Bartholomew felt the sting of torn corneal epithelium as he opened his eyes to a hellish existence. The sun shining through the fabric of the tent was as scorching as it was unnaturally bright- far brighter than any temporary setup around Capita had the right to be. Where was he? Why was his skin so clammy- why was the air so humid? He blinked a couple of times and attempted to turn his head either way to see whose clammy skin was pressed up against his, but as soon as the first of his muscles began tensing; he was stricken by the looming migraine. It felt as if his father had finally decided to turn against him and drive a hot poker into his cranium to once again make some point he missed-… no... that refused to acknowledge. He attempted to speak, only to find his parched mouth and throat had closed in an effort to protect itself from the dehydrating atmosphere.

For a while; he was quite certain that he was, in fact, dying. It was only as he felt the oils leaking out of his muscled backside and sensed the impressive member in between his cheeks that he remembered the women and felt a pang of vitality return to his chest. He had never once shirked battle when there was woman to be had and thusly; he turned over his shoulder to see her smile up at him. Her dark, curled, long hair hung down to cover one of her breasts and the other; the one he could see, awoke the beast he had unleashed the night previous. Ahead of him; his hands were already naturally drawn to the breasts and a surprisingly impressive, long, fleshy protrusion between the legs of another woman.

“The fleshshaper-twins... of course.” The memory struck him like lightning from the clear skies. Yes; the twins were renowned around the villages and he had brought his men there to find these mythical beings. The oily member at his back squeezed against his opening, where it began to slide on the hot, sticky oils and bodily fluids from the previous evening’s many violations- sparking him to, in turn; thrust his member forwards into the next person in the bed. Before the three could pick up where the previous evening trailed off; a trembling, pained voice spoke from the tent’s flap.

“Bart! Bart! It’s bad- it's really bad, Sir!” Bartholomew groaned as he shook his head dismissively. No. These women needed him and no worldly distractions could make him shy away from his duties- be they his annoying lieutenant or the pounding headache; he would satisfy them.

“Stand down, Lieutenant Slut. These two women are about to treat me like a pig to roast- ah!” He yelped as finally; the posterior twin rammed into him. Twitches and spasms sent sparks of joy throughout her lower abdomen, but with a moaning, passionate series of kisses to his neck; she stilled his body’s protests.

“No, Sir! You don’t understand! It’s a messenger – from Capita!” The protests returned in full. His own limb turned from near-capable of shattering granite, to as flaccid as the lazy palm trees outside. Though it pained him nearly beyond his wits; he shot up to his feet and groaned- leaving the two women blue-balled and disappointed on his lavish bed. The brave, courageous Commander Bartholomew staggered back and forth around the tent- desperately searching for any more of the precious panacea- those red, round bottles of heavenly, fermented juice. He leapt across the tent and grabbed a half-empty bottle filled with equal amounts liquids and poppy-ash before draining it down at a ninety-degree-angle. Lieutenant Slurt stood by the flap and fought his own, post-inebriated battle while jealously eyeing the beautiful, blonde, chiseled-chin commander as he cured his ailments with its causing agent.

“Quick! Hide the women- especially their cocks! Get the men up and ready- see how many we’ve lost thus far!” The Commander barked. Slurt glanced over towards the nervous women and informed;

“It’s... Slurt, Sir Bart. There’s nothing wrong with sodomy, Commander- your father’s opinion on the matter is his and his alone-” Bartholomew jerked around as he slid the still-sweaty, white shirt over his wide shoulders and began to clumsily do the buttons in a stagger.

“No, you imbecile! Those are magic cocks!” Slurt squeezed his eyes shut before understanding the conundrum. Before he could tell his lieutenant how to hide these androgenous protrusions; the Commander disappeared out the tent in a wild scuttle- still struggling with his pants as he reached the warm, white sands outside. A refreshing gust blew in from the distant, blue horizon and brought with it the many scents of the unending sea before him... but this was no time to enjoy the retina-burning visage. If a messenger truly had caught up to them; this was bad news. He shambled across the sands- slipping over his inebriated, near-dead men. Usually; he would take a moment to eye the bounty of these wildling lands and the efficacy of his army as they lay in piles with each their merry partner in between the half-collapsed, shoddily assembled tents. But this was no ordinary day- not by far.

As he rounded the tent and looked to the burnt-out campire; his blood ran cold- not for the dozens of half-naked, half-dead men surrounding the pile of ashes, but for the glowering, blood-curdling lieutenant general staring back at him. Bartholomew’s jaw dropped as he locked eyes with the man scanning the heaps of courageous soldiers- flexing his brightly polished silver armor.

He muttered a silent “shit” beneath his drawn-out breath and forced a smile to greet his dear, ancient instructor. “L-Lieutenant General! What a surprise!” Another breeze shook the distant palm trees in the deathly silence that followed.

Lieutenant General Ingvard remained unimpressed, but hardly surprised. He had heard the reports as he followed their clumsy trail through the lands- if anything; he had expected worse from his horrific student. The old man’s fingers drummed against the hilt of his silvery blade as he let the silence sink in before finally; speaking. “Are you surprised I caught up to you? Are you surprised I managed to find you- despite your best efforts? Or are you surprised to see that I made it at all through the beastly lands you’ve left in your wake?” Shit. The man was no more patient- no kinder than when he had seen him six months previous.

As it were; Bartholomew was surprised at all of them. Though he and his men had been naught but charming, they had racked up a considerable debt on their journey- a debt he assumed the local populace would attempt to extract from anyone foolish enough to wear that detestable pyre on their brightly-polished silver armor.

Bartholomew attempted to recover from his surprised stupor with his trademarked grin; that cheesy, malicious grin smile his Master had learned to detest. He staggered across the sand and took care not to wake his courageous warriors to say; “Well... you see... we’ve had to be cautious. The savages of these lands will fool themselves into thinking we owe them something, but no. These local, poor men and women decided to come with us on their own accord- we've never bought a single slave-”

The old man raised a hand to stop his approach and any further half-truths. “I know, Bartholomew... as does your father. You and your men left six months ago, but you’ve yet to cleanse this region- in fact; the only bodies we’ve on our journey were those of your men.”

Bartholomew winced and swallowed down a mouthful of regurgitated acids and ashes before attempting; “Yes, well... we’ve fought terrible Demons on our journey. Out of all who rode out with us; only these remain.” Well... it was mostly true. Inner demons were, for the most part; also demons... Besides; the ones who had left to join the outliers on the way were either likely dead from their debauchery or so integrated by now that they would be impossible to discern from the regular populace. Staring at the disapproval on his Master’s frown; he could only imagine that he would have been better off joining the villages.

The ancient man’s brow furrowed to inform; “You are hereby relieved of your duties, Bartholomew. Have your men pack your remaining supplies. Your Father wishes to see you.” The words struck the young Commander like a brick to his temple- not at all because it was unexpected. In fact; he had known from the start that this would be how his crusade would end. To some extent; he welcomed it. His loins ached, his body had endured more toxins than any other and above all; he needed a shower. But what struck him the hardest were the horrific words the ancient man had just spoken- that High Inquisitor Sargerrei had asked to see him... personally.

“Shit.”