Owner	Pose
Satana Hellstrom	Some "gentleman's clubs" feign being classy affairs. They have velvet seating, uniformed staff, discreetly-placed and lit tables, fancy stages with complicated production capabilities. They almost, but not quite, disguise to the casual viewer what they really are: a place for men (OK, it's the 21st century, so some women, and some of various other gender expressions) to leer at the nude human form. Chiefly (almost exclusively) female. The Happy Hetaerae Bar & Girl is not such a place. Other locales are bluntly honest about what they are. They're strip clubs, not something effete-sounding. They exist so that the saddest of the sad can spend their last money on watered-down booze to watched coked-up women writhe spasmodically in vague time to the music. (And nine nights out of ten it's Chris de Burgh's magnum opus that 'livens' the joint for a few minutes.) The socially dead flock to these places. The kinds of people who can't form lasting relations with human women. The kind who don't care if others see how pathetic they are because ... well ... only others equally pathetic could see it. This is the sort of place The Happy Hetaerae is. Tonight the clientel is a bit lower than usual. The girl--and she is that, a girl, not a woman--on the stage is writhing ineptly to some ancient '80s glam metal thing about hurricanes. Not that anybody cares. They're not looking at her body's motion. They're looking at her body. The tragically socially inept, staring with glassy, alcohol-infused eyes, looking not just at the body, but parts of the body. And that part isn't the face where they might see that poor Estelle (stage name, real name: Linda) is struggling to make ends meet while she does distance learning to get her GED in a bid to rise above herself. The place is so by-the-numbers for one of these joints it might actually take time to notice the one thing that doesn't fit in: the terribly attractive, saucily-clad woman, sitting in the middle of the place and yet somehow not being noticed. The woman that those with certain forms of second or third sight can see radiating in all directions with ... alarming, shall we call it? ... signs.
Arella Despana	Into the club a singular female figure strides. She is coal black in skin colour from head to toe. This is the sort of black that appears grey under any bright light - not a normal recognisable human skin color. And then there are the ears. To any with a decent measure of knowledge of the esoteric or the occult might recognise this female as a Dokkalfar or Dark Elf. However her large intelligent emerald green eyes are something so rare among that nearly extinct race as to almost mark her otherwise. Only one famous Dark Elf ever had such features - Arella Despana the exiled Grand Shaper - the only Dark Elf Malekith the Accursed ever truly feared. But few would know this if any in this crowd. The elf's emerald green eyes continue to scan the club skeptically. Eventually she goes to the bar and orders a strong drink.
Satana Hellstrom	Arella's arrival causes a ripple of shock in the very mundane bar. A lot of eyes turn her way. ("Estelle"'s eyes don't. The stage lights blind her enough she can't see the new arrival. Some of her fans are too busy looking at her parts and imagining putting them to use to look as well.) Then one pair of eyes in particular--the out-of-place woman somehow being ignored--look her over, head slightly tilted, and ... the rest of the reaction is gone. People turn from staring, some fearfully, to going about their business. At the same time Arella's senses will feel something wash over her. Some kind of spherical field. Something that doesn't appear to be "inward-looking" so to speak, but outward. The man at the bar, now completely complacent, delivers Arella her drink and goes back to rubbing washed glasses with a dirty rag to 'clean' them. "Would you care to join me?" a thrilling contralto that somehow cuts through The Scorpions blaring from the speaker to reach Arella's ears. The voice emanating from the redhead in clothing that rivals that which "Estelle" came onto the stage in.
Arella Despana	The Dark Elf woman says, "This drink is watered down. If I can get one that isn't then I may be more amenable to the prospect of conversation." With her Dark Elf constitution Arella needs a very strong drink to even get a mild buzz. And she has her standards.
Satana Hellstrom	"Oh, strength is what you want?" Satana smiles, as the people around both, despite the distance between them, ignore them and the conversation that's carrying on across half the room. "Ignore the bar. I don't let the mortals drink the good stuff. It's wasted on them." Her eyes flare a moment as she draws a circle in the air with her finger, opening a smoke-wreathed hole in the air. Into this hole she reaches an arm, pulling out a bottle of unusual (and mildly disturbing) design, setting it down on the table as the hole vanishes. "This should probably do. It's not quite as intoxicating as Asgardian Ale, but it has ... other impacts." Something in her face and eyes suggests both amusement ... and malicious mischief.
Arella Despana	"I am not an Asgardian," The Dark Elf says as she sits down at the other end of the table. "And are we not all killable and therefore mortal to one degree or another?" She examines the bottle of liquor as though by sight alone she could tell it's contents.
Satana Hellstrom	"Oh, I know you're not Asgardian. Some form of Svartalf or the like I would guess. There's several varieties. But surely in all the wars your kind have had with the Asgardians you've tasted their ale? I mean what's the point of warring with them otherwise? Well maybe their weapons too, but I'm a lover, not a fighter." Something she's just said further amuses her it seems. "I do find it intriguing, however, that one of your kind stumbled into this place. What brings you to my humble little business venture?" Her eyes flick to the stage. "I trust it's not 'Estelle'. She's really not very good at this. What she is is desperate. Which means she makes clients happy. And they spend money. And the worst of them..." The eyes glow again. Her voice acquires a second voice almost, but not quite, a full octave lower, for maximum dissonance. "...feed me when I hunger." Something in her demeanour suggests that she hungers now.
Arella Despana	Arella glances at Estelle. "I had not noticed her. Perhaps I have disciplined my mind to make certain people simply not exist to me. I am simply in search of artefacts. To catalogue rather than retrieve. My own instruments indicate one is near here." Extending her arm a device manifests itself as a black/purple gauntlet that projects a three dimensional map into the air.
Satana Hellstrom	Satana looks with interest at the device, reaching out to tap the image in the air. Her fingernail shouldn't interact with the image, but it does. Causing feedback, in fact, going back into the device. She raises an eyebrow. "Technomancy. Very nice. The underlying degenerate magicks are more advanced than most I have access to, but your enchantments atop them... Very nice." She now looks at the actual image, interprets it, looks around and her eyes land on... Her purse. "Oh. That." She looks again at the display, moving the purse around and watches the display follow it. "I've been trying to figure this out. I found it in the possession of a demon that I had to ... ah ... send home. I'm not sure what it is."
Arella Despana	"You might want to 'get sure' of what it is. There are little traps strewn about all over this blue orb that can trigger a catastrophe or an external invasion. Which is why I catalogue them rather than retrieve them. I have cause enough mayhem in my humble 2000 years. Tell me more about this... purse?" Arella emerald green eyes narrow inquisitorially.
Satana Hellstrom	Satana blinks and looks at her purse. "Well, it's ...patent leather made from hellhound skin," she starts, continuing, "which makes it quite durable. It has more space internally than its external dimensions, making it very convenient for storing things. Anything that can fit through its opening can be stored and its internal space adjusts accordingly. I put the orb in here because, well, I didn't feel like experimenting with it in an alley spattered with demonic innards, roasted, sticking to every surface." She looks at the purse with furrowed brow. "Perhaps, then, I'll leave it in there for now; I have a laboratory at my home that I use for more dangerous investigations. I dropped by here tonight to feed."
Arella Despana	Arella scans the purse with her device and seems placated rather than satisfied. "Be sure not to trigger any interdimensional invasions with it. I can tell it is volatile and not in a good way. I am not sure exactly how. And I hope not to find out through misadventure." Arella smirks at Satana. "This is a strip club. Do you ever strip here?"
Satana Hellstrom	"I'm the owner," Satana says. "And I'm far above the vermin who come here." Her hand waves in the direction of the clientel, not the performers. "I find it a nice ... pasture." She smiles, but there's nothing friendly or amused in it. It's predatory. "The worst of the worst frequent my club. And that means their souls are textured. Tasty. Infused with sin." Her eyes light up again. "And the safest way for my kind to operate is to feed from those that society cares not a whit for; whose absence actually improves their surroundings."
Arella Despana	Arella shrugs, "Some may call that contemptible but at least they are serving some purpose for someone rather than simply drowning in a pool of rot." She rises. "Watch the purse. You seem capable enough... no 'textured' enough to handle large problems." Arella makes her way for the exit.