Fires burned through the small town, carrying with them the faint smells of charred flesh and bone and the sweet caress of mortal suffering. It was a relieving touch for the Scarlet Prophet bound in Chains, who felt the clammy touch of Creation all too often, no matter how many bits and pieces of the dead she covered herself in. Scarlet hardly wore anything at all beyond split and tattered funereal robes, which did little to cover her body, bits of soulsteel that were of no real defensive value, and jewelry made from human teeth and bones. This did little at all to diminish her somewhat inhuman level of beauty, though, and her appearance alone could beguile mortals; with but few words, they often looked right past her accouterments, too.<br/><br/>It had been a relatively easy affair to turn half the town to her side and lead them to kill the heathens that dare to defy her rule. In reality, she could have swayed the entire town with enough Essence, but she wanted to experience them killing each other - to smell and revel in their blood and misery and laugh amidst it all.<br/><br/>But here she was, on the hill overlooking the town, waiting to meet with the other deathknight her Lord felt worthy of her power. The whole affair of waited would have been an immense boredom to Scarlet before the second breath, but now she simply watched the town and felt the dreams of the Neverborn coursing through her mind's eye, showing her wicked delights of wretched misery.<br/><br/>She ever so loved the taste of screams on the air.