“Lita had to return to excuse us, lest I doubt she would have wanted to be here with you.” As much as Asrael wished to see the girl again and sink the dagger into her chest, he was glad to note her absent. For now... he had bigger things on his mind. He sat across from Bartholomew and watched his bloody companion drain down another glass of spirits with unmatched thirst. The wayward son rubbed his temples- struggling to fight off his ancient demons; the tortures wrought unto him, his companions and the girl preceding this last one. Asrael was far from pleased to have yet another burden to bear, but Bartholomew was a valuable ally- one he would be mad to dismiss over something as simple as a girl. Up above; they could hear her gentle feet tap against the floor of the master suite-… his master suite as she washed her face, hair and body of the blood covering her supple form.

Asrael pondered if taking a swig of the spirits for himself would do anything to soothe some of his emotional distress, but thought the better of it as he remembered that despite the numerous obstacles... nothing was truly disturbed... this could still be salvaged. Bartholomew continued in a mutter; “I would do well to return there and end this- once and for all... but how could I? The head of this mad serpent is my brother- how could I-…" He shook his head to dismiss the preposterous idea. Asrael leaned back on his stool and took a deep breath... with a knife, he supposed.

He cleared his throat and spoke sternly; “Do no such thing, Bartholomew. I told you; I have a plan. It is vital you remain in your position- I will come to depend on it for what is to come.” Asrael had to grit his jaws not to swell with pride at the genius plans he had for Pilta. Bartholomew had already proven beyond doubt that he could be trusted, but these mad men... the extents to which they would go to to extract information... no. None save a precious few could know- at least for now.

Bartholomew looked up from his hands to stare into the glass; “I am not certain I can last another day, good Kerras... The cruelty of these men... I cannot stomach it. I cannot understand it.” Asrael looked to his handsome companion with scrutiny. He had never been a leader- never one to inspire... but there was one thing he was good at... demotivation.

Asrael poured the man another glass and began; “You are not wrong, Bartholomew... their cruelty knows no bounds. They are beasts who have deluded themselves into thinking the Magi are wicked, despicable people, but make no mistake... at heart; they are savages. Good men such as you and I are rare. We see the madness for what it is and have the courage to fight for what is right. We peer through the veil of this mass hysteria- these popular, insane evils and we see what they deserve... together; we can cleanse the world of this evil.” He pushed the glass over towards his teary-eyed companion before continuing; “But it is a bloody affair. The just must stomach the terrors- we must cling to every opportunity we can seize with equal cruelty. By the time the transformation of Pilta is finished, there will be People- there will be many... who eye us with the scrutiny that you now eye your previous fellows. But I know that I will be in the right and that is what allows me to be so heinous in my methods.”

Bartholomew swallowed and looked down into the glass of spirits. “Kerras... these methods of yours- will you ever tell me what they are?” Asrael tapped his fingers against the table and suppressed his urge to proclaim his genius.

“In time, good friend, I will... but for now; you’ve enough evil to stomach.” There was a familiar, unique bitterness to Bartholomew’s scoff- a bitterness Asrael found terribly familiar. It was the scoff he, himself, would oftentimes puff as he thought of his ancient, fallen "comrades". The scoff was so similar, yet he found it different in all manners that mattered. He imagined that, although they came from different worlds, Bartholomew and he were not entirely dissimilar- not when it came to postponing future pleasure for momentary pain. His suspicions were confirmed when Bartholomew grabbed the glass between his fingers and raised it to clink against the green bottle and cheer; “To our common adversary, then... may they rot in Hell when the day comes.”

Asrael grinned and swore; “I will make sure of it...”

Both the swordsman and the extraordinary magus looked at the girl as she twirled her hands nervously. Clad in little more than Kester’s wife’s drapes; she shivered with cold, disbelief, terror and post-adrenergic tremors. Her jaw clattered and her pale cheeks were locked in a continuous, pained grimace. She was no older than the middle of her teens. Pale, brown-haired and with a curious combination of freckles and a dull green to her eyes- obviously different from Asrael’s, but not entirely too different... in fact, if he looked at her sideways, added a lengthy nose, more masculine features and made her far more unsightly, she might have even looked a bit like him.

She broke from her lengthy silence to whisper; “M-my mother... s-she...” Asrael had no patience for dawdling- not as long as he remained uncertain as to how long those sleeping fools in the basement would be victim to the toxins. Morally dubious as he was, he imagined offering her a drink would be far from the worst thing he had ever done and thusly- he pushed Bartholomew’s glass over towards her.

The girl drained the glass down in one, smooth motion and breathed a mouthful of hot spirits into her eyes and nose before finding the courage to go on; “My mother was the first one to be taken... by him... everything was so good at first. He fed us, he clothed us and said he loved us both- just because we were magi...” Another sniffle- another poured glass of spirits and another suppressed roll of Asrael’s eyes, she continued; “But he didn’t. If he did, he had a fucked up way of showing it... h-he said my mom disappeared when they were out shopping. T-then h-he said s-she'd been taken by the Inquisition...” Asrael leaned on his elbow and glanced down through the floorboards to verify that the still creatures were still there- under the watchful stare of Yurgen and the naked woman beneath the stair. He already had an inkling of whom she referred to. It made sense- in a way.

Bartholomew stroked her back and gave her the courage to continue; “H-h-he trained me... he said he loved me more than the others- that I was special... I feel like such an idiot.” She buried her face in her palms and sobbed for a moment. “I gave him my everything. I let him fuck me- gently at first, but... as time went by, he got... rough...” Asrael was relieved to see that Bartholomew’s depravity had its limits- as signaled by his tightening fists and the gritted teeth.

“T-that room... when I got there, my mom was there... but she wasn’t there. He’d done so much t-to her-” Bartholomew rubbed her back and maintained his stalwart frown without a word.

“The last thing I told her was that I loved her... and that evil fuck- that demon... he told my mom that he’d always love me- that I’d be safe as long as she survived for long enough to burn on the pyre.” Bartholomew’s mouth fell agape. His hand stilled at her back as his mind traversed his memories- back to words just like it. The brutally savaged woman- she would be old enough to be her mother.

“And who was this monster? The one who kept you prisoner and then gave you to them?” Bart questioned. The girl swallowed and tapped her fingers nervously against the countertop. She turned around to scan the tavern, before leaning close to whisper a name- a name that made Bartholomew’s neck crawl with disgust.

“H-he called himself... Gerathar.” Bartholomew's fists curled up with rage, whereas Asrael seemed unperturbed the revelation. After all... why would Gerathar be any better than the rest of this wretched world.

His lips split apart in a grin as he spoke: "Well, then... it seems I need to visit my good driver again."