So the prompts for the last three days are: the throne, the riot, and the crusader. Which sounds like you have a tale in mind, even if you're not sharing it :)
The crusader Trembling fingers unwrapped the oilskin, which was about eight times larger than really needed, from around the cards, turning them over again and again until finally the cards emerged. The first man held them out, and Tristram looked at them for a moment, and then around them, before accepting them. David released his hold, and some of the tension drained from the room. “Are they safe?” David sounded curious rather than scared. “I think so,” said Tristram. “No ghouls, no ghasts, no ominous shadows reaching out to seize us. If these belonged to Sosotris then we’d already know about it. She’s… unfriendly when crossed.” “They say she modelled for Pickman,” said David. He looked around, actually for the third time, for somewhere to sit, but the kitchen still had no chairs in it. “Is there nowhere to sit in this damn hovel?” “The floor?” Tristram smiled faintly as David’s expression. “Outrage suits you, my friend. There’s a couch in the next room, but all the chair-like chairs are down in the cellar.” “Why?” “The last occupant decided they moved around of their own accord, so she tied them together and put them downstairs so that she’d hear if they tried coming up to get her.” “The couch then. I’m not playing musical chairs with the snow falling, I want to leave here tonight.” “Me too,” muttered the first man. “You can go,” said Tristram. “Unless David has another use for you. You’ve delivered.” David reached into an inside pocket, and the first man took a step backwards, his hands rising protectively in front of his face and throat. His palms were pink with dark line of ingrained dirt dividing them into patches.
“Payment,” said David, pulling out a long, slim black wallet. “I don’t suppose you take cards?” He laughed at the puzzlement on the first man’s face. “We agreed five hundred,” he said, opening the wallet. His fingers sorted through the notes in there and pulled several free. “That’s five, with two hundred for delivery and timeliness.” He hesitated, then folded the wallet up. “You lose out on a hundred for not opening the cards when you were told to,” he finished. He held out money, and the first man took it slowly, as though worried that David would grab his wrists or arms. “Go,” said Tristram. “I know how to find you.” Shaking his head, the first man ducked out of the low door and ran into the snowy night. Tristram led the way into the living room, where there was a prim Chesterfield sofa upholstered in pink and beige, three tiny coffee tables set awkwardly around the room, one of which had a vase of dead flowers on it, a large rug covering less than half of the floorboards, and a mirror that ran the full length of the wall, though thankfully not the full height: it was only a metre tall. “What now?” said David, sitting on the sofa. He tried to lean back and discovered that the sofa was intended for Puritans and had barely any cushioning over the sturdy wooden frame. Tristram turned the cards over to see the faces. “We choose the right card,” he said. There was silence while the men looked through the deck, and then David sighed. “Is this even the right deck?” he asked. “Who is Belladonna? Or the Crusader? Why is there no Empress, no Fool, no Tower? What kind of tarot deck is this?” “Sosotris’s,” said Tristram. “I heard tell she had decks made from special items and that the cards in them changed from one reading to another, but who believes such stories? I mean, obviously she just has several decks and tells good tales. But….” “But?” Tristam rubbed his hands over a card. “This doesn’t feel like paper, or cardboard, you know? They say she has a deck made from the waterlogged skins of drowned men pulled from the wreck of the Inviolable, and another infused with the pollen of Paydumort lillies.” David snorted. “Who could afford that many lillies?” He picked a card from the deck, not noticing the look of concern that crossed Tristram’s face. “The Ghost of Christmas Presents,” he said, looking at it. “I mean, really?” He tossed the card onto the floor, and Tristram tried to catch it, his face going white. He missed, and it landed, face up, on the rug.
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So the prompts for the last three days are: the throne, the riot, and the crusader. Which sounds like you have a tale in mind, even if you're not sharing it :)
The crusader
Trembling fingers unwrapped the oilskin, which was about eight times larger than really needed, from around the cards, turning them over again and again until finally the cards emerged. The first man held them out, and Tristram looked at them for a moment, and then around them, before accepting them. David released his hold, and some of the tension drained from the room.
“Are they safe?” David sounded curious rather than scared.
“I think so,” said Tristram. “No ghouls, no ghasts, no ominous shadows reaching out to seize us. If these belonged to Sosotris then we’d already know about it. She’s… unfriendly when crossed.”
“They say she modelled for Pickman,” said David. He looked around, actually for the third time, for somewhere to sit, but the kitchen still had no chairs in it. “Is there nowhere to sit in this damn hovel?”
“The floor?” Tristram smiled faintly as David’s expression. “Outrage suits you, my friend. There’s a couch in the next room, but all the chair-like chairs are down in the cellar.”
“Why?”
“The last occupant decided they moved around of their own accord, so she tied them together and put them downstairs so that she’d hear if they tried coming up to get her.”
“The couch then. I’m not playing musical chairs with the snow falling, I want to leave here tonight.”
“Me too,” muttered the first man.
“You can go,” said Tristram. “Unless David has another use for you. You’ve delivered.”
David reached into an inside pocket, and the first man took a step backwards, his hands rising protectively in front of his face and throat. His palms were pink with dark line of ingrained dirt dividing them into patches.
“Payment,” said David, pulling out a long, slim black wallet. “I don’t suppose you take cards?” He laughed at the puzzlement on the first man’s face. “We agreed five hundred,” he said, opening the wallet. His fingers sorted through the notes in there and pulled several free. “That’s five, with two hundred for delivery and timeliness.” He hesitated, then folded the wallet up. “You lose out on a hundred for not opening the cards when you were told to,” he finished. He held out money, and the first man took it slowly, as though worried that David would grab his wrists or arms.
“Go,” said Tristram. “I know how to find you.”
Shaking his head, the first man ducked out of the low door and ran into the snowy night.
Tristram led the way into the living room, where there was a prim Chesterfield sofa upholstered in pink and beige, three tiny coffee tables set awkwardly around the room, one of which had a vase of dead flowers on it, a large rug covering less than half of the floorboards, and a mirror that ran the full length of the wall, though thankfully not the full height: it was only a metre tall.
“What now?” said David, sitting on the sofa. He tried to lean back and discovered that the sofa was intended for Puritans and had barely any cushioning over the sturdy wooden frame.
Tristram turned the cards over to see the faces. “We choose the right card,” he said.
There was silence while the men looked through the deck, and then David sighed. “Is this even the right deck?” he asked. “Who is Belladonna? Or the Crusader? Why is there no Empress, no Fool, no Tower? What kind of tarot deck is this?”
“Sosotris’s,” said Tristram. “I heard tell she had decks made from special items and that the cards in them changed from one reading to another, but who believes such stories? I mean, obviously she just has several decks and tells good tales. But….”
“But?”
Tristam rubbed his hands over a card. “This doesn’t feel like paper, or cardboard, you know? They say she has a deck made from the waterlogged skins of drowned men pulled from the wreck of the Inviolable, and another infused with the pollen of Paydumort lillies.”
David snorted. “Who could afford that many lillies?” He picked a card from the deck, not noticing the look of concern that crossed Tristram’s face. “The Ghost of Christmas Presents,” he said, looking at it. “I mean, really?” He tossed the card onto the floor, and Tristram tried to catch it, his face going white. He missed, and it landed, face up, on the rug.
Greg - hell if I remember it though. Sorry.
Really enjoying this setting and watching this tale unfold.
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