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He began shuffling the deck with surprising dexterity, his gnarled fingers moving with a practiced rhythm. Then, with a flourish, he slammed the cards face up on the table. A bead of sweat trickled down your temple as you watched him repeat the process – shuffle, slam, repeat. Each time, a wave of heat washed over you, a sensation both foreign and intensely uncomfortable. It wasn't a bodily heat; it felt as if your own skin had somehow transferred to the location of the deck, burning with a chilling intensity.
Finally, on the fourth iteration, Septimus stopped. The heat vanished as abruptly as it came. He stared at the cards, his brow furrowed in a deep crease. "Ah," he rasped, his voice barely a whisper. "I think I see the problem now."
"To explain it in terms we can understand... think of the Emperor's Tarot as a finely tuned instrument," he said, his voice raspy but surprisingly clear. "Too much psychic force and you overblow the notes, rendering the melody meaningless. It requires a... careful touch, and a lot of finesse. Especially with the way that this deck in particular has been calibrated."
"Most psykers," he continued, "are born with similar levels of inherent raw power and their ability to command it, consciously or subconsciously. However, with you, Anon, it seems the balance is skewed. I speculate that you hardly have any raw power, but you innately have
... *obscene* levels of dexterity."
