B3C30 - Growth (Patreon)

Still thinking of a change to the name of the Class. Skeleton Lord sucks.

The Awakening.

Tyron Steelarm. Your mastery of your craft has advanced by leaps and bounds, proving your choice of Ascension was a wise one. Your soul burns with hunger, now you shall fashion an army to feed it.

You are Ascending.

+20 to all stats.

You are able to advance Mysteries to the next stage.

You have received the Class: Skeleton Master.

A perfectionist, focused on achieving the peak of performance with one form of undead, a Skeleton Master can create the ultimate Skeletal warriors, and more. To advance, raise skeletal minions and have them fight in your name.

Class Attributes per level:

Strength +2;

Dexterity +2;

Constitution +3;

Intelligence +3;

Wisdom +2;

Willpower + 2;

Manipulation +2;

Poise + 3;

The maximum Skill limit of Raise Dead has been increased to 40. Your knowledge of this Ritual has been expanded. You may now apply it to horses. Your knowledge of this Ritual has been expanded, you may now engrave spells upon the minds of your skeletons.

The maximum Skill limit of Bone-Soul Melding has been increased to 20.

The maximum Skill limit of Bone Forging has been increased to 20.

The maximum Skill limit of Bone Animus has increased to 40.

Through your feats, you have been granted a new Mystery. Your insights into Death Magick and the properties of this energy have unlocked: Essence of Death, at the initial stage.

The rush of power was so intense that he could no longer stand. He crumpled to the floor, legs quivering as his body and mind underwent another grand transformation.

Some time later, Tyron shivered. The strength given to him by the Unseen since his Awakening was nothing to sneeze at, but his second advancement still hit him pretty hard. An additional twenty to all of his attributes, a hundred and eighty points in total, rocked him to his core, to the point he had collapsed to the floor, but still conscious, unlike his early levels.

The further he rose, the more he left normal humanity behind. In normal circumstances, he would now be classified as a Silver ranked Slayer. For most people, that was as high a rank as they would ever reach. Compared to the average citizen, who didn’t have the advantage of the power granted to combat focused Classes, his current status page would look like something out of legend.

At sixty-two, he was already stronger than a human had any right to be, his muscles tense with power. In his old village, perhaps only Rufus’ father, the blacksmith, would still be stronger than he was, despite him hardly getting any points in it from his Classes.

With over a hundred dexterity, he had cleared the first threshold, able to control the movements of his body with unearthly precision. A useful trait for casters to have to help them cast spells and rituals that required gestures. For Tyron, it was all about his finger-control. Carving runes, weaving thread, casting rituals, he needed all the fine-motor dexterity he could get.

He sat up and wiggled his fingers, chuckling at the strange sensation he got as he did so. With both hands in front of his face, he experimented, bending each digit to different angles, forming shapes, first mimicking the movements on both hands, then moving them separately. How much better would he be able to do his work now?

Of all of his physical properties, his constitution was by far the highest, nearly reaching the second threshold and two hundred.

Although he hadn’t been in a fight recently, he could still tell his body was hardening. He no longer cut himself by accident. Paper couldn’t slice through him, the sharp edges of his tools didn’t penetrate his hardened skin. Even Filetta remarked at just how hard it was to make a mark on him. Illness was almost a distant memory, and his ability to endure the harsh conditions he placed on himself, poor diet, lack of rest, was always rising.

Which probably wasn’t a good thing, he chuckled to himself. Once again, Tyron made a note to try and take better care of himself. It was hard to do once he got absorbed in something, but it was important, even if he could survive it.

His Intelligence had almost reached the third threshold, his highest attribute. He’d long grown used to the difference it made, sharpening his memory, accelerating his decision making, and more importantly, increasing the store of Magick at his command.

Still seated on the cold stone floor of his study, he took a deep breath and held it, focusing on the well of arcane power that dwelt within his body. It was this source that would eventually turn all who dwelt in this realm to kin, he knew, but even so, he rejoiced to feel it swollen with energy, more than he had ever felt before.

At this point, he was confident that the Magick Battery feats he had taken were not a flat increase to his capacity, but rather increased the amount of Magick his body could hold per point of Intelligence. That was what he’d hoped for, but couldn’t confirm it was true before making the selection. The realisation sent a wave of relief rushing through him, and he threw back his head and laughed.

Wisdom, close to the second threshold, was his second highest attribute. Who knows why the Unseen designed things this way, but it divided the attributes of all who fell under its reach into Physical, Mental and Social groups, and then divided those three into power, control and resistance.

Tyron’s physical power was low, but his control and resistance were comparatively very high. His mental power was absurd, his control lagging behind, and his resistance was the lowest of the three, though still high.

That control eased the difficulty he felt wrestling his vast reserve of Magick to do as he wished, easing spellcasting to the point where his early struggles felt like a distant memory. There was no ritual or spell Tyron currently knew that challenged him at all. Bending the Magick to his will, holding his nerve, maintaining precise movement of his hands and clear diction of his voice were easier than they had ever been.

Socially, he was still weak and vulnerable to manipulation. Those with extremely high Social attributes were dangerous to be around, especially if they had the Skills and Feats to match. Most people refused to shop from a merchant or store that employed such an individual, as they could be persuaded to part with almost anything they owned without realising what was happening.

Many professional musicians and bards, who travelled the provinces entertaining the people, were accompanied by a guard at all times. With their powers of persuasion, they could create an uprising, or convince blushing milkmaids or strapping farmhands into doing things they would later regret.

Not that Tyron would ever have the capacity to do such things. He manipulated minds in a rather more… direct fashion.

He would always be weak socially, that didn’t bother him. He needed to do more to ensure he wasn’t vulnerable to it, however. The last thing he wanted was to be talked down by someone as he sought to enact his vengeance.

The rest of the changes were… eye-opening. The additions to his Raise Dead ritual were… staggering, especially the last part. Being able to raise horses made… some kind of sense. Skeletons on skeletal horses. Sure. Why not? Engraving spells on their minds? What did that mean? Could he create skeletons who could use magick? Skeleton mages? That would be… absurd. How could he possibly supply enough energy to minions such as those?

Or would he have to? With his enchanting arrays, but scaled up… perhaps he could figure something out…?

Tyron shook his head, it was too early to think on that. He tried to focus on the present.

All of his bone related Skills and Spells had their maximum levels increased, which was to be expected. If he raised them to the cap once again, his proficiency with skeletal minions would reach another peak altogether. That thought alone was enough to get him excited.

And who knew what powerful Skills, Spells and Feats would be available at this rank? Only his main Class could go beyond level forty and give him real power, and now he was finally able to realise this potential.

The Necromancer pushed himself from the floor and stood, a little wobbly at first, but his balance returned steadily with each moment that passed. New ideas were already bubbling away in his brain as the knowledge and impressions the Unseen had imprinted there began to surface, but he pushed them away.

It was too soon. Over the next few days and weeks, those concepts would settle and he could examine them at his leisure then. For now, he had other priorities.

To help himself acclimate to his new body, Tyron began to walk in slow circles through his study, his hands trailing over the cold stone slabs, free of remains for the time being.

It was hard to focus. He was so full of energy, so full of drive! He wanted to rush out of his store, wanted to return to what it had been like before, out on the rifts with his minions, fighting against the tide of kin. In combat, he would quickly reap levels, doing what a Necromancer should, growing quickly in the face of death, but he couldn’t, not so soon as that.

There was so much to do. The shop couldn’t be abandoned, nor could his persona as Lukas Almsfield. It was bearing surprising fruit, after all. He’d been contacted several times about helping with commissions for high ranking families, and even the Magisters had come calling, screening him for their services. Coming face to face with a true Noble had been unexpected, and dangerous, but access to people of that rank was precious if he was to plan his vengeance. It would also help him if he was to support the growing rebellion from the shadows.

No. He would leave to fight and train his abilities, but it would have to be carefully planned.

As he was wont to do in such hectic moments, Tyron reached for paper and a pen, and began to write.

~~~

“You want how many?” Filetta squawked.

Tyron pulled his shirt on and buttoned it carefully.

“Being honest? As many as you can get, but at a bare minimum, I need a hundred over the next two months.”

Still tangled in the sheets, the thief rolled from the bed and began to rummage for her own clothes.

“You really think it's that simple for us to find fresh corpses?”

This surprised the Necromancer.

“I thought there would be far more than a hundred deaths in and around Kenmor in a week, let alone a month.”

Filetta rolled her eyes in the dark.

“Yes, obviously. The city has millions of people in it, there are tens of thousands of deaths every year. The issue isn’t finding dead people, it’s smuggling. We need to spirit the remains away and replace them with something before they go into the fire.”

“What do you use?” Tyron asked, curious.

“Cow parts, so I’m told,” she shrugged, “I don’t handle that end of things. I’m more of a customer relations expert,” she leered.

Now it was time for Tyron to roll his eyes.

“Fine. I’ll pay extra, obviously, and I’ll need more regular shipments of bones as well.”

“More bones as well? Why the rush? The faster we move, the greater the risk of discovery. You know that, right?”

Tyron finished with his shirt and began to pull on his coat.

“Of course I know that. This is a temporary matter. Once I have the hundred, we can slow the pace right down for a time, to dissipate any heat that might have accumulated.”

Filetta nodded slowly.

“Very well. I’ll talk to my people and we’ll do what we can.”

“I’m grateful,” Tyron nodded, then turned and pushed open the door, stepping out into the corridor.

A hundred minions should suffice to start with, but he would need more in his fight against the rifts. Unfortunately, there was a limit to how many he could gather in the city without drawing suspicion.

He may have to purchase a few shovels. Grave robbing may be back in fashion.