House Macabre (Attn: Joe)

[Madam Macabre]

A lingering chill crawled into Morgana’s bones as she pulled the window shut, muffling the screaming wind that raged outside her shop. Memories of her Aunty Shrill returned, a banshee who wailed mercilessly into the pitch of night. Squished between two buildings was House Macabre looking quite peculiar and mismatched in the urban setting, akin to the owner herself. The interior was ornamented with heavy rugs in rich blues and burnt burgundies, and furnished in the dark chocolate textures of ebony wood. Astronomical charts and other wall hangings featuring symbols of the magical arts sparsely dotted the walls, while candles of all sizes, some distorted with tears of wax, filled sconces, casting a bewitching light throughout the dwelling’s three rooms. At the back of the main area, a bookcase groaned under the weight of spell volumes, but the space never felt cramped. In the center of it all was a sleek table standing on iron legs wrought in elaborately curved patterns; a silk cloth, black as night and embroidered with silver star bursts was draped overtop. On one side of the table was a tall backed chair, elaborately carved and thickly padded with cushioning in red wine velvet; a smaller chair that was less visually striking, but no less comfortable, sat on the opposite side. The eye stealing attraction however was the giant crystal ball stationed in the middle of the table, in the opened branches of a brass stand shaped as a tree.

Here the sorceress Morgana McCawber played the psychic.

Madam Macabre, she was called, a pseudonym chosen to mask her true identity. The sorceress had attracted the attention of heroes and villains alike since she established herself in St. Canard, but as the population of villains rose across Calisota, Morgana felt it would be safer to keep a low profile. Unable to truly see the future she had to cleverly find ways to interpret false readings, resorting to magic and careful questioning. Given the location of her business, this new profession brought the vile scum of St. Canard to her doorstep anyway and as a reformed criminal now affiliated with good, she used this dual identity to act as an informant for Darkwing Duck and his Dream League companions.

Morgana sat in the high backed chair at her table pouring over one of her magic tomes. Looking up into the crystal ball she wiggled her fingers and chanted,

”Hocus pocus
And ugly locusts
Bring Darkwing Duck into focus!”

Purple-blue haze like the kind Darkwing emerged from filled the sphere, but when it cleared a grasshopper was found trapped inside the orb instead. She squeaked in horror and quickly freed the insect with a zap of magic.

Her bat familiars Eek and Squeak hovered around her after she breathed a frustrated sigh and she caught Archie the spider in an affectionate squeeze before he scuttled away. As powerful as she could be, Morgana’s spells were clumsy from time to time.

“It looks like it’s going to be a quiet night,” she told her animal companions, gazing through the crackling neon orange sign that blinked ”Open” in her window.

[Sunshine]

The night wouldn't have been as quiet as previously thought. The handle of the door jiggled and opened. As the door opened, a very strong gust of wind nearly pushed the young woman inside. Her long, flowing wave of golden curls billowed indoors, courtesy of the strong gust behind her. She blushed in embarrassment as she felt her hair dance wildly in the air. She pushed the door until it clicked shut. Her hair splashed down, with many curls still overlapping the lady's shoulder. She smiled timidly at the fowl seated before a crystal ball. "I'm sorry," she said in her meek voice. "It's very blustery outside!"

The young woman was very pretty--beautiful, even, if one appreciated thick, black-rimmed glasses. Behind the glasses was a pair of violet eyes, so kind and gentle. Her lips were red, and her face was slender. She was dressed in a cute, tight-fitting white coat with four large buttons fasted on the front. Below that she had an equally tight pair of denim jeans, nicely blue without a spot of faded color. Her shoes, contrasting with her otherwise nice clothes, were ordinary and flat, with black surfaces and a white strip on the bottom, as well as white laces, snugly fastened. On the top of her golden head, a black ribbon was tied from the bottom of her hair.

Still feeling awkward by the manner of entrance, the pretty teenager (she wasn't older than 17) rubbed her long, slender neck and she cleared her throat. "I... um..." She didn't know why she entered this establishment. The exteriors looked different and interesting enough, sure, but she didn't know exactly what made her enter. She decided that simple curiosity enticed her to browse, so she made an effort to be sociable.

"I haven't seen anything like this in St. Canard before," she complimented as she looked around from where she stood, having yet to take a step closer to the fowl. She looked to the proprietor with a smile.

[Madam Macabre]

Strands of Morgana’s onyx tresses stirred from the neatly arranged beehive atop her head, the tapered sleeves on her garnet gown flapping wildly as swirling winds ushered in an evening visitor. Instinctively she’d thrown up an arm to block the force of the gale, her bats bowling over in midair, and for a moment the room flickered eerily in light and shadow as the gust whipped through; candle-flame rippled and the lives of several were snuffed out, the ghosts of fire lingering in curls of smoke that drifted slowly towards the ceiling. Looking back, Morgana’s turquoise eyes drank in the pale beauty, whose mussed up appearance did little to detract from it, and slowly the duck smiled.

“There’s no need to apologize,” she assured her guest. “Unless you can control the weather.” The last fragment was spoken in a jesting manner and Morgana slid from her chair in a fluid movement. Gingerly she pat her hair, fixing the stray strands into place and tightened her flimsy spider web shawl around her naked shoulders.

“Yes,” she admitted proudly, the way a mother might subtly boast of child’s accomplishments, “I’m rather fond of the décor.” She moved towards the adolescent, looking more like she was gliding than walking, her hands clasped gently in front of her.

“My name is Madam Macabre. I’m a fortune teller and you uh – you do seem a far way from home.”

The guess was ventured on the girl’s appearance alone. Pure, simple, delicate, fashionable, yes she seemed to come from a much ritzier area of St. Canard. Morgana's door was open to all clients as a psychic, although the occupation was merely a front to collect information on the felonious workings of the criminal underworld; this information was then relayed to Darkwing Duck or the Dream League.

By now Eek and Squeak had untangled themselves from the bookshelf they landed on and fluttered dizzily back to Morgana’s side.