Asrael had never understood why the “honorable” men of the army and the Inquisition clung to their old rituals. But as he walked the darkness with his torch in hand and threw his glances towards the attentive men and women lining the walls, he could not help but feel a certain... sensation. Their bodies, minds, their souls were his to command- some willing, but most, fervently unwilling. It felt all the better for him to send a command for Kerras to have his men raise their hands to their breastplates and tattered rags in an echoing clash that rung between the walls of the tunnel. Their green, loyal eyes glared at him as he wandered in between them and took in their undying, fierce respect for him. Whether they liked it or not- he had defeated and claimed them.

He chuckled in a hum as he reached inside Kerras’ mind for a status. His mind’s groans of agony were there, but they were less... intense. Asrael had not sat idly by and watched his girls inscribe the men- he had spent his time well and reorganized his brimming army. Kerras had handled them well until the men had begun numbering in the hundreds- at which point, the man had turned to a drooling mess of agony.

He had solved this by reducing the amount of men bound directly to his General and given him four lieutenants, who in turn had their own men bound to them. This procession of ranks extended all the way to squads containing as little as five men- all grouped by the tasks he imagined them best for. There would be deaths amongst his ranks- he had accepted this and to some extent; prepared for it. But should any of his middle-men “die”, the responsibility of commanding their unit would befall their parallel unit, taking the individual out from the battle as the many consciousnesses were transferred to a mind not capable of handling the vast amounts of sensory inputs... then again, neither could he.

Curiously, this webwork of men seemed to have a life of its own, as all were capable of making their own decisions- they had demonstrated this by wandering in areas he had not considered possible. One, deluded officer had even attempted to climb in bed with Asrael one, cold evening. Naturally, this had earned her a slap from the screaming desert wildling and a punishing station at the front of their charge- whenever it would take place.

“Whatcha thinking about?” He nearly figuratively leapt of his skin as the desert wildling appeared behind him. He spun about to eye her with shock. How she had snuck up on him was beyond him, but she had done so- easily by the look of her sly grin. She had no torch of her own, so he imagined she had followed his, meaning... she had been there all along- she had seen their salute. A pang of shame stung his confidence, before his reflexes to deflect took hold of him and he hissed:

“What are you doing here!? I told you to go rest! Your work will be clumsier than usual if-” That sly smile of her warned that she undoubtedly had something prepared for his outburst, but sensing that something far more pressing was weighing on his dignity, she looked to the men along the wall. It had to be related to that thing they did- why else would he be refusing to look away from her, as he usually did whenever their eyes met for too long. Her mischievous smile grew more intense as she took a step forward to say:

“I didn’t wanna be alone. Besides... Bart’s my friend too and I haven’t seen him in weeks.” His jaw fell agape at the nerve.

“I am no rentboy for you to dispel your loneliness, girl- I am your Master and I deserve some respect- some privacy, at the very least!” She had several tactics in her armory. She could force a few tears and watch as the discomfort broke down his shaky walls, she could take a step closer to him and plead- that always seemed to make him throw a glance or two at her cleavage... or... she could try something new. She could confront him. She folded her arms and scowled at him.

“Y’know... there’s like a hundred of your guys standing around here. If you really didn’t want me to come along, you could make them take me back. Now, stop being such a tease and let’s go already! I wanna see Bart and maybe have something other than potatoes to eat.”

The plot thickened. He had knew the girl to be stubborn, alas, not this stubborn. He began: “A thousand years of research went into discovering these runes and you would have me use this miracle of mine to relieve me of you?” Their eyes met in a contest of glares. He was lost for words- a rare, but entirely possible occurrence.

“Fine. But I will not have you disturb us- our allotted time is short.” She pursed her lips and looked about the dead men’s dark forms, before nodding. She took hurried steps up to his side and waited for his defenses to drop, before reaching for his hand to grab the cold, dead skin in her own, warm clutch. Surprisingly, he did not retract his hand- not this time. All he did was signal his displeasure in the form of a grunt.

Bartholomew sat atop a box in the corner of the dark cellar. His head pounded from the days-on-end's binge of beer, wine and fatty, creamy salads. He retched as he thought of all he had drank and eaten since his brother locked the Garrison’s doors and gave his men the order of not allowing him outside. Therefore, his days had been spent as he knew best- drinking with the off-duty men, but mostly... their wives. As he heard something scuffle down below the metal hatch, he rose to his height and felt his aching pelvis protest at the sudden movement- as if his muscles, themselves feared any more thrusting.

The musty room’s thick layer of dust had been disturbed by his frequent pacing, but the cobwebs in the ceiling remained undisturbed. The dark bricks seemed almost green in the light of the lantern at the floor by his feet- a comfortable shade of light now that his head ached. But even in this abandoned storage- his slice of paradise in the Hell that had become his home, he could find no rest... not when his dear Brother acted as he did.

Finally: the cover slid aside to reveal Asrael’s tall, pale, thin form. His lips were, if possible, drawn into a more miserable frown than ever. He stood up, but seemed to hesitantly turn before looking at Bartholomew to reach down into the hole and extend his hand down into the depths. A yelp sounded from below, closely followed by the retraction of what had once been Petrus’ arm and to Bartholomew’s undying surprise, Neda clung to his arm with all her might. How a thin, frail-looking man such as Asrael could so easily lift a tall, strong woman such as Neda- however petite, Bartholomew could not understand. In their brief partnership, Asrael had displayed his monstrous strength many times over and he never once seemed to tire- again bringing up the question... was he even human?

Neda and Asrael both looked to the shambling man grabbing his forehead while trying to resist breaking into one of the many casks hidden along the walls of the musty cellar.

“Bartholomew.” Asrael muttered as he attempted to shake Neda to no avail. The Blightlander’s hands were locked around his own- as if purposefully feigning a ‘misunderstanding’.

“Asrael... Neda, what a pleasant surprise- forgive me for my state, but I’ve naught to do these days... someone refuses to let me do my part.” Bartholomew had become increasingly more stubborn with his isolation, but Asrael knew the phenomenon well. For now, he would forgive this lack of understanding. Neda seemed overjoyed to meet her instructor, but hoping not to break this tender moment between herself and her Master, she forgave herself for not running over to embrace him, where he seated himself back atop the box.

Asrael cleared his throat and reminded Bartholomew: “I need someone inside the Garrison... besides... I do not think you would enjoy the state of Pilta outside these walls.” Bartholomew could only imagine what horrors the world outside wrought upon the people of Pilta. From his chamber high up in the Garrison, he could see the burnt warehouses, but little else. The people were too distant- too small for him to observe. Their housing, however, had changed. Where the city had once bustled with life and art, it now consisted of little more than smoking ruins and boarded-up houses.

“It’s not that bad, Assie. It’s a lot like out in the blight, I think...” Asrael raised an eyebrow and turned to look at the psychopath gripping his hand with both her own. To his amazement, she continued to seem wholly unbothered by the many, disturbing things she had seen. As both Bartholomew and Asrael looked questioningly at her, she continued:

“Coming here, I thought things were a bit weird... you’re not as suspicious of each other like the villagers were. It felt a lot like they were... pretending?” She searched her lackluster vocabulary to express her reflections, but once again found herself inadequate. In reality, what she had wished to tell her companions was that she had been gravely confused as she first entered Pilta. People would openly display their wares and carry their fineries with them as decorations- despite obviously belonging to other families and clans. Their abundance had made them trust their neighbours, rather than be suspicious of their intentions and as she had learned through a lengthy life in the Pit; trust... was a dangerous thing- reserved for one’s loved ones.

Asrael had learned to understand the wildling’s wisdom and found her summation to his liking. Yes- the fine People of Pilta had finally dropped their pretenses and let loose the beasts he had seen as they burned his kin- his Master. The only difference was... they let them loose on one-another. Bartholomew, the weary drunkard, hadn’t the cognition to spare to decipher more of her reflections and simply nodded his shallow understanding to move on so that he might finally rest.

“Regardless... the situation out there is grave, whereas things are far too comfortable in here. Titus has planned to retract our men back into the Garrison and wait out the destruction...” Thinking about his brother’s sudden insanity brought bile to the back of his throat. Asrael scratched his chin and pondered what he had for hundreds of hours at this point- why? Titus was killing the entire city- seemingly for no other reason than to do so... What could change a man such as he overnight and drive him down such a jagged path of madness?

Neda scratched her chin to mimic her Master and questioned: “Maybe you can tell me, because Assie won’t. Why’s he doing this, all of a sudden? Why won’t he let people out?” Bartholomew’s nausea grew ever more profound. The simple answer was that he did not know. He shook his head.

“I do not know, Neda. No one does... I would say the loss of Petrus did something to him, but I fear the truth may be far darker than that. Regardless, the Emperor will have his head for this and not even my Father will be able to stop him.” By the glaze over Bartholomew’s eyes, it seemed it pained him to speak of it. Asrael was not as sensible as the Blightlander and he, in turn, stepped forth to question:

“What do you mean, darker?” Bartholomew seemed to hesitate in answering. He bided his time and considered his next words carefully, before stating:

“Everything about him is different. He spends most of his time alone- up in one of the towers. I have seen Lita lead him up there and when he comes out, he seems... relieved, somehow. A-and...” He paused to meet Asrael’s green eyes before saying: “His eyes have changed... they look like yours.” Asrael took an involuntary step back. He knew, surprisingly enough, the implications of such a change. He had seen it before with the Rapist- the Defiler that had broken into his mind. Last he had seen her, her eyes had been as green as his own- as green as that haunting Satyr’s.

“Hey, Bart... does anyone ever... y’know... wanna start pretending again? Doesn’t anyone wanna go back to the way things were?” Neda spoke. Bartholomew broke from his glazed-over stare to smirk sideways at her and shake his head.

“No. The few who did, now hang on stakes atop the walls. This madness seems to spread- I am surprised it is yet to claim me... perhaps it has something to do with my diet.” He pondered aloud. Neda wondered whether a diet of strictly potatoes would prevent her from contracting the madness and questioned: “What’re you eating up here? Where’s the food coming from?” He seemed surprised to hear her question it and was all to eager to proclaim: “Oh, no I did not mean the salads or the wine. I have been eating an astounding number of crotches-” Asrael raised his hand to stop the man from further perverting his hopeful apprentice and hopefully regain some of his focus.

“How long has it been since his eyes changed?” As if Bartholomew had to actually consider the question, he grimaced for a moment before answering: “The night when he killed the Council was the first time that I saw it... why? Have I not gone insane?”

“Show me this tower of his.”