Atabei

Raven hair

• {This site,, the history, and the description, are a total WIP. Sometimes I find it hard to create these bios, but I am a decent writer as long as I'm given the chance. I will write more as I have time }
• • Name: Atabei
  • Gender: Female
  • Species: Human
  • Abilities: Necromancer and Haitian Voodoo Witch
  • Age Apparant: 28
  • Age: 143
  • Height: 5'6"
  • Weight: 155 lbs
  • Body Type: Curvy
  • Hair: Black
  • Eyes: White
  • Distinguishing Marks: Tattoos across her hands, Blind, A scar across her neck
  • Orientation: Unknown. So far, uninterested in finding out.
  • Status: Single. There's cobwebs. It's not pretty.

• I

  Thick, black, hair, is plaited into a myriad of braids that travel away from her face, then stop so that loose waves of hair can fall down the expanse of her back. A square jaw and strong chin mold with high cheekbones, though her features are soft and rounded. Straight, full, lips are straight without any natural curvature of either smile or frown.
  
  The eyes, though, stand out stark white against her mocha colored flesh. Black lashes surround them, a severe opposition to the milky surface.
  
  She is not tall, not short, but she carries her weight in her chest, rear, and thighs. It is the very definition of an hourglass figure, though she tries to hide it beneath robes and dress.
  
  The tops of her hands, and part of her lower arms, are decorated in henna like tattoos, though they are permanent. The ink is just a few shades darker than her own skin and are normally only visible to those that are paying attention. She always carries a long wooden staff. There is no real decoration to it, though there are markings made into the surface. Words. Pictures. More often than not, there is also a dark brown feathered spectacle owl perched atop the staff. His white feathered brows give way to wise yellow eyes.

• II

  He tried to kill me.
  
  Of course, try is the operative word here. I am nothing if not a survivor.
  
  In my village, he was one of the wealthiest from one of the wealthiest family. He said he fell in love with me at first sight, though I would imagine that it was not love but the desire to obtain that which he saw as the most beautiful. I was,then. Young and soft and pretty. I should have been flattered, but I could sense something in him. Something that, even from the first day, scared me.
  
  But I was a woman. What did my opinion matter?
  
  When he brought to my father the largest dowry that anyone had ever heard of, what did my opinion matter?
  
  When we wed and he was so very harsh, and demanding, and painful that he left me bleeding for days. What did my opinion matter?
  
  Not a day went by that he didn't find some reason to hurt me. It was very rarely those places where people could see. And it wasn't always physical, but he took pleasure out of making me fear him. Loathe him. Forcing himself on me when I wept. To the outside world, though, he was a perfect man with money and status. Oh, the poor thing was now stuck with a wife that seemed so sad all of the time. What did she have to be sad about? Look at her handsome husband in their large house with servants!
  
  Nobody would ever have believed what went on behind closed doors.
  
  One day, I walked in on him screwing one of the maids. He never stopped, even seeing me. He just smiled and picked up pace. I knew he had been doing so for years before, with all of the women in our home. But, I turned a blind eye. It kept him off of me, after all. After me finding them, though, he made it a game to see what he could do to make me catch him. To make me watch as he defiled our marriage.
  
  The thing was, I grew numb to it all. I didn't care anymore. And that infuriated him.
  
  One night, I walked out of the room, as I had done so many times before, praying that it would be enough that he would not bother me that night. Instead, something in him snapped. He came at me fiercely, beating me as he had never done before. I tried to fend him off, but he was larger and stronger. Maybe part of me wanted to die. It would be easier than living this life.
  
  That was, until I felt the blade across my neck. Until I felt the blood gushing from my wound and on to the floor. It is in that moment that I wanted to survive, though fate had other plans for me. As life drained from me, I prayed. Not just to God, but to any that would hear. I wanted to live. I wanted him to die.
  
  Then there was only darkness.
  
  It was a few days later that I woke up. The water of the river had washed me up on the rocks, and I sat coughing it out of my lungs as I felt my way on to land completely. I could hear them...voices in my head, telling me of my fate. Of what they could do for me. Of what I could do for them.
  
  They became my eyes.
  
  My heart.
  
  My blood.
  
  I knew that he would never hurt anyone again. Even with my blinded eyes, I could see what would become of him. I had lived in both worlds, now, and the spirits spoke to me. And I would be their vessel.