<< Death does not do you justice, my dear. >>

It did not take much time to notice there was something off about this woman. Even as a cloaked figure, a certain aura of wrongness emanated from her. This feeling was as intangible as it was unnatural - it was not her posture, or her demeanour, or even her size. Even without seeing her face, most would find this creature off-putting in some way.

One's worst fears were quickly confirmed should her visage be visible: A complexion of a ghostly pallor covered her features, her cheeks ashen where once they surely had been pink and youthful. A pair of golden, unnerving pools peered back at the world where once eyes had rested, and those lips, now thin and hardly ever smiling, must once have been the object of desire to a hopeful man.

Misery was, in fact, quite evidently undead - and yet she seemed to retain her wits and her mind, or at least -a- mind. Violet curls framed her face, a face that in life might have been deemed attractive, even if not something to write an ode to. She appeared to have been forever frozen in her youth, no more than three decades in at the time of whatever disgrace had made her into what she now was.

Her voice too spoke of her ghastly fate - ghostly and reverberating ever so slightly, faintly enough that one had to wonder if they heard right. When she spoke, she seemed well spoken and educated, yet she appeared ineffably uninterested in the affairs of mortals. Forever in the position of power when bargaining, Misery hardly ever showed sympathy or empathy unless there was something in it for her.

Perhaps a lover of theatrics or stereotypes, she oft chose to garb herself in dark, gloom colours, always carrying a pouch or a satchel that clinked as she moved, the contents of her bag a testament to her trade - or one of her trades: alchemy.