Post by Laurnath on Jun 6, 2021 6:32:21 GMT 10
Tatienne began rubbing her temples about twenty minutes in.
It wasn't the vague smoky smell. It wasn't the band, they were doing fine. It was decidedly, the dancers.
Somehow they'd decided en masse that they weren't going to put in a scant piece of effort. Something about the break in and violence last night, their missing owner and trainer or just the presence of herself had made them decide they were going to drag.
Literally, she could hear heels scuffing on the floor as they went through the motions of a choreographed dance of twelve, two rows of six with plain wooden chairs as the props and aides to present themselves in the best way possible.
They wore layers of working dance clothes, stretched woven garments that hung off shoulders, showed midriff or had perspective bearing slashes. They liked to look good even for each other and most wore one or two layers of fishnet stockings in varying sizes and colours to show off toned and professional physiques.
It's a shame they weren't professional at this very second.
Pips sidles over, bringing her a whisky and ginger concoction. Hair of the dog, they probably called it. Tatienne downed it in one, eliciting a concerned groan from her efficient friend. Down to shirt sleeves and suspenders, lilac suit pants and all the worry in the world. She handed the empty glass back and then slammed the quarterstaff onto the ground to get their attention.
Sometimes for keeping time, sometimes for swiping ankles - she had grown up fearing and loathing the staff. Now it was in her hands.
"Wot-chu want, ballet girl?" one of the sly, lithe elven female dancers asked. Tatienne was ashamed to realise she really didn't know their names. "We not good enough for your 'last show self?' "
The truth will out, earlier than expected. Leaning on the staff, she let silence do her talking for her. Staring right at them all, not unkindly, but not well - either. Waiting for more.
"She's not wrong, it's not like you know this dance anyway." One of the males added, tipping his ridiculously small top hat at her in a mocking apology.
"Actually, I do. Before you all even stepped into this club, I did these dances and my show - because I had to afford my toe shoes." Tatienne says, finally. Tilting her head at them as she sets down the staff and pops the top four buttons of her shirt, rolling up the sleeves. She shucks her trousers, down to her plain black skimpy underwear and heeled ankle boots with thick squashed down socks like leg warmers. Making a performance of walking up the front stairs to the stage, knowing some of them hadn't seen her tattoos up close - unpainted and uncovered.
They belatedly move aside. A few with folded arms and disbelieving expressions as she pushes chairs aside - singling one out for herself.
"For starters." She slides her feet around lazily, making her circle around the chair in a disinterested way. "If you do this, even over the music you can hear how little you care." Then she turns and stands with her hands on the back of the chair.
"Then you don't even make eye contact practice. You are all looking at each other, the chair, your feet, the roof. Yawning."
"Alright Missus know it all, how'y do it?" comes a holler from the back of the group.
She sighs loudly and rolls her hand at the band, getting them to start up the music. Her mind goes to a place she rarely does. It's not where she stands en pointe. It's not even a place that Death wants to follow her. It has faces, names, hands, feelings and emotions that only she can harness. Letting a guilty heat flow through her, the heavy piano notes hit - reverberating through the stage. She treats them as the crowd, turning her chair the wrong way to get started.
Tatienne flicks her head back, letting the movement ripple through her whole self and arching her back. Seductively offering the crowd a good view down her open shirt as she leans forward and brushes against the chair with her whole chest - making eye contact with a person that only she cares to know this expression. They're not there, but she believes they are.
Parting her lips as she pops her hip out and then makes the circle around the chair - her steps are peppy, light and lifted. Flexing her calves so that they push her upwards, her whole upper body bouncing with the force of her movement. Keeping the mischevious glitter in her pale brown eyes, thinking of those times and places as she pauses at the front of the chair, slapping her palms flat on it as she bends all the way over and twitches her legs, one knee forward at a time. Philippe calling it 'the bunny', she imagines herself having a tiny tail she has to keep moving.
Keeping in time with the music, she slides into the splits - in two bounces of the beat. Turning back to face the crowd, a sweeping arm up the front of herself and cupping her chin as she rolls to her feet. A sleek and effortless movement to sit in the chair on the drum hit, moving to cross and uncross her legs with the timing of the band. All the while, keeping her chin up and an effortlessly wicked gleam of the eyes.
A sweeping leg and moving to standing, walking the chair off to the side. Dragging it along like a naughty partner, twirling it on one leg in two rotations - all the while posing like an offering of the darkest kind, one foot hooked behind the other to create an hourglass silhouette, one hand pushing her waist in further. Finally setting it down and following the music, she enters a deep squat, bouncing back up extremely slowly to the sound of one of the bards loudly clicking her fingers in an off tempo section. Keeping up with the timing, and not falling on ones ass is a painful and mind consuming moment - in this time she always chose to run her tongue along her teeth with her mouth mostly open. Look at my lips, not my eyes. Don't see the focus there, don't see the work behind the performance.
Succeeding the move, she tilts her chin upward - victorious and flushed with the effort, she keeps up with the quick steps outwards and the drum beats that call for a stop and a slap of both hands against the hipbones that slides into a sinuous whole body movement and then another drop. This time with legs wide open and arms raised to clap. Normally perfectly in time with the other twelve. Signaling the end of the dance, all twelve on the floor with 'goods' displayed.
Behind her, Tatienne can hear clapping. The loud, look-at-me sort of masculine clap. Her eyes on the dancers now, they've lost mischief. They've become deferent and some lowered. She holds the squat for longer than required, exceedingly slowly to stand - showing off her core strength and muscle definition. Eventually turning around as she slowly does her buttons.
"And that, ma petites - is why I took her from the reject pile at the Ballet Académie of Glantri. Many men will pay good money to see that ass go willingly to the ground." Phillipe says crassly, looking sleek and refreshed. His white blonde hair perfectly quiffed at the front and into a fishtail braid. Wearing his signature leather open shirt and many many necklaces. "Been a while since you did any of that floor work, Tatienne. I didn't realise it was so easy to goad you into it."
"Phillipe. You are alive. I am so glad. I thought I had seen the last of you when you ran out of the back door." Tatienne says in a monotone. Knowing she'd clearly revealed his poor form. An eye for an eye afterall. Striding down the stairs towards him, unconcerned about her underwear, shirt and boots combination in the face of her cowardly boss and allegedly legitimate Spade. "I was worried."
She adds the last bit sweetly. Behind her, she is sure they believe it. Before her, she can tell he's not even inspecting what she's trying to sell. No, it's too far gone between them now. Refusing to look over at Pips, she makes the slow walk to Philippe. Pausing only to grab the quarterstaff for training and for a moment, she stands in front of him - holding it. Eventually she holds it out.
It seems like a long time, between them, as they watch each other warily and eventually he takes it from her.
Up close, she can see he is wearing cosmetic powder to cover facial bruises. They wouldn't be noticeable if not for the Spade tattoo at his neck that is swiped with it.
"I'm fine." he says loudly, then even louder. "Practice that routine and I want to see you go as hard as 'Little Miss Last Show' does. Quoi?"
There are mutterings, as the stage is rearranged. Tatienne slings her trousers over her shoulders and waits patiently for the inevitable.
"We need to talk. In my office." He says, after a moment of watching the stage begin their routine and then looking back at her.
It wasn't the vague smoky smell. It wasn't the band, they were doing fine. It was decidedly, the dancers.
Somehow they'd decided en masse that they weren't going to put in a scant piece of effort. Something about the break in and violence last night, their missing owner and trainer or just the presence of herself had made them decide they were going to drag.
Literally, she could hear heels scuffing on the floor as they went through the motions of a choreographed dance of twelve, two rows of six with plain wooden chairs as the props and aides to present themselves in the best way possible.
They wore layers of working dance clothes, stretched woven garments that hung off shoulders, showed midriff or had perspective bearing slashes. They liked to look good even for each other and most wore one or two layers of fishnet stockings in varying sizes and colours to show off toned and professional physiques.
It's a shame they weren't professional at this very second.
Pips sidles over, bringing her a whisky and ginger concoction. Hair of the dog, they probably called it. Tatienne downed it in one, eliciting a concerned groan from her efficient friend. Down to shirt sleeves and suspenders, lilac suit pants and all the worry in the world. She handed the empty glass back and then slammed the quarterstaff onto the ground to get their attention.
Sometimes for keeping time, sometimes for swiping ankles - she had grown up fearing and loathing the staff. Now it was in her hands.
"Wot-chu want, ballet girl?" one of the sly, lithe elven female dancers asked. Tatienne was ashamed to realise she really didn't know their names. "We not good enough for your 'last show self?' "
The truth will out, earlier than expected. Leaning on the staff, she let silence do her talking for her. Staring right at them all, not unkindly, but not well - either. Waiting for more.
"She's not wrong, it's not like you know this dance anyway." One of the males added, tipping his ridiculously small top hat at her in a mocking apology.
"Actually, I do. Before you all even stepped into this club, I did these dances and my show - because I had to afford my toe shoes." Tatienne says, finally. Tilting her head at them as she sets down the staff and pops the top four buttons of her shirt, rolling up the sleeves. She shucks her trousers, down to her plain black skimpy underwear and heeled ankle boots with thick squashed down socks like leg warmers. Making a performance of walking up the front stairs to the stage, knowing some of them hadn't seen her tattoos up close - unpainted and uncovered.
They belatedly move aside. A few with folded arms and disbelieving expressions as she pushes chairs aside - singling one out for herself.
"For starters." She slides her feet around lazily, making her circle around the chair in a disinterested way. "If you do this, even over the music you can hear how little you care." Then she turns and stands with her hands on the back of the chair.
"Then you don't even make eye contact practice. You are all looking at each other, the chair, your feet, the roof. Yawning."
"Alright Missus know it all, how'y do it?" comes a holler from the back of the group.
She sighs loudly and rolls her hand at the band, getting them to start up the music. Her mind goes to a place she rarely does. It's not where she stands en pointe. It's not even a place that Death wants to follow her. It has faces, names, hands, feelings and emotions that only she can harness. Letting a guilty heat flow through her, the heavy piano notes hit - reverberating through the stage. She treats them as the crowd, turning her chair the wrong way to get started.
Tatienne flicks her head back, letting the movement ripple through her whole self and arching her back. Seductively offering the crowd a good view down her open shirt as she leans forward and brushes against the chair with her whole chest - making eye contact with a person that only she cares to know this expression. They're not there, but she believes they are.
Parting her lips as she pops her hip out and then makes the circle around the chair - her steps are peppy, light and lifted. Flexing her calves so that they push her upwards, her whole upper body bouncing with the force of her movement. Keeping the mischevious glitter in her pale brown eyes, thinking of those times and places as she pauses at the front of the chair, slapping her palms flat on it as she bends all the way over and twitches her legs, one knee forward at a time. Philippe calling it 'the bunny', she imagines herself having a tiny tail she has to keep moving.
Keeping in time with the music, she slides into the splits - in two bounces of the beat. Turning back to face the crowd, a sweeping arm up the front of herself and cupping her chin as she rolls to her feet. A sleek and effortless movement to sit in the chair on the drum hit, moving to cross and uncross her legs with the timing of the band. All the while, keeping her chin up and an effortlessly wicked gleam of the eyes.
A sweeping leg and moving to standing, walking the chair off to the side. Dragging it along like a naughty partner, twirling it on one leg in two rotations - all the while posing like an offering of the darkest kind, one foot hooked behind the other to create an hourglass silhouette, one hand pushing her waist in further. Finally setting it down and following the music, she enters a deep squat, bouncing back up extremely slowly to the sound of one of the bards loudly clicking her fingers in an off tempo section. Keeping up with the timing, and not falling on ones ass is a painful and mind consuming moment - in this time she always chose to run her tongue along her teeth with her mouth mostly open. Look at my lips, not my eyes. Don't see the focus there, don't see the work behind the performance.
Succeeding the move, she tilts her chin upward - victorious and flushed with the effort, she keeps up with the quick steps outwards and the drum beats that call for a stop and a slap of both hands against the hipbones that slides into a sinuous whole body movement and then another drop. This time with legs wide open and arms raised to clap. Normally perfectly in time with the other twelve. Signaling the end of the dance, all twelve on the floor with 'goods' displayed.
Behind her, Tatienne can hear clapping. The loud, look-at-me sort of masculine clap. Her eyes on the dancers now, they've lost mischief. They've become deferent and some lowered. She holds the squat for longer than required, exceedingly slowly to stand - showing off her core strength and muscle definition. Eventually turning around as she slowly does her buttons.
"And that, ma petites - is why I took her from the reject pile at the Ballet Académie of Glantri. Many men will pay good money to see that ass go willingly to the ground." Phillipe says crassly, looking sleek and refreshed. His white blonde hair perfectly quiffed at the front and into a fishtail braid. Wearing his signature leather open shirt and many many necklaces. "Been a while since you did any of that floor work, Tatienne. I didn't realise it was so easy to goad you into it."
"Phillipe. You are alive. I am so glad. I thought I had seen the last of you when you ran out of the back door." Tatienne says in a monotone. Knowing she'd clearly revealed his poor form. An eye for an eye afterall. Striding down the stairs towards him, unconcerned about her underwear, shirt and boots combination in the face of her cowardly boss and allegedly legitimate Spade. "I was worried."
She adds the last bit sweetly. Behind her, she is sure they believe it. Before her, she can tell he's not even inspecting what she's trying to sell. No, it's too far gone between them now. Refusing to look over at Pips, she makes the slow walk to Philippe. Pausing only to grab the quarterstaff for training and for a moment, she stands in front of him - holding it. Eventually she holds it out.
It seems like a long time, between them, as they watch each other warily and eventually he takes it from her.
Up close, she can see he is wearing cosmetic powder to cover facial bruises. They wouldn't be noticeable if not for the Spade tattoo at his neck that is swiped with it.
"I'm fine." he says loudly, then even louder. "Practice that routine and I want to see you go as hard as 'Little Miss Last Show' does. Quoi?"
There are mutterings, as the stage is rearranged. Tatienne slings her trousers over her shoulders and waits patiently for the inevitable.
"We need to talk. In my office." He says, after a moment of watching the stage begin their routine and then looking back at her.