Long time, no see, England. She knows a little of her way around, Karoly does, the cobblestones speak their own language to her. It's a broken, aged language, which she knows despite her seeming youth. And it, combined with the treaty she's cast with Decay, has brought her through London's rutted streets and flashy lights and greyed stone walls. She's alert, wary - prepared for attack, it seems, in her caution. But her appearance is that of the sweetest, most honeyed bait...
Black tresses kiss her shoulders in an artfully styled pageboy, a gold g-string worn with black leather chaps, matching bra with an almost transparent wisp of black silk shirt over her shoulders. A scarf of similiar material, black and shot through with gold thread, is loosely worn around her throat, knot the sort which will slide open and away, rather than aid in strangulation. Knee-height boots have charms and chains dangling from them, a bone dagger slid down into each, out of sight... A kiss-curl's plastered to the center of her forehead, lips painted a sticky-looking scarlet. She knows what sort of place it is she's going, if only vaguely, and she goes in disguise as one of the 'normal' sort of crowd one gets.
Even her accent's right, though assumed, drained out of a junkie found lying behind a trash heap with track marks all up and down his arm, shivering and mumbling about the flies biting the inside of his eyelids. He'll have much worse dreams when he gets the shakes now, if he survives his experience with Karoly. And - entrance fee paid - Karoly steps inside, and looks around...
This can't be any different than any other terribly trendy club on the Continent. Well, there are clubs, and then there are events unto themselves. Perhaps this is more of the latter. Behind a simple worn front are three levels of tremendous light and thundering noise.
And the people. Packed inside much like sardines, with sweat for gelatin. Cages hang between levels, giving a cascading feel the rise towards the dark metal walkways above.
Phantasmagoria does not discriminate. Young men and women walk and dance around, not necessarily partial to any one configuration. Bars are scattered here and there, but far from the front door is a massive arrangement, staffed by no less then ten, scantily dressed waitstaff.
The staff are the ones, by the by, who are dressed in even less than the patrons.
Coolers and bouncers move aside as you're permitted entrance, assured from outdoors that you can pass. Indeed, considering your dress. Another of the beautiful, gifted for an entrance tonight in one of the most glorious clubs in all of Europe.
Rolling lights and strobes filter though a haze of violet smoke that chokes the layers of Phantasmagoria. Corridors left and right and white pointer lights on other floors certainly lead to bathrooms. Considering the numbers milling around the corridor openings, that must be true. A glass wall, some ten feet long, carves out part of the left wall on the second floor. A duplicate gleams on what looks like a third to fourth floor. Dancers stand in front of the walls, admiring themselves.
And so it goes at Phantasmagoria. Levels, lights, chemicals, people, bars, sex, and noise.
Not all that surprising, is it?
She moves through the club with a predatory gleam to her eyes. Nothing's shocking. Nothing's surprising. And the delights she's here for - well ...
They aren't the ones that are out in the open for just anyone to pluck and consume, are they. Karoly Rosselle, the latest nom de guerre of a thousand such for the Witch Queen of Ice and Hellfire, as someone once called her (Hexeknigin des Eises und des Hlle Feuers, to be more exact) a very long time ago, extends other senses...
Now ... who is here ... to whom do I pay court, to bargain or otherwise address ... and what prices will be exchanged ...
Ah, but there are so many. The dealer who handles the entire East End of London, south of Canterbury Road. The computer genius who seems to be infused with a little brilliance brought on from magics. The various kindred that do walk among their prey. Fae on the second floor, holding mini-court. A few sorcerers. A mage or two wandering upstairs. And even a wolf with kinfolk. At a place such as this, there is always bound to be some level of mundane and supernatural drama.
Yet none take real notice of you, truly. Ah, maybe an eye or two or twenty due to your dress, more than anything else. But if any saw something deeper, they do not approach you for it.
Walk further in, and one of the pedestals, a man dances with a few of the regular cage warmers, both male and female. An audience below cheers them on, but the central male of dark hair, takes notice of them not. Instead, he continues to gyrate, arms lifting above his head. He wears no shirt -- not saying much in this place -- but does wear a set of dark leather pants. Ah, black, truly. Hard to tell in this light. Extremely well-formed, he is a standout among standouts in Phantasmagoria, a man who takes inordinate pride in his look and form.
Others do too, apparently.
After a few more swivels of his hips, he stops, leaving the crowd of three around him to continue. He smiles and kisses all three upon the mouth in turn, deciding to head down the stairs and into the milling ground-floor crowd, certainly never to be seen again. A fourth takes his place, and the dancers continue to serve as mood-enhancer for the club.
"Cigarette," a young man asks, approaching you politely from the side. Dressed only in sheer-under-lace pants, he smiles and waits to see your response, while carrying a small box of smokes for sale.
A faint frown from Karoly - no, nothing, nothing at first. The frown is a chilly one, and suffices to cause at least some of the less ... aware souls to back off. Where.. ah, there, perhaps.
She allows herself to be drawn towards the cage dance, intrigued - and he goes, and she frowns. Perhaps. Perhaps not. Karoly turns, towards the cigarette seller, eyes raking coolly up and down - appraising the meat on display. "Perhaps. How much, and whose are they? Mm... for that matter, whose are you?"
The young man is surprised and looks down at his wares. "We have...different kinds," he says of the packs in his tray. "Lucky Strike, Vantive..." the usual suspects, really. They're just cigarettes. He looks back at you and says, "Sorry," apologizing for doing his job. He manages a faint smile and begins to head off to wander the crowd some more.
Ah, well. No luck there, either. Karoly prowls off in the other direction, frustrated and impatient - for someone as old as she, patience is a virtue she really ought to think about acquiring. She heads down, and as she does...
Casts out a little flare. A recognition symbol. Energy she will need to regain, later. I am here/where are you?
The crowd before you seems to part. Not an obvious wake that parts, but more that people change their paths. Giving way and yielding. Not so far away, in the wading crowd, stands the dark-haired man from the lower pedestal, having an audience. Well, more so an audience forming with each step he takes in the club.
He turns from one patron, after giving a kiss, to look in your direction. Early thirties, maybe, and indeed, his hair is black. Very black. But in the violet haze of the Phantasmagoria, the man's eyes seem tinged with lavender as well.
Someone places a kiss at his ear. And another. If he is not careful, he should drown in such affection.
That prompts a slight smile to spread. I should have known... where a magnet walks, there is usually Power. Not the humble, sapped little powers that flit here and there, but darkness which might call to darkness...
She moves through the wake of patrons lightly, expression still cool, though lacking the arrogance she would have within her own domain - had she one to be within, right now. Karoly inclines her head in minute recognition, and comes to a stop, halfway away.
Now ... will he attack, or will he beckon ... what will be his response, I wonder?
"Alright, sweets, gotta go," Julian says, attention returning to the throng around him. He smiles as any good host would, patting a girl on her shoulder as turns in the direction of the large bar.
"Excuse me," another voice says at your shoulder, this time female in an outfit similar to the cigarette-boy. "Please," she motions, as if to say to follow the leader towards the bar. She is more in the know than the young man, and stands almost official-like in her wait.
Karoly nods, still without arrogance, but without submission. She knows the ins and outs, or thinks she does, and motions slightly for the girl to go ahead - she'll follow behind, with a rustle of psychic shields sliding up, over her.
"Gut nicht," she murmurs, blessing and curse rather than any sort of greeting. Boots glide and tinkle with chains and heels, as she affects an expression of noticing nothing - noone - just another person, casually following where she is led.
The young woman nods and moves ahead of you in the crowd. She weaves and bobs, angling herself to get through the milling throng. It isn't easy, to be sure, and it takes several moments before she can navigate the two of you to the side of the bar where one corridor leads off. She glances back to make sure you can see her.
The dark-haired man is nowhere to be found.
The corridor is lowly lit and there are a few doors within. Two men stand near the corridor's entrance, and she comes to a halt near one of the guards, and motions towards the hall.
"There is an elevator open on the left. Please enter. It will take you upstairs to the offices. Mr. Kane is expecting you." There is no worry in her voice, and indeed, the guards stand aside.
Expectation. Interesting word, that. Karoly nods, murmuring again, a slightly hoarse-voiced thanks. She smiles, and steps into the elevator. After all ... if this doesn't work ...
Well, then she's well and truly fucked without lube anyway, isn't she?
The elevator is as lush as the club. The doors close and it slowly begins to rise. Considering it goes not very far, it must arrive on the second floor.
With a woosh, it opens onto a large room, extending towards the main doors of the club. Indeed, the mirrors are one-way glass, and the observation room, as it is, is well-appointed for a private party. Sofas and chairs abound, and a side table contains a spread of food for the evening. A bar stands nearby, currently unattended.
"Welcome," the black-haired man says, standing in centerview of his deck. Almost captain-like, he glances back towards the pulsing club.
And his eyes are indeed, lavender.
Interesting developments. Karoly nods gracefully, stepping out of the elevator and into the room. "Thank you. It is very .. kind of you, to see me on such short notice." Kindness has nothing to do with it, she's quite sure.
She approaches, and again, stops halfway, hands folded in a pose of humility, though her chin is up. Cool, still, but not frigid. Collected, but not arrogant.
"I am Karoly." No last name - but well, let's see what the response is...
"Julian Kane," he says, arms moving behind his back. Not only is he without shirt, he is also without shoes. The black leather pants cling to him, and his body shows effects of the evening's festivities.
"What are you doing here?" he asks, angling to see you. He exhales, as if deciding to take up this conversation. Might as well ask. "In London. In my club." One'd think he knew something, but it's unlikely he has details. Well, unless he was connected in unbelievable ways. His voice is even, not angry, but convinced that your presence has implications.
"I was told this would be a good place to go, to make contact with those who Desire." It's a subtle emphasis she places, but the emphasis is there. Desire. Creating it, manipulating it, using it - feeding off of it, feeding it back ... corrupting all the while. And there are so many levels one might twist desire, and her cousin, loathing...
She shrugs slightly, not allowing her gaze to be anything but even. "I am in the unfortunate position of requiring assistance." Implications, yes. Always.
Julian's face cracks its present placidity, a smile angling at his masculine features. "Needing. Wanting assistance." He nods in familarity with such terms. Lavender eyes look at you again, sorting out negotiable items. Julian begins at your head, with its curl, and works his way down, pausing occasionally.
"What do you need," he finally asks, turning a shoulder to the glass and giving his facing self to you.
She remains cool, placidly composed, giving nothing away but surface. "Identity. Network. Money. Allies." Oh, yes, someone's in the shit but deep...
Yet Karoly says it as emotionlessly as a laundry list, allowing the gaze to slide over her without reaction. Well. One reaction.
For just a moment, she relaxes the tight control she has on her shields, allowing a glimpse to those who can see, of the tightly coiled power waiting to be used...
Julian's smile becomes a laugh across his parted lips. "My goodness," he stiffens and mock-shudders, "I think I was to feel threatened there for a moment." That gave him good humor. He continues to watch you, with smug amusement. A sigh. Back to the matter at hand.
"And?" he adds evenly, one hand coming to rest on his checkerboard stomach. Fingers massage softly. A counting mechanism.
What do I get in return?
The dark-haired German lowers her eyelashes slowly. She isn't fool enough to try a seduction, direct or indirect. This is business, and she is - even if in trouble - a professional.
Her own painted lips part, tongue touched for a moment to her upper lip - as if for luck - and she speaks. "Obviously, I am not in very much of a position to bargain, here. There are things I will not do," things she will face the Lord she serves rather than do, "and many things which I will." A light shrug, airy and controlled, and she adds...
"What would you ... desire ... of me?"
"You can always bargain," Julian shrugs, "...but if you take things off the table, yes, that does decrease your playing field of value. And what you ask...is highly valuable."
"But, let's see here," he says, turning his back on the scene outside. Julian walks towards you, coming to a halt as your mirror-image.
"Very little, actually. For each request that I fulfill, you owe me...let's say...a little favor." In most circles, a geas, but Julian won't get into it. "When I decide what I want, you will work very hard to fulfill it -- just as I will do of your list and the extent to which your list includes multiple items. I think..." Julian smiles, "...that is but fair and equal, yes?"
She hasn't got much choice, really. "And in exchange, you give me your protection? Or what?" Karoly will ask, eyebrows slanting up for a moment, face still cool, showing none of the emotions locked away. Not that she has a vast emotional range, but she has more than the cool almost indifference she shows here and now.
"Do you mind if I change?", she asks, suddenly. She hates gold lame, really.
"Mm," Julian shakes his head. And in your own voice, as if recorded, he says, "...identity, network, money, allies. Those were the categories. In order to have my full protection," he explains, "...you would need to put onto the table something beyond the value of those items."
"Reciprocity. You ask for identity. If I provide such, you owe me one favor of equal value. If you ask for allies, well," he smiles, "...those tend to be more expensive and I will expect one favor in exchange for each request. If you ask for my full protection," his head tilts askance, "...then, we negotiate differently." Then, he shall ask for your very existence.
And with that, Julian Kane turns to look out of his window again. Business is good, really. What he provides never goes out of style.
One eyebrow goes up, but Karoly expends a small amount of power, changing the black and gold outfit to one of deep, rich red - crushed velvet, gold brocade, a gown that went out of fashion when Napoleon was alive. But it looks damned good.
"Unfortunately, there are some things which I've ... promised to others, and I do try not to break my word." Because people would kill her if she did. Some deals can be broken safely, some cannot.
"Identity, then, first. Money, I can likely manage on my own..."
"Too bad," Julian replies at hearing identity brought up again. "The full package comes with benefits." So, we'll go with individual requests.
He nods, "Agreements are agreements, then. Identity. Any preference?" he asks, turning back to see you again, feet padding softly upon the carpeting.
"English, female, something young." She can do old, but ... she doesn't like it, the fragility which accompanies age. "Papers. If there's a job attached, nothing menial."
She brushes her hair back with a hand, raising an eyebrow. Karoly adds, "And .. what is, too bad?"
That you'll miss out on full protection. But Julian only grins it, going on, "English, female, something young. That will be an identity. A job...is a separate favor."
"But you will have an identity in three nights. That identity will come with a name, birth certificate, NHS number, taxpayer number, vehicle license, and a trail of existence that can be verified. Do you have a present address?"
"Temporary only, but I can find something once I have an identity." She's good at that ... worming her way into people's confidences, their lives, with a sweet smile and a poisoned apple...
Karoly shrugs her shoulders. "And, of course, confidentiality."
Come now. Julian lifts his chin, the sweat from earlier dried upon his skin. He smells of the club and the people in it. "Present address will be...let's say...elseplace. And you will want to quickly change that."
"Anything else for now?" he asks, taking a look at the dress. "You'll pardon me if I say that I need to go out among everyone again."
She shakes her head, brushing the gown away to its previous state with a moue of distaste that flickers in her eyes, without fading. "Nothing now," Karoly replies with dignity intact. "I will return, then, in three days?"
"Or I can have the package delivered," Julian notes. "But i would be...delighted...if you made a personal appearance." He smirks at his language. "Your choice."
Karoly repeats, not as a question, "I will return ... in three days. Until then, then." She turns towards the elevator, strongly tempted to attempt a teleportational spell - but those are costly, and ... noticeable.
Julian grins, taking offense at nothing. The posturing, however, while he understands it, must come as moot to him. He finds too much amusement in it. "Three days then," Julian copies, watching you go.
"It's been a pleasure," Julian adds, a door opposite the elevator opening with two emerging women.
There's just nothing she can respond to that. She just nods... Karoly exits. And someone...
Well, someone's going to be in for a Hell of a night, their last, probably, on this earth, if Karoly has any say in the matter.
Hey, even Witch Queens need to relieve their stress somehow.
Posted by rowan at May 24, 2003 09:59 AM
