Erica
Shiny Browncoat
Given the vehement disgust she held for tourists who visited New York only to stop in the middle of the sidewalk to gawk at the bright lights, Veronica attempted to avoid obvious sightseeing behavior while soaking in the French Quarter. In a faded sage green t-shirt, ripped jeans, and a stylized pair of brown leather high top sneakers speckled with paint, few people gave her and her practiced city bearing a second glance. That hard-earned stride and New York attitude were only occasionally spoiled by having to watch her step to avoid turning her ankle on one of the many broken and missing stones on the sidewalk.
Vowing never to connect through Atlanta again after her delayed flight, she had asked the cab driver to let her out a couple of blocks from her destination, thinking the fresh air would do her some good and maybe clear her head. She wanted to form her own impression of New Orleans before diving into whatever trouble awaited at the Rising Sun, and that required having her feet on the ground. With her canvas satchel close to her side, she carried a duffle bag containing the more banal necessities over her shoulder. Luckily, she tended to pack light. No one knew how long “this” (whatever “this” was) would take, and her grandmother had been evasive in providing an estimate. When asked, Nana Rita offered her favorite cliché: events would unfold in their own time. V still found it ironic that a woman who could literally bend the world to her Will gravitated toward platitudes centered on submission. Yes, she understood why (they had explored it often enough in her studies), but it still irked her for reasons she probably should examine at some point.
At the moment, however, there were bigger issues to deal with. She still didn’t know how she felt about answering the request for help. Working with others made her nervous, but that was the point of all this. She had to learn sometime. Right?
Aside from that, though, the French Quarter lived up to her expectations. It offered beautiful old world style laced with amazing food, abundant music, and a considerable amount of mysticism. Not that Veronica knew what it had felt like before Katrina, but to her limited senses it felt new, like something intangible was burgeoning amongst the old world style. Or maybe her imagination was allowing her nerves to infect her thoughts. She wasn’t stupid enough to reach out and feel around, at least not yet. Painting a big metaphysical sign on her back that said “new Mage in town” didn’t seem wise in a city known for its occult practices.
Once she reached the Rising Sun, she took a breath and paused to look over the place. An interesting choice of meeting locations, which said something about the man who had called them here. As if the name Rasputin wasn’t enough: did he have a hard-on for the mythological Russian mystic, or maybe he was a descendent? These thoughts had plagued her enough on the flights to Louisiana, so she shook them off as best she could as she made her way to the door. Muffled voices could be heard from the porch. So she wasn’t the first one here. Fighting off an image of a pissed off madam answering the door, she cracked her neck and knocked three times on the door. Loudly.
Vowing never to connect through Atlanta again after her delayed flight, she had asked the cab driver to let her out a couple of blocks from her destination, thinking the fresh air would do her some good and maybe clear her head. She wanted to form her own impression of New Orleans before diving into whatever trouble awaited at the Rising Sun, and that required having her feet on the ground. With her canvas satchel close to her side, she carried a duffle bag containing the more banal necessities over her shoulder. Luckily, she tended to pack light. No one knew how long “this” (whatever “this” was) would take, and her grandmother had been evasive in providing an estimate. When asked, Nana Rita offered her favorite cliché: events would unfold in their own time. V still found it ironic that a woman who could literally bend the world to her Will gravitated toward platitudes centered on submission. Yes, she understood why (they had explored it often enough in her studies), but it still irked her for reasons she probably should examine at some point.
At the moment, however, there were bigger issues to deal with. She still didn’t know how she felt about answering the request for help. Working with others made her nervous, but that was the point of all this. She had to learn sometime. Right?
Aside from that, though, the French Quarter lived up to her expectations. It offered beautiful old world style laced with amazing food, abundant music, and a considerable amount of mysticism. Not that Veronica knew what it had felt like before Katrina, but to her limited senses it felt new, like something intangible was burgeoning amongst the old world style. Or maybe her imagination was allowing her nerves to infect her thoughts. She wasn’t stupid enough to reach out and feel around, at least not yet. Painting a big metaphysical sign on her back that said “new Mage in town” didn’t seem wise in a city known for its occult practices.
Once she reached the Rising Sun, she took a breath and paused to look over the place. An interesting choice of meeting locations, which said something about the man who had called them here. As if the name Rasputin wasn’t enough: did he have a hard-on for the mythological Russian mystic, or maybe he was a descendent? These thoughts had plagued her enough on the flights to Louisiana, so she shook them off as best she could as she made her way to the door. Muffled voices could be heard from the porch. So she wasn’t the first one here. Fighting off an image of a pissed off madam answering the door, she cracked her neck and knocked three times on the door. Loudly.
