Norris
Essie was in a very content state. She finished planting monkshood, also known as wolf's bane, she dug up fresh garlic to hang to dry. She fed her horse. Now she was relaxing near the creek. Her bare feet dangled in the water while she lazily played her mandolin. She strummed along, playing an old tune she learned as a child. Her pipe was next to her, smoke wafting from it. She paused her playing for a moment to pick the pipe up, bringing it to her lips to smoke. 

Her hair was pulled back into a braid that went down her back and she had a red shawl wrapped around her. She wore a loose shirt and a long skirt. She didn't have to go to town today, which was a relief. She didn't necessarily mind it, but the people often aggravated her. 

She resumed playing, getting lost in her own thoughts. Thoughts of her childhood, traveling from city to city. Some parts of her missed it. She was startled out of her reverie by noises coming closer to her little home. She quickly stood, wondering who would be coming her way. A customer or someone that would declare her a charlatan.
Cleveland
He'd come roaring into town — as he always did — the night before. Briar Ridge was hardly the first stop he'd made coming out of the deeper south, but it'd be the longest. And while he was dirty and exhausted from the road and the wet-hot air, he still sauntered into the bar before securing the usual stay. (This was the only town in which he permitted himself the comfort of a room, much less a bath, on the long routes.) In any case, it was there he heard about the stranger set up just outside town, by the crick. Doin' devilry, so stay away.

But Shady was pretty interested in devilry, himself, and he'd said as much at the time. The night ended in a little brawl unrelated to that discussion, and today he had the busted lip to show for it. He did not, however, forget about the stranger by the crick.

Nothing sapped away a hangover like cold mountain air. He turned his face away from the wind, struck his thumb a few times on his Ronson lighter. Sucked in a breath, lit his cigarette. The toxic smoke pulled out the whiskey miseries, let 'em drift off in the exhale, up through the hemlock and gum leaves.

The most curious music Shady Rooster ever heard — and he'd heard jazz music! — roiled up to his trail, first as quiet as if it were part of the brook-song, then distinct from the water, then silent altogether because the player heard him coming. And sure enough, a woman stood near the water with an instrument the likes of which he'd never seen. It felt like a scene straight out of one of those strange stories from far away and far a-when, about nymphs or muses, or whatever those dead old poets wanted to call 'em.

But they'd called her something else, back there in the bar. Not a nymph.

"Mornin'," He greeted (in the early afternoon), shy of breath after that schlep through the woods. "I heard they was a lady by the crick tellin' fortunes. I don't reckon that was you." Which was to say, Shady Rooster absolutely reckoned this woman with her hair down and braided, a

Nd her curious loose clothes and mysterious smoke and instrument, was the lady tellin' fortunes.
Norris
Essie took the man in. He had a wild look about him. His hair seemed to be sticking up in all directions. His face unshaven. But, perhaps the most telling of his wild nature were his eyes. They gleamed, almost like they were searching for the next exciting thing. It seemed he decided her tarot cards were it. She nodded at his question. "Yes. I tell fortunes for the right price." She said. Her voice came out a little husky from the smoke. 

She walked toward her little wagon, motioning lazily with her free hand for the man to follow. Her wagon was big, colorful. She painted it vibrant colors to remind her of her family. Wolf's bane grew all around it, encircling the wagon. Dried garlic hung around the doorframe. You could never be too careful. 

She nodded to a table she set outside for these occasions. "Take a seat. I'll be back." She said. She opened her wagon door. She quickly grabbed her tarot deck and set her mandolin down. She came back out with a flurry of her skirts. She walked over to the man and sat down. She started shuffling the deck, looking at him expectantly. 

"I'm Esmerelda. I read the fortunes of those brave enough to seek their futures." She said with a soft voice. She had an accent that made her sound different to everyone else, but she barely noticed it. "And who might you be, stranger?"
Cleveland
That answer came as no surprise. He'd never met a fortune-teller, but he'd heard plenty — and while he didn't know what he'd been looking before, he'd sure as hell known when he found her.

No wonder she came to Briar Ridge. Most places tended to have folks like Granny Sandaline — folks who warned against the devil's magic. Against strangers with dark features and strange accents. (As if she didn't have a strange accent, herself, or black-eyed children.) But this place was a little different — a little more open minded. Not enough she'd set up her colorful wagon in town, maybe, but she was here. She was making money, he reckoned.

The woman gestured, and Shady followed after. The cigarette rolled with the thoughtful motions of his jaw as he inspected the garlic swinging above her door, then the recently upturned earth where she'd planted her precautions. He stuck his boot out and pulled a chair out from underneath the table with the toe of it, then dropped into the seat. It sank slightly in the mud while he leaned against the back of it, one elbow already on the tabletop.

Once she re-emerged, she had his attention fully.

"I never heard'a no name like 'at," He told her. "But I'm purdy brave." Brave was one world; most folks went with other descriptors. "I'm Shady." 

Despite her work shuffling cards, his leaned forward, shoving his hand across the table at her to shake. 

"What'd y'all say the 'right price' was, again?"
Norris
Essie smirked at him, her red stained lips quirking up at the corners. "If it's difficult for you, you may call me Essie." She said. "And I've never heard a name as Shadey, but we learn new things everyday." She finished shuffling and she tapped the cards against the table, getting them to be all uniform. She laid the deck down. 

On the back of the cards were phases of the moon. It was an old deck, one passed down from her mother, and her mother before that. It had several languages in the cards, some of the more common ones where they had traveled. The deck held a lot of history for her, and she respected it a great deal. 

"The price is negotiable." She said, her dark eyes meeting his. "You can pay me three dollars, or if you have something you wish to barter with I may consider it." She said casually. This is usually how these things went. She would often trade many things for her tarot readings. 

One time she traded manual labor, getting her cart fixed. Another time she got booze out of the deal. Money is nice, but it wasn't set in stone. Not everyone had it and she took what she could get. 

She reached for her pipe, whacking it against the table to empty the ashes. She filled it back up with tobacco and put it in her mouth. She got out her match book and grabbed one, striking it to light and she brought it to the pipe, inhaling slowly so the tobacco would light. She looked back to Shadey, raising her eyebrow in a questioning way, wondering what he would offer her.