[eldritche-hq-blog]

NANNETTE LEWIS ●  LIVES ON 9TH FLOOR  ● FLEXIBLE ● THEIR EYES WERE WATCHING ● OPEN ●  NAFESSA WILLIAMS

i must go on standing / you can’t break that which isn’t yours — regina spektor 

personality

I can tell already that you think I’m the dragon. Should I be meek? Should I be cowed? Should I apologize for not mourning the death of humanity? You know, we’re not dead yet. There’s still life outside, and I’m not the sort to give up so easily. The champagne is still flowing, the band is playing on, so why shouldn’t we enjoy it? You think I’m the dragon, but I could be the princess. There’s a sentimental heart in this chest, susceptible to hurt and to sorrow. I was a little girl once, believing in frog princes and glass slippers. I see frogs for what they are now, and I got enough sense to see the warts and mucus. Foolish girls get caught, get cursed, get locked in towers. Now, me ... I can protect myself. My forked tongue, my breath of fire, my scales and talons — You can’t destroy that which brings destruction. And, okay. So, I’m the dragon. Big deal.

A man is not an island, but who said anything about a woman being a castle?My foster mother used to say the body was like a temple. My body is no temple, no alter for sacrifice. It’s my fortress, and it’s owned by no one by me. There are others in the apartment, in our black city, that are unwinding. I’m not unwinding, and I’m not breaking because you can’t break what’s already broken. I don’t care — if I have to leave the others behind to make sure I live, I will. Call it selfish, call it cold, but no one’s going to tear down this castle but the hands that built it. What’s a little more chaos going to hurt? The world’s already burning; why not breathe more fire? We all die, we all eventually go, but I will not go quietly or alone. There must be some company in hell.

about nannette

one. He split my mother’s face in two. Two halves, asymmetrical and red. He held his weapon with such bravado, such pride. He did not see me, small, watching, from the cabinet. I was curled up, sweating and biting my hands to stop my cries. The weapon fell. I heard it clatter, imagined Momma’s clean floors speckled and spattered with crimson. She would be so angry, so mad when she woke up. When she pieced her face together, when she put her nose and mouth back. When I’m older, when I am the age I am now, I will remember how it felt to touch her cold, red skin. Her eyes, dull stones, with no life in them, her clever mouth split in half. I’ll remember how small I was when I took a bag and filled with it clothes, books, my toothbrush. How I called for a neighbor and sat in their stuffy house until somebody came for me. Two halves, asymmetrical and bloody. He is always in a shadow, she is always bright red. He left after showering, she left in a black bag. My mother, split. Her killer, shrouded. I live for shadows, but I still curse the dark of a cabinet.

two. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. Come sit on my foster parents’ couch. Unbutton your shirt, let me see your tattoos and that scar you got from riding your motorcycle. I’m eighteen and fearless, lawless. My old man and lady are kind-faced, but everyday I see them turning colder. I’m untamable, you know. They tried their hardest, really, to turn me into something sweet. They called me a soft name, pink and frilly for a princess, but I shucked it off like a too-tight shirt. I crawled on walls, I spun webs of stories and lies so thick it trapped strangers, siblings, innocents. Angry or expectant, I was renamed. Anansi — trickster, liar, mischievous little thing. Overnight, I grew eight legs, eight eyes and a mandible. I, young and with secret fears, learned to see at night, how to crawl under doors and sneak out of windows. So, please, if you will, show me those tattoos of yours. Place your hands on my hips, say something charming, amusing. Come into my parlor, said the spider to the fly. It’s never the bite that kills — it’s the poison.

three. A man on the street asks if I’ve seen his daughter. I can’t see much of him; just the whites of his eyes, the yellow of his teeth. His hands feel dry and clammy against mine. He’s panting, breathless and cold. He tells me that she’s young, that she’s sweet and innocent. He takes something from his pocket and waves it in front of my face. I can’t see her, his daughter. She’s a shadow, a flash of white and grey and a little yellow. He says that she went down an alleyway, that she likes to wander. Help me, he cries. Please, my precious baby girl. Which alley, I ask. His eyes, white, flash. That one. That one there. There’s no lights in the alley, no sounds, no people, but he insists his daughter’s there and frightened. Won’t you help? Just follow me down. Bring a match, please. I leave him, upset I even entertained him. Turn my back on the man, turn from his white eyes and yellow teeth. I swear, I swear. I swear I heard a godless scream.

contacts & connections

one. They slammed on the door from the other side, begging for somebody, anybody, to let them in, to keep them safe. My tongue is glued to the roof of my mouth, and I wait until there’s no more noise, no more slamming. I warm my apartment with dead men’s candles. 

two. If Tatiana wants help, she’ll have to find it in hell. I take her portion of the food, and say I stole it from a stranger. Her wrists are like twigs now, and I can break them without trouble. When she is through, when she is finished, I will use her bones in stew and what remains of her flesh as my meat.

three. Valentino brings me into his apartment, and shows me my future in candle-wax and tea leaves. I tell him I have no hold with superstition, too strong am I, and he laughs. I break the teacup — my future ruined — and in the mess of leaves and chamomile, the shards of glass become teeth.

[eldritche-hq-blog]

MONIQUE WILDE●  LIVES ON 9TH FLOOR  ● INFLEXIBLE ● THEIR EYES WERE WATCHING ● OPEN ●  SIMONE MISSICK

maybe i’ve always been more comfortable in chaos — st. jude, florence + the machine

personality

Get me out of here. Get me out of this apartment, this city. I knew myself before the moon started blinking. I was bubbly and chipper, so hopeful. I believed in better tomorrows, and I thought you could plan for anything, survive anything. I’m not that woman any more. I wouldn’t even recognize my past self, how much I’ve changed. There’s something in me —I feel like I’ve been sharpened: honed. I’ve become crafty, sly, and it’s so easy for me to manipulate people. It’s so easy for me to play mind games, to learn somebody’s entire life and then use it against them. It’s what I’m good at. Before, when things were normal, I could use these things to plan, but what use is planning nowadays. There’s still a part of me that’s helpful, but it’s not easy to share when everybody’s so afraid and volatile. All this dark is making me selfish; I run around these halls like a rat, sneaking food, listening at doorways. I’m not thinking straight, and I get angry because I feel like I’m losing myself. I’m losing control, I’m losing.

I can’t do this. Whoever I used to be, that happy girl, satisfied and glowing, I don’t know her. I’m not her. It feels like I’m transforming under this moon — half woman, half wolf, howling and hungry. Desperate for something better, scared of anything new. Anything that might help me, all of us, I destroy it because I need people to rely on me, and I need people to look to me. But I can’t even rely on myself so maybe I’m not a rat or a wolf. Maybe I’m a coyote, starved, bones showing through the skin, skulking around for the scraps. Everyday, this thing inside of me gets angrier. I’m terrified of what I might do. Sometimes, I go into a red, red place, and there’s no emotions and no feelings. No future, no past, no apartment block. I don’t know who I am when I go there, and I don’t know how to pull myself out. All I know is that one day, I’m just going to snap, and there’ll be no stopping the beast inside.

about character

one. My fiancé holds my face in his hands. They’re warm, slightly sweaty but scented with citrus. His father has an orange grove. He took me there once, before all of this and before he proposed, and we peeled oranges and tangerines. Long strips of radiant orange and sunshine yellow curling in our hands, long strips swirling down to our feet. I sucked the juice off his fingers, and fell in love with his dark eyes. He sucked the juice off my lips, and fell in love with my laugh. But now, he holds my face in his hands, and I know he’s nothing more than a dream. Specter beautiful, specter mine, I search his hands for curls of orange, for white string or pulp beneath his nails. There’s none and I won’t find any, but I search anyway. And I search his dark eyes and mouth, examine his too-pink tongue and too-straight teeth. He’s not mine. Too good, too perfect. No gap in his teeth, no crow’s feet around his eyes. Specter beautiful, specter ... So, I let him go, unravel him from my arms in long, curling peels. When I wake from dreaming, my mouth is bruised with kisses, and my tongue swells with blood and the taste of oranges.

two. I used to draw maps when I was little. Mom thought it was charming; Papa thought it was sweet. I thought it was complex, a serious business. I was fond of lines and of measurements, liked to draw and paint. I decorated the walls of my room with maps, places I’ve been, places I’ve dreamed of. Places I hoped weren’t real. But most of my maps were of my hometown and the things I knew, so all my maps were the same. Well, not really, not totally. On Sunday, Yellow Road went west and led into town square. On Tuesday, the very same road would shorten, would run into the creek. The ponds and lakes weren’t permanent, the trees and bushes and grass were restless. It used to upset me, but then I learned how to follow, how not to assume. The earth is, and it isn’t. All roads are there, somewhere, leading to the same place. Hiding. Waiting.

three. A thought while scavenging for food, a thought about my aunt. About my distinguished aunt, important and high-headed, who looked low and smiled without teeth. I went to see her because I loved her and her garden, and her house that smelled like fresh-cut flowers. I went through the front door calling her name. I walked the halls, looked into the rooms which had began to accumulate dust and sour smells. I went out into her garden, green and glorious, and there she was. Hunched over, fingers deep in the soil. Chewing. My aunt, my distinguished aunt, with dirt up to her arms, and black ants crawling on her skin, and worms wriggling in her grasp. Her eyes were wide open but wooden, splintered. She did not see that I saw, and she didn’t stop her feasting, chewing on roses, sucking the color from the stems. Her mouth was red, her hands were red too. Her teeth were stained and grassy, moss-covered tongue laving at the petals and buds. She hummed, hummed and murmured. My aunt, my distinguished aunt, who I visited because I loved her did not see as I ran away, as I left her house. I didn’t tell anyone, but I saw her and I knew. 

lore

one. I didn’t stop him. I saw him killing that man, but I didn’t stop him. And I wasn’t afraid, it wasn’t because I was afraid, but I watched a man go blue and cold, and I didn’t stop his killer. He let me have the leg and the spleen and the kidney.

two. The phone rang in Valentine’s apartment. He was fast asleep, smelled faintly of liquor. I picked up the phone and listened. The soft, teary voice asking for her father. Please, please. I told her that he was dead, that something took him too. She cries, but I — click.

three. On the first night, I stay in my apartment and pace. On the second night, I sleep in Nannette’s apartment and talk until I’m tired enough to drop. On the fifth night I watch Nannette flick the flashlight on and off, on and off, rabidly and then slowly. On and off and … I pretend to sleep. She flicks the flashlight.

[eldritche-hq-blog]

DION KINGSTON ●  BARKEEP / OWNER OF DEE’S  ● INFLEXIBLE ● WE MUST NOT LOOK ● OPEN ●  LETITIA WRIGHT

i dream we’ll go / somewhere that’s green — somewhere that’s green, ellen greene

personality

You’d be hard-pressed to find a harder worker, or someone with as much pride in her work, as Dion. Relying on others for happiness, for wealth, for anything, is not her style. What she wants, she gets and she gets on her own. Her bar and inn is an extension of her personality and ethos; what she makes with her own hands, she loves dearly. Levelheaded and thoughtful, Dion sits at the center of the town. People flock to her with their problems because they know that she’s practical, smart with her money and with her friends. Be careful though that your secrets don’t passed around with Dion—she’s known to be a gossip, and has most of the village’s scandals tucked into her pocket. Dion can be a pill sometimes, and her low tolerance and sharp wit can be unnerving for some. The problem is never with what she says —it’s only how she says it!

Dion’s got the confidence of a lion and a bite just as deadly. Dion’s one of those strong-willed people that forgets that there is a world around her. Hungry for attention and constant praise, Dion doesn’t do well with being out of the limelight for even a second. She’s quite popular in town, but not all of her “friends” were won with honesty. Loose lips sink ships, and Dion’s ocean is overrun with twisted metal. Her love of gossip borders on blackmail, and she uses the secrets of others as bartering tokens. She won’t hesitate to step on someone’s shoulders to boost herself up. The problem with Dion is that she thinks she’s untouchable. Her old money, her ancestral house are just reasons for her sit real high and look real low. It’s almost as if she thinks she’s too good to let anyone in, even with the people she claims for. What will happen when the secrets of the secret-keeper are set free?

about dion

one. She is less than a goddess, but much more than a mortal. Through the thick swirls of smoke and wafts of cheap, stale beer, you hear her laugh, smell her cloying perfume. Her hand and red nails on your forearm, her eyes and red lips close to your ear. Mystery, enigma as Dion pours out drinks, as she laughs at bawdy tales and tells a few of her own. Dionysus, Bacchus —fat, drunken jolly gods to whom she devotes her pub to. Music rings from all four walls. Bodies thrown across the tables and bodies thrown across the bar, guzzling spiced wine and dancing and singing. Dion commands them all, arms raised, head tossed back into movement, into untamed passions. She pours a glass for a weeping man, and the whole town flows into the cup.

two. Speak its name and render it powerless. Gag order straight from damnation, gag order straight from the ends of the forest where the dirt path leads into the city and the city becomes another woods, a red-cheeked woman with shark’s teeth. She knows the look of her, it. Its spires and leathery skin, its sheen and gloss and talons. A red and glowing hell complete with demons and devils, but not hot like how she’s been taught. Come morning, when dream melts into memory (or memory into dream, she is never sure), she speaks aloud what she can remember. Mouth moving, hands moving. Remember, remember. Speak, speak it even if all the words sound like complete and utter madness. Speak it or it’s not true. Under her tongue, Dion holds the secrets of this universe and the next. In her throat, she nurses the horrors. In time, in its time, she’ll scream.

three. Sister comes back with vines and rope strung around her neck. Sister comes back gasping, stumbling, mossy hands thrust out in front of her. Sightless eyes see, sense, her presence. Come to the only place that is safe enough to call home. Sister crawls up the walls and calls out in a voice too guttural to be human. Sister shrieks for wolves and bats and beetles, spins her head in circles and gnashes her blunt, yellowed teeth. Her wooden eyes hold termites and wood beetles. The cellar’s too shallow, floods when it rains. The bedrooms are too fragile, easy to get out of. The attic sags and moans and covers all sound. Hard to leave, hard to flood, hard to hear for all the settling. Sister slams her dew-wet hands to the boarded up windows, cries out for animals and fought violently against invisibles. And downstairs, Dion listens, weeps.

lore

one. She used to be such friends with Yvonne. The two were inseparable, but, supposedly, Yvonne stole something that used to belong to her sister. They haven’t spoken since, and whatever words they share are barbed.

two. She keeps her sister in the attic, too afraid to let the woman out and too attached to put her into the Healing House. The whole town, save for Yvonne and Dion, think that her sister is dead.

three. Occasionally, when people are too nervous or when people are full of anger, she adds draughts to her beer. Something to make the sad man stop crying. Something to put everyone in a good mood. Something to loosen the lips of a secret keeper.

[eldritche-hq-blog]

TOMÁS WHITNEY ●  UNEMPLOYED  ● INFLEXIBLE ● WE MUST NOT LOOK ● OPEN ●  JOHN BOYEGA

will we ever learn? / we’ve been here before — sign of the times, harry styles

personality

He’s brave; he’s good. Tomás has a knight’s honor, faithful even unto the end, even to people that don’t deserve his generosity. He’s hungry for the good in people, and he’ll look through the worst of someone’s flaws to see a sliver of it. His optimism is foolish sometimes, and sometimes it leads him to having his heart and faith broken. He’s intuitive too, like there’s something in him constantly sounding off and pushing him to protect, to fight. Still, with all of his bravado and strength, there’s something reserved about Tomás. It’s as if he’s on the very edge of showing his true feelings, but it terrified about letting go. He can perform vulnerability, but never honestly reveal his soul, lest it may be used against him. Self-preservation is good, but be wary of him. Whatever brought him to the village transformed him. He may be concerned of a second, more drastic transformation.

There’s a bad moon rising over Tomás. Inside of him is turmoil, and he is past the point of unsteady. Like a sword unsheathed, a gun just before the trigger is pulled, Tomás is the danger. Never to anyone else though: only to himself does he pose any threat. He’d choose death before letting anyone get to know him, which makes people only more curious about what hides underneath all of that joy and laughter. It’s not pride that stops Tomás from sharing — it’s fear. Fear of judgment, fear of weakness, fear of having this new life he’s built crumble around him. He sees himself as Atlas with the world on his shoulders, but Atlas never had a town filled with people eager to help him carry the weight. Tomás is willing to die for a cause, of course, but why the desperation? Surely, he doesn’t think his death might absolve him of something...

about tomás

one. I know you, I’ve walked with you once upon a dream. Or was it memory? He knows there was a city once, shockingly neon and blinding, that held hundreds of millions. The buildings were like the Tower of Babel, kissing the sky. The planes of glass and metal that hung from the clouds like a neck dripping with jewels ... His face illuminated by raging fires, his face stained red and black with blood and soot. Tomás seizes, dreams, or does he remember, blunt, white teeth gnashing and snapping, clicking together with such force. People leaving by the thousands, empty bodies returning with little more than skin. Tomás dreams, remembers, seizes, foams, bursts — And he’s never quite when day becomes night, when the dreams are just dreams ... Visions are seldom what they seem, but If I know you —

two. Tell me about the big bang. Stars and star dust, chaos and order rushing, swirling. Tomás can swear, will swear, that he was there when the earth came to be, swears he could see straight into the molten core. He says it was hot at the beginning and ice cold at the end. He says that he saw darkness and light, a thousand truths and a half a million lies. His tongue swells with stories of monsters, beasts, gods. Green grass men, hooves and horns, resplendent crowns of flowers, terrible thrones of bone. Tomás says he can feel it, in his dreams, in his waking; the mouths and maws, the lolling tongues and talons that eagerly tear the torso in two. He knows it, all of it, the language of the trees, all the symbols scratched into woods. Whispering, he tells whoever will believe that he can see the beginning and feel the first twinges of the end. That the guts of the universe will soon crack open and spill, viscous-like, into what is safe and known. Tell us then, o Tomás, about the big bang. It hurts, it hurts, it hurts to become. 

three. A huntsman ties down his daughter with braided rope and fishing nets. Her ankle is blackened with blood, infected. An arrow pieces her right side. Her hands, feet and snarling mouth are all that Tomás can see. Grab hold of her, pin her down! He obeys, feels the rawness of her wrists, her thick green spit against his cheek. She curses, she kicks, she damns all gods and her parents and every man that binds her. She promises blood and suffering, hellfire and beasts from the woods that lust for the rend of flesh. She begs to be released, to go back to the house, to the lady-hand forest where the others are. What others, what others? But all Tomas can see is her eyes, her snarling mouth, the maze of rooms and the bright light of the drawing room. See, see, see? A huntsman ties down his daughter with braided rope and fishing nets. Her ankle is blackened with blood, infected, and an arrow pierces her side. But tomorrow, or perhaps tonight, she will meet the others.

lore

one. Tomás says that the last place he lived had a festival too, and that there they burned witches and sacrificed all sinners to the sea. Some have said that this is why his left. Some say his eyes are wooden too.

two. In his old town, Tomás was a palm-reader and knew the art of tarot cards and astrology. Because of this, or just by chance, Tomás can see into the inn in the woods and the city with no moon.

three. He freed the huntsman daughter but no one knows why. A few people overheard him whispering to her about a place with a red-cheeked woman, but this may be gossip.

[eldritche-hq-blog]

CLAUDIA LAVOE ● MIDWIFE ● FLEXIBLE ● WE MUST NOT LOOK ● OPEN ● GINA RODRIGUEZ 

and it’s hard to dance with the devil on your back / so shake him off! — shake it off, florence + the machine

personality

Anyone who has had the honor of meeting Claudia will tell you that she’s one of a kind. Clever, quick as a whip, and smarter than any man, it was only she who could’ve been chosen to deliver all the babies in the village. She needs no defenses — to her core, she is compassionate and caring. She doesn’t speak, but she doesn’t need to. A withering look, a raised brow and a sly smile is all Claudia needs to get her point across. Still, she has her shortcomings. She’s stubborn as a mule, defensive when she shouldn’t be and overly forgiving when some strength is needed most. She’s not good at letting people help her, and she rather wear herself to the bone than ask. For martyrdom, for pride, Claudia would let herself die. Christ complex, much?

Some say you can’t teach a dog new tricks. The saying goes true for Claudia, though they may have left out her manipulative games, her self-righteous attitude. She wears at people with guilt — how dare you hurt the woman who delivered your baby? That saved your sister, that drew the killing mucus from your nephew’s weak chest? Claudia can be spiteful, and is a pro with holding grudges. Because she is so loved, she has the ability to make life a living hell for an enemy. Most end up crawling back to her, begging on their knees for forgiveness even if was she that was in the wrong. She’d crucify herself, personally, if it meant garnering pity, but she’d bring herself down too, if she didn’t think people were crying hard enough. Claudia is an invaluable piece of the community, a real pillar, but be careful of how she wields her importance.

about  claudia

one. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. On the day she’s born, the room is hot and red. Her father’s cool hand on her mother’s sweat-slick forehead, her nosy brothers peering in from the hall. The house is still as a grave, but it rocks, is tossed by the winds and rains from the storm outside. Chaos comes through the front door, shrieking and grabbing at everything. A photograph of the Sacred Heart of Jesus falls from the wall and shatters. Her father’s eyes, molasses brown and loving, turn to wood. He takes up his hat and shoes, says not a word as he stumbles out from their little home, out in the mud of the woods. And just as her mother is beginning to feel the emptiness — the hole growing in her heart, the sorrow sucking at her belly — Claudia is born. Red, hot and shrieking, kicking and grabbing at everything. A tornado reborn as a baby, a death reborn as a life. The hole is filled, the sorrow wanes. Equivalent exchange — the first law of alchemy.

two. Hear no evil, see no evil, speak no — She returns from the woods, streaked with dirt, limping, and she doesn’t have a tongue. Maybe she just bit it? Maybe it’s just damaged? Abre, mi amor. Let Mama see your mouth. And here is Mother and the doctor and a slew of aunts and her nosy brothers all gathered around, peering into the red mouth of Claudia. And here, from the scarred throat, is the smell of berries and bark, grub worms and moths plucked from trees. She tells a story with her hands — grass men with wooden eyes, a mossy tree that was her shelter, the little and good people that brought her things to eat. But your tongue, but your tongue! It is only fair. She heard them, she saw them and, now —

three. Claudia sees her father come back from the woods. She’s never seen him before, never knew his touch nor heard his voice, but she knows it’s him the moment she lays eyes on him. His brown skin hangs off his body like paper, wind-aged and full of gravel, grit. His eyes, molasses brown and loving, are made of bark, but they shine when they catch sight of her. He comes into their house, his house, reeking of gutted deer and trailing mud. His voice is hollow, and his hands leave moss and moths on the faces of his children. He sits at the dining table, and drinks jug after jug of water, jokes with his sons, kisses his wife with earthworm lips, holds the golden cheek of his only girl. Satisfied with the health of them all, he nods his lolling head, his heart knotted with twigs and branches and leaves. Claudia has never seen her father walk into the woods, but she is there, brown hand in moss hand, to lead him back.

lore

one. Some think that she went into the woods as a child to look for her father, and that as punishment for stepping onto forbidden lands, the fae took her tongue. Now she can tell no one of what she saw.

two. As a favor or a mercy, Claudia switches out the weak children for changelings. All babies she thinks won’t survive, the ones will frail chests and faint hearts, she leaves them at the mouth of the woods and waits for a fae child. 

three. As midwife, she’s inherited a ledger of births from the last midwife, Hermione. Though only midwives have seen it, there is a rumor that the book holds some other secrets. Secrets relating to the forest.

[eldritche-hq-blog]

ORION DOUGLAS  ● SCHOOLTEACHER ● FLEXIBLE ● WE MUST NOT LOOK ● OPEN ● LAKEITH STANFIELD

if they say why, why / tell ‘em that it’s human nature — human nature, michael jackson

personality

There’s a softness to Orion, a kindness that he encourages others to have as well. He’s easily affected by the ways of the world, sensitive to the turn of weather. He is not a natural leader, and is better in a classroom of kids where he knows he won’t be spoken over. His comforting aura makes him easy to confide in, and only Orion can say that he has the entire community as a friend. Still, he is one of those people that needs that validation of others. And he can be prideful sometimes, and his pride may lead him to isolate himself. His ego is like china; big, overwhelming, but delicate and easily broken. Little disagreements can show an unpleasant side of him. Mindful moderator he is not — most that know Orion know him to be weak-willed and terrified of judgement. He appreciates his time with the children because they expect so little from him. Accountability with grown-ups? Now, that’s a task.

And if we divest of the mask of innocence, we see even more of Orion’s personality revealed. He has a victim complex, and likes to imagine himself as a martyr in every situation where he does not have the upper hand. Orion uses his shyness, his peculiarities to get away with some egregious behavior. It’s clear that he’s never had to be really responsible; there’s always been someone else to take the fall for him. He has no problem, by the way, with using others around him as a crutch. Though he seems harmless, it’s often the person who’s had countless chances that will take things much too far.

about orion

one. He tells the children the story of Bluebeard’s wife in the dead of winter. By then, young tongues have long forgotten the bitterness of blackberries. They think only of rarebit and lamb as he turns down the blinds, as he pulls shut the colorful curtains. Obscured from light, he tells his innocent and eager audience of the rich, rich man and his many, many wives. And of his newest wife, and the curiosity which killed her when she peered into the keyhole of Bluebeard’s most forbidden room. He tells them of the golden plates and silver chalices, the crystal decanters filled with the sweetest of summer wine. He tells them also of the heads of Bluebeard’s former wives, their faces caught in horror. The room, red and hot, stinking of clotted blood. And he tells the children, cherubic little ones, of how the wife begged and pleaded, and how Bluebeard showed her no mercy. The curve of his sword, the sick sound of knife against flesh. And in spring, when the snow has melted and the children have forgotten the taste of rarebit and the curve of Bluebeard’s sword, he places a fine, blue box on his desk with a keyhole just big enough to peer through. Orion gives them strict instructions to leave the box be, for horrors and disasters lie within. He waits.

two. This is what Orion knows of his parents. They are faceless and light, they smell of crushed flowers and their hands burn like fire against the cheek. He can, if he likes, go to the mouth of the woods and speak with them. This is why he built his house so close to it, why he looks forward to the summer festival. Their voices are strong in the warm months, and it is always then that they regret their exchange. Come back, they say. Do you not miss the black soil under your feet? Do you not crave the freedom to change at will, from bird to bee to carnivorous plant? And Orion does miss it. He misses knowing and the fine, thin air and the ability to be, but he has made a home with the humans. Here, in this realm of houses and clothes and conversation, he is an oddity, but he is loved. They find him strange, but still he is found. And so, Orion does not go back to the trees, to the faceless forms of light and the heady aroma of crushed flowers. A changeling is loved most in retrospect, he realizes, when beads and bits of bark cannot by it back.

three. Careful the things you say; children will listen. They do hear their parents, their high and judgmental voices. Orion hears them too, but he still teaches the children. He never holds the sin of the parent against the child, and besides — the children are kind, aren’t they? They think that he is funny, but they are kind with their curiosity. They are gentle with him and, in return, Orion gives them fairytales and the fruit from his trees and the knowledge of things invisible. There is no treat more beloved by his class than music. He plays his pipe for them, the one he carved himself from the watchful aspen. It’s the music of the forest, the children think; some have told him, solemnly, with the seriousness of children, that it sounds like the wind blowing through the laundry, or the sound of bells tolling in the distance. The parents, well, they are not as kind. He hears their words, their high and judgmental, but he holds no grudges. Children will listen, and there will come a day he will play a familiar song, and the children will follow him, dancing and singing. And the forest will bend at the sound of his fife, and the children will not come home.

lore

one. It’s been said that Orion is not of this realm, and that he comes from a sect of faeries that have made court in the woods. Most believe that Orion is a changeling.

two. He has saved the lives of many of his students, and, as a rule, he expects nothing from the parent. Nothing save for a promise. Do you remember Rumpelstiltskin? 

three. Orion does teach the children things like arithmetic, reading, but most parents are surprised to find their children being primed for a fae life, a life in the woods.

[eldritche-hq-blog]

YVONNE DUMONT  ● APOTHECARY AND HEALER  ● FLEXIBLE  ● WE MUST NOT LOOK  ● OPEN  ● RUTINA WESLEY

i gave it all i got to know now / i don’t want no part of it no longer, no longer — don’t you wait, solange

personality

Yvonne’s a complicated woman to say the least. She’s in love with the idea of medicine, of community and of healing, but not so much with people. There is a frost about her as if, beneath those infrequent smiles and refined manners, lies nothing. She’s the sort to describe themselves as ‘brutally honest’, though most can confirm that there is more brutality than honesty. That woman is a razor, slicing quickly to the root of things, caring little for superfluous conversation and emotion. She takes nothing short of what she deserves, and believes that to survive one must be become just like the world. In her eyes, the world is insensitive and selfish — Yvonne thinks she must be the same. Still, she is deeply empathetic, approachable enough to make a living out of taking care of others. She is much like her cures; bitter to taste, but healthful and desperately needed. Be warned — you’ll need more than a spoonful of sugar to swallow her.

Alternatively, those who know Yvonne have less than sweet things to say about her. Shameless, guiltless: they say she rejects all discipline and moderation behind closed doors, that she is a piss-poor doctor for her hypocrisy. Her bedside manners leave much to be desired. Yvonne is said to be a gossiper, and that she uses the secrets of her patients as bargaining chips for their silence. Several times she’s been accused of theft, though no amount of punishment or threats seem to scare her. She is unrepentant, even unto death — some say the solitude of a jailhouse would only amuse her, that the vicar and judge are unnerved by her mockery of hellfire. It leaves some to wonder what penitentiary is there for the unrepentant?

about yvonne

one. Date a girl that’s weird. Date a girl that’s been waiting for you, sleeping day and night, emerging only to tend a moonlit garden. You don’t know her name, you have yet to ask her out, but she’s bathed and perfumed herself. She’s been growing poppies in the meantime, and only poppies. When you come to the door, she’s ready, cloaked in red velvet and stinking of pesticides. In her black-bark eyes, you see the past and future. Your death and hers, a century of forests burning and sprouting anew from the ashes, human carrion fertilizing the black soil of the woods. Over dinner, she speaks extensively about the red smear of her brother’s face, about ants, about the sticky, lobster-like body of the fish flies. She wants you to take her home. You do, take her, and that night, when she is showering and fussing with your soaps, your stomach roils. Her hemlock lips, her thighs running with the purple-black juice of arum lily berries. At sunrise, you are human carrion, fertilizer for the black soil of the forest. Over your body, she plants poppies and only poppies.

two. Black-hearted woman with the touch of Midas, but her fingers bring no gold. They bring instead the taste of poisons, twirling and bilious. She’s known others to sweeten their medicine, but for what use? Her healing is an act of violence with no relief in the relieving. Her office is like a hothouse, cramped with green plants, close, the smell of tinctures and creams and potting soil unbearable. She is not a gentle healer — camphor and salts pushed under your nose, thick and stinking salves slapped to your chest. Isn’t anyone familiar with the gagging taste of Vicks being shoved down the throat? And nothing ever feels fixed until you sleep. Some patients don’t wait, but the ones that do are better for it. The eyes are brighter if not a little distant, and the body is not wracked with pain. The heart beats without strain, and the mind — oh, the mind! — twists with colors, scenes of a world parallel. Mary, Mary, quite contrary, how does your garden grow! With hemlock, of course, and poppy and peyote, with cannabis and sage of the diviners and ...

three. Two white sheets flutter on the line pulled taut between two dying trees. They’re damp from last night’s rain shower. Smell faintly of water and of air and of lightning about to strike. She mends them when they tear, but never dares to take them off the line. Yvonne thinks, still, somehow, that someone or two will come to her house. She thinks that they will be naked and shuddering, that they will sit on her porch and ask for lemonade and sweetened tea and bits of ice straight from the block. And they will be shaking like leaves, and their sentences will sound like chopped pieces of an old song. And then Yvonne imagines that she will unpin the white sheet, or sheets depending, and wrap their shoulders, apologizing heartily for the damp and the smell of impending lightning. But it hasn’t happened, not yet at least. So until then or maybe never, two white sheets flutter on a line pulled taut between two dying trees.

lore

one. Some say she was just a girl of twelve when she lured her brother into the forest to kill him. No one is certain of what she did to him while there, but he’s never returned and no remains have been found.

two. There’s a scar under her chin from where her mother tried to do away with her. Only recently did Yvonne put her into the Healing House, finally overwhelmed by tending to her grief-stricken mother.

three. She and Dion used to be the best of friends, but, supposedly, Yvonne stole something priceless. They had a big falling out. Dion even threw Yvonne out of her pub. Nowadays, the women barely speak two words to each other.

[eldritche-hq-blog]

about the lore section ...

Though it seems to be nothing more than a rumors section, the lore section of the biography is a small collection of things that the character has done/has been accused of doing. Nearly all of the accusations are true — there is no changing the sins of the past. However, the beauty and fun of Eldritche is deciding how your character will react to their lore, and how others will respond to them knowing their past. Before choosing a character, decide if you’re willing to have their sins on your hands.