Asrael liked Barrel. As opposed to the three women, Kerras, the Ogre and most annoying of them all- Neda- the small, fat man remained silent. He imagined he would be too, if he were in his place at the front of the carriage- surrounded by the sleeping girl and the pale, dead giant while three dead women eyed him from the top of the wooden box. Asrael was, for the first time since his resurrection; comfortable- save for the occasional winces as he heard the sniffles from the chauffeur. The interior of the carriage was bland and nothing but a couple of benches lined the emptiness of the warm box. This would have made an excellent study, he thought and inevitably let his mind’s eye stray back to the Tower- to his previous study.
Corpses, fresh and old in various states of decomposition had filled the atmosphere with the homely scent of rotting flesh. Bookcases as tall as three of his own, substantial lengths, had lined every wall and at the corner; his bed had stood and bled its lavender infusion to the room. ‘It is for your own good, Asrael’ the old man had said. ‘It will help you sleep, apprentice of mine’. Asrael’s palms curled up with rage as he thought of the infuriating man. He had been no better than his predecessors- the old fool. Just as they had before him; the old man had struggled to express his magic. Sure; he could craft runes the likes of which none could copy, but the man had no expression- no inherent magical properties like the dirty girl had.
He scratched his chin as he thought of her. In the old world; someone like her would have been on their path to become Arch Magus by now. An amateur- capable of influencing the atmosphere without directly touching it. Such a thing was unheard of- an impossibility. In the realm of magics; none had been able to do such a thing- ever, unless one were to trust the foolish tales of old. He shook his head and scoffed. A genius such as he knew that the stories had no more merit than a myth. They had been written for the simple folk to give them hope and to instill an unnecessary amount of awe and terror towards the magi. Even before the Emperor had closed the Rifts; Asrael doubted there had ever been a day when magic was so plentiful people could use their powers to kill Demons or monsters. At best; a pyromancer might light a matchstick, if his body allowed it... but the girl... the girl’s foolish attempt to strangulate him had been something else entirely.
He raised a finger and forced some of the magic out its tip. The green gas flowing from the indentations of his skin was familiar to him- it was his own color... a color none had ever been able to identify as belonging to any one element. Scoffing; he folded his arms and lay his head back against the wall to traverse his mind for any explanation for the state of this place- of the magics. The rhythmic thumps of his head against the moving wall lulled him to a profound rest and allowed his mind to wander into itself, back to where he had last found the energy to be irritated at repetitive sounds.
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He was in his study, pulling out greasy strands of long, black hair. His jaws ached with the constant grinding- his nails were bitten deep down to their beds, but despite his body’s attempts to de-escalate him; his fury remained. For years; he had pondered the mystery and for just as many years; he had been confident that he would do better. He would solve it and bring about a new era- a new Empire, where not even Death could hinder humanity’s further advancements. All he needed do... was figure out how to contain the soul.
He could reach out and reanimate the hand next to him. With some strain; he might even be able to close its fingers into a fist, but such a trivial spell held no value to him. He needed to defeat Death- not dance around it. He wanted the hand to move on its own, because a soul willed its movements. Resurrection was useless if it meant being under the total control of another- he might as well have brought out some strings to bind the digits, if that had been his purpose. In a vicious bout of fury; he struck out across the table and sent his priceless books, appendages and reagents flying through the rot-and-lavender-scented air. This was a maddening quest- one that seemed to be rapidly draining his sanity, or so he thought. The rhythmic, haunting taps of metal against metal had grown louder over the last hour... or had it been days? This evening in particular, the chains sounded louder than ever before- as if they were dragging over the floor just behind him. Although he knew how futile it was to scream at decades-old tinnitus; he spun about on the bench and prepared himself to let loose his rage, only to freeze with terror at the sight of an unwelcomed visitor.
A tall being stood perfectly still- unbreathing, unmoving, unblinking. Milky white eyes stared back at the young magus over a sharp-toothed, rotten grin. Like the bodies being stripped by the cadaverous insects in the glass containers of the room’s corners; the horned, grinning creature was in a state of disrepair. Long hooks sunk into its flesh connected to chains that seemed to writhe with a life of their own over the warm stone floor. Asrael reflexively retched at the sight of the long strips of soggy, greenish flesh swaying from its cheeks and chest- baring the yellowy white bones barely holding the creature together. Mid-retch; the magus came to a realization- a terrible, horrific, mind-crushing realization... this was not the first time he had seen the Satyr.
This was not the first time he had seen Azazeel.