With the second seal opened the four horsemen got one step closer to their inevitable success. They’d be victorious, no question. Many condemned souls whispered to her in the dark, about who they had to approach next, who to kill next -- but this one, the third seal, would be a lot more personal than the second one. Famine, to be precise, only ever caused those harm who needed help the most. 

Sitting on her fireplace in the middle of water, Morrigan had leaned back slightly, listened to the voices and their newest gossip. Rumor has it the king was on its way towards her. The doors opened and her assistant arrived with someone rather majestic looking, something only Jean-Pierre could ever be to her -- a king. “Welcome,” Morrigan smiled, her head slightly tilted before she stood up, her black dress flowing in the slight summer breeze. Before she addressed him further, however, Morrigan clenched her hand and black smoke formed, trapping all condemned souls into hell again so they were alone for now.  “Sit, Jean.” She walked closer towards him, one hand already stretched out to him, her fingers softly touching his. “I knew you’d return to me eventually for answers. As if you can barely wait seeing hell again -- hear the whispers of death, the chaos whispering in your ear.”