It was uncommon to see a Drowned One on horseback, but the Dikastirio was a big place and to make the statement he needed without burning alive himself, the speed of a horse was necessary.

His face covered as was his vow, his body wrapped and hidden in cloth as was his oath, and his intention one of terror and mayhem as was his creed, the rider spurred onwards the white horse he had found tethered outside of the Senate Arcus.

Civilians and pedestrians watched him coming and scattered in terror and with shrieks of fright as he and his two companions road down the long and winding path that led away from the Senate building. Along the way, the lead cultist, with a baton of flame, leaned form his horse to wash the flames over the dry grass down the edge of the pathway. His brethren did the same on the opposite side.

By the time they had reached the far end of the path, the thoroughfare to the political hub of the site was in flames and men and women of noble birth who lines the walkway with their servants and salves were scattering like disturbed birds, their cloaks and gowns fluttering in the wind like broken wings.

The Drowned One smiled beneath his hood.

Let it all burn...