Evil Night Together

Not a complete scene

Sitting next to the stage, but not upon it, a rather beautiful man with raven-hued locks of curling, imperceptibly perfect hair is seated at a small piano. It could be hard to see his indefectible face though, if just for the crowd that's managed to gather around him, consisting of more than half of the people that tend to haunt Calistro and Heph's quaint joint. Despite the wall of flesh and suits that guard him, the sounds of 'Evil Night Together' float up, twisting through the tobacco smoke like a long lost lover and wrapping around the hearing of those in range. There's a bit of humming to go with the soothing music, before words crafted of both honey and fire mingle in, appending in a low and husky tone, "I'll hold your hand while they drag the river, I'll cuddle you in the undertow. I'll keep my hand on your trigger finger, I'll take you down where the train tracks go..". (6 Successes - Performance)

The door of the nightclub opens with a blend of the intoxicating music blending with the hustle of the street before a porcelain brunette, painted up like a vintage doll, steps take her into the room enough for it to close behind her and submerge the room in uninterrupted music again. Tonight, the woman's shoulder length hair is lessened by a good few inches due to the Shirley Temple curls that are accented in light cream ribbons. The slightly curved lines of her body are hugged in a tube of similarly colored lace, while the wide straps hang loose against her arms to leave her shoulders bare. Only two steps on rather precarious black heels are taken by the woman before her heavily painted eyes sweep to the stage.

"..Let's wile away the hours. Let's spend an evil night together..", the voice continues, sultry enough to become the living cousin of Jazz itself as it winds through the gathered audience and dances with the occupants of the Calistro and Heph's. The man in the middle of them all can be seen in glimpses, from the ivoried flesh of his graceful fingers as they cavort across the similar-colored keys, to the shoulder-length curtain of pitch hair that serves to block most of his face for the moment. He leans his head down a bit, singing, "..We'll drink a toast in the torture chamber, and you'll go down on a bed of nails. We'll rendezvous in cold blood..". There's an extended pause on the singing while one hand continues to play, but the other is raised to tuck raven-strands behind his ear, revealing the full lips of a languid smile, and his glimmering sights of amber, "..I'll tie you up to the third rail..".

As the woman moves towards the stage, the foot-in front-of-foot steps that women are so familiar for slows only a bit to match the candescent of the beat, and white teeth drag slowly over her cherry-red bottom lip. She moves to an empty table near the side of the small platform, and as she settles her weight down mostly on one side to bring one exposed leg over the other, her large brown and green orbs raise to take in the movements of the performer's fingers. The prompt offer of service from one of the waitresses isn't quiet enough to garner more than glance, and after placing an order for bourbon in a dark, smokey voice, not a single twitch of movement in the room steals her facination with the man at the center of the room.

"..Let's wile away the hours. Let's spend an evil night together..", the genteel musician finishes with, having been done with his performance a bit ago, but gone into somewhat of an overlap if just to please the gathering. His mercurial fingers go still upon the piano, but a light music in the background picks up the silence that might have been, perhaps having been drowned out by the entertainer's musical artifice. He pushes to his feet in such an adroit manner that it almost would seem the ground is bowing out from him, before attempting to navigate the crowd. One of the women who had been gathered grabs onto the front of his now-visible clothing, which is nothing more than black slacks and a black button-up shirt with gold buttons. He doesn't distress though, instead whispering something aloud to her in the sex and death and that is the French language, and going on once more. Those same amber orbs, which seem to catch every nuance of light and draw them into a glimmering gaze, begin to sweep
around the room again.

As the music stops, Macha's slender fingers twitch slightly against her lap, though in a quick gesture she brings her fingers up to catch the waitress by the arm as she's stepping away to order something more in a hushed tone. Under the dim light, the only flash of jewelry on her lace-covered frame are a pair of hooked earrings with a simple golden star hanging from each. During the faint whispering, the painted woman drops her eyes to the floor to only be immediately distracted by the musician's movement once more as her whisper steps into a more hurried pace as she lowers her hand to her lap when finished. As the waitress steps off, the doll-like woman rises from her chair, stopping to smooth the tense fabric around her hips, and clears a few delicate steps towards the man with her hands clasped loosely at her stomach.

A few hummed notes slip forth from between the pressed, full lips of the beautiful man, that of the same song which he had just used to serenade some of the most beautiful men and women in Los Angeles. His steps, ever graceful like those of a phantom cat, are brought to a halt though as he is approached by, or at least, mutually comes together with the woman before him. The dim light of the room and the smoke that cuts through it are both a catalyst in showing more of the man's exotic, unnatural sights than should be revealed in proper public. Then again, those who haunt a place like Calistro and Heph's never were considered to be a proper public. The ravishing facade of the abyssal-haired man is swung down upon the woman in front of him, and a languorous but charming grin splits his mouth as he purrs, "..Mmm. I may have to cancel with Aphrodite and Helen of Troy this evening..". His voice has lost the husk of his song, but still retains the silken smoothness that begs to be captured and clung to, if only not to be lost or willed away on the machinations of those less worthy. His nimble hand is brought up, silently, dexterously, so that a finger might wind through one of those perfect Shirley Temple curls.

Macha stops easily within arm's reach of the man's attractive figure, and as his voice tangles her senses even as the sheet of smoke in the room tangles in the curls and ribbons, she sweeps her eyes appraisingly over him. With the shiver of the carefully set curls when he brings his hand upwards, the cat-eyed brunette finally settles her gaze on his face. "The Harbinger of ruined exploits. I do apologize." Her voice slips out in the same deep hues of clear Slavic, though whatever accent, if any, she'd known, it's long slipped into a casual mix of west coast American. She presents a light pout of her bottom lip, though the amusement that dances in her eyes is too much to keep a smile from her face for long. "They've been lost for ages, as it is. Maybe an hour or so while I buy you a drink won't end their pretty worlds?"

"..Exploits not ruined, but cast aside for long enough to pursue the lost City of Golden Treasures, done up in the flesh and kissed with the tantalizing lips of a Succubus. Or an angel..", the alluring, raven-haired heir to Eros admits, twisting one of her curls around his finger again before letting it spring back as his hand is dropped, barely brushing the side of her neck on it's descent back to his own space. A come-hither look is granted upon Macha as his calculated half-grin reveals just the left of a pair of delightfully wicked fangs, long and with a point that positively glints with warning, "..This is my first night in the City of Angels. I've been curious if their stock was fine enough to..ah..quench the thirst that has plagued me. It, already, has proven to be easy on the eyes..".

"It would depend on what matter of kiss." Her voice drifts musically with each word in the tone of someone who spends more time singing than speaking, though her now her thoughts are interrupted by the feathered brush of his fingers. Despite his grinning display, the vintage-doll of a woman chances another retort while one hand comes up to shift her curls back in order with her fingertips. "The city spoils me nightly, so it would seem I'm in a place to agree. Though, I may have to disappoint your goddesses with delay if your first night would allow you company."

"..Oh..it does not allow..", the seductive musician admits, before tracing that fang along his full lower lip and adding, "..It does nothing less than beg for it, for that is what the lower do when imploring the adoration and attention of a higher being..". A smile of spun mirth weaves across his striking face again, sticking far faster this time than it had before, "..A Goddess can be assuaged from up on high in their lofted thrones of life and death, gold and silver. It is down here that I come, though, when seeking to find the companionship of a true gem. Affluence is alluring, but cannot compare to the staggering drawing power of something so sightly..". His amber sights are shifted to the bar for a moment, and then over to a table in the corner, before bearing down upon Macha again at the last moment, "..I would have you lead, lest I stumble. At the rear I shant look a fool, but even a fool should nary be spared a look from the rear..".

"Ah, but you've ruined my illusion of fancy. I was still quite taken with you between angel and incubus." The woman lets the teasing admission slip from her pillowed lips, letting her eyes pass over him once more while a nod is returned to his request. Perfectly manicured fingers slip and tangle between each other at her stomach before Macha breaks her hesitation and turns to lead him to an offset table near one wall. Her steps are exceedingly delicate from her stilettoes perch, and she leads him without a glance backwards, leaving him with a profile of cream lace and doll-like ribbons and curls.

"..Mm. Angel I am not, though ever the irresponsible Incubus has asked me to cover his evening, and in turn been cast into a perdition that wears not the vestiges of Heaven or Hell. That profession is..ah.. one that has been known for the in and the out..", the bewitching follower declares, his face tightening up into another expression of false warmth, but cold promises. When the table is reached, he is quite certain to pull the chair out for his newfound plaything, allowing her the grace of sitting first, while his amber orbs falls upon her with the hunger of a wandering vagabond, if not appraising, then devouring, "..Illusion is a dangerous thing. You never can quite tell whether it is still…not real..".

Macha allows her weight to fall into her seat in a practice and demure way, using her hands to smooth the front of her dress over her thighs so that the new position doesn't shorten it more than required. Her large eyes repeat her ritual inspection of the man's figure as he takes a seat, and she's seemed to think better of concealing it at all this time. " 'Don't part with your illusions. When they are gone you may still exist, but you may have ceased to live.' Dangerous as it may be, it's not something I've comforted myself with releasing the use of when it suits me." Eventually, her gaze returns to meet his, and she's no more wide-eyed and blushing than she was upon first impressions. Her curious expression seems to relfect the same bit of feral edge as her eyes drift now and then to watch his lips move, and it's quite clear by this time that she's not bothered to take her eyes off of him since being seated.

"..Part with? Never. A more dreadful thought has not been dredged from the depths of terror since the age of true imagination. However, illusions commend themselves to us because they save us pain and allow is to enjoy pleasure instead. We must therefore fail to weep when an illusion comes to bare against reality and is subsequently dashed to pieces. To mourn is to not take grasp of the pleasure that it provided, and to not take grasp..", the raven-haired gentleman points out, unfastening the diamond-shaped cufflink of his left sleeve, before leaning in just enough to let the lights dance upon his glimmering amber orbs, "..is to take the illusion for granted. That, my sweet, is the entire concept of pleasure..". His lips part into another cross between an arrogant smirk and a charming smile, an expression that could be called both but neither at the same time, "..To what do I owe the pleasure of the company from such an invaluable vision on this, my first evening in the City of Angels?".

Macha continues to switch her gaze between his eyes and his lips, and her near intoxication with the flow of his words is plainly available on her features. "The very nature of mourning such sweet embraces, truth or shattered versions there-of, escapes me. You bare your explanation as though I'd uttered a single complaining word, which is clearly not the case." She takes the pause for breath as a rather uncomfortable adjustment period of bringing her curiosity to focus on something in their surroundings, though the whole notion is dissolved as his question is plucked into sudden awareness and she grants her gaze and words to him once again. "Company I offer freely comes with no redirection so that I could answer simply. Snared for attention, I'm quite afraid." The candid explanation releases from her throat without even a slight shift of her awed mood, and her mannerisms make no move to apologize for it. "I don't take the pains of instruction and direction over drinks."

"..You, though, much like some of the most favored creations, are blessed with the choice to complain. Were I to leave an opening for an utterance to pass through, I would be a terrible competitor in the field of verbal repartee. And thus, like those who came before, I shall sally forth with the hunt and capture of words, before I move on to more rigorous..prey..", the attractive man explains, leaning back in his chair and resting his hands in his lap to be folded and twined together, where now his lithe build is afforded more of a showing to his conversational partner across the table from him, "..You need take no pain of instruction here. And your attention is your own to keep or to give, though I am flattered that you find one such as I worthy enough to lavish it upon in such a manner. Were a man to ask, I would confess that I have no regret, nor complaint at all..".

A child-like facination still plays upon the features of the milky skinned woman, and his words tug a slight grin to her lips that betrays her completely helplessness. However, the expression fades back into a charming, warm smile. "I've never been wrapped with such ecstasy of language, I'm afraid. At least not one that's spoken in tender tones." She brings one hand up to trace her fingertips around her left temple, slipping her fingers just under the indigo and violet clusters of ribbon and curl. "Your confession flatters me, of course, as most do when they speak in such poise and dramatics."

"..I speak with such flair and grandeur for the reason that, while not something so simple as a word could bear forth the meaning and tone that it would take to paint a picture of the darker thoughts that you bring to mind, I hold out for a glimmer of hope that something such as higher and more intense words might stand a chance of only barely falling short, a great stretch above that of the normal conversation and more common utterances..", the raven-locked and illustrious gentleman explains, lifting the wrist that he'd given freedom from the cufflink earlier, so that he can go about rolling up the sleeve of his black shirt. A crooked grin creeps over his alluring lips now, holding for a moment as he does give notice that, perhaps, there is something else within to take up residence with the silver-tongued incubus, "..You could be a demoness, but for all of the concern, I am not embarrassed, nor do I feel the need to constrain in telling you that you speak with the voice of an angel. Such should never go to waste. It is the most blissful thing that I have heard since entering into this city.". (Flattery - 6 Successes)

The vintage porcelain doll seems to be caught so off guard by the echo of his silver tongue that each desperate desire and confused impulse races across her features before her control brings it to a softer degree of amusement. Adjusting her weight delicately, she brings her forearms into a gentle placement on the tabletop that allows her to lean forward. "My own near religious confession, in turn perhaps. Tone and cadence are never substitutes for eloquence and intoxicating qualities, I must assure you." She pauses to bring one hand to her throat, letting her fingertips trip over the narrow lines of her collarbone. "While I am known here for the simple design of verve and form in information, I'm not sure that any pleasure I'd once found there will easily match such a short enounter with an Angel, or a Devil. I find myself impartial." (Seduction - 5 successes)

As the fingertips of the woman trace along her collarbone, the glimmering and exotic sights of the social creature across the table seem to follow every single inch of the movement without chance of relent. It's not subtle, the manner in which his tongue is traced over the tip of a fang that he's not had the bother to keep from the view of the public. He leans forward in an amount equal to that which Macha had done, and the sharpened end of that canine presses into his lower lip, puncturing it and leaving nothing more than a simple droplet of crimson vitae. It is removed with a deft sweep of his silvered tongue, however, "..Religion should never mingle with emotion, lest we fall into another age of darkness and derelict. And so I put it away, shoved behind the curtain so as to not disturb emotion, that sweet lady. I must have you.".

Between the quick shift of her eyes between his own entangling gaze and his lips, Macha's form rises a little as a knee is put to the seat of her chair. She leans forward even more to further the dark brush strokes of blush as they hit her cheeks. "Religion is only a connection of spirit. Modern religion balances my conscious in almost fractional pieces." Her voice lowers dramatically into a more rushed whisper, his last words enough to mingle passion with excitement, and after being swept away in the distraction of the splash of red at his lips, she returns to lock her hazel eyes with his own brilliant amber. "Religion that would call by such a name requires emotion to be released from such things as closets and curtains, otherwise what would be the point?" She bats her lashes to manage her gaze away from him, but once more she fails and looks back to him with an eager sensuality. "There's a saying that religion is the next closest resource, besides murder and sex, that humanity has to indulge senses they don't understand. Nothing different that illusion, really, if not the same."

Matching the woman step for step and movement for movement, the lithesome and well-dressed gentleman with the raven-hued hair and the glimmering amber sights does much the same, shifting about, rising, and pressing a knee to the seat of the chair. When she leans forward, so does he, in something that an onlooker might mistake for an exotic dance from another land, "..Religion is fiction and fiction is Illusion. It is but another blanket that we wrap ourselves in when given to acting like an animal and not wishing to face the consequence; a consequence that, too, is naught but more illusion, planted by the seed of fiction that is religion, my dearest verbal duelist..". His full lips break into another grin at his own admission, and he winks at her, never the one to back down from something that could yield such a rewarding prize, "..And thus, we bring ourselves back to Illusion, a topic from which has spawned an evening. We must select the illusion which appeals to our temperament, and embrace it

Macha looks him over for a moment as they rest face to face, both leaning against the tabletop like anxious school kids. "It's always been my thought that illusion and control are what keep us from acting as such animals," she purrs in a soft whisper, clearly more impacted by their closeness than the short response of her first thought. "That would be the restrain from delusional consequence. That one side of passion that leaves us free for companionship at all." She faulters slightly with another glance towards his lips as they twist into a grin, though her current rush of thoughts are clearly not on something as menial as his attractive smile. "I've many favorites for just such occasions, but ettiquette dictates a suggestion, perhaps. Or, even, more curiosity. You quite thrill me."

"..It has always been mine that, sometimes, we should /not/ keep from acting like animals. To shed denial upon the more base instinct, and rip the potence from it, is to push down that which has brought us to where we are now..", the beautiful man of the silvered tongue whispers, for his voice has been dropped low at such a close encounter with the Toreador, "..When you are faced with fear, you are broken down into nothing but instinct. The same could be said for passion, though not in a time when too many let fear mingle with, and even control their passion..". He pauses, a bit of a hesitation coming over his face. Something darker, more base, and less civilized flashes through the backdrop of the depths of his glimmering sights. Something like an animal that has been caged for far too long. In a surprising, perhaps bold move, he snaps his fangs at the woman naught but an inch from her lower lip, allowing his mouth then to work into a wicked smile, followed with the utterance of, "Life's a bitch and then you die, love..".

As his teeth nip together so close to her face, the small woman slips back just an inch, putting even the slightest measure of the table between them again. What's horribly unclear, however, is why. She keeps her hazel eyes focused on him for a long time before even the soft flutter of her extremely long, extremely fake lashes can be seen. "Without utilizing exactly what keeps us in pace with what we are, the best actions are not always controlled, I agree." Her voice remains in the same lusty whisper, even with the minimal break in proximity. One set of fingers still lingers about her throat, though the natural curve of her manicured nails are careful to not leave even a darkened mark against her white skin. "Not all of us get to appreciate the experience of it happening twice, however. Or the struggle against both favorable and harmful lust that such circumstances bring. Distance, maybe. I've never suffered from it. Only a less picky pallet for things forbidden under the shade of the sky - even one so starless as here."

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