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Chapter 6
🕑 Added 2024-02-26 06:39:51 +0000 UTC* * *
Don't get me wrong, but my first two choices were either to turn around and leave or to finish him off so he wouldn't suffer. It wasn't even the danger of repercussions from the slave-trafficking forces that stopped me, but a simple unwillingness to get my head in trouble that had been created by other people. So the fuckin' slave hunters are all dead, and I'm responsible for the death of the big-eared wondrous? I couldn't say that I cared all that much about the few other individuals who would crave my death because my attitude to the authority that is in Alurea is perfectly mutually described by the phrase "burn and bury the ashes". Well, some other guys will come after me, and I don't care about that.
On the other hand, the full list of my enemies does not even know about me, but those who will look for the killers of the elf, it may get on the trail, which will result in another massacre and a pile of corpses. Guts hanging on trees is optional and at the will of the winners. With a small, literally minuscule, the margin of victory was kindness - it was decided to save the little f*cker.
A decision is a very good thing, a great thing. A decision marks the first step made on a chosen path, the first movement that will have to grow into something else, into something that will lead you to the final stage, to the goal. I could say a few more pompous phrases, but that would not change the main problem. I don't fucking know how to turn a nearly finished anatomical specimen from the "autopsy done by a self-taught sadist" category back into a functioning big-eared elf of unknown age.
With a sigh that mixed with a genuine reluctance to work my ass off and a fair amount of fatigue from all the crap the world was throwing at me, I walked closer to the victim. The victim himself paid no attention to my appearance, being unconscious. I confess, I don't blame him, for the pain must have been terrifying, and there was no reason for him to see me. I may be wearing a mask, but why should I even show that mask? Although most likely, at least the mask would have to show, yes.
"Was he unconscious from the beginning?" I asked the question to Taria, who was sitting by the window, breathing heavily to avoid the smell of the slaughterhouse in the ritual hall.
The smell was there because there were other corpses beside the big-eared one, just not so much alive, which is why they died, rotting from open sternums and guts. I'd say I could have saved them, but judging by the age of those bodies, they died yesterday. I mean, I could have saved them, but it took too much risk on my part. And if I had decided to fight the whole camp alone, in order to start the operation as quickly as possible, there would have been an order of magnitude more casualties among the slaves. I would have to strike across the square, and I would have to remember to summon the Shadows, and it was not certain that my own strikes would be able to evade the defenseless targets.
The situation with the ritual itself is much more interesting - if it was prepared in advance, there must be a reason for it. And it was prepared long and diligently. The inquisitive eye noted all the little things that made it possible to draw a relatively complete picture of the days that had passed. About a week ago, the ritualist erased many of the old figures and hexagrams covering all surfaces of the ritual room and began to prepare the ground for new development (or old, but not necessary until then). About three days later, the first sacrifices began, allowing him to connect to the strange artifact, and only then was the earwig himself placed on the altar, using him as an adapter. So that the energy of the artifact wouldn't turn an unfit person inside out.
My attack was very "lucky" for the ritualist, for it allowed him to test a new weapon without leaving the box, even though its power was not enough to win. It was also clear why he was only hitting me - he could not reach the teammates, who had been dwelling on the edge of the camp and then in the swamp. The Ritual Room provided a precisely calculated maximum range, and he would not leave it and walk to the battlefield, even if he could use an artifact without making a peculiar adapter. I looked at the withered corpse of the mage and could hardly resist spitting on it. The man I'd killed was clearly looking forward to a battle, either with his former comrades-in-arms or against the cavalry that had invaded. Just because an elf cut into little pieces wouldn't last more than a day or two. Well, four if you pumped him full of the potions the outlaws had.
So he had something like this planned.
So somehow he knew about the shit approaching the fan.
Maybe he, like me, was a clairvoyant, able to sense the approaching danger and begin to prepare to fight for his own skin. It's a shame that, after I killed the freak, my clairvoyance wouldn't help me answer that question - not only did I kill him through The Shadow, but I took everything out of him. Including that which allows clairvoyance to latch on to some subject and develop it.
"Yeah." Taria interrupted my train of thought by answering the question. "He didn't even open his eyes. It looked like the subhuman was already on the other side, even though he was tenacious."
She has no piety for the mauled boy. Or rather, she can hardly contain her nausea, but only because of the vileness of the spectacle she has discovered, and it is the poor boy's fate that concerns her least of all. She didn't give a damn about the humans (the outsiders), and she gave a damn about the elves twice as much.
I was in agreement with her myself, but I couldn't do anything about it - it was too ambiguous, and the consequences of mistakes were now hitting not only me but my team as well. I had to get closer, trying not to step on the stiff bodies of the other victims, carefully examining the victim.
A barely perceptible touch of my hand allowed me to determine the reason for this astounding will to live. The boy had been drugged with potions up to his eyebrows to keep him from fainting. It wasn't even the wounds that were likely to kill him, but the trivial intoxication from the alchemicals. There were plenty of potions that not only healed and kept him alive but also stupefied his mind and senses. Either they were afraid of the lad, or he was shouting too loudly. I would have bet on the latter, for with a fourth level you can't do much damage.
The still-warm blood on the edges of the wounds literally oozed the same strange power that had attacked me through the artifact. So much so, in fact, that I could hardly tell the alchemy underneath, which was quite revealing when you consider the amount of alchemy in the blood. I sighed forcibly and began to remove the most dangerous consequences of participating in the sacrifice, and as a victim.
It was not easy to get the pins out of the body - they were originally made to be easily driven into the body, but they could only be taken out with the meat. However, high dexterity, perception, good coordination, and the help of such a mother helped here as well. In the end, I simply decomposed the iron pins into an essence using alchemy, making the too strong stuff lose its strength. After that, all I had to do was pull the shards of iron out of the wound: difficult, but possible.
The guts I just rinsed and shoved back into his stomach, obeying a trivial intuition. With that much alchemy in his blood, wounds can heal even without help, if you just let them heal. I sent the little inner biologist, claiming that such bullshit was impossible, to the same place I'd sent the inner medic a minute before.
I put the strips of skin back in place, too, though it wasn't much use. So was everything else I was doing, just to do something. The main task was to work with the blood, or, rather, with the crap that was in the blood. As a joke once said: there is no blood in your alcohol. Replace the word "alcohol" with "alchemy" and you'll understand my feelings.
I had to remove from my belt several flasks, which I was saving for myself and my companions, in order to immediately pour them into the mouth of the boy, which was ajar. The potions against intoxication will help not only to reduce the burden on the body but also to prolong the effect of the drugs already fed to the boy. Not much, but better than nothing.
The worst part was that I had a couple of compounds in my stash that would put him back on his feet in a matter of days. Most of them were potions made from the blood of the Bigfoot forest. But now the alchemy splashing in the victim was preventing me from beginning the cure. The circle is closed - if I don't use alchemy, then the boy will simply die, and if I still give him the most effective elixirs, then he will die at the same moment, foaming at the mouth. Either exhaustion or intoxication. And for dessert, the slag and toxins from the potions will leave the body much later than the moment when the potions will run out.
The shitty situation, which I can't decide on the fly. I've been thinking several times about different options, using rarer compositions and even rapidly grinding alchemy, and I've had to give up on the idea. Even now, the problem isn't my skill, but the fact that the victim's body is too worn out. But even if I get the second rank of my class, I have no time to make potions and collect reagents. And that's only if I can get the right compound out of the stones and acorns on the first try.
So alchemy is off the table.
I don't even question the use of dreams - at most I can give an elf a pleasant dream before he dies, but I certainly can't get him out of the clutches of the Bone Lady. I was a little too careful, though, because I could tell that it didn't have much effect on the body at all. But it affects more subtle matters in no time at all! Something tells me that the effects on the mind and memory are just the tip of the iceberg of possibilities with such an unusual class. Even compared to my other classes, still unusual! Shadows and alchemy are no doubt cool beyond belief, but they are much more understandable, while Dream is still shrouded in mystery. It's not that I don't use it much, since I've only recently taken the second rank, but that it's incomprehensible. I had no idea what Shadow was either until I began to study it from the inside.
By the way, speaking of The Shadow!
A quick scroll through the logs of the system messages allowed me to catch a very interesting idea that was trying to escape. I could hardly bring myself back to my goal, not letting the idea that was almost gone slip away, rereading the messages I had discovered over and over again as if they contained the meaning of life and the universe.
In the Embrace of the Shadow: Many have tried to use some of the power of this place, and many have paid the price, even if some have been lucky enough to survive and even gain something. But only complete madmen and fools would dare to come into such close contact with the very essence of the Shadow as a separate realm of the universe. The risks are simply incomparable to the reward received, but that didn't stop you! Bonus: +5 to all characteristics except class, +5 to Shadow's characteristic.
A considerable bonus, allowing me to become stronger again on another level. Another small chance to survive my future adventures, which, however, does not guarantee my survival. I learned to react to the System's scurrilousness back in the marshes, not to mention the current situation. Now I am the calmness itself, which embodies the very concept of serenity and sublimity.
Also, the bonus is much happier than all the taunts from the admins. Six levels, albeit divided by different characteristics, remain six levels. Yes, and the bonus to Shadows, which is increasingly difficult to grind with regular training, can not be forgotten. Something tells me that after a while I'll hit the class stats threshold. Maybe I can keep on grinding it, but the rate of development will drop to almost zero. The only thing left would be to get into all sorts of trouble and get beaten up for the sake of another stat bonus - the dream of a fucking Korean nerd.
It's not a pleasant prospect, but right now I'm much more concerned with choosing another perk for the hundred or so characteristics the system kindly offers me. And even though endurance has never been a critically important trait for me, it's better to have the bonus than not to have it.
The endurance characteristic has reached 100! Choose a perk!
- Weak regeneration (rare);
- Metabolism boost (rare);
To tell you the truth, Ygra's regeneration impressed the hell out of me. I really, really, really, really f*cking wish I had one. And I would gladly choose access to the most basic perk of this branch if it weren't for the fact that... I don't need it. Funny, but totally true when you think about it.
In all my wanderings, I've only been hit a handful of times, and I've been hit by creatures that can't be stopped by weak or epic ogre regeneration. And I don't do much with endurance, either, to really integrate regeneration into my combat paradigm. And still, I would have chosen it, because having another chance to get out of the other side of the world is much better than not having it. If it weren't for my long-discovered ability to restore my health and magic reserve by sucking up to other people's lives.
No doubt, it's too... nasty a thing to do often, but, as a last resort, it would save my life. The extreme case is when I won't be able to drink the potion, there will be no living creatures around to draw life from through the Shadow, and my wounds will be so severe that I won't be able to move. In such a situation, lack of regen equals death. However, I'm sure that if I'm in this deep shit, no amount of regeneration will save me.
But the second perk will help me to avoid getting into it. The second perk will not only reduce the effect of all kinds of poisonous substances (including, alas, alcohol) but also speed up their decomposition and subsequent elimination from the body. That is, it does this, but this is far from its main advantage. The main thing is the accelerated depletion of the kickback from the taken potions, increasing the possible maximum dosage and weakening the post-effects from the already taken. I never found myself in a situation where regeneration could save me - either it was unnecessary due to the lack of wounds, or the wounds were such that it would not help. I had experienced the torment of intoxication, so I don't want to repeat it.
The choice was a metabolic boost, which I was happy about.
But that didn't help me get any closer to solving the elven question. Even though I was thinking pretty fast, even so, time was ticking away, and the guy had, at best, another day and a half to live. It used to be even less, but even my minimal care was enough to give him a little more vitality.
I ignore the logs and turn my gaze to the last message, which I confess I'd rather not see at all. Well, my class is too dangerous for me! Yes, the overpowering button was given out, albeit not absolute, but powerful, I can't argue with that. But I didn't have to save my soul any more than my enemies did, because if I made a mistake with The Shadow, I'd be fucked in every corner. So vividly that they won't even find my soul!
And the message from the System only added to these wonderful opportunities to die in hundreds of new and unique ways, which are sickening to think about.
Stealing of Shadows: 4/7
Allows to take someone else's shadow, thus taking the form of a stolen shadow; allows to pass someone else's shadow off as your own, fooling most standard and some of the exotic status assessment abilities; allows to leave a subordinate shadow on the original host, giving him a tangible effect; a stolen shadow has a negligible chance to unfold when moving sharply; If shadow manipulation is used too actively, the shadow may disembodied; under the direct influence of enemy skills, the shadow may be disembodied; allows the recipient to fill the stolen shadow with Shadow energy at great risk, partially embodying the recipient as a Shadow; under maximum tension, allows the stolen shadow to take over some influence on the real body.
It jumped two ranks again, but at least it's understandable with all the risk. How do you spell it? "At great risk to the recipient"? Something tells me that when I took the first of the two points I got for this fight, it was "mortal danger". I've understood before why independent swinging is so dangerous in this world, but now I realize that it's not a handicap, it's a fucking handicap!
Just think about this situation.
In order to move a second-ranked skill (albeit a mythical grade) from the second position of seven to the third position of seven... someone would have to repeat what I did. Voluntarily, in a combat situation, begin to turn myself into a Shadow, a vicious and eternally hungry abomination, and then not shift in phase for good.
There are two options here, gentlemen.
Either there's an obscene amount of badasses in this world who manage to grind even without investing any free points, or I'm such a dickhead that out of sheer greed and munchkinism I'm willing to risk my soul in any situation. The first version is dangerous for my life, the second for my ego... I don't even know which one to consider as the main one?
And then, re-reading the pop-up window and thanking Lady Luck (sort of like she's one of the local goddesses here) for surviving my own cretinism once again, a thought struck me like lightning! Or rather, my stomach rumbled, making me crave cherry pies even more, but it was like thunder to me.
One more look at the unconscious little kid, at Taria looking in my direction in surprise (I jumped too sharply), one more look at the little kid, and then back at Taria, and only then did the idea take shape.
"Wait here, keep an eye on the small one." And after the unconscious small one. "Don't go anywhere."
Without waiting for an answer, I run out of the building, immediately going into stealth. I dash past the growing pile of valuables guarded by Losius, diligently collected by former slaves, past Hans, swearing like a second-degree foreman, past corpses being piled up that only the laziest had not spat on, and up to the slave pens.
Clairvoyance works at full power, allowing a plan of action to emerge from a few frantic thoughts and a couple of guesses. Not all of the slaves were decided to be released. Some, like the late orc, were too violent, some were just too battered and afraid of everything, which would make them more trouble than they were worth.
I hoped to find among the surviving slaves a few that I wouldn't feel sorry for. I would have found some bandits or other murderers. So that I could kill them with a clear conscience and then say that my conscience was not affected. You know, like the typical dark magicians from the fantasy stuff I've read before - the perfect muppets for practicing hypocrisy on an industrial scale. And at the same time, I could practice the sacrifices, too! That's a win-win for everyone!
Unfortunately, this is the real world, Kostya, and no one brought in a batch of scoundrels especially for you. Or rather, they were, even in very large numbers, but you have already sent them all to study the other worlds. And those who fit your description were sent by one of the caravans just a couple of weeks ago.
Bad luck.
For me.
And good luck.
For them.
Okay, let's go the other way, like Lenin, but hopefully without the revolution.
For now.
Seven lean and sturdy, though visibly emaciated, men looked at me with frank fear and doom. Yes, I looked very unfriendly in my outfit, especially if I appeared in front of the carriers dragging another gold-embroidered, colorful rug. My clairvoyance immediately began to feed me information, telling me the story of the freed, frozen, like a hamster in front of a boa constrictor.
Simple charcoal burners, farmers, and craftsmen who joined the militia, and from there, having tasted the taste of a relatively well-fed life, guard caravans. They were taken prisoners, but because of their low levels, they were not among the elite goods. Not even a tenth level among them! But all kinds of underground rings buy these in droves. They may not be elite, but those elite gladiators also need something to warm up the crowd - so they put them out against those ordinary warriors. It's not exactly meat, they can give a fight, but still no chance.
Can still send against the wild beast or beasts, forced to fight the crowd against the crowd, simply put to death to the delight of the hooting crowd, and sometimes let an anonymous nobleman taste blood, at the same time grinding in the relative safety. Although in such battles where it seems to be a fair fight but one fighter is willing to pull out of any trouble, if something goes wrong, the experience comes very reluctantly. Nevertheless, many people prefer to pay for levels in gold than in blood ( of their own, of course).
In general, men didn't expect anything good from their slavery, but neither did they from us, to be honest. They just weren't used to miracles and free services. And then there was me, in all my glory. Besides, I appeared out of thin air in the same way that the Brether killed by Hans liked to move, and he was no more feared here than the Butcher who died of a ruptured intestine.
"Would you gentlemen like to earn some gold?" I can assure you that I can get a certificate of imbecility from any medical facility on Earth or in Alurei.
Why the hell did I talk to them through The Shadow? If even myself is shuddered by such a voice, and even the veteran adventurers are frightened, then the low-level and exhausted slaves should have had a heart attack! It was a good thing they were tough guys, and their stomachs were empty, or it would have been an embarrassment.
"W-we-aren't the n-n-noble people, sir." The boldest of them all answered, avoiding looking directly at me. It was either a reflex from slavery, a consequence of the horror that had gripped them, or both.
"It doesn't matter to me. I suggest that you participate in the complex ritual required to heal one of the prisoners. It will be painful, even very painful, but I am willing to pay for the risk in gold. Let's say, three coins per participant."
Now I wish I could switch to normal communication, but since I've started to play up the comedy, I can't fall out of character. I only reduced the effect of the talking shadows a little, so that they did not scatter despite all the possible risks. This gave a certain result, at the same time confirming another common truth: sometimes greed defeats not only fear but also caution, reason, logic, and common sense together.
"And fuck it all! I agree!" The answer was, oddly enough, not the main one, but the youngest, who was standing behind them and then immediately argued his point. "I don't give a fuck, brothers! If they wanted evil, we wouldn't stop them! What to do?"
Beneath the mask, I was smiling happily at that moment.
"Two, you hold the big-eared one so he doesn't break his bones. Four, you're on potions, don't sleep." I had to talk through the shadows, but my team quickly understood the need for secrecy.
As you might guess, I called Tarya the fourth, as she was the last one to join me. I called Hans number two, and number one went to Locij, who was still sitting outside. Ygra got the number three in her file, but she can hardly understand the meaning of that name - she doesn't mind the old one, and there's no need to add higher mathematics to it.
"I hear you... Zero." The tracker answers grimly, getting ready to get all dirty and bloody.
And yes, you got that right, I unwittingly plagiarized a certain revolutionary. It started as a simple thing, though - I called Losius the First, but I hadn't thought of a call sign for myself, and Losius was quick to call me a Zero, yes. I should have been proud, for I am Zero, the Emperor-to-be, but that's where the nasty language comes in.
Even though the language in this world is the same for everyone who doesn't bother learning individual dialects (that is, for almost everyone except the elves and a few other races who know their languages besides the common one), there are certain rules in it, too. So the number zero here is not consonant with "beginning" but with "unknown". Roughly speaking, zero is the name of the leader of a unit of secret agents, which is not the most common information, but it is not particularly secret either. Even in the adventure literature that Losius was reading, it leaked out.
And that's why I got myself an alias that wasn't unique at all because there are so many Zeroes around here, you could collect them. I should make a note to remind myself to come up with cool secret call signs for all of us so that we would be respected. It's silly and childish, but it's fun for me.
But it's the jitters before an important operation because I'm still not sure that I can do it. I don't know if I can do it. I don't even know if what I have in mind is even possible.
I planned to use the very note about the possibility of transferring some of the effects that affect the recipient to the stolen shadow. Roughly speaking, I hoped to be able to transfer the elf's wounds to seven human volunteers. I had to do seven at once, both because I wasn't sure I could transfer everything at once, and because I didn't want to accidentally kill the person I was transferring the wounds to.
The harsh and pragmatic dark heroes of Chinese porn novels look at me with disdain and incomprehension, but I prefer to do without sacrifice wherever possible. If I have the time and resources to give the participants of the "healing ritual" potions (they are not severely intoxicated), as well as to pay them for their work and risk (there was plenty of gold loot and stockpiled), then why not do it? I will not lie that I would have played this kind of noble game if I had been in a tight situation and tight time constraints. I probably would have had to bribe my conscience then, but it's all right now! It's easy to do good when it doesn't cost you anything, and it also allows you to practice using your skill.
All the corpses from the hall are dragged out by grim men who have already managed to bury themselves. They may hope that I'll keep my end of the bargain, but they can't trust me. Except for the young and greedy one, the one who just thinks he's an immortal pony, but that's an age thing. It will pass with naivety, or with life.
We're standing right over the still unconscious elf - I'm in the head and the seven volunteers around us. Each of the former guards clutched a specially selected vial of potions to heal whatever wounds I decided to give them. I turn on the Gaze and gradually fall into a kind of trance, sensing other people's shadows more and more vividly. So far I have taken none of them, but with each heartbeat, I feel my control more and more clearly. With each heartbeat, it's like pure ice is being poured into my veins. The house grows cold again, the shadows begin to stir unpleasantly, and my breath turns to steam.
Some of the acceptors begin to whimper softly but are silenced by Taria's sonorous slap. I should have calmed them down with her ability, but we're all very smart in hindsight.
The moment I pick up the elf's shadow, he opens his eyes, staring straight into my smiling mask.
Have you ever experienced fear? A real, mind-numbing terror that completely paralyzes the mind? Strong enough to stop your heart? A fear behind which there is nothing more than endless agony and all-consuming madness? To be honest, I'd thought such epithets were a little lofty and pompous until I met my eyes with the little elf.
To say that he was afraid of me wouldn't be silent, it would be to cut the tongue out. There was such panic and despair in his gaze that I almost lost control of his shadow, throwing off the paralysis. Something told me that he would immediately try to kill himself, just not to be near me for a single moment.
My clairvoyance - the day I learned how to turn it off consciously would be a holiday for me - explained the underlying situation immediately. The eternal elves fear death the most, and of all deaths, they fear the one that kills the soul itself. The Shadow, let me remind you, is an extremely unfriendly realm, not to mention its inhabitants. And to kill souls the Shadow, as well as the mages who use this facet of the force, are very, very good at it.
Now imagine how the boy must feel, paralyzed and face-to-face with a creature that reeked of such power. Literally to the point of material manifestation in reality. Anyway, he naturally thought that he had been sacrificed during the ritual to the creature over the edge, which is exactly what I represent here.
Agree, I know how to build up a reputation at the first glance!
It was unlike anything I'd experienced before. If moving through the Shadow was an extremely dangerous occupation, and summoning Shadows was doubly so, controlling those taken from mere mortals and not-so-mortals was... unusual. It was as if you were trying to paint a picture with only a schematic drawing, drawn by a second-grader, and not even seeing it, but listening to how it was described by a blind, senile old woman.
The whole point of my work was to transfer the brushstrokes from one canvas to another. In our case, the strokes were the many wounds and injuries of the elf, and the canvases were the shadows (and from them, the bodies) of the willing involuntaries. It's funny now when you describe it, but on personal contact, it felt like you were literally painting on someone else's insides. That is, like a tattoo machine, only not on the skin, but on the liver, which was oozing blood.
Then it occurred to me that strokes couldn't help matters, and I switched from art to "industrial" topics. Again, these are just analogies from someone trying to describe the entire palette of paints combined with a blind person. With language, fuck them in the ass, gestures to describe the palette of colors to a blind man!
Back to the subject, it was as if I was combining them, putting the two taken shadows together, forcing some of the paints to flow onto a relatively blank canvas. It was hard, primarily because I was trying not to ruin the subjects... I mean, the employees. If I hadn't taken care of their lives, I would have finished much faster.
And I had to keep an eye on the elf, who kept trying desperately to break free, while at the same time letting the tears stream out of his eyes. The sight was heartbreaking... ...with rabies! I'm sweating my ass off trying to save his life, and the little faggot is trying to fuck with me. Bitch, his parents didn't give him a belt when he was a kid! But he ain't even out of that childhood yet. And if he continues to piss me off, he won't, I guarantee it.
The first donor fell to the ground with a muffled groan as the bones in his legs shattered, as if from the same prongs that had pierced them. At exactly the same moment, the wounds from those prongs disappeared from the elf's body, and the big-eared boy twitched even more desperately, feeling my power closer and closer to the core of his being. I'd really better not kill the poor thing, or it wouldn't be nice, to say the least.
While they dragged the man away and poured the healing compound down his throat, I continued my work. It was hard and very demanding in terms of the reserve, but strangely enough, I didn't feel much strain. All the manipulation I was doing fit within the four points of class skill I had at my disposal. I couldn't imagine what I could do in the final, seventh, step. Reflect blows at my opponent, or what?
The second man suffered the same injury, only to his arms instead of his legs, and was dragged off by Hans (his help was no longer needed after I had fixed the boy) and Taria to a far corner to recover. The others were greatly reassured, especially after they realized that the wounded were not only dragged away but also bandaged.
The third one squealed like a castrated yak after I transferred the skin from his limbs to him. He had to be supported too because he couldn't control his own body - a man with a low pain threshold. And no, it wasn't hypocrisy on my part, for I could bet all my gold against the horse poop that a slow dissolution in the black goo was much more painful than normal skinning.
The fourth was surprisingly calm about the fact that he had to hold on to his guts because an extremely unpleasant cut opened up on his stomach. Luckily they hadn't fallen out, and my potions were pretty damn effective. The fact that he'd go a little bald and shiver in his arms for another two weeks was a tolerable price to pay for regenerating what was considered a fatal blow.
The fifth one got an open sternum on him, and here he had to be medicated in a really serious way. Even one such wound would be no easy task without the presence of a normal healer. The course of potions prescribed to him was quite extensive, and with tears in my eyes. If my house burned down, let the barn burn down too! After all the potions squandered on the operation, I do not really give a shit about individual vials - this operation has made the alchemical stash almost to the bottom. I'll spend the next couple of weeks gathering ingredients and working with them... After we're out of this hole, of course.
I sent the sixth one intoxicated with alchemicals. And it was two orders of magnitude more difficult to transmit a condition that was not as well defined as the wound. Rather than simply reflecting the skin removal on a volunteer. I could almost physically feel that I was getting close to taking a new skill point... but I hadn't crossed the line. My outburst of anger stirred the shadows unkindly, and the overpowered elf was apparently resigned to his fate. He was panicking so hard that he wasn't even paying attention to the vanishing wounds - that's the mark!
The victim, who had taken the effect, only had time to look away, and the man vomited blood. The elf was clearly more resistant to toxins than the average human. The cleansing potions had to be poured into him by force, only to vomit them out after a few seconds. The blood, however, was no longer present, which meant that the potions were working properly.
Seven was lucky: there were no more wounds for him, so he just looked at me with disbelief after I stood up and told him to his face that his services were no longer needed, so let him take his friends and the gold (the bag he had prepared in advance was immediately in his hands) and go to the corner to sleep it off.
He was so stunned by the experience that he even forgot to bow! Given his habits and his ingrained caste system, this was a very telling example. I was not worried that he would cheat his comrades - three of them were awake and easily watching the calculation process, without giving even a shadow of a chance of ratting.
He can throw and just run away with the gold, for he's the only one on his feet. But then I wouldn't be at all surprised if he encountered some dangerous beast in these woods.
For example, a swamp ogre.
The elf went into shock from the f*cking experience, from which he was brought out by my guiding kick in the ass and a set of clothes thrown in his face, and even clean. In response to the little one's shocked face, I just threw him a short one:
"Get dressed, I wait for you outside."
He would have gladly agreed to spend a few years without leaving the late ritualist's house, even if there were still other donors, but his mind worked enough to understand the simple truth: If he didn't come out, I would come in myself. I didn't even look in his direction, going completely into my thoughts, letting my mental toad sob over the wasted compounds.
He left the house an hour and a half later, though he got dressed almost instantly. Then, without paying any attention to the men looking at him unpleasantly, he sat down to meditate. Well, it seemed to me that it was meditation, though I am not sure. He came out of the room into the light of day a completely different creature, not resembling the blob of fear that he had been just a couple of hours before.
In general, he looked... strange. It's like elves look like humans, but he's too different - thin, smooth, even airy. Despite his purely aesthetic beauty, which any girl would surely fall for (I don't envy, I don't envy, I don't envy!), he was too wrong. There was too much life in his every movement, despite its smoothness and precision. He was far more alive than the average man - it was how his elven longevity stood out in my senses. It was as if old age had looked in the direction of those big-eared types and decided not to mess with them.
And there was the same power in him as in the artifact that the now-deceased ritualist had attacked me with. Something infinitely distant, barely perceptible and fleeting, like starlight. But all that remoteness did nothing to diminish the power of the little f*cker's sleeping blood. A power I'd already experienced - an artifact that hit very hard. I was lucky that it was life and nature, too vulnerable to my shadows, and not that strange starlight. It would be a long time before the little shit could use something like that, though.
And yes, I didn't like him. First of all, it was easy for me to read his deceit - he was trying hard to appear to be something he was not. He was trying to show himself to be higher than he was, and he was sincerely believing it to be true. His life was still more important to him than anything else, and he was willing to lie, to betray, to promise mountains of gold and untold riches to survive. No, a reward would be given to us, if I happened to want it. But even if he knew for sure that he couldn't promise anything at all, he would still be barking up words like a call-center operator.
Everything for the sake of his life.
If this little guy is a typical member of that race, then you should know that I've seen them all beforehand in a giant gazenwagen the size of a thousand trucks.
"This day..." I don't even let him open his mouth to talk. I'm just afraid I can't help but punch him in the face, and thus accidentally kill the man I spent so much nerve trying to save. I gesture to interrupt the beginning of the phrase and, still using my shadowy speech, utter my line of standard dialogue.
"I don't care." And seeing the incomprehension in his eyes, I continue. "I don't care who you are, I don't care about your kin or your promises. The only reason you're alive is that you died the moment we killed the last bandit. I don't care about those who come after you, but I'll get tired of killing them, too."
He was even more affected by my voice than the other guys, but he still managed to keep his face, even if it was hard for him. In response to the truly righteous indignation, I again did not let him say a word.
"Have those who come after you lead the rest of the slaves to the nearest town. I don't have time to deal with them. Let the people who come with them take the valuables that we will not take away. Let them give each of the surviving slaves half a gold coin in silver. There will still be many times more left over."
I'm pretty sure I'm pissing him off right now to the point of tearing his ass apart. If I had spoken respectfully, he would have taken it for granted. If I had yelled at him and humiliated him, he would have taken more than that, even if he'd been holding a grudge. Any of my behavior would have met with an appropriate reaction, pre-planned and prepared. It's not the boy who is such a specialist, it's just the way they are all raised.
But my indifference - to him, to his folk, and even to the possible reward really pissed off the small fella like a red rag to a young bull. Especially the latter - people hired by elves are often indifferent, but they respect the power and gold of those who pay them. And here, it turns out, he was only saved because I was too lazy to bury his kin. He would have mistaken it for fear, but the complete indifference and lack of even an attempt to earn favor or at least neutrality pretty much undermined that version.
That was the only version left in his long-eared head, the most obvious one, that no one would give a damn about him. Nobody cares how he got here or how he was kidnapped (if he was kidnapped) from his home forest, nobody cares about his experiences, and nobody will care about his death. It's a useful thing, though, the Soul of the Mocker.
He still tries to respond but is struck straight in the forehead by the sleep-inducing ability. Unable to offer any decent resistance, the little one falls to the ground and falls quietly asleep. I would have sent him some hardcore porn with elven MILFs as a dream, but there's too much work left to do.
I still had to erase the memory of every single slave, and then choose the most valuable of the trophies. The memory of the elf himself I decided not to touch, because, firstly, it would be restored anyway, and, secondly, he saw almost nothing, except men and my mask. So in his case, I was only going to distort and confuse the memories a little, without completely erasing them.
For example, he can't remember any details of the "ritual of salvation" except the presence of the shadow plan energy and his horror. There's no need for anyone to know that I can transfer wounds from one to the other. And since the memories themselves wouldn't disappear, it would be harder to look for the - horror and panic would reliably hide and dissolve without a trace the areas I'd drowned in them.
For slaves, banal amnesia is enough - simple and reliable, like clockwork.
It's going to be a lot of work, and I wouldn't say it's going to be pleasant.
After almost twenty-four hours, we loaded up our most precious of loot and headed for the swamps - the only place that was guaranteed to hide our tracks from the elven special forces. They had to broom our way in, but Hans swore that even if they found them (the trail itself remained), they couldn't tell from them anything. Not even how many had passed. And given how well-traveled it was, they might even take it for an old trail of one of the bandits. However, for the latter option, I would have to be very lucky.
As we went through the marshes, for some time I dragged the four of us on a flying carpet of shadows, deliberately passing over the worst of the mire. We had to make a considerable detour, but when we got back to the horses (hell beasts!) we moved silently and leisurely in the same direction that we had gone before. Ygra only took an even longer detour, lest her footprints should be linked with our little troop.
Only a few hours later, when all the frantic gathering and attempts to bag at least the gold and silver (in coins and jewelry) were over, I could not stand it and broke the meditative silence in the typical Munchkin way:
"Well, come on, confess. Who got what, what classes are we going to choose, how are you going to grind?"
In response to my words, Losius and Taria only sighed heavily, as if I had shown incredible cruelty that they had to put up with. And only Hans, in his usual manner, objected: "Tin, fuck! Can't you see, they're recovering from the fight! Give them a break, will you?"
To be honest, I was even a little ashamed. It was just another "Tuesday" for me, and not even a particularly dangerous one, but they still can't come to their senses from the realization of the feat they had accomplished. They weren't proud, no (maybe a little), but the negative and relaxed feeling required them to just sit in the saddle and look away at the road, thinking about the great things.
Relax while riding!
They're all completely fucking crazy!
Well, this was the first time my team had worked in the battle against a superior enemy, and they remained completely intact, healthy, and even satisfied (especially Ygra, who had tasted the dog meat).
I wouldn't say we're ready to take over the world right now, but everyone starts somewhere, right?
* * *
Authors note:
Yoo-hoo!
No crits at all, unless for slaves and an elf memory wiping. But there were so many bonuses for class and diligence.
There was also 98 on covering tracks from Hans - but don't relax the ass cheeks, because elves have some of the best trackers. With bonuses, they read anything they want. With a minimum of luck. But they might not be so lucky, right?
Another fun thing, 49 to taking a new point in the Stealing of Shadows. One point was missing!
And I roll Dice at the actions of everyone who arrives at that camp, too, but I won't spoil it.
Thank you to everyone who was waiting for me.
It's a pleasure.
