Asrael watched as the boat sunk low enough for his men to jab their swords through the benches and skewer the last of the boatsmen. Their screams ended as abruptly as they had begun and left naught but the trickle of the river in their wake. Ellie and Neda sat on either side of him- Ellie respecting his dislike of physical intimacy, as ever, whereas Neda seemed intent to invade his privacy at her every opportunity.

Kester approached the trio like a cat stalking its prey- his back hunched and his step careful. He navigated the dark riverbank with the guile of a predator- one well-versed in sneaking up on the unsuspecting people of Pilta and her surrounding areas. With his free hand, Asrael scratched his chin with satisfaction and looked over towards the girl in her dark dress to see the faintest smile on her lips as she watched the last of their corpses sink under the black surface- never to be seen again. Neda held Asrael’s hand in her lap and remained at her uncomfortable distance a hand’s breadth away from his face as she excitedly asked: “W-what did you do!? That wood-thing just disappeared!”

The necromancer grinned and shifted atop the dry sands to explain: “I executed the next phase of my plan- now, we let them feel the hunger... imagine- that foolish Sargerrei runt believes he can separate me from his men by walls... Oh, please.” His smile quickly broke as she lay her fragrant, lavender hair on his shoulder and stared up at him, as if to gauge his reaction... a reaction he dreadfully, misfortunately, unwillingly betrayed with a pleased smirk.

Unbeknownst to him, Neda had taken a lesson from his lengthy speeches about the scientific process- trial and error and stolen droplets of the bottles he used to dab his upper lip with, in order to shroud the stench of the city and of the cellar. On this night, he had found that the watered-down liquids had been particularly unhelpful- not at all unlike the wildling, herself... but her hair... her hair was scented with sweet, bitter lavender. She could scarcely contain her joy at having discovered his favored scent. Thankfully, before he could confront her, Kester’s light step sounded from down the bank- beyond Ellie’s morbid smile.

The ghoulish man’s dark eyes startled all three of his companions as he slinked over the bank to behold the flotsam crates and precious foods float down the calm stream. Bartholomew stood further away- staring at the diabolical quartet of misanthropists while pondering how his life had come to this.

“So... did it work?” Kester asked Ellie.

The girl spoke up: “Of course, it did. Master Asrael’s plans never fail.” It was not lost on Asrael that her boot-licking had a bitter tang to it- undoubtedly still sour for having been scolded for her disobedience... but having someone to kiss his backside was a mixed experience. For one, it reminded him of how some of the apprentices had made their misguided attempts to get a Master in the school of Necromancy, but on the other hand... it reminded him that he, too, had held such reverence for his own Master. He had, naturally, been far less vocal about it, however.

“Yeah... about that...” Kester muttered and chuckled before motioning for their dark surroundings- taking care to point to the city in his wake. Asrael scoffed and attempted to wrestle back his hand from his dreaming companion to cross his arm over his chest, but to no avail... the strong Blightlander held him tightly in between her surprisingly strong arms. He raised his free hand to wag a lecturing finger at the tavernkeeper.

“And you believe that to be my fault?” To his undying surprise- all fell quiet and let his words hang there on the cooling, still bank. Before they could devolve into another lengthy debate regarding the moral state of the Empire, Bartholomew signaled his arrival with an overheaded wave of relief and a less-than-genuine smile.

Asrael narrowed his eyes to verify that his senses had not betrayed him- that the man approaching from the Garrison’s direction was indeed, the last person he would want to leave the Garrison. Bartholomew dredged over the sands with heavy shoulders and a weary limp- battling a sudden exhaustion... or was it relief? Perhaps one had inevitably brought with it the other... he shook his head. He had philosophized enough for a lifetime.

He stopped short of Ellie to see the soaked, reeking boxes and wares slam against the riverbanks. “Your Brother has seen it fit to attempt to starve me of men- therefore, I will see to it he starves.” Asrael explained through his satisfied smirk. Bartholomew turned to look down at the proud necromancer- arm-in-arm with an overjoyed Blightlander who had shrunk together as to not awaken any suspicion and remind Asrael of his claimed shoulder.

“You know I live there to, yes?” Bart questioned. Asrael seemed less than pleased as he spoke: “Why, yes, I know where you are supposed to live, but seeing as you are out here, I take it you have something to say? Make your report and return- is this Ingvard on his way?” Bartholomew shook his head and stared up and down the calm river- remembering how he had been soiled by its banks only a few weeks previous... oh, how he missed that night... his defiance had seemed so just back then- so right...

“I cannot get to my Brother. He has completely isolated himself in his chambers and refuses to see me. Something is wrong, Asr-” The necromancer’s eyes narrowed to little but slivers of green.

“Was that all you came here for? A report?” Bartholomew had to question it, himself. Now that he had seen the state of the city- his boredom and frustration seemed so small in comparison to what Kester- to what the city had gone through. The Sargerrei shook his head and rubbed his eyes before crouching down to seat himself next to Ellie.

“Originally, yes... but I’ve changed my mind. Now, I would ask that you expedite this. Do you not have enough men to take the Garrison yet?” For whatever reason, the wayward Sargerrei could feel an inkling of resistance- of a wounded pride from Asrael from where he sat opposite to the apathetic girl. They all stared out across the calm river, but all- even Neda- could hear that the atmosphere was all but inspired by the tranquility of the water.

“No. Until this Ingvard comes, we will bide our time and take as many of the Piltan Inquisitors as we can get out hands on. As much as I would like to charge in and kill every last one of them, they can be put to better use.” Bartholomew felt the burden pressing down on his shoulders grow a smidgen heavier. He hadn’t expected anything else- not really. But not even Asrael could fault him for hoping...

“When they begin hungering, they will crawl out from beneath their rock and step back into my clutches- then, our work can resume.” Asrael chuckled and looked up at the torchlit wall surrounding the garrison- high above the opposing bank’s bloody sands. It was not lost on the necromancer that the Sargerrei’s hands clenched up in fists- begging the question...

“I never pegged you for an altruist, Bartholomew. I take it you do not approve of my methods?” Asrael’s voice sounded darker- more angered than ever as he stared up at their walls. Bart folded his arms atop his chest and sighed with a shake of his head.

“I am not. I have told you of my desire, but-… I cannot see...”

Kester piped up: “You can’t see how this is any better than what they’re doing.” Bartholomew nodded. A silence befell the cooling crowd. The nightly mists began rising from the waters- covering all trace of their assault.

“That is because you have misunderstood, Bartholomew... this is not about us and the Inquisition- this is not about your Father- not him alone. This is between us and them. Might I remind you, had it not been for you, these same people you now pity would have seen Eleanor raped, tortured and strapped to a pyre- the same way her mother suffered through those torments?” Bartholomew turned over towards Ellie- expecting to see tears, remorse-… anything... alas, no. She just sat there- staring out across the river, priding herself on the death of the enemy. Asrael continued:

“The Inquisition might have facilitated this, but the masses allowed it. The demanded it. I was there- all those years ago, when your Father unleashed this Hell upon our kind.” Bartholomew could see Asrael’s eyes stare at him through the darkness, but only half his attention remained in the presence- the rest looked back on that screaming crowd tearing apart his peers- pelting him with feces until he reeked over the river.

“He opened the gates, Bartholomew... but they were the ones pushing on the other side. Discard this sudden love you have for the simpletons and remember their guilt.” Bartholomew looked across the grim congregation. From the determined necromancer, the lovestruck Blightlander, the apathetic once-been victim to the dark tavernkeeper- all of whom had their reasons to accept his way. He, just like them, was but another monster... He ran his hand up to his forehead before rubbing his right eye again. He was tiring of the confusion, the dissonance- the pain... Asrael, unlike the others, seemed to have a plan. Perhaps that was what he needed now- some structure- some direction... He shook his head and forced any thoughts of injustice out from his conscious mind. What he needed was a damned drink. He rose up to his feet and sighed, before clapping the reeking sands off of his pants.

“I need a glass of wine and some sleep... I think it high time I go talk to my brother and find out, once and for all, why Ingvard has yet to signal his arrival...” Asrael’s smirk betrayed his satisfaction upon hearing the Sargerrei runt had slipped back under his control.

“Longa will escort you. Kester- go with him. The last we need is for him to contract some disease from the Gauja-Gang, though I suspect he may be immune to most of them already.” Bartholomew had to smile as he thought ‘you don’t even know half of it, brother’. Naturally, before he departed alongside the dark tavernkeeper, the wayward Sargerrei turned to look at the Blightlander-Necromancer complex and asked:

“So... is this a thing now?” A jolt of life resurrected his genitals as he thought of the long-legged, white-dressed, gleeful girl as a necrophiliac. It seemed to take Asrael a moment to understand, but as he did, he intensified his efforts to seek some distance from the supposedly ‘sleepy’ girl resting his head atop her shoulder.

“Yeah! As long as she’s out there- I'm not leaving his side. I’m almost really close to officially being his Pa’namph now, so it’s my duty to keep him safe.” Asrael dropped his jaw and glanced back towards Bartholomew with a sudden, rare panic.

“Absolutely not! Bartholomew, you will undo whatever perverse spell you’ve cast to warp her mind- I've had enough of this! Let me go!” He struggled, but she gripped him harder in turn. He felt like a lobster caught in a soft, fragrant trap- falling for the delectable bait’s lulling scent. Only as his arm began crackling with tearing ligaments, did she wince and loosen her grip, but made certain not to drop him.

“Bart! Come back here- I've yet to excuse you! Tell her you’ve been mistaken- tell her-!” Bartholomew’s loud whispers signaled his departure down the sandy banks- closely followed by the gleeful, schadefreuding tavernkeeper rubbing his calloused hands together in a muttered chuckle.