Hello, Guest! Register

All Welcome  - More precious far than gold

Users browsing this thread: 1 Guest(s)

Played by Offline Firefly [PM] Posts: 73 — Threads: 17
Signos: 0
Inactive Character

The boy could stay in this place forever, with its brightly colored tents, and the din of the night drowning his senses.  There is too much to see, too much to hear, too much even to smell in this world.  It is a place that dreams are made of, and the boy is lost in the magic of it all.  He takes everything in, wanting the market to consume him and take him into this land of play and mystery.  Wandering between the booths, his emerald eyes are wide and eager to drink it all in, scouring this place and committing it to memory.

He narrowly skirts the fire breather, close enough to feel the heat of the flame against his scales.  Sweat sheens against him – whether in fear or in warmth – and he offers a sheepish smile to the jeering male as he skirts away and toward a gypsy dancer.  Shaking with her music, he jingles in his own way, the items in his satchel tumbling against each other as he trots in place and swings his head from side to side.  Grateful for her music, he tosses her a coin before continuing past the smoke and chaos toward the strange grey tent.

Blinking, the boy steps inside where he is met by the toothy grin of the soothsayer.  She whispers to him, low enough that only he can hear, and promises him the moon.  Drawn into her spell, the boy nods eagerly, one thought rising above all the rest.  Who am I?  But these are not the answers she offers.  Instead, his mind shifts to the dreams – the ones he’s had for as long as he could recall.  Of the girl with flowers in her hair, the magic dagger, the spitting anger in a chain-laden boy’s voice, the chittering of an otter, the tangy scent of blood against mounds of winter snow.  What do they mean?  He asks quietly, the dreams…

the vagabond adventurer
image by nikkayla
html by castlegraphics

@Official Night Account

Second star to the right, and straight on til' morning...

Played by Offline Isra [PM] Posts: 29 — Threads: 19
Signos: 3,925

A Reading,
The boy steps into her tent with all the light of a full moon shining on the sea, and even the dim of the room does little to darken him.

The Reader is waiting in the shadow and the incense, and leans forward when he approaches, the faded coils of her mane drifting like smoke on the dark of the table as she welcomes him. She is silent and purse-lipped as he voices his question, and when she at last answers her voice is old and worn as gnarled wood, soft as beaten leather.

“I cannot tell you what they mean. Some things are for you to decide. But I can offer you guidance with these.” She indicates the stack of cards before her, face-down, battered with use and dark in the faded light.

Without another word she begins her work; she shuffles them briskly, the cards snapping as they fold over and into one another. But everything is silent as she sets the deck once more against the velvet cloth, then cuts it into two. Without looking up she stacks the deck again, and draws three cards into the pool of candlelight between them.

At the first she smiles; at the second there is nearly a ghost of a laugh near her age-lined lips; at the third she looks more thoughtful.

“The Seven of Wands,” she says, and taps the first. The card shows a single wand, gnarled as a tree-twig, standing upright and ablaze with light as six others rest around it. It is a torch, casting back the darkness of the ink on the rest of the card. When the old mare looks to the boy, eyes are full and pale as the moon. “This card stands for courage, and for inner strength. You may feel overwhelmed by darkness - the path ahead of you and behind may be clouded or hidden. But trust yourself - your inner spark will guide you, just as this wand is a torch against the night.”

When her eyes fall again to the second she grins. There on the card is a chick, downy and soft, perched on a branch. It seems young and sweet - much like the boy himself - but young though the bird is, it is still clear that it is a gosling. A swan. At the bottom of the card it says the fool.

“This is you, I think,” she tells him, yet there is no doubt in her voice, only humor and kindness and a kind of strange softness. “The Fool is only a fool to those who cannot understand his optimism or his youth. He - you - are spontaneous, innocent, aching for adventure. See him perched on his branch - he is ready to fly, and his journey is already begun. He need only trust his young wings.”

It is to the third she turns next, and as the incense-smoke winds sinuously up and the candles flicker and gutter her expression shifts, too, turning considering. The card before her has seven pentacles, slanting in a diagonal across the card. Dozens and dozens of lines run around them, rivers of dark ink forming thick patterns. “This card is why you’re here. The Seven of Pentacles represents uncertainty. Maybe there is something you can’t decide about your past - if the choices you made were the right ones. Maybe you are unsure about your present - if your work in setting your path now will see you through. Pause and open your eyes to the world around you, boy - you will find clues to clear up your confusion. Do not forget your inner light, do not lose your innocence, and you will find your way.”

@Pan // credit goes to griff for this one

Forum Jump: