Disaster was the word of the day, as flames started to leap from windows and awnings of fabric lounged over doors. The Drowned Ones ran through the streets unchecked and unhindered as they waved staffs of flame; the beacons to their message.

Flaming arrows were sent through upper-floor windows and the yells and cries of the wealthy merchants who lived within them - the Creed did not touch the homes of the poor - were able to be heard down the streets. Women and children ran to find enclosed spaces that weren't on fire and the Drowned Ones darted between them like shadows; silent and deadly.

When an able-bodied man was brave enough to stand and fight against them a flick of their bandaged hands sent one of their knives - smaller and shorter than half a finger in length - shooting through the air and lodging in their windpipes, causing them to crumple to the ground already dead.

Those that fled, that screamed, that ran, seemed to be left alone by the cultists. After all, blood and terror were what they were after. Why kill the perfect means to spread the disease?

The Creed ran in packs of two and three, determined to cause maximum panic in as many locations as possibly. This was a large attack in which they had brought a whole half of their forces and they had already succeeded in taking the greedy king's head. And if all went to plan... they would take another by nightfall...