Ophelia was a beautiful young woman. Deeply besot with - and preparing to marry - the love of her life, she was the very picture of youthful exuberance, eagerly awaiting the future home and family they had planned to cultivate. But that day never came. The day before - nay, the night, nearly hours - her fiancé was found dead. Witnesses saw her collapse to the ground once she learned of the tragedy, cradling his body in her arms, screaming in anguish, flecks of blood sullying the pristine white lace of the very dress she was meant to marry him in.

Once the party had managed to pry him, cold at this point, from her desperate grasp, she was inconsolable. She would do naught but pace, sit, or lie down with nothing more than a blank expression on her face. She would not eat, she would not drink - her family and friends worried she would simply waste away. But she had other plans. A few days later, she grasped in her hands a beautiful silver dagger - one that Pietro had gifted her - and let it find its home, betwixt her breast and deep into her heart. Any efforts to save her were futile.

But this was not the end for our poor Ophelia. When she found herself at judgement, she begged to be able to see her lover, if not for one more tender embrace. Judgement obliged, making her a servant of its will. After an unspecified amount of time, with good work and loyal servitude, she would be given the chance to see him again - possibly even the chance to have them both brought back to life.

It lifted her up, transforming her into one of its creatures - a kind of beautiful monster, with wings and a curved mouth in the place of a face. She would obey without question whatever orders it gave. Should she deny a request, any hope of seeing her love would be lost, forever, and both souls would simply cease to exist. Despite this, she kept on, doing its bidding. Her mission is to find the one who took Pietro's life and make them feel the same misery, the same grief, the same rage that she felt.

And who knows? She's lost count of how long she's been fighting, in this unchanging form. Five, ten, fifteen more years? Maybe her work is nearly done. Time means nothing to her anymore. Those who knew of her plight have long passed. Judgement willing, she will soon hold her lover in her arms once more. She will allow nothing to stand in her way.

Vengeance is due. And venegance shall be done.