaving stomach as his brain spun gently within the suddenly limited confines of his skull.
One of the Rogues crouched next to him, looking genuinely concerned for some reason. “You alright there, mate?”
The Necromancer nodded at him. “Will be. Give me a minute.”
“Well. Don’t do anything sudden, okay? I’ve got high Agility and feeling a bit nervous, so I’d probably stab you in a panic if you do.”
“I’ll remember that,” Worm muttered, sucking in as much fresh air as he could. “Sorry about this. High Intelligence for me.”
“Ah,” the Rogue nodded, understanding. “Carriage sickness, is it? Well, that’s stupid of you, isn’t it? Should’ve put five into Constitution. Hey, Wally? Look at this. Another one who put bugger all into Constitution.”
One of the Scouts frowned. “That’s a bit daft, isn’t it?”
“Just a bit.”
Worm sighed. “I’ll be fine in a minute.”
“Be fine a lot quicker if you’d stacked a little Constitution.” The Rogue shook his head in disgust. “No Constitution? What about Wisdom? I bet you put it all into Intelligence like a complete noob. Honestly. Some people shouldn’t be allowed to select their own stats.”
----------------------------------------
Daisy hummed cheerfully. Her little skirt was drawing a lot of attention and one of the Harlots stepped up to admire it.
“Is this silk?”
“Yes, it is,” Daisy said. “All the way from Erebia.”
“I bet that cost a fortune.”
“Not really. It was only a few hundred thousand gold.”
“A few hundred thousand?” The Harlot’s jaw dropped.
Worm’s would, too, but he was busy trying not to throw up.
The other Harlot plucked at Daisy’s shoulder. “I like this lace. It’ll look really good on me.”
“I don’t think it would,” Daisy said apologetically. “It’s really not your size.”
She pulled a knife. “I could size it down a bit.”
“Yes, but you can’t size it up, can you?”
The Harlot frowned before looking down at her wider curves. “Hey, there’s no need to be rude about it.”
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Mercenaries were a fearsome breed.
Their skills were practical with a focus on an even spread of Strength and Agility for the most part. As such, they possessed the strength of an average Warrior with the speed of an average Rogue.
They frequently wore steel armour and preferred weapons which made a mess.
Axes, clubs, maces, and heavy falchions were most common.
They were deadly, efficient, and generally available to the highest bidder.
They were not, however, normally named Petal Peachblossom.
----------------------------------------
“Petal?” Worm frowned up at the Bandit trying to search his pockets.
Mostly she looked the part. Tall. Athletic. Long red hair.
Breasts bigger than Daisy’s and firmly held in place within a steel bikini whose defensive stats were significantly higher than its weight should allow. Delicate ribbons of chainmail draped her sides down to her hips and another little triangle of steel dangled between her legs with a hesitant effort at modesty.
She wore thick leather boots. Steel bracers on each arm.
Red hair tightly bound and hanging in a thick ponytail down her back.
The two-handed sword was uncommon for a Mercenary, but she looked comfortable with it.
Her eyes were thin slits of pale green as she scanned his face. Finally, she gave a grunt and stopped going through Worm’s pockets long enough to bat the side of his head with her gauntleted hand.
“Open your Inventory,” she growled.
“Really?”
“I said open it.”
“But there’s nothing in it.”
“Then you won’t mind opening it,” the Bishop called. “Please don’t make such a fuss. We’ve got a lunch engagement we’d like to make.”
Worm put up a finger and finally lifted himself into a proper standing position. The vertigo retreated a little, but he still winced at the effort. “One moment, please. I have a question.”
“Oh?” He looked amused at the thought. “I do love questions, but we’re very lacking in time. Is it a quick one?”
“I hope so. I mean, you’re a Bishop? And you’re a Bandit? I didn’t know those two classes were exactly synergistic?”
The Bishop grimaced. He managed to look a little ashamed but shrugged it off quickly. “Hard times…”
The Necromancer wobbled a little on his feet and Daisy watched him with concern. “Are you alright, Master?”
“Fine,” Worm muttered. Then, to the Bishop; “You are Bandits, though? This isn’t a Church thing?”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, you can think of us as collecting for the poor.” This earned a few well-worn chuckles from his group. “Only we’re the poor, right? So, empty your Inventory before I let Snuggins at you. He hasn’t so much as hurt a fly in over a week and it’s making him terribly grumpy.”
“Snuggins?”
One of the Scouts lifted his bow and nodded. “Aye. Tha’s me. Ya think tha name’s funny ‘r summat?”
“No,” Worm said. “Not at all. It just sounded familiar. I think my sister had a doll called Snuggins.”
“Ya takin’ tha piss?”
“Or was it Snuggles?” He tapped his forehead thoughtfully. “They’re very similar.”
“Petal?” The Bishop called. “Be a dear and cut his head off, will you?”
“Umm…” The Mercenary sighed and took a step back before squatting in the grass, sword across her knees. “I’m not sure you paid me enough for that, Carlton.”
“I’m pretty sure I did, darling,” he said firmly. “Two hundred gold coins. I counted them in front of you and everything. Right?”
“Right.”
“And I paid that so you would protect and plunder?”
“Right.”
“So… plunder away, please!”
“Level twenty-fives.”
“What?”
“The contract is only valid for the plundering of innocent victims who are level twenty-five or less.”
“But they’re all from the city. They can’t be more than ten-” The bishop’s eyes widened as he finally checked Worm’s Nameplate.
“Yeah,” the Necromancer said. He felt he was entitled to a little smugness. “But if it’s any consolation, you’re all about to make the rest of my journey somewhat more bearable. That means a lot to me right now. It really does. In fact, I can’t thank you enough…”
And with that, he raised his hand and uttered two of his favourite words.
“Mass Lifedrain.”
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Lifedrain is a nice spell, but Mass Lifedrain is a nicer upgrade.
It’s a useful Area of Effect spell which drains a mob effortlessly and thus comes in handy when you’re surrounded by an angry mob of Peasants. Or a troupe of Bandits.
While he hadn’t invested much into Constitution, Worm had invested greatly in Mass Lifedrain.
Its core effect drains the mob’s Life Points and adds them to the caster’s own. But, since his were already at maximum, it instead added a buff to Constitution for every five points over maximum drained from humanoids.
Deliciously, while the buff is temporary, it also stacks.
This meant that, for roughly nine days, he’d have enough Constitution that motion sickness wouldn’t affect him. He could also chug poison and visit every pox-laden Harlot on the way if he were so inclined.
For the first time in days, Worm was happy. So happy he began to do a jig while singing a shanty about a buxom wench, twelve lonely sailors, and a blacksmith’s apprentice.
The Necromancer kept singing until a blushing Mrs Gunstone begged him to stop just before the wench was about to take on her sixth, seventh, and eighth sailor boy.
Irritated by her interruption, he proceeded to lecture everyone about how the world was insanely big and yet everything was so deeply connected.
Lifedrain Buzz is a real thing.