morsmaledictio

[morsmaledictio]

Proserpina has been considering all night this notion of the daylight jewelry. She's heard whispers of it in Port Leiry increasing as of late, but has yet to accomplish the work for herself. But the notion of it seems simple enough, now that Kore Matsui -- a jeweler, of all things -- cracked the code. Overcoming the weakness to sunlight with a vampire's own blood is a fascinating prospect. And for Ros, it's simply writing a different sort of curse into existence.

She may have needed Anathema's strength for her work on the whole Ryan pack, but letting one bloodsucker walk in the sun ought to be child's play.

As her sixth child, Tyche, approaches, Ros takes the glass offered to her and gently clinks it to the other's. "I am sure they, like I once did, were surprised to learn this town had much to offer," she says, sipping the drink. "I am surprised this wasn't Anathema's idea, though. It sounds like her sort of... charity work."

Is it charity, though? It's a massive shift in power, which is refreshing in the least. Ros turns to Tyche, wondering just how much of her life, like her mother's, felt upended when the seventh child fled their home.

"Have your services been requested by anyone here tonight?"

For: @morsmaledictio Where: The Conclave.

Tyche had arrived to the Conclave under the banner of the Circle of Augury, and she had no intention of bringing shame to the coven she had found shelter in. Augury however still felt like a a shirt shrunk in washing machine, ill fitting and simply the remnants  of something Tyche had once loved. At a place like the conclave, there was another coven Tyche desperately wanted the recognition and approval of.  As the concept of daylight jewelry spread  like ripples through the gathered crowds, it had witches on the lips of every supernatural creature in the building. Tyche knew an opportunity when it presented itself, and she knew how to braid the strands of fate so shed come out on top.   The conclave was a time for her to make the name Tyche known as a witch with power in her own right.  

Tyche moved through the party, clocking the familiar faces in the that moved through the room. Feeling the strands of chance and probability to assess where she might find the best luck to offering her services. Yet there was a tingle and draw towards one corner of the room. Proserphina Mors. Her mother.  She slowly flattened out her dress and titled her chin upward. Ros was never a women Tyche felt comfortable showing weakness in front of.  Snagging two wine glasses off a near by servers tray, Tyche approached Ros, smile careful trained on her face. 

"Amazing, that this year the conclave has come to a town like this over some pieces of jewelry. " Tyche offered the second wine glass to her mom. "Its kind of nice having the attention of world, knowing what we can do to change it"

[morsmaledictio]

The Conclave

She might not be a coven leader, but Proserpina Mors is still one of the preeminent witches of the Ironwood Coven, and a key figure of prophecy to boot. With Anathema, Tyche, and Briar all branched out across the city, the Seventh Daughter, Mother to Seven Daughters figures she might as well make a showing as well. Given the importance of blood in her prophecy, her purpose in Port Leiry, and the evening's discussions on vampiric daylight jewelry, Ros has chosen a bold red ensemble to make a statement.

[morsmaledictio]

Well now, this is interesting. Does Anathema have no flight left in her after running for so long? Proserpina wonders, then, if that means her daughter will fight.

There has been enough time and distance between them for sentiments to fester, surely. Anathema is young and defiant, and does not see time the same way that Ros has -- her daughter arrived to complete the prophecy, which existed far beyond either of them (Briar had made that much clear). But while the child was born into it, her mother knows just how long of a process it was to get there. And to be frightened and maligned at the tender age of 14 years, well, it was hardly any time at all. Anathema lacked the full vision, the scope and understanding of their place in this world, this coven, this family. It's easy, only to look at the growth of a flower above the soil, and lack the depth of its roots.

Contrary to what the girl might believe, her mother isn't here to punish her, kidnap her, or abuse her. While they might have different understandings of what family is and does, Ros wonders and suspects that they both have similar goals.

Does the child know they are more powerful than she is? If they truly understood that, the woman doubts they'd be standing here like this.

But it's a beautiful day in Port Leiry, one that begs to be met with a little designer drink in hand while you drink in the breeze and the sunshine. So she waits another moment, until Anathema has turned, and enters the shop.

"Hello, daughter of mine."

Every fiber of her being wanted to run, to leave, to get out and as far away as possible. But despite her need to get out, she found herself rooted in place. It wasn’t even something magic, her wards would have warned her, it was pure paralyzing fear. She felt like she was outside her body, watching herself as she raised her hand to wave back, the other hand still tucked beneath the counter typing frantically. Her hand hung there in the air, holding her prisoner as her mind warred with her body, instinct fighting with memory. Fight, flight or freeze. She’s had over a decade to prepare for this moment, and yet now that it is here at her feet and she can’t make them move. Flight has ruled her life for as long as she has been making decisions on her own, and to have it abandon her so suddenly is unsettling.

Her staying is an open invitation, the spark of possibility, however stupid, to allow her mother an opportunity to prove herself. To show what role Proserpina wants to play, if she is still intends to wield her youngest daughter as a tool to cause pain or if she would view her as a person. She didn’t question how the older witch had found her, Aoife had made it more than clear that even if she thought she was being clever in how she hid given enough resources she was easy enough to find. And the PhD program didn’t help, they liked to publish articles and lectures that she had participated in. It was impossible to be totally hidden with no digital footprint at this day and age.

Finally, she put her hand down, and turned to grab a drink for herself. Proserpina would do whatever she was going to do, Chamomile just hoped that she would be smart enough to not attack her outright in public.

[morsmaledictio]

which is more important to you, Chamomile's love, respect, or fear?

"I don't need Anathema to love me or even understand my choices I've made for her, but I don't necessarily want her to fear me either. Prophecy can be very daunting, but by the nature of Ironwood, we are in it together. I do think she owes me respect, for the part I've played in bringing her into her power. Do I feel entitled to utilize it for myself? Of course -- that's part of the prophecy. And it's more than respecting me, it's respecting the tradition of our coven. Ironwood didn't get to where it is because its witches lack discipline, or the strength to make hard decisions. But in the end if she hates me, that doesn't change the truth of our lives."

[morsmaledictio]

This little pup would be so easy to leash once more, and Ros wonders if she could walk the wolf right up to Anathema's shelter, wherever it might be. The girl always was drawn to the woods, the witches of Ironwood rooted wild and free above the earth that cradled them.

But the mother has no desire to torment this poor thing here and now -- the signs of her handiwork are evident enough. And so many artists simply do not know when to stop adding to their work. No, the ink has dried on this curse, for now. All she had to do here was trace its winding peaks and valleys, woven in runes and ruins for the Ryan pack.

"I don't know if I've ever met your parents in particular, but... what few redheaded wolves I've met did bear a striking resemblance... You are a wolf, right? Forgive my boldness, I assume you are a Ryan," Proserpina says. She in turn offers a morsel to the Ryan child -- though whether it makes them trust or fear her, she cannot decide.

"My work -- my magic -- has taken me many places, you see. But... no, I don't think we've met. After I had Anathema... well, she was my entire world. There's very little I will allow to stand in the way of my finding her."

Did mothers and daughters fight? Arte struggles to remember much about their own mother. They remember her hair, half a shade darker than their own. They remember she smelled like summer rain and cloves, even in the dead of winter. But they don't remember what color her eyes were, or what her voice sounded like. But what the woman says sounds right. Mothers are supposed to protect their children, even when their children are being stubborn.

They flinch slightly as the witch extends an arm, but she moves slow enough that their instincts don't flare. It would be awkward to explain why they bit a stranger's arm. Her touch over their head is warm, gentle, somehow soothing despite its unfamiliarity. How long had it been since Arte felt such softness directed at them by someone older, someone who seemed to know more of the world than they did?

Arte chokes back a small whine, just barely stopping from turning to lean into her touch. "W-why would they?" Blue eye squints in confusion. "Did y-you... know my, um, my par-parents?" Is that why she seems so familiar? They wrack their memories to try and recall if they'd ever met this woman before, if they'd met Cham, back when her name was Anathema. But if they had, why didn't Cham say something? "H-have we met?"

[morsmaledictio]

Ros notes the way that the woman seems disappointed in the prophecy coming to pass. It doesn't matter -- none of them could change fate. And Proserpina had her part to play and played it well. Not many could say the same and even fewer were given the chance in the first place.

"You seem to be managing yourself well enough," she surmises, though only time would tell how throwing a witch in a three hundred-some odd year time bubble into the strange new future would fare. "But don't worry, plenty of folks rant and rave about new works of the devil. He works hard, I hear."

Briar's admission surprises and intrigues her as much as it worries the witch. Ironwood is home, and while she's found herself bowed and bent to its laws, the coven has also provided Ros the power to flourish. Granted, she still requires Anathema's strength to better benefit her own, but she's earned some respect in the winding roots of the coven. It only took her seven arduous childbirths. "Back to the devil again," she mutters. "You, uh... color me curious, how do you intend to do that? Because I can't imagine the coven or its allies will take lightly to you trying to uproot everything."

A nod presents itself at Ros' confirmation, and Briar sucks in breath and clicks her tongue in disappointment at the notion that they've finally pushed their will into reality who knew how many times since her exile.

Briar nods again in acceptance of an invitation in, and so follows in Ros when she opens the door, eying the rented space with an appraising eye. "Aye, I find it suits me, this brighter age. Not so much caught up in the toils of survival as it is the lap of luxury. Small little mirrors with eyes that can see the whole word, carts without horse, music without instruments. It's all its own kind of strange magic, it is, and not a single Reeve coming red in the face to call it devilry. Yes, it does suit me quite well, here."

She turns to Proserpina, takes in the features of her blood, direct or distant or otherwise, that have crept down through three hundred years. "I should be honest, lest we waste time; I plan on wreaking devilry and havoc upon Ironwood, I should let you know that first and foremost. I would root agony in them so hot and so foul it would make the devil his self bemoan the excess of it."

[morsmaledictio]

Port Leiry was a sweet little town. It was clear that if Ironwood truly put down roots here, they would grow ferocious and deep and choke out the foundations of this very strange, magical place. But Proserpina needs the fruit of her labors to regain that power she worked so hard to cultivate.

The witch has met the Ryan child. She unearthed the strange root of her bloodline. Daughter number six even followed her out west, but managed to elude her eagle-eyed watch. And really, it should not have been difficult to find Anathema among the throngs of lesser beings in Port Leiry, but there was a thrill to the hunt. In sprinkling the seeds of fear, waiting for something to sprout in her daughter's sphere. The family is powerful, and the prophecy is inevitable. This collision has been a long time coming.

And yet, Ros is not ready to burst that bubble. Anathema might yet be more powerful than her, even if she squanders her gifts out of fear. Curses and family magic have their signatures to them, and even if the girl tried to stop using her powers, they were always a part of her. And they wouldn't stay down long. And so, Proserpina has managed to trace those familiar threads and find her child of prophecy hard-won working at a coffee shop. As if she weren't the jewel of Ironwood Coven.

Proserpina has been watching Anathema through the window of the coffee shop for some time now -- there's something... amusing and heartbreaking in watching the child go through such a mundane routine. She contemplates going in to order a coffee just to watch her daughter confront the truth that Ironwood, and fate, could not be escaped. But this is just as satisfying. The hunt is still on.

Eyes make contact and Ros stands, though she gently raises a hand and waves her fingers at Anathema.

I see you. I found you. I have you.

And yet she waits outside to see what the girl will do next.

Closed starter for @morsmaledictio

Location - Brewed Awakening one sunny and terribly slow afternoon (a true harbinger of doom)

Chamomile had been considering quitting her job at Brewed Awakening for a few weeks, the access to good coffee was nice, but after the cash infusion from Aoife it just didn’t feel necessary. The house was getting fixed up slowly but surely and she had access to the Internet at home. She really didn’t need the job anymore, and could use the extra time to work on her second comp or Arte and August’s curses instead. She hadn’t really been there much anyway, giving away shifts whenever someone asked or needed the extra cash.

A slow shift wasn't helping the matter, she had already cleaned everything that needed cleaning, restocked the front fridges and gone through the community board and taken down any fliers for events that had already passed. With nothing left to do she resorted to leaning against the back counter, staring out the front window at the sunshine she desperately wanted to be out enjoying. The sun had just started to really break through all the grey bleh of the Oregon coast in winter, and it felt criminal to be stuck inside. She toyed with her phone, tempted to text the manager to ask if she could be off early, or if Blair wanted to fake an emergency and get her out of her shift.

She was watching the window so passively, her gaze practically glazed over, she barely observed people walking by. She was embarrassed to realize that one figure had stayed in the window, looking in at her, and must have thought she was staring at them. Which she was, just not intentionally. Cringing she lifted her hand to wave as her eyes started to focus and horror slowly dawned on her, her body going cold as the familiarity of the figure outside became apparent. The long chestnut hair, a poise like an asp, always ready to strike. It had been over a decade since she had seen her mother and yet there was no mistaking the woman in front of her, there was no denying the thrum of magic that connected them like a livewire, setting her teeth on edge. Her hand froze mid air, every fiber of her screaming to run, to get out, to hitch a ride out of town and get as far away as fast as she can. Immediately her mind goes to the emergency go bags she has, one here in the back freezer, one in her office at the university, one at home and a few other hidden throughout the city. She could leave, never look back, lead her mother away so she can't hurt anyone else she cares for. It was stupid, she realized in this terrible gut wrenching moment, to allow herself to fall for a Ryan. What was she thinking, she could lift the curse and all would be forgiven? Curses weren't even her specialty, despite every wish and the auspice of her name, she had spent every day since she ran trying to be good, trying to prove that fortelling false that she could be more than the scourge her mother had dreamed of. Maybe if she had leaned into it, actually practiced her hand at casting a curse or two, she would have undone the curse on Arte by now and slipped out of town before Proserpina ever caught up to her.

Beneath the counter her fingers flew through the practiced patterns of unlocking her phone, pulling up her messages, and with a split second of thought, and a flick of her eyes down to ensure she had picked correctly, she started sending out frantic texts.

[morsmaledictio]

Ros is under no delusion that her daughter has chosen a different name than she was given at birth. But Anathema is more than a name -- it is her nature. She cannot change the circumstances of prophecy, as much as she wishes to. As powerful as she is within the family line.

The redhead's gentle question is one of innocence, carefully couching suspicion. The witch restrains a laugh, but she takes quiet note of the way their eye moves towards something... familiar. Perhaps safe. "Like all mothers and daughters are destined to do, we had some... disagreements. But all I've ever wanted is for her safety -- with her family. I'm sure you understand that desire to be with the ones who share your blood, especially when it's been spilt."

Proserpina steps to meet the young Ryan, feeling that invisible leash between them. The curse, the connection. They might be timid, but this child is a wolf nonetheless. The witch reaches out a hand and gently, oh so gently, brushes it over Arte's head. "Shh," she soothes, "there's no need to worry. I'm not here to harm you. I know of your pack, yes -- and call it intuition, but that fiery red hair... You're a long way from home, aren't you? Your true home, that is. My daughter is as well, I wonder if your energies were drawn to one another..."

There is something about the way the woman looks at them that makes Arte itch under their collar, like the faint touch of magic that has accompanied them for years. The curse that pulses under their skin, though it had been distant since they had arrived in Port Leiry, seems to prickle. But maybe... they imagined it? When they look back up at the stranger, there is only gentle concern on her face.

"Um... Ana-" Their tongue fumbles around the name, even though it rings in their ears sharply. As she steps forward, a breath catches in Arte's chest and they flinch as if bracing for a blow. "F-family," they repeat, nodding numbly. Their good eye flickers off to the left, off in the general direction of where Cham's house in the woods stood. "W-why did she... um, why h-haven't you talked?"

But their question is choked off when this stranger calls them by name, and their knees wobble slightly. "I.. h-how?" Eye trains back on them with equal parts hope and suspicion. "Y-you know about m-my...?" It's their turn to take a step forward, unconsciously towards the most tenuous connection to their past.

[morsmaledictio]

☎️ for Tyche!

[morsmaledictio]

What are your Muse’s thoughts on public sex?

That depends on how public you consider "public". Ros isn't an exhibitionist in the sense she'd have sex in a crowded park or something, but given the fluidity and very social nature of sex and reproduction in the Ironwood Coven and its adjacent covens, she has few qualms about being observed by others she knows (even as acquaintances) in a visible but not widely publicized space. If the sex is purely selfish for her own pleasure, she might want a little more privacy, but so much of that has been tied to her role in the prophecy that she's unphased by having people observing.

[morsmaledictio]

As far as Ros is concerned, she doesn't mind drawing out this game with Anathema a little longer.

See, her power has always been in curses. And a word can be a curse depending on how it's said. For her renegade daughter, Proserpina has no doubt that the word 'mother' whispered on lips from those she's met is a hex that hangs heavy on Anathema's head. Every daughter must have a mother, and every Ironwood their burden of prophecy. Ros is admittedly entertained and intrigued by the knowledge of dear blood Briar flung far out of time and her place in the family line. And the roots of Ironwood are winding themselves around Port Leiry in a most comforting fashion.

When your life has been so prescribed, the vise feels like an embrace after a time.

Ros knows this club has dancers of an undead persuasion. She's aware that a witch's blood is like catnip to them. But she knows they don't know her and what she's capable of. Most of Port Leiry has no idea in that regard. It gives her a sense of freedom and an air of confidence, as she moves through the shadows like the cat that caught the canary. Soon, her little bird, her little burden, will be back home. But until then, she's only got one life to live, and she's already spent so much of it at the pleasure of others. Time to get some pleasure in return.

"Well, as much as I'm here to drink in the simply electric atmosphere," Ros says, placing her fingertips down on the bar top, palm curved, "Something tells me you can't exactly put that in a glass." Playfully, she straightens back up, trying to get a read on whether the young man was merely eye candy or perhaps a treat for the dancers themselves.

"So, failing that, I'll take a Negroni."

WHEN? 11:11 pm.

WHERE? Satin Cabaret.

WHO? Open (0/4).

The hustle and bustle of a 9-5 doesn’t suit Jameson. In fact, employment in general crushes his free spirited nature, but Dorian says they need something stable. Motel rooms and the kindness of strangers are no longer going to cut it. Dorian says a job might do him well too. Roots have to be grown in Port Leiry, and the seeds are planted in a shitty studio apartment and a bartending gig at a strip club.

If he must be a cog in the machine, Jameson’s gonna make that machine work for him.

Satin Cabaret is an establishment where he fits in quite well. Who doesn’t love a job with a view? Besides, he’s attentive enough toward some patrons and flirtatious enough with others that he’s always guaranteed a big tip. No, Jameson is not the show that draws them in, but he likes to think he’s what gets them to come back. One way or another. Bartending only brings in so much money. He’s got another little hustle that’s about to take off.

He calls it Hex.

It’s no secret in the supernatural world that vampires go crazy for witch blood. The magical properties make them feral for it. Bottling up some blood and selling it to vampires is a business opportunity in itself. There’s another opening here too. See, humans go nuts over this shit too, it has similar effects to mushrooms. Maybe molly too. Jameson hasn’t had the experience himself; it won’t work on him, magic’s already in his blood. But you give some of that to someone with no magic pulsing through their veins, and it’s crazy. It’s addictive. It’s fun.

See, Jameson has two jobs at Cabaret. He sells drinks, and he sells this drug. Patrons looking for alcohol come running to him; patrons looking for Hex, he has to scope out. The crowd at the bar has cleared out, for the most part. Only one person is left to serve, and Jameson wonders if there’s something else he can offer them besides liquor.

He makes his way to them, wiping down a glass as he does so. “Hey,” Jameson greets them,  the bar lights shining down upon him, highlighting the dazzling grin on his lips. “What are we drinking tonight?”

[morsmaledictio]

Proserpina can't say she's exactly heard the name, but her family are no strangers to portentous names laden with meaning. Significance. She knows Anathema has forsaken her given name, but the mother knows her child will never forsake their nature. A curse, through and through. This... Briar, though, is strange.

"You used a finding spell? Hm," Ros says, raising an eyebrow. A necessary evil in a world of witches, but she rarely takes comfort (or pleasure) in knowing others are enacting their will against hers. Using magic on her, about her. But it's the woman's next remark that draws a poisoned laugh out of her.

"Oh, Briar, sister," she says, turning the other's word against her like a curse on her tongue. "I'm the Ironwood with six sisters. And seven daughters."

Madness, maybe, but she'd played her part in the prophecy dutifully. It was a choice she didn't really have, but a choice to do everything within her power. Her power, limited, paled in comparison to that seventh daughter.

"Do you want to come inside? Talk a bit about this... uprooting in the family tree? And if no one has said it, welcome to the 21st century, Briar. There's a lot you've missed."

"I came to New England Drufilla," she says, almost conspiratorially. "A poor take on the name I was given by my mother in her time. Briar is my chosen name, however, and so stricken from history I assume for fear of its prickly meaning."

She steps forward, leaning a coy eye towards her. "We are blood, distant, very distant, this finding spell would not have led me here were we not. But Proserpina's declaration catches her curiosity by the tail like a flailing cat and she simply can't resist the question. "An Ironwood with Six sisters, how wonderfully disappointing to see them still pursuing madness, even three centuries on."

Briar smiles at her own implication. What was the old saying about one good turn?

[morsmaledictio]

The Catmint Cottage is quaint. Proserpina has been around the property long enough to tell that it's at least owned and operated by a witching sort, though its decor and general demeanor are meant to package the black arts in an aesthetically pleasing, palatable for the ignorant unaware. But it's cheap enough to rent for her hopefully temporary stay while she reclaims the errant Anathema.

However, she's not expecting visitors here. Truly, other than her daughter, no one should know she's here. Ros frowns at the woman waiting for her. "You're not one of my six sisters," she asserts, though she is sure the stranger speaks in a metaphorical sense. Still, anyone who knows of Ironwood knows of their adherence to the sevenfold prophecy. Proserpina can't help but raise an eyebrow at the woman's name, though.

"You'll have to excuse me, I don't know anyone by the name of Briar Mors. But you know Ironwood, is it? Tell me what it is you're doing here, I find myself a busy woman."

Catmint Cottage

@morsmaledictio

The blood on the map traces two paths - this is the end-point closest and so it's the one she's chosen. This woman - this Proserpina - is not at home when she arrives, and thought the caretakers of the property seemed less than enthused with her loitering, she's scared them off.

When the other woman does arrive, however, she digs her heeled boots in at the doorway, prepared to stand there until she's made to move or otherwise satisfied. "Ironwood, this far into the west? Truly a strange world I've found m'self in." She lets her head roll to one side, searching out the features of her blood in Ros' face. "Hello, sister - m'name is Briar Mors, and I've such tales to tell thee."

[morsmaledictio]

There is a difference between a grown wolf broken to bow and kneel and a young one who has perhaps lived more years leashed than not. It's evident in the way the wolf carries itself, and its reaction to change, to challenge. Do they bite first? Do they shrink and whimper? This young Ryan couldn't have been more than her daughter's age at the time of the curse, if the family resemblance did indeed bear some truth. But unlike Anathema's rising defiance in the face of their family prophecy, the years have instilled fear into this one.

Proserpina is fascinated by the thought that this one could have lived longer as a wolf than a person. They were truly shaped by the curse, cradled in her spellwork. A smile rises as the witch takes pride in herself for a moment, but she swallows it down for a look of motherly concern instead.

"Her name is Anathema. It's a beautiful name, though she never cared for it. So she may be calling herself something else -- we haven't spoken in some time," she says, taking a step closer to the avoidant redhead. "But family is precious. Worth protecting, don't you think?"

Sometimes it's a coincidence, not a curse, that draws people into unusual circumstances. What would the odds be that a Ryan would find her daughter? Was the bond of Anathema's magic in weaving their fated agony like an invisible lure? Anathema and Arte... like Ros and Ael. Oh, it would simply be too perfect.

"Arte... you remind me of someone I know -- you're a Ryan, yes?"

Ever since the night they ran with their pack, Arte has spent nearly every free moment out amongst the trees, hoping they might catch another glimpse of them. They had heard other people talking about seeing ghosts that same day, disappointment curling in their chest when they realize that this was just some fluke from when the years changed over. It doesn't stop them from venturing out though, forcing the shift at night to run and trudge through the woods when they're not working or busy with something else.

But they haven't seen even a glimpse of those ghostly figures and Arte knows that they should accept that they were not going to come back. Their heart aches in their chest, devastated that they lost a second chance to say goodbye because they had been so caught up in their own excitement. Arte tilts their head up to meet the sunlight streaming through the trees so they can pretend that the warmth behind their eyes comes from the sky and not from their tears.

A voice interrupts them, and their entire body flinches before turning to face this stranger, and they freeze, mouth open slightly as they take her in. The resemblance to Chamomile is uncanny, and if that weren't enough, the mere mention of flowers pushes away any further doubt.

Cham hadn't talked much about her life before coming to Port Leiry, and Arte wasn't sure if they should ask. There always seemed to be a sort of dark cloud that hovered over the witch when the past was brought up, and Arte never wanted to be the reason for that. But they had heard enough to know that Cham's relationship with her family was complicated. "W-what's her n-name?" they ask, eye not quite meeting the woman's gaze, as though she might be able to read the truth through the expression on their face. "I'm, um... I'm Arte."

[morsmaledictio]

She watches the change in Ael's countenance, as the spirit of the wolf melts into a dog heeled and muzzled. Oh, but she loves that dog -- sometimes in the way you love a pet, and sometimes in the way you love the monster you find yourself relating to despite it all.

"Mm," Proserpina pouts when Ael uses that four letter word. "It was a lovely cabin. It really did feel like home with you there... I'm sorry we had to leave it."

Of course, they didn't leave at the same time, but that didn't mean it wasn't home. That it wasn't something meaningful. The witch would say the same of her wayward daughter's departure -- though it seems to be increasingly clear that those around her are never content with what they're given. Ros, however, finds so much more success working within the boundaries of her prophecy, slow and agonizing as they may be.

A small smirk crosses her lips at his accusation -- a bitch who thought she could experiment on him. Awh, the dog's bark has some bite for her. Ros has always resented being likened to a bitch. It was the crux of the curse in the first place. But she can see Ael is hurt, and struck dogs will lash at anyone.

"You were never a job to me. You were a passion," she says casually. A pet project, as it were. "And besides, I thought we shared something there for a while, Ael. You know I have no love for hunters and their crude methods." Proserpina and her coven have, at times, aided rogue hunters here and there. But there was a comfort in knowing that those like the Fellowship relied on witches for any results. They, too, were powerless.

"As much as I wish I could say it was our bond that brought me here, I've got something a bit bigger on my plate -- my daughter. My last child, the one I would have loved to raise with you, but Ironwood had other plans for her. Other plans for me," Ros says, recalling that old promise she made to the wolf in that cabin, several times over. Never the right time, never the right child.

"Anathema. I heard she lives nearby, and I thought I'd pay a visit. But I could ask you the same thing -- what has you so far west?"

He chokes on the magic ⸻ stifling, dense, pricking his tongue and drying his throat when he swallows a mouthful of it. He must look like a fish out of water; parting his lips with words he dare not get out, wide eyes facing a terrifying reality, lungs unable to catch enough air. Had he been a different person, she a different woman, his arrogance would've gotten the best of him ⸻ emotions would be guarded and hidden, lips snarling instead of trembling.

But they are who they are, they share what they share, and Ael doesn't possess the capability of hiding from Ros. He thought only his emotions, but now ⸻

"I've escaped from the cage, you mean," voice shaky, open, gentle as a summer breeze. He is nothing but an obedient dog, looking his owner in the eyes with the tiredness of decades and old wounds. The fingers gripping the fur around him tightens, blood-cutting-white, in a desperate effort to keep himself unmoving. Like a good dog, every bone in his body urges him to move forward, fall on his knees and wrap himself around her waist. He won't give Ros the satisfaction.

Instead, he chuckles, "Why? Are you worried someone stole your job?" But he sighs. The hunter got him good, his skin still buzzing and sore despite the days of freedom and healing. He nods, once, in defeat. "Just a bitch who thought she could experiment on me. You know how hunters are." A barbed wire accusation. Why did you kill my family? He doesn't ask. His knowledge of the massacre is still murked, pieces of information he can't form a full picture with. Were the witches to blame? Were the hunters? Is there a difference?

Suddenly, he worries she is here to finish the job; hunt Arte down like an animal, kill them with little thought. His shoulders straightens and his lips tighten, knowing he will fight her before allowing her to hurt his pup.

Jumping off the hood, he stands a few feet away from her, too small in his coat after his time in the basement, too weak to pretend he is taller than she is, stronger, but defiant enough to hold his head high. "What do you want, Ros? What are you doing here?" Surely, she can't be here for him. To get him back. If that keeps her for hurting Arte, he will stay by her side like a mutt on a leash. But he doubts he is important enough for her to come all the way here.

[morsmaledictio]

👗 - An outfit my character would wear.

When she's not in her coven-work clothes (I imagine she keeps some special garments that she's more willing to get dirty while doing her various... witching activities or toxicology) Ros loves long coats and high-waisted pants. She keeps it very business-chic 75% of the time.

[morsmaledictio]

Like an artist signing their work, every curse has a signature.

It's a clasp, a promise, a calling card for the witches who weave their sinister spellwork. As base as a graffiti tag, "Great Power Was Here." There's a twisted beauty in watching the way your work goes forth into the world -- where it travels, how well it withstands the challenges of the world.

Proserpina is proud of her curses -- at least she can still control those. The same can't be said for her runaway daughter, though Anathema's magic still has a signature too.

Port Leiry is quaint -- a bit beneath Ros, but she can feel the pulse of many magic signatures here. None quite so powerful, she feels, as the strength of the Ironwood line, but very few could attain that level of discipline and planning (and sacrifice) needed to reach that strength. She can tell just by walking here as well that there are many other types of powerful creatures that stalk and prowl the city. Including, curiously, the signature of her life's second greatest work.

(Anathema, whether either woman likes it or not, is the first.)

Of course she couldn't forget the power she wove around the Ryan pack -- she'd spun it out of Ael's own fur, of course, a curse custom fitted. The softest cage she could muster. And she can feel the wolf clinging to it for succor, cut adrift and anchored by it all the same. The witch wanders through the woods, the tether of her magic bringing her back to the dog like a leash. Red hair is bright like a warning among the earthy tones of the trees. And she smiles as the fire leaves his face at the very sight of her.

"Ael, dearest. You've roamed so far from the cabin where I left you." Her voice is honey sweet, words slow from her tongue as she approaches his truck. Something like concern crosses Proserpina's brow -- there's the sign of someone else's work here. Less magical, more crude. Physical. "Someone's hurt you, haven't they?"

proserpina mors, @morsmaledictio

He knows, realistically, there's no need for the coat in Port Liery. Ael hasn't grilled Arte too much about it; has no desire to overwhelm his pup with questions of magic the poor thing barely understands themself. Whatever the reasons, it should be freeing ⸻ That weight off his shoulders, the wet fur not bothering his nostrils. But truth be told, he feels completely out of his depths without being wrapped by the heavy magic and warm fur. His own fur. Naked, vulnerable. It should shame him, disgust him ⸻ A symbol of conquering a beast, skinning their armor for selfish luxuries. He should hate the stupid thing.

Yet, he finds himself gripping it tight in weak hands, letting the weight of it around his back soothe his worries and fears. The hunter had shaken him ⸻ reminded him why he can't be weak, mellow, friendly. He has yet to tell Arte about what happened, the torture he suffered during the week he spent chained in some crazy bitch's basement ⸻ But he can't do that to his pup. Not now, when he feels so weak and terrified. A roll of weed hangs loosely from his fingers, gotten from a kid speaking too fast for his tastes, filling his lungs in an attempt to distract his mind from the truth; he is not the once proud wolf he used to be.

Hasn't been for decades. This pathetic thing Ael has become is not what he dreamed, of when he was young and energetic. He wanted to be Alpha, wanted to be strong, and wanted a family he could love and be loved in return. His mother despised him, and his brother received all the praise and rewards. It wasn't fair, that the closest he ever got to his dreams was a cabin in the woods with a woman who pretended to enjoy his company. Even now, sitting on the hood of his truck, watching the wind pass through the trees, he can smell her; the scent of her magic, so heavy on his tongue. When he swallows, it fills his throat, and Ael blinks.

It feels too livid to be a memory, too ugly to be a dream. His heart begins hammering inside his chest, ears picking the sound of grass and leaves crunching, breaking ⸻ He looks over his shoulder, color draining from his face. "Proserpina?"