Asrael had taken shelter in the one place he was certain none could find him. By the use of all his guile; he had snuck into the kitchen and made his way into the dusty, cobbled cellar, where he had scampered off to a corner- hiding away in the shadows like vermin. How fitting that the last person to make him demean himself to this extent was the father of the two social monstrosities above. He needed time to think- time and silence that the noisy atmosphere above did not allow... down there, in the darkness; he could properly digest the sights and experiences the day had forced upon him. Above all else; he needed to process the factum that the man who had cast their world into this hellish state had seen it fit to reproduce.

If he hadn’t already accepted the world as a cruel, imbalanced place of injustice; he had no choice but to do so now after having seen the two handsome, successful men. Whereas they were surrounded by capable soldiers and magi; his entourage consisted of a lying, flesh-hungry harlot and a small, fat man- both of whom seemed intent on failing the most basic of tasks. No... those were not his only assistants- not by far. Closing his eyes; he could see the tunnels beneath the city- the many twists and turns of the dimly lit, abandoned mines. He had an army of his own- an army that, with Kerras’ assistance, could grow to outnumber this ‘Inquisition’ and finally bring a semblance of justice to this awful existence known as ‘life’.

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As Asrael formed his plan; Kester struggled to keep the dying fires of the stoves alive. The wet logs had been the coup de grace his father should have beaten enough sense in him to avoid. Thankfully, unlike his father; he had a secret weapon- a weapon he knew from experience could light the most humid pieces of wood aflame. The tired girl stepped through the door in her tattered pajamas and rubbed the sleep from her eyes at the behest of her nervous father.

“Remember; don’t tell your mom... she’ll kill me if she finds out- deal?” He whispered. The girl extended a flat palm towards her father and patiently waited for him to follow through on his part of the deal. Sighing; he turned towards one of the cupboards to grab a stick of crystalline, brown sugar with a whisper; “Bessy... promise...” The girl giggled and hurriedly nodded. She grabbed the stick from his hands and pressed it deep into her small mouth before raising a thumb in her father’s direction. The two exchanged an understanding glance before her stalwart protector disappeared back out into the tavern- leaving her to do her careful work.

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As much as Bartholomew loved his brother; he could stomach him no longer- not sober. Neda’s slurred recounts of profanities and ungodly, incestuous deeds with her beloved brother had reignited the once-bright fire in his heart and reminded him that this... this sober, dreary, sulking mess of scars and past terrors was not at all who Bartholomew was destined to be. He- unlike the rest of his kin, had a mission that did not entail burning children or torturing the elderly- he... had a reason to exist. And if he were to live through the night, he needed strength- strength that could only be find at the bottom of a bottle of hard liquor.

To his dismay; his swift search of the bar yielded no results- nothing that would sate his thirst. The good Kerras had disappeared into the kitchen and surely; he, too- wise as he was- would have set out on a similar search. Therefore; he waited patiently atop the stool while Neda continued to rivet the wide-eyed, red-haired Duke with her recounts until Kester finally stepped away from the door. Two decades of sneaking around the Garrison in search of liquor had gifted Bartholomew a set of skills and a nose for the fine spirits- allowing him to easily sneak into the kitchen, where his jaw fell agape at a disheartening sight.

On the floor; a girl no older than ten sat on her knees and shot out plumes of fire from her palms- lighting one of the stoves’ fires with the power of magic. The door slammed shut in his wake- earning him her attention.

The two stood there in silence. In between the blinks of his eyes; he could see those terrible tortures return to his weary mind- his men- boiled, ground, torn, skinned, bled dry... but instead of seeing the soldiers that had followed him through the unclaimed wilds; he saw the small, blonde girl- covered in blood and burns- weeping over her missing appendages as savage Inquisitors beat her senseless.

She had spent a lifetime hiding away- fearing men such as him. For years; it had been the first thought to enter her mind as she lay down to rest and the first to intrude when she awoke. What could she do, but attempt to defend herself by raising her palms towards him and silently pray that it would be enough.

The man was swift- far faster than her young body could keep up with. Before she could fire her flames; he had already crossed the distance between them, grabbed her in his hands and pinned her arms to the floor. His teary eyes rained streams down upon her a he stared into her frightened, wide pupillae. A good soldier would have killed her- a good son would have burned her... but what, he questioned, would Bartholomew do? Hadn’t he told himself not ten minutes past that this was not his way- that he had another goal, another destiny in mind?

“P-please... mister...” She spoke between her ever-increasing sobs as she looked up at the weeping madman. He gritted his jaws together and spoke more sternly than he ever had;

“Foolish girl... never use your magic again- not here, not anywhere. Do you know what those men out there would do to you if they found out?” She swallowed and nodded, contorting her tremoring lips into a tight grimace. He shook his head.

“You may think you do, but I promise you... they would do far worse things than you could ever imagine- not only to you, but to your parents as well. Promise me that you will never use your magic again.” Her head bobbed up and down in a saccadic nod of panic. He stood to his feet and grabbed her by the tattered pajama to raise her to her height and slap the dust from her clothing.

“Go to bed. I need to have a talk with your father.” He commanded. She bit back her cries as she disappeared back out through the door and tapped her light feet across the tavern’s boards- back up to her hidden mother.

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Not three feet beneath the pacing, unnerved Bartholomew; the necromancer grinned as a plan began forming at the forefront of his dark, twisted mind. He knew... how to break Sargerrei.