The flame is set, and burns slowly down the make-shift paper towel wicks.
Most people are surprised at just how slowly 'loose' gunpowder burns.
White and gold flashes flare through the glass prison; for a moment, the body looks almost... angelic. Flames flicker and surge, catching on the other agents Kenneth has loaded and soft whistles of air can be heard though the holes in the glass.
The corpse's eyes open.
Cold, and hateful, they slide around the room. Fangs bear in derision, or what might be fangs were they not missing. It's a sight that could jar most Kindred: mutilated to the core of their very identity, and subjected to fire so often it had become blase.
The fire continues to catch and move; here and there, flaring on piles of powder, igniting clothing. Reason and understanding seep into hate, and hate begins to become fear. Eyes fix on each Kindred -- the eyes of a centuries old Lord. They consume and fix on each like the prey they are, hypnotizing them with a void of purpose waiting to be filled.
The rictus moves, shouts buried and silenced by feet of glass. The whispers of sound that escape, distorted by the tubes and rising on smoke, tickle at the senses. They are what the void within waits for, and it's all one can do not to lean forward -- to let the Words take hold.
Glass fills with smoke and flame -- and cracks. Fresh spider-webs splinter out from appendages as the once-Prince and tyrant is consumed.
The burning takes minutes. The collapsing body in Final Death takes moments.
Feel free to post any reaction or post mortem. We'll keep it brief and hand-wave the leave-taking and return to topside.
Nice work, and thank you all for your patience.