(Homeros, on trial for murder, is confronted in court by the priestess Aisa.)

Dread Aisa.  Potent Aisa.  Mad Aisa.

She dwelt alone in the Cavern of the Chthonics and had proclaimed herself a votary of that ancient race of subterranean divinities.  Equal portions of the settlement considered her priestess, sorceress, witch, and madwoman.

“Aisa, your thoughts?” said the Village Leader.

Without answering, she limped over to Homeros, leaning on a crutch, and drew up so close to him that he recoiled in disgust.  Four score years and lack of care had wreaked havoc on the hag.  Shanks of her long hair, white with age, clumped together as if glued.  Like all creatures who rarely see the light of the sun, her skin was pale, and it sagged off her bones in crinkled folds like an ill-fitting garment.  Against nature, her eyes were neither brown, amber, blue, nor even green, but pale gray.  To Homeros they seemed depthless, with the same sort of whiteish film on the surface that afflict many of the blind.  Whatever her raiment had once been, it was now just soiled rags.

Up close, the rhapsode caught the odor of urine and feces.  Unconsciously he leaned backward away from her.  As he looked on in revulsion, he saw her hairline teeming with lice.