Xenomancy

What did Xenomancy  inspire?

noun; meaning "The art and practice of divining
the past, the present, and the future
by studying the first stranger you meet
and their actions”

Joelle Saveliev

Noël Coleman

Kaitlyn Rak

Joelle Saveliev

And here I stand. Marveling at the man before me. He dashes about the room, never settling, but alighting only momentarily to consult the skull on the mantelpiece; then some obscure text. Hands steepled, smoking jacket flapping about like a cloak on some villain in the night, he is in a world of his own devising. I can see it in his eyes. Swirling numbers, theories, diagrams, and spells. When did he last rest. Those rings under his eyes. Suddenly he lunges forward and for the briefest of moments it flashes before his eyes. The solution he has hungered for. The flames of inspiration. He grabs a piece of chalk and inscribes the lines upon the floor. Mystic geometry. Graceful scripts. He is in that space where no creature can reach him. Not even I. Was it only hours ago when he summoned me to his residence and spoke in those tones of a master practitioner of xenomancy, stripping away every part of my essence? With one glance he knew me. Those years of battle, the dark secrets I held so close, and the dark deeds yet to come. Of my betrayal of country and crown, though they were never mine to claim as my own. It was with those few words that he drew me in to his world of crime and conspiracies. And now the room falls silent. He stands, admiring his own work. “The final solution.” he purrs. And there is no doubt in my mind that he is right as he smugly grins, sliding into his armchair and fumbling for his pipe and matches. Rings of smoke curl through the room, and though I am free to leave, I cannot. I am bound. By curiosity. By need. For adventure. For knowledge. Who is this man, so unlike any other I have served? What flame is it that dances in his eyes? He picks up the violin, and I drift off, not into sleep, for I have no need of such thing, but into the vibrations of it’s mournful tune. “Tell me of your master.” I think. "Tell me of this man called Holmes.”

Noël Coleman

Kaitlyn Rak

There are some that say you can glean information 
about your future in the face of a stranger.

This is what I've been told, anyway. 
I haven't done much research on the subject.

How am I to determine what these passers-by are trying to tell me? 
Should I surreptitiously measure the circumference 
of their eyes or the length of their nose?
Am I to study the constellations formed by freckles on their face? 

Supposedly you are meant to take their behavior in consideration as well.
What if they glide gracefully through a crowd, or
trip and fall, spilling the groceries they were carefully carrying?
What if they push past others with no concern for the pain they may inflict?
What does this mean for me?

Since I've been informed about such divinatory practices,
I search every new face in the hopes it will tell me what's coming next.
I try to push the curious questions aside,
and simply observe what's in front of me.

I have one last question, however.

Does it still count if the first face I see is not a stranger's?

I always tell myself I won't keep looking for yours, but---
I still do, all the same.