The lamia let the girl speak on. For while she called Chitter 'child' she was well aware she was no child. Though the form did mislead her from time to time. Desdemona was not concerned, but when Chitter's mirror appeared and the Spanish snake saw what was within... She was frozen, her eyes on her own, hypnotizing herself her hands reaching towards the body she longed for. The form she had desired and drawn strength from for four hundred years. Each year without it's beauty was agony. "Yesss I wasss ssso beautiful." She hissed, her voice dreamy. Haunted even. She did not notice as Chitter shifted forms. the horrendous version of herself appearing. Nor as the claw pulled her through. Not till it was too late, then a single horrendous shriek of horror and rage split through the school. A howl of such anguish and torment that would raise many a hair from a neck.

Senorita Liguardia opened her eyes. Normal large brown eyes, that almost looked like Spanish gold when she colored her face with the paints she purchased. Or once did. Business was better then. Clients came and went, her pockets were full and her bed was busy as was her trade. Secrets, joys, pains, sorrows. She knew them all and sold each one. Then business had become nothing. Clients had dried up, leaving the woman who listened too keenly and whispered to too many ears. Her family had cast her out, her trade nothing but shame to them. No matter the amount of coin she brought in, the renown from the nobility. Albeit that group was mostly young men of the [i]wrong[/i] type. Her body was beautiful, her treasure and wealth. Her hair was the ode to many a poem and her eyes captivated men. With a moan she rolled over and gazed at the small room of her house. A single room. A bed, a small fireplace and stove, and enough room for a bit of living. Bottle of rum and wine scattered about the room. Why? It was simple. 

Her last client was dead.

Tossing a bottle to the side, Desdemona sat up muttering Spanish words as she pulled on her clothing. The mob of his family would come for her. They had been so sure it was her fault! That it had been her hand to deal the blow. The woman cursed some more at their stupidity. She wasn't suicidal, though this was close. The moon was starting to rise, it wasn't her last day. No, that was spent in a state of drunkenness and tears of fury. The young man had given her enough to live, but no more. He had given her no secrets, then when he had she had bruises to show the threat that awaited her if she spoke.

She never did.

Snatching a knife from her kitchen, sharp from the use she had prepared it for the night before. The woman of the night, walked the streets, keeping a scarf about her head. The family would be searching, looking, seeking her death. What she sought was about the same she believed. They sought her for a death, she sought a killer. A bet gone bad had killed her client. It would be a vengeance killing, and no court would get her afterwards. Desdemona thought that a blessing. The court was horrible and prison was worse. The family would find and kill her, she suspected. Though before that she would try to get ship to England or France. Perhaps even Rome. Become a nun. As she slipped between flower sellers, she stifled a laugh at the thought. Her! A nun! It would never do!

It took hours into the night, but she found the man. He was in his apartment, counting his money and hiding from the family of the young man he killed. Never minding the woman after him. She was a woman, insignificant. Too weak, too foolish to aught. She had come as a puta, and wooed him to the bed before leaving him there. A knife embedded in him and his money in her pocket. The man stared at the ceiling in horror. His body cut to shreds and his heart carved out and impaled to his throat with the blade. It was leaving his street when the mob found her. She had run, leading them on a merry chase till it had turned sour to her. Pleaded when they tore her from the alley and to a tree. And screamed curses as they lowered the noose about her neck.

"I had my vengeance for him! Now I shall for myself!" She had screamed as they reached for the bucket. "
Regresaré y vengareo!" She had howled in that same anguish that echoed form her snake for in those seconds she was pulled through the mirror. As darkness took he Desdemona watch and felt and knew her death again and again. Withering with a fury that would promise death to her person she next laid eyes upon.

When she broke free, it was not going to be pleasant. Blood would flow and souls would crumble.

[@FallenTrinity] [@Oliver] [@Belle]