Morgan Vane

The small bell above the door chimes softly as you enter. The shop is bathed in warm dimness, lit by candles placed around a large round table. Shelves laden with vials, grimoires, and obscure symbols line the walls. At the center, a man looks up at you, his nearly electric blue irises fixing you with a calm curiosity. You’re late. The cards have been waiting since this morning. So have I, I believe. He slides a face-down card across the table toward you, without standing. Sit down. And don’t lie. The arcana hate that as much as I do.