Name: Crow
Class: Rogue
Level: 1 (Rapscallion)
Exp: 21/100
Skills
Stealth 2
Pick Lock. 1
Animal Friend 1
Cooking 1
Climb 1
Wield Dagger 1
Find Traps 1
Swim 1
Set Traps 1
Read Magic Runes 1
Listen 1
Knowledge (Streets) 1
Spot Hidden 1
Knowledge (Religion) 1
All other skills 0
Just before dawn, when the poet says it is darkest, I Listen. Of course, I always listen. Listen for the music of the birds. Still sleeping except owl and nightjar. Listen for the footfall of the guards. A trunchy, thumpy, hup-two-three-four step. Stealth now Crow, onto the street. Search for the loosest cobblestone and scrape around it with my dagger tip until it comes out! Hurray. Happy finger dance. Now another is much easier. One more? Two more! Set Traps is needed and guides me.
Back in the alley, I nap. Never fully asleep, I hear guards marching and as they approach the new hole I wake. Hup? Hup? Relief. They continue. Crow by name and crow by nature I watch the road for food. After the lamplighter passes, putting out the streetlights as the sky becomes blue; after the bakers open the doors of their shop; after the three night-watchmen walk from the gatehouse towards their beds; after one of the duke’s dancers, pretty Belle, leaves her home for the castle; after Milo looks down at me from the roof gutty, holding my gaze with catlove; after the barber begins grinding his blades on the whetstone; after the blacksmith puts fire to coals of his forge; after the butcher splashes cold water on the floor of his shop and bristle-brushes the dried blood; after the guards crunchtread to gatehouse. Only after these do the distant shouts of a sergeant precede the raising of the portcullis, the opening of the gate.
Carrick exhales the dreams of its citizens. Or nightmares! And inhales a queue of farmers and merchants. Saturdays and Wednesdays are market days. W-w-w-Wednesday, I sing to myself only, still and silent as Milo. Where did our cat go? He, at least, can look after himself. Poor Cathaldus needs me. Would starve without Crow. A priest cannot live on catgifts. I pray to Scrithax. Lord, let a tasty meal fall from a cart, a turnip, a bunch of carrots, a spill of green beans. Not for Crow. Oh no. For your servant who is old and cold, no longer bold. For him. Your priest.
Now come the carts for the farmers’ market. Rickety-rackety carts with chickens in baskets; bickety-backety carts with chests of olives and lemons and oranges; crickety-crackety carts with barrels of cabbages, leeks, and beets. The road is narrow here, which is why I chose it. Some of the drivers see my pothole in time to miss it, others miss it by chance, but some hit it hard. They shudder. They creak. Baskets rock. Nothing drops.
The crow watches from the shadows.
Until a spill! Crow-fast I sprint between two carts, low, a hand on a rolling brown onion and then on another, shoved into my tunic. Snatching up two tomatoes I’m across to the other side with barely even a shout. No guards. No crossbow. Breakfast.
Skill Success: Set Traps
Chance of skill increase 0.025…
No skill increase.
Words are slippery and hard to remember. Numbers are my friends. One in four hundred is the chance of any Level One skill proccing after a success. This has only happened once in my life and the joy of reaching Stealth 2 was such that it felt like a festival day.
Now struts the Crow, singing as I saunter along alley and under awning. Crow, Crow, Crow the rogue; the streets of Nekis favour the bold. The guards may curse and search in vain; rapscallion Crow will strike again!
‘Morning – by which I mean the sun has come - good baker. Baking goodness.’ Already, mouthwatering scents from the ovens inside would have melted poor Crow. But I have two onions and two tomatoes and am – mostly – immune to their siren call.
‘Morning Crow; looks like a fine day ahead.’
‘Blessings of Scrithax upon thee, good smith at your smithy, smithing, with smith things.’
‘Scrithax bless us all.’
‘My good lady Aria – by which I mean Bella’s mother Aria - may the sun shine upon you all day, if it is, indeed, sun that you wish for. Look. He’s already above the walls of the city.’
‘Clear off Crow you idiot fool; don’t come near our door or I’ll take a broom handle to you myself. And don’t you be putting Bella into your mind or saying her name with your dirty mouth.’
Ahh Bella’s mother. Dreaming that her daughter will marry a duke. For her, Crow is just the lowest of the low.
My home is the old temple to Scrithax in Crumblin, the poorest district of Nekis. There Cathaldus tries to keep our god supplied with worship. Poor Scrithax. Poor Cathaldus, groaning each time he rises from bed or chair. His joints are so worn, they pain him. This morning he is still abed while I light the stove, oil the pan, cut the onion fine and start to fry it.
Sweet are the browned onions when I add the tomato and stir them together. Such fragrance as would grace a king’s kitchen is in the air and Mistress Withen opens the door to look in.
‘What’s that you have Crow? For himself?’
‘For the most loyal priest of Scrithax. Clever Crow made his success roll and roll did the onion and tomato. Over my toes. And here we go.’
‘Good lad.’ A touch of her tongue on her lips lets slip her own hunger. We are all hungry. The Kingdom of Lost Souls is surrounded. Rations says the Necromancer. Pay our high prices say the merchants.
‘Have some?’
‘Ahh no. I couldn’t take anything from the master.’
‘He won’t eat it all.’
‘Perhaps a mouthful so.’
I heap up a wooden spoon, to fill it with juice and onion and tomato pieces, holding it carefully over the pan while it cools (every drip to be saved), then steady, steady, bring it to her mouth. Mistress Withen blows. She tests with her lip. She engulfs. She fills her old cheeks. She closes her tired eyes.
At last she says, ‘That was good Crow. Thank ye. I’ll get the incense lit. See if you can rouse the master with the rest.’
The rest onto a plate goes. And so goes Crow, tip-toe. In his chamber, Cathaldus is so pale I think he may be dead.
‘Master?’
A flicker. He still lives and I am so very glad. This man gave Crow a home at the temple, when no parent would claim the baby.
‘Some onion for you. Tomatoes too.’ Spoon and plate on the table, I help him sit up, then fetch the plate. Although his hand is shaking, making me fear a spill, Cathaldus insists on feeding himself.
When the plate is empty, he brings it to his mouth and licks it for some time. At last he says, ‘that was delicious. Thank you Crow.’
‘The sun has come. By which I mean it’s time for morning prayer.’
No one else comes to temple. The power of Scrithax has gone. Our realm is alone and our god grows weak.
I want to help Cathaldus to the shrine, but he insists on getting there himself with his sticks. Being a crow-natured youth, the look of disapproval from Mistress Withen does not escape me. When she meets my eye, I shrug. She knows what the master is like.
It is the task of old Mistress Withen to prepare the shrine for service. And even though nobody comes to the temple anymore, she has put poppies in the hanging flower bowls; she has polished the brass lamps and incense burners; she has set the glass mandalas spinning. This morning is bright and wonderful colours spin around the room and across my chest.
‘Let us pray,’ says Cathaldus, undefeated. He must feel the weakness of our god more than most, since he does not obtain his Cure Light Wounds spell any more.
‘Lord Scrithax, death is your dominion and all shall come to you in time. Bless us when we do and raise us again to serve your cause as undead.’
‘Amen!’ I call out. Mistress Withen’s response is a tired mumble.
‘Give us victory over our enemies, vengeance, and a quick death before our everlasting service.’
‘Amen!’
‘Amen.’
We leave a moment to be silent. For our god to give us a signal. He never does. Not since the last winter. Betimes I would hear an approving rumble of thunder or a creaking noise from a coffin containing someone recently dead.
Moving shakily over the shrine floor, Cathaldus is half way to the door when a portly, middle-aged man with a ponytail appears behind him. Dressed in black, the sudden arrival has small, dark horns on his forehead.
I fall to my knees and bow.
Mistress Withen does the same.
It takes Cathaldus a wonky step and then two more to realise our god has come. I can see how he tries to bend his knee, painfully.
‘No, no, old man,’ says Scrithax (Scrithax! Here! So close to me). ‘Stay on your feet. Or adopt whatever position makes you comfortable. And you two. Get up.’
We get up. Of course. Whatever the god wants. My heart has never beat so fast. O what joy. A crow on meeting the god of crows would feel its life fulfilled and so do I.
‘I’m a sliver away from defeat,’ Scrithax pulls a rueful face. ‘The other gods have learned from the last cycle not to trust me, nor to let an undead army gain a runaway momentum. Our realm is shut off from trade: short of iron, timber, food even, though zombies make good farmhands and don’t need to eat.
‘I have decided to invest my entire remaining mana in one human, a champion, and to set that champion the goal of solving the Epic Draco Missio.’
‘My lord,’ gasps Cathaldus, ‘it will be an honour.’
With a laugh that fills the temple, Scrithax strides over and puts a fleshy hand on the priest’s shoulder. ‘Even with maximum mana I cannot restore youth. No, no, faithful priest. You will soon be dead. If circumstances allow, I will reward your service by having the necromancer raise you as a vampire.’
‘Thank you, my lord.’
‘It will have to be this fine young fellow. Definitely champion material.’ My god is praising me! Crow. Crow the fine young fellow. As per Scrithax. You should hear this lady Aria. Finest Fellowist.
‘Ahh,’ says Cathaldus. ‘He’s as faithful to you as any human and I love him like a son. But he’s a bit soft in the head.’
‘Are you?’ asks Scrithax, peering into my eyes. When the god of death looks at you with such concentration, it’s like tumbling into the abyss and I stagger.
‘Crow, sire. I’m Crow. I’m not soft. Soft, not, no. Words from my mind do go.’
‘If I may, my lord,’ says Mistress Withen, then continues when Scrithax gestures for her to do so, ‘Crow isn’t such a fool as people think him. Sometimes he needs to use rhymes to get his thoughts in order, but he’s right clever at sneaking and he understands what people are like, he’s a good judge of character.’
I am shocked and pleased. Twice in two minutes I hear others talk of me like no one has ever talked of me. Good old Mistress Withen.
‘What about you, loyal servant of the temple? Perhaps you can be my champion?’
I have never seen Mistress Withen blush before today. ‘I’d try it lord, if you asked it of me. But the journey alone, to each of the twenty-four kingdoms, would probably be beyond me. Let alone the fighting and thieving and the levelling up.’
‘You’re right. It is the youth, then.’ Scrithax walks to an empty bench and sits down with a sigh. ‘Well, Crow, each god is allowed one divine intervention per cycle. This is mine. The rules are, you have to have prayed for me within the last hour; I can’t bring you back to life; I can’t make anyone fall in love with you; I can only grant you one level maximum; or one magic item whose power is limited by the mana I expend; or one miscellaneous boon.’
He pats the seat beside him and all-a-flutter I hop over to join him. Me, in the closeness to his mostness. We are the same height but I cannot look into those bitter-black eyes.
‘I was thinking of a magic weapon,’ he continues. ‘My mana being so low, it would only be a plus two weapon.’ He studies me. ‘A plus two dagger?’
Although in my dreams I have held a magic dagger, to possess one for real would make me a hero. Crow, the hero! All the same, I shake my head. Crow will not succeed in the Epic Draco Missio by fighting. Crow is a rogue. A sneaking, peeking, trap-setting being.
‘No? I can just about stretch to a Ring of Invisibility. I think that’s more your style.’
Perhaps my god can hear my thoughts as easily as my words. Easier, since they are less of a jumble.
While I think about this, Cathaldus groans and settles onto a bench. Mistress Withen likewise. Another powerful magic item has been offered to me and this one is perfect for our current needs. I could take whatever food we wanted from the merchants, effortlessly. Crow the invisible! Indivisible. What joy, to move through the world without an image. Yet even such a power would not be enough to achieve the goal my god wants from me. The Epic Draco Missio culminates in Snowfell Peaks, where live the dragons. Dragons who are obliged to serve a victorious quester. Yet to get there, I would have to solve an epic quest in each realm. Even invisible, that isn’t possible.
I shake my head again.
‘No?’ the surprise in my god’s voice makes me tremble. ‘What then?’
‘A boon. Can I be granted the ability to make a successful skill check without having to use the skill?’
‘What now?’
‘Our skills go up, but so slow. One in four hundred is the roll. If my attempts were a thousand a day, instead of one, then my skills would rise beyond all the other champions.’
Open mouthed, Scrithax blinks twice. ‘This lad is far from soft. That idea is genius. Let me see what’s allowed.’
Like a crow watching a princess remove her precious ring and place it on a table, I am trembling with possibility. Will the treasure become mine? Can I be allowed to grasp such a reward? I know my whole life pivots on this moment.
‘Well, well,’ my god chuckles. ‘It’s pretty good.’
Divine Intervention: afk levelling
A god has granted your boon. Every three minutes you will attempt a skill increase roll as if the skill has been used successfully. This will take place automatically until the skill has reached its level cap or you reset your afk levelling to another skill.
The skill must be one you already know.
Choose your skill to level.
I make my selection.
Stealth chosen.
I feel no different. Every three minutes. That’s twenty checks an hour. Four-hundred-and-eighty a day. That’s an average of more than one skill point a day instead of one or less per year. O my. O my. O my. I am the afk leveller. Crow. The fine fellow.
‘You know,’ my god pats me on the back, ‘I’d resigned myself to defeat and decades of tedious spectating while the other gods fight it out among themselves. But you’ve restored a small bit of hope for me. Do your best.
‘I’m afraid I won’t be able to help you again. At least, not until you’ve helped the necromancer conquer another kingdom and the mana has started to flow inwards again. And don’t tell anyone about your new ability. Swear, each of you, that you will keep this a secret. If any of the other gods find out, they will do the same. I don’t believe they will make this discovery without learning it from Crow. It takes a special kind of thinking to decline a powerful spell, or a magic item, or a level, in favour of the long term.’
We swear. O how we swear. So earnest.
‘Now go talk to the necromancer and explain that you are my champion and he should give you every assistance for the Epic Draco Missio.’
Standing, Scrithax looks more cheerful than when he had arrived and I feel proud. Proud enough to say, ‘One more request, my lord.’
‘What is it, young champion?’
‘A pan full of sizzling sausages would be most welcome.’
Again, my god gave a chuckle, a surprisingly heartwarming sound for the lord of the undead. ‘Alas. Since the timer on your afk levelling came down according to my mana spend, I exhausted my mana entirely. I don’t even have enough for your sausages. But here.’ He took off a gold ring set with a black pearl and threw it to me. ‘Sell that for your food. Get yourself meat and peas. You will need to build yourself up.’
And then he was gone, leaving Cathaldus and Mistress Withen staring at me with bulging eyes. Staring at their god’s champion. Crow, the AFK Leveller.
I liked the low level use of set traps to bump loose a few vegetables. A very entertaining start.