Mask:

Miss Maggie, as she's taken to being called since her husband passed, is a kindly and gentle sort of woman. The years have weighed heavily on her, as they had all the women of the Weaver family, leaving long lines of wrinkles on her features and a slight hunch to her shoulders. Her once brown hair is faded, a dull straw color rather than grey. Despite the hardships, her hands are still lithe and dexterous, her steps still steady and sure. Her brown eyes are sharp, though she is more than adept at not seeing the things she doesn't want to see.  A conscious absentmindedness, a willingness to overlook those things that don't quite add up right.

Bless her, but there is hardly a soul in the world less judgmental than Miss Maggie.

She stands maybe 5'4", dressed like any God-faring church-marm would be. No makeup, very little jewelry save a single beautiful and delicate golden crucifix that she wears around her throat. The piece is extremely old, and she tends to rub absentmindedly when she is reminiscing on the past, unaware of how thinly worn her thumb has become. Her clothes are respectable, if a little old. Jackets, sweaters, and slacks in patterns and designs that were never the height of fashion, even when they had been current 40 years ago.

Mein:

Reference image

https://www.pinterest.com/pin/826762444107601420/

The Witch of Doors is a hunched thing, larger by far than the small space of the Mask she inhabits. There is no dread presence to her size, no hidden menace, though of course mortal eyes might find her disturbing. She leans vastly too far forward to be anything even remotely human. She is draped in an old family quilt that obscures much of her features, the smiling portraits and embroidered names about her neck fresh and new, those obscuring her feet so worn and faded as to be almost erased entirely. Though if someone looked closely, they might note that the faces of even the newest patches are all strangely smudged, far too easy for the eye to slide off of them.

She wears the quilt like a hooded cloak, obscuring her head and shoulders, and not even her face is visible. For the Witch of Doors wears a strange and beautiful mask upon her face, never taking it off. The mask looks to be made of porcelain, or more likely plastic, a cheap tchotchke of a beautiful woman smiling sadly. Those familiar with such religious symbolism might easily recognize the serene gaze as that found on countless small plastic statues of the Virgin Mary on a seemingly endless assortment of auntie and grandmother's mantle pieces.

Prologue:

Born square in the middle child of seven siblings in 1953, Margaret Weaver was always a precocious child who hated to be alone. Her family had been primary care takers and undertakers for St. Vincent de Paul Cemetery since practically before the first grave had ever been dug into the earth, and at a young age Maggie had settled in like a perfectly fitting cog into the labor of the Funeral Home. Not even marriage, nor even having children of her own was truly enough to pull her away from the family mortuary,  though she dedicated herself fully to those as well. Through the Church, home, and her family old and new, she surrounded herself with people, never giving herself a moment to be alone with her thoughts.

Yet as the years turned into decades, the toll of time began to weigh heavily upon the shoulders of her family. The heart attacks that claimed her father and uncle, the car accident that took her eldest son, the embolism that stole her youngest daughter, the drink that took so many of her family and friends, one by one those closest to her heart became the subjects of her work.  One by one, those whom she loved passed on, lending themselves to the tender care of the surviving members of her family. She hardly even recalls when she became the last Weaver, walking the empty halls of the funerary home and reminiscing to herself about the things that used to be.

Purpose:

She'd been so consumed with her own grief that she did not even notice the first one, that first twisted soul placed under her care. Had she not paid enough attention to the mourning widow, had she even looked at their face? Why did the body who she carefully prepared have skin more like the bark of a tree than human flesh? It didn't matter, they were all God's children in the end.

Everyone needed someone to take care of the dead.

Durance:

The line between when she merely served the Gentry from within her family's funerary home, and when the Facestealer actually took her into Arcadia, is not one that Miss Maggie remembers clearly. Lost in her own grief, it all blended together. The trinkets and knickknacks that she had held onto her whole life, the photos of dead children and lost relatives? She still had them, did she not? The walls of her family's home twisted and turned to the thoughts of an alien mind, mirrors where she never recalled them being before, but it was still her home. It had to be. All her things were there, weren't they?

Only now, none of the poor souls whose mortal flesh she tended too looked anything even remotely human, nor did the clients who brought them in. Angels, Demons, Ghosts? She didn't know, and she didn't ask. It didn't bother her too much, she'd seen all kinds in her day. She was just happy to have company again. She hadn't realized how much pain the loneliness had caused, until there were folk to talk with again. Strange folk, for sure, but she wasn't one to ask questions or judge. That was the Lord's purview, not hers.


Escape:

Her freedom was won the same way it had been lost, with dear old Miss Maggie not even realizing the change. One day she had been working on the final rites for a lion faced boy whose skin looked like it had been charred near to ash, chattering ceaselessly with the Ghosts who almost never left her alone.

Yet when she was done, the body cleaned and prepared, no one came to pick it up. Not the Lord of Mirrors, nor any of his seemingly infinite retainers. No one. How long did she wait, weeks, months, she did not know. No one came.

Eventually, almost insane with loneliness, she wandered out. Looking for where all her friends had gone.

Questions:

Having answered these questions, now we will try to assign her three aspirations:

1. Does any part of her family yet live and can she find them?

Miss Maggie is looking to make new family, as all of hers has long since moved on to a better place.

2. Can she protect the endangered children of New Orleans?

She can give them shelter, an open door to a safe place.

3. Can she connect with other Changelings who can restrain her terrible rage?

Desperately yes. A thousand times yes. She has to. She can't be alone.