Mystra's pink Shoe

Tears dropped to the ground mixing with the blood that pooled around the stump that used to be Mystra’s foot.  She wiped her knife on the edge of her cloak.  It had to be done.  The cursed shoe had seemed harmless, comfortable and with a bit of flair.  She once loved the joyful and fresh look of pink.  Now she loathed the garish, evil show.  It looked true, stained in red.  Though ignoring the signs found in the woods of an enchanted forest, she longed for the beauty the shoe gave.  When she wore the pink shoe, Mystra was noticed and complemented by everyone, except that grumpy old man who told her it was cursed.  Within only a blink, she saw it again, upon a podium and it started to speak.

“Clair” it said.

“My name is Mystra, actu-” but before she could finish her sentence, she was struck by the shoe’s laces like a whip.  She fell to the ground.

“Do not interrupt me, Clair.  It’s my turn to speak.  You have been chosen by the gods.”

Mystra would not be silenced, “The gods abandoned me, you abomination!  Now it is your turn to leave me be!”

The shoe reached out to strike another blow, but Mystra-through the haze of bloodloss-caught it by its frayed laces, and cast a spell under her breath.

With the spell was hope, but would it be enough?  A voice seemed to call, from where she knew not, yet it was enough to bring her back.

Elleminster was standing over Mystra, “You have been out for a week child,” he said, “We killed Manshoon, but he had cast a nightmare spell on you.  We did not think you were going to make it.”

Mystra looked down thankful both her feet were still there, nodded to the wizard in appreciation, laid back down thankful Manshhoon was gone.