Asrael had, at first, despised the nervous Inquisitors who foolishly tapped their chests in a salute as he approached them. It seemed that by now, every man, woman or child in Titus’ employ knew of the trademark coat and the dead, green eyes that so frequently wandered the Garrison. But as he walked the bridge leading to the sturdy facility’s monstrous, solid wall, he had begun to like it. Not because he thought the Inquisitors more worthy of his attention than any other ant, but because they reminded him of the sniveling, foolish apprentices that had kissed his feet at his whim- thirty years ago as he wandered the tower with equal pride.

As opposed to then, however, he now had two apprentices- both of whom had insisted coming with him to sour what should have been a joyous visit. Neda- ever clad in her white dress, clung to his arm and nervously glanced about the frightened soldiers- all of whom refused to meet any of their stares. She still reeked of sweat, but less so, now that Asrael had found the magnificent lotion known as perfume to masquerade her stench. A single drop to his upper lip would make her smell of delicious strawberries- fragrant roses or, his favorite, lavender.

Thankfully, the girl at his left had taken to combing Neda’s lengthy hair whenever they needed to leave the cellar- making the desert wildling slightly more... civil. At least in appearances. As always, Ellie’s long, naturally curled hair bounced with her step as she elegantly strode forth in her black dress and, like her master, kept her eyes peeled straight ahead. That one did not cling to his arm, as she was well aware of her Master’s disdain of touching- a lesson the desert wildling seemed intent not to take to heart.

Asrael found that entering into the courtyard was not at all unlike flipping a rock. The nicely cobbled area was usually brimming with the armored, purple-tabarded vermin, but as the trio stepped through the gate, they all seemed to vanish back into whatever shadows they could find- undoubtedly because Asrael’s moods were known to all of them and pissing him off, usually meant Bartholomew would change their shift to a slightly more dangerous position... this usually only ever meant that they would not return.

The trio continued in silence- up the cobbled steps and into the tall welcoming-hall, where the garrison’s cool slate tiles offered them respite from the high noon outside. Neda had always loved the golden bowls, candlesticks and various other decorations on the wall- more so than the monstrously tall head of a monstrously large bear hung over the door leading further into the Garrison.

“Welcome, Master Kerras. Lady Neda. Lady Eleanor.” The day’s attendant spoke from behind the door as they arrived. Clad in his purple tabard and naught but a white shirt and black pants, he bowed down low. Neda had learned how to bow as a lady would and did so in hopes of returning the gesture, only for Asrael to nudge her side.

“Bartholomew is waiting in his Chamber. Allow me to escort you.” Asrael narrowed his eyes. How did these men always know of his arrival in advance? How, in all of Pilta, were these men- these servants, the only ones capable of seeing through his plans. Be it the middle of the night or at the crack of dawn, they would always be there to ensure he did not wander to explore the blasted Garrison. He forced a thin, obviously displeased smile and accepted the damnable servant’s offer with a: “Fine.”

Bartholomew was, as he so often was when the sun stood high in the skies outside, naked in his chamber. There, he paced about in the shade and bit the nail of his thumb- hoping not to fall back into the unsightly habit of biting down on the keratinous growths. He had spent most his morning in this state- pacing... Ingvard had that effect on him. Every time he closed his eyes, he would be reminded of “Uncle Ingvard” and how he had overseen his torment next to his father- both wrinkling their noses with disgust as they stripped his flesh and hung him in the court for all to see. Simply knowing that the man existed made his back burn- not only with the continuous pain, but with something far more profound... with fear.

Taps on the door signaled that Asrael had finally arrived. Bartholomew felt as if he could finally let loose the breath that had been stuck in his throat for most of the morning. As the heavy, metal door smoothly swung open, he was greeted by the heartwarming sight of Asrael- flanked on both sides by his female companions. Asrael looked as dashingly hideous as ever- his oversized nose, his astounding pallor and his bagged eyes staring at the naked Bartholomew’s muscular body as if he’d never seen flesh before. His coat swung behind him as he stepped across the floor next to the seemingly panicked Neda whose red, wide eyes seemed to dart about the chamber in terror.

Ellie- having adapted her Master’s cold exterior, looked at him as if she had seen nothing but naked bodies and hardly even looked to his monstrous member once- as opposed to Neda, whose eyes seemed more and more drawn to the fearsome beast with every step forward.

The servant closed the door in their wake, but before either of the arriving trio could speak to question Bartholomew’s choice of attire- or lack thereof, the wayward Sargerrei spoke over his thumb: “Goodness- I am glad you have arrived. We need to leave Pilta immediately- Uncle Ingvard is on his way and when he gets here-…" He shook his head warningly towards the trio. Asrael raised his brow and reared his head- finally shaking the desert wildling to shield his eyes of the enviable member.

“What? Who is-” The necromancer began, only for Bartholomew to cross the room in a single, surprisingly gracious leap to lay his arms on either of Asrael’s shoulders and say: “Lieutenant General Ingvard is my father’s right hand! He commands the first Legion- the finest, most ruthless warriors in all of the Empire. My brother intends to have him consult on the disappearances, which means they will most definitively discover... them.” He whispered into his associate’s ear- close enough for Asrael to feel the man’s stubbled, blond chin scratch his cheek. Asrael lay his hands atop Bartholomew’s shoulders to separate himself from the man and demand: “Calm yourself, Bartholmew! Whoever this Ingvard is, I am certain he can be dealt with, just as the other men can-”

The Sargerrei threw another glance towards the door before shaking his head fervently. Next, he looked into Asrael’s green, confused eyes to warn: “The legion is a thousand warriors strong- twice that, if you count the Purged. They could level this city in the span of an afternoon and would laugh as they did so. No... we must leave immediately.” Asrael gently pushed his panicked associate off.

This was an unwelcomed turn of events... he had known that their kidnappings would be noticed- eventually. But not so soon... He rubbed his chin and bit his lower lip before continuing: “Then we must accelerate our plan...” Bartholomew seemed displeased- as signaled by his strict grimace. He said: “I’ve not doubted you thus far, but... I must ask you... do you truly believe you can hold against that amount of power?”

Asrael considered it, before eventually shaking his head. “No. But even if we fall as soon as we claim Pilta, we will have sent a signal. We would also take the initiative to immediately ruin the ships.” Bartholomew raised his fingers to his chin- considering the options... yes, that would work- to some extent.

“Yes... that would sever Pilta from the rest of the Empire. Even if we were to destroy but half the ships, I believe that could serve to deprive some stability from Sector Six, as the region lives nearly entirely off of the gold earned by selling the grain, but-…" Bartholomew had learned some things in his mandatory participation in the Council. He resumed pacing over the dark slate tiles and thought aloud: “My father and the Emperor would not take kindly to it. Thirty percent of Capita’s supplies of wheat comes from Sector Six. People will starve and this, in turn, will pressure the Government.”

It had been far too easy to forget that the naked, steadily more erect man was a high-born aristocrat and a well-educated man, as opposed to any of his other companions. Uplifting as it was, Asrael felt a measure of indignity as he realized that, should this plan of theirs succeed, this would not be the seat of his rebellion... at most, it would be a thorn in this supposed ‘High-Inquisitor’s’ side. But just as a single bee might not kill a man- unless said man was hypersensitive- a swarm surely would. If he had to, Asrael would unleash a swarm of furious bees- time and time again until Sargerrei rued the day he was born.

“That is our plan for now.” Asrael smiled as he imagined that some of the children that had flung feces at him as he was dragged through Capita’s streets, might now starve and hopefully die because of him.

“But first things first. I need a village.” Asrael looked up from the floor to meet Bartholomew’s stumped grimace.

“A village?” He questioned. Asrael nodded. “A village. Fifty or so should do- that would raise our total to just above three hundred.” Bartholomew seemed hesitant, but eventually nodded. “As strong and durable as they are... do you believe it enough?” He asked.

Asrael’s smile- though unnerving to most- had some comforting qualities to it. Neda and Ellie both connected it to him having some devious plan, whereas Bartholomew only grew more erect at the sight of the Necromancer’s teeth, as he connected it to naught but the man’s substantial depravity.

“Let me consider what is enough, Bartholomew.”