Teller of Fortunes 26: Warm Reception

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It’s the morning before the caravan leaves Paakoponde. Shardflies are buzzing against the curtains, rears aglow with warm light, some starting to slip in across the windowsill. Normally the wagons would have been rolling by now, but the ground is rather marshy and uncooperative in these parts. Sounds of labor last night signalled trouble with one of the wagon wheels. Given the ingenuity of the troupe, the caravan’s sure to be moving again after breakfast.

As Ane shifts, a bundle of puffroot gently thwaps against her forehead. It must have been precariously shoved into a cupboard during her attempts to wrangle the tide of local “gifts.” She’s managed to stay in her wagon since then, but others are bound to be curious. After all, there was a literal procession of bundle-bearing locals heading in and out of her tent, all thanks to her unintentionally standing in for the local oracle. Anyway, the scent of sizzling, savory eggs soon wafts its way into her wagon, sending out the call to go join the others. 

She mutters a soft curse as she bats a shardfly away from her head, before easing herself into a sitting position with a broad stretch. The scent of the smoke has long since dissipated, leaving behind only the barest traces of its sweet, fruity aroma mingled with incense and the smell of dried puffroot. It’s far from an unpleasant smell, but it’s one that’s probably going to start wearing on her after awhile.

After washing her face, combing and braiding her hair, and dressing in a comfortable chemise and a skirt of saffron-colored cotton, Ane heads out to pick up some breakfast and see if anyone she knows is a closet smoking enthusiast.

This morning, peering through the mist, Ane sees that the food line is rather short. All around, the more able-bodied members of the camp are already getting busy prepping the wagons. Apparently many had to awaken early to continue the work of last night. At the moment, it seems they’re almost finished; there are boards under the wagon wheels, the trumba are hitched, and there’s a clear path back to the main road. 

The food line passes in a breeze — a quick step up to Vasht, the sleepy-eyed knife thrower, who’s taking a rare shift at cooking. It’s just as well, since he only really knows how to cook eggs, and there’s a small stock of them leftover from the city. He gives a worn smile when Ane arrives, and uses a spoon to scooch breakfast onto her plate. 

“Welcome to the morning. Glad to see you didn’t float off on a cloud last night,” he says with a hint of mirth, while preparing the next batch. 

Ane gives him a wry, sheepish grin as she accepts the eggs.

“That obvious, huh?” She says, briefly catching her lower lip in her teeth, “Well… What can I say? I’m good with customers.”

He lets out a chuckle. “Right… Well,” he smirks, and motions off towards the current circle of people eating. The lot of them, including Brair the fire breather, the dancer triplets, the actors Jiselmo, Korin, and the animal tamer Nelea are all looking in Ane’s direction with amusement in their expressions. There are more than a few sets of lofted brows amongst them.

Vasht, scraping off a pan, adds, “Maybe you can share some of your tricks, and a cigarillo or two.” He gives her a wry smile that sets the vestigial wing over his left eye a-fluff. “Off you go, can’t keep them waiting all morning,” he says, scraping off a pan. 

Ane darts a glance over her shoulder at the lofted brows and amused grins. When she looks back at Vasht, her lips are pursed in an expression that’s half chagrined, and half miffed at his teasing. 

“Careful what you ask for, or you’ll have six pounds of puffroot on your doorstep,” she chides him, as she turns to find a place to sit. She’s tempted to find somewhere where she’ll endure less ribbing, but, after yesterday, she at least owes them somewhat of an explanation…

When she arrives, the atmosphere is certainly jovial. Jiselmo even raises his hands to begin clapping, though Korin intercepts by smacking them down. Perhaps after the ribbing he endured himself previously, he’s inclined to return the favor for Ane. This doesn’t stop the more mildly amused of from grinning, with Brair being the first to comment.

 “Well… I see our troupe’s other top performer just decided to wake up.” He beams, then bites into an appoh — likely one of many. Munching around it, he says, “Thoughf I don’f think it waf my shirtlesh fire twilin,” he swallows, “had them flocking!”

The others chuckle. The triplets lean forward in unison, with Zila pillowing her chin on her hands. 

“Ane, you just have to tell us your method. We practiced very hard at being triple-topless, and now you’re a puffroot magnate!”

Ane sits down on the edge of the group, shoulders hunched a little over her plate of eggs. Her cheeks burn with embarrassment and she prods the fluffy mass with her fork, muttering softly.

“I just pulled some cards, that’s all.”

Even so, a grin — somewhere between amusement and self-consciousness — tugs at the corner of her lips.

Jiselmo kind of shimmies his head, not a shake, but a general spasm of bewilderment. “Well what did you pull for them? Did you predict that their vulre will go on to a top university?”

“None would even explain their activity,” Nelea says, while petting one of the troupe’s trained gelts with her broad, gloved hand. “It was truly bizarre,” she says, looking at the creature. 

“Not even the ones that gave me appohs would explain it! They just kept spouting, ‘Thank to foreign shaman’ and left to get more!” He says, practically in a laugh as he throws his arms wide. “They didn’t even give a damn about all the fire, either!”

Okay,” Ane says, pointing her fork accusatorily at Brair, “In my defense, I didn’t know how many appohs they had. Or puffroot,” she says, before taking a forkful of eggs, “Obvioufly.”

“To Jiselmo’s point,” Nelea says, “It must have been quite a fortune to tell. I’ve had three vulre go off to college, and I wasn’t that excited,” she says with a warm, albeit dry, sort of humor.

“Yeah! Why were they so grateful? It must have been a pretty high-quality grift,” Jiselmo appraises, crossing his arms and nodding authoritatively. “It’d make ‘ol Jarrik green with envy, with that kind of yield!”

“Well, if Jarrik wants to figure out how to fence about three dozen pounds of puffroot, he’s welcome to his cut,” Ane says sourly, “Besides… You all know what I do. That one lady asked a question, I answered it, she asked how to pay me, since she didn’t have much money… I asked her to give Brair some appohs. She asked if I wanted anything for myself, I figured a pouch of puffroot might be nice. I never expected it to end up so…”

She gestures toward her wagon with a vigorous wave of her hand. 

“High?” Jiselmo offers glibly. 

Ane pins the end of her egg-laden fork with a fingertip, poising it to catapult its payload straight at him.

“‘S enough out of you.”

Through some kind of age-old reflex, Jiselmo immediately ducks behind Korin. He peers over the tzuskar’s upper-wing, not even disturbing the man as he continues to eat. “Just saying!” He calls from behind his fortification, then ducks down.

“Well, it’ll make ya good money in the next city,” Brair figures. “As for me, I’ve definitely got enough for that ‘drink the dragon’s fire’ trick,” he says with a grin, rubbing his massive palms together.

Nelea sighs and shakes her head. “Just don’t test it on us or the animals.”

“Really, it’s not a bad idea,” figures Vila, the middle-sister. “You could make some money for Dynkala, if you tell her to prep belly-remedies ahead of time,” she says with a wiley gleam in her eyes. 

“It sounds dangerous to me,” says Wila, clutching her pearls as always. “Really, how ever did you get such a notion…?”

“And if Dynkala doesn’t want to, the other herbalist probably can — whatsername. Vaidna,” Ane adds, “Though honestly, Brair, you could probably start brewing your own liquor from scratch with all those appohs.”

“Huh, you’re right,” he agrees, furrowing his ridge of a brow. “A lot of it, too… Might go well with the other stuff. It’d be easier to sell than all the blasted appohs, if we don’t eat them first,” he figures, while a camp follower wanders by and takes his empty plate for him.

“At least Ane won’t have to be on backup-duty for the medic wagon when you get them all sick,” Wila chides him. “Really, hearthfire vinegar,” she shakes her head, as someone wanders by and takes the triplets’ empty plates. 

“Thank you, such a dear,” Vila mutters, as the three of them settle back into their seats. 

“Phf, a little digestive charcoal, some white clay tablets, a bit of stomach powder… hearthfire vinegar never killed anybody,” Ane replies.

Then a robed callosian wanders by and accepts her empty plate with a broad hand.

“Thank-,” she begins to say. Something about him jogs her memory, though, as she eyes his robe with a curious hum. That is certainly an Eternalist robe. Is he… the monk she met a few days ago? He never gave a name.

“You are most welcome,” says the dark-braided callosian, bobbing his head.

As he takes Jiselmo’s plate, he shrugs and thanks him as well. Jiselmo has still been hiding behind Korin’s back this whole time, but finally seems to be forgetting Ane’s promise of catapulting.

Korin’s the one who blinks, and as the callosian wanders away with the plates, he wonders aloud. 

“Wait a second… why is a burly monk doing our dishes?”

“I can get used to it,” Zila says cheerfully, with a waggle of her eyebrows. 

Vila gives her a cross look, and huffs. 

“Well, he might be some use against a bandit raid,” she says, averting her gaze. 

Ane presses her fingertips to her temples, and attempts to stifle a soft groan. So far, she’s netted the caravan thirty six pounds of puffroot, probably four times that of appohs… And one adventurous monk.

“I’ll see you lot later. I’ve got to go before anything else shows up.”

“See you later, Ane!” Brair calls to her, waving his arm. He seems quite happy with the outcome, given his wealth of ale-fodder.

“See you, Ane,” Zila bids her dreamily, resting a hand upon her flushed cheek. Naturally, she’s not even looking in the fortune teller’s direction, but rather, at the monk currently scrubbing dishes with his oh-so-strong hands. 

Like a fly-trap, the caravan accumulates strange travelers and friends by the day.

Teller of Fortunes 17: The Right Questions

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It doesn’t take long for awestruck locals to creep into the carvan’s campgrounds.

The calls of the barkers and entertainers comes through the tent walls, tales of the bizarre and the awesome muffled by the thick canvas. Sometimes the noise is enough to remind one of the surroundings, but generally, it’s just muted enough to give a very separate sense of place for the Teller of Fortunes. Though of course, the sights and smells do much more to create that illusion of travelling elsewhere…

Soon, someone decides to make that journey. 

A thick-skinned, curl-horned callosian steps through the tent’s opening, sweeping the flap back with a wide forearm. His skin is tinted differently than most of his kind, probably a deep sort of blue, while his hair hangs long and dark, partly bound into a braid beside his temple. Otherwise, he looks like many men of his kind: wide of jaw, broad of build, and bearing almost shield-like forearms. The only other departure are the half-robes he wears, covering all of his body save for the deep-diving “V” collar typical of fuhajen Eternalist monks. Apparently not all of them are fuhajen, though this one has the look of a man of mixed ancestry.

“Hello,” he says kindly, looking about as he enters. He holds his arms close to his sides at first, wary of accidentally knocking anything over. 

The Teller of Fortunes offers the man a smile, humming over the idle shuffling of her cards.

“Greetings! It’s five silver for three cards, and five more for every three thereafter,” she says, her voice pitched in an almost musical purr. She gestures to the cushions in front of her table with a gentle bow of her head. “Please, sit, and let us find the answers you seek.”

The man beams at her hospitality, his thick jaw making his smile look all the wider.

 “Very well. Let’s see what the Shards have in store,” he agrees, and strides over to the cushions. Where most callosians might ‘lumber’ in such a cramped environment, he moves with a careful, trained sort of grace. Once there, he descends into a cross-legged position and draws five silver from his belt pouch. 

She keeps a practiced hum on her cards, as she quietly surveys the man’s face from the edge of her perception. He doesn’t seem old, but clean-living monks can be deceiving. Still, if he had other options, he would likely not have joined a religious order. He seems to be a half-breed, so at least one parent may not be in the picture, if he chose to leave home and join a religious order… Fortunately, he also seems relaxed and jovial, so there’s less pressure on her to perform.

“Do you have any specific questions you wish to have answered?” She asks, as the cards dive and flip between her fingers.

The man seems pensive, pillowing his chin upon the back of his hand. 

“Hmm… Does it matter if I ask a big question, or does it need to be personal?” He asks, then adds with a chuckle, “Also, that’s not the question; I don’t think djinn-logic applies here…” 

A vague smile curves her lips. 

“No, it doesn’t matter — the cards can answer either.”

“Alright then,” he nods, then asks, “What shall be the fate of the fallen sun?” He asks casually, as if asking about the weather next week — though the notion is something most Kindlers (or even Void-fans) would balk at as blasphemous. The Sun shattered more than eight-hundred years ago, after all, and only the most audacious religious orders pronoucne things about it — certainly not the Eternalist monks.

The fate of the who in the what now?

Beneath her veil, the Teller of Fortunes’s brows knit slightly. Fucking Eternalists.

She shuffles her cards a bit more quickly, and divides them into three piles. Her hand hovers briefly over each, feeling for the faint call — a tingle in her fingers, a subtle raising of the tiny hairs on her arm, a little jolt that says here, this — to tell her which to pick. 

She turns a card over.

“The Rogue upright. Usually, it represents cleverness and cunning. Here, it may indicate that the fate of the fallen sun is not ours to worry about — creation has its own rhythms, its own plans, its own conception of intelligence and the way things ought to be.”

She hopes the trail of smoke from the katagon bowl is enough to hide the relief in her smile. So far, so good.

The man lofts his brows, his expression light — somewhere between pensive and amused, though not in any sort of theatric or mocking way. Perhaps it’s the sort of amusement that comes from a curious surprise. “Interesting answer. A few religions disagree, but I’d say it’s at least above myself,” he figures. “I have no plans to go hauling shard-hunks antyime soon… So then, whose concern is it?”

Whose concern? If only her deck could be so specific… Still, she turns over the next card.

“The Oyster upright. It will be the concern of those who are self-sufficient, who have created boundaries for themselves. Oysters are also lowly animals, still and quiet enough to be mistaken for rocks. So, it is those who don’t seek glory — who are mild, self-supporting, and unconcerned with the troubles of the world. In short — it is whoever seems least likely.”

Oysters also only qualify as “sentient” through what is, at best, a technicality, but she tactfully leaves that part out.

The man nods again, taking a moment to wrap his head around this one. 

“It certainly seems an odd answer, though it has some truth… Creatures died in the shattering, unable to adapt; whereas people survive by building walls, or cultivating bright little bugs…” As he says this, he casts a glance at the tent wall. There, a collection of shardflies are gently bap-bap-bapping against the canvas. They seem to have a fondness for something in the tent, whether it be the people or some of the incense that’s burning. 

“Alright then,” he smiles playfully, and asks, “What will happen to the oysters next?”

“The oyst-” 

She clears her throat softly and turns over another card, before continuing in the same smooth, lullaby-like tones.

“Ah, The Fang upright. This indicates a preparation for battle — what was once meek, self-sufficient, and unconcerned will find themselves needing to become concerned if they are to prepare for the events ahead.”

She’s not quite sure how oysters would even go about doing this, but that metaphor may have begun to slip away from her.

“Hmm. Well, they should probably think about growing some arms then,” he figures, his tone somewhere between joking and firmly serious. Ultimately, he shrugs his shoulders and adds, “Alright, that’ll do. In any case, I’m open to another reading if you’re not keen to kick me out of your tent… yet.”

“Very well, that will be five silver. More oysters, or…?”

The Teller of Fortunes picks up her three piles of cards, preparing to shuffle them should the situation require it.

He laughs mirthfully, and shakes his head, disturbing the dark braid beside his chin. 

“No, no, I think the oysters have it handled… I have a more personal question this time.” He settles in, resting his large hands upon his lap. “After every four years of training, the people of our Order set out on a journey to gather more knowledge. Mine is coming up. I could ask what I would find, but that’s probably getting ahead of myself. So, what should I look for?” He asks, canting his head slightly to the side. 

Easy-peasy.

The Teller of Fortunes gently shuffles her deck before she turns over a card, setting it on the table between her and the monk.

“Ah, The Maranj reversed… .“ She leans forward, with a sly cant of her head and a playful lilt to her voice. “You should avoid overindulgence. If you might be tempted to seek out any temporal delights denied to you by your Order, now is not the time to do it.”

She turns over another card, placing it just below and to the left of the first.

“And The Huntress upright. Seek that which will demand courage from you. So, look for opportunities that will help you maintain your austerity, but challenge your spirit.” 

He rubs his palm across his firm cheek, considering what has been presented to him. 

“Well… No alcohol or carpentry for me, it seems,” he says jovially. “Something to challenge my spirit, though… Hm. That is a tricky one,” he figures, squinting in thought. “Very well. What sort of challenge would lend best to this?” He asks.

She gives an understanding nod as she turns over the third card.

“The Gurran reversed. The Gurran indicates a stoic nature, but, in its negative aspect, shows stubbornness. There is an aspect of your life that requires much tenacity from you, and that is where you should begin.”

At this, he purses his lips and sets his jaw. It’s not like he’s displeased, but more like this is exactly the sort of thing he’d expected. The man nods dutifully. 

“Well… In that case, it’d have to be either board games, love, or mathematics, and I don’t plan on buying an abacus anytime soon…” He sighs, then immediately lifts his spirits and straightens his posture.  “Alright! I think that’s perfect. Best get going before I complicate my worldview about clams any further. Do you take tips?” The callosian asks, rising from his seat. 

“Oysters,” she gently corrects him, amid a playful smile, “They’re also an aphrodisiac, if that helps. And yes, gladly.”

“Well then, maybe it’ll all work out!” The colorful callosian agrees, and lays out a handful of another five silver.  “Thank you for your insights, and may the stream ever flow,” he bids her, dispensing what seems to be some sort of local parting-idiom. Hastened by his thoughts, he’s soon slipping out the door.

The Teller of Fortunes reclines on her cushions, fanning herself gently with her hand. As breezy and cool as it is, there’s not much airflow through the tent, and it can be uncomfortably humid and stuffy sometimes. 

She keeps her ears pricked for the sounds of another customer, just in case, as she lounges. 

It seems that Eternalist really got in on the ground-floor of a busy day. While this clearing may not look like a typical location in a bustling city, it certainly is one. Before long, people are lining up outside of the tent. Given how the caravan tends to avoid city squares, this is a pretty unusual level of traffic. Today,  the caravan is positively swamped (pun intended). 

Many of the readings are made back-to-back-to-back, all with their own thoughts and concerns, and Ane is left sweating to keep up. Many  seek “knowledge” or “enlightenment” in lieu of wealth/love, asking towards some sort of deep, metaphysical understanding of the world. It’s surprising how many are willing to ask this of a fortune teller, but the locals seem prone to superstition and open to a broad definition of “divinity.”

Of course, if one is feeling cynical enough, these desires can easily be interpreted as yet another way to say gold and lovin’.

Ane is certainly cynical enough, though with a bit of a twist.

All any of her patrons ever really want is love in some form, when you peel away the disguises their questions wear — the ones who want gold want it because they think it will make them more attractive, and the ones seeking enlightenment want to know if the world is truly the understandable, loving place they hope it is.

The Teller of Fortunes shuffles and flips her cards, lending the appropriate flavor to their meanings depending on who’s doing the asking. Candlelight blooms across the shining reedpaper cardstock. One more card — the Shard upright. It can be any number of answers, as long as the questions are right.