Oriena Wrote:Kallisti had an air of vintage. Damask inlaid the walls, and the furniture was solid, luxuriant – and expensive. The bar itself was extravagant, back-dropped by antique bottles glittering wealth in the soft light, but it was the stage the seating was positioned to worship. The private arrangements walked a fine and purposeful line between comfort and straight-laced formality; Kallisti encouraged coy promises through fluttered eyelashes, incidental touches and husky whispers. But it sold seduction, not sex. If you wanted an anonymous fuck in a bathroom, or to act the voyeur peeping on the exploits of strangers, there were plenty of venues within the Red Light District to accommodate. In an age where every fetish was catered for, Kallisti was foreplay; the naughty, clandestine kind that left you breathless. And wanting more.

Along the farthest wall, cordoned off, a grand door led the way to the theatre; for those who stumped up the cash for admittance to the midnight show, which was still a few hours away. In the meantime the entertainment was the lightly teasing, wickedly cheeky kind. Most people thought of burlesque as the art of striptease, and Kallisti embraced that whole-heartedly, but it found its earliest roots in parody. Travesty. Sly and subversive mockery. When Ori surveyed this decadent kingdom, that was what she saw.

Oriena Wrote:The Almaz was a club bolted into the Underground, but claimed exclusively by the favour of the obscenely rich. Cash or favour granted admittance - often both were required to get a foot through the door - but it did not hold the prestige of somewhere like Manifesto. It was not the sort of place one openly admitted to attending, nor a name that found its way into polite conversation or the sparkle of the tabloids. No paparazzi paved the way to its doors. On the contrary. Recording devices were prohibited within, and security took the rule seriously enough to break fingers and worse for transgression.

The clientèle was mixed; the golden elite getting their dark kicks alongside the cream of local gang life, though you might only tell by the absence or proliferation of tattoos amongst the formal dress-code. Big money was won and lost on the fights, that being the Almaz's bead and butter. Allies forged and shattered in its walls, deals soaked in loyalty of blood. Upside leather and velvet decorated a lavish bar area, filtering down into the pits below, where the real entertainment happened. Down there rings and cages separated the various fights, couched by plush ringside tables. This was not sportsmanship; it was brutality.