Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday hadn’t noticed the patterns on the stone floor of the Arcanum’s halls before. It had lines like wood would, but it was certainly made of stone. Unless of course, this world had gigantic trees that pretended to be stone and had the same properties despite growing from the earth. Dark and grainy and smooth like a mirror. Not slippery though. And it was not a floor made out of tiles or stone segments at that. It was one big piece that curved and stretched and glistened under the light of the lamps on the walls, spanning the whole building.

The observation did little to assuage his fears. Chaotic Step had activated again. The Talent was terrifying, maybe even more so than the religious nuts he was meant to destroy. It signified the complete and utter lack of control he had over his own destiny. A noose around his neck. Or a dog leash held by an unknown owner. It hadn’t whisked him away into another strange situation this time. Rather, it had allowed him to step through Sotu’s barrier as if it hadn’t been there at all.

He had felt it better this time. What it had done to him. As if his whole body fell apart into millions of grains of sand – the building blocks of his undead existence. Each individual grain was a whole Sunday with feelings and emotions. For just that little part of a moment, he had been infinite, and the experience was hitting him with strange delay. The memory of the sensations made him shudder with terror. It felt invasive. It felt wrong. A violation of how things should be! Of how men shouldn’t just fall apart into a complete and utter chaotic mess of sentient dust only to pass through what was essentially a magical wall!

“So…” Kloud said, then cleared his throat.

Sunday didn’t entertain him. The two had left in silence after the spell had been given to Sunday. Even now it hung from his belt by a chain – a cube as big as a palm, locked in a steel box, and given to him just like that. Like a prisoner who couldn’t escape or a worthless item, he could take home.

Messenger, Sotu had called it. It took the shape of a small grey bird, barely a thumb’s length, that was constantly zapping about its prison. It held no apparent combat potential, but for some reason Sunday liked it. He had allies, and reaching them fast would be important in the future. And it was kind of cute.

No one had spoken to him after the duel. No one had congratulated or uttered a word of disbelief at the way the fight had gone. Elora had given him a smile, which was nice. She was not one he was least wary of. In fact, he felt indebted for making her go through what she had gone through.

Sunday didn’t know why he had acted the way he did. He just really wanted to be done with whatever it was they were trying to prove to each other, and move on. Maybe that’s why things had gone that way. For once, his talents had been in agreement with him.

All he had used was a single Spell, and it had been supposed to be a duel between magi.

His cursed talents seemed to toy with him as much as they toyed with his enemies. Like a double-edged sword with no handle that he was forced to grip forever. Slapping that guy felt so good though…

And despite it all, his damned Talent had been useful. It was all about consent though, and Sunday was damn well sure he wasn’t alright with spontaneous teleportation.

“That was something,” Kloud tried again. Bless him, the guy had softened a lot since those first few times when he had tried to act as a hard ass. Now Sunday saw him as a less annoying and way more competent version of Zihei. Which made him even more suspicious. If he knew one thing about the world, it was that everyone had their own agenda. Even more so when the power of magic was involved.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Sunday replied dryly. He hadn’t. Slapping assholes was supposed to be enjoyable, and he had even won a spell, and yet… “Will you tell me what that farce was all about?”

Kloud remained silent. Sunday had asked the question a few times, and he had been given different answers each time. Things had moved too fast. Undercurrents he couldn’t understand were rocking his boat in whatever way they wanted and his oar was broken. Petty squabbles? Large machinations? Why had there been an audience? Why the rush of it all?

He has no use in telling me the truth, of course. We just met. He has the Arcanum’s interest as a priority.

“For a moment there it felt like... you became like a wight. They do things like that,” Kloud said.

Yeah. Avoiding my question, while asking his own.

“I assume we’re done with this then?” Sunday asked. He stopped and turned sharply around to face the mage. There was little that could intimidate him in the city. As much as Kloud now tried to act like someone to be trusted and someone who wanted all the best for him, it was a shoddy attempt.

“Well, yes. They might want to ask you some questions about that performance, but it will be al—”

“Great. Don’t bother me again then,” Sunday shot back. He moved fast, leaving the confused mage behind. Enough was enough.

He half expected someone to try and stop him, or for the Adepts to pop up from the ground or fly down from the ceiling. Nothing of the sort happened and soon he was out of the Arcanum and into the streets of Blumwin.

The busy lives, the colorful humans, and the grey undead. It all seemed different now. Larger than him. Sunday had done little to integrate himself into the city life and the culture. He had taken opportunities, blindly trusted people, and tried to make it on his own with the tools he had found and had been given. Yet all roads led to those who stood on top, and now everyone knew what or who he was.

Maybe it was for the better. He was no superhero come to rid the world of the mad gods, nor a martyr to be sacrificed so others could live well. He was just a random casualty in an odd game of chance that had ended up bringing him to this place.

He passed stalls of flowers and fruit, and baked goods, and once again the human inside craved to taste them.

It seemed a simple thing. Taste. Something those who had plenty on their plate took for granted. Yet, to a street urchin, it was a much more than momentous joy. Those days when he managed to steal a chocolate bar or get enough to buy a freshly baked loaf of bread were the warmest memories. He held them dear, no matter how distant they seemed now.

Look at me. All thoughtful and introspective. Ah, that old bastard back at the orphanage would’ve thrown a fit if he knew I was wasting my time like this.

Old Rud hadn't been a fan of introspection. In fact, he opposed it quite vehemently.

Sunday walked aimlessly for a time, half-expecting for some suicidal worshiper to pop up and ruin his walk. Nothing of the sort happened and after what seemed like too long of an afternoon, he found himself in front of the Wayward Rat once again. The place he felt at home. His only home.

He paused at the entrance. Even here they wanted to use him. Mera, Riya… maybe not Kallus. Sunday couldn’t imagine the wight having enough foresight or critical thought left in him to use anybody. Mera was the dangerous one, while Riya… Riya was a complication. He had to trust them, otherwise he would have no one to fall back on.

The vampires and the Arcanum were using him for games he couldn’t yet grasp. Things beyond him. Almost as if all of them saw more in him than he saw in himself, and half-expected that any sort of positive attitude would be rewarded. Was he this world’s equivalent of Santa Claus or something? A rich kid who they sucked up to?

The City Council went against me, but… half-heartedly. They had no leg to stand on. I refuse to believe a bunch of rich merchants are so dumb.

The doors swung as he entered. Riya was behind the bar, serving drinks to a bunch of rough-looking undead – mercenaries most likely. They were dressed in heavy leathers, and Sunday saw bite marks and traces of blades upon the armor. Fresh out of the wilds. The type was not uncommon, but he hadn’t paid much attention to all that before.

Adventuring didn’t seem like a half-bad idea right now.

It had all seemed unimportant. Sunday grimaced. Such a shameful display was unbecoming of a prime street rat, born and raised to consider even the smallest grain of rice when thinking things through.

Maybe that’s the problem. Maybe I’m in over my head here. Ah, fuck it. I got spells and gold. I should’ve asked that bastard Kloud for information on the arts, or gone to the library. That can wait. First things first…

“Vyn! Safie!” Sunday called, making the two jump up and turn. Safie instantly steeled her expression and for a moment Sunday was sure the girl would salute. Vyn on the other hand stood up and before Sunday could react, threw his hands around him.

“Thank you! My friend! Brother! No, Boss! Thank you!”

“Now, now. Don’t get all mushy on me,” Sunday said, not so gently pushing the man back. It felt easy. Had Vyn always been so light, or was it the new strength he was still adapting to? “What are you thanking me for?”

Vyn smiled wider. “The vamps! They said they will leave me alone. Of course, they still don’t want me going anywhere, but that’s huge. I don’t have to hide or give them gold! All because of you! I heard… I heard you killed one of the Lords?”

The question was spoken in a whisper, and Vyn looked around, afraid someone might’ve listened. And someone had. Safie’s eyes had grown wide, all of the composure she had tried to cultivate gone.

He gave them gold?! And they still want to keep an eye on him? What exactly did his sister do…?

Sunday patted Vyn on the shoulder and led him back to the table. “What was it your sister stole again?”

Vyn leaned forward while Safie rolled her eyes as if he was about to tell a story he had told a thousand times. It would be Sunday’s first time hearing it, and a good distraction from all he had on his mind after the strange events of the last few days.

“Just the abridged version, please.” He still added.

“She stole the Baron’s sword,” he said. “Not just any sword. An ancient blade with a heart made of the blood of the Baron’s creator. Some say the Baron is thousands of years old, some say more. Vampires grow slowly over time, feeding on the essence of human blood but that has a set limit. They have no souls to cultivate and can never achieve any semblance of balance or breakthrough. The only way for them to grow more, and to surpass what they are or what their masters were, is through a drop of blood from the one who created them.”

I see. That all sounds like a croak of bullshit. If that blood is so important, why put it in a goddamn sword? And how did a human steal a sword from under that monster’s eyes? Something didn’t quite add up, but Sunday let Vyn speak.

“My sis took that sword, and with it, she took the Baron’s only way to go past his current standing. His title is much less a noble one and more of a status among vampires. They use those titles as symbols of their strength and age.”

“I see. For all its worth, I hope your sister threw that sword in an active volcano or something.” Sunday said. He took a deep breath and forced the worries out of his mind. “And now that road is clear, we have a lot of work to do. Are you guys ready to get filthy rich?”

We might have to slap a few brewers around if they stand in our way. If the Council fucks with my money I might just have my next breakthrough in their house instead… hopefully the Hunter won’t be too mad.

The glint in their eyes told him enough.