[Colette Lindsay]

COLETTE MARIE LINDSAY

Well I went back by rented Cadillac and company jet
Like a newly orphaned refugee retracing my steps
All the way to Cassadaga to commune with the dead
They said, "You'd better look alive"



S E E R . HOUSE OF STRATOS

My name is Colette-Marie - better known as Madame Babette but you can call me Cole or Letty if that's got too many syllables for you to handle. I might look like I'm in my mid-twenties but I'm actually twenty-two ; hard to believe, right? Roughly, I'm five foot, ten inches tall, last I checked, and I'd be the first to admit I'm a little on the scrawny side, but don't hold that against me. Loads have people have told me how much I resemble corinne bailey rae but personally, I don't see it.

F I R S T . I M P R E S S I O N S

Generally speaking, Seers do their best in attempting to blend in, to fit in. Call it a remnant of the love their ancestral “angels” had for man, but that’s really all a Seer wants to be seen as in the public eye – human. Not Colette. Surrounded by frauds and fanatics, she’s come to think of herself as special—as unique. It’s only natural that, as a young woman with quite a bit to learn, she act as such.

She’s always the one to laugh the loudest – to say the things that toe the line. Many are wary because she doesn’t feel the need to make friends with all she meets – just to leave a lasting impact. Hence the alter ego – Madame Babette. Pop in her tent during office hours, and she’s all Creole mystics, turning the accent on high, and leaving the incense smoldering in clouds. She likes the respect – even if it doesn’t pay the bills. People may have lost faith in psychics, but she’s quick to redeem that lost art with a few turns of the cards and several unsetting secrets revealed. She views people like caricatures – all the secrets and mistakes that people hate just as much as their large foreheads or beak-like honkers, she believes are the only things that set people apart, make ‘em different. So it’s only natural that she and her trusty tarot deck break them out. No, people don’t like that, and sometimes they don’t like her – but it’s only the truth she tells, god’s honest truth.

But aside from makin’ people uncomfortable in their own skin with her little tricks of the trade, she’s still a twenty-two year-old girl. She has been many places, seen many things, but she’s still a bright and shiny new soul. Her ignorance shows, and this she knows. Rather than some who try to prove what they’re not – she embraces that flaw. Always ready to learn, always ready for a new experience, she’s far more open to things than most that walk this green earth. That willingness, that unpredictability, those random acts of spontaneity make her fun – and those that have stuck around long enough to see past the smoke and mirrors of Madame Babette often find that, despite her flaws and her skewed morals, Colette Lindsay isn’t a completely horrible gypsy. In fact, she’s a rather good time

F A S H I O N . P A S S I O N

Colette is a sucker for shiny things – mayhap it’s because she’s a Stratos girl, or mayhap it’s because she likes to be taken notice of. Either way, there’s always a multitude of bangles upon her arms, heaps of necklaces around her neck, and a ring or two on each finger. Of course, given her budget, it’s cheap costume jewelry or stolen – but a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do, right?

The same can be said for clothing. She like sequins – anything that sparkles. She’s all about the neons, and she likes glamour, even if it’s far from the real deal. Her closet could be considered a costume shop – loads of headscarves and outrageous wear. For instance, she’s got a dress made out of peacock feathers that she picked up for a pretty penny in India. Nothing’s too ugly or too outrageous to be draped upon that spindly body of hers. She’s also quite the fan of tie-dye – Bob Marley acolyte, anyone? She doesn’t like shoes though. If she’s got to wear them, she will, but not much of her Winnebago's backspace is devoted to them. It’s barefoot or sandals if she can get away with it. Maddeningly enough, it seems to work for her. She often likes to pretend she’s someone famous – a starlet or a songstress, when walking down the street. Often times, she’s mistaken for one. After all, no normal person would nip downtown for a bit of coffee in a getup like that.

Though quite the fan of all-around hygiene, she’s gone through the awful mess of keeping her hair in natural dreadlocks. Occasionally she’ll cut them—but thanks to the mother’s genes, it's some "can't-cha-don't-cha hair." She isn’t a mop top—she isn’t Diana Ross – and so it’s dreadlocks. Plus, they only help the getup that she puts on for the townies. They've seen afros before--so she opts for something a bit more...mystic. She isn't much of a fan of makeup, which may be a shocker considering the attire. Maybe she expended all that creative enegry on the clothng, but usually she waltzes about with a natural face. If she does feel like puttin' on the dog, so to speak, it's a lot of dark, muted gold or purples. Nothin' to flashy, mates.

D I M P L E S . A N D . T H I N G S

The stories of her scars are generally rather mundane and quaint. She’ll joke about them – turn them into outlandish stories for a good laugh or two. However, when the crowds are gone and there’s no one left to impress, she’ll sit and trace the discolorations and reflect upon a time long since past.

Like the one she collected at her Pepere’s home when she was five. Good lord, she can still remember that rooster! He was huge! All angry shrieks and chasin’ her about the yard with the cruel beak ‘o his when she went to collect eggs in the morning. One time she went out in shorts, and he gave the back of her legs a good pecking. She tried to escape by leapin’ over a fence, and consequently ripped up the back of her leg in the process. She’s still got a thin scar that’s several inches long beginning at her ankle and stretches to about mid-calf. It’s all but faded into oblivion, but the memory hasn’t. To this day, when she eats chicken, She likes to pretend it’s that big, ‘ol onrey rooster, finally getting’ his.

The only recent bit of scaring is the rather bright and incredibly visible slash on the back of her left hand. She acquired that one about two years ago while in Germany. She was just getting’ into the swing of picking pockets, and she chose the wrong gentleman. He caught her, took a nice long swipe at her with his little pocketknife as well. Got a few kicks in and damn near broke her nose too, before a few members of the troupe came to her rescue. She was in bed for a couple of days after that tumble. Doesn’t much care for Germany, but that goes without sayin’.

No birthmarks so to speak of, but it’s no skin off of her nose. She’s special enough without any physical declarations of such. She’s got a light smattering of freckles across her nose – though they’re only visible if she’s spent quite a bit of time in the sun. They’re endearing and strange – that bit of European heritage peeking through the Haitian. Her family liked to joke that it was the only bit of white woman in her.

W H Y . D I D . Y O U . D O . I T

She’s got a handful of piercings. Have you ever seen the jewelry they have for all the little holes in a person’s body? It’s absolutely gorgeous! One in the nose. Usually it’s a diamond stud (cubic zirconium, anyone?) but when it’s time to make some money, in goes the hoops. The hoops look a bit more serious. She’s got more metal than skin on her ears – lobe, cartilage, tragus, you name it. There’s the bellybutton – and hell, even the nipples. Strip her down and turn out the lights, and she doesn’t need to be white to shine.

As for tattoos – well they’re fun, but they’re not nearly as pretty as a piercing. She’s actually stuck to things that matter to her. Ravens are psychopomps, and as a clairaudient, she’s forever followed by the birds. They seem to be the guide of choice for her. Plus, the Native American tribe art she chose for her symbolic art representation had a nice story about the Raven and creation. It was nice to view what many, even she, viewed as a harbinger of death was the one who also brought light into the world.

It’s painted upon her right shoulder in spacious blacks and reds. Drawn in lines, rather than shading, it is art, looking less like a picture of a bird, and more like something one could find on a cave wall. Plus, the dark color of her skin mutes the severity of the tattoo, making it look almost natural in appearance.

M A N . W I T H O U T . S K I N

Who knows where it stems from? Call it mommy issues, call it daddy issues, call it loneliness, call it ambition, call it a wide-eyed, innocent exuberance for big, limitless world, but whatever the case, Colette – even by Carney standards – is a bit of a showboat. She gets off on the attention – the admiration, the awe, the jealousy – hell, even the outright hatred. As long as she’s on somebody’s mind, she’s doing fine. Still, the techniques utilized in these attention-seeking rituals should be closely examined. It is a common belief that a clear indication of those who crave the limelight often exhibit obnoxious tendencies. Colette has never much cared for that word—“obnoxious.” Huh- sounds like it should be describing Lucien’s cooking rather than the attitude of anyone – much less her. Now “theatrical,” on the other hand, well, she likes that word. After all, what Madame Babette do, Mon Ami, well, it’s an art.

It’s in the way she speaks – the obvious and not-so-obvious exaggerations that make living seem all that more terrible and all that more beautiful. Things are never just “good” for Colette – no, it’s the pinnacle of perfection, wonderful, spectacular, life-changing, earth-shaking ! And when things are just all wrong and ten kinds of bad – well, she isn’t exactly a right little ray of sunshine herself.

Despite the initial common misconception, Colette doesn’t have an accent, or a cultural identity. All that mystic bayou mumbo-jumbo? Like hell she believes in that! It’s just oh-so-exotic to all these damn Europeans and they can’t seem to enough of the act. But hey – they want it, and she’s got no issues of pride keepin’ her from supplying it.

Now, some might think – “Hey Lindsay – what you’re doin’ is straight up blasphemy – peddlin’ your native culture and religion just to make a quick buck.” Of course Colette will respond with a rather hearty “Up yours, Mother Theresa!” You see, as far as Colette is concerned, religion is just a way to keep people complacent and into their places, and a cultural identity? Well that’s just what keeps you from exploring and embracing the big, wide world. She’s not got enough time to be zealous and ethnocentric – not when she could be an incredibly lost atheist!

Wait, she’s an atheist? She’s a…clairvoyant, fortune-telling atheist? How does that even make sense? Well, it reads with perfect clarity for Ms. Lindsay. You see, this whole eye and ear in the spirit world wasn’t some new development. She’s always had it—ever since she can remember, she’s seen a world filled with the living and the dead. It’s just…typical now. And well, for seeing ghosts so often, she hasn’t seen what happens to them—not even once. Not so much as a glimpse of a heaven or a hell. Sometimes they just fade out of existence, and that doesn’t mean that there’s punishment or paradise waiting when that finally happens. And then there’s also the fact that she’s young, and it is a typical penchant (even for the atypical youth) to question everything in existence. Colette’s seen her fair share of the world – and Mon Ami, every goddamn religion out there thinks that they’ve got it. Nobody’s got it – it’s all just shots in the dark. So honestly, she’d rather opt to believe in nothing – and if there is – god forbid – something out there that gives a damn, then at least she’ll be pleasantly surprised. She’s got no qualms with admitting she was wrong – just so long as it’s a proven fact.

S H O W . O F F

KEEP A HAND ON THAT WALLET OR IT’S ALL . M . I . N . E .
Lawdy, lawdy, if you think the circus folk make serious bank you’re in for a serious awakening, mon ami. There’s a reason carnies are thought to be murders, rapists, and no-good, dirty, rotten thieves. It’s a hard life and they’re shafted at every turn by the marks. If you’ve met an honest one, then they most certainly haven’t been in the business long. A couple of years of practice have made Colette quite the accomplished thief. She can walk out of a store or through a crowd and leave with her pockets bulging. Even her fellow fair folk are all but amazed by those nimble fingers of hers. Those that hadn’t been around long enough to see the learning stages would swear that she was born with adhesive on those fingertips. Those that have could tell you all the time, effort and failure that went into learning what she did. Whatever’s the case, she could snatch the earrings from a mark’s ears while lookin’ them straight in the face now. And she doesn’t even need any Seer tricks to do it.

SIT DOWN MON AMI AND I’LL PLAY A LOVELY . T . U . N . E .
She doesn’t really look like the typical girl one would find toting a guitar, but dear God above, cut that girl and she’d bleed the blues. Her pepere taught her a few riffs on the relic he was forever strumming and lord only knows how many hours she would sit on his front porch just listening to the heartache that his guitar could weep. When she left the states she found a replacement – though nothing could quite compare to his guitar. Anyone can learn how to play guitar, and anyone can play a song. However, there are those seldom few who have an ear for it – a natural grace for a musical instrument. Colette can be counted as one of those lucky few. She can often be seen sitting outside her trailer after dusk, strumming away well into the night.

BE COOL BABY, IMPERSONATIONS AREN’T . P . E . R . S . O . N . A . L .
Many people are good judges of character, but not many can become that character. Colette, however, has forever had a keen eye and a quick tongue. She can boil someone down to the bare minimum after meeting them for only a handful of minutes. Accents? No sweat, she’ll copy them to a science. Swagger, limp or unsightly twitch? She won’t forget to leave that out. She’s the carnie that’s usually sent into towns to attract marks. Look like one of them and create a lot of “local” hype, and even the most mistrustful of townies will drop by for a peek or two at the action. That, and it’s always a fun party trick once she and the mates get to drinkin’. It’s all “Do Georgie! Do Georgie! Carly next, Carly next!” well into the night. It’s a talent that’s made her several friends, and lost her just as many.

IT’S ALL ABOUT HOLDING A . C . R . O . W . D .
Let’s face it. Not everyone has an interesting life, and less of them have interesting fortunes. Colette – or better yet, Babette, won’t lie to them, tell them what they want to hear, per say, but she’ll make sure to spice it up. It’s all about the way you read, not what you read. She’s rather good at putting on a show – makin’ something interesting. She just throws herself into the game, turns things on high. A person may walk out of their tent knowing that they’re going to live and die a very boring individual, but for some reason, they can’t help but feel enthralled or terrified by the experience they just sat through. She’s like that on the streets as well. It’s all about being animated, baby – full of action, full of life. It’s all about makin’ those around you drawn to you, fascinated by you.

.

E P I C . F A I L

WATCH IT GLITTER, WATCH IT . S . H . I . N . E .
Colette’s gotta’ penchant for shiny things. Well, that’s an understatement, really. It’s more of an incredibly unhealthy addiction. It used to be cute when she was a babe. She was forever grabbing at the jewelry of those who held her and draping herself in her mother’s scarce costume jewelry. A decade or so later, and she’s still doing the very same. It’s a bit excessive. She also has a tendency to collect things like crystals or plastic gems, bits of glass, or sequins and glue them to random things like tables or chairs. Anything that catches the light will undoubtedly catch her eye. Offer her something pretty enough and she’s all but obliged to help.

I WANT IT. I WANT IT. I WANT IT TO BE . M . I . N . E .
Oh Cole – she just can’t keep her hands in her own pockets. She doesn’t have much money and so she’s forever taking other people’s things. Hell, even if she did have money, chances are she’s still be taking things. It’s not even fun anymore, it’s just second nature. It’s impulse, instinct, it’s who she is. However, even she has her own set of Robin hood-esque standards. She won’t steal from those who look like they’d suffer extensively because of it, and she won’t steal from mates or those in her troupe. One just doesn’t dip the pen in company ink, even if the ink is really quite appealing, yeah?

I WANT TO BE, I OUGHT TO BE . A . D . M . I . R . E . D .
Colette knows she’s special, she doesn’t need to be told that. Hell, she doesn’t even necessarily need friends, but what she craves is recognition. There’s nothing more offensive to her than being called a fraud and she’ll do everything in her power to prove otherwise. Someone doesn’t have to kind, they just best recognize.

PLEASE, I DON’T WANT TO . D . I . E .
One would assume that death would not frighten a girl that can see ghosts. It’s just the opposite for Colette, really. There’s no such thing as a happy bit of residual energy, and there’s nobody with answers, she has years of encounters to attest to that. It’s even more terrifiying really, to stand that close to the unknown and still know absolutely nothing. She doesn’t want hang about in spiritual limbo – but what comes after that if one ever escapes? She doesn’t just want it to end either. She’s forever dabbling in religions, trying to search for the answers that everyone seeks. That, and She’s mad jealous of Sirens. They’ve found a way to cheat death. It’s unfair.

T R I C K S . F O R . T R E A T S

GOING TO COMMUNE WITH THE . D . E . A . D .
Colette is a Clairaudient. Not only can she see the dead, but she can also communicate with them on varying levels as well. Not really limited to using surges of leyline power, it all depends on the level of consciousness of yon wee ghostie. Fresh spirits generally are the most “in-tune” with the waking world. They cling to it—refuse to go. So strong is their residual energies and connection to the living that they almost appear like solid flesh. The older they get, however, the more off in their own world they become, thus making it quite difficult to catch their spectral attention. The oldest spirit she’s ever met was a Spanish peasant that had been drifting about for centuries. Every five moments he seemed to forget she was even standing there. She’s seen spectral shades – shapes not even visible when the sun shines at its fullest. That scares her the most. Where does a ghost go when it drifts entirely out of existence?

OH DARLING ONE, I’LL READ YOUR . F . O . R . T . U . N . E .
Like many seers Colette’s got a fair hand with scrying. Now, without the use of her trusty tools she’s completely useless, but stick that deck in her hand and she’s got it down to a science. A clairaudient by nature, her power is a great deal weaker than she believes. Most of the precision and accuracy comes from the deck, itself. It’s been passed down the family line for unfathomable generations and those seventy-eight cards hold some serious residual juju. After begin handled by countless Seers, it’s only natural that a bit of their powers leak into the deck, right? However, they’re temperamental as can be. If they don’t want to be read, they won’t be read. Unknown to poor Colette, this tends to happen quite frequently when she attempts to read her own fortune. It’s as if the cosmos declared her a cheater and set out to right wrongs. It becomes all backwards, the intentions read wrong, often leading to many mistakes. She doesn’t attempt the feat often, but like an Alzheimer patient, she’ll forget past consequences and try her hand at another personal reading from time to time.

TALKIN' TO THE FOWL WEATHER . F . R . I . E . N . D . S .
Oh, and she can understand birds--it's weird. It might be the most useless talent ever. Not many of those feather-brains have an interesting thing to say. However, the occasional Raven or Owl can think logically enough to hold a strange semblance of a conversation. There's one particular Raven who's done more than follow her - he's come home to roost. In her opinion, Samedi - named after Misser Baron Samedi, hisself, has got to be the dumbest bird alive. She figures that if she hadn't taken him in, the fool bird would've been dead already.

L I K E S

Costume Jewelry. Attention. Reggae. Tie-dye. Precious Stones. Sequins. Rhinestones. The tops of muffins. American “Oldies” Music. Acoustic Guitar. Sea Otters. Money. Telling fortunes. Glitter. Headscarves. Expensive Perfumes. Fine herb. Incense. Body and facial piercings. Samedi. Boys with instruments. Chesterfields. Long walks in the woods. Glass figurines. Wind chimes. Scrambled Eggs. Her Tarot Deck. Picking pockets. Respect. Traveling. Cockney accents.

D I S L I K E S

Fascism. Socialism. Totalitarianism. Most “isms”. Beings stuck in one place. Arrogant Townies. Getting caught. Being broke. Feeling mediocre. Radio static. High-heeled shoes. Being pestered by bored or “troubled” spirits. The terms on which she left the states. Mind readers. Being bored. Hangovers. Business suites. Johnny Law. Cornbread. Being in the city for too long. Being analyzed. Being ignored. Funnel cakes (you just get sick of them, okay?). June Bugs.

D O W N L O W

One would think that with seeing spirits and what have you, that Colette would be a slave to their every whim. That’s not really the case. All those movies and stories about those plagued by specters. They tend to play up on the dramatics, ‘cause that isn’t really how it is at all. Not being an incredibly religious girl, Cole generally feels little to no moral obligation to help the dead that are constantly floating about. It’s a thankless job, and if you help one, they all come pouring in. No thanks, she’ll pass.

Most ghosts are content (and believe themselves limited to) haunting specific people or places) if she parts company, they generally part ways. However, some will have the audacity to begin to follow her. That’s about the time she sends them on their way. How does she do it you ask? Honestly, she just thinks long and hard about how she’d like them to just up and disappear and they do – mid-sentence even! She’s quite positive that she didn’t send ‘em shooting to whatever afterlife they happen to believe in, but she does send them pretty damn far. (She once saw one particularly annoying Civil War spirit from her childhood floating about in a Portuguese City. There was no mistaking him).

I M M E D I A T E

ANGELIQUE – MARIE JACQUES
mother – seer – thirty-seven

A Stratos remnant, her powers lie in modifying and manipulating the
emotions around her. If Angelique is sad, everyone is sad. If she’s happy, well then
The same applies.


THOMAS BEAU JACQUES
step father – human – forty-two

They’ve never seen eye-to-eye. Perhaps it’s because Cole was a package deal
with the lovely but shamed Angelique, or perhaps it’s because she keeps
harassing him with visions of his dead first wife. Long story short, they never got along.


THEODORE NICOLAS JACQUES
half-brother – seer – eight

Her teddy-bear had to have been the most adorable mulatto baby known to man.
If there way anyone she missed the most, it would be him. She was
ever so possessive of him. Never looked at him like he was a danger when his
telekinetic skills made themselves known through his childish tantrums.
She’s forever hoping he’ll remember her because she can’t forget him.


MICHAEL IAN LINDSAY
biological father – seer – thirty-eight

She never met the man, but her Mother often told her of their
Surprising similarities. “You remind me so much of your father”
It was her favorite mantra. And for a while, Colette loved to hear that.
She’d forever imagine some noble, rich Englishman rolling down
Their street one day to save them from the stiff and boring Mister Jacques.
When she left home she took his name – and since she hasn’t heard from
Him…ever…Well, then he can’t really mind, can he?

S I G N I F I C A N T

MANETTE MARIE LAVEAU-GLAPION
grandmother – voodoo priestess – probably late fifties

Though many knew her as the great and wise Mama Manette, Colette
only saw her as her grand-mère. Despite past complications in the relationship
between she and her daughter, Colette was the apple of Manette’s eye.
The young girl was touched by the gods and the spirits in a powerful way,
and it seemed that voodoo was her calling. It was Manette who gave Colette
the tarot deck she carries with her. Passed down from many, many generations.
It not only has the residual energies of the great Marie Laveau upon it, but many
other powerful seers as well. Were a more knowledgeable Seer to look it over,
they’d be the first to identify it as a Stratos relic from bygone days.



HENRI HUDSON PASCAL
grandfather – typical human – probably early to mid sixties.

Her grand-père was a breath of fresh air, and Colette dearly loved spending
time with the old man. Steady and comforting, he possessed a simple and
experienced wisdom that was often far wiser than any course pointed out by means
of magicks. He was the one who taught her to play guitar, and it’s his cherished, battered
acoustic that she’s often seen playing.


LUCIEN MATTEO DE LA ROSA
mentor – carney – Mid-thirties

As a friend of a friend. And the source of a source, Lucien was
the first person that Colette met within the traveling troupe of murders,
thieves, and clowns. He was also the first to realize how
grossly unprepared the bright-eyed, bushy-tailed
girl was for the real world and a life of travel. For the first two years
ff her new life, he let her live with him in his large trailer,
and put her to work as a caller for some of his booths and rides.
It was he who helped her find her niche within the group as the
resident psychic, and the one who loaned her a fair bit of cash
so that she could finally buy her own home-on-wheels.
Save for her grand-père, Lucien is probably the closest thing to
a father that Colette’s ever had.


HARPER CORMAC MCANDREWS
the source of many a headache – carney – twenty-two

Harper was the first of many things involving that troublesome realm
belonging to men and romance. First true Carney friend (save for Lucien, but he
doesn’t count. It’s Lucien), first love (and all things that come with that), and first
person whose life she felt that she every physically wanted to end with her own hands.
He taught her many things, like how to pick a pocket without getting caught, and
all the right things to say to charm an officer out of
throwing you in prison for the night, or just how difficult it is to hold
a belly full of alcohol. Ever since the great and intimidating wall
that is sexual repression, has been breached, they’ve been at a
constant state of hot-and-cold. Forever fighting, and forever
trying to get back into one another’s good graces. Their
melodramas and shouting-matches are a source of amusement for
many within the troupe.


MADAME ZOLA
fortune-teller – unknown – unknown

Madame Zola will forever remain within some distant corner
of Colette’s mind. She was the palm reader she met during that
first summer when she had left home, and the one who had
told her to cross the sea and awaken spiritually within the
shadows of the world that she thought she once knew. Most
of what has thus far transpired in her young-adult life is thanks to
that woman. If given the chance to go back in time, Colette still doesn’t
know if she’d push the woman down those cellar steps, or
actually pay her the second time around.


___ ___ JONES
guru – shifter – unknown

Truly the one who opened her eyes to the vastness of the
supernatural world, Jones is the one who took the time
to teach her about Shifters, Sirens, and Seers. There was no
calling him a liar after he did that little trick of turning himself into that
big hairy beast, either. Jones is the source of a great deal of annoyance
and wonder. He’s the guy who holds the answers to many of her questions,
and boy does he ever milk it for all it’s worth. One would think that after
such a supposedly long lifetime that a level of maturity would be reached.

[Colette Lindsay]

T H I N G S . I V E . S E E N

IN THE beginning

The awesome and terrible craft known as Voodoo has been well-practiced trade of the infamous Laveau-Glapion family for quite some time. Marie Laveau, after all, is considered one of the most famous priestesses of all time. And yet, the rest of her family has little to no mention within the annals of history.

One Angelique Laveau-Glapion never was much one to broadcast her heritage. Though the devotion was nice, when it came time to actually perform a spell for a fawning admirer, she found the voices of the spirit would to be oddly silent. It appeared that she did not possess her great-grandmother, or even her mother’s considerable skill for communicating with the spirits that surrounded them, and binding them to her will.

But Angelique was not to be without a talent of her own. With the blood of the once-mighty House of Stratos coursing through her veins, it was only a matter of time before her power surfaced in its own fashion.

As she matured, so did her captivating ability to manipulate the emotions of those around her. The first time it was ever taken note of, was when the throngs of young (and on the occasion, not-so-young) men would gather at the porch of the family home, professing an undying love and adamant desire to be with the blossoming young woman.

The women (jealous, of course) proclaimed it witchcraft – and that of the worst caliber. It was a dangerous thing, to trifle with the hearts of men and disrupt the ways of the community life. If not for the fear of Mama Manette.

Instead, they banded together, using the power of vocal protest. That was something the matriarch of the Laveau-Glapion could respect. More so than any mayor or President of any country, the Voodoo Queen was one of the prominent and respected leaders of the bayou. As much of a servant to the people as she was to the spirits that guided her hand, it was up to she, and she alone, to reign in her troublesome daughter and put an end to her blatant abuse of her gift.

Through a series of rituals and rather noxious herbal concoctions, she placed wards and limits around her daughter’s empathic abilities. This infuriated Angelique to no end. In the face of those limitations, she became even more rebellious, if at all possible.

And so, several years later, when a particularly strange and oh-so-dashing Englishman by then name of Michael Lindsay strolled into town and all but thumbed his nose at the power and influence of Mama Manette and her swamp magicks, one could only guess how much Angelique desired to meet him.

There were whispers throughout the town proclaiming the strangeness of the man. How he knew things about long-dead family members that no one, save God or Madame Manette could’ve known. He had the spirits whispering in his ears – and yet he had all but preached his distaste for the Creole religions that governed their culture. He had all the power of a Voodoo Priest without any of the obligations. It was spiritual anarchy. It was all Angelique could’ve hoped for.
Each night she would make her way down to the bar he would frequent, and each night she would sidle up and sit beside him, simply to marvel over the impossible things he spoke of. And he? He saw Angelique as progress, a lovely little Voodoo Priestess Princess that had the intelligence to peer out into the possibilities that surpassed her archaic backwoods lore.

He told her much of the Sentinel race from which they both were descendents. He told her of how there were many like her—and how she was not nearly as special and gifted as her mother had led her to believe. Her powers were not magic—but a trait. Not governed by the spirits or angry gods, they were merely an intrinsic part of who she was. Refusing them was akin to refusing to breathe. Being denied them was like being denied her own identity.

Cheeks flushed, she would return every evening, and with each passing evening, that youthful admiration grew into a consuming and passionate love. For the man that sat upon his pedestal, preaching things that not even he fully comprehended.

They were two fools who thought themselves wise, and what soon transpired really came as no surprise.

One month after the British stranger came to town, Angelique found herself with a child. The herbal stoppers that her mother demanded she drink every night were in imbalanced agreement with the basic pregnancy wards that Manette whipped up for the village girls.

Needless to say, when he mother found out, she was livid. It was, after all, the equivalent of some European princess being impregnated by some Romanian gypsy. She should’ve married some wealthy landowner, bringing money and a title to the home like most Laveau women did, or in the very least, an honest and spiritual man. Now, no one would want her, nor her bastard child.

But poor Angelique did not view the news with the same mortification and shame of her family. No, she only saw limitless possibilities stretching out before her and all of them included Michael. It’s almost comical, the way things such as love blind people, concealing the harsh realities beneath a gilded venire of false hope.

When she finally worked up the courage to tell her of the life blossoming within her womb, his reaction was less than to be desired. He begged her to get rid of it. He told her that he would take her with him – that they would leave the South that they would leave America – but a child was not possible to care for. Fingers splayed across her stomach, Angelique, perhaps for the first time, thought of someone other than herself. She refused. And so for two days Michael raged on, relentless with expressing his wishes. He would not stay, chained to a life which he could not stomach. He loved her – or so he adamantly claimed – but not even that could make him stay. And he would take her from all this, and in time, they would have a family of their own, if she would just only bend for one moment, and give it time. This was more than just her decision after all, was it not? It was his child as well, was it not? Had he no say in what became of them all?

And yet, she could not be moved. She refused him again and again and again. On the fourth morning, he was nowhere to be found. Many had said that he had left just as mysteriously as he had come. Other had said that Manette, in all her dark glory, bound him to the swamps, punishing him for the vulgar sins that had so ruined her daughter. Whatever the case, he was gone.

A NEW LIFE, A NEW chapter

The birth of one, Miss Colette Lindsay was more like a whispered legend around the town rather than an actual event. None had seen Angelique since the disappearance of that strange white man, and none were quite so brave as to go looking for her. It had been no secret that Manette was less than pleased about her daughter's activities about town, and if she had dealt with her in her own fashion, then what was done was done. There was no sense in further incurring the wrath of a wronged priestess.

In truth, Angelique, herself, had chosen to remain on the family land in a sort of quasi self-inflicted punishment and she worked hard for the atonement that she so desired. The prospect of a child had stripped the pride from her, leaving her far more exposed and helpless than she had ever been. Whether it was that pathetic state, or Angelique’s empathetic powers, Manette had allowed her shamed daughter to remain at the home on the condition that she would devote herself wholeheartedly to the duties that she had once shirked, and that also, if her child bore any tell-tale signs of the family’s gifted blood, that it be given to Manette for tutelage in the family arts. Given her situation, all Angelique could do was acquiesce.

And so when Colette was finally born, as most babies often are, the test soon began. The pricking of fingers, the casting of bones, the midnight rites, the feather test; the babe was subjected to them all. And what Manette must have found was pleasing to her, for Angelique's shame was her own, and she sang only praises for the potential of the half-breed bastard child. Colette had one foot in the spirit world, or so the signs had said. The babe was gifted with an extraordinary sight that none since the great Marie had possessed. And so she was given the name Marie to wear with pride alongside the simple southern mantle of elegance her mother had bestowed upon her.

But such a gift was a burden, as much as it was a blessing. As she grew, Colette saw sights that her infantile mind could not describe, and the mysteries of death were not hidden from her. Colette was the child of two realms; the living and the dead, and though she could not control the spirits that surrounded her, she could speak and see them as she would any living being.

Of course this did not make her childhood easy. Always regarded with a sense of fearful respect, the other children of the town spoke to her with the respect that was generally reserved for adults. This made things quite complicated, for what a young girl really wants is friends—not admirers. But young Colette was a survivor, she spent her childhood days under the tutelage of her grandmother, and when she grew bored, she would listen to the stories that her grandfather told her and the songs that her mother sang her. When she wished to play, she invented games that were sufficient for one, or spoke to the lonely little ghosts that hung at her heels. It was a quiet, simple existence, but the girl never really dreamed for more.

When she was nine, Manette put aside the charts and powders, the spells and lore, and sat her granddaughter down. From a locked desk, she brought forth a small bundle wrapped tightly in leather cloth. Though she looked perturbed, she spoke to Colette of a reoccurring dream that she been having. She told the child that the spirits of their ancestors had visited her nightly and bade the old woman to give her daughter’s child a gift that Manette, until now, had been saving for a much later date. Untying the cords that bound the package, she laid with the utmost care, an ancient deck of lavishly hand-painted cards. Their appearance bespoke of an age predating even the seemingly ancient Manette, herself. Gingerly, Colette reached forward to turn one of the cards over—though she thought better of it. Hand hovering over the desk, she eyed her grandmother, waiting to gauge her reaction. Lips pursed in a thin line, Manette made a move, as to stop the child—though instantly halted when a mighty wind blew the windows of the small cabin open. Alight with a sort of supernatural grace, the cards stirred. Frightened, Colette leapt backwards, as if the deck were on fire. Standing on end, the cards rose to a standing position, and spilled across the table, revealing all of their ancient faces to the young girl. Peering at it, Colette recognized some of the portraits. Depicted on the cards were scenes and spirits that represented the voodoo craft. Each, if read correctly, would tell a story of the past, present, and future. Tarot.

From that day on, all other teachings were put aside, and Manette’s lessons were devoted to the art of the tarot reading. It was far more complex than it had first appeared, for as Colette soon learned, different patterns foretold different things, and a single card’s meaning changed within the context of the question and the pattern. The answers yielded were as limitless and varied as a pattern of numbers, and what was read greatly relied upon the knowledge and skill of the person reading the deck. It was hard work—and many days she wishes to just cast the damnable cards aside and run outside and play in the wild fringes of the bayou, but Manette was unyielding as stone. Their lessons continued.

By the time Colette was eleven, she was quite the accomplished interpreter of the tarot. In many ways, she had even begun to surpass Manette in the skill. Her future as a Hougan was bright—but also incredibly limited. This was later to be Angelique’s supposed reason for doing what she did.

One evening that honestly should’ve been like any other, set the wheels of Colette’s wayward life into full motion. Rousing the girl from her sleep, her mother gathered her in her arms and warned her to keep quiet. Beside the door were several bulging bags. When Colette, still half-asleep, ask her mother where they were going, Angelique had only replied “an adventure,” before an overwhelming sense of peace and trust enveloped the young girl, carrying her off into the realms of deep sleep. The facts were these; Angelique’s apparent transformation was not to be a permanent one. All the while that her daughter learned, she had dwelled upon the past. For years, her mind replayed the long and passionate tirades of her past lover, and the stories of a wide and limitless world. Her resentment began to fester and bloom into a full loathing of the place that quietly took the years from her, and the potential of her child.

That was when she saw the flyer. Modestly colored and painfully blunt, it was an advertisement for a spiritual awakening seminar that was to be hosted in a commune that called itself Cassadaga. Intrigued, she had driven herself up the neighboring city’s library and set about to do some serious research. Though Angelique was many things—rash, impulsive, self-centered—she wasn’t completely without a brain. She dreamt of escape, but had thusfar found no place to cry sanctuary. It was only natural that the more she read of Cassadaga, the more enchanted with the prospect of flight she became.

And so, on that fateful night, Angelique was not without a plan. She had her sights set on Cassadaga—a place where her meager knowledge and now limited skills would be lapped up like milk and honey .Best of all, there was no Manette to hold up beside her for comparison. Voodoo and her mother’s home had been all she knew—and now it seemed that she would not have to sacrifice one to rid herself of the other. It was perfect.

However, the fantasies she had built up in her head had been a far cry different for the reality she and her young daughter faced upon arriving in the picturesque Florida commune. Once the residents discovered that the two were not tourists with money, but rural refugees seeking a new home, they were met with cold skepticism. Having found herself finally weaned from the herbs and elixirs that she was forced to ingest on a daily basis, Angelique had foolishly assumed that her captivating abilities would immediately return to her. She was quite wrong. Her assumption was beginning to appear as though it would cost she and her daughter a home and a source of income—two things that, as everyone knows, are quite imperative to raising a family.

Colette, as young as she was, knew trouble when she saw it. Though hardly at what one could consider a healing stage after being ripped away from everything she had ever known or loved, she set aside her anger, and took care of the serious situation that her mother had gotten them into. When she approached one of the more prominent figures in the community and asked if she could tell him his future, she was met with that insufferably sweet condescending response that adults so often reserve for pets and children. Why wasn’t she just the sweetest little thing? Why not? There was no harm in it after all. And so when Colette predicted the beginning stages of malignant tumor growing in the woman’s lower intestines, and the eventual painful and humiliating aftermath in such vivid and grotesquely descriptive detail, it was only natural that the older woman found herself more than a little anxious. So anxious, in fact, that she found herself sitting in the sterilized room of a state hospital two days later.

Though she did not speak of the results, when she returned to Cassadaga, everyone had a fair idea of the prognosis. Quietly vouching for the credibility of the to newcomers, she made it her personal business to help the two find modest accommodations within the privately-owned community, as well as adding them to the list of resident spiritual advisors. And so, that was how Angelique and her child—descendents of the late, great Marie Laveau came to call the Cassadaga Spiritualist Camp their home.

Given enough time, anyone can learn to adjust. It may have taken Colette two very long, very odd years, but eventually she came to think of the camp as home. Here, the real psychic deals mingled with the phonies and fakes in a peacefully lucrative business.

However, the past events of young Miss Linday’s life had clearly begun to sketch out a life course for the young woman. Location, station, situation—they never remained consistently constant in her life. Yes, just as soon as the sting from losing the only home she had even known had begun to fade, another problem presented itself.

Thomas Jacques was not a zealous believer in the supernatural forces of this world. He did not come to the Cassadaga Camp seeking spiritual guidance nor metaphysical enlightenment. He came, as most of his ilk often did, seeking potential riches. He was a Florida real estate agent, and he knew full well the impressive worth of the plot of land that the spiritualist camp rested upon.

He came with head-turning offers of staggering prices for those with the desire to make a fast and pretty penny. Of course, those in the camp were naturally unwilling to sell their beloved homes.

However, the fates would not turn the man away empty-handed. Though he did not make so much as a dime, he would be the first to claim that he walked away with a much bigger and better prize. He met a woman, and as most mortals do, fell in love. Angelique Glapion-Laveau enchanted him—and she need not have used her wiles or notorious gifts to turn his head. This was the real deal—or as real as natural, hormone-induced infatuation can be. Her smile, her hair, her way with words—they fascinated him, drawing him to her like a hapless moth to a burning flame. Soon, his visits were not filled with sales pitches but persistent requests for dinners and dancing and evening matinees. The modest home of the Laveau women was perpetually filled with fresh flowers and each tabletop had a box of candy or two resting upon it.

Now, Angelique was no stranger to being the object of another’s affections, and Thomas’s little declarations of love were not the thing that turned her head—it was his goddamned persistence. Every moment he could spare, Thomas was within the Cassadaga camp, and when he could not grace the good people with his…colorful company, he would always send those quaint and cliché reminders of his love in the form of small gifts, despite the slightly amused distain that Angelique forever responded to his attempts with. A woman had to admire something like that.

And so daytime outings became evening events, and evening events suddenly became overnight excursions. What began as bemused pity was finished with a rather impressive engagement ring. Colette had been absolutely confounded by the entire situation—but she also happened to harbor a secret, childish fear that any person whom had the ability to pee standing up was covered in highly contagious, infectious germs. It is a strange and terrible thing to find one’s only source of family nightly detach themselves from one's side. What was she, chopped liver?

With those thoughts repeating in her mind, she had firmly decided that she was never going to like the uptight white man who laughed too loudly and thought that money and gifts were a fine replacement for actual affection. Her mother may have had a price—but she sure as hell did not. And so, the moment he moved into their home (for Angelique had enjoyed the fame that Colette’s psychic abilities had brought them and absolutely refused to leave the Camp) she had set out to make his life a living hell. It wasn’t hard—for furniture and clothing was not the only thing that Thomas had brought to their home. A sallow, angry woman was often seen following him about, the look of hate and possessive love burning in her eyes and frothing at her mouth (especially whenever Angelique was around). Mister Jacques was haunted.

Of course, Colette wasted no time getting to know the strange woman, whom has introduced herself as the late Mrs. Annette Jacques—wife of the ungrateful lout that had wasted no time (four years, really) falling into the arms of another woman after she had kicked the bucket (choked on a chicken bone. Tres tragic). Typically, this type of ghost was the worst in Colette’s humble opinion. She was bossy, she was vain, and she was just oh-so-annoying. And Annette? Well, she had never much like children, or…”those people” if you catch the drift. But despite their great differences, they had one common interest that kept their bond strong. They both wanted Thomas gone—or, in the very least, very, very unhappy. And so Thomas learned of her Clairaudient gifts in the most unfortunate way possible. At all the wrong times, Colette would divulge the most intimate and interesting facts of his previous marriage, or tell him exactly what his wife was doing at the very moment. It was only natural he had begun to resent her.

And then Angelique had to ruin it all by going and getting “with child” again. And Colette had been oh so close to forcing Thom to throw in the towel, too! But she couldn’t just leave her mother alone with another mouth at this point, could she? And so she sent Annette packing and retired to sullen looks and snide, but impersonal remarks. The two were far from a father and daughter relationship—but at least she had stopped driving him slowly insane.

Theodore’s birth was bittersweet, at best. The dynamics of the family changed. Colette was no longer of much concern to Angelique. Seeing as how the girl was old enough to dress herself and ride a bus, she had more pressing concerns to deal with…like her newest child, and herself. There wasn’t much room for anyone save herself in Angelique’s small, self-centered universe. And Thomas? Well he didn’t even pretend to act civil any longer. The only thing that made her stay for as long as she even did was Teddy. I mean, how could she abandon the kid to a fate like Thomas and Angelique? She was his sister—and really looking out for his best interests. When his psychic abilities began to surface, Angelique had kept him in a sedative sense of happiness. That was the thing that had set Colette over the edge. The blatant use of her powers in controlling another person---no wonder Manette had such a strong dislike for her daughter! It is a strange and difficult thing—to be bound by the obligation of love for one’s mother, but to also possess a strong and definite sense of loathing for everything that one’s mother is and stands for.

And so one evening, amidst a great deal of the typical screaming fights, and blank, peaceful looks from Teddy, Colette finally decided it was best just to tell her step father exactly what she thought of him, and what her mother could put those nasty little powers of hers. She left—determined to no longer suffer for the sake of their lethargic happiness, or for the cheapness she felt, sitting on display on a Cassadaga pedestal. She left and only thought about looking back.

And where do all Southern girls coasting on a euphoric wave of self-aggrandizing independence go? New Orleans, of course. And that, after a few colorful train rides and a rather haphazard taxi ride, is where Colette found herself. Thoroughly sick of the mystic mumbo-jumbo that had all but plagued her since the moment of her birth; the obstinate child was more than ready to leave it all behind her. She would begin anew, leading a life of normalcy in a thriving and teeming city.

But let’s be realistic here—that wasn’t what happened, not at all. A fifteen year-old girl won’t last long in a city like New Orleans unattended. The money, despite the frugalness and the occasional fast buck, was running out after a mere two months of lying about her age and her situation. That older man that was her supposed Beau? The landlord was beginning to wonder why he never showed up—and while the colorful character that paid her bills promptly on the first Wednesday of every month, looked an awful lot like that famous little commune runaway case that the Florida media was all buzzing’ about.

Colette noted the ever-growing suspicion in his eyes just as she noted the alarmingly increasing lightness of her coin purse. A chapter in her life was drawing to a close—but the thought of crawling back home, stinking of failure and having to suffer a single moment of Thomas’s sanctimonious sermons was enough cause to bodily throw herself out of a window.

And so it was time to make amends with a side of herself that she had tried so futilely to escape. She pulled the long-avoided deck from its hiding place in a far-reaching corner of her sock drawer, and began to read her own fortune.

Whether the cards, for a single moment in time, suspended their unyielding rule of personal profit, or if to this day, she has been walking the wrong path--none save the Elder Ones may know. However, what we do know, is that they told her, quite clearly, a choice she could make. They presented her with an interesting opinion. In desperation, Colette did as she was told. The moment her foot crossed the threshold of her temporary home, the river of fate jumped from its shallow bed and began to weave a new and intricately winding course.

The cards led her to a place where no self-respecting young woman should ever attempt to venture. Easing through the streets of the red light district of New Orleans, she was immersed in an environment teeming with debauchery and age-old magicks. All about her, bodies swarmed past her, engulfing her in a sea of sequins, beads, and bright blots of cloth. If ever she had picked a wrong day to try something daring—it was tonight. Life filled the streets and spilled into the buildings. Tonight, the shackles of inhibitions were cast off, and people succumbed to the wild urges that they would soon be denied. Mardi Gras was in full swing, and there was nothing in the whole, wide world that was quite like it.

How Colette found Madame Zola’s would-be apothecary was in all honesty, by the pure happenstance of chance—and a certain revealing sign that she was told to search for. However, the moment she stepped into the small shop, her thoughts turned to that of doubt. The place was a commercialized cesspool—not at all like her grandmother’s workshop. One could buy corporate candies by the ancient cash register, and old issues of People Magazine and National Geographic were sold right alongside a box of fertility charms.


But just as she turned heel and began to walk out of the building, an ancient-looking hag stepped from the shadows, silently motioning for her to follow. Now, Colette had seen her fair share of horror movies, and she knew that following the old witch was not the sort of thing that the heroine of the story should ever do. In fact, it’s the very thing that people scream “don’t do it, you stupid bitch! Run!” at the screen for--that, and going into basements. She did both of them. She couldn’t tell you why—and with each tentative step down the stairs, she felt as if she were walking in the direction of her own death. And yet onward she went, like any brave little noir, slasher-film starlet would do.

Instead of finding herself face-to-face with an axe-wielding psychopath, she found herself easing into a chair, staring at the old crone with a look that could only be identified as stricken fear. The woman had instructed her to give her hand to her for a reading and Colette complied, though it made her skin crawl in the most horrible of ways. The woman’s voice was like the sound of air escaping a crypt—soft, breathy, and decaying. The wizened fingertips traced each fold and crease, and though the woman made enough tutts, clucks, and hums, not a word of revelation did she speak.

“Yah grandmomma iz gon’ break mah hip fah dis.” Was the first thing she said once she released the young Seer from her dry, vice-like grip. Mind numb with shock and childish fear, Colette could only nod—not question. She had a feeling that had she asked questions, it would not end well for her. “You gots an interestin’ path ta walk , child.” She had said—the word “interesting” sounding like both damnation and praise. “But yah iz done wid de States, girl—or, better said, dey is done wid you. Dis place iz too young—and you got’s a foot in da past. Bettah to walk where da past is still livin’.”

She had said many other things to the girl that night—things that Colette could but faintly recall, and things that she dare not repeat. A purposefully blur in the back of her mind, the meeting was something that even time seemed to wish to erase from her mind. If that woman that had called herself Madame Zola was in fact a woman, she was far older than any woman whom Colette had ever met—though she’d be the first to say that human was the last word that anyone should’ve used to describe that hag. But what she had given Colette was a continuing answer on the track that her own cards had set her upon—well, answers, a false but convincing visa, and a plane ticket.

It made no sense, really. How had she known? How had she had the ticket? How? Why? What the fucking fuck? These were the sorts of things that ran through Miss Lindsay’s mind as she sat aboard a departing plane, her modest luggage crammed in the cargo hold above her. She was leaving the country on a one-way ticket given to her by some old witch in a tacky little store—and she only had two bags of carry-on luggage to her name. “Fuckin’ Mardi Gras.” She had whispered to herself as the plane passed over the Atlantic. It quickly became her mantra for the entire trip.

Lucien had been waiting for her when she had walked with fearful uncertainty into French terminal. Realization had swept over her in that instant and it seemed as though she was waking from a deep somnambulist slumber. What the fuck was she doing here? What had made this at all seem like a good idea? She was in Europe for christsakes, and she didn’t know a goddamned soul! Clutching her bags to her as though they were like some last remnant of the Louisianan girl name Colette Lindsay, she sunk to her knees and cried.

“That’s how I knew it was you.” Lucien was often fond of telling her…and anyone else whom happened to be listening to the story. Walking over to her, he had handed her a tissue and a note.



Welcum to tha past. Bring it tha fuchur.



The scrawl had been almost unintelligible, and the spelling atrocious, leaving little question about whom the note had been from. Clutching the tissue, but dropping the letter, she turned her face upwards to look into the face of her collector and was surprised to find only a mixture of pity and warm amusement behind his eyes.

“Fuckin’ terrifying isn’t she, that old hag?” He had said, offering her his hand as he shouldered one of her bags. Nodding, her expression dazed, she had slipped her hand into his. “Fuckin’ Mardi Gras.” She had whispered, more to herself than him. And that was how Colette Lindsay came to join le Cirque de étrange—the Circus of the Strange.

And so the years passed in a fashion much more agreeable than they ever had before. For a few years she had lived with Lucien in his rather impressive trailer (she even had her own room, wow! Just wow!) and lessons upon lessons. She soon learned that with many circus people had a specialty that paid the bills, most knew how to operate every single piece of machinery, and how to work every single booth that the business hosted. They were a self-reliant, competent family—and for a while, acting as a jack-of-all-trades-in-training was the very thing that kept her stomach full each night.

It was not until her nineteenth year on the earth that she was actually entrusted with a position other than that of an earnest underling. She had often given free tarot readings to those of the troupe that had been interested in that sort of thing. That feeling of washing her hands completely clean of her past had been a foolish one—and she often found herself carrying her deck—drawing comfort from it, even if she was not drawing cards. She just couldn’t part with it—and more importantly, she could not-not use it, y'know?

It had been Lucien whom had suggested that she set up her own act. Whether or not the stuff was real—she was good at what she did, and he assured her that there would be plenty of marks eager to drop a pretty penny on a moment of mystic fun rather than buy a corndog or attempt to win an oversized bear. An investment would pay for itself in less than a year—and two at the most.

And so, she had taken him up on that suggestion. Picking pockets and telling fortunes, she strove to pay him back in that “less-than-a-year-speculation” and with that dedication came an alter ego, followed by slight notoriety. In short, somewhere along the line, she dropped the Colette, and added the Madame Babette. And people just ate that shit up. It was one thing to peddle a mystic Louisiana Voodoo practitioner in Florida—but here, across the ocean, it was a whole different ballgame. Here, she was exotic, new, different. And boy, did people pay extra for different!

Pretty soon it was her face on those posters that they would stick up around town. She was the attraction people wanted to see—well, her and that dancing bear. People fucking love man-eating animals in tutus—stiff competition there.

It was around the mid-level of her rise to fame that she met Jones. To the best of her knowledge, he was some hack guru peddlin’ a lifestyle for a price and cutting into their Rome gig. Of course, Colette nipped into one of the scheduled presentations to see what the fuss was about. Call it curiosity—and call it a desire to steal back their much-needed paying customers. Anything he could preach, she could preach better. Oh sabotage--this of course meant heckling—something she was good at. You knock a speaker off their sense of confident orating balance and they’re done. Though she found herself forcefully ejected from the room (no surprise there) he had requested a private audience after his show had drawn to a close (wait…what?).

That little meeting was the first time she had heard the word Seer, used in a sentence to describe her...gifts. Or the term Sentinel to describe a category of creatures that only looked human in appearance. Sirens, shifters, and Seers, oh my! It was all a bit far-fetched, really. Having been spoon-fed voodoo mysticism from her grandmother, and “spiritual vibrations” from those bohemian crazies in Cassadaga, she had felt that she had heard almost every crackpot theory worth batting an eyelid at (oohie, he didn’t even want her to get started on Christianity) but when he shifted right before her eyes, she was forced to eat a big fat, slice of humble pie. That didn’t happen often, and perhaps she could’ve done it with a bit more good grace, but what is done is done, right?

And so Cole walked away from that situation with a far bit more information than she had ever expected to find. For a while she left it at that—more information to put on the backburner. There was always a new place to travel, and the appearance of a Raven with a broken wing gave her something to devote a few weeks worth of doctoring to focus upon. But eventually the knowledge of a world that ran much deeper than face value began to eat away at the little corner of her mind where she had previously stashed it, and those small afterthoughts became plaguing midnight contemplations.

And so, she consorted the cards for a second time. And what did that deck say, but that Bournemouth England was a particular hotbed for anyone with a secret to hide. It sounded like a swingin’ place.

H E R E . A N D . N O W

Not much to report on the current situation. Colette and her merry band of troubadours and trouble makers just recently arrived into Bournemouth. It took a lot of convincing to have those lazy bums drag their sorry asses over a body of water, and Colette has all but staked her credibility on this being a money-making venture. They’ve tacked up fliers, had the post office ship postcards—and have even gone so far as to rent a fair bit of land just outside of Holdenhurst. With the Halloween season coming up, they are counting on their services (even if it’s just specialized groups) to travel across the area and add a bit of color and pizzazz to any local festivals that would have them (for a nominal fee, of course).

And Colette—well she’s got her eyes and ears open. One never knows when a beastie is around the bend. Thus far, she hasn’t had much luck on that front—but there sure are a lot of dead people floating around the place. But that’s hardly anything to write home about—even if a great deal of them are looking a bit…fresh.

You can call me mae and I'm in the convenient time zone. You guys suckered me in with roofied drinks and I guess I'll be sticking around to post like a boss! per week. Tell you something though, writing this appliation was like going through labor. except i took smoke breaks. and a few months.

.the i.mminent and the a.ftermath.

R P . SA M P L E

suck. my. history. that is all you get. i will cut your head off if you ask me to write another sentence.