#he would be a recent nobility that was gifted to him after accidentally helping some royal or something of that nature | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

leyacer · 4 years

Photo

A while ago I was talking with a friend about what it’d be like if aa was a jrpg, and now I have an AU, which I’m calling Turnabout Tales! Three guesses which game series it was inspired by.

It spans the entirety of the main series, but for this post I’m focusing on aa4, specifically Apollo, Trucy, Ema and Klavier! You can find more info under the cut!

Note: I came up with quite a bit concerning the world, but I don’t want to make this too long, so I’ll keep it to ajaa-relevant stuff (There isn’t much main plot here though. Pretty much all descriptions are pre-Turnabout Trump)

The world

Dikaios

A kingdom divided into six districts: Oures, Antora, Valasi, Kurain, Demortan and Patheri

Each district is ruled by a duke or duchess, except for Oures, which is ruled by the king or queen of Dikaios.

Demortan: District most removed from the king’s domain, after Kurain. Used to be ruled by the Gramaryes, but is now being ruled by Kristoph Gavin. Known for its talented mages. Despite its harsh ruler, its criminal underworld has been growing steadily

Magic

1 in every 3 people has the ability to use magic, though innate power varies from person to person

Magic commonly draws from the four elements; water, earth, fire and air. It is possible to use magic that isn’t immediately linked to a specific element, but because elemental magic is easier to perform, that’s the most popular practiced form of magic.

Magic related to enhancing a person’s natural abilities, their senses or healing wounds is a risky type of magic, since it’s basically altering someone’s body. Practitioners must have years of practice under their belt to decrease the risk of accidentally harming someone with their magic.

Healing spells are often bound to talismans and the like, to decrease the risk even further (intense emotion can negatively influence magic)

Spirit channeling still exists, but it’s incredibly hard to do

Staffs, wands etc. can be used to assist someone in using magic

Apollo

Born in Demortan, but adopted by Dhurke after Jove died in Khura’in

Was returned to Demortan after the rebellion started

Because Dhurke didn’t have any contacts in Dikaios who were able to take care of Apollo, Apollo grew up in an orphanage, which is where he met Clay

Once Apollo became too old to stay in the orphanage, he began looking for a job

Clay, who was moving to Patheri to become an assistant to a famous inventor, offered to take him with him, but Apollo declined

As Apollo grew older he noticed the danger that was lurking beneath the surface in Demortan, or at least part of it. He wanted to find some way to make positive changes, but there wasn’t much he could do at that point

After a year or so, Apollo was taken on as a squire by Kristoph, who’d happened to notice his wit and speed several times that year and thought he’d be a useful knight

He’s owned the gauntlet with the decorations around the wrist since he was a kid, but after he became a squire and could afford it, he bought a semi-matching one

The gauntlet helps him perceive people’s tells, but it has also been enchanted to improve the wearer’s reflexes

Wields a short sword, though he’s a decent fistfighter as well

Unable to use magic, but he understands how it works

Still takes the time to do his hair every day and often refuses to wear helmets because of it

In his spare time, he likes to read in the castle library

Trucy

A very talented mage and performer traveling together with her dad in hopes of finding a reliable patron

Born while the Gramaryes were still in power, but when they disappeared, she was left behind, and adopted by Phoenix, who had lost his knight status not too long ago

Able to use very advanced magic

She picked up the basics and a few other things while still living with Zak, and practiced a lot by herself afterwards

Phoenix taught her a couple of things too

Her staff used to be vital when practicing, but now it simply provides her with a bit of extra power

Despite being great at magic, she loves performing magic tricks and puts as much effort into learning them as in learning actual magic

Occasionally performs said magic tricks at taverns or any other place that would let her perform

She usually uses her most unique tricks for those performances, otherwise people would just accuse her of using actual magic

Ema

Amateur alchemist trying her best to be recognized as legitimate

She’s great at making all sorts of potions and elixirs, though she prefers coming up with new ones, with mixed results

She has a habit of being careless with her concoctions, which is why she hasn’t been officially made an alchemist

She’s also blown up at least two buildings by accident

Her coat is a novice alchemist’s coat, and a gift from Lana

Whenever she started to grow out of it, she would adjust it so it would still fit her

Originally from Oures, but left to study in Patheri, ending up in Demortan after she kept causing accidents

Makes a living by selling salves and healing potions, though she sells her own creations to those interested from time to time

Able to use magic, but doesn’t care much for it, and as a result doesn’t know much more than the basics

Klavier

Lives in Demortan’s capital, but he travels around the district a lot

Aware of the rising chaos in Demortan.

He knows there have been more and more violent incidents and criminal acts in recent months, but he isn’t aware of their true extent, nor of the cause

This is partially because he travels so much, but also because Kristoph intentionally keeps him from finding out

Is almost as much in the dark about how Kristoph came to power as the majority of Dikaios’ citizens

Makes music in his spare time, either by himself or with Daryan

He often does it in public places, so others can get to enjoy the music too

Well-known amongst nobility and commoners alike

Nobles know him for being a knight and Kristoph’s brother, commoners know him for his music

Owns a full set of armor, but only wears it when he needs to

Armor is heavy, and Klavier prefers to be mobile in a fight

He also has a lot of confidence in his skills and experience

The times he wears armor are the only times he uses any weapon other than a dagger

#ace attorney #trucy wright #apollo justice #ema skye #klavier gavin #long post #leya arts #klavier gets all the unnecessary belts #wouldn't be an rpg inspired au without em #turnabout tales

40 notes · View notes

hollowedrpg · 5 years

Photo

CONGRATULATIONS, LISSA! — You’ve been accepted for the role of Frank Longbottom. While reading you app, I could not only see the ways in which Frank has developed so far, but what’s to come for his character. Not to mention, your in depth description of his relationship with Alice. Somehow, you made Frank and Alice feel like people I know in real life, not just text on a page. Truly, your app was impressive from start to finish, and if I had to point out specifics on why I loved your portrayal, I’d be writing an essay.

Thank you so much for applying. Please create your account and send in the link, track the right tags, and follow everyone on the follow list. Welcome to Hollowed Souls!

OOC.

Name: Lissa

Age: Twenty-Two

Preferred Pronouns: She/Her

Timezone: PST

Activity: I currently work full-time, but on my days off I would be fairly active. If I had to assign it a numeric value, I’d say maybe a 6-7/10?

Are you applying for more than one character?: Not currently, but I’m certainly tempted to!

How do you feel about your character dying?: Although I’d be pained to see him go, if it served a purpose and was well thought out, which I’m sure it would be, I could be convinced.

Anything else?: Nope!

IC Details.

Full Name: Francis Theodore Longbottom, but please, for the love of Merlin, just call him Frank.

Francis: It’s an old family name that has been handed down from progenitor to progenitor like some sort of sacred relic. He’s been told it can be traced back to the age of Merlin, to age of knights and chivalry, predating even Hogwarts’ crumbling stone walls—his first name, just like his last, is a reminder of their austerity, their contribution to the world of magic and Frank certainly believes it’s ancient. Only two individuals in all the world are allowed to use his given name: the first being his dear old mother and the other is his beloved wife, Alice. Still, whenever they use it, he has a tendency to “not hear them”—whether it’s accidental or purposeful is up to your interpretation.

Theodore: Of his three given names, he hates this one the least—perhaps, it’s because he hears with this one the least. Nonetheless, its meaning is, “gift of God.” In the past, he’d remind Alice that’s exactly how he expected her to treat him, like he’s been sent from the heavens above. It’d be enough to elicit a laugh from her petal pink lips, but that was a lifetime ago; now all they seem to do is haunt each other.

Longbottom: It’s a name that he owes much to and although he does not revere it as others do, it does amuse him that the name “Longbottom,” in all its ridiculousness, is included on a document detailing the “Sacred Twenty-Eight.″ Still, Frank is proud to be just that, a Longbottom, but for reasons that differ from his peers. His lineage, established eons ago, placed him in the upper echelons of their society, but ultimately it was what forced him out in the end. Sometimes he wonders how the others were raised; how they could all be so different, but yet so alike. He always comes to the same conclusion: none of it matters, everyone bleeds red in the end.

Date of Birth: December 20th, 1956—Sagittarius (Generous, Idealistic, Enthusiastic)

Former Hogwarts House: Gryffindor—it’s expanded upon below, but I can say he was very nearly a Ravenclaw.

Sexuality: Heterosexual

Gender/Pronouns: Cisgender Male; He/Him

Face Claim Change: N/A

More.

How do you interpret this character’s personality? How will you play them? Include two weaknesses and two strengths.

These key traits are expounded upon below:

Positive: Determined, Intelligent, Noble, Passionate

Negative: Stubborn, Selfish, Mercurial, Vengeful

As a child, he was all consuming. Always active and fussy for attention, wailing throughout the night until he was blue. For him, it was all or nothing; Frank could never do anything in half-measures. First, it began with securing Augusta’s undivided attention, then it led to thumbing through all the books in his family’s library even though some tomes were denser than Rabastan Lestrange’s skull. Once he was done with that, Frank set his sights on the land surrounding their vast estate, exploring like a New World cartographer, set on leaving no stone unturned. In some respects, it was an innocuous trait, but at times it would overtake him. Let’s call it what it was: greed with, perhaps, a touch of selfishness.

While at Hogwarts he tried and sometimes failed to keep his voracity in check. He pursued each of his passions to completion. Only when Frank was quite literally at a loss, did he meet absolution. His orbit was thrown and his world was shaken by the girl with the eyes like warmed honey. Just as he was a taker, Alice was equal parts a giver—it could’ve gone wrong in so many ways, but oh how it didn’t. She checked his greed, made him expand beyond his selfishness. They would’ve been untouchable too, if things had panned out better—for awhile, in fact, they were untouchable. But the truth is, it won’t be the Death Eaters that get him at the end of it all—no, his hamartia is his greed, his need for more. If anyone will be his undoing, it will be himself. Frank demands answers, blood for blood, and always more, more, more. It will never be enough though—nothing will ever fill this wound that’s been left raw and festering.

He’d be the first to admit that up until this point, his life has certainly been charmed. It’d be easy to credit his triumphs to the Fates or Felix Felicis or whatever dictates good fortune in your mind, but ultimately Frank is responsible for success he has found in life. Even as a child, he would make calculated moves in an upward direction—blatantly pursuing his life’s goals with a kind of singularity that can only be described as unrelenting. This contrasts Alice quite nicely; through the years she has allowed herself to be defined by her passivity. She is pliant like clay, permitting others like her mother or even Moody to mold her into another and to direct her course. Frank, however, is rigid in his ways; from birth, he’s been the one helming the ship. This is due to his privileged upbringing; Frank has always been afforded his own choices and rarely were there ever true consequences to his actions.

The best example of this juxtaposition is what happens upon graduation. Alice allows herself to become an Auror after Moody’s intervention, which differs strikingly from Frank, who actively sought out the position for himself. After years of honing his craft while playing Wizard’s Chess, he believed it would be the next best move and most natural transition. He was right. Swiftly, he rose in the ranks, planning ambush after ambush, mapping out elaborate plans on the backs of old Ministry memos; first alone, then with Alice. There were, of course, the occasional missteps resulting in broken limbs (mainly his own) and bruised cheeks (mainly Kingsley’s), but his track record was solid and became much more refined after Alice joined him. At the core of it all, although Frank prides himself on being a skillful tactician—it’s Alice who has bested him before; it’s Alice who dissects him and sees beneath the carefully crafted veneer. However, it’s his drive and perseverance that guides them into the breach of war and out the other side.

This is also what divides them, however; Frank cannot face the consequences or the mistakes he’s made in the past. He cannot concede defeat and admit to his misgivings. For all his talk about pragmatism, his emotionality over his son’s death is what clouds his mind. He was so used to being able to see ahead, beyond the superficial, that a failure of this magnitude is unforgivable to him. For the boy that was constantly planning and plotting, making leaps and bounds to outwit his opponents; first on the chessboard, then on the battlefield—Frank cannot make sense of it all. Now, his dogged cleverness is set upon a new quest, he’s tracing out all the connections he missed and catching new ones, but the question is: is this paranoia or foresight? He’d be remiss to say that sometimes, now more than ever, the lines do blur a bit.

In truth, he’s poisoned by his need for retribution and he knows it. His recent thoughts and actions have been some of his greatest acts of sabotage, but instead of setting upon the evil that exists in the world, Frank has been undermining himself. Brick by brick, he pulls the foundation of his life apart, stubbornly clinging onto rationality and order in a time where the world is in disarray. He claims he needs answers for justice, to comprehend how it all went wrong, but the ones that truly know him know he’s lying. In actuality, Frank is a hypocrite—he is blinded by his emotions, lost in the tumult of rage and despair. In his misery, he’s abandoned her and with his own hollow eyes he sees how she looks at him like of all the loss she’s experienced, he’s the freshest wound. Frank has always been Alice’s touchstone, but now he is lost to her and the whole damn world. This is what happens when the young hero escapes childhood unscathed by the world; the first taste of tragedy begets madness. It is who he is though.

However, when all is said in done, Frank Longbottom is good. Although he comes from a background rife with privilege, he has always had an innate desire to help others whenever he can. It was his steadfast nobility that got him placed in Gryffindor as a young child and his tried and true bravery that finally led him to the Order. Although there are instances in which he falls short of the mark, Frank constantly strives to uphold his House traits. Lately, it’s been difficult, to say the least, but somewhere underneath all the bitterness and fury, he still wants to do the right thing. The rest of the Order members believe in him—it’s just he’s lost faith in himself.

How has the war affected this character, emotionally and otherwise?

In truth, the whole business of war had been easier before Neville. Life was just another game to him and with Alice by his side, there was no fear of losing. He collected Death Eaters like trophies, using stratagem he learned from playing Wizard’s Chess to ensnare them. Each capture of theirs served as a checkmate; each threat of retaliation echoed the petulant cries of a sore loser. Frank liked playing hero; he liked engaging in this act of rebellion against his blood. After all, what did he have to lose?

Once Neville was born however, his perspective shifted. He was no longer interested in the thrill of it all, but instead, he sought to make his young son proud of his father. It was then he noticed once unmasked, these enemies of his were characters that dotted his boyhood, friends of friends, and not just casualties of war, but also of his life’s story. It was perhaps a cautionary tale, that it was not nature that separated him from the others, but nurture. Even then though, Frank hadn’t learned his lesson. He didn’t take the betrayal seriously enough, not until he crossed into the Malfoy’s foyer and recognized the wand pointed inches away from his son’s forehead, thin lips speaking into existence Death and all the tragedy that came with Him. In a flash of green, life as he knew it ended and stupidly, Frank never saw it coming.

Now, quite frankly, he’s adrift—lost to Alice, the Order, and even to himself. In his grief, Frank has become unmoored, detached from reality, and living in a hell he has constructed with his own two hands. He is plagued by his willful ignorance, obsessed with the questions he holds himself accountable for: the who, the what, the why, and the where—but perhaps the greatest of all his questions, the one he can’t bear to answer is: how did he let this come to be?

Where does this character currently stand? With those who wish to hide in Godric’s Hollow until the war ends, with those who wish to rebuild the order and continue fighting the war, or on neither side? Why?

Frank is suspended somewhere between grief and madness, just one soft shove away from crossing that fine line into insanity. What happened that fateful day was more than just a tragedy, it was a trauma that is now etched into the very marrow of his bones. Everyday, the memory takes root and haunts him without provocation or any hope for repose. When Alice screams in the dead of the night, it mirrors the image he has of her and her pretty face, mouth agape as their child grows cold. In this, he doesn’t know how to comfort her or soothe her. He can offer no solace as he cannot find any himself. This boy who had grown used to having all the answers, used to having the world right at his fingertips, has collapsed in on himself like a star half-extinguished somewhere deep in the universe.

In truth, he’s just numb to the plight of others now. Frank is drowning in his sorrow, too self-involved to notice Alice’s suffering, too blinded by his need for vengeance, and too bent on forcing the world to finally make sense again. He will not divert from his course despite what the other members say. How can he let this go? How does he stop it from swallowing him whole? In these moments, he can’t imagine the future, much less build for it—not when it was already so deliberately snatched out of his grip. For now, he’s on his own side, his son’s side, and whether she believes it or not, he’s never not on Alice’s side.

How is Frank looking into the death of his son? Does he have any theories about what happened? Where did he get those theories?

Frank has always been a damn good Auror and although his world has tilted on its axis, this is a fact that hasn’t changed. If he’s honest, a fair number of his theories are more conspiratorial than founded in reason, fed by his voracious mind that knows no rest and knows no peace. It’s his futile attempt to make sense of the senseless, but nevertheless, with each deep dive he takes into the rabbit hole, the light around him dims.

The other handful of leads he’s chasing down do have some truth to them though. Some may say his interrogation tactics have gotten more aggressive, but their complaints fall on deaf ears. They showed him no mercy, so it’s only fair if he returns the favor.

Currently, his most favored theory is that there is a traitor in their midst—how else would his son have ended up there? It makes him wary of the other members, distrustful of their outreached hands. His suspicion nearly borders on paranoia, intensifying whenever he has a particularly sleepless night. Whoever it is, taunts him; they toy with him and leave him tortured by his own thoughts. Frank will persevere, however—there will be an end, he’s sure of it.

Extra.

If Iwere a _______, then I’d be _______.

If I were a season, I’d be summer, but not the days at the beginning that are filled with childish wonder and boyhood adventures—no, those days are long gone—I am midsummer, when the sun is seemingly always at its apex, beating down relentlessly, and the air is so languid and sweltering that it feels like the world is aflame.

If I were a time of day, I’d be late afternoon.

If I were a place, I’d be an empty shore, abandoned after the storm came and went.

If I were a type of weather, I’d be a cloudless sky.

If I were a scent, I’d be smoke dissipating in the breeze, fresh linen, and pine.

If I were a plant, I’d be English Ivy, unkept and unruly, invading the flora and fauna around me, bent on expansion and progress at whatever cost necessary.

If I were an element, I’d be fire.

If I were a color, I’d be slate grey.

If I were a song, I’d be “As It Was,” by Hozier.

If I were an item of clothing, I’d be a wrinkled white button-up, wearing at the seams from years of care and use, much-loved but in need of repair.

If I were an object, I’d be a pawn.I used to think of myself as the rook, capable and cunning, but in the end it was all a charade.

If I were one of the seven deadly sins, I’d be greed.It eats me whole and it eats me alive.

If I were one of the seven heavenly virtues, I’d be diligence.

If I were a god/goddess, I’d be Prometheus. For my defiance, Godhood has been stripped from me and all that remains is torment.

#hp rp #rp #marauders rp #lsrpg #roleplay #accepted

3 notes · View notes

writingscraps-fantasy · 6 years

Text

Eleinbora - Part 2

I planned to follow the river for as far as it would take me. I walked through the jungle for hours at a steady pace. I doubted my family would notice my absence until I was well away. Even then I thought they would make few attempts to find me. My mother would find a way to make herself the victim of my leaving, as she’d made my unusual birth and my peculiar differences about her suffering. I stopped to eat at midday, nestled in the foliage near the riverbank.

The humid air of the jungle was hot with smells. Petrichor was released from the black earth underlaid the freshness of green vegetation and the bright blooms of hibiscus, bougainvillea, and orchid. A pungent fume drifted over and clung to my nose, putting me on alert. It was different from the loamy smell of rotting wood and leaves; the scent of the jungle recycling itself was more of a comfort than a bother. This other smell was a paler thing; dry, powdery, like old bones.

One moment I was alone, the next moment I was aware of a small child peering at me from the underbrush.

“Hello,” I greeted the child.

The child panted heavily in return. She was not old enough to be alone at home much less out in the wilds. Her skin was paler than I’d ever seen before, cast with gray and nearly as white as her very sharp looking teeth. I wondered if she was ill.

“Are you hungry?” I held out some of the dried meat carefully.

The child stared at me, the whites of her eyes were wide around russet irises. Her eyes were clouded like the blind butcher in Malacca City. I continue be shocked by this little girl; she was small enough that I wondered if she had the ability to walk. The toddler was bald, naked, and probably malnourished.

“Are you lost?” I asked.

She didn’t speak and I thought perhaps she couldn’t talk yet. She might have been left in the jungle by parents who wanted a boy; my parents had told me I was lucky not to have been one of the forest children. I thought they had mostly worried a ghost child would haunt them. We couldn’t have been that far from a village if that was the case.

She reached for me, wordlessly. I sighed, wrapping the meat up again and shrugging into my pack with sudden weariness. I was in no position to care for a child and I did not know what I was going to do with this child.

“I can’t do nothing, though,” I muttered, more to myself than to her, as I picked her up.

I started walking with the toddler in my arms. I didn’t know where I was going but my feet seemed to have a direction. It wasn’t very long before we came to a dozen small bamboo houses covered by thatched roofs and supported by stilts.

In the center of the small village there was a line of people carrying baskets of fruit, tin ingots, and other valuables. At the front of the line was a woman seated on a raised dias. I was started to find myself falling into the line. As I got closer I could hear people greeting the woman by calling her majesty.

She was dressed like a noble woman. Her hair was loosely covered by a shayla scarf that matched her knee-length, long sleeved blouse over a long, pleated skirt. Her bright red batik clothes were patterned with gold and green, colors popular among the nobility.

She was dressed like a noble woman, wearing enough gold to drown in six inches of water. Her hair was loosely covered by a shayla scarf that matched her knee-length, long sleeved blouse over a long, pleated skirt. Her bright red batik clothes were patterned with gold and green, colors popular among the nobility.

The people were placing the baskets down at the foot of the dias. When it came to me I put the child down and stared into the face of the woman. Her eyes were the same russet brown as the child in my arms. With the sun just behind me I could see now that they shined red in the sunlight.

“Look what my baby Tuyul has brought me in tribute,” the pale woman cooed, talking more to the child than to me.

“I am trying to return her home,” I said.

“You have returned her home,” the woman’s smile and teeth were sharp, “I must reward you with a gift.”

There was something about her eyes that made me feel slightly out of step with the rest of the world. Her sleeves were voluminous and from inside her robes she pulled out a flower I had never seen before.

“I am Lady Madam Kamala binti Kelana, youngest granddaughter of Sultan Muhammad, Shah of Pahang until my uncle poisoned him,” she gestured gracefully with her wide, sweeping sleeves, “These people come to me to offer tribute, respect, and their adoration for my lineage and my beauty. Allow me to gift you with this rare flower from Jipang, the kingdom of the eight islands.”

It was customary to refuse a gift at least twice as a matter of etiquette and courtesy. The sprig of pale yellow flowers was sweet and overpoweringly fragrant.

We went through the motions of politeness even as I wondered if her lineage was truly worthy of respect. I had heard from my father that Sultan Muhammad Shah had never been sultan of Malacca because he had murdered the son of his father’s Prime Minister. The boy had accidentally knocked Sultan Muhammad Shah’s headdress off when his ball missed the mark during a game. The Sultan’s adult son had gone into a rage and strangled the boy to death. The Sultan had been persuaded to exile his son and had sent him to rule in Pahang when he had been the heir apparent for the entire Sultanate of Malacca. Pahang had been a recently conquered nation at the time and owed tribute to Malacca.

I finally accepted the gift and the woman leaned forward to tuck the sprig of flowers behind my ear. The six petal flowers were small but the thorns were long, red, and sharp. I felt a sting and an immediate sense of peace. As the feeling washed over me I felt muscles relax that I hadn’t even realized were tense.

“You must never take this off,” Madam Kamala nodded to the foot of the dias, “Do not speak of your compulsion to anyone. Sit there until I tell you to move.”

I sat down at the foot of the dias next to a basket of flowers. As the day wore on I eventually got the feeling we were waiting for something. Her worshippers, that’s how I thought of them, brought in more tributes. Eventually the trail became sparse.

“How did your child know to bring me here?” I asked in a quiet moment.

“She is Tuyul,” Madam Kamala shrugged, then absently picked up the baby.

Madam Kamala adjusted her dress, sliding the baby in to feed. I had to look away because there was no milk from Madam Kamala’s teat, only blood which the pale child sucked up greedily.

“I do not know what you mean,” I answered, unable to block out the hard, metallic scent.

“You are not a spellcaster,” Madam Kamala surmised, “I had wondered, with your eyes, if you might be a witch of some kind. I suppose, though, if you were a spellcaster you would have known better than to touch a dead baby.”

“Dead?” I asked. I felt alarmed but it was distant, disconnected from my thoughts or actions.

“I was so distraught when I lost my baby,” Madam Kamala continued, “I almost didn’t see it as a blessing in disguise. A stillborn child can be used in ritual magic to create a Tuyul. The Tuyul is like an animal. She isn’t very smart she can be told to bring me things. I told her to go into the jungle and bring me a slave. The last girls who served in my bedchamber died. They were sickly little things.”

Madam Kamala removed the child from her bloody breast. It crawled toward one of the houses and climbed like a monkey onto the roof, playing with its feet. She rose to her feet, graceful and elegant in her fine clothes, after the last of her supplicants had placed their offerings on the foot of the dias.

“I am so grateful for the lives of my loyal subjects. I accept these meager tributes,” she projected her voice for the worshippers, “You have my blessing to continue your lives in my service. I know you have no need of fine jewels, precious stones, gold, or silver so I will keep those gifts to show my love for you.”

“Bring the offerings inside for me, child,” Madam Kamala instructed me.

I followed her up the stairs and into her house, the largest one in the village. As I did, I realized with that distant sense of alarm that something was wrong with me. I did everything Madam Kamala asked. She asked me to do the cleaning around her home and I complied. While I cleaned Madam Kamala inspected her new treasures. When I was done she called me and I followed the call to a large partitioned bedroom.

“You must give Toyol a cup of fresh milk every morning,” she instructed me, “Every evening she must be put away in the chest. When Tuyul is put away you will help me get undressed.”

I reluctantly picked up the undead child. I opened the chest set against the outside wall and saw inside was a simple wooden child’s toy and a small urn. I closed the creature inside the chest. Obedient, though now aware I had no choices of my own, I helped Madam Kamala remove her clothes. I helped her put on a white blouse with three-quarter length sleeves and loose, white pants. The white clothes were stained with a red so dark it was nearly black. When she was dressed in the blood-stained white clothes she led me over to the mat on the floor where she slept surrounded by her treasures.

She pulled a small knife from beneath the mat and I could not run. I expected her to kill me but I did not flee. I presumed the poison or magic from the pale flowers tucked behind my ear kept me from becoming tense or panicked.

“Please don’t kill me,” I begged her.

“Of course not, girl, why would I waste a brand new servant?” Madam Kamala’s laugh was bright and young, “I will take only a little blood from you to keep myself lively and beautiful.”

I woke in the night, uncomfortably aware that I needed to empty my bowels. I got up and went outside to find a tree and dig a hole beneath it. When I was finished I buried excrement, urine, and handfuls of leaves beneath the soil. As I began walking back to the house I imagined myself walking away. My feet unerringly brought me back to the place where I now slept next to Madam Kamala.

#eleinbora

0 notes