A personal take on Blood Magic cranked to the nth degree.
Wojack I
"Shackled will to mine, born of my blood and the life of the world. Rise, Neverborn, for I curse you with life."
A man stood in a forest, strong tall pines of gray wood towered over him. The winds and gusts echoed throughout their shivering branches, a dull chill spreading through the woods, yet were shrugged off by his skins and hides.
The man was a wild one, his hair greasy and long, his beard roughly kept and cleaned as best as one could; although it was obvious this man hadn't shaved or had the materials to truly cleans himself.
He stood over a muddy cyst dug out into the detritus and soft black soils of the forest. It was filled with a blackened mixture of blood taken from several corpses next to him. One was an ugly creature, humanoid, but only just. It had blackened skin the color of obsidian and ash, cloven hooves connected to a goat's legs that were joined to a skinny and shriveled toros. Its hands were long and lengthy, although only with four fingers and capped with blackened nails filled with filth and dried blood. The face was a revolting mixture between bat and man, its beady clouded black eyes once filled with a hatred and desire to kill, yet were now turned into a locked expression of rictus horror and fear.
It bled blackened blood like thick tar into the muddy cyst, held aloft by the chanting man by cruel wicked ram horns. The other corpse was that of two men. They wore simple bronze armor of a foreign design that the man failed to place. They were pale skinned with hazel eyes and harsh features. They were done in by a dozen red shards of crystalline blood having penetrated their primitive armor and exposed flesh. They died simply and easily. Their corpses were hung over the cyst-like pit by crude stakes and poles he'd askew over the pit. They were gelded and their arteries were cut along the thighs, gushing out their vital fluids as the man mumbled dark chants in an alien tongue.
"Rise with my mind, rise with my will, rise with all that I shall and all that I can. Created from death, risen through the unnatural life taken from those who squander it so; the power of mine magics, beseech you to grow."
The pit of blood bubbled and boiled, a fuming scent of brimstone and charr rose into the air. From the pit a mud covered hand slowly rose and gripped the edge of the muddy cyst, its hand gripping and clawing at the dirt ineffectively. Another hand reached and grabbed the opposite edge of the cyst, and before long a head breach, then a torso, before a man crawled out of the hole.
The man fell into a fetal position at the foot of the ritualist, a warbling cry of confusion and agony exiting his lips. The ritualist smiled down at the pathetic mewling of the grown man, and from his hip he took out a waterskin made from a deer's stomach and washed the man's face off. The man glared up at the ritualist with wild eyes, burning sulfur with flecks of green in their iris. The man's face and mouth was washed and rinsed, his brief and weak flailing ineffectual against the ritualist's own strength controlling his face and head's orientation.
"Who? Who am I?" The Neverborn whispered. "Where? How?"
"When?" The ritualist asked with a wry grin. He pulled the weak thing to his feet and pointed in a direction where a crude dirt path made its way into the forest, his own green and yellow speckled eyes meeting the confusion of the newborn. "Go that way. It leads to our settlement. They have a water tower there. Take a shower, clean yourself, obtain some hides and boots, then go to the lodge." The ritualist stated. "The lord will brief you."
The newborn nodded along, knowing from context that his questions would be answered if he followed the strange man's directions. He glanced around, only to jerk back as he stared down at the corpses and hole he'd just crawled out of, feeling inordinately filthy as he did so. He backed away from the ritualist who walked towards a hovel of mud and sticks, dragging out another man's cadaver to refill the slightly emptied mud cyst.
The nameless neverborn trudged along, ignoring the resumed mumbles and hissed chants of a language he wondered how he knew. His bare, muddy feet hit the dirt of the cleared path, mind filled with fractured memories. In some he felt like nothing more than a beast, hungering for flesh and agony from those it hunted. In another memory he was a man, sent out along with several other men to hunt down said beasts speaking in a language he both fully understood, yet failed to comprehend. The most dominant of memories spoke of a man from a city, lost in life, who woke up in a forest filled with demons, skinwalkers, and hostile natives that wanted to shackle him in chains or gut him for a quick and easy meal.
He saw the memories of him learning magic from his dreams. Dark dreams filled with the images of blood and sacrifice, always paying something to obtain its effects. He reminisced of his daring escape, manipulating his own blood as a projectile to strike down his slavers, then using their corpses to regain the vitality he'd spent to engage in that action. He remembered fleeing into the forest and using his magics to hunt and survive, to rip knowledge and vitality from the things he slew and to grow more powerful. To engage in dark rituals to create what were initially to be mere slaves and meatbags to take the bite of an ax or help lift and crack heavy stones. Yet, the ritual was far more than what he'd initially thought, and created for him men. Tried and true men with his soul, memories, dreams, and powers; and with these men he saw a daring dream of a future.
The nameless neverborn breached the dense misty and cool woodland path, his feet aching slightly at the trip and slightly scuffed from random detritus he'd stepped on while walking. He found himself before palisades of towering pine. Upon crude towers of hewn wood tied together with lashes of plant fiber ropes were men holding hunting bows and slings with stones at their feet. Men at the foot of the gate were equipped with spears tipped with dull bronze points gleaming in the soft light leaking into the foliage of the settlement still populated with the errant grand willow or ash.
The guards spotted him and twin gates easily opened as the bar locking it was lifted by two strong and built men. The mud-caked man strode into the settlement, looking around wide-eyed at the activity going on inside. Men with features roughly similar to his own, all yellow and green eyed, at times entirely heterochromatic were darting around. Some were hauling supplies and pallets of fired brick using crude wooden wheelbarrows, other men hauled large wagons drawing pots filled with sloshing liquid around. Everywhere he saw construction was being enacted. Crude foremen inspected blueprints drawn out on parchment or crude paper being drawn on with sharpened charcoal lumps.
Men used wooden cranes and scaffolding to lift into place large amounts of cut stone, creating the formation of what were to become strong walls. Those with bronze chisels carved runes of protection, shielding, and resilience into the stone, painting them over with blood and whispering chants in dark tongues.
'How do I know what those runes are?' The nameless being wondered as he made his way deeper into the town. Eventually he saw a large tower with a massive wooden 'bucket' being supported on said tower's crude and unsecure looking supports. Several leaking barrels atop wagons, slacked with wax and resin were being dragged over to what looked like a copper pumpjack and a leather 'hose'. Its length was leaky, filled with stitches and lathered with resin and wax to keep the water within. It was used to suction up the water from the barrels, into the jack, and up into the water tower.
"You there! Mud man! Fresh from the Pits?" The man working the pumpjack asked as he heaved up and down, spurts of water leaking from the poorly sealed hose leaking onto him.
He nodded and the man pointed up to a spigot on the side of the tower. "Stand under there, lad." The nameless being did so and he was soon doused with a mass of water. He shivered and groaned at the cold water washing away the dying mud from his body, using his hands to scrape at his skin and rip away the layer of filth on his skin.
The water ended far too soon, as the nameless being now realized he was freezing. "Here, I had some of the haulers run to grab you some clothing and a rag to dry down." A somewhat rough and irritating rag was thrown into his face, to which he dabbed against his skin to absorb the water. He then grabbed the offered clothing, which consisted of ill-fitting pants drawn up by strings, a simple shirt, and some sandals.
"Head on to the lodge. It's down that way, can't miss it. All wood and looks like a norse-longhouse."
The nameless entity nodded and made his way through the streets of the town, idly watching the seeming never-ending bustle of the town. He made his way to the long-house and found it was just that. A massive 'table', really being just several crude tables all pushed against one another, which was currently being set with several bowls of a good smelling stew. Said bowls weren't all clay or wood, as he also spotted several skulls of both animal and human, or demon, being used as well.
At the end of the hall was a man dressed in thick furs and was currently using a charcoal stub to write on a piece of parchment. Next to him were two other men also sitting down and writing away at a stack of papers and parchment.
"Ah, it seems we have a visitor. New spawn?" The lead man asked. The other two glanced his way and then started to sift through papers and one found what he was looking for.
The nameless man walked over and nodded. "Yes. I was told you'd answer my questions? Or, at least I assumed…"
The man nodded. "Yes, yes. Normally I'd leave this to my clerks, but I find my work growing dull. A break sounds nice. First, we need to get you a name." The man stroked his chin, "Hmm, I was thinking…Anon?"
"Already have that one, Milord." The scribe stated as he stared at the thick stack of papers, likely a list of names.
The lord hummed and sat back, wrapping his fingers against the table. "Then…Wojack?"
"That…" The scribe shuffled the papers, "Is free."
The lord nodded, "Wonderful." He stroked his ill-maintained beard, something most all men seemed to have. "Well then, Wojack, does that name suit you?"
Wojack paused, before shrugging. "It's a name."
"That it is, that it is." The man nodded. "Now, introductions. I am Corvus, a Lord of Blood, and you are my son." He spread his arms in a welcoming gesture, "All are bound in blood in these lands, born of the same rituals being performed by my esteemed cast of Warlocks."
Wojack hummed at the declaration and decided to just listen.
"Our Progenitor, one Corvac Forwitch, is sadly dead. Struck down by disease." The lord shook his head sadly. "He was sent here to this strange land of what the locals called 'Mossovy'. How and why, we have no clue. It is a far-eastern realm, one populated by what we've come to learn are 'Demon Hunters'. These men drift around in smaller and less populated settlements to the south, really just outposts, driven here from foreign lands seeking to make profit and accrue fame from slaying the demons and Magi that populate the forests." The lord explained, "It is here that we've come to call our new home, learning magic from our dreams and using the memories of our Progenitor to progress and advance our growing society."
The lord filtered through various papers on his desk and found a crude map. He presented it to Wojack. "We have spread far and wide throughout the forests of Mossovy. A total of seven different settlements and holdings spread throughout the large forest. This settlement, Blightwood, is the third, a splinter of the original settlement, Carrion, further south. We are here mainly for the close connection to a collection of lakes that we are fishing and harvesting for clay, which we barter and trade with other settlements for their own natural resources."
Wojack inspected the map. There were a total of seven blotches along with labels for the settlements. The map itself was crude and showed that there were two coastal towns to the north, these were named Foamfroth and Drowned Port. Foamfroth was to the far west and Drowned Port was to the far east, near bordering the Bhor Mountains.
The Bhor Mountains were a massive mountain range that swallowed most of the eastern horizon and they seemed to go on forever into the south. It was here that one other settlement was built. The last two were known as Baulder's Gate, the furthest settlement south and was located in the middle of the crude map and was closest to Carrion. The last settlement was a bit south of the Blightwood and their direct intermediary to Carrion and Baulder's Gate; Demonblight.
"Carrion, Demonblight, and Baulder's Gate; smackdab in the center of the forest and are under near-constant siege by woodland magi, shapeshifters, druids who command the beastial elements of the forest, demon hunters, and of course the demons themselves. Makes them rich in blood; the greatest of currencies in our lands."
Wojack frowned at that, "Using blood as a currency?" He asked. Transporting liquid as a currency, let alone one that spoils…
The lord nodded, "Blood is where we get our magics from. There is an easy and simple ritual to draw out blood and turn it into a 'blood crystal', but blood crystals are less valued as they can't be used for ritualistic purposes and instead are the material requirement for most directly casted magics." Corvus stated. "Foamfroth in turn has its nascent glass foundries, blowing vials and flasks that we stopper with cork trees and wax from our own forests; only Blood Lords and more powerful Warlocks can afford such luxury as Borax from the Gray Wastes is rather hard to source. Our economy is a burgeoning thing, but with everyone desiring blood for both self-defense or some ritual they dreamt up, it makes for a good enough coinage."
Worjack hummed and nodded, "What are our enemies? How powerful are they?" He asked.
Corvus sighed, shaking his head with exasperation. "We are beset at every turn, although, with our magic, such a thing is good. The Demon Hunters are fools. Exiles, vagrants, young men told too many stories; paired with men of religious fervor from a good hand's number of religions, they hold little threat unless a Crusade or similar religious movement is called. Our magic reinforces our warriors with the strength of several men, and a Warlock can slay several dozen men with a few whispered incantations and a bit of Blood Crystal."
Wojack hummed, "Free blood, basically." He muttered. "More we kill, the more powerful we get."
The lord nodded. "Yes. Then we have the Demons. Some are truly powerful, able to enact their own brands of foul magic. Some can call upon the elements, and others cause horrible disease and ruinous rot. All paired with a fearsome physical prowess. Those that wield such powers are called Greater Demons, and their blood can make a wise Warlock a Blood Lord like myself. The other demons are fodder, mostly. Still powerful and their claws can reap through bronze with laughable ease, although iron seems to turn them away. Filthy creatures as well, so a cut often means a death sentence until we can get some high-proof alcohol into the hands of well trained medics." The man stroked his chin, "Iron blades seem to do their best against their flesh, burning it through some natural weakness to the metal. Iron is worth just as much as gold in these lands, despite Rust being rather rich in it. Steel doesn't do the same against the demons, sadly, so we're looking for ways to keep the anti-demonic properties of iron but upgrade the material; likely a magical solution."
The lord shook his head and sighed, "I'm getting away from myself. Let's talk about you."
Wojack stood a bit straighter as the lord leaned forward. "As you were born on Blightwood lands, by my laws you are required to give no less than three-years of labor and service. We have a list of jobs currently for offer, to which you can choose amongst. Once your three-years are up and over, you'll be declared an 'Expert' within the job of your chosen path unless it's something like dumb labor. After your service is over, you are free to leave my service and seek service within my own, or any other Blood Lord's land."
Wojack hummed and scratched his cheek, "Once my contract is up, am I a freeman, or am I required to work under the orders of a Blood Lord?"
Corvus smiled, "A Blood Slave, as we call those of your standing, and while you will cast off those shackles in due time; that is not the whole truth. Blightwood runs a meritocracy, rewarded with wealth and facilities to further a chosen craft. By your three-year stint of service you will have escaped the status and become one of The Blooded who gain more freedoms and rights; although still but property to us." The lord chuckled, "Our kingdom as one might call it has only been established for a total of five-ish years and even still, my labor laws of three years are considered generous by many of my fellow lords."
Wojack frowned, "Then are there not many of The Blooded? If you are considered generous and we are so infantile…"
The lord nodded, "While Blooded exist as a position, there are not many of them. Only through achievements outside of the established systems are they created. More often than not one sees a Blood Slave jump into the higher ranks, for above the Blooded there are the Warlocks and Blood Knights, and above them are the Blood Lords. Anyway, we are drifting from your initial question. The answer would be no, you are not a freeman. If you must wish for freedom, there are routes to explore and obtain such a thing if one is determined enough."
The slave hummed and stroked his chin, "What rights do I have as a Blood Slave?" He asked.
"In law, none. You are mine to use and spend however I see fit, or your maker. However, you do have some basic, bottom of the barrel human rights. Torture, prolonged suffering, and cruel and unusual punishment isn't allowed to be used on our own subjects; although what those are described as is often not mentioned. Hard labor in the mines of Rust, inhaling iron, coal, and dying inside the dark caves could be seen easily as an unusual punishment. A further example being that you are viable to be taken as a lab-rat and used in a many number of experimental and dangerous magical rituals. It's the most likely fate of those who take the 'Warlock Apprentice' career path; few survive the learning process."
Wojack looked down at the presented sheet of careers. There were many that he immediately crossed out, like managing the latrines, being a dumb laborer, and so on. Many like 'Fisherman' and 'Hunter' were crossed out on the page, likely full. Same with being an artisan and 'inventor'. Wojack briefly scratched his head about any knowledge that he had from his Progenitor.
"Do we know the Gunpowder ratio?" He asked.
The lord nodded with a wry grin, "Carrion, Rust, Demonblight, and Balder's Gate are searching for Sulfur. 75 nitrate, 15 char, and 10 sulfur, yes?"
Wojack clicked his tongue, before his eyes landed on one that he raised a brow on. "I'd think Warrior would have more applicants." He said.
Corvus chuckled, "Despite our powers, we are taking horrendous losses. We produce men at a tremendous rate, no doubt, but every few months we lose dozens if not hundreds of men to a Greater Demon. The Magi, mages and druids that populate this forest also tend to not like us. They're more flies and annoyances, our magics, runes, and wards are more than enough to keep their voodoo away, but at times they get lucky. We are suffering grand amounts of attrition, not just from the war, but also food." He sighed, "Carrion has its name for a reason, and that is due to them using Blood Slaves as an easy food source. Cannibalism has become a staple of the culture there, having used various rituals to make themselves immune to the negative side-effects and disease ridden consequences of eating such rot." The man frowned, "Now if only that worked on the Demon's magic." He muttered, before shaking his head, "By King's law they are required to clarify what is and isn't tainted, so don't fear a visit too much." The lord chuckled.
One of the clerks laughed with his lord, "An acquired taste, I hear."
Wojack hummed and stroked his chin, "If I go down the Warrior path, is it possible for me to become a Blood Knight?"
The lord nodded, "It is the only way to become a Blood Knight. I assume that is what you are aiming for?"
Wojack nodded.
"Then I shall fill you in. A Blood Knight is a martial warrior, one that has experienced a plethora of battles and survived each one; something not impossible to do with various rituals and magics that can bring a mortally wounded man back to hardy health. Although disease remains the killer of most, especially with the Demon's magics that take deep hold into flesh, so deep our magics fail to resist them." There was a haunted look in the lord's eyes, as if he'd witnessed such a thing far too many times.
He shook it off and continued, "To become a Blood Knight, you must accrue enough wealth to purchase yourself armor and arms of a decent quality, including a demon slaying blade. Then you present yourself to a Blood Lord and swear yourself to their cause and house. Doing so means you represent your Lord and will see grand resources being given to a knight for training and equipment. Respect, Social Status, and the connections needed to enhance the mortal flesh beyond that which is mortal."
The lord grinned, a zeal in his eye, "We grow ever stronger and more powerful with each foe we slay and each night we dream. I've seen Knights 'spar' against one another, ripping themselves apart with serrated flanged maces and supernatural strength that sundered their bronze and iron armors. Broken and bleeding, they command a powerful force over the art of Hemomancy, drawing in their own and their foe's spilled blood to act as a force to attack, defend, and heal. Storms of crimson sanguine liquid that dents bronze and iron both, undying save for the most lethal of blows to the skull. Such prowess will only grow as we discover the methods of making metals similar to this rumored 'Valyrian Steel', or outright replicating it. That and new magics to experiment and grow stronger with."
Wojack listened intently, his eyes narrowed slightly as he took in the description, before he nodded and placed the paper on the table. "I will be a Warrior, then."
The lord grinned, "Wonderful, wonderful." He whispered to a clerk who nodded and beckoned the Blood Slave to follow him.
The clerk led him out and then pointed him along the street towards a distant and squat building near the gates of the town. "There is the Garrison. Forty men guard Blightwood with a hundred and seventy eight men on active patrols and hunting behaviors. Find Blood Knight Sagittarius, he'll indict you into the ranks and send you to the training yards."
Wojack nodded and bowed his head slightly, before heading off. He idly wondered how long it'd been since this town was established, feeling more and less developed in certain places than others. Likely due to the fact that none of them really knew what they were doing except for guess work and trial and error. It was a poorly functioning, but still functioning town, and one that was slowly finding its feet like all the others. At least, they had a far greater head start than other civilizations, and it seemed like there weren't any established groups save for the disparate hedge witches and magi that lurked around the forest.
Wojack arrived at the barracks and knocked on the iron reinforced oaken door. A hatch on the door opened up, letting Wojack see a pair of eyes glare at him.
"What are you here for?" The man asked. "Got your sweetroll stolen?"
Wojack cringed, 'Oh god, a roleplayer.'
"Here to join. Blood Slave conscript." He replied, "I need to see Blood Knight Sagittarius."
"Hmm, sounds about right. But I'll be keeping an eye on you." The door unbarred and he was let in, Wojack glancing around to the squat stone and brick building. There were several pallets of fur, hide, and crude and cheap plant fiber textiles strewn around as beds. Posts were used to support hammocks, and there was a firepit that was connected to a crude mud and clay chimney that a pot of stew boiled on. At the back of the rather smelly room, sat a man wearing a miss-match of armor.
All of the Neverborn looked similar, enough to pass as cousins and brothers, but this man looked like a father. Wojack walked over and stood before the man, inspecting the bear-pelt he had over his shoulders, the bronze gleaming bracers, the iron breastplate that was lined with a rigging of various waterskins. The iron scent he got from the man told him he was likely using Hemomancy to fill them with the blood of his enemies and used the waterskins as a currency.
He glanced up at Wojack and sniffed, "Fresh Blood?" He asked.
Wojack nodded, "Yes sir." He gave a stiff and uncertain salute.
"We don't do much bowing or salutes around here, lad. A good march, yes, but salutes and posturing ain't us." The man sniffed and then spat something black and dark into a bucket near him. He groaned and massaged his chest, glancing up and catching Wojack's concern.
"Don't worry 'bout me lad. Witches think they're smart, cursing me with advanced aging and making the wounds a Greater Demon gave me worse." He grinned, "I expected to die five years ago, when Corvac Forwitch himself spawned me in a desperate attempt to fight back the Demon Hunters after him. Picked up a blade after stoning one, never left my side since. Live by the sword, die by the swords; as they say."
Wojack frowned, "Sir Sagittarius, how does one protect themselves from such curses?"
"Captain, lad." The knight corrected, "You're under my command now. As for curses, well a good breastplate lined with blood runes, a strong and magically altered body that shrugs them off, charms and trinkets. You'd have to ask a Warlock for more detail. Their kind always has an answer for this mystical stuff."
"You speak like they're different." Wojack noted.
The captain grunted, "We all have dreams. If one is an artisan, one dreams of their work. If one is a student, one dreams of school. If one is a warlock, they dream of magic. If one is a warrior, we dream of battle. The Neverborn as we call ourselves have a leading 'faith' as one could call it. It is directed towards an entity we simply call 'The Sleeper'. A mixture of Cthulhu Mythos and Bloodborne from what I've read of the few texts the bored Warlocks get around to making. Cryptic and edgy nonsense for the most part, but developing a culture and mythos of our people is apparently important for the continued survival of The Neverborn as a people." The captain rubbed his black beard, "At least, that's what the Lords say. Lords get lordly dreams, governance, stewardship, money making, culture, religious tools; that kind of shit."
Saggitarius grunted as he rose from his chair, "Well, let's get you settled in. Strip off that slave wear, we'll get you fitted in some real kit. We don't exactly have much in the way of standardization for armor yet, too many artisans acting as inventors making all kinds of crazy gear and tools for that to work just yet. Once you get fitted up, head out to the yard. We'll drill you with a warhammer, shield, arming blade, and spear."
The guard that allowed him in grabbed his shoulder and guided him to an off room where there were plenty of blood stained and ripped armor pieces. Wojack was eventually suited up in a bronze breastplate with a few small rents in the plate, some iron bracers, good boots, and a kettle-helm of iron.
Out in the yard there were twenty men all running around a dirt track, on their backs were a large assortment of rocks held in a burlap sack. They were all dressed in gear and sweating like dogs. A sack of stone was thrown into his hands. "Get running blood!" Saggitarius screamed as Wojack entered the line, wheezing and heaving as he went.
His vision went blurry as they kept running, stomach suddenly voicing its protest, demanding its first meal. Thankfully the brutal drill was already in progress, and it ended soon rather than later. He joined the men as they took a breather, a skull filled with boiled water being passed around. The men only took a sip, and despite the temptation to take more, he himself only filled the bottom of his mouth and passed it on.
"Spears!" The men all bolted up and ran over to a rack of spears. They then all lined up, Wojack joining them. "Shields!" On the opposite side of the field an array of shields were all lined up. They ran over and picked them up. "Stances! Lock!" The order was followed by a quick few blows of a horn, likely a sound for them to memorize and repeat in action.
Their shields locked, and his two partners nudged him into the correct position with a few added whispers. "Advance!" Another repetition of sounds from the horn.
"Cease!" The men didn't relax as they stood ready. A low and harsh bellowed followed from the horn.
"Marching orders!" Another horn blew, this time at a higher pitch. A man started to pound on his drums, and the men followed his beat.
The drills ran on, and soon they stopped. Wojack, a sweaty, tired, and hungry man was then dragged into the center of the field and then paired off against another tired, but more experienced man. "Sparing! Start!"
Wojack didn't even see the blow coming, luck and reflexes saving him as he raised his shield and blocked the padded stick's blow to his eye. He shuffled back, playing defensive and tried to swipe at the man's legs, only for him to shuffle back or black with derisive ease. His defenses had holes, easy to exploit ones as the man read from his attacks that he thought the legs were an easy target, to which he then targeted, and sent him on his ass; padded length of wood pointed down at his throat. He got up and started again, and the brutal sparring combat continued for a long, long while. Then the dinner bell rang and Wojack dragged his sorry ass into the barracks. A bowl of gruel mixed with a thick portion of fish and some random assortment of vegetables; largely potato chunks and mushrooms.
He found himself sitting in a corner, soon joined by another man who sat next to him.
"Hey, name's Ugin."
"Wojack."
"You did well out there." Ugin complemented, "Good to see a rookie not folding the cards on first training."
Wojack blinked, "That happens often?" He asked.
Ugin shrugged, "Uncommon, more like. Our Progenitor was from a more…relaxed time, yeah? Slovenly, weak willed, prideful in ways not easy to understand. There are those not built for the harsh realities of our current existence, and with him in our souls and bones, those that get more than their fair-share of his personality, or just the bad parts supported by whoever else's memories find such training unviable. They go back and pick up a simpler and easier job."
Wojack hummed, "I'd like to think we're more than our parts, less sum, and more...I dunno, something else." He tossed a chunk of potato into his mouth, a frown growing, "How are we growing this?" He asked. "I'd think a lone farmer and his hands wouldn't have much in the way of protecting themselves in this forest."
The other man hummed, "We have farms laid out all over Mossovy. Somewhat hard to do in a wooded forest, but slash and burn is one hell of a drug." He took a bite of his stew, chewing slowly as he thought about his answer, "Farming is at times even more high risk than being a Warrior, largely depending on where you set up. The Blightwoods is actually a rather safe area, fraught with wolves, bears, and of course the other inhabitants of the forest, yes, but farmers are often rather wealthy men in terms of Blood, becoming powerful Warlocks in their own right. Wards etched into fences and homes, destructive magics powered by the blood crystals harvested from their livestock." Ugin chuckled, "It's a dream job for those who have the grit for it, and usually a retirement option for some of us."
Wojack hummed, "What about where it's not safe?" He asked.
Ugin stroked his chin, "Carrion, for sure. Bauldur's Gate as well. Both get attacked by warbands of Demon Hunters who aren't so dissuaded by mere wards. Against a demon and a witch's magic, it's more effective than a wall of steel. Animals are scared off by the mojo of the farm. But mortal men? A chill down their spine and not much else. That'd freak any animal out, instincts yellin' at 'em to flee, but us men? Not so much."
"You'd think these Hunters would scram after watching our magic in play."
Ugin chuckled, "With how much we kill and our strange magics on full display, stories get told in more and more detail. Warbands go in, only a sparse few come out with outlandish stories. Survivors weave tails of our Warlocks ripping the lifeblood from bleeding men; desiccating them in but mere moments. It draws more fools with delusions of grandeur. That, and the lords of the Blood Gate, what we call the southern settlements protecting us northern ones, aren't exactly unreceptive to the raids. They get rich off the blood, freeze it up in Blood Banks using runes and dark cellars. The more fools that come, the richer and more powerful they grow."
Wojack chuckled, "Can we speak their language?" He asked.
Ugin nodded, "Some of us get the memories more than others. Why?"
"Wouldn't surprise me if those lords send survivors back with tales of gold, treasure, and vengeance in their heads. Heard that torture was allowed against foreigners, and if Lord Corvus up in 'peaceful' little Blightwood says that so easily, then these more brutal lords down south must be getting good at psychological warfare."
Ugin chortled, "A sharp mind you have, Woe."
They ate in companionable silence.
"Hey, Ugin. How long have you been…well…alive?"
The man blinked, before smiling. "I've been a soldier for nine weeks, so about that time, give or take a day or two. My ritualist kept me around for a bit, used me to haul some of his stuff around, clean, before he kicked me to the streets." Ugin didn't seem that bothered by that fact. A bit annoyed, perhaps. Harsh treatment, but everyone had their own lives and empathy for their fellows wouldn't be conducive inside an environment where death was expected and to live more than a year was a great feat on its own.
"What do you think you're going to want to do when you get out?" Wojack asked.
The man frowned briefly, "Hmm, farming sounds nice, but I'll likely become a Bannerlord."
Wojack gave the man a curious look, the name ringing a bell somewhere in his head, but he needed the clarification.
Ugin rubbed the back of his head, "A Bannerlord is effectively a mercenary party under the command of a free Blood Knight. They raid, reave, kill, explore. That kind of stuff. It's only postulated as King Cancer wants to give us time to develop as a nation, get into the hundred thousand population mark before trying to go on a warpath."
Wojack gave the man a queer look, "A free knight?" He asked.
Ugin nodded, "It happened to Saggitarius. He's sworn to Corvus now, but was freed during the 'Establishment' as it's called, which was a bloody era lasting three-ish years. To think that was a mere two years ago." Ugin shook his head ruefully. "He was 'freed' from service after his sworn lord, and technically the first king, Corvac Forwitch died. For a time he and a group of ruffians were just roaming warmongers, slaughtering throughout the Gray Wastes and Mossovy. Not against any fellow Neverborn, mind, that's a good way to get everyone after your head. Last thing we need is some rogue catching the idea to run off and start getting some nation or a religion's attention drawn on our heads. Attention is good, but we're really relying on the mystique of our forests to protect us from any real attention."
Wojack gave a non-committal hum, "How do you get free? Blood Lords don't seem like the type to die."
Ugin snorted, "Oh, no. That happens all the time. Blood Lords are powerful for sure, but the only real stable seat of power in our kingdom would be the Blood Throne of Rusted Iron, way to the east in Rust."
Wojack's eyes went wide, "Rust? I'd have thought of Carrion or Bauldur's…"
Ugin shook his head, "Rust is the big economic power with their iron, tin, copper, and silver mines. That and the massive blast furnace foundries, smithies, artisans… You get the point. King Cancer is playing the stewardship and technological path. He wants us to be a very rich and developed nation, and he's taken to it like a dragon. He'll move the capital to wherever he thinks the money goes. Cancer is very much a tyrant, Blood Lords can whine all they want, but he's the oldest Neverborn, and that means he has control of all of our lives, lords included. I mean that literally, by the way. A thought and we'd all drop dead."
Wojack whistled, "He a good king, tyrant aside?"
Ugin shrugged, "Benevolent Dictator with unlimited influence. No real faction to appease for soft power as he has a gun pointed to everyone's head. Cancer gives orders and bills, basically dictating what direction our thinkers and tinkers are running for the development of the kingdom; literally the only thing he really cares about. Rumor has it he's trying to figure out if we can grow any cash crops for things like Weed, Coca, and Psychedelics; good income flow, I'd say for export and magical uses. Likely also pushing alchemists to make potions and stuff for us warriors. Snort some white stuff and shake off the crippling agony of a demon munching on our arm or some other such stuff."
Wojack gave another queer look at Ugin, "Priorities much? Shouldn't we be working on something else then something like that?" He asked.
"Eh, that's just a side project, one of the more infamous ones. A good one in my opinion, as we have blood magic to bolster our greenhouses and grow rare plants at an accelerated rate. Figure out what all the grasses and weeds do and suddenly we have a really developed medical and pharmaceutical background. If we ever get trade going…" Ugin shrugged. "Stonks. Gotta be some rich guy out there they'd pay a butt load for a magic mushroom."
Wojack hummed and a short silence fell, "Hey, you know what the coastal towns fight? I assume they fight demons and the like, but I haven't heard much talk about them. More just about the Blood Gate."
Ugin grimaced, "Foamfroth is where my Warlock Sire was from…he spoke about it a lot. A deadly place, no doubt. It's a crude port town, better now I guess, but still just as shanty as ever. They deal with all kinds of nastiness. Not from the land, but from the sea." He shivered, "Spider Crabs the size of cars crawling out of the depths and onto houses, prying apart wood to rip men from their beds. Horrid fish-men that we jokingly call Merlocks." Ugin glanced at Wojack, "There's a good reason The Sleeper is so associated with Lovecraft's works, Woe, and those fish people are the greatest. Fuckin' mad gurgling and the visions of an underwater god. Never in our dreams, thank the Sleeper, but they'd get visions at times."
"Memories from your sire?" Wojack asked.
"Aye. We worry about our future sailing days, and let me tell you, those future seamen?" Ugin looked dead in Wojack's eyes, "either the maddest fuckers alive, the deadliest, or both. Contending with sea monsters and whatever lurks in that black abyss. Talks of poison capsules in their teeth to avoid a watery death; they're some of the biggest supporters of King Cancer's alchemist bill, wanting to poison the waters, develop some potion that makes 'em sane again." Ugin shook his head. "Mad men who've made it their life's mission to wage war against the sea itself."
"How 'bout Drowned Port?"
Ugin snorted, "Like Foamfroth, but worse. Cursed, I say. Storms near constant, mostly lightning with a good drizzle. Dead bloated bodies float up on the shore, some giants standing taller than eleven meters I heard! They rise up again and it takes several warlocks to put it back into the ground. The name of the port comes from them, drowned beings that constantly wash up and get washed back out into the sea when the tide comes, and if stirred they pick themselves back up with weapons made of bone and shell."
Wojack snorted, "Demon Hunters and Religious Zealots in the south, Demons and Magi in the Forest, and whatever hells the Coastal Towns get up to. 'Bout Rust?"
Ugin pursed his lips, "Giants. Live ones. Live in the mountains and lumber around at times, but they seem afraid of the open lands, sticking to the Bhor. A few got curious at times, but Cancer was ready. Some ballista and warbows scared 'em right off. A cowardly lot, but makes sense. Big as they are, they're target practice for most projectiles with enough umph to punch through their skin. They're not the real big problem, potential allies if we can ever figure out how to talk with 'em. Nah, that'd be the Goatmen. Head of a goat, legs as well, rest is man in a thick fur of white hair. Marauders. Raiders. They come in force and leave with unnatural agility after stealing anything that looks edible. Cowardly as well, but also easy to enrage. They stick to the far East mostly, so us westerners just have to deal with disease and animals." Ugin snorted, "Cancer fuckin' hates 'em. Made a decree of material rewards for each head. Has a kingly duty to make a room filled with their skulls."
Wojack laughed and went to eat some more stew, only to come up short. He sighed, slurped down the remaining puddle, before standing. "Think it's time for bed." Wojack muttered.
Ugin snorted, "Yeah, good luck. Newbies are on night watch."
"Fuck."
"See ya' tomorrow, Wojack."