“Dying is a strange feeling. I mean really dying, for real. Temporary deaths leave you deadened, sullen, and desperately in need of gin - the real thing is ten times worse. Knowing that you’re going to die, that you choose to go through with it leaves you gobsmacked. The world carried on in my absence (though I guess I never expected anything less), and though grief courses through the veins of those you call family and friends they move on. They become post-me.”

“You sound horribly sure of yourself,” the shade replied.

The antechamber to the Playhouse fell silent. A ten by ten room of dusty floorboards and potential hemmed in the duo. Duffy stood, or rather, what Duffy had become, with his arms folded across his chest and his right foot tap tapping. The shade, a spectral form of a man once with a story to tell lingered by the entrance. The sun shone through him resplendent, illuminating the vespers of his organs.

“You asked me what I was feeling.” The bard raised an eyebrow.

“You’ve only been here for three years. I’m surprised you’ve figured it all out so quickly.”

The Shade, who went by whatever name the patrons of the Playhouse deemed necessary to make sense of themselves floated forwards. Duffy grew tense, not entirely trusting his mentor. Though no real harm could come to him, the creature put him odd at ease.

“Not being able to sleep, eat, or hide from any of you bastards makes you step up.”

“The responsibilities of a Thayne transcend-”

“Mortal convictions, yes, I know.” Duffy rolled his eyes. “You’ve said that nine times since sunrise.”

“I will say it nine more if you walk out onto that stage and miss so much as a syllable.” The Shade’s words compressed time. They lingered, burning severity and impulse into the Thayne’s ears.

“You wound me, ser.” He bowed, a mockery worthy of the risks of a lecture. “I’ve been doing this before you died.”

Of that much he was sure. Though new to the Playhouse, his life was as much a legend as the gods that walked the halls and meandered through the costume warehouses. He had, or so it seemed, made quite the name for himself as the members of the Tantalum Troupe. They were so mesmerised by the war between Thayne and Forgotten One none dared call him by the name-that-once-was.

“No matter what you see. Who you see. You must not admit who you are.” The Shade pointed to the door opposite, an iron clad portal into the unknown, and drifted towards the bard.

Expecting this, Duffy tried to relax. As the Shade travelled into him, and then through, the ethereal form gifted to the Thayne in the Playhouse whirred. It spiralled in on itself. It crashed down, like a tidal wave into a forest, and then the door opened. He lingered, at peace, before the swell of magic that connected the Tap to the world in broken conduits dragged him backwards in a hurricane. Tantalus fell out into the world, mewing and spewing and none the wiser for his troubles.