[Seclusion's not a good fit for Ted. If it keeps up, he's worried he'll withdraw to the point of disappearance, as it seemed so many others had. Better make at least the occasional effort at socializing, and what better than geeking out about one of his favorite subjects? It starts with a single image before his usual discursion.]
"Except the Lord build the house, they labor in vain that build it." Another good epigram springs to mind: "Whosoever shall exalt himself shall be abased, and he that shall humble himself shall be exalted." Here, in the sixteenth Trump, one can see that terrible topsy-turvydom of Heaven.

Of all of the Major Arcana it's certainly the most dramatic. The lightning, the flames, the ruin, the dual plunging figures! Goodness, a man could faint to look at it. The meaning looks very obvious too, doesn't it? The astonishing suddenness of catastrophe. But why? What deed merited decisive divine fire? 

Well, one much like the Tower of Babel. If you haven't heard that story, it goes something like this: In ages past, men all spoke the same language, yet were very puffed up. They thought they might collaborate and build their way into Heaven. So proud and vulgar, God couldn't help but to blast their edifice to bits, and confuse the languages of men for good measure so they wouldn't repeat that mistake. In Genessia, of course, our languages have been reconciled, but I fear the world still wants for humility. It would surprise me not at all if our current circumstance is the result of a lot of clever, powerful people who got it into their heads that their works were a match for heaven. Heaven tested their works, and...heh, well, the latter tends to win those comparisons. Brutally.

And yet...is it strange, is it morbid to look at this and be very happy? All the Trumps communicate love, in their way. Even The Devil, if you're charitable enough. But love is a wild thing; I've heard legends that if one were to ever look on a countenance full of love, it would seem, to earthly minds, indistinguishable from hatred. It would look that ferocious. Perhaps it's down to preference. Some take pleasure in meticulously building complicated arrangements of dominoes or houses of cards. Other, simpler minds like myself, rather like knocking them down better. Doubtless, if one spent a long time building something and then lived in it, having its top blown off in a fit of pious pique would be inconvenient.

Even so, doesn't it look as though love is seen here, at its most severe? It's as though the card communicates that no matter how elaborate or stony one's artificiality, they shall not be allowed to go on forever. There is a limit, and it comes good and hard. Much to our chagrin; much to our charity.

I'm interested in other voices than my own, believe it or not. Well, how does number sixteen strike you?

WHO: Regan Abbott [open]
WHAT: New Girl arrives in town, finds limited help, makes a couple new friends.
WHEN: September 28th, 2018 - Afternoon
WHERE: Genessia City
WARNINGS: talk of monsters, probably swearing, but nothing too terrible.

The first thing Regan did when she woke up and noticed the person talking to her was watch her surroundings very carefully. This person was clearly making noise, and noise wasn't a good thing where she was from. But when no monsters came, nothing tore the woman apart, Regan didn't exactly feel herself filling with any kind of ease at her situation. Her parents weren't here. Her brothers weren't. She'd been kidnapped, alone and without familiar faces.

Taking the money and the smartphone, tucking the stash of broken Cochlears in her pocket, and still moving cautiously, like she was still back home, Regan made her way to Genessia City. Barefoot and cautious, she moved from storefront to storefront, peering inside and watching all of the activity. And there was a lot, it was almost overwhelming. Her first stop was to an art supply store where, with help, she got her hands on a white-board and markers. She had yet to find anyone that used ASL and believe her, she'd been looking. Almost anyone that passed her had 'Can you help me?' signed at them quickly. Finally, with whiteboard in hand, she writes a simple message on it and holds it up, hoping it'll catch someone's eye.

'My name is Regan. I am deaf. Can you help me?' Surely someone had to be able to get her home, right? Or at least somewhere safe.

She pushed her hair out of her face with a frustrated huff, one hand still holding that sign and marker as she watched people come and go, bare feet firmly planted on the ground.

What the hell was going on?