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------------------------------ For some, days were as carefree as the summer breezes such souls enjoy themselves in, skipping and frolicking as any melodic creature better suited for a cheap musical for the children. For some, days were a torment that were seen only as matters to be endured to the next night, and then the next. For some, days were simply not counted as important in the grand scheme of things. The sun was up. Lezard was not. This particular day found the necromancer curled in one of his overstuffed chairs and face buried on his table in a rather undignified fashion. As he blinked open eyes gone crusted with dreams forgotten, Lezard realized that one of his wrists was bent rather painfully against his stomach, clutching something close as if it were his very soul seeking to fly away at the merest opportunity to escape. Too bad for it. Ah. The Philosopher’s Stone. He’d fallen asleep again while perusing the stores of knowledge—this would explain why his dreams had been littered with shouts of war and the crumblings of various dynasties, and also, inexplicably, the complete history of the role of moxin glue as it related to affixation of bottle labels. The Stone glimmered as it realized his attention was on it, beginning to conjure the whirls of colors that bubbled up from deep within to eventually form a story painted on the canvas of the mind. It was almost obscenely full of life for a place which harbored the off-color arts. Cradled against his skin like this, the Stone turned his flesh into a jeweler’s velvet gone cheaper with what it presented; it seemed to wax stronger the more fragile its surroundings became, vampirically malicious. –Come see, come see. Come watch something new, you know you want to see…- Lezard tightened his fingers over the seduction of the lights and looked away. The act was harder than he’d have liked to admit. Why not spend another day in simple research—nothing in particular this time, as was the case with most evenings he spent in company with the stone, just simply being lost in the sheer amount of –information- that had been dumped into the treasure. Into the dratted –thing-, rather—Lezard refused to give the Stone more respect than that when it began to overtake his life more than he preferred. Which was a lot, judging from how often he thought ill of what others would fight and die over. –Had- died over, really. Many, many others. Some of them had even come back twice despite that—an admirable spirit, and which had helped to teach him to always kick an opponent while they were down, and then to set them on fire and scatter the ashes. -Come and see, just come and look a little more, just come and look…- It was highly tempting to pitch the oversized marble into the corner of the room. Maybe one of his pets could enjoy it in a game of fetch. Time to get up and attempt a late breakfast. Lezard threw a cursory order to his eyes to seek out the grandfather clock near to the stairs down. They disobeyed; at first the necromancer was disturbed, and then the rest of his ill-born sleep was shaken off to realize that his glasses had been set on the table that had served as his informal pillow. Placing them on revealed that it was afternoon. Plenty of time to… do something. Anything. Perhaps a brief meal would give him the energy to devise a proper use for the time at hand. Certainly returning to another stint of meditation with the Stone would only continue the lethargy of actual thought. -It does not serve to dream your life away.- The mental reminder, sharper than he would have expected on himself, served to help shake the necromancer further out of his reverie. No, others could fixate on just letting events pass by them and then never see that they had only to –wake up- in order to seize the knowledges they so whined for. Others like Mysty. Hm. Breakfast first. The damned rock was warmer than he was. –No surprise-, Lezard thought sourly, beginning to unkink his joints from the rigor mortis the chair had collapsed him into. Judging from how tightly his hand had wrapped around the piece, he’d have needed no other ward to bar any lucky thief who’d made it up this far. The necromancer stored the Stone safely away in the small chest which he’d decided would be its home, and then wove a short ward over the entire thing again to reset the customary locks. –I haven’t picked up anything to eat lately, have I? Let’s see. Thursday was the order from the breadshop… which Thursday?- -Drat it all. Ridiculous Stone.- Lezard tried to scrub some coherency back into his face as he stumbled through one of the doors into his bedroom, not risking anything past mundane travel for the moment until he could at least splash some water to wake him up. No fresh liquid either—drat again. He’d forgotten to refill the pitcher, and from the feel of it, all the minor creatures about who were –supposed- to remember their duties properly were doing so to more important matters, such as making certain the vials of chemicals in his labs weren’t deciding to explode for entertainment value of the prisoners. –Do I even have someone alive down there?- he wondered suddenly. –Maybe I could try to convince them that I’d let them go if they made me toast. No, they’d likely attempt to stab me with the butter knife.- That did it. He was going to hire a housekeeper. And get some coffee. After a quick change of clothes and a raking of his fingers through his hair, Lezard slunk back into the main study and eyed the map spread upon a wall. Hmm. Never mind any of this—after a narrow stare at the territory described, the necromancer simply threw up a hand in caffine-deprived desperation. Somewhere with a café, preferably with outdoors seating. Could that be so hard to ask? With very little else in mind, the man threw together the rudiments of a teleportation and vanished from the tower. ------------------------------------ "Fundamental Needs" (Lezard) By Luka Kalval ------------------------------------ |