The catacombs beneath the fort are corpulently damp; the mists that haunt the lunae lit air above seem concentrated down there. The damp quickly renders most torches unable to burn, and with darkness comes fear, disorientation and diabolic misfortune. Rarely do those whose lights go out return, at least while still recognisably alive.
Yet there are tales, brought back by those who come screaming with madness from the darkness, tales of a flame that burns with an unnatural hue, and demands an unnatural wick and tallow. This baleful flame consumes the flesh of the dead, and, if the unfortunate fate of one man is any clue, the souls of the living.
He was found a short way from the fort's safe embrace, a dancing flame jutting from his mouth like a daemonic tongue. Its soft hissing whisper and carmine glow faded within moments; where once stood a man now remained a corpse, one that was quick to reanimate, its fingertips already wreathed with carmine flame and a blind hunger in its eyes. The patrol fled this blazing revenant, and when they returned with reinforcements, only a series of charred hand-prints remained upon the walls.