Firstborn of the Frontier

“The plan is simple.”

Words said as I stare down at a map of the decidedly complex tunnel system before us, one that I can barely make heads or tails of. Pointing at a long, straight corridor which I assume is the ‘official’ mining tunnel, Marcus says, “We go in, pinpoint where the Proggie settled down to rest, then fight our way in, take it down, and kill our way out.”

“Simple is as simple does,” I say, even though the devil is in the details. While the main mining tunnel is fairly straightforward, it branches off into dozens of winding passages. Some end abruptly, others got markings indication they split and weren’t explored, while still more are connected in the strangest of ways. To make matters worse, it’s a 2-D map of a 3-D system, and it takes a bit to familiarize myself with the military notation and visualize the tunnels in my head.

“One thing to note,” Marcus adds, pointing at the deepest portion of the system, which judging by the scale is about three- or four-kilometres long. “Chances are, big Momma is resting in uncharted territory. She’s either not as close as we thought she’d be, or moving under dark through tunnels Abby dug for themselves.”

“We know where they came from?” I ask, gesturing back towards town. An Abby horde that size wouldn’t have gone unnoticed if they was camped out on the desert, so they gotta have a place up in the mountains. Would be the obvious place for the Proggie to exit, and give me a rough idea of which direction to look in.

“Afraid not,” Marcus replies, shaking his head with a grimace. “The locals might have an inkling, but the townie miners don’t get around much, while Vanguard National isn’t big on sharing.” Giving me a glower, he adds, “No idea why.” Looking over at the setting moons over to the south, before turning to check the rising sun coming up in the north, Marcus says, “We got ten, maybe twelve hours to search while the Proggie sleeps for the day, but we’ll need to move carefully. If we go loud before you’ve got a lock on its location, then we’ll be flooded by Abby and forced to fall back.”

“Where we moving in from?” Looking at the map, I don’t see another way into the tunnels, not nearby at least. Only way in is the caved-in entrance right in front of us, else we’d have to move a klick or two north to reach what looks like a haphazard tunnel some amateurs dug out without any real planning. Just followed the vein and reinforced the ceiling as they went, leading to a zig-zag patten that is just rife for trapping.

And likely is, judging by all the Ranger notations on the map, though I can’t make heads nor tails of it. My daddy taught me how to read topographical maps, but military maps are a whole other beast.

“Right here,” Marcus says, and on-cue, Tim waves a hand and the illusion of the cave-in disappears to reveal a very much in-tact tunnel. Explains his absence in town these last five days, keeping this illusion around and making sure no Abby found their way through, though I honestly thought he’d parked himself up in a tower somewhere to familiarize himself with the town. I ain’t talking about taking in the sight’s neither, as he’ll spend hours staring down the barrel of his loaded rifle and calculating theoretical shots he might take at anyone who catches his eye. Pretty sure he could shoot the wings off a bee from anywhere in New Hope without batting an eye, because he got all the angles and trajectories already worked out in his head.

As for me, I ain’t that obsessive, but my daddy taught me to always be assessing, so I take a good long look at the entrance for myself. It’s a wide one, not some shabby doorway into darkness, but a right proper cavern carved out of the mountainside itself. There are three sets of rail tracks on either side of the cavern, and room enough in between for four wagons abreast, meaning its wider than the main thoroughfare back home. On each track sits a line of eight carts apiece, attached to a series of pulleys and winches meant to pull them back up. Guess Ron was too cheap to shell out for even coal-fired engines to work his carts, and I ain’t seen any beasts of burden in town neither, nor have I seen any power-tools or Shatter Cores lying about.

Which really hammers home how hard them miners have it here in Pleasant Dunes. The entrance alone is impressive enough, but when I look down at the complex system of tunnels mapped out on the paper before me, I take a moment to wonder how it was even possible to dig all that out by hand. How fast can a man with a pickaxe work? Might carve through a cubic metre of stone a day at most, unless they got Augmented pickaxes or a good number of Shatter Cores on hand to help blast through stone. Unlikely considering even one of those would cost more than a simple steam engine, though I suppose a lack of water might be the issue there. Could also have dedicated explosive experts on the payroll to help speed things along. Ain’t no one like working with mundane explosives, since any random Aetheric fluctuations could set them off, and Abby seem to have a sixth sense when it comes to targeting them. As for Spellslingers with the Shatter Spell in their pocket, I doubt he could find enough to make a difference. Most folks never make it past First Order Spells, as Second Order Spells are much more difficult to learn in comparison. Even if Ron pushed his people to learn, they wouldn’t be able to cast it enough times a day to matter. I can only cast six Second Order Spells a day, assuming I use nothing else but cantrips, and carve out three to six metres of rock with each cast.

A drop in the bucket compared to the several tens of kilometres of underground tunnels I see on the map before me. Even if every miner in town could sling the Spell, they couldn’t get this mining complex dug out in less than two years. Meaning they’ve been at it for even longer, though I didn’t think the town been around for any more than that, though I suppose folks could’ve started digging before the walls went up. Doubt Ron would sleep easy knowing his indentured miners could blast him with little more than a waggle and a chant, not with how he treats them. Besides, anyone capable of casting a Second Order Spell could probably take care of themselves out in the Coral Desert, even without an Aetherarm to rely on. Then again, that could be my bias showing, since not everyone knows how to find water, food, and shelter out there on their lonesome, much less know which way to go and what areas to avoid. You’d think seventeen years here on the Frontier would convince every settler to pick up a few survival skills of their own, but I reckon the vast majority stick together and never travel more than a week away from home.

Which is why Scouts are such a rare breed, and why I can stand shoulder to shoulder with the best. Not because I’m as good as the likes of Drex Durden, Madigan Harper, or Ekun, but because the competition is so sparse my name’s closer to the top than it otherwise would be.

Confidence is a funny thing like that. Don’t matter how much you got, it still tends to abandon you in times of crisis. Here and now, mine is at an all time low, and not just because I been called on to perform. This whole last month or so has been one rude awakening after another, leading me to wonder if I ain’t as ready for this life as I thought. Least I’m working with some of the best, though truth is, I would much rather have Uncle Teddy here with us too. Maybe Uncle Art too, though he’d probably need a dedicated Floating Disc to carry him around on, because I don’t see him trekking through these tunnels with those bad knees of his. Would be best if my daddy were here too, to show me the ropes, and maybe even Uncle Raleigh to lift the mood.

Or you know… a full Company of reliable Rangers nearby lead by someone other than Wayne, or at least a second strike team to back us up. Can’t believe we about to delve down into what are likely Abby infested tunnels with only four Rangers and the Firstborn to lead the way.

Clapping me on the shoulder, Marcus gives me a look that says he can read me like a book, followed by an easy smile to let me know whatever will be will be. We’ll either find and kill the Proggie, or we won’t, and either way, he thinks we got this handled, so I ain’t got nothing to worry about. He rattles off a few more things to keep in mind as we go, then indicates for me to settle into my Ritual casting so we can set off.

There are a good number of Ritual Divination Spells, more than any other School of Magic as far as I know. A right useful tool, a Ritual is, as it lets you cast the Spell without needing the Spell Structure prepared so long as you’re familiar enough with the Ritual, which is why I’ve familiarized myself with more than few. Let’s me do my work as a Scout and Diviner even with the limited Structures I can hold, but you still want to keep a few Divination Spells ready to cast because Abby ain’t always gonna sit around and give you the five minutes you’ll need to cast Detect Aberration through a Ritual. Got the time now though, so I hunker down and lay out the components for the Spell and Ritual.

One copper vessel, or more accurately the round lid to my candy tin which I always carry around.

A silver bar that was once a full five grams, which I scrape with a metal file to procure a pinch of powdered shavings that goes into the vessel.

A clean, white silk handkerchief with a golden circle embroidered onto it, laid atop a second kerchief so the silk don’t touch the ground.

Four nubby candles, which I set at the cardinal directions on the corners of the silk kerchief, using the Compass Cantrip to be doubly sure I got the locations right.

A teaspoon of wood ashes, a thimble full of distilled water, a single grain of crushed quartz, and a stick of silverleaf beech incense to round out the random ingredients, with my ritual wand being all that’s left. Carefully taking out of its lead-lined, leather sheath, I look upon the little copper wrapped wand fondly. Was a time when every Spellslinger needed to carry a wand or some other sort of Arcane Focus to help direct the raw and wild Aetheric Energy of the Immaterium, but modern Spellslingers have progressed beyond the need of such elementary tools. Still helps for Ritual Magic though, which is why my daddy had me make one years ago.

I remember it like yesterday, scouring through the forest for a twig that was just the right size, about six inches long and straight as an arrow. Needed one that was naturally shed, rather than forcefully broken off, and I spent hours looking for the perfect base. Knew it was the one the second I saw it, though that might’ve just been my childish mind playing tricks on me, a singular twig standing upright where it fell, embedded in the soft soil of the earth by a quirk of fate. Might well have taken root if given enough time and sunshine, but I was drawn to it like no other twig before or after, so I plucked it out and looked it over before bringing it back to my daddy. Both ends were smooth and rounded, without any signs of a break, and I took that as a sign that it was made and shed just for me.

Wasn’t from any special tree, just a regular pinewood branch you can find anywhere along the Wayfarer river which runs all the way to the West coast. Stripped the bark to reveal what I’d say is the standard colour of wood, a sorta yellow-white wood that ain’t the prettiest or the ugliest around. Wrapped it in copper wire too, drawing whatever Runes that came to mind without any rhyme or reason, just a simple climbing vine pattern with a few thicker leaves around the base and all infused with slivers of my soul to make it a part of me in a way beyond the physical. That’s all there is to it, as the wand ain’t treated with resin or preserved in any way, but it don’t look any different from the day I finished it some three years ago. Was the last real project I worked on with my Daddy, as we set out for the badlands soon as it was done where he met his ultimate fate, so it’s a bittersweet memory to be sure, but that’s how they all are these days.

Though it’s nothing but wood and copper, I can feel the Aether coursing through the wand now that’s its free of its lead-lined container, a necessity to keep it from randomly affecting Aetherarms or aether-tech in its vicinity. The others know well enough not to use anything of the like while my Arcane Focus is out and exposed, so I put the complications out of mind and lay it down on the silk kerchief, just under the copper vessel holding all my loose ingredients and directly above the western facing candle. Once all the pieces are in place, I settle down on both knees and close my eyes to mentally run through the Ritual once and settle my frayed nerves before I begin.

Slow is smooth and smooth is fast, because if I mess this up, it’ll waste more time than doing it right the first time.

Soon as I’m feeling ready, I take a deep breath and launch into the steady cadence of the Ritual Chant, one which got no real language to back it. At least, none we’ve managed to decipher, the same way we’re unable to really cement down a ‘language’ for the arcane, though Etches come close. While I chant, I touch the tip to the wand to the candles and light them one by one, starting in the east and moving clockwise around the kerchief. Ain’t no Cantrip being cast, as them candles lighting up is part of the Ritual, and I hold back the urge to smile at the wonder of it all. Once all four candles are lit, I wave my wand over the copper vessel and tap it in rhythm to my chant. It’s the lightest of touches, so as not to upend the vessel and spill everything out, but each touch sends a ringing chime that sounds out not in my ears, but in my soul as I call upon the Immaterium and bend it to my Will.

One by one, the ingredients go into the vessel to mix with the silver, starting with the ashes and ending with the incense, which I scrape off the stick with my wand and add into the mix. The distilled water turns murky as everything comes together, swirling without any need for stirring and pulsing with an Aetheric signature I feel more than see. As my long chant comes to a climax, the candles blaze for a moment of glory before being drawn into the mixture as well, leaving four unlit candles behind and a trail of smoke leading from their wicks right into the vessel.

Maybe three minutes from start to finish, though I’d call it closer to five or six if you include the prep time. What’s left is a dark grey mixture that is more magical than chemical, one that will read as nothing more than the base ingredients to even the most advance tech around, but when spread under my eyes, over my nose, behind my ears, on the underside of my chin, and across the back of my hands, it opens up a whole new set of sensations that blend in with the five I know and understand. This set of senses enable me to sense the presence of Aberrations around me, up to about 350 metres away, though I can get a faint inkling up to five-hundred metres even if I really buckle down and focus. The effect becomes even more pronounced after I bring out my Aberrtin tuning fork, which sits still as can be yet hums with an eager note that I wouldn’t be able to hear without the Spell in place.

Still amazes me every time when it works, how I can do magic with nothing more than few words, tools, and movements like that. Ain’t no Spell Structure in my head, no Spell Core to pass crystallized Aether through, just a bunch of wand waggling gobbledegook that makes a paste to smear all over my hands and face. Funny thing is, the paste won’t do nothing for anyone else, even if there were enough for a second person. It only works on the caster, which makes me wonder if the effects are more psychosomatic than anything else.

After cleaning the vessel and stowing all my materials away, I stand up with tuning fork in my left hand while cradling my Strelky with the right. After a moment’s thought, I unfold the bayonet to match Tim’s readiness and look around to see if I sense any Abby about. Got nothing so far, but that don’t make it fool proof, as there ways around it. Lead is the most common anti-detection method, as it’ll stop Aetheric waves cold and even cancel out some instances of Aetheric dynamics. Thick materials will dull your senses too, so while we travelling through the tunnels, I’ll have a hard time sensing any Abby that ain’t got a direct route to us. Might be able to feel them out on the other side of a wall, but anything more than three metres thick is usually a no go. Even the dense trees in a forest can do wonky things to detection Spells, as them Aetheric waves bounce around and get all jostled up, making it hard to get a direct read. Not impossible though, and the difference lies in the Diviner’s ability to read the information the getting, the same way a book’s message might change depending on who reading it. Lots of people find faith and inspiration from the Bible for example, but I find that there’s too much silliness mixed in with the real lessons to take the whole book seriously.

I mean c’mon. Suffer not a witch to live? Might’ve made sense back in the dark ages when Spellslinging wasn’t so refined, but if we started killing Spellslingers today, we’d lose a good ninety plus percent of the population before we was done. Almost everyone picks up a couple Cantrips at least, and here on the Frontier, you best bet you incentivised to do more, though I find that most don’t bother with more than two or three First Order Spells before calling it quits.

Crazy is what that is. Me, I’d say being a Magus slinging Third Order Spells ought to be the bare minimum you should aim for, but apparently that’s ‘unrealistic’ since most folks don’t got the talent for it. Talent my ass. Spellslinging’s no different from learning Math, painting, or music really. Talent helps you out at the start, but you won’t get anywhere without help and hard work, and that there is a fact.

Once I’m ready, the four veteran Rangers jump into high gear and start Slinging Spells before we get underway. There are plenty I don’t catch, but it’s hard to miss Marcus casting Longstrider on all of us at once, while Sergeant Begaye Conjures up a suit of armour that covers him from head to toe. Or at least I assume it’s armour, though it looks more like a weird bird costume. Don’t got no beak or mask, but he got a feathered headdress up top instead of the stupid metal bucket helmet he gave me. Also has a stole of feathers that covers his shoulders and chest, and a skirt to protect his stomach and upper legs. Got no talons on his boots, which are also covered in feather-shaped scales, and no hatchet to be seen like the one Sarah Jay described, but for all I know, it’s hidden somewhere inside the feather stole. Takes a moment to notice the deep-red warpaint the Spell comes along with, and I can feel the power emanating form the lines painted across his face, ones that really makes his pointed cheekbones pop and give him and otherworldly look.

Like a spectre of death he is, one ready to reap the lives of the invading settlers who dared covet their lands. An extremely well armed spectre carrying a Strelky and two big boy, 44-40 versions of my Model 10, which I believe is called the Model 29. Really wish Szass and Tam put a little more thought into their gun names, because Model 29 don’t convey how impressive them revolvers be. The Model 10 is a blued-steel, short-barrel, snub-nosed affair that looks like my Rattlesnake’s black baby. The Model 29 looks like it could make my Rattlesnake its prison bitch, with the same blued-steel frame, but an eight-inch-long barrel that’s thick enough to stick my finger inside with plenty of room to spare.

Mighty impressive weapons those are, and I can only imagine the holes they leave behind. Got a Sturm and Kitiara Longsword too, though that sits on his cross draw as a weapon of last resort, and leaves me wondering if I should rethink my stance on using 22-10 all the time. I mean, my carbine can’t even reliably one-tap bugbears in the head anymore, and it’s only gonna get worse from here. Could do me some good, upgrading all my gear, and if I ain’t keeping Errol and Sarah Jay on, then the money from the Mage Armour Spell Core will go a long ways to getting me the Aetherpower I need out on the Frontier. Would really put a dent in my profits though, seeing how ammo will be at least four times more expensive without factoring in the cost of brass, not to mention the costs of buying replacement parts to have on hand should my weapons break down outside of town.

The expenses never stop coming, which is why I’m always hustling, but feels like I’m earning small potates compared to the twenty-grand Wayne now owes to his mysterious partners in crime. If dealing drugs and contraband pays that well, then I can see why so many are tempted to join in on the profession, though I can’t imagine every job pays that well. Really makes me wonder what Wayne is into, but there ain’t no room for errant thoughts as I descend into the belly of the beast.

And descend we do, after using the Mage Armour Artifact to give ourselves a little bit of extra survivability. Being the scout, I don my Darkvision goggles and lead the way with Sergeant Begaye following on my close left as we head down the fairly steep slope and into the heart of the mountain. Captain Jung stays a good five metres back and to my right, while Tim and Marcus hold up the rear on either side. As we move down the wide, open corridor in loose formation, I spot multiple tunnel entrances that look much more cramped than this spacious underpass we got here. Keeping track of them as I pass allows me to better visualize where we are with referring back to the map, and I randomly stop at one every now and then to get a feel for any nearby Abby. With the Longstrider Spell buoying us along, we make good time through the main corridor and reach the end without incident in about thirty-five minutes flat. A Ranger under Longstrider should set a pace close to seven and a half klicks per hour, so we’ve gone about 4.375 kilometres in total, maybe a little less to account for the stops along the way.

A distance that ain’t too long, but will feel a whole lot longer running uphill with Abby nipping at our heels. If I want to avoid that worst case scenario, then I gotta do my job and earn my keep, else we might not make it out of here alive. To make matters worse, the Detect Aberration Spell only lasts 10 minutes at base, so I’ve been Concentrating to keep it going, which is easier said than done. Tina was able to keep her Floating Disc going for three hours and change, but the base duration of the Spell is an hour, so she had time to gradually adjust to the strain as things got harder and harder. Me, I’ve experienced that same scaling increase in difficulty over half an hour, so I’m already feeling the burning of keeping it going. The trick is to pay attention to something else rather than the Spell itself. My daddy didn’t raise no quitter though, so I buckle in and bear down as I consider which of the dozen or so branching paths to bring our group down.

Logically speaking, the chances of the Proggie coming from the south are slim, because them Proggies are engaged in a territorial conflict with the Proggies in the Divide. Wouldn’t go so far as to call it an all-out war, but they do vie for resources, with the greenies fighting to keep the bugs from crossing over and poaching in their lands. Means those gobbo Proggies are less likely to have the time and energy to spare giving birth to new Proggies, since bugs’ll happily snatch up orcs and goblins to bring home for rations and those lost minions gotta be replaced. Still, an assumption makes an ass out of you and me, so I can’t take those facts for granted. Unfortunately, none of the tunnels got the stench of Abby wafting out of it, meaning I gotta lean on my non-magical skills a bit. “They keep track of Abby attacks?” I ask, keeping my voice low as I can while still being heard.

“Yea. Pattern suggests they’re moving north of here,” Marcus replies, keeping his head on a swivel as we stand with our backs to the wall. “Could be a feint though. Hobgoblin Illusionist would be smart enough to pull one off.”

Yea it would. Shit. With no other information left to work with, I got no choice but to gather some on my own. “Need to take a look around before I can commit on a path.”

Which I hate to admit, but gets Marcus grinning. He ain’t wearing no goggles, which means he’s got a Darkvision Spell going since we got no illumination to speak of. “Good man,” he whispers. “If you’d have picked a route without saying as much, I would’ve turned us right back around.” Gesturing at me to take the lead, he adds, “You know what to look for, so get looking. Closest recent breakthrough is a half klick down the second last northern tunnel, but there’s another about seven hundred metres down this one here.”

Meaning the final tunnel, while the rest are even further. Rather than check those though, I feel compelled to move south instead, which I convey with little more than a glance in that direction. Ain’t my jimmies rustling to prod me along, just a plain old hunch I need to get sorted before I’m ready to move on.

Why? Because the hobgoblin illusionist came out of nowhere last year, when it was already a fully-fledged hob. Usually, you see the signs long before it happens, as a taller, gangly goblin is hard to miss. Ain’t sure where the definitive line between hob and gob sits, but there’s a transition period to be sure, and it’s ugly to see firsthand. Either it killed everyone who ever saw it while it was in its growth phase, or it grew up somewhere else. Cutting its teeth in greenie versus bug warfare would’ve done it, and Ferals like them bugs are notoriously susceptible to Illusions, because they dumber than a bag of rocks. Rich on Aberrtin and Spell Cores too, so munching down on a few bug behemoths would help it progress quick, and the fact that there haven’t been many attacks in the southern tunnels is too orderly to ignore. Abby have been infesting the Snake Fang’s Mountain Range since the day of the Advent, when my daddy found my mama maybe three day’s northwest of Pleasant Dunes.

Now there’s a tale I love to tell, of one man and one woman armed with grass slings and bark shields taking on a newborn Proggie coming out the mountains. Was maybe eighteen hours into the Advent when they spotted it, scurrying across the night’s sand in search of verdant lands to settle into, a fresh born monster making machine that couldn’t be more than a day old with only a dozen or so goblin guardians to defend it. My mama saw it as an opportunity, one too rich to pass up, and used her Colonel rank to bully my Corporal of a daddy into helping her kill it, a difference of about ten ranks and a commission. Credit where it’s due, my mama took on the riskier job and left my daddy to play bait, lobbing stones at gobbo guardians until they chased him into the tall grasses, giving her a window to run up and throw bundles of lit grass and twigs into the Progenitor’s maw.

It’s incredible really. Sixteen years young and not even a Cantrip to their name, yet my parents managed to take down a Proggie on their first day here. Didn’t go easy, to hear my daddy tell it, as the Proggie wasn’t exactly defenseless, just large and uncoordinated. Called back its minions to help put out the fires each and every time too, meaning my parents had to kill all the gobbos before finally focusing on taking the Proggie itself down. Set it aflame and watched it burn they did, then beat it death with sticks. Course, in those early days, the ambient Aether levels were even lower than they are now, meaning gobbos were about the most powerful Abby them Proggies could make, but them Guardians yielded no less than three Spell Cores which really jumpstarted my parent’s progress. Two Bolt Cores, which sit in the primitive Aetherarms I got hanging on the wall back home, and the Shield Core I wear on my wrist today.

In contrast? I got all these guns and gear, but I still need four experienced Rangers to babysit me, including three Captains no less. Really goes to show the difference between me and my parents, because I can’t imagine going after a gobbo without an Aetherarm in hand, nor would I ever care to.

Getting back on topic though, the fact that Abby been here for so long means they’ve likely got tunnels running all across these mountains, as they liable to dig willy nilly without care about things like supports or structural stability. They got a general sense of it, enough to keep from caving themselves in every other week, but a collapse ain’t out of pocket every now and then, and I would think they got more than one way out in a pinch. What’s more, while their Proggie can tell them to head for a specific destination, they can’t really control how their minions go about it. Nor are greenies the most patient or obliging types, so expecting them to move out in orderly lines is asking for a bit much. Most greenies are followers, and they’ll go along with the crowd, but every now and then one of the bigger, louder, and braver greenies gets it in their head to try another route, even if they gotta dig a brand new one with their own bare hands.

All this is to say that the fact that there is a pattern of attacks to begin with is suspicious to say the least, but only because the chances of all their random tunnels only coming out on the north end is slim to none. Add in my suspicions of where the hobgoblin came from and all of a sudden I’m real interested in seeing what’s going on down south, all of which I share with the group as quickly and quietly as I can. “If they ain’t attacking from the south,” I conclude with a shrug, “Then chances are there’s something they don’t want us to find. The planned route the Proggie is taking maybe?”

“Maybe,” Marcus replies, speaking for the group as the Commanding Officer of this here operation. “Could also be fear of cavern collapse, or there’s an underground waterway blocking their access.”

Damn. Didn’t think of that. Seeing my consternation, Marcus adds, “You the Scout Howie. You point the way. If you want to look south, then you bring us south. If you head north, then we follow suit. End of story, but you gotta pick one.”

Knowing Proggies like to burrow deep as they can out of fear of getting got, I ask, “Which one of these dozen tunnels goes the deepest?”

Rather than answer, Marcus looks to Tim, who pulls out the map again and gives it a quick glance. “Fourth southern tunnel from the end, and it’s not even close. None of the other shafts reach even half as deep.”

Shaft. Fuck. I hate heights, which is partially why I keep Featherfall on my boot at all times. I ain’t scared of them. I just don’t like them is all, the same way I don’t like eating mushrooms, but will choke them down if I have to. Them’s Abby feed is what mushrooms are, and ain’t no one ever gonna convince me otherwise. Plus, there’s the whole theory about all Abby being more like sentient fungal growths as opposed to any other sort of fauna we’re aware of. They ain’t animals, they’re high functioning fruits or spores dispatched by their main ‘plant’ body, which just so happens to be a highly intelligent and wholly alien lifeform unlike anything else found on this world or the old. Either way, you won’t ever catch me eating mushrooms by choice, the same way I avoid high spaces. Because they suck.

Unfortunately, all signs point towards the deep, dark, southern shaft, which no doubt means this delve is going deep under dark, even more so than we already are. I don’t think there’s a specific depth that’s considered under dark, but anything more than a klick and a half beneath sea level generally fits the description. Leading the way as expected, I descend down into the darkness which appears as a fuzzy grey through my Darkvision goggles. There are thermal vision goggles too, but those are way techier and more expensive, whereas my goggles are simply an artifact running off a Darkvision Core powered by a tiny Aetheric dynamo embedded in the top rail. Gives me eight hours of usage every time it powers up, and don’t cost more than eight grain, but I do have to top it off after it runs out.

Here's hoping I won’t have to, not tonight at least. Marcus said we got ten to twelve hours, but I doubt he’ll keep us out searching the whole time. Too risky to be caught tired and out of breath by an errant Abby patrol, and if I gotta keep Detect Aberration up for twelve hours, it’ll use up more than three quarters of my Spellslinging abilities for the day. Assuming I can hold on for an entire hour and will only have to cast it 11 times, that’s 44 out of a possible 56 Aether used, or about 78.5% of my daily maximum. Leaves me 12 Aether to work with, which is enough for 1 Second Order Spell and nothing else, or 3 First Order Spells before I’m completely Spent.

Course, those numbers aren’t exactly hard and firm, as there are a lot of variables to consider like physical exertion and state of mind. There are also plenty of exceptions that muddy the math a bit. For example, With 12 points, I could cast 2 Second Order Divination Spells, since I get something of a discount when I do, but only for Divination magics, and not enough to matter for anything First Order. It’s more like it takes me less effort to use them, on account of how familiar I am with Divination and the patterns of the world around me, so much so that they speak to me even without the Spells. They do so by letting me know when somethings hinky by rustling my jimmies, giving me what feels like a glimpse into the future, or a Portent, but not really. It only looks like that to the uneducated, similar to how a boxer can dodge punches from an amateur all day because their opponent is telegraphing the attack.

Magic is strange. Divination is the only school that’s got this sort of perk, though they all got their own benefits. Accomplished Evokers can intuitively avoid hitting friendly targets with their Spells, Evocation or otherwise, creating pockets of safety inside their Fireballs, Frost Novas, and even Silences without any need for Selective Metamagic. Their Spells tend to hit harder too, though no one’s sure if that’s a perk you get from focusing on the School, or just general familiarity boosting their damage. As for Illusionists, they get more out of their illusion Spells, most notably the ability to shape and mould them on the fly. Chrissy and Tina can use the Minor Illusion Cantrip to make a lifelike wally that hops around, but even if I could nail down the lifelike part, there’s no way I can make it hop. Spell’s only supposed to create a static image or a sound, so I’ve no idea how they get it to move.

Something about animation and drawing every frame of the movement out in the illusion, which sounds more magical than magic.

There’s other benefits to be had, like how Sergeant Begaye can conjure up puffs of smoke out of nothing, and probably small tools too, or how a dedicated Abjuror can feed excess Aether from their Spells into a personal ward to protect themselves and others. Plenty more I don’t know about too, because even after five-hundred years of wide-spread use and study, we still barely scratching the surface of our understanding, which is why I love magic so much. It’s still magical, unknowable, ineffable, whereas the tech is all… boring math and physics and what not. I’m good at math, but I don’t love it, as I see it as an ends to a means to pursue my true passion of Spellslinging.

Because the best place for a Spellslinger is out on the battlefield, where their Spells can truly make a difference.

All this goes through my head as we rappel down the mineshaft without even looking at the shoddy-looking, hand-cranked elevator platform. Mostly because it’d make too much noise and there’s no way for all of us to board at the same time, since it’d take at least two to work the crank. Or Marcus, but he’s in charge of this op and won’t send us ahead where he can’t watch our backs. As such, we’re stuck spelunking the good old-fashioned way, namely using ropes and spikes to bring us down the near vertical shaft. Sergeant Begaye takes the lead this time around, hammering in each metal spike with a small rubber headed mallet that glows with a spectral blue light, a tool he conjures up out of thin air, and I try not to look down and shit myself.

Handy little skill that, Conjuring simple objects outta Ecto, one my mama wanted for herself according to her notes, but I never picked up the knack no matter how hard I tried. Not because I didn’t work hard enough, as this right here is where talent actually comes into play. Me, my talent is Divination, same as my daddy, though it’s hard to say what School of magic my mama would’ve resonated with if she survived for more than eight or nine months.

I do my best to keep myself distracted as I climb down the ropes after Sergeant Begaye, but it isn’t until I reach the bottom that I realize I’d lost my Concentration somewhere along the way. Taking a couple seconds to recast Detect Aberration manually, I take a beat and feel the excess Aether drain out of me while planning to conjure up a Water Sphere to wash my face and hands, but I freeze in my tracks and hold up a fist to signal the Rangers to attention.

Because there’s a prickle on the back of my neck, a lingering smell in the air, a little tickle in my throat and a buzzing in my ear, all of which doesn’t meaning nothing at all, until I parse it all together. “Contact,” I whisper, as quietly as I can, though I’ve no definitive sense of Aberrations just yet. They’re around though, of this, I am sure, and I pull out a tiny brass ear horn from my components pouch to double check. Dropping the Ear Protection Cantrip, I intone, “Auditus – Fidelis,” as quietly as I can while holding the horn up to my ear. The Discern Cantrip takes effect and all the sounds of the dark come alive in my ears. Everyone’s deep and steady breathing, their slow and cadenced heartbeats, the scuff of wood against fabric as they endeavour to stand stock still but make a bit of noise anyways. The slow trickle of air sounds like a windstorm to my enhanced hearing, and the scrabbling, unseen insects moving through the stony cracks and dirt walls are like the pitter-patter of children running upstairs, and I’m reminded once more of why I hate this Cantrip so much.

It does one thing and one thing only, sharpens your hearing to supernatural levels, but the human ear wasn’t meant to hear so well. If any one of these Rangers were to clap, it’d be like a gunshot going off right beside my ear, while an actual, unsilenced gunshot might well rupture my eardrums and cause lasting damage. It’s a dangerous Spell to use, the number one cause of tinnitus and hearing loss in Diviners across the land, but an invaluable tool we cannot do without.

Because while Detect Aberration is blocked by the thick stone walls, sound travels very well through solid objects, so well that putting my hand to the wall is enough to hear what’s going on several dozen metres on the other side as a cacophonous clamour of stomping feet and guttural grunts threatens to deafen me twice over. Withdrawing my hand from the wall like I been burn, I remove the horn from my ear and slowly mouth, “Abby. Close Contact. Numbers Unknown.”

Despite the tense atmosphere, I can’t help but swell with pride as the Rangers silently pass the message along and decide what to do. Not a bad start for my first delve under dark, so I touch the punctured Bible in my armoured vest and look up at the rock roof and imagine the open skies beyond. Ain’t much of a praying sort, but there are times when I can’t argue against faith, because I asked for my daddy’s help, and he might well have guided me along the way. Or maybe it’s just his training bearing fruit, as he taught me everything I know about tracking Abby, but who knows. Either way, I’m well on my way to becoming a real Scout, and hopefully one day will live up to the towering legacy that my daddy left behind.

Yea, it’s been a tough few years ever since I lost him, and I missed a few steps along the way, but at least now I know I’m still on the right track.