<div class="floatleft">(https://i.imgur.com/MrhlQzA.jpg)</div><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 24pt;">Aisha</span><br/><div class="spoiler_container"><div class="spoiler_header" onclick="hideSecond (this);" role="button">Spells known</div><div class="spoiler_body"><strong>Cantrips</strong><ul class="bbc_list"><li>Fire Bolt</li><li>Light</li><li>Mage Hand</li><li>Raiment</li></ul><br/><strong>1st level</strong><br/><ul class="bbc_list"><li>Burning Hands</li><li>Chromatic Orb</li></ul></div></div><br/>Her name was Aisha and she journeyed through the pitiless wastes alone.<br/><br/>The last time she sighted civilization was two days previous. "You should hire guards," the innkeeper at the last hamlet, Sweetwater or Swiftwater or some such utterly forgettable name, had said as he stared down the ample valley of her cleavage. His eyes lingered upon the sensual, sun-bronzed expanse of naked skin left exposed by her scanty bikini top, traced the intimate curve of her breasts under the silky fabric, each of them large enough to full his cupped palm. "My son could accompany you. As for payment..."<br/><br/>Aisha let him stare. The innkeeper wanted her, ached for her with his every fiber, lusted for her over the dirty looks of his sullen wife, fat with child and too much cheap ale. Yet he could was utterly powerless to try and act on his desires, would never so much as lay a finger on her. He stood, along with every man in the half-deserted tavern, struggling with his animal lusts, while across the counter she sat at ease, utterly in control, almost contemptous in how little mind she paid him. There was a kind of power in that exchange, Aisha thought, something a lot more intoxicating than the demure looks and averted eyes she was accustomed to in the oasis city of Al-Khordava.<br/><br/>"If your dullard son aspires to guard anything, perhaps he should begin with his own mouth," she commented lightly. Indeed, said son had just got burned - literally - and was now contemplating, in groaning agony, the hazards of propositioning one of her birthright. The innkeeper had flushed, half with anger and half with shame. She stood, raised her hood, and strode out of the tavern with flawless grace, satisfied that she had learned all she wanted to know of her destination.<br/><br/>She was a sorceress. A descendant of Iyanna and Malikah, mighty heroes of eld who stole fire from the gods, in that forgotten golden age. A wielder of the True Flame, who towered over the mere witches and wizards who could only master spellcraft by burning the words of power into their souls through hours of agonizing study. She feared no village lout nor wasteland raider, and she was here to restore the secrets of the old world to their former glory.<br/><br/>Now Aisha walked towards the pit, golden slippers sending stray pebbles and skittering down the slope. A gentle breeze ruffled the silky black curls of her long hair under her hood, fluttered her diaphanous loincloth and cape, exposing tantalizing flashes of her bare upper thighs. Clad in gauzy red flecked with gold, she struck a dramatic figure as she strode towards the arch, her breasts swaying and heaving subtly with each step. As she paused halfway down the slope, the sorceress considered the two options left to her. She had heard that such plunderers of graves and temples often avoided the main entrances, unable to overcome any sorcerous defenses that might be laid there.<br/><br/>Aisha, however, had no such worries. Deciding not to risk a jaunt down the narrow fissure - which looked uncomfortably suitable for an ambush - she walked instead towards the base of the pit and the yawning arch that awaited there. She uttered a word of power, and a sphere of heatless orange flame ignited in the palm of her hand. It cast a circle of amber light about her, and bathed in that warm glow, she entered the nameless temple.<br/>