Anamnesis - Justice

[IsabellaRose]

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Instructions: Draw one card from the Major Arcana deck. This card is your Shadow and represents who you were in your past. Keep your Shadow face-up next to you. Use this card as a guide for uncovering your past.

Justice

The Justice tarot card is a symbol of truth, fairness, and law.

Also, since I had no idea what kind of world I wanted to play in, I used Mythic to generate 2 civilization descriptions: Fearful, and Religious. and then went to the genre wheel to pick a genre where I ended up with... Western. 

So... a western setting in a town that's fearful and religious, and in the past I was represented by Justice, truth, fairness, and law. Sounds a bit too much like real life to me lol

Let's see what I can do with that.

[IsabellaRose]

Act 1: Pentacles

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You wake up in an unfamiliar place, seemingly within a town or city. You cannot remember who you are or why you are here. All you know for certain is that you are not in your home.

First Pentacle: Ace.
Prompt: You take a moment to familiarize yourself with your surroundings. Where are you?
Major Arcana for Interpretation: The High Priestess

 

My eyes blink open to blinding sunlight. The world smells of dust and candle wax. I am on the threshold of a narrow chapel, its door yawning open like a mouth that wants to swallow me whole. The walls are sunbaked adobe, their whitewash peeling to reveal the darker clay beneath, as though even the building hides its true face. Inside, rows of rough pews face a carved altar draped in heavy fabric. Behind it, a painted woman stares down at me from a high niche, a veil over her hair, eyes solemn, one hand raised as if in blessing, the other holding a small set of scales. A saint, perhaps? Or maybe an idol... I can’t decide which.

It’s quiet here, but not peaceful. The air feels thick with things unspoken, the way two people can sit side-by-side and never say the truth they both know. I push myself to my feet and walk slowly into the chapel. A book rests open on the altar, its pages covered in tiny, looping script I don’t recognize, but I'm certain it means something important.

I have the feeling that I shouldn’t be here. 

[IsabellaRose]

Second Pentacle: 2 of Pentacles
Prompt: You look down at the clothes on your body. What are you wearing? How do you feel about the way you look?
Major Arcana for Interpretation: The Lovers

I lower my gaze from the saint’s painted eyes and see my own clothing as if for the first time. A long, dust-streaked coat of faded dove-grey hangs from my shoulders, buttoned only at the middle, as though meant to guard me. Beneath it I wear a long dress. The hem is ripped high on one side, baring far too much of my legs for comfort, the fabric frayed and clinging in uneven folds. A tear runs up along the side seam, a silent accusation of some struggle I can’t recall. The dress itself is prim in design, the bodice buttoned to the throat, its collar delicately embroidered, the stitches fine and careful. The strangest thing about the collar is that the embroidery feels almost intimate, like a gift made by careful hands. Two tiny red threads run side-by-side through the collar’s edge, meeting and parting again in a quiet, deliberate pattern, the work of someone with patience and intent.

It feels wrong, this clash between the prim restraint of the collar and the scandal of the tattered skirt. As if I’m caught halfway between propriety and exposure, neither one entirely mine. The coat shields me from the eyes of others, but I can’t help the feeling that it’s too late, whatever was meant to be hidden has already been seen. I can’t remember when I last looked at myself and thought this belongs to me. These clothes feel like pieces borrowed from two lives, one cherished, one... not. I feel as if I’m standing on the edge of something but I can't see the shape of it.

Despite wondering what happened to shred my dress, whose coat this is, there’s a lingering weight in my chest that has nothing to do with what happened and everything to do with who I was. It isn’t sadness, exactly. It’s the ache of knowing someone once saw me clearly, dressed me for the world they thought I should face, and I can’t remember their face.

I feel the scales tipping between the person I was and the stranger I am now, between what was meant to be and what has been taken from me.

[IsabellaRose]

Third Pentacle: 10 of Pentacles
Prompt: When you focus, you can grasp the edges of a hazy memory from just before you fell unconscious. What do you remember?
Major Arcana for interpretation: The Devil

 

A memory comes to me then. It comes in pieces, sharp and uneven, like shards of glass catching the light, flashes of images, sounds, feelings.

I see a sky the color of charred embers, heat pressing down like a living thing. The wind reeks of smoke and something sweeter, something cloying... rotten. My dress clings to me, the collar tight at my throat, as though it were holding me still. 

There are voices, low and urgent, weaving together in a language that sounds familiar but that I can't quite place and somewhere in the sound... laughter, not joyful, but knowing. A circle of lanterns burn low, their light throwing long shadows that twitch like they have lives of their own. I feel the press of eyes on me, dozens or more, and none of them blink.

...and then the figure. It is tall, draped in black, but the black isn’t fabric, it's absence, a cutout in the world where light cannot exist. In one hand, they hold a chain, the links glinting dull red. My eyes follow the chain, and at the end of it is… me. My own wrist bound in iron, though I don’t recall the moment it closed around me.

They step closer, the space between us collapsing until their presence fills every breath I take. I feel fear grip me, and I know the unthinkable is about to happen, but for some reason I do not resist. A gloved hand rises, fingers graze the edge of my collar, a mockery of tenderness, before sliding lower, gripping the front of my dress. A sharp pull, and the fabric tears with a sound that still echoes somewhere deep inside me. Cold air rushes over my exposed skin, the humiliation cutting sharper than the night air.

The chain goes slack, but I don't fall. I can't move. The figure’s voice, smooth as oil, curls around me in words I can’t remember, but their weight sinks deep as I sink to my knees, a promise or a threat — perhaps both. I look up at that figure leering down over me and I know... something. But now I can't remember what I knew. 

And then there is nothing. The memory is gone, and I am still in the chapel, torn dress, long coat, more questions than answers. I look at my wrist but there is no iron bad there, no fragment of chain, but there are marks. I was bound by that chain. That was real. 

[IsabellaRose]

Pause for reflection.

I do this often with solo journaling games. I never know where my mind is going to go when I start one of these or where I'll end up.

This one doesn't seem quite as personal, but... there's something interesting. A question of religion, perhaps an implication of "the devil", the knowledge that she's been exposed to others and feels shame about it, a possibility that she may have been abused or raped. It's not set it stone, but it sure feels like she was taken advantage of in one way or another. But was it physical, emotional, spiritual? Did she succumb willingly? 

And why does my mind always go to dark corners of story telling? 

I'm most curious about who embroidered that dress, and who the figure is that's wearing black that isn't fabric. Although, the details of that little chapel are interesting. Also, what is that language that she can't quite place, and who was watching her before this figure appeared?