When they stepped out of the spa doors, he was not surprised at the fact that it was dark. They had left the safe house late in the afternoon and their time in the spa had been hours. Mostly because of Valeriya. Not that he minded. He'd taken her here for that reason, to experience a pampering and indulgence foreign to her. He hoped that it did not make her even more spoiled. A fool's hope, he knew, chuckling to himself.
Neither of them were exactly humble by nature.
He did appreciate how refreshed she looked. He clothing was an attractive fit on her. The leggings were quite fetching. But what made him laugh was her wide toothy grin at the discomfort on the spa worker's face. Vale was proud of the reactions she elicited, of the attention.
He'd seen her scars up close, of course, calloused fingers lightly tracing the near endless criss-crossings on her back. Her awakening had been much more...intense than his, especially considering she had done it to herself.
She'd told him of it, seeming to revel in what it meant- for her; about her. The retelling alone was an almost sensual experience.
As they wandered down the street, she peppered him with questions- What is that? How does it move? Who is that up there? What is that made of? What is that building?" He enjoyed the excitement and energy of this very young woman exploring a world vaster and more varied than anything she could have imagined. She was bouncing, pointing and craning and stepping up on toes to peer about.
There were any number of restaurants as they meandered along no route at all, but he was content to wait until she was ready.
Eventually, their walk took them to a structure that was as out of place as it was possible to be, here in Moscow. He recognized the style at once, though he had never been to New Orleans- or the United States, for that matter- himself. America and Americans interested him very little. They were far too driven by a sense of contrariness.
The raucously loud music and bright lights spilling out the open windows and doors sounded as if a grand party was being had. But the smells of food that drifted out as well confirmed what the sign said. Not just a cafe. A restaurant.
And, lest he was mistaken, an experience. He looked at her.
"That is where we will eat. A restaurant in the style of a region of...another land far away from here." The names would mean little to her, right now, anyway. They headed up the walkway, the music and celebration getting louder, but of course not enough to prevent conversation. "This restaurant embodies festivities very similar to the Radyeni- though they do not usually include public intercourse," he said with a smile. Usually, being the operative word. It all depended on where the celebrations were being held.
Whether it was Mardi Gras or Carnivale, they all were based on the the Bacchanals of old. Not just in the Greco-Roman world either, as the same kind of spring celebrations also had been found across North Africa and even as far as India.
From a psychological standpoint, it made perfect sense. It was a complete abandonment of control and reason for the experienc of ecstacy. ἔκστασις - ek-stasis was "outside onself". The frenzy and irrationality of the Bachanals allowed people to purge themselves, for the moment at least, of responsibility and control and order.
And the copious amounts of alcohol turned it into a religious experience, wresting the human spirit from the mind's control. Dionysus the victor over Apollo. Even the church could not stamp it out, choosing instead to follow the usual course of incorporating them into their own structure.
Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday began 40 days of Lent, in which people sacrificed something important to themselves. One day of pure indulgence.
Valeriya- indeed all the Khlysty- would feel at home.
They entered the front door and soon stood in front of a wizened old woman. It took a moment for him to understand her speech, her accented English was so thick. Soon enough, they were taken to a table in a room that proclaimed itself the Seance Room.
Secluded alcoves with half circled booths or tables dotted the edges of the room where patrons sat and drank, while other tables were scattered about with the paraphernalia of the supernatural arts. Tarot, Ouija, dowsing rods, copies of the I Ching, and many more. A few guests could be seen attempting use them, flipping over cards or casting bones. He chuckled.
At their seats he simply ordered a ginger ale. At least some of the help spoke Russian, which was good for Valeriya. He explained to her what the various drinks were so she could order. Then he smiled at her, raising an eyebrow in question. "Well, what do you think"
@"Valeriya"
Neither of them were exactly humble by nature.
He did appreciate how refreshed she looked. He clothing was an attractive fit on her. The leggings were quite fetching. But what made him laugh was her wide toothy grin at the discomfort on the spa worker's face. Vale was proud of the reactions she elicited, of the attention.
He'd seen her scars up close, of course, calloused fingers lightly tracing the near endless criss-crossings on her back. Her awakening had been much more...intense than his, especially considering she had done it to herself.
She'd told him of it, seeming to revel in what it meant- for her; about her. The retelling alone was an almost sensual experience.
As they wandered down the street, she peppered him with questions- What is that? How does it move? Who is that up there? What is that made of? What is that building?" He enjoyed the excitement and energy of this very young woman exploring a world vaster and more varied than anything she could have imagined. She was bouncing, pointing and craning and stepping up on toes to peer about.
There were any number of restaurants as they meandered along no route at all, but he was content to wait until she was ready.
Eventually, their walk took them to a structure that was as out of place as it was possible to be, here in Moscow. He recognized the style at once, though he had never been to New Orleans- or the United States, for that matter- himself. America and Americans interested him very little. They were far too driven by a sense of contrariness.
The raucously loud music and bright lights spilling out the open windows and doors sounded as if a grand party was being had. But the smells of food that drifted out as well confirmed what the sign said. Not just a cafe. A restaurant.
And, lest he was mistaken, an experience. He looked at her.
"That is where we will eat. A restaurant in the style of a region of...another land far away from here." The names would mean little to her, right now, anyway. They headed up the walkway, the music and celebration getting louder, but of course not enough to prevent conversation. "This restaurant embodies festivities very similar to the Radyeni- though they do not usually include public intercourse," he said with a smile. Usually, being the operative word. It all depended on where the celebrations were being held.
Whether it was Mardi Gras or Carnivale, they all were based on the the Bacchanals of old. Not just in the Greco-Roman world either, as the same kind of spring celebrations also had been found across North Africa and even as far as India.
From a psychological standpoint, it made perfect sense. It was a complete abandonment of control and reason for the experienc of ecstacy. ἔκστασις - ek-stasis was "outside onself". The frenzy and irrationality of the Bachanals allowed people to purge themselves, for the moment at least, of responsibility and control and order.
And the copious amounts of alcohol turned it into a religious experience, wresting the human spirit from the mind's control. Dionysus the victor over Apollo. Even the church could not stamp it out, choosing instead to follow the usual course of incorporating them into their own structure.
Fat Tuesday, the day before Ash Wednesday began 40 days of Lent, in which people sacrificed something important to themselves. One day of pure indulgence.
Valeriya- indeed all the Khlysty- would feel at home.
They entered the front door and soon stood in front of a wizened old woman. It took a moment for him to understand her speech, her accented English was so thick. Soon enough, they were taken to a table in a room that proclaimed itself the Seance Room.
Secluded alcoves with half circled booths or tables dotted the edges of the room where patrons sat and drank, while other tables were scattered about with the paraphernalia of the supernatural arts. Tarot, Ouija, dowsing rods, copies of the I Ching, and many more. A few guests could be seen attempting use them, flipping over cards or casting bones. He chuckled.
At their seats he simply ordered a ginger ale. At least some of the help spoke Russian, which was good for Valeriya. He explained to her what the various drinks were so she could order. Then he smiled at her, raising an eyebrow in question. "Well, what do you think"
@"Valeriya"