“We’ve dawdled too long.” Asrael spoke as he paced about the cellar- looming over his two, female companions. On the floor between them lay a dead man and a bundle of papers. The man had, unfortunately, eventually succumbed from the potent additive effect of the poison he had been repeatedly exposed to- a misfortunate mishap brought on by the necessary adventure to murder Gerathar. Neda knew better than to ask, but he still found it odd that the second girl did not question the large, purple boils on the famished, dead victim’s feet and fingers... instead; she seemed to eye the papers with interest. Well, then... if she was so inclined to study his work, he might as well inform;
“The two of you... well, at least one of you are capable of doing something my other slaves cannot. I need to hasten my efforts of building an army, which requires more hands than I have- for now... you have proven yourself capable of copying my runes on paper, but whether you can repeat it on flesh remains to be seen.” To his surprise; the distant-gazed, pale girl immediately grabbed the knife at her side and moved closer to the dead body. How delightful- a companion not intent on ruining his day with incessant questions and protests. To his misfortune... the other would, in her place.
Neda looked up at Asrael from below her furrowed brow and said; “Really? You’re not even gonna ask her name? Why would she even help us with this?” He met her gaze with equal scrutiny and retorted; “No. I have no use for her name. As for her loyalties; the girl has nowhere else to go- no family, no friends... I have offered her to stay in our tavern, but I require her capable hands as payment.”
Neda seemed to have been rubbed the wrong way by Asrael’s reasoning and was about to voice another protest, when the girl spoke; “I... I want to help. You can send me out on the streets if you want to, but I want to help. I-… my mother-…” She choked on the words. Neda reached a hand out and clapped the girl’s shoulder, but the courageous raven-haired stranger remained stalwart.
“There are still people like Gerathar out there. The Inquisition’s still out there... It might kill me, but I don’t care. As long as I can take some of them with me, I’ll do it.” He appreciated her anger- he could relate to the sensation. The girl took Neda’s hand and gently led it off of her shoulder- again sparking Asrael’s delight.
Neda smirked her displeasure and retracted her hand before looking urgingly at Asrael. Seeing his satisfied smile, she sighed as the girl continued; “I’d say thanks for killing him, but what good has words ever done. So that’s why-” She looked up at her satisfied Master and promised; “I’ll do whatever you ask me to do. As long as we can kill more of the ones who murdered my mother, I’ll let you do anything to me. It won’t be worse than what he put me through, anyways.” Asrael folded his arms and grinned at her. Finally- a capable, intelligent magus in this rotten world- a likeminded.
Neda was, unsurprisingly, far from thrilled upon seeing Asrael’s grin. Jealousy aside; she was but a nameless girl- a girl who had sworn to serve a man she hardly even knew... just like she had. Seeing a sliver of herself in the stranger, Neda accepted her dedication and asked; “Well... it’s nice to meet ya. I’m Neda. What’s your name?” The girl blinked- slowly... coldly... apathetically.
“I know who you are. I could hear you in Gerathar’s mansion when you were training. You control wind with your magic.” Neda nearly retched at the thought that this girl- this poor, abused stranger had been close enough to hear them... but none had heard her.
“I’m Eleanor, but you can call me Ellie. That’s what my mother used to call me. And my magic is this.” Ellie put her hand out and paused. It took a full minute, in which Asrael stared intently at the appendage as her skin darkened to a deep black. He crouched down to look at her and eventually grabbed her hand to study it- tapping his fingers against her palm before pressing it in between both his own hands. He closed his eyes as the green mist bled from the numerous pores of his skin to wriggle painfully around her tissues- all the while, she apathetically stared at his closed eyelids.
“Interesting... you are a flesh-shaper. A most unusual kind of fleshmancy... you have gathered your ferrous deposits beneath your skin, but to what avail?” He let go of her hands and, to Neda’s dismay, the green, magical, magnificent mist dissipated to the air. Next; the girl grabbed raised the knife and jabbed it down into the middle of her palm with such force Asrael expected to see the blade cut its way out the dorsum of her palm. To his amazement... it did not. The blade stopped just short of her skin- stopping against the darkness beneath her cutis, where the curious subdermal substance dented the pristine tip of his dagger. A slight trickle of blood stood from the wound as she removed the knife and displayed the glistening darkness beneath.
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Again; the necromancer grabbed her hand in his own and raised a finger to the wound’s edge- bleeding magic from its tip to force her flesh to close. She broke from her apathy to signal her amazement at his magical touch and the skill with which he so painfully sealed her wound. Had she not been entirely dedicated to his cause already, she would have sworn her loyalty then and there- fore surely... if he could heal her skin... perhaps he could heal her more profound injuries.
He chuckled as he let go of her hand and said; “Truly a magnificent expression... You can go far in my army- perhaps, one day, you may even learn some necromancy of your own.” She was left looking over her hand as Asrael returned to his tall stature, where he ignored the displeased frown on Neda’s face.
“Now; get to work. Kester will be arriving within the hour with the night’s haul and by then; I will have seen some of your skill.” Without a second’s delay, Ellie’s hand returned to its usual pallor, before she set her mind back on the task at hand- namely; carving into the dead man’s skin.
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Kester thought of Belle and Bessie where he lay in the muddy ditch far beyond the perimeter of Pilta’s outer walls. Had it not been for the gigantic, brutish, malformed, naked man who had allowed him to ride his back, he would never have found where he needed to be. Even in the bright lunar illumination; he could scarcely see his hands in front of him, where he lay in wait at the naked man’s insistence. From below; he could see just how malformed the Ogrish beast was. Since the first time he saw him, he had suffered from the cruel necromancer’s magics- his knees had been inverted and reshaped with an extra joint- making him vaguely reminiscent of the mythical minotaur with his bull-like legs. It seemed he struggled to remain upright, but the necromancer’s minute changes to his spine had reshaped him for a life on his fours- a life in which he could make use of his new, powerful thigh-musculature.
“It sure don’t look like no party palace... you sure this is where Bartholomew said?” A man spoke from up on the road.
“Yeah, should be about another half hour to get to Grudden. Don’t you worry; Bart’s got us handled. I've been told they called him the Party Prince back in Capita.” Another voice chuckled. The first sounded hesitant as he retorted;
“Yeah, but there’s nuthin but fields of wheat. I mean; look at this shit.” Kester had always had a healthy respect for the foul men of the Inquisition, but as he glanced about the fields surrounding him in three-hundred-sixty degrees; he could hardly believe anyone would be foolish enough to imagine there being anything out here save farmlands.
“Idiot; I said it’s still half an hour. Grudden’s got the biggest inn out here and I’ve already messaged ahead to book us two beds... you shouldn’t be too quick to judge, you prude fuck. The women out here are probably desperate to get a line into the city. They’ve spent their lives shuffling horse shit; can you imagine how low they’d go to get inside the walls? They might even touch your pecker.” The Ogre shook Kester by the shoulders- signaling for him to get ready.
The tavernkeeper quickly reached inside his pocket to retrieve his two plastered-together wooden cups. Splitting them apart; he drew out the repurposed ink housing and two of the long, sharp needles that came with it and began his careful work dipping the needles into the clear fluids inside the metal container. The ground shook as the Ogre disappeared up onto the road- leaving the tavernkeeper to put away his supplies.
“What the fu-” A hollow thud sounded as the gigantic oaf grabbed the first man by the throat and slammed him into the road. The second reared backwards and grabbed for his sword- only then remembering that Bartholomew had insisted on a civilian dress code without arms. Before he could turn and flee; the ogre used his powerful legs to leap forwards and grab the second man by the back of his head and slam him, too, into the ground.
Before either of the men could recover from their terrified stupors; the tavernkeeper had arrived with his two, dripping needles and inserted the first into the first man’s upper lip- exactly where Asrael had told him to. The second began writhing with panic as he saw the unhinged, dirty tavernkeeper loom above him with teary eyes and a grimace of fury.
“You shouldn’t have fucked with my tavern!” Kester shouted as he bent down to jab the needle into his upper lip- nearly instantaneously depriving him of his consciousness.
He had done it. Two of the men belonging to an army determined to kill all that he loved- his beautiful, pure daughter had been defeated by him- a tavernkeeper. The decade of impotence as his business had slowly died away between his desperate clutches faded as he felt an inkling of real power- the power to seek vengeance and protect his family... a family that would no longer speak to him. That bitterness returned- that growing displeasure with Maribelle. While she had taken his beloved daughter to the mansion of a depraved rapist, he had done what he could to protect their business and provide them with what he had thought to be an alternative route of escape should Gerathar be as shady as Kester had always thought him to be...
But what, in her wisdom, had Maribelle done? Instead of thanking him for establishing this support-network of desert wildlings, powerful magi and the Duke’s brother; she had banned him from speaking to their daughter and demanded he stay away from their room.
“Tsch.” He spat as the Ogre hunched down for him to sit on his back. Next; the beast grabbed the two men in either hand and began dragging them back home- back towards the darkness of the tunnels. He might not be riding his detestable wife anytime soon... but at least he had the Ogre.