Green eyes, black hair, dressed in black and silver, yes. I had on a cloak and it was slightly furled as by a wind. I had on black boots, like Eric's, and I too bore a blade, only mine was heavier, though not quite as long as his. I had my gloves on and they were silver and scaled. The clasp at my neck was cast in the form of a silver rose.
Me, Corwin.

Then there was a figure both like Bleys and myself. My features, though smaller, my eyes, Bley's hair, beardless. He wore a riding suit of green and sat atop a white horse, heading toward the dexter side of the card. there was a quality of both strength and weakness, questing and abandonment about him. I both approved and disapproved, liked and was repelled by, this one.

Then came a fiery bearded, flame-crowned main, dressed all in red and orange, mainly of silk stuff, and he held a sword in his right hand and a glass of wine in his left, and the devil himself danced behind his eyes, as blue as Flora's, or Eric's. His chin was slight, but the beard covered it. His sword was inlaid with an elaborate filigree of a golden color. He wore two huge rings on his right hand and one on his left: an emerald, a ruby, and a sapphire, respectively.

I cast the cards several times, and the same thing came up on each occasion.
His name was Caine.
He wore satin that were green and black, and a dark three- cornered hat with a green plume of feathers trailing down behind. at his belt there was an emerald studded dagger. He was dark.

Then there was Fiona, with hair like Bleys or Brand, my eyes, and a complexion like mother of pearl. I hated her the second I turned over the card.

Next was Llewella, whose hair matched her jade-colored eyes, dressed in shimmering gray and green with a lavender belt, and looking moist and sad. For some reason, I knew she was not like the rest of us. But she, too, was my sister.

...The second rider was rapidly approaching. He was not pale like the first.; His hair was dark and there was a color in his face. His mouth was a properly maned sorrel. He bore a cocked and bolted crossbow...
...He was beardless, slim. Possibly light-eyed within the squint of his aim. He managed his mount well, with just the pressure of his legs. His hands were big, steady. Capable. A peculiar feeling passed over me as I beheld him.

Vialle is a little over five feet tall and quite slim. Brunette, fine-featured, very soft-spoken. She was wearing red. Her sightless eyes looked through me, reminding me of darkness past, of pain (...)
"Give me your right hand," I said. She extended her right hand and I raised it to my lips. "Thank you," I said, it was a good lunch." I turned and made my way to the door. When I looked back, she had blushed and was smiling, her hand still partly raised, and I began to understand the change in Random.
"Good luck to you," she said the moment my footsteps ceased.

The woman behind the desk wore a white-collared, V-necked dress of blue-green, had a long hair and low bangs, all of a cross between sunset clouds and the outer edge of a candle flame in an otherwise dark room, and I natural somehow knew, and her eyes behind glasses I didn't think she needed were as blue as Lake Erie at three o'clock on a cloudless summer afternoon; and the color of her compressed smile matched her hair.