A Collection of Fan Fiction from WoW, SWG and more!

Dream, Walk wit I. (Erzulie In’ama)

OOC Note: This is a transcription of an RP done with Mo’sul Mo’ana and Erzulie In’ama, it is reposted with permission from Mo’sul who did the painstaking transcription!)

From the previous dreamwalk…

The Shadowhunter continues to wander, keeping quite warm in the snow.
“Mueh’zala. I, the Shadowhunter Erzulie Okanu Thyrsos, call upon an audience in the head of this Darkspear.”
Ahead is the edge of a pit in the snow. It is a round hole, the seeming width of a man.
She peers down into the hole, stalking silently around it.
She crouches down into the snow, making the mark of Ezili, her namesake.

Thyrsos reaches back to touch the shard of the totem in her ear.
Thyrsos’ eyes flutter open and she smiles softly.
Mo’sul licks his tusks, and one hand rubs his forehead. He sleeps on.
Thyrsos lies down again.
The following evening.

The purple-haired Shadowhunter looks back over her shoulder and grins at Mo’sul. “‘Ey dere.”

Mo’sul purrs a greeting. He dumps a clattering of banner and lance on the ground.

Thyrsos raises an eyebrow at the banner and lance and cackles quietly. “Ju lookin’ like ju havin’ fun. Ju readeh fo’ moah dis na?”

She picks up and holds a small bowl out to him. It contains the same concoction as before.

He looks at the bowl. “A’ight den.”

“Ju might beh wantin’ ta get comfortahble first doh… iffin’ ju realleh wantin’ ta do dis again.”

Mosul nods, putting the talisman aside. He removes sections of his armour, piece by piece.

He unclasps his gauntlets; his leggings remain. “Dat a’ight?”

Thyrsos grins as she looks him over, canting her head to the side, “Ah alwahs say wheh na’ beh naked? But if ju is comfortahble, den ja, it beh fine.”

Mo’sul chuckles.

Thyrsos holds out her hand.

The Deathknight takes her hand and turns it over, licking the curve of her palm.

Thyrsos leans up and nuzzles her tusks under his chin for a moment. She takes a deep breath, steeling herself for what needs to be done.

Mo’sul murmurs. “I lie down aftah I drink dis. Jes?”


Mosul looks at the ruddy liquid for a moment, then drinks it in a swift gulp. He puts the bowl aside.

Thyrsos takes a step back onto the rug, leading Mo’sul with her.

They lie down, shifting a little for comfort.

Mo’sul licks his tusks lazily. “Tasteh..”

Mo’sul goes out like a light, his head hitting the floor with a dull thunk.

Thyrsos cackles quietly at this before closing her own eyes. She rests her head on his arm and settles her hand on his cheek once more.

The Shadowhunter mumbles a bit. She presses her forehead to his and takes in a deep breath before joining him in sleep.

There is nothing but sea for miles around. A small canoe of traditional make, bobs in the water.
A handsome blue troll with a fine mohawk sits in it, fishing, intent on the pull of the line.

Thyrsos appears, looking as she had before. Hair unbound, eyes violet rather than orange. She wanders to the canoe, “Catching anything good?”

Mo’sul turns in surprise. “Well na. Ain’ ju a pretteh sea-troll?”

She grins and walks out over the water.

“Dat’s a fanceh trick.”

“That it is. Simple ability, really.” She speaks quietly in Zandali and holds out a hand to him as she reaches the edge of the canoe.

Mos’ul grins in his sleep.

Mo’sul extends his hand, eyeing her appreciatively! “An’ where ju come from, littuh Sea troll?”

His brow wrinkles.

“Ju look.. familiah na.”

Thyrsos leads him out of the canoe to stand on the water. “Not too far from where you come from, actually. I’m Erzulie and you are Mo’sul. I am your sea troll. Or… I’d like to be.”


The sea wallows a little.

Mo’sul licks his tusks.
Mo’sul licks his tusks.

“Mmhmm. Named for Ezili. She was the Matron Loas for my mother.” She leads him out onto the water, not noticing the wallow. Just him.

Mo’sul follows, without question. He gets familiarly close, seeming more intent on chatting her up than her reasons for being there!

“Ju mus’ve had a pretteh mamma.”

She does stop wandering once they are on the water and turns to him, her hand still in his. “A priestess of Ezili? Of course she was.” She grins.

He grins.

“So na, wot ju doin’ heah, Erzuleh of de Sea?”

“Looking for you, Mo’sul Mo’ana.”

The sea pitches again, and Mo’ stumbles.

Thyrsos’ hand shifts over his cheek and her fingers wrap loosely around his tusk.

She reaches to try and steady him.
Mo’sul finds his ankles sinking into the water.
She tries to steady him again with her water walking. She’s quite calm throughout. “What’s going on?”
Mo’sul ‘s toes twitch.

“Not.. not shoa.”
Mo’sul furrows his brows quizzically up at Erzulie. He is now hip deep.
“Can you get back to the canoe?”

He nods. “Course. Ju come too, jes?”
She cackles quietly, “Like I’d ever leave your side.”
Mo’sul grins. “Loas. Ju hooked jus’ like dat?”
“It’s all your sweet talk.” She says, following him back to the canoe.

Mo’sul keeps pace easily. His sidestroke is confident, and fluid. “Race ju.” He winks.
His swimming strokes knife through the water, and he hauls himself into the boat.
She shapeshifts in the blink of an eye after grinning mischieviously to catch up with him.
“Come on, Zuleh!” His eyes widen in true recognition for a moment, and the boat tips.
Her wolfish form, making its way toward the canoe swiftly, comes to a skidding halt.
“Mo’sul!” She yells, shifting back to her Trollish form.
The canoe rights itself, empty.
The sea wallows.

Erzulie lets herself drop down into the water to seek under the surface.
The sea appears empty.

She resurfaces and hauls herself up into the canoe.

“Well hello!”

She looks around for the source of this voice!


An old troll sits in the boat next to her, calmly fishing with a piece of plaited gut.
He grins at her, some teeth missing. His face is wrinkled by many years, his hair bleached white with age. His Zandali appears slightly archaic. “That is a greeting, yes.”

She cants her head, trying to place the Old Troll. “They biting?” She seems to understand the archaic tongue easily.
“So they do!”

She cackles, “Most excellent. You haven’t happened to catch a large blue Darkspear have you? White mohawk. Named Mo’sul.”

He flips a brilliant fish into the boat. It joins a small pile of slithering captives.
The old troll says nothing, contemplatively folding the line.
She watches him, waiting for an answer. Patient.
“I seek only fish.”

Thyrsos: “Sometimes we find many things we do not seek.”

He places the cord neatly away, and turns to face her, hands woven together over his knee.
“And some seek things that are not safe to find. A wise troll fishes only for what he needs.”

She brushes a bit of hair over her ears, the gems chime together. “But we must face danger sometimes in order to find the answers we need…”

The old troll strokes his jaw. “We?”

“Trolls. People as a whole.”


“I seek to understand, I need to understand.”

The old hands pick up a pipe, and light it. “And what do you think I should know, eh?”

“Who you are for one, maybe.”

He mutters under his breath. “Got dragged in without my consent.”

“Dragged in? To Mo’sul’s mind?”

“Worse. His body.”
The troll takes a great drag on his pipe, and whistles out a stream of fine blue smoke.

Erzulie raises an eyebrow, obviously questioning. “How did you get trapped into his body?”

“By someone seeking answers. ” He gives her a steely look for a moment. His frown dissipates. “You may call I Kobyri.”
He extends a withered old hand.

She takes his hand, “You can call me Erzulie.”

“For the Loa?”

“For the Loa. She was the Matron Loa of my mother, a devout Priestess to her.”

The old troll looks pleased. “Good, good.”

“So… they trapped you into Mo’sul, Kobyri?”

He frowns, lips puckered in displeasure. A nod.

“What draw did you have to him? ”

“I personally? None. But that meddling priest who drew me in, told me the body bore the name of Mo’ana,”

“It does. He is Mo’sul Mo’ana of the Darkspear.”

“Darkspear eh?”

“Both of us, yes.”

“Hnn. In any case, I commanded him to send me back.” The skinny chest inflates with pride.
He scrutinises her. “Now tell I. How come you to be walking the spirit realm? – You are different from the priest. I sense the elements about you.”

She nods. “Shaman.”

“O’ course.” His lips purse. ” And you seek this.. Mo’sul.. here?” The name is spoken with a great deal of reluctance.

“I have tied my spirit to his for this purpose of understanding. And yes, In a way I seek him. I lay now beside him in the living realm.”

A pause. “I seek more answers to the blue light, the emptiness that I’ve seen first hand… I need to understand it.”

The shaggy eyebrows beetle in a frown.
“You stay away from that light. It is bad voudoun. Do not tempt it into this realm.”

Thyrsos nuzzles her tusks against Mo’sul’s chin in her sleep though her brow furrow.
“What is it, do you know, Kobyri?”

The ancient brows shoot up in surprise. “What would this old soul know about such things?”

“You live inside of Mo’sul. Surely you must know something.”

Kobyri hisses.

“I do not seek to offend you.”


The old troll folds his arms tightly over his chest, hunched in the bow of the boat like an angry little owl, huffing, brooding.
The sea wallows, and the canoe pitches.
His eyes widen in alarm.

She stops herself and looks over him questioningly. Quickly, she grabs onto the sides of the canoe.

Mo’sul ‘s eyes open slightly – slivers of cold blue light in the darkening room.

The old troll utters uncertainly. “This is the spirit realm…is it not?”

“Or his mind, I’m not entirely certain sometimes…”

Kobyri knots his hands in agitation. He gathers up his fishing cord. A beautifully carved bone hook dangles from the end. The fish in the bottom of the boat shimmer and disappear into tiny mayflies.
“Help I.”

She blinks and looks around at the Mayflies, “How? I don’t know exactly what’s happening.”

“You be the spirit walker. You can send I back again.”
He shakes his head in agitation. “We be in him head, Girleh! This is not I place.”

She speaks clearly in Zandali, a prayer to return Kobyri to the spirit realm. Who was she to deny the spirits their return.

Mo’sul ‘s eyes open a little wider. The glow is strong.

The sea pitches, and the horizon becomes darker.
Seized with feverish thought, the old troll unfurls his fishing line.
“Pray to him, Erzulie. You pray to Him, the Father of the Waters.”

She continues her prayer, globes of sea water rising up to circle around her as she calls to Agwe.

Kobyri mutters. “Sacrifice. Sacrifice.”
The old troll looks at Erzulie in desparation.
He gashes the hook over the palm of his wrinkled hand.

A line opens on Mo’sul’s palm. He rumbles, body shaking.

Kobyri casts the line into the water.

She pulls a conch shell from her hair and throws it into the sea, her voice rising up, competeing with the wind, almost a song now as she prays.

A bead falls from Erzulie’s hair, seemingly of its own accord.

“Agwe, Great One of the Oceans, return this spirit to where he belongs.”

A large smooth back broaches the water in the distance. A whale? The line goes taut.

Mo’sul ‘s wound seals over. He growls, long and low.

“Come with I, Erzulie. You be safer in the realm of spirit. Better wit’ us, than He.”

A storm is rising. Kobyri is holding to the line, the little boat heaving under the pull. It is clear he can not keep this up for long.

She shakes her head, “No, my answers do not lie there. Loas guide you Kobyri, may we meet again in the spirit world.”

Kobyri nods once, and jumps, pulled swiftly under by the taut cord.

Mo’sul ‘s eyes are wide open now. His body is stiff.

The storm is almost upon the boat. A small patch of water begins to swirl near the little canoe.
As it spins, gaining momentum, a depth grows at its center.

Thyrsos climbs out of the boat to walk over the angry waves, figuring she was safer there. The globes of water still spinning about her. She studies the growing whirlpool, keeping a safe distance from it.

Flecks of foam eddy towards the boat, forming a word, fading, then reforming.
She peers at the surface, trying to read the word.
The whirlpool forms a darkness at its center, going deep.
She smiles a bit.

Lightning strikes the water, a sheet of blinding brilliance.
“I am here. I am Erzulie.” She states this, plainly, standing at the edge of the whirlpool. Her body crackles with the lightning, crazed tendrils flaring outward from an invisible barrier, controlling it to keep it from harming her.

Mo’sul ‘s jaw clenches in a rictus, eyes glowing white hot. His hand tighens on her body.

The sea rockets up in a swell, lifting the Shadowhunter high, then dropping low again. Another wave threatens. The whirlpool gathers speed, foam forming and reforming one word – ‘Ezili’ in Zandali.

Thyrsos whimpers at the strength of the grip and her hand moves back over his cheek.

Thunder roars overhead, and lightning strikes the tiny canoe. It shatters, shards flying over her head.
“I am she. The Shadowhunter. Are you Mueh’zala?” She casts out her hands, bringing the rage of the storm to center around her as if drawing power from it.

Ratbag – the kitten – wakens from a drowsy state.
Thyrsos’ body crackles with eletrical energy.
Mo’sul ‘s mouth struggles to form a word.

Thunder booms with the growl of some unimaginable beast. Sea and sky are violent, roiling.Blue light flares and reflects amid the clouds, the same light phosphoring deep in the waves. The whirlpool catches at her feet. It seems oddly silent for such a mass of water.

The kitten scrabbles, tangled up in the discarded Argent tabard.

She stands above the whirlpool now, head raised. “What are you? I seek to know! It is why I am here!” She stands stoic, steeled and unfaltering.

Mo’sul ‘s body spasms violent, knocking the Shadowhunter clear across the room.

She loses her control at the momentary lapse of her physical body being thrown and drops into the centre of the whirlpool. The world about her spins dizzyingly as she falls.

The kitten frees herself from the annoying cloth, and springs at the Deathknight’s shoulder. Little claws lock for purchase.

Thyrsos does not wake as her body crashes into the altar.

Mo’sul ‘s kitten purrs fiercely, bunting her small head against his own, stalking about on the giant troll’s tremoring shoulder.

His eyes slowly slide shut. The kitten leaps lightly down, stepping warily back to the rumpled tabard.
The troll is watched through feline eyes, an opalescent shimmer bright in their depths. Her paws knead the material. He no longer stirs.

The kitten coils around herself and returns to her doze.

Sea and storm lurch and roll, fading away in the sensation of rising dark.
Erzulie continues to fall.

The darkness seems absolute, save for a faint, ever so faint patch that seems subtle and shifting.
She looks for ways to stop the falling, “What are you?” She says, her voice nearly a growl.
Her voice is near swallowed by the weight of the nothingness.
The elusive shift of light becomes steadier. It seems at first like the tiny figure of a naked troll, flailing.

The Death Knight shifts fitfully.

“Why do you not allow him to feel?” She almost yells, angry now at the lack of response.
The little figure shifts, fading, reforming.
She snaps her head to look at the naked troll, trying to understand the image.
The pale fan of his hair becomes a dull glint of light from an unknown source. It curves around a small squat figure. The stone fetish appears to be keeping pace with the Shadowhunter, even as it remains quite still.
She stares, still trying to place the figure and try to seek stability in the nothingness.

The carved eyes are empty, yet there is a sense of great weight to the squat round shape.
The sensation of falling has become immaterial.
“Mueh’zala! I plead to you! Samedi has sent me to understand in which to weigh this Troll for myself! So that I can turn away from or accept the guilt for my love of him. Your servant!”
Erzulie is glad to not be falling anymore.
The empty eyes look beyond her, at her, through her.
“I believe that Legba has put him before him as a test so that I may guide others. What better test could be given to a Shadowhunter? A woman whose heart has been taken by the dead? Tell me Mueh’zala! How do I understand when the void is nothing? How does he come back from that? How does he fill it?”

As before, the empty eyes look beyond her, at her, through her. There is no sound. The stone figure is barely visible in the darkness, save for the dull gleam of faintest light. It could be an enormous figure very far away, or the size of a head, a mere bodylength’s distance. It seems to be floating at chest height, if such space is even measurable here.

“I denied him before when I should’ve accepted. I was a child then. And then it was seen fit to put our paths together again. As a woman I accept but I need to understand this void. I need to understand the blue light” She’s yelling now, trying to heard above the void.

“I need to know if he can be rid of.. …it!”

The squat figure looks… through her, at her, beyond her.

Thyrsos begins to cry in her dream like state.
“I accept him for everything he is now, but I need you to show me, Mueh’zala. Please. Show me what I can heal, what I can understand!”

Mosul ‘s hand twitches.

A finger touches the back of her neck, feather soft.
She reaches back to grab at the finger as she spins to face it.
There is nothing.

“Please!” She cries out into the darkness. “As a devout child of the Loas, I beg of you, Mueh’zala.”
The hair prickles on the back of her neck, the air behind her feels different. Close.
She shivers and turns to stare at the stone fetish.
She comes face to face with Mo’sul, dead and still. He stands before her, unmoving, silent like the Loa he serves. His eyelids are closed.

She moves closer, willing herself to make a stand.

Bringing her hands up to either side of his cheeks, she leans up to kiss the unmoving lips. They are as cold as stone.
“I have no fear. Only love for you, Mo’sul Mo’ana. Despite what you are physically..”

Mosul ‘s mouth moves.
“…despite the void. I have made my choice.”
The ghost of a voice whispers through the darkness. “Errr…zuuuu….lehhhh…”

The statue-like form crumbles into dust.


Thyrsos reaches back, touching the totemic wedge in her ear and her eyes open.
In the doorway of the hut stands an aging Troll, supporting himself on his staff.

Thyrsos’ ghostly vines entwine Erzulie’s form, healing the damage done to her by the tossing, and she stares at the figure in the doorway.

“Legba.” She whispers. The aging Troll nods. Once.

Mo’sul shifts his head from side to side, fitfully, brow furrowed in pain. He settles, remaining asleep.
Thyrsos kneels before the aged Troll and bows her head in great reverence.

A voice sounds. “You have chosen?”

“Yes. I have accepted Mo’sul for all the he is. Including the void that I have failed to understand. The paths chosen are not always the easiest. And this one will be hard. But there is no other path I would rather take.”

She steels herself with another breath.

“I cannot heal every wound, nor every mind. Not every battle is my own. And while I might not always agree with the outcomes, I know that I can only guide.”

The Loa listens, expression neutral. He looks her in the eye, as he nods once more.

Words sound again, dry, ancient, warm. “So be it. May your feet guide your heart, your heart guide your head, and your head guide your hand… Daughter.”

Thyrsos bows again in deep reverence, “Thank you, Father. May I serve you well.”

Legba raises his hand. “The sprirts – and I – watch over you.”
The wizened figure turns, and walks away from the door, fading into the light of the morning.

Thyrsos scrambles over Mo’sul’s sleeping form as if she were an excited child. She lays down beside him, grinning, looking at the sleeping face. “Mo’sul?”

Mosul rubs his head, licks his tusks, and drops his hand over her side.
“Ca’fish…. S’big….”
Mosul snores.
Thyrsos caresses his cheek quite gently.
She cackles quietly. “De’re huge!” She exclaims.
“’S! Mrmmm…”
Thyrsos kisses over his forehead and whispers, “Ah love ju, Mo’sul.”


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