It is said that the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter will have immense magical power. But the mother of that seventh daughter is only just that, a mother.
Proserpina Mors was born into the significant seventh position of her lineage, burdened with the task of breeding the seventh of a seventh. From the very day she entered the world, the witch was made to spend every moment preparing for the birth of her own daughter. Her entire life was meant for this.
Of course, there was the matter of birthing six other children, and the expectations of Ironwood Coven, to attend to before that day would come. There was no time for love, gentleness, trial and error. There was only discipline, strategy, and efficiency. The ends justified the means ā no matter how she arrived at the point in time, all they wanted from her was the seventh child. That child was a blessing to their coven, and a curse upon her womb. Desire was never part of the equation.
Whether her circumstances created her magic, or her magic created her circumstances, Proserpina would never be certain. She studied with the witches of her coven rigorously and grew adept in the art of weaving enchantments to better serve herself and her lineage. Curses, most would call them. But oh, how a curse for one was a blessing for another. Still, it couldnāt be denied the witch was spiteful and enjoyed exerting a power and influence she felt had been denied to her since the very beginning. To prescribe truth to the life of someone else where her own had been defined since birth ā it only felt fair. She worked in sigils and runes, creating a magical tongue with which to bind, bend, and break others to her will. The coven crafted these spells carefully, but still Proserpina lacked the full strength to achieve her ends; she was only as strong as her birth order dictated.
There were many fathers and several lovers in her years with Ironwood, but the only one who mattered in the covenās plan was the seventh girlās father. She named the baby Anathema, a gorgeous, hateful word befitting all the years and possibilities the girl took from her. Her magic was beyond the covenās and that much was evident from an early age. Proserpina wished she could take pride and ownership in that fact ā because it was her careful planning and sacrifice that had enabled this seventh of a seventh to be born. But the magic was all her daughterās, and as much as she would try to control the child, the coven had not prepared her for this. Anathemaās magic was woven into life and death and nature itself, forces far stronger than could be manipulated by simple good breeding. Proserpina was jealous of the child, her other six offspring quickly given over to the covenās machinations as well. But none were as strong, as full of potential as that curse laid upon her by time, circumstance, and man.
Which isnāt to say Proserpina didnāt love Anathemaās father or the child. But perhaps it was that love looked like power, love looked like service and sacrifice in a grand plan like Ironwoodās. But as the girl grew older, her mother came to understand the curse was far beyond the birth ā this child would be a trial for her throughout her life. Anathema owed her mother courtesy and respect. Proserpina was the very reason this child had any power to begin with. And so, why shouldnāt she lay claim to it?
Anathema was 14 when her mother saw fit to siphon the girlās power; she was well past age where she should have understood its weight, but still young enough that the child couldnāt possibly stand up to the entire coven. And so with the very sigils the girl wrought, Ironwood twisted this power into a language they could better wield ā power, discipline, structure. And with the potency of a proper line of seven at their disposal, there was little they could not speak into being, be it a curse to outsiders or a blessing for those within the circle.
Of course, the girl fled and tried to hide herself ā but mother and daughter are bonded by something deeper than magic numerology, deeper than the blood and water of the womb. Anathema is her curse. She put her into this world and she will wield that child like a sword against others, even if it cuts her in the process.
Now:
Her chase has brought her to Port Leiry, a place brimming with magical energies. But Proserpina only cares for one ā her daughterās. Whispers of surviving wolves donāt bother her greatly, because once she has Anathema in her arms once more, sheāll never feel the burden of her curse again.
Headcanons/Other:
Proserpina works as a forensic toxicologist in what little spare time outside of the coven she possesses. Selfishly, she does take interest in the profession because she wonders if she can still track her childās magic and connection to nature through any incidental poisonings or remnants of plant materials ā though she knows Anathema to typically prefer a knife.
Proserpina once leveraged favors from the Ironwood Coven with budding Fellowship hunters in Boston to permit them their tattoos ā a mix of her own sigil-work and other sources. Ask Valka Hadley about it sometime.
Her seven children have at least four fathers between them, all chosen for her through the covenās strategic breeding plans. Proserpina is convinced that of all of them, she did love Anathemaās father ā but that may perhaps be because he was her final breeding partner, he only fathered Anathema, and he was powerful and clever in his own right.
Ros is sensual and generous with those worth her time. When she's not simply partnering up for the prophecy/to have children, she loves to really, deeply get to know her partner. People outside of the prophecy's ends feel more special to her -- she gets to choose, she gets to have them and not share them. And she's smart, rich, and hungry. You could do a lot worse than dating her.
ā”ļø- do you really think you can control anathema?
I fear I may have given the wrong impression that I'm trying to control or otherwise subjugate my child. I know I cannot control Anathema, and more than Ironwood itself has been able to control the prophecy or even me. Now, I know I have a role to play and Anathema has one too -- I hope to help her see that, but it's natural for a child to be a little selfish. She's powerful. Stronger than me by arcane metrics, so, no. I don't think I can control her. But I can guide her.
Their eyes grow even wider at the way their family's name drops so casually from the witch's mouth. The Ryans. For so long, they had been convinced that they were a myth, a story that they'd been told for so long that they had made it real in their minds. They didn't actually have a family or a pack, it was just an idea to cling to in the darkest of times. But when someone else mentions them, they feel real and suddenly Arte is starving for more.
"Y-yes," they nod jerkily, staring at the woman in barely-concealed awe. "We... we were..." Their throat feels like a thousand tiny stones have been poured into it, each one scratching against their windpipe and esophagus to steal the words from their lips. Their eyes grow hot, one deep blue and the other a pale shadow of its twin, but tears come where vision doesn't.
They don't mean to flinch at the topic of magic, an instinctive gesture to shy away from everything that had been taken from them. "S-I'm... um, I'm sorry," they stutter out. Suddenly, it feels like a cold wind sweeps through them, and the hair on the back of their neck prickles. Her words grow softer, more dangerous but no less intentional. "What um, ... what if she does- what if she doesn't want to be... to, t-to be found?" Arte asks, finally managing to spit out the question. "Does she know you um, that you're looking for her?"
Again, their eye drifts over the taller woman's shoulder, like the house Cham has been fixing up might suddenly appear in their periphery, but of course it doesn't. "If she w-was your world, why did... why did you leave her?" Why do any parents leave their children that they claim to love?
Whether Arte truly understands the depth of her powers or not, Ros can't deny she finds the fear and awe splayed across their scarred features refreshing. This is a creature that knows something of the world and how it once was -- and how it should be. The tears pluck at her heartstrings a little, but she remembers that a scared wolf is still a wolf with teeth, and she doesn't particularly hope to be bitten if she presses the matter further. Proserpina isn't cruel for the sake of cruelty.
"She might not want to be found, no, but sometimes what children want isn't always what's best for them," she sighs, the maternal platitude merely something she wields like a sword rather than genuine concern for her offspring. She's a mother because they made her one. The witch will use that to her advantage. Ros does not step into Arte's space as they pull away, but instead stays rooted to her spot. "She may know. I'm not sure, I haven't exactly been subtle about it. But my daughter, my Anathema, has a magic to her that may even be greater than mine, or any other witch I've known. And magic leaves a signature -- when she uses it, I can find it; in the air, in the ground, in my heart."
The wolf's question is a fair one, and its ignorance is sweet. If she hadn't been sure before, she'd know now this is a Ryan child. Life hasn't been kind to them (nor has she, but her punishment of their species wasn't directly pointed at Arte). The question of abandonment, of who left who, cannot be answered very simply. But it is all she has time for now.
"Anathema made the choice to leave home one day when she felt she'd outgrown it. But she is very powerful and still has much to learn about herself and the world. What kind of parent would I be if I didn't at least try to find her?"
That one's rhetorical -- she doesn't need an answer.
"Thank you for your help, Arte. If you see her, please let her know her mother misses her. Her whole family -- her coven -- does. I'll be staying at the Catmint Cottage for the foreseeable future in case anyone needs to reach me."
She thought she was prepared, after seeing her mother there framed in sunlight outside the shop. But hearing her voice for the first time in so many years felt like it changed something inside of her, flesh and blood rewritten, coming back into line behind her mother like a dutiful duckling. She had not been prepared for the intense pull she felt, simply being in her mothers' presence, to make her proud and live up to the legacy that rested heavy on her head.
āMother,ā she had meant to call her Proserpina, her mouth pressed tightly together before softening at the last moment. She had other mothers in her life, but the power that Proserpina held simply by being present made all those other relationships pale in comparison. She found herself having to fight to keep from falling back into that young girl who didnāt question, just followed with implicit faith that her mother knew best. āWhat are you doing here?ā She doesnāt accuse, just asked the simple question and let the weight of all the motivations and history that lead them here ground her and keep her from drifting to her mothers side.
Some women compared their children to having a piece of their heart walking around, vulnerable and unable to be truly protected from the world. Ros doesn't necessary feel this for all seven of her offspring, but there's certainly a piece of her in Anathema. Whether the girl likes it or not, there's a bond bigger than either of them, written in the blood and the roots of their very coven. But it would be wrong to say Ros didn't care an ounce for the child. Why else would she have come all this way?
"I'm here for you, of course. We were all very worried after you ran away from home," she says simply, wiping a finger across the countertop. Ros is interested in ordering a drink, though she doesn't put it past the girl to try to lace it with something if she thinks it will buy her time. "I got very worried when we couldn't sense your magic for years, but... well, a mother knows."
Ros would rarely consider herself a mother, in the sentimental sense. She birthed many children, yes, and in a sense she reared them. But they've never been a proper family -- the Ironwood Coven cradled all of them in its boughs. It takes a village, after all. But Anathema is the end goal. She's the one that everyone else sacrificed for, no one moreso than Proserpina.
"So, I was curious where my septima had gone, what my little Anathema had gotten into," she hums, pulling out her wallet. "By the way, would it be too much trouble to get a small cortado while I'm here? And that cute little almond pastry."
Beyond the rind of mortal spheres - where color curdles into clotted crimsons, where seconds writhe into serpents that devour their own tails - Tenebris drifts, a primordial bruise upon creation. They exist now as the crackle between catastrophe and echo, a wound where light forgets to burn. Twin quasars whirl within the hollow of their skull, cold, captive suns imprisoned by their gravity.
From the Elsewhere they press through that trembling veil and behold the ballroom below: sigils of living flesh knotted into a throbbing tapestry. A lone pulse stains the ether with an Ironwood witchās chord. Her ambition tastes of blood-rust and oath-soaked moonlight - a bitter draught that hones an ancient hunger.
Tenebris elongates - an oil-slick tide sliding across impossible angles - and slips into the chamberās breath. Frost blossoms over gilded plaster; chandeliers bow inward, surrendering their radiance to the void that crowns him. The congregation prattles on, deaf to the creak of an unseen cosmos bending. Only Proserpina feels the hush, her heartbeat beating time against oblivion.
They hover at her shoulder, the outline of absence where flesh should stand, and the weight of collapsing stars leans upon her spine. Within the pulse at her throat they discern the arithmetic of sevens: a conduit exalted, yet forever parched. āWhat a sight -" they say to her and only her, ā- to see a vine pruned with such devotion thirst unto dust.ā
Her age of congratulations is long past. The child of prophecy is 27 years old and her novelty has long since worn -- though her power has not.
But that makes little difference to Proserpina, because the power is not hers. And tonight's discussions are aflutter with talks of another witch's great achievement. The Ironwood witch wonders how quickly, once their work is taken and disseminated through the covens, the clans, the packs, and the world, their name might be forgotten. Their work, their part in putting power into the world.
It's a disrespect she wouldn't wish on any other, and yet, her fate is curses, not wishes.
But as she stands with a glass of wine in hand, suddenly there's a coldness at her back. Ros hears the creep of ice across the fixtures and it's as if a great inward breath steals the light from the edges of the world. Her vision darkens, as do her senses, in the presence of something she believes only she can sense. The party proceeds apace, but she stands with a shadow for her companion.
"What in the unholy fuck is this?" The witch muses aloud, a sense of decorum lost for a moment. At first, Ros suspects the Mariposas, but they're all style and no substance. The nothingness here has a weight to it, an ouroboros of emptiness and eternity compressed, circling each other hungrily. She feels her pulse as if it's the only thing that's real anymore.
Still, 27 years later, some form of reputation precedes her.
"You're not some cheap parlor trick... and I know I haven't drunk that much yet," she says, justifying this incomprehensible moment to herself. "What exactly are you? And what do you know of my vine?"
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 remnantsĀ of something Tyche had once loved. At a place like the conclave, there was another coven Tyche desperately wanted the recognition and approval of.Ā As the concept of daylight jewelry spreadĀ 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.Ā Ā The conclave was a time for her to make the name Tyche known as a witch with power in her own right.Ā Ā
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.Ā She slowly flattened out her dress and titled her chin upward. Ros was never a women Tyche felt comfortable showing weakness in front of.Ā Snagging two wine glasses off a near by servers tray, Tyche approached Ros, smile careful trained on her face.Ā
"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"
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?"
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.
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 wasnāt 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. Sheās had over a decade to prepare for this moment, and yet now that it is here at her feet and she canāt 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 didnāt 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 didnāt 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.
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.
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."
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?"
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."
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."
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."
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 didnāt feel necessary. The house was getting fixed up slowly but surely and she had access to the Internet at home. She really didnāt need the job anymore, and could use the extra time to work on her second comp or Arte and Augustās curses instead. She hadnāt 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.
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.
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.
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..."
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.
The hustle and bustle of a 9-5 doesnāt 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, Jamesonās gonna make that machine work for him.
Satin Cabaret is an establishment where he fits in quite well. Who doesnāt love a job with a view? Besides, heās attentive enough toward some patrons and flirtatious enough with others that heās always guaranteed a big tip. No, Jameson is not the show that draws them in, but he likes to think heās what gets them to come back. One way or another. Bartending only brings in so much money. Heās got another little hustle thatās about to take off.
He calls it Hex.
Itās 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. Thereās another opening here too. See, humans go nuts over this shit too, it has similar effects to mushrooms. Maybe molly too. Jameson hasnāt had the experience himself; it wonāt work on him, magicās already in his blood. But you give some of that to someone with no magic pulsing through their veins, and itās crazy. Itās addictive. Itās 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 thereās something else he can offer them besides liquor.
He makes his way to them, wiping down a glass as he does so. āHey,ā Jameson greets them,Ā the bar lights shining down upon him, highlighting the dazzling grin on his lips. āWhat are we drinking tonight?ā
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.
