Ivan Press

[Cordelia] People don't talk in clubs.

She likes that.

She doesn't really wonder what the lyrics of the songs are, or even if they have lyrics. And most of them don't. Most of the songs are so over-mixed or supposedly edgy that you can't really distinguish what they were in the first place. It doesn't matter. It's all got a four four meter, it's all got a strong downbeat. And the sound quality is fantastic. It bears no more mention.

This is the club: it doesn't have a name. It's not really a club, it's a converted warehouse. It will, no doubt, go under in a few months when people realize that this is the place to be. When the rest of Chicago realizes that they should party here, it ceases to be interesting. In its infancy, this nameless establishment is all glamor. It's being promoted by word of mouth, and apparently whoever is talking about it is mouthy. The club is packed. There's a catwalk at least fifty feet in the air, suspended precariously by wires and outdated building codes. There is a second floor, keeping with the industrial-chic feel, where people can sit at the usual couches and tables and do lines of coke off of fairskinned pre-law students. If the music wasn't so good, if the drinks weren't amazing, if the dance floor wasn't packed with writhing, sensuous bodies, this place would be a dump.

In its own right, it is. It's a place where people can pay exorbitant amounts of money to feel like they're slumming it.

Cordelia came for the bass.

The lighting is bad, and is the usual dark and occasional spotlighting. The colors fade from red to orange, to green, to violet and back. The sond changes, and so does the color scheme. Mostly warm colors. She's dancing, and it's a wonder that she managed to get in the door with her glasses on, but given that this place is almost so under-done it's okay, it stands to reason Cordelia's wearing them for sake of irony. After all, she's got one Hell of a body. Blue top. Backless. Pants that seem to dip low, show off her hips and cling, and heels. Kitten heels, but heels.

Because, you see, today was a day she didn't want to stand out. She wanted to be somewhere that she blended in, that no one cared who she was and didn't know to ask if she spoke the same language they did. Ergo, Cordelia put on clubbing attire and refrained from making herself look like a six foot three amazon of a woman.

Here's where we open the scene, on the downbeat. With the lights red. With the bass loud in a place without a name.

[Ivan Press] And here's where Ivan Press rolls up tonight in style: not the white Bentley (boring! Also, returned to Lane. Finally. In one piece. Amazingly), not in some ten-block-long stretch limo, but in a purring, lowslung beast named after a fighting bull.

We speak, of course, of the Murcielago. Which in dim light is black, but by day would actually reveal itself to be that sort of gunmetal grey that reminds one of jet fighters and bullets. This beauty pulls to a hard stop right in front of the club, parked double. The engine guns once to make the line of gawking clubbers outside squeal, and then shuts off on a diminishing growl. The driver's door opens.

Ivan's gone mod tonight: skinny tie and button down, sleek silk vest, sleek trousers. All of it silvery-grey, right down to the tie; the shirt beneath black. Not quite mod then. Postmodern mod, if there's such a thing. He flashes a smile at the onlookers that makes them think he's some sort of celebrity, and while that's not strictly true --

-- when he comes around the passenger's side and sweeps the door open, the young women, all three of them, that emerge out of the Lamborghini must at least be catwalk models somewhere. Look at them, so fucking glamourous. Look at the way they smile, and pose, and flip their hair back over their shoulders.

Look at the fact that all three of them squashed into the Murcielago's single passenger seat. Four people in a two-seater car: if that doesn't scream fashion-skinny, nothing does.

And, Ivan has a fucking entourage tonight. Pulling up behind the Murcielago -- also doubleparking -- is a large black SUV, a Cadillac or a Porsche or something ridiculous like that. Piling out of that vehicle, which surely had room for at least two of the ladies now on Ivan's arms, are a tall hawknosed man; a burly tattooed man; and a slightly sunburnt man with a lantern jaw. Seen apart, they mostly blend with the crowd. Seen together, something about them screams Russian. Russian mafia. Ex-. Maybe. What a collection.

At any rate, this group heads for the door. And the burly one hands the bouncer a roll of bills, and the rest don't even look at him, and while Ivan and his ladies are smiling and laughing, the men behind them are dour and glowering. The Ragabash stops at the edge of the dance floor and bends -- he doesn't have to bend very far -- to murmur in the ear of one of the women. She tilts her head back, a laugh so naturally gorgeous it could only be affected. Ivan's grinning too, though, and then he waves the hooknosed one over, and

soon enough Dmitri's going to the DJ and bending to mutter to the technohead's ear, and

a little after that the music lowers in volume for just a moment and the DJ booms over the sound system: "Drinks tonight are on a good friend of mine. Everybody give it up for Mr. -- Ivan -- PRESS!"

Admit it. He knows how to make an entrance.

[Cordelia] Ivan Press.

Whoever he is, he is a saint. The clubgoers, the dancers, the bartenders and even bouncers think that this man is a hero. He just bought drinks... for an entire club. Not just a drink. Drinks. plural. He has easily dropped ten grand on this place. Or just about. Who could really estimate what people could drink when the drinks were free. And on a good looking guy, none the less.

And this man is flanked by models and mobsters. Russian mob. Ex-. Maybe.

Admittedly, Cordelia's too busy dancing to notice the entrance, but she isn't too busy to notice the sound stop. That it's interrupted, just enough, to announce Ivan Press. The crowd roars, applause and hoots and hollering. Enough that even Cordelia has to raise her hands above her head and join in the applause. She claps and has to laugh. It's a pleased, almost amused sound that is lost in the uproar. She starts to weave through the crowd.

While she's a pretty damned good dancer, Cordelia is not a good crowd surfer. She pushes, weaves, and finds herself wedged between a blonde with heavenly tits and her heteroflexible boyfriend. She grunts, rolls her eyes, and gives the blonde a look. A look. Blondie moves, and she's on her way to

"Ivan!"

Sure, she yelled. But the place was loud, so it wasn't as loud as it should have been.

[Ivan Press] It's not really that Cordelia's very loud. It's not that she's even really audible over the noise of the crowd -- particularly when they're all screaming for free booze. It's not that that catches Ivan's eye.

It's breeding. Plain and simple. Cordelia has it. No one else in here -- not the catwalk models, not the DJ, not the hip young clubsters in all their eclectic finery -- can boast that.

The Russians with Mr. Ivan Press have it. But that's diluted, a low simmer; the last traces of Fang lineage bred out through dozens of generations of intermarriages with Glass Walkers, with Fenrir, with -- god forbid -- Shadow Lords.

Also, none of them are female. And at least passably hot without her glasses.

So: Cordelia calls, and Ivan's cloudy green eyes lock onto her, and his already grinning face lights up another notch. "Cordelia!" he bellows right back, untangling himself from the models and their permanent pouts. He throws his arms around the gawky young woman; spins her around once and sets her back down.

"I want you to meet my friends. This is Jezebel, this is Katarina, and this is Romana." They're indistinguishable. One's blonde, one's brunette, and one has hair so fine and light it may as well be white. However, they wear the same expressions: polite smiles that look like sneers. "And you know Dmitri, Evgeny, and Kolya."

Then there's a burst of Russian. Cordelia might be glad to see the women look as lost as she is. The men respond, though, and soon enough the entire entourage -- pouting models included -- depart for the upstairs. Some VIP room, undoubtedly.

They're alone -- as alone as one gets in a club of seven hundred, anyway. "What the hell are you doing here?" he shouts. "You keep surprising me. I had you pinned for a bookworm." There's a miming of reading, nose-in-book.

[Cordelia] You could't throw a rock in Cordelia's line without finding a hero or someone with some kind of pull in their tribe. Even if she came here to blend in, she's a Silver Fang. She stands out to those who know what they're looking for. Ivan knows what he's looking for, or at least what he's looking at.

So: Cordelia calls and he notices. He's grinning, and calls her name in turn. Someone gets pushed, or moved a little so she can get there. The crowds don't part, but she gets there all the same. Lips upturn, her smile's bright, and... hot damn, she's wearing lipgloss. Who would of thought the geek knew how to put makeup on. She's in the air, and easily spinnable.

He spins, she goes eeeeeee.

It's a strangely fitting sound. She wiggles her fingers in greeting to Katarina, Jezebel, Romana. They're all interchangeable, and... well... traditionally gorgeous women. They wear smiles like sneers- Cordelia doesn't seem the type who could wear a sneer comfortably.

He thought she was more of a bookworm, though. She watches his hands, the open and closed motion, she shakes her head."Estoy una mujer con muchos talentos," she says. Places her hands apart and waves a little when she says muchos. Talentos is pretty self-explanitory.

"Me gusta leer," she says, and puts her hands together in front of her. They are clapped together, then opened like a book, "y me gusta bailar."

Bailar gets it's own motion. Right and left index fingers are extended upward, and point into the air. She wiggles her hips and points her fingers into the air in an understated, slightly ... well... dorky motion. Right finger in the air, left hip juts out to the side. Alternate and repeat. She only does this motion three times, though.

[Ivan Press] She compliments him on his talents -- he thinks -- but he sees her hands moving apart and, true to form, does not miss the opportunity.

"I am extremely well endowed?" he gasps, a mockery of shock and flattery loud enough that Katajezana would've heard easily even as they're filtering away through the crowd. "Why thank you."

She talks about reading, then, and she talks about dancing. She does a dorky little wiggle and he: he reaches out with his hand as lean and deft as a striking snake, catches her by the chin, and rubs his thumb over her lips.

Slowly.

Then, pulling back, he looks at his thumb. "Makeup!" The look on his face is almost accusatory shock, so over the top it's unmistakeably a farce.

[Cordelia] She has to look back to see their expressions. On some level, Cordelia must enjoy messing with people. Or, well, she must be aware enough to know when someone else is messing with people and she likes to get in on the gig. There's a solemn nod with that. "Es verdad," she tells the Runway collective. Though, admittedly, she's not entirely aware of what she's agreeing with.

He suffers through the little awkward dance, so she tolerates him catching her chin. One eyebrow raises, and his thumb passes over her lips. Both raise at this point, and she didn't realize she had adopted a pout in favor of her perpetually confused look.

Makeup!

She covers her mouth and her eyes widen behind those dorky glasses. She looks up and away, and she nods. Once up, and once down, "yo no se despiertan todas-" she says this while gesturing outward, as if something were vast and all-encompassing- "las mañanas luce fabulosa."

[Marc de Vogue] Another nigjht.
Another sin.

It seems as if the Silver Fangs know how to do that well and proper at least. There is something to be said for generations of breeding meant to convince you and others of your superiority to them. It is the blood of Heroes, kings and lunatics that flows in them. For the young kinsman known as Marc, or Count or just ‘Ohmyfuckinggoodthatsgood!” the nights are not to be wasted.

So it finds him filtering into the club, drawn towards the beat of the bass, rhythm of music that promises that there will be plenty of bodies pressed tight in dancing. There will be Flesh.

Simple white shirt that hugs his lean frame, top buttons undone. A pair of sunglasses tucked into the neck showing that he had been out and about for quite a few hours already. His slacks, tailored to perfection are a simple off white and his loafers follow. He could have fit in nicely at the White party. He could fit in nicely anywhere.

Not so much a thing about style or taste, but of presence and the young man has it. Self-confidence in him, a boldness that keeps his spine straight, shoulders relaxed. It is the way he looks over people. Not as if he believes himself to be more then they. No, simply because he IS more then they and that is natural. It is that strange thing which so few can pull off, but Marc does it oh so well.

So it is that young man who enters the club and slowly begins making his way across it, towards the dancefloor slowly looking around.

[Ivan Press] Verdad, he gets, if only from her tone. And that makes him laugh aloud, his head throwing back with sheer humor. There isn't a lot of darkness in Ivan. His jokes are pranks, and his pranks are ultimately harmless. Another Fang, another Ragabash, would've played that morning-after joke through to its conclusion; kept Cordelia in the dark; kept her in bed.

Well. Another Ragabash wouldn't have had his lie seen through in the first place, but that's a different story.

Point is: not a lot of darkness there. And when Cordelia agrees with his estimation of his assets, making at least Romana's eyes gleam with sheer predatory instinct -- money and endowment! (but mostly money. always that.) -- Ivan looks delighted.

She tells him makeup is fabulous. Or something like that. And Ivan composes himself; replies very solemnly: "Es verdad."

Then he catches sight of Marc, whose breeding, like Cordelia's, cannot be missed. "Hey!" When he strolled in here, he had his arms around the waists of beautiful women. Cordelia is somewhat plainer, but his arm finds its way around that waist too, easily, as though he were used to this sort of thing. Escorting dancers around. Trained, talented dancers. "Let's go talk to him. Maybe he can translate."

And off they go.

[Hilary Durante] The dancefloor suddenly reminds her of Pamplona.

On another floor, she sips champagne and watches the bartenders, who are not allowed to run from the stampede coming their way. She can't see Mister! Ivan! PREEESSS!

But she knows his name.

It isn't late enough for anyone she came with to be gone yet, so the space they're occupying as they drink themselves ready for the dancefloor is still full of people. Unlike yesterday on the lake, the fairskinned brunette's hair is pin-straight and slinks like silk thread over her bare shoulders when she turns her head this way or that. Her pants are tailored, gleaming white, and flare as they go from her hips to the jeweled straps of her heels. One of the nice things about having small breasts is not worrying overmuch about how to support the girls while wearing a strapless top, so she does.

She also wears bangles upon bangles that drape on her wrists, dangle, clink together like the glasses of her friends who toast to nothing, and everything, and each other.

There were lights swinging across Mr. Ivan Press and his entourage a moment ago, so that everyone would know who to thank as he passed by. The Ragabash gets calls of

"Thanks, man, you ROCK!" thrown at him as he passes by, and cries of

"You wanna fuck me tonight?" followed by peals of laughter from the other girls, who dared her to say it.

As he moves through the crowd, Mrs. Durante sips her champagne, and the DJ plays a rather interestingly mixed version of Death by Blonde. She finishes the glass, sets it down, and excuses herself from her casual friends to head downstairs, her manicured hand gliding over the railing.

[Cordelia] Poor Ivan. Romana knew the man's assets now, and this, of course, meant that the rest of the Runway Trifecta was probably in for a bit of trouble. Broken heels and pulled extensions. She says something about makeup, and he replies es verdad. Cordelia, at that point, looked down and laughed. It sounded free and came easy- Ivan? While she might not understand all of the things he was saying, was fun. The same can't be said for a fair chunk of their tribe.

Silver Fangs are not known for being people you want to hang out with. Leaders? Yes. Party guests? Not so much.

He gestures off towards Marc, and points her in that direction. Off they go towards the man. Maybe he can translate-"Marc de Vooogue you great big sluuuut, ohmigawd!" And it is a spot on impression of a very flamboyant stylist they both know, or at the very least, one that she met and one that Marc knows.

Marc gets waved at, and the next thing that comes out of her mouth isn't Spanish. It's French. It's very... very good French, as a matter of fact. Entirely too easy coming from her lips, and the transition is flawless.

"Que fais-tu ici?" she asks. Her tone is familiar and, finally, "Ivan, c'est Marc. Marc, c'est Señor - Ivan - Press."

She does a good job of immitating the DJ, too.

[Marc de Vogue] There is something to be said about instincts. The kin’s might not be as strong as the True and their animal sides, but they do have them. It is what lets them sense their cousins when they get near. It is what keeps them alive, living so close to such beasts. So when Ivan and his little entourage begins to wander closer to them, something at the very tip of Marc’s spine makes him turn his head.

And it is not to Ivan his gaze goes first (that comes later) but to the plain woman in the sea of delicate modelesque creatures. Cordelia. It draws a smile to his lips that has nothing to do with sense or sensibility, and everything to do with anticipation.

Then she calls out to him, and he can’t help himself but to laugh, a true mirth showing on his face. It is enough that he is still grinning when they reach him to make the introductions. He responds in that fluid French of his native tongue.
“Mon dieu Cordelia, ce qui s'est passé? Avez-vous retomber dans votre placard? Pierre aura une forme!”

It is said with light humor and then he is turning to Ivan. He looks him over, making no secret of the admiration in his gaze. He can appreciate decadence. The girls at his side (aside from cordie) is given nothing but a glance if even that.
“A pleasure Monsieur Press. I am le Compte Marc de Vogue, but please, call me Marc.”
He extends his hand to the other. The tall young aristocrat giving him a bright smile and those clear blue-green eyes are vivid and warm.

[Ivan Press] Ivan's very popular tonight. Buying everyone's drinks for the rest of the night tends to have this effect. Ten thousand dollars worth of liquor. Maybe more. Maybe twenty. A drop in the fucking pond; a few days' worth of dividends, not even, and suddenly people know his face, they know his name, they'll remember him

at least until they black out from the drinks he bought them.

Some girl propositions him on a dare, and let's be honest: his head turns, and he scopes her out in a millisecond, catalogs, categorizes, ranks -- and in the end he winks at her and grins that million dollar grin, but doesn't stop to chitchat. Not hot enough. Seriously, did you see who he walked in with?

...which, of course, makes the girl he's currently got his arm around a mystery. Sure, she could be pretty enough without the glasses, but the point is: the glasses. And the six feet of height, which on her -- except perhaps when she dances for-real -- looks gawky, not elegant. And yet, for reasons the rest of this nightclub completely fails to understand, it's the three runway models that disappear upstairs with the rest of Ivan's entourage, set aside until the playboy had time to play with them again. It's the dorky girl that stays on his arm.

They greet each other, dork and le Comte de Vogue. Ivan stands back as this happens, relaxed, unoffended by their happy hellos. When it comes his turn, he steps smoothly forward, and

it's almost unmistakeable, to those who know what to look for, that this young man is a Silver Fang. It's how he holds himself. It's those long lean bones, built for elegance. It's in his money, and how well he wears his luxurious life; it's in the crisp way he shakes the aristocrat's hand, which has just a hint of old-world formality in it. What's less clear is the nature of the creature. If there's Rage in him, it's nearly nonexistent; lost in the rush of bodies and bass.

"Likewise, Your Excellency." There's a twinkle of humor in his eye with that address; his formality is humor, not protocol. "It's good to meet a friend of Cordelia's that speaks one of her languages. I've been floundering my way through pantomimes and charades."

[Cordelia] "Il vivra. D'ailleurs, je porte... eh.... eyeliner en ce moment, je pense qu'il serait fier que je ne me suis pas poignarder tout en la plaçant sur," she tells him. Her hands rest, fairly comfortably might we add, on top of Ivan's. She stays on his arm while a higher quality of blonde and leggy gets relocated to wherever they go. She is, however, extraordinarily bred. Maybe that was it.

To the rest of the world, she is a glorious pile of plain and awkward. Maybe it's different when she dances. That was left for debate.

"Pauvre gars. Je n'ai pas été la meilleure compagnie, mais il fait un bon travail de traduction blahblahblah de en anglais."

[Hilary Durante] Everyone in the club is on a first-name basis with Ivan now. He's their new best friend. If they're not completely smashed they're going to be calling him Mr. Press here and there but, truth be told, he's getting invitations to come sit, to come dance, to come to this other club left and right, all buzzing around his ears. The prize and price of fame, at once. They surround him because he is just dangerous enough to excite them, and he bought them booze, so he's their friend. They want to know what he's promoting -- nobody spends money on other people in this country just to spend it. A movie? A restaurant? Another club? What, what, what?

Come sit with us.

Come dance with me.

Hilary's stride towards the little group of like-blooded people cannot be missed. In heels she's tall, in any case she's slender, in almost any company she's beautiful, and to Ivan, at least, the beat of her heart sends blood racing through her veins that drips with the [lost] glory of her bloodline.

"Mr. Press," is what she calls him, though there isn't a drop of formality to it. "Hello again, sailor."

[Marc de Vogue] He shakes his head, smiling wide.
“Oh I am sure she has enjoyed that immensely Monsieur Press. And yes, there is that to be said about European aristocracy. They do tend to teach the languages needed in the other courts.”

Then He responds to Cordelia with a smile.
“Vous lui briserait le cœur. Puis à nouveau, s'il avait vu la façon dont vous avez dansé ce soir-là ... Il vous pardonne rien, comme le ferait I. “

A glance to Ivan.
“I will strive to translate for you if you like. She does tend to go on about her books however.”
Said with a gleam in his eyes. A gleam that is directed to Hilary as she approaches the group. Marc angles himself slightly to give himself a good view of her, and again, he makes no secret of the way he looks her up and down.

She does however address Ivan and Marc waits to see if the man will make the introductions.

[Cordelia] There is another person approaching. She turns to look in that direction and sees... Hilary. Hilary Durante. Mrs. Hilary Durante: she is lovely. She is more than lovely, she is beautiful. In heels, she is tall, but not too tall. Her hair is dark and has a nice enough texture, and she looks like she owns every. inch. of her own body. Small breasts look more like an asset than a distration. Perfect size.

Hilary is beautiful, and that's before taking lineage into account.

It isn't important, though, or maybe it's the lighting, but are Cordelia's cheeks a little more pink than they had been earlier?

And maybe it was what Marc said, because she had been listening, and she seems to have lost her train of thought when Hilary approached. Or maybe it came after his statement. The timing isn't too horribly specific. She purses her lips for a minute, and instead offers a closed lipped smile. Something small, but a bit too honest.

She waves. Side to side motion.

[Ivan Press] There's a constant buzz of conversation around him now. People keep talking to him, keep asking him questions; want to know what he's promoting, where he's going next, who he is, what, what, what, and Ivan: he just ignores them. Smiles now and then; trades high fives as people pass; accepts kisses on the cheek -- and occasionally on the lips -- from progressively more drunk girls. Fends off an attempted kiss on the lips from a progressively more drunk guy with a polite hey, flattered, but no thanks, and all the while

does a pretty good job of keeping his attention on his kin. His friends, one might say.

Marc offers to translate. Ivan laughs, "Well, it's either that or pantomiming -- " and then Marc's eyes are gleaming in a way Ivan recognizes, which makes the Ragabash turn to face --

"Mrs. Durante." There's a sort of satisfaction in his tone, hard to place. Marc's eyes aren't the only ones doing the elevator: all the way to the ground, and up again. "What an unexpected pleasure."

A beat. A sort of -- realigning. His elegantly bent elbow straightens. Cordelia's hand slides down his forearm; he gives her fingers a small, distracted squeeze, and then extends that hand to the

(let's face it.)

lovelier woman. And there's no malice in that, no deliberate slight -- though perhaps that's little enough consolation.

Another; then he turns back to his companions. "This is Cordelia," he introduces the spanish blonde, "and Count Marc de Vogue. Marc, Cordelia, this is Mrs. Durante."

And his eyes go back to her. And stay there.

[Katherine Bellamonte] [Are we schmoozing, darling Kate? I think so. Just for fun.]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 1, 3, 5, 6, 7, 8 (Success x 2 at target 6)

[Hilary Durante] He got her name out on the water on a balmy, breezy Sunday, as teenage boys hollered the honorific and her last name -- which does not match that porcelain-pale skin nor a single bone in her structure -- up at her from wet deck to flybridge.

She knows his name, and one has to imagine she's quite attentive if she managed to catch a glimpse of his face when the lights hit him as his name was screamed out over the speakers.

And she is beautiful. She's older: more than thirty, less than forty, takes good care of herself in any case. She's graceful and composed and when she smiles it lights up her face, could light up a room. And she is someone's missus: the rock on the third finger of her left hand is a pale, rosy pink diamond of at least five carats, flanked by clear ones of slightly smaller but still considerable size. Her other rings -- and there are a few -- are similarly captivating. With her earrings and her bangles, she glitters slightly when the light hits her just right.

But it's really the smile, which flashes as she tips her head and welcomes Ivan's greeting, taking his hand without seeming to notice that he dropped Cordelia's for it. Her hand comes to his palm-down. When he's done with it, she inclines her head to the Count with the slightly resistant respect so many Americans give to the titled of other empires, but also with a certain learned submission to giving those titles lipservice. "Your Excellency," she says, with decent enough sincerity.

Cordelia, given no last name, receives a quick once-over and a smile. "Cordelia. A pleasure."

To them all, it seems: "Now, shall we dance first or drink?"

[Katherine Bellamonte] It's a party, then. A gathering. Or it's a Nightclub.

It honestly doesn't matter that much where it is -- they are Silver Fang; and they bring the dignity in the door with their [filthy, sexy, dirty] money and breeding. Every step, every cast back, lashes-down turn of the face, tilt of the neck; smile that was a lie and a promise and a dare gave away what they were -- what she was the minute she stepped inside. And it wasn't just that she was pretty, or leggy or that she had the curvaceous figure so lacking in many modern day girls of her age bracket.

It was the elegance. The grace, the indefinable je ne sais quoi.

Katherine Bellamonte moved with the assurance of position, but she neglected some of the pomp these days. She smiled more, but meant it less. She laughed, and tossed the sleek waves of fair hair over her shoulders but the airy sound was some degree of show rather than any true amusement when she was surrounded by admirers -- Ivan Press had his own little pool of nipping, eager fish -- but Katherine, rather than devouring their rapt focus, seemed rather bored by the young man in the suit she was speaking with.

She had a glass of wine in hand, and was peering into its depths as her companion leaned in and touched the tips of his fingers to her wrist. She made a good show of listening, the Half Moon, with her glossy lips turned in a playful little curl and her pale eyes impossibly large in the dim lighting -- she put up a good show. But then, she had been taught by the master of manipulation himself in Lucien Bellamonte.

[Marc de Vogue] Marc seems amused by the honorifics, but leaves whatever his thoughts were on the subject unsaid for now. The kin simply offers that brilliant, warm smile.
“Mrs. Durante. un plaisir de faire votre connaissance.”

Of course, Ivan slips from Cordie to Hilary, and Marc steps in. Seamless and easy as he looks to the younger woman with that smile and a quite open and shameless wink. He will translate for her, the parts she wishes said to the others anyway.

Yet his gaze is drawn for a moment, and only a moment, to the woman that moves in the club. He knew that one quite well, for only having met her so few times. But it is a momentary distraction before he looks back to the others. He remains quiet on the subject of drink or dance. A good little kinsman.

[Cordelia] "Creo que deberíamos primer baile. Porque si el DJ se emborracha, la música puede sonar horrible ... o maravilloso ... quién sabe," she says with a shrug.

Bailar o beber.

Isn't that always the question? She doesn't seem to notice, or really even mind, the transition. The plain female listens to the conversation, and looks back at Marc. She takes a second, bumps Marc a tad and... looks for the door. Notes Kate, notes the way she moves, the way she drinks, the way she's Katherine Bellamonte.

And notes that, well, she has to behave herself.

[Ivan Press] "I think," Ivan says, looking straight at Hilary, "you owe me a race."

He is perhaps the only one here still unaware of his elder's presence.

[Hilary Durante] "Enchanté," Hilary says to Marc, and though from the well-pronounced word itself it's hard to tell if she actually knows French or is just faking it, there's a certain recognition in her eyes when he speaks it himself. She, unlike the other two Kin who she doesn't recognize as Kin, doesn't seem to notice Katherine. She looks at Cordelia as she speaks and gives a thoughtful little shrug. Again, hard to tell if she understands, or if she's just... shrugging a the non-English.

Her eyes track back to Ivan. "You are free to think that, I suppose," she answers mildly.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Honor's Compass catches her Kinsman's eye, and a fair eyebrow slips upward in a wordless expression, a corner of her mouth lifts. Much could be assumed from that gesture, and with a sip of wine, the Silver Fang leans in and murmurs something into the ear of her companion. He nods, and she moves away from him in a whisper of expensive silk and slacks.

Her Rage comes along with her, wrapped around sun-kissed skin and her pale eyes.

She does not barge into conversation as though she had some right, but rather comes to greet Marc, and Cordelia. Both receive the option of a kiss to the cheek -- at least the former does. The latter, ah. Perhaps not, perhaps just a smile, and a verbal greeting. "I did not realize this was the place to be to mingle with family," she adds lightly, sipping from her glass.

"How enchanting."

[Ivan Press] Ivan's head cocks to the side. It's these little things; these little signs that mark him as what he is. That tilt, so quick and precise, is inhuman. The gleam of his eyes in the flashing lights of the club -- inhuman.

IVAN! Thanks for the drinks, man! -- some drunkard, staggering by. Ivan's eyes don't so much as flick aside from Hilary.

"You," he says lightly, "have that down to an art form, Mrs. Durante."

And then his eyes do flick aside. Katherine sails into this little gathering, and Ivan half-turns her way; gives her a nod of the head so proper and respectful it has to be half a joke in its own right. "Katherine," he says. His eyes spark with his smile.

[Marc de Vogue] ”A pleasurable surprise to find you here Lady Katherine.”
Marc’s voice is low, just loud enough to carry to his elder. The tall kin looking down at her, meeting her gaze with that boldness that seem to permeate his entire presence. HE returns the kiss on her cheek. The hand that is not offered to Cordelia lifting to brush manicured fingers to her arm as a part of the greeting.

“IT seems that every time I turn around, more of the family shows up. A new and exciting face at every turn it seems.”

[Hilary Durante] family

says the new blonde once.

family

says the Count, referring to the young newcomer as 'Lady'.

And they all know each other. They look little enough alike, though all of them but Hilary are fair-haired. The woman is not holding a drink now, but she wishes she were. She is meeting Ivan's eyes, and even with a Garou of his little Rage, that can be rare enough. That she holds his gaze a moment or two longer and gives him just a light flick of her eyebrow in answer -- rarer still.

That she looks over her shoulder at Katherine's approach and does not flinch from the woman, does not widen her eyes or go even paler than she already is, that perhaps marks her as very stupid or very bold. Or a little of both.

She offers the woman her hand, if only because she can sense some measure of deference given to her by all three of the people she was previously talking to, and because she wonders -- but does not quite suspect, certainly does not assume yet -- if family means something beyond human reckoning. "Hilary Durante," she introduces herself, since no one else is. "A pleasure. I was just inviting these lovely people up for a drink or out to dance awhile, but only Cordelia has answered, and in a rather waffling way. What do you think?"

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine, the Ragabash says with -- surprise, surprise -- some spark of jest to his nod, to the twist of his body toward her and the Half Moon raises her eyebrows high as if she were surprised to see him there. "Oh," she says with a slight widening of her eyes in faux-starting.

"Oh. Ivan. How nice to see you again."

Her voice all but gurgles with repressed amusement, before she turns her attention from the Cliath back to Marc. He leans in, though he does not have to stoop so far for Katherine Bellamonte was a tall enough creature in her own right, especially when she was clad in high heels. He brushes her cheek with his rougher jaw and she smiles at him, stares into his eyes for a lingering moment -- all heat and focus -- before she pulls away, her fingers absently tracing along his arm.

"I know exactly how you feel," she says -- blue eyes now locked to the newcomer, the female she cannot place but can sense, can smell. A hand is offered, and captured by the Fostern -- it is warm, but not unpleasantly so, simply surprising -- the palm soft to the touch but the touch itself still somehow a little unsettling if for no other reason that the blonde female it belonged to radiated an uncomfortable amount of Rage.

"Welcome to the city, Ms Durate," Katherine's voice caressed the name and the faintest trace of an accent seemed to linger in her words. French, perhaps. But an American, at least for some time. "I am Katherine Bellamonte, it's always a pleasure to meet a new face."

She cants her head. Her eyes flick back to the Ragabash. "Or two." To Cordelia, white teeth flash. "Or three."

[Cordelia] [willpower!]
Dice Rolled:[ 6 d10 ] 2, 4, 8, 9, 9, 10 (Success x 4 at target 7)

[Hilary Durante] "Missus," is the mild correction given to Katherine, and lo and behold, so she is. There's the ring and everything, glinting as she draws her hand back from Katherine's after a brief, ladylike clasp. Her own eyes are deep dark, her hair chocolate colored. She doesn't have the piercing blue eyes of so many Fangs, or of most of Katherine's packmates. She doesn't have their golden hair. Her lineage does not seem to jive with the roll of her last name, but then, Cordelia is rather fair for a Spaniard, too.

[Cordelia] She smiles her slightly confused smile at Kate. The words she's picked up are the important ones. Where's the bathroom, I'm sorry, fuck off. The things you need to survive in America. Numbers, what have you... body language is important, to her. It's how Cordelia catches most of the messages broadcast in this country. She catches a look at Katherine's teeth, and she inhales. She smells people, sweat, closeness, alcohol... she smells a lot of things.

Her lips upturn at the corners, just at the corners, and her lips stay closed. She doesn't quite bear her teeth but her posture does not stay completely straight for a moment. She does not appear larger than Kate, even is she might have an inch or two on her in heels.


The moment, a second to two really, passes, and she perks up. her attention falls on Hilary again, "debemos de baile."

which is accompanied with the little dorky hip wiggle thing she'd done earlier. It's just as brief, too.

[Ivan Press] "I don't believe that one bit," Ivan replies to Katherine, laughing. "When you met this new face, you left him chasing an umbrella through the rain."

Then, "I vote drinks. I don't dance until I'm halfway smashed. My friends are in the lounge upstairs -- you're all more than welcome to join."

[alas, i must sleep! it is crazylate.]

[Hilary Durante] [http://nooooooooooooooo.com/]

[Marc de Vogue] ”Drinks sound good. There will always be time for dancing.”
There is always time for dancing in his world. Marc looks to Katheirne, then glances to the other two women, thoughtful for a moment. It seemed he was not the only one meeting new faces this night. But he had no idea of knowing yet who knew who, so he remained quiet, at Cordelias side, like a true gentleman (unlike some who left her hanging for a prettier face… Well, less glasses anyway! No manners)

“Lady Katherine, will you join us? If there is a decent vintage to be found in this place anyway.”
Doubtlessly there would be. IT had drawn the Fangs after all, and most of them had taste.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Katherine doesn't quite let her hand go, though, you see.

First she leans in, and studies the winking ring on the Kinwoman's finger as if she could, by scrutiny alone, count the diamonds embedded in it, if any. "So you are, indeed." She murmurs, and finally raises pale eyes to study Hilary a moment before she allows her back her hand and straightens in time to hear Ivan's laughing rebuke.

An eyebrow hikes.

"Oh, so. Who asked that you chase it down the street like a Pup?" There is an element of challenge there, teasing, light-hearted as it may be but there, you can see it in the way her smile hardens a touch around the edges, in the way the humor does not quite reach her eyes. They stay immune, those blue pools.

Cordelia gets a look, a moment of consideration before her elder is drawing up beside her, and sliding fingers through long hair, her attention jumps to Marc. "You can translate for me." An order, not a query. "Tell her that I mean her no harm, I am her friend, and her Warder in Chicago and she should not fear me."

Then, like a match ignited, her eyes clear. Her smile returns.

"Yes, indeed. I shall join you."

[Marc de Vogue] And marc does translate it with something of a small smile on his lips, word for word. He does not even need to mimic the tone. Katherine leaves no room for misinterpretation in it.

[Hilary Durante] Cordelia votes for dancing, Ivan votes for drinking, and Katherine and Marc seem more concerned with how the light is reflecting off of one another's eyes than with the question of how to begin their evening -- their evening together, if Hilary's inclusion of all of them as soon as they're within hearing range is to be taken as sincere. But, finally, Marc casts his vote, and Katherine accepts his invitation, and Cordelia is outnumbered.

The ring on Hilary's hand is, indeed, bearing at least a collective seven or eight carats' worth of diamonds. The central one is rose-colored. So she is. Married. Mated. Has to be, with that breeding.

There's talk of an umbrella, and Hilary doesn't care. She ignores it. They're all friends here, and she's the new girl at school who doesn't know everyone's histories, or that Cordelia isn't just quiet, she doesn't know English. Or that two of them aren't just unsettling but that they're Garou, and that they're all Fangs, and that she's --

well, perhaps she just doesn't care enough to wonder overmuch about it. If it matters, it'll come to pass. She'll be told. And if it doesn't matter, then nothing else does, either.

Warder in Chicago


Nevermind, then.

Hilary looks at Katherine, and as Marc is translating for her, Hilary all but stares at the unknown, just-met blonde for a moment. Then she turns to Ivan. Looks at him, too, for a slightly longer moment. Her eyes look him over, the way Marc and he both looked at her. Then she's addressing them all: "My friends, too, in fact. Perhaps we can drift back and forth. Merge parties. Et cetera, et cetera,"

a wave of her hand, and she's heading off, apparently bored to be standing here talking about dancing or drinking and not doing either. She's going to the stairs again, she's heading up to her 'friends' again, she's going to mingle with them all but mostly the people she came with.

At one point she'll end up sitting beside Ivan. But then, at various points she'll end up sitting beside just about everyone. Of course her hand only ends up on the thigh of one. And only for a moment.

And it's the one bearing her wedding ring.

[Hilary Durante] [Feel free to assume Hilary's mingling, but she'll mostly hang out and drink/dance with her own people upstairs! We play more another night!]

[Cordelia] "Katherine, je crains que beaucoup de choses. Aiguilles. Araignées. Flaques boue. Mais je n'ai pas peur de vous," she admits, and it's partial self-deprocation and partial fact. She was afraid of all of those things. She doesn't mention blood. She doesn't even want to think about it, but... it's all fact. She looks at Katherine-

Her cheeks are bright pink. She squeezes Marc's hand a little, and shrugs it off. Or, well, tries to play it off. hard to tell what she was thinking, really, but there it was. And she's regarding the woman directly. French seems to come just as naturally and easily as Spanish does.

"It's okay," she tells her. It's accented, but she's said it a lot so it doesn't sound completely foreign to her.

[Katherine Bellamonte] Hilary is staring.

Katherine is more perceptive than the average human, she notices the evident interest in her role as Cordelia's Warder in the city. The Silver Fang returns the regard with a slow, lazy blink of her eyes and a slight tilt of her head to one side as if she were curious about the Kinwoman's regard. It is no matter, in the end, however, for Hilary wanders off toward to the stairs and Katherine's attention leaves with her for a moment before it returns, rather sharply, when Cordelia launches into a french explanation.

Katherine stares for a moment, then erupts into a delightful peal of laughter, her wine glass dangerously close to spilling as she says in a torrent of excited, enraptured french: "Vous êtes charmant! Je vous aimez déjà, tu seras mon petit pigeon, oui?" The Half Moon smiles at the bespectacled girl like an indulgent Aunt.

"Merci."

That is Marc's alone, along with the pleased expression on his elder's face.

[Marc de Vogue] Marc looks between the two ladies, then gets an almost impish sort of smile. The others left, heading upstairs and leaves Marc alone with Katherine and Cordelia. So what does the cocky young kin do?

With Cordelia on one arm, he offers the other to his elder, as if to escort her as well. It was a strange imitation of Ivan’s previous appearance, only where he had the skinny models on his arms, Marc was aiming to have royalty and breeding on his. It was fun and games and with the light in the eye.

“Well, since we all speak French, this should be a bit more interesting. Ladies? Shall we?”
The French coming smoothly from him as he addresses both women.

And then he is heading upstairs towards the lounges. To join either of the other parties or both or find a place of their own, it doesn't much matter to the young kinsman. He is here to have fun. It just became a game with stakes instead.