Temperance lives by (verbumdomini) wrote in repose, @ 2016-01-15 18:10:00 |
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Entry tags: | *log, claire johnson, louis donovan |
Antique Store: Louis & Claire
Who: Louis Donovan and Claire Johnson
What: Harmless shopping
Where: Antique Store
When: Before the disappearance.
Warnings/Rating: Maybe spooky.
Claire had prayed for a sign.
The young woman often did, but this morning had been different. Her rosary beads had dangled between cold and slender fingers when she felt that gentle breeze, that calming warmth that let her know she had been heard. Her path out of the neighborhood was even altered, her feet guiding her on a path that she seldom took. When she felt the urge to stop walking, Claire was standing in front of the Antique Store. Items forgotten in time lined the window, all beautiful and precious in their own way, but there was nothing that particularly caught her eye. She had been intending on coming here for a while, these sorts of shops always held necessary components and the stories that snaked in the spaces between objects was always fascinating.
She slipped through the store like a whisper on the wind, and her thrift store fashion sense gave the appearance that she'd never be able to afford much of anything on display. Honey brown hair was piled messily on top of her head, the sloppy bun poking out from behind dollar store gold framed heart sunglasses that she slid up past her hairline. Her thick army jacket hung down to mid-thigh, but inside held numerous pockets to keep certain ritual components at hand. There was also a ring of salt sewn into the bottom hemline, but that could be blamed upon Claire's paranoia and need to be prepared to create a protection circle around herself. They all called to be standing in a ring of salt. Coat worn? Step one complete. Not that it could be noticed, unlike her forest green knit leggings and blue plaid Doc Marten knockoffs.
That was when she saw it. Up on the wall, just out of her reach. Oh, she knew every wave of grain and every knot in that long elegant shaft of lignum vitae so deep red it looked black. She knew the long silver blade at the head, which never tarnished and never seemed to dull. And she knew that spiked cap of iron that protected the bottom. It was impossible for it to be here, and Claire had to hold back a gasp from the startle she received at the vision.
It was her spear. The spear she had last seen in Vatican City. The spear that represented everything she had left behind when she turned her back on the Cardinals. The spear every woman of her bloodline had been armed with since there was record. The spear that was the missing part of her. The spear that could only be a sign. An answered prayer. Her path had been wrong the past few years. This was a call for her return to battle. Her heart swelled and ached, filled with a longing that she didn't know she was capable of feeling. Perhaps this is what normal people felt when being reunited with their first love. For Claire, her first love had always been that one particular ancient weapon.
Claire didn't know how long she had stood there, gloved hands clasped over agape mouth and eyes brimming with tears, like she couldn't believe she had run into an old friend long thought dead. When she finally broke her gaze from her most precious of metaphorical horsemen, she hustled up to the counter where the owner was. Maybe just an employee. It was irrelevant to the matter at hand. All she needed to know was that he was the one currently working here. In her excitement, her vowels grew longer, giving away her European origin, though still vague enough to keep her from being pegged as Italian. "The spear in the back. I can't- Is it for sale? Or display only?"