B5 Chapter 8 – The Limits

Tyron slumped forward, his chin slipping from the hand which had been propping him up as he was trying to study through bleary eyes. One moment, he was trying to read the scroll propped open on the table before him through blurred, red, raw eyes, the next, he was awoken by a loud bang.

He was so fatigued, it took him a while to realise the sound had been made by his head slamming into the table. As tough as he was, he barely felt the impact, yet it was enough to startle him back to some sort of wakefulness.

“I think I’m too tired to keep reading,” he mumbled to himself.

“Yeah, no shit,” a voice said from behind him.

Tyron turned to see Dove leaning against the wall behind him, swinging his snake in slow, lazy circles. Borderline delirious, Tyron thought for a moment he was wearing a feathered hat, of all things.

He blinked several times, trying to clear his eyes.

“Dove… where the heck… did you find that hat?”

“Oh, this old thing?” the undead said, sweeping it off his skull and fluttering the feathers against his ribs. “I made it myself with cured kin leather. The feathers, I sourced from a Dust Folk caravan. Quite dashing, wouldn’t you say?”

Dealing with his former teacher was always an enormous headache, but in this instance, the pain was almost clarifying, helping the Necromancer to dispel a little of the fog that plagued him.

“Just how desperate for a reaction are you, Dove?” he asked tiredly. “You put so much effort into such ridiculous pursuits.”

Far from being offended, the former Summoner merely snorted with amusement.

“In my eyes, you’re the absurd one. Imagine dedicating your life to such dreary subjects like vengeance, and not shitting your pants in public. Boring! Dull! Lacking stimulus for the washing staff!”

“Of course, you didn’t have to wash them yourself,” Tyron mused, thinking aloud.

“That’s not the important bit!” Dove cut him off. “The important bit is the detailed examination of how dreary and uninteresting your life is. Let’s focus on that.”

Tired as he was, Tyron actually started turning his thoughts towards defending his life choices, before he shook his head. As if he was going to start justifying himself to Dove, of all people.

“Presumably, you’re here for a reason,” he said to his former mentor, turning around properly in his chair to face the skeletal construct. “You didn’t come to annoy me.”

He considered for a moment, then sighed.

“You didn’t come just to annoy me.”

Dove cackled to himself, sweeping the hat back onto his head before gathering the snake skeleton and swinging it up onto his shoulder and around his neck like a scarf. One of these days, Tyron would have to check to see how it was stitched together. Whoever had done the work did a good job of it.

“I wouldn’t put it past me,” he said. “There is little that gives me more joy in this unlife than annoying you. Although, it’s getting harder and harder to achieve. I almost feel like you no longer care about the feelings of your old teacher.”

It was impossible for a skeleton carved of onyx to form a hangdog expression, and yet, somehow, Dove managed to adopt a long-suffering and pitiful air, even without having the capacity to form a facial expression.

“You missed your true talent in life. You should have been a mime.”

“That’s what I told my mother!”

“Then you wouldn’t talk as much.”

“Sacrifices must be made, in the pursuit of true art.”

“Why are you here, Dove?” Tyron sighed. “Out with it or I’m going to bed. By myself.”

The last was a necessary classification, since the skull started leering at him. How did he even manage to leer?

“Fine. I thought now might be a good time to discuss my mastery over the Realm of the Dead and all that pertains to it. The cosmic secrets I have unlocked. The nature of life, of death, and the cycle of rebirth. The deep knowledge, the very deep knowledge! So deep, it was moist when I found it! Locked with the crevices of the realms, the damp, sopping crevices!”

“Stop thrusting your hips at me.”

“Sorry, I was getting carried away. Anyway, I know you wanted to speak about it, and now’s your chance.”

He went back to leaning against the wall, looking for all the world as if he had someplace he’d rather be. Tyron frowned.

“You turned up now, when I’m on the brink of exhaustion, collapsing on my desk, and offer to speak to me? This timing isn’t just suspicious, Dove, it reeks more than your hat.”

“How dare you,” Dove gasped. “Do you really believe I would be so conniving, so deceitful, so… so underhanded?!”

“Stop talking for a minute or I’ll stuff your soul in a chopping board,” Tyron groaned, rubbing at his face.

Blood and bone, how long had it been since he’d slept? He hadn’t felt this exhausted in… a long time. Years. Perhaps not since he reinvented the status ritual for Dove, if even then. His eyes were dry as bone, his skin felt stretched over his skin, his mouth felt like he’d eaten a handful of sand. To top it all off, he had a pounding headache, and his guts were twisting around themselves like a sackful of snakes. He desperately needed something to eat and drink. He also needed sleep. Badly.

If his students saw him like this, they’d start trying to mother him again. He’d had enough of that treatment the last time.

What had he been doing? He trailed his eyes across the pages scattered over the table, along with those he’d stuck to the wall. Yes… the sigil combination related to the containment of the soul. It had to be the soul, what else could these particular runes relate to? He’d been cross-referencing to see if they were used anywhere else… perhaps in the…

His hands were already reaching for the scroll when he realised what he was doing and let them collapse in his lap. Getting drawn back in now would be a terrible idea. He sighed and pushed them all away before turning back to Dove.

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“Remain shut up for a minute,” he stated.

A few mental commands sent the undead he kept nearby running, and it wasn’t long before Filetta arrived in the room, a plate of bread and steamed vegetables in one hand, a mug of water in the other.

“You didn’t need to use me as your waitstaff,” she said. “I’m an undead killing machine. Even a skeleton could bring you food.”

“Their artificial minds don’t know how to carry plates and can’t tell what food is decent. I’d have to look through their eyes and micro-manage every movement,” Tyron grunted, taking the plate and mug and putting them on the table. He took a tiny sip from the mug, letting the cool water run over the desert that was the inside of his mouth.

What an amazing feeling. That alone was enough to help him feel a little better. He knew better than to start guzzling at the water, so he took another small sip, then another.

“Why is Dove being so quiet?” Filetta wondered, spotting him in the corner acting uncharacteristically obedient.

“Because I made a threat he knew I’d follow through on,” Tyron replied, trying a sliver of carrot. It hurt his throat going down, so he switched back to sips of water.

“Which was?”

“Chopping board.”

“Ah.”

Dove raised a hand and waved it a little. Tyron rolled his eyes and nodded.

“Hey there, sweet cheek-less,” he said, leaning toward Filetta while stroking the snake bones as if they were a cat. “Haven’t seen you around much lately.”

“That’s because I actively avoid you. Prick,” came the reply. She turned back to Tyron. “If that’s all, I’ll leave.”

He nodded. “Thanks. Sorry to ask you to do this,” he waved his hand toward the food.

“Just don’t make a habit out of it,” she scowled.

“Why can’t I have spirit flesh?” Dove complained as Filetta spun and left. “I could make expressions again. Sort of.”

“If you want upgrades, you need to be less of a pain in the backside.”

“Well, that’s never happening.”

“Exactly.”

It would take time for the food and water to actually make it through his system, but for now, just having something in his stomach was enough to make Tyron feel revived. It wouldn’t last, his mental fatigue was immense, but it would have to do.

“Alright,” he said, continuing to take tiny bites from the food on his desk. “Start talking.”

“About what?”