Ivan Press

Elizabeth Montressor

[Preliminary willpower roll!]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (1, 4, 6, 8, 8, 10) ( success x 3 )

"Elizabeth, darling-"

----
Nothing ever ended well when it started with Elizabeth, darling. It always involved something beneath her. It involved something degrading, and Elizabeth had little patience for it save to keep up niceties.

But, alas, this one particular endeavor involves going and making nice with another family at a nice dinner party. Not that she had offended them, because Elizabeth Montressor would never say what everyone else was thinking. She would, however, do whatever is necessary to preserve her allowance. And, alas, until she manages to claw her way out of the red in terms of honor, she's going to grounded for awhile. Which, tonight, meant that she was off to a dinner party to go talk to people. Which meant she had to interact with her lessers.

Of course, it was a public relations move. The little bump between her comfortable lifestyle and her usually outlandish one was sizable enough that it warranted pictures. A smiling Ragabash and faux humility- what's worse is that her financier had donated her funds to the homeless. Let no one say that Elizabeth Montressor is not a philanthropist. Keeping doors open for some poor, dilapidated non-for-profit. Behold! The one percent care! Look at what we're doing.

She spends the first fifteen minutes of photo ops and hand-shaking thinking of whether or not mercury goes well with champagne.

She settles on firing her financier. Her mother, a greying woman with the body of a twenty-five year old, mingles with the crowd. She's in her element. Her golden boy brother is not in attendance as of yet. Her sister can't make it- she and her husband are in Venice attending to family affairs.

It leaves Elizabeth. Poor, darling, dutiful Elizabeth to man the crowds. She'll make her money back in a fortnight. Yes, he thinks, strychnine would be more appropriate, but completely ineffective. They have treatment for that now. She sighs, and picks up a glass of champagne from a waiter. She doesn't even look at him, she just takes a sip and resumes listening in to polite conversation.

It's much the same thing that brings Ivan Press to this gathering.

Ivan's greatuncle that is patriarch of the family. His line of the family that makes the decisions. His parents, and all the other younger sons: largely bargaining chips and diplomats, modern-day courtiers for the family's greater gain. This sort of mingling, schmoozing, elbow-greasing of the great and obscure wheels of American politics, American business, American everything: this is what his parents live for. Their one obligation in this life and, fortunately for them, their hobby as well. And fortunately for Ivan, who reputedly has little patience for a party where some pretty young thing sucking his cock isn't a foregone conclusion, his Garou birth by and large exempts him from such duties.

Not tonight, though. 2012 an election year, an important one, and the Republican primaries were still wide open. Damned if they were going to let the Democrats win again, Ivan's greatuncle and his friends. Damned if they were going to let the rabid Tea Party bible-thumpers take over. And damned if they were going to have another incompetent monkey, a second or third Bush, in the Oval Office again. It was important, absolutely critical, to find and fund the right candidate. Someone who could appeal to the voters. Someone who could really fire the voters up, all those mindless sheep milling around middle America, without ever forgetting who was really keeping him in power.

So that's what this party is all about. An audition of sorts. And it's important enough that the entire family has been mobilized: all the uncles, all the aunts, all the cousins, even the little nephews and nieces. Everyone, assembled atop some five-star hotel on the Upper East Side, with a view of Lower Manhattan and the Park. A soaring ceiling that the windows climb toward, drapery so graceful to either side. Chandeliers flooding everything with light, dripping with crystal. Women in cocktail dresses, dripping with diamonds. Men in dinner jackets. There will be fireworks later, lighting up the sky.

And there are names here, names you read in the New York Post, in the Wall Street Journal, in the Economist. There are names here that will be in the White House, on Capitol Hill, in the Supreme Court, sooner or later. They're far too important to mingle with the masses, far too important to entrust to one playboy Ragabash who barely knows Roberts from Romney. Ivan had a glimpse of them earlier, retiring into a private drawing room with scotch and cigars and Ivan's greatuncle, his greatuncle's eldest son. They'll be there most the night, and dinner won't be served without them.

Which means everyone else is to manage on hors d'oeuvres and champagne, light whites. The orchestra is playing a little light swing, a little jazz, but no one's dancing. Everyone's schmoozing, and light chitchat turns to vaguely deeper conversations as alcohol sets in, and now people are getting to know each other, forming little clusters, and it's not all business. Over on the terrace Ivan's father is entertaining the mayor's cousin; someone not important enough to make it into the drawing room, but too important to be left unattended all night. That's business. Over in the corner Ivan's mother is flirting with a young U.S. Representative from upstate. That's not. Good for her, Ivan supposes, but

here comes the Senator's daughter, the one he fucked in the powder room last November when he came home for Thanksgiving. Fantastic turkey that night; the cranberry garnish like ambrosia. He remembers that. He doesn't remember how the sex was, or what color her dress was, or even what color her eyes are,

so he raises his glass to her and smiles, but then Elizabeth, dutiful Elizabeth, is walking by Ivan with a glass of champagne and he glances at her, his eyes widen, he exclaims: "I wondered if I'd see you here! My god. It's been so long."

They've never met in their lives. Which is surprising, considering how small, how very extraordinarily small and overlapping, their social circles really are.

There is a reason Elizabeth Montressor has never met Ivan Press. Considering how small and overlapping their social circles are, her family is a choosy one. In truth, no one's really ever seen much of Elizabeth Montressor at all. Not the Bellamontes. Not the Presses. Not whoever else happened to be running around in New York during Elizabeth's formative years, save for the announcement a couple decades prior that Giacomo Montressor had done it again- and a no moon at that! She wasn't running with small herds of silver-spooned brats. She wasn't sneaking out late with boys she had no right to see- the upper middle class ones. She's a radiant, well-bred [brown] recluse.

Given her reputation, she might auction off that dress later. Given the men in this room, they might pay top dollar to buy it off of her right now.

But there is an exclamation, and the woman turns and offers one of those practiced, polite smiles. They're the worst, because it reaches her eyes and makes her weaver-approved-too-fucking-perfect eyebrows raise.

"It has," she bridges the gap, cocks her head to the side and feigns interest. The ritual has begun, she's trying to pull for details here. She lowers her voice into polite conversational tones, "what has it been, one... two years?"

She takes a sip of champagne.

"Never?"

"Guilty as charged." But of course now their voices are low and polite and conversational, and no one can really overhear them. With those practiced hidden-knife smiles of theirs everyone suspects these two young, attractive silver-spoon brats are now playing at their own poisonous flirtation. "Which is in fact more of a surprise than unexpectedly seeing you again. How did you manage to fly under my radar? Particularly since you and I are distantly related."

"I am only let out from underneath the stairs to come to these functions," she admits, "I subsist entirely on a diet of champagne and second-rate caviar. I'm shocked no one has called the authorities to report such abuses. You may have met my brother, though. Anthony Montressor?"

Now that is a name that might ring a bell. bright and shining golden boy of her family. The one who achieved something. The one who is off making the family proud, leading a pack, doing whatever it is that needs to be done in Atlanta, and still managing to spend time here. How she still manages to keep up a smile and say his name is beyond comprehension.

"What was your name again? I'm truly sorry."

"No you're not," Ivan replies, his eyes taking a restless wander over the crowd, coming back. He sips his champagne, transfers it to his left hand, extends his right. "And there's no 'again' in that question. Ivan.

"And yes, that name does ring a bell. I'm afraid I don't know Anthony personally - he was a few years ahead of me - but I'm sure he's an upstanding young man." Bored now. Moving on: "Here with your family, then? Enjoying yourself?"

[Oh, no, Elizabeth. Tell them what you really think. Willpower]

Dice: 6 d10 TN6 (2, 2, 3, 3, 5, 6) ( success x 1 )

The smile says everything. The one that doesn't reach her eyes, and barely reaches her lips at that. It doesn't refute his statement. She isn't sorry, not even a little. Not even the polite kind of sorry that people are when they bump into one another in a crowd. She looks at his hand, takes it, and gives it a shake. All polite, false and demure. There is no strength in her arms but there's a steadiness to her. And, how unladilike, a rougher palm and trigger finger than one would expect on high society women.

"Ivan," she repeats his name.

Then he asks if she's enjoying herself. It's met with polite laughter, and from the distance it obviously seems like this is the kind of flirtatious behavior that ends in riders tucked neatly into bills.

"I'm only barely restraining the urge to liven up half of the champagne and pour rat poison in the other half. But that would ruin the flavor, and then where would we be?.. I don't think I recognize too many Ivans, what brings you to New York City? Family business, or do you enjoy politics?"

On the other hand, Ivan's hand is exactly what one would expect of a gentleman's: lean, nimble fingers, uncalloused palms. He's probably never done a single day's work in his life. While he's shaking her hand, she's telling him she wants to pour rat poison in the punch. Ivan's eyebrow flicks up.

"My, you've got some issues, haven't you?" Ivan downs the rest of his wine and sets it on a passing, circulating waiter's train. "I'm home to visit my dear, infirm, aging parents, of course. Like a good son."

His dear, infirm, aging parents. One of whom is now looking abstractly over the city, a wineglass in hand, other hand folded elegantly at the small of his back; his hair so flawlessly grey that it only makes him look more rarefied. The other of whom is swaying a little closer to her paramour de la nuit, her hand brushing his forearm for a second. Neither of whom seems to care a fig for what their dear, dutiful, only son is up to. Fortunately, that sentiment seems returned.

"Now the curious thing," he goes on, "is that you were so quick to assume I'm visiting the city. Do you know me better than you're letting on, or are you just a remarkably good guesser?"

My, you've got some issues, haven't you?
The smile on her face- the one that keeps bearing mention and morphs with the second- doesn't change. It still stays barely at the corners of her mouth, doesn't reach her eyes. She just sips away at the glass of champagne, and is blissfully uncaring about the festivities.

"Couldn't it be both? I'm surprised we haven't crossed paths sooner. I grew up here."

Incorrect. She grew up near here. Her time was split elsewhere, but it bears no mention, "and the only Ivans I've known of were of the distinctly less intense variety."

And deigned unsuitable for various reasons and sent on their merry way.

"But I am a remarkably good guesser. How long do you intend to stay?"

He's a creature of instinct among creatures of instinct. So they're a bunch of wereolves and kin to werewolves; fine, fine, okay, that's cool. He's not doing anything really totally awfully wrong by walking around when he didn't have an invitation but their security is really very lax compared to that White House Halloween Party. Now that was hard to get into. There were people in giant bubbles rolling around. Michelle was a leopard. He dug that.

No giant bubbles at this party. Just little ones. Very tiny bubbles, in the champagne. Tiny bubbles of fish eggs, too. He's a fan of the caviar, eating triangles of expensive toast with it, munching on a slice of cucumber with a swirl of pate atop it, etcetera. He resists the urge to lick his fingertips after eating, and listens to the woes of a woman whose husband is in the drawing room where they are not doing any drawing. He checked.

There are real live actual werewolves here, too, not just the kin. He can all but smell it in the air, feel it in the tensions of the people who aren't related to the Montressors or the Presses or whathaveyous. It's all really quite exciting. He pats the hand of the bored woman who has to come to all of these things but she doesn't have anything in common with any of these people, she thought it would be nice to marry someone whose background was so much more elevated than her own, like Cinderella, but -- oh god, she's never said that out loud to anyone. She's asking him if he's a therapist.

A pet therapist, he says, nodding slowly, very serious, and suddenly she doesn't want to talk to him anymore about her problems, and is actually looking quite offended as she sweeps off. Well, that was rather snotty of her.

He gets up, and he crosses the room, and he squeezes in between Ivan and Elizabeth to lean over and get a chocolate-dipped strawberry from the table next to them. "Sorry, sorry," he says, his shoulders nudging them. The man's all elbows and slightly untidy hair -- not sure if it's fashionable or just unkempt, it's on a tightrope between the two -- and hunger, piling several berries in his palms, stacking them precariously.

His body is, all the while, stuck between the two of theirs.

"No you didn't," for a second time, Ivan calls her on her conversational white lies. His eyes are on her this time, keen now, with a hungry, curious gleam. "I grew up around here. I've never met you. And you haven't the faintest idea who I am. So no; you did not, in fact, grow up around here, did you?"

A beat; then he's suddenly languid again, making no secret of the yawn he stifles against the back of his hand. "I'm flying out tonight," he answers,

and suddenly some gangly guy is squeezing between him and the curiosity with the issues and the little white lies, all but elbowing him on the way to the sweets. Ivan looks at him bemusedly. One strawberry, two strawberry, three strawberry, four. They look about to topple. Five strawberries. The one of the bottom of the pile rolls sideways, drops.

Ivan is very droll: "Would you like me to find you a plate?"

Gangly guy feels gangly because he's all knees and elbows, but he's actually rather compact. Not very tall. Not very long of limb. There's a sort of purposefulness to his nudging, as though he's making a show of just how graceless and akimbo he is.

"No, I wouldn't want people to think I went and got a plate just for dessert," says the man, affronted, ignoring the rolled strawberry and taking another one. Six. His fingers spread. Another one. "I'm not a pig."

Ivan - subtly, at least - checks his pockets to see if his wallet is still there. And his keys. And his cell phone.

"The better question is-"

Without warning, there is a small man touching her. Well, maybe not intentionally, but he's in her space. It's a hard reset for her brain- Elizabeth just stares at him. She stares at his messy hair, that is somewhere between stylish and not- and his little pile of strawberries.

"No one would ever think that," she assures him. The smile stays on her face, but she hasn't moved. This is her space, dangit. She looks at the strawberries. Somewhere, there is longing. Strawberries. As much disdain as she has for these things, there is decorum to be followed and she is a lady. She's not supposed to eat at these things.

"Is this your first political function, Mister..?" Casual conversation with a man stacking strawberries, and an artful dodge of answering Ivan's question.

Ivan's things are all still in place. "Oh no," says Mister. He seems to be all right with that name. He finds his ninth strawberry and cradles them all close to him, balancing them on his forearms. "I'm called to court, as it were, all the time. Expert witness. And you might be thinking, but Edgar -- I'm Edgar," he says, and drops half the strawberries to swing his arm out and offer his hand to one or both of them as chocolate-dipped fruit rolls around their feet.

"I know you're thinking 'but Edgar, that isn't the same as a 'political function'', but it is. It just isn't a party. They don't serve champagne on the stand, although they should," he says, his eyes and tone darkening with fervor as he leans between them to replace all the dropped berries once more. "And what's the third branch of government? Judicial, that's correct, gold star for you," he says to Ivan. "So it's technically a political function. Also, I had Halloween with Barry and Michelle, that counts, too."

There's fruit rolling around their feet. Ivan takes a step back to avoid getting chocolate on his slacks or his shoes. The fellow claims to be an expert witness. Claims to have spent Halloween with the First Family. Ivan isn't quite sure what to believe, but he's snapping his fingers to summon one of the waiters to attend to the mess.

"Ivan," he introduces himself. "And this is Miss Montressor. May I ask - expert witness in what field?"

"Didn't Michelle go as a leopard?" she doesn't even think about saying it.

"Calico cat," Edgar says to Elizabeth with a little nod. "A lot of people made that mistake. She was explaining it all night. As was Barry, with his. He kept trying to tell people he was the first black president of the United States, but he couldn't quite get the Clinton accent down, so everyone just laughed and assumed they got what he meant but they really didn't. He played it off, but secretly I think it really bothered him. He's a very lonely man."

Edgar lifts his foot, looking down at a waiter who has been snapped over and bent to pick up the food. He looks bewildered, grabbing one of his own strawberries and taking most of it into his mouth. For a moment his cheeks bulge, then he nips off the fruit from the stem and steps out of the way of the waiter again -- which actually, as before, just puts him in the way for the future reach. "Dude, those have been on the floor, I don't think you should eat them..."

"He's not going to eat them," Ivan assures the odd little man; reassures him, but sounds just a little bit irritated. This is by far the worst party his greatuncle has ever thrown, he thinks, with the most bizarre guestlist in the history of Manhattan.

"Why don't we have a seat?" he suggests, nodding at the tables toward the sides. Some are large enough for lively conversations of eight or ten. Others are for smaller groups, three or four; still others are downright intimate, seating only two. And to the poor waiter picking up spilt fruit, "Bring the tray of strawberries over, will you? Thank you."

She's at an impasse. On the one hand, she could acquire Edgar- his name is Edgar- and avoid having to politely lie to Ivan all night and have him call her on it until, inevitably, he'll lose interest and wander away. Which would displease her mother, and would cause problems later for dear, darling Anthony. But she is here, pretending to be a socialite, so-

She laughs. It's that same laugh that all women at these functions have, save for Cinderella who seemed very much out of place because she had nothing in common with these people. She feigns apologetic- her eyebrows knit together and push upward. The smile actually does fall from her face "I'm sorry, I do need to get back. I'm unsure of where my mother has run off to, I do need to keep her out of trouble."

Her hand touches Edgar's arm lightly and she briefly makes eye contact. The smile is back, "it was nice to meet you, Edgar," a release of the hand and her attention goes to Ivan, "and you as well, Ivan."

"Aw, it's nice of you to say so," he tells Elizabeth, reaching out to pat her on the arm, leaving a chocolate stain on her elbow. It's an awkward, flat-handed pat, not at all like her light and effortless touch. She is drifting away and he's turning back to Ivan with a grin. "I think she digs me," he says, and eats another strawberry. "Want one?" he asks, and holds out his foream-o-berries to the Silver Fang.

Ivan's responding nod to Elizabeth is so elegant it's almost courtly; so courtly it's almost mocking. "Goodnight, Miss Montressor," he says. He never did get her first name.

And then - improbably enough - it's just him and this odd creature with the chocolate fetish. Ivan wonders if he should've let that senator's daughter sink her talons into him after all. Well; too late for that, now. He looks at the chocolate-dipped berries he's being proffered.

"Not really," he says - but he takes one anyway.