Who: Belladonna, Opium and Sebastian Where: Opium's shop and apartment When: Backdated to Wednesday evening Warnings: Um. Is it even necessary to point out there'll be drug references?
It had been a trying month, this one; an unpleasant roller-coaster in what was usually the most restful time of the year for Belladonna. The rituals of Walpurgis and Beltaine were no longer upheld as once they had been, and most had forgotten altogether the tales from the old country. They had forgotten the legend of the devil's plants, the dwale-berries, lovingly tended and jealously guarded by that dark master -- except for that one night, the night of the witches' great Sabbath, when the devil would leave his post and, unattended, the dwale plant would take the shape of a woman, enchanting yet deadly to behold.
They had forgotten but she had not, and that night -- the night of her 'birth', so to speak -- still held power for Belladonna. She saw to it that her plant found its way into most of the larger pagan celebrations, and several of the smaller ones, whether in the form of charms or floral decoration, drinks or incense. That she was, as Donnatella Divale, a key supplier of herbal and magical supplies for several pagan groups, helped considerably.
And so Walpurgisnacht was a night of replenishment, of revitalisation; and standing in her roof garden amid the blossoming nightshades, her sister-plants would rise to greet her, ghostly, insubstantial nymphs whose skirts would whirl about them and whose feet would glide across the air in time with the Beltaine dancers. And Belladonna would feel the strength trickle back into her veins -- so slight, so gradual, yet infinitely significant -- and when at last, late into the following afternoon, she slept, it would be a rare, dreamless slumber, untroubled by night visions.
But then the darkness had happened -- the chilling, chthonic black which caught her entirely unprepared. And Belladonna had been powerless to fight it. Alone and exposed in the dark, the phantoms had returned, their keening voices mingling with the exclamations, shouts and screams of the New Yorkers, grotesque visions rising to fill the void created by the blackness. Nightshade nightmares spilled over into the waking hours, and Belladonna's anguished cries had joined the mortal voices.
The experience had drained her considerably, sapping much of her Walpurgis buzz and leaving an exhaustion both mental and physical that had seen her retreating to the soil and the solace of the Organic, though nothing would soothe the night terrors, or the unquenchable dry ache in her throat.
She didn't know how long she stayed down there, in the dirt, but eventually she had risen and things had settled... if not entirely back to normal, then at least into a manageable routine. And then Opium had emerged, quite out of the blue, with an offer altogether too tempting to refuse.
A saint. A bona fide Christian saint, a being very much in his immortal prime, and very much caught under Opium's smoke-hazed spell. And Oscar was willing to share.
It was a risk, attending in person at this time -- she was weak and Opium was strong, and if he were to over-extend his power, if the natural conflict between their substances was allowed free rein, it could easily prove too much for Belladonna. But the rewards, oh... the chance to flow through a saint's veins, through his mind, and partake of that power... Surely this was a risk worth taking.
As she reached the entrance Opium's shop, her face was smooth and serene. Her hair, left loose, hung in soft black curls; her dusty-green dress was immaculate. There was nothing at all in her manner to betray her weak state, or the discomfort she felt venturing so deep into a competing drug's domain. Pushing open the door, she stepped into the shop.