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Author Topic: Erzulie Saint-Dimanche  (Read 107 times)

* Erzulie Saint-Dimanche

    (10/06/2020 at 01:47)
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E L S E W H E R E   A D U L T

Character Name: Erzulie Saint-Dimanche
Gender: Woman
Age: 25
Blood Status: Unknown

Education:   Bayou Annunciation, 1944 - 1954

Residence:  London

Occupation:  “Entrepreneuse”

Do you plan to have a connection to a particular existing place (for example: the Ministry, Shrieking Shack) or to take over an existing shop in need of new management?  n/a

Requested Magic Levels:
  • Charms: 8
  • Divination: 12
  • Transfiguration: 6
  • Summoning: 6
Do you wish to be approved as a group with any other characters? If so who and for what IC reason?   n/a

Please list any other characters you already have at the site:  Icarus, etc


Translated from the original Haitian Creole:

My beloved mama,

I saw the Baron again today. He was waiting for me in the square when I finished with the shopping, dark eyes so heavy his stare weighed me down like no basket of mangoes ever could. With a boutonniere of spearmint and smoking from a calabash, he just stood. You’d think we had an appointment. You’d think we had a date.

You know I said nothing. You know I didn’t dare.  I held that look for a moment as I crossed him to the trail back home, and I prayed in a silent tongue with all the confidence that he could hear it. Didn’t finish the third time through before I heard his voice. In the square. In my head. In my goddamn teeth. And the bottom dropped out of my basket and my gut.

“Then I’ll see you tomorrow, chère!”

She’s a damn fool who don’t believe he would. So, because or despite, I smoked the house full of asofoetida, and blew his promises out the window. I gotta go back to the market tomorrow to replace all the bruised up fruits.

Why did you do it, Mama? Why did you pick him?

With love,
Your Zu


I know it wasn’t you who sent fresh fruit to my window overnight. What I don’t know is whether it’s safe to eat.

There are no worms in the peaches, nor halves of worms. Even the bananas are perfect, neither green nor freckled on smooth, waxy skin. It makes me itch.

What is being said to me?

Neither one of you can speak the word ‘forbidden,’ so why does your daughter feel its juice so sour on her tongue?

I would like to remind you, mama, I never asked for men in my life, like you.

With love,
Your Zu

She tied her scroll to the leg of a trogon (an easy recruit from the strangler fig that wrapped around her home) and urged the bird skyward with the spring of impatience in her elbows. Whether her mood was inheritance or a thing all her own, Erzulie did not wish to question. For such a faithful creature, so almost devout, she had questioned all her life. But her safety in refutation had come inarguably due.

There was more in her fingers than she had sent away. There was more in her soul. That was what she liked about being alone, that excess of herself beading on her skin like pearls of divine sweat. With no lovers, no children, no mother, no father to siphon her life from the corners of a smile she forced, there was just enough left the magic and the lwa and her own precious self for the drip of long days and the storms of waking nights. Bead after bead after drum after vèvè—

Erzulie put herself to work on a garland for the trail, for Ogou, spun of iron from the tip of a mayhaw wand.

Pray to the lwa of the roads that no one can reach you, but baby—

She’d had other dreams than solitude, when she was dumb and young. She wanted to make jewelry, and to drip with it. She wanted to do love spells, to catch eyes, hearts, souls in lockets with locks of curls in a bag. She wanted to be the name on the tip of every tongue: famous and glittering in it. Once upon a time, and she laughed as her panic entertained the thought, Erzulie wanted nothing more than to be surrounded.

She tied off the first strand of coin-like baubles to string between the palms. Her white skin in its patches began to itch. She dug her nails into the tender underside of her forearm.

Her mother called her spoiled. They had worked so hard and spent so much on the things Erzulie had, and they were no small tokens. A formal education abroad, a parcel of land to build her ounfò, a tri-level home, one floor for each stage of the costly rite of becoming a manbo. It was status the Haitian witch wanted, and they knew that power did not come cheap. Her mother, moreso. The fool and her favors from the Baron Samedi—

If she saw him once more, she promised herself it would be the last. Once more, and she would know that a difficult time had arrived. It was not something she wished to be present for. Once more, and she would have to leave.

The sound of dry bones rapped a rhythm on her front door.

—you’re never alone.

Roleplay Response (Option 2):

There was a curse on the North and it was called snow. If she were manbo yet, she would have huddled back inside and composed a counter-curse to the shrill and biting cold, would have banished the threat of powder from the sky that made her afraid just to walk. Banished forever, gris gris in the cobblestones, that it may never touch this ground again. It was pretty in its drifts, though. It glittered.

Bitterly, she sneered at the relentlessness of softness, of white. What did she know of Seasons? Her eternal summers were no better than this Winter, harsh though both seemed to be. Still, it crossed her mind. With every careful step and shiver, she thought a little more of what it might take to melt the street at once. It was probably a good thing there were too many people around, preventing her from trying. The shouting was an antidote effective where conspicuity failed, and she kept her hand off the wand in her pocket for the sake of keeping out of the way alone.

"Coming through! Coming th--- arrrgh!"

Neither anonymity nor safety from the snow were to be. She was struck by something large, but she was standing, on tiptoes, split legs and tiptoes in heavy black boots, afraid to turn around should she lose her balance and join the old man on the ground. Erzulie didn’t even dare open her eyes from the wince that hit her the moment the box did.

"I am so sorry! This blasted snow!"

Despite herself, she laughed. The visual of the white nightmare disappearing in a series of explosions was too great to ignore. And gravity, too, laughed with her as she rocked, pulling her down in peals and harmony.

“Man,” she addressed him properly despite her giggles,still unable to turn her eyes toward him, “that’s the best idea I heard all day, you haven’t no idea. Can you imagine it if we did?”

How did you find us? strawgoh, baby

* Calypso Ross

    (19/06/2020 at 09:26)
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