http://i165.photobucket.com/albums/u...ultAgatha2.jpg Thick, inky tendrils fell coiled about her face like writhing serpents. The frigid fingers of November rustled the ebony locks that docked at her lower back, dots of snow placing kisses upon her ghostly palor. Agatha knew that the Reverends would say that it was the glacial breath of the Gods, just another pox upon a community that was rife with sin. However the gelid weather may have crippled the other people and stunted the harvests, it did not even induce a shiver within her waifish form. Her acromatic eyes had caused great fear and rumor amongst the townsfolk, and would have earned her a death shortly following a birth that extiguished the life of her forebearer if the wrath of the deities themselves hadn't wrought the land in terrible hardship. Agatha was borne of great purpose, but even as she walked the cobblestone path toward the townsquare in contemplation, she had not a theory to this higher calling, her destiny was unclear as her milky irises. So why did the Gods intervene? She beheld the impoverished peoples, humble stores that were halted in construction because of a lack of materials and workers. The path most traveled led to a tiny fane, which was located at the furthest outreaches of the town almost like a shameful secret. A community stifled of will and expression, the peoples journied the briared path, paying no mind of how the thorns ravaged their church attire, clutching but the last fraying threads of hope to their bosom. For most, optimism was dead and interred in a Beggar's grave. Upon arriving to their seats, the people would ask forgiveness of their transgressions, and pray for freedom from the shackles of sin. They hoped that their earnest confessions would not fall upon deaf ear, and grant them favor with the Gods so that nothing more would befall their families.Agatha showed disdain for her fellow townspeople for her heart was black and besmirched of the Devil's paw, and it was her namesake afterall. The start of a wicked grin played upon her black laquered lips, whilst she mused of malicious acts that would further torment those who were unfortunate enough to dwell within the flimsy walls. Agatha Disdain delighted in the sufferings of the people, it was like a drug that gave her a high unmatched by anything else in her ordinary life. She was but an ever devouring maw for this drug, greedily taking within herself the pain and sorrows of those around her. She would eavesdrop at the tavern, where most had been given false courage off of the drinks they sipped, and divulged their problems for the world to hear. Even now as she stood over the noxious contents of her bubbling brew, she found it within herself to let a scornful cackle surge up her throat.Agatha had weakened them, and for some she had severed their faith in the Gods. This brought her unparalleled joy, if one as cold as her was capable of that emotion. She had squashed all but dreams of children, their innocence as toxious as the poisons that seeped through her own malignant veins. Agatha beheld Aingeal then, watching her quiver under the intensity of her colorless stare. She felt a secret pleasure in witnessing her actions under close scrutiny, especially upon hearing the whispers of the townsfolk. If only she had the sheer power she had beseeched the most vile of beings for, the pacts and pledges which required her to surrender her immortal soul in binding vow so that she may be granted even a fraction of a favor. She would perform these nightly rituals, supplicating herself outside of the prying eyes of others. A flexation of forefinger, a sharp cackle rolling off of her tongue only resulted in the stunned silence of the public. "How dost thy day fare thee?" Agatha could only utter. She reveled in the girl's misfortune, it was well known that she had come from one of the most poverty stricken families of the entire countryside. Their harvests withered under HER finger, the accursed beasts they own made sterile by HER wish. In a rustling of skirts which seemed to be sown of the darkness itself, she approached the intimidated female. Her lips adopted a fleeting sneer, a contortion of her lips so swift, that it would be lost in a blink of an eye. People had started past Agatha, as she was but an obstacle between them and the holy edifice, and she momentarily became lost in the tide of those that didn't seem to notice her presence at all. She bumbled this way and that, before sending a strong shove through the blockade. What was with everyone lately? Was it that upon every visit to the place most sacrosanct, that something had coveted their minds, a greedy maw suckling upon their freedom? Then all footsteps halted, and heads were turned toward the man whose voice had contended against the roaring winds that threatened to drown him out, as if the unruly weather was summoned of Hell's consorts. His book brandished before both sinner and saint, his stern gaze fell upon the crowd. "Dost thy tongue lie still within thee, like a serpent in wait? Hearts ladden of iniquity, dost thy know that not one soul among us can hide our corruption from the Gods? Thy tell tale heart cannot lie! Borne of secret rendevous with harlots, one cannot hide this truth forever. It is but a blackened stain upon thy soul! Recant! Recant, thy heathen heart, and perchance the holy light shall be shed upon thee." His tongue was quelled then, and it was uncertain by body language to whom his rant was directed. Agatha's attention never faultered from Aingeal. Suddenly, she felt something stir within her, something she had conjured in herself of intaking her foul elixer. A caustic spore upon her tongue, her body had suddenly radiated such heat that the snow flurries around her had dissolved to steam with a sizzle. Her eyes blanched of hue would glow like burning coals for a mere moment, until it was blinked away. It seemed as if her humanly form was too weak a structure to for the pestilentious, atramental gall the Devil to roil within, and she fell upon her knees. As she purged it, a sulfurous stench was lifted of the stygian ooze. Although she felt no pain of the cauterized wound of a most delicate flesh, she would forever bear the mark of her ordeal. A voice wholly foreign of her flowed from its borrowed tongue. "From the molten fires I dwell, I smelt thine tongue of of all dialects, so that you can be a herald of me, to plant within every soul the seeds of sin."