Calamity's eyes widen and then narrow as she looks upon the Mirror, smoking with fury. Her lovely, glistening lips twist as anger flows through her body.
She had set her plans into motion and watched from behind a veil of smoke with satisfaction evident upon her features. The cries of the Nymphs had been plentiful; their deaths were often a cruel and messy affair, but that did not bother Calamity in the least. She returned to the Mirror when the purge of the Nymphs no longer served to entertain her, and posed to it that ever familiar question. Surely now it must recognise her perfection once more.
It hadn't. Instead, as an answer to her question, the Mirror shows her not a multitude – simply one.
Calamity does not understand, and it incenses her greatly that the Mirror refuses to recognise her undeniable perfection. She begins to question its infallibility.
Her plan had been a wonderful thing, she knew. The Nymphs were a race of creatures at one with nature, and somewhere along the line, they had developed a love for Man. They took it upon themselves to care for them both, to help humankind grow peaceably within their surroundings, for they were often driven to destroy rather than preserve.
Calamity is the queen of lies and the mother of deception; the serpent learned its trade at her knee. For her to twist the image of the Nymphs into something that Man and the Gods would despise was but child's play.
Into the minds of Man, she whispers the rumour of a flower, one known only to the Nymphs. This flower, she murmurs gently, is a strange and wonderful flower. Cultivated correctly, its seed will harbour the power to grant any wish.
Upon the tongues of the Nymphs, she lays a song. The song tells of a secret place, hidden deep within Nature's forests, and within it resides Man's greatest blessing. The Nymphs do not remember the words they utter.
Man journeys deep into the forests, fuelled by the promise of power and the answer to all their darkest desires. The forests are laid to waste in their determined search; eventually, they discover that secret place and its strange, wonderful blessing. Calamity smiles down upon them as they plant the seeds, watching and impatiently waiting.
The flowers spread their roots and the land, far and wide, is poisoned. Crops fail, vast fields of corn and wheat reduced to stinking, rotten swaths; the waters of the streams and rivers run black with corruption, and the life that dwells within them floats dead upon the surface.
Man is driven to panic and desperation. Oh, but what wickedness has befallen the earth! Surely the Gods have smote us! Calamity hears them cry such things and reminds them with a gentle whisper.
"The Nymphs…they did this…"
And humankind remembers the song that those pretty little things had often favoured. They remember the promise of a great blessing.
"That promise was of your doom…"
Calamity watches intently when the Nymphs descend to the earth once more to dance with Man. It is a ruthless, unforgiving dance; each step is made with feet splashed with the red of wine, each poised spin accompanied by the tearing of cloth and a desperate cry. The Nymphs gather their senses and flee, but oh – if only that were the end of it. Calamity's plans are not yet come to their fruition; she whispers also into the ears of the Gods, and the Nymphs find themselves struck by a terrible hand of judgement for their crimes.
She assumes them all to be dead; if the Gods are competent at one thing, it is the swift, ruthless deliverance of judgement. And so she here she stands before the Mirror, asking once more the familiar question.
"Mirror, Mirror. Show me your perfect truth. Who is most fair in all creation?"
And yet still, it will not show her what she knows to be the truth!
One has survived her purge, and Calamity will not rest until her work is complete. She is thorough in all things.