By all accounts, she was pretty. Pretty as a little eggplant could be. But sometimes they'd catch her with mouthfuls of clay--cheeks bursting, eyes streaming from pain. Or mistressing tiny classes of ants and grubs and drooping swampflies up her arms, around her wrists in inky patterns. Or on rainy days with her feet inches in the mud, lips and fingers angled skywards. So they said their prayers, fashioned a wardrobe of waterlogged skirts and earthen slippers, leaked news of her beauty in the direction of the nearest palace, and waited for the story to run its course.
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