Showing the photograph of Amaranth to several locals, they direct you to the verdant Bahia Palace Gardens. Approaching carefully, you find the woman with the red flower standing at the edge of a ritual circle, candles lit at each point, with gleaming offerings gathered around a corpse laid on an altar in the center. On either side of the corpse, two dead warriors are laid on the ground, bedecked in ancient finery. "Soon, my love," Amaranth strokes the cheek of the corpse as the blossom in her hair unfurls. Tenebrous vines radiate out from the circle and creep across the garden. The grass and greenery shrivel under their touch, and eerie green light shimmers up the black vines, drinking the life around it. "It appears we have guests," Amaranth smirks.

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 ear 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.