text: "Soon, we will consume that which we came for. Passion is our God and fervor is our calling, let us approach bretherin," and so they did, they engulfed the hall from all sides, busting every entrance and window before anyone knew what was happening. The cheering stopped, the music stopped, the laughter stopped, the wedding would soon be a funeral. Everyone turned to the exits, fuming with priests neck high in rubies. The double doors open so aggressively that the table set in front of them dropped to the floor, honey and wine spilled and soaked the masses. Have you ever felt the thickness of blood? Feels like red wine and honey, though less gritty. Karlo's dressings dragged over the drudge, his boots let into glass and peach slices. What's a fucking mess. This is not how the priests of the flame worked, they would need to order this chaos. "You all might be wondering who we are, let me beggin by saying..." "We know who you are, Red Priest," Oringon had stood, exclaiming in the same tone, "its hard to ignore your trail of blood and offerings. The smell of charcoaled skin is unbearable." "I hadn't realized we had made any sort of lasting impact," Karlo retorted, "did you enjoy it at least? The sight of it? Dear God it must have been pleasant at some point, my Lord. After all, it is your people that set the stage, we but only set out to follow the rules. Now tell me, have you kept your promises o' faithful one??" His eyes had sparked as he challenged the patriarch. The flames of Irubis began to ember in his belly, the room began to heat, you could hear the rumbling outside getting louder and louder. "You and your cult of mystics are barbarians, mear rejections of a time gone, please, leave us be before this evening turns as sour as your mental sores." Karlo sneered at the capping comment, the flame in his Iris was now more evident than ever. It flickers with his looks, left, right, left, right, lagging but following. "Seems like you've forgot your ways wise man, let me refresh your memory," Karlo's hands went up, palms to the sky. Suddenly, the room became difficult to breath in, and the heat radiating around the hall became unbearable. The signal's guard stood, men like mountains shook the halls foundations as they rose, and with a unified "HOOOF" the fountain in the middle of the hall began to churn and slosh, an icy gasp released from the water they began to announce. Hands formed circles which cast out the ambient heat to them, belly full. "Erro-finose, signa-matara," the room popped with the immense pressure from the heat above, the roof flung right off of the hall, steeple and all, ripped away like a freshly sprouted branch in a desert storm. Korana and Trown held on to each other, looked into their eyes, and agreed in silence. They both stepped down from the regal throwns in the back and ran across the hall to the cubard they had planned on using. This has truly come to fruition, like she had said, this might be their only chance. As the crowd looked up, the magnitude of the problem finally manifested to them: a whirlwinding tornado of flames, as high as the clouds, now lay it's eye above the hall, sucking out all of the oxygen from the mouths of those willing to yell at the unimaginably desastrous sight. It's back bent from miles away, ready to kiss them all away. "Idno-sirafen-mataz...blegjhttu!" Trown had shot a mending bat at the high priest, who had shut his mouth closed with his silk. The rest of the red priests, unbenounced to everyone, had stepped back for fear of death by flame. There shock-and-awe entrance was useless now that the flames were receding, their blades meant nothing outside the halls doors, far far away from flesh. The flame once in the priests eyes now fickered in and out, immobilized by fear and unable to afford any sort of win in his mind. This might be his end, he thought. The Red Snake was easily undone, the head had already been bitten off and the rest mangled away in the end. The stallion stomped, a beat best left to the warrior, an ensamble of blood and revenge. The wine had been a metaphor, but for those that had spilled it. The honey was sweet, but gritty. Over whelming the win. How drunk do you have to be at a wedding to desecrate the enemy? And let their eye with a sown mouth watch. Does wine taste better from your enemy's skull? Is it fair to burn those who wish to burn you? Prisoners of war, especially the leaders, make great entertainment.