Chapter 4: Crummy in my tummy

It's almost stereotypical; the long slate crypt lit by magical torchlight. A single withered zombie shuffles across the long hall, naked and rotting, its skin is pale and greying with necrotic pockets, its movements are a staggered and imprecise wander. I'd bet my other eye that it'll perk up a bit as soon as it notices me. And if we're going full cliché here, I'm guessing some of the coffins and caskets recessed into the wall will have petty loot in them, and opening the wrong one will have an angry corpse waking up hungry.

Not exactly groundbreaking, but now that I'm actually living it, knowing that if I fuck this up it'll actually eat my flesh, I find myself thankful and far more engaged than if this were just some videogame. This is supposed to be an introduction, if it was something I wasn't at least vaguely familiar with, I'd probably be dead.

I take several quick breaths to try and get some adrenaline flowing as I tense my muscles and ready myself to throw open the door. Then, right before I get ready to step in and throw some magical hands, I realize it still hasn't noticed me.

It's always been my policy when fighting to take any advantage your opponents give you.

I begin stretching as quietly as possible as I think on the spells at my disposal. I could attempt [Minor illusion], but I haven't ever tried that spell before. It's tier 0, so theoretically as easy as it gets, but life-and-death fights aren't the best time to try something new. That being said, I may have the opportunity to practice.

Gingerly shutting the door, I go searching for that same instinctual knowledge I had for [Light], but for [Minor illusion]. Where with [Light] it was my strongest memory of light, this time, when I think on [Minor Illusion] I find myself trying to picture something as vividly as possible. Almost willing my imagination into a hallucination.

I think of something I can picture inside and out, imagine it sitting in my cupped palms, how it would look down to the last detail if it were really there, and suddenly…

One of those windup cymbal monkeys sits in my palm. I hold my [Light] spell in the other, and find I don't need to maintain the light orb with my hand, so I let it float as I attempt to touch the illusion.

Predictably, my finger goes right through, the illusion shimmering slightly where my finger disturbs it. I raise the illusion to my ear, continuing to imagine how it would move if it truly were in my hand, and gently touch where the crank would be. I picture what winding would look and sound like as I wind it, and while the monkey's key moves, its gears make no cranking sound.

Ready to dispel the illusion at a moment's notice, I let go of the key, and watch as it silently clanks its symbols together and toddles along.

Silent, but effective. I wonder just how big I can make an illusion, but now's not the time to test that. The monkey will work.

A good plan would be to huck the fake monkey down the hall, have the zombie turn towards it then approach it from behind. But one should always have a backup plan. So, I begin to meditate on [Tripping Roots] in case the distraction isn't effective.

Immediately, I can tell this spell's a good bit more complex. It seems it's quite a step up between tier 0 and tier 1. Though I had little trouble with [Magic Missile], that was likely because I had hard ingrained muscle memory of throwing punches.

I’ve never summoned roots before, but I have tripped over roots before, so that's a start. Crouched and lost in thought, my mind feels as though it's sinking through my skin, then the stone, into the very earth itself.

Understanding worms its way into my brain and takes root. I learn a root's distaste for sudden movement, how they take their time finding the weak points, searching for water and nutrients. But I understand how they reach. How they find the path of least resistance and will always find their way there, breaking through stone with patience and strength. A dandelion in-between the pavement.

The spell takes a bit of time to cast, lessened by the amount of targets you wish to trip. But I will need a good 10 or so seconds to coax the roots into believing my target is what they search for, and magically hasten their travel. I test this by convincing the roots beneath the stone to trip myself, talking about how my body is 60% water, and how nutritious my shit is.

A few seconds later and I am once again lying on the floor, a thick and pliant root looping around my toes and ankle.

I am becoming intimately familiar with the taste of slate.

So, not a good spell to suddenly halt the charge of a nearby enemy, or to throw someone off mid-fight. I get the feeling that it'd be a lot faster and more effective if I was more “convincing” to plants. I'm not sure how one gets plant-charisma but I have to assume nature magic is something one can specialize in.

Regardless, I think I can maintain the illusion as I cast [Tripping Roots] prepping the 10 second casting time to coincide with when I throw the distracting monkey, ready to trip the zombie should it not take the bait.

Light orb snuffed, fake cymbal monkey in hand, I open the door a crack. It creaks for a moment and I wince, peeking to see if the zombie still listlessly shuffles. My target is somewhere between 20 and 25 feet down the hall. Not as far as I'd like, but I can easily throw the monkey further.

Monkey raised in one hand, I mentally begin speaking to the roots, describing the juicy, decomposing corpse just above them. Right as I get the sense that the roots are shifting the stones, I huck the illusory monkey just past the zombie. It turns to follow the sudden motion, and I see its sluggishness fade as its shambling picks up speed to a janky, faltering jog.

Distraction successful, and roots at the ready, I slip into the room and magically shadowbox to send a [Magic Missile] into the undead's dome. This punch seems to wind me a bit more than it should have, and that winded feeling sinks into exasperation as the zombie reaches the illusion and ducks down to grab and bite it, just in time for the [Magic Missile] to fly right over its head.

The spell’s impact on the stone wall behind it, followed by its confusion as its rotting hands pass right through the silently clanking monkey has the zombie look up and around. Its eyes are half-rotted and definitely nonfunctional, but magic seems to pick up where biology left off and its eyes lock to mine. Then, its gaze drifts down to my throat.

It begins to lope towards me, snapped or necrotic muscles moved along by some dread force. I unleash the [Tripping Roots] and it falls hard about 15 feet down the hall.

Eat slate bitch.

The roots quickly snap under its wriggling resistance– the shitty little things are only good for tripping– but with the extra time as it rights itself I'm able to launch off another [Magic Missile]. The translucent and iridescent lance exits from my extended fist at the same time that a lance of pain enters my head. My eye winces shut, so I don't see the missile connect with the zombies shoulder. I do see it once more stumbling towards me with a new hole almost clear through its shoulder when I reopen my eye.

Finishing off the one-two punch with my left fist, another [Magic Missile] fires off. I hear its head explode like a melon at a Gallagher act, but don't see it as my head does its best imitation.

A splitting headache has me nearly doubled over and retching as my ab muscles clench in response to the pain.

What the fuck was that?!

Opening my eyes again and seeing the headless zombie, I examine my body as I kick the corpse in the side to make sure it's really dead.

I don't have any zombie juice on me, I've only got a small cut on my knee from the broken glass in the other room, so I don’t think I've contracted zombie-ism or whatever. I doubt it could be airborne, I didn't see a gas mask or anything and it'd be some almighty bullshit if they gave me an unavoidable magical disease in the first 10 minutes of my afterlife. So, I have no clue what's wrong with me.

The headache is slowly easing, so I begin to examine the crypt. Taking a length of wood from the previous room, I poke a coffin. When nothing wakes up to eat me, I gently poke the lid, pushing it slightly ajar.

Summoning my light orb, and floating it so I can try and see within the coffin, I see a dessicated and practically mummified corpse. Looking closely, my eyes catch a fading paper placard attached to the recess the coffin lays in.

It reads;

William of Cromwell, Tier 3 [Duelist], level 6

Volunteered for this research in hopes it could cure a curse obtained in Brimhall dungeon. Undeath did not take.

Oh, these are real people. Or… were.

The thought rests in my heart, validating some disillusioned and disappointed corner, dwelling on the fact that nothing came of their hopes and efforts, and they are now relegated to a tutorial for some douchebag.

That's the way of it, ain’t it? Even here, even once learning the universe is so much bigger than we thought, it still kicks you when you're down.

“Rest easy, Will.” I say to the corpse, right before I kick open his coffin fully to see if he had any valuables.

Hey, I'd be happy to let someone rob my grave if it helped them out.

Unfortunately, William of Cromwell was a broke bitch, so I move on.

More attempted graverobbing of rotting poor people and the only thing of note was an empty coffin and someone whose apparent reaction to the serum was liquefaction.

But nearing the end of the hall, before a set of wide double doors, nearly hidden in the dark at a head-height recess where the torches fall short, there's a newer coffin. The wood is less faded, lacquered and sturdy. Strangely, it has a bell hanging above it, with an attached line leading within the coffin from the side. The paper placard is bright and unfaded.

Helga Birgisdottir, Tier 6 [Shieldmaiden of Glorious Ends], level 3.

Corpse purchased post-mortem, in life possessed skills that would allow allies and self to fight on despite mortal wounds.

Temporary undeath successful. Monitor for resurgence.

“Oh yeah, this one's definitely waking up.”

I clap a hand over my mouth, realizing that if it might wake up, I should probably be quiet. That being said, her level is far higher than any other corpse so far. If anyone is gonna have loot, it'll be her.

Taking several steps back, I take my poking stick, and tap the coffin.

Nothing.

Push on the lid.

Nothing.

The lid clatters off the side as I remove it, I raise my orb of light and see no movement so far, the bell stays silent.

Inching closer I peek within, and see a far less decomposed, but still slightly bloated, corpse. Her hair is done in battle braids, and her burial dress is an ethereal blue, flickering into shades of purple with my flashing lights, like twilight where the sky meets the sea. Her hands are crossed over her chest and lay upon a shortsword, while her eyes are covered in golden coins.

No sign of a shield, which is strange for a shieldmaiden, and the coins are an anachronism if this truly is a viking. Viking funerals usually have them burn the corpse.

Hey, now that's an idea.

***

“I'm just giving her a proper send-off. Besides if she is intermittently undead the note did say to put her out of her misery. This is fine. She burns, the metal coins and sword don’t, and can be repurposed for someone who needs them.” I quietly murmur to myself, laying more kindling around her coffin.

I hold one of the magical torches from the wall in my other hand, a slight burn on my forefinger from where I tested the magical flame’s temperature. It'll burn alright.

A deep breath. “Here we go.”

I toss the torch onto the coffin and sprint down the hallway, turning back to see the wood catching and the flame growing. A few tense moments pass as I watch, waiting for any sign of movement, then let out a sigh of relief as it seems Helga won't be pissed about a rude awakening.

A bell rings.

Climbing down from the recess in the wall, a flaming zombified [Shieldmaiden of Glorious Ends] lands kneeling on the ground. Gold coins clatter against the slate floor as her head turns back up to look me in the eye. Then she stands, shortsword in hand.

“Oh fuck.”

[Magic Missile], [Magic Missile], [Magic Missile], [Magic Missile], [Magic Missile], [Magic Missile], [Magic Missile]!

Each one sent from my fists into a flaming, undead viking charging right for me. Each one punctuated by a growing throb in my head. By the time I am cornered back inside the first workspace, and she finally falls smoking to the floor, I am barely conscious.

My head feels as if every cell is starting a revolution, my skull growing spikes and thrusting them into the back of my eyesockets. My scars pulse and throb. It feels as if I'm losing my eye all over again. Curled up on the ground, face to the slate again, I wind up puking without noticing that fact until I was covered in bile. I don't have the wherewithal to guess what could've been in my stomach, as this body hadn't yet eaten– too busy feeling as if this newly-minted body is now breaking itself apart.

I am sick. Not some “crummy in my tummy” chicken soup kinda sick. I mean the hospitalized for IV fluids kind of hangover, the second day of withdrawal, food poisoning “fluid is coming out of every hole I have” sick.

My mind reels and wracks in pain as I try to think of what I did to get sick, and what I could do to stop it— short of stabbing a piece of broken mirror into my brain.

When an option slippingly presents itself, I blissfully grab hold of unconsciousness like a lifeline in a storm, and promptly pass the fuck out.

Level-up!

Tier 1 [Mage], level 1 — Tier 1 [Mage], level 2

Skill learned: [Lesser Mana Well] (passive, upgradable)