B5 Chapter 36 – How do Wings Work?

Tyron had noticed, on those occasions when he had worked with others, that they seemed to think that since he was, in their words, a ‘genius’, that he would be more stubbornly attached to his own ideas. This came up often when he was studying under Master Willhem. There were more senior apprentices than him, and Tyron had been only too happy to take their advice and suggestions on board. Why wouldn’t he? It seemed foolish to be overly attached to an idea just because it came from his own thoughts, especially when there were others with more knowledge readily to hand.

Of course, he had rapidly surpassed his fellow apprentices, even those who had been there for years before him, but that wasn’t because of some inherent brilliance on his part. Rather, it was his manic, self-destructive focus that pushed him far harder than they could ever hope to drive themselves and put him ahead.

Regardless, Tyron was not one to stubbornly cling to his own ideas, he was only interested in what was correct. It wasn’t his fault that he was almost always correct.

Working with Arihan the Black’s notes was proving to be an extremely frustrating experience for exactly this reason.

“It doesn’t make sense!” Tyron ground out, glaring at the unmoving book open on the table in front of him as if it had spat in his stew. “Why would you even do it this way? The structure of the joint almost works against itself.”

On the page, written in the long-dead Necromancer’s own hand, was a detailed description, complete with accompanying diagram, of the method he had used to weave his undead wyverns’ shoulder joints.

This was, obviously, the most critical part of the entire project. The creature couldn’t hope to fly if this was done poorly, unable to exert the strength necessary to keep it aloft. Naturally, as an undead creature, the minion would weigh less than it had in life, even as a zombie, making it easier to keep it aloft.

Even so… this configuration just seemed… wrong.

Tyron’s eyes flicked to the left, where, beside the ancient notebook, his own roughly sketched design could be found. To his eye, it seemed as if it made much more sense, the ligaments and musculature arranged in a cleaner, less tangled layout that would allow the undead to have a greater range of motions and exert more power through its wings. Yet… just because he thought that was the case, didn’t mean he was correct. After all, Arihnan had most likely had the aid of the Unseen, using an ability selection or feat to enable him to turn these particular kin into undead. Tyron lacked that guidance completely, only working with what had been left by his predecessor.

This was the most frustrating part of working from someone else’s records without them being around to consult! He didn’t want to dismiss Arihnan’s design out of hand, yet felt confident his own was better. If there were someone he could turn to, they could either explain the reason behind some of the more interesting choices shown in the old text, or concede they were mistakes.

The biggest problem Tyron was facing was that he simply didn’t know how wings worked. He’d dissected a number of horses to study the way they were put together before being able to complete his own equine undead, but getting ahold of birds out in the wasteland had proven to be difficult. There weren’t any trees here, so it stood to reason the bird population was somewhat lacking.

He wasn’t sure if birds would even be a good reference. A wyvern was a very different creature, not a natural one, but a kin spawned of magick and mutation. Who’s to say that a bird would be at all similar?

Dragging a hand through his hair in frustration, Tyron heard a loud knock on the door. The force of the thumping suggested it hadn’t been the first knock, probably not the fifth either.

“Yes?” he called, still glaring at the old notes, wanting to reach into the past and strangle some answers out of the man who had brought down an Empire. Why were your wings so weird?! WHY?!

“It’s Georg. Can I come in?”

“Sure,” Tyron said, still scowling. He spread his arms wide and tried to flap them up and down, imagining how the muscles and tendons would move, where the push and pull would come from.

“Uh, are you alright?” George asked as soon as he entered the room, staring.

The Necromancer wondered just how bad he looked for his normally stoic apprentice to actually comment. He turned toward his student.

“Why? How long have I been in here?”

“A few days,” Georg replied, fully entering and shutting the door behind him. “Do you… have a moment?”

Lowering his arms finally, Tyron sighed.

“Yes, I suppose I do. How can I help you, Georg?”

“It’s not so much a matter of if you can help me, but if I can help you,” the apprentice replied, scratching at the back of his head as he held a scroll in one hand. “Well… I can’t help you with flying lessons, but I could have something you might be interested in, at least.”

“Flying lessons would be greatly appreciated right now,” Tyron muttered, causing Georg’s brows to rise. “Did you find something in the old notes?”

“I did,” the former farmhand affirmed, holding up the scroll. “According to this, it wasn’t actually Arihnan the Black who gained the ability to create the winged undead creatures. It was one of his apprentices, Melic.”

“Melic?” Tyron wondered aloud, searching his memory for any reference to the name. Yes, he did recall a few mentions of him. “He was the one who gained the ability?”

“Yes, according to this scroll, which is a record of Melic’s thoughts in the service to his ‘Master’. A diary, I suppose.”

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Georg wandered over and placed the scroll down in front of his teacher.

“He claims his teacher forced him to take it against his own wishes.”

That… wasn’t good. Interfering in others’ Class choices was more than poor form, it was despised. Forcing people into certain selections, especially those under your authority, was a literal crime, even in the Empire. Quickly, he scanned the relevant section of the scroll. It appeared Georg was right. The paper was filled with complaints and vitriol directed toward his teacher, couched in vague enough terms that he could likely claim he was talking about someone else if he were caught.