|Rae is (ofvanir) wrote in repose,|
@ 2018-10-14 18:08:00
|Entry tags:||*log, kratos spartan, rae brísin|
The Cat: Rae and Kratos
Who: Rae and Kratos
Rae chose the Cat like she chose everything else: on whim. It had been a day of giving in to impulse, one for the woods, petrichor over earth and acquiring what she wanted on gut instinct and memories. She had been taught, long ago but not so long she'd any intention of forgetting and the workshop at the back of the Gem did not only offer benches for working gemstones and precious metals. There was a stash of glass canisters, balanced on a high shelf out of mischief and that went unlabelled. Rae knew them by scent and by what it was they did and when she'd been done she had gone to the carnival on the outskirts, seeking the meaningless wash of heat over her skin and the buzz of uncertainty and expectation. Anticipation was bladed, skimmed over the surface hairs on her arm. It wasn't Hookerville, but she hadn't the need for it.
Hookerville, who hadn't as far as Rae had seen, anyone running the show. The girls who took things off in the tents in the carnival - bowed under the heavy rain of some of the first fall showers - weren't by any stretch of the imagination, particularly professional. It was cheap burlesque, but it was willingly done. Hookerville was, as far as Rae could see it, the natural extension of instinct. It was something to think on, but she let it slide now as the rain spattered her head and shoulders as Rae made the run between Gem and the Cat.
She chose a seat at the bar, dismissing the clustered seats around the edges of the bar without a glance. There was a residual glimmer of power rolling over her skin like expensive perfume, and Rae sat in crisp white cotton, stained dark where the rain had caught her at the bar and waited. Expectation was very often disappointed, but she had the gutteral twist of Old Norse on the back of her tongue and her fingers stained with the rituals taught a young girl grasping at the filaments of power that could be seized without bringing fate down with it. She knew well enough what she was doing, the obstinate mule of a handyman who had old languages to summon. She'd no inclination that old gods had found excuses to establish who one another were, obviously, but Rae sat with the cavalier carelessness of those too confident of their own capability to worry much about anything at all.