The Symbologist, attendant of the gods, keeper of the symbols

  What is time?

  What is space?

  The symbologist existed only when one of the champions had need of it. There was no place that it went to rest when it was not in use. The symbologist served its purpose—again and again—and there was nothing else.

  But the gods had given the symbologist some awareness. In moments when a champion mulled which Ink to take, the symbologist could let its mind wander. The symbologist had long ago come to terms with itself. Although many of its visitors found the symbologist’s form repulsive, it did not mind being a worm. Its skin was like tightly layered paper and, if someone was to pry between its wrinkles, all the arcane knowledge of the gods would come spilling out. Runes long forgotten by even the Magelab were burrowed deep in the symbologist’s small body.

  The symbologist did not mind its tattered robe, either. Its holes were familiar, unchanging, and gave some comfort.

  The gods had imbued the symbologist with logic and empathy. It was important that it be able to guide champions and to offer advice. The gods had their favorites—the symbologist knew this—but it was not allowed to show preference. There were rules to the Granting and the gods’ protection that were ingrained in the symbologist’s essence. The gods were bound by these rules as much as the champions and their quills, and the symbologist was their arbiter. Enforcement of these rules was why the symbologist had been created. An unassuming, worm-shaped hinge on which the entire apparatus swung.

  The symbologist felt discomfort only when a champion who existed in violation of these rules entered its domain. Thus, it felt a vague sense of unease when called upon to serve the assassin Wrathful Elephant.

  “Hello, slave,” the assassin said.

  The symbologist did not respond.

  They stood in a darkened alley with a glowing well in between them. The symbologist could read the minds of the champions. It could not go digging too deeply—nor did it ever have the urge—but the symbologist was allowed to glean enough to make appropriate alterations to its domain. The symbologist was meant to put these people at ease, and so it often made for them a place of meaning. Not so with the assassins. The symbologist could not read them; it could not see beyond their masks. And so, for them, the symbologist always chose this dismal thoroughfare.

  “Is there a bonus for finishing first?” Wrathful Elephant asked.

  “No,” the symbologist replied.

  The assassin had gotten his Ink from the Nortmost. The cycle of trials was one way that the symbologist kept time. It was not responsible for distributing the Ink into the world, but it could sense how much was available. Ten champions would make gains from scaling the mountain. The gods were slightly less generous this year than last. The symbologist did not wonder why.

  Wrathful Elephant sighed. “Fine. Show me what you have in emotional manipulation. Anger. Rage. You know what I’m after.”

  The symbologist did. The wearers changed, but the masks tended toward the same patterns.

  The symbologist showed Wrathful Elephant the rune for [Enrage].

  When the bartender from Soldier’s Rest arrived, the symbologist changed its realm to resemble a tavern, albeit an empty one with a floor made of soft sand. Traveon Twiceblack rubbed his hands together for warmth, sighing as he caught sight of the crackling fire in the hearth. Then, he turned to the symbologist, who stood hunched behind the bar, its many-fingered hands folded in front of it.

  “If you're leaning, you should be cleaning,” Traveon said as he strolled to the bar. “That's what my boss always said.”

  “Interesting,” said the symbologist.

  “Not really,” Traveon replied. He took a seat across from the symbologist and smiled. “So, what rarities do you have for me this time, friend?”

  During their first meeting, the symbologist had been allowed to offer Traveon [Improbable Occurrence]. The rune had strict requirements that were rarely met by champions, and yet Traveon achieved them despite arriving as only 2nd renown. However, there were no more advantages waiting for Traveon. Behind the symbologist, a menu of symbols unfolded, revealing the options for the [Skulker] class.

  “No rarities, I fear,” the symbologist said. “But many choices.”

  “So there are,” Traveon said, thumbing his chin. “You know, I saw some crazy shit on that mountain. Mages on a flying raft with some magic shield getting shot down like it was nothing. Could I do that with my [Deadeye], symbologist?”

  “Your [Deadeye] improves your aim,” the symbologist replied.

  “This was more than just good aim, my friend,” Traveon said. “What did they use to make that shot, do you think?”

  Beyond generalities, it was against the rules for the symbologist to discuss the choices other champions made with their Ink. Regardless, the symbologist had no way of knowing exactly what had transpired on the mountain that had so impressed Traveon.

  “I cannot say,” the symbologist replied.

  “Hm.” Traveon glanced up at the runes arrayed above them. “[Trajectory]. [Open Weak Point]. [Unerring Shot]. These all sound good.”

  “[Unerring Shot] is beyond your current renown,” the symbologist gently corrected.

  “Nothing gets by you,” Traveon said. He crossed his arms and leaned back, reading the symbols again. “Control the path of my arrows or open gaps for them to hit. I guess everyone who favors a bow ends up here eventually, huh?”

  “Either ability will serve you well. And, I suspect you will find that both create interesting interactions with your [Improbably Occurrence]. Angles of fire, perhaps, that would be impossible for others to even theorize.”

  “Oh, well, I do love an impossible angle,” Traveon said. “You’ve made yourself a sale, symbologist. [Trajectory] it is.”

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  Another champion from Soldier's Rest arrived next. The politics of the human world mattered little to the symbologist, but it could appreciate newness. As with Traveon before her, the broken wall tattoo on the serious-looking woman's neck was a variation. The symbologist had seen factions rise and factions fall, and it never knew the fate of individual champions—eventually, they all stopped showing up in its realm. However, the symbologist would consider it a failure of guidance if none of these champions of Soldier's Rest returned to him after the next Granting. It had advised them well on the rarities the gods chose for them.

  “I want a horse,” Rivian Stonespirit told the symbologist.

  “Yes,” it replied. “That can be arranged.”

  Next came Orryn es-Salvado, the beastlord of Infinzel. An old faction and an old name. The symbologist had seen much of both over the decades, although the young man's class was unusual for his people. Orryn's mind felt agitated—guilt and fear, an unfortunate mixture bubbling into paranoia—and so the symbologist brought him to a tranquil fishing spot on a river in springtime, the great pyramid of Infinzel visible in the distance. Here was a place that Orryn held dear in his mind because his grandfather had once brought him here, just the two of them fishing, a rare bit of attention for any with the Salvado blood.

  However, the location did not have the desired effect of calming Orryn’s mind. The beastlord paled immediately, shoving his hands into his hair. He looked toward Infinzel as if someone were watching him from the top floor, although such feelings grew entirely from his imagination. Still, the symbologist felt some regret. It did not like to misjudge an interaction.

  “I tried to do what he asked, but I don't think it worked,” mumbled Orryn. He spun toward the symbologist, who stood in the cool mud of the riverbank. “Why did you bring me here, worm? What is this supposed to mean? Some reprimand from my grandfather?”

  The symbologist chose not to reply. To explain itself would be unlikely to make the Salvado boy less hysteric.

  Orryn stumbled over to the edge of the river and peered down into the water, peeking over his toes as if looking down from a great height. “They told me to keep going and so I did—I made the top only to see Traveon of all people beat me there. But I got the Ink, didn’t I? And I did… I did my duty.”

  The symbologist rustled its robes. Best to be about their business and release this young man back into the world. The [Beastlord] runes bobbed on the river, etched onto smooth stones, and divided by a gentle current.

  “You have achieved the fourth level of renown, Orryn es-Salvado,” the symbologist said. “Now is the time when many beastlords choose a specialization. Mastery over beasts, or master among beasts.”

  “I need a way to escape,” Orryn said, quickly. “In case she survives and turns them against me. I need…”

  Orryn pointed at the rune for [Minor Transformation].

  “You would become a rat,” the symbologist said, no judgement in the words. “There are other possibilities available, but this seems most—”

  “Yes, yes,” Orryn replied. “Small and quick. That is what I need now, worm.”

  “Then it is done.”

  The lumberjocks from Fornon were the next to be summoned to the symbologist’s realm. If the symbologist thought it would benefit the champions to communicate during their selection, it was allowed to bring them all in together.

  The foremost amongst Fornon’s champions, however, the one called Breck Bucksap, had taken Ink on the mountain but it was not enough to increase his already considerable renown. He would have to endure another trial—or perform well at the Granting—to see his skills improved. The symbologist could sense those champions with unfinished Ink lingering out in the world. Although the symbologist had no mouth, those champions felt to it like words stuck on the tip of its tongue.

  Like Breck Bucksap, the axe master of Penchenne, Theo Adamantios, took the Nortmost’s Ink but did not earn a new tier of renown.

  Thus, nine rewards from the Nortmost had been given. Only the tenth remained.

  The symbologist had dealt with this one before. It did not particularly care for her.

  Carina Goldstone’s Ink was unnatural—laced through with crimson in places. The symbologist had not made those markings. They had been done by the gods themselves in conjunction with some other force that the symbologist was not allowed to devote thought to. Although her initial abilities were beyond her renown, the logician had since abided by the rules. Still, the symbologist found her presence discomfiting.

  Although, that feeling lessened somewhat, as Carina put her head between her knees and began to cry.

  “Gods, I regret it all,” she said. “I should’ve done something else. I did not need to be—to be—to be this.”

  She sat on the sand in the symbologist’s approximation of Infinzel’s training ground. Her state in the symbologist’s realm mirrored her physical one, and so the symbologist could tell that the young woman had been freshly healed of some grievous injury. The pain still lingered. And guilt, too—guilt at being here, instead of some others, who she felt deserved the Ink more, though this was a feeling at war with her unforgiving practicality. The symbologist sensed that the logician only let herself cry here, in a place that wasn’t real, so that it had never technically happened.

  “Carina Goldstone,” the symbologist intoned. “You have reached the fourth level of renown.”

  The logician ignored the symbologist. She scrubbed her hands across her face, heedless of the coarse grains of sand that rubbed across her lips and nostrils. “My mind is a box of snakes,” she said. “All poison and fangs.”

  The symbologist thought it understood. One like Carina Goldstone was not meant to have [Future Sight]. It was a skill reserved for mages of high renown and a few similar classes. She had not accessed the proper skills to support the ability, to prepare her mind. As it had the last time Carina visited, the symbologist brought forth the runes for [Acuity+], [Wisdom+], and [Arcana+]. These would not fully correct course for the logician, but they might make her abilities less taxing on her psyche.

  “Once again, I must suggest—”

  “No.”

  At last, Carina snapped her red-rimmed eyes to the symbologist. She wiped her forearm across her face and shook her head.

  “Symbologist, I want [Artificer].”

  The symbologist paused. An ability that would allow her to do rune-work of her own on objects, but with less demanded in return to appease the gods. The symbologist always felt a bit of kinship with those rare few who sought out [Artificer]. Not so with Carina. It wondered exactly what this young woman might attempt to create, and felt a rare sense of threat.

  However, the symbologist had no choice but to comply.

  “Fuck yes!” Cuda Bite shouted. “That was some beautiful slaying, right? We can all agree that felt good?”

  “Stop yelling,” Salt Wall replied. “You’ll bother the worm.”

  In truth, the symbologist did not mind the exuberance of the oca’em. The trial of the Nortmost was over and time had surely moved on in the world of man, but for the symbologist it felt like only seconds ago that it had been dealing with a crying logician. The four oca’em spread out upon the beach, the symbols of their classes and species arrayed on great walls of seashell, were a welcome change of pace. Of course, the symbologist expressed none of this. It stood by in its tattered robes and waited.

  “We killed a troll!” Cuda Bite yelled. He attempted to shake Salt Wall by the shoulders, but the larger woman would not be budged. “We did it together! Like, I’m not saying we do a group hug or something—”

  “Good,” Red Tide interrupted.

  “But by the tides, Red,” Cuda Bite continued, spinning toward her. “If we fight like that, I’m starting to think we can survive this bullshit.”

  Red Tide pointedly turned her attention to the runes for [Enchantress].

  “It was well fought,” Throne Gazer said evenly. “Now, can we take this moment to agree that we leave the trolkin immediately? I have had enough of the north.”

  “What’re you looking at me for?” Red Tide snapped. “Yes. Pick a tattoo and saddle up your fucking dogs.”

  Throne Gazer nodded and folded his hands behind his back. “We should choose our abilities with defense in mind,” he said. “We must not let ourselves become overconfident.”

  “If I may,” the symbologist spoke at last. “I have some recommendations.”

  After some discussion, the berserker Salt Wall chose [Draining Weapon], which would strengthen her body with every wound inflicted by her hook.

  Cuda Bite, the skulker, chose [Blindness], which would let him inflict a temporary lack of vision on an opponent.

  Throne Gazer, the trident master, once again selected from the skills unique to his people. He chose [Wall of Water], making good on his suggestion to choose defensively.

  And, finally, the enchantress Red Tide chose [Wailing Song]. The antithesis of her [Healing Song], the ability would cause the unallied who heard her music to suffer great agony.

  “It is done,” the symbologist said. “I look forward to our next meeting, champions of the Reef.”

  The symbologist did not dream.

  The symbologist did not have nightmares.

  Yet, even in its times of nonexistence, the symbologist was aware when new Ink entered into the world. Even when that Ink did not come from the symbologist’s own supply, but from somewhere dark and hot and ancient.

  The symbologist felt the crimson Ink like a distant cancer. Like a sizzling tumor hissing its way to the surface of a body.

  The Granting was governed by rules. The symbologist enforced them.

  But not all abided by them.