The Moirae (spinningfate) wrote in nevermore_logs, @ 2020-10-20 11:40:00 |
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Entry tags: | fairytales, the moirae |
WHO The Moirae and OPEN
WHEN Monday 3 November, afternoon (edit: pushing the date back; takes place after this and this)
WHERE The Fates’ second-hand shop, Brooklyn
WHAT A regular day at the office
WARNINGS TBA
They were in the midst of a lunchtime lull when Atropos sailed into the shop victorious, waving a slim wad of cash above her head. “Guess who hit pay dirt, ladies?” Clotho, who’d been tidying the clothing racks, looked up curiously. Lachesis’ knitting needles halted, and she leaned her elbows on the counter. “Where on earth did you get that?” Atropos grinned, fanning out the bills. They were mostly singles, but still. “Cribbage at the seniors’ centre. We decided to make things interesting.” This garnered a skeptical eyebrow raise from Lachesis. “So you’ve been scamming elderly mortals out of their money.” “Oh, can your judgement!” The Crone swatted the air with a dismissive hand. “You don’t even know these people. Gloria cheats like a motherfucker. She pretends she’s touched with the Alzheimer’s, but she knows exactly what she’s doing, believe you me. And Charles? Last time some kid tried to take his wallet, he beat the snot out of ‘em with his walking frame. I was hearing about it for weeks. Scamming, nothing.” Clotho pursed her lips, hiding a smile. Atropos, who felt no such need to conceal her own smirk, wadded up the cash and shoved it into her bra, just because she knew it would annoy Lachesis. Reaching the counter, she eased herself into a folding chair and retrieved the embroidery hoop she’d stashed beneath it. Where Lachesis knitted and wove, samplers were Atropos’ specialty. This one was a lovely pastel-coloured creation, featuring a traditional floral spray and flowing split-stitched cursive that spelled out the words eat ye a bag of dicks. Atropos was an artiste. “How’s things looking, anyway?” she asked, stabbing a needle into the fabric. Lachesis glanced at the door before picking up her knitting again. She knew Atropos wasn’t talking about business, or at least not the business of the store. “Developing into quite the snarl. Possibly several. Maybe just one great tangled skein. It’s hard to tell as yet.” Atropos snorted. “That’s gods for you. Always a guaranteed shitshow when enough of us get together. “There’s blood,” Lachesis added, softer. “Violence, almost certainly.” “Well, that’s a given.” Clotho had grown quiet and tight-mouthed. “And we’re just going to watch it happen, I suppose.” The bell above the door tinkled, signalling the arrival of a customer. Atropos only shrugged, matter-of-fact. “We always do.” |