Who: Elia Rousseau What: Making friends. Where: Her grandmother's workshop, Oceanside, CA When: November, 1982 Prompt: First Monster
Outside, the California sun had long since set; cool darkness had fallen on the seaside town. Elia could hear the wind from the water, the gusts that hit the workshop on its way to batter the rest of the city. But the cool wind didn't bother her; she was tucked into her grandmother's private space, the one she had been allowed in since she was just a child. The wards knew her as well as they knew the old woman at this point.
Elia knew that her mother would be furious when she finally turned toward home. She had ignored the ping of a magical summons all day, and now well into the night. She didn't have time for them, not when she was working. And she was working – there were arcane texts spread out across the tables, notes scribbled in the margins here and there, her own personal journals in stacks just within her reach. There was a cup of tea, half-empty and cold, and a plate with the crumbs of what had once been sandwiches. At least she was remembering to eat, right? Her mother could at least give her credit for that.
Not that she would. Estella Rousseau had a tendency to look right down her lovely nose at her oldest daughter; she had nothing but disdain for the magic that Elia could wield or the power that she was steadily accumulating. Because it was different. Because it was dark. As if Elia could help the call toward darker magics, as if she could control her natural bent. She dutifully learned all the spellwork that her parents wanted her to master: light-based rituals, divination, and on and on. But they never worked as well for her; they never reached anywhere near the power that her shadowmancy did.
And oh, the heights that it was reaching. Elia had long since mastered the flicker of shadows, the deepening of the darkness. Sometimes the shadows curled around her, moving across her skin as if they had a will of their own. It seemed like that, sometimes. Like there was more to it than just the manipulation of the dark.
Elia had buried herself in the work for hours, days. She had pushed herself, both physically and mentally, demanding more and more from her power. Because she could feel that there was more. She could sense it, somewhere just beyond her fingertips, just out of reach. Something new, something wonderful, if only she strained just a little further.
But now the witch finally felt her power guttering, the backlash from too serious a drain on her energy coming back to slap her. She would need to rest, and eat. Give it a few days. Then she could try again. And she would, of course – she always did. Bleary-eyed, Elia raised her head from where she had rested it on her arms, crossed on the tabletop. This was as far as she got, though.
There, sitting only an inch or so in front of her crossed arms, was a tiny little monster. He was inky black, short-legged and long-armed, with fingers that ended in wicked little daggers for nails. He had teeth, so many teeth all crowded into a wide mouth, and leathery-looking wings that sprouted from his back. He was hideous – and perfect. Elia felt her fatigue evaporate when he scootched a little closer to her, chittering inquisitively.
"Oh," she breathed, lifting a hand toward the little monster. He wrapped one claw around her thumb, then nuzzled into her like a cat might. "Hello, beautiful..." Her mother could hang; she had found something new, a lovely new facet of her power. And she had no intention of giving it up.