24th of Searing, Year 4618
Business in Valtoria had been unexpectedly good. Maybe it had been a while since the locals had some entertainment, or maybe they'd just caught the city when it was on an upswing. No matter what the cause, Thomas' coffers were growing quite full of farthings. Three of the local ladies had even tipped him some bank notes. They said it was because he was good at what he did, but he suspected it was because his biceps looked fantastic in his stupid little vest. Magnus had been right about the vest, though, as well as the decision to extend their stay in Valtoria.
It was well and truly dark outside now, the bright heat of day becoming more of a dull, background haze, the kind of sweaty night that called for chilled wine for those that could afford it, and visits to a watering hole for those that had the spare time. Since Thomas had neither money for fripperies or time for anything, he just did his best to ensure his mascara didn't run as he looked into his crystal orb.
It was actually just a big lens he'd swiped from a factory back home that he'd painted with glitter and stars on it, but uncivilized rubes in Daravin weren't going to be able to tell the difference anyhow. He doubted they knew what a printing press was in much of this continent while his home country regularly pumped out new inventions that moved the country forward. Not that it much mattered, because he had no intention of ever going back.
On what was to be the last night of the circus in Valtoria, his tent was not quite as busy as it had been on the two nights prior, but it just meant that people who came by took longer, and he was paid by the question, so it worked out. There was something that intrigued him, however: a single, attractive man wandering around the circus. Usually, men this young and attractive came with simpering women on their arms who couldn't believe their good fortune, and stayed in the dancehall or bar for much of the night. This man seemed restless, though, at times even lurking by Thomas' tent.
Or rather, Altair's tent. When he completed his latest prognostication, he offered a gently scented cloth to the crying older woman about the news that should yet bear another child, and advised that she keep it, if she wished. She was so delighted she seemed to float from the tent, leaving his table open. He cocked his head at the man lurking just beyond the threshold.
"I say, young man," he boomed, "do you care to call upon the prodigious prognostication of Altair the Clairevoyant?"
