Kester sat at his counter and toyed a half-empty glass of fine, sugary spirits in between his fingers. Morning had come and gone and by long; the insufferable, silent noon would commence. As the only tavern in town without food or drink to offer his guests, the only thing he had for purchase was his "fine" rooms and he hoped to the Gods someone would finally rent one of the dockside whores and proceed to soil one of his beds with the diseased wretch... Alas; dreams and prayers had brought him nothing thus far- nothing, save dishonor and red numbers. His head thumped against the countertop repeatedly and in his frustration; he nearly missed the ring of the bell over the door. He shot up- wide-eyed and startled at the unfamiliar stimulus and gazed with disbelief as a vaguely familiar, small, fat man stepped in- closely followed by one of the most beautiful women he had ever seen and lastly; a familiar, awe-inspiring, handsome man. In between them; they carried the long-dead corpse of a man that they then proceeded to slam onto a nearby, empty table.
Surprisingly; the familiar, small man in his open, tattered shirt strode towards the counter with a confident gait- staring up at the bartender with a wide, benign smile, as if he hadn’t just partaken in desecrating his abode with a corpse.
“Kessy! You ain’t aged a day!” The fat goblin exclaimed as he attempted to climb the stool by the bar. Kester leaned sideways to look at the teary-eyed girl and the pacing, nervous gentleman biting his thumb’s nail while insisting they summon an apothecarian. The tavernkeeper looked down to study the worn, tanned caravaner and ultimately recognized him as none other than...
“S-sir Berral!? Is that you!? By the Gods- what has happened to your hair!? And-… what has happened to the rest of you!?” Justly nervous; the small man hurriedly tapped his long, yellow fingertips against the countertop with a muttered prayer that the fine Inquisitor would soon leave them be... hopefully before seeing his Master’s impressive scars.
Barrel grinned and chuckled; “O-oh... I-it's been r-ruff out ther in the Blight...” The caravaner lowered his brow and scratched his chin quizzically. Surely; Kester would be an old man by now- it had been at least twenty years since last he had stepped into the humble tavern, but the man standing before him was scarcely older than thirty.
“Wait a minu-… Junior!? Where’s your pa!?” Kester watched in horror as the teary girl began striking the corpse’s face and chest with fervor.
Deciding not to pry; the tavernkeeper continued. “H-he’s... dead- sorry, what’s going on back there?” Barrel scratched his oily belly and used his other hand to wave the air dismissively. Reaching into his pocket; he retrieved what had once been Kerras’ impressive pouch of gold and silver before slamming it down onto the countertop with his trademark grin of missing and yellowed teeth. It had been years since last the tavernkeeper saw that kind of coin and he was quite certain he had never seen anything like it on his counter.
Barrel raised his hands and spoke; “T-that’s... listen; we need a room. It’s been a long ride and the boss needs tae rest.” He pointed his thumb over his shoulder- towards the trio of shapes behind his back. Kester cocked his head quizzically at the trio- surely; he would be referring to the chiseled-chin visitor; Bart Sargerrei and not the wildling, nor the corpse... he reminded himself this was none of his business and hurriedly reached beneath the bar to retrieve a key marked with a large, golden “1”. Whatever the three would be doing to the dead man would be none of his business, as long as they dumped him in the river afterwards. The oddly agile, small man reached across and grabbed it before he could ask his standard questions before disappearing over to wrestle the corpse from underneath the teary wildling’s arms.
Kester despised the Inquisition for the wrongs they had wrought upon his family. Even so; he could not help but feel a miniscule pity for the man drumming his fingertips against the countertop while eyeing the bottle of a few droplets of spirits. He was different from his brother Titus- in fact; he had heard he was different from all his siblings. Whereas they were unmistakably handsome with their red hair, eyebrows and beards; Bartholomew had honeyed hair not at all unlike the wildling screaming upstairs and a pair of blue eyes that seemed to convey a wisdom Duke Titus failed to televise.
“Fucking psychomancers...” He muttered and took another sip of dirty water. Kester knew better than to ask- at least for his own sake. But as a tavernkeeper; he had a role to fulfill. None ever sat down by a bar to mutter to themselves and sip at water- it was clear that the man wished to share something... needed to share something.
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“Magus giving you hell, fella?” Kester attempted to speak the words as calmly as possible and earned himself a nod for it. Bartholomew leaned forwards on his elbows and resumed drumming his fingers on the counter while muttering: “Indeed, my good man. For the first time in weeks- months... I tasted life today, only to have it stolen away by one of those mind-shattered Acolytes.”
The tavernkeeper sensed that they were reaching a topic he’d rather not comment on, but felt the need to continue this conversation. “I... suppose they’ll be put to the pyre for it...”
To his surprise; Bartholomew glared up at the tavernkeeper and shook his head. “Of course not. She might have killed him, but I am still glad she survived whatever magic she cast upon him... I cannot blame her for doing what I asked.” He might’ve spoken the words calmly, but Kester could feel something writhe beneath the surface of his frown- something dark. Bart tapped the countertop twice and stood up from his seat to throw another longing glance up the stairs- silently imagining what tales he could have extracted from the now-dead man had he just followed his instinct and let the depraved trio continue on through the checkpoint.
“I will return later, good Sir. Have your stores filled for a funeral service and send the bill to the Garrison.” Even if he hated the Inquisition and all they stood for; he could not help but be charmed by the handsome leader of men- especially when he spoke of something that might actually earn him hard coin. Kester dropped the rag and opened his mouth to speak his gratitude, only to observe the man’s back as it disappeared out the door.
Despite the recent death and the tragic circumstances leading to his sudden boon... Kester wept a single tear of joy.
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Up the stair; Neda sat on the bed next to her deathly still Master. In this state; the only sign he still lived was the bright green of his irises whenever she forced his eyelids open to look at him. Without a heartbeat and without his breath; he appeared as dead as any other corpse. Up until a few hours previous; she had looked to the future with a sense of hope that things could be better for her. By long; she’d meet with Barrel’s contact and if all went well, she might find herself in kinder, more patient company... but as soon as she had seen his dead, helpless body tumble to the floor; the hope had faded to make way for a profound sense of uncertainty and fright.
Asrael had, despite his cruelty, saved her on two occasions already. Throughout her life; she had learned that magi and the magics were things of evil- things that needed to be controlled and, if possible; exterminated. But this man- this horrible, cruel creature had taught her something else. Magic could be used for something good. He had done it and in so doing; inspired a thought in her that perhaps, one day, she could too.
Whoever this ‘contact’ was, there was no guaranteeing he’d be any better than the necromancer. From her dealings with the men of the Inquisition; she had learned not to trust others, especially the ones claiming to have honorable intentions. He was different- he was honest in his cruelty, but it had taken seeing him collapse to understand as much. Another twitch to her right hand briefly frightened her, before the calm of knowing he was still alive... sort of... sunk down on her shoulders.
Barrel stood by the door and tended to his hastily construed barricade of chairs and various other furniture- ponderously staring at the nervous girl on the bed. As much as Asrael frightened him; the man had a plan, which was more than he could say for himself. For years; he had traversed the same, torturous stretch of the Blight- picking up children to deliver them to the predatory Inquisition. It had taken seeing Asrael’s dead body to realize that, for the first time in twenty years, he felt alive again- no longer a slave dog to the Inquisitors keeping him out there in those never-ending deserts under the threat of death.
Another resounded slap echoed in the room. Neda looked to verify that once again; the man hadn’t responded to her pain. Nervously; she questioned her still-living companion; “What do we do, Barrel!? What if he’s really dead!?” Barrel bit down on his lower lip and dug into his belly-button nervously.
He stuttered a; “W-we keep movin’... we’re back in the empire now- we can run trade-routes. I knows me a guy who can set us up with some whores- good ‘uns. We can be a riding brothel!”
Neda scratched her chin and whispered; “W-what’s that? Whore? Brothel? Is it safe?” He failed to consider her innocence- despite her cruel treatment.
He cleared his throat and ceased chewing on his fleshy thumb; “A whore’s a woman- or a man- who you pay to fuck... An’ a brothel’s where you does it.” Barrel observed how once again, learning something seemed to gather her chaotic mind and still her worries.
“D’you think someone would pay me to do that?” She asked. Before he could answer, the girl continued to sound a loud yelp as a stern, powerful hand gripped her by the shoulder. In her peripheral view; she could see the bright-green, familiar iris eye her with unrivaled rage and demand; “Find me that whore!”