Jack walked out of the city towards the nearest public forest with a plan to practise archery. Despite having little interest in archery, he was looking forward to some practice. In his past life, he’d spent a few months learning to use a bow to assassinate Greaves from a distance. His damaged right arm made using a bow painful; there had been no joy in learning to wield a bow.
As he strolled with a bounce in his step through a large wildflower meadow towards the forest edge, he enjoyed the sounds of nature. Life was abundant around the city of Lundun. The meadow teemed with colourful butterflies, bees, and other flying insects; small birds darted through the air, snatching insects to feed their young.
Jack smiled when a dragonfly landed on the tip of his white oak bow. Dad would be pulling out his pencils and sketchpad for this. Overwhelmed by the moment, he felt the urge to capture the image on paper, just like his father would.
Forgetting all about archery practice, he sat on the grass and pulled from his pack a set of new pencils and a wad of paper. Scribe supplies he almost always carried. He rested his bow against his pack and waited, pencil in hand, hoping another dragonfly might land.
A few minutes later, he was rewarded when a large blue dragonfly rested on the tip of his white oak bow. “That’s a beautiful image.” He activated [Draughtsmanship] and sketched the scene before the dragonfly resumed its hunt for smaller flying insects. Drawing its slender body, he got lost in his art as the winged predator shimmered in the early afternoon sunlight, highlighting its deep sapphire and iridescent cobalt colours.
Transfixed by the beauty of the small flying hunter, he couldn’t help but pen a short poem. Activating [Calligraphy] to produce a beautiful font, he fell into a trance…
The Blue Dance of a Summer Whisper
In the quiet midday glow,
a cobalt flicker dances—
a slender whisper against the wide sky,
glimmering with an ancient, secret art.
You, delicate blue dragonfly,
carry the poetry of transformation—
a transient spirit that flirts with time,
reminding us that beauty is brief yet eternal.
[Calligraphy] had been the first Novice Secondary Skill Jack unlocked. A few weeks after choosing the Novice Scribe class, the System acknowledged his steady calligraphy practice as worthy of recognition.
Unlike Primary Skills, Secondary Skills were never granted without effort. The System demanded a minimum threshold of proficiency before it would etch a new skill into a scribe’s status sheet.
There were thousands of such skills scattered across every class, many available to multiple classes. For example, [Calligraphy] could be learned by scribes, administrators, librarians… as long as the class wasn’t combat based, and they worked hard enough, they could add [Calligraphy] to their secondary skills list.
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By the time of his death, Jack had registered sixteen Novice Secondary Skills and seven at the Apprentice tier; each one now restored to him, waiting to be used once more.
Almost ninety minutes later, he’d already sketched a bumblebee collecting nectar and pollen from the wildflowers, and a spider subduing an entangled fly. As he finished a poem about the spider and the fly, a notification appeared.
[System Message-Internal View]
[Apprentice Scribe Skill Levelled]
[Calligraphy (6)]
Followed by a second notification.
[System Message-Internal View]
[Apprentice Scribe Class Levelled]
[Apprentice Scribe (50)]
“What the hell!” In shock, Jack fell backwards into the wildflowers.
He scrambled to sit up, the two notifications still in view. “That can’t be right.” He dismissed the notifications and checked his system.
[Class Screen-Internal View]
Class: Apprentice Scribe (50)
Compatibility: 70%
…
Novice Secondary Skills
- Calligraphy (6)
…
“By the Gods! I’m level 50!” Jack stood and started pacing through the wildflower meadow. “I-I can become a Journeyman Scribe, now.” He looked back towards the city and the nearby forest—his original destination.
As he contemplated abandoning archery practice to visit a temple, he heard a group of voices nearby, reminding him of the importance of his original task. He had no more than four years to train his archery skills.
“I’ll visit a temple on my way home, after practice.” Jack packed away his scribe supplies and headed towards the treeline. “I can still get a couple of hours’ practise in,” he muttered, convincing himself he hadn’t wasted his time, “and then see if I can choose Journeyman Scribe.”
Jack smiled as he got closer to the forest. “I’m going to be a Journeyman…”
“Hey, buddy… hold up a minute,” a young male voice called out, interrupting him.
Jack looked around, surprised that they were addressing him. Four teenagers, two boys and two girls, approached. He scanned the area to be sure they weren’t calling someone else. There were just the four young adventurers and him nearby.
A teenage boy, outfitted in old leather armour that was a little too large for him, spoke first. “You want to join us to kill some goblins? You have a bow.” He pointed to Jack’s bow with his sword.
Jack couldn’t help but notice the sword was poorly maintained, the blade was chipped and there was rust around the guard.
“Ben! Don’t be so dumb,” one of the young women, said. “He might not even be an archer.” Flicking Ben on the forehead, she elicited a reluctant “ow” from the young swordsman.
The girl was right; many non-combat classes who practised archery did so as protection from goblins and bandits while travelling beyond the safer cities and towns.
Why couldn’t I have met this group when I was training to kill Greaves? As a scribe with injuries and no combat skills, no adventurer group would invite him to their party.
Undeterred, Ben continued, “He has a nice bow…” Peering closer at Jack’s weapon, he added, “And it’s covered in blood. He’s got to be an archer.” He nodded, convinced of his assumptions. He dug his sword into the earth and leaned on it.
Has he got no respect for his weapon? Jack wondered.
For those who like poetry, the full poem…
The Blue Dance of a Summer Whisper
In the quiet midday glow,
a cobalt flicker dances—
a slender whisper against the wide sky,
glimmering with an ancient, secret art.
Wings, translucent as dew on morning leaves,
trace fleeting patterns of light and shadow,
each flutter a brushstroke in the endless canvas
of summer’s warm, tender embrace.
You, delicate blue dragonfly,
carry the poetry of transformation—
a transient spirit that flirts with time,
reminding us that beauty is brief yet eternal.
As you glide past blooming meadows
and whisper across the mirrored stream,
your flight sings a hymn of hope and wonder,
an ode to nature’s wild, wondrous refrain.
In your ephemeral arc,
we find the grace of living freely,
a gentle urging to cherish each sparkling moment
before it, too, dissolves into the radiant day.
