THE RED TEMPEST
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Excerpt from the Sanguine Tome, penned by Scholar Eirenis
Ah, the tales I've encountered in my long years, but few intrigue me as much as the enigmatic figure known within the Order of the Sanguine Robe as the "Red Tempest." This individual is a swirling vortex of whimsy and mystery, a living paradox wrapped in crimson cloth. Like a fleeting shadow at dusk, the Red Tempest eludes definition, embodying contradictions that both bewilder and fascinate even the most seasoned scholars.
In accordance with the traditions of the Order, each member is bestowed a title that mirrors their essence or prowess. The moniker "Red Tempest" is no idle embellishment—it encapsulates the very spirit of this mercurial mage. Their nature is as unpredictable as a storm upon the high seas, ever-shifting and impossible to pin down. The aura that envelops them is a kaleidoscope of energies, dancing and flickering like firelight reflected in a thousand shards of glass.
Their true name remains a secret whispered only to the wind. When pressed for this elusive detail, the Red Tempest deftly sidesteps the inquiry, turning the question upon itself like a serpent devouring its tail. I recall an incident upon the cobbled streets of Aetheril, where an earnest apprentice dared to seek their name. Cloaked in garments the color of fresh-spilled wine and adorned with feathers that fluttered in the breeze, the Red Tempest fixed the apprentice with a gaze that seemed to pierce the very veil of the soul. A sly smile played upon their lips as they responded, golden eyes alight with mischief:
"Verily, what is a name but a mere title bestowed by another? Dost thou seek thine own appellation from me?"
Such encounters leave one pondering not only their identity but also the nature of names and titles themselves. It is as if the Red Tempest exists beyond such earthly labels, a being untethered by the conventions that bind the rest of us. Decades have passed, and still, no one has unraveled this riddle. It begs the question: did they ever possess a name, or was it perhaps surrendered in some arcane pact, replaced by the ever-fitting title they now bear?
Describing the physical form of the Red Tempest is akin to capturing smoke between one's fingers. Their appearance shifts like sand beneath the desert wind, mutable and transient. To some, they loom tall within the grand halls of the Sanguine Temple, towering at seven feet with an air of regal authority. To others, they seem diminutive, scarcely five feet tall, weaving through bustling marketplaces with the grace of a cat and the subtlety of a whisper. This fluidity enhances their mystique and speaks to a mastery over illusion—or perhaps reality itself—that few can comprehend.
None can say with certainty whether the Red Tempest is man or woman, for their form and voice transcend such earthly distinctions. Their voice embodies both firmness and gentleness, echoing the stern command of a father and the nurturing embrace of a mother. This fluidity deepens their enigma, and few dare to question it.
Yet, in the quiet of Aetheril's square, a child's innocent curiosity once pierced the veil. As the Red Tempest dazzled the townsfolk with illusions, a small child tugged at their crimson robe and asked, "Are you a boy or a girl?"
Kneeling gracefully, golden eyes twinkling beneath the half-mask, the Red Tempest replied:
"Verily, little star, I am as the wind—neither here nor there, yet everywhere. Dost thou inquire if the zephyr be lord or lady?"
Yet, amidst this constant flux, certain features remain immutable. Their hair cascades in long, flowing locks of pale blonde, shimmering like threads of spun gold caught in the morning light. It ripples with their every movement, a waterfall of sunshine piercing through the clouds of their crimson cloak. Most striking of all are their eyes—piercing golden orbs that sparkle with unspoken secrets and a perpetual hint of amusement. These eyes are windows to a soul both ancient and ever-young, reflecting a playful spirit that defies the solemnity of their Order.
Unlike their fellow members—such as the stoic Black Blade or the cunning Swift Steps—who conceal their faces entirely behind ornate masks, the Red Tempest opts for a mere half-mask. This choice is a deliberate flaunting of tradition, a rebellious act that reveals as much as it hides. The half-mask allows their expressive features to be seen: the quirk of an eyebrow, the curve of a smirk, the flash of a grin. It is a bold statement, one that has ruffled more than a few feathers among the Order's more rigid adherents.
I recall a particular evening in the resplendent Sanguine Temple, where the gilded walls echoed with the murmur of arcane discourse. An elder, robes rustling like dried parchment, chastised the Red Tempest for this blatant disregard of custom. The response was nothing short of theatrical. With a flourish, the Red Tempest spun around, their half-mask catching the light of a hundred candles and casting fleeting shadows across their face.
"Pray tell, mine esteemed robe-brother, should we not don our visages with pride? For the zephyrs kiss my cheeks, and I am enlightened all the more thereby."
Such audacity both infuriates and captivates, but none can deny the weight of their contributions. The Red Tempest's deviations are often met with exasperation, yet they are tolerated—even shielded—due to the undeniable value they bring to the Order. Their brilliance is a double-edged sword, one that cuts through convention as effortlessly as it does ignorance.
Perhaps the most profound aspect of the Red Tempest is their aura—a phenomenon that defies all known classifications. When viewed through mage-sight, it is a tempest indeed: a swirling maelstrom of colors and energies, ever-changing like the roiling skies before a thunderstorm. While others display auras that are steady flames or gently rippling waters, theirs is a living storm. Some speculate that this reflects an immense reservoir of power, a wellspring so deep that it cannot be contained. Others whisper of instability, a wildness that even the Red Tempest cannot fully command.
There was an incident that remains etched in the annals of the Crimson Fields—a rival mage, brimming with hubris, attempted to unravel the secrets of the Red Tempest's power through a revealing spell. The outcome was swift and dramatic. The spell was repelled with such force that the very air crackled, the rival mage left dazed and incapable of casting even the simplest of spells for days afterward. When inquiries were made, the Red Tempest offered only a nonchalant shrug, eyes gleaming with that familiar sparkle of amusement.
"Dear friend, the winds within me do blow untamed. 'Twere best thou didst not attempt to capture them."
Such is the enigma of the Red Tempest. Their true age is a matter of speculation; some say they are as ancient as Vincent, the esteemed Captain of the Sanguine Robe, though neither has confirmed nor denied such musings.
One fact, however, stands unchallenged: those who have gazed upon the Red Tempest's full, unmasked face have not lived to tell the tale. It is said that this revelation is reserved solely for the enemies of the Order, a final sight before oblivion claims them.
The Battle of Garde’s Rift serves as a chilling testament. Amidst the chaos and clamor of clashing spells and ringing steel, the Red Tempest confronted the malevolent leader of a rogue sect of necromancers. Witnesses spoke of a moment when the very air seemed to hold its breath. The Red Tempest removed their half-mask, and what transpired defies full comprehension. The necromancer was reduced to nothing more than a shadow upon the ground, their essence scattered to the four winds. No eyes remained to recount the visage that wrought such devastation.
When later questioned about this fateful encounter, the Red Tempest merely graced the inquisitor with a cryptic smile, those golden eyes alight with inscrutable wisdom.
"Alas, the hapless soul could not fathom the true art concealed behind this mask."
And so, the Red Tempest continues to be a figure of both awe and uncertainty within the Order of the Sanguine Robe. They dance along the edge of tradition, their every action a blend of jest and gravitas. As untamable and unpredictable as the storm that lends them their name, they remain a force that commands both respect and caution. The winds of change swirl around them, and in their wake, they leave us with more questions than answers—a living enigma that embodies the very essence of arcane mystery.