It was easy to underestimate just how difficult it was to control his Chimh with such a massive, all-consuming headache. It felt like trying to breathe air underwater or work up a sweat in a debilitatingly cold environment.
His Chimh fought him every step of the way, not because it was sentient or anything like that, but because his concentration slipped constantly. It was like reeling in a fish larger than he was with only a flimsy fishing rod and his own arms.
The slightest laps, the first sign of weakness, and the rod would snap and the fish would get away. His guiding hand was the rod, and his Chimh was the fish. And right now, the rod was close to snapping in twain.
But in spite of it all, he managed to fight through and pour his Chimh into the reddish-black third floor of his Necromancy Tower.
