Café de Nuit

Madame Florica's Vardo, The Vistani Caravan, The Misty Border
May? ??th, 761, ??:?? PM?; Day ?? of the Menetnashte Expedition
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As the last of you placed a finger on the tarokka cards, Madame Florica nodded, turning the deck over in her long fingered, elegant hands. Somehow, silence seemed appropriate, as the raunie shuffled the deck again, muttering under her breath as she did. The cloying smell of incense burned at your nostrils as the Vistana shuffled the deck once...

Twice...

Three times...

Her eyes filled with a foreign fire, Madame Florica reached out for the top card of the deck, flipping it over with a practiced gesture and placing it in the center of the ruffled silk of the table, facing you.

It showed a young man, a Vistana by the looks of it, standing within the Mists. He is dressed well, and holds in his hand a sword so white as to be nearly blinding, a cut of brilliant paleness on the otherwise dark card. Four figures, each grasping their own deadly blade, approach from within the Mists, robed, cowled, and ominous. Are they here to save the young man? To destroy him? You cannot know.

Madame Florica raised a single eyebrow slightly at this choice of card, but said nothing to break her chant, her smooth, quick fingers plucking the second card from the tarokka deck and placing it to the left of the first card. And gasped.

It did not seem so very ominous a card, this second card, certainly not as the beshadowed, sinister figures of the first. It showed a tall tower, the highest part of a building, and in its window a figure stands sillhouetted in front of stout bars. All is dark, so very dark, as a crescent moon and stars hang in the sky.

Beads of sweat form on Madame Florica's beautiful face as she resumes the ritual, though even as she murmurs the ancient phrases, the raunie's eyes flicker back to the second card time and again, and there is a faint tremor in her hands, though her voice is as strong as ever. With a slower movement than before, Madame Florica places the third card onto the red silk, above the first card.

In this card, all seemed peaceful, but at the same time, it was perhaps the most intriguing card yet. A regal man sat upon a throne, dressed in a garb that is undoubtedly ecclesiastical, though not of any religion you had ever seen. The ecclesiarch's face is stern, commanding, and bears an expression of quiet and assured power, and also a cold and chilling disdain. Behind the man, a circular banner hung on the wall, eight foreign symbols in halo around the prelate's head.

Madame Florica frowned at this card, then snuck a glance at the rest of you, attempting, perhaps, to divine the meaning of this most peculiar of readings. Whatever divine wisdom the Vistani posessed, however, it had not yet run its course. Her eyes now openly curious, the raunie place the fourth card onto the small table, to the right of the first and opposite that fearful card.

At first, you wondered if this card was a mirror to the previous, a self-assured figure seated upon some unseen cushion. And yet there were many differences. In this fourth card, an androgynous, robed figure looked out at you, a secret smile upon her lips. An opera mask covered the figure's face, and seven plumes sprouted from the top of the mask, each one bearing a peculiar symbol.

Again, Madame Florica raised an eyebrow at this card, somewhat calmed from whatever unpleasant fright the second card had granted her. With deft fingers, the raunie placed the final card of the reading below the first, completing the cross. And felt her eyes grow wide with fear.

The other cards may have been intriguing, or ominous, but there was no doubt whatsoever that this card was evil. A skeletal figure clad in robes of steely grey rode through a field of tombstones, his unliving steed prancing and breathing forth fire. The skeletal rider holds a cruel sickle in one hand, and somehow, he seems to be looking at you, the sickle so sharp and so ready, you know that were he to bring his arm down, he would sweep your from your shoulders without a moment's hesitation.

All of you, to a one, knew that this was the card of Death.

Kuzan's eyes also went wide with fear. He murmured under his breath in Sri Rajian, but whether he uttered a prayer or a curse was difficult to tell.

Nothing seemed to worry him so much about the reading as that final card. Death. While death had many meanings for the priest, including a sign of rebirth, he felt something in his soul (which soul?) twinge. He sensed that this was a more malevolent death.

But whose? Did it symbolize someone -- or several people -- of the expedition? Did it show that they would be the death of others? He learned from Lia's experience with Vistani prophecies that these readings could be vague, and may not always come out as expected.

"I..." he paused to recollect his composure.

"Do you have any thought on what this means?" he asked the raunie quietly, a hint of fear in his voice.

Charles looks at the cards with interest; he has only the vaguest of notions of what they mean, although the pictures themselves convey a great deal. It is hard not to place himself in the position of the young Vistana, sword in hand, confronting faceless foes...outnumbered, alone, and shrouded in the Mists...

Shrugging, he looks at the next card; its simplicity baffles him, although it seems to be a prison tower of some kind. Probably not good. The third is the sort of man Charles knows well; it reminds him of his father, and of a score of smooth-faced, smooth-voiced men in the high chateaus and opulent salons of Dementlieu. Puppetmasters. The card that follows is no more reassuring; it, too, whispers of deceit and masks.

But the last card...even Charles knows it, from a thousand penny novels and stage plays, superstitions and card games. It is Death, the Grey Rider. And its position, there at the end of the cards laid down, cannot be mere coincidence.

Otto peered intently at the deck from the back of the crowd, doing his best not to jostle anybody. His face was somewhere between skeptical and legitimately curious; he adjusted his spectacles a bit reflexively upon seeing the final card, though his expression remained calm.

Lump together the evidence you've picked up over the past few months, and it's a pretty sure thing that you *shouldn't* think this sort of thing is poppycock right off the bat. Should I be looking at it like a cultural thing, then...? The gunsmith had let the caravan know about his connection to Kemal a few days after they had left, to some general hubbub, and had been trying his best ever since to learn more about his new pseudo-relations--but he sensed that flawless divination wasn't quite the sort of thing that could be explained anthropologically.

...Still, have to ask her about the arcane nuts and bolts behind it, later.

...Mm. Last card doesn't look too good.

Andre couldn't help but notice the look on the weathered yet beautiful face of the raunie. It was a look that boded ill. This was why he hated divinations. They never seemed to foretell anything good, and when they boded ill, trying to avoid it oft brought it about. It was easy to mentally brush aside the previous cards, not knowing the tarokka. The last card though..that brought a chill to him. Despite being raised in Dementlieu, he was of Darkonian blood, and his mother had told him stories of Death.

Death the Inevitable.

Death the Taker.

Death with whom Andre had become all too familiar in his relatively short span of years. The Requiem taking his parents along with the city of Il-Aluk.

Death seizing his Wife and Daughter in such a manner as to make hardened members of the gendarmerie ill.

Death, whom even now, after all he had seen, he could not deny that in his heart of hearts, he feared more than anything..and struggled to find a way to deny.

Death who now stood before him, depicted on a card, but no less his foe and oldest friend, Death who always seemed to walk with him, walk beside him, seizing those who Andre held dear.

Andre's face went as pale as the mists themself, his mouth opening and then closing, but no words escaping, for once the young scholar...speechless.

Lia stands quietly, just taking in the cards, not responding outwardly ... but inside, her thoughts and emotions writhe like snakes.

'Two cards that are undeniably bad omens, three that are ambiguous at best. The first seems to say that we are beset by dangers on all sides and stand at a crossroads, methinks. The second and last must indicate death and destruction in some form. A religious authority ... does it stand for us or against us? And is this masked one the sign of a traitor or a deceiver? The first says we are beset by danger on all sides ... and the other four may be no more than an account of the dangers.

It may be that there is no good news in this reading.'

If Lia was wreathed in Mists before, now, incongruously, it seems as if she is wrapped in shadows. Those closest to her may feel an ominous sense of power building ... releasing ... building ... then releasing again, like a nervous cat extending and withdrawing its claws reflexively.

Khalil watches the cards being dealt with a slightly amused smile touching his lips. The reaction of the raunie was a little intense but the desert guide was convinced it was all part and parcel of the performance of the reading.

He had never been too comfortable with prophecys and soothsayers, all too often they made predictions which could mean, well just about anything, and invaribaly the predictions expoused doom. Privately Khalil wondered just how many Death cards made up the particular pack in front of them, although judging by the others reactions it had had the desired effect.

Death is not something to be afraid of, it is the natural order of things, we all are born and most of us die, and for those who dont, well death isnt a consideration anyway. Besides all of these predictions always relate to the actions of man, where we travel the land itself brings death and misery with each sunrise. He reasons to himself.

Still his scepticsim was no reason to be impolite This one has made one prophecy already that had some elements of truth to it, so perhaps her interpretation of the cards will be illuminating afterall

Madame Florica's Vardo, The Vistani Caravan, The Misty Border
May? ??th, 761, ??:?? PM?; Day ?? of the Menetnashte Expedition
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Kaitou Kage wrote:"Do you have any thought on what this means?" Kuzan asked the raunie quietly, a hint of fear in his voice.

Madame Florica licked her lips nervously, beads of sweat shining upon her forehead in the dull candle light of the vardo. She ignored Kuzan's question for a moment, running her fingers just over the surface of the cards, not quite touching them, looking and thinking and straining to understand.

"I shall try..." The young raunie spoke softly. "A more ominous reading I have yet too see in my life, and yet, I am young, stranger things still may happen. This is... an evil laying of the cards, and yet there are glimmers of hope."

The Vistana rested a single, red-painted fingernail on the first card, the center card, the lone warrior facing the four figures from the Mists.



"This is the Five of Swords, the Myrmidon, and it represents yourselves. The Myrmidon is the card of chance, the card of chaos, the card of the unlikely victor or the unexpected defeat. The Myrmidon is the card of fools, of heroes, of madmen. It is the Wild Card in the hand of Fate, the Joker in the deck of the gods. The Myrmidon rides Chaos as a steed, and Chance runs by his side as a loyal dog. And so the Tarokka name thee."

"You are the Myrmidon, the Unraveler and the Unknown. The Wild Card."

Madame Florica moved her finger to the second card, the card of the tower and man imprisoned, the lonely card. And as she spoke,



"This is the Prison, the Donjon, one of the vilest cards in the deck. It represents the past, and is one of the Fortuna Magna, the High Deck of the Tarokka, and it is a card of power."

"It is the card of imprisonment, of isolation, of exile. Of someone locked away forever, of the madness of the mind turned in upon itself. Loneliness is its handmaiden, and Time is its keeper. There is a prisoner in this tale, one who has suffered a great deal in his cage, and suffers still. Perhaps he awaits the Myrmidon to free him."

"Does he deserve this fate...? The cards do not say. But his fate is a grim one."

With a slow movement of the hand, Madame Florica moved her finger to the next card, the regal, imposing prelate upon his throne. The mantic sight had struck the raunie hard, and her phrases came faster now, the words of prophecy flowing fast from her tongue.



"This card shows the present, and it is the Eight of Glyphs, the Bishop. Someone weaves many plots, speaks many lies. The spider sits in his web, and pulls at the threads of Fate, making them dance to his whim. His motives are firm, his methods are subtle, for the Bishop is the puppeteer, the controller in the shadows."

"And yet, there is an order here, a law that is unseen but not unfelt. A method of madness, a law of lunacy. Do not discount chaos as chaos, for there is a hidden hand guiding all. The Bishop is the card of the Will, of stern and unwavering personality."

"The Eight of Glyphs is the anthesis of the Myrmidon, and so I say to you, beware the Bishop, for his inscrutable Order and your maddened Chaos cannot coexist."

"He is your enemy."

On to the fourth card Madame Florica turned, speaking quickly now, the arcane phrasings easy upon her tongue.



"This is the card of the future, the Seven of Glyphs, the Charlatan. The card of tricksters, of spies and unbelievers, beware what you see, for it is not the truth. The Charlatan is quick of wit and tongue, and he dwells in lies and deceit. Truth is anathema to him, for he is armored in Shadow. Beware he who is too glib, but also he who is unnoticed and forgotten, for they are the most dangerous of their kind, the deadly asp that hides as the garden serpent. And like the asp, when the Charlatan strikes, it is deadly."

"Beware of betrayal in the future, and put not your trust in those whose motives you do not understand."

"And yet... the Charlatan is a card of Chaos, for he is the trickster, and so he is not the Bishop's friend. Nor does the Charlatan's love of freedom make him any comrade of the Prison. The card of betrayal and deceit, the Seven of Glyphs may yet be your ally, for he is the Myrmidon's comrade-in-arms, can you but find the Charlatan's heart's cause."

Madame Florica moved her red-stained fingernail to the final card, and here she faltered, unwilling, for a moment, to continue. But there was no hope for it.



"This is the final card, the eternal outcome." Madame Florica paused to lick her lips again. "It is another of the Fortuna Magna, and it is the Prison's viler cousin. It is the card of death."

"It is the Horseman, he who rides upon the Pale Horse, and whose sickle reaps the souls of the dead. He waits at the end of the path, and all, Myrmidon, Prisoner, Bishop, and Charlatan, must face him in the end. Does he come soon? Does he come for all? Can he be escaped?"

"The cards cannot say, but know this, that in the end, the Horseman shall have his due."

Madame Florica gazed at the cards again, running her slender hand over them, the golden bangles on her wrist clinking together at the movement. The young raunie's eyes were troubled as she looked at the five cards once more.

" Swords... Fortuna Magna... Glyph... Glyph... Fortuna Magna. Chaos...Order...Order... Chaos... Eternity." Madame Florica muttered under her breath. "The Bishop schemes and the Prisoner dreams, the Charlatan lies as the Horseman waits. The power of the Gods lies heavy upon this reading, as does the will of Man."

"And the Myrmidon is the Wild Card, for it is the weakest, but it changes all. It is the finger that tips the balanced scales, the nail for want of which a kingdom is lost. The Prisoner may be freed, the Bishop overthrown, the Charlatan unmasked."

"But in the end, the Horseman shall have his due, for death comes to all."

Madame Florica sighed, and the mantic fit left her, leaving the young Vistana mortal once more, a tired, frightened young woman who has seen something great in the Mists.

"So say the tarokka cards."

Charles' expression as the reading is explained goes from quiet amusement to something darker; a close observer would see just a hint of interest going to surprise at the explication of Prison, and then--well hidden, but still there-- fear at the introduction of the Bishop.

The Charlatan, on the other hand, gets a smile. And Death--Death gets no reaction at all.

Something odd happens in Lia's mind as the words of the prediction tumble around in her thoughts.

NeoTiamat wrote:"You are the Myrmidon, the Unraveler and the Unknown. The Wild Card."

'We harbingers of chaos, we changers of the game,
we unbidden, unsought-after, we who bear marks of our own shame.'

NeoTiamat wrote:"It is the card of imprisonment, of isolation, of exile. Of someone locked away forever, of the madness of the mind turned in upon itself. Does he deserve this fate...? The cards do not say. But his fate is a grim one."

'Seek we glory, seek we gold?
Seek we wisdom or treasures untold,
seek we what comes from days of old?
Or are we summoned to join in the mould?
Does our path lead to the prison,
is the prisoner just on our path?

We harbingers of chaos, we changers of the game,
we unbidden, unsought-after, we who bear marks of our own shame.'

NeoTiamat wrote:"This card shows the present, and it is the Eight of Glyphs, the Bishop. Someone weaves many plots, speaks many lies. The spider sits in his web, and pulls at the threads of Fate, making them dance to his whim. "The Eight of Glyphs is the anthesis of the Myrmidon, and so I say to you, beware the Bishop, for his inscrutable Order and your maddened Chaos cannot coexist. He is your enemy."

'Order tangles upon itself,
till its threads from chaos we can not discern.
Yet chaos hath its own order,
which is the thing that we must learn,
lest we dance like rats to the unseen piper,
lest our path be folly deep.
Upon these mysteries we must cast our light or
fall into worse than eternal sleep.

We harbingers of chaos, we changers of the game,
we unbidden, unsought-after, we who bear marks of our own shame.'

NeoTiamat wrote:"This is the card of the future, the Seven of Glyphs, the Charlatan. Beware of betrayal in the future, and put not your trust in those whose motives you do not understand. And yet... the Charlatan is a card of Chaos, for he is the trickster, and so he is not the Bishop's friend. The card of betrayal and deceit, the Seven of Glyphs may yet be your ally, for he is the Myrmidon's comrade-in-arms, can you but find the Charlatan's heart's cause."

'Dance we then merrily to tune of chaos,
lest to evil order's whim we be lost?
Will treacher's heart then bring key to free us
and if so, then at what cost?
Dwell we freely in the shadows,
wander unstopped in the Mist.
Yet know not where we dwell, so
how to know when the goal's been missed?

We harbingers of chaos, we changers of the game,
we unbidden, unsought-after, we who bear marks of our own shame.'

NeoTiamat wrote:"This is the final card, the eternal outcome. It is the card of death. Know this, that in the end, the Horseman shall have his due.
The Bishop schemes and the Prisoner dreams, the Charlatan lies as the Horseman waits. The power of the Gods lies heavy upon this reading, as does the will of Man. And the Myrmidon is the Wild Card, for it is the weakest, but it changes all. It is the finger that tips the balanced scales, the nail for want of which a kingdom is lost. The Prisoner may be freed, the Bishop overthrown, the Charlatan unmasked. But in the end, the Horseman shall have his due, for death comes to all."

'And so,' Lia thinks to herself, 'more becomes clear to me. Someone is scheming to achieve something which has not been told to us. No one ever explained who was funding this expedition. That is point one. Fassahd has never explained why he made a perilous, life-threatening journey just to find some foreigners who could scoop empty the treasure find of a lifetime. That is point two. A prisoner from the past awaits ... And death lies in the future for someone.'

Lia's eyes flick to and fro among the members of the Expedition, but no other part of her moves. 'We harbingers of chaos, we changers of the game, we unbidden, unsought-after, we who bear marks of our own shame.
Does this puppet master have his cat's paw among us? Does the deceiver? And what is waiting for us in Har'Akir? Something must be wrong there, I can feel it in my bones! I hardly needed this tarokka reading to tell me that something is wrong here -- thank you for that, miss D'Envers. Something has been wrong from the very beginning. If I had not been so desperate to get out of Dementlieu, if I had thought about all of this a bit longer ... But done is done.
Even if I am paranoid, some things simply do not add up. For the Anubite to know of the expedition from the start may be explained by her duties as a guardian of the dead -- presumably -- but what about that vile snake Cavendish? A creature that kills out of boredom hardly seems the type to keep up with current archaeology, and someone gave him a fresh copy of that vile book, unless he stole it or picked it up off someone's corpse. A sponsor? A competitor? By his own words, Cavendish is after the Eye of Anubis, and it is part of this expedition's ostensible goal as well.

... Could it be ... that?'
Lia hisses under her breath, head bowed.

"Well, sure." Tomas says, scratching the back of his head. "I mean, that's why they call us 'mortals', right? 'You are dieing' technically applies to going into the kitchen and getting a glass of milk, because you're a minute less alive than you were."

"No offense." Tomas holds up his hands, having learned a little from his bad luck with the Church of the Lawgiver, "I just am meaning, ah, if you spend all your time afraid of the horseman, you're not really doing much living at all, nicht war?"

There's a pause, as Tomas quietly hopes that he didn't just earn a curse. Still, uh-okay, they're stuck between a crazy traitor and an inflexable fanatic. The latter, at least, sounds like the Anubite, but who knows? "I am liking your deck, by the way." Tomas offers, a little awkwardly, "I heard they're passed down-did you inherit it from the, ah, previous raunie?"

"Something awful is going to happen." Was all that Andre could offer. His voice was quiet, as if the gears inside his mind were turning, but the teeth were lining up all wrong. Divination reeks of determinism...which was something his non traditionally agnostic mind didn't like to deal with.

Even when it seemed uncannily accurate.

"I would say, something awful is already happening," Charles says, smoothing his mustache. "The only way out is through, indeed. And, as M'sieur Eisenwald reminds us, death is the end point of all journeys. We need to learn more about...well, about a great many things. Thank you very much for rending the veil of Mist on our behalf, Mme. Florica. You have given us a great deal of food for thought."

"Thank you for your hospitality and the reading," Lia says in a grave tone, bowing her head to madame Florica. "If it pleases you, perhaps we will speak again before we arrive in Pharazia." Lia starts to shuffle through the press of bodies towards the door, pausing only to address Andre, Charles, Kuzan and Ulsaon. "If the four of you do not mind, I should like to speak to you privately for a moment. It will not take too long." That said, Lia exits the vardo and reenters the Mists, her outline becoming blurry as her grey robes seem to merge with the endlessly swirling fogs almost at once. Then the door falls shut behind her.

As with Lia, Ulsaon thanks Madame Florica with a deep bow and exits the vardo. She tries to follow Lia into the mists. "Lia, are you there?" she calls ahead.