Thread: My shitty friends and their stupid psychic parties (SomethingEsoteric, YellowSmoke

RE Shitty Friends Stupid Psychic Parties SomethingEsoteric, YellowSmoke Through the haze of tobacco smoke, two calm, impassive spheres the colour of chocolate gazed upon Brooklyn's visage, their possessor completely unfazed by the designer's blas attitude. They did not scrutinise her - at least not on the surface - but rather stared through her, stared into her, as though some great truth were written behind her eyes in a code legible only to the sable-skinned reader. There was no smoke without fire, they said, and Maitreya knew that nobody - a believer or not - came to her without good reason. For some the reason was comfort, for many it was a need for direction, and for the very few, it was desperation. She needs something... spoke the fluid thoughts behind the static mask, and it did not take much of her life experience to assume that that something was stability or love, which so often held aloft the promise of stability, or at the very least excitement in a world which had grown stale. Maitreya - Treya, to friends - had amassed experience in life beyond her years, and though not yet 30 she knew well the inner workings of most people. As with cards, the reading of people was not an exact science, but it came part and parcel with her art, and over the past decade she had learned that people were not so complex as they first seemed. They all worked with the same machinery, and in the end, they often sought the same goals, if through different channels. Each and every consciousness was a separate world unto itself, complete with its own customs and idiosyncrasies, but the elements of which these variegated worlds were composed were universal. After a what seemed like a short eternity, the card-reader's lips slowly stretched into a friendly, soothing smile. Her skin was a soft, warm brown - a few tones lighter than the thick brunette hair which haloed her rounded face - and dimpled at the corners of her mouth. Her earthy complexion was complimented by silken garments of deep, lustful reds, tranquil blues and lively, optimistic shades of yellow and orange, though beneath the varnished wooden table she wore simple navy jeans. Above the table-top, she was all mystique and allure she was dressed to fit the part. Then why are you here? she asked, her mellifluous voice flavoured with accents of the Orient. The seed planted, she waved a seductive hand and continued before Brooklyn could respond, her eyes never once leaving the other woman's face. It does not matter you are here, and that is all that matters. Tell me - honestly - what has brought you before Maitreya tonight? As she spoke, soft tanned fingers noiselessly shuffled a squat deck of cards, deep and vibrant inks painted upon slightly over-thick card, and slowly she spread three cards upon the table between them, in such a way that it seemed inconsequential, even unimportant. Brooklyn had come for the cards to be read, and so they must be read. Or - from another perspective - the cards were emblems of fate, and fate could not be stopped. It formed from ether intangible to human hands, and was executed regardless of human effort or concern. Is it desperation? Hope? Has life broken you or does it merely bore you? For just a second, Treya's eyes twinkled with an enjoyment which almost made her grin, but as soon as her plush lips had ceased to move it disappeared, and her unflinching, inscrutable gaze returned, her eyes pressing softly but inexorably into Brooklyn's person, as though penetrating her very being. It was true Maitreya took a deep satisfaction in reading people, but yet a greater one in flaunting her ability to do so. Ever the actress of personified mystique, she would never go so far as to explain to a person their own state of being as glimpsed through her own existential lens, but loved instead to offer them snippets, teasers, fragments of prospective truth which the other may do with as they wished. Very often, she had found, the allure proved itself strong, and the seed of her insights would blossom into a truth cultivated by the subject of her scrutiny. Upon the table, the secrets of the three cards lay concealed, and behind them sat their manipulator and interpreter, shrouded in silk and mystery, her eyes resting expectantly upon Brooklyn. Delicately, she flipped the first card, and the reversed image of the High Priestess turned her eyes towards the ceiling.