Petrus was not enjoying this recent turn of events. Mealtimes, meetings and walks had been his and Titus’ time alone, but now... now that disgusting, handsome brother of his was always there with them- stealing away from their privacy just as he had done for the last few months. He even sat at his chair- laughing at his brother’s charming jests- his charming jests, while he had to stand by in the corner as Gerathar, Titus and the irking invader brother shared a light-humored meal.

Bartholomew took a swig of his wine and chuckled into his cup; “I must admit; I was skeptical when my Brother told me he had a friend, but I see now that you are not as mad as one would be led to believe.”

Ever-gracious Gerathar chuckled and shrugged before motioning towards Titus; “Well, we’ve known one-another since he came to Pilta, but back then; my good Father had my role in the court.” Bartholomew finally had his chance and leapt on it to ask; “Ah, yes, I understand you have a specific role... if I may ask; what is it that you do?”

Before the man could answer, Titus cut him off by waving his unarmored hand about. “Now, now- no talk of business around the table, neither of you.” Bartholomew smirked sideways and nodded his understanding.

“Forgive me, brother of mine... I was only curious how a man as charming as the good Sire Gerathar managed to sneak his way into your Garrison.”

Titus seemed appreciative of his brother’s light-hearted tone and in turn, motioned for their visitor to say; “I am thrilled to see that you have gotten over your slump, Barty. But this is one of the rare instances in which I must insist on secrecy- at least for now. Gerathar has a specific role in our city- one none other than he might fill.”

The unanswered question left Bartholomew with a severe case of blue balls, but sensing he would get no further, he maintained his forced smile and threw a glance over towards the door, where he could see the timid Lita peer through the two, heavy plates of steel- reminding him of the pain he had undoubtedly wrought upon his beloved partner Kerras. She cautiously waved her hand- seeking his attention and although Petrus was pleased to see Bartholomew rise from his seat; he was less so with Lita’s rude wave. Bartholomew excused himself with a low bow and spoke; “It seems something requires my attention. Worry not- I will be back soon.”

Titus was pleased to see his brother depart with a straight back and with genuine curiosity in his eyes- a stark contrast to his previous, all-encompassing melancholy. “Oh please do, Barty- I am certain Gerathar would love to hear some of your stories- he tells the best tales, old friend- the best.” It was not lost on the departing Sargerrei, that as soon as he exited the pair’s ear shot, their volume substantially lowered and a hushed conversation commenced in his wake.

“I do not suppose you might use your gift to listen in on their conversation?” He knew the answer even before the door had fully closed, but figured he would be a fool not to ask. She stumped her master with a genuine giggle and a shake of her head. “No, Sire. Nor do I need to...” The brief bemusement faded away as she mumbled her low mutter. He raised an inquisitive eyebrow and rubbed his chin ponderously.

“Is that why you beckoned me out?” After a brief moment’s pause, she nodded and shrunk back beneath her hood.

“I-I should not... I am very grateful for what you did for me and I would like to repay you in any way I can... I thought you would be interested in...” She seemed to struggle to find the words. Bartholomew raised a hand and placed it upon her shoulder- offering a measure of strength with the kindness of his gesture. Brazened by the touch, she began silently leading him off down a familiar path- through the garrison and deep, deep down into its dark bowels- never turning to look at him, nor explain why they were so silently wandering through the umbral halls.

This time, there were no guards besides the door- instead; he could hear a shuffling inside in between muffled screams-… a woman’s screams. But not the good kind- not the fun kind. He pushed his companion aside and pressed past her to open the door to a disheartening sight.

He had arrived in time to see the three bestial guards pin the struggling, beaten woman down on the hard, cold floor, while a fourth between her legs struggled against her impressive musculature to force himself unto her. The few days of relief washed away with the girl’s muffled screams- and in its wake; the horrors of their world dawned on him once again. In her womanly cries; he could hear his own cries and the pleas of his men- roaring in desperation against the uncaring, cold palms of vicious men- stilling her teeth with a vein hope that perhaps, if she played by their rules, they would spare her. Bartholomew knew all too well... they would not.

He took a step forwards into the cell and saw the woman’s desperation grow to a much more profound panic. She could no longer control her musculature- such was the extent of her terror. She struck out, wriggled, writhed and screamed at the sight of him... at the sight of him. As if she could not see the different between them and him. But he hadn’t suffered the scars for this- to be likened to deviants such as they.

“Sire Bartholomew- I apologize. If you would like the first turn-” Bartholomew would’ve liked to claim that his decision had been made of wisdom- that he had carefully considered that commanding them to let her go would go against all they represented, and in so doing, reveal that he was still the same kind of deviant he had always been- with or without his wings. But his decision to reach for the half-clothed man’s sword and slide it out from his scabbard was not well-thought-out. It was impulsive, reckless... and satisfying.

For the first time in two years; Bartholomew the Bloody- running champion swordsman of Capita’s main circuit slashed out across the two men pinning the woman down- slicing them open with ease to spill spewings of blood and stringy tendrils of fat down unto the struggling girl. Even with the blunted blade, there were few as lethal as him- a factum he had forgotten for far too long. He continued through with the swing and slashed into the third man’s throat- stopping just short of his spine, where the blade jammed in his flesh. With a kick to his shoulder, the man toppled over- releasing the sword with that metallic clang he had missed- oh so much.

It had been a long time since last Bartholomew felt the rush of battle- so long, in fact, that he had forgotten the most basic rule of them all... namely... to always watch one’s back. As the men’s bodies hit the cold, hard floor, he knelt down to extend a hand in the girl’s direction, only to hear a roar from behind. He turned over his shoulder, but it was already too late... the blade was already high above the final guardsman’s head- readied for the overhead strike. At the last moment- before he could put his strength into swinging down, something caught his eye- something deep-blue and white off by the door.

“Do not kill him...” Lita whispered. The guardsman’s eyes rolled back into his orbits and a moment later; his knees collapsed beneath him.

“He will awaken soon. When he does, he will attest to having killed his companion at the behest of the magus.” She spoke with such a calm that it made the fine hairs on Bartholomew’s neck stand to attention... but she had given him a solution. He pushed aside the Purged’s apathy and returned to look at the blood-soaked, half-naked girl in her torn dress. She was scarcely older than her mid teenage years- trembling with terror and disgust. He wiped the gore off of her face and stood her to her height, only then realizing... there was something familiar about her. Something about her chin, the nose... He shook it off and dragged the dress back to cover her shoulder before dropping the blade to the floor. Next; he quickly dragged her to her height and cradled her in his arms. "All is well now, girl... I will take you out of here." He whispered into her sticky scalp.

“Lita... what do we do? Where can we go from here?” He asked. Lita nodded once and motioned out- back into the darkness of the corridor.

“Come... there is a tunnel that leads out into the old mines.”

The three fled from the chamber in a light jog- deeper and deeper into the garrison until the floor had disappeared beneath a thick layer of whiteish dust. The girl was tense and several times; she had opened her mouth to speak... but this was not the time for conversation. This was the time for escape.

“Down here.” Lita pointed to the floor, where he could see an outline of something metallic beneath the dust- a plate of metal as old as the Garrison itself. He set his subject down on the floor before putting his might into manipulating the heavy plate of steel out of the way with loud creaks. Neither Lita nor the magus could contain their awe as they saw his astounding strength and the fierce determination with which he fought the iron behemoth to clear a way into the darkness below the stone castle. When he had finally pushed the cover aside; he knelt to look into its depths with narrowed eyes of suspicion. “Can you walk?” He asked the girl as he reached inside to verify that there was, indeed, a ladder down there.

“Y-… yeah...” She whispered. Ever the gentleman- ever the adventurer; Bartholomew reached inside and lowered himself into the darkness with a muttered command; “Then follow me.”

He could scarcely believe the madness of what he was doing- nor could he believe how certain Lita had been that he would, in fact, act as he had... recently lit torches stood on the ancient holders- illuminating their way into the dark tunnels beneath the city. In his hand; he held a small, still-tremoring hand slick with the blood of her would-be victimizers.

“P-please... Sir... I’m... exhausted...” She whispered. He threw a glance over his shoulder to verify that they had made some distance between them and the garrison. Next; he turned to look at the brown-haired, gentle- ravenously thin girl gripping her bloody dress with all the might her left hand could muster. He nodded in agreement and led her over to the rough cavern wall, where she sat down to heave for air and weep silently. They had gotten thus far, but without a plan. Lita, in her wisdom, had led them somewhere, but where?

As he turned to ask the Sensate, she stared back through her hood with a slight smile to inform; “He will keep her safe. Not many know her face... it should not be difficult. There are not many Sensates left in Pilta.” He knew, of course, whom she spoke of. But had he not burdened Kerras enough? He hadn’t spoken to the man since last he attempted to corrupt his marriage, but-… looking over his shoulder towards the girl... he knew he could do nothing more for her. Should he take her from the city; he would be hunted and as opposed to her; his face was well-known far and wide.

He sat crouched down next to her to brush a bloody lock of her hair and ask; “Did they hurt you?” She shook her head sternly. Ruffling her hair, he took a moment to appreciate that familiar beauty- those very familiar, gentle features... the freckles. He briefly flashed a smile and continued; “Are you all right?” This question seemed to harm her more than any of those savages had. Her lips began to tremor- her eyes welled up with tears. She fought and fought to contain her weeps- the bravest soul he had ever been fortunate enough to look at... then; she proclaimed her victory with a shake of her head.

Her mouth opened to form the words; “No... No, I’m not... they...” For weeks; she had suppressed her pain- the agony of her betrayal... but now; free from the clutches and in the seemingly capable hands of kinder folk, she felt safe enough to finally be vulnerable.

Bartholomew grabbed her beneath her knees and below her back to hoist her up to his chest, where she finally let loose her loud sobs into his chest. “I would have you tell me all about it... but for now, we must keep moving. A friend of ours will keep you safe- worry not... I shall take care of you.”

Asrael was less than pleased with his tavernkeeper companion on the floor of the cellar. He had successfully poisoned his victims, but in the last scuffle; he had inevitably pricked himself with the needle, as well. Had it not been for his well-developed army; they might not have escaped with all the bodies and the hapless tavernkeeper before sunrise.

He looked across his experiments with glee. One had survived- the last to be poisoned and fortunately for all the involved parties, so had Kester. The three dead lay in a pile off in the cellar’s corner- covered in bloody blisters and fat, purple boils, whereas Kester and the vagrant male lay in the middle of the chamber- next to the still-chewing camel and the ever-attentive dead woman he had taken to calling Longa due to the length of her hair. He looked to his favored, trusty beast- Yurgen and scratched its chin with a celebratory smirk- satisfied with its ability to traverse the tunnels in the dark and muttered; “One day, Yurgen... I hope to find out what it is that you are constantly chewing.” As he leaned in close to sniff the beast’s mouth; he heard an unnatural sound escape the darkness of the tunnels- heavy, ragged breathing... human... breathing.

Longa took shelter beneath the stairs as Asrael stepped behind the gaping hole in the bricks with his ceremonial silver blade at the ready. He did not attempt to conceal his surprise as Bartholomew stepped through the opening- carrying a blood-soaked girl in what had once been a white dress in his arms. He cocked his head at an awkward angle to ask “... Bartholomew?”