1963-09-06 - No Fire or Brimstone
Summary: Goodness, two ladies and a Brazilian!
Related: N/A
Theme Song: None
amora roberto elizabeth 

The Hellfire Club is a place of much allure for a young social scion, of any origin— power knows no gender or family history. All that matters is will and ambition, and a desire to drive and adapt and overcome.

In many ways, it's the ultimate expression of Darwinian evolution— eat or be eaten.

But for the short term, it's a pleasant place to pass the time. The trappings of wealth are everywhere— not just wealth but WEALTH, where the nouveau riche and aristocratic blue bloods alike can rub shoulders, secured that they all occupy the same social strata.

And even a few goddesses, at times.

Roberto cradles a six-string Spanish guitar in his hands in one corner of the room, plucking out a song with a surprisingly deft amount of skill. He plays with more heart than raw technique, though skillfully enough that the music doesn't jangle against the ear. It's in the middling hours at the Club, when those who don't have families or obligations in the community might while away their evening in one of the few places in New York that can serve liquor on a Sunday without fear of reprimand from the liquor board.

Finishing up his song, Roberto sets the guitar aside, takes a flourishing bow, and moves to the bar, drumming his fingertips on the hardwood to get the bartender's attention. "Oyey, una cerveza por favor— that lager," he says, pointing at one of the newly installed taps, brass at odds with lustrous old hardwood behind it.


Power knows no gender or family history? Bullshit. Immortality in ancient Egypt rested on the invocation of a name. Erase the name, the person's immortal power was gone. Damnatio memoriae was the greatest curse the Republic or imperium could level on a Roman citizen. Strip his status, he is no more forever.

Names matter a great deal. Names are strength, influence, and recognition. The one who saunters through the doorway has little interruption from the bouncer. Last time around she did, but last time around he didn't quite know what he was dealing with. Elizabeth Braddock of the London HFC is not someone to be tampered with.

Not with Daddy's frown dually noted.

She slinks through, wearing a fitted violet tunic — yes, they still wear those even now — over her tight leather pants and boots with an open toe, dangerous enough to snap heads her way. This isn't fashion forward, it's a fashion light year ahead of New York. But model, of course, it all fits. Her fingertips curl as she finds Penelope, her preferred server, and dispatches the waitress with tight, sharp words in her arch aristocratic OxCam tone. "Whisky, neat. No Islay or Jura, understood? Highland, preferably something older than you are."


Amora was bored. It was a terrible fate. One to best be avoided at all costs. The last time she had been on Midgard and bored to this extent? Better to ask deceased French monarchs who had met their ends so fatefully. All her favorite toys and entertainments were not present, and as such, the Enchantress made due with the Hellfire club. The woes of being nearly immortal and stuck in such a realm that such an establishment was her last thought for amusement.

There was a goodly amount of bowing and scraping at the doors as she was ushered in, she waved away questions regarding any desire to speak with Mister Shaw or Miss Frost—a simple visit again.

The best wine—both red and white, was offered to her on a platter without her having to ask a server. An idle glance flitted over the glasses and she plucked one at seeming random, before strolling further into the club proper.

Her figure was clad in little more what one might call silk scraps in the guise of a dress. Emerald fabric encased her chest in vertical strips, hooking around her neck to leave her back bare. A myriad of different hues of green damasked silk swirled around her legs with each step, catching the light and showing off the gold work embroidered therein. High heels gleamed gold and metallic on her feet, the click against the club's floor announcing her presence clearly and causing more than a few heads to turn in her direction, where the gazes more often than not lingered.


Roberto glances at his wristwatch, then cracks a grin at Elizabeth when she orders scotch. "I guess it's after five, si?" he says, eyebrows dancing mischievously. "I usually don't like going for the harder stuff until the real nightclubs open," he informs her with idle ease, shifting down the bar to linger in Betsy's periphery.

His beer slides towards him with a rattling of wet glass on lacquer and he snatches it with a grin, hoisting the bottle at the bartender.

Then Amora walks in, and much like everyone else in the room, Roberto's eyes go to her— compelled by something decidedly superhuman. He blinks it off fairly quickly, of course, and it turns from slack-jawed admiration to an appreciative once-over of her… dress.

"Miss Eve, buenos noches," Roberto says, as the goddess nears him. "Como ustedes?- I love that dress, is a pleasant little nothing you're almost wearing," he says, eyes twinkling at the mild little bit of bawdy humor.


No Mr. Shaw, no Miss Frost. Reigning members being what they are, this leaves Glory to decide her own course of fate. It already involves whisky. She might bother to actually drink a little, and enjoy the ambiance of important people grilling on a social spit among their peers. How utterly droll.

No, the business of the music warrants attention instead of surveying the various couples and individuals cozied up to their tables. The taste of their thoughts is a poison in her veins, a weight upon her resolute mind. Something causes her to halt and flick her icy eyes in Amora's direction. That woman's incandescent presence is… worthy of noting. Worthy of setting mental guards against, her mental shields slammed into place with nary a whisper.

Better to shut out the unwanted incidentals by listening to the six string rhythms, a formation of sounds conjured in her direction. She's already danced once with the player, and the shortened change to her stride might hint at a propensity to kick up her heels tonight.

Or not. "I hadn't paid attention. Transatlantic flights, you know. Impossible to adjust overnight." For her, then, it might well be after midnight, taking into account the change. "There is always a time for 'harder stuff.' Learn to loosen your collar a little, as they say."


The path of her wanderings took on a more focused step at the address, the mortal that spoke earned a smile on ruby painted lips as she approached with a swaying motion of her hips. Manicured fingers reached out to brush along Roberto's shoulders as she came along side him, her other hand occupied by a wine glass. Whatever it was that Ms Braddock had done magically, either went undetected or unremarked upon, even as green eyes slid over the woman curiously.

The Asgardian laughed lightly at the comment regarding her 'dress', "I'm doing well, thank you, darling. If sadly bored, do you have a remedy that might curse what ails me?" She practically purred out, her shoulders shifting back with a practiced motion.


Roberto takes in Amora's entire 'show', enough of a player himself to see her game firsthand— the subtle shift of a hip, the trailing tease of fingernails over the slope of his runner's shoulders. His hands rest against the bar top behind him, the brass rail digging into his lower back. He keeps up a game face until Amora tilts her waist and rolls her shoulders back, and places herself in a strategically unassailable position— one deep breath away from a wardrobe malfunction.

"Mierde," Roberto says, rolling his eyes, and slouching a little as he concedes defeat. He's enough a player to recognize his superior at the game, and his grin follows a moment later, a little rueful but not remotely umbraged at Amora's breathy victory in the first round of combat. "I can think of a hundred things, Miss Eve, all of which are inappropriate for a lady, ten of which require at least six hands, and five of which are illegal in America. So— a drink, perhaps?" he says, his grin bright relief against his swarthy features.

He snaps his fingers to get the bartender's attention, looking back at Elizabeth's haughty and no less lovely features. "Senorita, you're talking to a scion of Brasil," Roberto reminds the aristocrat. "We are the children of Portgual and Espana, the cousins of Ibiza. Rio de Janeiro is the heart of cavortation in South America, where you can dance by the light of the favelas and cross champagne flutes with heads of state all in one night."


Boredom is a fugue on the whole set, it would seem. "Three days into September and we pine for excitement. How ghastly." Glory's amused statement carries a certain bite, the burning afterglow that comes with a quantifiably quality drink infused with the malted peatiness of the drink Penelope specifically doesn't choose for the model.

Defenses against the rolling seduction off the Asgardian woman slip into place, battened down tightly to avoid any of that overwhelming the Englishwoman. Clearly she's not the preferred target, at any rate, and she slouches into a seat the way the beast of Bethlehem considered roaming past a certain stable. "Name three of the five illegal in America. We might as well indulge in the strange and tortured history of the colonies." It's not as though she has a reason to feel strongly in favour, or again, either way.

A nod is given to 'Eve.' "Elizabeth Braddock. Were were properly introduced? I blame the flight, if so." Nothing quite matches being sociable. She can manage that, though. "A child of Brasil. Ah, if that makes you a scion of the Bragancas, I am rather curious."


A wicked grin alights on the blonde's face as Roberto slouches in his seat. Her gaze glittering with a hint of amusement in much the same way a cat watches a mouse it has cornered soundly. A house cat that was very close to cutting off the limbs of its new toy one at a time, all in the name of 'fun' and 'amusement' rather than any actual need or desire to consume the poor mouse—to simply watch it squirm.

And then she takes a sip of her wine and the look is masked behind her saucy, tempting smile. "Won't you let me be the judge of what is inappropriate for a lady? It is America, I believe and they are so very fond of women's liberation and freedom of choice, no?" Her voice was rich and held a breathlessness that hinted at sighs and whispered words between the sheets.

"And I already have a drink well in hand, thank you though." Her lips quirked upwards as her focus shifted toward English woman. "A pleasure, Ms. Braddock. Helen, Helen Eve. You look familiar, though I can't say the name rings a bell."


Roberto has reconnected.


"Bragancas? No, no," Roberto chuckles, shaking his head. He sips his drink, trading places with Amora so she can be offered an empty seat, and stretches as he stands up. "The Costa family, we go back centuries. My family has been in South America for centuries— Juan de Costa came over in the 1600s, if I recall my lessons, and made a fortune for himself as one of the landed barons," he explains. "And of course, after Brazil declared independence, my family was sufficiently invested that we did not merely have our assets seized by the government. Father, though, he is the one who really made us wealthy— he took various mining claims from over the countryside and focused on precious metal mining."

"A stern duty, and one I go to unwillingly, which is why I prefer to stay in America," Roberto says, grinning at the two women. "Where I find I am often discouraged by the reticence of American women, and pleasantly surprised by your open-mindedness. Americans are so… stodgy. With all apologies, of course," he tells Amora, deferring to her nationality with the wrong assumption in hand. "But I find two sets of hands are often better than one in certain carnal matters, despite current social opposition. And it's impossible to get your hands on a decent set of knot-tying material made of silk— even blindfolds," he says, flashing an incorrigible wink at Elizabeth. "Ay-yay, listen to me, I should hate to offend your delicate female sensibilities," he says, with a mock show of piety.


"Enchantee," murmurs the Englishwoman in her precise French. There's a trick to an Englishwoman speaking French, truly. They offer up the sanguine relevance of the language while preserving that stiff upper lip, that slight sense of cultural superiority over their invaders from round 1066 and Hastings or thereabouts. A slight curve of the smile is a tease, and rife with deep amusement as only a monarchy fallen and restored can possibly possess.

There is, of course, something /else/ there too. Something incandescently other about her, if one knows how to look. No matter. The Otherworld, aka Alfheim of one kind or another, has its claws in her.

Penelope hands off the drink and a murmured apology, something about the tab being covered. "Of course, my dear." Elizabeth waves a hand. She takes her beverage and replies dryly to Ms. Eve, "I dread to say the same, Ms. Eve. Though this gives us a fine opportunity to gauge what is considered… liberal, I suppose. Or reticent and not. I should disappoint you, being English and all."


Roberto has partially disconnected.


A flicker of amusement twinkles in Amora's gaze at Roberto's comment about the reticence of Americans. A laugh escapes her full lips as he defers to her as if she were one. The smile remains painted on her lips throughout the rest of his speech about two sets of hands and silk chords. Green eyes watch both him and Ms. Braddock over the rim of her glass, sharp and with the same predatory light as before.

"Oh, I am most certainly not American, Roberto darling. You needn't worry about offending me." She swirled the contents of her glass around idly, and leaned back in the seat she had taken up previously.

"And honestly, what you describe is tame to me. Silk ropes, blindfolds.. a few extra hands? Is that /all/? And I'm supposed to be scandalized?" She arched a golden brow upwards, and tossed her hair back over her shoulder.


"Well, there's—" Roberto pauses, then throws his head back and laughs at Amora, putting a hand to the small of her back and stepping to her side for a sidling hug. "Mierde, I am sure from that look you could teach /me/ a thing or two," he tells the Sorceress. "Is the apprentice lecturing the master, perhaps? I am so accustomed to the more progressive views of Rio that I am becoming discouragingly jingoist in my perceptions."

"So, not of America, but your looks is tres chique," Roberto tells Amora. "Dare I say, Milan? I cannot quite place your accent, but I would guess you Dutch from your hair and eyes," he tells the woman.

"Our dear Lady Braddock, of course, has quite openly declared herself a citizen of England, though she has quite the exotic cast to her— the eyes, a color I've never seen," he admits.


"Though having Ms. Van Dyne about would be exceptional for assisting me in narrowing the designer down, her look is neither Emilio nor Valentino's work, and it isn't that delightful Spaniard Salvatore, either. No, I would say some custom work done by a gem in the rough of which we are highly unlikely to hear the name." Fashion is, after all, Elizabeth's art and her existence. She makes her living on the runways wearing those clothes, heeded by those designers, posing for editorial shots to amuse them. "More is the pity, Christian might stand to gain by adding a little colour. His latest ensemble was so very black and white. Likewise, Yves is nearly as bad, but what can you do?"

A curve of a smile plies over her lips, and she raises the whisky in some mild salute.


A flirtatious grin flashed white teeth in Roberto's direction, and she winked with a rise and fall of her shoulders. "Oh, darling, never you worry about sharing what you know about such pleasures. I always find it amusing to hear what others consider scandalous or simply another night." As he attempted to place her accent, her place of origin she could not help a spurt of laughter.

"I have spent a good amount of time in the United Isles, Paris and the Netherlands. My accent is simply a culmination of all the manner of places I have lived. Currently, I reside in New York—and here I am. Here are we all." She gestures to the two with a raise of her glass.

"As far as my dress goes, it was a gift some time ago. I couldn't begin to tell you who designed it or where it came from other than it came from a rather ambitious would be suitor."


A slip of the whisky around in the glass sends it running, and Elizabeth takes a sip. Just one. Then she raises it politely in salute to the pair, though her frosted gaze sloughs off towards some other point in the room, the tremulous beginnings of a party that just begs to be unleashed with all the alcohol-soaked fun of the Sixties in full, furious swing. Party people riveted by the gorgeous blonde, their thoughts tracing circles around business, pleasure, and murder with a healthy order of materiel men like that have no business getting on the free market. Noted: arms dealer. Arm candy. Guards, guards, friend, associate, financier. She ticks off the mental roles, all in the space it takes her to swallow that tasty bitter-hot alcohol.

"I do believe I see an acquaintance. I'll have to allow you two your contest of the deepest depravity in the best of company, and come check who turned out the victor." Her dry tone is so quintessentially Londinian, as if they've seen everything from here to the far edge of space and back. Well, given the Big Bang, yes, they may have.

Then the model raises her glass again and slinks off to go engage the surest form of trouble.


"I think," Roberto says, touching his tongue to his upper lip, eyes dancing— "that in such a contest, there is really no loser, si?" he says, before emitting a short, easy laugh.

He leans against the bar near Amora, sipping his beer. "A true citizen of the world then, Senorita?" he inquires, nodding in admiration. "I can respect that. I have not travelled in Europe enough— some family trips to Portugal and Spain, to see relations, of course— but mostly I have been in South America, and of course a few trips to Ecuador and Cuba," he tells her. "The sunny Caribbean seas, there is nowhere like it, the way the white sandy beaches and the sun keep the ocean a shade of blue that just cannot be described," he says, with a heavy, longing sigh.


Amora cants her head to the side as she watched him intently, leaning back against the bar herself from her stool. She finished off her wine glass with a faint flourish of her wrist as she turned to set it behind her. "Oh yes, I am quite a traveler. I find it enjoyable. It is a means to pass the time." She smirked lightly, a quirking of her ruby painted lips.

"I have been to Spain only in passing, though it is beautiful country.. Or at least it was when I was there." Her voice wreathed in secret laughter at what she had said. "I have yet to travel to the Caribbean though your description does interest me.."


Roberto's clearly a bit captivated by Amora's emerald gaze, because it takes him a moment to recover when she finishes speaking after staring at him so pointedly. Blinking, he tries to shake himself out of that reverie. "Er, si. Portugal is, of course, the best of Spain, the coast and the sunsets," he explains. "But the Caribbean… I have to say, my heart will always be a bit in the Bahamas," he admits with a laugh. "As much as I love Rio and the coast, the Bermudas, the bays, it's just a place of wonder. A friend of mine joked that it is almost perfect, because it always feels as if it's about two hours past lunchtime and there's no more work to be done in the day," He says, with a florid grin. "And the lovely people splashing in the water, drinking from coconut shells— if you've never had a maitai, you haven't lived."

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