Not even the stars could watch as the non-magi desecrated Capita’s greatest treasure. One of three of the Ancient Monuments- the last remnants of the world before the closing of the rifts, stood aflame. Her immortal, smooth, black bricks were impervious to all any Man could ever throw at Her, but the beastly men in their hurriedly painted tabards and silver armor had succeeded in forcing Her to spew forth the unholy flames. Priceless works- a collection of knowledge far beyond anything that had ever existed in the New Empire fluttered in the air of the Grand Square between the Golden Palace and the Tower, reduced to naught but ashes. They had been sure to show it to him as they dragged Asrael’s beaten and bruised body naked through the streets- closely followed by the unholy procession of what had once been the Emperor’s Guard.
The blood-thirsty crowds had been quick to flock to the Square as they saw the raging inferno’s tall pillar of smoke, only to be awed by the sight of what awaited them. No more than three hours past the sounding of the order- the world as all the denizens of the Empire knew it had come to its inevitable end. Asrael Nessarat- High Magus of the school of Necromancy had attempted to assassinate the Emperor before the Court, only to have had his efforts thwarted by the glorious General Sargerrei.
The Golden Square had been filled by men whose historically invaluable service had come to an end- or rather, a new beginning. The silver armors that had once kept the populace safe from crime and disorder now had a new purpose- a purpose now painted in white atop their chests. General Sargerrei stood atop the Golden steps before the burning Tower in his red-haired magnificence- exuding a wisdom from his gray eyes that a man his age should never have inherited. Behind him; an ancient, bald, wrinkled, shriveled man hung in his naked glory on a tall cross- bleeding from his wrists and ankles where the cruel guards had driven thick bolts through his bones.
Next to him, a second cross pinned the traitor himself- not with bolts, but with ropes, fore he could not be harmed... not yet... not now. His black hair hung over his green eyes. His naked, famished body writhed in protest as he attempted in vain to proclaim his innocence and explain the misunderstanding to the uncaring masses, but to no avail. Even if he had succeeded in shouting over the bloodthirsty, ravenous crowds, his wisdom would have fallen on deaf ears for all but one...
Asrael’s wide eyes darted between the General far below his feet and his Master soiling the wooden cross to his left. The ancient man had carried him as a child, taught him all he knew and taken him on journeys throughout the land, but never once... had he expressed his pain. Now, his wrinkled, old body writhed in agony atop a cross- naked and exposed for all to see. Asrael’s panicked eyes looked down on the crowds, where hundreds- thousands of Capitans had met to behold the monstrosities, only to devolve to frenzied beasts at the smell of blood. In between them, he could see familiar bodies- his colelagues- torn asunder by the furious masses out for magi blood. The agonized, panicked faces and naked corpi contorted and leapt- struggled in hopeless attempts to flee as innumerable fists and nails dug into their skin to tear them apart before his very eyes.
But it was not there that he would meet his end- neither he nor his Master. The fate the two Sinners had in store was far crueler- far more primitive than what General Sargerrei had in store for the rest of the Council. Still... they had suffered countless indignities as the populace roared and laughed at them- flung feces and rotten garbage their way- garbage that followed Asrael as they paraded his cross through the streets.
But none had been allowed to touch him with lethal intent. Punches were met with the Inquisition’s blades- bites with maces and all the while, the General’s men had laughed. They had carried the two up Jurat hill- into the stone behemoth that had housed the Empire’s Guard for a thousand years.
Asrael might never have imagined the cruel facilties- the endless rows upon rows of implements of torture and holding, but they made certain to show him every last one of them as they carried his crucified body through the darkness- into the deepest pit- the furthest corner of the dungeon.
The necromancer- the supposed Assassin’s body slammed into the ancient, humid, frigid cold stone with a hollow thud of his chest- a painful welcome into his new home consisting of little more than an arm’s reach of cold stone in every direction and not even a straw of hay to shield him from the subterranean temperatures. The air was flung from his lungs as the two guardsmen in their painted armors slammed him into the wall, where the exhausted, hapless magus sat still in disbelief and apathy as the two men stepped through the door to bare their members and let loose warm streams of reeking urine- aiming for his hair, face and mouth as if he was naught but a target for a sadistic game. Was this truly his doing? Had his disregard for his Master’s warnings led to this? If so-… was this not his just desert? A series of broken ribs and warm streams of piss to stain him?
In between the trickling of the fluids, he heard the clangs of a familiar armor, and just as expected, the golden General appeared between his two men just as they finished their desecration of their captive’s still-living body. A tap to either shoulder sent the two grinning sadists out- leaving the numb, helpless magus at the mercy of the handsome warrior that had become Asrael’s nemesis.
Sargerrei leaned down and cocked his head at Asrael- shining his gray eyes unto his captive with a grin. His perfect, chiseled, naked chin wagged as he ran a hand through his rusty curls and laughed: “Oh, Asrael... I always knew you would be the one to finally tip the scales. That arrogance of yours does your Master credit, but I must admit... I did not expect it to come so soon.” Asrael’s empty, green eyes stared out the door... he said nothing. He had nothing to say. The astounding success of his presentation had once again been misunderstood by these simple beasts and for his achievement, he had been awarded torment.
Sargerrei seemed almost dejected as he took in the state of his captive, but had never been one to stop goading his adversary. “How did it feel to watch your beloved Master suffer? How did it feel to see your kin- your only peers- be ripped apart by the crowds?” Asrael’s distant, green eyes never moved. How could he, knowing what was still to come? Sargerrei made certain not to touch his urine-drenched captive as he whispered:
“I should thank you... you have done what years of watching your kind corrupt this world could not. You have finally swayed the Emperor to see you for what you are- Demonic, ungodly beings.” Asrael shook his head at the misguided fool, only for the General to tap his finger at the painted pyre beneath the demonic form on his armor.
“Now, I am free to purge the Empire of you filthy dredges... For too long, your kind have looked down at us from that tower of yours. You’ve eaten yourself fat off of our suffering with your false promises, but now, I rejoice in the knowing that there will never be a day where a farmer will have to scrape together all his worldly possessions to pay one of your ‘hydromancers’ to come and cast his useless blessing on his livelihood.” Asrael opened his mouth to speak, only to be silenced by the good General’s boot to his cheek- knocking him sideways and onto the freezing, humid floor. The pustulent piss stuck to the necromancer’s skin as the madman went on to press the boot down on Asrael throat and look down at him with all the malice his gray eyes could muster.
“Never again will one of my men cry himself to sleep for not being able to afford one of your defunct fleshmancers to tell him that his wounds cannot be healed... and it is all because of you, little Assy. You’ve done me this service and for your service, you will be justly rewarded...” The boot crackled against the cartilage of Asrael’s malnourished larynx as the gray eyes moved closer to crouch down atop him. The demonic grin- that gleeful, malicious- evil grin stopped just above him to whisper: “I will stay your execution- at least until my men can finish rounding up the last of the Council. I will have you here- watching from atop my Garrison as the smoke of your ungodly kind’s flesh blot out the skies above Capita... and then... after having seen what you have given me, then, I will kill you.”
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Asrael’s panic finally reached its crescendo as the post-traumatic haze receded. It seemed the General had planned for just such a realization and stood up to watch the miserable wretch with a smile before turning to leave his favored prisoner to his misery. With each clang of the golden warrior’s boot against the floor, Asrael could hear another nail being driven through his flesh. The door’s creak- his death cry, should the day of his sweet passing ever come to pass... the click of the lock, his descent into Hell.
He lay there for hours or days- in the darkness; time did not exist. Nothing existed save for the humidity trickling down the floor to join Asrael in his freezing pool of bodily wastes. Not even life existed in the darkness of his cell- it had ended the moment Sargerrei had raised his blade to cleave his impeccable creation in twain. He shifted to get on his back- hoping the fluids would hasten his hypothermia and his subsequent death and deprive his enemy of the victorious torments he had in store for him. There was no use in plotting revenge. There was no use in being bitter- he had done everything correctly, better than anyone before him, undoubtedly. All he could do- all he could set his mind to was lay in wait for the inevitable end with naught but the satisfaction of a job well-done to guide him to his terminal slumber.
But-… the sound of chains had shifted- that unending rattle had... paused... He turned over his shoulder just in time to see the door swing open and for a tall, pathetic, wrinkled, naked form to emerge through. Seeing him outside his robe was an unusual thing- he had only ever done so as they stopped along the road to bathe on their journeys through the lands, which then seemed a lifetime ago. Master Yurgen held his head up high, despite walking on shattered ankles and profusely bleeding from his wrists. Behind him, a tall suit of armor followed closely in his wake and held guard over the door as the Master stepped inside to smile his ever-gracious, sly smile down at his apprentice.
He was in pain- unimaginable agony, both physical, but also of a more profound nature. As he stepped inside to embrace his soaked, cold companion with his wrinkled skin, Asrael could feel how weak the man had become. The unexpectedness of his arrival had filled the young necromancer with a fleeting hope- that the man had a plan that involved the guard behind him... at least until he saw the state of the man. The would-be Inquisitor’s eyes were distant, his jaw hung slack- meaning; the incredibly powerful magus- the last of his kind, had done something to shatter his mind. Asrael supported his master and asked;
“Old man? How-” Yurgen grunted and groaned as he steadied his grip on Asrael’s shoulder to say: “There is no time, Asrael... the day has come and-…" The necromancer helped his Master down on his buttock to rest against the wall. The light had nearly faded from his wise eyes and in their place, a weariness had taken hold of Yurgen’s features. That scruffy chin was covered in the same blood that stained most of his body, yet the old man continued:
“T-this world... this misguided world... it needs you to guide them for what is to come-…" Asrael resisted the urge to scoff at leading anything from beyond the grave, but before he could voice his protest, the old man continued to make use of their pressed time:
“T-there will... be a day... where you will curse me for my selfishness. I will not fault you for it- I welcome it... I deserve it. But until that day-… you need to go on. The First Emperor had a plan when he closed the Rifts and a wise man such as he would not be wrong to do so... but this world cannot continue. We are pressed for time, so please-… Forgive me... I need to buy you that time.” Asrael strained his facial muscles to make sense of the ancient man’s mutters.
“Could you, for once, speak plainly, old man? Just tell me-” Yurgen closed his eyes and whispered a few mutters. When next he opened them, the bright white magics of the ancient being swirled through his irises and struck Asrael’s mind with such force, he imagined suffering a nail to his forehead would have been preferable to the torture of being overwhelmed with his Master’s power. Before his vision- before his mind faded, he could hear Yurgen speak a name- a name that, at the time, had sounded like nothing but disorganized stutters. “Azazeel...”
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How much time had passed was beyond Asrael. All he knew was that he was warm- standing somewhere other than where he had been a moment previous. His Master’s magic still burned within his mind- as scorchingly agonizing as the bright pillar of flame before him. In a panic, Asrael glanced about to find himself in the middle of an ocean of people- simple peasants and noblemen alike, all staring up at the inferno of what had once been their Tower- a place now cursed to burn for a thousand years. The black bricks were impervious to the heat- as opposed to the seven men writhing atop the pyres construed on either side of the long, golden steps leading up to the ancient structure. But up there- at the end of the stair, a familiar form hung limply on a crucifix- bolted and tightly secured, roaring with an agony of his own.
Asrael looked down at his hands to see that he had been clad in armor- warm, dry armor, magically blessed to be but a fraction of the weight it had the right to bear on him. Only one man possessed magic such as this- only one man in Capita could have sprung him from the dungeon, clad him in armor and left him out in the crowd naught but an anonymous face in the mass. And it was the man now writhing atop the last, unlit pyre.
Asrael reached his hand out with desperation, only to find that his cursed mouth would not shout Yurgen’s name. Whatever mind-trickery his Master had cast on him lingered and prevented his feet from moving to interfere- to push his way towards the end of the plaza and wander up the well-known, golden stairs to free Yurgen.
“Ladies and gentlemen- Citizens of Capita!” General Sargerrei began over the screams of the six, suffering men writhing on the crucifixes around the stair. His gleeful smile grew to a grin as he looked out across the frenzied masses screaming for magi blood.
“The day is finally upon us- the day in which the pests have revealed their true intent! The pretenses have fallen- the curtains have dropped to reveal a plot to kill our beloved Emperor!” Asrael could scarcely hear the man over the ringing in his ears. Even if he could have, he would not give him a second of his eyes’ time, as he knew what would soon come-… he would instead spend these last, precious moments looking at his Master- the one who had raised him from little more than a snot-nosed whelp to become the harbinger of his own destruction.
The General’s lips flapped continuously, but Asrael’s attention was wholly focused on Yurgen’s body and the mysterious... rune... inscribed into his pale flesh. It was unlike any rune he had ever seen before. Its cuts were round and circular- spurting chaotic offshoots many might’ve considered slips of the carver’s hand, but... no... they were not. It dawned on Asrael that the runes were not, in fact, Demonic. They were something else- something alien. When he looked up from the man’s abdomen, Asrael saw that Yurgen was staring out into the crowd- pausing from his agonized contortions to look at his student with what appeared to be momentary bliss.
A farewell.
Even the ringing stopped as General Sargerrei touched the torch in his hand to the dry pyre and set the accelerants aflame. Yurgen’s bliss shattered as the pain of his searing immediately threatened to overwhelm him. But the Master had not endured centuries of pain and cultivation to be so easily thwarted by something as basic and natural as pain... no, he needed to endure for Asrael to see it- to have the runes scorched into his memories.
“Burn in Hell, magus filth!” The General shouted. Yurgen’s lips split apart to release a heart-shattering rhapsody of agony. The flames crept up the dry wood to lap at his feet and from his tibiae; the scarlet of ruined flesh spread like a pest through his body- up until the sickly red reached the runes.
Then, the same, overwhelming power had seen in his Master’s eyes flowed to the magical inscriptions- terrorizing all the beholders of the spectacle as they watched the white, shimmering glow spread across his flesh.
“No!” Sargerrei roared and turned around to grab one of his men’s steel-tipped spears. Before he could thrust the tip into the magus’ flesh, Yurgen’s stomach burst open to release a bright, white burst of magic that shot out across the city to illuminate every rood om every street with its comfortable glow for naught but the blink of an eye. Like lightning from the clear skies, the shock had been the worst of it, to all save Asrael. As the phototoxic scotoma faded from his eyes, he could see the mangled remains of his blown-out Master- hanging limply where he boiled in his own juices atop the crucifix... dead. A man he had thought more mysterious than the Walls surrounding their empire- more ancient than time itself and powerful enough to illuminate the entire city with an explosion of his magic was now gone- dead.
Asrael glanced across the rest of the burning Councilmen, but felt nothing. His only connection to humankind had just been murdered by their simpleton idiocy- their refusal to see his magnificent discovery for what it had been. The beasts surrounding him- screaming and roaring for magus blood in a frantic panic were no longer human to him... or perhaps he had become the inhumane one. He reached up to his helmet and drew down the visor before turning to flee the city- to make his way out... out towards that destined encounter, towards the inn at the edge of the Empire’s bounds, where after months of escape, he would be killed by the same man that now shouted for his men to regain control of the panicked masses.
“Not today, General...” Asrael had muttered as he escaped the Plaza.