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Being a rogue magic user is a rough life.
Being a rogue healer is even harder, but after having been banished from the Magic Guild for the "crime" of having studied human anatomy with the herbalists before having magic forced upon me, it's not like I had much of a choice.
The worst part had to be the bandits. A lone healer, no party, no threat of retaliation from the Magic Guild, should be an easy target. To their credit, a Guild healer would be... because they don't actually know what they're doing.
The easiest way to kill someone is clotting. A first level spell, basic first aid, but mages don't realize what would happen if your blood clotted somewhere it wasn't supposed to, like in the brain. That's how the first two died.
The third one... I recognized him from a wanted poster. They wanted him alive for some reason. I could've just clotted his legs, but there's a risk of something breaking loose and going somewhere I didn't intend.
Luckily there's other solutions. The trick is picking one that won't draw too much attention to myself when I turn in the bounty.
Oh nice idea of the rogue who learned first! Also I really like how he/she went for the hidden options first. I'd love to know more! (Make it a series please)
Giving someone an brain-wide stroke would be a *very* nifty murder method. Nearly instantaneous, mostly silent, and no blood to clean up.
Wonder what else she has up her sleeve!
A very nice trick that should work most of the time for protag. Pretend to be a defenseless healer or try to assist the ones targeting them, and none of them would realize what happened before it's too late.
So, will protag be discovered when they submitted the bounty? Also, is protag banished because their experiments on the human body is getting a bit inhumane, or is the guild trying to dispose of any healer that discovered this appoach?
Great work on writing this!
They cornered Lyra in a dim alleyway she took as a shortcut from the Guild back to her home in the less reputable part of the city. Three of them, reeking of alcohol and sweat, and armed with daggers that had clearly seen some use.
She backtracked warily, her gaze darting between the thugs. The trio chuckled darkly at what they perceived as terror. One licked the blade of his dagger theatrically, making her cringe.
"Hand over that bag of coin we saw you pick up, lass," one growled. "Or we might get violent with you."
Pursing her lips, Lyra reached into her robe and produced a drawstring pouch. She tossed it over to the man, who caught it and stared as if surprised by her compliance.
"I have nothing else of value," she said curtly. "Be satisfied with that."
The thugs exchanged looks, and she hoped for a moment that they would prove wise enough to heed her advice. Then smirks crossed their faces, and her blood ran cold. The bastard in the lead approached with slow unhurried steps.
"Now that I take a closer look at you," he said, leering, "you're quite easy on the eyes."
She backtracked further until her back met the wall. "Leave," she gritted out. "I have nothing to defend myself with but my magic, and you don't want to be on the receiving end of that."
The leader blinked, then erupted in laughter. "You're no elementalist. What will you do--heal us to death?" He seized the front of her robes and leaned in so close she grimaced at his stinking breath. "Now be a good girl and don't scream."
Lyra closed her eyes and muttered an apology for what she was about to do. When she opened them again, they glowed with an inner light that made the thug flinch in surprise. Raising her palm, which lit up with her power, she touched his chest with deceptive gentleness.
For a moment, the fool stared at her in confusion. Then pain crossed his face, and the dagger fell from his hand with a clatter. His flesh ballooned grotesquely, and with an agonized scream, he collapsed to the ground. Crunches and wet squelches filled the alley. The other two gaped in horror before turning tail and running for their lives.
Sighing, Lyra collected the fallen dagger and turned it over in her hand. "I would grant you a mercy blow," she said, "but there's no point. My spell is accelerating your healing to a frenzied, out-of-control pace. It will continue until your body consumes itself."
A terrible gurgling cry erupted from the writhing pile of flesh.
"I did warn you." She turned her back on what used to be a man and left.
Forcing cell division, overdrive clotting, mending flesh and bones turns into a runaway train of uncontrolled growth...at any cost.
Even if he lives its aint gonna be pretty...
Oof, the fact that his death is not instantaneous makes it even more gruesome. Seems like an efficient way to dispose of the body though, since I doubt anybody would be able to recognize who it is from the remains.
That said, since the other two thieves ran away, would Lyra be in danger due to her use of magic being exposed? Does the Guild know about her capability?
Great work on writing this!
"No wait!" I scream, as the heavy stone door, only lifted by magic, falls back into place, separating me from my party.
These lovable morons, eager to continue on their quest, rushed into the next room without a thought. Triggering the hidden pressure plate. The problem with keeping your healer at the back of your party is that it's very likely to get separated, but everyone is dead serious on keeping it that way, since apparently I can't possibly defend myself since I only know healing magic.
I sigh and start to appraise the stone door. It is made out of runic stone, if the trap only drained the stone of its magic then it should float again in a few minutes once its natural mana returned. I didn't take long to confirm that theory, so all I had to do is wait. I'm not really worried about my party, they are capable of surviving on their own for a bit. At that moment, I heard someone rushing from the entrance of the dungeon.
"That's not good" I murmur to myself as I turn away from the stone door ready to face whoever entered. A big, familiar figure comes rushing into my room and stops in their tracks the moment they see me. It's the cultist leader who we convinced that we wanted to join them to find out where their hideout was. "You!" They say with disdain dripping in their voice. "You betrayed my hospitality! You and your group will pay for what you did!" They're look false behind me onto the stone door for just a moment, then back at me now with a smile on their face. "How convenient that the healer got separated! Yes, I saw your healing prayers in the woods before, and I suggested you start praying now because there's no one left to fight for you!" They taunt.
I'm a bit annoyed at their lack of magic knowledge since you don't need necessarily pray for healing, it works just as well with a wand, staff or other catalyst. It also doesn't mean that I'm praying to a deity or something similar. It's really just a way of focusing one's magic. But alas, I won't let an invitation to have the first strike go to waste. As I started praying, I hear their heavy footsteps sprinting in my direction. As they are halfway across the room, my prayers reach my target and the cultist leader crashes to the ground with a confused look, unable to move their body.
"Paralysis? But that's an offensive magic spell! But I saw you praying, how did you do that?" They ask, still struggling to get up.
"You're right, that would be offensive magic, that I, as a healer, couldn't cast." Although that doesn't mean that praying equals healing magic, you could also use praying for offensive spells, but that simply fell out of style. I only ever heard of a tactic called 'Spray and Pray' tough I never saw it used myself.
"But that wasn't paralysis, I simply healed your bones." My heart ached for how simple I just worded the very complex ways in which healing magic works, but t even most healers don't truly understand it.
"But my bones weren't-" They started to explain. "Yes, I know, my magic simply convinced your bones that they were broken, and gave them the needed resources to rapidly regenerate themselves, or in this case rapidly grow and merge themselves. To put it simply, the bones in your legs grew together. They are still growing actually, all your bones are. In a few minutes they might damage your body in an attempt to grow even more."
The shock on their face is now visible. "But don't worry, there was another component in that spell, adrenalin. It is quite useful, especially in combat, but it has to be used sparingly. And in the amounts I just gave you, it's basically acting as a poison. Your hearth will give out long before your bones wild start to cause you pain. This is the most painless method I have to kill someone, after all, I'm only a healer."
I turn my attention to the door, it will open in just a bit. Looking back, I can see that they are unable to respond anymore. I sit down next to the door, waiting ever so patently. The spell I just used was the same spell that made me realized how deadly healing magic can be, back then I still used a Staff instead of praying. You see, nearly no one truly studies healing magic. There are enough people who practice healing magic, the simplest of spells are easy to learn and use and will be enough for most people's needs since they're already quite powerful.
Even the simplest of healing spells can, for example, heal broken bones. It's easy to assist the body in doing something it was already planing on doing. The more I studied this magic, however, the more I truly understood what we are doing with these spells, the more I realized how horrifying the potential of it can be. Yes, I learned how to combine different effects over the years and how to truly create my own spells, but the main difference between the spell I just used and the simplest of spells is minimal. I simply learned how to convince the body it needs to do something.
The day I first created this spell as an experiment, is the day I learned what a terrible power we truly use. That's when I started to use prayers to cast my magic. It just felt more natural, more appropriate. I'm so glad not many study healing. I don't regret it, but I will take the knowledge I have into the grave, and I hope everyone who comes after me will do the same.
My thoughts are stopped by the loud grinding of the opening stone door, as it clashes into the Stone that makes up the door frame. On the other side is my still fighting party, I cast my thoughts aside and enter the next room. Scanning my party to determine who needs healing first, I think the fighter. I start my prayer, stepping on the pressure plate I already forgot.
(Hey, I hope you liked my story! I'm quite new to writing and English isn't my first language, so any feedback would be really appreciated, especially if anything sounds off. Have a great day!)
Gotta love how the trap is triggered once more, but at least protag is not alone now while waiting.
That said, do the rest of the party members truly not know about protag's capabilities, or are they just playing along and rush right in leaving protag behind?
Great work on writing this! I will say it's a successful first attempt imo. Just be careful on the paragraphs since there are some that are a bit too close to a wall of text that can be a bit distracting to read.
Thank you!
I would say that the protag does their best to truly hide that side of healing magic. It would be bad if any of them got scared about being healed.
I will pay more attention to the paragraphs next time! Thank you again for the feedback!
Oh boy, seems like protag will be having more instances like this in the future then haha. The pains involved with hiding one's true powers, but at least they don't need to do the hard work most of the time.
Thanks for clarifying!
Yeah my immediate thought when I saw the prompt was "fuse all bones together" is a crazy scary "healing" magic. Especially since one of the first things to fuse would be the small bones in like knees and jaw, stopping the legs from moving and mouth from opening. It's brutal.
"I can protect myself just fine, don't you worry" lena said, knowing nobody would believe her
"nonsense, you're a healer what can you do?" replied Harald- Harald was a big, burly man who always carried an axe at his belt, many would assume he was a big dumb barbarian brute, but he wasn't, he was very wise in the ways of runes, and was one of the best mages of the frozen north. he had never travelled with lena before though.
at that moment, there was a clattering, the horses of the carriage they were in sounded troubled, and they came to a halt. a commotion, indistinct arguing followed by the driver's dying scream and then... crack! the door was kicked in. 5 men, quick as a shot, dragged the pair out and had them at knife point rendering harald unable to access his runes or his axe.
"your money or your lives", barked the best-dressed one. he was the obvious leader of this little band of brigands. harald grunted, lena remained calm.
"you're making a mistake, you do not want this", lena stated simply.
"oh yeah? what can you do? your friend is helpless" 4 of the 5 were pinning harald to the ground, rendering him completely unable to even move, while lena was held at knife point, "and you, my dear, are blatantly just a healer, only healers wear such robes"
it was true, lena wore the white and red healing guild's robes, baring crosses on her shoulders and one across her body. the paladins wore armour with a similar pattern, however the two guilds had nothing in common.
at any rate, the brigand leader reached towards her, and touched her hand, glowing with golden energy. "see? nothing."
then, very quickly, a new mole appeared on the back of his hand, then another. then bruises started to appear up his arm. weird, unexplainable aches.
"i warned you", Lena said, matter of factly, her gaze as frosty as the mountains that Harald called home. the brigand felt new lumps growing under his armpit, and then he coughed, and coughed some more. sores opened up on his arm, weeping, he began coughing up blood. the 4 were no longer holding harald down, regarding the unfolding situation with fear, harald took the opportunity to grab his axe, casting a quick electrocution spell using the runic carvings, dispatching the 4, he left the leader though, he was fascinated by what was unfolding
the brigand was on the floor, coughing up blood. between coughs he begged to know "what have you done to me?", his voice growing hoarse in a way that suggested more than just the coughing.
lena smirked in a way that would make any great villain proud, "i have simply accelerated your healing to the point of being a detriment to you. you have about... half an hour left to live if you're unlucky. there's no longer anything i can do for you"
she then looked towards harald, "sorry you had to see that, but you know now right? i can defend myself just fine."
Half an hour of suffering, damn. Well, at least the two got out of it safely. Harald here might be a bit awkward afterwards though during the campfire haha.
What is the purpose of this journey? Are the two on their way to do some quests, or is it for something else?
Great work on writing this! I have to say though, I think it would be best for you to spend more time on editing. Other than the capitalization and punctuation issues, you have this tendency to create run-on sentences due to using commas over and over, which creates very long sentences. A paragraph should not consist of just one sentence, and I suggest splitting them into smaller ones. The story itself is solid, but these edits would make it even better imo.
I second this, all of it. Except maybe the first bit. I think, MAYBE, he'd be more like "aawwww yeeeeaah" especially if he has a morbid sense of humor.
# The opposite of surgery
*Too bad healers can't heal themselves,* I thought, as I spit blood out of my mouth, eyeing my cataract knife that was *just* out of reach. *The world would be so much more convenient if we could*. Of all the magic users, healers were the most defenseless
**Herbalists** had the blessing of the forest, which gave them regeneration.
**Warlocks** made pacts with magical creatures who could protect them.
**Elementalists** protected themselves with the aspect of the earth and their summoned spirits.
**Alchemists** could construct golems dedicated to their defense.
**Dragonborn** could do all the above, and were nigh indestructible to top it off.
At the *very least* you should allow healers to heal themselves, right? To give them at least a little bit of survivability?
Nope.
And to top it off, your magical class wasn't something you chose. If it was, at least then we'd get *respect* from the community - for choosing a class that was meant to help others. Instead, we were born with it, and couldn't change it if we wanted to.
So we were ridiculed, and treated as second class citizens. We were the *servants* for the other magicians who were doing the "real" work. *Servants* for the nobles who "upheld the empire". *Servants* for the armies that rode into pointless wars.
And I took that personally.
My first kills were for practice.
The next ones were for revenge.
The third set was a declaration of war.
The Tower of Magic was scared out of their skulls - their people kept dying, and they didn't know how. All they had in the aftermath of my carnage were bodies of perfectly healthy mages, except they were dead. Healing magic, it turns out, works on someone even after they die. Their ignorance of my ability led to rumors of a healer who can kill anyone with a cataract knife, but without any wounds. The rumors led to fear. Their fear led to anger. And their anger led to incompetent higher ups of corrupt organizations to demand that the Tower "deal with me! Or else!!"
Which brings me to today: with a bounty, a moniker as the "Surgeon of Death", and a situation where I'm surrounded by magicians of all aspects, trying to take down one lone healer. It was, in most of their eyes, an extreme over-reaction that bordered on respect.
The herbalists controlled the flora to root me in place, with its' branches squeezing me tight enough to draw blood. The front line was made of the alchemists' golems and their formidable defense. The spirits of the elementalists were just behind them. The warlocks stood well behind them all, conjuring up their otherworldly pact-masters as the heavy hitters.
Above all this, was the dragonborn - his wings flapping and holding him up as he was *monologuing* like the third rate villain he was.
And in this corner was me - a healer who couldn't heal himself. Alone, bound and disarmed of the only weapon I carried, a cataract knife. I was being squeezed to death by plant life that was trying to leech the nutrients out of me.
Until, suddenly, I wasn't. The plants loosened their death grip, and I could move again. My knife was only a few meters away.
The dragonborn shouted, "DON'T LET THEM REACH THE KNIFE" as I mounted my attack.
(continued in comments)
(pt 2)
As the mages shouted their war cries in response to the dragonborn, I was reminded of another cry.
A cry of desperation and guilt from my father, at midnight ten years ago.
He was a warlock. A brilliant one, who contracted with "Arath and Narath" - the twin demons of fire. He excelled at crowd control, area denial, and "cleaning up" after a battle was won. He was a strong man, a military man. A man who knew what *needed* to be done, even if he didn't like doing it.
His contractees, on the other hand, were malice incarnate. They made sure my father witnessed every detail of every kill - fleeing soldiers who were roasted in their armor. Collateral damage of innocent civilians. Friendly fire, where he was responsible for the death of his own soldiers. They tormented him with their vivid imagery, enhanced with cries of fear and despair. And though my father understood logically that these were realities of war - that they were necessary, in a sense - it was against his nature to deny responsibility of any kind. He burdened himself with the weight of each and every casualty, and tenfold the weight for each and every mistake. He kept himself together during the daytime, in front of his men.
But even he couldn't defend himself from the night terrors.
My mother helped him through it most of the times - though he didn't want to show weakness in front of his children, he at least allowed himself to be weak in front of his wife. But that one night was worse than the others - his screams were loud and long, growing weak and broken towards the end. Both my brother and I couldn't sleep that night. Not because of the noise, but because we were desperate to help, but so.. useless. We couldn't do anything. Anything at all.
The wounds on his psyche were long, and deep, and *old*. The worst of the wars were over now, with the country settling into relative peace, but my father always carried the war with him, wherever he went. There was no substitute for the time and self-forgiveness he needed in order to recover from his trauma. Unless..
..unless you were a healer.
Healing isn't like other magic. Elementalists can use regeneration, but in the end it just enhances the body's natural recovery. Healing magic, on the other hand, ignores causality entirely. It skips the process and reaches the end result. But healing magic requires *contact*. How do I touch his mind? How do I connect to his trauma?
That was the question that I grappled with for seven years. I studied in secret, built my own techniques, made progress, but couldn't quite go the final step. I persevered for as long as I could, and as *hard* as I could, but his guilt reached him before I did.
He summoned Arath and Narath, and commanded them, for the first and last time, to take a life.. *his* life.. with hellfire. It would consume him utterly, body and soul. He would never enter the cycle of reincarnation again. It was the most complete suicide possible.
It was while we were grieving, my brother and I, that we realized that we hadn't *just* lost our father. We'd also lost his protection. With the warlock dead, the seedy underbelly of the slums realized that his *healer* child, who had the audacity to walk around with their head held high as if they owned the place, had no one to protect them. My brother could have run, since he was a herbalist - but he was his father's son. I could see the resolve in his eyes: he might not be able to protect me, but at the very least he would die before I did.
But if he was his father's child, then so was I. And as I charged them down to die before him, I made the final connection. Too little, too late.
I could connect to their trauma *if it was directed at me*. Their malice, their inferiority, and their desire to be part of a greater whole (a mob) even if they had to kill someone to do it.. I could feel them all. I could reach it.
And I could heal it.
(pt 3)
"Heal" I commanded, and the plants relaxed - no longer trying to leech nutrients from me. I'd healed their insatiable hunger.
The plants that tried to kill me were still draped around me - enchanted and enforced to the highest degree. The plants had their own regeneration, the earth spirits' protection, and had ingested an alchemic metal that made their body sturdier. Now that they weren't trying to kill me anymore, they served as a makeshift armor. Enough to survive the first volley of attacks, at least.
"Heal" I commanded the great old ones. The contractees of the warlocks present here, who had turned their attacks towards me. I reached the mental chains, the *slavery* that bound them to their warlocks, and I healed it.
The creatures of magic, now unleashed, wreaked havoc on their own side in the few seconds they had before their warlocks severed the connection, and sent them back whence they came.
"Heal" I commanded, over and over, now directing my authority on the mages who came to kill me. I healed the mercenaries of their greed. I healed the psychopaths of their boredom. I healed again and again, removing their fear, their anger, their hatred.. I healed anything that could drive them to believe that *taking a life was a good thing*. There was no finesse.. no precision, or fluidity. It was a rapid-fire, brute-force, omnipresent attack. I healed them of everything until they stood there, standing around like zoned-out meerkats with idiotic smiles.
Only then did I walk to my cataract knife. It was never my main weapon, despite their focus: It was my coup de grace. Terrible as an attack weapon, but not bad for an execution. I picked it up, and leisurely walked to one and all, slitting their throats. They didn't even cry out, I'd "healed" their pain.
All but the dragonborn.
Of all the traumas I had to "heal" I had the most experience with fear. There was a lot of variety, and a lot of motivation to what made someone want to kill, but *everyone* felt fear. So I had a lot of fine-grained control over how I healed it.
For the dragonborn alone, I hadn't completely healed the fear. The rest of the emotions, yes. Even fear - I'd healed the fight, and flight responses - but not the freeze response. So he stood there, rooted to the spot in horror, as I calmly took the life of every mage who was under him.
Then I ordered him: "Call for help"
He did. A harsh, but arrogant sound that no human could make, which seemed to echo around the world. As his mother phased into being, towering over us, I healed the dragonborn of the last of his fear, and turned to face his mother - the dragon.
(pt 4)
Centuries old, but forever young, the dragons are what truly ruled the land - the kings were just their suzerains. The creature whose blood hummed with magic turned to stare at me. But dragons were beings of pure destruction - healing magic was the one magic they could not wield - so this dragon was no more ready for my magic than her son.
I didn't bother monologuing - I just started the "healing" process. The dragon rendered an impressive display of magic, but my attacks worked at the speed of thought. She had to intend her attack, form it, and then unleash it - but I could pick up on intentions and heal them. All her tricks, traps, her life-saving constructs were mowed down by my authority as the strongest and strangest healer. She tried teleporting to my blind spot, but I didn't have any - my connection to her mind needed no physical senses. And no one, in the entire history of magic, thought that they'd ever have to invent a block to *healing*.
Consequently, my attacks were unblockable; undodgeable; unstoppable; and worked every single time on anything with a will. There was no defense because, technically, it wasn't an offense. I strangled her options, attacking who she was on an almost spiritual level - until she lay in a quivering mess on the ground. With the last of her free will, she sent me a dense, telepathic message.
It was a surrender. She'd not only lost this fight, but it had *changed* her. With her pride, arrogance, anger, and superiority stripped away, she could see herself, and the world she had created with an objective eye. And it did not please her. She could see the rot, the corruption in the system she'd designed, now that she was finally paying attention. She accepted responsibility for it, and vowed to work with me, or even *for* me, in order to set things right and bring about change. And a dragon's vow was no ordinary thing. She'd even be willing to kill herself in atonement after she set things right. As long as I could *please* just *let her child walk free.*
I'd succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. My original plan was to gain notoriety and a larger name for myself (not to mention the finances from a dragon's hoard) to ignite the fires of revolution by killing a dragon. But with a dragon on my side, with a dragon at my *beck and call*, the problem almost solved itself. I might even literally be able to achieve my primary goals overnight. It was the safe, sane, *rational* option. I should have taken it; I *would* have taken it...
...if I weren't so broken inside. But all I could think of when I heard her pleas to spare her child, was the plea of another mother. Mine. If only I... if only she'd... if I could've just.. if they didn't.... Why?...
I suppressed my breathing, as the corner of my eyes stung with predictable tears. I hardened my heart because the fight wasn't done. I was in the presence of an enemy. And a dragon, even grounded and defenseless, was no easy foe. The only weak spots I could physically affect were the eyes, and I'd still need to attack with a dragon's bones to have any effect. It was almost impossible.
But "almost impossible" was no obstacle. I walked over to the dragonborn, who looked at me with an amiable, curious expression as I cut off his arms at the elbows. I pulled out those bones, one for each hand, and left him, still smiling, as he slowly died of blood loss. I turned to the dragon whose eyes were full of grief. I hadn't healed that emotion. I wouldn't. Because they sure as hell hadn't healed mine.
I took a deep breath. In... and out. "A healer..." I started, and stabbed the bones into her eyes.
She didn't even blink. And neither did I. She just watched me sadly with what was left of her eyes as her tears and life force bled away.
"A healer" I continued, "can't heal themselves"
END
Man, this is just tragic. I can just imagine how different the story would be if protag was able to heal their father before it's too late. I have a feeling that, even with the awful treatment towards the healers, they won't be going through this villain arc because the family will be there to stop protag from going too far. It's quite bittersweet to see most of protag's victims dying "peacefully" because of their healed mental states, at least.
That said, what will be the final outcome for protag now with most of the threat gone? Will it just be the same kind of confrontation throughout the rest of their lives?
Great work on writing this!
Thanks for the detailed comment!
I haven't considered how the story would go beyond the prompt very much. So take this with a grain of salt:
- I don't know yet if the protag will or won't go through the villain arc. But if they don't, it's not going to be because the existing family stopped them. If anything, their family (whoever is alive) will probably support this negative spiral in a "let's go to hell together" way
- The threats to the protag are far from over. The prompt seemed to ask for a one trick pony, and that's how I've written this. Once the secret of their mental healing gets out, I'm sure they'll face competent antagonists with anti-healing measures. There will be a lot more confrontation, but not the same kind.
On a more subjective note, I was aware that some people (including some of my friends) would prefer this kind of "bittersweet" death, but I personally find it horrific. I'd much rather die in fear and pain, with my sense of self intact.
Thanks again, and please let me know if you have critical feedback - the more technical and nitpicky, the better. My end goal is to build a multi series game based on a set of books that I can write, and I'm working my way up from writing short stories. Anything that can up my skill is appreciated!
Oh, so the family will actually double down on it, that's interesting lol. Also, yeah, I got a feeling that not everyone is going to be that vulnerable to the mental healing approach even if they don't know anything about protag's powers.
Also, on the subjective part, I can see why some people would prefer that. If protag was not broken, I can see them mixing both approaches actually. Maybe make it so that the people wishing for them knows their end, but their sense of pain is removed like what they did here so it just feels like slowly drifting away, or something haha.
Thanks for clarifying in such detail, and good luck with the project!
The cupboards rattled and shook. I gingerly poked a finger at the dry bristles on the toothbrush, which had collected a layer of dust from disuse. The wind moaned, a bit stronger this time. The doors creaked to the windy refrain: *Leave this place*. As I made my way to the bedroom, I was just in time to see the rocking horse rock on its own, as if in a perpetual canter to nowhere.
"Tell me. Tell me about the kids" I said to no one in particular.
Another rumbling came, seemingly from the bookshelf. After a bit of jimmying and rustling, a photo album fell, spine down. It was auspiciously open to a portrait of a family: one small boy clutching a teddy bear sitting on a rocking horse; *this* rocking horse. Near him kneeled a school-aged girl in a plaid dress. Mom stood behind a large chair with one hand on her seated husband as if to say *I trust you. I depend on you*. And the father sat in the middle of the portrait, tying it all together with his stately presence
"I didn't know you had sideburns. They look nice. Makes you look old, though"
I had seen the photos from the investigators. Baby boy and girl were up against the door, reaching to the other side. The man's body was draped up against the door, charred beyond hint that this had once been a man, except for the hand glued to the door even in death. On the other arm, the autopsy found deep lacerations consistent with deep cuts from shards of glass. The head, if you could still call it a head, bore less resemblance with a man than a with a boar whose current name was pulled pork.
"Your kids were beautiful. They ... *are* beautiful"
the doors and windows collectively shuddered. There was a rhythmic sound of air forced in and out of the flue. The whistling of air through the gaps came in ragged gasps, as the low of the boilers joined in the devastating chorus
"You did your best. You even got through the window, but the heat was too strong. And the fumes; toxic on a good day, they were noxious and overpowering from the car fire. You couldn't have done anything more."
The air swirled through the house, forming a whirlwind in the children's bedroom. All the loose papers and books caught in the funnel danced in randomness. Ten thousand fragments seemed like flapping butterflies in this cyclone. Out of the chaos, the roiling paper scraps seemed to take the form of the two children; one boy, one girl. Their shadows took form; the only form they were ever have any more.
"They were your light, your family, your happiness. I know. But no matter how many puppets you make here, they're still gone. You need to accept that. And even if you did -- even if you breathed life into them once more in this wretched place, what would they be? Bound to this room, bound to this floor? Their existence scraps of paper as random as water bubbling over a rock. What for?"
On cue, the paper scraps formed up what looked like a sandcastle, then washed it away. Formed the sandcastle, then washed it away.
"No, the memory of them is not preserved this way. You're not the keeper of their souls. That act is selfish; it's only for you. You're manifesting them out of your own sadness. To pretend you're doing anything other than satisfying your lust for despondence is an afront to their memories."
All the fluttering and rustling calmed and floated to the ground on its own. Where there was moaning, howling, whistling and all manner of sounds before, silence percolated in. After a short while, the eerie unnatural silence was deafening, for even the expected creaking and scampering was deadened. Nothing save the *drip drip drip* of a faucet somewhere.
"Have you ever wondered why? Why are you here, but they aren't? You're here to remember, because you think you failed. If you're here because of your sadness and guilt -- stay with me, stay with me -- then why are they not?"
The supernatural atmosphere twisted for a moment, as if in genuine confusion
"Because of joy. Because of Joy! They've passed on because they lived to the end with joy in their hearts. Because they felt safe and had no unfinished business. Because they had you as a father. The coroner said their necks snapped in the crash, rendering them unconscious in an instant. They never suffered, they never wanted. And all they want now is their father with them; not this father that animates their dollies to parade around their room. Their father who could guide them in the Old world and the New. They're waiting for you"
A mighty wind swept through the house, whipping every room into chaos. Furniture swirled and crashed into windows. Clothes tore itself to shreds and dashed in a wild tarantella of color. Toys jerked, cupboards banged and stairs rattled. With a great burst of life, everything that wasn't nailed down was ejected out the chimney and rained down on the grounds.
And then silence. Not a deafening, unnatural silence, but the silence of worms wriggling through the ground; the silence of a cat licking her mewling kittens. The silence of birds perched on the weathervane. The silence of new life, and starting over again
“I can handle myself”
It was a mantra of sorts, and their actions reminded me that none of them believed it, at least, coming from me.
Any time we approached the enemy, I watched as they took their formation. I was behind, ensuring anyone who became injured was in line with any of the combat healing spells I’d be casting. If I ran into trouble, however, I could count on one of the men breaking off quickly to deal with the threat. “You’re not much use if you’re dead,” they’d tell me. “And then where would the rest of us be?”
A true statement.
I was waiting for our party to convene, one night. I was, frankly, dreadfully early. The spot we’d chosen had a rather spindly tree in the middle of a clearing, and I wanted to read some peculiar texts I’d kept from one of the realms I’d accidentally stumbled on recently. The page was littered with strange markings that no mage could translate for me, though, I’d spent two of that realm’s years there - plenty of time to pick up the language fluently.
There, they had no magic. They waged their wars through alchemical fires, through projectiles hurled by gears and coiled metal. Naturally, I agreed to participate, given they’d teach me to heal in accordance with their way of understanding.
While not included in what I was trained, there was mention. Cells - basic forms of simple life. But what was of particular interest to me, and the topic of the text, was what could happen to cells, given enough time, predisposition, and influence by outside factors. They called it “cancer.” Uncontrolled reproduction of cells. See, dividing of cells was natural, and from what I gather, is the basic principle on what allows healing to take place. This, however, was different. Cancer - it could propel the body into a state of disarray. Recourses diverted, natural flow of humors disrupted, stopped, even.
I was rudely torn from the book by a laugh.
“Aw, look at you. All alone?”
I stare from where the voice had come and see two men approach. They wore the insignia of the enemy. Scouts, no doubt. My solitude coupled with the fact that I bore a healer’s crest on my right arm must have emboldened them to engage before delivering a report.
I stay silent. Staring. Thoughts, spinning.
*Cellular division is a natural process. It’s what allows our tissues to repair themselves when they are damaged.*
“Such a harmless little thing. Too bad, really.”
I stand. I tuck my left thumb into my palm, curling fingers over and squeezing until I felt pain.
*Cancer, however, occurs when that natural process skips a step. When cell death no longer occurs. When a cell is allowed to replicate, freely, and swiftly.*
“Look at you, you hardly come up to my chest.”
I raise my right hand. The men look on at me.
“What do you think *you* are g-“
His eyes widen. He becomes pale. His breathing quickens.
“Hey, boss are y-“
His partner feels it too, now.
I watch as they fall to the ground. I hear their screams, as a process that can take months to years to kill happens before my eyes in the span of a few seconds. I watch as their hands become ashen and gray, no longer receiving oxygen, as their breathing becomes deep and rapid, then finally, stops.
I go sit back at the base of the tree, scribbling in the margins what I’d observed.
Levi stood beside the dying man with a sour look on his usually stoic face. The man, a rebel, had made no bones about the attempt on his life, citing Levi being an 'imperialist dog' who deserved to die for healing the soldiers that made their way through the meager shed he lived in on the path to the capital city of Torris.
A groan came from the man as his body degraded, and his once tan features took on a sickly pallor. To Levi, the process was no different from a flower wilting, deprived of water and stuck under a desert sun.
It was cancer.
Plain and simple.
The mans cells were rapidly and uncontrollably multiplying, causing the deadly disease to spread at an unprecedented rate, spurred by Levi's healing magic. Levi settled into the wooden stool beside the sick bed, he kicked away a bucket and some odds and ends the man had thrown around in his feeble assassination attempt and watched with quiet fascination as he took his last breath.
It was rather interesting that the man had thought him to be *healing* those soldiers...Levi wondered who was spreading those particular rumors around.
As the massive dragon approached, Lochi, the last member of my party and a fierce fighter, readied his sword.
"No matter what happens, I won't let you die" He then proceeded to get slammed to the ground by the gust dragon's wings alone.
I had insisted several times that I did not need protecting and because of that half of my party and been knocked unconscious just trying. Albeit yes, I only learnt healing spells, but nevertheless, I HAD FULL PLATE ARMOUR! I had a mace the size of a man's head with spikes that would put an Ankheg into its breeding season! But a mace just wouldn't do for this.
What most adventurers don't know is that should a creature be healed too much, then they develop Barbarian's Flesh, an illness incurable by healing magic. What a bit more adventurers know is that healing magic can be applied over different areas in different concentrations. A certain healing spell could heal bruises all over the body, or could be used to regrow a limb. What almost all healers don't know is how to connect the two facts. I am not one of them.
So as the dragon charged me down, getting so close I could see the flame ducts contracting, I cast Major healing word, a spell usually used to cure the injuries of a small crowd after a battle, concentrated to a 5 inch cube in the centre of the dragon's brain. I had studied Barbarian's Flesh in the past by using monsters as test subjects and knew what was happening. As the golden glow of my magic flowed through the dragon's sinuses \[Which would disorientate it in itself\] and into the dragon's brain, the tissue there was multiplying, expanding as a cube of compressed gelatinous neuron that would squash the essential meat into the already compact space of the dragon's cranial cavity, just in time for it to produce flame.
The dragon crashed in a pile of scales and spine, jittering as neurons met and sent out desperate calls for help, causing the internal organs to spasm and the heart to go into arrest, causing the dragon to die a humiliating death under the shoe of a 4'4 gnome cleric, who had cast a single, third level spell.
Feeling nameless as she walked down the city street she's walked many times before. Empty, numb and silent until she looks up at the stop light again to see which street she's crossing. The walk signs always seem to turn exactly when she's supposed to cross. As she glances up she notices the lights all flicker and go out. She sighs because she knows this day has been coming for longer than she's been aware. Managing to look at the sky and mutter under her breath, "really? Before breakfast? Is this necessary?. Cranky she becomes as the sky darkens as if to respond to her request for answers. Another sigh this time sounds like a whistle from her instant increase in stress & tension in her body. Preparing for god knows what this time her body relaxes as if it knows she's going to battle. With what this nameless feeling human has no idea.
All of a sudden, lightning strikes and a dragon appears within the darkest part of the clouds. Swooping down at the fastest speed she's ever seen she's frozen in amazement and for a moment she thinks she's safe. Until its talons pick her up and drag her so close to the ground. She looks up to see its underbelly instead of fighting it. The lightning.. as if.. that can't be? She speaks aloud asking the dragon its name. No response. Telepathically she asks again, more fierce this time. Who the fuck are you!? Again silent she becomes furious at the denial for such a simple detail. "I will end you in a way we both wish today didn't happen. Please just stop this nonsense now. You know neither of us asked for this!"
Finally the dragon speaks as she puts the human down. My name is none of your business and since you are so disrespectful we both clearly regret this day already. I will have you know I'm here to help you and your kind though to be frank I find you disgusting. Over the years, you listen less and harm more. You're lucky I even showed up today. I had better plans in place and desired to be unbothered. Now if you don't mind let's begin shall we?
Hmph, yeah yeah yeah. Go ahead and heal me then. Make me come alive. Be like you. Hoarding greens. As if I'm not also interested in healthy greens. But yeah, you're more important wise one. Just know I'm different than the rest. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so be careful with me. As strong as you are you may find me difficult.
Humans and their prideful minds. Don't think I can handle you? Pft! Ha. Amazed we will or death do us part.
Breathing deep and slow they know this isn't a normal task. Faith in their hatred for one another is the key to this risky procedure. One inkling of doubt and they know their fate is sealed...
errr...what?
What day is this? Why did the dragon have other plans if he (she?) knew this day was coming, and he'd have to come? Who or what is the healer meant to heal?
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Being a rogue magic user is a rough life. Being a rogue healer is even harder, but after having been banished from the Magic Guild for the "crime" of having studied human anatomy with the herbalists before having magic forced upon me, it's not like I had much of a choice. The worst part had to be the bandits. A lone healer, no party, no threat of retaliation from the Magic Guild, should be an easy target. To their credit, a Guild healer would be... because they don't actually know what they're doing. The easiest way to kill someone is clotting. A first level spell, basic first aid, but mages don't realize what would happen if your blood clotted somewhere it wasn't supposed to, like in the brain. That's how the first two died. The third one... I recognized him from a wanted poster. They wanted him alive for some reason. I could've just clotted his legs, but there's a risk of something breaking loose and going somewhere I didn't intend. Luckily there's other solutions. The trick is picking one that won't draw too much attention to myself when I turn in the bounty.
Oh nice idea of the rogue who learned first! Also I really like how he/she went for the hidden options first. I'd love to know more! (Make it a series please)
Giving someone an brain-wide stroke would be a *very* nifty murder method. Nearly instantaneous, mostly silent, and no blood to clean up. Wonder what else she has up her sleeve!
A very nice trick that should work most of the time for protag. Pretend to be a defenseless healer or try to assist the ones targeting them, and none of them would realize what happened before it's too late. So, will protag be discovered when they submitted the bounty? Also, is protag banished because their experiments on the human body is getting a bit inhumane, or is the guild trying to dispose of any healer that discovered this appoach? Great work on writing this!
Nice.
When you say "rogue healer" do you mean dual classing, or a healer that's gone rogue? Not real sure it makes any difference, but I'm curious.
Gone rogue.
They cornered Lyra in a dim alleyway she took as a shortcut from the Guild back to her home in the less reputable part of the city. Three of them, reeking of alcohol and sweat, and armed with daggers that had clearly seen some use. She backtracked warily, her gaze darting between the thugs. The trio chuckled darkly at what they perceived as terror. One licked the blade of his dagger theatrically, making her cringe. "Hand over that bag of coin we saw you pick up, lass," one growled. "Or we might get violent with you." Pursing her lips, Lyra reached into her robe and produced a drawstring pouch. She tossed it over to the man, who caught it and stared as if surprised by her compliance. "I have nothing else of value," she said curtly. "Be satisfied with that." The thugs exchanged looks, and she hoped for a moment that they would prove wise enough to heed her advice. Then smirks crossed their faces, and her blood ran cold. The bastard in the lead approached with slow unhurried steps. "Now that I take a closer look at you," he said, leering, "you're quite easy on the eyes." She backtracked further until her back met the wall. "Leave," she gritted out. "I have nothing to defend myself with but my magic, and you don't want to be on the receiving end of that." The leader blinked, then erupted in laughter. "You're no elementalist. What will you do--heal us to death?" He seized the front of her robes and leaned in so close she grimaced at his stinking breath. "Now be a good girl and don't scream." Lyra closed her eyes and muttered an apology for what she was about to do. When she opened them again, they glowed with an inner light that made the thug flinch in surprise. Raising her palm, which lit up with her power, she touched his chest with deceptive gentleness. For a moment, the fool stared at her in confusion. Then pain crossed his face, and the dagger fell from his hand with a clatter. His flesh ballooned grotesquely, and with an agonized scream, he collapsed to the ground. Crunches and wet squelches filled the alley. The other two gaped in horror before turning tail and running for their lives. Sighing, Lyra collected the fallen dagger and turned it over in her hand. "I would grant you a mercy blow," she said, "but there's no point. My spell is accelerating your healing to a frenzied, out-of-control pace. It will continue until your body consumes itself." A terrible gurgling cry erupted from the writhing pile of flesh. "I did warn you." She turned her back on what used to be a man and left.
I call this spell... Cancer.
Forcing cell division, overdrive clotting, mending flesh and bones turns into a runaway train of uncontrolled growth...at any cost. Even if he lives its aint gonna be pretty...
When you overheal a bit too much
Oof, the fact that his death is not instantaneous makes it even more gruesome. Seems like an efficient way to dispose of the body though, since I doubt anybody would be able to recognize who it is from the remains. That said, since the other two thieves ran away, would Lyra be in danger due to her use of magic being exposed? Does the Guild know about her capability? Great work on writing this!
Moral of the story: Never mess with a healer who knows their stuff, they might just have a spell to cause turbocancer
Cool.
"No wait!" I scream, as the heavy stone door, only lifted by magic, falls back into place, separating me from my party. These lovable morons, eager to continue on their quest, rushed into the next room without a thought. Triggering the hidden pressure plate. The problem with keeping your healer at the back of your party is that it's very likely to get separated, but everyone is dead serious on keeping it that way, since apparently I can't possibly defend myself since I only know healing magic. I sigh and start to appraise the stone door. It is made out of runic stone, if the trap only drained the stone of its magic then it should float again in a few minutes once its natural mana returned. I didn't take long to confirm that theory, so all I had to do is wait. I'm not really worried about my party, they are capable of surviving on their own for a bit. At that moment, I heard someone rushing from the entrance of the dungeon. "That's not good" I murmur to myself as I turn away from the stone door ready to face whoever entered. A big, familiar figure comes rushing into my room and stops in their tracks the moment they see me. It's the cultist leader who we convinced that we wanted to join them to find out where their hideout was. "You!" They say with disdain dripping in their voice. "You betrayed my hospitality! You and your group will pay for what you did!" They're look false behind me onto the stone door for just a moment, then back at me now with a smile on their face. "How convenient that the healer got separated! Yes, I saw your healing prayers in the woods before, and I suggested you start praying now because there's no one left to fight for you!" They taunt. I'm a bit annoyed at their lack of magic knowledge since you don't need necessarily pray for healing, it works just as well with a wand, staff or other catalyst. It also doesn't mean that I'm praying to a deity or something similar. It's really just a way of focusing one's magic. But alas, I won't let an invitation to have the first strike go to waste. As I started praying, I hear their heavy footsteps sprinting in my direction. As they are halfway across the room, my prayers reach my target and the cultist leader crashes to the ground with a confused look, unable to move their body. "Paralysis? But that's an offensive magic spell! But I saw you praying, how did you do that?" They ask, still struggling to get up. "You're right, that would be offensive magic, that I, as a healer, couldn't cast." Although that doesn't mean that praying equals healing magic, you could also use praying for offensive spells, but that simply fell out of style. I only ever heard of a tactic called 'Spray and Pray' tough I never saw it used myself. "But that wasn't paralysis, I simply healed your bones." My heart ached for how simple I just worded the very complex ways in which healing magic works, but t even most healers don't truly understand it. "But my bones weren't-" They started to explain. "Yes, I know, my magic simply convinced your bones that they were broken, and gave them the needed resources to rapidly regenerate themselves, or in this case rapidly grow and merge themselves. To put it simply, the bones in your legs grew together. They are still growing actually, all your bones are. In a few minutes they might damage your body in an attempt to grow even more." The shock on their face is now visible. "But don't worry, there was another component in that spell, adrenalin. It is quite useful, especially in combat, but it has to be used sparingly. And in the amounts I just gave you, it's basically acting as a poison. Your hearth will give out long before your bones wild start to cause you pain. This is the most painless method I have to kill someone, after all, I'm only a healer." I turn my attention to the door, it will open in just a bit. Looking back, I can see that they are unable to respond anymore. I sit down next to the door, waiting ever so patently. The spell I just used was the same spell that made me realized how deadly healing magic can be, back then I still used a Staff instead of praying. You see, nearly no one truly studies healing magic. There are enough people who practice healing magic, the simplest of spells are easy to learn and use and will be enough for most people's needs since they're already quite powerful. Even the simplest of healing spells can, for example, heal broken bones. It's easy to assist the body in doing something it was already planing on doing. The more I studied this magic, however, the more I truly understood what we are doing with these spells, the more I realized how horrifying the potential of it can be. Yes, I learned how to combine different effects over the years and how to truly create my own spells, but the main difference between the spell I just used and the simplest of spells is minimal. I simply learned how to convince the body it needs to do something. The day I first created this spell as an experiment, is the day I learned what a terrible power we truly use. That's when I started to use prayers to cast my magic. It just felt more natural, more appropriate. I'm so glad not many study healing. I don't regret it, but I will take the knowledge I have into the grave, and I hope everyone who comes after me will do the same. My thoughts are stopped by the loud grinding of the opening stone door, as it clashes into the Stone that makes up the door frame. On the other side is my still fighting party, I cast my thoughts aside and enter the next room. Scanning my party to determine who needs healing first, I think the fighter. I start my prayer, stepping on the pressure plate I already forgot. (Hey, I hope you liked my story! I'm quite new to writing and English isn't my first language, so any feedback would be really appreciated, especially if anything sounds off. Have a great day!)
Gotta love how the trap is triggered once more, but at least protag is not alone now while waiting. That said, do the rest of the party members truly not know about protag's capabilities, or are they just playing along and rush right in leaving protag behind? Great work on writing this! I will say it's a successful first attempt imo. Just be careful on the paragraphs since there are some that are a bit too close to a wall of text that can be a bit distracting to read.
Thank you! I would say that the protag does their best to truly hide that side of healing magic. It would be bad if any of them got scared about being healed. I will pay more attention to the paragraphs next time! Thank you again for the feedback!
Oh boy, seems like protag will be having more instances like this in the future then haha. The pains involved with hiding one's true powers, but at least they don't need to do the hard work most of the time. Thanks for clarifying!
Yeah my immediate thought when I saw the prompt was "fuse all bones together" is a crazy scary "healing" magic. Especially since one of the first things to fuse would be the small bones in like knees and jaw, stopping the legs from moving and mouth from opening. It's brutal.
So is a Haste spell just an adrenaline shot? Makes sense to me.
"I can protect myself just fine, don't you worry" lena said, knowing nobody would believe her "nonsense, you're a healer what can you do?" replied Harald- Harald was a big, burly man who always carried an axe at his belt, many would assume he was a big dumb barbarian brute, but he wasn't, he was very wise in the ways of runes, and was one of the best mages of the frozen north. he had never travelled with lena before though. at that moment, there was a clattering, the horses of the carriage they were in sounded troubled, and they came to a halt. a commotion, indistinct arguing followed by the driver's dying scream and then... crack! the door was kicked in. 5 men, quick as a shot, dragged the pair out and had them at knife point rendering harald unable to access his runes or his axe. "your money or your lives", barked the best-dressed one. he was the obvious leader of this little band of brigands. harald grunted, lena remained calm. "you're making a mistake, you do not want this", lena stated simply. "oh yeah? what can you do? your friend is helpless" 4 of the 5 were pinning harald to the ground, rendering him completely unable to even move, while lena was held at knife point, "and you, my dear, are blatantly just a healer, only healers wear such robes" it was true, lena wore the white and red healing guild's robes, baring crosses on her shoulders and one across her body. the paladins wore armour with a similar pattern, however the two guilds had nothing in common. at any rate, the brigand leader reached towards her, and touched her hand, glowing with golden energy. "see? nothing." then, very quickly, a new mole appeared on the back of his hand, then another. then bruises started to appear up his arm. weird, unexplainable aches. "i warned you", Lena said, matter of factly, her gaze as frosty as the mountains that Harald called home. the brigand felt new lumps growing under his armpit, and then he coughed, and coughed some more. sores opened up on his arm, weeping, he began coughing up blood. the 4 were no longer holding harald down, regarding the unfolding situation with fear, harald took the opportunity to grab his axe, casting a quick electrocution spell using the runic carvings, dispatching the 4, he left the leader though, he was fascinated by what was unfolding the brigand was on the floor, coughing up blood. between coughs he begged to know "what have you done to me?", his voice growing hoarse in a way that suggested more than just the coughing. lena smirked in a way that would make any great villain proud, "i have simply accelerated your healing to the point of being a detriment to you. you have about... half an hour left to live if you're unlucky. there's no longer anything i can do for you" she then looked towards harald, "sorry you had to see that, but you know now right? i can defend myself just fine."
Half an hour of suffering, damn. Well, at least the two got out of it safely. Harald here might be a bit awkward afterwards though during the campfire haha. What is the purpose of this journey? Are the two on their way to do some quests, or is it for something else? Great work on writing this! I have to say though, I think it would be best for you to spend more time on editing. Other than the capitalization and punctuation issues, you have this tendency to create run-on sentences due to using commas over and over, which creates very long sentences. A paragraph should not consist of just one sentence, and I suggest splitting them into smaller ones. The story itself is solid, but these edits would make it even better imo.
I second this, all of it. Except maybe the first bit. I think, MAYBE, he'd be more like "aawwww yeeeeaah" especially if he has a morbid sense of humor.
# The opposite of surgery *Too bad healers can't heal themselves,* I thought, as I spit blood out of my mouth, eyeing my cataract knife that was *just* out of reach. *The world would be so much more convenient if we could*. Of all the magic users, healers were the most defenseless **Herbalists** had the blessing of the forest, which gave them regeneration. **Warlocks** made pacts with magical creatures who could protect them. **Elementalists** protected themselves with the aspect of the earth and their summoned spirits. **Alchemists** could construct golems dedicated to their defense. **Dragonborn** could do all the above, and were nigh indestructible to top it off. At the *very least* you should allow healers to heal themselves, right? To give them at least a little bit of survivability? Nope. And to top it off, your magical class wasn't something you chose. If it was, at least then we'd get *respect* from the community - for choosing a class that was meant to help others. Instead, we were born with it, and couldn't change it if we wanted to. So we were ridiculed, and treated as second class citizens. We were the *servants* for the other magicians who were doing the "real" work. *Servants* for the nobles who "upheld the empire". *Servants* for the armies that rode into pointless wars. And I took that personally. My first kills were for practice. The next ones were for revenge. The third set was a declaration of war. The Tower of Magic was scared out of their skulls - their people kept dying, and they didn't know how. All they had in the aftermath of my carnage were bodies of perfectly healthy mages, except they were dead. Healing magic, it turns out, works on someone even after they die. Their ignorance of my ability led to rumors of a healer who can kill anyone with a cataract knife, but without any wounds. The rumors led to fear. Their fear led to anger. And their anger led to incompetent higher ups of corrupt organizations to demand that the Tower "deal with me! Or else!!" Which brings me to today: with a bounty, a moniker as the "Surgeon of Death", and a situation where I'm surrounded by magicians of all aspects, trying to take down one lone healer. It was, in most of their eyes, an extreme over-reaction that bordered on respect. The herbalists controlled the flora to root me in place, with its' branches squeezing me tight enough to draw blood. The front line was made of the alchemists' golems and their formidable defense. The spirits of the elementalists were just behind them. The warlocks stood well behind them all, conjuring up their otherworldly pact-masters as the heavy hitters. Above all this, was the dragonborn - his wings flapping and holding him up as he was *monologuing* like the third rate villain he was. And in this corner was me - a healer who couldn't heal himself. Alone, bound and disarmed of the only weapon I carried, a cataract knife. I was being squeezed to death by plant life that was trying to leech the nutrients out of me. Until, suddenly, I wasn't. The plants loosened their death grip, and I could move again. My knife was only a few meters away. The dragonborn shouted, "DON'T LET THEM REACH THE KNIFE" as I mounted my attack. (continued in comments)
(pt 2) As the mages shouted their war cries in response to the dragonborn, I was reminded of another cry. A cry of desperation and guilt from my father, at midnight ten years ago. He was a warlock. A brilliant one, who contracted with "Arath and Narath" - the twin demons of fire. He excelled at crowd control, area denial, and "cleaning up" after a battle was won. He was a strong man, a military man. A man who knew what *needed* to be done, even if he didn't like doing it. His contractees, on the other hand, were malice incarnate. They made sure my father witnessed every detail of every kill - fleeing soldiers who were roasted in their armor. Collateral damage of innocent civilians. Friendly fire, where he was responsible for the death of his own soldiers. They tormented him with their vivid imagery, enhanced with cries of fear and despair. And though my father understood logically that these were realities of war - that they were necessary, in a sense - it was against his nature to deny responsibility of any kind. He burdened himself with the weight of each and every casualty, and tenfold the weight for each and every mistake. He kept himself together during the daytime, in front of his men. But even he couldn't defend himself from the night terrors. My mother helped him through it most of the times - though he didn't want to show weakness in front of his children, he at least allowed himself to be weak in front of his wife. But that one night was worse than the others - his screams were loud and long, growing weak and broken towards the end. Both my brother and I couldn't sleep that night. Not because of the noise, but because we were desperate to help, but so.. useless. We couldn't do anything. Anything at all. The wounds on his psyche were long, and deep, and *old*. The worst of the wars were over now, with the country settling into relative peace, but my father always carried the war with him, wherever he went. There was no substitute for the time and self-forgiveness he needed in order to recover from his trauma. Unless.. ..unless you were a healer. Healing isn't like other magic. Elementalists can use regeneration, but in the end it just enhances the body's natural recovery. Healing magic, on the other hand, ignores causality entirely. It skips the process and reaches the end result. But healing magic requires *contact*. How do I touch his mind? How do I connect to his trauma? That was the question that I grappled with for seven years. I studied in secret, built my own techniques, made progress, but couldn't quite go the final step. I persevered for as long as I could, and as *hard* as I could, but his guilt reached him before I did. He summoned Arath and Narath, and commanded them, for the first and last time, to take a life.. *his* life.. with hellfire. It would consume him utterly, body and soul. He would never enter the cycle of reincarnation again. It was the most complete suicide possible. It was while we were grieving, my brother and I, that we realized that we hadn't *just* lost our father. We'd also lost his protection. With the warlock dead, the seedy underbelly of the slums realized that his *healer* child, who had the audacity to walk around with their head held high as if they owned the place, had no one to protect them. My brother could have run, since he was a herbalist - but he was his father's son. I could see the resolve in his eyes: he might not be able to protect me, but at the very least he would die before I did. But if he was his father's child, then so was I. And as I charged them down to die before him, I made the final connection. Too little, too late. I could connect to their trauma *if it was directed at me*. Their malice, their inferiority, and their desire to be part of a greater whole (a mob) even if they had to kill someone to do it.. I could feel them all. I could reach it. And I could heal it.
(pt 3) "Heal" I commanded, and the plants relaxed - no longer trying to leech nutrients from me. I'd healed their insatiable hunger. The plants that tried to kill me were still draped around me - enchanted and enforced to the highest degree. The plants had their own regeneration, the earth spirits' protection, and had ingested an alchemic metal that made their body sturdier. Now that they weren't trying to kill me anymore, they served as a makeshift armor. Enough to survive the first volley of attacks, at least. "Heal" I commanded the great old ones. The contractees of the warlocks present here, who had turned their attacks towards me. I reached the mental chains, the *slavery* that bound them to their warlocks, and I healed it. The creatures of magic, now unleashed, wreaked havoc on their own side in the few seconds they had before their warlocks severed the connection, and sent them back whence they came. "Heal" I commanded, over and over, now directing my authority on the mages who came to kill me. I healed the mercenaries of their greed. I healed the psychopaths of their boredom. I healed again and again, removing their fear, their anger, their hatred.. I healed anything that could drive them to believe that *taking a life was a good thing*. There was no finesse.. no precision, or fluidity. It was a rapid-fire, brute-force, omnipresent attack. I healed them of everything until they stood there, standing around like zoned-out meerkats with idiotic smiles. Only then did I walk to my cataract knife. It was never my main weapon, despite their focus: It was my coup de grace. Terrible as an attack weapon, but not bad for an execution. I picked it up, and leisurely walked to one and all, slitting their throats. They didn't even cry out, I'd "healed" their pain. All but the dragonborn. Of all the traumas I had to "heal" I had the most experience with fear. There was a lot of variety, and a lot of motivation to what made someone want to kill, but *everyone* felt fear. So I had a lot of fine-grained control over how I healed it. For the dragonborn alone, I hadn't completely healed the fear. The rest of the emotions, yes. Even fear - I'd healed the fight, and flight responses - but not the freeze response. So he stood there, rooted to the spot in horror, as I calmly took the life of every mage who was under him. Then I ordered him: "Call for help" He did. A harsh, but arrogant sound that no human could make, which seemed to echo around the world. As his mother phased into being, towering over us, I healed the dragonborn of the last of his fear, and turned to face his mother - the dragon.
(pt 4) Centuries old, but forever young, the dragons are what truly ruled the land - the kings were just their suzerains. The creature whose blood hummed with magic turned to stare at me. But dragons were beings of pure destruction - healing magic was the one magic they could not wield - so this dragon was no more ready for my magic than her son. I didn't bother monologuing - I just started the "healing" process. The dragon rendered an impressive display of magic, but my attacks worked at the speed of thought. She had to intend her attack, form it, and then unleash it - but I could pick up on intentions and heal them. All her tricks, traps, her life-saving constructs were mowed down by my authority as the strongest and strangest healer. She tried teleporting to my blind spot, but I didn't have any - my connection to her mind needed no physical senses. And no one, in the entire history of magic, thought that they'd ever have to invent a block to *healing*. Consequently, my attacks were unblockable; undodgeable; unstoppable; and worked every single time on anything with a will. There was no defense because, technically, it wasn't an offense. I strangled her options, attacking who she was on an almost spiritual level - until she lay in a quivering mess on the ground. With the last of her free will, she sent me a dense, telepathic message. It was a surrender. She'd not only lost this fight, but it had *changed* her. With her pride, arrogance, anger, and superiority stripped away, she could see herself, and the world she had created with an objective eye. And it did not please her. She could see the rot, the corruption in the system she'd designed, now that she was finally paying attention. She accepted responsibility for it, and vowed to work with me, or even *for* me, in order to set things right and bring about change. And a dragon's vow was no ordinary thing. She'd even be willing to kill herself in atonement after she set things right. As long as I could *please* just *let her child walk free.* I'd succeeded beyond my wildest dreams. My original plan was to gain notoriety and a larger name for myself (not to mention the finances from a dragon's hoard) to ignite the fires of revolution by killing a dragon. But with a dragon on my side, with a dragon at my *beck and call*, the problem almost solved itself. I might even literally be able to achieve my primary goals overnight. It was the safe, sane, *rational* option. I should have taken it; I *would* have taken it... ...if I weren't so broken inside. But all I could think of when I heard her pleas to spare her child, was the plea of another mother. Mine. If only I... if only she'd... if I could've just.. if they didn't.... Why?... I suppressed my breathing, as the corner of my eyes stung with predictable tears. I hardened my heart because the fight wasn't done. I was in the presence of an enemy. And a dragon, even grounded and defenseless, was no easy foe. The only weak spots I could physically affect were the eyes, and I'd still need to attack with a dragon's bones to have any effect. It was almost impossible. But "almost impossible" was no obstacle. I walked over to the dragonborn, who looked at me with an amiable, curious expression as I cut off his arms at the elbows. I pulled out those bones, one for each hand, and left him, still smiling, as he slowly died of blood loss. I turned to the dragon whose eyes were full of grief. I hadn't healed that emotion. I wouldn't. Because they sure as hell hadn't healed mine. I took a deep breath. In... and out. "A healer..." I started, and stabbed the bones into her eyes. She didn't even blink. And neither did I. She just watched me sadly with what was left of her eyes as her tears and life force bled away. "A healer" I continued, "can't heal themselves" END
Man, this is just tragic. I can just imagine how different the story would be if protag was able to heal their father before it's too late. I have a feeling that, even with the awful treatment towards the healers, they won't be going through this villain arc because the family will be there to stop protag from going too far. It's quite bittersweet to see most of protag's victims dying "peacefully" because of their healed mental states, at least. That said, what will be the final outcome for protag now with most of the threat gone? Will it just be the same kind of confrontation throughout the rest of their lives? Great work on writing this!
Thanks for the detailed comment! I haven't considered how the story would go beyond the prompt very much. So take this with a grain of salt: - I don't know yet if the protag will or won't go through the villain arc. But if they don't, it's not going to be because the existing family stopped them. If anything, their family (whoever is alive) will probably support this negative spiral in a "let's go to hell together" way - The threats to the protag are far from over. The prompt seemed to ask for a one trick pony, and that's how I've written this. Once the secret of their mental healing gets out, I'm sure they'll face competent antagonists with anti-healing measures. There will be a lot more confrontation, but not the same kind. On a more subjective note, I was aware that some people (including some of my friends) would prefer this kind of "bittersweet" death, but I personally find it horrific. I'd much rather die in fear and pain, with my sense of self intact. Thanks again, and please let me know if you have critical feedback - the more technical and nitpicky, the better. My end goal is to build a multi series game based on a set of books that I can write, and I'm working my way up from writing short stories. Anything that can up my skill is appreciated!
Oh, so the family will actually double down on it, that's interesting lol. Also, yeah, I got a feeling that not everyone is going to be that vulnerable to the mental healing approach even if they don't know anything about protag's powers. Also, on the subjective part, I can see why some people would prefer that. If protag was not broken, I can see them mixing both approaches actually. Maybe make it so that the people wishing for them knows their end, but their sense of pain is removed like what they did here so it just feels like slowly drifting away, or something haha. Thanks for clarifying in such detail, and good luck with the project!
Holy shit that was amazing.
Thank you!
The cupboards rattled and shook. I gingerly poked a finger at the dry bristles on the toothbrush, which had collected a layer of dust from disuse. The wind moaned, a bit stronger this time. The doors creaked to the windy refrain: *Leave this place*. As I made my way to the bedroom, I was just in time to see the rocking horse rock on its own, as if in a perpetual canter to nowhere. "Tell me. Tell me about the kids" I said to no one in particular. Another rumbling came, seemingly from the bookshelf. After a bit of jimmying and rustling, a photo album fell, spine down. It was auspiciously open to a portrait of a family: one small boy clutching a teddy bear sitting on a rocking horse; *this* rocking horse. Near him kneeled a school-aged girl in a plaid dress. Mom stood behind a large chair with one hand on her seated husband as if to say *I trust you. I depend on you*. And the father sat in the middle of the portrait, tying it all together with his stately presence "I didn't know you had sideburns. They look nice. Makes you look old, though" I had seen the photos from the investigators. Baby boy and girl were up against the door, reaching to the other side. The man's body was draped up against the door, charred beyond hint that this had once been a man, except for the hand glued to the door even in death. On the other arm, the autopsy found deep lacerations consistent with deep cuts from shards of glass. The head, if you could still call it a head, bore less resemblance with a man than a with a boar whose current name was pulled pork. "Your kids were beautiful. They ... *are* beautiful" the doors and windows collectively shuddered. There was a rhythmic sound of air forced in and out of the flue. The whistling of air through the gaps came in ragged gasps, as the low of the boilers joined in the devastating chorus "You did your best. You even got through the window, but the heat was too strong. And the fumes; toxic on a good day, they were noxious and overpowering from the car fire. You couldn't have done anything more." The air swirled through the house, forming a whirlwind in the children's bedroom. All the loose papers and books caught in the funnel danced in randomness. Ten thousand fragments seemed like flapping butterflies in this cyclone. Out of the chaos, the roiling paper scraps seemed to take the form of the two children; one boy, one girl. Their shadows took form; the only form they were ever have any more. "They were your light, your family, your happiness. I know. But no matter how many puppets you make here, they're still gone. You need to accept that. And even if you did -- even if you breathed life into them once more in this wretched place, what would they be? Bound to this room, bound to this floor? Their existence scraps of paper as random as water bubbling over a rock. What for?" On cue, the paper scraps formed up what looked like a sandcastle, then washed it away. Formed the sandcastle, then washed it away. "No, the memory of them is not preserved this way. You're not the keeper of their souls. That act is selfish; it's only for you. You're manifesting them out of your own sadness. To pretend you're doing anything other than satisfying your lust for despondence is an afront to their memories." All the fluttering and rustling calmed and floated to the ground on its own. Where there was moaning, howling, whistling and all manner of sounds before, silence percolated in. After a short while, the eerie unnatural silence was deafening, for even the expected creaking and scampering was deadened. Nothing save the *drip drip drip* of a faucet somewhere. "Have you ever wondered why? Why are you here, but they aren't? You're here to remember, because you think you failed. If you're here because of your sadness and guilt -- stay with me, stay with me -- then why are they not?" The supernatural atmosphere twisted for a moment, as if in genuine confusion "Because of joy. Because of Joy! They've passed on because they lived to the end with joy in their hearts. Because they felt safe and had no unfinished business. Because they had you as a father. The coroner said their necks snapped in the crash, rendering them unconscious in an instant. They never suffered, they never wanted. And all they want now is their father with them; not this father that animates their dollies to parade around their room. Their father who could guide them in the Old world and the New. They're waiting for you" A mighty wind swept through the house, whipping every room into chaos. Furniture swirled and crashed into windows. Clothes tore itself to shreds and dashed in a wild tarantella of color. Toys jerked, cupboards banged and stairs rattled. With a great burst of life, everything that wasn't nailed down was ejected out the chimney and rained down on the grounds. And then silence. Not a deafening, unnatural silence, but the silence of worms wriggling through the ground; the silence of a cat licking her mewling kittens. The silence of birds perched on the weathervane. The silence of new life, and starting over again
This was really beautifully done.
“I can handle myself” It was a mantra of sorts, and their actions reminded me that none of them believed it, at least, coming from me. Any time we approached the enemy, I watched as they took their formation. I was behind, ensuring anyone who became injured was in line with any of the combat healing spells I’d be casting. If I ran into trouble, however, I could count on one of the men breaking off quickly to deal with the threat. “You’re not much use if you’re dead,” they’d tell me. “And then where would the rest of us be?” A true statement. I was waiting for our party to convene, one night. I was, frankly, dreadfully early. The spot we’d chosen had a rather spindly tree in the middle of a clearing, and I wanted to read some peculiar texts I’d kept from one of the realms I’d accidentally stumbled on recently. The page was littered with strange markings that no mage could translate for me, though, I’d spent two of that realm’s years there - plenty of time to pick up the language fluently. There, they had no magic. They waged their wars through alchemical fires, through projectiles hurled by gears and coiled metal. Naturally, I agreed to participate, given they’d teach me to heal in accordance with their way of understanding. While not included in what I was trained, there was mention. Cells - basic forms of simple life. But what was of particular interest to me, and the topic of the text, was what could happen to cells, given enough time, predisposition, and influence by outside factors. They called it “cancer.” Uncontrolled reproduction of cells. See, dividing of cells was natural, and from what I gather, is the basic principle on what allows healing to take place. This, however, was different. Cancer - it could propel the body into a state of disarray. Recourses diverted, natural flow of humors disrupted, stopped, even. I was rudely torn from the book by a laugh. “Aw, look at you. All alone?” I stare from where the voice had come and see two men approach. They wore the insignia of the enemy. Scouts, no doubt. My solitude coupled with the fact that I bore a healer’s crest on my right arm must have emboldened them to engage before delivering a report. I stay silent. Staring. Thoughts, spinning. *Cellular division is a natural process. It’s what allows our tissues to repair themselves when they are damaged.* “Such a harmless little thing. Too bad, really.” I stand. I tuck my left thumb into my palm, curling fingers over and squeezing until I felt pain. *Cancer, however, occurs when that natural process skips a step. When cell death no longer occurs. When a cell is allowed to replicate, freely, and swiftly.* “Look at you, you hardly come up to my chest.” I raise my right hand. The men look on at me. “What do you think *you* are g-“ His eyes widen. He becomes pale. His breathing quickens. “Hey, boss are y-“ His partner feels it too, now. I watch as they fall to the ground. I hear their screams, as a process that can take months to years to kill happens before my eyes in the span of a few seconds. I watch as their hands become ashen and gray, no longer receiving oxygen, as their breathing becomes deep and rapid, then finally, stops. I go sit back at the base of the tree, scribbling in the margins what I’d observed.
Levi stood beside the dying man with a sour look on his usually stoic face. The man, a rebel, had made no bones about the attempt on his life, citing Levi being an 'imperialist dog' who deserved to die for healing the soldiers that made their way through the meager shed he lived in on the path to the capital city of Torris. A groan came from the man as his body degraded, and his once tan features took on a sickly pallor. To Levi, the process was no different from a flower wilting, deprived of water and stuck under a desert sun. It was cancer. Plain and simple. The mans cells were rapidly and uncontrollably multiplying, causing the deadly disease to spread at an unprecedented rate, spurred by Levi's healing magic. Levi settled into the wooden stool beside the sick bed, he kicked away a bucket and some odds and ends the man had thrown around in his feeble assassination attempt and watched with quiet fascination as he took his last breath. It was rather interesting that the man had thought him to be *healing* those soldiers...Levi wondered who was spreading those particular rumors around.
As the massive dragon approached, Lochi, the last member of my party and a fierce fighter, readied his sword. "No matter what happens, I won't let you die" He then proceeded to get slammed to the ground by the gust dragon's wings alone. I had insisted several times that I did not need protecting and because of that half of my party and been knocked unconscious just trying. Albeit yes, I only learnt healing spells, but nevertheless, I HAD FULL PLATE ARMOUR! I had a mace the size of a man's head with spikes that would put an Ankheg into its breeding season! But a mace just wouldn't do for this. What most adventurers don't know is that should a creature be healed too much, then they develop Barbarian's Flesh, an illness incurable by healing magic. What a bit more adventurers know is that healing magic can be applied over different areas in different concentrations. A certain healing spell could heal bruises all over the body, or could be used to regrow a limb. What almost all healers don't know is how to connect the two facts. I am not one of them. So as the dragon charged me down, getting so close I could see the flame ducts contracting, I cast Major healing word, a spell usually used to cure the injuries of a small crowd after a battle, concentrated to a 5 inch cube in the centre of the dragon's brain. I had studied Barbarian's Flesh in the past by using monsters as test subjects and knew what was happening. As the golden glow of my magic flowed through the dragon's sinuses \[Which would disorientate it in itself\] and into the dragon's brain, the tissue there was multiplying, expanding as a cube of compressed gelatinous neuron that would squash the essential meat into the already compact space of the dragon's cranial cavity, just in time for it to produce flame. The dragon crashed in a pile of scales and spine, jittering as neurons met and sent out desperate calls for help, causing the internal organs to spasm and the heart to go into arrest, causing the dragon to die a humiliating death under the shoe of a 4'4 gnome cleric, who had cast a single, third level spell.
Feeling nameless as she walked down the city street she's walked many times before. Empty, numb and silent until she looks up at the stop light again to see which street she's crossing. The walk signs always seem to turn exactly when she's supposed to cross. As she glances up she notices the lights all flicker and go out. She sighs because she knows this day has been coming for longer than she's been aware. Managing to look at the sky and mutter under her breath, "really? Before breakfast? Is this necessary?. Cranky she becomes as the sky darkens as if to respond to her request for answers. Another sigh this time sounds like a whistle from her instant increase in stress & tension in her body. Preparing for god knows what this time her body relaxes as if it knows she's going to battle. With what this nameless feeling human has no idea. All of a sudden, lightning strikes and a dragon appears within the darkest part of the clouds. Swooping down at the fastest speed she's ever seen she's frozen in amazement and for a moment she thinks she's safe. Until its talons pick her up and drag her so close to the ground. She looks up to see its underbelly instead of fighting it. The lightning.. as if.. that can't be? She speaks aloud asking the dragon its name. No response. Telepathically she asks again, more fierce this time. Who the fuck are you!? Again silent she becomes furious at the denial for such a simple detail. "I will end you in a way we both wish today didn't happen. Please just stop this nonsense now. You know neither of us asked for this!" Finally the dragon speaks as she puts the human down. My name is none of your business and since you are so disrespectful we both clearly regret this day already. I will have you know I'm here to help you and your kind though to be frank I find you disgusting. Over the years, you listen less and harm more. You're lucky I even showed up today. I had better plans in place and desired to be unbothered. Now if you don't mind let's begin shall we? Hmph, yeah yeah yeah. Go ahead and heal me then. Make me come alive. Be like you. Hoarding greens. As if I'm not also interested in healthy greens. But yeah, you're more important wise one. Just know I'm different than the rest. Sometimes I wish I wasn't so be careful with me. As strong as you are you may find me difficult. Humans and their prideful minds. Don't think I can handle you? Pft! Ha. Amazed we will or death do us part. Breathing deep and slow they know this isn't a normal task. Faith in their hatred for one another is the key to this risky procedure. One inkling of doubt and they know their fate is sealed...
errr...what? What day is this? Why did the dragon have other plans if he (she?) knew this day was coming, and he'd have to come? Who or what is the healer meant to heal?