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[indent][color=c8d1c6][i]A[/i]t the corner of Secundus and Tertium paraded the humble establishment, The Blue Mirror: a fogged glass exterior with a furnishing of azure glows and twinkling strings of amber bulbs that secured themselves betwixt posts and speckled ebon grates of varying tables and chairs in which randomized luxuries were secured. One of many that had sprouted through every other block within The Badlands when the economy had shifted and aligned with the world and took to the fluctuations of the eternal Stock Market. Such businesses could be aligned to corporate idealism, for in such timely persecution, one amassed chains and appealed to a literal label and franchise. It dulled the local flavour and spoiled the individuality and sanctity of financial opportunities for the younger competitor, even in secluded and untold of cities much like The Badlands. Irony cloaked the conception in spades considering how vastly imported most of their luxuries were, as if spattered and erratic during their induction because suddenly an old, once upon a time monastery became the foci of the nearest industrial lords.

However, The Blue Mirror was told of a unique quality, individual in ownership and practice, and the craftsmanship of the fogged panes never once duplicated. Besides their aesthetic credibility, the scones and coffee brew were absolutely to die for. 

Ana glided arachnid gestures against the disturbances within the famed glass, every dip and rise in texture told of careful detailing and execution on the make. She had once asked who was responsible for the panes and if it was intended for the name when they first began their unique hours. The owner never revealed the origins, he had only laughed and said it was just a twist of fate.

Ironic, that, she thought. And looped her index finger through the ceramic of her still hot coffee - dashed with three fixings of cream, nothing artificial and prepared black as the darkest soils she knew all too well - and tended to her musings.

She had procured a paper from the stand near the foyer where a curiously vague article on the Paramorlian Histories new exhibit had come second or so from the primary story display on potential services expanding the one way rail that traveled seldom between the upper echelon of an infamous nobility. There was only a handful of scripted details, there had been a rare collection derived from a bought of famous collectors, names she knew by having been a personal [i]subscriber[/i] to their coffers. [i]Rossi... Belvonuer... Pacheco...[/i]

Priceless artifacts from a long era, legends of passing wrath and loss, ruin and lust, and then, she saw it. A familiar name wreathed in flame and surrounded by a poetic embellishment she knew fluently on her silver bathed tongue and smile. Her mind's eyes immediately flickered and expanded; The Atis. It was just a book to many, to the tourists that came from transit and the docks up north and traversed through the mountains to visit the city undone in both Vegas splendors and old, forgotten Paris spires. The Gothic towers, the silver and gold plated buildings; everything that reeked of sin [i]and[/i] life.

Ana exhaled.

Of course, the one thing people looked yonder with wonder and something akin to rapt curiosity was just a forgery; a sham, a perfectly executed gem of thin leaf pages and golden edges warped in leather, aged to absolution. The real one was in her very possession, well preserved even after all these years...

Her nails rip into the pages, tearing across black and grey print, staining the keratin with soot and takes another take from her brew, eyes on the blue glass, the slight mirror effect revealing not just her self images, but a distorted look of the street beyond it. A wonderful metaphor it would appear, much to the irony currently dominating her process as of late. Maybe because it was soon to be the anniversary when she came into possession of The Atis, quivering palms grasping hold of a responsibility that would later, much later,
take sway upon her heart and soul.

Anastasia would come to realize, maybe not now or then, but some time from now, that the book was a personal conduit to her very essence of self and all of those before her.

Her eyes of a curious blue, too bright and too glimmering, swelled with an emotion undefinable by the shutter of soot black lashes and the rising steam from her now cooling coffee, the last wisps of translucent waves over the pout of her lip as she continued to read the article with what little information was provided. The venue wouldn't be publicly open until another month, to finish adding the last details of the exhibit and to, of course, finalize the actual price of viewing the collection. Art was free for expression, but never was it free to the masses. Ana knew well the greed of the wealthier souls and their pillaging of the hungry vagabonds who collaborated with muse to produce the visuals of their lives, all to be reaped by a man who found some flicker and smidgen of life within their own expression; all translated and misunderstood in the end. It was awfully tempting, so profound, to take her own gander at the collection before the debut, but the next passage gave her an acute pause.

There was to be a private [i]gala[/i] of sorts, hosted by the young and rather hopeful curator of the Paramorlian Histories: Patrick Montreyu. The brief interview of the lighted soiree was an exclusive fundraiser for sponsors to bid on selective pieces donated, till within possession of their collectors, but also heralded along side whichever function and foundation saw to the typical display. Her cog of minds and walls immediately began to churn, her thoughts easily awash with the sheer amount of potential gain from the gathering of oh so much wealth. Whilst she was graciously employed, of course, it did not discourage the habitual takings of rather... freelance work.

Ana cradled her palm against her slender cheeks, nails nestling against her temple and brow. Securing an invitation, however, was the only problematic angle. She had a history of sorts, if one could label such a thing, with Patrick Montreyu; an ugly, vibrant bruise and swelling of distaste for one another that still, to this day, tasted of stale cigarettes and cheap booze. She sighed, finished the last bit of her coffee and tucked the paper with the rest of her belongings. It was too grand of an opportunity to pass up just because she had become rather tame and lax in her botanist lifestyle and facade, besides, securing a bit of fattening within her [i]own[/i] coffers wasn't anything worthy of shame for the coming winter. 

For The Badlands had an ugly reputation for being a thief as well, only she dealt within hearts and souls.

Now, time to visit an old friend.[/color][/indent]
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