WHAT: Her own personal version of Hell.
WHEN: Not long after her arrival.
WHERE: Davy Jones' Locker
RATING: PGish, if that
STATUS: COMPLETE
( Your aura faded years ago... )
No one would have noticed the locket. It was hidden behind so many others, such lesser quality. Tia had placed it there on purpose. It seemed so fitting. Such baubles as she adorned upon herself. Necklaces of rocks, arm bands of driftwood and earrings of seaglass. So the tarnished bauble became a part of her bodice, never seen again.
She was talking as she bustled about the shop. "Now, Jack," she said, "'d man dey name ye fer ain' much fer takin' orders neither. Ain't me nature t' turn a man o' 'is ways, but listen 'ere, Jack." She looked at the monkey, holding it with a sharp gaze. "If ye don' be heedin' th' suggestions Tia be makin o' ye, Tia may be havin' 'erself a new pair o' furry gloves off yer undead hide."
There was a faint sound of distress from a mammalian throat. Tia Dalma merely smiled and suggested, in a voice that could turn milk to honey, "Why doncha be bringin' me dat bottle, Jack, my love?"
No monkey should ever be faced with such peril. Jack immediately grabbed the object she had indicated, and pulled it over to her.
"Now dat's a good boy, my Jack."
There was thunder, a loud crash of thunder, and the hut swayed. Tia rocked with it, her hips moving to keep her balance naturally, but a frown crossed her expression. When a flash of lightning split the sky, and the hut rocked again, her eyes narrowed. "Someone be messin' wit' me t'ings," she said, her voice low and icy. Jack chittered, and sprang for the safety of her shoulder. She ignored his weight, but did not throw him aside, moving instead, slowly, to the doorway. Outside, a storm still raged, but the quality of it was different. Tia threw open the flap at the door, and her eyes widened.
The swamp had turned to sludge, with tall, curving shapes weaving throughout. Her sharp eyes focused on one flat surface through the vines and the trees, scowling and cursing to herself as she worked out the unfamiliar letters. The La Brea Tar Pits, Hancock Park.
Jack screetched on her shoulder. She looked at him. "At least dis place know how t' be treatin' a witch." She turned back inside, looking carefully over the hut's interior. "Let's see if dey be changin' anyt'ing else."