Scrying was a delicate dance of precision and intuition. It was elegant. It was stately.
It was not this.
“Are you done yet?” the asked as she squashed her cheek against his in her effort to peer into his scrying bowl.
He pushed her away.
“Please keep your distance. Scrying is an art and should be respected.”
“I think I saw something,” the brother said and squashed their cheeks together on the other side as he squinted into the bowl.
He pushed the brother away.
“As I was saying-”
The still water rippled.
Both siblings surged forward, sandwiching him between them. He frowned and pulled himself free of the tangle of limbs.
“Please move away from the scrying bowl.”
The siblings ignored him.
He shook his head. He wasn’t going to continue wasting his time here.
“Call me when you’re actually ready for the session,” he grumbled and stormed out.