Hecate Leveau

Name: Hecate Leveau
Known Alias: The Seer
Age: 35
Gender: Female
Race, Nationality: Human, Krytan/Elonian
Profession: Necromancer, Medium, Witch, Fortune Teller, Herbalist
Languages: Common

Virtues & Vices

VIRTUES:
Wisdom
Resilience & Tenacity
Honesty & Perceptiveness

VICES:
Pitilessness
Vengeful & Twisted
Pride & Obstinancy

On your palm an endless wonder...lines that speak the truth without a sound.

Hecate is known in underground circles as a seer and a spiritual 'fixer'.

For a price, not always coin, she can:

» Commune with the Dead
» Divine the Future
» Read Palms, Cards, and Bones
» Create Poppets and Fetishes
» Place or Remove Curses
» Heal Magical Ailments
» Cast Spells and Perform Rituals
» Offer Various Potions and Poisons
» Answer Unusual Questions

» My Server is NA Tarnished Coast «

» My in-game handle is: Stormangel.9045 «

» My Discord handle is: EmProphetic#2528 «

» Despite being on a NA server, I live in the UK «

» Available nights and weekends GMT «

» Will RP in-game, Discord, or Google Docs «

» Prefer one on one scenes or small groups «

» Open to dark/mature themes. Have a conversation with me if you have an idea «

» IC/OOC lines are important and non-negotiable «

» NO MINORS. 18+ Only. 25+ Preferred «

• • The Skeleton Key
• • The Witness

The Skeleton Key

It was an oppressive night, the darkness offering no respite from the day’s heat as the putrid stenches of the swamp boiled, sticky and sickeningly sweet in the humid air. The ravens outside Hecate’s hut cawed a wary warning mere moments before a demanding knock pounded against her gnarled oak door. Claws skittered across wooden floorboards, demons scattering with the rats, as the witch rose to answer with a faint tsk of irritation.

She was barely two strides to the door before a deep order boomed through the frame, “Open the door, Seer, or I will open it myself.” A scowl etched itself across the woman’s delicate features as she reached the threshold, ash-stained fingertips unlatching the locks and swinging open the door to reveal the intruder of her evening solitude. “No need for such impatience,” she rumbled as her gaze narrowed upon the stranger.

The king once a flea now holds the key…

A legion of cryptic voices whispered caution and curiosity at the back of Hecate’s mind as she regarded the man who stood with such trespassing authority upon her doorstep. He may have once been striking, she mused, the contours of sinewed muscle obvious beneath the well-oiled leather of an agile frame. Yet time had ravaged his posture, and violence had stitched a tapestry of scars across the sparse patches of his exposed skin. His features were obscured by the shade of his hood, but a sneer twisted his lips as he stared her down in a mask of contempt. He was not alone; the moving shadows in the darkness of the swamp at his back betrayed the presence of other men as the despot unceremoniously pushed Hecate aside to cross the threshold of her hut.

With a press of her lips and a foreboding sense of dread, the witch shut the door behind him. The room now sealed, the rancid smell of rotting flesh assaulted her senses with a suffocating surge. Blinking back the sudden sting of moisture in her eyes, Hecate turned to observe the malodorous interloper as his gaze roamed in naked inventory of the seer’s possessions. The murmur of mists still thrumming within her mind, she watched the spider webs of necrotic magic that clung to him in hungry tendrils, death and decay stalking his shadows like a slow-burning poison. She could sense a familiar power in the air, a divine insinuation that sent an unsettled shiver down her spine.

Grenth…

Hecate drew a steadying breath, forcing her limbs to close the distance and drowning the quiver of her nerves in a veiled and honeyed purr, “What is it that you seek, King of Thieves?”

The man turned to regard the witch with a calculating stare as he removed a glove and held aloft his hand. Hecate’s eyes widened at the sight - his index finger had been severed of flesh at the knuckle, scarred tendrils of sinew and leathered scars clinging to the base of the carved bone key that now served in the digit’s place.

“Do you know what this is?” He asked, continuing before giving her a chance to respond, “This is the Skeleton Key, a powerful artifact and my hard fought right to bear. It can open any lock - nothing in this world is beyond my grasp.” He sneered, “Remember that if you ever feel inclined to betray my trust.”

Hecate pressed her lips with a slight nod, her manner cautious as she watched him. She remained silent, simply waiting to ascertain his motive for being here - what he wanted from her. Casting his gloves aside to the table, the leader of the King of Thieves shrugged his leather coat from his shoulders, bearing scarred arms wrapped in ragged bandages. “The Key is cursed,” he continued as he began to unravel the cloth to reveal decaying and putrid flesh beneath, “I want you to remove the curse. Cure me of this infernal ailment and allow me to use my key without suffering this ravage of my body.”

She exhaled a heavy breath, “This will be no easy feat.” Gingerly she closed the distance to examine the wounds of open rotting flesh that marred his arm. The fetid odor was overwhelming as the witch studied the cursed power that corrupted his body, “This is powerful and divine magic. However you came to possess this key, it was forged by Grenth…you’re asking me to undo the work of a god.”

His expression hardened at her words. He began to rewrap the bandages as his tone deepened with an overt threat, “If you feel that your power is inferior to the task, then I fear you serve no purpose - and are simply a loose thread in a web I take great care to weave.”

“I’ll need time,” she offered in a strained compromise, “This will require an elaborate ritual, and if there is any hope of success, I will need time to prepare.”

Pulling his coat back across his shoulders and picking up his gloves, the man observed her for a long moment as though gauging the truth of her words. His gaze lingered on the witch’s hand, on the golden wedding band she wore on otherwise unadorned fingers. With a sudden motion, he reached forward to grasp her wrist, the boned key pressing hard as ice against her skin. He wretched the ring off her finger even as she tried to pull away from the grip and pocketed it before his cold eyes returned to hold her own, “I will return in a week. If you want this back, you’d best work hard to be ready by then. Do not make me regret my trust in you, Seer.”

With that, the King of Thieves pushed past the witch to wretch open the door and return to the shadows of the dark swamp.

Hours later, Hecate lay on her back in the darkness, staring at a ceiling she could barely see as she listened to the chorus of croaks rising from the swamp outside. Sleep had been eluding her, the woman unable to settle the storm of thoughts and worries waging war within her mind. Suddenly she heard a shuffle on boots on the wood outside, and her heart stopped, breath catching in her throat, as she heard the click of a key in the lock at the hut door.

The seer shot up in bed, panic settling into her limbs as lamplight spilled through the door to cast wild shadows across the room.

He'd said a week...

Expecting the face of a monster, Hecate exhaled audibly, visibly sinking with relief as her husband came into view. “Sorry I’m so late, love -” he started before setting eyes on the stricken features of his wife, “What’s wrong? What happened?”

He set the lamp down on the table, shrugging a heavy satchel off his shoulder to the floor before moving to the bedside. He sat on the edge, reaching to pull the trembling woman into an embrace.

“Nothing,” she lied weakly, burying her head against his shoulder as she folded against him, “I didn’t know it was you at the door.”

He frowned at her answer. He’d come home in the middle of the night a thousand times and rarely had he seen her so afraid. His hand rose to brush tenderly through her tousled ebon curls as he guided her back, searching her features, “Hecate, talk to me…”

She released a ragged sigh, “I can’t. I don’t want to drag you into this.”

Despite his concern, he managed a wry smile and reached for her hands, drawing them into a comforting squeeze, “Too late for that. You married me, darling, for better or worse, for demons or delight...”

He paused, grasping for an explanation, “Did you summon the wrong demon again?”

Hecate simply shook her head, her gaze downcast and settled inconsolably upon her hands clasped within his own. He followed the trail of her eyes, his frown creasing deeper still. “Where is your ring?” he asked, a mere breath before his wife burst into tears.

The Witness

The night was quiet enough, stirring only with the sound of the flickering fire that kept the chill at bay as the dusk-skinned seer sat beside it. Her knees were drawn to her chest and ebon spirals framed her face in a messy nest of dark curls as Hecate stared into the dancing flames, lost to the distant meditation that they offered as she waited…

She waited for the familiar click of bones, the sickening crunch of dried sinew and crumbling cartilage that moved in padded paws, void of natural cadence, to approach the witch and drop a freshly dead crow at her feet. Her trance broken, Hecate stirred and straightened, light violet gaze moving to settle on the decaying cat-like carcass of her minion. She watched the feline cadaver crumble as she dismissed the reanimating magic, bones falling to scatter in piles of ash on the dirt before she reached for the bird it had brought to her.

The moments passed quickly then as the witch consumed herself with ritual preparation, bones and herbs cast in a circle to surround the avian corpse. Firelight glinted off steel as she reached for a dagger at her side, almost reverently cradling the bird in her palm as she worked the knife’s edge to delicately remove one of its marble black eyes before laying it back down. The sticky obsidian orb was dropped into a tin cup, now steaming gently on a stone at the fire’s edge, before the knife was brought to her own arm. The tip of steel traced a glyph etched there, the tattoo alighting a firefly glow before she pressed down to pierce her skin and draw blood in a swell of red against burnt caramel and black ink. Setting the dagger aside, Hecate dipped a fingertip into the crimson ichor and reached down to smear it across black feathers in an elementary mirror of her glyph. She hovered her arm above the circle then, letting the sanguine fluid drip a few moments before the flow of her blood ebbed.

She drew a low steadying breath, her motions practiced and deliberate as she lifted the heated cup from the fireside and brought it to her lips. She downed the concoction - eye and all - in one swift gulp, and mere seconds passed before feathers jerked an awkward beat against the dirt. The seer’s vision was replaced by a pale and otherworldly light as the crow righted itself in jagged motion and inelegant flaps and then took flight in a graceless journey back towards Ebonhawke.

The prison was never quiet. Even in the dead of night, the sounds of desperation and hopelessness drifted through the hallways to seep into the restless sleep of its prisoners. The few vanguards on duty were gathered in the mess room, talking in a low murmur amongst themselves and failing to notice the whisper of footfalls that passed by the door.

Etzio was still awake in his cell, the former separatist etching another notch into the stone at his side. Another day gone, the ache of wielding an ax in seemingly endless deforestation settling like a slow poison in his muscles. The crash of wings into the bars of his small window drew his attention to the clumsily perched abomination of feathers now staring down at him through a single glinting eye.

“Grenth,” he murmured in sudden discomfort, rising to pad towards the window and peer up at the crow, “Th’fuck are you?”

He would get no answer from the avian watcher, however, and the click of a key in the lock of his cell door soon drew his attention away from the window.

“Etzio…” The visitor’s voice rumbled through the cell with a quiet thunder as the rotting smell of putrid flesh eddied through the air to fill the small room.

“Aw shit! Boss…I, uh, s’good to see you. Finally gettin’ me out of this pit, eh? It’ll be nice to be fre-”

The prisoner’s words died to the press of a dagger’s edge at his throat as his back was slammed against the wall, “Who was it in the Fields? Who did you call out to about my key?”

The questions fell in angry fetid breaths against Etzio’s face, and he stammered, “No one! No one, I swear! It was…it was just - Ah! Wait!” He begged in a panicked grab for mercy as the blade dug deeper to draw blood against his throat, “The Herald! It was the Scarecrows an’ the Herald…please-”

His last plea gurgled in his mouth as the dagger was drawn swiftly across his skin, blood spilling down his neck like water over a broken dam as the attacker withdrew and Etzio sank to his knees. As the prisoner died on the cold stone floor, his murderer lifted hard and narrowing eyes to the silent watcher at the window. With a tilt of his head, he raised his hand, fingers curling back to leave a sole digit pointing at the crow - a digit severed at the knuckle and replaced by the grotesquely carved bone of the Skeleton Key.

“I will find you,” he promised.

The one-eyed crow fell from the ledge, crashing into the cobblestones below with a lifeless thud, as Hecate pulled back from the link with a panting gasp. Her heart was a beating war drum in her chest, anger etching across her features as she felt the flames of her vengeance rage anew at the sight of the King of Thieves.