The lush vineyards of France are truly a sight to be seen, by those who appreciate them; grapes that are grown to be made into some of the finest wines on this earth. Bathed in cool rains and the warming of the sun, then settled to rest in the darkness that clothes the fields, the vineyards are again empty of workers. The dirt road running through a particular stretch of them, however, is most emphatically not...
     It is a strange, somewhat archaic sight, to be sure. Two gaily painted wagons are pulled up by the side of the road. One is a sky blue edged in copper with a diving bird of prey painted in red on the sides, while the other is forest green set with silver trim and curtains, an Egyptian eye painted on the rear and on the roof. The blue wagon is currently sunken and at an angle, the wheel tilted crazily upon a snapped rear axle. Two brown horses have been led away from their traces, reins tied to stakes driven in at the road's edge, bending their necks to pull at the grass growing there.
     A modest fire has been built on the road, providing warmth and also a certain amount of light for the two swarthy young men who bend their efforts to attempting to fix the wagon. They are dark-haired and their skin has a dark caste to it. They are dressed very similarly, in black serge trousers and boots with vests, one red, the other blue. Both wear copper armbands high up on their biceps, and both are armed with knives tucked in at waistbands and boots. Both have worked up a sweat, and both appear to be stoically ignoring their companion...
     There is another, yes, the figure of a girl of perhaps fourteen or fifteen, seated on the roof of the other wagon. She looks a bit bored, crosslegged with an elbow on her thigh and her cheek against her palm, long glossy black hair woven back and then pulled into a ponytail caught up in a platinum hairband wrought in the shape of hummingbirds and ivy. She is garbed as dramatically as the other two, if not moreso. Flowing skirts of midnight blue are paired with a white organdy top whose straps threaten to slip from her shoulders. She wears a great number of silver and platinum bracelets set with various ivory and jade beads carved in a variety of animal and floral shapes, but her neck is conspicuously bare, and she appears to have chosen for the moment to go barefoot. More beads and some bells chime when she moves her feet, indicative of ankle bracelets and toe rings, and there are earrings in the piercings in her ears. "You're doing it wrong," she calls down to the young men from her observation post, speaking in English. They, however, ignore her. Such a tableaux...

     Just after sunset, work in the fields stopped over an hour ago and the few lights on the horizon are the warm lights of the houses that dot the area, the warm lights denoting warmer kitchens, bread and wine and cheese that are found within.
     On another part of the horizon is a greater building, a huge limestone castle with its Sleeping Beauty pointed roofs of blue slate and its honeyed walls, now bathed in evening darkness. But flickering lights on high, higher than all the rest, give signal to majesty therein.
     From that high plateau and onto the rising and falling valleys of vineyards below, the region's master (though unbeknownst to most of the region) comes riding. An early evening ride, much as the start of every evening of late, to get out of the house, to be in his land and on his land, and to get fresh air and a calming perspective. It is a meditation for him, riding, the proper start to nights increasingly full of business.
     He was born of this land and to this land. He was once its count, once its prince and quite nearly was its king. He owns it still, much of the lands around his chateau, much of the village, he is the village's main benefactor, anonymous of course. It brings him peace to this day to ride out among it, to check on the health of the vineyards personally and sometimes even to sit in the taverna among his people and listen to the stories of the old farmers, vintners and their sons. It is what being a 'duc' or a 'comte' is these days. And despite History and his wanting to escape it, he knows it's futile. For that is what and who Guillaume d'Angevin, Guillaume XI of Poitou, William Plantagenet, Duke of Normandy is...
     A dark black horse may be seen coming across one vineyard toward the broken caravan. The horse is very fine indeed. Andalusian, if one knows one's horses. Prized of Spaniards, Moors, Jews and European nobility alike, the horse is large, darker than night, thick black mane hanging low, with a pace that is as much a dance as anything. And yet this graceful gait propels him forward, his grunting a greeting of sorts, or something passed between himself and his rider.
     The rider is not that differently colored from yourselves. Could he be a gypsy king? His black hair is thick, cut short and modern. His complexion is a swarthy olive. Italianate more he seems. Like a Caesar. He is dressed in black trousers, black boots, black sweater and over it a black coat. His face? His face is ...it should be on coins, memorialized in statues or paintings. It is too beautiful to be trusted. Even, to be real.
     And you would be wise to doubt that he is... real...

     Sabine is the first to notice; after all, she has the advantage of height, and the two young men with her are bent low over the wheel and broken axle. They are having little success for their efforts, and one of them hisses a curse under his breath, which is ignored by the girl. She rises to her feet, calling to them sharply. "Rafe. Paolo." Something is added, rattled off in another language, not English, not French, but which surely translates to 'we've got company, so pay attention!'
     The young men rise, wiping grimy hands which then go uneasily to belts and knives, much to the rolled eyes of the girl above them. And she is above them; their behavior and her countenance alike state that it is so. They look to her for her words, and she settles them as she might one of the horses, with a half-soothing, half-arrogant motion of one hand, and then she moves along the edge of the wagon-roof, watching your approach. One hand lifts to shade her eyes, smoothing her hair back slowly, narrowing a dark gaze as if to attempt to see you the better. Her head tips to one side in consideration, shoulders then shifting back in a small shrug. She has not yet decided, it seems, what to make of you. She turns to glance down, saying something again in that language - 'I'll handle it,' to judge by their shuffling relief and sullenness.
     Small feet are almost soundless as she runs along the ledge, making a jump that tucks knees in and then come back out as she lands in a crouch in the dust of the road, one hand going down to slap the dirt as she then rises, moving forward with easy grace to intercept you.
     She waits until you are in hailing range, not bothering to waste her breath until she is quite sure that you can hear her, and then she addresses you in fluid, fluent French that is flavoured with only a hint of that gypsy-tongue beneath it, chin lifted proudly. "Welcome, traveler. Are you something out of the darkness, come seeking our fire? If you come in friendship, then may you find what you seek." One hand comes up in a subtle gesture; superstition, perhaps, warding off potential evil and hostility. It settles at her hip with the soft clashing of bracelets, but she remains where she stands as you - and your horse - approach. "Will you accept our hospitality, poor though I fear it must be?"
     Rule number one, after all - if an unknown approaches, discover if it is friend or foe, but try to make it a friend...

     An offer of hospitality in my own home. Now, this doesn't happen every night. There is a palpable weight upon the air around him, like the density that can come with great magic and large stars. He would be the latter -- he would never dain to consider himself a magician, after all. But Rigel he has been called. By the one who knows him best.
     The stranger stops his horse at some distance from the wagons and horses. "Your offer of hospitality is appreciated," the French comes in return. "But it looks as though you are in need of assistance yourself." The other two receive a glance. If there was an impetus to attack, that would in his presence cease. The horse bows his massive neck and head, even as his rider returns his gaze to the young girl.
     Beautiful and proud. You look like you belong here...
     "I live not far away," William says, voice both deep and smooth, the elongated intonation of one not truly in a hurry. "I may be able to help you, or at least to make certain you have appropriate shelter."

     Sabine says something over her shoulder, but her head does not turn. Why, after all, should she have to look to expect obedience? The two young men move to collect their tools at her words, though they glance back, still wary, perhaps, of ... something. Anything. Who knows?
     "We were traveling," the girl agrees, "and it seems that there was some poor maintenance. I am sure that the matter shall be investigated, but," a carefully careless shrug, "these things happen, yes?" She takes her gaze from you - somehow - and looks to the horse. There is a small smile, though it does not soften - it is a smile, and genuine, but there is nothing soft allowed to show, certainly not here and now.
     "Your offer is a kind one. You are, then, the land owner? Of course - that would only make sense. I offer my apologies for our intrusion, for our intent was most certainly not to trespass. While your offer of shelter is a kind one, my cousins cannot leave our wagons unattended." And, the words are left unspoken, they would likely not be pleased if she were to go with you...
     There is a faint smile given, offered as if she were a cat, inscrutable as one. The dark eyes from closer up are limned not with darkness but with a faint glimmer of green - something mixed in, perhaps? "I hope you will forgive my rude address, but I do not know you." One of the young men says something to her, almost sharply but with a slight tone of deference nonetheless mixed in, which she ignores. "I am Sabine."

     There is a slight smile. "I am one of them. Don't worry about the trespass. It's what the countryside is for." The smile smoothens, widening by slight degrees. "If you find that you still require assistance, any one of the nearby houses would be safe to ask for aid." The matter on shelter and hospitality is not pressed. In order to be hospitable, one only need offer it. Acceptance is not required.
     There is something of amusement. For a girl so young, you are certainly self-possessed. It is an amazing thing in one so young these days. Are you not listening to synthesized, studio-engineered schlock? Where are your mini-tees? Your micro mini? Hmm... perhaps only in your dreams, Plantagenet, you filthy creature.
     "I am Guillaume, it is a pleasure. I did not pack food for my short ride, I did not expect to happen upon a stranded caravan. There is a house..." Guillaume pauses, turning in his saddle, and then gestures toward the east. "There is a house about half a mile to the east there... a lovely home, good family. I am sure they would help you with food tonight if you are not able to fix your cart..."

     In her own way, she seems almost as out of Time as you, does she not? "I thank you for your offer, though in truth, what we need is a competent blacksmith. My cousins," Sabine's eyes flash and this time she does look at them, signifies with the coolness of her voice and the glance like the lash of a whip, "are unfortunately not qualified as such."
     Perhaps more astonishing, they accept the reprimand, bent forward as they work to remove the wheel that has been bent in, so that the wagon is on three wheels, still at an angle. Sabine watches them a moment longer, carriage precise, certain of her control of the situation, it seems; and then returns her gaze to you. "Such kindness should not go unrewarded, however. I imagine that our simple fare would be of little interest to you, but perhaps there is something that I could do for you? We are ill set up to perform, but I have been told that I have a knowing eye. Your future seems well assured, but," one slender dark eyebrow lifts, the corners of the rubied lips tug, "perhaps you would be amused if I were to See for you?"

     "It is difficult finding a good blacksmith these days. There may be someone in town," he pauses, "Chinon. I know there is a ferrier. I use him for Safir here." Safir, named for his blue eyes. Strange on a dark horse, or any horse for that matter. "But I do not know whether he may be a full blacksmith. I have his number, if you like..." It is another offer of hospitality. He is strangely generous, this man who looks like a gypsy king...
     An intrigued eyebrow lifts as you mention Seeing. Performing a reading? He has rarely sought such advice in the past, having spent a few years in Medieval superstition. But... why not. William smiles and begins to dismount. And it was not only the height of his horse that made him seem immense upon the land. He is quite tall, quite large as he leads his mount with him. Leads him by his motion, not by any line or rein.
     "I would be amused. I am always intrigued by what others may See of me and around me. Perhaps I should be less egotistical..." William smiles at himself. There's little chance of that.

     "If a message could be sent, perhaps? Or I or one of my cousins could ride to his abode. Such may be able to assist, most especially if they've an anvil and boards - something to brace the wagon with, as it is drawn away from the edge." Sabine's voice is cool and dispassionate as she gives her answer, turning to glance at the wagon and its precarious closeness to the side of the road. "There is the risk that in moving it, with the snapped rod, the remaining wheel will come away, causing the end of the wagon to collapse into the dust. I suspect that it was my wagon they intended, but blue and copper are my grandmother's colours - not mine."
     She turns back towards you, the faint smile returning to ease the sharpness of her features. "By all means, then. Rafe! Paolo!" Sabine doesn't look back over to them as she snaps off what must be a series of commands. The one in the blue vest sets down his tools and goes to the green wagon, tugging open the door and disappearing inside while the other moves to stoke the fire, adding dried twists of branches and vines. "My cousin will arrange for our comfort, inasmuch as we may. I apologize that I cannot invite you into my wagon, but if you are so inclined, we have food and drink, and I shall endeavor to See."
     She steps back with a lightfooted grace, the skill of a dancer, an acrobat in her swaying movements as she turns. She is small of stature; certainly not yet done growing, but wiry and agile, not yet fully formed for all her apparent confidence in herself and the world which she occupies. The one young man returns with an armload of items, which the other assists him with; silk cushions, embroidered extravagantly in designs that would not look out of place in India, glass jars with wired clamp-down lids, a moderately sized metal pot and lid with a three-legged stand that is fitted over the fire, four metal flagons and a bottle, and a wooden box of some sort. The cushions are set down to one side of the fire, and Sabine takes a seat upon one, curling her legs to one side with her skirt modestly over her legs. From one she accepts the wooden box, while the other opens the jars and dumps their contents into the pot.
     "Please, make yourself at ease. There is no egotism in curiosity as to what is Seen; it is through not our own perceptions, but the reported perceptions of others, that we interact with others, and learn of them. How best to know an enemy from a friend, save by what you are told of him, what you see him doing, what he himself reports directly or indirectly? There is always the risk of falsehood, but those of us who See, See truly. Whether or not we are believed..." Sabine smiles, that faint, triangular smile, and she glances up even as she lowers her chin. "As you are our guest, Rafe shall provide the silver."

     There are soft words between himself and the old stallion, two muscled creatures that belong to one another, both filling the air with timelessness. The words themselves are Occitan, an older dialect of French that owes much to trade with Arabs and other parts east. There are Zs in that tongue. A honeyed phrase flecked by fire. The great stallion puts his nose to the ground and he walks a ways a way, to keep out of trouble with the other horses. He eats as his dark master takes a seat upon the cushion.
     How the fire's light moves against his features. Proudly Mediterranean, a face belonging to men of Olympus, the full mouth, the high cheekbones, the indigo eyes. His hair is jet black naturally. His skin tone is a very rich olive and is a touch bronzed by time no doubt spent in the sunlight of this region.
     William folds his great form easily, with a comfort gained over nearly a thousand years. He gains comfort immediately and looks across to you. "It is not so different from painting perhaps. There are more ways to prophecy and divination. But, I am looking forward to ... hearing what you may See..."

     "Those who See, they See." Sabine shrugs; it is a simple statement, with many meanings. Meaning is compressed and folded tightly into the five words. The small wooden box is simply made, and she lifts the lid gently, taking from the container a silk-wrapped deck of what must be tarot cards. One tiny hand comes up, and one of the two young men drops to one knee to place a silver coin on her palm before rising and stepping back. He moves to behind her, folding his arms over a muscular chest, features settling into blank impassivity. His brother - for surely they must be twins, they are so alike - tends to the fire, and to the heating of the food, the uncorking of the bottle and pouring of the contents. A goblet finds its way next to you, almost by itself, filled with some red wine. Laws applying to minors seem not to apply here, or perhaps just not to Sabine - but no, there is no glass at the young witch's side, or not yet.
     "I will mix the cards so that their contents are as random as can be," Sabine speaks carefully now, voice modulated as she drops the coin - it is of unfamiliar design, a crescent moon imprinted upon it and nothing else - into the box from which the cards were taken. "If you have a specific question that you wish answered, you must ask it of me as I mix them. When I have mixed them, I will hand them to you to cut, and then the reading will truly begin. While I am Seeing, I will not be able to answer new questions, not until after the reading is complete - if you do not wish to hear all, I am able to silence myself, but no more. Is this acceptable, my lord Guillaume?"

     Indigo takes each brother in, but much as the rest of the scenery. They are noted, but nothing else of special attention is laid upon them. The goblet of wine is taken, smelled, tasted. Something from one of the wineries along the way? It has the thickness of the cabernet franc, the grape that grows by order of the Appellation in these vineyards, in this part of France.
     Guillaume smiles. It is a smooth look, even the slightest emotion on those lips conveying much. He settles back, goblet in hand, nodding to your directives. "It is acceptable to me, Sabine...but rather than asking one question of the universe, is there a reading...for the general shape of things. For the general direction and motion of destiny and fate? Or do I need to come up with something. I was not expecting to ask the universe one of the Questions of Life before I left my home for my evening ride..."

     "Every question that is asked is a question of Life. But yes, I may attempt to See what is most likely to Be." Sabine passes the cards between her hands with a practiced, rhythmic gait. People would do well not to play poker with her. "I will look, examine what has been and what is, and from there the cards shall tell me what is mostly likely to follow. I caution you that whatever future I See may yet be averted; there is no singular future, but many, as each action taken or failed to be taken alters the course of probability. I will unfetter my Sight, and let it free in exchange for your hospitality."
     The cards are shuffled thoroughly, then passed to you. "Cut them as feels right to you, and then I will begin." She whispers a word to the cards once she reclaims them, the firelight seeming to glitter off of them as she does so. And then she closes her eyes, taking a moment to herself, hands folded around the cards for a few heartbeats. Then Sabine begins to lay them out, facing downwards, eyes still closed. Two over each other in the middle; one above, one below, one to the right, one to the left, and then a line of four to the further right, all between you and herself.

     "Of course," his voice contains a knowing. Perhaps he has heard this speech before, or one like it. There is never only one answer; neither is there only one question. The universe is infinite, and likewise all of its responses. William is open to hearing what it has to say to one of its long-lived sons...
     A large, but fine hand -- a warrior's hand but also an artist's -- reaches forward, taking the cards in stacks of threes cutting. He leaves them there for you to take, to rearrange, to peer into. He makes himself comfortable, sitting back with the wine. He takes a swallow as he watches you.
     A worldly girl. A very young girl. But she has the oldest eyes I've seen in years. A beautiful girl, in the blossom of spring -- and spring was very generous, mais oui...
     Indigo eyes focus on your hands. He watches them. Not to see if you are cutting the cards again but looking at them for themselves, studying their small size, their strength and surety, their grace.

     They are small hands, but they move assuredly, knowing the task they perform from long practice. They are the hands of someone who takes care of them, but not of someone unaccustomed to physical effort; the nails are carefully pared back, then shaped, the skin smooth but showing evidence of youthful activity. Though you do not know it from observation in person, those hands have gripped broomsticks as she's hurled herself through the air, then released to leap to another broom in mid-flight and then back; they have balanced her weight on her palms, they have wielded magic beyond this seemingly simple cartomancy. The organdy sleeves flutter, cuffs rise and fall, showing the edges of sturdy gauze bandages that loop snugly around her forearms from just above the wrist to - who knows?
     She is unaware of your scrutiny, at this time. Her attention is given to her task, secure in the presence of the two young men who hover protectively about her. A bowl of some savory stew containing chicken and carrots is placed to the side of your glass, a spoon resting in it. The other three bowls and goblets remain empty for the time being, ignored by the fortunetelling gypsy girl and her protective servants. Carefully, she turns over the first two cards, gaze tilted down at them.
     "The Knight of Bolers, crossed by the Moon, reversed. This signifies you for the purpose of this reading," Sabine announces. Her speech has slowed, though without slur; her hand darts forward ahead, turning the cards over as she speaks. "The Six of Koshes reversed, above; the Page of Chivs reversed, below. To your right, the Emperor reversed; to your left, the Eight of Koros. Then, the break - Temperance, reversed, the King of Koros, reversed, the Ace of Koros, and finally, the Eight of Koshes, reversed. Now, we begin."
     She glances up slightly, looking at you but through you, and her pupils reveal how dilated they had been by their present contraction. Slowly, the darkness of her eyes is swallowed up by that green limning of iris, startling in its colour. It's only a glance, for then she looks back to the cards as if they are a road map by which she finds her way. "This signifies you; black-haired, black-eyed, still filled with vitality, passionate energy as of youth. At present, your concerns have involved patience and responsibility, and a certain ... utility; the desire to achieve, perhaps, but to specific, singular, temporary purposes. The Moon in its reversed state crosses you, the crux of the reading, and they signify the luck that you have held. Your present or recent concerns involve deception - you were lied to, but the deceptions have proven not to be so bad as you had feared. There have been temptations which you have overcome, and you have escaped a terrible situation without the penalty that was perhaps expected being required of you. It has been ... a trying time, this present time, but you have weathered it well."
     Her fingertip moves to the card above, a group of young gypsy men depicted as fighting or possibly dancing with long whip-like batons. "The Six of Koshes, reversed. Your distant past. This is your earliest youth - treachery at many turns, delays and apprehensions. There were many battles to be overcome, and from your earliest, you were surrounded by these. Siblings, perhaps? You desired to triumph - to win is to take all, and you sought victory as ardently as any lover. Perhaps more than a lover; but for all your successes, it proved ... only temporarily sufficient."
     The now green-eyed gaze lifts, Sabine's voice still slowed to meticulousness. She shakes her heavy ponytail out over her back so that it spreads to oiled ringlets, the clasp sufficient to hold it from her face. "Shall I continue, my lord?"

     "Oh by all means," Guillaume says, lifting the glass for another taste and swallow of the wine. There are things in what you say that he recognizes -- or that he recognizes that he could recognize. Battles in youth? Certainement. With siblings? Are you kidding? Treachery was everywhere and now... it is only he of them all who remains standing...
     Or in this case sitting...
     "It is interesting so far," he says with a smoothening smile. "Please," a hand bearing a wedding ring gestures for you to move ahead with your prophecy. The ring glints gold, blue and red, a strange thing for a ring that seems to be quite simple on the surface of things...

     There is a subtle nod for your response; it has the tone of ritual, the asking. "Thus you have progressed, from earliest treachery to that which you sought - and failed to achieve. The Emperor, reversed. Dominance, certainly, but also a vacillation; instability, a lack of leadership which caused your path to go awry. Things could have gone better, mm? You would, perhaps, have weathered it as you weathered the rest." Sabine folds her hands together in her lap. She wears no rings; it is odd, perhaps, for she does wear bracelets, and anklets, and even toe rings, and earrings. But there are no necklaces around her slender throat, and there are no rings upon her dainty fingers...
     "Tumult," Sabine decides, voice still careful, "you have seen great tumult. The Emperor is not a light card to have laid upon you. There were responsibilities in your life, and your goal was to ... conquer. You did not move through life in others' footsteps without desiring the positions to be the other way around. You are capable of great ruthlessness; and at this time, significant here," she taps the card, "there was only room for the effort of conquering. Of winning; of success."
     There is no disapproval in her voice; rather, it is something she accepts as a matter of course. What else would one do but seek to win at any cost, and then attempt to arrange someone else to pay the bill? She proceeds to the next card, glancing down. "It is followed by the Page of Chivs, also reversed. You were being watched... which you anticipated, save that there were those who watched you from shadows you did not know of, could not guard against. Unexpectedly, they moved - against you? With you? I could not say. But you ... fell ill?" She frowns, gives her head a slight shake. "You found yourself in an unexpected state. You were altered by this one - youth, the appearance of youth, light hair and light eyes, as it would be dark were it the other way around. And sharp, for chivs are always sharp. A sudden, violent separation from what you had expected, leading to the next stage of your existence," the next card is indicated, "the Eight of Koros."
     Sabine makes a faint, preemptory gesture, and now one of the young men leans to give her a goblet filled with the same wine which you have been granted. She takes a small sip, still looking steadily through you rather than at you, the dark pupils contracted to pinpoints, chest lifting and falling in slow, even breaths. Her pulse has slowed almost as much as her speech, but there is nothing dreamy or sleepy about her voice. Everything remains ... measured ... precise ...
     "Things continued in this way for a time. You adjusted, but you did not truly change; your state was altered, but you yourself were still ... yourself. And then things changed again. You lost your love, and with it, everything else that you had was as nothing to you. Unimportant. Irrelevant." Sabine weaves her fingers around the hem of her skirt, tilting her face downwards again to look at the cards. "You abandoned what you had been doing for new roads, to wait for ... something, for that situation to resolve itself. Shall I continue, my lord?" The second asking.

     The amusement of before, the bemusement has faded into placidity, which belies the thoughts that occur beneath the surface. Rapt listening to you unfolding things, unknowing, that have indeed come to pass, and with those very elements as you described. An eyebrow lifts for your summarization, and it is a few moments after your question that it registers.
     Shall I continue, my lord?
     "Yes," Guillaume, states, sitting up. The emptied goblet is left to rest and he looks directly at you, at the mirror the universe is holding up to him through a small, dark girl. "Does it look like I am a fan of stopping a story only partially told?" Go on, says the violeted nod.

     "It is part of the performance," Sabine murmurs, an edge of amused sardonicism entering her voice for a moment. It smoothes away again, looking over the cards. There is a brief frown, a glance, and then she takes up the deck again and without giving explanation of why, lays out five more cards to the far left of the present set; a set of four in a square, with one laid over. Not explaining, however, she then proceeds to the last four of the first set of ten.
     "Temperance, reversed. In this time, you were ... at your most negative, perhaps. You were unbearable, intolerable. You would not and could not work with others, and great dissension arose. Discord was strewn about behind you in your path; where you went, separations were caused, your frustration so great. You cared for nothing, and like some vessel of entropy, your dissatisfaction and angry unhappiness led only to more of the same."
     "In time, it led to the King of Koros, reversed. Your temper grew increasingly violent. It led to ... some clash of courts? An action was lifted, prepared to be taken against you. You had failed your cause, which, I See, is in some way as a champion of the arts, and it could continue no farther hen this occurred." Sabine taps the next card, a kettle overflowing with water, with red and white roses blossoming about it. "The Ace of Koros. You regained all that you had lost, through ... nourishment. From the depths you were lifted, and for this time, your joy was complete. Great works for a time were performed by your hands."
     She comes to the final card in the set of ten without commenting, though Rafe peers for a moment, then shrugs and returns to stirring the kettle. "The Eight of Koshes, reversed. Happy as you had been, the happiness was disturbed by domestic dispute - a great and powerful sense of jealousy that led to innumerable quarrels." The green eyes regard you for a moment from under the lashes. "Your past sins will always return to haunt you; it is best thus to make sure that they are as enjoyable as possible, mm? Ordinarily, this is where the reading would conclude. However, though I do not know why, I can sense that your story does not end here, and we have not yet reached the present, let alone to look to your future. Thus I have laid out more cards, to channel my Sight for your benefit."

     A youthful face belies a long life. There is more history packed in it than you could realize. Long lashes sweep up and down, looking from the cards to the Sybil's face. He lifts a brow, but he does not speak, nor contest the things you have Seen.
     It is summarized much as it lived, mais oui.
     There is a brief smile, and though brief it is held quite broadly by his mouth. It is most expressive, for good and for ill. Indigo eyes are smoldering darkness, smoldering not with lust (which is far more typical) but in interest.
     "Your senses are as keen as your Sight," Guillaume responds. He is in no hurry. He gives you motion to proceed.

     "The one cannot exist without the other." Sabine accepts the response as consent, tapping the next card. "The Nine of Koshes. It is then that you began to prepare, to build, to conserve. Ready for a fight but prepared to defend, you turned your efforts towards growth rather than simple consumption. Beng," the next card, "is reversed; it is very significant. It symbolizes your release from a prison of your own creation - you have begun to understand what it is to have a Purpose. You began to overcome your handicaps. You," she indicates the next card in line, a gypsy man bending over an anvil, "have come to appreciate what you have had as well as what you now have, without punishment for the past but understanding. It takes all of what has come to make a present and a future..."
     Sabine pauses a moment, as if to rest; she is silent, looking at the cards. "You have learned something of mercy," she says finally, "and when to use it, when to grant it. You seek no longer inspiration, but to inspire - to give as well as to receive. This is your present. However, your future is ... fraught with tensions of a very - very powerful nature, my lord."
     She slides forward the last two cards; one is what could be a family group, an old woman and a middle-aged man holding between them a child, up to their waists in water. The sun is overhead, but the card is reversed. "Judgement, reversed," Sabine remarks, then moves to the next card, in which a gypsy woman dances on the grass in a gown of blue and purple with a floral scarf outstretched, "and The World, reversed. Shall I continue? Or do you wish for this ... future, in its power and doubt ... to remain closed, unknown?"

     "My father taught me never to face the future with one's eyes shut. My mother, never to sleep with one's eye shut. It is not in my nature," a simple smile belies the centuries of meaning behind it.
     He makes no other commentary, nor does he seem concerned by what you say. It is a bemused look, interested but not so seemingly troubled. "You may continue. It has been a good story," Guillaume tilts a slight smile, "...why stop now?"
     He will have to recount this to Ian. Or ... on second thought, he better not. Ian's superstitious...

     "Very well." Sabine straightens slightly, lifting her hands to her hair, eyes briefly closed. While she makes it look so easy, it is clear, now, that it is an effort; she's gone slightly pallid underneath that youthful flush, and one of her cousins immediately moves to pick up her goblet, putting it in her hand with an air of not taking refusal. She glances to him, eyes opening, then smiles faintly as she takes a sip. One sip only, and it's set aside.
     "Judgment, reversed. Something important has happened - is happening - will happen. It is not something which occurs instantly but by stages, and it even now has presented the seeds of doubt and suspicion of failure in you. What is is, I cannot say; my Sight does not allow me to See it so clearly as I would wish." Sabine's voice rises and falls, more quietly now than before. "It is a card which often refers to resurrection of the self, when upright; reversed, it can indicate fear of death, concerns and constraints on a final sort of ending - to the endeavor, or to the Self."
     With that charming statement given, she does not pause, moving to the last card in line - that of the dancing World in its upside-down unhalting spin. "You aspire to perfection, but perfection is fleeting; even when you believe you have grasped it, it slips through your fingers to leave you with the awareness of how temporary it was. You are poised upon the edge of a decision, my lord, one which may lead to great things, an ascension, if you will. But choose wrongly and you will plunge into the depths." Sabine closes her eyes again, sinking back on the cushion. "You are disappointed. Do not judge wrongly in your disappointment, for to do so indicates a refusal to learn the lesson presented, and a lack of vision for the future. What has led to your disappointment will nonetheless pave the way to the future that you desire. You cannot see it now, because Time must unfold; must spin her gauzy webs and make old this new thing, before you will see its value in full..."
     Her voice dies away to a threading whisper, and she sits there with her hands in her lap, head bowed and eyes closed, dark lashes against the pale cheeks, unmoving, seeming too tired for a moment even to breathe. Then she draws in a deep breath, filling her lungs and looking up again. "This have I Seen," Sabine says carefully, "I have Seen no more. It is for you to judge the truth and completeness of what I have told you, for I cannot. I know my Sight to be True; but to you, it may be true, or merely an amusing evening's fancy. The choice is yours, my lord, but I hope that I have pleased you with my offered hospitality."

     "It is not often one is allowed to wine with the Oracle. I thank you for your hospitality and its gift." It seems a solemn thing when he says it. "And in return," the easy smile returns as if Prophecy had not rained down from the heavens itself (or wherever), "...here... it the ferrier's number. He may be able to help you with the smithy work you need." A card is pulled from his wallet, his wallet pulled from an interior pocket of his coat. "Tell me that Guillaume of Chinon sent you. It will be taken care of."
      With that, Guillaume rises, dark tower of a man that he is. A man with a full life, you may think. Or simply much time to have lived such things. Perhaps you do not question what you See. You simply See them, speak of it, and move on to the next vision.
     "Thank you very much, and also for the wine." There's a soft whistle, and the large, dark stallion comes up to his owner, grass sticking this way and that out of his mouth.

     The number is looked at blankly, as are you. "I ... thank you, though ..." Number? Sabine looks deeply, profoundly puzzled; you've gotten past her guard with this. The look is clearly one of 'what the hell am I supposed to do with this?' Words are rattled off in that other language to the two young men, both of whom look blankly at her.
     Sabine rises carefully to her feet. "I do not See half so well as my grandmother does, though the compliments are phrased most prettily. You are welcome for the wine as well as the hospitality. Have a care on your way back; the night holds many dangers."
     If she only knew...

     "Yes," William grins broadly as he mounts his horse, the horse turning as he does so. "That is very true. Keep your eyes open, miss Sabine. May you find your way back to the road without much delay."
     There is darkness on the road, but darkness seemed more apt to make smores tonight as to be malicious. Sometimes it is like that. Even for the Emperor of the deck...

Posted by rowan at December 28, 2004 01:52 PM