Scoping for ink

[Thalia]

Thalia laughed too; a surprised, pleasant kind of laughter, and quick as that she decided she liked this girl and her brash sense of humour. Her head bobbed back in time to see Alek’s scowl, and she offered him an impishly apologetic grin - which he, of course, made a point to ignore, gruff old bear that he was. The furrowed brow and severe expression were not entirely for show, but the ire only ran skin deep. It was his default; particularly with foreigners he did not like. That had included Thalia, once. She sat back, amused by Rune's delicate handling of her name; like it was something fragile to the taste and easily broken.

"Just moved to Moscow, huh?" The question was rhetorical, more a musing. D-I was the CCD's beating heart, and just as it drew reams of fascinated tourists, it also attracted those looking to make it their home. Thalia was one of them, though in truth she had chosen to study at Moscow State in order to follow her sister's footsteps rather than being lured by the majesty of the city. Initially, anyway; it was inured in her by now, its beauty and inherent contradictions a part of her marrow. She didn't know what she'd do if Aylin ever decided to relocate; follow, probably, though the city would be a difficult place to leave.

She tilted her head at the admission of shallow pockets, and though she did not intend pity, a little sympathy might have sobered her expression then. She did not envy Rune her house-hunting; Moscow was not kind to those who did not have plenty of money, or the skill and luck to procure it quickly. Those who won its favour it rewarded lavishly, but those who floundered in its cruel beauty were crushed as carelessly as an insect under heel. In that shadow lay Moscow’s Underground, a place Thalia had never had the misfortune to visit.

If Rune had been here more than five minutes, she’d have already discovered that the central parts of the city were heinously overpriced. Only the very rich lay claim to property around here, and most of the apartments - especially in the Arbatskaya district - were, inevitably, short-term holiday rentals rather than long-term accommodations. If she was looking for somewhere to rest her rucksack, she was in the wrong place. Completely. Which probably meant something else had tugged her heavy-booted feet to Old Arbat.

A smile quirked Thalia’s lips as that something else shunted not so subtly into the conversation. Tattoo design? She had, actually, done just that, though only for herself. The tattooist had made some adjustments to accommodate the space on Thalia’s back - some of it had just been too detailed to ink on skin, or needed tweaking to better fit her contours - but it was a decent likeness, and more importantly had served its purpose. She’d felt every single bloody line in every single one of those relentless eight-hour stints, so deeply trapped in the horror of her own mind that the tattooist had thought she'd fallen asleep (really?!), but the agony had razed the image from her mind. Finally. She hated pain, squeaked at paper-cuts, but that torture had been worth every single dollar.

Thalia’s eyes lidded a little in open, amused suspicion. "Well, I’m not a tattooist. The canvas is very different," she said, slowly. Teasing acknowledgement of what she thought Rune was angling for with all those decadent compliments. "Though, if someone asked it of me, well, I wouldn’t be adverse." She grinned. "So what exactly did you have in mind?"