Kester ran his rag over his countertop eagerly. Inside the kitchen, pots were bubbling- filling the atmosphere with the humid scent of potatoes- picked fresh the same morning from just outside the city- dug out from the dirt by Asrael’s vast army of farmhands. He shuddered at the thought of the hundreds of pale, stationary forms moaning in the tunnels below his tavern. At this point, there had to be well over three hundred of them- more than enough for whatever the frightening Necromancer had planned, yet... they continued to sit idly on their hands. Kester had, initially, had his reservations- especially when seeing the state of the people outside. The miserable, malnourished populace had, as they had, receded back into safer harbors- their boarded-up houses sconced against the bandits and the increasingly rowdy cannibals.

Kester watched his hand slowly work the countertop. This- the self-stimulating act of remuneration had always offered him a sense of control and order- for two decades, he had wiped this same countertop, but now-… it gave him nothing. He had joined Asrael’s army with hesitance, to say the least. But that night out in the tavern beyond the City walls had given him something that his countless hours of polishing the countertop had not.

He had come to realize that he, just as the Kester men preceding him in his lineage, had been weakly and impotent- how could they not have been? After all, they had set themselves up as tavernkeepers and spent their lives building a place of servitude- a place where they could worship and immerse themselves in servility. His Father had lived by the proverb ‘The customer is always right’, which meant, in essence, that he had always been wrong. He had accepted this as truth- that his world revolved around the basic factum that he was, in essence, a slave to cater to the whims of others- feeding them, hosting them, while they took their liberties in his house.

He had to laugh at the realization. What had started as a personal, waking nightmare- the act of luring men and murdering them, had soon revealed why Kester- as opposed to the generations before him- was a failed tavernkeeper. He hadn’t the facilities for it. It had pained him to make this realization at first, but when he had found his purpose and realized that the locus of control had never been an external thing for him- that he had always been meant to exact his will on others, he had felt... relief. It had struck him like a brick to his cheek- unwanted, at first, but a craving, with time. Choking the life from his first man- battering another with a stone by the river had slowed his pulse and served to do what the countertop never could. He had felt relief. As if he had found his purpose in exacting his revenge upon the rotten world that had cursed him several times over.

A noise from outside brought his attention back to the tavern. He smiled as he saw the upturned-tables, the smashed stools and the torn-down tapestries- all of which had been used to board up the windows, but he had left the door to be openable. A dark smile crept across his lips as he heard the whispers outside, but faded as he heard a second door- up the stairs.

“Fuck.” He muttered and tapped his boot against the floor twice. As the door swung open, he darted for the kitchen and spoke over his shoulder: “Make yourselves comfortable- someone'll be right with you.”

The invaders stepped through the door- clad in their improvised armors of kitchenware and leather and greedily exchanged glances. The three men were still locked in disbelief- to find a tavern with a smoking chimney and what was obviously a crazed tavernkeeper who had left his door open. Immediately, the trio clattered their way over towards the bar, where their greedy eyes looked to the many bottles of fine, brown spirits on the wall. One-by-one, they stepped around the counter with their improvised weaponry of fire-pokers, kitchen-knives and cutlery.

“Handle them, will you, my love? I’ve gotta get these up to Belle and Bess before they come down, so if you could be quiet, that’d be great.” The tavernkeeper’s voice spoke from within the kitchen. The trio of men chuckled and caught a whiff of the fresh scent of boiled potatoes. They grabbed their weapons from Kester’s neatly polished countertop to continue pushing through to grab the delectable prize, only for the door to swing open and reveal... a woman.

Their grins faded momentarily as the tall, naked beauty with her green eyes pushed the door open and strode out to face them, where they stood behind the bar. Naturally, their eyes were drawn to her shapely, beautiful, pale breasts, only for their hungry grins to fade as they saw the ornate, runic scars covering her skin.

“W-what the fuck-…" One of them men spoke through tremoring lips as he saw her lengthy, black claws, whereas the other two were far too occupied with attempting to understand why a woman so horribly disfigured would ever... grin.

Kester shot out from the kitchen- carrying two plates of buttered potatoes and disappeared up the stair, where he soon found himself face-to-face with his wife. Maribelle’s golden hair seemed dark in the dim light of the corridor, but far from as dark as the sheen to her eyes as she avoided his gaze... In truth, it was not his gaze that she avoided, but his face in general had become a source of pain for her. Kester- her Kessie had once been the pillar of her life- always kind, always encouraging, always present- however busy... but ever since Asrael had stridden into their home, Kester had changed.

His hopeful, blue eyes had turned bagged and sinister. His smile- the one that would always bring hope, even in the darkest of their days, had long since faded- replaced by something else. Whenever they spoke more than a sentence each to one-another, it was clear that he was zoning out- thinking his dark thoughts.

“R-room s-service...” Kester grinned with apparent nervosity as he watched his wife painfully hold her left elbow and stare down to the corner of the corridor.

“Kester... where are you finding all this food?” Maribelle asked. Kester’s lips resisted returning to their usual, standard state of frowning and remained locked in his smirk.

“I’ve been telling you, I’ve traded for it. We’ve still got gold- they still pay for their stay-” Her glazed-over eyes returned to look at him. She had always been able to tell- easily- when Kester lied. But he had already made it astoundingly clear that he was no longer capable of telling the truth, which was why he had banished her- his wife and their only child to living like prisoners in what had once been their family home-… a room that had known the tavernkeeper for months. Such was her isolation that neither Belle nor Bess knew of the devolving world outside- if they had learned, Kester was certain they would insist on helping the populace, but as he had learned... they could not be helped.

A few thumps sounded from down the stairs. Kester knew that sound well- the guttural expulsion of pink foam from a slit throat, but saved his wife from the sight by blocking her from exiting the corridor. She froze as she saw the return of his dark self- the one that was becoming increasingly more present in her once beloved, loyal husband. Without a word between them, she took his plates of food and allowed him to glare at her as she wordlessly made her way back towards their room- away from the insanity raging below.