There is a parlour that no map remembers,
a place that breathes awake when the city sleeps.
Velvet shadows, candle smoke,
a single table waiting, cards set like teeth.

And at that table sits the Jester.
Scurra.

They say his smile was painted centuries ago,
and never once has it faltered.
A grin of mirth, a grin of malice,
no one knows which mask is which.

He does not deal cards…
he deals fates.

Each draw bends the rules of reason.
Lowly suits climb to thrones,
moons rise and drown the night in silver,
crows scatter black feathers that split the path in two.

The deck writhes and remembers,
a living thing that grows sharper with every hand.
Those who sit with Scurra whisper
that the deck keeps pieces of you.

Every shuffle, every spin,
it learns, it lingers,
until your story is sewn into the fabric of the cards.

And Scurra… ah, Scurra!
He is no enemy,
no ally.

He is the laughter between your choices,
the trick hidden in your triumphs,
the hand that gifts… and takes away.

Some rise from his table laden with riches,
their pockets heavy, their eyes haunted.

Others vanish, swallowed whole,
their faces painted on cards that were not there before.

So mark this well:
when the deck appears before you,
when the Jester’s bells whisper your name,
know that you do not play against him.
You play with him.

And the deeper you dare,
the louder his laughter grows.

For none escape the Deck of Scurra unchanged.