Sense and Sense-Ability

April 10, 2017:

Regan Wyngarde returns to the Hellfire Club after a short absence to find Emma Frost there. Gossip and drama, it's all dangerous, always.

Hellfire Club


NPCs: None.

Mentions: Angel


Mood Music: None.

Fade In…

An evening in full swing at the Hellfire Club means several things. First: alcohol flows freely. Second, the faint smell of a number of tobacco products can be caught on the air from the smoking lounge despite the high-end air cleaning system designed to mitigate it. Lastly, mill and lounge at their pleasure with just enough density to offer ready conversation for anyone who wants it without feeling too crowded.

In one of the many small rooms open for members to use, Emma Frost can be found. In bustier and heels, the woman has made herself particularly comfortable in a wingback chair by a fireplace that burns brightly and sets her artfully curled tresses to glowing as they rest over fur-draped shoulders. There aren't many weeks left to enjoy a fire in season, and so the woman does with a glorious snifter of well-aged cognac dangling from her delicate fingers.


It's been nearly a month since Regan Wyngarde, legacy member through her deceased and disgraced father, Jason, has dropped into the New York branch of the club. So when the young, blonde mutant steps out of her towncar and offers her coat to the club's servants, she does so with a pleasant sigh of relief. Her nose lifts into the air and her gloved fingers extend to the sigh, breathing in that faint scent of expensive cigars that permeates even as far down to the entrance. It's like a garden, only the flowers are rich, powerful, and the only peers she claims to truly find herself amongst.

Wearing her hair in hanging, straight sheets of blonde, Regan arrives in her designated black corset top and skirt. Her own glass of cognac is held delicately between her fingers, and her back is kept straight by the boning in her strapless corset. Her boots tap, tap their way across the polished floors into the room Emma has occupied, and with Regan's presence comes a painted-lip smile and dark lashes around her blue eyes.

"Miss Frost," Regan dips her head and holds her skirt in place with a proper dip in greeting. "When they said that everyone important was here tonight, I knew that they meant you."


"Hm?" Emma's head turns languidly in Regan's direction, verbally acknowledging that she is indeed aware of the other woman's presence. Her boot-wrapped legs switch their cross to allow a more comfortable twist of the body. "Ah. Miss Wyngarde."

Emma's greeting is a beautiful tapestry of neutrality, warp and weft flawlessly void of perceptible emotion. Her half-empty glass is lifted to echo the sentiment, but her heavy lids hide blue eyes set to a piercing scrutiny. "You flatter me, but it is a very kind thought." She sips lightly, and then continues. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"


Rising from her greeting, Regan deigns to remain standing near a chair; having not yet been granted to sit. Telepathic like a knife, Regan's skill remains strongly in the realm of affecting others, killing if need be, but she's not as strong as Emma. The surface thoughts flittering off of her are in the realm of her own curiosty, of secrets, much like many of the other Hellfire Club members, but the sense of kinship Regan feels towards the other mutant telepath is something she fails to hide. As is her purposeful treatment of Emma as her greater.

"Merely a social call, when I'd heard you were in attendance it would have been rude of me to say hello." Regan somewhat lies, her somewhat sociopathic nature rarely cares about being rude. The Hellfire Club is a dance, a game, and Regan loves it. Her dress sweeps back into place around her legs as she comes to a stop, lifting her glass of cognac before she sips. "I've been away recently and I knew that if anyone here was up to current on the gossip worth knowing, there's only one proper source to seek," Regan motions to the other blonde. "How have you been, Miss Frost?"


Emma smiles blandly, but entertains the conversation. "Well enough, I suppose. Busy. I don't know if you've heard, but we're starting the wheels turning for a charitable affair. We've enough money here that we might as well inspire our membership to gratify themselves for another's benefit once in a great while." There's a shrug of one slender shoulder. Then, at long last, her empty hand unfurls silently in the direction of the chair beside her and invites Regan to join her before draping over her bare knee. "Mostly so that our membership continues to look sterling in public, but surely you know all about appearances, don't you?"


"Well, this is definitely a place for people who know a thing or two about appearances, that's for certain." With a dip of her head and a lean to her side, Regan sways the rest of the way to the chair. Like floating onto a bedazzled, expensive cloud, Regan lowers herself to the chair and crosses her legs with ease, nestling into a comfortable, queenly rest. "I hadn't heard about this charity idea, though, I know there's always a few in attendance who could use a little public relations face time to throw off the lawyers." With a soft laugh, Regan sighs and sets her glass down on a table beside her.

"Truth is, I've been busy, as well." Regan grows into a more honest, mental flatline. "I don't know if you heard, but poor Warren and I didn't work out quite the way I'd anticipated."


"I hadn't. So sorry, dear." Except that Emma doesn't sound particularly sorry. Not disinterested, per se, but she could just as easily be expressing sympathy about a cold from which Wyngarde is recently recovered. "But I know you and Mister Worthington will be polite enough to keep any potential fallout far, far away from here and… perhaps, most importantly, me." The mind witch sips from her own cup. "You're both adults-" if young ones "-and I would hate to see our lovely club turn into your personal battleground."

Blue eyes again shift in Regan's direction from the fire that had momentarily grabbed her gaze, and one arched brow lifts over a nearly matronly frown. "I trust I needn't say any more on the matter?"


If Regan could get a grade from beind under the heat lamp, it would be a 'B-'. A light flush comes to the back of her ears and she looks down, smoothing her skirt where it doesn't expose her leg. There isn't stray lint to pick at, but she makes a show of it while she smiles and shakes her head, taking it in stride in ways her faint flush fails to hide.

"Oh, no, nothing like that at all. It was amicable and perhaps a little silly." Regan replies, looking to meet Emma's eyes. There, she falters, and her smile fades a measure. A fresh layer of -bullshit- is wiped away, and Regan gives Emma a far less flightly shake of her head. "I would never, Miss Frost." Regan lowers her voice. "And if Warren's any hard feelings, it will be dealt with in a way that will maintain his confidence and be, in the end, amicable." A beat passes. "I understand, Miss Frost. Perfectly."


The request is a bit hypocritical in some regards, perhaps. In others, less so. But if lovers' spats disrupted the general expectations by members wishing privacy in their affairs with any regularity… well, it probably wouldn't go over so well.

That brings a smile of satisfaction to Emma's bordeaux-stained lips. "Wonderful." There's a pause, and then the pale woman closes her eyes to enjoy more of the warm fire and the warmth of the cognac in her blood once she's partaken of another sip. There's a slow, contented sigh that heaves her breast before she speaks again. "So. Busy, you said? Clearly not with Mister Worthington, so what has so much of your attention, hm?"


The spike of mental carefulness in Regan lowers, but doesn't entirely go away. While Emma seems to relax, Regan keeps her back straight and reaches out with one lace-lined glove to collect her cognac. Delicate fingers wrap around the stem and the glass is lifted to her quaint lips for a sip. While she drinks, Regan Wyngarde carefully tucks a lock of hair behind her ear and takes in a deep breath of her own, testing the line of her corset, before turning to look Emma's way once more.

Anything to look, to the outside world, as two picturesque, powerful women without a care.

"A little travel, a little intrigue. A few pies in the fire that are like wishes and if I say them outloud they won't come true." Regan smiles just a little, tightening her mind as a surface thought that sounds like gunfire and feels like pain comes to the forefront and is shoved away like an unwanted child; back into the attic it goes. "I may actually be looking to buy some property, soon, but haven't decided where, just yet. Sadly, I haven't come across anyone worthwhile of my attentions, so I don't have any saucier stories to share with you, right now." Regan tilts her head, eyes opening a little more to watch Emma from across the distance.


"Give it time," Emma replies simply enough as she rests her head more fully on back of the seat she occupies, although there is the mischievous twist in the corner of her mouth that betrays her words as anything but simplicity. When she lets her head softly roll in Regan's direction, the contagion of her intentions has already spread to her gaze. "And when you have a tale, my dear, you know that I'm always willing to lend a listening ear. Good storytellers are in such desperately short supply. Particularly ones who know how to give attention to the background details. …But you knew that, yes?"


Regan Wyngarde twists her wrist, causing the brandy in her glass to stir and coat the walls of the snifter like a thin syrup. Her blue eyes lower to the glass, avoiding Emma Frost's gaze. In waves, obvious to telepaths, she calls on old calming techniques, buttoning her dark, violent thoughts — likely memories — into something more pleasant, like the dream of a vacation soon to come. "I know this, Miss Frost. You've always been kind to me, and not that I've brought many troubles to your feet, you've always been a listening ear." Regan's lips curl into a thoughtful smile. She looks up, casting her eyes Emma's way. "There's always a few good stories not fit for public consumption. Then again, there's a few I might not be at liberty to tell, despite how badly I might want to share them." Regan's chin dips, just barely, her eyes sharpen. "Secrets can be dark, deadly things."


"They are always," Emma agrees readily, shrugging in good humor. "I suppose it all really boils down to who you care to wound with them." Lifting a hand, the blonde begins inspecting her manicure by the dim light, searching out any tiny chip that would disturb perfection. Finding none, she returns her attention back to Regan, meeting that gaze head-on. Her eyebrow lifts, betraying perhaps that she's caught the technique well enough, but she gives no indication that she's at all disturbed by the violence it quells.

Instead, a calm surrounds her like perfume, wafting onto the air.

"It's very important to wield a secret properly. Make certain that you are, dear. I speak from personal experience when I say that you must do everything in your power to keep that sharp point in a direction opposite of yourself."


"Well, I've definitely learned from others' bad choices to have a better idea how to avoid those pitfalls, myself, haven't I?" Regan's lips twist impishly. One eye drifts closed, batting mascara-laden lashes. Before the eye closes, the sense of fire and trouble exists, and when it opens again, it's care-free. Seagulls and sand. Pushing back thoughts is like swallowing a pill. The larger the pill, the larger the effort to swallow. "Besides, that's why people come here, isn't it? We're not pretty birds to so many of the people who come here. We're dangerous. Smart. Bred. Challenging."

Balancing her elbow on the edge of her chair, Regan waves her delicate fingers in the direction of the doorway that leads to the next room. One of the newer members, a gentleman with salt-and-pepper black hair, walks up to a much younger woman with raven-black hair and a corset to match. Black and white. It's a choice at the Hellfire club.

Regan chose black.

"The handle of the knife is always more fun than the tip of it." Regan turns her smile back to Emma. Fingers roll in her direction, indicating an impending mention to the woman in question. "So on that note, enough about myself and Mister Worthington. Miss Frost?" Regan's lip bounces on one side beneath the painted dot she'd placed there, a faux beauty mark, not that she'd needed it. "Gossip with me. Has anyone asked for your arm in a dance lately? I'd never admit to side-betting, but I might have seen a few here and there I'd wondered if your attentions had strayed to."

Like a Jane Austen novel…mutated.


Emma sips contentedly from her glass as Regan speaks, making good on her promise to listen. "It's rude to kiss and tell, Miss Wyngarde," she chides in amusement. Uncrossing and recrossing her long legs, the businesswoman continues. "If you're asking because you want to know if the field is clear, know that you wouldn't jeopardize any stake of mine."

Her pale nose crinkles in distaste. "Every so often, someone tries. But I'm notoriously difficult to please."


"Kiss and tell? Noooo." Regan giggles and matches Emma's scrunching nose, pound for pound. Reaching out, she taps the arm of Emma's chair, then reels her slender arm back in with a more pronounced laugh. "I'm well aware that anyone caught in your web would make it all too apparent. I imagine your ability to dominate someone else's senses to a degree that they couldn't think about someone else are, in a word, legendary. No, I'm not afraid of stepping across the ley lines, so to speak-"

Regan leans up from her seat and stretches her back once more, not that her corset would allow her to slouch. Her thin shoulders bunch up, release, and then Regan is dipping forward in a slight lean, resting gloved fingertips on her temple.

"-but one thing I do love about this place is the perching and watching. The little stories that unfold?" Regan swivels her eyes from Emma to the rest of the room. "Crassly? I've been so busy lately that I'm just behind on the social life, and a little vicarious entertainment never hurts."


"But Miss Wyngarde, don't you know that it's also rude to eavesdrop?" It is likely some dark magic of the Hellfire Club's Manhattan home that keeps Emma Grace Frost from being spontaneously combusting where she sits, so intense is the hypocrisy - even in jest.

"Socialize and enjoy yourself. And when you're ready to move past the socializing, know that we'll always be here." Another sip of her brandy is enjoyed as she lets her head fall back against the back of her seat. "Despite what others may wish for us."

White and black, a choice, it's true. But also a balance that is constantly in flux. "And do be on the lookout for an invitation in the next little bit. There's a charitable gala that I think might interest you, and all of our members will be getting invitations."


Unacknowledged, but the tiny speck of lift at the edge of Regan's mouth is an unspoken exclamation point, marking the hypocrisy the Regan shares. "I will endeavor to be less rude in the future, then, Miss Frost." Regan lies with a lidding of her lashes. Eavesdropping and intrigue are a part of the club. The unwritten rules.

"Miss Frost, I've been past socializing to helping people with their needs time and time again for my lovelies in this club." Regan starts again. She slips from her chair, gathering her dress in her fingers upon the side. Glass of brandy in the other, she turns to present herself to Emma Frost. One knee dips in a graceful curtsy to the woman.

"If you ever have need of me, I'm but one phone call away, and I wouldn't miss an invitation for the world. I could use a good gala," Regan lifts up and sidelines her fingers in a twittered wave. "Until then, we should visit the spa, soon. My firm has a new one from Haiti. His fingers are therapy defined." A beat. "Good evening, Miss Frost."


As the offer for assistance is reiterated, Emma Frost smiles. It is a booze-warmed curl, resting contentedly below the shrewd gaze that watches the younger woman rise and prepare to be on her way. "And a good evening to you, Miss Wyngarde. If your new man is that good, then I should very much like to indulge. I will certainly be in touch. It's nice to see you around again. Do enjoy your night, hm?"


"Friends share." Regan replies with a dip of her head and a pair of fingers twined into the international hand-gesture for a telephone. One eye drifts closed in another lazy wink, a match for the painted lips that mouth 'call me' to the other blonde. "I will, and my best wishes for yours, Miss Frost." Regan adds with a lift to her voice. Younger and more rambunctious in demeanor, the twirl of her heel comes and the hold on her skirt releases. Without a glance over her shoulder, Regan strolls across the room, with a sway of hips bordering on the level of a leopard's hips lifting while it crawls, hunting low.

Lady Mastermind only half-disappears into the crowd, lifting her glass in a newly budding conversation with one of the D.C. Lobbyists in house.

Mingling, indeed.


When Regan leaves and her attentions soon elsewhere, the White Queen's smile falls away into a pensive frown. She considers the other female for a long time as she talks and so expertly slides in the edges of the man's attention and engages him. It would be rude and staring, if Emma was letting anyone actually observe her observation. No, instead, she hides behind an illusion of her own before finally coming to some sort of inward decision.

She finishes the contents of her cup in a swift movement, unwilling to waste the glorious numbing heat of it, before rising to her feet. There's the whisper of her mantle as it's length settles by her ankles, and then the woman is off. Her boots crisply mark her movement towards a side door marked by a member of the serving staff who abruptly moves aside, allowing Frost access to a dimly lit and seldom used hall and to disappear from view.

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