“So who is King in your lands, then? Does no one remember Pendragon the high king and his Lady Guinevere?”
Morgan’s jaw dropped in shock. “No. Goddamn. Way. King Arthur? That high king? Excalibur, the Sword in the Stone, and all those myths? I’m not sure—no, I know I must be dreaming now. I’m stuck asleep or some shit like that.”
The old witch burst out laughing. “Deny or not, the blood marks ye true. Three bastard whelps I left with three different childless wives. T’was long before we came here, my King and I, and his Lady. My blood in thine own veins, lit aflame by the Life-Fire of the Fruit of the Tree. Believe as ye will, but ye stand near the heart of High Avalon, granddaughter mine.”
Power rippled out from the witch as she spoke, an assertion upon reality by an ancient will that gelled the air and silenced echoes as she spoke again, transfixing Morgan with a burning gaze:
“I am Moghren of Clan Le Fay, daughter of Myrrdin himself. The power of my blood burns in thy veins, and it will not be denied.”
Chapter 15: First Raven’s Roost
Morgan Mackenzie was having a pretty embarrassing day. The old witch, Moghren, had proven to be extremely curious about the conditions and limitations of her Skyclad class effects. The nude spellcaster was currently trying, and failing horribly, at eating soup with a spoon, while the old woman cackled with vicious amusement. Oddly enough, Morgan’s state of undress seemed to interest Moghren the least of all her class quirks.
In between dry chuckles, Moghren managed to make various questions and comments. “I have never seen the like, granddaughter. Ye can hold the spoon, and look upon it, yet when ye try to eat, thy hands twitch like ye’ve got the palsy!” More laughter followed another failed attempt, as the younger woman almost managed to get a spoonful of stew out of the bowl.
“Ugh!” Morgan exclaimed in frustration as the spoon fell back into the bowl, leaving her fingers numb and twitching uncomfortably. “I’m glad this is funny to you, old witch! I had no idea it would keep me from using spoons and shit! And another thing—why aren’t you bothered by me being naked?”
At that, the crone’s smile lost some of its hardness. “Old I may be, but no stranger am I to prancing through the woods in nothing but my skin, young one. Warm springtime was the season for wild revel, to celebrate surviving the cold winters and embracing life and lust under the moonlight. No Christian monk is Moghren, to deny the joys of the flesh to any man or woman. Though mine own age for such things is long past,” she finished wistfully.
“I don’t understand why I’m not embarrassed about it. Back on Earth, I would be scrambling for a blanket or a shirt, but now? Just thinking about it makes me feel uncomfortable and confined.”
Moghren didn’t seem surprised by this admission, either. “Ye chose the Class, child. The changes be writ upon thy very Soul. The choice was made, the consequence accepted, and that choice was then etched into the fabric of thy being. That be how this world works. The rules here be different than the old world.”
The younger woman sat in thought while she gazed down at the spoon with a forlorn expression. Her musings were interrupted as the witch spoke once again.
“Have ye thought to move the spoon with thy magics, child?”
Morgan stared at her elder counterpart, then slapped herself on the forehead at the sudden revelation. “Duh! I should have tried that from the beginning!”
Her initial experiments with the wooden spoon provided no results. “…I can’t feel it with my Mana; it’s not like stone or dirt. There’re grains of Earth in it, but it feels different , somehow. I can’t hold onto them…”
The other woman had nodded as Morgan spoke. “Yes, ye can feel the grains. They be linked with the remnants of Life and Water in the wood. Do ye understand nothing of magic at all?”
Morgan shook her head. “Nothing except what I know from our made-up stories back home, and from things like cartoons—”
“What be these… cartoons ?” Moghren asked, with a stilted emphasis on the final word. “The translation spell be quite convenient, but it does not convey all of thy words.”
“They’re like…” Morgan struggled for a moment to explain. “They’re drawn pictures shown one after the other really fast, so that the eye is tricked into thinking they’re moving. The difference between one and the next is small, but if you shift through them fast enough, the picture changes smoothly.”
Moghren considered her explanation for a moment. “There be memory spells that come to mind with such a thing. A flickering illusion to show others what one has seen, though it takes a great effort of the mind. Ye might one day cover thyself with such glamours and thine own recollections of garments, but to fool all the ways of seeing, even I cannae do.”
“I’m honestly not as bothered by it as I thought I would be. I am worried about the cold when winter gets here, and sharp rocks and sticks still hurt my feet. But most of the time, it just doesn’t even cross my mind.”
“That be the changes in thy Soul, then, and a boon of thy Class. Many men, and no few women, may leer or jest, but they would do so even were ye clothed. ‘Tis possible it be a thing ye can use to get thine own way with some, if they be childish and so easily distracted.” The old witch’s expression turned to a nostalgic smile. “I distracted many by such means when I were as young as thee. Kings and beggars both can find their words out of reach when blinded by such delights.”
Morgan picked up the spoon once again, letting it rest on her palm instead of trying to actually use it. “So how do I touch the Life Mana you mentioned? I can’t sense it like the Earth, and even the Water is faint. If it was stone, I could mold it like clay. Easier than clay. It’s my highest Affinity except for basic Mana.”
“Likely it be the points ye wasted on things other than thy magic. Intellect is by far thy most important attribute, as it is for any Class reliant on magics. All five do far more than the mystic messages explain, though ye would not know that, as ye arrived where no one stood to explain.”
“The system notifications?” Morgan asked.
“System. This is a good word,” said Moghren, repeating it as if tasting the meaning. “The language spell I cast upon ye will learn and grow as ye converse with more folk, even though they be far from here. Others can tell ye more, but I can give some small guidance to keep ye from bumbling like a fool.”
“Please!” Morgan exclaimed with obvious relief, sitting at attention at the other woman’s table. “I don’t really know anything! I put points in Vitality right off so I could survive, but I’ve just been trying to round everything out because I don’t really know how everything works!”
“I would call ye daft, but if one has never been told, I can see how it would be beyond thy ken. It is not so dire a thing, to have a touch of extra Strength and Agility. Especially here in the Wildlands. But Intellect will help all Classes. It does not make one any smarter, not directly. But it makes things more clear in thine own thoughts.”
“So it’s more than just my Mana pool?”
“Far more. It will help ye sort out the different flavors of magic, or Elements as ye call them. It will make thy spells more powerful, of course, but it will also help ye in all things to do with thy mind. Not thinking better, but thinking…more. About more things at once, without confusion.”
“So…” Morgan paused for a moment of thought, going over her own status menu. “I have the ten points from reaching level ten; I never spent them after getting my class. And fifteen Skill points. But the Skills menu says I don’t have enough points to get any new Skills…”
“Aye. Ye have a Class now. In this world, thy Class changes everything. I myself used to be the [Raven Witch], until I claimed the heart of the First Raven. Now I am the [Midnight Crone]. By slaying my predecessor, I gained her immortality, but had to assume her role. I have few regrets, but I be bound to never leave First Raven’s Roost.”
“I thought this was the fabled city of Avalon?”
“The old
raven was here long before my King, his Lady, and I ever set foot upon this world. How long I know not, perhaps since the beginning of all things. But know this, thy Class is not the end of who ye be. This world’s…system… as you call it, sets nothing in stone. Ye may one day become something other than that which ye be now, but be ever mindful of the price.”
Morgan gestured at her bare breasts, and then the spoon sitting in her other palm. “I think I’m getting an idea of what kinds of prices the system charges for things…”
“Indeed, child. Tell me, what boons be granted for the price thou hast paid, to be ever clad in sky?”
“Well, from what I can tell, it’s mostly in levelling rewards. I get double experience, double the intangible rewards from levelling and system things. So, double the Stat points and Skill points. There’s also something called Enhancement Points, but I don’t know what those are yet.”
Moghren’s eyebrows had risen at the revelation of double experience, but the mention of double Stat and Skill points had caused her expression to go utterly blank. “By the old gods…” the witch whispered almost too quietly for Morgan to catch, before continuing in a clearer voice. “Gaining double experience, even doubled points from earning a level while naked, is certainly known. All classes get some small increase to different things. ‘Tis but a pittance compared to thy gains, however. Double ? To all ?”
Morgan blushed under the sudden scrutiny and stammered her response. “Y-yep! And I level Skills really quickly, too! I have three skills mastered, four if you count my old healing skill, before it became [Regeneration] during my Class changes.”
“Those be mighty boons, indeed,” said Moghren. “If ye gain twice the Enhancement Points at your half-tens, that will certainly be something few could dream of. Husband those points carefully, girl. At level fifteen, and twenty-five, and so forth, we receive but one. Specializations for thy Class at every tenth level, so twenty and thirty. Those will depend on what ye practice or what skills ye use the most, but Enhancement?”
“What do they do?”
“Those points be for making one of thine own Skills more than it is. A mere half-dozen is all most would earn in a lifetime. As the [Midnight Crone], I no longer level, likened to the beasts and other great creatures of this world. Yet before I claimed the Heart, I knew but seventy and three, and only six points of Enhancement. A single point can be spent on a mastered skill, and they can evolve a simple [Fireball] spell into a blast to shatter a castle’s walls, or [Healing Touch] into a near miracle.”
Morgan let out a low whistle at that new bit of information. “So what different kinds of spells are there? When I set myself on fire, that doesn’t feel the same as a skill or a spell. It’s not even named in my list, it’s just something I do without really thinking about it. Not like [Lightning Bolt], [Earth Sculpt], or [Plasma Glaive].”
“The fire is thine own purest essence of power and magic. Most who strive to learn any form of magic can do similar, although they train first to control such wild burning of Mana. T’would damage or destroy their own clothing and equipment if they did not.” The [Midnight Crone] locked eyes with Morgan, and the girl couldn’t turn away her own gaze. “Thou hast no such limitations, child, and take these words to heart if none other. Find every way thou can to turn the banes of thy class to thine own advantage.”
“I don’t—” Morgan stammered, “I don’t understand.”
“Thy increases in attributes, skills, and levelling is a mighty boon, but compared to even middling enchanted gear on most experienced Classes, thou wouldst still be at a disadvantage. Most who take to battle will be fully adorned in the tools of their own trades. Ye carry no charms, no trinkets, no focusing crystal, nor athame. They shall be clad in layers of armor, sheathed in enchantments to strengthen, protect, and enhance their own abilities.”
Moghren pushed herself back from the table and stood, laying her cloak across the back of the chair. “Mine own Night-Feather Cloak. Arrows find it difficult to find me through its shroud, and the winds stand aside as I pass.”
With the cloak removed, multiple pieces of ornamentation were revealed. With slow, sure, deliberate movements, the crone began removing them, laying them on the table.
First to meet the wood was a bracelet, wrought from twisted copper, from her left wrist. “A shield charm. It doth not even require mine own Mana to protect me from blows that be not magical.” From her wrists and forearms, several more join its likeness. “Here be a half-dozen. Even more have I, simple as they are to make. Useless to thee.”
Three silver rings with pale grey chunks of Mana Crystal set in each came off her fingers, clattering to the surface. “Mana Wells,” she noted. “Each can replenish mine own magic reserves once entire, and take but a day before they may be used again.”
From around her neck, Moghren removed a simple circle of leather, strung with several thin crystals. “A spellcatcher. Toss thy thunder or flame at me, and I shall return it tenfold.”
Morgan watched the pile of jewelry grow, muted shock rising inside her.
Two thicker bands around the witch’s biceps were the next to join the growing pile. “A matching pair. Constitution and resistances are far greater, as long as ye wear both.”
Finally, the old woman picked up her stick from where it rested against the table. It seemed to twist in a familiar way as Morgan’s eyes passed across it. She gasped, bringing her gaze up to meet Moghren’s knowing eyes. “Is that—”
“Recognize it, do ye?” the crone chuckled. “Yes, this is a root of the very tree ye landed in. It may negate magic across a wide area, and it is mine favored focus for spellwork. Among other things,” she continued, an edge entering her voice. “Its other secrets are mine alone.”
Moghren fixed Morgan with a calm stare. “All of these, either made by mine own hand or earned as favors, then bent to serve or enhance mine own magics. This is what thou hast, all unknowing, traded away.”
Morgan stared quietly at the items, deep in thought as Moghren reequipped herself with her favored gear. Lulu had hopped off of her shoulder and tried to inspect the various items before the elder spellcaster shooed her back with a wave of a hand. The precocious puffball gave an offended purbling trill and returned its attention to its mistress, who had begun rubbing her face and bore an expression somewhere between sadness and despair.
“I think—” Morgan felt as if the little bit of soup she’d managed to eat was about to come back up. “I think I’ve made some terrible mistakes, then…”
The witch snorted without sympathy at Morgan’s self-recrimination. “Never think that. This world may levy a price for everything, but it is always fair. What thou hast given up, ye will find returned to thee in some way. I sense potential in thee that burns brighter in sorcerous power than I have seen in any but a mere handful of others in nearly sixteen centuries here.”
“But how can my spells and stats compete with all that specialized gear and enchantments?”
“Do ye not realize what that rune upon thine own breast means?” asked Moghren with an expression of incredulity on her face. “That ,” she said, pointing at the [Soul Anchor] rune on her bare chest, “allows thee to craft [Living Runes] upon thyself. Ye know it not, but such a thing should not be possible! Not even on this world of Anfealt! Enchantments do not level, not any that I have ever seen nor even heard whispers of, though many have attempted to create such!”
“I’m not even sure what that means!” exclaimed Morgan, leaning back away from the intensity radiating off the other woman. Moghren seemed to loom even while sitting in the chair across the table, and Lulu once again hopped onto the table in front of its mistress. The scrubby puffed up as if warning the witch away.
“Be calm, little creature,” said Moghren. “Thy mistress has naught to fear from me—not since the blood marked her kin—but Moghren coddles no one.”
“It’s okay, Lulu,” Morgan said as she picked up the scrubby and gave it several affectionate pats bef
ore placing it back on her shoulder. “I don’t think she means to be so scary, she’s just powerful and does it without realizing…”
“Indeed,” said the old witch with a nod of appreciation for Morgan’s sideways compliment. “Ye have thine own aura of power, though ye know it not quite yet. A presence that can be sensed thusly may be a bane or a boon. Lesser creatures will avoid the threat, but greater ones may hunger for a taste of thee. I sensed it ere ye crossed the river; t’was only the perception of food at first that drew my Raven form to pluck thee from the cliffs.”
“What? You mean you really would have eaten me?”
“Had the blood not marked ye mine kin? Most certainly, as I have done to many trespassers these centuries past. Mine Raven half has needs of its own, as part of the bargain I struck so long ago. Thus is the price of power, and why ye cannae stay near Avalon beyond a day or so. The Crone still hungers, and I prefer mine solitude.”
Morgan eyed the older woman with no small bit of suspicion, and more than a touch of disappointment at that revelation. “I was beginning to hope I could stay a while so you could teach me magic…”
The older woman shook her head in bemusement while smiling grimly. “I can no more teach thee than I could teach a fish or a cat. And thou hast no need; thy class is built to learn. Trust in it, experiment on thine own.”
“More things I don’t understand…”
“A [Sorceress] of any kind is not like a [Mage] or [Wizard], and even more different from a [Witch] or [Druid]. They are the rarest of all the spell-weavers. Mine own cantrips, rituals, and nature magics would be useless to thee. Advice be all that Moghren can give, and ye would be wise to take it to heart.”
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