Fable - Ask Hope for the Future

[Syr Cydonia]

"Knights -

Rumors of a circus traveling through the Marches has reached us. Amongst the performers is a fortune teller who claims to be able to know the future. As you know, true born seers are exceptionally rare. Most who ply this trade are simply clever mind-readers.

Normally, something like this would not be the Order's concern. But the fortune teller has gained the ear of Lord Renkalk of Gwuinholm, who has been visiting her near nightly. Lord Renkalk's men have also been getting bolder in their ventures into the forest lately. We do not think this is a coincidence.

Find a way to expose the fortune teller's lies, and we may be able to break Lord Renkalk from the spell he is under.

- Selene" ​

Cydonia concluded her reading of the missive, and looked to her traveling companion. They'd reached the outskirts of Gwuinholm just that morning. It was afternoon now, and they were walking through the open field that the circus had turned into a fairgrounds. People walked here and there between colorfully sewn tents and caravans loaded down with trinkets, artifacts, games, oddities. There was lots of shouting, and lots of money changing hands, and a general air of excitement. Nothing really out of the ordinary for commonfolk's entertainment.

"So, we just get our fortunes read? Since both of us are closed books when it comes to mind magic, we'll be able to tell right away if this seer is a fraud." Though her voice was clear and confident, Cydonia still frowned at the missive in her hand, a look that made her lips even poutier.

"That sounds too easy." She flipped the paper over, peered at the blank back, as if there would be more information divulged there. "Where's the catch?"

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'What catch?' Faramund asked innocently, his hands tucked into the loops of his sword belt. 'A quick trip to Gwuinholm and back. What could possibly go wrong?' He smiled, shook his head. This was to be one of those "simple undertakings" the Captains liked to speak of to their subordinates from time to time. Faramund doubted a fortune teller would prove much hassle, real deal or not.

Lord Renkalk on the other hand could prove more... troublesome. Maybe. Possibly.

Probably not, Faramund reassured himself. Dressed in unassuming clothes, Fara had foregone the usual arms and armour in favour of something a bit more subtle. Though Lord Renkalk and his ilk were no enemies of the Order, it would not do for them to announce themselves given the circumstances leading to their visit. They were here to investigate, after all. Finding the truth came first.

Having fun though, that was a close second.

'Would you take a look at that!' Fara said, smiling as he pointed to a nearby archery range where contestants were busy sniping at apples on a nearby fence. The setting sun silhouetted each apple with perfect clarity. Of course, that didn't help much, since it was shining right in the contestants' eyes.

'Maybe we could have a go later? See if you handle a bow as well as you do a blade.' Looking to Syr Cydonia, he gave the beautiful elf a playful wink. Fate willing, he might just get his chance. Alas, Fate was a fickle mistress. Who knew how the evening might turn out?

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Faramund didn't seem worried, so Cyd relaxed her shoulders with a shrug and tucked the missive away. She hoped the man was right and this was just some elaborate excuse to get her to go on a vacation. Seemed to be working, too. The atmosphere even had Fara smiling, as he pointed out a nearby 'archery' range.

Lots of different types were joining in on the contest, from a rosy cheeked child who looked just adorable in her tiny archer's gloves, to grown men who looked equally cute holding the little toy bows provided to them by the ranger.

Cydonia smirked at the wink given to her, but didn't keep the expression long.

"No such luck - check the sign." She nodded to a wooden board that hung on rings above the range's entrance. It was a list of rules painted in white, one of which read: "Elves play blindfolded," she sounded the words out loud, with little fuss. Fair, honestly. Given the angle of the range, keen eyes probably ruined their whole business model. "Bit presumptive of them. But I suspect, you'll have to be my acting champion for most of these games."

Unassuming was not part of Cyd's wardrobe. She wasn't in armor, but she still gleamed. Over top striped pants and a loose linen shirt, she wore a checkered yellow and white robe, gathered at the waist that still held the sword at her hip.

Up ahead, was the fortune teller's tent. Dark blue with glittering stars of every color embroidered on. The entrance to the tent was shut tightly, roped off in a decidedly closed looking manner. "Seems we're early," Cyd said. She stretched and yawned, raising her limbs high over her head. Resting her forearms atop her head, she looked out at nothing in particular. "No sense wasting the sunlight while we wait. I saw a stand selling sweets back there - let's get some."

She paused, then gave a sly smile. "For the squires, of course."

 

[Faramund]

'Luckily for you, I couldn't hit the broad side of a barn if I tried,' Fara replied in a somewhat gruff attempt at humour. The archery contest was just one of many such games and activities being held at the fair. There was apple bobbing, horseshoe throwing, chicken racing, even a lively puppet show in which a brave knight was giving battle to an evil -and oddly designed- dragon.

That last one was mostly for the children, but Faramund saw a number of adults hanging around with smiles on their faces.

Oh, the joys of a simple life, thought Fara, coming to a halt outside the fortune teller's tent. Brightly-coloured stars adorned the canvas from top to bottom but the real star of the show was nowhere to be seen. 'Seems we're early,' Cyd said, a yawn tugging at the corners of her lips.

'Seems so,' Fara agreed, fighting hard to keep from yawning with her.

Sniffing, he took a look around as Syr Cydonia stretched, like a cat waking from a "well-deserved" nap. The setting sun was a beautiful sight to behold as it dipped ever so slowly beyond the horizon. As bright as the stars on the fortune teller's tent, it warmed the soul with its radiance.

Alas, Faramund was starting to grow hungry. And thirsty.

'Drink?' he suggested, only to be met with a compromise. Sweets? He pondered the thought, tried to think of something better. Unfortunately, thinking had never been his strong suit. 'If it helps keep the little ones from mutinying, I suppose we can go and get some sweets,' Fara allowed with a sigh. 'Maybe we can get some for ourselves while we're there. Who knows? That said... don't suppose you have any coin on you?'

Grinning, the burly knight about-faced, started walking back the way they had come. Grass crunched under his boots as he walked, past stalls and stands packed with foodstuffs and finery. 'Didn't know you had a sweet tooth,' he spoke quietly, his eyes aglow with amusement as he turned them to regard Cydonia. 'Bet you could've hit those apples while blindfolded, too!'

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

'Didn't know you had a sweet tooth.'

Cyd chuckled. "We don't know much about each other, do we? Actually, there's been something that's bothering me about that." Her face fell, though not very far. Round cheeks kept even her resting expression fair. "I know everybody's birthday in the Order, except for yours! So come on, what is it?"

The smile returned to her face. "I promise I won't embarrass you with it."

It was long before they reached the sweet stand. Like everything else they passed by, was colourfully painted. Braids of sugar candies strung on ropes hung from bars along the roof cover. Rows of little confections were lined up snuggly in rows along the shelves- marzipan, jellies fruits, cookies of all kinds, and even the rich and rare chocolate cakes the Western continent was known for. It was an impressive lineup of treats, meaning that either they were lying about some of the ingredients, or certain sweets had traveled a very long way before reaching the humble town of Gwuinholm.

But Cyd wouldn't approach right away. She wanted an answer to her question, and seemed very serious about getting it.

 

[Faramund]

'You know everybody's birthday?' Faramund asked disbelievingly. That was how you avoided answering questions, right? By turning it around? 'A sweet tooth, keen eyes and an even keener mind,' he smiled warmly. 'Surprised you haven't made Pursuant yet.' Now there was a question worth answering, one that didn't concern him or the past he barely remembered.

Why did she want to know when he was born anyway. Did he look old, or was Syr Cydonia just that thoughtful?

His irises darkened for a moment, then returned to normal. Turning, he flashed the elf a somewhat apologetic smile. He knew she knew he was being evasive on purpose, but there were probably better ways to get around her question than a "I don't know." 'Well would you look at that!' Faramund grinned, nodding to the nearest confectionary. 'It's almost like you had the whole thing planned out.'

Pretending not to notice the way his partner's eyes studied him, the big knight made to stand before the sweet stall, hands on hips as he gazed at all the sugary delights on offer. 'What're we thinking?' he called out to Cydonia, resisting the urge to look over his shoulder. 'Those stringy ones look nice... probably taste nice, too.' He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully, ignoring the strange pounding in his temples.

Irritating, it was enough to make a man forget what day of the week it was, let alone the year he was born.

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

"Not off the top of my head, of course. I've got a perpetual calendar back home! Elven invention - after a couple hundred years, even our memories start to go." Cyd replied, taking the compliment paid to her with a smile. She knew a feint when she saw one, though, and understood that Faramund was squirming under the scrutiny. Her eyes didn't leave him. "...And I've been nominated for Pursuant a few times, now."

Faramund turned away from her, and got suddenly interested in the collection of sweets on the cart. For someone so big and gruff, he was awfully shy. Lucky for him, Cyd found that endearing.

She let the distraction work. Stepping up next to Faramund, she put her hands behind her back, and leaned forward to look at the cart's offerings. "I'll give you three chances to guess why I declined the promotion." Cyd tilted her head to glance at the man, lips quirked up into a knowing smile. "Get it right, and I'll keep you off my calendar."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'My first guess is 'cause you're a fool?' There was no real venom in his voice. No real heat. Smiling to soften his words further, Faramund said, 'I jest.' Which, true enough, he did. Poorly, mind. Most of his jests were... unless Petra was involved, then they landed. 'I honestly couldn't begin to guess why, tell you the truth.' Turning down a promotion didn't really make much sense to the big man, but then he never did see himself as Pursuant material either.

He was a Sworn, simple and plain. From now... until the day he died.

Kind of a morbid thought, he mused, frowning as he turned his mind to thinking up reasons why Cydonia would turn the promotion down. Unsurprisingly, guessing the motives of a foreign soul proved as difficult as he imagined it to be. Almost too difficult. 'Perhaps you felt you could get more done as a Sworn than you could as a Pursuant? But, no... that doesn't make much sense.'

He shook his head, rubbed the back of his neck self-consciously. A part of him wondered why he was fighting so hard to stay off of the elf's calendar. Another told him it was the right thing to do, though, the reason behind it was anyone's guess.

Another mystery for another time, perhaps.

'I know it's none of my business, but I heard you suffer from the same affliction I do. Not that I believe you to be afflicted, of course- no, I-' he stammered over his words, like a drunkard after one too many cups of fire whiskey. 'What I mean to say is, perhaps you believe yourself... "incapable" of meeting the standards expected of you as a Pursuant of the Order. Magical hand-wavy stuff and all.'

Meeting Cydonia's gaze, Faramund's embarrassment deepened. Taking god awful guesses would have been much easier if she weren't so breathtaking.

'Okay, you can punch me now!'

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

"An affliction..." Straightening back up, Cyd blinked. She listened as Faramund immediately backtracked over his first comment. Sort of. That's not how you think of yourself, is it, Faramund? The words didn't quite come out of her, something holding the thought back.

Nothing but compassion shone in her warm grey eyes as she looked to the other Dawn knight. Faramund wasn't in as good of condition, as he met her gaze. He might've even been blushing.

'Okay, you can punch me now!' he blurted out.

"Well, if you insist," Cyd responded with a smile. Without a lick of hesitation, she wound her arm up, stayed there a beat for dramatic effect, a funny look on her face. Her fist came down against Faramund's arm in perhaps the softest punch he'd ever experienced. Still enough to smart, though. Cyd laughed, in part at her own mischief, and to let Faramund know that she wasn't all that mad at what he'd said.

In front of them, the man running the stand stirred, cleared his throat. There were people ambling up behind them, and a line was forming. Cyd sobered up and put her attention back on the task before them.

"You gonna order something, girlie?" The candy seller said, leaning a freckled arm on the edge of the cart. He was a gruff man with a round, stubbly chin peaking out from under a red mustache.

'Ah yes, of course," she said, stepping forward. Cyd would place her order and pay for it. Not feeling all that adventurous today, she'd avoid the 'chocolate' cakes. She stuck to things she was familiar with: little marzipan cookies pressed into flower shapes and dyed pastel, jellied fruit, and a braid of that rope candy, which turned out to be maple taffy. That was all boxed away for the squires.

She got a fried pie for herself, stuffed with fragrant apples and cinnamon. Holding the boxes with one arm, Cyd held the pie in the other, and inhaled the sweet steam. A look of bliss crossed her face as she took a bite.

"You know," she said halfway through the mouthful. Cleared the bite and continued. "I won't count that first guess. So, you've still got one try left."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund had expected to lose a few teeth, or to sport a black eye for the next couple days. What he got instead was worse. A love tap to the arm and a smile that would have blinded him had Syr Cydonia not had to compete with the radiant sun. Know which one I prefer, the big knight grinned, Cyd's laughter raising his spirits even as he rubbed at the place she had punched him.

'Not bad,' he said. 'Maybe swing from the hips next time, get some more force behind it.' Smiling, Faramund fell silent as the stall-boss cleared his throat. A queue was gathering, and though neither of them had meant to, they were drawing a bit too much attention for Fara's liking.

Leaving Cyd to pick and choose, the dawnling stepped out of the line and made his way to a row of straw bales at the edge of the fairgrounds. Sitting himself down, Faramund let out a sigh as he took in the land laid bare before him. Lord Renkalk's lands were pretty enough. Productive. Rich in people and produce. Fara couldn't imagine himself living in a place like this, pretty as it was.

He couldn't imagine much of anything. His... ambitions were a mystery to everyone, including himself.

There was a crunch and crackle as Cydonia sat down beside him. Fara wondered -not for the first time- what her ambitions were. Did she have any, or was she like him in that regard, too? 'You know,' she said, and Fara found himself listening intently. "I won't count that first guess. So, you've still got one try left."

'Oh, really,' replied Faramund, chuckling to himself. 'You're a cruel, cruel woman, Cydonia, though, the Gods know I deserve it.' Leaning forwards, the big knight clasped his hands thoughtfully. The fury of the setting sun was offset by a gentle breeze blowing in from the north, and Faramund revelled in the sensations as he thought.

Sighing, he shook his head. 'Haven't the foggiest,' he said, 'but I'm sure you have your reasons.' Looking back at her, he smiled. Would she think poorly of him for giving up so quickly? Had something so simple tarnished her opinion of him irrevocably? Probably not. Faramund felt like a fool all the same.

'You know your own mind better than I ever will. Why do you turn down the promotions, if you don't mind me asking?'

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Cyd kicked her feet against the hay bale. The time that Faramund spent thinking and fussing let her take a few more bites of the confection in her hands. She wasn't the savoring type, so it wasn't long before she was licking the glaze off her fingers.

Why do you turn down the promotions, if you don't mind me asking?

Some of the light left Cydonia's face, dropping into cool shadow as the arm of a cloud waved lazily in front of the setting sun. It looked like the golden hour only had a few moments left."Same reason you won't tell anyone your birthday, I think," she said, her voice flatter than usual. Watching the crowd, she didn't look at Faramund. "If I accept, then it'll all feel real. And I'll have to start counting the days."

Swinging her legs up one last time, she kicked off the hale bale. Landing on the ground, she turned to Faramund. The cloud went past the sun, and the fairgrounds lit up golden once again. "Well, that fortune teller's probably in her tent by now, let's head that way."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'Until... what?' Faramund asked, his thoughtful -or thoughtless?- expression twisting into one of confusion. He didn't know what she meant by "feel real" but he was pretty sure understanding wasn't the point. Faramund didn't do questions, after all, or at least he didn't answer them. He sure had a habit of asking a few which is probably why Cydonia had decided to turn the tables on him in the first place.

Why did all the women in his life enjoy tormenting him so?

Good question, the big knight thought, not liking the look in his companion's eye. Before he could ask what troubled her -as was his way- Cydonia had hopped down from the hay bale. She turned, smiled at him. The sun, ever-jealous, came out to do battle. Faramund knew who his money was on. 'All right, then,' he replied, pushing his thoughts aside. With a slip and a slide, he was up and walking back to the teller's tent.

Bright, multicoloured stars speckled the canvas around the entrance. Not quite countless, they were almost as eye-catching as the real thing... in the right light. 'Y'know, you never did buy any sweets for the squires.' Faramund pointed out, waiting in line behind a couple of fresh-faced newlyweds eager to know what their future together would bring. Nothing but joy and laughter, Fara guessed cynically, assuming you pay the fee.

Fortunately, learning one's future seemed remarkably cheap, if the sign was anything to go by.

'Reckon we really will have a mutiny on our hands once we get back,' he continued, smiling happily at the thought. 'But what do I know? I'm just a poor Sworn in a world full of Pursuants-to-Be. Don't pay me any notice.'

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Topic successfully diverted - now for the both of them, thanks to Cydonia's grim answer - they got in line for the fortune teller. But Cyd did not have time to relax as Faramund put another terrible truth upon her. No sweets for the squires, and she had made them walk all that way just with that excuse in mind. Wait, but she thought she had bought something...?

Cyd's hands went up to her cheeks. "Oh no, the boxes!" she exclaimed. "I left them back by the sweets stand."

In her mind's eye, she saw three wooden boxes stacked neatly on top of each other, sitting on the hay bale, left to the whims of passersby as the sun gifted its last rays of light to the sweet confections. She dropped her hands, deflated. "Well, no use going back anymore. They've probably been snatched up by a lucky someone by now."

Her eyes glanced over to the pair of people ahead of them in line. "Besides," Cyd said, "It looks like fate has laid the path out before us."

In front of them, the loving couple brightened and waved at another pair of approaching people. People they knew, it looked like. They stepped out of line to greet their friends, leaving nothing but empty space between the two knights and the tent's entrance.

Spinning on her heels, Cydonia scrunched her shoulders up and waggled her fingers at Faramund. "Must be the work of the psychic," she whispered in a conspiratorial tone as she stepped backwards towards the fortune teller's tent. A silly grin on her face, she turned the right way round, and ducked her head inside. The strong smell of amber and juniper rushed over her.

She noticed, too late, that the stars embroidered onto the tent's fabric were not stars at all.

They were eyes.

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

'Not much of a believer in fate, me.' Faramund chuckled, doffing the proverbial hat as the couple in front of them stepped out of line. 'We control our own destinies. Fate is just the excuse people use to justify the consequences of their actions.' He smiled, shrugged. 'Still, should be fun finding out what con this, uh, seer is pushing.' Brushing past Syr Cydonia before she got the chance to move, the big man hovered just outside the entrance.

'Ladies first!'

Ducking in behind Cydonia, Faramund's grin grew wider. Eyes? To replace the stars? Well, he certainly hadn't seen that coming. 'Wonder if these'll help her glimpse into our futures?' Faramund whispered quietly, clearly unperturbed by what many thought to be the symbol of his archenemy. 'So, are we going in? Or are we having second thoughts?' More of his questioning. Cydonia was right. He really did ask too many of those.

But hey, how else was a man supposed to learn?

Wafting the faint smoke from his face, Fara followed the maze of cloth deeper in search of the fortune-teller. The eyes along the walls shimmered and blinked as he moved. Neat trick. Whoever this woman was, she was definitely a master of her craft. Is there a mild hallucinogenic in the smoke? the knight wondered, realising he didn't care. As important as this quest was, it was also stupid.

Then why does Cydonia look nervous? 'Yo-'

'Why, hello there!' A voice made Fara turn in surprise. His brows rose. 'No need for all that!' The fortune teller said, smiling up from where she sat, cross-legged on the floor. 'I've been expecting you. Please, have a seat why don't you!' Extending her tattooed arm, the woman gestured to the cushions in front of her.

Casting his gaze around the tent, Fara's pulse settled as he took it all in. The crystal ball on the floor, the rugs and cushions and mystic paraphernalia that helped sell the lie. It's just an old lady, Faramund told himself, sitting down. Just an old lady with more bangles than sense.

If only he had possessed the sense to turn this quest down. Too late now.

'We-' he began. The fortune teller cut him off. 'Oh, no need for introductions, dearie. I know who you are.' She tapped her temple knowingly. 'Your friend, too!' She smiled from behind her veil. The expression looked almost sinister in the half-light. 'Make yourselves comfortable. We have much to discuss, after all, and you both seem... eager to begin.' She clapped her hands together excitedly, setting her jewellery shaking.

'Shall we?'

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Faramund must have sensed her apprehension. He spoke so casually as he walked the few short steps into the tent, obviously trying to reassure her with those nudging little questions.

She blinked back against the smoke, shook the glimmering apparitions from her vision. No, it was just a coincidence. Symbols of the Loch that even the most novice of occultists knew the meaning of. It's not like the Sightless had a monopoly on eyes.

Still, she couldn't shake the uneasy feeling as the old fortune teller greeted Faramund, talking enough for the both of them. Faramund sat down. Following, Cydonia sank cross-legged into a wide, flat cushion next to the table. She could see the source of the smoke, incense burning in a censer that hung above their heads. It didn't smell like magic, just wood and herb oil.

With a delighted shuffle of fabric, the fortune teller sat down opposite to them. She leaned across the squat table, necklaces clinking against the surface.

"Its traditional to start with a palm reading," the fortune teller said. Cydonia found her hand atop the table, palm up, as the old woman's strong grip spread her fingers out. "May I?"

"Uh, sure," she said. Cyd didn't know how that had happened, and she didn't feel like she could pull away from that grip.

The fortune teller hummed, tracing the long center line of Cyd's palm with a thumb. "My mother taught me palm reading," the seer said pleasantly, in the way that performers did when they were building up to the big act. "She always said that you could tell a person's true age by their hands. No matter how youthful their face, or how haggard their eyes, the hands never lie."

She flipped Cyd's hand over, glanced at her knuckles, wrapped with scars. "For example, you my dear, despite that glow to your cheeks, are getting close to two hundred." The fortune teller chuckled lightly as Cyd frowned out her disbelief. A lucky guess.

"And you, young man," Still holding Cyd's palm in one firm grasp, the old woman reached for Faramund's hand next. If she could get her fingers around his wrist, she would hold tightly to both of them, even as her veiled smile turned to Fara. Thin lips painted bright red. "You must only be five or six, with hands like these."

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund smiled incredulously. Shooting a quick glance at Cydonia, the knight leaned sideways as the fortune teller let go of his hands. 'Guess that's one way to say someone's young at heart,' he said, rolling his eyes disbelievingly as the old lady rambled on about what each line meant. 'You don't look a day over one hundred by the way,' Faramund whispered to Cyd.

The fortune teller smiled but not at him. Her eyes, distorted by the thin veil she wore, were directed past him. Faramund turned to look over his shoulder. Lo and behold, there's no-one there! 'You have many brothers and sisters, Oath-bound,' the fortune teller spoke so suddenly that Fara almost thought someone else had come into the tent whilst he wasn't looking.

The fortune teller was staring at Cydonia again. Turning back to her, the big dawnling stayed silent as she continued. 'Yours is a face that brings fond memories. Memories wither and fade but the flesh -your flesh- remains ageless. An ageless memory will save you one day soon,' the fortune teller paused theatrically, or maybe that was just him. 'Very soon, yes...'

Closing her eyes, the old crone went on scrying their future. The crystal ball Faramund had spotted earlier sat on the floor in front of her. Smoke drifted within and without, the incense in the air filling the knight's sinuses with a fragrance he was beginning to hate. Waving his hand in front of his face, Fara stopped when he noticed the teller looking at him. The smoke in the crystal ball had stopped moving.

Her eyes took on a sheen, as if she were someplace else entirely. More theatrics, Faramund thought, his patience wearing thin.

'You... you only have brothers. Fewer in number, yet so very much alike. You share of the same body, the same blood. But the soul is divided.' She crooked her neck. The gesture reminded Faramund of Selene's familiar. 'This unity will be your undoing and, perhaps, your salvation?' Blinking away his confusion, Faramund frowned.

'You have any idea what this old coot's talking about?' he asked Cydonia quietly, his gaze growing hotter and angrier the longer the teller prattled on. ''Cause I'm starting to think we're wasting our time.'

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

An ageless memory will one day save you soon.

Her heart beat fast below her shirt. Cydonia willed her breath to stillness. The old woman's words stirred an old fear in her, but she covered it in a veil of reservations. "Hardly a prophecy," She sneered back. "Why, just on the way here, I met someone I haven't seen for two decades. It doesn't take much to get tangled up in people's memories."

Yet the fortune teller paid her skepticism no mind, turning her gaze to Faramund. Saying more things that didn't make sense. The other knight looked just as irritated as Cyd felt, and said as much. She closed her eyes against the haze of the tent and the glow of the candlelight. The incense the fortune teller was burning was familiar to her. Amber, for remembrance, and juniper, for clarity of purpose.

"I think you might be right," she responded low to Faramund, opening her eyes once more.

The old coot in question chuckled. "You're bad liars, the both of you." She clapped her hands together. There was a gleam in her eyes, but it didn't follow the candle light. The spark there was cold, and distant, as a star.

"Give me a little test, then. That's why you're here, isn't it?" the woman said. That strange light in her gaze came and went, and she seemed to be a dowdy old woman again as she looked to Faramund. "Go ahead, ask me something I shouldn't know."

 

[Faramund]

Why are we here? Faramund was beginning to wonder. Uncovering, and in some cases thwarting the Everwatcher's agents was getting to be something of a favoured pastime of his. But this old bat? He just couldn't see it. From the look on Cydonia's face, she was finding it hard to believe, too.

Still, they had to be thorough with their investigation. The Everwatcher had a knack for hiding his people in the most obscene of places.

Imagine if he managed to get a mole inside the Order, thought Faramund, smiling across at the hag like she had just screwed him at cards. There's no telling what damage they could do. 'Is it?' Faramund shared a glance with Cydonia. He was good at playacting. Particularly when it came to looking dumb, or thoughtful. 'Alright, then. Tell me... what are her parents' names?'

The hag cackled, eyes darting to Cydonia, back again. 'Do you know their names?' She seemed amused by something.

'I will once you tell me,' the dawnling bit back. He didn't like people answering questions with questions, especially when they knew more than he did. Did she? Humming and hawing, the old coot dragged it out for as long as she could. Testing my patience, Faramund assumed. Whatever you do, do not hit her, Faramund. You. Don't. Hit. Old. Ladies.

'Cerrik,' she said, after a time spent deliberating. 'And... Thalia. My, what pretty names you elves have!' The hag cackled some more, having hit the nail on the head. Faramund could tell she was looking to get a rise out of Cyd. Don't hit her, he reminded himself. Don't hit her, don't hit her, don't...

He took a breath to steady himself. Gods, but he was starting to hate carnivals.

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Frustration gripped deeper into the edge of Cyd's jaw as the woman spoke out loud the names of her parents. She did not feel the tickle of mind magic that she expected, the ripple of someone trying to dip their fingers into the raw swirl of being that ran through her. So, how else had the hag plucked those names from the ether?

"You forgot one." Cyd kept her voice light, despite the mounting unease.

"Who would that be? Vadim?" The old woman chuckled, self-satisfied with the breadth of her own knowledge, and the sharpness of her sight. "Another flowery name. But you don't consider him a father, do you? Even though he taught you of magic and the wyld ways."

The old woman was right. The look on Cyd's face showed that all too well, a pang of some old pain twisting her lips into a grimace, before she set her features right again.

"Alright, enough about me, you'll make me blush." Cyd's cheeks were perpetually rosy. Right now, she was flushed with anger. As casually as she could, she hooked a thumb towards Faramund sitting next to her. "What about his parents?"

The old woman took the challenge of the question with an admirable dedication to the performance of fortune teller. She held her palms out towards Faramund, and shook slightly with the Powers that Be. Her jewelry clattered together and the smoke stirred around them. Then, she held still, and let the silence thicken. With an anticlimactic shrug, the old hag lowered her arms. "Sorry, dear-- it's Faramund all the way back, with you."

 

[Faramund]

Knew she was a fraud. With a disappointed sigh, Faramund turned to Cydonia. 'Told you we were wasting our time,' he whispered, chuckling as the seer's words repeated, over and over, in his mind. Faramund, son of Faramund, grandson of Faramund and so on and so forth. 'Unless you've any more questions to ask, I say we leave this old bag to it.' Whatever "it" entailed. No doubt she had more pot to smoke, more shrooms to consume.

Silly coot.

Standing, Faramund gave the seer a polite bow. 'Thank you for your time,' the dawnling smiled, 'it's been quite the experience, really.' Nodding his farewells, Faramund turned to eye Cydonia for a moment before he made his way back outside. To the kiss of sunlight, and air as fresh as a winter's breeze.

How stifling the seer's tent seemed, now that he longer found himself within it.

'Well,' he said, finding a bale of straw to sit down on, 'was that as confusing for you as it was for me?'

 

[Syr Cydonia]

Deep in thought, Cyd followed Faramund out of the tent with a hazy dislodgement from her surroundings. She chewed at her lower lip, eyes cast down. The last flutterings of daylight did not reach her, the cool air brushed her cheeks and got nary a hair raised in return.

There were two possibilities. Firstly, and most likely, that the fortune teller was a lying old coot trying to distract them just long enough to get more coin out of them. But then there was the second option - which was growing within Cyd despite her best efforts - that the seer was true, and everything she said had the weight of the stars behind it.

After all, 'your father's name is Vadim and you hate his guts' was not a vague little augury. It was pretty damn specific, actually. So why shouldn't everything else be true, and specific?

Cyd nearly ran into the broad knight when he stopped to sit down. Mindless still, she followed suit. Her hands pressed flat against the scratchy hay. She dug her fingers deeper into the straw, plucking pieces out and shedding them down on the ground below. Bits of their previous conversation mixed with the seer's words, solidifying in her mind. No birthday, no parents, no magic. Nothing but an affliction.

Faramund's words finally reached her. 'was that as confusing for you as it was for me?'

"Clear as a mountain spring, I'm afraid." Slouched as if with a heavy burden, she turned her head to look at Faramund. Her eyes were wide and wavering. "Faramund... it's alright to just be yourself, you know. Everyone is quite fond of you already."

 

[Faramund]

'What do you mean, be myself? Who else would I be?' Frowning, puzzled by Cyd's words, Faramund shook his head as if to clear it of a thick fog. He looked to her, brown eyes full of warmth, and worry. 'Is it something the seer said to you, about your family?' He paused, replaying the scene over in his mind. 'Is it what she said about mine?'

'Sorry, dear-- it's Faramund all the way back, with you.'

It was a lame answer, especially after what she had revealed just before. About Cydonia's parents, Vadim and Thalia. And Cerrik. 'Look, Cyd, forgive me but... I'm a bit lost here.' Turning his body towards her, the big dawnling tried to make himself more comfortable. It was all too apparent she wasn't. Something was bothering her, and he'd be damned if he didn't get to the bottom of it.

'Forget the Seer for a moment. Forget Lord Renkalk and his hopes for the future. Just... tell me what's on your mind,' he tried on an encouraging smile, found it fit. 'Who knows, I might be able to help.' It was a bit vain of him, that. Usually, whenever he tried to help someone, he always ended up making things worse.

Be yourself, something in his head whispered, its laughter like bones grinding together. What a joke!

 

[Syr Cydonia]

"Forget the Seer for a moment. Forget Lord Renkalk and his hopes for the future. Just... tell me what's on your mind."

Cyd's sullen gaze only deepened. A tightness formed in her chest, which kept her from answering Faramund's good will right away. She sought to loosen it by sliding off the hay bale and pacing around. That helped a little, but she knew it also made her look even more disturbed.

"Minya dadwen yullume*," she muttered to herself in her own tongue. Well, her voice was working again. No way around it, now.

Cyd stopped abruptly. She turned to face Faramund, her hands clasped in front of her, not nervous but pleading.

"Faramund, please don't take this the wrong way. I know it's going to sound crazy, -- but I think you're a double-walker." Oh, she was in it, now. Cyd rung her hands up futher, knowing she was going to sound like a madwoman. "That seer said you had brothers, but I've never heard you speak about them. And-and all that other stuff..." Not like Faramund spoke much about anything, at least as far as she could recall. "You haven't got a lineage, do you? And I don't mean that in a poetic sense, I mean you really, truly, were never born."

*one who walks about twice

Faramund

 

[Faramund]

Faramund would have laughed, had there been anything funny to laugh at. A double-walker? What did they put in those sweets? He felt his lips curl upwards in cruel smile. The only thing keeping his bewilderment in check was the look on Cyd's face. It was the kind of look someone got when they were delivering bad news but didn't wish to, for fear of wounding the recipient.

I'm tough. I can take it.

'I've never told you about them because I don't have any,' he spoke calmly, as if doing so would help reassure Cyd -and himself- that all was well and there was nothing to worry about. 'The witch was mistaken.' His smile, vicious as it was, grew all the wider at the mention of his birth.

I mean you really, truly, were never born.

'You were there, were you?' Faramund snapped, angry at himself for getting angry at Cydonia.

Sighing, he held up a hand. To silence the she-elf, yes, and to apologise. Her line of questioning had him feeling like he was under interrogation. The only thing that remained now was to bring out the knives and start cutting. 'If I wasn't born, then, how the hell am I sitting here now, talking to you?'

He stared up at her, his features creasing as he frowned.

'I don't mean to question you, Cyd. You're pursuant material, even if you do refuse the honour,' he smiled, clenched his hands together as he leaned forwards. To make himself seem smaller, perhaps. Or less like a threat. 'It's like you said, though. This sounds crazy. Too crazy for me to believe, I'm afraid.'

Still... still...

Syr Cydonia

 

[Syr Cydonia]

It was expected that Faramund wouldn't take the news - an accusation, more like - gracefully. Still, she didn't like being snapped at. Cydonia's cheeks puffed out even rounder than usual, as Faramund held up a silencing hand against her.

Cydonia's hands came unclasped, and it became clear that she had not been holding on to them out of nervousness. No, she was wound up enough to start talking with her hands. She gestured widely and with fervor as she rambled out her retort.

"Lots of things get up and start walking and talking, around here." She put her hands up in an exaggerated shrug. "I met a rhyming tree once, that said everything in verse." A step to the right, a palm motioned vaguely to the forest's edge, far in the distance. "One of my aunts wanted a baby but couldn't have one, so she made an effigy out of mud and sticks and asked the spirits to give her a child. And they did! For light's sake, we still don't know where Rollyn came from!"

With some effort, Cyd contained herself. She let out a sigh. One of her hands dropped limply to her side, while the other reached up to pinch the bridge of her nose. "That seer wasn't wrong about anything else." Through the shade of her own fingers, she looked to Faramund. "Ignoring the crazy stuff doesn't make it go away. Trust me, I tried that with the tree."

Faramund