Dungeons Are Bad Business

Artem Rortenferry sat down at the desk in his study, lit the cigar held between his teeth, and poured himself a large glass of whiskey. He took a sip and savored the flavor of the barrel-aged spirit, letting it rest on the floor of his mouth for a moment while he closed his eyes and reached into the ethereal with his mind.

The frost-fire sensation that he associated with doing so flooded his body, and Artem – known to the students of Locksmagister University as [Professor] Rortenferry – took a long, slow breath as he invited the whiskey to [Take Form].

A tendril of amber smoke escaped through his nose and started congealing into a shape before his eyes. The whiskey was soft and velvety, with notes of vanilla and chocolate that warmed the professor’s throat and brought a smile to his face. Its form – a curly haired cherub with a bright smile – reflected this, and Artem watched it flutter around his desk for a moment.

Not bad at all, but Artem was a curious man, and so he reached down and dipped his index finger into the small bowl of water he kept on his desk. Letting no more than two drops fall into his glass, the [Ghost Maestro] swirled his drink around a little bit to open the whiskey up and took another sip. This time, when he invited the spirit beneath his tongue to [Take Form], he was pleasantly surprised by the difference. This time, the liquid didn’t turn into a cherub at all, but became a small corgi instead that flopped onto its back and gave him a look that begged for a belly rub. Artem obliged.

It'd been a long, stressful day, so Artem felt no shame at the prospect of nursing his drink and relaxing for a few minutes before getting back to his work. He looked out through the window of his study and smiled at the way the twin moons shined in the night sky. His books would wait until he was finished, and he’d given his colleagues enough of his attention that day already. For the next ten minutes, the only person his time belonged to was himself. What a glorious feeling, to be his own man, even if it was temporary.

Without a proper anchor, the whiskey cherub faded back into the ethereal rather quickly, but the corgi would remain for as long as there was some of the alcohol left in Artem’s glass.

“I’ll leave a few sips in the bottom, little friend,” he said as he took a puff of his cigar. It’d be good to have the company while he answered his letters. The whiskey corgi barked once with joy, and Artem scratched the spirit beneath its chin, which prompted another round of belly pets.

Like an ancient and powerful nemesis, Artem’s correspondence loomed in front of him. It’d been weeks since he’d last had time to check his mail, and the precariously stacked pile of letters was on the verge of toppling over. Letting that happen was something Artem wasn’t willing to do, as there’d be a chance that he’d answer the letters in the wrong order if it did, and that was a sin worse than almost all others. It was fine to make someone wait months for a response, but not if someone else only had to wait a week. Tonight he’d get through all of them.

But not quite yet. Closing his eyes once more, Artem tried to make this respite last. Without causing himself any more stress, he did what he could to increase the speed of his thoughts. Calmly, as if meditating, he recited the basic principles of ectoplasmic control as well as the thirteen tenets of ethical spirit bonds.

When he snuck a look at the ancient clock across the room, he was pleased to see that only a few seconds had passed. Take that, Paltier. According to his peer over in the Department of Emerald Magic, who studied time – or was it Time? – extensively, the effect Artem chased now existed only in his head. However, the gregarious woman offered the caveat that Time was a strange and capricious thing so she couldn’t truly rule out the possibility that the speed of one’s thoughts actually affected the passage of time in the world around them. There were weirder things out there, and until there was definitive proof that showed it to be impossible, Artem would continue to believe that by thinking fast he could make time go slow.

Sadly, like all perfect moments, Artem’s break eventually came to an end, and he had no choice but to return to work. With a sigh, he opened the drawer beneath his desk and took out the obsidian letter opener that he’d gotten from the adventurer’s guild as a young man. Unlike almost everything else from that time in his life, the letter opener was still around. And it worked well.

Mindlessly, mechanically, he slit the envelopes open one by one, snorting and tossing the particularly boring or irritating ones into the fire he’d stoked upon first entering his study. Requests for speaking gigs, offers for textbook collaborations, things like that. He’d seen them all before and he was sure that he’d see them all again –especially the chance to write a few chapters for the most recent edition of Modern E-theory-al Practices: A Guide, which he might have been interested in if not for the horrid name – so he wasn’t worried about missing anything too important.

Gawain’s balls, what a waste of time this is!

As if sensing his frustration, the whiskey corgi growled and yipped a few times, and Artem smiled down at it. The bonds between a [Ghost Maestro] and minor spirits like this were always fascinating. Despite their frailty and short life, they were surprisingly powerful.

Picking up the next letter, the [Professor] saw that it was written in a loopy, poor hand that he vaguely recognized. A student, then. Or, more likely, a former student; he doubted that any of the ninnies who stared at him with blank expressions that would put a fish to shame had the desire to write him a letter.

A flicker of intrigue lodged itself in Artem’s chest, and he adjusted his collar and bow tie before tearing the letter the open with his fingers. Unexpected things required unexpected responses, after all.

Dear Professor Rortenferry, the letter began. My name is Vee Vales, and I was one of your students a few years ago. I’m writing to you from the city of Oar’s Crest.

Vales, eh?

Reaching into the pocket of his vest, Artem drew out a small clay ocarina and blew a few notes. Solis, his hazy sphere of a [Memory Assistant], appeared before him.

“How may I be of assistance? What is it you’d like to recall, Master?”

Artem held up the letter. “A former student. Name is Vee Vales.”

Solis expanded, becoming a gaseous cloud before settling around Artem’s head. The sensation was a lot like stepping into a hot shower, jarring at first but almost immediately pleasant.

“As you wish. [Memory Stream].”

Artem’s vision turned gray as the spirit’s skill showed him his own recollection of young Vales. The [Ghost Maestro] had been storing his memories inside Solis for many years, having started the practice during his final days of being a [Bard]. At first, he’d simply wanted to lock away the memories that haunted his dreams, but as he’d become a more powerful [Ghost Maestro] and a respected [Professor] at the University, he’d taken to using the ghost inside the ocarina as storage for the theories and remembrances he didn’t need on a regular basis, lest they fade into the ethereal themselves.

The first memory he regained was the sight of a short and scrawny boy who had the distinctive blue hair and bright eyes of his father and elder brother – an influential donor and alumnus, respectively – but none of their fiery presence. From there, the [Memory Stream] flickered and sped up, centering on the moments that Solis deemed necessary for helping bring his master up to speed on his interactions with Vee Vales.

They were generally disappointing. A [Soul Reading] that revealed Vee to be a second son who’d accepted that he’d never be first in his father’s eyes and no longer saw any point in trying. An unexpected talent for [Shape Ectoplasm] that could have been nurtured into true mastery, if Vee had ever bothered to apply himself. A steady stream of late papers, poor attendance to classes, and a stubborn unwillingness to develop control over more than the University’s minimum of three Orchestra sections.

Artem shook his head as the stream continued. He saw himself sitting in his office with the boy on the other side of his desk. They were discussing Vee’s essay on ways to shape ectoplasm to improve urban infrastructure, which hadn’t been great, but had had some interesting ideas. Artem heard himself say: If that’s the amount of effort you want to put in, so be it. The boy hadn’t replied, but had instead simply shrugged and left the office, walking out of the building beside his armorsoul friend. Once again, frustration filled Artem’s thoughts, but then the memories moved on and his ire faded.

The next memory, which was apparently the last, began to play.

Dressed in his graduate’s cap and gown – both of which were slightly too big for him –Vee walked across the stage to accept his diploma. He looked a little angry, defiant, even, and unlike every other one of the twenty-three graduates that year, not a single member of the faculty stood to congratulate him personally as he passed by. Including Artem. The [Professor] felt a twinge of shame for that, but he shook his head and gestured for the [Memory Stream] to end. You got out exactly what you put in, boy. Nothing.

His peers in the faculty had agreed with him. We didn’t even know the kid, they’d said. He attended maybe one class in five, and barely squeaked through most of his classes.

Most nights, that would have been all the time Artem was willing to give the letter. He was a busy man, after all, he didn’t have time for those who squandered their gifts. Especially not those who’d been given such a strong start in life. However, the mention of Oar’s Crest caught his eye – what was such a wealthy person doing in such a poor city? – and on a whim, he decided that his curiosity was sufficient to read the rest. Besides, it wasn’t particularly long.

I hope that this letter finds you well. I’m writing to you today because I’ve recently discovered a strange property in some local spirits that I’ve never seen before. My hope is that you’ll be able to help me understand what I’ve found and suggest appropriate steps forward for me to take.

The spirits in question are fiends. Now, I remember what you and the rest of the professors at the Academy say about them: that they’re twisted monstrosities of anger and hatred, unfit for anything but to be [Banished] and returned to the ethereal, but I implore you to reconsider that position. You see, there are many fiends here in Oar’s Crest, and I have recruited three sections of them into my Orchestra.

Rortenferry snorted. Fiends in an Orchestra! The very idea was as preposterous as it was wasteful. Sure, they were simple spirits that were easy to subjugate and command, but they were worthless scraps of ectoplasm and other energies. Fiends were frail, mindless things, incapable of becoming Named and a waste of Orchestra space. Especially for a [Ghost Maestro] like Vales, who’d graduated with the ability to only control three Orchestra sections; the minimum required by the University. He didn’t have space to waste.

Still, he read on.

I have been paying their upkeep with refined ectoplasm, and recently one of them approached me and asked me a question. I was shocked at his grasp of spoken language. Though it was lilting and simple, his meaning was clear. I didn’t think such a thing was possible. However, that’s not all. When I asked, he told me that he was called Do, and that the entirety of his section had also taken Names.

I’m not sure what prompted such a wonderful thing, and that’s what I’m hoping you can help me with. There are a multitude of factors that could be partially responsible, but I know that I’m out of my depth when it comes to figuring them out. My gut instinct is that the primary cause is something in Oar’s Crest itself, but I have no idea what that could be. There’s more ectoplasm here than I’ve ever seen before. The city is steeped in ghosts and spirits of all kinds, and for some reason, they refuse to dissipate the way they should. It’s as if the entire city itself is a ghost.

I know that you’re extremely busy, as the first term begins next week in earnest, but if you could find the time to write me back, I would be truly grateful. My current plan is to continue feeding them refined ectoplasm, but if you have any better ideas for helping them develop or resources covering similar events, I’d appreciate hearing them.

Sincerely,

At the bottom of the letter was the boy’s big, loopy signature and return address, and Artem closed it with a frown. He took another sip of whiskey and held it in his mouth, his thoughts slowly considering the implications of what he’d just read. Fiends taking Names on their own? Such a thing shouldn’t be possible! Even being surrounded by an infinite amount of ectoplasm didn’t change the way that spirits developed, that simply wasn’t how things worked. Feeding fiends refined ectoplasm could make them stronger, or faster, or deadlier, sure, but gaining enough sentience to take a Name? No chance. Indeed, there must be something about Oar’s Crest other than ectoplasm at play, but for all his efforts, Artem couldn’t think of what that might be.

It was a matter that demanded investigation, but was it worth the time? He doubted that Vales was lying – what would he stand to gain by sending a joke letter? – but he was still wary all the same.

Putting his half-smoked cigar down on the tray, Artem closed his eyes and reached through his bond to Duvian, the Leader of his Orchestra. Bring me my cello, please.

A bit of music would help him think.

Moments later, the door to Artem’s study opened and the towering spirit [Seneschal] entered with the [Ghost Maestro]’s cello in her delicate hands. Duvian was one of the first ethereal beings Artem had ever bound to his service, and over the almost forty years she’d been a member of his Orchestra, she’d gone from a small, simple [List Spirit] who excelled at making and following her namesake to an elegant lady draped in a shimmering indigo cloak of ectoplasm who managed every aspect of his life. It’d taken hundreds of hours of diligent study and countless complex rituals, but Artem was confident that his [Seneschal] was one of the finest spirits currently in existence. She was certainly more impressive than any bound to the rest of the faculty, and her tireless efforts and broad expertise made sure that he didn’t get overwhelmed by the drudgery of academia.

“I thought you were going to be answering your correspondence,” Duvian said with a wry smile as she handed the ectoplasm-made instrument over. Reaching into her cloak, she drew out a stack of lesson plans. “But if you’ve got time to play, you’ve got time to go over these before –what’s that look for? Did something catch your eye in this pile of junk?”

Artem summoned his [Ghost Baton] – which took the shape of a bow at the [Ghost Maestro]’s intent – and played a few low notes. He nodded at the letter, which the whiskey corgi was rolling back and forth over. Duvian put down the lesson plans and brushed the small spirit out of the way as she picked the letter up. The [Seneschal] read while Artem played the first movement of one of his favorite sonatas. His fingers flew up and down the neck as he closed his eyes as he bowed the strings. Before he knew it, half an hour had passed, and Duvian was glaring at him, knowing better than to interrupt but irritated at the wasted time all the same.

“It’s an intriguing letter,” she said. “Do you plan to write a response?”

The [Professor] shook his head. He’d made up his mind during the sonata’s third movement. “I’d like to go and see what he’s talking about for myself,” he said. “When do I have space in my schedule to visit Oar’s Crest?”

Duvian tutted and shook her head. “Not for the next two weeks at the very minimum. Exams are coming up and you have to administer and grade them. Your colleagues would be furious if you pulled a Satin and abandoned them right now to go look at some fiends in the middle of nowhere. Unless you actually enjoy teaching Intro to Ectoplasm, I’d recommend staying here until the work is done.”

Artem chuckled. Satin, his colleague, had abruptly left the University just before finals last year, claiming a desperate family emergency. A few weeks later, word got out that he’d simply gone on a beach vacation with his longtime girlfriend, and the pissed off faculty had voted to make him teach all of the introductory classes for the next three years as punishment. Like many of his peers, Artem despised teaching the basics of his craft, and had no interest in upsetting such a wonderful arrangement.

“You raise a good point,” he said. “I suppose it won’t hurt to wait until after exams are finished and graded to go. What’s a few more weeks? If anything, the fiends in question will even more interesting.”

“Unless they’ve been [Banished].”

“Indeed. Unless that happens. See that my schedule gets cleared, will you Duvian?”

The spirit nodded and left the room. Setting his cello aside – it was enchanted with [Perfect Balance], so there was no risk of it falling over – Artem returned to his correspondence. He opened another letter and grunted, throwing it into the fire. It was a request to [Banish] an evil spirit that’d been terrorizing a small town out on the northern steppes, and he always refused such requests. Once upon a time he might have taken the job – as an adventurer, along with his friends – but that was such a long time ago that it might as well have been a different life.

Or at least, a different man. Artem Rortenferry the [Bard] had died with his companions, and Artem Rortenferry the [Ghost Maestro] had no taste for danger.

He poured himself another measure of whiskey, drank almost all of it, and slowly worked his way through the rest of the pile. When he finished, he grabbed his cello once more and resumed his playing. The request had stirred a bevy of unpleasant memories, and his thoughts weren’t on the music or on his fingers – which had once been clumsy on the instrument’s neck, unable to forget the shapes they’d made on the neck of his lute – Nor were they on the work he still had to do before going to sleep. Instead, Artem’s mind slowly and methodically crossed the mountains of his knowledge, searching for a reason why fiends might be able to take a Name.

One piece melded into another, and Artem pushed the rest of the world out of his mind while he played. However, once he felt that he’d reached a dead end for the night, Artem opened his eyes. He was shocked to see light coming through the window of his small study. The sky was gray, and he saw the sun rising on the horizon.

He swore and stood up, wincing at the stiffness in his legs and back. He’d played all night! Reaching though his bond with Duvian, Artem snarled: What exactly do I have you for?

The spirit sighed. You seemed troubled, so I didn’t want to disturb you. I took care of the other things you were supposed to get done, so don’t worry.

Artem thanked his [Seneschal] and winced as his knee ached and protested when he tried to take a few steps. He really wasn’t getting any younger. Shaking his head, Artem rolled his shoulders and flexed his hands back and forth as fatigue he hadn’t previously noticed made its presence known. He looked down at his whiskey glass and saw that the little corgi was curled around it, sleeping peacefully.

“Thanks for keeping me company, little friend,” he said, reaching down and picking both spirit and glass up. His normal practice was to let the spirits of his drinks return to the ethereal, but he’d taken a liking to the little critter. If it was willing, there was plenty of space in his Orchestra for it.

“Would you like to stay?”

The whiskey corgi opened its eyes and blinked at him. It yawned and let out a little sound. Yes, I think so.

Assigning the spirit to his zuzuzu section, Artem drained the rest of his glass and grimaced. His fatigue was turning into giddiness, and he hoped that the whiskey would help prevent it from getting out of control. As an extra precaution, he took his ocarina out of his vest pocket once more and blew through a hurried [Bolero of Vigor]. It wasn’t his best work by any means, but it was refreshing enough to get him through the day.

Picking up the lesson plans Duvian had brought the night before, Artem flipped through them as he made his way back to his quarters, where he showered and changed his clothes. After gulping down a slightly overripe banana and a slightly burnt piece of toast, it was time to head to the lecture hall for his first class of the day.

Along the way, Artem ducked and dodged beneath a near-constant stream of ghosts that trickled through the corridors. Ghosts of good grades and whirlwind romances streamed by, and the [Ghost Maestro] shook his head to clear his vision. I must be more tired than I thought if I’m slipping into Sights. I should get some coffee after my first class.

Today was Friarsday, which meant that he had to attend the weekly faculty meeting after the day’s classes were done. Artem hated the way the meetings droned on and accomplished nothing, but attendance was mandatory and so he’d have to endure a few more hours without sleep than normal. He sighed.

The lecture hall was a big room that was always cold – no matter how many cinder spirits the [Janitors] summoned in the fireplaces – and Artem climbed up onto the stage to stand behind his lectern until it was time for class to start.

Five minutes later, the great bells tolled, and his fifteen Intermediate Conductorship students slowly trickled into the room. Based on the dark rings under Berton’s and Mario’s eyes, the faint scent of vodka lingering around Kelly, and the way Pasha seemed to sway ever so slightly as she walked to her seat, Artem deduced that he wasn’t the only person in the room who hadn’t slept the night before. He wouldn’t say anything, but he was pleased to see that they’d decided to come to class all the same. It was important to him that students took their educations seriously.

“Good morning,” he said. “Today we’re going to begin our study of protecting yourself against spirits who might be able to reach through the ethereal on their own. You can read more about the specifics in chapter fourteen of your textbook, but for now we’ll start with a new skill. It’s called [Spirit Shield]. Please take out your preferred writing instruments, we’ll cover the theory first before we get into the practical components of the skill.”

Like always, there was a groan as his class did as requested, and Artem turned around to begin drawing the proper diagrams on the chalkboard behind him. As he wrote, he heard the staccato scratching of quills following along and looked back.

A thin, ropey spirit had started taking shape above his class. It was an Expectation of future learning, and though it wasn’t the most potent of its kind Artem had ever seen, it was a pleasant sight all the same.

Falling into the rote recitation that defined most of Artem’s teaching career, the rest of the lesson and the ones after it passed quickly. The coffee was cheap, thin swill, but it did the job and the [Ghost Maestro] [Professor] managed to stay awake for the rest of the day. The faculty meeting was as awful as expected, but he left early, when his colleagues decided for the third time to “vote on whether or not it was okay to vote” on the matter at hand. His patience for such worthless usage of time was running thin, and he hummed a soothing serenade to keep from screaming as he walked back to his room.

His foul mood faded when he saw that Duvian was waiting for him outside. The spirit bowed and handed him a pair of tickets.

“I have done as you requested, Master,” the [Seneschal] said. “Your schedule at the end of the month is clear and I’ve chartered a griffon-carriage to Oar’s Crest. I would have chartered a wind-horse carriage instead, but there’s some manner of trouble with bandits on the road. Would you like me to prepare anything special for the trip?”

Artem waved his hand dismissively. “We’ll go over it tomorrow, Duvian. Right now, I’m worried I’m going to fall asleep on my feet. Thank you for taking care of it so quickly. I appreciate it.”

“I live to serve, Master.”

His spirit nodded, and Artem stumbled into his room. Unlike his study, his sleeping quarters were a mess, and the bone-tired [Ghost Maestro] barely managed to keep his balance as he shuffled towards his bed.

Though every inch of his body begged him to lay down and sleep, there was one ritual that Artem couldn’t skip.

In the corner of his room was a small shrine. A broken sword lay atop the bottom level, and a broken pair of arrows rested on the level above it. On the top was a crystal picture that’d been taken by the guild. It showed three young men standing shoulder to shoulder with wide smiles on their faces. On the left, a [Spellsword] carried a glowing blade, and on the right a [Ranger] held up a fish that’d been speared by an arrow. The man in the middle was Artem, carrying a lute with a small ghost floating above his shoulder. Duvian was much smaller, then.

As he had every day for the past thirty-eight years, Artem closed his eyes and clasped his hands together.

“Nim…Wally…Piper’s blessings upon you both. Wherever you are, I wish you both well. Keep a spot for me at the fire.”

Then, humming a [Requiem of Dreamless Sleep], Artem closed his eyes and fell onto his bed. He was asleep as soon as he hit the pillow.

Artem's Character Sheet:

Artem Rortenferry:

Primary Class: Ghost Maestro (New Sally First University), Level 56

Secondary Class: Professor (Locksmagister University), Level 48

Tertiary Class: Bard (Self), Level 17

Might: 36

Wit: 279

Faith: 196

Adventurousness: 6

Guts: 68

Vigilance: 40

Empathy: 71

Inquisitiveness: 154

Droning Voice: 29

Charisma: 50

Ambition: 82

Dexterity: 100

Hope: 18

Budgeting: 9

Generosity: 37

Memory: 116