Chorus

Lapsang takes the cup from Chorus as soon as the tea is gone, almost impatiently. There is a compass rose painted at the base of the cup, and she orients it flawlessly, setting it on the table before her. After a moment of careful study, she tips the cup for Chorus to see.

“The arrow,” she says, pointing to a smudge of leaf on the side of the cup, “means news. You see how it points due north? The Wasteland, or Dragonhome perhaps. Good news, bad news…” She traces the symbol of the Windsinger on the table, as if to ward off bad luck. “Dull at the edges. Bad news. Distant, though. Nearer to the rim than the base.”

Her gaze flickers up, as if surprised to remember she has an audience. “Ah. Here, at the bottom. Much closer to us. Weeks, perhaps. Two crescents. Twin moons. Prosperity, good things to come, if you are open to them.

“This one, a dagger. A knife? Do you see a hilt?” She holds it out for Chorus’ inspection, but doesn’t wait for an answer. “It lies in the southwest quadrant. A dagger. Favours from a friend, something personal.

“The last, a question, a query. Something external. Be cautious of the future,” she says, and then chuckles to herself. “Inside joke. Something unsettled lies outside your home. You will have a choice to make, one that affects more than just you.”

Her words hang heavy in the air for a long moment, the teacup sitting innocuously between them. Then, in a flurry of movement, Lapsang pours a dash of hot water in the cup, wiping the reading away with a brisk swirl and then tossing the water over her shoulder. “Teas courtesy of the Singing Shrine Tea and Ale House. Payment accepted in coin, gem, or secrets. Good day, good day,” and with that, Chorus is shooed away.