10667/Time for a Wyngarde to come home

Time for a Wyngarde to come home
Date of Scene:	05 April 2022
Location:	The Inner Sanctum - Hellfire Club
Synopsis:	Martinique Wyngarde makes a successful pitch for why she should sit as counsel to the Black King.
Cast of Characters:	Sebastian Shaw, Martinique Wyngarde

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Sebastian Shaw has posed:
    It is well known that anything that happens within the Hellfire Club finds its way to the attention of its Black King, Sebastian Shaw. So it should come as no surprise that within a few days of Martinique Wyngarde's visit to its chambers, she would receive a message. Not so much a message as a summons. A card shows up, slipped under her door. One side has the universal symbol for the Black King in chess. The other side simply has a date and a time on it. "April 4th 11pm". No location. Presumably, whoever sent it expected those details to be sufficient.

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
Martinique Wyngarde arrives promptly. Normally, she might run late simply to make a power play, to emphasize to the other person that they had no control over her. Also, she just has terrible time management and doesn't care very much about other people's time or feelings.

But for Mr. Shaw, she makes herself on time. Her father always hated Sebastian. Which inclines Martinique to be fond of the wicked man himself.

She arrives in an exquisitely tailored dress with a short skirt, her cream-blouse open enough to display cleavage and some stylizh statement necklaces dangling amongst it, her jacket in purple and trimmed in black, much like her nails. Her dark hair sweeps over one of her shoulders as she's lead in.

"Your Majesty, always a pleasure," she says.

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
Seated upon his throne, Sebastian Shaw literally rises above everyone else in the room. It's a not so subtle effort to insure he is always looking down on others, and that they are always looking up at him. So it is when Martinique is lead into the chamber of the Inner Circle by some of the staffers. The females have adopted the dress code, and while there is at least one quiet "tut tut" from one at Martinique's eschewal of said policy, no one challenges her openly on it. Naturally, Sebastian is dressed in finery fit for the Victorian era, an affectation that puzzled many. But for those that knew him reasonably well, it all made sense.
    With Martinique's arrival, his face twists into a smile. There is not really warmth in it, but an effort at politeness that few tend to get. "Ms. Wyngarde. The pleasure is mine." He flicks his fingers in the direction of the attendants, and within moments the pair are alone within the Inner Circle. How truly alone are they is always up for debate, but it would appear to be complete.
    Sebastian rises up from his throne, and slowly descends down to the floor, although his pace is slow, languid. Practiced and patient. Allowing Martinique to make the effort of approaching, even if he has chosen to descend to the the main floor.

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
She does approach and, while she has not worn Victorian finery, she is nonetheless exquisitely dressed. While she is a member of the Club, she has not ascended to the rank she desires, not quite yet, although the hunger for it is in her mind and her eyes almost palpably.

She bends the knee as appropriate to the King and kisses the ring.

"All pleasure is your due, my King," she says. "I have come to see if I might be of better service to you. I have heard that the Club has been...adrift in recent years, as a result of errant and unmotivated officers and members. That they have been failing you. I have to come to tell you that, if you give me a chance, I will not."

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
The eyebrow of the Black King arches at Martinique's works. They were, perhaps, not what he had expected of her. "Please, rise. You need not supplicate yourself. That is for lessers." Not that he stopped her, of course. Or avoided relishing the moment, allowing it to linger. His eyes consider her form, working through in his mind the decisions that went into this audience. Why she choose the attire that she did. Why she choose to approach in that fashion. The clues discerned from providing minimal direction to her.

"You are correct, unfortunately. The White King has other worldly matters to attend to, which is of course to our benefit, but does lead us to suffer from the absence of his leadership. Our White Queen has decided that she would rather spend her time with those of a different persuasion." He glances around for a moment. "My Black Queen is, as you can see, also beyond the reaches of this chamber."

His gaze drifts back down to her. Thinking. Pondering. "You know that you need only speak a desire, and membership is yours, on name alone. So I am impressed that you would speak of earning it. Come, tell me your thoughts. How do you feel you can best bring us towards glory?"

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
Martinique Wyngarde shakes her head, "Perhaps I do not need to, but it is fitting that I should. I have come back to find powers in disarray. To find the Brotherhood with whom I once warred alongside softened and craven. Superiority deserves recognition. By your title and your power, you have earned the right to be King. And, while the role of Queen may be taken, I would be happy to be your Bishop, providing the spiritual guidance and maintaining the purity of the faith," she says with a wicked grin.

"Practically, I can undermine and eliminate those whom you would desire culled. I can offer you a steady and loyal hand at your right hand, ruthless and blooded."

"Not to mention I look better in that lingerie than any other woman who wears it now," she says boldly.

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
There is a bit of a sneer on Sebastian's face when she mentions the Brotherhood. "They have always been focused on the wrong ideals, but even now they are pointed in the wrong direction." His eyebrow arches again as she speaks of his power. His title. His right as King. He knows these words are practiced, and as pleasant as they are to his ears, they earn a certain suspicious look. "There is, indeed, an opening, as it happens. So you have done your research." A tilt of his head. "Tell me, then. What guidance would you offer? What counsel, if you were to be Bishop?"

A hand is waved at the offer of ruthlessness. "I know your talents, Ms. Wyngarde. They are extensive. But culling is a task for those beneath us. It is such an...indelicate...way to deal with problems."

It is hard to say which draws his attention more - the content or the boldness of the statement itself. His eyes move to her form, naturally, as they are bidden. "And yet..." He does not finish the sentence. Perhaps he suspects he does not need to.

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
Martinique Wyngarde turns her head, not to hide her wrath, but to cast it around the room, at those who are not present. "I do not know if I agree. I think getting my hands dirty - or wet, more usually - has served me well. I am feared not as a figurehead, but as a blade that will slit the throats of those who cross me. The practical application of power demonstrates superiority better than any other."

"You wonder if I merely mean to flatter you or attempt to gain something through obsequience. I do not worship you or adore you like a sychophant. I merely recognize what you have achieved - and what more you can achieve. As your Bishop, I can seek out new opportunities to expand our influence, find more strings for us to puppeteer - and make sure those strings are pulled well."

"If you would like me to dress differently, you may choose my garb as you like. Merely put it in your mind and it shall be so."

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
There is a certain lick of his lips as she speaks of wet work. "I will admit, it is rare for any of our Council to be so willing to use our hands. Some, of course, fear the breaking of nails." His gaze drifts towards the Queen's throne that sits opposite his side of the room. No need to puzzle out who he is speaking of. "There is a certain power to that, to be sure."

The Black King's gaze rests upon her. He weighs her words for accuracy. He knows who she is, and how liberal her relationship with truth may be. "It takes none of your powers to discern that, of course. I did not rise to the position that I did by trusting too easily."

A sly grin crosses the face of the Black King. Even without the benefit of her powers due to the unique shielding technology within the chamber, she can garner some sense of his thoughts. "If that were so, why arrive as you did? If not to present a challenge to the tradition."

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
Martinique Wyngarde clasps her hands at the small of her back, "Because, while I respect the tradition, I am a modern woman and want to present myself as such. I appreciate the style and am happy to honor it - but I want to honor it when I have my rightful position," she says.

"And also, as I said - my appearance can always be altered as you see fit. Of course, that leaves the inevitable question of what and how much I'm actually wearing entirely to your imagination," she says.

She moves her hands in a sweeping motion and her body shifts, now sealed in black lingerie, a copiously filled bustier, stockings, garters, heels, opera gloves. "Does this suit better?"

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
A slow nod from the Black King. Thoughtful. "The distinction is appreciated." He considers for a moment. "Whether you truly appreciate the tradition for what it is, why it was formed, or not, you certainly understand it. That is something which so few truly did." A pause. "That the attire was never meant to subjugate, but meant to show that true power cared not for what the trappings were."

"Your appearance never need be altered, Mr. Wyngarde. You are of the finest stock as it is, and a beauty to behold." The talk of what she is wearing, of course, and his imagination, captures his mind. It runs wild, unbidden, spurred on by her words. Easy to read.

The shifting to capture the very image that appeared in his mind is noted, and the Black King smiles once more. "It truly does suit you, my dear," he replies. He knows it is illusion, but he also knows that even knowing that it makes no difference. He allows his gaze to linger in appreciation. Not a hard sacrifice to make.

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
Martinique Wyngarde knows full well the things she inspires in the imaginations of virile and powerful men. And she's certainly not above making use of her charms. She allows him to admire her as he sees fit, keeping herself poised and posed suitably for inspection.

"Most things do," she says with a sultry purr. "I do not think as highly of my stock as you. I despise most of my family. But in my despising them, I wish to usurp them and rise above them. Alliance with you would give me that opportunity. I think we could be very good for each other, Sebastian," she says, a touch more intimately and informally.

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
Another lick of his lips. The Black King is powerful, but he has weaknesses. They may be few and far between, but he shares at least some with most men. Even were she not able to pierce his mind, she would know how her "charms" were working.

"I never liked your father." A blunt admission, but one that comes as no surprise. "But I would never suggest that he does not have power in his line. Strength." His eyes remain on her face as she speaks of alliance. This time, there is no arch of the eyebrow. No suspicious look. "I am starting to think you may be earnest. Martinique."

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
Martinique Wyngarde nods, "He does have power, yes, power I have inherited and am far more deserving of than he ever was. He became easily distracted and weakened by his own insecurities. I am far more confident than he," she says.

She steps forward, keeping her hands clasped behind her back. "I know that I am, rightfully, known as a deceiver. But I have no need to lie to you. We both want the same things - power, decadence and luxury in abundance. Naked ambition. Why should we be ashamed of it?"

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
The Black King watches her approach. "Your confidence is no illusion," he states. A hand reaches up, crossing the gulf between them. The back of his fingers move against her cheek. She can feel the ring she had kissed, cold, drawing down gently along it. "I am never ashamed of anything," responds Sebastian. His eyes linger on hers. It may be worthless to watch for reaction from her, when she can so easily craft whatever visual she wishes. But he chooses to believe in her. For the moment.

"What is your ambition?" he asks. "What is it, truly, that you wish to achieve?"

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
She does not draw away from the touch, allowing him to caress her cheek as he sees fit. Her expression is still, peaceful, except perhaps for a fluttering of eyelashes, the hint of a swoon. Feigned or real, it is nonetheless quite convincing.

"To get everything I ever want, always," she smiles. "To deny myself nothing. To indulge everything. And to hear those I despise weep about it."

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
The touch grows more familiar. Drifting down from her cheek, towards her shoulder. There is illusion, and there is reality, and right now his hand is trapped between the two, perhaps. The Black King observe that hint of a swoon. He suspects it may just be a part she plays. But perhaps not. And perhaps it does not matter.

"Those ambitious are lofty. Even for a Black Bishop." His smile broadens. "But that may be a good enough place to start." His eyes caress her form once more. "I must admit, I do find myself agreeing with what you said earlier. You _would_ wear it better than most anyone else."

Martinique Wyngarde has posed:
If there is truth to be found, other than what there is to be seen, then it is assured that Martinique would never let it surface. The line between artifice and reality is one that she toys with adn even she isn't always sure where the line is drawn.

"I know I could convince you," she says a bit breathily. "If our ambitions aren't high, then why do we reach? I am already quite magnificent - anything less than the prosaic would be beneath me," she says, , leaning in closer to alow his hand to brush along her shoulder, the skin certainly feeling real enough to the touch.

Sebastian Shaw has posed:
The Black King watches for any sign of truth, or lack thereof. It does not come, of course. Not when the narrative is so tightly controlled. A risk, to say the least. But a risk with considerable reward.

"We both know you could convince me," Sebastian concedes. "Too many fail not because they lack ability, but because they lack ambition. One thing that there is no illusion to - you have the ambition that is needed." He looks down at her, considering her words quietly. Allowing his fingers to trace along the line to her collarbone. "We need that ambition." A pause. "_I_ need that ambition."

"I believe, Martinique Wyngarde, that the Hellfire Club may perhaps have found its much needed Black Bishop..."