Over the course of few hours, the Garrison- and Pilta with it, had fallen to Asrael’s might. The intoxicating victory still made his blood boil with excitement, but the inevitable, creeping dread was sneaking up on him. Petrus’ congealing blood and spinal fluids still stained the wall, but Asrael’s men had been quick to remove his body and prepare him for Asrael’s study, back in the tavern’s cellar.

Neda was not unbothered by the day’s events, as obvious by the blood spilled on her white dress, where she sat at Titus’ side and continued to inscribe his chest. The cool slate beneath her knees was sticky with the cold blood of her mindless victim- a man now pale enough to rival the necromancer seated atop the bed behind the Blightlander.

A sickly, sweet scent filled the air- stemming from the blanket of smoke building on the floor. Ellie lay on the bed- propped up by several pillows, one of which supported her right, broken hand. Her miotic pupils frequently rolled backwards as she took drags of the long, smoldering pipe and coughed less and less frequently. She was nauseous, dizzy and struggling to maintain her apathy in the face of the building euphoria.

“I’m so... sick... I wanna sleep...” Ellie whispered through the side of her moth. Asrael broke from his staring at the Blightlander to glare at the girl in her black dress over her shoulder.

“If you can talk, you can smoke.” He reached over the bed to slap her hand. She winced and whined like a wounded hound, but Asrael took note of the delayed and lessened reaction. By long, he assumed she would be ready for their careful work- leaving him to consider the past few hours’ events.

Lita- first and foremost had spoken and shown him things beyond his understanding. Her painful experiences, her regeneration at the hands of Azazeel and most importantly: the burning of Capita. Their intercourse had, dreadfully, been wiped from his memories- leaving him with naught but a blank space of the preceding hours, to remind him of his first act of physical intimacy with a woman. The reasons for her violation were somewhat clear to him... she had made a deal with Azazeel to bear forth a child with him as its father, at least by the sound of it. The absurdity of the situation aside, the idea itself seemed to be based on insanity. He was dead. Even if he had had a functioning pair of testicles and a prostate to serve its function, the complicated reproductive cycle of female humans meant that their fertility variated with the phases of the moon- meaning, the chances were stacked against her.

He found that he momentarily pitied her. As wise as she might have seemed, it was clear that she was delusional. Obviously, she had a wish to mother a child, but her chosen partner and the mode with which she had sought to achieve her goals were foolish- at best. Had he had a mirror at handy, he might’ve taken another gander at the horrendously ugly face she sought to dilute her beautiful features with. Thankfully, he had no mirror.

Most puzzling was this talk of the Demon. For as long as he could remember, he had attributed the beast as being a nightmare- a figment of his overactive mind. But she claimed to have spoken to him- Titus had mention his name and Asrael was beginning to doubt his insanity- an unexpectedly dreary thought, as it meant that not only was the Demon real... it had some form of connection to him. If only he could remember where he had first seen it, he hypothesized things would be clearer to him. He racked his mind for the hall in which he had met the Satyr- hoping to find when he had first seen it, long before his death.

Neda had stood up to stretch her aching joints. Her knees were in agony, but soon, the carvings would be finished. She turned around to make her report, only to see that Ellie was struggling to stay awake. Her eyes were small and distant, but she clung to the pipe with all her remaining consciousness. She looked down to see that Asrael sat with his hands folded beneath his chin- staring ahead. She followed his gaze and realized that his full attention was securely fastened at the cleavage in her white dress.

A hot flash struck across her face- warming her reddening cheeks. Despite his fury, despite her failure- despite being so gruesomely violated by that beastly woman, Asrael sent her an assurance, in the form of revealing his continued interest for her. Her aching knees weakened with the resulting breath of relief. She was overjoyed to see that, despite her inconveniencing him and inevitably leading to his violation, she still had a place in his heart.

“Y-you can... look closer... if you want.” Asrael snapped out of his deep musings to look up and see the deep-red blush on Neda’s cheeks. Her bloody dress- the deep cleavage, the dripping knife in her right hand... On any other day, he might’ve found the sight arousing, but ever since the woman drained him of his precious seed, he had experienced a rare sense of clarity- a state of mind he recognized from when he had once attempted to satisfy himself- successfully, he might’ve added. Well, partially successful. Asrael did not like the calm.

Neda took the widening of his eyes and the drop of his jaw as encouragement and braved a step forwards- a maneuver he narrowly dodged by leaning backwards to slam the back of his head against her Eleanor’s broken hand, but no response was elicited. Before Neda could follow after him onto the silken sheets, Asrael jerked sideways and informed:

“E-Eleanor has fallen to the narcosis. The foolish girl will remain still for as long as the drugs circulate her body- I've no time to quarrel the timing of your advances! You get back to work!” Neda sighed and stood back up to her height, where she folded her arms and scoffed. As far as punishment went, this back-and-forth teasing was tiring her. Was this what he had planned to torment her with for failing him? Confusing signals?

“I said I was sorry, Assie, jeez, what more do you want?” Despite his previous insistence she leave him to his work, he had to stop and signal his disbelief. Was this woman serious? Did she attempt to demand something of him- after what she had done? As if sensing his displeasure, the audacious, lusty woman glared at him as she sat down to continue her work and leave him to his.

Despite his annoyance, Asrael put Eleanor’s sweet-scented pipe down on the floor- only then noticing the... exotic... inscriptions on its side- undoubtedly a trophy Bartholomew had claimed throughout his explorations of the wildlands. As it struck the floor, the ashes of the poppy sprayed out across the smoothly polished slate, but despite the loud sound, Eleanor’s eyes remained closed. Finally, he stretched his hands out to begin his cautious work. Petrus’ hand was impeccable- allowing him to extend his magic from his fingertips and into his apprentice’s skin. It bled through the scarce pores of her lower arm and hand, only to verify his dreadful estimation.

Every bone from the tips of her fingers and up to her elbow had been broken at least twice near their weakest points. Her proximal phalanges were barely more than powder and the insertion points for the tendons were loose, at best. Absent, at worst. Her palm’s metacarps were, as with her phalanges, a mess of broken bones, punctured and squeezed-off vessels and nerves. The carpal ossa were no better, but at least they were, although loosely, still connected in their tight webwork of tendons and connective tissue. He had to take a moment to consider how to approach the complicated fracture, before moving up to her lower arm. He held back an obscenity as he felt his magic wrap around her antebrachial bones. The interosseus articulations were far apart and dislodged by her movements, the muscles meant to move most of her lower arm and hand had had their origin points torn cleanly off and the nerves had long since died due to the compression.

In summary, Asrael had his suspicions confirmed. Eleanor’s arm was ruined- forever. He had expected as much, when he saw the color, but the question was... what then? Eleanor’s days of carving with her right, dominant hand were over. If he were merciful, he might’ve amputated it while she was still out, but... there had to be something he could do. A transplant? No- the tissues would reject one-another. Repairs? Far too late. Euthanasia?

Asrael ground his teeth together and looked up at the girl. Her usually pale, freckled cheeks were slightly reddish- her lips were contorted into the faintest outline of a smile and the dark hair was chaotically spread out to cover several of the pillows. She had no use to him- not anymore. If she were out of commission, he might never have use for her ever again... perhaps she could learn to use her left hand, but how long would it take? In her fifteenth year alive, she was nearing the end of her adaptability and she would never be able to move her remaining hand with the grace she required to do his bidding.

He needed to consider his options before acting- he needed to consult the literature. A skilled fleshmender might’ve been capable of repairing her hand, but he assumed those were in short supply in a place such as Pilta... but the Purged... Asrael looked down at Titus’ still form and began to imagine that there might be a solution to his conundrum.