"Are you certain about that, Attie?" She smirked at her old friend with a sidelong glance and a puff of her pipe, a quirk in her brow suggesting that maybe her knickers needed double-checking. They were old biddies, after all, Baba Yaga and Atropos. Surely if Baba Yaga were of the same imagination as Atropos, she would not have been able to get away with that undeniably graceful yet eat-shit-sarcasm expression painted across her face or the thin, sardonic little smile on her lips at that moment.
It's a good thing Baba wasn't Greek. She was always quite proud of it, actually. Not being Greek. She always thought the affairs of the Oh So Literary were incredibly long-winded and complicated and tragically incestuous. Disgusting, really, if you think about it long enough. Which Baba Yaga rarely did. The only Greek she paid any mind to was sitting next to her, and the Russian witch-goddess-monstrosity wouldn't have it any other way. She smoked her pipe contentedly, listening, watching with amusement at the Fate's listless use of power on a pipe. Her eyes had taken a rest upon a distant shrub in the distance, musing on the dark forest beyond it - or lack thereof.
And she paused in mid-smoke, eyebrows rising just slightly, eyes again moving to peer at Atropos. "Sadie? Lovely Sadie? Oh, dear me, what a loss," she said, lips pressing together slightly before speaking again, only a hint and a twitch of a smile behind her words at Atropos's suggestion. "You are probably right. You usually are. My doors are always open to your lost ones." Where, once inside, they'd have to work their hands, feet and souls into the ground to please Baba, and if they didn't, ended up her dinner. But, well... we won't go there. Yet.
"What will come of her? A pretty face like hers... ?"