Post by Rainne Fall on May 20, 2011 1:38:28 GMT -5
Everyone eventually pays for their crimes, don't they? No matter how brave, how beautiful, how cunning - retribution always catches up.
It was late, approaching midnight, and the London streets were flooded. Rain seemed to spring from the ground with every turn of the large red bus, splashing booted and covered pedestrians and spreading overall strife. It was a dirty rain, made filthy with the London smog, and left a glistening mark of oil and musk on every cobblestone come morning.
The Rainne in the bus, however, wasn't filthy. She rarely ever was, and then usually with blood or ash, and surprisingly her recent activities had resulted in neither. Pale marble and silver hair, she sat straight as an arrow, silver eyes watching the buildings speed past and admiring the resilience of Muggles in bad weather. Next to her sat a satchel of black leather, slightly lumpy, with one of her thin hands resting protectively over it.
The contents, after all, were very precious.
Too soon for her liking, the bus came to a stop. Just outside, a dusty storefront boasting useless bits and bobbles sat between a small bakery and a coffee shop. To any of the other passengers, she appeared to have gone into the alley down the road, but to her the trip was much shorter. Down the steps, through the rain, and into The Red Star Lounge.
Of course it was red. Gryffindor red, the red of bloodshed and chivalry and would she ever be rid of Hogwarts? House rivalries? Of course not. That bloody school memorialized childhoods and damned memories to nostalgia; even ordinary primary colors spawned painful memories.
It was fairly empty for a Thursday, surprisingly void of university students out for their last weekly smash. A hag sat in one corner - where there is magic and alcohol, there is a hag - and several young people sat at the bar chatting amiably amongst themselves. Rainne strode silently across the floor, booted heels charmed for quiet, and took her place upon a bar stool.
She was exhausted. The bag that rested on her hip was invaluable, and as such was extraordinarily difficult to attain. She was weak, worn down like dust under a shoe, and she wasn't the only one who knew it.
That was the dangerous part.
It was late, approaching midnight, and the London streets were flooded. Rain seemed to spring from the ground with every turn of the large red bus, splashing booted and covered pedestrians and spreading overall strife. It was a dirty rain, made filthy with the London smog, and left a glistening mark of oil and musk on every cobblestone come morning.
The Rainne in the bus, however, wasn't filthy. She rarely ever was, and then usually with blood or ash, and surprisingly her recent activities had resulted in neither. Pale marble and silver hair, she sat straight as an arrow, silver eyes watching the buildings speed past and admiring the resilience of Muggles in bad weather. Next to her sat a satchel of black leather, slightly lumpy, with one of her thin hands resting protectively over it.
The contents, after all, were very precious.
Too soon for her liking, the bus came to a stop. Just outside, a dusty storefront boasting useless bits and bobbles sat between a small bakery and a coffee shop. To any of the other passengers, she appeared to have gone into the alley down the road, but to her the trip was much shorter. Down the steps, through the rain, and into The Red Star Lounge.
Of course it was red. Gryffindor red, the red of bloodshed and chivalry and would she ever be rid of Hogwarts? House rivalries? Of course not. That bloody school memorialized childhoods and damned memories to nostalgia; even ordinary primary colors spawned painful memories.
It was fairly empty for a Thursday, surprisingly void of university students out for their last weekly smash. A hag sat in one corner - where there is magic and alcohol, there is a hag - and several young people sat at the bar chatting amiably amongst themselves. Rainne strode silently across the floor, booted heels charmed for quiet, and took her place upon a bar stool.
She was exhausted. The bag that rested on her hip was invaluable, and as such was extraordinarily difficult to attain. She was weak, worn down like dust under a shoe, and she wasn't the only one who knew it.
That was the dangerous part.