The last card to fall bore an image of a seductive figure pulling a mask of innocence from her skeletal features. She closed her eyes briefly and sighed. The day had been going so well, so far, but she knew townsfolk, and she knew this.
"Death? DEATH? Are you cursing me, witch? I'll have you know, I'm a big man around here. Heck, they've even heard of me in South Figaro. I could have you run out of town for this." He leaned in closer, doing his best at swaggering intimidation. Her eyes remained closed, but she had played this scene too many times already. First the posturing, then the attempt at explanation, then the leaving. The only factors that varied were the level of violence and the particular reek to the breath. Today, it was pickled beets and goat's cheese.
"Honored sir, please let me explain. Death is about transformation, not merely death."
"So now you're going to turn me into a frog? Are there no ends to your witchery, you harlot?"
Moira heaved a sigh, causing a rather impressive ripple across her front. Slowly she reached forward and scooped the tarot cards, then placed them in their rainbow silk wrap and ivory coffer.
The lid had barely closed when the blow came, toppling her to the side. She pulled herself to her feet, straightening her cloak. The first clasp had been undone due to the heat of the day, and the second had torn in her fall, so part of her expansive cleavage was exposed. Rage flared in her, but she struggled to immerse it in the icy waters of her training. "I suggest... I insist... that you do not do that again," she whispered hoarsely as she scooped up her fallen case and the small pile of coins from the days fortunes. She would have screamed it, but she had learned the hard way that her voice sometimes cracked like a fishwife's when she was really upset. The man raised his hand to her once more.
And then something happened that surprised her.
"Jon, how could you." A woman's hand grabbed the oaf's as her voice decried his actions. Far too pretty for this town, her curled amber hair cascaded to her barely tanned shoulders. "Don't be such a brute."
The man swung his arm, dragging the blonde forward into the wooden table, causing both to tumble.
"Don't tell me what to do. I may be stuck supporting you, you cow, but I don't have to listen to you." He took a step towards the girl, puffing himself up like a sea-fish. "Or do I have to tell you again?"
The rage which had been diffused by her sudden attraction to the girl returned, redoubled. The man stepped forward another step, and her fingers twitched. A shift of her arm drew a single card to her hand.
"No!" Her will focused through the mental imagery of the sword upon the card, and a storm began. A small storm, a miniature cyclone, manifested above Jon's head. He glanced up in terror, gazing into its eye and seeing the glint of a sword stare back.
"No, you do not. This sword will hang over you, and strike you should you EVER strike her again. Soon, it shall disappear from sight, but not from your mind, heart or soul. Here, then, is your transformation, and perhaps your death."
A snarl escaped his lips as he turned to leap at her. As his fists clenched, the sword fell, striking through his chest. He stumbled, then fell over, but still breathed. No blood marked his chest, but a red mark gleamed where the blade had pierced. The townsfolk gathered around, tending to him but avoiding her.
Avoiding the eyes of all, the redheaded diviner slipped to the edge of town. Once more, her temper had gotten the best of her. The man would live, and hopefully he would believe her fib about the permanence of the sword's effect. She took a few deep breaths and continued on in the direction of her destiny.
"South Figaro, here I come."
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