Chapter 1: Yes, mom...

 Augustine: Song weaver, self-proclaimed Life Skiller. The bane of his parents' peace and quiet life. 

 "Na na na, I'm moving up the ladder like a raccoon, waving my tail back and forth..." what am I doing, you might ask? Well, I am cooking, and singing. What else? I don't care that my songs don't make sense. I am a Song weaver. They don't have to make sense. The only thing that needs to be valid, is the tune of the song. 

"Tine," ah, my lovely mother has woken up. I finish up on the pie I am making for breakfast. An elk pie, with sweet potatoes, and place it in the oven. I pour enough mana inside of the oven so that it will run for an hour at about 180 degrees, and hum my approval when the green light shows me that the oven has loaded up. 

I don't do my cooking in this house all that often. I have a house of my own, near the town center. It is just that, yesterday, I managed to hunt down a white elk. A proud and magnificent beast, with enough meat on its bones, to make at least thirty meat-rich pies, plus, some pot roasts. I can already see my customers smiling, when I load the food up in the shop. Now, if only I...

"Tine! Do you hear me, boy?" My mother storms down the stairs. I put on a soft smile on my face. During the years, I have learned that if I wanted to butter her up, or soften her up, I needed to smile. She never got the difference between my fake smiles, and my sincere ones. Now, all the smiles I send my mother should be sincere, but...

How could they be, when all she does is to nag at me? She comes to me, and folds her hands over her chest. 

"Have you been cooking the entire night again?" She asks, and I can smell the fight that is about to come my way. 

"Well, not here, and not quite. I had to cut up the meat first, so I went home. You know that is slow work. Then, the meat needed to be marinated, and..." I begin. As usual, my mother doesn't let me finish. 

"Tine, you had an appointment with this nice archer, for the slime dungeon. You know how hard I worked, to get you this chance," ah, guilt trip tactic number 3: You ungrateful brat, why don't you appreciate my work?

 Well, mother dearest, that tactic hasn't worked on me since I was five, and made my first scrambled eggs, instead of going to my harp practice. 

I don't tell my mother this. Instead, I am more diplomatic. 

"Oh, that was today? Sorry, I can't go. So far, I have just made a single pie. You know that my freezer is simply not big enough to..." I try to bullshit my way out of babysitting some loser archer, that can't solo the slime dungeon, but she pokes me on the nose. Ah, she doesn't want to hear it. 

"You will give the poor lad the time of day! You promised you will do a single quest, this week, if I let you make the wedding cake for the Parsons. Well, that monstrosity is done, they are married, and you have no more excuses to throw at me!" I blink, indignant.

Monstrosity? Does she know how hard it is to make figurines out of sugar? That costed me an entire night. Not to mention how difficult making the cream, chocolate with caramel undertones, for the cake was!  

"Mother!" I protest, but she just frowns. 

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"Is the meat in your bottomless bag?" She asks, and I nod. My bag has a freezing rune on it. One that needs to be recharged every eight hours. If I could get my hands on better runes, that have to be recharged only once per month, then I wouldn't need a freezer. Ah, then I can go on a six-day hunting trip, and hunt to my heart's content. 

"It is, but you know that a bottomless bag can't replace a freezer. What if I run out of mana halfway to the dungeon?" I ask. As a Song weaver, I am not exactly a mana battery. Now, I have mentioned the title, but I don't think I explained what it is. A Song weaver is a person, who can use magic by playing music. 

My weapon of choice is the harp. One of the most underused weapons out there. Why, I don't know? I mean, unlike the other song weavers, that use a flute, for example, I can speak with my teammates while playing. Unlike the drummers, my music has a calming effect, and doesn't start the mobs into a frenzy. Don't let me start on those that pick up the saxophone. 

What I do is this: attacks, buffs, and healing. I am a jack of all trades, and, yes, master of none. I can't attack as well as a rogue, buff as well as a mage, or heal as well as a healer. Still, it is not like I want to be an adventurer, so, what is the harm? Besides, it is super fun, hunting with a harp. Everyone should try it, at least once!

"Tine, are you in your own world again?" My mother asks, I blush, and look down at my feet. "You really should stop spacing out on people. Sometimes, I feel like you are monologuing to your imaginary friends. Are you sure you don't want to see doctor Annalee? She can talk with you..."

I shake my head. No, no shrinks. I have my cooking and hunting. My music too, if I have to be honest. No shrinks will ever get to pick at my brain. 

"I am fine, mom," I say, and look at the entrance of the kitchen, where my father is leaning in the doorway. 

"Margie, don't suggest things to the boy, that will make him hide in his shell," my father says, as he finally gets out of the doorway, and goes to see what is cooking. 

"But, Thomas, what if he spaces out during a quest?" My mother protests. My father just shrugs, and turns to me. 

"Pie? Did you manage to take down something, or is the meat from the butcher?" He asks. I smile proudly.

"I got a white elk. Lured it to sleep with a lullaby, and then I hit it with Overload," I say, and my father shakes his head. 

"At least you are using your abilities for something, I guess. Man, that looks lovely. You'll stay for breakfast, yes?" My father asks, and I nod. If there is one thing I love about my cooking, it is sampling the food that I made from scratch. 

"Margie, I will set the table, you go wash up," my father says, and my mother smiles, her face finally relaxing from the frown that she reserves for me, and me alone. That makes her seem younger, somehow. 

How I wish I could find someone out there, that has the same effect on me.   

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