Death - XIII. The 13th card in the old crone’s deck of tarot. It was very much the same number which Amaris had tattooed on her neck – not by choice, of course, but it could never be undone. It was her slave number in Desierto, a name she’d lived by for many years. A name she could never forget. Amaris knew that the words of the witch were true, every single one of them, when she pulled out the card and showed it to her. She’d known about her wolfblood and upon entering her tent, Amaris had felt an eerie sensation. That woman hadn’t been human, and there was nothing quite like her. The reading itself was what frightened her even more, for Death was a special card, one that was rarely drawn and one that no one wanted to see on display when it was their turn. But of course Amaris had to be unlucky. You will be followed by the spirits of those who have recently passed, she’d said. Whatever that meant. Amaris really wasn’t interested in speaking to any spirits whatsoever, and even though it had been a while since she’d left the tent, there was this weird feeling that she simply couldn’t shake off. As if something strange was indeed going to happen. Amaris had travelled back to Era after her unsettling encounter in Crocus and decided to stay here, since she’d grown quite accustomed to the city over the past few weeks. It wasn’t as bad anymore as she’d initially thought and while she hadn’t grown to like it at all, she at least knew her way around. It was night time, and while it wasn’t unusual for Amaris to be out at this time of the day, a cold shiver went down the werewolve's spine when she heard a soft voice calling to her. |
Last edited by Amaris on Thu Oct 24, 2019 4:44 am; edited 1 time in total