The Red Lady


Bells and drums and the roar of fire in your ears as the flame-haired dancer leaps back. The guards press forward with muskets in their hands that make them invincible. They do not understand, and soon surround her at gunpoint, waiting for the command to fire.

She spins, her hair billowing scarlet, her chiffon skirts glimmering with heat and she brings her hands to her chest in time with the silent music’s breve.

The wind rushes in to feed the explosion as everything goes red. You shield yours eyes against the flare. When you can look again, the men are burning, burning into dust as their guns melt in their hands.

She steps bare-footed from the conflagration and it is done. She smiles and motions for her next dance partner to come foreward.

A fully-plated paladin wearing a tabard emblazoned with Ioun raises his sword above his shoulder and rushes shield-first. She poses, the coins of her belt jingling a moment longer, and five phoenixes fly from where she stood to meet him, blackening his armor with soot and setting his tabard afire. She lands mere feet behind him, but when she turns around he is already upon her, his sword coming down at her shoulder.

Flesh melts into pure flame, and five maidens of wildfire spring forth to streak across the room, each a burning copy of their Red Mistress.

“How do you suppose to strike down light with a sword, imposter?” they say in distorted unison.


The Red Lady

Marrakesh lindevi lindevi