DD1 ASC - Chapter 33 - Visitors

Over the next few days, life settled into a comfortable rhythm for the two of them. Typh would leave their camp soon after sunrise to collect their tithe of suitably levelled monsters from the ratlings, which she would then bring back to their little arena for Arilla to kill. The fights were brutal, far more so than the dire scorpions that had once given her so much trouble, but the lessons she had learned made the increased challenge surmountable. Whether she faced a monstrous version of a bear, snake, dog, or something harder to describe, their limited level severely restricted the extraordinary tricks that they could bring to bear. And no matter how fast or strong the monsters were, at the end of the day, they were just more dangerous versions of mundane animals.

She no longer hungered to challenge herself against humanoid monsters, her revelatory discussion with Typh having made her feel deeply uncomfortable with the thought of hunting creatures for their levels now that she knew they were sapient. Arilla didn’t know whether or not to believe all of what Typh had told her, the small mage’s words directly contradicted everything that she had been taught to believe from a young age, but damn her if it didn’t all make sense.

If humanity truly was chosen above all other creatures, then why as a species had they suffered so many prolific setbacks? From the rampaging goblin hordes that periodically sacked entire cities to the routine fall of fortified strongholds like Tralyra, the human race was undeniably on the backfoot, beset on all sides by vicious monsters who seemed to have all the advantages that the unclassed masses simply lacked. The idea that ancient nobles from a time before the class even existed had intentionally stripped away the power that normal people needed to defend themselves, all so that they could rule with unchallenged authority, was something she had no trouble believing. The only fantastical aspect of Typh’s story was in accepting that humanity was once in a powerful enough position to alter the very system itself.

She played with the frilled cuffs of her blouse, the bleached white fabric suddenly feeling tight and constraining as a wave of discomfort started to gnaw at her. The garment looked more like it belonged on a noble rather than a street rat like herself, her mind momentarily rebelling at her drastically changed station in life. She was so used to being a nobody, a piece of gutter trash that people pretended not to see while they went about their business, that now that she was a 'someone', she found it hard to believe. Her levels, her gear, her clothes, even her rich diet of monster meat were all things that she would have once killed for, but since meeting Typh, they had all come to her so easily. While she had her suspicions as to why exactly she had caught the strange woman's eye, it still felt too random, like there was someone else out there more deserving of all the luxuries that the small mage had plied her with.

In her mind, she couldn’t quite reconcile the fact that Typh had coerced a colony of ratlings to come up with, of all things, an entirely new wardrobe for both of them. She had wanted to call it a lie, a tastelessdistasteful joke, not just because it was hard to believe, but because if it was true, then she was a killer. She knew that adventurers killed people all the time, from bandits on the road to being recruited to help fight in wars and border skirmishes, but she had always thought that she could stay away from that aspect of the trade, to stay pure and only wet her blade on the blood of monsters. The unsympathetic enemies that all of humanity shared. Now though, when she looked back on her hard-fought victories that were until so recently a source of pride and self confidence, they tasted like ash in her mouth.

She remembered her first real fight when Typh had called the ogre a child, and she didn’t even question it. Was there a mother out there in mourning because of her? When Typh had told her that goblins got smarter in large groups, she had never asked if their thoughts grew past ways to better kill humans before charging into their village with her hammer held high. But of all her past sins, the ratling was by far the worst. Arilla remembered the thrill of that kill in particular, how much she had delighted in seeing the monster tremble at the mere sight of her, how the thrum of energy vibrated through her with every perfectly placed step she took as she marched forwards, her class roaring in anticipation of her eventual triumph. She could recall with vivid clarity the feel of resistance as her skill-empowered arm nearly cleaved the poor creature in half with a single swing of her sword. How she had once grinned with self satisfaction as its blood splashed on her face, the taste of iron in her mouth and the euphoric feeling of the experience that flowed into her.

Now it all just made her feel nauseous. Looking back on it, the creature's intelligence was obvious and undeniable. Having now met these new ratlings, it was impossible for her to pretend that they didn’t have thoughts and feelings. She had insisted on meeting them despite Typh’s protestations that it was too dangerous, the ratlings too entrenched in their hatred to risk her life just by being there, but when she pushed, Typh had yielded as she so often did, leading to a truly anticlimactic meeting. The ratlings in their elegant clothes and intricate armour only had eyes for Typh, a sentiment that she often shared. Aside from a few hate-filled glances, they completely ignored her presence, too intent in proving their utter subservience to Typh as the little mage relayed Arilla’s plan to them.

She hadn’t understood their high pitched barks or squeaks at all, but from watching them converse with Typh, it was evident that it was a real conversation and not just some skill that allowed her to manipulate the allegedly simple creatures. Sure, they wanted to kill her and everyone she held dear, but it was hard to blame them; the Guild paid good coin for their deaths, or rather a bronze obol for a severed tail which in all consideration was a low price for a person's life. She wanted to be mad at Typh for allowing her to kill so many people in the pursuit of levels and money, but if Typh had told her any earlier, would she have believed her? Even now, she had to keep asking herself if she was really allowing herself to accept Typh’s words as the truth.

“You and your,” Arilla said aloud to herself, pausing in her slow walk around the perimeter of the camp, before sighing with dismay as she resumed her restless patrol.

That was the real kicker; Typh had said ‘you’ and ‘your’, not ‘we’ and ‘our’. ‘Your’ ancestors not ‘ours’, her scathing tone, her utter conviction when she declared that monsters were obviously people, how she herself claimed to have come from the foothills where no human could possibly live. The things that she knew and the things that she didn’t, Arilla had missed it at first, the impossibility of it dulling her mind to the obvious, but as her mind kept replaying Typh’s words in her head over and over again, she couldn’t help but fixate on those two words. She tried desperately to think about anything else, to drown out these inquisitive thoughts in the depths of her newfound guilt, to focus on the archaic fashion choices of the ratlings, or how, for the first time in her life, her belly was full, and her muscles felt strong—anything to distract herself from ‘you’ and ‘your’.

She was so grateful to Typh that it was hard to think negatively of her; that unfulfilled debt made any questioning thoughts or anger feel like a betrayal. And that debt only grew as the terrifying monsters she faced in the pit became increasingly mundane with every passing day. Arilla had slowly come to appreciate how lucky she was for this opportunity. While the risk of death and injury was real, with Typh watching over all of her fights, her chances of sustaining any kind of permanent injury was minimal. She was levelling blindingly fast and, now that she wasn’t constantly recovering from her wounds, the gap between her class skills and her level shrank more with every passing day. With her rapid level rise, so too had Typh’s apparent anxiety about their future risen. Arilla was level 19 now, and after her last fight against a particularly tenacious twilight hound, she could practically taste 20. A level up which would bring with it an increased rank for her sworn sword class and whatever further revelations Typh had yet to impart.

Arilla had once thought that her hidden class was one of the forbidden mage classes like necromancer or diabolist, but she could never quite picture Typh messing around with human sacrifices or rotting corpses. Now her speculations had taken an entirely different direction, and Arilla wasn’t sure if she preferred the thought that Typh might not be completely human over her being some kind of serial murderer. While she had never seen one, stories of monsters that could pass for human, like vampires, lycanthropes and doppelgäangers, were featured in many a bard's song, despite how fervently the church preached that no such creatures existed.

She frowned at that thought. The church had to know, the nobility too, they were simply too old and powerful to be so wrong about something so fundamental. Yet if she allowed herself to believe what Typh had told her, then that meant the church which had raised her had lied. It was another betrayal she could do without, and she wasn’t sure if she preferred Typh’s version of reality or the idea that her lover was simply wrong, and possibly, if not probably, insane.

Either way, Arilla knew that she wouldn’t have to wait for long to find out. Her next fight would push her to 20, and then Typh would finally have to tell her the truth, or she would leave her, an ultimatum that she desperately hoped she wouldn't be forced to make.

Her thick leather boots squelched loudly along in the fresh mud as she fretted, leaving a long circular trail of bootprints that she had retrodden countless times as she tried to calm her anxious mind. It had rained heavily in the night, a sure sign that the long summer was finally coming to an end, and what a summer it had been. She was so different now she could barely recognise herself when she looked in the mirror, another decadent luxury that she still had trouble believing she now owned. She brought her hands to her mother’s pendant, finding some comfort in the familiar ritual of tracing the fine grooves on the well-worn copper, careful now not to squeeze it too hard as with her [Sworn Strength] it was all too possible to deform the soft metal with her bare hands. If her mother were still alive, would she be proud of her? If her father knew that she was on the cusp of pewter before she was even 19 would he regret abandoning her? Or would all the levels in the world not make up for the fact that she was at best consorting with monsters and potentially doing far worse.

The air around camp was crisp and clean, a welcome break from the foul smells that tended to linger between the grey stone buildings of Rhelea. There was something about this campsite itself that she found inherently comforting. Typh said it was the wardposts concentrating her mana inside, something that could be dangerous if it was allowed to build up, but Arilla liked to think that it was the memories they had made here together. This place had been their home now for weeks; she had loved, laughed and bled here, and after tonight, she would likely never return to it. Their small mud hut, now furnished with the finest of ratling carpentry was far nicer to her than the opulent luxury that they had left behind at The Huntsman's Rest or whatever room they could possibly look forward to renting once they returned to Rhelea. She would miss this place and the memories they had made here together, or at least she hoped she would if she could find a way to live with Typh’s secret.

[Mage level 59]

Arilla’s anxious patrol was brought to an abrupt stop by the presence of a stranger. A tall man was standing alone by one of the many wardposts, bent over at the waist as he carefully inspected the softly glowing runes carved into the small stone column that served as the base for the enchantment. He looked to be in his late 30’s but with adventurers you never could tell their true age as with enough points in vitality anyone could potentially live for several centuries before old age claimed them. He was dressed in an eclectic mix of light leather armour and protective metal plates that covered his body, with a thick steel gorget protecting his neck, a breastplate for his torso, and greaves covering his shins. The polished metal armour contrasted strongly with the minimalist fabric and leather coverings over the rest of his body. The man looked up at her with austere hawk-like features, immediately losing interest as he eyed her up and down, snorting dismissively when he likely saw her warrior tag and level hovering above her head.

“Who made these? Be quick about it as I haven’t got all day and you would do well not to get on my bad side," the man ordered, standing up to his full height, his hands reaching for his runestaff, a tall piece of carefully carved steel with what looked to be a large reptilian skull affixed to the top.

“My friend did, she’ll be back soon so you should leave before she gets here," Arilla warned, her hand straying towards the hilt of her sword as she debated whether to fight or flee.

"And why would I ever do that? I'm getting paid good money to be here," the man said with a confident smile as he walked towards Arilla, rapidly closing the gap between them as the air warped around him, doubtlessly a spell or skill at work.

"What?" Arilla uttered hesitantly, instinctively taking a step backwards in response to his alarming words and sudden approach. "You're being paid?" she asked, her wariness replaced by a rapidly growing torrent of fear.

The unspoken power dynamic was obvious to both of them; for all of her recent training and magical equipment, the mage in front of her outranked her two times over. With her strength and her sword she could probably kill him if she could land a strike, but she entertained no illusions; that the man could very easily kill her with the flick of a finger long before she could even draw her cumbersome weapon.

"Of course. There's no way I would ever lend my services to such a trifling vendetta otherwise. Although I was expecting there to be two of you, and a fair few levels lower I might add. This will affect my rates, but I'm sure with runework of this quality lying about that I will be sufficiently recompensed," the mage said, every one of his words causing her heart to sink with dread.

Cold fear ran down Arilla's spine, as her mind raced. She drew her sword, her grip unsteady as the sword point wavered in the air.

"Oh, runes on the sword as well. And you say that your friend made these? Just who is this Miss Typh?" he said, his eyes alight with enjoyment as he approached, seemingly unconcerned with her show of defiance.

"Listen, we can pay you more to just leave. If you just tell whoever sent you that you couldn't find us we can make it worth your while," Arilla said, trying to keep the fear from her voice.

"Well, that would be very unprofessional, wouldn't it Quint?" said another voice from behind Arilla, causing her to spin around on the spot, now pointing her sword at a familiar looking ranger, Medraut.

Medraut was standing a handful of paces away from her, the tall ranger outfitted in a light suit of brigandine armour, with black steel rivets peeking out from beneath the leather panels. He had been completely silent in his approach, his heavy looking armour not making a sound when creeping up behind her, again likely a skill in play if she had to guess. His large bow was unstrung and still slung on his back, the man clearly not anticipating any trouble as he announced his presence.

"You," Arilla said, her mind flashing back to the night of the graduation party where she had seen the man last.

"Yes, me. You didn't think we'd let you and your girlfriend get away with roasting my buddy would you," the ranger said flatly.

"That's what this is about?" she asked in disbelief.

"Don't act like this is about nothing, it's about face. You made us look bad in front of the guild. Like Boscoe is some kind of sexual predator. That the Traylan brat is footing the bill for this just sweetens the pot," Medraut said, ignoring her drawn sword as he stepped closer.

"He is," Arilla said exasperated.

"No he’s not! Boscoe was just having some harmless fun when your friend went off the deep end. Be grateful we are here for her and not you; if you play your cards right you just might make it through this in one piece," Medraut said, raising his voice in anger for the first time.

"If I might point out that my time is quite valuable and the young lord Traylan is only paying so much," said the mage who answered to Quint.

"Right. Boscoe, take the girl. Harlowe, you're staying behind. This whole setup reeks of power levelling and I don't want to meet their sponsor until we have this one squirreled away. Rolf, Ferros, and Quint you're with me," Medraut said, issuing orders to his gathered party who had stepped out from the cover of some skill or spell to surround Arilla.

The goliath of a warrior Boscoe was notably less hairy now than he was the last time Arilla had seen him. He swiftly moved up to her, far faster than any of the monsters she had fought in the pit. She swung her blade putting everything she had into the strike only for the large warrior to quickly step inside her reach and effortlessly rip the blade out of her hands with a vice-like grip on the sword's large guard.

"Huh, this is a pretty nice sword, better than you can afford that's for sure. So who'd you fuck to get this eh?" the big man laughed, casually inspecting her zweihander in one hand as he painfully held her wrist in place with the other.

"That's mine!" Arilla yelled as she struggled in vain, but the big man was far stronger than her and without her heavy sword in her grasp, her [Sworn Strength] ability refused to work, dramatically reducing the strength that she should bring to bear in her defence.

He backhanded her hard across the face, causing her HP to dip significantly as she felt her knees go weak and the taste of iron filling her mouth. Out of spite she enacted what little vengeance she could as she spat a red globule of bloody phlegm at the man's brutish face. Her aim was true, and she grinned through bloody teeth as he retaliated in kind by striking her in the stomach with a meaty fist. Hot puke rose up past her throat, and she bent over, heaving the contents of her stomach onto the ground, spattering them both with flecks of pink-tinged vomit. She looked up at him as she tried to catch her breath, only to see incandescent fury spread across his rapidly reddening face.

"Bitch!" The word needed no context to be understood, as the man poured all of his rage and frustration with the female gender at her as he hurled the word at her like a missile.

Arilla tried to smile with vindication as the world spun before her eyes, but her face wasn't currently responding to her instructions, and it took everything she had just to stay standing. She may not have been able to put up much of a fight, but she had certainly gotten under the irate warrior’s skin.

“You hit like a tiny little orphan girl," she lied, taking a moment to assess a loose tooth with the tip of her tongue as she watched Boscoe’s face flush even redder with anger. From how red he was getting she idly wondered if he might potentially burst a blood vessel and die, before her thoughts were wiped clean as he hit her again in the side of her face. This time she felt rather than heard something important crack as the world pulled away from her, leaving her surrounded on all sides by a cloying and indistinct darkness.