Zarbyn comes down last after sleeping in a little, it had been a while since he got to rest in a proper bed. Before leaving the room he tucks his familiar away in her pocket dimension. He glances at the scarce menu and selects some porridge. While waiting he goes up to and asks the Northman, "Mind if I sit here? You don't look like you're from Silverton, just passing through?"
Zarbyn is a young man, light skin, blue eyes, black hair and about 6 foot 3. His frame and build carry no extra weight after spending months aboard ship, and now traipsing up and down the mountains over the last week or so has left him with lean and corded muscles. His only visible weapons a pair of daggers worn on each hip and he wears a suit of studded leather armor customized with a variety of shark motifs.
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"A rightful place awaits you in the Realms Above, in the Land of the Great Light. Come in peace, and live beneath the sun again, where trees and flowers grow."
— The message of Eilistraee to all decent drow.
"Run thy sword across my chains, Silver Lady, that I may join your dance.”
Her cold fingers close over yours. Beneath her touch, your pulse feels slow—slower than it should be. Without revealing who you are, she says.
"Amdaeng of Fang…" she says, rolling the syllables as if weighing them. "Runner from chains never fastened, seeker of trials yet to be faced." A deck of bone-white cards appears in her other hand. She lays the first one down.
The First Card: The Serpent’s Gate. A great serpent coils around a city’s walls, its body half in shadow. The gate it guards stands wide open. "You carry the coil of defiance, the will to pass through doors others would bar. But each gate demands its price, and the serpent may bite before you pass."
She lays the second card.
The Second Card: The Crown in Snow. A pale crown lies half-buried in a drift, the snow untouched by wind. "Some crowns do not rest on brows, but on those who can endure their weight. Cold hands reach for such crowns even now, and their shadow grows longer by the day."
The third card falls with a soft hiss of air.
The Third Card: A Cracked Mirror A cracked mirror hangs suspended in a swirling frost, its surface rippling like liquid ice. Within its depths, shadows twist and shimmer, caught between freezing and melting.
"Within this fractured glass lies a power born of thaw and frost alike. It holds the strength to turn the coldest bite back upon the hand that strikes, forcing even the fiercest storm to falter. But such power demands the wielder know when to stand still and when to strike with sudden warmth."
The fortune teller gathers the cards slowly, her eyes never leaving yours. "Walk as all that you are, not as others would have you be. The road you tread already carries the scent of snow."
Amdaeng stared back into the card readers eyes and suppressed a slight shudder, " Good......to.....know...."
" Nothing about an overly needy girlfriend who knows how to make Khanom Buang properly or a chest of gold? Does Ning keep growing?", she sputtered trying to banish the cold that had settled on her bones....
Iólinder points to the biscuits and gravy with a smile then turns his attention to Lev.
"Of course, Lev. What's been troubling you."
Lev hesitates, then steps back from the table, clearly wanting to find a more private location to discuss his questions.
If Iolinder follows him to a private corner, Lev will say slowly, “Remember what I said when I asked to be the one to retrieve the anvil… when I said I don’t think I can die?” His voice is low and he sounds uncertain, a tone he hasn’t used in this company before. “I wasn’t just making that up. I… really don’t know what’s going on. I know I should be dead right now. I should have died when we rescued Lira, and I should have died when that lizard had me in its clutches.” He reluctantly takes off his amulet and holds it out for the cleric to look at. “I also had a strange dream last night, I think it has something to do with Libra.” He allows Iolinder to take the medallion if he wants to examine it, “The engraving on the back wasn’t there before last night… gods I feel like I’m going crazy. I’ve never been very religious, I don’t even know where this amulet came from… I just, woke up after…” He struggles for a moment, memories flooding back as he recalls waking up and finding his wounds healed and the amulet around his neck. He grips his glaive tighter, hand wrapped around the engraving that reads “Knox”. He shuts his eyes and lets out a breath before saying, “I don’t even know what’s to ask at this point. But you are a cleric of Libra right? Does this… sound like something she would do? Or am I really just losing it?”
It’s not just that he should be dead, there are other things that have caused Lev to question as well. From the comment made by one of the tribes elders when they first met the tribe, to seeing spirits no one else could see during their encounter with the child ghost, and now a vision during the night?
(OOC: the back of the amulet reads: Truth lies in balance. Power lies in restraint.)
Vydar raises an eyebrow n unenthusiasticly when the fortuneteller winks at him. He prefers to believe that he controls his own fate… though with how his like has and continues to play out he can’t help but feel like he’s being pulled this way and that by invisible strings.
That said at some point during Amdaeng’s reading he stands up and walks over to their table. He doesn’t sit down during the reading instead opting to hover awkwardly at the end of the table, arms crossed and still with his usual sour expression. As the woman speaks he continually glances from her, to the cards, then to Amdaeng. It’s hard to tell if the fortune teller is actually giving a fortune or if she’s just somehow reading into Amgeang’s psyche. He’s heard of fake fortune tellers before and while he’s never had his own or known anyone who’s had their fortune read, he’s not one to believe something is real without experiencing it.
Once the reading is finished he notes Amgaeng’s reaction. She’s pretty shaken up… though Vydar isn’t really sure why… all the lady said seemed to align with what is going on even here in this town… cold, cold and more cold.
He continues to stand there for a moment pondering whether or not he should bother with this. Then he shrugs, not like it’s going to hurt anything. Plus whatever fortune she gives him isn’t necessarily set in stone…at least that’s what he’ll tell himself.
“Alright, do me next.” He says as he roughly takes a seat.
Taking in the dialogue of the group gathering for breakfast Jharek surmises most of them seem to know each other. He also concludes that most of them are in a much better mental state than he currently is, so he believes they’ve probably been at the inn for much longer than he has.
A couple of them nod to him. They seem friendly, he thinks to himself. Maybe I should say hello, introduce myself and it will put me in a better mood. Walking up to a few of them, he asks. “You all seem well equipped for wherever you’re headed. I’m Jharek, mind if I ask where it is you’re headed? I just got here not long ago.”
The mysterious old fortune teller looks up at Vydar, and he notices that her eyes are cloudy (she is blind). She reaches for your hand without a word, her cool fingers turning your palm upward, tracing the lines as if reading scars in stone.
“Vydar,” she murmurs, as though tasting the name, “born under shadow… saved by blood not your own… yet marked by loss.”
Her fingers—cool and dry—close over your wrist, drawing your palm in the Inns light. She studies it in silence for a long moment, tracing the deep creases with a nail sharpened like a quill.
Her thumb lingers on a jagged break in your life line.
“This,” she says softly, “is the Shattered Web. Your threads were cut once, when death came for you as a babe… and again, when it took the only one who loved you without condition. The strands that remain are loose, vulnerable to hands that would weave them into snares."
She follows a thin, trembling line on your hand. “The Flickering Flame… a fire not yet yours, but one you will need when the ice closes in. It hides in a place of crooked streets and darker hearts, buried among shadows and treacheries. Without it, you will be only another statue in the snow.”
Her thumb circles a twisted line near the base of your thumb. “The Veil of Mist… where truth dissolves and falsehood smiles. There you will meet the queen of winter. Her beauty is the blade you do not see until it strikes, and it envelopes the reason of men."
She releases your hand, folding her own in her lap. “Shadow walks behind you. Flame lies ahead. Ice will stand in your path. Only the flame will open the way through.”
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Zarbyn comes down last after sleeping in a little, it had been a while since he got to rest in a proper bed. Before leaving the room he tucks his familiar away in her pocket dimension. He glances at the scarce menu and selects some porridge. While waiting he goes up to and asks the Northman, "Mind if I sit here? You don't look like you're from Silverton, just passing through?"
Zarbyn is a young man, light skin, blue eyes, black hair and about 6 foot 3. His frame and build carry no extra weight after spending months aboard ship, and now traipsing up and down the mountains over the last week or so has left him with lean and corded muscles. His only visible weapons a pair of daggers worn on each hip and he wears a suit of studded leather armor customized with a variety of shark motifs.
Amdaeng gave a crooked smile and sat down.
Her cold fingers close over yours. Beneath her touch, your pulse feels slow—slower than it should be. Without revealing who you are, she says.
"Amdaeng of Fang…" she says, rolling the syllables as if weighing them. "Runner from chains never fastened, seeker of trials yet to be faced."
A deck of bone-white cards appears in her other hand. She lays the first one down.
The First Card: The Serpent’s Gate.
A great serpent coils around a city’s walls, its body half in shadow. The gate it guards stands wide open.
"You carry the coil of defiance, the will to pass through doors others would bar. But each gate demands its price, and the serpent may bite before you pass."
She lays the second card.
The Second Card: The Crown in Snow.
A pale crown lies half-buried in a drift, the snow untouched by wind.
"Some crowns do not rest on brows, but on those who can endure their weight. Cold hands reach for such crowns even now, and their shadow grows longer by the day."
The third card falls with a soft hiss of air.
The Third Card: A Cracked Mirror
A cracked mirror hangs suspended in a swirling frost, its surface rippling like liquid ice. Within its depths, shadows twist and shimmer, caught between freezing and melting.
"Within this fractured glass lies a power born of thaw and frost alike. It holds the strength to turn the coldest bite back upon the hand that strikes, forcing even the fiercest storm to falter. But such power demands the wielder know when to stand still and when to strike with sudden warmth."
The fortune teller gathers the cards slowly, her eyes never leaving yours.
"Walk as all that you are, not as others would have you be. The road you tread already carries the scent of snow."
Amdaeng stared back into the card readers eyes and suppressed a slight shudder, " Good......to.....know...."
" Nothing about an overly needy girlfriend who knows how to make Khanom Buang properly or a chest of gold? Does Ning keep growing?", she sputtered trying to banish the cold that had settled on her bones....
" Thankyou.....I think..."
“As you grow, she grows. If you die, she dies.”
Then she puts her cards away, waiting to see if any others she invited sit at her table.
Amdaeng put a hand down on Nings head, " Ok....I need to take better care of myself...."
" Everyone ready to go?"
Lev hesitates, then steps back from the table, clearly wanting to find a more private location to discuss his questions.
If Iolinder follows him to a private corner, Lev will say slowly, “Remember what I said when I asked to be the one to retrieve the anvil… when I said I don’t think I can die?” His voice is low and he sounds uncertain, a tone he hasn’t used in this company before. “I wasn’t just making that up. I… really don’t know what’s going on. I know I should be dead right now. I should have died when we rescued Lira, and I should have died when that lizard had me in its clutches.” He reluctantly takes off his amulet and holds it out for the cleric to look at. “I also had a strange dream last night, I think it has something to do with Libra.” He allows Iolinder to take the medallion if he wants to examine it, “The engraving on the back wasn’t there before last night… gods I feel like I’m going crazy. I’ve never been very religious, I don’t even know where this amulet came from… I just, woke up after…” He struggles for a moment, memories flooding back as he recalls waking up and finding his wounds healed and the amulet around his neck. He grips his glaive tighter, hand wrapped around the engraving that reads “Knox”. He shuts his eyes and lets out a breath before saying, “I don’t even know what’s to ask at this point. But you are a cleric of Libra right? Does this… sound like something she would do? Or am I really just losing it?”
It’s not just that he should be dead, there are other things that have caused Lev to question as well. From the comment made by one of the tribes elders when they first met the tribe, to seeing spirits no one else could see during their encounter with the child ghost, and now a vision during the night?
(OOC: the back of the amulet reads: Truth lies in balance. Power lies in restraint.)
Vydar raises an eyebrow n unenthusiasticly when the fortuneteller winks at him. He prefers to believe that he controls his own fate… though with how his like has and continues to play out he can’t help but feel like he’s being pulled this way and that by invisible strings.
That said at some point during Amdaeng’s reading he stands up and walks over to their table. He doesn’t sit down during the reading instead opting to hover awkwardly at the end of the table, arms crossed and still with his usual sour expression. As the woman speaks he continually glances from her, to the cards, then to Amdaeng. It’s hard to tell if the fortune teller is actually giving a fortune or if she’s just somehow reading into Amgeang’s psyche. He’s heard of fake fortune tellers before and while he’s never had his own or known anyone who’s had their fortune read, he’s not one to believe something is real without experiencing it.
Once the reading is finished he notes Amgaeng’s reaction. She’s pretty shaken up… though Vydar isn’t really sure why… all the lady said seemed to align with what is going on even here in this town… cold, cold and more cold.
He continues to stand there for a moment pondering whether or not he should bother with this. Then he shrugs, not like it’s going to hurt anything. Plus whatever fortune she gives him isn’t necessarily set in stone…at least that’s what he’ll tell himself.
“Alright, do me next.” He says as he roughly takes a seat.
Taking in the dialogue of the group gathering for breakfast Jharek surmises most of them seem to know each other. He also concludes that most of them are in a much better mental state than he currently is, so he believes they’ve probably been at the inn for much longer than he has.
A couple of them nod to him. They seem friendly, he thinks to himself. Maybe I should say hello, introduce myself and it will put me in a better mood. Walking up to a few of them, he asks.
“You all seem well equipped for wherever you’re headed. I’m Jharek, mind if I ask where it is you’re headed? I just got here not long ago.”
The mysterious old fortune teller looks up at Vydar, and he notices that her eyes are cloudy (she is blind). She reaches for your hand without a word, her cool fingers turning your palm upward, tracing the lines as if reading scars in stone.
“Vydar,” she murmurs, as though tasting the name, “born under shadow… saved by blood not your own… yet marked by loss.”
Her fingers—cool and dry—close over your wrist, drawing your palm in the Inns light. She studies it in silence for a long moment, tracing the deep creases with a nail sharpened like a quill.
Her thumb lingers on a jagged break in your life line.
“This,” she says softly, “is the Shattered Web. Your threads were cut once, when death came for you as a babe… and again, when it took the only one who loved you without condition. The strands that remain are loose, vulnerable to hands that would weave them into snares."
She follows a thin, trembling line on your hand.
“The Flickering Flame… a fire not yet yours, but one you will need when the ice closes in. It hides in a place of crooked streets and darker hearts, buried among shadows and treacheries. Without it, you will be only another statue in the snow.”
Her thumb circles a twisted line near the base of your thumb.
“The Veil of Mist… where truth dissolves and falsehood smiles. There you will meet the queen of winter. Her beauty is the blade you do not see until it strikes, and it envelopes the reason of men."
She releases your hand, folding her own in her lap.
“Shadow walks behind you. Flame lies ahead. Ice will stand in your path. Only the flame will open the way through.”