| Logs |
2011 March 16
| Neverneverwhere |
| Realms |
Retired
| Reality Fault |
General Info
 |
| Realms: Taps Logs |
Riding with the Baron
Froid Jacques' home is just as the little group left it. No one is on the porch, but the serpent-blazoned front door is standing open and the smell of incense and rum is wafting out. Suraksha looks a bit puzzled, murmuring quietly from where she hasn't moved at all, seated behind the sidhe on the stag, "Chanti, dear... if you were worried about attackers -- even if you were a houngan... would you leave your front door wide open?"
Chanticleer is frowning as he loosens his sword in his scabbard. "No. I wouldn't." As they sit there, a trio of people come down the street and enter into the house. They are dressed mostly in white with colorful scarves at their heads and waists. The two women are carrying baskets and the man has a small goat slung over his shoulders. Suraksha slides gracefully off the stag, patting the pale-furred flank as she thanks Chevrefoil. The sidhe lets Suraksha dismount first before sliding from Chevrefoil's back as well. When the group arrives, he blinks. "We should find out what's going on."
Suraksha looks abruptly relieved, "Oh, good! I bet there's some ceremony happening." After that she looks down at herself, then at the sidhe, and grins, "Umm... we're kinda dirty and muddy. If they're having a ceremony I'm going to guess ritual cleanliness is important, so... let's just knock, yes?" She steps cautiously up onto the porch and raps lightly on the wooden doorframe, calling, "Hello the house! Is Froid Jacques available?" She steps politely back, careful not to lean into the house at all. When it comes to sacred rituals she knows observing the correct forms is important, and she doesn't want to mess up someone else's efforts.
Chanticleer remains close by, his same-side hand on his sword as if casually. He's still wary; he's pretty sure it's some sort of ceremony but Mami Chat's death is still too soon. Suraksha blinks again at a sudden thought, looking up at Chanticleer. "Um... wait. How'd he know it was safe?" She takes a few more steps back from the door.
Inside the house there is chanting and singing along with the soft sound of drums. A few moments after Suraksha's call, a woman comes to the door. Her skin is the blue-black color of crow-feathers and she wears a loose white dress cinched at the waist with a bright red and blue scarf. Another brightly-colored scarf is wrapped around her head in a turban, and her teeth and eyes are very white in her motherly face. Her accent is sing-song and charming, "Froid Jacques is here, but he cannot come to the door." Her eyes move over the muddy woman and the armed man, her expression worried.
Chanticleer says carefully, "Unless he somehow sensed it...." He breaks off as the woman emerges, taking his hand from his sword and folding his hands in front of him. He's a little mollified at seeing how worried she is; if she were hostile she'd be making a much bigger effort to reassure them and shove them off on their way.
Suraksha ends up standing on the stairs, careful not to block either Chanti's sword arm or the stag's rack. She nods slowly to the woman, "I see. Umm... has this to do with Mami Chat?" She checks the woman's chakras, wondering if this woman is hostile to the houngan and an ally of Mami Chat's.
The woman relaxes a little as Chanti takes his hand from the sword hilt, but she stays in the door. She is broad through the hips and shoulders, full bosomed, and with enough self-confidence to fill the door. At Suraksha's question she says, "Damballah told him to send for us. He has not said why."
Suraksha relaxes a bit as she scans the woman's chakras: not only does this woman seem to be telling the truth, but she's also very strongly connected to earth. She has a wonderfully strong heart chakra as well; if she's not someone's mother, she ought to be! "Oh, good! May we come in, please? We need to talk to Damballa, and we need Froid Jacques to take an artifact off our hands." She glances ruefully down at her dirty feet as she adds, "We apologize for not being tidier. We just came in from the swamp." There's an amused sniff from Alg at that, under the porch. Suraksha amends, "Well, we're not sure if it is an artifact. We're trying to play it safe." Chanticleer nods in agreement with Suraksha, trying hard to look inoffensive and not just recently ready-to-charge-in-sword-drawn.
The woman looks them both over doubtfully, but then seems to relent a little, "You cannot come in like that. This is sacred space." She steps out of the house and motions around the side of it, "Behind the house, inside the fence, there is a mikvah." The woman smiles, "Froid Jacques liked the concept when an old Abrahamite told him about it. There are spare robes in the little building that houses it. Clean yourselves. Change. Then you may come in."
Suraksha nods and pauses only long enough to say, "Thank you!" before she heads that way. The fastidious big cat in her is thrilled at the prospect of being completely clean! The woman watches until they have disappeared around the side of the house. Chanticleer looks sheepish at how muddy he is, and does like the idea of cleaning off as well.
The gate is woven of lath and is a good eight feet high. Inside, they find a spacious yard that has obviously been set up to be used as a ritual space. There's an altar set up in the northern quadrant. In the west, there is a small wooden building that has a tin chimney rising from it. There is smoke trickling from the chimney and it smells like cedar. Inside the building there are pegs along the walls, from which hang simple white cotton robes in a few different sizes.
The mikvah is not made to lounge in. It is perhaps four feet across and is fed by pipes that move over a small wood-burning stove that warms the water before it pours into the ceremonial bath. There is another space with a drain in the center and more pipes and nozzles. Though they aren't common any more, both Suraksha and Chanticleer have seen showers before. This one looks as if it were built by a mad Tap engineer. Along with the shower is something that looks like a shallow well. The stone-lined ritual bath is just big enough for one person at a time to descend into it. It seems obviously meant for one to immerse oneself completely, since it goes down for about seven feet.
Suraksha blinks, looking around with interest -- then laughs! "Oh, this is lovely!" She carefully unties and lays aside the staff, then shimmies out of her tunic and happily steps into the drain area. A warm water shower out on the road is utter luxury, as far as she's concerned! She rinses her body and works all the mud out of her hair, nearly purring with happiness.
Chanticleer looks dubiously at the shower. "Lady, I've a concern that shower is going to unroot itself and eat me."
Suraksha giggles at the sidhe, "C'mon in, Chanti -- the water's fine!" He warily doffs his clothing before getting in as well.
Once Suraksha has rinsed off all the mud, she steps into the little tub. The water in the mikvah itself is cool and still until she steps into it. She settles into the water, her night-dark hair flaring out beautifully around her on the surface of the water, and looks thoughtful, "Hmm... I'm guessing this is a ceremonial thing. Let me say a prayer first before I go under -- then I'll get out and you can go, all right?" Chanticleer nods to Suraksha, feeling a little more comfortable now.
Suraksha hums a soft blessing and thanks to her ancestors for keeping her safe, and to Damballa for being willing to speak with her. After that she takes a breath, then heads down under the water. The cool water feels curiously delicious, trailing over her bare skin almost like a caress, and she smiles as she stays underwater for a few heartbeats, even pulling all her hair under for a moment. After that she drifts upward again. As she emerges her wet hair plasters itself smoothly along her body, and she unwittingly looks a bit like a Venus rising from the water. "Lovely. Your turn!"
Chanticleer slips into the mikvah, shivering a little from the cold water. Some fey aren't particularly fond of water; he's not one of them but he does feel a little cautious around water that serves a holy function. He pauses before dunking his head underwater, murmuring a prayer to those ethereal spirit-guides, those numinous concepts who serve as gods for the sidhe, such as Dana and the others of Tir na nOg.
Suraksha has moved to find a short robe to wear... and as she studies them she realizes she should re-wrap the staff in something clean also. She does that first, so she can wash her hands if necessary: untying the staff's wrapping, putting a clean robe around it, and knotting it closed again. After that she washes her hands thoroughly, then heads back to the robes to find one for herself. She impatiently shakes her head and rolls her shoulders; her hair sticking to her makes it hard to move easily.
The water is cool on Suraksha and Chanticleer's skins as they emerge from the mikvah. There's a row of baskets if they wish to leave their clothes in the mikvah house. Chanticleer puts his clothing in the basket, but hesitates with the sword. He looks to Suraksha for guidance as to if he should -- in a ritual space it's best to not bring a weapon that's been bloodied unless the ritual specifically calls for it -- but he also doesn't wish it... misplaced.
Suraksha neatly tosses both her tunic and the wrapping cloth into one of the baskets for later cleaning. She smiles ruefully at Chanti and shakes her head, "Probably wiser not to take it in, since we don't know the spirits in question at all well -- or what might offend them." She glances around, then nods to the baskets, "Maybe tuck it out of sight behind the baskets for the nonce?" She adds reassuringly, "We can track anyone who comes in, and I'll ask Alg to guard outside, all right?" Chanticleer nods and tucks the sword neatly beneath the baskets, out of sight.
Suraksha takes a moment to pull all her wet hair into a ponytail so she can wring the excess water out of it, then forces the clingy mass into a thick braid. After that she pulls on the shortest robe, rolling up the sleeves so her hands emerge. She sighs contentedly, then grins at the sidhe, murmuring in heartfelt tones, "Clean!" She giggles and heads for the door with the wrapped staff, "Ready?"
Chanticleer laughs softly and heartfeltly, following Suraksha in. "Ready, I think, yes."
Suraksha beams over her shoulder at Chanticleer, then heads outside. She pauses partway through the little backyard, giving the altar a long look... then she heads over and touches her fingertips lightly to it. She sings another soft prayer of thanks and blessing, then touches her fingertips to her heart, her lips, and her third eye. After that she heads for the backdoor, peeking in with cautious curiosity. Chanticleer waits patiently for Suraksha, letting her precede them both to the doorway.
The back door into the house is also open and the chanting and drumming is far more audible than it was from the front door. It sounds louder now than when they first entered the mikvah, as if there are more people, or the people there are raising the volume. The back door of most houses would open onto the kitchen; this one opens onto something much more like a great room. Inside the great room there are almost two dozen people. Some are drumming, some are dancing; almost all are chanting. Only the guard set by Roy is looking solemn and serious. In the center, Froid Jacques and the enormous python are dancing. There are several small braziers with fragrant wood and incense.
Suraksha smiles faintly at sight of the guard, then lets her gaze travel around the room as she searches for the woman they'd met at the door. She's not sure just stepping in is appropriate, and she'd like to be invited in before she assumes. She also glances down on both sides of the door, checking for more pythons. She'll accept an invitation from them as well. Now that she looks, there are actually several smaller pythons here and there around the room -- some on people, some curled up in warm spots. The woman they saw at the door is one of the dancers, bare feet flashing to the drumbeats.
Chanticleer blinks a little, looking around inside. Well... it's safe to say Froid Jacques is relatively all right. The sidhe has seen dances like this before, especially in voudon rituals; is Froid Jacques being ridden by Damballa?
The woman who met them at the front door catches sight of them again and comes to the back door. She is smiling more easily now and opens her arms as if to embrace both of them, "Come in! Come in!"
Suraksha brightens and steps willingly into the room after that, "Thank you! My name is Sura, and this is Chanti. Thank you for inviting us to your ceremony." Chanticleer blinks in surprise at the suddenly warm and welcoming invitation from the woman. He feels somewhat more at ease now -- he has no choice; he has no sword -- and is feeling better seeing Froid Jacques apparently in good... spirits. So to speak. Or at least in good hands of spirits. So to speak. Suraksha holds up the wrapped bundle, "This is the artifact we spoke of. Should we do anything special with it, or just give it to Froid Jacques?"
The woman says, "I am sorry I was hesitant before. Froid Jacques told me who you are. I am Simone. Damballah has not spoken yet but we will hear from him soon, I am sure. Then we will ask what to do with your artifact."
Suraksha smiles and slings the staff over her back once more, then hugs the woman -- it just feels right to do so. "Thank you again, then."
Chanticleer lets out a breath. "We're very relieved to hear... and see... he's all right. We were concerned that Mami Chat, er, left something behind. To use against him, I mean."
Suraksha nods at Chanticleer's words, her expression more sober at that. She looks around, then picks up a python on one of the benches, murmuring, "May I?" and settling on the bench where it had been. She carefully lays the python over her shoulders, adding reassuringly, "Feel free to borrow warmth, of course." The big snake coils around Suraksha and seems to feel as if it is only his due to be held and warmed by the two-legged creature.
Simone laughs warmly and says, "You are well come!" She lets go of Suraksha and moves to hug Chanticleer as well. She pauses at mention of Mami Chat, "You have news of the witch-woman?"
Suraksha glances up at Simone's comment and nods gravely again, "We believe she is now dead."
Chanticleer does not dissuade the voudonista from the hug -- he returns it, feeling at last content and without wariness. He nods at Suraksha's comment. "Two nights ago, yes."
Simone lays a hand over her heart at the news and says something in a patois before leaning down to kiss the head of the snake wrapped around Suraksha, "Praise be to the spirits that made it so."
Suraksha smiles faintly at that as she runs gentle fingertips caressingly along the smooth scales, but says nothing more. She'll wait until Damballa's ready to talk. Instead she grins up at Chanti and lightly pats the bench next to her in silent invitation. Sitting here will keep them out of the way of the dancers, and if participation is good then the two of them can still clap. Further, if they want Chanti to drum too they'll hand him one.
Chanticleer for his part doesn't say anything; talking overmuch about it makes him feel uncomfortable. It wasn't exactly the sort of final battle the Court bards like to sing and exaggerate about. But, at that, it was how more than many battles ended. He smiles to Suraksha and settles onto the bench. The rooster sidhe in him is a little nervous around so many constrictors, but he stifles it.
The chanting and drumming is rising in volume. Simone smiles, her eyes starting to get a little distant, "I must go. I feel them calling me." She squeezes their hands and moves back into the dance. By now more of the people are dancing -- all those who are not are clapping, drumming, or chanting. Froid Jacques moves with a fluidity and grace which makes it seem as if he has no joints or bones.
Chanticleer blinks a bit as Simone drifts off. "I think," he murmurs, "that they're all being ridden. Aren't they?"
Suraksha smiles and finds herself swaying with the music. "Don't know, sweetie... but I do know joining in ritual can be a powerful... sensation, experience, all on its own?" She grins, adding, "Can't you feel the drums talking to you? Thrumming in your ears, thundering up through your feet, singing in your bones?"
Indeed, the drums are powerful, the underbeat feeling like a heartbeat -- like the sort of pulse one has during battle or during intense passion. That backbeat is overlaid by fingers dancing over stretched skin, calling to feet and hips and hands to move. The chanting is made of almost nonsense syllables, ululations and joyful cries that weave in and around the drumbeats and the sounds of clapping hands and bare feet on the clean floor.
Suraksha grins as she finds herself clapping too, swaying with the music. She has the urge to dance as well, but she doesn't -- she knows it's just her normal love of dancing coming out, and this is a special time. She's not sure she should, really. Chanticleer fidgets a little in his seat. "Some... somewhat. I mean... it's... different from the Courts." He tries to clear his mind, finding it singularly impossible -- not when his pulse is starting to thump with the drumbeat, feeling the rhythm beginning to make his head move a little to it. "It sounds like they're... that they're celebrating, but they didn't know Mami Chat is dead until we told them...?"
Suraksha grins at Chanti, "This is life celebrating, Chanti! Haven't you danced for joy before?" She gets a wicked glint in her eyes, then swiftly lays the staff on the floor under the bench as she murmurs to the python, "Hold on, dear -- I'm going to dance too, I think!" She bounces lightly to her feet as the python flips a securing coil about her arm, its head rising inquiringly. The small woman beams at Chanti, holding her hands out to him, "Come dance!" The drumbeats and chanting seem to insinuate themselves into the fibers of the body and pull it forward, teasing it into motion. Deeper, below the physical level, the mind is invited to relax. To quit thinking so hard and to simply be. To make way.
Chanticleer blinks a little -- actually, strictly speaking, he hasn't danced like that. It's hard to really enjoy the more dramatic and energetic dances either as an observer or participant at a fey Court without worrying someone's going to somehow, some way, use it against you, either in the endless social chess games the matrons and patrons played with the courtiers and knights, or with a more direct stiletto between the ribs.
And yet Chanti is inexplicably moved by the music, driven by the rhythm of drums and foot stomps on the wooden floor, feeling it draw him up alongside Suraksha into the circle of celebrating voudounistas and the loas riding them. Suraksha already knows how the drums talk to her, being a belly dancer. She happily draws Chanti forward into the pounding, chanting heat of the dancers, her own hips starting to sway with the insidious musical call, and it does not take long for her to toss back her head and throw up her arms, blissfully lost within the wonderful ritual.
The heartbeat drumming and the chanting call to the deeper soul, to the parts that want to join with heaven, and the loa whisper and beckon. They are there in the room, unseen but as real as the air and the sunlight and the smell of sweet cedar smoke. Suraksha smiles as she feels that light, ethereal brushing caress, but does not open up to them. She's not their horse -- she has neither the training nor the inclination, considering her shapeshifting ability. She'd rather not accidentally panic everyone here if a curious loa wanted to try out different sensations -- and she knows some of them do enjoy that.
Chanticleer's resistance only goes so far as he's drawn into the dance, and he lets himself be carried along that far. The otherworldly touch of the loas, however, is a little scary to him -- him, a Knight of Autumn, scared! Yet how could he not be? These are beings older than the fey in some ways, primal and ancient and wise when mortals were young: mischievous and capricious, laughing and violent and loving -- all these things in a dizzying cacophony that follows a drumbeat that plays upon the skein of the soul. Even if he is not immune to that beat, the loas' touch is unfamiliar to him and he shies from it.
In the place between, where the loa wait and the drumbeats are the heartbeat of the world, Chanticleer finds himself standing on a glassy black plane with a sky full of scarlet and violet clouds. Strutting at his side is a black rooster. It can't speak, but it radiates a sense of... cockiness. Also standing on the plane is a tall, slim figure wrapped in shadows. Chanticleer blinks at the figure. He's about to open his mouth -- still feeling his soul and his body dancing -- when he notices the rooster. He looks at it, blinking again. "Don't I know you?" he murmurs before looking back to the figure -- and yet still casting the occasional curious glance at the rooster. Where the heck has he seen it before?
The rooster crows and then flutters up to settle on Chanticleer's shoulder as if it is very comfortable there and has every right to be roosting where it is. The figure in the shadows (how are there shadows when there's no real, directed light?) laughs and says in a rolling, deep voice, "He know you. He followed you a little while now, chile."
Chanticleer glances at the rooster as it makes itself at home. "Really?" he asks the figure. "I didn't know I had a passenger." He blinks. Passenger? Wait... black rooster, weird soul-scape, following around -- he blinks again. "The ritual last year here in Baton Rouge...." He looks at the rooster. "Huh," he says at last. He reaches up, rubbing the rooster under its bill. "Hope it's not been too bumpy a ride," he murmurs to him apologetically. The rooster makes a clucking, chuckling sound and settles more securely on Chanti's shoulder. It radiates a sense of being quite perfectly content.
In the room in Froid Jacques' house, it is obvious Chanticleer is lost to the drumming: His eyes are distant and his body moves with more freedom and easiness than is usual for him. Suraksha smiles fondly at her companion as she realizes Chanti's likely communing with the loa. That's all right with her -- she'll just keep an eye on him, and make sure the loa treat him right.
The figure in the shadows appears just as content as the rooster. He seems to be watching Chanticleer for a moment -- then he steps forward, the shadows unraveling like a cloak being handed to an attendant. At once slender, and broad through the shoulders, he moves with the grace of a dancer or a fighter. The clothes he wears are sleek, black, and formal. The tails of his coat are almost long enough to brush the floor, while the silver-headed cane he carries is topped with an ornate cross. Aristocratic features look out from beneath the brim of a top hat and his eyes are hidden behind black circular lenses. "You steppin' on a dangerous road, boy. Followin' a woman who ain't a woman on a path gonna have death around every bend." He smiles, "'Course, dat true on every path."
Chanticleer blinks, looking at the figure. He's singularly unaware of mortal deities, even less so the loas. Still, for a god this one is a snappy dresser; somehow Chanti doesn't think Danu would be quite so fashionable. It occurs to him he must be really terrified if he's making such banal and pithy comments to himself. He does, however, have enough coherency of thought to bristle a little. "You may not call her a woman, but she's always a Lady to me," he protests quietly. "You have to know I'm on such a path anyway -- it started with death. But maybe it won't have to end with it."
The loa smiles and says, "Every path end in death. Every life go from de cradle to de grave. Every story de same. Someone born, dey want somethin', dey die. In between, dat just details." He shrugs, an elegant gesture, "I din't mean no insult. Damballah like her an awful lot. Say she a cousin. She got control, though. Ain't gonna let nobody ride her."
Chanticleer murmurs uncomfortably, "Well, it wasn't my death that I was talking about; I know that'll happen eventually... even to sidhe...." He blinks then. "Riding...?" he looks around. "No offense taken, it's just... is... is that what's happening to me now? I thought... as a sidhe, I mean, that... I wasn't... I couldn't be...?"
The loa chuckles, an urbane sound and steps closer to Chanti. He moves with the assurance of one who knows his exact place and feels supremely comfortable in his own skin -- or in anyone else's. "Weeeell... not quite. But you could be if you wanted to." He looks the sidhe up and down, "You got de kind of body I like. You move like you comfortable wit' yourself. Little brother dere like you a lot." He smiles again, a flash of white in mahogany skin, full lips curling up at the corners, "What you say?"
Chanticleer doesn't quite step back, but he is wary. The idea of being ridden is alien to him, and disconcerting. And yet, the rooster's been hanging around for a while and there've been no ill-effects. A rooster isn't a god, he reminds himself. He swallows a little. He remembers Suraksha is there in the real physical world, and the other voudonistas as well, and... it might not be respectful if he says 'no,' and it's supposed to be a good thing, right? He gulps, then nods. "All... all right," he says at last, a little more confidently than he feels. As the loa nears him he asks -- probably way too late, "What is your name?"
The loa steps forward and reaches out, his hand laying on Chanti's chest and then into the sidhe's chest to lay on his heart. The black-skinned man whispers, "Dey call me Baron La Croix." In his lilting accent it sounds like "Baron Lakwa." He laughs as he steps forward to join with the sidhe, "It my pleasure to meet you, Chanticleer."
Chanticleer's eyes widen a little as the baron touches him: He can feel the loa's essence, much as the Baron can feel his, he's sure. The Baron is a psychopomp, one who comes for the souls of the dead; in the Courts they're usually depicted as sparrows. La Croix is anything but a sparrow -- a great towering presence in his own mind. What he said about life and death is truly what he feels: Everyone born dies; everyone who dies at some point was born. Death is the great equalizer: King and Serf both face the passing and the turning of the wheel, so you might as well see the humor in life and live well while you have a chance.
With a shiver -- in part from surprise, and in part that shiver that runs up from the base of his own chakras up his back to his head -- the sidhe also realizes this is a loa of sexuality and sensuality. His perceptions become a little distant, like he's watching a magic lantern show except he's in the show as well... Chanticleer abruptly realizes too that Baron La Croix knows Mami Chat is dead; he's the one who brought her to the next place. He's the one who told Damballah about it, and had him get Froid Jacques to gather his people to tell them about her death. It also happens the Baron is getting the chance to ride one of the people who was involved in sending Mami Chat on her way; that seems to amuse him to no end.
Suraksha is swaying with deliciously abandoned pleasure in the dance, but she takes a second to swiftly scan Chanticleer's chakras, wondering if he's being ridden yet or not. At the heated flare of color she raises an amused eyebrow at herself -- either her reading is sloppy, he's having a wonderful time... or he is indeed being ridden. Right now she has no idea which, though.
La Croix in Chanticleer's body smiles down at Suraksha. It's not Chanti's usual expression by any means. Not quite a leer, it's a look that carries with it appreciation of a lovely form and untold depths of humor. Taking her hand, he kisses it and a voice that is not Chanti's comes from the sidhe's mouth, "It an honor to meet you, lady." Suraksha laughs softly, curtsying to the courtesy, and the Baron looks around the room. After a moment his eyes fall on what he was seeking and he moves toward it.
The altar has been set up with both Damballah's colors and La Croix's. Purple and white candles and cloths lay over the surface. Sitting in place of honor, next to a serpent statue and a stone cross, is a top hat. Atop the hat sits a pair of smoked-glass spectacles. The loa-ridden sidhe glides across the floor and takes them both. Across the altar lies a black walking stick and he takes that up as well, spinning it through the air before bringing it to rest in front of him with both hands crossed atop it.
Suraksha smiles as she watches the loa in her friend, and for just a moment she pauses in her dance. She knows Chanticleer had to have agreed... but if she gets the faintest hint her caravan-family member wants out, and the loa isn't listening, then she's going to have... words with the loa! For now, though, she relaxes once more into the dance. If the loa returns, she'll ask his name, but she figures he has things he wishes to do while here.
The Baron breathes in through the nose, nostrils flaring. He is a sensualist at heart and he dearly loves having a physical body with which to experience the world. The loa surveys the room in approval and appreciation before moving... it's not quite a strut and not quite a glide... back to Suraksha and offering his arm, "Do me de honor, lady? We got news to bring to my bruddah, an' you deserve to be dere." He pauses, remembering, "Her staff? You got it?"
Suraksha raises an amused eyebrow, pushing her now-tangled, wet, night-dark hair back off her forehead as she accepts his arm with the other hand, "We brought it, yes. It is over on the side there." She tilts her head and grins up at the well-known face that is somehow... alien tonight, adding, "You have the advantage of me, sir; I do not know your name?"
Baron La Croix laughs, a full-throated and joyous sound, "Oh, I would surely love to take advantage of you, lady. But dat neither here nor dere." Suraksha snorts amusedly at the man, her eyes sparkling mischievously. He sweeps his hat off and across his chest as he bows, "Dey call me Baron La Croix." He stands again and the hat seems to dance through the air and land on his head with no effort, "Whyn't you go grab de staff?"
The Hetaera curtseys politely again, "A pleasure! One moment." She heads for the staff, pausing by the bench to check the python still wrapped about her upper torso, "Do you want to come along to meet Damballa, pretty serpent?" The python's tongue flickers out and tickles Suraksha's ear. It seems to be an affirmative. She grins and strokes the lovely patterned scales lightly, "All right!" She tucks the wrapped staff under her arm and returns to Cha- no, to the Baron. Her smile is just short of a smirk, "Alas, not having time to prepare, I am not appropriately dressed -- at least to my taste. Still, this color should do for your brother, yes?" Suraksha has no idea how she must look to the assorted voudonistas there: wild dark wet hair, warm-colored skin, and with a python calmly about her.
La Croix offers his arm again, "Lady, you dressed jest fine. Let's us go give de good news. Tell de gospel trut', like dey say." He laughs that laugh again and moves across the room toward the serpent-draped houngan. Around the room people are watching now. Some seem quite surprised the sidhe has taken up the accoutrements of one of the Barons, but no one seems offended.
Suraksha smiles again, then raises her chin and does her "queen's walk" -- not quite strutting -- so she is a suitable escort. She doesn't know much about voudon, but she hasn't seen anything to indicate the Baron wouldn't appreciate a proudly self-assured and beautiful woman. The Baron looks down approvingly over his specs at Suraksha. Indeed, he seems to quite appreciate that she enjoys and knows how to move in her body; he has a sense about him of confidence and satisfaction. He knows where he... and everyone else... is going in the end, and so he experiences every moment to the fullest.
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