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Log Title: Dreams in the Bayou

Setting: Starts in the streets of New Orleans, and winds up deep in the swamps outside the city.

Log Cast:
Sydney
Jean-Batiste
Trace
Regan
Mule
Catherine
Sevrin
And multiple spoofed ghosts and creepies!

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Jean-Batiste's grin falters a little, and he looks down at his knees, pulling a few strings off the rips there. He starts to cough, and rubs his sleeve against his nose.

Sydney reachs up to lightly brush Jean-Batiste's brow, her fingers feather light. "Th' Loa, she takin' a likin' to y'all, chere," she says quietly. "Y'all gots eyes tha' catch her attention. They like Ogou, when he git all lovey."

Sydney's smile faulters a moment, turning her head. "He ain' all well, chere? Somethin' Ah can fix, or no?"

Alisynde comes down Bourbon from uptown.
Alisynde has arrived.

Jean-Batiste mumbles softly, "It's just a cold..." and sniffles a couple more times, finally pulling out a paisley-patterned hankie to blow his nose into. As he tucks it away, he finds a grin and nudges Trace gently, asking Sydney, "So which voodoo...spirit?...does he remind you of?" Nice change of topic, there.

David comes down Bourbon from uptown.
David has arrived.

Alisynde is a shape in the darkness - then a body in the light as she moves under the glow of a street lamp, pausing for a moment to light a cigarette.

Trace keeps his bewildered, glass eyes on Sydney for a moment before blinking over at Batiste, "Hey, no way, yer the one her spirits is all likin' and takin pity on..."

The sidewalk artist giggles and 'noogies' at Batiste, grinding hard with a playful fist. "Poor lil' Batiste, he gots sniffles and no more moonshine to cure it with..."

David cuts briskly through the crowd on his way downtown; as briskly as one can, anyway.

Sydney is not so easily swayed. Sitting on the pavement beside Trace and Jean-Batiste, chalk drawings on the concrete, she gazes at Jean with rapt attetention. "No, sugah," she says quietly, her teasing gone for the moent, a near solumn expression taking over her luminous gaze. "Erzuli, she see right on inta ya soul, chere. She tell me wha' y'all need. Lovin', she say. Ya hurtin', inside here," and she leans over, lightly tapping over Jean-Batiste's heart. "Where th' sunshine be. Y'all don' let it out, not even ta warm ya own bones, chere."

Trace pulls away from Batiste, sinking back down onto the sidewalk heavily. "Yeh...?" He looks at Jean-Batiste seriously for a moment, as though trying to see that there himself. Nope. Hmm.

Jean-Batiste warbles a weak laugh, and squirms at the noogie. It jostles his ball-cap loose, and his stringy, unwashed hair spills out. "-Hey-..." he complains, chuckling again at Trace. He reaches for the cap, already trying to tuck the mess back away and out of sight. Glancing up at Sydney for a moment, his mouth twitches a little - his shrug jostles bony shoulders, but he doesn't reply.

Alisynde inhales for a long moment, finally letting the smoke escape out into the air. Then she grins slightly at the noogie, and meanders off.

Alisynde heads downtown.
Alisynde has left.

Jean-Batiste starts twisting the ring around on his forefinger, nervous under all the attention. "Just tough on the street, sometimes, you know?" he says, braving Sydney's luminous eyes. "It's just how it goes." He looks to Trace, as if he'll back this up.

Sydney leans back, studying the two, head turning to gaze from Jean to Trace, and back again. Thoughtfully. Reaching for her shoes, she slips to her feet. "Meybe we go do some more drawin'," she says quietly, still musing. She simply inclines her head to Jean-Batiste's statement, accepting his words as something to fill the space, with no truth to them at all. "Y'all comin'?"

Trace looks down at his picture, growing suddenly fascinated at how purple bleeds into black, thick and pasty. Black is gargantuan, bottomless... It's supposed to win, right? He smiles brightly at the notion. Magik, yeah... And then looks up at the two of you at "Y'all comin'?' and says with a bright smile, "Huh? We goin somewhere?" So much for help, Batiste; this kid ain't feelin' no pains of the street at the moment, that's certain.

Jean-Batiste will brave questions that poke at his heart for the sake of somewhere out of the rain, at least for a while - he sighs heavily, but grins, and starts to climb to his feet. "C'mon," he says to Trace, and reaches a hand to help him up.

Mule comes down Bourbon from uptown.

Trace takes the hand gratefully, apparantly needing it to get to a position that's somewhat upright. He's really light, though, easy to tug into a standing position. Swaying a little, he grins, "Thanks.." And then, "Where we going, Violet-girl?"

Mule shoudlers through the crowd of Bourbon without thought to the looks he recieves. Disturbed look follow in his wake, as if by merely brushing he had made them unclean. His attention goes toward a smaller gathering in the throngs and he pauses, lifting his head and eyeing Sydney and entourage.

Mule�s Desc:
He stands with a supreme confidence as he gaze at the world from far-set eyes the color of a thunderhead, darkened frequently by the lowering of his brows and the near constant squint of one who has stared at the sun too long. His wide mouth is set into a stern purse more often than not, his full lips drawn thinner, creases falling into accustomed downward casts, strong square-lined jaw jutting defiantly. The occasional sardonic smirk reveals a full set of teeth, shiny, uneven. A hairline that once was lower now sweeps back from a broad forhead with heavy, bushy, black brows. That same hair falls just past his shoulders; lanky, peppered with grey againt the coal black. These harsh features sit on a round head set on a bull's neck and placed on a body that has been molded by a lifetime of labor, not the gym. Arms the size of most peoples legs carry savage scars, some reaching deep into the muscle; on the right anyway, for what remains of his left arm only serves as a place to attatch a prosthetic replacement, functional, practical, like the man who uses it. Legs like pier pilings hold up a mass of torso, from shoulders well suited to the weight of the world to a barrel chest large enough to hold the lifetime of hurt that etches his face. His stature is short, perhaps the world having squashed him over time if not defeating him.

Sydney stands with her shoes in her hands, between Trace and Jean-Batiste. Her eyes are overbright, thoughtful, bobbing a nod. "Then we gonna go on an adventure, chere. Sing some songs ta Erzuli, an' see 'bout bringin' out th' sunshine inside ya both." Tucking her violet chalk inside a small sequinned purse at her hip, she flashs a brilliant smile. "Ah have y'all singin' too, 'fore th' sun shine up ovah th' horizon. Ah promise!"

One good waif deserves another? Batiste makes sure Trace is mostly stable, then releases his hand, grinning weakly at him. "No problem." His eyes widen a little at Sydney's explanation, and he cuts a look back at Trace as if to say, 'Are you hearing this, too?'

Sydney's smile grows, watching Jean-Batiste. "Y'all chosin' by Erzuli," she murmers, glancing towards Trace. "We see who come ride y'all, petite. We all be horses tanight."

Mule parts the crowd with a broad sweep of his arm as he breaks through in a slow steady gait. He stops before the young woman, passing a cursory glance over Batiste and a somewhat longer one over Trace. His eyes darken as brows dip low over them, catsing those stormy orbs into shadow. "Syd." He says, only a word and yet, something definately is in that word.

Trace grins, "Yeah... Yeah, sounds good." And he giggles, "I suck at singing. But cool..." He takes a step and stumbles a little, catching himself on the closest thing possible -- Batiste, naturally. He chuckles at him. "You up for adventure?" And then to Sydney, "What'ya mean, horses?"

Jean-Batiste looks uncertain for about half of a second. Go with the strange voodoo lady, or stay out cold and hungry in the rain. It's amazing it takes him half a second to decide this. He catches Trace, swaying under the slight weight, and helps him upright again as he grins nervously and replies, "Yeah, sure."

Oh, Sydney has been aware of Mule since the moment he turned the corner and pushed his way through the crowds. Turning her head, she blesses him with a smile that would stop a stronger man in his tracks. "Bokor," she murmers, inclining her head. "Ah off ta feed th' Loa, chere. In th' ol' way." As if that has some significance. With her chin, she indicates Jean-Batiste. "This here is Erzuli's cheveaux, Jean-Batiste." And to Trace, "An' this here, he be Trace. He ain' been rid, yet. But we fix that. We take him off th' horse, an' make him one hisself, 'least for th' night. They symetry in that."

Trace seems to have no lack of confidence at all in Sydney's intentions. "Who're you?" he smiles at Mule. "Familiar... No, I can't place you though. I'm usually good at faces." He has no clue what Sydney is going on about, just goddesses and magik, who knows. She's violet, after all.

Mule's eyes narrow into a deep squint, his skin wrinkling at their corners like old leather, a hard gaze used to staring into the sun from the looks of his weathered integument. He tilts his head askew as he regards Sydney, "You aimin' fo' a righ' sho't life dese days ain' you?"

Sydney spreads her hands. "Ah'm goin' ta live forevah," she murmers. "Damballah, he make it so. Y'all know tha'. Now y'all shoo now. Ah gots work ta do, 'fore th' sun come up. We gots a new moon, an' th' blessin' of th' maid. Y'all go play with ya baka, chere. Ah gots no time for y'all."

Catherine comes down Bourbon from downtown.

Jean-Batiste glances sidelong to Trace, as if seeing if any of this makes sense to him. Seeing the lack of understanding on his face as well, he starts biting bits of skin off his bottom lip again. He's mildly nervous, the residual skittishness of a streetrat - it gets deeper when he looks over at Mule and stares a second. Leaning in to Trace, he whispers something quick into his ear, nodding back in Mule's direction. Jean-Batiste whispers "You heard about that guy? I heard he's, like, into everything. Marco told me about him, he's some kinda big shot."

Jean-Batiste senses "Trace smiles curiously, "What kinda everything?""

Catherine comes walking up along Bourbon, a somewhat sleepy expression still in her eyes, but she seems in a bright enough mood, as she heads uptown. She has a backpack slung over her shoulder and looks curiously around while she walks, looking at some of the preparations for Mardi Gras.

Mule says "Damballah..." with a forced breath. He shakes his head slowly, "Don' care what Mama Jean say... de streets ain' safe's dey used ta be. Be careless, Syd, be careless an' fall. I ain' pickin' you up no mo'. You al'eady make dat cleah." He squares his shoulders, taking a step back, "I still warn you, look aftah you fo' you won' youahse'f. Listen ta my warnin'." He flicks a glance over the two young men again and snaps his head to the side, looking down the street."

Jean-Batiste glances back at Mule in time to catch Mule looking back at him, and hurriedly finds an empty hurricane cup to look at, instead. He whispers again to Trace, either excitedly or urgently.

You sense Jean-Batiste gives a tiny little nervous laugh. "Like...everything. Marco says he knows everything that happens in town, get you anything you want if he's willing to help you."

Trace was about to return the murmur, but he suddenly spins round and squawks, "Oh, the money!" And stumbles back to his paper cup, by some righteous miracle still intact, and starts shoveling the money into his pockets clumsily.

Corporal Styles comes down Orleans from riverside.

Sydney steps forward, resting her hands on Mule's chest, the full force of her charm and charisma in effect as she murmers to him, her voice as soft as silk and just as enticing. "Sugah," she murmers, smoothing her fingers over his shirt. "Y'all ain' nevah picked me up. Y'all tear out mah heart, an' Ah let ya. They ain' nuthin' there no more. Y'all keep ya warnin's for them tha' ain' seen through ya soul, ta see th' black hungah tha' lurks there. Y'all ain' nevah gonna be content, chere. Not 'til y'all gots whatcha thin' comin' to y'all. Not with tha' gal ya married. Not with tha' Marie who think so high of y'all. It all come 'round, an' Ah 'spect Ah be feedin' ya spirit, come next Carnival. Heed ya own warnin's, chere." And with a breathtaking smile, she leans forward, brushing the faintest kiss against his lips (unless of course he bats her away like the mosquito she is), patting his chest with both hands before stepping back. Slipping an arm through Traces, then through Jean-Batiste's, she asks again, "Y'all comin', then?"

Corporal Styles pauses in his patrol to look over the gatering. He shrugs faintly and is about to move on when he hears a familiar voice.

Catherine slows down a little, then stops and blinks, staring at Mule and Sydney. She rubs her eyes, then suddenly smiles brightly and runs over to the group, exclaiming, "Sydney? Sydney, you're back!", and only as she stands next to them and almost hugs the woman does she realize this might be a little over enthousiastic, and she mutters a, "Uhmm.. hi..", almost cautiously.

Jean-Batiste laughs nervously, starting to get a bit fidgety. To try and hide it, he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a slightly wadded bit of paper, examining it surreptitiously. "Oh, -man-..." he murmurs to himself, and smiles at the paper like a long-lost friend. Sydney's arm comes out of no where, and he nearly drops the paper he's looking at, clutching at it frantically and shoving it down into his pocket again. "Huh? Oh, yeah. Uh...yeah. Sure." He grins shyly.

Trace makes it back to the group with today's earnings safely stored away and looks at Sydney in surprise when she takes his arm. "Oh! Yeah. Where we goin' again?" Not that you've told him yet anyway. Corporal Styles turns on his heels and heads back the way he came.

Mule shakes his head slowly, and almost looks as if he wuold laugh. It's not a natural look for him, somehow out of place on those grisled features. "Al'eady set in youah ways, Chil'... no'fing evah changes no' evah will fo' you. B'lieve what you wan'. You nevah undahstood an' nevah will. I do feel sorry fo' you, I tell you, Syd. You has my pity." He glances at Batiste again and steps forward into the boy's space. He reaches up and taps the boy's forehead with a hard and thick forefinger, "Bes' have youah fun while you can... you won' be remembahrin' none o' it come de mornin'..." He walks off uptown, not willing to pass the trio.

Corporal Styles heads riverside.

With unmistakable tension between Mule and Sydney, Syd turns with the two adolescents on her arm, offering Catherine the faintest smile. A murmered greeting is all that she allows, keeping her chin raised. Her gaze rests on the good Officer Styles as he spins on his heel, and if anything, her smile becomes more brilliant. So many things can be hidden behind a smile. However, when she calls out to Mule, her voice is brittle, as cold as ice. "Keep ya pity, Mistah Hendahsen! It be ya downfall!"

Jean-Batiste edges back nervously as Mule approaches, Adam's apple shifting uncomfortably in his throat. He flinches when Mule taps him, starting to bring a hand up to defend himself with...by then, all he can do is rub his forehead and stare after Mule's back with a sullen, confused look.

Trace clin gs to Sydney a bit, glad for the support, and watches Mule go with an oblivious grin that quickly shifts to Catherine. "Oh, hi!" Then to Sydney, curiously, "She coming for adventures too? And where we GOING?"

Catherine�s Desc:
A young girl, looking about fourteen or fifteen years of age and not reaching much higher than five foot and an inch stands before you with a somewhat cheeky expression on her face. Her coppery red hair reached just past her shoulderblades on her back, but in front it's cropped short over her forehead, letting her deep green eyes look very clearly out into the world. Half hidden by bangs of hair are her ears, with a small golden ring through each lobe. Around her neck is a thin silver necklace, the pendant on it a silver cross, looking fairly old. Her expression and her entire attitude speaks of self confidence and of sharply formed own opinions. Her face has some little smudges and her hair seems a bit messed up, as if she likes to play outside and doesn't care too much how she looks.

Ready for a swim, she is wearing a one piece swimsuit, broad straps over her shoulders holding the deep blue outfit in place. The material is quite opaque and fairly thick, but it does not hinder her motions in any way, as she wouldn't have wanted it to. The forms it covers seem to be developing quite nicely, but it also clearly shows she is still growing and only in her mid teens. The outfit is modestly cut up at her legs, again, more for freedom than to show of anything and save for the thin diagonal yellow stripes over her belly, the swimsuit could almost be called standard.

She seems to be quite at ease with herself, even in an outfit like this, only interested in how warm the water is.

Catherine looks a little out of place now. She hears Mule and watches him walk away, a puzzled expression now on her face, and obviously a faint smile isn't what she expected of Sydney either, though she already seemed to have realized a hug was out of place. Looking at Jean-Batiste and Trace for a moment, she then steps back a little and starts to walk around them, to continue uptown, saying softly, "Uhmm.. sorry, guess you're a bit busy.. Just don't disappear on me again.."

Mule makes his way uptown, reversing his path to avoid the trio. He catches sight of Catherine on up the way and steps beside the girl, his words all but lost in the banter of the crowd, He mutters to Catherine, "Come, chil'. Dey... Bes'... youah... in..." He places his hand on her shoulder in a fatherly way, protecting, again, seeming at odds with his countenance.

Jean-Batiste looks up at Sydney suddenly, as if startled, then blinks a couple of times. He rubs his forehead again, then his face overall, glancing back at Mule. He frowns to himself for a second, then coughs into his unbuttoned cuffs.

Trace looks to Batiste with something near sympathy, his grin flickering out for a moment. "Man... I'm sorry you ain't feelin' good," he mumbles, peering around Sydney to look at him. "Anything I can do?"

Catherine heads over to Mule and looks up at him, a moment puzzled at something she hears, but she smiles then and nods slowly, following him. She glances a moment back at the trio left behind, eyes staying for a while on Sydney, looking a little sad, but then she turns her attention back to where she is walking looking uptown.

Mule heads uptown.

Sydney stares after Mule, keeping her smile with a desparate effort. "Put a knife in his black heart?" she asks, with forced cheerfulness. Sucking in a very deliberate breath, and releasing it slowly, she looks at her companions. And her smile becomes crooked, although more honest. "Y'all treadin' dangerous watah, y'all come along with me now. Ah warn ya. Sun done went down, an' left nuthin' but darkness in its wake."

Catherine heads uptown.

Jean-Batiste shakes his head doggedly, coming up with a grin for Trace. "Eh, it's just a cold, right? It'll go away, it always does." He's being brave, keeping his mood up for Trace. He even squares his shoulders a little. "It's cool. It'll be okay." He smiles nervously up at Sydney, not sure what to say.

Sevrin comes down Orleans from riverside.

Trace nods a little, slightly let down by the change of mood. It's like those bleeding colors on the sidewalk, and maybe the black's gonna creep in on that purple after all. Or something. "Well... well, I think Sydney oughta forget that guy, and Batiste needs something to make his cold better, and we ALL need adventures and to cheer the fuck up." He grins a little. "Right?"

Jean-Batiste decides to glance at Trace for -his- reaction to Sydney's words. If he's still grinning and raring to go, Batiste will be, too. And Trace comes through - with a nod and a brave grin, he says, "Yeah. Right. I'm ready."

Sevrin walks down (up? over?) the street, shoulders hunched high, head low and hands shoved into his pockets, huddled into a jacket for some protection against the waning cold of winter and night. On his shoulder is a somewhat antsy raven, who croaks softly every now and again, causing the man to pull a hand from a pocket and offer it a small black seed or two.

Sydney just smiles crookedly, lifting her shoulders in a little shrug. "Adventure or meybe some hardcore drugs," she offers. "Make ev'rythin' all right, it do. Sight bettah than tryin' ta feedin' th' Loa..." she sighs, giving her head a little shake. "Alright, boys. Y'all bein' stout of heart, we be headin' to th' bayou. They al'lys adventah ta be found out with th' gatahs."

"On telephone wires!" Trace croons with glee. Oh, that picks him right up. "Hell yeah, I'm in.. let's go!" But he starts at the sight of the raven, creeping back a bit... whoa. Memories.

Sydney herds her charges through the pre-carnival crowds, offering Sevrin a fleeting smile as she passes. Off to a side street, where she calls for a taxi. And as Trace will see, she doesn't need the coins tossed on the street to fill his cup.

Jean-Batiste laughs a little, then coughs once. He opens his mouth to speak to Trace, then sees the blue-haired boy's reaction, and looks around a bit to see the man with the raven. "Fuck, -that's- weird..." he mumbles, seeming unnerved as well and more than a little relieved to follow after Sydney, away from the weirdness.

Sevrin frowns briefly at what he hears Sydney say, though out of politeness he returns her smile. The raven hops up onto his head and, even as Sevrin passes by, turns to stare at the group.

Trace shudders a bit, glancing over his shoulder to eye that Raven, but finally jerks his attention back to his friends and the awaiting taxi.

A taxi pulls up, waits as Sydney, Regan, Trace, and Jean-Batiste get in, and spirits them away.

Sydney stops off at a very weird little store up on Basin and Canal, gathering a basket of...stuff. Really weird stuff, as well as changes from her pretty party dress. Having the taxi wait, she wisks everyone off to the Bayou, the utter darkness of the moonless night making the swamp sounds louder, more eerie, ten times more worrisome.

Trace had watched out the window of the taxi quietly for most of the trip here, and now his eyes are on the shadows, wide but unafraid. He occasionally glances at Batiste, wishing his cold away with little success. Dutifully, he keeps close to Sydney. This is certainly not familiar surroundings for the boy.

Deeper and deeper, the swamp surrounds you, wet Spanish moss hanging low as Sydney leads along paths that only she can see. A warning over her shoulder to walk where she does, the *splash* of a 'gator just off to the side only adds punctuation to her warning. Weaving through the waters, indeed, there would be no way in hell anyone could find their way back again, without a guide.

Jean-Batiste follows near Trace's side, now that Sydney's got a basket to carry. He looks around at the darkness, squinting one moment, staring the next. City-boys in the bayou. Sounds like a bad B-movie. He jumps at the sudden splashing sound, swallowing several times to make sure his heart's back where it belongs.

You push your way through the dense growth of flora and find a hidden clearing in the swamp.

Hidden Clearing - Swamps

Here, in the middle of the swamp is an anti-oasis of sorts. The ground is not marshy like much of the bayou, but firm and nearly dry under your feet. It is surrounded by a circle of cypress trees, and almost completely shrouded with a thick curtain of spanish moss, tall reeds and saplings. Above, the tops of the cypress trees bow slightly inward, the branches forming a roof of sorts, surrounding the clearing, and hiding it from arial view.

In the center of the clearing, stands a mammoth oak tree. Centuries old. It is flanked in the four directions, by four more, lesser, but still impressive, century-old oaks. Directly in front of the center oak, is a battered and well-used, hand-carved stone altar. From the branches of the right oak, is a replica of a ship, hanging by a snake-skin cord.

Trace blinkblinks, head swiveling to take in this surprise. "Oh.... oh, this is special place," he smiles. "Feel it, Batiste? I'd like to draw here sometime... It stirs me all up."

The laughing dancing girl fades with every step further into the bayou, a stillness coming over her. And as Sydney leads you into the hidden clearing, it is another woman completely that's taken her place. Solumn, her eyes are no less solumn. No less shining. But...somewhat more dangerous. Since the interaction with Mule, the laughter itself has faded away. Nodding to Trace, she offers him a smile, murmering. "Its a sacred place. Home of th' Loa." Stepping across to a low, stone altar, she puts her basket there, glancing once off to the east. A battle of sorts is fought on her face, a myriad of emotions that run the full gammit. Closing her eyes, she lifts her head, calling out in that same ancient language that she sang on Bourbon Street, but this is no dancing song. It is a calling, a cry and entreaty.

Sydney says something in a(n) African language you don't understand.

Jean-Batiste's steps falter to a halt as he squints against the new-moon darkness, trying to see. "Wow..." he murmurs. "This is..." He bites on his lip, edging towards Trace, watching his feet as he moves so he doesn't stumble. "It's...I've never seen somewhere, like this." Except for movies, but he's hoping a chainsaw mass-murderer isn't hiding in the tree. He draws closer to Trace, going silent, as Sydney calls out again.

Trace looks faintly startled at her cry, and inches closer to Batiste in return.

You whisper "What 'ya thinks she's sayin'?" to Jean-Batiste.

You sense Jean-Batiste clears his throat very tentatively, and fights back a cough. "I...I don't know. Some kinda voodoo chant, I guess?" Well, duh. "A prayer?"

Trace hugs his arms around himself a bit, slightly chilled and a little spooked. At least his walking is much steadier here than it was on the street. Swamp air doing him some good, perhaps. "I guess so," he says softly.

Regan�s Desc:
A young member of the Restless Dead... and restless indeed she is. She is almost constantly moving, wandering one way, hopping another, looking here and there. Everything about her moves with her, as if all made from the same substance. Curling softly and wildly down to just below her chin is a mass of unreal-bright-red curls, which toss and move with every turn of the head, seeming full of life themselves. Her blue eyes are sly and mischevious, darting about the room among everything. Although her short frame is thin, she looks quick and lithe instead of skinny or malnourished.

Flowing loosely down her frame is a gauzy white dress, in several layers to mask her body. The dress itself is two layers of loose-fitting gauze, hanging off her shoulders by thin straps. Overall is a long-sleeved, ankle-length garment of the same material, though of a light gray color, like spiderwebs. A white rope-belt fits snugly around her waist, a small pouch hanging off one side.

Jean-Batiste listens to Sydney for another few seconds, then has a sudden inspiration. "Maybe she's blessing us?" he whispers very quietly to Trace. You know, just in a neighbourly way, not like wafers before Communion.

Sydney reachs into her basket, lowering her voice, chanting softly, herbs of peppermint and red bell peppers tossed onto the alter. Lifting an ornamental dagger, she turns towards the two boys, her eyes shining bright. "It be Carnival," she says in a low voice. "Th' mirror is weakest now. Ah ask Damballah ta keep y'all safe from mah own passions. Come. Ah gots somethin' for y'all both ta take." Indeed, she brings out another packet of herbs, offering them out. "Y'all gots th' choice. Eat 'em, an' let th' Loa ride. Or Ah walk y'all back, now. 'Fore anything begins."

Trace certainly isn't one to historically refuse unfamilar, mind-altering substances, but this swamp has him a bit spooked. Besides that, he's only just starting to come down off something pretty strong anyway. So he asks, "Uh... okay, but.. Well, what's it do?" a bit shyly, afraid she'll think him foolish perhaps.

Jean-Batiste clears his throat, and coughs once, going rather still at the sight of the knife. He swallows, clearing his throat again, and looks over at Trace. Saved from asking the awkward question himself, he nods a little, and squints at the mysterious herbs Sydney offers.

Sydney lifts one shoulder, smiling crookedly. "It lets y'all see th' Loa," she murmers. "Opens ya soul so that they can come an' ride. So they can cross th' mirror, an' walk th' earth agin."

Trace's brow creases with slight concern. Okay, so it's probably just got shrooms mixed in or something. But even still... "It gonna mix okay with what I been floatin' on tonight?" But then sighs and revokes his question with a slight wave, looking down at the herbs. "Okay, okay... I'm gonna do it." He lifts his head to lock gazes with Batiste, resting a hand on his shoulder and intoning quite seriously, "I start to turn blue, you slap me up good, huh? Real hard... Ya promise?"

Jean-Batiste looks at Trace and nods earnestly to him, saying very solemnly, "I'll watch out for you, promise." He grins crookedly, nervously, and adds, "Just...you do the same, okay?" He bumps shoulders with the blue-haired boy to gain and share a bit of courage, then nods to Sydney and reaches out a cupped hand to accept the herbs.

Sydney spills a handful of the herbs into both boys hands. Indeed, there are small mushroomed capped things chopped up and added to something that smells faintly of ginger and pepper. The overall color of the herbs is red, red mingled with dirt in color.

Trace peers into his cupped hands with interest, and smiles with apprehension and anticipation. "So... just slam it back? Or what?"

Sydney nods, that same crooked smile lingering on her lips. "Jest chew it slow. Don' swallow it. Chew it, swallow th' spit, an' then spit it out, here," she turns, and indicates the alter.

Jean-Batiste brings his hand up near his face, and sniffs -very- carefully, not wanting to scatter herbs consecrated by yon voodoo lady by sneezing. He picks out one of the mushroom bits and nibbles it thoughtfully between his front teeth. "Kinda like peyote," he comments. With a last look at Trace, he raises his hand to his mouth and pours the mixture in, then starts chewing. "-Om- 'e alfer?" he asks, not thinking to say it -before- his mouth was full.

Trace crams the whole of it into his mouth, grimacing -- doesn't taste good to him at all, but then again, if it IS shrooms then that's to be expected. He mashes it around in his mouth as long as he can stand it, and then sucks it into a compacted, damp wad of gross tasting herb-stuff and spats it out on the alter. "Phaugh," he comments politely.

As the boys chew and spit, and the drug slips into their minds, the pressure in the clearing shifts. Is it in your mind, or does a breeze blow up, slowly? Trees rustle with promise in the background, twigs and dead leaves are flickered out of the way by the wind's unseen fingers. Creeping in on th e breeze's coattails comes a light mist, a New Orleans fog slipping through the treetrunks as if bidden to come. A fire nearby? Something warms the area, and it isn't the drug alone. Are they here? Did Sydney's cries bring forth a power as promised? Or is Mother Nature simply picking this moment to make herself known, all too conveniently?

Jean-Batiste makes a series of very sour faces as he goes through the same taste sensations as Trace, edging up to the altar and spitting the chewed-up mass as well. "Gah," he agrees, licking around at his teeth, spitting quieter as he clears out the last few dregs. He shivers at the sudden change of temperature and rubs the back of his neck, easing down the gooseflesh.

Trace glances around with wide, bright eyes in the darkness, full of wonder at what's going on..."Whoa." And he smiles a little at Batiste. "Gettin' under your skin too, huh? Works fast... man."

Sydney�s Voodoo Desc:
Raven black locks have been pulled back in a loose tail to hang down the back of this coffee-colored beauty. Held in place by a ripped piece of white cotton, a few spiral curls have escaped to hang down each side of her face. Dark skin denotes hours in the sun...or a quadrooned background. Her features are distinct, heralding an exact mixture of European and African anscestry, brought together to create a striking form. High cheekbones, a delicately straight nose, firm jaw, and lucious lips that have a tendancy to tilt upwards at the corners. Her eyes are vivid blue, almond shaped with sweeping lashs that lay against her cheeks like bruises.

Stark white fabric lays against her dark skin, enhancing the color in her cheeks and the creamed color of her flesh. A long, flowing gown has been painstakingly stitched, with a scooped neckline and long flowing sleeves. Made of white cotton, the gown sweeps over her breasts, belly, hips, and down over her thighs, covering her from chin to toe, made loose enough to provide easy movement. More a pullover robe than gown, it lends itself to an aura of innocence that is belied by the dark fire behind those luminous blue eyes. While the boys are chewing, Sydney turns to the pens, pausing before the squacking chickens. Chickens amidst the sounds of the swamp is just...too surreal, but still. Without a care at all for her arms, she reachs in and pulls out a banty rooster, with feathers so black that they reflect almost blue. Returning to the altar, she picks up the dagger, cutting the squawks off with a sharp, very strong swoop of her arm, adding the lifeblood of the bird to the herbal mixture. Bringing the cock's neck to her lips, she licks the droplets of blood away, picking up the herbal mixture, blood and herbs and spit...and puts it into her own mouth, chewing on it with a reverent expression on her face. Tossing the bloody carcass aside, she lifts her arms up again in entreaty, the dagger replaced by a rattle that she begins to shake, lifting her voice in chants.

Is that... it seems to be. A red-haired figure in white, dancing lithely amid the trees. The mist follows at her ankles... a mist seems to create her entirely.

"Been a while since I tripped..." Batiste murmurs, sounding a little detached already. He jumps only slightly at the sudden squawking of the rooster, watching with glittery eyes as Sydney licks the rooster blood away. "Whoa..." he breathes. He looks at Trace again, grinning drowsily, then past him to fixate on the dancing mist-maiden.

Trace's smile melts away at the chicken sacrafice, watching it all not with horror, just with a morbid 'huh!'. The chant spooks him a bit more, actually, and he draws his upper torso back just slightly... Then sees the girl. Uh. And looks at Batiste. This is an odd trip for him, certainly. He decides that he'd feel better if it were a bit more regular, like if Batiste's face would just melt or something. He mumbles something that sounds like "..red..."

As the mists role in, shapes begin to take form, watchful forms. An old man, stooped with age, with stars in his eyes. An African-American man, his skin so black to be as blue as the rooster's feathers, dressed in rags, tribal tattoos on his face, a warrior. Beside the old man, an ancient crone who's smile is as bright as the rainbow itself, wary figures made of shadows. As Sydney's voice lifts to the shadows, calling beyond the mirror for the Loa to come and feast, the etheral forms begin to dance, dancing with the red-haired maiden, the laughter heard on Bourbon Street echoed in these unearthly forms.

At the sudden crowd, Trace forgoes all the insecurity and machoism of your typical fifteen-year-old and actually reaches for Batiste with sudden fear. "Batiste, Batiste, I don't... I'm not... what's with these guys everywhere?" he pipes plaintively.

The ethereal girl who leads this odd party tosses her hair, a wild main of unnatural red, and glances behind her impishly. Especially to the warrior, for whom she tosses a hip and springs more lively, teasing him around the clearing.

Half scared, half entranced, Batiste turns in a quarter circle, watching the ethereal celebration. "Can you see them..?" he asks, looking back only momentarily at Trace. "Look at his eyes..." He jumps again when Trace touches him, as if it reminds him maybe he -ought- to be more scared than he is. He gives the blue-haired boy a squeezing, awkward, protective hug. "It's cool, it's okay," he promises. His voice quavers only a little as he says it.

Stepping forward, the crone pauses right in front of Trace, blessing him with a toothless smile filled with colors, dazzling colors that can only be imagined, never seen, only dreamed. Although the crone's lips move, no sounds come out, soothingly to the child as he stares at her. The warrior needs little enticement. He moves, striding towards the red-haired maiden, and takes her up into his arms, swirling her around the mists in an ancient step. And the old man, shoulder's stooped with age, simply watchs, watchs as he takes a step towards the altar, stepping up to the priestess who has called him forth to feast, taking nourishment from the devotion offered.

Heard only in your mind comes a caress, an ancient voice of the crone, "You are mine, child. Dance with me. Celebrate the day." Not in English, not in any language you can possibly understand. But somehow...somehow, you do. Aida-Wedo has found her cheveaux.

The crone opens her arms towards Trace, waiting patiently, expectantly.

Trace peeks up at the crone from beneath a matted fall of blue hair, and clings to Batiste all the tighter, but just for a moment. Then, with great hesitence, hazel eyes locked on the starshining smile of the crone, he starts to uncurl himself and rise. "I... I don't know how to dance," he whispers.

The young thing tosses back her head, a laugh beyond the grave, and drapes her arms around him, fair white skin to night-black skin. But within moments she's slipped away from him again, dancing on light toes over to Jean-Baptiste, reaching out a hand and trailing the fingers over his cheek. No feeling, where there should be. No contact, where the misty touch intersects with living skin.

Sydney lifts her arms towards the old man before her, eyes shining bright with tears as she begs the old man to dance with her. It must be that. Tears that look like blood as she begs him for something, her chanting voice pleading, filled with heartwrending sorrow. Dropping the rattle, she reachs for the dagger, cutting along the inside of her arm to add her own blood to the offering on the altar.

The crone lets out a silent laugh, and takes a step forward...but she is old, and the warrior is much more fleet of foot. Jumping from where he's been left, Ogou slips before the old woman with a silent warrior's yell, a yell that echos through the clearing, stirring the nightbirds that nest in the Cypress Trees. Slipping into Trace, he rides the boy, taking control of his senses, his body, giving himself voice. "Erzuli!" No...that's certainly not Trace's voice. Its deeper, as if coming from a thick muscular chest, filled with strength. And calls again. "Erzuli!"

"It'll be okay," Batiste promises Trace in a hushed voice. He squeezes frail shoulders with frail hands as the blue-haired boy moves away, watching the seamed face with worried wonder. His attention shifts as the red-haired girl dances towards him, eyes widening as she reaches for him. He leans back slightly, in reflex - his hand flies up to his cheek when he touches her, yet feels nothing, eyes round with confusion. "I can't..." he starts to say, then falters off.

Jean-Batiste's eyes would pop right out of his head at the sound of that basso voice, if he was capable of doing such things. His head swivels - he -stares- at who's supposed to be Trace, forgetting to blink, speak, or breathe for several seconds.

A slim finger rests on Batiste's lips to hush him, and the unfelt fingers move over his eyes as if to close them. Of course he can see directly through, every bit of her unstable and translucent. And she fades, slowly, her form shimmering and melting with Batiste's, until she joins him fully. And his voice comes no, a softer purr that mingles his own and that of the Mistress of Love, "You called, Ogou?"

Trace stands up straighter, stronger, a pressence around him making him appear much taller. His mannerisms change, flashing a grin that is full of sass, hips rolling as he makes his way over towards Jean-Batiste. "Erzuli," comes out the purr, a seductive purr of a warrior who fully knows that his mistress longs for him. He is the bull, after all. Reaching for his hand, he tugs Jean-Batiste towards him, his eyes flashing sharply.

Jean-Batiste sways when his hand is grabbed, stumbling into Trace, hand landing on his chest. He shivers a moment, fingers trying to draw back and spread out at the same time. He glances down for a moment, though his expression is coy, rather than his usual bashfulness - when he looks up again, his eyes hold a wicked, glittery spark in them. "You seem to know my name at least, love," he murmurs, voice dropped to a near-purr.

The crone steps back, laughing at the antics of the two, making her way to Sydney. Her own chosen cheveaux taken, she slips into Sydney as she's pleading with the old man, her chanting and tears coming to a halt. The girl stoops slightly, the ancient wisdom of far too many years reflected in her eyes as she drops the dagger again, picking up the rattle to give the pair a focus.

Trace leans forward, inhaling Jean-Batiste's scent deeply, rumbling in his chest. Bringing his hand up to his lips, he kisses each finger with reverence, giving Jean-Batiste another tug, until the boy stumbles against him. No longer the frail, weak-legged adolescent, he flashe another grin, an arm going around Jean-Batiste's shoulders, bringing him closer, murmuring into the other's ear, "Yer name...but there's more then yer name than I'm interested in, Erzuli."

Jean-Batiste laughs when he stumbles full against Trace, a pleased, teasing ripple of sound. "So impatient already, lover?" he chides, giving a sinuous twist to move inside the strong cage of Trace's arm, hip rubbing against hip. "You know me better than that." He touches his tongue-tip to his bottom lip, barbell glittering like a trapped star, and paints moisture there as he smiles, full of wicked mischief.

The old man with stars in his eyes reachs down onto the altar, and with a touch, lights the surface on fire, the flickering flames illuminating the mists, making the shadows dance even more. There are a number of others watching, dancing...and some of them are not etheral. Writhing bodies dancing, a chant of sorts that lingers in the back of your minds. The fire illuminates swamp snakes that slither along the outskirts of the clearing, and the glowing eyes of the animals in the pens.

"Oh, I long to know you better still," Trace growls softly, slipping an arm around to grasp that hip... But faulters a moment, confusion flitting across his expression for just a heartbeat before it disappears again to that confident leer. A confidence that surpasses anything that's ever lit upon the boy's face, even at the height of his strongest muse, his most intense rush of creativity. "Erzuli... Do you plan to tease me so? I'll not stand for it!" he laughs.

Sydney slips closer to the lovers, the crone's eyes alight with laughter. "Children children..." comes out an ancient voice, high and brittle. Reaching for Ogou/Trace's hand, and then for Jean-Batiste/Erzuli's, the three pause there, in an akward embrace. And...it is the crone who brings one wrist to her lips, Trace's first, nibbling on it, a sharp *sting* where far from toothless gums break the skin, biting there, lifting her head to do the same to Jean-Batiste, sucking in a deep breath, chest rising and falling. For a moment...the crone looks more like a snake, with slits for eyes and fangs, a dark creature imposed over Sydney's features, lingering there for a moment before it fades...

Seconds? Minutes? Hours? The moment continues for an eternity, brilliant colorsexploding behind your eyes as a wild rush courses through your senses in the most amazing sensations. Pain and pleasure send you to the edge, where you teeter for the briefest of moments before you plunge into the waves that engulf you, pounding through you, everything clouded into nothingness as you simply...revel inthe blessings of this kiss, aching for it to continue, gasping for it to stop...

The boy with blue hair moaaaans.... his neck arches back a little. It is Trace, as the plunger is pushed down and his head floats up, up, away... It is Ogou, at the height of climax, clinging to Erzuli and wondering at this euphoric moment how he ever could have fought with her. Bliss....

Jean-Batiste laughs again, so pleased, as if the course of this night's events have been his and his alone. He splays his fingers out across Trace's chest, scrawling down over the threadbare T-shirt with bitten fingernails. He moves to speak, when the Sydney-crone approaches, pausing him as his hand is taken, turned, and bitten. His knees sway as he lets out a low gasping sound, eyes losing their feverish focus, free hand clutching at a fistful of Trace's shirt to scratch the skin beneath.

Sydney shudders, head rolling back as she rides her own sensations, the ferver of the rituals taking her to heights all her own. It is Sydney who leans down, gently pressing a kiss against both wrists, lips soft and tender, stepping away from the pair. The mists continue to linger, but Ogou...Ogou has slipped away from his cheveaux, reaching for his mistress with etheral fingers once more, a gesture filled with infinate care...and possession. The look in the warrior's eyes would make even Legba pause to reclaim his wife's hand just now.

Trace sags for a dazed moment, his heart protesting as that confidence, that sure and sweet feeling of *worth* leaves him in a rush...

It's only a moment or two longer before the misty red-haired temptress slips from Jean-Batiste as well, leaving a ghost's kiss on the young man's cheek as she withdraws. Leaving the boys to lean on each other, gasp, and recover.

Jean-Batiste wobbles, still grabbing at Trace's shirt - though, suddenly, it's not the bastion of strength it was. Disoriented, he shudders violently from head to toe, seeming to come back to himself just a little as he slowly relinquishes his grip on the threadbare cloth. He sniffles, choking a bit on raggedy breathing, and starts to cough.

Trace pants softly, stumbling back as Batiste releases him, and lowers himself onto the ground by the alter. His dazed eyes don't focus for a good minute or two, but when they do, it's on the wad of drying, chewed up herbs and shrooms. Man... He glances over at Batiste oddly, as memories flutter 'round the edge of his thoughts like moths against a screen door. Persistant, slightly annoying, but trapped beyond his grasp.

The effects of the herbs linger, although the mists begin to fade. It is the faintest light of the dawn that chases away the shadows, bringing the yawn of the bayou as daybirds waken , and coyotes yip, sorrowful howls to greet the morning. The entire night has come and gone, darkness still holding forth. What is real and what is not mingles in and out, and will continue for an hour or more. Sydney becomes silent, folding in on herself, herding the boys from the swamps while they are still disoriented. Lethargy creeps over her as well, exhaustion from the emotional strain of the evening, offering no explainations, no assurances, intent on getting the boys to safer ground while they are still protected by Damballah. The taxi has been waiting, for what, an hour? Two? Perhaps a day? But its there, at the edge of the bayou when the three emerge, the driver slumped down and dozing in the predawn hour.

Opening the wooden door, you slip into the back room of the apothcary.

Backroom - Storyville Apothecary

Yellow lighting casts a dingy glow through this cramped back room, a secondary addon to a shack that is left over from a bygone era. Along the front wall, split in the center by the door that leads back into the shop, are musty shelves filled with clay pots, extra inventory for those who are serious practioners of voodoo and herbalism. Boxes press around one corner, filled with brilliantly colored baubles and authentic voodoo dolls (made in China) for the tourists that bring in the real money.

A bed has been made up in the shadows, over in the farthest corner, faded quilts carefully folded, with a fan set on a small dresser to stir the otherwise still air. An old TV sits on a crate beside the door out to the projects, with an overstuffed chair in front of it, another crate turned over and holding a half drank can of pepsi and a glass filled with deluted soda. A rifle is propped up next to the bed, within easy reach of even the deepest sleeper, amidst a wide scattering of books that are constantly underfoot.

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