2021-06-04 - Fortunes in the Garden V

Cassidy is, in her own words, 'like, a total sucker for that shit'. So when she's strolling through the park and she sees the adorable old woman with her adorable goose she squees and claps her hands in her mind, but in reality strolls calmly over.

"Hello?" she waves kindly with a smile.

The old woman glances up as Cassidy approaches, smiles a greeting. "Well, hello, Ms. Bennet. I honestly didn't expect to see your sort at my table." She arches an eyebrow. "Care to have your cards read? My fee is quite reasonable."

The same can't be said of the goose's fee. It sidles towards Cassidy, fixing her with one of its bright orange, calculating eyes.

"Oh hello!" Cassidy says to the goose in 'I'm talking to a cute animal' speak. She's bent with her hands on her knees to address it. She smiles and shakes her head. "Look at your eyes! You're just a big love swan, aren't you? Yes you are!"

Cassidy stands and looks back to the old woman, "Yeah. Let's do it!" and claps her hands once and rubs them. "I love this stuff. Show me what you got."

"Ah, but first--the fee. No vulgar money, please. Your society's coin holds no value for me." The fortune teller gestures at her bowl. "I ask for an item of yours--nothing you can't bear to part with, but not trash--a small token of significance. A photo of a friend, or a business card from an old paramour, these sorts of things." Her eyebrows go up. "Or, if you feel you've nothing of that sort, a simpler gift is possible--a lock of your hair, perhaps."

No respect! The goose is not amused. It hisses, fanning its wings and ducking its neck, like a snake about to strike.

The look on Cassidy's face? Well it's pretty clear she's not parting with a chunk of her hair for anything.

She is about to walk away because - let's face it - creepy! But then the big love swan is a doing a little dance and it's just soooo kyoot. Cassidy smiles and touches her heart. She digs through her purse and pulls out a used emery board and hands it over to the old woman.

The old woman seems mildly disappointed that Cassidy has opted out--only for the goose to change her mind with his deplorable behavior. The fortune teller smiles. "Ah, perfect. Yes, right in there, please." She gestures at the bowl of things, pulls a deck of cards from the wooden box and sets to shuffling it.

Cassidy isn't the only one who's parted with random items: there's what looks to be a shopping list, a worn, old photograph, a military medal...and is that an engagement ring...?

The deck the old woman produces has a lovely watercolor card back design in blues, greens, and purples. "Now, if you would," she sets the deck on the table, pushes it across, "please cut the deck, and think of a question. You need not tell me what it is, if you'd rather not, only hold it in your mind."

Cassidy hmmmmmms and looks at the deck. She spends a good amount of time deciding on a question. She reaches for the deck, stops and pulls her hand back. Chooses a different question and then cuts the deck very quickly before she can change her mind.

The old woman nods, pulls the first card. The deck's art is, like the back, rich watercolor in vibrant shades. Cassidy is greeted by a golden wheel bracketed by two faces, one golden and one shadowy. "The Wheel of Fortune," the old woman says. "And see how both the light and shadow watch as it spins, waiting to see where it will stop--or if it even will." She taps the wheel. "This is a card of great change, though unlike Death, or the Tower, its change is somewhat more cyclical. Death is expected, as is the turning of the wheel--but the wheel keeps turning. It is inevitable, as the tide coming in and out. Will you be in light," she touches the golden face, "shadow," now the dusky one, "or somewhere between?" Finally, the balance between the two. "It's not clear, the wheel says. This is a moment where fates are decided--but what that fate is will hinge on many decisions, among them...yours." Does she glance out towards the horizon, where a storm supposedly approaches? Maybe she does. Maybe not.

Next is a young man dressed in fiery plumage, wielding a staff stylized like a firebird. "The Knight, or Prince, of Wands." She smiles to herself, smug and private. "A talented person. Masculine, if not a man, decisive, quick to think and act, though with passion rather than wit and calculation. He's no King, yet; he's young. Convinced he can save the world, breathe life back onto the coals which have burned down." She sighs, looks at Cassidy. "And in his haste, he is often cruel, forgets that what he does may harm others and drive them from him. Or, worse--he knows this, and does it regardless, driven by his own passions. This card says, act decisively, follow your instincts--but beware running roughshod. Don't trample the very coals you wish to ignite."

The final card is upside down: a glorious sun which, were it upright, would be rising over a child wielding a brilliant red banner, running in front of three lotuses in different stages of opening. Instead, it's setting beneath these things. "The Sun, reversed." The old woman sighs. "This is one of the most positive cards in the deck, mmm? The sun is life--without it, all is cold and barren. Even a little is better than none. So for it to set, after these things," she gestures at the other two cards, shakes her head, raises her watery blue eyes to Cassidy. "Your expectations are too high, your need for something too strong. You won't be successful, and the sun will set--and you will be alone in the night, with what you thought you needed, rather than what you truly did." She leans forward a little. "Have care, Prince of Wands. You're convinced of your rightness, and right you may even be," she sets a finger on the Wheel of Fortune, "but being right isn't always enough."

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

Cassidy's face is unimpressed as the Wheel is discussed. She's kind of like, to herself, 'yeah yeah let's get on with it'.

"What a jerk," Cassidy says as the old woman describes the Prince of Wands.

The rest of it is taken in stride. Her face more or less passive. When it's done she inhales and smiles, "Ok well that was fun! Thanks." She pulls out a $5 and tosses it in the old woman's bowl.

The old woman watches the five go in, shrugs. Ah well--at least she can buy tea with it. "Thank you, Ms Bennet, I hope this was helpful."

The goose hisses. What about his fee? The old woman leans over to scowl at him. "Now see here, she just bought me a tea. If you behave, perhaps there a muffin in it for you."

The goose honks, folds in his wings and stalks towards a group of kids playing on a merry-go-round.

The coming storm means that the Fire and Rescue Department of Gray Harbor is in preparation mode. A particular blonde EMT has been pulling her weight in emergency sandbags all morning and finally had a break to grab some coffee and a meal which may be a luxury in the coming hours and days.

Bennie's heading back from the coffee shop, sandwich in hand and a completely over sugared hot drink when she spies not the woman yet but the goose. "Well hello little find feathered winged friend. Are you a good goose or an evil peck my eyes out goose?" Hey, it's Gray Harbor. It's a toss up.

The goose answers Bennie's question by fixing her with a bright orange eye. Oh, no wait--it's her sandwich he's interested in. His wings flare. No hissing, not yet.

"He's just a greedy bastard is all. Not an evil bone in his body. Isn't that right, Praznina?" The old woman offers this without looking up from her knitting. This is likely to be a hat, by the shape its taking: creamy brown and golden yawn, into which she's slowly incorporating some black. She flicks a glance up at Bennie, smiles. "Care to have your cards read, dear?"

Bennie peers down at the goose, continuing her conversation with the bird, "Well, birdies aren't supposed to have bread because it's bad for your stomach. But what's one little crumb going to hurt?" She peels off a crust of bread and drops it beakward before she finally looks up to the woman knitting, a smile beaming despite the tired look around her eyes. "I happen to have a little bit of time. Only. Don't tell me if it's something bad. No wait, totally tell me. I think. Yes. I'm going with tell me." She skitters around to sit in front of the lady, wrapping her bit of sandwich back up in the wrapper and putting her coffee at her feet. "And you don't even have to tell me to clear my mind first. Trust me, there's nothing up there."

The goose accepts the crust with a honk and flap of its wings. It follows Bennie to the chair, ready for her to drop more, either totally on accident and without trying, or, intentionally. Either works for the goose.

The old woman sets aside her knitting. "Ah, there's the rub. The good or bad will come from you, and how you relate what I read in the cards to your question, hm? But first," she sets a hand on the depression glass bowl next to her, "the matter of payment. No vulgar money, please. I simply ask for a token of yourself; something simple, small, not anything you can't bear to part with, but of modest significance." The examples within vary widely: a key of some sort, a shoelace, an expensive necklace, some lovely earrings...a Russian coin?

"But, if you've nothing on you that you care to part with," the fortune teller's smile turns calculating, "a bit of your Art would suffice. Or a lock of your hair."

Bennie reaches out to imitate petting the goose, but her gesture is in mid air and not daring to actually touch feather. Something about those beady orange eyes simply won't do. She's still grinning as the woman talks about a non-monetary exchange for services, and there, Bennie's smile slowly fades as if someone is playing with a dimmer switch. "How about I bake you up a nice batch of cupcakes instead? No offense, you seem nice and all, but um," She leans forward and stage whispers, "I'm a Native."

It's a good thing Bennie doesn't actually pet the goose, as its head darts back. Hold the fucking phone, a crust of bread is not enough for petting rights. So says the hiss it sends her way.

"Mmmm, payment must be rendered now. I'm only an old woman with naught but the clothes on my back, and," she taps an upholstery purse sitting under the table, "whatever my purse may carry." She waves a hand at Bennie. "I highly doubt you're native to this land. Your ancestors came here as conquerors. If you mean you were born in this town, well," she tilts her head, "how's that to matter? The fee is what it is. But as I said, it need not be your Art, nor your hair. A small thing of yours will suffice. Have you no old photographs on you, no keys long held but useless?"

"S'cuse me, Townie." One of Bennie's eyes closes in a pinch with a long drawn out, "Yeeeeeah, see. I've seen a lot of weird stuff. Like, whoa. Seriously. If your goose started to talk right now, I'd be like 'Cool, bro, let's go have a beer.' So if I give you something personal, it's bound to end up being used to summon a Bennie golem or in a love potion or something, and I DO NOT need to unwittingly fall in love with like, the Goblin King or whatever. Again."

A pause. "Kidding."

Another pause. "Well about the Goblin King thing, but not the diatribe as a whole."

"Oh, Praznina can't talk." The old woman leans over, eyes the goose. "Or can you? It'd be like you, to keep something of that magnitude from me, you recalcitrant little cuss."

The goose's response is to turn its back on them both, head high, tail wagging furiously. It struts off into the hedge maze, probably intent on attacking people within it.

The fortune teller pulls her knitting back into her lap. "Your caution is well earned, considering. But the fee is what it is. Knowledge is power, and no power is free." She takes up her needles. "If you do bake me something and bring it by, I'll be more than happy to read your cards then." A sly smile. "Just be sure there's enough for myself and Praznina, eh? His stomach is bottomless(*)."

* Praznina means 'void' in Croatian...so perhaps she's speaking literally.

The blonde EMT flicks a glance over her shoulder, to see if anyone else is milling about, waiting to get their cards read. "Mind if I sit and chat while I finish my lunch? Just until you have another customer." Her eyes widen, eyebrows lofted with the question.

"I don't mind at all," the old woman says, gesturing. No one else seems to be lingering, though Bennie being at the table is more draw than not; people glance at the two as they walking by, trying to see what's afoot.

There's also a stone bench to use for sitting, clean and currently unused. The fortune teller's knitting is swift and precise, the hat--ah, yes, definitely a hat--taking shape in short order. She's knitting a black, thorny bramble against the golden brown and white backdrop. A crown of thorns, as it were.

"Awesomesauce, I've been on my feet literally like all day. Well, not literally literally but pretty close. Technically I'm sitting when I pee, but that's not really a break, you know?" Bennie unwraps her sandwich again, which means that Praznina missed a smorgasbord. She is not a delicate eater.

"So." Bennie starts as she takes a bite, shoving a dangling piece of turkey into her mouth with a finger. "If these valueless tokens are indeed valueless, why trade for them?"

The old woman arches a brow. "Oh, they're not valueless by any means." Her eyes dart to the bowl. "There are more than a few items of considerable wealth in there, truth be told. But their monetary value isn't what I'm interested in." She focuses on her knitting once more. "Their value to the person trading them--that's their value to me. And why they choose to give them, as well. Why, I've received the first song from a singer's throat after a grievous injury, a shopping list with a thoughtless doodle on it, and the gift of obedience from a wolf who answers to no one." A glance up at Bennie, back down the hat. She smooths it, nods, resumes. "If you wish for insight, you must trade a thing of use or value to you. Money cannot buy you insight. Time, labor, emotion--these are things which lead to insight."

Tor walks through the park, smoking a cigarette as he goes. He doesn't seem to be in any particular hurry, because he pauses to people-watch as they flit here and there. He's a distance away from Bennie and the woman, and he keeps it that way for the moment. Instead, he stays considerately out of the way of people as he smokes. He looks curiously on, but for the moment he's giving her space.

The saying goes that curiosity killed the cat, but surely the idiom must apply to Bennies as well. At last she finally can't escape the lure, and without a single word, Bennie reaches down to pluck a flowering weed that has wilted. Cupped in her hand, she huffs a warm breath on the faded petals and by the time she sets it down in front of the woman it's bright and vibrant as the day the yellow bud first bloomed.

The fortune teller smiles, sharp-toothed and sly. She fishes around in the bowl, eventually producing a small pinch-pot, the sort a child might make in an early crafts class. She cups the dandelion in her hands, sets it into the pot with the care one might show a priceless orchid. "See now," she says, tracing a finger along the bright yellow mane, "you do understand." The petals sparkle under the old woman's touch, or seem to, both to Bennie and Tor's eyes. They take on a brilliant, golden sheen, shimmering in the late spring light, a promise of summer.

"So then." She sets her knitting aside, pulls out a deck of cards and begins to shuffle. Her eyes stray to Tor. "Care to join us, Tor Lockhart?" Her lips twitch in an almost-smile. She'd been considering using some other name for him, decided not to.

It's really not mysterious or spooky that someone in this town knows his name when he might not know theirs. Tor's family is well-known - and not for great reasons, and his name comes up when he drives for Uber. He takes a pull from his cigarette, looks away at the crowd, then back to Bennie and the woman. "A reading's private. I don't want to intrude."

A lesser thing he's known for is being the son of a woman who owed the new age shop Blessed Be that closed a number of years ago. He grew up around tarot card readings and other divinations.

At the mention of Tor's name, Bennie looks over her shoulder, her bottom lip captured between her lips and her eyes rounded. She can't escape the feeling that she did something entirely stupid, and now there's someone to witness it.

Well. In for a penny, in for a pound.

Oakes holds out her hand and makes grabby fingers for Lockhart to join her, even if it's just sitting closer on the bench. Just in case things go sideways.

The deck's art is a combination of pen and watercolor, making it look like sketchbooks and ideas from an artist's journal. The first card is a man with long, red hair sitting on a large chair upholstered with flowers, a sword in his hand, a white crown on his head. "The King of Swords," the old woman says. She looks askance at Tor, pulls a face, turns her attention to Bennie. "This is a man in your life. He is an exacting man, a man who commands power, who is calculating and sure of those calculations. His thinking is clear, his expectations are high, because he knows you can meet them." She licks her lips. "A parental figure, to you, if not an actual parent."

The next card is upside down: two young women appearing to toast with two steaming, spotted cups. Yet with the card reversed, the steam is more akin to the cup's contents flowing out. "The Two of Cups, reversed." The old woman's mouth flattens. "See how the contents of the cups they share pour out? Like this, the Two of Cups is discontent. Disunion--a lack of harmony where once, there was accord. It can suggest the time has come to take a step back, and consider solitude. To heal, and give yourself time to consider if you're compatible with this person." She taps the cups. "This need not be a romantic endeavor. It could be a close friendship, even a business partnership. Only you can know that."

The last card is also reversed: a young woman with her hand resting on the head of a great lion. "Strength, reversed." She makes a low sound, eyes the other two cards, the last one again. "Well. Strength isn't a card of physical prowess, it's emotional. This...can be read many ways." She says this in that classic manner of, 'I am trying to give you some options'. "But when we see this, it says, you're not facing up to what you must. And so--this relationship, whatever one it is? It is struggling. Spilling its positivity out, rather than savoring it together. If you wish to," she sets a hand on the Two of Cups, "bring this back to rights, you must face what you're avoiding. Bring the lion of your emotions to heel. Do not keep to a situation out of weariness and indecision." She touches the King of Swords. "He won't abide that, will know you're doing it."

Then she scoops up the cards, returns them to the deck, and puts the deck back into the box.

A lot of people in town have misgivings about the supernatural, for good reason. But Tor grew up mired in it, and with his mind open to things at a young age. It also means he's not afraid of it, though in this town, perhaps he should be. He finishes his cigarette and puts the butt into the garbage like a good citizen, then approaches. He leans against a tree, eyes to the cards curiously. But he doesn't interrupt the woman's reading.

He is however, also a smartass by nature, so he can't help but say, once the reading is done, "Better not step back from the business partnership we just started, Bennie. Don't hang me out to dry," he says with a dry chuckle.

And yeah, he knows he's not the man represented in the King of Swords. He may have some swagger, but he isn't full of himself.

Is it rude to eat during these things? It's rude, right? But Bennie only has limited time, so she's used to multitasking. Of course the bites slow as the cards are read and finally a drop of mayonnaise falls from lips gone slack into her lap with a quiet plop on her uniform. "Well that's depressing." She finally says with mouth still half full of unchewed food. "Being Missus Goblin King should be a cake walk, comparatively." She finally finishes masticating her lunch, swallows past the lump in her throat and manages a smile that never reaches her eyes. "Um, well. Thanks."

As for Tor? Bennie flicks a place of sad lettuce in his direction from her wrapper before crunching it up in her tiny, ineffectual fist. "Your turn, Doctor Pizza Brewmaster Boy."

The old woman gives Bennie a sympathetic smile. "I'm sorry, dear. The cards say what they say. But," she reaches around in the bowl, produces a business card. "Here. That's good for one free sundae at the, ah, soda fountain...sweets...place, you know the one." Indeed, it's a Sweet Retreats business card, with Everett's own handwriting. GOOD FOR ONE SUNDAE (JUST ONE). "Nothing like ice cream to soothe a bruised heart."

She reaches into the box, pulls out another deck. The back of this one is a mirrored image in black and white, of a cat-like creature sitting under a thorny bramble. The edges are gilt gold. "Mmmm, have you any of your beer with you? That would make a fine payment."

"A reading is like a therapy session, Bennie. Even if you don't believe in it, it can stretch your mind and make you think about things in a different way. When you try and think how the..." Tor motions to the woman's deck, "...cards actually do apply. I'm pretty bad at it, but I've got a deck from my mom's old shop still kicking around. Sometimes I'll give myself a reading when I'm trying to think through a problem."

"I don't have any beer on me. But I've started a brewery. I expect you knew that. Do you want a free beer coupon, or this?" he tugs one of the rings off his hand. He wears a few, and some of them are always changing. This one is a hematite ring.

The old woman nods at Tor. "As he says. Consider the cards and their imagery; there may be more to them than even I see. I see much--but not all."

She considers the offered ring, thinking over that versus the voucher. It requires some serious consideration. Presently, she nods at the bowl. "The ring, I think. If you'd like a second reading at some point, perhaps you'll return with a beer for me, eh?" She flicks a glance at Bennie, back to Tor. "After all, as a founder of this place, your family's brew should contain the real flavor of the area, mmm?"

She pushes the deck across to him. "I'm sure I need not explain the process to you, if your mother read."

Tor doesn't say anything to the 'founder' comment. It hasn't been that long since he found out he was related to the Baxters, after all. And he hasn't spent very much time exploring what that means. He takes a seat across from the woman, glancing at Bennie in a way that suggests she's free to stay if she wants. He examines the deck, then cuts the cards well, rather like a poker player - but giving the deck a bit more reverence. "How many decks do you have?" he asks, examining the ones she's placed down.

"As many as I need," the old woman says. "Which has been quite a few, here, though in other places, it much less. The decks let me know who they'd like to read for." She pauses, shrugs, and allows, "Most of them, anyways."

The art for this deck is a stark contrast to the last two; it's precise and exacting, all hard edges and strong colors. The first card is an angel and a demon; each bearing a cup pouring something into a yin yang symbol: golden fire from the angel's cup, rushing water from the demon's. "Temperance," the old woman says. "A very positive card, Tor Lockhart, as I'm sure you know. Your vision is clear, and though you're faced with priorities which could easily pull you in multiple ways, you're walking the line between them with grace and efficiency. Your balance is good at this time. This is a reminder to keep things steady, and not attempt to rush forward. You've achieved your success by being careful. Don't set aside caution now."

Next is an old man sitting lotus-style on a large stack of books. He holds a leafing staff in one hand, the other raised in a divine gesture. Two keys cross over his head, one silver, one gold. "The Hierophant." The fortune teller licks her lips, makes a low sound. "Of course," she murmurs. "You see, Tor," she traces the two keys, "the Hierophant is spiritual law. Conformity, morality. But also, in some ways," she touches the books, "he is the mentor in such things. And as he's blessing you here, he's acknowledging your success. You've passed a trial, perhaps, or proven yourself to someone, or something in some way." She hesitates, shakes her head. "But there is more to come. He has two keys, and your first card was Temperance. And what has your family always tried to temper?" Her eyebrows go up. She doesn't mean the Lockharts when she says 'your family'.

The final card is a woman in a white dress, bearing a staff and golden shield, adorned with vines, crowned. But, she's upside down. "The Empress, reversed." She makes a face. "This is a warning. For there is work to be done, between the families of this town, which must be done together." She indicates the other two cards. "And if it's not." Now the Empress. "Reversed, the Empress smothers and stagnates. She halts progress, causes the status quo to become a position of rot and decay. She's insecure, and in her insecurity, fails to act when she must." She gets a thoughtful look. "This...could be a person in your life. But I'm not sure she is. I suspect, instead, she's a symbol that you must not tarry. Take action--or insist it be taken by those who can. Don't rest on your laurels. And," another touched for the first card, "be careful."

She slides the cards back into the deck. "Hopefully that was of use to you."

Tor considers the cards, and not in the polite and wary way that some probably have in these readings. He's clearly trying to unearth what he knows about the cards, and applying it to what she's pulled. "Kinda funny that you pulled Temperance and read it to a guy who is close to opening a brewery, don't you think?" His leg jitters as he looks at the cards and considers her words. "This reading seems bound and determined to make me deal with generations-old shit, huh? Shit that doesn't have anything to do with me." Except that the nameless curse has kept most of the Lockharts from ever achieving much of anything. Or maybe they're just disreputable and it's bad luck?

"I don't have much use for conformity, either."

The old woman throws back her head and laughs. "How American, to think one cannot be temperate when drinking. Or should I say, how unsurprising, for the descendants of the Puritans. Very black and white thinking, that is. You can enjoy it in moderation. But will you? There's a question."

She shrugs about the Heirophant's call to conformity. "Then don't. But deal with these things you must. Has your family--yourself included--not suffered enough for this curse? Wouldn't you rather see it ended, be free of the Hierophant's expectations?"

"Sometimes I feel like the whole curse thing is just an excuse for some people," says Tor with a shrug. "And anyway, if shit needs to be fixed, why should it be me? I've been looking out for my family my whole life. I'm finally starting to look out for myself." He stands up, but then pauses to say, quite respectfully, "Thanks for the reading."

"Mmmm, nothing wrong with looking out for yourself--though perhaps that is a reason to do it." The fortune teller's eyes narrow, her lips twitch. "After all, unless you plan to leave this place ahead of the storm, you'll want to do it for your own well-being, maybe. That your Kin might benefit as well," she shrugs, "a fringe benefit. They'll owe you a favor. A good marker to have, maybe." She bobs her eyebrows, dips her head. "Thank you for your patronage, Master Lockhart. Watch yourself."

Tor snorts softly. "My family isn't really good with debts and favours. I do something that would be a good deed for someone else? It's just part of being in the family. No thanks or repayment needed." Which isn't the healthiest, but the unspoken thing about that is, the more honourable members of his family will come to his aid without wanting anything in return.

Unfortunately, there are far too few of those in his family.

"There's always a storm coming in Gray Harbor," says the scruffy young man. "My hatches are permanently battened down." He lifts a hand in salute to her. As he walks away, he lights up a joint. Maybe he wasn't as calm through all of that as he seemed.

The old woman watches Tor saunter off, smiling to herself. Her gaze shifts to the western horizon, where right now the ocean placidly meets the sky. She murmurs something under her breath, the language distinctly Slavic. Not like this one.

Storm's comin', they say. And some of what they're saying about it... well, it's not sounding like the kind of thing you ride out in your houseboat. Not this time. So among the bustle of other people dealing with their preparations for all of this is Rhys, heading through the park with a fairly sizable bag of Stuff from the hardware store. The Offshore Account's going to need various things done to protect it from all this, if it's going to be as bad as they say.

That doesn't mean he can't spare a moment to eye the old woman knitting at the table there, all calm against the hubbub. Also, the goose. Don't see that every day. Not around here, anyway.

The goose pauses in the act of picking at the grass to turn an orange, calculating eye on Rhys. It's a black goose, which shouldn't exist, so its stare might be that much more disconcerting.

Or maybe not. This is Gray Harbor.

The old woman notices Rhys noticing her, says without looking up from her knitting, "Ah, the sleepers come forth, maybe to awaken, or maybe to drown." She smooths out the hat--or maybe this is a full hooded cardigan?--raises her head to give Rhys a once-over. "You should dry dock it, you know. Anything in the water's going to be kindle, if it doesn't just sink like a stone."

Kailey appears along one of the paths pushing a stroller. In it is a very excited little girl who is pointing at the pond, the ducks, and the goose. "Maaa! Dug! Dug!" Says Morganna, the little black haired and green eyed babe in the stroller. She is about a year old and words are becoming a thing more and more.

"Yes, duck. And goose," Kailey says with a happy smile as Morganna, sometimes called Mew, looks back at her mother with a big grin. She only has her front four teeth, top and bottom, so look vaguely like a mole-rat when she smiles. An adorable one though. "Do you want to feed the ducks?" Asks the mother as she slows near the edge of the pond. It's when she gets there she first notices the odd goose. It makes her hesitant to go on with the feeding. Geese are mean after all. Wouldn't a black goose be more so?

Sleeper is a weird thing to get called, but in fairness -- Rhys isn't big into the tarot sort of thing, and he does like a nap. Not that this lady has reason to know, but eh. It's a fair cop. Her advice gets a tilt of the head, and a closer look: is this someone I should recognize? Maybe someone who just got a heck of a lot older in the handful of years he was away? Huh. He thought he knew everyone around the piers, but then again, most people do also know him. If they've lived here long. "Gave in and just finished arranging that," he replies, giving her a nod, "Looked up that historical storm Cliff keeps talking about and I might not be great at meteorology, but I'm pretty good at odds. Doesn't look worth the gamble on this one."

He eyes the goose a moment -- he may or may not know enough about geese to know they shouldn't be black, but he knows enough not to be sure he wants it eyeing him up like that. Aren't they supposed to be strong enough to break a man's arm? Or is that swans? "Hey," he greets it, in his best casual and unworried way, which is generally pretty darn good, before turning his attention back to the old woman. Kailey and spawn get a grin along the way, but it's the cards that have his curiosity right now. "You're doing readings? Or starting a really esoteric poker game? 'cause I might be interested either way."

The goose edges nearer to Rhys, encouraged by his greeting. It's looking him up and down, like it's sizing him up. Oh, Rhys has seen this behavior before; usually on people, though, and not animals. This goose is about to shake him down.

"Wise," the old woman says. "Many people could learn a good deal by studying odds, but they fool themselves into thinking there's a sure fire way to beat them, and lose their shirts." She glances at the various boats not being pulled out of the harbor. "And more."

She gestures at her travel-worn, ornate box of wood and bronze inlay. "Readings, yes. Though of course the tarot can be used for a hand of poker. Just," her lips curl in a devilish smile, "no one ever likes my stakes."

She beckons Kailey and Morgana over. "It's fine, he'll not injure the child. He's well aware there's a spit over my firepit with his name on it if he dares."

The goose honks at the old woman, annoyed. She ignores him, nods at the depression glass bowl sitting opposite the box. "My fee's quite reasonable. An item of personal value to yourself--no money, unless it be rare or special to you. Say, a photograph of a loved one, or a key to an old apartment you no longer live at." She returns to her knitting, feigns nonchalance. "A lock of your hair would do, even."

Kailey's attention goes from goose to the woman she has seen before. There is surprise on her face and a little thoughtfulness even while smiling. "Hello again. And good to know...while I'm decent with animals, he looks like a toughy," And she nods her head respectfully to Mr. Goose.

"I think it's worth it, if you want a total stranger's input," Kailey speaks directly to Rhys with a smile. "If you're up to it."

"YAAAAA!" Morganna cries in excited agreement, not really knowing what is going on. But she has words and she is gonna use them. Her chubby little fingers reach out towards the goose as she says, "Dugg! Duggdugg!" Though he is no duck, she has yet to quite get the distinction between geese and their smaller cousins. "Maaa! Dug!" And she looks up at Kailey hopefully. And lo and behold out comes a bag of grapes. She tosses one at the goose and then bites another in half. Eating the half and giving the other to her daughter. There's more grapes for the goose and ducks about along with other duck-friendly foods that aren't bread.

The goose is about to try to shake him down. There's a difference. Granted, Rhys is better at human body language than whatever geese speak... but he's spent a lifetime having to dissuade people from thinking that 'small' means 'prey'. He doesn't hold himself like prey, and a subtle shift in his weight makes that a little bit more emphatic. Not backing down to a bird, here. Nope. Try elsewhere.

"Well, now I'm curious about your stakes," he notes, "though y'know, some people might consider the whole lock of hair and such thing to be a little creepy." This does not stop him drawing out his wallet to check out what he might be carrying that might qualify. The grin gets turned on Kailey, as he notes, "Anyway, you're not a stranger. I see you at karaoke all the time." Yes, he shamelessly admits to this terrible vice! "But not the little one. Hey, small person." Slight change in tone for that sentence, though not nearly so far as 'baby talk'. Just enough difference that one might notice.

Out of the wallet comes a folded slip of paper, like a receipt, which he unfolds, gives a tiny laugh at, and then folds back up, considering a moment before he sets it into her bowl o' stuff. A closer look later would show that it is, in fact, a receipt, or more technically a canceled betting slip, from a couple years ago. (Apparently, he won.) "Fit your parameters okay?"

The goose keeps advancing on Rhys. His status as prey or predator means nothing to it; it is, after all, a goose. Its wings flare, and just like that, its long neck snakes in to nip at his leg. Rhys is fast enough to avoid anything serious; a tear in his clothes, at best.

The old woman sighs, shakes a leg at the goose, and the goose shies away with a honk. "See here, he's a client now. Go--bed from the child. She might not mind your poor manners."

The goose honks again, makes its way to Kailey and Morgana. Unlike Rhys, who was being scrutinized, the goose gives mother and child a hopeful look. I am a poor starving waterfowl, feed me please. 🙁:( Nevermind that he just tried to bite Rhys.

The old woman leans over, eyes the slip, nods smartly. "That will do fine." She pulls a deck from her box; the back is a fancy, medieval sort of design, with fleur de lis throughout. She sets to shuffling. "It's wise to regard such a request with caution." Ah, yes--the hair, she means. "Who knows what I might get up to with it. As for my stakes," she glances up at Rhys, eyes watery blue, "my lack of interest in money usually has people demuring. You'd be surprised, how little some people knows about what they value when they can't attach a society's bland currency to it. They're quite sure of themselves, right until you're asking for their ability to write, or their favorite memory, or a favor to be called in at a time of my choosing. Then they find they're not so sure they like their odds."

She pushes the deck across to him. "Cut, please, holding your question in your mind should you have one. You may tell me what it is, if you wish. but you can withhold it as well."

Kailey gives the goose a frown and raises one finger to shake at it. "You better be nice, or you're only getting peas," She tells the goose which had just attacked Rhyse. "Only nice geese get grapes," The way she talks to the goose seems she expects it to understand her words.

"DUG!" Morganna crows with delight as the striking goose comes towards them all sweet like. She doesn't care! She reaches out a hand to the goose even as she masticates the half grape her mother gave me. "Umnumnum dugdugdug, mmmMMMMmm!" She babbles with glee, bouncing hard enough in the stroller to make it bounce a bit. And the rise puffed treats in the tray bounce out into the grass.

Rhys is nothing -- okay, few things -- if not quick. Not quite quick enough, alas, for the sake of his jeans, though he does manage not to yelp and fall over, so that's something, right? Hey, it could almost aspire to be smooth... iiiiif it didn't still end up with him sporting unfashionably ripped denim. 'Run away from bird', 'have physical fight with bird', and 'shoot bird that seems to belong to that lady' all seem like sub-optimal solutions here, and waterfowl are notoriously resistant to persuasion (albeit not bribery, so Kailey may have a chance), so it's really all for the best that the creature listens to her. Rhys glances after it, then at the pant-leg, sighs, and settles down into the empty seat.

The grin's back a moment at the mention of the stakes. "Never wager anything you can't afford to lose. Rule one." Whether anyone's as good at following that with other things as with cash is an open question, though, him definitely included. "Not sure how you'd collect on a couple of those, gotta admit. Favours are always an extra gamble, though. Way too open-ended. From the bidding end, anyway." He looks cheerful enough as he deftly cuts the deck, the fate of his jeans notwithstanding, but also a touch thoughtful. Holding the question in mind, perhaps. A light tap at the sides of the cards evens the deck neatly, and he draws his hand back, and waits.

Awake at an inordinately early hour (for him, anyway), Ashley is meandering through the park with a travel mug in one hand emblazoned with a cartoony design of an alien in a UFO beaming up donuts. The other hand holds a lit cigarette. He's slouching along in jeans, hiking boots, and a faded t-shirt proclaiming the name and logo of some band that existed for about six months five years ago. He almost passes the old woman and her table before he backs up a few steps and stands a polite number of paces away to watch those already there... and not subject them to the cigarette smoke.

The goose favors Kailey with that orange-eyed stare. Where-as it was sizing Rhys up, it's giving her a wary look. Kailey is a mother. There is a child about. And the old woman, she has rules.

Fortunately for the goose, the child has rules too, such as: when excited, express it by throwing food all over the ground. Take heed, adults--this is how it's done. The goose honks approval, begins gobbling up dropped puffs. It's within easy reach of Morgana petting it (well, whatever passes for petting at her age), seems not the least bit concerned she might grab.

The old woman mmms, smiles, thin and mysterious. "Oh, there's ways to collect just about anything, if you know what you're about. I'm sure I don't need to tell you that, Mr. Evans." She looks askance at Ash, bobs her eyebrows at him. "Care to have your cards read, Mr. Jones?"

She doesn't wait for an answer, instead reassembles the deck and turns the first card. The deck's art, like its back, evokes an earlier age in Europe, with medieval and Renaissance imagery throughout. This first image is 3 fancy chalices against the backdrop of a river. "The Three of Cups." She smiles. "A card of good fortune--and as three is something of a sacred number to many faiths, doubly-so. Mind, body, soul; sun, moon, star; and so on. This is a card that promises rejeuvination. And as there are three cups, so this is not merely for you. There are other involved in this growth, within and without. Family, friends, lovers." She nods. "Quite nice, yes."

The next card gives her pause: it's upside down. A woman, dressed in rich robes and green and red, with a scepter in her hand and a crown on her head. "The Queen of Wands, reversed." The fortune teller frowns. "This is, I think, almost certainly a person, though it might be more than one person. Like this, the Queen of Wands--a passionate woman, creative and unafraid to take chances--is unreliable. She'll ask you to take risks you're not ready to, without much hope of success, and little gain in the bargain. This card warns you to trust carefully, even those who you feel inspired by. Perhaps them the most; they may not be thinking clearly." She studies the cups a moment, turns the final card.

Another reversal, this time a young man and woman reaching for one another under an apple tree in full fruit. "The Lovers, also reversed." She sighs. "Second one of those I've seen today." Does she glance towards where Bennie wandered off? Maybe. "The Lovers is a card of union; to reverse it is to foretell of disunion. Disagreement, clashes of personality. Where there should be harmony and joy, there are thorns," she taps the roses at the couple's feet, now above them. "Now, note," she holds up a finger, "as I told Ms. Oakes, this may not mean a romantic relationship. The Lovers represent all unions: businesses, friendships, even neighbors." She runs a hand along the cards. "You've been quite fortunate in your community and your place here. This is a warning: there are those you cannot trust, and they will undermine your relationships. Be cautious. Be careful. As," she smiles, sly, "you are in all things."

She scoops up the cards and adds them back to the deck.

At home Morganna has grown up with two pets, a deaf dog and a cat from outer space. It's true, her name is Flerken, after all, and she is a mighty calico who has slept next to the child ever since she was born. And so Morganna knows how to pet things nicely. It's just that her coordination is still a little wobbly so her pets are more like pats. "DUG!" Cries the toddler with glee, bouncing in her seat and grinning mole-rat like down at the black goose. Kailey, for her part, seems to accept that the goose will behave. And if it doesn't, she has ways of making it.

"Goose, Mew. Goose," Kailey gently corrects her daughter. The little girls gaze lifting to her mother, tongue out as she smiles, and watches her mother form the word with her mouth. Following the pointed finger and, yes, there is a sparkle of Glimmer between mother and daughter.

"GOOF!" Cries Morganna with as much glee as she had when proclaiming the black goose a duck. Perhaps more so as her chubby little fingers reach and stroke the feathery back. Meanwhile Kailey is pulling out fresh peas and tossing them on a ground. A far more healthy and robust food for the web-footed avian. More puffed rice treats fall from the stroller's tray to mingle with the peas.

Ashing his cigarette, AJ takes a long drink of coffee. Trading one vice for the other. The age old habits of insomniacs the world 'round. He's got the hollow eyes of someone who doesn't get much sleep, truth be told. There's a look over the old woman and a glance to the person having their cards read. "Didn't want to interrupt," he notes, but he does take a few strides nearer. Still far enough away to not bother anyone (particularly the elderly and quite young) with second-hand smoke. He does quicken his imbibing at least so he can be done with it. "But sure, I'll have 'em read. Why not."

It's only a moment longer before the stub of the cigarette is put out beneath a boot and, since there's so many onlookers, he bends to gather it up and ferry it to a trashcan nearby. It leaves him with just his coffee to fuss with as he stands nearby, giving the goose a wary eye. Can't trust the things.

Honestly, Rhys still can't quite figure out how one'd confiscate a favourite memory without quite a lot of collateral damage, and the only way he can think of to take someone's ability to write... is also pretty heavy on the collateral damage, frankly. The old woman doesn't exactly look like the enforcer type, but hey, looks can be deceiving.

Also she has a massive goose.

Her implication that Rhys should understand about ways to collect things gets simply a small, faintly amused head-inclination of acknowledgement, not quite agreement but not dissent either; he glances toward Ashley as the man stops to watch, and flashes him a quick grin before turning his attention more firmly to the fortune teller.

The first card is quite welcome. A good start, there. He listens, nodding slightly, and notes, "Three again," after her mention of who the 'others' might be. The next card, though... His brow furrows a bit at the reversal -- he knows enough to know that matters and usually isn't ideal -- and a bit further at the descriptors chosen for the Queen in question. It might well be more than one person, but it doesn't currently take a skilled cold-reader to suspect he can think of at least one that fits the initial description. And then the third, easily recognized, and that one reversed as well. It only makes him look more thoughtful. Those you cannot trust. Not an unknown fact, but perhaps worth the reminder, now and then. "...interesting," he decides after a moment, and lifts his gaze from the cards to the woman as they're scooped up. "Thanks. Food for thought," he says, and steps aside to make room for Ashley to take his place.

"Apologies that it wasn't more...hopeful." The old woman seems sincere in her apology to Rhys. "But, perhaps a good warning serves just as well." She tucks the deck back in the box, sneaking it a glance of 'well done, well done'.

She studies Ash as he approaches. "Well then, Mr. Jones. I was wondering if you might loom over my table." She indicates the depression glass bowl with a nod of her head. It's full of trinkets and odds and ends of every possibly variety. A purple heart, an engagement ring, a betting slip, a monetary bill folded into an oragami unicorn, and more besides. "My fee is quite simple: something of modest value to you personally. Nothing you can't bear to part with, but no vulgar money, and no garbage. A photo of a loved one, perhaps, or an old key to a former post office box." She arches an eyebrow. "A lock of your hair, maybe?"

The goose echoes Morganna's naming with a honk in between bites. And oh, peas!! See, this is why the old woman has her silly rules--children are much more generous with the food their parents give them. The patting is well received, or at least, the goose doesn't seem to mind. It just keeps gobbling up things on the ground. It's not exactly an over-fat goose, so one might wonder where it all goes.

There's a nod to Rhys and Ashley steps up to the table. Hand shoved in pocket, he takes a drink of his coffee and looks to the bowl. There's a sort of lingering to him; consideration. He's not leaving, but he's in no rush to comply either. He's giving it thought, though when the woman suggests a lock of his hair, he gives her a look. "Knew I'd come by, did you." He's not denying it. He knew he'd end up here, one way or another. Storm looming or not.

He lets out a breath and digs out his wallet, setting the coffee down on the edge of the table only long enough to dig in the wallet. A tag is pulled out. A small one; the likes of which you get engraved at a pet store. Plain metal, edges long since rubbed smooth. He puts his wallet away, picks up his coffee, and drops the tag in the bowl... though not immediately. There's hesitation to it. There's the clear, lingering moment of uncertainty in giving it up. But he finally does: a pet's tag. 'Rupert' with a phone number old enough to be missing the area code.

The payment said and done, AJ shoves his hand back in his pocket and sets back on his heels.

"Well of course I did." The old woman smiles up at Ash. "Old people know a great number of things. One of the pleasures of age; accumulation of knowledge, if not wisdom."

At the other end of the fortune teller's table is an ornate wooden box which has seen better days. Dark wood with a bronze inlay, it's the sort of thing rich people would store their necklaces in display-style once upon a time. She opens the lid and pulls out a tarot deck--one that's stark black with an embossed card back which appears to display geometric and astronomical drawings. She begins shuffling the cards, watching Ash consider his payment. She smiles when he needs no prompting, no suggestions. "Clever boy. You know much better than most others, don't you? How this sort of thing works. A young woman, she gave me a necklace from her father who was murdered by a ghost. I told her she need not give me something so dear to her, and she replied, isn't that how it works, the sympathetic magic? You must give in order to receive. Make space for what you want. The more space, the more chance there is to fill it with something great."

She pushes the night black stack of cards across to him. "Cut, please, and think on what you wish to know. You need not tell me, though of course you can if you want me to interpret the reading more specifically."

"You need a piece of us. Something that we have attachment to, in some vein. Not so little as to not matter in the grand scheme of things." Ashley is fairly certain he understands and that's why he hesitated on the hair. "But not so great as something to remember one's father by. That's..." He looks to the bowl, takes a deep breath. "It's a memento. It has meaning. But it's not the only one." On the scale of import, it means more than, say, something found in his pocket... but less than the girl's necklace. Since Rhys has abdicated the chair, AJ steps over to settle into it; leaning over to drape forearms against knees.

Until the deck is placed before him to be cut. He spends some time staring at the card backs. Maybe trying to find something in their patterning. Before he reaches out to cut the cards, he delves into his pocket once more. This time, it's to surface with a battered business card that he holds out towards Rhys. 'Ashley Jones - DJ, part-owner' WKRW. It includes the website, his email address, and the station's 800 number. Seems only polite and it earns him an extra moment of thought.

Ash does, after a moment, set his coffee on the ground by his feet and reach out to cut the deck finally. "Are you ready for the coming storm?" This isn't his question. He's just providing light conversation to fill the quiet for the stillness before the cards are laid out.

"That's for each to decide, eh? She wished to know the deeper truth, was willing to carve out a sliver of her heart for it." The fortune teller half-shrugs. "That's how it works."

She answers his question as he gets seated. Was it for her? She doesn't care, she's answering anyways. "Ready, oh," the old woman laughs, low, almost cough-like. "My dear boy. I've been waiting for it for some time." She stacks the deck. "But that's just me, mmm? I don't have much to lose in a storm." She looks around herself, expression suggesting she's only just now bothered to take in the place. "Not so, the lot of you, and I'm sorry for that. But that's just the nature of the weather."

The cards are, unsurprisingly, sharp and clean in their artwork; minimal colors of white and gold are accented here and there by other shades--red, sometimes green--presenting their subjects in simple tableaus. The first is a small, chubby child, only just old enough to walk, following a butterfly. Two great circles behind him suggest angelic wings he may one day grow. But the card is upside down, thus the child is falling into the sky head-long. "The Fool, reversed." She clears her throat, glances up at Kevin, back down at the card. "The Fool isn't, as his name implies, inherently negative. He's innocent, open to new ideas. He lacks the jaded and cynnical nature of his peers. Yet," she touchs the bottom of the card, "pride cometh before the fall, as they say. When he's reckless, he reaps what he's down. He's not merely inexperienced, he also doesn't realize his lack of experience."

She seems like she might continue, opts not to. Instead, she pulls the next card, which is also reversed: row boats--no, life boats prowl through a misty sea in the shadow of six huge swords. "The Six of Swords, also reversed." She sighs. "Two reversals means, as it did for many others, that there is upheaval in your life." She nods unerringly in the direction of the storm. "Not just that, mind. This is an emotional upheaval, and upheaval of self. The Six of Swords is a card of letting go and escape--and these, they've not escaped. They're trapped among their fears and misconceptions." She links her lips, looks from the Fool to the Six. "This is a comment on you clinging to old habits. You need to relinquish them to empower yourself."

The final card is upright; it shows a man suspended above a golden clamshell, his arms outstretched and holding two stemless tumblers of water. His brilliant, wheat-gold hair floats around his face, obscuring it, and he's crowned by a circlet of gold fish. "The King of Cups." She smiles, smug, maybe even satisfied. "This is who you can become. The King of Cups is a man in touch with his emotions--he's unafraid to admit to them, face them, accept them. He balances them, and so all of himself; he might seem too calm and collected, but in reality, he cares deeply, more-so than many of his peers." She looks up at Kevin, her watery, gray-blue eyes hard. "Your current path is leading you astray, yet you're convinced of it. You must reconsider. The King of Cups calls you to look inward, and ask yourself, what do you feel, that makes you do so?"

She looks between the three cards, nods to herself, and adds them back into the deck.

"Have you been waiting for the storm or what the storm is bringing?" Ashley might consider himself some sort of herald on the radio, but only in that he knows he often has to talk about the things other people don't want to hear. Sometimes it's legitimate: breaking news that's uncomfortable. Sometimes it's not: another alien abduction that sets half (or more) his listeners to rolling their eyes. So he has no qualms in pressing forward. He picks up his coffee from where it sits by his feet and leans in to watch the cards be revealed.

The first does set him to furrow his brow, but he doesn't complain on it. Maybe he's familiar enough with tarot cards to not fall into the old tropes that Fool = bad and Death = bad automatically. But there is some press of his mouth into a line as it continues onward. Particularly at talk of old habits. "Doubt you're talking about my smoking," he mutters before taking a long drink. The cup is rattled; what little coffee there is left tipples against the edges, so he just lets the cup dangle from his fingertips as he slumps back against his thighs; forearms bracing him upright.

As the last card is shown, if there's relief that it's not another reversal, he doesn't show it. He does stare at it for some time, then at the woman. Something shifts in his features and he finally stands upright. Hand gets shoved into pocket and the cup is juggled slightly as blue eyes roll behind glasses... to look towards the nearest trashcan. Away from the old woman and her cards. "They can try to dissuade me all they want. It just proves I'm closer to the truth." Whatever he might be feeling at the moment, it becomes outwardly pleasant, amicable, and he tilts his head finally at the fortune teller and steps away from the chair. "Thank you. Good luck in the coming days." As he turns away, he lifts the cup in salute towards Rhys and Kailey.

The old woman shrugs. "Mmm, for me there's no difference. They're the same thing."

She watches him get up, mouth twisted in wry amusement. "Oh, you think this is Them, telling you to look elsewhere?" She laughs, soft and papery. "I suspect it's more a call for you to refocus your efforts on who you reach out to. But," she shrugs, "it's not for me to decide. That's your end of it. I just describe what I see."

"I think we're all waiting for the storm," Rhys says, glancing up toward the sky, then down at his Bag O' Hardware Store Stuff. He's probably righter than he knows, given his lack of 'shine'. He gives Ashely a light mock-salute in return, two fingers lazily to the temple and flicked away, and a quick grin to all three generational levels of the women nearby: Mew, Kailey, and the fortune teller herself. "And I better get back to work on that. Thanks again," he notes to the latter, and then he, too, is heading away.