Hunter pulled up his HUD, scrolling through the flood of notifications that had piled up during the skirmish. Most were routine combat log entries. Mixed among them, though, were also some Skill and Ability progression updates. Those were what interested Hunter the most.
On the combat-oriented side of his skillset, he’d earned a single point in Glaive Expertise, two in Short Blade Mastery, and three in Opportunist. He hadn’t gotten the opportunity to do much proper fighting, but apparently, coup de grace strikes were just as valid for progression. That was fine; he’d take whatever boosts he could get.
As for the more mystical side of the spectrum, he’d made some progress there too; examining the Bramble Blight with Mystic’s Eye had earned him one point in the eponymous Ability, as well as one point in Occultism and – interestingly – one point in Augmented Familiar. Despite the decreased effectiveness of Ill Omen, the ravens’ contribution had earned them another two points there, too. Finally, cleansing himself from the creatures’ curse had also increased his Essence purge by three and his Reinforced Channels by two points respectively.
Not bad, he thought.
Fawkes handed him back his dirk along with a small, sap-stained burlap bag stuffed with grotesque monster parts. Using them to refine his Craft Spirit Charm Ability wasn’t a bad idea, but now wasn’t the time. He stashed the bag in his bigger-on-the-inside backpack for later – preferably for when he was back in the Sacred Training Grounds. There, he’d be able to make the most of his Ability progression.
“Wanna talk tactics, then?” he asked Fawkes.
“Sure,” she nodded. “Let’s hear what you got first.”
“The way I see it, there were two problems with our approach,” Hunter began. “The first was our choice of weapons. Stabbing these things does fuck-all. Slashing at them is great for slowing them down, but aside from setting them on fire, actually finishing them off is a pain in the ass. Also, white phosphorus? What the fuck, Fawkes?”
“What’s wrong with white phosphorus?”
“What’s wrong with it? Oh, I don’t know – maybe the fact that where I come from it’s banned six ways to Sunday?”
“What for?” Fawkes asked, tilting her head slightly, genuinely curious, as if he’d just told her people outlawed fire.
Hunter opened his mouth to answer, then stopped, the realization hitting him mid-thought.
“Because it’s too… effective?”
“Well, that’s the point, isn’t it?” Fawkes shrugged. “Banning something because it works too well? Sometimes I think your side of things is a loony place.”
“Excuse us for being civilized.”
“Last time I checked, ‘civilized’ doesn’t do shite when fighting those things,” she jerked a thumb toward the Brambe Blights. “There’s a time and place for everything, Hunter. Even alchymical white phosphorus. Plus, I don’t recall you being so goody-goody when we used the Phage. That thing’s a thousand times worse.”
“Anyway,” Hunter said, eager to change the subject. “Let’s not get sidetracked. All I’m saying is, I don’t think fighting these Bramble Blights is the best way to improve our glaivework.”
“On the contrary,” said Fawkes. “They can’t be dealt with with brute force – not with a glaive, anyway – so they’ll put you through your paces. You won’t have a choice other than to learn to fight smarter and work as a team. And the best part? We probably have a near-endless supply of them.”
“What about the curses?” Hunter asked, still not totally convinced. “I’ll be fine – I can purge them. But what about the others?”
“I’ve been thinking about that. Do you think you could teach me that Essence Purge Ability of yours?”
Hunter gave it some thought. It was an interesting idea. It would be a perfect opportunity to figure out something that had been nagging at him: did the System apply to others, or was it unique to Transients? And more importantly, did Skills and Abilities define what he was capable of, or did they merely reflect talents and potential he already had?
“Sure,” he shrugged. “We could try.”
“Do you think you could make a curse charm out of that?” Fawkes gestured at the dissected remains of the Bramble Blight. “Ιf I’m to learn to purge curses, it would be handy to have a way to inflict them first.”
“I could give it a go, I suppose. Though…”
Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.
Hunter looked at the two ravens that were perched on Fyodor’s back, exhausted from the skirmish.
“Guys? Do you think you have another blast of Ill Omen in you?”
A hesitant wave of acknowledgement came through their shared mental link – the equivalent of a weary nod. It wasn’t a confident yes, but it was a yes all the same.
“Great. Hit me.”
Acknowledgement immediately shifted to confusion and surprise. Biggs fixed him with a beady stare, cocked his head, and let out a caw. The message was clear; you can’t be serious.
“I’ll be fine, I promise. Just do it.”
With the mental equivalent of a deep, exasperated sigh, the ravens drew what strength they had left and hit him square in the chest with a half-hearted blast of lime-green eldritch magic.
“Motherf–!”
Hunter groaned, doubling over as the curses sank in. Despite having watched his familiars cast the Curse of Ill Omen on countless enemies, nothing could have prepared Hunter for experiencing it firsthand. His chest felt like it was on fire, a dull, oppressive ache radiating through his body. He clutched his knees, gasping.
“Okay… that hurts way more than I thought it would.”
Biggs and Wedge looked utterly unfazed. Through the mental link, they radiated something between mild amusement and smug satisfaction.
You don’t have to be asshats about it, Hunter projected irritably through the link. The only response was an even stronger wave of smugness.
“Have you gone daft, lad?” Fawkes said, though there was no real bite behind her words. She understood what he was trying to do – she just didn't like it.
Hunter forced himself to straighten, every movement sluggish and heavy. His limbs felt leaden. An overbearing weight pressed against his chest. Was that what just two stacks of Curse of Ill Omen felt like? He was suddenly feeling much more sympathetic for all those low-dwellers Biggs and Wedge had riddled with curses so far.
He swayed slightly before planting his feet to steady himself, blinked hard to clear the fog that seemed to creep into his thoughts. The curses were pervasive, clung to him like an unwelcome second skin.
“Alright, it’s kicked in. Now I’ll try to purge it. I’ll walk you through the process, so pay attention. I really don’t want to have to do this again.”
“I’m all ears,” Fawkes crossed her arms, curious.
“First step’s cycling Essence, trying to get a feel of the curse. The idea is to cycle as hard as you can, scrape it from your channels, then expel it outward.”
Hunter closed his eyes and began. This curse felt different than the Bramble Blights’ one. That one had felt like vines and brambles burrowing into his channels. It had resisted in the beginning, but once he got his Essence flowing fast enough, it gave away. The Curse of Ill Omen was different. It actively slowed down his cycling. He’d have to try twice as hard to purge it.
“This one feels different,” he winced. “More persistent.”
He cycled harder, pushing the Essence through his channels faster and faster. It spun and spun, faster with every cycle. He began feeling like a goddamn washing machine stuck on a 1000 RPM spin cycle.
“It’s starting to give way now,” he said, teeth gritted. “Once you feel it get uprooted by your stream of Essence, you want to push it out of your body.”
He drew in a deep, steadying breath, concentrating on the stubborn remnants of the curse clinging to his channels. With a final surge of effort, he ripped the lingering traces free and exhaled hard, forcing it out of his body. The sensation was strange – like expelling thick, noxious smoke that had been suffocating him from within. He staggered slightly as the weight lifted, and that was it.
He opened his eyes and rubbed the back of his neck. He’d been sweating, he realized. His heart was racing, pounding so hard it felt like it might burst. His pulse hammered relentlessly at his temples. He sat down on the ground to catch his breath.
“Are you well?” Fawkes asked him, concerned.
“Drained. But yes.”
Fyodor padded over, nuzzling his face with a curious snout. The direwolf sniffed him, then pulled back with a sudden sneeze, shaking his head as if offended by some unpleasant smell. Hunter couldn’t help but chuckle weakly.
“Yeah, I don’t feel too fresh either, buddy.”
“I hadn’t realized the windbags were such heavy hitters,” Fawkes said, shooting the ravens an appraising glance. Biggs puffed up indignantly, while Wedge merely preened as if in acknowledgment. “It might be a good idea to start with something more… palatable, if I’m to try to learn how to purge myself. That vitality draining curse stung, sure, but not so much that I couldn’t power through.”
“True,” Hunter nodded. “It might be better to wait and see if I can craft some kind of cursing charm, as you said. Or, perhaps…”
He turned toward the Bramble Blights still lingering at the threshold of the grove. They were giving him and Fawkes the stink eye, unable to cross the invisible boundary.
“I’ll tell you what,” he told Fawkes. “How about we kill them all except one? We can keep it around for training.”
Fawkes raised an eyebrow.
“Now that,” she said, “is what I’ve come to think of as a Hunter plan.”
Hunter just grinned and shrugged.
“You know how it is. If it works, it works.”
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