5128/The Green and the Red

The Green and the Red
Date of Scene:	08 August 2018
Location:	Unknown
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Poison Ivy, Miss Moreau

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Poison Ivy has posed:
Sunrise. The time where plants wake up and start to absorb the sunlight. One city block of Gotham has changed to the point of being unrecognizabe - with a wall of tight-fitting trees wrapped in nettles surrounding it. One EXTREMELY TALL tree is in the middle of the block. There is a gate with spiky vines stretched across it, with a modern doorbell mounted on it. Vsiible through the viney gate is a rather large and aggressive-looking cactus in a place of honor up on a hill. There is little sign of activity at this early hour.

Miss Moreau has posed:
When you're a Gotham Villain, there's a certain amount of flair that one has to bring to the job. This doesn't really apply to your run of the mill toughs, mafioso, and other such common criminals.

To stand out, to really succeed in such a place of darkness, one has to have a certain spark. Poison Ivy shows that spark with her massive nettle-wrapped trees and vine-encrusted gates leading up to the formerly dilapidated park. Beautiful, but conspicious, it's bound to attract attention.

A block away from that gate, a black car pauses and a single woman is disgorged alongside a waist-high dog that is one part husky, one part great dane, and too many parts seeming to huff out great gouts of black smoke from it's nostrils. The high and elegant dress covering the average sized woman with her cane and lead is all whites and blacks, and she smiles warmly to the rough masculine voice coming from the car that dropped her off.

"You really sure about this, Princess? I'd feel better if I at least sent in some backup." Worry is palpable in this man's voice.

"Dear Sebastian, you are /far/ too worrisome. It is a simple house call. I have an exit plan, and never would I bereve my sweet Roses without a good cause." Her smile is warm. The man kills the engine, defiantly /not/ leaving. There's a moment of wills trading. It ends in a standoff.

Miss Moreau leans in, kisses the older Russian man's forehead, and taps her way towards the plant-festooned gates. She whistles gently the entire way, one hand in a pocket, cane in the crook of her elbow, her odd beast leading the way.

When they arrive, it's a paw that presses the button. The purple mark of entwined snakes might seem to move occasionally upon Mage and Beast's foreheads, if one happens to catch the decorations out of the corner of eyes or vinestalks.

Moreau's voice rings clearly, but not exactly loud.

"Oh, dear, I do hope this isn't too early! But the early fox snatches the sleepy squirrel! Hello! Hello!? What beauty lay beyond such tightly held portcullis gates!?" There's no taunting in this overly-cheery greeting. Moreau is an honest villain like that.

Poison Ivy has posed:
Pamela Isley yawns as she's now visible coming out of the greenhouse, patting the cactus as she heads over to the gate. "May I ask who is calling?" she asks - she's wearing a robe, is barefoot, and is sipping a cup of coffee. "I wasn't expecting visotors at the crack of dawn." She yawns softly. "Sorry. Just woke up with the rising sun."

Miss Moreau has posed:
The sound of Ivy's voice has the woman laughing lightly, even as her beast steps a touch protectively before her. One flat-covered foot nudges said large dog a little more out of the way as politely as possible. It's all about presentation, you see!

"It is hardly the visitor that should expect apologies from the owner of the estate, when knocking upon one's gates at such an unsightly hour, mmm?" For all that cheer, Moreau's voice is tinged with the harsh accent of a Gothamite, and one steeped in Crime Alley at that. Her faux-aristocratic overtones are extremely suspect at best.

Flicking her cane into her canine's jaws, snapped up with a muffled 'wuff', the woman dips in a proper curtsey as she draws at her dress' folds. A second later, she snaps up that lead again with dextrous pianist's fingers.

"Miss Moreau, at your service! And you would be...Miss Ivy, if the scent of intoxicating flowers and sudden flora expansion is to be any clue! You are a busy woman, no doubt, and I simply thought to make an overdue offer of tea if it would please you! Horribly rude of me." Pause. Fluffy there huffs, nostils pouring more smoke.

"Or coffee. I'm not picky. Stories of curiousity and kittens aside, I do so enjoy hunting down Gotham's storied luminaries and seeing...ah...how I may measure against them." Her smile turns wolfish for but a moment.

And then she tilts her head. "Though with such a warm and pleasant morning, perhaps wits and banter are today's hunting grounds? May myself and my companions enter?"

There's only one dog. Moreau's dress may seem to move, if one peers sharpish enough occasionally.

Poison Ivy has posed:
Pamela Isley raises an eyebrow. "Your... canine... is... apparently breathing fire... my garden does not like fire." She ponders, then connects the dots. "Ah. You must be Miss Moreau." She snaps her fingers as the vines retract from the gate. "You may enter if you wish. I would not deny you use of your seeing-eye dog." She smiles faintly. "What brings you by my garden? I didn't think our interests coincided any."

Miss Moreau has posed:
"...Half true! Exhaling excess gas from several internal sac-organs, to ensure he has ample oxygen to breathe. My dear Fluffy spits a volatile mixture of tar-like byproducts of his enhanced digestive system, combined with heat-resistant fats, flesh, and an abnormal body heat." Fingers snap.

"He breathes napalm!" She just sounds so /proud/ of her creation!

And then both hands go up defensively. "Not that I intend to burn such a lovely-scented abode down, but my sweet Roses would strangle me until I faint if I didn't take any precautions even as your own rose bushes bled every drop of blood from my veins as you held me so tightly aloft in the sky! On my Power, do I swear I mean you no harm, Miss Ivy!" Her nose wiggles a bit. The ground frosts, her voice suddenly quite serious as she utters such a mage's oath.

She doesn't hesitate, Fluffy pushes his way in, and Moreau is being led past the gates. It's not long past Sir Cacti that she suddenly lets down a backpack, and is basically setting out a picnic spread complete with sandwiches, tea, and blanket.

She pours one first for Pamela. Camomile, still hot, thanks to a few puffs from Fluffy.

"As I said before, first an act of curiousity and curtesy. I have heard so much. You fought /him/, and have ended without a permanent stay at Arkham. Second..."

"Kitten killed, but satisfaction bringing it right about the bend for a second round. Tit for tat. What are you after, Miss Ivy? Surely you can't be so sure, flora and fauna make for a harmonious ecosystem." A pause, and one hand goes back into her pocket. She sniffs.

A frown. "This place is depressingly empty of balance, if I may offer a single criticism."

Poison Ivy has posed:
Pamela Isley raises an eyebrow. "Napalm?" she asks. "Impressive. About fifteen feet in front of you is a cactus that can fire toxic needles and regrow them. So we have both experimented with our spheres and created something wonderful." She grins. "I can even have it walk around." She then goes quiet at the oath, recognizing magic when she sees it.

"Curious. Your reputation has no mention of magic. Though not a geis, I will offer you similar lack of hostility." She just watches as you pour a cup of tea for her and she accepts it, reaching a hand forward for Fluffy to smell. "Yes - I have faced /him/ in more than one case. But he believes in me. He brought me to this land - and I claimed it as my own." She tilts her head. "Balance?"

Miss Moreau has posed:
Somewhere between already chomping on a neatly cut sandwhich, one of Moreau's brows goes up at the description of the cacti! Gulp. There's a vaguely muffled whistle.

"/Truly/!? Impressive range from a 'simple' plant! ...May I leave with a spine? I would so very much like to compare it's toxicity with a few of my sweet little predators' own!"

Okay, so maybe Moreau sounds a little enamored with one of Gotham's famed vixens. It's definitely part playing up to egos, but neither is it exactly fake. Moreau isn't shy about perfecting her pets or her Gang, and this is exactly the kind of opportunity she's been looking for.

"And I would appreciate it if the rumors remained silent about that fact. A secret in your back pocket is better than one howled to the moon!" Her voice grows gruff, and faux-Russian.

"Or so my sweet Sebastian says." Shrug. "Impressive that you have enough Sight to See. Oh, mmm, more than I expected of you, Miss Ivy!" Somehow, she sounds pleased.

It doesn't last for long. "Don't trust him. These...vigilanties...as they're called simply seek to shackle us. To restrain our urges, our desires, our beastly hungers! Instincts and love and /cravings/! None of them, don't trust them! Just another sheepish human with iron ready to chain those who truly see the natural way of things!" Her voice goes from cheery faux-aristocricy to growling rage in a moment. Her cheeks flush, and her tongue licks up flecks of spittle.

Her dog hefts itself up, and single-houndedly dogpiles her. There's some spitting, some rolling, and general Moreau sneaking out from a much bigger pup. She spits out a tuft of fur. Fluffy looks proud of himself.

Cough. "Con...congratulations. Even if it's a con.../good/." A mere choked disdain followed by drowning herself in tea for a moment.

The question is asked, and Moreau pulls out a crimson red tome. She flips through several pages almost liesurely.

"Plants of /this/ quality should have equally potent animals to live amongst them. Bluntly, Miss Ivy, I propose a...project...between us. I would like to stretch my particular talents with bolstering the survival skills and growth of animals in a hostile environment. Your own plants no doubt would grow stronger when faced with the prospect of symbiotes or creatures that otherwise feed and nurture them." Her purple-lashed hand motions to the ground around them.

"Shall we create a wonderland of life together, Miss Ivy? In that, I think, we /do/ have a shared purpose."

Poison Ivy has posed:
Pamela Isley smiles faintly. "I have my own way of seeing. I am connected to the Green, the elemental force of plants. It has attuned me to the supernatural. When you made your oath, a few strange things happened - and I've met magi. So that led me to that conclusion."

She watches Miss Moreau wrassle with her rather-large companion. "I am not a hero. I am not a villain. I exist to protect the Green and promote the welfare of plants. Nobody else sees them as I do." She sips the tea some more. "Well - as you pointed out, the Red and the Green often associate in the wild. I would not be amiss to a partnership." She then reaches forward and plucks a spine off of the cactus. "I bred this cactus to fire fungicides. Remember those colossal extraterrestrial fungi? This cactus was one of my warriors against the forces of the Gray." She then hands it to you. "It will not hurt any animal or plant. Just fungi." She smiles. "A token for a future friendship."