Silence- usually a golden thing in the company of idiots and lesser beings. For weeks; the necromancer had wanted nothing more than to be alone with his thoughts in glorious silence. But from where he sat at the tavernkeeper’s disgusting table; surrounded by the simpleton girl, the handsome man and his intrusive psychomancer- that white-haired wench; he wanted nothing more than for someone to say something, if only to disturb the creature likely seeking to pick his mind apart. That ruse of hers would prove inefficient- that low-drawn hood obscuring her eyes would not work against one so well-versed in controlling his mind and fend off intrusive thoughts. Bartholomew glanced between Asrael and Lita and eventually spoke up- breaking the awkward silence choking the life from the table.

“I hope you can forgive the good Sensate, Sir Kerras. I assure you; she is rated well- the best in the empire, but... I suppose even skilled magi misfire every now and then.” It dawned on Asrael that they were yet to be dragged away and put to the stake. Could this supposed misfire have affected her as well as him? Sensing a sliver of hope, the Kerras the third leaned back against the wall and forced a shallow smile.

“Understandable. I do, however, detest the idea of my mind being someone else’s plaything. All can be forgiven- if... you tell me what you saw.” If they were going to die, he might as well hear what she had to say, first. The girl bowed her head down low and took shelter beneath the hood.

“Nothing, good Sire. Your mind was far too strong for me to breach- I-I apologize.” As relieving as it seemed, he could not help but feel as if the girl was hiding something... He knew she had breached him- he had seen her there, inside his inner sanctum.

Bartholomew reached over the ruffle the girl’s hood with a chuckle before continuing; “I am not sure how we can make reparations to you, good Sir. I hope the feast will be a good start. You must be starved from being out in the Blight for so long- tell me...” He leaned over the table and covered the left corner of his mouth from the two women as he whispered; “are the women as savage as they say? I’ve heard they can rip a man’s member off with the force of their slits.” Asrael had not expected such vulgarity- not from a man of his supposed station, whatever that was.

Asrael’s jaw dropped as he looked to Neda for support, only to see her glare a stare of daggers at the white-haired ‘Sensate’. Realizing that no assistance would come; he stuttered a surprisingly nervous; “I-… I would not know... I and my Si-” He sighed. The harlot had already broken their alibi- what good would it do to break it now? “-...companion... have stayed true to one-another.”

Bartholomew twitched forwards against the table. Rumors had passed of royalty and peasantry alike devolving into incestuous relationships, but this... this was a first for him. He drained down his tea and for the first time in months; he found himself wishing for something stronger- something to kick this party off and loosen the man up until he felt comfortable enough to share every gritty detail of this ungodly union of theirs. This was what he had sought out in the lands- true depravity in the flesh.

Neda didn’t know much of this ‘Lita’, but she knew she hated her. Those beautiful, blue eyes of hers had been firmly locked on Asrael ever since she walked into the place, yet she shied away from showing it by keeping her hood low over her eyes. She imagined it likely she had broken into his mind and rummaged around- found his plans of abandoning her to whoever this associate of Kester’s was and begun planning her move to take her place. She would not allow it.

“Yes... yes, I am certain you have. Tell me, miss Kerras... you spoke of a ritual name- Pa'namph I think you called it. From what I gather; the two are you are in some form of union, what, exactly, does that entail?” Sensing Asrael’s emotional wall; the thrill-seeker turned his attention to Neda at an opportune time, as she had already finished construing her lies. Through a dishearteningly genuine smile, she informed the man; “My dad didn’t agree with us getting together, so he challenged him, killed him and took me right there on dad’s still warm corpse. It’s one of our people’s sacred rituals.”

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

Bartholomew struggled to contain himself from biting down on his fist. Patricide!? He swallowed the contents of his dry mouth and licked his dry lips. “Y-you don’t say... right there- on his body?” Neda whole-heartedly nodded and took care to throw the white-haired one another glare before confirming; “it lasted for days. I was so full of his seed I thought I’d die-”

The necromancer could no longer contain his disgust and fury and shot his cold hand out to still the lying harlot’s lips and warn; “Now, now... my... companion. Let us not disgust all of us with your fables. I am certain our fine visitors have better things to do than to listen to your tall tales.” Neda could see that she had made her point, as the girl’s bulbs had now turned to her instead, to return her challenging stare.

Beads of sweat ran down Bartholomew’s forehead. Humid pits had formed under his armpits as life flowed through him once more. He raised his hand greedily and shouted at the disbelieving, gaping bartender; “P-please, my good man- more water!”

_____________________________________________________________________________

Word soon spread that Kester’s tavern had resumed serving and by nightfall; the establishment brimmed with customers intending to celebrate the passing of a man who, in fact, sat in their midst- however miserable he might be. Kester had emptied the whole cauldron of stew and his pouches overflowed with coin from the evening’s visitors- all of whom seemed intent on toasting to the fallen, grunting, infuriating warrior. Bartholomew had been reduced to a heaving, sweating wreck by Neda’s numerous construed tales, but Asrael was no closer to conversing with the white-robed companion of his imposing visitor. It was, however, quite clear that Neda had earned the Inquisitor’s favor with her smut and in so doing; perhaps saved their lives.

The necromancer had attempted to divert some of the drinks away from his desert-dwelling, foul-mouthed associate for the better part of the evening and grant them, instead, to the finely clad Inquisitor... alas; her thirst was too great and Bartholomew’s will to resist was too strong. Asrael could no longer stomach this horrendous standstill. The girl had intrusions to answer for and, if he was fortunate; she would know something about the return of the magics. If only the harlot would shut her mouth... Alas; her lips only ever stilled to conform with the rest of the tavern as the midnight bells rung throughout the city.

Not a soul spoke nor moved as a golden figure emerged from the darkness to shine his magnificent radiance across the tavern... All who saw him had seen him before- all save for the wildling girl. Most knew him as Duke Sargerrei- leader of the scarlet legion and the ruler of sector six- Pilta and its surrounding areas. Others knew him as their annoying little brother, whereas Asrael made the critical mistake of not taking the man’s age into account as the familiarity dawned on him.

“General Sargerrei-” Asrael spoke through his gritted teeth and rose to his height- preparing himself to throw whatever object he could get his hands on in hopes of shattering that proud grin. In his hand; he clenched a blunted dining-knife- the implement with which he planned to cut that infuriatingly pristine scalp from the ingrate monstrosity’s cranium. The sudden jerk as he stood upright caught the Duke’s attention and earned the necromancer... a friendly smile and a wave.

“Brother!” Titus shouted as he pushed through the crowd- closely followed by another one of the meek, timid white-robed creatures. Asrael was left gripping his knife tightly as the gears ground in his mind... this could not possible be his mortal enemy- he was far too young. But how else could he be a spitting image-

Bartholomew huffed and turned around to greet his brother with a wave before motioning for Kerras the third. “Brother- this is Kerras. The man I spoke of.” The golden-armored soldier bowed down low in an honorable greeting before recovering to extend a hand towards the necromancer. Even his smile was disgustingly pristine as he made his introduction; “Naturally; I had to look into the name Kerras. It seems our fathers served in the Great Crusade together- I am honored to meet the son of a noble warrior such as he. I am Titus Sargerrei- Duke of Pilta and the brother of this loveable oaf.” Asrael’s hand seemed to naturally gravitate towards shaking the madman’s extended appendage.

Of course... his son...