WHAT STARVING POETS MEANT & future readings

[sybil.]

[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 55%; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 20px"]Though Sybil had only lived in the Ascendants for a brief period of time, her true calling was, well, calling to her. She had not prophesied in too long of a time; she felt as if she were disappointing her ancestors. Her purpose on this earth, as far as she was concerned, was to offer the regular population insight into their futures. Her work was supposed to aid the children of her gods on their journeys. The gods willed her, her family taught her, and her body and mind did as was asked. She enjoyed her task.

After all, it taught her much about those she lived with. Sybil was full of secrets, and most of them were from others. She knew too much about everyone else. She knew their innermost desires, knew their families, and she knew what would become of them. It was times like these that made her feel most powerful - and she liked that, feeling powerful. By doing this, she would learn more about her group mates... And she would learn more about that Agathe.

The black panther had set up a small room to act as her make-shift inner sanctum inside of a temple. Though this was not the space she was used to, she would try her best. Sybil had not spoken with the tongues of the gods in so long that worry flew through her systems, but only for a heartbeat. She told herself she would be fine. She was practiced and well-versed. The gods would be with her.

The room was shrouded in darkness; all visible light was cut off by heavy, satin curtains. A sign beside the door read, "Prophecies for Your Future. Payment Needed for the Gods. Enter or Do Not - the Choice is Yours." Should one enter with their token of payment, they would find Sybil seated in the darkness, eyes closed, lips moving, paws dancing in circular movements. 

[if you have a specific plot in mind that you'd like sybil to alert your character about, by all means tell me! the future readings can be about anything - big or small! it'll also be very cryptic]

[agathe.]

[align=center][div style="width: 500px; text-align: justify; font-family: Verdana; font-size: 12px; color;"]Fate and fortune, though often intertwined, were both forces who seemed to hate Agathe nearly as much as they favored her. She would not deny the fact that she had been immensely lucky to have walked away from her matron relatively unscathed (if you call the life-threatening wounds she had showed up to the Ascendants with 'unscathed'), but had lost everything in the process. It was as if she could have no great moment in her life without an equally terrible tragedy to balance it out. Sofiya, freedom. Her sisters' execution, the Ascendants. The Ironbeaks, immortality. She would forever be equalized by the events that transpired within her life, doing everything in her power to not tip the scale in favor of one or the other. It was as bizarre as it was exhausting.

But she did not believe in the legitimacy of things such as 'future readings'. She had seen her future written in the stars once and then dismantled it with nothing but one sweep of her claws. She was the architect of her own future and would continue to be until her last breath had been drawn. That didn't mean she wasn't curious though. In fact, Sybil's little set up was cause enough for Agathe to push past the satin curtains and sit before the other girl without a second thought. "I have divine witchling blood," She informed curtly, golden eyes meeting clouded ones, "Is that enough to appease the gods if I spill it? Or would they rather you do it?"  A challenge. Almost. A single brow would rise wryly, the hints of a rare smile curving her lips. Though she had killed others for merely brushing past her, she quite enjoyed the idea of making this quiet oracle take her sacrifice. There was something wickedly delightful about it. About her. "I'll warn you, I have a... strange relationship with the Gods."

[sybil.]

[align=center][div style=" background-color: transparent; border: 0px solid black; width: 55%; min-height: 9px; font-family:; line-height: 110%; text-align: justify; padding: 20px"]Sybil heard the disturbance in the curtains and slowly open her eyes, which landed on none other than Agathe. Though her lips wished to curl into a mischievous smile, her features remained stoic and unchanging. She kept steely and silent as Agathe began to speak. Without needing to peak inside of the snow leopard's mind, Sybil could tell the other didn't believe in these things. "This is serious business. One ought to tread carefully, Miss Ashyver," the soothsayer answered telepathically, though it seemed the message echoed off the walls of deep, purple velvet.

A witchling. A blood sacrifice. That piqued her interest. The wildcat was not a fan of blood sacrifices; it was dirty work. However, the Seraph would get what the Seraph desired. "Inexperienced claws," she returned, coolly. As if she would allow regular individuals to dabble in her workings. "Strong connection. Not to be abused." With that said, she lurched forward, taking hold of Agathe's left forearm and making a small incision across the pad of her paw. Sybil placed her right paw against the blue blood before lifting her paws skyward.

Her eyes closed and her forelimbs moved in bizarre circular patterns. Her body swayed to and fro, golden circle dancing against her forehead, lips wordlessly twitching. The panther's posture shifted, becoming more confident and rigid. In her mind's eye, she watched Agathe's future unfolding. Sybil's fictional brows furrowed. She saw blood and felt a searing heat. Darkness. Isolation. For the first time in her history, she debated speaking a truthful prophecy.

"Child of peace turned child of war,
who is it that you are fighting for?
it isn't these people and it isn't your own,
will you ever realize that you'll have to atone?

When blue blood runs red,
and your iron is devastated,
you'll truly learn if monsters are born, or created."

When she spoke, her voice was warped and layered, as if a handful of different individuals were speaking in unison. When Sybil finished speaking, her posture returned to her normal, withdrawn look. Her eyes opened, and she lowered her paws. "The gods have spoken, Agathe. Take it as you will... or not at all." A faint sadness - or perhaps worry - swam through her tone. "... Self-forged chains do not break."