Chapter B5: The Storm Rolls
It took Tyron a day to tend to the storm rods. Of course, Master Willhem, which is how Tyron still thought of the demi-lich, worked as well, repairing more than half of them. However, he couldn’t help but feel disappointed that his former teacher continued to avoid him, refusing even to communicate through the conduit they shared.
He’d been patient with the Master Arcanist, giving him time and space to adjust to his new existence, but it didn’t seem to be working. He wasn’t sure if Willhem resented him for bringing him back from the dead, or felt betrayed by the deception Tyron had played on him, or simply detested being an undead. The demi-lich’s thoughts were completely masked to him at all times, and Tyron hadn’t done anything to force the issue.
Which was how it would remain, for the time being. He needed his Master’s help, and he would get it one way or another, but he would much prefer it if he could treat him as an equal, rather than a servant.
By the time he finished the maintenance, the storm overhead had reached a boiling point. It was disturbing, to say the least, watching the sky tear itself apart in much the same way it had in the worlds beyond the rifts. To think that just over the mountains from the Empire, the realm they inhabited was already so far gone, almost completely lost to the kin and magick that poured out in an unending tide.
When he made his way back to his quarters, the first crashing booms erupted overhead.
Tyron knew what would follow. Wild and untamed magick would clash overhead, a storm of power that would produce fire, wind, lightning, ice, and other, less mundane magickal effects. Without the knowledge he’d gained from the Old Gods regarding the nature of magick, he wouldn’t have been able to create the rods and keep the city safe at all.
He pushed all other concerns from his mind as he made his way, finally, to his own home amidst the ruins. Not that it was much of a house. He strode up the cracked and damaged steps towards what had once been a grand entrance. Of the columns that had once flanked the doorway, little remained but the base, the stone sheared through as if by a knife. Stepping inside, he looked up at the vaulted ceiling to note the progress that had been made.
His skeletons had been hard at work trying to repair the roof, but it was slow going. Such a large building required an ungodly amount of time, effort and resources to repair, and with literally millions of people trying to create a new life for themselves in the city, it would have been absurd for him to claim all the stone required to cover it.
His undead spent nine-tenths of their efforts assisting people around the city and working on civil projects—clearing the streets, cleaning out usable buildings and helping to enforce order. The rest was spent on his own projects, and among those, the roof he didn’t really need or use didn’t rank all that highly.