all_inclusive | Closed + Open } Dangerous when cornered

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Closed + Open } Dangerous when cornered

April 2 | The halls

Milady arrives to the hotel and immediately finds the first and last person she's looking for.

No warning | Rated U for unrequited and unresolved | ongoing

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April 6 - Open
One of the things that has kept the woman known as Milady de Winter alive in all she's been through: she is resilient and she is tough and she is opportunistic. She has learned what she thinks there is to learn about this place and eyed a few doors, but she hasn't tried any yet. This isn't cowardice; it's canniness. She needs to know what she's doing. So this is how she comes to wander through the shop then making her way to the Smoking room. She's looking at everything and everyone; the clothing some wear here is ... intriguing. She's tempted to take some; it would be easy enough. But in the meantime, she walks, hip swinging, offering a smile at the men that she thinks could benefit her, while sizing up the women. She'll have a drink or maybe more, seeing who might be buying.

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Chiana is at the bar, enjoying a drink paid to her by a man who has now gone back to his table, and his friends, with the drinks he had come to get them, a man who is regularly glancing back at her. She makes sure not to look back at him; encourage them too much too soon and they will expect everything from you, without giving anything for it. She is, as always, keeping an eye on the door for whoever might walk into the bar.

She knows the woman within seconds of her arrival, for all that she's never seen her in her life. She looks at the men the way Chiana does, and there's something about her smile. She's very human, but she's also shopping for marks.

Chiana shifts at the bar, turning to face the new arrival, in her corset, skintight pants and low-heeled boots. The woman's wearing an elaborate dress, the sort Chiana wouldn't like having to move in. She's looking forward to seeing her reaction to Chiana's appearance; so few humans have ever seen anything like her, with her grey skin, black eyes and white hair.

Milady de Winter as she is known, lives in a world made for men. There is little place for a woman of strength or substance. So she has gotten good at playing the role - any role - that can be expected of her, that might get her something in return.

When her glass of wine is delivered, she looks over and, if there is any surprise on her face, it's quickly buried. There is no sense in revealing an advantage that anyone might have over her. (The outfit, though, she can see the advantage too, even though hers allows her to hide any manner of weapon, and to show off one's body to utmost appeal.) But it might show in her eyes for a moment, or in the tightening of her hand on her wine glass.

She looks the woman - whatever she might be - and looks away. For now, she thinks that must be very elaborate make up. Why, though, she cannot be sure.

She's a good one, Chiana has to admit, surprise barely there that it is gone again. Chiana smiles, something appreciative, then grabs her own glass (a fizzy, spiced cocktail that reminds her of a Hynerian drink) and walks across the short distance between them, her gait as alien as her looks. Her feet are a little too wide apart, her knees slightly bent, always ready to move, and there's something oddly captivating about it, in a raw, primal manner. Her cleavage probably helps that impression along.

"You're new," she states, with easy confidence and an accent the other woman has probably never heard. Chiana would have noticed her, if she'd been here in the last few months, and now she seems completely shameless about studying her from up close. If she wasn't wearing gloves, Chiana would even have reached out to touch the fabric of that dress, which was enticing in its own way.

Tracking her movements with unblinking eyes, Milady raises a brow.

If she stands out, she needs to make changes. It's only beneficial to stand out at certain times. It's useful to get a man to do her bidding. It isn't as beneficial in attracting this kind of attention. "I am," she finally replies, chin lifted. "And what are you?"

She asks it bluntly. There is no point, often, in beating around the bush.

"I'm... Chiana," she ends up going for, after contemplating how to finish that sentence for a brief moment. Nebari means nothing to the humans she has met, and she wouldn't reply 'old' to the woman's 'new'. She tilts her head the other way, lifting her gaze from her study of the woman's dress to meet her eyes again. "What do they call you?"

A small smile plays over Milady's lips, though her eyes are cool. "Any number of things, depending on the situation," she notes. Her real name, Anne, goes unspoken, known only by one here. "Milady de Winter," she offers, chin still raised as if being challenged.

Chiana doesn't know human titles, but that sure sounds like one, and she bares her teeth in a grin, then gives the woman a very ironic little half bow. "My lady," she tells her, dark eyes glinting. "Where on Earth are you from, then?" she inquires after standing up, and takes a sip from her glass.

Watching each movement closely, Milady sees no reason not to be honest. "Paris," she replies. The bow, she knows this Chiana knows, is unnecessary, however ironic it was. "... and you?" she asks, before taking another sip of wine.

"Oh, nowhere on Earth," she replies with a smile that seems to hint at how many things she knows that Milady has no clue about. "Or near Earth, for that matter, most likely."

The smile she gets is close-lipped and unamused. Milady has little use for smugness. "And yet you are trapped here with the rest of us."

Nowhere near Earth? It's the sense of one from 1631 that clearly this made up woman is quite mad.

That kind of remark would have once killed the smile on Chiana's lips, but her trip with the Doctor has left her much too enthusiastic, and she has gone through many doors since, having found her appetite for exploration all over again. "Not exactly trapped," she answers with a small shrug, unphased. Cut away from home, and Nerri, but she will find her way back, she knows.

"No?" Milady asks, hiding her intense curiosity behind seeming indifference. "And what keeps you from being trapped?"

Really, really new, then. Chiana takes another sip from her glass while she decides whether to be merciful or not. Probably best; women like her often end up gunning for Chiana, but life has been so much easier for her here without that sort of dynamics coming to ruin her fun. "The doors. They bring you here, and take you to all sorts of places. But I still haven't seen Paris."

Well, Milady knows that much at least. "But can you go to where you call home? Or is it just ... other places?"

"Looks like it varies, one person to the next," Chiana replies, and takes another sip of her drink. It's one of the human cocktails she actually likes, and as long as she can find people to pay for them, she's going to indulge.

Well, that is not helpful. Milady rolls her eyes a bit and takes another sip of her wine, glancing around the room again. "And what have you seen going through these doors?" she asks, looking at Chiana sidelong.

"A lot of your Earth," Chiana answers, glancing back towards the man who had paid her drink. She's going to need a refill soon. "Not very advanced," she adds, looking back at the woman. She chuckles, amusing herself with her blunder, that odd laugh that doesn't quite sound human. "No offense."

The smile that Milady gives is close-lipped. The advances here, even: the running water, the - whatever it is that replaced the chamberpot - are all quite lovely in her eyes.

She nods - her equivalent of 'none taken' - and takes another drink. " ... such as...?"

"I like the place they call Las Vegas," Chiana muses, and bares her teeth in another grin. "Nobody looks at me twice, there." Not in any way but the usual way, at least; she likes to make heads turn, more often than not. But nobody there asks her what she is, although once or twice she's been asked what she was supposed to be, and it had taken her a little while to understand what they meant.

Las Vegas. Athos mentioned that place, though Milady still has no clear sense of what that really is.

"This is, then, your natural appearance?" she asks.

Chiana chuckles at the question, sounding genuinely amused. "Give or take a few clothes," she confirms, because it's too good a set-up not to go there.

Ah, yes. Humor. "And in this 'Las Vegas,' you are not considered strange looking?"

"It's a place humans go to go wild," Chiana answers with a slow, wide smile. She likes it there. So full of vices, some of which she can indulge in, others she can exploit. It's a good place for her.

And so she is wild.

The assumption, then, is that this Chiana may well be a harlot.

But then the same can be said for Milady de Winter too.

"I see."

"Good," Chiana is still smiling, dark eyes glinting. She glances back at the table where her mark sits, and since he is looking at her, and her glass is almost empty, she tilts her head in invitation.

Then she looks back at Milady. "Time to get a refill. Track me down if you ever want to discover Las Vegas." She smiles at her again, and turns to walk a little way down the bar, refocusing her attention of the evening's mark and standing right in his personal space, flirting and promising him things she probably isn't going to give him.

The idea that Milady would travel with such a creature makes her smirk.

Of course, it wouldn't be the first time she's thought one thing and done another.

It was almost funny, having a woman smile at him like that; most of the ones here didn't bother, either because having Jordan almost constantly at his side kept most of them away, or because they were insightful enough to fish in more receptive waters. This woman, though— either she was undeterred by the air of solitary disinterest he was giving off, or she simply didn't care enough about social convention to humor him.

She held his glare for far longer than expected, which impressed him enough to relent. "New here, I take it?" he asked, pushing back the barstool beside him with a flick of his power.

Milady de Winter isn't much for social convention. It doesn't serve her well, most of the time and if there is one thing she's interested in, it's what serves her.

Of course, when he makes the stool move without touching it, up go her eyebrows. That's interesting.

She sits, smoothing her skirts around her. "I suppose."

{gleeeee}

It was a coy answer, but clearly a response to the display of his power; he couldn't blame her for wanting to retake the upper hand. She'd succeeded in making him curious, at least— Erik wasn't easily interested in humans as a rule, but someone who took such pains to be mysterious in a place where blending in was as easy as breathing? Worth spending a few minutes on— and a drink, if she was interested.

"Then allow me to welcome you by buying you a drink. Max?" He beckoned the bartender over; they were practically old friends at this point. "Another gimlet for me, and the lady will have—" he paused for a moment, eyeing her as he considered, then decided, "a glass of red wine, I think. Something sweet and dark and very expensive."

It wasn't often, now, that Erik had cause to trot out the charm and flattery that had allowed him to travel through whatever circles he pleased in pursuit of his Nazi prey— but he liked to believe he hadn't lost his touch, and judging by the look on the woman's face, he wasn't wrong.

No, she could be impressed by - or suitably appreciative of - such things. After all, if nothing else, she would get a drink out of the encounter. She gives him a small smile as she leans back in her chair, clearly and unabashedly sizing him up. "Who do I thank for such a generous offer?" she asks.

Erik returned the little smile and the once-over. "Someone who's been here long enough to recognize a new arrival when he sees one." If her demeanor didn't give her away, her clothing certainly did.

Max brought their drinks then, and Erik sipped his gimlet— perfect, as usual— before actually answering her questions. "Erik Lehnsherr."

Taking her glass and edging it close enough that she can twirl the delicate stem, she meets his gaze and says, "Thank you, monsieur," she says, dipping her head just a bit. She doesn't immediately give her name.

"My pleasure," he replied, one shoulder twitching briefly toward his ear in a little shrug. His smile reappeared briefly, and he added, "I'm always happy to buy drinks for beautiful castaways." Who, apparently, wished to remain nameless. She was definitely hiding something, then— or just cagey verging on paranoid.

Or perhaps both. Perhaps she is merely still sizing up this place and its inhabitants, looking for clues as to what she can do to gain some kind of advantage.

"Where are you from, monsieur?" she asks, eyes slow to flick up so she can gaze at him through her lashes.

"Germany, originally," Erik replied— then, both because he thought it pertinent to let her know the degree to which she was out of her element, and because he guessed her reaction would be amusing, added, "the year was 1962 when I was taken."

Even for someone who can be as impassive as she can, those different years - even centuries - can be disconcerting. "... and how is 1962 compared to this?" she asks, tone dry.

He actually considered that before answering truthfully, "Brighter. Louder. More dangerous for me and my kind. But less interesting, on the whole. Here— it's not free of danger, but it's much more exciting." When he'd first been taken, he hadn't felt that way; he'd spent his first six months furious at being removed from his life. Now he could scarcely think of a reason to go back to it. The mutant cause was always strong in his thoughts, but if Mystique were to be believed, it would soldier on quite well without him.

Sipping his drink, he spoke again to cut himself off from following that train of thought further. "If you intend to keep your name to yourself, surely you can give me a time frame. A century, at least. I'm not a good enough historian to guess."

Arching a brow at him, Milady swirls her wine in her glass. "Fine," she says. "1632." And her gaze slides to him. "Paris."

She takes a sip and smirks at him. "So ... what does that mean to you?"

Erik considered. "That would be Louis the... twelfth? No, thirteenth," he amended. "Contemporary of Cardinal Richelieu and the musketeers. Elaborate fashion, duels of honor, espionage and swashbuckling and illicit romances— the foundations on which a hundred novels were built."

He shrugged, gave a smile that was more smirk than not. "I confess I've never bothered to learn more. As I said, I'm German by birth, so I've never been overly concerned with the French. Besides, 1632— you've got a hundred and fifty years, give or take, before things get interesting."

Oh, things were plenty interesting where Milady was concerned. "I've never had much interest in the Germans," she answers blithely, a flash of amusement in her eye. At the mention of Richelieu, of course, she sobers some. He had been a good compatriot until he wasn't. She drinks to him, though she knew that his love of France was never quite equal to his love of power.

"And what, exactly, will happen in 150 years?"

Now Erik grinned, the broad slice of teeth that used to make Raven shudder theatrically in pretend fear. "Well, that would be telling, wouldn't it?"

He sipped his drink again, enjoying having gotten her to show some curiosity in their banter. "But if you're dying to know, there's a well-appointed library at the other end of this floor. Lots of history books." And computers with the internet, but he would let some other hapless soul try to teach her about that.

Milady de Winter plus the internet might just be the End Times.

"Why, thank you, then, monsieur," she said with a wry archness. "Both for implying that my time - and place? - is boring and that you do not wish to elaborate on what you already have hinted at."

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Closed + Open } Dangerous when cornered

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