A small bell tinkled as the door creaked open.
The first thing to hit Cecil was the overwhelming smell of dried herbs, old books, still burning candle smoke, and something left out for too long. The second thing he noticed was how dim the room was, lit only by a handful of candles resting inside colored glass lanterns, hung at varying heights and scattered seemingly at random around the space.
What little light there was barely illuminated the shop, but it was just enough to see the chaos within.
It looked exactly how one might imagine a tucked-away mystic shop: uneven floorboards, shelves crammed into every available inch of wall space, overflowing with jars filled with powders, bones, and preserved animal parts, most of which appeared mundane but were all meticulously labeled in cramped handwriting. Small spiritual fetishes rested between them: dice carved from bird bones, gemstone pendulums, crystal clusters, and various types of tarot decks stacked in uneven piles.
Strings of tiny, hexagonal brass charms dangled from the beaded curtain behind the counter, tinkling softly as they shifted in the still air.
Cecil stepped inside fully, letting the door shut behind him with a quiet thud. His gaze swept the shop. It was chaotic, organized chaos, but chaos nonetheless.
'Albus' office might finally have some competition.' Cecil mused.
He took a few steps further, scanning the room for its proprietor.
"Pardon me," he called out. "But is Madame Follin here?"
A playful voice answered, echoing from above him.
"Well now… a traveler? What can this old place offer you today?"
Cecil blinked, looking up and finally spotted her.
Perched in the rafters.
A moment later, she leapt down, landing behind the counter with effortless grace.
She was not what he had expected.
Madame Follin was neither hunched nor veiled in robes like so many mystics he'd encountered elsewhere. She was tall and thin, like someone had stretched her upward, with ink-black hair twisted into a loose bun, held in place by what looked like bone knitting needles. Her face was striking, one violet marking beneath her left eye, like a teardrop drawn in ink.
Her clothes were no less strange: a patchwork shawl hung over a deep blue blouse patterned with constellations, and her skirt shimmered subtly, its hue shifting with the flicker of the candlelight.
Madame Follin tilted her head slightly, smiling with an uncomfortable ease, like a cat watching a bird that hadn't noticed it yet.
"Well?" she said, voice lilting like a melody sung half for herself. "You don't smell like like regular type who stumble in here"
Cecil met her gaze. "I'm looking for a specific ingredient: Blinkwolf eyes. Preserved, if possible. Dried if you must."
Follin tilted her head slightly at the request
. "Ah. A Sorcerer's recipe?" Follin grinned, revealing slightly too many teeth for a normal smile. "I think I just sold my last pair to the church… but I'll see what I have. Feel free to wander. Check out the books if you like."
She turned, brushed the beaded curtain aside, and vanished deeper into the shop.
After a few moments, Cecil let out a quiet breath through his nose and began to wander.
He walked beside the edge of shelves, careful not to disturb any of the precariously stacked jars or bundles with his movements.
Books were tucked into every available crevice on the shelves. Some were leather-bound with gold lettering half-rubbed away by time. Others were stitched together with coarse thread and looked hand-written, the kind of tomes you would expect to be passed around a mystic's closest circle. A few were sealed with ribbon or wax, marked with obscure glyphs or warnings in dead languages. A few of the titles were:
"Opening One's Inner Eye: A Beginner's Guide to Meditation and Seeing Pass the Veil"
"The Flora of the Deepwood: Alchemical Reagents and Their Habits."
"Rites and Resonance: The Role of Ceremonial Magic in Mysticism"
Cecil's gloved fingers hovered over the spines, his gaze lingering briefly on each before moving on. Interesting, perhaps, but nothing he needed right now.
He continued to wander the shop, the uneven floor creaking beneath his boots, feeling like they crack beneath his feet if he stepped on them too hard. He passed more shelves filled with more dusty book spines, looking at the various trinkets and jars as he waited for Follin's return. Some parts of the shop were so crowded with charms bearing many types of motifs or stacks of forgotten items that he had to duck slightly to avoid brushing against them.
His eyes flicked toward a crooked corner table draped in deep indigo velvet. Atop it sat an assortment of scattered items: a bundle of crow feathers tied with twine, a chipped porcelain bowl of salt, and nestled between them, an old, weathered deck of cards.
He paused.
The cards were bound in an aged leather case, worn at the edges like it had passed through many hands. On the cover, faint embossing curled across the surface, written not in Imperial, nor Common Ogma, but Ancient Ogma.
The script was elegant, almost vine-like, wrapping around itself like a plant. Ogma was one of the oldest languages, a more common version is still spoken in the more modern times but its history dates back to the Age of Fire. The more ancient form is mainly used in mysticism, ceremonial rituals or prayers to the gods. Notoriously complex, its meanings shifted with direction, breath, and arrangement.
Cecil crouched, brushing away a layer of dust. He traced the embossed glyph carved into the case: T'rah'Og. In this context, it likely meant Tarot though a more literal translation would be Archetype, Story or Journey.
Intrigued, he opened the case.
The cards were slightly larger than standard decks, their backs painted in a spiral of amethyst and sapphire ink that formed the shape of a pupiless eye. The frontmost card depicted a figure standing at the edge of a cliff beneath a moonless night sky, wrapped in a patchwork cloak and wearing no shoes. The illustration was delicate, etched in fine strokes, but what caught Cecil's attention most was the writing at the bottom.
Folros, a term that, depending on context, would be directly translated to Wanderer or Free Spirit, but since the founding of the Holy Theocracy it gained a more popular translation: Fool.
Cecil turned it over.
Ancient Ogma had a unique linguistic quirk, when a word was viewed upside down, its counterpart meaning would be revealed, like its meaning had been mirrored.
Folros became Januros which still would mean Fool in modern context but now held the connotation of Captive or Chained.
Such a quirk also applied to numbers with Ze being Zero or Void but with the connotation of positive integers while Nu being the same but with the connotation of negative integers.
He thumbed a few more cards, reading their names aloud under his breath, translating as he went.
Phantas and Salaphar, The Magician
Whiesar and Blatsar, The Emperor
Erraticus and Absalom, The Tower
Artyita and Reiage, The Moon
Ancient Ogma was a language of duality, and nowhere was that clearer than in tarot.
Cecil lingered there, waiting for Madame Follin's return.
"You read Ancient Ogma?" the voice whispered directly into his ear.
Cecil straightened, his hand twitching towards his coat out of reflex, stopping just shy of his revolver. He turned his head slightly, casting a glance over his shoulder.
Follin stood there, unnervingly close. She hadn't made a sound, not even a creak on the warped floorboards, not the jingle of a charm. As if she had just appeared, like smoke.
Her eyes glinted in the low candlelight, amused. "Most can't even tell which end of the sentence they're reading."
Cecil raised a brow and returned his gaze to the deck. "It's not a language you tend to forget, once you learn it."
"One of the oldest languages in the world," Follin said, circling around him now, her patchwork shawl trailing behind her. "a language from a more mystical age."
She moved to the corner of the table, her fingers hovering just above the deck but not quite touching it. "A rare set, you know? Came from a ruined monastery, far east. Not too far from the fallen Capital of the Lancaster Imperium."
Cecil didn't reply immediately. His eyes traced the spiral pattern on the card backs again, the shape of the eye staring up through layers of ink.
"Do you just collect decks, or do you use them?" he asked finally.
Follin smiled, just enough to show that same too-wide grin. "A bit of both."
Cecil sighs and slips the cards back into the case. "The eyes?"
"I was right. Sold my last few pairs to the church yesterday." Follin shrugged.
Cecil's expression remained unchanged, though his eyes narrowed slightly. "No chance you've got another pair tucked away somewhere? Preserved in alcohol? Salted? Frozen?"
Follin clicked her tongue and stepped away from the table, moving toward a tall shelf behind the counter.
"Tempting as it is to dig through every drawer and dusty jar in here," she said with a lilt, "I can say with reasonable certainty: I'm out."
She turned, folding her arms loosely.
"Your best bet would be to wait till after the Charterlight, my usual suppliers tend to crawl back into the city once the noise dies down."
Cecil exhaled slowly through his nose. He didn't like waiting, time had a way of slipping away from those who sat idle.
"The alternative?"
Follin's grin widened. "If you are in a rush, you can always try and see if the local branch of the church would be willing to part with a pair."
Cecil raised a brow. "The Church?"
"Mm-hmm," she nodded, unbothered. "Their branch here's gotten pretty big. I hear they've been getting more funds from the Theocracy. Cathedral's just past the Brass Quarter."
"Lovely," Cecil muttered. "Let me guess, they bought it to be able to create their own Sorcerers of the Lineage?"
Follin shrugged. "Either that or to use them as ingredients for potions or charms."
Cecil considered this for a moment. "Then I suppose I'll pay the church a visit tomorrow."
He started to place the deck back down, but Follin stopped him.
"Keep it," she said. "Call it an apology for the missing eyes."
Cecil slipped the deck into an inner coat pocket, offering Madame Follin a curt nod of thanks.
"I appreciate the gesture," he said. The bell over the door gave a soft chime as he stepped back into the cooling air of Widdershins Alley.
Dusk had passed into night, leaving only the lanterns to illuminate the alley.
Cecil moved in measured steps, his cane tapping quietly ahead of him. He traced his path back toward the inn, his mind already making plans for the future.
Then, something shifted in the corner of his eye.
A form slumped near one of the alley's side branches, barely visible in the lack of light. For a moment, Cecil thought it was a bundle of cloth or garbage. But then the shape moved and he caught the unmistakable outline of a body.
He slowed.
The young man was lying on his back. He wore white robes, now dirtied by the grime of the alley floor. He had blonde feathers and a pair of owl wings, marking him as an Avian. He was muttering something.
Cecil, curiosity outweighing logic, crouched down to inspect him, trying to make out the words.
"Food."
With a sigh, Cecil gently tapped the man's shoulder.
The man gave no response beyond another weak groan for food.
"Come on. Let's get you something to eat."
With a grunt of effort, Cecil took the man by the arm and hauled him upright.
He adjusted his grip and began walking, guiding the stranger back toward The Sleeping Fish with slow, steady steps.