Sifting through the sands of time there fell a child that no one wanted. A child so grotesque and disfigured that no one wanted her. Her lower lip was much thinner than her top, her eyes weren't quite even, her nose was askew on her face as though god had found it too much to set it straight. Her face was a little too small or her features a little too big, her eyes couldn't set on one thing when there were too many to be seen. She spoke with a horrible lisp on top of a tacky accent; her steps were each one crooked.

Each townsfolk thought she needed a keeper. But who was brave enough to keep that hideous beast of a child? No one indeed.

Years past, each one bore it's mark on her form. Twelve was the thin scar on her face left by a cruel hiss of a whip; a village child had found it a party favor to share. Thirteen was the burns on her back; brought on by the night she'd asked a boy to a village dance. Fourteen was the scar on her cheek where Mathers found it amusing to abuse a poor mongrel child. Fifteen was the thing that kept her awake at night. The one that she thought of and her blood ran cold. On her wrists and ankles were the remainders of ten hours in manacles and at the mercy of her captors. Sixteen was the broken arm that never quite healed from the oncoming car. Seventeen was the site of a hundred straightedge razor marks, each scar puckering on her skin. Eighteen was the broken collarbone that she earned struggling not to be strangled. Nineteen was the slit throat in the alleyway when the village couldn't take it anymore.

But as the villagers watch her be lowered into a cool, dark tomb, they watch bespelled as a slender woman steps from the forest around the graves. Her gown billows in the breeze like wisps of shadows. Her face a masterpiece beyond comparison: her eyes a stroke of silver, her nose just perfect, her lips a sonnet waiting to be written. Her bare feet tread quickly over the ground. She moves like the river, steady and sure. Her lips betray nothing but her eyes. Those are the eyes of a wild fire flowering out of control. Those eyes told a story all there own. One of misuse, abuse, beatings, burnings, stranglings, knifings, murder, and hell.