Devil and Candlemaker

"Everyone knows about heroes, adventurers, nobles; people that matter. No one remembers the name of those shunned, or their descendants. Especially when their crimes were severe enough to sell them to Melromarc's enemies. Don't worry, though. Master has only one directive for me: serve the Shield Hero, kill any that wish him harm." F/F romance, slavery, dark themes.

WARNINGS:

With only the first season aired, there isn't a lot of worldbuidling to work with. And with some key differences between Manga and Anime, I'll be borrowing from both to ensure things remain consistent. I'm also going to use elements of MMORPG games, and D&D, to expand considerably.

The OC is born and raised in this world and, as such, is far more aware of life within it, given her age.

Expect a lot of mercantile, political, magical, and skill-based theory; not to mention: life as a woman in these times, sex and sexuality, gender roles and expectations, slavery (slaves are property of their master, items with which said owner may do as they please without legal and/or social repercussions), dubious consent, and surviving in a world beset by Waves of Catastrophe.

Slow build, because there's an entire world that needs to be brought to life.

Given Rising of Shield Hero is loosely based on Late Medieval and/or early Renaissance Europe, please understand that traditions from that time will be in the forefront of daily life—if adjusted for magic, the setting, and the like. Think Ascendance of a Bookworm levels of attention to detail, if that helps.

If you do not consent to the above warnings, this story isn't for you. You have been warned.

Chapter One—Prey items

8-8

There's a saying in that woman's family, a principle that none may abscond: do not deny your matriarch without due cause. It sounds inane in and of itself, until you deal the cards with nobles and demands beset you like spring rains. How to wear your hair, your clothing and accessories, what you'll eat, what time to sleep and arise, the friends you'll make, the company you keep, your lessons; when you'll marry—and whom.

Yet, as I struggle not to choke on some Beastman's little dagger, all I can think is how easy she got off, entertaining Master and Master alone, while I get sold and shipped off to the Siltvelt. The guard—some swollen pigman with a beer belly, snout, and pinkish leathery skin mostly covered by furred armour—grunts as his thighs tense under my palms. Without so much as a warning, he explodes, spewing salty cream in my mouth as he pleases.

Typical. Why deign to warn a slave of much of anything? It's not like my slave-brand won't torture me for non-compliance.

One large gulp; a few smaller. I pull away from the rapidly deflating appendage. The guard fixes his trousers and leather belt without a word, a satisfied grin ever on his porcine face. A massive hand reaches through the bars and pats my head, thanking me no doubt. Loud claps of leather slapping stone—loud at first, but quickly retreating into the cacophony of sniffles and stifled sobs.

Shins complain about the abuse of bearing my weight on uncaring stone. My cage isn't tall enough for me to stand and I don't much feel like sitting—it's hard enough to keep my loin cloth clean in this fetid place as is. With little other choice, I plop into the warm straw behind me, eyes unfocused as they stare dead ahead as I shift about to bury myself in hay. My shallow and uneven breaths come out as smoke in the dark of the slave pens.

"What d'ya think the council'll do about the prophesy?" one of the guards grumbles, his voice sounding more like a collection of grunts and squeals than anything; if pleased with himself. Given the distance, he's likely over by the guard station near the stairwell.

"Ugh, don't remind me. Ain't had to use that hourglass for nothing but upgrades since grandpappy's time." Wood scrapes against stone; a chair jerked back, no doubt. "Captain said something about this batch being reserved for something special, though. Dunno what."

8-8

We're marched up the stairs, out into dreary midwinter's noonday sun. Stringy white clouds loiter about, lazy as can be with no sign of trouble brewing on the horizon. The courtyard around us, enclosed by metres-tall smooth unwashed stone walls, is filled with five slaves, myself included—and ankle deep snow hugging bare feet. The sole tree over to one side, surrounded by a frozen over pond, slumbers under Jack Frost's blanket, its foliage long-since shed.

Guards order us to line up for inspection—or something like that. I pay neither of them any mind, staring up at the dull-lit sky to pass the time.

Fifteen years. Fifteen years I served Master faithfully, tended to Little Miss with her every need and want, guarded their home and their lives with every fibre of my being. Fifteen long years. Only to be sold the second some priestly-type came calling. Why? Why can I not recall having upset Master? Have I wronged Little Miss without knowing it? She tends to be…precocious, so it's not impossible. For the life of me, I cannot recount being on the receiving end of her ire.

My place should have been assured, with that woman being Master's concubine. My state of dress hinted at as much—though I think Little Miss's insistence that I not wear 'tattered rags' might have helped. It wasn't an extravagant wardrobe that I was afforded, but the frilly dresses were certainly less revealing than the itchy woollen loin cloth and wrought iron manacles I'm afflicted now with.

The other slaves, all humans like myself, steal peeks, no doubt enjoying the sight of my bare breasts. Why these 'men' think they stand a chance is beyond me—though frankly, I can't bring myself to care.

"We're ready for you, My Lord."

"Good." Snow crunches underfoot as a mountain of a being lumbers our way. It's sad that I can tell without looking that this is a Beastman. Demi-Humans' proportions are too similar to Humans to ever grow that large, though exceptions happen. "Welcome."

My nose snaps down from the clouds, my gaze not wavering from the ursine that addresses us. His bear-like face, short brown fur covering all exposed skin, and countenance clearly mark him as Beastman, yet the winter coat and regal robes half hidden beneath show this man is, without a shadow of a doubt, a nobleman—quite high in the rankings, if the jewelled rings are any indication, and they usually are.

Why address us himself? Slaves are beneath nobles' notice, doubly so for new slaves.

"Allow me to introduce myself. I am your Master. However." The lord—my slave brand hasn't been altered, so even if he is my master, he isn't 'Master'—stops and crosses his arms behind his back, puffing out his chest and standing so erect I feel slouched by comparison. "I brought you here for reasons other than your continued enslavement.

"Make no mistake," the lord continues over the din of murmurs I swim in, "you are, and will continue to be, slaves until I judge otherwise. Should you crave your freedom, you may offer yourself to be tested."

"Tested for what?" the slave beside me asks.

"The air grows tense, the world trembles in anticipation." That isn't an answer. "Surely even you humans have tales of the Cardinal Heroes, of the Waves of Catastrophe they saved us from in the past."

The Cardinal Heroes? What purpose could fairy tales serve?

The one on the other side of me heaves a breathy sigh. "It's either a long life of slavery or a short life battling that?"

"The Waves of Catastrophe." The lord nods, tension taking him over. "One of you will be selected to aid the Shield Hero." One slot? "As you are, none of you would survive a single Wave."

My eyes narrow.

"Listen well. According to legend, during each successive Wave, the average Level of each monster goes up," which amounts to suicide for me, "though that barely scratches the surface with the sea of them that would rain down from the sky."

A sea of monsters? Raining down from the sky? That can't be true. There's no way anyone could survive such a thing, let alone someone like me—I've worked with chef's knives and butcher's cleavers, but never while pointing them at monsters of any kind.

"Now." Loughley turns, pacing to and fro. His tension eases into the background with each step, and yet, something about him screams the troubles are only just beginning. This test he speaks of, it has long since begun. Why else would we be out here wearing almost nothing? But, that means…? "The first round of the test commences momentarily. A duel. One-on-one, the combatants chosen by me.

"Any who steps forward, offers themself and will be granted a dagger, yours to keep. You have one minute to decide."

I can't. I'm no warrior, I'd die in—

Pain erupts from my chest, from my slave mark. My every muscle clenches and unclenches so hard, so fast, my very skin on fire from the pain as I slam into the snow.

You will submit yourself to their every demand, pass their every test, and you will not allow yourself to die until I say otherwise—that's an order.

Master's will is, as always, clear; with my slave brand, defying him is suicide. Being tortured to death via defying my orders—fighting a battle I know I cannot win. I die either way, yet I am not allowed to die? Why not ask for water from the moon?

As the all too familiar reluctant acceptance seeps into my being, the pain eases.

Labouring to my feet, I check to ensure I'm back in the line-up as the guards intended, and throw away all reason: I step forward, and dust away the snow melting against my flesh.

"That's one." The lord looks at the four others—none have moved. A suit-wearing servant comes to me and offers me a sheathed dagger, about half as long as my forearm. Sigh. I hesitate, but I know this song and dance—refuse, and it's another round of fun.

Time ticks away. Which of these men will be charged with killing me? I know not—care not. Unless the fight is switched out for cooking them a meal, bathing them, or tending to their filolial, there's no chance I'll survive.

Heart throbs in my throat. Stomach urges my dinner to come out to play.

"And only one." The lord frowns at the more than sane men that clearly weren't ordered to acquiesce. Guards shove the other four onto their knees, pushing their faces into the snow as if to smother them. The burden of this dagger weighs on me. "A pity. Kill them."

Please don't say that to me, please don't say that to me, please order your guards too—

"Girl. I gave you an order. Kill those unwilling slaves. Now."

8-8

Bare stone floor, whitewashed wooden walls, low-hanging ceiling. A single bucket before me, a stack of hay behind me. The room is quiet, save for the howling winds beyond closed shutters. If only the noise between my ears would follow suit—be out there, where I can be safe from you.

Though I've long-since bathed and scrubbed my hands raw, I don't feel clean. Those men, I…

I wrap my arms around my dress. It's warm and I'm grateful to wear something again, but it's wide enough for two of me, the hem hits me at the ankles, and the pipe-sleeves—meant to be skin tight—are more akin to hanging bags.

Had I been afforded a needle and some thread, I could…

It doesn't matter, I'm no longer…sigh.

It should be about third bell. Little Miss should be ready for her nap, though not before pestering me to read for her. Never the same story, but always the same hero: The Shield Hero. Little Miss simply adored hearing of the tales of Sir Shield Hero and how he'd rescue Demi-Humans, like her. Tales all chronicled by her ancestor, a party member of the previous avatar.

Honestly, who could live in Siltvelt and not hear of these tales?

Please, Sorrow? Little Miss's voice thunders down the corridors of my mind, begging and downtrodden all at once. The picture of her pleading eyes, how she wears her ears lower, the nervously bitten lip. How her bushy tail tenses against her side as she slides her skirt higher to grant me easy access to tend to her.

Though Mistress's insistence that I tend to her daughter daily is in keeping with tradition, Little Miss is at that age when discovering one's own body is to be expected and wouldn't have it. Every time we were alone, like going down for her mid-morning and afternoon naps, she'd…

Perhaps that was it. Master found out I spoil his heiress.

Sigh. What I wouldn't give to go back; to spend my winters sowing and weaving, my summers fanning Little Miss all night to keep her cool. My days seeing to her every need, and my nights reading to Little Miss by candlelight.

So soft! To witness her firsts, like her first filolial ride. Her little face was lit up, almost glowing, as she petted and stroked the avian's feathers. It wasn't long before 'just one more lap' was a staple of her daily demands. And of course, she trusted no one save myself to tend to her 'Lord Flutterbutter'—I'm still unsure about the name or how she came up with it. Yellow feathers reminding her of butter, perhaps?

How she constantly wiggled her baby canines as they were getting ready to come out. And the look on concentration—as if calculating the exact angle she needed to nudge it towards for some purpose or other. She wouldn't stop pestering me after each tooth came out, about how she didn't want to lose it. What choice did I have other than to make her a little necklace, to keep all her baby teeth in one place?

Ya! Midi, big girl! The pride in her wolven eyes the first time she used the potty.

Those endless nights aiding Mistress. Little Miss would cry for any little sound, any misstep—just because, I think. The healer said Little Miss's umbilical cord hadn't healed properly and she was likely in near constant pain for it. How I managed to learn simple healing spells with almost no sleep is beyond me, but Master and Mistress wouldn't hear worthless excuses—not even of my affinity to shadow magics.

This tiny room, barely big enough for the bucket and thin heap of hay, feels smaller still.

8-8

My laboured breathing isn't nearly as loud as the thumping in my skull or the groaning of my ribs. It might compare to the howling blizzard outside, though. Training, they call it. Be grateful it's a walking cane, they say. What advantage have I in taking beating after beating?

"The best defence is to not get hit."

Yet, I struggle to my feet without the order. The pigman guard lashes another overhead swing at me—I step aside, letting it pass.

"Better." I'd like to see you fight in a dress. "Faster!" Another overhead slash. As I sidestep, the trajectory changes and clips the side of my head just the same. Another attack pops my shoulder out of its socket.

Just kill me and be done with it.

Of course, that thought triggers the brand, sending yet another wave of lightning through my core.

8-8

"Monster egg?" The tiny thing in my hand doesn't seem monstrous. Even in the light of the hearth, all I make out is this pearl-like little baby in my hand.

"Got you a nice one, too." The pigman brags, no doubt to hint how well he takes care of me. I'm not well-versed in Beastman etiquette, but thrashing someone with a stick doesn't strike me as positive.

Yet, he comes to me already unbuckling his belt. Uncaring that I've not finished my supper, that the bland soup won't keep well, he—per the norm—all but shoves his little dagger in my face.

8-8

This, at least, is far more familiar. Though I have the monster egg tucked into my cleavage to keep it warm—that isn't something to which I am accustomed—having a sewing needle and thread is a blessing.

In the privacy of my humble chambers, my oversized dress has already been trimmed to just the right length. A long strip is already folded, hemmed, and wrapped around my breasts like a sling, to keep them warm and supported. I ought have enough extra material for my menstruation as well, I should think.

With one last stitch, I loop the extra thread into the seam a few times and warm my fingers enough to burn the extra off.

Sigh. It used to bother me how stingy Master could be. Always on everyone's case about using their MP instead of his costly candles. There's little doubt in my mind I'd have frozen to death, had I not already mastered simple flame spells.

While not nearly enough to be battle-capable, it's enough to cook thinly fileted meats—and save me from frostbite.

8-8

"Status magic." The same guard, whose name I still don't know, seems to be in charge of my training. Perhaps by his request, perhaps by the lord's design. It matters not. "In the lower right corner of your vision. Focus on the three little dots."

Focus shifts to what he means, and an illusion pops into my vision. Eyes dance this way and that, taking it all in. It's not that I've never noticed, but it's just never been allowed—or, to be more concise, I've never had enough focus left after interminably long days.

I made it to level three. Likely from those…HP is up to twenty-five, MP to thirty-six, and SP to eighteen.

"From here, you can track your main stats, as well as your skills. Focus on secondary skills." A new list pops into my vision, blotting the rest out.

Beast taming—lvl 60

Cooking—lvl 72

Collection—lvl 92

Plant analysis—lvl 82

Dissection—lvl 22

I shiver, recalling how I'd been assigned to the butcher in my youth.

"Secondary skills are not tied to your current level. Dunno if they's capped, but ain't never heard of them going over three-hundred. So the more effort you put into them, the more better." I nod. That woman said much the same whenever I complained of the duties I'd been assigned.

"Back to the main menu. Focus on Jobs." Two 'fleep' sounds later, a new vision fills my world.

Rogue—lvl 3

Courtesan—lvl 2

Artisan—lvl 1

Scribe—lvl 1

Lovely.

"These're capped at your current level. And don't forget about the level caps at forty and eighty. You ain't gonna get passed that without a job upgrade. In order to get that, you need one of these jobs to hit the cap, too. And you'll need the court's permission to use the Dragon Hourglass. Dun't furget it."

I nod. He starts fiddling with his belt—obviously we're nearing the end of the lesson.

"If ya focus on the job, you can see what primary skills you can be training. You gotta select one and practice."

Artisan blinks and glows. Beneath the rectangle, a new list crops up.

Clothier—lvl 125

Compounding—lvl 2

Weapon upkeep—lvl 25

Weapon upkeep? Apt to be from polishing and sharpening the cutlery. Curious, I switch back to Courtesan.

Grooming—lvl 162

Focusing on Grooming, most of the skills are long-since unlocked. Warming spells, conjure water, ease distress, six types of massages. Logical, really, but I don't recall doing much of anything in here. Perhaps Master or, infinitely more probable, Mistress did as much for me?

"The higher the job level, the better quality the primary skills under them produce." A warm appendage pokes my nose, stinking beyond belief. Opening my mouth, I focus back to Rogue, and check the skills under it.

Parry—lvl 15

Dagger—lvl 1

Hmm. Focusing on Parry, skills pop up with little bars beside them. None are mastered, and none seem close to it. In fact, each is barely passed the first tenth of progress.

Thighs tense under my palms, thankfully. It's apt to be easier on my jaw.

"You learn unarmed tomorrow." He pulls back on his own, already working on his belt as I work down the fruits of his labour.

8-8

Morning comes. Per a routine so ingrained I scarcely think about it, I cast a simple cleaning spell on myself. It never feels as refreshing as a bath, but I won't smell—better than nothing.

My hands work my sore and abused muscles, trying to ease the aches best I can. With a little luck, today will suck less than days passed. Doubtful, though.

The pigman plops a dozen hides, a much thicker needle, and some nail-like item onto the ground before me. My chambers are, for some odd reason, not private enough to not be bothered.

"The recipe for a rucksack and money pouch." I'm handed three rolled and tied pieces of parchment. "Ya ain't getting more hides. Make do. But." He unhooks a little pouch from his belt and offers it to me. Inside there's a tack hammer with a dozen iron doohickeys I've never seen, let alone worked with, before.

No idea what any of this is about, but I'm the one to work his buckle. For the first time, I put my all into giving the pigman the best five minutes of his life.

"Well, if you's that happy about it. I can scrounge up some leather scraps to practice on."

8-8

"Nah. People ken count ta ten. So tha's how the system works. Little brass coins. Ten o' 'em is one medium brass coin. Ten medium brass coins're a big one. Ten big brass is a little silver. Keep going up to big gold coins. And platinum after that. Ain't nothin' better than platinum. Least, not that I know."

I nod, taking it all in as best I can. Tending to his needs with more fervour is the best choice I've made here. I'm not sure why he enjoys cuddling with me on my pile of hay, but he's warm. Warmth is a good thing midwinter.

"Pro'bly buy a house with some small golds. But the big platinum?" He snorts, his chest trembling under me. "Whole villages. Not that we's ever gonna see 'em. Nah, focus on the coppers and silvers. Taverns'll sell ya meals by the serving. Most charge a few copper each, 'pending on what ya order. Best have dried and salted meats for the road. Three a day and you's good. Buying salt to make yer own is goods too. Might get a kilo a salt for a small silver. Smoking meats is cheaper, but they don' keep as long. But smoked and salted?" He chuckles, likely thinking on tasting it.

8-8

A cracking sound rouses me in the middle of the night. I half expect the pigman will be back for some reason or other—he's not very stealthy, so I always hear him coming.

However, the little egg nestled in my cleavage, it trembles.

Seconds drag out into minutes as the little monster labours against the barrier keeping it trapped.

One last mighty push, and a little ball-like monster, no bigger than my fist and red as a tomato, lies on my chest.

Something pops into my vision.

Would you like to name your new companion?

"Hope." The word comes out dreamy and breathless. My little Hope.

8-8

Hope hovers about, happy as can be to be outside. Her toothy grin opens and a long black tongue sticks out to capture a snowflake. Perhaps the last snow of the season, with spring looming ever closer.

I shudder to think what the warmer weather brings with it. It's been almost a month of daily trainings. Far longer than I anticipated, yet somehow it feels like an eternity has come and gone since coming to this place.

Scooping up powder snow into my gloves, I pat it down into a little ball.

"Bite!" I toss the snowball at Hope and she lunges, chomping it asunder. Checking her stats, she's still a level one. Attacking inanimate objects does nothing for her levelling, though her bite skill keeps going up.

"Share Vision." My view warps and fades. Slowly, the picture of my face floods into my mind. My green buzz cut grows longer. I'm uncertain why I'm not meant to shave my head daily here, though I'll not complain. But pink eyes blink—odd, to see oneself blink. Waxen face, pale as snow, is unmoving. Doll-like, if you ignore the long-since healed scar through my left eye—from eyebrow to cheek bone.

I've…never seen myself. I look plain, and willowy.

8-8

The first day of spring. Oh, how I've dreaded this dawn like no other. The pigman, who still hasn't bothered to introduce himself, rouses me earlier than usual. For obvious reason, given I've tended to him a dozen times by now.

Each time, the stark reality hits home a little harder. He knows today will be the last.

As I gulp down his latest deposit, he orders me to stand. Hope hovers over my right shoulder, per the norm.

"I take no pleasure in it." The pigman unsheathes his sword. I nod, knowing all I need to. My orders are to not allow myself to die, but he's ten times my level—there's no chance. I close my eyes, readying myself to parry even as I know death awaits me.

Wind, muted but not unnoticed. To my right. Too high to hit me.

A popping sound. Message pops up. Hope died.

Scraping. A sword sheathes. A bag slams against my chest, the same bag I've worked on for the last weeks, no doubt. A warm hand grabs my upper arm, drags me along.

I don't look. Little point. I know where he leads well enough to not need to see. Up the stairs, through the dozen archways. I'm brought into the common room once again.

Spring. A time of birth, of new life, of new chances. How odd that they choose this day.

"Father, if you would."

My eyes snap open. A priest-type walks towards me, vial in hand. The pigman guard tears my dress open, exposing my chest—my slave brand.

Vial unstopped. Words spoken, rhythmic and smooth, in an unfamiliar tongue. Vial pours onto my chest. My world quakes, pain thunders through me worse than I've ever known.

Tears stream down my face, my breath ragged and laboured. My hand roughly grabbed, my finger slit open and pressed against something cold and hard.

"Listen well, my child." The priest leans in, his whispered words akin to a spring squall. "You have until day's end to leave the city. This pendant will grant you passage. Do not lose it."

My hand clutches the thing he means. I dare not guess at its purpose.

"You are to make your way to Melromarc. There you'll await the Shield Hero's summoning. Aid him in any and every way you can." Though I understand his words, their import doesn't seep through. Is it the pain that so addles my mind? "As of right now, you are an escaped slave. Unless you leave the kingdom of Siltvelt, soldiers will hunt you down and kill you. You might have a week, if you're lucky. I suggest you hurry."

8-8

I run. And I run. Rucksack clutched to my chest to hide the torn front, bare feet howling as I trample down the cobbled path.

This makes no sense. Why is this happening? A human free of their curse? In Siltvelt? There isn't a Beastman or Demi-Human in this entire kingdom that wouldn't slit my throat the second they discover me.

The marketplace buzzes with life, and yet I race through it. The sun climbs higher and higher into the sky, speaking of the sand already pouring from the hourglass of my opportunity. Not that I understand it, but this is the hand I'm dealt.

Air's chill gnaws at my very bones, yet I dare not move slower. Even as I pass the mansion I was born into. Nothing slows my pace.

Master would be most displeased if I were to not follow orders as given, to the letter.

8-8

Eastgate. I dare not guess how this will play out. I've never left the safety of my owner's estate. Demi-Humans guard the only way in or out just now. They check everyone wagon, every chest, every bag and barrel. None are exempt.

I clutch the pendant I was given, praying to whatever god listening that I'll manage somehow.

A Demi-Human couple in queue before me walk up to the guard.

"Identification, please." The guard is polite, but his tone doesn't brook dissent all the same. The man offers a pendant like mine—though mine is copper, his silver. "Ah, adventurers. Checks out. Go on through." The man thanks the guard and wanders through with the woman in tow. Nothing is checked.

"Identification, please." I hold out my pendant for his inspection. "Candlemaker, 'ey?"

The hubbub of the gate grinds to a halt, all eyes on me. Especially this rough-looking group half hidden in the shade.

"Checks out. Go on through."

I slip the string loop around my head and stuff the pendant into my sling to keep it as safe as possible. And I walk, leaving the city, my birthplace, behind with no hope of ever returning.

8-8

End Chapter One

8-8

A/N: Hoooooo boy. Here we go again. Another story haunting me to write it. I dunno if this will catch on as well as the others have, but that's not really why I write these days.

Let me know if you enjoy it.