"You'd be surprised how intricately the human body acts in defense of the plague." I told my comrades, all of whom had been knocked to their knees by a bunch of bandits.

"S-spit it out, witch!" my brutish swordsman spat. "We don't have time f-for thi-"

"Shush." I proclaimed as the bandit leader appeared on a elevated rock above his lowly muscle. Clad in bloody steel and what must be dozens of... 'trophies' from countless raids decorated his frame.

"Meager healer. Surrender you and your party and we will give you a quick death." Armed crossbows clicked as they pointed towards me.

I simply stood there, waiting.

"Say your answer, witch!" One bandit shouted, moving a step closer.

I raised my hand towards him.

Almost immediately his crossbow fell to the ground as he clutched his chest.

I swept my hand across the bandit horde and the rest fell to the same plight.

The bandit leader took a couple of seconds in shocked staring before drawing his bow.

I simply looked at him and he screamed out, falling from his perch and onto a particularly nasty rock with a crack.

My party watched in horror as the bandits slowly, agonizingly, died dishonorable deaths by my hand as I manipulated their immune systems to self destruct their vital organs.

One by one they grew glassy-eyed and fell still.

When the last one choked his last breath, I gazed upon my work, satisfied. I then turned to my shocked comrades. I took a little curtsy.

"Be glad that I use my powers to keep you all healthy and prevent sickness. Though perhaps I do my job too well, if you lot never consider how your own body might betray you one day."

Then I walked towards them, rummaging through my medical purse.

"Alright, who needs some linen and vinegar?"

The young monk knelt in front of his attackers, not because he had surrendered, but because he was too injured to fully stand.

The mage was crumpled next to him, her robes gradually turning crimson from the inside out. The mighty barbarian was inching towards her, knees dragging, breath failing due to all the broken ribs. The paladin was out cold. If he ever came to again, his career was likely over, even if he was lucky enough to even able to speak words ever again.

The monk was only glad his mother wasn't alive to see him in this sorry state. She never wanted him to be a hero. Heroes die early. At the end of the day, her own sacrifice had proven her right. And yet, instead of heeding common sense, instead of listening to her and learning from her mistakes, he had followed in her footsteps, with gusto. Humans were stupid like that.

That's probably why they were a dying race.

The Dark Khan's Force Commander stood before them, sneering just enough to expose his left fang. He was not impressed.

"I was hoping for more." The Commander kicked the monk in the side of the head, knocking him into the mud. It wasn't even that painful. The Commander hadn't wasted his breath.

As he tried to stand back up, he got one last look at his down party. Right now he didn't have the mana to heal a paper cut, let alone raise them back up.

I didn't think it was going to end this way.

...

His mother hadn't actually taught him the secret, but he was such a bookworm in his youth that he had managed to piece it together anyways. It wasn't hard really. Adrenaline, relaxation, and a severe disregard for one's life were all it took. A very small spark of mana had to be applied to a specific portion of the brain. The runes needed to be tattooed into the flesh in advance, but they were surprisingly simple and easy to hide. That's what it came down really: subtlety. The slightest changes in the right spots could turn the human body into an engine of destruction, but only for a little while. Then, once the spell wore off, the debt would be paid.

That is why, when the Dark Khan came for their family, he was the only survivor, not her.

...

"Sorry, mom." He whispered to himself.

The Commander chuckled. "Interesting last words. Don't fret child." He drew his sword. "You'll be reunited with her soon."

The monk didn't acknowledge him. He just kept staring at his friends, the closest thing to family he had left.

Maybe it wasn't quite how she felt that day. But, hopefully it was close enough.

Hot steam began to rise from his back, arms, and hair. The commander raised an eyebrow and took a step back as the mud around the young monk began to boil.

"What magic is this?"

The boy took solace. He always imagined that his mother's final moments were excruciatingly painful but... this actually felt kind of good.

Realizing that any further hesitation would endanger his party, the Force Commander lunged forward with his sword, aiming for a quick decapitation.

CRACK!!

But he was too late. In just one second, the brazen boy was standing erect, posed several steps behind the Force Commander, his arm outstretched and fingers straight.

The Force Commander hadn't even finished kneeling, nor had his head hit the ground yet, before the doomed monk fell upon the Khans. He'd be the last thing most of them saw, though many of them would just see afterimages.

As for the monk's adopted family, they would live.

And to him, that was all that mattered.

"Step aside, or you'll be next."

"Cast Increase Blood Volume."

Caduceus was done playing. He raised his staff as a warning. "If you get in my way again, I will kill you."

"With what? Your stick?" the bandit asked, squinting.

"You feel that headache? That's your blood pressure rising rapidly. Dizziness comes next, then vision blurring."

There was a low groan from Caduceus's ally, Helios. It was ragged, the sound of a cleric saying his last prayers to his God. Good, that he had regained consciousness, but there wasn't much time before he would succumb to his injuries too.

The bandit clutched his chest in shock. "What did you d-"

"Cast Bloodletting."

The effect was instant. Caduceus's diagnostic cantrips flared to life, highlighting the bandit's heart as his aorta ruptured. The bond between him and his God wavered, reminding him of his duty.

Do no harm.

Well, fuck that duty.

The bandit yelled in pain, bent over, and Caduceus pushed him over with his staff. Death within 120 seconds, announced his cantrip.

"Who's next."

A blast of energy landed menacingly between Caduceus and Helios, but this was close enough for the healer to work. Severe breathing difficulties, low blood oxygen levels, along with multiple broken ribs. He cast a more advanced diagnostic spell on the cleric. Significant volume of air and blood in the chest cavity. Definitely a tension pneumothorax. Death within 120 seconds if untreated, and it wouldn't be a painless death.

A more acute approach was necessary against their ranged attackers then. Once the first bandit passes away, Caduceus's God would be sure to withdraw His grace. The blaster was charging up his next shot, so that would be the primary target. Caduceus withdrew a scalpel from within his robe. He wasn't sure if the spell had the necessary range, but there's no time like the present to find out. He closed his eyes, focusing on the diagnostic cantrips. From afar, he could sense the blaster's heavy breathing.

"Cast Incision."

As Caduceus sliced the air in front of him, the blade reached out, passing through the blaster's neck, and into his trachea. With another swipe, the healer tore the blaster's neck open. The bandits around him recoiled in shock as blood spurted out of his neck. But Caduceus didn't need to see them to harm them. Their respiratory systems lit up like bonfires in the night sky. Tachypneic breathing, possible hyperventilation. Diagnosis: mortal terror, and the good healer shall be dispensing emergency surgical interventions from afar.

As the last neck exploded into a shower of blood, everything faded to black. He opened his eyes in shock, cursing his God's name. Why now? There's still a life to be saved! He rushed to Helios's side. Although his God had withdrawn his magical gifts, Caduceus still had a lifetime of medical knowledge within him. He tore Helios's robe open with a pair of shears. His chest was heaving ineffectually, and there was a distinct imbalance as he tried to breathe.

The cantrips had highlighted the pneumothorax in an alarming shade, and he knew from experience that Helios was on the verge of death. From a pocket inside his coat, Caduceus withdrew a vial of alcohol and a disturbingly large needle in a tube.

"Relax, Helios. Your God clearly hasn't abandoned you. Focus on my voice."

He washed his hands, the needle, and the side of Helios's chest with the alcohol, then took a swig for good measure.

"The left lung has collapsed. Each inhalation brings more air into the chest, which cannot escape without help. Keep breathing though."

Caduceus counted ribs. "Treatment requires a chest tube to be inserted. The Temple traditionally recommends inserting it between the second and third rib, but experience suggests performing it at the fifth rib, where the chest wall is thinner. A needle is inserted to allow the excess air to escape."

Helios's eyes snapped open as Caduceus pushed the needle in, and air hissed out of the tube. The cleric's breathing eased, and he grimaced as the healer eased the tube against his chest wall.

"Air now escapes through a one-way valve." Caduceus continued, as he taped the end of the tube against his chest. "You feeling better?"

Helios swore loudly. Good, his state of consciousness wasn't impaired. It would be bad if he said something stupid like, "Maybe I should break my sacred Oath too".

"Once you're ready, I'm going to need you to get up and to start casting. You're still down a lung and I don't need my God's aid to know that you're still struggling to breath."

"But?"

"But I'm going to need your help getting us back to the nearest Temple. You'll need proper medical attention to reinflate your lung and to fix your ribs."

Helios stood up shakily, holding his polearm for dear life. Caduceus slinged the cleric's left arm over his shoulder, and gripped his wrist and clothing firmly.

"You ready?"

He opened his palm. Give me a moment.

"Alright, take your time. We've got all the time in the world."

"Oh the toe bone's connected to the foot bones" she stomped down hard with the spike of her heel, crushing her captor's pinky toe, forcing him to let go as he squealed and hopped around in pain.

"The foot bone's connected to the talus bone" as she swept down and flipped the second man by his ankle onto his backside.

"The talus bone's connected to the Tibia bone" as she picked up the axe he'd dropped and swung it clean through his lower leg, just below the knee.

Rising in pitch, she sang out "The patella's connected to the Femur bone" as she slipped out of her heels and aimed a round-house kick at the first man's knee, shattering it.

"The femur's connected to the, pelvic bone" as she reversed the axe, whirled around and caught the third man, who, hearing the screams, had entered the door, striking his hip.

"The pelvis's connected to the spinal cord" as reversing the direction, her next blow severed his spine.

"The spine is connected to the clavicle" as she chopped at the shoulder of the first man who was grabbing at her leg from his position on the floor.

"The clavicle's connected to the cervical vertebrae" she sang almost hysterically as she removed his head from his shoulders "The neck bone's not connected to the Cranium, now hear the Word of the Lord".

With that, being finally out of combat, she cast a mass resurrection spell on the rest of the party.

I used to draw upon my own strength, magically enhanced, to heal my companions. I could channel a limited about of divine power, but it had its price. Every deal with the devil does. I paid that price, every single day, whether I healed that day or not. The closer I was with my target, the more we’d been through together, the better they healed. But I never grew close anymore.

If somebody hires you because you can bring them back from the brink time and time again, you would think they would pay you well, or at least show some gratitude. They usually did, once or twice. But I was contractually obligated to, and more so, I had to heal to keep myself alive. They knew it, and even if they didn’t start off as callous bastards, they all eventually died that way. Not my fault that the fact they took me for granted loosened the connection and made it harder to heal. It was, however, my fault that I didn’t do anything about it. Sure, I could have pushed harder, but who on earth would expend their own life force for assholes?

A younger me might have. But the problem with using your own soul as the spark to light a bigger magical fire is that it always burns up a bit of the soul too. You eventually lose the ability to care. Once emotions go, morals and ethics begin to follow. Now, I wasn’t a soulless emotionless machine like my fellows often mistakenly believed, they were just buried deep, quelled to a smolder so as to not distract—for anyone who tries to heal without any sort of driving goal, a reason to want it, or some sort of passion or obsession, instantly fails. The magic burns you out. Not in any sort of way that would be a spectacular explosion or a violent last gasp, though.

But today was different. This party was just kids. Cold ruthless killers, a product of not only the street gangs of their childhood, but of the impending threat of war that had forced them into that life. I suppose I should have seen the signs coming, of parties coming, failing, going ever so faster, throwing themselves into the fights ever so recklessly, but I didn’t. I was just fulfilling my contract. I look back and wish I had noticed, something to shake me out of my twisted reverie sooner. But I was fading, losing myself in the disconnect. I was just lucky to wake up when I did.

(To be continued)

Realm stood with a casual demeanor as his assailants circled him, his hands held in his pockets as he does. They clearly expected him to break down, beg for mercy, or try some deception to escape, but there he stood, unwavering. They clearly were not prepared for the emotional attrition required to win such a standoff, and nobody wants to be known as the one who cut down a healer, but that didn't extend to verbal abuse, clearly.

"Stand down! The citadel is ours, and your defenses have crumbled!" One of the more gruff warriors belted at him, a large woman, who looked as though she could break him over her knee like he were a random stick, which was probably true.

"No." Two minutes, he needed to buy two minutes, and despite the consequences of failing to do so, he felt no pressure in the slightest. He looked at the woman with an almost bored expression, paying no heed to the bodies of his allies, his friends around him.

The soldiers all looked like they were about to have a vein burst, they all must have been fuming at this situation. Nobody could do a thing to him, not because there were rules about it, but because of how quickly information spread. People talk, and one way or another someone would find out about a healer being killed, the reputation of the killer would be ruined within days, even quicker if it was known that the reason involved a bad attitude. Fortunately for Realm, this means that they'll be hesitant, especially fortunate because he is not harmless, and he is in fact not unarmed.

"And what exactly do you think you have here? Your friends are dead, we killed your warriors! We already have your general's head on a pike!" One of the more angry looking men clambered forward, holding a spear up to Realms neck, something at which he didn't flinch.

One minute, fifty seconds.

"You won't see it, the most dangerous threats are the ones that go unnoticed." This tactic was tried and true, giving them just enough information to keep them hesitating, keeping your true intentions veiled at all times. Realm felt like his heart was going to beat out of his chest, but he managed to make his expression reflect only disinterest.

"You're bluffing! I'm going to walk right past you, those doors have nothing stopping me." The man wound up as though they would strike him, but they decide against it. An attempt to open the doors revealed they were blocked from the inside, as the inner chamber would be, "Ugh, of course it's barricaded. Get the ram!"

Realm made no attempt to stop them, simply stepping to the side as he watched them with his hands in his pockets. One minute, thirty seconds. Unfortunately he didn't have the resources to do what he needed to any faster, so this would have to do. He simply took deep breaths, enjoying the scent of almonds that permeated the air now, unnoticed by the bloodstained warriors.

"One minute left, you may want to leave. Pretty soon occupying this area will be impossible." Realm didn't raise his voice, he just stated a fact, though he omitted about half a minute for his own sake.

"Shut up! Your mind games won't work, we know you've lost! That doesn't change whether you admit it or-" The gruff woman screamed at him, but after seeing something behind him she shifted into a salute. Realm turned around to see a sight he was dreading.

Behind Realm stood one of the generals of the radiant highlands, Red Grover. Nobody called him General Grover, Red Grover just had a ring to it that the soldiers liked, it inspired fear and laughter any time someone misspoke and said Red Rover. Despite all of this, Realm didn't waver, simply giving a lazed salute when he saw him.

"You left one alive?" Red sized Realm up for a second, before snorting and moving past, "Status on breach? The inner chamber is the only safe haven they have left."

"Moments away sir, this wannabe mastermind got us spooked for a second, but he's just a harmless medic." The woman drops the salute and turns to the rest of the soldiers, who had slowed in their attempts to ram the door down.

Realm hadn't anticipated they would attempt physical labor during this, that speeds things up drastically. He waited patiently, only a few moments until he saw the sign. It started with one man, one man coughing and collapsing to one knee, trying to catch their breath. The rest laughed at the one man's misfortune, thinking nothing of it, until another started, and another.

"What the? What's going on?" Red bellowed out, taking a step towards his men as though to intimidate them into working harder, though little did he know that would be his last step.

A bolt of radiant light pierced through the general's chest, he was seemingly unwounded at first, but after a second he collapsed to the ground with a hand clutching his chest. When the gruff woman looked back Realm was holding up two fingers that were pointed at him. It was the perfect moment to explain to all of those present what was going on, it was too late anyways.

"Hydrogen Cyanide. I didn't have a lot, the dosage was meant for one or two people, not a dozen. Don't worry, none of you will die, you'll just take a nice, long nap, and by the time you wake up the siege will be over." Realm walked forward as he adjusted his sleeves, knocking on the door rhythmically as he cups his hand, the remaining gas in the air concentrating above his palm.

"What- how? What did you do to-" The woman coughed as she tried to lift her weapon at him, but by now the poison had been present long enough to weaken her muscles, "What did you do to the general?"

"Oh, Grover. He's dead, don't worry, his death didn't hurt too bad, at least not compared to wounds." The sound of the barricade moving brought a smile to Realm's face, and he turned back to face everyone, about half of them had passed out by now, the others were vainly trying to gasp for breath, breath that would not come, not until he healed them, "I stopped his heart, apply radiant magic just right and the heart gets thrown out of rhythm, shuts down, and boom."

"You still... lost." The woman had collapsed, but was clearly still awake, "They're all dead."

"Again, no." Realm pulled out a glowing purple gem, holding it above her while shaking it, "Soul gem. What's normally cruel and illegal will be my friend's salvation. I'm sure they'll be cross with me for using it, but I don't care, I don't care that planning for the worst meant hurting them, I would rather have hurt friends than no friends."

Realm turned back to the door as it opened, beholding what was on the other side. Realm was going to get into a heap of trouble, but the healing circle assembled in there, along with the shelves of similarly glowing gems would save everything. In just a few minutes, every ally who perished would return, good as new.

The woman looked on in shock, her eyes going wide before her eyes lulled over. There's work to be done, and a siege to undo.

Hand on wrist, pull...strike shoulder blade, the sequence flowed untroubled and unforced in his mind as thought and reality moved together.

A sharp pop followed by a short scream.

Hemlish felt detached. Calm. The world moved by him and nothing he thought seemed...anything to him. He saw something happening and just followed with it. The only oddity that touched his thoughts was the way he could look around even while focused on the current foe.

He seemed to be behind and above himself. Watching as things developed.

This also meant he could see what had happened to his group, his party troupe, his team...His friends.

Tam was split in half. A club or hammer had caught his head and a blade had cleaved him in half. The brute must have fought hard to draw the attention of such a massive native of these lands that could kill him.

Off to the right, Shyl'ee was dismembered with parts missing. Only the dead-eyed look in her eyes matching what they had been in life. Her bow, broken and ruined, with an arrow still tangled in it was still in her hand.

And great Oirl the wizard. His body was surrounded by the Kings troops but all were dead, burnt back in an expanding circle of fiery death that must have marked Oirl's last spell as the power he could wield consumed him as its cost.

Turn right, drop...closed fist to neck front, he commented internally as he watched the next one fall. The crunch of cartilage snapping allowed Hemlish to move on. Following his awareness on to the next threat.

Hemlish flashed on Tam and the memory that had suddenly occurred to him.

"Ya, Healer...still haven't learned a real weapon?" they had all laughed at Tam's comment. Hemlish had laughed too but it was something he wondered about. While a healer was a must have in an adventuring party they still got the smallest cut, usually were ignored when in a fight, and were the first to die when a fight broke out.

But still those three had meant everything to Hemlish. They had been his world. His friends.

And they were dead.

He had broken inside as Shyl'ee died. It had hurt him...so much...so...

Step back, grab...twist forward under chin. A sharp crack of bone breaking fills the air cutting off a brief shout of pain.

...Then he was here.

Healing was an art.

The body was constructed for a task. The task of being us, me, I. But it is a machine. Moving parts. Component after component of systems supporting each other. Allowing the I that was a person to be a person.

And Healers knew them all very well.

Slide left, push...release and kick forward. A loud grunt punctuated the spear passing into the second warrior who had been so unlucky as to be behind the warrior Hemlish had first stabbed. He had this spear from a warrior...what? Two warriors back?

What should I call them? Kills?

Yes, Kills.

Had removed from the warrior two Kills ago.

Now that caught Hemlish's attention, How many have I Killed?

246 men of the King's Guard.

246 and counting...

    Doctor Julian Shephard watched as one of the men who ambushed his groups wagon fought for air. His blood spilled onto the bright green grass under him. Julian's traveling companions were tied up, but they hadn't bothered to do the same to him due to the cross patch he wore indicating he was a doctor.

    The dead mans voice was hoarse and weak, "help me." He looked at his comrades. One man was trying to stop the bleeding, but to no avail. Two others were crouched near and looking intently, but the other four off to the side weren't interested in the soon-to-be dead man.

    Julian wondered why he should help this man. It was likely the bandits would throw them all into the river anyways. He thought for a moment of his oaths: every life is precious, do no harm.

    "He has a severed brachial artery. A tourniquet will need to be carefully applied," Julian said. All seven bandits looked at him. "Let me get my bag and I will do it." He hurried to the cart near the road and retrieved his doctors bag.

    He put the tourniquet around the mans arm, above the laceration. As he was cinching the tourniquet he had to remind himself that this was just another man. Maybe a husband, father, brother, or son. Julian didn't know his story.

    "He will still need a doctor, but this buys you a couple of hours." Julian said.

    One of the four bandits who didn't seem interested in the dying man said, "Alright boys, throw these poor souls into the river and lets move on."

    "Hold on a second, I'm not throwing that doctor into the river," another said and a fight broke out with three on one side, four on another. Swords clashed and knives were slashed wildly. In the end, the group defending the doctor were left alive, the other four dead.

    "Thank you," the injured man managed to whisper. The remaining bandits looked at their swords and their former comrades dead on the ground.

    "So pointless. You have the power over life and death, yet we are but brutes who only kill. For what? All we do is bring death into this world. Pointless." The seven bandits dropped their swords and started burying their former comrades. When they finished and left, the swords remained there in the grassy ditch.

The leader of this bandit group had the most unfortunate face I had ever seen, it looked like he had made a habit of running headlong into every wall he came across since childhood. His face was strangely flattened, and he had more scars than teeth, and I could only see two scars.

​

He laughed heartily as the pair of 'guards' hired by the caravan master dropped their weapons and raised their hands. They both looked to have no more battle experience than the merchant who had let me ride on the back of his cart.

​

I sighed and carefully marked my place in the book I had been reading and prepared to be shaken down... again.

​

Luckily, my most valuable possessions weren't valuable to anyone aside from myself. The group of bandits were unlikely to want my few books, and my staff didn't look like much more than a stick. I had spent the last of my money paying for my spot on this caravan. I was hoping to make it to the university in the rather pompously named Imperial City, where my healing magic would be valued rather more than it was out among the unwashed masses.

​

By all rights, the caravan master should have been paying me twice what he was paying his guards to accompany his wagons, and even then he would be getting a fantastic bargain. But anything aside from martial strength or flashy offensive magic was looked down on in the Carvallian Empire. Which was unfortunate as the Carvallian Imperial University was widely regarded as one of the greatest centers of magical knowledge in the world, rivaling even the fabled libraries of the long dead Aaragean people.

​

A scream of pain pulled me from my contemplation. I looked up just in time to see the fat caravan master fall to the ground. The bandit leader pulled his sword free and grinned evilly at the rest of us. He made a gesture to his men and they started forward, death in their eyes.

I frowned deeply, robbing caravans this close to the Imperial City was brazen enough, but murdering the entire group? Either these men had a death wish or...

​

I sighed, pulling my staff from the back of my belt. In its current form it appeared to be a simple foot long stick, one that might have been taken from the branch of any of the hundreds of trees that lined the road. The only difference was that this particular stick had been polished and oiled to a rich brown.

​

I ran a trickle of magic through the stick and it instantly expanded in my hand to a six foot long pole, richly engraved with arcane symbols inlaid with silver. These symbols began to glow faintly as I pointed the staff at the nearest bandit, a scrawny man whom I could smell from six feet away. The man jerked slightly, as though he had been stung by an insect, and fell forward onto his face. Dead.

​

I don't think any of the next six bandits even registered me as a threat. They had all fallen to the ground, unmarked but also unmoving, when the leader finally noticed the small woman, apparently barely out of her teens, waving a staff at his men, and those men falling inexplicably dead to the ground.

​

This bandit leader was apparently ready for magical resistance, he shouted at a black robed figure who had been standing back from the road. This figure also produced a staff and started towards me.

​

The mage was undoubtedly warded against all sorts of magical effects, fire, ice, and lightning would be unlikely to do more than ruffle his clothes, and he would be prepared with active wards if any large objects were thrown at him. Mage duels tended to be flashy showy things with the winner decided by the mage with a larger magic reserve.

​

The bandit mage fell dead as easily as the rest of his crew. Seeing their trump card fall with apparently no effort put the fear of God, or rather, the fear of Me into them. The three survivors turned and fled, while the leader stumbled and tried to run, but found his legs wouldn't work properly, jerking and twitching, sending him sprawling to the ground.

​

I stalked forward, pausing to place a hand over the wound in the caravan master's chest, which immediately stopped bleeding. A quick fix to be sure, but it would keep the poor fool from dying while I dealt with the bandit.

​

The bandit, who I was pretty sure was actually an assassin of some sort, was blubbering and nearly crying as I stepped carefully over his dropped sword and crouched down next to him.

"See, the art of healing mainly focuses on choice and balance."

All I recieved was a gurgle in reply.

"Yeah we use aspects of growth magic and a whole lot of divination, but it's all about keeping things as close to optimum as possible. The ancients called it 'Homeostasis'."

No gurgles this time. Just a silent plea from eyes filled with horror.

"And, when it comes down to it, there's always an implicit assumption that the thing we help heal, to grow, is the patient, the human body. Which requires a lot of training so that we don't accidentally heal or grow the organisms that feed on human flesh."

Silence finally as the ex-bandit finishes rotting alive.

"Ever hear of bacteria?"

Just like that, a part of seven shrunk into a lonely one.

Amber flipped through her medic handbook for spells she knew wouldn't appear. The bloody bodies on the ground were past saving. She'd have to go back twenty thousand years to find the last healer who could bring back the dead. Her efforts were better spent on current events, such as the Minotaur in front of her, separated by only fifty meters of open field.

The Minotaur roared and the wind howled in fear slapping her with blood-drenched gusts. The stench was unbearable and brought her back to her childhood, watching helplessly as a house once home burned to the ground, with her family inside. The active imagination of a five-year-old wouldn't allow her to forget the sight of those charred bodies she called family. The bodies at her feet were less gruesome than those of a decade past, but the anger burned just as intensely.

She was tired of it. Death. Healing. Being a medic. All of it. She lacked the offensive talent to fight, so she joined the medical field, hoping it would fill the hole inside her with noble acts. If she healed people, she could be happy again, like she was before that day.

But that wasn't the case. She hated healing and helping others. Her skin crawled when she brought them back from the brink of death, and they thanked her with a smile. She resented only saving people she didn't care for and never being useful to the ones she did.

The Minotaur took a step forward, tested the elasticity of the damp ground, and torpedoed toward her. A devilish thought crept to her as she watched. She should just die here. Everyone else had, so why not stand her ground and fight? She lacked offensive talent, but her understanding of medicine was second only to Daniella's. Her hands glowed that familiar amber and green, the colors twisting into spirals as they did before every medical operation.

Another roar and another torrent of wind pelted her as she extended the base of her legs and thrust one palm toward the speeding monster, still halfway away.

The wind at this point was earth quaking, and she stood in a field of chaos, the only stationary being amongst groaning oak trees and flippant grass. All smells were gone, just a burning sting as the echoes of fierce wind stole her hearing, reducing the world to a faint buzz. The creature was within its striking distance now, and pulled back an arm of pure muscle to attack.

A heartbeat pounded for an escape as she focused on the Minotaurs neck.

It swung.

She dodged left quick enough to avoid death. Splashes of blood and tattered clothing entered her peripheral as the buzz of the wind intensified.

The neck. Her eyes stayed locked on that neck.

There's a reason humans flinch at the thought of being strangled or having their necks sliced open, even more so than head injuries. It may be the most critical and vulnerable part of the body. The brain keeps animals on high alert to anticipate any threats that may arise, no matter how unlikely.

In that narrow pillar, the carotid arteries, responsible for blood flow to the brain, coexist alongside the origin of the spine: the C7 vertebrae, thyroids, the jugular, so many essential but small parts in tight packaging.

One doesn't need much power to cause permanent damage if they have access to the neck.

Amber didn't blink in that small eternity. She condensed every ounce of magic she had into a shape no bigger than a coin in her palm and struct the Minotaur just to the left of the adam's apple. The snap of cartilage and arteries popped under the force, and the Minotaur flew by her.

It stood there and faced her. She stood there, mouth open and full of her hair, unable to consider her next attack. The creature took five steps her way, whined, and crumpled to the ground.

She'd never killed anything before, on purpose at least. It felt vile, and her hand shook with a sense of defilement. She stared at them as if they leaked black sludge. One by one, she curled her fingers and stared. Her hands appeared further from her than they had before. Her whole body felt different.

And she liked it.

She looted the bodies of her fallen comrades, unable to do anything to help them, and ventured to the east, opposite the way back to the Flowa Kingdom. The place no longer interested her.

She'd avenged her party, her new family, already. Now, she desired to avenge her old family.

Well, I see before you killed my friends they did some serious damage. I took an oath to heal you, and so here you are, healed, in my care. I’ve fulfilled my obligation to mend your bodies.

Now you’ll find that as I foil my obligation to my friends to avenge their deaths I can cause you an enormous amount of pain without damaging your bodies at all. And this far from a city no one will hear your screams.

Of course I can also paralyze you so you can’t make a sound. You there, if you pump these bellows I’ll give you a quick end. No not like that, you’ll damage his organs. Yes, much better. Don’t stop or you’ll lose your reprieve.

And now we begin.

Healers talk to Karoun.

No one really thinks about that, the implications of talking to Death. Healers talking to Death. Those who do rationalize it as a battle, a fight. A metaphysical conflict with sword and shield against the Hydra of Death.

The terrible truth is that it isn't. It never was. Healers talk to Karoun because she loves them. It's a gift - healing, that is - you're born with it or you aren't. A connection that it seems no one has made is the presence of death at the precise moment of the birth. A cat, the mother, anything - as long as the precise moment of death is at the precise moment of birth, the stronger the death, the farther away the baby can be and have a possibility of becoming a healer.

The truth of healing is Karoun lending out favors. A gift to a beloved pet, a token to a loyal servant, Karoun withholding from the subject, pulling back her creeping tendrils. A healer loyal enough and beloved enough can convince her to strain herself (miniscule though the strain is) to pull a creature into her grasp early. Saneqil was such a healer.

Mother dead at childbirth while her father killed himself at the exact same moment, just as the loyal pet greyhound died a peaceful death on the couch. A shocking collection of events that led Saneqil into Karoun's embrace. To Karoun, Saneqil wasn't just beloved - she was a child, a daughter in tragic death. Almost as tragic as the death in front of her now. The skin of the brutish dragon that had felled Awain, Collise, and Fraugh was burning. Not literally, of course, but it was running a fever. A fatal one.

The dragon bellowed in agony as it wasted away. Saneqil watched it happen - the least she could do. She sighed as she watched it draw a final breath.

Karoun was a good mother.

j"Triboli, Triboli", the voice practically screeched from just outside my quaint camp. Damien, I wonder what drunken stupidity he and his friends had done now. Sighing I set down the flask I had previously been oh so carefully swirling above a small, but carefully made therefore raging hot, fire. God I missed Jouleen, she could have got the potion done half an hour ago. Fire mages truly were a healers best friends, and her case a little more than that I remembered more than somewhat bitterly. I again chided myself for that mess, I'd sworn to never get that -, my thoughts were interrupted by yet another shout of 'Triboli', whoever the fuck that was.

"Damien you impotent excuse for a twit", I swore whilst throwing open the flap of my alchemist tent. The young man in question was standing, or rather half leaning against, a pile of wood just past the deer trail that had now become well worn in by idiots like him. As I stormed closer I could smell the spirits reeking off of the thinly made adventurer, his eyes also showed the clear glassy signs of alcohols minor (at least for now) poisoning of the brain. I stopped a mere foot from his face, I half expected him to recoil knowing the blind rage upon my face, but a mixture of bravado and inebriation kept the tan youth from doing more than donning a dopey frown. "It's Trisoli, Trisoli, with an 'S'. An 'S' like in ssssnake".

Damien simply looked at me, the same mask of stupidity still plastered on his face. "Ohh", he finally slurred with a bout of high proof breathe, "Well Omar needs you Triboli, he says Danicia's hurt.". I inhaled sharply, debating whether I should berate him before or after casting a spell that would give him the worst hangover of his life. I instead dismissed the idea though, even if Omar had been keeping up with Damien today for him to not be able to treat someone meant it was at least moderately serious. That was the main perk of the drunken old fool I thought as I turned and began walking back towards my tent.

"Well are you going to stand there, or get my fucking basket from underneath that willow", I ordered without looking back. Behind me the sound of wood hitting the ground and stumbling footfalls brought me brief joy as I imagined him falling face first into the mud. That joy barely survived to my tent however, when the sound of my precious and precisely made tonics clinking violently together sailed through the air. "And be careful with it you damned idiot", I said before reentering the comfortable embrace of my workshop, cursing under my breathe the entire time.

[ In today's news, we report that the celebrity adventuring team known as Silent Sparrows has suffered great tragedy. We can now confirm that, last night, members of the former heroic team lost their lives during their raid on the infamous boss known as Bigshot and that the accused killer is their dedicated healer, Thomas Ingleford. Our expert source reported that after Bigshot was taken down, it is accused that Thomas Ingleford brutally massacred the Silent Sparrows team. In this unbelievable and devastating news, we are still waiting on further updates on what happened and why such a terrible thing occurred. As always, stay tuned for more news. ]

Down a long white and sterile corridor, harsh echoes of footsteps could be heard. They sounded out at a steady pace, neither hurried nor too slow. At the end of the corridor was a high security detainment room, with a single man locked to a wall, arms and legs shackled with cutting-edge metallurgical braces. While restrained, the man stood upright with a calm façade and a slight grin and eyes gleaming . From time to time a small giggle would sound out, discordant with the serious image of the room. The man was famously known as Thomas Ingleford.

The footsteps finally came to a halt outside the room, which held an exterior wall of thick bullet-proof glass. Thomas' eyes locked on to the visual stimulus; a tall woman with dark burgundy hair. Her arms were stuck deep into the pockets of a voluminous trench coat, which covered a shirt and suit. The woman stared at Thomas with a slight frown, as though she was trying to solve some sort of problem.

"Hahaha!" Tom howled with a manic sound which might be interpreted to be a laugh. "So they dragged you into this mess, my dear Emily! How about we have a good chat and figure this out. And then I’d like to get home and have a nice warm shower and hopefully I can get Roger to cook me up a nice warm meal. I must say, you've kept yourself well in these years, although you are looking a little tired. Have they put you through a little too much overtime, my love?"

With a deepened frown, Emily questioned “Tom, did you do it?”

“Why certainly, it’s clear as day that we bagged Bigshot. You should know that, dear Emily” with a kindly expression, Tom adjusted his posture as though he was relaxing in his favourite library.

“You know what I mean, Tom! Did you kill them!?” cried out Emily, her voice cracking at the end, as she was unable to maintain her composure.

Tch Tom clucked his tongue and reprimanded “And how could that be possible? I’m only a lowly healer. Everyone knows that a healer can’t hurt people. We are weak, we can’t achieve the damage of a warrior or a mage! Even I, a pinnacle expert of my field, was constantly reminded of this fact by by lovely former companions.” Tom sneered, as he tried to contain the burning rage.

“But Tyson, Bob and Beth…” Emily whispered, before crying out “Why - Tom!? Why couldn’t you let them be?”

Tom’s face instantly scrunched up with hatred, his eyes looking almost devilish. Within a moment, the restraining chains shattered into dust, as the particles surrounding Tom’s skin vibrated at an inhuman frequency. Deep lacerations on his flesh disappeared as new blood and cells raced to fill the void. Freshly minted skin manifested like magic, giving the feeling of a mirage, as if exposed blood and bone could never have been.

With a boom, Tom slammed into the glass and a bright purple sheen burst out, as the energy shield strained to distribute the momentous force.

In a rage, Tom screamed “Those… people. They should have treated their healer with respect. I’m the best in the world and where is the THANKS I get!? WHERE. IS. MY. RESPECT?!!?” An overwhelming torrential downpour of sound tore off chunks of the sturdy walls, flying everywhere. Emily hastily covered her ears and bowed down from the pain. She could barely make a sound as her mind shook and consciousness blurred.

As the sound died, Tom calmly dusted off his clothes and rubbed his teeth with his tongue as though his mouth was full of dirt.

With a voice of serenity, Tom gently reassured “My apologies, dear Emily. You have seen a great disgrace. I shall endeavour to make it up to you. As for your questions, I’d be more than happy to fill you in at a later date. I think I’d like a nice shower now and clean off this filth. Unfortunately for my late companions, they were not up to scruff against Bigshot. The powerless healer needed to finish the job for them and I was unable to provide them with aid in time due to the chaotic battle. Shame. A great shame. I’m sure the historians will find great pleasure in highlighting the great deeds of the heroic damage dealers of Silent Sparrows. Many a bard will sing a tale over beer and wine, with a raucous volley of excitement. And the useless healer will simply find his own way to be someone of importance.”

As Emily managed to get to her feet, glass slowly shattered, the energy field crumbled to particles, and everything faded to black.

“Bye, bye Emily. I shall look forward to seeing you next time.”

The echoes of footsteps returned to the long corridor, pacing away in an unhurried beat, before everything went silent.

I was a healer by trade. I had spent countless months learning what a human body was supposed to look like. Months identifying the common conditions you experienced in battle, what they looked like, and how to fix them. Years practicing on dummies and, later, on real people.

And it barely bought me any respect.

"Oh, you should go where you're best at..." they said. "There's no shame in being a healer, it's important," they said. And, yet, I was looked down upon by the entire party, because I wasn't dealing damage. I should have gone into combat; my abilities could have marginally less use there, but they definitely would have bought me far more glory.

I barely had time to reflect on that before we were ambushed.

It was ten on ten, the regiments having the exact same size. Three knights (mainly for defense), three strikers (mainly for offense), three specialists of various kinds, and a single healer. Despite the standard makeup of regiments being the same, every team was different in some way.

Firey bolts arced through the sky, aiming themselves directly towards our knights, who braced themselves for the impact. They were met with steel shields, which heated up absorbing the attack, but remained intact, more or less.

Next was our team's return fire. A round of ice and rock, from various different angles. Their teams struggled to meet it, mostly opting to dodge instead. That was a sign of cowardice, and we smelled blood.

I advanced forward, staying towards the tail end of the group, but allowing myself to get cover as the battle slowly devolved from structured exchange of fire into all-out chaos. Arrows, water and ice (mainly for neutralization purposes), rocks, and, of course, fire were hit left and right. But that wasn't my role. They handled the attack and defense. I was supposed to keep everyone else fighting.

And somebody was hit. Our best attacker took an arrow to his right arm. I was right on it.

I extended an invisible tentacle about thirty feet. Well, that was the best metaphor I had found for what I was doing - peering into his body. And there it was. The easiest thing to manipulate was blood - well, saliva and urine were easier, but those weren't relevant to healing. And, luckily, the most common wounds were blood-related.

Sadly, the arrow had punctured a major artery. If this had been conventional healing, the arrow would have to be left in. But this wasn't conventional healing.

Bleeding was only unwanted blood flow, and this could be stopped. I pushed the blood through the artery, acting as walls reinforcing the tube. This would keep everything running smoothly and prevent further blood loss. Removing the arrow was trivial. Just a little bit of extra pressure, and it just popped right back out.

Finally, it was time to seal the blood vessel. This was the easiest part - although it was also the most time-consuming. All I needed to do was thicken the blood around the wounds - and this was accomplished by drawing the water towards the center. I was protected well enough to do this, but the way they approached it made it obvious where their priorities were. My value wasn't as a person, but as their healer. An asset to be guarded, not a person to be defended.

About a minute later, and the wound was healed up enough. I was confident that the body itself would do the rest of the work, so I was able to move on.

And, just as one wound had been sealed up, two more took their place.

A burn on the shoulder, and a broken leg from a chunk of rock.

I didn't prioritize the burn; the broken leg was far worse. Simple punctures were one thing, but a broken bone was far more difficult to mend. I first had to set the bone, which would allow it to heal.

The muscles worked electrically by expanding and contracting. Little electric pumps. Although blood was closer and easier, these weren't quite outside my domain. By expanding one and contracting another, I straightened the leg. I'd have to make sure that it didn't get moved, whether that movement was by an enemy or by my teammate's own rash decision. Of course, even though nothing was actually being done, watching it required quite a bit of my attention.

Healing the broken bone wasn't something I was able to directly do. All I could do was direct and aid the body's natural processes. I directed resources to the bone, blood and nutrients, to ensure a speedy recovery.

Then, there was the hardest part: The splint. I certainly couldn't do it in the combat zone, so I had to get him over to me. And, so, with ample warning, I applied a force to all of him that I had power over, dragging his form over to me. It was just the same as usual - although he was a bit on the heavier side, so it took a lot out of me.

After applying a splint to ensure that his leg wouldn't be moved for good, I was able to move on. We were down to four uninjured team members, one of each class. This, of course, included myself, so they only counted three. I didn't blame them - nobody counted the healer. What exactly could I do if they were knocked out of commission? It was infuriating, to be helpless in a situation like that. Yet, through my background, I had only myself to blame for being in that corner.

Slinging more fire and ice, my teammates fought in a tighter and tighter circle as fewer and fewer of them became fit to fight. No deaths had happened yet, but I certainly had my hands full. Someone was bleeding out in five places, and it took all of my attention to hold it back while they were forced to resort to bandages - which weren't ever supposed to be used. That's how far we were down.

And, soon, I was the only one in fighting condition. Well, if I had ever been in fighting condition to begin with.

Luckily, they had all been stabilized. So, I turned my attention to the other team. The six who remained, who were about to assault me.

All I had was an impromptu pair of walls that my team's specialists had put up. They'd take punishment before they got to me, and we were all dead. But, then, it occurred to me: Bleeding was just the wrong kind of blood flow. And stopping bleeding was trivial. So, what if I stopped the right kind of bleeding?

I stuck a tendril into one at the front. I could see him just the same as my own team members. It was all there, ready for me to latch on and "heal". And I went right for the heart.

The blood got its own oxygen supply from two tiny vessels. Stopping their flow was almost trivial. All I had to do was keep it going for a few minutes, and their heart would peter out and die.

But I didn't have a few minutes, did I?

He fell down, clutching his heart. These were results, trivially produced results. Results that had bought me some time, as the rest of the enemies stared in disbelief. They didn't think to connect it to me as their own healer's vision rushed in, confused. But, despite his heart attack, he would be okay.

The archer aimed his bow at me, ready to shoot. But that wouldn't do. Just like with my fallen ally, I set his "broken arm" in place, preventing him from "accidentally" moving it, and causing great harm. Then, compared to what I had just done earlier, rotating him 180 degrees was trivial. Their healer, not mine, was the one taken out with his arrows. I saw to it that a major artery was pierced; who was I to stop her from moving right into the arrow's path?

Now that there was damage to be healed, I recalled the one sentence that the healing professor had emphasized the most: There is nothing that causes more damage than a poorly done healing. So, now, it was time to make a grievous mistake. I used the healer's own blood to push the arrow out of her body, leaving a huge open wound.

Without me stopping the flow, the worst case scenario happened: blood started pouring out of her at an alarming rate. The blood loss, combined with the pain and the critical arm injury ensured that she wouldn't be able to control it. After all, the hardest person to heal is always yourself.

“Hey, Rosemary! I fell into poison ivy again, can you heal me up?”

“Rosemary! My child scratched her knee on the playground and now because she’s injured, I can’t go on the expedition. Can you please heal her so I can go? I could get so much XP from that.”

“Yo, Rosie! I’m freezing and I might lose some health. Make the healing quick, okay?”

I sighed. I was on the verge of shutting my clinic down early, but there were so many people relying on me as the sole healer of Little Quelet that I had to continue my work.

Even though they needed a healer to prevent the population from dying out, they never truly acknowledged me as anything other than one. They didn’t even call me by my title, just “Rosemary”. Work was never done, even when I wanted to return to the only ones I truly cared about; my family. I lost my love for others long ago.

Two days later, the government put me on an expedition to Northern Iodine. Bandits were outside the city walls and they were threatening to break them down to take whatever they could. As an ally to their city, of course they had to help.

We reached Northern Iodine on horseback, carrying our bows, swords, shields, potions and guns. Seeing the bandits, we did a five-way ambush. Alex would use his jetpack to launch him into the sky and slam onto the bandits with his mighty Shadow Shield, Lydia would strike from below with her shovel then spray the bandits with her blinding and vulnerability potions, which allowed Joey to fill the bandits full of arrows from the left and Terry to stab and slice out a gory scene from the right, leaving me at the back occasionally healing someone, boosting their damage, and resurrecting someone if things got ugly, which was basically my daily life. I had to stay on the sidelines not being noticed or respected, only taken for granted. The arrogant “heroes” who fought “beside” me thought their sudden strength came from them alone.

The bandits quickly outnumbered and outfought my party, and all that was left was the mousy, unassuming healer with a useless shotgun. I felt like all that disrespect was right. I couldn’t even keep my team alive in a dangerous situation. I was only treating little scrapes, how could I have the right to say I was a victim here? “Who’ll res you after you die?” mocked the leader of the bandits. No. I couldn’t die here. I had to stand strong, for my family. I drilled holes into the leader’s eyes. Literally. Her skull turned to paste after I shot her in the face, point blank.

“It’s not me who will die.” I quickly turned my attention to the rest of the bandits. I pistol whipped several bandits in an artery, in the solar plexus, any pressure point or vulnerable point I knew could kill someone, I hit with a fist or my gun. Today, I was the sword.

Once the area was clear, I resurrected my teammates. “Rosemary, did you really do all that?” asked Trey, surveying the bloody bandits. “Yeah. Tell your friends, family all about this. Remember, I am not just your healer.”

Geek the mage. After never making a deal with a dragon, it's the most important rule of running. Always. Geek. The. Mage. First.

My friends joke that being a pacifist mage is something of a bad thing to combine with shadowrunning. I usually laugh along, but my friends, they know. They know it's a ploy so I don't have to. And it's done its job. I'm never targeted and I just keep my friends alive and patch them up. I scout with spirits, boost and shield. But I'm deemed useless and 'just a healer'.

Before I awakened my magic I was studying to become a doctor. I've always wanted to save lives and when I was visited by my guardian spirit we didn't see eye to eye at first. We eventually got along. We made a deal. I would get near limitless knowledge about the human body so it could help my healing efforts, and my guardian spirit would have free reign if I wasn't observed by friends and asleep.

Unusual, sure, but not unheard of. And one of the terms was that I would be unrecognisable. Another was that if my body was threatened, I could call in the help to solve problem to our mutual benefit.

So when I remained of my running team, all bleeding out, and stared down the barrel of what I assumed was a heavily modded Aztechnology LMG, I called out.

The world turned black and time stood still. My guardian spirit stood before me, sharply dressed in a black suit with burgundy and gold trim. On his lapel a tiny pin of a star shining bright on a torch.

"I'm calling in the emergency clause. But no destructive magic. You know my vow."

My spirit smiles and says

"Very well. You can watch. But we will renegotiate."

Usually when he takes over I lose consciousness. This time I'm fully aware.

Time resumes. As the person wielding the gun gloats about how I am a useless mage and how they could keep me for last I see my body move. I feel the magic course through my body and leave my fingers. As my eyes get suffused with magic as well the bodies around me become translucent.

I see nerves being cut. Not the sensory ones, but the ones signalling motor function.

I hear the enemies becoming confused. Confusion turns to panic. But without nerves to carry the signals to muscles to move they can't do a thing. They are completely paralyzed.

Next, my body magically removes the vitamin C from their bodies and accelerates their metabolic rates for wound closure. Small white lines turn slowly red. White dots getting bigger and opening up. Teeth start falling out. Blood starts dripping at first, but as old wounds open up and scar tissue dissolves, blood gushes and spirts out.

More magic flows. This time it moves into the hearts of the enemies. It strengthens the movements and boosts the heart rate.

The enemies are no longer humans, but fountains of blood.

In 5 long minutes my body is almost drained of energy, but 7 armed gunmen lay before me. Fully drained.

I awakened into a tradition of Black Magic. And for my skills I made a deal with Lucifer, The Adversary, my guardian spirit. Tonight, will do so again.

CHAPTER 1

My name is Darius , and this is my story.

Growing up , I always felt different. People would pass my parents waiting in line to pay for our groceries, we would always be the last to sit on the cart.

When I began school I was bullied , I told my father and he said "don't talk back to them , just be quiet and get along!". He seemed like such a coward to me.

"Why are we different mother?" I questioned. "Son, where are your cousins? Where are your aunties and uncles? Have you never thought about how we are alone here. Your father brought us here for a better life. Our own land is not a safe place for you , for us. Work hard and become like those people out there. Keep your mouth closed and your eyes open. We are here now , we are safe here."

I remember clearly , it was a sunny day , birds were chirping outside. Father had gone to get some milk. But he took so long. He never took this long. As day turned to night , and night back to day again, my mother and I knew something was wrong.

Knock knock , my mother opened the door. Standing there was a local guard , a letter in his hand and a bag of gold coins. My mother took these items , read the letter and wept.

"Your father is dead" she said, her voice trembling , eyes rubbed red.

My father was dead? MY FATHER WAS DEAD. Sure he was a coward , but he was invincible, he never got ill , he worked like an ox, how could he leave us?

The letter read "We are sad to inform you of a tragic accident that occured today with your husband. The Duke of (insert generic town name) send his apologies. Please accept this money as compensation for your loss. "

CHAPTER 2

I studied hard. I worked the fields. I became strong like my father. I had to , I had to support mother. After father's death she stayed at home, only moving every so often between her bedroom and the bench outside our home.

"Mother! I got accepted into the school of Magicka! The fees is .. we will pay it off haha, I'll work hard , like you said!"

"Hmm" she said , eyes fixated on the clouds

I had to leave her alone for a couple weeks at a time. The school was far from our home. She managed though , I made sure there were groceries at home , I gave her a clostog , a device that she could talk to me with. Although we never spoke much. She was safe and i was busy making my ...our future better.

CHAPTER 3

I had almost completed my course. I would get a diploma in healing (the cheapest and easiest class to get into). Our university had thrown a party , I was ready for a good time.

The party was great , I had made some friends in my class , they weren't bad to me. I think my generation were much for accepting of people like me , people who looked different to them. I wish my parents could see this.

The music turned down , and there were murmurs in the crowd. "The Duke is here , it's the Duke , I heard he's going to give a speech or something , I hope he gives us some free stuff haha"

"Hello next generation of wizards and warlocks! I hope I don't need to introduce myself! It's wonderful to see so many young , bright faces here today. Please watch this Fvideo on some opportunities you all have to work for the kingdom if you so choose!"

Oh.. another boring Fvideo , how do those things even work? Rays of light shone out of a spherical device ,illuminating the huge wall behind the Duke. This must have been a projection Fvideo , expensive.

I watched it , a drink in my hand, bored out of my mind. I didn't want to work for the kingdom. I would get a private job working in a group for bounties , they always needed a quiet no frills healer. A segment came on of the Duke standing on a parade float as it moved through a busy crowd. People were cheering. Some were not so happy , but they couldn't do much with the guards there.

I saw my father. MY FATHER WAS THERE , IN THE CLIP! The crowd moved a little into the way of the parade and then the clip just changed. They changed the video. Something happened . WHAT HAPPENED !

"HEY WHAT HAPPENED THERE, IN THE CROWD?" I shouted across the hall

"Shut up! What are you doing" my friends said

" Some people love me , but some don't young man. We took care of it haha" the Duke smugly said.

They took care of it? THEY TOOK CARE OF IT? I was frozen , so many emotions ran through me in a flash. Rage , anxiety , confusion.

That's how he must have died. The crowd pushed forward and he got caught in it. One of the guards must have used excessive force. Why else would they give us gold? To pay for our silence?

Dread. Death. I couldn't breath. I wanted to vomit. No thought crossed my mind other than kill. Pent up rage was ablaze in the depths of my soul.

Crunch. Gurgle.

With hazed eyes I looked across the hall. Where had everyone gone? I no longer felt any anger , but contentment.

The stink. Dead rotting bodies. Is this a dream?

I did this. I MUST HAD DONE THIS? WHO ELSE , IM ONLY ONE HERE!

oh no, OH NO. I should have stayed quiet. I should have kept my mouth closed and my eyes open. I don't know what's happening. I don't know what to do. Mom help. Father. Anyone. Why is it so quiet?

……..........….....end..............

Pt.1

Vithrys polished his blade slowly by the soft light emitting from their dying campfire. His mind solely focused on the most recent massacre he and his party had recently stumbled upon.

His group of bounty hunters had been tracking what they had assumed to be some form of demon for the past two months.

The demon had been killing groups of creatures. They had tracked the demon back to what they believed to be its first kill of a pile of squirrels found by a group of hunters, generally something that would not have sparked interest except for the fact that there was twenty squirrels striped of their bones and insides, their eyes and skin, still perfectly intact.

From there Vithrys had tracked the demon based on similar scenes of mutilation. When he arrived at a town who’s entire population of farm animals were slain overnight he decided he was going to need to employ extra help.

He arrived at a local tavern and was able to enlist the help of Annalise and Derivard a pair of hunters, both skilled with bow, familiar with animal tracking and knowledgeable in the anatomy of the creatures they killed and sold.

The final member of their party was a Healer they had nicknamed “Patches”. A youthful member of a traveling priesthood, he had overheard Vithrys discussing the numerous scenes of brutality that he had witnessed to Annalise and Derivard and had just about demanded to come with them. He insisted that a healer could be the difference between life and death and while Vithrys had his reservations about the usefulness of “healers” some who could barely mend a wound let alone save a life, he admired the boys enthusiasm and had allowed him to come along.

This morning they had arrived at a small village to discover all of its inhabitants had been slaughtered, but in an unmistakable way. Piles of human flesh lay within tattered clothing. The occasional limb could be seen amidst broken houses and destroyed goods. Vithrys kneeled down and confirmed what he already knew to be true. The pile of flesh was without bone or muscle. He shifted the flesh enough to see a gaping mouth and empty eye sockets and stood up and looked at his companions.

Derivard held Annalise consoling her a look of rage and determination on his face. Patches simply stared, his mouth open. Vithrys couldn’t blame him, if he hadn’t witnessed the destruction a demon could cause firsthand, he would probably would be in a similar state.

“Come on” he said as he began to move through the town “Let’s see if there’s anyone left”.

Their search ended up fruitless and they decided to make camp further down the road for the evening. Emotional strain could be exhausting.

Vithrys finished polishing his blade and admired the rune imbedded in the hilt. Forged by a mage in the far north Vithrys had endured a lifetime of pain to gather what was needed to create the blade. Imbued with spells the blade was made to destroy demons. Vithrys had wielded it to destroy the demon that had ruined his life.

“Memories for another time” he thought “I should probably get some sleep before my watch begins”.

Just as he was about to lie down and close his eyes a scream pierced the the night.

Vithrys was on his feet in seconds, sword drawn and quickly moved over to Patches and gave him a soft kick as he peered through the trees trying to locate the source of the scream.

“Get up and get that fire burning I need light” Vithrys whispered as Patches slowly got to his feet confused.

Motion caught Vithrys’ eye and Annalise came bounding out of the bushes on the other side of the camp.

“Derivard’s dead” she barely managed to get out between breaths.

Vithrys noticed that she was shaking violently, her face pale and terrified. She was in shock, whatever had killed Derivard had inspired terror.

“I….I… it’s” Annalise said stumbling over her words when suddenly she was cut off as a thin spear of bone erupted from her throat.

Patches stepped back in horror as blood spilled from Annalise’s mouth and neck.

Vithrys moved towards her when four more spikes pierced through her dangling arms and legs and lifted her into the air.

Vithrys was now able to see that each bone spike was connected by tendrils to what could only be described as a tail. Vithrys stared in horror as his brain processed what could only be described as exposed muscle brought Annalise into the sky.

Out of the dark came a multi limbed monstrosity. The demon’s figure was composed of muscle and bones jutting out at odd angles, gaping mouths covered its body connected by limbs of humans and animals alike all thread together by pulsing red tendons.

Even by the light of the fire that Patches had barely been able to stoke Vithrys could see maggots squirming all over the demon.

Annalise let out a gurgling scream as the demon simultaneously ripped her apart, each bone spear pulling her body a different direction.

Bones snapping, flesh ripping Annalise’s torso dropped down into an eagerly awaiting mouth with a sickening wet splash. Each of the five spikes then delivered the severed limbs to a different mouth as the whole demon began to digest her, the mouths slowly crunching down on each limb.

With horror Vithrys watched Annalise’s head roll around the demon’s mouth until it could find a solid angle to crack her head in half as if the demon was trying to free a nut from its shell.

Flashbacks of a past repressed flooded Vithrys’ mind. His wife’s hand held in his as a demon ripped her from his grasp. His family obliterated as he ran away in terror.

Not again, not this time.

Doctor, surgeon, hair stylist. I wore many hats, but today I needed to Don a new one. It had been quiet at our camp, as day had given way to night. We had heard some wolves howling in the distance when we noticed a shadow of a man creeping towards our camp. Though bold on his part, he approached with nothing more than a sword drawn and the clothes on his back.

It only took a minute in total for my entire team to be completely overwhelmed. Dormit lay with a neck Injury so severe he'd be lucky to be in any working order, Shana lay in a pool of crimson so large she woild be lucky to still be breathing,, and dirk was currently holding his severed leg as life left his eyes. It was just me and our attacker, and although I was definitely not a fighter, I had one distinct advantage.

He leveled his sword at me with a malevolent smile. I reached behind me, pulling out a kukri. It's not my usual tool but a little leverage if I can get close enough.

I took a deep breath as he began to lunge at me. I was not swift as he was, nor nearly as experienced, but I made do by making sure if he was going to hit, it was only a glancing blow. I had to strike his elbow just once, and he would never grip a blade again. Throughout our flight, I never swung, only reacted defensively. Our fighter, dormit, had taught me to wait for an opening, then plunge.

Time seemed to slow down, and I felt a sharp pain in my side as he managed to stab his sword into my stomach. Instinctively, I grabbed his wrist and yanked him as hard as I could, stretching his arm and laying down a swift blow on the tendons on his elbow, severing them. As his grip failed him, I chuckled and left his sword embedded in my side. Judging by the amount of pain we both are experiencing, I must have broken his elbow, too. He did embed the sword in me, but it didn't hit anything vital.

He is holding his elbow as I level my kukri at him. "You can still walk away from here. I suggest you do so with haste. Judging by the stain on that lovely shirt, you're going to need to find a doctor. Quickly or become Carrion for the bottom feeders." The man growled at me, as if a one armed unarmed swordsman who's bleeding like that could somehow be intimidating. I smirked, and I put my kukri away. "Last chance. Bloods got you on the clock. If you pass out here, you ain't waking up."

He took one step towards me, balling his remaining fist and swinging it.

The next morning, there were three graves dug. All in memoriam for each of the fallen. I smiled as I bid farewell. I'd come to retrieve them and give them a more proper burial in their home cities.

The bounty for this man was quite high, and the courts were shocked to hear a meager healer had managed to bring him in without much help. I had patched him up, sure, but he was never going to use his hands ever again.

/This isn't happening./

"Stun him!" A rough voice yelled out, the desperation breaking past any of the former bravado shown by said warrior. Sparks flew as another wave of slashes and cuts slammed against his shield, pushing even one with suck a hulking frame like him backwards. Feet scraping against the soil he persevered, kicking up dirt and pebbles at each step, staining it all in a deep crimson as blood poured from the cut on his side. Against all logic an axe stuck out of the iron plated armor donned by the fighter, or what remained of it. The weapon's head slammed into it like a blacksmith's hammer did during the forging process, shattering it apart akin to any other poorly heat treated hunk of metal- sending splinters and entire chunks sprawling into the wind.

Blood gushed out endlessly, it was far too late for anything to do even if he was able to reach the man.

"Hng… A-aeron" The young healer's sapphire orbs moved back onto his current patient's wound, a stab into the trachea courtesy of a jagged dagger, dragged downwards for good measure. The elf's hands desperately clutched at his, trying to aid in applying pressure while the miracle was cast. The telltale feeling of ice pouring through Aeron's veins had never been stronger, power surged from his fingertips like a flood trying to fill the wound as if it was an emptied out lake. Her beautiful sun kissed hair stuck out at odd angles, no smile graced her tender lips, only wine like blood, a shade so light he hoped it wasn't real.

Limelight shone brightly between them, but to no avail. Every nerve, every cell he tried to work felt haggard, faded, unwilling to wake up and cooperate with him. But that was impossible, there wasn't any way he couldn't heal a stab… How many times had he closed up cuts from swords, alleviated burn from miracle fires? Hundreds, thousands.

So why couldn't he heal this one damned cut?!

"...Hold on." His voice called out to the mage, oblivious to the screams of his other companion. Tears brimmed to the surface, his light growing tenfold in strength, filling the clearing akin to a burning fire. "Hold on! I need but a moment, just a little more!"

There was no answer. Aeron cursed and pushed his cheek up against the elf's lips, awaiting for a scream to pull away. For a cutting remark or tease about how easily he believed her to be killed. One moment stretched into eternity as he felt none of those.

Not even a breath.

/No…/

Sapphire orbs stared into magenta ones once Aeron pulled his head back. They looked skyward, perceiving something he could not.

"GHNNNN!" Aeron's head remained bowed. There was no mistaking that sound, nor the whine like sound the sword made as it was drawn out of the warrior's body. He didn't need to look up to know the silver blade was painted a deep red. Just like his companions' bodies, sprawled out across the clearing, just like the color which he long grew to dread.

Just like his stained hands.

/T-this is but a dream… a nightmare…/

"Guess that leaves one more." A feminine voice spoke in the silence, her blade whipping through the air before resting its frosty edge against the blonde's neck. Red. It too was that fucking color. "Makes sense it'd be the miracle worker, never saw the point of having your kind around. I'll promise to make this quick, like that you shall not be feeling useless for so long."

"Useless?"

"Oh, still have the spirit to talk? How about healing my wounds instead of sulking in the dirt, little boy." A rambunctious laughter shook Aeron to the core, breaking him out his catatonic stupor. She was tall, built akin to a tree stump with skin the shade of oak bark, lacking any wounds or sweat on her brow, only a smile graced her face. The armor donned was nothing but a iron breastplate hidden underneath a fur coat, it together with the accent made her out to be nordic. "I'll pay you more than these little adventurers ever held in their hands."

Red hair fell on either side of her head.

/…Pardon me, father. For I am about to sully your teachings in a way that'd make mother jealous./

With a long sigh to steady his heart Aeron looked at the woman dead on, weathering the smile with a deadpan look. Her mouth moved to speak, to gloat once more, but in that moment that dreaded color lit up in the miracle worker's eyes, and a cough shook the entirety of the nord's frame forward. Glancing around in confusion, her attention settled on the open palm she used to cover her mouth, blue orbs widening at the sight of blood- it did not stop at one cough however. Another, and then another that would've made one think someone scraped the insides of her throat with sandpaper took the woman backwards. Each step followed by more pained groans in between breaths, until her knees hit the dirt.

"W-wh-"

"Have you ever considered what happens when an artery connected to the lungs gets affected?" Aeron pushed off the forest floor, slipping another orefruit inside his mouth to regain the mana lost so far. It tasted bitter, like dried metal. The woman's answer came as a long rasp and clumsy swing, one easily kicked away, her weak hand sending the blade aside. All of a sudden she grabbed her throat, hammering at it, the skin around the lips growing a faded shade of blue.

"It leads to a lack of oxygen, fatal as I imagine even your northern taught mind understands. But so is a sword through the 6th and 7th rib, as you've impaired onto Awelyn." Aeron grabbed her by the chin, allowing for his red eyes to stare directly into hers. The terror in them was blatant, yet it felt so warranted, so right to be present. "Sore throat, very negligible, if it isn't caused by muscle stress which I'm told hurts like a whoreson… So did it hurt Camille when you stabbed her and cut into the jugular."

Sitting up he let go of her chin. Harald had fought bravely, his body was run through with both an axe and greatsword, pinning it into a rock. Mouth open, eyes frosted over… he looked oddly at peace. Could it have been different they all would have deserved to walk away, return to those they held close, of which Aeron has none. Or rather, not anymore, since it was a mistake to believe this group would be any different.

"Two stabs to the stomach… Many are the causes for pain in that area." He grabbed the axe's wooden handle, glancing back at the nord with a bored expression even as she pathetically attempted to scurry away. Neither her arms or legs could carry all that weight, not when her entire body worked purely off adrenaline at this point.

"I'll need to use a scalpel and make sure I get the right one."

Slowly, I turned my head and gazed upon the lifeless bodies of my party, littered about like refuse.

We certainly aren’t legendary adventurers or mighty heroes, but for all of us to fall to a single foe is unthinkable; this demon is truly fearsome.

“What’s the matter mender? All out of spells? Your friends aren’t looking so well.” The demon mocked me, her inky black tongue slipped out of her mouth and flailed like a fish while she spoke.

Curiously, despite the grim situation, despite certain doom patiently waiting in front of me— I felt no fear. An eerie contentedness consumed me.

“Pah! Friends?” I snarled. “These bastards have been lugging me around to god-knows-where for over a year now. I’m bloody sick of them.”

I pulled the collar of my shirt down to reveal a limestone green shackle—a slaver’s collar.

“Ohh? Humans truly are ruthless, aren’t they?” She tilted her head, allowing her loose tongue to dangle freely.

“This may just be wishful thinking, but perhaps the demon army could use a world-class healer. What say you, Vakara Black-Blood?

Her obsidian eyes rounded with intrigue as she tilted her head to the opposite direction.

“You know of me?”

“Any healer worth their salt has at least heard whispers. They call you an immortal and-” I paused. “After having seen your vitality firsthand, I may have to agree.”

Vakara’s regeneration was, after all, the reason why my party had such trouble fighting her. She wasn’t much faster or stronger than your average monster, but any wound, regardless of severity, began healing instantly and would close up, usually, within seconds— even when Helga lobbed off an arm, it had completely regrown in under a minute.

Brazenly, I took a few steps forward.

“Well, how about it?” I said, presenting myself afore her. “If you don’t think I’d be useful, you can just off me like the lot of them. No point in putting up a fruitless struggle.”

The corners of Vakara’s mouth curled into a veiled smile before she began to approach me.

“Well, I can’t say-“

“YUHHHHG!”

Before Vakara could give me a response, the heavily injured Helga leapt up from her prone position and delivered a tremendous blow, wedging her axe deep into Vakara’s spine with a wet slapping crunch.

“GAHH! How on earth are you still alive?!” Vakara screeched while throwing Helga clear over her shoulder and flat onto the ground.

The impact forced a fountain of blood to erupt from Helga’s mouth.

“Tsk. I guess…” Helga began to speak mutedly, but her words trailed off as the glimmer in her eyes faded.

With Helga, once again, taken care of, Vakara’s attention returned to me. Approaching with barred fangs, it would seem she intended to take my life as well now.

“So, was that your plan then, decoy? Damn humans, can’t trust a word-“

“I’m just as surprised as you. I thought that big bitch was dead.” I spoke curtly.

“Pfft!” Stopping in her tracks, Vakara loosed a small cackle. “As far as humans go, I find you less intolerable than most but-“ She paused to pick her words. “I simply think I’m incapable of trusting one, you see.” Her eyes sharpened as she approached with killing intent.

The axe wedged deep in her back popped out with a metallic clang. Her regeneration was, apparently, slower when foreign objects were wedged inside the wound.

Prefacing with a sigh, I spoke. “Trust isn’t necessarily necessary.” I pulled up my pony-tail and revealed the crest on the back of my slaver’s collar. “Breaking out of these cursed things is nigh impossible, but with a little trickery, I should be able to imprint you as a secondary owner.”

Vakara paused and tilted her head once again. “And what of your original master? Surely their orders will take precedence.”

“Not if you kill him.”

In a very human-like manner, Vakara scratched her pointed chin as if deep in thought.

Just one more push and I think I can convince her.

“Take my offer and you’ll not only gain me as a permeant ally, but you’ll also be able to share my slaver’s collar trick with whomever you please. How many of your kin toil in eternal bondage, unable to lift a finger against their oppressors? We can free all of them.”

After some brooding, she wordlessly approached me and placed her clawed hand atop the slaver’s crest. “Ssshow me.” She slithered.

“With pleasure.” I grinned. “All you have to do is concentrate on the crest; pump all of your mana into it.” As I spoke, I crouched down and placed a hand upon her clawed foot.

“Is that…necessary?” She groaned.

“We must complete the circuit. You’ll understand soon.”

I felt her elongated claws incidentally scratching the nape of my neck, sending little shivers down my spine. It was like dancing with death; one small miscalculation, one tiny movement could spell the end for me before I even had time to realize.

With all my remaining strength, I concentrated on healing Vakara’s perfectly unharmed foot. From my position I couldn’t see the condition of her wounded back; for all I know it had already healed up and this would be my final grift.

After several minutes she barked out of impatience

“Well? Is it working or not?” She demanded answers.

“Do you know how healing magic works?” I spoke slowly, stalling for time.

“Huh?” She growled. “If I find out-“

Before she could finish speaking, she dropped to one knee, supporting her body on my neck, all while I held firm onto her monstrous foot.

“What…is this.” She spoke slowly, with great effort.

“Normally, your body is healing every part of itself at a constant rate; that’s true for mostly every living thing. The basis of healing magic is simply focusing the body’s natural ability to heal onto a single point.”

“What are you—”

“This can heal a lethal wound thousands of times faster but—” I paused, sharpening my eyes and lowering my chin. “Directing all the body’s energy to one area, in a way, completely disregards its natural ability to heal elsewhere.”

“You…Bitch…” She whispered while dropping her head and tumbling over.

She laid on the ground, motionless. Her back facing skyward I could finally see the remnants of Helga’s grievous wound; still large enough to be lethal, thankfully. Even without my intervention, her extraordinary regeneration had completely ceased—she was dead.

“Be it by death or by liberation; it seems I was fated to break my shackles today.” I thought to myself.

With trophy in-hand I started the long journey back to that wretched town. Surely, the head of a Demon Commander was enough to purchase one’s freedom.

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Everybody has their own process with grief. A cycle of anger, sadness, bargaining and acceptance is the norm. For me the norm took on it’s own life. As did those for whom I grieved. We were simply travelers. Among us was Klieve, she was good with a bow, Unger, ever the trustworthy pack-mule and ever burdened with his vast assortment of trinkets and then there was Yowl, a well studied man and my closest friend, master in the arcane arts and able drinking buddy. Upon our trek, on high noon of the laticeday, we were waylaid upon the river front of gall. It was our hopes to ford the mighty river, but found ourselves pursued by savage miscreants, bent on scouring our remains for the petty treasures that we held. The river was in full swell and as we made our attempt to ford arrows rained from the sky burgeoning from our packs and littering the waters around us. Klieve did her best to match their volleys and while she was able to fell two so too did she fall. Struck in the belly and the breast. Upon making it into the depths of the water Unger fell below the depths, stumbling upon a void in the water that the rapid waters hid from view. When I lost Yowl, only then did I truly understand how deep the depths of despair could go. “Ulnik, to the other side! Quickly! Swim! I will hold them!” Turning about face to the onslaught of arrows Yowl cast a tremendous arcane circle in the air before him and from it a great dragon reared its ugly face to the horde of bandits standing on the banks. At this point an arrow took its mark upon my friend. I did not see this as I was swimming frantically towards the shore, but I heard the penetrating blow and his death rattling gasp. From the far embankment I watched as that tremendous beast tore and rended the limbs and heads from the bodies of those savages. I gave a manic smile at this, tears streaming across my cheek though I could not feel them as I was already soaked to the bone. So started my grieving. So started the anger. To be cont.

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Before me stood a foe, arrogant and proud. Our warrior, felled by a superior blade; our barbarian lay dying at the blunt of an enemy club. The only one with wits enough to stand by my side was a rogue, unmatched in cunning and stealth, but outmatched in a frontal confrontation like the one we now deigned to face.

They deigned to face.

No warrior would face an enemy of this number alone, yet there was no life for us if we turned our backs here. All that was left to us was a life after perseveration, or death in cowardice. Neither I, not my rogue, we’re cowards, but no normal party would ever leave such an encounter alive, let alone one lacking in combat abilities such as ourselves.

Rogues weren’t respected, for their masteries lied in a silver tongue that gleamed with golden blade. They were masters of subterfuge, commanding encounters through preparation and foresight. They did night fight an honorable battle to your face, they would destroy your ambitions behind your back. Rogues we’re feared.

Healers, we’re not. Healers were respected for their abilities, but they were not feared. We were considered a necessary burden, tasked with the menial job of ensuring the rest of the party had the stamina to use their abilities and skills to their fullest, providing confidence that strengthens every allied blow, and a comfort that protected all from death.

No one appreciated that softened, though. No one considered the difficulty of triaging a friend in battle, through death, sometimes for many, and often all at once. People thought is weak for covering weaknesses, and though we packed the strength necessary to fell does.

But our oath to do no harm was not a suggestion, or a bythought. To do no harm eas to deny ourselves the animus of battle, and shed the desire for glory. As long as we were allied, we would use our power to protect, and we would sacrifice the glories of esteem at the altar of life, to stave death.

However, I no longer was bound by those chains. Neither of us had the strength to face this many enemies, even weak as they were, alone. At least, none beside did.

I stepped forward to the laugh of a raucous crowed of chattering rabble. They cacophony inflated by the felling of haughty heroes soon fell silent as a wave of magic slithered along, slicing the Achilles of all caught unawares.

As outcast groups, the rogues and the healers often worked together out of necessity. We provided cunning supplies for cunning folk, and my rogue now sat with only enough attention to avoid an unbecoming surprise.

It was the only permission I needed.

With a wave of my hand, blades of light covered the cervical vertebrae of all who now knelt. Their heads heads now offered me in obeisance, in their blood an atonement for their sins. I blackened my oath with efficiency. To use my powers to harm was looked down upon. I knew the destruction. I had been the destruction. I had been a feared, crazed, battle mage of an era I wished to forget, and I wrote the oath of the Guild of Uriel so that none would again taste the frenzy of battle as I had.

But the hubris of my party had gotten them killed. The difficult task of giving one’s life and energy for others is a skill underestimated no more, and the sanguine wetness I tasted on my lips pursed my lip into a smile that was no longer appropriate to hide.

There was no time for confusion. A second wave tore through the enemy at the thigh, severing the femoral arteries of many who were standing. Those left tripped backwards in fear, or stumbled forward in stupidity, their comrades left to die dishonorable deaths within the minute.

It was how the Black Mage Barbatos started all battles. The first ranks would kneel, the second would wail. It was always melancholy to hear men crying for mothers, but they had brought this upon themselves. The symphony of their screams fed my frenzy.

The final ranks would revere.

Men with no respect for magic were simply not, in my presence, and those who dared to rush forwards in defiance now begged for mercy, their bodies wracked with an unholy pain that I always taught my students before continuing on to the ways of anatomy. There would be no more black mages, and this poison of the soul ensured it.

As I looked that enemy champion in the eye, those yet living were released into the hands of my faithful and present companion, death. Their punishment was to be forgotten in the wake of my terrible name. My rogue collected as many materials off the wasted corpses, to be used by the guild in service of life that was once wasted.

Fear filled his heart. Fear always filled their hearts. Healers weren’t respected because the world forgets. There were always who forget, and those who remain ignorant to remember.

But I had been party to enough failed expeditions. Our township alone had lost too many proud warriors, and my Lord was growing both frustrated and fearful. Neighboring townships were suffering the same woes, and attacks by bandits had increased as towns lost their protectors.

I gave my seal to my rogue, and he began his journey back. Within a few days, expeditions would cease, and all Guilds of Uriel would be posted by the gates of every inhabited castle in my lord’s lands, the people hidden safely within. I would meet with my fellow mages in secluded location passed down to us through the eons, and stories of laughter on the battlefield would, for the time being, begin their hushed rounds through the enemies ranks once again.

First, do no harm. An oath I created to shed the creed of the black mage:

> The enemies kneel in blood.

> They offer their heads in obeisance, their loins are bathed with the their blood, and their lips cry out for mercy.

> Their mothers will forget them.

> Their fathers shall be visited by famine.

> Our lips will drink the wine of victory from their necks.

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