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A cello quartet in the corner neatly swing into action to allow a flautist a break, the deliciously bright corner of the ballroom so floodlit that any shadow has long since been violently slain. Presumably whatever pair of foundations supporting the cause of Shakespearean theatrical performances in New York are raking in money hand over fist, and using the excuse for a dull mid-March week in the social calendar to make people dress up very uncomfortably. Out with the hoop skirts and the huge ruffs, the hose and the velvet doublets. Every possible take from authentic — that's the staff of the Met, over there — to the questionable — celebrities and who's who of the gossip pages — makes up a rainbow of attire.
Not so many people know formal dances anymore, which makes the display in the middle of the room so unusual. Who can do the paval, where fingertip contact is risque and licentious? What about the galliard, which gets the heart racing through synchronized hopping and bouncing, with gentlemen showing off their footwork while women spin around like demented Swiss cuckoo clock figures? That's exactly what goes on now, and alas.
The dancers just can't stop, if they are participating, sweating and kicking up their heavy skirts or silly leather shoes, and there goes a shoe flying in the air.
The crowd is, naturally, amused, and oblivious to the problem.
The Sorcerer Surpreme has foregone the starched ruff as well as whisk, starched flat collar along the back of his neck. The velvet doublet and tights were where he drew the line. The plume tucked into his hat betrays the movement of his head, as he scans through the crowd. At least he managed to keep the familiar boots, though these sport an illusory spell overtop to showcase the buckled shoes of the time period. How trite.
"Sometimes…I hate public gatherings," Strange grouses, taking a moment to sip at his drink. The faint glow about the center of his eyes means that he's got a finger on the pulse of the event, sensitive to frissons of the Mystical kind.
Simon Williams may be an actor, but he knows exactly diddly squat about Shakespearean times. He's watched Olivier and some of the Orson Welles stuff, but fell asleep during a bit of it. Not enough swordfights, too much talking and most of it unintelligible. But, hey, rich people, fancy party, good food - this is Simon's scene!
He's got the tights in burgundy, at least, and a nice vest-thing. Most notable is his fur coat, a long and luxurious, almost obscene, thing, with thick fluff framing his broad chest. He's hitting the hors douvres awfully hard, that's for sure, and his sunglasses certainly don't seem quite in line with the period.
"Milady," he says, giving a bit of an overarticulated bow to a passing lady and her decolletage.
Unlike most of those attending, Carol actually does know some formal dancing, though hopefully SHIELD didn't look too closely at those reimbursement forms. She wears a very dark purple outfit, hair styled back in an elegant style, with the only hint of her identity being a silver eight-pointed star worn as a brooch. She adjusts her sleeves a bit, as they appear quite poofy, and then smiles slightly towards Simon at his bow, "Good sir." She nods towards him, glancing back and forth with a bit of amusement at the scene.
The collar is black fur, the gown so dark a ruby to suggest that Wanda is Spanish. Or possibly Ottoman, displacing good little Byzantine connivers everywhere. Crimson slashing everywhere, ribbons on the sleeves, and she unhappily hops to her back foot to the front. The witch turns in time to the music, undoubtedly seething to the tide nudging her right along. Anyone on the dance floor is sure to feel that lancing pain to feet and calves the moment they slow or step away. She does this for good reason, spinning around three times, and leaping up to cross her ankles twice in order. Someone is going to die at this rate, her burning amethyst eyes a warning to anyone with a jot of sense. Swish, sway, turn as she murmurs in her inflected Transian accent, "Bad dancing, sir," to Simon. See, trying to help. Because the sorcerer supreme needs himself a lure and she gets to be that, dangled again. The galliard is a fast dance, and she whirls with the panoply of celandines and goldenrods and lush greens, so very, very red in hue.
Thank….God…Almighty, that Robbie Reyes is -not- the kind to dress up.
Robbie Reyes shows up to this particular venue wearing his leather jacket with the upside down white U decal. Coal black jeans, combat boots, and fingerless gloves. He sees everything going on and he just breathes a moment. "wow, talk about posh." he says under his breath for a moment as he leans against one of the nearby walls, sipping on a wine that he snags from one of the servers.
"Well….this is a first, even for me." he has his eyes open for the Sorcerer Supreme.
This event, no doubt, is not Lorna's cup of tea. Fully aware of it, Lorna nevertheless is committed to the cause she has taken up. To that end, if there's any information to be gained simply by attending a posh gathering of who's who having fun, she should very well be there. With any luck, the good Senator Williams will be there for her to dispose of. A main problem is the dress code, which is alarmingly on the opposite end of Lorna's style.
She feels terrible for deigning to avoid trouble, by following the prescribed Shakespearean style. At least she doesn't know anyone who will attend, so it's not like anyone that matters will be able to poke fun at her for this tragic event.
She walks into the fanciest place she's ever been to in her life, and already she has to struggle to not feel nauseated as she looks about the room. At least she doesn't stick out like a sore thumb, after all in this event, people might just think she's wearing a green wig to match with her ridiculous Lady Macbeth style green gown with flowing bell sleeves.
At the very least, Strange can un-grump himself enough to visually seek out the Witch within the maelstrom of dancers. He has the audacity to twiddle the fingers of one hand at her, a silent way of playfully thumbing his nose at the proceedings, and sips at his drink before glancing over towards the entrace.
Sunglasses. The Sorcerer squints across the distance as if entirely uncertain as to what he's seeing, but…nope, those are sunglasses. And that — that's Reyes, completely disregarding the fasionable nuances of the event. Oh thank the gods, he has an excuse to ditch the doublets.
Stepping briefly behind a small knot of people talking animatedly about something, a little gesture rids the man of the benighted puffy pantlets. Instead, a long tunic, something far more familiar in a way, cousin to that of his mantle-blues. He steps out again, feeling oh so sly, and makes his way towards the tables littered with nibblets of food. A lifted hand draws attention to himself, aimed firstly at Reyes. Still, he's doing it facing a lot of people. Anyone could take it as a greeting to them.
Simon Williams grins at Wanda when she addresses him briefly, "It's true, I'm no Fred Astaire, but is anybody, really? Gotta play to your strengths," he says. Simon casually takes a goblet from a nearby tray, taking a liberal drink from it. Not that it does very much to him, since he's not exactly human anymore, but all the more reason to indulge, for that matter.
He takes in the various denizens and recognizes Robbie out on the outskirts from their recent shared jaunt to Magic Kingdom California (Vanaheim). Simon hopes that proximity doesn't mean he's about to be swept off into another world yet again. Of course, the green-haired woman looks like she's straight out of Oz, so who knows?
Carol makes it a point to avoid the drinks, eyes flickering around as she eventually spots out Wanda, making her away over towards the witch as she flashes her a grin, "I can't believe I'm dressed up like this. I think my squadron would be laughing at me if they could see it."
Wanda is no Astaire, closer to Ginger in colour, temperament, and readiness to throw an elbow into someone's face. A swirl throws the broad circle of her burgundy skirts around her, even as she bends slightly from the waist in a courtly greeting to Simon and, quite frankly, anyone in sight. So much for pulling a dagger from her boot, that opportunity passes as a spark of pain ignites into a bonfire. Two steps back and she flashes a look almost murderous at the first person in particular — ah, that's Carol, and apology is too late. "They might. You can't stop on here." English is hard when forced to join the English processional. Three steps and she is caught in the jagged line of dancers, some trying to figure out an almain. Handholding and couples hopping, it's a meat market in 1558.
Somewhere across the dance floor, someone else yelps: they aren't going to the arms of their colleagues for a drink, oh no. Not happening that way.
The cellists flip their tune to something a little less lively, and much to the benefit of a few florid, jowly gentlemen wheezing and puffing to keep up.
Robbie sips on his wine as Strange appears to have waved to him. Lifting up his glass for the Sorcerer Supreme, his eyes catch a great many people. Including his boi Simon. Robbie gives him a 'long time no see man' kind of wave to Wonder Man before….
Robbie sees Polaris looking like something straight out of Oz. A small chuckle then before he offers the green-haired metal-bender a friendly wave in greeting. Alas, it looks like Robbie is the only buzzkill at this party.
oh well.
Lorna hears Robbie's chuckle as he looks her way, and the glower she casts his way is shockingly menacing and very unladylike. She doesn't dally to give him a piece of her mind, the glare will have to do, as she ventures bravely further into the room, looking at the ancient dancing going about, and feeling like she shouldn't be there at all.
At least she made an effort to attend, next she'll need to learn how to at least appear more approachable.
The jaunty feather in Strange's hat waves about as he side-steps to avoid a gasping dancer and glares at their back in passing. He's not looking to have his toes crunched this evening.
"Reyes," he says by way of greeting as he steps over beside the man in his decidedly un-authentic get-up. "I didn't expect you in the least." He had noted the various greetings given out and his sharp eyes linger on each face in turn, from sunglasses-wearing Simon to green-haired Lorna. Someone speaking to Wanda, however, absolutely nets his attention. Carol receives careful scrutiny at this distance, near or far, and he searches his memory for any mention of connections to someone with blonde hair…none so far. It seems that the Sorcerer is unaware of the working friendship between the two women.
Simon Williams notes a jealous glance being sent his way when he addresses Wanda, having learned to keep an eye out for the watchful husband/fiancee/boyfriend/agent/pimp/fixer/creepy brother. Not that it's likely to dissaude him, but he should at least be aware. Said jealous guy seems to have noticed Robbie the Flaming Skull, however, which is…unexpected. Guess biker guys get around in New York. Simon's been spending too much time on the left coast.
He isn't about to participate in elaborate dancing, but keeps close to the center of activity and actually does get recognized by one woman, a society columnist who frequently guests on the panel of a local game show, Pepperidge Farm presents"Who's That Stranger?". Simon appeared there just last month as the mystery guest.
Carol, meanwhile, flashes Wanda a grin, but her comment is cut off when she notices Lorna's distinct appearance. Which causes the blonde to move over by Lorna at an interruption of the dances, staying out of the next reel as she says, "I have to say, your hair is quite striking. In a good way." The purple-clad woman grins, "Definitely nice to see some people willing to have a bit of fun with tradition."
Robbie lifts up his hands defensively as Lorna glares at him hard enough to possibly see into his soul…because holy shit. Either way, Strange manages to get Robbie's attention for a moment. "Strange."he greets in the same way that he was greeted. Alas, it's comical that they talk. "Nice costume." he teases softly. He's no dancer, so he keeps to his drink. "Yeah well, thought I'd drop by. Been uh…cleaning up the more foul side of the city." as in he was taking out demons.
Though he notices Simon once more, shooting the man a grin.
His attention than falls on Carol and Lorna, a soft smile touching his features. While he's very single right now, both women are out of his league…poor Robbie.
Lorna has had her share of derisive comments about her hair, and being a mutant in general. So whether under guise of the weird event, or Carol just being a nice person, she'll take a good word for the rarity of it alone. "That's nice of you to say, thanks," Lorna manages a shadow of a smile at Carol, apparently still upset over Robbie's chuckle earlier. "Hey, it matches the dress, right? Matching colors is good fashion," Lorna points out, getting a bit more at ease now.
"I appreciate your efforts," Strange murmurs back to Robbie, pulling his attention from Carol briefly to look to the young man. "Any modicum of peace is welcome. In regards to the costume?" He snorts, metaphorical feathers ruffled; the one in his hat remains jaunty, huzzah. "You're too kind." The sarcasm is friendly, accompanied by a curl of a smirk. "Must fit in with the crowd if I'm to remain under cover…if you will." Another large sip of his drink, something including whiskey and possibly Hyborean stargrist, something attained beyond the reaches of his reality and summoned up on a whim — and then he sighs. "If you'll excuse me, briefly. I believe that woman knows my fiance and I believe in connections." And being nosy, let's be honest, because curiosity is a strong trait in the man…and great weakness.
With that, he makes his way over to both Carol and Lorna, giving them a charming grin as he says, "Ladies, pardon me, but I believe one of you knows a certain Wanda Maximoff…?" His bright eyes slide to the blonde in particular.
Carol grins at Strange, "Indeed, she's a co-worker, and a friend. Carol Danvers." With that, she offers a hand politely to Strange, though in a conventional handshake and not the more courtly manner that might be appropriate for her attire. She smiles, "She's definitely one of a kind, that's for sure. Though I'm still wondering how she convinced me to dress up quite like this." Not that Carol doesn't look bad in the courtly purple, but it isn't exactly her idea of fun wear.
"Do you believe that 'one' happens to be blonde?" Lorna asks Stephen abrasively, "because I don't know a Wanda Maximoff, and you're pretty much staring at the blonde?" She still didn't get Carol's name, so for now she's blonde. But then Carol offers the introduction by way of replying to Stephen, "if we're doing introductions and all, I'm Lorna Dane."
Robbie nods a few times to Doctor Strange and actually chuckles faintly at the Sarcasm he's given. "Next time dress up like Sherlock Holmes." He says in parting with that wry grin.
Though soon enough, he ends up moving around the room, noticing Simon made a hasty exit.
"She can be convincing sometimes," Strange replies to Carol in a mild tone belying a great deal of amusement. Wanda's skills of persuasion comes mostly at dagger-tip, let's be honest — or maybe through that stupifying glare of hers. "A pleasure to meet you, Carol. I'm Doctor Stephen Strange, her fiance." Like as not, there's been some insinuation as to his title, so he neglects to mention it, at least this time around. His steel-blue eyes then slide to Lorna and that smile grows a bit thinner.
"My apologies, Miss Dane — though we've apparently rectified your issue. Now you know her through two other parties. Your costume is excellent," and he looks her up and down with a considering nod. "You should enter the contest later in the evening."
Carol grins, "That's what I thought, actually, Doctor Strange." She glances back towards Lorna, "Lorna, then. It's nice to meet you.. but yes, working with Wanda is always interes…" She pauses, and then tilts her head a bit, "Actually, I need to check something, but I'm sure I'll see you around sooner rather than later." She smiles and curtsies in proper fashion, skirts twirling around her as she bids a somewhat hasty exit… or rather, as hasty as the outfit lets her manage.
"There's a costume contest…?" Lorna seems dubious about the notion of entering, for once she doesn't even seem happy to learn there is one, and yet, she's actually considering joining. If only to draw some distance from the people she met thus far, Carol aside, she has regreted the poor decision to try and fit in with this lot. The posh happening is really not her thing. "I might just do that…" she mutters, nodding in parting at Carol who goes her own way, and she turns to look for the sign up to the contest.