As a reclusive woman there were many rumors that swirled about me in the town below my chateau. Perched high atop a mountain, in a wooded valley near the crest, my home was seldom visited and I never saw reason to leave it. Of course, the occasional young man questing to murder the evil crone that resided within the walls of my home, or an older knight who’d heard tales of a beautiful young maiden cursed to sleep a thousand years, would sometimes wander into my garden but they were easy enough to either placate or avoid as I desired.
My favorite rumor, though, was that I was a ravishing witch with the power to claim the souls of even the purest of men without so much as touching them. Apparently, just gazing upon my form could lead a pious man to forsake his gods and offer himself up to me instead. While that has happened on occasion, it was not my actions, neither by smile nor touch, that caused it. It was simply a convenient lore they used as an excuse to satiate themselves of previously denied physical pleasure. I satisfied every need they presented me with. I took pity upon them. They returned my loving companionship with vile rumors of my treacherous beauty having corrupted their pure hearts. The blame fell on me for simply existing in a female form rather than accepting any responsibility for their own weak-willed and lustful nature.