Through the Breach
Bayou Born Innocent
Jazzmyne Mosspetal Johnny Wilson GS 0
Performer Bayou Born
Physical Aspects Social Aspects
Might -1 Intelligence +0 [first modification]
Grace +3 Cunning -1
Speed -1 Charm +3
Resilience -1 Tenacity +0 [second modification]
Defense (2 + -1) = 1
Willpower (2 + 0) = 2
Wounds (4 + -1) = 3
Walk (4 + -.5) = 4, as is Charge
Height = 2 (Living Fated)
Skill (Aspect) Level Modifier
Archery Grace +3 2 +5
Barter Tenacity +0 2 +2
Bewitch Charm +3 2 +5
Carouse Resilience -1 1 +0
Convince Intellect +0 3 +3
Deceive Charm +3 2 +5
Literary Cunning -1 2 +1
Music Charm +3 2 +5
Thrown Weapon Grace +3 2 +5
Flick of Wrist (substitute Grace for Might in close combat)
Performer Aspect Automatic (p. 99)
Redraw and get extra social skill in epilogues
Social Toolkit (p. 179)
When you accept your fates on the rivers,
You will invite him in
For the coldest court will bow to their king,
The sisters will show the way,
And you will be unmade.
Yew Bow (cost 9 of initial 10 gs)
Arrows (50) (cost 1 of initial 10 gs)
If mah daddy had the choice of telling the truth or makin’ up a tale as twisted as snake coil weed in the bayou, mah daddy would choose the weed and try to sell it as mandrake root. That is, ah call him mah daddy, but he lied about thet, too. He said I was conceived in the middle of a faery dance, the kind that’s nine years long. He claimed he seeded mah mama, watched her bloom, caught me as she sprayed me out between her long sinuous tendrils (somethin’ very special about those shapely green legs he always claimed), and cuddled close to her as she weaned me—all in the space of one night. He said thet’s why ah don’t remembah anythin’ othah than being eight yeahs old and sleepin’ on a mossy pallet in a smoky swamp cottage.
Ah wish ah could have stayed eight yeahs old. Ah nevah knew mah mama and mah daddy was always demandin’ an inspection. He had me disrobe in front of the fiah every night to see if ah had blemished mahself. Ah wasn’t even suah what a blemish maht be. He seemed to think it was something awful and the dark man of the bayou, mah intended suitah he claimed, would devoah mah soul if ah had a blemish. He said I had to be puah till the bayou flood came to me and ah became a woman. Ah didn’t feel puah; ah felt defiled when he would push and prod foh the inspection.
And when the bayou flood ran through me at a little older than twelve, ah wasn’t all that happy about bein’ a woman. Seemed lahk ah spent the whole mohnin’ sneakin’ off into the trees, tryin’ to relieve the pressuh. Ah felt jest a little dirty. I shivered at every movement in feah thet the dahk man of the bayou, mah intended, would devoah mah soul. And ah cried—ah think the bayou done rose up half an inch thet mohnin’ from all mah teahs. But daddy, at least he claimed he was mah daddy; ah don’t think a real daddy would do that, was excited. Ah can’t talk about it, but the dahk man showed up that night. Ah nevah saw him; ah jest felt him. It wasn’t good and it wasn’t awful. At first, ah felt relieved that he hadn’t devoahed mah soul. Then, ah wondered if he hadn’t devoahed it anyway. Then, ah wondered if the dahk man maht really be mah daddy—except, of cahse, he wasn’t really mah daddy. Ah’m suoh of thet.
Ah don’ know if ah would evah have got out of the swamp if it hadn’t been for mah daddy’s lies. He tol’ me thet those little ahs peekin’ out from undah the watah was mah cousins. He tol’ me thet they was supposed to watch out fo me. Thanks to that crazy old lady, the one who made a doll of me—just the way ah looked at age twelve except for legs that looked like a mixture of plant tendril and shapely, gorgeous legs. Ah asked her why and she said ah’d find out when ah invited in the dahk one. Ah told heah ah already had entahtained the dahk one a buncha’ tahms and she just cried. She said ah’d know when the dahk one entered.
But she seemed to think ah needed out of the swamp and away from mah daddy raht away. Between heah and mah “cuzzins,” I got out okay. It didn’t hurt that mah daddy had a nice yew bow and had taught me to fletch arrows fo it. Many a swamp creatuh invited mah dahk arrows in and fell back as their ohn unnnatchahal bayou flood flowed from theah wounds. Ah felt lahk ah was getting’ revenge fo the flood that had drowned mah innocence at age 12. Ah still lahk huntin’—especially when the wound springs fohth lahk an unnatchahal spring—flowin’ death instead of lahf, a dessicating infehtility instead of fecund fehtility.
When ah couldn’t shoot ‘em; ah’d sing. Mah daddy always said theah was somethin’ disconcehtin’ about mah voice. It didn’t have any magic to it lahk mah mama’s, but people always listened—people, monstahs, and spirits—even the dahk one sometimes listened instead of doin’ whaht he did. Thet is, heah listened if it was him.
Thet’s hoah ah ended up workin’ fo Mizz Collette. She said she would show me some tricks, but then, she said not to tuhn any tricks. Ah didn’ quite undehstand thet. She once caught a custohmeh pehfomin’ an inspection on me and gave me a tongue-lashing thet would have made a banshee shut heah mouth. Ah tried to tell heah thet ah didn’t teach him no tricks and heah secrets were safe and she jest looked at me lahk ah was a dead gopher o somethin’ to be sad about.
But she lets me work when ah’m in town. Sometahms, ah go wheh it ain’t safe—hopin’ to find the dahk one and explain to him that it ain’t mah fault about the blemishes. He don’ have tah devoah mah soul. Ah don’ know if it’ll do any good, but ah keep lookin’.