2022-02-25 - Grand Heist Casino

The Grand Olympic Casino never closes. It's quite popular in the tourist season, particularly with the yachters -- head up north for Puget Sound and some whale watching, take a trip south and spend the night at the Grand Olympic before sailing on. It's glitzy and shiny and fancy enough to attract people with money. It's accessible enough for people who are not millionaires to attract the people who have money, but not enough money that they'd rather hop on a private jet to Monaco. It's close enough to a large population centre to draw a reasonable amount of traffic -- but it's not Caesar's Palace in the middle of Las Vegas.

'What happens in Vegas stays in Vegas' has yet to find a local expression; the Grand Olympic is only a couple of years old, and has yet to embed itself in the collective consciousness of Washington State in that fashion. It's close to the Quinault Reservation but it is not Native owned, and not exempt from some forms of taxes and regulations for this reason. It's not in international waters, either; it's not even properly at sea. It's not even close to an international airport, or even a small domestic.

It's close enough to Seattle, Spokane, and Olympia and yet remote enough from all three that no doubt a fair bit of shady deals are made in its swanky halls and lounges. As far as the town of Gray Harbor is concerned, the Casino Hotel is an affordable taste of luxury outside of the tourist season, and somewhere to ignore during. And all of this is relevant to our story only insofar that these are the thoughts going through Ravn Abildgaard's mind as he finds himself disembarking from a helicopter on the helipad atop the Grand Olympic Hotel.

He is dressed to impress and what impresses him most is that somehow, he must have convinced himself to dress up like that. This is going to be one of those Dreams, is it? It is a Dream, of this the Dane has no doubt. There is no way he'd arrive at the Grand Olympic in a helicopter if it was not. You only arrive at a Casino in a helicopter if your time is absurdly valuable, or you consider it a mile beneath your dignity to share a road with the plebes. On some level it bothers him that he's even familiar with this kind of thinking.

"Greetings, my lord. I will be your personal assistant during your stay." A man who looks like a soap opera fan would expect a British butler to look bends his neck in a servile yet brisk fashion and does not offer his hand -- the wait staff does not get to shake hands with the high end patrons.

A Dream can force Ravn into a suit but it cannot force him into pretending he's English. "That's Mr Abildgaard," he tells the man. "I'm not a British peer. Please do not address me as one."

He shouldn't snap at the unfortunate bloke just doing his job. Tough luck. This is not Ravn's idea of fun.

He lets himself be escorted through the motions of checking in and being shown his room -- an elegant suite in a modern design of steel, glass and open spaces that seems almost timeless and offers an excellent view out over the bay. He's still wondering what the narrative here will be, when his personal assistant -- whose name yet eludes him -- adds, "The ladies will be joining you shortly in the Mucha Lounge -- sir."

The folklorist already hates the black cummerband around his waist; those things feel like wearing a corset. He steps into the elevator and as it begins to descend, he closes his eyes and reminds himself, it's a Dream, you know this song and dance, you can do this.

The Mucha Lounge appears named after the artist of the same name; a glorious display of warm colours and floral paintings, dotted with scantily-clad, muscular women with long, flowing hair and graceful postures; the chandeliers are brass and crystal, the music is soft piano, and the ceiling is far overhead, painted like a tropical night sky. It feels like stepping into an Art Nouveau fine arts exhibition. The man who steps out of the elevator and glances around for the ladies (whichever ladies these are going to be) walks with the reserved confidence and control of an Old World aristocrat.

There is something wrong about abruptly finding yourself standing in front of a brightly lit mirror, tube of lipstick in hand, mid-application. Bad enough to have to stare at one's own reflection; worse, to end up smearing lipstick, clown-like, in the jarring moment. "Shit, shit, shit," says Una, hastily reaching for one of the soft hand towels in order to try and repair the damage.

It gives her a moment to study her appearance, whether she wants to or not. Her hair has been piled up on her head, a few stray curls falling about her face, which-- aside from the lipstick-- has been perfectly made up. She's wearing a dark blue gown that sparkles when she moves, with a slit up the front almost to the very top of her leg. She scrubs up well, but her lips purse anyway, the frown marring her airbrushing foundation: this is... new.

The bathroom she's in is ornate, decoratively art nouveau, and the long glass mirror, separate from the sinks and toilet cubicles, suggests she's not in a private home-- so that's one piece of useful information to start.

"Perfume?" offers the black-clad bathroom attendant.

While Count Abildgaard might arrive by helicopter, La Vizcondesa de Vielha e Mijaran has arrived via a sleek black 1938 Cadillac Model 75, the vintage vehicle looking to be in perfect shape... as is the man who steps out to open the door for her. If that suit were any more tailored on his muscular physique, he would probably be popping seams and buttons.

Speaking of excellent tailoring and popping out... The young woman that steps out looks like she might just spill out of her gown. The black satin bustier fits tightly and pushes her small bust up, amplifying it. The daring slit up one side makes it easier for her to walk in the floor length number with its dramatic train. Opera length black gloves are just the perfect touch, while the white (probably high quality faux) fur drape brings the drama up to extra and protects her from the chill between her car and the casino itself. Her long black hair is swept to one side reminiscent of Veronica Lake, though her natural curls are being allowed to shine tonight, too.

A lesser being might not dare such high heels knowing she's going to be walking for some distance, but La Vizcondesa is undaunted by such minor things as comfort or the danger her ankles might be under.

The older woman waiting for her at the door has to struggle to keep up, La Vizcondesa setting a brutal pace despite her heels, the chauffer at her heels with an overnight bag and a rolling suitcase. "Ah, forgive me, Vizcondesa, we weren't expecting you for at least another hour, I'm afraid your suite isn't ready just ye-"

The younger woman pauses, looking the poor hotel employee up and down like she just stepped in dog shit. Her accent is distinctly aristocratic Aranese native speaker who frequently communicates in English, sounding somewhere between Spanish and French, with its own unique flare. "I am expected in the Mucha Lounge. You will take my driver to my suite once it is ready, and send someone out to the car for the rest of my luggage. My full staff will be arriving tomorrow. Further, I will have jewels that will need to be stored in your safe. I assume you have a safe?"

"Ye-yes..."

"Excellent...." When the employee doesn't jump to, she sighs, "¡Dése prisa!" Soon she's within the Mucha Lounge, as well, taking a deep breath as she steps inside, clearly not knowing who to expect, just that she's expected there.

The poor employee and the driver are left to sort things out among themselves, and the driver was hired mainly because he fills out a suit well, clearly.

"I think what perfume you're wearing is just...fine."

Reality screeches to a halt as, one mirror over in the women's bathroom, another woman with her deeply-auburn hair in loose curls falling artfully to the front of one shoulder and the rest down her back pauses. Ariadne blinks. Wow. That's a lot of kohl, more than she'd normally -- is that lipstick? Oh. OH. She's in a dress, wow -- wow, this -- she doesn't own this dress. It's a satin off-the-shoulder sheath number, one that clings to her like a second skin and drapes down to the floor. And oh, look, another one of those daring slits up the left-hand side to mid-thigh. The bodice is a ruffled tucking of wide ribbons of fabric and the gentle wrap of fabric about her mid-biceps is more for show than function. It's also a rather daring shade of merlot-red and...of course her heels match.

Plucking up the hem of the dress by a grip of its skirting, Ariadne eyes the matching heels. Is she going to die? She might die. It might be a twisted ankle and then careening into someone like a drunken ostrich.

Again looking up into the mirror again, she considers the sparkling fall of what must be large diamonds at her ears. "Una. I need you to gently pinch me," she then asks calmly of the other redhead, more than likely earning herself a confused look from the bathroom attendant.

In the lounge proper -- that is, not in the ladies room -- Ravn's slender hand plucks a champagne flute off the tray of an elegant waiter. Today, those customary kidskin gloves have been replaced with something finer -- sleek black silk that glues itself lovingly to his skin, revealing the presence of a ring on each hand, one of which seems a little -- large -- to be a wedding band. If he could get three more like it he'd be carrying a set of knuckle dusters at hand anywhere.

He circles the lounge, unaware that as far as body language goes, he bears a certain resemblance to a shark slowly gliding along a reef -- peaceful for now, majestic in a dangerous way, and still the smaller fish disappear out of his path because once he decides to stop being peaceful . . .

It's a choice. A skill which took him years to build. The best way to avoid people trying to talk to you is to be invisible. When that is not possible, convince them that they're probably better off not trying. And it only works for a while, he knows, because inevitably, somebody decides to break the ice. But for now, at least, it allows him to circle, and try to look for familiar faces, and try to find out what the hell he's supposed to be doing here.

People are milling about, and more are joining every time the elevator dings. This is clearly some kind of gathering or social event for the idle rich. He passes by a couple of gentlemen in white dishdashas -- Saudi or United Emirates sheikhs or princes, no doubt. They are talking with tall, blond gentlemen whose accents identify them to the Dane immediately as Russians. And the one thing that's on Ravn's mind is -- this is all too fancy for bloody Gray Harbor.

The sharp shake of Una's head is enough to deter the attendant, who scuttles back almost as if she's in the throes of some kind of hero worship awe.

That's new.

"It won't help," says the shorter redhead, ignoring this piece of information and focusing instead on her companion-- and oh does she sound relieved to have properly identified Ariadne beside her. "You really do have a fortune hanging from your ears, and you really are wearing a dress. And I really do have a gun of some kind tucked into a garter at my thigh, so that's a thing."

She blots her face once more, apparently satisfied that she's removed the last of the errant lipstick, though the face she makes suggest she's still not thrilled with what she sees. "I expect we need to actually go out there, wherever there is, and face whatever this is. Shall we?"

The elevator dings again, and La Vizcondesa steps fully into the lounge, pausing in a way that just coincidentally shows off her bare leg, the fur stole falling back to reveal her décolletage and the subtle sparkle of black pearls stitched into the flesh tone fabric that keeps her this side of improper. Are they real? They're probably meant to be. The pearls, anyway. Who knows what sort of work she's had done?

She moves with a feline grace, the natural sway of her hip exaggerated only slightly, and still utterly unbothered by the stilettos she's wearing.

It doesn't take long until she has caught up to Ravn's stride, smirking ever so slightly, "Your Excellency, so wonderful to see you again." The accent is flawless, the make up perfectly done, lightening her skin with what is likely a subtle coat of make up on her exposed flesh, with just enough contour to make Perdita's soft features more angular, harder to recognize. Her already full lips seem just a touch too full now, likely due to subtle over lining... and that smirk is definitely a Perdita Leontes expression if ever Ravn has ever seen one.

Ariadne lets out a short sigh of complaint. The diamonds aren't terrible if a little heavy at her ears. It doesn't occur to her at all to count this in terms of wealth, not at the moment, not as she's busy realizing this is a Dream and that goddamned sentient reality of Grey Harbor was taking notes about a certain coffee shop conversation. Casino. She can do this.

"Hey, at least it's a gun. Could be a knife." Because somehow, in the barista's head, this makes more logical sense. "I have this vague memory about something involving my lipstick, but I guess I'll remember it when it's important." A look up towards the ceiling and then around at the empty air of the refined powder-room. "When it's important," she then hisses at...nothing and no one. The bathroom attendant now appears awed and a little nervous -- perhaps the clientele popped a pill or two before she arrived. Ariadne agrees, at proper conversational volume, "But you're right. To arms and into the fray." She fusses at the forward-fall of her hair once more before snapping her small golden clutch shut with pique and then strides -- okay, not 'strides', minces -- her way over to join Una as they depart from the washroom.

It's not but a short walk down a hallway with marble flooring and golden sconces brightly lighting walls papered to evince Old World wealth before it turns to open up on the main room proper. Ariadne stops, clutch tucked against her stomach, eyes wide. "...whoa." There are a lot of really fancy people happening here and she gulps silently. Okay. Okay, she's got this. Any familiar faces? "Una!" she then hisses. "Oh my god! That's Ravn, there, in a suit!"

And she titters. Because suit. Because hated suit.

"Last I checked, I am not a head of state or government, nor an ambassador, a bishop or cardinal, royalty, or the FIFA president," Ravn observes calmly. "The proper form of address is mister, unless you seriously want to kiss my arse and call me by title. Please don't."

He quirks an eyebrow at the ballroom sensation that is Perdita. Ravn knows who he is supposed to be -- but that does not infer he has the first idea who she is supposed to be, only that it's almost a given that it's not turning out to be Perdita Leontes, real estate, out of Gray Harbor.

Here goes, then. He accepts her hand and pretends to kiss the air over her knuckles. "I believe you have the advantage of me, however. The pleasure is surely mine." Who the hell are you pretending to be today? And as the Dane straightens up he glances to the side as if scanning the room. And who else is here?

Una's fingertips stray down to her leg, touching the draped fabric that sits between those fingers and (presumably) the weapon below. Assuming that a place like this has security (exactly where they are remains to be seen, but security must be a thing), how did she get it in here? And maybe more to the point: why did she go to that kind of bother? It's not visible in her expression, since she already looks less than thrilled, but alarm bells are definitely ringing.

Still, there's nothing to do but follow the narrative, and that means leaving the relative safety of the marble bathroom for the-- less familiar question mark of the marble hallway, and into the--

"Oh holy shit." There's a lot to comment on, in the Mucha Lounge, but Ariadne points out Ravn and once she has, that's where Una's attention focuses. "He's going to hate this so much. And is that-- I think that's Perdita. Have you met her? Come on, let's go join them." As fast as she can teeter on heels.

As Ravn bends to 'kiss' her gloved hand, she gives the slightest little curtsey and inclination of her head, a lower ranking member of nobility, albeit from another nation, greeting a higher rank. "Eva María Borbón y Vallabriga, La Vizcondesa de Vielha e Mijaran . It is so good to see you again, Mister Abildgaard, but please, you must call me Eva." she rattles the name off so confidently, so calmly, it's really like she believes that's her name, and only the slight glint of amusement in her eyes says that this is, indeed, Perdita Leontes, and not some odd doppelgänger conjured up by the Dream for its own amusement.

Her voice drops lower, but keeps the accent, her smile not moving even slightly, "Any idea why we're in the casino, why I have lock picks wedged somewhere very uncomfortable and why my driver looked like he could bench press my Cadillac with one hand? Not that I mind that last bit, but the picks seem determined to say frosty."

For once, Ariadne doesn't have to rise up onto her toes to see across the crowd. She still tries and stutter-steps once before catching herself. Heels. Not sneakers. "Oh, damn, you're right! I recognize her now! We met when I was out walking Sam."

Speaking of which, where is Sam? Ariadne has some vague memory of the Sighthound snuggled up next to her on the bed in the Murder Motel's rented room. Surely he's around here somewhere? Hey, narrative, give her the dog back.

Despite her worry about where the brindle-striped animal is, she does her best to float along beside Una, 'float' being the operative term. She has worn heels before, but it's been some time. Maybe a little sashay of her hips. She can do this. As they work their way through the crowd like fish through a reef, it seems an automatic reaction for Ariadne to reach and snag two tall flutes of champagne from a passing tray. One of them is offered towards Una on the approach to Ravn and Perdita. "Liquid courage," the barista mutter-quips before she finds herself smiling. Something about her own lipstick sets off a rill of hidden laughter in her.

"A pleasure to see you both," she then says once in ear-range of the other two, voice deliberately pitched into some velvety tone far better suited for behind a closed bedroom door. "It's been some time. Where was it last...ah, right: Amsterdam." Helluva party, her memory faux-reminds her. "You both seem to have recov -- "

"Madame, your Samwise." A voice at her elbow makes her look over with bored sangfroid -- thank you, butler -- and Ariadne accepts the golden-linked leash to Samwise the...not Silken Windhound.

A young adult (appropriately brindled) Siberian tiger blinks up at her, ears perked and whiskers fletched.

"Thanks," she wheezes, staring down at the tiger. "Uh." Her eyes at still wide as she looks up at the others. "It's Sam, I swear." BUT IS IT, ARIADNE?!

Ravn stands straight -- nothing wrong with the man's posture -- champagne flute in one hand gloved in sleek, black silk, looking quite a lot, well, more than usual; gone is the quiet academic who tends to not draw a whole lot of attention unless somebody decides to get him talking about the nature of the Veil or its ethics. In his place is a confident, taciturn, handsome Scandinavian with eyes the colour of blue steel, taller than most. Somehow, he commands respect. And distance.

A smile lightens up the man's face as he catches sight of Una and Ariadne, though. These are familiar faces, and they are not the people he wishes to intimidate into leaving him alone. "My ladies, a pleasure. I believe we are -- "

Whatever we are. Because that's one bloody huge kitty. Ravn's eyes widen -- and then there is the near screech in some Middle Eastern language behind them, and the subsequent near-stampede of two grown men in white robes, walking quickly towards them, hands out, eager to meet the giant kitty, and a third talking loudly in the manner of someone who is clearly offended that some lady got to bring her tiger when he had to leave his black panther in his room, and what is this, and --

Turns out there are Karens in Saudi Arabia, too.

Champagne is a necessity, right now, and though Una has likely never tasted the 'real' stuff before, this Dream facsimile does a pretty good job of filling in the gaps-- and also easing some of the tension in her shoulders.

At least, right until Samwise arrives.

"Oh. My. God.," says Una, and really, what else is there to say?

Except: "So the two of you," Perdita and Ravn, "are idle rich aristocrats, do I have that right? And Ariadne is just idle rich, because she has a freaking tiger, and don't think I've gotten over that yet because I really haven't. And I'm pretty sure I'm a pop-star of some description, because I received a few squealing glances when I walked in, and also I don't think I have a surname-- that's weird."

Beat. "But what are we actually doing here? Because I have a gun, and I don't think I'm supposed to."

"If you keep speaking like that, you'll have a suitor in no time." Perdita tells Ariadne with a faint smirk. Her accent is distinctly different from her flat midwestern one, but it sounds natural. Is that the Dream, or is that Perdita? Who knows. This is an identity Perdita's used in the past, judging from how comfortable she is in it. She looks like she eats men's hearts for breakfast...which isn't exactly unusual for Perdita anyway...

And then there's a tiger. Ravn is casually handed her champagne flute, and then Perdita is crouching in front of the tiger, baby talking it in Spanish as she gently strokes the tiger's ears. "¿Quién es el gatito más bonito del mundo? ¡Eres tu! ¡Eres TU!" isn't this the same woman who's terrified of bears and wolves in the woods? Everything else, including the gun, the gentlemen suddenly sharing space with her, the fact that the lock picks are pressing in a way that all but ensures she won't need bottom surgery after this dream? None of that matters because she's petting a freaking tiger.

She hasn't been this excited since the month she was in the traveling circus.

Biggest kitty who blinks greeting at the others like you do when you're a biggest kitty.

Samwise the now-tiger lifts his ears and looks in the direction of the approaching people in robes and seems nonplussed. He's probably been greeted like this before. Ariadne seems to have dealt with this before as well; she simply turns and smiles, noting calmly but firmly, "One at a time, gentlemen, he has all of his sharp points."

Samwise licks the first hand to be offered because his brain is still canine, but now he's in this big cat body and really, a spastically-wagging tiger tail just looks pissed off while a dog's tail waves welcome. It's probably very undignified in such an apex predator, but hey: dogs are gonna dog. Perdita certainly garners herself some attention. The young adult tiger rumbles to have his ears petted and squints happily. Mmm. Ear scritchies.

Apparently, Ariadne in all senses of herself believes the large cat isn't going to abruptly maul anyone. She sips from her champagne and tries to take this all in stride. "If I'm idle rich, I'm idle rich because of coffee related reasons...I think. I have some vague memory of answering emails about shipping tons of product and being annoyed at it because Babs is on vacation." Whoever Babs is, she must be a secretary and/or second-hand woman to Ariadne. "She also does have a gun, yes," the barista acknowledges more sotto-voce. "There's something about my lipstick that I don't remember. Samwise is this -- "

-- purring away in his near-tectonic rumble because ear-scritchies, yiss --

" -- and I'm reminded of either Casino Royale or Ocean's Eleven." Golden-hazel eyes lined with kohl flick about her companions. "Anybody have a sudden inclination to break into a safe? I don't have an inclination to find a suitor. Yet." Perdita is eyed. Hey, no giving the narrative ideas.

Ravn does not mind holding a champagne flute in either hand; no guarantee there is anything left in either when reclaimed. He does not seem particularly bothered by the kerfuffle around the tiger; if anything, the robed gentlemen get a steely look that loudly proclaims, These women belong to me -- in Arabic.

It doesn't have a whole lot of effect. Maybe it ought to, and maybe it would have if it had been just the tiger. Nothing in Ravn's background prepared him for sudden flashes of cameras and excited whispers like this: It's not him, it's not Perdita, it's not even Ariadne -- it's the white tiger and it's the pop princess, Una. It's a photo opportunity for the gossip rags, and everyone wants their moment in the spotlight.

Everyone except Ravn, anyhow, who quickly absconds, away from the circle forming around the women. He glances towards the door -- and sure enough, men with discreet ear pieces are already moving forward to confiscate a camera, to remind the Saudi gentlemen to leave the ladies alone, to assure their leader that he too can walk his panther in the lounge if he must but please, later, and to suggest to Ariadne, that perhaps it might be best for the feline to be returned to her suite.

Damage control. And distractions. Ravn knows all about distractions. The only piece of the puzzle that's missing is -- Ariadne is the distraction? Fair enough, but if she is the distraction then what's he expected to be doing while everyone is looking at her and the other two?

Una, pop starlet and red carpet regular, adores the camera, and though this is not a press event, and she certainly casts a glance towards security because this is not supposed to be happening, she's still at home amidst the flashbulbs and glitz.

Una, unemployed and unenthused by limelight, has difficulty with this. Oh, she gamely attempts to maintain the pose her narrative-driven alter-ego encourages, but it's not a comfortable thing, and some of those photos may well capture her deer-in-the-headlights discomfort.

The tiger is probably saving grace in this scenario, attracting just enough of the attention to keep the real Una from hyperventilating.

"Oh, I vote heist if possible," she murmurs, as in the background, the camera is confiscated. "I have every faith in our ability to conduct something like that."

It's not even a (complete) lie.

It's amazing how, at the first flash of a camera, Perdita's hair has fallen just so to obscure her face, almost as if she had some prescient warning that a photo was about to be taken... or split second reactions, one.

It's more amazing how, half a second later, one of the Saudi gentlemen has stepped just wrong and caught the hem of her skirt.

It's even more amazing that she doesn't notice until she's halfway back to her feet, unable to stand, unable to recover as she finally finds something her fancy footwork with heels doesn't allow for, and suddenly La Vizcondesa's elegant skirt rips free from the bodice, leaving her suddenly bowling over the poor gentleman, ass first, both of them falling backward to the ground.

And what's most amazing is the high pitched shriek that comes from La Vizcondesa as she falls, clutching at her bodice, at the skirt that pulled free, at the tender flesh of her chest that likely just got yanked very hard by the industrial strength double sided tape that didn't stop working, at least. She's showing a lot of leg, but she's not showing anything more than she'd be showing in a slightly risque swimsuit on the beach, either, but that shriek means everyone is going to know something exciting is happening... and with her just having been in front of a tiger?

Was this an intentional distraction to give Ravn more time? The world may never know, and Perdita sure as hell isn't going to admit anything.

Where's Ravn?

Why is Perdita's skirt suddenly becoming more of a statement of art rather than fashion? Wait, fashion is an art, right? Ariadne can't help but wince-stare. The paparazzi surely catch this expression in their illicit attempt to capture more of Una's better side.

Samwise now leans his weight against his owner's leg, one large paw lifted, ears back and amber eyes equally wide. What the hell, humans.

"If it's a heist, we're kind of obvious right now," the barista-coffee mogul notes a little airlessly. If the men with earpieces have suggested she return Samwise to her suite, she ignores it because that's what the idle rich do, right? They ignore common sense protocol in lieu of their own wants?

Never in the history of the idle rich has anyone created a distraction that was quite this distracting, at least not while Ravn has been present to observe it. He's almost sorry that he has no idea what he's doing here, or who he's supposed to be robbing while they're busy staring at the dramatic show featuring a hell of a lot of leg, several Saudi gentlemen, and a white tiger.

He stands in the crowd, a little off to the side with that reserved air that seems to come with the membership card to the European aristocracy, and watches. Surely somebody is going to make a move? Pick a pocket, or grasp an elbow, force an introduction -- something?

Cameras flash. Security personnel intervene -- and even escort a couple of people out who turn out to not be on the guest list. There's a guest list, the Dane notes. It's a private gathering, then -- for pop stars, Saudi millionaires, Spanish viscondezas and Danish counts? Anything the very well to do cat dragged in, it seems.

Perdita's distraction is useful insofar it allows him a very good opportunity to look people over; who is staring, who is laughing, who is snapping a quick picture with a mobile phone -- and who is looking as confused as he feels?

Yes. That lady over there, the tall brunette in the short black cocktail dress. She is watching with the same kind of calm detachment that he himself is sporting. She too is wondering why the distraction happened ahead of schedule.

Pop Princesses are not known for their smarts, and Una plays to type: she lets out an incoherent shriek and an over-dramatic gasp, complete with a flutter of hands. It's very, very likely she has absolutely no idea what is actually going on, but when the shoe fits...

"I demand you back away," she decrees, straightening and putting the full force of her voice into it (she may not actually be able to sing, but apparently she can perform; go figure). "These ladies, and the tiger, are not to be mobbed. Step back, thank you very much."

The way she showily reaches for Perdita's hand, in an obvious attempt to help her stand again? Yeah, she's not really aiming to get rid of the attention.

But she still has no idea what's going on.

That distraction is useful for someone at least. When Perdita falls ass-first into the poor(?) Saudi business man(?) it ends with her on top of him, shrieking in embarrassment and clutching her torn dress to her... but one hand ever so conveniently finds its way into the man's clothes and slips away with something of use. When Una helps her to her feet in properly theatrical fashion, La Vizcondesa even manages to blush... when everyone knows Perdita's as shameless as a cat in heat and only slightly more discerning. And whatever she lifted is appropriately slipped to Una during the assist back to her feet.

She wraps the skirt around herself once more, and, amid apologies to the dude she was just on the floor with, she quickly sets about re-fastening her skirt, since it's apparently meant to be two pieces, at least... though probably not quite so dramatically. Knowing Perdita, there was some grand mental image of whipping the skirt off during a fight as a distraction technique during a fight or something. Heartfelt apologies are exchanged with the Saudi gentleman... who doesn't seem all that upset, all things told.

Ariadne is clueless as to the frisking of the Saudi gentleman. She's more concerned about leading Samwise away by a few feet without totally abandoning her crew -- friends -- she'd thought 'crew' there.

Oh god. It just might actually be a heist. Where's Ravn, seriously? He should be wise-cracking about sartorial murder and grumbling about the cameras. Apparently, he was the wise one, scarpering the second the vultures came down. Granted, no more vultures, no more camera, and while Una aids Perdita in finding her feet, the barista scans the crowd.

Maybe there's somebody -- wait, is that brunette...? Something of recognition nudges in Ariadne's mind, but no name comes to mind. Maybe the lack of name is deliberate? Unfortunately, her scan also comes across a gentleman in a tux holding what must be a highball glass of whiskey with the largest ice-sphere this side of Antarctica in it. His handlebar mustache is the Eighth Wonder of the World and waxed to exacting standards. He just happens to be sharking his way in the direction of the three ladies and Ariadne can already feel her upper lip attempting to twitch into a moue of aversion.

"Ladies," drawls the Texan oil baron with an accent as wide as his mustache. He's got to be attempting to emulate a long-horned steer with that facial hair, honestly. "There's a time and a place for this and my room's better for it." He then laughs, the sound lazy as a babbling brook, because he, at least, thinks he's hilarious.

Samwise the tiger just stares.

"Arthur," Ariadne simpers, pasting her falsest smile on her face.

The brunette is interesting in a professional capacity -- and that'd be the profession Ravn does not put on his calling card -- and also in a capacity of narrative. Ravn is tempted to continue to watch quietly, and under normal circumstances -- such as this being reality -- he probably would have. He never worked in circles such as these as a thief; far too much security, far too dangerous. He often watched those with more daring and resources as they did. He rarely told on them or alerted security to their antics because honestly? Most people here can afford to take a loss, and they deserve it.

Una has her end of this kerfuffle under control. He is a little surprised to see his introvert neighbour play the brainless pop star to perfection, but however she is managing, she is managing. Perdita, no surprise at all -- and if the gentleman who landed on her has anything left in his possession but his dishdasha and his boxers underneath, Ravn will be surprised. He has not forgotten about the cravat pin she lifted off his great-great uncle in the middle of a crowded room.

He's also never asked if she managed to hang on to it once reality reasserted itself.

Ariadne's is in trouble. He heads that way and, with a pleasant smile, scoops his arm under hers -- a gesture quite uncharacteristic of the Dane who otherwise prefers to keep his distance to physical touch. "Who's your friend, dear? I do not believe that we have been introduced."

This is the second Dream in a row here Una's high school drama club background has proved its worth; thank you, childhood! (If only she knew how to sink into a different character in real life, where sometimes it might be helpful not to blush at the faintest thing, or struggle to deal with situations both major and minor.)

Unfortunately, acting is not the same as being, and though Una manages to get her fingers around the signet ring Perdita passes her, her attempt to subtly stuff it down her cleavage (and she has a fair amount of that, in this dress (and also, for that matter, in general))... does not quite go to plan.

Certainly, the ring disappears. Unfortunately, it also reappears when it slips straight down the interior of the gown, and hits the floor with a metallic thunk.

No one saw that... right?

The look on Perdita's face as the Texas oil baron approaches is surprisingly polite, but even she's not a good enough actress to hide the micro expression of contempt at the corners of her mouth or the slightest tightening in her eyes. She's dealt with his type before, it seems...

And then the ring falls. No one seems to have noticed yet, and it's that moment that one of the little pearls on Perdita's dress 'randomly' hits the floor and rolls to a stop at Una's feet... which gives Perdita a perfect excuse to bend and snag the ring under the disguise of picking up that pearl. "Remind me to have words with my couturier, this gown is clearly not up to my standards." She huffs.

The pearl, and with it the signet ring, are slipped into one of her opera gloves for safer keeping. She doesn't even shoot Una a look! Una's doing her best, after all, and it's not like Perdita didn't just flash everyone her very high cut undergarment.

"My dear," Arthur replies to Ariadne, his tone already possessive if polite. Her smile twists. Samwise lays back his ears. Thank god it's a Sighthound inside that tiger body; otherwise, whiskers and teeth might already be on display. It's still crystal-clear the large cat-dog doesn't like the Texan oil baron in the least. Arthur opens his mouth to speak again and hears the sound of the signet ring. He looks about, momentarily bemused, and that allows Ravn to sail right in like some tuxedo'd, tall, dashing interloper!

Arthur isn't afraid to hide his brief sneer at the academic in his much-loathed cummerbund. "You were always about the exotic, my dear," he then mutters into his whiskey, this aimed at Ariadne.

Ariadne attempts to draw herself up to her full height. She's still shorter than Ravn in her heels. She speaks loudly enough for the other two women to hear. "This is, unfortunately, Arthur James Hillard III, confused about why he's here in the first place. I thought you were one of the servants," she explains coolly to Arthur, who glowers.

"Given you are apparently...occupied, perhaps one of you other ladies might want a spin of the room? I know where all the good stuff is hidden." Arthur flashes his brows. Surely he means various sundry drugs or persuasions others can grant where enough money is involved.

Let it never be said of Ravn that he does not recognise good manners when he sees them; and indeed, he's not recognising anything at all about Arthur James Billiard Ball Number Three. "How pleasant," he smiles, with all the Old World 'they're Colonials, they don't know any better' that he has observed often enough among his peers. "My pleasure, Mr Billiard. Ravn Abildgaard, Count Engelsholm. You are into interior design?"

Obtuse he does very well. He also does 'not waiting for an answer' very well as he all but spins Ariadne around and drifts on through the room as if there are half a dozen other, more important people we need to see today, dear.

"Oh goodness," says Una to the Vizcondesa. "Such a shame, when it's such a lovely gown." Then again-- hardly re-wearable after this incident, if indeed wearing gowns a second time is ever acceptable (is it? Una suspects not, but it's not precisely information she has at her fingertips). Her cheeks are pink, but it's clear she's doing her best to appear unaffected - for, indeed, there is nothing to be affected by!

Except, perhaps, Hillard, though for him she has nothing less than a shift of her body, quite cutting him out of her circle: two hundred years ago, this would be classed as the cut direct, and though the terminology has likely changed, the intended message clearly has not. "Such a bore of an event," she decides, putting one hand in front of her mouth as if to cover a yawn.

Ariadne and Ravn make their escape from the oil tycoon, and La Vizcondesa watches them go with just a hint of amusement. They're lucky, they get to escape.

"Clearly they didn't mean for it to be dealt with so harshly, but a good gown should be able to withstand all sorts of things." A hint of that disdain has worked its way into her tone, competing with her accent for dominance as she gives Arthur a look. New money, meet old money... or at least the appearance of it. "I already know where the good stuff is hidden." She smiles at Una in a way that has just a touch of heat behind it.

Oh, my. The old 'pretending to be a lesbian with a popstar to get a creepy oil tycoon to leave her alone' ploy.

Arthur knows he's been mis-named. He's not quite sure where the 'interior decorating' comment came from, so he watches the tall Dane swan off with Ariadne and Samwise the not-Sighthound-but-tiger-instead, a small divot of confusion between his brows. What has not been lost to him is how Perdita flashed oh-so-much. Unfortunately, he's completely uneducated in the arts of navigating the ton and Una's shift in weight is taken as challenge rather than dismissal.

Perdita's comment only encourages him -- to an extent. "Now now, you think you know the good stuff, little lady," he replies to Perdita, eyes roving openly over her dress. There's even a shake of finger off his whiskey glass. "You don't know half of it. Ari can keep her Count, they're all inbred anyways. You and your dress you don't want to keep on, you bring your blushing daisy over here," - a wink at Una, conspiratorial, 'I get it' implied, " -- and we'll see about a better time on some silk sh -- "

"Arthurrrrrrrrr." How...melodious? -- the name call. One can almost see the Texan's grandiose mustache wilt. "Darling, the Sheik wants to talk with you!"

"That'll be Lillian." A tight smile from Arthur. "Business calls. Room 203, one in the morning, don't be late. It'll be a grand time." Le wink. And then Arthur departs, thankfully, to deal with business.

Meanwhile, Ariadne sighs from over where Ravn has steered her and Sam the tiger. "Oh thank fuck, he's fucking off again," she mutters for the Dane's ears. A gesture, attempted to be subtle, is given towards Una and Perdita -- come here!

"Small mercies," Ravn murmurs back, equally under his breath. He does not relinquish his hold on Ariadne's arm -- but he does circle the room in a fashion that brings him back to Una and Perdita (and hopefully, Sam does not eat anyone on the way). "I hope that he was not a friend of yours."

Once he does slip into earshot of the other two he releases Ariadne's arm -- or does at least not hold it in a fashion that prevents her from breaking away. He adjusts his cufflinks and says, ever so quietly, with the posture of someone admiring the detailed paintwork of the ceiling, "There is a brunette in a black cocktail dress at my five o'clock. She was very surprised at your little display now. I don't know why we are here, but she is here to steal something."

There is 'acting' and then there is 'I know this is not real but good lord this makes me uncomfortable anyway and that makes it difficult to act' and unfortunately, although Una manages a demurely coquettish drop of the gaze in response to Perdita's smile, Arthur's more blatant verbal sexuality is a Step Too Far: deer-in-the-headlights, cheeks flaming, sharp-lined shoulders and-- oh, thank christ: he's called away.

It's easier, once Ravn and Ariadne are back: easier to let her shoulders drop a little (carefully: there have been enough wardrobe malfunctions already this evening, and Una-the-pop-star probably doesn't want to make news headlines with an accidental nipple any more than Una-the-actual-person), easier to lift her gaze off of the floor again. "What would people come here to steal?" she wonders, low-voiced. "I mean, aside from... signet rings and I guess diamonds and so on. It'd be something more than that, I assume."

Oh, there is no hiding the disgust on Perdita's face, now. Honestly, she'd have to be wearing a mask to keep it from showing how much she dislikes this man. Maybe he reminds her of an ex. She draws herself up to her full (rather diminutive) height, though it is aided by her heels.

"¡Hombrecito ignorante de cerdito, estás hablando con Eva María Borbón y Vallabriga, La Vizcondesa de Vielha e Mijaran! ¿Si alguna vez me vuelves a hablar a mí oa mi amante de esa manera? ¡Haré que te castrarán y usaré los huevos de mosquito que llamas testículos como aretes!"

That... was quite the threat.

Arthur is saved from having a flute of champagne thrown in his face, possibly glass first, by his lady's call.

And as quickly as he's gone, Perdita's apparently calm again, though there's a flush of anger that isn't quite gone, nor is the disgust entirely off her face. "Sorry." she says, very softly.

"An ex." And the disgust on Ariadne's face can't be hidden as well as she informs Ravn of this. Why she ever, in this Dream, had considered dating that slob is beyond her. They rejoin their companions and the barista doesn't seem overly inclined to remove her arm from Ravn's gentlemanly gesture in turn. Maybe she's feeling unconsciously exposed in the moment under the long shadow of an ex -- nothing like one of those to ruin a fancy shindig.

Perdita, however, gets an approving lift of brows from the barista. "You tell 'em -- and no apologizing, please. He's the hairiest asshole. You make me wish I'd taken Spanish back in high school. Whatever you called him, I need to know so I can do it again in the future." Assuming, somehow, Arthur shows up in another Dream. Here's praying not. "But Ravn's right. There's that brunette there," and her kohl-lined eyes designate the woman in question. "And Una's asking the right questions. If we're supposed to be a distraction, we're doing...probably more than expected of us. My brain says I recognize her, but I got nothing otherwise. Anybody think she's competition for our crew...?"

"Speaking of signet rings -- whoever came up with this joke needs to brush up on how this thing actually works in Europe." Ravn glances at his hand, with the silk glove covering a clunky, square ring. "Counts don't actually -- carry signet rings. Really. I'm pretty certain a stamp in wax has not been legally binding for a very long time."

He does not speak Spanish -- or at least so he claims. And yet his ears are burning. Maybe some words are close enough that he can guess the rest, testiculos and mosquitos among them. Whatever the sentiment, though? He probably agrees with it, though seeing Perdita lose her calm is unexpected.

"I do not think we are in cahoots with that young lady. If the narrative had us be her distraction, we should know of her. I think that perhaps, she is the one performing a heist, and we are simply -- prey."

What's that expression on Una's face? Is it... awe?

It may well be. Perdita's threat, not at all understood by the redhead though it is, is a thing of beauty.

"Prey. So our goal is to foil the heist? Or just witness it?" She shifts uncomfortably on her heels, rather as if she would really like to turn around and get a look at the dark-haired woman in question, but is forcing herself to play it cool. "I suspect it must be the former, given at least a few of us are prepared for some kind of action."

There's a flash of a mischievous smile, and Dita tilts her head. "When you grow up with two brothers you learn the threats that actually work."

A cool glance over at the brunette, and Perdita raises both eyebrows slightly. "I've seen her before. Don't ask me where, but I'm good with faces, and I've seen that one before..." she's still maintaining that accent, almost as if she's forgotten she's maintaining it.

"... that time in Dubai." Her brows raise higher, and the smirk toying at her lips indicates that time in Dubai was a good time in Dubai.

"I think we're here to piggyback on her score and take something of our own... maybe even let her team do the hard work and then we take it from them."

"So...I'm hearing..." Fingers of one well-manicured hand unfurl as Ariadne speaks, ticking out options one at a time. "We're the targets. We're the target, but we're in the know so we're here to stick out a leg and trip her up. We're maybe the targets and pull the sheep's wool off our own heads once the stuff is nabbed up. Una's still got the best point. We're prepared. She's got a gun, you've got lockpicks somewhere," -- somewhere, the barista seems to imply at Perdita, drolly amused at this by the twist of one side of her mouth. "I've got lipstick which does something-I-don't-remember, and Ravn has..."

A glance down and up the man, to his hands, and then to his face again. "Signet rings for punching people. Anything else useful on your person?"

"By that logic?" Ravn makes a wry face. "Yes. But the signet ring is not for punching people. The signet ring, and the very sleek silk glove that covers it, is to identify me. If we go by the logic you are using, I am the mark. So I suppose that what we really should be asking ourselves is, is our brunette friend actually our friend, and do we want to let her pull it off?"

"By that logic, so's the one--" Una flushes again, likely in recollection that there was a second signet ring, and 'tuck it into my cleavage, it'll be fine' was not a wise move for how to deal with it. "I wonder if there are more signet rings in this room, and can we use that to our advantage?"

"Speaking of which... Your breasts are not a pocket unless you're wearing a tightly fitted garment directly beneath them." Perdita glances down at her own much more... petite... bust, wryly, "Not that I would know." The signet ring is slipped from her glove easily enough, and she turns her back to the crowd to examine it, then shakes her head, offering it over to Ravn, dangling from her gloved pinky, "Recognize the symbol?"

"If it's about the rings, this is turning into an international situation," the barista notes quietly. The signet ring is offered out by Perdita and Ariadne's eyes flick from it to Ravn, waiting on an answer.

In the meantime, she can't help it: "You guys, we have to start calling Ravn by 'Charlie' now because we're clearly Charlie's Angels if he's the mark."

Samwise the faux-tiger yawns to display all of his big kitty teefies and then lies down majestically. His front paws cross and his tail lazily flips as he scans the room with the detached air of boredom reserved to any cat of any size.

"You realise the nobility -- at least not the European nobility -- does not actually use signet rings? And haven't pretty much since we started signing things in ink because we actually learned to spell our own names?" Ravn makes a little face. "It almost has to mean something though. I suppose I could slip my glove off and we could see if it's at least a familiar signet."

He does so -- takes the tip of the glove between his teeth and pulls. It takes a bit of effort; black silk clings.

The ring on his well manicured, slender hand turns out to display a falcon. "And that is definitely not a coat-of-arms," the Dane murmurs. "No more than my last name is Falconwing or something ridiculous like that. Maybe these are not signet rings after all -- maybe they are fraternity rings. Can I see that one?"

Sure enough. The ring in Perdita's hand also depicts a falcon.

"The... secret society of the falcon?" suggests Una, following on this thread with a furrow in her brow. "Ravn, are you a member of some clandestine organisation, Illuminati-esque? Because... that is kind of cool, and also raises some serious questions."

This time she can't help herself, and casts a speculative glance around the room, managing to put on a bright smile for anyone whose attention she might catch: loving the limelight, of course.

"Good morning, Charlie." Perdita smiles at Ariadne, a genuine one.

When Ravn shows off the falcons, Perdita frowns, ever so slightly. Something is tickling at the back of her memory...

"Ravn. Engelsholm. The man with the walking stick..." her face goes perfectly blank, not showing even the slightest hint of expression, now, which is a very odd thing with her. "It was a falcon in that same design."

Somebody plays along! Ariadne returns the grin given by Perdita. Excellent. Fellow sassitude, ahoy.

Still, the rings appear to be...

"Oh my god..." The last word is drawled out low and steadily, Adriane's brows nearly disappearing into her hairline at the sight of the matching signet rings. The revelation is appropriately momentous. Thank you, narrative. "Look, if this turns into something like Assassin's Creed, I'm going to be useless for a little bit because I'll be squealing softly to myself and wondering where my awesome hooded vest is. Just saying." Ahem. She clears her throat and composes herself, pinking a little at her ears. Pop culture: fun and yet sometimes utterly useless.

"Falcons?" she then asks, glancing to Una and then back at the others, out of the loop in this instance.

Ravn keeps a straight face; Ariadne still on his arm he appears for all intents and purposes just some elegant gentleman with a hefty wallet, enjoying the company of his lady of the evening, a celebrity pop star, and another member of the European gentry, just a bit more to the south. "You're right," he murmurs. And then, for the benefit of the other two ladies involved, "We were in Denmark, during the Occupation. A man carrying a falcon like this shot a prominent German officer. But I don't think we are in 1940 here. So if this is some kind of identifier -- maybe Illuminati or similar is less off the mark than it should be."

And as an afterthought, "I'm pretty damned certain I'm not a member of any organisations like that. I'm not even in the Odd Fellow society."

Maybe Una hasn't seen Charlies Angels, because the glance she aims at Ariadne and then Perdita in turn is a little mystified. But, you know: you do you.

Perdita's mention of Engelsholm means nothing to her, and results in a glance to Ariadne, but Ravn's explanation draws a quick, abrupt nod, and then a serious, thoughtful expression. "No, this isn't 1940, nor anywhere close. I'm wearing spanx." This is important information.

"But: okay. There's a link. I wonder how many other falcon rings there are in this room. That's relevant, maybe, even if we don't know why the falcon means something-- or what it means."

"If this were Assassin's Creed I'm pretty sure I wouldn't have cold metal against my taint." Perdita hisses, softly. "And if we're in 1940, we're in television 1940, because this dress and my lack of structured undergarments..." Perdita shrugs slightly.

"So what. The Casino is a gathering place for a mysterious brotherhood of the rich and famous... and it's being hit?" she sighs softly. "I wonder if I had plans or anything in my luggage..." she murmurs, "Does anyone actually have pockets in their garments? I don't fancy having a ring pressed against my boob, and I'm also not fond of it going to join the lock picks."

"This is true," the barista agrees of hidden lockpicks. She has no idea where she'd hide her own set if she owned any.

"Maybe we can go check your luggage?" Ariadne shrugs as she offers this option in light of Perdita's musings. "I've got no pockets in this dress anyways." How drolly she reports this. No place to hide...anything, really. Not in the fabric, at least. "I could slide the ring onto Sam's leash. Nobody in their right mind is going to try and yank on it if it's attached to a tiger. Or slid down it and onto his collar." A chuff from the young adult tiger, still regally sprawling beside her, slow blinking his way across the room at nothing in particular.

"I have pockets. I'm a man." Ravn can't help a wry smile. His suit jacket has plenty pockets. So do his tailored trousers. And he could probably conceal half a dozen lock picks in the cummerband alone. "Gimme."

He dares a single glance in the direction of the brunette; she is -- not at all surprisingly -- not there. Wherever she is -- will be somewhere he does not see, at least if he is the one she intends to deal with. "So the question now is, do we try to make contact? Do we assume that the falcon guys are the good guys and the brunette's people are not? Because if that's the case, then apparently I'm in cahoots with the Arab guy who just threw a fit that he doesn't get to walk his large hunting cat here, and I really do not feel very connected to that level of entitlement."

Una's lack of pockets (and structured undergarments that aren't the aforementioned spanx) is pre-established, so it's no wonder that she says nothing: she's learned her lesson, oh yes.

Except, of course: "Of course the man has pockets. I mean, I'm sure pockets would ruin the line of this dress, and yet..." Una brushes a hand down the flowing fabric of her skirt and makes a face. It's pretty, and yet... And yet.

"Okay, so this is the part where I really don't know what to do. If we go and check luggage, we're leaving this room, and that could be bad? But if we don't, and there's something we're missing... and I don't know. How can you tell good guys from bad? This is some moral lesson about how you can't work these things out, superficially, isn't it. We're going to fuck this up because we don't have all the information."

Breathe, Una.

"But if you have a ring, that does seem to imply we're on that side, unless we're not all on the same side."

"If I had a phone on me, I'd call my boytoy of a driver. Not sure how I feel about having a boytoy driver, at this point, but I have one. I think he might be our hired muscle... With this being a Dream, though, nothing major narratively can happen without us, right?"

Perdita doesn't seem all that sure of it... but she offers the ring to Ravn with an apologetic smile to Ariadne. Having the tiger carry it might let someone else see it, who shouldn't, after all...

"Pockets win, always." Ariadne doesn't seem offended in the least that the ring disappears there rather than onto the leash-chain draping from her hand to Samwise the faux-tiger. He flips his tail again and looks up at his owner, ears perked, perhaps sensing intention building.

"Let's go check luggage," she then repeats a little more firmly. "We're going to waste time out here talking to people who either don't want to talk or who want to talk way too much about the Falcons, not the falcons, or some fancy shoes or cars involving falcons. Besides, she's right: the Dream can't progress without us figuring something out. I bet we're driving the GM nuts." A snort-laugh to herself.

"Better idea yet -- you three ladies go powder your noses and check the luggages and I will stay right here in plain sight. Nothing much dramatic can happen to me in the middle of a crowded room -- there's plenty security. But someone might be waiting for me to be alone to slip information my way, or try to initiate contact in the hope of going through my pockets or things later. Take ten minutes and if you're not back? I'll come looking for you." Ravn deftly replaces his champagne flute off the tray of a passing waiter. Whether the waiter notices is anyone's guess, he's got a light touch.

"Ariadne's right, though. To progress whatever story this is, we need to give the narrative some kind of opening. So let's do that."

"I hadn't thought of that," admits Una, acknowledging the reality of the situation: whatever is supposed to happen, it's going to require their presence. This is not, after all, real life. "Ok. Ok." Having something to do seems to have eased her anxiety; the rest of the champagne she's just quaffed probably won't hurt either.

"Ladies? Let's go." And Una, pintsize pop-princess, sails across the lounge, presumably anticipating that her two rich and famous companions will fall in alongside (or behind; that's fine too).

After all, what's better than leaving a room? Making an exit of course.

"I would also like to get into a dress that doesn't literally have a break away skirt." Perdita mutters. "Or at least find some one-legged pants to make it a statement."

"... I need to find out where my suite is." she says, softly, trying not to laugh. She was so busy getting into character as La Vizcondesa that she forgot to find out which suite is hers.

And right on cue, one of the staff steps up, discretely slipping her a room key in the form of a card, with the number on it. Of course it's one penthouse suites. La Vizcondesa wouldn't have it any other way, after all.

"Shall we, ladies?" She offers her arms to both women, glances over her shoulder to make sure Arthur is watching, and blows him a kiss as she leads her new companions, and the poor pup pretending to be a tiger, off.

Nodding agreement, Ariadne takes a moment to fix an errant lazy curl of her hair from out of her line of sight. There's artful draping and there's purely-in-the-way-get-the-fuck-into-place-thank-you.

"Ravn gets to schmooze out here and we're off to raid suitcases. Sounds good to me. Good talk, team, and break." Ariadne can't help the little laugh. This is all...ludicrous. Una gets to sashaying because nobody makes an exit quite like her, apparently, and like the red-clad piece of eye candy Ariadne might be (that she is, let's be honest, even if she wants sneakers, the narrative is not having it), she slides her arm out from Ravn's elbow to hook it around Perdita's arm instead. Samwise the not-really-a-tiger stalks along beside her at a comfortable pace, looking around still in interest at all the glittery things and loud, smelly people. The perfume and cologne game is something fierce.

"Tah, darling, we'll be back," she calls out to Ravn over her shoulder and winks at him -- a pretense, of course, to keep Arthur scowling up a storm over by Lillian and the conversation he'd rather not be having right now. "Poor Ravn. Stuck schmoozing." A rueful smile to Perdita and Una as they travel into one of the side halls leading towards the suites. "We can't let him suffer for too long."

The ladies depart, with much dramatic gusto and many a stare in their wake; that's a Spanish viscondeza, a pop princess, and a woman with a bloody tiger, after all. The man who remains where the little circle stood is by comparison nothing special -- just a tall, not too shabby looking fellow in a casual, if well fitted black suit with a black silk cummerband. He may be somebody -- most people here who aren't wait staff are likely somebody -- but he lacks the flamboyant and dramatic graces of those three beautiful birds of paradise.

He must still have something, though, because it does not take more than a few moments before a tall brunette in a black cocktail dress slips into his sphere of vision, toying with a champagne flute of her own. "I am certain we have met. It may have been a while back but I think we were in Dubai. How are you, Mr Abildgaard?"

The Dane knows that he has never seen this woman before a few minutes ago when he noticed her watching. What he does not know is whether this is a kind of narrative where he is supposed to know her. It is a bit uncharacteristic of these -- ficlets is the term that plops into his mind -- to not make it obvious what needs to happen. And that, rather than being abducted into some kind of alternate reality, disturbs him far more than the actual scenery. Una and Ariadne have not realised yet; he is unsure whether Perdita has: Not every story is a story. Sometimes, it's just an elaborate setup to cause suffering. And the more lost you feel -- well, if a story teller wants a story told, they do tend to feed you lines.

"I can't quite seem to recall," he ventures, carefully. "You know these grand places -- most of them are gorgeous but after a while you struggle to remember which one is where."

He is rewarded with a peal of laughter like tinkling bells. "That's so true, isn't it. You're here with Prince Abdullah, then? That's one auction you will not win, my dear Count. You're outclassed, literally." The woman raises her hand as if she meant to slide it under his arm in the fashion that Ariadne did earlier -- and then pauses and returns it to her own side, as if remembering that Ravn is in fact anything but appreciative of uninvited touch. This, of course, reveals to him that she knows who he is, more than merely a name read off a guest list in passing: Ravn Abildgaard, Count something unpronounceable, do not touch.

The ladies room is as one would expect from the Grand Olympic: Beautiful, extravagant, almost too much. The Casino Hotel is, if one wants to be a little blunt, not built for the international jetset -- it's built for the people who want to live like the international jetset for at least a few days. Not the one percent -- but definitely the three. It's Mar-a-Lago to the Versailles, rich and ambitious but lacking that last, subtle class.

There's a saying among the old families of Europe: Money talks to find its own. Meaning that people who need to flaunt their wealth and class don't have enough of either. It's pretty arrogant as sayings go, but it does have a point.

The perfumed towels for nose powdering are nice, though. It almost makes up for the sound of a domestic argument from the hallway just outside. A woman's voice is berating somebody in sharp, heavily accented French -- her voice is rapidly increasing in volume, threatening to become shrieks of rage. A man's voice rumbles back, in a language that is not one of the Romance languages at all, quietly furious.

"No--" agrees Una, who allows her shoulders to droop just slightly once they're in the quieter corridor; there's no one else in view now, but that could change any moment, and she'll be ready, but oh, it is a nice feeling to stop performing, just for a moment. "No, we shouldn't leave him alone for long. This whole thing feels wrong. Ladies room first."

The redhead freezes at the sound of that argument, turning her head so that she can blink at her companions and lift her eyebrows in silent query: does either of them speak French, or... well, whatever that other language is? Sadly, neither Una Irving nor Una-the-Popstar seem to speak anything other than English; probably no surprise.

Beneath her breath, in a sharp whisper: "That sounds... bad."

"If I'm entirely honest I'd rather be back there picking every single one of those pockets... but I have a feeling Ravn is the one the story wants there... and I would like to change into something a little less likely to result in that creepy old man hitting on me again. I'm done pandering to that sort."

In the ladies room, Perdita takes a moment to ensure her skirt is securely fastened to the bodice, this time, bending hooks that were damaged back into place, touching up her curls in the mirror and glancing over her make up to verify nothing's moved. Of course it hasn't. One thing is true in any reality: Perdita Leontes knows how to paint a face.

"... That... really doesn't sound good. I don't suppose either of you speak French? I'm catching bits and pieces, but... There's a reason I'm a Vizcondesa rather than a Vicomtesse, tonight..."

A sigh, and she squares her shoulders. "She sounds like she needs back up."

Guess the tiger's going into the bathroom with them all. Not like the attendant's going to stop Ariadne from wafting in on Perdita's arm while framed on her left by Samwise. At least he chuffs greeting at the attendant; whether or not that's taken as threat or understood in the spirit of 'hello' is entirely uncertain. That attendant has the poker face to win them all -- except for the single sliding step back.

"Come here, good boy," murmurs the barista-in-red and the young adult tiger plops to a lazy sit before her, making soft happy sounds. He's just short enough for his ears to brush the underside of the sink she stands at now. "I can imagine you'd find some good things in those pockets." A grin for Una and Perdita both. Her golden clutch is slipped from her wrist and she opens it to peer inside. Wow, the fancy make-up stuff. She doesn't even recognize some of these brands. What even is this particular smudge-stick for? Ariadne is reading the miniscule font on the label when she hears the argument start up.

A glance to the attendant, who lifts brows in a silent deferral of 'no nose goes'.

"Nope, no French for me, unfortunately," sighs the barista as she puts the smudge-stick away. Now, a perfume roller, that she recognizes. Touching her wrists and neck up, the roller is put away, and the clutch snaps shut like the cocking of a shotgun. "Back-up, we shall be. Let's go innocently meander obviously in that direction." Samwise takes up his shoulder-rolling padding pace beside the barista again as she moves to exit the ladies room. The two people arguing aren't hard to spot, let's be honest. Or hear. Shrieking tends to pull attention.

"A man has to at least make an attempt," Ravn offers back to the brunette as some sort of weak joke. So there is a Prince Abdullah, and there is an auction, and he's expected to bid on it but get outbid? Given that Ravn is not a collector, whether of wines, art, or vintage cars or whatever else the idle rich tend to hoard, he dares not breach the subject further. Whatever it is that's going to be put up for sale, he's supposed to be interested in it. Gotcha.

"So true, darling," says the woman and sips daintily from her champagne flute. "Still, the Prince will at least be jealous of your company. The one and only Una Irvington, mm? That's ambitious."

The people arguing outside the ladies room turn out to be a tall, gorgeous woman of obvious Middle Eastern origins -- olive skin, Grecian profile, gorgeous dark eyes painted with shades of copper and gold and the perfect cat's eye liner. She is as beautiful as money can buy, and dressed in a dark emerald dream of an evening dress, with a discreet floral pattern in copper thread; timeless, elegant, wealthy.

The man she is chewing out, for lack of a more ladylike term, wears a high end cream suit and a headscarf that identifies him as Middle Eastern; probably part of that Saudi entourage, or maybe from one of the other wealthy small nations in that region. He is probably not the Prince Abdullah of whom others are speaking -- an actual prince would have security guards, however discreet, and he would likely not tolerate being dressed down in public like that -- by a woman, or by anyone else.

It's not easy to understand what they're arguing about -- in particular when one does not speak French nor whatever Middle Eastern language the man is replying in (Arabic, presumably, but there's never any guarantees). Perdita does catch a word here, an inflection here -- enough to recognise, at least, that the two are discussing an auction, and something about falcons. And the lady is clearly very disappointed with the action or lack of action of her companion.

Does Una really want to approach the arguing couple? No. N-to-the-o, no hesitation, no. The shoes are uncomfortable, the dress is heavy, and being 'on' is exhausting, particularly when being 'on' means employing a mask of froth and fabulousness.

The level of discomfort she's beginning to feel cannot be understated: it sits heavy on her shoulders, almost certainly the cause of the twitch of one eye.

But. But. The Dream has cast her in this role, and the Dream is going to get what it needs, because the sooner it does, the sooner the redhead can be home and in bed, where she was supposed to be.

And so. Una squares her shoulders as she departs the ladies room, buoyed at least a little by her companions, and marches straight for the arguing pair, quite as if she really does have the confidence of her character. "I don't mean to interrupt," she trills. "but that dress!"

A subtle nod to Ariadne as she wipes at the corner of her own lip with a tissue, smoothing out the faintest imperfection in her lipstick, before she walks with her companions out to the argument in question, her expression perfectly neutral as she approaches, confidence oozing from her even though she probably wants to curl up and die. Even Perdita has a LITTLE shame, and having your clothes malfunction like that will provoke it, if not for the skin, then for the shoddy worksmanship of the clothing.

"Yes, I must know, who is your couturier?" she smiles politely at the man in a 'you understand, we're frivolous girls' sort of way, then turns that attention back to the beautiful woman in emerald... with an approving glance to Una. She knows the other woman would prefer to sink back, but that she can step up does Perdita's heart proud. She'll make conwomen out of them all, yet.

Asking after the designer of the woman busy dressing down the man seems a clever-enough ruse for sticking one's nose into private business. 'Private' being a relative term, given there's enough temper involved to not care overmuch about the publicity of the current 'discussion' at hand. Samwise's rounded ears perk as he smoothly pads shoulder-to-knee with Ariadne. She doesn't speak up, judging that the enthusiasm of her cohorts is going to carry them at least into conversational territory. She needn't be a third and potentially overwhelming force involved in this charade, in her estimation, not until more information is forthcoming as to the 'why' of it.

Instead, tallest of the group, she lingers towards the back and wears a small, polite smile on her lips (which still sport this lipstick-that-does-something-WHY-CAN'T-SHE-REMEMBER-WHAT). Samwise lazily flicks his tail and sits when his owner stops walking; his whiskers crinkle in reaction to her fingernails combing with comfortable familiarity through the thick, soft fur behind his back-spotted ears.

"Tom Ford," the elegant lady in the green dress snaps. Her tone conveys something along the lines of this is a private fight, find your own rich dude to yell at -- and to at least Perdita, it conveys an additional layer of sod off because given her particular interest in high end fashion (gotta know your marks), it's obviously not true; Tom Ford does hyper-modern avantgarde design, and this? This is a homage to the long gowns of the 1940s. Maybe it means something; maybe it doesn't.

Another woman brushes past, forcing emerald dream gown lady to step to the side, closer to the Saudi she is scolding. A ring flashes on that woman's hand; a stylised silver falcon briefly catches the light. Lady Emerald breaks off mid-sentence to hiss something under her breath. Then she pushes away from her companion and follows the other woman in that casual, inconspicuous way of I am just heading in the same direction as you, and it's entirely coincidental. By now it's obvious that there are people here hoping to pull some kind of theft. The real questions are: How many, are they all working with or against each other, and what are we stealing?

Does the Saudi man realise? Maybe. Maybe he is just one of the marks. He shakes his head in that tired fashion of a harangued husband or companion, and heads back towards the Mucha Lounge too. Maybe he needs a stiff drink.

The long look that Samwise the Tiger gives him probably means nothing. Maybe the dog-turned-tiger doesn't like his cologne. If dogs -- or rather, tigers -- could hold their nose, he would.

"I--" begins Una, still in 'Una the starlet' voice and not her own, though she doesn't get any further than that: Lady Emerald is on the move, and the redhead seems utterly uncertain as to what to do next. She waits until the Saudi man heads off, though in the meantime she's got wide-eyed glances for Ariadne and Perdita. In a hiss: "Falcon. Do we follow? Sneakily?"

That in and of itself may be a problem. It's not as if three ladies in gowns and heels, and, oh yes, a tiger, are especially subtle-- and Una does seem to have worked this much out.

La Vizcondesa's eyebrow quirks ever so slightly at both the bad lie and the snappish tone, but she merely tilts her head slightly in acknowledgement of the woman's words... until both the argumentative Lady Emerald has swept off, as has her companion. "If that gown is a genuine Tom Ford, I'll eat my-" Perdita mutters to herself, accent entirely gone... and then seems to remember where she is and flashes a smile.

"We follow, of course. When a clue is offered, we track it down." Easy for her to say, usually moving in heels is no issue for her... except when strange men are standing on her clothes.

Eat your own what? Inquiring minds almost ask aloud, but Ariadne is busily watching the lady in the elegant green dress sashay off with a censorious frown. Bitch. She does glance down at Samwise and follows his intent look; he's watching the gentleman half of the argument retreat with a particular lash of his tail.

"Hey now," she murmurs to him and reaches down to gently scritch at his cheek to distract him. The tiger breaks line of sight and meets her eyes in turn, ears perked. "No being a creeper." Cue tiger head-bunt against her thigh and consequential transfer of hair to her fine dress. Oh well. Such is the fate of clothing around any creature with fur. More loudly, she agrees: "Following is wise. We can meander in that direction and I won't be lying at all if I have to claim that I get lost somehow. I don't know the layout of this place at all."

At least it means drifting past the lounge again. Perhaps they can spot Ravn and see how he's faring against the circling of the social sharks.

Everyone converges on the Mucha Lounge, from each their own directions; from arguments in the rest room foyer to raiding the bar for a new and exciting cocktail, from trying to impress somebody's bored wife with talk of your newest vintage car acquisition, to complaining that some people apparently get to show off a tiger on a leash while your shih-tzu has to stay in your hotel room with its sitter.

There is such a thing as the right moment, narratively speaking. It's now.

Grand doors open to admit an important looking older man in a headdress and black dishdasha, jewelled rings on his fingers hinting of considerable wealth and importance -- as do the discreetly armed guards on either side, and the dittos fanning out to mingle inconspicuously, recognisable on their ear pieces and their focused looks. These are hard men, no matter how much they've been outfitted with quietly elegant black suits. They are wolves in a yard of birds of paradise -- so bright their plumage, so fine their colours, and so fragile their frames. This must be the Prince Abdullah who is supposedly Ravn's opposition in the bidding war on -- whatever the thing turns out to be.

Ravn remains where he is; a pillar of calm in a swirling ocean of colour. Relaxed though his cummerbund and tux may be, he is conservatively dressed compared to most -- or maybe it's his posture, withdrawn and quiet amidst flamboyant people. The man sometimes professes to a skill of social invisibility -- and looking at him now, it is almost eerie how he manages to be at the centre of the room, with a gorgeous lady hanging off his arm and yet, if anyone were to be asked later that's exactly what they would remember: There was a gorgeous lady, hanging off the arm of some bloke or other.

Sometimes, invisibility is not hiding in the shadows but making yourself unworthy of a second glance. It's quite easily achieved in a room full of people who do want to be seen and noticed.

Here is the lady in the saffron gown, with a silver falcon on her hand, with the lady in emerald in sharp pursuit. And here is the Saudi bloke with the silver falcon ring, still pouting about the tiger and how he was not allowed to bring his pets. And here is Ravn, silver falcon ring concealed under a silk glove, attempted distracted by the tall brunette in the cocktail dress, hanging on his arm. It's almost like watching a game of checkers except instead of black and white there is falcon-no falcon.

He can only hope that Saudi and Saffron have a clue as to what's going on here, because he doesn't have the first damned idea. Somehow, the Dane muses, this is starting to feel normal. It's certainly been a recurring theme in Dreams lately.

"Following," accepts Una, with just the hint of a sigh, and a glance at her companions that suggests ever more clearly that-- yeah. This is less fun, for Una. "Once more into the breech," she suggests, sotto-voce, as the trio end up on the move again.

High heels clatter on marble floors as she moves-- as quickly and as quietly as she can-- after their targets. Their arrival, so perfectly timed to the arrival of the presumed Prince, draws a little breathy exhale from the redhead, whose sharp-eyed gaze considers him for a moment, then breaks away to sweep the room.

"Now what?" she murmurs to her companions. "I don't even know what we're looking for."

"I've only been here once, with some friends." Perdita offers to Ariadne, the false accent back like it'd never left. "It's surprisingly sprawling."

Prince Abdullah gets an appreciative look from the young woman. She recognizes a display of wealth and power when she sees it, and she hasn't been off the streets long enough to forget what cold and starving feel like. Money like that could set a girl up for life, after all... but she also hasn't forgotten that this is a Dream, that they're here on a mission, and it definitely has something to do with those damn falcon symbols.

Perdita takes in the room with an experienced eye, making sure they're not there to foil an assassination attempt, instead of committing or stopping a robbery.

Whispered to no one in particular: "Algún tipo de pista estaría bien."

Granted, the Prince knows how to make an entrance. Ariadne goes from wondering what on earth Ravn is doing with a strange woman on his arm -- blending in well enough, that's for sure -- to watching the man. It's an excellent distraction, a stirring rod to froth up the room into further intrigue. People love the man, hate the man, want him, want to off him --

The barista blinks, her hand automatically descending to Samwise's head to keep him calm and to give her own self a self-centering moment.

"Falcon rings. That's the dividing line. If this is a bidding war, it's still a war," she murmurs, wanting to fret at her lipstick but knowing better than to do so. "If I really hated anyone wearing a falcon ring, they might all be here. If I wanted to get rid of them all at once? I'd stage it so it looks like someone with a ring takes the fall for something. Anyone else wearing a ring is an accomplice by proxy of wearing them. Look at the number of security goons who just showed up."

How convenient. One for each person knowingly wearing a falcon ring and one or two more.

"Christ on a cracker. Uh. Shit. We need normal security in here somehow. We need to make a bigger scene than we did before."

Says the lady with the tiger.

"And so the show begins," sighs the brunette still resting dainty fingertips on Ravn's arm, a touch so feather light that she must be aware of his issues, and taking great care to not suddenly brush against him somewhere he does not expect. An accidental knee or elbow, and she will have far more attention directed their way than she wishes -- and on Ravn's end, he only tolerates this light touch because rejecting it would potentially create too much of a scene. He remembers very well what this is like -- having to keep up appearances, dedicating a substantial amount of your awareness and mental CPU to just avoiding a scene.

Hell, he tells himself wryly, at least I don't have a jealous fiancée bursting in any moment now to claw this woman's face off, whoever she is.

A man in a perfectly tailored tuxedo, sporting a bright crimson cummerbund much like Ravn's black, claps his hands. Enough of the murmurs of gossip and small talk dies down that he can be heard. "And so I believe our little gathering is complete. Welcome to the Grand Olympic, Your Highness -- and may I say on management's behalf, it is truly an honour for our little town to have royalty visit. And pay its bills."

Cue the expected number of low chuckles. Cue Ravn murmuring very quietly, "That's the wrong manager."

"Pardon?" says Saffron, on his arm. "I'm sure it's not important, my dear count. Mr Evans is probably just very busy."

Una does not understand enough (read: any) Spanish to be able to translate Perdita's whisper, though the glance she aims at the other woman suggests she's heard something. (She would almost certainly concur). What she does understand is Ariadne.

Quick-thinking Una. Not-always-thinking-things-all-the-way-through Una. (Panicking Una?)

It would probably make sense to leave the distraction to the lady with the tiger. The lady who knows how to punch things. Anyone whose skills have better prepared them for this kind of thing.

But she does not.

What Una does do, thinking too fast, is flick her fingers against the draping fabric of her skirts... and set them alight. It's a controlled burn, but still a burn: flames lick the floor, smoke rises.

"HELP ME I'M ON FIRE!" yells Una.

"Well, we need to stop whatever's going to happen before Ravn gets caught up in i-" aaaaand Una's on fire.

And if Una's declaration of being on fire isn't enough to get everyone's attention, La Vizcondesa's Scream Queen worthy performance is enough to probably get the crystal ringing and almost make ears bleed. It's probably a good thing she lives on the penthouse of a seven story building, because she has lungs.

She goes to step to one side, frantically flailing and shrieking in Spanish, "¡Llame a los bomberos! ¡Llama una ambulancia! LLAME A SU ABOGADO!!!"...

Only to lose her balance in her haste to get away from the literally firey red head that is Una, and as she tumbles, somehow her hand snags in Samwise's golden leash before she goes rolling gracelessly to the floor with one of her heels literally taking to air. It soars through the air with the greatest of ease...

Only to slam, thick platform first, into Saffron's forehead. Perdita couldn't have aimed it better if she tried. And she definitely didn't try, that was a very real, very hard fall, and only some judiciously placed double sided tape kept her inside that ridiculous dress.

Ariadne asked for a distraction.

She'll learn, shortly, that phrasing is critical when asking after distractions.

It happens quickly. The man in the crimson cummerbund is the ringleader of at least the bidding circus war and he'll probably be the ringleader of what amounts to a raucous mess shortly here. He claps his hands...

...and Una is on fire. Somehow. Perdita then shrilly announces it to the world and both barista as well as tiger levitate off of the ground. Her hand then tangles in the golden leash, ripping it from Ariadne's hand and making Samwise add his own offended ROWRL into the symphony of reaction. Nothing like a young Siberian tiger suddenly half curling upon himself and flashing those ivory teeth along with fletched white whiskers and flattened ears to really make the point of needing personal space.

Ariadne is quick enough to regain the leash and immediately see about shushing the young tiger.

Bigger scene made? In smoking, shrilly collapsing, tiger-accented spades.

One moment a man has two concerns: Keeping Saffron from getting too friendly(1) and figuring out what's going on. The next moment a pop star is on fire, Saffron is out cold thanks to someone's platform shoe, and there's a miffed tiger looking around for someone to blame. His life certainly isn't boring at the present; in fact, this is rather more excitement than Ravn recalls from any casino or auction he's been subjected to in waking life.

1) Where too friendly means just about anything that occurs inside a man's personal space, i.e. a bubble about a metre wide around himself in any given direction at any given time.

The pitch of Perdita's scream clues him in as to at least part of what's going on. He knows the former fellow ex-grifter to keep a clear head under pressure. When she's suddenly screaming like that -- and about avocadoes, what? -- it's part of the show. An attempt at misdirection. From what? He scans the room quickly amidst the chaos. Hopefully Ariadne knows how to handle a damned tiger, because he certainly doesn't. Hopefully Una knows what she's doing with that fire -- but he's seen her manipulate fire before, have some faith.

A distraction has been provided. Make use of it, Abildgaard.

Falcon ring wearers contra falcon ring wearer distractors. Prince and security guards. Something is about to go down. In this he agrees with Ariadne's unspoken observations thirty seconds previous. Casino security reach for their radios, reaching the same conclusion (or at least enough of a conclusion; royalty plus tiger plus fire plus screaming equals a possible Situation). Good. This means whatever is going down has a lot of eyes on it.

Whatever the something is. A theft? Probably not of whatever it is we're bidding on here, that would be too obvious. Something that involves the Saudi Prince? No doubt; royalty does not visit a place like the Grand Olympic every day or even every year.

He's still looking when something flashes; a hand into a shoulder holster, a gleam of dull gunmetal, and then, a dull plut noise. The man with the falcon ring; the Saudi who complained that he did not get to bring his pets. Maybe he hopes to manage to escape against all odds; maybe whatever the distraction was meant to be has obviously failed, and he decided to take one for the team.

The Prince sways and -- falls.

Even Una seems startled by Perdita's scream, and she's the one on fire.

Actually, this whole 'being on fire' thing is, in retrospect, less than ideal: the fabric of her dress is, after all, flammable, and being able to manifest it does not necessarily mean being able to control it. Or, at least: being confident in one's ability to control it.

There's so much going on, too, and for a moment it distracts the flaming redhead-- and then she remembers. Flames. Thankfully, not on the side of her face, but still flames.

Una, abruptly remembering childhood fire safety exercises, stops, drops-- and then rolls.

So now there's a second woman on the floor, and so maybe its just about normal that the Prince decides to join them, except...

Una stops what she's doing (luckily, the fire has gone out quite nicely), laying face-down on the floor but with her head propped up, not so distant from the Prince in the scheme of things, and with a clear line of sight to where he's fallen.

"Oh shit."

The leash, partially wrapped around Perdita's arm, is returned to Ariadne, with Perdita grousing as she stands back up, her other heel abandoned on the floor. At least her dress is in one piece this time, though her elbow and one knee are heavily abraded from the fall. Not enough to bleed, but she may have some explaining to do, later. And then Abdullah's being shot, and the gunman...

Perdita's good at hiding how much things impact her, usually. But having seen two men gunned down in quick succession a few weeks prior has left its mark on her, and with Prince Abdullah on the ground, Dita looks to his gunman, eyes wide. She knows what's about to happen, and she'll be damned if she lets another person die, even if they did just (maybe) kill someone.

One step, then another, and Perdita's charging forward, long skirts in one hand, a discarded drink tray in the other... and then the slender girl is backed into by someone's bouncer, an elbow connecting with her cheek... and sent sprawling into her poor target with a genuine scream of pain. Perdita's always said that if she ends up in a situation where she needs to fight, she's failed at her job. And this Dream is driving home how hard she's failed.

Again. And again. And again.

Samwise is getting calming pets, yes, but then comes the silenced (mostly silenced) gunshot.

It makes Ariadne freeze. She hasn't heard this sound before, but there's something elementally familiar about it, as if many films might have ingrained some parallel memory in place of the real thing. Except, now she's heard the real thing. Una's rolling about because she is literally smoking, christ on a cracker and where's the nearest glass of champagne to throw -- never mind, fire's out. Ariadne continues standing next to Samwise, he swishing his striped tail and otherwise looking unimpressed as well as moderately uncertain about proceedings. Her kohl-lined eyes are wide. There goes Perdita, flinger of a well-aimed shoe.

"Perdi -- " Ooh, and that had to hurt. The scream of pain makes the barista's skin crawl. Samwise lets out another concerned rowl at a lower if no less dangerous volume. His nostrils flare. He can scent blood. "Easy now, easy," croons the red-head, her voice tight despite her attempt to keep utterly possessed of sangfroid. She can see casino security moving into gear. It's wiser to stay put where she is. She can at least offer Una, still nearby, a hand and she does.

Somehow, the barista doesn't break or twist an ankle in those heels doing this. Little wins.

"I don't know what to do!" whispers Ariadne to the pop starlette while Samwise sniffs loudly at Una's ear.

Finally, the penny of memory in Ravn's mind stops spinning around in a joyful little circle of innocence and drops. He remembered where he'd seen the falcons before, but now he remembers the context: A man with a silver falcon cane, pulling out a pistol and shooting a Wehrmacht officer, in Vejle, Denmark, in 1940. And then, indeed, the officer's men pulling their firearms out to return fire. The fact that it all happened in some bizarre Other Side reconstruction of his ancestral home was probably not the important bit.

Falcon wearers are assassins, seems to be the message here. Only, well, shooting Nazis is not a bad thing per se, Ravn figures, and wonders briefly if that applies to Saudi princes as well. Not that he doesn't think shooting people is a bad thing. But if some Veil entity is propping up bad guys as shooting targets, at least he feels better about Nazis than innocent bystanders.

Damnit, mind. Stop side tracking. As always, when things get hectic the academic's brain goes all over the place, racing down random corridors and galleries in his mind palace (and sometimes returning like a proud puppy, carrying something useful).

Useful fact: Ravn is wearing a falcon ring too.

Useful fact: Disposing of it might be a good idea.

Ravn reacts much like everyone else, moving away from the falling man, from the armed security guards even now reaching for their shoulder holsters, and from the tiger, swept along by the human tide (with extreme care taken to not bump shoulders and elbows with the others). A silk glove slips from a hand, and a falcon ring disappears into someone else's pocket. He feels a little bad about it but assuming that all of this is not simply one big Veil construct, that somebody is some rich asshole or other who presumably can afford a good lawyer and who is able to prove during an investigation that he is not connected to the other falcon ring wearers.

Not that Ravn himself is, either -- as far as he knows of. And therein lies the rub -- he does not know, and he does not know why the dream equipped him with one.

The tide of human panic sweeps outwards like water in a pond when a rock is dropped, only this rock is a Saudi prince. Security -- the prince's as well as hotel security -- coalesce. Someone is yelling about an ambulance though surely, the hotel has its own emergency first responders, and surely, those body guards have some kind of first response training. Ravn watches Perdita go down again and wonders if those screams are actually genuine (and if they aren't, she's one hell of an actress). All he can do is try to sweep towards the three women, perhaps hope that all four of them can make it to the edge of the crowd, perhaps to blend in, perhaps to disappear.

Una's so intent on staring at the felled prince that it takes her a few moments to register Ariadne's hand-- and when she does, it's because of Samwise, really, because who wouldn't register being sniffed by a tiger? It results in a blink, then a second, and then a rueful half-smile towards the tiger, and then to Ariadne, though that one fades as she takes the hand readily, and draws herself back to her feet. She's wobbly, but acceptably recovered. The pop princess lives, unscathed! (The audience goes wil-- no, no they don't.)

Her dress, however, has certainly seen better days.

"Me either," she admits, low-voiced and urgent, casting a glance around the room warily. "Absolutely no clue. This is not like... like other times. If there's a narrative thread, I've lost it. Oh--"

There comes Ravn. That's a relief, maybe: her shoulders droop even as her brows lift: ideas? Help?

"Where's Perdita gone?"

"Get up and get the hell out of here." Perdita hisses to the man she's collapsed on top of, pressing the drink tray into his hands before she rolls off of him and looks up. A quick cast about and suddenly the fire alarm is blaring, lights strobing as the sprinklers start raining down on the assembled crowd. It's not exactly difficult to break a simple glass bulb or break a metal link in a chain, after all, and Dita's had a lot of experience doing these things over the years.

Another mental nudge and Perdita's got the chandelier swaying violently as mounting screws begin to fall to the floor. This isn't going to end well for anyone under that chandelier in a few seconds. There's another scream from Perdita, and she points up at the swaying chandelier, and then she's scrambling toward safety, herself, clutching her cheek... which is already starting to bruise and swell.

She's given the assassin as much of a chance as she can, and she already knows that if Abdullah isn't dead, he'll get nothing but the best care. They may be Veil constructs, but they look far too human for Perdita's conscience to allow her to just let anyone die when she can help it.

"Perdita's over there," Ariadne has time to say before it seems like it's a murder attempt and a poltergeist haunting all in one. Who started the fire?!

We didn't start the fire, comes the remembered snippet of a song and the barista scoffs faintly to herself under her breath -- and then flinches as the sprinkler system comes to fun-dampening life. Not that a (mostly) silenced gunshot isn't going to dampen fun. Needless to say, it's chaos. Samwise doesn't seem to mind the water, but he sure as hell seems to mind the amount of shrieking going on.

His roar is resounding as he adds to the cacophony. Ariadne tries to calm him, but to limited success at this point. "Somebody grab Perdita! Get to the hallway!" Granted, the barista isn't the only one with this idea, but a Siberian tiger is heading this way, leashed or not, taking his person with him, and damned if anyone's getting in his way.

The wise ones won't.

Light bulbs explode. The chandelier overhead swings ominously -- and then descends. For a moment Ravn feels like he is watching an action movie, the way the frame rate slows so that the camera can capture every sparkle, every reflection in bright crystalline surfaces -- before the inevitable crash and tinkle of shards flying in every possible direction.

A tiger roars. No one who has ever heard that sound before will mistake it for anything else. No one who hears it today will forget. It's a loud, deep, reverbating thunder that somehow seems to bounce off the walls in an endless echo of itself. It speaks to human instinct on an extremely primal level: The predator is in the house. Looks like meat's back on the menu, boys.

Security guards rush in. Spectators rush out. Ravn makes it to Una and to Ariadne, and with a bit of luck Perdita is in there as well -- flow with the current, out, out, out.

He flattens himself against a wall and tries to keep track of his companions. He tries to breathe. He tries to hold back the asthma, keep his exhalations steady -- one Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi. The darkness is coalescing, in that way where his field of vision steadily narrows until everything turns inward and gravity calls it in for the day.

When his eyes decide to take another shot at processing input he's looking at his bedroom ceiling. It's a familiar sight, a comforting sight. So normal. So definitely not part of a Mucha Lounge that may not even exist (he really should look that up, surely it'll be on the Grand Olympic Casino website). If some Saudi prince was shot tonight -- he reaches for his cell phone and flicks on the headlines. Nothing.

This is America. They're still raving about Princess Di and now that other girl, forgetting how they fought a literal revolution to get rid of the influence of royalty. If a prince, Saudi or otherwise, had been gunned down in a casino near Seattle, it'd be on the news. Politicians, talk show hosts, and religious spokesmen would already be making statements ranging from the reasonable to the outrageous.

Ravn breathes. He should text the others, make sure they're all right. He probably will, later. First comes lying here in the dark, coming to terms with how it still bothers him more to be dressed up like some idle rich Euristocrat than it does, watching a man die.

The fire alarm is a little belated, all things considered, but what's a bit of water damage to an already chaotic scene? For a moment, Una just stands there, burnt dress becoming increasingly sodden. There's too much to look at: the roaring tiger (and that will haunt her lower-case-d-dreams for sure), the exploding light bulbs, the-- oh, the chandelier. At the back of her mind, there's a giggling thought about whether the phantom is involved somehow, orchestrating some new-- no, Una, stop. Run.

Una follows Ravn's lead (Ariadne's lead, Samwise's lead), wobbling on heels she's smart enough to keep on (perhaps the only time heels are the practical choice) and pressing herself flat against that wall, one arm lifted to protect her face, though she's got partial vision through its angle. At some level, there's a scream eager to escape and to express itself, but it's a distant, buried level: she's fine. Everything's fine. It's all going to be fi--

When she opens her eyes again she, too, is safely in bed-- no more wet/burnt dress, no more heels.

She rolls over, burying her head into her pillow, caught between 'buzzed on adrenaline' and 'for fuck's sake, can't I get some actual restful sleep, please?'

No, Una. No you can't.

The roar gets the assassin moving, and Perdita meant to be right behind him... but she can't help watching as the chandelier falls, with something like regret on her face. It was a beautiful fixture, after all... but she needs the chaos to make her escape. Bare foot, she waits for most of the crush to rush out of the lounge before she follows, sodden, bruised but still alive. For the moment, at least, everyone is still alive.

Except Prince Abdullah, maybe. But she couldn't stop that, could she? She moves at the edges of the crowd, allowing one of the staff to usher her out along with the rest of the crowd.

She was so sure this was supposed to be a heist, not a murder mystery... Spotting Ravn through the crowd, then Ariadne and Una, she waves to signal she's alright...

And then she's awake, in her own bed. Wet hair, a bruised cheek and wounded pride are the prices she paid in that dream... along with a bit of Glimmer. To get what was likely another Veil construct to safety. She sits up in bed, eyes adjusting to the dark, the darker shape of Tsinyorri on the stool of her vanity just watching her, like cats do. It's time for some coffee, and an ice pack.

It's a flurry, blurry run of chaos for a few seconds in the Dream. Ariadne's shoulder is hurting with the tug of the tiger pulling at her hard enough to strain her balance and her hand is going pins-and-needles in the process. Her face is wet from the sprinklers doing their best to (logically) rain on everyone's parade --

Wet. Why is her face wet? Lying on her side in the motel bed, covers up around her ears, the barista makes an incoherent sound into the near-darkness. Snuffling and the brush of an ear against her face proves the dampness to be from a sighthound tongue very persistently grooming at her. "Oh, fuck -- Sam, buddy," groans the young woman as she pushes herself up onto an elbow and smears her palm down her face. Oh, she'd fallen asleep on her hand. Her shoulder aches though, god, ow, and her mouth tastes funny. Blech. In the muted light through the curtains, she can see him wagging his tail, ears perked hopefully. Oh. 5am. Potty break.

"Yeah, I gotcha..." Sleeping dogs can't let sleeping baristas lie, apparently, but it's for the better. The Dream and its vivid instances still linger, hard to shed, and maybe a slap of cold pre-dawn air will help banish them. Either that, or some tea and some Advil, damn, shoulder.