2021-01-28 - Fortunes in the Garden

It is rare day that has Devlin able to just relax again off duty that is. He finds himself just walking around. To some he may appear to be unfocused as he walks along, for others, perhaps someone walking as they meditate. Just when you think he's about to trip over something he doesn't notice, Devlin steps over or aside in a way that is smooth and almost feels like a moment of coincidental events until you realize it happens alot as he walks along.

Ravn Abildgaard's life has a few more challenges currently than he appreciates. For one, he is being reminded every time he breathes that when you get shot through the chest you're supposed to stay in hospital. The healing work done on him by no less than three of Gray Harbor's talented people keeps him upright and out of danger, but that doesn't mean the pain and the discomfort is gone. The copious amounts of opiates he's ingested to deal with that is in turn making him a little light-headed. Enough that he decided that being cooped up in bed probably wasn't doing him any favours -- more bad judgement there, Ravn -- and that he needed to go for a walk. And enough that he's looking at the old woman with the cards and the bowl of trinkets and asking himself a couple of questions.

Is the fortune teller for real? Ravn himself knows a fortune telling scam or two, and quite a lot about cold reading. He managed to tick Gina Castro off pretty bad by insinuating that her tarot is based on cold reading -- to a point where she firmly proved to him how mistaken he was. He watches for a bit, trying to tell -- because if she actually is tapping into the supernatural then clearly the crone at the table will have the undivided attention of someone whose trade is literally stories.

The other question on his mind dances on the very edges of his Tramadol-dulled awareness; he's pretty sure he's seen this woman before, somewhere, but he can't for the life of him remember where.

Kyle was out trying to actually do something. He wasn't really sure what only that more than one person of late had suggested that spending all his time in his room game store or a class room, and spending 80% of it studying was not healthy. So he decided to actually walk around town for once. He looked around and saw Ravn who he actually knew even if he couldn't pronounce the name properly. So he headed that way, as of yet not really paying much attention to the old woman, after all to someone who grew up here some things were just normal and you didn't really pay attention to them.

The old woman's current client, a teenager bundled up against the cold, gets up, thanks her, and turns to go. There are tears in the girl's eyes which she's gently dabbing at with a Kleenex. Tears of joy? Sorrow? Hard to say. She carefully avoids Ravn and Devlin on her path out of the garden.

The old woman scoops up the three cards, shuffles them back into the deck, and places the deck in the box. Catching sight of Devlin and Ravn, she calls, "Care to have your cards read?" She spies Kyle, gives him a grandmotherly smile. "Or you, Kyle Warren. Surely there's something on your mind the cards can answer."

Devlin steps lightly as he avoids the teen smoothly. Hearing a question, Devlin tilts his head a little has he draws to a a stop almost in front of the table. "Something like the iChing?"

Ravn upnods to Devlin and Kyle alike, recognising both. He too draws closer -- if Devlin plans to give this a shot the folklorist has every intention of watching for stories (and the confidence artist of watching to see if he can learn anything). The Dane is paler than usual and walks like he's not feeling too on top of the world today -- the kind of slowness that at least the EMT might associate with a large amount of painkillers and a recent injury; he's no doubt encountered that look often enough in a professional capacity.

"Afternoon, you two. Mind if I watch?" he asks because that is the polite thing to do.

Kyle looks over to Ravn, then after a moment he also nods to Devlin they'd had pizza together. So he sort of knows the EMT too. But he was mostly looking over at the old woman. Did he know her? Apparently she knew him and he wasn't exactly mister social or mister stand out. So he stops to watch the Emt at the station, more than a little curious and trying to place if he knows this woman. "Nope... I might take a turn after Um... Sorry I can't remember your name." He looks a little sheepish, but he doesn't remember if he was introduced at pizza place or not. Though after a second look to Rav he says, "You okay?"

"Just so, Devlin McCloud," the fortune teller says to the EMT, nodding. She gestures at the chair. "I ask only a small fee. An item in your possession. No money, unless it is significant somehow." She cuts a look at Ravn, eyes glinting. "It need not be one which it would hurt you to part with," now to Kyle, "but it should be important. Say," she gestures at Devlin's hair, "a lock of your hair." She pulls a deck out from the box; the edges are dark gold, the backs a red and black design of an Acherontia moth.

She eyes Ravn as she shuffles, studying him. "I don't mind at all, Count Abildgaard." An inclination of her head, as if to one of greater station. Her attention flicks to Kyle, and she smiles. "Don't look so surprised, young master Warren. See how old I am?" She gestures at herself. "When you're this old, all names have come to you. You just need to remember them."

Devlin raises a brow, "Interesting." A comment more to himself than anyone else. His head cocks slightly as he looks at the older woman. "My name is known. Lock of hair.. I think there are better things.. " He pulls out his wallet and pulls out two things from it, "Something with meaning to me. Which?" Perhaps to see if she knows which of the two items he pulls out from the wallet. One is an older looking coin that has palm trees on it and Arabic script on it. The other item, about six inches of a dull brownish (faded green may be?) cord. (OOC piece of 550 cord) Yes a challenge..

"Eh, I've had better days," Ravn murmurs to Kyle. "Got caught up a little bit in that rather unfortunate shooting incident at the mall. I have been promised that I will live, and have a neat set of scars to show for it in the bikini season, too."

The folklorist does quirk an eyebrow at the crone when she addresses him, looking a little surprised. Then his blue-grey eyes narrow ever so slightly as he returns, "It seems you have the advantage of us, ma'am. Would it be imprudent to ask your name?"

Turns out just five months in Gray Harbor can turn anyone into a suspicious git.

Hyacinth is out lunching with Vyv. It's what Team Rocker does when they're not busy making the local populace dive for cover. It's really the control zone of authority that whips around them in such a way one suspects the musical score might shift when they enter the scene in some Vaudevillian way. Seeing the Lumber Baroness of the PNW and the Marquis of Meringue cut through the grandiose downtown park is not at all a rare sight. Neither is a few of the locals in rather official attire heading back to City Hall stopping to kiss her ass. There's a smile ( that might be hiding all sharp teeth) back patiently waiting for them to be pleasant and fuck off again so she can finish her conversation and walk in peace. Being a very public person has it's downsides like requiring one to be both polite and pleasant. Such is life as it is being embraced.

Walking there's a sigh and her eyes close again as the by passer happily wanders off getting an answer they want. Hya's shoulders fall in that tailored wintergreen swingline coat and she grouses to her companion, "Nooooo Ms. Abernathy stop it with fucking floral print already." Her pinky is even our when she swears. Looking to Vyv she looks almost hopeful, "If I gave you the list of options could you pleeeeease help advise something for the settings in the up...come...ing..." She blinks terribly curious at the hobo venerable woman, and then Ravn eyebrow arching high, and a few other familiar faces. "Vyvy, I don't remember her having a permit...and why is Ravn out of the hospital again? He escaped. That's not an outfit that's proper for being an escapee..." So many curious concerns!

A choice! The old woman's eyes widen. "Ah, you're a clever boy, offering me the choice..." She glances between the two items, and selects the card. She plunks it into the bowl (is that a purple heart in there towards the bottom? Devlin could swear--)

"Have a seat, and we'll start." She shuffles the deck a few more times, sets it down in front of Devlin. "Cut, please, and think, if you will, of something you wish to know. You need not tell me, though," she hitches one shoulder, "of course you can. Many don't, for fear I'll manipulate the cards to suit a desired answer."

She cuts a look at Ravn, grins fierce and cunning, a fox in the henhouse wearing a hen's feathers overcoat. "Ah, Count Abildgaard, my name is of no consequence. And anyways, we've met before. Forgetting me in your old age, are you?"

Her gaze drifts to Hyacinth. Did she hear her? She must have. She pulls up a purse made of...yes, that's an upholstery remnant, if a lovely one of red and gold brocade, and pulls out a neatly folded piece of paper on City Hall letterhead. She wiggles it, then puts it back into her purse and sets the purse at her feet. (A small sound, like a bleating goat, comes out of the purse when she opens it to put the paper back in.)

The young nerd looks toward Ravn as if he's considering something, then stops for a moment. And goes back to watching what's happening with Devlin. But stays quiet for the moment, not really having anything to say, though he already knows the question he should ask, if he decides to take a turn.

Something about the older woman makes Ravn decide that now is a very good time to turn his head and greet Vydal and the Corporate Conquistadora -- both elegantly dressed, both people who emanate that upper crust sensation of control that he himself certainly doesn't possess. The slashed sleeve of his worn leather jacket compliments the new bullet hole in the back nicely -- at least if one is going for the very-used-streetwear look; the Dane needs to start considering a replacement because it's honestly getting quite well ventilated for the cold season.

"If I'd known you two would turn up to chastise me for being out I'd have found somewhere else to hide," he murmurs with a small smile. "I can't stand hospitals. Kinney, Røn, and de la Vega -- the younger, not the police captain -- have all done a number on me. I am being promised a full recovery and some exciting new scars. And I really, really, really hate hospitals."

Then his gaze whips back to the old woman and the paramedic almost as if against his better knowledge. A folklorist has a hard time walking away from a story, and a confidence artist from a hustle.

Devlin hmmms as he takes the coin back. "Ravn, try a little turmeric in the mornings and gulcosamine at dinner. It will help with the stiffness." He then turns his attention back to the older woman. "A question.. something to ponder and yet not at the same time." He begins to shuffle cards with the familiarity of one that has more than a fair share of poker nights under the belt. His cut is perhaps a little unusual as far as most may be concerned. The cards get arranged in a top stack, five below it, where there should be another row are no cards, and last row four stacks. He then stacks them in a manner that feels a bit ritualistic or perhaps superstitious perhaps. He then with the deck stacked taps the top card.

Vyv is not public in the same way as Hyacinth, which means he's entirely free to skip most of the polite-and-pleasant when their walk-and-talk is interrupted. Not all of it, mind; there's a tiny upward lift to the corners of the lips as proper casual greeting tends to demand, even if it doesn't even pretend to try to touch his eyes. But once the talk on the interlopers' side starts to stretch past passing-acknowledgement and into 'while I have you here', he does absolutely nothing to prevent the expression shifting onward into the realm of quietly unimpressed boredom, deepening as the woman goes on and on. Not a word to interrupt, but it's an unsettling way to be regarded and has the desired effect of at least heading off a good couple threatened tangents and likely helping end up with the decision that, of course, the details can be discussed later, wouldn't want to keep you, thanks ever so for your time.

He glances after Ms. Abernathy as she goes, expression remaining displeased. "I was starting to wonder if we were going to have to gnaw off our own feet to get away. Or hers. And those were not the most delicious boots I've seen today. Does she always wear that sort of print, then? It makes her look like somebody's grandmother's sofa. Or at least chaise longue." He looks like neither, in a well-tailored camel wool coat fastened over what is almost certainly an equally well-tailored brown suit. Scarf, leather gloves, boots which are probably far more delicious than their erstwhile interlocutor's, or at least are definitely chocolate-coloured. No hat, though. It's not 1963 and it's not nearly cold enough to put up with hat-hair. Glancing along the way that Hya's distracted, he tilts his head slightly at the woman with her table, lifting a brow of his own at Ravn's presence. "I think the official hospital-escapee wardrobe is 'hospital gown' so it could be worse. And he'd freeze." Because that's not the bigger problem with those. The state of the jacket isn't entirely approved, though. He gives the Dane a tiny smile that is nonetheless far more sincere than the earlier greeting's, and eyes the fortune telling in progress with at least as much more interest than the conversation that had followed that one.

The old woman laughs, soft and papery, at Devlin's shuffle and cut. Does she cast a glance among the others, as if to say, 'now see here, I let him do all that'? Maybe. (Yes.) Once he's tapped the top card, she pulls it and sets it down.

The deck's art is light and simple watercolor, East Asian in overall theme, though not heavily so. The first card is a young person in an orange outfit, holding a katana upright in front of themself with their head bowed to it, a dark blue and black butterfly or moth bisected by the blade: the Knight of Swords.

"Mmmm." The old woman leans back, smiling, and points at Devlin. "Undoubtedly yourself: the Knight of Swords. A person of action and decisiveness, of logic. But sometimes, too aggressive, or too blunt, perhaps--depending on the situation. You do not dither, nor tarry. This is you now, Devlin McCloud, or as you have been. You make your choices, and you do not look back."

The next card is a green background with a series of branch-like arrows flying, seven total, and an eighth locked into a traditional longbow. "Ah, more action: the Eight of Wands." She tilts her head, contemplating Devlin and the card by turns. "This is encouraging you to be ready act, I think. It says, now is a time to prepare. As you are one who is decisive and focused, this says to me, 'You will be called to be your purest self, Knight of Swords. Hard decisions may stand before you, and you will not be prepared to make them if you do not focus'. You should ready yourself, as," a glance at Hyacinth, now Kyle, then Ravn and Vyv, sly, "there may be something on the horizon which will require you to. There is also, with this card, a suggestion of messages coming to you--sudden, quick ones, not something you've waited on, necessarily. Could be either of these things."

And the final card: an old man, naked save for his long, snowy white beard (which covers most of him, thus hiding his nudity), dancing with joy and abandon among falling cherry blossoms. The fortune teller smiles. "The Fool. Not," she taps the card, "necessarily in a negative sense. The Fool is free of preconceptions, and open to new experience. He may seem to be rushing out into life, and," she shrugs, "in a sense, he is. But not in the manner of the Chariot, all blind and reckless. He's simply willing to take experiences as they come to him, and doesn't hide from what paths life will lie before him." She considers Devlin a time. "You're not inexperienced, of course. I can see that in you. Wars you've fought, lives you saved and lost. So this is, for you, a suggestion of a new path--or many--coming before you. You see," she indicates the number in a diamond below the old man, a 0, "he is the start of the journey. At a balance point from which many options diverge. A time is coming, when all will be Fools."

She scoops up the three cards, overhands them back into the deck, and puts the deck back into the box.

Devlin hmms with the reading. "Life is change. Always has been and will be. One needs to be relaxed and aware to pass through the challenges." He moves aside, "Choices.. and paths.. Just have to know they are there and see them for what they are." He smiles a bit, "Thank you, I will keep my eyes and heart open."

Ravn's eyes are still fixed on the old woman, grey as steel. He's clearly not sure what to make of her, and the indecision is written on his face in the kind of loud and clear lettering that would absolutely not be there if he hadn't had opiates for breakfast the way some people have Cap'n Crunch. He studies Devlin's face a moment but sees no ominous portents of misery or terror there -- the contrary in fact.

Making decisions is hard. More so when you can feel Vydal's disapproval of your sartorial choices.

Kyle probably doesn't even register on Vyv's style meter. He's dressed in a Grey polo with a name tag on. So yeah he likely doesn't rate. He looks a little confused not sure if he understood the reading, but it seemed cool. Then he looks up not really sure what he could offer the old woman, he doesn't really keep much on him, and at the moment he reaches in his pocket and pulls out a number two pencil and then picks up his name tag, the same one he's had the entire time he's worked for Abitha. And they kinda just spreads his hands helplessly.

Hyacinth scans the gathered not really having Kyle blip on her radar (which is a very good thing that is protecting him from any scrutiny right now) to the friendly neighbourhood spider-medic who gets a pleasant nod, and on to the hospital escapee. "Hiiiii Ravn. How are you..." a pleasant greeting, "...upright right now?" Oh, scrutinty. It's like a form of caring. It requires 13.2 giveashits to assess and care enough to ask!

Still...

Those hazel green eyes squint eyeing the old woman...the permit...the woman... the permit... 'Well played. Carry on' There's the faintest of pleased smiles that people are adhering to the rules. Fabulous! Happy zoning commissioner is happy. She also catches that glance and NOW notices Kyle (our condolences, Kyle ~GH Citizens Everywhere). "Vyvvy, I'm going to see what got approved exactly." Oh yeah, she's nosy and loves knowing all the damn things. Every small town has a fuzzy person.

"Precisely," the old woman says. "And a person willing to act--to cut through the bullshit, is invaluable in confusing times." She looks among the others, eyebrows raised. "Another?" Seeing Kyle with his humble offerings, she points at the nametag, then the bowl. "That will be sufficient, young man. Please, have a seat." A sidelong glance at Hyacinth, maybe an invitation to check this permit of hers, which slides to Ravnm inviting--no, daring him, the inviting look goes to Vyv.

She takes a deck out of the box, though not the same one as she used for Devlin. The cardback on this deck is a pair of world-tree motifs, crowns facing one another, with a sun, moon, and star circumscribed at the center. She begins shuffling, offers the deck to Kyle. "Cut, please, and think on your question, if you have one. You needn't tell me what it is, unless you'd like to."

Shooting those daring looks at a bloke who's currently surviving on a combination of caffeine, opiates, and sheer bloodymindedness is hardly fair. Ravn studies the old woman intently; and from the looks on his face -- unusually emotive today, he's clearly without his usual filters of social etiquette and poker face -- he is so much next. Because she dared him. And that's just not fair.

Yes, opiates can make you a little stupid.

Kyle does as he's asked cutting the deck and saying in a soft voice, "I'm just not sure what I'm supposed to do with my life. I'm working and going to college, but... I don't really... have any plans." Kyle doesn't even seem to notice what's going on with the others, after all he's not really good with... People. So he doesn't really gets what going on. Though seeing how bad Rav is he's tempted to see if he can help even though he's never healed anything but his ferrets when they got sick...

This deck is art nouveau to the extreme, with brilliant gold illumination throughout. "Your path is uncertain, and you seek some measure of guidance." The old woman nods at him, a hint of sympathy in her features and voice. And so, she turns the first card: a great, winged angel playing a gold trumpet, as people rise from coffins; some have raised their hands to block the sight, but others greet the angel with open arms.

"Judgment," the fortune teller says, her tone one of finality. "A time in which we are called to account for our choices, and the slate is wiped clean." She gives Kyle a once over. "You've felt this way, or longed for it--a chance for a fresh start. But this card indicates you can only receive that if you're willing to accept a frank assessment of yourself. It doesn't," her brows go up, "suggest you must let others judge you, only yourself. Temet nosce, but also, accept yourself. You need not fear the weighing of your deeds, if they were not done in malice. And as it relates to your schooling, this says: before you can do such a thing, you must ask yourself, who are you?"

The next card is a young man...who looks a lot like Kyle...his foot tied to the bough of a maple tree, hanging upside down. "The Hanged Man." She purses her lips. "A little on the nose, this one. You are in a state of suspension--not as a punishment, per se, but to learn new things. Only when balanced between life and death can we see what lies between them. Fighting such a state is," she shakes her head, "ill-adivsed. Instead, give yourself to it, to the learning of that which can't be obtained in other ways. It's not a classical method of teaching, of course, but," she smiles, "did Odin not hang from the world tree to see the runes? So consider--will schooling at the college be what you need? It might be. Or it might not."

The next card is a man in a boat, guiding it with a pole; six swords sit in the boat with him, as well as a child and another person wrapped in a cloak, huddling. "The Six of Swords." She frowns. "Mmmm. This card suggests departing from hardship. An escape, hopefully to a better place or time--but for now, into the unknown. But see, the swords are in the boat as well. Their troubles come with them, as scars on the body or mind. A change of view is not always a change of fortune." She looks directly at Kyle. "This says, if you were thinking of that schooling as a way to flee, you will not escape that which you were hoping to evade. Only time, and proper understanding," she taps the Hanged Man and Judgment, "can grant you these things. Look inside, see the six swords, and ask yourself: who am I? Who do I want to become? Do not simply strike out into the night."

Then she scoops up the three cards and shuffles them back into the deck, and places the deck into the box.

The thing about a nametag and a polo is that it automatically slots one into the 'work uniform' category, and while Vyv almost certainly has Opinions on those as well, they probably at least aren't personal. Though would it hurt people to get themselves issued the correct sizes, or (dare to dream) perhaps even have a couple tiny alterations made? Still, yes, it's probably about as close to an invisibility cloak as Kyle could hope to get. There's a flicker of a glance over him nonetheless, appraising and cataloguing; it lingers for a moment on the bare arms in this weather, brows lifting, but then, for the moment, dismisses him. This is unlikely to last once the younger man makes himself the focus of the current source of entertainment, of course.

Hyacinth is not the only one around who loves knowing all the damn things, and Vyv doesn't protest in the least about being 'dragged' over to get a better look at what's going on. He follows the old lady's look to Ravn, with a clear touch of amusement for that 'dare' and moreso for the obvious reaction that poor drugged Ravn's face betrays. That should be fun. Whether he intends to accept the invitation himself... well, let's see how other people's goes first, shall we? He watches Kyle get read, with a soft 'mn' to himself as it seems to be wrapping up. "No word on where his coat might be, though?" he inquires lightly. (Does that qualify as others judging Kyle, or just concern for his health?)

"Bloody hell. Fine. Let's do this. But if you're cold reading it's bloody cheating to have a go at a bloke who's so strung out on opiates he probably could fly if he flapped his arms." Ravn seems to have made a decision -- though whether it's a good one, time will have to tell. He pulls off his left glove and removes a ring from his finger -- a quite expensive looking affair in white gold and a small diamond, at that. Plink! Into the bowl it goes before he pulls the glove back on. "Will that suffice? The wedding's off anyhow, as you very well know, ma'am."

Devlin for the whole time has just stood near by. Perhaps standing meditation on his part. With Ravn's statement, he does chuckle. "You never asked about the choice, oh skeptical one.. " A smile on his face, "No harm.. no foul as they say. You will be ok, just relax."

The old woman smiles at Ravn, serene and pleased in the manner of a cat who's found the cream. "Nonsense, Count, you're not strong enough to fly. Some day, perhaps." Her eyes follow the ring as it drops into the bowl. "A payment of sorrow and regret is more than sufficient."

She sets a hand on her chest, gasps in mock offense. "Cold reading! My dear Count, I would never. In fact," she opens the box, takes out a deck, "you may shuffle and cut yourself, if it please you." She slides the deck across the table to him; the card back is designed in a classical, ornate fashion, depicting a jacquard-like pattern of mythical faces and creatures in green and rose tones, lightly embossed with gold. The cardstock has a faintly mottled appearance, like old parchment.

The young man hrms looking a little confused and as Ravn comes up to take his place he looks up, and while otherwise lost in thought he pats Ravn on the shoulder and mutters under his breath, a word in Japanese, and stays close just acting as a crutch, more than a little worried about the Dane. As far as the bare arms, he apparently hasn't even registered that most other people are wearing a jacket or at least long sleeves.

Hyacinth does notice (see you leaving this conspicuously out here) that the permit looks absolutely legitimate. It seems well enough to meet muster. People who follow the directive seem to stay off her shit list and so the granny remains. ~~Team Rocket!! Hya and Vyv hover closer and watch this with interest. All in all sound advice for Kyle or anyone. Well, sometimes it's precisely what one needs to hear. Good. Being 20-whatever is difficult.

The gloves come off ( no they really just did) and there's an arched eyebrow that Ravn's still wearing the ring. Her weight shifts to the wold woman with the calm authority that Addingtons do that suggests this better a- be of value and b- non life threatening or she might have the old lady turned into a bowling bag. She might also have to learn to bowl to know what that all entails and that's super amounts of effort. Bah.

Not to mention have you seen those shoes?

Ravn flinches visibly at the sudden touch -- from his reaction you'd think Kyle'd bloody well slapped him. He takes a few deep breaths and then gives the younger man an apologetic look. "Sorry -- I have a touch disorder. Surprise touch can be a bit like sticking my fingers in an electrical socket. Please don't take it personally." He's had enough treatments with the shine recently to recognise what it is Kyle is trying to do; he manages to smile weakly and nod. "Thank you. I do appreciate it. Pretty certain that what you're doing is healthier than eating tramadol like popcorn."

The Dane reaches for the deck with gloved hands and begins to shuffle it. "My name is Ravn," he murmurs, still a little shaken. "And this truly is a beautiful deck. It's not a reproduction either, is it?"

Devlin chuckles with the comment about cold reading being directed to Ravn. He just watches as things progress. He steps back a little so others may observe, being a bit taller is of course an advantage at times.

"I'm fairly sure all readings out here today qualify as cold readings," Vyv remarks, and the brows lift again at Ravn's choice of payment for the reading. Or perhaps it's also that he's wearing it to begin with? Hard to be certain. "Chilly ones, at any rate." If he was interested in the prior readings, though, he's downright intrigued by seeing what Ravn's might be; there's a flicker of a glance toward Kyle again as he catches that word of Japanese, but most attention is for fortune teller and client just now.

"Ravn," the fortune teller repeats, accent perfect. "And no, I would not work with a reproduction. Fraudulent cards bear fraudulent prophecy."

Once Ravn is done, she turns the first card over, and unlike for Devlin and Kyle, it's upside down: a great phoenix in gold and orange, but instead of rising from smoke and ash, he's falls from it, or into it.

"Judgment, again," she glances at Kyle, back to the card. "But now, reversed. Too judgmental, too harsh. The phoenix must rise from the ashes to begin anew, not collapsed into them and be smothered by them. Instead of moving on with his clean slate, he is being buried by that very past he sought to burn away." She considers Ravn. "You're too critical of yourself, or judging yourself for the wrong things, and it blinds you to the true means by which you may rise above that which made you sink into decay. Keep up with this, and you'll rise no more, only sink further, covered by mud and ash as those too foolish to flee the slopes of a volcano, insisting they've lived there all their lives."

She turns the next card, which is also upside down: ten gorgeous pentacles in a great tree, pomegranates growing from it and four faces glancing about. "The ten of coins--also reversed. Two reversals suggests your life is in a state of upheaval. Not the specific, singular upheaval of the Tower, but all of it. Every decision, every action, every moment is another shift in your orbit." She taps the coins. "This is the card of abundance, of wealth--but like this, with the fruit overturning the tree, this is its dark side. Great wealth leads to the Phoenix's decay, leads you down the path of ill-advised ambitions, clouds your judgment, makes you," does she look at Hyacinth and Vyv out of the corner of her eye? maybe... "indifferent to the needs of those beneath you." She gives the bowl a pointed look, eyes landing on the ring. "It is also the card of loss. Loss of wealth, and standing, and position. In the eyes of others, or your own." She meets his eyes, turns the final card.

Another reversal: a great centaur wielding a banner over his head, rampant in a field of bachelor's button. "The Hierophant. Again, reversed. So your life is all," she waves a hand, "topsy-turvey. The Hierophant is a spiritual authority, he represents rules and belief systems. Reversed, he's bucking those systems, casting them aside. You must challenge this status quo--your status quo, the one you cling to so dearly, if you are," she drifts her hand over the Phoenix and Ten of Pentacles, "to ever change this. He may be an individual--yourself, perhaps, given the rest. Or he may be the strictures by which you lead your life. But this card says, these must be undone."

She stops here, raises her eyebrows. "Was this a cold read, Count?"

Kyle winces as he didn't remember about Ravn's nephropathy until he'd touched him. He just nods quietly he doesn't usually even talk about his... powers, well its just better not to. But Ravn looked like he needed it. Then the reading happened. And Kyle determined that he just didn't understand these things. He shrugs and watches though you never know what you may learn if you just watch and listen.

"No. Not a cold read," Ravn murmurs very quietly. He looks a little stricken; with less drugs in his system he might have managed better at keeping a straight face. "I understand the first two. I may have to think about the third."

He backs away, a little too fast. It's obvious that the old woman's reading made him deeply uncomfortable, even if nothing in it seemed immediately threatening. Unless, of course, one considers the idea of drowning in one's own poor judgement to be a threat.

"I'd offer you a drink, Ravn. But with what I am guessing you are on and the fact, no flask today." Devlin shrugs, "no drink for now. May be another time. Though in the jeep I do have water."

Hyacinth gives Vyv such a look. Is that an artful complaint of the cold. Surely not. The tangible normalcy is a rare static comfort in the harbor sometimes, and enough of one to give a curious look from Hya. There's a pause and her attention goes to Kyle, "It's not you." She noticed. Dive under the table now, laddie!

The reading on poor Ravn does leave a mild feeling of vindication. There is still the matter of the old woman again giving her the side eye. Now this is met with a bit of mild irritation, though no actual aggression as it's not managed to get colder out here yet. Her hand digs deep into her pocket and pulls out something white and metallic and sets it onto the table. Her head tilts challenging her. That's the missing part of her manicure she needs to get put back on and without it her whole manicure is scrapped. But she isn't gifting the woman her debit card and the contents of her purse is pretty impersonal all in all. "Alright, Grandma. You can stop giving me the side eye. Your permit's fine and the park security will leave you alone or I'll snip up their badge." No siege today. "I have a plaza to go see un-destroyed today so shall we get on with this?" Because the shootout in the downtown strip mall and all that gaudy plastic police tape is still physically distressing her with the bad public image of it.

The fortune teller watches Hyacinth approach, leans over to look at the fine piece of manicuring on her table. She smiles after a moment, picks it up. "Quite nice. A piece of the carefully crafted image of Hyacinth Addington." She drops it into the bowl. "Priceless, in its way." She opens the box and takes out a deck.

The back of the cards is simple enough: a black frame around a set of blue-white circles on a blue field. But on closer inspection, it appears to be glass; the sorts of filler segments used in stained glass windows. She shuffles the deck a spell, offers it to Hyacinth to cut. "You need not ask me the question, only think it as you handle the cards."

...was that a suggestion he might be indifferent to the needs of those beneath him? Or might qualify as those beneath Ravn? Either way, Vyv does not entirely appreciate that flicker of a maybe-glance, and there's a tiny but also pointed change to the tilt of the head and upward arc of one brow in silent reply. Some might almost take it as some sort of challenge, were it followed by... anything, really, anything more than the quiet observation of the rest of the reading. Hm. Maybe it fits, from his point of view; it doesn't make him look any less interested in seeing what the woman has to say to Hya, though the look toward Ravn lingers a bit, not only taking in the effect, but adding something surprisingly close to concern. "You should join us for lunch," he remarks to the Dane, "...after we're all done here, of course."

"Thanks," Ravn murmurs to Devlin. "I think I just need a moment to collect my thoughts. She's eerily accurate on two out of three, and I suspect that once I've had time to think about it, the third will prove correct too. I have this overwhelming urge to pinch my own arm to see if I'm dreaming."

The old woman gets another look. Dreaming, right.

For all the Dane's reservations, though, he fails to walk away. Maybe he wants to see what the fortune teller makes of the corporate conquistadora, Gray Harbor's lumber baroness, the heiress to half the town. Maybe he wants to hear what sharp comments Vydal might have to make about it.

Devlin continues to watch is what is going on. Seeing a new deck coming out, raises an eyebrow for Devlin. He leans in a little as he watches.. curiosity almost could be written on his expression.

Hyacinth sits like a lady of good manufacturing. There's a pause and Hya gives a look to Vyv that's without a judgement there and back to the cards, "Well by all means invite his friends too we're not savages." Her fingers brush the back of the stained glass image admiring it for a solid moment appreciating the artistry before her fingers flip though and shuffle until- no, two more for good symmetry. They are neat. Orderly. Set back down on the table still watching the old woman.

With such a simple card back, the first card flipped might seem surprising. It's a riot of color in stained glass style, framed stonework: two angels pouring from a pair of cups which in turn feed into a stream of wine pouring from four others, all into a seventh cup supported by a third angel. But it's upside down, and the wine will spill out of the cups and all over.

"The Seven of Cups--reversed, and see how the wine will empty from these cups?" The old woman runs a hand over the card. "This is a card of abundance, especially of choice. Too much, in truth, and so you're inundated, overwhelmed. If you had but one cup, or two, the decision would be simple. Now it's complicated, and more so because you must choose the right one. This cup might be sour, and this one poison. Worse, they're muddled together." Regarding Hyacinth, she continues, "You must look past the illusions and confusion of these choices. Rely on your own instincts. Make a careful choice, one which isn't made in a panic for too many options."

The next card is also cups, however it's upright. Two angels, one holding up the arch of the image and the other bearing a candle, with four cups; three are upright, one is spilling its contents onto the floor. "The Four of Cups, another card of choices. In this case, the angels are so pre-occupied with their work, they're ignoring other things; to the detriment of one, which spills unnoticed." She nods. "This seems to suggest you should not withdraw into your decisions for," she taps the first card, "this so much that you ignore your other concerns. Your life is at a delicate point, the demands on your time are many, and it will be easy to make mistakes from inattention. Consider asking for help or guidance where you must."

The next card, like the first, is also reversed: four large staves...or logs?...on a yellow field. "The Eight of Wands again," she cuts a look to Devlin, "but now, reversed. If your friend here was being told to prepare, to ready himself, this is a warning against frustration during such preparations. In taking your time to be careful, you will feel things move too slowly. You'll desire an end to your many choices, and wish to," she makes a sharp gesture, "tear off the bandage, and get on with it." She shakes her head. "That's not the time for this. This is a time to align yourself." She touches the carefully arranged logs. "Do not resist the changes needed, even if they must come slowly, and with small movements." She looks at Hyacinth. "Beginnings are delicate times."

She then scoops up the cards and shuffles them back into the deck.

Up go the brows again at the chiding from Hyacinth, and Vyv glances over the other three men, this time less-individually. "Oh, were you here together? I hadn't realised. Yes, all right then, feel free as well." It actually seems like a genuine enough invitation, despite the perhaps less-than-effusive phrasing.

He is, however, very interested in seeing what goes on with Hya's reading, to the extent that he actually leans in just a little to get a better look at the cards, both back and, as they're revealed, front. "...tear off the bandage, and get on with it," he murmurs in echo, faint amusement crossing his expression. "Sounds like good advice, yes." Surely this is not an implication that he thinks his friend could ever be prone to doing such a thing with a situation. No particularly sharp remarks are forthcoming, however; more, he looks thoughtful, turning all that over in his head. However much he might or might not believe in these things, they're fascinating; the odds of Hya getting asked what she makes of it once things are less public are probably high.

Things are considered for a moment, and a glove is removed, the bare hand slipped into one of his pockets. "What precisely are the requirements regarding appropriate payment?"

With Vyv asking about payment, Devlin hmmms. One might catch him mouthing, -this will be interesting-.

"I'm not feeling so great," Ravn murmurs, mostly to Vyv. "I may have to take a rain check on lunch. The idea of solids is a little... uncomfortable, I honestly feel like I ought to be leaking, with both these two new holes in me. I should be smart and go get some of that rest the doctor lectured me on for an hour before they agreed to let me sign myself out, shouldn't I?"

The fortune teller gives Vyv a once over. "It must be something of value to you, though not great value. Important, but not wrenching to part with. If you've a book on your, or a photograph you're fond of." She studies him a little longer, picks a bit of lint off her shearling coat. "Or a bit of your Art, perhaps." She says it so casually, like she might suggest he get her a coffee from Espresso Yourself, but the gleam in her eyes is not casual in the least.

Devlin nods to Ravn when he mentions the rest. "Speaking from experience, two purple hearts.. get the rest."

Hyacinth watches the cards, her finger hovering near the edge of her reading. That's a LOT of cups. In truth it reminds her more than a bit of her cousin and her brother. The news though is taken not unlike that of a business advisor. There's a look of concentration as she listens though there's a shimmer for those that see not terribly unlike water droplets rushing up a glass tower rather than down it. The reading is given a careful consideration, though by the end of it her finger touching the edge of the card. Her focus is, for the time being absolute and in the end? There's a small flash of scarlet on the her white scarf like blood in the snow.

And the moment passes, her fingers lifting to her bloody nose. There is, somehow dignity always even were she wearing a paper bag as she finds the words. "Yes, um.... I appreciate the council." It is a rarity that the woman looks this distracted but she stands and looks around. Well crumbs. Looking at the assembled she asks the EMT< "You don't have a kleenex I could trade you gratitude for by chance?"

"Got a broken heart once, but I'm pretty sure it was still red." Ravn smiles weakly at Devlin. Does the Dane not get the reference to the American decorations awarded for being injured in battle? He probably does, and is just trying to be funny -- with the questionable level of success that does indeed hint of too much Tramadol and too little shut-eye.

The man does have one unique talent to his name -- and one that tends to go unnoticed by means of its very nature at that: He's really good at not getting noticed. Wandering off quietly, somehow not drawing attention to himself, not bothering with long goodbyes -- Ravn was there a moment ago and now he is not. Presumably he's going home to fall over before pain and fatigue makes him pass out.

Men are stupid like that sometimes. Particularly men who maybe feel that they have a bit to prove, not exactly having been a lot of use to anyone in a firefight(1).

(1) Not that that's true. Getting shot counts as useful -- means that the shooter was too distracted to shoot someone else. Right?

Devlin reaches into his jacket, "Perhaps a little better than a kleenex." It takes a moment before he extracts a white handkerchief. "This should do." He passes it to her. Nothing special about it, pretty plain and basic.

Vyv was probably not going for a handkerchief when he went for the pocket, but on seeing that drop of blood his brow furrows and that's what he withdraws, a pristine white cotton handkerchief that he offers over to Hyacinth. "Are you all right?" The concern is lowkey but genuine, and he gives the fortune teller a look in the dubious-to-suspicious range, with the timing of that and her request for a bit of his Art. Not, he's fairly sure, his patisserie, either.

"Mn," he says, studying her a moment, and his hand returns to his pocket. "All right. Text later?" he says to Ravn, benevolently allowing him dismissal from lunch this time. "Rest is good but you do also need to eat. Don't forget." When his hand emerges from the pocket this time, it brings a small, folded piece of paper, which he unfolds, taking a look at what's written there. It's a small sheet as from a kitchen-type notepad, and seems to contain a very short grocery list -- including, what may seem uncharacteristically, flavoured creamer -- and a little sketch of a fox on what looks like a jet-powered hoverboard, with a space helmet on as well. Probably half a minute's idle doodling, by someone with talent. The scrap goes into the bowl. His turn, apparently.

If the old woman notices Hyacinth touch a card and the resulting nose bleed, she gives no indication. Her attention is on Vyv. Isn't it? And then, that shopping list, or rather, the image scribbled on it. "Ah, Maître Vydal, a gift from someone important to you. A perfect payment."

Transaction complete, she indicates the seat with a nod, and pulls out a deck. The card back is a simple lenticular pattern in dark gold over a maroon field. A careful examination of the lens shapes reveals the interior linework design is an abstract...cat?

A coy little smile for Ravn he departs, and a comment of, "Choose wisely, Kyle Warren," when he does as well. She shuffles, offers the deck to Vyv. "Cut, and if you prefer, you may also shuffle. You need not tell me your question, unless you prefer to."

Gift is almost certainly an overstatement, but all the same, and whether it might be today's list or one he's kept with him for that very doodle, when it's framed that way there's a flicker of what may well be second thoughts or regret for parting with it, a shift of his eyes toward where it's settled in the bowl. Still, what's done is done. Plus, he hasn't got another good option to hand and taking things back out of a payment dish of any sort is never a good look. So he settles himself elegantly into the chair, reaching out to accept the proffered deck. He holds it thoughtfully a moment, then does give it a brief shuffle before cutting as requested and settling back again to watch the woman closely. It would seem he does not prefer to tell her the question in his mind.

The fortune teller nods, turns over the first card, which is done in a baroque style, like an old medieval tapestry. Except, the figures in lovely broacade doublets and velvet dresses are not people, they're...cats. Finely dressed and elegant cats, but cats none the less.

The first card is clearly a king, seated on his throne, proud and tall. He bears a long staff in his h--paw. Except...he's reversed. "So many reversals for all of you," she murmurs, thoughtful. "This is the King of Wands. He's a man of inspiration and vision. A true entrepreneur, and as he is a King, he's reached the pinacle of his skill. But he's fallen from his throne, which has pinned him down. He's become ruthless, his expectations too lofty. For himself, or," her eyes flit to the scrap of paper in the bowl, "others? It could easily be both. He needs to reconsider his decisions and lean on the experienc he has, rather than leap to impulsiveness simply because it's there."

The next card is a cat with a royal bearing, but he wears no crown, instead holds it in his hand, along with a trumpet. He sits in the clouds, overlooking the landscape with sun and moon. And, like the King of Wands, this image is upside down. "The World, also reversed." Her mouth flattens. "Another life undergoing a transition, changing shape and position." A glance up at Vyv, less to confirm it than to make sure he takes her meaning. "The World is a card of many things, but above all, the card of wholeness, of lofty pursiuts come to fruition. You gaze upon your dominion and are pleased. Or," she taps the upsidedown cat, "you would. Instead, the reality and material nature of the world is crushing your goals. As below, so above. Before you can continue on your higher pursuits, you must address those which are closer at hand." One gray and white brow goes up. "Those of a more personal nature, perhaps."

The next card is also reversed: a cat, lying sleeping in a bed, with two swords crossed above and below him. "The Four of Swords. This card represents rest and respite from," she runs a hand over the other two cards, "the trials of life. Or it should. But here, the cat is tossed from his bed onto the swords. He's not giving himself time to recover his strength--of spirit, of body, of mind. He will run himself ragged, and perhaps never recover, leaving him," she rests a finger on the King of Wands, "trapped by his own pursuits."

She doesn't scoop up the cards right away. A challenge, maybe, to see if Vyv will do as Hyacinth did, and attempt to read the cards with Glimmer? Or merely a temptation...

It is rare for Devlin to see readings like this and of course the reactions. All of the readings holding his attention. "Excuse me but seeing as it is a bit cold, would you care for a cup of hot tea? And perhaps something to eat to go with it?" For the moment his curiosity oh hold, the medic in him seeing something that he can do now to avoid something else later? Or may be he is just being polite and respectful? It can be anyone's guess in the moment.

"Tea! An excellent idea." The old woman gathers up her cards and sets them back into the box, which she locks with a little bronze key. "Be a dear, and watch my things, hm?" She takes her purse with her, and begins a slow progression to Espresso Yourself.

Hyacinth warms a small, but gracious smile to Devlin who comes though. EMTs: the people's hero. And Vyv coming in with the other so she can briefly work on cleaning herself up. Vyv is good taste's hero. "Not my worst public moment." When asked how she is she tells Vyv, "We are a Bastian of purpose... I'm okay..." There's a pause and with a little flick of his hankie as if bidding him bon voyage. "Really I'm okay. Do... that so we can get lunch." And now to put herself back together while the attention is on Vyvyan.

That's a curious reading. There's a faint smirk when the first card could be interpreted in a particular way to vindicate her own opinion. The rest? Well Vyv really is one of the three hardest working people in Gray Harbor. Did it just tell him to take a holiday or not to though?? When Devlin puts out the tea invite There's a shift in her posture as if ready to point out that's where they were- oooooh her... well...

And now they're charged with her belongings. Weeeeell dang. Her eyes drift to the bag but is making no move to go near it still waiting for her condition to subside. "Thank you for this. I'll have it laundered for you because... Hippa or pathogens or...whatever." No idea but the consideration counts right?

Starting with a King suits Vyv just fine, and the particular description of this one especially so. At least up to the point where it's reversed, which isn't precisely ideal. Ruthless, he might be willing to accept, and it's surely not the first time it's been suggested his expectations were too lofty. For himself or others. Fallen, though? Mn. As for the next -- again, it would be more pleasing not reversed. Goals being crushed? Perhaps it's true not everything is going to his exact specifications currently... That last card gets an extra moment of consideration, or perhaps even two. Did it just tell him to take a holiday? Slightly dubious, that expression, and yet still seeming to roll it all over in his head as he looks the spread over once more, taking in each fancy cat along the way.

"Thank you," he says, and rises from the chair, resisting any temptation that might have arisen to glimmer at the cards. He, at least, is apparently perfectly willing to assume the charge of thing-watching was for Devlin only, as he glances to Hya while giving his coat a gentle straightening, and asks, "Shall we?"

"If you have problems with the nose bleed, go to a critical care facility rather than an ER. I don't have my kit here." Devlin indicates. "It's in the jeep, other side of the park. Seems I'm hanging loose for a few." Clearly he does not mind.

Hyacinth blinks at Vyv and said "That totally just told you to take a holiday... I swear these cards have a low business acumen." Still it's chilly. "Well, lunch then I suppose." Looking to Devlin she asks, "well, thank you. In the scale of this week I'm sure i'm quite fine." She's not the one around here who was shot at. "You need lunch, Devlin? Least that can be be done really."

Devlin says, "Something light and tea would be great if you are able to." He smiles a bit, "I do appreciate. The cards.. " He hrrms, "Perhaps a mystery best left unsolved and may be they do have better acument for business than you give them credit for. How many exhausted business people have you seen make good judgment calls?"

"I'm not exhausted, though. And there's much to be done. Still..." Vyv gives a small shrug. "I'll give it some thought. It might not be a terrible idea. And it might not be the sole interpretation of what could be meant, even if one takes it all entirely seriously." A half-smile, and a small gesture that seems to back up Hyacinth's offer of arranging lunch, though he doesn't directly comment on that, beyond agreeing to her: "Lunch, then."

Nearly a year. It has nearly been a year since Roxy left Gray Harbor to go choreograph a show in New York. But all good things must come to an end, and the Veil doesn't ever let them go forever. The ballerina has only just gotten off a bus outside the park, hoping to stop downtown to check the dance studio before she goes to get a hotel room until her apartment is ready at the Broadleaf. She is bundled up in a vintage 40s green and blue plaid winter coat with faux-fur trim, her short-cropped black hair ironed smoothly and her blue eyes bright as she takes in the line for readings. The studio can wait, she heads to get a place in the line, looking for any familiar faces.

Devlin smiles to the old woman, "I am glad that you took the time to refresh yourself." Yeah, he can't not help be a good medic it seems and one of those watching over her table. "I do find these things interesting." Someone motions for him to take a place in the line, "I have already had a reading ealier, best to let others take their turn."

Roxy sits down and gives the woman a gentle smile. "Syöjätär, it has been some time. How fare your dear goats and your garden?" she asks, her accent foreign. She reaches into a coat pocket and pulls out a ring of keys, removing one of the keychains, a little statue of liberty from her recent travels. She sets it into the bowl. "I am glad to see you are well."

Devlin hmms, as he steps back and watches. It would appear a few potentially mischievous youths have not carried out something due to Devlin's presence near the table. Some of them have tried to prank him during a work out and shall we say results varied.. with very rare successes.

The old woman smiles at Roxy's deference. "Why thank you, my dear. They're quite well. With me even now, if you'd like to visit with them." She nudges her purse with one booted foot. But then the key is going into the bowl. "But, perhaps another time."

The deck she pulls from the box has an elaborate cardback: a great, eight-pointed star surrounded by rose vines, the flowers black and red. The cards themselves are black stock, giving them an austere look. She shuffles it, pushes it across to Roxy. "Cut the deck. No need to tell me what your question is, though of course you may."

Roxy looks at the purse with a brow arching, waving to it, as if the goats maybe can see her in there. "Some other time, perhaps. I have just returned to town, and there is much I need to do to get settled back in," she admits. She doesn't speak her question, because she knows this woman is not a woman, she is what many cultures refer to as the Baba Yaga. And they are not strangers. She thinks about whether or not she'll ever find the stone that was meant for her. She gave the one she brought back to it's rightful person, Joseph Cavanaugh, but there was one that called to her as well. She reaches over and cuts the deck of cards, setting the top portion beside the bottom.

His head cocks a bit with Roxy mentioning she has not been around for a while. "Welcome back," Devlin says warmly. "I hope your travels were good ones and much better than many of mine."

The old woman mmmms as she places the cut deck back together and turns the first card. "Yes. Much to do."

This is a vibrantly colored deck, the art clean and detailed. A young woman in a flowing white dress dances across the card: she's wearing shoes which look suspiciously like ballet slippers. A gold headdress and wide, gold earrings give her the look of an Atlantean, and she has a gold cup in her hand, the contents splashing. Flying fish swirl around her. But--she's upside down.

"The Page of Cups. A young person, artistic. A musician, or a dancer," she gives Roxy a droll look, "perhaps. But see how she tumbles, upside down. Her life is overturned, spilling the cup of her creativity; she's not thinking outside the box. She's stifled, her emotions aren't growing and maturing as they should. It will be her downfall, if she can't find a way to refresh herself."

The next card shows two oxen at the yoke, with three coins spaced between them. "The Three of Coins. This is a card of shared responsibilities." She taps the oxen. "See how much more weight they can carry if they work as a team? But it requires work, they must be willing to compromise their own desires. The mastery of craft that," she indicates the Page of Cups, "that this one is struggling to find may be found in help from others. Working with them."

The final card is an austere piece: a great jellyfish swims away from a set of eight cups, leaving them begind; the moon shines down, crescent phase, illuminating that which has been left behind. "The Eight of Cups. This is a card of burdens and opportunities both laid down. The jellyfish swims away rather than accept these things--possibly to a harder path. And so it's a dual natured card," she gives Roxy a once over, "much like yourself, perhaps. There is loss, bereavement here, and also there is a search for truth. For clarity, and accepting your own nature. You must find a way to accept the burden of your griefs, with," she touches the two oxen, "help, and only then may you dance upright again."

She stops here, gestures at the three cards, then gathers them back up into the deck.

Roxy murmurs a quiet, "Thank you," to Devlin, the Finnish accent out of place in the town, perhaps, but not out of place in the realm of the strange old woman with the cards. She looks on Baba Yaga with something like fondness in her expression. The reading is listened to intently, earnestly. Dark lashes sweep like ash across her pale cheeks as she looks down at the cards. The resemblance to herself in the Page of Cups card draws her focus and she bites her lower lip. "I understand," she murmurs. "Thank you, Syöjätär. It was good to see you once more. I am sure this will not be the last time."

"Family friends?" Devlin can not help but inquire. Yup.. curiosity does make for a good medic. "You made for an interesting day, Ma'am." His tone respectful. "And if you need a hand with taking things to your car, I do not mind helping if you need it."

The old woman smiles at Roxy, pleased with this show of respect. After all, Roxy ruined her fun last time they came across one another. "I'm sure it won't be," she agrees easily. "Be blessed, Riika. Dance well."

She arches an eyebrow at Devlin. "Oh, I'll be fine with my things. But thank you so much." She settles down, gestures for the next person to come up.

Roxy dips her head to the elderly woman in a respectful nod as she rises and smiles to Devlin. "Have a lovely day," she tells them both, before making her way towards Downtown and the strip mall. Just wait til she sees the bullet holes and broken glass. She is soooo gonna have words.

Unanswered questions, but that is the way it is at times. So Devlin offers, "Your welcome. Perhaps it is a good time to go visit Hera or at least see if she is in." As Roxy turns to head towards the strip mall, he hmms as he quietly comments, "interesting.."

Sometimes it was good to get some of that clean winter air. You know... because it made the vape taste better. Rekani was doing just that. His mean, flagrantly regulation breaking car had roared to a stop in a parking space near the edge of the square, maybe purely by chance. He didn't have work for a few hours and driving back to his place just seemed so boring.

Also there was a taco truck. No coincidence.

So here he was, taking occasional long hits from a silvery vape pen, strolling comfortably through the square. He was jacketed, of course. He had a hipster-style beanie to accent his glasses, a big scarf. It was probably less than some people would need to keep warm, but when your insulation is built in, you get to wear less layers.

The taco truck was not far off, but for some reason, the younger Nazario slows in front of the fortune teller's table, his brow raising.

An older gentleman is getting his cards read with his wife off to the side; his bland expression suggests he's humoring his wife, at least initially. Gradually his features betray concern, then real fear. He gets up and leaves, his wife following after him in a hurry.

The old woman spies Rekani, smiles and tilts her head at him. "Care to see what the cards have for you, young master Nazario?"

The hospital's on the other end of the park, and Itzhak should not be out in the cold with his chest a complete mess. This was universally agreed upon by his medical team. But when a nurse tried to intercept him on his way out, he'd snarled at her, "I am going for a fucking walk." She made him take a cane. He's a fall risk. Itzhak hadn't used it for the first few minutes, out of sheer asinine pride, but then he had to, in order to keep going. Which to do? Admit that he needed the cane or admit that he shouldn't be out here? Tough choice, but the cane stings less. So he's sort of poling himself along with it like a gondolier. (The nurse's navy-scrubs-clad form can be seen hovering thirty or so yards back. Her arms are crossed, because she has better things to be doing than chasing after his obstreperous ass.)

Itzhak's following a silent thread of music that's driven him out here. Oh, he probably would have been a dick anyway, but needing to know what's happening is what really spurred him on. Breathing hard, he approaches the table, realizes who's at it. His eyebrows go up. But he keeps quiet for the moment, glancing at Rekani. Also he needs a minute to catch his breath.

Some people may be weirded out by people using their names so casually, but considering Rekani's penchant to wander around high as a kite, and maybe a little ego that people might recognize his music, it doesn't put him off. Also if their were regularly food vendors around here, he'd be on it like a fat... kid... on... Yeah, we all saw the joke coming. He steps over toward the fortune teller and grins.

"Hell yeah, I'm in, abuela." He steps up, puts his hands on the back of the chair... And stops. No way he was risking his close to 400 lbs on that bundle of glorified kindling. He just leans a hand on the back, then belated notices Itzhak hobbling up, "Hey-yo, wassup, homes." His blaise enthusiasm chilled by the sight of him, "Yo, you look like sh-..." He blinks, looks at the old lady, and actually censors himself. "...like you got trashed. What happened to you?"

Meanwhile he was reaching for his wallet, figuring their was a fee or tip for the carnie game.

The fortune teller smiles to see Itzhak. Because he's beat to shit? Because he's walking around and alive? Who can say. "Sir Rosencrantz," she says, dipping her head. It doesn't matter how far he is from her; he can hear her perfectly.

As Rekani begins to fish around in his wallet, the old woman holds up a hand. "Not money," she says. "It must be a thing which is important to you. Not so important that parting with it would harm you, but nothing so simple and vulgar as society's coin. Something it would be much harder to replace. A photograph of a friend, a lock of your hair, a keychain...a bit of your Art, perhaps..." She raises her eyebrows, waiting.

Itzhak smirks wearily at Rekani. "Little argument with a couple tough guys wearing brass jackets. I'll be okay." He really does look like shit, and he says he'll be okay with the air of having needed to tell a lot of people that he'll be okay. Staying back, though, he lets Rekani talk to the old woman, suddenly all respectful. Listening to what she tells the younger guy, too. (He snorts, though, when she gives him the title 'sir'.)

Rekani's eyes fall closed, brows lifting, then he opens them again in the most dramatic of blinks, followed by a few more quick ones. Was he that high? She'd gone from harmless old lady to the most confusing thing he'd ever encountered, "Hold up, say what now?"

A look is swung Itzhak's way as if wondering if he'd heard that, before looking back. He shifts his weight more back on his heels as he mulls it over. With a shrug, he leans forward and sets his vape pen down on the table. Important to him, harder to replace, but not so important it would harm him to part with.

Well, it would mean he'd probably have to stop at home before work, but sometimes he doesn't think that far ahead.

He doesn't really think back either, that he'd had that pen since he got here to Gray Harbor, that it was the pen he'd shared with Kip the first time they'd gone out. Rekani wasn't always the smartest kid, after all.

"Ah, a remembrance of someone you met here, in this place where all of us are Fools." The old woman takes the pen and adds it to her bowl, pulls a deck from the box. It's a long, thin deck, with a black and gold flower pattern on the card back. She has to shuffle it overhand, as it's too long for her small hands. She pushes it across the table to Rekani. "Cut, please. No need to tell me your question, though you may, if you wish."

Itzhak just hitches his eyebrows back at Rekani, like, yep, that's sure what she said. Then he's trying not to laugh when Rek gives up his vape pen. He pretends to cough against the sleeve of his peacoat. Then he really does start coughing. Turns out, freezing cold air, not great on a freshly-operational lung!

Rekani looks confused at that, quirking a brow and canting his head. The words didn't connect to what he'd given. Shaking his head, Rekani just reached out and cuts. He has no questions. He wasn't a complicated guy. He does look over to Itzhak in concern though. Maybe he'd have to help the geezer back to the hospital after this.

The deck's art is detailed, but the color pallette is limited and stark: dark purple, gold, pale greens, violet, and black. And the text on it is some dialect similar to Spanish--close enough that Rekani can understand it. The first card is a man crowned in candles, a staff with a crescent moon head in one hand, a burning censer in another. A pentacle sits at his throat, a heavy necklace of beads and a pale violet robe embroidered in lace marks his station. O Papa. "The Pope, who is also the Hierophant." She scrutinizes Rekani. "I don't think this is you," she observes, tone dry. "For the Hierophant is a teacher, a keeper of spiritual strictures, and that," an eyebrow goes up, "doesn't seem like your calling. Instead, I think this is a rite of passage. One coming to you, or upon you, or just past you. You will walk through fire, and join a greater community if you survive."

The next card is three gold gilt wine glasses, each with a daisy in it. Tres d'Copas. "The Three of Cups. A card of joy and contentment, and belonging. See how each flower has its own cup, yet all are close together, joined by a common stem." She gestures at the Hierophant. "You cannot expect to go through this trial alone. You must rejoice in your connections with others and use them to strengthen you. Listen to their counsel, accept their censure. They're your guides as much as you are theirs."

Lastly, a middle-aged woman sitting on a wall by the sea, the sun setting in the distance. She's holding a series of six daisies, letting them fall into the water, her expression distant. Seis d'Copas. "The Six of Cups. A card of reflection and introspection--especially of your youth." She tilts her head, and her expression softens. "She looks back with some sadness, some regret. She has old grief and scars, and though she came here to relax, she's awash in the memories of things which came before, many of them unfortunate. But she's finely dressed, and in good health, so," she looks up at Rekani, "she's moved beyond this past. Except for in this moment. And so," she points to the other two cards, "you should not allow your past to distract you and trap you. It sings a siren song of nostalgia that may not help you move forward with your rite of passage."

She pauses to let Rekani consider these things, then shuffles the cards back into the deck.

Itzhak's hanging back, but he's paying attention. He's not looking, though. Attention without obvious attention. Letting Rekani have his reading and his soul laid bare in peace. Nope, he's just standing here enjoying this fine day, minding his own business.

There’s only so much that Rekani can just laugh off and dismiss as superstition, especially in a world where he can lift things with his mind and pierce the wall between worlds. He was smiling and good natured at first, thinking the walking through fire to join a community was an apt description. He’d been shot, he made friends. They danced and he made more. The Darkness came for him, and he put in his all saving Aidan. But you can think that’s just happenstance.

But ‘they were his guide as much as he was theirs’? He could take people in and out of the Veil, perhaps the thing he could do better than anyone, but he didn’t have shit for knowledge of it, that was for eggheads, like when he walked the Revisionist’s circus. Shit was getting spooky.

The last bit just makes him apprehensive. What was he going to look back on? Was he getting old? He was still in his early 20’s... His thoughts just trail on until he’s rocking back on his heels again, letting out a low whistle. Again, he trades glances with Itzhak.

“Ohhhkaayy. Well I see why you sent the other dude packin’. Lady, that’s kinda scary as he...-ck.”

The old woman shrugs, pulls a face. "The truth can be painful," she says. "Many come to me thinking I will have only glib tales of their deepest desires. But this isn't how the cards work. Unless," she smiles, "one seeks money. But money is of little use to me." She places the deck back in her box, looks to Itzhak. "Come then, Sir Rosencrantz. Sit, your body could use the rest. Decide what you wish to trade me for the cards' knowledge."

Itzhak bows to the old woman, shallow, because bending over sure is a challenge right now. The hand not on his cane describes a graceful flourish. "Shalom aleichem, Bubbe." He trades that glance with Rekani and grips him on the shoulder, before moving to sit. Once he's sitting, he sighs involuntarily in relief.

"What's with the 'sir'?" he asks her, not in as raucous and obnoxious tone as he could. Downright polite. As for the question of a trade, he smiles, a little gleam of his usual confident arrogance. "How's about a song. The first one I'll sing since," he taps his chest, light. "Just for you."

Rekani would sit and listen, holding the chair for Itzhak to sit, as he hadn’t trusted his own weight to it, so he wasn’t sure if he should let a wounded friend plop down. When it doesn’t fold, he lets out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

The old woman makes a low sound, chuckles. "Mmmmm, you know not your own title. So it is among those," she looks askance at Rekani, "who think their great deeds are nothing more than what must be done." She takes a deck out of the box as he suggests a song, smiles bright and eager. "Ah, a fine price. Yes, the first song of your new self." She gestures for him to go on while she shuffles. The cards are a rich purple with gold illumination and a pair of butterfly fairies facing one another, and gold edges.

"Thanks, pal," Itzhak murmurs to Rek, gladly accepting the help. Sitting while managing a cane is a new problem for him, but hey, he's an engineer, he's got this. Bubbe talks about him not knowing his title and about his new self and his mouth twists, like this is just way too much truthiness for him already.

Nevertheless he straightens, automatically lining up diaphragm and lungs and throat--then winces. Oooh that hurts. Well, all the better for an offering, right? He sets the tempo, snapping in time, and then--raspy, a little breathless, but perfectly on key and in time--he sings.

When I look out my window
What do you think I see?
And when I look in my window
So many different worlds in me
And they're strange
So strange ...that's not the actual lyrics. He's improvising a little.

You've got to pick up every stitch
Two rabbits runnin' in the ditch
Mmmmm-hmmmmm
Must be the season of the witch, yeah
Must be the season of the witch
Where do I go?

The fortune teller all but basks in this offering: the raspy voice, the painful throat clearing. She even hums along, broken and uneven, as she pushes the cards to Itzhak to cut. And once he has...

The first card is perhaps a shock: a great red bull, a crown of fire around a leafing branch in front of him. He's imperious and powerful, implacable. "The King of Wands," she says, smile sly and teasing. "A natural leader. Wise, mature--yet also stubborn, and prone to conquering. He's not so gentle as he could be, too quick to act in his emtions." She gives him a bland look. "You, I would say, or a possible you."

She doesn't say more on that topic, only pulls the next card: a young knight, his clothing simple but his bearing proud and ready, a spear to hand. "The Knight of Wands," she says. "Honorable, a protector of values, a true hero. But prone to recklessness, just as his sovereign is prone to ruthlessness. An idealized you, the man you wish to be. The one who will not stand by while another suffers. No matter that you began your journey to heroism for a simple sake, now you continue it for its own: at the behest of those in need. But be wary," she touches the red bull, "that you do not take your heroism so far as to presume for others, to ignore their needs and values in your haste and pride. Decisive action is not correct action."

The final card is reversed: a group of woodland creatures watches a unicorn flee into the woods, through a set of bare trees, eight trunks in total. "The Eight of Wands, but reversed. Another card of swiftness and haste. But again, a warning. See how this unicorn charges into the unknown wilds unaided, unsure of her path, driven by emotion?" The old woman shakes her head. "She'll be lost and confused in short order, trapped by her desperate need to act. Her energy is better put into seeking help, or finding a path around her obstacles, not away from them."

She studies the cards a moment. "All wands," she comments. "No one else has been single-suited." Her eyes rise to Itzhak's. "You are filled with a fierce need to act, to do, to overcome. You must temper it."

Itzhak cuts the deck, left-handed, stacks the lower cut atop the first. His big long-fingered hand wraps easily around the cards. As the old woman prepares to deal, he takes in a breath, bracing himself. Whatever cards she turns over, he already knows they're going to hurt.

The enormous red bull wreathed in flame. The young prince, bearing his spear. The unicorn fleeing down a road into the unknown. Itzhak's hand forms a fist, pressing in the middle of his chest, despite how painful that is, because of how painful it is. He almost touches the red bull, as if he recognizes it, but pulls back at the last second. It's the unicorn he points at, then.

"She never woulda changed," he says, his voice rougher, throttled. "If she hadn't. She woulda stayed in her forest forever, and she never woulda known."

The old woman nods. "It's true, she would not have. And the prince's heart would not have broken, nor would he have become the man his people needed, and her kind would have been forever imprisoned. A victory, at considerable cost: her very self, altered forever. No longer one of her own kind, and not one of ours. A new kind, in fact." She tilts her head. "So, Sir Rosencrantz, ask yourself--what price are you willing to pay to save others? Will you empty yourself out like a cup in the desert, to be refilled with something else entirely? Or will you try another way?" She scoops up the three cards, tucks the deck back in her box. "A question only you can answer, and not in this moment. For now," she snakes her hand into the box, pulls out one last card: a woman with moonglow hair wrapped in a cloak, lead by the Knight of Wands; they walk among six swords, "seek your respite from what has been. Rest. Recover, collect your thoughts." She puts the card back in the box and prepares to collect her things.

Itzhak bows his head. A tear drips on the table. He leaves it there--a trade for that fourth card. "Adank," he mutters, and scrubs roughly at his face before he levers himself to his feet with his cane. Slow, with Rekani's help and the nurse who hurries forward, he makes his way back to the hospital.

Should either look back, they'll catch a glimpse of the old woman tucking that box into her purse. The card table and chairs are already gone. She then proceeds to make her way into the hedge maze, and is lost to sight.