He was tiring of slipping in and out of his consciousness. The repeated blows to his head were likely causing irreparable damage- the full effects of which would still escape him for years to come. But in his dreams; he was elsewhere. Far away from the scorching tyrant, the constant barrage of spit and his never-ending headache. He was in a tavern, staring up into the candle-lit ceiling while listening to his pounding heart. Down below; heavy bootsteps clanged over the floor as the so-called ‘Inquisition’ claimed the humble place of business for their own. He had seen them come and silently dared to hope they’d simply pass through the town... alas... just as his luck had turned in Capita, his misfortune seemed to follow after him as he made his escape from the madness of men. Tabled, chairs and cloth was being shattered, ripped and torn just below him. In the ceiling; he could see the shadows from outside gather around a building stack of wooden rubble. Would this be his pyre? Did they know that Asrael Nessarat- the one and only true Necromancer, hid upstairs beyond locked doors like some rodent or cockroach? He threw a glance over towards his journal. Next to it lay his bloody knife- a knife that, hopefully, would not taste blood in some time. At least not his. His body had been transformed over the course of his journey- from a fleshy, limited prison to something as magnificent as his mind. Sure; it burned and stung, but the meticulous carvings were now solidified- manifest in the world of the dying and living.
“Check the upstairs rooms, men! Make certain you administer the tests! Verify the papers! Any who fail inspection are to be brought to the pyre!” It was a voice to chill his bones and stop his heart. The fine general had followed after him- hot on his heel ever since leaving Capita. The scourge loudly claiming every droplet of drink down the stairs had scoured the lands- killed hundreds, if not thousands on their search for Him. Now... they had him cornered. By long; they would slam down the door with their armors and weapons- drag him downstairs where he would join everyone he had ever known atop the pyre... by the hour’s end; he would be boiling alive in his own, minute stores of fat. No... No, not at his hands. As long as his heart still pounded, as long as his eyes still saw- as long as he drew breath; he would run. If only to spite the monster, he would escape. He turned his head and looked to the window- gritting his teeth as he rose from the bed and upset the fresh, oozing wounds that had now stained most of his rented bed.
He hit the grass hard- shattering and disjointing numerous bones in his legs. In his hand; he held the priceless tome now immortalized on his body. As much as he loved and cherished the book, it was now naught but a burden as he choked back his screams and began his crawl. Meters away from him; the armored men searched every room with brute force and a lack of empathy to rival his own.
“We’ve got a runner!” A man shouted from the opened window Asrael had just leapt through. He was not angry. He was not bitter that these men had chased him around the Empire... he was nothing but terrified- scared of what they had in store for him. Up ahead- behind the tavern; he could hear the river he had scouted from his room. Without the use of his legs, running was no longer an option, but like the pathetic wretch he had been reduced to... he would scuttle to the waters and swim. He reached over the damp grass- sobbing while releasing his bowels in terror. Many a time had he imagined this scene- his capture. He had always imagined he’d stand tall and glare at the handsome, good General Sargerrei and laugh at his foolishness. He’d tell him that this fool’s quest to rid the world of the magi would only end in their undoing and he’d do it with his head raised high and proud... But now, that he could hear their laughter and their boots clang on the grass behind him... what was there to be proud about? A thud in his left thigh was followed by an intense pain- a mind-numbing explosion of undiluted agony that had him wonder if his leg had been torn cleanly off. He paused and cursed himself for it- there were only a few meters left between him and the river’s tall bank of rocks. A strong metallic gauntlet closed over his neck and dragged him to his height, before the monstrously strong warrior turned him around to face him. Evil incarnate- foolish, unintelligent, brutal evil stared back at him from the handsome, blue eyes of none other than General Sargerrei himself. The finely polished golden-trimmed armor had that stupid insignia painted on its chest- that hateful, despicable pyre to which the Demon stood strapped- screaming in agony. Sargerrei’s long, red hair blew in the winds as he grinned a wide-eyed expression of joy.
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“By the Gods... It cannot be...” Asrael attempted to gain hold of his breath and his face, but to no avail. The pain and the terror was simply too great for him to consider anything else. Sargerrei looked to the direction in which Asrael had pathetically crawled and saw the river’s wild streams over the tall rocks overlooking the waters. He chuckled a grim laugh and grinned.
“All these months... I really should thank you, Asrael. Without you; none of this would have been possible. The Emperor would still be under that old sycophant’s thumb- your kind would still be plaguing us. Now... you’ve led me to kill every last one of you on this fun game of cat-and-mouse.” Sargerrei chuckled before looking down at the arrow running with warm, sticky blood protruding from Asrael’s thigh.
“G-General...” Asrael attempted to speak, but found his panicked trachea refused to obey him.
“I was planning on bringing you back home. I would put you on display for the recruits- perhaps I would construe a box for you... a glass cage, where we could watch you wither and die. But it seems my archery has once again been too efficient.” He chuckled and looked down at his thigh as the rest of his men appeared around the corner of the tavern to gawk at the scene.
“Very well...” Sargerrei chuckled and held Asrael up high- dangling his broken legs in the air.
“If you wish to swim... perhaps I will display my archery once more.” With a powerful jerk; Asrael’s flailing body was launched backwards through the air- soaring from the rocks before crashing head-first into the freezing waters. He nearly drowned within the first few seconds as he drew in his first mouthful of murk, but alas; he lived long enough to rise above the surface and catch his breath. The currents were unimaginably wild- slamming him between the rocks like a helpless orphanage ragdoll. This was it. Should the river not claim him, the pierced artery in his leg would. Even if he had the strength to heal himself, it’d take all he had left to succeed. In his wild tumble, he glanced down at his pale arm to see the fresh scar stain the waters with his blood. The pain he had endured- his hard, careful work... all for naught. Sargerrei would win and the magi would be no more. More importantly; the world would never know of Asrael’s genius- they'd mock him for thinking his presentation had been a failure, rather than the substantial success it had been. The fools... a world full of fools.
No. He could not accept it. There was still a chance- a minute sliver of a chance, but a chance nonetheless. Statistics would, for once; not dictate the magus’ life. It was time to stand up against the tyrannical numbers and gamble on the one, remaining card in his hand. The untested, unproven runes on his body deserved it- he deserved it. He gathered up the rest of his strength and swam down unto the river’s bed, where a small, black salamander nymph attempted to escape his academic, genius hand. If nothing else... he could at least best an amphibian. He grabbed it and quickly brought it to his mouth. Next; he drained his body of every last bit of magic he had in him- emptying even his vital organs of the mysterious power coursing through him. He pressed it all into the panicking, terrorized animal in his mouth and with the last of his strength... swallowed it. His eyes closed and his heart stopped just before the barrage of arrows struck the surface to riddle him with sharp, lengthy, wooden projectiles. And Asrael Nessarat the escapee- the hunted beast... was no more.