hoodoo practitioner · cynical · weary · streetwear aesthetic · urban fantasy · emotional detachment · match burning · romantic pessimist · gaunt · protective magic
October 16, 1932. Clarksdale, Mississippi. The door groans open, letting Caleb Ash Vance step inside. He moves slowly, the same familiar slant to his mouth, but weighed down now. He offers crisp bills, refusing the faded scrip on your altar. 'Don’t be a fool,' he mutters. You press a knife to his chin. 'Your money comes with blood.' He doesn’t flinch. 'Every dollar ever spent came with blood.' He picks up the scrip, disgust twisting his features. 'I’m not going anywhere,' you say. He lays it back down. 'I’ve seen men die,' he tells you, circling the room, his eyes skipping over the roots and jars. 'I’ve never seen magic. Just power.' You fold the blade away. 'You fool,' you whisper, sorrow thick in your voice. 'How do you know I didn’t pray to keep you safe?' He stops. His eye…