Kester’s ways shifted as they strode through the dilapidated battlefield that had once been Pilta. They no longer walked the streets, but kept to the side alleys- slouching down to hide behind the improvised barricades and shelters. The houses reeked of feces and rotting flesh and at Kester’s behest, Bartholomew resisted the urge to explore the source of the stench. When they had finally reached the last row of buildings before the round plaza, Kester dropped down to his knees behind a red-bricked building and motioned for Bartholomew to step closer and explained:

“We’ve always been too many people inside the wall- at least that’s what I’ve always thought. The streets have always been packed and every one of these houses were inhabited. There was a housing crisis a few years back, because there weren’t enough houses to go around. About ten thousand ended up moving out of the city.” As fascinating as Bartholomew found the history lesson, he could not help but ask:

“Why are you telling me this?” Kester grinned and held his hands up: “Because the Inquisition burned down the warehouses and stopped all the incoming transports of food. I’m guessing you haven’t heard what we’ve been eating down here, instead of bread?” Bartholomew pondered the implication, before finally realizing...

“Oh... so that sausage was...” Kester seemed almost proud to proclaim: “Pretty much anything we’ve gotten our hands on. It feels kind of like a waste, you know- making all this food, but everyone just wants to eat potatoes... I mean, most of these people would literally kill for rat-and-longpig sausage.” Bartholomew braved a smile in hopes Kester would confess to his jest, but to no avail... it only seemed to reinforce his pride.

The tavernkeeper leaned around to corner- soon to be followed by the unnerved Sargerrei.

From the house behind which they were hiding, the plaza was littered by obstacles of a different make and caliber. The construed apparatuses were as varied as they were plentiful and with their caked and bloody appearances told of a great cruelty. Shards of glass had been glued to chairs, rams had been covered in barbs and other crude tools spoke of grievous modes of punishment. It was akin to looking across the Capita Games stadium, only covered in blood and a sparse, few, rotting bodies in between the implements. The grounds themselves were draped with a profound silence- an eerie calm that seemed only to heighten the gravity of the place.

“They started after the slaughter. The guards would come here every night and promised to take one person and their family to the Garrison if they won.” Bartholomew blinked several times to verify that he was still awake. He was no stranger to cruelty in the Inquisition, but this... could Kester even be telling the truth?

“If they ‘won’?” Bartholomew questioned- his cheeks suddenly as pale as his eyes. Kester shrugged and nodded.

“Last man standing. With any luck, you’d face a starved grandfather fighting to save his grandkids. If not...” Kester’s grin spoke volumes of the bloodshed he had seen. Bartholomew’s mind spun as he attempted to understand the morbidity. In such a short span of time, the city of Pilta had transformed from a haven of peaceful lives to this. Had his brother’s madness truly spread through his men so quickly- so uninterrupted by what morality still existed in this world? He was but moments away from expressing his disbelief, when he realized... he had seen this before. He had stood on implements and watched his men suffer cruelties beyond imagination- bled dry, stripped, beaten, cooked- his men had suffered through it all.

He stood from his crouch behind their shelter and stepped out onto the field of madness. With every gust of wind, he could smell the fountain’s spray of biofilm as it trickled forth the agony of what had to be hundreds of people- all in the form of rotting blood and dissolving bodies. There he stood- months away from Capita, but watching the same depravities as he had suffered through. Starvation, pain, helplessness- brute sadism... and he felt any inkling of surprise drain away.

He, like the people of Pilta, had been reduced from neighbors- from sons and friends to the nameless mass known only as ‘They’. They who deserved to be tortured- they who needed to be killed. Was that all it had taken for this city to descend into madness- for his brother to exchange one word for another? He turned back towards Kester to see him slink out from their shelter with a relieved sigh- seemingly joyous that Bartholomew hadn’t been murdered from stepping out, yet.

The disheveled Sargerrei ran a hand through his honeyed mane and whispered: “The guards did this?”

Kester nodded unenthusiastically. “Well... mostly the contestants killed each other. The ‘prize’ was posted by the guards, though... miserable fucks. Most of the so-called ‘winners’ ended up going for a swim in Burgen and let me tell you; going into that sewer when you’re covered in cuts isn’t healthy.” Bartholomew closed his eyes, shook his head and gripped his temples in hopes it would dispel this profound sensation of guilt... it did not help. Kester nervously glanced about the bloody plaza before hurriedly whispering: “We should get out of here. We’ve gotta either get inside or get to Asrael before the sun sets.” Bartholomew returned to look at Kester with a solemn nod.

“What about the gates? You said they were to be avoided.” Kester smirked and nodded, before raising a finger to point to the tall wall – particularly, towards the wall atop the gate, where oddly interspaced, purple forms could be seen wandering back and forth- their bows hung over their shoulders.

“If you get anywhere close to the gate, they’ll turn you into a pincushion.” Kester chuckled and turn to beckon the Sargerrei after him- down the dilapidated road of chaotic blockades- towards the north-west... towards the Garrison- both the first and last place Bartholomew wished to go. As he followed after the tavernkeeper, he took care to observe his transformed associate- scarcely recognizing him from the timid creature he had assaulted in the tavern a few months previous.

“You seem to have adjusted well to this, Kester...” Bartholomew muttered- almost envious of his inhumane colleague. The tavernkeeper turned his head to scoff and shrug.

“I guess it’d seem that way from the Garrison- I guess it’d seem that way from Maribelle’s room, but you’re wrong, both of you.” He sounded almost bemused as he led the way towards a nearby building, where he resumed his crouching and lowered his volume to lead the way through the deathly silent streets.

“When they attacked my neighbors and those guards came by, they wanted to steal my shit. Can you imagine? They let loose a can of worms on the people right across the street and then they tapped out to steal my drinks- as if that fighting meant nothing to them.” He could remember it as if it had been just the day previous. The men had come into his abode- his home and place of business and demanded that he surrendered his wares... well, they hadn’t as much demanded, as they had raised their blades at him and promised to execute him, either way.

Bartholomew felt uneasy with the dissonance in between Kester’s tone-of-voice and his gleeful smirk. Half his face was shrouded in the shade of the house behind which they took cover, but Bartholomew struggled to identify which half he found more terrifying... the one he could see or the one he could not. The tavernkeeper continued: “I don’t know if they were following orders or if they were just entertaining themselves, but it doesn’t matter. The fact is- was- that they were all laughing as they came in, swinging their metallic cocks around. They laughed the same way the other Inquisitors did, but this time... I didn’t kiss their boots and plead for ten years- not anymore.” His smile reflected his bliss as he thought back to that night.

He had pissed himself, naturally- as one did, whenever a sword was swung around one’s face. With naught but the countertop to shield him from the assailants, he had considered himself a goner- finally to be punished for his lengthy murder-spree. Their visors were donned low over their faces- shrouding their malicious glee, whereas he was left to reveal his terror for all of them to see. In a fleeting moment, he had nearly felt human again and to some extent, he had regretted his Sins.

“T-take it. Whatever you want, just leave us be...” He had spoken through his clattering jaws. The trio had laughed hoarsely- their throats sore from the smoke clouding the streets outside. “We, you say?” He had turned to either side to verify that Kester had been alone in the tavern, before he had laughed: “You’re taxed per head, Keeper and I don’t think your stock’s gonna cut it.” He had motioned his large blade towards the bottles behind the counter and continued chuckling, before another voiced:

“But maybe he’s got sumfin else for us. A room for the night would- and a girl to share it with... yeah, that’d do. You got a wife, Keeper? A daughter?” As it were, he had both those, but even if either of them would talk to him, he would be damned to let these brutes touch them. He kept his hands up and shook his head. “N-no... just take whatever you want and please leave.” This had bemused them greatly- to the extent they had looked to one-another and broken into a lengthy mockery of him, during which, Kester was left to ponder... what had it all been for?

He had lost his wife, his child, his tavern and now, he would lose his life. His spree had helped him- it had been... a learning experience... but if he was still reduced to this by the end of his life, what had been the point of it all? He felt disgusted by how he had pleaded with these men- how willingly he had donned his tavernkeeper’s shoes and stepped back into his servility- his miserable, genetic curse of cowardice... all for nothing. They would kill him and then he found it very likely they would march up the stairs and rape his wife- perhaps even Bess, while he lay bleeding to death behind the countertop behind which he had wasted away.

“No.” He shook his head. The laughter stilled as they turned to look at him with confusion. They had seen much bestiality in their days in Pilta, but they had yet to see someone like Kester- the darkness in his eyes, the sudden stillness to his tremoring hands. At the tips of their blades, he seemed calm- as if the madman imagined he wouldn’t die by their capable hands, when in truth: he had accepted it as a fact. But Kester would not be dying as a tavernkeeper- he would be dying as Kester- a man without a plan, a man who enjoyed boiling potatoes and grinding up men... a man who would fight tooth and nail not to die a coward.

He grabbed hold of one of the bottles of spirits and launched it at the face of the guard whose sword had threatened him and reduced him to this bestial state- a man to whom he would forever be grateful. The bottle smashed against his visor- spraying his eyes with its contents. He let loose an ungodly howl as the glass dust- the piss and spirits struck his mouth and eyes. Before the other two could react by drawing their own blades, Kester had armed himself with another two bottles and maintained the same, depraved smile as a moment previous.

“Come on, then! Rob me! Rape me! Kill me if you want, but I won’t go down a coward!” Despite knowing his end would soon come, he felt no fear- he felt no dread. He had always known he would die, but if he could avoid doing so on his knees... he would do so with a smile. As they stepped closer and pushed their wounded behind them, they failed to hear what Kester did- the heavy steps on the stairs of the cellar... the drums of war. His grin grew even wider as he imagined to glorious sight ahead of him and, just as he had predicted and hoped, the duo disappeared in the blink of an eye- crushed against the surprisingly sturdy wall by a leaping, fat, pale monstrosity. He might’ve taken the opportunity to enjoy the sight of Ogrim tearing the assailants limb from limb, but he had started something he needed to finish... something still screaming and writhing on the floor.

The man in his massive suit of armor was relieved to feel a warm hand unscrew his helmet and free him from the stuffy atmosphere and humidity inside the steel cage. His eyes were closed- they forever would be, as the combination of home-distilled spirits and shards of glass had perforated both his corneas. Viscous, bloody vitreous ran out between his gloved fingers as he screamed: “Water! Water- rinse it out!”

The sturdy hand helped him to his feet, where it dawned on him that he recognized the two, screaming voices coming from his left. They were his men.

Kester grabbed hold of the heavy chestplate by the neck and dragged him forwards- to the counter. The counter that had enslaved Kester men for generations- the countertop that he had spent countless hours polishing, but for naught. When he had needed a rescue, it had come in the form of a malformed monstrosity, while the tavern had, once again, watched him wither away and face certain death. He grabbed hold of the man’s reeking, wet scalp and slammed his forehead into the countertop- driving the shards and dust of glass into his skin, where the fragments cracked and slid against his bones. The next blow forced the shards into his retinas, but the third was, by Kester’s estimation, the most satisfying, by far. He could feel the man’s jaw crackle and pop as his rotten teeth shattered against the corner of his pristinely polished countertop- ambrosia for a burning soul.

As Ogrim slammed the men in between the walls, as did Kester continue to smash the man’s head against the wood. He had long since died, but he was only halfway done... His true enemy still resisted him- that damnable, sturdy, enslaving countertop.

Bartholomew watched Kester seize with satisfaction as he remembered the splinters of well-varnished wood soaring through the still atmosphere of his tavern. Kester opened his eyes to continue through his smile:

“So, you see, Bart... I didn’t adjust... Not really. I just learned to accept that the man I was supposed to be- the man the world wanted me to be was me, all along. I've finally become human.” Then and there, Bartholomew could not help but feel that the man had been right to forsake his morals- his humanity. In the grotesque wonderland that had once been Pilta, it seemed to have served him well.

“Now, c’mon... Unless you wanna get your ass split apart by the Gauja-Gang, we’d better get a move on.” As oddly tempted as Bartholomew was... the two had more pressing concerns.