Wrin grabs Glock’s arm before he can turn away. “Wait.” She says. “I have an idea.”
She pulls you over to a desk fashioned from aged oak, or perhaps some more esoteric wood. Its deep grain seems to swirl like half-formed visions, shifting subtly in the flickering candlelight of her shop. The legs are sturdy, carved with faintly twisting patterns—vines, sigils, or perhaps something more serpentine—subtle enough to blend into the natural flow of the wood.
A dark velvet cloth, embroidered with celestial symbols in tarnished silver thread, drapes across the surface, its edges curling slightly from use. Scattered atop the desk are the tools of the trade: a polished crystal sphere resting in a claw-footed stand, delicate bone dice with numbers worn soft, and a small, unassuming wooden box, crafted from dark-stained hardwood with a smooth, time-worn polish. Subtle carvings of interwoven lines and faint arcane sigils adorn its surface—just intricate enough to hint at deeper mysteries, yet reserved enough to avoid unwanted attention.
Sitting across the desk, Wrin stares at you intensely, unblinking, and without breaking eye-contact, opens the box.
She carefully collects the deck of cards within, each one cut from thick, high-quality parchment, treated to resist wear and age. You can almost feel them hum.
“Have you ever had a Harrow reading, Glock?” She asks. “No matter—fate does not require your understanding, only your willingness to listen.”
Wrin gestures to the deck of cards before her, her fingers tracing the edges with reverence.
“This is a Harrow Deck, a tool of prophecy, a window into the currents of fate. Each of these cards holds a story, an image imbued with meaning, tied to the grand forces that shape our world—strength and suffering, chaos and law, fortune and folly. When cast, they reveal patterns unseen, threads of destiny woven by the gods, by the stars, by forces older than we dare name.”
She shuffles the deck, the cards gliding smoothly over one another. “A Harrow reading is no mere parlour trick. It is a moment of revelation, a chance to see beyond the veil of uncertainty. With this deck, I can illuminate the path before you—guiding you toward wisdom, warning you of dangers unseen, or helping you understand the choices that weigh upon your heart.”
“But be warned: the Harrow does not lie, though it may not always speak plainly. The cards do not dictate your fate—they merely show you the possibilities. What you do with that knowledge is yours alone to decide.”
With a final, expectant glance, Wrin places the deck before you. “So then, shall we see what the fates have in store?”
The faint scent of aged paper, incense, and something more arcane lingers in the air, settling over the space like an unseen veil. Here, bathed in the glow of candles, the boundary between chance and destiny is but a flick of the wrist away.
Harrowing
Wrin shuffles her deck with care and lays out nine cards in a spread. “This is ‘The Choosing’ - You must reveal one card.”
Once again, Wrin shuffles the cards, and lays out another nine in front of you.
Now, we see what story the fates tell - This first column represents your past. The next, the present. And finally, your future.
The Beating
“In the realm of memory, The Beating sings a song of hardship and hard-won triumph—a time when pain and victory danced side by side. It reminds us that every scar, every blow, has forged your strength.”
The Vision
“Yet, not all memories shine brightly. Here, I see a vision—a hazy glimpse of an ominous light that crept over the horizon long ago. It was a time when the air itself shimmered with secrets and foreboding, hinting that darkness was stirring even then.”
The Tyrant
“And then… a shadow looms. This card speaks of a great and oppressive force—a tyrant whose legacy of cruelty still haunts these lands.”
The Survivor
“Now, to the present—the moment that beats in your chest. This card glows with the embers of survival. It tells me that despite all trials, a spirit has endured—one who has faced overwhelming odds and emerged unbroken. A sign, perhaps, of Otari’s own resilient heart.”
The Hidden Truth
“But hidden among the present’s many layers is a secret that whispers in silence. A truth cloaked in mystery, urging you to seek what lies beneath the surface. There is something important yet concealed—a revelation that binds the past to what is yet to come.”
The Demon’s Lantern
“And even now, a subtle darkness flickers—a spectral light, ephemeral as a will-o’-the-wisp. Its presence is a warning of sinister forces gathering in the shadows, heralding trouble that encroaches on the borders of our realm.”
The Locksmith
“Looking forward, there shines a glimmer of hope—a promise that many locked doors may yet be opened. This card is the key: a symbol of opportunity, if you dare to turn it.”
The Fiend “Yet, the future is not without its enigmas. One omen speaks of a formidable force—a power that may either be your ally or your undoing. Its nature is ambiguous, a reminder that not all destiny is cast in clear light or shadow.”
The Eclipse
“And then… behold the eclipse. A dark, overwhelming sign—a warning that if the present perils are not met with unity and resolve, a great darkness will fall. This omen is dire, a call to arms against a fate that would see all we cherish swallowed by night.”
“These omens, they are not set in stone. They whisper of trials past and tribulations yet to come—a destiny that demands more than brute strength alone. Listen well, Glock; the choices you make, and the alliances you forge, may yet change the course of fate.”
Ethereal manifestation
Already unsettled by the harrow reading, Glock’s world shifts as the ghost appears right before him. With a look of profound familiarity and quiet sorrow, the ghost calls out, “Your strength bears the weight of Otari’s promise. Come to me, and mend what has been broken,” then swiftly disappears.
Suddenly, the door to Wrin’s shop bursts open!
On edge, you hear heavy thuds land to your left and your right. On each side, by the windows, a fierce and rugged man stands with a confident smirk.
“Hello, Glock.”
The shadows shift. In the doorway stands a dark, finely dressed figure—practical yet undeniably stylish. A long, flowing coat drapes over their shoulders, the deep blue fabric embroidered subtly with silver accents reminiscent of an osprey’s feathers.
Your mother. Yinyasmera.
Her hands, adorned with rings bearing cryptic insignias, move with deliberate elegance, flipping a gold coin between her fingers. A well-worn rapier hangs at her side, its hilt wrapped in darkened leather, a quiet but constant reminder that she is far more than a mere socialite. When she moves, it’s with the silent confidence of a predator—never rushed, never unsure. She glides toward you like smoke.
“I raised you, in my own way. I loved you, and taught how to be useful, how to provide for and protect your own. But you’ve outgrown the path I set. I won’t let you kill anymore. I won’t let you endanger Otari.”