Готовый перевод Быть Гладу и Хладу / There will be Hunger and Cold: 4. Итого, завоевание деревенского авторитета в антураже темного фентези прошло с некоторой долей успеха

4. In conclusion, gaining rural credibility in a dark fantasy setting was somewhat successful.

* * *

It just so happens that in an environment shaped by movies, holographic projections, virtual series, and partial immersion capsule games, very few people actually realize how much good old-fashioned violence ruled the medieval world. Death from an excess of iron or other bodily deformities was as commonplace for Earthlings as the common cold or Sunday discounts on Steam sales. People back then did not leave their native village, city neighborhood, or guild settlement alone and preferred to walk in well-armed groups, not for prestige, but because a lone traveler was a dead man. They would be robbed, used, deceived, or simply beaten up, or all of the above, simply because they were alone, with no one around to speak up or ask questions on their behalf. In those glorious days, social status and caste meant everything to a person, and without the support of society, they became strangers, prey, fish.

The Broken is not an Earth; that is a fact, but in many ways it is in a similar social period, simply with the addition of magic, gifted Mechanisms, and the constant threat of creatures emerging from all sides and even from subspace rifts. No, there are exceptions, there are areas of the Ecumene where iron order reigns, and a wandering loner is not met with a knife and a ditch, but with a hunting party that catches vagrants and sends them to labor camps. In the best cases, the camp will be just that —a camp where such people will be given work, food, and some care, and even some payment for their labor, albeit minimal. But this is more of a statistical anomaly, as most often the Broken treated loners and vagrants according to standard patterns.

When a vagrant arrives in some remote village or farmstead, the local peasants will simply hit him on the head with a hoe while he is sleeping, or come up with something else. If the years are hungry and unproductive, they might even kill him for meat, but that's a different story. That's why Ilya didn't go to a distant farm, where statistically it's very difficult to find kind-hearted individuals who wouldn't try to beat up or chase away a vagrant like him. And it would be quite reasonable to beat him up or chase him away. Such individuals had a very bad reputation in earthly reality. In Broken, a wandering killer-cannibal gradually turning into some kind of abomination was not a possibility, but almost a rule, an empirically derived law.

The Diver made full use of the Twin's memory, as well as his own experience and all his acting talent, to find the right image and words. He was neat enough not to be mistaken for a cannibal, but at the same time, he didn't have any special riches on him that would make it worth the risk to kill him. And the settlement seemed to be extremely prosperous and not suffering from hunger or poverty, so they wouldn't kill a stranger just for showing up, at least not right away. There was always the possibility of encountering something else: a cult of some creature or an aggressive branch of service to one of the Dead, an illegal band of manhunters, or an equally illegal individual from among the local peasants gifted with the Mechanism. Yes, yes, most of the natives receive the blessing of the Mechanism at various altars, places of power, natural faults, or through the legacy in the blood of ancestors who visited one of these places of initiation. But there is always the possibility of becoming the chosen one of the Mechanism just like that, by accident.

Such lucky ones, having minimal knowledge even by the low standards of all who are not earthlings, often ruin themselves and turn into creatures, but sometimes they manage to put together a decent build and quietly begin to help their relatives and loved ones. That is, if their relatives do not sell such a child to the nearest aristocrat, if no one betrays them, if the relationship between them all was normal from the start. Otherwise, an individual who has newly discovered their powers often starts a massacre, remembering all the real and imagined grievances. But the chances of encountering a bearer of the Mechanism's blessings hiding from the lords' recruiters, who need victims to level up, are, to put it mildly, orders of magnitude lower than the chances of encountering ordinary human greed and meanness.

After mentally rehearsing his story and a rough plan for the conversation once more, Ilya continued walking toward the gates of the settlement, carefully hiding the slight but long-standing fatigue that weighed on him. If he moved in his usual lively manner, they might not believe that he was really a lonely, tired traveler. They would start asking questions, or even send someone to search the area, looking for a camp where such a lively fool had managed to rest and recover. People, and even non-people, inhabiting Broken always need to be shown exactly what they expect to see, leaving them to figure out the rest — the golden rule of an infiltrator into local society. Here, they react nervously to breaking the pattern and can tear apart someone who has broken it.

"A woodcarver, huh? A good one, huh? Well, well. Hmm." The owner of a local tavern and, concurrently, one of the local elders by virtue of his wealth and authority, looked at Ilya, who bowed his head respectfully and took off his worn beret, rather negatively, but without a greedy or calculating gleam in his eyes, which already pleased the earthling who was preparing to take off. "Well, let's say your crafts are nice, yes. I would take some for my wife. But you can't feed yourself with crafts here, that's for sure. You say you fell behind your companions, huh? They abandoned you, so you're stuck here."

"I twisted my ankle, Elder Ruvy. It swelled up completely. I couldn't walk." Shortly, and with the proper amount of irritation and resentment, as if recalling this imaginary situation, the diver replies. “My senior told me to catch up later, if I could. They didn't abandon me; they left food and water. They helped me dig a dugout away from the road. So I could wait it out. I waited it out, and my leg healed. But then, some kind of beast scared me. I ran, I even escaped, but I lost my way...”

"Okay, okay, don't be such a chatterbox. I've heard this before... You're a lucky man, then, a lucky man. To get lost in the Ridge and then find your way back out. That's impossible without the help of the Door Locker." The village head's words are full of skepticism, but there's less of it than before. Ilya's arguments are quite compelling. Such a story could have really happened, but it could also be fiction, like now. "All right. You'll have to wait until the merchant caravan arrives. You know, they're my friends, you understand! I'll vouch for you, then. And you'll work around the farm... whatever needs to be done, yes."

Ilya suppressed the desire to rip out this asshole's throat, and this desire came not only from his class, but also from his personal desire to do something bad to this greedy and cunning asshole. He took almost all of Ilya's bone and wood crafts, the best ones, which could be sold for good copper in the same city. But at the same time, he clearly wanted to get a free farmhand for himself, for an indefinite time, the bastard. His “I'll ask my friend” was pure bullshit, and he sincerely believed that his interlocutor would fall for this crap.

Damn it. Any caravan of merchants passing through Big Tooth is, with rare exceptions, a familiar for the innkeeper! Newcomers appear, but not often; the same people use the same routes, transporting the same goods season after season. It's just easier to say that there is, say, a particularly reliable merchant, a bro, who will definitely reach Upperstone and deliver you, you fool, there. And he definitely won't cheat you, won't deceive you, won't sell you into slavery, and won't quietly kill you at one of the stops for your worn-out boots. And you, vagabond, go ahead and work for my mercy from here until sunset, and don't even mention money, or else what will happen, huh? I'm helping you, and you're going to ask me and those I tell to help you for payment for your hard work?

However, things didn't turn out too badly, and Ilya successfully “sold” his legend. A group of artisans was heading to the city for the spring fair to sell all their fine wares—carvings, jewelry, riveted belts, and all that stuff. Along with them was an unlucky carver who had twisted his ankle and who, according to the “laws” and "customs", had been dispossessed a little. But this was not done completely arbitrarily, but with respect and understanding — most of his goods were taken “for sale,” and it would be good if at least a third of the money earned from them was given back. And no one was going to give anything back, because they didn't believe that a lone traveler would make it to Upperstone and survive the winter cold. In fact, the food, fuel, and slightly warmer sheepskin coat they gave him could only buy him a little time before the wolves smelled the smoke and came to see who was so delicious there.

The innkeeper assessed the situation and decided to obtain, at least for a couple of months, a free worker whom he could rent out to his fellow villagers. At the same time, he considers himself a benefactor and a good person, which is especially admirable! And what's even more wonderful is that Ilya, internally struggling with the desire to gouge out the cunningly darting eyes of the nasty kulak, acknowledges that, by the standards of the Broken, he has indeed shown, if not kindness, then certainly mercy. However, it remains to be seen whether the merchant, as advised, will try to give Ilya such a useful item of clothing for the farm as a collar with shackles. But that's just luck, because the peasants in this part of the world don't really cooperate with slave traders. The Twins' memory gave a clear answer in this regard, leaving no room for interpretation.

"All right, Elder." With a brief nod and all due respect, Ilya received a satisfied smile in response from the slightly chubby, mustachioed face of the asshole, who was just about to start rubbing his hands together. "What needs to be done? Right now, I mean."

It is worth giving credit where credit is due: at first, they did let him stay and even heated the bathhouse, or rather, they heated it for themselves, but they allowed him to take a steam bath. And then, as if by accident, they were able to examine his thin bag, where there was nothing to steal except carving tools. Ilya then, also as if by accident, immediately said that carving was like life to him, so if the tools disappeared, it would be better for him to disappear too. Because he wouldn't ask questions, he would immediately reach for his axe. Ruvy looked offended, but he heeded the warning. The things in the bag were not in the same order as Ilya had left them before the bathhouse, but nothing was missing. Because there was nothing to steal, he wasn't stupid enough to bring anything valuable with him to a settlement where curious natives lived.

The trio of gloomy and not particularly talkative men who decided to steam with Ilya were not in the mood for conversation. Instead, they watched Ilya very closely. Any other earthling would have suspected this was a prelude to finding out who was the boss of the gym. Smarter earthlings would have immediately understood the real reason: they were looking for marks, deformities, and mutations on his body that could reveal him to be some kind of creature, a cultist of someone of the Dead, forbidden on this piece of the Broken, or even just a thief or a robber. Brands are not always placed on the forehead, and many thieves' guilds regularly mark their brothers. They present all this, of course, as brotherhood and unity, but in reality, they simply cut off the newcomers' retreat and make the guards' job easier.

They heated the bathhouse in the traditional way, but Ilya, who was cold and still not completely rid of his unhealthy thinness, felt like he had entered paradise. And the internal cries of the Wendigo, who was writhing from the heat and warmth, did not interfere with his enjoyment at all; rather, they intensified it even more. Ideally, he would have liked to have a beautiful native woman by his side, but it was better for a simple vagabond not to voice such desires and to look at the local girls with extreme caution. It was still unclear which would be worse — if they tried to beat him up, or if they decided to marry him off?

Although it must be admitted, if they do try to arrange a marriage, it will certainly not be with local beauties, but with someone uglier, yes. How many similar topics have there been on the Forum, how many heartbreaking and hilarious stories about earthlings running away from such family relationships? It's impossible to count, and no one even tries; at most, they collect a selection of the most curious cases.

"So, ahem, I'll be Grach. My hand got stuck between the logs, you see. Ruvy, the sly one, said you should help out around the farm." The short, slightly stooped man, who had been given a new farmhand to look after, was clearly a little lost, but not out of modesty; he simply didn't know how to give the worker more tasks to do. “My son, my eldest, you'll have to help. Don't call my wife, she's busy. Chop some wood for dinner and fetch some water, that's all. And take a look at the porch, there's a board that's not holding...”

His ears are ringing from trying to make sense of a primitive monologue filled with parasitic constructs in a universal language that is crying blood from such an attitude, but Ilya just nods silently. The work of another person, especially after a long and difficult journey, could have caused him to faint. But for the owner of the Twin, and with such an indicator invested in Bones-Claws, any physical labor, especially simple and mechanical, presented no difficulties. It was just that this particular task was very boring, but nothing more.

The thirteen-year-old boy, clearly not too keen on working hard, but also not wanting to be beaten by his father, was considered almost an adult by local standards and therefore helped Ilya as an equal. He looked at him with slight condescension and superiority, but without fanaticism, because Ilya was older and physically very strong, and could kick him. Until evening, the earthling tirelessly chopped wood for the rest of the winter with a very old hatchet, carried water, and even managed to repair the threshold boards, propping them up with a couple of stones that fit the size so that they would not sag. He took breaks to avoid looking too suspicious and to give little First a rest. Yes, yes, he was the firstborn, hence the name First. The family also had a seven-year-old named Second, and before him, two children who did not live to be named, having died earlier.

The charming aspects of medieval life, yes.

They sat him down at the table, not even at the end, but at the guest's place, and fed him no worse than the master of the house himself. The latter apparently liked the speed and quality of the hired farmhand's work. However, the food was not particularly tasty and moderately filling. There was no meat, except for some bacon rinds and scraps of skin, not much oil, and bread mixed with pea flour. But there were goose eggs, one each for him and Grach, and broth cooked on bones.

They didn't put him up for the night at the inn, because then they would have had to change and wash the bedding and heat the room. No, he slept right in Grach's house, on a separate bench, having pushed First onto the floor. After all, a farmhand is a farmhand, but it's indecent to completely humiliate a man who works diligently. And in the local reality, putting a kid who's not even an adult yet to sleep on the bench while he sleeps on the floor is like spitting in his face. To be honest, Ilya would have been better off sleeping on the floor. There's more space, and the bench is hard and narrow anyway. He didn't give a damn about warmth, he wouldn't have heated the stove at all, but then there was a risk that the other inhabitants of the house would freeze.

Fortunately, the stove turned out to be in good working order, and the damper had been set correctly, so no one was in danger of suffocating in their sleep. However, Ilya was awakened half the night by the cautious movements of the owner of the house and his wife, who could not sleep with a stranger in the house, waking up now and then to check on the sleeping Ilya. What if he decided to get up, rummage through the owners' bins, or try to bite the heads off the sleeping children? In the latter case, it was a perfectly reasonable and entirely justified concern, but Ilya was in control of himself. He falls asleep thinking that his integration into society has already begun, that it will be boring, but at least not dangerous. And when the next merchant caravan arrives in glorious Upperstone, there will be someone to tell, someone to ask, and someone to answer for the next vagrant.

Well, or everything will go awry, and Ilya's plans for two or three peaceful cycles with minimal pumping and maximum socializing will go down the drain. The situation will return to square one: the need to kill a lot and with relish.

Everyone.

* * *

They tested the strength of the newcomer on the sixth day of his new working life. They gave him a little time to settle in, or, more likely, they were watching him themselves. Ilya slowly and calmly went about his heavy and thankless work, of which there was plenty in the village, and which could easily be given to someone else to do for food. This was quite generous by Slomano's standards, but that was because Tooth was a well-fed and wealthy place, where they did not skimp on every handful of peas and saw the opportunity to use hired labour. In addition to the Diver, there were four other labourers from outside the village, but two of them were acquaintances from a neighbouring village that had been ravaged by a beast. Guess what kind of beast it was, by the way? He would demand payment from them, but screw them, let their father and mother rest in peace, knowing that the invisible thing that killed them is also dead.

These two homeless guys were taken in by relatives, but they were treated even worse. There were also a couple of other lone travellers who had settled in the village, willing to work for food. However, one of them had been severely beaten and thrown out into the cold two days earlier when he was caught trying to break into someone else's chest, and the other left of his own accord when he realised that he would have to work hard for his food and that any attempt to slack off or pocket anything could result in him being beaten to death. There were also ordinary travellers who paid for their stay at the inn or at one of the widows' houses with hard cash, waiting for either a caravan or warmer weather. But Ilya hardly communicated with them. There were too many tasks in the early days, and he didn't want to get into trouble.

But on the evening of the sixth day, when he repaired the leaky roof of the old shoemaker's house, the old man, who had successfully married off two daughters and buried four sons and two wives, happily repaired Ilya's leaky boots; they met him to ‘talk.’ There were three of them, all tall, though younger than Ilya, each about twenty years old, maybe twenty-three. They did not look much younger than Ilya, due to the hard life of the common people in Broken, but they were still younger. Their smiles were unpleasant, smug, and full of self-importance. Their hands openly flexing, their belts adorned with clubs and knives. A knife was a sign of status here; without one, a man was not considered a man, for what kind of man could not kill his opponent?

"Hey, you, why don't you take off your hat in front of your betters?" The ringleader of the trio was not the tallest of the three, but the one standing in the centre, the shortest and thinnest, but his broken nose and knuckles revealed him to be an experienced fighter, albeit not as skilled as he thought himself to be. "What's the matter with you, haven't you heard that if you don't take off your hat in front of your betters, you might lose your boots?"

Ilya barely managed to keep from rolling his eyes. If there was one thing he didn't want, it was boots that looked so pathetic you couldn't even look at them. He had chosen them specifically so that he could wear them in public. Their only value was that the soles were soft, not wooden like those worn by the other three middle-aged medieval morons. It had been a long time since fathers, thankfully, married early here, but the same pride and desire to show off, as if they had climbed into the slums of the social welfare neighborhood, damn. Assessing this trio and all the problems he would get into if he quietly buried them here, the diver barely restrains a sorrowful sigh. And the onlookers have already gathered, clearly knowing in advance that there would be a spectacle! If only he could approach quietly, in the middle of the night... although even then he would not kill, nor would he break his mask, perhaps.

"Just a question, senior?" Ilya said the respectful address in such a tone that it immediately became clear to what extent he considered his interlocutor to be senior. "Or is your nose itchy?

"Hey, what nose?" he asks with childlike innocence, but experience cannot be ignored, and he immediately covers his nose, like his face, with a primitive block stance. "Uh-uh-uh-uh!"

Ilya didn't hit him in the nose. Why break people's skulls when he still has to live in the same village with them? No, he hit him in the solar plexus, bending the poor guy over. And why not? By local moral standards, they had already insulted him badly, so he had to hit them right away, which is what they were counting on. In fact, they were surprised by Ilya's question, which he asked instead of immediately striking. The retaliatory blows from a couple of comrades were not long in coming, and the arrogant individual quickly got back on his feet. And the fun began, for which so many onlookers had gathered, because it's not every day that a stranger is beaten up for the first time in Big Tooth!

Unfortunately, the beating didn't go as planned. Ilya didn't show anything extraordinary; he forced himself to suppress his animal instincts, covered his head, and rarely struck back, regularly taking blows. To their credit, none of the three took up arms, seeing that Ilya did not, and although they struck hard and viciously, they did so without going beyond the bounds of village brawling customs — no blows to the groin or eyes, and they spared the head as well. This, incidentally, distinguished the village way of fighting from the city way, because in the city it was permissible to strike the head, but it was forbidden to tear clothing, because it was expensive to mend. Furthermore, in mended clothing, one might not be allowed into normal neighbourhoods or shops, whereas in the village, no one cared; everyone wore rags, unless it was for a wedding or something.

Ilya was constantly being punched, especially by the big guy, but it was his fists that suffered rather than Ilya himself. He still had to dodge the blows by moving to the side; otherwise, their fists would have smashed against his frozen flesh. He struck at the shoulders, ribs, and sides, not at full strength or even a third of his strength, but enough to make all three groan and ‘cool down the fucking’ a little, as the old divers would say. The tangle of dishevelled and angry alpha males, the pride of the nation of anthropomorphic baboons, fell apart into four separate parts after two minutes. The ringleader spat loudly on the ground, cleared his throat, trying not to vomit on his shoes, while the third simply pressed his hands to his liver. But they stood there, just as the slightly bedraggled and staggering Ilya stood. And his whole appearance seemed to say that he felt terrible, yes, but if you bitches mess with him, it will get even worse.

"Oh, come on, you bastard!" Having caught his breath, the leader found the strength to smile and even utter this phrase as a mocking compliment, perhaps even a sincere one. "It's like beating a log! And you hit it like a log! Huh! Okay, you can keep your hat on, then. But I'm not going to call you ‘senior’ either!"

"Ouch, damn! Where did you learn to hit like that, bastard?" The bully expresses not so much pain as some kind of childish resentment that he is in pain, but he himself cannot hurt his victim enough to knock him down. "Who are you, anyway? A woodcutter, yes! I asked!"

"You young ones, have you ever wondered where those bones come from, the ones we carve patterns on?" A joke on thin ice. In another situation, it could be analogous to a joke about a bomb at a customs checkpoint, after which the joker is arrested by the feds, but now it turned out to be appropriate, causing the leader to laugh. That is why the second part of his speech did not sound immediately. They laughed first. "So what? Shall we continue?"

At the last phrase, Ilya even stopped pretending to be beaten, straightening up and raising his fists in a parody of a boxer's stance. He did not reach for his belt, which the third, youngest man regretted slightly, as he had been eager to pull a knife from his own belt. Only a very hard push in the side from the leader prevented him from doing so. You took out the knife, that's it. All the consequences are your own fault. In the sense that in worldly courts, if you take up arms first, you are not even branded for killing someone; at most, you get a fine. Of course, no one will understand or forgive Ilya; they will try to kill him as soon as he kills his victim, but at the same time, they will be killing a stranger, knowing that the bastard was right.

"No, that's enough, yeah." In such cases, it's very important to back down and save face, as with street thugs and other petty criminals, otherwise they might bite back. "Let's have a mug of booze, shall we? I'll treat, then. Here's to this wonderful acquaintance!"

Ilya, pretending to think about it, did not refuse, went to that very tavern, and ended up drinking bitter but strong moonshine in the company of local troublemakers. As a result, his conquest of village authority in a dark fantasy setting was somewhat successful. It was almost like dealing with the local thugs from the social welfare, only here you didn't have to hide from the cameras to throw a punch.

The guys themselves were already married with sons, even had their own houses, but they were still like the golden youth of the peasantry. The ringleader, Gozhik, from the word ‘gozhiy’ (handsome), was the only surviving son of the local senior hunter. Anyone could shoot a hare with a slingshot or a weak bow, but only three people went hunting for deer or predators, a small group, and this leader was one of the three, along with his father and uncle. The second, who was a bully, was called Boris, almost like on Earth. He was the miller's son, by the way, and the miller was a big shot here because he owned both mills. One belonged to his brother, but his brother died of fever three years ago, and the miller took over his mill, but he also took in his brother's young wife and didn't throw her out.

The earthling clearly suspected that something was amiss, as the trio's expressions were quite distinctive, but he had no intention of determining how genuine the second miller's fever was or whether his wife was truly delighted to be ‘warmed up.’ Stories like this are commonplace in Broken, and this shit isn't much different from the earthly realities of long ago, except that a little magic has been added, but nothing more.

The third one went by the name of Quark, and thank goodness it wasn't Photon or Boson, yeah. The last of the gilded, or rather, copper-sprinkled men, men, not lads, otherwise it would be an insult and another fight, was the middle one, the son of the local Land Surveyor. Roughly speaking, he was the oldest, the one who distributed land, allotments, and all that. Usually, the Land Surveyor in villages is the Chief Headman, the only and most important one, not just one of the authorities, but here, the place of residence lets him down.

The local peasants on the Ridge don't really sow and reap much; most of the vegetable gardens here are just enough to feed themselves, not for taxes. They are engaged in gathering, growing herbs, especially ‘rocky’ ones, which are taxed and only grow here on the Ridge. Again, wheat grows very well on this stony soil, as if by magic, because there is enough of it in the air here. They also mine that very stone and, of course, as in Tooth, simply serve as outposts for caravans passing through Ridge. In fact, the local villagers also buy provisions from the surrounding villages and sell them to the caravanners.

But the basis is still grass and grain, grass and grain.

Ilya understood all this, thanks to his keen observation and listening skills, absorbing the world around him and supplementing his knowledge with memories from the Twin, but it was nice to have his guesses confirmed by his new acquaintances. They parted ways in the evening, and Ilya had to walk deliberately, staggering, heading for the little house assigned to him by the old bobyl, whose name was Bobyl. Of course, these three did not approach him for no reason; they had some plans that required either a bone and wood carver or simply a person capable of traversing the wasteland and surviving. For the time being, they hadn't offered him anything, and Ilya hadn't asked, although he was somewhat interested. In these wild places, it was quite possible to find some ancient ruins, a source of magic, or even a Lacuna, although he definitely wouldn't stick his nose into the latter.

In the sense that not without the support of reliable divers from Earth. And the lottery winner would not have rushed to contact them, even if he could. To venture into even the smallest, shallowest Lacuna with the support of three untalented natives would be a waste of the essence needed for resurrection. It was with this thought that he fell asleep to Bobyl's loud snoring, it was what he thought in the morning when he was carrying water from the well, and he had exactly the same thoughts when he was asked to work in his ‘main’ speciality.

"Here, check, if anything, say." The deliberately simple speech in the style of his own Twin, only with an additional village slant, was becoming easier for him, although it irritated him more and more with each remark. "If it's good, then pay."

The customer didn't want to pay, but he couldn't find anything to complain about, and Ilya immediately said that he would rather destroy his own work than give it away for free. Technically, the man could have argued that he had provided the materials himself, so it was his work, and to go to hell. He could have, he wanted to, but he had bought the item as a gift for his brother's name day, and according to local tradition, you cannot give a relative a gift that you got for free. And he wanted it, he wanted it very much, because Ilya agreed to the extremely naive option of ‘show me the work first, then I'll pay.’ However, he named the price right away, and it was very cheap, realizing that they wouldn't pay more, and would rather put pressure on him through Ruvy.

"Good, Iliy, that's good!" And he stretched out his hand in response, placing seven small copper coins stacked on top of each other on the table in the tavern, like the favourite number of the Mechanism. "A neat little gift for my brother, heh."

The gift was a wooden snuffbox made from a rare type of wood, similar to the one under which Ilya sat, increasing his first talent. Brother Burt, for whom Brother Gurt was preparing the gift, loved to smoke homemade tobacco, which he grew himself. Many people smoked pipes here, and not always tobacco; there were also faint hints of cannabis, especially from the elderly, whose bones and bodies ached. The snuffbox was beautiful, decorated and massive, enough to give you a stroke. The additional patterns were not so high quality that they looked almost lifelike, but they were still quite decent and even had a storyline.

Following Gurt's suggestions, the diver created a miniature comic strip on each side of the snuffbox, depicting one of the amusing adventures in the lives of the two brothers. Well, they certainly seemed amusing to them. Or at least to Gurt. Honestly, for such a small item, one could have charged not small leaves, but large, heavy leaves, or even a couple of small, filed-down petals. Ilya even mentioned this, referring to a high price rather than a specific amount, because they would choke on it and would not pay that much. They did not have that kind of money or the desire to spend it. He simply said that the first person to ask would get a big discount, and the next ones would pay more, so they should take that into account.

The satisfied potter and part-time farmer disappeared into the fog, examining the exquisite tobacco box, which had not yet been treated with a special oil to varnish the wood and make it smoother. However, Gurt could do this himself, and Ilya had neither the oil nor the skill to work with it. Never mind, never mind. After all, he now had money, not only a few large leaves sewn into his belt, but also free, honestly earned money. And, more importantly, he had customers, and with them the opportunity to improve his carving skills. Of course, working with wood rather than bones, the flow of essence is very small, and without the boon, it is close to zero, but there is a boon.

Still better than just wasting cycle time working as a farmhand.

And there will be bones too. Deer antlers are collected here even without him. Now it's just a matter of time before another resident of Tooth, who wants to show off to his fellow villagers, turns to him. He is willing to pay a reasonable amount to have something that his neighbour doesn't have. In general, Ilya expected a flood of orders in the next two or three days, even if only for a short time, because eventually the customers would run out. And there is always the risk of collecting too much money and people around you thinking that you don't really need it... he is still not ‘one of them’ enough for that not to happen. However, he was wrong about one thing — the next customer, who brought with him the ready-made antlers of some unlucky deer, arrived in the evening of the same day. Bless all the Dead Gods, the Mechanism, and the Ancients for the human desire to show off!

* * *

The room is dark, with only an oil lamp left on all night. Ilya could easily carve even in complete darkness, but for the sake of secrecy, he requested a lamp. The lamp, like the oil used, is included in the materials he requested and affects the payment, but the order placed by Mark Miller himself must be fulfilled. Ruvy told him personally, saying, do what you want, but fulfil the order. Otherwise, he will have to quarrel with the most influential person in the village, which is not convenient. Well, maybe not in those words, but Ilya got the message, and the order was interesting. It wasn't just a trinket for the neck, or a knife handle, as Gozhik and Boris had requested, or even a snuffbox for a smoker or a pipe with a pretty pattern. No, what was needed was a flute, and not just any flute, but one made from a whole bone, and not just any bone, but a moose bone, and the moose had to be a beast, clearly larger than the standard size.

So Ilya sits there, carving, putting his heart and soul into every pattern, every movement of his small chisel, which he regularly sharpens and hones so as not to make even the slightest chip. A bone flute, you know, is not the simplest instrument, and the earthling, who was well versed in local realities, even knew exactly how complicated it was. Complicated enough that he was asked very convincingly to carve the flute at night, if necessary, in two or three nights. But so that the bone would not be seen by the Stars. And, of course, not to talk, because they don't like chatterboxes, although Ilya understood that anyway. He also understood that if a problem arose, it would be much easier to get rid of a troublesome stranger with no family or tribe than someone from the settlement of Big Toth.

Several times, he involuntarily looked inside himself and checked his status, making sure his Fate and Fortune attributes were and remained at one. However, one is still higher than the standard for the local population, deprived of the blessing of the Mechanism, a fat zero. It was worth finding not just a miller, but someone willing to follow the path of the Miller, in the very first settlement he managed to enter. And he could have suspected it when he saw two mills at once... although, okay, there's no need to be too self-critical. He couldn't. There are many mills, but those who worship the Night Miller are very rare. Even in areas much more disadvantaged than this settlement of Big Tooth, where wheat and millet grow so well, where grasses are always harvested in large quantities.

And everything is within normal limits. The entire Ridge is trembling with magic, with streams of enchantment flowing through it, so that the harvest itself grows, as do all kinds of creatures. Yes, this explained the herbs, the grain, and everything else, but, as they say, you can always add a little outside help to the equation. A little bit of good bone dust, ground on millstones, right in the middle of the night, and to the quiet trill of a flute. Mark Milner, of course, is not blessed; otherwise, he would certainly not have asked for help, but he is clearly a little above the average person. Sometimes, with enough (bad) luck, a prayer to the Dead Gods can bring something more tangible than even a prayed-for blessing.

Both gifted natives and divers have the opportunity to acquire a couple of talents on their own, through their research, achievements, and so on. The same path is open to untalented natives, even if the Mechanism has not recognised them. Access to talents that are much stronger than those normally available to ordinary Dwellers. Not enough to compare with the gifted, but more than enough to stop being a simple or not-so-simple peasant, townsperson, or someone comparable. Prayers to the Dead are one of the most reliable and popular ways to gain such a drop of opportunity. But it depends on which Dead, yeah. Not to mention that such gifts take away no less brains than they give strength.

To be fair, Night Miller, it's not that bad, not nearly as bad as it could have been. If Ilya suspected any of the locals of worshipping the Bone Piper, he would have immediately taken the form of a Wendigo and wouldn't have calmed down until he had slaughtered everyone here. He would simply show the cult objects to the authorities who arrived to sort things out, and they would even thank him. Well, they would detain him and handcuff him, or at least try to, but they would be very grateful to him in their hearts, that's for sure. Fortunately for him, Ruvy clarified several times in a row that the flute should have seven holes, not eleven, God forbid all the Dead at once. The Night Miller, on the other hand... well, he's only slightly worse than the Elder Father or the Destroyer of Embers. Yes, he's one of those Dead who, at the end of their existence, let in what made all the Gods of the Broken World Dead in the first place.

But just before his death, not having lived long enough for the parts of the Mechanism for which he was responsible to also become defiled. Too much so. And before he was forcibly fed that food, which can only be tasted once, the Night Miller quite successfully protected the then still Unbroken from all evil. Compared to those of the Dead who accepted the abomination first and voluntarily, the difference is very large, simply colossal. But the followers of those Dead who remained Pure still preferred to kill the Millers or the owners of the class of the same name immediately and without mercy. Of course, there are too many classes, and they are not always connected with the Dead God, but you can't prove anything to the locals. There are those on Earth who have chosen this fate, a couple have even become trios, but there are no quartets, unless someone is hiding.

And the third are in no hurry to reach a new level, rightly believing that they do not need such happiness in their native world in the slightest. There is a whole list of classes that are categorically not recommended to be levelled up to four, just so as not to pass that class on Earth, even in a weakened form. To the point that such individuals are isolated or immediately politely asked to perform a ritual of complete relocation. Or they will be killed without any ritual, thereby depriving them of some of the bonuses from complete merging with the Twin. Millers are not at the top of these lists, but they are still present, and the Agreement not only allows such manoeuvres but almost encourages them.

In any case, even if Mark does not possess the appropriate priestly class, even a couple of talents of this kind can be a nasty thing. Especially considering the story with his brother, yes. Could it be that his brother's bones were used to strengthen the foundation of his mill? There are many questions, too many, and only Mark and Ruvy can provide the answers, but Ilya is not yet ready to ask. Still, neither of them crossed the line and wrote off the strange traveller as useless... it seems that he does not have the talent to recognise lies and intentions. Unless he pump the Eye in a special way, but Ilya has completely different plans for this ability.

So we cut, cut, and carve, but only the flute made of magical moose bone, not the murky, sinister aborigines. In direct combat or a surprise attack, Ilya feared neither the miller nor even the novice Miller: as long as he does not personally venture into the enchanted mill, this type of enemy is not dangerous to him. He can smell poison in food, and a curse will only make him laugh. It is useless to curse someone possessed by Hunger with the classic effects of this type of priesthood. He would cope. But against his will, he felt an increasingly strong desire to leave Big Tooth, without even waiting for the caravan, the place where he had been promised to ‘discuss’ his position.

He finished his creation before dawn, decorating the flute with a scene of moose hunting, so to speak, for symbolic purposes, and then admiring his work. And at the image of another drop of essence that barely filled the considerably emptied bowl with a horned skull, rewarding him for creating a complete talisman. The sounds of this flute, as Ilya understood, would not be just sounds; they would carry part of the power of the deceased moose, sound louder and brighter, and penetrate deeper. It was his most effective creation, definitely worthy of being recognised by the Mechanism, especially with the support of the cheater's blessing.

Tap.

Blowing the dust off his craft, Ilya placed it directly on the stool he used as a table, covered it with a cloth, extinguished the lantern, and went to sleep. To be honest, he didn't really need sleep, but it was still necessary. According to his calculations, the diver could go without sleep for three or four days, thanks to his class and synergistic talents, while remaining active and focused. If he ignored his focus, he could maintain a relatively clear mind for about a week and not pass out on the go. But he liked to sleep; it helped him relax and forget a little that he was in fucking Broken, and he would fall into oblivion.

Ironically, ordinary possessed ones do not like to sleep and do everything they can to delay the need for sleep, even to the point of exhaustion. This is especially desperate in cases where the build is unstable and the psyche is shaken by the curse. But he is fine, despite the fact that the curse of Hunger tries to break through into his consciousness while he sleeps. If it weren't for his super-Traits, every dream would be a series of nightmares looping around each other, undermining his will. On the other hand, if it weren't for his super-Traits, he wouldn't have become Possessed. Now, he was only vaguely aware of that very Chihuahua, tied to a strong chain and trying to break out of a locked bank vault located in a bunker half a kilometre deep, under solid rock.

However, after a recent talent boost, this Chihuahua seems to have grown a little. Not enough to be comparable in size to a Pekingese or a Corgi, but becoming comparable in size to some Pomeranians.

A rather plump specimen of this breed.

The morning brought Ruvy, who had arrived with the first roosters, waking the sleepy diver as he climbed the stairs to the second floor of his inn. Looking sleepy, Ilya gave his order to the somewhat nervous innkeeper, who quickly wrapped it in thick cloth and paid Ilya just as quickly. Expecting some kind of trickery, the earthling was even a little disappointed that nothing happened. Nothing happened at all, as if they had forgotten about him; only a few simpler orders came in, but they were penny jobs. And even those were paid for not with money, but with food or services. He accepted them. Food. After all, half a roast goose is half a roast goose. It's delicious, especially considering the small amount of meat in the new farmhand's diet.

However, an adventure did occur, along with problems, and strictly at night, immediately after completing the order. For the sake of variety, this adventure came from where it was least expected. Ilya had already been settled in a small room in the far corner of the inn, which also suggested that it would be easier to eliminate him in such a place. Well, him, as an unknown woodcarver who had broken away from his party, and not him specifically, as a diver. So he woke up in the middle of the night from the noise that started in the village and quickly spread to the tavern. Stoves were being lit and kettles were boiling, and the female servants, like the men from the same social class, began running around all the rooms, cleaning up quickly under the muffled swearing of Ruvy himself.

Straining slightly beneath his camouflage, Ilya used his special vision and saw several individuals scattered around tables pushed together in the centre of the main hall below. Or rather, he assumed that the tables had been pushed together based on the position of the hearts illuminated by talent. One of those hearts seemed surprisingly bright, as if glowing with a hot, burning power. The solar heat tied to the heart was passive in nature. It's clearly gifted with the Mechanism and of a very unusual class orientation. The solar element, tied to one or more Luminaries, is chosen by few; it is more popular in parts of the Ecumene where desert and dunes reign, less often in the tropics, but not in predominantly cold latitudes.

Again, you can't judge by one instance, and he has no idea how often sunfireflies are found here, on Dead Man's Ridge. Maybe there's a rift somewhere, oozing a specific shade of magical energy, which is why a school-guild-order-sect of users of this particular type of magic has formed here. Although, okay, if such shit existed here, then within a radius of two hundred kilometres or so, there would be eternal summer. And within a radius of fifty kilometres, there would be the eternal Sahara desert, and the old version of it, before the greening and terraforming under the auspices of the Assembly.

For a while, Ilya was tempted to go out and take a look, or even go to the window, so as not to meet these guests. Not all solar classes will be ideal opponents against Wendigo, but most of them will not be easy opponents. The light scorches, the heat burns, dispels the icy grip, and if there is a sufficiently experienced individual comparable to Baldie, it will be more difficult to defeat him than Baldie himself. Well, or you can run for your bags, grab your darts, transform, trying not to scream too loudly, and then kill him with a sudden blow. Even if he constantly casts a shield, it's not a fact that he's powerful enough to knock down two darts thrown by a fully transformed Wendigo, especially from a blind spot.

But this is purely hypothetical, not serious. Ilya won't be the first to attack, and no one will attack him either. If only because if they knew about the possessed one nearby, they wouldn't sit so calmly. Yawning and thinking for a moment, he renews his disguise, then lies down to sleep, and lets them wake him up themselves, if they remember him at all in the current commotion. After all, the gifted ones here are almost always important figures, so it's no surprise that they were let in in the middle of the night and immediately organised a dinner on demand. Most likely, there is some noble idiot with an entourage, and Ruvy is dancing around him personally. Ilya had seen his heart with a special gaze more than once and easily recognised the man rushing around the important guests, seeing only that heart shining through the walls.

He didn't sleep very well, but still well; no one woke him up in the middle of the night.

But in the morning, they still disturbed him. All he had to do was wash his face and rinse his mouth with diluted wine, regretting that he couldn't use the Ice Breath technique. Incidentally, this is a completely official and approved method of cleaning your teeth. Your mouth immediately feels perfectly fresh, the smell disappears, and even the plaque on and between your teeth literally crumbles away like weightless ice chips. The main thing is to do everything quickly, or you will need extremely high resistance to your own cold. Otherwise, you will simply burn your mucous membrane, and then your teeth will crumble from overcooling.

"Iliy, come down quickly." The innkeeper looks quite alarmed, but not frightened; rather, he seems eager not to lose face. "Just wash your face, that's all, and hurry up."

After nodding affirmatively, Ilya went to the barrel of cold water, checked the only change of clothes and underwear he had brought to the village, which were hanging there and still slightly damp, and then lowered his head into the barrel, holding it there for a few seconds. His hair hadn't grown back much since his last haircut, which was almost completely shaved off, and he regularly shaved his face clean in the ‘city’ fashion. Incidentally, this was one of the formal reasons why Gozhik and company decided to pick on him, saying that Ilya was too stylish and metrosexual for this hole, and that he needed to fix up his face as a preventive measure, lest he suddenly start infecting them with his gay aura.

He went downstairs just as the guests were finishing breakfast. It seemed that they hadn't slept at all that night, but they were cheerful and clearly a little tipsy, and some of them were lying face down on their plates. Their leader, a man with a sunny disposition, was tall, almost two metres in height, with the physique of Apollo. Okay, it was difficult to see his physique under his partially removed armour and thick undergarments, but his face was the ideal of the Aryan race. Straight features, a Roman profile, wheat-coloured hair, a neat beard and moustache, which would be impossible to maintain without a proper razor and mirror in such a state. He wondered if he had some kind of amulet or personal barber with him? His entourage was also armed, threatening, and greeted him with only a barely noticeable glimmer of interest in their eyes.

"My respects, honourable sirs." He presses his hands to his chest and bows, albeit not to the waist. He doesn't wear a beret indoors anyway. "How can I be of service?"

Instead of answering, the yawning knight swiftly threw his deer antler creation in his face. Which, incidentally, almost sealed his fate, causing him considerable problems: Ilya only noticed at the last moment that it was flying towards him and did not dodge, roll to the side, or strike with all his might with an icy breath. He even managed to portray his fear quite convincingly, turning his instinctive reaction into an acting trick, pretending that he had barely caught the ornament that had barely hit him on the forehead. Incidentally, it would have torn the skin of an ordinary person or at least left a bruise. A good throw, yes. The idiot he no longer liked was clearly a warrior class, although he might also be a mage, simply loving to wear armour and having a good physique, as well as some talent for partially removing the effect of the weakening spell from the iron and steel embrace.

"Is this your work, peasant?" Okay, bear with it, Ilya, bear with it and smile, people love idiots. "I was told that you carved this trinket. And you carved it quickly, in a couple of bells, no more."

"Yes, your glory, mine." Another bow, and with great difficulty, his smile remains precisely the dull, peasant smile that is expected of him, rather than the hungry grin of a predator. "It wasn't difficult there."

A wave of the hand, commanding and sharp, silences everyone, as if the heat of a sunny day in the middle of the desert were beating down on their faces. For an ordinary local, this is simply unpleasant and frightening, but for him, with his fate, it is painful, to the point of a vicious desire to bite off his hand up to the elbow. But this desire remained just a desire, and Ilya only huddled closer.

"I'll decide for myself what's difficult here. Okay, let's get down to business." Crawling under the table, he reached for a small bag right at his feet. The man took out a heavy wooden box reinforced with iron, then opened it, revealing a velvet lining and fine grains scattered inside, on which lay, so as not to get scratched during transport, a very interesting object that immediately caught Ilya's eye. "We took this trophy from a creature that would kill you if it saw you. I'm taking it to my old friend in Verkhnekamenny, but you know, my friend is a great aesthete... he likes things to be prettier, so you understand. So, man. I want you to make a beautiful pattern on this, just like on this trinket. So that my old friend will be happy and satisfied with such a gift for a long time. If I like your work, I'll shower you with petals; I won't be stingy. If you mess up, I'll lock you up for good, so you won't be tempted to do it again. I'll give you until the end of the week, when we'll stop here to rest from our labours. Everything should be ready by the time I leave. Got it?"

Ilya held his gaze for another second on the body part of the ‘creature, which was like death itself,’ seeing there the quite recognisable upper tusk of a predator, most likely a plains predator, considering where exactly they had encountered the creature. They had encountered it quite recently, because dried blood was still visible on the tusk, which they had carefully extracted, but not without some meat. The price of this elbow-length, elbow-thick piece of bone was, to put it mildly, considerable, because it was an active reagent. Obviously, the other three tusks of the beast are hidden in other containers, as are the carved entrails. Ilya would gladly eat it right here, but who would willingly give him such a feast?

The earthling did not believe in the shower of petals, that is, silver, knowing full well the nature of the local aristocracy, which was surprisingly similar in all biomes of the Broken World to that on his native Earth. No, statistically speaking, there are some individuals there who are quite worthy of respect, but even they are extremely class-conscious. Such individuals live in their perception of the world and according to their own rules. For them, it may be a matter of honour to pay a cardsharp who has beaten them, even if they have to borrow the money, but at the same time, it would be normal not to pay a tailor or, say, a woodcarver, because who are these plebeians to demand money from a noble person?

If he doesn't try to whip Ilya into dropping his disguise, then consider it an amicable parting. And the task itself is interesting for his carving skills, the material is surprisingly valuable, and working with it, under the Mechanism's blessing, may well yield a drop of essence, or even more than one. It's a good reason not to be shy and try to fulfill such an order. And this type of refusal is not expected; it seems that he is eager to tease his ‘old comrade’ with a beautiful gift, to show that he has succeeded in hunting the monster, while his ‘comrade’ has failed to do so. Ilya did not have the talent to read minds and intentions, but in this particular case, one would have to be blind not to notice the obvious in the tone, the words, and the choice of expressions. Well, or his interlocutor is a magnificent actor who, for some reason, keeps up the pretence of acting in front of the peasants.

This is also not excluded.

"It will be done, your honour." Bowing again and carefully picking up the box, Ilya lifted it and moved backwards out of the common room, from where even the guests who had already stopped were asked to temporarily leave and eat in their rooms, and to exit through the back door. "I'll manage."

"Try harder, because I don't want to have to wash the blood off the whip." It sounded like a threat, but it was clearly just a statement of fact. "Get out of here."

Ilya obeyed and went, although for the first time in a long time, something inside him was completely in tune with the instincts of the Evil that had taken hold of him, eager to stage a merry massacre. He had attended training sessions, read reports on the forum, and worked through a lot of material online, but it was one thing to read that a lone diver without a community, who wanted to remain incognito for as long as possible, needed to be able to bow his head. But when faced with the necessity of bowing and obsequiously devouring all kinds of freaks with my eyes, it turned out to be very difficult to break myself over the knee and not devour these freaks with anything but my eyes.

"Can you handle it, Iliy? Be honest, speak your mind!" The innkeeper who had pinned him down on the way to the upstairs room looked extremely pale, which made the earthling suspect that he, too, had been promised a beating to death. "If... if you need anything, just say the word, and I'll find it. After all, he's the Precious One's Favourite! He won't even have to pay a penny for you. Or for my skin, either!"

Well, he guessed it right.

However, the answer remained the same, and Ilya just looked at the box clutched in his hands containing the creature's tusk, which strangely combined the features of a bull, a boar, and something like an anteater, and nodded affirmatively. He was much more interested in how many people had originally been in the retinue of this good-for-nothing fellow before they hunted down and killed the creature. Eight of them, along with the blond man, sat at tables pushed together in the centre, while the more modestly dressed servants huddled in the corners, and a few more of the same servants remained with the horses and luggage... But they didn't look like the ones that the fucking beast had diligently killed, and he was no small creature, well-fed and strong. There were no wounded, no traces of battle on the armour, only old patches and traces of repairs, much older than the blood on the torn tusk.

So, in direct combat, the beast is stronger than the armoured creature killed by Ilya, albeit not by an order of magnitude. With one gifted individual, even with a combat entourage of natives, it is difficult to go after such a creature without losses. Specifically, without losses, because it is not particularly difficult to defeat it if you do not spare your entourage. So either the blond guy is a double agent, which is unlikely, given the pressure he's exerting, or they found the creature already killed and partially eaten. In that case, there's no point in looking for entrails in their bags, because the predator that killed the beast would have eaten the insides first and left the bones untouched. However, this raises the logical concern of encountering something that was able to gut an adult creature, because the creature must be quite strong.

"I'll manage, sir." The innkeeper's confident and calm tone calmed him down a little. "Just bring the lamp again if I have to cut at night. And bring food straight to me, then. There's not much work, but it takes a long time. The bone is as hard as a fool's forehead. Every cutter has to be sharpened again and again."

"It will be," Ruvy promised with complete confidence. "Everything will be fine. I'll bring the lamp, food, and sharpening stones, just don't let me down."

Ilya had no intention of letting anyone down.

In the end, it was interesting and profitable for him to cope with the task, even if it cancelled out the option of a bloodshed.

However, as one of the wisdoms of the Broken, studied by earthly divers, says, it is never too late to move on to bloodshed.

* * *

Ilya immediately set about fulfilling his promise and had no doubts about his own abilities. He locked himself in his room and began carving. The main thing with these class and social quirks is not to lose your marbles, despite all your mental stability, and the rest will follow. All three sharpened tools he used to cut bones barely touched the smooth surface of the tusk. First, he had to wash and wipe it, remove the remains of cartilage at the joint where the tusk had been torn from the body, then figure out a plan of work and the overall composition, and get to work.

Part of him wanted to make a real bone knife out of the tusk, even a dagger, which he could then use himself for cutting. The more prudent part of him realised that he might not be able to handle such work, or, worse, that he might handle it. And then the knight, who had not even given his name to the despicable peasant, would start asking questions, or simply decide that this talented serf was now working for him.

Even if he really tries to hire him officially and humanely, for example, by financing the opening of his workshop, which will bring the profit to this asshole, it is still a huge risk. Either the nobleman does not have the right talent, or he has not used it. But if he pays closer attention, his disguise will not last long. And that's it, hello exposure, hello rebirth, or just a pile of corpses. So Ilya shouldn't show off and do his job well, but not too well. Especially since the material is so complex that it would be difficult to do even ‘just well’ without breaking all his knives and scissors in the process. Otherwise, the only option would be to transform into a combat form and carve patterns with his fingernails.

This is probably how carving skills were originally intended to be used - nails, claws, and homemade tools made of stone and bone. He's just cheating again with the use of the Trait.

The pattern was slowly taking shape on the bone, the grinding stones were working almost non-stop, and Ilya himself, completely absorbed in his work, hardly even stopped to eat or respond to Ruvy's occasional checks. His respected ‘elder’ calmed down somewhat when he saw the interim results of his guest's work, who had gradually shifted from being a farmhand to an almost respected guest. Again, even the unfinished work was already impressive with its fine workmanship and clear pattern depicting some deceptively primitive hunting scenes.

A strange and incomprehensible force seemed to flow through the knives and his fingers, seeping into the bone and resonating with the force that was there from the beginning. It was already clear that even without too much effort, the souvenir would still have some magical properties. Ilya just had to figure out what those properties would be. Preferably, the item should not become cursed. Not that he was against it, but it would leave a mark, raise suspicion, and destroy the legend. And the sun wizard would surely notice, no matter how you tried to wriggle out of it: the specialty of this particular branch of magic gives a good nose for harmful effects. Not exactly sensors, unless you take specific talents, but the secondary properties of the skills and properties revealed often improve sensory perception.

Ilya couldn't stop thinking about what kind of class his potential opponent and lover of whips possessed. Not a classic Executioner, that's for sure, as they almost never have a subclass for working with the sun, or rather, the Lantern, as it is called here, and sun worshippers then become lantern, ha ha, which is not possible at the first level. Some branch of the combat Priest? Hardly, either, because then he would be decked out in all the appropriate paraphernalia. Perhaps an Oathbound or a Renegade? The latter often eschew heavy armour and knightly combat in favour of a more mobile style of warfare, becoming something like Marauders, but without the stealth, while the former do not fit into the surrounding cultural code. Although if he had encountered a ‘lantern,’ then a class that fits this magic can also be assumed.

Yes, most likely, it is the Oath-Bound or even the Chain-Bound, and instead of the classic vows of self-torment, asceticism, and mortification of the flesh, he has a vow of allegiance to his suzerain or, say, the lady of his heart. In principle, it is a working build, but still uncommon in these latitudes. Well, globalisation, damn it, as Abdul Vdutyi would say — his real name and surname, not a nickname for the Forum — is the first and most popular lantern with the lot of Chain-Bound, who has reached the fourth level. He is also a great lover of sharing knowledge, often giving free online and offline lectures, and, what is known to be even more than his philanthropy, he took the position of Vizier and Keeper of Secrets in Broken under one of the major Padishahs of his part of the Ecumene.

A harem of nearly fifty stunningly beautiful and exotic aboriginal concubines is included in the package, as is the mortal envy of a bunch of Earth men who secretly or openly desired the same thing but got more stars. Ironically, Vduty has his own small community of Earthlings drawn to him, fed by the Heart of the Padishah's ancestral stronghold, and all the girls in that community are part of his harem, all seven or even more. However, there is no intimacy there, only a detailed agreement made on Earth, and then they were enrolled in the harem only to give them some form of legal and social protection, as well as a share of the harem master's power. A kind of special operations department of Khulam-Sharas, under the code name ‘Vduty Angels’. It would be funny if it weren't for the fact that these girls are very powerful, enjoying the patronage of one of the first people of the aboriginal state, while at the same time strengthening the power of their patron as much as they can.
T.N. Игра слов

Thoughts raced through Ilya's head, but he ran away from them faster, step by step, line by line, turning the tusk into something resembling a beautiful souvenir. The main focus of the wild magic he put into it was on protection from the evil eye, bad dreams, and general strengthening. The effect was good, and also subtle, especially if it was deliberately made not too active, but constant. And nothing, you wouldn't immediately see the true value of this toy, especially without the right talents. Ilya, of course, didn't know build of asshole, but he suspected that there was no work with amulets there, nor any special analysis of magical items. And even if there is... the effect is really weak, all its power lies in the constancy and cumulative effect; any professional craftsman with the blessing of the Mechanism will easily do better and faster.

It seems like it should work.

And, importantly, it worked!

Tap.

"Acceptable, acceptable." Behind Ilya, who bowed respectfully, Ruvy breathed a sigh of relief, and a rather thin wallet, sealed with wax and a stamp, flew into the earthling's face, thrown not by the gifted one himself, but by one of the lord's servants. "Go away and don't show your face here again."

Ilya shared this desire so much that there was complete unanimity. Bowing once more, he quickly and abruptly followed Ruvy, who, incidentally, had also been given a purse, albeit by a different servant. The tension of the last three days gradually eased, but returned when he opened the purse in his room, without Ruvy behind him. He wasn't showered with silver from head to toe, but they were still silver coins, large silver coins, new, not even slightly worn — a windfall for a simple former farmhand, but at the same time, let's be honest, not befitting his rank. They would ask him to share, and in such a way that he would either have to give it away, kill them, or run away.

"What a bastard, huh?" Ilya was surprised, involuntarily smiling at the empty walls and whispering in an angry, unpleasant tone, while keeping an eye on all the hearts in the tavern so that no one else would hear. "He should have behaved like a conceited asshole and cheated me out of my payment. But no, he paid me generously, damn it! Not as much as the job was worth, but still a lot, more than I expected. More than the local scumbags would have given me."

Shrugging, the diver began to gather his things, expecting Ruvy to visit at any moment, accompanied by a group of tall men with clubs and knives. To his surprise, no one came, but only because Big Tooth was once again buzzing with excitement when another very notable group arrived. There were only three of them, but all three were on good horses, not warhorses, but ones meant for long journeys, courier horses, and they also had a couple of spare horses. Only one of the three did not have a spare horse, but he rode a full-fledged beast of the horse subtype, albeit a weak one, representing a true gifted individual, apparently from the executioner or murderer branch with a tendency towards the knight archetype. Heavy armour, a closed helmet, blackened plates without coats of arms, and only one hand. The other had been cut off near the shoulder and then tightly bandaged, but with virtually no blood loss.

The other two were a young man, about eighteen years old, armed with two pairs of pistols, a sword, and a whole bunch of amulets and various jars on his belt, partially depleted, because there used to be more of them there, as could be seen from the empty spaces. Ilya struggled to suppress the urge to immediately step away from the window and lie down on the floor, because he would be noticed. This one would definitely notice him; he had such class talents, because if he wasn't a textbook Seeker, then Ilya was a convinced vegan. The last one turned out to be the last: a woman in her late twenties, black-haired, dressed casually but elegantly, with a very attractive figure emphasised by a corset and tight riding pants, as well as a very short hairstyle, with hair only slightly longer than a standard bob, on the verge of decency for a lady.

In Ilya's opinion, there were no obvious signs of the Mechanism's blessing, but he could easily name a bunch of classes that did not require specific attributes to function effectively. And just as many classes that, on the contrary, functioned better when nothing about them revealed the presence of that class.

The trio dismounted from their horses, tossed a coin, a silver one, damn it, into the hands of a man who had rushed over to take care of the horses, and then immediately headed towards the man who had come out to meet them, who was startled and quite surprised by such a trio. The latter, by the way, quickly shed all his pomposity and sloppiness, covered himself with some kind of protective effect, as if it had become slightly lighter around his body, and was also ready for a possible attack from the one-armed Soul Slayer or, after all, the Zealot. Yes, probably the Zealot, it was felt purely intuitively, without direct evidence. The young man, who could have been the oldest of the trio, quickly took some kind of scroll out of a case on his belt, which almost caused him to be attacked on the spot, and then showed the scroll to the suddenly sour lantern.

He may have soured, but he became three times more active in the argument, clearly sending his opponent polite words, very polite ones at that. And the flash of politeness intensified each time the one-armed man shifted slightly, changing his posture. Ilya, listening intently, recognized individual phrases, piecing together the approximate course of the dialogue. It all boiled down to the fact that the Crown operative wanted to be accompanied by one of His Majesty's loyal, gifted subjects, and the latter, in turn, tried to refuse such an honor. Firstly, because half of his men were still hungover, and secondly, because he also had something to throw in their faces, a corrected promissory note for the payment of a duty, according to which he, the third son of some count somewhere, paid His Majesty's duty in full, appearing with his spear on horseback and armed directly at one of the aggressive rifts for righteous vigilance for a full three ninety days. And his spear had shrunk almost in half during the vigil, so he did not want to work in the name of duty again, certainly not now.

And the young baronet had no papers of higher rank. Did he not? The conflict was smoothed over by the lady, who first calmed her assistant, who was already reaching for his belt. With her second remark, the fatal beauty silenced the lantern, and with her third, she suggested not giving the peasants a free show and continuing the conversation indoors, away from prying ears. Ilya cursed silently and checked his disguise every second, fearing exposure, but no one was interested in his character. For the next few hours, he sat on pins and needles, occasionally using his special vision, but it all boiled down to the fact that the shining heart of the third son and the seemingly ordinary heart of the unknown lady spent most of their time alone.

No intimacy, judging by the signature. Oath-sworn sat in his chair most of the time, while the restless lady sat opposite him, then began pacing the room, probably pressing some arguments. Or threatening. Although, here it was unlikely, the asshole's heartbeat was calm and confident, without any fluctuations or accelerations. Then he found three hearts in the room, the third belonging to one of the delivery girls, who had spent a very long time there, but also quickly left the couple. Then there was probably the Seeker, who joined the conversation, then one of the third son's bodyguards, then, then, then. And when Ilya had already decided to just try to leave quietly right now, without waiting for sunset, these guys gathered themselves and decided to leave.

And to leave very quickly, to literally run away into the sunset.

The enraged asshole kicked the drunken fighters, who had already ruined half the girls in Tooth and were clearly aiming for the other half, despite the fact that the girls had tried to hide from them with varying degrees of success. Once again bandaged with fresh bandages, the hulk in iron armor simply stood silently and frightened everyone with his presence, while the young gifted man poured a couple of drops of dual-purpose alchemy into the nostrils of the particularly drunk. Virtually any antitoxin can be used to cure a hangover, but the main thing is not to confuse the dosages. This particular individual did not confuse anything, restoring clear minds to the celebrating guys, and then plunging those minds into the depths of despair.

Everything happened in such a wild rush that it became a little funny. They was so pompous, the aristocracy above the rabble, but when things got heated, they started running around like characters in a Benny Hill show. Ilya also decided to run, because staying in the village was becoming burdensome. He would no longer have a peaceful life here, and the situation around him was getting too complicated. It wouldn't be long before he got into such a mess that he wouldn't be able to get out of it. These three were running from someone, and they had recruited a crowd of iron woodcutters to protect themselves from someone. A FaFo unit is not a death sentence, of course, but it does significantly increase the chances of getting into some kind of shitty situation. Fortunately, the attention of the Mechanism, which begins to issue Assignments and Rewards with Punishments for their completion or failure, almost always comes only with the second unit of the aforementioned attribute or with an increase in level.

It is possible to receive special attention from the Mechanism even with a unit on the first stage, but this is an extremely rare combination of circumstances that must occur. Ilya did not believe that he had gotten himself into such a situation.

Well, he didn’t believe it yet, you never know what kind of story is hidden here.

To prevent this story from coming out, Ilya decided to get the hell out of there right after the crowd of local fighters, preferably without attracting attention to himself.

It's a shame, of course, that the last part, about not attracting attention, failed completely, because his departure-escape was already expected. The locals weren't stupid and didn't consider him a complete idiot; they understood that with that kind of money, he could and should try to leave before they took it away. Ilya counted on them waiting for him a little later, thinking that he would try to stock up on supplies for the journey, buy or steal something. But no, they came as soon as the diver had led the group, which looked very pompous, through the gate in the glow of the last rays of sunset, into the night that was almost upon them. You could take a picture, or rent one of the better neural networks and order a painting from it based on an image uploaded to the Forum.

"Don't worry, Ilya, I don't need your petals, I swear on my father's grave." Ilya allowed himself not to believe this beginning of the dialogue too much, or, what was even more dangerous, to really believe it. “If you want, take them all, honest pay for a good work. No, I'm not here for that. I just need to talk.”

Yes, yes, just to talk, and four more burly men with axes, knives, and clubs, still on their belts, are just for show and moral support. That's exactly what Ilya thought, immediately believing such a good and honest man, yes, yes, it couldn't be any other way. Not particularly hiding his distrust and gloomy skepticism, he nevertheless removes his hands from his belt, because in the event of a battle, he would prefer to break these cockerels' necks with his bare hands. Turning his gaze to Ruvy, he forces him not to flinch, but to be slightly surprised that the foolish farmhand looked at him without fear or servility for the first time.

"Okay. Who should I talk to... ?" The simple reprimand has already become a cliché, bitter with last year's oil, but Ilya is still holding back in memory of the little “good” that this jerk has done for him, already knowing that he is holding back, most likely in vain. "And what about?"

"Well, with Mark, our Milner." His smile is so warm that it's touching, but his gaze is strange, also kind and understanding, but like a farmer looking at future beef. "He really liked your work. He even wanted to talk to you, and we respect him. If you weren't going to run away, I would have invited you properly, yeah."

Ilya restrains his desire to laugh at such a stupid but clever lie, when it is obvious that his opponent is blatantly lying, but he cannot catch him out on it. Formally, he did not slip up on the details. Maybe he would have come to invite him to the meeting personally if he had not thought that Ilya wanted to run away. And he took people with him so that the carver wouldn't run away out of fear, that's for sure. When he sees these kind men, he will understand that there is no point in running away and that he needs to talk and come to an agreement. More than anything else in the world, in his thirty-six years of life, Ilya has come to hate stupid people who think they are incredibly smart, and Ilya is just as incredibly stupid.

Of course, there is still a chance, a small chance, that this mysterious Mark Miller was so pleased with his work on the bone that he now wants to personally thank him and even offer him “apprenticeship,” a kind of communion with the current Marked One, ignored by the Mechanism, but not by the Night Miller. For a simple vagabond, who has little chance of catching up with his party, which threw him to his almost certain death, this could be a truly generous offer. Illegal, binding in a cult where entry is a leaf and exit is a blossom, but still generous and fair in its way. Among those who worship the Night Miller, bone carving is respected, though not as much as the bones themselves, the bone meal ground at night on millstones that turn without wind.

In general, a small and naive part of Ilya still retained, if not faith or hope, then at least a hundredth of a percent chance that they wanted to make him an offer he couldn't refuse. He retained this hope purely out of curiosity, not based on any real calculations.

"All right." Iliy nods, finally calming down under the relaxed but slightly disappointed glances of the men, who have been deprived of the opportunity to beat up a defenseless victim. "Let's go. I know where Mark Miller lives; Boris told me."

Boris, silent and composed, standing among the thugs who had come with Ruvy, found the conscience to avert his eyes, pretending that he was just standing there, responding to the stranger's comment with silence. But Ruvy did not remain silent. Ruvy diligently finished off what little faith in the best that Ilya still had for some reason. As they say, faith, hope, and, just in case, love should be left on Earth, because there was no place for this trio in the Broken. Here, they believe in the Mechanism or the Dead Gods, hope only for the worst, and love only themselves.

"No, no need to go to Markov's house, he's at his mill, which is far away, old, you know." It's funny that he understands how stupid it sounds, but he just wants to do everything cleanly, without shouting, screaming for help, and dragging a lifeless body through dark alleys. "He's working late, busy with his business."

Ilya smiled, not letting a hint of his true feelings show, but Ruvy suddenly became bored and “discreetly” nodded to his assistants. That's why he was surprised when Ilya calmly stepped forward, as if he really believed what he had said. He stepped forward good-naturedly, with a slight hint of naive hope that they would really talk and rob him, not kill him, and gave his answer.

"All right. To the mill, then." And looking Boris in the face, who this time did not avert his gaze, he waved his hand in the approximate direction of the old mill, which stands on the very edge of the settlement, right next to the fence, on the other side, not inside. "Shall we go then?"

And they went, calmly and without haste, but also without the slightest delay, not even bothering him to take his packed knapsack. Ruvy crackled something in the ear, distracting the guest, while the guest himself reminisced. He remembered how Ruvy had casually confessed to him that Mark's daughter was originally supposed to make a flute, but she couldn't handle the material. He remembered his knowledge of the liturgies of the Night Miller, among which were sacrificial ones, capable, for example, of gathering the skill of carving bone from a sacrifice and then passing it on to a minister of the cult who would taste bread baked and ground with bone flour. Whether it was that very daughter or Mark himself, it depended on the situation, on personal choice, so to speak.

Yes, the talent will be rated as one, a single division, and without the possibility of upgrading, but this is how most untalented individuals are portrayed, with their “native” talents rated as ones. And here you have another one on top of that. How can one not be tempted, especially if it is so useful in service? And the fool who came will be gutted for meat, the meat will be fed to the dogs, and the bones will be ground into flour, then the bone flour will be plowed into the arable land, and the arable land will yield nourishing grain that will feed people who love life, who will live and die, giving their bones to the millstones. And the circle will close with the creaking of the mill wheel, and that circle will continue forever and ever, under the Sun, under the Stars, and in the Darkness of Night.

The whole crowd wasn't scared at all, like they'd done this before, but they kept a close eye on Ilya to make sure he didn't try to run away or yell. Although, why would he scream? In such a close-knit group, every dog should know where Tooth gets such good harvests from such poor, rocky soil. The dogs, by the way, are silent and don't even bark, because Boris occasionally blows a small bone whistle that makes no sound, but Wendigo's keen hearing picks up the oppressive acoustic magic that stuns the animals and makes them sleepy, preventing them from making noise and barking.

They are all ready to calm the captive and the victim, but they simply see no reason to do so. Why, if he is going to his slaughter, believing that he will still be able to negotiate? They would believe it too, if they didn't know about Mark Miller's amazing abilities, because it's easier to believe in an attempted robbery or persuasion to work for free on an important order than in the fact that by morning your flesh will be fed to the cattle and your bones will be ground into dust. Maybe they're going to marry off some girl there, just a scary one, so they're scaring the fool into agreeing right away, just so they won't kill him? They don't see, oh, they don't see the accompanying reasons to fear or to tie the lamb being led to the mill.

They didn't see the moment when the lamb ceased to be a lamb. Somewhere in the last third of the way, already close to the fence, Ilya simply and unpretentiously strikes back with his elbow, with all the strength and fury of his accelerated attributes. His elbow struck the temple of a vaguely familiar man who didn't even have time to be surprised, bending the temple deep into the skull. Next, he lunged at the second man, striking him with the flat of his palm on the bridge of his nose, now crushing the bridge into the skull, damaging the brain, and killing him instantly. People are such fragile creatures, especially if you are a diver and they are not. A swing of his other hand, which instantly pulled a knife sharpened to razor sharpness from his belt. So sharp that it didn't notice the resistance of the flesh until it reached the spinal bone, didn't notice how it stabbed into the back of the head of the slowest one, who turned away at the wrong moment.

Boris still manages to reflexively blow his whistle without making a sound, silencing the dogs so they don't bark while they tie up the stranger who has started to struggle. Everyone knows everything, but it's easier when you can honestly say that you knew nothing, saw nothing, heard nothing. He still has time to realize that the situation has not gone according to plan, that the bright red hot liquid that splashed in his face was clearly not borscht spilled from a plate. Although okay, they didn't know how to cook borscht in Tooth. They mostly served all kinds of cabbage soup here, and to be honest, it didn't taste very good. Boris sobbed, trying to clamp his unresponsive, limp arms around his neck, into which his beautiful dagger with a bone handle made by Ilya had been driven up to the hilt. And why should his arms obey him when the tip of the blade had pierced his spine?

"Freeze." Ruvy managed to whisper this word. It only works if you whisper the activator, which was a well-known factor in the workings of prayers to the Night Miller, but Ilya heard him anyway, easily dodging the bone thrown at him. “Stop. Stop, please!” Tell me everything..."

"I already know everything, so there's no need to ask." He explains, expressing all his contempt in his tone of voice, his body quickly falling silent, his neck broken as usual. "Everything is clear here with your miller and his fucking Krabats."

The bone, by the way, turned out to be an active talisman capable of immobilizing the body, but such rubbish should only be used against the untalented. Moreover, those without armor, because iron and steel could almost completely neutralize this crap. In general, he could have chosen not to dodge, but he did the right thing anyway. Always expect that the enemy's attack will break through your defense, and if you can safely dodge without exposing yourself to another blow, do so. Although this is not an absolute truth, because often all kinds of smart guys catch the diver precisely on this truth, throwing a harmless decoy and attacking an individual who has already begun to dodge. Or they simply force him to jump aside right into a prepared trap.

There are no witnesses; he was led through the farthest back alleys, past vegetable gardens and orchards, where there are definitely no passersby at night, unless you happen to find a drunk who has fallen asleep. But there are no drunks here, nor are there any couples making out or boys dozing off while playing hide and seek. Only five dead bodies, Ilya, not even stained with blood, and a feeling of slight resentment, active and understandable. The kind of resentment that stubbornly insists: if you don't deserve this resentment, go and earn it, bitch. Picking up his knapsack, Ilya removes a pair of sturdy daggers from the belts of the dead. He's not much of a fencer, but he did practice throwing all sorts of things back on Earth.

He was able to hit a target with the tip of the blade even in real life, without any accessories, especially if the target was stationary. Here, too, he secured himself a stationary target: he went out to the mill, old and deceptively motionless, but inside it, a barely visible light flickered in the windows, like a lantern. No, not the Mill, just a sacred place that had become something greater, but not a symbolic force of a very unpleasant and mean kind. However, if it were this particular piece of junk, Ilya would have noticed it in advance, as it had a very characteristic and strange background of power. Or he wouldn't have noticed it, because any sane Miller would try to hide the nature of his Mill one way or another.

Knock.

Knock.

Knock.

Throwing a few pebbles at the door makes a loud noise, but there are no witnesses to the noise here anyway; they have probably been taught not to be witnesses if they value their lives. And if you don't want to mysteriously burn up one day when the bones in your body start to grow incorrectly, heating your body and piercing your flesh from within with thorns. The creak of the door, a quiet and very soulful curse mixed with a whispered prayer, and there in the doorway stands Mark the Miller himself. Ilya had only seen him once, when he decided to skip a mug of beer in the tavern, and even then only briefly, because he was still working as a farmhand at the time, not a carver, so he had to hurry. Quite large, slightly overweight, with a crew cut and very long sideburns, traditional for millers in this region, he was a really friendly man, honestly. Looking at his good-natured face, you would never believe that this man could hurt even a fly.

The fourth stone, which flew straight into his face, broke through the flimsy protection that would have stopped an arrow at most, turning his good-natured mug into a solid mass of meat. The fifth stone finally split his skull, splattering the doorframe with gray slime and throwing his body inside the mill, whose door slammed shut on its own. The structure creaked and groaned, as if it had suddenly lost something important, and its sails-blades spun slightly, without any wind. But that was all. The building turned out to be empty. It's not the embryo of a holy place and certainly not a temple. It could neither resurrect its murdered owner nor curse the murderer. And even if it had such a function, the curse would have been wasted; it would not have clung to the essence of the Wendigo.

And so, only the creaking and trembling of the earth marked the death of the first man of the village, who, only out of caprice and unwillingness to be in the public eye, did not officially become the Headman, with the prospect of becoming Mayor, because the village did not have much time and effort to spend on becoming a town. It was probably planned to pull off such a feat in this generation, literally in the coming years. And now, here we are, all plans ruined and a pile of corpses! And all because of that damn asshole! That's called the diver. No wonder they hunt them down like animals and kill them wherever they can, no wonder at all! And the image of the icy lake and the scarlet drop, melted gold falling on the horned skull, flowing to the bottom of the stone bowl, echoes his words.

Tap.

Well, okay, even great. Especially as a reward for five village men with no combat skills, either personal or systemic, and for the only Marked One, who is not even considered a full-fledged Gifted One in his place of power. Anyone else would have had to cut out half of Tooth for this drop, and following the class archetype, not just destroy a small gang of insolent worshippers.

Ilya threw both knives he had grabbed for throwing straight into his emaciated knapsack, deciding at the last moment not to play around with knives whose balance he had no way of checking. It seemed more logical to use the weapon of a true Muslim against those who dared to insult the most peaceful religion of his native world. And since the earthling did not have a suicide belt at his disposal, he had to make do with stones. Having finished his important business, not wanting to bother with the damn Tooth anymore, he immediately took a running start, climbing up a wooden wall almost three meters high, reaching the top, and then jumping down. After landing and determining the direction, he moved toward the hiding place with the rest of his belongings, running slowly like an animal, carefully leaving no traces. He had had enough of this place, these people, this story, enough!

A single thought races through his mind.

The harsh statistics show that the first attempt to infiltrate the Broken society is often jeopardized precisely because of an (un)fortunate combination of circumstances. And there is no categorical dependence on your preparation; old man FoFa can screw things up regardless of your skills, erudition, or composure. But it's still upsetting! Things were going well, really well! And, removing the FoFa factor, what are the chances of meeting a Night Miller worshipper in the village, who is also interested in your “Odessa violin”? Oh, he would give all his Essence reserves for the opportunity to reset this attribute, but even a thousand times more would not be enough for that.

Ilya continued to flee into the wilderness, leaving behind the settlement that had given him such poor shelter.

He wanted to believe that he had finally left this chapter of his life behind him once and for all.

He wanted to believe...

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