2021-10-23 - Perdita Hood and Her Merry Women of Graywood Forest

Sometimes you wake up realising something isn't quite right. Subtle little hints. Tiny things that are off.

Room temperature is a good place to start. The Oak Street house Ravn Abildgaard shares with Aidan Kinney has central heating, and the temperature should be pretty even. And yet here he is, waking up with that strange feeling that his arms and face are frozen, while his nether regions are boiling under the furs.

He blinks and opens blue-grey eyes. The furs?

Sure enough, he's sleeping under luxurious -- bear? Not entirely certain, never having seen one of those outside a zoo.

The stone walls, grey and sombre, don't quite fit his image of the mid-1960s family house, either. Nor does, for that matter, the tall, romanesque window opening that has no glass, never mind curtains or shutters. And the only furniture in the circular room that isn't this rather grandiose bed is -- a tripod chair under which sits what's very obviously a night pot.

No, there's also a wooden chest with iron hinges.

He sits up and swings his legs out over the frame of the bed. Something is a hell of a lot of off here, and it's not just the fact that he's in an unfamiliar room -- the fact that he's wearing a white linen night gown isn't helping. Living in Gray Harbor has taught Ravn better than to sleep commando but he does tend to prefer a pair of boxers. The historian's mind speeds into overdrive, trying to put the pieces of the puzzles together.

Medieval style Dream. Or rather, Hollywood medieval. Tower? Norman castle? England? France? Wales? Carcasonne?

Stone floor's bloody cold.

His thoughts are interrupted by a loud and intrusive clank -- the kind you'd expect when a 14th century castle floor is graced with a 20th century lightweight steel grappling hook in the best of Hollywood style. It's got a rope attached, and from the way the rope tightens, someone's about to climb it.

I need to start sleeping with a bag of popcorn.

"Rav-punzel, Rav-punzel, let down thy hair, that I might climb thy wild squirrelly mop." comes a voice from the window, a mere few seconds later. A green cap appears, followed by long black hair braided back out of the way, and those signature heavy bangs. The slender young woman hefts herself onto the window's edge with surprising strength and surety, considering the height she's working with, pausing to drape herself in the window just so... and almost falling back out when she gets a glimpse of Ravn in the night gown.

"We... may need to fire the costume designer... or at least find something that isn't quite so sheer when lit from certain angles." She's leering. Just a bit, a smirk on her face. Dressed in the trademark jaunty green cap, complete with feather, and a knee length tunic that does nothing for her slender frame, her legs are clad in equally green tights and soft soled brown boots, perfect for sneaking about.

The man can't help a faint blush as he realises exactly what Perdita means, and frankly, one might argue the costume designer has done their work entirely as intended here -- provided that the intention is a cheap Hollywood flick with a good helping of eye candy). He pulls one of the bear rugs around himself; it's not that it really bothers him but, it seems like the socially apt thing to do. Like, there are social conventions about not subjecting people to staring at your veg and sausage, and not through thin linen, either.

"You make a very apt -- I'm going to venture a guess here and say, Robin Hood," the folklorist returns, and honestly struggles to not laugh. "Nice grappling hook -- our prop manager might need somebody to explain to him about medieval metallurgy and the nice, very theme appropriate device called a bloody longbow, maybe. Are you all right?"

At least he doesn't sound squeaky.

"... would you believe me if I said I have one of these in my trunk?" She asks, hefting the grappling hook... "Actually... this might be the one from my trunk." she mutters, looking it over. She swings her legs inside fully and stands, stretching and yawning. "I'm doing great. I get pants, instead of..." she gestures vaguely at Ravn, "Do you need me to turn around while you find a more fitting garment? I'd offer you my tights, but... I need them. Tuck tape is not a thing in Merry Olde England." Oh... OH.

Perdita looks completely amused at the turn of events, glancing out the window. "Nice view here, too." she says, a little too casually, fighting to suppress her grin, but... not really succeeding. She's fresh faced, not an ounce of make up, and a smattering of freckles are visible on her face. At least she's not stuck with a Errol Flynn, or worse, Cary Elwes, goatee and mustache. "Definitely Robin Hood and Maid... Lad... Marion. It's odd not being the subversive one, by the way."

"I think that we may need to talk to the set designer about Maid Marion having three days' worth of stubble too." Ravn can't help smiling, still. Sometimes, the only thing to do really is to laugh. He scratches his chin -- which is decidedly not soft and maiden-like, indeed. "As for turning around -- if that chest there contains a medieval gown size me, I may need your bloody help working out how to wear it, and we'll just never talk about it in civilised company again."

He shuffles over to look. And sure enough -- long gowns in garish colours, pointy hats with attached veils, and jewellery made from -- glass beads, made from plastic.

"I think I might pick the green one, to match you." Ravn sighs. "You know what? If this was actually medieval, I might even know how to work this out. I'm a historian. But Hollywood style history? If I see the Sheriff of Nottingham riding up on a Friesian horse or an English thoroughbred in a moment, I'm not even going to blink."

Because apparently, those are bad things.

"I'm sure I can help you sort it out, though they're probably going to have some sort of renfaire reject corset rather than a nice kirtle, and I'm not sure I'm up for teaching you to tight lace AND do action. Which, of course, assumes you've never worn a corset before." Oh, Dita is loving this. And something about the way she says it indicates that she HAS done action while wearing a corset. Because she's a mad woman.

"The green will suit your coloration... but... why wouldn't he be riding a thoroughbred? Horses aren't my forte, I just know they run on their fingers, basically."

"Well, for one, the breed doesn't exist for another three hundred years," Ravn murmurs and looks at the gown with something that borders on despair. "And corsets are two hundred years into the future too, and sure enough, this damn piece has one. Made from whalebone, it seems. Plastic whalebone."

Historians. Always so much fun at parties.

He shrugs and drops the bear rug. "Turn around and laugh to yourself, or do not turn around and help me get this damn thing on. If this is anything like Dreams usually go, there's a narrative and we have to play through it. Act one, humiliate me. Don't forget to draw the camera's attention to the fact it's fucking cold in here."

"Ravn... I'm not going to laugh at you for something outside of your control, for one thing. For another... ugh, plastic boning? They could have at least gone for coiled steel, it's flexible enough to allow you to breathe but sturdy enough to keep from, uh, bulging." Dita sets about helping Ravn into the dress, not seeming even slightly off put by helping a masculine person into feminine clothing.

At least the dress is meant to be worn OVER the linen shift, right? "Honestly, this entire thing just seems designed to throw you off your game, but at least you're not a vinyl muppet, this time?" Perdita's trying to sound cheerful as she begins doing up the lacings, enough that it's snug, but not so tight that the plastic whalebone risks puncturing anything.

"Pretty much." Ravn can't help continue to laugh as he tries to follow Perdita's cues. "Sorry. The idea of wearing a dress is not going to shatter my fragile masculinity. If this thing has heels, though, cross-dressing might end up shattering my ankles."

And of course it does. Because what Hollywood flick doesn't need to see a man try to struggle on seven inch heels with a curly toe nose? Or a man of 6'3 turning, well, 7'? Might be Perdita Hood should be wearing those heels if she's ever supposed to lead Maid Ravn in the kind of medieval slow dance that will no doubt happen, nevermind it's not invented yet, either.

Here's to hoping there will not be walking. Because 'learn to walk in those' is clearly not part of the curriculum of whatever posh boarding school the man was no doubt subjected to as a kid.

"You... might want to go barefoot." she murmurs, wincing as she notices the shoes. "Also, on behalf of women everywhere, I protest the accuracy of those shoes on sheer principle. I mean, I love a stiletto moment but I figured stilettos in this time period would be more, well..." she leans, reaching into one of her boots and pulling out a very long, thin blade. "You know, stiletto." She shakes her head as she stows the blade once more, draping herself elegantly across Ravn's bed and staring up at the ceiling. "This is totally retaliation for telling me we should steal things, by the by."

"Think I just might," Ravn murmurs and pointedly yeets the shoes under the bed. "Floor's cold but at least I'm not breaking my damn ankles. They could at least have given you a poniard though, what if you need to actually cut something?"

He chuckles and tries to lace up the ... lacy things. All of them. "You're not wrong, though -- we talk about robbing the Veil, and we end up in Robin Hood? It's definitely an answer. I suppose now we get to work out what the answer means. Do we want to try to play out some kind of rescue narrative? Because I'm not sure I'm on board with you clambering down that rope with me slung over one manly shoulder, no offence."

"I'll just have to use my razor wit." Is Dita's immediate response.

"I could probably carry you out in a pinch, but..." she shakes her head, "I'd really rather not risk broken bones for either of us if we can help it, especially since these shoulders have never and will never be manly, I'm afraid." she runs a hand along one narrow shoulder with a smirk, "I could probably rig a rappel device if we really needed to, but I'm fairly certain you could just leap out and let your dress Alice In Wonderland you on down. Don't actually try it, however."

"You know, much as I trust this narrative to want to go somewhere, it might want to go to a cemetery." Ravn pads over, barefoot, to lean out the window to look down. It's far too steep to jump because what Hollywood castle ever had a maiden locked away on the first floor of her tower, indeed.

He looks back at Perdita. "Do you actually remember the Robin Hood narrative? I remember several, and there is no way to guess which one we're in. So what feels right for you, in your capacity as the heroic man in tights here? Rescuing me, or promising to win the tournament for me, or gut Prince John like a fish, or... Please don't say make out in the moonlight, I think my girlfriend would object even if this is a dream narrative."

"Listen, if the dream wants us to make out in the moonlight we'll have to make out in the moonlight. As friends. Your girlfriend can watch." Dita rises to her feet, stretching languidly with her arms overhead. "Or join, I'm flexible." Her smile is pure mischief.

"Mostly, I remember bits and pieces about the Disney version, but it's vague from childhood, and there's a lot of muddling with 80s cartoons on VHS that were my tío's... and the Mel Brooks movie." She shrugs, moving to glance down, "It's not that far... let's... get the hell out of the tower before a guard finds us unchaperoned, get to Sherwood Forest and find Friar Tuck and Little John. At least you're not jammed into a chastity belt."

"I watched that movie. If we're jumping off the balcony, tell my horse to not step to the side at the last minute." Ravn winces, remembering that scene almost as well as any male audience remembers the ker-snickerty device from that movie, too.

He sighs. "You're not wrong, and I'll bloody well do it if we have to. I got soundly snogged by Chief de la Vega a week or two ago, and I'm still alive. So's he, surprisingly, in spite of Hyacinth being right there. Right. Skirts up around my shapely and not very feminine hips and off we are. Secure the rope to the bedpost so we don't have to leave the grappling hook? Not sure there's a lot of mountaineering tack shops around Sherwood Forest in this time and age."

He glances down again. "I guess you better go first. Because heroic male lead and whatnot -- there's almost guaranteed to be someone interrupting our escape that you can fight off while I try to scamper down the rope in heavy skirts. Did they give you an actual sword you've got tucked away somewhere, or should we grab a candelabra?"

The rope is easily secured to the bed with a sure hand, her confidence telling of someone who's definitely done her share of rope work in the past, one way or another. "We can't just... swing by a Cabela's on our way out?" she teases lightly. "Wait... are you dating Hyacinth? Or is the chief? I need a cork board, some photos and some red yarn to keep up with my own romantic escapades, let alone anyone else's... and I have a sword... with my horse, I think... who mayyy have wandered off into the woods just a bit because I forgot to tie him to anything. Cars don't just wander off on their own." the last is said with a deep irritation and annoyance, as she swings her legs over the windowsill, gets a firm grip on the rope and begins to lower herself down, hand over hand, holding the rope steady with ankle and knee as she does.

Bundle up skirts. Try to tie them in a knot. Fail. Bundle them up again. Try to tie them in a knot. Fail. Bundle them up a third time, tie a damn rope from the bedpost around them and then proceed to ask self why there are fluffy ropes on the bedpost in a time period that has definitely not heard about the BDSM scene. At least it's not pink.

"Hyacinth. I am dating Hyacinth. And that's as complex as my love life gets, so it might not quite require a corkboard." Ravn honestly isn't quite an elegant sight as he swings a leg out the window to try to follow Perdita's lead.

Elegant it is not.

"You know, I once did this in a miniskirt, wearing stilettos, being searched for by an amorous viscount old enough to be my grandfather's elementary teacher. You could try to show a little more grace and flar-" Perdita clears her throat, trying not to burst out laughing. "I looked up. Be thankful the camera phone is at least a few centuries away. On the other hand, that's now seared into my retinas."

Ravn has to cling to the rope a moment to laugh at the absurdity of the situation. "Not like I haven't done this several times in pants. I guess the closest you get today is a significantly younger count, but in a very awkward dress."

He's not sorry when his feet actually hit the grass below, and he can untie the rope and smoothe down his skirts.

He's not really surprised at the clippety, cloppety of horse's hooves, either. No Hollywood movie ever let the hero just slink off into the woods with the heroine, uncontested. At the very least there needs to be a jilted competitor -- and who, if not the tall and burly lady in black armour and matching cape, on the tall, black horse with the floofy hooves and the high gait?

"Oh, come on," Ravn murmurs -- at the sight of the Friesian horse, a breed which actually does exist at this time, but which is considered, historically, to be either a driving horse or a lady's horse.

One might argue that the Sheriff of Harborham is a lady. Or at least female. A woman of at least 6'5, the kind that should be played by Rutger Hauer, may-he-rest-in-peace. Armed, of course, with a flamberge claymore sword that should belong to a Scottish footman, a hundred years later, but damnit, they look awesome.

He's not at all surprised at the bellow from the rider: "Stop! In the name of Princess Joan!"

There's a groan of irritation as Perdita turns to the Sheriff, putting her hands on her hips. "Uuuuuughhh, why?" she asks the other woman, tilting her head to one side. Bringing her fingers to her lips, she whistles for her horse, hoping that it's dramatically appropriate for said animal to... come when whistled for. Since she wasn't really expecting to make an escape with Ravn when she went up the rope. Though she should have been expecting exactly that, with all the green she's wearing. "Nice armor, though, did you get that special made or did they have some down at the farrier's they were able to adjust to suit you?"

What incarnation of the outlaw hero in green does not have a horse trained to come when they whistle? And how could that horse be anything but a tall, white thing that rears up and whinneys, and then runs up at a gallop?

Whatever breed it is, Ravn doesn't comment. Maybe he gave up.

The Sheriff on her high horse looks down at Perdita. You can see the process as it happens in her eyes; the measuring. The hero here is short. The damsel, not. For a moment, it looks like she's almost resisting the urge to laugh out loud; possibly because Ravn is sort of standing there holding a fluffy rope that he hasn't quite decided what to do with yet, in bare feet and a rather sheepish expression.

"You're a smartarse," she declares and dismounts. The sword stays sheathed, for now. "Tell you what. That tall mess you got there? I'm supposed to marry the sucker for his land. You ever slept with a bloke who didn't want to be there? Talk about pushing a sausage up a hill with a rusty spoon."

"No, I can't say that I have ever had that particular problem." Perdita holds the horse's reins steady, doing her best to project confidence. There's the slightest smirk she's trying NOT to show, but she's amused by the mental image. She reaches up, scratching the horse between the ears gently. Animals of all types seem to enjoy scratches in hard to reach places, even humans.

"Also, the tall mess is my friend, so... be nice. It's not his fault he looks like a baby drag queen on Halloween. How about you just... let us ride out of here and take his lands, or whatever nefarious plan you have."

"All on board with this plan," Ravn hurries to insert. "Every bit of this forest that I own, it's yours."

This forest. Because the folklorist is too damn smart to say 'every bit of land I own' lest armoured ladies on horses suddenly turn up in Denmark to make claims.

The Sheriff gives Perdita's offer due consideration. She fingers the hilt of her sword while her fiery black steed dances a bit. "Well, if he was dead, it'd all default to me. I was thinking he might die in childbirth..."

Ravn blinks and opens his mouth -- and then decides that no, this is so absurd he might as well not bother.

"H-how does that... I..." Perdita turns to look at Ravn, her nose scrunched ever so slightly. It's one of the first times she's ever not been in control of her expression around him, and it honestly makes her look younger than her twenty four years, briefly. "I'm going to need you to explain the birds and the bees to me, I went to public school."

"Like... where does the baby-?" she shakes her head, "Nevermind, we'll figure it out later. You, get on the horse. Don't make me try to pull you up as I ride by, you're like twice as tall as me." she holds the horse steady, clearly expecting Ravn to go with it, "You? Begone, before someone drops a house on you, too."

"I'm in a fucking skirt," Ravn murmurs -- and then unceremoniously hitches the damn things up so he can clamber into the saddle. If the Sheriff of Harborham gets a good look at the amount of gangly knee she's not getting to feel up -- well, good on her. He wants out of here all the more before anyone decides to make good on the threats of birds, bees, and anything in between.

The Sheriff laughs; a cold, hard bark. "I see either of you around here again, you're dead. You hear me? Come the morning, he's dead. Bloodied gown found in the moat, your merry women doing whatever merry women do to a noble lord who couldn't defend himself if you gave him a sharp fork. Now git."

If Ravn feels any urge to point out that forks aren't invented yet either, he manages to swallow it. Also, at least he knows how to sit on a horse.

Well, at least one of them does. Perdita swings up after Ravn, swinging her leg quite high to get over his head before seating herself in front of him, settling astride with a wince. "I... definitely prefer side saddle." she mutters to herself, holding the reins. She looks like she's at least sat a horse once or twice before... probably during her time conning British nobility. "Don't worry, his five o'clock shadow shan't darken your door again. Real talk, though, that armor is pretty bad ass. My compliments to the blacksmith." she clucks gently to the horse and sets it off at a slow walk, letting herself and Ravn get settled. "Right... now we just have to find my Merry Maids... Wait, no, I think that's trademarked."

"I prefer anything that eats petrol, not hay," Ravn murmurs and winces because yes, actually, he really does wish he wore proper underwear right now, thank you very much, sitting astride is all well and good but have you considered the places he's getting small white hairs that weren't his to begin with?

He's probably picked up riding skills in a similar time and place; admittedly being the nobility rather than conning it.

If either of them hear anything as they ride off into the moonlit night, it might be the Sheriff's barking laughter as she orders her women to gut a pig and arrange for a suitably bloodied lord's gown to be found somewhere. Or it might be a far younger laughter, a peal of girly giggles that neither rider can explain. The kind of laughter that you might hear at the end of a very silly story, that someone is rather proud of herself for coming up with.

But then, there's no real evidence to back up the common perception that all Veil creatures are somehow male, ominous, and resemble Cthulhu either -- is there?