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Weight | 1 oz |
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$29.00
Weight | 1 oz |
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Hastur produced a clipboard from the grubby recesses of his mack.
“Sign. Here,” he said, leaving a terrible pause between the words.
Crowley fumbled vaguely in an inside pocket and produced a pen. It was sleek and matte black. It looked as though it could exceed the speed limit.
“‘S’nice pen,” said Ligur. “It can write under water,” Crowley muttered.
“Whatever will they think of next?” mused Ligur.
“Whatever it is, they’d better think of it quickly,” said Hastur. “No. Not A. J. Crowley. Your real name.”
Crowley nodded mournfully, and drew a complex, wiggly sigil on the paper.
It glowed redly in the gloom, just for a moment, and then faded: blood-red ink, fiery pomegranate, and black oudh.
A colorless woman bursts from an elaborate gold and ruby tent and faints dead at your feet. Soft laughter emits from the dark entrance to the tent, and the scent of musk, black fruits and incense touches your senses. Looking up, you see that the sign hovering above the unconscious woman is adorned with images of the Major Arcana’s Tower and reads:
“Mme. Moriarty, Misfortune Teller.
No fate too grim, no future too bleak.”
A tiny woman with floor-length black dreadlocks walks out of the tent, stepping over the prone body. She is clothed in deep red wrappings, and is bedecked in golden ornaments bearing alchemical symbols and charms representing eternity, chance, and wisdom. She pauses, looks you over slowly, and then flicks a tarot card at your feet.
Red musk, vanilla bean, pomegranate, black currant, patchouli leaf and wild plum.
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