Bad Beat

[Rufio]

48th winter 516 av
21st bell, stardown
on the tail of burning bones

　　　　　　　　　　　　 ixzo was hunting, so, to pass her evening, so was Rufio... hunting bones.

　　　　　　　　They clinked and chinked as she tread amidst the yellowing drifts, dislodging some so that they slid down the piles, though the fortune-teller tried to walk quietly on the pads of her grass-stained feet, bare toes digging into Semele, leaving a trail of half-prints.

It felt taboo, what she was doing; there was something thrilling in that.

Syna's dimming light graced her round freckled features and glinted warmly off the piercing in her nose there. Zulrav was still, it was warm. Not a breath to undo the braids that had been knit tightly against her head in her cropped mane. It was quiet, eerily so.

Rufio's ochre orbs danced here and there, seeking something. As she passed piles of yellow-white teeth, she leant to inspect them. Lifting one to eye-level to study its shape and indents.

Let it clink back into the pile, lifted another. Until she found three that were smooth to the touch and their shape aesthetically pleasing. She slipped these coyly into a burlap sack tied across her body.

As she meandered farther into the crater, her gaze was caught by a skull. She knelt in the soil and lifted it to inspect it face-to-face. Her nose wrinkled lightly as she tried to discern what creature it had been.

It had a long face with large eye sockets and large cheek-bones. A strider, she wondered. Her lips puckered as she sucked on her cheek, thinking, wondering what talisman she might make of it.

Her biceps grew sore as she held it, its weight tugging on her muscles. Ignoring the ache, Rufio held her muscles and sinews tense in her arms, lenghening her back and feeling the pull in her abdomen. Straightening her back lightly, her posture shifted, pulling her strength up from Semele through her thighs and hips into her shoulders.

When an explosion shattered the din!

The fortune-teller set the strider skull down gingerly, feeling the weight of it tug at her biceps, she strained to keep her back straight by pulling in her gut, feeling her abdomen tense there with a pleasant ache. Shifting herself lightly into a crouch, with feet planted squarely on Semele, she supported the weight of the skull through her legs.

As the skull touched the earth, Rufio stood, feeling all tension and strain ease into a pleasant weightlessness, a dull ache settling into her limbs that would last a few bells just. As she strode away gently, her gaze resumed its seeking, this time for the cause of the noise.

"Shyke!"
"Petch!"

Rufio heard cussing, surprise stole into her freckles that anyone would be out here this late, besides her. Crawling quietly up a pile of bones, the fortune-teller rested her feet in nooks and settled herself atop the relics. Peeking over the crest, she saw a Walahk.

Wielding fire!

Intrigue piqued, her ochre orbs studied the brute, though she saw little of his face beneath his large brimmed hat. As the magic-fire was conjured, curiosity licked within the shadows that played in her features. Insatiable, insistent.

It dawned on her that this must have been the Walahk that rode with the Pridesun pavilion she had heard about. Hansel, hadn't that been the name passed from tongue to tongue. With wide, child-like eyes, she watched the Walahk leave. Feeling the bones under her feet digging in uncomfortably, she ignored it to wait until it was safe.

Rufio whistled softly for her strider, who had kept a short distance to his rider, following her as he grazed the Stardown banks. With a hush, she clamored up onto his bare back. Settling herself comfortable behind his withers, before lifting her weight forward lightly.

Loha's ears perked, sensing the shift in weight of his rider. With a squeeze of her heels to his flanks, he set off with low, long strides. His hooves making dull thuds in the dry soil, they moved casually quiet.

They followed the Walahk...

2 bells later
pridesun pavilion

As the warm glow of pavilion firelight ebbed into the inky night, Rufio felt anxious excitement prickle along her spine. The red-dun stallion nickered softly at the herd that gathered in the grasses beyond the pavilion though Rufio rolled her weight back gently so they stopped.

Teetering on the edge of the pavilion, Rufio hesitated.

This was the pavilion who had left Endrykas, gone to lands elsewhere and who had returned boasting of a deity she had never heard of. Their Dual-God. Feeling a prickle in her gut, Rufio's thoughts reached out to Zulrav, Caiyha and Semele.

With an afterthought, she whispered "Yahal, give me conviction, with you I hold my faith. Her superstitions laid securely in place, the fortune-teller urged Loha forward with a squeeze of her thighs and into the warm glow of the ebbing firelight. Most would be asleep at this hour.

"Evening, Pridesun." Her voice fell into the pavilion, softly so as not to wake sleeping Drykas, yet comfortable and true. Shiber tinged her tongue, though her accent was indiscriminately native. The Wind-marks etched into her left arm as bold against her caramel complexion as she was in wave of her signs—greeting, respectful apology, late intrusion.

"Rufio Stormblood, apprentice to Ferem Silverstone." She named herself, offering her ties to persuade respect and trust. "I seek the Walahk—Hansel."
　　

[Konrad Venger]

"... wadid y'say?"

Caleb seemed to be taking a while with his answer. After a while, and a longer look at his face, Konrad realized it was probably because his dagger was poking his belly. The Sunberth man scowled at his sweat-shining face but eventually lowered the weapon. Well, serves him right for barging in on a man in the middle of the sodding night.

"S-Someone to see you-" the Drykas said, hand signs stuttering as much as his words. Konrad squinted focusing on them and the words, dredging together all the Pavi he'd learned that season. "-outside. Stormblood, apprentice-"

"I dun' give a shyke who they are, boy," Konrad growled, pulling on his breeches and belt. The young Drykas just stared and he rolled his eyes, pushing hair out of his face as he did. "Why Drykas come see me?"

"I don't know. They didn't say."

Bloody well figures, Konrad thought sourly, and in no bloody mood to think in any other flavor. Who in the hells would be bothering him so late, anhway? Clearly he had to find out for himself. He waved away the youth that had still be awake, finish some leather tanning when Rufio had mosied on into the pavilion. Caleb bopped his head a few times and vanished, leaving Konrad to-

-make some godsdamn awful sound that could probably be heard from outside the tent, ending with him voiding most of his mouth outside the flap. Urgh. That taste really wasn't going away anytime soon.

Then the flap swung open and Rufio would be able to see the man she'd noticed before. No hat this time, hair usually kept at shoulder length now flowing well past them, knotted and matted here and there. There was no brim to hide his face, either, which was... illuminating, if not enjoyable.

Someone must have hated Konrad very much to leave those scars on him. And at a very young age. He felt no real rancor, just base annoyance, and yet his lips were set in a snarl, one corner forever pulled up in a sneer. A cheek and half his jaw were one great mass of puckered scar tissue, stretching up like a cancer past his right eye, nearly to his temple.

Gold eyes. Weathered and sharp and surrounded by red, tired rings... but awake enough for the man to walk with his hand on the hilt of a curved sword strapped to his belt.

Those and the breeches... seemed to be all he wore. He walked up to her bare-chested, knowing enough of the pavilion layout to avoid the most obvious and egregious examples of equestrian droppings. His torso could have been comely, if he'd been snatched from his home years before. A hard, cruel life had stripped away excess fat; a season of trapping, working, cooking, skinning and practice with good food at the end of every day had packed on extra muscle, thickening his arms and shoulders. But scars... so many scars.

A lifetime of men trying to kill him in a hundred different ways. It seemed like every one left their mark, and where there no scars there seemed to be ink, tattoos great and small, monsters and women and gods and symbols and words from every sordid corner of Sunberth... and a couple of tatty jailhouse brands, from that time he'd gone and been stupid and got himself banged up in the Reaches.

The whole ensemble of wild hair, scar tissue, sheathed metal and glowering eyeballs stopped in front of Rufio and took her in. A Drykas, obviously. Not a walahk like him, although her skin and eyes... Konrad's eyes narrowed a touch, noticed the Windmarks on her arms. For an instant Sloane's face flashed in his head: this one's mother was probably like her, sold or stolen or bought for the horselords as breeding stock. But this one... further south, he'd wager.

"It is late," he said, Sunberth accent unlike the Riverfall or Syliran Common she had probably heard, and horribly violating Pavi. "What you want me?"

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Rufio]

　　
　　　　 startled-

　　　　　　　　　　　　Was a word to describe the reaction Rufio had at seeing this mysterious fire-wielder close and without his broad-brimmed hat to hide his marred features. Sitting up on Loha’s broad back, her ochre orbs danced over the scars.

Lo, it was not his scars which unsettled her.

　　　　　　　　A season spent under an Ankal with half his body scarred brutally by flames, the traces of their burning, licking tongues still raw looking in his flesh, as if he never fully healed, had grown Rufio used to gruesome features. It was his gold orbs, set within the scarred snarl, which drew her.

Scars spoke of story, and story lay within eyes.

　　　　　　　　　　　　Her mother had once said when she, as a curious and unabashed child, had pointed and marveled at an old man with bear-claw scars smeared savagely across his weathered face.

Story was where a soul’s strength was forged.

　　　　　　　As the Walahk approached boldly, her gaze took in his bare chest and wiry form. When her gaze returned to his eyes again, she caught the narrowed look. A wolfish smile alit her freckled features, twitching at her lips. He was reading her, as much as she him.

　　　　　　　　“It is late.” He stated. Her weight shifted subtly atop her horse, which a Drykas might have discerned as amusement. “What you want me?”

　　　　　　　　His accent was odd, so that her brows furrowed. Her eyes darted to his hands a tick, naturally seeking grass-sign. His hands empty of meaning, her eyes took to his face again instead. Though her Common as bad as his accent, she made a polite show of replying in it.

　　　　　　　　“Message.” Her Common tinged with Shiber more than it was her dominant Pavi, having been taught the tongue by her mother. The lilt melodic and feminine, carried in an earthy, masculine voice. “You- fire?”

Her strider stomped a hoof and blew air at the stranger standing in front of his convex nose. Rufio was distracted as she reached her fingers into a pocket and drew out a deck of cards. Bound in a thong, they were leather plaques, stiff with age. Holding the cards lower in the fire glow, the fortune-teller repeated her Common.

“Bring message. I see fire, uh, how say-“ With a gesture to encompass the sky and the stars that were beginning to shimmer in the inky expanse. “-gods? One god, many gods. Story, you tell.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　She was speaking of his zealot buddies, naturally believing he was party to what they preached. When she continued, she was persuasive, ardent.

“Big hurt. Eyes tell Rufio all.”

　　　　　　　　　　　　With a gesture out to the Sea Of Grass, what she meant was that she had seen him wield the fire and that she wanted to read his fortune in exchange for his stance on the Dual-God and what stories he might tell of his journeys beyond the grasslands.

　　　　 but, with recent events, and Konrad's reasons for having come to be with the Drykas; what “big hurt. Eyes tell Rufio all” might mean to Konrad, may well incite a whole other...

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　interpretation.
　　

[Konrad Venger]

What in the bloody hells are you going on about?

Konrad's expression seemed to exude his thoughts. The words of Pavi were still new to him, though he did devour more and more of them every day, but the physical expressions, the hand signs... they were entirely alien to him. They required such equality between words and body, and that was beyond the ken of someone raised in Sunberth. Deception and disassembly were the priorities of that place. Learning to speak one thing and express another became second nature, after a while.

That said, it was difficult to mistake Konrad's sleep-deprived, puffy, petched-off expression as anything else.

Ah. So it was the fire. His fire, more accurately. Well, that couldn't be helped. He spent bells making flames with his hands and then throwing it around, some sod was bound to notice. But that wasn't enough to mollify him. He closed his eyes and rubbed them, sigh coming out like a growl, deciding to tell her to piss off when he opened his-

Strange figures greeted his eyes when he did. Dancing devils and maidens and minstrels and cups and fish and lightning between crumbling towers. Konrad blinked at the cards, old memories grinding into life under the sludge of his weariness.

"Yer a fortune-teller, aye?"

But the girl was already jabbering on, voice with an accent like stones smoothed by water, Pavi coming out faster, almost lyrically. Seemed like he was right about her origins, but now he was too busy following her words, crouching down to study her as one would a curious animal.

"Message? What message?" He said, Pavi coming out chopped up and hesitant, so he made do with spreading his arms and shrugging. "Not know gods. No one. No all." Konrad paused and thought quickly. "Bastards."

Ah, now, that hand sign he had picked up. What was more amazing was that he was comfortable enough around the girl to give his true, unvarnished opinion of the sadistic wankers he thought made up the world's pantheon. But fortune-tellers, they were always plugged in weirdly, when it came to the wyrd. Even the gods didn't like to mess with them, unless they could do so with impunity.

That's if she ain't in the con.

So, he was close to some sort of understanding. He wasn't threatening or snarling but then... then it went bad. Big hurt. Those were her words. Big. Hurt. At their repetition, Konrad's face turned from a cracked door into a blazing gateway. His hands curled into fists and his knuckles cracked, sounding like nuts popping in a fire. His words came out as a hiss, angry enough a thin sliver of spittle leaked from the scarred corner of his mouth.

"This. You want know this?" He was pointing to his scars, pushing his face close to hers, letting her see every barely-healed inch and the blazing, furious eye in the middle of them. "This my big hurt. You want know? You think I tell you?"

What else could she be talking about? One look at Konrad, and the question was always the same: how did it happen? Some tried to butter him up first, but this one... gods, she had a pair on her. In honor of that, Konrad decided not to give her a beating before he kicked her arse away from the pavilion. Besides, the Horse Lords were picky about their females getting damaged. Less useful as breeders, he assumed.

His body still bristled with barely-contained anger, though. His fist moved quickly to the side of his head and then stopped dead. To one schooled in Pavi, who could read twitches and slouches like parchment, it was like seeing a death threat given form, and then leashed a tick before violence ensued.

"Get out." He got to his feet, spitting the words. "Come here more, same message, I beat you."

He didn't wait for an answer. Just turned on his heel and started walking, marveling and hating Drykas courage at the same time. Fortune tellers. Gods. They always acted crazy, always asked questions, and never stopped to think that others might not want to sodding answer them.

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Rufio]

　　
　　　　 if looks could kill—she knew she’d be dead.

　　　　　Might be, if she did not leave now.

　　　　　　　　　　　　Grateful to still be sitting a-horse when he stalked up to her. Her heart lurched into her throat as he did, rabbit ready to run. Even her strider, sturdy as stone, flicked his ears forward alert grunting warily in his deep barrel chest.

　　　　　　　　Her heart skittered with fear as he laid down his threats, like lightning forks scorching Semele. He was frightful. As he turned away, Rufio felt something roil and rise from her core. Molten, slow-burning, searing what sense she might have, she tossed it into the wind, let Zulrav scatter it.

　　　　　　　　Rufio’s gaze narrowed, slits of suspicious, molten ochre. Thoughts churned within what was a calm, sensitive aura. It was in anger when men show their truest natures best. In anger, fear and in despair.

　　　　　　　　He scoffed at gods. He had his secrets, shrouded behind an intimidating scowl. In the ticks it took for the Walahk to walk a step, two, her fear did not recede, but something from within forged her trembling to sinew of courage. (Or was it recklessness?)

　　He was a beaten dog, she thought,
　　snarling at everything in its sight.

Bold, brazen, beautifully stupid, Rufio cussed in Shiber. Words flowing and trickling into a single undulating mutter, with dark brows furrowed, firelight dancing between her freckles, glinting off her nose-ring. She swung her leg over Loha’s deeply arched neck, slid down his shoulder and landed with a dull thud against Semele’s trodden warmth.

While fear teased at the edges of her intense gaze, it did not waver in her words, which were strong with conviction, as she turned her voice to Pavi and spoke to Danger. “You are lost and stuck.”

Though her words resounded like retort, they retained a softness of compassion, still a gentle creature. She spoke truth, not harm or spite. The fortune-teller strode after Danger and negotiated with his back.

“No story, no gods, no tell Rufio.” Conceding these things. With racing heart, Rufio’s Shiber-tinge deepened her accent as she forebade. “There are ghosts on your tail, and you are afraid.”

The tiny Drykas came to a stop a few strides from him, tossing her cropped mane out of her eyes to look up at Danger. Where she huffed a heavy breath out through round cheeks, and suddenly plonked herself down at his feet. Folding her legs, she placed her cards on the ground.

“Message not mine, is yours. Past, on your trail, future-” Her hands jutted out towards the inky shadows that swirled about the night. Her words now softer, temper ebbing with her broken Common, as wisdom begun to seep back in.

　　　　　　　　Her fingers rapped her card deck.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　“You afraid to see yourself.
　　　　　　　　　　　　　You afraid to hear.”

In the silent tick that followed, the night about them seemed still. As if the shadows held their breath, the fire subdued. Rufio’s breaths were ragged in the night air, their quickness belied her fear. She had tread into the Dog's territory now, stalking Danger.

She was not ignorant of the Danger she prodded at like a stubborn child, for the tenseness in her bones belied anticipating a crack of knuckles. Despite believing his threat with every sinew of her gut, this knowing emanating from her, she sat.

　Silently, she wondered if he dare face the reading. Face himself, or what had inflicted the scars. Whoever had made him mean.

　　　　　　　　She stared up at him a chime.

　　　　　　　　　　The wolf, and, the dog...
　　

[Konrad Venger]

"Aye, well, yer short an' petchin' annoyin', so good luck wi' that, eh?"

It took more than a few parting shots from a malnourished Drykas to slow Konrad down, even if she was doing her best to bait him. Fortunately, he wasn't some proud young buck who'd take the bait. Compared to her, he was gnarled and bitter as an oak was to a sapling, and he had better things to do with his time.

She kept on rabbiting, offering, letting things go like she was shedding clothes and Konrad ground his teeth. That was it. Couple more ticks, long enough for a last chance, then he was turning around and-

She went ahead and did it. Crazy little bitch.

Konrad spun almost on his heel and lomed over Rufio like one of Dira's own consorts. Well, "loomed" was inaccurate. That implied a certain, patient slowness. That wasn't Konrad. He rushed on her like a storm, bending his body over hers with his mouth curled, lips peeled back from bad teeth as he stuck a finger in her face-

"Who'na' petch d'youse think-"

Suddenly he was threatening empty air; his finger menaced naught but a pavilion far away across the grass. The girl dropped from sight like she'd fallen into a hole, and Konrad's stunned gaze followed her down-

-to see her set, chiseled expression. The cards on the dirt in front of her.

Still she talked. Words coming out rounded, smooth, lilting Pavi almost musical with her accent. Above her, Konrad breathed heavy, almost ragged with simmering rage. Afraid? Ghosts? She had no sodding clue who or what she was talking to. Back home he'd already have knocked out her teeth, but something stalled his hand.

Back home. Hooks in deep, don't it? Even after years and miles and everything that changed with them both.

She spoke with her hands as much as her mouth, seeming to spread the words out all around her. He had to flicker his gaze left to right, up and down, just to keep up with her, and he didn't even know the hand signs. But he knew that intent; that manic energy of those who didn't just know, they channeled.

Even the gods, remember?

His hands crunched into fists. More than once. She spoke and then waited and he just stood and looked and... and he was tired. He was old and weary of the day. He wanted to rest. But she was staring through him like she knew his tale, and a quiet, clever voice was waking up in the back of his head.

She might not be a faker. Might have something for you.

He ignored it, and the more he did the more real her words became. His eyes flickered around and saw no busybodies or sleepless watchers. It was just them, and yet he was checking every crook and shadow for witnesses. Not for what might follow, but for what she'd said.

Just how right she'd been.

Slow, like a tree growing in reverse, the tall man folded into himself. When he was roughly at her level, his voice came out low and distrusting. He looked more like a man sitting down at a table with a cheating card sharp than one about to have his story told.

"No thing no miza in world. All is cost. What is cost for..."

He gestured to the cards and waited, silently adding "and if you think you're getting an apology, you can sod right off".

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Rufio]

　　
　　　　 weary Old Dog conceded to Persistent Pup
　　　　　—so, he would play.

　　　　　　　　　　　　Relief seeped into the tension of anticipation Rufio had held in her shoulders and neck, the tendons aching there now. Her hot mouth had not got her a knuckle to the jaw. Lucky, or persuasive? Her pent up fear huffed past pouting lips as her body relaxed and her heart took a gentler pace.

　　　　The fire crackled warmly, sleepy flames peering in.
　　　　　　　　Shadows danced.

"No thing no miza in world. All is cost." The Walahk's inquiry sparked curious amusement in a twitch of her fingers. The fortune-teller cocked her head, considering.

Her gaze appraised the weary client, she paid mind to the distrust that bristled in his posture. For most clients, the cost was a gold rimmed Miza, or what currency they carry.

Rufio made an offer, hoping to persuade his trust a little, get the Old Dog to relax. "One gold miza-" She chuckled quietly as she borrowed his earlier observation. "It is late." Adding consideration in her signs to her words. [color=#917f79]"The spirits guided me to you..."

Acknowledging that he did not seek her for his fortune, and was, instead, sought out, which seemed to sway her. "Mm-, for you, half. Five silver." Agreeable set in the wave of her hand.

"There are two ways to read a fortune that I know." The freckles disappeared into the dim shadows as she turned to reach into the burlap sack that was tied about her as a gathering bag.

From within it, she procured a leather pouch, from within came a tinkling clinking sound. After she set the pouch beside the cards on the ground, she elaborated.

"Cards were my mother's. She was from far in the South. They are good for wanting to know the answers to questions. Especially about the future or a present predicament you find yourself in." She smiled delicately, gaze danced to Konrad's weathered features. Seeking any flicker of ken, familiarity, feeling.

These she would shape her interpretations to in the reading. Empathy, wisdom, memory and insight were the fortune-teller's tools, as much as were the cards, the bones, the tea-leaves or the animal entrails.

　　As she undid the hide-sinew of the pouch,
　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　she revealed bones.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The fire cracked suddenly and that familiar wolfishness seeped into her freckles as a grin. The spirits watch us—her superstitions whispered.

Molars of herbivores, the sharp curved fangs of wolves, the forked breast-bone of a hawk, a scattering of vertebrae discs of some marsupial, and a smooth, oval stone of amber gleamed up in the collection.

　　　　　　"The bones are good for ghost hauntings, for seeking wisdom of the ancestors, for bigger messages." Her sign waved to encompass the grasslands, as if suggesting the messages of the bones was as vast as those rolling waves. "You choose which you want."

She sighed softly, then, easing her shoulders back she let her muscles ease of all tension, her head tipped back and she closed her eyes a tick. Hearing the breath of the Walahk sitting before her, the clomp of horse hooves and the huff of their chests.

Slowly, Rufio faded those noises, brought her focus closer to herself. She felt her breathing. The sweet night air lifting her chest, filling her, and then breathing out. It slowed. Honing in on the feeling of her heart thudding. Feeling it beat, rhythmic, strong, sure within.

　　　　　　Three ticks passed and the fortune-teller's ochre orbs alit again. Seeking which method of fortune-telling the Old Dog chose. Her smile ebbed softly, seriousness seeping into her presence.

　　　　　　　　　"You must quiet your thoughts, maybe ask a question in your mind. Don't say it aloud, just think it. Whatever it is you seek in life, whatever it is you're missing, whatever it is that gnaws at you.

　　　　　　In the Past. In the Present. In Future." With a pause, she regarded him thoughtfully, and seemed to be wondering at something, before she shrugged. "In yourself..."

Rufio reached for the tools he picked.

　　　　　　 if the cards, she would untie the deck and hold it out for Konrad to take, instructing him to "Shuffle, until it feels right." before taking the cards back into her own hands.

　　　　　　 if the bones, she would take these in her left palm and use her right to unravel the leather pouch, laying it flat against Semele. Across its soft, supple, inner surface were concentric rings painted in white.

　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　　The innermost circle was dyed a vibrant red with a symbol representing fire painted within it. The ring around this was stained with a dark brown-red—for Earth. The next a faded, soothing blue—water. The next band a deep lavender hue, gold streaks shimmered gently, interspersed with silver flecks. Lastly, outermost ring painted in all these colours merging and blurring together.

　　　　　　　　　　With this, Rufio paused, looking at Konrad warily, wondering how he would respond. "Where do you come from, you don't speak like I know." The answer would not give her any tricks to play off, she seemed young and clueless about the world beyond the Sea Of Grass. The Pup was sniffing at the Old Dog, innocently curious.
　　

[Konrad Venger]

His hand vanished into his pocket. Came out with a belt. One coin was extracted and palmed, and the rest was tipped up and up, until-

-a river of glistening copper was deposited into the grass in front of the girl. Far more than five silvers, but not quite a gold. Though you'd have to count to know that for sure.

"Not want cheat ghosts," he said, manging his Pavi but managing to inject some screed of dry, cynical humor into his words. "Less than first thing you say. More than second thing."

It seemed agreeable, and she went on with her preparations, as far as he could tell. It wasn't all bollocks, either. The fact she was willing to lower her price, and not in the way some market stall huckster might, told him much. Hells, the fact she'd risked his wrath and ruin to stay told him even more.

But if it was real, if she wasn't just one of the flamboyant, theatrical and utterly fraudulent wankers he'd known in Sunberth (and gutted, on one memorable occasion), then... well... it might not have been the gods, but it was something.

Konrad had seen too much in dark and lonely corners that told him it was just the gods that had power in the world. They were just the faces of it, and if this woman had a line into it... didn't do to skimp on payment.

Cards and bones were what she produced. An old, worn deck, and a bag. The former were worn but well-cared for, like an heirloom kept in fine condition by loving hands. The latter clinked and clanked oddly like wooden coins. She kept speaking and Konrad heard-

Ah. That explained why they were so well-preserved.

For just a moment, he felt a phantom weight, just under the hollow of his neck. For something he'd never worn, but had seen and held. A necklace. A locket. Not his mother's, but her mother and... why did he think of that? Was the word alone enough to conjure her image? Did he even remember her, anyway? It was just... haze, in his mind. Feelings rather than memories. But when he did dare to peer back that far-

A twitch or two was all that showed on his face. The tiniest nod of understanding. But the bones? They got a different reaction. His jaw tightened under his skin and his nostrils flared as if assailed by rotting meat. The bones were tipped out and Konrad could see the remains of predator and prey, big cat and clomping quadruped, the living death of a dozen animals all packed into a little bag.

His mind went the other way, and it showed on his face. Hate that old, that deep, it could never really be hidden. He saw those bones and saw his father. A culture steeped in bones and blood.

She gave him a choice, and told him to open his mind. To focus on what he wanted to know, the question he asked. What he wanted. What gnawed at him. Konrad's face did not soften, but it still changed. From blank, hostile mistrust to turgid contemplation. What. One thing. One question. Had she asked a chime before, it would have been where he'd be in a year, or ten, or if he'd even be alive to see it. Or if Jonas Pridesun would be dead and he would be spared, but he could hardly go about telling her that, could he?

Then she produced the bones. Then he thought of his father. All other questions fell away, and then he reminded himself something...

He pointed to the cards, and as she reached-

-bother his hands moved at once. His left reached out and wrapped around her wrist, strong, old muscle holding her steady if confused while his right-

-slid a broad-bladed dagger from his boot, and laid it on the ground next to him. He held it for long enough for her to see it, her mind to demonstrate in a single image what such a blade could do to her if he wanted to. And for her captured limb to educate her on just how pointless fighting would be.

"Somethin' you just reminded me of. Those tellers, back where I'm from? Some a' them were good at questions. Good at the askin', y'know? Find things out or work 'em out from innocent litle questions. One of 'em, though? He used that hypnotism shyke. Got into people's heads, made 'em tell things, an' then made it so they didn't remember doin'. Bastard did it t'the wrong bloke, one day."

Konrad doubted she was understanding all of it, or even half. But that wasn't for her. It was warming him up. Finding his pace. Letting her soak in her confusion until it festered and matured into fear. Konrad was an old hand at instilling that.

He let go of her hand. Didn't pick up the blade. Empty hands, and words full of dire honesty.

"If I feel magic from you-" he pointed at her "-in here-" then at his own head "-I do to you-" he patted the hilt of the blade "-what I did to him."

Then he leaned back, and shuffled the cards, like he'd been told. Watching her all the while, wondering if she'd caught any hint of the fear he felt run through him as he remembered that stupid bastard mage from Sunberth. The people he'd left behind, always afraid and unsure thanks to what he did to them. The looks of sheer... violation in their eyes, that even their own thoughts had been infiltrated, their lips and tongues and very will subverted.

Konrad reserved a special revulsion for mages who trafficked in such depravity, and was ignorant enough not to consider himself a hypocrite for doing so.

There was a dark, wry chuckle as she asked of his home, and he presented the thoroughly shuffled back to her.

"You tell fortune. You speak ghosts. You know things. So you tell me."

That petty barb was his last utterance. Cross-legged, hands resting easily on his knees, he stared at the girl but his eyes soon glazed over as he did exactly what she'd told him to do. Intimidation and fair warning of what he'd do if she tried anything stupid aside, if she was on the level, he needed to play by her rules. So the thought ran through his head, over and over, the question he'd asked himself almost every day for a quarter-century.

Is my father alive? Where is he?

Soon the questions - and really, he wasn't playing by the rules - were subsumed by the grander one. The greater one. The personal question that mattered to Konrad, because... because it gnawed. Because his whole life after that terrible night, he believed more than he did in gods or hells or daemons or coin or sharp steel or even himself, that he wouldn't sleep again like a sane man until he'd answered it.

Will I be the one to kill my father?

Receipt-97cm to Rufio for fortune-telling

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.

[Rufio]

　　
the fortune-teller took in those subtle hints of expression, her ochre gaze narrowed lightly, intently. Here she read the soul whose body was butchered.

When he reacted subtly as she spoke of her mother's cards, her thoughts wandered vaguely at possibilities, trying to fit their shape to the disfigured man. Maybe he remembers another reading?

Something sauntered vaguely at her. What of his mother? All men have mothers. Rufio thought. What sort of childhood had this Walahk? Her gaze took in the marred flesh, the depth of those scars.

How deeply into his past do the scars go? With a light start, she chided herself not to stare, not to linger too long in looking. His death-threat heeded still by some sense of survival.

When then his jaw clenched with the tangible tell-tale sign of anger, nostrils flaring in disgust, Rufio's gaze widened lightly as she put the emotions together. The bones, he dislikes, no, hates!

　　　　　But why-for? The Mystery shrouding this stranger tantalized her. Her hands reached for the cards, determined to make sense of whatever messages lay in them for him.

When he gripped her hand a gasp hushed past her lips. The fire crackled at their side, lit the fleeting panic in her face. Dagger blade glinted in the glow, and Rufio felt as if it filled her sight. Sharp, deadly, brutal steel. Not unlike the man.

Tight-vice was the grip of his hand. So used to Drykas men who forged their bodies into monuments of muscle, Rufio was caught surprised by the strength twisted in Konrad's wiry arm. Her heart thumped cold, as she listened intently.

"tellers — good — find — little." Was her meagre ken of what Common he spoke. Her confusion settled imperceptibly into the fear licking at her freckles. Captured by the unknown in his words, as if a child to a story, absorbing the tone of his voice with wide-eyes.

　　　　　　　　　He let go of her hand.
　　　　　　　　　　Didn't pick up the blade.

　　　　　　　　　　　　Sweat licked at her back, and with a clench of her jaw she bade her raucous heart quit its racing, as if it were a strider run wild.

Danger spoke in Pavi next. "If I feel magic from you-" He pointed at her "-in here-", at his own head "-I do to you-", before he patted the hilt of the blade "-what I did to him."

Rufio wondered curiously at the forbidden magic. A magic that invades the head.

She bristled when at last understanding struck her. He spoke of fortune readers and trickery. The art of subtle interrogation was for pages. Yahal temper her pride—she was no liar or thief! The offense sparked beneath her freckles.

She, destined to this dance; fear, then anger, then fear, and anger. Her spirit had not been provoked to cyclone through these states so rapidly before. Then again, she had never met anyone as provoking as Hansel.

His dark, wry chuckle lilted into the night's air as she asked of his home, and he passed the shuffled deck back. "You tell fortune. You speak ghosts. You know things. So you tell me."

Rufio wondered if this Walahk laughed often. Eyes darted to the dagger, gleaming in the fire light as he turned inward—to whatever was buried there beneath the shredded flesh. Rufio decided with a light scrunch of her nose that she did not want to know what he might find mirth in.

Her fingertips prickled with anticipation as they placed the card deck face-down on the dirt. A shiver raked her skin as she lifted off the topmost card, turned it, laid it between them, painted picture faced up.

　　　　　　“ the tower.”

A ruined tower of stone was crumbling, struck by Zulrav’s lightning from a dark grey sky, raining fire. The fortune-teller cast her gaze to the grasses flattened and trampled beside them, as if she did not want to gaze at the card.

“This way” her ochre eyes took in the Walahk as she gestured lightly— right way up — “it means disaster, upheaval, change and revelation.”

A wry smile slipped along her lips, as she guessed at the obvious. “You have suffered disaster and upheaval—much fear and pain.” Her gaze danced to the lightning and she murmured. “The Gods have not been kind to you. You have suffered. You spurn Faith…” With a pause, she recalled the way he paid her more than she asked wary of offending whatever spirits chased him, so she added. “But not all of belief...”

With another brow-furrowed tick, she hummed lightly, then—“Recently there has been change.” With a wave of her hand she encompassed the grasslands and said absently. “You come here, from wherever you were. It was not a pleasant change.”

Silence for a tick, before her tone deepened. “You are falling, it is towards a revelation of the spirit. Every thing 'big' that has ever happened in your life is to bring you to that point.“

ooc :

Sorry for the wait!~ SO, there are two more cards/parts to this reading. You can post next with Konrad's reaction OR I can post the next two cards, and then you go with Konrad's response - whichever way you wanna roll.

[Konrad Venger]

Ah. So, she's the other kind.

By which, of course, Konrad meant a flimflam artist. In his experience, there were those who used wyrd to create the counterfeit of seeing the future, and those rarer few who actually could. These two groups were, however, the vast and painful minority, as it were.

The other kind simply used sharp eyes, a keen brain, and a mummer's tricks to create what a mage used magic for. From a professional point of view, Konrad had a grudging respect for this last group: it took a lot to outdo a mage, especially when you had no wyrd for yourself.

Respect wouldn't stop his blade, however. He'd given coin, after all, and did not react well to being cheated. He was confident even as a walahk, the Drykas would have little issue with him, say, taking one or two of her fingers, for trying to fleece him.

Yet his hand did not stir for the blade so close when she spoke. A sardonic smile oozed across a face not made for the look, and he did not move. He listened. She spoke and it was all things any fool could gather... and she seemed to be aware of that, too.

Pain. Upheaval. Yeah. No shyke, lady. You think men who look like me have have lives full of joy and fond remembrance?

He huffed out a breath and wiggled a little on his haunches, every fiber of him radiating impatience. As her words wound on and ah, there it was: The Hook. The line that would keep him interested with hints at the unknown; a door that he was tempted to walk through. Konrad sighed... and picked up the dagger... to pick at his nails.

"Two cards left, yes?" He spoke without looking up, blade that he sharpened every day whittling at dirt and grime. "Make good. Tell me thing I know. Not god. Tell me thing I do not."

He looked up. Face hooded and shadowed by his bowed posture and sparse lights. But she could see his eyes. Copper and cold and bright, and fixing her where she sat.

"Or give money back."

There. Proof that he could be merciful. He wouldn't even cut off her fingers.

So he went back to his fingers, smirk still on his face, and did his best to ignore that small, insistent voice that told him something else. That feeling in his guts when he awoke; the strange sense that tickled his neck at night; dreams and visions and snatched moments from the 'scape beyond the world that told him he was marching inexorably towards... towards...

Konrad grunted and made a "go on" motion with his dagger, waiting for the next thrilling example of prognostication.

OOCNah, we're not pressed for time or space or anything (generally like to keep threads around two pages, when it's me and someone else: easier on the grader!), so feel free to take your time!

Don't Make Me Repeat Myself.