Re: The Fortune Teller/ The Soldier
She took in his laughter, the dryness of his cough. Was he ill? Perhaps. It sounded the way she imagined dust would if it had a sound: raspy and suffocated. She glanced back at him. "Definitely not a cat." It's why she was going to the bar car, they would most likely have the latest information on whatever was going on. A stopped, delayed train was one of the biggest sins in capitalism. They wouldn't be at a stand still for nothing.
"My name is Lavinia Petulengro, you may call me L. if you wish." He didn't ask her name but she gave it anyway, not that he would remember in his state of inebriation. "I am from all over, Istanbul is just another destination for a weary traveler." His expressions kept fluttering between drunken amusement, melancholy and a pride that she could not quite pin point. Was it a pride of those who served? Despite terror and devastation. It was a conundrum she was certain would never be solved. Countries--no--governments were terrifying in her opinion, they asked for their men's bravery, in this endeavor they stole body parts and lives-- and if you survived? Often the spirit and mind weren't left in tact.
Henry may not have known it the day he was drafted, but he had signed away so much more than his name.
Still, she offered a smile. "We're here, Mr. Johnson." A glance to his boots, and despite being of the female persuasion she held the door open for him, glitter of her shawl twinkling in the smoky light. "After you."