Mistress Jorja
The 8th Deadly Sin
- Joined
- Sep 5, 2001
- Posts
- 1,216
The carnival atmosphere had dimmed with the first growl of thunder and died when the rain had come. Strands of lights swayed from atop the ferris wheel that dominated the fair grounds, a riot of watered down color in the rain soaked dusk. Hawking shouts of “...three tosses for a dollar...step right up and win your lil’ lady a prize...three for a buck...try your luck...” and the feisty cries from losing patrons that had flooded the midway just moments earlier faded into pensive echos. Rain pelted the tattered primary colors of the awnings that the few remaining brave souls crouched under, the damp material fluttering like flannel shirts on a clothesline. The rides groaned grudgingly to a halt, raucous music hushed and replaced with staccato drumbeats from the thunderheads. Wet grass clutched at the ankles of those who made a mad dash for cover, as if the Karlsburg Community Show Grounds was reluctant to be abandoned before it had a chance of being able to prove itself.
Those who tore up the muddy ground like a running of the bulls passed by the dark maroon tent standing by itself. They neglected to notice the flickering of the candlelight inside, flames stabbing and warding off the impeding dusk like the rapiers in a heated duel. And a neatly hand-written card crafted in the brazen strokes of a black calligraphy pen failed to catch their attention.
Madame Chavi Ruv
the crafter of future dreams
the denier of future nightmares
the conductress of faltered tempos
the seeker of lost souls
Chavi’s sultry dark eyes peered into the rain-kissed night, the silver love beads dangling from the tent’s entrance divided the outside world into vertical slices, making the chaos usually witnessed beyond these canvas walls much more palatable. She leaned her elbows against the white crocheted cloth that swirled around the dark globe of her seeing crystal with a sense of anticipation that storms always carried with their bravado of lightening and thunder.
A nervous rustling from the back of the tent echoed a particularly clamorous boom of thunder as Chavi’s raven, Lucifer, shifted in his wrought iron cage. The beady eyes, almost intelligent for belonging to one of these hollow-boned creatures, observed the dim room that took on a romantic feel when the dappled fire of the carnival midway glared down in shadows of light through the peaked tent roof. A pile of dog-eared tarot cards, a silver pendant hanging from a strip of black leather, the hand-crafted terracotta incense burner, and other trinkets and miscellany that she had collected from her days of nomadic wanderings throughout the vast world were all taken in and dismissed without hesitation at their remarkable strangeness.
A slight movement outside caught the attention of her silhouetted form backlit by the provocatively rich scented herbal candles. He, for it moved with the masculine grace of the feline leader of a pride of lions, stood timidly bathed in shadows cloaked from all but the acuity of her keen eyes. Beckoning forth this apparition with a polished crimson nail, Chavi called out in a voice similar to the tinkling of glass on a tiled mural floor.
“Enter, dark traveler and take a respite from this weary world.”
As she uttered those words of welcome, Chavi couldn’t help but to remember a stanza of a poem her mother had recited to her again and again when she was a child.
Oh follow me dear traveler,
I will not lead you astray,
I’ll just take a little nibble,
And then be on my way...
Those who tore up the muddy ground like a running of the bulls passed by the dark maroon tent standing by itself. They neglected to notice the flickering of the candlelight inside, flames stabbing and warding off the impeding dusk like the rapiers in a heated duel. And a neatly hand-written card crafted in the brazen strokes of a black calligraphy pen failed to catch their attention.
Madame Chavi Ruv
the crafter of future dreams
the denier of future nightmares
the conductress of faltered tempos
the seeker of lost souls
Chavi’s sultry dark eyes peered into the rain-kissed night, the silver love beads dangling from the tent’s entrance divided the outside world into vertical slices, making the chaos usually witnessed beyond these canvas walls much more palatable. She leaned her elbows against the white crocheted cloth that swirled around the dark globe of her seeing crystal with a sense of anticipation that storms always carried with their bravado of lightening and thunder.
A nervous rustling from the back of the tent echoed a particularly clamorous boom of thunder as Chavi’s raven, Lucifer, shifted in his wrought iron cage. The beady eyes, almost intelligent for belonging to one of these hollow-boned creatures, observed the dim room that took on a romantic feel when the dappled fire of the carnival midway glared down in shadows of light through the peaked tent roof. A pile of dog-eared tarot cards, a silver pendant hanging from a strip of black leather, the hand-crafted terracotta incense burner, and other trinkets and miscellany that she had collected from her days of nomadic wanderings throughout the vast world were all taken in and dismissed without hesitation at their remarkable strangeness.
A slight movement outside caught the attention of her silhouetted form backlit by the provocatively rich scented herbal candles. He, for it moved with the masculine grace of the feline leader of a pride of lions, stood timidly bathed in shadows cloaked from all but the acuity of her keen eyes. Beckoning forth this apparition with a polished crimson nail, Chavi called out in a voice similar to the tinkling of glass on a tiled mural floor.
“Enter, dark traveler and take a respite from this weary world.”
As she uttered those words of welcome, Chavi couldn’t help but to remember a stanza of a poem her mother had recited to her again and again when she was a child.
Oh follow me dear traveler,
I will not lead you astray,
I’ll just take a little nibble,
And then be on my way...
