Roll dexterity -5 so 12 or below.

There is an inaudible click that seems oxymoronic. Gord shrugs as the gods shine down on her and the manacles unmanacle the unmanned killer. In a slough of tinkling metal the gold gilded chains glide in a glistening unweighted rainfall down the obsidian odelisque’s risqué skin.

She stands, resolute and sure in her diminutive glory atop her display pedestal. The gaudy decadence of tasteless power presses about her as nimble and soulful she drops from her wee spire. Her feet pad fast and fleet to the charred pile that was once Gord. She sifts through the ash and bone. Dust plumes in her small hands wake as she plucks a bronze ring set with bright a red gem from her ashed past self. The ring slips snug and clothes spring from the air to clad her small lithe frame. It is a mere spell to fool the eyes, her garb has no real form and she is still nude as a babe.

She takes her belt and knives and hangs them from her wide hips, notched tight as it goes the belt still hangs loose. Her dark skin and lush curves scream sex.