By the time Atropos encountered Achilles, she had more than a couple of drinks in her. She had spied him from across the room earlier in the evening, a familiar blond figure resplendent in battle gear which, if not entirely authentic, certainly showed off his muscular form to far greater effect than had the real thing. He didn't know her - or at least they'd never met, but she knew him, for how many times had she handled that life-thread, how many times had it resisted the Crone's shears against all reason until his weak heel brought on his downfall?
But that wasn't why she approached him. Actually, that was entirely an accident - she'd been so engrossed in refilling her wine glass that she entirely forgot to take notice of where she was going and walked directly into Achilles, sloshing wine over his breastplate.
"Oh, bugger! There's a waste of a good tipple. Sorry honey, ain't used to these feet. Shoes. Shoes, I mean."