9737/Little Miss Perfect meets the Incubus.

Little Miss Perfect meets the Incubus.
Date of Scene:	24 October 2019
Location:	The Blue Lady, Fort Joseph
Synopsis:	Summary needed
Cast of Characters:	Thomas Raith, M

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Thomas Raith has posed:
The line for getting into the club streaches around the blook. Not that Monet is forced to stand in it. The Young-ish Hispanic man weilding a pair tomahawks on his belt and gaurding the door waved her over and lowered the velvet rope for and said, "Ju jus' goes in thare an' have a real good time no? Jus' need to see your ID den jour ID." He wouldn't give the document too hard a glance however, baring any obvious flaws, he has a massive line to attend.

M has posed:
Monet passes over her document -- watching the man guarding the door with dark eyes. Her eyebrow quirks at him, "We'll see," she mutters with a grin regarding the fun, having passed the line and bucked the age requirement with the greatest of ease. She doesn't even head to the bar; perhaps the red would have clashed with her outfit. She's wearing a little black dress -- longsleeved and skimming high on her thighs. She's boosted her height, early into six feet with the red-soled black heels she'd chosen. She slinks into the spot then -- her eyes narrowed, scanning the interior.

Thomas Raith has posed:
The place is in full swing, with the Club's headliner crooning like a nightengale about love lost in the big city. Waitresses and cigar girls move from table to table taking orders and clearing drinks and food. Meanwhile couples move onto and off the dance floor at any given time. All in all it looks like it's a good day to be in the night club business. From behind her comes a voice, smooth and soft as satin, "Now I won't say I never forget a face... but frankly I'm sure I'd remember one as lovely as yours."

M has posed:
The voice could be coming from any creature, so Monet rolls her eyes so hard they nearly rattle when she hears the compliment from behind her -- already starting for the bar to bug some poor waiter with her "my assistant saw this on Pinterest" drink requests. The leggy, dusky-skinned creature halts in her tracks then -- not even stiffening or physically reacting beside the longsuffering eyeroll. She does turn around, ready to see something unappealing or otherwise beneath her. Those dark eyes flicker over him from head to toe -- taking his measure like some sort of predator, as if sorting him between fellow predator and prey. "I'm sure your memory is impeccable," she says to him with an imperious lift of her chin.

Thomas Raith has posed:
Thomas Raith is preditor. All preditor. He seems to be giving her much the same look she is giving him, though from his perspective it's as thoug he is a hawk eyeing a fox from the sky...the man is dressed head to tow in white. A white suit over white vest, with a white tie. He bows slightly, offering her his hand and tiliting his head just a bit, "I can assure you that it is, so if I may poach a rahter famous line, of all the Gin joints in all the world what drags you into mine?"

M has posed:
Monet watches him with that same imperious gaze -- her full lips are pressed together as she glances over his outfit. White. Interesting choice. She preens her hand through her hair, letting the curls go a little wild. "Pure, heartwrenching boredem plus the ambiance." Monet looks over his outfit again, all white -- and then hers', all black. "You didn't get the funeral colors memo. I'm Monet," she offers, leaving her last name out of it and offering her hand to him.

Thomas Raith has posed:
"Thomas," he replies casually and looks around as if messuring the crowd, "There doesn't appear to be any open tables, would you care to join me at mine?" He asks it with a smile and offers her his hand to guide her. "Let's just say that I've always found white to be my color." He adds a bit playfully.