Chapter 21 (Patreon)

AN: Sorry for the slow down! Patreon is going to get up to 30 chapters ahead of royalroad eventually. Right now I have to keep live posting to keep visibilty on the top of rising stars. Eventually I'm going to drop RR to 2-3 a week and keep patreon at 5x a week. Took some extra time figuring out some outline for act 2 (next 20 chapters)

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“It’s spider blood!” I said, not missing a beat. It wasn’t the least bit unbelievable that Sandy could collect some. She had weirder corpses shipped out here. “Sandy got it. You mentioned you…”

“Spider blood.” Terry said, swirling the bottle. “I have used something like it before.”

She fumbled over her table, pulling out a brush and trying to apply it directly. It was basically a thick paste, smearing the page rather than spreading.

“I could dry it out and extract the pigment…” She said, trailing off and flipping through her paperwork. 

“You’ll have to show me what you make with it.” I said.

I went to the workshop to continue the crawling work I’d been doing on a generic Hunter pattern. Mom crafted a pattern across from me, a thick padded outfit that I couldn’t discern the purpose of.

I kept trying to think of ways to fix the breaking chitin of the shell dress I was making. My distracted thoughts left me making errors in the Hunter pattern as I mentally pulled at the shell dress.

The patterns were embedded as memories from the original creators of the pattern and Tailors and Seamstresses that had worked on the pattern over the years since I acquired it, but it didn’t just come with the memories of how to craft it.

Each memory was touched with the emotions and thoughts of each crafter to touch the pattern over the years, imbuing it with a feeling. Switching my mental focus between the layers of memories of the two sets was jarring.

The hunter set struck me with memories of tailors in bordertowns and dirty shops, images of evening light burning through warped glass onto discolored floors and pressed dirt. The memories seemed to stretch back and back, an entire history book recorded between stitching sessions.

I couldn’t tell which memory was the first, but I could feel the change in them as they grew older. From the very beginning, the set was layered with a primal feeling of hunger, a deeper one that I had ever felt, and the longer I worked on the set the more the feeling gnawed on me, leaving an impression on my own mind.

After long enough, it threatened to overwhelm me.

On the other hand, the shell dress patterns memories were completely different. The hunter set felt like something crafted of necessity, but I could feel the disdain burned into the first memories of the shell dress’s crafting, the thoughts and emotions so clear they cut into me.

It had been designed for a noble, but partially as a vanity project. The few flickering memories of workshops had floors of patterned tiles, towering windows of glass overlooking cities, and Seamstresses with dozens of assistants. There were less memories of its crafting, which might have been why it was so much harder.

I slumped forward in my chair.

“Something wrong, my Light?”

“This pattern kinda sucks.” I said.

Mom laughed.

“Some are more… some have more of a mental drain than others.” She said. “Normally it’s not so noticeable until you have a few separate patterns. That’s why I don’t just spend all day working. More than a few hours can start to… grind.”

I flicked through the memories of the shell pattern, still looking for an answer.

“How would you sew chitin together?” I asked.

Mom stared for a second  before speaking.

“Chitin is often meant as an armor. It doesn’t take well if you approach it directly.”

“So?” I asked, fiddling with the leather cut in front of me. I had done a sloppy job stitching it together, frayed seems hanging loose from cut edges.

“You have to stab into it at an angle. It’s like… a bunch of plates on top of each other. If you go in directly it’ll crack. And be much harder. You have to go between the plates.” Mom said, looking away. 

I wondered how many patterns she had; how many memories boiled to the surface of her thoughts, imprinted through the system and thousands of lives? Her eyes were distant. She shook her thoughts away and smiled at me. “Why do you ask?”

“Just wondering.” I said.

“Working on something with Sandy?” She was still smiling. I considered her.

“Yeah. She got, uh, a shipment in.”

“If Henri got seafood in I’m going to have to come raid his pantry.” Mom said.

We wrapped up for the day, cleaning up the workshop, and I headed to the door to repeat my daily routine of working on the shell dress. The memories the two patterns brought to the surface made a strong dichotomy; I felt like I could work on the shell dress forever.

It spun with memories of elaborate workshops and wealth and power. It sung with the future I desired, the one I was reaching for.

I opened the door to find Gerald on the other side. My eyebrows shot up. He was standing there, arm extended like he was going to knock, breathing quickly, hair hanging low over his face.

“Gwen!” He said too quickly, like it had been rehearsed. “I was wondering if you wanted to hang out later?”

“Sure.” I said, stepping past him.

“And we should… get Sandy too!”

“You make something cool?” I ask, looking over at him.

“Yeah.” Gerald was staring forward towards Sandy’s house.

We found her and Cinnamon outside before heading to Gerald’s house. It was one of the few times I had arrived to find Bob not working the forge.

“Hey!” I said, waving at Bob as we walked through the living room. “Not smithing today?”

“No metal left.” Bob smiled. Then he saw Sandy behind me. His smile faded to a frown. “Sandy.”

“What?” Sandy asked, stepping into the kitchen and looking around.

Bob was always working, so I understood her confusion. She was looking for something going wrong and finding nothing. Bob’s expression continued to grow harsher. I didn’t know why.

“Gave it all to Gerald to practice with. How many patterns you at now, Gerald?”

“Twenty.” He said. He didn’t sound confident. “At least. Twenty.” Gerald was smiling. But his eyes were afraid.

I squinted. Didn’t he say he didn’t need patterns? That his class worked differently?

Bob stared daggers at Sandy.

Gerald was frozen in the kitchen, staring at his dad, who was staring back at him. It was getting awkward. I grabbed Gerald’s arm.

We rushed through the livingroom and upstairs into Gerald’s room. They had the privilege of a house unshared; only Gerald’s family lived here, but he found a way to make his oversized room feel cramped anyway.

“What is this?” I asked, looking around the room confused.

Weapons hung from every side of the wall. It looked like a medieval torture room. There were weapons of every shape and size, piles of weapons along the floor, half recycled armor joining it.

“A mess is what it is.” Sandy said, pushing past me into the room. She reached down and grabbed the handle of a sword in a pile of blades.

“Don’t—” Gerald tried to stop her before she yanked the sword, sending a pile of blades tumbling against the floor. Sandy danced backwards, dragging the massive blade with her. It gouged the floor. The falling pile of blades left scars where they fell. Gerald winced.

“At least your father can afford a carpenter. I patted his shoulder.

“Have you just been making weapons non-stop? This must have taken weeks.” Sandy grunted, struggling with all her might to raise the sword she grabbed. “Not that much of this is any use to us.” She grunted out.

“Forging is good.” Gerald said, reaching out and grabbing the blade to her with one hand. He casually flipped the blade, sliding it into a weapons rack.

“I don’t get a bonus for lifting outfits I make.” I said, staring at Gerald.

“One of my bonus attributes is strength.” Gerald said, the response so automatic it was like it was canned.

“So is Sandy’s.”

Gerald bit his lip. Then he leaned back against the wall. He stared at the door behind me.

I closed it.

Then I walked up to him, staring at him against the wall.

“What’s going on?” I asked, folding my arms and doing my best to look intimidating. I wasn’t sure how it was working; even Gerald was a bit taller than me.

“My dad thinks Sandy is clearing the dungeon.”

I frowned. Then I stepped back.

“But she is clearing the dungeon?”

“Yes. You guys are clearing the dungeon.” Gerald said. He didn’t meet my eyes.

“Who the hell is this for?” Sandy asked. She was still investigating the dozens of weapons on the wall, and right now she was standing in front of a wicked looking curved dagger with a blade that glinted in the light breaking through Gerald’s curtain.

“That one’s poisoned!” Gerald said suddenly. “Don’t touch it…”

“What the hell do you mean its poisoned?” Sandy stepped back. “Why would you poison it then put it on your wall?”

“It was an accident. It just came out poisoned.” Gerald said.

Sandy stepped left. She reached out at a different weapon — a long, needle thin rapier. The sword started to glow when she reached to it, and she flinched back.

“What the fuck Gerald?” She spun on him. “They’re enchanted? Did you get your mom’s class?” Sandy asked.

“No.” Gerald said. He looked like he wanted to say something else, but he didn’t.

“But the weapons are enchanted.” Sandy said, stepping around the room. “Is this why that cleaver is so nice? It’s fucking enchanted? You gave me an enchanted weapon? I thought…” 

Sandy paced.

I followed her with my eyes, looking the wall. Gerald stepped past me, reaching under his bed and pulling out another wooden box, like the one he had given me when this all started.

“I’m sorry. I meant to tell you guys. It’s just… I don’t know how you do it. Going off to kill monsters every night. I just want to be a smith.” Gerald said, turning around and presenting the box to me.

It popped open, full of needles the size of knives instead of swords.

“I was looking for a good enchantment. One that could work well for these.” Gerald said. “After you telling me about the one you got stuck in a tree, I figured — ”

“What were you going to tell us, Gerald?” Sandy asked, turning around.

“He’s a chosen. He’s a noble.” I answered for him, staring at his face instead of the needles.

Gerald looked away.