Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

The walk back was done in silence. Sunday felt strange, yet quite happy with his new spell. He couldn’t wait to summon the golden page and check out the name. Names were important, even if the information they gave was vague.

He felt the spell would be pretty straightforward though. Maybe good for a quick takedown if he was fighting more than one opponent. It was much faster than the moths, which had proven to work much better with the element of surprise on their side.

Plus, the moth spell was a rare thing and Jishu had implied many times its importance. Sunday didn’t plan on revealing it lightly. Not until he knew how common it was and how difficult it would be to protect it.

What was also interesting was that his new spell was still rampaging inside of his soul space without doing any damage. It behaved oddly, like an overly excited child or as if it was mad that it had been captured.

It was good to have a spell like that rely on though. If Arten had tried to earn himself some goodwill, he had. All that remained was to reach the village, make sure Pearl was safe, beat up some unruly bastards, and go find a pub and a drink.

Sunday wondered if undead alcohol was as good as human alcohol. Maybe stronger? His tastebuds were way too alien now judging by the drink of swamp water, so there was that to look forward to.

“Have you tried any alcohol meant for the undead?” Sunday asked. The anticipation is killing me. How likely it is that I’ve got a problem without having tasted alcohol in this body? ‘A disease of the soul’, as the old ladies from the block called it.

“I’ve only smelled it. I didn’t try it as it's poison to the living. Undeath alters the tastebuds as well, so even if it didn’t kill me, it wouldn’t be a pleasant experience.”

I don’t know how to feel about that.

“One I remembered smelled distinctly of smoke. You know, burning coal and wood, but ten times as suffocating. It punched my nose so hard it’s seared in my memory.”

“Oh? Can’t wait.” Peaty to high heaven? Sign me up. “By the way, do you need sleep?” The man was looking dead tired, even more so now after wrestling the spell.

“I wouldn’t refuse to get a bit of a nap. The after-effects of Vela’s stuff feel like a bad hangover.” Arten looked at him, “Do you want to rest? I know it's rare for undead, but all of you highborn are different.”

Highborn, huh? “What does it mean to be highborn?”

“Seriously?” Arten raised an eyebrow, then when he made sure Sunday was not joking, sighed. “Most undead are regular people who died violently and got a second chance. Then there are the highborn – the vampires, or the high ghouls, or any of the other bastards and their many clans. And, of course, not least the corpses that crawl out of the burial grounds – the most mysterious of the bunch. I don’t know much, but you strike me as one of the latter. I know you are something I’ve never met before.”

“How?”

Arten shook his head, “Life knows death.”

There was a pregnant pause as Sunday thought about the circumstances surrounding his rebirth once again.

“I’m good on rest but I can keep watch. Will our toad companion run off?” Not that I care, but she did give me a wreath. She’s also the only one who knows of the moth spell… that could be an issue. Damn. Sunday touched his head only to find it bare. It must’ve fallen off when I tumbled with the spell. To hell with it.

Arten stopped near a few trees that had grown so close they seemed to be using their branches to give out free hugs to their brethren. Within a few decades, it would be impossible to traverse around them if they grew any bigger. Sunday enjoyed the imagery of that.

“She’ll wait,” Arten said. “Don’t worry.”

I wasn’t. I’m just being polite. Idiot.

It felt good to have someone with him. Someone who wasn’t about to stab him in the back, at least not soon. For a few moments during the tussle with the spell or the odd conversations, Sunday had forgotten all about the swamp, the hounds, and Jishu.

“I’ll practice my art for a bit. Keeping the lights on is draining, even if it’s a simple spell. You fine if I turn it off?” Arten asked.

“The dark doesn’t bother me.”

“Good.”

With that, the human closed his eyes and soon his rhythmic breathing became deep and steady and blended with the sounds of the swamp. The chitter of birds and bugs was a nice background. Every now and then Sunday tried to focus on it. He appreciated it for what it was – a whole universe of small lives that knew nothing about human nature, that didn’t think about death or rebirth, nor the scary hounds that came along with that.

Arten reminded him of some friends, now that they had spent some ‘quality’ time together.

He thought of Blubber, the weird bastard who always had an unlit cigarette in his mouth to try and look cool. He couldn’t even stand the things or their smell.

Old Rud had named most of them depending on various things. Blubber, or Blu as he introduced himself and insisted on being called, had been a very chubby kid, hence the name. Sunday had been left tied to the orphanage’s doors on a Saturday. He was named Sunday because Old Rud found him at dawn the next morning, after coming back from a night of binge drinking and whoremongering.

Blu had been a close friend for a time, then they had a scuffle, then they became close again. Such was life though. With everyone scrambling to survive and doing whatever odd job popped up, interests were bound to cross. It was difficult to maintain friendships or relationships unless one joined a gang, and that came with a whole lot of different problems.

Sunday wanted stability. And he had been so close to it. His bartending job didn’t pay much by the standards of most of the city. However, by the standards of a street rat like himself, whose only home had been the abandoned ruin of a house Old Rud had privatized in the name of a mock orphanage, it had been a huge amount. After a few months of busting his ass and making colorful cocktails for the fancy patrons of the hotel, Sunday would have been able to afford to rent a small place in a better part of the city. The tips alone were more than he could’ve wished for!

He sighed. The ever-surprising twists and turns of life never stopped. Even now, in the short time he had been roaming about the swamp, he had experienced too much. His whole existence had changed by becoming a mage, and the fire lit inside of him was stronger than anything from his past life. Was that what they meant when talking about passion? It was great.

Sure, his feet were constantly drenched with mud and he didn’t understand how Arten wasn’t just a shriveled-up skin bag with all the moisture. The smells could use work too.

However, he knew there were cities in this world. Grand, majestic cities that were not congested by traffic or filled with mud. Cities where he could thrive with the knowledge he had, and his past experiences. And now, with the not-bad spells he had acquired in such a short time.

Things would be tricky if he ran into any more interesting spells, as his slots were full, but there was probably a way to increase that. If Arten hadn’t lied, then Sunday was off to a great start. A note of anxiety sneaked through to the surface as he thought of the bag that held the rest of the Black Breath art, the awakening art he was planning to sell, and the books he had taken.

Maybe I should go and check it out…? The frog lady wouldn’t rob us and I doubt there will be anyone else around.

Sunday sighed and with a last look toward Arten stepped a bit further away and summoned the golden page. It shimmered softly as if to reflect the melancholy and strangeness of thought he was experiencing.

“Spells,” he whispered once again.

Spells 3/3

Phantasmal Fall

Omen of Duality

Smash Ball

Smash Ball? Of all things… He chuckled, careful not to let his voice carry too far. What a strange name. Spells were becoming more and more intriguing to him.

He turned his gaze inward, toward his soul space. The ball was still jumping around but it seemed to be tired. Sunday willed his essence to wrap around it and felt it stiffen up before it once again exploded with power. The struggle lasted only for a few moments though, as it quickly gave up. Sunday smiled.

Should I shout ‘Smash!’ when I’m about to use it? That could be fun to do the first few times. And I have the slap to follow through with. Smash and slap. The talents were certainly stranger than the spells. From his point of view, they were a bit useless right now, but there was promise. Except possibly the one from the yew tree, as he was sure it had been what allowed his awakening to go so smoothly and probably played a part in how easily spells accepted him.

Talents carried a promise of power, however. What good is talent if one neglects it, after all? It made sense.

There was another issue. He had yet to use the Repel Dirt spells to clean himself properly and he had no space for spells left. Taking a spell out just to put another in seemed like a terrible idea for some reason. He didn’t think they would just linger around, waiting for him to be done. There was a tether between his soul and the spells now that hadn’t been there during his first tests when he had been rank zero. And even then, he had damaged the spells.

Jishu had done it somehow, but the man had been forced to create a room of death to delay the degradation of the Omen of Duality. Sunday knew too little about spells, and it seemed like Arten was someone adept at using them, rather than looking into the more critical details. The question needed answering at some point nonetheless, as it was too important.

Arten breathed slowly, and Sunday sat and continued thinking of life and death. At one point, he used the Black Breath and noticed his essence was quite depleted – a lot more than what he had expended on his test of Phantasmal Fall.

One explanation was that he had expended a lot to get the new spell inside of his soul space. Another was that the spells were consuming his essence to sustain themselves, feeding off of him when they needed it. It was like a symbiotic relationship. He used them, and they used him. Then, were they truly not alive?

Just pieces of creation, floating around in various shapes and allowing us to use them. Doesn’t strike me as plausible, but then again what do I know about magic? Ah, I used to know card tricks as a kid… those were some shitty times.

At least he wasn’t going to get hungry now. Being undead seemed to hold quite a few pluses and not many minuses so far, although he was sure his case was very special.

The first ray of sunlight eventually shone through the trees and Arten opened his eyes to find Sunday still lost in thought. The two stared at one another for a time, before Arten stood up and stretched, and off they went. The river was where they left it thankfully, the soft murmur of water reached them before they saw it. Sunday hoped Fatty was there. Riding on a giant lizard was now one of his top things to do after getting reincarnated.

“Anything fun happened while I was gone?” Arten asked.

Sunday looked at the intertwining branches above as if trying to pierce both them and the sky beyond to seek out some mystical truth, “Yes. I found the meaning of life.”

“That’s… great to hear.”

“Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“Do I?”

Sunday turned toward the human and allowed his mouth to stretch into the most horrific grimace he could manage. “There’s no meaning!”

It didn’t bring about the earth-shattering reaction he had hoped for, but Arten still raised an eyebrow. He opened his mouth but Sunday left him in the dust, rushing forward to greet the alligator.

Then he froze.

Fatty was not alone. The new alligator was about a fourth of Fatty’s size, sporting a few colorful scales that were almost iridescent under the morning sun’s rays. This one’s horn was slightly bent too. An open gash revealed the bleeding flesh beneath. There were signs of rot too.

Sunday stared at the expectant Fatty, then at the new alligator. The back and forth continued for a few moments, while Arten stood flabbergasted a few steps behind.

“You want me to help your friend?” Sunday finally asked. Is my destiny to be a vet? Not a bad life, in all honesty. Beats getting chased by rabid mutts any day.

Fatty’s maw opened and closed slowly, and Sunday took that as a yes.

“I gotta slap… her? That fine?” He didn’t, but he already had a plan to conceal the nature of the moths.

This time the new alligator followed Fatty’s example, if a bit slower.

“Do you think they understand you?” Arten asked from behind.

“Look at them! Of course, they do!” Let’s hope this doesn’t reveal much to Arten. A slap alone won’t fix shit, and I can’t let Fatty down in front of his girl. He had my back.

Sunday stepped closer slowly, ready to react if this was some elaborate scheme to turn him into a bad-tasting snack. He didn’t think so, but the size of those teeth still sent shivers down his spine and made him keep in mind that he was chewable, even if he was dead.

“You might want to look away,” Sunday said to Arten. The human remained silent, the disbelief in his eyes calming Sunday down. It feels good to be admired.

“It will all be okay,” Sunday said to the alligator.

Then, he moved his body in a way to obscure Arten’s line of sight for a moment and slapped. It was a slow movement that accelerated at the very end of the arm’s arc. Just at the last moment a white moth materialized in Sunday’s palm and burst into a cloud of essence he hoped only he could see when the slap landed. The alligator instantly pulled back and shook its head in shock, before stopping.

The wound closed in mere seconds, pushing out the dark blood and the rot, and the fleshy horn was soon as good as new.

Sunday smiled. Another day, another victory for the slap.

“No way,” Arten whispered from behind.

Sunday turned around and spread his arms, before bowing.

“Call me Doctor Sunday.”