#wheel of fortune

[punkforkos]

X - WHEEL OF FORTUNE | Eclipse

Eclipse for @pine-niidles for an OC Tarot Art Exchange! <3

Carrd | INPRNT | Kofi

[praenomer]

The Wheel of Fortune is a card of cycles, fate, and destiny

[unhelpfultarot]

Wheel of Fortune and Judgement

Things are probably just going to keep happening, one way or another, until just before the heat death of the universe.

[hyacinth-in-a-haze]

The wheel of fortune- Yandere tyrant x fem reader

contains- abuse of power, financial abuse, physical abuse, kidnapping, threats of noncon, age gap

 Now more than ever, you wish you had chosen a different stretch of the city to ply your trade, maybe have been less inconspicuous. That kind of wishful thinking does nothing to change your situation, no matter how much you rotate that initial day around your head, like looking for the crack in a jar where the water leaks.

“Tell wealthy folk what they want to hear,” your mother would always repeat ever since she trusted you to start taking readings yourself. “Honesty gets you no money or worse.” Her own twisted fingers served as a reminder of what could happen. It was always the most dangerous people who feared the fates most. You could tell a costermonger that his stock will all rot, his children had all been fathered by different men, and even kick him in the gut for good measure. Yet he would still pay you and even give you extra for all your effort. Try telling a noble woman that her husband had a lover, and she'd call you a liar to your face if you're unlucky.

It was not even as if you had experience with the nobility; not many would stoop themselves down to your section of the city unless they had a certain kind of desperation. You've learned to read your customers just as much as your cards and give each of them what they want. Those who want the truth get the truth; those who want reassurance or flattery get that. The most dangerous folk who darkened your doorstep tended to be locals who employed a special reverence for you and your position. 

Your experience with politics was predominantly localised to which gang wanted coins for their protection or who you could sweet-talk to let you work your trade. Guards and soldiers were a separate story, a presence that increased when the crown prince, overnight, took more power as the king was ailing away in his bed. Such a thing had no real consequences on a girl like you until you noticed the slow increase of authority that didn't seem to concern themselves with the petty crime of your streets. Instead, they just seemed to exist there, to hover about and watch the goings on. Therefore, you went on, cards in hand and veil draped atop your hair as you met with clients, growing increasingly more desperate as the weeks went by. Then the markets began to increase their prices, less meat found its way into your pot as fewer customers found their way to your door. Still, you did as your mother taught you that one day, clutching her mangled fingers to her chest as you scrambled for the coins thrown by some duke’s daughter on the floor, keep your head down amongst your betters.

When the king's sickness was first announced, his body had already begun to rot up the palace, so it was said by others under hushed awnings. The crown prince ascended easily without fanfare under the guise of stability, just as the purges began, and those guards who spent their days haunting the busy corners soon began going from door to door of people who once sought your skills. Still, you continued on, others would come to your shop anyway, merchants asking for investment opportunities, lovesick youths wondering who they would marry, and then came him.

It was late when he entered your shop, ducking his head underneath silk shawls your mother once charmed from a caravan that came from the east. You jumped at the sight of him once the bell alerted you to his presence; he was older than you, twice your age at the least. He carried himself like a bow strung so tight that to draw it could result in the string snapping across your face. You weren't blind to the style of his clothes despite the cloak slung over his shoulder; you'd long since learnt to read the shimmer of silk reflects the light far differently from that of wool.  A sell sword he must have been, scarred across his hands with one drawing almost down his cheek, it made you slightly more at ease to see someone who was a worker just as you, yes, most likely a successful one by the state of his clothes. The gods know all your silk has been worn once or sometimes twice before you got the chance to call it your own. Just as you appraised him, he was doing so to you, honing in on your stature and figure with his steel blue eyes.

“I am searching for the one who calls herself the Pythia?” his voice was a low rumble from him, as though he had just awoken. You stiffen. How does he know this title? You've always gone by different things to different customers; everyone else from the rivers bend knows you as yourself, no fancy epithet when they approach with their troubles. Pythia was a title your mother claimed, one she taught you about as a child, braiding your hair back when her hands still could.  

“the pythia was a woman chosen long ago in a not so distant land who would speak the wills of the gods” she murmerd in the soft lamplight, it would radiate around her hair like a halo in your memory “ all would come to her from the farmers to the kings as they sought her counsel, and all would respect what fell from her mouth. Unlike the folk who curse at us because we tell them not what they want to hear, my girl,” she would sigh, tying up your braid with a ribbon. “So if we call ourselves a Pythia, it tells those educated rich folk that what we say to them is to be respected as though it came from the god's lips themselves. Sometimes it works and other times it doesn't, but it's a much more memorable title than to be called a common fortune teller, is it not?” With that, she tied the third nit and smoothed down the stubborn strands that refused to lie flat.  “A pythia is not the same as some haggard women who read palms in the market square for pennies; what we provide is a talent more than mystery.”

So you don your veil and soft smile, performing the role of your inherited title.

“You have found her, good sir. May I have a name to call you by if you so please to grant me one?” Men were the easy ones to pander to. It was laughable, almost the number of times you could flutter your lashes and widen your kohl-rimmed eyes, and it would be eaten up by your clients. Your sellsword was no exception at first, his eyes falling on the pout of your bottom lip as his hand tensed.” Although good sir, if you wish to keep your name to yourself, I could not begrudge you.” You weren't a fool to not tell that he didn't want to reveal himself to you. He nods at that and follows you deeper into the shop, ducking his head under the siks and garlands hanging above from the ceiling beams. You take your seat on the floor, gesturing for him to sit opposite you on a cushion. It was comical how out of plce this gruff mercenary off a man was, sat crosslegged waiting you with an amusement of his own, dark eyes crinkling. “ now then good sir, what is it that you want to ask of my services, how may i best serve you?” you take your card between your hands knocking on it thrice before you begin to shuffle.

“I'm afraid I did not come to you with a specific question in mind, only that I have heard your name be lauded and so had to see proof of your talents for myself. My master is a wealthy man and was looking for a recommendation on a soothsayer he could patronise. I thought to come see proof of your whispered talents before I recommend you to him.” he smiles wolfishly while looking down at you, “So my lady, please tell me whatever it is that the fates whisper in your ears.”

You shuffle the cards, feeling them slip between your fingers like a waterfall, taking the three cards that fall out and laying them down on your embroidered cloth, flipping right side up as you reveal them: the emperor, the tower and seven of swords. You pause, working out how exactly you are going to word this to him. Yes, he is wealthier than you, but there's no sign yet that he would be the kind to gift violence upon you in return for a particularly unfavourable reading. You steady your breath and begin to weave your words.

“There's been a time of great upheaval within your life recently, am I correct?” You are met with a shallow nod of acknowledgement, taking that forward as you continue, “ something most likely to do with your line of work, and perhaps leadership. There are secrets abound as well, people are keeping the truths to themselves and showing multiple faces to whoever they believe will reward them the best. The question is really, do you play the game and continue to shift faces from one person to the next, or do you take control of yourself and your own destiny? This change is sudden and destructive, yes, but there are ways to harness that power and work it to your own gain, after all, good sir,” you meet his eyes and smile “ from the ashes of kingdoms, a new one can rise again simply in another's image, creation needs destruction to flow.”

He chuckles at you, entertained, yes, but there's a seriousness in his eyes. Where before he simply looked at you as though you were nothing but a fun entertainment to spend a pouch of coin upon, like some dancer or bear baiter, there is respect in his gaze. Taking your words as counsel.

“I see now why you go by that name, it's uncanny almost. They way you speak as though there was something, or someone speaking through you, I cannot truly say that i have seen another who has given me such a reading as you have.” the scar across his cheek crinkles almost as his smirk stretches across his skin, you cannot help but wonder to yourself what the story must be behind a wound such as that. A wound that, rather than mar his classical face, almost seems to have added interest to it. You find yourself unable to avoid his gaze as it pins you like a criminal to the tree.

“Perhaps I am not like anyone else.” Your voice is light, teasing almost, but you mean the words as you say them, without a pretence for modesty or a sense of self-entitlement. Sure, there are others in the city who you know to be better than you, but you also know yourself to be better than others. Being unsure of yourself gets you nowhere; confidence, which may be inflated on the other hand, ensures that you get what's most important. Steady, continuous customers with deep pockets and loyalty to the one who sweet-talks the future best into their ears.

“That you aren't, indulge me then. What do you believe I shall do, follow as others have done, or take what I want for myself and command power, rather than simply obey it?” In the dim candlelight and the absence of others, you are suddenly made all too well aware of him. How he leans above you like some bird of prey, majestic and all too content in the strength of his talons and beak because he knows exactly how to utilise them while he hunts. There's no doubt that the dagger hung from his belt has tasted blood before, but he looks at you with something akin to devotion despite your earlier words. It is almost enough to throw your own mask off your face. Almost.

“Well, if power fits you best, why should you not wear it upon your head?” he smiles at your response, chuckling with a mirth you didn't really understand. Like there was some joke to your words.

“Then, little miss, I will take your words with me,” pulling from his pockets, he drops a heavy pouch down atop your lap before standing up and making his way outside your shop with little ceremony of a goodbye.

The next mornings were quiet, with even fewer people coming not just to your door, but even the regular folk avoided leaving their homes. The town criers declared that the old king was finally dead, his rotten body buried, and his eldest son crowned in a ceremony so quick no one knew it happened.

The air had gone thick with tension as more and more blank-faced soldiers began patrolling the streets, and more and more stubborn nobles were having their heads decorated on the city walls. It shouldn't have been the surprise that it was when the soldiers burst into your home with little ceremony. The surprise was the respect they treated you with; you weren't trussed up like the others who had been made to disappear in the middle of the day, rather, you were asked politely to ready yourself and your tools for a customer's request. Despite the forced cordiality, you didn't need to be a soothsayer to see that they were willing to use force if necessary. There were stories before, of common people such as yourself whose reputations took a turn, becoming trained birds for the court, singing like a canary every time the king called for a prophecy. Your mother only lost the use of her fingers for offending someone she shouldn't have, you might lose your own pink tongue for the same thing if you're lucky, your head if not. As the carriage rolled through streets once filled not even a week ago with bustling markets, you finally come to terms with the very fact that burying your head in the sand has done nothing to help you; if anything, your wilful ignorance is what put your neck at risk.

You didn't expect the palace of all things to be silent, each servant blending into the walls, many of them and even the guards sporting badly hidden bruises. All of the looks sent your way were those of suspicion and sympathy rolled into a quick glimpse out of the corner of an eye before it was returned to looking towards invisible cracks on the floor. You don't even look impressive, none of your usual makeup or silks, you look just like the scared young girl you've always been. All you have to advocate for your own selfhood is the deck clutched tight in your hands.

Entering the throne room, your gaze stays cemented to the red carpet you're led to walk on until you're practically pushed down to your knees by the guards escorting you. As you hit the carpet, you realise how little it truly does to cushion the pain from your knees colliding against the cold stone floor. 

“Now did I tell you to do such a thing, or are you fools under the impression that you are permitted to act on your own thoughts?” a voice lacking any pretence of patience cuts through the silence. Your own voice dies in your throat before it's ever called to speak. Directed at you now, “ you may raise your gaze, Pythia, or have they gotten the wrong one? It seems I sent my men to fetch me the woman who thought to flirt at me without restraint and told me to take what I wanted from the world without hesitation, only it seems that this here is nothing more than a girl in her mother's ill-fitting dress.” there is that laugh again,  the one you that put colour on your cheeks now drains your face as you raise your eyes to meet his. “I cannot tell what I like more,” he muses, that scar puckering the skin, you happen to be just as enticing no matter your faces.”

“Your majesty, I'm just- I am only-” he cuts you off. Standing from his throne and approaching you, once you read that wolves will look at their prey as they approach it, the moment that the prey looks away, the wolf pounces. It's some childish belief, as you hold his eyes with your own, a wolf would be a more favourable beast to be faced with.

“You are not just or only, after all, you were quite the fine bragger before me, weren't you? To recount what you said then well that would make you quite the dhishonest thing would it not?” his hand outstruches to your hair, you lack the voice to cry out as your pulled up until your ear meets his mouth, “ if you want to see how i reward dishonesty then you only have to look out the window. So tell me once more what are you just?” the pain is forgotten as your self preservation finds your tongue, wrenching it from the grip of your fear.

“I am just a soothsayer, a fortune teller, a prophet, a pythia, any and all those words that are what I am, your majesty, but I am no liar,” you find yourself colliding with the floor once more as he lets go of his grip.

“No,” he muses “, you're not a liar, but I wouldn't be a fool to ignore that your comfort motivates your tongue; we all have our motivators. I have lived forty years as a dutiful son while my father let the nobles feast and grow gluttonous, where was my recognition? I went to war, and yet no parades nor mention of me. A man can only take such disrespect before he raises his hands. You were only an amusement, a name found in the accounts of too many people I wanted gone, and I've always been a curious man. What I found was a girl speaking to me like a common sellsword, batting her lashes, telling me to wear power upon my head. So tell me, does the crown fit me well?” 

“What do you want from me?” you all but whimper, pulling yourself together on the floor, trying to ignore the patches of blood on your dress from your knees hitting the floor, and the strands of your hair still entwined with his long fingers.

“There's the question, what do I want to do with a delightful thing as yourself? I have jesters aplenty, but none amuses me as much as you. The same with whatever whore drapes herself on my arm, you prove more entertaining and more desirable than any of those women have before,” your breath stops, you were so fixated on your head you forgot the other things he could think nto take from you, pressing your legs tightly together as you become all so much aware how much he likes to toy with his meal before consuming it. “but, you also happen to be a useful thing. Who am I to spurn such an opportunity before me as someone with the skills that you possess, a pythia all of my own. It does no bad to take up such counsel.

“The fates are as fickle as the wind or the waves, I have no control over them.” Your words do nothing but to enflame his fire.

“You have no control, but you have communication. Why would I spurn such a blessing as it kneels before me?” he crouches down to your level, tucking your ruffled hair behind your ears before lifting your chin, “Why not ask them what would happen to you if you choose to spurn the blessings that I offer you.” With that, he drops your face. There are two ways out of this room, one way results with your head decorating the castle walls, the other with your maidensblood painted across his bedsheets and your words in his ear.

And so you take your mother's advice from those years ago, pulling the worn cards from your skirt pocket, you start to shuffle them again.

[jareckiworld]

Zbigniew Gorlak — The Wheel of Fortune Turns (oil on canvas, 1992)

[drathe]

Threads of fate, light of life

Loxley Tarot card - The Sun with Wheel of Fortune bits

[nightshadeink]

Ghost Major Arcana Part 2/3

[beau-ba-fett]

Opening up a arcana pack

The humble and trustworthy arcana’s: hello good sir, we would be honored to help you further enhance your deck and synergize your run

The nefarious wheel of fortune: go on baby, you know you wanna give it a spin

Me delirious with lust already clicking it: helll yeah polychrome jocker