Screams sang songs as sanguine scents greeted her amidst the acrid smoke. She wasn't sure if she could keep up with this.

The fighting ignited in city streets sooner than had been planned - it was gravely disappointing. She had so diligently done what was asked of her, only to see quite clearly that it was all for not. So many stories spoke of rampage, of cities left in ruin, but she'd never actually seen it. She'd never actually smelled a burning human corpse.

But the strangest part was realizing the blood didn't bother her at all. It was actually comforting in contrast to the fires, the shouts, the confusion, to simply feel hunger in that moment. But one of these days the woman who'd been dead for five years was going to stop caring at all about these idiosyncrasies, if her Murderer were to be believed.

It seemed so obvious now. The earth trembled under her young feet. A plague swept through the streets but two years after she died but did not rest. Everything was all over, and she'd been given the horrific privilege of experiencing the city's last breath while she contemplated what her own had felt like.

But I didn't end. Only they did.

She arose, the utter darkness reaffirming that this was no burning city, that she need not flee this day. There was no earthquake, no fire, no rioting in the streets this night. This night, she was just hungry.

And she had an appointment to keep with a very, very disappointing man. Clearly his character was entirely too sanguine, and she needed to restore his appreciation of the wonder of life. Or so she told herself, because perhaps just being hungry was a tad too simple.

She paused, however, before heading out the door, striding across the room to the ancient stack of books and the newer, fresher ones with which she now occupied much of her time. Cracking open one carefully selected, she scanned the page for the necessary information. 1644. That one might have been genuine.

But first, a drink.