Halfway across the city; the tavernkeeper was back at his station- polishing the countertop with the might of his well-worn hands. Of all the things Kester could’ve imagined the madman would bring him along for, assaulting Inquisitors was far down on the list. He had spent the last ten decades avoiding the dreadful organization and now, he had three very lively, naked officers bound up and gagged in his basement. He took another swig of the spirits as he heard their screams resume and forced his eyes shut to resume wiping the countertop. As much as he hated the Inquisitors, they had helped maintain a semblance of order in the city and the fact he could report crimes, should he need to, had been a comfort... now, however, he could not. The unsightly man had his balls in a vice grip, after all- knowing of his daughter’s curse and more than capable of murdering his entire family at a whim... biting his lip was all he could do not to retch at the thought of his pale, undead warriors.

He could try killing him in the night as he slept, but then again... that’d leave him at the mercy of those horrible creatures in the tunnels. Who was this man? Why had the Gods sent him to torment him, rather than the other, more successful taverns about the city? His mind inevitably went to his wife and daughter, as he thought of his failing business. Before long; they would have to board up the door and close it down- permanently, at which point he would be of no use to anyone anymore. Gerathar had taken them in and offered protection and care, because he couldn’t. He had fed them and clothed them because he couldn’t... no matter how he twisted and turned the concept in his head, the factum remained. Gerathar was simply a better man than he was- more handsome, more kind, more everything. Kester sighed as another scream echoed through his basement.

“Please- have mercy!” Another scream grazed his ears. Perhaps... if he was to sell Gerathar his tavern, he could give them a better start in their new life, wherever that was to be.

“Gods abooove- aaaaah!” Kester stomped the floor and shouted at the floorboards; “I’m a tavernkeeper, not a God! And if you want mercy, you ask that madman!” Honestly... a man could scarcely think with all those screams plaguing his ears. Then again, such selfishness was typical of Piltans, wasn’t it?

“No! No! Please, no!” That does it. Kester threw the rag down on the countertop and with a determined stride; disappeared back into the kitchen, where he flung the cellar door open to a disheartening sight. The floor- his usually pristine, dusty cellar floor was covered in sticky sanguine liquids. “What the He-” He fell silent on his way down the stairs and helpllessly froze as soon as he saw the Necromancer- alone- washing his hands in a bloodied bowl of water with a disheartening, gleeful smile.

Kester looked about the cellar, but aside from the dried blood staining the floor, everything seemed... relatively... normal. Asrael stared down at his bloodied shirt and wiped his hands on the clean cloth he had stolen from Maribelle’s stash.

“I told you- this is now my cellar... but since you are already here, you may as well do something useful. Go out and buy me some clothing- I cannot handle any more of these simpleton peasants. I am still nursing the headache from talking to those... apothecarists.” He shuddered. Kester remained petrified, blinking repeatedly- finally convincing the Necromancer beyond all doubt of his idiocy.

“I-I heard... screams...” Kester spoke in a whisper.

Asrael raised his eyebrow. “Of course you heard screams, you fool. Did you think my work was without pain!? I had to work three times as fast as I usually would and even then; their central nervous systems sustained too much damage from the fumes. No... I will have to think of something else.” He scratched his chin ponderously. Rather than binding the trio of pests to himself, he had bound them to Kerras, which seemed to deprive him of certain aspects of his control over them. For one; he could not see through their eyes, nor could he directly influence them unless he commanded Kerras to do so. This relay-system undoubtedly had its benefits, but was not without flaw... perhaps, in time, he would find another way... he had to find alternative means for several of his careful processes- he needed to take more lessons from the camel and evolve. First and foremost... Kester yelped as Asrael raised a finger and demanded: “I need more men. Preferable strong ones, both in will and body.”

Kester took a step back and fell backwards on the stair with raised hands to protest: “H-hell no, I’m not doing that shit again!”

Asrael bit the insides of his cheeks in turn and clarified; “Oh, that was not a request. Now, come on and think. As unusual as it surely is for you, you must be capable, yes? You can still think, yes?” Asrael paused to begin pacing about... the Duke’s men were as cruel as they could be- he had seen it as he reanimated the trio. The brutal rapes, the hours upon hours of abuse they had wrought upon that woman... They were the perfect candidates- strong and ruthless. But with the numbers he required to build this army of his, he imagined it would draw their attention by long should half the Inquisition disappear... no, they needed to be spread out- halved, at least.

Asrael broke from his musings to turn and shine his sickly green eyes at the foolish tavernkeeper. “The farmsteads around the city... Tell me; how many live outside the walls? How well connected to the interior are they?” Kester strained his eyes- hoping in vein that this would somehow make his question clearer, but to no avail.

“T-the villages grow and sell grain to the city- they're part of sector Six, but no one ever goes out to those shitholes!” Kester did not know the man, despite the comradery he had expected to come from partaking in their shared crime of murdering officers of the Law. But from the few things he knew about the man, he knew how to fear that smile above all- that malicious, thoughtful smile Asrael had brandished as he mixed his concoctions and tore up his finest curtains. He should have known better than to ask, yet... he could not help himself. “W-why are you smiling? And w-where did those men g-” He hadn’t finished asking the question before something moaned from the darkness of the tunnel. A trio of shambling men in half-adorned armor clattered into the dim, candlelit cellar to groan at the tavernkeeper. Asrael touched his lips to verify... he was smiling. He turned to shine his fiendishly bright smile and suggest; “Those stores of ours are running low, yes? I believe it time we go buy us some grain...”