2022-04-15 - Turkey Trussed, Not Basted

Engelsholm Castle, Vejle, Denmark. A gorgeous Renaissance castle, renovated and modernised in the 18th century, in gleaming white -- sitting on the bank of its lake, surrounded by its moat and pleasant woodland. Four onion turrets with copper roofs are visible from afar. Withdrawn from the noise of the world, a refuge for artists and musicians. Peaceful. Truly, a refugium for the artistically minded.

Not where Ravn Abildgaard expected to find himself waking up.

He instantly knows where he is; the gentle creaking of the oaks outside, the scentscape from the moat and the lake and the forest; the hearth and the -- the everything, really. This is home. This is familiar, even loved. He hated living here, but he does not hate the place.

And yet it's not quite right. For one, this is not his bedroom. It's not even his father's bedroom which he supposedly took over when the Count died (he didn't, it felt too fucking weird). He opens his eyes and looks around.

It's the main building, on the second floor, of this he is certain. Not much else looks familiar. No antique furniture here; no ancient wood and leather. The interior is modern -- modern-er. Cheaper. Institutional. Practical. It's a four person bedroom with two bunk beds and he's in the top right. It's the kind of room he'd associate with high schools, hostels, retreats -- neither cheap nor low quality, but efficient when somebody needs to muck out after two hundred people across so many rooms every day.

It's obviously wrong. That's not the number one concern, though.

The number one concern is that within his range of sight is a clothes rack upon which hangs colourful coats in crushed velvet and ruffled shirts in nylon and polyester, paisley patterns and bright colours. And next to it, a movie poster -- Planet of the Apes, with Charlton Heston looking bearded and sombre, some dark haired woman, and both of them, smaller, on the back of a horse. Next to it, Barbarella, Queen of the Galaxy -- she is blond and wears very little. A sticker proclaims it Movie of the Year 1968.

Ravn looks at the ceiling. If this is Engelsholm anno 1968 -- well, it's a step up from Engelsholm anno 1940. Less likely to contain traces of Nazi? small mercies. Is this going to be like that other time, then? Everything is almost right except no one seems to connect him or his name with the place? And who's in those other bunk beds?

"Mmpht-ptt," mutters one of the shapes in one of the other beds: bottom left, as it happens, where all that's visible immediately is a tangled mess of reddish hair.

Una's slow to wake, though as she does she's relatively quick to work out what's not right. The pillow is wrong; so's the mattress, the bedcovers, the slightly scratchy sheet. With her face buried in the pillow, though, it's not immediately easy to work out anything further-- maybe she just doesn't want to look.

No, she definitely doesn't want to look. It sounds wrong, it smells wrong, it feels wrong, and she'd been doing so well at not getting caught up in Dreams, too. It's unfair, and she doesn't approve.

Finally, voice muffled by the pillow, even though she's lifted her head just slightly, dark eyes peering out, "Please tell me I'm not Dreaming."

"...if I'm Dreaming, I'm going to straight up murder me a Veil being."

Ten points to whomever guesses the owner of that voice, emanating from the bunk above Una's in turn.

Reddish hair might grant a clue. It's the hues of the under-panel's dye, in a blue nearing cobalt still which fades down into a rich shade of iris-purple which probably grants easiest identification. Bringing her head up with all the grace of a disgruntled meerkat, Ariadne knuckles at an eye and squints around the room. "Also, where the fuck are we. I heard Una. Una, where are you."

Uh oh. This is Ariadne before coffee. Woe betide...basically the whole world.

"... this is not the bed I fell asleep in." comes from the bunk beneath Ravn, followed by Perdita lifting the covers enough to peek down, realizing she's wearing at least some clothing, and swinging her legs over the side. The alarmingly yellow nightgown she's wearing stops at mid thigh, trimmed in white ruffles at the neck, sleeves and bottom hem. Her dark hair looks, at a glance, unchanged from its usual long and sleek style... until one takes into account the longer fringe framing her usual blunt cut bangs. One might not be in the wrong to note a resemblance to a young Cher circa 1968.

"I know this isn't the bed I fell asleep in, because the bed I fell asleep in wasn't a goddamn bunk bed." There's a pair of slippers on the floor that look to be her size, and Perdita slips her feet into them before standing. She snatches an over-night gown, that same utterly unflattering shade of yellow, and pulls it on, belting it about her waist.

"So. Either someone drugged us, kidnapped us and has put us in a very elaborate and weird escape room... or we're Dreaming."

"Pretty sure we're Dreaming," Ravn murmurs and stays right where he is because another thing about 1968 that's apparently caught on with at least one person in the room is the whole free spirit thing. He doesn't particularly feel like exiting this bunk bed stark naked. What the hell, 1968, weren't mixed gender bedrooms enough?

He flops on his back and looks at the ceiling -- in part because he doesn't really know what else to do (behold, someone else who does not function pre-caffeination) and in part because for all he knows, he's not the only person in the room challenged in terms of nightwear. "I know where we are, and if those posters are on the mark, we also know when. But what we want at Engelsholm in 1968? Your guess is as good as mine. And I am pretty damned sure my grandfather did not install bunk beds."

And that's when he realises (because his hair gets stuck under his shoulder): Dita's not the only one with a period appropriate make-over. Oh God.

"I don't want to be Dreaming," moans Una, still with half a mouthful full of pillow. "I think I'm below you, Ariadne."

She attempts to roll over, but fairly quickly discovers why she's been sleeping face-down into the pillow: she has a head full of curlers, all the better to ensure her hair sits just so, curled up at the ends, after last night's wash. Her, "Augh," is a miserable little sound, and it means she's perhaps a little slow to get her head around the rest of what's going on: Engelsholm. 1968. Bunk beds.

Tiny little paisley nightgowns with matching panties.

"Okay," she says, after a moment more. "The sooner we get up and face this, the sooner we get home, right? I'm up, I'm up."

And she is.

Somebody forgot her curlers. Or maybe subconsciously resisted hard enough to escape them. No curlers or nightcap for Ariadne, who pushes herself up onto one elbow in order to smush her face around, as if she might rub the gauziness of sleep from her brain this way.

Now, the paisley nightgowns? Yes. Paisley in baby-blue, apparently, with lace edging, and there's no way she's getting down off of this bunk without flashing everyone in the process. The Dream skipped undies in this particular iteration of CharGen per the idea of free spirit-ing. 'Free spirit' probably better translates to 'more airflow' anyways. Lifting the blankets to look at what she's wearing, the barista mutters something in Hungarian and lets the blanketing drop again.

Roll call begins. "Una, bed beneath me. Dita. Hi Dita, nice slippers," the barista then croaks, her voice going in and out in its sleep-rust. "I heard Ravn." A squint across the way. "Ravn got attacked by the hair fairy. Also, Engelsholm in when...? 1968?" Another blink down at the other two women and their attire. "Oh god."

A beat. "...at least I can quote a bunch of Austin Powers stuff now and feel period appropriate."

"... You're all entirely too caffeine dependent." Perdita states, pushing herself to her feet, carefully. First, she spots what one assumes to be Ravn's robe, setting the horrifying fabric up where he can get to it easily, since he's a bit modest. "Love the long locks." she tells him, before beginning to rummage through what seems to be her clothes... or maybe it's Ravn's. Or communal. "Why does everything have to be so shapeless and colorful?"

She sighs, "It's like the 60s, channeling the 1920s. Boxy dresses, cloche hats, awkward hem lengths..." She holds up a dress to her body and sighs, harder. "Or... a psychedelic peasant woman."

A few more silent 'nopes' as she rummages, then gasps. "Yes. This." This being a baby pink crochet dress with puffed cap sleeves that go into long bell sleeves, a vague hint of an empire waist and a high scalloped hemline. It's both horrifying and amazing... and would be itchy, were it not lined in satin. "For when you want to say 'I like winter wear, but I'm also DTF."

Ravn accepts the robe with somewhat less gratitude than he really wishes he could muster. Grateful to get a robe for modesty's sake? Yes. He has no particular desire to emerge in the buff -- not that he thinks anyone present would have a fainting spell Victorian style but because he would find it embarrassing. Less than grateful at the design; talk about feeling like a stoplight, and it's really quite short, too. No bending to pick up something without thinking.

He touches his hair. He has yet to see it in a mirror, and he already hates it. Those horrible split ends in particular. Seriously.

"So, given that my grandfather was not a hippie, and he certainly did not decorate like this -- whatever this is, it's not actual history." He shrugs the robe on and tries to ignore the feeling that he just turned into a mini-skirted beach ball. "Last time, we were in 1940, just before the Germans turned the place into a hotel for air officers. That did happen, but I also remember that in that Dream the place had become some kind of school. Which also happened in real life but not until I rented it out in 2015. Austin Powers visits Alternate Reality Engelsholm it is, then. Any plans? I think our best shot is maybe dropping into a casual conversation with somebody and find out what's supposedly going on."

Una yanks off her cap, all the better to feel the array of curlers she has (somehow) allegedly managed to sleep in. Ugh. And now they need to come out, too, and does Una know how to brush hair out following curlers? She does not. At least she's upright, though, and clambering out of the bed (look, everyone is just going to have to see the frilly knickers that go with her nightgown; surprisingly, she is not fazed by this, at least so far), more or less ready to deal with this... thing.

"Okay," she says, those brown eyes flicking from one person to the next, now that she's able to get all of them within her field of view. "Right. Random conversations. It's not real history, so-- well. I don't know. Is this also a school? Are we students? Oooh."

Trust Una, with her love of bright colours, to be immediately drawn towards the clothes. "I kind of love the fashion. It's just all so... completely ridiculous. This one." Why yes, that is a delightfully bright, flower-patterned dress. "Or maybe this? There's a little more tailoring, I guess."

"I'm not even going to deny this," mumbles the redheaded barista of needing a cuppa before functionality. She continued watching the others get moving from on high, no more pleased than a disturbed owl by her continued squinting, and once she hazards everyone's either distracted or not looking, she gets down from the top bunk in a slide of long limbs.

It's not graceful. If an Ariadne flashes everyone but nobody sees, did it happen in the first place?

Either way, she shuffles over to what appears to be a short, squat bureau tucked against one of the walls. Her closet? Apparently. It's eye-searing. Whomever she must be in this time period, she really likes color. Yikes. Scratching at her hip through the parting of lace-lined sleepwear beneath the silk-ribbon bow holding it closed, she pulls out what appears to be a tunic-top and pants suit which apparently requires a rhinestone belt. It's violently violet in color with lime-green lining. Ariadne scoff-laughs, sounding almost injured by this option being...seriously the least optically-offensive of what's in there.

"All I ask is I get pants on before we go talk to people," she says, voice still scruffy with sleep. "Dibsies on the bathroom, y'all can fight me. I'll be five minutes at most." As such, there she goes, to change into her outfit with zero risk of flashing the others. Maybe there's even a toothbrush around here she knows is hers. Morning breath is real.

"So we're experiencing alternate history semi-chronologically." Perdita agrees, running a brush through her hair, mildly surprised. "Well, if nothing else, alternate-past-me took great care of her hair... unlike you. You need a trim." she tells Ravn, though she looks amused... and that amusement gets worse (better?) when she spots Una's curlers, properly.

"Do you want to flatter your curves, of de-emphasize them? Flattering is the one with the belt, de-emphasis is the A line dress. Who do you want to be, today?"

Ariadne's outfit choice causes Perdita to hiss and fling up her arms like a vampire warding off a cross. "My eyes!" but, she's laughing, so... "Mod Wonder Woman called and she wants her crime fighting gear back." she teases. And then, with Ariadne claiming the bathroom, Perdita steps into a corner with her back to everyone else, and doffs the robe and nightgown combination, before shimmying her way into the sugar pink crochet mini-dress.

Next comes the make up. Perdita claims the make up mirror, and her signature winged eyeliner takes shape in a few practiced strokes, before being altered by a few more to make her large eyes seem even larger... and the fake lashes aren't hurting, either. She could cause hurricane force winds if she blinks too fast... and the cherry on top is, well, cherry red lipstick.

Somehow managing to wrap into the (entirely too short) traffic light coloured robe before leaving the top bunk, Ravn makes it down to the floor without flashing anything criminal. He has knobbly knees; things you absolutely needed to know about the man, indeed.

He catches a glimpse of himself in the mirror. He winces. Every hair dresser he's ever visited through thirty-one years of life somehow wince, in the future, and they don't even know why. His outfit of choice is positively dull in comparison, and yet those red pants are enough to make the Dane, known to prefer dark and simple shades, look not once, not twice, but half a dozen times -- maybe there's something else in his dresser.

There is not something else in his dresser. He pulls the bright read jeans on. He does not look happy. The jeans look too tight. The wife beater that completes the picture is not his first choice, either.

Nothing about 1968 is the achromatic Dane's first choice. At least nothing is frilly. Yet.

The door is a lesser obstacle than his fashion sense. Ravn opens it and glances out. "It's definitely Engelsholm," he murmurs. "But not one that I recognise at all. Showers seem to be at the end of the hallway -- I'm guessing they're kind of communal. And a lot of people look like they're heading somewhere for breakfast. Maybe we should just drift along with the crowd?"

"Belt it is," Una decides, definitively, with a glance over her shoulder at Perdita: a silent thank you.

It doesn't take her too long to dress, and she doesn't even giggle too much over the crochet tights that go under her chosen dress; the hardest part is getting the rollers out of her hair, and then trying to brush the resultant curls into something even vaguely resembling whatever was initially intended. "Bah," she says, finally, stepping into her shoes. "It'll do."

She's still trying not to smile at Ravn and his Jesus hair. Trying.

"Breakfast-- that sounds like the appropriate next step, yes. Wait, is everyone going to be speaking Danish? How's this going to work?"

From the bathroom come the sounds of construction: a jackhammer, a bulldozer, the back-up beep of a large truck -- kidding. Just water running, some mumbling and definitely a fervent "SHIT" or two. Zipper troubles? Possibly. Stupid JACKET. It doesn't take long for Ariadne to emerge from within. She's found some mascara somewhere and eyeliner as well, though she went minimal all things considered. No lipstick, just a dusting of blush, and her hair is pulled back into a messy-bun as its tendency. At least the celestial underpanel of colors somewhat compliments the violently-violet get-up -- or vice versa.

"Oh hey, we all look like locals, excellent," she says, scrounging up some enthusiasm from somewhere pre-coffee. Fussing at her jacket zipper in front and the latitude of the rhinestone belt, she sighs. Too curvy for the times, apparently; everyone's supposed to be waifish and stick-skinny. Oh well. Nosebleeds might abound after seeing this crew. "Let's drift. Eventually, there will be coffee. I can't speak any Danish though, so Una's got a point. Is this one of those Dreams where we are speaking Danish but hearing what we want to hear? Like All-Speak?" Marvel geek, ahoy.

"I can't imagine going commando feels good in those pants. Mind the zipper if you need to pee." Perdita tells Ravn, though her attention is on the mirror as she rises, giving a little twirl. That is a very short skirt, and even though it's lined with a slip, it's pushing the edge of modesty. Just how Dita likes it. She then steps into a pair of white gogo boots that would make Nancy Sinatra sing a song about them. The boots are zipped up into position, and Dita fluffs her own hair, playing with the fringe so it frames her face just so.

"It's cute." Dita tells Una with a genuine smile.

"Somehow, I doubt anyone's going to confuse me for a native of Denmark without some Veil fuckery." Dita tells Ariadne with a smirk and a tilt of her head. "When we were here before, they were convinced I was from India. Which is... I mean it's not entirely wrong, in a way?" Dita shrugs.

"Luckily, we have a lovely Danish lad with us. If this is an alternate reality where they're speaking French, though, we're screwed."

Voices in the hallway; male and female alike. Ravn pricks his ears and tries to ignore the strange sensation of wearing (bright red) jeans that seem entirely too tight around his hips and then flare entirely too loose around his shins. He makes a mental note to not try to sit. In pants this tight, that has to hurt. (How did this generation ever manage to procreate?). He listens. Most of those voices are speaking his own language -- most, but not all. There are words in English and in German, and words he cannot identify.

"I think that whatever this is supposed to be, it might be fairly international?" the Dane muses and then -- after checking that his room mates are decent -- opens the door.

Colourful, is his first impression. Men and women, dressed like colourful flowers and butterflies in a summer garden of polyester, rayon, and other fancy new fabrics that do not require ironing. Young, is the next -- because the average out there seems to be mid-twenties. Cheerful, is the last -- whatever happened to Engelsholm, these residents either are under no threat, or they are not aware of any threat. Maybe there is no threat.

Ravn pulls his head back into the room and looks at the three women. "So we're in 1968 and this is definitely not the Engelsholm I recognise. When Dita and I were here in 1940, people were talking about the place being sold and becoming a school. Maybe we're in that alternate universe again. In which case we should keep an eye out for falcon rings or canes, I guess, but at least there won't be any bloody Nazi officers."

A wry smile and a hitch of a shoulder. "Let's go find the breakfast -- room? At a guess, the dining room. Which probably doesn't look very much like I'd expect it to look."

Una's smile answers Dita's, warm and bright and pleased. Colour is, at least, something she's comfortable with, and so far-- but then. they're only a few minutes into this Dream; there's plenty of time for it all to go terribly wrong, even so. "Look at us!" she enthuses, and yes, even Ravn gets included in that, even if she's got a modicum of sympathy for him and his comfort zone.

"I wonder what happened to your family, in this alternate history," she muses, much more seriously, as she hooks her thumbs through the belt loops of her dress. "Ugh, those falcons again. Okay. It'd be too much to ask for this to go simply, wouldn't it. Okay. Breakfast it is. Lead the way, Jesus-man. At least you know the layout of this place and can keep us moving in the right direction."

Sure, they could follow the flow, but where's the fun in that?

"Yeah, I vote Ravn's the translator if anybody doesn't speak English." A nod from Ariadne still looking drowsy around the edges. She moves with the rest of the group over to the door after slipping on what appears to be a pair of low-slung equally lime-green shoes (can you see her now?!) and lingers, listening with her lips pressed thin. Ravn's report has her glancing around at the others.

Una's nickname for the Dane has her snort-laughing despite herself, a quick little sound. "All I want is a biscuit and coffee, man, lead the way. And damn, Dita, those boots. Very nice, definitely made for walking," the barista tells the young woman in her crocheted dress. "And good colors on you too, kitchen cleric, nice." It seems she's only now just realizing the amount of color on the others as well. "Those...pants...yes." Something more lurks behind her lips, clearly, but she knows better than to try and be clever before coffee. Ravn gets a thumbs-up. Excellent pants, sir, nice inseam.

"And if anybody shows up with falcon stuff again before coffee, god help them because I won't need a bo staff to make my point," the barista grumbles.

"I'd rather not think about being shot at by Nazis or falcon symbols today. I'm wearing a surprisingly cute mini dress, and," she gestures to Ariadne with a smile, "these boots were made for walking." she gives a little twirl in the mirror, and that... skirt is very, very short.

"Also, Ravn, those pants are fabulous but they'd look better draped on my bedroom floor." An exaggerated eyebrow waggle, and she gestures for the man to lead the way with a bounce in her step. Either her heartbreak was short lived, or she's coping with good old fashioned ridiculous pick up lines. "I could definitely use some breakfast."

"If I manage to find a pair that don't make me feel like I might as well give up any hope of procreation ever, you can have them, and if you want to decorate your bedroom with them, fine by me." Ravn remains the undefeated champion of pointedly misunderstanding things. "In the meantime I'm just going to hope that breakfast isn't too exciting."

He doesn't comment on the bo staff. Please, no tempting the Veil to fill his ancestral home with macaques and popcorn bags. The International Class of 68 is probably bad enough. (At least it's not '69. The jokes would have killed him).

The hallway is familiar to some; it's the same hallway that Mr and Mrs Abildgaard Plus One were shown to bedrooms in in 1940; the interior, however, is vastly different. The walls have been painted a simple, easy to maintain white, and the valuable ancestral paintings have been removed -- sold to collectors, moved to storage, put in museums, who knows? The place is well kept, by no means run down or dilapidated; but it's very obviously an institution, not a relic from Victorian times or earlier.

Crystal candle chandeliers have been swapped for modern electrical chandeliers. That at least does feel familiar. Ravn always wondered who had to change the candles in the originals, and how much of a mess they made on the floor below.

The grand stair is descended -- not like Scarlett O'Hara in her ballgown but as four colourful butterflies amidst a swarm of other colourful butterflies. Everyone's going for breakfast.

The dining hall is large enough to accommodate eighty or more people at long tables; it helps, Ravn notes drily to himself, when various ancient paraphernalia is removed. Does anyone really need suits of armour to watch them eating? He used to watch them like a hawk as a boy. Particularly because sometimes, some of them moved just a bit when he wasn't looking, and he never found out if they were haunted too, or one of the maids played a joke.

He won't miss them.

The chatter is loud. Young people, discussing their coursework, the world, last night's get-together in Christine's room, the potential for a skinny dip in the lake (bit cold still, isn't it?), classes, courses, teachers. Most of the discussion is in Danish but enough of it is in English, German, French, and bits of other languages, that even the people from abroad can keep up with at least the basics: This is a school -- an art and music school. A high school after the Danish model -- meaning, a place you book into for a period from two weeks to six months, to stay there and work intensively on your art or instrument. A boarding school for adults.

There are plenty empty seats; people seem to come and go, and breakfast is buffet-like. Ravn heads for the coffee pot -- nice, large industrial-sized coffee machine, firm stamp of approval -- and for a moment he remains blissfully unaware that a blond woman walks up behind him and starts to talk.

It dawns on him eventually, and he turns around to regard her with a questioning expression. She repeats her question. He stammers something, and while that seems to satisfy enough the woman enough to leave, the expression on the Dane's face as he turns to the others is one of pure horror. "Oh God. I'm a teacher."

A grin answers both other woman, and a slightly more sympathetic expression follows, for Ravn, but Una's squaring her shoulders and following the Dane into the corridor, because clearly the Dream needs more from them than getting dressed up in a dorm room; never mind that playing dress-up could be a lovely way to spend a night, if one can't just stay in their god damn bed and sleep.

Una's got her eyes wide and watchful, as they travel through the castle. It's almost certainly the first time she's ever been in one, so while the modernness may be a disappointment, it's still interesting. By the time they've made it into the dining room she's starting to frown, though, uncertainly smoothing down her (short, so very short) skirt as if this might give her something to focus her attention on.

This is a school. An art and music school. And Una? She doesn't do either, unless, by chance, 'baking' or 'sewing' fall under that umbrella (and they do not).

A few steps behind Ravn, that dismay turns into a squeak of absolute horror that echoes his expression; "Oh God," she says in answer. "Are we all teachers? Or are you the exceptionally creepy teacher who bunks with his students, holy fuck."

Ariadne covers not one yawn on the way to this dining location, but two or three. She feels under-slept and like she's forgetting something. It's possibly one of the less appealing feelings on the planet.

Help her, Cuppa Coffee-nobi, you're her only hope.

She is awake enough to appreciate the interior architecture, both past and present, and considers the windows in particular before nodding. The grand staircase is filed away for later awe-gawking; stairs. Must not faceplant. Finally, the large breakfasting room, and she beelines for the coffee along with her cohorts. The blond asking questions earns herself a bleary if mild scowl. Both her eyebrows dance up at Ravn's realization and Una's question in turn.

"I mean. I don't think I'm a teacher." She has her hands in the pockets of her violently-violet pants and realizes something is there. Pulling it out, it proves to be a student ID card. Visa. Something. "...not a teacher," she reports, then giving the others a bemused wrinkle of nose. "I...could be here to figure out the piano more...? And maybe Ravn was grounded from the teacher's conservatory rooms or something. Or it was a dare. Or it's the summer of love and anything goes." Shrug. Need coffee.

Ravn's intentional obtuseness is going to get shattered, someday, but not today. That's half the appeal of their friendship, after all. He's the one man who ignores her blatant advances. Ravn isn't the only catlike person, here, after all. The changes to the building are greeted with something like a personal affront. "They painted over the woodwork. And it's not even period appropriate paint!" her tone is vaguely horrified.

Well, at least They are getting some delicious horror to feast upon.

"... yes, Ravn. You're a professor. You teach onli-" Dita starts, then realizes what he and Una are talking about, and begins laughing. "Ravn, are we your sister wives, your harem, or your... personal students?" her voice turns breathy as she leans toward him, fluttering those enormous false lashes. How does she keep her eyes open?

"Alright. I admit I'm not up on Danish cuisine. What should I avoid, and what would I enjoy, and remember, I regularly let you steal my coffee, risking the wrath of Della the Day Manager every time."

The look Ravn shoots Una is pure horror. "Oh God. Let's hope it's just the summer of love. I can handle the idea that people think I'm a sleazeball who fucks three students, even if I don't like it. Maybe it's just that we're all very liberal spirits who share living conditions and draw bunks by lots. Wouldn't that be nice? I'll go with that. This is now my headcanon."

He walks towards the coffee machine with increased pace. Need fortification. Badly.

Only when he does in fact have a steaming mug of black coffee in one hand does he get around to the rest. "I'm not a professor. I'm an assistant lecturer. I don't have tenure." This is important, surely. "Also, this looks pretty continental -- oatmeal, muesli, rolls, dark bread, white bread, various cold cuts and cheeses. Try the brown slab of cheese there if you feel brave -- it's Norwegian myseost, a goat cheese that tastes kind of caramel-like."

The whole concept is ridiculous enough that Una forgets to blush, and just giggles instead. Maybe the coffee she collects for herself will help; maybe the food will, too, food that she chooses liberally from: Norwegian goat cheese, interestingly grained breads, unfamiliar cold meats.

She claims a table-- or rather, a section of a table-- and smiles winningly down its length at the other students (faculty? it's really not easy to tell them apart) before glancing back up at her three companions/sister wives/co-haremites/something. "You'd better join us, teach," she teases. "Whatever our relationship is, it's clearly public knowledge now. Smile!"

Not that she's not carefully tugging down her skirt again, hyper-aware of how short it is. Not that she does not flush, slightly, as a random male student brushes past her, smirking.

Food. Yes. Food and coffee; very very interesting and engaging.

Dita's own twist of humor at the bunking situation makes it through the early-morning (not that early, please) fog surrounding the barista. A cough-snort. Ravn's expression, in turn, curbs her enthusiasm to enough of an extent that all she offers is, "Summer of love. Headcanon accepted."

With no skirt to be concerned about and no cleavage to flash, Ariadne focuses on collecting up coffee and food because it does, unfortunately, require more focus than the average person might commit. She ends up with a tray of oatmeal and coffee and a slice of what appears to be something like a Colby Jack to go with her coffee. Una finds that sector of table and Ariadne plonks down beside, grunting softly as she does.

She is in time to see the look given to Una after that brush-against and scowls something fierce. "I'm not afraid to backhand people, so if you need back-up, you let me know," she tells her fellow redhead. "It'd be also quite unfortunate if someone suddenly lost a belt and ate flooring and their breakfast in the same faceplanting." Given another someone's been practicing lately with applications of her power. Mage Hand, people.

"You think we're preeeetty~, you married all threeeeee of us~" Dita sing-songs at Ravn with the widest smile she's worn in weeks... but then she's loading up on muesli, dark bread, cold cuts and cheeses... with just a tiny bit of the myseost, though she's looking a little dubious at that, all of it easily balanced, like a practiced waitress, on a single arm.

And then she's balancing that and a cup of coffee, before walking to join the others at the table, as if she's just out for an afternoon walk in the park. Show off.

"Do you want me to trip and 'accidentally' pour my coffee in his lap?" she asks, voice low, looking to Una with a concerned expression, before meeting Ariadne's eyes. They're on the same page here. Una is to be protected.

She sits, crossing her legs, clearly not bothered by the length of anything, here. The coffee gets a sniff, and then a small sip. "Not bad for cafeteria coffee."

Ravn plonks himself with just that mug of black coffee. Try to eat? Here? Not even going to make the attempt. He glances after the student who brushed against Una; walking on his way, probably not even thinking twice. It's the summer of love, perhaps, but it's also the boomer generation in its finest hour, and to a lot of people, 'free love' means 'I am entitled to your body'. He nods slightly at the little exchange. Four movers at one table, a lot of stuff could get dropped on a bloke at once, should such a display be required.

"Yes, you're all very pretty," the folklorist tells his companions, rolling his eyes slightly at Dita; always a bucket of banter, that woman. "And apparently, I give violin classes. That had better not actually happen because I am by no means capable of teaching a violin class."

Maybe he intended to say more, but he is interrupted by noise from the next table over. A group of young people are discussing something or other in that gobble-di-gook that passes for language around here, when one of them -- a man in his mid-twenties -- slams his fist on his table and declares something, loudly. The others laugh. There are is banter, teasing, bets being made.

A girl looks unhappy. She's a blonde in a tunica dress in paisley, and she makes her opinion known; the man talks over her, does not hear her. She resigns to not being heard. She stares into her coffee.

Ravn watches that little display with the attempted discretion of a man who just happens to be a folklorist, and also, supposedly, in some other reality, lives here. He tears his gaze off the girl and returns his attention to the table and his companions (sister wives? haremites? fan girls? fellow cultists?). "Her boyfriend is going to go take a walk by the garden wall at midnight. It's a dare. She believes in ghost stories, and they are teasing her about it -- that's why he's making that bet."

He sips his coffee. "She thinks the white lady is going to get him. I'm inclined to suspect she might be right."

Being surrounded by people willing (and able) to defend her honour mostly seems to make Una blush more, but she lets the corners of her mouth twist upwards anyway, acknowledging the intent if not-- well. No one wants to go through life being protected, really, do they? Still. Not the point. Brain-weasels, flee. "I'm fine," she's quick to say; firm, too. "It's fine."

Being surrounded by people speaking in languages other than English does not do much to ease those weasels, though, and her head stays lowered: better to focus on her food than on feeling out-of-place.

"Oh good," she says, finally, when Ravn's explanation of the events around her more-or-less forces her to re-engage. "Is that a ghost that exists in your reality, too? Is this a ghost story, then?"

A nod back at Dita in turn. Well-meaning Ass-kicking Crew: in place. The redhead then glances at her fellow redhead in turn and also nods. She can pick up that bit of color in Una's cheeks easily enough. As such, the barista doesn't hare further after the subject. If it truly bothers Una, Ariadne assumes it will be discussed.

The barista still smirks at Ravn's retort, the expression mostly disappearing into her coffee; it's truly not half-bad. But mostly bad. She can't even be optimistic. This is meant for mass consumption. Only gas stations have worse coffee. Poor students, ye who suffer and know not better. She's not too under-caffeinated as to miss the ruckus from a table or two over and cranes her head slightly to observe what it is. Such a wee glower on her face. Loud noises before coffee. Ew.

Ravn's report gets one arched brow followed by another. Ariadne glances around the table, her attention briefly lingering on Una before returning to Ravn. "So...do we need to suddenly encourage an unfortunate twisting of ankle so this cocky little shit doesn't end up all ghostified? Yoinking laces is a possibility here," she notes with a cool pragmatism. Lesser of two evils, a twisted ankle, in her current calculations.

"There's an inappropriate joke or two about that, but I'll behave since we're at school." Still, she's smiling as she begins eating... only to be interrupted with noises. The fist banging on the table gets a startled jump, her eyes widening in a split second of fear... and then she's recognizing the source of the sound, that it has nothing to do with her, and she's calmed, or at least got that mask back into place, quickly.

"Is he the jackass slamming his fist on the table?" she asks, irritation in her tone, before she continues eating. "If so, I might be persuaded to let her have him."

"Myes, he is," Ravn murmurs and pretends to take a lot of interest in his coffee and the piece of toast on whatever plate is closest; he's not going to steal it, but it gives him something to look at that's not the next table over. "Sounds like a dumbass, to be honest."

He sips his coffee. Please, magic bean juice, do your thing, animate dead brain matter. "There's a white lady in my reality as well at least, or at least the story of one. I've never met her. Tale is that a young man walking along a certain garden wall at night will meet her and she will take him away, never to be seen again. It's one of those many manor stories -- somebody left a girl pregnant, she died, she blames all young men for it, or she thinks they're all her lover, I'm not sure. If it was somebody I'd met, I'd know."

Ariadne does not herself a faint smile from under the Jesus hairdo. "I suppose that'd be one way to deal with it all. Wonder if the narrative of this Dream would let us."

Una nibbles thoughtfully at a piece of cheese, ultimately not paying that much attention to the specifics of what she's eating, only that it's food, and it keeps her hands and mouth busy, and thus a good amount of her thought processes as well. Not so much, though, that she's not still listening-- and now, frowning, her head tilting ever so slightly to the side. "We can try," she agrees, Ariadne's suggestion drawing, if not a smile, certainly the twitch of her mouth.

"And if not, we can certainly interrupt the meeting, though that does seem to imply we need to get through a whole day here?"

Her gaze lingers, just briefly, on Perdita. Perhaps she caught that flinch and perhaps not-- but something has drawn her attention.

"Una's got a point," the barista notes tiredly. If Dita is irritated by tone, Ariadne is irritated...just plainly in viewing. Her scowl isn't ferocious, but it is censorious bare min at this point towards the other table. Stop making loud noises, damnit. She'd caught Dita's flinch as well. It makes her jaw clench and cheekbones stand momentarily before she too smooths out her expression -- or at least tries to. "It's morning. If She Who Must Not Be Named is going to haunt about in the evening, how do we pass the time? There's got to be a library. Could do research...though maybe it's all books dedicated to the musical arts and not anything involving local history."

Picking up her piece of cheese, she takes a bite and looks between Ravn and Dita now. "I...think it's worth a shot. Just a twisted ankle, nothing more," she reassures, lifting up a hand in a nearly saint-like manner. Ariadne: patron saint of taking down the hubris-laden by the most subtle method possible.

"Well... maybe we can confuse her and save the idiot before he meets some dark fate, or just... yeah. Break one of his legs so he can't go. Alternately we could work as a group and Lift him into place on the ceiling or lock him down to the floor by his clothes. Really hard to go out to the garden if you can't move your body..."

Perdita shrugs slightly, her irritation having faded enough that she's merely thinking of ways to inconvenience him rather than even joking about letting him die or be whisked off to some other realm.

Dita does catch the lingering gaze, one eyebrow raising ever so slightly, before she smiles at Ariadne beatifically. "See? I'm not the only one in favor of bodily wounding!"

"I suppose it comes down to one of two possibilities. Either this narrative wants us to save that bloke there so we break his ankle and everything is fine. Or it wants us to save whoever ends up doing that garden walk so we break this bloke's ankle and someone else ends up down there in his place." Ravn sips his coffee and keeps his voice down. "Might be we should just spend the day, embarrassed as we are at how we look, and then turn up tonight. I'm still mildly horrified at how the place looks. I mean, I don't mind it, I think it makes a lot more sense than for all of this space to belong to just one family, but it's still weird. We are literally sitting here, in the cafeteria that used to be my dining room."

Pause. "Will be? Something." The Dane shakes his head. He doesn't like it. Stepping into 1968 -- fine. Stepping into Engelsholm -- acceptable. Stepping into an alternate universe Engelsholm in 1968 is kind of too many things at once.

He pours more coffee into his face; Jamaican blue it ain't. "I suppose we could find a way to pass the day and then just go sit in convenient distance tonight, see what happens?"

Una looks up and away from their little quartet, glancing around the dining room with an appraising look in her eyes. "I cannot imagine this being all for one family," she notes, simply. "And this just being... normal for you, Ravn. Holy shit."

The coffee isn't doing much for Una, either, but she's uncomplaining in the drinking of it. The cheese? That's earning more approval.

"Okay. We can wait for the evening. As long as there aren't any falcons about, we can just-- the library sounds like a great idea. The grounds? There's got to be something we can do with our pervy teacher," sorry Ravn, "until it gets dark. And then we save the kid. Somehow. Because surely the four of us can take on a ghost, between us."

"Holy shit."

Is there an echo in here? Maybe. Ariadne is just as impressed as Una and looks around with more interest. Coffee is kicking in, slowly but steadily. Food helps too; her slice of cheese is gone and she's now spooning through her oatmeal with a mincing speed. "Spacious," she ends up commenting lightly. Too much space for her, personally -- just as quickly, she muses that a cleaning staff would resolve the issue of keeping such a space livable. She spoons up another bite of oatmeal as she continues slouching somewhat in her seat, one forearm rested without a care (No Fucks Given Mode, engage) on the table.

This mode briefly breaks at pervy teacher with a closure of eyes and roll of lips. Keeping blurt-laugh inside: success. "I bet you know if this place any secret passages, Ravn...?" the barista asks with a curiosity nonchalant by tone and far more adventuresome by glance at the man. "Could get the kid lost in one of those..." Or maybe someone just wants to explore around an old place because who knows what could be found? "And that way, he's not around when we lay She Who Must Be Not Named flat with equal parts skill and daring."

Dita still gets one of those beatific smiles in return. If a beat-down is required? At least let it be in good taste and not-quite-maiming.

"You can be embarrassed about how you look, I look like Cher." Dita casually flips some of that long dark hair over her shoulder, pulling a very Cher expression as she does. "Wanna bet the ghost is actually an angry groundskeeper named Old Man Smithers?" she asks, glancing about the table.

"All we need is a Great Dane." she... then realizes what she's said, and can't quite repress the giggle, with a glance at Ravn.

"Library does sound good, exploring secret passages sounds like something fun, too."

"And this totally isn't too much space for one family. But what do I know? I live in a seven story office building pretty much solo."

Ravn winces at 'holy shit' and then he winces again, also at 'holy shit'. He curls his fingers around his coffee mug -- and notes that in this reality, his gloves are a pale brown, almost mustard yellow, really not very flattering. "I know. It's far too much for one person, even one family. The idea of anyone needing this kind of space is ridiculous," he murmurs. "In our reality it's rented out as a school too. It apparently just happened a lot earlier in this reality. It's a beautiful set of buildings but it belongs to an entirely different time."

A time that he isn't sorry he doesn't belong in. And very obviously indeed, a time where you had cleaning staff and serving staff and wait staff and half a dozen other staff, looking after that one family's every need.

He shakes his head. "There aren't any secret passages underground, tunnels to the nearby nun's cloister, stuff like that. It's built on the edge of the lake, extending the lake through a canal to create a moat. Tunnelling would have to go very deep and it'd be entirely too prone to flooding. However." Ravn did catch Ariadne's true intention -- not to go exploring, but to get the kid lost exploring. "There's the basement. There's a crack in the wall in the wine cellar -- not that I have any idea whether it's presently a wine cellar. There's supposed to be a small bed there kept ready at any time for the hell hound -- and when some maid forgot, that's when the crack happened. It's enough of a story to keep someone busy for a few hours, I suppose? I mean, even without the actual hell hound making an appearance which I don't imagine he will."

He doesn't fling a roll at Perdita for that god-awful pun. He looks tempted, though. Great Dane. Yes. Instead he objects gently, "You live in a seven storey building that was made for renting out to numerous offices and families. This? Engelsholm was built for one family and up to fifty various kinds of staff -- maids, cooks, servants, grooms, the works. A feudal lord who owned the land in the region, and the people who lived on it. I'm not sure I think this comparison is valid."

Coffee refill. Still ignoring solids. "I suppose one or all three of you lovely ladies in your colourful attire could wander over and see if you can manipulate this bloke into showing you the hell hound's room. And I'll try to run interference on the girl feeling ignored, or something. Or we just all go to the library, ignore everything, read stuff and wait for evening."

"Is this the same reality as the one you visited last time?" Una wonders, tangenting off away from the plan so that she can narrow in on this, if only for a moment or two. "I assume it probably is. It begs the question of alternative universes, doesn't it. I mean-- Veil consistency, the whole bit, none of which actually matters at all for this right now, I know." The train of thought trails off: no, it's not the most important thing to wonder about right now. No, it doesn't matter. No, she's not deliberately avoiding actual plans.

Mostly.

None of this prevents her twitch of mirth for Perdita's reference, or, ultimately, a more serious consideration of what to do next. "I'm not going to lie, there's a huge temptation in just holing up in the library. I bet it's beautiful. Is it beautiful? But." But. "Would it make sense to try and get him sorted out first? I don't know. I mean, this is a better place to be stuck for a day than being a serving maid in a country inn, so there's that."

Dita gets an absolutely puckish little smile for her pun. The barista approves. "Zoinks," she cannot help but add, doing a passable impression of the tousle-haired character in turn. Looking at you, Ravn, with your perpetual bedhead.

"I bet the library is beautiful, yes, but...it'd probably be at least partially a shame if Table-Slamming Macho-Man-Man over there ended up ghostified and his girl ended up sad for it. I do vote the crack in the basement cellar at this point. There's stairs still if we want to pursue the sudden shoelace incident." Another long sip of this questionable coffee, but Ariadne seems like she's prepared to down it even if it was made over ocean water and grease at this point. Half of her oatmeal is gone, but the normally healthy eater is done with it by the way she pushes the bowl plus spoon away from herself. "And I don't think it necessarily has to be anything like...flash some leg or cleavage. He's bragging, right? Make it sound like someone else has a better idea. One-upmanship. All I'd need to do is walk by and say something disparaging, like..."

She thinks for a second. "Please, Greg talked to the ghost last week. She's second rate, nothing scary at all, a floating collection of mothballs and cleaning rags. Now, the wine cellar? With the crack in the wall? Only someone with a real set of balls would brave that one." Finger snap. "Done, he's hooked."

"You're not wrong, but by that same token, it's not like you chose this. I feel like you'd have been happier growing up in my house... other than still having a ridiculously macho father."

"You want one of us to go over there and manipulate some poor unsuspecting man?" Perdita asks, glancing between Una and Ariadne, quirking a brow, before smiling. It's not that she doesn't think either woman is capable... but unless she strikes out, there's no need to get Una uncomfortable with possibly flirty male attention... and she's not missed other reasons it might not be a great idea for Ariadne to try this. She glances at Ravn, then back to Una.

"I don't know for sure. There's a lot less jackbooted fascists, so it's probably an improvement."

"You know... that's not a bad way to approach it." ... and then she's standing. That's a lot of smooth upper thigh on display as she does, and then she's got this... slightly blank... look in her eyes, like the lights are on but the elevator doesn't go all the way to the top floor.

"You're so worried about the White Lady, but she isn't real, just some old story... but I heard there's a room for the Hellhound somewhere here? I've been trying to go see it... but nobody's been brave enough to go with me, so I don't get lost..." Dita pouts, ever so slightly exaggerated... slightly flirtatious at the young man. Yes, she might homewreck a little, if it gets him to not get murdered by the ghostly woman, so he can be here to continue things as needed. She toys with a strand of hair slightly, looking every bit a silly tourist girl with a bit of money who's just here to have a good time on daddy's dime. This is a role she's played before.

Ravn glances at Una. "Hell if I know. It could be the same? In 1940, the place had apparently just been sold. There were German officers there -- which makes sense in my history too, since I know my great-grandfather made good money from trading with the Wehrmacht. Engelsholm served as residence for Luftwaffe officers for some time -- that's what got him off the hook after the war, family had clearly been coerced into collaboration with the occupation forces. Anyhow, if the place was turned into a school in '40, it could be the same reality, but 28 years later. I don't suppose there's a way to know short of asking if anyone knows of an Oberst getting shot here at some kind of reception."

More history than she asked for. If you don't want it, don't ask a historian. He's not going to try to guess at what the library in this reality is like; given it's public access here, though, it's probably not the late Victorian library he remembers. Hell, it isn't even in his own reality because in that reality, that library is in storage. And less jackbooted fascists is definitely an improvement in either reality.

His gaze follows Perdita as she gets up and visibly (from where he sits) slips into Breezy Chick mode. It's a grift he's seen carried out aplenty -- most convincing if she can go it alone, because a single girl poses no threat and might get picked up as easy prey. Still, ready to jump in and play wingman if required -- whether that means distracting the sucker's girl, or pretending to be competition for Breezy Chick. In love and war all is fair, and the same logic applies to saving somebody's life.

At the other table, the table slammer's eyes widen. Blonde is a common colour in this country; Perdita's appearance in comparison is exotic and unusual. For a country that used to be a colonial power, Denmark in the late 1960s has a remarkably small population of other ethnic origins. This is a country and a time where someone of African descent moving into a small town might experience strangers staring in their windows to see if they cook on the floor like back in the kraal.

It's not very pretty, Ravn reflects. Doesn't mean it isn't true, though.

"I have probably not seen you before. Are you new here?" the man -- youth -- asks, in an accent that is vaguely reminiscent of Ravn's, except so very wide, so, so very wide. "My name is Kristoffer. So what, I'll show you the secret room in the basement?"

Ravn sips his coffee. He has to. He can tell what the other man wanted to say, in Danish. It's close but -- yes. Awkward.

The blonde, unimpressed. If eyes could kill, Perdita would need funeral services.

That may have been more history than Una specifically asked for, but her expression is such that she's not actually inclined to object to its provision: she's thoughtful, having nodding her way through the telling, and now, afterwards, turned her gaze to roam the room again, quite as if she might-- with this in mind-- be able to come to some kind of determination. Sadly, if there are clues, they're not ones the redhead-- who did not, after all, experience Engelsholm in 1940-- is equipped to pick up on. "Hm," she says, tapping one finger to her lips, but that's about as far as her conclusion goes.

That particular distraction means she's a little late to following Perdita's path towards-- as it turns out, Kristoffer-- and the interaction that follows. She hides her amusement behind one hand, and then replaces that hand with her mug (it's shitty coffee, but shitty coffee is still better than no coffee, most of the time, especially when you're hoping to be alert and ready for whatever a Dream might throw your way).

"Damn," she murmurs, voice pitched so that it won't, hopefully, carry further than the remaining trio at their table. "She's good at this." Not news, but-- every time.

It impresses her every single time.

Even if she's only three-quarters of the way up to full steam with coffee intake, there's a pleased twinkle in Ariadne's golden-hazel eyes. A gesture off of her coffee mug acknowledges Dita's thoughtful words in turn. Indeed, an idea. The barista is possibly the most idea-laden individual this side of the Mississippi and woe betide.

As such, she sips and watches Dita depart the table with brows lifted, then quirked, then off-kilter one higher than the other. A look at Una and then at Ravn silently communicates how damn fascinating it is, the smooth shift of personality. She'd think to herself things like, poor...what's his face -- oh, Kristoffer, but it's like watching a large-mouth bass inhale a lure without a second thought, bloop. Bait, line, and sinker definitely applies here. Big mouth, deeply-set two-tine hook.

"I don't feel badly for him because look at his girl. She's already realizing how awful regret tastes," she murmurs to the table while Dita charms like the badass she is. "But Dita's got him. Are we locking him in the basement? Is that the plan?"

There's a bright smile from Perdita, and she tilts her head slightly, toying with a long strand of dark hair. If she had gum, she'd probably blow a bubble and pop it loudly, but she's working with what she's got here.

She giggles, instead, "Yeah, my name's Daphne! I'm from America." What? That show doesn't come out for like another year.

More hair twirling, and if Perdita catches the glare, she's pretending she doesn't notice. She knows in the land of tall blonds, she's something unusual, and has decided to play that up. "I'd really like that! I don't even know how to get to the basement from here. You promise you'll show me?"

"She is very good at this," Ravn murmurs back to Una, equally quiet; English is obligatory in the higher school grades at this time, and just because people aren't accustomed to hearing it spoken rapid-fire in American accents doesn't mean they can't pick up enough bits and pieces to cause trouble.

"I can show you around. Shall I not also show you the boathouse?" Kristoffer makes all the little grammar errors that clearly identifies him as somebody who does not speak English on a daily basis; the accent, to Ravn's ears at least, is embarrassing.

"Kristoffer!" says the blonde -- and continues for a bit, in her native.

He cuts her off, also in their native. The body language is universal though: Whatever, hey, just being friendly here, take a chill pill, chicks, man, amirite.

"The boathouse seems to be an option," Ravn notes very quietly into his coffee mug. "The basement's probably quieter, though. Let's see if we can spoil that idea."

And that's him stretching luxuriously and declaring just a little too loudly, "So, did you want me to show you the boathouse today, darling?" and slipping his arm around Ariadne's shoulder right there, in a blatant display of a) ownership and b) exactly the same ideas about what a boat house is for as Kristoffer is nurturing at the next table. Sorry, 'Stoffer. Looks like you're not the only self-professed lady killer in this cafeteria who can think of ways to talk some ditzy chick into rocking a boat or two. And guess what? Teachers probably have priority, in the way of do you want real shitty grades?

"Very," reiterates Una, only a little louder this time-- though with a lack of context, there's nothing in that single word that could cause them grief.

It's a good thing she doesn't actually try and finish that coffee, though, because while Perdita-- sorry 'Daphne'-- is one thing, Ravn and Ariadne is another: she takes in a sharp breath that might herald outright giggles were she a little less composed right now. It was a happy coincidence, indeed, that led Una to sit at one side of the long dining table, and Ravn at the other: it means she can look across at the couple, eyes metaphorically dancing with mirth.

It means, too, she can lift her own voice and say, "Damn girl, you work fast! We've only been here five minutes and you've got Teach all hot and bothered. I'll leave you to it, shall I? No sailing today."

Her voice is solid enough, though the hint of a blush does rather diminish the impact.

Daphne. On the heels of earlier's joke about Great Danes, Ariadne somehow -- probably magically -- manages to contain her mirth. It's probably one of the small miracles of the current age, along with the amount of hairspray one can apparently put in one's hair if they try hard enough.

"Probably much quieter." How drily the barista notes this in turn. Having straightened in her chair out of the elbow-propped lean on the table, she's an easy target for the sling of arm across shoulders. Observe, the blink of actual shock. Wait, what -- and what a line to boot! She meets Una's eyes and a dusting of pastel-pink is the immediate counter (mirror?) to her fellow redhead. But quick! Quick, Teach has to have dibs on the boathouse!

"I mean...sailing could still happen, you never know." American English for her, enough to draw attention, and a deliberately audacious smile on her part. Look at that lean-into Ravn's slinging arm. His hair is so long, it's so different -- wait, ignore the hair, we're trying to be convincing! "Once things are at full mast, the boat will be rockin'. Don't come a-knockin'."

Sip coffee. Pretend that wasn't a judiciously bad few lines. Damnit, Kristoffer, just pick the basement!

Of course she's very good at this. She's apparently earned grifted enough money to own a building, after all. 'Daphne' giggles, tilting her head and twirling that strand of hair again as Kristoffer offers to show her the boathouse... but then Ravn 'ruins' that, while the poor girl Dita's cuckquean'ing is arguing with her beau. She scuffs one gogo boot slightly, "Sounds like the boathouse is going to be busy... but your friend can come with us, too, if she likes...?"

The little bite of her lip before she turns those dark eyes on the poor girl... The attempt at bisexual flirting is almost derailed by Una and Ariadne and the sheer hilarity she finds in the idea of them hooking up for the first time in the boat house in the middle of a Dream about some strange alternate world where his home's been a school for decades.

"I'd love to have two guides..." Dita glances down the young woman's form, then back up to her face, blushing ever so slightly before she bites her lower lip again. "I bet you know lots of things... about the history of the building."

Depending on your camera angle, there are multiple internal battles being fought here.

Ravn is losing his; he's done enough street grifting to know his role as wingman, and if it had been just Perdita and him? He'd have aced it. Una's comment, however -- it shatters the boundary in his mind. He can play the part of creepy teacher abusing his position to impress the salacious student chicks in the name of free love and the summer of '68 -- but the role is so far removed from the man underneath who lives in a semi-permanent state of fear that somebody is going to think he's abusing his admittedly considerable amount of privilege.

He stares at Una. He swallows. He fails to follow up on his suggestion because the idea that he might be -- in the boat house -- no, no -- he'd never -- oh god -- bluescreen.

The blonde girl wins hers; she's not letting herself getting cornered into something she's not quite ready for. "I don't swing that way," she informs Perdita, haughtily. "But you can have him. He'll come back to me when he's tired of you." Winning, for a relative meaning of winning at least; it's 1968 and she's not the first woman to console herself with the false narrative that at least she's the one he comes home to.

Kristoffer looks surprised; maybe he didn't actually expect this strange, dusky beauty to be won over that easily. He shoots Ravn a glare; asshole using his position to get those two chicks into the boat house with him, probably going to grade both on their blow jobs skill rather than their musical talent. In other words, his battle is lost, and he stands up, looking at Perdita like she's a pastry on a hungry man's plate. "Let me show you the basement, snugglecheeks."

Una's discovered power, recently, in defying expectation; she's gloried in coming out with the comments that, not so long ago, she might have swallowed back or squirmed over. It's a wonderful feeling: freeing, exhilarating.

But she's also sitting opposite Ravn, and between his lack of response and his stare-- and perhaps that swallow, too-- she's picked up a clue or two, and maybe that ruins the moment. Or-- no. Not ruins. Changes, perhaps. Mid-smirk for Ariadne's remark, her expression falters, and she flushes, deeply, her gaze dropping hastily to what's still left on her plate.

Her attempt to join in has gone too far, and now she's regretting it. Not enough that she's lost all sense of the moment, perhaps, and not enough to prevent her from squaring her shoulders in an attempt to gather back up her composure; enough that, for now, she can't look Ravn in the eye, and likely hasn't followed Perdita's progress with Kristoffer.

Snugglecheeks.

Ariadne, in private company, would probably have let out a literal hiss between her lips. Derision, acidic, shades the smile she gives Kristoffer and narrows her eyes to something far less friendly in turn.

But -- the rest of her table is struggling. Still leaned in the crook of Ravn's arm, she first catches sight of Una deferring attention to her plate -- and what a shade of color. She can tell Ravn's gone stiffer somehow. Shit. What to do. What to do without alerting Kristoffer? Not that he could be alerted, he's only got eyes for Dita at the moment, but the barista still thinks fast. Subtle. Subtle communic --

A quick flick of her eyes towards Una. She tries to think at the woman in a far more modulated volume: Remember it's just a grift. We know it's a distraction. Have to support Dita.

The message breaks apart on its way to Ravn. Maybe it's because she can't see his face. Maybe it's because she can sense the discomfort emanating from him. For him, she tries the same; all which might reach the Dane in the same softer, recognizable voice is, Remember it's just a grift.

"Oh, okay! Thanks!" it's so cheerful, so utterly guileless, like she really doesn't understand that she's being a homewrecking hussy, "I only want him for a few hours anyway!"

She doesn't need the bubblegum, because she's clearly going to chew this boy up, then spit him out. She twirls that strand of hair again, a brightly vacant expression on her face, and giggles at being called 'snugglecheeks', before hugging Kristoffer's arm, which, of course, is going to short his brain out even more, because boobs.

"You're so strong." She glances over her shoulder at Ariadne, Ravn and Una, wiggling her fingers at them in a cheerful wave, letting Kristoffer lead her off toward the basement. Here's hoping the hellhound doesn't mind company, because 'Daphne' is getting herself into trouble.

Don't blow it, don't blow it, don't blow it, and also, you started it. Ravn manages to curb his discomfort with the idea of being a person in a position of power, taking advantage of that position of power -- after all, he's the one who dropped the suggestion in the first place; it wasn't Kristoffer who suggested that the boat house might be busy because a couple of the ladies present are busy giving an oral recital to the violin teacher.

The thought still makes him cringe. Sometimes, his mouth works faster than his brain. His mouth usually has good ideas and just keep to your role, goddamnit, it's not real and the girls in question are in on it.

He briefly wonders whether he needs to come up with some kind of maneuver in order to rescue Perdita. He glances at Kristoffer. Objectively speaking, there's a lot of high quality Danish beefcake there. Kristoffer may think he's the hunter here; Ravn struggles to not laugh at the idea. He's also pretty convinced that even with nothing but her bare hands, Dita knows a trick or two, to send some big, blond Danish he-man snoring for a few hours if she wants to -- pressure points, something.

He pays attention in case anything Dita says does in fact signal 'rescue please' but he doesn't expect the request to happen.

Swallow. Play the part. Be the man you're supposed to be, shower for three hours later. He smirks -- #Sleazeball In Charge No 3 -- at Ariadne and Una and tells them, "I'll go for a little walk. If you happen to walk by the boat house in a little while, we might just meet there."

And no one, really, no one needs to know that after the Dane absconds with his coffee and a smug look, he takes five to slip into the men's room and throw up. This is not about his issues. This is about saving Kristoffer's life. Whether it deserves to be saved or not is none of Ravn's concern. Whatever piece of free-love-and-pot dirtball Kristoffer may or may not be, he's certainly not responsible for the White Lady's anger.

He heads for the boat house at a slow pace after; easy enough for the others to catch up and then, discreetly, change course towards the basement. Oh, sure, Dita may know all the drop-'em-flat-fu but he still wants to be within shouting range. Just in case.

There's definitely a moment, a visible moment, when Ariadne's mental line of thought reaches Una-- and she freezes. Maybe her blink serves as confirmation that she's heard, because there's no reply by way of thought, and no other immediate response. On the other hand, she does manage to lift her gaze again when Ravn speaks, and if it is significantly more rabbit-in-the-headlights than coquette, hopefully no one's paying attention enough for that to matter, and perhaps doe-like stares still work in this teacher-student dynamic that she's so definitely not thinking about.

Her exhale after he leaves comes with a quick glance towards Ariadne, and a knit of brows that suggests some very deep thought-- though if she's attempting to 'think' at the other redhead, no words are getting through. She thinks even harder; still nothing.

That, now, may be a look of ever so faint panic. "So, uh," she says out loud, instead. "Want to get out of here?"

She's lost track of Perdita and Kristoffer in all of this, and maybe that contributes to her disquiet too. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Didn't anyone ever learn that basic rule of all things horror: don't split the party.

"Yep, that'd be wisest at this point," comes the quiet reply to Una. Ariadne might be off of her breakfast at this point out of concern for everyone, but the coffee is finished, damnit, with a fervent toss-back via tilted mug. "Can't let Dita be alone too long. I'm not worried for her. I'm worried about what else this place can dish out."

And every horror movie starts with splitting the party! As such, the redheads don't spend too long separated from the party, as it were. A quick questioning of one of the local clot of students -- ooh, yes, the boat house is over there, beyond the garden, titter-titter. She's got a brisk stride not too brisk, Ariadne, but it brings both barista and Kitchen Cleric into view of the tall Dane sooner than later, thankfully. A raise of hand in a wave of greeting and then here's Ariadne in her violently-violet get-up.

"Anybody got eyes on Dita? Do we need direct eyes on Dita?" she asks mostly Ravn, though Una is included in the glance because multiple sets of eyes are far better than one.

Yes, with only her bare hands, Dita knows a trick or two to send a big blond Danish he-man snoring for a few hours. It's not pressure points. It's not discussed in polite company. But when is the company Perdita keeps 'polite'?

Letting Kristoffer set the pace toward the basement and pretending like she has no idea about how to find it is a little frustrating, only a little, because she's at least been in the building before... Granted that was a good twenty odd years ago, and things have changed a lot, even if it's only a few months ago in her perspective. Still, the party has been well split, what with the ersatz Daphne being led off by a man probably born just a couple years after her grandma. Time travel is weird.

At least he's probably not her grandpa.

"Have you ever seen the Hellhound?" she asks Kristoffer, staring up at him with those big dark eyes, doing her best to keep his attention squarely on her, just in case her companions are following along behind, after all.

"Tsch, no one has," Kristoffer says, nonchalant as a man who knows he's won the lottery and is on his way to cash in the prize. The way he walks speaks louder than words. Has everyone noticed yet? Has everybody seen that he gets the wildest, most exotic beauty present, just by talking to her? His mojo is through the roof, dudes. "But if it turns up? I bet it is a giant black Rottweiler. Or a wolfhound."

When Perdita saw it, the hellhound was a black poodle with fiery eyes, kind of politely hiding under a bed. Probably not what Kristoffer is hoping for. Well, the glowing eyes, probably.

Behind her, on the path near the boathouse, Ravn throws a glance after the couple. "I am not sure we need direct eyes on them," he admits because on some level he probably realises that there is at least the possibility that Kristoffer is not the only one who's up for a good time and no commitment. He's got no quarrel with the idea -- and no desire to watch, either. "Let's stay within screaming distance, though. Close enough that if we hear something that doesn't sound like it's part of somebody having a good time, we can start talking loud and walking with heavy steps, break it up."

And what a basement it is. Now, there are various activity rooms and classrooms, some of them behind new walls and doors, using the space. Once, all of this will have been one vast storage area. Down here, it's easy to tell how old the manorhouse is; the outer walls of the basement, the moat surrounding them on three side and the lake on the fourth, granite in mortar, worn smooth by time. Arched ceilings to increase the structural strength. Even with parts of the area walled off with modern plywood walls and plaster, there is the sensation of stepping back into a past where only wealthy lords and bishops could afford to build like this; not merely a manor house but a castle, built on the soft banks of a lake. The labour involved, the money, the materials . . .

Kristoffer takes his time finding the proper corner in the old wine cellar. The bed is still there -- a small wooden frame with bedding inside, suitable for a large, if not gigantic dog. It is pristine and undisturbed. "So one time, the maid forgot to make the bed," he tells Perdita. "And that's when the northern wall cracked."

Ravn, meanwhile, hangs back on the staircase. "I guess that if we're needed we can be heard from here."

Una's nod is the only answer she's got for Ariadne; she's definitely the follower as she carefully stacks plates while the other woman finishes her coffee, then slips out of the dining hall behind her. Her discomfort is less overwhelming than it was a few moments ago, but not entirely gone, not when she's got a short skirt to tug at and smooth down, or uneven curls to try and adjust, though perhaps all of that is just an attempt to keep her hands busy as she walks.

At least she's composed enough to play the part, adept enough to offer bright, airy smiles to go with Ariadne's question, and, once they're safely grouped back up with Ravn, to not fall back into blushes and embarrassment. It's fine. She's fine.

"Screaming distance," she agrees, voice lowered to a murmur for fear of being overheard, now that they're in place above the basement. "And... we wait?" We wait.

"I guess we wait, yeah. I'm not into voyeurism myself." A shrug from Ariadne off to one side. She's certainly not placed herself in any line of immediate visible sight in either instance, herself or someone down the stairwell. "I suppose if we're quiet, we should be able to tell if there's more than just flirtatious flimflam going on. Wood knocks on stone walls just as audibly as it would on a standard modern wall." She seems to be taking this more in stride now that there's been some walking in the open air of the grounds. This begs to be explored more; the barista can be seen to look towards the nearest window and the outside in a moment of wistfulness.

"I mean, I'll also just whisper 'Mmm, gurl, git it' to make both of you turn funny colors if I hear the bed's a rockin'," the redhead then notes with a friendly troublemaker's grin to both of her comrades. "Or we could play I Spy. I'll start. I spy with my little eye something that starts with...S."

Hint: it's probably stone.

"Nobody has? Then how does anyone know it's real?" Perdita asks, still putting on that ditz act with the best of them, squeezing Kristoffer's arm just a little tighter. "I bet it's a big poodle." she offers, with a smile...

"Wow, it's so big!" Of course, this would be the line uttered as Perdita walks through a particularly echo-y part of the basement. Internally, she's rolling her eyes, but this boy has all the nuance of the bowl of oats she left to come down here.

"Wait, they make the bed every morning? Do the sheets get messed up during the night, or do they just... change them?"

"It's a tradition," says Kristoffer, with the kind of smug logic that comes understanding that there's money in tradition. Just as he's able to use the story of the black hell hound to score, so does the school no doubt benefit from circulating the story -- have a stay at scenic Engelsholm, get your art on, and hear all the inspiring all tales, a place unlike any other highschool. "Some groundskeeper has to change it every day, no doubt."

That's the Danish version of highschool -- an educational 'boarding school' but for adults, not to be confused with the American teenage nightmare of the same name.

Outside, Ravn could probably tell the story of the hell hound and the cracked wall if prompted. Maybe some day an occasion will occur that warrants story telling -- but for now at least, he's keeping his mouth shut because he can't make out the words of the voices down there. He can hear the tone, however, and he wants to not be talking over it in case Perdita's voice suddenly carries a plea for help.

After a while of absolutely no screaming from down there he looks up at the sky. "I guess we just... wait. For evening. Or we break Kristoffer's ankle, go sit somewhere nice until evening, and then rescue whoever the story wants to substitute. I'm open to this idea, Kristoffer seems like a dick."

Una goes pink, naturally: the bed doesn't even need to be actually rocking for Ariadne's troublemaking tease to hit its mark. The twist of her mouth is pained, but not lingeringly so, which at least means she's fighting back her disquiet of earlier. Everything is fine. She can just keep her mouth shut and not make herself, or anyone else, uncomfortable. Everything is fine.

"Stone," she says, answering the other redhead's game, blandly, her voice kept tucked in low.

It's Ravn's comment, eventually, that has her drawing herself up again, shoulders squared. "Can you show us around? This may be the only time in my life I get to see any part of Europe, and I'd prefer to make the most of it, rather than worry about Kristoffer, who really is a dick. I hope his girlfriend dumps him and discovers... I don't know, not free love. Actual love. Or just herself, maybe that's all she needs. And maybe modern clothes and hair, because she's going to have regrets one day, when she's, god, someone's grandmother."

"'eeeeeeeyyyyyyyy, got it in one," laughs Ariadne quietly. "Good guess, Una." She's determined to enjoy this absolute insanity as much as she can. Spiting a Dream in the process is always delightful. Her smile fades to something more sympathetic because damned if Una continues to have a good point.

A glance over towards the stairwell. She's listening as intently as Ravn is for a certain pitch meaning she busts down there and breaks something on somebody. An ankle is only one of many options. "I mean, if we go knock his ass out cold and tie him to the bed or something, we can then go on a tour until evening? I'm not against wandering around the grounds, this place looks very cool. I haven't seen anything like it." Which is quite true, given she's never been here before in her life, Dream or not.

"... What happens if someone else uses the bed?" asks the supposed ingenue, twirling a strand of that dark hair between her fingers. Perdita smiles, walking toward the bed in a way that shifts her hips in ever so interesting ways. One finger traces over the fabric of the bedding, a lover's caress with just a bit of emphasis on her manicured nail.

Dita lets her hand rest against the headboard, turning to look at Krisoffer, just a hint of challenge in those dark eyes. American girls sure do move fast, don't they? "Wanna find out?" She bites her lower lip, playfully, smiling, her head tilting just so. It's not her best work, but she's also very much aware that this man would probably crawl across gravel for her, right now.

Something materialises out of the shadows near Ravn's foot. He startles -- and then does a double take at the large black poodle that gives him a long, mournful look from eyes that glow like fiery embers, before simply walking off. Everything about the animal says nope, we're not doing this, I am not seeing this, they're about to fuck in my bed and I'm going for a very long walk now, bye.

Ravn stares after it. Who's he to argue? Does the creature know who he is? Does it remember him, 28 years later?

Does time matter to a hell hound? Do alternate realities?

He sends a long look after it as it trots off towards the woods. Then he shakes his head and looks back at Ariadne and Una. "I'd introduce you but, too late. Founder of the castle, blah, blah, doesn't look like he felt like staying around while somebody's borrowing his bed. Here's to hoping Perdita won't shake Kristoffer's world so hard the literal walls come down."

He runs a hand over his face. "Did we want to do a tour? I think Dita's fine -- and ready to join us in twenty when that kid is out of breath and stamina and pants. How about we go down to that boat house, nick a dinghy, and just wait it all out on the lake?"

"... huh," says Una. Hellhound, check. Castle, check. Things presumably about to go down in a borrowed bed-- look, let's not think about that in anything more than the abstract; have fun, Perdita, but nope, Una's going to nope out on that too. "I mean, I'd probably go, too, but..." She casts a pretty dubious glance after the retreating poodle. "Huh."

Her gaze slides back to the door, too, but... nope. We're back to nope on that one. "Um, yes, okay. Did we actually achieve much, with this? Aside from letting Dita rock, uh, what's-his-face's world? He's still going to go out tonight, isn't he? And now we've annoyed the hellhound, too, and... sorry, sorry. Lake. Yes. We can do this. It's fine. Everything's fine."

Something suddenly appearing? Check.

Ariadne recognizing it as a poodle? Check.

Ariadne standing there wondering at the dissonance of a poodle? Check.

Ariadne then blinking at the hellfire-bright eyes and feeling all the fine hairs on her body stand up? Check.

"What the fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck," she hiss-whispers under her breath. She remembers about this story, about this being -- ghost -- slice of immortal history -- and it doesn't take away any of the eeriness. It takes visible effort to look away from where the phantom-dog has disappeared into the woods. "Here's hoping Dita manages to sprain something on him, I guess. She knows some kick boxing. I have faith in her to accidentally wrench his ankle...or maybe throw his back out? But dinghy sounds great, sure, as long as we can get back to shore quickly if we're needed." Another look down towards the door.

The impish part of the barista wants to stand on the other side of the door and sing, loudly, Can you feeeeeel the loooooovvvvvvvvve toniiiiiiiight. But that's probably pushing it.

Kristoffer eagerly strips down, then leaps into the bed, staring up at Perdita with a big grin on his face... just in time for the sheets to whip around him like a boa constrictor, seemingly all on their own, his limbs suddenly lashed quite firmly to the bed, before the blanket settles over him as neatly as if a maid had just made the bed. It goes fitted sheet, naked guy, top sheet, blanket, right? He, of course, is utterly confused and begins flailing, begging Dita to help him out.

Perdita tilts her head slightly, smiling, as she makes her way over to the man's pants. His wallet is taken out, the contents examined... and then Dita's rolling her eyes. "Seriously?" The wallet is crammed into Kristoffer's mouth, using his own belt as a makeshift gag to hold it in place.

"Okay. Here's what we're going to do, Kristoffer. You're going to stay down here until tomorrow morning, and you're going to stay quiet, because the Hellhound is real, he's my friend, and he's hungry. Then you're going to go find that beautiful, sweet girl of yours, and you're going to beg for her forgiveness and promise to make her deliriously happy for as long as she'll have you, if only she'll take you back. And if you ever, ever even try to cheat on her again?" Dita pats Kristoffer's cheek tenderly. "I will find you. You'll never know if the woman you're cheating with is me. Because I am an ancient, powerful shapeshifting witch. I'm giving you one, singular chance to become a better man. Don't make me regret it."

Dita rises from the bed, and then, to make sure this boy isn't going anywhere, she picks up his pants, undergarments and shirt, leaving only his shoes... and strolls out of the space, closing and locking that door behind her with a telekinetic flick.

And not long after the Hellhound disappears, there's Perdita, full lips pursed and whistling a cheerful but piercing tune as she passes the trio, quirking an eyebrow. Kristofer's clothes, now freshly folded, are set off to one side.

"Alright, who else am I seducing into being tied to a Hellhound's bed with blue balls?"

Just as the three upstairs are turning to leave, there's Perdita, whistling the Kill Bill theme and looking like she's queen of the world.

Ravn stares. And then he laughs. For a while. It takes him several minutes to get to, "Please tell me you mean you tied him and his blue balls up, not that you tied him up with his blue balls."

Give him another minute or five.

Happily, Perdita's return reassures Una of the supreme utility of this whole side quest, though that doesn't stop her from flushing deep and dark anyway. Ravn's question doesn't much help either: oh look, Una's face.

"Uhhhhhhh," she says. And then, "We were going to head out onto the lake. Shall we do that? Before anyone sees us here, right?"

RUN AWAY.

Like Ariadne's going to help anybody's case for a straight face.

So innocently -- so innocently -- after Ravn's hyena-fest and Una's suggestion, she blithely asks of Dita, "Little Krissofer thinking twice about doggy-style now after the reminder of the Hellhound?"

Because what's dignity around here, seriously. It's a Dream.

"Lake sounds good," the barista then adds far more seriously...and titters.

"I used the sheets to tie him to the bed. I owe the Hellhound an apology... but at least the bastard won't die now. I'm pretty sure I just started the urban legend about men being seduced for their kidneys, though... and yes. Lake sounds excellent."

Ariadne gets a wink and a wicked little smile and a wink from Perdita.

"I don't think the hell hound is really going to complain a whole lot. He just turned up and gave us the 'why he gotta do this' face, and then sauntered off into the woods." Ravn tries very hard to keep a straight face. It's perfectly normal to get stared at by your family's personal hell hound. The ancestor who built the castle, in his ghostly form. Whatever. As long as it stays in the family. Right?

He shakes his head. "So, let's walk down this way past the boat house and there's a small pier -- we can take one of the boats there. They have to belong to the school -- and I'm a teacher, right? Right. Also, I fucking need to get out of here before I howl myself to death laughing, or run downstairs to see if the wall is cracking. If it is, I don't care. This is not my Engelsholm. Although I'm not sure the damned dog can tell the difference."

It's a pleasant enough walk, across the grounds. They're kept fairly simple -- open lawns, gravel paths. With hundreds of people coming and going and no doubt using those lawns for all kinds of lawn things in summer, more elaborate gardening would be a pointless post on the school budget.

Una turns scarlet. On the other hand, she giggles, too, so maybe it's not so bad: the combination is plainly adorable.

"At least we've saved him from-- whatever's going to happen tonight," she concludes, pulling her expression together, complete with lips pressed tightly in careful, anxious thought. She is not going to make a comment about Ravn being a teacher, this time, surrounded by three female students. That way lies madness; they all know this now.

"It's beautiful here," is what she says, instead. PERFECTLY NATURAL.

A brief up-swing in tittering's intensity (brought on by Dita's wink and grin) dies down after a cough or two and a clearing of throat. Now? Time to be an adult. Mostly.

"Worse urban legends exist," mutters Ariadne with a dismissive glance over at the door now containing one tied-and-trussed Kristoffer. "And yes, for the moment, he's spared his own idiocy. Bastard doesn't know how lucky he is." It's easy enough to fall into place with the group and cross the grounds. Ariadne's got eyes for what elaborate gardening does exist, minimal though it might be, as well as the older fixtures and architecture of the buildings themselves.

"It really is," she murmurs in soft, relatively-awed agreement with Una. "And a frickin' boat house because there's actually a need for a boat house. I can't believe there's enough water in the first place for it. There aren't any sirens around here, right? There can't be. I saw other young men besides Kristoffer."

"An afternoon on the lake, it is." Perdita offers her arm to Una companionably, smiling. At least this way it looks less obnoxious for Ravn being in the company of so many gorgeous girls. Not that he isn't used to the company, by this point.

"It's certainly not as beautiful as it was in the 40s, but it was also raining and there were Nazis, so I'll take the swinging sixties, any day."

"I... hmm. Would the sirens here be the same sort as at the harbor, or do you think there's other types, too?" Dita asks, curiously, content to let the others lead the way and set the pace.

"I'm not a fan of the late sixties' aesthetics but the absence of Nazis is a definite plus." Ravn nods his agreement and heads towards the boat house -- and the lake beyond.

"I've never seen or heard of anything supernatural in the lake as such," the folklorist says. "The house is where all the stories are -- not the lake, and not the woods. There aren't seals in the lake -- it's not connected to the ocean so they'd have no way to get here even if they were willing to venture up fresh water streams. Probably a couple of really ancient pikes, though."

A deep shade of green, this is a proper lake -- a natural lake with its own well spring, and large enough that rowing around it full circle would take several hours. The carps in it are no doubt fat and ancient, because keeping carps for the lord's table is a custom far older than Engelsholm, a mere youngling of a manor house from the 15th century. The boats are small dinghies -- rowboats that can be punted in shallow water. Tall reeds line the muddy banks, and waterfowl from geese to ducks putter about, minding their own business. On the far bank, a couple of roe deer sun themselves, safe in the knowledge that no one will disturb them.

Everything breathes peace. And at least for now, the white lady has been thwarted. Will another young fool go provoke her with his philandering ways sometime? No doubt. Will Kristoffer learn anything from his experience in the basement? Heaven only knows. Will the hell hound want to use his bed again? Probably not until the sheets have been changed.

Drifting on the lazy breeze on the lake on such a beautiful summers' day, it's easy to fall into reveries and dreams of times past; to picture ladies sitting under their parasols while young gentlemen punt the barges along gently, reading and pretending to not notice the displays to impress them. Drift further back, and one might envision similar displays, of ladies in Elizabethan era grand gowns and top hats, riding side-saddle on the path around the lake, and cantering up the long avenue, built for the very purpose. A lazy life, a good life -- distant from all things horrible in the outside world, a private slice of paradise.

And now, an art school. The gentry no longer rules the land, but their legacy lives on -- the best part of it, some might say: Historical buildings of great beauty, now put to use for the public and the greater good, rater than to serve but a small upper class.