He could already feel them violating the trio of women. Every thrust was another jab into his groin- every slap and bite sent another jolt of pain shooting across his body. He was in agony; pure... unadulterated... agony. The Ogre hurriedly clapped the irons around Rallo’s and Asrael’s necks and wrists. Both were too encumbered by their sicknesses to even look up from the dust, but by the looks of things; Asrael was faring better than his pale companion. It was curious, how only a day before, he had first caught sight of the injury. The women had suffered far worse fates, whereas Rallo’s injury had been relatively minor. But where the women had clung to their fury- their hate, this man had allowed himself to be weakened by his care for his sister. His resolve was as weak as his flesh and while they grew stronger with the injustice the rapists wrought upon them; Rallo grew weaker... paler... sicker. Asrael fought the pain and leaned up against the support in the tent to look at the pathetic wretch heaving for air on the floor.

An ill-expected surprise interrupted Asrael’s musings at his second-to-finest work to date. The redheaded woman’s voice sounded several hushes from over in the corner of their yurt; “I am so sorry, my beloved Neda... I wish we could have done this in our home, but Kerras is searching for me. Our snuggles will have to be contained here tonight- you there! Avert your eyes!” The redheaded wench shouted at Asrael as he looked up to the relatively clean corner of the yurt, where he saw the head of hair hang over Neda’s disgustingly servile form. She lay flat across the woman’s lap with a hand held to the breast she was eagerly being led to suckle on. Warm, sweet liquids flowed from the nipple and into her esophagus, where it nourished the wildling girl. Asrael heeded the order with a shake of his head.

“Good girl, good girl... eat up... you need your strength. Do not be shy- do not be afraid to bite your beloved Mother.” Asrael could see the woman reach for her crotch in his peripheral vision. The hungry, greedy look on her face filled him with a disgust to rival the vivid imagery of brutality in the next tent over. To him; the world was already aflame- not with the inferno he sought to wreak upon it, but with the corrupted fire of wicked, depraved Men. Rallo- the bleeding mess on the floor, retched a mouthful of bile and acid to the dust- angering the woman humming her babe to sleep over in the corner.

“If you are not quiet, I will-” She gasped as she saw the two, wide, bright-green bulbs eye her with hate from across the darkness. They shimmered with a light of their own- magical power in its purest form, radiating from the vasculature in his retinas. Low clicks sounded as his jaws clattered. She licked her lips- the rage faded as she saw his helplessness- his impotence. Her work on the mound beneath her red underwear intensified to the point she could not help but moan in tune with the swallowing in her lap. Loud bootsteps clanged across the courtyard outside as the Ogre’s monstrously massive form moved closer across the darkness to tear the flap off. His flaccid, small, shriveled, diseased member hung to the winds and all he wore were the metal boots. He had a look of frenzy in his eyes as he scanned the darkness and finally caught sight of the two embracing forms in the corner.

He shouted and leapt through the flap to roar at the pair; “That’s it! The boys have taken the women- I'm havin’ that un! Fuck off, lady!”

She shrieked “Kerras!” and gripped Neda by her beautiful, long hair. Chains clattered from the Necromancer’s position and stopped the Ogre’s charge just before he could rip Neda’s beautiful form from the madwoman’s lap. He turned to see the wild, green eyes for himself and by some miracle; Asrael was standing. He had poured every last bit of magic into his muscles and despite his assumption it would drain him- he felt stronger than ever. The necromantic energy allowed him movement he had earlier thought impossible- the dead tissues obeyed and reacted to his will with a fervor no living cells could. With a clang; the chains shattered and fell to the ground and likewise; the Ogre and the redhead’s jaws dropped. For all he could allow; he could not see her harmed- not by them. Neda’s idiocy- her servility and pathetic nature necessitated punishment far beyond what these two could dish out- pain far beyond the facilities of mortal men. He finally stopped suppressing the women in the neighboring tent and with his slipping control; a rhapsody of male screams shook the still darkness outside.

The Ogre looked away but for a moment and missed Asrael’s lips as he spoke; “The only one to violate her will be me.” As if thinking it was a challenge, the supposed Lieutenant glanced back towards Asrael and charged the Necromancer- a fist held high above his head as if to pummel the man. He had never been a fighter- in fact, he had never fought. But by pure, primordial instinct; he raised his hand to block the monstrous fist with ease. Whether it was due to his shock at the little man’s strength or due to the continued, gargling screams from across the camp; the Ogre paled- his eyes widened.

The redhead and Neda both heard a series of cracks as the Lieutenant’s antebrachium shattered in several sites at the long, thin fingers squeezing his ulnar and radial bones together in a vice grip. The Ogre screamed and readied his second arm in a panicked flail, only to suffer a tired boot to his left knee- bending it backwards at a bone-crunching, gut-wrenching angle. Ligaments; anterior and cruciate alike snapped and allowed for the unnatural movement- leaving the Ogre to scream and writhe on the floor. Satisfied that he would not be moving for at least another few minutes; the Necromancer turned his attention on Rallo to see that he had stopped moving. He bent down to brush the hair from his face and verified that the pathetic wretch had finally died.

Rallo felt different from the women. Whereas they had welcomed him with open arms; Rallo had resisted at first- at least up until their envelopment had become deep enough to see his power and what he had used it for. Neda lay relatively unharmed in the sickly woman’s arms, still suckling at her teat in a misguided effort to save herself. Hesitantly... the man had accepted him, but with far less warmth than the women had. Therefore; the bond between them seemed weaker and the few sensory nerves Asrael could feed information from were weakly at best- absent at worst. Still... it did not matter. There was work to be done- a world to reclaim. The women had taught him something- Rallo had taught him something. The Inquisition had not been wrong in their quest- in fact; he had been the fool to have missed it. There was a sickness innate in Man- a fever that, just like Rallo’s, would inevitably claim the moral fibers of their kin... and, like with Rallo, there could only be one cure. And for once... Asrael was the healer.

He and his newly acquisitioned soldier left the tent. Whereas the women moved smoothly to wring necks- bite jugulars and tear skin from flesh; Rallo was weaker. He shambled and spent half his energy resisting the magic keeping him alive. Even in his reduced state- even in his weakly form; Rallo was magnificent. The glowing green eyes, the strength of his movements were music to Asrael’s auditory nerves. The tensing and flexing of anterior and posterior femoral muscles were the strings of a neatly strummed harp, the power in his arms were lutes playing harmoniously in the bright illumination of the silver moon above... the screams- the lovely screams of these insane men were the harmony on which he would play his solo. Rallo shot out to join the women in the tent- moving with a swiftness to rival a desert jaguar’s. But Asrael had a goal in mind- a goal that now stood and scratched his head with panic, gripping a sword with a nervous hand across the camp-site. Kerras’ eyes darted back and forth between the yurts- undecided as to where to fasten his attention.

Asrael spoke from the darkness. “Do you remember me now, Kerras?” As he stepped into the luminance of the fire; the Inquisitor paled as he saw the brightness of Asrael’s green eyes.

He shouted back; “Is this your doing, fiend!? What have you done!?” One by one; the screams were silenced by the efficient undead.

Asrael reached for the tattered rags of his shirt and pulled the rotten cloth apart to display the hastily repaired damages to his skin. “Oh, I have done nothing, Commander. But you... You have killed your men and in so doing; unleashed salvation upon your kind. You sought monsters, so you created them... but you made a mistake in choosing who to pervert.” The wounds- the runes. He had definitively seen those markings- they had been there, on that whore so long ago. It had sparked the first Pyre- it had started the world’s transformation... then... he had seen them again. Kerras’ eyes widened- his pupils grew as black as the night surrounding the pair. In the dim light of the campire; he finally drew recognition on the form.

The Commander’s lips tremored as they formed the words; “No... it cannot be... I saw you die- the General shot you!”

Asrael could not resist the urge to laugh at the foolish being. “And die I did, Commander. It was but the first hurdle. Now you will mark the completion of the second.” At his command; a quartet of forms stepped from the shadows of the now still campfire. All that could be heard were the crackles of the fire. The embers shot out to illuminate the three, grinning women and the slack-jawed, wide-eyed Rallo.

“I am Asrael Nessarat- the one and only true Necromancer. High Magus of the Circle and the school of Necromancy. And you... will be part of my Magnum Opus.”

Morning came and brought with it a profound silence. Save for Asrael’s new, brightly-polished, inquisitor-issue silver knife sliding across the Commander’s flesh; there wasn’t a sound to be heard. Behind him; the deep-red glow of the embers were slowly dying out. The dead womwn held Kerras’ writhing, pained, weeping form down as the runes formed over his chest one-by-one- carved by Asrael’s adept hand. He had long since lost his voice- his vocal cords had fallen victim to the hours of screaming.

Now, having been made courageous by the lengthy silence; the redhaired woman dared step outside the yurt and with her; she brought the timid Neda. The red eyes were distant and apathetic- checked out from reality due to the minor intelligence inside having stepped back into the furthest reaches of her mind to save herself from the horrors. Her stomach sloshed with the ample, sweet milk that still tainted her breath, but not a thing registered- not to her.

Asrael could hear the redheaded woman’s voice from out in the camp. “Come, my love- my one, true love. We must leave immediately- that man-” The redhead stopped as Rallo’s tall, magnificent form appeared before her. The sturdy, muscled frame knocked her backwards. The resurrected brother cocked his head and blinked his green eyes- filling the redhead with a previously unfelt terror. This was no man, nor was he a beast. He was magic incarnate- an abomination of flesh, energy and a darkened, vengeful conscience.

The fog clouding Neda’s mind thinned as she stared up at her brother and heard Asrael’s voice; “I have told you... you are pathetic. I have seen beggars digging through feces to find any scrap of worth. I have seen women sell their children to pederasts and I have seen those children’s dead, beaten remains on a slab. But you are, by far, the most pathetic, unworthy husk of a human being I have ever had the misfortune of laying my eyes on.” Asrael spoke as he approached the woman and her pet lover from behind. Neda’s gaze continued to be locked with Rallo’s green eyes, while the woman In her red dress scuttled on the ground to face the approaching, talkative Necromancer. He looked at her with a disgust she had never before felt upon her being- certainly not conveyed through such intense eyes. His black hair hung over his eyes, but the strands did not dampen his radiance in the least.

A gust of wind rattled Asrael’s rags- baring the markings of his pale flesh as he approached the duo and spoke; “But I will let you live if you can prove to me that you can be useful- that there is a speck of worth left in you.” The redhead fell to her knees and raised her folded hands in his direction- weeping.

Through her sobs, she spoke: “I-I can be useful! For a man such as you, I would do anything! My loins, my wealth- my status and contacts are yours to use! I-I have nothing but the utmost respect for your kind. I love your kind- Neda, my lover, is-” Asrael raised his palm and looked at the woman with fury before dropping the dagger at Neda’s feet.

“I was not talking to you, subservient scum. You should worship me, not plead. I was talking to you.” Asrael turned towards Neda to see her snap from her stupor. She looked to Asrael with disbelief before scanning the blood-soaked camp-site of bloody, broken bodies and strewn-about flesh. Some of the misfortunates still writhed in agony, whereas some were attempting to flee- clamoring to their torn-off appendages in loud sobs. She returned her gaze to Asrael before looking down on the knife. Her groin ached with the violation the Commander’s Wife had wrought upon her- her bruised breasts were aching from the bites and twists. And at her feet... lay the instrument of her vengeance. Before her; Asrael’s eyes offered her a strength and a power- a courage and dared she think it?... Hope. She could be more than some love-slave, some beast awaiting the day when the woman tired of toying with her. She could be free- part of whatever this ugly, wretched man would do. She leaned down and picked up the knife before staring her red, glowing eyes down upon her captor. Without a second’s further hesitation; she leapt upon her- ignoring the wails and screams;

“No! Neda, no! I love you, I-” The first stab entered into her stomach- piercing muscles and organs to stain the dirty wildling woman with a warm spurt of blood. The second sunk in between her rips to puncture her lungs and the third sliced across her neck. She tremored with excitement as she saw the panic- the betrayal and heartbreak in the woman’s eyes- a betrayal she, herself had once felt. The next two-dozen stabs were frantic and chaotic and sought only to destroy her flesh and as tempting as it was to watch Neda reclaim her humanity; Asrael had other priorities in mind. He needed to pay his respects to the Commander.