His consciousness returned in pulses- dreadful, agonizing pulses. Perhaps, he thought, if he kept his eyes closed, he would not have to admit to having worked on precious little living flesh. The ogre’s baton against his temple still stung with every jerk of his body as the brute dragged him through the scattered, shoddily assembled camp. The encampment reeked of their common idiocy. The tents had, at some point; been made from fine canvas, but that was long before the fools had taken to repairing them with whatever passed for a needle and thread out in the desert. Animal skins, discarded clothing, and even shed sticks had been used to patch the canvas with poor-quality thread, leaving it a patchwork facility unfit to house animals- much less; the finest magus the world had ever seen.

He briefly entertained the thought of escape but thought the better of it as soon as the ogrish man swung him about and reminded him that his leg was still an agonized lump of limp flesh. Even on a good day when his heart still beat its ceaseless rhythm; he would be fortunate to outrun the man... now; he imagined it nothing short of impossible. His nose stung with a different stimulus as they approached one of the outlying tents- rose-water; a quick-fix for any brothel madame eager to rid her place of business of the scents of sweaty men and filth. A curious fragrance to taste out in the desert- or so he thought...

As they passed through a tent’s flap; the smell of the rose water and the ogre faded to a much more potent, pungent stench. Rotting flesh, stale urine, old ejaculate, rotting blood, and feces stung his nose and eyes as he inevitably opened his eyelids to see the canvases they had prepared for him. A trio of women lay in the incubator-like, warm, humid yurt. They were carved, beaten, bloody, and oozing with bodily fluids, red, yellow, brown- the colors were as varied as their injuries. He had never been one to neither show nor feel empathy, but the distant gazes of the thin, dark-haired, tanned beauties staring up into the canvas rubbed him the wrong way. Perhaps it was the smell or perhaps it was due to the visual stimulus, but for the life of him... he could not contain himself from frowning at the sight of them.

“And what do you want me... to do here?” Asrael asked with an uncommon hesitance. The ogre’s chains rustled as he scratched his groin and licked his lips.

“Fix ‘em. They’re sick and they ain’t screaming and I want ‘em to scream again!” Asrael raised his fist to his mouth and choked back a salt-water flavored, silent retch. He was still uncertain as to whether his flesh even could rot, but touching these women would prove to test the hypothesis that it could not.

“If you don’t fix ‘em, I’ll kill ya! I’ll burn ya to a crisp!” The Ogre threatened and slammed down on one of the nearby chairs to rub his bellybutton eagerly. The pieces were falling into place- these women, these pathetic wretches of infected flesh, and likely very little blood were, effectively, what was keeping morale up out in the scorching desert. It was curious to him, what a promise of a stay of this ‘Inquisitor’s’ hand could motivate him to do- the extent to which he would pervert his school. He could repair flesh- spin it, fasten it, heal it to an extent... but infections... infections required more potent regenerative magics than he possessed- spells beyond his scope of interest and if not; herbs. None of which were readily available to him.

Asrael staggered to his feet and cocked his head to look at them. The women weren’t avoiding his gaze as much as they were uncaring for him- in fact; they cared for precious little. He touched their carved foreheads one by one and verified that their clammy pallor were the results of fevers- fevers that would very likely kill them by long. Behind him; the ogre was impatient, tapping his fingers against the armrest of his filthy chair as numerous men turned around in the yurt’s opening. He had to do something. And something, he did. He sat down at the stomach height of the first of the women and summoned forth his magic- empowering his fingertips with an amazement that was lost on the Ogre. The power flowed through him far stronger than it ever had and it heeded his commands as if it were truly part of his consciousness.

“This will hurt. Be quiet.” Asrael warned and touched the woman’s abdomen- preparing himself to ignore her loud shrieks of agony as his magics were forced into her flesh. To his surprise; she was open to him- as if allowing him to violate her with his magical influence. Not one to look a gift sex slave in the mouth; he quickly set about studying the condition of her body, only to realize the scope of the hopelessness before him. She was strong for having survived thus far, but her strength was quickly sapping. Her external injuries were nothing like the interior damages. Her vagina was torn and tattered- infected by numerous, inflammatory, toxin-producing bacterium. Likewise; her rectum was torn and a continuous flow of dreadful bacteria ran freely into her peritoneal cavity. Already; her peritoneum had the crisp, starchy sensation to it- meaning it was already thoroughly inflamed. By long; the inflammation would spread to her pancreas and at that point; she would start digesting her own gastric system.

He grabbed the pathetic wretch by her chin and forced her to look at him- still stunned by how little she seemed to care for the pain of his intrusions... then again... she had certainly suffered far worse intrusions already. Her distant gaze honed in on his green eyes and the dark bulbs turned... different. Far beneath the glistened surface; he could see a rage- a suppressed fury. At that moment; he almost envied her. Whereas he had cowered before the Inquisition and shit himself in expectance of his death... this woman... was brave. Even now, in this state, she held onto her rage and wanted nothing more than to kill the Ogre for his defilement of her sisters. Truly; the woman was nothing short of a hero- a monster, should she only have the opportunity to be one. He felt a warm fingertip touch his famished abdomen- poking a hand through one of the holes in his tattered rags to touch... the runes. A snore from the ogre gave Asrael the courage he required to lean in close and whisper into her ear;

“You are dying. It is written in stone- there is nothing to be done about that factum... but I can offer you something else.” He pointed to the runes and pressed her finger to his stomach. Her consent was hardly necessary, as his mind had already been mind up at this point. He would have her strength- he would have her beautiful, vengeful eyes.

“Join me. You will not live, nor will you die. I will see to it your sisters receive the same gift- the same I received.” He touched his stomach. The fury never dissipated from her eyes, but he could see a flash of something else... a worry, or perhaps; a glance of gratitude. Even now, could they harbor hopes of someday escaping their captivity? He retracted away from the wretch and stared down at her bared flesh.

“Then I will warn you for the last time... this will hurt.”

_______________________________________

For two days; he had sliced and carved the women’s skin- prepared them for the resurrection to come. Despite his confidence; he had only ever done this on a couple of occasions- one of them being his own resurrection. But one thing was certain; before he could perform any feat of magic, he would have to rest. He was done with the second sister’s meticulous decorations when the Ogre finally declared he could no longer sit still and watch him have all the fun and therefore; Asrael had been harshly dismissed by a third, previously anonymous guardsman. For whatever reason; the crazed, aroused, filthy wretch dragged him around the camp, as if to parade him around for the others- all of whom carried similar expressions. Unbeknownst to Asrael; this fine ‘Captain’ had told his men that, by long, the women would have their vigor returned to them at the hands of the skilled magus. Still; they looked at Asrael with disgust- just as they had before the rise of this ‘Inquisition’ as if he was the anomaly and they were the fine citizens of the Emperor’s lands- always obedient... always natural. There was nothing fine about them- the treatment of those women was what was typical of these non-magical beasts. They only ever cared for short-term pleasure- sex, money, alcohol- the types of things Asrael would not be caught dead immersing himself in. The gentle guardsman finished chaining the magus to a pole out behind one of the tents and kicked the back of his knees to bring him to a kneel.

“You’re a bit pale, mage-filth. A few hours out here in the sun’ll fix that.” He grinned down at Asrael, before unceremoniously turning his flabby posterior to hobble on back towards the campsite. He could scarcely believe the cruelty of these men- the cruelty and the utter idiocy. Were these truly the people who now ruled the lands? Had the General and the Emperor perverted humankind to the extent that this was all that remained of his once-glorious Empire? A movement from the nearby tent stole away his attention from his profound, welling fury and made him aware of a pair of shapes moving about inside the cloth canvas. He could see them through the narrow opening of the yurt- barely, but he could definitively see them. He was looking at the redhead- seated on a chair, where she bit her lower lip and unbuttoned her shirt. Sharpening his ears; he could hear the woman speak;

“My dearly beloved, I am so sorry for leaving you for so long... My detestable husband wishes to get in our way- I believe he suspects us. Come- you must be so hungry.” A tall, thin woman stepped in the line of the slit of the opening of the canvas. Lengthy, honey-blonde, sun-bleached hair hung over the long back of what could only be a hesitant, slouched Neda.

“Come now, my darling. You cannot fault me for having had only your best in mind. If I had refused him; he would have punished me by punishing you.” Neda seemed to hate every step she took towards the woman and when she sat down on the redhead’s lap, she caught sight of the green eye peering through the canvas.

On her cheek; a fresh bruise revealed that the Ogre’s blow had left her with a fair bit of swelling. Neda forced her eyes shut and looked away in shame before leaning into the redhead’s arms. The red woman cradled her in her arms and grabbed for Neda’s head, where she led her lips to her left breast, where the desert wildling hesitantly began to suckle from her teat.

“There, there... a daughter should always obey her mother. You know I detest hesitation, my dear.” There was a darkness to her voice, one that warned that all was not as peaceful as it seemed inside the unnerving tent. A moment later; Neda whimpered as the redhead grabbed hold of her hair and began pulling at it while commanding;

“Bite harder- suckle more! Faster!” This was what was left of humanity. A nauseating, morally depraved gathering of the insane out in the desert. The three women had the right idea- holding onto their fury as they had. What else was there for just, sensible people, but rage in a world such as this? He would be in his right to seek the death of the despicable leftovers of humanity’s past glory- they all would.

A shimmer of a distant, clattering armor broke his attention away from the torture of the woman and brought his green-eyed gaze towards the gold-trimmed plates and chains of this commander ‘Kerras’... and it was then, as he saw him striding past in his profile, that he finally remembered the man. He had been there- years past by the looks of it. He had been the one shouting through the window.