Peter retreated to the sanctuary of Bani’s cottage, after taking the long way around the block, jumping the wall to the cemetery and passing through Jacobs’ workshop to get to the cathedral just in case he had been followed.

Now sitting on the couch staring at the fireplace he considered what had transpired. He knew, if he was being honest with himself, that Pham had truly been trying to help. His advice about treating this as a game rather than just going at it ham-handed was solid.

I just don’t know if I can trust you anymore. Danny was bad enough. He’s a jerk. How anyone can be his friend I have no idea. But that Woz guy as well? Peter reached up and gave DB a scratch as the white rat nibbled on a morsel of biscuit on the arm of the chair. Blaise seems ok, just, like, completely detached. Disinterested. Is she hiding something? Is Pham hiding something? Are they, like, a fledgling Evil League of Evil? Did I dodge a bullet there?

Standing and crossing to the writing table, Peter pulled out his sheaf of papers and a quill and dropped them on the blotter. He slipped into the comfortable chair, picked up the quill and stared at the tip. If I’m going to grind out some skills, I should probably make a list of priorities. Peter pulled off his glove and unlaced his bracers, dropping them on the desk and shuffled through the sheaf of paper until he found a clean sheet. He titled it [Skills] and one by one he tapped on the entry on his arm and copied the name, value and entire description and flavour text.

He was nearly at the last line when he felt the warm itch of a critical success and associated skill advancement. What could that mean? he wondered, scrolling back up to his calligraphy skill. A new sub-skill? [Auto-Scribe]? Peter tapped on the skill, expanding the entry and reading the description out loud.

“[Auto-Scribe] allows the Traveller to transfer their thoughts to writing by imbuing a quill, pen or other hand writing implement with the ability to move on its own. Cool, no more hand cramp. Sooooo, what else?” he skimmed the rest of the information. “Active skill, duration dependent on sub-skill value, not dependent on ability to vocalise, wow, that’s some detailed description.” The longer Peter read, the more information seemed to appear, forcing him to scroll several times. He looked past his arm at DB who bristled his whiskers and boggled back. “I guess I’d better get it working, get the experience points up. But what to write?” Peter’s eyes roamed the room, seeking inspiration. I’m bored of writing out my character sheet, even if it does keep changing. I could always write down my experience in The Age, like the journal that Grandad was always trying to get me to keep. His gaze settled on the desk where the soul-egg-timer-thingy had been. Or, I could always lean into this ‘death’ theme and write out the memories of souls I collect. If I ever figure out how to collect more.

Decision made, Peter leafed through his bundle of paper and found that he only had a single sheet left. I hope this is enough, he thought as he laid the quill on top of the sheet and willed the skill to activate. Immediately he felt drained, the skill pulling at a reserve he didn’t know he had, and yet had always been full previously. The quill stood on its tip, poised to move but without direction. Peter hurriedly touched his finger to the top of the timer, hoping that it would trigger the memories like last time.

Through the contact roared images, textures, tastes, smells. Everything. It overwhelmed Peter’s own senses as he struggled to direct the torrent at the quill. Every single sensation the raven had experienced from hatching to the moment its soul had been torn from its body. Peter struggled to stay abreast in the tsunami, managing to pick out significant events in the raven’s life. It had hatched a normal bird from a normal egg in a normal tree in a normal forest.

Is this how all spawning works? Or just animals? The slight distracting thought threatened to let the experience engulf Peter, so he concentrated on maintaining focus and leave the questions for later.

The raven aged, living like a normal bird, eating, flying, laying eggs of its own, until one day an intruder had entered its neighbourhood. The intruder exuded an aura, purplish in the raven’s eyes, that disturbed the whole forest. Animals fought, to get away, to attack each other, to attack the intruder. The raven had been caught up as much as any other but was the most successful in attacking the intruder. It dived at the intruder’s head and had managed to scrape a talon across the scaly skin before being snatched out of the air by a clawed hand. The raven struggled against the iron grip but was unable to escape, the intruder held it up and stared into the raven’s eyes, its very soul. It spoke, words that neither the raven nor Peter could understand, and every memory from then on took on a purple tinge. The raven knew only anger and hunger, attacking, killing and eating anything that moved, excepting its own kind. Those it fed, and any raven that partook became Flock, marked by a purple feather on their forehead.

Time held less meaning to the creature than it had even before the intruder had done whatever it had, and all the memories blended into a purple haze. That is, until the final day. In stark contrast to the preceding sensations, this one stood out in perfect clarity. The day had started as normal, roosting in a tree awaiting a target, when it felt a disturbance in the Flock. Gathering its strength, the raven led the Flock to the source - humans harvesting the fields beside its forest. If their presence alone wasn’t enough of an affront, one of them had stolen eggs from a Flock member’s nest. The Flock descended and brought chaos to the orderly lines of the farm. Humans fled before their gleaming wings and flashing talons. It was glorious.

The raven gave a cry of victory, about to return to the trees, when onto the field of battle strode three figures. They began to savagely beat the Flock back and take the grains that the humans had stacked. Enraged, the raven willed the Flock to concentrate on the three interlopers. But the trio were not to be denied. For the first time since the intruder had entered its forest, the raven tasted defeat. The flashing powers of the pale white human and the lethal projectiles of the long furred one protected the winged one, who’s indomitable will withstood all efforts to maim it or bring it down. The raven felt something other than anger or hunger for the first time in a very long time, a grudging respect bordering on kinship. The purple haze withdrew from its vision and the raven called on the Flock to withdraw. Let the winged figure lead its own Flock this day, and go in peace.

The Flock did as it was bid, and pulled back into the sky, circling towards the forest, towards home. The raven wheeled on a wing to follow and as it did, the haze, only momentarily banished, crashed back into the raven’s mind with a vengeance. It ruthlessly crushed any dissenting emotion, rooting out any vestige of self the raven had retained. A pained, panicked cry tore from its beak as its wings folded protectively around its body.

The wings snapped straight. The vision cleared. The foe was identified. The last speck of raven, extinguished in the purple flood.

The rest of the fight played out as Peter remembered it. He and Dani clinging to the wagon, struggling to fight a foe capable of flight when they could not. It was strange seeing himself from the outside, clumsily swinging the scythe, his tattered armour falling to pieces under the assault. Dani supporting him as best she could and protecting the wagon driver at the same time. Peter felt the rush of victory as the raven dove for the last time, a rush that came not from within, but from afar.

Then Peter saw himself change. The incredible transformation, the wings, the eyes, the scythe. It seemed, from the outside, that the ghostly form had flowed out from within him, then his body grew to match. He heard the words of the Avatar of Death, claiming the raven’s soul.

Peter remembered none of this. His own memories of the event went from his being knocked from the cart to waking up on the ground, dying. He marvelled as the memory continued.

The face off between the two titans began and ended with a single strike. The scythe passed through the raven’s body, swiftly, painlessly. In its wake it left a warm ripple, the absence of something that had permeated the raven for so long that the raven had forgotten that it was not always there. This ‘other’ was compressed to a pinpoint and sent soaring into the sky as the raven’s own consciousness began to fade. The memory ended with the sensation of the raven’s soul exiting its body, drawn to a falling angel like filings to a lodestone.

Peter woke. His head jerked up from his chest and he simply sat, exhausted, and stared at the scene in front of him. DB was batting the quill around the floor. The page Peter had set out for the quill was filled with writing, neat lines of text in Peter’s own handwriting style. So was the blotter on the desk. And the wall beside the desk. And a significant portion of the floor. What the heck? Peter tried to stand in order to get a better look at what was written on the wall and even managed to take two steps before his knees gave out. DB snuffled, but it sounded more like a chuckle. Why am I so tired? His sluggish thoughts struggled to form a coherent train as Peter dragged himself over to the rug on the floor. I haven’t felt this bad since that job for the seamstress. And what is going on with my arm?

Fumbling through his Mark, Peter found the source of the weird sensation. Not only had his Affinity skill boosted all the way to 10%, it and his Auto-Scribe and Calligraphy skills flashed solid gold several times, indicating multiple critical successes. On the other hand, his Stamina was flashing red at 0.1% and kept ticking to 0% and back. With every tick Peter felt his consciousness fade out and in, like those micro-naps you take in class.

Ugh. This is the worst, he thought, dragging himself upright using the couch as support. “DB, you going to be okay? I gotta get some sleep. I don’t know it this is game induced or real, but I’m buggered.”

DB squeaked and picked up the quill in his teeth. He scaled the desk and deposited the writing implement on the blotter before sitting back on his haunches and grinding his teeth.

Peter smiled. “You’re going to clean up while I’m gone? You’re a mini legend.” Peter staggered to the bed and threw himself down. “I’ll be back tomorrow. Try not to eat everything, please?”