15701/I wonder what that was about

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I wonder what that was about
Date of Scene: 12 October 2023
Location: A bar off of an Charity Event
Synopsis: The daughter of the Devil and an Angel walk into a bar...
Cast of Characters: Archangel, Satana

Archangel has posed:
It was late at night, and Warren Worthington was sitting at a bar. The countertop was underlit, looking white and luminescent. He had a drink in front of him, some clear liquid, with clear stir stick inside it. There was a charity event going on in the adjacent ball room, but, he wasn't even sure what it was for. He had forgotten it was soon as he had handed over the cheque.

Nah, that wasn't Warren Worthington's thing at all. He'd come, he'd dress the part, well, mostly. This was supposed to be a black tie affair. As an act of defiance, he wore a suit that from afar, looked black, but upon closer inspection, it was black, with a trace outline in a dark shade of blue. This one was a Maori pattern, as he had picked it up during a visit to New Zealand. But one had to practically be in his personal space to be able to pick it up. Subtle was the key word here.

He had undone his bowtie, and the top button of his collar, as he lifted his glass to take a sip.
Satana has posed:
Subtlety is *not* the Satana Hellstrom way. She, too, attended the gala, a charity casino for wayward women and stray animals. (Or something like that. It's not like Satana cares about this stuff. She's just here to pick up a hypocrite or ten to feed on.) Her own outfit is a slinky number that clings to her so tightly she might as well not be wearing anything. Which she isn't anyway, from shoulder to wrist. Nor from right ankle to well above her right hip. Nor her back in a daring plunge to just at the point ... you get the idea. There's a lot of flesh showing for a black tie event, and what isn't showing might as well be.

That being said, she's been charming people (literally: mental domination is a thing) left and right as she's sniffed out her next victim and, upon identifying him, manages to get him to give her his hotel key card for a later get-together that will prove to be his last.

At least he'll go out with a thrill.

It's time to join the broken angels in the bar.

"So if you want my address," she sings to herself as she enters the bar, looking around for someone interesting to talk to, "it's number one at the end of the bar, where I sit with the broken angels clutching at straws and nursing our scars..."

She stops as she sees Warren, looking him up and down before smiling that cruel, mischievous smile she wears when she's about to be daring.

"Maori. Noice." That's her purring contralto, seemingly custom-designed to slip into the ears and curl around the hypothalamus, wrapping it in fur and purring. "I do so adore those designs. So..." She takes a sharp breath in, then expels it quickly. "...primal," she concludes.

By the time she's finished, she's already perched in the seat next to Warren.
Archangel has posed:
Warren swivels in his seat, not all the way, but enough so that he can regard the woman who had taken a seat beside him. He heard her entrance, heard the talk of the angels, but didn't look until this point. "Thank you, I picked it up from a former Savile Row tailor in Wellington."

A gesture to the bartender, "add whatever the lady's having to my tab," which wasn't required in this company, but the gesture was still probably appreciated. He hadn't introduced himself though. He rarely had cause to. People seemed to know him before he knew them. He began to swirl the stir stick in his drink, even if it looked as though he might be drinking water for all anyone knows. It was perfectly clear.

"How goes the? pursuit?" Did he know, or was he just picking up on the signs she was sending out, what kind of a woman she was like.
Satana has posed:
"Oh, darling, if I set my sights on someone, I get them." The self-assuredness would be off-putting except ... she has the ability to pull that off. "I was out there looking for the right person." She flashes a hotel key card that ... it's not clear where it came from given she's not carrying a purse or clutch and there's NO room for hiding anything in her outfit. "I found him."

She winks, and leans in a bit closer to Warren, right at the very edge of where his personal space begins and public space ends, flirting with it in that small band of questionable distance.

"Though... there's always room for another in later days."

She straightens out then and extends a graceful arm, hand horizontal and facing down. Apparently she's expecting old-world habits.

"Satana Hellstrom, of the Boston Hellstroms," she says by way of introduction. "Don't judge me too harshly. It's not entirely my fault that Boston has become a suburb of Hell."
Archangel has posed:
Warren didn't know if that was her key or someone else's. Women had all kinds of places to hide these things, with hidden pouches built into dresses. They could hand items between the front desk, the bartender, and other staff. But with what she was wearing, and her tone, he was inclined to believe her.

"Congratulations," he said, raising his glass to her, as the bartender still waited for her order, patiently rubbing a glass with a towel so as not to crowd her.

He sipped his own glass at her flirting, which strangely, didn't seem to have an effect on him, beyond a slight smile. Still, far less than most men. "I'm sure there is."

When the arm was extended, he bent down to kiss her wrist, but as was common practice, he didn't actually touch her skin, simply miming it.

"Warren Worthington, of the Long Island Worthingtons." And then, smirking, he added, "oh, I wouldn't worry. One of your former neighbors runs hell, or at least it's fiery club," he was of course referring to Emma Frost of the Hellfire Club.
Satana has posed:
Satana shivers theatrically at the mimed kiss with an amused smile on her face. Keeping eye contact with Warren, she says, "I'll have a slow comfortable screw between the sheets," she says slowly, deliberately. Then her eyes flick briefly to the bartender who nods and moves off to start making the cocktail.

"It *is* called a cocktail, after all, right?" she asks Warren. "Might as well keep up the innuendo."

She withdraws her hand and folds both in her lap. "And you are?" she asks. "No, let me answer. Warren Worthington the ... third? Fourth? Third. Final answer."
Archangel has posed:
"You are, wow, you are quite forward, aren't you Ms. Hellstrom." It was a miracle that Warren wasn't blushing like a schoolboy, but he had heard it all before, even if he might not have seen it all. A moment later, and the bartender would present the drink to her, made with practiced skill.

"Yes, and the next one would be fourth, after that fifth, and if I remember my studies, sixth comes after that."
Satana has posed:
"Life is short, Mr. Worthington," Satana opines, pausing briefly to toast Warren, take a sip of the drink, make an impressed 'Mmm...' noise, nodding to the bartender, before continuing. "If I spent my life worrying about what others thought of me, I'd have a lot less fun in life."

She tilts her head and regards Warren, pursing her lips. "I do hope this behaviour isn't too off-putting, however. I promise I have more interests than just carnal ones. I'm reasonably well-educated." She shrugs. "So, OK, it's in occultism, which a lot of people find funny, but magical traditions, like those tattoos you're so subtly wearing as a suit, fascinate me. They speak so much about the human mind and soul, don't you agree?"
Archangel has posed:
It was rare indeed for Warren to find someone who was more interested in the enjoyments of life than he was, but he seemed to have been outmatched by Satana Hellstrom. "Sometimes it's fun to throw caution to the wind, and other times, those worries are well founded. Truthfully, I've never found it that easy to differentiate between the two until longer after I've already done whatever it was I was going to do."

"And not at all, go right on ahead with whatever behavior you want to enact. It's your life, and as I recently heard, life is short." Glancing to his own suit, with the subtle Maori design woven in, barely perceptible, "I've never been that fond of tattoos, but as a design, it's intriguing, even if I have no idea of its meaning, besides what the man who sold it to me had to say on it."
Satana has posed:
Satana pulls a so-called "phablet" (oversized smartphone) out ... again from unclear source. "I can help you with that!" she says. "I have much of my library digitized and in my phone!"

The phone is of uncertain brand, not in a typical size, and the user interface is ... idiosyncratic with a background that looks like some kind of living hellscape (motion background) and applications that are stored in what look like very realistically-rendered 3D dimensional warps. Someone very creative and competent both invented and programmed that interface. A few rapid keypresses and ... up comes a collection of images of Maori tattoos with pictures, explanations, and links to more in-depth information. She slides the phone across to Warren.

"Check if the salesman was pushing nonsense or honest, if you like."
Archangel has posed:
A sideways glance, but he took the offered phone, finding the interface to be unique, but he looked through it, knowing he could have googled on his own phone. "Well, if I read this right, it means noble warrior from the sky. That sounds similar to how it was described to me."

He would hand it back to her, before reaching for some hand sanitizer, which he used to clean his hands. Oh no, it wasn't that he touched her phone. He followed it up by reaching for the bowl of peanuts, pouring some into one hand, and began snacking on them. "Sometimes sales people are honest. It's been known to happen."
Satana has posed:
"It does, yes." Satana pauses to take another sip out of her drink, which she seems to experience in the full sensory spectrum: taste, texture, temperature, aroma, the way it slides down her esophagus and how it rests in her belly, enjoying ever portion. "But not often enough to assume it as the default. I swear the pits of hell are filled with dishonest salesmen, though. Almost as many of those as there are lawyers."

Something about this seems to amuse her. It's not clear what.

"But it doesn't really matter in the end: what matters is if you enjoy it, don't you think?"
Archangel has posed:
"Ever see Rowan Atkinson's bit where he played Toby of Hell?" He asked, referring to a comedic stand-up routine once performed by Rowan Atkinson, better known as Mr. Bean, which has been popularized on YouTube and other streaming platforms. "If not, you should give it a look on your phone there."

As for what matters in the end, "truer words were never spoken."
Satana has posed:
"He was right, you know," Satana opines. "Christians are usually VERY confused when they wind up in Hell. Jews are the Chosen People." She grins mysteriously, winking. "I can help you convert if you like. I'm sure I have a magen with me somewhere." She pats herself down as if searching for something.

And to show off her curves. It's unclear which is her main intent.

No, it's clear.

"So," she adds, now with a very stereotypical Brooklyn Jew accent being delivered flawlessly, "shall I make with the snippy-snip?"
Archangel has posed:
"No thanks, I'm good," he said, laughing. He was good, a good man, and no, he didn't want anyone making with the snippy-snip. That was cruel and unusual punishment, with no medical reason for doing so. Shaking his head, he was bewildered. "What am I going to do with you, Ms. Hellstrom?" The woman had curves, yes, and she was throwing herself at him, or just being a tease. Either way, he was impressively unimpressed. He barely seemed to react to it besides the odd smile or laugh. He continued eating his peanuts, "does anything make you blush?"
Satana has posed:
There isn't even a pause before Satana's response. "Arousal."


"I probably said that too quickly, didn't I?" she asks with an innocent expression as false as the chests of the showgirls used in the charity event. "In general, I only blush if I'm on the hunt and my target is the kind who likes people blushing." With an alacrity that could be a bit alarming, Satana's face colours bright red at the cheeks, her ears burning, and the blush spreading down her neck to disappear under the high neck of her gown. Then it vanishes. "I have phenomenal bodily control," she says.

She pauses to let that sink in a moment for the implications before continuing.

"Which I find helps a lot in making me look fetching to those who like that sort of thing." A wry expression crosses her face. "You strike me, however, as the kind who prefers strength in his women. Independence. I would be very surprised and disappointed to hear you want blushing."

She reaches across, then, to lightly rest her hand on Warren's forearm briefly before withdrawing it.

"But you needn't worry Mr. Worthington. I'm not on the hunt right now. I'm just being me."
Archangel has posed:
That got a mixed reaction from Warren Worthington. He began by laughing, and kind of paused in the middle of his chuckle, looking confused, and then softly laughed, "uh, maybe?" He wasn't expecting that, despite what she had said and done up to this point. Innocent was perhaps the one thing Satana didn't do too well.

Though when she begins to blush, of her own volition, like those people who can spontaneously start to cry, it has him shift a little in his seat, concerned. "That you do, Satana, that you do."

"Good to know as well," though he didn't answer her implied question. "So, are you going to take that cardholder up on whatever? was planned?" Remembering she had somebody's key card.
Satana has posed:
Satana puts her phone away (BUT WHERE!?) and pulls out the card again, waving it mysteriously. "He's going to be busy with his wife until midnight, so I'll be going up to his suite at about 1AM," she says. "I'm free to play until then. Then I'm tied down for play for a while. Then back to being free to play."

She pauses.

"The tying down is literal. It seems to be something he wishes to 'explore'. By which I mean he has been doing it for years and wants a new partner for it."

Satana shrugs. "Tastes are so varied."
Archangel has posed:
Warren was at a loss for words. He had met women like Satana before, or at least, approaching her levels, but never this quickly, or this openly. He swallowed hard on his drink, which was now finished, and took another handful of peanuts. He glanced to the time, a clock being on the wall, rather than his expensive watch, "looks like you're getting close to your appointed time. I guess it's easy to lose track while having? conversational fun. I hope you don't suffer too much rope burn." He had no experience with it, but it seemed like she had enough for everyone.
Satana has posed:
"Oh, I do hope someone with his money has bought silk!" Satana says, eyes wide. "He seems to have taste."

Yes. Taste. In how he cheats on his wife. With another socialite. Who's talking about it openly short of actually naming him. Perhaps discretion isn't his strong point.

"But yes, you're right. It is closing in on time for my appointment, and I have a bit of a wardrobe change. He apparently has a thing for red patent leather."

Satana finishes her drink and pulls a coin out (FROM WHERE!?) to place on the bar next to it.

It's a gold coin, and a sizable one, but of unfamiliar minting.

"That drink was worth a sizable tip," she says. "And thank you for paying for it." Standing next to her stool, she goes up on her toes to quickly give Warren a peck on the cheek. Her body heat seems ... off. Like she has a mild fever, though there's no hint of other symptoms. And she smells slightly of cinnamon and, weirdly, bubble gum. With perhaps a ghost of brimstone in the background if Warren's sense of smell is strong.

"It was a pleasure to meet you, Warren," she purrs. "I hope we can meet again somewhere less ..." She looks around. "... stuffy."
Archangel has posed:
"I've always been partial to purple myself," he said, possibly telling the truth, or was he just playing along with a joke. It wasn't immediately obvious, but the talk of her changing into red patent leather for her? affair.

Where does she keep getting these things, cellular phones, coins, other things? but the bartender was happy either way, it was always nice to get a good tip, and the coin seemed to be gold, and sizable.

Warren blushed a little at her double entendre, having been put into a certain mood with her constant flirting. "My pleasure," he said, smirking and shaking his head. The kiss was unexpected, but there was no harm in a peck on the cheek, even if he was trying to figure out the sensation, the smell, even after she pulled away.

"Thank you for the interesting conversation. And good luck with? your evening."
Satana has posed:
"Purple is my favourite too!" Satana enthuses. "Next time we meet I promise I shall be wearing purple. Since it's what I usually wear."

If Warren later checks online, there are plenty of pictures of her ... and yes, purple seems to be her colour. When it isn't bare flesh.

"It was a pleasure meeting you, Warren. I do so hope we meet again."

And with that she sashays--no, slithers--her way out of the bar in a manner that causes her to be the centre of attention for most of the bar's inhabitants.

"Looks good coming and going, doesn't she?" the bartender, flushed with excitement at the realization of how much gold he was given, wiping down the bar where her glass had been moments before, now currently residing under the rail.

Then the observation.

"And she made a beeline straight for you when she came in. I wonder what that was about?"

He heads off to wash the glass.