Iamora was sown of the seeds of iniquity, and borne of the blood of a malignant, sinful mankind. Her ageless countenance was a perfectly formed guise of a ten year old girl, her flaxen locks tied in place at the sides of her head by black ribbons. She delighted in the abuse of the others, the evil which had taken residence within the walls of the institution. She beheld the others with abyssal black eyes, and thought back to her mother. She was of a different time, different realm of existence, but Iamora could easily fit in a more modernized era. She would take her mother's place as best she could, within the Devil's playground she would become a leader, orchestrating the others, tendrils of malevolence reaching the minds and hearts of her peers. They would soon become enthralled to this evil, black stains left by her mother's paw ensnaring their souls, Iamora would open these plagued children's eyes to a whole new world of deviltries, wickedness.She stood in the corner, her features not marred by the perpetual sneer her mother wore, but adopting a mask of no emotion. She clutched the remains of the stuffed teddy bear she could not be parted with, the lower extremities of the plush toy was ripped clean off by the doctor in an attempt to separate her of it. It would be studied, and then cast in the incinerator as if in some sort of exorcisim, to relieve her of such an impurity of innocence. She had attacked the doctors before, in a fury of small, black talons and jagged teeth. Her powers were somehow shut away within the confines of the bastille created within her. The treatment to rid her of them failed, but they only existed by small, fragile threads which were growing stronger everyday. The torment of mankind was the key to unlocking her power. She was a sadistic waiff of a girl, but the temptations of the children was allowing more of her power to seep out in small doses. Desire. They all had their innermost desires, this would turn to sin. A glistening black tongue peeked out from slightly parted black painted lips. Iamora was doll like in stature, her immaculate features thinking of finely crafted porcelain. Although they have succeeded in almost stripping her of her most maleficent gifts, she still had a few she could have fun with. The rubious eyes of her crippled stuffed bear shone like sanguineous stars, gleaming through the darkened area she now sat, a pose uninterrupted by bodily movement. The youth observed her surroundings mostly in silence, the cottony entrails of her toy falling to the floor like it was a victim of some sort of dolly disembowelment. She no longer possessed the knowledge of how to weave the mortal sins like Anger and Gluttony into existence, but it would suffice for now that she could influence others of the more venial ones like Vanity. As her mother had shown her, it could become a most destructive force in the frail minds of humankind. Her forebearer known as Ravenwitch had ended worlds which transcended space and time, crippling the spirits of humans with sin and the other powers she possessed. Surely an offspring of the embodiment of Hell would hold such power for herself. Iamora's gaze, the color of pitch, now fell upon a Nurse whose face was boldly a few inches from her own. She was being physically shaken from her reverie, the vision was crumbling into nothingness as the rocks of the cliff side would tumble into the sea. Her upper arms being restrained by the vice like grasp of the Nurse's hands, she had not the strength to break free of her assailant. Instead, a voice flowed from the girl, one which would be foreign for a child. It was one of another, long ago. The sound of her utterances would usually strike the audience blind and deaf, if they were to even survive hearing it. She sought not to kill anyone, not yet. She would leave this to the other children, unfortunate souls that would be emboldened with sin. She was not a vessel of which the human soul would spend eternity in the wrath of the ever consuming fires, but she did not envy her mother. Now as she looked upon the frozen face of the Doctor's assistant, the fear was like a paralytic toxin seizing the woman's voice and features, Iamora's lips adopted a slight smirk, a look of amusement. She spoke the words which would plant the seeds of Vanity within the woman, leaving them to flourish within this pitiful creature. There was much she could mold and shape of this, as the Nurse was rather obese, a result of her ravenous appetite that was never quite satiated. Iamora had felled many a human being having wielded Gluttony, which was among her most favored of sins. She didn't even need to infect this creature, the woman was influenced of her own will after all. The hungry maw within the Nurse had made a wreck of her figure, the voracity she had given into for so long was forged into existence of her own thoughts. Whilst the woman's peers were rather fair of face compared to her, she had never taken the time to truly observe how the flesh sagged upon her face, the texture of her flesh closely of overly sun dried leather. She was fat and ugly. Most she would interact with had held their tongues, feigning a politeness in her company to give her some sort of compliments on her appearance. Now Iamora's abyssal gaze acted as mirrors, reflecting the true visage of the Nurse. "I..am..ugly." She voiced, enunciating each word slowly, as if they were wholly foreign to her vernacular. "The Doctor doesn't want me. He...doesn't want me." She rose and slowly receded down the dim corridor. Iamora reminisced of her stent at the institute with a loving sigh. The sounds of the children overtaking their tyrannical elders, the billowing smoke sootied the heavens as she watched the great conflagration feed upon the wails of victims that were shut within its devouring flames. Again, she sat comfortably admist chaos. The Loot and Lute was little more than a dilapidated hovel, yet the steady inflow of patrons brought her playthings from far and wide. Travelers to the forsaken town had all made the same lasting impressions upon it in death. Everwhere she looked, there were but portrayals of grisly demises painted upon her shining black irises. A downcast glance upon the murky brew which filled the finely crafted china cup, with a small sweep of her hand the caffinated drink went tumbling to the floorboards. The broken fragments of porcelain were reduced to a chalky powder under her boot as she rose to take in all she could of the grisly scene. A putrescent stench had perfumed the stale air, attracting flies and other pests that would revel in decay. Once rowdy men were reduced to rotting flesh and bone, and Iamora had not lifted a finger as to place them in that state. A tiny smirk played at her lips, she felt satiated for the moment. She approached the bar and poured herself some champange, raising the goblet in a boastful gesture, and eyed some ravens fighting over some scraps of flesh that still clung to the Bartender's face. Oh, how her mother loved ravens. She had an affinity to these predatory birds, these carrion that feasted upon the dead and the living. Iamora possessed not this sort of bond, so she made dolls of which she had bestowed the gift of life, an army of pernicious little porcelain faced puppets to assist her in wreaking havoc everywhere she went. They were subjects of her abandoned youth, broken pieces of the evil effigies were scattered throughout the lands. Iamora sighed, her fingertip tracing the rim of the goblet. Who would come along next to break the tedium of the silence and listlessness around her?