Book Of The Dead

Work continued in a flurry of activity for Tyron. After Yor returned with Dove, he slept for two days before he awoke, feeling like a dead man. With some food and drink in him, he felt much better, but noticed as he pulled his clothes on he was looking dangerously thin.

Once upon a time, he’d had his Aunt Meg and Uncle Worthy chasing him down and shoving delicious tavern meals down his throat. Since his Awakening, he’d never really settled into a healthy routine, not even when he’d enrolled as Master Willhem’s apprentice. He’d worked himself to the bone, hunched over his bench at all hours, eating whatever he could scrounge from the kitchens when someone reminded him to eat.

Should he hire a cook? Perhaps someone to feed the staff in the store… he knew Flynn didn’t eat properly, although he might have seen Cerry bringing him food?

No, he was the only one who needed help in this regard. He looked at the contents of his pantry. Dried meat, hard biscuits, pickled vegetables…

“Am I travelling?” he muttered incredulously to himself, before slamming the cupboard door closed. “That’s it, I’m getting a proper meal.”

Having decided his course of action, he finished dressing himself and left the store after a brief discussion with Cerry, stepping out into the crowded streets for what felt like the first time in weeks. He carefully tried not to think about the fact it likely was the first time in weeks.

There were a few good places to eat near the market square, reputable taverns, although he also had the option to go into the city and find something more upmarket….

To hell with it, he decided, I can’t be bothered travelling inside the walls.

Rather than head to the stables and coach hiring houses, he wandered through the market itself, enjoying the sunshine and feeling the bustling crowd moving around him. After a time, he realised with a jolt, he didn’t feel that surge of irrational anger or hatred at these people moving around him, going about their day. Farmers manned stalls, selling fresh produce from the fields, shoppers haggled with crafters and tradespeople offering their wares and services, and it all seemed… fine.

He wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad thing that he felt more calm, or why. Perhaps being around more people, Filetta, Dove, Victor, Elsbeth, even Yor to some extent, had been good for him, helped unwind a little of the tension he’d been holding tight inside his chest.

Regardless of the reason, his rumbling stomach urged him to find something more substantial to fill it, and so he left the stalls and moved to the outer edge of the square, where the more established businesses could be found.

He trailed his eyes across the stores until he found himself staring up at one quizzically. There was no way… right?

With a bemused expression, he pushed his way through the door, eyes wandering. It was a small place, with only five wooden tables and simple furniture, but it was clean, and the smells wafting from the kitchen were delicious, a hint of smoke and roasting meat.

There weren’t any staff manning the counter, so he leaned against it and waited, until someone came through and he almost fell over.

“Welcome!” she said, with a bright smile. “Are you here to eat?”

“Wha- ah… yes. Absolutely, thank you.”

“No problem. Why don’t you grab a seat and I’ll be over in a minute to let you know what’s in the pot today.”

“Thanks.”

He tried not to act weird, she clearly didn’t recognise him. After four years, she’d done a lot of growing up, but she was still far too attractive to be that man’s daughter.

“Don’t see a well dressed gentleman like you around the market all that often,” she said as she walked up to the table with a jug of water and a glass. “Are you from around here?”

“Me? Yes, I run… I own a store nearby.”

“Oh really? Which one?”

“Almsfield Enchantments.”

“That’s you? Master Almsfield? Well, welcome to my humble store! I know it isn’t much, I awakened as a cook not that long ago, but you’ll not find finer cuts of meat this side of the wall, that’s our guarantee.”

“Yes, your father’s a butcher, I take it?”

She nodded, happily.

“That’s right, been at it for a long time. Used to work out on the rifts, monster parts mostly, but now he’s working on cows and game. Speaking of which, we have roast beef over the fire with vegetables, or a venison stew. Do either take your fancy?”

“The roast, thanks.”

“Gravy?”

“Of course.”

“And anything to drink?”

“An ale if you have any.”

In short order, she’d served the meal and given him some space to enjoy it, stopping by to offer him a top up and engaging in some chat. He managed to steer the conversation to where her father had worked before, and she explained their flight from Woodsedge.

“It was horrible,” she shivered. “That noise was like nothing I’d ever heard before. And the monsters… sorry, I don’t like to talk about it much. My father and I barely made it out, but we lost my mother. It was… a very painful time.”

“I’m sorry to have brought up such awful memories,” Tyron said awkwardly, kicking himself for prying. “It seems you’ve done well to find your feet,” he gestured to the store around them.

“Oh, thank you. It hasn’t been easy, but we’re getting there.”

She hadn’t lied about the food either. Her cooking Skill was likely still quite low, and it showed in the food, but the meat was exquisite. All she needed was time and practice, some trial and error, before her Class and Skills began to climb.

He finished his plate with relish, considered asking for more, but checked himself. He thumbed a coin from his pouch and onto the table.

“I hope that covers everything.”

“That more than covers everything! Wait there and I’ll get you some change.”

“No, no. It’s quite alright, I need to be on my way.”

“Absolutely not, sir, you wait right there!”

She rushed out the back of the store, leaving Tyron standing by himself in the dining area. After glancing around a few times, he turned and sprinted out the door.

Behind him, the proud sign, painted in red and white read Gunderson Meats and Eatery.

~~~

“Someone to see you, Master Almsfield.”

“Damn it all! Who is it this time?”

“Oh. Ah. I’m… sorry.”

Tyron sighed and pushed himself back from his bench, tossing away his pliance.

“Sorry, Cerry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just getting tired of people coming to the store and bothering me when I’m trying to work.”

“It’s quite alright, Master Almsfield, I completely understand.”

“No, it’s not alright, and it won’t happen again. Now, who was it?”

“Right! I don’t think I know this person, I haven’t seen them in the store before, but they said they had a delivery for you?”

He frowned and pushed himself up from his seat.

“A delivery? Did they say who from?”

“No…”

“Well, I’ll go talk to them.”

Irritated at being disrupted, he tried to smooth the frustration from his face as he descended the stairs. If it was one of his suppliers, then it wouldn’t do to be snapping their heads off for entering his place of business.

But he didn’t recognise the man in dusty looking robes, holding a wide, stitched hat waiting on the shop floor. He stood unusually still, only shifting his head slightly as he looked down at the wares on display.

“Hello, can I help you, sir?” Tyron asked, forcing a slight smile onto his face.

It was the best he could do.

“Are you Master Almsfield?” the man replied, turning to face him directly and staring him right in the eyes.

“Yes, I am.”

The straightforward demeanour of the stranger was almost threatening, but the Necromancer didn’t sense any ill will. Perhaps this was a cultural thing? Or maybe this person was just odd….

“Our friend from the desert asked me to deliver this to you. Didn’t think you’d want them in your store again.”

He reached deep into his own voluminous sleeve and retrieved a scroll case from within, presenting it to Tyron on his open palm.

The Mage’s eyes lit up with greed the moment he laid his eyes on it. He reached out and carefully took the case in both hands.

“Many thanks. Would you care to stay for some refreshment?”

“No. Our business is concluded and I must be elsewhere. Thank you.”

With the slightest tip of his head, the well-tanned stranger turned on his heel and strode from the store. Such actions could be considered rude, but Tyron was more than pleased. Nothing to delay him from examining the scroll!

“I’ll be heading back upstairs, Cerry. Let me know if you need me.”

“Of course, Master Almsfield. Did you know that person?”

“No. Never met him before in my life, but I was expecting this to arrive, at some point.”

Without another word he strode up the stairs two at a time and burst into his workshop, grinning.

Of course, it wouldn’t be sensible to simply open the case without some precautionary measures, so he scried it with his eye spell, used magick to examine the case and carefully inspected it through his lens before he opened it.

Inside, he found a small sheet of paper wrapped around a longer one. The first sheet was a short letter from Shadda, written in a barely legible scrawl.

I have spoken to the elders and they consented to allow me to send you this. It is nothing special, but better than nothing.

Shadda

“Man of few words,” Tyron muttered as he put the letter aside and withdrew the scroll.

He unravelled it eagerly, only to find it was significantly longer than he expected it to be, slipping from his grasp and rolling off his bench and onto the floor.

Gingerly, he gripped the top and bottom and began to carefully roll it back up until he was holding the first section in front of his face. This would have been so much more convenient as a book….

However, his mild complaints were washed away as he read, then shuffled the scroll to examine the next section, then the next.

These were instructions for golem building! Exactly what he’d been hoping for. What’s more, they included a detailed written description of the sigils used for the construction of the artificial mind.

The Necromancer almost felt like dancing. With this, he could finally begin to unravel the process behind the simple artificial consciousness that was implanted in his minions. Once he understood it, he could begin to improve it.

This could be the beginning of a monumental leap forward in the quality of his undead. Just thinking of the possibilities had him on the edge of abandoning his workshop and rushing down to the basement.

Settle down, Tyron. Breathe.

He couldn’t go down there yet. There was work to finish for the shop, and vanishing during the day when the staff were around carried an element of risk.

With care, he rolled up the scroll and returned it to its case before putting it aside and forcing himself to return to his enchanting. He had plenty of time. All the time in the world.

It would take a lot of work to fully unravel the information contained in the scroll, and much more to then apply that to the Raise Dead ritual. Combined with what he’d learned from the vampiric text, it may be enough to push his level in that spell to its maximum.