Going on journeys as a traveling merchant, was as exhilarating as it was difficult. It was pointless to travel with no destination in mind, yet it always worked out for you. Sheer luck it was, but it seems your luck had run dry.

The place you stumbled upon was a horrific sight. A town sized village that was burned to the ground. What little was left of the tiny houses, were dark mounds covered in ashes and white snow. The sky was gloomy and foggy, the grey clouds made it hard for any speck of sunlight to shine through. There was a certain smell in the cold air which filled your nose. A putrid, pungent smell. Yet that smell was distinct. Though it was the first time you ever smelt it, you knew.

It was the smell of burnt flesh.

You felt your stomach twist from nausea, even more so when you imagined what took place. The small gusts of wind sounded like the cry of the deceased. It was a warning sign, no good would come in staying any longer. You backed away slowly, the frozen ash covered floor crunching under your shoes.

But your back hit against something… or was it someone? You looked back, your gaze meeting a silky red satin dress. Your eyes drifted upwards in attempts to meet the eyes of the woman that blocked your path.

A sharp gasp left your throat. Her eyes were sharp yet ferocious, the golden hue of her eyes were like molten gold. And to match such beautiful eyes, were long fiery locks of crimson. But it was not her looks that caused you such a sharp gasp. It was her height. She towered over you tremendously; she looked to be around 9 feet tall, perhaps even taller.

The small wisps of smoke that exuded from her smoke pipe blended in the cold atmosphere. The smell of tobacco mixed with the burnt flesh was anything but pleasant. A sharp smile grew on her perfectly painted red lips. A sultry voice leaving such lips.

“To what do I owe the pleasure, o’ wandering merchant?”

Your blood went cold. It was the Demonic Marchioness of the North. Madam Vespira.