Quoted By:
"You can't complain <span class="mu-i">now,</span>" you say irritably. "You're here."
"I-I-I know, I just... am I in your pocket?"
"Yeah?"
A long pause. "That's fucking humiliating."
What? "...No? It's... why? The rest of you's over there, and he's not pocket-sized, so what's the—"
"Exactly," Gil says morosely.
You're unsure how to deal with this and fall silent. The beetles huddle in your pocket for a while, then creep up to hide inside your collar. The line inches forward— fortunately, it wasn't long to begin with, and you push the tent flap open in short order.
The PROGNOSTICATIONS tent's interior is cluttered with all manner of dangly thing— beads, bells, garlands, the tiniest strung-up electrical lights you've ever seen— and is so richly perfumed you cough reflexively. The liaison(?) inside is seated cross-legged on the ground. Neatly laid before him are a shallow bowl of clear water, a small clean blade, and a towel.
"Come in and sit down," he says. "Happy Godsday."
If they try to do anything to you, you remind yourself, you are filled with— with— stuff. So they can't. You are invincible from all pagan trickery. "You too," you say, and sit down on the empty cushion.
Certified Liaison Draven looks intently at you. His eyes are blue-ringed. "And what may I help you with today?"
"Huh?"
"The gods themselves could not divine a single path forward, and neither can I. The future is multifarous. I can only report what I find more or less likely. So what troubles you?" His fingertips skim the bowl of water. "The more specific you're able to be, the more specific I am able to be."
>[1] Um. Okay. Throw something out there you want divined. (Write-in.)
>[2] Don't just throw something out there. Is this even real? You're not in the past— you proved that with the beach, if it wasn't obvious already. The sea-gods aren't *alive.* Ask something to suss out this place's underlying mechanisms. [Roll.]
>[3] Write-in.
