Amaranth's tortured cry resounds through the streets as she collapses. A heady wind picks up, whipping the dust in the street into a frantic dervish as the hot sun beats down overhead. Black ichor pools around Amaranth's body as the nexus of vines begins to wither and dessicate around you. The hordes of risen dead stop in their tracks, as if waiting for your move. You can see the remaining civilians of Marrakesh flee the city beyond them.
Standing over the beautiful, terrible woman, you feel a pang of pity. As you turn her over, you notice the voluptuous flower behind her ears has wilted in the heat. She lets out a primal scream as you pull the blossom from her ear: the stem is several inches longer than you expected, and sticky with blood.