I read runes dearest darling. Tarots, tea leaves, palms, and crystal balls. Scrying mirrors, scrying bowls, clouds, smoke, fire, and rocks. I make potions and trinkets, do charms and spells. Search for answers, spirits, animal sprites, and past lives. I'll interpret your dreams and tell you the truth. For I'm a gypsy. And I travel from home to home on an aimless path. Telling fortunes seems to be so stereotypical for a creature like I. And many would speak that one like me is illegitimate, a fraud of some sort. Claim I am merely a target to the weak hearted. But, if you trust to come into my caravan, take a seat across, I will look into my crystal ball and tell you what I see. I am honest darling and I work with tools not scams. If you're not saticfied walk out without leaving a coin in the jar. I don't ask for money. Because so I live poor. But I follow my heart and listen to the earth. I walk freely and without regret of the things I do. And perhaps what I think I can read, is just a psychward proposal. But then again, perhaps what I tell is the truth.
