"My Lord!" said Friar Pennsetucky - although a more fair transcription of her statement would have involved more 'r's than any other letter. "Praise He Above for your return on this blessed day!"

She had the aspect of a stone chimney that was still standing alone in a desolate cornfield long after all the wooden parts of the house had rotten away. Tall and sturdy and half-blind and with enough muscles to deadlift a sheep into the back of a station wagon at midnight, all held together by a voice that sounded like an offensive parody of... something. Southern preacher by way of southeast asia, with more than a touch of French? All of that woman was stuffed into a black gloved, double breasted penguin suit, barely visible beneath an enormous golden amulet that Central Casting sent in response to a request for 'cursed jewelry'. 

They'd broken the mold when they made her.

"My Lord!" repeated the Friar. "The Beast has taken a bride! My Lord! Within an unholy inversion of the marriage shall a creature beyond nightmares be born! My Lord!"
"That," said a voice, putting as much emphasis on that 'a' as the Friar put on those 'r's, "is something of a guess. My Lord."
"It was revealed to me in a vision!" said the Friar.
"Nyes, well," said the dusty old human resources lady in a dress so modest the colour of her socks would forever be a mystery. She wore pince-nez glasses, the golden frames of which blinked with a dozen sapphire eyes. "My astrological charts indicate no such coming calamity, and they have a somewhat larger body of evidence behind them."