The witch was anything but ugly. Her name spoke for her: Angelique…reflective of those celestial beings of light – Angels. She was indeed spawned from a most pulchritudinous being, a richness of divine beauty passed on, solidified in the construction of that marvelously perfect physiognomy. Those corn-silk colored curlicues were luxuriously held aback from that porcelain doll-like visage and those cameoed occipital tools – the eyes – so knowledgeably clear; they were primordial pools of softened sapphires. Her face could justifiably be compared to the statuesque face of a Boticelli angel, a cherubic light beguilingly collected within that heavenly veneer. Such are the ways of witches though, akin to old hags wearing the illusionary veils of youthfulness, layering the dustiness of that ancient soul and physical nature. This vilified created gazed into her crystal ball, a centrifugal way in which she concentrated, acrimoniously bringing into better focus that oracular, mystical image of that conjured scene. She had been witnessing the episodic moments of her Vampiric love, Barnabus Collins, engaged in amorous activities with the fairer sex. But they were lover no more, for Barnabus had left her high and dry at the zenith of their romantic, passionate relationship when they were both at their happiest…or so she thought! It is something classical, like a sugar-high – intense, yet short and sweet. Crash-and-burn she did experience! The sheer sight of the unappreciable, wretched, adulterous being caught in the throes of intimacy with another, sickened her to a dangerous degree. She felt as if she were cursed, wronged by The Fates, for eternity. Her lower fleshy roseate tier had begun trembling, set a-quiver by the spirit of a vengeful woman. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned. But she was no ordinary woman, and there would be no ordinary fury!
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