Things worse than death. Tenebrae's smile grew fixed. If he didn't know any better, he'd think Solomon Wreath was lecturing him. Lecturing him. As if he'd gained some higher level of understanding over the last few days. His tone would no doubt be condescending if Tenebrae bothered to try and listen past the pathetic wheezing.

He didn't like that. He really didn't like that.

"I'm not going to stand here and debate philosophy with you," he informed Wreath coolly. "You know the arguments as well as I do. The only thing I don't know is what changed for you this past week, which puts me at a disadvantage in a debate, as you well know. I have no intention of playing that game with you."

He pushed himself off the wall and knelt all the way down, putting himself on a closer level with Solomon, looking the suffering Necromancer straight in the eye. "Here's what I do know. You're dying. It doesn't take a genius to see that being here, right in the Temple, is making it worse. Look at yourself, Solomon. It's only been a few hours, and you can barely lift your head. Furthermore, you're about as far away from any practicing Necromancy as it's possible to be while remaining within the bounds of the Temple. I wonder..."

He reached out and gripped a flickering shadow in the corner. Slowly, pointedly, Tenebrae dragged it slowly across the rough stone floor, drawing it into his hand. "How does this feel?"