The heavy oak door opens, letting a swirl of late April snow cascade
across the polished wood. A tall figure enters with a shabby grace,
shedding ice from his cloak. He steps forward to see a tapestry in the
long shape of a tarot card. The fibers writhe with consternation as he
looks upon it, and it forms pictures, a cloak, a cap, and a ledge.
Trying desperately to reveal a truth the tapestry struggles desperately.
He places a finger to his lips and the tapestry quiets itself. Instead
of picture it shows merely his face, touched with humor and quiet
cruelty, and the caption: "Who is, Who is yet to be." A clever smile
plays across his face, and the words "not yet," worm about him.

He shakes his cloak again, and it jingles with millions of shiny, small
charms, a silver sea of symbols. Turning toward the bar of polished
obsidian, a long smooth stride brings him to a tall armchair. A simple
shrug divests him of his covering, revealing a thin stature. He eases
his long form into a comfortable posture of interest. One long, delicate
finger floats upwards, and a light baritone seeps from his lips,
"Bartender, when you have moment."


---
To the bartender, Winter.

With Grace and Villiany,

-S

Playing: The Empire Hideous - /Parasites Bible/