prompts.

Fortune was a fickle thing, a deity that Rorschach still has a hard time understanding.

They had been the one that had offered him his immortality, his cursed existence that he loathes. Every day that passes only serves to remind him of the scars burned into him.

Today the winter is icy, biting at any skin that he dares to leave exposed the moment he steps outside. His face is protected by a mask, but that doesn't stop the reach of the wind, stroking down his neck with chilled fingers. It brings shivers across his body, and he tries to focus on the task at hand, instead of the fog that billows up around his face each time he breathes.

Fortune had tasked him, and he would complete it. Discipline could prove him to be better, couldn't it? He could maybe control his magic, maybe learn to use it for himself. A greedy thought; he's never had a reading on himself, and he wonders what he could do with such power.

Snow crunches underfoot as he makes his way to the village, ducking down slightly to pass through a doorway, opening it and brushing past clinking metal beads and bones. A rattle all around him, but the small cottage here is nice. Wooden, yes, but there's shelves lining every wall around him, presenting books and jars of questionable origins. The apothecary stands behind the counter, turning slowly to greet him, and pauses when they see him, and he pauses briefly, casting a glance over them. The small pin in the shape of a bottle on the edge of their cloak is all he needs to know this is the one that would help him with his task. 

"Rorschach, it's been a while." The owner tries to smile, and he only nods a little stiffly, approaching and resting hands on the counter as he does.

"I heard you could help me." 

The owner merely laughs, flashing a dangerous smile. "Oh, did you --"

"Fortune."

There's a moment where there's a startled look, but it melts away, and an item is set on the counter. "This could potentially help, if there's a grim task at hand." It's a small vial. "But I'll have you know, it'll cost you."

Rorschach only 'tsk's between his teeth, grabbing the vial instead.

"Fortune isn't one to play with, Rorschach. You know this, I'm only selling to you because I trust you. This isn't--"

A hand is held up, startling the owner, and Rorschach shakes his head. "You don't know anything about me." With that, he turns and walks his way out the shop. The owner lets out a slight shout, but by the time he comes around the counter and bursts through the door, the other is already gone, down an alley maybe, or somewhere else. Either way, he's out a sale, and a trusted customer.