No sensation in the world could replace the beautiful cacophony of human activity. Brushstrokes of sorrows and joys, love and loss and life and death - screams of joy, screams of fear, screams of anger. Each person a walking story; tales the charlatan did so cherish plucking at and unraveling the woven strands like the ends of a tapestry. Once upon a time, it had been for the sake of manipulating their emotions and preying on their dreams for a little bit of coin. Now, one might call it… professional curiosity. Morrigan Moonweaver was, first and foremost, an entertainer. Though they’d somewhat found peace in settling within the confines of the Desert Rose Apothecary, the thrill of the show sang in their curse-tainted blood. Sitting in the middle of the crowded Sol City streets, they savored the opportunity to bear witness to it all. Flashing lights and curiosities and games with impossible prizes and twirling performers and all mortal pleasures which one could conceive of.

Idle hands shuffled a well-loved deck of cards while Morrigan breathed in the scent of fried foods and the smoke from alchemical poppers.

Ginma, they’d missed this.

This trip to the city was more intended for pleasure rather than business… a little rest and relaxation after that unfortunate frenzy down in King’s Valley. Though as always, Morrigan wasn’t opposed to a little mixture to shake things up. For now they’d commandeered a table in the open air mess hall of Sol City’s fairgrounds. The Royal line did so love their displays of power, and none was more grand than their annual summer festival. Days - nay, weeks - devoted to indulging in the sin of sloth, of getting lost amidst parties and drinking games and shows for the entertainment of the masses. All of it so utterly delightful, and all of it to the fellblood’s tastes.

Perhaps it was nostalgia that bid their feet carry them to the fair, of all places, in their aimless wanderings. They’d played a few games, won some prizes, grabbed a drink of sweet cool wine… and now they’d settled down to catch their breath and perhaps let some of the fun come to them. It had been so long since they’d done a little fortune-telling, after all.

With the nimble fingers of a card-shark, they twirled the deck in their hands. Fanned-out, bridged, back together again. In front of them sat a crystal ball that was only partly for show. While it bore no ability to see into the future, it did keep a record of all which it saw and touched. Good for posterity. There was no sign advertising their services, no message for their rates. Their distinctive Zeinavian clothing made them stand out enough. Hell, Morrigan wasn’t even sure they’d charge… all that much.

All for the sake of good, clean fun.

They scanned the crowd while their hands moved of their own accord, wondering who might take the bait.

---

SPOILER: Click to show

Quest Name: Enjoy the Festival!
Participants: Two or more
Location: Sol City
Post Requirements: 4 posts per person, 150 words per post
Reward: +1 Renown, +1 Mystical Archive Ticket
Description: The festival is booming, and all that is required of you is to have fun! Stroll through Sol City partaking in any kind of festival-like activity. You can attend the joust, or participate in a sword duel. Maybe watch some jugglers or Bardic Virtuoso's perform in the city square. Enjoy some of the rare cuisines found across Charon at local vendors and markets. The choice is up to you, as long as you enjoy the festival!
(This quest can be completed once per character, however you can only earn the Mystical Archive reward once per member, regardless of how many times it is completed)

It had taken her by nothing short of surprise, that she had journeyed to this city during what she could only describe as a revelry. Not quite as... bodacious as ones she recalled long ago within the Lands of Wonder. Afterall why compare and complain when she could simply enjoy the festivities, the music, the food, drinks, any and all sorts of company. Parties were best spent enjoying every aspect otherwise what was the point in having even shown up? 

Corellia's attention bounced and bounded from activity to activity, ears flickering from the joyous sounds of excitement, and the smells of food and the taste of a freshly opened bottle of wine on her tongue. She hardly imagined she'd get to experience anything quite like this again, so much time spent clung to the stars like a fly in a spiderweb. She was absolutely beaming, thrilled at all the opportunity for fun... And perhaps many opportunities to make some extra gains through clever wording and careful words delicately twisted for her own benefit. 

Cloven steps carried her forward through the crowds of people, mischievous silver eyes scanning along the many stands, games and festivities. Her gaze narrowing upon the Fellblood with a crystal ball set in front of them, curious as they didn't seem to have an signs or prices. That and the clothing they wore stuck out amongst the rest of the denizens of the city. Just enough to catch her attention as an outlier among all the other potential activities. Making her way towards the stranger, giving a brief but polite curtsy as she peered down at them. 

"I don't imagine you have a sign hidden somewhere to explain your services. Care to give me a quick rundown?" She asked with a warm smile. 

As fate would have it, Morrigan did not have to wait long before their not-quite-attraction garnered interest. It had been some time the fellblood had entertained like this - matters of the Consortium had kept them busy over the months - it was such that the gazes drifting their way and the quiet murmurings about what they could possibly be selling left them secretly pleased, their tail swishing behind them as languid as a fisher bobbing in the river.

Truth be told they’d played this game countless times before. There was a delicate art, a balance as fine as a tightrope wire. Draw their interest with cards and tricks and little curios; too flashy, though, and they’d make snap judgements. It only took a single instant for one to decide whether they would follow their curiosity or not. Entice them, but from a distance… let them think the idea was all their own.

And before long, a lone spectator broke the pack.

Morrigan paused, sizing her up between card flourishes.

She was taller than them, but most were taller than the fellblood. Morrigan’s stature came from the presence they commanded - in their stature, the way they elongated their form, the amount of space they filled in a room. Yet the stranger stood out, not because of any intentional manipulations, but because of her natural aura… the way she moved on cloven hooves, the attire she was adorned in, the wild mane of hair framing even more wild horns. A fellblood? No; unique her appearance was, but not in the way infernal magic sunk its gnarled claws into bloodlines and manifested in forked tongues and tails.

They tilted their head, intrigued. They might have been an outlier within the capitol’s crowds, yet so was she.

She curtsied as she approached their table. With manners such as that, how could Morrigan not respond in kind? The false wizard pressed a hand to their waist and dipped in a facsimile of a bow, the best they could manage from in their chair. One show deserved another, after all.

The stranger did not sit - not yet. But her eyes indicated intrigue as she spoke, inquiring about their services.

Morrigan smiled in turn, with all the warmth of a moonless Zeinavian night. “I don’t have one.” They replied, casting an airy wave towards a few tired looking individuals in sun-kissed armor, the Crown’s display of keeping the peace. “Partially because they don’t take too kindly to non-sanctioned attractions. But I would be remiss if I did not attempt to have a little fun of my own, don’t you think?” They asked with a sly wink, as if sharing an inside joke with an old friend.

In answer to her query, though, Morrigan cast their hand over the table. Emphatic hand gestures and grandiose movements, a clear staple of their work. Even sitting still, Morrigan was never simply content to stop moving.

“As for what I offer… divination. Should you have a question you need answered, or vague curiosities as to what has been foretold by the weavers of fate, I consult the stars. And I relay their whispers through the cards.” They plucked the top card from the deck. Backs of the cards depicted magenta skulls and blooming desert flowers. A flip, and she might catch a glimpse of the face.

The Magician.

A little on the nose, perhaps.

“As for what I ask in return… well, my rates are fair, but flexible. However many solars you think are fair. Or, if it’s not coin you wish to pay, I’ll gladly accept reciprocity in the form of an intriguing tale of your own.” A story for a story. Equivalent exchange, no? “What do you say, friend?”

She got a better look at the stranger as she stepped towards them. They certainly stood out compared to the rest of the crowd, perhaps another Fae? Doubtful considering in her current time stuck in the Material plane she hadn't encountered another like her yet. Her interest however was certainly piqued as she moved to take a seat, one leg crossing over the other as she listened to the other speak. 

Glancing over her shoulder to the golden armored display of guards when they gestured towards them, then back to them. "I think it would be a shame if you didn't allow yourself to have whatever fun you wanted, otherwise what would the point be to all this... Revelry? It would be naught but smoke and mirrors. Though if it's not entirely allowed that immediately makes it more fun~" she said with a mischievous smile. 

"Consult the stars? If only they were such good company when I needed them to be, I would have been awfully curious to know what they thought of me." She replied with a soft chuckle. There was the slightest shift in her eyes as she spoke, the briefest moment where her pupils seemed to swirl with the hunger of a blackhole. Blinking and the effect was gone as quickly as it appeared.
She continued watching their hands carefully as they folded through their deck of cards, her careful gaze scanning as the card flipped over. Uncertain what the picture was meant to represent, but altogether more interested in what words the other had to say. "Divination though, I am interested to know what your cards would have to say about me. How could I not wonder what the stars have to say about me after all these years?" There was history behind her words, and a pinch of bitterness hidden behind a honeyed tongue. 

She nodded in agreement, "A story for a story. Equal so long as one doesn't tell some... grandiose tale of adventure and prospect only for the other to turn around and tell what they had for lunch." Which, if she wanted to she could very much have done so but why make it that simple? This person seemed like they would be much more difficult to trick than most, some of the more usual tricks she typically got away with might be more complicated with this horned individual. But that only made it more exciting to try and make her attempts, and at the same time have some fun getting a divination done for herself. 

"May I have your name? Before we begin to exchange stories? You can call me Corellia," she said with a warm and friendly tone. Relaxing into her seat, intentionally allowing her guard to appear down.

There was a fine line between flashy and tacky - in your face yet aloof and mysterious. Morrigan Moonweaver had spent the better part of their youth cultivating all that was enigmatic in the way they appeared on the outside. Flashy clothing, inked markings so puzzling they seemed to swirl and shift the longer one looked at them. Only a practiced eye would be able to discern that all that glittered did not conceal gold on the inside - that their glittery shell was merely hollow.

Not that Morrigan was expecting practiced eyes to wander into their web. Knowledge was a deadly thing, and schemes were best laid out against those without defenses.

Of course, fate had different plans.

Sitting next to a stranger who possessed it - that natural factor, the etherealness that they spent every waking moment of their life attempting to cultivate - it was all too evident which of them was merely a facsimile of wonder. And though the knowledge was nothing new to the charlatan, the reminder did ever-so burn.

“Exactly!” Their lips split into a knowing smile; one which stretched their cheeks to an uncanny degree. “There is no point in maintaining the illusion of order when the fair is one of the few places one can act with no inhibition. Ironically, the closest to their truest selves.”

The fellblood gave pause at the bitterness underlying the woman’s tone. Long had they told false legends of how the Wizard of the Wastes dined with the divine in the sky, and danced among the stars. All smoke and mirrors - all poppycock. Yet there was something in the way she spoke. Something personal. The air grew heavy with magic, pure, tantalizing arcane, so thick that Morrigan thought they’d choke on it.

And then the moment passed.

Morrigan leaned back, allowing their nerves to settle. The pesky mana curse rarely felt so annoying as it did now.

A false fortune, though. They could do that.

Forcing themselves to recenter in the present moment, they nodded. “I may be so bold as to voice that your query to the cosmos can be likened to one seeking closure from an ex-lover.” They murmured. Interesting. A charged fortune, this was to be. Morrigan was old-hat at toying with emotions the way a fiddler plucked strings. The more they felt the less they thought about the sweet nothings they were being fed.

And to receive a story in turn - well, it was no monetary reward, but more fodder for their lies and false legends were always good.

“Yes, precisely!” They clapped their hands together, jewelry clinking together with the movement. “I can assume then, that you are interested…?”

She sat down then, and Morrigan knew they’d gotten her, hook line and sinker. They’d not taken the time to wonder if they, too, had been caught. The charlatan started going through the motions of setting up shop when the stranger asked her another question.

May I have your name?

Ah. There it was.

“Corellia. Lovely to meet you. You can call me Morrigan, in turn.” They we’re careful to use the good lady’s verbiage back at her; though even if somehow, they’d manipulated themselves into giving her their name - as ancient tales involving the fae so commonly foretold - and if her magic was true, she might find, with some matter of surprise, that Morrigan was not the name that this fellblood had been granted upon birth.

Yet it was real. Tangible.

A curious little irony, this one. Which of their names was ‘true’. Either way, it would not be Corellia’s to possess. It was Morrigan’s and Morrigan’s alone.

“Though I am generally known by one of my other titles. The Wizard of the Wastes - enchanter, diviner, storyteller, Sand Scorpion, Sunsplitter, Champion of Zeinav… creator of miracles and maker of elixirs most wonderful.” Most titles fake, some real, and wasn’t it a fun guessing game as to which were which?

“Now, Madam Corellia…” They leaned forward, fingers splayed along the crystal ball, which pulsed with an arcane light. “I find my fortunes more potent when a clear objective in mind acts as a guiding light. So, friend, what do you wish to ask your precious stars?”

In the moments she sat down she began to quietly examine the horned one across from her. Subtly realizing that there was likely many stories they had to tell, the way they carried themselves. The inked scrawling along their skin that so often painted one's heart and soul upon their sleeves, the question that clawed at her mind was what was the intention of the painting she laid eyes upon?

And was it even the full picture, or canvas laid upon canvas to conceal yet another layer. Layers of shame? Embarrassment? Pride? Ego? The temptation to claw back each picture to see what the original was became ever tempting. But for now she had the pleasure of witnessing what remained upon the surface. One of the most satisfying part of dealing with people was getting to peer into what they hid beneath all of the outer layers. All of the embroidery and flesh that lead to the core of who somebody was.

"To maintain an illusion is to maintain nothing at all. There is only order so long as one does not seek chaos, and chaos is so much more... tangible. Therefore more enjoyable." She replied with a soft smile, "If all here were to show their truest selves I wonder how many would find those selves to be palatable? I think many would feel shame to be their truest selves. It's a pity, I'd love to revel in a party such as that." She said with a soft mock sigh.

The satyr shook her head, "Merely speaking without cause, would that there was any love between me and the cosmos perhaps it could seem that way. Although closure is something I would very much desire." She spoke with a soft assurance to her voice, like silk laced with poison, delicate yet corrosive. Her eyes briefly shifted towards her right hand as if eyeing an old wound, the void-stained fingertips still curled around a bottle of wine.

She nodded, "You can assume that I am. I'm interested." Taking their name in mind as they spoke it, she felt a twinge of disappointment in their wording. Certainly she could expect more of them though, this individual didn't seem as quick to fool as so many before them. And where disappointment was felt it was replaced with a healthy fill of excitement.

Listening as Morrigan listed off a cacophony of titles, "So many ways to be called - I'd ask the history behind each of them were the name Morrigan not so simple and lovely to use in their stead. Though I know wizards do love their titles, really a badge of honor for most of them I've met if they can be called everything and everything under the sun other than their own names."

Titles had nearly as much power as names, not quite the same however. But just like names that power was something that could fade away with time, whether the fear, respect, joy, sadness any amount of emotions that came along with a name or title would lay waste with the same weakness. Time. No one to remember them, history moving along and leaving them to the wayside until even the etchings on gravestones eroded away into non-existence. But she was timeless and any names she could have for her own would never lose their power. A shame that this one's name eluded her grasp.

She brought the bottle of wine to her lips and took a quick sip as she thought on their question. What would they ask the stars? Surely she wouldn't get any real answers, certainly not from a diviner on the streetside. But what harm would it be to ask whatever she wanted? "I would ask... What are they hiding from me?"

It was not that the air contained any amount of tension, per se. Moreso that it was alive - humming with anticipation, waiting for the other shoe to drop. The song between snake-charmer and snake: which would give first, the creature’s bloodlust or the charmer’s song? Morrigan wanted to believe their own cunning might win out, but Corellia struck first with a statement that rung true to Morrigan’s very core.

I think many would feel shame to be their truest selves.

The flinch was almost imperceptible. Almost. Barely a stutter, a crack in the facade. Performers were ever-so-fond of their masks. When you didn’t take it off, which was fake and which was the true self? Corellia could not know - there was no way a simple erstwhile glance could allow her to strike exactly at the core of their heart. At Kaivalya. Could it? Kamille had divined their entire past in a single touch, after all.

Morrigan forced a smile and continued on.

“Masks exist for a reason. Giving people a chance to take them off and air out their own darkest secrets prevents them from suffocating and breaking apart entirely. Let them air out, and the shame is nearly tucked away and hidden the next day. An effective system, no?” They paused, tilted their head. “Except for myself, of course. It is for this reason I strive to live as my authentic self every single day. I merely… blend in a little better, in events like this.” All a lie, of course.

Morrigan was ever so fond of pretending that all of this - the glitz, the glam, the bravado - was themselves, laid bare, with no reservations. Morrigan was the mask. A cobbled-together culmination of everything Kaivalya wanted to be while the child withered away, leaving behind a clownish caricature. Corellia’s statement was merely a reminder. Yet, as much as she was looking at them, Morrigan was perceiving back. How much of you is real? I may be hollow, but what are you?

Like they said. A story was just as valuable as a solar.

Morrigan smirked. It seemed that in turn, the comment about lovers had hit a sore spot. “The opposite of love is not hate, but indifference. Whatever the feeling, obsession is what that has taken root.” They winked. “Fortunate for you, I happen to live with a gardener.” Closure was what she wanted. Closure was what Morrigan could offer.

“Then I will assume so, freely, and we shall begin!” They relief with the same coyness with which Corellia fashioned aloofness. “There will be plenty of time for stories and talk of titles afterwards, considering it would take far too long to get through it all!”

Yes, plenty of time to go through their litany of real and false titles later… perhaps even over festival food and a drink. Even if they were currently scamming Corellia, Morrigan had the feeling that they were like-minded enough to get along. What the future held was yet to be seen, but Morrigan always enjoyed rolling with what life offered. But for now - fortune telling. “Let us see if they are willing to be more forthcoming today, shall we?” There was history here - ancient scripture Morrigan could not begin to parse through. But they could make an educated guess.

And, well, that was what they’d promised, was it not? A story for a story. Corellia might find herself pleased to find the clever little not-lie in their service… once she was done being mad that she’d been tricked. Morrigan closed their eyes and shuffled the cards, counting in their mind each position of the deck. What was intended to resemble a game of random chance, a spark of the divine guiding their hand, was really just a card-shark’s knowledge of the deck, and the ability to draw the precise card they had in mind. This was the oldest scam in the book - where Morrigan had built their bones. The show-and-tell, the ability to read people and lean into what they wanted to hear.

In some cases, it worked better than others.

Corellia, for all her words laid bare, dancing around truth and lies the way a ballerina danced around a stage, was surprisingly difficult to get a read on. Morrigan could not properly discern what was hyperbole and what was literal. Talking about the stars as if they were real, tangible entities with sentience - so readily agreeing to their jokes about the nonsense of lovers and speaking of them as if they were people.

What are they hiding from me?

Yes. This one was perfect.

With a decisive finality Morrigan flipped over the card that had miraculously made its way to the top of the deck.

The Five of Cups, Upright.

“Oh, my.” Morrigan murmured, affixing surprise as if they had not intended for this very thing to happen. “A curious little card. One which contains a multitude of emotions within its parchment. Loss - regret - disappointment - sorrow, grief. Upright, this card magnifies the regret one feels in the past, a focus on horribly negative emotions.”

They glanced up at her.

“Perhaps what the Stars have hidden from you… is an apology.”

There was a deviousness held in the core of her gaze. Had her words struck a chord somewhere? It was difficult to tell, for all that Morrigan seemed to present towards her if it was real or fake she couldn't tell what layer she was looking at. Had she managed to peel one off, or had she only barely managed to crack at the edges of the page? Whatever the case might be she adored the feeling of having a tongue-sheathed knife held between the two of them and seeing who's words would cut deeper. 

"An effective system? One wouldn't need a system if they bore themselves fully outwards for the world to see. Masks are pretty, tantalizing and mysterious... But what happens when one takes it off and they're just," she sighed, "A bore. Why strive when you could simply... be." she replied with a soft smile that betrayed the attempt to dig a little deeper. "Shame to tuck away for later? Sounds like something for those that need pockets." As she spoke she took one last sip of her bottle of wine before dropping the bottle towards the ground. One expected a loud shattering noise but the bottle simply vanished away as a small black hole opened and close tucking the bottle away. Amused with her own small display.

Whether anything that she said held truth about herself remained to be unseen. For all of her bravado, she was null and void. Whatever she once was and whatever she was now had been fractured with some great butchery of her essence, she knew far too well she was missing something. Memory, connections, purpose, power, all of it had been stripped away from her leaving her a swirling pit of a being. And it hurt deeply to know so. 

 Obsession. She cracked a smile, playing the part as she laughed at the joke about the gardener. "I hope the gardener is prepared to dig quite deep." she returned the banter.

"Of course, of course, stories, titles and all may come later." Granted she had all the time in the world, it wasn't as if she would turn to bones and dust like any of the material-walkers. "And stories are best told over some food and drink, is that not the case?" Trickery aside Morrigan did seem to be an interesting individual, one she wouldn't mind brain picking later. Or if she could dig her claws into them in any meaningful way they could be of use; manipulation was doubtful however as a tool. They seemed too keen for her typical tricks to work on, but that wasn't seen as a bad thing to her. It only offered a valuable challenge. 

Corellia relaxed once more into her seat, leaning forward as the fellblood made way into their divination. She was positive there was some sort of trick to it, but as quick as her vision was she wasn't privy to the sort of tricks that could be pulled with cards. The idea that a deck of cards could truly tell her anything about herself or her problems was laughable, that one could read the stars and know one's fate. In her experience the stars were uncaring, vacuous and cruel but beautiful.

As the card flipped over she peered down to look at it, silvered gaze looking to Morrigan as they described and spoke on it's meaning. 

An apology?

She held onto many feelings that threatened to show their ugly faces in that moment. Anger, laughter, sadness. An apology for what had been done to her was unacceptable, ridiculous and spat in the face of what she had suffered. What she did to her was unforgiveable... Remorse, regret. Her emotions felt turbulent and voracious when she thought about all the years she spent in that horrible silence. 

Though a name came to her mind. One she'd not uttered in what felt like eons. She dared not utter it.

The only expression change on Corellia's face was the briefest twitch of her lips, sourness threatening her otherwise neutral expression. She laughed softly, remaining composed as she sighed, "An apology. Huh, not what I expected I'll admit." She spoke calmly, any frustration she felt wasn't to be directed at Morrigan. "Well- Can't wait to hear what's to be said in the apology. Must be taking an awfully long time to write it up." Her tone turned playful again, shifting once more between emotions like a river's current. She was a foolish liar, even she needed a mask every once in a while. Perhaps she donned it far more frequently than she would ever care to admit. 

Corellia might be pleased to learn that her manipulations had not been for nothing. Their only armor came in the form of glitter and kohl, a galaxy painted on their face to hide cracks and strains from the world. No room in their glamorous visage for armor. But like the pointed barb of the scorpion’s stinger, they would not be drowned without digging their poisonous hooked into one’s skin and dragged them down, too.

This game was feeling less and less like a fortune telling and more like an attempt to gut the other and see what color their blood might be. And one as adept as reading the miniscule idiosyncrasies of others such as the satyr would be able to tell she’d dragged out the very same reaction she intended to.

Why live like that, indeed?

Why did Morrigan need to bother with a façade?

But words, fickle as they were, were often not but mirrors which were wielded as weapons. A sad attempt of hiding one’s own nature while projecting it out to the world. Morrigan believed in the importance of masks as a way to live freely without exposing the rawness of one’s self; Corellia saw them as a prison. They had to wonder whether being amongst the people chafed her in the same way it did them. In the lack of understanding, in the way a broken puzzle piece can never fit into its slot.

They managed a shrug.

“It is as you say. If people lived freely, then eventually the flames of pleasure would leave behind nothing but the embers of shame. Nobody ever desires the truth. I like to think about the world as a masquerade ball – it is only behind the illusion of anonymity that people will ever feel comfortable enough to be their truest selves.” Irony. A fickle mistress.

“And what is drink without merriment?” Morrigan agreed. Despite the differences between the two, Morrigan would not deny themselves the whimsy of… intrigue, was the best word for it. Even as opposite as those ideals were, it was rare they ever met someone who they might understand. Whatever stories she had, Morrigan wanted to get to the root of them. “Perhaps you might enjoy the tale of one of my more recent exploits… my venture in uncovering corruption in the ranks of the Knights of Galavance. Of course, if you desire more later, then you may be liable to paying for my tab. Tit for tat, after all.”

Oh, how delightful it was to savor the twist of her lips, souring the sweetness of the wine she’d been enjoying. Though it had been some odd years since Morrigan brushed off the fortune-teller act, so one could only imagine how pleased they were that they still had it in them to find the most sensitive parts and poke at them, prying apart one’s ribcage to catch a glimpse at the beating heart underneath the way the dearest Doctor Kvasir Sigurros would employ his surgical skills. Morrigan simply wielded a scalpel of a different nature. If they’d been cursed with even a smidgeon more empathy, Morrigan might have felt a twinge of regret at the shock that overtook her face, gave her pause.

Given that faeblood (or what Morrigan could only assume was the mark of the faeborne, given the way her aura shook them to their very core and made them feel slightly sick in only the way a being of pure magic could) provided such a brazenly honest admission, Morrigan could only take that at face value that she meant every word.

“I do aim to please.” And shock and awe. Whatever it took to leave a lasting impression. “I must admit surprise myself.” They continued, peppering in honeyed little lies with the conviction of someone who’d trained themselves to believe them.^[1] Of course, they’d been the one to plan for this outcome, but one never did know if playing with fate was liable to get them punched in the face of lauded like a god. “I must imagine it’s been some time indeed, for if we are to assume that the stars hold for us the past, present, and future, then this apology has been a long time coming.” They ran a clawed finger delicately over the depiction of the mournful robe-clad figure lamenting the spilled wine across the ground.

“Yes, an apology many years in the making.” They hummed, noncommittal. “Long enough to span lifetimes, perhaps-?” Small talk padded the time between readings – let Morrigan dig a little more, paint a clearer picture of this sordid past which had left its scars upon Corellia. A pause – a breath, which spoke to the practice they’d put into pacing this act – before they placed their hand upon the crystal ball’s surface.

“Now, I cannot put pen to paper and give word to the exact remorse that these ‘stars’ might give to you.” They murmured, dancing delicately around the cosmos; it was still difficult to piece together the deeper meaning that Corellia heard, the notes between the lies. Were the stars, maybe, an allegory for someone else? The past lover comment was making more and more sense by the second.

Another pause.

“However! If you wish for me to dig deeper, I am more than happy to oblige. Gleaning anything concrete and exact will require more effort on my end, however. Perhaps even enough to merit a touch more compensation.” The fellblood glanced up, coy. “The choice is yours, friend.”

---

1. Smooth Talking

There was a silent sense of satisfaction that permeated in her heart. She had sunk her claws in and dealt what damage she could, there was something to be delighted in about that fact. Though the fellblood had a surprisingly difficult shell of armor to crack, she doubted she could truly sink her teeth in as deeply as she would like to. Though the idea of breaking someone with so much fortitude as they had as thick of a mask that they held over their face, it was a delectable thought. But a task she sadly wouldn’t have the time to perform.



They had also dealt their own blow, it was difficult to get under her skin in any form but they managed to do just that. Whether it was intentional or not; which she had no doubt that it was. The circumstance of the reading no matter if it was false or not struck a little too close to feelings, she didn’t know she harbored. But she felt them, like needles poking through the skin deeper and deeper the longer her thoughts delved and searched through the muck of her mind.



Composure. Keep your composure.



She sighed, “I do pity those that have to hide behind a mask their entire lives though, don’t you? I’d rather despise my true self and revel in that shame if it meant I got to enjoy every pleasure I could. A shame filled heart is a life well lived.” She said with a small smile, though shame was something she rarely found herself feeling. It was easy for her to say such things. Though whether or not she truly felt that way was a mystery even to herself, perhaps she merely convinced herself she couldn’t feel that way through millennia of lies and self-deception. Was there a point in time where she had donned a mask and through the many, many years she had lived the materials had rotted away and become a part of her. A sinister deception so long kept that the decay had seeped in and changed whatever she once was, whomever she once was.



Decay, rot, emptiness. Roots weaved and knotted their way throughout her heart and soul leaving a vast nothingness that she would never be able to explain. She bore a singularity where her heart should be, where nothing would escape and not an ounce of light would be free from her center. She was null. A beautiful zero.



Corellia’s bothered mind showed itself for only that brief slip up, allowing herself to seamlessly flow back into the comfort of a conversation. Marionetting herself into a position of normalcy, “A drink without merriment? A damned shame is what that is.” She said with a soft laugh, listening to them and their offer for more stories. A cost of a few drinks seemed more than worth the price for some more stories, “I’d certainly like to hear that tale, you don’t look like a knight though. I’m curious what led you to help uncover corruption in their doorstep. And if it’s drinks you’re wanting after this then I’m happy to oblige.” And she did mean that, she was happy to spend more time with someone interesting no matter what they may disagree on.



She gave a moment of quiet again, of contemplation before nodding. “It would have been many lifetimes. But only one of my own.” She wasn’t ever going to die of old age, that was laughable the thought of her dying wrinkled and weak. “It’s very impressive, this divination. That you could manage to pick the right few words to wriggle the smallest of truths from me.” She said, “Impressive, more so that you could manage to do such with nothing more than sleight of hand and a silver tongue.” She added with a devious smirk.



“Not a drop of magic, not a single ounce of it channeled into these cards or into that orb.” She said looking to where their hand fell upon the crystal ball. Even small spellwork or enchantments would have given off a small trace of itself. “And yet still, a divination that possesses some truth.” The satyr’s voice sowed the lines of irritation and compliment. “You’re quite good at what you do I’ll give you that.”



“But there will be no need to dig any deeper, were you to do so. You’d find about as much as I’ve found, which is blank spaces and forgotten trails.” She said with a shrug of her shoulders. There was nothing she could do about that yet, she was still getting her bearings. “Though if you’d care to regale me with some of your stories I can provide whatever manner of drink you want. After all, a drink without merriment is a shame. And a story without company is just… sad. I'd assume you know of a good spot to go to?” 

She was well practiced at batting her eyes and getting people's guard down, very few made her have to actively challenge herself to get under their skin. Maybe given some time she could peel a few more layers off Morrigan's to find out some proper truths about them. 

Another pause. Barely the span of a heartbeat.

“If you desire my honest opinion, Madame Corellia-“ And it was entirely doubtful whether the opinion they were about to offer was in any way honest or not - “We have a certain… way of thinking, in my line of business. One wherein we examine the most base self; the it. It is, in simple terms, the rawest, most base pleasures a mortal contains within their shell. Then there is the other-me, the outside shell we justify and moralize and present to the world. All of it comes together to make the me. Take away the other-me, the mask, and all you can be likened to is a dog let off its leash chasing a prime cut of meat. And on the other hand, take away the desire and all you’re left with is a marionette.” Pretty, but meaningless when left to its own devices.

In the absence of any real wine or fine drink they pulled a small flask out of their bag with one hand, and with another smooth motion, poured it into an empty, but only somewhat clean, alchemical phial. A good night of conversation could never start too early. Though they hesitated to imbibe too much at once. Morrigan needed their mind and tongue sharp for this, after all.

Any other fool that wandered to their booth might not have required such rapier wit or focus; any other fool would not have been able to offer such a riveting verbal spar. Perhaps it was their lucky night… one Morrigan didn’t feel particularly keen ruining some scam for her coin when this back and forth was much more fulfilling.

“What I am trying to say is this - I think, without the outer shell, none of us would lack the rationality to understand why giving into our animal urges is so sinful in this zoo we’ve meticulously built for ourselves. Or while giving in after denying one’s self the pleasure for so long is all the sweeter for it.” Were they referring to themselves, as they spoke so plainly about shame and joy and indulgence and temperance? It was difficult to say. But it was clear that Morrigan had long since given up denying themselves anything - and that living with no rules or reservations, under their own ‘visage’. And it was that very falsity which had empowered them in the first place.

They could not help but tilt their head at her declaration; A shame filled heart is a life well lived. Morrigan had to wonder if that was a pretty little platitude that Corellia had reserved just for herself.

“Speaking from experience, friend?” They set down the phial, resting their chin between both hands. A forked tail swished behind them lazily, as if they already knew the answer. “Have you a life well lived?”

A more… direct parry, considering how they’d danced around one another thus far. Morrigan was never opposed to a little dancing.

They could not help but be pleased, though, that Corellia seemed far more interested in stories than in losing her coin over a few drinks. Morrigan got the distinct impression that she was not particularly interested in mortal coin. They did have to laugh at the assertion they didn’t look like a knight. An understatement of the century. “I don’t look like many things, though that has never stopped me from pursuing them. For my own curiosity, mostly. As for how I uncovered corruption… well, I can’t just give the ending away before the play has even started, can I?”

They winked, as if to say, patience. All in due time.

Bold words for someone who had no patience themselves, but entertainment was all about baiting your audience on a hook until they started pursuing of their own accord. The rest would have to be saved for after the fortune’s conclusion.

And what a fortune it was.

If discussion about masks and their pitfalls had rattled Corellia, then the mention of apology seemed to strike like a Lance through the heart. Many lifetimes; there was history there. Deeper than even some of Charon’s oldest rivers. Morrigan could work with this… or they would, if Corellia did not up the ante.

Morrigan’s smile took a turn for the devilish.

They should not have been surprised that she was able to parse out their own bullshit. Of course a being of pure magic could sense the absence of it; that where a font of magic, of life, might be in any other living person, no matter how faint, it just… wasn’t in Morrigan. That they possessed nothing more than a yawning void, a black hole, a hunger that absorbed everything in its path; and rejected it.

“I like to think that there is real magic in being able to glean truth from minute words and expressions.” They replied after a moment’s thought, not doing her the injustice of denying what she’d already learned. This was hardly the first time a powerful mage had sussed them out; and she had requested a tale, after all. “And I maintain that the manual effort of reading indirect clues and convincing one of a conceivable, personalized outcome is oft more impressive than simply plucking memories from past and future.”

They nodded, waving a hand over the crystal ball. “Enchanted toy. It records all I see and touch. And the cards… well, let’s just say I’m good at counting them. Though I shouldn’t be surprised that a Denizen of the Land of Wonder would be able to figure out the trick.”

And then… they dipped into a small bow at the waist.

“And now, your generosity spares me the risk of insult at having to guess as to what such an apology might contain. Truly, I am in your debt. As you are now in mine.” They picked up the tarot card and flipped it between languid fingers before tucking it back into the deck. “I think maybe in the form of the story of exactly what happened between you and your stars.” The cards were tucked neatly into the bag. The crystal ball, conversely, they plucked from the table and brought up to their shoulders – where a normal glass weight might have dropped, the ball simply hovered there, passive and inert.

“Hmm… the Brass Dragon is a popular establishment in Sol City. Perhaps it might be busy, though I like to people watch.” They added with a wink.

Her lips pulled upwards into a razored smirk, "My dear... All I desire is honesty. As much as I love the song and dance." She would allow them to speak, hanging onto their explanation. Whether or not the explanation sunk in at all was up in the air. Their way of thinking did manage to hold some truths to it, too much of one without the other; be it the It. Or the other-me. As they had put it, and one would find little meaning in their existence. But why deny either half of ones self, could one not be as pretty as a doll but let their instincts run loose like a rabid beast? If one honed these parts of the self, why ever feel the need to limit. But at the end of the day maybe the performance was half of the fun, half of the joy, creating the mask, shaping, molding and sealing it upon the disgusting little animal hidden in the underbelly. "Your words do hold merit, I'll admit. You speak your truth's, and I speak mine, I respect that." She paused; her mind stewing as she chose her words with careful precision. 

"I do have to wonder. Do you believe you've had both the 'it' and the 'other-me' come together. To fruition of the 'me'?" She asked curiously, a subtly tilt of her head as her eyes pierced through them trying yet again to read whatever little expressions might crack through that carefully curated mask. "I would very much like to know who are you? At your core, at your base passions, desires, are they balanced enough to be as you say? Or are you just a beast, a pretty puppet that hasn't noticed the strings? I could very well be the same... What control one would need to have over themselves to be as you say. I don't believe people have that sort of self-control. Least of all you or I." 

"Just my guess. But you're such an excellent liar, you can't even be honest with yourself." Her voice drawing upon a duplicitous nature. The statement neither directed at Morrigan nor at herself, but at both. 

She let out a soft sigh at the question. Have you a life well lived? 

"I should think so, or I should hope so rather." She answered honestly, "I've lived with shame and continue to do so. But I cannot say what I feel shameful of; I simply don't remember." She idly curled one of the braids that hung at the side of her face, twirling the silver hair between her fingers as she spoke. "I've a life without age, timeless and with the privilege of being able to face every aspect of myself in it's fullest. Hate, anger, shame, sadness, happiness, regret, love. I've had a thousand lives well lived. And a thousand more squandered. But I refuse to add anymore lives to the latter. So in short... Yes. I believe I've had a life well lived."

She gave a short chuckle, "True, you don't. And I'm certain I don't look like a great many things either. That's the fun part though is unveiling what's beneath the surface. The fact you've not stifled your own curiosity is to be commended." She made a mock pout on her lips, "Fair... I suppose knowing the ending would not be any fun without knowing the beginning and middle. Otherwise it would be much less a play and more of a summary."

She was ever more impressed by them, by their demeanor and the way they had managed to upend her sense of calm. Rarely did she come across any individuals that could go toe to toe with her, so naturally knowing the steps and the rhythm of this chaotic dance. At her core she despised having allowed anyone to bother her so, and yet it stirred a sense of thrill; she was grateful for the opportunity to hurt and be hurt. 

"Real magic." She repeated the words. "Magic is what one makes of it. Perception and unfolding the many layers of lies and truth between each realm. Every word, every expression, every quiver of one's heart reveals another page to be torn and read aloud with the very same fervor of the mightiest of mages. You and I would be in agreement. What you manage to do is far more impressive than plucking memories forcibly through the schools of magic. There is a beauty in both the school of arcane and the school of perception; but only in the hands of those of elegance and true mastery." Her tone was complimentary, she truly did believe Morrigan's deceptions to be impressive.

Corellia looked at the crystal ball, then back to Morrigan. "Figure it out, certainly. But you've mastered it in a way I would simply not be able to replicate. You have your ways and I, mine." she smiled. 

She would bow her head in turn, showing a surprising amount of respect for the Fellblood. She didn't like the idea however of being indebted to them in any way, but perhaps she could use such a promise to her own advantage. She would have the upper hand given enough time either way. Or so she felt. "I can tell you as much as I know; but tell you I shall once we've changed the location of our little dance."

She waited as Morrigan put their things away, the satyr standing up gently from her seat and dusting herself off. "Well, I'll let you lead the way. We can share stories over some drinks and... watch the people." She replied, returning a wink of her own at them. 

Morrigan nodded in concession.

“Well, then I’m sorry to disappoint.”

It was unclear whether they were referring to this particular instance, or their own general demeanor. Either way, it was clear they didn’t mean it. Such was life; full of bitter disappointments. Either way the fae listened intently to their own explanation of the facts of life. She did not seem to agree, but she didn’t have to. Her own truths were so different from their own. Which was precisely why there was no such thing as a real, objective truth. Their ways of life seemed so incompatible with one another it was difficult to imagine having such an amicable conversation at this table. The alcohol helped, the liquor a blessed social lubricant. It had warmed them up suitably for this round of verbal sparring.

But dancing around the point was only fun for so long. They both knew the questions they wanted to ask.

Who are you?

How can I use that to my benefit?

Corellia broke the rhythm first.

Morrigan paused, drumming their fingers against the table while Corellia spoke. Digging hooks into skin as if to peel back layer upon layer and flay them on the examination table. Or at least, trying to. Morrigan could not deny that with not but a few words, she’d come dangerously closer to unraveling threads they’d spent years meticulously stitching together into a perfectly tailored suit; a costume.

“I am Morrigan Moonweaver.” They replied, spoken with the most conviction they had yet. As if, even in the shifting sands of the conversation, barbed gestures and intrigue obfuscated by polite chatter, this was one salient fact that would never be shaken. They were Morrigan Moonweaver. It was as simple as that. “For all my many titles there is none as important as this. I answer to no one, and I owe the world nothing. I am everything, and I am not at all. I am free.”

If free meant being a husk of a child’s dreams and a testament to a life never meant to be lived.

Their grin took a turn for the childish at the undirected accusation. “Oh?” A fair folk, accusing me of being a liar? Obviously, if one believed the legends, she would never be able to utter a direct falsehood from her own lips. But there was more than one way to skin a cat, or so they said. For Morrigan knew better than anyone how the fae hid truth behind layers and layers of attractive distraction. “Even now you still speak of control… like your solution to said strings is to tug on them harder. Tell me, have you ever made the choice to just let go? To take a knife to all your little wretched beloved things and let the tattered pieces fall where they may?”

It seemed to Morrigan that Miss Corellia saw rules as constraints to dance around; Morrigan saw them as something to break.

But it had clearly served her well… or so it seemed. Even their own attempts at digging at her own regrets – shame, shame, shame – merely brought her to thoughtful silence, the melancholy of a thousand lives spent precisely as they were meant to be. That funny little nagging feeling returned, the crawling sensation up the base of their spine all the way to the golden scarab tattoo at the nape of their neck. Call it a survival instinct – lest they forget they were talking to an ancient.

A woman whose power and experience was an inferno compared to their flickering flame.

Ah, but what did one do when they could not create natural fire? You used a catalyst; you sparked the reaction. “Then if you believe it, so it is true.” They said after a moment’s thought. If she believed it; whether this was a pretty nothing to convince herself or not, that weight was on her shoulders alone. Something for Madam Corellia to mull over in her endless years.

This was hardly the first time Morrigan had gambled with a god.

“Never.” They replied cheekily. “Curious enough to want to know more about those endless lifetimes, that’s for certain.” A story with no end in sight; what a novel concept. Of course, that was all these were. Stories. There was nothing real about Morrigan’s own life, as Corellia was all too kind to point out.

Kind enough not to punch them in the face, too. They appreciated that.

“Yes. Real magic.” They repeated. Finally, their lips curled into an unpleasant grimace. It felt like the first time they’d dropped the smile all evening. “You and I are in agreement – there is no magic but the miracles we make in the face of impossible odds. Unfortunately, the rest of the world would be inclined to call us crazy. To the whole of Charon, magic is the result of bending the formulae arcanum. A feat I shall never be able to master.”

There was no small weight to those words. Once more they grabbed the crystal ball, juggling it between nimble hands for a few moments before pulling out a hat, smooth and practiced – they held it in front of them, allowing the ball to neatly fall inside, disappearing entirely.^[1] “So you cannot blame a fellblood for making a few miracles of their own, can you?”

Evidently, she could not. Morrigan had a feeling they were going to get along swimmingly.

“And what is your way?” They countered, unable to contain their curiosity. Despite the fact that they’d been speaking for some time now, they’d yet to get a sense for exactly what her poison was. But it seemed, that in the same way they’d played coy earlier, Corellia was content to do the same. Answers would come once they found a proper location for it. Morrigan picked up their sign – this, too, was tossed into the hat, along with the star-patterned cloth and the tarot deck. In a blink, Morrigan Moonweaver’s roadshow had been packet up and put away.

“Very well! Let us depart.”

It would not hurt to pop away from the fair for a moment. Besides, there would always be plenty of suckers for Morrigan to con when they returned.

…

The Brass Dragon was packed at this time of day, with tourists and travelers all taking a break from the festivities. Minstrels and brightly colored folk danced around them to the sound of merriment. The establishment’s fine wooden floors were sticky with wine and possibly blood from bar brawls underneath their sandals, and Morrigan traipsed delicately towards an empty table. They pulled a chair out, waiting for her to sit.

“Ladies first.” They said, all mock-manners.

---

1. Wizard’s Hat

"I would hardly call this interaction a disappointment," she said with a gentle shrug of her shoulders. "Merely... unique. It's rare that I should find myself having an actual conversation that has remained so thoroughly intriguing. I've enjoyed our little dance." She replied with a soft chuckle, a relaxed demeanor washing over her. The performance was done, at least this act, the curtain wouldn't fall so soon. Not that she ever knew when it would fall, everything of her very being was a performance. Just a shadow faintly masquerading as a being, personhood that when held up to a mirror the reflection would be that of a thinly veiled creature. Little more than voracious hunger tightly entwined inside of a self-made prison, beautiful a prison it may have been.

She tilted her head at such a simple answer. I am Morrigan Moonweaver. Was that so? That was as simple as it was, as complex as it could be? To be everything and yet nothing, answering to no one and yet here they still answered to someone. To their own self, to every little fiber of existence that led into the being known as Morrigan Moonweaver. Did they not answer to their past histories, their masks, the illusion held above their eyes to get through the day-to-day agonies? Audacious to suggest one could be free. "Even the most terrifying of beasts have difficulty recognizing when they're within a cage if it's big enough." She said calmly, speaking as if though from experience. It took her ages to recognize her shackles, and even now she was uncertain if she still bore the weight of those chains. Nobody was free.

Her vision narrowed upon them at the questioning, she stifled a laugh at the mere audacity. She quite enjoyed how abrasive they could be with their words, very few ever bothered to be so sharp edged yet patient with when they applied pressure to break the skin. "I can't say I know. Were there strings along my wrists I would certainly not accept that as my fate, but should the string be so thin as to not see it how would I know? As far as I am aware I am in control. To let go of my so called... beloved things. Would mean I held anything above myself," She would raise her right arm to show the black and violet ichor that leaked and flowed from the severed area of where her arm should be. "The pieces fell long ago, I am merely eons of the same painting. Retouched and patched together until glue and new layers of paint can no longer cover the scars of time. There are no tattered pieces left to fall, I am an entirely new piece of art." She said with a warm smile, delighted at the mere concept of her existence. "Control is a lie."

There was a cold chill to her words, her tongue danced with an alien chill to them though the expression never changed from that relaxed warmth. However the glimmer in her eyes shifted for a mere moment, just enough to reveal a more sinister nature beneath the surface. A layer freely pulled from the canvas until the current mask covered what once was yet again.

"Endless lifetimes tend to blur together, bleeding into one another with an ebb and flow. Surely your own life would be more interesting, so limited and... precious." She knew Morrigan's life was a pebble on the side of the road when it came to her own life. But there was something about that she managed to find, endearing. Pathetic and sad, but endearing. A spark that would never grow into a true inferno, a precious flame cupped between one's palms amidst a snowstorm desperate to stay warm until it inevitably snuffs out and the cold takes them.

She listened to them, pointed ears flickering before shaking her head. "I cannot blame you no, you do what you can with what you have. It's commendable that you don't squander your brief existence. That you would never know the touch of the arcane, that you would never hone it's splendor has not stopped you from creating your own. There is value in one's own ways." Her tone sounded genuine, eerily so, she didn't seem to care whether or not anyone wielded magic or not. To her magic was the norm, the common and mundane. It was in her every breath, her blood and her soul.

"My way is absence." is all she replied in response to the question. She didn't know how else to explain it, but that summed it up as best that she could. The satyr waited for the fellblood to grab their things and gather them together, standing up from her seat in preparation to leave.

.......
She followed after them as they led the way, looking upon the Brass Dragon as they stood in front of it. The surrounding sounds of merriment and all the loud and bright colors almost reminded her of home. Though that felt like such ancient history now, when was the last time she even enjoyed a proper festival. Long ago when she was still a part of the Courts more than likely. Cloven steps following alongside the fellblood, an amused smirk on her lips as they pulled the chair out in offering to her.

She gave a small mock-curtsy, "How polite." she chuckled, sitting down to take her seat.

“As have I.” Morrigan admitted. It might have been the most honest thing they’d said all night.

But it was true. Morrigan so rarely met a sparring partner they enjoyed getting in the ring with, so to speak. Kvasir Sigurros was a rose with thorns as sharp as his rapier wit. Unequivocally, the first person Morrigan had ever considered an equal. And then there was Issala Arodre, the woman who concealed intellect behind layers of muddling confusion. Others were either roadblocks , money, or adversaries. It was not as if Morrigan had a full dance card when it came to those who challenged them.

Amusing, that would turn out to be a member of the fairfolk right at the tail end of Morrigan’s recent victory against the queen herself.

Hopefully there were no hard feelings for that entire debacle.

The fellblood did not miss the implications in her words. The pointed look - the unspoken question - the jab at their lack of perceived bars. A true, genuine read, or just another bout of projection? Given her proclivity for magic, Morrigan could not help but wonder if they were about to entrap themselves in another situation where they were subject to an entity who could pick through their brain, see all those ugly little things that had been buried in the depths of the White Sand Sea.

There was a difference between cutting free of your baggage and burying it where no one else could see it.

They shrugged, running their tongue along sharpened molars. This response would require a delicate balance.

“Perhaps. But there are some who outgrow their cages. Who have to cut through the bars or risk being crushed by claustrophobic pressure.” That was what they’d done, after all. Freed themselves of a confining home, closets that had been sapped them of the will to live under the guise of keeping them safe. Then, came the circus. And once they left the Dreamscape Bazaar, the entire world had become their oyster.

Funny, that a woman with limitless age and power such as Corellia had looked at the world and only ever seen constraints.

They barked out a startled laugh at her assertion.

“Now that, I understand!”

Mostly. There were some precious things Morrigan might place above their own life, even if they didn’t know it.

Oh, but they did have to respect a healthy admiration for one’s self. That was the only person you could count on, after all. And she sounded so adamant that the parts of her she so adored had already been tattered…

They hummed, noncommittal.

“It sounds to me as if the thing you love most has already been broken.” They pointed out. “Now, I could point out that if your beloved self has already been so broken, then there’s no reason not to rebel against that which holds you. To which you might reply with a point about how ’society has always been in control, blah blah blah’. But I think we’d just find ourselves in a rat race of futility. So I’ll ask this.” They leaned forward.

“Do you even want to be free at this point?”

If she was truly as old as she said she was, then there had to come a threshold where trying felt like it didn’t matter any more. Morrigan couldn’t even imagine reaching that point.

“I would hope more precious than limited!” They laughed again, as if the two were sharing a pleasant little inside joke. “But, as the ancients said, c’est la vie. Better to burn away as brilliantly as a candle than to drift away like the new moon tide.”

Yes, their body was mortal. But their name would live on in the stars.

Morrigan would make sure of it.

“After all, I’m sure you find my existence as quaint as I find yours. It must be terribly dull to live a life with no stakes. Where you find no pleasure in anything because there is no pain in its loss. Wasting not… wanting not. Why, I imagine you’re practically chock-full of ennui!”

If Corellia expected them to live in awe at the sheer length of her life, then she’d find none here. Morrigan never found fear in the fact that they would one day die and return to the earth. No, they were much more afraid of being forgotten.

And if you were so old, with nothing to your name, was that not the case?

They paused, flipping their braid over their shoulder. For the briefest of moments, their smile turned strained - as if forcing the stitching of a stuffed animal to behave in a way it was not into, leaving tension in their coiled frame.

“I learned early on at finding the value in what is at one’s disposal.” They replied, flippant - as if the mere act of creating something out of nothing wasn’t the carefully choreographed act that it was. There was a lot of effort into appearing effortless.

“Absence.” They repeated as she answered, tail flicking behind them in interest. Vague as the answer was, it carried truth in its own way. It was not a path dissimilar to their own, and there was a funny little irony in that. Interesting that chance might pull them together.

“But enough about that! Let’s go get that drink.”

---

”It’ll probably be a Sol City port for me.” They said without asking for a menu as the two got settled in their new environment. Morrigan had been to the Brass Dragon a few times before, and to call it a fine establishment was a bit of a stretch. It had four walls and a roof over its head and enough booze to turn any dull night into a riproaring time.

Morrigan, for their part, picked port because it sat comfortably at the intersection of ‘drinkable’ and ‘expensive’. The day’s libations weren’t going to be on their coin, after all, and Morrigan was admittedly less of a gentleman and more of a scumbag. If they were going to get free drink they may as well butter up the woman so graciously footing the bill.

“And? What of your tastes? I find it difficult to really know someone until I’ve learned their vices.” They prompted, curious to see if she’d bite. The setting was more relaxed after their initial conversation, but the charlatan was ever so accustomed to prying.