Asrael lay awake- surprisingly undisturbed by the snoring of the small, round man in the cot. Had the old man still lived, he would’ve undoubtedly attributed the sleeplessness to the recent trauma, and, as usual, the old man would be wrong. No... he lay awake thinking about that damnable intruder- the creature capable of stealing into his mind with just a single glance. He had no knowledge of the fineries of psychomancy, but it seemed to him that she had frozen time in that brief moment and forced his unwilling body to molest the other infuriating girl- leaving them to suffer an awkward silence for the rest of the horrid evening- a silence she was all too happy to fill with her sobs.

On her side of the bed, Neda never knew when Asrael slept. His breathing never changed because, as she was learning, he never really breathed when he wasn’t speaking. Even so... she decided that she was in the right to demand to talk to him. He had, after all, forced her to watch... that. She reached across the three rolled-up duvets separating their sides of the bed and poked his shoulder... he lay still... unresponsive. She did it again, only for him to sigh and remind her;

“I told you. Stay on your side of the barrier- breaking it voids its function, which is to satisfy my need for safety against your lusty, hormone-fueled hands.” As per usual; she understood approximately one-fifth of what he had just said, but the softness of his voice relayed that he was not as angered with her as she might’ve thought. Which led her to question... why, then, had he spent the day being especially cruel to her?

She poked him again and said; “We need to talk. I can’t sleep until we do.” He closed his eyes and breathed another, slightly more aggressive sigh- a prompt she had learned meant she could continue. “Why are you being such an asshole to me? Why do you want to pawn me off on that guy? I’m doing my best to get stronger, y’know... I want to help...” She trailed off as she remembered the eyeless woman’s screams and reminded herself; “I wanna make sure no one else gets burned like that... I wanna stop any other kids from being taken from their villages and-…" She could scarcely form the words.

Asrael continued staring up in the ceiling. The weakly girl could, at best, use her magics to fuel a sailboat in still waters. At worst, she could be cannon-fodder, but then again; that would be the waste of good, magical blood. Still, he figured he owed her an answer- leading to a brief moment’s introspection. “People will burn- many of them. Be they by my flames or theirs, flesh will sear and crowds will scream. It is in your best interest- and mine- that you stay with that man.” She considered his words for a moment, hoping she’d understand. If everything was as straightforward as it seemed, then Asrael was being unfair and was not allowing her to prove her worth- a dissonance between the man he acted and the one she was starting to know pretty well.

Unless... she kept her jaw from dropping at the realization. It made sense to her now. Rallo had done it numerous times before- when he had treated her cruelly and insisted she take the last piece of bread or the final sip of water. Through his cruelty, he had sought to encourage her to act selfishly. The intensity of his gaze, the firm grasp he had held on her bottom- his wanton treatment of her... she glanced over at him with the slightest of smiles and a faint blush to her cheeks. Was this it? Could Asrael, throughout their brief time together, have developed an emotional connection with her- the mythical, strange, occult feeling- that one emotion the villagers whispered tales of around the campfires... the one that had fueled ancient wars and taken countless lives; the feeling of-… she could scarcely even think the word.

His companion’s silence unnerved him to the point he turned to see that the profound sadness- the trauma from earlier had dissipated from her red eyes. Instead; she shone a sheepish, idiotic smile at him as she fumbled around for his cold, dead hand in a misguided attempt to seduce him. He slapped her hand away and barked a command for the girl to “Go to sleep, you lusty harlot- I will not fall victim to your seductions!” Whatever he had just said, she was sure he had spoken the cruel words with the best intentions- just as he insisted she leave him. “I won’t leave you, y’know... I’ll get stronger, then we can stop them together. Rallo would’ve wanted the same thing.” She reached out and touched his cold, dead back with a sigh- feeling a measure safer than she felt without him.

He remained as deathly still as ever despite muttering his few obscenities.

Bartholomew awoke in a familiar agony. His mouth felt as if he had spent the night drinking liquid fire, his head ached with dull, thudding pain and both his arms were numb and senseless from having rested his body on them for most of the night. A soft, fragrant finger pressed against his temple as the voice of an Angel whispered to another; “I don’t think he’s dead, but... I mean; he looks dead.” Bartholomew groaned and turned his head to face the merciful being.

The beautiful Neda smiled down at him from next to her small, round companion. She raised her hand to greet the wayward Sargerrei son whose joints ached as if some diabolical creature had poured sand into every one of his articulations. He opened his mouth to speak a parched; “G-goddess... have you come to put me out of my misery?” At the sound of his voice, another loud groan sounded from across the countertop. Kester rose from the floor to retch a cognac-scented, dry heave and groan a “Don’t... forget... about me... then...”

The chaufeur noted that whatever party had taken place, must have been a miserable one. Barrel noted how every stool in the tavern was turned up on the tables- meaning; the two drunkards had likely spent their night alone- drinking their way through Kester’s unimpressive stocks. Next to the small, round man; Neda scratched her chin ponderously and hoped to decipher what Bartholomew had just grunted at her. Tugging at her shirt; Barrel whispered “Nedda... thems been drinkin’. We better leave ‘em be- I'm sure Gerry’ll feed us.” Neda snapped her fingers as she remembered what had brought them down from their chamber in the first place. She raised a thumb towards the small, round man and spoke; “Right! We’ve gotta see Gerathar. I’ll show him... I’ll get strong enough to help him- then he’ll stop that bullshit about tryin’a get rid of me, right?”

Barrel rubbed his thick, flabby neck with a nod and said; “For sure, Nedda. Bud maybe-” The excitable girl grabbed her small, fat companion by his dirty shirt and dragged him over towards the door, where she flung the barrier open to let the agonizing, torturously bright sunlight inside- paining the two debaucherous drunkards slumped over the counter.

Asrael awaited the slam of the door before braving departing from their chamber to step downstairs and scan the acceptably empty tavern with a sigh of relief. The awkwardness of the previous night still lingered in the atmosphere between him and his female companion and he would be damned if he let another, dreadful moment pass between them- not when there was so much work to be done... At the sound of his worn boots, the two drunkards by the bar perked up and turned to look at him.

“Oh no...” He muttered as he saw the excitement in Bartholomew’s eyes. The slumped-over, would-be Inquisitor staggered to his feet and grabbed his forehead and with a groan; expressed his self-inflicted pain. Asrael took a step backwards to dodge the man’s incessant touch as he pleaded; “P-please, Master Kerras... I cannot stomach another moment in this city. I came to ask you to take me away- to free me from this wicked place.” Asrael raised an inquisitive eyebrow. He had seen the emotional distress on this wayward Sargerrei’s face the evening before- he had factored it into his plans going forward, but fleeing Pilta was not part of it. Kester looked up from the counter and raised a hand to say; “M-me too... me, Bess and Maribelle need a ride out of here-”

Asrael took a step back from the reeking, shambling messes and shook his head sternly and stated; “I am not a cab-driver, nor would I bring either of you, should I have been one... not in your state.” He paused and looked at Bartholomew with thinly veiled displeasure before pointing up the stairs. “You. Go rest in our room- be sure to sleep on the left side of the bed and do not dare soil the fabric past the barrier. Go!” Bartholomew was well-used to follow orders, in fact; he missed those days where he was expected to follow them, rather than give them. He smiled up at the benign, kindly commander of men with gratitude. “T-thank you, kind Kerras... I am not sure how I will ever pay you back-” Asrael groaned and grabbed the man by his shoulders to urge him up the stairs- undoubtedly paining him, but ultimately ridding himself of the disruptive presence of the drunkard.

As Bartholomew staggered up the stairs, Asrael stepped over to the tavernkeeper to grab him by his shirt and drag him back into the kitchen. The helpless, struggling commoner fool attempted to fight his insistent guest, but to no avail. The monstrous strength in his undead muscles proved a combatant he was neither capable of- nor motivated to fight. The time for observations was over- now; the necromancer's plan needed to come to fruition and with or without the fool, his great work would commence. Asrael dragged the hapless man into the dark tunnel while demanding; “Tell me of these dark pathways, innkeeper. Why are they here? Where do they lead?” The darkness proved a comfortable place in which he could suffer through his toxic migraine- void of light and cool enough to prevent some of the pain.

Through his pained groans, the tavernkeeper responded; “Gods above... Pilta used to be a mining-town- back before the iron and gold dried up. These are the old shafts- now; they’re mostly used to lead sewage into the river.” That would explain the smell, Asrael surmised.

He let go of the hapless keeper and pondered aloud; “My men have found several entrances into the city- there are numerous connections to cellars and drainage-canals in the streets... Does anyone ever walk these tunnels?” Kester pressed his filthy palm against his forehead and spoke through his teeth; “Do I look like a fucking sewerkeeper? I run an inn- I've never even been in here.”

The dead man did not appreciate the fool’s tone, but would accept it as a testament of his honesty. The necromancer tapped his foot impatiently and nodded his satisfaction; “You will have to do. Continue about your day, but when night falls; I want you to meet me in the cellar with some torches, some ropes- do you have clorophorm? Or ether?” Kester squeezed his eyes shut and attempted to decipher the madman’s request. After a bewildered moment, the tavernkeeper questioned; “Do I have... what?” Sensing that the fool would prove useless in that endeavour; Asrael waved him off.

“Bumbling oaf... leave and sort yourself out. I suppose I will have to find an apothecary. Go!” Kester needed no further motivation to leave the infuriating man and obeyed the order- stumbling through the darkness to return to the cellar in his continued, post-hypnotic daze. Whatever the madman had planned... he would have no part of it- not if he could help it.

On his own; Asrael had his pale companions step from the darkness. The women’s claws had grown substantially since last he had seen them- their transformation was nearly complete. Long, sharp, keratinous growths extended from their fingertips like blades; truly works of art he would come to rely on in the near future. As for Kerras; he imagined he could come to rely on his semi-human appearance someday and had opted for keeping him in his naked, glorious form... the Ogre, however, could be improved. Muscles could be spliced- tendons could be grafted and strengthened to make the man what he was always meant to be... a true brute- a shield for his more... fragile... compatriots. Asrael grinned at the brutal tyrant to speak a promise; “I will make you worthy of our muse, soldier of mine.”