06.04.3013: Say "Freedom!"
Summary: Nitrim and Jane enjoy a night free of adult responsibility.
Date: 4 June 2013
Related: None
Jane Nitrim 

The Violet Siren, Landing - Imperius
The entrance into the Violet Siren gives the illusion of a squat, round building with very little character or flair. It is only when one walks through the ellipse-shaped tunnel, under the glowing black lights, do they realize that the Violet Siren is far more than it seems. The foyer is at the top level of a vast silo that tunnels underground for several stories. Its transparent-composite floors look down through the various mezzanines ringing the interior of silo all the way to the expansive dance floor at the bottom. A series of staircases hug the walls of the cylinder, leading patrons past balconies that supply seating away from the loud thumping and madness of the dance floor and a series of bars to wet ones whistle.

The entire lower level is nothing but dance floor with platforms to provide varied elevation to the bumping, grinding, and thrashing of the vigorous dancers. Scantly-clad waitresses maneuver carefully through the dancers with shotglass vials of neon-colored liquor.

4 June 3013

Tonight is a 'haute couture' night, and Jane has done herself up in something bioluminescent and beautiful — at least to her. Having finally wrapped up the last bit of filming needed for her most recent 'vid, the actress is left peculiarly lonely. And lonely women almost always go for something wild.

The Violet Siren is loud as usual, and the thumping bass of the electronic tunes vibrates through the dancefloor in time to the gyrating and dance-like flailing of the club's usual clientele. Either the AMP is flowing, or the actress is merely pumped up from another career success. She floats along the fringes of the dancing crowd, trailing light in her wake like a faerie, and pauses her and there to dance with a strange while singing along to the music loudly.

Hundreds of bodies traps in the heat of everything, requiring the much-needed cooling of overhead fans that can only be felt at just the right times, or when the sea of bodies shifts just right to allow the cool wind through. The crowd was packed in tight, with just enough room for dancing but little room to easily slip away, but when one did slip away, a pocket formed and a blast of cool air washed over the dancefloor sweat.

One such pocket of air forms as a dancer steps away from the floor, leaving a visual trail that leads to a man dancing in a tunic that is expensive made and the kind of garb that could only be worn by a noble. It stuck to his skin where the sweat formed, moving in time before a blonde-haired dancer in a short black skirt and a clinging blue top. Nitrim Khournas, known by some, was still slipping back to the Violet Siren for the End-Of-The-World festivities.

He laughs at something she says to him, and as he looks up and over her head for the briefest of moments, he makes eye contact with Jane. As she is a celebrity, she would surely be able to tell that curious, if not surprised look, that signals recognition. He knows who she is.

It is always intriguing when someone recognizes her and doesn't immediately barrel over everybody in their path to reach her. Not that Jane is a celebrity of immense fame, but it warms her to the tips of her very toes when she is at least afforded some attention. So, when she spins about with her arms in the air, she reaches up to run her fingers through her hair and opens her eyes — just in time to make contact with Nitrim. Hmm.

With her interest piqued, Jane abandons whichever faceless partner she has so recently chosen, and instead makes her way clear of the dancefloor. The gust of cool air is a welcome reprieve, and she reaches up to pat away dots of perspiration from her forehead and upper lip. Her steps bring her nearly within arm's reach of the man whose very bearing and attire practically scream of nobility, but she dare not interrupt their dance.

Silently, the actress bows her head to Nitrim, and the brief gesture communicates that she, too, recognizes him on some level. Looking away, she lifts a hand to flag down a passing waitress and places an order for some ridiculously frilly cocktail, content to lean against a wall with her arms crossed.

As she passes, Nitrim nods his head slowly to her. Inevitably, as she moves away, the eye contact is broken and he disappears from her once more as the crowd swallows him and his dance partner whole. The waitress leaves Jane. Minutes pass, and when she returns, she leans in to speak loudly enough to be heard.

"It's paid for." The waitress says to her and then leans back, returning Jane her private space to take her tray elsewhere and conduct her trade.

As if on queue, Nitrim can be seen again walking alongside the crowd from the back of the room. He plucks the front of his shirt and fans it back and forth to cool his tattooed chest as he approaches. As he nears arm's reach, he lifts his eyes to her and slides into place on the wall beside her. He raises a glass of scotch on ice to salute, offering to tap his glass against hers.

"Nitrim Khournas." He says in that loud voice that needs to be used in a club. It was a simple introduction. "How has the beginning of the end been treating you?"

Jane cocks an eyebrow but says nothing to the waitress, merely takes up her drink. She curls her fingers around the bowl of the glass and raises it to her lips to sip it, scanning the crowd boredly as she does so. Inevitably, movement on the periphery draws her attention. She turns her head a few degrees to watch unabashedly as Nitrim approaches, and is silent until he settles against the wall beside her.

The slaute is returned with a raise of Jane's own glass, sloshing bright pink liquid over the rim and onto the floor. The actress does not seem to care that a few drops of her drink have gone missing. "Jane Wyre, but you already know that," she answers, turning away to study the crowd once more. It is, of course, merely a ruse; she can still see him out of the corner of her eye.

"I am attempting to live like a spoiled princess - all party and no work. You look like as though it has been handling you with kid gloves."

"I like to think that everyone in this room is rather lively and attractive above the surface." He raises a shoulder in a quiet shrug as he takes a long pull from his glass. "What's fascinating are the people out there that are simply just not here anymore. They're somewhere else and they've forgotten the threat. It's worth being in the midst of."

Nitrim cocks his head to the side just a little to glance sidelong at the profile of her face. One of his eyes narrows and his lips curl into a slight grin. "Nice to meet you, Miss Wyre. You know, it immediately occurs to me that your celebrity status may very well negate any attempt of mine to appear fascinating due to what family I just happened to be born in, but don't think that won't save you from being asked to sign an autograph at some point."

If one cannot be mysterious, at least be charming. Nitrim's gamble appears to be a success, because Jane stares at him for a second or two before letting out a light laugh. Her mood is vastly improved by this one silly statement, and she lifts her drink to honor his sense of humor. "I promise you, my lord, that being a celebrity is overrated. Nobody believes me when I say it, though. I much prefer to be in the company of someone who does not believe they are fascinating, because then neither of us has to pretend anything."

Pausing, Jane takes another sip of her drink before dipping her hand into her cleavage - yes, right down there - and pulling out a stylus kept handy for such occasions. "I would be more than happy to offer you one now, my lord. It can even be a picture of us together, in case you might require the evidence for future storytelling."

Nitrim, without a care, tugs back the sleeve of his tunic to offer Jane the inside of his forearm. He grins the sort of grin of a man who knows he's being mildly ridiculous, but the fun of the moment overtakes him.

"Oh and I assure you, Miss, I'm aware. The long hours in makeup, the cramped trailers, the what…fifteen, sixteen hour days on location? Actors work for a living." He winks one of his proverbially half-lidded eyes that is already slightly glassy from the drinks he's had that evening. "It's just good to be out and taking the time to be selfish, right?"

Arm extended before her, he takes another sip from his glass in an overhand grip and steps in closer so that he doesn't have to yell so much.

"So are you still filming anything, or are you in between right now, traveling around like a Princess?"

Jane's eyes sparkle with a mixture of light intoxication and amusement as Nitrim bares his arm for her. She flips the stylus around to the rarely-used pen and presses a button to release the tip. Leaning in, she rests her hand on his arm while writing out her signature, and it is done perhaps more slowly than necessary as an excuse to linger. "Fifteen hours, sixteen hours, sometimes only four or five. It depends on the day."

Once her bit of impromptu artwork is complete, she pulls her hand away and blows on the ink to encourage it to dry faster. "And yes, I am enjoying the moment of freedom. In fact, I will be taking a small break from filming and instead putting in more time with my organization. I need to get it off the ground, and now more than ever. There, how does that look?" She returns the stylus to its hiding place inside her gown and knocks back the rest of her drink.

"I almost want to give it all up and travel like a Princess for good. What about you, my lord? Taking a break from your patriotic duty? Hiding from a father who might insist you enlist with the Marines even if fighting isn't your 'thing'?"

Nitrim's head turns slowly and his lips form into an amused cringe. Perhaps Jane hit too close to the head of the nail on this one, as most noble sons are expected to serve in time of war. Being press-ganged like that onto the forefront of the war was definitely a headspace to be reckoned with.

"It looks wonderful, Jane, thank you very much. All of the guys in the trench are going to be jealous for sure." Black humor. It's a godsend.

Without asking, Nitrim reaches into his pocket and pulls out a digital camera. He downs the last of his drink and sets it onto a passing tray. With his thumb, he turns the camera around and extends his arm so that the camera will point down his autographed arm into a famous selfie photograph. He leans in close to Jane's shoulder and grins broadly for the camera. "Say: Freedom." He murmurs, and then presses the button.

Picture taken, he offers her the camera and delivers her a less comical look. "Fighting's my thing. I'm a Khournas. One way or another I'm going to get a piece of what's coming, but I'm here to soak up a little life while I can." He looks past her towards the sitting area in the distance, then turns his eyes to her, aloft with question. "What say you to getting a table and you can tell me all about this organization? Take whatever pictures you want while you've got it."

"Freedom," Jane says laughingly, smiling brilliantly for the camera as Nitrim snaps a photograph. "There, now you shall have this meeting immortalized forever in digital format that you can spread liberally about the InfoSphere or attempt to sell to a media outlet along with an untrue story about the wild night you spent with Jane Wyre." The actress' humor can get a little black, too, when she so desires.

Setting her empty glass on yet another passing tray, she rubs her hands along the sides of her gown - both to smooth it over and to admire the texture of the fabric. She glances once at the camera screen and smiles again, lifting her chin to signal that it is, indeed, an acceptable snapshot. Taking the camera, she turns away to capture a photo of a frenzied dance crowd while Nitrim invites her to sit with him.

The chance to talk about H.A.G. is one that the actress cannot pass up, and so she turns back to him. "That, my lord, sounds like quite the plan. Perhaps you can regale me with tales of Khourni bravery, too. The last one I met was a bit more stingy with his words."

"I think…I might know just the Khourni you're speaking about." Nitrim says with a grin as he watches her take a snapshot of the dancing crowd. The writhing mass of survivors throughout the terror of impending war was something that he was interested in capturing this evening, and she's aided him in the task…through her perspective.

Careful to not smudge the ink on his forearm, he rolls his sleeve until it's at a pinched fold just above his elbow. Blinking away the bright, flashing lights and light kerosene fog, he brushes a hand through his lightly damp, blonde hair and moves a hand to the center of Jane's back to guide her through the crowd. As he walks with her, he nods towards a black-skinned man near the tables, he moves away to stand at an overwatch. Few nobles travel without a bodyguard.

"And if you sneak off with that camera, you can liberally sell your story about the wild night you spent with a Lord of Khournas, which I'm sure would have to be completely fabricated because I'm a boring boring soul." His laughter is genuine, able to be heard lightly over the music around them. "But first, tell me about your work, because you're going to need a few drinks in you to believe half of the stories about drake-slaying and fireball throwing. Now, is this a charity organization or a…"

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