Class Consultant - Book 1 Chapter 2 (Patreon)

Chapter 2

Prak Elder

Prak Elder was a gracious host, despite his limited means and the secret he kept close to his chest. A quick sweep of his senses, couched in a practiced tightness that most couldn’t recognize, revealed the elder man as Classed. The flavor of his aura was something the Spellscribe hadn’t tasted, leaving him confused. If the old man had some rare class, he could certainly take the bandits out alone. Then again, there was the possibility that he had a non-combat class, complicating matters.

“I’m afraid I don’t have furniture large enough for you,” Prak said, kind enough to exclude the word Ogre.

“Me sit ground,” Grog said, falling back into their practiced routine.

Prak led them into a sitting room where a fire crackled, warming the place considerably. While they were out of the magical storm, the cold still seeped through every crack in the walls and windows. Dran found a chair, and Grog the ground, while the old man disappeared. When he returned with three large pewter mugs, the Spellscribe’s heart soared. An inspection of the liquid’s scent revealed it to be a strange mixture of spices, herbs, and hard liquor.

“Adventurers, scholars, and soldiers,” Prak said, once again kind enough to leave out the fact that they were dismissed from the legion. The symbol of the empress, still required to be displayed on their chest, was sundered down the middle. Dran’s was cut with magic, leaving a clean line, while Grog’s was smashed with a hammer. A sign of disgrace for breaking his contract. “What a curious pair. An Ogre, and a race I’ve never seen.”

“No one has seen my people,” Dran said, taking a deep drink of the mug. It tasted like medicine, but the warmth it provided sent his spirit soaring. “Like your town, I’m alone. Adrift… Well, we’re not here to talk about me.”

“Right. The bandits,” Prak said, nodding. He took a moment, drinking from his mug before continuing on. “Some ruffians came to town years ago. Their leader had dreams that were too big for him, but he recruited locals.”

“And where do you fit in?” Dran asked.

“How do you mean?” Prak asked, shifting uncomfortably in his seat.

“You got class,” Grog said, belching loudly.

A scowl spread across the old man’s face, only a flash, then it was gone. He cleared his throat. “I didn’t expect powerful adventurers to show up.”

Grog and Dran were anything but powerful. The Spellscribe would describe himself as clever, while the Ogre would say he was the smartest creature alive. But power? Ranks with classes were separated into 8 commonly known phases. Each phase came with more power, but the pair were only starting their journey. Dran had leveled [Scribe], a non-combat class, to Accomplished, the fifth rank. His [Mage] class had only made it to Sorcerer, the fourth rank. His [Spellscribe] class now sat at Apprentice, the second rank. Grog was in the same boat.

“Well, the adventuring fellows back in the empire quadrupled the reward,” Dran said.

“Big money,” Grog said.

A spark of anger flashed on Prak’s face. Another small town under the yoke of the empire, unwilling to admit the benefits of membership.

“If only the army would have sorted it out,” Prak said. “But I’m here to help.”

“Of course, you can’t actually help,” Dran said, leaning in.

The Spellscribe studied the man for a moment. He looked much like the others he’d seen here, descended from some northlander brood years ago. Heritage often played a part on what classes someone got, not only limited by their race. Prak was Human, but he hailed from hearty folk from the north. The more Dran thought about it, the more he put the pieces together. This was a simple puzzle. With a living example, unlike those archaeology projects, he placed the two pieces together.

“Some Druid based class,” Dran said, pushing away from the table and sipping from his mug. He kicked his legs, smiling playfully, a repetitive tapping sound coming from his pegleg. “Non-combat, meant to maintain the storm.”

Prak flushed with anger, clenching his fist.

“Old man got caught,” Grog said, laughing.

“I’m not the smartest adventurer out there,” Dran said. “Not the most decorated soldier or scholar. Your role in this town is obvious to anyone who can sense that you’re Classed, so take no offense to my bold declaration.”

“Reckless, no bold,” Grog put in.

“Well, now that you’ve laid my whole life bare,” Prak said, his eyes fixed on his mug. “Is there anything else you would like to reveal? Perhaps my past transgressions.”

“Another day,” Dran said, waving him away. “We don’t care about your life, or what you’re hiding. We’re interested in information on the bandit’s leader. He’s Classed. What is his class?”

Prak seemed to lighten up a bit, but he took a moment to speak again. He took a long drink from his mug and let out a heavy sigh. “A ranged combat class, from what I can tell. He’s been extorting us for the better part of a year, and I’m afraid he’s only going to get worse.”

“Ranged,” Grog said. “What kind?”

“A shortbow,” Prak said. “He can shoot venomous vipers.”

Dran pulled out his tablet, writing everything down at the speed of thought. A perk of his [Scribe] class allowed him to transpose information as quickly as he could think. The skill had come in handy before, but mostly for writing. The moment Grog mentioned the possibility of becoming a [Class Scholar], more of his thoughts became dominated by the idea. The Spellscribe thumbed through the tablet, pulling up his skill menu and inspecting a very useful skill.

[Reveal Detail]

Common [Scholar] Skill

Rank:

Accomplished (5)

Description:

Reveals a fundamental detail about anything. The detail will range from the origin of ancient writings, to a person’s bloodline and everything in between.

Using this skill was a trap, though. It was a free hint with a long cooldown. It didn’t take magical intervention to know that the bandit leader wasn’t from around here. The empire preferred to arm their soldiers with crossbows, and any native with a class would have evolved around that idea. Dran remembered seeing a fierce Classed commander in the army who could rain bolts down on the enemy at impossible speeds. No, the bandit was likely from the continent of Tropesh, near the southern deserts. He heard tales of soldiers riding mounts, firing withering arrows from their saddles, and disappearing just as quickly. The snake motif also gave a hint to Tropesh.

“That’ll do,” Dran said. “Do you know where they are? In the storm, I assume.”

“In the storm,” Prak said, nodding. “They’ve taken residence in a glade.”

The old man moved to a map pinned on the wall. He ran them through the best way to approach the glade and the dangers that were within. Dran took notes on his tablet, copying the map as best he could. They lingered for some time, part of the Spellscribe was unwilling to contend with the biting cold outside. Then there was the problem of finding accommodations, and the gouging of prices that followed with that. At worst, they’d pitch a length of oiled tarp on the edge of the city and rely on magic to keep them warm.

“We’ll report back when the bandit is dead,” Dran said.

“Dead?” Prak asked, causing Dran to raise a brow.

“The posting requested his shattered core,” Dran said. “Nothing else.”

“Right,” Prak said, casting his eyes to the floor once again. “I wish you luck.”

Dran and Grog exited the building, sharing a confused look.

“Something tells me he isn’t wishing us luck,” Grog said.

“There is, as always, more to the story,” Dran said, hobbling down the muddy path. “Our man is likely from the deserts on Tropesh. Some racial mounted ranged class.”

“Easy enough,” Grog said, stretching. “I think we should rest for the night, though.”

“Agreed,” Dran said.

They heard someone approaching before they spotted them. Dran swept his senses over the interloper, sensing several classes held within the person’s body. They stopped approaching for a moment, then continued their clanking intercept. A man wearing plate armor appeared, ill-fitted and rusted near the rivets. He stopped short of the pair, performing an imperial salute and bowing his head. The young man looked so unlike the other people in this place, what few Dran had seen. Where they bore signs of generations locked behind the storm, his skin was dark. Almost something the Spellscribe would expect to see in those Tropeshian deserts. The armor held some heraldry, but it had been worn from time.

“Brim Wells,” the man said.

“At the speed of gab,” Dran said, nodding. “I’m Dran Frey, and this is my companion Grog.”

Brim finally raised his head, revealing a nervous smile. “You can try your luck at the Hog’s Toe Tavern, but they’ll take the shoes from your feet.”

“Big manor,” Grog said, laughing.

“Yes, I suppose you’re the man in the manor,” Dran said.

“And I would very much appreciate your help,” Brim said. “Please, I’ll offer you food, drink, and a place to sleep for the night.”

Grog and Dran shared a look. Drink was good enough, but this solved their problems for the night.

“Lead on,” Dran said, gesturing up the road.

Brim’s manor sat in the northernmost section of town. The wall was formidable, for such a remote town. Dran noted the stonework as they passed in, unable to find marks from a chisel. The manor was hewn from the same stone, striking them as a match. Whoever went through the effort to import so much stone, so far north, did so at great expense. The interior was as luxurious as the exterior, banners and heraldic images everywhere. They were instructed to remove their shoes at the entrance, and a wave of warm air washed over them the moment they stepped through the threshold.

The foyer was immaculate, with a massive fire burning in a fireplace. Several pots sat over the fire, and a keg of something was already laid out for them. Brim gestured for them to enter, Dran taking a seat in a plush armchair, and Grog taking the floor near the fire. Brim served them from the wooden keg. This time, it was a rich, yeasty smelling beer. Dran wasted no time, drinking deeply enough to cause his head to swim.

“You know how to treat a guest,” Dran said.

“When he want something,” Grog said, laughing.

“I’m paying for your help,” Brim said, holding his hands out in apology. “200 Marks if you can help me.”

Dran and Grog shared a look once more. This would be their most lucrative trip to date, if they could help the strange knight. He didn’t even bother removing his armor as he sat in another armchair.

“Well, now we’re very interested,” Dran said. He removed his tablet once more, prepared to take notes on the matter.

Brim sighed, nursing his own drink. “The tale is too long for polite company. My father set me up as the defender of Frostelm. Meant to be the next Keeper of the Storm.”

Dran leaned in, wondering how rude he could be. “But you’re not from here.”

Brim scowled.

“How hard has that bandit driven a spike through your heart?” Dran asked. “Another man from the continent of Tropesh comes along, trying to usurp your duty.”

“Kinda rude,” Grog said.

Dran waved him away.

“Quite rude, but accurate,” Brim said, the scowl giving way to reservation. “My mother was from Frostelm, but not my father. I’ve been trying everything I can to get a good class evolution. Something that would let me fight future bandits. We don’t like relying on outside help.”

“Well, for 200 Marks I’ll help you evolve into whatever you want,” Dran said, doubting his ability but needing the money. “Within reason.”

“I need something else. I’ll never get the Keeper of the Storm evolution, I know that,” Brim said.

“Well, what are your two classes?” Dran asked, prepare to take notes.

“Basic [Warrior] and [Priest],” Brim said.

That was smart, something Dran didn’t expect. Those two classes could evolve together, creating powerful evolutions. If he was actually from the northlander tribes, or had a deep connection with nature, he could evolve a powerful Druid-based class. His connection to his mother should have opened that up, but there could be some deep psychological issues related to the matter. The way class evolutions took place were varied. There seemed to be no limit to what triggered them.

“Does this town have a central records situation?” Dran asked, finishing with his notes.

“We do,” Brim said. “At the governor’s house.”

“Naturally,” Dran said. “We’ll sort both situations out tomorrow. Your class, and the bandit.”

“Right,” Brim said, rising from his chair. “I’ll be around the manor, trying not to disturb you. Feel free to wander around, it’s just me here.”

“Thank you, once again, for the hospitality,” Dran said, raising his mug.

Brim simply saluted, bowed, and left the vast room.

Grog raised his eyebrows, tilting his head to the man as he walked away. Brim seemed to linger, not hurrying to leave. While Dran wasn’t concerned for the sanctity of the following conversation, he didn’t care for eavesdroppers. Getting to his feet was a labor, his legs dangling from the edge of the plush armchair. He pushed himself off, wobbled for a moment, then withdrew his calligraphy brush. The Spellscribe closed his eyes for a moment, remembering the few Axpash words he knew before invoking [Axpashi Attunement].

Dran walked a wide circle around the area they’d bed down for the night. He marched, drawing Spellwords to life in the air as he went. This was one of the more practiced phrases he’d used, which combined several powerful Spellwords.

Rameal Ag Rof

He wrote these words, repeating along the first ring of the circle. This was a spell meant to encircle them with a bubble of silence. If he cast it correctly, they could hear outside of the circle while others couldn’t hear within. The spell would last until he ran out of mana or dispelled it. The next circle was a bit of an experiment. With a new Spellword, Pherethal, he could use the same principle of the silencing circle to create a defensive barrier. Unfortunately, that barrier would be made of goo, although how that worked was beyond Dran.

Terap Fan Pherethal

He repeated the phrase over in a tighter circle, jamming his brush through to activate both spells. They fulminated, filling the air with a faint humming sound. The first spell was easy enough, but there were Spellwords in the second that might not work. Terap meant to bind, Fan meant foe, and Pherethal meant goo, or liquefaction. While the bindings on the Spellphrase held, the results were unpredictable.

“Fancy man with two circles,” Grog said, laughing. “I remember when one circle was good enough for you.”

“Yes, I’m afraid they’ll interact,” Dran said, inspecting the edge of the circle. The ring of symbols weren’t interacting, not that he could see. It seemed safe enough, combined with Grog’s unpredictable Ogre magic.

Grog nodded, noting the confused expression on Brim’s face on the walkway above. “What’s our take on the client?”

“Seems on the level,” Dran said. “I felt two classes before he introduced himself, and getting an evolution for two opposing classes should be easy.”

“Based on his heritage,” Grog said, tapping his chin to think. “Maybe something related to the desert warriors.”

“Or the warrior priests,” Dran said. “A Paladin-type class, perhaps.”

“That would be powerful, especially without the aid of others,” Grog said. “If all he has is unclassed people to help, he needs to support himself.”

“That was my thought,” Dran said, sitting once again. He pulled his robe up and over his head, tossing it to the ground. The roaring fire was enough to keep him warm here, and he traced his fingers over the path of the magical scar. Grog tutted.

“It looks worse,” Grog said.

“It feels as bad as it looks,” Dran said, unclasping the leather belt and harness that held his pegleg in place. He groaned in relief as he set the heavy thing aside, messaging what was left of his leg.

Grog went through their pack, finding a tin of healing salve. It did little to heal the seething, magical scar, but it helped with the pain. “That’ll be our pay for this job.”

“We’ll make it last,” Dran said, grabbing the ointment from his friend. He applied it sparingly, only tracing the edge of that black scar where it hurt most. “400 Marks is enough to buy a few things of the salve. We’ll be fine.”

“No, we won’t,” Grog said, pouring himself another mug of beer. “We need enough money to get you a new leg. Enough to find an alchemist or healer smart enough to cure that scar.”

Dran winced at the Ogre’s absolute conviction. Any other man would have left him for dead on the battlefield, or abandoned him in the aftermath. But Grog had been there by his side every step of the way, and was more of a brother than any blood sibling could hope to be. When Dran was discharged from the army, abandoned by those he swore to protect, Grog broke his contract. That single act brought them even closer together, perhaps a kind of Ogre loyalty that defied reason. They now shared everything, hardships and all.

“We’ll kill a bandit first. Help a kid,” Dran said with a resolute nod. “Then we can make our way back to Dromor. Find some jobs on the way.”

“But first,” Grog said, laying down on the hard floor. “We rest.”