After finally getting off the gods-forsaken cesspool that was Aeaea, giving her handmaidens two-week notices, and issuing a final curse against one who will not be named (Odysseus...that prat), Circe bought herself a forged U.S. passport and booked it out of the Aegean. Along the way, she hooked up with a band of elf fanciers and discovered the beauty that is elf slash (Fingon, Fingon...we hardly knew ye...so why is Maedhros leering like that?). She toils the days away in an obscure arts related job where she has access to a super high-speed modem and little supervision. Occassionally, she still passes out secret elixirs (also known as 100 proof vodka) that cause those she despises to be transformed into braying asses and buffoons. Life in the twenty-first century is surprisingly good for cynical sorceresses.

"She sometimes confuses hunger with existential anguish." - Angeles Mastretta, from Arrancame la vida