2022-02-17 - The True Colour of a Fox

For Ravn Abildgaard, the realisation that something off begins with heat. He finds himself drifting out of sleep because it's too bloody hot. He kicks the covers off only to find that they are thin cotton sheets rather than the fluffy duvet he usually sleeps under. And only then does it dawn on him that the reason his bedroom feels a lot hotter than it should on a winter morning in the Pacific Northwest is that it's not his bedroom at all.

He looks around furtively. Large, arched windows. The night air is fragrant with floral scents he cannot place; something about the room reminds him vaguely of Italy -- no, that's not quite right. Somewhere Mediterranean; the Alhambra, perhaps, but still, not quite, not exactly. The air carries other scents with it; warm sand, and the salt of an ocean. Wherever this is, it is by a coast somewhere. A second glance around adds a profound when? to his ponderings. The furniture is heavy wood -- and the one thing that glimmers by its absence is anything modern. There's no clock radio. There's no mobile phone on the night stand. There's no TV, not even an electrical fan. There is a pitcher of water and a washing bowl on the nightstand.

So I'm moved in place and in time. Again.

It's amazing how you get used to it. Instead of screaming why?! you just start thinking, okay, where and when am I, and how do I get through it, then.

He sits up. It's a bedroom, in a house by a coast in a far warmer climate. He's naked beneath the sheets, probably because it is very hot in here even at night (and electrical ceiling fans have obviously not been invented yet). A glance into a large, wooden armoire reveals clothing -- white cotton and dark velvet. The design offers the historian a few more hints: This is Spanish Colonial wear. Meaning, he's somewhere on the west coast, to the south, and if he is to wager a guess -- sometime in the middle of the 19th century. And judging from these clothes -- assuming that they are his -- he is a man of the middle class. These clothes are sturdy but well made; not the fancy silks of a lord -- excuse me, don -- but not the rags of a peasant (or worse, some indio serf), either.

He pulls on the white cotton shirt and buttons up dark breeches -- and then he realises that the large, black object hanging there at the back of the armoire is not a coat.

He groans. Not again. Come on, whatever Veil entity is doing this. Get over it. This joke is getting old. It's a Jesuit priest's cassock. Because of course it is.

Oh well. Here's to hoping this dream at least provides me with some impromptu Spanish lessons because hello, I don't speak Spanish.

He pulls the thing on, and adjusts the white collar. Padre Ravn esta aqui.

There is... a sword hanging from Una's waist, when she 'wakes' ('wakes' is an imperfect descriptor: whoever she's just become, she's sitting upright, staring out at the rosy light of dawn, certainly not sleeping). That's the first clue that something is wrong, even ignoring the climate, the room, the... well, the everything.

So the sword is a thing. So too are the black trousers and shirt she's wearing (it's like she's channeling Ravn!)... and the black mask that flutters to the floor when, in her surprise, she jumps to her feet. The redhead exhales, taking in several deep, reassuring breaths as she attempts to take in her surroundings. Room that isn't her own, check. Clothes that aren't her own, check.

Sword. Weird, but... ok. Check.

She stoops, reaching for the mask, and manages-- just barely!-- to avoid taking blunt force trauma to the side thanks to the fancy pommel of her sword. She examines the mask, turning it over between her fingers, and then, sighing, puts it on: if the narrative has given it to her, well, it's probably meant to be worn.

To be fair, there's something exhilarating about the whole getup, and accordingly, there's an almost swagger to her step as she makes for the doorway. "Hello?"

Quien mas esta aqui?

At least it's a soft dawn that Ariadne awakens to. She blinks heavily, feeling as if she's come up out of a doze, and realizes that her horse has ambled off to one side of the road to graze rather than continue along as directed.

Wait. Horse. Dirt road. Warm air, not damp February in the Pacific Northwest. Skirt -- riding skirt? Side-saddle skirt, riding blouse beneath a lightweight embroidered bolero jacket. Baskets behind her slung on either side of the horse -- white horse with such a fantastic mane, the horse is Blanca, she -- what is this terrible name.

Why is she on a pretty white horse with a flowing mane in the middle of what appears to be roughly nowhere in some semi-humid place? Ariadne looks around on the horse and makes a soft blurt of sound, eyes wide.

Is this...? Is she asleep? Pinching her arm nets her a sharp "OW?!" and the horse pulling its head up from grazing, ears back. "No, now, you see here -- " Why is she talking to the horse. "Oh...fucking christ on a rollerskating cracker, nooooooooo...!" The word gets drawn out into complaint.

This is a dream. No, a Dream. What was she doing anyways?!

Oh, right, the school in town needed more food for the children for lunch, right, yes, that's what's in the baskets. The Don -- her father? Good lord, WHAT. -- had forebade this nonsense, especially riding alone into town because she's supposed to be...a...lady?

"Fuck you, sir," Ariadne announces to the world and pulls the mare's head up. "And stop grazing, damnit, I know you were fed earlier," she chides the horse before kicking with heeled boots, so fancy boots, at the mare's ribs. "We have kids to feed." The mare sighs and then continues on.

Needless to say, the white horse is pretty easy to spot against the backdrop of their surroundings, rolling hills with a large house in the distance and the town below, of far more modest means.

"Una? Is that you?"

The voice is unmistakably Ravn's -- no one can possibly confuse that Danish accent with anything even remotely Spanish. He props his head out of the room he either lives in or has been assigned, and looks down the corridor.

No, that's not how it goes.

The thought isn't his; he recognises the sensation of it all the same and the instinctive reaction that comes with it: Not this shit again. Then narrative enforces itself and he steps out, calling out, "Who is there?"

It's a profoundly stupid question, he thinks -- because anyone who has opened a comic book or watched TV ever will recognise the figure of Una standing there heroically silhouetted against rosy dawn. "Isn't Zorro usually male?" the Dane murmurs under his breath and shakes his head; the frustration is not with his neighbour, strongarmed into this mess like himself, but with the whole concept.

Then he glances down himself and sighs. There's a role to play, a story to be told. So am I the good priest or the bad priest? "Señorita, you are trespassing in -- "

-- the narrative will be as kind as to fill in the blanks here? --

-- Nope.

"In wherever the hell this is supposed to be," he finishes and glances past Una, out the window. "And if my eyes don't deceive me, that's the new barista on a white horse out there."

The sharp intake of breath from Una, followed by that expansive exhale is a pretty clear indication of her feelings: relief.

Well. Sort-of relief, presumably, because while having identified Ravn is one thing, a good thing, the rest of this situation is-- its own peculiar mess.

"Hold your words, uh, padre," says the redhead by way of return, hand on the pommel of her sword quite as if she's perfectly willing to use it (though it would be probably better if she doesn't try). "I come in peace, unless... I mean, as long as you're on the side of the people, ok? We're definitely in someone's home," she continues, dropping the dramatics in lieu of straight-talk.

A moment's pause, as she glances over her shoulder: "And... we should go collect Ariadne. Or possibly you should, in case I'm a wanted... woman?"

Ariadne is, as such, blissfully -- blissfully? Maybe the right word. -- unaware of the presence of her two fellow Grey Harborites in the...brothel...tucked to the outskirts of the town itself.

When she looks at it, the redhead feels a twinge of curiosity mixed with some narrative sheepishness. It is an establishment of ill-repute, but still...she'd promised to check in and see if they need anything brought to town. She's got the hooves and the room on the saddle. Might as well drift that way. As such, to the swell of gentle Spanish guitars overlayered atop strings, the barista on her white horse with its beautiful mane crests the dawn-framed hill leading down to the --

Ariadne looks around, frowning. "Okay, look, that's just unnecessary and embarrassing," she grumbles to the general intelligence of the Dream.

No one's outside to greet her when she stops the cantering horse off to the side of the abode. Other horses are already tied off on here along with one donkey. This creature gets an eyeing as she then dismounts, thankfully not catching boot or skirt on anything on the way down. Sure, it flashes some leg, but hey, it's a brothel. We flash leg here. Blanca (the horribly-named Andalusian) is then tied off at the posts. Then brushing herself down and feeling that her up-do is in place -- wait.

Is there a flower in her hair?

"God, this is like some Harlequin romance novel," the barista grumbles as she then walks over towards the side door.

Trust the resident padre to hitch up his robes a bit -- because it's bloody awkward to walk in a dress when you're not accustomed to it -- and head for the door. Una has a point, after all -- better pick up the new kid and try to face this mess together. The narrative is going to mash them all together anyhow.

He pauses on the door step and looks back at his neighbour. "I'm pretty sure you're wanted. Take a look in a mirror? You may be a woman but you're wearing black silk, a black silk mask, and a black gaucho hat. You're Zorro, woman or not. And that means you're pretty damned wanted, yes. Or should I say, sí?"

No, Ravn, don't. Because you don't speak a whole lot of Spanish and your accent is horrendous.

He's still thinking about that when he steps through the door and into the light of dawn. "Señorita! Aqui! Uh. Bloody hell. Ariadne! Over here!"

Perfectly normal, for a priest to step out of the town brothel. Just, usually they're more discreet about it.

Una opens her mouth. Closes it again. Opens it. Sighs. "Ok, you have a point. I'm Zorro, and I am not going out there, because I definitely don't know how to use this sword."

It's probably at least partially instinct that has her adjusting her hat and positively swaggering out of the doorway and down the hall. Her room was otherwise empty; Ravn's, too. The third down the hall, however... whatever it is that Una sees within it (the door has conveniently been left open) has her backing away very, very carefully, eyes a little wide.

"Oh shit," she says, voice not pitched to carry, but probably likely to anyway (it's a good thing the other occupants of this particular house are sound sleepers). "I'm hiding out in a brothel."

Or possibly those three lovely ladies just really enjoy sleeping together in the nude. That's also possible.

Oh, look, someone's hailing her by señorita and aqui and she's pretty sure that's 'here'. It's a man off to the second side door of the brothel in a cassock -- how did she know this -- a priest -- WHAT?!

Ariadne comes to a halt in the shadow of the brothel, staring. The dialogue says 'Padre'. Her brain goes 'Ravn'.

It ends up as a squawked, totally-not-demure "PadRavn?!"

Look, it works, okay? Mostly. Add another mispronunciation of the Dane's name to his list.

Her gloved hands clutch before her sternum before she catches herself doing this and stops it, then stomping over heedless of unladylike dust scuffed up on her nice side-saddle skirt. The fabric is black. Why did she choose black? Black shows dust. Maybe it's because ladies don't stomp. Maybe fuck you, narrative.

"Oh my god, Ravn, is this one of these Dreams?! It has to be! My horse is named Blanca and there was this goddamned swell of music when I rode over the top of that hill there." A point at the offending hill. A bird sings in a nearby tree. The whole scene is defiantly pastoral. "Look, I'm here to see if any of the ladies need anything taken to town because...reasons that made sense in my head when I left my house this morning. Manor house. Why is my dad a Don? Explain this to me!" she demands of the Danish-Jesuit-priest-academic, arms thrown wide for a second.

She then blinks. "Oh my god, wait, you said other people get sucked into this stuff. Have you seen anybody else?" The barista hasn't yet looked beyond Ravn and into the brothel. He's kind of 6'3". Hard to look past that.

Maybe the narrative is opting for maximum comedic effect here. Ravn steps properly out into the light, black robes swishing at his feet, and fails entirely to notice the odd looks. He's a priest emerging from the town cathouse, and so far, he is clueless.

It's a feat, truly, given what Una just said. Maybe he didn't hear.

Maybe his focus is on Ariadne whose voice has that certain, shrill first-time undertone of emerging panic to it. He runs a pale, slender, and ungloved hand down his face -- and then winces because there is more sensation there than expected, and it feels a bit like touching an electrical fence to see if it's on. "It's a Dream, capital D all right. And apparently one of those that casts us in specific roles for a specific narrative. Una Irving is here too -- as Zorro. And I guess I am either the cowardly village priest who will sell out the star-crossed lovers in the end, or the righteous priest who defies authorities in favour of doing God's work, helping out the outlaws because it is the right thing to do."

Folklorist knows his tropes. Folklorist also takes a step to the side so Una can get a peek at the admittedly rather dashing, obvious love interest.

Dreams (capital-D-Dreams) are safer in numbers, not to mention there are sleeping whores down thisaway, so it's no surprise that Una comes rather hurriedly down the corridor to meet Ravn and Ariadne, one holding on to her hat as she does so, while the other tries to keep that sword out of the way of her leg.

Her timing is good, depositing her just behind Ravn in time to hear the last of his explanation, which is probably the impetus for her snort of wry laughter. "You're a priest in a whorehouse, so either you're hopelessly corrupt or you have a heart of gold and have forgiven everyone their sins. Take your pick?"

Peering around the padre, Una might look more like a dashing hero if she weren't still clutching hat and sword, or if her cheeks weren't awkwardly pink. But she's seen this movie, and gender-bent casting aside, she gives a little breathless sigh and says, "Hello, star-crossed lover. Come in quickly before word gets back to your presumably protective and disapproving father."

"Oh, Una's here? Great. Great?" Ariadne then amends, more out of care for a fellow new friend than anything else. She then blinks. "Zorro? She's Zorro? You're...what, Friar...Tuck? God, look, that was supposed to be funny, crossing the two genres here," and she gestures with pointer fingers executing an X before herself while rolling her eyes in the process. "But -- "

That does sound like Una, the sudden voice from behind Ravn, and then there's the step-aside, like a curtain drawn, and the French horns mingle with those Spanish guitars and upsweep of strings and Horner would be proud, damnit -- and the barista is vaguely aware of the irony of her crossed fingers while Una mentions star-crossed lover and she too lets out one of those helpless little sighs right on cue. Thanks, narrative.

"Hello, tall, dark and handsommmm...beautiful? Nice sword. I know how to handle one too." Ariadne then blinks. Does she? The narrative says she does. Was that a come-on? Oh my. The barista then decides the whole thing is being filed away under 'FOR SCIENCE' and does step into the shadowed hallway of the brothel as beckoned. "I came as soon as I could for...something involving taking something into town, like I was telling Ravn, and probably to flip my over-protective father the bird. He doesn't know that I'm going to take a knife to my skirt later so I can ride properly and not side-saddle." A beat. "Was that spoilers? SPOILERS!" she then whisper-shouts before giggling a little hysterically. Ravn regains her attention. "Also, confession kinks much there, Darth Bathrobes?"

"Probably more that it remains a mystery to most people why I'm not very active on the dating scene," Ravn murmurs, a tad non-plussed; maybe he thinks this whole Catholic priest (read: Incarnation of celibacy) is overrated -- there's just a thing as a joke running its course and then lying about forever to smell up the place, after all. He pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's not a week ago I had a girl explain to me that I'm an asshole for having a pretty face and not hitting on anyone, and I still have a headache from trying to work out the logic in that statement."

"Es porque nos pagas, Pómulos."

The purr comes from behind Una; one of those long-legged girls sleeping in a pile back there seems to have stirred, and now she stands -- make that, lounges against the frame of the bedroom door, wearing very little and a blanket. Dark Latina eyes glitter at the faux-priest and she licks her lips sensuously before winking at Ariadne, perceived as the Don's daughter. "Mantiene nuestras bocas demasiado llenas para que hablemos."

Ravn does not understand Spanish; he can communicate a few basic phrases here and there but essentially, he is the man who travelled across literal Spain wondering why everyone stared at him oddly every time he went into a restaurant and tried to order uno cuervo, por favor. (And yet no one had the heart to tell him that the word he wanted was cerveza).

He understands body language, though. Well enough to go a spectacular shade of crimson and then flatly hiss, "I don't care what the narrative is, I am not playing that part."

"I hope you can handle yours better than I can--" Una has realised the innuendo of her half-finished remark just in time not to go any further on it, though it helps that the latest arrival has distracted her, too. She turns on her heel, a movement executed less smoothly than might be expected from nimble Zorro (but satisfactorily enough when one is Una Irving, still, more-or-less). She doesn't speak Spanish any more than Ravn does, but body language is body language.

With a sidelong glance at Ravn, and then another at Ariadne, she takes a moment to pause, and then: "Well fuck that. You're both now my hostages, and you're coming with me. ¡Viva Mexico!"

And then she draws her sword, because, well, that's what you do when you're kidnapping people, right? Amazingly, it comes straight out of the scabbard in a motion that is almost smooth, right until it isn't: that's the moment when the sword's tip slices cleanly through the neatly tied rope holding up the delightful (unlit) lantern above their heads.

Ariadne is admittedly still attempting to parse the logic Ravn's shared by her frown when the prostitute arrives in her artful draping of sheet only barely passable for a PG-13 film. Goodness. Such bosom. And swords. She glances over at Una and can't help the smirk -- fond smirk -- simpering smirk, thank you, narrative, how noble and bold that mask is, how mysterious, how --

-- red Ravn is now because body language bypasses all tongues. Or does it. It's impossible to muse about this stuff in a brothel, the barista thinks to herself, her own cheeks a little warmed in turn. Then, suddenly, a claim of being kidnapped and sword and that sword is appropriately sharp for a Dream such as this. Down comes the lantern and kerCLANGSMACK. Glass panes, spread over the hallway. Oil reservoir? On Ariadne's nice riding boots!

Cue affronted gasp and look-up to stare at Una. "Enthusiasm much?" She folds her arms under her chest in a manner in which the narrative perceives as appropriate for a brothel. Straight spine, fluff the stuff under the riding blouse. It fluffed. "If I'm going to be kidnapped, you'd better have a nice horse because my ride only has room for two and I'm not going to turn that into an innuendo even though there's a part of me which wants to also make a crack about licking boots." Her lips thin and she glances over at the prostitute. "Look. Just because my dad is a Don doesn't mean I'm all straight-laced." That doesn't help Ariadne's case either. She brings fingers up to rub across one brow. "Just kidnap me already," she then mumbles.

"Yes, please," Ravn manages to choke out, with a sideways glance at the lady draping herself against the doorframe. "Please take me very far away before that one decides I've paid for another hour." The look on the woman's face is all but predatory. And the more uncomfortable the priest looks, the wider her grin -- stick around and she'll probably be able to compete with a hammerhead shark shortly.

He's no horseman. But there's at least one horse involved here, and he's heading straight for it -- because if he's going to be riding something here, it better have four legs and a soft muzzle, and thank you for not pursuing this metaphor further. "I'm abducted. Let's go blackmail me somewhere not in the town brothel. I'm sure I know all sorts of stuff that you can make me confess during awful threats that you will never actually carry through because you're the hero."

Ah. There's a couple of other horses standing around in the yard -- couple of bay saddlebreds and a burro that no doubt belongs to the padre (who has no idea and heads for a horse instead). And over his shoulder he cannot resist the murmur, "By the way, Zorro, Mexico is the enemy. You're Spanish."

Ok, the sword thing was a bust (and Una casts Ariadne an apologetic glance as she hastily backs away), and... "Am I? Oh. Well maybe I've changed sides. Maybe-- no, I'm probably just pretending, so as to confuse everyone. Maybe I'm fake-Zorro. Maybe--"

Maybe Una should give up trying to justify herself: clearly this particular Zorro knows nothing, and can't even draw a sword. It's going well. Maybe the blackmail will be better.

"I'll allow you to keep your horse," 'Zorro' decrees, waggling that sword in Ariadne's direction, because she clearly hasn't quite learned her lesson yet. "And yes, the padre can have that one. Right. Let's go. To my... secret hideout in the hills that aren't near where my lady love and her father live, because that would make sense. Right?"

"We're abducted and I get to keep my horse! This is great." Ariadne doesn't seem entirely sarcastic. She likes Blanca of the beautiful mane and accompanying swells of music. Good horsie. "And the fact that you have a secret hideout is bomb, Z-Una." Having departed the brothel and left Shark-Smile to seducing someone else not the town priest, the barista still pauses on the way over to the tying post and the collection of horses there including Blanca and the sleepy-eyed burro. There's a scowl down at her boots now coated in lantern oil and dust both.

"Una. Zorro." Another look over her shoulder towards the dashing redhead in her mask. "Oh, Zorro? A gentlem--woman would help a lady into her saddle, hmm?"

If that's not a narrative challenge, nothing else is. Ariadne is perfectly capable of getting up into that saddle all by her little skirted self. She still lingers there, running her fingers through the mare's mane, waiting to be properly kidnapped.

And then putting her forehead against the horse's neck exasperatedly. Properly kidnapped? Who THINKS THIS?!

Over the mare's shoulder, Ravn gets a pointed finger. "You shush. I can sense you laughing from here, Darth Bathrobes."

"Yes. Busy laughing. Anything to stop thinking about where I spent the night and how." Ravn shudders. If there is such a thing as being grateful that the narrative didn't begin three hours earlier? This is what it looks like. Phew.

He turns to put a foot in the stirrup of the nearest bay, and swing his leg oveeeeeeeeernope, sorry, Ravn, that's a dress you're wearing. The leg goes right back down when it runs out of fabric, and the horse seems to get the last laugh. With a scowl the priest murmurs, "And now I know why I own a donkey." He crosses the courtyard and swings his leg over the considerably smaller mount. It flicks a long ear and sighs. Work, man. It never stops.

Oh look. There's even a little stick tucked in under the saddle blanket. Burro probably doesn't go anywhere burro doesn't have to. It occurs to Ravn, briefly, that when you think about it, it's a lot of rider for such a small animal. Then it dawns on him how ridiculous he must look, still flushed crimson, sitting in all of his six foot three glory on a donkey the size of a pony. This is going to be one of those dreams.

"I always wanted a secret hideout," muses Una. "And now I have one! If it weren't for all the... rest, I would say this is great." The 'rest' does not seem to only involve Ravn, but that doesn't mean the Dane doesn't get a glance. And the hint of a smile, too, but that may be for the incongruity of tall man, tiny not-horse.

Her sword, helpfully, gets put away again (and without any stabbings, hurray!). It's nonetheless with some amount of wariness that she approaches Ariadne, makes a face, and then attempts to make a foothold out of her hands. She does lift her hat in a gesture of dashing respect, first, which kind of helps with the whole narrative thing, but... let's face it, this whole thing has definitely turned into a farce. "My lady. I'm not tall enough to lift you in, unfortunately."

That may actually be fortunate. For everyone. It's still anyone's game whether her hands will hold long enough to actually help Ariadne get anywhere.

Ariadne appears appeased when poor Ravn is stuck with his general physiology atop the patient if far more diminutive burro. The narrative's got a sense of humor indeed and it's out for the priest at the moment. Her smirk melts into a far more pleasant moue of surprise, just a little breathless, at Zorr-Una's arrival and accompanied salute by hat. How dashing indeed! Though Una is entirely right. The other redhead is inches shorter than the barista and the second redhead blinks to realize this.

Man, this narrative has a wicked sense of humor.

"Isn't there a saying about it's not how tall you are, but how you use your KNIFE I HAVE A KNIFE IN THE BASKET." What a blurt. Now Ariadne has joined the pink-cheek club in earnest and starts laughing awkwardly. "I mean, I'm going to use the knife and split this skirt, I don't care what anybody else thinks. I'm kidnapped anyways, it's not like the Don is going to send out a search party with my intended fiancé who will try to cut you to ribbons the second he sees you've kidnapped me."

Awkward silence.

"The knife, yes," Ariadne then says, pretending to be pragmatic while she rifles around in the basket for it and finds it. It's nothing pretty, more meant to cut through the root vegetables in the basket, and the riding skirt has no resistance against it. Behold: slit from mid-thigh to bottom hem on one side. ANKLES, PAD-RAVN, ANKLES. "Much more airy." An equally airy admission because how daring of her, in front of her star-crossed lover, and wow, who's writing this narrative. Away the knife goes and, after shooting a smoldering look at Una over her shoulder and untying Blanca from the post, more of that cyclist's leg flashes as she plants a riding boot briefly in Una's gloved hands and yanks herself up into Blanca's saddle. Leg is still on display. Clutch pearls! Mounted: success with Una's assistance.

"And you've got your bold steed somewhere, Una?" asks Ariadne from on high.

Padre Cuervo del Huerto de Manzanas probably has a lot of thoughts about ankles. Thoughts about condemning flashing ankles like that in public when one is a good and proper girl and the Don's daughter to boot, and definitely not in front of a hot-blooded young -- woman? He probably gets confused somewhere around there, with Una not being quite the male this script usually calls for. Thoughts about what else is up under that skirt because as we have seen demonstrated, the padre appreciates the female form.

Ravn Abildgaard, who happens to be conscripted into the part, is a Millennial to whom a couple of bare ankles is nothing out of the ordinary, and for that matter, nor are a pair of shins or thighs; he might offer a second glance if Donna Ariadne was to drop the entire skirt and ride off into the morning in whatever passes for 19th century lingerie. The thundercloud that briefly takes possession of his features is no doubt due to this: He can tell the narrative wants him to throw Ariadne a lecherous stare -- and he does not want to throw anyone a lecherous stare. The result of this conflict is a weird glance with too much to unpack.

"Here's to hoping your intended fiancé is someone we can either reason with, bribe, or chase off -- or someone that you actually want to be rescued by," he murmurs and glances at Una next. "I don't know about you, but I'm no swordsman, and I don't think my part here actually calls for sword fighting either. I'm probably more along the line of lecherous priest who will be blackmailed into marrying you two so that neither God nor angry fathers may force you apart. In which case all I have to say is, I don't think marriages instituted by some random Danish expat in 1820 are legally binding in 2022, so bring it."

The bewildered-and-slightly-concerned expression Una is holding (along with her hands; awkward position) fades into acknowledgement and understanding when Ariadne explains her blurt, at which point she casts the other redhead something akin to the adoring-and-admiring glance the narrative no doubt wants, though mostly it's just approving: what a sensible and adaptable star-crossed lover she has!

"I mean, if your fiancé is less likely to injure you with his sword," no, that's not an intended innuendo but there it goes anyway, "you might be better off with him. So we'll keep our options open, hey? But the blackmail option is there too, if we need it."

How comfortable Una is with even a fake marriage-- to anyone, let's face it, not Ariadne specifically-- probably shows in her crooked little smile, and the way she shuffles back just slightly once Ariadne is safely in the saddle, gaze dropping away. But the narrative calls for drama and dashing, and drama and dashing it shall have! She lifts a finger, a gesture of 'give me a moment' unmistakable in its intent, and then whistles.

It's pretty epic, actually. Particularly when it works. From somewhere off camera, the black steed gallops into view, and as he draws alongside the redhead in black, she manages to grasp at the reins and vault herself into the saddle.

Without even losing her hat! Or stabbing herself with her sword! (Much.)

(Ok, there's a little stabbing. And a quiet little 'ouch' that ruins the moment ever so slightly. Still. Still!)

In the saddle: check. Gave Zor-Una a pleased smile brimming with promise: check. Received that Very Bewildering Glance from PadRavn: check.

"I want it known that I have no idea who this fiancé is and if they suddenly show up, the narrative might decide to have me do dumb things like swoon and claim to be kidnapped to enable some swordsmanship. At least you'll get to decide who has the bigger and better sword." She fingerguns at both priest and dashing Zorro. "Eyyyyyy, you knew I'd say something like that. I'll add that it's about who's the better swordsman -- woman -- and we'll get that phallic mention out of the way too. There we go, excellent."

Una summons Tornado and mounts with such heroic gracefulness that the barista can't help but be impressed. The narrative agrees. Cue breathy sigh and hand to sternum, as if any more overt displays might inspire more than saucy words. Ahem.

"Alright, off to the hideout, we have a marriage to figure out. Fake marriage. Illegal marriage? Some sort of plan since we're kidnapped. Hey Ravn, since we're going to be blackmailing you, do you want to be tied to a chair or to a boulder? I just figure the...general sentience of this place is going to want to play with ropes....or something."

They have to get away from the brothel now, nothing's safe to say anymore. Kicking gently at Blanca, Ariadne begins drifting towards the front of the brothel, not set on the direction of travel. She has no idea whatsoever where this secret hideout is because nobody's EVER had a past unspoken tryst there or anything, y'know, since she's a respectable daughter of the Don and NEVER would have done anything of the sort. Research though? Word of mouth? The daughter of the Don has done this (along with slit her skirt, such gasp).

"If it's all the same to you, I think I will opt to be the priest who is so cowardly that a stern look is enough to intimidate him into submission. I'm really not keen on getting beaten or tied to things." Ravn can't resist a smirk -- and a sigh that contains a bit of relief. Being stuck in some alternate reality where sharp swords can leave very real injuries is bad. Being stuck there with a couple of people who seem to have at least parsed how this here narrativity stuff works is marginally better. Terry Pratchett would have been so proud.

And so would whoever made that late 1950s Zorro series that this dream seems to be spoofing. He tries to recall some of it; it did run on Danish TV still when he was little, in a kind of look how adorably retro this kiddie television is. There were rules. Zorro never gets hurt except for heroic shoulder wounds. The Spanish soldiers are the ene--

-- riiight.

"We should probably expect some kind of showdown at your hide-out or on the road," he tells the masked avenger. "The Spanish soldiers chase you and all that. Look for some fat goofball of a sergeant named García, who can't do anything right. He likes women and wine."

It's not unfair to say that now that she's on her horse (good Tornado, nice Tornado), Una is not especially adept at the whole riding thing-- she looks a little more like a sack of potatoes than a dashing hero, but at least she's not falling off (yet).

"Stern looks are my speciality," promises Una. "Ropes, less so. So that's-- oh, ok. Showdown. Goofball sergeant. Well, hostages: keep your eyes peeled. I'd prefer not to be caught too much unawares, if we can manage it."

She gives Tornado a little nudge with her foot. Happily, while Una may not be able to ride, Tornado does know how to horse, and promptly launches himself down the road towards the outskirts of town, and beyond. It may even be that he actually knows where they're going, because Una? Her expression is distinctly uncertain.

"Alriiiiight," drawls Ariadne with approval as she turns Blanca around in place once. She's got some horsemanship experience, but not much and it's been some number of years. Much hope is couched in muscle memory and, like Una's Tornado, the ability of the white mare to know how to horse. "I like this plan. Stern looks and riding faster, ahoy. I can glare too! Well, I guess I can glare, we'll see if my face stays like that. It's like the opposite of what my mother used to say to stop me from glaring. 'Your face will get stuck like that,'" she then mocks in a nasally voice. "Maybe this time I want my face to stick like that, Mom."

Blanca's ears turn back. What. Okay, human, sure, following Tornado now. A whicker for the burro -- come, stubby ear-blessed one, we go, bring your gangly rider.

"Hopefully my fiancé doesn't show up with Garcia. If he can't do anything right, my fiancé unfortunately probably can because...reasons. Whoop!" That was not a startled sound as Blanca suddenly takes off after Tornado, can't prove it, no evidence. The wind of their travels whips up her skirt and Ariadne congratulates herself on how airy her skirt feels now. Natural air conditioning in this Spanish heat. Bonus points. "So I don't have a sword! I have potatoes!" she calls out over the heavy rhythmic pattern of hooves. "Am I just chucking them at people or something?"

"Lord, I hope I will not have to do actual, literal bible thumping," Ravn murmurs -- and then proceeds to make a most undignified grimace and matching body language as Lupa el burro decides that she's not getting abandoned here when that hot black stallion is cantering off like that -- lookit those little drumstick legs go!

Lookit the padre, holding on to the saddle with both hands because ironically, he's probably the person here with the most actual horsemanship experience, but bloody hell, that was a horse, not a donkey on ritalin! It's certainly hilarious to watch. The unseen narrator scores one for hilarious screendumps and future gifs captioned things like WAIT FOR MEEEEEE and THE COFFEE IS THAT-AWAY, PADRE!

There's some kind of coffee commercial with a donkey and a Mexican in it, isn't there? This is clearly the inspiration.

And there is Lupa, drumsticking it past the horses because aaaaaaay, esto es divertido! and up the road and around the corner and into --

-- into everyone's trusted agent of the law, the big boned but very manly Sergeant García and his four goons in Spanish uniforms.

Una-as-Zorro casts a glance back over her shoulder to make sure her hostages are following (as good little hostages should), and it's definitely the character that casts an appreciative glance at Ariadne and her legs. And probably, let's face it, Ariadne as a whole: what a woman, riding her steed like a man! (etc etc)

Ravn is easier to watch, because it's funnier, even-- especially-- as Lupa takes off, though it's instinctual for Zorro to nudge Tornado into a gallop to follow, because it would be terrible if he were trying to flee and--

-- Ah.

The narrative wants a showdown. It probably doesn't want a turn-tail-and-flee. Una's aware of at least that much, and straightens in her saddle, hand on her sword. "Sergeant Garcia," she says, quite as if she were pleased to see the man and those goons. "We meet again."

Such grace, such bold flouting of dignity from the barista! She's going to be walking funny tomorrow for her flout! Get your minds out of the gutter! There goes PadRavn on his burro and her laughter is jounced up in time with the Andalusian's shift in gait from canter to gallop because nobody puts Blanca in the corner! Such a majestic cavalcade of plot devices!

And then, sudden Sergeant Garcia. Ariadne hazards she can even hear that sharp musical sting to go with the appearance of the officer and his goons. Blanca pulls up short in a startled stutter of hooves and dramatic sway of mane hair, eyes rolling. The barista makes a sound of dismay while she finds her seat again and then sets her jaw. Time for potatoes....maybe. She did used to play third base in softball, here's hoping her rotator cuff is still up to snuff.

Zor-Una addresses the goons first and earns herself an approving glance from the character in turn. Muy heroico. Ariadne can't decide whether or not to look nonchalant or dismayed or -- narrative, help her out here.

Nope.

Maybe demure will do. Dove-like and innocent and totally-not-reaching-for-a-potato-in-the-basket, let me turn my horse to protect this angle of reach.

And here's Ravn, on his skinny backside in the dirt, cassock up around his knees because that's how the laws of physics work, burro disappearing in the general direction of freedom (Lupa will go on to join a herd of escaped Spanish horses and become the mother of a line of proud mules who live their lives in freedom on the Great Plains, and some day, no doubt, somebody will make a movie about the little donkey who knew she could).

He looks kind of funny, sitting there in the dust.

Sergeant García does too, standing there, as wide as he is tall, wondering if a burro did in fact just run into him and nearly bowled him over before escaping. His goons look like they're trying very hard to not laugh because laughing at a superior officer -- even if he is just a lowly sergeant -- is a very bad career move.

"¡Ah, señor Zorro, nos volvemos a encontrar! ¡Esta vez te haré colgar!" The sergeant draws his sword and advances on the black horse and his rider, blissfully unaware that 'ready to defend master' is a prominent job requirement for horses in the hero steed business.

Run flee, Lupa! Tornado would probably prefer to join (well, not join, because hero steeds have standards, but perhaps parallel) the little burro that did, because-- let's face it-- bitch-slapping García and his goons has got to get old eventually.

Not that old, though. Not enough not to bother.

Una still doesn't speak enough Spanish to translate, but drawn swords and advancing sergeants tend to be pretty universal in their meanings. "Not today," she says by way of reply. "I'm afraid I have business elsewhere." She clings on, just barely, as Tornado rears back, forelegs thrust out. It would probably be a better moment if her sword were drawn, too, but look, there's only so much one hero can do at once, ok?

The music swells.

Unfortunately, Ariadne speaks very little Spanish as well, but indeed, the Sergeant's actions are without contention. He means to start shit. Well: the hero has that part of things covered. Eyeing the goons -- they seem to be busy being goons -- the redhead then turns Blanca again, momentarily ceasing her search for a good-sized potato in order to walk Blanca over to Ravn. He has been abandoned by his noble steed, after all.

"Alright, up-up, buddy, you're not getting left behind here," she says to the Padre, then patting at the back of the saddle. A second thought's worth of a look at the baskets on either side of Blanca's ribs. "...look, just be extra climby or something, you can do it."

A glance over her shoulder towards Una in time to see Tornado's majestic MAXIMUM HEROIC STEED THREAT. "Kick his ass, Zorro!" she shouts, quite unladylike.

Ravn looks up. Climb across the potato baskets, on top of an unfamiliar horse, to wrap his arms around and cling to a woman he barely knows?

How about not.

He stands with as much dignity as he can muster -- and that is a surprising amount given the ridiculous costume and situation -- and dusts his robes off. "Are we in the habit of threatening a man of the cloth now, Sergeant? The bishop will be hearing of this. Use your eyes, man -- that is the Don's daughter and some idiot in a costume, trying to impress her. Would the real Zorro insult your intelligence by riding into town in open daylight like this?"

Here's to hoping. García is supposedly both vain and stupid -- and terrified of being chewed out by the higher-ups. Also, he's not getting on any damn horse, black or white.

Oh. Oh.

So Una may not make a particularly good Zorro, and despite Ariadne's encouragement, that isn't likely to change. But. But.

Tornado's hooves hit the ground again, and as they do, the redhead lifts both hands, using one to pull off her mask-- and the other to pull off her hat, releasing her hair.

It's probably a good thing she doesn't have a third hand, because the whole look-I'm-actually-a-woman-and-that-means-I-can't-be-Zorro act would probably be 100% solid by the confirmed existence of her breasts... but that might be taking it too far. Her shirt remains on. It's definitely for the best.

"Curse you, Padre. I had him halfway convinced I was the real deal, I'm sure of it. And now he'll realise that he's being tricked, and the real Zorro is on the other side of town, and he's--"

Ravn appears to be gathering his composure, so Ariadne returns her attention to the burgeoning altercation. Her turn to challenge courage with logic. "He's right, you know. The real Zorro would be waaaay more covert than this." And the daughter of the Don might know about how covert Zorro can be. "There's no -- "

-- way that's the real Zorro when Una divests of various costuming and now the cat's really out of the bag and her eyes go wide despite herself.

"On the other side of town, right! At the top of the bell tower! High noon! You should go, it's almost noon, there's a lot of road to ride!" she continues, more high-pitched. "Vamanos! Shoo! Begone and tell Timoteo if you see him that I'm just delivering lunch to the children at the school. Nothing funny is going on!" She blinks. Who the hell is -- ohhhhhh. "Right! Nothing funny! Don't tell Timoteo at all, actually, we don't need to worry him!" The fiancé, that is.

A beat. "Actually, Hammerhead Hallie back at the brothel was wondering about you guys! Maybe go say hi to her!"

Those are a lot of words. Maybe the unseen narrator of this rather, uh, well, frankly, it's as believable as the genuine 1950s series, let's just leave it there. Maybe the unseen narrator struggles to translate English into Spanish fast enough for the poor sergeant; at least he gapes and huffs and looks indignant, while clearly not hearing a word that either woman is saying.

Ooh. Maybe it's because they're women. That's a staple, isn't it? No one ever listens to the women.

Fortunately for our intrepid heroes, one of them is possessed of the necessary equipment to have a conversation (a concept that Hammerhead Allie at least would subscribe to, provided you paid her for her time). It seems to dawn on Ravn that somehow, he -- supposedly celibate non-user of said equipment -- gets to try to dissuade the sergeant and his men next.

Greeeeat.

He's going to sit on a pillow for a week.

Deep breath. "Sergeant," the priest intones. "Did you not hear what the señorita said? The real Zorro is in the bell tower! He is preparing to ridicule you and the Spanish crown, daring you to catch him! And here you stand, in the way of the good Donna Ariadne and her charity work, causing a man of the cloth to be trampled in the dust!"

Maybe he's not quite certain how to elaborate on the presence of Una, woman in a Zorro costume, riding Zorro's horse.

"Uuuh," says García, which for him is a brilliant display of intellect.

Ravn leans in. "I will take your confession tonight, Sergeant. And I will pretend I know nothing of Hammerhead Allie and the barrels of wine in the brothel's basement."

"Uuuh," says García, more intently. "Quién es Ammer Ead Allie?"

To be fair, Una doesn't seem to know how to elaborate on her outfit further, either-- though maybe it has something to do with the indignity of having been completely ignored in the first place. She glances side-long at Ariadne, then swaps her attention to Ravn, and then--

Tornado is having none of this. Tornado is bored, and standing around is boring, and there's something wrong with this Zorro who sits wrong and smells wrong and--

Tornado rears back. Again. And this time? This time Una is not prepared for it, and this time she joins Ravn in the dust, falling heels over head.

Which. Well.

Would Zorro ever let that happen? Really?

Ariadne's golden-hazel eyes flick from Ravn to the Sergeant. She watches the proposed logic hit him like a bird to a windowpane -- WHUMP sliiiiiiide, failure to process. Or, at least, slow to process. There's a questioning tone to the Sergeant's reply in Spanish and the barista immediately, silently, points in the direction of the brothel like she totally understood what was said. Maybe she did? There's this suspicion about a 'who' in there -- and the brothel is that way, after all.

And then Tornado is done with things and there goes Una. Ariadne winces. "Shit," she hisses. "Are you okay?" The question comes more loudly followed by, "I mean - of course you're okay! You're a good fake Zorro! That Zorro who's in the clock tower!"

Blanca's ears go back. Ariadne see them and now points her riding gloved finger at the horse's side-eyeing.

"If you get ideas, young lady, and you spill my potatoes, I'm going to spill your potatoes." Whatever that means.

Ravn barely manages to scrape himself off the road to confront the sergeant when suddenly there's a fake Zorro in the dust next to him -- and then, Ariadne says something that apparently translates into Equine as throw down everything!

And so Blanca does. So many spuds. They're everywhere. Tornado better be impressed.

Ravn is impressed at least. And trying to get himself and Una out of the way before those horses decide to charge the sergeant or make love, or do both at once in which case, here's to hoping the sergeant gets to top, and no, we're just going to drop this visual right here, right now, thank you very much.

García gapes.

His men laugh.

Ravn does his very best to look indignant. Righteous, even. It's definitely not the normal look for the somewhat self-effacing academic who tends to shimmer by, well, not drawing a whole lot of attention in a crowded room.

The shock of being thrown off, followed by the shock of raining potatoes? It means Una's not much help in the 'getting out of the way' department, mostly because shock sometimes results in hysterical laughter, and that's definitely the case this time.

Tornado's rampage is not entirely cancelled by the potato rain, or the throwing of his rider-who-may-or-may-not-be-the-real-Zorro-but-hopefully-not: he has a few more kicks of those front legs, for emphasis, and then? Then he turns tail and gallops away. Away, away! To the clocktower! To-- well, ok, something anyway.

"Ow," says Una.

It's probably for the better that Ariadne goes ass-over-potatoes along with the contents of the baskets, especially if horses gonna horse. Spuds roll everywhere and there she flies, thankfully bouncing onto one of the half-empty baskets rather than the road alone. Still: her tailbone and OW.

And her pettipants! Bloomers! White frilly underthings! Momentum is such a bitch. The last tumbling rotation leaves her riding skirt, since she slit it, two-thirds upturned over her spawled back-down body and at least they're very nice, very proper petti-bloomer-things.

"Oh, god-FUCK!" Gloved hands rapidly yank down the riding skirt as fast as possible while the half-winded barista makes a face of temporary agony. Tailbones. "Stupid...HORSE!" she wheezes at Blanca, merrily high-tailing it after Tornado because please, like any horse is going to stick around these gangly, stupid humans when Mister Tall, Dark, and Handsome is off to the races, hey baby, come see about a ride over here -- yes, no more of this visual, no more.

"Score one for true love," Ravn grimaces and sends a long look after the eloping horses. How he wishes he was on the back of one of them (preferably Tornado, assuming that they are going to proceed with the visual that -- right, enough of this).

Then he shuts up and stares, stupidly. After all, what is a lecherous priest to do when the female lead is showing off her petti-bloomer-things like that?

A second passes, and it feels like about forty minutes of conversation that goes along the lines of this: Ravn asks himself what the everloving fresh hell this is supposed to be, it's not like Ariadne is even showing a glimpse of knees. It's 1820, replies the narrative, and you're a lecherous priest. She might as well have flashed her tits at you. But she didn't, Ravn thinks back, and the way this is going, if I ever find out who you are, I am personally buying you a subscription to an adult magazine of your choosing.

The sensation of blushing and tittering at that, all in his mind, reveals something that has not previously occurred to the folklorist. Whoever -- whatever -- is running this story is not a mature adult.

He picks his jaw back up. So that's how it goes? Right, then. "Sergeant! I demand that you arrest these indecent women for embarrassing a man of the church in a public street! Look at the way she is dressed! And the other one, half naked!"

A couple of the soldiers wolf whistle. And the narrative promptly falls into place; the lecherous priest is the bad guy, after all; Sergeant García is Zorro's foil, but he is a likable foil -- a big, bumbling fool who really just wants to be left to eat and drink and sleep himself into eternity.

"You are not the don of me, padre," returns García (who seems to finally have gotten himself a babelfish). He glares imperiously at the women -- one shameless and indecent, hinting that women exist between neck and ankle, the other dressed in the clothing of a man very much wanted by the Spanish authorities. "And you two, you go on your way! And catch those horses before they run somebody down or something!"

Dignity restored. The man who gives the orders is the man who's in charge. That showed 'em, lanky padre, silly wenches.

Tornado is in horse-y heaven, with a beautiful white mare to cavort with (but it's fine: said cavorting can definitely happen off-camera).

Una's still wheezing, both with laughter and genuine pain, and her glance at Ariadne is not much more intelligent than Ravn's, though surely the appropriately Romantic Lead action would be to rush to her aid. Alas, that piece of the narrative has definitely washed up on a beach somewhere else, and is having a fine time dinking piña coladas under the shade of a sun umbrella.

On the other hand, at least the man in the situation has things under control, and Ravn's save gives Una the momentum she needs to regain her breath-- and reach for her hat, jamming it back on her head. She attempts dignity as she climbs back to her feet; dignity, and perhaps a return of that bravado of earlier, a swagger to her step. A defiant glower for García. The offering of her hand to Ariadne, amidst the potatoes.

And: "Zorro shall ride again. You'll never beat him, Sergeant. You're doomed to failure."

Not that she is Zorro, of course. Not this plump redheaded woman.

Betrayed by the narrative!

Ariadne, onto one hip down and pressing her hand against her lower back like it's doing some grade-A complaining about sudden impact trauma (spoiler alert: it is), looks up at Ravn with a shocked widening of eyes. "Hey!" A quick look between the Padre and Garcia, the latter of whom is apparently having none of these shenanigans with mistaken identities and bloomers -- thank god for it. At one point or another, some conclusion about the rough time period (before 1900, she'd surmised) had come to fruition and the idea of cooling her riding boot-heels anywhere around here doesn't appeal. "Nobody here is the Don of me and I didn't ask to be stuck in a dress!" Skirt, but indignity says 'whatever'.

Except Daddy is the Don of the area, but Daddy's not around, now is he.

Una arrives to offer that helpful hand and the barista takes it for the aided tug to her feet. "Thanks, Una," Ariadne manages. She wobbles a little in place and puts the back of her hand to her brow while blinking. Now the skirting is all back in place but for that slit and a goodly amount of dust on the black material. "Man, just...fuck all of this at this point, my tailbone hates me and I still can't see straight. I'm breathing, right?"

And the narrative demands a semi-conscious swoon -- unfortunately in Ravn's direction -- hopefully he's not allergic to bloomers.

You haven't seen 'betrayed by the narrative' until you have seen the expression on Ravn's face as he realises, almost in slow-mo, that the heroine of this questionable romance is about to faint -- on him, rather than on the supposed romantic lead. Because of course she is, and through no fault of Ariadne's. This is a Dream, and for all that it does not appear to be one of those nightmare Dreams that send you into a spin of therapy and substance abuse after, it's clearly out to humiliate and embarrass, not to mention throw bodies at bodies with rampant neuropathy.

The folklorist has some skill at keeping a straight face. He's got a lot of practise when it comes to minimising the issues with his condition. The gloves, for instance, are not a fashion choice.

He's not wearing them when Ariadne lands more or less on him, bowling them both over. A man without this issue would probably have taken her in his manly arms -- lecherous gropey priest arms? -- and supported her weight in a noble and helpful (lecherous, gropey?) way. Ravn fails to stop his hands from flying up to protect himself, inadvertedly shoving Ariadne in one direction and himself in another, and the result is -- not graceful.

At least he manages to not scream. A few of those muttered words under his breath are decidedly not Spanish nor English, but really, one does not need a translation device to tell the weight of those Danish curses.

"Oh fuck," says Una, summing up the falling-like-ninepins result of Ariadne's swoon, dark-eyed gaze sweeping from 'priest' to 'damsel' and then back again as both hands lift as if to defend herself from-- well, ripple effects, maybe, or more potatoes.

"Um. Are you both okay?"

Silly question.

Swooning is the worst, especially when the poor saps involved aren't prepared. Ariadne makes a few quiet sounds herself as she whumps into Ravn, is promptly shoved away, and rolls to the ground on her side.

Ow, potato in the kidney! Foul! Red flag, ref!

Blinking while her vision does hazy, blurry things, she mumbles to herself in Hungarian now, though not with as much emphasis as Ravn. "I want off this ride now," she grumbles, getting up to an elbow and grimacing. "God, Ravn, sorry, this is the pits. You okay?"

From the colour (or rather, the lack of colour) of Ravn's face, Ariadne must have managed to land a knee in a very sensitive area, or something. He pulls himself back together and up and manages to squeeze out a, "I'll be fine in a moment" -- something which really doesn't do much to ease the confusion on the faces of Sergeant García and troops.

"I think," García says, "that I am not the one doomed to failure here."

He turns on his heel and stomps off towards the town with his men in pursuit. For once in his life, the rotund sergeant got the last word. Let him have the moment, there won't be another like it.

"I think," Ravn murmurs (read: groans), "that we'd better move on with the abduction and get you two married, or something. You're still abducting me and blackmailing me with the threat of telling everyone about -- what was her name, Hammerhead Hallie?"

There is no good last word to try and follow García's-- not from Una, at any rate, and she's probably the one best placed to deliver it.

She rubs dirty hands on her trousers, no doubt leaving marks all over the black fabric; it's inevitable, and maybe at this point, she no longer cares. "Was that her actual name, or did we just make that up? Not," the redhead allows, after a moment more, "that that actually matters, I guess."

Glancing around, Una considers the scene: the potatoes, her two fallen comrades, their lack of transport. "So rather than hike into the mountains... can we abduct you into the latest church and get this done here and now? I... can't contain my love for you any longer, Ariadne. Mi amour... marry me, and then your father, the don, can never separate us."

It might fit the script, but the delivery is about as wooden as it gets. Sorry, narrative.

Garcia stomps off and the barista sprawled in the middle of a scattering of forlorn potatoes gives him a sarcastic salute. "Aye-aye, sir, you do you," comes the sarcastic rejoinder pitched for only Ravn and Una's ears.

"I think I made that up. I have no idea if her name is Hammerhead Hallie. She just had this sharky smile." With her own little groan, Ariadne works herself onto her hip and rubs at her face, no doubt smearing some dust from the road on it. Una's line delivery, not entirely convincing, has her glancing over with a wry little smirk. "Don't contain your enthusiasm," she teases the other redhead good-naturedly. Clearing her throat, she then tucks her chin demurely and simpers, "Of course, mi héroe, to the nearest church that we might forever be together."

It's not exactly the most convincing delivery from Ariadne too, especially with the titter at the end. Take that, narrative!

"We just need to get Padre Bathrobes on his feet here and to this church and then we can get a punch bowl going or something," the barista adds, giving Ravn another sympathetic look.

Ravn gets up on his knees and from there, back on his feet. The black robes of a Jesuit priest are now quite camouflage-coloured by which is implied that he's got road dust and mud and oh look, horse droppings on the black, and it's not doing anything for his dignity. This too is no doubt intentional; this is clearly a comedy, after all, and once the story is done with Sergeant García, it must be time for the third rate villain, Padre Cuervo Huerto de Manzanas.

He coughs; dust on the inside too. "I'm fine. Just -- almost fine. Ahem."

Ahem, indeed. Narrative will have its due.

The folklorist straightens up and ignores the ache in his knees and abdomen (redheads, they always have sharp elbows). Then he declares, with all the gusto of bad plot and worse writing, "You have the upper hand now, Zorro! I will do what you require, and we will be even! And the next time you need a priest, you better go look for one somewhere not -- "

Beat. "Where the hell is this again?"

Such joy and jubilation: the hero and his lady shall be wed at last! Dusty, dirty, dignity-diminished, but doubtlessly delighted.

"Oh, who knows. La-- el?-- Pueblo?" Why yes. Because all towns are called... 'town'.

Una gives her compatriots a rueful little smile, and attempts to find (from somewhere) some dignity.

"I accept your terms, padre! But know this: should you cross me, or my fair wife," soon-to-be wife, "in any way, I will have no choice but to expose you. Let us live our lives in harmony and peace. Perhaps," and this she addresses towards Ariadne, "we will travel far from this place, and leave it all behind. Perhaps I might throw off this mask for good! But no... not while there is injustice still to be fought. I'm sorry, mi amor. I cannot."

Way to compress an entire arc into a single paragraph, Zorro.

"Pueblo el Damnit My Side." It can be heard as a mutter as Ariadne unsteadily makes her way to her feet. She's not too unlike Ravn (and Una both, actually) in the sense of dust marring her clothing everywhere. She's managed to escape horse pockey, but there's a bright green grass stain along one previously-white elbow. Brushing at her hip, the barista looks over at Una as The Speech is delivered. It's succinct and inspires an impromptu speech from Ariadne as well. One can see her twitch at the start of it, like she had other things to say, but then the narrative required a cascade of verbosity.

"Oh, but if you were any other way, mi héroe, I would not want to spend all of my days with you -- all of my nights, my dawns, my good times and bad times -- and where there's injustice, I will be there to fight alongside you as your shadow and your strength. It doesn't matter where we go, our love will endure, and we will stand against all tyranny in the name of the people -- "

It would have been an excellent little speech but for a tickle in the back of her throat which suddenly interrupts it. Damnit, dust. Ariadane coughs until her eyes water, holding up a finger, and then swallows carefully. "Blanca had my water bottle...thingie. When we get to the church, I'm stealing a swig of wine, I don't care if anyone's offended."

"Always did want to steal altar wine," Ravn murmurs, and that's definitely not the narrative making suggestions there. "I'd say, lead the way, but I guess it's up to me. So let's hope it's this way."

He starts to walk, in the opposite direction of García and the soldiers, and the brothel. Here's to hoping there really is a church or chapel down the road.

Fortunately, there is. Because what narrative does not place a humble Jesuit priest in some humble little chapel along the road, to be visited by the humble peasants of this humble town -- which, unbeknownst to our heroes and their captive clergy, is Los Angeles and will eventually become a tad less humble in terms of size -- and receive their meagre little offerings in return for the custody of their souls.

No wonder the padre goes to seek a few hours' of remission at the local cat house, the place looks decidedly small, drab, dull, humble, mediocre, meagre, small, dusty, under-funded, and also, small.

Ravn looks disappointed. "Next time I have to play the bad guy, can I at least be someone who matters?"

"Oh, mi amor--" begins Una. The narrative would really like her to step forward and probably clasp hands or possibly make out with Ariadne right now; good thing Ariadne is too busy coughing!

So she waits, a little awkwardly instead, and by the time Ariadne is done (and yes, of course she looks a little concerned, she's not a bad person), the moment really is over, and anyway, Padre Ravn is leading the way. Thus, Una offers her arm to Ariadne instead, and whether it gets taken or not, it's off after the good father to find the church.

Una, too, is disappointed by the scope of it: if one has to get fake-married, can't it be in a fancy cathedral, with all the trimmings? No?

"Yeah, next time you need to make evil speeches too, instead of just being mildly unethical. Though, really, it's not like I have a problem with prostitution, or think that it makes sense that priests don't... you know, whatever. I would marry my love in a ditch if it meant making her my own."

What love interest doesn't take the offered arm of her hero? ...okay, a few, but the narrative demands it of Ariadne and she does, linking elbows with the shorter redhead in her dashing hat and dashing mask and dashing black-but-dusty clothing and everything is just dashing. Smashing? The narrative is briefly confused and it reflects in the little frown, there and gone again, on the barista's brow. If she has opinions on the state of the church, they're kept to herself. Maybe the Love Interest doesn't take much stock in the vanity of the church and instead, appreciates for what it is: a place of peace, worship, and wine theft.

Okay, maybe no one should be encouraging wine theft. But her throat still tickles. As such, Ariadne clears it as she walks over to it, still arm-in-arm with Una, and notes, "You realize this makes you the diet soda of evil, Ravn? Like, one calorie not evil enough?"

And, yes, she puts her spare pinkie finger to the outside of her smirking lips in imitation of a certain whack-job evil mastermind from a film involving a volcanic lair and way, WAY too much chest hair amongst other things.

"I'm the Diet Pepsi of villainy. Now stand in front of the crucifix or something and -- " Ravn looks up at the figure on the cross. It's wooden and maybe it's because he is not actually a Roman Catholic (or much of a believer in anything, really) it reminds him of his Aunt Theodora (same disapproving glare).

He looks up at it again. "I hope somebody realises I don't actually have the first idea what is said in a Catholic wedding. Fast forwarding because the audience doesn't want to fall asleep either. I hope this works."

Furtive glances all around. No actual priest appears. Nor does his eye suddenly catch a manual that wasn't there before.

"Aaaaaand so I ask, will you, Ariadne de Pequeño Pueblo en Ninguna Parte, take as your lawful wedded wife, Una de la -- heh." He can't help a laugh due to the coincidental similarity to the name of the Gray Harbor police chief. "Una de la Vega who definitely isn't the villain known to the poor folks as el Zorro?"

The intricacies of a Catholic mass would be largely lost on Una, too, who seems frankly relieved by the brevity of these proceedings. She dutifully stands in front of the altar, dutifully still holding on to Ariadne's arm-- and dutifully (well, ok, less dutifully, this time) echoes Ravn's laugh for the name. "I'm the chief's several times great grandmother, apparently," she murmurs, nevermind the interruption to this Very Serious and Very Romantic wedding.

She also straightens. She's not wearing the mask (still), so she definitely can't be Zorro. Nope. Definitely not. Just a girl in trousers.

"Good lord, what a tangled web we weave," murmurs the barista in her slit riding skirt at the idea of being the great-great-lots-of-greats-grandmother to the police chief. She then, with far more seriousness (and the narrative's estimation of a heartfelt twinkle of unshed happy tears in her eyes), responds, "Yes, I do." -- because that's what the narrative wants despite the continuing attempt to sabotage any and all sobriety of this adventure.

And then Ariadne can't help the titter because what on earth is this. They don't even have a punch bowl!

Oh well. The wine will have to do.

"Don't worry, the Chief is from south of the border," Ravn murmurs and turns to look at Una. "And do you, Una de la Vega Irving, take for your wedded wife, Donna Ariadne from the town of bloody nowhere, forever to treasure and whatever else this ridiculous storyline might require?"

He reaches for the cupboard under the crucifix -- altar, right -- and takes out the one thing everyone badly needs now: A bottle of wine. It's a clay bottle with a wooden stopper, unlabelled and humble, but it's fermented grape juice, stomped by authentic peasant feet and no doubt allowed to ferment at least as long as it took to get a stopper into the bottle. "You may now kiss. While I get first dibs on this."

There's a twitch of a smile on Una's face, likely relating to the chief of police, but it's gone in a flash: this is an important moment for her alter ego, and the narrative demands a certain amount of conviction.

"Until the day that I die," avers Una de la Vega Irving in reply, meeting Ariadne's gaze with conviction.

Did Una join the theatre club at school? She must have (or someone gave her lessons, anyway), because she promptly sweeps Ariadne into a kiss that looks pretty damn impressive... unless you happen to be Ariadne (or Una herself), and well aware of the fakety fakeness of it all.

When she pulls back again, she is nonetheless pink-cheeked, with gaze dropped. Also? "I want some of that damn wine."

Beat. "To toast my lovely wife with."

Ariadne remembers vaguely the chief of police from the snowball fight and glances between the two locals for further cues. Her musing on him doesn't last long. Neither will the wine, apparently, and neither will the weird silence of a quiet church. In a lush lift of romantic music -- oh my god, those French horns are just making love to the cellos and twiddling the Spanish guitars in the process, it's like an instrumental orgy -- and a sweep of tactically-placed hands and thumbs, the barista is thus smooched in a fakety-fakeness still visually convincing.

Take that, narrative.

"Wine sounds good," the taller barista then agrees airily once she straightens, her own cheeks pinked as well. "To celebrate this wonderful day with my dashing wife with." There, narrative, you happy?!

"Take a number," Ravn states and upends the bottle. What he wants is a triple Scotch with ice. What he gets is lukewarm none-too-pure red wine that could have done with a filter and another year in a barrel. Blugh.

He passes the bottle over. "Now, get on your goddamn horses and ride off into the sunset or something. There'll be horses outside. After all, how are you going to elope if there aren't?"

He's got this figured out, yep. Totes. Also, bloody hell, half-fermented, unfiltered grape juice packs a punch.

Una makes grabby hands for the wine, taking a long swallow before she hands it on to Ariadne: at least she's a good, sharing kind of wife! Also, she needs to cough, because that stuff is... not great.

"I ought to have a ring to put on your finger, my love," she adds, squinting slightly as she attempts to regain enough brainpower, post-wine, to follow the narrative. "But I trust you know it is there in... spirit."

Spirit rings, a new fad.

"Sunset, right. Nevermind it was dawn when this all started. Thank you, narrative. Come along, wife! We have a honeymoon to enjoy. And maybe a bed to get back to."

As in, THEIR OWN. Separately. You know. Yes.

"Uh, if this is going how I think it's going to go, it's only one horse," Ariadne notes as she reaches to rub at her lower ribs. Ow. Twingey ribs because stupid potatoes, ow. "Because you know I've got to sit in front of the hero and be held about my waist for all sorts of connotations about sunsets and...y'know." Her hand travels up to her hair and she grimaces, feeling at the flower so stubbornly present in her bedraggled up-do. "I don't even know how that's still there, it probably looks terrible..."

Still, wine, yes, time for wine. She takes a big slug of it and ends up coughing as well. It might have just attempted to ruin all interest in red wine in general for the barista.

"Right," she wheezes, needing to roughly clear her throat. "Back to beds. Sunset. Time to hare off and I guess leave you to your...church...minding?" Her inflection upsweeps into a question towards Ravn in particular.

"I've got half a bottle of wine to finish and I bloody well intend to do so. Live well and prosper, have half a dozen kids by some mythical power of narrative." Ravn waves them off -- because he is really quite done with all of this, and he rather hurts, and all he really wants is for his part to be over so he can lie down in the very small and humble pews and feel terrifically sorry for himself.

The horse outside is grey. Because of course it is - the other two were black and white, ergo.

Roll those credits, already.

And don't forget the instrumental orgy.

Or the romantic ending song by some pop crooner where the lyrics leave everything to be desired.