Berral’s left buttock ached as the horses dragged his carriage over the dusty plains. For three decades; the man had traversed the Empire’s roads on the very carriage on which he now rested his weary, aching posterior. What had at first begun as an odd job- a quick silver to pay a bar tab, had, before he knew it, become his entire life. When he was a young lad; he would oftentimes daydream of his future and imagine he would marry a countess or some other high-standing aristocrat- he had the looks for it, after all. He’d be a poet or perhaps even a writer- dedicated to finding the words to properly describe the love he would have for this wife, but as the years wrinkled his skin; so did his dreams. He had left Capita with naught but a horse under his ass and a box under his arm, pausing his duties mid-semester to pay his dues. For weeks; he had traversed the lands in search of the box’s recipient and when he had finally found the man in question; he was no longer Berral Beguillie- valedictorian poet. He had become something more. An adventurer... a caravaneer.

He chuckled and scratched his aching buttock before blowing his nose to shoot a globule of snot out into the dusty desert. He had been such a fool- hesitating in embracing this new life. He leaned against the wooden, tired carriage at his back and smiled as he glanced across his unending kingdom of barren lands, before inevitably, looking down at his stalwart companions. The four horses were nearly as old as himself. They were magnificent beasts- as black as the fading night and with bright-red eyes, a commonplace mutation out in the blighted lands that Berral had learned spoke volumes of its tenacious populace. Thinking of the populace; his stomach inevitably began to echo the pounding ache of his buttock as he remembered the three women in the nearby camp. Last time; the Inquisitors had attempted to pay him in sex, rather than gold, a foolish suggestion, as Berral had never had troubles bedding even the feistiest, most hesitant women. Him declining the ridiculous offer had, however, offended the foul Lieutenant and had nearly earned him a good beating- one he had narrowly avoided by shouting for the good Commander’s wife... a despicable banshee whose life seemed to gravitate around making the lives of her husband’s men unbearable.

He had done good, though, he had. Fed those women while the others weren’t looking- fed them well, too. He sighed as he considered the many sunrises it had been since last he saw them and hoped, above all, that they’d been fortunate enough to have died, rather than face more of this world's cruelty. A curious ticking caught his attention and had him turn around to look to the top of the creaking, wooden carriage, only to see naught but the rising sun’s red rays.

But the buttock... the damnable, left buttock... the ache only ever meant one thing. Trouble.

Asrael’s eyes stung as his eyes passed over the scalp of the small, fat man. His stubby arms and legs, his sunk-in eyes and button-like nose were a curious combination of features that briefly made the Necromancer consider whether they had caught an otherkin, but the sniffles in the dirt made him reconsider. He was fairly certain that, somewhere in his sobbing, the man had called himself ‘Barrel’- a most unusual name, but then again... there was nothing usual about this man to begin with. The tattered, reeking, perspiration-infused jacket hung down on either side of his chest- tapping against his belly as he pounded his folded hands into the dust. Even the Ogre seemed to look at him with pity from his place in the circle of reanimated dead surrounding the misfortunate, small, fat man. Tiring of his pathetic groveling; Asrael ordered Kerras to grab the man by his shoulders and suspend him mid-air to face the equally unsightly necromancer who promptly began to shout at him.

“Be quiet, you worm!” The disgust was visible on both their faces. Being physically unappealing was not like being part of an exclusive club, where its members would exchange pleasantries in friendship. To Asrael; the disgusting sight of the ugly man’s snot-drenched face was as infuriating as looking into any mirror to see his own esthetically displeasing features. Barrel choked back his tears and squeezed his eyes shut as to not look at the pale, beautiful, naked, blood-drenched women eyeing him with an unexpected kindness.

He finally defeated his terror to shout; “My Lord, please! I-I-I-”

Asrael raised a finger to silence the man and glared his bright-green eyes unto the driver. “Quiet. I asked you a question. The girl’s village- do you know where it is?” Asrael pointed to the silent, slumbering beauty in the Ogre’s hands. Berral had heard of the village, yes. He had never been there, but the Lieutenant had spoken of it- Mash'rasha’am. Sensing that the magus had little patience for his hesitation; the small, fat man nodded, splashing droplets of sweat on one of the pale women’s breasts.

Ideally; Asrael would have killed him and in so doing; earned himself a driver... But every time he closed his eyes; he was continuously assaulted by the sensory input of his five soldiers and although he doubted much could be said of the man’s cognitive capabilities of flooding his mind... he did not wish to take the chance.

Asrael spoke; “Good. Then you will take us there. You are henceforth my chauffeur.”

Asrael muttered and signaled for the Ogre to carry the girl up to the carriage’s front and gently set her down next to the indentation Berral’s backside had formed over the last few decades. Next; the necromancer turned to look at the carriage, itself. It was a tired, old thing- undoubtedly a fine piece of craftsmanship at one point in its life, but now... now; it was little more than strewn-together wooden splinters. But it would do for now. The ceiling would keep him out of the sun, the three walls would keep the dust off of his clothes and most importantly; it would be silent. For hours; he had listened to pained screams convey emotional and physical distress and it would do him good to have a moment to think about his condition in silence. Perhaps even make a plan, should he be fortunate enough to have the time... a thought that inevitably sparked the question. How far was this village?