[цикл конца] Tsikl Kontsa
Ruska Roma [Russian Gypsy]
Romani [Made up of German, Russian, Polish, Ukrainian] and English
Nature of magic
Ritual Magic – Though her family line has touched Arcane purity and many of her people fear the effects.
There is no breath in which you can speak of a Roma Ruska without first speaking of their family. To say that Varvara is her own person would be an intolerable lie, for her destiny was partially aligned long before her conception; once in the womb her mother began molding the soul inside of her, preparing it for the life that it would inevitably lead. From the moment of her birth Varvara was allowed to become a participant in the interweaving of her paths; she has been watching, listening and absorbing all that was her people.
She grew up surrounded by family. Cousins, Brothers, Aunts, Uncles, Sisters and beyond…it was all a hazy gray and no one seemed concerned with titles. They were the sort that introduced everyone as cousins, simply to alleviate the confusion of over explaining a rather simple concept.
If asked they would all tell you they believed in a good Orthodox Christian God, and they did. The majority of her people were good Christians. They treated others well and generally got along with whichever townspeople they were currently cohabitating with. They had a reputation for being honest workers and pleasant drinkers; though, just like their religion, some things were just gray areas. They stole an occasional chicken and prayed that its death would be appreciated enough to be forgiven. They followed commandments about as loyally as they followed the folklore and multitude of superstitions, which allowed that occasionally they may step out for good reason, as long as they make amends. When probed about their beliefs more fully her mother simply gave her the response, “The Gypsy way is a way that springs from the heart, and the deepest, most primitive instincts of man. It respects nature and man's place in nature. It teaches us to take joy in the moment.”
The men in her family were born strong and seemed to flower in the labors of the earth; often raising livestock that traveled with them, picking up jobs here and there when the seasons were right. But the men were not fascinating, it was the women of her family that communed with the spirits and the elements, each mother passing down their gift to their first born daughter. So it was that Varvara had drained her mother of her powers and now waited patiently while the knowledge that would lead her down the correct path was given willingly from her mother’s stories into herself. Nothing is ever written down in the Roma community and so her mother recounts tales, rituals, herbal remedies and prayers; some of which hint at a darkness her people have attempted to forget.
Varvara had taken quickly to the cards, finding truth and peace in their knowledge. She occasionally dealt for others and would tweak their truths into something accommodating. Her mother had taught her at a young age that people rarely sought truth, what they needed was faith and comfort; so more often than not, that it was Varavara offered. She herself found that they offered not solid facts anyways, they reminded her of the bible. They were interpretive and many people would bend and twist them to their own means. Her skill lay in the fact that she didn’t see right or wrong in the cards, she saw paths and choices. She saw a future and a past that changed like the rivers and human nature. She would become engrossed and after her first dream with the man she spent days, restless and swaying between a drunken and lucid trance, dealing the cards, over and over.
It was long ago that her family began to become tainted with power, a greed entered their souls and they longed for more than the magic that already set them apart. The tainted traveled and found a purity, the Arcane Purity, and they touched it. While the story of her families past is often used as cautionary tale, every young child sat around a fire listening to nightmare stories about a magic that could not be wielded, only consumed. Though it was not the magic that became eaten, it was the soul of the person, devoured by a strength that blinded and patronized it’s possessor until insanity was sure to follow. Only after Varavara began to tell them of the restless nights, of the man, of the monster and of the darkness; it was only then that her mother recounted their own monster, those that found the pinnacle and fell from its heights; but no longer was it the story from the fires, it was intricate, tantalizing. Her mother, while still cautionary, spoke of the purity that ran in Varvara’s blood, even still. The depths that they all “knew” but swore not to learn.
So on the brink of her excursion her mother expels knowledge continuously. With the first light of morning she is given lists of herbs and elements and combinations; while they gather the sheep in what should be a lazy sunny day she is engrossed in the rituals of asking/taking/thanking; all day it continues until night when her mother curls up next to her daughter’s side. She brushes Varvara’s hair with her fingers like she did when she was wounded as a child. She will miss her daughter, she hopes to see her again, and this selfish need to possess Varvara again is what leads the stories that begin in bed. She tells Varvara of the deeper magic, the darkness that lines it, and she offers insight into “The Rite of Graves” showing her how to commune with the dead; She teaches her about the spectres of snares and how to win them over with offerings of your goodness…and Varvara listens, and absorbs, and plans for a future…no matter how brief it may be.