WHERE: CARIAKI TAVERN FOR: @ynaftali

or, the snake that eats its own tail. or, the taste of how everything starts.

it is a testament to the state of her mind what eléna brings with her when she is alone: a book is the least offensive, a minor distraction from whatever thought is holding up her mental freedom, simply something to pick up and peruse at leisure. the worst of them all is a device and headphones, because it takes music to drown out whatever she can’t swallow. today, for the second night in the tavern, she’s brought with her a notepad and pen - things that land somewhere in the middle of the other two. since landing on ialis, the thoughts inside her skull have curled into themselves, turning into perfect silver balls that roll and gather in the corner of her mind as it wanders and tilts. so she plans to notate while she sits at the bar alone, read over prior assessments and sketches of soon-to-be work while doodling in the margins. 

what a fantastic little fucking maze she is.

it’s only after the arrival of her wine that the barkeep -- who eléna now understood to be the attached hotel’s owner -- grunts in her direction to get her to look up. he’s a broad-shouldered, plump man with a deep tan and the dark hair characteristic of many of the people on the island. as he looks at her he wipes down a stein with a cloth.

“new.” he says in english. then he cants his head to the right, to another patron. it’s a gesture of introduction with the implication of something else entirely. “new.”

the fountain, the woman in the market had said, was an epicentre of luck. unlike the majority of fountains and markers of good fortune, there was no tribute needed -- - not a single coin littered the bottom of the water pooled below the jade-coloured figure, and the undisturbed nature of it all gave the impression of something tranquil. 

eléna lifts her skirt as she sits on the concrete lip of the structure, and there is a tenderness, a lingering sweetness to the way she leans over and brushes her hand over one of the joints. her eyes remain on the statue at the center even as her hand recedes, trailing lightly over the gentle pool beneath. eléna can’t help but respect a deity that does not demand an offering or a name. that was a tenderness modern gods did not extend. she only turns at the impression of a shadow, pivoting to explain herself.