Hexbound
Josette Boudreaux, or Jo for short, grew up in a similar fashion to most children raised by a single parent. Most of her adolescence was spent visiting her grandmother and aunt until she was old enough to look after herself and then she became another latchkey kid. When she was grown enough to help out she started taking care of the house so that her mother could pick up the extra shift and focus on her work more and more to provide for the two. What wasn't normal was the lessons her grandmother, aunt, and mother gave her in her free time. Most children played with dolls, sure, but few learned how to make their own and weave the spirits into burlap and stitches.
From as early as she can remember Jo grew up steeped in the ways of Hoodoo, learning all the various working and choring that her family could teach her. When asked her grandmother, the current matriarch of the family, would tell her stories about how the family had been practicing for as long as anyone could remember, acting as healer and guardian to the communities they dwelt in. And when needed as soldier against the things that bumped out in the swamps and forests at night.
A young Jo was captivated by these stories, learning that her family were some line of magical heroes, and devoted herself to the practice fully. But as time grew on and each time she failed at a working it became apparent to her family that while she understood the formula and theory behind the craft she lacked a certain spark to put them into practice. While no one outright disparaged her for this lack of "mojo" Jo couldn't help but feel a divide begin growing between her and her family. They still loved her all the same, but the practice and calling was an integral part of their life and something that the young woman couldn't participate in and left her feeling like an outsider.
So when Jo became of age she packed her bags and took her small belongings and set out on her own, following a few stories and bits of lore about how she could tap into what she knew was her family lineage. She roamed all over the American South, speaking with covens and medicine men, shamans and witch-doctors. She dug up musty old tomes and the scrawled writing in battered journals looking for that key. And finally she found it in an old bit of spellcraft, a ritual that would lace her flesh and turn her body itself into a foci.
Jo gathered up the various ingredients, none too surprising for the workings of the South, grave dirt, sun-kissed dew, locks of the forests, a needle of bone, and so on. Half cloaked in symbolism, the other half literal, but all serving a purpose. She waited until the moon was full in the sky and set about with her copper bowl, herbs, reagents, and a strong will and began to carve the spell into her skin, wincing as the bone needle bit into her flesh but grinning as she felt the working build and the lines take shape.
As the sun began to peek through the heavy boughs of the willows above Jo let out a long sigh of relief, her skin slick with sweat and her breath ragged. The last prick had been made and the bowl was empty, her arms covered with thick black swirls of power. She brushed a blood soaked rag over her arms one last time and smiled wide, the ritual complete, and admired her work. It was at the moment that she heard a quite voice in the back of her mind not her own whisper, "Well, bon ami, allons...".
*