I want my money back.

[molotovmartinis]

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.

Comments

[molotovmartinis]

His rapt attention to her every reaction tells a little about him too, though in this case, it's not something he's ever tried to keep a secret: that he enjoys this, that he lives for this. He turns the next card over, which is upside down again, but this time the disembodied hand holds a sword that passes through a crown.

"The Ace of Swords, reversed. You could consider this a prophecy. You could consider it a warning. You will pursue your goals at any cost, but this will result in premature action. Excessive force will result in chaos and violence. And once you spend that passion, you may not have any more left. Don't let your temper put your hard work to waste."

[nightwolf]

No, no, no. For a moment, her face betrays her, like a ripple in a pond. She's angry, afraid, she already knows that she wasn't careful enough with the Lannisters, knows she chose wrongly. Nymeria snarls, stepping forward until her shoulders brush the edge of the book, and Arya has to wrap her arm around the wolf's neck to make sure she doesn't do anything rash.

"How do you learn this? What's it called?" Nymeria's growl comes as a prompt, and Arya wets her lips before she adds, "What are you?"

[molotovmartinis]

His real face isn't exactly conducive to expressions, and the expressions he can make don't have many subtleties, but there might be, for a moment, something like pity. He's been at this so long that it feels like he's met different versions of Arya a hundred times — warriors, fighters, survivors, with different talents, different abilities — and sometimes, when they're young like she is, they don't know it's all a con. For a moment, there's something like pity.

Then Balthazar laughs. It's quiet, even fatherly. Why should he have any pity for her? She could tear him apart and may do so now, or in a few seconds, or a more distant future.

"You only get one for free. And from you, I'll take no coins. I take payment in information. About you, or about others. Then I will answer."

[nightwolf]

Her back stiffens, because through Nymeria's eyes she can see that shift in expression. It's good that he laughs; she doesn't like seeing pity in anyone's face (or faces) when they look at her. Settling her hand on Needle's hilt, hidden under her cloak, Arya fights a frown at his offer. Calm as still water.

The direwolf makes another noise, more whine than growl; she doesn't like this man or his enchantments, and she doesn't want to stay. Arya's hand tightens her hand in her fur, taking comfort in her alertness.

"People are dying in the Spatters," she finally offered. "Murdered. Mutilated." Her face is a lake, still and reflective.

[molotovmartinis]

"You can do better than that," he chides, leaning back in his chair and crossing his legs in a leisurely, relaxed manner. "Why not tell me the fog is dangerous or vampires drink blood. I want something I can't find out by looking in a newspaper."

[nightwolf]

Vampires drink blood. That bit of information is filed away while she considers what else to offer. "The bodies have no faces." She settled her hand on Nymeria's head, counted to three, and added, "But they still walk. All through the city. Their faces move without their bodies."