The Inquisitor's hand was consumed in white flames. He beat at it frantically, tried to shake it off, but the flame was not ordinary. It seared his armor onto his skin in seconds, fusing metal to flesh. He staggered, stumbled into a tree, fell and rolled — and still it wasn't coming off.
The flames, even as they touched other parts of his body, didn't spread to those parts. It was a strange white flame that just persistently burned the target I had set it to burn. Nothing more, nothing less.
He was on the ground now, breathing hard. He'd stopped shouting the moment he fell. Now he was just despairing, struggling to stand.
Meanwhile, I had quite the cattywampus smile on my face.
