The Witch of The Wilds was a vile, nefarious woman. Not a single soul new of her origins; who had birthed her malicious and tormented spirit, what repulsive, foul place from whence she came— she was truly an enigma. The Witch of the Wilds was said to be positively ravishing, hair cascading sunshine, eyes scintillating with the color of the evening sky, skin untarnished by blemish and as milky as the deadest of eyes. Only five living souls had seen her in her glory— and still live today. Doctor Fawkes and his revolting monster he insisted on calling “life” were but the latest of the Witch’s toys; the other three were her prodigies, her pride and joy; monsters among men.
     The Reaper was the Witch’s strongest “ally”. A seasoned veteran, the Reaper once was, allies with strong men and women, bound to help others in times of need, now a shell of a man, his soul owned by the odious woman so he may carry out the sickest and most disturbing of her deeds, claiming, “The Reaper comes for your SOULS!” With jet black skin and a venomous smog for legs, the Reaper floats about in an endless purgatory created and stabilized for him by the Witch herself, just for the lowly anima to suffer in agony for all eternity, constantly dying, and constantly revitalizing...
        The Dragon was both beast and being. A scaly and slimy snake like woman from the very pits of Hell, colored like the blood that seeped out of her victims. With her terrifyingly wide eyes and those slit, tall and reptilian like black pupils, the Dragon could see into all Nine Circles of Hell, and, unhinging her jaw, used her mouth as an unholy portal for the wayward pneuma that lingered, stating that, “The Dragon’s Fire consumes ALL.” Truly a formidable foe, the Dragon was; a petrifying monster of demonic proportions.
      The Chimera possibly possesses the saddest of all the peculiar “people” the Witch procured over the years. Once an exquisite woman and a Countess from France, engaged to be married to one of Addlersbrünn’s own noblemen, abducted on the eve of her wedding by the Reaper, and tortured by the Witch’s own hand, until, one day, her psyche broke; half of her mind remained the same, alluring young lady, but the other, God help you if you were to be greeted by the other. It was mentally disturbed. The once charming woman was... nothing. Completely gone. Her eyes no longer glistened with the once prepossessing appeal they had, and her skin drained of color, becoming frigid to both the touch and sight, blue, and frosted... she became numb emotionally and physically. Nothing could make her feel when that half was exposed, nothing and no one could save her; not even the love of her fiancé could rescue her. Once a precious gem, now hardened coal. This, dear reader, is where we begin...
       The Countess was alone in her “room”, an abandoned workers lounge of the deserted water mill within the Black Forest, with an oblong couch to the far right, the wallpaper rolling off the wall to reveal decrepit and festering wooden planks, inhabited by dirty little parasites that chattered away each second of each day. She sat in front of a vanity, colored white, but stained with dirt, to the far front, facing away from her door. It was littered with scratch marks across the countertop, each one seeming deeper than the last from left to right, chipping away the white paint that covered it— though these were mostly hidden by large wooden pallets of mixed make ups and paints accompanied by a paint brush and a hair brush, all neatly labeled in French cursive. The Countess stared at herself in the mirror with apathy. She wore a dress; a wedding dress, with a ball gown skirt and a sleeveless top. It once fit perfectly upon the Countess, with a sweetheart neckline and a lace bow tied neatly around her waist. Now, the once positively gorgeous item was disheveled and dirty; the white was imbrued with both once wet mud and dried, chipping blood, and the elegant skirt had torn, ripped to shreds hanging by her legs and hips by the claws of some unholy presence the Countess could not fathom. Wet spots stained the top of the sweetheart neckline, dried from days past, though, they began to hydrate once more. The Countess began to cry, brushing her long, beauteous black hair, speaking to herself in her mother tongue, wishing for the day she could die, so that her torment may be over, when suddenly, the rough and loud scratchy voice of her “ally” rang through the air.
       “Ms. Guillard,” The Reaper growled stertorously, “She wants you.” The Countess did not turn in her seat— she stared at him from the reflection in her vanity. The demented woman watched the woebegone man writhe in place, hands clasping the door frame as the smog underneath his waist drifted calmly below, unable to stay still, shoulders constantly moving forward and back, head lolling along his neck. The Reaper seemed to be awaiting for a response, disheartened eyes glowering at her. The Countess only nodded solemnly. As soon as she did, the Reaper groaned loudly in torment, hovering off. The Countess began to furiously shake her head, weeping louder and louder as the tips of her fingers became an icy blue.
     “No, no, I will not do it again, I shan’t!” She sobbed, pulling her hands from her face, only to stare at them in horror as she  realized what was happening.
      “You are to do as you are told,” The Chimera responded, eyes of the Countess becoming a dark blue, “We can not disobey our Master.” Her eyes snapped back to its usual orange and hazel hue,
       “Non! You shan’t make me, Démon! That woman is a monster!”
      “Do you truly believe we are any different?” There was a pause.
      “....Oui.... oui, we must be different! We are not murderers, we do not take pleasure within the shameful reaping of souls like that wench does! We are—“ the Chimera stopped her short,
    “What do you mean, ‘we are not murderers?’ Surely you have not forgotten about him so soon. You wear the adornment he gave to you each day through and through... I may not be able to understand your love for him, but surely, you can understand the logic. It was both yours and my own hand that-”
      “Silence yourself, you cur! I want not to hear more of your bitter truth!” More and more of the Countess’ skin turned a frosted blue, slowly creeping up her shoulders, and towards her elegant swan like neck. With a deep breath, the Countess closed her eyes tightly, the last remnants of herself slowly leaving her body; with the last of her strength, the Countess grabbed the vanity, digging her chipped nails into the old wood, holding on tightly with the grip of a vice. The last of the Countess’ skin became blue, and the Chimera took a deep breath, eyes half lidded, face completely void of all emotion. She stood, pushing the stool away from her, and went to walk to the door. She stopped short. Turning back, the Chimera looked at the vanity; the Countess held onto the counter, hand bright white, fading to blue at the wrist. The Chimera blinked, unfazed, and started to pull. The hand gripped tighter. A soft sigh escaped the Chimera’s lips.
     “Hmph. You do realize I would have no issue amputating that hand, Guillard.” The hand let go, quickly becoming a shade of blue. The Chimera huffed, wiggling her fingers, and turning on her bare heels to the door.