reaches for quinn's wrists to turn her palms over. delicately sets an ornate white handkerchief —— embroidered colorful flowers.
When Quinn was young, she remembered silk.
Guests would come, and her mother would always lay out the silken sheets ( cream colored, Charmeuse ). Renata was a woman of prac-ticality. She preferred cotton and wool; simplistic cuts and designs over needless embellishment. Her mother forded very little patiencefor ‘nonsense.’
But there are roles to be played, and images to broadcast in the name of power. The sensation of fabric gliding across skin brings old, old, old memories back. It gives Quinn pause, before her eyes turn sharp. She wonders, too, if Pythia plays the same games her mother did. Wrapping hospitality up in mulberry silk, constricting just tight enough to show the other person just what she has, what she’s capable of. The handkerchief sinks against freshly-calloused palms, a weight of a different time.
“It’s been a very long time since I’ve seen something like this.” Quinn admits. She peers at the shaman, and though she smiles, the curiosity edges her gaze.
“---You really must share the story behind it.”
