RE:Shuffle

Baethen ‘Sore-Loser’ Locke awoke with the giddy excitement only a child can possess, running around the house like a draught-addict on devil’s-powder—whatever that meant; his parents did not deign to comment or expand on that topic even with his pestering.

Brushing his teeth with a horse-hair brush and charcoal wash, Baethen sat down on the dining-room table, rocking back and forth on his chair as Mother made eggs, bacon, and pancakes while Father read the morning print.

“Nezarrem took the port city of Janash.”

“King protect us from those savage ash-skins.” Mother demurred back as she stirred the whites and yolks together into a nice scramble. It was left unsaid that the Locke clan hailed from Nezarrem and that their amber hair and greyish complexion was a product of said ‘savages’. As if the local Woedenites would distinguish a fourth-generation Nezarri that didn’t even speak the tongue of their former homeland from a proper native of the Dreadsea.

The geopolitics flew over Baethen’s head as he scarfed down the food on his plate. Robust breakfast such as these came few and far between in their household since his mother lost her job at the local card-smithy—though not a card-smith herself, Volentia Locke worked the dye vat to help the master mass-produce [Of-a-Kind] cards that were needed in the day-to-day operations of their city.

“Are you ready for your first card, Baethe?” Father sported a grin when his son nodded so emphatically so as to almost fall off the chair. Thankfully, the man had caught him in time lest the boy crack his skull on the tile flooring.

Carothian ceramic did not come cheap.

Being dealt your first card is always a momentous occasion.

Baethen and his parents had walked to the local temple of the Twenty-One Gods. Other nations had their own variations on the Major Arcana though whatever those were, the twelve-turn-old could not care in the slightest.

Hewn of the whitest, purest marble imaginable, the temple was a grand affair with columns as thick as Baethen was tall, holding up a ceiling of black-alabaster. Each pillar was carved in the likeness of one of the Numbered-Pantheon, starting from Unnumbered Loken whose face was hidden behind two half-masks made one and ending with Eot the Twenty-First whose very body all things walked upon.

A gaggle of other children streamed in which signalled the boy to look back at his parents.

“Go on. We’ll meet again by this column.”

With a nod, Baethen ran into the yawning threshold of the temple, dodging the slower children to get to the inner sanctum all the faster. A bark from a deacon set him to walking rather than running—the threat of being barred from the ceremony for a whole turn did not fall on deaf ears.

Sitting cross-legged in a circle around the cartomancer, a divine conduit to Morgana Herself, the children were silent before the grave weight that impregnated the air. They sat within a pool of water, upon black-alabaster—the holy stone of the Gods Themselves. The material had the base colour of a rich midnight-ebony but a lustre somewhere between metal and liquid with a pattern-weld like damascene, bright-ivory veins shimmering.

With a brazier in chain held in thrall of hand, incense spilled forth in heavy veils of vapour. The cartomancer went from child to child, setting a blank card—carte-blanche—before each wee little tyke, the rectangles of white floating atop the water yet affixed rather than ebbing.

Only once all of them had one, she sat down in the middle of the circle where a heptagram lay etched within the stone; the seven-sided star was a symbol for Babylon the Sixteenth Major Arcana or the Broken-God. Even though there was water within the large, circular basin, each and every person within sat atop it as if it were solid ground.

“The equinox is upon us, the veil porous. Gods now look through from the depths of the ether and gods suffer no fools. Mind your tongues children—we’d rather not have to go through the complicated Ritual-of-Untoadifying.”

A couple of giggles later and the cartomancer’s crows-feet were all that remained; though the bairnlings would soon forget of her, and her of them, High-Priestess Jecate would possess an indelible mark of their presence.

“Touch your cards, little ones, and be blessed by the Twenty-One.”

Baethen touched his card and the world went dark.

Only the black-alabaster and the water remained, a firmament of unending black before him, spreading from horizon to horizon. Looking up, Baethen saw his reflection or was it down? Which Baethen was the ‘true’ one?

The liminal space of Babylon was mind-bending to say the least. Had he paid better attention to the priestess’ classes on metaphysics, he would have understood that this instance of Babylon, known as Babel, was the seat of the soul, the depths of one’s being and that the darkness beyond was the ether from whence the Gods came and where humanity’s myriad fears festered. There, just after the horizon of eternity, lay the waters of Hypnagogia and the madness of Gehenna.

Words, silver as the morning dew of first snow, wrote themselves into being upon the waters. They were cuneiform rather than runic, a square script of living flame effervescent with divinity.​​ This very same tongue had been the one employed to erect creation from the all-nothing, to cut from the wholecloth before time a strip of existence.

Omniglot; the Language-of-the-Gods that all could read by will alone, even blind or entirely senseless. Though Baethen perceived it as if his native Woedenian runes, the ideographs were universally intelligible such that even soulless beasts could parse them.

Harken, the [Dealer-of-Fate] stirs awake! As {Eldest}, [Fata-Morgana] takes {Rearhand} as {Dealer}.

Scouring [Akashic-Archive] for compatible {Arcanum-Deck} […]

Compatible {Arcanum-Deck} found; shuffling probabilities set to base one over mean […]

Shuffle complete, [Three-of-a-Kind] {Sets} {Drawn}; please select {Three} {Cards} to form a {Set}.

*Selections are final; results are blind; only {One} {Card} of each {Set} may be selected. Should a {Set} not be formed in the {Allotted-Time} of {Ten-Licks}, a {Set} will be selected at random.

➤ Set I: [The-Fool], [Death], [The-Devil]

➤ Set II: [Three-of-Spades], [Jester], [Two-of-Staves]

➤ Set III: [One-of-Cups], [Golden-Triumph], [Nine-o’-Cattails]

As far as carte-blanches went, the hand that Baethen was dealt was a good one.

He had a pick of three of the Twenty-One Major Arcana. [The-Fool] was the Twenty-Second or Unnumbered God of Loken and wasn’t counted among the Numbered-Pantheon but it was better than [Death], the nameless God-of-Crows-and-Burials, or [The-Devil] the Fifteenth God-of-Terror-and-Strife. It was by the Fifteenth-Hand that monsters arose from Gehenna where the shadows of humanity’s phobias gestated like ulcers on the underside of existence. Were Baethen to choose the Red-Dragon, he would be branded a warlock and be thrown into the Black Legion to fight on the frontlines against the Nezarri. He did not like his chances of surviving against his expatriates even if they shared the same pallor.

The second set was forgettable beyond the wildcard of [Jester]. It would deal a random card from the ether and could otherwise saddle Baethen with an even worse draw than the Red-Dragon.

The third set was a harder choice as a triumph, especially a gold one, could easily elevate his Lynchpin to three stars—that of a lordling, that sort of power. The Ninetails could also signify great potential as it was just as valuable as a gold triumph though much more volatile. Since Baethen didn’t know which god would want to play against him, he’d rather choose the more well-balanced—

The white Babylon-script unwound as if fraying rope, reforming what should have been set in black-alabaster stone; the ten licks allotment was changed from ten licks of the clock to ten blinks. NO!

Allotted time of {Ten-Licks} elapsed; {Hand} selected at random.

Harken, the [Shuffler-of-Decks] stirs awake! As {Eldest}, [Loken-the-Fool] is granted dominion to select {Game}.

{Game} selected as {Fools-Gambit}.

I can still win this. I just need to play with the cards I was dealt—

Again the Language decided to change itself before Baethen’s very eyes. Instead of choosing a game that could be won by skill or wit, the game was chosen for him and it was entirely luck-based with only a single choice and thus none at all.

Baethen would hate the game of Fool’s Gambit for the rest of his life.

{Forehand} [Baethen-Locke] plays: ({All-In} - {Arcana-Played: [The-Devil], [Three-of-Spades], [Golden-Triumph].})

{Tabula} calculated: {Twenty-Two} to {Zero}

{Middlehand} [Loken-the-Fool] plays: ({All-In} - {Arcana-Played: [The-Fool], [Death], [Jester]})

{Tabula} calculated: {Twenty-Two} to {Zero}

{Rearhand} [Fata-Morgana] as {Dealer} plays: ({Draw}, {Fold}, incurs {Reveal-Hand} and then {Discard} - {Arcana-Discarded: [Two-of-Staves], [One-of-Cups], [Nine-o’-Cattails].})

{Tabula} calculated: {Twenty-Two} to {Zero}

{Forehand} [Baethen-Locke] incurs {Loss}; {Middlehand} [Loken-the-Fool] is granted dominion to select [Baethen-Locke]’s {Hand} from compatible {Arcanum-Deck}.

[Loken-the-Fool] is selecting {Hand}; please wait [...]

{Hand} set as:

➤ [The-Fool]

➤ [Death]

➤ [Jester]

Fusing {Hand} of {Three-Card-Set} into [Lynchpin]; please wait [...]

Baethen could not put into words the anger he felt. The burning loathing only a child could feel at blatant unfairness. Once his Lynchpin was set in stone forevermore, he felt jubilation and then profound confusion.

This confoundment would last until the day he died for gods suffered no fools, much less responded to their questions.

Card Dealt: [Reshuffle] ★★★★★

Draw: [One-of-a-Kind]

Drawback: [Death-Seal]

Arcana: [The-Fool]

Number: [Zero//XXII]

Suit: [Back-Pocket]

Portfolio Φ: [‘The Eldest Hand…’]

It made no sense! The arcana should have had two more parameters. The portfolio description should have more than three bloody words! The thrice-damned card was an enigma wrapped in a riddle hidden within a mystery and then thrown within the Seas-of-Conundrum. Five stars was a strata known only to emperors and yet the only way to play the card was that Baethen had to first depart this mortal coil.

Back-pocket suits were usually inactive until their trigger condition was met. The drawback of [Death-Seal] could activate with the demise of others but by the intrinsic knowledge granted by the card, Baethen knew that only his end would satisfy the drawback.

When Baethen awoke from the Trance-of-Babylon, the white card laid atop the water before him had turned pitch-black, disintegrating into tatters and then ashes and then nothingness.

His hopes and dreams were reflected in the carte-blanche’s dissolution.

The return home was silent and after the first few questions, Baethen’s parents knew better than to prod. His Lynchpin was useless! He couldn’t use it or test it without actually dying. It could have been a resurrection-card but Baethen wouldn’t bet on it, fool’s gambit that that’d be. The intrinsic knowledge he’d been given upon manifesting the Lynchpin told him that the card started at ‘one’ and would double with each death, whatever that esoteric nonsense meant.

Most likely, [Reshuffle] was an inheritance-type that would endow Baethen’s children with his cards upon death, including [Reshuffle]. He’d heard of familial archive cards such as these that let one’s progeny choose from a hand of randomised cards—instead of having to scrounge-up tokens to buy a spell-card after awakening your Lynchpin, you just got one during your dealing ceremony, wholesale.

The star-rating made sense with that theory as an inheritance card like that one could guarantee that the Locke bloodline rose to prominence; even should an assassin kill a family member, their cards would be drawn into the shared archive rather than be stolen. A card fitting for a dynasty but useless to a single boy.

Baethen didn’t dare utter a thrice-damned word of the card to his parents. They would arrange a marriage in a fortnight and he was tired of his life being decided by others.

As the turns passed and Baethen had time to let his anger settle and cool down, he found out something rather interesting: he didn’t care. A setback like this wouldn’t douse his dream of adventuring into the wilds, to delve into the Evergaols in search of countless treasures and battle against the Gates-of-Gehenna that spawned monsters by the droves.

So what that his Lynchpin was useless? He’d just choose whatever damn cards he wanted instead of building a deck around dead weight. In a way, it was freeing; Baethen could choose whatever he wanted instead of being pigeonholed into an archetype.

He’d eventually told his parents that his Lynchpin was an inheritance type of three stars; it had made them weep in joy. He made them swear on their immortal souls that they’d not arrange a marriage until he became of age at twenty-one turns. Words have weight before the Gods and should they break theirs, Nagalfaram the Merchant-of-Death would reincarnate them into sewer slugs in their next life.

Or so Baethen hoped.

After eight turns of apprenticing in the local steel smithy, Baethen had accumulated the wealth needed to complete his deck’s first set. Every person was limited to a single hand—three cards, specifically—so to increase the number of cards they could hold in a single day, they had to form a set. Any cards not within a hand were banished to the archive within their Tower-of-Babel and would need to be redrawn during sleep.

Which, speaking of, was where Baethen currently found himself. In the strange space that was the seat of his soul, he read the descriptions of the three cards before him.

Card Bought: [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] ★

Draw: [Of-a-Kind]

Drawback: [Running-Water]

Arcana: [The-Juggler], [Fire], [One-of-Staves]

Number: [I//XIX]

Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]

Portfolio Φ: [‘He who juggles burning staves best be careful’. This {Card} grants the {Player} with {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Fire}, allowing them to {Move} {Fonts-of-Combustion} through {Will-of-Mind} and {Act-of-Body} so long as said {Fonts} are in {Touch} with a {Stave} held in {Thrall-of-Arm}. Should the {Player} {Cross} a {Body-of-Running-Water}, this {Card} is {Discarded} from the {Player}’s {Hand} into their {Archive} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]

What counted as a ‘stave’ was rather in dispute. Other nations called them arcane foci, the point in which a magician focuses their will. Baethen had used his trusty hammer—this had been the only way to hide his adventuring aspersions from his family. They’d thought that he was aiming to become a blacksmith but that couldn’t be further from the truth.

His body was lambent with well-corded muscle and his bones were heavy. Though not all that tall in comparison to a pure-blooded Woedenite, Baethen was a beast of a lad that had hammered iron into steel a thousand-thousand times over.

And, just as he folded metal to grant it strength, he’d done much the same with his body.

Card Bought: [Cinderspark-Spit] ★

Draw: [Of-a-Kind]

Drawback: [Chew-With-Your-Mouth-Closed]

Arcana: [Calumnia], [Fire], [Water]

Number: [XVII//XIX]

Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]

Portfolio Φ: [‘Serpents are the spawn of dragons’. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Minor-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Fire}, allowing them to {Combust} the {Font-of-Water} within their {Phlegm} through {Will-of-Mind} so long as it is in {Touch} with a {Font-of-Air}. {Phlegm} within the {Player}’s mouth or stagnant upon the ground is {Exempt} from the {Dominion} of the {Player}'s {Arcana}.]

Fonts, known commonly as elements, were bodies of a given arcana manifested physically within the world. [Lesser-Juggler-of-Fire] could not make flame from nothing and could only move it around. This is where [Cinderspark-Spit] came in clutch; it allowed Baethen to conjure a font, however small, from thin air. Or, more accurately, by spit in contact with thin air. He had to really pull from his mouth to be able to make anything bigger than a spark but that was where the next card came in.

Card Bought: [Kindlers-Breath] ★★

Draw: [Of-a-Kind]

Drawback: [Lungful-of-Ash]

Arcana: [Fire], [Air], [Death]

Number: [XVII//XIX]

Suit: [Triumph]

Portfolio Φ: [‘Gods gave life through breath, you give death through yours’. This {Card} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Phlogiston}, allowing them to {Magnify} {Fonts-of-Fire} through {Will-of-Mind} and {Breath-of-Lung}. Once this {Card} is {Brought-Into-Play}, the {Player}’s next {Exhale} will {Magnify} the applicable {Font} it comes in {Touch} with; whilst the next {Inhale} {Draws} {Ash} from {Babylon} into the {Lungs} which is {Banished} to {Whence-It-Came} when the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]

Baethen had to juggle his focus and breath and phlegm to cast his sorcery. He’d had ample practice with his cards in the smithy, the spells becoming second nature. It was this intimacy with the hand he dubbed serpent’s-tongue that had allowed him to finally form a set after five whole turns of drudgery.

It was a double entendre—an ode to the epigraphs of his cards and a reference to the charade that Baethen kept up with his family. His Tower-of-Babel, the seat of his soul reaching towards Babylon, agreed with him given the name of the set he had formed.

Set Formed: [Imp-of-Serpents] ★★

Draw: [Three-of-a-Kind]

Drawback: [Burn-with-Shame]

Arcana: [The-Magician], [Fire], [Air]

Number: [I//XIX]

Suit: [Sleight-of-Hand]

Portfolio Φ: [‘Fire may scald but tongues can make even the most impervious of men burn with shame’. This {Set} grants the {Player} {Major-Dominion} over the {Arcana-of-Phlogiston}, allowing them to {Manipulate} the {Heat} within a {Font-of-Fire} through {Word-of-Mouth} and {Breath-of-Lung}. Being {Caught-Red-Handed} in a {Lie} incurs a {Brand-of-Shame}, thus {Sealing} the {Player}’s {Word-of-Mouth} until the next {Hand} is {Redrawn}.]

Meditation on the nature of his cards during a thousand nights of prayer and toiling in the intricacies of their everyday use in the smithy had aligned them such that they became but one within the realm of his soul.

This was it. Just another turn of practice and a few more lesser cards to see him through the wilds and Baethen would achieve his childhood dream. This was the cumulation of a decade of hard work, planning, and dogged persistence.

Had Baethen’s Lynchpin been anything other than the useless piece of dragon-dung that it was, he’d not have achieved this much. For that he was grateful and, at the same time, bitter. Just because things had turned out alright didn’t erase the heartache of the hand that life had dealt him.