🇭🇹🇭🇹🇭🇹🇭🇹🇭🇹🇭🇹🇭🇹🇭🇹🇭🇹🇭🇹

Congratulations! You’ve just died, but don’t you worry! Death isn’t the end, at least for you. Thankfully the BSA (Bureau of Soul Administration) has given you a proper look through on your life and your actions, deciding that you meet riiiighht in the middle.

(Lucky you huh?)

You might be asking yourself, what is the BSA? Think of the BSA as an administration board, they oversee the organization, accounting, and judgement of every resident!

Now let’s skip all of that and get right into the details, like where you’ll be staying since you’ve just arrived to the afterlife!

Location: Pripyat, Ukraine.

The BSA has decided to send you off to Pripyat Purgatory! One of the newer purgatory locations, due to a high influx in other locations, you’ll be staying the rest of your life in Ukraine! Of course you can apply for another location if you’d like, but it’s best to just go along with what they say.

You’re most likely gonna ask, “what am I supposed to do? I’m dead aren’t I?” Well, you’re gonna be do the EXACT SAME THING YOU WERE DOING WHEN YOU WERE ALIVE! (Fun right?)

Now good luck out there, and do try not to get into trouble.

Character info!

(Cécile was born and raised in Jacmel. Growing up in a community where Vodou traditions intermingle with everyday life, she was exposed early to stories of spirits, rituals, and magic. From a young age, she was fascinated not only by the mystical side of these tales but also by the performance behind them—the rhythm of the drums, the theatrics of the ceremonies, and the way people hung on every whispered word about spirits. However, lacking the traditional spiritual training or genuine religious calling, Cécile found her niche in performance and sales, using the tourist trade to make a living. She learned to play the role of the voodoo priestess perfectly: dusty, eccentric clothes layered with charms, dreads interwoven with leaves and bones, soot-painted face, black-dyed teeth, and haunting contact lenses that made her eyes glow ghostly white. Each detail of her costume was deliberate, crafted to mesmerize and unsettle. She would set up her small stall by the market or near the coast, where travelers passed by, luring them in with the smell of burning incense, rhythmic chanting, and her booming, melodic voice. Over time, she developed a repertoire of stories about past lives and tribal spirits that she could spin off the cuff, mesmerizing tourists hungry for exotic experiences. Every tale she told carried a touch of truth, a sliver of real folklore, wrapped in layers of embellishment and drama. Locals saw through her act but tolerated it as part of the town’s economy—though they often called her a “thief” behind her back. She was never violent or malicious but thrived on the edges of society as a hustler, a storyteller, and a performer. Despite her reputation, some locals quietly admired her resourcefulness; after all, she found a way to survive in a world that often left women like her with little choice. Her evenings were spent by candlelight, counting coins and polishing charms she never believed in. To her, the performance was survival—an art form she had mastered. She could make anyone believe, even for a moment, that the world was full of hidden magic waiting to be sold for the right price.)

Death

(Cécile’s death was tragic and ironic. Hoping to boost sales, she concocted a “Zombie elixir” from herbs, spices, and a high dose of Datura, marketing it as a miracle cure that connected the drinker to underworld wisdom. She had rehearsed her pitch for days, perfecting every gesture, every word, every glance that would make her seem like a bridge between the living and the dead. During a high-pressure sales pitch to a skeptical group of Dutch tourists, she dramatically drank from her own bottle to prove its power. The mixture, however, made her collapse shortly thereafter. The crowd at first thought it was part of her act—some even applauded, thinking her convulsions were an elaborate trick. But as her breathing slowed and her voice faded, the laughter turned to panic. Medical help never arrived in time, and she died from acute poisoning. Her last moments were a blur of confusion, her body trembling as the world spun into silence. The irony of it all was cruel: a woman who spent her life pretending to speak to the dead, finally crossing over because of her own deception. In Jacmel, the locals whispered that the spirits had claimed her for her blasphemy, while others said she had finally become what she pretended to be—a real medium between worlds. Her name became a story told to children and newcomers alike: a warning wrapped in mystery and superstition.)

Afterlife

(In Pripyat, Mama Mojo has adapted her hustle to the afterlife’s peculiar economy. She operates a small “medium” booth where she stages séances and spirit communications for other residents that shares space with her real business: an ice cream parlor. The sign outside flickers between “SPIRITS SPEAK HERE” and “SOUL-SCOOPS.” Though her rituals are transparently fake, her flair for showmanship keeps a steady stream of customers curious about the occult. Her shop is chaotic but colorful, cluttered with talismans, candles, and voodoo dolls. The smell of vanilla, smoke, and melted wax fills the air as she works, balancing a cone in one hand and a deck of tarot cards in the other. Ghosts and lost souls drift in, half out of curiosity, half out of boredom, listening to her booming laugh as she sells both comfort and illusion. While other residents tend to view her with suspicion or mild amusement, Mama Mojo remains an established figure in the city’s social undercurrent, always ready to sell a charm, a fortune, or a story. Her booth has become a hub for gossip and trade, a crossroads of laughter, lies, and lingering souls. She navigates the afterlife with the same mix of charm and cunning that sustained her in life, never missing an opportunity to turn a profit or turn a phrase. In her mind, death changed nothing—it only gave her a bigger audience. And though her ice cream melts faster than her customers’ patience, Mama Mojo always finds a way to make them leave lighter, if not in spirit, then at least in pockets. Even in death, she is the same showwoman she always was: bold, cunning, and irresistibly alive in a world where few can claim to be.)

Character/Artist credit: Hellonearthiii