"Mirror, Mirror", she would sing. "Show me your perfect truth. Who is most fair in all creation?"
The image upon the Mirror's surface, which for the moment would show only her reflection, would begin to grow hazy as she speaks. For a moment, all that she would see is a fine, silver mist, impenetrable to her eye. But she would not dwell in confusion; she would stand with a confident poise and a slanted smile upon her lips. She would always know what the Mirror will show her, for it could only answer to her question with the truth.
Her name is Calamity. She is the embodiment of perfection, the first daughter of the Elder Gods and the crowning jewel of the pantheon. Her hair shimmers as it falls down past her shoulders, of a colour so vivid that it puts the sky of Man's domain to shame. It is soft and silky, a privilege to behold with one's eyes, and one of the greatest pleasures to behold with one's touch. With her hair alone, she has driven Gods and Men to insanity. But that is not all that she is blessed with. Oh, far from it!
Her body is sculpted from the finest alabaster, a template from which all who are granted the female form are created. But none can ever hope to surpass or even equal her perfection. The swell of her chest gently curves towards a taut, flat stomach; the soft slope of her hips ignites the fire of lust within the eyes and their subtle, measured sway as she walks drives every reasonable thought from the mind. Her lips glisten, begging to be kissed, and her amethyst eyes sparkle more beautifully than the stone itself. What is she then, if not perfect? Who else can even hope to merely stand in her shadow?
None. So when the Mirror reveals to her the fairest of them all, she looks upon herself without surprise. She knows that the Mirror can tell no lies. For her own amusement, she cocks her hips and blows a kiss at herself. She is perfect, and there are none who can stand beside her as equals.
Until one day, when she again stands before the Mirror and poses the very same question. Her image upon its shimmering surface fades into obscurity, and for a moment all is hidden beneath the silver mist. But she does not dwell in confusion; she stands with a confident poise and a slanted smile. She knows what the Mirror will show her, for it can only answer to her question with the truth.
Except that today, the truth is different.
No words will rise to Calamity's lips as she stares at the image before her. The Mirror does not show her herself. No, instead it shows her a multitude of surely lesser women, some with golden locks and others crowned with honey curls; some with sparkling sapphire eyes and others with an emerald gaze.
Calamity is confused, bewildered. Why has the Mirror shown her this? Surely it is not telling her that all of these women had reached and surpassed her beauty. How could it even suggest that any of them had? But when she asks the Mirror the same question, it once again shows her its perfect truth.
Calamity is beautiful even in her rage. Her amethyst eyes are ablaze as she watches the multitude of women frolic amongst pools of crystalline water and amidst fields of tall, green grass. She watches as they dwell upon the world beneath the heavens, dancing and singing with its tenants. How dare the Mirror suggest that these lesser beings, who intermingled so freely with Man, matched and surpassed her perfection!
Calamity glares into the Mirror as cold, sharp hatred spreads through her being. She knows that she cannot refute the image in the Mirror, for it can only show her the truth. Her eyes scour the faces of the women it shows her, but yet she does not truly see. She does not understand why, but why does not matter. She will not share her crown with anyone; the glory of beauty is hers alone.
And so she plots against them, to destroy each and every one of them until the Mirror recognises the truth of her perfection once more.