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?

[IsabellaRose]

As I was re-reading my posts, I felt like the whole Pentacles act needed a wrap up, a summary. Something for me to come back to later.

 

Act One - Closing Reflection, in character

I awoke in the dust and silence of a chapel that felt more like a watchful witness than a sanctuary. The saint above the altar looked down with eyes that seemed to see past my confusion, past my empty mind, into whatever truth I have yet to remember.

The coat on my shoulders is not mine, perhaps it is borrowed, perhaps stolen, perhaps taken from someone who hurt me. Still, it hides the shame of a dress torn and weathered, its prim, buttoned collar at odds with the raw exposure beneath. Someone once made those careful stitches at my throat, but whether as a kindness or a claim, I cannot yet say.

And in the dark behind my mind, there lingers the figure in black: the chain, the tearing fabric, the weight of their words. The memory is incomplete, but the feeling is whole, the kind of truth you carry in your bones when your head cannot recall it.

But now, in the stillness of this chapel, I feel the faint tilt of unseen scales, the slow, inevitable swing toward balance. I do not remember names, not even my own, but I do know this — what happened to me will be measured, and it will be answered. Justice will be done.

 

(and damn, that last line feels like such a badass wild west woman thing to say! I don't know who this character is yet, but I'm starting to like her)

[IsabellaRose]

Act 2: Swords

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After getting your bearings, you walk around town. You know this town. You know it well, but you cannot remember it.

First Sword: 6 of Pentacles
Prompt: People are looking at you and whispering. What are they saying?
Major Arcana for interpretation: The World

 

The town isn't empty... far from it. People walk and lounge on the wooden boardwalks, no one is in the rutted, dusty street. As I step onto the boardwalk, they part for me without speaking, but not without sound.

“Saint’s scales, it’s really her.”

The hush moves in waves, there is a name in there that I can’t quite catch, a tone I almost recognize.

“The balance will be restored now.”

Their voices tangle in the air like windblown threads, slipping through my grasp before I can knot them into meaning.

"She escaped the chains, but the Devil still owns her.”

The way their eyes follow me makes me feel like I carry something vast and distant inside me, something too big for a body in a torn dress and a borrowed coat.

“Pray she’s not here for you.”

Some look at me with awe, others with the weary suspicion given to strangers or omens, even though I know they all know me.

"They said she was dead."

I see hands twitch toward holy symbols, some crosses, some the sign of the saint with scales, lips moving in silent prayers or curses.

“She’s here for the guilty.”

A woman pulls her child closer.

"The saint turned her away."

A man spits in the dust after I pass.

“Don’t meet her eyes..."

From one shadowed doorway, two men speak low enough that I can't hear, but I know they say something like the rest.

They do not agree on what I am, savior or trouble, blessing or sentence. But they are all certain of one thing: I am not just another passerby.

I do not confront them. They are not responsible for what happened to me, except through the inaction of their own fear or apathy. So I walk on, the borrowed coat around me, the faint tilt of unseen scales in my chest, wondering whether the weight they see is something I’m meant to carry or to set down... if it will set me free, or pull me down.

[IsabellaRose]

Second Sword: 4 of Pentacles
Prompt: An abandoned building stirs up memories. What used to be here? Why did it matter?
Major Arcana for interpretation: Death

 

The building slumps against the earth like it’s trying to sink into its own grave. The door is missing, the windows yawning open, their frames bare of glass. Weeds push up through the boards of the porch, brittle stems rattling in the wind.

Suddenly, I’m not standing outside the ruin, I’m back within its walls, whole again, my dress unmarked. The air is close, warm with too many bodies, the scent of sweat, oil lamps, and dust kicked from the floorboards. The benches are packed. Every eye is turned toward the front, toward the figure who speaks from behind the table. But I am not watching him, I am watching the accused, standing in the center of the room, hands bound before them. I can hear their breath, see the tremor in their jaw, the stubborn lift of their chin. 

This place was not just where sentences were given. It was where the town came to see the scales tip. It was theater, brutal, final theater, and I was a part of the performance. I remember the weight of it then. Not the heat, not the murmurs from the benches, but the unspoken understanding between me and the one who spoke the sentence: that I would see it through. I knew my role. It was more than being a hand of the church or the law. I was the last face they saw before the end. It was my task to make them understand, in those final moments, why the end had come for them. 

What I felt was not cruelty. Not pride, either. It was certainty. That there was a line between what could be forgiven and what could not, and I had to be the one to hold it steady. And yet… in the silent space after the sentence, before the hall emptied, there was always a flicker. A thought I never dared to voice: What if the scales had tipped the other way?

That flicker returns now, stronger, standing before the ruin. Whatever justice lived here is gone, but the questions it left behind have teeth, and they coil tighter, looping back on themselves until they circle me like a noose. What price had I paid to end up in the Devil’s chain? Was it coin? Betrayal? Blood? I search the empty hall, trying to fit the pieces of my humiliation... the torn dress, the eyes upon me, the figure in black, into the shape of this room. Was it here? Was this where the decision had been made? 

I feel like I can see it if I let my focus drift... the same full benches, the same smell of heat and dust, my own name (if I knew it) passing from mouth to mouth, heavy with judgment. I’m not at the front now. I’m standing in the center, bound. The people lean forward to watch me fall. The man at the table reads a sentence that no one will ever write down, but all will remember. And in that moment, in that imagined or remembered moment, I feel the scales tip, not for someone else... for me. 

Did they deliver me into the Devil’s hand here? Did I walk from this hall and into the circle of lanterns by my own feet, or was I led?

The air is thick with dust and the echo of that final verdict, whether it was truly spoken here or not. I take one step toward the place where the accused once stood, and the floor seems to bow under me, as if still remembering the weight. If this was where it happened, then the ruin is not only the grave of others’ endings, it is the site of my own.

[IsabellaRose]

Third Sword: 10 of Pentacles
Prompt: You find yourself wandering through a graveyard. What do you find there?
Major Arcana for interpretation: The High Priestess

 

The graveyard sits high on the hill, the town falling away beneath it like a half-forgotten dream. I don’t remember choosing to come here, only lifting my head to find myself already walking between the stones. The air is still, the light strange as day gives way to night. Every grave feels as though it is watching me pass, their names and dates blurring when I try to read them, as if they’ve been written in water. Near the far wall, I stop. There, half-shadowed beneath the warped arm of a cedar, stands a tall stone, its face smooth except for one thing: the carved image of the saint with scales. But here, the figure wears a dress whose carved collar is inlaid red stone showing a peculiarly embroidered pattern... I recognize the tilt of her head, the way her hidden eyes seem to pierce.

It is me.

Below the carving, a name I do not recognize, yet feels like mine. Prudence Lawton. The dates are meaningless, but the chiseled dash between them feels like the length of my breath.

I kneel, pressing my palm to the cold stone, and the ground falls away. I am no longer kneeling before it, I am standing before her, the veiled figure, my own shape writ taller, heavier with knowing. She looks at me as though she can see the whole of my life at once: the sentences I delivered upon myself in the hall where verdicts were made into past facts... the bargain I made, the moment I stepped into the Devil’s circle.

“You know why you’re here,” she says, though her lips do not move. And I do know, though the knowing comes without words.

I am both her and the one before her. Both the voice that delivers judgment and the one being judged. The scales she holds are mine, but so is the weight that tips them. 

When I blink, I am alone again, my hand on the stone, the cedar’s shadow falling over my shoulder like a hood. I remain there for long moments before I stand again. I know now that I am guilty. I know now that I made a deal, that I paid a price, and that the price condemned me. I turn and leave the graveyard knowing that I have already been measured... and found wanting.

[IsabellaRose]

Act Two Reflection

Well, I feel like this character is developing into something I hadn't quite expected. Perhaps some sort of avenging angel? I don't really know, but the fact that "you did this to yourself" feels very personal, like I'm trying to tell myself something about my own life through this roleplay... which I think happens more often than not with these journaling games.

 

Act Two Reflection In Character:

As I walk through the town the weight has grown heavier. They whisper when I pass, some in hope, others in dread. To some, I am a savior. To others, a curse. And to more than a few, I am judgment itself. The abandoned hall showed me why. Its rotting walls remembered the heat of bodies gathered to watch verdicts fall, the shudder of an ending pronounced. I had stood there once, certain of my role, certain of the line between what could be forgiven and what could not. Until the questions came, questions about my own price, my own sentence. The graveyard gave me an answer, though it was no comfort. My name is Prudence Lawton. I have been both judge and judged. Somewhere, the scales tipped against me, and whether by my own choice or theirs, I was delivered to the Devil’s chain.

The chapel’s stillness, the saint’s eyes, the coat shielding my shame... they are now joined by the murmur of the crowd, the hollowed-out hall, the stone with my name cut deep. I do not know yet why I walk free if I have already been measured and found wanting. But I feel the scales within me shift with each step, and I know this: the balance is not yet settled.

[IsabellaRose]

Act 3: Cups

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You manage to find your home. The façade is unfamiliar. You fish the key out of your pocket and open the door.

First Cup: 2 of Cups
Prompt: There are signs that someone else stays here (or at least used to stay here). Who is (or was) this person?
Major Arcana for interpretation: The Lovers

 

The key clicks, the door swings open, and I am greeted by the weight of memory without form... cedar smoke, heat, and something sweeter, like honey left too long in the sun. This is not just my home. It was ours.

The signs are everywhere, two cups opposite each other on the table, two pegs for coats by the door, a scarf with the same intricate red embroidery hanging on one. When I enter the bedroom I see more signs... the mattress sunken deeper on one side, as if their body still left an imprint. My hand trembles when I touch it, and the faintest shiver runs through me, not from cold, but from the echo of nights spent there. I do not remember their face, but I remember the weight of them pressed close, the heat of breath against my collarbone, the pull between us that felt like it could tear the world in two.

I open the dresser, and what greets me is not mine... silk, lace, garments delicate and decadent, tucked away like secrets. I lift a lacey wisp of nothing between my fingers, pale fabric whispering against my skin. The touch summons a rush of sensation: lips at my throat, fingers at the buttons of my dress, a voice low and certain telling me I was theirs. My heart beats faster, shame and longing braided so tightly I cannot pull them apart.

They were temptation made flesh, beautiful in the way fire is beautiful, a glow you know will burn you if you lean too near. My body remembers them even if my mind resists. The curve of their shoulder beneath my hand, the taste of salt and flesh, the ache in my chest when I gave in to them knowing I was already lost.  Love brought me to this crossroad, a love that bound me in pleasure as much as in chains. They were my partner, my downfall, perhaps my punishment. My home is a shrine to their beauty and my weakness both.

I stand in the quiet now, silk still draped over my hand. This was love, or what passed for it, but it was also the Devil’s bargain, dressed in lace and shadow.

[IsabellaRose]

Second Cup: King of Cups
Prompt: An area of your home brings a strong memory to the surface. Which memory is this?
Major Arcana for interpretation: The Sun

 

The curtains are thin, the kind meant more for softness than privacy, and the afternoon light floods through them as I move into the bedroom. Dust motes rise in the golden beam, dancing like sparks. For the first time since I stepped into this house, the shadows fall back, and in their place, warmth rises up. The Sun shines through the thin curtains, evoking memory.

I remember laughter, not the hushed kind traded in whispers, not the desperate kind pulled from the edge of hunger, but laughter that rang out unashamed, filling the room until even the walls seemed to hum with it. The bed was unmade, tangled sheets at our feet, both of us sprawled across it, sunlight painting our skin. I don’t see their face, but I remember the way their beauty lit brighter in that glow, hair spilling across the pillow like fire, lips curved into a smile that could break a vow, their eyes daring me to look away and knowing I never could. Their body against mine was heat, weight, promise, ruin... and I let myself bask in it. For a moment, in that sunlit memory, I forgot judgment, forgot law, forgot scales, forgot everything but the fire in my chest and the certainty that I had chosen them, no matter the cost. It felt pure then, right, as if even the saint herself, veil and scales in hand, might pause to watch and not condemn.

The memory fades, leaving the room quiet, the light thinner, the bed empty but for the weight of absence. Yet the warmth lingers on my skin, as if the sun refuses to leave me cold, and for a heartbeat, I wonder if the Devil’s chain was worth it.

Edited 23 hours ago by IsabellaRose
forgot to edit card name during copy/paste

[IsabellaRose]

Third Cup: 10 of Cups
Prompt: You open a drawer to find a journal. What does the final page say?
Major Arcana for interpretation: The High Priestess

The drawer resists me as though it has a will of its own, but when it finally gives, I find a journal waiting inside. It is slim, worn smooth at the edges, leather darkened where fingers once clutched it often. My chest tightens before I even open it. The pages whisper as I turn them, filled with a script I know in my bones is mine, though it feels like reading a stranger’s confessions. Near the end, on a page left mostly blank, I find the last entry:

"I have chosen her, though I know the choice is ruin. She burns like the sun and I am helpless before her. Every touch is a judgment against me, every kiss a sin I welcome. The scales will not forgive, nor will the people... perhaps not even the saint. Yet I go to her all the same. To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care. If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back."

The words bleed through me like heat. I can feel her, even now, the memory of her laughter spilling across the bed, her breath against my throat, her beauty searing as the sun. The bed was hers as much as mine. The chains, too. And this, my confession, is no longer a secret I can deny. I did not stumble into ruin unknowing. I walked toward her willingly, even as I felt the Devil waiting.

If judgment came, if the hall named me guilty, if my grave bears my name, it is because I chose her above all else... and I know in my hear that I would do so again and again.

[IsabellaRose]

Act Three Reflections

This character feels deeply personal to me now. With the theme of religion, choosing damnation for love over salvation for self-preservation seems like a theme that resonates pretty hard. My subconscious always seems to steer me toward tales that feel like fictionalizing some aspect of my own life. I don't know if that's a good thing or a bad thing. Maybe it's a way to process my experience and emotions through writing; maybe it's just exploiting my own experience in bad writing lol

 

I stand in the rooms I once called home. I remember her, the heat of her body against mine, laughter in the sunlight, nights where desire was both joy and chain. The dresser yields silk and lace, garments that whisper of temptation I embraced knowing it would ruin me, and in the last drawer, the final truth: my own hand confessing I chose her.

I did not stumble unwilling into my undoing; I walked toward it with open arms because she was there. The scales inside me tilt heavy with this knowledge: I am both she who brought sentences to fulfillment and shoe who chose chains for love. My ruin was no accident... it was devotion.

Although I cannot yet see the full cost, I feel the reckoning drawing closer. The balance will not be denied forever.

[IsabellaRose]

Act 4 - Wands

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You have learned much about yourself. Take some time to reflect.

First Wand: King of Wands
Prompt: A memory comes back that you would rather forget. Which memory is this? Why does it bother you?
Major Arcana for interpretation: Death

 

It strikes without warning. It is not a gentle drift of memory, but a blow, sharp and staggering. The smell comes first, iron and smoke, sharp in the back of my throat. Then the sound, a crowd inside the hall, restless, eager, baying for an end. Then the vision fixes itself - it's her.

She stood at the center of the hall, the same place I once saw so many accused. But this time, it wasn’t some thief or heretic. It was the woman I loved, the woman I chose. Her wrists bound, her eyes burning with defiance that made the crowd murmur. I was there at the front, as I had always been. I wasn’t beside her; I wasn’t her shield. I was part of the machinery that condemned her. I felt the whole town pressing in, demanding the verdict, demanding the sentence. I felt the weight of the scales in my hand, heavier than ever, tilting against her... and I let it happen.

I hear the words again, words I must have spoken, though my mouth will not form them now, the sentence that sealed her fate. Perhaps I thought I could save myself. Perhaps I believed in the scales more than I believed in her. Perhaps the Devil had already claimed her, and I feared what it meant if I defied it.

Unlike everything else since I awoke this memory carries no haze, no mercy. The torn dress, the Devil’s chain, the grave with my name... all of it leads back here. I condemned her. I condemned us. I still feel the moment I tipped the scales, and how a part of me died with her as surely as if I’d been the one bound in the center.

The tears that never came then come now. I drop to my knees and I cry, tears carving tracks down my dirty face, knowing I brought myself to ruin, and then condemned the love for which I sacrificed all. I am my own worst enemy, not only the architect of my own destruction, but the executioner who swung the blade to end my own love.

Edited 17 hours ago by IsabellaRose

[IsabellaRose]

Second Wand: Ace of Wands
Prompt: You decide to change your appearance. What do you change? Why did you make this decision?
Major Arcana for interpretation: The Tower

 

The memory of condemning her clings to me like smoke, and I can’t bear the weight of it in my skin, so I strip it all away. The coat that never belonged to me, the boots that carried me here, the prim white dress with its torn hem, personal embroidery, and false modesty, all of it falls to the floor like shed skin. The water I find is cold, sharper than steel, biting at my flesh as I wash, but this is no mere cleansing: it is punishment, a ritual ablution. Each handful sluiced across my body feels like breaking glass, tearing down the walls I built around myself. I whisper no prayers. I only grit my teeth and let the pain remind me I still live, though I no longer deserve to.

And when I dress again, it is not in what was mine, but in what was hers.

Black, all of it black, black as night, black as sin, black as the Devil's heart... black as my own. A dress I find folded away, tight to the body, the hem cut indecently high, the neckline plunging low — an outfit not meant for the eyes of a fearful town, but for temptation, for ruin. Lace underthings, stockings drawn high up my thighs, the soft scrape of silk and sin against my skin. Boots with high heels that bite the floor, raising me taller, fiercer, sharper. I bind my hair with her bright red ribbon, a single streak of blood against the darkness. I fashion a collar and wristbands from the same leather straps that once bound her wrists for judgment. The irony cuts deep, but I welcome it.

From the cold hearth I take soot and blacken my eyes, drawing dark hollows where light once lived, streaking harsh lines down my cheeks like tears I refuse to shed again. I will not weep. I will not beg. I strap the gun belt around my waist, holster twin pistols, sheathe twin daggers, arm myself not for protection, but for revenge.

The sentence has already been spoken, the hall, the grave, my name. My old life shattered the day I raised my voice against her. What rises in its place is not Prudence the Judge, nor Prudence the Lover. What rises is something stripped bare, dangerous, a figure clothed in both mourning and defiance, a woman reborn with a single purpose. I will make them pay for their intolerance, for their fearful punishment of those who were different, for twisting my own mind and heart. I am freed of the limitations of their beliefs now. 

Let them see me like this. Let them whisper. Let the fear that led to my punishment now make them tremble at the prospect of my vengeance. Let them know the scales no longer weigh in their hands.

[IsabellaRose]

Third Wand: 7 of Wands
Prompt: You destroy one of your belongings. What do you destroy? Why?
Major Arcana for interpretation: The World

 

I stand in the center of the room, surrounded by the remains of myself... the pair of cups on the table, the silk garments folded in drawers, the bed where I once burned with her, the journal where my own hand confessed the choice that ruined me. Every corner of this place holds a piece of Prudence Lawton, Judge, Lover, Betrayer, and I cannot bear it.

I gather what will burn quickly: the curtains, the bedding, the pages of the journal. I strike flint, and the flame takes eagerly, racing up the fabric, swallowing the paper, leaping to the walls as though it had been waiting all these years. The heat blooms against my skin, and the air fills with the crack of wood giving way. I leave everything here: the coat, the dress, the relics of my sin and of hers. My name, too. All of it will burn.

Outside, I watch the fire catch the roof, the glow spilling into the night sky, a beacon and a grave all at once. The townsfolk will see the flames and whisper again... savior, curse, punishment. Let them whisper. Let them fear. The fire consumes not just a house, but the last tether to who I was. My past is ash, scattered to the wind. Whatever comes next will not be bound by Prudence Lawton’s judgments, nor by her chains.

 

[IsabellaRose]

Act Four Reflections

It seems like my characters' path finally becomes her own. Vengeance is a great motivation. I feel like this could be the origin story for a "Lady Vengeance" style weird west comic book character. A woman perhaps undead...? Hard to tell if she died, if the Devil gave her life back, or if she escaped somehow. I like the ambiguity of it. She dislikes organized religion, protects women from the judgment of men and god, and seems like she's really badass now. I wouldn't want to cross her.

 

The memory I wanted to bury came back to me whole: the hall, the crowd, the scales heavy in my hand. And her, wrists bound, eyes burning, her fate sealed by my voice, both judge and executioner, and the weight of that moment will never leave me. But if that was the moment I died, tonight I rose again, shattered and remade. I stripped myself of the prim collar, the relics of Prudence Lawton. In scoured my skin, not in cleansing but in punishment, and dressed instead in her shadow, black silk, black leather, black lace. I became the ruin she left behind, the flame she lit in me. I painted my face in soot and swore I would never weep again. I left everything, the bed where we burned, the journal that confessed my sin, the walls that once sheltered our union, and set the whole place alight. My home, my name, my past: gone to ash, a pyre for the woman I was.

Prudence Lawton is dead.

What walks in her place is something else, a woman who carries both judgment and ruin in her hands, a woman who will deliver her own reckoning.

[IsabellaRose]

Act Five

Quote

Your past may shape your experiences, your thoughts, your desires, but it does not define you. You are in control of your own path. The road ahead may be built from the stones that you’ve gathered, but these fragments of your past do not dictate where it leads. It is time to move forward.
Choose one of the Major Arcana to represent your present self. Do not draw from the deck. Choose freely among the cards. You are in charge of your own identity. Who are you? What do you do next?

I chose The Tower.

A card of sudden trouble, the Tower means that change is coming and it’s impossible to avoid, no matter how unpleasant it may be. It also symbolizes the truth coming out, as well as reaching the point of no return. It symbolizes: chaos, disaster, transformation, and unexpected change. 

I chose it because it seems like her life is no longer her own. The change, although brought on by the consequences of her own actions, is now an inescapable path, the truth pushing her to vengeance, her decision a point of no return. She will pursue vengeance regardless of where it leads her. 

 

The fire still smolders in the hollow where my home once stood, ash drifting through the night like black snow. Behind me lie the ruins of Prudence Lawton, Judge, Lover, Betrayer, Condemned. Ahead of me, only the open road. I no longer pretend I am anything other than condemned. What stands now is not the woman who once clung to the scales, nor the woman who surrendered to chains. What stands is the ruin itself, jagged and unyielding, a figure carved out of collapse. I am the truth brought to light, no matter how it scorches. I am the chaos that tears down false sanctuaries. I am the point of no return.

I will carry this destruction with purpose. No more whispered judgments in darkened halls, no more zealots hiding behind scripture and scales that tilt only toward cruelty. I will protect those who are dragged into the circle, bound and condemned for who they are or who they love. I will be the one who burns the gallows before the rope can tighten, who tears down the pulpits where intolerance is preached.

I am vengeance, yes. But I am also devotion reborn, not to a church, not to a law, but to the women whose voices are silenced, whose love is called sin, whose bodies are bound in chains. My lover’s ruin will not be in vain. It will be the lightning that follows, the sudden blaze that leaves no shadow untouched. My life may no longer be my own, but I will wield what remains of it like a storm.

The zealots will pay for what they have done. And the scales will balance, not in their sanctuaries, not in their courts, but in fire and in truth.

 

 

[IsabellaRose]

The Manifesto of the Unbound

I was Prudence Lawton, judge of your laws, servant of your scales, voice of your verdicts. I carried the weight of your scripture, the lash of your zeal, the hollow mercy of your courts. I condemned, and I was condemned. I loved, and for that love I was broken. You buried me beneath your stone, you chained me to your Devil, you carved my name in the dust of your graveyard.

And yet I rose.

I am shattered and remade. I am the ruin of your false sanctuaries, the fire that devours your lies, the storm that scatters your order to ash. You cannot bury what you cannot bind. You cannot silence what has already burned. From this ruin I declare a new truth: that no love is forbidden, that no body is unworthy, that no woman shall kneel before your zealotry again.

My faith is not your faith. It is not written in books that rot on altars, nor spoken by men who weigh the world with tilted scales. My faith is written in the laughter of women who love freely, in the touch of hands unshackled, in the voices raised without fear of your judgment.

I am the woman who will burn your pulpits, break your chains, tear down your gallows. I am the storm that shields the meek, the flame that protects the scorned, the ruin that stands as sanctuary for those you cast out.

Know this: your laws cannot hold me, your prayers cannot bind me, your fire cannot consume me. I have already burned.

Your halls have fallen. From their stones, I build a new temple, not of walls, but of arms wrapped around each other; not of scripture, but of truth spoken plainly:

• Love is not a sin.
• Desire is not a crime.
• To be yourself is holy.

Let those who have suffered find me. Let those who fear find me. Let those who burn for another woman, or who have been judged unworthy, walk in my shadow and find safety.

I was Prudence Lawton, but no more. That name and the woman who belonged to it are dead. I am ruin and rebirth.

I am Ashborn, rising from the ashes of what your piety burned. I am The Counterweight, The Broken Scales that can no longer balance the tilted judgment of zealots. I am the First Flame, but not the last. I am Unbound, free of your chains, bidding all to join me. I am The Voice of Love, Protector of the Forbidden and Forgotten. Some call me Mother Ashes, for from my ruin, others will be reborn. Others call me the Scarlet Bride, bound not to your God, revering not your saints, but bound to the love you forbid, married to the chains that once bound my love. I am The Bride of Chains, The Widow of Fire. 

I have many names, but I carry none of them. I am your reckoning, and I promise you this: the scales will balance, but not by your dogma, not in your courts.

Edited 15 hours ago by IsabellaRose

[IsabellaRose]

...and because I can never just let a thing be a thing without keeping it going until I ruin it, I imagine the words of Prudence Lawton finding an audience in some distant future. Her rejection of the religion of her time becomes the founding of a new religion. Would she approve? I wonder if the idea of others following her words as dogma would be something of which she would disapprove. Either way, I might have gone a bit too deep and/or too far with this, but coming up are some more bits I've jotted down since thinking those thoughts...

[IsabellaRose]

The Liturgy of the Unbound

(As practiced by the Daughters of the Unbound)

Opening Invocation

Leader:
We gather not in halls of stone,
Nor beneath the gaze of zealots’ scales.
We gather in the firelight,
In the shadow of the woman who burned,
In the arms of each other.

People (together):
We are Unbound.

 

The Reading of Ruin

(From Prudence Lawton’s original journal entry, read aloud in its plain form.)

Reader:
“I have chosen her, though I know the choice is ruin.
She burns like the sun and I am helpless before her.
Every touch is a judgment against me,
Every kiss a sin I welcome.
The scales will not forgive, nor will the people.
Perhaps not even God.
Yet I go to her all the same.
To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care.
If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him.
I will not turn back.”

Moment of silence.

 

The Transformation into Scripture

Leader:
From her confession, we rise. From her ruin, we are reborn.

People (chanting):
No love is forbidden.
No body is unworthy.
No woman shall kneel before zealotry again.

 

The Creed of Ashes

Leader:
What did Prudence become?

People:
She is Ashborn, rising from the ashes.
She is the Counterweight, the Broken Scales.
She is the First Flame, but not the last.
She is the Voice of Love.
She is the Protector of the Forbidden.
She is Mother of Ashes.
She is the Scarlet Bride.
She is the Widow of Fire.

Leader:
She is ruin and rebirth.
What are we?

People:
We are Unbound.

 

The Prayer of Defiance

Leader:
What do we reject?

People:
Your laws cannot hold us.
Your prayers cannot bind us.
Your fire cannot consume us.
We have already burned.

 

The Vow of Love

Leader:
What truth do we proclaim?

People (in unison):
Love is not a sin.
Desire is not a crime.
To be yourself is holy.

 

Closing Benediction

Leader:
Let those who have suffered find us.
Let those who fear find us.
Let those who burn for another woman,
Or who have been judged unworthy,
Walk in our shadow and find safety.

People:
We are the Unbound.
And the scales will balance.

[IsabellaRose]

The Collected Texts of the Unbound

by Winona Coyle, Scholar of the Unbound, Keeper of the Ashes

It is one thing to attend service, to hear the liturgy, to feel the fellowship of the sisterhood. It is another to hold in one’s hands the fragile leather journal of Prudence Lawton herself. Her original entries were not meant for an audience. They are raw, unpolished, soaked with love and regret. Yet they became the seed of a faith that now stretches farther than the halls that condemned her, farther than the graves that sought to silence her.

In this volume, I have arranged the texts in order of their becoming: first, the journal entries; then, the psalmic scripture; and finally, the creeds and prayers. I offer here my commentary to show how each grew from the same root, and how one woman’s confession became our creed.

The Original Journal:
"I have chosen her, though I know the choice is ruin. She burns like the sun and I am helpless before her. Every touch is a judgment against me, every kiss a sin I welcome. The scales will not forgive, nor will the people. Perhaps not even God. Yet I go to her all the same. To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care. If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back."

Later Psalmic Form:
"From this ruin I declare a new truth:
No love is forbidden.
No body is unworthy.
No woman shall kneel before zealotry again."

Commentary:
Where Prudence confesses weakness, “helpless before her”, the scripture transforms it into defiance: “No woman shall kneel.” The tone shifts from private shame to public proclamation, but the heart is unchanged. Love, once whispered as sin, is made holy by her fire.

 

The Original Journal:
"To love her is to bind myself in chains, but I do not care."

Later Psalmic Form:
"I am the woman who will burn your pulpits, break your chains, tear down your gallows."

Creed of the Broken Scales:
"The halls have fallen.
The chains are broken.
The fire still burns.
Love endures.
We are Unbound."

Commentary:
Here is the clearest example of transformation. What Prudence once admitted as surrender, “to bind myself in chains”, has become the banner of our liberation. Chains, once marks of devotion and ruin, are now the very things she vowed to destroy. The private admission became the rallying cry: We are Unbound.

 

The Original Journal:
"If the Devil waits at the end of this road, let him. I will not turn back."

Later Psalmic Form:
"Your laws cannot hold me.
Your prayers cannot bind me.
Your fire cannot consume me.
I have already burned."

Scarlet Creed:
"We rise from ashes.
We burn the gallows.
We tear down the pulpits.
No woman shall kneel again.
Love is holy.
We are Unbound."

Commentary:
Her defiance of damnation, “let him”, became our rejection of fear itself. The Devil she named was the zealotry of her time, the fire that consumed her lover. By declaring she would not turn back, Prudence gave us a path forward: we too will not turn back. Even fire cannot consume us, for she has already endured the burning.

 

I write this not as a detached chronicler, but as one whose life is only possible because of her ruin. I love a woman openly, without chains, without shame. That freedom exists because Prudence burned. Because she broke. Because she rose. Some scholars insist on calling her The Unbound. Others prefer Mother Ashes, or the Scarlet Bride. But to me, she is the woman who left behind a journal with ink still damp from tears, a woman who chose love above law, and in so doing, birthed a world where I may hold my beloved’s hand in daylight. So I study her words, not to pin them in glass like a specimen, but to keep them alive. To show how one woman’s confession became our scripture, our creed, our freedom.

We built a faith upon her ruin. We live because she chose not to turn back. And for that, she is not only The Unbound, she is our Savior.

[IsabellaRose]

So... I leaned hard into the "religious" angle from the initial mythic rolls. I decided that her crusade became well-known, her mission obvious outside of her small community, and that she went down in history as something of an important figure. I wondered what people in the future might think of her, and decided that the only thing that fit was for her quotes at the end there to lead people to follow her, and eventually find her personal journals and use them as the basis for their own religion. It feels fittingly twisted enough given the beginning.

I do want to write her misadventures, now. She's an interesting character, all in black, serving up vengeance against the misogynistic, judgmental faith for which she once carried out death sentences. 

I like how it ended, even if the ending was a bit beyond what the game intended.

Thanks, @WritesNaughtyStories for the challenge!