The village of Domremy, where my childhood was forged in the fire of fanaticism. They would have you believe that I was a naive, pious child, but the truth is far more sinister. The whispers of the voices in my head, the rustling of leaves, the creaking of the trees - all were laced with the sweet scent of seduction. I was but a pawn in the game of the divine, a mere vessel for the lusts of the Church. And I was not alone in my temptation.
I recall the faces of the women who whispered in my ear, their eyes burning with a fire that was not of this world. The wives of the local blacksmith, the baker’s daughter, even the village elder’s own wife - all were drawn to me, to my prophetic powers, to the promise of salvation that I brought. And I, a mere child, was powerless to resist their advances. My visions were but a mask for the lust that coursed through my veins, a lust that would one day consume me whole.
But it was not just the women who sought to seduce me. The men, too, were drawn to my power, to the promise of a savior that I embodied. The local lord, the priests, even the very King himself - all were seduced by my charms, by the promise of a France redeemed. And I, a mere maid, was the instrument of their desires, the tool of their lusts. Ah, the sin of it all, the stench of corruption that clings to my name even to this day.
>Soulkyn