The Sternutation Deck

[Wig_Powder]

First off, Happy Holidays, everyone!

Secondly, as some of you may know, I have a holiday tradition wherein I write a Christmas fic or several for Tarotgal, in thanks both for writing lovely fics for me and for being one of the first people to provide a website for people who like sneezing to congregate. Up until now, I've done this by filling out the Sneezefic in 132 moods challenge, but after I officially filled a quarter of the remaining moods last year (not all of them have appeared on that page, but they are on the Livejournal community as well as my own LJ), I decided I needed to step back and let other people complete them. So, what to do this year?

The answer was pretty obvious, at least in my head. Tarotgal's username and her original sneezekink site, the Tarot of Sneezing, are derived from tarot cards, a form of fortune telling. So why not create a literal Tarot of Sneezing? I looked over the tarot deck (I took inspiration from the Rider-Waite deck, the most famous of the numerous decks out there) and decided to create a short little ficlet for every card, based on  its picture. I started working on this in November (it was, in fact, one of the twelve stories I was working on for National Novel Writing Month), and managed to finish it in time for Christmas. I hope everyone, but especially Tarotgal, enjoys!

Three quick things before we start. One, I've put this in Drabbles rather than Original Fiction because these are overall a collection of unconnected stories that just have a theme in common.

Two, and relatedly, I probably wouldn't encourage reading all of these in one sitting. They're short and mostly unconnected (only the Empress and Emperor are directly related, for understandable reasons), and they might start feeling samey after a while. Feel free to read as much as you want, and in any order you want.

Three, I've included pictures of each card so you can see what I was basing my story on. But since some of the Rider-Waite cards include nudity, I've replaced those with photos from my own tarot deck, which used Rider-Waite as an inspiration.

So with all that out of the way, enjoy!

 

The Major Arcana

The Fool

 

Navin slung his bundle over his shoulder, his heart swelling with excitement. He had finally come of age, and his parents had given him their blessing to go out and make his fortune. For the first time in his life, he'd be able to travel beyond his home town and see the world. He knew, deep in his heart, that there would be hardship—there would be times when he wouldn't have much in the way of food, shelter, or money, and it would feel like everything was against him—but at the moment, everything seemed new and welcoming. In fact, the hardest challenge before him was deciding where to go and what to do. Should he head towards the water and try his hand at being a sailor or a merchant? Should he find the closest city? Should he try to find work immediately, or should he only worry about that when his money started to run low and focus instead on the pleasures of life? All of them had their own appeals.

“Too bad you can't have a say in the matter,” he said to Dilwy, his beloved terrier, “I may like being my own man, but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate the occasional piece of advice.” Dilwy just barked happily and ran ahead, and Navin, chuckling, strode after him.

They walked for an hour or two, finally leaving the outskirts of Rywait and truly entering into unknown territory. In what seemed like a sign, Navin spotted a flower he'd never seen before almost as soon as he stepped onto unfamiliar ground. It was a white flower with petals that almost looked like feathers, making it seem plain and exotic at the same time. On an impulse, he picked it, tempted to press it and keep it as a good luck charm for the journey ahead. In the meantime, however, he sniffed it, curious about its scent. It had a mild, unexciting floral scent, but the petals that brushed against his face did feel like feathers, so he was still inclined to see it as a sign of things to come, and he kept it in his hand for the time being as he walked along.

As Navin continued forward, an itch (whether from the flower's pollen or its petals is difficult to say) gradually built up in his nose, but he was so lost in his own thoughts that he barely noticed. At least, not until it grew large enough that he needed to sneeze, at which point he merely closed his eyes and let it out freely. “Utkshh!”

Just as he was lifting his head, Dilwy let out a sharp bark, and then he felt a tug on his boot. Opening his eyes, the first thing Navin saw was a sharp drop below him, his feet inches away from the precipice. As he yelped and stepped away from it, he saw Dilwy follow him and realized the dog had been trying to keep him from falling. Kneeling down, he gratefully rubbed Dilwy's head. “Good boy,” he said, “It seems you'll be a wise companion for me after all.”

Dilwy barked in apparent agreement. Navin smiled, straightened up, and got back on the path. Then he tucked the flower into the brim of his hat, where it hopefully wouldn't cause any more trouble.

 

The Magician

 

Domantus raised his wand high, while he pointed downwards with his other hand. “Powers of Heaven and Earth,” he intoned, “Imbue these items before me with your essences. Both your strengths and your weaknesses will be acknowledged, and while those who wield them may use them for evil, all will know it comes from their character and not your influence.”

He felt the wind begin to blow, and braced himself for what was to come. He had performed this ritual numerous times, and while he appreciated the prestige and income that it brought him, he always had to contend with one of his largest weaknesses in the process.

As he watched, a flame from the brazier on one side of the altar arced down and surrounded the wooden wand, although the rod showed no traces of burning. A moment later, a thin stream of water rose from the bowl on the altar's other side and began to pool inside the chalice. The wind grew stronger, starting to rattle the sword, while also blowing free grains of pollen from the surrounding garden, which began to congregate on top of the golden coin. All was going as expected.

Unfortunately, the grains of pollen had to float past Domantus as they did so, and even though he did his best not to breathe them in, their proximity was enough to make the itch in his nose (which had begun as soon as he'd set foot in the garden) increase. Domantus held his position, years of practice allowing him to resist the sensation. It was uncomfortable, and anyone who may have been watching would have noticed the twitching nose on an otherwise implacable face, but the knowledge that he would only have to endure this for three minutes allowed him to maintain his composure.

At last, there was a tremendous flash of light, and everything grew still. Once Domantus had determined that there was no sign of water in the chalice or pollen on the coin, he promptly brought his hands to his face.

“Hatchh! Ektshh! Hupshh! Et-tishh! Huh...huh-KSHHH!!”

Raising his head with a sniff, Domantus drew two cloths from his robe, one to blow his nose and the other to clean his wand. After he believed both had been satisfactorily tended to, he picked up the newly-blessed items and carried them back inside. Guoni would most likely be back later that day to collect them.

As always, just before he stepped inside, Domantus said two prayers of thanks. One was to the elements for their assistance, and the other was to whatever power governed the world that his reputation was so well-known and respected. Because of that, he had the freedom to claim that performing this ritual needed to be done in private, and his clients would accept this without question. It also allowed him to continue to shroud himself in mystery, causing more people to visit him out of pure curiosity. And it was much better than the alternative; though many claimed great men should show the occasional weakness to gain the trust of others, Domantus suspected a magician with hayfever would be the subject of teasing more than awe. And if he had to deal with his hayfever regularly, he deserved at least a little awe for what he was able to do despite it.

 

The High Priestess

 

Asenath sat at the back of the temple, serenely looking around her as she waited for supplicants. The architect had done a wonderful job when designing this building; with half constructed from black marble and the other from white, it invoked the opposing forces of the world. Furthermore, the grey cloth that led from the entrance to the dais where she sat was perfectly centered, to signify the narrow but true path required to balance said forces. She would have to seek the architect out before she departed to assure them that Neith would smile upon them for their devotion to Her.

Footsteps rang out somewhere to the right, and Asenath turned her head to see a scribe approaching, a scroll in his hands. “My apologies for disturbing you, Priestess,” he said with a bow, “But we have located the writings of Toath. Would you like them sent to your chambers?”

“No,” Asenath said, holding out her hand, “I'll read them now. I'm interested to hear his interpretations of Neith's teachings. They must be quite persuasive, given the status Neith has here in Raqot.”

The scribe handed the scroll to her, bowed once more, and departed. She nodded after him and unrolled the parchment, beginning to read. Almost immediately, she could see that Toath was an eloquent writer. No doubt he had been a charismatic speaker as well, if he had been able to persuade so many to follow him.

As she continued to read, unrolling the scroll when necessary, she began to feel a faint prickle in her nose. She rubbed it away, but it returned a minute later. As she rubbed at her nose again and shifted position, she noticed a small puff of dust rise up from her robes. Looking more intently at the scroll, she could still see a thin layer of dust clinging to the sections of paper and umbilicus that hadn't been touched. Nodding in understanding, Asenath returned to her reading, but kept one hand loosely grasping the paper in preparation.

The itch in her nose grew slowly but steadily, though Asenath no longer tried to rub it away. It was only when her breath caught, a delicate “Hih...” breaking the silence of the temple, that she lowered the scroll and brought her hand to her face. As expected, it bore traces of dust, but she inhaled it willingly, allowing the small grains to enter her nose and bring the sneeze to completion. It took a moment, but at last, the deed was done.

“Hihh...Hitchh!”

Despite the small volume, the sneeze seemed to ring throughout the hall. No one was there to hear it, but even if there had been, Asenath would have felt no embarrassment. Sneezing was a part of life, and while it was polite to avoid sneezing on others, there was no shame in allowing one release. Indeed, sneezing in front of others often led to blessings, and given her occupation, she found those more than welcome.

With a soft sniff, she resumed her reading, fully prepared to be interrupted by further sneezing. Though if the scribe returned, she would ask him for a cloth to wipe the rest of the dust away. After all, even a small interruption could eventually grow into a large nuisance.

 

The Empress

 

Empress Thema leaned back in her throne, shifting position just enough that her head could rest against the hand holding the scepter. Apparently this was acceptable, for Renbrun didn't look past his canvas to glare at her this time. Allowing herself a hard exhale through her nose in lieu of a sigh, she stared straight ahead and let her mind wander.

It wasn't surprising that her husband had ordered a portrait to be painted of her when they'd discovered she was pregnant. It would increase their popularity in the realm, and was a prime excuse to dress her in her finest clothes and surround her with various symbolic items, simultaneously showing her authority and her relatability. No doubt a second painting would be commissioned after she actually had the child, glorifying her as a mother to both the baby and to the country. But at least in that case, she'd most likely be allowed to pose indoors, instead of...

“Atchh!”

“Bless you, your Majesty,” Renbrun said, peering over at her, “But please, try to hold your position.”

“I'm doing what I can,” Thema answered curtly, “But while I may be one of the highest powers in Lufkana, even I am subject to still greater powers. Including boredom, stiffness, and...ashh!...allergies.”

“Bless you. I understand your discomfort, and I promise, future sittings can take place indoors. But I need to do the initial sketch here, to avoid making mistakes later on.”

“I know,” Thema said, wrinkling her nose, “But right now, that knowledge is small comfort. Can you at least assure me that we won't be out here much longer?”

“I believe so, your Majesty. I've sketched out your image and the elements in the foreground. All that's left is to complete the trees and brook behind you.”

“Utchh!”

“Bless you. I suppose I can focus on the grove to your left, if you need a few moments. Just try not to make any large gestures that block my view.”

Thema nodded and immediately (but carefully) brought her handkerchief to her nose, blowing freely and sighing in relief when she was finished. The pollen in the air would soon be back in her nose, but for now, at least, she could keep it at bay. And as embarrassing as it was to be in this position, at least there were two things she could find comfort in. One, based on Renbrun's previous work, the portrait was sure to be magnificent, making her current suffering worthwhile. And two, while Renbrun preferred to draw from life, he was wise enough to leave out certain details. Like the current redness of her nose, or the fact that the hand that would be empty in the portrait was, in fact, currently holding firmly onto a handkerchief.

 

The Emperor

 

Oswald sat tall and proud on his throne, for once not needing to remind himself of his old deportment lessons to keep his back straight. His whole body felt light, and it was easy to ignore the usual twinges from holding himself “properly”. Such nuisances faded away when one was blissfully happy. Indeed, if he wasn't obligated to keep his expression neutral, he'd have been beaming.

A child. At last, he and Thema would have a child. An heir to carry on his legacy. A symbol of his kingdom's fertility and strength. A figure the citizens could rally behind. Above all, a product of the love between himself and Thema, one he fully intended to raise with the utmost care.

He had been ordering his servants to make preparations for the new arrival for the past two days. Riders had been sent throughout Lufkana to announce the news. The finest painter had been commissioned to paint Thema, surrounding her with symbols of motherhood. A room was being prepared to house the babe, and tutors were being sought. While Pristie, his chief advisor, had said it was a bit early to be making some of these preparations, Oswald had always believed in making arrangements as soon as a course of action had been decided upon. That way, there was time to adapt should something go wrong. It was part of the reason Lufkana had prospered during his reign, and he fully intended to impart this lesson to his children (for he hoped this one was the first of several).

Looking around the throne room, Oswald nodded in satisfaction. Several servants were quietly moving around, cleaning the floors or polishing the armor to ensure the place was pristine for visitors. The guards stood at attention, ready for any threat. A page sat sketching in the corner, but would leap to the task if Oswald told him to fetch someone. Yes, his castle was well-maintained, and would be an excellent place to rear his children.

As he was surveying the room, a beam of sunlight came through the high windows, landing directly on Oswald and his throne. While the light may have shown his armor, scepter, orb, and presumably crown in their full glory, it also stung his eyes and caused his nose to itch. Unlike other itches, however, bitter experience had taught him that this one couldn't be kept at bay. Therefore, he quickly set his regalia down beside him, drew a handkerchief from his sleeve, and let the sneeze overwhelm him. “HARESHHH!!”

“Blessings, your Majesty!” the servants in the room called out almost in unison. Oswald nodded curtly, blew his nose, then tucked the handkerchief away and resumed his position. While his sensitivity to the sun was well-known to those who lived or regularly visited the castle, he insisted that it be ignored apart from the expected blessing. If he was unable to stave it off, he could at least get it over with as fast as possible. And for the sake of appearances, he did what he could to avoid revealing his sensitivity to the populace at large. On the occasions when he had to give a speech in daylight, he would peer out a window a few moments before stepping out onto his balcony, in order to get the thing over and done with. There was another lesson he would need to remember to teach his children; sometimes, one needs to find alternate routes to the preferred result.

 

The Hierophant

 

Badurad sighed and examined himself in the mirror. While he looked much better than he had three days ago, anyone who came close enough would be able to tell that he was ill. No one would wonder about the paleness of his face, and perhaps they would attribute the circles under his eyes to long nights spent in study, but the pinkness of his nose was much harder to explain.

Not that Badurad intended to lie about his condition if asked. If one hid their illness, one needlessly prolonged their suffering, not to mention put others at risk of falling ill as well. At the same time, there were times when it was best not to call attention to illness, especially if the illness had mostly passed. And the day when he was to give a sermon to a group of visiting scholars was one of those times.

Since there wasn't much to be done now, Badurad splashed some water on his face, then turned his attention to dressing. While he normally accepted the ornateness of his robes, they felt much more cumbersome than usual, from the embroidered sleeves to the tall hat. Even the bobbles hanging off his gloves seemed to add a weight around his wrists. Nevertheless, he ignored the discomfort, and after tucking a handkerchief into his collar, he squared his shoulders and entered the main hall.

The assembled scholars all bowed in respect to him, which he acknowledged with a nod before taking his seat. As his audience quieted, he took a sip of water, cleared his throat, and began his speech.

All was well for a time. The scholars listened with rapt attention, and the occasional tickles in Badurad's throat could be quelled by water or a clearing of the throat. But then a tickle formed within his nose, and although he tried to casually rub it away, this itch was not so easily deterred. Badurad tried to ignore it, breathing through his mouth to keep it from growing, but eventually, he knew he was about to sneeze. But by a stroke of good fortune, it had come at an ideal time. Smiling slightly, he continued speaking, trying to hold out until just the right moment.

“When it comes to the pursuit of knowledge, we must always be willing to be open-minded. There will always be things we don't know or uh-understand, but others will. And those who hold thaaht knowledge may come from the most unexpected of places. So I beg you, never be ah-afraid to admit what you don't know. That is not ignorance or weakness; it is a sign of true intellige...ehh...”

Knowing the sneeze wouldn't be denied any longer, he pulled the handkerchief from his collar and held it to his face. “ESHOO!!”

The scholars promptly blessed him, and Badurad nodded his thanks, smiling ruefully as he rubbed his nose. “Never be afraid to admit to other forms of weakness, either, such as this cold I'm recovering from. I was, at least, intelligent enough to come prepared.”

Everyone chuckled, and he saw a few people looking at him with new eyes. It was easy to fall into the trap of seeing him as something all-knowing and more than human, but his sneeze and his response to it allowed them to see him as a human again. This would, with luck, make him more approachable, and thus keep the scholars from feeling like he wouldn't understand their concerns or lack of knowledge in some areas. Badurad smiled at them as he tucked the handkerchief away and resumed his speech. This cold might be a nuisance, but as with many things, there was at least a little bit of good to be found in it. You just had to be wise enough to know what to look for.

 

The Lovers

 

Danai reached out and plucked an apple from the tree before lying down on the blanket to wait. Rudo had said he would join her for a picnic today, and since she hadn't seen him in several days thanks to his work, she had double the reason to look forward to it.

Taking a bite of the apple, Danai looked around the meadow with a satisfied smile. She had chosen the perfect place; there was a view of the mountains in the distance, while the area directly in front of them was full of bright grass, blooming trees, and other trees that were already bearing fruit. A lovely view, shade from the sun, and fresh fruit to supplement their meal...you couldn't ask for much better.

As she took another bite of her apple, she saw a figure coming down the road towards her. She quickly stood up, her heart fluttering in anticipation. Sure enough, a few seconds later the figure revealed itself to be Rudo, his work bag slung across his shoulders. Danai waved at him, and Rudo waved back, quickening his pace. Danai felt her heart swell; he had missed her as much as she'd missed him.

Rudo soon joined her under the tree, and once he had set down his bag, he immediately pulled her to him for a kiss, which she returned eagerly. He pulled away after a moment with a laugh. “Your mouth is sweet, but also sticky. Do you intend to seduce me or forcibly glue me to your side?”

Danai laughed as well. “Whichever it takes to ensure you remain mine. But you can choose whichever method makes you happiest.” Rudo smiled and kissed her again, and she twined her arms around him, enjoying what would surely be an appetizer of things to come.

But then, abruptly, Rudo pulled away from her, an odd expression on his face. Before Danai could ask what was wrong, he jerked his head to the side. “Hut-CHH!”

“Bless you.” Danai said, stepping close to resume their kissing.

But Rudo waved her back, searching for and eventually retrieving a handkerchief as he continued to sneeze. “Ha-CHUH! Huh-CHHT! Hup-TCHH!!”

“Rudo?” Danai said, feeling a prickle of worry.

Rudo held the handkerchief to his nose, his voice coming out blocked. “I'm sorry, angel, but one of these trees has a flower that's irritating my nose. I suspect it's that one,”—he pointed at a skinny tree with yellow blossoms a few paces away—“As I didn't feel a need to sneeze until I passed it.”

“I'm so sorry, Rudo,” Danai said, as he sneezed again and she bent down to gather up her things, “I wouldn't have chosen this spot if I'd known. Come, let's find another place.”

They moved away from the two trees, Rudo's sneezing gradually subsiding. “Well then, where should we eat?” Danai asked, once a full minute had passed without a sneeze.

Rudo pointed back to the road. “There's a river nearby. Perhaps we should eat by its bank.”

“All right.”

“Of course,” Rudo added with a sly smile, “There's a chance some of the pollen is still clinging to us, to say nothing of the blanket. Since I don't think either of us wants me to start sneezing again, we should probably wash everything in the river before we sit down to eat. Including ourselves, of course.”

Danai grinned back. “That sounds like an excellent idea. Lead the way.”

 

The Chariot

 

 

Brynjar stood at attention, one hand wrapped around a staff, the other holding onto the reins, keeping his face impassive as he guided his chariot through the streets. The crowds kept a respectful distance, though he could hear their awed murmurs as he passed. It was to be expected; after all, it took a great deal of skill to tame and control sphinxes Just the sight of such magnificent beasts was enough to make an impression—when it was accompanied by bright armor and an ornate chariot, it sent an unmistakable message of strength and power. With luck, the image of Brynjar appearing on the battlefield, holding two mythical creatures to heel, would convince Cortomal to make peace with Carnau without further bloodshed. If not...well, the sphinxes would be given their head.

The chariot made its way through the city, Brynjar keeping his eyes straight ahead, as though he was focused on nothing but his goal of ending the war. It was true that he was concentrating on something, but it was not the Cortomal conflict. It was a different, more immediate conflict, one that he had won before but was still a challenge every time.

Eventually, the chariot passed through the walls surrounding Zimhan, now on the packed earth of the main road. Brynjar maintained his stance, waiting until he had guided the sphinxes over a rise. Then, and only then, did he allow his mouth to fall open and his eyes to close.

“Hah...HASHOO! HESHOO! HUTKRSHHH!!!”

Groaning in a mixture of irritation and relief, Brynjar set the staff in the back of the chariot and withdrew a handkerchief from his glove. Holding it against his nose, he flicked the reins to send the sphinxes forward. While he couldn't rub or blow as much as he wished to for fear of reddening his nose and showing a sign of weakness to the Cortomalians, keeping the cloth against his face would at least reduce his sneezing slightly. And with luck, Waltimun would meet him some distance from the battlefield in order to provide proper relief.

The fact that Brynjar had tamed two sphinxes was widely known (indeed, he had done his best to make sure the word had spread). The fact that their fur made him sneeze, on the other hand, was something he had worked very hard to suppress. Even if his powerful sneezes had startled the beasts enough to allow him a chance to capture them, and the amusement at the effect they had on him kept them docile, it would tarnish his image as a unmoving warrior. Instead, he had practiced techniques to keep the sneezes at bay until no one was around to see, and had tasked his court magician to create a spell that could temporarily prevent the fur from irritating his nose. Alas, Waltimun had been sent to the battlefield to assist in healing the injured, so Brynjar had not had the luxury of the spell this time. But at least he'd been able to hold his breath and clench his jaw enough to avoid sneezing in front of the city's populace.

One of the sphinxes glanced back at him, deliberately flicking her tail so it rapped against the hand holding the reins. It had the desired effect; Brynjar's nose twitched, and he bobbed slightly with another “HERISHHH!!!” When he lifted his head, he caught a sly grin on the creature's face before she turned to face the road again. Brynjar responded by tugging on the reins to make the sphinxes move a little faster. He might allow them the satisfaction of making him sneeze, but he always ensured they knew who was in charge. It wasn't an ideal arrangement, but as long as they gave him the proper prestige, it would serve.

 

 

Strength

 

Majan walked along the road, humming contentedly. It was still a long way to Ironjer, but she was in no hurry. She had plenty of food and water, and the weather was fine enough that she could sleep under the stars. And while there had been rumors of nearby bandits, she wasn't particularly concerned about them. In fact, she suspected they wouldn't dare to approach her.

“SHHH!!!”

“Bless you, Alisher,” Majan said, reaching down to stroke the lion's mane, “Did you get too close to my flowers again?”

Alisher blinked, then sneezed again, his head dipping and mane quivering from side to side as he did so. “SHHH!!!”

“Bless you,” Majan said again, gently pushing Alisher's side, “You may wish to take a step or two away, so they don't bother you.”

Alisher bumped her hand with his head, then moved a few paces ahead of her. As he did so, the fur that had been shaken loose from his mane finally reached Majan's nose, and she pulled out a handkerchief to catch some sneezes of her own. “Hitkshh! Iptishh!” Alisher chuffed, and she smiled, choosing to interpret it as a blessing.

She and Alisher had fallen into this partnership quite by chance. Alisher, injured from a fight, had retreated to a grove filled with amaranthus blossoms, which lions generally avoided because it made them sneeze. Majan, meanwhile, had gone to the same grove to pick some of the amaranthus to use for medicine. She'd initially been frightened by the appearance of a lion, but seeing his injuries and his helpless sneezing, she'd felt a wave of compassion and carefully approached him. Somehow, she'd managed to convince him she wouldn't hurt him, and he'd allowed her to bring him to her home and tend his wounds. In the process, she'd discovered that his mane made her sneeze (though whether it was an allergy to him, a reaction to something caught in the fur, or merely that the hairs were fine enough to tickle her nose, she couldn't say), but continued to nurse him back to health all the same. When he had recovered, he'd chosen to stay with her, perhaps deciding being cared for was a much easier life than fighting the other lions for food and mates. Seeing the benefits of having a lion around, Majan had allowed this, but took the precaution of always having a sprig of amaranthus on her person, to ensure that he wouldn't try to eat her or, more likely, accidentally injure her with his teeth or claws when he was trying to be affectionate. Alisher seemed to have come to understand her reasoning, and they had made the arrangement work quite well ever since.

The two of them walked until sundown, at which point they moved a ways off the road to make camp. Majan made a fire from the wood she'd lashed to Alisher's back, then cooked dinner for them both (ordinarily she'd have let Alisher hunt for his own food, but there were no woods nearby). When they were finished, Majan spread out her blankets and settled down for the night, Alisher stretching out beside her, his back pressed against her body to help keep her warm. Majan knew that at some point during the night, one or both of them would shift in such a way that they would end up with either mane or amaranthus in their face, and end up sneezing themselves awake. It was an interruption they'd grown used to, and could easily fall back asleep from. And when it happened a second time, it would have grown light enough to begin their day. Softly stroking Alisher's back, Majan drifted off to sleep, her handkerchief half-out of her sleeve in preparation for her not-so-rude awakenings.

 

 

The Hermit

 

Bakar stepped outside of his hut, lighting his lantern as he did so. He smiled as he looked up at the clear sky, the twinkling stars making for a spectacular view if not an adequate light source. It was a lovely night to go wandering.

He set off, making his way through the forest until he finally reached the road. As he passed, the nocturnal animals of the forest paused in what they were doing, watching him. It had taken time, but now they no longer fled when they heard him approach. A few even made noises as he drew level with them, sounds of curiosity rather than anger or fear. Perhaps someday, they'd trust him enough to offer up a greeting.

Arriving at the road, Bakar began to walk down it, keeping the lantern high enough to see by but otherwise letting his mind drift. Even though he had retired to the woods (save for a weekly visit into town to gather supplies) for the express purpose of learning and reflection, he had learned that even that isolation was not enough to give him what he truly sought. It was only at night, when most creatures were still and the light felt like it was shifting less, that Bakar was able to properly put aside his concerns and just allow himself to simply be, to reach a certain acceptance of the world and his place in it. Thus, he spent his days reading to see if there were other ways to attain this sensation, and dedicated three nights a week to walking under the stars.

As he walked, he was only vaguely aware of the world around him (he was disciplined enough to always walk in a straight line, so there was no worry of getting lost when the time came to return to the forest). While a part of him still saw, heard, and felt what went on around him, the sensations were muted. He might hear the rustling of grass, notice a patch of moonlight falling on a stone, or step on a large pebble, but these were only things he noted peripherally. As long as there was no indication of danger, he was able to, in essence, float along the road, not thinking of much of anything while also feeling a true sense of peace.

Loath as he was to break that spell, at some point, he'd need to come back to himself and return home. In the summer months, it was generally when the sky began to faintly lighten. In the winter, it was when the light from the lamp began to dim. But in the spring and autumn, when plants were blooming and the weather was unpredictable, the sign was much more noticeable.

On this particular night, he was passing by an outcropping of rock when a gust of wind blew through, sharp and cold and carrying the scent of damp earth and a hint of flowers. Bakar unconsciously pulled his robe around him a little tighter and carried on, but another gust blew through shortly afterwards, and this time, in addition to causing him to shudder, an itch took root in Bakar's nose. It was small enough that it didn't shake him out of his reverie, and while the sensation gradually grew, it happened slowly enough that he treated it as just another sensation to ignore. It took a third gust of wind to turn the itch into a sneeze, and to bring Bakar back to himself.

“Hah-pshh!” Bakar bent forward slightly with the sneeze, then blinked and looked around him, the world coming back into focus. Then a fourth gust blew across his face, another itch prickling his nose. Chuckling, he rubbed this one away and turned back. Either nature or his body was telling him that was enough for one night, and both of them were forces well worth heeding.

 

 

Wheel of Fortune

 

No one was quite sure who had made the carving on the wall of the temple. It hadn't been in the original design, and none of the architects or priests would admit to creating it. There were many who claimed that it had, in fact, been created in an instant by the gods, and while some were skeptical, there was no denying that it had something otherworldly about it, both in looks and in effects.

The centerpiece of the carving was a round circle, possibly a shield of some sort, odd shapes, lines, and symbols etched into it in ways that were perfectly spaced and pleasing to the eye. Perched on top of the circle was a sphinx holding a sword, while a red figure supported the base and a snake slithered along the rim. The circle was surrounded by clouds, each one supporting a winged figure—a human, a bird, a lion, and a bull—reading a book. It was assumed that all of these were different aspects of intelligence and learning, and at the end of their visit to the temple, supplicants would touch one of the nine figures, depending on which aspect they wished to engage in. Then came the benediction, albeit with minor variations.

Those who touched the human (wishing to learn history to better themselves) would feel a soft prickling in their nose, as though they had inhaled the dust of the past.

Those who touched the bird (wishing to study philosophy and pursue lofty ideals), would feel something brushing the rims of their nostrils, as though they were sitting close enough to the old sages to be touched by their quill.

Those who touched the lion (wishing to learn things that would grant them some sort of strength) would feel fine hairs invade their nose, as though the lion was rubbing against them to pass on his knowledge.

Those who touched the bull (wishing to learn how to farm to better provide for themselves or others) would smell a strong but comforting smell of hide, as though the bull was in front of them, helping to plow the fields.

Those who touched the snake (wishing to improve their cunning) would feel something pointed entering their nose and waving around, as though the snake was teasing them with its tail.

Those who touched the sphinx (wishing to improve their wit) would smell a heady floral scent, as though the sphinx was coyly pressing against them, showing the art of cleverness by seduction.

Those who touched the red figure (wishing to explore the unknown) would smell something unlike anything they'd ever encountered before, as though the figure was giving them a taste of the mysteries to come.

And those who touched the circle (wishing to learn enough to protect themselves in one way or another) would smell the stinging scent of polish, as though they'd been handed a newly cleaned shield in preparation to meet their challenges.

The supplicant would keep their hand to the carving until the sensation in their nose caused a sneeze, at which point they would lower their hand, bow in thanks, and retreat. While no one could be sure if the gods had actually granted a boon, it could not be denied that almost all supplicants reported that they had learned at least a little about their desired topic. And as long as the populace was becoming educated, everyone was happy to believe in a bit of divine inspiration.

 

 

Justice

 

Adalet sat on her dais, one hand lightly following the grooves of her sword hilt, the other idly toying with the ring of her scales. Being selected as this month's Arbiter of Goods was a great honor, but no one had warned her about the boredom. Tomorrow, she would bring a book, one she could easily hide away when she heard someone approaching.

Even as she thought it, footsteps on the stone floor alerted her to a new arrival. Sitting up, she held her sword and scales in the way she'd been shown, smiling as the person (Vesa, it turned out) entered the measuring room. “Welcome,” she said, “What can I do for you?”

“I need three ounces of sage and four of pepper,” Vesa answered, “Lata has run out of spices, just when her family is arriving for a visit.”

“I'll do what I can to get these to her quickly, then,” Adalet assured him, rapping the sword hilt on the arm of her chair to summon a stocker. When they arrived, she asked for the requested goods, and the woman bowed and disappeared, returning shortly with the sage. She disappeared to fetch the pepper, and Adalet set to work. Placing three small weights on one end of the scale, she dipped the scoop into the bag and carefully poured the sage into the other bowl, watching as the weighted end slowly rose back to an even keel. Once she was sure the two ends were level, she held the scale out to Vesa, who took the bowl and poured it into a bag. Adalet then wiped down the bowl and turned her attention to the pepper, which the stocker had silently deposited by her side while she'd been occupied.

Initially, Adalet repeated the process without incident. But as she carefully shook the scoop to send the pepper into the bowl, small puffs of it would rise into the air, and at least a little of each puff made its way into her nose. She tried to ignore the growing itch, but one particularly large puff proved too much for her, forcing her to sneeze without giving her a chance to turn away. “At-ktchh!”

Even before her eyes opened, she could tell by the burning in her nose and the sharp scent of pepper surrounding her that she'd sneezed directly onto the scale, blowing the spice everywhere. Sure enough, she opened her eyes long enough to see an empty bowl before she started sneezing again. “At-kpshh! Atchh! Atchh! Ahh...Kshht!” Dimly, she could hear Vesa sneezing too, but while she felt a rush of embarrassment, there wasn't much she could do at the moment except deal with her sneezing. “Atkrshh! Ah-kishh!”

Finally, her sneezing ceased, and she was able to look up. Vesa was rubbing his nose with a handkerchief, but didn't seem too upset. Nevertheless, Adalet smiled sheepishly as she withdrew her own handkerchief. “My apologies. But at least this suggests that the pepper is of good quality.”

Vesa laughed. “I'll have to warn Lata when she starts cooking.”

Reassured, Adalet cleaned up both herself and the scale, then tried to measure out the pepper once more. But before she started, she added one more weight to the scale. When Vesa looked at her curiously, she said “For the inconvenience. Especially if the pepper clinging to you ends up making your wife sneeze.” Vesa laughed again and nodded, and Adalet got to work.

This time, by holding her breath and breathing through her mouth through the process, they got through everything without incident. Once the pepper was in his bag, Vesa readily swore on the sword that he'd been given the proper amount and wouldn't claim otherwise. Then he departed, and Adalet sent for another stocker to take away the bags...and tidy up the mess.

 

 

The Hanged Man

 

Rishi sighed good-naturedly and stuck his hands in his pockets, figuring that would be more comfortable than just letting them dangle. It would also be a more amusing sight if anyone else happened to take a shortcut through the woods. Hopefully a good laugh would make them more inclined to help him down.

He'd heard that there were trappers in this glade who set rope snares that cleverly caught up any creature that stumbled into them, but he'd assumed they were small things, meant to catch rabbits or birds. Perhaps the trappers had decided to try their hands at deer, because the rope he'd stepped into certainly had had no difficulty in wrapping itself around his foot and hauling him into the air, the knot too high for him to reach. Since no one had come out to demand his valuables, Rishi was inclined to believe this was an accident, one that would be resolved later today when the trappers came to check their snares. In the meantime, he would do his best to be patient. At least hanging like this allowed him to see the world from a new perspective, and if worst came to worst, perhaps he would end up falling asleep from boredom.

A gust of wind blew through, rustling the leaves around him and carrying the scent of the forest; leaves, earth, and wood. It was a pleasant smell, but the hint of decay underlying it did make his nose prickle. Rishi quickly rubbed his nose and returned his hand to his pocket, and while a faint itch remained, he assumed it would fade in time. That is, until another gust sprang up. Besides giving him another whiff of the smell, he was able to see a small cloud of dirt swirl up from the ground, some of it drifting away but most of it heading directly for his face. It made for an interesting sight, but the feeling of the dirt hitting his face and (more significantly) entering his nose caused that itch to quickly grow into a sneeze. While he did have a handkerchief in his sleeve, he didn't want to risk dropping it, so Rishi decided to sneeze freely. Besides, he wondered what an upside-down sneeze would look like.

“Eh...hehh...heh-SHHH!!”

Rishi opened his eyes just in time to see the mist of his spray momentarily hover in the air, catching a beam of light, before spreading out in all directions and fading away. Rishi chuckled and rubbed his nose on his sleeve. “Enjoy yourself,” he said aloud, “If I can't travel freely, then at least my sneeze can.”

Once he was sure the itch was gone (for now; he suspected there were more sneezes in his future as long as wind continued to blow through), he turned his attention to looking around at the woods. Perhaps he'd be treated to the sight of a squirrel climbing “backwards”.

 

 

Death

 

As the sun rose upon the battlefield, the surviving combatants from the previous day were some distance away in their tents, tending to their wounds (be they physical or metaphorical) and starting to consider the next move. When the light was strong enough, some of them would return to the field, searching for wounded they had missed the evening before. For now, the weak light and chill in the air kept them in their tents. Unbeknownst to them, that chill wasn't entirely due to the weather.

A white horse slowly made its way to the center of the field, where the largest amount of bodies lay. Animals fell silent as it passed, out of a mixture of fear and reverence. The horse's hooves made no sound, and though the wind did cause the rider's black cloak to flutter, there was no accompanying sound of rustling cloth. Anyone who looked over the field would see nothing, but they would have immediately been seized by a desire to look away. It is often better to avert one's eyes when a primal force is at work.

A skeletal hand tugged at the reins, and the horse stilled. Gliding down from the saddle, the figure examined the men before it. A few were stirring feebly, unaware of the world around them but stubbornly clinging to life. Most, however, were still, their sparks of life dimmed to a single red pinprick. Kneeling down beside the nearest man, the figure reached out and touched his lips, watching as the final spark travelled up from the man's chest and slipped out of his body, dancing briefly on the bony fingers before vanishing. The figure remained still for a moment, as if in contemplation. Then its head bobbed almost imperceptibly, a sighing, scraping sound momentarily breaking the silence.

“Ksssst.”

Unperturbed by what had just happened, the figure straightened and moved on to the next man. Another touch of the lips, another gathering of the spark, another “Ksssst.” In this way, the figure made its way across the entire field, though if someone had been able to observe it, they would have noted that despite its slow walk, it was able to complete the task within an hour, mounting its horse and riding away just as the full circle of the sun appeared in the sky, leaving the few survivors to be rescued. At sunset, the figure would come to the tents of both armies, to take those who had succumbed to their wounds. If some were the same men that had been spared at sunrise, the figure did not notice or care.

It is said by some that, when God breathed life into Adam, Adam's first action was to sneeze. It stands to reason, therefore, that when that life is extinguished, the final breath has a similar effect on the one who takes it, a way to be cleansed of any impurities before it's released back into the ether from whence it came. Death does not object; in many ways, it sees this as a way to experience life, if only for a moment. And this way, each life, no matter how grand or small, is given the same amount of respect.

 

 

Temperance

 

Ime smiled as they flew down towards their favorite testing spot, carefully cradling three chalices to their chest to prevent anything from spilling. Zden was still in the process of creating the world, and had delegated His angels to assist. Ime's task was to take some of things Zden invented and see what happened if they were combined. Should they prove interesting, Zden would add it into His plans; if not, Ime would dispose of them and return for the next combination.

Ime's current experiment was to see what happened when one mixed fire and water, and they were looking forward to the results. One hot, the other cool one constantly moving, the other capable of being placid...such a blending would surely be dramatic, if nothing else.

Touching down on what was to become Zden's new world (He hadn't been able to settle on a name for it yet) Ime moved towards a small brook, dipping one foot in the cold water, keeping the other firmly on the bank. This allowed the experiments to be grounded, and gave whatever was created a chance to decide if it would rather be of land, sea, or air. Removing the covering on the three goblets, Ime made the empty goblet float with a flick of their hand, paused for a moment to admire the shifting colors within the fire, then held the fire and water cups over the third one and began to pour.

As red flame met blue liquid, there was a loud hissing sound, and within moments, two different substances emerged from the third cup. One was white, the other grey. The white substance floated up faster, brushing against Ime's face, and they quickly made note of the various sensations. It felt hot, right on the edge of unbearably so, and caused a dampness to linger on their skin. While it had no scent, it did leave their nose prickling slightly, but other than that and the heat, Ime thought it was a fine mixture. It had water's wetness and fire's changeable nature, yet was entirely unique. They suspected Zden would be pleased.

Then the grey substance reached Ime's face, bringing with it entirely different results. This one, while not as hot, felt heavy and thick, leaving flecks of something on Ime's cheek. Above all, it had a sharp smell that irritated both Ime's nose and throat, causing them to cough twice before the itch from the grey mixed with the one from the white and produced a sneeze.

“Pitkshew!”

With a sniff, Ime held their head away from the three goblets as they completed the pouring. Watching the two substances, they saw them fade away as they floated up into the air, then reemerged, hovering in a cloud as they waited for Zden's judgment. When Ime finished pouring, they stepped fully onto dry land and looked skyward. Within seconds, a beam of light shown down, encompassing Ime, the goblets, and the substances. The brightness caused Ime's nose to prickle again, but this time, they had a hand free to rub it away. Turning to the substances, Ime nodded at them. “Zden's blessings upon you.” They said.

The white substance (steam, something whispered in Ime's mind) immediately dissipated, while the grey one (smoke) lingered a little longer, gradually spreading itself out across the air before it too faded away. With a faint smile, Ime gathered up the goblets and flew back heavenwards for their new assignment. Perhaps Zden would finally get around to combining some of the feathered and furred creatures He had created...

 

 

The Devil

 

Mayeso looked at the approaching group with a pleasant smile. Some still flinched at his appearance—he had been denied the ability to use glamours, since the Almighty had insisted that those who came to him must know exactly what he was—but a few smiled back. After all, a friendly if demonic face was a vast improvement over some of the torments they'd endured.

“Welcome, all of you,” he said, “You have been sent here because you have shown exemplary inner strength in the course of your divine punishments. Such strength, both Heaven and Hell agree, should be rewarded.”

He gestured behind him, revealing the bright light of day and the outline of an enormous mountain. “It's been decided that you are free to leave and seek out true forgiveness. I've been told that the journey to reach it is very difficult, sometimes requiring greater trials than what you've experienced here, but you will eventually be granted what you seek.”

Several of the spirits stared at the light, the hope they'd nurtured despite their suffering growing stronger. Others looked at Mayeso suspiciously, suspecting a trick. Their skepticism, while understandable, was also their greatest danger. That was the brilliance of this test; Hell's honesty would collide with human nature, causing some to fall right back into damnation.

Mayeso gestured downwards, where a series of chains were lying. “Since the path is so difficult, we invite you to remain with me for a time, where you will be given anything you desire; food, drink, rest, the pleasures of the flesh...nothing will be denied you. All that we ask is that you wear these chains around your necks to signify your decision. As you can see,” he picked one up and slipped it over the nearest person's head to demonstrate, “They are quite loose, and can be removed whenever you are ready to leave. All you need to do is say the word.”

He sat back, folding his hands and watching them curiously. “What do you wish to do?”

The men and women hesitated for a long moment, looking between the light and the chains. At last, about a quarter of them—mostly the ones who had first looked at the light—cautiously moved past Mayeso and exited Hell. The others picked up the chains and gingerly slipped them on. Immediately, their deepest desires appeared before them, from tables groaning with food to a grand castle full of servants. When they saw that Mayeso had been truthful, the spirits immediately began indulging themselves. His smile twisting slightly, Mayeso reached down and touched the ring that held all the chains, sending a pulse through it. One by one, each of the spirits sneezed, though it was easily attributed to their temptation—an overly spiced food, a feather from their pillow, a lover's perfume, sunlight reflecting off their castle's decorations. This was Mayeso's reward for overseeing the test, the ability to torment the spirits' noses even if the rest of them was content. He could only do it sparingly so as not to distract them from their pleasures, but that just made the actual moments of sneezing that much more satisfying.

Mayeso had been sincere in his words; anyone who wished to could remove the chains and head to the light. However, while a few would eventually decide to do so, most would remain chained, greedily taking what had been denied them for so long. In a century, they would be sent back to their assigned circle, and a new group would be given the same choice. Mayeso had yet to see anyone come before him twice, but then again, they would not be given another opportunity until a millennium had passed. Perhaps the taste of freedom would make them even more determined to succeed next time. If not...well, both they and he would at least be able to indulge themselves once more.

 

 

The Tower

 

Once, long ago, a group of wise men and women banded together to build a tower on top of the highest mountain in Wilrun, believing the loftiness and clean air would allow them to feel closer to, and possibly even touch, the divine. It was difficult work; in addition to the traditional challenges of construction, getting the materials to the peak was an arduous process, and the cold weather (for the mountain was high enough to be perpetually covered in snow) left everyone constantly ill. But eventually, the tower, christened Sanjaya Tower (“The Triumphant Tower”) was completed, and the wise men and women who had lived to see its completion moved into it.

For a time, all was well. The tower's inhabitants learned tricks to keep the rooms warm, thus keeping them from falling ill, and other little spells and techniques that would allow them to devote most of their time to learning and meditation. They would often share what they'd learned with the world below, and thus everyone benefited

Gradually, however, the successive generations of learned scholars became selfish. They never ventured down from their tower, forcing those interesting in learning (or those they bought their supplies from) to come to them. They also turned away those who genuinely sought knowledge, only accepting those who planned to use what they learned to benefit a select few. They grew arrogant, believing their magic and intelligence made them practically demigods, and thus deserving of not only respect, but obedience. In fact, they began discussing plans to unite the country underneath them, initially by persuasion but willing to turn to force if necessary.

The gods watched this shift in purpose with increasing disapproval, but it was this final step that spurred them to act. They struck the tower with lightning, destroying the stone and lighting the interiors on fire. The cruelest of the scholars were killed, while others, those the gods deemed capable of redemption, were allowed to escape by flinging themselves from the windows. But while a bit of divine intervention prevented them from being dashed to pieces, the fall was only the first part of their punishment.

The moment they landed in the snow, a chill seized them down to their very bones, and they began to shiver and sneeze, much like their predecessors had while building Sanjaya Tower. The gods appeared before them then, and explained what had happened; their magic had been stripped from them, and they were cursed with an everlasting cold, one which was not contagious but which would not fade until they had each used their knowledge to assist one hundred people. Humbled, the survivors salvaged what books they could from the rubble of the tower, and set out to break their curse.

How many of them succeeded has been lost to the mists of time, but they have left behind two legacies. One is the ruins of Sanjaya Tower, a visible reminder to never grow too arrogant in one's abilities. The other is in the form of a blessing. When someone sneezes, it is now common practice to say “Sanja's wisdom” to warn the sneezer not to fall prey to the same impulses as the cursed scholars. Those inclined to superstition respond to this by offering up a bit of their knowledge, even if it's as simple as an equation that's common knowledge to all. It has been enough to ensure that the learned are always willing to share their wisdom with others, and that, if nothing else, has ensured that the work of the original scholars was not in vain.

 

 

The Star

 

Csilla lightly landed on the earth, taking a moment to look around. As much as she had no love for her task, the one small consolation she had was the magnificent view. The stars were dazzling, made all the purer by the indigo sky surrounding them, and they were bright enough to illuminate her surroundings, giving them a mystical air. In particular, the Wellspring appeared to be liquid silver, glinting like a diamond. Csilla stood and admired the sight for as long as she dared, but when a bird sang out and broke the silence, she knew she had to set to work.

Walking to the edge of the Wellspring, she set one foot on a stone just above the water. Then she lifted the two jugs of water she carried and began to pour, one falling into the Wellspring, the other falling into the soil near her. Even as she watched, the grass of the field seemed to grow taller and greener, and the water became even brighter. But any satisfaction she felt was overshadowed by the knowledge of what was to come.

Slowly, the water in the Wellspring rose up, lapping at and then covering her foot. At the same time, the soil under her other foot became damp and rich. Immediately, Csilla began shivering, but she dutifully kept pouring. It was only when the water in the Wellspring was up to her ankle that she removed her foot and stepped away. Setting down her jugs, she brought her hands to her face. “Ih...hih...hitsii!”

When she lowered her hands, a new star was glowing in her palms. She tossed it into the air, and it rose up to join its brethren That made nine in all. Csilla only had a moment to admire it before she had to sneeze again. “Hih...hikshii!” Grabbing her jugs, she ascended back to the sky, eager to return to the warmth of her home.

She knew that her job was an important one. Without her there to replenish the Wellspring and nourish the Field of Origin every year, the mortals under the Galac's care would run out of resources and eventually perish. And every star she created would serve as one more point of guidance for the mortals, to increase their faith and help them to find or create a home. But she could do without the week of chills and sneezing that resulted. They may have been necessary—only the combination of pure water, a touch of earth, and the breath of a god could create a star—but she wished that the cold wouldn't linger once her job was done. She could only hope that both the gods and the mortals found the results of her discomfort to be worthwhile.

 

 

The Moon

 

There have been many theories as to why dogs howl at the moon. Some say it is in anger that their quarry found refuge there, others that they mourn a lost owner who travelled their beyond the dog's reach. The people of Squacom, however, have a different belief.

Long ago, Ilargi, goddess of the hunt, angered Head Goddess Uzma by refusing to give Uzma the best pieces of meat from the animals she hunted. As punishment, Ilargi was forced to live on the moon. When it was pointed out that Ilargi did deserve at least some of the best meat, as she was the one who had put in the effort to catch the animal, Uzma amended her punishment slightly. She set the moon spinning, and decreed that when it was facing away from the god's home of Emapar, any creatures Ilargi hunted within the skyfield would be wholly hers. But as it turned to face Emapar again, Ilargi would give the best meat to Uzma. All deemed this a fair compromise, and the matter was settled.

(Oddly, there are reports that when the moon is at its roundest and brightest, crustaceans are far more likely to emerge from the water and gaze up at it. No one is entirely certain why this is, though it is suspected that Uzma has some sort of fondness for seafood, and thus makes it easier for Ilargi to catch them.)

Ilargi herself does not overly mind this banishment; she prefers solitude and the freedom to do as she wishes over the numerous squabbles her brethren get into. She is content to chase prey through the stars (when you see one streak overhead, it is a sign that Ilargi has felled her quarry with an arrow) and watch her horses and dogs gambol across the moon's surface (hence the various marks that can be seen on it). There is only one downside to the situation—the surface is coated in dust, as it was designed to catch the falling dust from the sun to keep it from harming humans. And whether it was an unfortunate twist of fate or part of Uzma's punishment, it seems that Ilargi is allergic to it.

No human is entirely sure what her sneeze sounds like. She has learned to keep them relatively quiet so as not to startle the animals she hunts. However, she created dogs to have keen senses, the better to track prey, and thus, even the ears of the less divine hounds she sent to mortals are able to detect the sound of her sneezes faintly emanating from the moon. And since they are not able to comfort her directly, they call their well-wishes to her, knowing she will be able to hear them just as well as they hear her. It is said that if you look closely, you can sometimes see Ilargi's face in the moon when she releases a particularly powerful sneeze. And if you own dogs and look up at the moon while they howl their blessing, you may see that face change to one of satisfaction, either from the relief of the sneeze or in the knowledge that her creations care so much for her.

 

 

The Sun

 

“Hurry up, Father!” Somerled said, eagerly tugging at Macario's hand as they made their way down the hall, “I don't want Haya to be lonely!”

Macario chuckled. “She has a stablehand to keep her company. But you can run ahead if you wish. Just be sure to look where you're going.”

Somerled immediately sprinted off, though he at least paused long enough to give Macario a grateful smile. Macario chuckled again and increased his pace slightly. He wasn't surprised by Somerled's excitement; he could remember his own joy at his first afternoon of summer freedom, a way to celebrate a month long break from lessons. Indeed, there was a reason he made sure to be free at the start of Somerled's vacation days. Even if it wasn't quite the same, he could still feel a bit of the old magic.

Somerled was waiting for him by the door to the garden, practically bouncing in place. Macario nodded. “All right. Off you go.”

Beaming, Somerled pushed open the door and rushed outside. Macario followed him, though he wasn't able to enjoy the sight of his son running through the garden for long before the bright sunlight striking his face caused its inevitable reaction. “Herishh!”

“Bless you, Father!” Somerled called. Macario raised a hand in thanks and moved towards a shaded spot near the garden wall, which at least would prevent the sun from affecting him quite as much. Though his chosen spot brought its own set of problems—Gili loved to have sunflowers planted along the outskirts of the wall so that they would provide both color and a screen from the road, and while he enjoyed their cheery color, their pollen did set off his hayfever. Pulling a handkerchief from his pocket in preparation, Macario held it to his nose and watched his son.

At the far end of the garden, Somerled was embracing a white pony while he waited for the stablehands to prepare the saddle and bridle. Macario smiled, glad that his son had an appreciation for riding. It would serve him well in the years to come, and with luck, the tenderness he showed towards horses would also carry over to how he treated humans.

“Huhshrrshh!” He caught the sneeze in the handkerchief, watching as his son mounted Haya and started to guide her towards Macario's spot. He would wait until they were level with him, then take a turn around the garden with them, letting Somerled enjoy the sunlight and the flowers. Once his handkerchief was soaked, he would suggest he fetch his own horse and they go riding along the river, which he was sure Somerled would happily agree to. Macario let out a sigh of contentment and leaned against the wall, enjoying the warmth at his back even if it did bring him closer to the sunflowers. His sensitivities to the season were a small price to pay for days like this.

 

 

Judgment

 

On the day of reckoning, in addition to the Rapture, two other elevations of worthy souls will take place, although it is one no mortals will see. As a sort of foreshadowing of the seven trumpets that will hasten the end of the world, archangel Gabriel will blow his horn seven times, each call hastening the deserving to heaven.

The first call is the signal for the Rapture to begin.

The second puts an end to the trials of those still working their way through Purgatory. The proud put down their stones, the envious' eyes are cleared, the greedy are allowed to rise, and so on. All sing Heaven's praises until the trumpet note fades.

The third allows the souls of Purgatory to rise, joining the Raptured humans in the air. While it happens relatively quickly by mortal standards, those closest to the top of the mountain arrive almost instantaneously, while those at its base take a minute or two to join them.

The fourth will crack open select spaces in the earth, the sound reaching down to Hell to let the Devil know that Revelations is at hand.

The fifth is the signal for the select few souls of Hell who are considered capable of redemption to rise to join their ascended brethren Much like Purgatory, the amount of time it takes to reach the heavens varies depending on how which circle the soul resided in.

The sixth grants the various souls wings, their color a dull gold to reflect their new status. Later, it is said, the new angels will have an opportunity to change the color.

The seventh is perhaps the oddest of them all. It is certainly the strongest, enough that every risen soul feels the air from it brush across their face at the same time. Moments later, a great itch will arise in their nostrils, and they will be compelled to sneeze. By doing so, they will have removed the last traces of their earthly aspects, having once again inhaled the breath of God as Adam did so long ago.

Once the sound of both the trumpet and the great sneeze (for everyone will sneeze only once, even those generally inclined to multiples) has faded, the souls will finally be allowed to enter Heaven and find their proper place. And once they have all been accounted for, the events of Revelations will truly begin in earnest.

 

 

The World

 

There is a woman at the center of the world. She goes by many names—Alemayehu, Mao, Elmira—but she is generally thought of as The Dancer. She stands upon the Earth's core, two rods in her hands and a long, gossamer scarf tied around her body, and she dances to a tune only a select few can hear. With every step, the world turns ever so slightly, allowing for all that is needed for life, from seasons to weather.

Most of the time, her dances are smooth and graceful, and her leaps, dips, and spins have no effect upon the wider world. But there are three exceptions, which have consequences she is unaware of. Please do not hold her in malice; she merely is the embodiment of whims of the primal forces which created her.

Sometimes, she clacks her rods together as she dances. Every time they touch, the impact causes the earth to open up, forming rifts and sinkholes.

Sometimes, she sets down the rods and unties the scarf, holding that in her hands instead and playing with it as she dances. She lets it entwine around her body, jumps over it like a skipping-rope, or lays it on the ground and arranges her steps to step over it in complex patterns. Whatever method she chooses, she is playing with lava, and somewhere on Earth, a volcano erupts.

By far the most common deviation is when she gets visitors. Primal embodiments of herbivorous mammals, carnivorous mammals, birds, and humans (none is sure if the embodiment of insects, reptiles, or fish ever venture down to see her) will often manifest to watch her dance. As a show of their approval, they throw her laurel leaves, much as the Greeks would place wreathes of them on the heads of victors. She does not notice, too engaged in her dancing, and gradually steps on them, releasing the fragrances inside them. When the scents reach her nose, they begin to tickle her sinuses, and while she may awaken from her trance enough to try to rub the itch away, inevitably she is forced to sneeze. While this causes no break in her dancing, the combination of the force of her sneeze and the brief misstep she takes when she loses her rhythm resonates throughout the earth, causing an earthquake wherever her face happens to be pointing when she finally succumbs. The severity of the quake depends on how much of the scent is in the air.

Thanks to the heat at the center of the world, the leaves do not take long to wither and fade, and the scent follows soon after. And The Dancer dances on, spinning the world, following a tune that will not cease until the universe itself grinds to a halt.

[Wig_Powder]

The Minor Arcana: Cup Suit

Ace of Cups

 

The goddess Vaihere looked out over her new world, scrutinizing it carefully. It was beautiful, but it felt like something was missing. After a moment, she identified the problem; once she began to populate the place with life, they would rapidly deplete the water pond she had created for them. And since she didn't want them to rely entirely on rain, it would be best if she offered them difference water sources. This would also force them to explore and become more resourceful. Seeing this as an all-around positive, she called for her servant. “Fechin!”

Fechin promptly entered and bowed respectfully. “What is your wish, my Goddess?”

Vaihere lifted her goblet (which contains all the water in creation) and a stone. “Transform yourself into a bird, take this stone, and search my world until you find a place that seems well suited for water. Drop the stone, and I will bring my goblet there to create a new pond.”

Fechin nodded, and in a small flash, turned himself into a little white bird. Taking the stone in his mouth, he took off, Vaihere hovering above the pond and holding the goblet in preparation.

Unfortunately, birds were still a relatively new creation for Vaihere, and she had yet to determine how long they should retain their feathers before growing new ones. As a result, when Fechin had taken off, at least half of his feathers were shaken loose. This did not cause a problem in his flying as they grew back instantaneously, but as they fell out and were scattered about by his wings, several of them brushed against his beak. And since his beak was both full and too stiff to wrinkle and he couldn't use his wings to rub the resulting itch away, his only choice was to sneeze. Thus, he had barely risen above Vaihere's position when...

“Ah-coo!”

The stone slipped from his beak and landed directly into the goblet, causing it to overflow, water streaming into the pond below. Fechin immediately flew back and perched on Vaihere's wrist. “I'm so sorry for my mistake, Goddess. Give me the stone and I will try again.”

But Vaihere was looking at the water streaming from her goblet with interest. “You know...” she said, “Perhaps that's an equally good solution. In addition to still ponds, water that moves will provide a greater amount of variety and challenges for my creatures.” She lightly stroked Fechin's back with a finger. “I think you actually did quite well, Fechin.”

“Thank you, Goddess.” Fechin said, chest swelling with pride.

Vaihere fished the stone from the goblet and handed it back to Fechin. Then she tapped his head and said;

“Go forth with the stone in your beak. Every few minutes, a feather will dislodge from you and cause you to sneeze, dropping the stone. Wherever it lands will be where I create new water.”

And thus, it was so. When Fechin dropped the stone on a cliff, Vaihere created waterfalls; when it landed on an open plain, she created lakes or ponds, as intended; and if it landed in more narrow areas, she created rivers. By the time night fell, the world was full of water sources, widely scattered, and Vaihere declared herself satisfied. And in honor of the unorthodox method of creating them, she gave all the birds who bore a resemblance to the shape Fechin had worn for the task (which became known as doves) a form of birdsong that approximated the sound of Fechin's sneezes that day. There is, after all, a reason that it's referred to as “a coo.”

 

 

Two of Cups

 

Inayat and Pipa were both people inclined to the healing arts. While they each had their specialties—Inayat dealt with injuries, and Pipa with illnesses—they both sought out any sort of medical knowledge that was available. Indeed, that was how they met; they were seeking the same book at the library. It didn't take long for them to become lovers, and everyone felt their treatments became all the better for it.

For a time, they were content to gather knowledge gradually, occasionally travelling from Mysder to study from other libraries or learn from more experienced healers. But then rumors came that war was coming, from an enemy that used siege tactics, which often led to starvation and disease. The two immediately made their way to the temple of Dositheos, the god of healing, and prayed for him to grant them a touch of his divine knowledge to help them save as many as possible in the weeks to come. As they held hands and made their offering of healing herbs and potions, they were astonished when the stone frieze of Dositheos (a lion with wings) shifted into real fur and feathers. He smiled reassuringly at them and said “I have watched you both for some time, and have been touched by your devotion to medicine. If you are willing to accept a small hardship, I will grant you what you seek.”

“We will take the burden happily, oh Dositheos,” Pipa said immediately, “What must we do?”

“Fill the sacrificial goblets with water, then stand before me, vow you will use my gifts wisely, and drink.”

Pipa and Inayat immediately took the goblets to the font, submerging them and then carefully carrying them back to the frieze. Clinking the goblets together, they pledged that they would use any knowledge gained from Dositheos to assist all who needed it in the coming fight, and then brought the cups to their lips. As they drank, Dositheos reached out his wings and began to brush them over their faces, ending with their noses and lips when they finally lowered the cups.

As soon as his wings retreated, both of them were seized with chills, as well as heaviness in their heads and itches in their noses. Moments later, both of them sneezed, Inayat releasing a strong “HEFSHH!!” while Pipa had a softer “Itushh!”

“My blessings to you both,” Dositheos said, “Unfortunately, it takes time for mortal minds to absorb the knowledge of the gods. As such, you will be ill until my knowledge has fully seeped into you. Rest well and often; it is easier for the thoughts to be processed via dream. Once you recover, I promise, you both will have been granted the wisdom you seek. Learning how to best use it is up to you.”

The lovers thanked him profusely between shivers and sneezes, then quickly left the temple to begin their convalescence. Dositheos gave a rumbling laugh, and then the frieze became pale stone once more.

It took a week for their symptoms to subside, but when their noses no longer ran and itched, Inayat and Pipa realized that they did, indeed, know of new healing mixtures and ways to slow the flow of blood. They offered a prayer of thanks to Dositheos, then set out into the town, both to make a proper thanks at the temple...and to attempt to gather the ingredients they would need.

 

 

Three of Cups

 

“How goes it with you, sisters?” Ekine asked, “Has the harvest been as good to you as it has to Gojti and me?”

“Oh, yes,” Sebele said, displaying her basket of fruit, “We have so much fruit that we've already preserved enough for the winter.”

“And Weksa and I have already begun preparing wine to make room for the grapes we're picking,” Neta said, producing a bottle and three cups, “In fact, I thought we might taste the fruit of our labors.”

Ekine and Sebele were more than happy to accept the offer, and after Sebele had divided her fruit between her siblings and Ekine had given the other two an armful of grain, they poured the wine, toasting their good fortune. The wine was sweet, and although it hadn't had time to ferment, Weska was a skilled vinter, and thus the wine was still fairly strong, even if it didn't appear that way.

The three women continued to drink and talk, occasionally sampling the fruit Sebele had brought, and gradually grew tipsy. Laughing, they toasted everything good in their lives, from their families to their bond, and eventually began to dance in celebration, skipping in a tight circle and occasionally clinking their goblets before spinning. Even as they spilled wine from their cups, they had enough presence of mind to hold their skirts away from the dirt. This might be a moment of indulgence, but they knew a lady should always make an effort to carry herself with grace.

Sebele was the first to succumb to their families' odd reaction to too much wine, stopping mid-spin (fortunately facing away from her sisters) and bending forward with a “Eiiishhh!!” Moments later, Ekine nearly sneezed into her cup. “Hirishhh!!”

“Bless you,” Neta said with a laugh, even as her movements slowed and her breath quickened, “Ih-it appears we've haahd enough for one...dashhh! Yashh!!”

The three of them sat down on the blanket Ekine had provided, sipping at water and chuckling in-between sneezes, waiting for the worst of the sensation to pass before they gathered up their things to return home. They might end up feeling even worse discomfort as the wine made its way through them, but for now, they agreed, a bit of sneezing was well worth the fun they'd had.

 

 

Four of Cups

 

Premsyl considered the three golden cups before him critically, eyes sweeping over the patterns at their bases as he tried to spot any discrepancies between them. The wind blew through, rustling the grass and whistling through the opening of the cups. Or perhaps that was Lekir's laughter.

Lekir, the trickster god, had offered a challenge to his followers; identify the real golden cup from two near-identical fakes, and he would present them with a fourth cup that would fill with the liquid of the owner's choice whenever they spoke into it. Those who tried had until sundown to make their decision, and they weren't allowed to pick the cups up to examine them, as that might make things too easy. So far, only three out of the fifty who had tried had succeeded, and Premsyl was determined to join their numbers.

Unfortunately, it was getting into late afternoon, and he hadn't had any luck. He'd looked at the cups from every angle, squinted at them to make out fine details, even crossed his eyes in the hopes that might reveal something, but so far, nothing had jumped out at him. The fact that Lekir was watching him, occasionally holding out the magical goblet as both an incentive and a taunt, wasn't helping. Premsyl did his best to ignore the glinting from the corner of his eye, devoting all his attention to the cups directly in front of him.

When his examination of the patterns on the cups proved fruitless, Premsyl got down onto his stomach so that the goblets were level with his eyes. Perhaps having them inches from his face would allow him to spot something. What he had failed to take into account was that that meant that the grass he was laying on was even closer to his face; as he cocked his head to look at them from a vertical angle, several blades of grass invaded his nostrils, filling his nose with their earthy scent and tickling its sensitive insides. Premsyl immediately lifted his head and shook it, but the damage had been done. Before he could bring his hand up to his face to try to rub the itch away, he sneezed. “Huh-tipkshhh!!”

As he opened his eyes and began to search for his handkerchief, he noticed something. The spray from his sneeze had hit all three of the goblets, and the light from the sun (perhaps amplified slightly from the reflections of Lekir's cup) was currently shining on them. But where the little drops had a faintly green tinge on the left and center cups, the ones on the right cup were a pure yellow. After looking between them to confirm what he was seeing, Premsyl made his decision, and spoke it aloud before he could second-guess himself.

“The rightmost cup is the golden one.”

“Ah, but you touched the cups,” Lekir said, “Which means you failed, regardless of...”

“No,” Premsyl said, “The rules stated I wasn't allowed to pick up the cups. I didn't touch the cups with my hands or any part of my body, and while the spray from my sneeze came from my body and is regarded as mine, it is no longer technically a part of me.”

There was silence for a moment. Then Lekir laughed. “How can I fail to reward a follower who considers such loopholes? Indeed, is that not a sign that you have absorbed my wisdom? Very well, you may have your cup. But don't speak of how you bested my challenge to anyone. Allow them to use their own cunning to try to guess the answer for themselves.”

 

 

Five of Cups

 

Aeshyl took a deep swallow of wine, then threw the goblet aside. This was the third goblet he'd done this with, and while the first two had landed in the grass, this one had landed on the road, the red liquid a sharp contrast with the dirt of the road. He tried not to think about how much it looked like blood.

How could any of this possibly be considered just? He had left his parents home long ago, and opened up his own smithy. He visited them once a week for dinner and company, as a good child should, but they had very rarely discussed matters of state, instead talking about Aeshyl's work and the goings-on among their friends. Yet his father's trust in the wrong people (he could not, could not, have known their intent...could he?) had led to his parents being imprisoned as traitors, and Aeshyl would have shared their fate just for being related to them if Elprey hadn't come to warn him. At least the guards planned to publicly arrest him the next day instead of doing it in the dead of night, giving him and Elprey time to load up a wagon and escape (though Elprey stayed behind, hoping to provide help from within the city). Now he was across the river, out of Golri's jurisdiction, and he had the freedom to try to think and plan. But right now, all he wanted to do was drink and mourn all he had lost.

He reached for another goblet, one of the five he'd managed to complete before the news had come. They were good quality and would probably fetch a decent price, allowing him money to start a new life, or to send to his parents to help them fight the charges. But they were also a symbol of his interrupted life, and as such, he wanted to punish them. Hence discarding them on the road.

As he filled the cup, holding it close to his face to make sure he was actually pouring the wine into the bowl, the scent of the alcohol hit him square in the face, preemptively triggering his sensitivity to the stuff. Quickly setting down both bottle and goblet, he turned his head to the side. “HAKITSHH!!”

The force was strong enough to bring tears to his eyes, and now that they'd been provided an excuse, he found them difficult to stop. Standing up, he looked across the river at Golri, weeping softly, wondering if he would ever be able to return to it, or if he would ever see his parents again. He knew he needed to be strong and fight this with all he had, but there was no shame if one faltered occasionally, especially if one's world had just crumbled so completely. And if he allowed himself this weakness now, it would harden him all the more in the future. So he stood in place, wine temporarily forgotten, and cried until the shadows of night blocked Golri from his vision.

 

 

Six of Cups

 

“Please, Papa?” Miela said, giving him her most plaintive look.

Elisedd sighed. “Miela, I know you love flowers, but you know that they make me sneeze. Couldn't you wait to visit the flower stall until your mother returns from visiting your aunt?”

“No,” Miela insisted, “I promise, I won't ask again until Mama comes back, but I need to go today. Pleeeaase??”

Elisedd sighed and ruffled her hair affectionately. “I spoil you too much. All right, but you'd better keep your promise.”

Miela laughed joyfully and kissed Elisedd on the cheek. “Thank you! Can we go now?”

“We might as well.” Elisedd agreed. After all, the sooner they went, the sooner he could get away from the pollens in the air.

The two of them walked down to the market, Miela dashing ahead but always making sure to stop and wait for him whenever he vanished from her sight. Elisedd enjoyed her enthusiasm, though his contentment dimmed slightly when he caught his first whiff of the flower stall. Pulling out his handkerchief, he held it to his nose in preparation. As the scent grew stronger, so did the itch in his nose, though he managed to resist the urge to sneeze until the top of the stall came into view. “Ah...Atshhk! Hkshh! Eptshh!”

Crossing to the far end of the street to try to keep his exposure to a minimum, Elisedd watched Miela run up to the stall, speaking cheerily to its owner, Mr. Nitzan. Nitzan smiled at her, nodded, then vanished. Miela passed the time by admiring the cups of flowers arranged for men to buy for their sweethearts. Elisedd passed the time by sneezing. “Chshhk! Kepshhrrsh! Hrishhh!”

When he looked up from his handkerchief, he saw that Nitzan's son, Blaz, had appeared in the stall, though he was quickly moving out from it, talking excitedly. To Elisedd's surprise, Miela's normal boisterousness had calmed slightly, leaving her swaying from side to side with her hands clasped in front of her as she spoke with Blaz. Blaz smiled at her, then took one of the cups of flowers and offered it to her, blushing. Miela blushed as well, then looked behind her guiltily, making eye contact with Elisedd. With everything clear to him now, Elisedd lowered his handkerchief long enough to nod encouragingly. He saw the flash of delight on her face, which was enough to make up for his next wave of sneezes. “Higshew! Egtshh! Hupgishh!!”

When he looked up again, he saw Miela leaving the stall, carefully holding the cup in her hands to keep it from being damaged. Elisedd moved to join her, pinching his nose in the handkerchief in order to speak to her without being interrupted.

“You'll have to keep that by the window in your room so it won't bother me. And you'll be responsible for watering it until the blossoms wilt.”

Miela nodded, her smile radiating a purity that touched his heart. He smiled back, despite the itch in his nose. It was still too early to tell if this new love would develop into something deeper, but as long as his daughter was happy, Elisedd wasn't about to discourage it. Though he should probably go to the apothecary to purchase a large quantity of those herbs that reduced hayfever symptoms...

 

 

Seven of Cups

 

Enot, the god of wisdom, has a special ceremony every year. Those who come to his temple on that day bearing tribute in the form of eggs or berries (which are said to be conducive to increased intelligence) are allowed to enter into a room in the inner sanctum one at a time. There, seven cups hover in the air, each containing a representation of various desires. There is a human face for love; a glowing, spectral figure for spiritual knowledge; a snake (Enot's patron animal) for more traditional knowledge; a castle for property; jewels for wealth; a laurel wreath for victory; and a dragon for adventure. Once this is explained to the supplicant through Enot's priest, they are invited to touch one, and Enot will grant them the opportunity to obtain that goal, trusting that any who worship him are intelligent enough to identify and pursue that opportunity.

However, while this is a reward for his followers, it is also a test. Enot can see deeply into a person's very essence, and while their hearts and the forefronts of their minds may tell them what they want, the deeper, more secretive part of them that is generally only accessed by dreams knows what they truly need. Occasionally, these two are in alignment—a poor person very often both needs and wants wealth—but more often than not, what a person thinks they need could actually be fulfilled in some other way. For example, a young man who feels restless may believe he craves adventure, but would actually find fulfillment in spiritual knowledge. Or a woman seeking admiration from others may think that could be achieved by a grand home, but would truly gain what she sought via a victory in a spirited debate. Knowing that mortals cannot always recognize the hidden depths of their yearning, Enot does what he can to nudge them in the right direction.

To that end, each supplicant is encouraged to examine each cup before making their choice. As they approach each cup, the six cups that do not suit the person's need give off a strong scent of pepper (a spice associated with Enot, as it both clears and sharpens the mind), causing discomfort via itching of the nose. Only the cup that will give them fulfillment will not smell of pepper, instead giving off a faint odor of cocoa.

Some are wise enough to notice this, and correctly interpreting this as a sign, choose the cup Enot is guiding them to. Others either do not notice or are convinced that what they seek is in one of the other cups. This is when Enot provides one final test. When their hands close around an unsuitable cup, the pepper scent grows stronger, causing a powerful sneeze in the supplicant. Then, the priest of Enot asks if they are sure this is their choice, at which point the supplicant is made to sneeze again.

(The priest asks the same thing of all supplicants, even those who choose wisely. After all, sometimes one's resolve must be tested.)

Some hesitate at this, and resume their examination, occasionally going through multiple cups and sneezes before making their decision (and even then, they may still settle for the wrong cup). Others insist they are sure. Regardless, once they have confirmed their choice, they are sent on their way, and Enot begins to make arrangements for them.

Do not, however, think that those who choose incorrectly are punished. Just as Enot trusts his followers to identify his opportunities, he also trusts that those who made an ill-fitting choice will figure out how to use that choice to find their way to what they truly need. It may take longer, but if they put faith in both Enot and their knowledge, they will eventually find satisfaction. Even if they don't fully realize it.

 

 

Eight of Cups

 

“Here,” Marama said, “This is the place.”

Frit looked around at the desolate mountain landscape skeptically. “Are you...suchh!...sure? I don't see how thi...ishh!...is any more respectful than using these cups for...thishh!...their intended purpose.”

He looked up and saw Marama's face glaring at him from the moon's surface. “Are you questioning my instructions?”

“Of course...schnn!...not,” Frit said quickly, kneeling down and opening his bag, “Any particular arrangement you'd...prshh!...prefer?”

“However you desire. As long as they are all together, their positions do not matter.”

Frit pulled out one of the golden goblets and set it on the ground, making sure it was on a level patch; despite what Marama said, he didn't want to risk incurring her wrath further by potentially knocking it over and damaging it. He did the same with the remaining seven cups, even stacking three of them on top of the other five to keep them from touching the ground. As soon as he took his hands away from the final cup, the itch that had plagued his nose for the past year vanished, leaving nothing but a dull ache in its wake. Sighing in relief, he rubbed his nose to banish even that discomfort.

“Very good, Frit,” Marama said from overhead, “I trust you've learned your lesson.”

“I have,” Frit promised her, “I will never steal again, and I will never again doubt the power of the gods.”

“Then all of this has been worthwhile,” Marama said, and he looked up to see her smiling at him, which made his heart feel lighter, “Go forth and make a new life for yourself.”

Frit nodded and turned to descend from the mountain. “If I could ask you one thing...?” he said, glancing upwards.

“Of course.”

“Why did you have me bring the cups here? While the place is touched by moonlight and high enough that one feels close to you, I see no temple or shrine to you. Why did you not ask me to return the goblets to the temple I stole them from?”

“The answer is twofold. First, forcing you to make a longer journey would ensure that you were all the more relieved when your punishment was lifted, and that you would see more of the world and feel inclined to change your ways. And second, I have already encountered a man whose rashness has damaged my temple and harmed one of my priests. As punishment, he will be told to travel here, wait until the moon is new, then take one of the goblets and return it to my temple. He will then repeat this for each phase of the lunar cycle, until all the goblets have been returned and he has learned the merits of patience.”

“And has he been inflicted with the same curse I was?”

“Oh, certainly. I find that an unrelenting itch and constant sneezing is mild enough not to do serious harm, but disruptive enough that those who cross me eventually are willing to accept my requests for atonement. I believe Eim will be receptive to me in a day or two.”

Frit gave a half-laugh. “Well then, best of luck to you both.”

Marama nodded and faded away. Frit proceeded down the mountain, humming to himself, hoping to put all of this behind him as soon as possible.

 

 

Nine of Cups

 

Pamphi topped off the final goblet, then sat down to wait. Glancing at the rain sheeting down outside, he wondered how long it would take for them to arrive. On the one hand, the rain and mud would slow their progress, but on the other, a desire to escape the weather might spur them to travel faster. Either way, he hoped for their sakes that they got here sooner rather than later.

It turned out to take them fifteen minutes. The door to the inn flew open, and a series of sneezes met Pamphi's ears, ranging from a tiny “Tchh!” to a harsh “HAFSCHHH!!” Smiling sympathetically, Pamphi spread his arms.

“Bless you all, and welcome. I've already stoked the fire and laid out hot wine for you. There are also fresh towels and handkerchiefs by the fire, should you need them.”

“You're a blessing, Pamphi,” Anis said, immediately moving towards the hearth, “I can't believe you pre...peshh!...prepared for us.”

“No one deserves to suffer if they're caught in an unexpected storm,” Pamphi answered, “And I would hate for your annual visit to be spoiled by you all catching cold. If I can do anything to prevent that, I'll be satisfied.”

Delsha set down one of the goblets with a satisfied sigh. “Even so, you did far more than necessary. And we appre...shii!!”

“Bless you. And I appreciate you. The nine of you come here every year for the tournaments, and have always paid me well and treated me as a friend. Why shouldn't I return that favor where I can?”

“And that is why we always stay with you”, Emre said, his head emerging from one of the towels with his hair sticking up in all directions, “No other innkeeper we've met is as generous and...entshh!...enthused as you.”

“Will you join us in a drink?” Leubwin asked, draping another towel over his shoulders as he moved to the table, “I believe a...AFKRSCHHH!!...a toast is in order.”

“With pleasure,” Pamphi said as he refilled the drained glasses before fetching one for himself, “But promise me that you'll go up to change afterwards. The quicker you're completely dry, the more likely you can avoid falling ill.”

“All right,” Leubwin said with a laugh, lifting his glass once Pamphi had poured his drink. “To Pamphi. And to looking out for each other.”

“Here here!” the others chorused, lifting their cups and downing them. Then, as promised, they made their way towards the staircase, laughing and talking about the events they'd seen before the rain stopped the tournament, breaking off to bless each other when the need arose. Pamphi watched them go with a smile, then moved to pick up the discarded towels and stoke the fire. He'd need to ask Nuan to prepare a large bowl of soup for dinner. Hopefully that would be enough to drive off any lingering chills. If not...well, at least whatever was left could hopefully help speed the group of friends to a quicker recovery.

 

 

Ten of Cups

 

“Come on, come on!” Kuno said impatiently, “We're going to miss it!”

“It's still five minutes to noon,” Ziemo responded, “And Ix has always begun her display at the final stroke of twelve exactly. But if you're really so worried, I suppose you can run ahead.”

Kuno gave him a grateful smile before turning to his sister. “Race you!”

Pranee immediately grabbed her skirts and took off at a run, Kuno allowing her a few seconds head start before dashing to catch up. Ziemo chuckled. “I'm glad they're so enthused.”

Ayfer slipped her arm through his. “I think they just like the excuse to be outdoors after having to spend most of the winter inside. Though the display is always worth seeing.”

“Even though it makes you sneeze?”

Ayfer nodded. “Beauty such as that is worth a little discomfort.”

“Odd,” Ziemo said, leaning in to kiss her cheek, “I thought the same thing when I was courting you.” Ayfer just poked his side affectionately.

As they crested the hill, they saw Kuno and Pranee sitting on the ground, playing a rhyming game. “Who won the race?” Ayfer asked.

“Kuno. Again.” Pranee said with a pout.

“Keep practicing,” Kuno said encouragingly, “I'm sure you'll beat me someday.”

The town bell began to ring the hour, and both children gasped in excitement and got to their feet, looking skyward as they counted the chimes. As the twelfth bell reverberated through the air, a rainbow spread across the cloudless sky. Then, one by one, the outline of ten goblets appeared within the arc, one for each of Ix's hopes for her subjects. Kuno and Pranee watched, entranced, until the final goblet appeared, then grabbed hands and spun in a circle, dancing joyfully as they called out “Spring is here! Spring is here!”

Ziemo smiled at them, then wrapped an arm around Ayfer's waist, the two of them holding an arm up towards the rainbow, thanking Ix for her generosity and love. The goblets flashed brightly, as if in acknowledgment, and Ziemo tightened his grip on Ayfer in preparation.

Ayfer's hand came up to shield her eyes, but her breath was already catching. “Hih...hihh...hit-shh! Et-shh! Hip-shh!”

“Bless you.” Ziemo said, withdrawing a handkerchief from his pocket. Looking up at the rainbow, he saw the goblets starting to fade from view, and squeezed Ayfer's hip. “I think it's safe to open your eyes.”

Ayfer opened one eye and squinted up at the rainbow, then nodded and opened her eyes properly. Ziemo offered up the handkerchief, which she accepted, rubbing at her nose as she watched the goblets disappear, leaving only the rainbow. “I've always loved Ix's display, despite my sensitivity to Her light,” she said, “But I've grown to love it even more now that I have family to share it with.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Ziemo said, kissing her, “And may all of us continue to feel the same way.”

 

 

Page of Cups

 

Saygai hadn't been expecting anything unusual when he dipped his cup in the stream for a drink. The water had looked clear and clean, and as he was thirsty from his travels, it seemed only natural to take his goblet and drink from it instead of rooting around for his drinking skin. But when he brought the cup to his mouth, not only did he feel something solid brush against his lips, but a small voice cried out “Stop! Stop!” Startled, he lowered the cup and peered into it, discovering a tiny fish frantically spinning around in circles. “Calm yourself,” Saygai said, “I meant you no ill intent.”

The fish poked its head out of the goblet and spat a jet of water into Saygai's face, the angle meaning that most of it went straight up Saygai's nose. He immediately turned his head to the side and sneezed. “Efshh! Hfshh!” He managed to keep his grip on the goblet, though a small part of him thought the fish might deserve it for attacking him so unjustly. However, once he lifted his head, he turned back to the fish, trying to reposition the goblet to prevent another attack. “What did you do that for?”

“You kidnapped me!” the fish responded indignantly, “I believe I have a right to defend myself and try to escape.”

“I assure you, I had no intention of kidnapping you,” Saygai said, “You merely happened to be in the way when I scooped up a drink of water. I have every intention of letting you go, despite your unprovoked attack.”

The fish looked at him skeptically. Saygai responded simply by kneeling on the bank once more and tipping the goblet into the stream. The fish took a moment to compose itself, then poked its head out of the stream. “...Thank you.” it said after a moment.

“You're welcome. Now then, am I allowed to get a proper drink?”

“I am not the ruler of this stream,” the fish answered, “Do what you will, as long as you avoid scooping me up again.”

Saygai dipped his cup in the stream again, and checked for any unexpected passengers before finally drinking. When he lowered the goblet, the fish was still there. “I...suppose I should make amends for attacking you,” it said, “Is there anything you would like?”

“Some riches never go amiss.” Saygai said with a chuckle.

The fish, however, seemed to flick its tail thoughtfully. “Hold out your hand and wait here for a moment.” Then it dove downwards, and Saygai could see it rooting around in the mud at the bottom of the stream. After a few minutes, it reemerged. Swimming as close to the bank as it could, it spat out another jet of water, this one aimed at his hand. To Saygai's astonishment, he saw a pearl resting in his palm. “Will that do?” the fish asked.

“Certainly,” Saygai said, quickly slipping the pearl into his pocket, “But how...?”

“There are river clams and mussels that grow them accidentally, and spit them out when they become big enough to be irritating. But do not grow greedy and try to seek them out, otherwise you or any you tell will suffer a far worse fate than a bit of sneezing.”

“I will heed your warning,” Saygai said, “Thank you, and live well.”

Standing up, he moved to retrieve his pack and head on his way. While he would heed the fish's words, he believed he could spin this into a marvelous tale to sing about for coin. He might indeed profit more from this stream...but it would merely be in a roundabout way.

 

 

Knight of Cups

 

Sir Rowod nudged Ninli with his winged spurs, urging her to quicken her pace. The sooner he could get back to Fatay with his prize, the faster all would be well. Though he would be lying if he didn't admit that part of him also was eager to receive the accolades that would surely accompany his victory.

He looked down at the golden chalice in his hand, once again feeling a rush of pride and satisfaction. Despite its simple appearance—it had almost no ornamentation—the Fatay Chalice was one of the Kingdom's most prized possessions. It was present for every grand procession and ceremony, and it was considered a great honor to be allowed to sip from it. Even then, the honor was only extended to rulers upon taking the throne, their spouses during the wedding ceremony, clergy who ascended to the position of high priests, and those who achieved knighthood. As one of those fortunate few, Rowod had felt even more driven than the rest of the populace to recover the chalice when it had been stolen. Thanks to his quick action (and Ninli's fast hooves), he'd been blessed with the honor of catching the thief, a brigand in the employ of Compa, Fatay's long-time rivals. Rowod had taken great satisfaction in striking him down, and should this theft be considered a declaration of war, he would look forward to making those responsible pay for this affront. For now, however, he would focus his attention on getting the chalice back safely.

As they neared a river, Ninli gave a plaintive whinny. Noticing the sheen on her fur, Rowod obligingly allowed her to stop as they drew level with the riverbank. “All right, girl,” he said, patting her neck, “I suppose you do deserve a rest and a drink after all we've been through.”

Ninli eagerly dipped her head to the water, taking large gulps to quench her thirst. Rowod found his flask and took a drink himself, but remained in the saddle, hoping to be underway as soon as it looked like Ninli had recovered her strength. He tried to pass the time by taking in the view, but there wasn't much to see; this particular area was rather arid, with only a few craggy hills breaking up the vista. At least they and the river provided a little variety to break up the long stretches of yellow sand.

Even as he thought about it, he felt a gust of wind, which picked up some of the sand and tossed it into the air. It stung his eyes, coated his tongue, and irritated his nose, forcing him to turn his head away from the chalice. “Hut-KUSHH!!”

As he sniffed, he could feel more grains of sand striking his face, his nose beginning to itch again. Gingerly laying the chalice in his lap, he withdrew his handkerchief and a strip of leather, and after a quick rub of his nose, secured the handkerchief over his nose and mouth. Then he picked up the chalice again and flicked the reins. “I'm sorry, Ninli, but I believe we have to get moving. I suspect a sandstorm is brewing, and it would be best if we weren't caught in it.”

Ninli lifted her head with a disappointed snort, but obligingly began to ford the river. As she clambered up onto the other side, Rowod sneezed again (“Hup-KERUSHH!!”) and lifted his semi-free hand to rub his nose. The handkerchief may have been shielding his face, but the sand was small and fine enough to sneak in through any gap, ensuring he would still sneeze occasionally until they found themselves in greener pastures. And moving faster might well mean he would sneeze more often. But he was willing to suffer that discomfort as long as they made it out before the sandstorm began in earnest. If that happened, he would have much bigger things to be concerned about.

 

 

Queen of Cups

 

Queen Torny turned the device in her hands, looking it over with a mixture of interest and confusion. “It's beautifully crafted,” she said at last, “But what is it?”

“We're not entirely sure ourselves, Your Majesty,” the page admitted, “The envoy from Jausteen merely said their monarch had commissioned it to be similar to her own, so it must be something they value.”

“Hmm,” Torny said, “Then I doubt it is merely decorative. Let's see if there's some sort of trick to it.”

She began to run her finger over the various flourishes, seeking out anything that felt loose. At last, as she was tracing one of the winged figures flanking the central section of the device, she felt the tip of the wing shift slightly, and a closer examination revealed a small hinge expertly hidden at the join between the figure's back and the base of the wing. Pleased at her progress in uncovering the mystery, she pressed down on the wing, curious to see what would happen. Perhaps it would start to play music?

Instead, a panel near the figure opened, and with a hiss, a sweet scent filled the air. Almost immediately, Torny's nose began to itch, and she quickly set down the device and brought a handkerchief to her face. “Iftchh! Hiftshh! Kishff!”

Her servants immediately began murmuring in concern and hints of anger, but she raised a reassuring hand as she sneezed out the rest of the tickle. “Etshff! Hushff!”

Lowering the handkerchief, she sniffed experimentally. Fortunately, she had been taking in the sea air when the page had come with the Jausteen gift, so the wind had quickly dispersed the scent, and none lingered to bother her nose. “It's all right,” she said as she dabbed her nose with the cloth, “I do not believe this device was intended to harm me. It appears to be a novel way of dispensing perfume. Indeed, if I'm correct...”

Picking up the device again, she examined the other winged figure, finding another hinge. Holding the device at a distance, she pressed down on the wing, and a different panel opened, releasing a second scent. This one was milder (though perhaps it was because it was farther away) but Torny still had to bring her handkerchief back to her nose. “Ifshh!” A little more examination showed that the cross on the top of the device also seemed inclined to move, though Torny decided not to fiddle with it for the time being, suspecting the resulting scent would not agree with her, either.

“Ingenious,” she said at last, “It is a device that contains three perfumes in one, perhaps more. Unfortunately, it seems the perfumes favored by Jausteen are a little too strong for my nose. I shall have to find a way to diplomatically say as much when I write to their queen to express my thanks. But at least it can still be displayed without incident.”

She signaled for a servant to come forward and handed him the device. “Find a suitable place in one of the public rooms to display this,” she said, before adding with a faint smile, “And tell whichever maid is in charge of cleaning that room to be careful when dusting it. They have enough exposure to irritants without adding a strong scent into the mix.”

 

 

King of Cups

 

There was no denying that King Alon was a good man and a just ruler. Under him, Elcul had prospered, and they had fine relations with their neighbors. However, it was also well known that the man was...eccentric. In particular, he had a fascination with the sea. While this was overall a benefit in that he was very eager to send out nautical expeditions for trading or diplomatic purposes, he had a few habits that caused raised eyebrows. For one thing, he wore a golden effigy of a fish around his neck at all times; the rumor was that it related to the first fish he'd ever caught, which had started his love of the ocean. No one knew whether it was the actual fish cast in gold or just a replica, and everyone agreed it was best not to ask.

For another, Alon was convinced that drinking seawater would imbue him with its power and majesty. Now, he knew that actually drinking the water would leave him even thirstier due to the salt, but he got around this by keeping a cup of seawater near him at all times, and he would add a drop of it to everything he drank. When the water ran out, he would gather more. But instead of merely dipping the cup into the sea, or bringing it with him when he bathed in the ocean once a week, he had a ritual that none could fathom.

When Alon had become king, he had commissioned a large stone plinth and throne to be set in the ocean, which had taken much effort to accomplish. When his cup had been emptied, Alon would dress in his full kingly regalia and order a servant to row him out to the throne. Then he would take a seat and bid the servant to return to shore until the proper time. If one was to look at him through a spyglass on such occasions, they would see him sitting perfectly still, cup in one hand and scepter in the other, looking over the ocean with a sort of mild contentment.

His chief adviser did eventually pluck up the courage to ask about this particular ritual, and Alon was happy to explain. “I wear my regalia to show respect to a force more powerful than myself. And by humbling myself by coming to the sea for her water, rather than just gathering it from the shore, it inclines her more to grant me a touch of her power.”

“But how do you acquire the water, if you do not dip it into the sea?”

“I allow the sea to provide as much as she is willing. As she laps against my plinth, the wind and waves combine and blow some of the spray into my cup. When she is feeling generous, the winds are high, and the cup is filled within a few hours. When she is indifferent, which she often is, she provides the winds when she feels like it, and I must remain on the plinth until the sun begins to set, at which point I leave with whatever I have gathered to avoid annoying her. Though sometimes she is irritated anyway, and spurs me to leave earlier than that.”

“How?”

“When the spray lands in my cup, some of it also lands on my body. Ordinarily, it is gradual enough and the sun is warm enough that I pay little mind to it. But on those days, she makes the wind more biting and the spray a little damper. Eventually, I grow chilled, and sooner or later, I am forced to sneeze. That is when I call for my servant, knowing I have been warned that the sea will give me a cold if I do not depart. Fortunately, she has never actually done so, and a quick bath and a change of clothes, followed by hot wine and a drop of the fresh seawater, will restore my warmth and health.”

While the explanations still made little sense to the adviser, he did admit to others he could see how the king found it logical. All agreed that they would leave him to his devices; as far as they were concerned, Elcul's stability was well worth their king's harmless foibles.

 

[Wig_Powder]

The Minor Arcana: Pentacle Suit

Ace of Pentacles

 

When the goddess Arevik created Quibit, she wanted to be certain that the land would prosper. Therefore, she created a magical golden coin and set a living statue of herself to hold it over the land, where it would not only provide light and warmth, but also shed small pieces of itself, which could be shaped into currency and used to enrich Quibit's citizens. It was a clever arrangement, and all were satisfied with it.

However, Arevik quickly realized that if her coin was allowed to perpetually shine upon Quibit, it would eventually grow too hot, drying up the rivers and keeping things from growing. Thus, she created several more things that would keep this from happening. First, she created a silver version of her coin, one that radiated coolness instead of warmth, and instructed her statue to exchange them every twelve hours. Second, and perhaps more importantly, she gave her statue a small imperfection.

You see, Arevik had designed Quibit to be a land full of greenery, for she loved seeing the bright blossoms and smelling the various fragrances. However, understanding that bad must exist to bring value to the good, she had given some of her subjects a sensitivity to flowers, so that they would appreciate the relief that came when the plants went dormant for the winter. It was this sensitivity she gave to the statue, and while it takes the statue longer to react to the pollens, said reaction is decidedly more powerful than that of humans suffering the same condition.

During the blooming seasons, the smell of the flowers and other plants drifts up to Arevik's realm, bringing delight to her but gradually irritating the nose of her statue. Eventually, the itch becomes too much, and the statue sneezes. When this happens, the spray coalesces into a cloud, and moves to cover the coin. The heat from the coin eventually causes it to evaporate, but each cloud generally lingers for about an hour, giving the plants below some respite.

How often the statue sneezes depends on the wind and which plants are currently in bloom. There are some days when the statue does not sneeze at all, and days when it only sneezes once or twice. Sometimes, if the wind is particularly strong or the scabiosa are in full bloom, it sneezes enough that the coin is completely enshrouded for most of the day. But the clouds eventually dissipate, through a combination of the coin's warmth and Arevik giving her statue a temporary relief, and the coin shines its light on Quibit once more.

(There are those, of course, who wonder about the occasional bouts of rain and snow that come from those clouds. While it is agreed that Arevik arranged for the rain and snow to further benefit Quibit, it has also been agreed that it is wise not to speculate too much on how that liquid is generated.)

 

 

Two of Pentacles

 

Dwi sighed, picked up the balls, and prepared to try again. If he wanted to have any hope of becoming a court jester, he'd have to master juggling. Unfortunately, his fear of getting hit on the head meant that he would keep his eye on the ball's path through the air, instead of remembering to toss the second ball into the air. Even though the balls he practiced with were light, he was having trouble repressing a wince each time they flew overhead. Well, now was the time to conquer that fear. He'd even painted them gold and decorated them with lines meant to resemble telmi coins, in the hopes that they would remind him of the wealth he was striving for.

Rubbing his finger over the sketched star, Dwi took a deep breath and tossed the ball in the air. He quickly tossed the other ball to his hand, then looked up to check on the first ball. As it passed his head, he held out his hand to catch it, tossing the second ball into the air. He caught the ball, then immediately tossed it to his left hand, forcing himself not to look up until he had done so. When he finally did glance up, the second ball was just passing his head. With a tiny exhale of satisfaction, he tossed the first ball in the air again, hoping to repeat the process.

And he did, first a second, then a third, then a fourth time. It was still too slow, and his shoulders tensed every time he released a ball, but he was beginning to find a rhythm, and was resisting the urge to constantly track the movements of the balls. No one watching would have been impressed with this performance, but for him, this was a victory. Could he make it to ten?

As he completed his fifth cycle, the wind blew in from the sea (Dwi had chosen to practice on an isolated stretch of beach, to avoid anyone seeing him), carrying with it a bit of spray. The timing was such that he inhaled right as the spray his his face, causing him to inhale a few of the drops. His nose began to itch immediately, and before he could even think about what to do to quell it, the sneeze came upon him. “Hah-knntch!”

One of the balls bounced off his right hand, and seconds later, the other one descended onto his head. It stung, but it didn't knock him dizzy, nor was the pain as great as he'd expected. His fears of being knocked unconscious may not have been unfounded, but perhaps it was more uncommon than he'd convinced himself it was.

Rubbing his head with one hand and his nose with the other, Dwi located the balls and prepared to try again, moving a little ways up from the shore to avoid another incident with the spray. Maybe this time he could actually get to ten.

 

 

Three of Pentacles

 

Sengoc turned from his chisel when he heard the door to the church creaking open. He felt a jolt of terror when he saw Father Abidel and Brother Traugot entering the building. They were earlier than he'd expected. Still, his work would do most of the talking for him, so he swallowed and put on a smile, turning to face them and bowing respectfully. “Your worships. It is an honor to see you.”

Father Abidel inclined his head, then looked up at the archway Sengoc was working on. Brother Traugot, meanwhile, consulted the plans for the church before examining the archway himself. “What is this flower here?” he said with a frown, “It seems an odd choice for a church.”

“It's meant to be an Easter Lily, as seen from the front,” Sengoc explained quickly, “A reminder both of Christ's goodness and His sacrifice for us.”

“And those three circles above it that are reminiscent of coins?”

“It's meant to mimic the Holy Trinity,” Sengoc said, “And the similarity to coins is deliberate. Any who seek material wealth will look upon this and remember that spiritual wealth is the true path to fulfillment.”

Traugot still seemed skeptical. “Why did you chip out so much within the 'coins'? I only just recognized them by their markings.”

“It...it seemed more striking that way,” Sengoc said nervously, “Realism is important in many things, but beauty sometimes requires a touch of the fantastical.”

Traugot appeared unconvinced, and Abidel had yet to say a word. Sengoc heard a soft scraping sound, and realized that the hand holding his chisel was shaking. He quickly pulled it from the archway, not wanting to damage it, and released a puff of stone dust in the process. He was unfortunate enough to inhale it, and his nose, always quick to respond to irritants, gave him just enough time to turn his head away from his patrons before succumbing. “Eh-GISHEW!”

The sound of the sneeze echoed throughout the church, and Sengoc winced in embarrassment But then he heard a soft chuckle, and looked back to see Abidel smiling at him. “Bless you, my son,” he said, “I believe you have just proven the real virtue of your design.”

“Er...I have?” Sengoc said, simultaneously relieved and confused.

“The more air passes through the stone, the more it causes sound to carry. Unfortunate in the case of a sneeze, but when our voices are uplifted in song or prayer, it will surround us, suffusing us with a sense of wonder and glory. I suspect it will make it easier for the congregation to hear my sermons as well.”

His hand disappeared into his cloak, emerging a moment later with a small bag of coins. “Your work is excellent so far, my child. May this encourage you to keep it up.”

Sengoc immediately set down his tools, took the bag, then bent over Abidel's hand. “Thank you, Father. I will do my utmost.”

“I'm certain you will. Come along now, Brother Traugot. We should leave this young man to his work. For while we may know of spiritual matters, I believe it is best to trust a mason to know how best to handle stone.”

 

 

Four of Pentacles

 

On the outskirts of Scalabeo, there is a very lifelike statue of Harta, the god of prosperity. It sits on a bench, wrapped in a fine cloak and deep red robes, with an expression of satisfaction on its face. But what really draws the attention are the golden coins the figure guards. One perches atop the crown on Harta's head, another is held between his hands, and instead of touching the ground, his feet rest against two more coins. While the sculptor insists (and indeed, has proven) that the coins are not made of actual gold, it has certainly fooled many a visitor. Some of the more unscrupulous ones have even attempted to steal the coins, but even when they succeed—knocking the one off of Harta's crown is the most popular method—they are quickly found and arrested, and forced to pay a fine to have it replaced, or work off the debt if they have no money on them. They are then told to pay tribute to the statue or be barred from visiting the town again, which is often a sufficient punishment given that Scalabeo is one of the great merchant towns and an excellent place to make one's fortune.

However, there have been a few occasions when the coins in Harta's hands or under his feet have disappeared, only to reappear the next day even though the thief has not been caught. While some believe the sculptor has prepared more 'coins' for this eventuality and quietly replaces them, a merchant once drunkenly told a story in the dockyard tavern that has gained a measure of popularity. According to the merchant, when he had been new to the profession and sent out two ships to purchase goods from Vaconti, he had arrived in Scalabeo on the date of their supposed return only to learn that they had been lost at sea. Believing himself ruined, he had gone to the statue of Harta and prayed for assistance, for he had gone in debt to finance the expedition. As he had looked up into Harta's face, the wind had picked up, blowing the fur ruff of Harta's cloak against the statue's face. To the merchant's astonishment, the statue's nose had twitched, its eyes had closed, and it released a powerful sneeze, so powerful that its feet left the coins and landed back onto them heavily, smashing them. But instead of cracking in two, they transformed into about a hundred golden coins. The merchant had scraped at one with his finger and even gingerly bitten it, and realized it was real gold. Gathering up the coins, he'd offered his thanks to the statue and went to pay his debts. He had half worried that he would be accused of theft, but no connection was drawn between his payment and the disappearance of the coins, and the next day, two new ones were under Harta's feet. With the remaining money from his debts, the merchant financed a second, smaller expedition, and this time, the ship returned laden with goods, which he sold for a fine profit.

Thanks to this tale, those who believe themselves in truly dire financial straits will visit the statue to beg for help, hoping Harta will bless them in the same way. They never reveal if their prayers were answered, but on occasion, a person who was known to be low on money or dealing with a large amount of expenses is able to pay what they owe and resume a more comfortable (although not wealthy) life. And there have been claims that on the days when the coins from Harta's hands or feet go missing, not only does the statue's nose appear to be slightly pinker than normal, but his small smile seems a bit wider, as though a gamble has paid off. The truth will probably never be known, but the superstition will almost certainly endure.

 

 

Five of Pentacles

 

Drigu took a firmer grip on his crutches and hobbled forward, grateful that the wooden handles allowed him to retain a bit of feeling in his fingers. As still more snow landed on his face, he shuddered and looked over at Mahlah. She was shivering, but her face was resolute, and she was still pushing forward. How she could appear so composed, Drigu couldn't imagine; at least he had a hat and shoes (or at least, one shoe and a bandage) to warm him, while her feet were bare and her cloak didn't do much to protect her face.

“W-where are we...gshh!...going?” he asked, not even bothering to wipe at his nose. Another sneeze would be along in a minute or so anyway.

“Th-there's an...aleshh!...alley near the markets that's c...cushh!...covered. W-we should be...reshh!...relatively dry there.” Mahlah answered, wiping her nose on her cloak after each sneeze but otherwise seeming to ignore them. Happy for any sort of dryness at this point, Drigu nodded and kept walking. Best to conserve his strength, after all.

As they turned a corner, they found themselves walking alongside a church, warm light streaming from a beautiful stained glass window. Drigu looked up at it in envy and admiration. From his angle, some of the rounded decorations had the appearance of glowing golden coins. Would that those coins could leap from the window and into his pocket!

“C-couldn't we...sitchh!...stay in there?” he asked, inclining his head towards the church, “Th-they're...prachh!...practically obligated to take...peshh!...people like us in.”

But Mahlah shook her head firmly. “W-we're non...beshh!...non-believers. At b-best, we'll be...lektchh!...lectured. At w-worst, they'll...tuchh!...turn us out.”

From what he knew of the church, Drigu was doubtful about the latter, though he had no trouble believing the former. And honestly, a lecture was a small price to pay for hot food and a warm place to stay. But Mahlah had come from a religious family, so perhaps she was wiser than he on this matter.

“T-tomorrow we'll...askchh!...ask the shopkeeps if we...cashh!...can assist them in exchange for some...scrashh!...scraps of food,” Mahlah said, “I'm sure...suchh!...someone will be willing.”

Drigu nodded; the townsfolk didn't look kindly on beggars, but they'd soften if you proved you could pull at least a little weight. Still, he couldn't help but glance back wistfully at the church; on nights like this, he almost wished he had faith in a higher power. Maybe that faith would help him feel a little warmer.

 

 

Six of Pentacles

 

As Ludicael pulled himself up from sleep, he did what he could to take stock of his symptoms. He didn't feel a chill when he moved his arm...he could swallow without discomfort...his mind felt relatively clear...and as for his nose...

He breathed in experimentally, discovering that while he was still congested, he was at least able to bring air through his nose. Nodding decisively, he sat up and rang for Rihen. “I believe the cold has abated enough for my purposes. Lay out a warm set of clothes and make the other preparations, please.”

Rihen nodded and moved towards the dresser. Ludicael, meanwhile, got out of bed to try to make himself presentable. As soon as his feet touched the floor, he had to make a grab for the stack of handkerchiefs on the side table. “Ut-kvshh!”

“Bless you, sir.” Rihen said, without looking up from the dresser. Ludicael nodded and continued his journey to the bains.

After freshening up, getting dressed, and eating, with only a bit of fatigue and half-a-dozen sneezes to show for it, Ludicael was certain that he was well enough to do his normal ritual. Entering his study, he withdrew a pair of scales and a bag of coins from his desk. Filling both ends of the scale until they balanced evenly, he nodded his satisfaction and left his home, holding the scale in one hand and walking gingerly to prevent the coins from spilling out.

He carefully made his way through town, acknowledging well-wishes with a nod but focusing most of his attention on walking without losing the coins. Whenever his nose prickled, he'd stop to withdraw his handkerchief and press it to his face, muffling the sneeze to keep his other hand from trembling too much. Then he would tuck the cloth away and resume his walk.

At last, he made it to Parazir's outskirts, where beggars asked for alms from those entering or departing. A few recognized him and eagerly rose to a kneeling position, while others, either new to Parazir or only recently impoverished, approached him tentatively, unsure how he would respond to their entreaties. Ludicael smiled reassuringly at them, took a handful of golden coins from his scales, and dropped them into the nearest pair of hands. “There you are,” he said, “May this be enough to help you off the streets.”

The young man stared at him in shock, but Ludicael merely smiled again and turned to drop another handful of coins into a waiting cup. He heard tearful thanks and faint protestations, and acknowledged them with a nod and a smile, making sure that every beggar got a least a few coins. His heart soared when he saw those who had already received his coins retreating to make room for the others; it was always reassuring to know he was helping good people.

He continued to sneeze occasionally during this process, quickly catching them in a handkerchief. Those unfamiliar with him blessed him, while the few regulars wished him a quick recovery. “Though perhaps you could see your way to catching cold again in another few months...?” one of them said with a twisted grin. Ludicael just chuckled and finished his distribution of coins, wishing all of them well before turning to make his way for home.

Many of his peers thought him eccentric or worse for going out to give money to the poor after he recovered from an illness, but Ludicael did not mind their odd looks or scorn. To him, the misery that came with illness was a reminder of the worse miseries others suffered. What better way to show his gratitude both for his recovering health and his station in life than by doing what he could to alleviate the poor's discomfort?

 

 

Seven of Pentacles

 

Indide leaned upon his hoe, frowning at the stubborn shrub. Wikuya flowers were prized throughout Fancrea, both for their beauty and their various uses in medicine, perfume, and cooking. Having procured a sprig for himself last autumn, Indide had been cultivating it for months, sheltering it from the winter storms and following all the instructions he'd been given to make sure it was properly watered and trimmed. But now they were one month into the Wikuya's growing season, and while his friend's shrub was already flowering, all Indide had to show for his labor was seven yellow bulbs. The only sign he had that the plant was blooming was...

“Higshh!”

Indide sighed and pulled out a handkerchief to rub at his nose. He'd known from experience in the markets that he was allergic to Wikuya, but he had been willing to trade the discomfort for the profits the blooms would fetch him. At the moment, he seemed to only be getting the negative side of that arrangement, which didn't seem fair, given that he was holding up his end of the bargain.

“What more do you want from me?” he asked the shrub, “I've clearly taken good enough care of you for you to bud. Shouldn't that be enough to allow you to bloom as well?”

The leaves rustled in the wind, and Indide's nose itched again as (presumably) some pollen drifted his way. “Is that a rebuke?” he asked sarcastically, as he brought the handkerchief to his nose, “Egshff!”

The shrub, naturally, made no reply. Huffing in frustration, Indide picked up his shears to prune the branches and finish the shrub's care for the day. He wasn't ready to give up just yet, even if every day without signs of the buds opening made him more and more tempted to just abandon it to face.

He knew the value of patience; he was a potato farmer by trade, after all. And he knew that the first year dealing with a new crop was always the most challenging, as you figured out what worked and what didn't. It was to be expected that the first harvest would be weaker. But he'd expected a little more success.

He sneezed again as he straightened up from the pruning, one of the bulbs brushing against his face and triggering another sneeze. He wanted to believe that the soft feel of the bud had been a soft reassurance that all would be well, but he couldn't help but be skeptical at this point. Rubbing at his nose, he nodded at the shrub and moved to look over his potatoes. At least they seemed to be coming along nicely.

 

 

Eight of Pentacles

 

Ganbold pounded the golden metal into a flat disk, then began to shape the edges so that the disk would have a distinct ridge along the outside. As he chipped away at it, small flakes of gold flew everywhere, most quickly falling to the ground but some of them coming close enough to his face that they were in danger of being inhaled. He paid them no mind, focused on his work, but he knew when he breathed one of the flakes in; there was a sharp, stinging itch in his nose, as though the flake retained enough of its metallic quality to poke at the sensitive membranes. He quickly set down his work and snatched up a handkerchief, holding it close to his nose. “Heh...het-keshhh!”

When he lowered the cloth, he could see a small flake glittering against the white cloth. Chuckling, he took one of his small pliers and picked up the flake, carrying it over to a small bottle he always set on his workbench. He dropped the flake inside, where it quickly joined about a dozen others, then briefly held the pliers in a nearby candle to sterilize them before he returned to work.

Ganbold was never allowed to keep any gold that was leftover from his work; any excess was returned to the patron. But flakes were too small to be worth bothering with, and while Ganbold was content to leave them scattered across the floor, enjoying the thought that he was technically among the elite who had the privilege to walk on gold, he saved any flakes that found their way into his nose. After all, who would want them, given where they'd been? When the bottle was full, he intended to melt the flakes together and reform them into something for himself, probably some small decorative object that would allow him a private smile whenever he saw it and remembered how he acquired it.

But that was for the future. For now, he had been tasked to create and detail eight golden plates—whether for eating or decoration was unclear—and with two more to complete and the deadline approaching in two days, it was better not to let his mind wander. Ganbold resumed his shaping of the seventh plate, nodding as the ridge began to form, mostly losing himself in his work but fully prepared to stop the moment he felt the sting in his nose once more.

 

 

Nine of Pentacles

 

Sanna stepped out into her garden, taking a deep breath of the fresh air. The fragrances of the various flowers were glorious (her roses were particularly magnificent this year) and the traces of damp earth told her that her plants weren't wanting for water, ensuring they would be around for her to enjoy a little longer. Humming to herself, she moved to check on her grapes.

These, too, appeared to be in excellent condition. They were turning a deep red, and would probably make for a wonderful wine. Depending on their sweetness, she might ask her servants to make a bit of jam from them as well. She'd wait another week to sample them to decide for sure. For now, she contented herself with straightening the golden disks she'd scattered amongst the vines to scare off the birds. She'd been skeptical when the technique had been recommended to her, but it did seem to be working. And if there were still some birds bold enough to approach her grapes, well, she had a second, more permanent deterrent.

Greyling appeared in the garden, carrying Skjot on his perch. Sanna smiled and held out her hand, her falconer transferring the bird to her glove. “Ready to stretch your wings?” she asked, stroking Skjot's back with a finger, “Even if you don't catch anything, today seems like a lovely day just to survey your domain.”

Skjot fluttered his feathers in response, some of his wing feathers brushing against Sanna's nose. She quickly stifled the sneeze so as not to startle him, then chuckled. “All right, all right, I'll let you go.”

Removing his hood, she lowered her hand and then jerked it upwards, encouraging Skjot to take off. He immediately shot away from her, though he was close enough that his tailfeathers hit her in the nose, causing it to itch again. Sanna removed a handkerchief from her sleeve and brought it to her nose, watching Skjot ascend for as long as she could before the sneeze came upon her. “Itkeshh!”

Dabbing at her nose, she looked back up at her falcon with a smile. Even if the sneezing was a nuisance, the fact that Skjot's feathers were soft enough to cause that reaction meant that he was being taken good care of. And if that meant he was happy, then she didn't mind the occasional itch.

Guindon brought her a glass of rose water. Thanking him with a nod, she brought the glass to her lips and watched Skjot circling her garden, searching for prey. She hoped he'd be successful; she wanted him to feel as satisfied as she currently was.

 

 

Ten of Pentacles

 

“Are...are you sure?” Kunle asked, looking from Manas to the manor before him.

Manas nodded, smiling. “It's yours. Use it well.”

“But...” Kunle said faintly, “You still have so much life to live! Why would you give up all this to someone you've known for so short a time?”

“In the first place, a year is plenty of time to get to know whether or not someone is a good man,” Manas said, resting a hand on Kunle's shoulder, “And you have given me that impression ever since you helped me with my broken wagon. In the second place, you have a family, and they will appreciate this house as I once did. Which brings me to the third reason, and the true answer to your question; I spent many years amassing my fortune, and was content to do so and enjoy the fruits of my labor. But now I am old, and I find myself turning more to spiritual rather than material fulfillment. So I have taken all that is precious to me and will embark on a journey to determine what will truly bring me internal contentment. My only wish is that my former possessions end up in good hands, and I believe I can rely on you for that.”

Lost for words, Kunle pressed Manas' hand, then turned to his wife, Reidun, and squeezed her hands. As they began to discuss their good fortune, Manas smiled down at their son, who was petting Vityi, and gave a low whistle to attract his attention. When the boy looked up, Manas placed a small pouch of coins in his hand. “Be sure to share with your friends.” he said with a smile and a wink. Then he stood up, clicked for his dogs, and left the family to explore their new home.

Vityi and Ziel, excited by the prospect of new sights and smells, gamboled around Manas' legs, barking joyfully. He smiled indulgently at them, and nodded, giving them permission to run on ahead. They immediately did so, kicking up clouds of dust in their wake. Manas waved most of it away, but enough got into his nose that he ended up sneezing regardless. “Hrshh! Trchh!”

Chuckling, he rubbed away the itch and watched his dogs alternate between rushing down the path and pausing to sniff at various objects. Perhaps this wasn't what was intended when the priests said to “shake off the trappings of your old life”, but he would take this as a sign that he was going in the right direction.

 

 

Page of Pentacles

 

Sifiso looked around at the meadow, taking in the view. It truly was a beautiful spot, lush and green, with flowers adding splotches of color here and there. If he looked down, he could see still more meadows, as well as the occasional plot of farmland. If he looked out to the horizon, he could see Mount Damuse, blue, austere, and breathtaking. He could think of no better place in the world, and he hoped Audr would feel similarly.

Kneeling down, he took up the jug of wine and poured it onto the grass before him, looking skyward as he spoke. “Audr, Goddess of riches, I come to you not in your temple, but here surrounded by the bounty of nature, a different but no less important source of wealth. I ask you, humbly, to provide me with a bit of gold. I do not want it for myself, not entirely; I have always loved this meadow, as a place to enjoy the simple pleasures in life. But Baron Manfre wishes to purchase this land, though I am uncertain if he intends to use it entirely for himself or to transform it into farmland to add to his wealth. I require enough gold to outbid him. Should I succeed, I will preserve this land just as it is, and allow others to visit it freely as long as they treat it with respect. And if you help me, I will name this place after you, so all will know of your glory. I beseech you, hear my prayer.”

He finished pouring the wine and straightened up. He did not expect coins to fall at his feet, nor did he expect to hear a direct response from Audr. From the tales of others who had been blessed by her, she would send you a dream to guide you to a hidden treasure, or appear several days later in the guise of an envoy to reveal a hitherto unknown relative had left you money in a will. She was occasionally willing to assist mortals in becoming rich, but she wanted to ensure they understood the value of earning wealth through patience. Sifiso could only hope he was one of the lucky ones she chose to assist.

As he was turning to depart, something overhead caught his eye. He glanced up, assuming it was a bird, then blinked in surprise. The object appeared to be a large golden coin, yet it floated down towards him as weightlessly as a feather. He set down the jug and held out his hands, knowing the coin was meant for him. It grazed his fingers, simultaneously warm and cool, and he felt a swelling of hope.

Then the coin caught the sunlight, reflecting directly into Sifiso's eyes and causing his nose to prickle. He quickly turned away, body trembling with the force of the sneeze. “Uh...Utchuhh!”

The odd sensation on his fingertips vanished, and when he looked up, the coin was gone. But the feeling of hope remained. Bowing low in thanks, he took up the jug again and departed for home. He wasn't sure when or how he would acquire the money to purchase the land, but he knew without a shadow of a doubt that Audr had heard, and would grant, his request.

 

 

Knight of Pentacles

 

Sir Varmund gently tugged on Sahul's reins. “Whoa, boy,” he said, patting the horse's neck, “I think we could both do with a...ah...areshh!”

Sahul nickered, flicking his ears, and obligingly came to a stop. Varmund withdrew both a handkerchief and a water flask, looking around him as he tended to both his thirst and his running nose. It was a fine place to stop, even if it had been unintentional; they were at the crest of a hill, allowing him to admire the rolling landscape and the shift of colors, from white stone to green grass to brown, cultivated earth. Yes, Atoh was a fine land, well worth defending, and he was honored to serve her.

His nose prickled again, and he quickly set down his flask and brought the handkerchief back to his face. “Ah...ahidshh!” He felt himself shudder a little as the sneeze passed, and couldn't repress a sigh. Based on his growing symptoms, he would be needing to stop and rest several more times before he finally reached the palace.

Varmund had been more than willing to follow King Unifan's orders and track down one of Sklet's sacred coins, which were said to provide prosperity to a land as long as it was displayed on the seat of power. It had been an opportunity for adventure, and more importantly, a chance to ensure Atoh's future success. But while he had located and obtained one of the coins without any loss of life, the weeks of slogging through swamps and peering behind waterfalls had taken their toll, and now, as he approached his home, his body was succumbing to illness. For now, it seemed like nothing more than a bad cold, but he would need to take care to make sure it didn't become something worse.

Setting his flask back in his saddlebag, he searched through it and eventually withdrew Sklet's coin. It was relatively unimpressive, just a flat golden disk that bore Sklet's mark in the center, but it always glowed faintly, even in darkness, and felt reassuringly warm to the touch. Just holding it was a comfort, though Varmund wasn't sure if it was because he knew the good it would bring or if he just appreciated the warmth.

For one mad moment, he considered keeping the coin pressed to his chest to help with his burgeoning cold. But another sneeze quickly disabused him of that notion. It was disrespectful to both Sklet and Atoh to use the coin in such a manner, and he would surely reach the palace by nightfall, even with his rests. Shaking his head, he returned the coin to the bag, gave his nose one last rub with the handkerchief, then flicked the reins to set Sahul moving again. With luck, he'd be able to travel for a good hour before he felt the need to rest again.

 

 

Queen of Pentacles

 

Queen Letam cradled the golden disk in her arms, tracing its patterns with a finger. She didn't have much time, but she felt she owed it to her most prized possessions to give them a proper goodbye.

Then the scent of roses reached her once more, tickling her nose and snapping her out of her reverie. “Itkshi!” With a sniff, she rubbed her nose and laid the disk into the earth with the rest of the royal treasures. Then she began to push the mounds of soil back on top of them, focusing on the task instead of the sight of her things gradually being swallowed up.

Letam had initially dismissed the idea of a coup. She had always done her utmost to rule justly and look out for her people, and she had never seen any discontent from her subjects when she spent time with them. But then Livley, her treasurer, had come to her and told her that Orchert, her chief adviser, had been asking very pointed questions about Yozer's finances while looking upon some of the objects with a predatory eye, and she'd known Orchert intended to betray her. But he didn't know she knew, and thus, she had a little time to act.

Simply arresting him wouldn't solve the problem; once she knew what to look for, it became obvious that many of the guards had been swayed to his side. It was far better to flee before he had a chance to capture her. That way, she could take those who were still loyal to her and gather forces to take back her country. But she had no intention of allowing Orchert to revel too much in his victory. Hence, Livley had helped her gather up the royal treasures, and she'd spirited them away to this private spot in the woods. Very few knew of this place (and one of them, the mason who had built the stone throne she kept here, had since passed away), but it was one of her favorite places. She often came here for a bit of peace, to clear her mind and allow her to fully work through a difficult decision. Even the fact that the roses that bloomed here in the summer made her sneeze was a positive in her eyes; the sneezing kept her mind from wandering, spurring her not to dwell on unnecessary details. Now, it would serve her well once more and keep Orchert from getting his hands on her things until she came to collect them.

“Eshhkk!” Letam sneezed again and wiped at her watering eyes, knowing they were unrelated to her pollen sensitivity. Patting down the earth and covering it with fallen leaves to hide the traces of digging, she stood up, shook the dirt off her clothes, and turned to go. Livley, her maid Mitham, and several of the youngest guards who had been considered too unimportant to bribe and thus were still loyal to her were waiting for her at the outskirts of the city. Orchert, hopefully, had no idea she'd fled—she'd given the impression she was going out for her daily ride—but it was best not to risk him suspecting anything. She would mourn properly later; right now, escape was the most important thing.

 

 

King of Pentacles

 

“Are you sure this will instill respect in my subjects?” King Ozdan said, as his servants hung yet another bunch of grapes from his robe.

“Most certainly, Your Majesty!” Wodowon said, as he looked for the right place to plant his easel, “It's all very symbolic, you see; by giving the impression that the grapes are growing on you, it will make them believe that you, or at least your policies, are assisting in the excellent harvests. Combine that with the representation of the goham coin, and it will be clear to all that you have brought wealth and comfort to the land!”

“Or, at the very least, they'll be amused by the fact that you were willing to dress so ridiculously for this portrait,” Perit chimed in, laughing sweetly, “And that will show your sense of humor, and make you seem more relatable.”

Wodowon gave her a baleful glare, but Ozdan was grateful for his wife's presence. She was laughing at the situation, not at him, and was looking at him with amused affection, which gave him a little extra patience to sit through this portrait.

The servants finally finished arranging the grapes and moved away, allowing Wodowon to begin his initial sketch. Ozdan looked off to the side as instructed, trying to keep his expression serious but not stern. Perit moved to be in his line of sight, giving him smiles and encouraging nods, and that made it easier. If nothing else, it meant there'd be traces of a smile on his mouth and around his eyes.

Then he became aware of a buzzing noise. Glancing around as best he could, he eventually realized that the sweet scent of the grapes (Wodowon had insisted on using real ones) had attracted a bee, which was flitting around the bunches in search of pollen or nectar. Since he was being told to keep still anyway, Ozdan left the bee to its own devices. It would probably realize there was nothing for it here and fly away soon enough.

But when the moment came, the bee buzzed right underneath his nose, the combination of its wings, the fuzz of its body, and some of the pollen grains it carried enough to tickle it. He was going to warn Wodowon that he needed to rub his nose, but the sneeze struck before he could do so. “Wushhh!!”

He heard a soft pattering noise and felt little round objects bouncing off his legs. “Careful!” Wodowon scolded, “You don't want to dislodge all the grapes! It'll spoil the portrait!”

Sniffing and giving his nose the needed rub, Ozdan glanced at Perit and rolled his eyes. She laughed and nodded sympathetically. “Would you like me to send for a book, so I can read to you to pass the time, my dear?”

“That would be wonderful. Thank you.” Ozdan said, before resuming his position. He'd do what he could to keep still for the painting's sake, but now he had an idea. When the time came to stand up, he'd have his servants place buckets all around his throne. Then he would get someone—Perit, most likely—to tickle his nose. The resulting sneeze and shower of grapes would be just the thing to shake off the difficulties of the sitting, and allow for both food and amusement besides. The thought was enough to sustain him until a servant arrived with the promised book.

 

[Wig_Powder]

The Minor Arcana: Sword Suit

Ace of Swords

 

Long ago, we angered Hijor, the god of destruction.

No one recalls what, precisely, we did to invoke his wrath. Perhaps an evil king waged too much war in Hijor's name (despite his title, it is widely understood that it is meant as a constructive destruction, the sort that makes way for something new), or perhaps we were unnecessarily cruel. But the sin was enough to enrage Hijor, and he warned us that we would be punished. To that end, a gigantic sword appeared in the sky over Awiss, a pale hand clutching it. Our ancestors were told that someday, he would sneeze a great sneeze and loosen his grip, causing the sword to fall and crush Awiss. While he gave no sign that this punishment could be averted, it was clear that Awiss needed to change its ways, so they would at the very least have a chance of redemption in the afterlife.

And so we have set ourselves to be as noble as we can be (we did not simply flee the region, knowing that he would almost certainly smite us for trying to avoid our destiny), making peace with our neighbors and only assisting them in their conflicts if we believe the war is just. Whenever someone is overly selfish or cruel, pointing to the sky and reminding them of Hijor's curse is generally enough to return them to a kinder path. The few who do not heed the warning are banished or, at worst, executed, in the hopes that Hijor will not judge all of us by their actions.

Every winter, we pack up our more prized possessions and glance up nervously at the sky, waiting to see if this is the year when the sword falls. Hijor, it is said, catches cold during the first snowfall, as illness must temporarily weaken the body to help it grow stronger for the future. Guards are stationed at towers, watching the sword. Whenever the sword trembles, a bell is rung, and everyone poises themselves to run (only those on the outskirts have any real chance of survival, but everyone hopes that Hijor will be merciful enough to spare them, if not their homes). Each time, there is eventually a sound like thunder, and a sharp gust of air that sweeps through the region, but the sword holds fast. After a week, we know the danger has passed for the year, and resume our lives, the fright enough to remind us of our pledge.

Over time, the sword has subtly changed. It remains as bright and sharp as ever, but a crown has appeared over its point. A vine with berries dangles over the left side of the crown, and a long swathe of grass hangs from its right. Every winter, we know the threat is over when Hijor's sneeze shakes loose either leaves or grass from one of the vines. If it is the leaves, we know we will have a good harvest; if grass, we should expect a lean year.

There are some that hope this extra addition to the sword means Hijor is inclined to forgive us, and will eventually remove the sword. But gods are eternal, and take a long time to forgive. So we go about our lives as best we can, and every winter, we watch the skies, waiting for both the first snow and the week that may or may not signal the end of everything.

 

 

Two of Swords

 

When arguments cannot be settled by human mediation, many people often turn to the gods to ask for them to intervene. The next day, they look for any indication that they or their opponent are being favored. This naturally can lead to incorrect interpretations and further animosity. The town of Acwitot, however, has come up with a much more decisive way to settle these matters.

Every month, a young woman is chosen to be the vessel by which the goddess Bine (the goddess of law) will act. Each day, she will be led to a plinth by the sea, blindfolded, and sit with her arms crossed, a sword in each hand. Those who have a disagreement that needs to be settled will then make their way to her, and after paying their respects (and dropping a small offering in a basket), they present their arguments to the goddess.

One of the plaintiffs will stand on the left side of the vessel, giving all their evidence about why they are the rightful owner of a certain tree, or why they should be allowed to marry their opponent's daughter. When they are finished, the other plaintiff will stand on the right and offer up their evidence. After the speaking is done, the vessel will consider for a moment, then, if necessary, ask questions to clarify any uncertainty. Then she will fall silent again for a few minutes, allowing time for the goddess to contemplate all the facts.

At last, the vessel will nod, and a priestess of Bine will step forward with a tin of ground herbs. Taking a pinch of the mixture, she will hold it under the vessel's nose, then step back as soon as the vessel has inhaled it. Shortly thereafter, the vessel will sneeze, loosening her grip on the swords. Should the sword pointing to the plaintiff on the left fall to the ground, it means that they have lost, for it is a sign that Bine has cast aside their argument. The same is true if the one pointing to the rightmost plaintiff falls. If the vessel maintains a grip on both swords, it means that Bine finds merit in both their arguments, and they must work together to reach a compromise. Should both swords fall, it means that She has determined both are wrong, and a third option must be found. The tree, for example, will be uprooted and planted in a public place for all to enjoy, or the daughter will be sent to a temple (whichever she most desires) for a year to study, at which point perhaps passions will cool and things can be discussed more calmly.

Once the judgment is complete, the plaintiffs depart, and the vessel sets down the swords. She is given a handkerchief, a flask of water, and a bit of food, allowing her to refresh herself and clear out her nose from any lingering itches. When she is ready, she takes up her swords again and indicates that the next plaintiffs may come forward. In this way, matters are settled quickly and with very little animosity, and while not everyone leaves satisfied, no one makes accusations of bias. It is a very fair system, and the author sincerely hopes that other towns will adopt this method going forward. Perhaps that way, both bloodshed and broken bonds can be averted.

 

 

Three of Swords

 

It is a fervent belief of the people of Alkwed that upon the birth of every living creature, the gods stick three small swords in their hearts, one going at a left diagonal, one at a right diagonal, and one straight down the center. While this explains why many babies cry out shortly after being born, the Alkwedians insist that the swords generally cause no pain. They are merely there in preparation for some of the possible fates that await the newborn as they grow up.

The centermost sword is on hand for the deaths that come from an outside source. When a person or animal is shot, stabbed, or otherwise mortally wounded in a physical way, the gods pull out the center sword. Sometimes it is quick, sometimes slow, but it slides out easily, and the being dies once it is fully removed.

The sword at the right diagonal is reserved for deaths that come from within the body, generally via illness, internal damage caused by things like a fall, or the failure of an organ. This sword is nearly always slowly withdrawn, offering up the chance for the afflicted to tend to the problem and possibly, hopefully, recover from it. Very occasionally, however, the affliction strikes suddenly, and then the gods are forced to pull it out quickly. And even more rarely, they pull it out quickly, but leave the tip embedded in the heart, pushing it in halfway or more after a few minutes. This is why some men collapse with pains in their heart, but are able to partially or fully recover; it is a warning from the gods to change their behavior if they wish to live longer.

The sword at the left diagonal, meanwhile, is the one that is most rarely pulled. This is the sword associated with deaths that come from emotional pain. It is almost always pulled in conjunction with one of the other two, as the pain of love, loss, or anger will lead the being to fail to look after themselves, or to engage in a combat that they lose by not thinking clearly. But on those incredibly rare occasions when the sword is removed on its own, the gods do it very slowly and carefully, in the hopes that the being will learn to balance their emotions before its too late. They also have a second way of alerting the mortal to their actions; they cause the mortal to sneeze more frequently. Many dismiss it as allergies or an illness, but wiser heads can sometimes identify the true cause, and help the sneezer to identify the problem. This is why those who are overwhelmed with emotion are often described as “heartsick”.

Of course, should someone live a long and full life, dying peacefully in their sleep, the swords remain where they are, untouched. It is a goal most Alkwedians strive for, even if very few actually accomplish it. When asked why no swords have ever been found inside the heart on the occasions when it has been exposed, they answer that the gods cause the swords to dissolve upon the being's death. As there is no way to confirm this theory one way or the other, the story persists. Perhaps someday, we will be able to divine the truth.

 

 

Four of Swords

(Note: the image above was the one I used for the inspiration, but as I was editing pictures into this post, I discovered that apparently the official Rider-Waite card is this one. Someone mislabeled the deck on the site I used, apparently. Still, I think my idea still works.)

 

Tahrat sighed slowly, pressing his hands together and closing his eyes. “Thank you, oh Lord, for delivering me to safety. I shall rest for as long as it takes for my wound to heal and my strength to recover, but I shall also endeavor to regain my energy as fast as I can, in order to return to your service.”

The prayer finished, he rested his hands on his chest and looked up at the ceiling, not wanting to sit up and aggravate the wound on his side. Fortunately, thanks to the stained glass window behind his bed, the ceiling and wall were covered with varied colors and shapes, so at least he had something to occupy his time until someone arrived to check on him, at which time he could ask for a book.

As he shifted position slightly, he felt his sword moving on top of the blanket, and smiled. Reaching out, he found the pommel and gave the grip a squeeze. He didn't expect to actually need to use it here at his family estate, but it had been with him for so long that he found it difficult to not have it close to hand. Tonight, he would have it moved to rest beside the bed, but for now, it was nice to have a friend, of sorts, to clasp onto if the pain increased.

Looking back to the wall, he could see the shadows of three swords. They were the swords of the Steinars who had come before him, swords that had served their masters valiantly and were hung up to honor their service upon the death or retirement of their owner. Someday, his sword would be among them, though he certainly hoped it wouldn't be for a good few years yet.

Tahrat's nose prickled, but since it would be difficult to sit up and find a handkerchief (another thing he would have to ask for), he had to content himself with turning his head and attempting to sneeze into the pillow. “Hatchishh! Etchishoo!!”

His side stung him in protest, causing a hiss of pain. Tahrat sniffed ruefully. Having a cold and an injury that could be jostled by said cold was an unfortunate combination, but it was a risk one took when fighting in the middle of winter. At least the cold had come from his time lying on the battlefield after the injury, rather than being the cause of this injury in the first place. And at least he'd survived to deal with them. He could accept a week of sneezing and several weeks of limited mobility if it meant he was alive and able to enjoy the pleasures of life for a bit longer.

Rubbing his nose (or one side of it, at least), against the pillow, Tahrat turned his head towards the ceiling again and closed his eyes. He didn't want to fall asleep just yet, as he needed to ask for items that would make the rest of his convalescence easier, but he believed a little quiet contemplation would do him good. Even if it ended up being interrupted by sneezes every so often.

 

 

Five of Swords

 

“A pleasure, gentlemen!” Muca called out mockingly, as he started to gather up the swords that had been dropped during the fight.

Baak hissed in pain and clutched the gash on his arm. “Bastard. Now he's got our swords to add to his 'collection'.”

“I warned you this was a bad idea,” Ptali answered, trying to keep weight off his right leg as he searched for a bit of driftwood to help support him, “But you insisted on challenging him.”

“You joined in.”

“Mostly to make sure you didn't get killed. There's a reason I didn't bring my best sword to this duel.”

“He's not even that skilled a fighter,” Baak grumbled, “He just used the terrain against me.”

“You were the one who picked the dueling grounds. You really have no one to blame but yourself.”

“I've practiced on beaches all my life, precisely to ensure I'm able to regain my footing quickly. How was I to know that Dalyti Beach borders a field of gra...ah...ashh!”

Ptali shook his head. “You should have checked before issuing the challenge. Especially since your nose started itching the moment we entered Kivig territory. I'm betting Muca noticed your watering eyes and pink nose and knew he'd be able to get the upper hand if he could navigate things to the grass.”

“It's still not fair!” Baak insisted, removing his hand from his wound to rub his nose against his wrist, “This was supposed to be a test of our swordfighting prowess, not preying on the weakness of the wielder.”

Ptali didn't even dignify that with a response. He knew Baak was well aware that great generals would do exactly that if presented with an opportunity, but currently would refuse to admit it. So to take the sting off the loss, he said;

“I presume you'll demand a rematch at some point?”

“Abso...lshh!...lutely,” Baak said, his allergies beginning to increase as they made their way off the beach, “I just need a bit more practice and to find a proper...dushh!...dueling spot.”

“Well, against my better judgment, I'll be there to help if you want it. I may even be willing to go a step further.”

“Oh? Hishh! How?”

Ptali grinned. “I'll do some digging. Maybe I can find the cracks in Muca's armor...”

 

 

Six of Swords

 

Saira blinked in confusion and a bit of concern at the small boat in front of her. Six swords had been stabbed into the deck at the front end of the boat. “Did you come under attack?” she asked the ferryman, pressing Kit a little closer to her.

The ferryman chuckled. “No, m'aam. Jones, the blacksmith, just asked me to deliver a load of swords to a client across the way. I keep 'em upright like this as a warning. Not that I'm expecting any trouble, but it's better to take precautions.”

Saira continued to look at the boat dubiously. “It's perfectly safe, m'aam,” the ferryman said, “I had the deck specially built to accommodate the swords, so the boat won't be springing a leak. But if you'd rather wait until I've made my delivery, I'll understand.”

Kit looked up at her, eyes wide and pleading. Saira sighed. “No, we'll come with you. My husband is waiting for us, and I wouldn't want to delay our reunion any more than necessary. Kit, stay close to me. And don't touch anything.”

Kit pouted, but nodded. Paying the fare, Saira climbed into the boat and took a seat behind the swords. Once Kit and the bags were settled, the ferryman pushed off. Kit stared at the swords in fascination, asking the ferryman questions about them, the blacksmith, and the man who had bought the swords. The ferryman, amused at his enthusiasm, answered to the best of his ability. Saira, meanwhile, kept a protective arm around Kit and watched the opposite bank slowly come into view, doing her best to ignore the swords.

When they were about halfway across, the ferryman's pole got caught on something, and it took a particularly hard tug to free it. The boat rocked roughly, but fortunately stayed upright. The motion, however, stirred up some of the silt and greenery at the bottom of the river, bringing it briefly to the surface and carrying an unpleasant scent with it. Saira grimaced and waved her hand in front of her face, but the strong scent had already invaded her nose, causing a prickle. Moments later, she dipped forward with a soft but forceful “Kishh!”

The first thing she saw when she opened her eyes was the blade of a sword inches from her face. As she carefully pulled her head back, she realized that she had narrowly avoided grazing her cheek on a second sword. Exhaling slowly, she pulled out a handkerchief to rub at her nose, and nudged Kit to move a little farther down the seat. Then she kept the handkerchief against her face for the rest of the journey, not wanting to take any chances. Swords needed blood to test their mettle, but this was very much not the way they should acquire it.

 

 

Seven of Swords

 

Birat pulled another sword out of the ground, grinning. He'd always enjoyed a good prank, and this travelling carnival was the perfect opportunity for mischief They were going to be here for a week, and after spending a day scoping the place out (and a night checking for guards), he had come up with a few ideas to cause a little chaos.

Tonight, he was stealing the swords meant for the sword-swallower's routine. Since the man was also a fire-eater, his act wouldn't be ruined; there'd just be some confusion and a lot of searching around for the “misplaced” weapons. Then Birat would come back and replace them tomorrow night. There was always a risk of getting caught, of course, but he could always make the argument that the carnival people had been naive to leave such easily stolen items out in the open with no guards about (sticking swords in the ground menacingly isn't much of a deterrent if no one's around to wield them). Really, he was doing them a favor by teaching them that lesson.

As he placed the fifth sword in the crook of his arm, he tensed up as the scent from the animal cages wafted over to him. He'd always planned to keep his distance from that tent, for two very good reasons. First, messing with beasts could lead to serious damage, especially to himself. And second, judging by how his nose had itched the moment he'd poked his head inside the tent that afternoon, he was just as allergic to the fur of large cats as he was to small ones. Perhaps even more so, given the size of their hairs.

Birat reached out and grasped the sixth sword, hoping the smell was just a smell and wasn't bringing any fur with it. But as he wiggled the sword to loosen it from the dirt, he felt his nose wiggle in much the same way. He tried to ignore it, and when that didn't work, he crushed his nose against his free shoulder to try to rub the itch away long enough to finish the job. That only delayed things for a few seconds, and he knew a sneeze was fast approaching. Reluctantly, he took his hand from the hilt and pinched his nose. “Nknnxxt!”

As he dipped forward with the force of the suppressed sneeze, he felt the swords starting to slide out of his grip. In a panic, he managed to drop his hand from his nose in time to catch hold of them. He exhaled, waiting for his heart to settle, and noticed the itch in his nose starting up again. Clearly, this was a sign that he needed to depart while luck was still with him. Giving his nose a sharp rub, he held his breath and began to creep away, moving slowly to avoid the swords bumping against each other. There were still two swords in front of the sword-swallowers tent, which was a bit of a pity but perhaps for the best. That way, he'd still be able to perform, and it might make it easier for Birat to return the other five tomorrow night.

But that was a concern for tomorrow. For now, he needed to make it out of here without alerting anyone, and then hide the swords in his favorite spot near the river. He had confidence that he could pull it off (itching nose notwithstanding), but it was best to keep his mind focused on the task at hand.

 

 

Eight of Swords

 

“There!” one of the men said, giving the knots a final tug before stepping away, “That should keep you from doing anything foolish.”

“And if that's not enough of a deterrent, the swords we've placed around you should do the trick.” Another man chimed in. Laughing, they retreated to their camp, leaving Takma to struggle against her bonds.

The absolute nerve of these men, kidnapping her for ransom! Yes, her father was one of the wealthiest men in Kelspa, but he was more than willing to provide money to those in need, or who could do some labor in return. Apparently, these men preferred getting bounties on their heads to doing an honest day's work. As though they'd have an opportunity to enjoy their ill-acquired gains!

Takma knew that her father would be sending out men to search for her, and despite the attempts of these brigands to hide, someone would surely come across them in the next day or two. But she refused to idly sit by and wait for rescue, allowing these men to revel in their capture. They may have tried to make it difficult for her by blindfolding her, tying her arms, and surrounding her with swords, but they'd left her legs free and, once they decided they were safely hidden, they'd ungagged her. She didn't have any expectations of being able to run from them or convince them to bring her home, but as long as the options were open to her, she'd find ways to use them to her advantage.

Gingerly, she took a tiny step to the side, wiggling her fingers in the hope that she'd touch metal. When she felt nothing, she took another step. While she still didn't make contact with a sword, her movements, small though they were, dropped a lock of her hair in front of her face, tickling her nose with both the soft hairs and the scent of the oil she'd used to wash it two days ago. She tried to blow it away, but it didn't do much good, and a few moments later, she was forced to sneeze. “Hit-tchii!”

As her body shook from the sneeze, something poked her in the back. At the same moment, she noticed that the ropes had slackened, ever so slightly, as she'd sneezed. As her hair tickled her nose again, she decided she might as well try to turn this weakness into a strength.

By the time she'd managed to locate the side of the blade she was next to, she had to sneeze again, but she let it come, trying to position her body at the best possible angle. “Hishii!”

She felt the sword dig into the ropes binding her, not enough to cut them entirely but hopefully enough to start to saw through. Nodding, she began to raise and lower herself on and off her tiptoes, hoping to encourage further cutting in-between her sneezes. If the brigands came over to complain about her sneezing, she'd play dumb and pretend she was allergic to something in the air. It would explain why she'd shifted position as well. With luck, they would accept her excuse, and she'd be free to continue to cut herself loose. And should she manage to free herself before help arrived, she'd have to make a run for it and hope there was somewhere she could go for assistance. If not...well, perhaps she'd pause just long enough to grab one of these swords before she ran. If she couldn't defeat the brigands, she could certainly do everything in her power to injure them.

 

 

Nine of Swords

 

Savajone awoke with a gasp, hands flying to her face to protect it from a blow. When none came, the fog cleared enough for her to realize that the bear that had been charging at her had just been in a dream. She sighed in relief, her heart already starting to still.

As her senses returned to her, she became aware of other things as well. She could feel her body trembling, but not just from fear. Her skin felt hot and damp to the touch, even if the air around her was cold. And as she took in another breath, she found it hard to inhale through her nose. Finally, she was able to put all those facts in the proper order and remind herself that she was ill. That would explain the dream as well; her fevered mind had conjured unpleasant images up as a representation of the struggle going on inside her body.

Just as she was about to lower her hands from her face, her nose prickled, and she merely slid them away from her forehead, cupping them over her nose and mouth in preparation. “Huh...huh-CHSCHH!”

Unpleasant as both the sneeze and the resulting mess on her hands was, at least it allowed her to breathe a little easier. Lowering her hands, she groped around until she found the handkerchief she'd set on her bedside table. After wiping off her hands, she brought it to her nose and blew, clearing still more blockage from her nose. Feeling herself shiver again, she decided she should press the advantage and try to fall asleep before her nose became full again. She felt a brief stab of anxiety at the thought, her hindbrain worried that the nightmares might return, but she knew exactly how to soothe it.

Reaching out to the other side of the bed, she lightly touched the blade of the nearest sword, and her fear almost entirely dissipated. Nevertheless, she ran her fingers upwards, feeling them bump over five different swords and graze a sixth before her arm could stretch no higher. But she knew there were three other swords still higher up, barring the window to prevent intruders. And even in her weakened state, should any true danger arise, she'd almost certainly find the strength to remove the closest sword to defend herself.

Thus reassured, Savajone took a deep sip of water (it increased her shivering, but she knew thirst would make the illness worse) and lay back down. She placed the handkerchief back on the table, then reached out and pressed the back of her hand to the hilt of the sword, hoping its presence would be felt even through her sleep, keeping the nightmares at bay. As she started to drift off, she remembered how people had scoffed at her insistence on keeping so many swords in her house. Perhaps most of them were useless (in the sense that she couldn't possibly wield them all at once), but at times like this, she felt her peace of mind was well worth the effort and expense.

 

 

Ten of Swords

 

“Hrishh!”

“Bless you, Daris. Still haven't kicked that cold yet?”

“Unfortunately not, and I don't think being out here's going to help matters, so let's try to do this quickly. What do we know?”

“Not much. The woman who found the body has no idea who he is. We probably won't get an identification until we get him back to town. About the only thing we know for sure is the cause of death.”

“Gygil.”

“You're telling me. What do you make of it?”

“I think this was pre-meditated, and done to send a message. I'm also almost certain that this man belonged to some sort of band of ro...gishh!”

“Bless you. Things came to blows when it came to dividing their spoils, maybe?”

“Possibly, but that was probably only a small part of it. You don't stab someone ten times and then leave the swords behind, not unless you wanted the sight to make an impression on someone. And see the blanket that's over him? I think they waited until he was asleep to strike. Then they covered their tra...Aktchh!...tracks when it came to everything except the body.”

“Bless you. So, who were they leaving the message for?”

“That's the question, isn't it? It can't have been someone in the band, or at least not solely for them, because then they simply would have shown them the body, given them a warning, and then removed the swords and continued onwards. No, I think they wanted someone in Hanro to see this. Someone who knows this man and needed to be told not to interfere with the group.”

“You think this might have something to do with those robberies from last week?”

“It would make sense. Maybe someone i...ihh...itkshh!...in town helped them get access to one particular set of valuables, then wanted a larger share of the money, and the band decided to respond by murdering one of their own who made a similar demand. Or perhaps the dead man knew the informant, and this is the band's way of making sure the informant doesn't come to us and set us on their trail.”

“Either way, I'm pretty sure the message will be received. What do we do now?”

“We get this body identified, and see if he's got any relatives in town. Even if he doesn't, though, we start asking around, starting with anyone connected to the robberies, and we keep an eye out for anyone who seems a little too nervous to be talking to us. With luck, something will reveal itself from...theehre. Eh-kitchh!”

“Bless you. We'll take it from here, Daris. Head home and try to get rid of that cold. When we need you, we'll send for you.”

 

 

Page of Swords

 

“How's this?” Ulev asked, grasping the sword in both hands and holding it by his shoulder, positioning his body as though he was about to pivot and spring into action.

“Perfect!” Lediv said, moving back to his easel, “All we need is a gust of wind to blow your hair back majestically, but I can add that in once I've completed the overall pose. Now hold skill while I get to work.”

Ulev obeyed, trying to keep his expression serious, but unable to stop himself from grinning every so often. It wasn't very often that a theater performer got an opportunity to have their portrait painted, but this was going to be a key bit of set dressing in an upcoming play, and Mr. Sweval had been willing to commission a high-quality work. Of course, perhaps he had been counting on Ulev asking if he could have the portrait afterwards, so he could make the money back both by taking money from Ulev's pay and by ensuring that Ulev would continue to work with the Sweval troupe for at least another five years. Still, it wasn't much of a hardship; Ulev enjoyed the travel and the opportunity to wear different guises. Having a portrait of himself that he could proudly display at the end of it all was just a delightful extra.

As Lediv continued to work, Ulev dutifully held position, ignoring the increasing ache in his arms and legs for the sake of making sure Lediv got every detail right. But then the wind began to blow, bringing with it dirt picked up from the surrounding hills, along with the smell of soil and grass. Ulev wasn't sure if it was the smell or if he'd inhaled some of the grains of earth, but one of them was causing his nose to itch. He ignored it, hoping it would pass, and perhaps it might have in other circumstances. But the breeze persisted, bringing more dirt and scents with it, and the itch gradually increased. Unable to rub his nose or even wriggle it, Ulev eventually had no choice but to give in.

“Hat-gitchh!!”

The sneeze caused him to lose his grip on the sword, which fell to the ground with a clatter. Ulev sniffed and glanced at Lediv, feeling his cheeks flush. “I'm sorry. The breeze may help with my hair, but my nose doesn't much appreciate it.”

To his relief, Lediv didn't look annoyed. “It's all right. The portrait will be eternally unmoving, but humans can't be asked to do the same. In fact, you've held your pose for far longer than I would have expected. If you'd like to rest your limbs and have a bit to eat and drink, I can work on the landscape. And if the breeze continues to bother your nose, feel free to deal with it as you see fit. Just give me advanced warning so I can focus on a different part of you for the duration.”

Ulev nodded, quickly gathering up the sword and bringing it to Lediv, in case he wanted to examine it to add more detail to the portrait. Then he moved to a tree just behind their chosen spot, where a basket of bread, cheese, wine, and water were waiting He'd stretch out for ten minutes or so, then resume his position. And in the meantime, he'd get to watch an artist at work, a rare but wonderful pleasure. Who knew, perhaps he could incorporate some of what he saw into a future role...

 

 

Knight of Swords

 

Sir Wickanish drew his sword and held it high, nudging Nerra sharply in the flanks. “Forwards, men! Let's show these fools the price of their arrogance for thinking they could conquer Estrafen!”

Nerra reared onto her hind legs and whinnied loudly, completing the image Wickanish had been striving for. It certainly had the desired effect, as the men drew their own swords and charged forward with a roar. As soon as Nerra's hooves had touched the ground, she joined in the assault, quickly returning to the front, as was expected and right. Wickanish tightened his grip on both the sword and her reins, eager for the fight.

Just as they neared the enemy, the combination of the wind and Nerra's rapid movement caused her mane to blow back, some of the long hairs striking Wickanish in his face. They briefly stung his eyes, filled his mouth, and tickled his nose, and even after he pulled his head away, the itch in his nose remained. His hands were too full to rub it away, so he chose to give in to the sensation. After all, while it was dangerous to lose your concentration on the battlefield, he at least had the protection of both his armor and his horse. In addition, it would be hard for the foot soldiers to strike at him from his vantage point. Tensing his body so that he would hold onto his things and maintain his balance, Wickanish turned his head to the side and sneezed.

“ARASHHH!!”

Mildly unpleasant as the sensation of sneezing was, it had two benefits in this case. One, it cleared out the itch in his nose. And two, the volume, force, and harshness of it could easily be mistaken for a battle cry, and would possibly intimidate his opponents. Grinning at the thought, Wickanish opened his eyes, now finding himself in the thick of the battle. With a proper battle cry, he struck out at the nearest man. The last thing that flitted through his mind before he dedicated himself entirely to the fight was that in the future, he would have to try to cut or braid Nerra's mane so that such incidents wouldn't happen again. A bit of intimidation was all well and good, but a sharp sword could do the same thing much more effectively.

 

 

Queen of Swords

 

“Penja Anlove, huntsman!” the herald called. Taking a deep breath and smoothing his clothes, Penja squared his shoulders and stepped forward, immediately bowing before starting to make his way down the carpet that had been rolled out. Nervous as he was, it wouldn't do to dawdle; there were many other supplicants, and they all had issues as pressing as he did. This was their annual opportunity to make requests of Fodamal's ruler, and everyone understood every minute counted.

As he approached the throne, he felt his heart quicken. Queen Ganizan was exactly as imposing as her portraits made her appear. Part of it was her striking features, from the bright, sharp eyes to the wave of red-brown hair that framed her face. Part of it was her posture, which seemed perfectly straight and commanded respect, even when she wore a simple white dress (albeit offset by a blue cloak) as she was doing now. And a very large part of it was the sword she held in her right hand, which many claimed she always kept on hand to either confer blessings or defend herself, depending on what was required. He had been assured repeatedly she never used it to attack unless provoked, but that didn't stop him from worrying that she'd feel the need to use it on him. All the more reason to be polite, respectful, and quick.

“Your Majesty,” he said, reaching the foot of her throne and bowing, “I will be brief, for your sake and the sake of those behind me. A harsh winter is being predicted, and thus we are all doing our utmost to prepare for it. To keep up our strength, our town needs meat. But the best game makes its home in Bisora woods, which has long been declared a royal hunting spot. I therefore humbly request that you allow the common folk to hunt in it, but only for the rest of this year, in order to survive the winter.”

As he lifted his head, he saw an odd look cross her face. Her mouth thinned and her eyes narrowed, and she generally gave off a sense of supreme irritation. Penja flinched and closed his eyes, waiting for a blow from her sword.

“Et-peshh!”

Surprised, Penja opened one eye, and saw Ganizan rubbing at her nose with her other hand. Seeing him looking, she laughed, her features immediately softening and looking much more approachable. “I'm sorry to have frightened you, sir. My nose picked an inopportune time to itch. Of course you may hunt in my woods to feed your families. Indeed, I see no reason why you cannot hunt in Bisora woods for most of the year, barring a royal hunting expedition. I can't imagine that Rapar could completely empty the woods of animals, as long as it's done entirely for need instead of for sport.”

“Thank you, Your Highness,” Penja said, bowing deeply, “Rapar appreciates it, and will remember your instructions.”

Ganizan inclined her head and lightly dipped the sword towards him. “On your way now, and tell your fellow hunters. I shall have an official decree drafted this evening.”

Penja smiled and made his way back down the carpet as the next person was announced. As he passed by, he saw the nervousness on the man's face, but didn't have time to offer reassurances. While he hoped the Queen wouldn't have cause to sneeze again, he also hoped she could give off some other sign to all remaining supplicants that she wasn't anywhere near as intimidating as they all feared. He had a feeling that would be a benefit to everyone involved.

 

 

King of Swords

 

Almost as soon as he took the throne, King Karrik developed a reputation for strictness. He almost never smiled, and when he did, it often was short-lived and didn't reach his eyes. He insisted on discipline and routine in all things, from his armies to the cleaning schedule of his staff. While his punishments for lateness or failing to follow his instructions weren't severe (unless they deserved to be, like a lapse of judgment on the battlefield leading to death), his chiding and palpable disappointment meant that no one wished to be on the receiving end of it, and thus everyone strove to do as he requested. It also, however, meant that no one would approach him unless they had to, for fear that he might find fault with them.

Ordinarily, this did not appear to bother Karrik. He would often sit at his desk or on his thrones (he had a second one outdoors, as he believed that fresh air was beneficial to thinking), and lose himself in his thoughts, making plans that would help Orstro prosper, such as the best crops to plant for the coming year or overtures to make to neighboring regions. There were times where he would sit there, sword in hand (it had long ago been decided that Orstro's rulers would have a sword instead of a scepter as part of their regalia, as it was far more useful), and gaze out in front of him, perfectly still, looking at nothing but apparently thinking of everything.

However, Karrik was as mortal as any human, and as such occasionally fell prey to illness. When that happened, he would inform his servants, and they would spring to action. Soups and other healing foods would be prepared for meals. The cook would make a cup of tea for him every hour. More blankets would be laid on his bed, and bricks were warmed to be set under his feet, to be swapped out every two hours. Most importantly, piles of handkerchiefs were arranged by his bedside, on his desk, and near his throne, to be washed and pressed as the King slept. Much of this had been done on Karrik's instructions, of course, but some things the servants had come up with on their own. They never dared ask, but they thought Karrik was impressed by their application of his ways.

For all intents and purposes, nothing changed. Karrik would still go about his routines, they would just be slower and punctuated by sneezes. And yet, the servants whispered, they thought they could detect a slight difference in him, something that wasn't just illness. Whenever one of them happened to be near him when he sneezed, they would, of course, bless him. And in that moment, when he nodded his thanks to them, they swore they saw a trace of loneliness on his face, as though he longed for something more than just a blessing. But since it could have just been an expression of misery thanks to his illness, no one ever commented on this, assuming that he would say something if he wished to. Although once that rumor spread throughout the palace, the servants did make sure that their blessings were as sympathetic and sincere as they could make them, and accompanied by wishes for a quick recovery besides. It may not have been the sort of comfort he may or may not have wanted, but it seemed to them to be the least they could do.

 

[Wig_Powder]

The Minor Arcana: Wand Suit

 

Ace of Wands

 

The land of Wistral was one that was particularly blessed. The patron God of that land, Botund, was a God of plants and agriculture, and as such was fond of growing things. While the Wistralans still needed to farm in order to get enough food to see out the winter, Botund was very generous, providing plenty of wild fruits, vegetables, and other plants that could be gathered, preserved, and cultivated. As long as the land paid tribute to him twice a year, once during the planting and once during the harvesting season, he was more than happy to provide for his subjects, knowing they would appreciate the fruits of his labor.

In fact, Botund saw Wistral as a sort of testing ground, a place where he could set down new plants he'd created and see how the humans liked them. He had learned very quickly that what he found pleasing or delicious was not received in the same way by mortals, and thus it was worth planting just a few to see their reactions. He always made sure the plants were, if not edible, then at least not poisonous to them, and arranged things so that he would be able to know when a plant was discovered, and thus watch the human's response to it. If they liked it, he would include it into his regular assortment of seeds. If not, he would scrap it, or try to repurpose it into something they might like better.

Every spring, Botund took a handful of his experimental seeds, along with all the seeds of the successful plants, and poured them into his staff, along with a magical pollen that would allow them to take root and sprout as soon as they landed on the ground. Then he would hold the staff above Wistral and shake. If anyone looked overhead, they would see what appeared to be a sapling shedding leaves, which would drift down to earth, sometimes carried a little further by the wind, and disappear as soon as they touched the ground, replaced by a tiny bit of greenery. In fact, many people would come to watch the spectacle, enjoying the sight and praising Botund's generosity.

However, there was one downside to this generosity. In addition to the seeds, the pollen Botund used would be released, rapidly dispersing and settling all over the land. While the pollen helped to nurture the soil and make it better for growing, it was also much more powerful than the pollen found in ordinary plants. Even people who generally never suffered from hayfever would react to this pollen. Thus, Wistral would echo with the sound of sneezes for four days, until the pollen had fully dissipated. Those who watched Botund's bounty would be particularly affected, returning from their vigil coated in yellow dust and sneezing every few seconds. But despite the discomfort, very few minded the inconvenience. After all, the days of sneezing were over relatively quickly, and ushered in seven months of beautiful flowers and delicious plants. Who wouldn't accept four days of sneezing and congestion for that?

 

 

Two of Wands

 

Mojir stepped out onto his balcony, holding up his new acquisition to catch the sunlight. Yankal had outdone himself with this one; a beautiful globe, exquisitely detailed, while also being light and small enough to be held in the palm of your hand. A perfect item for a man with designs as grand as Mojir's.

Taking up his willow staff (a superstitious belief of his—he held a willow staff when he wanted to daydream and a maple one when he needed to plan, hoping he could draw from their power and enhance his thoughts), he set it on the railing, running one thumb over it as he looked out over Bosha, both admiring its beauty and reveling in the fact that it was, for all intents and purposes, his.

It had taken nearly a decade, but Mojir's trading expeditions was now the primary source of income for Cerbel, and he had become the richest man in the region, second only to the King. Many came to him for work, be it sailing to acquire goods or working to process and distribute said goods when they finally arrived at port. And thanks to the sheer amount of money each expedition produced, all his workers were able to look after their families and improve their homes, turning his home town of Bosha into a gleaming gem, especially when viewed from on high like this. This was all well and good, but Mojir wanted more.

He looked down at his globe, smiling. Trading with nearby countries was all well and good, but there had to be more further afield. He was already discussing matters with sailors, builders, and diplomats, in the hopes that he could set up a permanent building for trading in Hutbre. From there, envoys could make their way inland and see what there was to see and, more importantly, trade. It would be difficult work, most likely requiring another decade or more, but if the other countries were agreeable, Mojir might be able to spearhead the effort to connect the world, spreading useful goods and knowledge to everyone. Any excess wealth that came his way was just an added benefit.

As he examined his globe, lost in the possibilities, his thumb caught a loose piece of bark, which was picked up by the wind and blew back into his scent, causing him to inhale the strong, sharp smell of the oils still contained within. He was able to blow the bark off his face, but a moment later, his head snapped forward with a sneeze. “Itissk!”

Lifting his head, he realized he had just sneezed on his globe. Knowing it was strong enough to handle a little bit of spray, Moji merely laughed. He could only hope that Cerbel's goods would spread across the world as quickly as his sneeze had misted the globe. Though hopefully without as much mess and inconvenience.

Shaking his head, he placed the staff back in its holder and returned inside. It was probably best to give the globe a good cleaning before he gave it pride of place in his study.

 

 

Three of Wands

 

Tafsa reached the top of the hill, resting his hands on his knees as he tried to catch his breath. With every ragged inhale, he could feel his nose starting to itch, but today, he would accept the annoyance. Just as long as he saw what he desperately needed to see.

Roscel had gotten word of an invasion fleet heading their way two weeks ago. Fifty ships had made preparations, and set out five days ago to meet the enemy in open waters. One of them, the Ulno, was captained by Tafsa's son Artim. He had promised Tafsa that should he return safely, he would release a sail with a streak of green painted on it. If the worst should happen, he would instruct his crew to paint the sail with a streak of red instead. It was the only consolation Tafsa could cling to, as he made preparations to fight should their defense fail.

Then, just as dawn began to break this morning, the bells had chimed loudly and insistently, word quickly spreading that Roscel's ships were returning. Tafsa had immediately run for the closest spot that overlooked the water, a hill that had been planted with three petasho saplings two years ago. When they were fully grown, they would provide both food and shade. Unfortunately, the scent of their bark did not agree with Tafsa, so he generally tried to avoid the hill if at all possible, joking that the place was cursed for him. Now, he could only hope it wasn't actually true.

“Het-tshhff!!” Tafsa muffled a sneeze into his sleeve and straightened up, looking out at the water, glowing golden by the light of the sunrise. It was a gorgeous sight, but Tafsa barely paid it any mind, looking instead for the first signs of sails.

As he sneezed again, he caught sight of the first ship, a swift, tiny little thing that cut through the water and sped towards Roscel, most likely to bring good news. A few minutes later, two more ships appeared, another small ship and a larger one. None of them had any streaks on their sails; even from this distance, Tafsa was sure he'd be able to spot one.

“Heh...heshff! Esheff!!” he sneezed into his sleeve once more before wiping at his watering eyes. As much as he hated the sneezing, it at least provided something of a distraction. The flickers of annoyance at his sensitivity were able to block out his fear for a few moments.

Then, as he lowered his hand, he saw a fourth ship come into view, and he was clearly able to make out a streak upon its sail. His heart stopped, then beat twice as fast when he realized the sun's rays were angled in such a way that they made it impossible to discern the color. Just as he was cursing and preparing to find a vantage point closer to shore, the Ulno changed its direction, probably following the wind. It was enough to change the play of light on the sails...and to reveal that the streak was green.

Tafsa felt as though his legs would no longer support him, and he quickly threw out his hand, wrapping it around the nearest sapling. Dimly, he recognized that the oil would cling to his hand, causing the scent to linger for a day or so and making him sneeze whenever his hand came close to his face. But at the moment, he didn't care. His son was safe, and the battle seemed won. And even though he sniffed and sneezed sharply a moment later, he knew the sniff had had nothing to do with his allergies.

 

 

Four of Wands

 

Every autumn, the town of Specen holds a festival to celebrate the end of the harvests. There's a large feast, dancing and singing, and various games and challenges, with prizes of varying sizes given to all who participate. It is a wonderful three days, and everyone leaves satisfied and well-fortified for the winter.

One of the more unusual challenges is put on by Lyxca, the town's vinter. In addition to wine, Lyxca grows particularly fragrant roses, a delight to some but a bane to others. He has also heard that for some people, the scent or taste of wine can make them sneeze. With those facts in mind, he devised his little challenge.

As the festival begins, he and his family set up a small canopy. A mass of ivy is tied to the top of four staffs, and then roses and grapes from his garden are hung from them, pointing directly at anyone who stands underneath the canopy. Finally, to increase the odds of sneezing, they spread a mixture of dust and spices across the top of the ivy. When they are ready, they ring a bell, signalling revellers to come try their luck.

One by one, participants stand underneath the canopy, Lyxca's daughter Inos holding a watch to time how long they stand there. For five minutes, they are allowed to stand or sit underneath the canopy, breathing in the scent of the flowers and grapes (which have been punctured to release more of their scent). While they are allowed to rub their nose, they cannot hold their breath, and must inhale and exhale audibly to prove that they are not doing so. If the various smells or pollens prove too much for them, leading to a sneeze, they must retreat from the canopy. The longer they avoided sneezing, the greater the reward, from a single piece of fruit if they sneezed immediately to two bushels of grapes if they made it nearly the whole five minutes.

Those who make it past the five minutes, however, are subjected to Lyxca and his other daughter Jerij shaking the staffs, sending a shower of powder onto them. They are allowed to cover their head to avoid the powder striking them directly in the face, and they can brush the powder off their clothes, but the other rules are still in place. Those who sneeze shortly after inhaling the powder receive a small bowl of fruit, while those who make it longer receive both the fruit and a note promising them a free loaf of bread from the baker. And for those who manage to make it ten minutes without sneezing, they receive all that, plus a bottle of wine, guaranteed to be of good quality.

Very few people have ever managed to make it the full ten minutes, but that makes the challenge all the more appealing to the competitive. Indeed, many people often take advantage of the cleaning that takes place during the spring to surround themselves with dust, in the hopes of building up more of a tolerance to it. It's difficult to say if this has any effect, but it's as reasonable an effort as any. And as some like to quip, at least it ensures the houses are thoroughly cleaned.

 

 

Five of Wands

 

Lekir held his staff at the ready, waiting for the signal. He had reached the top five in the competition, and, if luck was on his side, he would be one of the last two, allowing him a shot at both 500 gold pieces and a chance to train with the city guard. This was what he'd been training for all year, and now that the victory was so close, it was time to really give it his all.

A whistle sounded, and the five men immediately sprang into action, three raising their sticks to strike, one backing away to observe and (most likely) in the hopes that the others would knock themselves to the ground first. Lekir turned his staff horizontally and raised it upwards, blocking the strikes, then shoved his arms in front of him to knock them off balance. Once he'd gained a bit of breathing room, he took a few paces back, then looked for the one who'd retreated. The caution was all well and good, but now wasn't the time for it. Better to get rid of the competition while he was still a weak link.

After checking on the location of the other three (two had chosen to fight each other, the third seemed to be making up his mind), Lekir ran towards the cautious one, staff held across his body defensively but in a position that could easily be brought down in an attack. The cautious one saw him coming and held the staff in a similarly defensive stance, but in a much looser grip. Lekir allowed himself a brief smile; if he could just use enough force to knock the staff out of his hand, then he might be able to strike the man's shoulder and send him to the ground.

Just as he brought the staff down close to the man's hand, a tremendous itch filled Lekir's nose. Unlike the previous competitions, which had been on uneven stone, mud, and sand in order to test the combatants' fighting skill on various terrains, this one was taking place in a dry field. And unfortunately, it seemed that all the running around was kicking up a lot of grass blades, pollen, and dirt. Grimacing, Lekir swept his staff towards the cautious man's shoulder, feeling it connect just before the sneeze struck. “Ar-KUSHH!!”

Something struck his shoulder, and as the sneeze had thrown him forward slightly, the force was enough to send him off-balance, and Lekir tumbled to the ground, producing another sneeze. “Ar-EFSHH!!”

He heard the whistle, and knew, with a sinking heart, that he had been eliminated. As he opened his eyes, he saw that the cautious man had already left the field, suggesting that he had hit the ground first, putting Lekir in fourth place. It was a small comfort; at least that meant he had earned 100 gold pieces instead of 50.

Pushing himself to his feet and pressing his wrist to his nose to stave off further sneezes, Lekir left the field. Tomorrow he'd probably have it in him to cheer one of the last two left standing. For now, however, all he wanted to do was nurse his pride, lick his wounds, and clear his nose over a strong drink at the tavern.

 

 

Six of Wands

 

General Voito sat tall and proud on his horse as the procession continued down the main road. One hand loosely gripped the reins, while the other held up a staff with a laurel wreath (identical to the one he had on his head) to signify that it was he who was responsible for Druft's victory against the Chreni. His officers walked beside him, holding up more ordinary staffs to further emphasize his newly attained importance. There were only a few farmers to see the display at the moment, but as they neared the capital, there would be cheering crowds, the throwing of flower petals, and at the end of the journey, a commendation and reward from the Empress herself. It was the sort of moment any military man dreamed of, and Voito was trying to savor every moment.

There was just one little problem. Though laurel leaves had long been established as a symbol of triumph, their grassy-sweet-spicy scent had always irritated Voito's nose. Having two wreaths so close to his person was causing a perpetual itch, and while he could get away with rubbing at his nose right now, he knew that he would be forced to maintain an image of stoicism as soon as they reached the capital. And then he would have to endure an hour or so of accolades without being allowed to alleviate the discomfort.

However, having been aware of this weakness, Voito had done what he could to prepare should a moment like this ever come. He had located a laurel shrub close to his home, and would visit it in the evenings, standing close to it for an hour and even sometimes crushing leaves in his hand to further release their scent. While it hadn't been enough to develop a tolerance to the scent (something he suspected was impossible anyway), he had, at least, managed to find a way to endure being in laurel's close proximity, such that very few people would notice the effect on him.

As the prickle in his nose grew to a point where rubbing wouldn't soothe it, Voito closed his eyes, clenched his teeth, and stiffened his body. A moment later, his body gave a few light trembles. “Nnt! Mpt! Htt! Hdd!”

Opening his eyes, he sniffed deeply, knowing the sound was noticeable but also knowing it would be drowned out by cheers once they reached the capital. Should anybody unaware of his sensitivity observe him, they would assume he was trying to contain either tears or fear, both of which would be much more understandable than a need to sneeze.

Of course, sneezing like this only reduced the itch, rather than eliminating it outright. Upon being granted privacy, Voito knew that his first order of business would be to dispose of the laurel wreath, and the second would be to release a set of proper sneezes, louder and stronger than usual to make up for being repressed for so long. It would no doubt leave his nose and chest sore, but at least it would provide relief. Then he could dress for his celebratory dinner, and while there would no doubt be laurel present, any further sneezes could be explained away by strong spice or wine.

As irritating as all this was, Voito was more than happy to endure it. He had preserved—indeed, expanded—his country, and would be recognized and honored as a hero. An itchy nose, as long as it could be somewhat controlled, could do little to distract from a day such as this.

 

 

Seven of Wands

 

Havar clenched his staff in both hands, dancing back and forth as he looked at his “enemies”; six staffs arranged haphazardly below the outcropping of rock he was standing on. He knew it wasn't the ideal way to practice combat, but at least it would allow him to learn the basics while he saved up money to afford lessons from a proper teacher.

After hefting and flipping the staff into various positions, Havar turned to striking, pulling first one end and then the other towards him so he'd hit the two staffs at the ends of the line. Then he moved his hands down to grip one end of the staff and swung it in a wide arc, clipping all six of his “opponents”. After that, he lifted the staff over his head and brought it down on the “head” of the staff in the center. Finally, he brought the staff horizontally across his body again and thrust it out, pretending to shove enemies away from him. These were the four moves he was able to practice on his own—once he'd run through them, he began bobbing and weaving, trying to change his staff's position while moving quickly, so that he'd be prepared to strike or counter at a moment's notice. From there, he would run through his attacks again, now trying to do them while in motion, both while he was advancing and when he was on the back foot. He might have almost no skills in blocking, but at least he might be able to get a few hits in as he was retreating.

Havar made sure to practice every day, for as long as circumstances would allow. Sometimes, his job as an assistant weaver would require him to stay until evening, in which case he would use part of his dinner break to run through his four attacks before quickly eating and returning to work. Other times, when days were long and work was light, he would go until his arms and legs were too sore to continue, or if his stomach gave a particularly sharp pang of hunger. During the winter months, he might cut the training short if his outcrop was slick with ice, or once the cold caused his ears to throb. But the most unpredictable time of year to train was spring. While Havar didn't outright suffer from hayfever, he would sneeze repeatedly if enough pollen was thrown into the air. And there was enough grass dotting his outcrop, not to mention bits of lichen growing on the staffs, that his actions would start to shake pollen loose. The only question was, how long would it take to become too much for his nose?

On this particular day, the answer was about twenty minutes. One good whack on the shortest staff released a small white cloud, and even though it wasn't close to Havar's face, the sight of it was enough to influence his nose. “Heh...heshh! Eshh! Etchh!”

Accepting defeat, Havar shifted his staff upright, transforming it into an ordinary walking stick, and left the outcrop, sneezing four more times until he'd finally moved out of the range of the pollen. Still, it had been a decent session, so he wasn't too put out. Though perhaps he would look over his staffs tomorrow and try to remove as much lichen from them as possible to buy himself a little more time in future sessions...

 

 

Eight of Wands

 

Three centuries ago, there was a place called Lake Colque. It was a gorgeous place, with clear blue water, bright green grass, and flowers of every hue. It's said that all the animals who lived there were completely unafraid of humans, and would come up to them to be fed or stroked. In short, it was close to paradise.

Alas, far from treating this as a place of rest and rejuvenation, the humans of old decided to treat it as an easy hunting ground. Countless creatures were slaughtered, some of them to near-extinction. And the humans often washed themselves or their tools in the lake, which began to cause it to lose its clarity. The land cried out in pain for these injuries, and Darenest, the goddess of nature, listened.

When the next hunting party came to the lake, they discovered that the entire area had been surrounded by thick branches, which formed an impenetrable barrier. Attempts to cut through them broke the axes, the branches cut any skin and clothes that brushed against them, and the entire area was filled with a strong, grassy scent that set everybody sneezing. After three days of failing to reach the lake, Darenest made a pronouncement to the humans; the lake had been sealed away, allowing the animals and waters within to heal from all the humans had put them through. In the meantime, she would watch humanity closely. When they showed signs of being able to treat nature with respect, she would slowly begin to drop the barrier. Eventually, if we are deemed good enough, she will allow us access to Lake Colque again. Though she warned that any who attempt to return to the old ways will be immediately cursed.

For decades, it was believed that this was just a myth to explain the mass of branches at the base of the country. But it was true that the branches cannot be cut, and attempting to do so produces fits of sneezing. And after the Vilou line took the throne five generations ago and began efforts to preserve the various plants and animals, there were reports that small gaps were starting to appear in the branches. When King Senhal ordered the planting of a thousand scabosc trees after a horrible combination of drought and fire devastated a forest to the east, an equal number of branches disappeared from the thicket, showing glimpses of a lake as clear as glass.

Today, almost all of the branches have disappeared, though they are still close and thick enough to bar access to the lake, and will still cause injury and sneezes to those who come too close. But if you are willing to suffer through an itching nose and constant sneezing, there is one particular area where only eight branches bar the way, allowing a mostly unobstructed view of the lake. If you so desire, you can stand there for as long as your nose can endure it, admiring the sights, drawing comfort from the peace within, or sketching the animals you can see beyond the branches. There are rumors that the branches retreat by an inch for every person who does these things with genuine intent (rather than doing it with the selfish hope of eventually destroying the barrier). Whether there is truth to this remains to be seen, but one thing seems likely. As long as we continue on this path, Lake Colque will be open to us once more within many of our lifetimes. May we be wise enough, and Darenest kind enough, that this comes to pass.

 

 

Nine of Wands

 

Pala winced as he hauled himself to his feet, all the aches and pains coming back to him as the last traces of sleep left him. He had hoped that a night's rest would have soothed the majority of the injuries he'd received last night, but apparently the thieves had done more damage than he'd thought. He had a cut on his shoulder, a bruise on his head...

“Artchh!”

...And he was apparently coming down with a cold. Though he couldn't blame that one entirely on the thieves; the chill of winter was creeping in, so Pala had been expecting to catch cold eventually. Still, fighting four thieves during a sharp wind and having to defeat one of them while standing calf-deep in the stream had probably sped things up. He could only hope the thief who had ended up soaked to the skin had ended up with a far worse cold.

Picking up his staff, Pala dragged himself over to his usual position. Despite his discomfort, he still gave a genuine smile as he surveyed the eight saplings planted by the road. “Good morning, Your Highnesses,” he said, giving them a bow, “I hope you weren't...feshh!...frightened by the fight yesterday. I don't believe we'll be seeing them again.”

Anyone who saw this display would have assumed Pala was mad (and admittedly, the bandage he currently had on his head didn't help with that impression). But despite the simple clothes he wore, he was actually one of the most trusted members of King Ederda's royal guard. When a jealous witch had turned Ederda's eight daughters into young trees and decreed that they would not be freed until men who were pure of heart watered them with the magical waters from Kyburr Lake (a journey of many miles and just as many hazards), Ederda had tasked Pala with protecting them, ensuring that no unknowing woodcutter tried to cut them down for kindling. More importantly, he was to chase off any man who knew of the curse and hoped to steal the sapling princesses, either to settle some grudge with the king or in the hopes that they could carry the princess to the lake, thus completing only half of the quest. Pala suspected the thieves from yesterday fell into the second category, since they had been armed with shovels as well as swords, but even if they had had somewhat good intentions, they had refused to back down when he politely told them do, hence the fight. Perhaps this tenth instance of being rebuffed would be enough to spread the word not to attempt to approach the saplings with ill intent, but Pala had his doubts.

“Hakshhg!” he semi-muffled another sneeze into his sleeve, then leaned against his staff and surveyed the road. In addition to looking out for threats and pure-hearted men carrying water (none had arrived as yet), an envoy from Erderda would soon be making their weekly visit to provide him with more supplies. While they probably wouldn't have anything to help with his cold, perhaps they would be able to rush back to the castle and fetch some medicines, returning with them in a day or two. After all, it was in everyone's best interest to keep the princesses' guard healthy. But for now, while the cold was only starting to take hold, Pala had the strength and patience to wait and endure.

 

 

Ten of Wands

 

“Damn those trimmers!” Namos grumbled for the tenth time, shifting his stack of logs into a marginally more comfortable position, “You would think they would have a more vested interest in seeing their goods arrive safely at market. What if they ended up stolen, or da...ahh...Ahshmmm!”

He tried to stifle the sneeze, but despite his best efforts, the logs slipped from his hands and spilled out across the road. Swearing once more, Namos bent to gather them up. Again.

Now that autumn was fast approaching, the need for kindling was on the rise. Namos and his fellow trimmers were more than happy to go into the woods and gather the needed logs, especially since they knew there would be an increase in their pay. Ordinarily, they would load as much as they could fit into a wagon, then drive it to the market, where a neutral merchant would sell the logs, and after taking a few logs and coin for themselves, the rest would be divided equally among the trimmers.

Today, however, the wagon had broken. Instead of waiting for it to be repaired or piling the wood in a dry place, the five others had decided that they would carry the wood to market themselves. They'd drawn straws to see who would be the pack mule while the others chopped, and Namos had lost. He'd suggested one or two others accompany him, to either share the load or provide protection, but they'd refused. “It's only two miles, in broad daylight!” they scoffed, “I think you can manage that.”

Yes, Namos could manage that. However, without any twine to carry the logs, he was finding it difficult to carry them. Putting them over his shoulders scratched at his neck and back, holding them horizontally in his arms caused them to ache unbearably, and while it was slightly more comfortable to carry them vertically, that not only blocked his vision, it meant that the logs were held close to his face. And this particular load of logs had a light, papery bark that was easy to jostle...and even easier to inhale. He'd already sneezed and dropped the logs four times, and the extra work, combined with the soreness in his arms and legs, was making him more and more irritated with every step.

There were, however, three consolations. One, he was finally close to Darex, and could probably make it there in another ten minutes (though it would probably be longer thanks to his sneezing and dropping of the logs). Two, he thought there was a good chance of appealing to the sympathies of the town and getting them to loan him a wagon. And three, he was going to ask whichever merchant was in charge of the wood stall that day if they would be willing to slip him an extra coin or two before they put the rest of the day's profits in the communal sack. After all, he deserved a little something for the inconvenience. It may have been petty, but it was enough to make the walk a bit more bearable.

Hefting up the logs, Namos resumed his walk, the logs held horizontally for the moment. Hopefully his arms would hold out for five minutes or more before he had to bring the bark close to his face once more.

 

 

Page of Wands

 

Faraled wiped his brow and glanced around. While there wasn't much of a view at present (other than three triangular mounds of sand that were surprisingly sturdy), there also wasn't any sign of danger, so now seemed like a decent time to have a rest.

Shifting his new staff to rest against his shoulder, Faraled pulled out his canteen and took a deep drink from it. Shaking it experimentally after lowering it from his lips, he decided that it was a little under half full. He'd need to start conserving it, but at least he knew there was an oasis a few hours away. It was possible that he'd been misled by that merchant, but that seemed remarkably bad for business. Especially since he'd been talked into buying this staff, paying fifty silver for it in the process.

Bringing the staff in front of him, he decided to take a good look at it, possibly to justify his purchase to himself. To be fair, it was a sturdy staff, one that seemed like it could survive a long drop without breaking. That also meant it could double as a weapon if need be. And he had to admit, it was nice to have something to lean on during rough climbs, or when he needed a rest like now. Beyond that, it was rather plain, with no decorative flourishes. But the merchant had said it came from a tree native to Bedek, and that, Faraled decided, made up for a lot. Even if it didn't look much different from a staff he could have purchased at home, he, at least, would know it was made of something more exotic. And it would be a practical souvenir of his time here, something that could be used instead of just gathering dust on a shelf. Perhaps he could pay someone to carve some Bedek charms or well-wishes into the wood, in order to make it stand out more and impress his friends.

“Yes,” he said aloud, nodding in satisfaction, “This was a fine investment. I believe you and I will work together quite well.”

As he spoke, a rare cooling breeze passed by, rustling his clothes and also shaking the small leaves that were still attached to his staff (“Recently cut, you know,” the merchant had said, “A rare opportunity to own a staff while it is still new in more ways than one.”). One of the leaves broke off, apparently hoping to follow along on the wind. But as it started its journey, it passed by right underneath Faraled's nose, brushing against it in just the right way to generate a tickle. Chuckling, Faraled let the tickle take its course.

“Eh...etishh!”

With a sniff, he turned to watch the leaf flutter to the ground. “Good luck,” he said, nodding to it, “May you have as much enjoyment of your journey as I intend to have on mine.”

Then, taking a firmer hold on his staff, he resumed his walk. Better to reach that oasis before the sun got too high in the sky.

 

 

Knight of Wands

 

Sir Rimti looked at the odd triangular structures, which were looking more and more manmade as he got closer. They were the most intriguing thing he'd seen in this desert so far, and he was looking forward to seeing what they were. Most likely, there would be a town of some sort near them, and he'd finally be able to make contact with the people of this land. Language would almost certainly be a problem, but with luck, he would be able to convince them that he was friendly. That was why he was carrying a staff instead of a sword for this excursion; indeed, it was a literal olive branch. The people here probably wouldn't get the symbolism, but perhaps the fact that the branch still had leaves on it would indicate that the staff wasn't meant to be a weapon.

As he and Trenrow reached the bottom of the latest sand dune, something emerged from the sand in front of them. It was small, but its black color made it easy to spot amidst the golden sand. Whatever it was, it scuttled like an insect, and Rimti thought he saw something rise into the air, possibly a tail. He suspected the creature was merely frightened by the vibrations caused by Trenrow's hooves and trying to find a place to hide. Trenrow, however, apparently thought it was dangerous, because he whinnied in fright and reared onto his hind legs. “Easy there, boy,” Rimti said, stroking the stallion's neck, “I don't think it can...”

As he spoke, Trenrow's hooves hit the ground again, and Rimti was jerked forward. Fortunately, he caught himself before colliding with Trenrow's neck, but the force threw the decorative plume of his helmet forward, the end of the feather brushing against his nose. Seconds later, the visor fell down over his face, trapping some of the strands and causing them to tickle his nose still further. Sensing that Trenrow was still frightened, Trenrow managed to turn the horse off to the right, towards the structures, and set the staff in his lap before the sneezes overwhelmed him. “Aktshh! Hekpshh! Areishh!”

He could feel a bit of the spray from his sneezes bouncing off his helmet and hitting him in the face, and could only hope that most of it had slipped through the vent-tails. The less cleaning he'd have to do, the better. As he felt the strands start to tickle his nose again, he managed to push the visor up again, freeing the strands. They still coaxed another sneeze out of him, but at least this time, he was able to blow them away. “Atikchh!”

As he retrieved a handkerchief, he looked around him for the black creature, but Trenrow had quickly moved away from it. There was a dark spot two lengths away that might have been it, but he couldn't be sure. What was certain, however, was that it wouldn't be causing them any trouble.

“It's all right, boy,” Rimti said, patting Trenrow's neck, “I think we're safe. Just...try not to panic quite so much next time, all right?”

Trenrow flicked his ears and snorted, which Rimti interpreted to mean “I make no promises.” Shaking his head with a chuckle, Rimti put away his handkerchief, took up the staff again, and continued to ride for the structure. If his measurements were correct, they were only ten or so miles away.

 

 

Queen of Wands

 

Every summer, Queen Pasia of Torikay puts on a grand open-air feast for the citizens of the capital city. Her servants set up long tables on the outskirts of town, where plants are allowed to grow as they please, and a banquet is prepared, containing meats, greens, and drinks of all kinds. Everyone is allowed to eat their fill, and to take home as much as they can carry. It is both a show of Torikay's bounty, and a way to ensure the loyalty of her citizens.

During the feast, Pasia sits on a throne, overlooking the meal with a kindly smile. She does not eat, although she will occasionally sip from a goblet of water. “I may eat whatever and whenever I wish,” she has said when asked, “Today, the full stomachs of my people take priority over mine.” While they eat, she holds a simple staff in one hand and a sunflower in the other, symbols of both nature's beauty and strength, goals she herself strives for. It is all but guaranteed that when her royal portrait is painted, it will be modeled on her pose at this feast.

(The painter will also most likely include Pasia's pet cat Zelop, who is often seen perched somewhere near the queen with clever, unblinking eyes. During the feast, he joins her in her vigil for the first few hours, but the scent of meat eventually proves too much for him, and he spends the rest of the meal prowling under the benches, hoping for scraps. He is often granted them, as it provides an opportunity to stroke his back, which is believed to grant luck. This aspect of Zelop, however, will most likely be ignored by the painter in favor of a more mysterious air.)

When the feast is over and everyone has returned to their homes, food in hand, Pasia waits until all have departed before making her way to her palace and leaving her servants to deal with the tables. Upon reaching the palace, the staff is given to her Royal General, so that it may be fashioned into the handle of a fine weapon, and the sunflower is given to the first maid she encounters, as “a bit of light to brighten up your room”. At last, she will retire to her room, where Masta, her Court Enchanter, is waiting. When the door is safely closed behind her, Masta casts a spell of silence to prevent anyone outside from hearing, then reaches over and taps Pasia on the nose, dispelling the enchantment he cast that morning.

Pasia immediately begins to sneeze, small, delicate sneezes that grow in force the longer the fit continues. You see, Pasia is actually allergic to sunflowers, but knowing that they make an excellent symbol, is willing to endure holding them for six hours as long as Masta works his magic on her beforehand. Said magic prevents her from sneezing as long as the spell is active...but once it's removed, the sneezes that were held at bay come tumbling out all at once.

When the fit is over, Pasia, red-nosed and panting, thanks Masta for his work and retires to bed, knowing the pink of her nostrils will have faded by the morning, and she may go about her business, knowing that only two people know of her semi-shameful secret.

(Of course, now you are wondering how I know this secret. Well, I did say only two people know of her allergy. And fortunately—for I do love my mistress—only those who speak the language of animals will ever be able to understand this. I merely write it down because the lengths humans go to to hide their weaknesses never ceases to amuse me. And they call cats the vain ones...)

 

 

King of Wands

 

King Zuvay took a tighter grip on his staff and leaned forward, hoping it would make it a little easier to spot mistakes made by his troops. The red feathers were fighting well, and yet the white feathers were driving them back. There had to be something wrong with their strategy, and other than General Hilmar, Zuvay was the one to identify the problem.

As soon as he was old enough to understand the concept, Zuvay had been convinced he would be a warrior king, one who would expand Dritien's territory and influence and make it unconquerable. And he had won seven battles, gaining three provinces. But during his last battle, an archer had got in a lucky shot, felling him from his horse and allowing another solder to slice into his leg. While the shoulder had healed, the leg had not, and he had been told he would require a stick to walk with for the rest of his life. Though it had taken two years to come to terms with his injury, Zuvay had resolved that if he could not fight the battles himself, he would ensure that Dritien's army would be the best in the world. Thus, he constantly ran his men through drills, dividing them up by the color of the plumes on their helmets and having them spar, testing out both offensive and defensive measures. It wasn't as good as being on the field himself, but at least he could take comfort in the fact that his armies would be trained as much as possible to do what he would do in their position

As he examined the front line of the red feathers, Zuvay noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. Glancing to the side, he saw that a tiny lizard had crawled up onto the plinth nearby, probably to enjoy the warmth from both the stone and the sun. Zuvay smiled and gave it a nod before turning his attention back to the mock battle. Despite his bloodthirsty reputation, he was actually quite fond of animals and children, and always insisted that they be spared or protected. In many ways, this was what all the fighting was for; to protect the innocent.

Zuvay soon lost himself in the battle, watching as the white feathers chipped away at the defenses of the red feathers. Eventually, the red feathers, realizing all was lost, decided to do a desperate rush for General Pulku, apparently on the belief that at least they would take the leader down with them. They accomplished this with a loud shout to throw the white feathers off balance, using shields and ranged weapons to try to clear a path for their best fighters. The shout must have startled the lizard, because just as the fighters were nearing Pulku, it ran across Zuvay's chest, tail thwacking against his nose. Zuvay immediately yelped in surprise, and then, moments later, sneezed. “Ahlishh!”

When he finally composed himself, he could see that Pulku had fallen from his horse, and that the white feathers had won the battle, though it was difficult to tell if Pulku had truly been killed or captured. At least he could find that out from the generals' reports. Figuring out what exactly had gone wrong with the red feathers would be a lot harder to discern.

 

[Chanel_no5]

OH MY GOD, I love this concept!! I've spent more time with my Tarot cards than with people these past few years and I have considered writing stories based on the pictures (I use the Thelema Tarot) but the sheer size of the project has made me back out every time. So huge props to you for doing this, and with a sneeze theme! 

I don't have time to read right now, but I'll be back!  

[Wig_Powder]

@Chanel_no5 I'm glad the idea appeals to you (and I guess great minds think alike if you also wanted to write based off the cards)! I hope you enjoy at least some of the fics!

[Sneeze-aholic]

Wow, what an amazing undertaking. The Tarot of Sneezing site was one of the first sites I came across and I have fond memories of it. 

I've read about half way through so far and I've loved them all, you have so many ideas and I love the descriptive details.  I'm looking forward to coming back for more when I have some more time! 

 

Thank you for sharing all these. 

 

 

 

[Wig_Powder]

@Sneeze-aholic I'm so glad you've enjoyed these! They were a lot of fun to write, and I'm happy they're equally as enjoyable to read!