Another London night, and Drancy's slowly catching up on her work. She has no idea why she's been so tired lately, and she's fairly grim about the rash of tattoos that've come out on her skin - there's an excuse which'll never fly. "It's a rash, mum," she mutters to herself, pushing through the crowd. "Right. They'll believe that. Thank god for concealer."
     Speaking of appearances, the punk girl's conceded to defeat, albeit with less than stellar grace - since her hair's decided to go long, with beads and bells and crystal glittered braids, she's left it the way it is, hanging down her back past her waist, with two 'signature' braids hanging forward. Similiarly, she's decided not to cover up the tattoos - here, after all, tattoos are the norm, rather than not. A cropped black top which hangs off her shoulders, leaving neck and collarbone exposed and midriff bare, yet has long sleeves, is paired with stonewashed jeans and black leather boots, her makeup understated - a touch of kohl, and a touch of burgundy lip gloss, nothing else, and not even sunglasses to hide the tattoo over her eye. And, of course, her ubiquitous stenciled and patched backpack with all of her equipment travels on one shoulder. Either she was in a hurry, or she really wasn't thinking fashion so much, but she's left herself otherwise unaccessorized.
     Looking around the murky chaos that comprises the inside of the club, Drancy starts pushing her way towards the stage. A girl's got to eat, after all, and money doesn't grow on trees. She pauses about six yards from it, to talk to someone she knows. "Oi, yer. So what's the lineup?"

     "So," there's a long drawl with the equally long inhale of the cigarette held by purple lips, "... there's like ...three bands. Satyricon," Dot -- her mother prefers Dorothy, she doesn't -- blows smoke, holds her cigarette aloft for a moment, and with her free hand, makes the Universal Symbol for gag me. The finger down the throat. "Then there's Fuck Me Jennifer, not bad, not bad... and then Deus Ex, which I'm still trying to... figure out..." She smirks, Dot does. Her black bob sliding back as she tips up her chin. "Not sure I like 'em, not sure I don't. This is my second show. They don't come on 'till midnight though, so...Oh, hey... the singer's bopping around here somewhere...saw him. Dee-lish. Brooding. Moody. Likely fucked up on heroin. A real keepah," she croons.
     And she means it...
     "I think Satyricon's going on in five. I need a drink, want something?"

     There's a lavender noggin nodding to something not far away, say, four spots down at a table against the wall. A halo of smoke, a gathering of young men somewhere in their 20s, mid to late, and all of them -- for the well-trained eye -- a bit Nordic of stature and bearing. That must be the Icelandic bunch there.
     Dei listens, seems to anyway, but he isn't looking at them. There's the obligatory nod to this and that, but he seems more interested in his cigarette -- or whatever that is -- and his vodka.

     Why should anyone notice the door opening again, considering how often it must to so in an evening? Just another face in the endless sea of souls searching for another way to be different, one might say. She pauses at the door, and eyes nearby do look in that direction. Coincidence, surely. Ah, she must have been merely waiting for her friends who enter behind her.
     They look at her ... almost expectantly. But she doesn't seem to notice. Her gaze flicks about over her crimson-lensed specs as she lowers the glasses down her nose with a long-fingernailed hand momentarily. Held in this tableau for a long moment, she checks out the crowd, smiling to herself. Then with a quick movement, the specs are back in place and she's giving her entourage a quick nod.
     They disperse more quickly than mice interrupted by a cat, but with awe and passion in their eyes... leaving her alone in the crowd to take in the scenery around her.
     But would anyone notice in a place such as this?

     Smirking to herself, the Madame finds a spot near a wall, peering at people through the crimson glass, idly playing with a lock of green. Certainly she wouldn't stand out in this crowd, despite the latex she appears to have been poured into and the stiletto heeled boots.
     Drancy's expression is distinctly amused by this. Well, good - she could use a laugh. "Dot, one of these days yer gonna bring home the wrong person and end up with someone who seems to be a trendy rebel but actually works as an accountant during the day." Every would-be goth/punk's nightmare, right? She folds her arms across her chest, then tugs absently at the hem of her shirt - it doesn't cover the tattoo on her belly, but she feels like it should, dammit.
     "Nah, I'm all right as I am, I'll grab something in a bit. I need to get in a good position where I can take notes. My editor's ready to have my scalp as it is. I'll catch up with you later, eh?" The woman turns, then, prowling with a slightly jerky restlessness, in Dei's direction - let Dot think her predatory if she likes, but all Drancy's after is a shot at an interview. Woman must eat, after all.

     Dot makes an old gypsy sign against the Evil Eye at the word accountant, smirks and hops up from her seat, Catholic Schoolgirl From Hell that she is, in her plaid and her Docs. "Well, kitty, I'm off for a sound drunk and ...oooh, get me his number!" she says, voice carrying. And she gestures over to the bar. I'll be right over there. Send him over.
     "Nice heels," she mews to the woman in the crimson lenses as she scoots by, pressing and pushing, sliding and slipping her way to the bar. "Stoli!"

     The guys at the table are all rather huge. Here's the scene. There's the shaven-headed bassist Erik Haarken, with his blue goatee, hovering over his corner of the table like a gargoyle over stray sacrement. Beside him, one Jared Olsson, the drummer -- as one can tell from the sticks at his hands, clacking against the table in something of absent meditational percussion. Nothing particularly exciting about Jared's look, but Erik likes it that way. Sieg Vaard, the second guitarist, is black haired and ice-blue eyed, he's the resident 'rockstar' of the bunch, making friends and influencing people into the men's john -- or wherever -- in between sets. And then there's Dei. Lavender dyed platinum, with the occasional magenta and dark blue strands, tall and almost wiry and nursing a vodka, if not a headache from the looks of it.
     Dei glances up and away from his comrades, catching the sight of a girl coming over. But he doesn't sound any alarms or ducks out. He just looks at her, sits there, his hand poised to lift the glass of vodka but choosing the cigarette instead. His eyes are sky blue, a shock of light in an otherwise dark club.

     The latex woman merely smirks and nods, not seeming to really care either way if the comment was sincere or not. She does, however, push off of the wall, seeming content to have scoped out the place well enough. She runs her hand through her green bangs and into the rest of her platinum locks once, then slowly makes her way to the bar, seeming to be sure to 'accidentally' brush up against some of the 'gentlemen' in the crowd. Most just stop what they're doing and gawk for a moment, before they return to what they were doing, peering back now and then for another look. A moment's glance is given to the table of Norse gods, particularly straying on the lavender frocked one, but then is returns to the approaching bar.

     Drancy does scrutinize the woman in latex, though it's less of a 'summing up of competition' or even a lustful gaze than it is a shrewd, 'Is this someone I should recognize?' sort of glance. The reporting business may not be as cut-throat as some, but it helps to recognize opportunity when and where it knocks. Her backpack comes off her shoulder, and she pauses, rummaging for a moment.
     When her hand finally emerges, it's clutching a press pass, which she flashes the way prisoners in gaol might flash a pack of cigarettes. She can push, when she has to - but it's so much easier when a band wants to talk to her. So, Drancy continues to approach, but more slowly. And isn't it nice for them to know she's not just a groupie, looking to get their rocks off?

     There's laughter and now Sieg is turning around, the lethario. He gives an eyeball to everything and everyone. The woman in latex in particular. And Icelandic suddenly folds into English. "I'm going to the bar and for once," he notes as he stands, "I'm buying. Stoli, Stoli, Grey Goose," he counts it out like it's a children's game as he points to each band member in turn. "Here," he says to Drancy, and yeah he takes a moment to give her the Once and Twice Over, "take my seat."
     And now that you have everyone's attention...
     Erik Haarken sits back and Jared Olsson suddenly halts his drumming. And Dei looks up, bracing himself for Public Contact. But despite that sort of insular feel, there's an odd air of welcome and affability. Dei doesn't seem put out. Stoned, maybe. And with a hand, a slender hand, he motions with a cigarette. Sure, have a seat.

     A few of the Madame's entourage manage to filter back in her direction and actually nearly hang off of her as she comes to stand at the bar. If the glances in her direction are noticed, the woman doesn't acknowledge them...for now. Instead, she leans across the bar a bit and relays her order to the 'tender. She has to shout just a bit to be heard, but doesn't seem to have any trouble getting him to understand.
     The entourage, composed of two men and a woman in varying degrees of leather, PVC and fishnet, hover around her almost like pets. The female presents an open cigarette case to the Madame, who takes one and places it between two darkly stained lips. One of the men immediately offers a lighter, lighting the stick for her as she inhales a few times to get it going. The 'deathstick' is then expertly plucked away by two of delicate fingers as the three continue to hover about her, grey smoke suddenly ringing their heads.

     Sieg Vaard leaves this sort of thing to Dei. Hey man, comes with the territory of being the front man. That's why he gets the big money. All one hundred quid of it. If we're lucky. And it doesn't even occur to him that he's out of her league.
     But then, he's a rock idol right? Why would it? He gets on stage with a guitar -- that's second to being a god, isn't it?
     So Sieg idles up to the bar, slipping between the bodies of Dot and the entourage, and he leans in. "2 stoli," he almost shouts, his accent decidedly non-London, "...and one grey goose..."

     Self-conscious? Moi? Well, that's not quite the expression Drancy pulls off, but she does manage an easy-going "Ta, then," as she drops into the vacated chair and slouches down. The press card's flipped into the center of the table like a poker chip. If the Madame is walking, oozing graceful Sex on a Stick, then the punk girl's walking, oozing 'If My Arse Were Any Tighter, The Cheeks'd Be Glued Shut'. Not that she's a prude, but she's not trying to come across as sexy - her defense is a good offense, changeable eyes flashing aggressively as she leans forward to plant her elbows on the table.
     "All the information's in that there card," she informs Erik, Jared, and Dei in a tone which for her, is amiable to the point of mellowness. "I'm a reporter, I can ask you set questions if you like, or I can make it up as we go, or you can tell me to go get stuffed." Her own accent is London punk, with a hint of something a bit better educated creeping through underneath. "I'm Drancy."

     Blonde and green locks shift slightly as the woman in latex turns her head very slightly... to allow her a glance toward Sieg. As she glances, so does her entourage. One hand holds her cigarette aloft, momentarily forgotten as the other hand reaches up to tap her specs down a bit on her nose.
     This allows the unobstructed view of the Norseman not too far from her to seep into her brain, perhaps to burn there for memory. Green eyes flick downward, then upward, leaving her to look into his face. The corner of her mouth twitches into an approving, yet sly smile.
     "Ahhh...mon dieu. Un specimen fin." The words are said just loudly enough so that those in close proximity can hear. Her drink is then placed before her, distracting her long enough to pull her gaze away from Sieg to pay the man behind the counter.

     Erik rolls his shoulders and reaches for the steadily emptying pack of cigarettes, "I'm Erik, man of few words. This is Jared, man of fewer words..."
     "Dei," and Dei reaches forward with a hand. Remarkably fucking polite. "Ask whatever," his accent Icelandic is becoming a muddle of London. The odd falling syllables here and there. "We're not on until midnight and it'll keep our mind off of the opening act," Who are now taking the stage. Great timing. "So," Dei leans in, lavender hair draping against his face like a curtain, "...your go. Whatever you ask, I'll answer."
     "And we're fine with that," Erik waves off. He and Jared, if you notice, sit rather close to one another, and as Dei will occupy your time, they start their own conversation.

     Stoli, Stoli, Grey Goose. The three glasses of vodka are set on the bar and then Stoli, Stoli, Grey Goose is poured. "J'aime le latex. Peut-etre vous me laisserez le essayer," Sieg's French is non-accented and he looks to the latexed one with a grin. And her entourage. "Des hommes et des femmes, je les aime tous."

     Drancy is amused by this semi-withdrawal on the part of Erik and Jared. Wotever. Not that they keep her attention for terribly long. There's something about Dei which gets her attention, and for a moment, her eyebrows quirk up, creasing her forehead in bemused puzzlement, smoothing and changing the shape of the silver-green lines over her left eye. "Anything? That's a lot of ground, you know. You sure you want me to do that?"
     Dot gets a glance, at the bar, over one bare shoulder, and incidentally, the big man with the latexed woman. Curiosity - the bane of cats and reporters, particularly when left unsatisfied. Still, with one quarry cornered, she's hardly about to hare off after another. "What'll I call you, let's start with that, yes? Drancy." Introduction by way of geographical place-names.

     Cash is shoved at the bartender with the free hand, and then the Madame turns more toward Sieg. A quick glance is given to the entourage, who are all openly admiring him. They back off a little, but don't go very far. Green eyes turn back to the guitarist as the latex woman moves just a little closer, to be heard better, of course.
     "Mmm...that could be arranged, ami. Just depends... il depend de la facon dont vous serieuse etes," the Madame purrs with a wink. "But, perhaps you are pulling my leg, non?" she adds with a chuckle, leaning against the bar as she takes a drag off her cigarette and reaches for her drink.

     "We have three hours," he says loudly, the Placebo-like strains of Satyricon kicking off. They'd like to have their own sound, they just... don't. "let's fill it up. I don't think we're going to get our drinks anytime soon," he notes to Jared. Jared, who cranes his neck behind his lover's back to get a view of Sieg being... Sieg... smirks.
     "If we lose him before the show, we'll just fucking play without him. The bitch..."
     Dei scoots his chair around, huddling in to Drancy. "For whom do you write, Drancy?" His English is precise and nearly formal. And odd sound to go with the picture of his hair, his clothing, his image. Well, it's probably just the fact that English isn't his first, or primary, language. "We're sort of new to London." But making a name fast.

     "J'ai trois heures jusqu' a mon concert," Sieg rattles off, Icelandic tripping upon the fluent French, "Il n'y a pas une salle a l'arriere plan mais nous avons un fourgon." And he grins. And he courts death. Death and Sex and Rock and Roll. Excess glitters in his ice-blue eyes, daring in the smile. He's supposed to be arrogant. It comes with the leather.
     "Assez pice pour vous, moi et tous vos... amis..."

     Drancy straightens up, adjusting the cuffs of her cropped shirt absently. It's oddly out of character, being an almost prim gesture, and she answers Dei with perfect confidence as the words roll out of her mouth with anything but a formality to them. "Skank Lite, Brit-Punk Monthly, and E-Punk Online at www.epunk.com.uk, 'course." What a list of names. What a contrast. But if there's one thing Drancy seems to be making a name for herself in, it's got to be contrasts.
     She tilts her own chair, making the huddle a bit more apropos, digging out a notepad and flipping it open on her knee. Satyricon gets a half-interested ear for a moment, with a lift of her chin, then she almost visibly discards them as being of no further interest. "If you read any of my columns, I'll fall down dead in shock right here an' now. So what colour's the sky on your planet?" An interesting way of opening an interview, but conventionality is something she'd shoot on sight. If she had a gun. She regards Dei with half-wary, half-friendly ferality.

     Dark lips purse for a moment as the latex woman considers this, watching Sieg. She takes a sip from her drink.. what on earth is that? It's so green that it seems to glow. Regardless, she looks up from the glass with a smirk. Oh, she likes this. Whatever he's said seems to tickle her fancy at this moment in time.
     Typical.
     The entourage seem very interested, and nearly holding their collective breath for the answer.
     The two strips of green in her hair bounce a bit as she nods, replying, "Un fourgon? Bruits tres interessants. Pas l'endroit le plus exotique que j'ai eprouve, mais il offre des possibilites interessantes." She pauses to take a lung-full of smoke. Exhaling as she speaks, she adds, "Bruits comme l'amusement. Devons-nous apporter quelque chose?"

     "Grey..."
     "Very grey," Erik cuts in.
     "With a hint of purple. At night, it is black as volcanic glass," Dei adds. There's a glance of brown eyes to the Placebo-like Satyricon. They're not bad. They're just not as good as they think they are. They need to be more brave. Brave enough to find their own sound. He stamps out one cigarette and moves to light another, and he.. well... he cracks a smile. "Fucking poetic. I should be a painter. Okay, so the sky is grey in the day. Black at night. We are brooding."
     We are also electric. There is a kind of intensity around the brooding Dei, a fire, a light, a heat. But maybe that's how the men of Iceland are. Volcanic. "Good question. I like this. No boring shite about my favorite color or my favorite place to take a shite."

     Sieg grins and leans in. He is slowly becoming one with many. His own rendition of e pluribus unum. "Il est etroit, il est commode et il est tapisse. Assez piece pour dix, bon dehors dos." He begins to pull away from the bar, pushing off, gesturing to a waitress. Come get these glasses. "Et... si vous avez l'mauvaise herbe, tout le meilleur. Sinon, je suis sur que je puis proposer quelque chose. Hey," sudden English. "Can you take this over to that table? I've got to make a run. Thanks."
     The Stoli, Stoli and Grey Goose will be delivered...

     The corners of Drancy's mouth threaten to quirk up. "I gave up on those questions years ago, mate. If you think you're bored bein' asked, think how boring 'tis asking 'em over an' over again, and gettin' the usual answers. Orl right." The accent's a bit thick, made more so by her surroundings, and she slouches down in her seat again, after scribbling a note or three in the pad.
     "So what makes you lot brood? The weather? Inflation? Wrong size jammies? Or something a little less, mmm, bloody banal - Kierkegaard's theories upon predestination and the evolution of mankind's sinful nature?" Yes, definitely better educated than she normally lets on. She squinches one eye up as she glances at Dei again, again in apparent mild puzzlement - but then, she is asking questions, isn't she? She waits for an answer though, before shooting another.
     And while she waits, she twists round in her chair to peer unashamedly at the woman in latex and her somewhat famous godling companion. News? Or merely amusement? Drancy has yet to decide, but hell, it's still fun to watch. Will he score? Will she shoot him down? Will the heat generated between their glances set their drinks on fire? Stay tuned, and find out.

     Another look is given to the entourage, who suddenly move up behind the Madame very quickly. Excitement's in the air. Or maybe that's just someone's cologne. The latexed one does not move just yet, assuming that the English was directed to the bartender, and seeming to be waiting for Sieg to move. Meanwhile, she finishes up her ghastly-looking drink, takes another drag, and then stamps the dead cig in a nearby tray.
     Smoke spirals up toward the ceiling as she releases it and pushes the specs back up her nose to conceal her gaze once more.

     It is a question that stops Dei. It is a question that Erik and Jared ignore. But Dei -- Dei gives thought to this. To the nature of sin. Oh, how he could go on and on about sin. Brooding, however, is another topic. "I suppose it would be drab of me to blame the weather of Iceland, long winters, short summers, the fact that you know nearly everyone. I think it is not so much Kierkegaard and sin as it is Norse and Icelandic sensibilties. Sagas. Tragic heroes. Ultimate futility." He makes a rolling gesture of his hand, trailing cigarette smoke. "Call it a Beowulf Complex."
     "And a shortage of women," Erik suddenly speaks up. And then laughs. As he's gay, he doesn't care.

     Sieg is all grin. If you're looking for sin, you'd follow Sieg. Well, most would say that. Even Dei would say it. And Dei glances up, just a glance, as Sieg moves along the wall and to the back. No doubt followed by that train.
     Sieg is not followed immediately, but when the Madame and her groupies begin to move, it's easy to tell where they might be heading. Her 'pets' jabber among themselves, following their latexed leader, but she remains silent, heading to the back as well. And yes... the train is in tow.

     While not the purest of the pure, Drancy probably is about as close as Phantasmagoria gets to it. Which is in and of itself, highly amusing for those few in the know. She's not looking for sin, sin finds her all on its own very easily, thank you very much. Her glance follows Sieg and the Madame for a moment, more because, well, everyone else is looking in that direction, than anything else. Sex really isn't on her mind.
     "Shortage of women, eh. So is that what this is, another raping and pillaging run?" She refers, of course, to antiquity - Nordic raids along the coast - with humour in her voice and eyes. Still, there's something of a challenge to her voice, as ever, even as she squints at Dei.

     Madam tries to move against the crushing traffic to leave the club.

     "Maybe for Sieg," Dei rolls, eyes rolling in the same gesture. He watches Sieg leave with a train of men and women and sighs, half-frowning. "He is the rockstar. I," Dei gestures toward his chest, "...am a musician. I'm not into raping and pillaging. It's too cliche. It's expected. I prefer to get lost. It is why London appeals," there is a slight shrug of his shoulders, the smoothening of the half-frown into an almost smile. "I could disappear," he grins, "the possibility of disappearing. It appeals to me."
     "And don't let Dei fool you. He likes to seem deep," Erik calls over the third Satyricon song, "but he fucks groupies like the rest of them. He's just polite. He's a good boy. He's the punk you can take home to your mother and father..."
     "Fuck you," Dei clips, smirking. And he shakes his head at you, lavender hair catching the light. But even as he protests it, you can see past that. It's true.

     Drancy snorts, obviously amused. "Yahr, well, I'm not a groupie." She shoves her braids back, over her shoulders, to trail down her back instead of down her front. Take that. "Though I've yet to meet a single band member of any band, anywhere, who doesn't fuck groupies when he - or she - gets the chance. And," she's fair, at least, "a groupie they like the looks of." She watches Sieg trail out. "I haven't the stamina for that. S'why I'm a reporter." Among other things, though she doesn't mention those, squinting as something twinges through her eye and belly.
     She makes another note on her pad, then : "So you're a musician. Got into it the usual way up, or have you got loftier ambitions and origins? How the mighty have fallen, or rising star through the heavens?" She's got a neat turn for metaphor, whether inherited from that ancestor who's taken to walking in her flesh, or more likely, gained on her own. Her eyes move past Dei for a moment, to the other two, then back - inclusive, if they want it to be... and demanding nothing save answers from the one opposite her. Very aggressive, our girl.

     Dei shakes his head. "Heaven's got nothing to do with it," he says. His voice should be low, would be low but he has to raise it over the music. "It's not lofty, not filled with gods who shite marble." He takes a slow, long drag from the cigarette, flicking away ashes as needed.
     "Everyone in Iceland has a band. It's just what we do. I guess it keeps us from raping and pillaging and raiding the shorelines," he got the joke, "...we're not obsessed with 'making it' or becoming famous. We don't care. We just play. It allows us to fuck, drink, smoke, sleep late and not have to sit behind a desk for a living. I guess if it weren't this, we'd all be on a boat pulling up nets of fish like our fathers."
     "Not that there's anything wrong with that," Jared finally pipes up, though he can only barely be heard, his voice is so quiet. "My dad's a fisherman, so's my brother. My sister's married to a fisherman. It's a way of life and it's a good life. We just didn't have the drive and stamina for it, mostly. And then, you know, this is more sexy. Being trapped on the sea in a boatful of men, though. There's something to be said for that."
     And Erik laughs...

     It prompts a quick, actual grin out of her face, with only a slanting edge of punkish anger. Rarer than any of this lot'd ever know, really. Pity, innit? "Well, I admit to not being a religious sort myself. So then, you surround yourselves with every base and carnal desire you possibly might like. What's next to conquer?" More notes get jotted, along with obscure doodles, absentmindedly made without looking, forming strange patterns as she watches the musicians she's grilling so relentlessly.
     "And hell, fishing still beats orthodontry, dunnit? - Though, mind you, I'm not big on being trapped. I know a few people for whom the idea'd be terribly appealling, rather." Erik's laugh gets another acknowledgement, and she tilts her head back at Dei, absently filling in the subtler shadings and lines of a triskellon.

     "I guess I'll conquer our set tonight, first and foremost," Dei actually breaks another grin, "...then I guess I'll have to see what Sieg leaves over from his escapade. Sin... I usually leave that to Sieg. He's the devout Catholic. He knows the most about it. I just... play." Dei stamps out another cigarette and makes a mighty exhale of smoke. "Fucking boring aren't I? I'm not really good at this. I need lessons. Do they have a university for lead vocalists?"
     Erik and Jared are much amused by this. Probably not buying anything he's saying either, like they know something different. Like maybe he indulges more than he lets on. But maybe it's more subtle than that. Like the heat you felt in the handshake.
     There's a depth to his eyes...
     "I may retire to fishing, play guitar on a nice boat. But hopefully in the Mediterranean. I could use a bit of sunlight..."

     Drancy tilts her head downwards, towards her pad, then lifts her chin up in an unconsciously arrogant gesture - perhaps to cover up any latent uncertainty. No doubt somewhere in the back of her mind, wings are beating against the cage of her consciousness in a frantic bid for attention or release, but she is stubborn, even in her lack of awareness. And so far, said ancestress lacks the energy, or the desire perhaps, to shove her aside and take over... so far.
     "That's a very laid back sort of approach, not terribly common around here, for the most part. As long as you don't own a fancy car, though, I imagine I'm safe." Two can play at obscure comments, after all. "Most of the unis around here specialize in underwater basket weaving, which I suppose could come in handy if you're going to be spending the rest of your life on a boat. All right, one more question, then." From glittering blue to murky sea green, her eyes shift with her position. "You lot go on at midnight, right? What sort of sea-change do you most hope to see after you've finished playing?"

     "They," meaning his bandmates, "...call it brooding. I prefer introspective," Dei says, and he actually laughs. It's been a banner night. You get a look from Erik and Jared. What are you, magical? "I'll make a note of the basket-weaving. Might come in handy as a second career if this doesn't work. But you know, not out to get famous. Just out to play. I hope to make enough money to afford to keep playing. To perpetuate the wanderlust."
     "That was really beautiful, Amadeus," Erik says, using Dei's fullname. To Dei's smirking half-displeasure.
     He pretends he didn't hear that. "Yeah, we go on at midnight. About three hours from now, little less now. I guess more like two and a half. Afterwards? I guess Sieg will get laid, Erik and Jared will return to the hotel, and I'll hit another club. Maybe do an acoustic set somewhere." Dei leans in, smiling, "Know any good afterparties?"

     Yes, as a matter of fact, but she doesn't like to talk about it. Or admit it. She quirks her eyebrows up at the look she receives, Drancy all unawares. "Doubt there's terrible much money in it, but well, if it's another career you're looking for, you could always try being a reporter. You get offers of sex a lot, get free liquor, invited to all the best parties and gigs, and you get to sleep in." She mimicks the words, more or less, though with a wide, evilly humourous grin. Amadeus? The pen moves over the paper again. Of course.
     "As for parties? Well, I can tell you where they are, I might even hit one or two myself, but I have to admit, I'm a terribly dull sort myself - dishwater dull, to be honest. I'll probably wander around London, then hit Pashmina's," assuming noone else takes over her brain and causes her to wake up wondering what the hell she did the night before, "before bed. But then, I'm terribly old, you see." Drancy concludes it with mock-gravity - 25 years old, but granted, she's not the 19 year old groupie busily trying to get attention, either. "What kind of parties do you prefer?"

     You have his interest. "Pashmina's. I damn near live there..."
     "He comes in reeking of curry," Erik laughs.
     "...It's good. That sounds good. I'm going after the gig. Two in the morning, no one there, a plate of naan and some tea. Maybe you can do a before and after interview. Tell me whether or not you liked or hated the show. I'd be interested to hear that."
     It's almost like he's asking you out...
     "Maybe I'll be a rock critic when I grow up..."
     Jared drumrolls on the table. "There's an idea!"
     "I think that'd make for an interesting story, but you tell me. You're the writer. I'm just the musician."

     Drancy ducks her head again, laughing, and the sound is almost bell-like as her eyes change again. "Sure, why not. I live right over Pashmina's." The place is a fucking magnet, innit... everyone knows Pashmina's. Now, why did I tell him that?
     A glance to the drummer, another grin, with a sly, feral edge. "Sorry, mate, career counseling's over for one night. The most interesting stories, besides, are the ones noone ever tells..."

     "Alright, well... I'll take my chances," Dei says with a half-smile. He hasn't smiled this much ...well... ever. "I'll meet you at Pashmina's. We'll do the second half there. Any other questions or have I utterly bored the piss out of you? Now," he looks to Erik, "I'm going to be fucking nervous. Having dinner with the critic. Like supping with the Executioner..."
     That tickles the fuck out of Erik and he leans back in his chair laughing. Doubly amusing, as the Satyricon guys are finishing up and getting the sneaking feeling they're being laughed at...

     Drancy's grin widens. Her? Executioner? "You've got nothing to worry about," she assures. "To make it fair, I'll tell you about the time I got so sodding drunk that when I came to, I was on stage in a pub singing. Didn't even know I could sing worth a tinker's." Funny thing is, while she had a hell of a headache, she hadn't the slightest bit of a hangover - and there wasn't a dry eye in the house, people assuring her she sang like an angel.
     Pushing that thought away, she adds desultorily, "And, on the bright side, if my editor thinks you're good enough copy, I may even get him to chip in for dinner for the entire lot of you sometime. Though," her gaze turns critical, "I've a suspicion you lot can put away almost as much food as I can." Thus says the skinny little woman. Right.

     Erik pats his gut, which seems more solid than fat, and the other two are lean and wiry -- though tall, still a great mass -- but food probably just turns to hair on them. The promise of free food gets a look from all three, and they solemnly nod. "There are two things at which we should not be challenged," Erik declares, "...drinking and eating."
     And from that comment, folks should probably avoid dick waving, too...
     "Well," Dei drawls, "I hope to make it interesting. You'll have to let me know how we sounded. Not sure about this place," and his sky eyes wander, as if inspecting the acoustical integrity. "I think we'll stick to the basic three chords and slamming tonight. Nothing fancy." Dei reaches for his vodka, which appeared unseen some moments ago. Likewise the two glasses of Stoli.

     Drancy laughs a bit. "I'm sure you'll do fine," she assures. "The owners pumped a hella lot of money in for the rebuilding, I hear." She winks the eye which is marked like a star, though it's a bit of a blink. "Just don't get so pissed on Stoli that you can't find Pashmina's after, yahr? I'll make sure to meet you there." She moves to rise, flipping the pad shut - a moment, of course, which any groupies no doubt are waiting for, for that chair to be vacated. Even if Sieg isn't here.

     Maybe this is the first time he notices it, or maybe it just struck him. The tattoo over your eye. "I like that," he offers. You don't have to go. "I can't imagine getting one there. Course, Sieg's talking about getting his johnson done. That or pierce it. I can't say I'd be anxious to do either. But," a shrug, "I am without tattoo. Tsk, I'm going to lose my street cred. Want a drink or something?"
     He's not rushing you off, and Erik and Jared take notice. Raised eyebrows and widened eyes. What the fuck?
     "And I can find Pashmina's like I can find the outhouse in pitch black Icelandic winter," he drolls.

     Drancy settles back down in her seat. Well, why not, after all? And speaking of street cred - Dot no doubt is gaping in envy. Not that the reporter chick doesn't draw her share of attention from time to time, but as a rule, the big nobs don't particularly go for the ice maiden. Maybe being from Iceland helps - heightened resistance to frigidity.
     "I can't actually recall getting either of them," she admits cautiously. "But I've got to live with 'em, right?" Wild girl, isn't she, turning up on stages and with tattoos after drunken binges. "Fortunately, I don't live at home." A smirk. She slouches down so that her shoulders are jammed up against the back of the chair, legs stretched out under the table.
     "Nothing's pierced, 'cept my ears and eyebrow." Of course, she left all the metal at home. Another smirking grin, and Drancy adds, "If you want him to reconsider getting tattoos and piercings, you might point out to him that while it's healing, he's not goin' t' be getting any. I'll have vodka, thanks." Her usual. "As for Pashmina's, well, I'd probably fall into a snowdrift and die of exposure en route, myself, but Pashmina's is easy." By comparison. She's relaxed, really. They have no idea. Davydd would be shocked.

     Dot is seething. And about to move in, actually. I mean, unless you are getting his phone number for her. Buttering him up. Talking about how wild she is and how she'll go down without a moment's notice. But only for the truly hip and thrilling...
     I mean, she's not easy.

     Dei laughs and for a moment his eyes gain a radiance, a brilliance their depth hasn't expressed. The thought of Sieg having to suffer celibacy. "That does it," he looks to his comrades, "...we are taking him in for one this week. It is second best to getting him fixed." It would be better for several of the women and men around here if we did. The possibilities -- oh the numerous and varied possibilities -- begin perculating in Erik's mind as well and he sits back with his fourth cigarette, blandly smiling and making secret plans.
     You find Dei's attention back on you, this time with something of appraisal. But what does that mean, really? But that you're interesting and he's noticed it? It's not like he's undressing you with his eyes. "We won't tell him about that, of course. We'll get him drunk and take him in. It'll be... what... a good lesson in karma..."

     Drancy is unaware of Dot's fury, largely because she's taken with the novel concept of someone being interested in her for reasons which don't involve flirting with fame (or with the famous), and don't appear to involve getting her into bed and her legs spread right away. See, if it'd been Sieg, he'd have fallen victim to the sharper edge of her tongue by now (and, when all's said and done, she's been rather gentle with these lads) and she'd have moved on.
     "Well, keep in mind most of the reputable places rather require you be conscious for it, and consenting. God alone knows how the hell I managed to get myself in so deep - if I ever remember, I'll be sure to let you know." And, no doubt, somewhere there's stirring amusement under the surface. Wouldn't she just love to get her hands on a willing practice target? But we all know what they say about faerie gifts.
     Karma. "Karma's got a nasty bite to it," she says absently. "Things have a way of coming back to haunt one. In the blood." Now, why did I say that? I seem to keep doing that, of late... deja vu. Striving for a lighter tone, she picks up her vodka - and that's when she notices Dot. "Oh, uh. Drat."

     "She's been circling like a buzzard," Dei mutters. And his voice suddenly rings clearly as Satyricon finishes their set. "She keeps licking her lips and looking over here every five minutes. So, I take it she wants to get laid? Doesn't she get bored by all that, humping lead singers and guitarists? What am I saying," he continues in a drawl, self-effacing, "...she is the female Sieg. I should introduce them. So, you should tell her we have a date later..."
     And that amuses him. Not that he wouldn't ask you out -- he seems genuinely interested in you -- but that it would so fucking goad her. And that really interests him. But then Dei shrugs, "Karma. It's a bitch. But then, so's Fortune, Fate and Fame. You can't win..."

     And Dot has been circling. And you see her at the bar in her Catholic School Uniform from hell, sanctified sin, arms folded across breasts and hips jaunt in a 'What The Fuck Is Going On?' stance. Then she looks elsewhere, waves to one of the boys from Satyricon and like a traitor actually hugs him. Pretends to be interested. She glances back at you.
     And you think you see her mouth...
     Introduce me...

     Drancy tries very hard to keep a straight face. "Sieg left, though," she points out. "As to why she does what she does - why does anyone? It's not me, but then, I have my own ways of coping." And she knocks back a shot of vodka without blinking. The one benefit of Russian blood : the ability to put away truly astounding amounts of vodka.
     "Anyway, she seems to be really into you. Wants me to introduce you." Which could be rather amusing, in its own way. And might even take people's minds off stage fright, pre-show jitters. "If I do, I make no promises for her behaviour, but I'll spare you if you really want, and deal with her mighty wrath later."

     He rolls his shoulders. "I'll just send her to Sieg, but if you think it'd help your cause you can bring her over. I don't mind meeting her. I'm just not going to fuck her simply because it's the rock and roll thing to do. That's why we tolerate Sieg." And they all laugh at that. It does seem to free them up for more sane and mature discourse.
     "I don't want to sound like an asshole. I'm just into quiet meals, take-out and getting to know people before I shove myself inside them. It's a thing I have."
     Erik chuckles but he's also wearing a knowing look on his face. Yeah, this whole 'deep' bag. It really is the truth...

     "Send her wherever you like." She's confident of Dot's innate ability to look out for herself - and, well, let's face it, this could be fun to watch. "Tell her what you want, it's no skin off my nose what you say." Drancy flips the end of one of her braids back and forth between her fingers, glancing askance at Erik. Her curiosity is getting piqued - now she really wants to know what the story is.
     A hand is raised, waving to Dot, the signal, no doubt, the other woman has so desperately been awaiting. "Dot! 'Ello, luv, come and meet someone, won't you?"

     She damn near jumps out of her skin and her skirt. Well, we all know her skirt's a foregone conclusion. It'll be off at some point. But as you wave, the black-bobbed Dot slinks away from the bar bearing a bottle of Stoli -- not the best vodka, but the best kind of vodka to slam for a quick drunk -- and a wide and violet smile. " 'allo, 'allo," she coos in that South London accent of hers, teasing the cockney -- ha -- as much as she can't help but speak it. "Talked right through the Satyricon show, lucky you," and she looks from Drancy to Dei. Grinning. Standing just so. Hoping. Oh yes, there is hope.

     For his part, Dei looks nonplussed. Maybe slightly amused. Hiding now behind a veil of lavender hair and the raising of a glass, at first, and then another cigarette.

     Drancy is amused, and not bothering to hide it worth a damn. She figures Dei knows, by now, if he's serious, how to get rid of girls he doesn't want. After all, they've been on the rise for a bit now. "Dot, Dei. Dei, Dot." She keeps it simple. "Since I knew you'd never forgive me if I didn't call you in on this... and you know perfectly well, Dot, love, that it's my job to talk through shows."
     One eyebrow is lifted sardonically, and the woman glances to Dei with slight challenge in her gaze. Ball's in your court, she seems to suggest. What're you going to do with it?

Posted by rowan at May 10, 2003 03:48 PM