Interlude Death and Stitches

Interlude Death and Stitches

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The [Innkeeper] was sleeping. Throughout the end of the second day of the party and into the third, she would rest. Level-less, for all that she had sent across the world.

A deep slumber, deserved for someone who had taken the world by the throat and squeezed until only her mortal body betrayed her. A worthy entry for her, one that even her teachers among the dead would have approved.

But oh, if you admired her like the Titan, men and women who doubtless fell in love with aspects of her, talent or bravery or just power, surely you could criticize? For Erin could have done that all better.

It was truly, ah, ahahato be funny about it?

6/10.

Six out of ten, ranked against what was truly real and powerful. Six out of ten, for what Dragons and immortals and rulers could do.

But if she had planned it, think of what she might have done. Sleep, instead of play until she failed. Potions of stamina, higher stakes.

Thenlet Erin Solstice sit there for days, into weeks, into, perhaps, months! There would come a point of defeat, but let her stand there and slowly choke the best players of the world into submission. Prove her superiority beyond the denial of even the meanest fool.

A tyrant of her game, so monstrously beautiful that she came to define it. One supposed that Erin was too kind. She saw herself as simply someone helping pull her beloved sport forwards a step. For what shed done?

Nerrhavia still admired her. She stood, as she had for a month, in a tiny barrier encircled by magic, keeping her ghostly form anchored in this world. Imprisoned, but hardly helpless. She had her tongue, a powerful ally, her knowledgeand most crucially?

She had a ghosts power. So, as Erin Solstice completed her grand chess tournament, Nerrhavia turned her attention away from the sweaty Necromancer, Azkerash, and all the others throwing themselves at Erin like dogs in heat.

She could see Erin failing. Chess didnt interest her. The idea of winning a level as a ghost tickled her fancy, but she had no chance if she played Erin Solstice remotely. Her opinion of Erin Solstice was high beyond belief, but she and the [Innkeeper] were different.

If it were true to say that she had not been one of Erins friends in the lands of the dead, she had still left an impact. She did not want Erin dead, even if the wretched girl had placed herself in Nerrhavias way by revealing her hidden fortress to her enemies.

If she wanted Erin deadwell, Nerrhavia didnt waste potential allies like that. It was all about talent. It was, when you got down to it

All about delightful possibility. So, as the Necromancer began to cry out in outrage, then fall silent and the [Innkeeper] passed out, Nerrhavia glanced only once at the celebrating [Lord] in the scrying orb.

Calidus Reinhart. Hm. A name to remember. Great deeds inevitably reward themselves. Doubtless he gained more than a single level.

The Necromancer didnt hear her. He was staring at something and smiling. Levelling up himself?

Now that was interesting. Nerrhavia tapped a finger against her lips. She didnt say this out loud, obviously, but [Strategists] did level from games of intelligence and cunning, yet only at low-levels. Chess was a notable outlier. Yet even a hundred games of chess against Grandmasters should not level a [Necromancer].

It suggested, to her, that anyone within the so-called <Intelligence> category had been eligible for levels during this event. And thatthat was more astounding than Erins gameplay.

At any rate, she went back to work, and here the ghost did need to concentrate. In Azkerashs personal study, he had his most prized booksfew spellbooks, but mementos such as he kept. An ancient emblem of a dead nation, portraits and sketches saved from wrathful fires. Even a rapier and a golden bell.

It painted a delightful picture of the man he had been for Nerrhavia to use. And she had been doing just that, to the point where he delivered meals at regular intervals and had given his servants orders to gainsay her almost nothing.

Of course, an actual undead lich might have been stripped of emotion, so she was pleased to have someone with an ego to work with. It was far easier than a being of pure logic, although there were levers there. The world was levers to her.

The Immortal Tyrants brows knotted as she manipulated another one now. She reached out, to the very edge of her binding circle, and plucked at something. She had to work hard. Willpower was an essential quality for a spirit.

A ghost, you see, was still a manifestation of power in the world. Unlike a spirit of the now-defunct deadlandsa ghost was a type of undead. In theory, Nerrhavia could have floated around and possibly been safe.

In practice, she hadnt been bound to any type of spectral undead body, mostly because Azkerash had no idea how to make them. Spirits, wraiths, specters, ghostsall were rare undead in the modern age, and he was actually a somewhat boring [Necromancer] in that regard.

However, Nerrhavia could still chill the air, and even in the binding circle, if she really concentrated, she could actually manipulate objects. Lift a small cube of wood off the floor, poke an annoying skeleton in the head

Or pluck a string. That was the object within her hands. A complex piece of string almost resembling a cats cradle, strung about her fingers, and gently vibrating as she pulled at one end or another.

This complex piece of string was semi-translucent; it was actually made of ethereal thread a certain Stitch Witch had sold Azkerash. He hadnt had much use for it aside from his undead until Nerrhavia demanded he make this.

Now, the string let the ghost manipulate itand it was bound to a tiny little doll, hand-carved out of wax and given the likeness of a Drake with rose-red scales crossed with violet. Azkerash had needed to carve the doll to exacting likeness and even hand-paint it himself.

However, when Nerrhavia moved the string connecting the doll to her hand, another being moved. It was the third puppet she had controlled today, and this one moved slowly, rotating its head and moving with an astounding grace given her controls.

But thenshe was the Immortal Tyrant of the greatest Stitch-folk Empire. Nerrhavia took care with her puppet. Unlike the two that Azkerash had sacrificed in Pallass, this one would take a week of labor to replace.

Contrary to what the Necromancer might believe, she didnt wish to waste his time to no use. So the puppet moved. It stretched, and through the strings, Nerrhavia even saw-felt-tasted the world, albeit dimly.

As if touch could become a second sight merely through the subtle vibrations of the strings. It was a curious feeling that even she had scarcely experienced save for with delightful drugs, so this puppeteering was enjoyable enough.

It was hardly ideal, though. Azkerash had added spells to his undead, and he could enchant most vessels for Nerrhavia to have a modicum of physical or magical power like bound [Deathbolts]but she hadnt asked for him to do that to this body.

Why would I need your pitiful drabs of magic, [Necromancer]? Restore unto me my levels and Skills and I will happily take you by the hand and walk over the corpses of the enemies that have hounded you so.NewW novels updates at novelhall.com

It was not an idle boast either. Nerrhavias Skills and levels had made her one of the greatest beings to ever walk this world. The Necromancer might remind her she was a powerless spirit in his captivity and subject to his whims, but that was just what he thought. She had all the secrets and knowledge, and her cooperation was totally dependent on her mood.

The Necromancer was entirely pitiful to Nerrhavia. He didnt even try torturing her. It wouldnt have worked, but he was that sort of evil Necromancer.

Amusing. Anyways, as he laughed and celebrated his new level, Nerrhavias doll slowly moved about his small laboratory. She picked something up, inspected it, and, sighing, drew out a line of shimmering thread and carefully tied it to the object and a bit of hair.

Just one strandand there were precious few. The puppet slowly found a candle, lit it, and burned the bit of hair. It burnt into a wisp of smoke that seemed to linger as the candlewhite as could be, with an equally pale flameleft a residue in the air.

Swiftly and carefully, the Immortal Tyrant had her puppet draw a symbol with the drifting smoke in the air. Then she held up the object she had picked up, and the smoke gathered around it.

At this point, even the Necromancer noticed her actions, and he turned from his jubilations.

Nerrhavia. What are you doing now?

She studiously ignored him. Nerrhavia was whispering, and the puppet copied her voice. Azkerash frowned; it was no language he knew. It sounded sibilant, and there was magic in the very words.

Master?

A timid undead poked its head through the doorway. When it saw Nerrhavia, it almost fled. But Azkerash turned to Bea.

What is it, Bea?

The Plague Zombies appearance surprised Azkerash. Her twisted features, beauty marred by rot, was replaced by a dusky flesh tone. She looked at him with a delicately sculpted nose and lips that moved in sync with her voice

And he nearly destroyed her. The Necromancers finger was aiming a spell at Beawhen he caught himself.

BeaBea. Whathave you done with your face?

He knew before the zombie replied, cheerfully and innocently.

Makeup, Master. Her Majesty, Nerrhavia, taught me to put it on. She said you would like it.

She looked like a spitting image ofthe woman she had been. Azkerash found himself breathing hard, and he turned and saw a slight smile on Nerrhavias face as she kept chanting.

Everything she did was like that. Azkerash tried not to look, but he did. Oh, the Immortal Tyrant was an expert. Somehow, she had used clay and makeup to replicate a face with a simple picture as a guide. On Beas face.

He took the zombies hand and stared until his remembered heart hurt too much.

It is beautiful, Bea. Please, never wear such makeup again. Take it off after you ask your question.

Yes, Master. But I thought I was going into the city?

What city?

Again, Bea peeked at Nerrhavia, and Azkerash felt his elation over his new level draining rapidly. But it came back as Bea ducked her head.

Master. Did you level up?

Yes, Bea. I now have a power over undeaththe power to create spectral undead. Tell your brothers and sisters.

The beaming plague zombie practically ran to do so. Doubtless the other minions of the Necromancer had felt the slight change in his power. And the castle itself! It was actually already generating more death magic than before. Very helpful, as he had been casting magic repeatedly.

But for Nerrhavia, Azkerash would have personally celebrated the moment, analyzed every Skill, and congratulated himself on his newfound power.

With her here, it somehow diminished his moment. Azkerash eyed Nerrhavia balefully and then kept watching what she was doing.

There were a few reasons why he didnt consign her to the soul prison where the other ghosts bickered and waited for him to speak to them. Firstly, because Nerrhavia was an ally against foes so great that the Necromancer had to believe they were above him in power.

Secondly? She had too many secrets he needed. So he watched and listened, because if he wasnt mistakenshe was casting a spell.

A ghost was casting a spell. But it wasnt magic he knew. Or rather, he only vaguely recognized the symbolic burning of the hair and smoke-rune as a type of curse magic.

Perhaps not a curse-curse, but something similar. A sending. The words of magic? Strange. Only when he was sure Nerrhavia was done and checking over the object that she held did Azkerash speak.

That was no spell like [Curse of the Frozen Flesh].

She glanced up, raising her brows.

Of course not. I cannot cast magic like that, trapped as I am. Did you level after all? Congratulations. I would be bragging and turning cartwheels if I had your body. You are restrained.

He suppressed a sigh. She sounded genuine, which was the worst part of it. Nerrhavia idly lifted the piece of waxagain, something hed had to carve for her. He had no idea why, and she did not deign to tell him, but he was learning.

For instance, that entire chant of hers? He had already memorized and was analyzing it, trying to pick it apart for

Oh, now Azkerash understood why this was called the Waning World. For he realized, belatedly, that he had no idea how to even begin learning thislanguage. He knew Drathian, bits of it, and he had studied the dead language of magic that Earthers called Latin. But like most, he had never considered other languages aside from variations in the written one used universally across the world.

He didnt even know how to begin breaking down a new language by syntax or conjugation. It was a distressing gap in the Necromancers knowledge. Obviously, for the former Archmage of Death, it was a fascinating academic endeavor, but he had not realized something Nerrhavia knew:

Everything was valuable. A [Linguist], if such a class existed, had power that was buried deep within their class.

Like, saylearning a magical language. Azkerash was no undead like Torenhe was distinctly a person, not born of death. And even Toren could merely understand what was said, not speak every tongue conceived. This was a mastery won of practiceand of secret texts. Possibly sacred texts.

Nerrhavia glanced up at Azkerash as she industriously caressed the object she was holding. She seemed to be speakingor talking with someone unseen. Even smiling.

I thought that one day I might die, Necromancer. Upon my own terms, of course. But I considered what might happen if my [Mages] left my employ and I was forced to rebuild anew. I am no spellcaster, but a ruler. Yet even I can learn, so I sought out the greatest teachers in the world. Belavierr was but one of them. So. I taught myself a magic that required no Skills nor levels.

Azkerash thought of Pisces spellbook, and he felt green with envy. Ancient magic? The kind Dragons and Djinni and Unicorns made use of?

Is the language you spoke magical by its nature?

It isbut I would not risk experimentation with the words. I have only ambient magic to draw on. You might well hurt yourself with the magic you possess. Far better to have a teacher.

Like her. And there was another brick between him and throwing her out of his castle. Well, it seemed like Nerrhavia was capable of what might have been a Tier 4 or even Tier 5 spell without a body. Then again, she had just burnt a thread made of mithril in a Dream Candle, and she needed a piece of Living Wax developed from studies in Actelios Salash.

Add in a six-minute incantation. All that to dowhat? Azkerash eyed the object that Nerrhavia was holding. He knew whose hair that was the Immortal Tyrant had burned. And what image thefinger she was holding was made in the likeness of.

Erin Solstice. It had made Azkerash feel like he was committing some kind of crime when he procured the finger mold for Nerrhavia, but she had thrown an incredible fit until she had it.

As for the hairhed had some already to make his failed zombie-Erin. But she had a completely different use for it.

Was shetalking to Erin? Azkerash turned to the scrying orba team was carrying the sleeping [Innkeeper] upstairs.

In that case, Nerrhavia was speaking to Erin Solstice in her dreams. Fascinating. Disturbing. Possibly dangerous. He looked at Nerrhavia and guessed that she was using the artificial body part as a kind of proxy. He saw her take the finger as if in a handshake.

Then she raised it to her lips and kissed it. A skeleton sweeping past Azkerashs study and the Necromancer gave Nerrhavia odd looks. The skeleton produced a rolling slime from within his ribcage and motioned a few undead forward.

Bea, still wearing makeup, Toren, Maviola, Ijvani, and Wesixa all presented themselves for their trip as the Necromancer stared at them blankly. He didnt know why all of them were wearing clothesToren had a very fetching outfit on, and but for the grinning skull head, he had a scarf, full bodice, and long pants of a female adventurer.

The Healing Slime was in the bodice. Wesixa and Ijvani were not so good with clothing and were enchanted to look like a Human and a Gnoll, respectively. They all wore clothing, and they were waiting for Nerrhavias puppet.

Maviola stared as Nerrhavia licked the finger. Then put it in her mouth. Toren put his hands over her eyes.

Nerrhavia. What are you doing?

Azkerash hissed at her. She broke off from whatever she was doing in Erins dreams to glare at him.

Need you be a constant voyeur, Perril Chandler? I am used to such things, but some would find it quite intrusive. Then again, Wistram was always full ofdesperate men and women. Very commendably celibate. One assumed it was a choice, but perhaps it isnt?

He stared at her. There was no winning here, so Azkerash turned to his Chosen.

What are you doing here?

Going for our visit to the city? Nerrhavia told us to come now, Master.

Your visit. To the city.

The Necromancer repeated the words as he looked at them up and down. Maviola beamed.

Yes, thank you for giving us permission, Archmage Chandler! I am going to see people! And Nerrhavia is taking us.

Azkerash stared back at Nerrhavia, and she broke off from ducking what might have been slaps or punches.

I believe a carriage is needed. I will be there shortly. You may come too, if you wish.

I think not.

She shrugged, and Azkerash watched as her puppet walked out, leading a trail of his Chosen, his children, out. He stepped back and remembered hed levelled up.

Spectral undead. That meant actual ethereal undead, not just ones imbued with those qualities. He had to look them up, experimentand maybe he could raise a ghost and just pop Nerrhavia into it. Then he could be rid of heror shed be free to hound him around the castle.

Azkerash slowly walked off to sit down and read a book and think how hed lost control of his castle. Then he thought about his new [Teacher of Magic] Skill. He wondered if Pisces were awake.

The other Chosen were waiting when Nerrhavia finished her sending spell and had her puppet meet them in the courtyard. Two carriages were prepared, with illusory horses masking the skeletal ones.

It was a slight risk, even with the copious illusion spells, to have undead wandering about. Pallass proved that, but a lesser city wouldnt have the power to detect anything amiss unless someone truly high-level were there.

So Azkerash probably didnt fear that. His Chosen running amok and slaughtering people? Definitely.

However, there was a reason why he suffered Nerrhavia guiding his Chosen, and it was this:

He was a fairly poor parent in many ways. He had no experience. In fairness, neither did Nerrhavia, but she had been an aunt long, long ago. And she was what he was not.

A ruler.

The undead came into the courtyard flanked by lesser undead like a band of unruly children spawned by some horrific monster. A skeleton with black bones infused with metal, wearing a staff and robes.

A bone-white woman armored like a knight, stomping next to a figure in a trench coat, with a face made of green acid. A trembling being of string and pieces, even more like a marionette than Nerrhavias own corpse. A thin being of sinew with only a rapier and a silver bell that seldom chimed.

More Chosen still came flocking out, some half-made, others experimental. Most were intelligent and had voices; Azkerash had been hard at work. In fact, he had even recreated the figure in the trenchcoat, which a woman who looked so out of place among the horrors, Bea, wearing makeup, practically clung to.

It was that duo that Nerrhavia glanced at, and the figure that Toren fixed on. Even Healing Slime poked its head out of his body to stare. For that figure was old and new.

Oom lived once more.

A slime, foul green like some mildew at the bottom of a marsh. Putrid acid so corrosive even Acid Flies would melt in his body. A compact, intelligent slime, capable of holding a humanoid shape, intelligent enough to wear clothing and even pretend to some humanity.

Oom. Bea was smiling hugely, nevermind that it was not the same Oom. He had been made in the same way, but it was a new slime, a new character to fit the old ones role.

Upgraded, in fact. Toren thought it was silly for the Plague Zombie to like him so, but she was always in his presence. It seemed as though Venitra and Ijvani had not disagreed, either.

The oldest Chosen had welcomed their own back. They stood apart from the new ones and the two outsiders. The new Chosen regarded Oom with a mixture of wariness and competitionand pity.

After allof all of them, there was some irony in Ooms recreation despite Beas joy.

He could not level. Azkerash had tried, but Oom was neither a Golem nor an undead creation, and the Necromancer had tried the levelling formula on him to no avail. He had been relegated to something of a bodyguard role for Bea in that sense. But there were other beings who could level who were not Azkerashs children.

Namely, a pale [Lady] with braided red hair and who burned with pale fire. And among them all, Toren, the Skeleton, with Healing Slime. The [Relic Guardian] was warily ignored by most of the Chosen or looked up to by the new ones. After all, he taught them how to fight properly.

The rowdy Chosen who often competed with each other stood silent, at attention in her presence. They were all physically more powerful than her, even Toren, but Venitra, Ijvani, Oomwere all on their best behavior. Or else Nerrhavia might say something.

She was a kind of scary that none of the Chosen had ever met before. They did not like how she spoke to their master. She was a living being who was a ghost, so a bit better than an actual mortal fleshbag, but they had thought she was just a simple spirit.

Well, right now, Nerrhavia spoke brisky.

I am going to visit a local city this evening. It will be a half-hour ride.

With an enchanted carriage, they could speed up when out of sight of a main road. The Chosen looked at each other as Nerrhavia went on.

If you would like to train, do so. Otherwise, you may join Maviola, Toren, and I. Or wander the city. You will keep yourselves behaved, as I have taught you. If someone tries to accost you or insult youdefend yourselves. But you will not kill anyone.

At this, Venitra shifted and Oom blurbled quietly. They didnt know if they wanted to follow Nerrhavia to a city, but this was just silly.

What if we are justifiably attacked, Majesty Nerrhavia? Master has always given permission for us to defend ourselves.

Bea raised a hand. She liked Nerrhavia, the traitor. The Immortal Tyrant smiled icily at Bea, and the Plague Zombies own smile faltered.

I imagine he has. And I imagine you would all quite like to defend yourselves. This is a Drake city we are headed to. Why should I indulge your passions, you Chosen?

She looked at Venitra, and the bone woman burst out.

Theyre just living things! They dont matter! Who cares if one dies in secret?

Nerrhavias Drake puppet just studied Venitra. Neither one needed to blink, but somehow, Venitra ended up staring past Nerrhavias head. When the Immortal Tyrant replied, it was icily.

They do not matter? Let us assume, Venitra, that you are correct. Let us assume there is no one of any value in the city. Even so, why should your master or I indulge your fits of fancy? What purpose does their death serve other than to amuse you?

Venitra opened her mouth uncertainly, and Nerrhavia reached out and poked her in the cheek. Hard. Her voice was icily annoyed.

Furthermore, do you think a disappearing person is simply gone? Drakes, Gnolls, Humans, have families. Even the most unloved person has an enemy or acquaintance who will take notice of their absence. Even a [Beggar] suddenly gone might be observed. Azkerash wishes to keep hidden. Why would endangering him by killing a citizen of that city be wise?

I just

Finally, Venitra, what purpose does a death serve? Why should a living being die? Your amusement? Worthless. What higher calling does any beings death add to or change in the world? Does it save anothers life, change fate? You have no idea. You do not even know the name of the city we are visiting. You do not know who you wish to kill or with what purpose. In that way you are a mindless brute. Look down, and do not gaze upon me. You have not the wit nor intelligence to deserve it if that is how you think.

The other Chosen sat in a kind of awed silence. Venitra tried to glare at Nerrhavia, but her eyes slunk down to her feet. Toren was impressed. It wasnt a Skill, it was just a level of bossing higher than Erin could dream of.

Ridiculous that your master ever put up with this.

Nerrhavia had a fan that the Drake slowly drew and unfurled with a snap of the wrist. Half the Chosen jumped, but Venitra was stubborn. Also, possibly stupid.

Theyre beneath us.

She muttered sulkily at the ground. Nerrhavia laughed mockingly.

So that gives you the right to murder them? You silly little girl. Do you think you are above all others? You are not above me or your master. We do not give you permission to slaughter, so you shall not. That is law. That is order.

I understand. We understand, Great Nerrhavia.

Ijvani broke in, trying to take the pressure off of Venitra. The Immortal Tyrant turned to the skeletal [Mage].

Do you? Good, then I shall not accompany you if you head into the city. I have my own business to attend to.

Oom, Ijvani, and Venitra brightened up so suddenly and so obviously that Toren slapped a hand to his skeletal forehead. Even Maviola and Healing Slime could tell they were suspiciously happy about that.

We will. Be. On our. Best behavior.

Oom spoke! The Acidic Slime burbled, for Azkerash had given him a voice. He was still working on Torens. Nerrhavia eyed him with amusement as Ijvani and Venitra nodded.

I am sure you will be. And because I am not such an idiot as to believe your words, let me say this. Upon leaving the city, I will inquire as to any missing persons or deaths with the Watch. I will check, and if any are reported and I find you are the ones responsible, there will be punishment.

Punishment? The three Chosens smiles slipped. Slowly, Nerrhavia raised one of her puppets hands.

I will cut off the hand of any Chosen who kills. You, Oom, will lose a proportional part of your body. Then I will burn that part beyond salvation.

All the Chosen stared at Nerrhavia as she gently chopped the air with a hand. Cut off their hand? Or similar appendage?

Youyou cant do that. Master made us. No one can take our hand. Forever?

Venitras voice trembled. Nerrhavia laughed at her scornfully.

Can I not? I have declared my law and the punishment. You are unruly brats, suckling at the Necromancers teats without consequence or responsibility. By my throne and my empire, I swear I will cut off your hand if it is the last thing I do. You are free to break my law if you think it is worth the price. If I see a reason to revoke it, I will. For no other reason. When you murder someone, it surely must have a point. Or else you are a rabid beast to be put down without mercy or thought.

She looked around, and the Chosen listened. In silence, listening to the Immortal Tyrant teach them such lessons as Azkerash and Belavierr had never thought to impart. They filed into the carriages like schoolchildren following the guidance of the worlds evilest schoolteacher. They were almost movingwhen Nerrhavia snapped at the Chosen.

Seatbelts, everyone!

Miss Nerrhavia? I have a question.

Yes, Ijvani?

The worlds most dangerous field trip was underway. The Chosen sat mostly in silence, but now and then, one asked the Immortal Tyrant a question. Mostly because, unlike Azkerash, she had time, she wasnt busy, and she knew things.

Why are we wearing a seatbelt? We are in a carriage enchanted by Master himself. And we are the greatest of the undead. None of us will be hurt even without one, except the slime.

The skeleton tugged at the strap of cloth and metal that Nerrhavia had insisted they wear. Some carriages had them, and Nerrhavia sighed. Ijvani glared at Toren as he raised two fingers defensively.

Because, silly child, you are copying people. And if you think there is no crash you can run into that will not harm your bonesyou have never seen a magical carriage crash before. I have studied this world. Lady Reinhart is the one with a powered carriage, correct? She doubtless wears a seatbelt. At the speeds one can crash, if the enchantment fails? The impact will grind your bones into powder.

All the Chosen checked their seatbelts. Nerrhavia went on, staring at a distant sight.

Seatbelts were something I implemented in my rule. They had fallen out of favor, not that vehicles were often used. I put them on flying carpets for all but [Trick Fliers]. Deaths declined by 35% in the first year alone.

Flying carpets with seatbelts? The Chosen looked at each other. And thus, they learned an important lesson about personal safety. The carriage was silentuntil Venitra raised a sulky hand.

I have a question. I wish to level up. Ijvani is a Level 12 [Mage]. Kerash is a Level 16 [Tribal Warrior]. I am a Level 7 [Warrior]. Why are they higher-level than I am? Master will be disappointed in me.

Nerrhavia sighed.

Rest assured, you are all pathetic equally in my eyes.

Venitra squirmed lower in her seat until Nerrhavia glared at her. The Immortal Tyrant spoke, and the giggling Maviola listened attentively.

Listen to me, child. Ijvani learns from the Necromancer himself and studies magic; it would be impossible for her not to level. Kerash is a warrior in the world, fighting as a Gnoll. These two pursue a kind of passion and level from ithowever slowly. Embarrassingly slowly, in fact. For the magic that Ijvani is learning and Kerash fighting in a war, they should both be above Level 20! Butyou are Revenants. Difficult to challenge. Do you wish to level up quickly?

Venitra nodded eagerly. Nerrhavias Drake puppet slowly rolled up the blinds of a window. They were passing down a trade road to a local city. She had demanded they go to this one, despite it not being the closest, for reasons only she knew. Toren was just happy enough to have Healing Slime and Maviola outside.

He didnt care. He was afraid that the other Chosen would find out he didnt really love Azkerash. Or that the Necromancer would dispose of him for being useless. He had debated running away

Yet here he was. Nerrhavia was gazing at him as the carriage rolled on, and the slime was afraid she saw right through him. But he didnt run.

He was just a small, stupid slime. Maybe it was part of Oom, or maybe it was him.

Just a slime, trying to be a man. He couldnt cast magic, and he couldnt level up. But he wanted to protect Bea. A slime in a silly trenchcoat. When trouble came, hed do his best for the weepy zombie. That was all he could do. And the Immortal Tyrant looked at Oom and saw the foundation that shed once made [Heroes] out of.

Nerrhavia was in the city, browsing through a shop when she got the notification her bird had done its job. Maviola was hiking up her skirts delicately, and Toren was learning how to walk.

No, not like that. That is simply walking, like a brick. Walk like the [Sword Dancer] you met. Not suggestively with a sway to your hips. Too obvious. Subtly. Likeyes. Very good.

Nerrhavias school lessons extended to a lot of things. The skeleton dressed as a Human woman with a mask on was attracting looks. As was Nerrhavias false Drake body.

But the other Chosen were out exploring the city, and Nerrhavia herself was in the oddest of shops. Toren didnt get why she had been so excited, but Cormengs Grand Emporium of Antiques and Pawnshop was apparently enough to get the Immortal Tyrant outside and shopping.

Not that shed bought anything. The owner had given her, Toren, and Maviola a long look, but when Nerrhavia assured him they were merely browsing, hed let her in.

It was a really, really big store for a hole-in-the-wall set in the side alley. Toren had been walking in a straight line past rows of antiques for ten minutes, and he felt like that was bigger than a corner shop should be.

Well, Maviola was eying a sign next to the counter. It puzzled her, because it said, proudly served over 120 cities!. She took that to mean it was a chain store?

Nerrhavia knew the truth. In between teaching the two undead, she was inspecting items on display. She seemed to be looking for things, and now and then, she would murmur appreciatively.

Oh, beautiful! Look, its all glass.

She eyed a cabinet full of jewels, and Toren could tell the jewels were about as magical as a rock. No, wait. An actual rock, not anevermind. Nerrhavia passed by entire sections of abandoned junk that a few Drakes were browsing through.

It was a Drake city, but Maviola and the man at the counter were both Human, which was apparently a rarity in the south. Neither one was getting a friendly look, and neither had Bea or Venitra in her Gnoll disguise.

Classic Lism Drakes everywhere. Toren at least got the benefit of looking like an adventurer, so he got a pass. Nerrhavia stopped as she found an aisle she wanted. She pulled out old dresses of ancient fabric, and Toren put one against his body.

Nerrhavia gave him a single glance.

In no age of fashion between my era or yours.

He put the dress back silently. She could have been nicer about it. Nerrhavia seemed quite pleased by this, so she walked over and put something down, wedging it behind the dresses.

The shopkeeper cannot see me, can he, children? He is a sharp onebut he wont notice if I leave this here. Lets see. I know theres something else here. It should be if this era really has lost the magic of my time. You, skeleton. Find me vases.

Toren wondered if this was better than being stuck in the castle or attached to a sleigh with ringing bells. A Drake glowering at Maviola stared as Torens ample bosom jiggled at him. He backed away as Toren wavedthen patted Healing Slime and fed it some food.

Nerrhavia laughed. She seemed content to walk about and explore, as if relaxed suddenly. For all she talked about hurryingshe was a dead woman.

She knew they had time, so she went hunting with Toren until she found what she wanted.

Ah, this is it. This vase. Perfect!

It looked like crap to Toren. Half the design that was painted on the clay was peeling, and it looked old, but he did have to admit that the bits of glass baked into the clay were nice. Stilleven for the many vases, this place was terrible. But Nerrhavia sighed and then placed the second object in the pot.

And that is that. Your master, Azkerash, will throw another tantrum. Butwhat did he want? Seithbone? He will have to wait less time than he thinks, though explaining my methods is far too tiresome.

She turned to Maviola and Toren, and the two undead exchanged glances. What did that mean? But then Toren saw what Nerrhavia had placed inside the vase, and something clicked in his head.

Wait a second. Wait a secondNerrhavia had just placed a wax finger in the jar. The same one shed just been using an hour ago. And shed hidden another one in the dress pockets. Toren stared sharply at Nerrhavia, and she held her own finger to her lips.

They ended up buying a bunch of fake jewelry for Toren and Maviola, and he tried on eight rings on his fingers and wished they were magic. Or that he had earlobes for earrings. Nerrhavia paid the man at the counter, and they left as he quickly changed the sign and shouted at the other people that they had fifteen minutes before the shop was closingfor good!

It was one of those things that Toren decided he would never know the truth about. He was happy enough to stroll along after Nerrhavia as she announced they were done withsomethingand that it had been a very productive day and they would all go back to the castle and everyone would get a treat.

She was in such a good mood that they went to find the other Chosen themselvesand thereby ran into Venitra in the middle of a fight.

Nerrhavia stopped as Toren saw a group of Drakes cheering on one of their own, who was punching, cursing, and attacking a Gnoll with her guard up.

Venitra! Youre in trouble, stop!

Ijvani was on the sidelines, being blocked by a bunch of the locals. When they saw Nerrhavia, all the Chosen, stopped, and the Drake lunged. He clocked Venitra in the jaw and probably broke his fist.

The Chosen didnt fight back, but retreated, pretending to be hurt, as the Drake massaged his fist. Nerrhavias eyes swung to the Drakes and took in the moment.

It was a fight in the streets, although only Venitra was moving. Devail and Wesixa stood back, just watching with Ijvani, who was telling Venitra not to fight. The [Mage], wearing a Drake disguise, had a staff raised that was keeping the other side back.

Drakes. It looked like the Chosen hadnt fought back. If they hadthe angry dozen young Drake men would be dead. Venitra was dodging puncheswell, except for that last one.

But there were two Chosen on the ground. Nerrhavia looked up, and Toren saw Oom. And Bea.

The zombie was on the ground, and the Human woman she appeared to be looked distressedbecause Oom was lying on top of her. Covering her, as a pair of Drakes kicked him, cursing. They backed up and stopped when they saw Nerrhavia, Toren, and Maviola, but Oom kept covering Bea. And the Drake attacking Venitra hissed.

Thats for the Meeting of Tribes! You traitorous murderers!

Some of the Drakes were cheering. It seemed like this was a city that had strong beliefs of how the Meeting of Tribes should have gone down.

Toren shifted uncomfortably. He tried to separate the Drake trying to punch Venitra out, and a bunch of Drakes blocked him. Some were ready for a fight, and Toren didnt draw his sword. He held his arms up, wishing he had a voice.

You idiots, Im trying to save you from

Nerrhavias smile was calm as the Drake fanned herself. Some of the people on the street were looking nervousshe looked like a rich foreigner, and she was watching the fight. Oom slowly rose, unharmed, as Bea patted him anxiously.

Oom, are you alright?

Toren wished he had eyes to roll. Oom was a slime. But he seemed more concerned about her, and Healing Slime vibrated angrily in Torens bosom. The two Chosen retreated behind Nerrhavia as new voices emerged from the crowd.

Hey, break it up! Break it up

A group of Drakes came pushing forwards, and one yanked the young man who was staring at his swollen knuckles back. They had clearly seen the fighting, but whether or not theyd stopped it because theyd just seen it or because Nerrhavia was hereit was hard to say.

You idiot. What are you doing? What are you

Someone was arguing with the younger Drake with the bruised fists, and it seemed like he was in danger of being punched himself. Nerrhavia strode forward.

Are you this young mans father? He has attacked and injured my ward, who, I am assured, did nothing to provoke the attack. Perhaps she did not move out of the way for him, but that was all.

The Drake turned, and Toren saw him put up his claws. He wore a leatherworkers vest, and he spoke quickly.

Miss, the Watch is coming, and they will sort this out. My son is a fool, but please dont tell your guards to do anything. We dont want trouble in our city. Nothing like Cellidel.

He clearly meant Toren, and the other Drakes seemed to think Toren was some adventurer or higher-level bodyguard. They were watching him as if ready to take him out if there were a fight. Nerrhavia rolled her eyes.

Trouble? Your son provoked a fight with my follower.

Shes barely injured. I cant even see a mark.

The Drake tried to point to Venitra, who was in fact glaring so hard that the Gnolland Chosenseemed ready to kill the Drake. Nerrhavias tone was icy. She stared at the man in the eye.

I suppose that makes it better, then. So long as we beat every child or victim without a mark, there would never be a need for the Watch. What is your name?

Listen, Miss, the Watch is

What is your name?

Leatherworker Joerss.

Nerrhavia was speaking over the other Drakes trying to justify or talk, and somehow, her voice was louder. She was staring the older Drake in the eyes, and she shifted to the younger one as he looked ready to speak. His open mouth shut.

Are you going to take responsibility for this, Mister Joerss?

My son starting a fight? Well go to the Watch, and if they find nothing caused the fight

Are you going to take responsibility, Mister Joerss?

Now, the Drakes, at least near Nerrhavia, seemed to sense that something was wrong. They fell silent and began looking at Nerrhavia. Joerss hesitated, and he looked at his son, then Nerrhavia. He ducked his head slowly.

Yes, Miss, if theres some fine, I will pay it. Rest assured.

No. No. No.

She folded her fan and poked him in the chest with it. Now, Nerrhavia was so close that her puppet was eye-to-eye with the Drake. She peered at him.

I am not talking about coins. Damn the coins. I am asking whether you are going to take responsibility for what that Drake did. Completely. Without reservation or regret. Answer me.

Miss, the Watch

Answer me. Your son has caused an offense, and he is your son. The act was not yours, but this is your moment to take responsibility or not. Tell me.

The Drake swallowed slowly. He looked at Nerrhavia and then Toren, then answered, his hands on his belt.

Of course Ill take responsibility for my sons actions.

He met Nerrhavias gaze, and the Drakes eyes waveredbut then Nerrhavia stepped back. Lightly, as if suddenly happy. She smiled and nodded.

I see.

The Drakes gazed at her in confusion. Nerrhavia turned and bent to whisper to Bea, who perked up, then motioned to Toren.

Get the carriages. Were leaving.

The street was silent as some of the Watch finally came over on horseback. A few Drakes looking annoyed by the confrontation with a picky foreigner. Nerrhavia walked back to the two Drakes, father and son, as Toren brought the carriages out. She passed by a mounted Watch officer who went to stop her, and she went by his outstretched claw as if it didnt exist.

I can see that you take some responsibility in your life, sir. Which means as a father, you likely taught your son something of that character. Then he has made his choice which has led him here, and you have taken all the responsibility for it.

Miss, the Watch will investigate, but it was just a scuffle between two folks. Move al

The Watch officer trying to move Nerrhavia aside caught a slap so fast that he folded up and went down despite his helmet. Toren, opening the door to let Venitra in, winced. Nerrhavia was using an undead puppeteven if it werent as strong as a Draugr, he bet that hurt.

The Watch reached for their blades, but the crowd just stared as Nerrhavia produced a bit of rope. She twined a loop together and handed that end to Bea. Then Nerrhavia took the other end and again, she made a simple loop, with a cunning knot that could be adjusted, and nodded at the leatherworker and the panting young man.

You have taken responsibility.

Yes, Miss?

He looked quietly at her, and the Immortal Tyrant, who had ruled her kingdom a thousand years, beamed at him.

I absolve you of that. Your son made his choice, and we shall call it quits afterwards. Regardless. Goodbye.

She reached out, and the two Drakes recoiled, but Nerrhavia looped the bit of rope around the Drakes wrist. The one who had been fighting Venitra. His father looked at the rope as it tightened and reached out with a cry, but it was too late.

The other piece of the rope that Nerrhavia had produced tightened as well, and a horse reared and tried to look back as it stared at its hindleg. The two were connected, but the horse was stilluntil Bea scratched it and whispered.

Scarlet Frenzy Fever.

The Watchs horse reared with the sharp painthen it began to pant. Thenscream. The Drakes fumbling with the bit of rope saw the animal scream, toss its headthen it began racing forwards. With the length of rope attached to the wrist.

Nerrhavia walked to the carriage, shut the door, and the vehicle began moving as Toren heard a scream from behind him. Screams, cries of panicand the sound of a scream cut off and a body dragging across the street as a horse raced forwards.

Venitra, Ijvani, Oom, and the others stared at Nerrhavia as the coach left the city. The Immortal Tyrant smiled and sat there.

That was an example of law and punishment, children. Now. Seatbelts. Today has been a fine day.

The two carriages rolled out of the Drake city bordering the forest near the High Passes, never to return. Nerrhavia was done, and Toren looked at her and wonderedwhy she thought Erin would ever like her.

But perhaps Nerrhavia didnt care about that. Only something else. Vengeance and enemies. Ambition?

She met his eyes, and as if she could read the thoughts bouncing around in his skull, Nerrhavia spoke.

When I was alive, I tried to stay that way. I ruled for thousands of years, and my confidants and friends were the Witch of Webs and death, who I feared and made preparations against. But when I died, I found that unlike the other ghosts, I was satisfied. I had done it all, and my discontent was only that death itself was so petty and dull. Of course I wanted to live if the opportunity arose, but I have died. A ghost should come back differently. Or how little we learn.

The skeleton thought about that. Then he slowly nodded and sat back in his carriage.

He had to get out of here. And take Maviola too. First the [Witch], now the ghost of the Immortal Tyrant. Who was going to be Azkerashs next guest? A Creler?

Toren hadnt read a history book, but he had a feeling Nerrhavia had been sort of a jerk in life.

One last thing. In between the second day and the third day, the worlds greatest [Necromancer] and [Archmage] sat and thought about how stupid soft power was. A skeleton learned how to take tea with an undead [Lady], and the Immortal Tyrant made such plans as she thought would benefitsomeone.

However, as the world slept and rested, one personone group of people got little rest.

A single pair of pale wings rose, and a tiny roach fanned them on the faded, mildewed face of a screaming man carved upon the wall. He screamed forever, eyes wide and hollow. Nevertheless, they stared at everything as a bright beetle made of metal that was like silver or mithril, but more mundane, crawled over the ancient stonework.

A relief carved into the walls, so long and complex that it stretched a hundred feet down the staircase of equally ancient stone, still tarnished by the blood that had run down here, long ago. The relief had been original, commissioned by the original owner of this place.

It was of a nation she had destroyed, piece by piece, and of the people, whose fates had been so horribly depicted here. The screaming man was the best person to look at if you had to starehe simply screamed, a witness to it all. His eyes gazed sightlessly out from worse depictions of what had been done.

Those who had come later had left this decoration in place to remind them of what this place meant. Even if it was now abandoned, the old pillars and tributary vessels were like altars to some great rulerand once, it was said, this place had been a gleaming shrine to one womans ego.

No longer. Now, the rot that had always been there had crept in and tarnished metal into rust, turned bright stone into haunted, filthy reliefs of twisted stone. It looked like it should bea deep, dark memory of great evil.

A tomb. Almost always left alone, save for the guards. One aimed a spear and tried to kill the roach, for not even insects were allowed down here. A steel speartip gouged the screaming face out of the old stoneand put him to rest forever. But it missed the roach, which skittered past grim-faced Stitch-folk who stomped or cursed.

Many drew back, and their clothes were fine and they carried no weapons. One of them shielded her face with a fan as if protecting it from the roach, which fled across the ground. A [Mage] raised a hand to blast it, but was forestalled.

No magic. Not here.

So the group halted, and the torches swung crazily, for not even magical light was brought down into this dark place. Ranks of warriors armed in bright metal held their ground, and it seemed like even their enchanted gear was dimmer here. Or perhaps it was just the shadows. The leader, who lived down here, just shook his head.

A roach. Move on.

How he kept his sanity, few knew. But he, at least, knew the way, and he carried them down another flight of stairs, past armed guards who stood silent, their own gear unpolished and fading with the stonework.

Hidden protectors who would murder anyone trying to enter this place without authorization. They watched even the woman with the fan, for here were their nations treasures. And their greatest foe, both. Yet even they did not follow, and their eyes swiveled in their sockets uneasily.

For what this group sought lay further below. They were a hundred feet underground and heading deeper still, until the blackness seemed to squeeze the throat of the woman holding the fan. And today had been such a good day. She had been about to sleep.

Queen Yisame of Nerrhavias Fallen had been ready to get some fine rest. Shed played some chess, and while she hadnt gotten to face the [Innkeeper], shed been part of the moment. Shed been so excited when her [Great Sage], Etrikah, had made a championship game that shed thrown a party.

She was all ready to write Yvlon a note and wake up tomorrow to see what had happenedbut not all was well. Those damn bugs

Well, the skittering tin roach made one of the group freeze a moment, but that was only becausetensions were high.

It was the most private, elite group of the Council of Steel. Thelican, the Ministers of Defensebut they included Etrikah, one of the top [Mages] in the Academy of a Hundred Thousand Tomes.

The Captain of the Royal Guard and a hundred of the finest guards. Also, two Named-rank adventurers.

They were normally enemies, or at least, different factions, but in silence they descended, following the person who had come charging into court and put their arguments about Pomle, the King of Destruction, and everything else to rest.

It was a rarely-seen Stitch-folk person, Hemp, of all things. Normally none of the Silk Stitch-folk would associate with one of them except in a [Guard] capacity, but this wasa special case.

This was a hereditary post, and the [Crypt Guardian] was leading them down, down through the palace. Not out in the streets where such a congregation would be the talk of Tyrants Rest, the capital city, even at this late hour.

Down, down, into the foundation of where Nerrhavias Fallen had been built. A kingdom named after the greatest villain to ever walk this continent. Stitch-folk did not believe in hiding her name. No one should forget.

Even soYisames skin was already crawling before she saw the insect, and she drew a shawl around herself. She did not like being reminded of this place. Thisthis was the heart of the palace.

A guarded layer of vaults, the armory, treasury, and most valuable items were stored this far down, secure from even the best [Thieves]. But something lay deeper. A resting place for less than ash. The remains had been burnt, destroyedand the tomb erected as a kind of memorial for the pieces of her which even enchanted weapons couldnt fully eradicate.

Nerrhavias grave.

The actual room was quite small, given how far down they were. Just a sealed layer of spells upon spells and countless trapsmany of them aimed inwards as well as outwards. They had to wait as the [Crypt Guardian] disabled them.

Yisames eyes locked on the grave as the rest of the Council of Steel froze. A carved grave, in the shape of a sarcophagus, lay closed. For a moment, Yisame feared the stone prison had shifted. Thatsomethingsomeone had moved it.

But no. A [Minister] let out a shaky breath, and everyone laughed. Yisame saw them turn to the [Crypt Guardian], ready to blast the poor Stitch-man for wasting their time.

Then Yisame saw something. Nerrhavias final resting place was both a prison and a tomb for her remains and the artifacts of her rule that no one had destroyedor dare destroy. There were things down here that were still extant, still powerful ages after her death.

Like the tapestries hanging from the walls. They were old, faded, some deep indigo, writ with gold. Others were white silk, written with actual blood. A few wereeven more gruesome than that.

Like the screaming man of the carvings above, a face looked down at Yisame, and few dared even gaze into the hollowed sockets. A tongue hung from a mouth upon which words had been written on flesh. Carved there.

A pact with Roshal upon a half-Giants face and tongue. Yisame looked upand bile rose, and someone turned away and retched. Yet they were all the same.

They were contracts. In fact, Yisame even recognized one between the Immortal Tyrant and Zeres that the City of Waves had complained about recently. Mutual defense pacts, enforcement clausesall defunct with Nerrhavias death.

In theory. The [Queen]s eyes locked on something she had not seen last time she was here. And yes, it had been twelve years. But

What new thing? I see nothing new! If this is some prankI have had a long day of playing the worlds greatest chess players, and Her Majesty

General Thelican was blustering when his eyes found what Yisame had seen. He looked up, and his cloth tongue stilled in his mouth. Slowly, the Council of Steel gazed upwards.

ThenYisame knew that the [Innkeeper]s warnings were right. She felt Etrikah squeezing her arm so hard her claws dug into Yisames clothflesh. No one spoke for a long, long time.

For, hanging among the many old contracts and ancient treaties whose magic had survived the Immortal Tyranta new banner hung.

It was as yet blank. Mostly blank, but the glittering contract stood ready. Yisames lips moved as she read the words:

Contract Armed.

Stored Spells: [Hurricane of Flames], [Disintegration Orb, Beam Dispersal], [A Hundred Thousand Seeking Arrows of Deathlight].

Aa contract? What will it do? Why are we here if thats stored in

One of the Council of Steel was shaking with fear, but Etrikah spoke.

It will do nothing. If the records are truethe contracts do not activate unless their clauses are met. This one is waiting for aa pact.

How is it active?

No one wanted to answer that. They knew. So the contract waited, and Yisame saw the most curious thing as the rest of the Council of Steel turned to leave and either make plans or drink themselves into forgetting this had ever happened.

She whirled around, and the [Crypt Guardian]s head rose. The contract glowed, and words began to write themselves in the air. Yisames heart stopped in her chest.

A contract for the Immortal Tyrant in whatever shape she was in. With powerful spells enforcing its compliance.

What

Whatcontract would she offer? What terms? Yisame looked up, and her eyes shifted in confusion as she read a name in the air.

<Contract of Munificent Terms to the Unworthy>

What? It looked likea quest! But the similarities didnt end there. Yisame picked out a long list of details, far, far more elaborate than the simple way a <Quest> worked. Among them, she noticed a few things.

Enforcement spellsthat was the list of magical power stored in the contract. Legal language not binding Nerrhavia in very obscure terms.

The parties within shall not seek via magical, mundane, or other means the identity or intentions of the Holder, but merely accept or refute said contract on behalf of involved within listed as worthless trash, unscrupulous filth not fit to lick Kheltas toes, and cowardly pukes hiding within a shell of an unworthy land of death and so forth

What the?

Then Yisame got to the important part. She read a name, and it seemed to ring in her ears.

Signatory: Kasigna, identities unknown, unwanted.

Offer: Kill yourself so thoroughly there is no possibility of return.

Conditions: Refusal; scroll activates.

Addendum: Death or removal of underlined parties known as Cauwine, Norechl, Tamaroth, suitable abasement before demise and

Nerrhavias contract kept writing itself until, suddenly, the brilliant lines of gold on indigo faded away. As if suddenly it had been canceled.

Yisame saw the scroll flicker quicklythen return to its first message. By the time Etrikah turned back to see what Yisame had seen, all she saw were the original words.

Contract Armed.

Stored Spells: [Hurricane of Flames], [Disintegration Orb, Beam Dispersal], [A Hundred Thousand Seeking Arrows of Deathlight].

It was just a little joke. A [Message] much like how Toren the skeleton could raise two middle fingers and say a lot. Besides, Nerrhavia had better things to do with a contract. So the Immortal Tyrant returned to making plans and waited.

Waited, patiently, as Rhir and the Demons squabbled and their time fell like grains of sand from an hourglass of unknown origin. Waited, as so many had done.

For the [Innkeeper] to wake up.

Authors Note: So, I woke the day after writing a short chapter and I was so exhausted I couldnt get up for a while.

This is backlash, and it gets stronger when Im tired from writing, but especially after writing nearly 40,000 words. I regret that this short chapter to work on editing V1 turned into justa short chapter because I was so tired.

Thus, Im taking my monthly week off. I need it, especially to write good quality. Again, Im once again putting Volume 1 rewrites behind regular chapters. Well try to fix it, but at least Im writing some decent chapters.

Its the marathon, not the sprint. Ill keep playing with how I write. Maybe this wouldnt be so bad now and then, a short chapter? Hm.

If only I could go back in time and start from the beginning. Imagine it. Me with all my writing knowledge rewriting Volume 1? If someone offered me that right now, Id probably stab them because Im not writing 10 million words again.

Anyways, thank you for your patience and I hope you get some rest! I will. pirateaba away.

PS: I may post the edited V1 chapters Ive done during my break at some point. There are entirely new chapters and some of the rewrites are good. Some are eh.

PPS: Book 8 is coming out on Audible! And the Merch Store is doing a Halloween lineup!

Blood of Liscor, Book 8 of The Wandering Inn by JAD Illustrated and STK Kreations!

JAD Illustrated: /

STK /