2450/Log Titles Are Gauche

Log Titles Are Gauche
Date of Scene:	14 September 2017
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	M, Black Queen

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M has posed:
The SS Elan sits about five miles off the coast of New York, and nicely captures one of the last glorious days of summer. The water is warm and the sun is bright overhead. It's ideal weather for swimming and loafing.

Which is precisely why Monet St. Croix rented the boat (her own yacht moored somewhere in the Mediterranean, at the moment) and invited Selne Gallio to join her. It's hardly a small skiff, either, at least eight feet from bow to stern and with a crew of a dozen on board.

The staff were all expertly trained for disrection and silence; the two women might as well have been alone on the big boat. The waitstaff only appeared when summoned, and the bridge was set such that the Captain and his navigator never needed to cross paths with the women. It was rare to even see a maid, unbidden.

Monet flies skywards a hundred yards, then allows herself to plummet into the water with a twirling, lazy series of flips. She enters the water with barely a *blip*, diving like a professional.

Moments later, there's a surge of water near the aft of the ship and Monet easily flies up and lands on the deck, shedding water. Clad in a stylish black one-piece with lots of cutouts around her hips and legs, she's clearly relishing a chance to dress down a little. "Well, it's not Ibiza," Monet remarks, pulling her hair back from her haughty features and wiping her face with a towel. "But there's a nice El Nino current in the water," she reports to Selene. The leggy Monacan walks back to her chaise lounge and picks up her margarita, taking a sip before seating herself again. "This is a cozy little spot for a swim."

Black Queen has posed:
    Summer dwindles far too quickly for Selene's liking in New York. It's a far cry from the tropical splendor that cloistered her and her devout worshippers of Nova Roma, a cold concrete jungle that experiences heat only in blistering intolerance rather than the balmy slice of paradise she once called home.

    But Selene is nothing if not adaptable. And, after all... the swift death of summer is far from what brought her here in the first place.

    Still, an opportunity to enjoy the last days of summer in a setting where it could -properly- be enjoyed was not one that the Black Queen was about to turn down. Not when it was offered by someone who has so recently and avidly struck her fancy, at least.

    It's more the latter than the former that brings her to Monet's boat today (let it never be said that she is not relentlessly practical for all her vainglory), comfortably sprawled upon a lounge at the aft of the ship. Dressed in black just like her generous host, the Black Queen wears a simple but elegant monokini with a v-neck bound by drawstring, a golden sarong made of expensive, sheer silk draped elegantly around her hips, and golden bracelets and anklets decorated with small diamonds jingling softly at her wrists and ankles with her every slight movement. She still looks like a queen. A casual queen. It's about as dressed down as she'll allow herself to get.

    For someone so pale, though, Selene seems to be luxuriating quite contentedly in the sun as it beats down heat from the clear skies above. Hands draped loosely across her abdomen, one long leg crossed elegantly over the other, she watches with lifted brows as Monet bursts forth from the seas, a small smile playing at her lips.

    "You take to the waters like you were born to," she compliments so very easily as if the praise were just a matter of fact. "Marvelous, Monet. You've chosen very, very well." Ice blue eyes track Monet as she makes her way back to the lounge besides her own, her dark brows lifting the faint sliver of an inch. "I don't get nearly as much time as I'd like to enjoy the waters. Not anymore, at least. Still... there's something about the oceans that resonates with me. I do enjoy getting my moments to appreciate it."

M has posed:
Monet's lips curl in a smile at the praise. She doesn't argue; it's totally true. Monet's a /very/ good swimmer, and that was before her mutant talents manifested. Perfection squared-- she can swim almost as fast as she can run, swift enough to leave the water a churning froth in her wake.

"Eet is not ze Carribean," Monet agrees, tracking the general direction of Selene's thoughts. Because she's thinking the same thing. "Ze Atlantic, she is a cold and unpleasant ocean. Like swimming in the English Channel," She says, nose wrinkling momentarily.

"My family had a beach house, right on ze coast-- a private island," she says. She rolls to face Selene, curling one knee up for balance and propping her elbow and hand up to support her head. "I could see Ibiza from my bedroom window. Such a lovely island," she says, with a languid sigh.

"I read once, long ago, zat there are two things in nature that we never grow bored with," she tells Selene. "Fire and water. It is... in our genes. At ze most basic level," she remarks. "I love the water. Ze ocean. It's a little hard on my hair," she says, with a vain pat of her scalp and a twinkle in her eyes. "But even I can stand to work on my tan a little, from time to time."

She has that deep Moorish skin, a shade of brazed caramel; it's quite the contrast to Selene's pale flesh.

Black Queen has posed:
    "It has its beauty, in its own way. But it is a beauty to be admired from afar for how deeply it chills. There is simply no comparison to the tropics for truly relishing the waves." Selene heaves a sigh, as if the memories of those temperate waters were clinging tenaciously to that escaping breath. "I do miss it, from time to time."

    Turning upon her side with a fluid elegance and the cascade of gold silk along her leg, Selene rests her free hand indolently upon her hip as she faces Monet, curiosity tinging the fringes of that gaze as chilled blue as the Atlantic as she listens. "I have spent time in Ibiza, in my younger years. It has become a very different place over the course of its history. Fascinating, in its own way." A smile quirks at the right corner of her lips, distantly amused. "But they certainly know how to revel. I imagine you have done more than wistfully stare upon it from afar, haven't you?"

    But as Monet speaks of the water, Selene turns her stare towards the churning waves sloshing lazily against the side of the boat. Excess heat radiates off of the surface of the water already storing an immense wellspring of it, sending those summer temperatures sweltering up into the air as she speaks. "Of course, it isn't an uncommon sentiment," she agrees, that voice so calm and soft despite the utter certainty that laces it. "Water is what gave us life. It is our genesis. And fire... fire is what improved it. Gave us civilization. Our rebirth from the savage little monsters we once were. Though for some of us, those days are not far enough away even now." Amusement twinkles in her eyes.

    "And of course, the way they so efficiently destroy demands a certain sort of respect and fascination. Mankind will never not be lulled by the siren's song of danger."

    With that, her gaze wanders back to Monet, her head tilting ever so slightly. "Oh, my dear. Your skin is a work of art. No need for the humility. Even the slightest bit of modesty does you ill," she chides, amused. "Much as I enjoy the sun, though, I'm afraid it's just not in my nature to let its touch affect me."

M has posed:
"Isn't that ze fun of fire, too?" Monet inquires, one brow lifting. "The cold depths of water, ze hungry heart of ze flame? No matter how pretty the ocean is, it /will/ kill a careless worshipper. And fire-- she burns the unwary or the disrespectful," Monet says, a finger upticking for emphasis.

Her eyes dance a little at the praise from Selene. Not that it's false flattery; Monet knows well the ideal of form and function she intersects at. But this is /Selene/ offering the praise, and the other woman's serene self-confidence lends the compliment more than idle insincerity.

"When I was... fifteen," Monet says, recollecting carefully. "I snuck out of ze house to go to Ibiza. It was wild," she admits. "Perhaps more zen even I was prepared for. But-- the motion. The cavalcade of sound and scents," she says, eyes going distant in recollection. "Utterly uninhibited. Perfect freedom of expression. Zere is nothing else like it," she concludes. "Maybe Mardi Gras, in ze heart of the Orleans, or... Carnivale," she says.

"Ibiza is so funny, a lettle, unremarkable island in the Mediterranean. It would be nothing, it would be like .. Mallorca," she concludes. "Save that years ago, some university students on zere summer hols decided to have a party. And once those seeds are planted, there is no undoing them. Oui?"

She reaches for her drink and takes another sip, cradling it in her hand carefully so it doesn't spill while she talks with the other woman.

"Of course, surely you have some stories of parties in prior days," Monet says. She's obviously accurately deduced that there is a profound disconnect between Selene's haughty, youthful features and her actual age. "Or were you a nun, in a prior life?" she says, with a teasing, challening smile.

Black Queen has posed:
    "But of course. Fire fuels the engines of change. And change is a messy, messy thing, Monet -- never let anyone convince you otherwise. It requires sacrifice, and destruction. And fire, more than anything, is built for just that." The Black Queen allows herself a lazy smirk as she brings her right hand in front of her, playing idly with one of those gold bangles that must have been so masterfully smithed in those very same flames.

    "And yet so many of us cannot help but try to reach out and touch the flame."

    And, indeed, that praise flows from her lips like it was the sincere blessing of a higher authority, carried with that absolute yet unfailingly calm conviction that it could not be anything but fact. How could it? It is as effortless as the way she stretches herself out along the chaise as if to soak more of those greedy rays of sunlight as Monet speaks, her delight a subtle thing upon her sculpted features.

    "More than you were prepared for, perhaps. But you wanted it, and you took it. An admirable quality, and so impressive for someone who was so young." Her words like spun sugar, she pushes raven black hair from her face as it spills over her right eye, peeling back that veil of locks as she speaks. "Very few places in this world allow us to indulge in our natures. They think it base. I," she begins, leaning back to pluck her own drink from its stand, "have a different perspective. Still, well done, Ms. St. Croix," she concludes, with the subtle edge of a tease to her tone.

    "You remind me once again just why I like you."

    And with that, she sips, taking her time to indulge in the taste of the cocktail as her brows lift. "Oh, yes. Seeds of revelry spread their tendrils very deep. I have no small amount of appreciation for their tenacity once they've taken root." And here, she lifts her drink, as if to toast the very concept. After all -- such decadence has no small amount of practical use for a woman like Selene. Which, of course...

    Were you a nun, asks Monet. Selene's brows lift. Her smile is one impressed, and harboring more than a hint of mystique.

    "Would it surprise you to learn that I was, once upon a time?" she wonders, so easily. "A habit, however, fits ill for people like us, don't you think, Monet? Devotion is only of use when it is given to something tangible." She sips, again, and adds, rather off-handedly,

    "But my dear, I have known parties that would make the people of Sodom and Gomorrah blush with furious envy. And I've yet to become a pillar of salt." Others, of course, not so lucky. "Perhaps I'll show you, sometime."

M has posed:
Monet salutes Selene with her drink, smiling faintly at the praise. And the compliment; it's entirely possible Selene is lying to her so expertly it evades her detection, but it is difficult to deceive a psychic.

Besides, there's that synergy that suggests Selene is being-- at least for now-- entirely honest.

"I would be /extremely/ surprised," Monet says, nodding twice. Her eyes dance in marvel at the explanation, and she shakes her head. "You've had a long and interesting life, Selene," Monet concludes finally. "I cannot imagine devoting my life to a cloister; to meditation and ... abstinence," she says, making a face.

"But I've been accused of being mercurial and even intemperate, if you'll believe it," she says, her tone suggesting such a thing is laughable. "So perhaps that is merely my modern aristocratic self-indulgence."

Her face grows a little more serious. "Speaking quite openly, there are of course two paths to victory as we discussed," Monet says, switching topics a bit. She shifts on the lounge a little. "One, of course, is to destroy the former kingship. Tear down the pillars of support. Destroy the informers and clingers on, and rebuild from dust."

"The second is to usurp it. Bend them to my will and purpose. Seduce and convince or blackmail them, until all see me as the rightful inheritor of that throne."

She looks to Selene. "I would welcome your thoughts on this," Monet remarks.

That's a phrase the Monagasque woman utters very, very rarely. If /ever/.

Black Queen has posed:
    "It was an experience. Not a particularly enjoyable one, but it had its uses. And experience is the crux of life. In that much, I relish each and every one of them."

    Once more rolling onto her back, Selene bends one leg at the knee as she folds her hands over her stomach, lounging as only one who has truly perfected the art could. There's no fabrications here, at least, save perhaps ones of omission -- those words seem sincere even to the closest scrutiny. That interest, entirely genuine. Which is not necessarily a good thing; for most, Selene's interest inevitably ends poorly for them. But for Monet, for now at least...

    "Monet, 'mercurial' is a sling used by petty minds that can't understand brilliance at work. It's a mistake to think it's an insult, however," Selene asides as she turns her head to look at Monet sideways, her words uttered like a teacher providing pearls of secret wisdom to a prize pupil. "It is a wonderful weapon, when properly honed. Perception, my dear. We shape our narrative through how we allow people to perceive us, and in turn, shape the terms with which we engage them. It can be a truly marvelous tool when deployed properly."

    It's remarkable, though, how little the Black Queen's expression seems to shift as Monet turns the subject towards the more serious -- and, perhaps, more dire, given the cutthroat nature of Hellfire politics. Selene hardly misses a beat; the lone indication of how seriously she attends to the matter is the simple way she rises up into a sitting position, supported upon the elbows of her alabaster arms as she turns her gaze towards the endless blue sky.

    "There is merit in uprooting and creating anew. Using the corpses of the old for your new and more beautiful garden. However..." Those blue eyes tilt down, peering at Monet from the corner of her gaze -- eyes affixed to the strange dragonfire hue of Monet's own with calm consideration as she imparts that rare advice, for an even more rare request.

    "As I said, before, devotion is a powerful force, but only when it is devoted to something tangible. Turn their baser natures against themselves, my dear, their envies and their insecurities, and they will be your bedrock. Make them think it was -their- idea to cede their throne to you, and you will rule with an unbreakable grip of silk. A more devoted following you will never be able to ask for." She draws the brim of her glass to her black lips. Smiles.

    "Perception, Monet. There is nothing greater in this world."

M has posed:
Monet rolls onto her belly, tugging her swimsuit straps down to expose her shoulders. Tan lines-- so gauche. She rests her head on her forearms, looking to Selene with an unreadable expression of strangely intense focus. She is not just listening; she's committing this to memory. Every nuance of Selene's words, her body language, even the tone of voice.

"Delightfully Machiavellian," she concludes, finally, a little smile curling the corner of her mouth upwards. "And of course, an appeal to an exploitable weakness: Pride."

"So, we neither usurp nor launch an attack," she says thoughtfully, eyes flickering in thoughtful contemplation. "Instead, we encourage the rabble. Incite them to unrest. Offer them a platter of options, but only one real solution."

She focuses on Selene again, noting the subtle curving smile to those deeply painted lips. "And you do not object to a woman sitting in the post of the King?" she inquires, brows lifting minutely. "You'll forgive me for prying," she says, not really begging for forgiveness, "but it's rather a profound upset of tradition. There are some who would say you are too swift to dismiss long established practice, no?" She kicks one heel in the air lazily, a small bangle on her left ankle glinting in the sun as she regards the ancient, flawless sorceress less than an arm's reach from her.

Black Queen has posed:
    If she minds the intensity of that focus so keenly committed to carving this moment to memory, Selene does not mention it. No -- if anything, there seems to be an air of approval there when she looks down at Monet next, that perceptive stare taking her companion in with comfortable silence through to Monet's inevitable conclusion.

    "Precisely. You will be a balm so many will happily accept without even realizing that you were the one who burned them," agrees the Black Queen. "And the rest will simply be drowned out. And there is no greater threat for the prideful than to be rendered impotent."

    She should know, after all.

    With that, her attention turns full towards Monet, gaze cast downward upon the woman who would be king lingering so close. The jingle of metal ringing in the air as her armlets chime against one another with the slow shift of her body, Selene only reaches out at first, to rest her hand on one of those dark, bared shoulders, with all the confidence of an experienced advisor assuring royalty in the making. "Forgiven," is her first response, amusement flickering in her cool eyes. "Woman or man, it makes no difference to me. What matters is qualifications. Pedigree. Legacy. And, most importantly of all... potential. And you have all of those in abundance." The woman shakes her head, finishing off her drink before setting it aside with the soft clink of glass.

    "Traditions are important, but it is even more important for them to be upturned, now and again. Standing water breeds only stagnant disease and unsightly infestation. Hardly anything I need in my Hellfire Club. You have a great ambition in you, Monet. I would rather like to see what you do with it." Her hand falls away then as effortlessly as it came, pale fingers slipping off tanned skin before she turns her attentions towards the ocean.

    "Besides... the inevitable controversy is something we can make use of too."

M has posed:
Monet returns the look, as Selene touches her. There is that low frisson at contact, prickling her skin; it is a trait all psychics share. There are the bridges minds can build, but such contact creates something more akin to an electrical current. It permits her no more of Selene's psyche than she could have seen before, but much like moving to the edge of a beach, one gets a better sense of the enormity of the ocean than when merely standing on the river's edge.

She stares at Selene, until she finishes her advice, and then ducks her gaze. It's not bowing; nothing so obseequious.

But she flickers her gaze down at the deck, then up at Selene again, and nods acknowledgement of the wisdom being dispensed.

And the stout reassurance offered.

Her lips curl into a smile, then Monet laughs a little behind Selene's back, effortlessly straightening to sit upright with her legs folded to one side.

"Controversy is something with which I am well acquainted," she assures Selene. "I have been a Muslim in France, a whore in a church, a woman in Iran; my father wished me to be respectable, but I think my mother desired in us a revolutionary. Polite women rarely make history books," Monet reminds Selene.

She finishes her drink, looking at Selene's back; committing the subtle details of her form and clothing to memory. "Would you care for a refill, Selene?" she inquires, reaching for the paging button near her chair.

Black Queen has posed:
    A simple but profound pulse between nerve endings share bio-electric currents of thought and impulses along Selene's nervous system. A shared moment, a flicker of a vast and long-lived horizon as those impulses of tactile sensation connect them briefly and subtly like waves lapping at the tip of one's toes. There in one moment, and gone in the next.

    It is a gesture of experience that brings her hand to drape on her lap as easily as it had touched upon Monet's skin, intimately familiar with experiences beyond the normal, mental ken. She merely allows herself an elegant little grin of entertainment for Monet's laughter, her white teeth exposed for a few brief moments before she bends her torso ever-so-slightly towards her left -- towards Monet.

    "Yes, that would be lovely, Monet," she responds first and foremost, the pale flesh of her back flexing and relaxing as she stretches her arms over her head with an unhurried grace. She slowly pulls herself from that chair, her sarong draping across her long legs and rustling against the salt-laced ocean winds as she makes her way towards the railing of the boat. Hair whipping behind her, she looks back to Monet and smiles.

    "And then we may have a proper toast to all the many impolite things we have done and shall do, to carve our names into history where they belong."