A Grand Reopening
Roleplaying Log: A Grand Reopening
Participants
IC Details
Synopsis:

When Trish Walker attends the grand reopening of the Hellfire Club's NYC townhouse, she makes a new acquaintance.

Other Characters Referenced:
IC Date: July 13, 2019
IC Location: Hellfire Club, NYC, NY
OOC Notes & Details
Posted On: 14 Jul 2019 18:17
Rating & Warnings: PG-13 (Sexual Content)
NPC & GM Credits: Sebastian Shaw by Ursa
Associated Plots

The club has been closed for over two months now, and to say that the general membership has been less than pleased about this state of affairs is something of an understatement. For those members who remain in contact with each other outside of the depraved establishment that is the Hellfire Club oF New York, there has been no shortage of complaining about that sorry state of affairs.

Of course, no one's quite really sure about why the Hellfire Club's reason for closing. They are, however, certain that the invitation announcing the post-renovation reopening will reach far enough. The invitation announcing the grand reopening, Wine flows without limit here, and the invitations are of the costly variety: fine paper and embossing with the infamous pitchfork. There is little in the way of details.

Which would lead us, gentle viewer, to this moment. Where they are taking security a little more seriously at the door than normal. Where the women running drinks and food from the kitchen are dressed in even less than normal. There's a trio of wandering violins this evening, playing a variety of bright and chipper chamber tunes.

For those familiar with the club in New York, the townhouse, they will find that the flooring has been upgraded to include several points of hardwood inlay with the pitchfork rendered in exotic light and dark hues. New light fixtures and wallpaper down the main corridor.

It's going to be a good night tonight, thinks one Sebastian Shaw as he makes himself comfortable in one of the larger rooms where a burlesque show is presently underway.


With her hair done up by the finest of hairdressers, and a very fine dress and shoes to match, the kind that are usually worn once and never again, Trish Walker presents her prestigious invitation at the door. Whenever she attends the club, she puts on an air about her that she is meant to be here. That it's her right. It's a feeling she felt especially sure of when she first joined.

Holding a clutch to her side, she strides forward into the club, taking in the new ambiance. There has certainly been discussion as to why the Hellfire Club was closed. She, as with everyone else, has been most curious. Was it all about the renovations? Was there more to it than that? It appeared that the secret club was even more secretive during this period of closure. So, when the invitations were received, it only helped to set the fire of conversation and rumour ablaze even more.

After a short bit of mingling about, Trish finds herself coming to the burlesque show. Grabbing herself a flute of champagne on her way in, she finds herself a comfortable chair and, well, makes herself comfortable. Half her attention remains on the show while the other half glances around to see who else is here for the show.


Perhaps in any other venue, Trish would be considered the cream of society. But here, things play a little different. Here, she finds herself supplied with that flute of champagne and as many refills as she could ask for. But the club is one where historic connections are forged, and several of the men speaking to each other are connections three generations in. Their grandfathers commiserated and whiled the hours here, as they do now.

Sebastian Shaw might be tempted to blow across the sparks of those connections, save that his attention turns to the comely blonde, and he stops watching the stage at all for a time.

Then, slowly, he hefts himself out of the comfortable wingback armchair that he had procured for himself at the edge of the room and makes his way in her direction. "Do you mind if I join you,?" he rumbles to Trish with the cornered of his mouth curling upwards.


Certainly, Trish Walker may perhaps be, in a sense, almost a black sheep. She's not a legacy, although she is a member. She doesn't have the family connection that the legacies would have, none of her parents or grandparents walked the halls of this prestigious society. She is the first to gain such wealth in her family. That doesn't stop her from enjoying the more hedonistic aspects of the club, however. Nor has it prevented her from attempting to make connections with its other members.

Taking a sip from her ever refilling flute of champagne, Trish watches the show with mild entertainment. She doesn't know how burlesque dancers do it. It could never be a career for her. Her talents don't quite fall within that form of entertainment.

As Sebastian Shaw approaches her, she stands and offers a little bow of her head. Offering her own little smile, she motions with her hand to indicate the seats around her. "Please do. It would be my…pleasure."


"Indeed," Shaw chuckles back, even as he gestures back towards the chair she'd been in so that Trish might reclaim them once more. Once she has done so, the man with his dark hair restrained by a purple ribbon of silk, settles deeply into the chair beside her. Another dancer down, another up to take her place. It suits the businessmen well, this, and the seat creaks. "It's so nice to be in the comfort of our familiar surroundings once more," he continues, the dark of his tone mingling with the depth of a his baritone. His eyes don't leave the stage right now, where a redhead and a brunette reenact the inception of original sin with a sensuous, writhing choreography.

Leaning in, he continues. "It's felt like a hundred years, borrowing space to exist—and only in part—from one event to another. And that sort of existence wears."


Easing back into her chair, Trish's blonde hair bounces ever so slightly, before coming to a rest once more, resting mostly at her back. There's a quiet sip of her drink as she watches the new dance enfold, its story being told. "Oh, but it is, isn't it?" She speaks in a soft tone, yet still loud enough to be heard over music. "Back to the comforts that this building brings?"

A sigh slowly escapes her lips as her attention is once more caught by the dancers. "Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme." She murmurs. Smiling, she looks back to Sebastian.

"It was such a shame that events had to be held elsewhere, truly. But here we are again, back…I almost want to say 'home'. Is that silly of me?" She asks, taking another long sip of her drink to avoid embarrassment.


The dark-haired man in his well-tailored suit, albeit with his shirts top buttons and a lacy cravat at his throat undone, merely smirks. "I would think it a little closer to church than home, save it offers rites of a different kind."

He swirls the glass in his hand with a small, smooth movement until a particularly enrapturing series of steps has unfolded with silk veils of various greens in the mix, and then he turns his intense gaze towards Trish. "I don't recall that we've been formally introduced," he tells her plainly without offering her his hand. "Sebastian Shaw."

"Yes. Church. I can see it how one might come to that conclusion." Trish adjusts one of her dress straps ever so slightly. "I think you make a rather good point." She crosses her legs and smooths out her dress ever so slightly.

Her gaze falls upon the twirling, swirling of Sebastian's glass. Her head begins to tilt ever so slightly as she watches the movement and the colours within. "Hmm?" Her gaze breaks from the lass and turns back to the intense eyes of the man next to her. "Patricia Walker, though most these days call me Trish. It is a true honour and pleasure to officially meet you."


Shaw makes no secret of the way he watches Trish's fingers run along the line of her strap, amused by it. "Well, that explains a great deal. I thought the voice sounded familiar." He lifts his glass in a salute to her, smirking openly. "Well met," he tells her before taking down a measured sip. As the serpent wins her battle and opens Eve's eyes in the artistic retelling unfolding in the art piece, the segment ends and moves to the next song. Something far more modern for those of a less classical sensibility.

"So, tell me, Miss Walker. Are you just here for drink and staged entertainment tonight?"


Raising her glass to him, Trish smiles a little wider. It's certainly a moment of pride when someone chooses to recognize her from her radio show instead of television or music. Although, with the amount of time she's been a part of the Club, and just simply the diversity of age and type of person belonging to the club, just about anyone could recognize her for any portion of her career.

"Well, Mr. Shaw, delicious as my drink might be, and as opulent and full bodied as the show has been, I am most curious," Trish gazes directly into Sebastien's eyes. "Curious," she continues, "as to how the night might progress before the end."

Sebastian Shaw's smirk—entitled and more than a little haughty—does not fade for the turn of phrase. Nor does he back away from her attention, but rather meets it dead on. He takes another sip of his drink without taking his gaze from her, and then leans in and violates her personal space without so much as a blink. "Well, my dear," he rumbles, "I suppose that rather depends on how far your curiosity goes. But it has always seemed to me that it's not as satisfying to merely walk through the garden when offered an opportunity to bite of the fruit."


"You know, it's as the old song 'Tale as old as time, song as old as rhyme. Beauty and the…'" Trish pauses and tilts her head. "Well, in this case, beauty and the handsome." She chuckles a little as she completes her the song slightly differently thank before.

Completing the remainder of the flute she smiles. "Let's just say, Mr. Shaw, that I have walked through the garden many times, I find it is always enjoyable to partake in the fruit while I am there."


What was once a smirk now turns into a downright wicked smile, as Shaw receives the compliment. "I knew you were a woman of exquisite taste," he tells her. Then, rising to his feet, he extends one hand to her - a hand that is far more calloused and rough than that of a CEO and businessman really has any right to be. "Come with me." It's a command—expectant and unwilling to brook dissent—but seemingly polite enough if one just knows enough of his reputation.

Which, perhaps Trish does. Perhaps she doesn't. But this is a club built on the sins and vices of a certain class of men, and Shaw is certainly of their ilk.

Which is to say, whatever ignorance Trish might have in that regard, he is more than willing to take advantage of it. Of her.


Placing the flute glass down on a nearby side table, Trish gently placing her hand in Sebastian's. The request…or rather command, or whichever it may be, is followed. She raises from her seat, clutch held close. She steps forward, away from the seats, and looks at Sebastian.

"It would a joy to accompany you, Mr. Shaw." Trish replies, almost purring.


"Indeed," Shaw replies as he drains and sets down his own cup, offering his arm to her and intending to wrap hers around his and breathe in the scent of her. Of course, now that they're both standing, it makes it readily clear just how much more mass there is to him than her and how thick and solid he is beneath the soft folds of fine, custom cut wool. They may be of equal height with her in her heels, but that is certainly where the similarity between them ends. He leads her to the side of the room, where he can appraise her more fully in the dim light and run his rough knuckles along the delicate line of her jaw.

"There are plenty of things that we can find to amuse ourselves," he leans in to murmur against her ear, "but I should like to make a few introductions first, my dear."

It's an age old method, indeed: establish the debt first, then exact repayment.

He leads her then by the arm, leading her out and deeper in.

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