An Unwavering Craftsman

"You're certain?" asked Fleta, suddenly very serious.

"As far as I can be," said Damien, explaining the overheard conversation with the priestess of Gaia.

"Hah. Looks like that donation has paid for itself already," commented Shigeo.

"That's not why we gave it, but yes, he won't get anywhere trying to spread that sort of rumour among the clergy. Whatever was he thinking?"

"Probably wasn't thinking anything. Idiot nobles," grumbled Shigeo.

"You don't get to keep the rank of marquess without having at least some competence," disagreed Damien. "Or at least, hiring someone else who does. It's likely he found out about the shrine the dragon destroyed, but didn't know you'd made a donation here to apologise. It's not like you made a big showing of it."

"Right. He probably couldn't imagine anyone giving money away without expecting to get something in return, so the thought of a private donation wouldn't have crossed his mind."

Damien considered that not pissing off the Five should count as getting something in return, but it wasn't as if they immediately smote anyone who disrespected them. Vandalism of remote shrines was something that happened, if not regularly, at least occasionally, yet not even Kakkerxat had ever made his displeasure directly known. No lightning bolts out of blue skies, or rains of meteors, or even a loud, "HEY YOU," followed by a giant fist smashing down from the heavens.

That last one would be cool, and would definitely have done wonders for Kakkerxat's credibility in Damien's eyes.

"Bah. As much as I'd love to stomp over there and express my opinions through the medium of interpretive violence, I'm not sure I could get away with it," moaned Shigeo.

"It's okay. It's likely that us knowing who was behind it already scuppers his plans."

"Doesn't mean he won't try something else, though."

"That's enough moping from the lot of you!" interrupted Grace, clapping her hands. "There's food waiting in the dining room. Please go and eat it, or at least, get out of here before that wine dries into the carpet."

"Right, you heard the boss!" agreed Shigeo. "It's way past dinner time."

"No it isn't..." pointed out Damien, but he followed along anyway.

"You know your father. Any time is dinner time to him."

"Oi! That's... Okay, it's accurate, but it's not my fault this body needs lots of fuel!"

Damien smiled, wondering how his family didn't get whiplash from the speed they flipped between serious and flippant. The group took their places at the table, laid with a selection of bread, fruits and cold meats.

Damien tapped the fingers of one hand against the table while the other busied itself with the construction of a ham and banana sandwich. "So, we need to get me some kit. Finding a pair of co-conspirators shouldn't take long; I can't imagine anyone of tier one turning down a cushy job opportunity like this. We're more likely to have problems with multiple people applying. The guild dismantler is on the way, and it's quite possible we can get enough out of that dragon to raise the three of us to level fifty. After that, we're likely to need a lot of boring grinding. From what Edward said, I can probably turn out a few tier four items a day. I need to look into the highest tier cloth and thread that can be bought in bulk without needing to rob a bank. We'll need something similar for the others, too. Our [Neophyte Smith] will need some space and bulky equipment. Maybe we can hire out the smithy of another town smith who fancies a holiday? Anything I've missed?"

"You tell us," said Shigeo, between substantial mouthfuls of beef. "This is your plan. We're just payrolling it."

"I think that's everything. Alas, no plan survives contact with the enemy, so it'll probably need adjustments as we go along."

"Enemy? Who's the enemy in this situation?" asked Fleta, daintily nibbling at an apple.

"Time, materials, nobles. My feat applying some sort of cap to how far it can be boosted."

"Hmm, that last one could be nasty, if you only find out after consuming all your perk slots."

"Nothing for it but to try, alas."

"I have a question," chimed in Shigeo, which was unusual. Thinking wasn't normally his forte. "Why hasn't anyone tried this before?"

An important question, and one that Damien had given some amount of thought to while he'd been wandering around the streets of Thale. "I would like to hope it's because a tier one was never given the sort of resources I'm going to have, but that can't be the whole story. Anyone could notice what I did, and hire a full group of three in the hopes of making use of their output later on."

"When did you first read up on tier one feats?" asked Fleta.

"This afternoon."

"So basically, you considered any tier one class useless, and only looked up the information after getting one. Perhaps everyone is the same, and no-one with the resources to make it happen has ever found out."

"Perhaps, but on the other hand, this afternoon. It only took me a couple of hours to spot it. I'm not the only tier one. The information in the crafting classes textbook must have come from somewhere, which means people with all three classes have reached level fifty before. Multiple people, given that it had partner perks listed for several feats. And any other tier ones reading the book without resources could have realised the possibility and gone to a noble to beg."

"You're implying that people have tried and it didn't work?"

"If that was the case, I'd expect notes in the textbook about the caps to the effects. There aren't any."

"A mystery, for sure. It would suck to learn you could only take the perk ten times or something."

"Again, a maximum stack to the perks should have been mentioned. I'll check for more info in the library tomorrow. I need to go anyway to learn how to make an Ergland-style bracelet."

The parents nodded, and turned the conversation towards lighter topics, for which Damien was thankful. It had been a long day, and he felt he'd been more than productive enough to warrant an evening of rest.

Meal over, he returned to his room, returning the thick reference volumes, still strewn across his bed, desk and floor, to their places on his bookshelf, then settled back in bed to read something that had nothing whatsoever to do with classes, monsters or gods.

"̴͇̖́̈́̏Ṭ̷̪̲͒͛ḧ̶͔́͠e̴̬̿̍͠y̴̮̼͈͛̑̐ ̴̗̖̘͛͋͝w̸̪͙͒̉͠o̴͖͈̍n̵̖̳̠̎́'̴̢̮̿́t̸̘̱̔ ̵̦̓̊́l̸̲̪͂́̏è̵̠̦͘t̷̖́͜ ̸͖̰̄ÿ̸̤́ö̷͎̍̚ù̴̝̯̰͑̂.̸̡̠̏͌ ̴̉̄ͅT̷̤̔̉ḣ̴͈̪͖͛ė̷̖̾͝ÿ̴̜́͝ ̴̡̪̦̉̑͠w̴̨̋͛í̵̭l̷̡͖̈́ḷ̷́͛ ̶̮̅̽̅s̸̪̬͑t̶̝͕̃̕ō̸̭p̵̢̣̘̐̌ ̸̨̖͚͑ý̶̱̦̯õ̴̭̗͍ů̷̮̠͂.̵͔̭̏̀̎ ̷̧̗͐̚̚B̴̜̲͚̉̊ŕ̸͔̦̹̊e̷͍͊̈̕ă̶͕̞k̷̞̇ ̸̬̍̑ͅy̷̜͔̦̿̈́̈́o̶͓͕͛͌u̶̢̅͝.̶̭͌ ̶͕̆̃K̶̯̤̍̏̐ĩ̸̮̠͛l̸̥̃͘͘l̷̗̯͚̀̊ ̸̳͇̆y̵̠͂ǫ̵̍̈́̚ů̸̬̹́.̵̙̾̉ ̸̹̝̩̔̎͒T̸̜̗̜̽̈́h̴̡̭̀̾é̸̖̪̝̋y̶̠̍͆ ̵̧́͜͝w̵̢͆͜ì̸͔̞͗ĺ̴̞̍l̸̜̯̋ ̷̧̯̦̈͠n̶̠̐̉o̴̤̱͕̔t̸̫̩̑͝ ̵̲̬̽̉̿t̸͕̝̏ö̸͕́͜l̶͙͛̋͗é̸͌͜r̴̙̜͜͠a̵͈͉͍͋t̴̯͋̃ḙ̴̀̌͝ ̵̫͘͜c̴̠͝o̵̯͎͗͆͘m̸̧̜̲͝p̴̰̤̅́e̸̟͋t̷̨͈̂̆ͅį̷̉t̴̡̬̖́͊́ḯ̶̺̯̝̓̈́ö̶̖̃͒ṅ̶̫͈.̴͚̗̑̋ ̴̖͆Ŏ̴͓̱̮p̴̻͚̓p̷̧͚̌ö̶͖́͊s̴̨̛̻̘̆̊i̵̖̟̥̓̊̕ť̵̠͈̚i̴̪̝̝͗ô̷͔̑n̸͖̔͛̕.̷̖̘̀ ̵͎̖̙͑̐R̶̜̥̫̎̈́e̴̮̲̦̓̌̓s̸̡̺̍́̏i̸̟̔̇s̶͚͉̈t̴̜͖̉̈́a̵̻̤͑͛̀ͅn̷̘̐c̵̢̦͙̄ë̶͖́͆.̴̗͕̙̉ ̵̬̔́͛T̴̟̫̑̀ĥ̴͚̳̤̂̒e̷͙̥̾̓̃ ̸̙̱͘͝t̶̼̫̙́̀ḯ̸̛̘m̶̲͈̯̍̅é̶̫̪͇̂̿ ̴̡̄̀͒ẅ̵̧̻͛ī̸̡͚̀l̷͎̽̇̃ĺ̷̪̑̒ ̴̥͚̀͜c̴̈̔͜o̶͇̒̌m̷̝̏e̷̙̿̓̇.̶͔̃̈ ̷̘̃Y̴̗̝̖͂̀̐ǒ̵̟ŭ̷̦͛͝r̷͍̭̳̾̄ ̴̟͋̄̋t̴̲͇̝̎̽̽ì̴̱̖̭̏̕m̵̖̈́̏̑e̷̼̞̘͛͌̏.̶̡͔͎͋͊ ̶̡̖͙̐̐M̴̧̭͖̿y̶̡͉̤̓ ̸͇̈́t̴͒͜i̴͇͕̔͆m̷̼̰̭̈͐͝è̶̺͖͚̋́.̶̱̈ͅ ̴̥̦́͋͛Õ̷̯͗̈u̵̟̽̆̆r̴̨̛̓̒ ̵̧̪̂̌t̷͔̞́͗̿i̷̪̪͌̿͘m̸̝̯͇͌͋ẹ̵̘̇̕.̸̳̑́̔ ̶̻̥̐̔́Ẅ̷̈͗͜ḧ̵̛̬́ḙ̸̍̉n̸͎͊̀ ̶͍͚̥̅̾͘t̶͓̫̦̊͆h̴̡̤͇͋̑e̴̩͔̐ ̴͙̬͈͆̀͝t̴̩͍̰̋͝ȑ̷̯̻͇̕ȃ̷͎̈́ḯ̴̙̼̯̽͑t̶̳̣͐̓o̴͙͘r̴̪̿̚s̷͇͆ ̷̝̐͗c̴̛̯̀ŏ̷̳̺̉́m̷̹͉̂͠e̸̫̪̳̅ ̴͍͖̾f̸̬͔̲͑͗o̵̡͖̫̅̈́r̴̠͍͉̈̐͝ ̴͔̓́̇y̸̛̼̹̚ȯ̷̘̏͗u̵̞̻͙̒̓͝,̴̳͠ ̵͍̋y̵͕͗̊ò̷̫͉̪̓ụ̶̫̙̐̿ ̵̡̞̼͗͑͌w̸̛̤̞̿̈́i̴̲̲͐l̷͉̃̔͜l̸͇͉͇͛̍ ̴̘͕̄͂͆c̴̠̀̿̕a̸̘̗̽l̸̫̫̮̽̑̓l̸͚̣̋͌̒ ̷̳̪͛͘f̴̩̰̫̈́o̸̱̙͂̌r̵̹̳͂ ̴͖́͋m̷̢̙͌è̸̺,̸̡̙̀ ̵͖́̅͠ả̵͙̅n̷͖̩̭̊d̴̤̘͆ ̵͇̔͌̕I̴̩̎͋ ̴̰̑s̷̛̲͕h̶̯̍̈́̚a̴̭̲͕̍l̷̬͓̼͂l̴̻͋ ̷̻̯̐̔͝ā̷̖ṋ̵͝s̶͙̠͌w̸̡̦̤̌̀e̴͙͖̞̔̈́̾r̶̲̂̃̚.̷̰͚̔͘͘"̸̛͎͎̟

Damien awoke with a choked scream, his heart threatening to tunnel out of his chest and bedclothes wet with sweat. Had that been real? A dream? More like a nightmare.

He'd put that voice behind him, assuming that whether it was the Five making a point or some real creature that had somehow invaded the ceremony of paths, he'd refused its offer and it was gone for good. But now it turned up when he slept?

No hint of light was visible through his curtains. It was still night time, and the source-lights were off. No sound came from the rest of the house, so at least his rude awakening hadn't woken up anyone else.

His pulse still racing, and far too much adrenaline in his system to have any hopes of immediate sleep, Damien pulled himself up and left his room, heading for the front door and hoping that some fresh, outdoor air would calm him down. What had the voice said this time? It hadn't made an offer; it had delivered a warning. The traitors wouldn't let him? Let him what? If the traitors were the Five, was it telling him they would try to kill him?

A horrifying thought was that the reason there was no evidence of anyone trying to abuse [Runic Embroidery] was because the Five prevented any attempts in such a way that they ended in neither success nor failure. Maybe anyone who attempted it would die of 'natural causes'. Certainly, Damien had been in danger of that this night; had his heart beat any harder, it would likely have ruptured.

Damien opened the front door and stepped out, immediately tripping over an obstruction on the doorstep and face-planting into the footpath.

"Mmmrrrrr," yawned the doorstep, stretching.

"Whu?" complained Damien, dragging himself into a sitting position and rubbing his bruised nose. He turned around, finding himself staring into a sky-blue pair of eyes. "Ahhhhhhh!"

To give all due credit to Fleta, she was fast. There were approximately three seconds between Damien's scream and the nocturnal visitor finding a dagger pressed against her throat.

"Who are you, and why are you on our land?" Fleta demanded, her usual mirthful voice nowhere to be found.

"Please don't hurt me! I'm here for the job!" squeaked out a young, female voice.

"In the middle of the night?"

"I... I wasn't going to knock until morning! I swear! I didn't want to risk anyone else getting here before me!"

"To be fair to her, she was sleeping on our doorstep," chimed in Damien, having sufficiently recovered from his second scare of the night to speak. "Not exactly a great position for an assassin or a thief."

The dagger remained where it was. "Who are you?" demanded Fleta, plunged into shadow as Shigeo slotted into the doorway, blocking out most of the light coming from the house.

"My name is Lana. I'm from a village further south down the coast. Greenhill. I'm a [Neophyte Smith]. I just got my class this morning!"

Damien tried to recall her from the ceremony, but drew a blank. With the poor light, it was possible he simply couldn't recognise her, but more likely he hadn't seen her at all. Given the number of people undergoing the ceremony, that didn't necessarily mean she hadn't been there, though. Had she been on the other side of the ritual circle, there's no way he'd have seen her.

"And you're already so desperate for a job that you'd spend a night sleeping on our doorstep?"

"My dad told me I'd be useless in the family forge, and was going to force me to work as a waitress in our uncle's tavern!"

Now the dagger withdrew. A proper restaurant would be different, but a seventeen-year-old girl working as a 'waitress' in a tavern had a very specific meaning; she would be expected to treat their customers to a lot more than food. Once again, Damien was thankful for his supportive parents. Not for the resources, money or fame, but simply that they weren't the sort of people who would ever disown him, regardless of his class.

"Who's going to come looking for you?" grunted Shigeo, managing to look intimidating despite wearing nothing but a pair of boxers.

"Mum... Maybe. If Dad lets her. She won't force me back home if she knows I'm safe, though."

"Your father won't care that you're missing?"

"I was dead to him the moment I told him my class," she said quietly, touching her cheek, where Damien could clearly see a bruise, despite the poor light.

"Good enough. Come on in. Consider yourself hired."

"What were you doing out here, anyway?" Shigeo asked of Damien, as Fleta led the poor girl to a spare room. "If you heard something, you should have woken us."

"I didn't hear anything. I just had a nightmare, and was going to get some fresh air while I calmed down."

"A nightmare? I know the day was stressful, but don't let it get to you, kiddo. You know we're here for you."

Damien looked up at Shigeo, shivering as he recalled the alien voice. "It was the intruder from this morning. It turned up in my dream."

"You mean you dreamt about it, or it really turned up?"

"That's the problem. I don't know."

"I think we need to have a healer take a look at you," commented a concerned Shigeo. "Or possibly a priest. Or both."

"At this point, I'd happily take an exorcist," muttered Damien, dryly. "Is Mum okay with our new guest?"

Shigeo glanced down the corridor and frowned. "For a given value of 'okay'. We'll keep her under watch until we can confirm her story, but if she's telling the truth, you've got your smith already. Either way, you should go back to bed."

Damien nodded, having started flagging now that the adrenaline was wearing off, thanking his father as he stumbled back to his room.

He'd expected a rapid response, but that was something else entirely. Fleta had only posted the request in the afternoon, and they had their first applicant by... what time was it, anyway? Damien decided he didn't care, falling into bed and drifting back off to sleep within a few minutes, this time blessedly free of otherworldly entities intruding on his dreams.