36th Searing, Verant, Daravin 4618
Despite himself, Thomas was starting to not hate Daravin. He'd been raised to believe it was a nation of squabbling, power-hungry mages that regularly had mundane people clapped in irons, raped, or murdered for so much as looking at them. He had no doubt that these things happened, perhaps even every day, but so far he had seen precious little of it. Mostly, the people here were similar to people everywhere: a bit ugly, a bit desperate, a bit bored, and ready for a fun evening to distract them from the everyday mundanity that characterized their lives. He didn't begrudge them, this; he was happy to oblige and do his bit to make it an evening that the fine people of Daravin enjoyed.
He'd been particularly nervous about his portion of the carnival because in other parts of the world, he'd be playing up the occult aspects of his character, suggesting to people that he was using some unknown magic to peer into the future. Chronomancy, perhaps -- he didn't know what it did, but it had chrono right in the name, so it stood to reason. In any case, he was careful not to ever make that claim in Daravin, where for all he knew most of the citizenry regularly farted out ether, as suffused as they were with magic here. It helped that the little traveling carnival was nowhere near prestigious enough to capture the attention of any powerful or noteworthy Entente, as well, and the ones who did show up seemed to understand that this was for entertainment instead of an extremely accurate prognostication. That didn't stop them from asking their questions, but they were more arch about it, which Thomas could appreciate.
For his part, he tried to give them a show. His crystal ball was actually quite a marvel for a place as technologically backwards as Daravin, and the way the glow of the light hit the celestial symbols painted onto the cloth walls of Altair's tent was pretty, at least. Also, he knew quite well he was not bad to look at, hence the artfully skimpy costume of clothes that weren't quite any one style enough to be placed as belonging to a particular country or ethnicity. Besides, he was placed toward the back. By the time most of the carnival patrons found his tent, they'd had ample opportunity to get drunk, take in juggling, tumbling, and acrobatic acts, have some salty, sweet, or rich foods that made people want to drink more, and dance in the dancehall tent; usually the most popular attraction by far.
Still, in Verant as in Valtoria, Thomas -- or Altair the Clairvoyant -- had no shortage of customers. Whether it's because they wanted to see what he'd say, see if he'd flirt with them, or see if something more was on offer, he wasn't sure, but he wasn't complaining. He got to keep a reasonable portion of his take since so much of his setup was provided by him, and the ringmaster of the carnival had taken a shine to him from the first time they'd worked together. As people wound their way around the carnival, he kept an eye out for anyone who seemed drawn to his tent, trying to assess what they could want from him.
Reading someone started by watching their gait, their mannerisms, and their posture, after all, and the best time to watch people was when they weren't aware. So even while he completed readings, he kept one on the crowd, trying to glean what he could. On this night, a very tall, slender gentleman towered over the crowd. Slender and reserved, he reminded the actor of an Aspen -- he found himself wondering how he was getting along, as he was clearly quite alone despite being in the midst of a crowd. As Thomas finished up another reading, providing warm counsel to a besotted young maiden, he locked eyes with the man and smiled. Perhaps he'd stop by, later if not now.
