Class Consultant - Book 1 Chapter 3 (Patreon)

Chapter 3

More Goo

[Ogre Mages] were one of the strangest classes in the land. They operated on a kind of anti-logic in the realm of magic. As Dran stirred from his slumber, a dream about his childhood fading away to a strange sensation, he was reminded of how strange the class was. He was stripped to his undergarments, curled in the plush armchair as the embers of the fire died. Grog, or at least the image of Grog, patrolled the edge of the spent Spellword circle, dancing. The real version of the Ogre lay on the ground, snoring loudly.

Dran wiped his hand across his face, removing a layer of foul-smelling ichor. His heart beat faster as he surveyed the scene, his sluggish mind catching up with reality. A pile of clothes sat on the edge of the circle, near where the illusory Ogre danced, covered in the familiar goo left behind by the Spellscribe’s newest invention.

“Damn it,” Dran said, falling from the chair before righting himself. He hopped over to Grog’s pack and withdrew a cloth, removing the disgusting goo from his body. He tilted his head toward the pile of goo, shaking his head. “The next time you encounter a magical circle, with no magical knowledge, I advise you stay clear.”

“I didn’t want to disturb you,” a voice called from above.

Dran had forgotten about Brim Wells, that would-be protector of Frostelm. But there he was, at the rise of dawn with his armor on and sword at the ready. He didn’t bother to respond to the man. His Spellphrase held tight, silencing all speech within the circle. It was a labor to wake the Ogre. Grog could sleep through most anything.

“Time to wake up,” Dran said, hopping to the keg and pouring himself a glass. He tipped it over his companion’s head, waking him instantly. The moment Grog woke, his illusion vanished.

“Rude!” Grog shouted, casting his eyes around the room.

Too much time in the wilds, among monsters and ruffians, had hardened Dran. He normally woke at the slightest disturbance, but their journey to Frostelm was too taxing.

“Wake up, I need help,” Dran said, gesturing at the pile of goo.

“The goo circle worked,” Grog said, rising to his feet.

Dran withdrew his brush and dismissed the circle of silence. “You can come down, now.”

Brim descended the stairs, holding his sword at the ready. “What happened?”

“The intelligence of the bandits has been revealed,” Dran said with a weak shrug. He hopped back to his chair and let out a groan.

Brim joined them inside the expired circle, his eyes lingering too long on Dran’s scars. The Spellscribe’s face flushed and he gestured for Grog to help him get dressed. The Ogre dutifully hoisted him up, pulled the robe over his head, and set him back down.

“How did that happen?” Brim asked. They always asked. Digging at that old wound as though the pain wasn’t enough.

Dran usually lied about what happened, inventing a new story every time. But he was hungry and tired despite the rest.

“Mages come in all flavors,” Dran said. “Some use spells that linger… Sometimes forever.”

“I thought we were sticking with the story about the fairy king,” Grog said. “Oops.”

Brim had a shocked look on his face. Grog often slipped up with his dumb Ogre routine, but it wasn’t a problem. Their host had the chance to take them in their sleep, but kept a respectful distance. That counted for something.

“Yes, Grog is smart,” Dran said, shimmying into his belt and harness. “I’m cursed, without a leg, and you need your classes evolved.”

“There’s no cure?” Brim asked.

“I’m sure there is,” Dran said, attaching his pegleg. “My question is, why the right leg? That was my favorite one.”

“Mines the left,” Grog said, nodding. “Not yours, mine.”

“Some spells can’t be dispelled by normal means,” Dran said. “Perhaps there’s a tenth phase healer that could remove it, but I haven’t met one.”

“And legs are expensive,” Grog said, nodding.

Brim nodded, but the lack of understanding in his eyes was obvious. “What do we do about the pile of person in my sitting room?”

“Grab a rag,” Dran said. “And provide us with some of that food you promised.”

“Right,” Brim said, rising to his feet. He scuttled away, clanking as he went.

Dran pressed his fingers into his temples, his mind going back to Grog’s illusion. That was a powerful example of [Ogre Mage’s] potential. He withdrew his tablet to review the class, information provided by Grog himself.

[Ogre Mage]

Rarity:

Scarce (1% of class type (Mage) population, 15% of racial population (Ogre))

Rank:

Apprentice (2)

Evolved From:

[Bruiser] (Fighter (4))

[Mage] (Apprentice (2))

Evolution Trigger:

Realization that magic is a false construct.

Realization that Ogres don’t follow the normal logic of the world.

Strength is higher than Intelligence.

Description:

The Ogres have long since thought that magic was a stupid concept. Intelligence and Mana weren’t things they concerned themselves with, preferring to construct their own ideology surrounding the arcane arts.

Ogre Mages cast magic in ways that defy logic. Where a regular Mage might employ deep concentration and a connection with the mana in their core, Ogre Mages punch their way to spellcasting.

Grog’s class wasn’t entirely uncommon within the Ogres of Slagrot, that desolate island, but in the outside world it was unheard of. That made countering traditional spellcasters simple, if not unpredictable. The first skill Grog got for the class deepened the mystery. Dran inspected two skills that influenced the class more than any.

[Inverse Logic]

Epic Evolved [Ogre Mage] Skill

Rank:

Apprentice

Evolved From:

[Clobber] ([Bruiser] (Fighter (4)))

[Fireball] ([Mage] (Hedge (1)))

Evolution Trigger:

Obtaining the [Ogre Mage] class.

Description:

Ogre Mages have little interest in magical logic. This skill inverts the logic for casting all [Mage] type spells, transforming them into physical attacks. The Ogre Mage can, for example, punch at the air with great fury to summon a fireball, slam their fists into the earth to create a cone of frost, and turn tail and flee to teleport to safety. Safety is not guaranteed.

[Ogre Mage Alacrity]

Rare [Ogre Mage] Skill

Rank:

Hedge (1)

Description:

Casting a spell with [Inverse Logic] reduces mana cost depending on how the Ogre Mage is feeling. Different emotional states influence both the mana cost, and effect of all spells.

[Inverse Logic] was the basis for everything, but [Ogre Mage Alacrity] was the flavor. If Grog was in a good mood, the spells would cost almost nothing and perform as expected. If he was experiencing heightened emotions, like anger as Ogres were prone, he would find the spells unpredictable. In his dreaming state, Grog had summoned a protector with [Inverse Logic]. His desire to protect them both projected through the skill, creating a spell.

Dran treated his scar as he waited for Brim to return. He wouldn’t voice his concerns at the lack of medicine, but he was worrying. Ordinary alchemical healing salves seemed to do little, and even the expensive stuff was having less of an effect as the days went on. Healing potions and healing magic also didn’t work.

Brim returned shortly after, bringing with him bread and eggs. Dran let out a heavy sigh as he inspected the food. The bread was cold, the eggs were cold, even the pewter plates were cold. But it was food. Food that hadn’t been stored in a pack for months at a time, and he ate as though it were a fine meal in Dromor. They all downed the food with a mug of the yeasty ale. As far as the Spellscribe was concerned, there was no better way to start the day.

“How will you find the bandits?” Brim asked.

“Well, that part is simple,” Dran said. “We have a sample of one we injured. We can track him with magic.”

“You’re the hard part,” Grog said, grinning. “Too many secrets in that little head of yours.”

“Perhaps you should crack it open, Grog,” Dran said.

Brim shrunk in his chair.

“That’s no way to treat a client,” Grog said. “This man needs our help.”

“I liked him better when he talked like an Ogre,” Brim said. “Could I come with you? To kill the bandits, that is.”

“I think not,” Dran said. “You’re hiding something about the bandit’s leader. When we interviewed Prak, he was hiding the man’s origin. As were you.”

Brim flushed, casting his eyes to the ground.

“Care to spill those secrets?” Grog asked, laughing. “We’ll crush his core one way or the other, don’t worry.”

Brim took a long drink of his ale, steadying himself. “He’s a relation, I think. To my father.”

“You think?” Dran asked, shrugging.

“I know,” Brim said. He shook his head, taking another long drink. “When my father left town, he went to the hordes in Tropesh. I was young, but he knew I’d be Classed, eventually. Then, decades later, the bandit showed up. Making claims he had no right to.”

“Much better,” Dran said, finishing his stale bread. “That wasn’t hard, was it?”

“So, we’re still ripping this guy apart, right?” Grog asked.

“Absolutely,” Dran said. “We’ll do some light interrogation, then kill him.”

Brim’s eyes went dark. “Is this the life of an adventurer?”

“Boy,” Dran said, leaning in. “How many men has this bandit killed?”

“A few,” Brim admitted.

“What right does he have to live?” Dran asked. “The tangle of family shouldn’t influence you here. You’ll get your class evolution, and we’ll take care of the bandit. Whatever claim he thinks he has the right to will vanish.”

Brim went silent after that. He was holding more information back, but Dran didn’t care. He was eager to leave this unnaturally cold place, his mind lingering on anywhere warmer. The storm could have this place, and the people in it. They could keep their secrets and be buried under a mountain of snow, as long as the Spellscribe got paid. There was a weakness in caring. Not for people at large, but those who would hold their cards close to their chest while he offered them a hand.

When the meal was done, Grog packed up and they headed outside. The chill bit deeper than Dran remembered, but they made their way to Prak’s house. Once again, the streets were empty. People peered from their windows, but refused to brave the cold. The governor was welcoming to their request, leading the pair to a small room where he kept the tablet.

“Thank you,” Dran said, waving Prak away.

Grog kept watch while Dran poured through the records of the town. He spotted the point where Brim’s father came to town, over 20 years ago, and the place where he left. There were records concerning the man’s origin, confirming his ties to Tropesh. There was also something strange. A connection between Brim’s mother and the bandit, which had been noted in the town’s logbook. It took hours to find the connection, but once the Spellscribe found it, there was no going back. He drew a quick silencing circle and turned to Grog.

“Some ancient line of succession nonsense,” Dran said, placing his own tablet back into the pockets of his robes. “Brim’s mother, Rahl, was the next in line to take over the town. Daughter of Prak. Brim’s father, Brall, used a pseudonym for his surname when he entered the town. The system was smart enough to mark his real surname, though.”

“Alright,” Grog said, scratching his shaved head. “I’m not following, but go on.”

“So, Brim’s mother should get the town, but she’s dead. Her husband was a man named Brall Duneborne, also dead. The bandit, Svoh Duneborne, now has a line of succession.”

“To the town?” Grog asked.

Dran frowned. “Something else. Not the town. You’re right, the governor is no longer passed through heritage. Thanks to the empire.”

“Mysteries and mysteries,” Grog said, shaking his head. “Well, it doesn't matter. We can kill this bandit and be gone.”

“I agree,” Dran said. “We kill the bandit, evolve the kid’s class, and leave.”

“Bring the kid,” Grog said.

“Why?”

“So we can evolve him in the glade,” Grog said. “Then leave without returning to town.”

“Smart.”

The pair departed the governor’s house without seeing him and collected Brim, who was nervous about going. Grog dragged him out of the manor, the armor clanking the entire way. Once they found the western path, he walked on his own. Dran felt as though there were hounds chasing them. There was too much information he lacked to make a decent assessment of the situation, and he wanted to leave the town as soon as possible. When they were far enough from the town, Grog cast his tracking spell.

The spell was, as with most [Ogre Mage] magic, illogical. He poured a small amount of blood on a bare patch of icy earth and closed his eyes.

“I’m gonna find you,” Grog said, working himself up. Dran knew he was focusing, drawing his intent on locating the bandit. He just hoped their lead wasn’t the pile of goo back in the manor.

The image of a formless creature appeared before them, glowing blue and bounding off into the sheet of snow. Delving back into the storm wasn’t appealing, but there wasn’t another option. Dran had the most trouble keeping up, his pegleg catching on everything as they went. The path that Grog made through the snow was helpful, but the brisk pace made it difficult. Brim tried to help him a few times, but the Spellscribe refused.

Dran drew ragged breaths, air freezing his lungs. Each breath was painful, but the group didn’t slow their pace. They followed the creature for hours, over hills and down cliff faces until a glade appeared in the distance. Through the sheet of white, they could spot a bubble of relief. The group huddled behind a tree, watching the creature enter the glade then disappear.

“Now that is curious,” Dran said.

“They have a way to fight the storm?” Brim asked, just as surprised. “That shouldn’t be possible.”

Dran looked at Grog, nodding. He flashed a few gestures, remnants of their training in the legion, and the Ogre agreed. The Spellscribe would weave a spell to take care of the non-Classed bandits while he found and subdued the leader.

“Stay back,” Dran said. “Unless things get dire.”

Brim simply nodded, swallowing hard. Grog wasn’t much for stealth with his massive size, and Dran couldn’t sneak to save his life. The pegleg gave him away in every situation, leaving them with few options. They approached the glade in the open, keeping their eyes on the edge of the strange bubble. When they passed through, a wave of oppressive heat blasted them. The plants were wilting, unaccustomed to the bubble-desert. Signs of activity were everywhere, from felled trees to discarded waste. A winding path led deeper into the bubble, and they pressed on with Brim trailing behind.

“There,” Grog said, pointing.

A leather-clad man stood near the edge of a settlement. The buildings were little more than lean-twos, cloth stretched to give them some shelter. Fires burned outside the tents and the man shouted in alarm. Activity stirred from within the camp and Dran wove his spell.

Intar Ag Fan Ram

This would reveal everyone that wasn’t classed. He drew the Spellphrase in a wide circle in front of him. The grammar was poor, but writing Axpashi well only seemed to affect the strength of the spell. Dran pressed his brush through the center of the circle and felt mana flow from his core. Grog ducked to the side as a wave of fire rolled over the camp like a tide. Screams of agony rose, twenty voices or more, as the deadly fire chewed through flesh with no resistance. Near the back of the camp, a man shielded himself with his arms and shouted a curse.

“There he is,” Grog said, narrowing his eyes. “Only the leader is classed.”

Dran felt his tablet buzz in his robes, notifications of his kills. He ignored them and focused on crafting another spell to support his companion. The Spellscribe drew with his brush, watching as the Ogre engaged in his unique form of contact. The bandit leader was surprised when an Ogre Mage rushed his position, summoning a barrier to deflect a withering barrage of serpents. Dran finished writing his spell just as the bandit vanished from sight, reappearing fifty paces away and brandishing his shortbow.

Fan Terap

The spell fulminated, Spellwords springing from the ground at the bandit’s feet. They wrapped around his torso, pulling him to the ground before he could act. With a flash of light he broke them, but it was too late. Grog was upon him, pummeling with the strength of an Ogre. The man let out a yelp of fear. Dran hobbled over, watching his friend crush the bandit’s bow, then pummel him a few times for good measure.

“Well, this has been fun,” Dran said, stumbling over a root and cursing. “Can’t say I’ve enjoyed the trip.”

A sickening crack filled the air as Grog broke the bandit’s right arm. The Ogre hoisted the bandit up, revealing how bloodied he’d been.

“What cruel work you do,” Svoh, the bandit leader, said between gasps.

“For the empire,” Dran said, withdrawing his tablet. “I have a few questions before you depart.”

“Questions?” Svoh spat.

“Yes, as in… I ask you something, and Grog doesn’t break more bones,” Dran said.

Brim approached from behind, his eyes glued to the floor.

“Tell me about the desert warriors,” Dran said. “How do the paladins of Tropesh draw their power? A deity?”

A look of confusion spread across Svoh’s face. He winced in pain when Grog tugged his arms in either direction, giving a gentle reminder on how things worked.

“The sun,” Svoh said. A look of realization spread across his face. “This was what I was trying to do. To bring Brim back to his ancestral homelands. To meet his destiny as a Paladin.”

“What a strange way to help,” Grog said, laughing. “Seems like you’ve hobbled more than you’ve helped.”

“Release me, and I can help,” Svoh said.

“Don’t trust a word he says,” Brim said, moving to get a better view of the bandit. Tears formed in the corners of his eyes. “I would never go with you, uncle. No matter what lies you’ve brought from the tribes.”

A grim look fell over Svoh’s face. A resignation to the end of his journey that almost pulled at Dran’s heart. If the Spellscribe hadn’t seen this play out before, he would have thought of mercy. He could take Brim’s money and still be happy with their journey. But men like Svoh didn’t stop, even when you released them. They became loose ends that weren’t worth the sleepless nights. Grog understood that decision better than most. They’d afforded loose ends in the past, only to find it biting them in the ass months later.

“Give thanks to the sun,” Svoh said, looking at the bubble of white above him. “Make sure [Warrior] is higher than [Priest]. That should work. Do your worst, executioners.”

“Good, Dran?” Grog asked.

“More than we need,” Dran said with a dismissive wave of his hand. He turned away from the scene, wincing at the sound of Svoh’s startled yelp and the sound of a man’s skull being crushed in.

Brim vomited, but Dran walked away, leaving his friend to dig the core out of the bandit leader’s chest. The would-be Paladin approached him after a moment on shaking legs.

“Is this what it means to be an adventurer?” Brim asked.

“Only if you want to survive,” Dran said, casting his eyes to the sky. The bubble was deteriorating, and the storm parted for only a moment. He could see the sun above. “Give thanks to the sun, Brim. While you can.”