In times of need; Asrael had always found solace in slumber. Physical pain, commoner idiots, and emotional disturbances would seem so distant whenever he closed his eyes and withdrew back into the safety of his inner world. He remembered the baton to the back of his head- he could still taste the headache, after all. But even in the knowing, nothing in the manifesting reality existed outside his mind; he rejoiced in smelling his Study. He opened his eyes and awoke at a familiar table, hunched over a familiar book and with a familiar scent tainting his olfactory receptors. The smell of ink on riverweed parchment was unmistakable- it was his own notebook supporting his heavy, exhausted forehead. It felt hard against his face, so hard, in fact; it might as well have been the ground.

The smell was unmistakable- it was the smell of a thousand years’ work culminating into a masterpiece that had never before been published, at least not in recorded human history. The grand puzzle- the prize so many had sought before him lay at his fingertips... or rather; his pained cheek. He remained there, slumped-over, staring at his fingertip as it caressed the unbreakable paper. The sound, the sensation of his bitten fingernails against the minute, fine fibers- it was the unmistakable sound of perfection... of discovery. Of his genius.

He heard a creaking, powerful voice behind him, speaking to his apprentice as gently as ever. “Why would you have the carpenter spend countless hours carving you a bed if you do not intend to sleep in it?” The Master was a powerful magus, but he could not help thinking that the old man would have made an excellent rogue. His movements were as inaudible as they had ever been, yet a lifetime of this sneaking had made the apprentice expect his presence rather than to be surprised when he materialized from the shadows.

Asrael mumbled in a post-hypnotic haze; “I had a strange dream, but I cannot remember it. There was something important. Something I need your help with...” He rose from the book and rubbed his face with a sense of desperation. He needed the old man’s help- his unfathomable, unending wisdom. But for the life of him; he could not remember what.

The old man dismissed his worries with a chuckle and stated; “If it had been important, you would not have forgotten it, boy.” He paused to pull the hood back and reveal his leathery, kindly face before continuing; “I envy your carelessness, boy. The entire tower has had troubles sleeping as of late, but here you are... sleeping over your books, the same as you’ve always done.”

The apprentice turned to face the old man and saw the shallow, forced smile beneath the dark hood. His robe dripped of water on the stone floor, a testament to his dedication to wandering outside in the darkness of the night, no matter the weather. His expression was tired and conveyed an ill-placed worry not easily attributed to any of his facial features, but the smile that most would have deemed ‘genuine’ did not fool the man who had spent the last twenty years under him.

“Why would you claim the others have troubles sleeping? I’ve heard no talks of rift-madness or a contagion.”

He glared skeptically at his Master whose lips moved to form the words; “Asrael... You spend too little time with your peers to understand the unspoken. There are changes in the Empire as I am certain even you have noticed. The people’s attitude towards the magi has never been entirely positive, but over the last ten years or so, the divide between “us” and “them” has only grown wider.”

Asrael took a moment to ponder the old man's words. The commoners were a skeptical bunch in regards to the magi, but most were wise enough to realize the extent of their helplessness without the magi. “They may be common idiots, but even they know they would not last the winter without us. The fleshmancers and healers haven’t a day to spare for research for as long as I’ve lived at the Tower. There will always be some half-wit non-magus who has contracted some disease for bedding a mule.” Asrael cracked his fingers and neck in turn before continuing;

“And you, old man, are focused on the wrong thing. You should be worried for my presentation for the Emperor, yet you spend your days mulling over the rabble and these lesser magi!”

The old man threw his head back in a profound laugh. “Your selfishness and arrogance is an inspiration to us all, apprentice of mine. If we could all stick our heads as deep into our rectums as you can, then sleep would not be an issue for us... Consider your actions amongst the common folk, Asrael. Times are changing. If you were to repeat that statement in public, I would not put it past them to execute you.” His ill-placed bemusement annoyed the young Necromancer, but the old man continued;

“As for the fleshmancers and healers, their schedules have opened up for plenty of research lately. In fact; it has become so difficult for them to find patients that the adepts have taken to practicing on your many corpses.” Asrael was surprised, rather than upset by this unsettling information. He had never been particularly interested in what his colleagues were preoccupied with- it mattered little to him, after all... but the news was unnerving. In an attempt to dismiss his own worries as much as his Master's;

Asrael scoffed and stated; “If the common idiots have taken to practicing their ‘medicine’, nature will run its course and before long we’ll have to tend to our own farms when they die to their idiocy.” He jested and turned back to his books. His master should have responded- he always did in this dream... Asrael turned over his shoulder and felt his heart sink into his stomach at the unnerving sight that greeted him. In his Master’s place; a miserable creature oozed a terrifying aura- a Satyr. The Satyr. Its body was covered in chains and its face in an ungodly grin. The rotten strips of flesh that hung from its bared flesh nauseated the young Necromancer, but he was far too unnerved- far too terror-stricken to visibly react.

“Asrael...” It whispered and honed its milky white corneas unto him- rattling the chains as it took a single step forward.