Things are well underway. Crowds pile in, filling the dance floors and seating area. Above it all...the night's host. A man of dark hair and violet eyes who stood upon the second floor platform and watched his new space swell.
     But something brought him downstairs.
     For over an hour, he'd accepted greetings and congratulations, a crowd of beautiful women shielding him from the undesirables. Dressed in violet velvet hip-huggers and violet suede boots, Julian finally emerged from his perch, causing the world to open before him.
     Something brought him downstairs.
     Hands here and there crossed his skin, causing his smile to grow. He was unafraid then, letting the oceans part before him, until soon enough, there was a ruckus on the main floor.
     "That's him."
     "I think that's him. In the velvet."
     He's used to such things, Julian is, taking it all in a gliding stride.
     "You're welcome."
     "Glad you could come."
     "Good to see you again. Yes, I remember you..."
     But something's brought him downstairs. A hand gives a wave to one of the men in the cages, now above Julian Kane's head, and eyes return to survey those that give him room as he walks his new club...

     A heady aroma wafts by...

     A waiter clears drinks from a table.

     Her hair was once a golden honey. Covered with golden dust, she was once a dancer, giving Goldfinger a brand new spin. But now her hair is burgundy plum and straight to the middle of her back, slick sheen changing colors with the moving lights. Samantha James moves along the catwalk...
     Painted fingernail, a memory of golder days, trailing the railing....

     Already, the crowd is swirling, a tidal ebb of writhing forms half clothed and half surrendered. Moving inward, moving outward. Orgiastic electronica. And it pulses everywhere, but there's one spot near the dancefloor surrounded by two eddies. A push and a pull. And blue smoke....
     Sheer violet silk -- half way to indigo -- catches a shimmer of light and there's skin that follows it. A form that fills it. Around his table, dancers crowding, unconsciously...
     Blue smoke issues between his lips, incense lifting from a spreading smile. Laughter beginning at the words of those who sit among him. One, nearly on him...
     And... god or devil willing....

     And on the dancefloor, red leather. The pants that fit tight. The leather shirt that falls undone, pushed back by neighboring hands...

Press the flesh, isn't that the phrase?
His hand is pressed suddenly against familiar flesh, as the crowd within threatens to swallow any who enter in whole, just in sheer mass. And his face is conquered by the sudden grin. "I can't believe I fucking found you in all this," Davydd lifts his voice, directed now to the light copper-haired woman. Sandrine. "We'll find a cool corner," making some sort of promise, unsure of whether he can deliver on it.
     And Davydd turns his head, seeking out Drancy. "Hey!" lifted voice presses against the insistent and constant beat of music. Can you hear me, I wonder? "Find us when you get a moment, I'll buy you something better than vodka..." He's full of promises tonight.
     Delicate hand and painted nails, perfumed underbelly of Sandrine's wrist is pulled to his mouth for a brief press. Davydd cranes his neck, arm slipping behind Sandrine, and he nods to a booth on a platform, good roost that.
     And he looks around... feeling.... familiar bodies nearby...

     Drancy is used to the press of bodies, the less than muted roar of too many people, too loud music. It's her livelihood, after all. Davydd gets a nod, and the punk-goth slips off through too many people. It's odd, really, those few who know her mightn't even recognize her...
     Hair gone blonde, the exact colour of freshly cut oak, the inside of the wood, streaked with green and black glitter - dark green velvet, trimmed with lace, a blouse Little Lord Fauntelroy would have been envious of, unbuttoned halfway... snug leather trousers, black of course, with matching boots... and far too much silver jewelry all over her ears, from one eyebrow, and around her neck. Her little black bag, by contrast, is neither little nor black, covered with patches for Mission UK, Black Flag, and a host of other punk bands.
     Which is how she's recognized. Drancy's approached by a trio with more piercings and more colours than a tribal shaman and his pet parrots.

     Pairs wander off to the dancefloor, hands clasping at each other's hips.

     "Me either," the woman calls, a bright smile upon her face. Sandrine looks at the departing Drancy, giving a faint wave, but almost immediately her hand slips around Davydd. Dressed in snake-skin pedal pants of pink, a beige shirt, and matching shiny pink jacket, she motions over to a booth, trying to find the first spot to settle down.

     A beautiful man in very little holds onto the bars of his cage and writhes seductively.

     Julian watches Drancy pass by, then grins as someone else touches his shoulder. Already, he's moving towards one of the booths, a black one, but it will still take a few moments before he is released from the maddening throng.
     A waitress nearby tips her chin up at Julian, then turns about, heading back towards the bar. Metal cages float suspended between floors, with dancers writhing inside the bars.

     "This is amazing," Sandrine exclaims, trying to make sure Davydd hears. "I don't think I've been around so many people at one time!" And that might even be true. She does get a few looks at her retro-chic, but Sandrine seems not to mind so much, scooting over in the booth to allow her companion to join her.

     Tidal wave...
     There's a rising mist, a fog that lays a cooling hand upon sweaty skin and spills over the dancefloor and easing among the pockets of surrounding booths and tables, alcoves made for loitering...
     And heavily in use. Moving lights glance over combining forms, a trace amount of discarded leather. By the end of the night, who knows. The club might be littered in heaps of it...

     A blue cigarette, wrapped like a clove but pungent in a totally different, and much more Eastern way, is held by a grinning mouth. And the indigo silk so fine it borders transparent moves against the form it covers. Musculature otherwise obscurred by black leather that disappears against the leather of the booth. Winter outside, maybe. But here, ten degrees higher than the height of August. The shirt like so many around him is unfastened, and a neighboring hand belonging to some woman -- what's her name again? -- moves against the territory left open...
     But his eyes are elsewhere, and as someone speaks, the dark-haired man leans in. The cigarette rarely from his mouth. The blue smoke rarely untasted. William is surrounded by a mixture of women and men, some of the regulars of Phantasmagoria, some new faces -- most he barely knows, if that. A few he's only just met. The table is littered with drinks, empty and full. Red. Blue. Yellow. Clear. He attends a spectrum...
     And around the booth, a rise of electricity. That... certain something. The crowd around it reacts. Drawing in... moving away. Like the eye of a hurricane, calm... only in the middle of things...

     Drancy has found a notebook in her bag, along with a pen, and manages by some miracle to find a wall, and a clear space along it. She leans up against it, and begins writing. Don't mind her; she's the invisible lurker, the member of the press for everyone else to despise.
     Not that everyone's despising her - the trio are evidently interrogating her, and she's shaking her head at them impatiently, eyes narrowed as she tries to write. After a few minutes of this, she looks up, changeable eyes exasperated, and smacks one of them upside the head with the pad while saying something tersely.

     Glittering confetti tumbles from the dark platforms above.

     Near Drancy, a man walks by, stops, and looks. Young, he has brown hair and brown eyes. Something almost Italianate about him. In fact, such is confirmed when he says in passing, "Make sure you change de names to protect th' innocent..." a smile upon his face. Dressed in a tight-fitting black shirt and black slacks, he means not to totally intrude upon the scene of three, but instead politely gives a smile, expecting no reply from the woman with the pad.

     Green eyes give a glance about, tossing here and focusing there. Past the smoke and the people coming and going. And coming. Davydd doesn't have to lean in, but he does out of habit, a comet grin streaking across his expression. Brilliant. Madcap. He takes a seat. "Brilliant for buffet shopping. It's like meals on wheels in here," he clips.
     Well, fuck 'em if they're listening...
     There is a slide of leather against the leather of the booth, coils of black and blue around pink snakeskin. And as mist begins to pool around, a mouth finds an ear...

     The beat of the house music increases but the goths in attendance manage to keep up, weighty depressions and angst or no. The dancefloor is alive. Above, the catwalk crowded. A burgundy haired woman pauses with her drink: pink champagne. Painted smile curving at the glass. Head tilting to a nearby whisper. The company of a dancer on break. "Sweet sweet, great action..."
     "You should, Sam..." And she points to a nearby cage. "Sometime... a duet. You and me..."

     Black curly hair, spilling over shoulders, lands stark against a scarlet leather shirt, unbuttoned. Red leather hugs against strong thighs, strong calves, ending in boots of the scarlet suede. And beautiful, madly beautiful face -- like a Raphael portrait of Angel Gabriel with a sudden spark of Life and a wink -- beams upon a captured kiss. And someone says: de Medici...

     At a booth, a tangle of arms and bodies slips below the tabletop.

     Sandrine gives a slanting smile, amused but required by law to chastise Davydd for his commentary. Her hands, nails pink, tap on the table, missing the beat entirely. But nevermind that. At the whispered words, Sandrine nods, looking over in the direction Drancy disappeared, then towards the various blockages of traffic. The man in velvet, the man with the indigo, and the one with the face of an angel.
     That face brings a quirk of Sandrine's head. "Il Dignatore..." she says, nudging Davydd to look in the appropriate direction.

     Finally at a booth, Julian looks up and around the club. Perfect viewing. Who's idea was it anyway to put the booths here? Maybe it was mine. He chuckles and salutes a passer by, his eyes glancing upwards again. Saluting hand remains raised, and fingers bend, beckoning someone.

     At the raised corner to the left, strobe lights flash rapidly, causing stuttered patterns.

     Fuck me, the Dago's in town?
     Davydd turns about, twisting. "Where?" he blurts. He's already practicing his wincing, his nose curling up as if he's just smelled something sour. Makes him go from 36 to 10 in under ten seconds. "Bah," Davydd rumbles, the sound held in his throat, "...you're just saying that so I'll be on my best behavior..."
     A waving finger goes from red to blue as the lights around the dancefloor rotate.

     Drancy rolls her eyes, visibly annoyed at her companions, who look mystified and bewildered at this bad mood. She shakes her head, hard enough for her hair to swirl around her shoulders, getting a bit messed up - which seems to further emphasize the goth-punk's bad mood, as she grabs it in both hands, shoving it back from her face. It's easily down past her shoulderblades.
     Once that's done, Drancy says a few terse words to the punks, who nod and scatter. Hurriedly. Her bad mood doesn't seem infectious, but it does seem to leave them with a strong desire to move along. As for the now-blonde writer? She starts shoving her way back through the crowd... intent on the bar, perhaps, or looking for Davydd and Sandrine.

     "No, really," Sandrine says, narrowing her gaze to see again into the throng. "Over there," she motions, half-pointing in the same direction Drancy went. Perhaps not so far as the woman they know. "At least I thought it was him..." she adds, eyes catching Julian in the nearby booth.

     Sleeveless body suit of black lace, the design made especially for her curves and her figure, Samantha James climbs down from the catwalk above, pink champagne sipped. And she heads for a booth, passing through an eddying crowd. Slipping past a booth filled with women and men. With a dark haired, dark eyed man as its center. Beautiful, not handsome. Something for the memory, she burns it there, and slides up to Julian. "Hey you," her accent already shifting from American to muddled Soho where she lives.
     Bare arms are laced with henna tattoos darkened in the Morroccan style -- with coffee -- wind around Julian's shoulders. "Turning the city inside out..."

     Davydd and Sandrine are parked in a booth and, though more or less surrounded, no one's invading their space. Davydd digs for a cigarette. "Huh...well, he'll find me. I would like to see him. You know, I think it's been years now. Course, that probably means Christ's around as well then, aye?"
     Christ meaning Christian. Other than phonetically, the two could never been confused with one another....

     Sandrine blinks, realizing what Davydd's getting at. Instead of staring at the twinkly lights and people -- that woman in the next booth has odd things on her arms -- Sandrine lowers her voice and speaks to her booth companion in more hushed tones.

     There is movement in that booth across the way, and an unconscious stirring in the crowd. A sudden parting. Violet to indigo silk moves in a breeze stirred by languid motion. A hand lifts a red drink to yet smiling mouth. The blue smoke? The tendrils of smoke are gone, but the scent follows him. Opium, like incense. And something of cinnamon...
     Tall and broad both, the beginnings of a beard lining his jaw, surrounding that essential mouth. The birthplace of sensuality. William lifts his drink, finishing it, beginning to dissolve at the edges of the dancefloor. Moving past another booth, taking a second look at a woman in black lace, nothing beneath it. And smiling.
     Light and darkness war against his skin, over musculature that gives him a carved look. While another may look like a creation of Raphael, this one is hewn by rock, solid, in the architecture of Michelangelo...

     Drancy catches up to the Italian en route to the table, and nods curtly to him. "Like I know any names to begin with? I'll keep it in mind. Right about now, though, I think it's me who's most likely to need protection, though not necessarily for innocence." She manages to make it sound halfway jocular, at least, and then she's moving on, further into the crowd.
     Off she goes, then, shirt still neatly tucked in, though blousing a bit about the edges. She hasn't lost any buttons -yet.
     Mood : slightly grim, but turning back into benevolence now that her friends have scattered. Expression : somewhat set, but acceptable. Money : extended outwards, across the bar, to whoever's willing to take it first. Drancy gets, of all things, a Coke, at bar prices. Then, and only then, does she turn to try fighting her way through the crowds to Sandrine and William's table. After all, who's she for the crowd to part for? Just another gothette.

     The brown-haired man laughed, realizing that Drancy's statements might be true. He winks at her and watches her head towards the bar. Him? He wanders on towards the booths as he's ill-suited to dancing -- having arrived unaccompanied.

     "Seems so," Julian replies to Samantha, his arm twining about her laced body to rest somewhere near her hip. He grins and looks from her to the scene unfolding, eyes trailing after the man who passed. "Know him?" Julian asks Samantha, but willing to accept answers from the few hangers-on standing behind his booth.

     Burgundy smoothens against now paler skin -- she used to tan everyday, life in England has changed that already -- as Samantha turns her head, following the form. All of it. For a while. "I can find out," she says. That would make for an interesting evening.
     Or better yet, two.
     "I'll do some asking around, he seems to be a known quantity. He prefers the ... specialties of the house. I can invite him to the Icicle Lounge..." Exclusivity being what it is. Samantha looks back to Julian, burgundy eyebrows -- those were dyed too -- arching upward, both at once.
     "I think he's an artist. He's connected with The Abbey. I know someone who got his number..."

     A nod from Julian as Drancy catches his eye. Gaze may wander, but he's clearly attentive. "See, who, if you don't mind," he says, "...and the one there..." he motions at Drancy, "...with the pad." His own brows arch. Doesn't anyone use recorders in secret these days?
     Now, he gives Samantha her due. Closing his eyes, Julian leans his head over to place a kiss at her ear.
     "I'll pay up later..." Julian says...

     Another blue cigarette has found its way to his mouth, the glass disappearing on a neighboring booth. Not a drop of red liquid left. The sudden flicker of a lighter's flame illuminates the way and William stops. Silk comes to rest against his skin in the sudden lack of motion. And the fire is undone by the sudden spreading of a grin.
     "Come in from the wild mountains?" The voice, languid baritone, eases across the table, mouth forming French, even as smoke curls upward. Ashes becoming blue-grey. Indigo eyes drift from Davydd to Sandrine and linger there a moment. "This is a pleasant surprise, Davy-bach, we were starting to think you were dead." Droll rolls the sudden English, a drawl of southern French tugging upon each vowel, elongating it.

     Sandrine is quiet as William greets Davydd, her eyes slipping away again to the last known spot of Drancy. Perhaps she's worried. And what sane adult wouldn't be? There's plenty ways to get into trouble tonight. A grin is offered the two men, but Sandrine holds her tongue for the moment.

     Drancy seems oblivious to any stares. After all, how would she notice? Too many people for her entirely. And then she's showered with confetti on top of it, some of it landing to float in her drink. She stares at it, appalled, then mutters with a shrug, "Hell, at least it wasn't good vodka." She takes a swallow, and spits out bits of glitter.
     Then she's almost reaching the table. Oh, good show, Drancy. She dabs at her mouth delicately with the bar napkin,, trying to get rid of glitter without getting rid of lipstick. Just in time : she's there. William gets raised eyebrows - so terribly posh, all silk and smoothness, and well, now she's getting a tad bit of a headache. She just stands there, eyeing the trio, waiting for Davydd to say something, or Sandrine to say something, just daring William with her eyes to comment on her presence.

     Samantha smiles. She knows you're good for it. And slender arms unwind from Julian's shoulders. Straightening, she turns, her eyes first focusing on the violet, smile increasing as she sees her other target stops at the same table.
     Small world...

     Shirabaz swings open the door, angling his broad shoulders through the crowd, handing his quid to whoever gets it. Tall and wide, middle eastern and bald, he looks rather like a prototypical genie, holding the door for his mistress, his dark eyes glittering with mingled wariness and curiosity.
     The man at the door turns to see the latest arrivals, spy their passes, then stands out of the way with a curt nod to let the two head inside. "Your money's no good here, mate," he reminds Shirabaz, hands slipping behind his back.

     Forest green eyes go wide and an arm outstretches along with a grin, even as eyes flicker briefly to Drancy. I see you there. "Dead? Bah, hell wouldn't have me and heaven's out of the question... how are you, brawd?" A roll of the R, the lift of his voice. Whomever this William is, he's well known to Davydd. Bronze eyebrows cock up and Davydd looks quickly between William and Sandrine. "Sandrine, this is William... Guillaume d'Angevin," that's Plantagenet to the rest of you. "The bloke who's palace I was shackin up in. William," the gaze is pointed, this is serious, mate, "... Sandrine..." Jorgenson. Archon. Well, former Archon?

     Shirabaz shrugs. "It's just paper. I can make more."

     "That's a girl," Julian murmurs, hand in motion. Humor in that, for he grins at Samantha, knowing she may object to the term 'girl'.

     Slipping into the crowded club, Arianna nods to Shirabaz, and then to the doorman. Glancing around, she steps close to the shelter of Shirabaz's bulk, suspicions whispering in her eyes.

     "Oi... and I almost forgot," Davydd adds, voice raised, "...the woman at your left is Drancy... be careful or you'll get quoted..."

     Quotes? Sandrine looks to Drancy first, then at William and greets, "A pleasure. Maybe we have met...before." Indeed. At some function. A time ago. "But, I've heard a lot about you lately," a grin to Davydd.

     Make? The doorman does not respond, as he's too busy with the crowd trying to push into the doors of the club.

     Patting Arianna on the shoulder, Baz gives her a feckless grin, and says, "Don't look so sour. I can smell the mold of nobility here. It's not as plebian as all that. You never know what you'll find, yes?"

     Near a wall, the brown-haired man has come almost full circle. He has a drink in hand, sipping through a thin straw. His eyes narrow at the latest arrivals, as if he needs to squint to see. Oh. Not the droids I am looking for. Ah well. He smiles anyway and continues to canvass the activities near him.

     A patient sigh, and a curt nod. Craning her neck upward, Arianna notes drily, "Nobility is boring. So are parties, but I will indulge you this once."

     "Good evening," a hostess says to Shirabaz and Arianna, "...welcome to the new Phantasmagoria." Ah. The passes might be the ticket to such a friendly greeting. She does not hear Ari's remark, and grins brightly -- almost as brightly as her silver lame mini-dress. "Guests of Mr. Kane?" she presumes.
      Shirabaz nods. "Oh, yeah, sure. That we are." His accent is brash, American. The prototypical ugly American, in fact, sans the horrid Texas accent. His look is similar: amusement for the quaint local custom mixed with faint disgust. "We're invited."

     Indigo eyes turn to the left, and he sees the blonde and green glitter haired girl in the Lord Fauntleroy shirt and winks. "Remember, nothing is off the record," the accent is thoroughly French, from central or southern climbs. Provencal? For those who might recognize it as such. To the rest, European.
     Leaning in, William extends a hand toward Sandrine, the cigarette held in his left and down by his side. "A pleasure," he says, voice lifting just slightly as the music thuds against the senses, "And...yes... I believe so. But only very briefly." The smile spreads, "He has been telling stories," a dark eyebrow lifts. "He exaggerates like a proper Welshman," William chuckles, looking briefly to Drancy before turning to Davydd again, "Believe half of what you hear..."

     There's no argument from Davydd, only laughter.

     The hostess nods at Arianna and Shirabaz, being it's not her place to comment on strange Americans. Oxymoron, that. She continues to gleam, and offers, "Mr. Kane would like to invite you over to his booth, when you have a chance this evening. Please, enjoy yourselves,' she explains. "There are multiple levels in the club, the drinks are on Mr. Kane tonight...just use your pass," she motions. "Have a marvelous time!"

     Shirabaz grins broadly, showing a marvelous expanse of white teeth. "I'm sure we will." Turning to Ari, he says, "See? The host wants us to go join him. We're not goint to be bored. We're going to get new toys. How can that be bad?" He pulls at his short, black beard, and then suggests, "Let's get some drinks before we get there. You're always better afterwards."

     Sandrine shakes her head at William, but does give him her hand. "I believe even less," she confirms, smarter than her snakeskin jacket might suggest. "But, it is a pleasure," Sandrine affirms more seriously, the smile coming finally.
     "You've met Drancy," Sandrine says again, making sure that he got the young woman's name. Now that's all done. Formalities.

     Smiling again to the hostess, Arianna answers in perfectly smooth, Oxford-educated, Queen's English, lest anyone think that she, too, is a brash American like her hulking companion, "Thank you. I am certain it will be a most invigorating and enlightening evening."

     Drancy nods casually to William, and just responds in a perfectly normal upper-middle class British accent, "I'll remember that one, mate." She gives him a thumbs up. "Cheers." Is she being obnoxiously, even affectedly English? Well, someone's got to be. This is London after all.
     Flipping open the notebook, expression deadpan, she asks, "So wot're you going on record with, then, sir?" Drancy's a smartass all the way through.

     Okay, it's a club. There's smoking, drinking, screwing, and perhaps drugs...but no one's talking. "Right," the hostess says, turning quickly to leave the pair to their own devices. Look. Other new arrivals...
     Rolling her eyes upward to gaze at her companion, Arianna snorts delicately. "Better afterwards? Really? Then perhaps, I shall forego alcohol for the evening." A ghost of a grin tucks itself into a dimpled cheek, then is gone.

     Things seem so quiet near Julian in the booth. With Samantha gone, he returns to the usual meet and greets, sitting up to shake an older man's hand. An MP even, with a female companion. Julian laughs brightly as the pair moves on, shaking at the sight. "I love when I make my point," he says to himself, leaning backwards to speak to one of the booth hanger-ons standing behind.

     "Then I'll be forced to drink for both of us," Baz says, and, grinning mischievously, almost boyishly, at Ari, he heads towards the bar. "Whiskey," he demands, his deep voice managing to sail over the thudding noise that passes for music with ease. "A double shot, since my lovely companion seems to be playing the teetotaller tonight. Hell, make that two doubles; keep me from coming back right off."
     "Of course, Sir," the barkeep says, moving much too quickly tonight to really notice or care about much. He turns away to grab a bottle and spin it around, two shot glasses suddenly appearing on the bartop. He pours and pushes them out towards Shirbaz, immediately turning away to replace the bottle.

     "Last chance....?" Baz offers one glass to Ari, the first already emptied with an offhanded toss.
     Following in the wake of Shirabaz, Arianna sighs and shakes her head compassionately at the bartender. "Glenfiddich, double, neat." Shaking her head at the house whiskey, she lifts one eyebrow. "Why should I wish to drink that which is fit to peel paint from walls when I can drink perfectly civilized single malt?"

     Oh shite... here we go...
     Davydd settles back in the booth and let's it lie there. Maybe nothing will happen. Maybe he should get a drink. "Want something?" he asks Sandrine. Suddenly. Just now remembering.

     Samantha James steps up behind William and Drancy, a hand going to violet silk. What is beneath the silk is solid. And she looks to the others gathered around, as if this weren't a means to an end. "Everyone having a great time?" her voice sounds out between the 120-beat trance happening all around. She looks first to Drancy, however, and with a smile leans in -- her right remaining against William's back. "What a great night, we're glad you could come. Samantha James," she offers in introduction, "I manage the dancers. Have you gotten an interview yet?"

     The barkeep did hear that one. He spins about again, reaching higher on the shelves that stand lined with bottles. A turn about and he places an old-fashioned glass upon the bartop, quickly filling it with The Glenfiddich.

     A snort. "I don't drink any of this shit for taste. If I was going to drink for taste, I wouldn't be in a thudding, rumbling house of hell, with these little chickenlegged trollops herking and jerking for the pleasure of the ill-bred." Shirabaz catches sight of Kane. "There's the guy. I suppose we should go thank him for the passes."

     Sandrine looks up. It's that beautiful woman with the colored hands. How did she do that? Are those permanent?
     "A pleasure, Miss...Yes, we're having a nice time, thank you," Sandrine replies, as if enjoying the cucumber sandwiches. "It is a lovely...club..." she nods, making sure she says the right thing. Eyes go to the two men and reporter around her, as if seeking their affirmations as well.

     The barkeep so wants to say something. He laughs though, turning back to replace The Glenfiddich and bending at the next person to catch their order.
     A gracious smile this time, and Arianna nods to the barkeep, then takes a slow sip of the amber fluid in her glass. In mid sip, Shirabaz comes out with his statement, and Arianna fights to not waste her scotch by having it come out of her nose. Choking slightly, she fixes him with a glare, and a dark frown. "Shirabaz...." she hisses between her teeth, her brows drawn together over her fierce nose.
     Shirabaz is all innocence. "What? Do you really expect to find a good grape here, properly treated, and, even if you DID, could you relly enjoy it amongst all this? Don't get me wrong -- as you well know, I love a good debauch as much as the next guy, but the heroin-chic-refugee marionettes are a bit much, you gotta admit."

     The form beneath the silk turns to the touch, until hand upon the shirt that covers his back lies upon his skin at his stomach. Samantha doesn't seem to mind in the slightest...

     Blue smoke issues from parted mouth, scented Eastern as much as colored. Pungent. Opium. There is a pull to his mouth, the slant of the spreading smile. Words to Drancy halted upon the tongue and ... for the meantime... he merely looks at her. Back and forth between the two women beside him, and to Sandrine. Lastly and leastly Davydd.

     "Oh aye," Davydd pipes up, "remodeling did wonders. I'm planning on moving in." With William smoking like a chimney he can't help himself. Davydd lights up a regular tobacco cigarette -- sweet Jesu, someone has to keep them in business -- and leans in toward Sandrine. Mouth to her ear, speaking something softly, despite the thudding music.

     "Now, my beloved mistress, can we go make obeisances to the bossman, and see if he's as entertaining as his clientele?" Baz asks politely.

     Drink. Sandrine shakes her head negatively, murmuring, "I might go soon...and you can stay with..." hand waves at William and Drancy.
     "Um...interview?" she wonders, a little confused. We're to be interviewed?

     Drancy looks immune to mere looks. She's funny that way, it seems. Since she's not spoken to in return, though, she turns to Samantha with a faint smile. "Magazine I'm with doesn't go much in for interviews unless yer pierced quite a lot and have a penchant for screaming, but if you know someone that desperate to talk to someone, I'm as good a candidate as any, I suppose. Drancy. Like the town in France." Changeable eyes regard Samantha, dipping briefly to the henna'd marks, then upwards. Despite the pseudo-goth wear, Drancy's all punk at heart - or so it'd seem.

     A deep breath, and another sip of single malt, and then another deep breath. "If you promise to not embarrass me by acting like an uncivilized heap of opinionated muscle and testosterone." She sips again, then smiles brightly.
     "I promise," Baz says solemnly to Ari, "to act like a perfectly civilized heap of opinionated muscle and testosterone." Like she couldn't see that reply coming a mile away. Nevertheless, she allows Baz to lead her over to Kane. The big bald man looks at Kane with distracted interest as he approaches, and then forcibly shoulders his way past the unpleasantly sycophantic hangers on, whom he favors with withering looks.
     Well, he was talking to one of the wastes of space, till the man stepped out of the way and quieted. That was the cue that something was transpiring.

      Julian turns to face the open room. "Good evening," he says, sitting upright, well-structured form in motion. "Julian Kane," he smiles, velveted ankles uncrossing. Guests, invited, it seems. At that point, he stands, faintly rattling the low table that holds several drink glasses. "Welcome." And you are...

     Screaming? Sandrine's eyes tear from the booth next door and the rising Mr. Kane. She peers at Drancy oddly, but says nothing on piercing, screaming,
or anything of the sort.

     Samantha smiles, glancing to William. Glance. Leer. Whatever. But you know... business is business. "What's the name of the 'zine?" she asks, seeming interested as she looks back to Drancy. And maybe she's only half listening, who can say?

     Davydd nods, "I can go whenever you want," he murmurs. And he seems ready. He stamps out his cigarette....

     William leans in, muttering something to Davydd as he flicks blue-grey ash into the ash tray. The slight grin is a permanent fixture upon his expression. Even as Samantha's hand now seems a permanent attachment to his waist. Dark eyes wander to Sandrine in the intervening moments.

     Baz nods. "Hey. Great to meet you, at last. Amusing little dungeon you've got here. Drinks are good, certainly." So much for civilized; apparently that wasn't a very solemn promise.

     Julian's violet eyes glint. Falling confetti effect. "Ms...Athanassakis...Mr..." eyes linger on Shirabaz a moment, "...Shirabaz.
Glad you got the invites, glad you could come," he says with such ease. "Please," he motions, allowing them the chance to sit for a bit.

     Drancy folds her arms over her chest, pad still held in one hand. Oooh, the elegance, the glamour, the rubbing shoulders with all the right people. Pfft. As if Drancy gives a tinker's damn... "Skank Lite, Brit-Punk Monthly, and www.epunk.com.uk." She's amused by this, a small, feral grin on her face as she waits for a reaction. She's half expecting someone'll try tossing her out over this, really, even though it's the truth.

     That's a magazine? Sandrine listens to Drancy, apparently unaware of the magazine's 'title'. Blue eyes meet William's, but linger not there long. "Skank?" Sandrine begins, then wisely changes her mind. "Nevermind," she smirks, nodding at Davydd and his preparations to leave.

     A smile plasters itself over Arianna's features, and she takes a long sip of the scotch. Something in Shirabaz's voice must be bothering her again, for as he speaks, she winces, ever so slightly, then sips again, favoring her companion with a teeth baring smile, with both eyebrows raised. She turns her attention back to the host, and nods, her smile relaxing somewhat. As she moves to sit, the coins on her belt rustle and tinkle musically.

     "I have absolutely no pockets," and nothing underneath the lace either, "... but leave a number where I can reach you at the bar. I'd like to see if there'd be something we could work out. Actually, I'll check out the website first. I know we seem rather goth heavy," Samantha laughs, way too sunny, "... but you know we don't want to lose sight of the edgier side of the community." Strippers make great Marketers...
     "Anyway," Samantha continues, looking back to William a moment, "I have to take this gentleman aside for a moment. It was nice meeting all of you," she says, including Sandrine and Davydd again. "I hope you have a great time."

     Two fiery eyebrows lift and a hand rakes through short bronze hair. Huh. What's all this about then. "I'm ready, aye," Davydd rumbles and he begins the preparations for standing.

     From the booth where Julian and the two arrivals sits, Julian calls, "Jase, would you bring...a round, please?"
     A nod, and presumably the One Called Jase is the one who heads towards the bar.

     Drancy nods with perfect amiability to Samantha, seeming if anything, mildly sardonic over the whole deal. "Can't miss, I assure you. Just follow the link on the staff credits til you see Drancy. Try not to gag too much - it's a vile 'zine." She's amused, evidently, though then she's turning to peer at Davydd interrogatively. After all, he is the one who wanted her coming over, and here he is leaving, evidently. Sandrine gets a cocked eyebrow instead of trying to talk over the volume more than she's been.

     Sandrine listens to the exchange, then begins to stand. "Vile?" Sandrine wonders, not really expecting an answer. Just an interesting adjective.

     As henna hands move against his sides, fingers curling against his skin, sneaking beneath the silk, William looks to those in the booth and the woman named for a town in France. With a sorrowful history. "Drancy," he says, accenting as it should be as he leans in toward her, "...next time..." Next time, what? Next time she'll get a quote? Next time he'll have time to reply to her smartassed comments? Give her a quick spanking?
     If there's one thing William Plantagenet can appreciate, it's a smartass...
     "Davydd, Sandrine... come by Kensington tomorrow. We're in town for a week..."
     His hand, large but fine, lifts Samantha's hand from his waist and with an amused, couched grin, William moves with her toward another booth.

     "We're going to head out," Davydd raises his voice to Drancy, standing, leather coat resettled upon his shoulders with a shrug. "I could use some quiet." He laughs. I'm old.

     Drancy's eyebrows quirk up, and she shrugs at the three - two men, one woman. Sandrine gets a briefly worded explanation. "It sucks." With that having been said, she pushes away from the table, rather like a boat parting from the dock. Casting off. She turns to lope away, edging through the crowd with a decidedly sardonic expression. Who -knows- what she thinks of this turn of events? Probably the worst.

      A leathered arm is extended, a smile turning fond. Let's get the fuck out of here and to our own bed. Sweet Jesu, why did I stay here this long? Davydd chuckles to himself to something he says to Sandrine as she joins him...

     Sandrine gives a quiet 'oh', seeming to get the point. Why one would work for a magazine that 'sucks'...that's a story for another day. She watches William wander off, then sees that Drancy's already...cast off. "Shouldn't we catch her and say goodbyef or now?" She shuffles around the table, trying to clear it.

     "Isn't that what I just did?" he wonders, quipping. Davydd mentally rewinds his last few statements. "I'm sure she'll find me if she wants to. She seems to have ... acquired the knack..." Dark green eyes seek her out even as he verbally waves her off. Not as flippant as all that. "I don't see her... well, she'll know that was goodbye for now..."

     Black lace and skin. Burgundy hair. Metallic nails. Samantha is seen approaching Julian's booth...

     Sandrine mms, trusting Davydd in this. She glances at the crowd in the next booth, but says nothing as she picks up her small purse and moves towards the doors.

     Julian stands as Samantha finally arrives, a quick rise from his seat....and from the present conversation.

     Drancy begins making her way through towards the exit, eyes narrowed in thoughtful contemplation - and looking like she has less of a headache, for some reason.

     Shirabaz flicks his eyes over Samantha, his gaze settling on her henna'd hands with some interest. He catches Ari's eye, if he can, and indicates them with a twitch of his bearded chin.

     One would likely say such henna marks of Morroccan styling could have little or no relevance or significancce to a former stripper and, now, manager of cage dancers. Sure, on the surface, it's an easy thing to deduce...

     As Julian stands from his present conversation, she glances to the others, smiling. "I'm sorry, I don't mean to interrupt... I have that information you wanted," she says to Julian, her voice lowering.

     Who's going to notice the opening or closing of the door at this point? Or notice the departure of the two red heads, neither goth nor punk. Nor dom?

     "Don't worry on it now," Julian replies, turning to the present guests. "Ms. Athanassakis and Mr. Shirabaz," he introduces. "My Dancers' Manager, Ms. James. She's rather responsible for the success of tonight's reopening."

     Shirabaz looks up from the henna'd woman's hands, to her face. Her eyes. His brow furrows, and he averts his gaze, becoming suddenly absolutely fascinated in the play of light over the surface of the glass he's been toying idly with. "NIce to meet you," he mumbles.
     Arianna nods, her smile freezing. "Nice to meet you." She blinks owlishly and glances around. "You must be pleased. They are so.....talented."
     Glancing at the designs on the woman's hands, Arianna nods. "I see you favor Moroccan designs. Do you do your own henna?"

     She beams. "Nice to meet you," Samantha nods, continuing with the smile remaining, "I am very pleased and relieved, really ... and yes, they are. I'll make sure to pass that along to them. They were splendid tonight." As her hands are mentioned, Samantha lifts them, wiggling her fingers. "Actually no, I didn't. I don't have the patience for it! But Yma... one of our dancers... she sidelines as an artist..."

     Shirabaz explains, "Arianna is an artist, as well, but she has me do all her henna. I've a bit more practice than she, but I think she's the more talented artist. Of course, it is so much easier to have someone else do the henna, than to do it yourself. Your dancers, I wouldn't expect such a plethora of talents, I must admit." He can't help but let that slip out, and a hint of his former..ahem, brusqueness, returns.

     Still standing, Julian breaks his most recent quiet. "I should perhaps move around a little," he says softly. And besides, I know what I was wondering. Violet eyes look to the guests in the booth, "Please, feel free to stay...best spot in the house, really. But I hope you will forgive me...it is about time for me to do the rounds." Sam is left to entertain, but not until a kiss is placed at the side of her neck.
     "Again, enjoy yourselves, have a lovely evening. I'm sure we'll see each other again," Julian smiles, both hands on Samantha's waist as he moves behind her to depart.

     Baring his teeth in something approximating a smile, Baz says to Kane, "It truly was a pleasure to meet you. I feel confident we'll meet again."

     Smiling, Arianna nods to Julian. "A host's duties are never done. Thank you, and have a good evening."

Posted by rowan at May 08, 2003 11:21 PM