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They whispered to her, day and night; a writhing, seething mass of accusatory little voices.

That’s what you get, they hissed. This is what happens when the Gods create life; when they curse and Refuse To Think Of The Consequences.

Every hair a new unhappy mouth, a new set of fangs to nip and tear and puncture. And whenever they were displeased (which was often) they bit. Her skin stung red-raw with tiny cuts, her ears filled with hissing.

Sometimes Medusa envied the heroes her gaze turned to stone; they, at least, had silence. She had to contend with the snakes.



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