The Magician

Emelle

A scenic, sea-view beer garden.
Snowflakes float down around you, colouring the world white. An area enclosed by stout walls gives the garden an air of privacy, but still affords a scenic view of the nearby sea. Numerous picnic tables are dotted around the area, large umbrellas protecting guests from either rain or sun. Short grass and hanging baskets decorate this social area, adding the smell of nature to the various scents of the various markets nearby. At the far end of the garden stand four tall flagpoles, each holding one of Aetolia's cities standards. A beautifully carved chess board is attached firmly to a heavy stand here. Pearle Harfoot is here.
You see a single exit leading west.

Emelle steps out into the garden, accompanied by a cloud of pungent smoke.

The light snow continues, lightly coating you with snowflakes.

Glancing up, Emelle huffs at the falling snow and hunches forward as she takes up a position next to the doorway.

Emelle takes a long drag from a lit crimson cigarette.

Pearle lifts his eyebrows, glancing Emelle’s way.

Emelle acknowledges Pearle with a nod of her head.

The stars wink into existence, familiar constellations illuminating the night with tales of myth and legend.

Emelle takes a long drag from a lit crimson cigarette.

Pearle sits at a picnic table, tarot cards laid out before him. After the briefest acknowledging nod of his head, he turns back to his carefully arranged lines of cards.

The light snow continues, lightly coating you with snowflakes.

Emelle spends a few minutes loitering outside the door, snow collecting on her shoulders and hair as she smokes. Her eye skims over Pearle's table briefly, and soon after she slips back into the warmth of the barroom.

The Shining Trident.
The everyday passing sounds of the market mingle with the sounds of the bar to create a congenial atmosphere, further complimented by the comfortable furbishment of the bar's main room. Murals of various scenes adorn multiple walls, one of them depicting gladiators of various races competing in the nearby Delosian arena. Other scenes show mermaids and mermen rallying to confront the ferocious Kraken, another showing hordes of people with catapults ready to face the onslaught of the Almighty Kerrithrim. The room is pleasantly adorned with round, well-polished tables and stools for groups to sit and socialize around. The bar itself is a continuous affair of polished mahogany, numerous pumps for the various local ales are displayed for patrons to "pick their poison". A drunk sits at the bar, flagon in hand. Brayth, the bartender cleans a few mugs while overlooking his bar. Tahlv loiters here with his crossbow in a lowered position, chewing on a long strand of dry grass.
You see exits leading north, east, south (open pine door), and up.

Emelle takes a seat at the bar.

Pearle tells Emelle, "Hm. Did you get your lute fixed?"

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "Tch. Do you know how difficult it is to find a good luthier?"

Pearle tells Emelle, "I have no idea how hard it is."

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "Very hard."

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "I would rather find its maker."

Pearle tells Emelle, "Who is a good luthier, I assume."

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "Aye. And likely even more difficult to find."

Pearle tells Emelle, "How come?"

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "I do not know where he is."

Pearle tells Emelle, "That's bad luck."

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "It does not sound any worse for it, at least."

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "Have you found any more satisfying answers to your questions?"

Pearle tells Emelle, "No, but I'm not losing sleep over it."

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "--ha."

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "Your kind do not sleep, aye?"

Pearle tells Emelle, "That would be the joke, yes."

Emelle whispers psychically into Pearle's mind, "Mm."

Pearle tells Emelle, "Come back out here. I'll read your fortune."

Faint whispers slip around the room nearby as the cold of night wraps itself around the building.

A scenic, sea-view beer garden.
Snowflakes float down around you, colouring the world white. An area enclosed by stout walls gives the garden an air of privacy, but still affords a scenic view of the nearby sea. Numerous picnic tables are dotted around the area, large umbrellas protecting guests from either rain or sun. Short grass and hanging baskets decorate this social area, adding the smell of nature to the various scents of the various markets nearby. At the far end of the garden stand four tall flagpoles, each holding one of Aetolia's cities standards. A beautifully carved chess board is attached firmly to a heavy stand here. Pearle Harfoot is here.
You see a single exit leading west.

Dry laughter somehow precedes Emelle's re-emergence into the garden. She pauses in the doorway to take a drag from her cigarette, smoke pouring from her mouth as she mumbles, "S'pose it couldn't be any worse than the last time."

Pearle beckons Emelle over with a wave of his hand. "I already have the cards laid out," he says, "Come here."

Emelle shrugs over to Pearle's table and hovers behind the opposite chair briefly before she steps out and fills it.

Emelle drinks from a battered iron flask full of Spirean ice brandy.

A number of tarot cards are set out on the table with their bone white backs turned up. Pearle regards Emelle with a steady stare, then orders, "Pick one."

Riding her chariot of light, the great life-giver rises from her long sleep and shoots a timorous ray over the horizon.

Already staring at the cards, Emelle barely hesitates before moving her free hand to indicate the one closest to the middle with a touch of her index finger.

Pearle flips the card over in a quick gesture. It is deep blue, and illustrated with a heavy hand, the robes of the man depicted on it a riot of dense, geometric patterns that are barely distinguishable from the night sky which surrounds him. "The Magician," Pearle pronounces.

Pearle Harfoot says, "Good family. Good luck. Good love. Good life."

Emelle snorts, her lips pulling back in the smirk of a skeptic. She leans back in her chair and takes another drink from a battered iron flask of Spirean ice brandy.

Pearle wipes the cards from the table with the palm of his hand, and begins to deal them again, this time face up. Each gesture is quick and practiced, and the flick of his wrist is almost graceful.

Pearle Harfoot asks, "Do you not believe in divination?"

Rising higher in the sky, the sun illuminates the land, confining darkness to the shadows.

Shrugging a shoulder, Emelle watches Pearle deal the cards out with barely visible interest. She opens her mouth to say something, but hesitates. When she finally speaks, there's a note of conflict in her voice. "I do not know."

A pause as Pearle frowns at his handiwork. The cards are set out in rows, organized by the predominate color in the composition - blues with blues, greens with greens, silvers with silvers. "That's an interesting answer," Pearle decides, nodding slowly.

Emelle lifts the vice-bearing hand to rub her forehead with a knuckle, brandy sloshing around in her flask, and sighs. "I spent many years as a follower of Omei," she tells Pearle as she eyes the drink. For the moment, she stays her hand. "Do you know of Her?"

"Oh," Pearle sighs, smiling at Emelle. He lifts an eyebrow and tips his head as his hand pauses over a picture of a man hung upside down by one foot. It's as elaborately patterned as the Magician was. "I am plenty familiar with all of our beloved Pantheon."

Attaining her fullest glory, the shining sun sits upon her throne at the apex of her daily trek through the firmament.

Emelle's eye lingers on Pearle's hand. Again, she takes far too long to speak, perhaps choosing her words. "She sees," is all she says at first, squinting faintly. Her gaze flips up to him. "The oracles and the seers find Her ... She knows true visions. She is wary of false prophets who claim Her gifts." A troubled expression has settled on the Yeleni's face, adding years of age by lines.

The light snow continues, lightly coating you with snowflakes.

Emelle drinks from a battered iron flask of Spirean ice brandy.

Emelle takes a long drag from a lit crimson cigarette.

Pearle's long-fingered hand slowly lowers, covering the card. His fingers spread to obscure it from view. "Then let's hope," he says, mildly, "That I am not a false prophet."

Pearle's smile widens.

The corners of Emelle's mouth twitch as she snorts.

Honestly, Emelle says, "I know nothing about divination."

The sun begins her downward journey towards eventual sleep, casting even, full light upon the land.

Pearle shrugs, once again gathering his cards together. He deals them again, this time in rows that don't seem to have an organization scheme.

Emelle falls silent as she watches Pearle, the cherry of her cigarette flaring as she drags on it.

Softly, Pearle Harfoot says to Emelle, "Well. We all know nothing about certain things."

Emelle intones, "Mm."

Pearle's movements become more rapid and, if such a thing can said about the dealing of cards, more violent. "Divination," he lists, "Truth, death, how to save the life of a child, how to spot a falsehood, how to protect yourself from Those who would have you, rather or not you are willing."

Pearle Harfoot says, "All kinds of things."

Emelle asks Pearle, "How does it work?"

Emelle's eyebrow draws in, and she shifts in her chair.

With a frown, Pearle Harfoot asks, "How does what work?"

The deepening dusk yields to impenetrable darkness as night claims the land.

"Divination," Emelle repeats, gesturing at Pearle's cards with her free hand. "How do you know what they tell you is truth?"

Emelle drinks from a battered iron flask of Spirean ice brandy.

Pearle's frown deepens, and he leans back, regarding Emelle and the cards before he. After a long pause, he says, vaguely, "I've never had cause to doubt them."

"Mm." Emelle shifts in her chair again, sitting up some. Her lips purse.

The stars wink into existence, familiar constellations illuminating the night with tales of myth and legend.

Pearle Harfoot asks, "Is something wrong?"

With a shake of her head, Emelle says to Pearle, "No."

Repeating himself in a low voice, Pearle Harfoot says, "How to spot a falsehood."

Emelle frowns at Pearle.

The ghost of a smile passes fleetingly across the lips of Pearle.

"I do not lie," Emelle informs Pearle on a sigh. "I thought about asking another question, but I decided to wait."

Pearle Harfoot says to Emelle, "You're agitated."

Smirking, Emelle says to Pearle, "Usually."

Emelle drinks from a battered iron flask of Spirean ice brandy.

Pearle waves a hand, beckoning. "Please," he says, "Ask."

Emelle glances down at the cards, then back to Pearle. "Why do you believe them?"

"Because I don't have a reason not to," Pearle replies.

Emelle asks Pearle, "Because their predictions are accurate?"

Pearle sets his stack of cards aside and places his forearms on the table, leaning forward towards Emelle. "I do not believe," he says, in a very quiet voice, "That because I do not understand something, or do not know how it works, means it is not real and true."

The light snow continues, lightly coating you with snowflakes.

Emelle is quiet for a moment. Then, a small smile dawns on her face, and she nods, evidently judging the answer acceptable.

Indicating the cards with a dip of her chin, Emelle asks Pearle, "What do they say, then?"

The adumbrative night stretches onward, ever elusive of dawn's grasp.

Pearle Harfoot asks, "Right now?"

Emelle blinks. "You are not finished?"

Pearle shrugs one shoulder. "They say nothing," he laughs, sitting back.

Pearle Harfoot says, "I've just been keeping my hands busy."

"...ah." Shrugging faintly, Emelle leans back in her chair.

Emelle takes a long drag from a lit crimson cigarette.

"These cards," Pearle muses, "Are worth more to me than simply being a means of prediction. Look." He draws one from the pack, and lays it before Emelle - it’s a woman, robed in white, her hands upheld and her beautiful face wearing a look of rapture. Floral patterns swirl throughout her cloak and halo her head. "They're weapons. And they're works of art."

Emelle's head tilts as she carefully examines the card in attentive silence.

Pearle leans forward, eager as he frames the card with his fingers. "They're beautiful," he says.

Pearle Harfoot says, "I love to make them. And to look at them. Marvel at them, you could say."

A quiet noise -- a laugh? -- sounds behind Emelle's barely smiling lips. "Godtouched," she murmurs, propping her free arm, bent, on the back of her chair.

Pearle tips his head, his expression uncertain. "Excuse me?" he asks.

"You," Emelle clarifies, indicating Pearle with a little roll of her wrist.

Pearle shakes his head quickly, reclaiming the card and shuffling it back into the deck. "No," he says.

Emelle lifts her shoulders in a prolonged shrug as she takes another drink from a battered iron flask with traces of Spirean ice brandy.

Riding her chariot of light, the great life-giver rises from her long sleep and shoots a timorous ray over the horizon.

Pearle's fingers still, gently cradling his deck of beautiful, strange cards. "...Maybe," he relents.

Nodding, Emelle glances up at the lightening sky.

"Are you...," Pearle begins to ask, looking to Emelle. "Godtouched?"

The light snow continues, lightly coating you with snowflakes.

Emelle chuckles lowly at that, then falls oddly silent. "I do not know," she answers at great length, the words barely audible. "Maybe not, anymore."

Quietly, Emelle says to Pearle, "Once."

Pearle shrugs at this, saying, rather agreeably, "Favor comes and goes. That's my understanding of it."

Shaking her head gently, Emelle says to Pearle, "Favor is not the same."

After a moment of consideration, Emelle says to Pearle, "It is easier to see in others than it is in oneself."

Pearle Harfoot says, "Then I am afraid I do not know what you mean. 'Godtouched.' Tcha."

Simply, Emelle says to Pearle, "Their influence is everywhere."

Emelle takes a long drag from a lit crimson cigarette. The final part of the cigarette burns away to ash.

Casting off her final fetters, the luminous lady awakens fully, shedding her joyful light from horizon to horizon.

Solemnly, Pearle Harfoot says, "Yes, it is. Influence, favor..."

One side of Pearle's mouth tips up. "Are you calling something practical and average something poetic? Is that what 'godtouched' is?"

As Emelle rubs the remaining ash from her fingers, it floats away, blending into the falling snow. "Why can a thing not be practical, average, and poetic?" she counters, looking back to Pearle.

"I never said it couldn't be," Pearle answers, "I was asking if that's what you were doing." Snow has settled in his curls.

Pearle Harfoot says to Emelle, "Humor me."

"No," Emelle answers Pearle then. She sets her flask on the table and pats the outside of a scuffed leather jacket with her free hand, then reaches inside, searching its inner pockets. "It is not."

Pearle laughs, bowing his head. His hands extend to Emelle in a plea. "Then tell me what you mean," he says, "What is godtouched?"

Attaining her fullest glory, the shining sun sits upon her throne at the apex of her daily trek through the firmament.

Successfully extracting a cigarette from her jacket pocket, Emelle fishes out a soot-blackened tinderbox and sets to lighting it. Without looking at Pearle, she enumerates: "Finding beauty in ordinary things. Walking out of step with the world. Trusting outside perception." The cigarette flares to life, lending her eye a spark as she glances up at him. "They are Her marks."

Simply, Pearle Harfoot says, "But not just Hers. Clearly."

Shrugging, Emelle says to Pearle, "No."

Emelle takes a long drag from a lit cigarette.

Emelle asks Pearle, "So?"

Pearle chances a smile. "You are saying I am marked by Another," he ventures.

"You could not be Hers, as you are," Emelle states, gesturing vaguely at Pearle with her smoke.

Pearle Harfoot says, "You're right. I do not Dream."

Emelle nods her head at Pearle, showing her acceptance.

Pearle turns, slipping the deck into a pocket on his pack, which hangs off the back of his chair. "I've the tentative favor of others," he says, though the way he says it is, somehow, different. He does not say 'Others.' He says 'others.'

Emelle is staring absently over Pearle's shoulder. At his words, she reanimates, blinking her eye a few times before she looks back at him. "Mm?"

Emelle drinks from a battered iron flask with traces of Spirean ice brandy.

The light snow continues, lightly coating you with snowflakes.

Pearle talks on, as if nothing odd has happened. "But I do not consider myself godtouched," he concludes. His smile is gentle.

The sun begins her downward journey towards eventual sleep, casting even, full light upon the land.

"We will see," Emelle cryptically responds, assessing Pearle with a slight tilt of her head.

Pearle gets to his feet, still smiling. "Well," he says, "This has been pleasant."

Emelle smiles so briefly it could be missed, the turn of her lips not quite reaching her eye. She lifts her flask a bit and tips Pearle a nod, saying, "Take care."

Pearle nods his head at Emelle.

Pearle leaves to the west.