CHAPTER TWO

The mana-front hits the edge of the town as the moon sinks below the horizon. On this day, unlike any before it, all two hundred and thirty-three residents of Edrundur wake at once. One feeble old woman, a seamstress with the official town record for most grandchildren, springs out of her rocking-chair with youthful vigor. The smithy, yet again asleep by his craft, jolts to wakefulness as a shock passes through his hammer and yelps. His hunting dog, resting at his feet, growls and bites the unlucky craftsman’s leg before coming to. In the Temple of the Ancestrals, the priests and acolytes, the mana-sensitives of the village, go about their morning rituals with pale faces and shaking hands. Few in the village know of the significance of the phenomenon, and those that do are frightened. And in the home of Hala and Jurgrem, their adopted and only child, Fel, flinches and wakes from a feverish dream. Its meaning slips away as she sits up, rubbing her eyes, but an uneasiness will linger in her thoughts for the remainder of the day.

She coughs, feeling a scratchiness in her throat. For the past week she has been ill and bedridden with the spring-sickness that spreads through the village each year. With the aid of the Temple of Ancestrals and cheap alchemical remedies, it is rarely fatal, but neither is it an enjoyable experience. “Ow,” she says to herself, wincing at the sound. “[Status].” She invokes the word in the way her adopted parents taught her, and the sensations seep through her mind like rainwater filling the gaps between grains of sand.

[Fel - Human LV0 - 14 years]
[No Class]
Health: 90/90 (100)
Energy: 74/100
Stamina: 74/74 (100)
Mana: 0/90 (Locked until LV1)
STR -2
DEX +1
VIT -1 (+0)
INT +1
WIS -1
CHA +1
LCK ?
--- Traits
[Elven Ancestry]: You have a trace of Elven blood in your veins from a distant and long-deceased relation. Your magic is 5% more potent.
[The Power of Names]: All names have power. Your given name lies latent, but on the first day of your fourteenth year, you will choose a new name and shape your own destiny.
[???]
--- Statuses
[Spring Sickness (Receding)]: A common sickness coinciding with the end of winter. Your body has rejected the intrusion, and it is receding. [-1 VIT]
--- Abilities
[???]

She scowls at the stubbornly persistent question marks. She had hoped that they would be revealed on her fourteenth birthday, but to her disappointment, they remain elusive and unknown. She had asked her adopted father about them once and he had shrugged. “Lotsa people have ‘em,” he’d said, scratching his chin. “Things they don’t know about. Usually stuff in their past. Goes for you too, I’d s’pose.”

“Fel!” calls her mother.

“I’ll be just a minute!” she says, wincing again. She pulls on a shirt and pants, along with a thin hide jacket – a gift from a friend. She puts up her hair into a loose bun, knowing her father will scold her otherwise, and slips into the central room of the house, which serves as both the kitchen and a meeting-place. Hala is just starting the morning’s meal, and Jurgrem is still wearing his nightclothes. Fel pauses at the doorway with a bemused expression. “Am I early?”

“Whole town’s up,” remarks her mother. “Temple’s in a fuss about it; they’ve a meeting of sorts later in th’ morning.”

“So,” says her father, spreading his arms wide with a grin. The desired effect is then stifled by an uncharacteristic yawn. “How - how’ve you decided? Take after your pa, eh? Or,” he adds with an arched brow, “something else?”

“I’m...not sure,” Fel lies. She knows what class she wants, and that her father would never approve. Fel wants to be a [Wayfinder], the Delvers who stake out dungeons, recording their dangers and the strategies to counter them, acting as a guide and expert to the teams that would hire her out.

“Well, you’ve only got the whole day, lad. No rush,” says Fel’s father, chuckling at his own joke. “Oh, that reminds me – thank you, Hala, dear,” he adds, kissing his wife on the cheek as she sets a platter of sausages and a large serving-bowl of salad greens at the table. “That reminds me, some odd man came into town yesternight, a foreigner of some kind. Didn’t say much, but I bought him a drink and he told me some tale of monsters prowling the roads, just a few days north of here!” Her father places a sausage in his mouth and continues talking through it, undeterred, “‘an ‘e ‘shaid me ‘is ‘and – sorry, Hala.” He swallows as his wife frowned sternly at him. “As I was saying, he had this huge scar ‘cross’t his face, and he had his hand wrapped in a bandage of some kind. Scary-looking, to be truthful. Fel, are you with me?”

“What?” says Fel, startled, a cup of water halfway to her lips. She had been inspecting the grain of the wooden table as a distraction.

“Pay attention, boy. There’s some monster hunter in town. Might do you good to talk to him, see what he’s about. A good profession,” he says, reaching across the table to hit Fel on the shoulder, “check it out, eh?”

“Right,” says Fel, wishing she were anywhere else at the moment. “I’ll do that. Where is he?” She finishes off the drink and stands, her meal untouched.

Her father nods approvingly and pulls the wooden tray across the table, his own breakfast already finished. “He bedded down in the tavern for the night, but said something about talking to the smith, said he needed new gear. He’s probably over there now.”

Fel excuses herself as quickly as she could, nearly tripping over the threshold in her haste. She slides down the outer wall of the house and looked up at the passing clouds. Blue skies.

“Fuck,” she says, a tear tracing out a line down her face. Back to it, Fel. With a shuddering breath, she gets to her feet and sets out towards the smithy.

“Fel!” says the smith, Callum, when she arrives a few minutes later. The town was small, with a meandering layout that was bizarre to the newcomer but comfortably navigable to its residents. “Never forget that face. How’s the day treatin’ you?” he asks. He is a short man, shorter than Fel, even, with rippling muscles and skin darker than most everyone in the village, Fel excluded. Callum's workshop is an open-air setup on the edge of the town, surrounded by six feet of bare earth and stone on all sides to prevent a fire from breaking out. Miscellaneous equipment and tools, most of which Fel did not recognize, are scattered about haphazardly. Fel tiptoes carefully around them.

Callum's hunting-dog, resting at his feet, looks up at Fel and wags his tail in greeting.

“Hello, sir,” says Fel with a nervous wave, crouching down to pet the dog. “Ah – have you seen a man with a scar around here? He’s got a...bandage on his hand? Newcomer?” She offers, gesturing to her face and hand in turn.

“Karst?” grunts the smith, turning back to his work with an exaggerated look of mock disappointment. “Oh, he’s just around the back...since you weren’t here to see me.” His façade cracks, giving way to a contagious grin, and Fel laughs. The man has such a dry sense of humor, but he can never keep a straight face. “Why’d you want to see him anyway? Surprised you know him.”

“No, I just - my father mentioned him. Thought we should talk. It’s my...fourteenth.”

“Oh, congratulations!” beams the smith. “I remember mine. Wanted to be an adventurer. Me mum beat me with a shoe.”

“Oh,” the girl says.

“Ah, I like this work better anyway. Less dangerous, more money. A good life. But,” he says, turning serious, “don’t let a shoe scare you too. We could use some brave folk right now, if those rumors are true, so...be what you want.” He winks and nods.

“W – what?”

“I mean, if you want to be an adventurer, don’t let me stop you! I’ll make you a blade if you need one. I saw you an’ that friend of yours. Even as little kids you were always playing ‘Monster Slayers’ or whatever you called it.”

Fel smiles, remembering her time with Kris. “Yeah, we...yeah.” They had drifted apart, as childhood friends often do. Kris is a year older than her, already with her Class. She is an [Alchemist] now, making healing potions and medicines for the town. Fel, on the other hand, has never quite grown out of her younger years; she is still ensnared by the allure of dungeons and monsters.

The last time they spoke…

‘How about Felikaa?’ Kris had asked. ‘It means lucky.’

‘I’m not lucky, Kris. I’m...cursed, or something. Oh, damn all the ancestors,’ Fel had said spitefully, then covered her mouth in horror.

Kris had laughed. ‘You’re a funny girl.’

...she said she would have a present. For Fel.

“I think…” Fel scuffs her boot against the gravel floor of the smithy anxiously. “How long will Debhlin be here?”

“All day,” says Callum, waving his hammer about flippantly. “All this stuff on the floor? All his. Man’s got some coin to spare, and I’m not complaining.”

“Thanks. Callum.” She nods to the smith and sets off again to the alchemist’s shop...slowly. She dreads the place, not because of her friend, but because of the woman who she was serving her apprenticeship under. She is, in both Fel and Kris’ opinions, the manifestation of a nightmare.

She stops in front of the shop and twirled a strand of her hair anxiously. “Just knock,” she says to herself, looking at the ominous two-story building that was the apothecary. In reality the place is no more or less intimidating than any other of the village locales, but it has been tarnished in Fel’s eyes by several unpleasant encounters. “Knock.”

She knocks twice, gently. The door swings open and she flinches. “Oh.”

“Hey, Felikaa,” says Kris, grinning. “Ms. Carmine’s out today. Some business in the Temple, I think.”

“Don’t...call me that!” hisses Fel, glancing over her shoulder.

“Why not?” says Kris with a lilting laugh. She grabs Fel by the arm and pulls her inside. “It fits you. Come on, gotta show you something.” She kicks the door closed.

“You’re in a good mood,” observes Fel as she is tugged by the arm up the rickety set of stairs with no handholds. “Hey – slow down! I don’t wanna fall!”

“Sorry,” says the [Alchemist]. “Just excited.” She stops in front of a room and dramatically kicks the door open. “My room!” she squeals. “Look! Bed!”

She flops onto the bed and mumbles something unintelligible. “It’s so soft,” she repeats, rolling over.

“It’s nice,” says Fel, turning in a circle to take in the room. Kris has decorated every inch of available wall space with – 

“Is that all parchment?” asks Fel, amazed.

“Yeah! I mean, Ms. Carmine is,” Kris purses her lips and makes a face of disgust, “but she does pay really well! I guess that’s how it goes when you’re the only [Alchemist] in the whole town and everyone needs healing potions. So I got a bunch of it and made these. She was mad at the waste until I showed her, well,” she gestures at the posters. They were all alchemical diagrams, beautifully traced and colored images of different plants and magical beasts, all annotated in Kris’ trademark illegible scribbles. “Notes! For study! She cooled down after that. Although she still made me mop the whole downstairs floor. And ceiling. Anyway, this,” she says, “is for you. My research.” She holds out a thick, leather-bound book. “You still want to be an adventurer, right?”

“A...[Wayfinder], yeah.”

“Well…” says Kris. “You can get me stuff! Some of the things in here,” she opens the book and babbles on about something alchemy-related, but Fel isn’t really listening anymore. Is that all she wanted to see me for?

“I – um,” says Fel, swallowing back a lump in her throat, “I should go. Um, thanks.”

“Felikaa? Hey!”

Felikaa stumbles down the stairs, wiping away tears. Today is...awful.

“Felikaa!” Kris leaps off the stairs and lands in front of her, crossing her arms. “Stop being stupid! Isn’t this what you wanted?” She holds the book a foot from Fel’s nose, pointing to the open page. “I...made it for you. It...well, it wasn’t really easy. Had to ask Ms. Carmine a bunch of really roundabout questions to get what I needed to know.”

Fel blinks away her tears and looks at the page. It is perfectly legible, like one of the books made by a mage-press: Kris had traced each character assiduously.

FELIKAA’S ELIXIR
(For my best friend)

Following was a list of ingredients and the process of preparation.

“Desired effect is feminization. No side effects except the occasional headache, unfortunately. I tested it on myself and some mice (sorry little guys) and none of us died a horrible death and my skin is also super soft now, so it hopefully works?” read a footnote. There were several doodles of Fel in the margins, fighting various common types of Dungeon-monsters.

“Happy birthday,” says Kris with a small smile. “Obviously that came off the wrong way, but...just bring the ingredients to me and I’ll put it together. Don’t try and do it yourself,” she adds, poking Fel in the chest. “That would be dumb. But I have to tell you because you’ll do it otherwise.”

“Thank you,” says Fel, taking the book and hugging it to her chest. “I…thank you, Kris.” She had scarcely believed there was any chance she could – 

There’s the harsh, discordant clanging of the town bell, and the two girls jump. “A meeting?” says Kris. “What for?”

“My parents said something about the Temple noticing some problem. Dunno what. Come on,” says Fel, tugging Kris’ hand this time.

“A [Wayfinder], huh?” says Kris as the two make their way up the steps to the Temple at the center of the village.

Fel nods. “I’ve always wanted to be one. Not sure why, it just calls to me,” she adds, biting her lip.

“Mm. Maybe it’s in your blood. Apparently one of my ancestors was a very famous alchemist. That’s what my [Status] says, anyway.”

“Maybe,” says Fel belatedly as they reach the top of the stairs. Most of the town is here already, with only a few latecomers arriving now.

“What’s this about?” shouts one man.

“The rumors? Are they true?” a woman’s voice calls. Fel recognizes the voice: a lady who sells fruit in the market, and always offers a free apple or two to the children.

“Hey,” says Kris, leaning over. “Can you see the [Priest]?”

“No. I’m too short.”

“Same.”

They have to content themselves with making out the speech over the anxious chatter of the townspeople.

“People! Please! Be calm! There is no urgency,” calls the [Priest], his voice amplified by a spell. “We are here to bring a matter to the town’s attention, at the behest of the [Town Administrator]. Mana-Sensitives among us have observed a wave of Ether passing through the town this morning. It is – ”

The crowd grows in volume, cries of fear and worry like a wounded animal.

“Is it dangerous?”

“Will we become ill?”

“Will the crops die?”

“Good people! The Ether wave is harmless. It is not potent and had already begun to degrade as it reached us. However, it is indicative of the formation – please, remain calm – of a Dungeon.”

Unfortunately, the [Priest]’s preemptive plea for order proves futile, as the town cries out once again. “Is it like Mrota? Will we be overrun? Should we call for the Crown’s Guard?”

“It is a newborn Dungeon,” says the [Priest], exasperated. “It is three days far by foot, and it will not be able to encroach on the town or its fields for quite some time. [Acolyte]?”

“Yes, thank you,” a younger voice calls. “I have a [Wayfinder] here with me – an expert in [Dungeonlore], as you know – ”

A [Wayfinder]? Fel can barely contain her excitement, and tries again to stand on the tips of her toes for a better view, to no avail.

“ – by the name of Debhlin Karst. He will – ”

Karst is a [Wayfinder]? Fel’s heart leaps in her chest. Her father had already indicated a high opinion of the man, perhaps if Karst approved he wouldn’t reject her choice of class –

“Yes, thank you,” calls an unfamiliar voice, abruptly interrupting. “The, uh, Dungeon is essentially an infant at this time. It will likely be more curious than hostile at this time and poses no threat. Most Dungeons end up being indifferent at worst or – ”

“But what if it is hostile?” says another.

“OI! SHUT IT!” shouts Karst, his voice echoing even without an amplification spell.

Kris stifles a giggle, her own opinion of the man having increased tenfold.

“Right. Are we done? Good. The Dungeon poses no threat. It is curious, not hostile. It will likely spend the next few months expanding, luring in small creatures to assimilate, and gathering information about the world. With that said, it is both mine and the [Town Administrator’s] recommendation that no one approach the Dungeon until it has been verified safe to enter for any...aspirants.”

The [Acolyte] coughs, amused. “Yes….yes, thank you, Sir Karst. I’d imagine that – unlike you, good sir, no offense meant – none of our people have any aspirations of Dungeon-Delving. We have, ah, safer matters to attend to.” He laughs nervously and many of those gathered murmur in agreement. Despite being eighty-seven years past, the memory of Mrota’s reign of terror still weighs heavily on the minds of the people, and most regard Delvers as foolish thrill-seekers or simply insane. “That is all. You may go about your days. Rest assured we have called for a party of the Crown’s Delvers to verify the Dungeon for safety and watch over the village for threats. Thank you.”

The crowd disperses like drink from a burst wineskin, leaving Debhlin, the [Acolyte] and [Priest], and Kris and Fel, the former of whom is trying to persuade her friend to talk to Karst.

“Go on!”

“What do I even say?”

Kris huffs. “Well, I’ll talk to him then.” Before Fel can stop her she’s bounced up to Karst. “Hello!”

“What do you want?” the man scowls. “I told you the Dungeon ‘int dangerous. Piss off.” He fits Jurgrem's description: there is a long, jagged scar dangerously close to his right eye. His nose looks slightly crooked, as though it has broken and rehealed numerous times. A receding hairline of matted, ashen-black hair completes the arrangement. By no stretch of the imagination is he attractive – not that Fel would know if he was.

“Oh,” says Kris, startled by the man’s hostility. “Um, well, my friend here wants to talk to you.”

“Yeah?” says Karst, focusing on Fel with a stony gaze. “Spit it out, lad.”

“I – I – ” Fel stutters to a halt.

“He wants to be a [Wayfinder]!” says Kris cheerfully. Sorry, she mouths to Fel, who just shrugs.

The man glances quizzically between the pair and lets out a harsh laugh. “Yeah? What do you think that entails, kid? Traipsing through dungeons, writin’ down the critters, having a merry time?”

“No?” squeaks Fel.

Karst nods. “You’re damn right. It may be less dangerous than the work of a [Barricade] or a [Nullifier] but it’s still deadly work. So I ask, why do you have a death wish?” He begins unrolling the bandage on his calloused left hand.

“I don’t – I – ”

“No one likes [Wayfinders], either,” continues the man. “It’s not a job for glory. That goes to the other Delvers. You barely even get remembered. Tell me, who was the [Wayfinder] in the Mrota Strike? That’s right, you don’t know.”

“Weya, a half-elf telepath,” replies Fel.

Karst chuckles. “So you do know some. Not bad.” He scratches his chin with his left hand. With the bandage removed, Fel sees two marks, glowing blue, just beneath the knuckle of his ring finger. “Curious?” he says, extending the hand.

“Not...really?” says Fel.

Karst scowls again. It seems to be his face’s resting position. “Don’t lie, you’re shit at it. Ether Basilisk. Nasty bite.”

“An...Ether Basilisk? What’s that?”

“Doesn’t matter. They’re all dead now. Tiny little snake, about as long as this,” he says, holding his hands just half a foot apart. “Deceptively deadly. And why did I become a [Wayfinder]?”

He leans forward, so close that Fel can smell the familiar odor of healing potions on his breath.

“Because without the coin, I’d die. I’m always dying. Ether Basilisks mess with your blood, eat at your mana. Takes about a day for the poison to work up my arm, but if it does, and gets here,” he taps his chest, by his heart, “I’ll be cold and dead before you can say ‘Mrota’. And that poison just keeps coming, and the wound never heals. I have to take healing potions to stay alive. No antidote for Ether-venom. So, given all that...I’d say you should turn the other way and find a nice, cozy job in this little town. Better choice than I’ve ever made.”

“No. Teach me,” blurts out Fel before she can stop herself.

Karst just stares intensely at her. His eyes, she notices, are an icy blue. After an uncomfortably long silence he sighs.

“Now I’ve been through this more’n a few times. Let me see if I’ve got this right. I suspect, if I say no, you’re heading off to the Dungeon anyway, because you’re stubborn and dumber than a bag of lizards. Hell, you probably made up your mind to be a [Wayfinder] years ago because you still don’t quite grasp how likely you are to end up dead.” He draws a line across his throat for emphasis.

“A bag of...lizards?” mutters Kris bemusedly under her breath.

“So you’re going to come with me. [Administrator] needs someone to scope out this Dungeon, and if you’re so insistent I may as well bring you along to make sure you don’t get killed. The other option is you sneaking out in the middle of the night, wielding your pa’s axe of all things as you skip through the forest with a cocky grin on your face, and getting yourself eaten by a low-leveled [Goblin] or [Imp]. Ancestors be kind, you'll see how daft you're being and find a better choice of profession.”

“I thought you said young Dungeons weren’t dangerous,” accuses Kris.

Debhlin lets out a short, humorless laugh as he rebinds the wound on his hand. “I lied. Meet me by the smithy tomorrow, kid. I'll have my gear ready and some horses. We'll set out then, me - me and Fel,” he coughs. And he walks off briskly before Fel can get another word in.

#

“I’m terrified,” confesses Fel. “What am I going to do, Kris? What did you pick?”

The two are sitting on a stone bench by the market. It’s early evening: the air is growing colder. A fog stirred up by the Ether wave fills the town, depositing a dewy moisture on every exposed surface. Orange evening light cuts through the mist like a dulled knife, casting warm rays and long, yawning shadows.

“Krisópia,” she says. “Look, no one has to know! Just mumble it under your breath, then say something else out loud. It’s not like anyone in the town has [Status Inspection] skills.”

“Karst probably does.”

“Oh. Yeah. Well, what about it? It’s a little different, sure, but it’s not like you’re declaring your class as a [Necromancer] or something. It’s just a name. Besides, I got the impression he doesn’t really give a damn about much of anything. If you pissed in his boot, punched him in the nose really hard, or had the misfortune of being a tiny angry snake, yeah, that’d do it, but otherwise,” she waves her hand about vaguely, creating a void the fog swiftly reclaims.

“It’s a girl’s name,” says Fel.

“And you’re a girl,” replies Kris coolly. “I fail to see the issue.”

“Kris – ”

#

Why are my hands numb? is Fel’s first thought as she steps forward, one of the two children in the village to choose their full name on this day. The sun has set and the Temple's courtyard, a cobble-stoned peristyle bordered on three sides by square columns of granite, is illuminated solely by its six hanging braziers.

“Fel and Mur. Today is your day of naming, the day when, by the power of the ancestors, you shall choose the completion of your names, and in doing, become the arbiters of your own destinies. Today you pass from childhood to maturity, and by your own hands, become more than what you were,” announces the [Priestess] to the small gathered crowd. As Naming Ceremonies are a formal affair, the [Priestess] is wearing the gold-trimmed green robes of the Ancestral Temple. Normally, a naming ceremony takes place once a week, and most of the townsfolk present are the family members and friends of those children to be named. Fel can see her parents in the dozen gathered, and Kris, and – is that Karst?

The man gives her a curt nod as they make eye contact.

“Mur,” the [Priestess] calls. “Step forward.”

A glass basin filled with water, a traditional piece of Peritsvum’s Naming ceremonies, rests on a pedestal in the center of the courtyard. The celebrant, an awkward, pale-looking boy, trips over the leather lace of his shoes out of nervousness, and catches himself on the edge of the bowl. Someone in the crowd coughs oddly to mask an outburst of laughter.

“M – Murwemn,” stammers the young man. “Murwemn,” he repeats, more confidently. He dips his hands into the bowl and returns to his seat to mild applause and a whoop of approval from his father.

“Murwemn,” announces the [Priestess]. “A brave name, the name of one who faces trials. Let him be known amongst those present. Let his chosen path be sealed. And with a new name the wheel of the ancestors turns ever onward.”

“Let him be known. The wheel turns ever onward,” recites the gathering.

“Fel,” says the [Priestess], turning to give her a small, encouraging smile. “Step forward.”

Fel wipes the palms of her hands on her shirt and takes a shaky breath. There are eyes everywhere, all of them fixed on her and her choice. She steadies herself against the bowl, and finds, to her horror, that she can no longer bend her elbows. Her arms are paralyzed by fear, all the way up to the shoulder.

Out of the corner of her eye, she looks at her reflection in the basin. A dark-skinned, still-androgynous child, an adopted refugee from the country of Genium who was never meant to live in this land. A [Wayfinder], she hopes. A woman, she is certain, despite the interference of Fate in her birth. An explorer, a curious one, never quite adhering to the norms and expectations of this small village at the edge of Peritsvum. One who rejects tradition, says a tiny voice in the back of her head.

She places her hands in the basin, the water chilled by the night air and soothing her numbed fingertips, and declares her name for the world to hear.

“Fel. ...Just Fel.”

Her [Status] prods the back of her mind.

[Freed from Fate]: At the coming-of-age, a child, now an adult, chooses the name that will be their path in life. You have rejected a path, refused to bind yourself to a predetermined purpose. To you, it is a greater endeavor to forge one’s path through the trials of life than to declare it. For a time, you considered the name Felikaa, meaning “Lucky One,” though in the end you turned against it. The hidden attribute [LUCK] will no longer affect you, for better or worse.

The crowd murmurs in astonishment – no one of the village has rejected a Naming before. Her family, her friend, Karst: they all look on with wonder.

Why, then, does she feel so ashamed?

[Fel has reached LV1. Class selection available.]

eyrie00

I noticed some accidental tense-switching and edited it out. If I missed anything please point it out in the comments. Thank you.