And as for François, Kemp almost got it right. He is a bokor, a sort of voodoo sorcerer. He is able to call on the spirits and, in the case of his beloved Margeurite, create zombies. But I'm not saying anymore, because there is a whole lot more to him than that.
Anyway, I think next week may be the final part of this arc. For now, have a little more of François' hoodoo.
Hoping he wasn’t making a huge mistake, François rummaged around in his pockets searching for the proper offering to call the Baron. He usually carried a wide variety of offerings, never knowing what situation may arise. Mostly they were all rum mixtures, a favorite of almost any spirit, but the Baron was a little more peculiar. With a sigh, François found the right pouch and turned it over carefully to empty all the contents in a small heap on the ground. The air around him filled with the fragrance of dried tobacco leaves and ground rum-soaked coffee as he set the offering aflame. The smoke curled thick and white, forming lavish curly cues and shapes that smoke really shouldn't form.
The air in the temple shuddered and rippled. The witch tore her gaze from
, her muttered incantations stuck in her throat. The beam of light she was struggling to free herself from grew hazy as the smoke from the offering pushed its way inside. François almost laughed to see her trying to fan the aromatic fumes away from her. She was entirely bewildered by the strange atmosphere now permeating the temple. It felt warm and thick like a humid night, the smell of tobacco and coffee hanging like moss in the air. Charlotte
The witch tried to regain her composure, raising her chin defiantly in the face of the new magic. The proud display only seemed to thicken the fragrant smoke. Little eddies appeared as she waved and sliced through the air with her hands in an attempt to see beyond the clouded beam of light. François watched eagerly for the signs he knew were coming. The currents of smoke twisted around the witch and if she had been bothered to pay closer attention, she would have the faint skull-like visage wavering in the smoke. François bowed low, placing his hand over his heart in a silent greeting.