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September 7, 2011
Naked, she was. Paler than the moon that hid just behind the treeline. Her hair seemed to float, to twist and dance without wind. She left no footprints in the grass where she walked, but the land seemed somehow less green, less alive after she passed.

Witch of a Thousand Voices, they called her. The Lady of the Masks.

There were stories about her. Theories on why she wandered, why she appeared only while the moon was hidden.

"Is she dead?" I asked. "Is she a ghost?"

"Dead? No, no." they'd mutter. "You need to have a soul to die."