2021-12-08 - Yesteryear's Snow

This story begins with a careless comment.

"Most ghost stories do have a core of truth," Ravn says to his student on the laptop screen. It's four in the morning PST and he is yawning and drinking coffee by the gallon -- blasted people on European time. This one is writing an essay on archetypal ghost stories.

Ghosts are a recurring subject in the folklorist's research. He's not particularly interested in the afterlife -- Gray Harbor just happens to crawl with ghosts. A folklorist in this town gets buried under urban legends and ghosts. The ghosts of Gray Harbor are often vengeful, killing people and creating more ghosts. The cycle repeats. Understanding the narrative is one way to counter this unfortunate situation. He can obviously not tell his student this.

Somewhere neither here nor there, someone picks a few words out of the air and thinks, Well, he should know. There's a story to tell. Or three.

Ravn Abildgaard should learn to keep his mouth shut.

It would not be unreasonable to argue that this story begins with a shift in reality. To be more precise -- the literal shift that takes place when the view out his kitchen window changes. Oak Avenue should be out there; vibrant and alive in the dreary December air, preparing for hibernation and the inevitable Christmas preparations.

What should not be out there is a narrow country road lined by trees and fields. Driving rain makes it difficult to see far. It's a cold and wet winter night; not quite freezing but close enough that you wish it would. Honest snow is preferable to this.

The chairs feel wrong.

Nothing strange about that. They shouldn't feel like chairs because they are car seats. Car seats that sit in a vintage car; and Ravn finds himself sitting in it, with two ladies whom he definitely was not enjoying the company of a blink of an eye ago.

The uniformed chauffeur glances back over his shoulder and says, "Not to worry, sir, my ladies. We'll be at Engelsholm in a moment and have you out of this horrid weather. The Headmaster will be expecting you." His thick accent explains why he seems to pick his words with care.

Ravn realises that the unpleasant sensation at his throat is not a bad Oreo from the package on his night stand. It's a tie, and it goes very well with the suit and double breasted winter coat he is wearing. He is elegant; the embodiment of mid-20th century style. He glances at the driver and then at his companions. He quirks an eyebrow in an easy to read expression: What the hell?

The vintage car pulls into the driveway of the 18th century manor house -- an architectural marvel in white, with its four onion turrets. The driver opens the door for his passengers. Only then does Ravn manage to murmur in a hushed tone to Perdita and Isi: "Toto, I don't think we're in Kansas anymore. Or even in the 21st century."

Perched in a seat next to Ravn is Perdita, wearing an elegant gown of sheer black netting overlay and flesh tone fabric that somehow manages to be modest and demure and altogether too revealing and daring, all at once. The Peter Pan collar, the sweetheart bodice, it all screams early 1940s... and couture. The fact that she's sitting so stiffly is a testament to the boning of the corset underneath that nips in her already narrow waist even further. A black fox fur stole drapes over her arms, partially obscuring the sheer sleeves, and her black hair is swept into a side swept wave that partially obscures her right eye, held in place by a jeweled pin that, if real, is worth a great deal.

"This is revenge for laughing about your misadventures in corsetry, isn't it?" Perdita hisses at Ravn, while still smiling brightly. "I believe it's customary for the gentleman to exit first and assist the ladies?"

It's really weird that Ravn is NOT in all black when both Perdita and Isi end up in that color. In sharp contrast to Perdita's murder-corset, Isi's clothing sticks to flowing lines and drapped fabric that hugs tightly to the upper chest and hips. It's rather a shame actually, as Isi has more of a straight figure than a curvy one. Her hips are lying all over the place right now - especially that fabric that has gotten all stuck up under her.

"...the fuckkkk?" She says to herself, trying to shift to see everything. Her hair is up in curls. This has to be a dream, her straight black native hair does not do curls, nor has it ever been cut at shoulder length. That is the most distressing as she realizes it, running her hand across the much-hairsprayed length of it.

Realizing her middrif is hanging out there Isi casts about to find a long shawl (no, this will not keep her warm, wtf are people thinking?!) she can quickly wrap about herself.

Having completed her own self-inspection she looks at the other two of them, an eyebrow rising. "... Are.... we going to a party with the Headmaster?" Said weakly.

What's weird is the feeling atop Ravn's head; his normal, copper blond confused squirrel of a hairstyle has been combed down and tamed with heaven only knows what passes for hair care in this time period, making his hair look a deep, dark shade of brown and lending him a strange, sharp look. The slate three-piece suit is definitely not off the rack -- it shows off his figure in the fashion of some tailor makes a very nice living, catering to this strata of society, thank you very much.

The chauffeur opens the door, and Ravn is first to emerge. He steals a second to look around before turning to assist his lady companions. Behind the expensive looking car -- and don't ask him what brand, he has no damn idea -- a white drawbridge crosses a small moat at the end of a long driveway. On this side, an open area in front of a large, square manor house; white walls and no less than four onion turrets with green copper plating. Behind the manor, a lake stretches out, visible even in this horrendous, driving rain. The red and white Danish flag flies (drips) from a flag pole.

It's late in the evening, judging from the light and the weather; the kind of guess you can make if you know where you are. He knows this place very well and then maybe he doesn't, because the car is wrong, the costumes are wrong, and in fact, a hell of a lot of small things are wrong.

Of his two companions, the folklorist quickly decides that the one least likely to commit suicide trying to walk in the heels that go with their dresses is Perdita. He offers Isi his arm for this reason -- if she's going to fall, at least she'll have him to cling to, even though his neuropathy is already cringing at the thought. And as the chauffeur gestures for the trio to follow him towards the main entrance, he manages to murmur a very quiet, "I know where this is supposed to be, but it's not right. And hell if I know -- there isn't supposed be a headmaster."

"If you'll follow me," the chauffeur interrupts in his heavily accented English; an accent not unlike Ravn's own, just so much stronger. "We'll have you out of this weather and you can freshen up before dinner. This way, Mr Abildgaard, Mrs Abildgaard, Miss."

Well, great. Now we can draw lots as to who's who, too.

"Oh, but that cut is working for you." Dita whispers to Isi, tilting her head and giving the other woman an appreciative look. As Ravn assists her out, her hand hovers over, without actually touching, his. But to anyone outside, he's being a perfect gentleman.

Perdita gathers up the hem of her skirt, just enough to keep it from trailing in the water, stepping to the other side and also offering Isi her arm in a supportive gesture. Walking in heels is murder for most women. Walking in them in rainy, muddy weather is less than fun, even for Perdita, who probably jogs in the damn things when no one's around to give her weird looks.

It pays to be trained in these things, after all. "Ravn, any idea where we are?" she asks, softly, dark eyes glancing to the flag pole before they begin following the chauffer. At least they can all be pretty sure neither Isi nor Dita are Mr. Abildgaard.

Well, if Perdita says that the dress is working - Isi will perk up a little bit. There's nothing quite like having someone attractive say something nice to just make everything ~better.~

Isi scoots herself out, though unlike Perdita, she doesn't even make the show of accepting Ravn's hand. Instead she's going to firmly grip the other woman's arm. Her heels aren't insane, but for someone who tends towards tennis shoes for hiking and enjoying the outdoors, they are a test of her balance.

"Cameron," Isi shoots at the chauffeur, before realizing, "Wait - you two are married - or am I - or is one of us a kid... or friend?"

GH Weirdness 6/10 level.

The look Isi nets herself from the chauffeur is one of open hunger for gossip: What kind of woman in fancy evening wear turns up at a castle on a cold winter's night and doesn't know if she's married to her companion or the other woman is? This one's going to make the rounds among the serving staff tonight, that's for sure.

"Tak, det rækker," Ravn snaps at the man, and whatever that means, it gets him to pick up their suitcases -- oh, nice, we have suitcases? -- from the trunk while Ravn himself sets a course for the door, Perdita not quite on one arm. As the three draw out of earshot of the nosy driver he murmurs, "Yes, I know where we are, but it is wrong. We're being fucked with. I'll fill you in, once we're alone."

The hallway inside has numerous things going for it. For one, and very important at that, it is dry. A grand staircase allows for dramatic entrances from above, while tall doors open up to the rest of the building; above the crystal chandeliers the ceilings are dramatic white stucco with detailed painted landscapes, and the paintings that line the walls are full figure size portraits of ladies and gentlemen and hunting scenes, from the 1600s and upwards; electric lights have been installed by means of wiring those chandeliers -- fortunately, because while they still sported candles, this place must have been a fire trap. The result is a timeless elegance, at once opulent and understated; the kind of manor where the faucets are not solid gold because, deary me, Harold, that would be so tacky.

A gentleman in a fine, but not extravagant three-piece suit welcomes the three of them, stepping forward to shake Ravn's hand and then, lighter, that of his two companions. "It's a pleasure," he tells the three of them in an English that sports the same accent. "I am Sune Andresen, the headmaster to be. You'll be pleased to find yourself in the tower -- haha, that sounds very ominous, doesn't it? Those are very lovely guest rooms, I assure you. Freshen up and then come meet the faculty in the smoking room, I'm sure you know the way, Mr Abildgaard."

"Yes, thank you," Ravn replies and keeps a straight face in the manner of someone who is internally asking himself what the hell is going on. And as it happens, he does know the way.

The tower turns out to be a number of very lovely bedrooms, two of which have been prepared for guests. Each is almost a small apartment in its own right, clearly decorated and furnished in the late Victorian era; open fireplace for heat, heavy curtains to keep out any pesky sunlight that might turn porcelain skin darker or annoy a hangover. Canopy beds, vintage furniture -- desk, chair, armchairs, bookcases, walk-in closet.

Once the three actually manage to be alone Ravn looks from one woman to the other. "I have no idea which of you is supposedly my wife? But I do know where we are, yes -- except it's wrong. This is my home -- but from the looks of things, we're in the middle of the 20th century? I have absolutely no idea who that man is, or what he's talking about -- headmaster and faculty? This place doesn't get turned into an art school until 2016. My great-grandparents should be living here. Christ, I need a drink."

This... is not an Isi place. At a deep viseral level she knows that this is not a place that she should be. The weight of the years - and the formality, presses down on her and makes her less snappy at the over indulgence of formality. Her culture doesn't write their history in stone buildings like that. It's more ephemeral, stories, art, clothing, dance - Europeans are weird and in this case, and unnerving weird.

Thus she follows behind Perdita and Isi with much nervous glancing up, like the building is just WAITING to fall on her head. 10/10 do not like this place. No wonder Ravn left.

When they do finally get to a room she tries to shake off some of that feeling. (It's easier when things are closed then rather than just like... OPEN to a fucking tower. Her hand comes up to press against her nose. "I call not-it on being married to Ravn. No offense, but if this is the shit where you come from, I don't want anything like it."

The headmaster is greeted with a warm smile from Perdita, who makes sure to keep her arm steady for Isi while doing her best to also keep it looking completely nonchalant as she follows Ravn up to the guest rooms. The smile doesn't disappear until they're firmly ensconced in one of the rooms, at which point Perdita leads Isi over to sit, before taking a deep breath.

"I don't think we get to call which of us is married to him, here." Perdita tells Isi, making sure the door is firmly shut before emptying out her purse on one of the desks and sorting through the typical cosmetics of the era for a wallet, passport, papers, anything of the sort to sort out exactly who's who.

"Okay. Early 1940s really isn't a great time period to be in Europe as a Romani trans woman, especially if Germany is occupying Denmark right now. Can I just say how much I hate this?" she leans against the desk, "I really didn't want first hand experience of the Porajmos for myself."

Finding her papers, she flips them open to examine exactly who the hell she's supposed to be, right now.

"This isn't where I come from," Ravn says almost absentmindedly and looks around the room. "It is, but it's also wrong. Don't think I want to take too much for granted. If our guesstimate of the time period is correct, I won't be born for another fifty years. In good news, if we can call it that, the Occupation wasn't nearly as bad here as in most other German-occupied territories."

The papers that Perdita spreads on the luxurious sapphire blue bedsheet are -- not a lot of help.

There's a copy of a glossy ladies' magazine (the kind with recipes and house keeping tips, sorry) dated December, 1940. There are travel tickets; the Abildgaards and friend apparently arrived here by train, also dated December 1940. What there isn't is a valid passport or ID, revealing which one is in fact the wife and which one is the friend.

"It makes sense," Ravn says with a small sigh. "It wasn't standard practise to carry around your papers like that at this time -- particularly not if you're somebody on the upper end of the scale. By 1943 that'll have changed, but for now, we are firmly in the 'everyone knows who we are' category. I suggest weplay it like whoever of you I'm not married to is a really close friend and hence you can both cling to my arm in an adorable fashion -- except please don't, because it really bloody hurts."

He adjusts his tie, loosens it ever so slightly. "We're in 1940, this place has a headmaster and a faculty that wants to meet us, they expect me to know my way around, and -- did I miss anything? I guess it's business as usual, the only way is through. We just need to find out what the story is -- so I guess our first move is to go meet the faculty. If we play it by ear a little, maybe we can at least figure out which one of you is supposedly my wife, by letting this headmaster bloke guide us to our seats."

"If you suggest we all sleep in the same bed in I'm fucking out of here and your dream can just take it up the ass," Isi warns Ravn with a pointed finger. She isn't looking at him though, but is still leaned over the papers.

"Why the fancy clothes? I mean, Dita makes sense, it feels like.... Tuesday on her, " It isn't fair that Dita is that attractive folks. She just IS, "but is this normal or can I change?"

Like out of those heels and into something with a whole lot less middle showing.

Oh, my, Perdita, those are a lot of words said very fast in Kalderash that sound suspiciously like cursing. She stops after a few seconds, takes a deep breath and smooths down her dark hair in the mirror, setting aside her stole, gently, with a grimace of distaste. "That's dead animal." she points out, before she hunts out her luggage.

"If he's Mr. Abildgaard, and either of us are his lovely lady wife, that means we're likely in the upper crust of society in the time period." the luggage gets manhandled open, cosmetics are found, and she utilizes the mirror to primp as she speaks, reapplying her lip paint, carefully touching up her eye make up. It's not the usual look, both softer and harsher at the same time, but... Perdita at least knows how to look period appropriate.

"Think of it as armor, Isi. As long as they think we belong, they won't hurt us. Check the luggage, see if you have any shoes you can move in easier, but if not... we'll make do with what we have." she presses her full red lips together, blotting them on a tissue, before she takes a deep, calming breath. "We need to refresh ourselves and get down there before they get suspicious."

As to Ravn's question, she shrugs slightly, running things over in her mind. "I don't suppose we can just... steal a car and make for the nearest port?"

"We're stuck in Nazi occupied Denmark in 1940 and your biggest concern is whether you might have to sleep in the same room as me?" Ravn glances at Isi in disbelief. He shakes his head at the sheer amount of ridiculous involved and then says, "Judging from our looks and the way we turned up, there's some fancy affair happening that we're fashionably late for."

He nods at Perdita before picking an ivory comb off the vanity and running it through his hair; no doubt wondering how much water and product it took, to tame the squirrel. "If we just keep smiling and looking politely bored, we'll be fine. Nearest port is just ten minutes from here but I suspect our friendly German overlords keep it guarded. In a small boat we could make it past Funen and Zealand, to Sweden -- and if that's where the story goes, well, at least I know how to sail a small yacht? You know this drill. Through is the only way out."

And almost as if on narrative cue -- somebody screams.

A male voice, one or two doors down the hallway from the sound of it -- and then the scream is abruptly cut off.

"No, it is if I have to stay in these shoes." Isi shoots back at Ravn. On her heel she turns to those bags and starts digging. "Aha! Dita, you are a fucking genuis." The shoes do NOT matching that black dress, but they are flat. It makes the bottom of the skirt drag along the floor, but what can you do?

At the scream Isi freezes, mid shoe change. ".... is this a fucking murder hotel because if it is so help me..."

"Maybe she's worried about kicking you in her sleep, and causing you intense pain." Perdita tells Ravn, with the faintest hint of a smirk playing at the corners of her lips, now. Her armor has been reapplied, and she feels ready to take on the entire Third Reich... which is when the scream starts, of course.

"Of course it's a god damned murder hotel." Perdita mutters, rising to her feet, still in her heels, which are far more sensible than the kind she usually wears. The hem of her skirt lifted, modesty also be damned, Perdita is out of the room and running toward the scream, because that sounded like someone getting killed.

The Abildgaards Plus One are not the only people who seem to think that it's a little bit early in the party for the screaming to begin. Doors open from elsewhere, and feet pound up stairs; it becomes evident in short time that there are quite a few people gathered at the manor, and that the gathering is a fairly formal one. Evening gowns and stoles mix with tailored suits and, somewhat less comforting, a couple of Wehrmacht officer's uniforms. Somebody starts opening doors; others follow suit. Soon enough, a bedroom is found not empty -- there is a man inside, hiding, under the bed.

He's a young fellow, in his early twenties perhaps -- well dressed but not quite as extravagantly as most of the party-goers; pale as a sheet (and a bit dusty) he emerges from underneath the canopy bed in his room, hands shaking. "I'm sorry! I didn't mean to scream! I didn't mean to wake anyone up!"

"Did you mean to hide under the bed?" asks a man who, if looks are anything to by, is some kind of banker or well-to-do financier; he wears a diamond cravat pin that takes gaudy to new exciting levels.

"Was ist mit Ihm los?"

The young man, notable only for being very blond, looks around; there are about thirty people trying to squeeze into one room here, and perhaps he realises that he couldn't probably get more attention if he tried, so he might as well try to offer some kind of explanation. "There was a man," he murmurs, with the expression of someone who knows they're about to say something ridiculous. "I was just resting my eyes. And I woke up feeling all cold. And there was a man leaning in over me on the bed. All dark, but he wore a strange, wide-rimmed hat. So I sit up and I'm about to ask him what the hell he thinks he's doing and then -- he just disappeared."

"You mean he left the room?" says Mr Andresen, the apparent headmaster of whatever this is supposed to be. "If there's a thief on the premises -- "

"I mean he disappeared," says the younger man. "One moment he was there, the next moment he was not."

"Well, this is all very silly," declares the banker slash financier. "Come on, ladies and gents. We have some rather nice bubbles waiting for us downstairs. Can't spend the entire evening here, on some prank." And off he is, many of the guests tailing after him. Including the two Germans, both of whom look confused. Perhaps somebody's going to fill them in, at some point. Perhaps not.

Isi trails behind the other two a few steps behind. She isn't a run towards the trouble type. But the person who has a clue is gritting and doing so... off to see the screaming man, the wonderful scream man of Vejle.

"Sounds like the veil decided to have a veil of its own..." Isi mutters, shooting the German a 'what can you do' look.

"Should we follow them, or talk to Mr. Scream a Lot?" Isi asks, balking out of shere stubbornness to do what the dream wants. Fuck the dream.

"I think we should talk to him." Perdita says, softly. "The action isn't going to be downstairs, it's going to deal with whatever the hell started the screaming." As the people head back out of the room, Perdita rises to her full height and happens to push through into the room as the banker is leaving, taking a second to balance herself against his chest with a shy, apologetic smile. "Kérlek sok kegyelmet." is offered, eyes downcast, as she steps in, dark eyes up now.

"Are you alright? You're absolutely covered in dust..." she murmurs, smiling at the younger man, trying to reassure him.

"You two understood all of that," Ravn murmurs, almost to himself. The Veil is definitely having a field day here: Danish people running into Danish bedrooms where a Danish guy is babbling in mild hysteria about some Danish mystery does not happen in English, so thank you, Veil, for the translation services. The irony that the German was not translated is not lost on him; it reminds him of certain kinds of older action movies, the ones in which Very Evil Germans in uniform say things like Wir haben Methoden, Doktor Jones in a very bad American accent.

He's not going to complain about it. In part because who do you complain to, and in part because it saves him from having to translate to the Americans and back, and really, that does make things easier.

He's also not going to ask Perdita about that diamond cravat pin. Might explain to her later that as far as he is aware, you can't bring anything back from dreams. Or you can, but things turn into their more mundane normal-world counterparts, and odds are she just acquired herself a very nice pine cone. If that sort of thing was possible on a regular basis? He'd have been fencing Maid Marian's jewelled necklace, just for the shit and giggles of it. He might have stolen the fat man's pin, too. Just because it was there.

Not entirely true, either, the folklorist's academical mind wanders, because screw staying focused on the problem at hand. Seth Monaghan emerged from a dream once with an apron full of old Danish coins that had at least some value. And a dream of crates washing ashore from an otherworldly shipwreck dumped a million dollars on that same Seth Monaghan, a substantial amount of which ended up channelled into HOPE before it all turned back into seaweed. Don't overthink it.

Ravn manages to return his attention to the present. "This place is haunted," he says, not too loudly because the last thing he wants is for everyone who just left to make a U-turn in order to not miss out on some sweet gossip. "It's a thin spot too, just not as big and powerful one as Gray Harbor is. More like, it retains memories. And there's the hell hound in the basement. But I've never heard of anything waking up people when they sleep."

"Hell hound?" The younger man's face turns a yet whiter shade of pale.

"The hell hound is the castle's builder," Ravn says offhandedly. "Same story as several other manors. Bloke wanted to marry a noble maiden. She did the Traditional thing and tossed a gold ring into a lake and told him to build it where it landed, and here we are. Just, building a castle in a lake is difficult, so he made a bargain with the Devil -- and now he haunts his castle in the form of a large black dog with fire for eyes. He doesn't bother anyone unless the maids forget to make his bed in the tower." Beat. "The other tower."

"My name is Jakob Granhøj," the blond man says, and looks at Ravn like he is the dull history teacher whose classes you slept through for years. "I'm a student here. Or I'm going to be. My uncle knows somebody, whatever. Thought it'd be fun to visit the place a few days early, get a good look -- I study archicture, see? But I swear to God, what I saw was real. There was somebody standing over my bed. And I am not spending another night in this place, no matter what my uncle says." He gets up and starts to shove things into his suitcase; shaving kit, the shirt that hung over a chair, clothes that had been placed into the wardrobe. So much for ironing.

Isi has not led a life of crime and deception. So any sleight of hand going in just zips riigghhhttt over her head. She will just get down on her knees and look under the bed, because it seems like the thing to do.

"... fuck Ravn," She remarks, flicking the bed clothes out of the way. "You got your history teacher voice on there but something weird spewed out. Who the fuck grows up with..." the rest of what she says gets lost in a mumble under the bed a she ducks to check.

The diamond pin gets tossed casually to Isi while the man's focusing on packing his suitcase. She shrugs at Ravn, as if to indicate it was just instinct that told her to steal it. Maybe it'll come in handy, later, bribing people to get on a boat or something? Who knows. Maybe Perdita just has a habit of stealing shiny things when people are assholes.

"Jakob, Jakob, you don't want to do anything too hasty, do you? This is your future you're talking about. You clearly have the potential to be a great architect someday, or you wouldn't be here. Perhaps we can just... get you situated in a new room." she moves to place a hand gently on his shoulder, clearly trying to calm the young man. Pretty girls have a calming effect, right? Well. Exciting in other ways, but... less likely to panic unless he's got a touch phobia, too. "You're not likely to find transport tonight, and we're pretty far from the nearest town. Are you going to go out into the driving rain and walk for hours?"

"You weren't harmed. I believe you saw something, though... Did it say anything, or... gesture anywhere?" she asks, looking from Isi to Ravn and back to Jakob, keeping her voice soft, soothing, doing everything she can to convey that she's a friend, someone who can be trusted.

"I'm all right," Jakob Granhøj declares. "But I'm not spending the night in this bedroom. I'll sleep on a couch if I have to, but here? Out of the question. It just looked at me. But I could really tell it did not want me here."

"Me," Ravn murmurs to Isi. He too gets on his knees to look under the bed. "I grew up with this."

"Would you like to know how interested in unusual onion turrets I'm suddenly not?" The youth seems to have found a bit of spine at last -- possibly because there is an attractive woman at his shoulder. Calming effect may not be the precise term, but Perdita's decorative draping certainly has an effect; the jury is out on whether it is a good effect. "This place is haunted."

There are dust bunnies under the bed, just like you'd expect -- even the most caring staff of a place like this does not wash the floor under the canopy beds every day, and drafts blow dust and hair and the general debris of life together in secluded places like that. It's not unexpected. What is unexpected, perhaps, are the glowing ember eyes that look back at Isi, and then at Ravn.

There are several issues with this. One, proportions; if something has eyes like that, it presumably has a certain body mass to go with those eyes, and there's simply not room enough under the canopy bed for something size -- a large dog would be a good guess. Two, flammability; those are burning coals, and something ought to be catching fire, or at least be getting warm -- dust getting warm has a particular smell, and that smell is not there. And third, there's a lot of darkness under that bed -- one should be able to see floorboards, maybe a dropped napkin, hell, even a dirty magazine shoved in under the mattress in a hurry by some previous guest. What there is in there, under the bed, is darkness -- and a pair of very hot, fiery eyes looking right back.

"... Wrong tower," Ravn murmurs and sits back up on his haunches, making a good attempt at pretending that nothing is wrong; maybe he thinks Jakob Granhøj is upset enough. Maybe he's trying to convince himself that this is not about to get nasty. Maybe he's just trying to figure out why the family hell hound is in the wrong tower.

"heh...heh....heh....." Isi's trying to laugh. TRYING REALLY HARD. But it's difficult when there are a pair of glowing fire filled I want to murder you EYES. She locks gazes with the thing before very deliberately dropping the edge of the bed and then climbing on top of it. If ti's going to attack at least she's not going to give it any heels to eat first. (Are heels tender? Does anyone know this?)

"Yeah. I vote you go. Haunted as fuck places suck. Him," Isi points at Ravn while also getting a pillow ready to use as a weapon/shield, "He grew up here and he just came out weird. Like, who even talks about onion turrets after you've had a nightmare like this? Honestly," okay, she's rambling here. Composure only goes so far when there is a HELL HOUND under the bed. "I think you should go get a nice bottle of wine and see if those German folks have any good stories about nice towers that are not this one. Get a good word in for you to like... do whatever travel is required. To, uh," a glance down at the bed, "To not be here."

"I'll speak with the headmaster about getting you situated in a different room, perhaps you can double up with someone, or switch rooms. Maybe with one of those brave German men." Oh, the way Perdita says 'brave' manages to make it sound like an insult of the highest order. But, then... no one likes a Nazi, except a Nazi sympathizer.

"Why... don't we get you out of here, now, and then we can sort the rest of it out once you're in the main hall with everyone else, mm? Let's take your suitcase and... go. If worse comes to absolute worst, you and Ravn can share a room, and I can share with Isi, here, for... propriety." She's caught the expressions of her companions, and she knows there's something to be worried about, if not what, as of yet. She moves confidently toward the door, smiling, poised to wheel and ram a heel into whatever's about to attack if need be.

Granhøj does not argue. Maybe he catches at least some of the unspoken communication between the Abildgaards Plus One; maybe he's just scared enough that it does not matter. Whichever is the case, he is not spending one more moment in this room where strange men with wide-brimmed hats wake him up and then disappear into nothing; if someone tells him what's under the bed he's likely done with Engelsholm altogether. He certainly lets Perdita usher him and his suitcase out the door, and with a grateful look at that. Going to go get that bottle of wine from the nice Germans right now, yes.

The door shuts behind him. Nothing like being alone in a tower room with -- two friends and a hell hound. The latter of which at least seems to have decided to stay under the bed for the time being.

"So we are at Engelsholm at the wrong time, and Engelsholm has a headmaster -- which it absolutely didn't in 1940. And there's a ghost waking up people quite rudely." Ravn summarises things -- mostly for himself, judging from his expression. "And there's some kind of gala or reception downstairs which we are officially attending. Knowing how these stories go, I am not convinced that the reception is the point. The ghost probably is."

"That isn't a fucking ghost," Isi replies, squishing herself a bit higher towards the headboard. "It has glowing eyes that pretty clearly say, "I am going to enjoy roasting your hip for dinner.""

She is fine guys. She has a pillow - what other defense could she need?

Also, wrapping her brain around a ghost and a hell hound? Hard.

"Well he seemed... healthy." Perdita says, once the door is closed, turning back to see exactly- "Devláika!" erupts from her as she spots the hellhound, but she doesn't run, instead crossing herself once... "Ravn... is that your friend that hangs out in the basement?"

"You don't want my hips, they're full of silicone." she tells the beast, eyes round as saucers.

"Woof," says the hell hound. Maybe it doesn't think there's a whole lot of point to pretending to hide under the bed when everyone still in the room is clearly, obviously aware of its presence. It still does them the favour of staying in there, though -- which is probably good, given that the blackness around it still feels like it's too large for the space it occupies. It sounds almost apologetic.

"Knud Brahe, I presume?" Ravn manages to squeeze the words out, and credit to the man for a lifetime of stiff upper lips and keeping up appearances paying off when he really needs it to. "Builder of the castle, late 17th century, haunts the basement and protects the -- " He pauses.

"Woof," says the hell hound. A thump of a tail might actually be -- yes, that's a hell hound wagging its tail. Good grief.

Ravn rubs his temple and gestures at the dog in a remarkable display of near-British indifference. "So the -- hound -- is not the problem. To the best of my knowledge we don't have a history of hat ghosts waking people up, though. Maybe we should actually go find out more about Jakob."

"Woof."

See Isi's face? That face doesn't actually believe the hell hound isn't a problem. She still has the pillow up like a shield.

However, the story must move forward, so she scoots to the edge of the bed, collects herself, and leaps like a frog as FAR from the nice bed as possible. A few more scampered steps to the doorway and she opens it. "Let's go get something to drink then?" Aka, out there, not here.

Why yes, she does still have the pillow. It is coming with. Not weird at all.

The twitch of full lips announce that Perdita finds the entire thing amusing, once the hellhound is proven to not be aggressive. Especially Isi's leap and scampering. She doesn't laugh, however, merely giving a polite little curtsey to the hellhound before turning and following Isi out the door, with a glance back at Ravn, the slightest tilt of her head asking if he's going to keep up.

Ravn keeps up. He walks slower than Isi but he shares her general sentiment. Sure, that fire-eyed beast under the bed might be the castle's founder, still watching over his domain hundreds of years later; it's still a bloody hell hound. You don't end up in Hell, allowed only to leave in the form of a black dog with eyes and maw of fire, because you were a good boy scout. The legends that the folklorist studies for a living are all adamant on this; lots of lords and noblemen return to haunt the living in the form of black hounds, and not a single one did not earn his presumably rather hot seat in the netherworld.

In fact, folklore and folk history tends to rather purport the point of view that generally, lords, barons, and counts are assholes. A thought that prompts him to pause once the door shuts safely behind the three, and say, "If this was actual 1940 -- as in, my family owns this place and lives here, and there is definitely no headmaster of anything -- then I'd have an idea what's going on. I'm not exactly proud of saying it, but my great-grandfather didn't exactly suffer any financial losses from the Occupation."

A "woof" is heard, through the door.

He shudders. "I guess we go have that drink. You going to take that pillow with you, Isi?"

In the grand hall below, there is a bit of an argument; two voices drift up the grand staircase towards the three time-lost visitors. One is familiar. "I'm not staying here another minute," says Jakob Granhøj. "This place is haunted. There was a ghost in my bedroom."

"If you leave now, you're going to get a reputation," warns another voice; a few years older, perhaps.

"I don't care what people think," says the younger man. "I know what I saw. This is not meant to happen. We need to go."

"I'm not going anywhere," says the other man. "And you need to shut up. If you're going, go. But don't come back later. And don't talk to anyone. I mean that, Jakob. Accidents happen to people who talk."

The grand door slams. Maybe Jakob Granhøj does in fact intend to walk back to the city of Vejle on a dark december night, suitcase in one hand.

"Bite me," is what Ravn gets in reply as Isi and her pillow continue to be bffs. She hugs it to her chest as they walk towards the party.

Eyeing Jacob's companion, "I think they are up to shit and we should talk to him. "

"Damn." Dita whispers as they catch the tail end of that conversation, frowning. "That boy's going to get himself killed." she speaks softly, dark eyes worried... but she squares her shoulders, gathering her dress and raising it enough that she doesn't trip over the hem, but not so much as to be unladylike for the time period. It wouldn't do to show too much skin, after all.

"Ready to head into the lion's den?" she asks her companions, before starting down the stairs. Technically, Ravn should be leading the way, or they should be on his arm... but she's not standing on that bit of formality at the moment.

"I think that boy might just have dodged a bullet," Ravn murmurs and follows Perdita towards the stairs; he's not going to stand on formalities, either. "But that means the other bloke is up to something, and I've got a very bad feeling about it all."

Because ghosts and hell hounds, yanno. Even for him, those things manifesting loud and clear and right in his face is out of the ordinary. What happened to shadows at the corner of your eyes and whispered words in the dark?

Isi is the only of the three to get at least a partial look at the older man as he disappears back into the grand hall where, presumably, the party that they are all dressed for is happening. He is a tall one, dark hair speckled with silver -- probably not one to stand out in the crowd of well dressed gentlemen when one has not seen his face, except for that very nice silver-tipped cane in his hand. Shaped like a falcon's head, that handle stands out.

And what a party it is. The upper crust of local society mingling with bigwigs of academia, and interspersed here and there, a couple of Wehrmacht officers. The ladies, like gorgeous, colourful butterflies; the capes and stolas to die for in all their mid-twentieth century glory. The gentlemen, some dark and sombre, others with bright cummerbands or well tailored uniforms. And not a single face that is not bright white. Champagne is served on trays carried by elegant uniformed waiters; a string quartet plays chamber music; and everywhere is flooded in bright electrical light.

Not a single face that bears any resemblance to Ravn's either. He frowns lightly upon realising, and then dismisses the thought for now. Engelsholm is not supposed to be a school at this time; his great-grandfather might not even be here.

Isi tucks the pillow under her arm and takes the initiative to step in and begin - ha, just kidding, she is going for the champagne.

"He and his evil bad guy cane went that way," she tosses back at the other two, much to the confusion of the waiter as to why this woman in an evening gown, flats, and carrying a pillow is talking about bad guys.

"You're probably right. I just... hope this isn't some real world's alternative history we're messing with." Perdita tells Ravn. At least now there's two non-white faces among the crowd. Perdita has a smile on her face as she follows Isi's indication, glancing back toward Ravn, then diving into the crowd to follow after the man.

She moves effortlessly among the glittering butterflies, nobles and officers, mingling among them as she works to get closer to the target, standing out as much for her darker skin and hair as she does for the black-and-sheer gown when most of the other women are favoring such bright colors.

"Ah, Mrs Abildgaard," ventures one servant in a gorgeous livery jacket. "May I take your pillow? Would you like a glass of champagne?"

"I guess that settles that," murmurs Ravn, a man who does have a small personal interest in finding out which woman he's supposedly married to.

The sea of butterflies and stately gentlemen parts easily before Perdita as she flutters her way towards the man with the falcon cane; and similar before Isi, who found herself champagned as quickly as she wished (though not necessarily pillow deprived). It is a strange thing to perceive; the warm and friendly smiles towards either woman, and the compliments -- charming, lovely, and so very exotic, as if no one here has ever really met a darker skinned person before (and in truth, odds are pretty good that most have in fact not, because this is not the United Kingdom with its vast colonies abroad but rural Denmark at a time of history where twenty years ago, the Virgin Islands, Denmark's last colonies, were sold to the US -- not counting Greenland, but then, outside of the actual people who live there, who ever really counted Greenland).

"You've got an eye for husky beauties," murmurs an older gentleman to Ravn, winking in a way that suggests with no subtlety whatsoever, that the younger man obviously is, ah, entertaining both. "They're both Indian, are they? Heard a thing or two about those Hindoos in the bedroom. There's even a book, isn't there?"

Ravn manages to simply return a knowing smile. If anything he's most of all embarrassed by the question -- all of this is embarrassing. The last thing he wants is for his American friends to be reminded what kind of world he is from, and the world of his great-grandfather even more so. And who really wants to discuss the Kama Sutra or his lady friends (in either meaning of the term) with some dream's made-up racist uncle? Embarrassing -- all of it, all of them.

The falcon cane carrier is an older man; a youthful fifty-year-old, perhaps -- at least his step is spry and easy in the fashion of someone who sees a fair bit of physical activity. A military man, perhaps? One who can afford an excellent tailor, and indeed that cane -- that cane is a little too heavy for its size, and he carries it a little too closely to his body. When one's mind is already wandering down the narrow and winding roads of conspiracy and tropes of the 1940s it is not too difficult to imagine that it might have a blade inside, or be designed in a way that the falcon's head can be used as a bludgeoning weapon.

"Take my pillow and I will make sure it ends up your ass." Isi replies, clutching her pillow even more tightly against her side. Fuck everyone who attempts to deprive her of it.

She takes the drink and drifts back to Ravn's side. "I should cut you for cheating on me." Said in a conversational tone. The older gentleman gets a stink eyed. "Do you want to find out what we can do with your squishy parts when ready to put out?"

That is a bald faced threat.

"I simply adore the cut of your suit, sir, it compliments your carriage beautifully." Perdita has positioned herself so that it doesn't seem that she's been chasing this man at all, merely wandering in the same direction. Her expression is wide eyed and innocent, the sweet, innocent ingénue to Isi's shrew. The slightest tilt of her head, the slightest pout of her lips because she's unaccompanied while the woman who (as near as these folks can tell) is her sister has captured the attention of a handsome husband...

"Yes, ma'am." The waiter is paid to hand out drinks, not to care what Isi's problem is. He simply moves on to the next lady and the next gentleman, a livery clad butterfly flitting from one group of flowers to the next, bestowing nectar everywhere like a slightly disoriented bee.

Ravn, however, blinks and echoes, with a mildly confused expression, "Cheating on you?" And because they're apparently husband and wife, he tacks on a "Dear" that sounds like he's never said the word before and isn't entirely certain what it means. He may be right about the whole not being partner material thing.

No one cares. If this had really been 1940, maybe that kind of conversation -- including Mrs Abildgaard's threat to cut her husband -- might have attracted some attention. The narrative clearly has not included the option of domestic cat fight between the Abildgaards, so on the story goes, ignoring them both entirely.

"Thank you, miss," says the silver-flecked gentleman, clearly distracted. The narrative must be of a similar opinion where beautiful and oh so very lonely young ladies are concerned -- or maybe this man got his privates shot off in the last war, who knows. He steers steadily through the crowd, towards --

-- a fellow in his fifties, wearing a Wehrmacht officer's uniform and quite a few pieces of sparkly over his heart; whoever he is, he's obviously somebody with the Occupation Forces. The silverfox gentleman's knuckles go white as he grips the hilt of his cane, and in front of him, captain, commander, general, whatever he is, looks quite oblivious as he motions for a waiter to fill his champagne glass (and hold the pillows, please).

"Yes. Can't trust a Dane to keep it in his pants." Isi replies. Her pillow is shifted into her hand- ready to smack anyone who comes near. "We should follow Dita." The pillow is offered for Ravn to grab and lead his wife on.

Did... did this dude just give her the brush off? Did this dude just give her the brush off for a NAZI?!?

Oh, hell no. Perdita's mouth hangs open just a little, and she glances down at her outfit as if trying to figure out where the approach went wrong. Everything about this guy screams that he'd love a sweet innocent girl. "Am I losing my touch... is my gaydar failing?" she whispers at his retreating form, eyes narrowing, before she glances about the crowd to spot Ravn and Isi, waving to them with a casual air, but a slightly more urgent expression.

The expression on Ravn's face contains multiple layers of what the hell did I do. He's very obviously not accustomed to being accused of infidelity of all things -- and that from a girl he's not actually married to, and for that matter, not even dating, and actually, as far as he is aware, that girl is into girls.

But the dream does not know that, of course. He pauses, and bites back the stinging response that percolates on his tongue because that might actually very well be the case -- that he's here now, with two gorgeous brown-skinned ladies, and that that somehow is significant.

Or maybe they're all here to pick a fight with that guy, the Oberst.

Or maybe the silver-haired gentleman is.

Turns out the handle comes off that hawk-headed cane after all. Turns out you can in fact disguise a firearm as the handle of a cane. Turns out it's also difficult to miss a shot at such close distance.

Turns out, also, that an officer's uniform is not bullet proof.

Isi does the smart thing one does when one realizes that there is going to be shooting. She hits the ground and pulls the pillow over her head.

Then reaches up to YANK on Ravn to pull him down. Neuopathy can go fuck itself. Living > neuropathy.

Turns out that the girl who had an entire branch of her family perish in the Pharrajimos doesn't really care to stop the murder of a Nazi, either. Even one that's presumably fictional.

Perdita has the good grace not to look pleased when she sees the gun come up, but though she was close enough to see, or even intervene, nothing is done to protect the officer, or to even impede the silverfox should he try to make his escape past her.

Her expression is impassive, dark eyes taking it all in with a detached coldness rarely seen on her too-pretty face.

The only reason Ravn doesn't scream is that he doesn't want to get shot. Also, his face hits the floor first, and he doesn't want a mouthful of shag carpet. So that's two reasons, if you want to be pedantic about it.

The Abildgaards -- genuine and temporarily so -- are not the only people present to hit the deck. In fact, it's like watching a sports match where the audience does the wave, only the wave consists of people in beautiful clothing dropping their champagne flutes, yelping and screaming, and diving behind furniture, under tables, or just flat down on the floor.

Several of them look like they wish they had a pillow to hug, too.

"For freedom!" The man with the gun-hilted cane fires it into the German's body a couple of times more for good measure. Then he waves the silver hawk-gun around and yells, "I'm leaving! Don't no one try to stop me!"

He dashes for the door and the great hall beyond.

And the other men in the room who carries firearms -- and wear German uniforms -- snap from their shock and surprise, and reach for their firearms.

"THE DOOR IS THAT WAY!" Isi yells, pointing in the direction of the doorway even as she keeps herself flat on the floor with the pillow over her head.

She's also shaking like a leaf. Isi's experience with guns has not be awesome lately...

Once the rest of the crowd is diving for cover and panicking, and the other Nazis are beginning to draw their weapons, Perdita's finally snapped out of her reverie and she dives for cover with a little gasp, putting a sturdy piece of furniture between herself and the Nazi officers.

If she was going to get thrown back to the 1940s could she at least get a golden lasso and some bulletproof bracelets?

"For freedom!" the silver-haired man yells again. "For the king and for God, and for the right to live as a free man in a free country!"

He probably wanted to say more. Maybe even strike a heroic pose in the doorway before disappearing into the night, leaving everyone to wonder who he was (and then go look at his calling card or the guest list). What he gets, though, is a shower of lead. German Lugers spit their deadly pellets, and the silver-haired gentleman collapses in a pile of bleeding flesh, very likely dead before he even hits the (now ruined) carpet.

"Alle bleiben ruhig! Mach die Türen zu!" Command shouts, from a fellow who may be looking at an unexpected field promotion.

"He's saying to stay calm and to close the doors," Ravn murmurs to his companions, even if he has to lift Isi's pillow a little to get his voice across the noise. "I think our best bet is to just cooperate. After all, none of us fired a weapon."

It's fine. Isi's on the floor, shaking under that pillow.

Someone recently accused her of having PTSD. They might be right.

Maybe Perdita should have made a run for it with the nice architect boy. She's certainly considering it, now, at least. Looking up from her position of relative safety, she spots Isi and Ravn on the floor and... Perdita is afraid. She's trying hard to keep it masked... but this is almost a personal hell, right now.

A deep breath in, a deep breath out... and she's back in control, at least for the moment. She's stronger than these bastards, after all... and the only way out of this dream is to play the role.

The German soldiers do what police officers would be doing in a similar situation anywhere; they demand to see papers, they check for hidden firearms, and they yell at each other like they're very much aware that if they don't turn out results, there's going to be hell to pay later. Their commanding officer was just shot, after all -- and the gunman surely cannot have acted alone. Can he?

"Our papers are in my bedroom," Ravn tells the German who asks for theirs. His accent is a mile wide and he's probably not getting the complex German grammar as right as he'd like, but the boy understands him; and a boy he is -- twenty years or so, and about as excited to be here as the Danes are that he's here.

Well, some of them are probably excited. There's good money to be made in selling provisions to the Germany army. It's one of those things the Abildgaard family generally didn't discuss a whole lot at parties during Ravn's childhood.

The soldier nods. "You stay here. We are searching the premises. If your papers are where you say they are, you will be allowed to leave, sir. Did you know -- " he gestures at the silver fox, dead in the doorway.

Isi is not getting up until someone forces her to her feet. In fact, she's going to scoot herself as far from the action as humanly possible. As soon as someone is doing patting her down she goes back to a wall and crouches herself down again. This is not okay. Not okay. Not okay.

Pat down? There is a NAZI touching her? A deeeeep breath in, and another out, and a reminder that the bastard is long dead if he is real, but more likely is fictional.

She stares straight ahead as she's pawed at, thankful for the protective armor that is her steel boned corset and period appropriate shapewear that extends halfway to her knees to keep him from getting too fresh. No weaponry is found, of course, and she soon moves to sit next to Isi, draping her arm over the other woman's shoulders protectively.

"We're going to be fine." it's said a little too flatly to be entirely convincing, but she's making an effort.

Thank god - this is literally the thing that Isi needs more than anything else in the world right now. A hug. She wraps her arms around Perdita and is just going to shake in the other woman's grip.

The Nazis and everyone else can start wondering which Abildgaard is doing the cheating.

And not long after, Ravn gets to join that little trio from the other side, also slipping an arm around Isi's shoulder in some quite pathetic attempt to offer comfort. Maybe his claim is true, that the neuropathy responds to unexpected touch. At the moment, at least, he's content to ride out the storm with his pretend-wife and his pretend-sister-in-law, and let all of this sort itself out.

He's decidedly confused when the pillow Isi is still cradling turns into his own pillow, on 3 Oak Avenue.

Then he rolls on to his back and stares at the ceiling for a while. Because nothing really makes a man's morning like being reminded that his great-grandfather -- while absent in this dream -- replenished the family funds to a rather considerable extent by war profiteering.

As confused as Perdita is when the form hugging her goes from petite and feminine to tall and masculine. Garrett, asleep in bed beside her, and Tsinyorri, curled up with those tiny paws pressing directly on her bladder, through the blanket. She gently extricates herself, pulling on a ridiculously flowy night robe, and steps out into the living room to process, and think... And an urgent need to pee.

Isi jerks awake in her own bed and reaches up to her eyes and feels the wetness there from the tears. Alone in the darksness she starts to shake more and curls up tighter around her pillows. Who needs sleep? She's just going to stay here and spend the rest of the night jumping at shadows.