Scourge of Chaos: Savage Healer

Sunday walked out of his room a new man. Well, not that new, but it had all been a kind of transformative experience since he was a different species and all.

It was past noon now; healing his soul had to be done in the morning due to his in-depth conversations with Riya that had lasted most of the night. She had taught him many things in between bouts of proving that undead stamina was a wondrous thing. There was still a bit of damage left, but he needed a rest from practicing the Black Breath and decided to do just that before making use of the Arcanum’s famous practice rooms for the final phase of his healing.

Phantasmal Fall had given no indications of changing or doing anything so far, and Sunday was too afraid to poke the spell while his soul was not perfectly healthy. The moths were not enough to do the job, and he had to rely on himself for the final touches, which was somewhat of a surprise. Then again, the spell had done enough. And Riya had taught him a lot too, and not only things related to the possibilities of undead joints.

The worst news was that his Smash Ball was most likely a tool spell with a limited lifespan. Apart from very specific arts that would completely rearrange the way his soul space worked there was no hope for it. Sunday had grown quite attached to the spell and its versatility, but even leaving it out in the wild wasn’t an option as it would simply bash things until it was no more. That was the fate of most common tool spells which apparently included all sorts of wondrous items.

The barmaid had turned out to be obsessed with becoming a mage, and speaking to her was a risk that had already paid off greatly, no matter what she did with the information she had learned about him. Not that Sunday had given her a lot. Many were bound to eventually learn of his healing spell, and knowledge of his origin was as useless as lullabies for a ghoul infestation.

Riya was genuinely excited to talk about spells and arts and Sunday had made sure to engage in the best ways possible. She was like a hot, portable, booze-delivering Arcanum library in the shape of an undead girl. What more could a horny corpse want?

Life was a bit more colorful today, and Sunday hummed as he walked down the stairs. His old pair of clothes had been spared from further suffering by being thrown into the ever-burning heart of the common room soon after his bath, which had resulted in quite the commotion from those sleeping on the tables or playing cards in the dead of night. Thankfully, his boots and cloak were mostly fine, although they did sport a few teeth marks. He thought of it as a stylistic improvement – it gave the clothes character.

Riya was once again behind the bar, reading a book. There didn’t seem to be much work in the afternoons. Sunday was suspicious that most of the patrons of the Wayward Rat were also not simple, and were either caravan escorts, hired muscle, or representatives of the shadier side of Blumwin – the latter was something he wanted to get into.

Or perhaps they were something else entirely. He had seen many of the same faces during his stay, and they treated him with respect and grace seldom seen in taverns. Even Vyn, whom many didn’t like for some reason, was welcomed due to Riya’s attitude and tolerance.

Sunday met her eyes and winked at her, only to receive a smile in return. There was a lot he had to do but two things preceded all. His soul, and his booze. He had hoped to check on the Manor guys’ progress soon, and perhaps test how long his healing wine would last before selling it. He still had a flask of white moth wine, as he called it – most had been used after the meeting with the laughing horror. It was holding up very well, but that didn’t mean their booze would be as good of a base for his moths. Buying the alcohol rather than making it could certainly speed up the process and seemed to work fine, but making it was many times cheaper and ensured the longevity and secrecy of the project.

Not that he held any hope of remaining in the shadows after his wine rocked the markets and changed the way Blumwin functioned, but it didn’t hurt to be careful in the beginning. The Manor fellas were hardly a trustworthy bunch either. However, as a group without purpose, home, or vocation, they were bound to appreciate the opportunity he was giving them to at least some extent.

And the progress of that little venture was one of the myriad reasons to grow stronger faster. There were Divine to slay, hounds to butcher, ghouls to exterminate, and girls to make love to. Strength would help with all of those!

“Say…” Sunday started as he leaned on the bar. “If I had things to sell, could you help me sell them?”

Riya lifted her gaze from her book. It was bound with featureless leather, so Sunday couldn’t see the title.

“Sell what?” she asked simply. “Your services?”

“Please, I’m flattered, but who could afford me?” Sunday winked and laughed as she rolled her eyes. Then he lowered his voice. “Medicinal wine?” He was careful to not say too much. There was no one in earshot but who knew what other strange races roamed the world?

Riya gazed at him with her deep dark eyes, making him recall a few parts of their encounter from the previous night. A smile involuntarily spread on his face and he felt the fire start anew. She seemed to sense his thoughts but remained focused on the business at hand.

“If you’re talking about what I think you’re talking about… I think I can help and make the process easier for you.” She slowly said. “I’ll need a lot more than your word. A sample at the very least.”

Never speak or commit to anything without thinking it through first. Good habit. Riya was careful, even more so than him, but she also had more to lose. He was a drifter who could end up on the other end of the world if his talent willed so.

“I’ll try to get one to you soon. Do you know where Vyn went?”

Sunday had checked the man’s room but it was empty. He deserved some rest time after the things he had to go through because of Sunday. Perhaps a gold coin too, for some new clothes.

Riya shrugged, “He’ll turn up. He’s taken a liking to you.”

“I’m quite likable after all... at least when I’m not covered in ghoul guts.” Sunday grinned and without waiting for an answer or saying goodbye turned and walked out.

***

Finding a place selling even better clothes than last time was simple during the day, and soon Sunday was outfitted with a new set of spare clothes that were allegedly reinforced. What that meant remained to be seen, but they had been quite expensive so he hoped they could at the very least stop ghoul teeth and claws. He was not keen on doing another similar venture, but there was not much else for a combat mage to do around these parts.

He wasted some time walking around and thinking of the events of the past few days, gathering his thoughts, and preparing himself. Brain power was in short supply, and the practice of the arts required a lot of it.

Elora had also promised him a spell market, and while Sunday wasn’t sure his prowess in bed would help him convince Riya to give him a substantial loan, he wasn’t too worried. He still had a few aces up his sleeve and depending on how useful the practice rooms of the Arcanum were, things could go a few ways.

It was certain that fixing his soul and figuring out Phantasmal Fall couldn’t wait. It took him only around half an hour of roaming the halls of the Arcanum before he finally found someone willing to show him the way.

The practice rooms were high up, reaching the top of the Arcanum. Each one was like a small circular construction within the building. They were guarded very well by what Sunday assumed were just hopeful ordinary people and undead. What mage would sit all day, guarding doors? He wondered if the guards had any sort of special anti-magi combat training. That could come in handy for the future.

I should grill Zihei some. That tricky weasel has a lot he’s hiding. Of all the magi I’ve met, he’s the only one who hasn’t even clued me in on his spells.

The practice room he had been shown was one meant for rank one magi. A full twenty-four-hour stay would cost him ten contribution points, or twenty gold. Sunday was skeptical that he could remain focused for the full duration, but buying only a few hours was not an option – undoubtedly another one of Arcanum’s schemes to keep its members on their toes.

His badge flashed and the stone door before him slid to the side. It was a thick slab of unknown white material and looked very heavy, but it made no sound. The room was a small circular thing, devoid of furniture or decoration. The floor was carved marble, and the only thing that seemed special was the large crystal on the ceiling of the room. It was softly glowing with dim light.

Sunday frowned. He felt nothing out of the ordinary. Perhaps the essence was a bit more concentrated? He trusted Elora’s judgement though. He barely knew the girl, but he had met her type, and honest and kind people were the same when it came to some things, no matter how they tried to hide their true nature and what defensive traits they adopted. Everyone tried to use honest and kind people – it’s why Sunday wasn’t one that often.

Without having anything else to do and cursing the Arcanum for once again not providing even simple instructions despite charging him so steeply, Sunday sat cross-legged in the middle and started practicing.

The change to the Black Breath was almost immediate. His mind seemed to slowly encompass the room, bounce off of the smooth walls, and concentrate on the crystal above before it slowly separated into strands and returned to him. Each was focused on controlling a different segment of Sunday’s art and he could feel the efficiency with which his essence circulated and nourished his soul space rise to unprecedented levels. It felt good. Too good. Like a state of enlightenment that allowed him to touch things he had never thought possible.

He could sense what was wrong clearly now. There was no more damage or missing pieces, but his soul space was misaligned with his body – a result of his attempt to pull out a bonded spell. Sunday gently guided his essence to wrap around from both the inside and outside, and then simply let the art do the work. Each breath brought more in and let some out, purifying what was left, and making it pulse with power more concentrated than ever.

There was a bit of discomfort but Sunday still lost himself in the practice, becoming unaware of the passage of time or where he was. His soul space shook ever so slightly, and slowly, like a piece of a puzzle, it sank in its previous place. There was an instant sense of relief as if some stiffness that he had grown used to was finally gone.

Sunday saw things clearer and better now. His soul space existed both as a physical thing and a spiritual one. It was, after all, the bridge that connected his true soul to the vessel that was his body.

The tree remained lush and swayed gently on invisible wind, while everything around it was covered in thick mists. Sunday watched the moths play in the branches, and the smash ball shoot around. The latter was slower than before, lacking its initial strength. It made him somewhat sad, which was silly since it was a tool. Even the name alluded to that.

Still, Sunday couldn’t help but accept the spell as something more. It surprised him. He was not the sentimental type.

He focused on the mote of purple that he could sense, but not see. It was as if the spell was hiding from him. There was no way to speak to it, but he still tried to put some thought in his essence and send it the spell’s way.

Phantasmal Fall reacted almost like a scared but starving animal and after some hesitation seemed to absorb the essence. A few more attempts finally drew it out and Sunday’s mind shook as a large fist-sized purple light appeared in his soul space. There was a hole in the tree he hadn’t noticed now, as if made by a bird to nest and the spell rested on the edge of it, embedded into the bark.

The purple light was glowing and undulating at high and low speeds. This is different. I wonder if I should try using it on myself.

Slowly, as if coming out of deep sleep, Sunday opened his eyes. He checked the list of spells but they remained the same.

Then he stood up, prepared himself, and, with a thought, activated the spell. The first attempt led to the same result as before, but he could feel its capacity was higher now, so he tried again and fed it even more essence.

Sunday suddenly felt the world around him shift and his heart sank in his stomach as down became up for the briefest of moments, forcing him to brace for impact and stop the spell. It was a far worse and stronger feeling than before.

The effect had lasted just for an instant, but he was sure he could make it last longer too. He took a deep calming breath, then tried again. This time he let it go on for a few seconds and sensed as his essence drained slowly. Up became down again and with a thought the two started shifting.

Sunday stopped the spell a few seconds later and hugged the floor. He was certain he would’ve been puking if he was still human. Even as an undead, he was feeling nauseous from the ride.

A mad grin played on his face. Things were getting fun.