How long has been? Perhaps not long at all, for all Irene doesn't look surprised when she sweeps through her door tonight in wine-dark silk and garnets. Her hair appears to be in the process of being pulled down from its high set, sections tumbling loose in a dark waterfall around her shoulders. No purse in her fingers either, just a sleek mother-of-pearl comb that looks almost too sharp to be in hair, but then what else would it be used for?
She wouldn't give the man on the couch a second glance on her graceful path to the bar normally. But as she passes him in a wave of sweet perfume and the soft creak of whalebone she sees, from the corner of her eye, his face.
Or rather, what parts aren't there.
She doesn't flinch, exactly. Her foot hesitates just once, her eyes sliding back to take in as much as she can without turning her head. And are her steps a little slower now, as she passes?
Maybe.
One thing's for sure, when she has a glass of wine in hand and she's assured Bar that she'll pay eventually, she settles herself into a chair that's just close enough to watch him discreetly.
When Door opens, Ton's attention is easily grabbed, and he glances in the newcomers direction, as he has a thousan--
Whoa.
That? That's a double take. Others may know this by the flash of light off his faceplate that just swung across the bar twice.
Ton catches the slight hesitation in her step, and swings to watch her. Dear Face: Things I forgot to thank you for include a heightened understanding of body language, especially in women. So THANK YOU.
He grins, perhaps a little smarmishly, and bows slightly in her direction. "See something you like, Miss..."
Irene's gotten used to people speaking in rather a different manner than she's accustomed to, when she's here. That doesn't mean she doesn't raise an eyebrow at him slightly, her whole body speaking volumes about just what a ridiculous thing she thinks it is for him to say. Delicately gloved fingers bring the wineglass to her lips and she sips it while watching him over the rim.
She's not watching the faceplate. Very carefully.
When the wine is replaced on the tabletop and she's dabbed at her lips with a napkin, that's when she deigns to speak to him(and oh but she does make sure it's clear in her tone).
"Is that how you would address a lady, where you hail from?"
Ton blinks his one blue eye, but quickly recovers with a snort. "Only in a tapcaf. Besides, I ccould tell you thought it was a good idea to keep an eye on this dashing visage."
Dear Face: Thanks taken back. Get back here and teach me more.
She doesn't laugh. It's a near thing that she hopes he doesn't catch, an almost-giggle she muffles in the napkin as she wipes away invisible drops of wine from her mouth.
"A passing fancy. Nothing more." She traces the edge of her wineglass and watches him a little more openly, curiosity visible in her eyes. It's entirely possible that it's there because she wants it to be. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I've not heard of a...'tapcaf'." A quick dart of a smile. "However, in my place and time, we value politeness."
"Mmm." Ton sips his lomin-ale. Ah, a skilled opponent, who's not easily swayed by my socalled charms. Shocker.
"First of all, m'lady"--the title may, or may not, be spoken with a certain degree of sarcasm--"I get the distinct impression that where and when you and I are from aren't close to the same, though it would seem that you'd be the class of our age in either. And secondly, a tapcaf would be... well, here." He gestures all around him.
Finally, he fixes her with an amused stare, though the robotic eye maybe isn't the best at commuting that impression. "And 'politeness' simply depends on where you've parked your shuttle, m'lady."
Irene's eyes widen for a moment, eyebrows raising as she takes in the man in front of her. She's long since gotten over the shock of what there is to see in Milliways, and long since learned to adjust herself to the strange mannerisms of others -- but this just feels like the man is toying with her. She cocks her head to one side for just a moment, reaching up and undoing another pin with a subtle twist of her fingers. Another coil of hair falls around her shoulders.
The pin stays in her hand. She plays with it as though she doesn't quite understand that she's doing so, dropping her eyes from him with demure grace. "My apologies, good sir." Her voice is warm and sweet and so sincere. "I find the difference between worlds a strange one." She leans forwards. Her chair is close enough that when she does so, she's almost -- but not quite -- touching him. Her words are soft in his ear. "Almost intoxicating."
And then she's settling back in her own chair and the smile is something smug and self-satisfied as she swirls the glass of lomin-ale, her own wineglass sitting at the man's fingers instead. "Which I can only assume is your current state of mind, if you think there's a world where a woman would give you half a look for that kind of statement."
That? That's playing dirty, that is. Ton wants to believe there's some sincerity there, but after all this time and being cynical so long--
Intoxicating she is, especially up that close, and Force, it's been so long since Shalla, and who knows the last time before that a woman got close...
Ton blinks twice, quickly, and with a slight shake of his head, tries to kill that line of thought. "Mmmf. Strange indeed." The Oh-So-Cunning Wordsmith reaches for his drink--a healthy gulp of lomin ale will be just what his mind nee--
He looks down at the thin stem of what appeared to now be his glass. "Huh." He looks up and watches The Woman settle into her seat, with his lomin-ale. Sithspit, is she one of us Wraiths or something? Rather than letting his face betray his--shall we say admiration?--Ton snorts, and fires off, "Y'know, if you wanted a sip, you coulda just asked."
"I would not have have wanted you to misinterpret such a statement, you understand." She's more than a little pleased with herself even when the first mouthful of whatever it is the man is drinking reveals itself to be...less than palatable. She swallows it anyway and swirls the liquid in the glass, smug as a cat that's gotten into the cream.
After a moment her curiosity bests her -- perhaps she's more like a cat than she might want to let on -- and she settles back, pulling her gloves from her fingers and neatly wrapping the hairpin inside of them. Almost like a sheath. "I suppose I haven't introduced myself. Lady Adler, at your service. Lady Irene Adler." She's not a lady by the laws of the realm, not by fair, but she doesn't see that as any way not to adopt it as a title, especially when the title if not the name is her current ticket to fame and fortune (mostly fortune) back home. There are a fair few elderly gentleman who are hideously wealthy and more than happy to assist a lady down on her luck, providing she has a pedigree.
Not that it matters here, but still. She raises an eyebrow at him and deliberately rests her gaze for a long moment on the metal section of his face, a silent request for information.
She wouldn't give the man on the couch a second glance on her graceful path to the bar normally. But as she passes him in a wave of sweet perfume and the soft creak of whalebone she sees, from the corner of her eye, his face.
Or rather, what parts aren't there.
She doesn't flinch, exactly. Her foot hesitates just once, her eyes sliding back to take in as much as she can without turning her head. And are her steps a little slower now, as she passes?
Maybe.
One thing's for sure, when she has a glass of wine in hand and she's assured Bar that she'll pay eventually, she settles herself into a chair that's just close enough to watch him discreetly.
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Whoa.
That? That's a double take. Others may know this by the flash of light off his faceplate that just swung across the bar twice.
Ton catches the slight hesitation in her step, and swings to watch her. Dear Face: Things I forgot to thank you for include a heightened understanding of body language, especially in women. So THANK YOU.
He grins, perhaps a little smarmishly, and bows slightly in her direction. "See something you like, Miss..."
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She's not watching the faceplate. Very carefully.
When the wine is replaced on the tabletop and she's dabbed at her lips with a napkin, that's when she deigns to speak to him(and oh but she does make sure it's clear in her tone).
"Is that how you would address a lady, where you hail from?"
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Dear Face: Thanks taken back. Get back here and teach me more.
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"A passing fancy. Nothing more." She traces the edge of her wineglass and watches him a little more openly, curiosity visible in her eyes. It's entirely possible that it's there because she wants it to be. "I'm afraid you have me at a disadvantage. I've not heard of a...'tapcaf'." A quick dart of a smile. "However, in my place and time, we value politeness."
Reply
"First of all, m'lady"--the title may, or may not, be spoken with a certain degree of sarcasm--"I get the distinct impression that where and when you and I are from aren't close to the same, though it would seem that you'd be the class of our age in either. And secondly, a tapcaf would be... well, here." He gestures all around him.
Finally, he fixes her with an amused stare, though the robotic eye maybe isn't the best at commuting that impression. "And 'politeness' simply depends on where you've parked your shuttle, m'lady."
Reply
The pin stays in her hand. She plays with it as though she doesn't quite understand that she's doing so, dropping her eyes from him with demure grace. "My apologies, good sir." Her voice is warm and sweet and so sincere. "I find the difference between worlds a strange one." She leans forwards. Her chair is close enough that when she does so, she's almost -- but not quite -- touching him. Her words are soft in his ear. "Almost intoxicating."
And then she's settling back in her own chair and the smile is something smug and self-satisfied as she swirls the glass of lomin-ale, her own wineglass sitting at the man's fingers instead. "Which I can only assume is your current state of mind, if you think there's a world where a woman would give you half a look for that kind of statement."
Reply
Intoxicating she is, especially up that close, and Force, it's been so long since Shalla, and who knows the last time before that a woman got close...
Ton blinks twice, quickly, and with a slight shake of his head, tries to kill that line of thought. "Mmmf. Strange indeed." The Oh-So-Cunning Wordsmith reaches for his drink--a healthy gulp of lomin ale will be just what his mind nee--
He looks down at the thin stem of what appeared to now be his glass. "Huh." He looks up and watches The Woman settle into her seat, with his lomin-ale. Sithspit, is she one of us Wraiths or something? Rather than letting his face betray his--shall we say admiration?--Ton snorts, and fires off, "Y'know, if you wanted a sip, you coulda just asked."
Then he sips the wine. You know, because.
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After a moment her curiosity bests her -- perhaps she's more like a cat than she might want to let on -- and she settles back, pulling her gloves from her fingers and neatly wrapping the hairpin inside of them. Almost like a sheath. "I suppose I haven't introduced myself. Lady Adler, at your service. Lady Irene Adler." She's not a lady by the laws of the realm, not by fair, but she doesn't see that as any way not to adopt it as a title, especially when the title if not the name is her current ticket to fame and fortune (mostly fortune) back home. There are a fair few elderly gentleman who are hideously wealthy and more than happy to assist a lady down on her luck, providing she has a pedigree.
Not that it matters here, but still. She raises an eyebrow at him and deliberately rests her gaze for a long moment on the metal section of his face, a silent request for information.
Reply
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