2021-03-23 - Fortunes in the Garden IV

One man who by now should have come to some kind of terms with the presence of the old fortune teller in town is Ravn Abildgaard -- who hasn't. By now, the folklorist has all but an entire list of issues with this whole setup. The fog is one -- isn't it just convenient that one of Slavic folklore's greatest trickster figures happens to bounce into town at the time of the spring equinox and so does the foggy weather to rival any Victorian London pea-souper? Isn't it just interesting how she seems to attract every soul in town who has the shine? And how willing these people are to part with tokens of great personal value, for a reading?

Not that he's got any room to talk. It's his engagement ring in the bowl over there. And what's worse, the reading was likely accurate and its advice better taken.

Maybe this discrepancy between Ravn's instinct to warn people the hell away from Baba Yaga -- it's bloody Baba Yaga, people! -- and his curiosity is what draws him towards her this time. He heads not for the bench upon which he has sat several times already, watching the fortune teller ply her trade but for her table. Gloved hands buried in the pockets of his leather jacket he nods at the old woman. "Quiet today here, is it?"

The old woman glances up from smoothing the shawl Roxy gave her out on her lap. She's got some knitting in a hand-woven basket next to her, is reaching for it when Ravn approaches. "Ah, Count, how good to see you again." She's knitting...some kind of doll. It seems to be a deer, maybe, or an elk.

She glances about, shrugs. "Hardly a surprise. Fog like this, people would rather stick close to home." She gives him a once over. "Well. Smart people, anyways." She chases this with a cheeky smile, focuses on her project. "So what brings you back to me, hm?"

"I never claimed to be smart," Ravn murmurs drily. He looks at the elk-in-progress, and then at the bowl, and finally at the shawl. "Also, I have a name, you realise?"

He wavers in a moment of indecision; not entirely unwarranted either, because while there are few people in Gray Harbor who understands how dangerous this little old woman can be, he is one of those elect few. He's still not convinced he believes that the woman is the real, genuine Baba Yaga -- but the Veil has granted her the mind and powers of the real thing at least for the here and now. It doesn't matter whether she's the real thing. As far as Gray Harbor is concerned, she is the real thing.

"I was wondering if you do readings for -- places," he says at length. "There is a project I am helping with. It will face challenges. Having some kind of forewarning or direction might not be a bad thing."

The fortune teller continues knitting away, the elk slowly taking shape. Something's wrong with the hindquarters; they seem to be tapering rather than a formal set of hindquarters as might be expected. She's also shifting the colors, from a dusky silver-purple to a deep blue-black. "Nor should you, because we can't know what we are, only who. Our actions define the what."

She glances up at Ravn's comment about his name, her whole demeanor razor-sharp and cold as ice. "Do you really want me to use your name?" There's an undercurrent of 'here's your chance to prove to me how not smart you really are'. Her answer about a possible reading may need to wait.

"If I have to be honest I'd much prefer that you didn't even know it." Ravn replies to the question with surprising severity. "And usually, I would be very worried if I were to hear you use the names of people -- but I have heard you do so, and I am trying to decide whether I should be very worried about them, or asking why you have decided against using mine. Perhaps I should just leave this sleeping bear to continue napping."

He pauses and looks at the little elk again. "I can't help feel that you are taunting us, grandmother. Your little elk there? I do see it. I do recognise it. Do you intend to answer any questions I might have about it?"

The old woman bursts out in a laugh. "There's a difference between knowing a name, and being given leave to use it. If you ask that I use your name, it's the same as allowing the blood drinkers into your home. You've given it to me. Now I have it. Now, I may do with it as I wish." Her eyebrows lift a second. "Have care who you hand that power to." She waves a hand around her head. "Here, in the Real, the power it holds is different. But in the Other Places," she glances up from her knitting, "the power can be absolute, in the right hands." She holds his gaze a moment.

"Taunting you," she snorts, "what a spoiled little brat you are, Count." She sets the knitting aside. "I can perform a reading for any concern you might have. Of course," one brow goes up, "as you handle the cards, you'll need to focus on that, and not other concerns. That's on you, not me."

"I never claimed not be a spoiled brat, either." Ravn smiles lightly, lopsidedly. "But you're right -- no great surprise there. I am certainly not going to ask you to use mine. I simply wondered if there was another reason besides the fact that you are and always have been someone whose very function is to make us question. And so -- I question. Your choices, my choices, and for that matter, the little elk. Will you tell me about the elk?"

The old woman sniffs. "If there was another reason I'd never tell you. What purpose would it serve, to reveal all my secrets?" She looks askance at the elk in the basket. "And not much use asking me about him. Better you go find him for yourself." She gives Ravn a sly smile. "You've already been in his presence. What could I tell you, that you can't guess on your own?"

Her demeanor shifts, from teasing matron to working professional. She waves a hand at the dilapidated, folding chair which somehow can support everyone from Atli to Rekani. "Sit. Let's see your proposed fee, and we'll read about your project."

"Everything but the fact that he exists," Ravn murmurs with one last glance at the elk. "Considering that the only thing I know about him is indeed that he exists."

He settles on the folding chair all the same and rummages in a pocket before taking out one single little key. It is slightly old and has no number or brand on it. "This key belongs to a safe. It is the only key to that safe. I don't know what's in the safe -- probably just old paperwork and perhaps a butcher's secret recipe for some family dish. Perhaps something else, who knows? The safe sits in the wall of the HOPE centre -- which used to be an old butcher's shop that we are trying to renovate. The Veil will fight us on this. The question is whether we have a fighting chance."

He holds up the key. "Will it suffice? It is difficult to find a suitable token from a house."

"You seem to think I know everything." The old woman touches her neat braids. "I'm flattered. But consider, though I might be knowledgeable and powerful, I am neither all-knowing, nor all-powerful."

She eyes the key, clearly interested. "You could, of course, offer something of your own, as it is your project. But," she indicates the bowl with its many treasures, "the only key to a safe is certainly of no small significance, considering."

She takes a deck out her box, pauses when she sees it. The card back is a simple blue and ivory fleur-de-lis pattern with a sun at the center; quaint and bright. After a moment she shrugs, shuffling the cards. "Mmmm, yes, you're trying to take away Their food. And what farmer worth his salt allowed the wilderness to reclaim his land?" She pushes the deck across to Ravn. "Cut, and hold your concerns in your mind."

Yes , the smart aren't wandering around out in the fog today, but there's a difference between having intelligence... and using it, as evidenced by the little librarian out wandering through the fog rather myopically. He's dressed for work, though to be fair does he dress any differently on his days off? His longish hair is tamed into a ponytail at the back of his head, and only luck brings him to one of the food carts, ordering two hot dogs and some fries, as well as a container of sugared, toasted almonds.

Break? End of shift? Who knows. Not even Turner seems entirely sure, his mind elsewhere as he pays for the food, moving to find a convenient bench on which to enjoy his street food, only to have his attention caught by the old woman, the sudden lack of fog and the handsome man across from her.

His mouth forms a silent 'o', and he looks ready to flee back into the mist with his food... but something holds him. He studies the woman, then moves, slowly, to sit a discreet distance away.

"Offering something of my own would make this about my connection to the project. But if I were to drop dead from a Veil given stroke three minutes from now, the project would continue. And thus, the price should be paid by it, and not me." Ravn slips the little key into the bowl containing such a strange assortment of curious items already. Then he accepts the deck, and shuffles it with gloved hands while trying to call to mind,

the strange smell of a dilapidated butcher's shop
people living in boxes under the boardwalk
the strange otherworlds behind the Veil, hummingspiders and all
the kindness of Ignacio de Santos, amplified into infinity by the Revisionist
hope

HOPE.

Maybe it's enough. He returns the deck, oblivious to Turner's scrutiny, and says simply, "Let's have it."

"A well-considered offering, then," the old woman agrees. The card art is, like the back, folksy and quaint, though not simple.

The first card is a young man dressed in peasant's clothes standing in an empty room, reaching towards a pair of silver platters. A snake has twined itself around them, its tail in its mouth, forming the infinity symbol. "The Two of Coins." Her mouth twists in a rueful smile. "See how the young man wants those platters, but he's concerned about the snake. Does it truly care about them, or it is too occupied with its own tail? There's a delicate balance to consider." She gestures towards her bowl, at the key now resting on top of the other items. "You're attempting to take back what's Theirs. They'll fight you on that. You must choose your battles carefully--but choose you must. Otherwise, like this young man," who has auburn hair, much like Ravn's own... "you'll continue to stand here, weighing your options, unable to proceed."

The next card is a young woman on a stage; she's wearing a lovely dress in blue and white, and balancing on a performer's ball as if in the circus. She holds a sword in her hand, and wears a simple crown. "The Page of Swords." The old woman looks thoughtful. "This card is telling you of someone who you should find, or add--or place your trust in. Someone with new ideas and a thirst for knowledge. They'll offer you positive changes to your outlook. They're capable of juggling the delicacy of a performance," she indicates the bright ball, "with the danger of what needs be done," now the sword. "If you haven't met this person, you will. You should bring them to your side. You'll need them."

The final card is another young man in an empty room. This time, he's holding what seem to be the strings of several baloons which are out of the frame in one hand and a sword in the other. He's dressed in rich, royal clothing, a gold crown on his head and a gold sun medallion on a chain around his neck. "The Knight of Swords. Another decisive thinker, and another to bring to your fold. He can be quite aggressive, but he seldom acts without a well thought out plan. He can be strict in his behaviors, but won't dally as," she indicates the Two of Coins, "this warns you against." She taps each card, looks up at Ravn. "Seek these people. People who will act, people who will think around the dangers hope will face, who'll face Them with swords drawn."

She picks up the three cards and shuffles them back into the deck. "Seems you should find hope some allies." She flicks a glance at Turner, smiles sharp and inviting. "Care to have your fortune read, young master?"

The young man watching cannot help but feel he's being voyeuristic. It doesn't help that he's chowing down a hot dog as he watches, either... but he can't look away from what's going on. It seems somehow more real, more momentous than it should.

So it is that when Baba Yaga turns those eyes to him, Turner can't help but start. His mouth is full, half chewed food swallowed, hard, causing a wince before he's able to speak. "M-me?" It's a squeak of sound, and likely would echo, if not for the fog swirling around. He glances to Ravn, clearly seeking guidance from the older man, which... is either a good idea or a terrible one, depending on how you look at it. "I've... never had my cards read before..."

Ravn stands and thus vacates the folding chair. He catches that look from the young librarian and returns a small wry smile. "They call her Grandmother in her native. She does know how to read the cards, and you can certainly learn a thing or two from it. But don't give up something you might find yourself missing more than you realised."

He looks back to the old woman on the other side of the table. "If what you tell me comes true, then this project is going to do better than I dared hope for at first. I will find the Page and the Knight. And the rest of the court, figuratively speaking, because we do need everybody. But you are confirming to me that our choices may not have been bad choices, and that -- is no small thing for a narrative such as ours. Thank you for lending your not at all small reputation as a portent of change to our story."

The fortune teller scoffs at Ravn. "I've confirmed no such thing," she says. "Only the fullness of time can do that. I've merely provided you with some information which might, if considered properly, help this...project, of yours." For all that she's refusing to accept credit--or perhaps it's responsbility--for said confirmation, the old woman breaks out in a fierce smile. "But, you're welcome. Things needed shaking up, you know."

Ignoring how Ravn is trying to ruin her scam, she says, "You need not cross my palm with silver, as they say. I prefer a more specific form of payment: an item of significance to you. It needn't be great significance, but shouldn't be garbage. If you've no item, a lock of your hair would suffice." She looks askance at Ravn. The invitation for him to shut the entire hell up is plain.

Weird fog be damned, Xavier was feeling antsy and had to get out of the house. Normally he would jog, but the last time he tried there was a whole lot of strangeness and he tripped over a crack in the pavement. So for now he is walking. It's strange to him that there is a break in the fog, and he stumbles across two familiar people and his lips. "I would say that it's funny to run into the both of you, but I'm beginning to feel that someone keeps shoving us together for nefarious reasons." At least this isn't a dream! At least he hopes he didn't suddenly pass out during his walk.

Rising, food still in hand, Turner looks, for a moment, unsure. "A lock of hair?" a pause, thoughtful. "Could you tell me about my sister?" he asks softer, brown eyes suddenly more certain, more secure in the idea of it. "I don't really have anything of significance on me I can part with, but a lock of hair seems... very personal. That's fairly great significance." especially when Turner's hair is as wild as it is. He hesitates, shifting on his feet, before he remembers something.

Approaching he sets his food down on the table absently, pulling out his wallet. There's a faded photo of a little boy, about ten years old, with two older teens. All three are heavily freckled, smiling in the summer sun with their arms around each other. The elder boy's hair is dyed bright green, the girl's neon pink. Clearly, this is something that's been with him for some time. "I have a big copy in the house, but... I've kept this one on me for years."

He hesitates, looking up as Xavier arrives, clearly distracted by his presence, expression brightening, telling of something more than a budding friendship, perhaps... at least on Turner's side. "At least this time everyone's fully dressed... I think."

"Wearing clothes does make for a nice change of pace," Ravn murmurs with more than a trace of wry humour; he's probably not going to forgive the Veil for landing him shirtless in a dream twice in one week (although at least he only got to also be shoe-less in one -- the one in a sewer, obviously). "It's a small town. People like us tend to run into each other a lot. Or get recruited for mad forays into underwater temples."

He retreats to the bench across the path from the fortune teller's table and dips into a jacket pocket for a cigarette. "Dream activity seems to have gone up lately, at least for me. Which is a little strange, given that supposedly the powers that be like people with power -- and I have very little of it. Can't help think it means we're prodding sleeping bears -- which is what I want to do, so I suppose I shouldn't be complaining too much."

The old woman pouts with a moue more appropriate on someone a tenth of her age. "Everyone is so protective of their hair in this town." She sighs, plainly put out, until Turner produces the photograph. Ah ha! That she likes, expression moving from forlorn to greedy in an eyeblink. "Very nice, yes. It'll do." She flips a hand at the bowl, reaches in to her box to take out a deck. "Drop it on in there and we'll begin." Turner can see, now that he's closer to the table, that the collection inside the bowl is a hodge podge indeed: there's a lock of night black, perfectly straight hair on a pale blue ribbon, a one year sobriety chip, and countless other things besides.

The deck she's produced has a silver gilt edge that contrasts sharply against the dark, austere tones of the back, which is a deep, dusky purple with a black silhouette overlay of flowers. She sets to shuffling. "Your sister, is it," the old woman ponders. "It'll be easier if you have a specific question about her, but, no need to tell me what that is. Simply think on it as you cut the cards. You can shuffle them as well, if you like."

Xavier looks down at his sweater under his jacket and quirks a brow. "No I don't believe I'm naked this time." He says to Turner and Ravn and there is a fond smile for Turner as he fishes around in his wallet. Shoving his hands in his wool coat he tilts his head at the both of them. "Card reading? In a place like this? I'd say that's strange but I'm assuming this is normal for the town." He's starting to get the hang of everything is weird. "I haven't done anything like this since I was a teen."

"I worked very hard to get it to this length." Turner explains, apologetically. Lots of daily routines, careful detangling, washing only every few days and soft, gentle drying methods have gone into his wild curls. Why is he apologizing to someone and feeling guilty for refusing to give up his HAIR? She's good.

The youth sits, a little hesitantly, looking down at the picture with a fond smile, before he places it into the bowl.

At the explanation of what to expect, Turner focuses, hard, on his question. Is Kenzie still alive? Is she happy? Is she safe...? These thoughts and a hundred other lesser questions pass through his mind as he watches the old woman shuffle, though he doesn't make to shuffle the cards, himself. His expression is intense, longing and sad and determined all in one.

Does the fortune teller consider Ravn a spoiled little brat? Her words, literally, ten minutes previous. She's probably not going to change her opinion of the folklorist to something more favourable any time soon. He nods at Xavier and says, somewhat quietly as to not disturb the proceedings too much, "This is Gray Harbor normal. If she was a skilled grifter impersonating a mythical Slavic figure for fun and extra tips it might be normal anywhere else. Here, to no one's real surprise, it's not a grift."

He doesn't say 'there is no grift'. Because of course there's a grift. He's just not yet sure what it is.

Like the card back, the deck's art is sharp, almost severe, and all of it is done in a silhouette style, with the background a pallete of colors and the foreground a black cut out, using negative and positive space to construct the image. The first card has a background of indigo to pale lavender, and depicts a man wearing a crown, his attire regal and military. A swarm of crows flies around him, and he's holding a longsword upright. "The King of Swords. A man of spiritual authority, intelligent and willing to act. A martial power as well. He commands respect, and fear." She seems like she might say more, but shakes her head, and pulls the next card.

It's a mechanical image, the background greens from pale to dark, the forground a clock's inner workings. A figure with a belt of tolls holds a cog. There are eight such cogs in the whole image, including the clock face itself. "The Eight of Coins." She tilts her head, thoughtful. "This is a card of hard work and effort, and singular focus. Perhaps your sister is working for this man, or..."

She turns the final card. It's another man wearing a crown, but where the King of Swords was in military regalia, this man's outfit can only be called Bacchanlian; his robes are embroidered with grape clusters and vines, his crown is fancier than the King of Swords, he's holding a loop of fern rather than any weapon. Two cattle walk beside him, a great sun fills the sky behind him. "The King of Pentacles. A man of great wealth and accomplishment. A man of the land, and life; not a warrior, but a farmer. A man who seldom takes, preferring to grow things of his own."

The fortune teller licks her lips. She's quiet for some time. Then, "There are men in your sister's life--at least two, perhaps more. The King of Pentacles and King of Swords suggest these men are at opposite ends of a spectrum: one is decisive, a man of action, quick-thinking. But he can be authoritarian, strict, even unforgiving and cruel. He's a man of air and darkness. The other is gentle and grounded, and content to let things come to pass in their time. He can focus too much on material concerns, of course, and be boastful. A man of blood and ashes." She touches the center card. "Your sister is working between these polar opposites. She's focused on making everything," her fingers trace the cogs, "function smoothly. This is repetitive work, and she's by no means mastered it, so she's isolated herself, made it her goal. She's not looking outside around herself, but neither is she in great danger." She hesitates, pulls one last card. This has a background in tones of blue; a young woman in a dress stands before a mirror, and in its reflection she wears seven hats. "The Seven of Cups. She's overwhelmed with choices, and dithering on how to proceed. So," the fortune teller gestures, "she's at a delicate point in her life. Things could go well--or poorly."

She scoops up the four cards, tucks them into the deck, and places the deck back into the box. ...and casts a narrow-eyed look at Ravn. "Since when is reading the cards not a gift? You feckless little twit." Her gaze shifts to Xavier. "No time like the present, Mr. Rousseau." Her pronunciation of his last name is perfectly French, with no lazy American overtones. "Perhaps see how everything you left behind is going, hm?"

There is much he still has to learn about Turner, but the intensity in his eyes when he asks about his sister makes him frown. He turns to Ravn as he stage whispers his thoughts and nods his head. "She does seem very insightful. Though I don't know if I could pick out a grift as easily as you can." He listens to her explanation of the cards and nods his head, but isn't sure how accurate this is. That is until she says his name, with out an introduction and his background. "Who me? I'm just an innocent bystander and how the hell do you know my name I didn't give it to you." He word vomits rapidly.

"You were going to say more about the King of Swords." Turner says, very softly, hesitantly. He does rise, though, looking thoughtful, his brow slightly furrowed. Indeed, he forgets the sugared almonds in his haste to vacate the space for Xavier, clearly lost in thought.

Once abandoned, they're fair game, right? One hand absently moves down to toy with the hem of his jumper, twisting it, first around all his fingers, then around a single finger as it gets too tight, before releasing it. He's a bundle of pent up energy and anxieties now, and anyone with even a hint of empathic senses turned toward him can tell that. Relief that she's still alive, sorrow that she hasn't come home or contacted anyone in years, anger at being abandoned and fear for her safety all at war.

"Thank you, ma'am, for your time, and your generous insights." He steps away fully, toward Ravn and Xavier, expression troubled but relieved at the same time. At least she's safe, for now, wherever she is.

"Grift. I said nothing about gifts, nor did I imply that you do not have the gift," Ravn points out to the fortune teller, apparently not very much bothered at all by being called a feckless little twit. He glances up at Xavier. "She knows things that not even a skilled cold reader can pick up on the fly. I used to be a grifter -- this is not just playing an audience by ear the way I would have done."

He stands at last and puts out the cigarette; at least he's one of those blokes who takes the butt with him, rather than tossing it on the ground. "I should be on my way. But I'm going to say the same to you as I've said to anyone else, Xavier -- don't give up something you'd miss too much."

Wandering off back into the mist, the Dane pointedly ignores any last scowls from the fortune teller. Some fights are tempting to pick, oh so very tempting -- but maybe he does possess a single grain or two of wisdom underneath all of his book smarts.

"Eh, it would only have been useful in the context of a specific man. And," the fortune teller shrugs, "this didn't indicate that. It suggested a spectrum of people in her life. Just bear in mind--the King of Swords isn't a man to cross." She takes one of the abandonned almonds as though Turner left them specifically for her. "If you sister does find herself in trouble, she'll require help."

She waves a dismissive hand at Ravn. "Pay no mind to the Count, he's convinced I'm some manner of boogey man or thief, he can't decide which it is. I know your name because I know a lot of things, when you get to be my age that's how it is. So." She taps the table in front of her. "Come, Monsier Rousseau. I'm sure you have something of value which you can easily part with." She's already taken a deck from her box: it's enormous, the cards black with gold edging, the back a simple thistle in soft, orange-tone color. She doesn't shuffle this as she has the others, instead opting to layer the cards into five piles, which she then messily reassembles.

Xavier blinks a few times before he clears his throat. Ravn's warning is heard and he waves toward the man. "Thanks, I'll see you around." Likely sooner than he expects. Turning back to the woman he frowns again and looks to Turner for advice. However he seems very lost in thought, to the point where he's forgotten his snack. Sliding into the chair he reaches into his pocket and pulls out a ring of keys. He fishes around for one and removes it from the ring and presents it to her. "To my apartment. The one I wanted, not the one she wanted." The cards look different but his knowledge of these things is minimal and he frowns as she just makes a giant pile.

Hanging back, Turner watches this process with eyes that are only half focused, but he does nod to the Old Woman as she speaks, "If she needs my help, she'll get it." he murmurs, sounding quite serious and sincere in that statement. Wherever she is, he loves her and still wants to be there for her. That's what family does, after all.

He gives Xavier a little shrug to indicate that he did it, so clearly he can't say yes OR no, either way.

The old woman makes a soft 'ah' sound at the key, closes her hand over it. "A relic of conflicting needs. Very generous of you to trust me with it." She adds it to the bowl; it clinks against a Purple Heart medal, settles next to a Morgan silver dollar. She splits the deck a handful of times, until she's satisfied it's well and truly mixed up, pushes it over to him. "Cut, please. You need not tell me your question, but you may if you wish. You can also shuffle the cards, if you're concerned this is," she looks after Ravn, raises her chin, "some manner of grift."

Xavier watches it slide down into the bowl while his gut clenches. He knows very well that apartment is out of his reach but there is a finality in giving up the key that tugs at him. "Very well." He doesn't give her the question, as she either already knows it or is going to assume it by what she's spoken already. He reaches for the deck, cutting it in three before combining it all back into a single deck and nodding his head. "All set."

He's not too far gone to realize that Xavier is upset at losing the key. The hand that was tangling in his clothing reaches out to gently rest on the man's shoulder with a surprising tenderness, only to pull away a second later as Turner realizes the contact might be more than Xavier is comfortable with in public, even if it is just in front of someone who probably already knows things, and the fog itself.

The old woman nods and restacks the deck, turns the first card. Its art is medieval in style yet modern in execution, with an air of absurdist intensity in its muted colors and fine details. This first card is a woman in medival attire wrestling a lion; she's holding it by the mouth, her expression calm and placid despite the lion's apparent savagery. LA FORCE reads the bottom of the card. "Strength. A card of inner focus and calm. You are this way, or are capable of it when you wish to be. This can also suggest an intense relationsghip." She looks right at that key. "Not necessarily a good one--for the lion can represent jealousy and misunderstanding. You must be more like the woman, and not the lion, if such a relationship is to succede." A bland expression follows this statement, as if to ask Xavier, 'I'd say which I think you were but what's the point'.

The next card depicts three little demon beasts on a wooden turning wheel; one is falling off, one is climbing, and one is at the top, expression panicked. LA ROUE DE FORTUNE. The old woman's voice drops in morbid amusement. "The Wheel of Fotrune. An inauspicious card for you, Monsier." She touches the three monsters. "See their panic? The wheel is always turning, always upsetting the status quo. Whatever habit your life has settled into, whatever stability you think you've found, it's short-lived. Now is the time when things will turn and turn, and you must take care to not be run over. Greater forces than you can imagine are in play."

The final card is a woman in royal dress, bearing a sceptor and wearing a crown, standing in a large, lavish coach drawn by two truly bizarre equines. The creatures' faces are pale gray and human, but their bodies are striations of dark muscle. Unlike the other two cards, this one is reversed, reading LE CHARIOT at the top. "The Chariot." The old woman shakes her head. "And reversed, at that. Preceded by the Wheel--such a sign." She looks at Xavier. "This is another card of aggression and passion, but without the mediating power of Strength. See how the two beasts are unbridled? They lead this cart where they will, and the Queen, for all her power and poise, has no control over their whims. The cart is overturned, and surely she'll be crushed by not making sure to harness them properly."

She considers this spread anew. "You've fled something intense, something which left you feeling out of control. But in your flight, you didn't consider that you might have brought that very loss of control with you. And now, with the wheel poised to turn and change the world around you, you must ask yourself: can you regain a modicum of control in your life? Or will you careen endlessly, from one extreme to the next?" She shrugs, moves to regather the huge, ungainly cards back into the deck. "Only you know the answer to that."

Xavier looks to Turner when he feels his hand on his shoulder and gives him a weak smile. He doesn't seem to mind the attention, after all they're covered in fog. Well mostly covered, and the gesture could be considered friendly right? Once she begins on the reading, Xavier looks at the cards, and their artwork, frowning at ouch as they are a little unsettling, but at least they're in French! The reading does little to calm that unsettling feeling his has in his gut and he shakes his head. "Lovely." He says when it's all finished and a whole bundle of nerves crawl up his stomach to his throat. "Thank you, madam for the reading. It was insightful?" Probably more than he wanted it to be. He slowly rises from the chair and looks to Turner as his mind reels.

Maybe she should stay out of the fog. She should know better. Being in Gray Harbor and seeing a fair amount of the things that happen here can make one very cautious, overly so even, and careful to not do anything to risky. It can also make others figure that it doesn't really matter what you do or don't do. If trouble wants to find you, it will.

For Nicole, it kind of depends on the day, and her mood... and in this case, if one of the dogs need a walking. This time it is Ripley, the three-legged cutie. Though, she seems to be carrying her currently, not letting her walk. What brought Nicole to this side of town (wherever it is)? Who knows, but here she is.

She seems a bit stunned when she walks into a clearing from the fog to find the older woman with the tarot cards at a table and the two men near to her. It is like she got accustomed to the fog surrounding her like some odd sort of blanket. It was almost cozy... if creepy can be cozy at all. The lack of it here has her looking around the perimeter, as if trying to figure out what is keeping it at bay. She smiles cheerfully, she has an infectious smile, and lifts a hand to wave. "Uh... Hello there... people." It's a good thing she has a pretty smile, her conversational skills might be lacking.

Oh, yeah, totally friendly. That's exactly what that half longing, half ogling expression Turner has on his face says. Friendship. Not that Xavier gets to see it... though Nicole might, and the fortune teller definitely could.

"Are you okay?" he asks softly, tilting his head to one side slightly as he looks up at Xavier, then smiles hesitantly to Baba Yaga...

But then someone else is coming out of the fog for a reading, and Turner's attention shifts, brown eyes focusing on Nicole and her dog. He doesn't make eye contact with the woman, but instead focuses on the dog, smiling brightly at the sight. He loves dogs, almost as much as he loves cats. "Hi."

"You're very welcome," the old woman says, dipping her head at Xavier. "I'm glad it's given you things to consider." She's entirely earnest as she says this, going so far as to pat Xavier on the back of the hand. The glance she flicks at Turner suggests she's in no way fooled by any of this, but nor does she particularly care. It's not her business; Xavier getting himself metaphysically run over, that's more her deal. "Now be careful out in that fog. No one's watching where they're going." She sets the cards back in the box of faded glory, looks around for anyone else who might want a reading. And hey, there's Nicole! The fortune teller leans a bit in her chair, smiling in a manner both welcoming and dangerous. Joey Kelly wishes he could look this disreputable in knit and wool. "Hello dear. Care to have your cards read?"

"That's an understatement." Xavier says quietly as he steps away from the table. He looks to Turner and nods his head. "Yeah I'll be fine, I'm sure I'm just over thinking it all now." Is he literally going to get ran over? He hopes not, he just got here and he's starting to like it. "I should get back, my aunt is expecting me for dinner." When Nicole arrives he nods to her and gives her a quick wave. "Cute dog." He says, giving them both an apologetic smile.

“Hello,” Nicole offers to Turner when he greets her (or rather. Ripkey). Her blonde hair is pulled back in a long french braid in an attempt to tame fog frizzies. She’s wearing a cream colored broom skirt with a purple and blue small floral pattern, pairing it with off white low top converse (no socks) and a wide-necked purple sweatshirt. Ridley is held in one arm cradling her almost like a baby.

“Oh, me?” She offers to the Baba Yaga. Looking to Turner again, she asks, “were you waiting?” One hand gestures to where Xavier had been sitting. “Oh, thanks! She’s quite the charmer, isn’t she?”

Shrugging, she says, “if no one else is waiting... sure. I’ve never had my cards read by anyone who wasn’t just a friend.”

"I already had my turn, thank you. So did Xavier." He gestures to his friend, smiling a little shyly. His own hair is a bit frizzed from the constant moisture, his pulled back in a ponytail that floofs behind him in longish curls.

To Xavier, he smiles softly, hesitantly, asking, very softly, "Text me after dinner? Or... swing by the library and keep me company?" the words might not be audible to anyone else, though, with the fog, who knows, it does odd things with sound, amplifying whispers while muffling screams... "I should definitely get back, I think my lunch is either up, or about to be, and other people are probably waiting to eat..." how many librarians are there? Who knows. Even Turner doesn't know and he's been there for months.

The old woman watches Turner and Xavier depart. Will Xavier get run over by a wheel, maybe even four? who can say. Certainly not her. She's quite knowledable, but no clairvoyant. Such nonsense!

She laughs at the various implications in Nicole's statement. "Ah, well, and who's to say I'm not a fraud, eh? But here, after I've read for you, if you feel my reading is false you can ask for your payment back." She bobs her eyebrows. "As for that payment. It should be a small token of yours. Something important to you, though not so significant you can't bear to part with it. No vulgar money, only that which matters to you." Sure enough, there are a few coins in there, but they're all rarer, or seem battered and special in some manner.

As she speaks, the old woman offers her hand to Ripley for a sniff. It's only polite, after all.

Nicole smiles at Turner and gives him a nod. "Thank you." She waves again as he departs and moves to take a seat in the chair that Xavier departed. "Fraud?" She thought she had said 'friend'. "Maybe you are, or not. Still," her left shoulder lifts in a gentle shrug as she situates Ripley on her lap. "It's interesting either way, right?" Her lips curl into another smile. "Oh? Payment? Um..." Well, she didn't really come prepared for that, did she. She merely has a small wristlet with her important needs, what she's wearing, and the dog... and she isn't giving up Ripley who is currently shrinking away from the old woman's hand. "Oh, don't take that personally. Ripley is still kind of shy about strangers." Nicole rubs the pup's side a bit, just under where a leg should be and once was. "Oh! Um..." She lifts a hand to take an earring out of her ear; first one then the other. "Will these do? I've had them for years, bought them in Yellowstone after I left Gray Harbor..."

The fortune teller no doubt misheard the word on purpose. (Wait until Ravn and Nicole talk about grift vs. gift.) She's not the least bit put out by Ripley's refusal, only nods approval of such a reaction. "Mmmm, then she's a wise dog to boot. An excellent find." She tilts her head at the bowl. "Those will do fine."

She reaches into the worn box sitting on the table, pulls out a deck. The back has a sort of Victorian Gothic frame pattern around a circle which suggests a mirror; two spiders descend from either side of the pattern. As she shuffles, the old woman says, "You need not tell me your question, should you have one, though if you'd care to I'm happy to focus the reading that direction. Regardless," she sets the deck down, pushes the cards to Nicole, "Focus what you'd like to know in your mind, and cut the deck."

Dropping the earrings into the bowl, Nicole gives a nod, then ruffles Ripley's ears. "I kind of spoil her, but, I have a soft spot for her." She watches as the woman pulls out a deck, tilting her head as she studies the art on the back of the card. "Pretty." She nods again but hmms in thought. "If it is okay, I would like to keep the question to myself? I'll focus it though." Placing her hand over the top of the deck, Nicole closes her eyes, just holding the cards as she concentrates on her question. When she is ready, she opens her eyes and cuts the deck into two piles, dark eyes then lifting to look at the fortune teller.

The fortune teller nods once, solemn, for the question withheld, turns the first card. The art is clear and precise, almost like an animated film or a comic book might have. A vampire in a scarlet red dress, stands in a cave, bats flying around her, three lit torches illuminating the body at her feet--a recent meal, given the man's crumpled form. They card is reversed, however. "The Three of Wands." The fortune teller bites her lip. "This is a card of success in endeavors, when upright. Reversed, it suggests a lack thereof, though not a waste, necessarily. Your hard work wasn't for naught, and not all is lost." She touches the fallen man. "Are there those in your life--past or present--who are impeding your success, draining you of personal power? Because that's who this woman is; she's powerful, austere, and yet, she's still failed, and not for lack of forethought. Who has failed her, and in what way?"

The next card is somewhat bleak; a young couple trudge through a snowy wasteland, trying to find their way. Five apple slices, taken through the center, fill a tree behind them, the five seed pods making a star in each. "The Five of Pentacles." The old woman shakes her head. "A card of hardship and strife. The dark night of your love's soul." She looks at Nicole directly. "Difficulties are upon you. Your relationship is going to be tested in ways you never thought possible. Old wounds will ache and weaken you. You must stay together, hold fast to one another, to find your way to shelter."

The final card is, like the first, upside down. A woman in a gauzy blue and white dress kneels by a lake, a chalice in one hand. "The Queen of Cups. Unfortunately, reversed." She studies Nicole a time, frowns. "I don't think this is you. Or, if it is--it's a warning of what not to become. The Queen of Cups is jealous and possessive, she reacts out of proportion to imagined slights. It would be easy, given," she waves a hand over the Five and Three, "these things, it would be easy to lash out, to become defensive and see enemies in every corner." She touches the couple in the Five of Pentacles, "You must resist. You're not alone in this darkness, no matter how alone you may feel." She turns the Queen upright for Nicole to see her as she should be: a woman connected to deep emotion and intuition. "Be this. Don't pour your emotions out."

She tucks the three cards back into the deck, sets the deck back into the box.

Nicole watches intently as the fortune teller lays out the cards. Leaning forward as much as she can without making Ripley uncomfortable, she studies the pictures on the cards as they become visible. The first, the vampire, or, Three of Wands - Reversed, is laid and one of Nicole's brows arches. She does like to think of herself as a strong woman, and surely this represents.. oh, no, it does not. She too bites her lip, dark eyes looking to the older woman. There is a small snort before Nicole nods. "Yes. Past... yes." She looks not at all amused to be thinking about whoever that person or persons might have been. "Many ways," she says, not giving more detail for the moment.

The second card is placed. She smiles to see a couple there, but that smile disappears as soon as Baba Yaga explains it as one of hardship and strife. Nicole's free hand has lifted, fingers pressing to her lips before she even realized it. She is still slowly petting Ripley with the other. Her eyes narrow a bit at 'ache and weaken'. "Oh... we will," she says with confidence, showing none of that weakness currently.

... Nor does she seem to have a hint of jealousy about her. Perhaps the old woman is right that this might not BE Nicole, at least, not who she is now. Shaking her head, she says, "I don't think I am that, nor will become that. It doesn't feel like it is in my nature. I am pretty sure who enemies are and are not. I mean, it takes a lot for me to see anyone as an enemy to begin with..." She nods and though her features had grown serious for a bit, she now smiles. "I never feel alone, thankfully." She stops though, biting her lip again. After all, her emotions spilling out is kind of how her Glimmer has worked for her so far. However, she doesn't pour them until she's empty... so... Yes. This all goes through her thoughts as she listens.

Once the cards are taken back and tucked away, Nicole takes a breath and nods. "Right so... not really, well, not directly related to the question I focused on, though, sort of on the periphery of that perhaps. Still, I mean, relatable." If she is a person who is a skeptic when it comes to the cards and how they are read, it doesn't show. "Thank you." She turns a bit in her seat as if to rise, but pauses. "Um,.." She nods again. "Yeah, thanks..." She does stand then, now putting the three-legged pup down to walk a bit in the cleared fog. She will pick her up again before the mist swallows the vision of them up in its cocoon.