Rain falls, eternally, and when it does, it becomes the beckoned tears of weeping angels; slumbering figures of erosion and wear, moss pocketed cheeks, sullen eyes of ashen herald that wrack upon lonesome wonder and pondering. Rain falls in small doses, delicate droplets that linger just so, misting asphalt from lead to obsidian, all hues worn by sorrow wane and want, coating over The Badlands. Against a pane of glass they rap, hoisted down by the trails of manufactured sheen, clearing paths of relaxing ripples over their wooded hosts and brick laid foundations. Pale breath rasps over the opposite in lackadaisical splendor and wonder, pale lips smudged a sheen of gloss, blanketed over bone with arachnid gestures scooped against a faint jaw.
She inhales, and with a flutter of soot-black lashes, exhales and witnesses the fogging spread against the cold looking glass.
The Badlands was meant eternally for rain, where only minute reliefs of sun broke through in the dawn, before dominated by the grey of clouds and rain shed, the rays only filtered through so much and it would take a near miracle otherwise. Such occurrences had often been explained by science and claims, the way the city laid banked by the Paramorl River to the East, the capes of the mountains yonder that foretold of chilling winters reaped with sopping ice; smothered by the fog of frigid clouds that hung low from the spires of the city like demented spectors.
The Paramorlian Cathedral was a splendor on its' lonesome in this eternal gloom; a lone sentinel wreathed in glass panned spires bedecked with silver, betwixt the crowns of the city that heralded no official name other than the moniker bequeathed from years past. The Badlands was befitting as it was simplistic, it rolled off the shoulders with misery and complacency and stuck to the bones like a secondary film of flesh. The Cathedral had once been the pinnacle of the city, built directly within the center in the belief of every soul being closer to the heavens, to help lift the burden of life and woe. Whilst such a notion was grand in charity, it had become quickly noted that people were drawn to other fixations, distractions, such ways of life that spurned them away from those once pristine doors. Until a discovery of a forgotten relic within the Paramorlian tombs during the earthquake of the Industrial climax almost a century ago: The Atis. It was a discovery laced with poetry and begone words, literature donned in an olden tongue and cryptically translated by the - then smaller and lowly funded - gallery of the Paramorlian histories of the United Mythos. It was vaguely scripted to a near fairy tale like odyssey of twin serpents, bound and twined, yet never touching, never meeting, and eyes cast away from a long ago age.
It was an enriching discovery and was stolen not even a week later from its' display in the Cathedral centre.
A month following the disappearance, carefully marked pages were discovered that The Atis has been relieved of its' holy perch in favour of the security the Paramorlian historians could supply during their ascension, such disrupted The Badlands between the faithful and the artisans that attempted to placate and oppose them; to preserve art and tale. The divide had been a disarray of protests and vandalism attributed to both parties that would later spill into the later generations.
Irony would later - much later - discover that The Atis displayed within a gold filigreed box of wood and glass was a forgery that would last for many a year to follow the original theft.
Such skill and craftsmanship were done by lithesome gestures and careful intentions of old Gypsies, an art lost to the centuries of technology and mechanical finesse. It was taught to generations that one would assume be found within family, but the reality of the craft was traded to those without; orphans and urchins just scraping on bloodies knees and bruised finger tips to just get by. These unfortunate souls of life and material loss would then grow up to become thieves of the dwindling art, the kind that cantered after those of family and fame who were deeply seeded and enriched through legacy. Some would call them thieves of the neighboring cloth, cut by jagged glass and displaying more jagged edges.
She was jagged ice and silvery inlay, reflecting a madness within, finding herself thrust upon an ancient artistry. The memory alone caused a rippling shudder to peel through a slender spine, clothed in thick cashmere the colour of creme and mocha luxuries as the chill from outside slowly crept inside. Overlooking the Cathedral across the way was the Herlion Building, six stories high and wide. It was one of many complexes scattered amidst the city in the fashions of lofts and roof houses that gave highway to the skies. And wouldn't it be the grandest form of cynicism to know that deeply buried within the sixth floor, scattered with various flora of the resident botanist, with plants of interchanging hue and greenery, would lie the original Atis; well preserved even after centuries of lies?
Probably so.
She admired her view atop the Herlion Building, watching those speckled angels casting their judgement to the denizens crossing the sidewalks. The earthquake that had revealed the tombs had never seen repair, and time and erosion saw the walls to near decay. The steeple has been worn to a blunt centre where an old clock never toned with the wind whipped doors looked down upon by a faceless angel many took to calling the Headless Avenger. Her window peered down just enough to catch the eyesore of such an existence, another form of irony performing at its' finest hour. The complex was home to a splendor of guests and well enough, being among many, that a thief of heritage and material values could call home. Betwixt her beloved flowers, Anastasia Frievald had vantage and solace, with primary access to the roof and where her primary green house was well tended, the Herlion building had been her basis of operations for years since the loft was given to her as a celebratory gift.
It was encroaching a decade anniversary, it almost made one desire to perform something drastic in celebration for it.
Anastasia merely laughed at the notion though, and lifted her window a centimeter higher, enough to let the brisk winds to breeze through the pottery around her window sill without the touch of frost and rain. Fall had settled among the Badlands easily, the first day bringing with it a substantial chill that really took to biting at night when the glowing sun fell further behind the clouds and the tallest of the buildings up North. Luckily, the greenhouse she managed and her stores, set up right into her loft, had been fortunate with the way the sun managed to peek through and rest on her wall of the building during the daylight hours. To say that Ana could make even the most stubborn of flower bloom was only a partial truth, she had a natural green thumb with her wicked sleight of hand, it sort of wreathed her in the imagery of a deadly character that took to her femininity with pride. With deeply set eyes and a low brow, her gaze was oft a trademark, shaded a most peculiar context of blue that was too bright to be anything but average. However she was humanly flawed like all else, with perhaps a large forehead and heavy lids, proud nose and lips pouted just so. Her heritage was obviously foreign, but little of those in the Herlion complex could specify her origin.
For whilst she was known well enough for her plants, very little could be remarked about her past and family. Or lack of thereof.
But, she liked it that way.
To be shrouded in the right cloak of mystery was a thief's true ploy, the right amount of shadow that kept them hidden but yet seen at all times. To deny that she was involved in numerous counts of theft; seventy-three sweeps; thirty-four heists; forty-seven pockets picked; and fifty shills, to be exact. Not counting the number of forgeries at her deploy. But, who was counting. It was a daunting, to say the least, reputation. To have roots for this long was often frowned upon, but, the Badlands grew upon you and was difficult to shake off. It was as if the city refused to let her vagabond children go, for they were dreamers, swindlers, and lovers. No matter their age, or type.
Ana carefully arranged the flowers surrounding her loft, from every stationary shelf or counter, even her headboard scattered with pillows plush and nearly as big as she with a wreath of plants secured to her walls and the myriad of prints artfully placed to accompany each one.
"Summer flowers to the green house," she uttered, voice soft, careful, mindful of the Baby's Breath bloom within her hands. "And move the - aha!" She eagerly clasped her fingers around one of awaiting Orchids and placed them closer to the window. "The rest over here.. And oh, those two."
It was near impulse for every new day, right after the dawn hours and into the early afternoon, Ana would move every bit of plants, a sort of habit that sputtered into anxiety if not done otherwise. Of which she personally discovered years ago in carefully moving things into place at every hour during those years in the orphanage. Not a happy reflection, she mused, carefully plucking through her Carnations, sleeves up to her elbows to avoid snags, hair - the colours of soil - swept about her face endearingly. It was almost a normal and rich setting, a simplistic life donned over truth, she knew it was well enough to keep things civil. But, Ana had a penchant for a trigger hand, fingers splayed often whenever there was a lapse in jobs. Her employer was a shadowed face behind another shadow, their dealings were never publicly graced and such was often executed through the terms of a medieval form of a dead drop. A hint there, a random courier here, a letter in the green house - though how they managed to unlock it every time was beyond her - and rarely, the mysterious phone call. Never an e-mail sent through the web, for an electronic trail was the bane of their agreement.
Never get caught, she thought idly and upon the thought of it, went over to her computer to screen through her messages. Times called that everything be transmuted through the internet, funny enough considering her patron, but it was nice for convenience.
"Aah, the Paramorlian Histories are opening a new exhibit." She scrolled down, frowned briefly. "No pictures yet, how odd. They usually love teasing about this stuff." Ana leaned in closer, scanning over the article with a rap of her nails against her desk cluttered with pens, papers; paraphernalia of a seemingly average citizen of course. Small details, and all that.
"Might be worth a look though, check the usual drops and all that." It has been, what? Three months since her last job, she made her dues and pay through managing her homestead flower shop and of course, a weekly charity from her employer to keep her appetite going and her loyalty in check. No honor among thieves, as the saying goes.
Ana lowered her window down, a small crack, enough for the loft to breath before she laced her dark boots on tight to her calves, long, beige warmers over her ebony sheathed legs peeking beneath them. She thrust ebony sticks into her hair next, each sharp enough for protection, for she never went onto the streets without some form of fashionable arsenal and secured her bag over her shoulder and exited into the corridor. Five more residents occupied the sixth floor with her, each of these her favourites for their seclusion and needs for privacy as well. She never locked her door, oft in case of emergencies, but one would find her domicile carefully booby-trapped, her window secured with wiring, the plants around the foyer of her loft much the same, each alarming her mobile to unwanted intruders. Again, the right amount of cloaks over the lifestyle.
It was commonly known that everywhere in the Badlands could be reached by foot, despite the buses that came to every stop, most of everyone took to the sidewalks, even in the colder months. Ana was no exception, exiting the building with a wave of her fingers to the residents coming in from their morning services and those leaving with her, her smile was high and artful, teeth and lips glimmering, but not too much to seem deceptive. She was the rather polite botanist of the Herlion Building who left her home every so often for a early afternoon coffee and a scone, nothing more and nothing less.
If only that, she laughed and watched as the first signs of frost took to the air and plumed her breath white like snow.
Member
CabbageAngel
Antlers
Eddie Brock
AuthorialTheory
AmongHeroes
Kefka Palazzo
Exit
Mjolnir
Lunamaria Hawke
Altered Tundra
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