She sits on a throne of kindled flame; the tongues of fire lick at the bottom of her scarlet dress and the velvet spills onto the crimson steps of the grand chair.

Her face is well defined, and her cheekbones are high; her eyes, slanted, like a cat’s, filled with Hellfire and narrowed to dangerous slits.

Her hair cascades down her back like the mane of a lion, burgundy in color, accented with violent streaks of cherry red, burning hot as the inferno below her sanguine shoes.

Impatiently, she taps a row of gloved fingers on the arm of her throne, the drumming muffled by the ruby silk.

In her other, willowy hand, she holds what looks like a slender black stick; the rest of the material attached to the end of the stick pools in her lap.

It is her whip, her trusty cat ‘o nine tails.

The floor underneath her churns, tempestuous as the feral sea.

Her lair is one where the scorching ocher blazes are draperies and cruelty is a policy.

In this endless night, she is ruler.

She is the Lady of Wrath.