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The sun could be up, or fallen into a bloody sea. It makes little difference in a haunt outside of time. The latest inventions of the kitchen are laid out: six plates, six different desserts. None of them remotely resemble the others, confections dreamt by someone clearly talented. Food is a sinful indulgence when done right. The chef stands behind the table, flanked by a grim waitress with a white linen napkin folded over her arm. At the bar, Lucian looks to the ceiling for a moment.
"Do you not have something better to do?" His complaint might as well be aimed at the embossed copper ceiling. Somehow it's His fault. "How does my opinion make a difference? Judge for yourselves. Or take the first three people walking through the door and decide."
The chef frowns. The waitress is implacable as time.
*
So. This place found Maximus. Because this is a place that loves him and his like. Royals. Decadence. Twisted and indulgent. It was only a matter of time before Prince Maximus found himself inside, quiet at first. Not so instantly drawing attention to himself. He probably isn't even the craziest or the most perverse one in the room anymore. Hell, among this company…he may even be sane. Today he is dressed in a white suit with a blue shirt, blue feather stuck through the buttonhole and a fur stole made from baby white seals, because that's how he rolls. His hair is getting too long again, curling up in ringlets about his face.
*
Curiosity is a terrible thing. That, and…oh good lord, let's face it, she's totally enamored with the idea of seeing the barkeep play again. Thus, Rosemarie arrives from a taxi at the door to Lux, the newest club in the East Village. Dress in an ivory evening dress, empire-waisted with small bow at her waist and draped cowl back that reveals a daring amount of shoulder — and with little matching gloves to boot! — she gives the doorman a friendly smile that is returned with professional intensity.
Maybe not quite appropriate for clubbing, but at least the skirt length shows her knees and the heels are high enough. Oh yes, high enough, she assures you. Must not fall down stairs and break something.
Down the stairwell, with its sheets of rippling green glass, and she pauses again on one of the small landings, off to one side. Where is…that barkeep? Lucian? One can't miss him, he's got that…leonine hair. Rather dapper gentleman as a whole. Well…everyone here is. Her cinnamon-brown eyes rove and tah-dah, there — at the bar, of course. He seems to be speaking with the kitchen staff. Should…she interrupt? Well. Perhaps she can — she is a patron of the club. She'd like a drink anyways.
The tip of her tongue slips along her lip at the thought of warm rum. Descending the rest of the stairs is easy enough…save for the last step. A badly-placed foot and her balance wobbles. She needs to catch herself and hence, the blush beneath her freckles. In the moment, her eyes catch sight of the feather in the gentleman's white suit and even as she centers herself, she can't help the little smile. Ah, feathers. If he looks her direction, he'll catch sight of the little grin even as she's continuing on towards the bar. Lucian is given a little wave as she settles onto a stool, glancing with politely-distant interest at the plates laid out. It looks amazing.
*
Madness is a highly specific malady. In this company, Maximus may aspire to be the average. The chef has to be crazy to have open flame on a table and a long, thin china plate with two rectangular blocks of marshmallow, molten chocolate, and skewers that flirt with burning distance. Butane feeds the handsome ceramic brazier. The waitress glaring daggers at his back could be deemed unstable, mad. A current of violence lies under her, raspberry hidden in a good ganache. Not the bartender, though.
He turns his back to the pair presenting a plating beyond the likes of the Astoria and other high end joints. The crisp, pale shirt prohibits Lucian from fading into the intimate dinners beyond the bar while preparing the night's potions. A crystal punch bowl simmers away as he adds a few more pinches of crystallised lime juice. From his grand gesture, it might be expected to burst into a three foot tall gout of flame. One person. Two people.
A nod is enough. The woman with the white towel walks forward, marking prey. The chef waits. Maximus is the first sacrifice. "Welcome to Lux," she says, dark-haired and darker eyed. "The house would like you to try complementary desserts and offer an opinion." As far as a spiel goes, it's like having a torch singer ask in a dark voice full of promise. Rosemarie is her next target, supposing Maximus is amenable. Lucian himself is not unawares, but he lets his people do their important thing.
*
Apparently included in the invitation, Rosemarie looks to the beautiful platings again and over at Lucian for all of a questioning second before returning her attention to the server. "Oh! That's kind of you, thank you."
She takes in the sight before her at the table before uncurling from the barstool and walking over to it. A fingertip rests on her lower lip as she thinks, considering each in turn, before turning to the server once again.
"Could I try the…tiramisu?" It's a moderately-educated guess on her part given the layerings of the dessert in question. "And this one." She points at the meringue cylinder with the striations of what appears to be a sorbet and…fruit? Of course, the librarian is just as quick to pull her hand away, cognizant of social morales and how it's rude to point.
*
The chef looks the part of an actor in a proper role rather than a chef. He is neither portly, sweaty or short. His crisp white coat stands out in the low light common to Lux, and he casts a look to the dusky waitress, who in turn nods.
"Please sit down, won't you?" He circles past the table to indicate an open seat at a two-topper, probably brought out here for just that purpose. Most of the seating on the first floor are intimate horseshoe booths, plush and comfortable. "Very good," he says, picking up the plate with the solid square dusted in espresso and filaments of shaved chocolate. It smells sweet as heaven. The meringue cylinder is a take on a classic English dessert, the particulars being tasty and properly fresh. Nothing like stuffing the cylinder full of fruit and sorbet to smash into pieces, breaking down walls and spiking with voluptuous amounts of cream. After laying down the first plate, he returns for the second, placing it further than the center, as though to require the first be eaten.
*
Having seated herself at the chef's behest, the librarian gets comfortable and smoothes down her skirt. Perched as she is, the hem rises a bit higher than she's used to and the cooler air touching exposed skin makes her acutely aware that posture is paramount. The clutch rests on her lap and she takes another few moments to admire the efforts of the ingredients on their canvas in china.
"It looks amazing," she comments, giving the chef a twinkling smile of gratitude before she picks up a spoon. Since the tiramisu seems to have been offered first, she carves out a bite. The bite disappears behind painted lips and her eyelids slowly close. Curling toes inside of heels is hard, but she tries nonetheless. The hum of delight is stoppered up for the utensil still within her mouth, but she removes it simply to appreciate the pure flavors of the cream-and-coffee dessert. "It's very good! I haven't had this in a long time. This is…wow." It almost seems like a terrible sin to continue on with gathering up another bite because at one point, it will be gone and that is a travesty. She cannot resist. Another mouthful draws forth another hum and smile.
*
Strange has left.
*
"That one. King's Delight." Maximus points to Brimstone. Of course he has no idea what the desserts are called in America…or among humans even, but in Attilan, that one with its sweet and tart flavors is his dessert. Lemon bars are called Gnome Gold, and he does love his Gnome Gold, but not seeing any of that, he doesn't choose a second. At least he's decisive though. "Many thanks to the…ah… /establishment/ for its generosity." His voice has a singsong quality about it, which paints him as a perfectly pleased sort of man. He glances over to the lady nearby, "My dear…I know men who would pay good money to watch you eat."
*
Ninette arrives from East Village.
*
Ninette has arrived.
*
The chef does not preen. He looks with grave uncertainty upon the inbound figures seated before him. Rosemarie's enthusiasm meets with Maximus' certainty. "Taking only one means someone else will have to eat three," he announces in a stentorian rumble. However, small dessert spoons are selected from the pile and a fork presented for each so as not to interrupt the other flavours. Let each of them take what they will. The Brimstone is presented, a triangular wedge on a squared plate. The very swirls of raspberry implore someone to devour it whole.
Lucian gives only the slightest interest to the affairs of food. State means preparing another of the libations, a bottle shot by a sprig of some herbs and a proper tonic hue: green, faintly. He tests the cork with a tap of his finger, and sets it aside upon a bar. His grim waitress approaches to discuss something in soft tones, and he gives a curt little nod. "Yes. Look for a third. Decide which is best, see it's done." When it comes to terrible sins, gluttony is the least of them.
*
Lucian has partially disconnected.
*
Someone's speaking to her? It's not the chef, not the same voice. Rosemarie opens her eyes and realizes that someone else has joined her at the table — the gentleman in the white suit, with the feather!
His smooth comment registers and the blush floods beneath her freckled cheeks, up into her ears and even down her neck to some extent. The dessert spoon clicks to the plate as she tries for a smile that isn't practically screaming "NO ONE'S EVER SAID THAT TO ME!" in neon lettering.
"I'm not sure what you mean." Lies, she knows precisely what the gentleman with the inky ringlets is implying.
*
"Let them eat three." Maximus replies to the chef imperiously before he settles down by Rosemarie. "Have not you?" He spoons a bite of the delight into his mouth and enjoys it for a moment before replying, "It is likely that they were too busy watching you hum and form…suggestive…expressions on your face to say anything about it. It is no complaint, rather a compliment. Its nice to see that you are both shy…ish…and admitting to it being an attractant by coming to a location like /this/, which reeks of indulgeance." He swirls his spoon in the air. His eyes are sharp, and his tone is cordial, blending two things that oppose each other in intent.
*
Ninette steps in, giving the place a cool once-over. This will be her new place of employment? Hmm. Maybe. She's not on tonight, but it behooves one to scope out the territory before staking a claim in it. She holds her clutch before her in both dainty hands, long legs hosed in seamed stockings, and her hips swaying with each step.
Her gaze meanders to the trio, and he pauses. Is one of those to be her new boss? She gives each of them a slow, sensual once-over and a small smile tugs at her cherry red lips. She pauses just outside their circle of conversation, regarding them with an inquisitive yet patient tilt of her head.
*
Around the club, other patrons indulge in their preferred poisons and on the main level, not far from the bar where a crystal bowl of punch and a few glass tonic bottles are prepared by the bartender. Light glinting off his golden hair, Lucian finally abandons the polished stretch of marble separating him from Lux's interior. Another server slips past him to take up the post, allowing him to peruse the ground floor at his leisure. He paces with a restless vigor, nodding to the odd customer with a martini or indulging in a conversation but willing to make eye contact. Others he patently ignores as they choose to turn their face from him.
"Better than reeking of smoke." Lucian is not a loudly spoken man. His voice might sound like it's behind someone's shoulder even when it is not.
"How is the flavour? Is it too sweet or too fruity, sir? Miss, is the chocolate coming through or is it overpowered by the mascarpone's freshness? Can you taste the rum?" asks the chef, his chin raised and hawkish look on both the diners. He might be distracted more easily. Ninette might make it a yard from the bottom of the stairs before the dusky woman acting as a waitress intercepts her. "The house would like you to try complementary desserts and give your opinions," she says in a dry murmur, indicating the table where the other two sit.
*
ROLL: Maximus +rolls 1d20 for a result of: 17
*
Rosemarie attempts to keep eye contact with the man and his silver spoon, but it's hard. He's got a point. Why is she here again? Little lamb is gamboling about in a place where running might set off the locals to the hunt. Somehow, deep within and likely for the presence of the Otherness stirring in her blood, she knows this. The Shi'ar mutagenic changes act as a brutally-accurate primal gut instinct where her own might fail.
"I came to see a man play the piano," she admits quietly, folding her hands overtop the clutch in her lap. The librarian nibbles at her lip again. "Well, to see if he would. He m-might n-not." Oh, there goes the stutter! Glancing up beyond the table shows the torch singer looking her over as well. The heat in her cheeks skyrockets. And Lucian — the barkeep, he speaks up as well and she glances over her shoulder, finding him after a moment.
But the chef! Rosemarie turns her attention to him, looking rather wide-eyed until she centers herself with a quick sigh. "The chocolate, yes. I can taste it. The marscapone isn't too strong. Maybe more espresso…?" It seems painful to offer up the suggestion; she does it with nearly a wince.
*
"I know what this needs…but I sincerely doubt it practical." Maximus jabs his fork at his dessert. "Himalayan cow milk. You know that cow milk has a different taste based upon the grass it feeds. Have you seen a Himalayan cow? They look like…hairy boxes, roaming through snow. Beautiful and…strange, all at once. Their milk is /curdy/, a bite to it that wars with the sweetness elsewise, like the raspberry itself." He pauses and takes another bite dramatically, "But, despite the lack of Himalayan cow milk use, the dessert is the best I have found yet in this polluted city." He smiles at Rosemarie, then. "See that woman there?" He nods to Ninette, "What do you think of /her/?"
*
Ninette lets the waitress lead her to the table, following behind in an unhurried meander. It gives the pair time for their commentary before she's standing before them. Where some might be shy upon meeting newcomers and joining their reverie, she merely smiles thinly and says, "Hello, I am Ninette." Her accent is classic Parisian. She takes a seat with practiced grace, one leg crossed over the other. First she looks to Rosemarie, then to Maximus, long and intimate, before her gaze drops to the array of desserts. "And what have we here?"
*
Himalayan cow milk might sound absolutely absurd. However, the chef listens with calculated focus on that recommendation and te depth of the espresso. He almost narrows his eyes, but not precisely looking at them. No doubt the desserts are going to be recalibrated after his patron hurls the guests out on their ear. "Dzomo milk?" He listens to this mindfully and then turns to the bartender. "Or yak? Can we source that?" The question is no sooner out of his mouth than he gets a nod from Lucian, who drifts in next to the table at some distance. Naturally a necessity to avoid distracting from the second round of desserts in Rosemarie's case, and the three Ninette is left to choose between.
Each of them are simply plated on white, and vastly different from one another. An open flame burns on the side, a tray of two marshmallows, chocolate, and cookies leaving small doubt to that dessert's identity.
"Dessert sampling for Lux. You are diners, your thoughts count," says the blond man. He draws a nod to the others. "Miss Ninette. Welcome. Tuck in and say what you will to Calixte."
*
Taken aback by Maximus's query, the librarian is simply wordless. She watches the torch singer approach and dances on the very edge of quailing away into her seat, bending like a willow switch. Be brave, whispers the Otherness, imparting her psyche with some steel. Instead of wilting, she remains at least straight-spined, even if her freckles might have all but disappeared beneath the flush.
The singer's name is Ninette, her accent frosting on her words, and Rosemarie swallows carefully. Her eyes settle on her tiramisu and then slide to the other dish, the berry trifle in the glass. A new spoon is grabbed and she samples it carefully, almost as if it might be poisoned. It's delicious, truly. She can't help licking the utensil ever so slightly; the sweetness of summer manages to swirl around with the milky cream and she can see herself eating this on her patio during a lazy evening with relative ease. It relaxes her enough to roll her lips before looking to the singer having joined them at the table.
"Piper," she…pipes up, utilizing the stand-in name known to, at least, the barkeep.
*
"Her name is Piper? Or is that the name of your pianist?" Maximus asks curiously, distracted for a second by Rose's manner of eating. Licking. Oh dear. The royal clears his throat. Its then that he notices the blond on the outskirts of their table and he smiles blandly, politely, then rubs his own cheek against his baby seal stole. Man, is it ever soft. "And who is that…giving permission to import milk from China?" he asks of Rose.
*
Ninette inclines her head politely to Rosemarie. "Piper," she echoes, Frenchifying the name thoroughly. Maximus gets an arched brow ass Ninette takes in the makeup, the finery. Whatever she thinks of it, very little shows behind those placid green eyes. She doesn't ask his name; his lack of introduction is introduction enough.
Her attention then turns to the desserts. This is, after all, why she's here now. She opts to sample the La Fee Verte. The portion she spoons up is tiny, scarcely substantial. Then again, she is herself a little thing.
She takes the spoonful daintily, drawing it out through closed lips that masterfully don't mar their perfect matte red. Her features soften into a wholly unwholesome pleasure. It wouldn't be difficult to imagine that elation in other circumstances. "Oui," she says in that love, melodious voice of hers. "Oui, this is divine. I've not had anything this good since Paris."
*
"The pianist is not called Piper. Too great an irony, no?" Lucian's comment drags back behind them to a place of isolated quiet, his observation lingering for a moment. Not like he counts the spoons on the table. A faint mark of curiosity burns in bright blue eyes.
The briar rose is the rarest of the concoctions, the fragile meringue tower concealing the inner structure. Petals stuffed by sweet, tart fruit practically inspire a dessert breaking down into its components, the sorbet holding it all together with a pertness of a summery kiss. The incandescent souffle tipped in ice cream and the majestic concoction of artemisia distilled into an anisette kiss makes a light, crisp creation turn to a dream of light sponge and tingling on the tongue. Nothing untoward, but faerie dusted all the same. Calixte takes the compliment, not cracking a smile, any more than he took the reproval about needing better cream. His face is a mask, but next to Lucian, he resembles a clown for sheer expressiveness.
The blond bartender mentally tallies up the presentation as plates are removed. "One satisfactory, two improvements. Three more to judge."
*
Maximus knits his brows in confusion. "But these two are both Piper? /No/." He shakes his head faintly, disbelieving. Yet when Ninette says it in response to Rosemarie, he seems to take it as a greeting rather than a confirmation. He gives his plate a little push away from himself. "I am /Maximus/." He touches his chest with his own introduction that just feels like he thinks it should have been announced by some minion, possibly while giant fans revealed him to an adoring mass. However, its not pure arrogance. It rings more of…institutional entitlement. Its not his fault he's like this. Blame society! And Black Bolt! And Aliens!
*
Realizing that she's flubbed up introducing herself entirely, the librarian is grateful on many levels to Ninette for unintentionally (or intentionally?) rescuing her from the quagmire of needing to explain that Piper is her name — er, alias.
Glancing over her shoulder again at Lucian, she isn't exactly begging to be rescued…not quite. To Maximus, now properly named, she smiles faintly. "The man agreeing to the yak milk is Lucian. He's the barkeep," she explains retroactively, wondering if the blonde man himself can hear the ghost of a waver in her voice. The stuttering is still kept at bay, treed likely by the Otherness that remains on low-level alert within her body. No itching behind her ears, but any time now… Just a few more tics up the blood-pressure scale.
It's impossible to ignore Ninette's reaction and what expansion she intended peters out to a simple and vague-aimed, "Nice to meet you." It's a curse, being observant. Back to the dessert before her, quick! Another nibble, far more constrained this time, though she's hard-pressed to not dare to clean the hints of leftover sorbet in pucker-up berry from her lips.
*
Ninette regards the stone-faced chef and the stonier-faced barkeep, merely long enough to acknowledge they are in fact there and are in fact doing what they're supposed to be doing. There is an order to things. Everything in her poise and posture implies a great deal of order in her thoughts and deeds.
Except with that lapse with the dessert, but one could perhaps pardon her; American food up to this point has been largely disappointing. Aside from Nathan's Hot Dogs. Don't judge.
She sets her spoon down precisely, then offers her hand to Maximus, turned to be kissed, not shaken. "Ninette Laurent. Maximus, Piper, it's a pleasure to meet you." She even smiles, close-lipped and pristine.
*
A saturated sunrise when the bartender bothers to abandon his space overseeing affairs at the table. "Do eat the rest. I would hate anything to go to waste." Encouragement in dry tones accompanies the light tip of fingers to the remaining two plates. "The food is quite safe. Miss Piper can speak to no ill effects, I'm sure." He rests a palm against the table and leans slightly into it.
Patrons come and go, drifting up the stairs behind the undulating green glass wall. They vanish into silhouettes. Shadows compose themselves into bespoke dress, men and women dispersed. His staff's talent for diverting guests from the central table is something marvelous to witness at arm's reach. Provided anyone even notices. Thank the dark-haired waitress who greeted them, a living hurricane of order and action. Calixte will only withdraw to tend to the smore station. With an open flame, it's an important matter.
"Lucian." Eponymous figure puts a finger on the table and pushes the concoction of frozen citrus mousse in Ninette's direction. "Try it. I have it for a fact the lemon trees came from cuttings out of a fille de France's gardens. Madame cultivated a most specific extract. You," he trails his hand around the edge opposite them, lining himself up to Maximus, "are well-acquainted with drinks rather than desserts, at a wager. Maximus."
His facsimile is a dead duplicate of the man's own accent, given with only marginally softer tenor deliver, chased with a certain mouthful. "I am not satisfied entirely we have met your tastes yet. Trickier. And the soulful Miss Piper, your number is already known. Chocolate to fruit, then."
*
Maximus has not usually been treated this…/well/ or comped so much in this town, without having to…ahem…force the issue his own way, and that is making him on his guard. At least until he's certain that things are not going to go suddenly sideways. He does take Ninette's hand, though, and brings it to his lips. Though he's dressed all fancy, he does not lack in gentlemanly behavior and knowledge. "A pleasure…and now I have even greater pleasure of watching you enjoy as well." He grins crookedly, then darts his steel eyes over to Lucian, "Mmmm…I like /clean/ alcohol. I have to mind my toxins." One of the most intolerable and annoying sentences ever. He might as well have just invented the abhoration called the 'rice cake'.