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→ sweet dreams are made of this.

Who: Irene Adler and YOU YES YOU
What: Uh- work, shopping, drinking, seeing the sights, picking up chicks, going to dinner, anything you like.
Where: The Vault, various boutiques, restaurants, gay clubs, out on the street, anywhere at all. If you can think of somewhere to be, Irene is quite possibly there.
When: Here all week, baby.
Notes: Just pick where you're setting it and say when/where they are in the header. It needn't be somewhere mentioned here! If you think they could run into each other elsewhere, then go ahead- and if you think it ought to be an arranged meeting rather than a chance one, then that's probably fine too.
Warnings: Sex, drinking, kink, the Vault...and Irene.

Irene's life has changed since coming to Baedal.

Technically, superficially, her life has improved, which she doubts happens to many people once are magically transported against their will to a place where you oughtn't to look too closely at, say, shadows, because there's almost always something that's going to lurk there- but since when was back home safe, exactly?

Here, at least, she can work properly. She likes the Vault, even if she's used to being her own boss. It's enormous and extravagant, dirty and debauched and full of people she likes, whether they're her coworkers or her clients- it feels like a home away from home.

Her job, of course, doesn't stop and start with brandishing a whip. No, she'd get bored too easily that way. It's fun, but it's only what happens on the surface. What she does is single out people who interest her, who can give her something- whether that's money or influence or just fun. She knows how to spot public figures afraid of being noticed, tugging at their suits and sweating- she knows which people don't want her and which want her so much they have to pretend that she's the last thing on their minds. She knows whose CiD she wants to look through while they're distracted (panting, eyes closed, unconscious, sobbing, drugged, drunk- whatever, as long as they trust her and she trusts herself). She enjoys her time at the Vault, and watches a number of acts between working, but never forgets that she's there to do her job.

When she's free in the evenings she can go out, a strange feeling for someone who is so used to being on the run. There is, of course, Mycroft Holmes to contend with, but she really can't imagine him sampling the nightlife. She's careful not to become a regular anywhere just in case, though more often than not she's found in gay clubs. She doesn't often go home alone; in the mornings, she's polite and kind but ensures that the women in her bed aren't in her bed for too long, and doesn't make use of any CiD numbers they might leave.

And then there's money, fashion, food, exploration, a whole new world. Irene loves to travel, and it's not really travelling when you're running. Baedal changes daily and she's barely seen half of the city, or that's what it feels like. She dines out often, alone or with some of the connections (friends?) she's made, and she thanks her stars that her job pays well, because she has a whole new wardrobe to build up.

Irene Adler, therefore, is living again. And if she sometimes finds herself alone, with no distractions, and feels claustrophobic, knowing that she is in the middle of the city and there is no world outside of it, knowing that she can't hop on a plane with a faked passport and be someone else somewhere else, knowing that she is trapped-

-then that is a very minor detail.

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Sukkardi night, Ilde goes out alone and ends up that way around Shundi morning-- she hasn't been alone all night, not usually, but by the time she's winding down at Lost Society, the company she's been keeping at varying hours (and in various places; she spent a little while in the Vault earlier, but she hadn't gone to Gutters, not without Ivan) has drifted and she's contemplating whether she wants to find someone new or just call a cab back to Mafaton. Closer than Raven's Gate means cheaper than Raven's Gate, and Ilde's expense of choice is, as ever, her wardrobe.

It's getting close to 5AM, which means closing in a little more than an hour, so she orders something light in the mostly-empty restaurant and considers her options.

Sometimes, Irene comes from sessions exhausted, with barely the energy to shower before she drops into bed, aching and wonderfully empty. At other times, her work leaves her with a kind of humming energy running through her, pounding in her chest- a feeling of being on top of the world, wild with power. In those situations, going home to bed would be a crying shame and a dreadful waste. So, tonight, she leaves work and goes out to have fun.

By the time that ends, it's 5 AM and she's post-drunk, which isn't the same as being in-between drunk and sober exactly; it's hazier, a bit otherworldly, especially when dawn's breaking and she's found herself in the Lost Society restaurant, with one of those particular post-drunk 5AM cravings for something you'd never normally think of. She's clicking through the room to an empty table, her heels echoing, when she catches sight of Ilde. She recognises her- and right now, she'd rather not eat alone. She thinks about uncomfortable things when she's alone.

"Evening," she says, bending at the waist slightly to put her forearms on the back of the empty chair opposite Ilde. The smirk on her face has a strangely conspiratorial edge to it; she finds people like feeling as if they're in on some big joke with her. "Well. Morning." Smoothly, remembering they hadn't exchanged either names or faces, she adds, "We spoke, I think, on the network- about earrings and the Vault, amongst other things."

Curious; it's like a light coming on when Irene gets to how she recognized her. It's not that she'd looked unfriendly a moment ago, just that she'd been oddly blank, doll-like, like she hadn't quite caught up with the moment to react to it-- then she has a solid reference point to go from and that moment passes like shuttered lamplight, a key turning somewhere and the right reaction plugged in.

(Sometimes it's more obvious than others how much of Ilde's public affect is-- just that, the charming persona for public consumption that Ivan had described.)

"I remember," she says, smiling, resting her hands together without putting her elbows on th table because somebody took the time to make sure those etiquette and comportment lessons stuck and they tend to linger, even in her posture sitting in a restaurant at five in the morning after a very, very long night out. "I don't think I got your name-- I'm Ilde. Ilde Decima. Do you want to--?" Join her?

Ana Lewis was fond of shopping. She'd always been fond of it really, ever since she was a kid. Clothing shopping was one of the few times when she felt that she'd had her mother's attention. Oh, normally she didn't mind (Ana was such a Daddy's girl) but it was nice to have that time to herself. The shopping piece of being the Baroness De Cobray had been the easiest bit of character for Ana to get into, and it had carried with her over to Baedal.

She'd picked up an older gentleman to pick up the bill for her, and because of that had found herself at one of the more expensive stores. Oh, this wasn't quite what she was used to, but it was still better than what she'd come with from the Barge. Shifting her wrap a bit, Ana studied the fabric on display with an appraising eye.

Curious indeed, and it doesn't go unnoticed, because Irene does a similar thing- act. Her performance is more an exaggeration of the truth than a whole new persona, but it's still a performance.

"Love to," Irene says, straightening up and then settling into the seat, her movements fluid but poised. "I'm Irene," she says by way of introduction, almost making it sound as if she were paying herself a compliment, though she's being friendly rather than haughty. "And that's a marvellous name."

'Ilde Decima'- well, it is.

Irene is a little way off, holding up two different black velvet coats and then handing one to a sales assistant (well, alright, half-shoving it at her) to try on the other. She smooths it down and walks to a mirror closer to wear Ana is, twisting to get a decent look at it and then glancing over her shoulder to the other woman with a wry smirk on her lips.

"You look like you've got taste- is it a bit goth, do you think?"

She's not terribly worried as to whether it is or not- truth be told, she likes it- but she likes conversation, too.

She laughs-- it's like water, the archetypal babbling brook which, contrary to its frequency as a simile for the description of perfectly human laughter, does not sound much like the aforementioned. Pretty but odd, which is frequently Ilde all over. It suits her, unreal as she is; here in Baedal it seems more natural that she should be otherworldly, making for a less distinct separation than she'd have had in London or in Florence.

"My father told me it means 'glorious warfare'." Ilde, anyway; Decima is the feminine form of Decimus and means tenth, or more accurately 'Emeric Featherstonehaugh has an unhealthy fixation on Decima Beauchamp and shouldn't name his child after a woman who is never going to love him back'.

He'd probably fall madly in love with Irene, too, for at least half an hour. She's rather his type.

"I think I saw you at the Vault earlier, too--" though she hadn't known she was looking at anyone she'd spoken to before.

Irene likes her laugh, but it's clearly and distinctly other than human. Of course, that just makes it- and Ilde in general- more interesting.

"I was the one with the riding crop," she says, her tone wry. "Shame I didn't see you, or I'd have come over. It was a busy night- I was quite preoccupied." She always gets rather engaged in her sessions and in convincing men (and on occasion, women, though most of her clients are male) to come to a private room with her; she gets paid to do what she loves, after all, and in her opinion it's not a job you can do well if you don't give your clients your full attention.

"I like to watch, mostly," she demurs with an easy frankness that couldn't be described as demure; she's a voyeur more than an exhibitionist in general and sexuality (and sensuality) is as fascinating as anything else people do that she might have the opportunity to observe. The Vault is an outlet it had never previously occurred to her she might enjoy having, that way, and the interactions on the floor catch her eye as often as the stages.

Her knack for illusions comes primarily from a desire to control what other people see when they look at her - it had been a defense mechanism in captivity - but in the Vault, while she catches her fair share of glances, there's usually something more interesting to look at than she is. It's one of many different things that she likes about the club.

She'd heard about this place, the Vault. It seems to take a strength of will(ful ignorance) to avoid hearing about it. And it's taken some resolve on the part of the young blonde woman to venture out on her own to experience the club for herself.

It's a curiosity, but she's careful not to look as though she thinks of it as such. And the last thing she wants is to look like a wide-eyed teenager amazed they got into their first nightclub on their cousin's ID. She's at least dressed for the surroundings (she thinks), and comfortable with her choice of yellow chiffon, with waist cincher and bustier in black. But it's the four inch heels on the patent leather knee-high boots that make the ensemble, if you ask her.

It's being here by herself that's the worst of it, she thinks. No wingman, as they say. Not that she needs one. There's hardly any situation she can't instantly remove herself from if she needs to. And she's hoping not to need to tonight, not when she's exploring a side of herself she hasn't often elected to in the past. A clear drink fizzes away in the glass in her hand, heedless of her anxiety, as she takes in the sights.

Where does one even begin?

Irene smiles at that. She herself prefers to be in the centre of things, directing them, everybody's eyes on her- but she's a people-watcher nonetheless and can certainly appreciate an observer. Someone who comes to a sex club famed for its stage shows and finds their eye caught by the people on the floor has to be interesting.

"Good choice," she says airily. "Sex has a way of getting people to be honest, I think. They forget themselves...and act a little bit more like themselves, if you know what I mean."

Long ago, Cindy quit that little job she had at a local Baedal shoe store. It was just a cover and she's created other ways to make ends meet with a little extra to support her habits. One habit in particular has her standing in front of a boutique mirror, turning at the waist as she inspect how a green dress drapes along her body. It's slimming and snug, just how Cindy likes it, but the color and the giant bow leaves a little something to be desired.

It would help to have a little neutral advice, but the shopgirl looks younger than Cindy's newest pair of shoes and she wouldn't dare ask an amateur about fashion.

Ilde has always had the bad habit of watching people and trying to figure them out-- the first time she walked into the Vault, it had felt like being utterly spoiled, which she figures is precisely what they're going for and so she indulges and enjoys it. If you want to figure somebody out, after all, when better? Like Irene says.

The way she brightens as she realizes her own agreement is a little bit of the school girl done good, the way a certain kind of clever young thing glows under praise (and wilts under its lack); she's younger than she should be and it shows in ways she isn't conscious of. "I like that," she says, "I think that's true. I think you see a lot more of someone when they want something badly enough."

There are certain questions one should ask oneself when considering a workplace. In Irene's opinion, the most important is this: can I wear a lace catsuit as professional attire?

If the answer is yes, it's a good place to work, and that is precisely what she's wearing to the Vault tonight. The suit is high-necked and long-sleeved, reaching to just above her ankle bones, and essentially covers quite a lot- except that's all entirely irrelevant, because it's completely sheer and the rest of her outfit can be summed up as follows: stilettos, thong, and diamond earrings.

She is getting rather a lot of appreciative looks as she sways through the room, riding crop in hand because it pays to advertise exactly what she is here for and because it's what she brought from home. She likes it; it gives her balance. On her travels across the club, she leans in to whisper in a man's ear and receives a look of hunger mixed with something unnerved and not-quite-daring; she just laughs, touches his cheek, and tells him to find her if he ever feels ready.

She carries on, drawing closer, eyes flitting over the crowd in a predatory way.

Odessa is alone, which makes her unusual, and perhaps a little vulnerable, and Irene likes vulnerable people. She also likes those boots. She's quickly become an expert at sorting out just who is likely to be into the sort of thing she offers, and spiky patent leather boots tend to be a good omen. She doesn't, however, move in with purely her work in mind- her clients are usually male, after all. Then again, if you don't try, you won't succeed.

"Having fun?" she purrs, suddenly in Odessa's personal space, brushing the handle of the crop briefly against her upper arm to catch her attention. Her eyebrows are up and she smirks- be afraid, but be afraid in a good way- and doesn't relent. She likes noisy clubs- they give such a good excuse to lean into people. There's a lot in her voice; it's husky, teasing, wry, with a suggestion of I know this is a cliche, but let's go with it, shall we?

Irene is inspecting jewellery, contemplating earrings with a thoughtful seriousness that some might deem excessive. She is distracted, however, by Cindy angling herself in front of the mirror, and takes a few moments to analyse the dress out of force of habit; she's an ardent observer (and critic) of other people's fashion.

"Suits you," she says, glancing back at the earrings as she does so. "But for the bow. Know anyone who could alter it?"

There is very little question as to what a woman in a lace catsuit is after. On the surface at least. Following a quick turn of her head, there's an appraising gaze that doesn't masquerade as anything else the moment the blonde realises it's her attention that's desired. That the brush wasn't accidental, or just something done in passing.

It is fairly cliché, but that doesn't at all bother her. "As much as one girl can spending Veerdi on her own." The weekday's pronunciation isn't quite stumbled over, but the careful emphasis on it does almost sound that way. It implies a newness to the city and its conventions, but there isn't any self-consciousness about it. If she's even conscious of it.

Then, as if she can't help herself, her gaze drops to eye the crop as if it were a creature with a mind of its own to be wary of. But only for a moment. "It's quite the sight." The corner of her mouth quirks up just slightly. Sly.

Martha had been out and about. One of the good things about being here was that she had the chance to actually be out and about. Coming from the Barge, she'd still had a lingering sense of claustrophobia which was one of the reasons why she took as much advantage of eating out as she could. Of course, it didn't help that while she was very slowly becoming better at cooking (and much better about burning things, even if they went too far in the other direction.)

Today she was out and about for lunch, and she was doing it all on her own. There was a book in her bag, but at the moment she was just sitting at the table doing a bit of people watching and waiting for the server to come round.

Ana did her best to always pay attention to the people around her, and she had noticed the woman from the corner of her eye. Inclining her head as she came closer with a smirk, the Baroness matched it quickly watching the woman as she tried it on.

"I don't think it's too goth," Ana announced quickly, and she reached over to adjust the collar. Her gloved fingers didn't quite touch the fabric before she ventured, "may I?"

Not a bad habit, surely. ...Is it? Irene doesn't think so.

She does note the slightly immature pleasure in Ilde's face, and honestly, it's endearing in a strange way. Half-uncanny, just like Ilde is in general from what she's seen, but far from unpleasant. "Absolutely," Irene agrees. "It's only when people are desperate that they stop pretending- to themselves, as well as everybody else, which might be more important."

"I'm all yours," Irene drawls, hands up in mock-surrender, grin red and wry. It's a good coat, definitely; and what do you know? She recognises that voice. "We've spoken, haven't we? You sound familiar."

Ooh, a newbie. That's interesting.

(Irene herself is a newbie, technically, but when the day comes that she holds herself to the same standards as everybody else the world will probably end).

And the woman looks at the crop. Alright; nothing to read too much into, because people do look at props. That's why Irene uses them so much. Still, it's interesting.

"I should hope so," she responds, eyebrows arching upwards- her voice loses some of its wryness (though not all of it) and turns a little sharper. Play-sharp, of course, not reprimanding or prissy. Fun-sharp. Still capable of cutting, nonetheless. "It's meant to be."

Irene, too, was doing lunch. Well, she was trying. She liked this place, but unfortunately so did rather a large number of people, and everyone was coming out for lunch. Stupid, really, not to think of that. She would have turned back, had she not been wearing four inch heels and honestly dying on her feet- she spent most of her life in heels, but that didn't mean it was painless, after all.

She closed her eyes and sagged slightly upon being told that they had no tables but would she like to stand and wait until someone left- no, she certainly wouldn't like to stand and wait for anything, she thought as she scanned the restaurant, eyes eventually alighting on Martha, seated alone with a spare seat opposite her.

"I think I've just seen a friend," she said quickly to the man trying to convince her to wait, vulture like, for the next free table, and clicked quickly past him to put a hand on the empty chair at Martha's table.

"Sorry about this," she said. "Don't mind if I join you, do you? Not sure I'd like to hang around for a free table. Baedal's murder on a girl in high heels- cabs are so expensive when they're horse-drawn. Anyway, I wouldn't mind company."

There's a fleeting hint of sheepishness. A moment where she doesn't quite blush, but looks away as if embarrassed over having stated the obvious. It's followed up with a quick sip from her drink. Liquid courage does a backbone good.

"I decided it was time to get brave and come out here, even if I had to go by myself. I didn't think this seemed like a good place for a co-worker bonding experience." Odessa shrugs then, brows lifting. "Or maybe this is a great place for that."

"I believe we have at that." Ana smiles and it's actually a real one, though the only person who would notice the difference is herself. Fingers smooth over the collar, and she takes a step back, studying it. "It suits you, you know." From the tone, Ana was definitely implying something more than the jacket.

There was a small part of her that was feeling a bit guilty about taking up a table for two when there were people waiting, and Martha had fidgeted a bit in her chair as she debated heading out and away from the restaurant for some place less crowded. At the very least she'd decided that the best thing that she could do was burrow her nose into her book. Fingers brushed the leather of her bag when she'd seen the woman approaching her table, and then Martha paused and smiled up at the woman.

She was stylish that was for certain, and it made Martha feel slightly under-dressed in her trousers and sweater. However, she gestured to the chair below the woman's hand. "No, please sit down. I don't mind at all." Martha didn't mind, it was written in her voice and in the smile that matched it. "I'd not mind the company either."

Martha was keenly feeling the loss of her extended social circle, and lately her efforts to expand beyond it had been awkward at best and horrible at worse; the last thing she wanted to do was push away a potential friend. Well, potential friend material.

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→ sweet dreams are made of this.

lost society; shundi morning (barely)

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the vault; veerdi night

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some boutique on newdi afternoon;

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