Bartholomew’s boots felt heavier than ever as he wandered through the dark, damp tunnels. The guardsman’s words still echoed in the back of his mind- the clattering of his tremoring, armored knees, to match.

“I-I can’t let you in, S-Sir... Titus has asked not to be disturbed... even by you.” Disturbed? Bartholomew had to resist kicking the twinkling, quartz wall. Disturbed? Who were these guards- who was his brother, to refuse him? Asrael’s orders aside, Titus had proven to be in dire need of assistance- his help. Bartholomew had already told the necromancer that he had given up on saving the honorable Duke- that he would allow Asrael to do what needed to be done, but that dream... that horribly vivid dream had reminded him of Titus’ condition- of his pain... and he, was in part, to blame for it. Petrus had not only been murdered- he had been gutted and desecrated, only to be dumped in a river. Had he done things differently, perhaps Titus might not have collapsed in on himself, as he had.

No. Bartholomew could not accept it, which was why he was making his way into the reeking cellar. He had smelled it from a mile down the tunnel- the stench of rotting blood and Asrael’s depravity. Seeing it with his own eyes nearly made him nauseous, though he attributed much of his nausea to his lengthy drinking-binge.

What had once been a musty, decrepit cellar was now a waking nightmare. The cobbled, ancient stones that construed the cellar floors and walls were coated in a sticky, yellowish coating- congealed blood left to heterogenize. The soles of his boots clung to the floor as he traversed the lanternlit butchering grounds and stepped up the stair, where he would find Kester sleeping on the filthy floor of the kitchen. He, too, had transformed. Out the narrow crack of the ajar, unhinged door, Bartholomew saw a most puzzling thing... a broken, bloody countertop- the heart and soul of his ancient Tavern.

He had once been a well-muscled man with a tall chin and a straight back. His eyes had sparkled with a life, a hope and a dignity to match his own, but as he stared down at his bagged eyes, the gaunt cheeks and the disorganized stubble, he could not help but feel as if the man was slowly falling apart before his eyes. Asrael, it seemed, had this effect on people... not that Bartholomew minded. There was something oddly arousing about seeing a man turn his back on all he knew, to submerge himself in the pleasures of life- whatever they were.

“Bart? The fuck...” Kester groaned and rose up on his elbow- his eyes but thin slits to save him from the light of the above-head lantern. He looked up at Bartholomew to see a curiously heavy expression- his brow was low, his lips curled downwards in a frown and an inexplicable darkness seemed to have taken hold of his once-bright, blue eyes. His hair, however, remained painfully golden and reflective- agonizing his dry corneas.

“Whatchu doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be stuck in the Garrison?” Bartholomew winced as the pang of guilt set in once again. He was in defiance of his orders, but-…

“I need to see Asrael concerning Titus. Where can I find him?” Kester grimaced and groaned as he rose- fighting through the pain of his sore muscles and joints. It seemed that sleeping on the floor had taken its toll on him, but as the alternative was sleeping in Barrel’s grease-infused cot, he remained stalwart in his decision to discomfort himself.

“Dunno. Something about a boat? He’s been gone all day- Ellie and Neda, too. Hey, you want some food?” Kester asked as he strode over towards the half-ajar pantry door. As it swung open, Bartholomew was astounded to see the sheer amount of neatly butchered flesh, sausages and cuts that hung on hooks and stood stacked on his shelves. Kester grabbed a thoroughly boiled-and-seared sausage and brought it to his mouth before looking to the stumped Bartholomew. As much as he would like to taste whatever depraved source of flesh Kester might’ve found in the starving city, he could not stomach the thought of eating anything greasy- not for a few years, at least.

“N-no, thank you. If they were talking about a boat, they must have been referring to the supply-boats on Burgen? They are the only boats within the City- could that be it?” Kester continued chewing the coarse meat and cartilage as he shrugged.

“Must be... Want me to go and check if I see him? I think the freaks have learned to stay away from the tavern, ‘cause there hasn’t been anyone here for a couple days.” Closing the door to the pantry, he took another bite of the sausage and made his way for the tavern interior.

“No, if he is somewhere around Burgen, I can find him myself. Perhaps you should get some more rest, my friend. You look a bit-” Kester turned around to look at Bartholomew quizzically, as if wholly ignorant of his outward appearance.

“Ill...” Bartholomew spoke hesitantly. The tavernkeeper chuckled and shook his head.

“Nonsense- I feel great. Better than I have in a long time, in fact. Let’s go together- it's safer that way. Without your armor, you’ll be meat to those boys out there.” Meat? Bartholomew could not make sense of the warning and therefore had little choice but to accept his offer.

Kester’s clothing had, like the rest of him, deteriorated. Without his loving wife and daughter’s hands, his pants and shirt had fallen into a state of disrepair the same way his marriage had. Most the patches on his shirt and pants had become undone, leaving him a tattered mess as he strode out from the tavern and out into the street. Bartholomew had to pause as he, for the first time in weeks, saw the state of the city. The street leading up to the tavern had always been a calm one. The tall brick-and-mortar houses with their tall steps and wooden doors stood mostly abandoned- their doors torn open and their windows barricaded with disassembled furniture and stacked clutter. The streets themselves were, as the buildings, characterized by missing and hewn stones- ammunition for the poorly masses.

Under the brick balconies, Bartholomew could still see areas where rain had failed to wash away the week-old stains of blood and gore. Kester took another bite of his sausage and raised an eyebrow at Bartholomew, as if struggling to understand what this curious reaction to what was, to him, a commonplace sight.

“What in the hells happened here...” Bartholomew muttered. Last he had seen the street, it had been orderly and neat- filled with upper-middle-class citizens who could afford an arm’s length of lawns before their houses.

“Oh... yeah... some of our neighbors were traders. As soon as they caught wind of The Burning, they went out and started hoarding preserves from the other tradesmen. It didn’t take too long before people found out- only about a week. The ones who came here were hungry- most of them were starving before the fires.” Bartholomew remained flabbergasted at the sight of the sheer destruction. Human hands had done all of this?

“And where were the guards?” Kester had to scoff at his sweet summer child and swallowed down his mouthful of mysterious meat.

“Who d’you think told ‘em about the hoarding? They were there for the entertainment, but changed their focus as soon as they saw the tavern. Decided to pay me and Longa a visit...” He hummed a chuckle and looked mockingly down at the sausage in his hand. Bartholomew- stuck in the Garrison with ample food and drink, struggled to imagine how the events preceding this devastation had shaken the city... moreover, he struggled to understand why his Brother had allowed it to happen.

“It’s not too bad out here. You should see Centrum or by the gates. I guess Burgen’s not that much better, really.” Bartholomew looked to the morbid, chuckling tavernkeeper with the thousand-yard stare as he finished his exotic sausage.

“Take me there. I want to see all three of those places.” Bartholomew ordered. To his surprise, Kester did not flinch- despite his apparent fear of the places in question. A fear that soon turned to excitement.