Wrath, her name was called, in the club. Wrath for the hours she spent not killing, but planning the deaths of anyone who crossed her. Wrath for the torture that her victims suffered. Wrath for the sheer number. Almost nondescriminate, the murderer left most dead and the rest wishing that they had joined the ranks.

By her physical appearance, she could not possibly carry out such horrendous crimes. No one would suspect a small girl, yellow hair plaited in twin streams down her back with large hazel eyes peering from behind a thick fringe, of ending countless lives. A tiny five foot four inch girl weighing only around one hundred and ten pounds like her would more often be mistaken for pride or envy. People who voiced such opinions were silenced by the knife she held, or the blood on her trousers as she walked away from someone's bleeding corpse.

It had not always been so. She was born to a loving family, with kind, patient parents and two older siblings. The girl had been raised in a Christian household. She had been the perfect student, well-mannered and particularly bright.

She was perfectly sane. She knew what she was doing. Perhaps that is what made her crimes so horrible. To tell the truth, the majority of her victims died quickly. But she knew what she was doing, during every moment. She had never fallen for Blasphemy's speeches of the world being a better place once they had joined together. Whispers circulated that she killed only for the joy of it.

Wrath knew what the whispers said. In fact, she started quite a few of them herself, sneaking into confessionals and telling secrets to gossipy priests, leaving notes for chattering nuns. Oh, yes, she relished in sparking fear into the hearts of the holy people.

Her death surprised everyone.

The day was surprisingly cold. It was the coldest day that autumn, with frost decorating the fallen leaves. Two sets of feet crunched against the dead foliage as they trudge towards an old house, the man's home. He let them inside, allowing her to go first into the warm rooms.

"I wish there was a different way." He had said, as they carefully removed their outerwear, placing the unneeded garments on the rack beside the door.

"There isn't." She had said lightly, lithe fingers running down the front of her shirt, exposing smooth skin to the air.

The man in front of her sighed. "I don't think I can..."

"Then give it to me." She held out her hand, impatient.

"Wrath, suicide is a-"

At this point, she had snatched the knife from his trembling hand. A sadistic grin had curved her lips, and her tone had mocked him. "A mortal sin? Boy, I harldy think one more sin upon my head will make any difference."

Temperance watched in silent horror as the girl took the knife to her own flesh, carving long furrows into her arm. The tip of the knife had dug far deeper than was neccesary. Wrath had enjoyed the feeling of her body resisting, then giving way to her own strength.

Of course, she had a funeral, and many attended. Blasphemy wrote a beautiful speech, filled with gilded words and praise. Her spot in the cub was filled within the week.