By the time Isabel gained the ledge overlooking the scarred battleground, the dark glimmer of red and purple had smote a demon lord with the sheer power of her faith: anger.
Isabel could smell the tiefling’s anger from afar. It nurtured her and sustained her. The tiefling paladin absolutely ran, and fought on her reserves of anger. But the hate wasn’t all Tarrah’s fault. Isabel had looked into her background with the help of friendly rogue. Tarrah Batori was the distant granddaughter of a Lady Erzebeth Bathory. The great lady had appeared a century ago–most likely through the Mists like all over strangers to this Neverwinter opera. And if her informant was right, the woman was once a notorious blood sucker.
Isabel watched with astonished eye as Tarrah (terror?) ripped through what was arguably her own kindred. But she remembered that lesson learned by the lone god of Krilldonia who…
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