Initiate Auramancy – a LitRPG Adventure

Chapter 1: The Comb

Eithan Rogers, two months ago.

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Sunlight pierced through the cracks in the shutters and began traversing across my face. The warmth tickled, giving chase to my slumber as consciousness began to take hold of my limp body.

[Time to get up, I suppose.] I thought as I lazily opened one eye. Staring back, not but two inches away, were a pair of yellow-slitted eyes. Adrenaline surged through my veins, my heart thrashed irregularly, threatening to burst through my ribcage. Whatever morning grogginess I had was replaced by surprise and fear, and I swore from the panic.

“Hooly crap,” I shouted, unaware of my surprise ambusher’s identity. Startled by my yelling, it ran off, just as scared as I was. As it scurried away to the other corner of the room, realization dawned on me. “The god-damned cat. You nearly gave me a heart attack, you little bastard.” The tension in my body released all at once in a pent-up sigh, but my heart was still pulsing violently from the scare, my breaths ragged and short. Fear has a funny way of making you feel like you just ran a marathon.

Stomping feet approaching from below told me I was in trouble. A moment later, my door slammed open, hard enough to rebound off the wood-paneled wall right back into the face of the aggressor.

I heard a grunt as it hit, but with adrenaline still calling the shots, the moment of comedy was lost to me. My brain was still working overtime, and I took note of the indent in the wood from the brass knob. The door was pushed back out, and Douglas, my drunk ass of a father entered, face beet red with anger, and undeterred by the mishap of his entrance. His emerald eyes were glazed and unfocused. As he looked around the room, his body swayed to and fro, hampered by the mead that he drowned himself in.

That wasn’t to last though, and he looked as though he forgot why he was up here. At least, until his eyes found me in bed, breathing heavily with a face of terror. His eyes seemed to snap to focus, and he hiccuped before he began to talk in an extremely slurred speech.

“Wha’ di’ you say, yo-u… little shit?” he said. Or, at least, that’s what it sounded closest to. The pace of my heartbeat picked up again, and I opened my mouth to answer.

“I–” He interrupted me.

 “Y-you swore. Thas wha- you did. How many times do I gotta tell you…Not to…hic… fucking swear?!” 

He paused, his visage of fury softened as his gaze drifted lazily towards the cat in the corner of the room. Genevieve met his eyes evenly, as though challenging the fool to a confrontation. Her tail slowly flicked, a sign of disinterest. I forced a chuckle to submission, knowing full well I’d stoke the embers of misguided rage if it escaped.

As suddenly as he burst through the door, his anger evaporated, replaced by drunken amusement. He burst out laughing to himself, each chuckle a bellow of jubilant energy, the polar opposite to what he expressed mere seconds ago – a shadow of his former self peering through. Then he braced himself against the doorframe as his legs began to give in to the desire to be anywhere but upright.

His addled mind seemed to be inventing a reason for my outburst that was closer to the truth than he realized. His hysterical laughing gave way to wheezing and then coughing as he struggled to catch his breath. As the fit subsided, he nodded, then held his head for a second before turning around. He was light-headed from coughing, I knew that much.

As he left, Douglas muttered nonsensical bits and pieces of words that could only be understood by one who was as drunk as he was. 

“Cat…kid..haha…fucking cat…” I heard him stumble his way back downstairs, breathing heavily and afflicted by an occasional cough from the outburst. The thumps of his hand bracing the wall for support against his ailment could be heard periodically.

I stood there dumbfounded for at least a good minute, certain that I would have received a belt buckle to my knuckles. Instead, I got a show from a drunk who was too far gone to know better.

[For the record, dad, I’m twenty-six. Haven’t been a kid for a long time.] I thought sadly to myself.

I sat back down on the corner of my bed and took a deep breath, and held it for a few seconds before letting it out. The stress of the encounter seemed to evaporate when I did so.

“Fucking cat indeed,” I muttered quietly, ensuring it was low enough to not draw the ire of my unstable father once again. As I began to relax, I forced a chuckle at the wake-up call, then slapped my thigh before standing up and stretching both my arms up to the sky. Next, my legs answered with several pops and cracks as I extended them to their max. The discomfort of my over-tight muscles subsided as they extended.

I could hear the songs of the birds as they happily chirped their morning accent, accompanied by the voice of the wind as it commanded the wooden walls to rattle and creak. They didn’t care for a poor carpenter’s plight.

[May as well get ready for today’s work…]

I made my way over to my simple oak dresser in the corner of my room, next to the wall I pinned myself to and pulled open the drawer. Well, at least, that’s what I tried to do. Instead, the wood creaked and caught several times at odd angles. ‘Ah great, The track is broken… Gotta fix that too.’ I thought to myself. Tenacity won the day as I finally managed to wrestle open the stubborn piece of lumber to reveal my neatly folded brown work tunic and trousers. 

I noted Genevieve staring daggers at me in the corner of my eye, with those eyes that demanded a treat for her service. Refusing to back down from the feline monster, I met her challenge openly. “What are you looking at? You nearly gave me a heart attack. I’m not giving you a treat.” The cat simply stared, and let out a single dissatisfied mewl, before prancing off. But not without ensuring her butt was facing me the whole way, tail standing straight up. She looked back once, to confirm I was looking back, then she raised her head up again and raised her butt even higher. You could almost hear her say “Humph!”.

That cat was an asshole, I’ll tell you what. In this case, in more ways than one…

Returning to the task at hand, I pulled the trousers up over my legs and fastened the laces tight. They were slightly torn at the hem, but still functional. I then secured my worn leather belt through the belt loops and pulled the strop into the buckle, ensuring they would stay on even in the working sun. With that finished, I pulled off my pewter-colored nightgown and grabbed the brown tunic. 

Observing its well-worn material akin to tailored wool, I noted a small lacquer stain on it, but there wasn’t much to be done about that. Shrugging, I pulled it over my head, now nearly ready for the day.

The room was still pretty dark at this point, and the sun wished to enter. I dared not bar its path any longer, wanting to be enveloped by its radiant heat. I walked over to the wooden shutter and opened it wide. The room positively exploded in light by the sun’s gentle warmth that danced across the surface of the wooden floor. Why I hadn’t done this earlier, I’ll never know. Probably the threat of death or something.

Returning to my morning routine, I fastened the buttons of my tunic in place and pulled it down a bit to cover my exposed midriff. Finally, I looked into the polished brass mirror that was positioned to catch the light of the sun and reflect its light. My father’s emerald green eyes met their copy of a younger man. 

“My hair is a disaster,” I said as I observed my reflection. 

Gnarly mats of short brown hair from a lack of proper hair hygiene lined my head in angry mobs. I needed to remedy this, so I walked over to my beautifully stained maple nightstand. 

Running my hand over its surface brought back memories of better times. I had made this as my apprentice promotion project, which was the taskwork that would signify my entry into the rank of Journeyman Carpentry. It was the last project I worked on with my father before…well before everything went to shit.

I was rather proud of that nightstand. I had built-in a drawer with a false bottom, set on hand-carved wooden Mahogany tracks. Inlaid within the tracks were well-oiled iron ball bearings to ensure it opened easily, but that was the only metal within the entire thing. Wooden bearings would simply wear out too easily and need constant replacement.

The corners of the nightstand were ornately carved and rounded in a Victorian style that is popular in the Kingdom of Parena’s Capital, Norvanhal. The legs were hand-carved and inscribed with runic symbols that meant “Family, Health, Life, and Love.” Accompanying them were the names of my Father, sister, mother, and myself. One name for each leg. The idea was that each leg supported each other to share a common burden.

Funny how life manages to break those legs sometimes…

Snapping back to reality, I opened the drawer, and it slid open as if mounted to a cloud. Reaching into the back of the drawer, I pushed my finger down on the release lever, and the lid clicked open, revealing the hidden compartment. I pulled out a carved ebony comb and began brushing my short brown, matted, and disheveled hair. As I brushed, the comb caught in the matted clumps, painfully pulling and tearing some follicles from my scalp. I silently stood cursing to myself, waging war against these mobs of hair mats. They refused to go without a fight. 

‘What I wouldn’t give for some shampoo and conditioner. Hell, just some soap.’  I screamed internally. That stuff was for the well-off, though. It was prohibitively expensive for a family of three with only one person working. I did battle with my hair, the comb a weapon fighting each clump as it ripped into the mats. Each one pulled free was another small victory marked with small tears at the corners of my eyes.

The comb was my mother’s, a gift from my father on their wedding day. Engraved on the comb was the date of their wedding, and two intricately carved flowers, painted pink and orange (their favorite colors) sharing the same stem decorated its length. I keep it hidden these days because if my father sees it, he gets too upset to function and runs to his mead.

Returning to the mirror, I cross-examined my hair with extreme prejudice and found it guilty of all charges: Still a mess. The comb helped though, it no longer appeared as though I had wrestled a bear in the mountains. More like… street riffraff? Maybe?

[How my hair ends up like this from a single night’s sleep, I’ll never understand.] I complained in my head.

[Gimme a break, me. You did the best you could with what you had.] The only remaining mats leftover were small ones as the comb’s spacing was simply too wide to grip.

“Ah well…Good enough for work!” I shrugged and retrieved my bronze pocket watch that was placed on my nightstand. Each tick signaled high-quality precision timekeeping brass craftsmanship. You can even see some of the tiny gears turning as the spring slowly spends its wound-up tension as kinetic energy.

That was a gift from a nobleman who was exceptionally pleased with one of my projects: An elegant and ornately chiseled bed frame made from Ashwood. It had four posts that were hand-carved with his family coat of arms, and crossbars for draping fabric over. Included at the base were 4 built-in drawers, an efficient storage solution for all of the noble’s needs. Each drawer was placed on a finely crafted rail of Iron pellets dipped in black oil that had a soft close feature. This design ensured the drawer was easy to open at all times, regardless of temperature, humidity, and age. 

I’ll never understand the allure of that design, but it was popular. The posts I mean. Normally, I wouldn’t be able to even hope to afford something like the pocket watch. Initially, I refused, stating such a gift was beyond my means, but nobles can be as stubborn as mules. He insisted that I take it, stating it would be a blight on his honor if I refused. So I accepted it, not wanting to earn the ire of such a powerful individual. Count Xavier Weston was his name if I recall…

The time read 7:15, Time to get moving. I slipped the watch into the left pocket on my tunic, the soft ticking of the watch barely audible from within. Tied at the clasp was a simple strip of leather, which dangled outside of the pocket, and I buttoned it to my trousers. I slapped my stubble-lined gaunt face and nodded to the man in the mirror. My nose was slightly crooked and somewhat large by average standards. My mouth was shadowed by a short beard that contrasted my tanned skin.

“Let’s do this.” I walked towards the door that was slammed open, stopping momentarily as I examined the doorknob for damage, there wasn’t any. However, the vertically mounted wood panel on the wall was splintered and an impression of the knob was embedded about an inch in. 

[That panel will need to be replaced too. Damn drunk.] I grimaced at the thought. [I’ll need to grab some scrap wood at the worksite today.] I noted mentally.

Testing the door for hinge integrity, I shut it and opened it again. It didn’t catch, so at least the frame wasn’t in need of repair.

Before leaving the room, I placed the comb back in its place within the nightstand, clicking the hidden compartment shut, and closed the drawer. I took one look at my mess of a bed and shrugged. Time’s a-wastin’. I left it as is and walked out into the hallway.

I made my way towards the stairs in the short hallway but stopped short as my younger sister Alice’s door opened slightly ajar, her eyes peering out nervously. As her eyes searched, they met mine and she looked at me, her sapphire eyes hinting at concern. They quickly darted down to my knuckles, and she sighed in relief, her gaze returning to mine. “You need to be careful, Eithan,” she whispered in a wavered voice. I nodded and placed my hand on her wiry shoulder garbed in an off-white nightgown.

“Don’t worry, I won’t let it happen again,” I replied. 

She looked reassured, smiled then shifting out of her room between the gap, she pulled me into a hug. Her thin body was warm, and a tickling feeling of familial love flooded me. Her long auburn hair looked as though she just wrestled with a bear, and I chided myself for always blaming the poor bear for the cause of all our hair problems. If it didn’t take the fall, we had nothing to blame but ourselves.

She looked sad again today, and it broke my heart to see her like this.

“Have a good day at work.” She forced out in false enthusiasm, marked with her fake smile.

“Always!” I replied, dismissing her facade and playing along. She was hit especially hard by the loss of our mother, as she was there when it happened. Since then, she has been wracked by depression and nightmares.

‘Please, Ceria, grant my sister some respite.’ I prayed silently to the goddess I didn’t truly believe in as she retreated back into her room.

I was the only one in any condition to support the family left. For Alice’s sake, I needed to be strong. I steeled myself and began my descent downstairs. 

“If nothing else, do what needs to be done for her smile,” I repeated my mantra quietly, steeling my resolve before descending the stairs.

The main foyer appeared as though a particularly ticked-off Auramancer had unleashed their fury on the place. An overturned chair lay splintered on the ground next to a spruce dining table in a state of disrepair. The three remaining chairs were in various states of decay, and disuse. The dust had begun to settle there, family meals were a thing of the past.

Depression was our close friend and confidant these days, and anger was her companion. My father had done this the day our mother had passed, his anger unbridled and matched only by his sorrow.

[Better the furniture than the apprentice, I suppose.] Still, It was a somber reminder, and nobody wanted to be the one to fix it. We still haven’t gotten over her death yet and are still in a state of denial.

The sun had even respected our grieving and merely wrapped the scene in her gentle warmth, as though it were frozen in time.

I made my way over to my father’s room, noting the door was partially ajar, and I peered in quietly.

The old man was on the cot, passed out. Already. The room was wreathed in darkness, his shutters closed tight. His pained face bore the curse of depression openly, his mouth a thin line of stress, and his beard unkempt and as matted as my hair was.

His light brown hair even reflected his sadness. My stomach twisted at the smell of the room that reeked of alcohol and bile. I quietly made my way into the room, careful not to wake him out of his stupor, and grabbed the chamber pot, intent on disposing of the foul-smelling refuse. I walked over to the window and poured it out, being careful to not let any of its contents spill inside. Replacing the chamber pot, I began making my way out of the dark room.

My father Douglas wasn’t always like this; he was once my mentor in carpentry, and he was one of the best. But one day, one of his newer apprentices made a mistake in carving a sigil. That mistake cost our mother her life when she attempted to charge the sigil. 

Since then, he has never recovered, his skill drowned away by alcohol and depression. We all missed her, but he was hit hardest by the loss. “Aaaaangelaaaaaaaa….” he cried in his drunken half-sleep. It hurt to see him like this, as he was once the pillar of support that kept all of us right as rain. That task has now fallen to me. My resolve continued to grow. “I love you, ya drunken fool,” I said quietly, then left the room. Whether he heard me, I don’t know, but it was true.

Discover New Books to Read

The kitchen was adjacent to Douglas’s room, and I walked into there to fill the void in my stomach. This was the one room I made sure to maintain, as we needed to eat. Perched on the countertop made of polished granite stone was a pile of bread loaves. Ravenous hunger tapping on my instincts reminded me that I should eat.

Turning on the tap, I washed my hands before grabbing a hunk of stale bread for my breakfast. Taking a bite sapped all the moisture from my mouth, the bread absorbed it like a sponge.

I searched for a cup in the cupboard mounted to the left of the sink, and grabbed one, and ran the tap to fill it. Taking a sip, the crystal clear water rejuvenated my mouth, and I was once again awed at the power of Auramancy that made the tap possible.

A livewood sigil was inscribed with a water vapor condensing pattern in the gathering apparatus that condensed the moisture from the air into a tank mounted at the top of the house. From there, the water flowed down two separate tubes of copper, one for cold water, and one for hot. Hot water was possible thanks to a livewood ring sigil that pulled ambient heat from the room inward, heating the copper tube several degrees, and by extension, the water. This same system, though one designed for high-pressure steam, formed the basis of the Industrial Revolution.

However, because we’re poor, we had to make some sacrifices. The heating sigil had no aura remaining – It was inert and functionless. If we wanted hot water, we’d need an Auramancer to charge it, and that costs money. As I had already spent most of what I earned to charge the condenser sigil so we could have clean water to drink, that was a far-off fantasy.

The soft ticking off my pocket watch reminded me I was wasting time, so I finished my bread and water and made my way out of the front door to go to the construction site. Before I left though, I took one last look at our home, the sign “Rogers’ & Rogers Carpentry” worn with age and lack of maintenance.

It depicted my father and me, each holding a Hammer in one hand, and fasteners in the other. We had carved the sign on my eight-teenth birthday, and it signaled the start of a father and son business. For five years, things were great, and business was booming. Unfortunately, the tragedy three years ago brought all of that to a rapid and unceremonious end. Hard to believe I’m already twenty-six.

My eyes welled up at the thought of what once was,  but I wiped them on my sleeve and took a deep breath. My resolve was having none of that.

“I’m off, Mom,” I said, taking one last look at the ramshackle house we resided. I imagined the comb sitting nestled in the hidden compartment, and my mother’s face before stifling a sniffle. Then, I opened the front door with a creak, spilling light from the outside in. The sounds of steam carriages rumbling through the streets and the busy streets buzzed in my ears. Closing the door with a thud, I joined the chaos, making my way to the construction site.

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