Asrael led Neda down the bloody halls. Screams echoed between the soaked walls as she followed after her associate deeper into the Garrison, taking care not to meet the numerous dead eyes of the crushed, exsanguinated, dismembered soldiers strewn about the moist, squishy carpet. Asrael paused at an intersection and held a hand out to stop Neda from wandering into the battlefield- just in time to avoid a procession of screaming, armored men- chased by a tall, naked, clawed beauty and two of Asrael’s Hungered. They did not make it far- barely out of range to avoid the splatter of blood as Longa leapt upon the first of them to sink her long claws into his throat.

Satisfied he had spared his clothing any further splatter, he led Neda onwards- down to the room in which he had previously found Titus defiling Petrus’ living corpse and opened the door to see a curious sight. With his hand still on the door, the necromancer was greeted by the sight of Titus cradling Petrus’ head in his chest on the floor by the bed, while Bartholomew stood behind the two- holding the Duke’s golden blade at his side. He had seen more horrors than any other, living man could claim- all at the hands of the monster that now wept over the quality of his prize on the red carpet at his feet.

Titus grabbed hold of Petrus’ hair and pulled on the golden strands as he forced his face into his chest and screamed; “Damn you, Petrus! Talk to me!” Ellie stood by the door- her eyes unusually wide as she watched the disheartening visage. Petrus- the most pathetic of all of them, jerked his jaw open and closed- forming bubbles of drool in between his thin, pale lips.

Asrael could scarcely contain his excitement. The broken, disheveled man clinging to his zombified lover was little more than a shell, at this point. The striking resemblance to Gustav Sargerrei served to pique his thirst for vengeance- that red hair, the rusty beard and the never-ending stream of tears as he clamored to the wretch was exhilarating- appetizing... and it was only the beginning.

Save from the sobs, none of the associates made a sound. By the bed, Bartholomew still stood and mustered courage- by the oaken desk, Ellie nearly choked on her rage and by the open door; Asrael and Neda stood in silence- both fighting their own forms of arousal.

“Y-you... You killed my mother...” A whisper slithered from the corner, where Ellie’s closed fists trembled at her sides. Her black hair hung over most her face, but Bartholomew could still see the fury and disbelief in her dark eyes. Titus ignored her and continued to stroke Petrus’ forehead while humming a calming melody. Ellie continued: “You turned everyone in Pilta and now you’re crying over that thing?” Asrael took a moment to appreciate Ellie’s welling rage, but imagined it proper he’d secure some assurances out in the bloodied hall in their wake.

Ellie took a step forward and screamed at Titus: “You should’ve just let him be dead... he died quickly- which is more than I can say about the ones you’ve killed!” Titus’ fondling of Petrus’ forehead slowed as he attempted to decipher the girl’s screamed message. Bartholomew tightened his grip on the sword and looked to Asrael for assurances, only to be more unnerved as he saw the wide grin.

Ellie continued to shriek: “I should have killed him like you killed mom! I should have tortured him, beaten him- raped him and then burned him! But don’t misunderstand me, you piece of shit... killing him felt good.” Titus looked up from Titus’ forehead- his teary eyes reflecting the lanternlight exuding from atop the desk. It seemed to take him several moments to understand the girl’s confession, but as it finally dawned on him, Asrael could see the Duke’s fingers dig into Petrus’ forehead.

“What?” He questioned. Bartholomew glared a warning over at the grinning Asrael, only to be dismissed with a wave of his hand. Titus shouted at the girl while rocking the addle-minded pyromancer in his arms: “What? Why in the Hells would you say such a thing-”

Ellie raised her malformed, gray hand in Titus’ direction and shouted back: “I’m not just saying it. I killed him. He deserved it- you all deserve it-” In the span of less than a second, the room devolved into chaos. Bartholomew was swift and finally mustered the brawns to swing the blade, but Titus was faster. The naked duke leapt off of the carpet with a blood-curdling roar, swinging his arms for the dark girl in the corner. To Asrael’s amazement- even with the girl’s disfigured, broken hand, she seemed intent to fight the leaping madman. The necromancer pushed Neda away from the door- leaving an opening for Longa to leap from the hallway and intercept the naked duke. Longa and Titus slammed into the desk- deforming the wood as he helplessly struggled against the pale, naked woman’s unnaturally strong arms.

Longa turned Titus on his stomach and pinned his arms behind his back, to face the source of a series of sighs, moans and groans over by the bed, where Bartholomew stood, gripping the hilt of the golden blade. His wide, blue eyes stared down at Petrus- still on his knees, while jerking his jaws up and down to form bubbles of spittle and grunts.

“N-no-… no! No!” Titus screamed with all his might as he saw the blade embedded into the top of Petrus’ skull. By some miracle, the creature was still alive, despite having had his hemispheres cut apart by the swing Bartholomew had meant to employ to stop his brother’s madness.

“Bartholomew, no! No! My Petrus-” Bartholomew let go of the blade and saw Petrus jerk forwards at the added weight of his cranium. The mindless man fell to the carpet, where he continued to contort as if the blade had not registered to him. His writhing body turned Petrus’ sullied face of blood and cerebrospinal fluids on Titus, where the two briefly locked eyes, before the pyromancer’s inattentiveness again took hold of him.

Asrael spoke: “Leave.” Ellie prepared to protest, but looking up, she realized that the order had not been meant for her, but for the honey-blonde Sargerrei man attempting to distance himself from the writhing, living corpse of the pyromancer. With a mischievous smile, Asrael continued: “Go, Bart. You do not need to see what we’ve planned for your brother.”

Bartholomew’s cheeks were pale enough to rival Asrael’s, where he stood against the far wall and attempted to find some precious distance from the sights. He had swung out for his brother- to save Ellie and to stop this madness in its tracks, only to fail... again. Titus’ eyes conveyed a pain to rival that of Bartholomew’s and despite the silver general’s knowing of all of Titus’ crimes, he could not help but pity the man. Looking down at him, he saw not the Duke that had doomed hundreds of thousands to their deaths, but the same brother with whom he had played countless games of chess- the same brother he had taught how to handle the blade, now embedded in his lover’s head.

“I am sorry, brother-… I cannot help you.” Bartholomew spoke as he jogged for the door, past Asrael and Neda- wiping his tears as he made his departure without a last glance towards the struggling fiends on the floor.