A Meeting of Strangers
It's called Seer's Alley, but it's larger than an alley should be, though one would never know this from the narrowness of the actual walking path. The once broad street is clogged with wagons that used to be brightly colored but are now faded, just like they used to be mobile, but most of them are broken down. Tents or dubious repute and even lean-tos of a more permanent nature form a warren of fortune tellers in every stripe. Some cast bones into metal plates, others read cards or swear the future is found in a misty crystal. Most would say that there's not but charlatains to be found here.
Mordred walks through the crowded area with his hands pushed into his pockets, his hair bound back in a small pony tail with accidental wisps escaped to frame his face in a careless manner. His is a presence felt as much as seen, and people seem to move out of the way before he has to move them.
In the midst of faded colors and fakes, Nisha is a thing of brightness, demanding attention. The saree she wears is of bright peacock blue, and a transparent scarf of the same covers her hair. She does not look nervous to be here, and why would she, when she has transversed alleyways far seedier than this one. A glance is given to a casting of bones, and the 'seer's' interpitation of them brings forth a quiet chuckle for the woman, before she continues onwards.
Mordred is at the other end of the spectrum, a certain darkness to be found to the man. Maybe it's the expression on his face, the wickedness trapped in the pale gray of his eyes, or just the clenching of his hand at the hilt of his black sword every so often. Either way, his heavy steps, muffled by the sounds of prophecy and despair ("Hark! Life is at an end and the spiders will overrun us all!" "Death," says the fortune teller, turning over a well-loved tarot, "but not for you."). That he has spotted Nisha could never be a good omen.
Nisha's gaze is moved to the one with the tarot, and she smiles. "Rivers may dry, but they never truly die. We live on, outside of the banks, eternal." Her oddly-colored eyes lift to Mordred, then, watching the man as he draws nearer to her.
Mordred's voice is quiet and his head is lowered to partially obsucre his face when he stops, literally shoulder to shoulder with nisha. "You wear your derision for them in the twist of your lips, Eternal One, but do your auguries tell any greather truths than theirs?"
RPG: Nisha declares that she has the Share Vision (MAG-SV) gift. Use '+gift MAG-SV' to view the gift description. Last edit: 1 month ago.
RPG: Nisha used the following +declare targets: Seer's Alley - Amber City
Their shoulders touch, and Nisha's breath is let out sharply, as if she were just punched in the stomach, or stabbed in her third eye. Flashes come to Mordred's own sight- A great winged beast, shadow-clad and razor winged. And blood. Much blood. The woman takes in a slow breath, before she intones, "Be wary of chasing dragons, for they are seldom more than winged snakes--venomous and untrust worthy."
It might be accident, a reaction to the sudden visions flashed, but Mordred's hand is tightly wound around Nisha's wrist when the flashes end. There's a look on his face as a man clinging to reality, lest he be carried away. The words might not even have been heard in that moment.
Nisha looks to Mordred, through the transparency of her veil. His face is studied, and she continues on, "They are a colony of fakes, here. But even so, they know you for what you are." She does not remove his hand from her wrist, and is infact staying very still indeed.
Mordred raises his head now, and his eyes are dark like thunderclouds before the lightening strikes. "And what am I?" The question is only three-quarters menace, conveyed in tone and weighty gaze when he meets her eyes.
The circle of blue around Nisha's eyes is a bright thing, rippling like the tides. "Death," she answers simply. "The strict lord that bids to dance. You make me glad for my twice-blessed heritage, stranger."
Mordred's tongue touches his lips and he's not just wetting them; it is something lewd and hungry to be found in that gesture. "And what are you, soothsayer?"
"The surging tide, which washes things clean. The Night River," Nisha replies. If the lewdness affects her in any way, it does not show on her features.
"The tide brings death as much as it brings cleaning," Mordred counters, his hand shifting, but neither loosening nor letting go, on her wrist. "How clean could you be? How clean could you make me with your ... lapping?"
There is a soft, feminine snort of amusement from Nisha at his words. "I've no interest in being your cleansing. I would not sully myself so, for too much stains your soul."
Leaning in Mordred's lips are near her ear before he speaks again. His breathing is quicker, his eyes darker. "You are no innocent." There's a loud clatter and crash, a scream of alarm, down the alley.
Nisha's voice is low, quiet. "I never claimed such. Only that your dirt was too much. I am a river, not a mudslide." Her wrist is given a tug, with a strength that seems at odds with her small frame. "Winged serpents, do not forget them."
Mordred steps behind Nisha for a moment, letting go of her hand. "You will be a flood, and beneath your weight the worlds could tremble, the stars to decorate your hair in honor, the water to clothe you in homage."
Something is pressed into her hand, metalic. A dagger? And the second her fingers have it, the second he's not touching her, not being watched...Mordred vanishes.
Fingers close over the metal in her hand, and Nisha looks to Mordred with a look that speaks of some understanding, and further questions to go along with those answers already within her mind. She glances away, and finding him gone, continues on her way--far from the sounds of urgency.