@catalina-ripley
softness has not found its home beneath her ribcage, and it is unlikely it ever will. there is, however, an undeniable layer of fondness to her facial expression as she steps out of the elevator and immediately lays her eyes on the person who summoned her here. or perhaps it is she who summoned clotho here and her sister is merely early. or maybe it is the innate connection all three of the sisters share — always knowing where the others are, always able to call on them, regardless of the situation.
not that it, in the end, even matters. itdoes not matter either that they are meeting at some charming ( opulent, mortals would likely call it ) rooftop bar at one of manhattan’s countless hotels. whatdoes matter is the fact they both are here — a fact that stirs something warm, something affectionate in her chest.
wordlessly, her eyes still trained on her sister, atropos lifts her hand; and just like that, there is a bartender by her side, ready to take her order. “bring us,” she gestures toward clotho, “two martinis.” she glances at them. “now.” most likely frightened by her stern tone, the bartender merely nods and scurries away to fulfill her order. atropos’ eyes sparkle with amusement as she observes the mortal’s sudden haste, but they do not hold her attention for long. they are, after all, not the reason why she is here.
there is no hurry present in her steps as she makes her way toward clotho; only certainty and the promise of inevitability. “remind me again, sister, how old is our darling catalina?” her question is all the warning clotho receives of her arrival ( though, atropos suspects, she must have known already ). with grace that a creature like her should not be capable of possessing, atropos sits down, shifting in her seat so that she may properly face clotho. “i took the liberty of ordering us martinis and, well, it would not do if this respected establishment were to serve alcohol to minors.” a chuckle. “that would have all the makings of a highly scandalous future.”
