Wardrobe

Villager: Momma Hera

As you followed the creek towards the edge of town, you started to gain a sneaking suspicion that your directions were incorrect. All you wanted was a morphing potion, and were let to believe there was a gator who knew just how to make what you needed, and for no charge... The brush reached up around the bottoms of the trees like jagged claws ready to snatch passersby, and sheets of moss dangled from the branches of the knobby cypress like spirits of long lost lore.
Once you muscled your way past the eerie demeanor of the local flora, there appeared a run down shanty, just as described to you in town. However, this house, if you could call it a house, was far more dilapidated than you imagined in the telling of its appearance. Long ropes dangled from the porch that were tied with basilisk feathers, river oyster shells and bones of unknown origin. They looked like wind chimes, but they stood perfectly still in the uncomfortable lack of a breeze.
As you placed one foot on the first step, the whole shack seemed to heave and sigh, like a monster coming to life under your touch. “Who dat?” rumbled a voice from within, “Come see, or get.” That certainly wasn't very welcoming, but your curiosity and determination seemed to get the better of you.
When you pushed wide the heavy door, the whole of the one room cottage came to life, as the sweeping gust of air quivered the candles adorning every surface. Or at least, you believe they quivered the candles. Mayhaps they alight as soon as you entered. You could never be too sure, to this day.
“Bonjou, Bon Ami!” snapped the massive jaws of an old alligator who suddenly swept in front of you. Her accent was thick and heavy like she had a mouth full of cotton. “To permet mo entrodwir mo-mem! Aye am, Momma Hera.” Her words seemed friendly, but her tone and pitch rumbled from her chest in a dangerous way. The way her eyes followed your every movement and her mouth curled into a toothy smile, set you on edge. Everything about her felt wrong, from the sly glimmer in her yellow eyes to the various trinkets she had thrown around her home.
Steadying yourself, you tell her your desires, and she stands staring, grinning, leaning in close to watch your eyes move as you speak. After an uncomfortably long pause, she swiftly turns around. “To pale Kreyol?” she asked without looking at you. Unsure of what she was saying, you hesitate to respond. “Aye guess not,” she finally responded, looking at you in the reflection of a very muddy mirror hanging above her work bench. “Well, catch ya seat,” she snapped, ushering to a well-worn chair. “Momma Hera gonna conja yah up somethin. Dis'll be quick. Let meh ax yah questioin, do. Yah know whatcha rally want, yah?”
You hesitate to nod, but nod you did as you took a seat in the rickety, old chair. In a swift motion she began to clamor through her belongings, speaking words you were unsure of in a language you were unfamiliar with. You began to take in your surroundings. Everything was cluttered, everything was gaudy, and everything seemed to be placed precariously on top of something else. There were bones, books, bottles, herbs, hats, feathers, and something floating in a jar that you were unsure of its living state.
“Ery potion Momma Hera makes es vary speshul,” she growled. Before you could reply about the price, she interrupted “They be free ah charge, long as yah can pay.” Her head turned slightly, enough so that her crocodilian eye could catch you, and her nictitating membrane slid across its surface.
At that moment a pile of bones seemed to shuffle in the corner, drawing your attention away from the strange gator long enough for her to elaborately wave her claws over the potion bottle without your notice. The last of her erratic movements caught your sight, and you glanced back to her now standing over you, toothy grin wider than ever. When your eyes wandered back to the pile of bones, a large, red wuff was now standing in its place, mouth agape in a snarl.
“Time tah go; to konprann?” She placed the bottle in your hand and it was strangely warm to the touch. With a forceful shove, you were back on the step, the shanty looking as lifeless as it did before. From that day forward, your life would be completely different...








My Louisiana Creole is a bit rusty, but here's the translation:
“Bonjou, Bon Ami!” - “Hello, my dear!”
“To permet mo entrodwir mo-mem!” - “Let me introduce myself.”
“To pale Kreyol?” - “You speak Creole?”
“to konprann?” - “You understand?”

Paintie by myself/Rotsuoy.