It had been well over a year since last Bartholomew wore shining armor... now that he did, he was reminded of how joyous- how proud he had been to wear it for the first time. Back when he had received the silver-polished mirror of a heavy plate, he had proudly wandered amongst the men of the ninth district and watched their bright smiles light up at the sight of their commander. But as he stared out across the men gathered in the courtyard, eager to commence their nightly patrols to ensure the city’s safety, he felt no pride. That joy- that motivation had now been warped by the painful scars of his back and the ones deep within his mind. Still... he mustered the strength to look out across the evening’s patrol- the roster he had set up. They stood at attention in between their torch-bearers and smiled at him in expectance of how he would lead them in his brother’s place.

“And so, I am to take charge of the Guard for the foreseeable future to relieve my brother. I apologize for the lateness of this shift-change, but I need my most dependable men to man the most difficult shifts- at least until I can finish the changes to the roster. Therefore, I have selected you- the delectable cream of my ale for this week’s nights.” They sounded hearty, excited chuckles as he explained why the messengers had come to summon them from their beds and promised them extra pay for an extra shift. They all tapped their chests and signaled their understanding with: “Yes, Lord Bart!”

As they all wandered off to begin their shifts, they strode past a tall, dark, pale form clad in all black- staring up at their honorable, silver-clad commander with confusion. In the span of a moment, Bartholomew broke from his forced, chaming exterior, only to return to genuinely smile at the sight of his companion. Asrael strode into the nest of snakes- suffering their suspicious glares as he stepped up to their commander atop the stage and threw a glance over towards the stone platform that, fortunately, did not currently host a pyre.

“Kerras, good friend- how unexpected. Neda disappeared before I could finish dueling my brother- is she all right?” Asrael’s mute frown betrayed his trepidation, but eventually, he nodded and stood up atop the stage to look across the now-abandoned garrison. So this was what they had seen as his Master burned on the pyre...

“Yes. But she told me a curious tale and I had to see it for myself. I-” Asrael turned towards his companion, only to see Bartholomew’s shining, armored arm extend him a rolled-up paper. Up above, the wayward Sargerrei shone a malicious smirk down at his companion and explain: “I do not know the full extent of your plan, my friend... but you told me you needed men and now- I've men to spare. The night’s shift will be staffed with loners for the week. They live alone and have precious few friends save from their fellow soldiers.” Asrael quickly glanced about to verify that, despite the odds, they were on their own.

Asrael was left dumbstruck by the day’s many successes. Was his brilliant mind slowly affecting them? Had he been so misguided that he had never considered that his genius was not infective? He took the scroll and read it over in his hands before grinning brightly. It was a roster- names and locations... the madman had split them into threes- bite-sized squadrons for his men to take. But this-… this necessitated more information on Bartholomew’s side. If he was truly the budding tactician he made him out to be, then Asrael could rely on him for more than his connection to his brother- he could use him for recruitment, as well as his own army and the tavernkeeper.

“Magnificent, Bartholomew- truly genius...” Bartholomew swelled up with pride as he heard his friend’s compliments- however much it hurt that he seemed genuinely surprised to speak it. After a moment’s trepidation, Asrael furled up the scroll and motioned for the Sargerrei to follow him.

“Come. I must show you something.”

_______________________________________________________________________________

They had wandered away from the Garrison, beneath the bridge connecting the cliff-embedded, solid fortress to the rest of the city and passed down beneath it- over towards a sewage-outlet spewing forth its viscous, disgusting mass to the river. Bartholomew walked the riverside sands with a jittery step- pondering what genius the good Kerras had in store for him. As much as he would’ve enjoyed rolling around in the sewage and submerge himself back into the depravity that filled him with life, the armor served to remind him that the time of lusty indignity was yet to come. As they wandered up to the pipe, Asrael spoke in a hushed mutter:

“It has been a few years since I met your father for the first time. It was inevitable we meet- he was, after all, every bit as much of a prodigy as I was. Back then, he was a General in the Emperor’s Guard and this talk of the ‘Inquisition’ was naught but his wet dream.” Bartholomew smiled- awaiting the punch line for this jest, only to see that his confused companion was not... smiling. In fact, he looked more disgusted than what even the sewage could be expected to provoke. Bartholomew spoke with a hesitant smile:

“Good sir Kerras... the Inquisition has been around since years before I was born- what you speak of is impossible. We are about the same age- you would have to be every bit as ancient as my Father to have been around back then.” Asrael stopped to philosophize the question. Was age purely a chronological thing? Granted, he had spent all those years floating around the vast oceans and rivers of the world, but he had existed-… he shook his head to remind himself that this was not in question at the moment. Asrael leaned back on the dry dirt next to the oozing, man-sized pipe to look up at the bridge to verify that none were staring down at them. Bartholomew remained confused where he stood beneath his torch and looked around the riverside for what secrets Asrael would show him.

“My name is not Kerras, Bartholomew Sargerrei.” Asrael spoke and spoke a command into his mind. A moment later; a shambling, pale form clad in tattered and torn inquisitional armor flopped out from the pipe to land on the wet sands- covered in feces that nearly obscured the scars peering out through the holes in his armor.

“That is Kerras. He is my soldier- my undying monstrosity.” Asrael spoke as Kerras shambled to his feet and groaned wistfully- expressing the excruciating pain he was cursed to endure- the constant barrage of sensory and cognitive inputs nearly strong enough to deprive him of his mind’s faculties. He turned to glare his ancient, green eyes and moan at Bartholomew- unnerving him enough to take a step back to stare at the dead man with wide eyes and a fluster to match. When he looked back at the pipe, he saw three tall, naked women on the riverside- their long, black hair covering their breasts, but the numerous deep gashes of runes in their skin was as visible in the torchlight as their joyous grins. All in unison, they raised their monstrously long claws to wave at him.

“These are all part of my army, Bartholomew Sargerrei. They are what I will use to take this city and put an end to the Inquisition once and for all. I intend to march them into Capita and put your father on a pyre... then... I will burn him for all to see.” Bartholomew broke from his stupor to look at the three disturbingly clean women. He blinked several times to verify that his eyes did not deceive him, but despite Asrael’s assumption that the man might attack him or protest, he seemed to silently... accept it.

“I do not know what magic this is... but you are not wrong to wish to kill my Father. If you took me here to test me, I will inform you that it is unnecessary. Ellie and her Mother- my men... my flesh... tested my faith long before you. I am no Inquisitor- I am cursed with his name, but I hold none of his values. For what he has done to humankind and to me, he must be stopped- he deserves death. Whatever cruel fate this is- I imagine him just as deserving as this one.” He motioned the torch towards the shambling Kerras with a near-apathetic glare.

Bartholomew’s frown turned to a slight smile as he imagined his Father being reduced to such a shambling, agonized mess... Bartholomew looked to Asrael to say: “if you can control an army of these, then it seems I put my faith in the right person. If you intend to march on Capita and stop this madness, I will join you.” Asrael nodded- pleased with Bartholomew’s reaction and the gravity in those blue eyes.

To further test his faith, Asrael spoke: “You understand, of course, that this means war- a war unlike anything the Empire has seen in all our recorded history. Many will die- thousands, perhaps millions. Some of whom, you may consider as innocent as that woman whom you wish to avenge.” Bartholomew released a surprisingly bitter scoff.

“Innocent? You were there for her Pyre. How many innocent people were there- screaming for her suffering and her death? How many innocent people visited her cell to beat her- to piss on her open wounds before setting her aflame? How many innocent people are left in this world of ours?” abrtholomew spoke with a bitterness to rival Asrael's own... It seemed that, once again, Asrael had found an ally- a likeminded. Bartholomew continued:

“I take it you turn these men to your cause. It is good that you have shown me this, fore it means I can send you those who truly deserve such a fate, first. If your plan permits it, feel free to use the men on the list... but we will need to be careful. Too many of the soldiers disappearing at once will awaken suspicion. Are you-” Asrael raised a hand and spoke:

“I am also thinning the villages. Any citizens you ask can also be of interest. Your initiative leaves us opportunity, but we will undoubtedly awaken suspicion eventually... I do not know how many we will need to overthrow Pilta, but I imagine it will take a few.” Bartholomew could not fully imagine the number, but a few would do it.

“It depends how sturdy they are, I suppose... have you tested them?” Asrael had been stabbed, cut and crushed, but was yet to test the limits of his new body... but Bartholomew was a man of tactics- a learned warrior... with every word shared between them, he was more and more certain that Bartholomew should have been let in on the plan from the start. Then again... could he have trusted him from the start?

Bartholomew nodded his understanding upon seeing Asrael’s trepidation and offered: “Tomorrow night, I will come to instruct Neda. Then, we should take your weakest one and test their strength.” Asrael was astounded by the lack of questions and voiced his surprise by asking:

“So you’ve no questions? No doubts about what I’ve shown you?” Bartholomew could think of one question as he scratched his chin with a grin and looked to the trio of women glaring their green eyes at him, but imagined he should start with:

“Well... I suppose I should ask your name, first and foremost.” Bartholomew spoke with a sly smile. Asrael shone his malicious smile and straightened his back to introduce himself.

“I am Asrael Nessarat- the youngest High Magus ever to have walked the Tower. I sat on the Council the night your Father doomed us all to this hellish world- I defeated death to kill him and to claim my vengeance... and with you on my side, I have no doubt that we will succeed.” Bartholomew had heard the name before- how could he not have? He had heard the stories- everyone had. In fact, the painting depicting his death hung right down the hallway from where he slept.

“Well, then, Asrael Nessarat... I have but one more question...” He turned to point the torch in the direction of the women and ask; “Those girls... are they still warm?”