Asrael held the torch up high back in the direction from where they had come. At his sides, Ellie and Neda both narrowed their eyes to stare out into the darkness- both convinced that they had seen something glowing back there. The necromancer himself, however, had been too slow to turn and had just missed the fading of the bright orange in their wake. Still... as nervous and absent-minded as Neda was, he had learned to trust Eleanor’s observations- especially when they spoke such dire implications.

If they were being followed, this would be the typical timing for it- now that he had his strongest men out scuttling in the villages’ fields in search of wayward farmhands and hiding, hungry vagrants to further enlarge his army. He spoke a silent command for Kerras to send his reinforcements before motioning for his female companions to hide along the walls. Eleanor- obedient and dutiful as always, signaled her understanding and her unending trust with a nod before stepping out into the darkness to hide her small frame beyond a rocky outcrop.

As always, Neda seemed to think that she was above his orders... either that, or the empty, red-eyed stare meant that she hadn’t even tried to understand what the motion of the torch meant. Before he could open his mouth to scold her, her eyes lit up at the sound of distant, rustling armor. The undead were fast- far faster than what he might’ve come to expect from humans under usual circumstances. Their lengthy stay in the darkness had also allowed their hive-mind to develop to the point it seemed they could make sense of the dark, when in truth, they had fumbled around the darkness long enough to know the craggy surface and were clearly able to navigate it with the scant light of their spaced-out torches.

Petrus peered around the corner to see the necromancer stare at him with his torch held up high above his head. His coat flapped in the disturbed atmosphere as the three, pale forms approached Petrus’ corner. They were fast- far faster than he was. The trio of men had been stripped of their chain-mails and their tabards- leaving them half-dressed in their studded leather pants and worn boots. Their muscled chests were covered in what Petrus first thought to be scratches, but as they quickly leapt over the stones, he saw the pale wounds for what they were- runes.

For years, the Clergy had told him of the forbidden practice of Inscription- a barbaric, Ungodly method of attaining power not meant for human hands. Seeing the forbidden violations against Man with his own eyes nearly deprived him of his late lunch, but as he saw their eyes, he suffered a sobering experience. The six green-glowing bulbs were firmly affixed... to him.

Just as the three men turned around the corner, a bright-white flash of light shot out from the darkness to illuminate the dull mineral walls. The phototoxic scotoma that ensued nearly deprived Asrael of the sight of what had once been his three soldiers- now little but piles of smoldering, black piles of embers and cooked flesh in the far end of the lengthy corridor. Neda’s yelp had been heard by every set of ears in the abandoned mine, yet none had heard it. Asrael’s mind had been fully focused on the stunning disappearance of his men, Ellie had been too startled by the flash itself to notice and Petrus had been far too focused on casting his humongous, destructive fireball.

“More men, Kerras! Send them all!” Asrael roared into his mind as he took a step back to ready himself for what came next. Light boots clapped against the stone as a blond man in a tan cloak and unremarkable, civilian clothing stepped around the corner to glare at the necromancer and his still-visible, gaping companion.

“The castrate-…" Asrael muttered as he squinted his eyes to look at the smooth, pointed chin- the underdeveloped nose and his genuinely attractive cheek bones. Petrus stopped in between the smoldering remains of the dead men and extended his palms to his sides threateningly. “Surrender now! Confess to your Sins before the Inquisition and the Purged! Tell me of Bartholomew’s betrayal- how is he involved in this fiendish-…” Petrus’ nose wrinkled as he looked down at the scorched corpses with disgust. He seemed to almost choke on the words: “magic?” Asrael took another careful step backwards and bit his lower lip ponderously.

He could run, but the speed of whatever magic the castrate had thrown a moment previous was far more than even his undead legs could produce. Perhaps one- or both- the girls would have to be sacrificed-… he shook the thought from his mind. That would disadvantage him, as he would be left with one or two fewer sets of hands to inscribe his soldiers.

No, the only answer; the only way in which he could be spared the girls and avoid the unpleasantries that would inevitably follow Petrus’ survival was to see to it that the man would die- preferably before killing any more of his men. The castrate signaled his impatience by extending his fingers and releasing a bright-orange glow from his palms and threateningly roar: “Speak, fiend! Tell me of Bartholomew’s involvement!”

Asrael raised the torch and his free hand above his head and spoke through a forced frown: “Oh no- the Inquisition! How did you find us!?” Had Neda and Ellie still had their wits about them, they might’ve considered how impressive it was that he sounded naught but slightly inconvenienced by the Purged’s interference. The necromancer watched a sickening, victorious smile creep across the pyromancer’s features with a bitter frown. With his free hand, Asrael reached inside his coat pocket and retrieved a piece of paper that he unfolded demonstratively before his face- making certain that he displayed Eleanor’s foolish schematic in Petrus’ direction while explaining: “These are our orders- given to us by Bartholomew, himself. It even has his handwriting.” As expected, the suspicious effeminate goblin perked up at the sight of the paper, but was too far away to read it.

Petrus opened his mouth to protest as Asrael folded it back together and pressed it into Neda’s hand and quickly muttered: “Take it to Eleanor.” before quickly continuing towards Petrus: “Naturally, we will want assurances. If we give you our man-” Petrus’ palms flared up as Neda leapt over towards Ellie to join her in her shelter and pressed the paper into her hands.

“Stand still, Demons! You are in no place to make demands of me! Now, hand me those orders-” Asrael raised a strict finger and wagged it back and forth to say: “One of us has it- the two others do not. You can either eliminate us one-by-one or you could spare us... We will arrange a spot where we will drop off his orders and then we will walk away- alive.” His smug, confident smirk made Petrus’ skin glow and made both his companions uneasy, as they were far from as calm as their associate seemed. Unbeknownst to them, however, Asrael’s confidence came from his wish to keep the man occupied until the army gathering further down the tunnel would be large enough to overwhelm the unsightly critter.

His confident took a hit as Petrus stepped forward and let a bright plume of fire demonstratively shoot out from either palm to further dispel the darkness and roar: “Be quiet, you Ungodly wretch! You are in no position to make demands!” Asrael beheld the spectacle with a concealed awe. In the world of old, when the magics were slowly draining from the world, the most powerful necromancers could- at best- set a candle aflame. Kester’s daughter had been impressive, but this... this was a world apart from anything he had previously seen. The factum that the ill-tembered castrate had reduced his men to smoldering heaps of ashes within the blink of an eye only went to drive the point home that Asrael was out of his depth. But no matter-… thirty-six will have to do. Asrael smiled and took a step back as the clattering echoed once more between the walls. Petrus’ dark eyes lit up with the bright intensity of his fiery magic, but before he could punish Asrael, the necromancer had turned to leap for a refuge along the rightside wall.

Petrus surprised them all by laughing as an army of shambling, inscribed men leapt from the corridor- swinging their arms and blades about. Surely, his fireballs would be naught against those-… Asrael peered out from the rock to see the pyromancer slap his fiery hands together. The liquid inferno between his palms spread out to an arch of solid, crackling magic and with another jerk of his hand, the lethal scorching-hot, infernal plume shot out. As soon as it collided with the first trio of men, it splashed out and wrapped around their bodies to envelop them in a heat hot enough to make the stony walls glow with orange. Asrael felt the wave of hot air strike him as if he were in an oven or a dry sauna, but far more concerning was the smoke that seeped out from their burning bodies.

To Neda and Ellie, they had simply caught fire, but to Asrael- learned in the ways of chemical reactions, they had done so much more. Petrus was still unharmed and untouched by the now-immobile bodies- the proteins of their muscles were simply too denaturated to move. But the combustion had been largely incomplete- spewing out great amounts of black some in comparison to the first trio that had been wiped from existence. The necromancer quickly formed an hypothesis that the second burst of fire had been weaker- drawn out and spread across a larger area to strike their spread squadron. It seemed the good pyromancer had been taken aback by the first trio and struck out with maximum force, but upon realizing that his opponents were many, he had opted for holding back his energy. It seemed he was well aware that this was a marathon- not a sprint.

Asrael shot a look over the corridor to tell Neda: “Do what you did in the mansion. Keep the smoke around him and away from us.” She shook from her stupor, leaned down and began blowing from around the corner- wrapping it around their target in a maelstrom of thick, black smog. The next part, Asrael knew, would be painful.

Petrus stepped out of the smoke and pulled his hood back- revealing his bright, maniacal grin. As soon as he stepped from the screen of darkness, another pair of dead warriors leapt at him- one with his blade raised over his head, whereas the other kept his blade lower- against the floor. Without flinching, Petrus swung his hand out and shot out another plume of fire- arching it downwards to cut through diagonally across both their chests with his white-hot flame. The upper half flopped of both the walking corpses thumped to the floor, where the lifeless flesh slid onwards behind him. The pyromancer’s grin only grew as he realized he had heard something over the dead men’s clatters- a grunt coming from the wall to his left. It made sense that the Ungodly cowering along the wall had had something to do with this charge, as at least one of the two had approached with an intelligence the previous two attacks had lacked.

“More wind!” Asrael shouted- breaking Neda from her exhausted trance to resume blowing her winds- again submerging the necromancer in the shroud. Behind the desert wildling, Ellie had taken the initiative and was running around in a circle- seemingly painting something on the floor with the use of a self-inflicted injury on her finger. Good... they stood a chance this way. Petrus was tiring from his use of the magic and the smoke was making him cough- meaning... the fool was inhaling the noxious fumes.

As Asrael prepared his men for the charge, he considered what to do should the man decide to focus on him. Even in his new body, his flesh would stand no chance against that amount of energy- the most he could do would, by his estimation, be to deflect a single one of his low-powered attacks, but this would take a substantial amount of magical energy- most of it, by his estimate.

Inside the whirling chaos of smoke, Petrus was beginning to struggle from his exhaustion. Thankfully, Gerathar had given him an ace to conceal up his sleeve- an ace he always carried with him. He had never tried the substance, but if it worked the way the man claimed, then this would be the perfect opportunity to test it. This ‘Asrael’ could throw as many dead at him as he wanted, but the small vial in his pocket would nullify all the fiend’s efforts to break him... if it worked.

In between the swirls of dark smog, Asrael could see Petrus retrieve something from his pocket- a leather-wrapped, small, brightly-shining, white vial of something. As much as he wished to see what this obviously magical elixir did, he imagined it would be best if he did not allow him the time to reveal the details of this trick. He ordered all his gathered men to rush down the corridor- filling the dark tunnel with the deafening, metallic clinks of armor against armor, but it was already too late. By the time his men had come within striking range, Petrus had long since drank down the potion and its effects were as immediate as they were frightening. His pale face was covered in streaks of bright-white. Even from afar, Asrael could feel the intense radiation of magic bleed his way. If this was anything akin to what Bartholomew had told him of what had happened with the frost-affined magus woman, then it meant-

The cloud of smoke exploded into a scorching ball of hellfire- the walls and floor crackled as an astounding wave of heat forced cracks in the walls. The floor immediately beneath the ball of flame emitted a glow nearly as bright as the fire itself, but the heat- the atmospheric, oppressive heat was the worst of it by far. Neda was awed- Asrael was frozen as they watched the growing ball consume every last one of his men and reduce them to little more than ashes in the wind.