Bartholomew’s consciousness returned in pulses. The darkness faded and intermittently dropped him back into his pleasant dreams, where his old blade-instructor looked up at him from the mountain of sweaty, hairy flesh squeezed in between them- Big Marie had been her name. Even as he awoke, he could he knew that it had all been a dream. That night had been the closest he had come to perfection in all his days- those endless rolls of fat to which both he and his wrinkled, old, spotted Master had made endless love.
Asrael stared ponderously at Bartholomew as the duelist humped back and forth where he sat atop the crate with a sheepish smile. Neda- ever eager to mimic Asrael, joined her associate in watching the rigid man, where he humped in place on the rotten, improvised furniture. Unbeknownst to the Blightlander, Bartholomew was but a backdrop for his musings. The girl’s violations had, once again, left him with a profound feeling of defeat... until meeting her, he had never considered his mind as a penetrable object, but now that he stood there- struggling to make sense of the girl’s suggestion and the Satyr’s offer, he felt profusely violated.
Most unnerving, by far, was that the girl- Neda had done what he could not. By the strength of her wildling spirit, she had fought the Defiler off and saved him from committing a grave mistake and thus far, she had never once thought to point her finger at him and laugh at his foolishness- his weakness... instead, she remained her cheery, usual self- an irking quality he had come to find... endearing. She felt uneasy upon receiving his glare from the side- his globes tracing of her long, honeyed hair. Her red eyes darted between the necromancer and her distant-gazing instructor as she nervously gripped her elbow and asked:
“I-is it usually like this when you go visit Bartholomew?” Asrael refused to even acknowledge the question, but took care to look away from her, as he suspected his lengthy staring could be misconstrued. He mused aloud:
“The Defiler... she violated me again- this time, with you as audience... She has always been confident, but last she attempted to seduce me, we were alone. This time, she touched me with her physical form, rather than her inner being, but what for? Is she growing arrogant? Surely, she must have known there was a weakness to her ability if someone such as her could have broken through it...” Neda folded her arms and assumed a strict frown to stare at Asrael as she heard his dismissive tone.
“I’m right here, y’know! And whattaya mean ‘someone like her’!? I worked my ass off to get out of the pit and come back there!” Asrael had to silently question her priorities. Could she not see that he needed some precious silence to ponder his conundrum? But the girl had raised a valid question...
“How did you fight her? How did you break free from her spell?” Neda continued to glare at him. She had learned much in her time with Asrael- how to understand at least some of his intonations and more importantly, how to get her will. Despite her frowning exterior, she felt good- not because she was not still disgusted by the rotten room, but because she had done something Asrael could not. For once, she had saved him.
“I’m not telling.” He struggled to understand her body-language and why she had, at least momentarily, ceased her servile attitude.
“You cannot refuse me. I am your Master and I am asking you to explain how you broke through her spell!” She could tell that something was amiss with him. Something very unusual... something unnatural. She didn’t know exactly what, only that she did not like it. Therefore, she demanded:
“Not until you tell me what she did to you!” Before Asrael could launch into another tirade about her obedience and her sworn oath to obey him, Bartholomew groaned from atop the box to grab his clammy forehead and ask: “Gods above... what happened? Was it all a nightmare?” Asrael took a moment to consider how to deal with his associate. On one hand, he could implicate Lita and tell him the truth of their one-sided, abusive relationship... on the other hand...
“You fell asleep. I would suggest you reduce your consumption of alcohols and tend to yourself. You reek.” Bartholomew could hardly disagree. Neda seemed more confused than upset with more of Asrael’s mysterious subterfuge, but made a note of how easily he lied about something so grievous- so meaningful. Next, the necromancer commanded the half-conscious drunkard: “I need you to follow Titus. Find out all that you can of him and his movements. If possible, find out what has happened to change him.” Asrael seemed to ponder sounding another order, but stilled his lips from going on.
Bartholomew was far too weary to protest, nor could he muster the strength to question the order. Without another word, Asrael stepped over towards the open manhole to begin his descent.
“And find out when this Ingvard comes!” Asrael shouted from inside the darkness- sending an echoing bellow through the room that made Bartholomew feel as if the dead man had hammered a pair of nails through his orbits. “Y-yes... let me just... lay down here for a bit.” Bartholomew muttered as he crept down on the floor to feel the musty, cold stone clamor to his face- momentarily soothing his aches and pains.
Neda struggled to keep up with Asrael as he hurriedly journeyed through the tunnels- lighting the way with his magical torch. To her surprise, not-a-one of his men lined the walls- meaning, the two of them were alone... alone enough to ask:
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“Hey, why didn’t you tell Bartholomew about her?” She was just barely keeping within his torch’s radius of illumination, despite her best efforts to match his speed. He came to a sudden halt and bit at his lower lip as she caught up to his tall, dark form. She quickly passed him- nearly tripping over some of the jagged rocks on the mine floor, but succeeded in laying a stern palm on his chest- just above where his stab-wound still bared some of his organs.
Despite her proximity, Asrael was distant, biting at his lower lip while glaring in her direction- not at her, but rather, towards her. His mind was elsewhere- back in that tower. Her stomach churned at the sight of it, her cheeks flushed an angry red and a displeased grimace took the place of her commonplace smile.
“Hey, could you wait up? What’s wrong with you?” She was used to his anger and his sour moods, but not this- not that frown. His attention returned as she curled her fingers into a fist and jabbed her index at his chest.
“I have enough difficulties if I’ve not got to deal with your incessant questions! As you seem intent not to answer mine, I’ve no obligation to answer yours! Now, leave me be!” Little had he expected that Neda’s days of timid cowardice had passed and as he attempted to push past her, she shouted: “Well, then I’ll go tell Bartholomew he’s in danger! We can’t leave him there- not with her!”
This time, Asrael let his fury show in full. As he spun around, she caught a vicious shimmer of his green eyes- swirling with outraged magics. “And what, then? Do you believe a man as simple as he would sit idly in the company of the one who perverted his brother? I can see it now- the drunkard charging in with those useless daggers of his, only for the Defiler to tear his mind apart. Perhaps you should go- it would save me the trouble of dealing with either of the two of you!” To his horror, the girl smiled as she received the verbal lashing, only for her grin to shatter the moment his fury faded and that sullen expression of his returned.
He raised the torch up high, but... waited. He looked over his shoulder to glare at the girl and shout: “Are you coming, or should I leave you here in the dark!?” As much as she enjoyed whenever he was being kind to her, she detested that pained hesitance- that un-Asraelness. The two continued their journey, but he would still not be allowed silence- not as long as she felt as if their issue remained unresolved.
“You can talk to me, y’know...” She muttered cautiously. Of course he could- the girl never stopped talking! She saw his hand tense around the torch, but he still slowed his pace for her to catch up to him. This concerned more than his anger at her for keeping her secrets- this was something personal. And if she played her dies right, she may get another stolen glance into her Master’s mind.
“Are you embarrassed? Would it help if I told you how I did it?” He narrowed his eyes and kept his stare locked on the darkness ahead of them. “I am not embarrassed. When the Apprentice does something the Master cannot, it is a cause for celebration.” She could tell by the tone of his dark voice that, at least in that regard, he was being honest. She stopped as she made a dreadful realization- if he was not embarrassed, then-
“Are you scared?” He froze still and visibly cringed, before turning to glare at her. Was he scared? The girl had proven herself capable of stealing her way into his mind- she had learned his every secret and even used them against him- that phantom image of the Satyr... was he not in his right to at least shelter a tendril of fright for her? To his surprise, Neda broke from her timid frown to smile at him. She stood to her toes and reached for his hair- ruffling him as if he were some snot-nosed orphan. She giggled girlishly and spoke: “Well, why didn’t you say so to begin with?”
He had never been so offended- to have his hair ruffled. Once, he might’ve accepted such a dishonorable treatment from his Master, but certainly not from some cheery, airheaded Blightlander... had it not actually calmed him, he might’ve shouted at her. She raised a confident thumb and began: “Leave her to me, then. I’ll deal with that sneaky milkmaggot. Just don’t look like that again and we’ve got a deal.” It struck him that, in his collapse, he had forgotten his role in this partnership of theirs... he had, by some misfortunate twist of fate, become her Master. And just as Master Yurgen had sent him to do all his dirtywork, Asrael might delegate some of the work to her. In which case:
“If you are determined to deal with her, then it is imperative that you do not tell me how you defeated her Expression. She has proven capable of reading my memories, but you’ve a chance to resist her... If she does not know of her weak point herself, then you cannot tell her- you must not allow her into your mind.” She waved him off with a confident smile.
“Hey, I think I know how to deal with her better than you can... but y’know... you really should keep me close in case she comes for you.” Naturally, the wildling would try her hand and reveal her true motivation. Regardless of how genuine her offer to kill the harlot was, Asrael imagined she would attempt to bleed him where she could. She raised her finger and said: “One. I get to come with you anywhere you go. Two. The barrier goes down and three...” She paused to meet his narrowed stare. The flushing of her cheeks made her cheeks nearly match the color of her eyes.
“I’m your Pa’namph. You never get to take another and that’s final- I'm not moving on number three.” He had heard this term several times from the desert wildling, but its meaning was still as mysterious to him as the first time he had heard it. To his ears, it sounded as if she was asking for a blank cheque- something his Master had taught him never to agree to. The ensuing silence seemed to torture the girl, which made him all the more eager to let her contort in his trepidation. Eventually, he raised his fingers, as she had, and said:
“One. You are to continue doing my work and in between these sessions, you are to go and talk to Barrel of psychomancy- have him teach you something about it that may help you defend against your tricks. As long as you are fueled by your hormones, you will stay a pace away from me. Two. The barrier stays where it has, but I will agree to lower it. Third: you will keep your Blightlander terms to yourself unless I ask for one.” As opposed to her, he did not wait for her to respond. He simply began walking and brought with him their only source of light- leaving the grinning, bedazzled Blightlander to ponder... was that a ‘yes’?