The next morning, Arlan awoke to the sound of Bones knocking something over. He bolted upright, heart lurching with fear that someone had found him, but it was only his bony companion. Bones had been exploring and had tipped over the empty water skin. The skeletal rat looked up at Arlan with its eerie emerald pinpoints of eyes, as if innocently saying good morning. Arlan rubbed the sleep from his eyes and couldn't help but chuckle softly. "I see you're an early riser," he mumbled.
Sunlight peeked through the gaps in the shed's walls. Arlan stretched, muscles sore from yesterday's labors and the unyielding ground. Bones scuttled to his feet, staying near. For a moment, Arlan just watched the tiny skeleton in fascination. It was a marvel that it existed at all. He wondered about the magic sustaining it. Did Bones have any memories of being a living rat? Unlikely. More likely it was just an empty vessel guided by his will. Yet, it sometimes acted on its own within simple bounds, like exploring or balancing itself. Perhaps that was just part of the spell's nature, or perhaps a small echo of the rat's instincts remained. The hard magic system of classes and spells meant everything had rules—he just didn't know them all yet.
Arlan's stomach growled loudly, reminding him of the day's first task: find food (for himself, fortunately undead rats didn't need feeding). He rolled up his meager belongings: essentially just his cloak, which he was already wearing, and his determination. "Alright Bones, stay hidden for now," he said. He gently picked up the rat and slipped it into the deep inner pocket of his cloak. Bones clung inside, still except for an occasional twitch. From outside, one might just think Arlan was clutching his coat against a chill.
He headed into the waking streets. As he emerged, he nearly collided with a stout woman carrying a basket of turnips. Arlan mumbled an apology and sidestepped. The woman barely noticed him; to most townsfolk he was invisible, another ragged urchin blending into the background. That anonymity was now a blessing.
Arlan walked toward the adventurers' guild hall in the center of town. It was a place he usually skirted around, since he had no business there. But adventurers often had leftover food or needed quick errands run. Perhaps he could pick up a few coins carrying equipment today. More importantly, Arlan had a new idea germinating: joining the Adventurers' Guild himself.
It was a risky thought. The guild would register his Class. If they had any magical means of verifying it, his lie could be exposed. But maybe they didn't. Maybe a person could just claim their class. There were many summoner-type classes: Beast Tamer, Spirit Caller, etc. Perhaps he could pass Bones off as a spirit creature, an ethereal familiar rather than an undead. Summoner classes weren't common, but they weren't hunted either.
As he approached the guild hall, a grand two-story building with a tiled roof and the guild's emblem (a crossed sword and wand) on a sign out front, he felt Bones stir in his pocket. Perhaps the rat sensed his nervousness. Arlan paused by a trough and looked at his reflection in the water. A skinny boy with messy brown hair and wary gray eyes stared back. He had a smudge of dirt on his cheek which he wiped off. "You can do this," he whispered to himself. "Just act like you belong."
He ascended the stone steps and pushed open the heavy oak door. Inside, the guild hall was bustling. Dozens of adventurers of all ranks mingled—some checking the quest board, some counting coins or bragging about hunts. The scent of ale, sweat, and parchment filled the air. No one paid Arlan much mind as he slipped in, though a few seasoned adventurers cast an eye over him, likely assessing if he was potential new blood. Arlan swallowed, approaching the front desk where a bored-looking clerk was stamping some documents. This was it. The first step of a possibly very short career as a pseudo-summoner was about to begin.