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Ireena's hair was red again.
It floated behind her like a cascade of a turbulent waterfall. Wild and free.
When she moved between her new family, swift and determined and straight like an arrow, the vampires bared their fangs in a condescending grin. A mocking bow for their new queen, like hundreds before her and hundreds after. A new pet for their master, a new toy, so much weaker than their bunch. There to be devoured and disregarded. Because really, what did she have to offer? No loyalty bought in an unfair struggle against her own people and their unprovoked suspicions. No cunning cruelty and the means to find the exact weak spot for it to really hurt. No strong spirit and coolness of a rational mind to aid their general. No sacrifice of the one real chance to walk away from the bleak landscape and choosing instead to spend eternity in his shadow. Not even the blind devotion, an obsession born from madness and a twisted mind to lay down before the blood soaked boots of their master.
No, Ireene did not have any of these things. She only had her pretty red hair. A nice face, I suppose, if one is into that kind of prettiness. But Strahd seemed to like it. Her soft, warm skin. Her lips, so sweet against his. The first time they made love, she was gentle and soft, timid like a fawn. But lately, she was getting bolder. A playful nimble. A kiss to soother over the bruise. Her hand in Strand's hair, pulling hard and discovering her new strength to pin him down, to push his smug face between her tights and not letting him go until she was satisfied. He was surprisingly obliging. Almost delighted in seeing his prized companion giving in to her darker side with such enthusiasm and aplomb.
Ireene's eyes glowed in the dark. Her hair was tainted with darkness now, not the colour of blood though, never that. More like rich wine and molten fire, covering her pale, freckled shoulders and falling onto Strahd´s face when she throned above him. Her fangs sharpened and painted white with hunger, all of her being aglow with awakening power and fierceness and oh, she was beautiful. He only had time to stare at her in awe and amazement and pain, so much pain, so bone deep and wrenching, as she buried her fangs deep into his throat. Irene groaned, a piece of his flesh between her fangs. Blood and power flooded through her, besmeared her chin and soul. Nourished her. Her nimble tongue danced around the smooth muscle fibers, before a fierce pull, a rip, a wet sound of breaking and tearing apart. Technically, it was nothing more than chewing a steak, dead flesh, preserved and held fresh by power and magic. Pulsing with fake life. Ireene drank it hungrily, gnawed at his bones and gulped up his soul.
Barovia had a new monarch and her hair was red.