Asrael was as exhausted from the pain as he was from his efforts. For two days, he had spent every waking moment connecting Petrus’ dead tissues to his own, but as he sat on his lonesome and watched the sun rise on Kester’s filthy tavern, he could finally claim that the first step of his assimilation of the appendage was complete. It moved at his behest and with a precision to rival his own. As he tapped his fingers against the wooden surface, he imagined he might as well have been born with it, had it not been for the most impressive of all its feats.

Atop the fingertips of nearly every magi were the pores- the gateways through which one’s inner magics could converse with the outside world. Asrael’s left hand was, by his summations, average- at best, in regards to the pores of his skin. But his right... He raised a hand to produce what he meant to be a thin sliver of magic, only to see his entire palm swirl with his green energy- giving it the appearance of being covered in unholy fire.

Even thinking about fire made him uneasy. As much as he appreciated a good, powerful magus, Petrus had been a monstrosity. He had never imagined any being capable of such control of their magic- not on the scale the pyromancer had displayed down in the tunnels. Within the blink of an eye, the man had wiped out well over thirty of his men and had nearly killed himself and his two, foolish apprentices. Even with Kester’s impressive efforts, that number would sting. Thankfully, Bartholomew had guaranteed him that most the Sensates and Purged in Pilta had been recalled to Capita or otherwise distributed to less ‘stable’ cities, whatever this meant... meaning, there was but one creature he still had to deal with.

He was confident his men could deal with most aggressors and armsmen, but the girl still frightened him. Her method of raping his mind was still a mystery to the necromancer, but its implications were clear enough. If she could alter his mind, she would, in essence, be capable of disarming him, should she wish to... in other words, he seemed to be helpless against her magic. Before he could set his mind to dream of her death, a girlish voice scratched at his eardrums as Bess leapt down the stairs and saw his bright-green hand.

“Assie! You can play with fire, too!?” She shouted as she saw it. He closed his fist and cut off the magic before shooting her a deathly glare.

“I do not play, girl. And it is not fire- it is something else. Lastly... I have told all of you people that I resent your perversions of my name- I am Asrael Nessarat- High Magus of the school of Necromancy and I-” Maribelle appeared from the doorway connecting the upstairs rooms to the main body of the tavern to glare at him. The two narrowed their eyes at one-another, as they did whenever they met. It was a mutual, respectful contest of stares- a stalemate that had lasted for well over the month, by then. As much as she hated what Asrael had brought to their home and the profound effect his presence had had on her usually loving husband, she could not deny that the necromancer had done her well and saved her from a life of servitude in Gerathar’s basement. Even so, Asrael had never once gloated, nor had he insisted on her servility, as she imagined any other man would- he never spoke of unpaid debts or payment for his rescue.

As much as she hated to admit it, she held an inkling of respect for him because of it, just as Asrael likewise respected the surprisingly solid woman for having immediately bounced back from their captivity- never once dwelling on the past.

Still while eyeing one-another, she asked: “I’m making Bess potatoes. Do you want any?” Through the narrow slits of his eyes, he could see the beautiful barmaid’s unchanging frown form the words. He shook his head, but his green glare remained stationary.

“I do not need sustenance.” He informed. For once, she did not rescue Asrael from the incessant pestering of her daughter- not until she saw what the necromancer had next to him on the bench. When she saw his previous, sawed-off-and-signed arm, she grabbed Bessie by her shoulders and covered her ears through her golden head to ask: “What the Hell is that!?” Satisfied that she had been the first to break from their staring contest, Asrael turned to look at the arm and informed: “It is an arm. It used to be my arm, but as you can see, I’ve another.” He raised both his hands to display them. Maribelle’s eyes grew wide with disbelief as she saw the difference in between his appendages. Where one had long, bony fingers, the other was distinctively more feminine and its nails were well-tended-to, but both were equally pale.

“Well, get rid of it! Bessie sees enough fucked up shit around here without you dropping your limbs wherever you go!” He was about to raise his voice and protest as Neda stepped down the stair in a loud yawn and greet the two women with a loud: “Mornin’!” Asrael impatiently tapped his fingers against the wood. “What an astute observation. Yes, it is morning- now go back to your room! I need another few moments of silence before this day’s headache commences!” Asrael shot in from the side. Curiously, this served to even further lighten Neda’s mood.

She skipped over the floor and sat down next to Asrael- yelping as sat down on the bony stump of a discarded arm. Realizing that the time for calm reflection had ended, he sighed and took the arm from Neda’s hand to throw it into a distant corner for Kester to grind up for later consumption by whatever misfortunate souls would step through those doors. Maribelle finally clamped her palms over Bess’ eyes and led her towards the kitchen with a fierce growl directed the necromancer’s way.

An uncomfortable silence ensued- one in which Neda leaned on the table to look at Asrael with a hopeful, blissful smile. “So... how about today?” Asrael folded his new arm over his old and leaned back against the wall to scowl in the opposite corner of the dusty tavern.

“Not today- not ever. Having you train with Bartholomew was a horrendous idea- an abomination. You are to take every one of his ‘good ideas’ with a shovel’s worth of salt and dismiss the idea that the two of us will ever-” She puckered her lips and closed her eyes in expectance. He turned towards her to look at his apprentice with disgust and said: “It is a useless ritual performed by those interested in and capable of reproducing. Its vile nature is what feeds the primordial, human inner beast’s depravity and arouses those who dare try it. It is disgusting... it is likely the third-most infective orifice on the human body and the fools have been pressing them against one-another for a thousand years- perhaps even longer.” He shuddered, but Neda remained unmoving- still puckering her soft lips. He continued:

“Mixing one’s saliva with that of another will give naught but disease and primal, filthy arousal. That ritual will be the end of all of you!” Neda had learned, from her lengthy stay around the necromancer, that this back-and-forth hesitation of his was commonplace for her confused associate. It was obvious to her that he wished to make her his Pa’namph, but for the life of him, he could not muster the courage to act on his wants-… or perhaps, she had thought, something about her was making him doubt the sanity of their union whenever the opportunity arose. Bartholomew had suggested having him kiss her, as it would undoubtedly serve to win him over or dismiss the notion entirely... but now, just as ever, Asrael seemed as stubbornly unable to make up his mind.

“C’mon, Assie...” She pleaded and leaned closer. Looking at the beautiful wildling, he almost felt as if he was being gawked at by a hungry fish- moving in to consume him... she likely would consume him, if he allowed her advances, or so he thought. She grabbed hold of the shoulder she had so eagerly supported for the lengthy restoration efforts down in the cellar and only felt her certainty solidify upon remembering his apparent forgiveness. In her mind, he loved her enough to forgive her for having cost him his arm-

“So, why won’t you kiss me!?” When she opened her eyes, she was surprised to find Asrael was no longer looking at her, but-… something outside. She followed his gaze out the window, where she, too, raised an eyebrow and broke from pursing her lips.

“What’s... why are they doing that?” Neda asked. Asrael rose to his feet to step across the tavern floor and lean his head back and forth to eye the curious sight in between the buildings outside. In the distance, the tall, eastern gate was, for the first time since their arrival, being closed. He grabbed hold of the door’s handle and looked up the street to see an astounding number of Inquisitors- clad in visored helmets and with their swords at their hips, all of whom were headed for the gate. Having never been to Pilta before their arrival, Asrael was uncertain as to whether or not this was normal, but-… judging by the fragrance of poor-quality firewood on the morning atmosphere, he found he would be in his right to mutter a silent obscenity and turn to lock the tavern’s door.