Information

Amelia has a minion!

the Coral Bone Garden Mermaid

Amelia
Legacy Name: Amelia

The

Storm Ontra
Owner:

orion

Age: 17 years, 2 months, 3 weeks

Born: February 4th, 2007

Adopted: 6 years, 1 week, 1 day ago

Adopted: April 24th, 2018

Statistics

Level: 50
Strength: 109
Defense: 102
Speed: 91
Health: 101
HP: 101/101
Intelligence: 131
Books Read: 130
Food Eaten: 1
Job: Pastry Maker

orphans

p i s c e s | m a y f a i r

The sign out front is, well, neglected, Amelia knows, chipped and battered by the sea winds. But it's October and it's off-season and those who would bare the chill in the air to walk down the overgrown path already know how to find her. So she'll get to it. And she'll get to painting the bookcases and pricing the Rhodochrosite clusters and rolling out the Persian rug May brought her during his last visit ... in time.

She's got time, is the thing. May would disagree, say she could have so much more time, but she'll... get around to that too. See, time is slow here. When the days grow short and the last of the summer crowds recede like the tide to the mainland, a whitewashed haze descends on the island and things go... quiet. Her regulars will stop in now and then, but with the empty beaches and the herbs and tomato vines covered for the season, she has all winter to focus inward on tending the house and shop.

And for now, if she's being very honest, all she would like to do is put up her feet, have a cup of herbal tea, and not spare another thought about all the work that needs to be done. She worries a tiny chunk of black tourmaline and thinks, instead, of her friend, of how he'll be dropping by in another two weeks or so. He'll want to spend time on the beach, of course, to build a fire and tell her outlandish stories of the lands he's visited and the people he's met. She's already prepared two bottles of mead and enough blankets to keep them warm into the night.

In another life, maybe her and May would be something. If she was... well. But beautiful opposites as they are, she and May will never be one. He had offered once, graciously, but even deep in a bottle of port wine, Amelia knew that wouldn't do. Oh no, not for so many reasons. I've got time she had reasoned, kissed him on the forehead and shooed him off to the spare bedroom upstairs. Come to think of it, the room hadn't been dusted since May last used it.

And oh, there she goes again.

It's just that, well, she's not in a particular hurry. Her mother, oh her beautiful mother, would have a number of artfully chosen words for her, if she knew. But her mother couldn't know. Not after what happened to her during the very pursuit of what Amelia is putting off. Her mother, growing burdened with the reality of mortality, had chosen hastily. And when the truth came out, oh...

But Amelia doesn't like to think about that. When she had fled from the site of her mother's death, just barely sixteen, she vowed to herself and her mother that she would not make such mistakes. She would choose wisely.

And she has time. She does. Maybe not as much time as she had when she first arrived on these grassy shores, empty pockets and dirt on her face. But she had done well for herself these last few seasons. From working at the diner six days a week, to spending all her savings on an overgrown plot of land at the end of the lane with its practically condemned cottage, to now, selling crystals, fortunes, and dreams out of her front two rooms.

See, though she was cursed, she also had the privilege of certain gifts, thanks to her mother. And these gifts had allowed her to arrive here quicker, as they will allow her to get where she needs to be.

So, she has time. Really.

She had dreamt about Mayfair two weeks before she had found him. The dream, as the true ones always are, was overlayed with a scarlet haze to match the blood on the sand. The moon had been full, pink and shining, and the quiet form had stood out at the edge of the sea, tail and fins wrapped in barb wire and seaweed. In the dream, she had thought the animal dead, and she had woken up feeling cold and helpless.

But the dream had prepared her. And twelve nights later, when the tide was high with the moon and she saw the form shining on the sand through her kitchen window, she was ready to act. The animal was alive, its eyes rolling and razor filled mouth twitching uselessly. Had it more strength, it would have been a violent, trashing thing. But death had begun to take its hold.

She worked quickly, with a set of rubber-handled wire cutters and a pair of thick leather gloves, pulling away the barb in long coils. When the animal was unfettered she made quick work of the salve she had prepared, satisfied at the way it instantly formed a bond over the animal's wounds.

She could feel life, still, and the water's edge was only a couple of feet away.

"I hope you'll understand," she had told it, before moving it the only way she could imagine, with a careful grip around the tail. She pulled, inching it backwards in the sand until the edge of the tide was lapping at her feet, then covering her ankles, then her knees. When the creature's gills hit the water and became submerged, it heaved in a great breath, and shuddered.

There, she stopped. It still remained partially uncovered, but she had brought it far enough to stand a chance. She sat in the water with the waves moving around her and the shark at her side. It was quiet, but she could see it breathing softly as it recovered, the salve working its gentle magic. It kept its eye on her for a number of long minutes, until finally it began to stir. She sat still as it begun to twitch its fins and tail, testing their strength. Another moment and it thrust itself off the sand, deeper into the water. Then again, deeper, until it was freed. It disappeared quickly, under a quickly dissolving wave, and she did not see it emerge again.

She remained where she sat for a long while. She would have thought this another dream, if not for the still present blood a few feet away, and the pile of discarded wire. She made a point to carry back the discarded wire and dispose of it properly, so this couldn't happen again.

She slept well that night.

---

Four days later, the bell above the door twinkled, and she looked up from her spread to find a sickly looking man eyeing the shop curiously, immediately reaching out to touch one of the large amethyst cathedrals that flanked the doorway. He was clad in jeans and a long-sleeve button-up shirt, hair and beard long and ragged. He was a peculiar sight limping in from the July heat, but still she offered him a polite smile and an offer of help.

He smiled wide upon seeing her, said, "Oh, you already have," and well, that was the beginning of that.

A short time later, crowded around the second-hand table in her kitchen, she learned that he was like her in a way... special.

"Like a werewolf, right, but a shark," he had offered as candid explanation, "Ridiculous, right? But it is what it is. I change with the moon and the tides. Been managing it fine for decades, but got myself into a mess this time. Thought I was done for 'til you came along."

He would become a common fixture in the cottage after that. Blunt and vivid, he brought life to the dusty cottage.

And she would eventually tell him then that she had dreamt it first, Mayfair beached and wounded on her shore. That she could see these things before they happened, in her cards or in her dreams. Eventually she would tell him this, along with everything else--what she was, as her mother was, that she could be immortal, if she found another half to willingly give up a piece of their self.

He is the first that she tells, but he is not the last.

It is April, and she is busy. In four or five weeks the beaches will begin to crowd. Even so far down the island as she is, they will inevitably find her. The shy ones will make it inside, look longingly at the decks in the case but only purchase a piece of raw rose quartz warmed from the palm as they work up the courage to check out. The daring ones will nudge their friends in the side, point at the twinkling 'Tarot Readings' sign, say they oughta do it. For those that go through with it, she'll turn the sign to 'Back in 30' and lead the client into a curtained-off section of what used to be the cottage's living room. She keeps candles lit in the fireplace, and the two windows covered in thick emerald cloth.

She will never lie to them, but her visions and dreams are largely reserved for the special ones. So she'll start with some common themes, see the minute ways in which they react, and build on that. In some cases she'll get a feeling, even see a glimmer of something, and the client will leave glazy-eyed and speechless.

wip tbc.

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