For days, Az had been watching the towers of Denerim's upper-city spires march heavenward across the horizon; every night they had camped in the clear, the road an arrow-straight path from their resting place to the gates of her birth-city, she had stared at it and wondered how long her brief reprieve would last. With every hour that passed, she regretted more and more her oath never to read the cards for herself - though that path lie madness, she figured, hell, if she crossed into the city, she would hang within the hour anyway. Lalin could not prevent it, Conlan probably would not try, Lillie had less power than even the Wardens.... and Lelahai, damn her, held all the cards -
A card dropped from her shuffling hands, and she shifted the deck to her other palm to pluck it from the ground. The Knight of Pentacles, stoic and staid, peered up at her from the laminate, his helm covering his face. His name, in Orlais, was The Rock; unmoving and patient, as inexorable and invincible as time. Eventually, he would always, always win. He was the sword and shield, the prudent defender, the stubborn protector in his best incarnations - and the blind eye of justice in his worst, dull and jaded and gloomy.
Somehow, Azabeth was not surprised that Ordhan approached her when she had this card in hand, and she slipped it into the deck without pause. The warning was duly noted. It was a pity it had not come in time to make much difference. "Indeed we will," she said, and shuffled the deck one last time, a flashy box-shuffle designed to catch the firelight on the gilded edges of her cards. It was beautiful to look at, and designed to take the focus off of her quick and clever hands. She stopped the flow of cards through her fingers, however, palms pressed together with the deck between them, looking up at the soldier with unimpressed eyes. "Come to ask for your fortune? It may be the last one I ever read."