Class Consultant - Book 1 Chapter 1 (Patreon)

Chapter 1

The Forests of Frostelm

Snowdrifts blew across an unnatural boreal forest, creating mounds deep enough to swallow a grown Human. The mighty conifers that called this place home took the unending storm in stride, roots firmly grasping at rocky soil with absolute refusal to give way to the weight of snow. Dran Frey found little about the place appealing. He pulled his hood tighter, desperate to find some relief from the biting cold. The man slipped, his pegleg breaking through the thin layer of icy snow and plunging him up to his eyes.

Unlike Humans, Dran hailed from a diminutive race of creatures. Of those that could easily break the snow, he only came up to their bellies. A powerful hand grabbed the collar of his Scholar’s Robes, hoisting him out of the drift and placing him safely on another patch of ice.

“Very good,” Dran said, sputtering to remove snow from his mouth. “Always a pleasure to be hoisted by you, Grog.”

A lumbering Ogre stood over Dran, only standing thigh-deep in the drift. He cast a vacant smile back at his companion. Both men wore the finely crafted robes known by every scholar in the Dromorian Empire, complete with a metal pin of their station. The symbol of the Scholar’s Academy, an open tome made of bronze, was joined by two others. A symbol of rank regarding the empress’ legion, and another for the Adventuring Guild. Three symbols of failure hung on their robes, reflecting the dismal surroundings.

Grog was much like other Ogres Dran had seen, at least when they first met. He was a lumbering man with a gut to match his stature. While his robes did well to hide that rotund belly, it felt like dressing up an overly round barrel. As with most of his kind, he kept a shaved head and patches of unkempt facial hair. Dran was a child, compared to his lifelong friend. Where Grog’s features were hard, Dran’s were soft. With skin the color of the surrounding snow, and shoulder-length hair to match, he had far less of a sample to compare.

Dran rubbed the place where his improvised limb connected to his stump, pushing the pain away. It radiated from that old wound, tracing a path up his thigh and onto his abdomen.

“Do you need a moment, old friend?” Grog asked. “Or perhaps I should carry you.”

“I really wish you would go back to speaking like an Ogre,” Dran said, narrowing his eyes on the horizon. Something moved in the distance, almost imperceptible against the sheets of snow.

“Me talk like this?” Grog said, cracking a toothy grin. “Me do that.”

Dran let out a groan. “I suppose I don’t want that at all. What I want is a break from this constant storm.”

“Fat chance on that,” Grog said. The Ogre cast his gaze around the forest for a moment, locking eyes with Dran after a time. They both nodded.

Once Dran got his feet under him again, they were off, headed north into the enchanted forest. They worked out a method where Grog cut a path, and Dran followed close behind. It worked well, save for the times where the high walls of the path collapsed. The storm intensified the closer they got to Frostelm, but then it reduced to a sprinkle of snow.

“Curious magic,” Dran said.

“I’ve seen stranger,” Grog said, shaking a layer of snow from his robes. “Relief is nice, but we need cash.”

The pair pushed on, finding a game trail to follow. Dran wasn’t certain there was even a town this far into the magical storm. The only thing keeping him going was the adventurer’s notice tucked in his robes. It was hard to resist the allure of money, especially when he was so destitute.

“How hard is a quest when the posting has quadrupled in value?” Dran asked. “Is it a matter of access to the area, or the difficulty of the quest?”

“You’ll need an expert on how those people set rewards,” Grog said, laughing. “Seems random.”

“We need to make money, Grog,” Dran said. Something shifted in the forest in the distance, but neither of them reacted.

Grog held up three fingers, immediately putting one of them down. “Army was a bust,” he said, taking down another finger, “scholars pay for shit,” leaving one finger. “So, we adventure. At least it pays.”

Figures moved in the distance. Dran reached out with his senses, but felt nothing. A smile crept across his face, but he maintained his composure.

“I’m not done with the scholar angle,” Dran said. “Archeology was fun, but perhaps that was the wrong specialization.”

“At least it gave me enough intelligence to speak,” Grog said with a massive shrug.

“Fair enough,” Dran said. “With a rare class evolution between us. I suppose we’re doing rather well, all things considered.”

“Now that’s an Ogre way of thinking,” Grog said, his belly laugh booming through the forest. “Food in our belly. Enough Marks to live for a month in our pockets. What else could you want?”

The bandits, lurking in the least stealthy way possible, finally made their appearance. They jumped from behind trees, hoods and masks obscuring their faces, to make their demands.

“Your money or your life,” one bandit said.

“You can want nothing more, old friend,” Dran said, completely ignoring the five bandits. The pair didn’t break their stride, pushing toward the bandits.

“There’s an angle to think of,” Grog said, pointing at the bandits.

“Banditry?” Dran asked, a look of concern washing over his face. “I think not.”

“No, classes,” Grog said. The pair were approaching the bandits, who shared looks of confusion.

“This is a robbery!” another bandit shouted.

Grog and Dran stopped, sharing a look of amusement.

“Perhaps we can ask them,” Dran said, clearing his throat.

“Perhaps we shall,” Grog said. “Bandits, do you have any mind for class evolutions? Skill evolutions?”

The five bandits shared a look of deeper confusion, but remained silent. Perhaps they understood the gravity of the situation, or they were so buried in the culture of the magical storm that they knew nothing of the outside world. The way they held their bows betrayed them as ignorant.

“Allow me to explain,” Dran said with a shallow bow. “There are those who receive classes, and those that don’t. What the reason for that is, no one knows. My friend Grog here believes it’s a blessing from the gods, but to believe that you’d have to assume the Ogre gods have anything but war and feasting on their minds.”

“Oh, Brim Wells in town has a class,” one bandit spoke up.

“Shut the fuck up!” another bandit said, glaring at his companion. “Your money!”

“People would pay to learn about class evolutions,” Grog said, shrugging. The air got tense.

“They’re getting impatient,” Dran said, gesturing at the bandits. “Ogre Magic or Spellwords?”

“We can roll for it,” Grog said.

“Please,” Dran said, gesturing to a bare patch of earth.

The bandits watched, eyes wide with fury, as the Ogre withdrew a large die from within his robes. He tossed it high into the air. “Call it.”

“Even,” Dran said.

The die fell, hitting the ground and rolling for a moment before coming to rest. The upward-facing image displayed two skulls. Dran won.

“Perfect,” Dran said, withdrawing an instrument from his inventory. The bandits seemed shocked, unable to act despite their intentions. “I’ve been working on a new Spellword.”

Dran pulled his sleeves up, holding the instrument in his hand. It was a calligraphy brush. The handle was made of fine wood, inlaid with seams of gold. The bristles on the end of the brush were pure white, matching the man’s hair. They glittered with magical energy, even before he swiped them through the air. The Spellscribe began weaving his magic, drawing Spellwords to life. He invoked his [Axpashi Attunement] ability, writing a phrase in a circle. The symbols lingered where he drew, leaving a trail of crackling letters that formed a phrase.

Terap Ag Pherethan

Dran pushed his brush through the center, mentally targeting all but one bandit. The spell fizzled for a moment, the crackling symbols refusing to bind.

“Ah, didn’t spell that one correctly,” Dran said, using the back of his brush to erase and replace a letter. “There we are.”

Terap Ag Pherethal

He pressed his brush through the Spellwords once again, and they activated. Mana flowed from Dran’s chest, fueling the spell until fulmination. A sound, like the cracking of the mighty conifers above their heads, resounded through the forest. The bandits jumped in fright, loosing their arrows and missing completely. The Spellwords created a rippling cone of energy, tearing a path through the forest and blasting the four bandits with its power. They shouted, clawed at their skin, and attempted to flee on wobbly legs.

“Oh, this is new,” Grog said with an approving nod.

Dran gestured to the only unaffected bandit, who was pissing himself, knees visibly shaking. “Without a class, you have no resistances. This spell would only cause minor damage to someone with a class, but—”

Dran’s speech was cut off. The four bandits ceased their screams, exploding from the inside out. The matter of their bodies was replaced by a thick, yellow substance that showered their remaining companion. With one screech of horror, the only living bandit turned tail and ran.

“Tag him,” Dran said.

Grog didn’t hesitate. He punched at the air, releasing a shard of magical energy that grazed the fleeing bandit in the shoulder. The man only stumbled for a moment, then was off into the forest.

“You turned them into custard,” Grog said, laughing.

The pair approached the piles of custard left by the bandits. Dran stooped low to inspect his good work, sheathing his brush back into his robes. “Looks more like pudding to me.”

“No, that’s custard,” Grog said, swiping his fingers through the goo. He touched it to his tongue and grimaced. “Nope, just goo. People goo.”

Grog and Dran rifled through the bandit’s clothes, finding little more than personal belongings. Useless, unenchanted items without a single Mark to their name. The Spellscribe needed currency, more than anything, and the thought of carrying around goo-covered, low-quality leather armor didn’t appeal to him.

Grog didn’t need Dran’s next command. He withdrew a sturdy glass vial from his coat and went to collect samples from the fleeing bandit’s blood trail.

“Perhaps we should rest,” Grog said with a nod.

The Ogre was always doing things like that. Since they met, 30 years ago, Grog had treated Dran like a little brother who needed protection. That wasn’t always the case, not before they got embroiled in the war. Four months of intensive training in a cohort, signing their life away to the empress, before a single battle took the Spellscribe’s leg, leaving marks that would last far longer. The pain shot up from his leg once again, and a break sounded very nice.

Grog pulled a massive log over, using his unreasonable Ogre strength, and helped Dran take a seat. The Ogre placed a massive pack on the ground, withdrawing a wineskin and thin strips of jerky. Now that they were out of the storm, it was a good time for a rest. Dran drank from the wineskin, savoring the flavor of the watered wine. There was a small town, north of the empire’s capital of Dromor, that made the best red wine. The Spellscribe typically refused to drink anything else, for nothing else dulled the pain quite like that wine.

“So, someone in the town has a class,” Dran said, drinking deeply from the wineskin. His small size meant it took less of the medicine to gain relief.

“You could evolve your [Scholar] class,” Grog said. “Become a [Class Scholar].”

The evolution of the [Class Scholar] class was widely known. Most of the [Scholar] evolutions were well-documented. Grog had evolved into a racial-specific class called [Ogre Mage], where Dran evolved into a racial-specific called [Spellscribe]. While Grog’s class was rare, and quite good, Dran’s was unique. The spellscribe dug through his robes, taking another drink of the wine, and withdrawing a small crystalline slab. He tapped the side, bringing the thing to life.

“We both evolved rare classes,” Dran said with a shrug. “So I don’t know why we couldn’t charge people for evolution advice.”

He flicked through the menus, finding his personal information and reviewing his unique class.

[Spellscribe]

Rarity:

Unique

Rank:

Apprentice

Evolved From:

[Scribe] (Accomplished (5))

[Mage] (Sorcerer (4))

Evolution Trigger:

Realization of racial influence between two classes.

Understanding of the power of the Axpashi language.

Description:

The Meldarkin were the first to discover how to use Axpashi for magical purposes. Using their bound Scribe’s Brush, they breathe life into Axpashi, drawing its sigils into the real world and invoking their power to create spells.

A Spellscribe’s journey begins with understanding Axpashi, and it is recommended a translation tablet is acquired.

Axpashi had proven to be an impossibly complex language, if only because no one spoke it. The hint about the Meldarkin people was always tantalizing. Dran didn’t know his parents. Didn’t know his people. No one, not in the vast representation of races in the Scholar’s Academy, had ever heard of the race or the language. Each step forward in the mystery saw a step back. It was maddening. He was left with a two word note, written in Axpashi, when he was deposited at an orphanage in Dromor. That was enough to start his journey as a Spellscribe, although it was a later revelation.

“So, 200 Marks to kill some bandits,” Dran said, switching his thoughts over to the task at hand. “With the blood, we can track that wayward bandit back to its nest.”

“Let’s go to town, first,” Grog said. “You need a meal and rest.”

“I’m quite fine.”

“Then I need a meal and rest,” Grog said.

“Perhaps we can find a nice stable for you to stay in,” Dran said, cracking a smile. “I don’t imagine they’ll have Ogre-sized rooms in such a remote town.”

“Give me a warm fire and a cask of ale,” Grog said, snatching the wineskin from Dran. “I’ll sleep under the stars, or with the beasts.”

Dran smiled, enjoying the break. They sat there for some time, enjoying the sounds of the forest. The blizzard could be heard and seen in the distance. It was as a sheet of white hung in the forest, a clear delineation from what the magical storm affected. When the Spellscribe was rested enough, they moved away from that wall of snow. The town showed signs of habitation shortly after, clear evidence of a logging operation. When the temperature rose, there were even farmers working against the rugged soil. Those hearty people gave their surprised greetings, pointing the pair toward the center of town. Squat buildings rose against the backdrop of snow-capped mountains, made of the local timber with seams stuffed full of moss and mud.

There was no road to speak of, only a well-worn muddy path created by foot traffic. The town was silent, with eyes peeking from shuddered windows. Only two buildings stood out in the town. On the far end was a stone building bordered by a high stone wall. The masonry was well enough along to consider those stone blocks imported, and the ironwork on the gate bore signs of being crafted by a classed tradesman. The other was a two-story building that the townsfolk pointed out as the mayor’s residence. There was nothing resembling an adventurer’s guild, and no evidence of a task board posted nearby.

“A split path,” Grog said, scratching his chin. “Brim Wells, or the local governor.”

The governor might provide information about the rogue bandit, but Dran had an idea about this Brim Wells man. He never thought of himself as being a keen observer, but then again he never missed details. A classed man in the middle of a town protected by a magical barrier. The bandit listed in the contract was likely classed, but Dran doubted he would be much of a challenge.

“The governor,” Dran said. “The man with the class will find us. Small towns like this… News travels at the speed of gab.”

They only needed to knock once on the governor’s door. It swung open and a baldheaded man with a long, white beard poked his head out. He cast his eyes around the pair, then beckoned them in.

“Adventurers?” he asked, reaching a hand out for them to shake. “Prak Elder. Governor.”

Dran looked around at the town. Nothing about this place seemed to fit into imperial aesthetics, and he was surprised to see the old man’s willingness to use an imperial title.

That long pause gave the frantic governor enough time to interject his next thought. “Please, come in.”

Grog’s brow knit tightly. He placed his hands on the frame of the door and shrugged. “I’ll do my best.”