She Who Must Not - aka Lady Voldemortina - is an ancient Bane or goddess suffering from angst eternal somewhere in the Lost Deep. She devours the souls of betrayed women and adds them into the churning taedium vitae that constitutes Her essence, where they may despair for all eternity - and ever further. She, indeed always and deservedly written with a capital S, features as an actual entity in Against All Things Ending and The Last Dark.
She was pretty. Long ago. But over recent eons, She's really let Herself go. Nowadays, no matter how much beer you'd drunk, you'd really never consider hitting on Her in a late-night bar. Mind you, with the amount of junk She's got in Her trunk, She'd need a simply massive barstool.
She has become so batshit crazy over the long millennia of her torment that She's even forgotten Her own name. As it happens, this is A Good Thing™, since if Her real name were ever uttered aloud, entire mountains would apparently be sundered and the world allegedly shaken to its very core. She must have been christened something spectacularly stupid, then.
Bugged By Imaginary CentipedesEdit
She Who Must Not possesses no true body, but lurches onwards as an amorphous mass consisting of the tortured visages of Her victims. Three or four of such residents manifest themselves as major stagefillers at a time, moaning and whimpering a thousandfold worse than even a regular Linden - hard though this may be to believe, it's really true. One can perceive Her approach by formication (WARNING: do not ever, EVER replace that m with an n!), id est the imaginary sensation of insects creepy-crawling over one’s skin. Most delightful.
Personality - From Babe To BaneEdit
She is a classic feminine archetype - in fact, one might say that She is the quintessential female. For example, many have said that She was originally Diassomer Mininderain - also known as Mrs. Creator. Diassomer, like some stereotypical desperate housewife, was tempted into an affair by Lord Foul while her hubby was busy at work constructing the universe. Once Diassomer was busted and her affair revealed, she was quite rightfully kicked out by Her husband, but did she ever take any responsibility? Like Hell she did - instead, she spent her whole time sobbing, bleating, bitching and blaming everybody else. Well, hold on a second here. If you'd managed to keep your underwear round your waist instead of round your ankles, Diassomer, things might have turned out better for you. Wake up and smell the coffee - it's down to you, dear. Typical woman.
It has been said that, once her affair had gone wrong, had Diassomer done the usual girl thing and taken to her bedroom for 24 hours with a couple of bottles of Pinot Grigio, a 3 litre tub of Haagen-Dazs Double Choc Chip ice-cream, a pack of cream cakes and a DVD boxed set of the entire series of Sex In The City, instead of disappearing up her own wazoo in a never-ending fit of self-pity and self-loathing, then she might not have metamorphosed into such a horrific bane in the first place. Okay, so she screwed up fairly spectacularly in falling for Lord Foul's offer to go for a ride in his shiny new Bugatti Veyron (not that he ever actually had one. Lord Foul's a compulsive liar... the clue's in the name) - but there's always hope, even for damaged goods. Perhaps if she'd created a profile on deitymatch.net or lookinganddesperate.com or something, she'd have had a happier existence - and there'd have been no She Who Must Not Be Named. What a silly cow.
(Meh - those women who recovered so easily haven't met me ~Lord Foul)