multiversallogs | I want my money back.

Who: OPEN
What: cheap Tarot card readings
Where: Aspic, on the edge of the bazaar
When: all day!
Notes: Balthazar's permissions, especially important if your character has any supernatural aspects
Warnings: Balthazar is a creep! But he is also pretending to be someone else so he may be less creepy. Who knows.

Divination is an industry in Baedal: seers and those with farsight are fairly commonplace, and if you're looking for reliable, there are better places to go than Aspic's bazaar.

But if you're looking for cheap, or just for entertainment, then this teeny booth is promising. Many of the props Balthazar is using are real; for example, the tent, table, the chair, the deck of Tarot cards, and the sign with the prices ("past/present/future - ₭2") are all real and exactly as they seem. But the person lounging behind the table is covered with illusions. On the outermost surface, which is a thin glamour, it's a young lady with long red hair and dark eyes. She's wearing a heavy, shapeless black dress made of wool with tights, an overcoat, and a bright yellow scarf.

Beneath that layer is a middle-aged woman with fading red hair and tired eyes, in the same clothing. It's a much stronger illusion, more realistic than the pretty top layer, and has its own scent of bitter tea and harsh soap.

Beneath that layer is Balthazar as he often appears, a businessman in a three piece pinstriped suit, perhaps in his mid to late thirties. And beneath that, of course, is his true self, the rotten face of a demon. Anybody able to see that far in may pick up hints of sulfur. He's sure there are people who can see him as he is; some of them hurry past, some of them don't care. Some of them can only see the aging woman. It doesn't much matter to him. He huddles in the scant protection the tent covers, though of course he's never cold, watching those that pass him by, and tapping his fingers next to the worn deck as he waits.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

It's not Barbara's first trip to Aspic, but the last wasn't to appreciate the Bazaar; she'd made a note to come back, though, and study it properly.

Since she's arrived, she's focused on learning her new environment, and Bazaars are a great way to do that - they attract people from all corners of the city, offer insight into just what can be bought and sold.

Which is, from what she can see, pretty much everything. She wonders, as she manoeuvres through the masses, just how much regulation there is on this place.

Really, she only stops by the stall to give herself a break; she hates trying to navigate through crowds, and her hands are starting to ache. Travelling every day does have its disadvantages, she supposes wryly.

She offers the young woman behind the booth a faint smile. "How's business doing?"

There's a bland element to the young woman's smile as she plays with an unlit cigarette, rolling it across the back of her knuckles with practiced ease.

"Not bad," she says, cautiously friendly. But she doesn't try to push her services on Barbara. Her little booth almost completely lacks any occult mystique, partially because that's really not impressive in Baedal, but also to cultivate the kind of standoffish honesty that may attract people who would be put off by Hollywood stereotype fortune teller trappings. Refusing to do the hard sell is part of that. "Fucking cold, though."

Barbara notes both, but doesn't consider it overly strange; a bit sad, maybe.

Her smile deepens with sincere sympathy. "I can imagine. Even moving around it gets in your bones." It reminds her of Gotham's winters, crisp and harsh and unrelenting.

"You been working this place long?"

She shakes her head. "Today, and today only." With her free hand, she wiggles her fingers to denote 'mysticism', and says, deadpan, "Could it be fate?"

Without waiting for an answer, though, she continues while putting the cigarette back in the pack. "Well, probably not, but you can get out of the wind for a while if you want."

From the pocket of her coat, she pulls out a flask and takes a lady-like sip.

That gets a snicker, and Barbara wheels herself forward.

"Well, who am I to argue with fate and weather?"

Smiling amiably, she waits until Barbara is nearer to reach for her cards, but it's not to press a reading on her, it's only to start building a house of cards. She is remarkably good at it, requiring only a moment or two to balance each card against another, and only pausing to sip from her flask.

"Indeed, I hear Haneul is not much one for argument. But then, who would be, if they were a god?"

Barbara's smile becomes a grin as she watches.

"I don't know, it might liven things up for them." She's yearned, before, for real omnipresence, for absolute control - but not for long. She knows damn well no one can be trusted with that for long, and if anything could suck the challenge and excitement out of life...

The woman chuckles companionably as well. "Where I come from, there's only one god. He made a wager with the devil, and between them, they divvy up our souls, feeding them into the engines of heaven and hell. And I feel myself a tiny wheel, a little cog in that vast machine, grinding down my gears for years and years. But which machine?"

By the time she's posed the question, her voice deliberately light despite the dark nature of her words, she's built a neat four layer triangle. In the pause, her eyes flicker at Barbara and then to the center of her creation, and as casually adroit as a snake, she plucks out a center support. The structure does not so much as shiver. She offers the card to Barbara, face up — a woman in blue robes sits on a chair, yet does not appear to be a queen.

"High Priestess. She of wisdom and sound judgment, common sense and intuition. But if that's at all relevant to you, then that's just Tarot at work. All the archetypes are reflected in us somewhere."

"Machines like that would feed off each other, I'd think." She speaks as the card is pulled, and her eyes widen as the cards support themselves. Now that's craftsmanship she can admire.

She listens quietly, private amusement curving her lips.

"Particularly relevant, I think."

I want my money back.

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