Chapter B5: 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.