Cisanius sat at the window of his library, deep in thoughts, resting his chin on his joined hands. Correction - Cisanius hovered near the window of the now-locked tower that had formerly been his library, deep in thoughts, and pretended to rest his chin on his - now non-existent - joined hands. His actual hands, also joined, were probably somewhat chewed by now, and so was his chin. His once grey-green eyes were most likely just liquid. His meticulously groomed short, pointy beard and long black hair would still be intact for a while; he would know, he used to dig up dead bodies sometimes. He wasn't even sure where he was buried. It wasn't of much importance where his body was, as long as it wasn't around his soul. And he had always been so careful. No one suspected anything. He was so close. And he had to die for no higher reason than that he swallowed wrong at supper one evening. He died for a herring. How humiliating. Some necromancer was maybe going to make good use of him, and he didn't mind. Losing his body was inconvenient, but worse than that was the knowledge that he was losing his life's work. Soon his dim-witted nephew will come and probably throw all the books he collected and even the ones he wrote himself into some attic to make space for his hunting trophies and more drunken dinners with his dim-witted friends. And he wasn't going to have that. Meractus can have the room and fill it with antlers to the overflowing, but he wasn't going to destroy all that he achieved. All that knowledge, all that power. A tower, much higher than this, appeared in Cisanius' mind, one reaching to the sky and beyond, and at he top of the tower a solitary mortal, seeing everything in the whole world... and still building. There is always higher to go. There is always more to learn. Is that why so many wizards want to have towers, just for symbolism? Perhaps. And inwardly he smiled, because he knew what the next step was, the next building block in this awesome tower. Dead or not, he was not going to give up on that. He just needs some help from somebody who is alive. Somebody worthy who will understand, who can one day continue his work. He didn't know yet who that was going to be, but it was high time to start looking, before there are no books left. An apprentice would have been a good idea. Which he should have thought of while he was alive. Oh well, no time like the present. It's a perfectly fine moonlit night, and dawn is sufficiently far away. He got up and for a moment considered walking down the stairs, but then he realized that was no longer necessary, and just floated out the window instead. Then he shook his imaginary head and gave an imaginary chuckle; why the window? He could just as easily have floated through the wall. This death thing was going to take some getting used to.