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Played by Offline Zombie [PM] Posts: 98 — Threads: 14
Signos: 270
Night Court Champion of Battle
Female [She/Her/Hers] // 12 [Year 492 Summer] // 17.2 hh // Hth: 20 — Atk: 20 — Exp: 29 // Active Magic: Cellular Manipulation // Bonded: Finnick (Harpy Eagle)

She has seen Anzhelo come from his tarot reading and she wonders what sort of information he had been given. He came out looking so bleak and alone. And yet, he almost seemed relieved that she had been passing by. But now it is Katniss’ turn to have her cards read. She has much on her mind and she wonders if the soothsayer will have any wisdom for her.

She enters her tent and looks to the pillows of red that she is motioned to sit on. Slowly, she makes her way to them and curls her legs beneath her. She looks to the reader of cards, her eyes heavy and full of emotion. For a brief moment she wonders what she should ask. If her daughters are alive, if Metaphor is safe, if she will succeed in protecting Denocte. There are so many things she wants to ask, but she does not even know where she should begin.

She silent a long moment before she looks up at the shed-star. When she asks her question, her words are heavy and thick with emotion. It speaks of her anguish, her guilt, and her love. She doesn’t hold much faith that this woman can ease her mind, but she figures it cannot hurt. “How is my family?” She asks of her twin girls abandoned in a world so many years ago and she asks of Metaphor - the one who currents holds her heart. She wants to know that even though they are not with her, that they are alright. She knows it is more important to ask if she will fail Isra, but she knows that will tell itself in the future if she is just patient. Her family, however, is something she fears she might never see again.

@Official Night Account


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

A Reading,
The mare that enters her tent does not resemble most who come to her for guidance. She dwarfs the little tent, and her scars flicker silver in the candlelight.

But when the bent old mare catches her eyes through the haze of incense smoke she knows well the look she sees. That, at least, is almost always the same.

She listens intently to the question the warrior (for so she must be, with her scars and her expression and the muscles hardened by years of duty) asks of her, though the deep canyon-trenches of lines around her mouth twist a little further, in wry and quiet sorrow.

“I am not that kind of Seer,” she chides, but her tone is gentle, the loving rebuke of a grandmother. “But we will see what the cards say.” The ancient shed-star does not wait for a response; at once she takes up her cards, shuffling them deftly. They are warm and responsive to her touch, snapping so quickly they blur as she sorts and resorts them, at last cutting the deck and laying three cards down on the table between them. She does not hesitate, nor draw it out; she is business-like and matter of fact, though when she sees the cards face-up she cannot help but smile, and her teeth gleam like old pearls.

“This is a good reading.” She glances up, catching that weary, burdened gaze, and her smile lingers. And then she turns to the first card.

“The Six of Swords,” she says, and indicates the image. It is the darkest of the three cards; there is pile of swords at the bottom, a pitch-dark, sharp-edged jumble, but they look discarded. At the very top of the card, shattering the darkness, arcs a rainbow, vivid and bold. “This card stands for hope, and for recovery, and for better times ahead. But you must let go of some burdens - your swords, if you will.” She taps the figures in question, drowning in darkness far below that arcing light. “Maybe these burdens are patterns of thought, or beliefs, or,“ (and here she looks keenly at the stranger) “relationships that are no longer yours to worry about.” And then she turns her attention to the second.

On it are three birds perched on a branch; the background is bright with yellows and oranges - a sunrise. Below the birds stand three goblets, upright. “The Three of Cups. A lovely card. It represents bountiful friendship and joy - and good memories, in the past and to come. Few cards are as clearly interpreted as positive.” But she does not linger long upon it; she turns her attention to the third, and her smile returns, soft-edged and worn.

“Temperance,” she names it like an old friend. On the card is the image of a blue heron, regal and wise. Water drips from its outreached wing and mixes with a small fire at the heron’s feet. Red and gold turns to green and blue along the background of the card. “Are you a peace-bringer?” she asks, her gaze turning briefly to the big mare’s. “For this card indicates a moderator, someone who can offer compromise. It also represents healing and renewal - see the peaceful blending of desperate elements. It may mean your path, or what you could become - either way, it suggests to me that you should not worry. Remember balance, and all will be well.” For a moment longer she scans the three cards, bright and calm - and then she sweeps them back up into the pile, and stands with a sigh. Her old muscles ache, her old bones creak; the night is growing late and she is growing weary.

But as she makes to retreat to the inner, secret part of the tent, something stops her.

“Oh,” she says, and looks back. “That first card also can indicate travel - perhaps you should take a short trip. It may clear your mind and lift your spirits.” With a last smile, she turns and vanished behind a curtain so dark is near-invisible, and leaves the little tent to its soft and strange silence.

@Katniss // credit goes to griff for this one


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