Bartholomew descended the stairs with slumped shoulders and a profound misery weighing down the growing pit in his stomach. Had he ever believed in his family’s ‘cause’, it was all gone now. If the good Kerras the third would refuse to bring him along, he would have nothing save for the scars at his back and his uneasy dreams. He could leave, but he suspected the Inquisition was already out there- searching for him in the streets under the guise of ensuring his safety, when in truth; he was staunch in his belief that they were to return him to the Garrison, where he would have to suffer through endless lectures and attempts to convert him to see the ‘Glory’ once more. That woman- that miserable, misguided, tortured magus-woman had served to finally tip the scales over entirely and leave him disillusioned and hopeless. Seeing the ravenous crowd and the bright grin of his brother had made him certain that there could be no saving these people- no turning back to humanity for any one of them.

None of them had spent the day cradling her in their arms and listened to her as she whispered tenderly about her daughter- begging not to be rescued to fulfill some pact with a shadowy figure who had promised to ensure said daughter’s safety. He had thought then, as he sat there and wept over her beaten and abused body, that it had all been false- a figment of her imagination... but then, as he sat at the bar and watched Kester nervously, fervently polish the countertop; he could not shake the sensation that her misguided mutters had spoken a smidgen of truth.

“Ah, Bartholomew... how wonderful it is to see you up and about.” Kerras’ benevolent voice spoke from the kitchen as the long, thin, pale man pressed through the door with a grin. Seeing him in all his depraved glory tugged at Bartholomew’s heartstrings- reminding him that some, like him, were still concerning themselves with the pleasures of the flesh. Bart stood up to bow at the esteemed traveler and spoke; “Kerras... I apologize for my plea this morning- I had a rough night, as I am sure you can relate-”

Asrael raised a hand to dismiss the needless gesture and motion for the stools by the bar. The two sat down by the ancient, wooden, well-polished countertop for Asrael to mutter; “I can- worry not... I saw you at the pyre- you seemed moved by the ceremony.” Moved... Bartholomew almost shuddered at the dismissal of his melancholy, whereas Kester winced in visible discomfort.

Bartholomew scoffed and replied; “I... do not have the stomach for the brutality. If I am to be honest, I-” Asrael cut the man short by adding; “I know. Seeing as our young pyromancer is still alive and well, I believe we are all on the same side.” This time, it was Bartholomew’s turn to freeze and wince. Naturally; he imagined the tavernkeeper had confessed to his visitor, when in truth, the necromancer had spied the heir’s benevolence through the floorboards with glee. Bartholomew swallowed and looked to his surroundings for any weaponry. He could grab a glass and crush it on the pale man’s face- hopefully, he could then use one of the shards of glass to slice across his throat and kill him before he could turn him in, but... what good would it do? Could he waste another depraved soul- a true ‘friend’, all on the basis of ensuring that he could live another day in misery?

Asrael smirked at the sullen silence of his visitor and continued; “I take it you do not agree with the fine ‘Inquisition’s’ rule? Those tears you wept might’ve fooled the sheepish masses, but I know pain when I see it... I am quite familiar with the sensation, I assure you.” Bartholomew looked up from his hands and met the necromancer’s green eyes.

With a sullen frown, Bartholomew questioned the depraved soul; “If you know, why have you not turned me in yet? I am certain the Inquisition would reward you well to ensure your silence. Perhaps you would even get to see my dishonorable execution- perhaps you could hold my brother’s hand and comfort him as he sets the noose around my neck.” Asrael nearly scoffed at the mention of a hanging- truly, a merciful death in comparison to what they would put the magi through... it spoke volumes of the state of his once-acceptable empire when nepotism would only buy you a swift death, rather than riches.

He shook his pale cheeks and spoke; “I told you, we are on the same side- I do not enjoy watching their suffering any more than you do. I only wished to extend my hand, as an ally, and tell you that you are not alone in protesting your father’s rule.” Could it be that there truly still were decent people in this wretched city? Could this Kerras the Third be not only a fellow depraved soul, but also, one who opposed the iron rule?

Bartholomew swallowed the contents of his dry mouth. Licking his lips, he reached for Kester’s half-drunk glass of water and wetted his mouth to warn; “The last allies I had suffered miserably for it. I suffered miserably for it. I would be very careful about offering your friendship to a misfortunate pariah.” Asrael had to resist his body’s urges to rub his hands together with greed.

After a moment’s demonstrative considerations, the pale heir to the Kerras name lay a hand on Bartholomew’s back- the same hand that had undoubtedly caressed his own sister on numerous occasions. The excited, wayward Sargerrei glanced about the tavern before rising to his height to unbutton his shirt- mesmerizing the other two. He turned around to slide the shirt from his shoulders and bare his muscled, scarred back to display the wings of the traitor- a barbaric, macabre practice Asrael had only ever read in the books of old. He raised his hand to touch the scars and properly analyzed that most of his cutis had been stripped from his musculature and underlying tissues. A feeble, foolish fleshmender had then stretched epidermis atop the open wounds to cover it and facilitate the growth of scars.

Over his shoulder; Bartholomew spoke, “I had a dream and for following my heart’s desires; this was to be my prize. They stripped my flesh and left me on display for the court for a full day as they executed every last one of my men... so, to answer your question... I do not agree with their rule.” Kester could scarcely believe his eyes. How anyone might’ve lived through such a procedure was beyond him, whereas the Necromancer seemed unsurprised. Instead; he rubbed the scars gently and spoke in turn, “Tell me, then, brave warrior... what was this dream of yours?” Bartholomew let the cool fingers steal away the burning-hot, continuous agony.

“My dream never faded- dreams cannot die. I set out to the wildling lands with the twelfth legion- my own legion- on a search. My father tasked me with hunting the region’s magi to extinction- to prepare them for another one of his attempts at invading the land. I had... other... priorities.” He could still feel the fleshshaper sisters treat him like a roasting pig- pinning him in between their monstrous cocks. He took a deep breath of satisfaction before continuing; “I seek to find the largest, tallest, strongest woman out there. To feel her thighs crush my pelvis and, if the Gods will it, have my head smashed open on that glorious gash. Be she a magus or a non-magic citizen; I will find her or die in so doing... all I need do... is get the Hell out of here.”

Asrael’s hands stilled- as did Kester’s breathing. Neither could believe what they had just heard. The Empire’s finest son- renowned swordsman and beloved by all for his charm and handsome exterior... was a depraved, thrill-seeking miscreant? Asrael’s hand began to tremble at his back. He was nothing short of perfect- the end result of a world aflame with immorality... the stark opposite to his mortal enemy, this creature’s father. Asrael’s grin widened as Bartholomew buttoned his shirt back on.

“And I will help you find her, Bartholomew Sargerrei. I, Kester, Barrel- even the harlot girl will help you in your endeavor. But first... I will need something of you.” And with those words, the unholy alliance was formed. Bartholomew knew it the second he turned around to see the still-stumped tavernkeeper and the grinning, unsightly man’s extended, cold hand. For so long, he had wandered the city, having forgotten about his dream alltogether. In fact, just the day previous he had set his sights on drinking himself to death, but now... after a few minutes in this glorious man’s presence, he could feel life return to his chest. Kerras the third was the light and the way- the solution to his predicament.

“Whatever you need. You shall have it.” He swore, only for a fearsome darkness to take hold of Asrael’s features.

“Well, then... let us begin by talking of the girl. Then; I will make you an offer I believe will bring us closer.”