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louise charlotte grimshaw.
Louise was a white female in her early twenties.

She came from a long line of vaguely infamous witches tracing back to Norway, though her ancestors had moved around considerably before settling in America. Physically there was nothing remarkable about her: she stood at a mere five foot five, had blue eyes and no visible scars nor flaws that drew attention. While her mouth didn't smile, there was an aura about her that suggested she was in a good mood. Usually, she was.

Anyone with sensitivity to the supernatural could usually tell immediately that she was not normal: Louise did not hide that she was a witch and never had. She had made a living off of exploiting it, in fact. This exploitation was not limited to her magic, but it extended to the story of how she got it. She used it all to sell an image, never once correcting rumours or hearsay. Each individual spin on the tale differed slightly: some said that she murdered her family in the summer, others said the deed had been done in the winter. No one could agree on why she did it and Louise never seemed bothered enough to speak about it.

Outside of closed doors, no one spoke about Louise's transgressions; not only because no one had ever discovered proof beyond gossip and intuition, but because a witch's crime was witch business, and in particular, this crime was family business. For almost six years Louise had been patiently waiting for the justice of her kind. It seemed she might be waiting six more.