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Call it a beautiful day for treachery, and business performed by way of divination. So Maximus the Mad might discover, mad Asgardian sorceresses are not the only ones capable of splitting space to decipher visions or peer upon their chosen marks. Sometimes others with a jot of mystic ability do the same, and the gilded witch in a leather coat and corset he peered upon through the roads and byways of East Village is not without her methods either. Whatever business the fallen king of the Inhumans finds himself about, it has the addition, timed at least to a moment when her appearance from who knows where will not end in a volley of gunfire or startled partners scattering like rats from the watchman's lantern.
Pity New York doesn't still have those wanderers with their lamps, calling the hours, like they did so long in London.
Her emergence comes in silence, and she crosses her arms over her chest, leaning gracefully enough against a wall until he notices her existence.
*
Its a lab in the Baxter Building, where he finds himself, barefoot, wearing white, all white, and somehow the only parts of him that are dirty are his hands a little smudge by his eyebrow. He doesn't seem to notice, at first, but then he speaks, "You know…you are supposed to be a /fly/ if you want to watch me on the wall." And /then/ he looks over with a quirk of a smile.
*
The laboratory might be warded in different ways, though this sense, not fully. The young woman shakes her head slightly. "Dull," she replies. Flies? Insects no doubt leave something to be desired, and she's no Black Widow. Something different, her garments are nearly black in hue given the depths of their burgundy. "This is what you are doing now?" A nod to the surroundings, then her luminous eyes hone back in upon Maximus. "For work or for pleasure?"
*
"My work is pleasure. Sometimes…I just like to build and see what comes out." Maximus lifts a box from the table. Its pretty. Brass, about 6x6inches. There are some wires in one side. A button on another, oversized with a cover over it. He shrugs lightly and then saunters closer to her. "Or, do you mean…am I being babysat by the Fantastic Four. /Yes/. Except that they are idiots who pay me no attention at all."
*
"They may wish to forget you. They may have large problems," says the witch, nodding. The glance towards the table affirms whatever that strange brass box may be, its purpose measured by someone far more educated to the mystical and the mythical than cutting edge science. Call it a hazard being raised by ancients, and those whose cults intersected the cutting edge of mortal science at the height of an empire. These are not always good things.
Fingertips splay along the curve of her hip. "Are you not satisfied here? I could give you a holiday. It would be quite simple, and you have some freedom. It is, of course, on an understanding and a promise. Or many promises."
*
Maximus 's face suddenly lights at this. "Oh, yes, anywhere but here. The city is choking me…no one does what I say…food never arrives on time…and my new ward, charming as she is, keeps complaining. Of course…what is the /promise/? That I return to this cell eventually?" Despite all her learning, because the box is sealed up, it is impossible to tell what it does. However, interestingly, there's no particular indication that Maximus knows what it does either. His view is curious.
*
"Indeed. It makes you ill when you are bound here." Wanda's honey-brown eyes lift towards him, obscured only partly by the downcast thicket of her lashes. "Your ward?" Curious, that, polite as she is. Her fingertips curl around the loops of her belt, a strange thing shimmering with inset coins like something a dancer out of Egypt might wear. Her coloration immediately marks her as someone not lily pure as the English or WASPy sorts might like, though any who have seen her twin brother might wonder how he can be practically white. Evidently she is sun goddess to his moon god, summer to his winter, desert to his mountains. "A monster in human form walks free of the jail room he should be inside. He does terrible things in his laboratory, and calls them needed for science and medicine. This man wears his suit and mask among others who are hungry for his learning, but care not for the price. I am going to bring karma upon him." A smile does not reach her eyes. "Maybe you can say, Maximus Boltagon, I am bored of quiet life tonight. What can I do? Give you a chance to walk out of here for a night to come with me and hunt a horror. Break him however you like."
*
Maximus steeples his fingers as he regards her and her hips, and all the colors of her form. Dark haired as he is, pale from life as a King, he may not be the vision of genetic perfection, but he sure has the genes. He knows, first hand, that appearance is nothing to judge over. "A night of hunting a horror. I may have experimented from time to time, but…not in a gross way." He wrinkles his features. "What will I need?"
*
She is, in so many ways, what the world did in mirror image of Attilan a few thousand years after their formation. Ask not what bloodlines merge in her person, as much as her incarnated twin, nor how they pattern out the impossible in every delicate genetic stitch in that helixing whorl. Maximus is purified; Wanda is, in some ways, assembled. "Yourself. It would be too much to have a suit here, and it is not the kind of suit I think you need. Do you know anything about salsa? Tango?"
*
Maximus arches his dark brows. "Dancing. The women wear things that…show off their assets. I have seen pictures. You are not dressed with enough florals." He teases and taps his dimpled chin with his first finger. "I do have boots, and some…snug black pants. /Very/ snug. I am a quick learner of things, being brilliant."
*
The hopes of seeing her in a dress are currently nil. "I can take you. However, the promises. You will do no harm except to the target I show you. Yes? The others have their own sins but they are not ours to judge, not tonight." Wanda holds up one finger, slim digit long and resolute. "Is there any restriction which keeps you from going? Have your doors been locked in this cage or did you merely say you would not leave if asked?"
*
Maximus stares at the woman, "Oh…no. There are no restrictions. I can leave whenever I choose. Just if I leave and cause trouble, there are people who will immediately come looking for me. But, it sounds like this is hero work. So…there will not be any trouble over /that/." he draws out the last word. "Let me grab those tight pants…and boots. Shoes, I assume, are necessary."
*
'Hero work.' One cannot hope to explain that. "You swear upon your blood this is so, that you may leave as you like?" Wanda asks, her fingertips sketching an inverted triangle, thumbs together and fingertips sloping down towards the floor. Treachery may be staring her in the face, but if he's the wolf, she is the snow leopard, accustomed to trouble creeping from the shadows for her. One doesn't learn to survive what they have without adopting something of a sixth sense for danger. "Shoes are necessary. However, the tight pants will be kept under the dress." The power of tight pants in this age still might be a shock to many women, but given hers are essentially leggings tucked into knee-high boots, the Maximoff witch resembles nothing fashionable in this period. Sixties fashion has still got a ways to go to catch up to her tastes, which blend an honest to Chthon corset with other variations, like that gorgeous burgundy leather coat. Reaching into it, she pulls out a slender slip of cardboard embossed around the edges in red, the words on the front written in Spanish. It may contain a requisite amount of information, place, time, and date - tonight. "You will be going in my place, as Isabella Enriquez. Or, for our target, Isabella Erichsen. A German. Charm him. You are the center of his world, yes? And when you separate him, I will do the rest."
*
Maximus blinks a few times at this, trying to catch up and make sure he understands. "Wait. You want me to be you?" He tilts his head and squints his steel eyes at her. "You are lovely, but you are not me. Or, is this person, Isabella, a stranger? Wait." He straightens. "Are you telling me that you wish for me to dress up like some seductive, German temptress and lure away a demon pretending to be a male scientist? Is that my job?! And then you…" he starts gesturing wildly. "So…and then you use your magic and…get him?" He suddenly tries to grab her by the arm and pull her in for a kiss!
*
"Argentinian. You will seduce the German guest. Our monster." Facts tossed liberally out there leave a great deal of latitude, and then perhaps not. Carefully Wanda buttons up her coat, securing it against the cold. "You will be in my place. They have not seen me. So they have no reason to know Isabella is myself or your lovely self." He tries to touch her, and well he might, but the grip on her arm simply passes right through, leaving nary a ripple to disrupt the potency of that project, illusion, or whatever it is. The sensation might be cool, but not much else. "I will use what is right for the situation. Here I give you latitude. You have some fun, I have some work. It seems fair, yes? Or you can sit here with your box and no female company."
*
Maximus makes a surprised sound and then a grunt to follow. "Very well. How long do I have before you whisk me awaaaay?" His hand flows sideways, like its being stolen by spells. Already calculating how he's going to manage a gown. Oh right. He has already bought 4.
*
"Swear to the terms. It is my arse on the line, you might say. I do not want to be held by the Fantastic Four because you lied." Wanda steps back and circles around, giving some room for her pacing that brings her towards the middle of the room. Her hand emerges from her pocket and she waits upon Maximus, giving him time to respond.
*
"I swear, it is the truth. I may go off on whatever heroic adventures I like. Just no one invites me because they do not love me like you do." Maximus blinks his eyes slowly, following the vision around the room, turning if he has to, in place. "But, you should already know, if you still keep company with my elusive brother."
*
Something solidifies in the position of the witch, as though her body is superimposed over a mirror. One instant is all it takes, a blink, and Maximus may well miss what he sees. "I will hold you to your vows. Come, then, get your clothes. We have a time to meet. Don't we, Isabella?" The slight lilt of her Transian hints to how hard she suppresses it to focus upon her English, which remains not the first or best of the languages she speaks. Still, Wanda is willing to be patient, within reason. After he collects his things, the matter is rather simple to conclude: she holds out her hand to him, gloved and all, in preparations to open the portal. None of the shining sparkle that follows the Mystic Arts for her; he will not be wreathed in terrible sparks, but rather falls through what feels like a watery puddle underfoot, one that links to /another/ puddle elsewhere.
In this case, a wet alleyway glittering with light on the cobblestones, sheltered between two larger buildings. Several fancy saloon cars and sports cars lie along the street, and the ambient temperature is much warmer, sultry almost. Whatever storm passed did so where the centigrade sits around thirty.
*
Maximus looks different by the time he's ready to come out with her. He has shaved, for starters, niiiice and close, and applied a full face of makeup. His ringlets have been pressed to one side, so that his hairstyle is slicked back on one, with a bloom of sassy curls on the other side. Normally when he plays dress-up, he doesn't bother hiding his man-ness, but in this case, it is necessary to pick the gown that allows him to stuff the breasts and hide the goods. So, its a 60s style with long, sheer red sleeves, a fully covered chest, with a dipping back, a thin belt at the waist, and a drapey, flowy bottom, coming to about knee length. Gold heels make up the rest of the ensemble. He makes for a tallish woman in the heels particularly, and all that red and gold…makes him a noticeable one. "Ugh…you dress me up and take me on a date to an alley." He complains.
*
He's dressed to the nines for the witch, so the least the witch can do is curb her tongue behind her teeth. Golden eyes narrow upon him. The look may almost be right, but needs something. Two pins studded in garnets are pulled from the headband spanning her crown, and she holds them out. "Over your ear."
Maximus cannot surely find fault with that. He needs to look pretty, oh so pretty, and the absence of a bougainvillea or a passionflower to tuck behind his ear will be noted sadly. His charm and grace whilst crossdressing are the doom of Argentines everywhere, particularly those targeted by the young woman in question. "I could have thrown you into the garden. Your heels would trap you in the soil. Then you would complain I made you dirty." Her tone allows for little concern at that point, and she reaches out to the wall. "The ticket. You need only walk through the front doors. Servants will show you where. It is known Isabella is not… wise… about the events, but she is well connected. You come from a Spanish noble house with long ties to the Germans, and you are wealthy and sympathetic to their situation." Let him claim what he will. "The rest of the story you can lie or write however you like. But it is important you focus upon Doctor Kurt Schaeffer. Yes? Tall man, very proper German. Blond, fit, forty-five but looks something younger. Tanned. Not so much as me." She is truly golden by nature, her skin tone intimating origins to the Indian subcontinent or Mediterranean. "He is supposed to be a fine dancer. He will not drink alcohol and he is a sociopath." Of course. Her mouth curves an artless smile, her eyes cold as twin amber chips devoid of fire. "Think upon this, he tortures and dissects for fun. He believes in a darker power than your people's makers. Toy with him as you will, but try not to shove him out the window."
*
Maximus listens very carefully to the mission he has been given. Isabella. Isabella. Kurt. Kurt. Trying to find character, but of course he does have his mind control to assist. "Can I…harmlessly make other people pay attention to me? Are there likely to be more demons at this place? People want what other people want. I need only get him apart from the others, right? Somewhere…secluded." He reaches up to touch the additions to his hair, approving.
*
"Do as you will. The lot of them are drawn to worship." The cold arc of her smile remains in place, shallow and barbed all the way along. "Somewhere, yes. You do not need to worry about the rest. They are trouble, but not for tonight. It is more important to remove him from the source of their power." Wanda draws up her fingertips and sketches a few poised gestures with her fingertips, easily construed as preparing for some sort of dance. She leans into the motions slightly and breathes out, her Transian or Latin — it's hard to say which — flowing over her tongue. Of course, if Maximus speaks Latin, he'll know it is not that.
The building beyond the alleyway is set back by a fence, and a curving drive cuts up to the front of the handsome white stone. Though not large, the palatial finish is true to many of Buenos Aires' fancier homes and manors, fringed in trees and opulent in the fashion of neo-Baroque or neo-classical. Red brick shutters frame the high Palladian windows, and there's of course that balcony peering over the pool where a few people might be tempted to frolic. Absent huge gardens, there's still the pretty bower and two floors of private rooms, public suites, and ballrooms of course catering to this fandango.
*
Maximus heads on into the event, because…there's no point in being dressed up if you don't have somewhere to go! And, gosh darn it, he has a demon psycho to seduce. Now he just has to make sure not to fall in love.
*
Staff in black suits and tails, close-cropped hair and clean-shaven jaws speaking to universal tidiness, guard the front of the manor. They move discreetly about to avoid attracting attention to themselves in the way of the very best help, those trained with an English butler's rigor and a French aristocrat's panache. Calling nothing of their manners or, for that matter, 'Isabella's' into question, one of them glides up to intercept the unescorted woman in a fine, fitted dress and stylish norms to meet their requirements. The ticket helps greatly, too, as does the fact he's more of a born prince than any of the people in residence at the Alzaga Unzue mansion. Black fencing closes in the gated entrance from any unworthies, and one of them glides straight up to her. "Senora," he announces himself in Spanish, then seamlessly transitions to German. "Frau. Welcome, you have your invitation?"
*
Isabella ducks painted nails into her clutch and pulls out the invitation provided by Wanda. Since she never looked at it, it'll be a shock if its just a hilarious set-up to get punched in the face. But, assuming its not, she elegantly purses her lips and raises an eyebrow. Maximus does not have a particularly low voice, but its certainly husky for a woman, drawing out in a strange accent that is nothing anyone here can identify. "/Obviously/." She eyes the escort on her arm for a moment, then turns back to the doorman. "I want the blond." She points to a different escort waiting in the wings. Demand more and people question less.
*
The invitation is a slim ticket of sorts, stamped in black, and otherwise the sort of elegant frippery used to unlock doors. One doesn't arrive the Belle Époque building without a very deliberate reason to be there, even if that reason is shrouded in a pretty smile and false pretenses, or a illusion woven in a tight veil blurring any obvious visual or audible trace of another's presence. Wanda might try jumping the fence or clear levitating over it, but why spend the energy when going in legitimately will spare her the energy? She lingers several steps back and one to the side of 'Isabella,' in the event anyone crowds Maximus too closely, she is out of the way.
The servant takes the invitation, looking it over. He compares against a small black book, running down the lines. "Very good, Senora Enriquez." One can almost hear him fighting not to turn it into Erichsen, its proper German form. "No guests and this is your first event, yes? You will find everything you need inside and ask any of the servants. We are all in service to you and the members, of course." He defers by dipping his head and not meeting her eyes, perfunctory and polite in the way of a given class trained to be proper. A gesture made subtly to the other doorman brings him forth at a quick clip.
*
Maximus trades off escorts and then makes a slow walk inside, probably keeping the pace nice and lazy in order to give Wanda plenty of time to slip in, invisible, with him, or whatever she is doing. She has time to do it. His mission is clear and he will do it while he will have to assume that Wanda is doing hers. Off Isabella goes, into the fray of the party, eyes already keen to find this Kurt fellow, just so she knows what she's after.
*
She probably could be playing a violin, the world's smallest for the clutch of sympathizers of a demon's work, and not be noticed. At least by the majority, which is rather the point. He shall have to be left to his own devices, which may be a blessing: Maximus having a very long leash means he can run or choose to hang himself with it, but no doubt in the most spectacular of fashions. Women swanning around inside the building are glitzy and sleek and marvelous, wearing fitted gowns in vertical metallic stripes fashioned from sequins of gold and silver, powder puff blue cocktail gowns, and every other manifestation of crazy Sixties fashion adeptly managed by some of the world's most beautiful people.
The blond assistant walks her through the foyer with its fancy topiaries in white marble pots, showing her to the middle of that room with its soaring, vaulted ceilings. He speaks in Spanish unless Isabella requires something else; German and English are possibilities, though his Italian is woeful and requires him to fetch another interchangeable servant. Portuguese, likewise, nets a Brazilian. No doubt they could find an Icelandic speaker at a moment's notice. "To the left are the pool and garden walk," he murmurs in a politely restrained tone. "Several adjacent suites this way are stocked by food supplied by the chefs and an open bar. Special orders of course are possible. Frau would like champagne? We have only the best of Rhineland wines." Is there a theme here? Yes, yes there is. "The ballroom is ahead through the double doors." The definite sounds of a waltz, likely Brahms or Strauss, filters through the space, suggesting a string ensemble.
*
Maximus cannot, entirely, understand what the escort is saying. But he is a very smart man and he can certainly get the gist and play along with a vague smile and a nod. German he knows a little better. And considering he won't be faulted for being bad at a presumably 'second' language to a native Spanish, he switches to that. "Fetch me wine. I will be in the ballroom." Plan A. Get everyone's attention. That's just what she does. She lets go of the escort's arm and then walks with royal confidence towards the sound of music. There are obviously prettier women. Women who are more slender. Women who are bustier. Women who are genetic women. But there aren't any other women with mind control abilities to nag at the backs of mind to 'watch me' while she makes her way to the dance floor. She holds out one hand, demanding a partner.
*
"Yes, Frau. Would you like red or white?" It is essential to ask for one mustn't be faulted for presenting her such an important ingredient to a night's success. The fellow hastens off to find something to drink for Isabella while keeping a bead on the direction she takes through the luxurious mansion. Let there be no doubt, this is the height of European majesty and South American excesses wedded very happily, and restrained to simply the right degree. Money and pedigree speak volumes, after all.
The ballroom is glorious, truly, alight with blazing chandeliers and outfitted with a ransom of floral arrangements, massive blossoms spilling out in breathtaking profusions from vases, the wall sconces, and almost everything in between. Beautiful people milling around are every bit as subject to mind control as the servants, and they turn to see the source of the emanation without even catching themselves. Conversations fracture. Pauses stipple the music as the musicians looking up from their sheet music are too rapt by this creature, which certainly earns them a scolding and a glare from those in the know. There are a good number of dancers out there to choose from, probably fifteen couples whirling around at a given moment in the floor nearest the musicians. At least ninety people altogether are in here; Maximus has his hunting cut out for him, though probably fifty or more are male. And dressed as such.
*
Isabella takes up with someone far too young to be a doctor, so that she cannot make a mistake with him. The mind control nagging fades out to appear natural, and she dances with a basic grace, some awkwardness coming from usually being the leader. In German, she probes, "Is Doctor Schaeffer here, yet? Could you point him out?"
*
"Doktor Schaeffer?" His German accent thick, the young fellow has the airs and graces of a misplaced Bavarian who may well speak fluent Spanish along with it. He seems delighted that this lovely specimen of unusual womanhood selected him from the crowd, allowing him to escort her onto the dance floor. He clearly knows how to waltz and the leadership position falls to him, trusting she will follow along, because of course she must, no? Isabella is certain to be a fine partner, following the three step box as he guides her around the floor. "Yes, he should be. He is the man of the hour! I expect he will appear any time now," he says, nodding to the curtained stage area limned in lights and flowers. "His custom is to mingle with the guests after making his introductions, though you came somewhat late for that. He is no doubt greeting the VIPs."
*
Maximus manages to look naturally affronted that he is not among the VIPs. It is an effortless expression. It passes, fickle, like the rest of him. But, at least he knows how to find the man…demon…now. A saccharine smile follows, broad and red, nipping at disturbing with how broad it is, but there's no doubt that he stands out, regardless of his peculiarities. Entitlement oozes. A sweep of strings and that song ends, and Isabella makes certain to move strategically across the dance floor to lure in another partner from a position nearer to the vantage point for the Doctor. She needs to be seen…when its time.
*
Maximus leaves behind the young man to look for another partner, sadly, and he sighs almost wistfully. They watch this figure of intrigue come and go, and the thickly populated end of the dance floor makes for some obstructions. A few small tables around the fringes contain those drinks and purses and papers left by the members mingling together, and their eyes all seem to be upon this unknown interloper headed towards them. Conversations taper off. They wait and watch, far too much like a predatory wolfpack.
Doktor Schaeffer, where might he be? Patience will be key here, for the gentleman in question stands in a closed box of four men, speaking firmly and quietly to them. Affirmative words pass between them, rather quiet but deliberate. Despite that lovely tux, he stands out in a different way from the others - just as the other three, he has the upright posture and Aryan features idealized not so long ago, the look of good health and primacy of manhood, being somewhere around his mid-forties.
*
And here Maximus is…having gone quite a while without a lover and this demon is rather striking. Such a pity. Its the dress that keeps him on task, though, because its not like he can pretend to be a woman forever, and pursue something. Once he figures out who he is, Isabella keeps a peripheral eye on the target, even while dancing with someone else.
*
There Maximus is in quite the lovely dress, his mission simple and waiting for a trap to open or shut. The conversation betwixt the men goes on, and if Kurt notices the lovely figure whirling around in another pass of the waltz, he doesn't give much indication of interest. Far more the discussion he holds with the others. An older woman swans up in her long silver dress on the arm of a scarred, upright fellow with a shock of white hair. Immediately the other two retreat, leaving one nearby to watch like a hawk, leaving no doubt in the mind of his position as the right hand man to the demon. Or at least respected enough to loiter nearby.
*
Maximus is going to have to be…crafty. When that dance ends, she peels off and approaches a group nearby, lurking, listening, feigning interest while he listens to what the silver dress and older man are talking about with the Doctor. And if his drink shows up, red wine, he is going to drink the hell out of it.
*
Their German is sublime and their behaviour is unimpeachable, the conversation apparently about the final preparations made and the display to be performed later on. Evidently everything is ready but, naturally, it's all on Doktor Schaeffer's lead. He merely smiles as he looks out over the crowd, hardly concerned by them. Wisps of conversation might be worrisome.
"And the priest?""Ready to perform the service, as we require.""He did not protest overly much?""Oh, you know how he likes to pretend we all owe him. A proper nudge and reminder cleared that all up."
"Downstairs in twenty minutes?"
The wine shows up, the server a touch harried, but now he's found Maximus not dancing, so it's relatively safe. If only he didn't trip over absolutely nothing on the way to get alcohol. Wanda is nothing if not direct.
*
Their German is sublime and their behaviour is unimpeachable, the conversation apparently about the final preparations made and the display to be performed later on. Evidently everything is ready but, naturally, it's all on Doktor Schaeffer's lead. He merely smiles as he looks out over the crowd, hardly concerned by them. Wisps of conversation might be worrisome.
"And the priest?"
"Ready to perform the service, as we require."
"He did not protest overly much?"
"Oh, you know how he likes to pretend we all owe him. A proper nudge and reminder cleared that all up."
"Downstairs in twenty minutes?"
The wine shows up, the server a touch harried, but now he's found Maximus not dancing, so it's relatively safe. If only he didn't trip over absolutely nothing on the way to get alcohol. Wanda is nothing if not direct.
*
Maximus claims the wine and slides his eyes around looking for that 'downstairs' indicated. But, that will never do, because…Max needs the man /alone/. He makes a strange little grunting sound, petulant, before rallying himself into character again. Isabella takes a deep breath, puts on a charming smile, and then sways her way to the little gathering about the doctor while she sips the dregs of the wine from the bottom of the glass. Her voice comes out sultry, in accented German, flawed, "The man of hours, Doctor. It is a pleasure, " Just totally interrupting, "I am Isabella Erichsen."
*
ROLL: Maximus +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 64
*
No sign of stairs here, though there are plenty of them presumably elsewhere given the second floors on the place. No doubt there must be a subterranean floor for special events, the sort of special that rhymes with illegal.
The tripped servant makes amends as two of his peers emerge out of nowhere, hurrying along to clean up the spreading bloodstain of red wine. No one shall curse there, but there are threats given in dark looks and hasty efforts. The mutters and tittering through the nearest crowd speaks to their irritation and they move away from the stain, leaving Isabella somewhat exposed as she wanders up. Of course, is that a problem for Maxibella? Hardly, though the doctor offers a thin smile. "Would I know you, Frau? I do not think we're introduced."
*
Maximus holds out her hand to the doctor. "I suppose some would wait to be introduced by another, but, I am not that sort of woman. What I want, I do. Did you not invite me to this triumph?" Steel eyes cast left, then right, reviewing the party with every sense that she has seen /bigger/. Triumph said with a hint of underwhelming. "I can dance with men anywhere. I wanted to meet the man of the hour."
*
Indeed, Isabella appears not to be. The vaguely disgusted looks on Doctor Schaeffer's companions' faces tell their own tale: dismay an upstart interrupted their business, private conversations halted, eyes narrowing at the unknown barging in. Kurt takes her approach in stride, giving a cool, measured look at odds with the educated, sophisticated tone no one could hope to find fault with. It helps, of course, to be distinguished and good looking. His hands come together in front of him, empty of rings, broad fingers curved slightly. "Such manners of the new age," he says. His expression is animated, precise in its way. "Admission is a rather selective business. We couldn't open the doors to just anyone." Those overhearing him titter or chuckle, turning a little to afford a hint of privacy where none at all exists. "You have me at a disadvantage, Frau…"
*
"Isabella Erichsen…you would call me. My connection is strong to your house, and I have all manner of title and wealth." Maximus exhales faintly and his eyes ring with the absolute truth of his next statement, "Trust me, my manners are not modern, dear Doctor. My manners are noble." There's a hint of chill about her, trying to suggest that she may be into the sort of cruelty he practices, without being heavy handed with it.
*
The gentleman inclines his head. "Erichsen," he repeats it with classic German precision, Prussian if one knows what to listen for, and otherwise cultivated elegance to the ear if not. "Nobility, a relic of a past age, tends to wither in the modern day. Pity. A bloodline six hundred years old can be extinguished like that." A pinch of his fingers emphasizes the point. "And no one marks its passing, for the remaining circle struggles to survive in the cold, bitter world they're in. What drives you to us, Frau Erichsen? It cannot be strictly self-preservation. We're a bit too wise for that, aren't we?"
*
Dark lips press together and form a pinched circle. "Self-preservation is a terrible reason to come to a party. I prefer to live a bit more dangerously. Dance with me. I think you will find there is no part of me described by the word….wither." The round lips then spread into an alluring and slightly overbroad grin. Bitch may be cray cray.
*
ROLL: Wanda +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 63
*
ROLL: Maximus +rolls 1d100 for a result of: 10
*
"It does make the party something of a cockroach terrarium when that motivates the majority," Kurt replies. He gives a look over that self-confident woman, and he tsks, the sound very soft. "Living dangerously is dancing? Frau, I fear to say you need a broader outlook on what might be dangerous. You have little to fear unless you have no talent for the waltz. Poisoned by rumba and these less savory dances? Foxtrot?" His tone carries a quiver of disdain. "Tell me why you come here. I should like to leave the dance floor to the others. Let them have their space."
*
Maximus isn't doing so great. Normally, he would petulantly throw a fit and make guards come and take the offender away, but…the situation is obviously…different than he's used to. Little more word-crafting than he's used to, as well. Maximus attempts to pull poor Isabella out of a tailspin. So, change of plan. "I came here to seduce you…convince you to take your work to Spain, and because I suspect you may need to leave /here/, when others discover what you are." Ominously, she whispers it, trying to create intrigue, and a question of whether he should be talking to her in the open.
*
Seduce a German doctor hanging out in Argentina? The very notion brings a low chuckle to Kurt's lips. "My dear Frau Erichsen, what could Franco offer me? Stifling the research we do, whereas Pinochet and our hosts in this fine country have been so very welcoming." He taps his fingers against his cuff, watching the dancers in their finery and the mixing crowds, all of whom have an eye on him. "Spain has been little to offer. Empty cities devoid of proper blood, dirtied influences. A rare few have kept themselves pure enough. And you would know something of purity, wouldn't you?" A few steps bring him closer, looking down on the woman. Height he has, a blessing of that Aryan shell, a very imposing manner when he wants one. Such as now. "Everyone here knows what I am, my dear. Tread very carefully now, and choose your words mindfully."
*
Maximus squares his shoulders, "Actually, I think I'll just leave. I can tell you have no interest in me, my country, my wealth or anything at all regarding me. So, a good evening…and…good luck, I suppose?" She nods her head faintly and then turns from the imposing man to try to head very slowly, towards the entrance. The slowness is so that hopefully Wanda can slip back out with him, and not be stuck in the party alone.
*
Kurt shakes his head, a cough of laughter odd against his bearing. It doesn't quite fit, at odds with the demeanor he wears as easily as a bespoke suit. "Your country? No. Your wealth? Maybe. You? Oh yes. You're unlike anyone else here." Those teeth flash white in his smile. "Good luck has nothing to do with it. Planning? Oh yes. I ask what you seek, frau. It's not entirely a dance. But if you must go, then go.