|
The headshop has a reasonable turnout for the special event and several people mill about the store or wait in line for a reading. Sandra's table is set up near the display window. She has an electric teakettle that supplies her hot water and a big bucket for used tea. Her jewelry jangles with every overacted gesture of alleged prescience, and her floofy hair might cause one to inquire how she can see anything in front of her, let alone in the future. Clayton is running the register as well as pleasantly assisting any customers with questions.
When Ed told his mother he'd made discoveries about the family, he had not expected her to-- reciprocate, exactly, and he certainly didn't expect //her// surprise to be an impromptu appearance in-town. "--n't believe in magic, after everything you've seen? What are you afraid of, anyway?" The woman's voice zithers high and insistently toity. She has her big (not that big) lummox of a son seized by one arm, fusses at the flannel collar of her shirt with the other. "Really, if you were that worried about things maybe you should stay away from dalliances with underaged sociali--"
"//There are no dalliances//," Ed hisses, his eyes big in his head as he shoots furtive glances this way, then that. The two Hahns clatter into the headshop amid clicking highheels (hers) and scuffing boots (his), loosely in-tandem. Somehow, Edmund manages not to break anything as he steers.
"Well, why ever //not?//" Flinging the end of her scarf further over her shoulder, Mrs. Hahn tightens the sheaf of silk closer up her chin. Her hair bounces pale above her shoulders. "You've been single for //months// now, and it's not like police officers are going to arrest one of their own for-- oh, those colors don't go at all." The lawyeress stares at Sandra with unabashed interest.
Sandra finishes her reading for a customer before looking at her clothes, trying to figure out how black doesn't go with black. She shrugs and offers, "Would you like a reading?" to Mrs. Hahn.
"Such sobriety!" Mrs. Hahn bustles forward, seized by inspiration that-- seems necessarily to also to seize her boy child over and drag him despite the physical inferiority of her weight. "Yes, I would. Very much so. What do I have to do? Besides //pay//, I'm sure-- Edmund, don't pout." Edmund, whose expression hadn't actually changed in the interim, faults her with a slight frown at this groundless accusation. "It's my money. Think of it as an early Christmas present.
"Here you are." The appropriate number of bills are laid out for two readings, and she produces a pair of reading glasses to perch on her nose.
"It's for charity - whatever you can spare. It's all going to a local rehab clinic." Sandra explains airily. She directs Mrs. Hahn to put the money in a modified coffee can labeled DONATIONS. "Thank you, please have a seat." Sandra gestures to the folding metal chair set across the table from her as she cleans out her teacup with a dish towel. "All you have to do is concentrate and ask the Universal Consciousness to give you a message as you drop a handful of tea into the cup." There is a small bowl on the table with the tea leaves, and Sandra places the cup in its saucer where it is easily reachable.
Cash is bequeathed happily upon the local rehab clinic, and then Mrs. Hahn bequeaths herself with proper cheer on the chair that was alotted to her. She reaches over, tucks two brown-lacquered fingernails into the dried herbs and pulls them out of the small vessel, her wrist carefully poised for the toss, eyes narrow behind their myopic panes with concentration. As if the choreographed flick of her arm is going to actually determine the way fate falls.
Hard to tell whether these patrons are believers or bored skeptics, sometimes. She tosses, abruptly. The leaves sift, come down in stark flecks inside the cup's ceramic ingress. Edmund cranes his shaven head over her shoulder, curious as anything; his eyes flick up to study Sandra's face at odd intervals, perhaps checking for signs that the fortune-teller is turning any perfectly mortal, //normal// powers of observation on his mother as con-women are wont.
Sandra folds her hands prayerfully for a moment and bows ever so slightly in benediction over the tea leaves. She then grabs the teakettle and pours steaming hot water over the leaves...just enough to cover them. Sandra rolls her eyes back into her head and starts chanting "OM" as well as other popular New Age catchphrases as the tea leaves unfold in the hot water. After a mentally measured amount of time, she lifts the cup into the air, takes a tiny sip then pours the excess tea carefully into her bucket. Her eyes unfocus and hover in the general direction of the teacup as she slowly spins it in her hands. "I see," she begins. "that you are discontent in your current situation. You must save a romantically inclined brown-haired youth from harm." She looks once more, prophesizing, "Your faith is key, and you must be careful to obey the rules of ettiquette or you will never garner the approval you seek."
Chris has arrived.
"Oh, dear." The middle-aged woman in the fortune-tellee's chair sounds elaborately concerned; possibly a little //too// elaborately, but her lipsticked smile is wide with genuine interest. "It seems that my renegade days are over. Edmund, did you hear? I must learn to acknowledge etiquette to seize that promotion."
"It's not bad advice," Edmund answers, dryly, but //his// eyes are on the fortune-teller, grim thought a linear knit in his brow and his searching gaze attentive. He's met enough criminals-- swindlers, liars, pool hustlers in his time, and he's met enough //magic// in his time to tell that while there's no deliberate artifice or extrapolation in Sandra's reading, there doesn't seem to be real sorcery there either.
An odd cast of disappointment marrs his features the next moment. "//I'm not romantically-inclined//," he hastens to add, but his mother's already tugging him down, moving to switch places with her urban lumberjack of a son. Tugging her scarf higher, she seats her thumbs briefly on his ears, pinching him chastisingly.
"But you //should// be," she repeats. Gentler this time.
Sandra cleans out the tea cup, and is ready for Edmund to participate.
Something about the Hahn family and their religious fanaticism with breeding. Edmund's expression grows slightly quizzical, the vague potential of annoyance discarded in favor of wry embarrassment. Worse than mere meddling is to have somebody's caring just a little too close and too public. He folds his hands on his lap a moment, considering the teacup and the tea leaves, before evacuating a very audible sigh in the same moment his mother starts to lean forward, vulture-like, once again.
Pinching up his share of tea leaves, he drops them into the cup. Sits back, shoulders squaring, a vague sense of trepidation threatening his tanned features with a grimace.
Sandra repeats her routine - a short prayer, a little hot water over the tea leaves and a whole lot of pomp and circumstance. Hands sway through the air as she mumbers some mangled Sanskrit ode to fate. A quick sip of tea later, the cup is empty save for those leaves which clung to the ceramic sides of the teacup. She makes funny faces as she tries to decode the secrets of Edmunds future. "The happiness promised to you will not live up to expectations and you may even lose some object of value in the process." Sandra grows concerned as the reading continues. "In fact, there may be no escape of the coming adversity." Her face shows relief as she concludes, "However, a /rugged/ man of power will come into your life and grant you a chance at increased authority."
Slipping in through the front door, a kid with hair as floofy as Sandra's and deliberately short sleeves and tight jeans appears, mouth shut and bright gold eyes attentive. He clasps his hands behind his back and watches, face almost expressionless.
"Tea Readings For Dummies? //Really?//" --would be the sound of Edmund Hahn gratuitously failing at Elodoth 101 now.
The words seem to veritably burst out of him, sudden and sharp, unexpected almost even for himself. Diplomacy is for people who haven't been served up a ridiculous tales of rugged men of power or things and adversity and that's really quite annoying; nice for her to donate the proceeds to charity, but, "If these proceeds //don't// get to the pot, you can expect to speak to Gabriele Hahn, //Esquire// an--"
Gabriele Hahn opts to employ some of her recently ordained tact at this particular moment, pulling her cub up by his arm. "That'll do, pup," she says, blowing her jaw-length curls back with a light sort of exasperation. "Sorry, //fraulein//, he has had a very hard few months and I do like to tease. 'Tea Readings For Dummies' sounds useful for a world as fraught with dummies as ours is."
Sandra looks distraught that anyone might realize where here "psychic training" comes from. However, she seems even more disturbed that someone might accuse her of stealing from charity. She's speachless, even after Mrs. Hahn intercedes. From behind the counter, Clayton suggests, "Perhaps you should leave, /sir/." The honorific is clearly a formality only.
That's some impressive wincing. Chris's hands are no longer clasped behind his back, they're crossed over his chest, the fingers on the lower one splayed out in a matching reaction to the moue of distaste twisting up his mouth. As in: Wow, why aren't any of the elodoths in this city diplomatic, wtf? He takes a step forward, lifting that splayed hand and wiggling the fingers. "Hey, *I* believe you!" he says cheerfully.
Fingers tightening on her child's wrist, Mrs. Hahn looks quite inclined to bodily tow Edmund out of the door if she has to. Fortunately, she doesn't. Regret is taking its time working its way into the man's features, but it's taking root, gradual and addled by the nearness of his temper. Stiffened, he turns for the door, starts to walk out on the herky-jerky motions of a puppet. Failing to recognize the American's voice, he does, however, //see// Chris as he makes that turn and looks slightly worse for it. His eyes shift toward the younger wolf, then away.
Dita has arrived.
The golden flash of Chris's regard lands on Edmund for a very entertained second, and then the kid's stepping up further, picking up a small handful of tea leaves and dropping them into Sandra's cup. "Yes please," he says politely, sticking his thumbs in his pockets and holding his fingers out to his sides, like he's full of enough energy to have spontaneously developed hip-fins. His hair's falling into his face, but those reflective yellow eyes are focused sharply on Sandra.
The door opens to admit a tall, broad-shouldered figure wearing a worn and somehwat dirt-smudged gray hoodie. Dita glances around sheepishly, as if she's not sure she should actually be here. It would seem this is a person who wishes they could be the one who simply fades into the background but is too large a figure to do so. Instead, she keeps her hands in the front pouch of her hoodie and her head down as she suffles through the store, glancing at this and that.
Cecil has arrived.
By the time Sandra emerges again, the Hahns are a little out of view; the male reinstalled by the door, idling by, offering Dita a nod as she goes in while the older Wolfblood peruses a few of the knick-knacks immediately by Clayton's counter in search of a souvenir purchase. Perhaps by way of apology. Mrs. Hahn's eyes turn inquisitively at Chris' seat as the boy makes his toss, however, evidently interested in whatever fortune the young man has to claim //despite// the pedigree of Sandra's learning.
Sandra begins her ritual. As if in defiance of Edmund's outburst, the ritual is twice as elaborate as last time. She even improvises something about open minds being better receptors for the advice of the Universal Consciousness. Once the tea is ready, she takes a sip and dumps out the rest of the liquid. Quite a lot of tea remains in the cup. "Oh my," she exclaims. "Destiny has something in mind for you!" She begins her reading. "An adenture lies before you, but the reward will only be as big as the sacrifice you make for it. It may even be a friend or lover that you lose." Sandra concentrates, then clarifies. "If you sacrifice a woman of the mysteries for you prize, you can be assured of your victory." Darkness falls over her visage. "A man of ruthless...purity? Huh...will sow the seeds of violence in your path. Only your spiritual bretheren can save you from him. Without them, you will likely be imprisoned in his machinations."
Why is Cecil here? Because sometimes you see a paper pasted to a kiosk or some telephone pole or something when you running by (or biking) and you get curious. And sometimes you have nothing left to do with your day and you're full of way too much energy for your own good. So, quite without any invitation or introduction he's come in here and has a big O-face (You know, with the mouth in the shape of a letter O) as he watches what's going on with the tea leaf reading. Would he really want to know his future? Probably so because he's still here, gawking over peoples' shoulders.
Dita offers the slightest of nods back to the man by the door before slowly making her way towards the tea leaf readings. She pauses, listening to the woman speak, at least she does better than the usual crap that gets handed out at events like this. Maybe...eh, what the Hell, it won't kill her and she certainly has the time to spare.
Karl has arrived.
"... wait, I have to sacrifice some girl to gain a victory?" Chris draws back slightly, crossing his arms tightly again, face and voice bubbling over with dismay. "That can't be right. I get the last part, that's par for the course -- but sacrifice? Friendships, okay. Dignity, fine. Other people? Totally not cool. I'm not throwing anybody under a bus!"
Sandra shrugs helplessly. "Perhaps it is only a test of your valor? Like Abraham and Isaac?" She starts to clean out the cup for the next reading.
"Maybe it's not a good girl." suggests Cecil, suddenly right there behind Chris and so obviously engrossed in this process. "Like, maybe it's someone who takes your heart and totally stomps on it and jumps up and down on it laughing, until one day you just SNAP" he snaps both fingers, "and next thing you know it's bus-belly time." Helpful like that, the red-headed red wearing guy is.
"The proceeds are to charity," Mrs. Hahn says, beaming at Dita from over the top of her reading glasses. "A local rehabilitation clinic.
"And the lady is very good. How much will that be?" A quick conference with Clayton gives her a dollar figure for the small pink crystal she selected out of the velvet box, and she seems rather pleased by both her new prize and Chris' response to the fortune he was told. Fine, upstanding young man.
Her son could learn a thing or two. Thanking Clayton, she folds up the crystal in its plastic bag and tucks it neatly into the beige folds of her purse, turns on a click of heels. She bids the new entrants good day, from the boy with the fire engine hair to Dita, pausing long enough to gather Edmund from the door before they move off.
Dita watches the people around the table cautiously, speaking in a rumbly voice so quiet its almost inaudible, "You may not necessarily have to sacrifice her life. Sacrifices aren't always made in flesh and blood." SHe glances to Sandra, watching the ritual of empting the cup and setting everything up again, giving a light nod to Mrs. Hahn.
This is so not Karl's scene, by any stretch of the imagination. He's in a suit, there is no tie-dye anywhere about his person....god only knows what he wandered in here for. Actual pipe tobacco, as opposed to whatever relevant euphemism? But his interest is apparently caught by the tea-leaf reading, and there's no sign of the usual skeptical sneer one might expect.
Sandra is impressed by Dita's clever suggestion and beckons her with a ring-bedecked hand. "Let me read for you next?" She shoots an appreciative smile towards the leaving mother of Edmund. With a sympathetic look, she shoos Chris out of the folding chair.
Dropping a donation of a ten-euro bill in the donation bin as he gets shooed out of the chair, Chris is looking distressed, still, but he's pretty easily distracted by Cecil. The redhead gets a dubious look. "It's a bad scene when I flip out," he says, then pauses and squints at the other guy. He swaps to English and lowers his voice. "You got long ays."
A nod is offered at the question and she slides into the seat smoothly after Chris has vacated. She glances at the table, looking over everything before picking up the tea leaves and sprinkles them into the cup with a rough-looking hand. She glances about uncomfortably at all the people gathered around, then looks back to Sandra.
As soon as Chris switches to English, so does Cecil. Though his English is very much from the Queen and not Ben Franklin. "Oh my God you sound like a yank! How're you? My name's Cecil. Don't find many people what speak proper good English around here!" Never mind that 'proper good' isn't exactly grammatically all that proper or good. "So what, she gave you a right prophecy of doom did she? What was it exactly if you don't mind my asking because I just now showed up and I don't think I heard."
There's a little bit of negotiation with the clerk at the counter....and satisfied he's walking away with genuine tobacco, Karl insinuates himself into the line for the readings. Chris he knows, and the boy gets a dry look, but not greeting. Only a reflexive check of his pockets.
Sandra says a quick blessing over the tea leaves before pouring hot water over them. She gestures to Clayton who goes to refill the kettle as she reads. "OM!" Sandra seems to be on her second wind after the last doozy of a reading. She places her arms into strange mudra arm positions, like a Hindi dancer. She takes a sip of the tea, letting her eyes roll back into her head. The excess tea is poured into the bucket. Sandra examines the remaining tea leaves and announces, "You are are in discordance with those around you. A split between you and your allies is ready to form, brought on by the return of a hardworking man into your life." Sandra hrms. "And be careful with your charity, because what you give away may not be used as you wished."
Dita just stares at the woman for a moment, absorbing the words, then nods. "Thank you.", is the quiet response, along with a crumpled five euro into the donation bin before she vacates the seat for the next person. A glance is given to the two speaking English, as though its something she recognizes, but definitely not a familiar language. She moves back to shuffle around the shop some more, just looking here and there.
Chin jutting out determinedly as what Dita said sinks in, Chris backs out of the way of the gathering crowd, tugging on Cecil's sleeve. Karl gets a quick, toothy grin, and then the skinny little American fluff-head's attention's back on the redheaded guy. "I *am*, yo. N-Y-C represent. I'm Chris. She said if I threw some girl, or a friend or some girl I'm bangin' maybe, under a *bus*, then I would have a victory, and also that some dude full of purity would kick my ass and my spiritual brethren could save me. And without them he'd imprison me. Which would suck."
Sandra cleans out the cup, taking the freshly supplied water from Clayton. Clayton takes the bucket to empty. Sandra gestures out to Cecil. "Would you like a reading?"
Attention turned on him, Cecil beams brightly to Sandra and holds up a hand to Chris. "Mate I will be right with you. Let me step up to the pretty fortune teller lady and see what my future brings..." He slaps his hands together and rubs them, sitting in the hot-seat and switching back to German. "I'm ready to learn my fate!" Big wide grin.
Clayton returns with the freshly emptied bucket and sets it beside Sandra before resuming his post at the register. Sandra puts some more tea leaves in the bowl for Cecil. "Just put the tea in the cup. Make sure you ask the Universal Consciousness for guidance as you do."
Now that the other has gone to have his leaves read, Dita slides into the space so recently vacated and glances at Chris from under her hood, voice rough but quiet, "We should talk sometime. I think we have quite a bit in common, and maybe we can help each other with the readings."
"Oh! Shit. Yeah." Cecil reaches for the tea leaves and then blows on them in his hands like they're crap-dice. Then with exaggerated theatrics, he holds them over the bowl and then drops them, locking eyes challengingly with the fortune teller. "O Guide Me Universal Consciousness. Ommmmmmmm..."
Karl is watching sidelong, having pulled a little black notebook from one pocket, and is patiently going through it. Like he might've forgotten an appointment.
Sandra goes through her ritual, as usual. However, when she dumps the excess tea out, no leaves remain behind. She drops the teacup on the table and stands bolt upright. She makes three gestures of protection in rapid succession then starts to hyperventilate. Between gasps, she laments. "Your Doom is at hand! I can see the burning fires consuming all that you hold dear! Your gluttony will be your undoing!" She points a finger at Cecil. "I can see the scorchmarks on your soul! You must seek out the water, and find temperence in the cup that holds in lest you feel the sulferous teeth nipping at you once more!"
Chris is holding his hand over his mouth as he's watching Cecil, but his gaze flickers over to Dita, and his eyebrows go up. "Yo, what? Uh. Okay," he says gamely, keeping his voice more or less as quiet as hers. "I hope you're not gonna sow seeds of violence in my path or whatever--" And then he *blinks* and stares at the back of Cecil's head. "That SUCKS!" he blurts.
WIDE EYES. Cecil's mouth goes from an O shape to something much more akin to the letter D. "What did I do?!" he asks plaintively, like it had to be his fault. "Gimme another go. I'll do better this time!" At that point he starts looking around for more tea leaves...
"You fool! Did you not hear what I just said?!" Sandra seems incredulous. "Your gluttony is your end! Yet you want MORE?"
"Waugh!" Cecil dumps out of the chair too fast and ends up falling on his ass. That's not enough for him though. He scrabbles to get to his feet and is headed for the door. "Stay away from me! I'm cursed!"
Karl peers between them, eyes wide, notebook sitting forgotten in his hand.
Dita arches a brow at the theatrics going on, sizing up Cecil, then looking back to Chris with a quirked half-smile, "Only one problem with that. I'm not a man." She chuckles a bit and taps at the corner of her eye, then points to Chris', "I know those eyes." Her own eyes are inevitably drawn back to the pair at the table, blowing out a breath. "Perhaps he and his 'cursedness' will be the seed-sower."
"Oh--" Chris says to Dita, distracted; he rubs at his jaw. "Well if you know my eyes and you think you know who I am, lady, meet me at my brother's place. Unless you wanna help me /right now/," and he pushes his big plurf of hair out of his gold eyes again and scrambles between people to go after Cecil. "Dude, wait!" he calls, swapping back to English, "lemme help you kick some prophecy ass! That shit is fun!"
Chris has left.
Dita has left.
Cecil has left.
After Cecil leaves the shop, Sandra calms down a bit. In contrast, Clayton seems to think the whole scene was sort of funny, and he struggles not to let it show. Sandra cleans up her mess, takes a few cleansing breaths then sits back down. She gestures to Karl. "Ahem...would you like a reading?"
That was exceedingly odd. But Karl settles calmly in the seat and picks up the tea leaves. "Yes, please," he says, eyeing her.
Sandra performs her ritual, then reads Karl's future in the tea leaves. "With sight beyond sight, I can see that your future holds great promise. You have an oppotunity to attain a small measure of fame, perhaps even as a hero." She ponders he next words carefully. "You are of great interest to a man whose passions have consumed him. This interest may lead you into scandal."
More or less as he expected. Vagueries. But Karl doesn't seem put off by it. He considers that gravely, and then says, simply, "Thank you." And when he rises, he puts twenty euro in the jar.
Sandra nods and invites the next person in line for a reading.
| 
