10-19-2015, 04:08 AM
Thorunn is not an adventurer - yet. She chooses the red door.
--------------------
Where she was copper, she was now pale.
Where she was lanky, she is now defined.
She's poured into a bust tightened corset, pushing her breasts high and mounted. In the mirror she sees a girl she doesn't recognize but understands (intimately) as herself. Right down to the orange eyes.
The motions are not hers, not entirely. They're a Thorunn if she'd lived in the 1800's in England, and were a whore. It made sense - her father was a manwhore. Now she's a street walker.
--
The darkness of tight is thrilling, the cool London air floating over her exposed skin. She walks with the confidence that only a night walker could have - head high, hair in the latest fashion, the color of her clothing a dark purple of riches. She walks with pronounced steps, her low heels making clicking and clacking noises that fill the air. Her presence is known.
Ahead, two men leer at her from outside a bar. They smell like brandy and detachment, and she knows (The way all women know) that they'll be a problem. She considers changing course, but it's too late. It'd be too obvious, and nothing the only thing worse than meeting these men head on is avoiding them.
"Hey there little girl," coos one, with his dirty ragged teeth. The other has lips reddened with wine and rolls a bit as he lurches forward. "How much?" Winelips presses. "More shillings than ya make in a decade," she says, breezing by.
Winelips lurches.
Ragged teeth grabs her.
Before they can comprehend, the girl deftly pulls a switchblade from her bodice and opens it menacingly, holding it in front of her. Ragged teeth doesn't let go, and for that she slices his ear off. The blade is smart, it takes it clean off. He drops to the ground and Thorunn smiles, observing the blood on the blade in the light.
In the shadows she's aware someone is watching.
--
The gifts start shortly afterwards.
First, it is a bonnet. It's simple, not the type of clothing she would wear, but admirable none the less. The craftwork is decent. There's a faint stain on it, Thorunn can't make it out. But this present is left for her at her station, with her name in unmistakeable gentleman's handwriting. She later recognizes it as Mary Nichol's bonnet, the same bonnet she threw into the street the week before, laughing.
Then, it is a scarf. The scarf is soft, delicate material, intricately woven. It is more a gift for a girl like her. She puts it on with a flourish, ignoring the voices of the other girls - it's the scarf Mary Kelly wore the night she died. Thorunn knew it because she often lusted for the girl's scarf.
--
It's a brisk September night when Thorunn meets the man.
He is tall, which she knew from his lurking shadows. She's not so simple or stupid as to be so unaware of her surroundings. A girl with sense is a girl left alive, she'd always said. And Thorunn had sense to spare. She was aware of him as he slunk through the shadows, watching her walk the streets. Sometimes she'd catch a glimpse of him through a tavern's shadow.
But he's always gone when she looks again.
Clever girl that she is, she slides through the shadows, leading him where she wants. Down an alley, to the thick cobblestone streets of London. He follows, pursuing her, matching their paces. He picks up the pace when her shadow becomes more and more fleeting. At last he's found her! In that alley, there!
It's a dead end and the orange eyed girl is nowhere to be seen.
That is, until the sound of her clip, clip, clip low heels radiates through the alley.
He turns, incredulous, eye to eye with the object of his affection.
"Thank you for the gifts," she says, her smile coy and dangerous. He can't help but think the lipstick on her face looks like blood and his mouth waters.
"You looked the type of girl to appreciate that sort of thing," he nearly whispers. His voice is stuck in his throat and can't be compelled to break through.
"You're a good judge of character," she says, and takes a step forward. It's the tiniest of shimmies, a dance she's inviting him to join in.
"I always have been," he says, the ache in his voice. His eyes are on her exposed neck, thinking - oh god if I could only...
"But you haven't found exactly what you wanted," she presses, halting. He's stunned by her abrupt stop. "Not until now," he replies, wanting. Needing. Hoping.
The orange eyed girl leans against a wall next to a door, which glows with an almost ethereal hue. He's distracted only a moment, recognizing this. This...this is his move! He can almost taste her on his lips, he can almost...
...he reaches out to touch her, to bring her to himself, to fully feel the object of his desire, when she slips through the door and the door disappears behind her.
--------------------
Where she was copper, she was now pale.
Where she was lanky, she is now defined.
She's poured into a bust tightened corset, pushing her breasts high and mounted. In the mirror she sees a girl she doesn't recognize but understands (intimately) as herself. Right down to the orange eyes.
The motions are not hers, not entirely. They're a Thorunn if she'd lived in the 1800's in England, and were a whore. It made sense - her father was a manwhore. Now she's a street walker.
--
The darkness of tight is thrilling, the cool London air floating over her exposed skin. She walks with the confidence that only a night walker could have - head high, hair in the latest fashion, the color of her clothing a dark purple of riches. She walks with pronounced steps, her low heels making clicking and clacking noises that fill the air. Her presence is known.
Ahead, two men leer at her from outside a bar. They smell like brandy and detachment, and she knows (The way all women know) that they'll be a problem. She considers changing course, but it's too late. It'd be too obvious, and nothing the only thing worse than meeting these men head on is avoiding them.
"Hey there little girl," coos one, with his dirty ragged teeth. The other has lips reddened with wine and rolls a bit as he lurches forward. "How much?" Winelips presses. "More shillings than ya make in a decade," she says, breezing by.
Winelips lurches.
Ragged teeth grabs her.
Before they can comprehend, the girl deftly pulls a switchblade from her bodice and opens it menacingly, holding it in front of her. Ragged teeth doesn't let go, and for that she slices his ear off. The blade is smart, it takes it clean off. He drops to the ground and Thorunn smiles, observing the blood on the blade in the light.
In the shadows she's aware someone is watching.
--
The gifts start shortly afterwards.
First, it is a bonnet. It's simple, not the type of clothing she would wear, but admirable none the less. The craftwork is decent. There's a faint stain on it, Thorunn can't make it out. But this present is left for her at her station, with her name in unmistakeable gentleman's handwriting. She later recognizes it as Mary Nichol's bonnet, the same bonnet she threw into the street the week before, laughing.
Then, it is a scarf. The scarf is soft, delicate material, intricately woven. It is more a gift for a girl like her. She puts it on with a flourish, ignoring the voices of the other girls - it's the scarf Mary Kelly wore the night she died. Thorunn knew it because she often lusted for the girl's scarf.
--
It's a brisk September night when Thorunn meets the man.
He is tall, which she knew from his lurking shadows. She's not so simple or stupid as to be so unaware of her surroundings. A girl with sense is a girl left alive, she'd always said. And Thorunn had sense to spare. She was aware of him as he slunk through the shadows, watching her walk the streets. Sometimes she'd catch a glimpse of him through a tavern's shadow.
But he's always gone when she looks again.
Clever girl that she is, she slides through the shadows, leading him where she wants. Down an alley, to the thick cobblestone streets of London. He follows, pursuing her, matching their paces. He picks up the pace when her shadow becomes more and more fleeting. At last he's found her! In that alley, there!
It's a dead end and the orange eyed girl is nowhere to be seen.
That is, until the sound of her clip, clip, clip low heels radiates through the alley.
He turns, incredulous, eye to eye with the object of his affection.
"Thank you for the gifts," she says, her smile coy and dangerous. He can't help but think the lipstick on her face looks like blood and his mouth waters.
"You looked the type of girl to appreciate that sort of thing," he nearly whispers. His voice is stuck in his throat and can't be compelled to break through.
"You're a good judge of character," she says, and takes a step forward. It's the tiniest of shimmies, a dance she's inviting him to join in.
"I always have been," he says, the ache in his voice. His eyes are on her exposed neck, thinking - oh god if I could only...
"But you haven't found exactly what you wanted," she presses, halting. He's stunned by her abrupt stop. "Not until now," he replies, wanting. Needing. Hoping.
The orange eyed girl leans against a wall next to a door, which glows with an almost ethereal hue. He's distracted only a moment, recognizing this. This...this is his move! He can almost taste her on his lips, he can almost...
...he reaches out to touch her, to bring her to himself, to fully feel the object of his desire, when she slips through the door and the door disappears behind her.