She felt no allegiances, save one: one sticky blood pact she had to honor, in life, and now in death. Selling her young soul to the witch, understanding nothing: who considers eternal consequences at the age of fifteen? Perhaps, perhaps. If, if. But the man was punished, and even in the afterlife, needed his head. Her father had destroyed all. All the man, (a boy really), did was love a lord’s daughter.
Dolorous expressions all around her: these she could not tolerate. Having failed at one impulsive choice her pragmatism took over. Her soul was broken, searching for replacement.
Señor, please don’t be upset with me: I started an undead warlock. Her name is Escarlata, and her story is a sad one. She lost her toothbrush, can’t find any deodorant, and hasn’t quite figured out that she smells kind of…stinky.