Introduction: On July 1, Cruz captured a cat she'd found laying in front of the sex shop on Bourbon. The following read is what resulted of that capture. These write-ups might turn into a relatively regular bit since they are isolated from on-sim play, and they offer a peek into Cruz's private life. Just remember it's all for fun, and I certainly don't share any of the character's interests!
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Cruz stood clad in white before the flames, the drums of her ancestors beating furiously inside her head, their old song singing through her. Night had fallen, and the air had grown thick with haze. But her mind was clear. It was time.

The Creole placed a single guinea pepper into her mouth and lowered her head as she began to chew. It felt, to her, as though only half of a second had managed to pass before the spice took over, firing up all parts of her mouth -- cheeks, tongue, gums and throat. She began breathing heavily through her nose, jaw clenching hard as tears rolled down her face. But she never cried out. She wouldn't -- couldn't -- stop now. It was painful. Excruciatingly. The loa, her god, they had to be shown how devoted she was; she believed that once she displayed how willing she was to suffer for them, she would have their attention.

She bent down in front of the wooden crate and unlocked it, opening its threshold for the captive's release. She reached inside and gently clutched the fully grown chicken that lay within. Earlier in the evening, she had mixed chamomile into the creature's feed, allowing it to be calmed enough for this event. With the animal under one arm and a butcher's knife contained within her right hand, she spoke out to the sky: "Papa Legba, open the gate for me. Papa Legba, I pray to thee. Papa Legba, I offer sacrifice so that I may see."

The words had been spoken loudly and clearly. In a single, fluid swipe, the blade was brought across the chicken's throat, killing it almost instantly. The creature's blood splashed along the fire, dripping over Cruz's white dress. She allowed it to. The animal would later be cooked and eaten.

Cruz's hands snaked toward the mason jar containing the feline's eyeballs, extracted and preserved for this occasion. Carefully, she unscrewed the top, placing the lid to the side. With even more care, she tipped the jar and let the eyeballs drop into the palm of her hand, staring at the pair for a moment, stilling her breath. She held her head high -- and dropped the eyes into her mouth. The small spheres rolled over her tongue, and she bit down, chewing until the pair had been reduced to slime. She consumed the eyes in full. Half-hearted commitment was no commitment. There was no in-between. Her exterior remained that of resolution and seriousness, altering so little as the matter slipped down her throat that only she could have been aware of it. It tasted as foul as one could imagine, but she knew the sight that such a deed would bestow upon her and the things that would be made clear.

She took a needle from her head wrap and turned over her left palm, spreading all five digits, angling the middle one slightly above its brethren. The needle had been sanitized earlier, and now, she used it to prick the bed of her aforementioned finger. The tip of the needle pressed into her flesh, penetrating it just enough to let loose a tiny, crimson tide. Her jaw clenched as the pain rushed in, eyebrows knitting together, but she neither cried out nor allowed so much as a whimper to escape her. The hand was made to hover over the fire, and she let three drops fall into the flames, three drops to represent Bondye, the loa and the practitioner.

The fire burned more brightly, reaching up toward the heavens in an instant, and this assured the Creole that her prayer had been heard. But would it be answered? She had to believe. It was the only way.

She would sleep for a full day.