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It's rare that Rena deigns to go to the fancy Elysium. Broken buildings are more her aesthetic than cocktails and dresses. But she's in a mood tonight. Not a bad one, per say, but a mood to go break out of her normal routines. And freak out rich people by dressing in an "Eat the Rich" shirt and ragged jeans.
So she sits down on a chair, arms wrapped around her legs, and looks for someone to either talk to or fight, the two Rena thought processes.
Is she rich? She looks rich enough, anyway: impeccable from top to toes. A sleek black velvet dress, the sort of thing that looks simple but costs for the fit and simplicity of it. Artje's tall boots click against the floor rather precisely as she enters, one hand resting against her stomach as her other arm swings lazily, the bracelet on her wrist shimmering in the light. She pauses upon spotting Rena, looks her up and down with an assessing gaze, and then the corner of her mouth pulls up a bit. "Promise?"
Rena looks her over. "Promise? I- oh, the shirt!" Her eyebrow quirks high. "Are- is this a sex thing? Because you'd have to buy me dinner first."
"And I'm married twice over," answers Artje with a flip of her left hand; she must have practiced that move to get it to catch the light just so. Fucking Daeva. "But it made for a good opening line, so I took it." Her accent is unplaceable, but definitely European. Maybe Russian? French? German? Ugh, who knows.
There's something slightly intimidating about the ease with which Artje does all of this. Rena clenches a little tighter. Fucking rich people. "And I had to finish the joke. Laws of comedy and all that. Heh." She actually says, "heh" and doesn't laugh it. "So, uh, I haven't seen you around before. Are you new in town or am I just out of the vamp loop?" (edited)
Her smile becomes an actual smile, if only briefly, and her dark brown eyes glitter amusement. "Indeed." A little wobble of that same hand as she perches herself on the edge of a chair, smoothing out her skirt. When the boots get subtracted from her height, she's quite little - maybe 5'1" - and tiny all over, delicate like a china doll. "Not new-new, but relatively so," she explains. "We were in New York before." A beat. "But forgive me - I am so rude to not introduce myself, my Jean-Louis would be appalled. I am Artje Berenyi-Winthrope, Carthian and member of O&K."
"Rena Harlowe, Ordo, Ashtifar," Rena mimes a curtsy. While sitting down. And hugging her legs. It's a bad miming. "Carthian, huh? Aren't y'all supposed to be punks and not... you know?"
She laughs softly at that. "Aren't all Ordo supposed to be stuffy prigs?" Artje replies, absently smoothing her dress over her stomach, even though she did that three seconds ago. "I'm afraid I didn't get the memo." Artje tips her head to one side. "The first Carthians were punks and well-dressed. There's a bit of an aesthetic turn these days, but... " She shrugs.
"Touche." Rena shrugs. "I'm the kind of Ordo that punches faces, not the kind of Ordo that sits in a room full of books all day," she says, "we can't all be fragile nerds." She flexes her non existent muscles.
"I gotta ask though. Are you rich? Cause I feel like that isn't very punk."
Her eyes glitter again, and Artje makes a small sound of approval in the back of her throat when Rena flexes her non-existent muscles. "Indeed, one does require diversity."
"Someone has to buy all the spray paint and post bail before dawn," the Daeva drolls.
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