There was a glamour to her:
 the way the light flashed in her violent hair,
 the electric crackling of her robe as it stormed about her,
 the voice like wind,
 the face never the same twice,
 and feet that merely teased the ground.

You could never be sure if she was actually there;
 the more you looked, the less you saw.

But if you kept your eyes out of focus,
 looked off to one side,
 she was more real than anything else,
 so solid.

Like iron.

But the moment you fixed your gaze on her,
 she was barely a cloud.

When she got close,
 you could smell rain and ozone.

Her name was Tiranel,
 Angel of the Tempest.