Bartholomew was confused, to say the least. He stood out in the Garrison’s halls in his silver armor and did his best to ignore the clattering of armor as the men made their way to the courtyard for their morning assembly. Asrael- a man never spoken of in anything but dark whispers and mockery- said to have been one of the world’s most powerful and brightest magi. His father would always brag of his conquest- having killed the Necromancer and used his death to fuel this Crusade... but if he lived, he imagined it would nullify much of his father’s accomplishments and the painting he was staring at meant nothing.

It was vaguely similar to his compatriot, but far from identical- good, by Bartholomew’s account, as it meant that hiding him would be all the easier. It was disappointing- learning that Neda was, in fact, not his sister, as it had momentarily dejected him and made him doubt Asrael’s depravity... but as soon as he saw those women and that tormented Inquisitor, it had all changed. He had spent the night there, in the feces and the muck of the riverbed- submerged in depraved, sexual gratification with what Asrael had assured him to be three more-than-willing women and a naked, tortured beholder to the heinous acts the women wrought upon him. The necromancer was every bit as dark and twisted as he had imagined he would be- far better than what he had thought his illusory Kerras to be capable of.

He scratched his pained groin and anus in a wiggle of his pelvis- clattering the armors loud enough to nearly outdeafen the approaching, heaving, bronze lieutenant jogging up the long, red carpet of the corridor.

“Sir! Sir Bartholomew- S-sir...” The middle-aged man came to a halt before his silver superior to grab his knees and heave for air.

“Lieutenant? How wonderful- I was just thinking of having this painting moved to the cellar-” The Lieutenant tapped his left pectoral and rose to his height to wipe the sweat from his brow and nervously report:

“S-s-sir! The men-… the night’s patrols... one of the squads... missing...” Bartholomew feigned his surprise as best he could with an agape jaw and silently made a note of practicing this before a mirror when time allowed it. Next, he lowered his brow and sternly spoke:

“Calm yourself, Lieutenant. Who were they? Have our men searched for them?” The Lieutenant nodded and continued: “Yes, Sir. They began searching, when-… they didn’t show up... for the shift-change. T-they are a group of trusted men- one recruit, three veterans. I’ve got their personnel files ready for you in the barrack. W-what are your orders?” Bartholomew was surprised to see the man’s reaction. After all, his men back in Capita would oftentimes let time slip by and leave their posts without making their reports, which would have made honing in on where they had disappeared much more difficult. But it seemed that, once again, Titus’ tight ship would not so easily be rocked... he would have to make some efforts to destabilize the Guard if he were to get away with the numbers Asrael required.

Bartholomew nodded and tapped his chest in turn. “Very well. I will be there shortly. In the meantime, excuse the recruits from today’s training and send them out to search for the missing group. With the sporadic disappearances of late and the happening at the clocktower, we should take care not to worry the masses. Recruits wandering their midst in civilian clothing will not be as frightening as armored men, but make certain they are armed.” The Lieutenant’s eyes lit up as Bartholomew shared his wisdom and the reasoning behind his decision. He shot up to salute his silver general before turning on his heel to depart back down the corridor.

Petrus lurked further down the hallway- watching Bartholomew the Usurper with narrowed eyes. The wayward Sargerrei’s smile made his stomach curl up with nausea. This all but confirmed his suspicion- Bartholomew was every bit as immoral as he had pegged him out to be. The words he had chosen- the smile and his ingenuine shock were all signs of his treason... He had already dismissed the missing squadron as dead- having asked “Who were they”, as if he knew something the fine Lieutenant did not.

Petrus shook his head with disgust. This man- this immoral, decrepit man should never have been granted a second chance. Wings or not- the man was a traitor, one who had bred with the Ungodly savages of the North and in so doing: spat his father- his brother in the face. Now; he sought to make a fool of the glorious, radiant Titus- his beloved Titus... he could not allow it- no further. If brotherly love would prevent his lover from seeing the truth of this creature’s depravity, then he would carry the burden in his place and see to it that he would receive his Just Punishment.

He would make sure of it.