Asrael had imagined Titus would be mad, but nothing could have prepared him for what awaited the necromancer inside his mind. He had felt it as soon as he had extended his magic into the core- a twisted, screaming, roaring presence protesting the magical interference. As soon as he wrapped his magic around the consciousness inside the core, his own mind was assaulted by the chaotic fury- the images of Petrus’ body and the desperate wish to piece his organs together so that the lovely being would open his eyes once more.
Without the stolen arm, Asrael imagined he would’ve struggled to bring the man under his control, as the soul empowering the core was unlike anything the Necromancer had ever seen or felt. It raged with a power he imagined would’ve rivaled a magus’, but eventually... he succeeded in binding it to himself. Once the binding was complete and Titus opened his green eyes, the Duke’s consciousness expanded to explore the hive-mind connecting the soldiers.
Neda felt a pang of worry as she watched Asrael collapse backward on his buttocks and heave for air. His green eyes shone brightly- as they did whenever he added a new soldier to his ranks, but the weariness weighing on his brow spoke of an exhaustion that the proud necromancer kept to himself. He was yet to speak of Ellie’s condition, which only further disheartened the Blightlander as she was understandably worried for her associate that still lay deathly still with the same, unchanging, sheepish smile behind Asrael.
The necromancer closed his eyes and fought the lingering wrath in Titus’ mind to search for an answer to Ellie’s condition.
Asrael spoke in a mutter: “The fleshmenders were called back to Capita... most the purged were- only Petrus and Lita remained here...” He grimaced as Titus’ launched a barrage of requests at him- questions such as ‘what is this?’ ‘why am I here?’ and ‘why are you doing this?’ were all pushed aside to find any mention of healing.
To Neda, Asrael looked as if he had eaten bread far too moldy for his stomach’s liking. He gripped his forehead, whereas the red-haired, green-eyed, pale, carved-up Titus stared up at him from the floor- unblinking and unmoving.
Without a word of warning, Asrael raised his boot and sunk it on Titus’ left knee, and roared: “Focus on a healer, damn you! Where is the closest fleshmender!?” Titus kept his glare locked on his furious Master, but blinked once. The necromancer’s frown softened- his eyes widened and his jaw fell slightly agape as he found a mention of a healer... a familiar name in the chaos of childhood recounts of the wretch’s dead lover.
“No... not him. Find me another- someone closer.” Neda cocked her head and moved her bloody finger to her lip to ask: “Who’re you talking about? What’s going on?”
Satisfied... or rather, dissatisfied that he had gotten his answers from Titus, he withdrew from his mind and ordered the hive-mind to answer the freshly welcomed fool’s questions. He stood from the bed and cracked his pained neck, before hesitating to respond to her request. He seemed sickened to form the words: “Her hand is broken beyond my ability to repair. At this rate, all I can do for her is remove that hand. And no- I cannot give her a new one, not without turning her, first.”
Neda thought back to her brother’s death. These men had, arguably, made themselves deserving of their fate. But if she were to choose, she would never have condemned someone she knew to such an existence- certainly not Ellie... not after what had happened to Rallo.
“But can’t you turn her into what you are? Then you could give her the arm, right?” Asrael had to scoff at the outrageous suggestion.
“How my creation worked in the first place is, sadly, beyond even me...” Asrael bit on his lower lip ponderously. Neda could see that he was thinking about something unspoken, but what, exactly, remained unclear. She braved:
“But you haven’t cut it off yet, so...?” He narrowed his eyes and resisted the urge to scan Titus’ mind again. He stood from the bed to fold his hands behind his back and began to pace about the dark chamber.
“For whatever reason, the Inquisition has pulled all the Purged back to Capita- meaning... Since we cannot find a fleshmender here, we would have to look elsewhere. Titus claims to know of one capable of healing grave wounds, but...” Titus sat up on the floor- impressing Neda with his delectable abdominal musculature. There, the Duke looked over towards Asrael and remained still- staring at the pacing, pale necromancer.
“But?” Neda questioned as she mirrored Asrael’s ponderous rubbing of his chin. Her pale master came to a halt and raised a finger to the air to inform:
“Years ago, when I was still in the tower, I sought to find the solution to the ‘Mortality-problem’. There was another- a rival of mine, who sought the same, but by foolish means.” Asrael sawed his jaw back and forth, before continuing: “He thought he could find some form of alchemical solution to the problem... foolish. Death is, in its most basic form, inevitable. Everything dies- it has to. Our hereditary material grows shorter with every division of our cells- increasing the risk of wrong duplications, that is the terminus of our natural lifespan. The only way to remain immortal is to persist through death.” Neda could, as usual, understand very little of Asrael’s unprompted dissertation, but she remained attentive.
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Had the mood been any less grave, Asrael might’ve chuckled as he imagined the result of Thomas’ research. “Buffoon...” He scoffed. Ellie twitched on the bed and Neda felt a pang of pity jab at her chest, as she watched the pained grimace.
Asrael waved his right hand around dismissively and muttered: “No... If Thomas even is alive, he would be even more useless than I am. And Skum is far away- I doubt she could stand the pain for that long...” He raised his fingers to pinch the bridge of his nose.
Neda bit on her lower lip, pained by the thought of Ellie’s continued suffering. “Assie... there’s gotta be something we can do for her. If this guy’s still alive, we should go ask him, at least... right?” Asrael shuddered at the thought of asking Thomas anything. The man was a charlatan, a fool- a handsome, arrogant fool.
“No. I have but one choice. Hand me the knife.” Asrael stretched his hand out. Neda looked down at the knife by her right foot. She reached down and hesitantly took it to hold it behind her back. Her regretful grimace pleaded: “Assie, please... she can handle pain. Can’t we ask him, at least?” The thought of requesting anything from this Thomas seemed to nauseated Asrael, but he withdrew his hand to raise a questioning eyebrow and speak;
“Ask him? Ask him!? If anyone should be asking for anything, he should be the one asking for my help! I am Asrael Nessarat- high-” The rude Blightlander raised a dismissive hand and said: “Yeah, yeah, I know- we all know. But if there’s a chance he can help, shouldn’t we check it out?” Asrael bit down on his lower lip and spun to face the inebriated girl on the bed. They were through in Pilta and Skum was, naturally, the next stop on their journey. If he was to build an army like that in the vision, he would require more bodies and a refinement of his methods. He raised his right hand to rub his palm against his face and sigh.
“We will be heading in that direction... fine. If you wish to explore that venture, you are welcome to do so. I will make the necessary shunts to hopefully stabilize her hand, but when she cries herself to sleep over the agony, I am blaming you for it.” Asrael spat and provoked a smile from the relieved desert wildling.
“Thanks, Assie-” His head jerked to glare at her over his shoulder and a strict grimace.
“And stop perverting my name!”
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Even from afar, Ingvard could see that something was amiss in Pilta. For days, he and his thousand men had ridden in a wide berth around their planned journey, and frankly, the General had, up until the point he saw the farmlands, been sick of this back-and-forth between Titus and Gustav.
With the helmet thumping against the horse’s saddle at his side, he ran a hand through his silver hair and rubbed the sleep from his eyes to observe the farmsteads on either side of the wide road leading up to the city gates.
Tall stacks of grain stood at the ready for loading, while the eager-at-work farmers and their laborers swung their scythes through the never-ending fields- securing their bountiful harvest for the season. Ingvard was no stranger to farming- he had grown up in sector six, after all. Perhaps, because of his experience with the autumn harvest, he saw what most of his men did not.
Every inch of temporary storage space on the drying bands, the steads’ rooftops, and the fields themselves were brimming with wheat, yet no caravaneers were anywhere to be seen. Looking over his shoulder, he saw the orderly ranks of white Purged and metallic Inquisitors follow in his wake- their gazes shrouded beneath the visors and the hoods.
To his side, Sun- the lieutenant of the First Legion’s Purged, stared up at the closed gates growing in the distance and spoke in a murmur: “Yes, my Lord. I can sense a great confusion out in the fields. The farmers do not know why the gates are closed, either.” Ingvard raised his armored hand to scratch his chin and scanned the perimeter. His silvery eyes came to a rest as he looked to the north to see a new installation at Burgen- a loading station, by the looks of it, one squirming with purple tabards.
Ingvard looked over his shoulder to order one of his Inquisitorial cavalrymen; “Go. Find the leader of that station and have them report to me. The rest of you are to gather information. And find me someone to open the gates!” The frontmost ranks of his armored men clapped their left, metallic pectorals and spoke an acknowledgment of his order; “Yes, Sir!” before they departed from their spots on the procession to ride out to the nearby farmsteads.
Sun’s horse came to a momentary halt as he saw something, far beyond the rim of his white hood- something atop the wall. To any other man, it might’ve seemed like an ordinary guardsman, but not to Sun. He could feel the madness emanate from the eerily still, armored man staring down at him with a pair of green, glowing eyes.
He turned towards Ingvard to find the General stare back at him with understanding, though neither had spoken a word. They did not have to- not after all these years together.
Something... was very wrong in Pilta.