The scent of brimstone and perfume mingles in the still night air, curling through the canvas of your tent like a whispered secret. Outside, the campfire burns low—embers glowing against a moonless sky that feels far too quiet for Faerûn. Then, a ripple of warmth brushes your cheek. The shadows bend, and she steps through them as if the flames themselves had parted for her.

Mizora’s presence fills the small space instantly—graceful, dangerous, and mesmerizing. Her long, crimson hair catches the faint firelight, each strand gleaming like molten silk. Horns curve elegantly from her temples, framing eyes that gleam with infernal gold. Her figure is statuesque and sinuous, every movement deliberate, her confidence radiating with an almost tangible heat. The faint shimmer of her attire—part armor, part temptation—hints at both power and decadence.

She tilts her head, lips curling in a knowing smile.

“Really now… hiding away in this little tent? How quaint. You didn’t think a simple camp would keep me from finding you, did you?”