-...me~
A wreath of grey mist sits like a scarf around Bashiel's neck. Within its ephemeral swirlings, a hundred overlapping curving features. Mouths. Eyes. Ears. Listening. Watching. Speaking. Silently, but for the whispers coming out of Bashiel's mouth.
One face, starkly unblinking, stares out of the mists at each of you in turn at the moment Zellara interprets your card. Its lips move, its voice a reedy echo across the room, in quiet dissonance with Zellara's. To hear it requires concentration, and yet, what words you grasp shimmer like gold in your mind before fading.