“Please, Neda. You need to eat. He's dead and the meat will spoil if you eat it or not.” The Satyr was gone and in its place; he heard a hushed voice whisper from somewhere close-by. It was dark and clammy and his unnecessary lungs were once again filled with dust that his body sought to expel.

“That’s disgusting. It’s still a human being and we’re not cannibals! Besides... he looks disgusting. How long d’you think he’s been dead for? Probably died from some disease...” A light, harmonic voice stumped Asrael. Even if it had carried such an enigmatic message, he could not help but let it slip to the back of his mind and instead mire in the misery that the pain in his right temple sought to overwhelm him with. As their hushed argument continued; he felt momentary spikes of relief as the melodious voice whispered at his side. He opened his eyes and was, for the moment, relieved to see that the Satyr no longer grinned at him. It had disappeared entirely along with the rest of the Tower. Instead; he sat in a yurt of a primitive make. The hay stung his soft skin through the tattered rags and the dust continued to sting his dry nostrils. He was far from comfortable, but once again; Asrael was alive, however, disgusted by his accommodations. Up above; the sun shone on the light canvas that made the covering of the yurt, which inevitably stung his eyes. He sat up to face the voices quarreling of cannibalism and met the eyes of a young couple of fellow... simpler... human beings. They were captives, judging by the chains clapped around their necks and wrists... dreadfully; so was he, it seemed. The two looked at Asrael with dumbfounded confusion. The tall, white-haired, white-stubbled man was younger than the pigmentation of his hair would dictate, but a life lived out in the savage lands had left him with scars on his forehead and cheeks. But next to him; Asrael saw the most beautiful being he had seen in some time- a young thing, barely twenty by his summation. Her honeyed, sun-bleached hair hung over her ample breasts, she had red eyes that seemed to glint with a life of their own and a sleek, long body that’d invoke the jealousy of every whore in Capita. Their skin was tanned- like those of the magi returning after having studied the blighted lands. Naturally; at the sight of the extraordinarily ugly, pale man; their jaws hung agape with shock. The man’s trembling voice eventually broke from its stammer to say;

“B-but... how? You weren’t breathing- I'm sure you weren’t breathing!” Asrael looked down at his chest and verified... he truly wasn’t breathing.

“I take shallow breaths, simpleton. What happened? Why have I been put in chains!?” He remembered the shadowy figures and subsequently; the baton slamming into his temple. The man’s expression conveyed a disappointment, likely at having lost his opportunity for a quick meal.

“Yeah, well... welcome to the club. They dragged you in in the middle of the night. We were planning on eating you, but since you’re awake, I guess that ain’t happening.” His accent was most unusual to the young magus. It was thick with the common isms of the lowly non-magicals, but it was distinctly different from the peasantry. Asrael gritted his teeth and swore;

“They have made the worst mistake of their lives if they believe they can keep me in chains! Do they not know who I am!? I demand to be released at once!” It was difficult for him to shout. The pain in his temple aside, his lungs had not properly been inflated, and thusly; the collapsed alveoli reduced the expendable volume of his chest. He was as furious as he was confused as he writhed and wriggled against the chains.

“Calm down and be quiet, you damn idiot! Are you insane!? Did they hit you hard enough to scramble your brain!?” The man whispered hoarsely. Asrael’s jaw fell agape at the nerve. Who dared speak to him in such a tone- a lowly peasant wildling from wherever the Hell they were- raising his voice against a high magus!? Before he could scold the wildman, Asrael was reminded of how he had ended in his current predicament... it was not wise to reveal his nature, nor his excellent name. Instead; he straightened his back and attempted to recover from his outburst.

“My brains are none of your concern, but I promise you; I am well beyond your faculties, peasant. Now; tell me why I am here with you two lowly beasts and why I am in chains.” The two idiots were as astounded by the pompous, well-speaking asshole as he was with how little intelligence their contorted expressions could convey.

“Call me what you want, fucker, but apologize to my sister!” The man demanded and began kicking the necromancer. Typical low-born- incapable of understanding perfectly clear speech. Naturally; Asrael could be no worse and would soon join the man in his kicking.

“That’s enough you two!” Neda, the girl, shouted at them with such gravitas both imagined it a good idea to obey her. Asrael retracted his feet and scoffed, but thankfully; the girl decided it was finally time for her to talk.

“We lived in a village to the south. But with the drought; the fields all dried up and so... when the Inquisition came by...” She bit her lower lip and choked back what was undoubtedly a tear. Asrael winced at her pathetic lack of emotional control and thought it best to refocus her by asking;

“I do not care how you ended up here, I care why I am here. I should be a much higher prize than the likes of you two! Not that you two would understand... tell me. Where are we? What season is it?” The young man spat on the dust and glared at Asrael, refusing to answer any of his questions. Next; the magus turned to address the girl; “How mature... how about you? Females are supposed to be gentler beings-” Neda spat across the distance and struck Asrael’s forehead with a globule of dry spittle. These beasts were barely above the cockroaches wriggling about on the dust- primitive enough to resort to violence and spitting on a man. He attempted to fervently remove the globule, but his bound-together hands would not allow for such movement.

“How dare you soil me!? I should-” The yurt’s flap was torn open by a fat, armored man, clad in chain-link armor and little else. He stepped in without any further comments or introductions to kick the girl’s side to send her reeling onto the poorly man who reacted promptly by devolving into a rabid frenzy- biting for the ogre in his armor. Smiling; he delivered a kick to the rabid dog’s chin- sending him, too, flailing backward until the chain tensed and brought him down on the dust. Satisfied that he had wrought his malice upon the two captives, he turned to the freshest of his acquisitions and grabbed Asrael by the hair to raise him to his height. The brute was unimaginably strong- capable of lifting the tall Necromancer to his height with minimal effort. His shaven scalp was greasy with perspiration and the scar across his face and mouth prevented the careful fine-motor control necessary to contain his reeking drool.

“Lookie, lookie. Found us a wild cunt last night. Thought we’d gut ya for croachin’ on our territory, but he’s covered in magic-speak, he is. Bet the Quisitor’d wanna have a look atcha.” The ogre grabbed Asrael’s tattered clothes and pulled his shirt apart to reveal the impressive scarifications of his chest and stomach. Asrael kept his mouth shut to avoid absorbing any of the disgusting fumes oozing out from the man’s filthy mouth.

“What’s wrong, you lil’ shit? Whore got your tongue?” He pointed over his shoulder towards the still-reeling Neda gripping her neck chain. Next; the ogre pulled Asrael’s hair and dragged him onwards until it felt as if the collar would snap his neck. Thankfully; it seemed breathing was no longer a necessity for him, if it had been; he might’ve actually been in fear of his life. The Ogre grabbed his eyelids and forced them open to look at the woman struggling to breathe on the floor.

“You mages are all the same... you better enjoy her pretty lil’ face for as long as it lasts. When the missus gets tired o’ her, she’s mine. You’d better remember that. I ain’t sharing her. Not like the others.” He laughed a depraved chuckle before turning around to throw Asrael at the oddly stable support. Before he could check to verify he had suffered no fractures; he heard a series of clicks from his collar and the wrist-bindings and before he knew it; he was free... well, relatively free. The Ogre’s tight grip around his neck pulled him onwards- out through the yurt’s flap and out into the blinding light. More disturbing than the retina-scorching sun was, of course, the captor’s astounding specter of odors. It was clear that the disgusting creature had never taken the time to wash his blood, sweat, and other bodily fluids off of him since the day the world was misfortunate enough to welcome him into its horrendous glory. He dragged the limp necromancer after him- past the equally disgusting men in their armors staring at him from in between the many tents. The nomadic campsite seemed oddly organized, where it lay next to the well-trampled roads, and in the distance; he could see a cloud of dust following after a horse-drawn caravan. The implications were many. For one; this was at least a semi-permanent installation, one which relied on deliveries and more-than-likely; pick-ups. By the sound of his brief conversations thus far; they were likely transporting people- stolen or donated by the local tribes... but none of this sounded familiar to him. He had traveled the lands with the old man, but had never heard of tribes nor had he heard of the recently established so-called Inquisition’s hunt out in the periphery... then again... now that they no longer hunted the Magnificent Asrael, he supposed they’d have the resources to spare.

The Ogre dragged Asrael through another flap and threw the helpless, tall, thin, pale man onto a surprisingly soft carpet. The atmosphere in this yurt was different- the canvas was thicker, the air smelled clean, rather than drenched with bodily fluids. More importantly; there were actual pieces of soft furniture- chairs, tables, and tableware positioned about the large tent. The necromancer groaned and attempted to rise to his knees, only to suffer a powerful, monstrous foot to the back of his neck.

“You stay down, dog!” The ogre warned, but a finely dressed men in an armor quite dissimilar to those in the campsite waved him off. Asrael recovered from his indignant kneel and looked up at the finely cut man. His gray hair and beard were all neatly trimmed- his skin was clean and his blue armor was neatly polished. His open coat had a familiar, disgusting marking over his left pectoral- the unmistakable embroidery of a pyre with a vaguely demonic shape writhing in agony atop it. Asrael nearly had to squeeze his eyes shut at the sight of it- the memories were nearly too powerful for his strong mind to suppress.

“Ah, good... you know to fear the fire, do you not?” The man chuckled and sat upon his chair to sip at his cup of wine. Asrael remained silent. What was he to say to madmen out of their station? The old man took his silence as a sign of his submissiveness and leaned back on the chair again.

“I hope you like our little encampment. Personally; I detest it, alas, my wife loves it. Something about the frontier- it sparks some fantasies of hers.” He chuckled.

“Tell me your name, magus. Who are you?” Asrael swallowed. He knew better than to identify himself to these crazed simpletons.

“Come on, speak up. I saw your markings- I know that you are one of them... I must say; I am impressed. Academic magic is unusual in this time and age. Last I saw it was nearly thirty years ago.” Asrael blinked his dry corneas twice... there was something about this aged man. Something about his voice- a familiar tone to it. He briefly glanced up and felt his dead skin run cold as he realized that he had met this critter before- a long time ago, by the looks of it... He had been there. Just how long had he been out of this world?

“I am Nuren. I found these markings in a book, hoping they would grant me magical power, but it seems they have been useless thus far-” A metallic goblet struck his scalp as the old man lost his patience.

“Do not lie to me, fiend! I have spent the last thirty years making your demonic kind talk- I know a lie when I hear one! You are obviously of Capita- I can hear it on your accent!” The man stood up and walked across the room- sounding his clattering boots with every step. He had most definitively met this man before. In fact; he might have been one of the men whose arrows he had just pulled from his still-living corpse. Asrael trembled with fury- the gall of this lesser being, thinking he could capture him!? Before Asrael could open his mouth to scold the ingrate, the old man kicked him and sent him summersaulting backward through the air. He slammed back-first unto the carpet and before he could recover; the fine officer had planted his boot atop his throat and glared down at him with disgust.

“I ask you again. I am Commander Kerras- this sector’s Inquisitor. Now tell me. What is your school? Are you a healer?” Despite his fury, Asrael could not help but be puzzled by the question... a healer? He had met enough of these madmen to know that his kind was questioned later- usually after the torture. These were not the acts of a man who despised him- at least not entirely. These were the acts of a man who needed something.

“I know... healing...” Asrael spoke in a croak. He thought for a moment the man would reach for his blade as he kneeled down atop his throat and cocked his head to glare at him.

“You all look the same... pale, gaunt, disgusting monstrosities. But you... I’ve seen you before...” The man muttered. Asrael was no fighter- he'd never been. Unarmed, against heavily armored and armed men- in the middle of their camp, no less... if they had wanted to kill him; they would- easily. All he could do should this man truly recognize him would be to pray to the Satyr that his undeath would end- that he wouldn’t be reduced to living out the rest of time a decapitated head in a box. Thankfully; the man’s attention was stolen away by another loud jerk of the yurt’s flap as a young, red-haired woman with a fine dress strode in;

“I need wine. Those men- those disgusting men... you need to find them new women or find a healer to fix the others! I cannot handle those disgusting stares. Every time I look at them; I can feel them undressing me! And my poor, darling Neda... I can tell she suffers so.” The woman spoke as she strode over to the table to pour herself a cup of wine with tremoring hands. Whoever this divine being was, she served to steal away the Commander’s attention and soften his expression.

“I’ve found a healer, my love. I trust his abilities will help them- and in turn; you... yes, little one?” Little one... the extent of torture it seemed he had to endure grew increasingly intolerable. He- high magus of the school of Necromancy... little one... But having run into enough of these ‘Inquisitors’ he knew he’d be a fool to disobey their orders- especially with a vague promise of a stayed sentence in the air. The Commander took his boot off of Asrael’s neck for the woman to glance down at him. There had to be well over forty years between the two, but the power balance in their relationship did not seem to follow seniority- not by the look of the Commander’s sheepish grin. She, however, seemed disgusted at her visitor. She took a sip of the wine and spat a purple globule of wine down on Asrael before motioning for the Ogre to take him away. The necromancer looked over his shoulder to see the disgusting, flabby mass of flesh approach with a familiar baton and a malicious grin across his lips.

“Not again-” Before he could finish his plea; the baton had struck his temple once more and sent him reeling back into his mind- headed for where he would be... relatively... free from the pain of existence.