Many things within the room which would draw the eye of one entering, if there were such a person. But it is the commanding presence of the eighteen-year-old conjuress standing just outside the confines of the circle which overwhelms all else, blood-red robes with pale stitching at the hems, cut to show a generous expanse of leg below and equally revealing cleavage and midriff above, although anyone believing the sheer robes to give any less protection than inch-thick steel would be a fool. And despite the sensuality of the garb, there is little occurring to excite any normal viewer, as words drip from her lips which no human mouth were meant to give shape, and a breeze seemingly without source lifts the strands of her short red hair, lending her an almost elemental appearance.
The wind intensifies, causing a flickering in the candles' illumination, while the light from the windows suddenly blinks off as if night had fallen, void replacing the desertscape all around. With a sound like a tearing mainsail, the air within the circle seems to fold in on itself, a noise seeming to combine raging flames and agonized cries filling the room for a moment before the gateway spits out a figure, what seems like a tall, muscular woman garbed in straps of leather and sporting raptor's wings of white fading to dark orange-red at the tips.
The conjuress smiles at the summoned Erinyes, her hands already moving from the finishing gestures of the planar binding into a new, different dweomer's somatic component as she pauses to speak. "You do be Dhalla, Commander in the legions of Fierna, Marchioness of the estate of Mount Scaldflower, first named T'schian'dhall a non Seifosa T'chaim'alla at your birth. Welcome to Luskan." A smile finds its way to her lips despite the continued strain visible in her eyes as another chant builds, ephemeral chains of bright red rising from the edges of the circle to bind the form of the cursing, struggling baatezu, and the room grows dark as the memory ends.
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Within a small chamber on the second floor of the Civic Festhall, the same conjuress, only ten years old and much less imposing without the trappings of asummons about her, sits up atop the thin pallet, angrily tearing the towel from her eyes as the sensory stone in her hand is hurled across the room, bouncing dully from the wall. "Memories," she growls softly to herself, "do not suffice. Use these hedonists who so readily took you to their breast, and get it back, Rhethys. Before it's too late."
