1: The Magician

His mind is a knife, is a sword, is an athame, surging through the air to cut his thoughts into the pockets of the universe. The elements, he thinks with thrust-back shoulders and puffed-out chest, belong to him. It's the other way round, but everything is relative.
The earth is steady on his altar, humming firmly within the solid confines of the pentacle coin. Fire resides there as well, raging through the wood of the wand without burning it. Cackling and licking the air, but only to strike a spark. Water flows within the chalice, responding effortlessly to the beads of humidity caught in the folds of the troposphere.And the air is analyzing him, wrapped and bound within the sword. It is the clarity of thought slicing across his mind.
One must keep a clear head, you see, when trifling with the might of the universe.
Determination blazes in his eyes, ceremonial robes draped across his arms in a pompous display. All the possibility of the word is whirring just above his head, invisible to him, and so he tries to summon the power  instead.
Unaware, unaware, roaring with intent and purpose, with knowledge garnered from leather-bound books that smelled to him like arcane truths. Still so very much a Fool, cloaking his innocence in the vitality of crimson cloth and overwhelming incense.
The wind whistles as he summons the East, humoring him. When he beckons the West, droplets of water vapor caught in the air condensate on the baby-fine hairs of his head. With the invocation of the South comes a sudden burst of sunshine through cloud-caps. It burns into his sophomoric eyes, and he revels in the harshness. Finally comes the North, the earth, which merely hints of the stirrings of deep-rooted life, both ancient and fledgling at once.
The Magician stands tall, ablaze in glory, Above and Below meeting in the mountaintops of his mind, the universe just barely out of reach, just over the horizon.
He mutters a memorized chant beneath his breath, ignorant of just how far the horizon is.