2022-05-28 - Our Secret Selves

Whether it be a masquerade or a nod to upcoming Pride Month, Ariadne was not going to miss out on a chance to sport a fun costume. Not October? Doesn't matter. That the shindig is for charity (mostly, minus those laundered bits and bobs) certainly gives another reason to attend. Maybe it took a little convincing to get Ravn to attend, but they arrive paired nonetheless.

Now, the last time Ariadne was here, it had been in a Dream. As such, behind her plain leather domino mask, this in white to match her costume in turn, her hazel eyes brightly take everything in. Smoky eye shadow makes them a display of contrast behind her mask. It's thankfully not difficult to walk in her low heels and she's opted for a far sleeker skirt rather than the tulle fabric of the original design, this with a slit up to mid-thigh to display the black stockings rising past the slit's end in turn. What's been difficult is not bopping poor Ravn in the face with the valkyrie-like headdress sporting two winged extensions from her coil-braided hair.

P.S. It's definitely Ariadne under that mask, look at the dyed underpanel and natural color of hair otherwise -- no mystery here!

She's struggling a little bit with keeping the black opera gloves up around her elbows, but maybe that's the curse of them in turn. At least the white feather collar shrug is keeping her warm and most of the corset top proper. At her neck, a golden chain sports a pretty diadem in seashell-pink-and-ivory; one must get closer to see the design.

"I knew this would suit you the moment I saw it," she laughs quietly in Ravn's direction with a glance at him and a ruby-red-lipped grin. On the man's arm as they walk, she can feel the brush of the burgundy-dark faux-fur stole with every movement. She'd spotted it while out thrifting and immediately thought of the running joke with her sister. It's a look indeed, especially when paired up with a three-piece suit in (you guessed it) black. And a genuine walking cane. And fake fangs. And yet, somehow, it's still far more understated than other costumes on display by the glitterati. "And I'm glad you went with the kohl eyeliner, your eyes pop behind your mask, bud." His plain black leather mask, all but a twin to Ariadne's in turn save for color.

"I'm struggling to not laugh in a mildly hysterical tone," Ravn murmurs, amused -- and noting the slight accent that the false fangs impose upon him. He licks them absentmindedly, in that way it's nearly impossible to not keep licking at something in your mouth that feels different from what you're used to. "But I'll give you, it works. I feel positively flamboyant."

At least he knows how to walk with a cane, twirling it every once in a while like the accessory it is. There will be pictures later, for Ariadne's sister. They will be taken under a midnight sky, with only the pale moon for illumination. And possibly, some fireworks in the background. If we're pranking her with bad Twilight and Vampire Chronicles references, might as well go all the way.

"Let's see if we can find any of our friends. My guess is that most of them will be milling about the jazz lounge -- chamber music is a tad too posh, it'll attract all the pretentious yachters. And later on, when enough sparkling wine has gone down, we'll all end up shaking it to classic rock, I suspect." Ravn has no desire to head towards those yachters and casino goers who go to some effort to look like a million bucks; rich people are pretentious and boring on the whole, and he's not here to get photographed for the Gazette again, either.

Having arrived to the event in a stretch limo with a beautiful woman on her arm, Perdita's Secret Self looks like a daddy's girl with more money than sense, attending her quinceañera. Is it the powder blue gown with a plunging neckline (kept modest with a flesh tone inset), embellished with soft pink and white silk flowers along its hem? Maybe it's the jeweled back and long train? Or is it the diamond tiara that surely has to be rhinestones and brass, surrounded by a perfectly coiffed high ponytail with structured waves.

Whatever it is, Perdita is, indeed, in the jazz lounge, her matching mask firmly in place as she sips something bubbly out of a fluted glass. And it's like she figured out the best spot to stand in the room with some sort of Fibonacci Spiral type math, as she's perfectly situated. Ravn might not want to be photographed by the Gazette, but Perdita clearly doesn't mind the attention, or her grifter instincts are so ingrained now that she can't help it. Still, she gives up her prime real estate when she spots Ari and Ravn, the soft click of heels announcing that even in a ball gown, she's not giving up her four extra inches of height, dammit.

"You look amazing." she tells them both, smiling brightly.

The night is young, and there is wine sparkling wine to be had, dances to be danced, and cameras to get in front of. A town car dropped off both Doctor Ava Brennon and Detective Deacon Fade who strolled in together arm in arm, or rather maiden of the forest and her strapping knight. Ava's emerald gown is form fitting until just the top of the thigh where it spills downwards to pool ever so slightly against the floor. The side panels are sheer, straight down, but share the same weaving of green flowers as the rest of the gown. The mask drift across half of her face, pink flowers, dogwood perhaps, in full bloom. Her hair is down and curled down her back, vines and flowers to match the crown, neatly woven into it.

She moves across the floor, murmuring to Deacon as they go, looking as light as a feather without a single care in the world. Maybe the good doctor pre-gamed before the party? "Look, there's some of the others. Why don't you get drinks and meet me over there?" she suggests, leaning up to kiss his cheek before she sweeps across the floor towards the three. "Hey you guys!"

A nod from Ariadne, making the feathers of her headdress shiver. "Yes, our peeps are more than likely nowhere near the room with the chamber music. How fancy though, that they included chamber music. We'll have to go waltz once," she primly informs her other half with a pleased little grin. Letting Ravn steer away from the posh yachters with zero arguments on her part, the barista lets her eyes continue to wander. So many great costumes -- it's a feast for the senses visually. She hopes against hope to not get overwarm at one point or another.

But there a -- "Dita!" The fashionista's name arcs on high and a black opera-gloved hand rises in a gleeful wave. "Hi! Ooooh, you look amazing! Well, more amazing than me, fight me for changing my mind," the redhead funs as she detaches from Ravn in order to swish over to the edge of the flouncy quinceañera-like dress. "Look at the flowers, eeeeeee." Little squee, air kiss-kiss because that's what you do when you're fancy, right? "And Una's around here somewhere?" Trust Ariadne to find the younger redhead with a kind if dogged tenacity in the crowd, one way or another.

But also, an Ava. Hearing a greeting, the barista turns and lifts a hand towards Ava. "Oh hey, Ava! Wow, you look amazing too! Dude. We'll all rocking it," Ariadne laughs as she momentarily fusses at the lay of her shoulder-shrug of white feathers.

"Goodness," Ravn says with a small smile upon seeing first Perdita in her glorious gown and then Ava in hers. The gentleman on his arm is not immediately familiar -- but that does not stop the gentleman vampire (lookit those cute little plastic fangs) from smiling at him. "Some men have all the luck. I dare say, sir, tonight we are those men. Ladies, you have truly outdone yourself."

He laughs softly at Ariadne's request and nods. "I knew I should have bailed on dance classes when I had the chance as a boy. Now my good manners betray me. Also, golly gee, by Jove, and puddlesocks, and whatever else Brits say that go with the kind of accent you get from having a mouth full of plastic. As long as I manage to dodge Alice Hampton I'm good."

In contrast to the vivid gowns and gleaming accessories of the ladies present, Joe's positively drab by contrast. But he hasn't settled for an ordinary suit and a half-domino as a token for the masquerade. Definitely in a costume of some sort, vaguely medieval.

It doesn't conceal his face or head. He wears a tunic of a dusty olive green, fastened with frogs of dark braid down the front, edged with a dull gold at collar and hem, under a cloak of a subdued dark red. It's worn over trews of earth brown, with deep gray boots nearly to the knee. There's a suggestion of a military uniform, with epaulets trimmed with golden fur, and meaningless orders and medals of dull metal pinned on his breast. The only hints of brightness are the gleaming hilt of a broadsword, slung on a black belt at his waist, and the silver-threaded gold of his hair, tumbling nearly to his collar.

He's clearly searching for someone, by the way he surveys the crowd, craning his neck this way and that. The people he knows do get a wave and a half-distracted smile, as he drifts along the edge of the dance floor, heading for the bar.

Those posh yachters will eventually be on Perdita's list, but for now, she's all about her friends, returning the air kisses with Ari, "You look fantastic. I look like I'm about to throw a fit at Big Daddy because I wanted a white pony, not a dappled white pony." Dita winks at Ari, before flashing a smile at Ava, as well. "But I wouldn't have it any other way. Didn't get to have my quinceañera or sweet sixteen, so..." she shrugs slightly. "Financed it, myself..."

"I love that mask, Ava!" Every time she turns her head, another facet on that tiara of hers is finding light and sparkling. The necklace and earrings aren't helping. Someone hang her from the ceiling as a disco ball. She twiddles her fingers in a wave at Joseph, clearly appreciating his own attire, with a friendly smile from her.

"You guys all look absolutely stunning. Not that I expected anything less. The feathers and the flowers. Just gorgeous." Ava beams in delight, though there's a flicker of amusement as Ravn tries to work his mouth around the fangs. "That's adorable." She clears her throat. "I mean fierce, and terrifying. Yes. Both of those things and not adorable at all." Not she doesn't.

Dita's compliment lights up what can be seen of Ava's face. "Thank you! It took forever to find just the right mask to go with the dress while still giving off the vibe that I was going for." Spotting Joseph, her hand lifts, waving towards him. "Oh, another sword. Here's hoping Deacon doesn't get any sword fighting ideas. I'm trying to avoid having to patch up stab wounds tonight. Slash wounds too," she giggles, not seeming terribly worried about it.

"Look, we'll both plead for a dappled pony and maybe Big Daddy will give in," Ariadne winks at Dita. She's all dimples as she looks over the fashionista again. What a tiara. It looks so real, those gemstones. It must have been polished within an inch of its life. Dita's wave makes the barista glance in the direction of the gentleman in the military-ish uniform and she too raises a black opera-gloved hand to twiddle fingers towards Joseph.

"Okay, he has a freakin' broadsword, I clearly missed out on attaching my short sword to a belt. I could have been a valkyrie," the redhead laughs, "And maybe challenged him to a duel." Is she kidding? Mystery for the ages. It's probably a tease given Ava's druthers about no more slash wounds, please and thank you!

Another glance at Ravn. "It's only one waltz, not a run of them, you'll survive." A gentle tease for the man who'd prefer to be out of the spotlight. "And we'll try to time it so what's-her-face is busy sniffing after somebody else."

A glance between Dita and Ava. "Any tips on working around longer nails? I stuck some false ones on for the claw effect on the gloves and I feel like I'm going to drop everything." Lifting up the fingers of one hand, she displays the gentle, short curves of the false nails beneath the glove; it means to evince bird feet in the end.

The Knight is a lucky man. Having Ava at his side, he can only serve to enhance her beauty because, well, he is not quite on her level. Few are though, and he smiles as he looks over around the room. Being sent on drink duty makes him laugh, as he dips a polite bow and nods, "Of course, m'lady," he teases, before he makes his way towards the bar and he picks up a couple glasses of wine. A nod is politely offered to Joseph who is also at the bar.

Deacon has clearly dressed the part of a medieval knight - off duty of course. He's dressed in blue finery with golden piping, a mask of course because what is a masquerade without one? And there's a gleaming longsword at his belt because the gallant defender is never without the method of chivalrously sticking up for those he is with. (Mask: https://www.pinterest.com/pin/277112183302462492/ and outfit https://www.pinterest.com/pin/681802831073065235/). His beard has been allowed to grow a bit, as much as he can while still working for the police. It's kept neat however, and will almost certainly be trimmed back down after the event.

Making his way back over to the others, he offers the glass of a fine red to Ava before standing guard as it were. "Hello party people....wait sword fight? I'm in..." he says, looking about to see who else has one. He's joking...probably.

Ravn glances at his silver-tipped walking stick, and then at the swords of Joseph and Deacon alike. "I do feel slightly out of my league here. Challenge me to a duel and I shall bleed on you, sir, like you've never been bled on before." And of course he has to point out, "All white horses start out dappled. If you want a white pony, just wait for it to grow old." Beat. "Or paint it white like the King of Denmark did in 1920 when they could only find a dappled horse for him to cross the new border on."

No one cares, Ravn. The ladies are gushing over one another's dresses, and they certainly deserve it -- such effort put into these costumes to make them appear so very effortless. He glances around for somebody with a tray of something -- ah, there, champ--sparkling wine, yoink. A flute for him and a flute for Ariadne, and whoever placed the actual order is going to wonder where those two went.

Sparkling wine.....well, Joe's usually a hard liquor or cocktails sort of guy. But this time, he condescends to take up a flute of something bubbly and red, and come ambling over to the others. "Hey," he says, affably. "Y'all look wonderful," he adds, nodding at at the ladies, before offering a hand to Deacon. "I'm sorry, don't think we've met. i'm Joe Cavanaugh." All of it delivered in a lazy southern drawl that sticks out like a sore thumb in the Pacific Northwest.

Apparently he's overheard the last bit of conversation from Ravn, for he inquires mildly, "I thought you could kind of....chalk a white horse to brighten its coat. Some kinna powder? I mean, we never had whites on the farm growing up. Closest we ever got were dapple grays."

"I don't know, I could stand to watch a couple hunky guys swinging their swords at each other." One eyebrow quirks behind the mask, and Perdita takes a sip of her own drink. "I'm sure we could find you a sword somewhere, Ari, and then you could fight the winner." She winks at the other woman. She may look positively innocent and pure, but she's still saucy as ever.

"Honestly, it's been so long since I've had short nails that I don't know how people function with them. Try to reach for things with your fingers curving outward a little, if you can, rather than, you know... like you're trying to claw something... unless you actually want to claw something."

The mask obscures a lot of the subtleties of Perdita's expression but the look she gives Ravn is one of affection and amusement that can roughly be translated to a silent 'nerd', though she doesn't say it. "Painted white pony, it is, Big Daddy."

Ava glances to Deacon as he returns, offering a brilliant smile as she accepts the glass. "Thank you, darling." The smile shifts to a smirk as he goes all in on the sword fighting, her head shaking just a touch. "Called it." Then Perdita is encouraging it, and Ariadne wants to fight, too. Ava can only laugh. "Look, I can only ask that nobody gets blood on my dress. If someone loses a limb, I'm just going to heal you and send you to the hospital without me. I came here to dance, and I'm dancing, damnit."

A long sip of her wine later and Joe has arrived. "Hey Joe!" All of the talk between the others about ponies and horses is beyond her, so she focuses on the nails questions instead. "I keep mine at a medium length, honestly. Long nails and coroners aren't a match made in heaven, I can assure you. You pop a glove in the wrong place because of a nail and you're going to hate life for the next week. However, I suggest tilting your finger as much as possible, using the pad of it, rather than going straight in with the finger tip like you might, usually.

"Lime," Ravn tells Joe. "The kind you use for painting a barn. It dissolves in water, and once it dries, it sticks. The horse doesn't care because it's not toxic, and it'll come off with the next shedding. But it did spawn an interesting trick question for radio quizzes: What colour was King Christian X' white horse? The answer is grey."

His nails are probably short under the gloves. This is not a subject he feels much inclination to weigh in on -- except for leaning in to murmur, amusedly, to Perdita, "Do you not find it difficult to pick a pocket with long nails? Or is that merely a matter of habit?" He offers one flute to Ariadne and then inclines his lightly in a small clink against hers.

Deacon is in a good mood, and grins as Joe introduces himself. "Deacon Fade," he offers. "And thanks. Really it's my job just to stand there and let the doctor make us both look good. It's a tough job but...well, it's not really." He grins in amusement as they amble over to where people are gathered, grinning as he looks over to Ravn. "To be fair if I did stab you with a sword and you didn't bleed all over me, THAT would be the matter of concern. I mean if you do it's fine. club soda and all that.

As Ava fussed about getting blood on her clothes, Deacon just continues with it. "Isn't that the song though? You can duel if you want to? You can leave your limbs behind. Cause your friends don't duel and if they don't duel well they're...no friends of mine." He doesn't bother going with the full robot voice but he does tilt his glass to Ava's in order to just politely toast before taking a sip and looking to the others. "I used to love my long nails, honestly, but it's so hard to get them onto the trigger without one of them breaking. I had to stop wearing them..." says Deacon in a tone full of lamentation. In truth, he probably should have gone Ravn's route and stayed out of that one.

"Ooh, thank you, Ravn." Cham -- sparkling wine flute accepted and clinked to Ravn's flute in turn, Ariadne sips from it. Thankfully, no red lip stain is left behind on the glass because stain is the way to go in her opinion. Stay on, damnit. A fond and gentle brush of her gloved knuckles against his arm, seen first before contact is made.

For her suggestion? Dita gets a twinkling grin. "Alriiiiiight, I knew I liked you. Sword fight it is. Somebody find me a sword, we'll go gladiator-style." She does snort-giggle into her drink and glance at Ravn. Big Daddy, eh?

Joseph meandering over gets another grin and little finger-twiddle of greeting. "Thank you, Joe, you too. I was admiring the broadsword. Shiny. We'll have to duel later," she informs the man ever so innocently. Another sip of her drink. Lime, is it? Huh. She'd have never guessed for this particular substance being applied to fool someone into thinking a horse is white after all.

Deacon gets a quick little smirk. "Yeah, long nails get in the way of many things, but the wisdom is definitely appreciated, ladies." She's not funning by the glances she gives Ava and Dita. There's a good chance something will get dropped or knocked over tonight by her, much to her own chagrin.

As Ravn leans in, Perdita smiles sweetly. The truly perceptive might notice that her free hand has slipped into his jacket pocket. Unfortunately, the truly perceptive definitely includes Ravn... which means this might hurt, though that was definitely not her intent. "I don't have a problem doing anything with these nails." she replies. She's good... he's just... better. For now. Not that she took anything. Oh, no. Instead she slipped a card into his pocket. Where did she even have a card, in the first place, you ask? Who knows. There's always something up her sleeve, even when she doesn't have sleeves.

"Honestly, Ari, I'm surprised you didn't Wonder Woman it with a sword down the back of your dress or something." Deacon gets a slightly raised eyebrow, barely visible behind the mask, and a faint smile.

Joe's listening to Deacon's lament with a glitter of amusement in his eyes. He lifts a tattooed hand, silently, as if to demonstrate that his nails are cut practically short. "I can't imagine even medium nails," he tells Ava. "They'd break off right quick." His fingers are callused, very worn.

Then he cocks an eye at Ariadne. "Duel me?" he wonders, innocently. "Whatever for? 've I offended your honor, somehow?" Another glance around. Three guesses who he's waiting for.

Ravn's yelp gives Perdita's game away; Princess Short Fingernails isn't getting in and out unnoticed when the man whose pocket she's rifling through suffers from neuropathy. He makes a weird little face and says, "Sorry, I think I bumped against something."

And then, without further ado, he reads the card before gently depositing it down the front of Perdita's dress. No attempts at subtlety there.

"Hydrogen peroxide works much better than club soda," offers Ava. Though it probably surprises nobody that she, out of everyone here would know how to clean up blood, given her professions. There's another sip from her glass as multifaceted eyes drift between the group. "Deacon." Lament, indeed. Though is it for the song, or the joke, it's hard to tell.

"Depends on what you're using your hands for and how strong your nails on, I'd say," she offers Joe with a twinkle of amusement. "But short is probably best unless you're going for a certain style, it's true." He glances around again and she takes another sip from her glass. "He's not here yet." How does she know? She can see the door, maybe she's been paying attention, too?

Another quick grin at Dita. The barista misses the sleight of hand and slip of card entirely, not accustomed to looking for such things in the first place. "Believe me, it was tempting to hook my short sword to a belt. Oh well, I've got nails." She considers them again with a flare and then curl-in of them, gloved, towards herself.

Her eyes find Joseph again at his question. "Oh, you haven't offended me in the least, but pistols at dawn ends way too quickly. Borrrrrring. Sword duels are more...what, dashing? Bold. We can quote Princess Bride at one another. Something something I'm not left-handed." A circling gesture of this very hand off to one side very quickly closes into a fist when Ravn yelps. The barista, eyes wide, looks him over quickly and then double-checks her own space -- oh, thank god, she hadn't been talking with her hands and bumped into him, even though he's claiming he's bumped into something else in turn. He appears to be fine for the moment; a reason to check with him lat --

And there goes the card from one pocket to a proverbial other. A blink and snort-laugh to follow. "Well," murmurs the redhead, infinitely amused as she sips her sparkling wine again. Grifter shenanigans, she follows now. "Candies and pennies?" she asks Dita nonchalantly.

As a server walks past, Deacon grabs a couple of those little risotto balls from the server and then smiles, offering one to Ava if she wishes. Otherwise, he will gladly go ahead and eat both grabbed tasty appetizers. Then he looks to the others, enjoying the banter as his holding the drink and the treats means he likely won't be doing any dueling AND his nails are most definitely kept short but well taken care of. He enjoys watching the banter, however, listening to the barbs. Conversation also keeps him from embarrassing himself in front of others with his...moves. Yes...there is movement. We can call it that. "Let me know when you want to dance," he tells Ava, willing to fall on his sword for his lovely date.

Besides...someone has to head out there and slide onto the floor on their knees like Kevin Bacon.

The card should be quite familiar... because it's one of Ravn's... that he just stuffed down the bodice of her dress. He's so lucky that Alice was distracted harassing one of the waiters at that exact moment. Perdita fishes it out of her dress... and then it seems to disappear again. She's probably using the ridiculously poofy skirt as storage. Or her hair. It's large, possibly full of secrets. She does have the grace to give Ravn an apologetic look, however. It's hard being full of mischief and trickery when the target of said things suffers from, you know, a legitimate medical condition.

"Candies and pennies, indeed." Dita winks at Ari, offering the card to her, now, reappearing from the unknown.

Joe cocks a brow at Ava at that, smiling that sphinxish little smile. He's sipping from his flute of sparkling red with every sign of enjoyment, and snags something chocolate from a passing tray. The sailor glances up from his contemplation of those scarlet depths, and says to Ariadne, "Sounds fun. I actually fenced up until I broke my hip. Haven't tried since then. It's like ballet in that it can be hell on the feet and legs. Only did broadsword fighting in college and right after." A beat, and he acknowledges, wryly, "I can probably still quote the entirety of the Princess Bride from memory."

That blue gaze is following the back and forth between Perdita and Ravn, amused again. Like it's all intended for his entertainment.

Oh, look, the card, and Ariadne takes it with a bemused little smile. Turning it over to see who owns it, she then snort-laughs again. "Oh my god." A fond chide for the grifters two.

But she's never one to back down from a challenge. The next time Ravn's looked away? She tries to employ, admittedly with enthusiasm and amateur skill, to slip the card away somewhere on the Dane's person. Maybe it works. Maybe it doesn't. Either way, she winks at Dita before she takes another very innocent sip of sparkling wine.

"I haven't actually done anything like that, so I'd be flailing with gusto," she informs Joseph as to fencing and actual sword fighting. "I can mimic Pirates of the Caribbean very well, I've been told."

Fashionably late's the only kind of late, as far as Javier de la Vega's concerned. He has a date to this little soiree, though said date seems to have gone conspicuously missing in between the elevator and the gambling floor. Probably needed a smoke, or got caught up with an old friend or three. They've been here for twenty-five seconds, and Itzhak's already the life of the fucking party; go figure.

Javier peels away, and scans his gaze over the room as he heads for the bar. His hands are slid into the pockets of his coat, and his face is obscured behind a quite elaborate leather mask, only his dark, glossy curls recognisable at the back. Perhaps most shocking of all, the sight of the Chief of Police in snug-fitting biker leather pants tucked into heeled boots with a pointed toe.

"I want to see you two duel just for the Princess Bride dialogue," Ravn agrees, smiling, and blissfully unaware what Ariadne is getting up to. "I did take introductory fencing at my first boarding school, and I hated every moment of it, so I think I will prefer to be audience, rather than participant. Let me warn you though, watch her damned feet." That last remark is aimed at Joe; Ravn has seen Ariadne's footwork up close a few times and it's lethal.

Ravn leans lightly on his walking stick and glances at the lady of the lethal footwork. "And you, my dear, will of course grant me the dance with the winner once you've kicked some astronaut backside?"

Somehow, Una knows enough people that she's been distracted from actually joining this group of the party for some time now-- but there's no time like the present to meander (sorry: meandering is for people who have skirts wide enough to walk in; this is probably more like mincing, given the sparkly blue gown she's wearing, matching mask in place and hair pinned up above her head) towards more of the people she knows, her dress sparkling with each step. Exactly what her 'secret self' is is less easy to determine, but clearly it's something fabulous; this is important. She's collected a glass of sparkling wine along the way, and hesitates as she makes her way into the jazz lounge; time to gauge the room before she gets too far in.

Ava glances at Joseph over the rim of her glass, eyes sparkling at his little smile. "Now he's here," she murmurs. That's followed up with a little gesture of her head towards Javier's entrance. "In leather pants no less. I'm sure your cup can second as a dribble glass if you try real hard," she purrs with a little nose wiggle. She laughs, teasing him, even as she gestures for Javier's attention towards the crowd.

"Yes. Dancing. I would like that. Not quite yet, though." Especially since Deacon has just handed her an appetizer. Ava takes it with a thankful look up towards him. "If you slide on your knees like Kevin Bacon... Oh who am I kidding, have fun. Just don't expect me to do it, it'll rip my dress."

Ariadne grins at Ravn and then looks back at Joe again. "Well, there you are: I can mimic Pirates of the Caribbean, we'll quote Princess Bride, it's all very entertaining shenanigans, and hopefully no one will bleed. Club soda can help us out, apparently." A nod to Deacon and his suggestion earlier that the barista will keep in mind. Joseph gets another significant glance. "And you owe me stories about being an astronaut later." She grins up a strong set of dimples; no more secret there, southerner.

"But really, go dance, anybody who wants to," the redhead suggests to the group as a whole, hearing Ava's comment. "Who really cares? Dance like nobody's watching, shoo." A friendly gesture with her black opera gloves towards the dance floor.

And as if Una was going to linger and not be spotted. "Una!" There goes the barista, quicksilver and sylph and a soft sustained eeeeeeeee across the lounge over to the younger redhead. "Look at you! Oh, it's lovely!" Sorry, Una, you're getting an air kiss and then an offered arm sans flute of sparkling wine. "Allow me to escort you in, eh?" offers the Swan Princess/Valkyrie/Harpy Queen of the Sea/whatever Ariadne's decided upon.

Even though Perdita's already seen Una, what with arriving together, she can't help but stare at the curvy red head appreciatively for a few seconds, clearly lost in the aesthetics of her. "Devláika, my date looks gorgeous." Dita smiles wide, content to let someone in a skirt that doesn't double as a floor polisher escort Una into the room.

"Ariadne does have deadly footwork, I'm told. She kickboxes, for one... Isn't ballet basically fencing without swords? I know it started that way."

Ruiz gets a little wave. Perdita's not trying to walk all the way over there.

"You can't rip your dress. That's my job," Deacon says to Ava as clearly as if he were stating 2+2=4. It's just clearly the way it is. His glass is lifted to his lips to hide his smile, though one can easily see the corners of his mouth turn up in a mischievous turn. Glances are made though, first of course to Ariadne and her feet because, well, when someone's feet are classified as dangerous you either look or else you back away slowly. Seeing Ari run towards Una does cause the turn of his head though as the cookie fairy shows up looking well done up indeed.

"I've managed not to break anything yet. Which at times seems like a miracle given that I actually like some of the physical activities like skiing or jet skis or the like. I've just been lucky so far." Still, he does glance to Joe as well, curious if the man has any signs of the pats injury like how he walks or such. Appetizers are snagged on occasion as they walk past as well....cause...food.

Una goes promptly (and unsurprisingly) pink for Ariadne's reaction and arrival, though she leans in to offer an air kiss of her own and looks almost natural doing so; she's positively beaming, blush aside, and that does a fine job of making her look even more lovely. "Look at you, too!" she enthuses, accepting the proffered arm and allowing herself to be escorted in. "Everyone cleans up so well."

Careful, short footsteps are required, and for a moment, it looks like the younger of the two redheads is inclined to reach down and pick up the train of her dress, but-- no. That would rather ruin the impact of it, wouldn't it? And for once, just once, she seems willing to own her body, curves and all. She even has cleavage.

The blushes, though? They seem fit to stay, particularly given those few glances in her direction: it's unnerving. Focus straight ahead, Una: smile.

"That's a good way to describe beginner fencing," Joe says, giving the barista a very crooked grin. "I don't actually know theatrical fencing, though, which I'm told is a real different animal. So we'll both have to fake it." He adds, as he twirls the wine glass in hand, "I still have a dress sword from my time in the Navy." ....what uniforms do they have to wear swords with? A nod for Ravn. "I'll remember that. Footwork is crucial."

His wandering glance lands on the figure in the horned mask, and his brows head for his hairline. Already turning that way, grin gone wicked. Only to be caught at Ariadne's comment. "Rosencrantz never told you, huh?" he wonders, tone edged with laughter. "And sure. De la Vega can vouch that it's hard to get me to shut up, once I'm running on that subject."

Ava's comment gets a little salute, and then he's picking his way through the crowd to the leather clad cop, after noting to Deacon, "I was in a wreck that shoulda killed me. I was real damn lucky, indeed." There's a faint limp observable - apparently his time away didn't wholly correct whatever problem.

"You look stunning," Ravn tells Una quietly, and tries very hard to ignore how the plastic fangs do give him just that little more of an accent (technically, speech impediment) that he might even convince some American ignoramus that he is in fact a Romanian vampire count.

Then he smiles at Ariadne, Una, and Perdita all. "I have a request to make, if the three of you are willing. It so happens that somebody's little sister somehow has gotten the idea that I am a mad Twilight fan -- that was the inspiration for this costume, I believe. I don't suppose I could entice the three of you to pose for a selfie with me, Dracula's Brides style? Make it over the top and ridiculous, in the name of a prank war that's about to begin and last for a lifetime?"

It's probably his luck that intrepid reporter for the Gazette, Alice Hampton, is out of earshot because she's busy grilling her photographer on who the man in the 'leather devil bull mask' might be.

There's a warm smile offered in Una's direction as Ava lifts her glass towards her in greeting. "You look gorgeous, Una. I love that dress." Her eyes flutter towards Ravn as he invites the other three girls into the picture. A brow ticks upwards as she's not included, but she just shrugs and finishes off her glass, leaving the empty one on a passing waiter's tray. Normally, feelings would be hurt, luckily, today she is not acting completely normal. "It appears I am not fit to be a Bride. Though I fear I knew that already," she laughs.

"Scamp! Ripping comes later, after the ball. For now, there is dancing." She holds a hand out towards Deacon and smiles softly. "Shall we?"

Joe doesn't have far to go; the Chief's already procured his drink in short order, and started cutting toward the little grouping of sailor, cop and coroner with the swagger that only a man in a painted on leather pants and obscenely expensive Prada boots can manage.

He slides his fingers into Joe's hair, and tugs him close to murmur something in his ear, then releases him with a wicked grin. "Hey, Fade," he greets the other cop, voice a little muffled behind the mask. Maybe Deacon'll recognise him, or maybe he won't. Ava certainly seems to.

"Don't they?" agrees Ariadne with Una's observation. The costuming is finery galore and it really is close to a new visual discovery every minute. Escorting Una over to the loose clumping of Gray Harborites, she releases the younger redhead and meanders back over to Ravn's general vicinity. There: feathery accompaniment, returned. Una's blush makes the barista smile into her glass of sparkling wine. Another checked box for the night.

"It's my little sister," the barista then explains of the reason for the selfie and hell if she isn't already trying not to laugh her damn ass off anyways. Anastasia is going to die -- and then have to deal with Ariadne ignoring her phone for the interim of the ball as is, poor younger sibling. "I didn't exactly promise her any pictures of my costume, but if you all happen to meander into my selfie..." The thought is left teasingly hanging as her phone comes out.

Noticing the arrival of the...Chief of Police, yes, that's who it is behind the mask, Ariadne gives him a twiddly-fingered wave of greeting. "Nice horns," she compliments genuinely of the mask with a quick grin. Her attention flicks to Ava as she finds the correct setting in the phone for selfie. "And go dance, Ava, yeah! You said you wanted to earlier, right? Go shake some tail feathers and show us how to get down with our bad selves. Maybe do the Washing Machine. Or the Shopping Cart. You've got a mask on, let loose a little," comes the good-natured encouragement.

They're out socially so he doesn't call him Chief, but Deacon does grin and lift his glass. Though it's not of any cool liquor, just wine! And so he grins, about to say something else when he looks to Ava. "Scamp? I beg your pardon. Do you not see the outfit? I am most certainly a gentleman." And then, just to add to the playful effect, he adds a quietly spoken, slightly petulant "Rude." Even then, though, Deacon slips closer to Ava and gives her unadorned waist an arm to decorate it as he slips it about for a moment.

At the mention of tail feathers though, Deacon manages not to look at Ava's rear to see if there are feathers. Though truth be told, that would NOT be the weirdest thing to happen in Gray Harbor. Not by a longshot. "Glad to see you then," he offers to Joe, though whether the timing of that is before or after Ruiz likely distracts the man is completely arbitrary.

Una grins at Ariadne, letting the other woman go and letting her free hand drop a little awkwardly to her side, the other still clutching her glass.

"Thank you!" she exclaims, first to Ava, who gets a wiggle of her fingers (and, okay, a thumbs up, too) and a smile, and a follow up of, "So do you!" Demonstrably true; Una gives the other woman's dress an up-and-down glance, and who's to say if she blushes in the process: she is, after all, still pink of her own accord. Her second, "Thank you," this time sans exclamation mark, is for Ravn, expression no less pleased for it.

"Oh, well, if it's for the prank war," she teases. "Of course. "Anything to win the first few points against the tricksy little sister I've heard so much about. Where do you want us? Dita-- we'll try and make room for your dress." There's a fond smile there, too, still admiring, though compliments have inevitably been exchanged there already.

"Of course you're a Twilight fan. You live in the Pacific North West, you're neon white, you dress in all black and you avoid the sun because you sparkle. It's not a story, it's your biography." Perdita quips.

"Alright, let's get this prank war started." Perdita finally moves again, shifting about so that she can be in the eventual photo. To Ava, "Always a Bridesmaid, mm?" she teases. Ruiz gets a quirk of an eyebrow, "Those pants are tighter than an inappropriate comparison I won't be making."

"It actually has a lot of give, the crinoline is light and flexible after all. I think there might even be a little built in folding chair if I remember correctly." She's probably joking. Probably.

Ravn wanders over to stand behind Ariadne for her selfie for her sister -- all casual like. He reminds himself that he's not here to demonstrate his good manners -- in fact, the opposite is the whole point of this picture, to look absolutely bloody ridiculous and in doing so, convince Anastasia Scullins that she needs to rescue her sister from a mad fan boy. He slips his hand to Ariadne's waist in what he hopes is a suitably proprietorial fashion (it isn't) and smiles lopsidedly -- with his mouth open because the fangs need to be featured. He also promises himself that once this picture is taken, he'll never do anything this ridiculous in his life again (he's also wrong about that).

"Morituri te salutant," he murmurs quietly, because there are few things the Dane hates more than posing for a photograph, and it doesn't actually help a whole lot that this one was his idea.

"Under-skirt folding chairs. It's the next actually useful concept in clothing, like pockets." Ariadne has Opinions on this, apparently. "And welcome to the Dark Side of the prank war then, you two. I promise not to name-drop so Anastasia has no idea what's going on. She'll recognize Ravn whether he likes it or not. Smile and say 'Forks'," she singsongs once everyone's settled into place. If the picture happens to include the dance floor in the background, well then so be it. Dancers, immortalized forever! Woe betide!

Ariadne checks the picture and straight-up cackles like a villain. "Brilliant. Look at everybody, oooooh, you all look so good. Oh, excellent, I even got the dance floor. Let me get this compressed and sent off. She's going to diiiiiiiiiiiie." A few touches of her screen via thumb, apparently possible through the gloves, and she frowns. "Damnit, nails." Let's try that again. Edit there, edit there, save...ping. Distantly, very distantly in Seattle, there might be a screech a few minutes later. Phone goes away.

"Okay, I want to see this Kevin Bacon stuff mentioned earlier," the barista then says, returning her attention to the floor and looking to see if anyone's gone out there just yet.

"The bridesmaids get to have more fun, anyway," Ava offers with a giggle in Dita's direction, her tone filled with amusement. Deacon's arm slides around her, pulling her attention back towards this smaller group around her. What a handsome group it is, two men with swords and a bull, no complaints. "One can be dressed as a gentleman and still be a scamp. I'm dressed as a lady, but I can assure you that all of my thoughts right now are very impure." Where oh where could those inhibitions be?

"Javi," she rumbles. "Those pants are exceptional. The whole look is..." She's stumbling to find the right word. "You look great."

Her hand nudges into Deacon's chest. "Are you taking me dancing so we can let these two have some time to themselves or what? You should be showing me off."

"See, that's just clever," Una agrees, on the topic of under-skirt folding chairs, with a little mirthful laugh. She's surprisingly not-too-awkward in the selfie, though it's a good bet that self-taking is not one of her skills, and seems genuinely delighted by the whole prospect. "See, that wasn't so bad," she teases Ravn, having caught that murmur, her expression sympathetic for it-- though yes, this was indeed his own idea.

Her glass gets shifted from one hand to the other, gaze meandering around the room now that she's stepping out of self-range again.

De la Vega's not too hard to pick out, to those who know the way he moves and speaks. Like a junkyard dog, looking for scraps. And if those scraps put up a fight, all the better. "Gracias," he murmurs to Ariadne, affecting something like a smile without really smiling. "Tu disfraz es precioso." He upnods toward her feathered headpiece. Then, drink in hand, he retreats from where the dancing appears to be taking place lest he get pulled into it. Because he's not nearly drunk enough for that, yet.

To both Ava and Perdita, "They were Rosencrantz's idea. You can thank him." It seems for a moment he might have something more to say to Ava. But, no. Instead, to Deacon, "You have a hot date like that, you don't waste it. Dance with the girl, yeah?"

And then he's ambling off, and waiting for Joe to follow.

Taking the hand that pokes him into the chest, he kisses the fingertips before nodding to Ava. "Of course." There's a nod to Ruiz, before he dips a perfunctory bow to everyone near the pair and he leads Ava out to the floor. It's just as they're walking out that one can hear Deacon ask Ava, "What kind of dancing ARE you trained in, anyway?" He did pick up on the fact she is a trained dancer earlier but it's only now that it seems to be just a bit more important. Ahhhh, hindsight. Casually he looks back to the others once, before he steps onto the dance floor and goes with the basic of course as he puts his hand about Ava's waist.

The good news is, while the pair of them are dancing, Ava gets to shine. All footwork and grace and beautiful lines and the twirling hem of her green skirt as if it were a roomba floating just above the floor's surface and cleaning it so, before it properly tangles and twists about her legs at an abrupt stop or change of pace. For his part, Deacon manages not to trip nor step on Ava's toes, which means he is doing something right if in classic ballroom the lady gets to shine as brightly as Ava does.

There are quiet whispers and occasional lean ins, and a little laugh or two at least from Deacon who can be trusted to be saying something with either sarcasm or humor intended. The gift of seriousness or melancholy are not things of which he is overly burdened with. But the beautiful package in his care is carefully led about the dance floor to allow her to show off.

Scanning the dance floor, the barista spots both Deacon and Ava out there cutting a rug -- er, rather, floating on air. She nods appreciatively. "I mean, that's not Kevin Bacon, but that'll do." Does one wolf whistle at galas like this? Probably not. Ergo, Ariadne abstains from whistling at the dancers twirling on the floor. Even if she'd tried, she's wearing gloves and false nails and really, that would have been a disaster waiting to happen. Fat lip, anyone?

A glance at Javier and Joseph and little smile to herself before the masked redhead finishes her flute of sparkling wine. An awkward moment or two is spent looking around and wondering where does one put an empty flute before she gives up. "I feel like my lip stain still came off a little, so I'm off to find the powder room as it is. I shall birb," she informs her other half as well as Una and Dita.

And won't she, with the amount of feathers on display. Swanning off towards this room in particular? An appropriate word choice. She'll be back soon enough, surely.

Of course, whatever Ruiz mutters in his ear has him turning bright pink. A wave of his hand to Deacon, but....the distraction is powerful. Joe's following the Chief away with that look in his eyes. Like the rest of the room is rapidly fading into memory.

Very skilled, yet delicate fingers wrap around Deacon's as Ava is led out towards the floor following a parting wink to Javier and Joe. "I'm not a trained dancer. I just got a few lessons from one so that I wouldn't make an ass out of you, or myself, while we were here. I had to learn how not to step on the gown while I was dancing. Though, I really don't know what I was so worried about."

There doesn't appear to be a single worry on the dance floor as Ava and Deacon dance. Her moves are fluid and carefree, letting him guide her through the motions, and letting the dress flow around her legs and feet in a cascade of emerald. The lean ins and laughter is reciprocated while they dance, the pair carefree as they float about the dance floor. Eventually, after a song or two, they drift away from the dance floor, Ava grabbing another glass of wine. Deacon murmurs something and she gives a laugh and a nod before he leans in for a quick kiss and moves off towards the casino proper.

Her eyes scour the room, landing on the table of delicious pastries that Vyv made special for the night. The pastries made with the fruit that she grew special. She'll head over there for a bit.

There's a moment to appreciate the dancing of Ava and Deacon, and a soft smile from Perdita, before she nods to Ariadne. "Actually... I should powder my nose, too." Dita murmurs, flashing a smile at her companions, before she follows along in Ariadne's wake, since it's easier than trying to make her own path, right now. She definitely loves this dress, but it'll be a while before she decides to wear a Pride float as a gown again.

Ravn glances after Ariadne and Perdita as they depart -- and then offers a smile to Una. "It seems our respective dates have departed with each other. I believe we have the choice now, between enacting a tragedy or to elope with each other. How do you feel about eloping to the balcony for a bit? I could use a cigarette, and to be honest, a moment to breathe. I am really, really bad at crowds. And kind of trying to only scream on the inside as I watch those two out there -- " he means Deacon and Ava " -- float around like a Disney dream. I promised Ariadne a waltz."

"Tragedy sounds like too much work," Una declares, glancing after their departing dates. "I'm on board with the eloping. Don't worry; I don't think Ariadne will expect anything so polished. They looked amazing, didn't they? I mean, even without the dancing, everyone looks amazing. I saw Della on my way in and--" Such a fond smile; very pleased.

"To the balcony! Fewer crowds is one hundred percent my jam, and I can guarantee that our dates will know exactly where to find us." Beat. "Knowing us."

It is, indeed, no surprise at all.

The life of the party and the Chief's missing date comes slinking through the crowd. What was he up to? Whatever it was, he was doing it in high style: very clingy black lambskin jeans that show off his long legs, tall boots that do the same, and the piece de resistance is his coat. It's a high collared bolero-style jacket, worn open over his bare chest, and instead of fastenings it has dozens of beaded loops draping across him. There's not much to the thing except sleeves and collar and beads. It covers up his ink, only a curl peeking out here and there, but all his leanly muscled torso is on display. Skin and scars.

His mask is a unicorn, simple enough and one piece, but gloriously painted in rainbow panels and bearing a gleaming golden horn.

When he appears from wherever he disappeared to (and it's a tricky question with a guy who can step across the border between Here and There as easy as blinking), he weaves through people directly for Ruiz and bonus Joe. He's barely even seen Javier but he just orients himself thataway, a little eerie if anyone happens to be watching, the way he turns towards him like a bird knows true north.

Javier, antisocial bastard that he is, has stepped out onto one of the balconies for a cigarette and some fresh air. Which has got to be the stupidest fucking contradiction, but he'll swear up and down that it makes sense. The big Mexican's taken a lean against the railing, horned mask tugged off and tucked under one arm, and empty tequila glass set beside him while he smokes. His dark curls are in slight disarray from being trapped under the headpiece for a couple of hours, but he otherwise looks none the worse for wear.

Joe claims he's given up smoking. And yet....he has a lighter, and shows no hesitation at all cadging one of Javier's. So there's the incongruous sight of someone who really kind of does look like a certain prince in late middle age, leaving arabesques of smoke hanging in the cool night air as he gestures animatedly. No doubt recounting some long-winded story to Javier.

He does, however, all but come to point like a spaniel as the Unicorn heads their way. "He should look ridiculous," he says to the cop beside him, elbowing Ruiz. "Instead he's pulling off that rock star thing he does again."

The Veil Fruit Pastries have been enjoyed by the masses, much to the delight of the gardener who grew the fruit and feels the need to make sure that everyone takes a bite. Everyone. Ava polishes off a pastry, and turns to take a glass of wine just in time to catch sight of the unicorn. Of course it was a unicorn. Amusement touches her lips for a moment as eyes follow. She might have lost track of Javier and Joe in the crowd, but leave it to Itz to find them for her.

Eyes linger before she takes a long sip from her glass and begins to walk over. Where there may normally be avoidance, right now? Well, Ava doesn't seem to have a care in the world.

"Are you fucking kidding me?" Javier, in his scratchy-soft murmur, flicking some ash from his cigarette as he talks. "He could make a garbage bag look hot." He watches the tall mechanic approach, dark eyes transfixed on his lean frame artfully decorated to show as much as it hides.

He'll let the man come to him, though. No meeting him halfway; no reaching for him, no trying to gain his attention with a wave or a smile. Just that quiet, watchful intensity as he leans next to Joe. A drag off his cigarette, and he exhales the smoke away from the other man. "Anyway, you two are supposed to hook up or some shit, aren't you? In the, uh, the story?" He gestures with his cigarette. He hasn't yet spotted Ava approaching.

"Won't argue that," Joe confirms, before blowing a deliberate smoke ring, swiftly torn away by that hint of a breeze. No attempt to approach, either, stuck firmly by Javier's side.

The question makes him turn his head. "Itzhak has never made you watch it?" he says, sounding incredulous. "Don't tell me that. Anyhow - the prince falls in love with the girl that really is a transformed unicorn. But the catch-22 is that if she loves him back, she'll just be a human girl, and the other unicorns won't get rescued. So in the end, he fights for her....but no, they don't hook up."

"Frickin mix is too heavy on the bass," Itzhak is saying as he pulls up to the two other men, "violin is gonna sound like a mess and the guy won't even listen to me..." His kvetching trails off. "God damn, Javeleh. I almost forgot how smoking hot you look," he murmurs, and the eyebrows going up is practically visible through the mask while he takes his time about admiring him. "Cavanaugh, you guys both look great."

Someone has tried to offer him a slice of Veil tart but even not knowing what it was, the guy who eats everything didn't even seem to notice.

The cop makes a face as Joe tells the story. "How's that a catch twenty-two?" he wants to know, waggling his cigarette between inked fingers as he watches Itzhak approach. Complaining, of course. A flick of his eyes finds a familiar girl in a vine-and-leaf mask, whom he watches for a beat or two before bringing the cigarette to his lips again. No greeting; not yet.

"I'm never fucking doing this again," he tells Itzhak, glancing down, then back up again. He's talking about the leather pants. Which Rosencrantz totally made him wear. "You look fucking metal as hell though." He slides his tonguetip across his teeth, and grins.

"I'd say you can make that a unanimous statement. Since you all look amazing." Ava's voice isn't far as she drifts in from behind Itzhak, watching Javier's eye with a grin. Drifting is the best word for it since that emerald gown makes it look like she's floating across the floor. "Sexiest balcony in the whole place." There's a toast from her glass as she laughs.

"You say that, Javi, but I'm going to bet Itz is getting you in, and out, of leather pants many a time after this." She gives the unicorn a wink at that.

"Right?" Joe says to Itzhak, sotto voce, with a very conspiratorial look. "Thanks," he says, brushing at his uniform. It doesn't look as if he's partaken of any of the Veil fruit, not yet.

Then he's explaining to Ruiz, "Well, if the prince gets her to love him, he's happy, but her quest has failed. If she succeeds and she's a unicorn again, he's heart-broken. It's one of the things I like about the story, that it doesn't go for any easy ending."

A beat, and he says, in a very different tone, "That's what you think, Javier." A glance to Itzhak, in search of confirmation, then he nods, "Yeah, you do, Rosencrantz."

"Hey there," Joe lifts his glass to Ava, before immediately giving the other two the side-eye, to see how they react.

Itzhak one hundred and ten percent made Javier wear those pants, and he grins a brilliant flash of a grin underneath the unicorn's nose. "That's what you think," is his saucy answer and he sidles on up, all those beads gently clacking against his chest and each other. He laughs under his breath when Joe agrees with him.

Well, it sure is getting crowded out here all of a sudden. Ava starts talking about getting him in and out of those pants, and a sliver of tension's barely noticeable under the cop's silvering beard scruff. He glances away, drags off his cigarette again, and squints into the rain misting the edge of the balcony where he's purposely standing just beyond the lip of the awning.

"Well," he murmurs, barely audible, "fuck the prince. He sounds like a sad sack of shit anyway." He, clearly, has not read the story. Or simply isn't a romantic at heart. Is anyone surprised?

To Itzhak, when he finally rolls on up, "Fucking try me, cabron."

To be fair, Ava was talking about Itzhak getting Javier in and out of the pants, not herself. The druid, herself, is just standing off to the side looking quite amused. There isn't an air of tension about her, like she doesn't have a care in the whole world. Because at the moment, she genuinely does not. "Oh." Spicy Mexican.

She shifts over to Joe's other side, grinning at the man and gesturing with her glass towards the other two. "A show," she giggles. "You should definitely try him," she encourages. Like, right now. Please. That tone seems to say.

Joe's watching Itz sidle up. His eyes have gone bright, and he's wearing one of those puckish little grins that shows no teeth, but brings the smile lines around lips and eyes into deep relief. However many times he's seen this spectacle, it never gets old.

"He is, but that's what unrequited love can do," he agrees, mildly. No personal offense taken. "Especially in fairy tales. The way I'd've dealt with that situation'd've taken that story right out of PG territory anyhow."

Ava's suggestion has him eyeing her, still with that impish gleam in his face. "What, me? Here and now? I'd never do anything so salacious as that on a public balcony, especially at the edge of a big party." He turns an expression of exaggerated innocence on the Unicorn and the Bull. "Right, gentlemen?"

Itzhak snickers and holds out a big knobby fist for Ava to pound. "You're looking good, girl."

He's picked up Javier's empty glass and is trying to lick tequila off of it when Try me happens, though. Try me? Itzhak's whole demeanor shifts from 'aggravated and perfectionist temperamental musician' to aggressive delight. "Oh yeah, tough guy?"

He doesn't need encouragement, he's already getting into Javier's face, so many softly clinking beads and the scent of leather.

Tough guy? Tough guy? "The fuck you pick that up, from your grandma?" De la Vega's accustomed to dealing with people with the intent to do him harm. People with loaded firearms and baseball bats they will use to crack his head open if he looks at them funny, and meth heads who don't even think about killing a cop if it might get them their fix.

So dealing with his mouthy ex-boyfriend? Well, he's a little bit drunk, so there's that. His head shies away when Itzhak closes in, but he doesn't back down. Like a wasp that's flown too close. His voice is a low, hazy growl, eyes on Joe rather than the taller Unicorn, "Tienes una polla tan grande, eh? No puedes ayudarte a ti mismo?"

Ava looks at Itz's fist with a lifted brow, and then chuckles, pounding her own against it. Why not? "Right back at ya, Itzy."

Joe's impish look is distracting, and she's glancing up at him with an amused smirk and sparkling, bright eyes. "Oh no? You're just too pure and wholesome for something like that, then? I think you're a dirty dirty liar. I may have heard something about all the tail you used to get in your time in the Navy." Long lashes give a playful flutter. She glances towards the others as Joe looks towards them for backup on his claim, only to find that Itz has already started trying Javier.

That amusement stays in place as she watches. She brings her glass up to her lips in delight, eyes dancing between the two. "Do you know if they've actually made up yet? You guys all came in a group costume, right? That's a good sign, yeah?" is whispered quietly to Joe so that she doesn't interrupt the flirting.

The confrontation progresses, and Joe's clearly pleased with the show. He sets his wineglass aside, out of what's presumably the line of fire, and sidles a pace or two away. Javier's looking at him, and the sailor's still got that look like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth. He meets the cop's gaze and raises his brows inquiringly.

Ava's comment has him flicking a look back at her, still amused. "Someone's been telling tales out of school, huh? Well, every sailor is a legend in his own mind, at least." A glance back at the pair, busy hackling at each other like a pair of roosters squaring off for control of the barnyard. "I don't know," he admits, bluntly. "I figure so, but...." He shrugs, elegantly. "But even when they're on the outs they fuck like rabbits."

Itzhak promptly blushes. For a second there he's about to launch into motion (who is drunk around here? It's certainly not him), tension making the beads shiver. He lowers his mouth to tell Javier something in his gravelly murmur, then he backs off, smiling with just one side of his mouth.

"Need a drink," he says airily and swans, or unicorns, off. Whether he catches what Joe says is unknown, but even if he did, he would just shrug like whaddaya gonna do?

And de la Vega? Stays right where he is. His head turns toward Itzhak. A pause to hear what he has to say, and a sudden creasing at the corners of his eyes when he chuckles. The rain's beaded, glistening, on his beard and eyelashes and dark, glossy curls. He drags off his cigarette as he watches the taller man blush and retreat for a drink. Watches him with that lazy attention that's anything but; unless one considers hunting cats to be lazy.

"Don't listen to him," he tells Ava. "Every girl wanted to fuck the pilots, especially the aces, and he fucking knows it." He drapes his arm over the railing, and ashes out his cigarette, still watching Itzhak swagger off.

Lip stain, fixed. Only a little of it had been lost to the sparkling wine. Feeling the drink begin to tingle at her fingertips and toes (and in her stomach a touch forebodingly), Ariadne appears once more in the jazz lounge. She scans the many faces, looking once more for the familiar and for her other half, but sees not the latter. Hmm. She'll find him later, one way or another.

She does, however, manage to spot Itzhak. How not to? His mask is fabulous, plain and simple, horn and colors and all. "Itzhak!" A lift of her black opera-gloved hand as she swans (almost literally with her costume's theme) in his direction. Arms open wide to offer a hug and she's got a pair of dimples for the man, eyes twinkling behind her plain white domino mask. "Hey! You look amazing! Oh, the colors!" Trust the barista with the dyed underpaneling to squee about the colors. "Good to see you! Where are the others then?"

"You don't seem terribly displeased to be the topic of such tales," Ava points out before finally taking a sip from that glass, polishing off the rest of the wine that was left in it. "Well, even if they aren't, they still look like they're having fun. Plus they're getting along, so I guess that's enough for now." The woman turns in place, looking for somewhere to set down her glass. Eventually it's set on the ledge of the balcony. It'll do for the moment. Javier adds that bit about all the girls wanting to fuck the aces, and she gives Joe another once over, her eyes a little slower this time, taking him in fully. "I bet."

As Itz departs, her eyes can't help but to follow. It doesn't last for too long, however, before she's back to glancing between the two men on the balcony. "I'm sure the Marines didn't have that much trouble, themselves, though." A knowing look offered towards Javier.

Joe watches the unicorn depart, shaking his head. Envy of Itz's savoir faire? Amusement? Amazement? Hard to tell. "They broke the mold when he was made," he opines, finally.

Then his gaze creeps back to Ruiz. A little side-eye at first, before he turns that way. Gazing as if he's sure he's unobserved, for a long moment. That flash of a grin as Ruiz contradicts him. "Well," he allows, "I was in a few years after Top Gun came out. Mister Cruise did a lot of the work for me. I can't take the credit."

A hand lifted in greeting to Ariadne, and he goes on, "Well, no such thing as bad publicity, they say." Expression bland as milk as he meet's Ava's gaze, before grinning again. "No, they sure didn't. Hard to look bad in properly tailored Marine blues."

Itzhak may have lost that round with de la Vega, but he's only retreated to his corner to prepare for the rematch. Oh it's Ariadne! Itzhak scoops her up in an enthusiastic hug. "Hey!" And then he has to carefully put her back down so none of his beads get caught on her. "You look amazing, jeez! Come on, I need booze. You know where to find Abildgaard, right, he'll be the one drinking in a corner praying for the sweet release of death."

Then he's off to the bar, where orders happen. At least some of them involve tequila.

There are multiple balconies, it seems, and the one that Una and Ravn eloped onto is a different one to the one where others are now congregating. Una's step back indoors-- this time, she's picked up the train of her dress and is carrying it, because walking is hard-- is with an empty glass and a little shiver to her shoulders: it's not cold outside, but it's not warm, and also, she's out of sparkling wine, and clearly that needs to be remedied. She's just in time to catch the Itzhak/Ariadne hug, and to head in that direction with a little wiggle of her fingers. "Out here," is her answer to the question she's already assuming is in the air. "We escaped."

Speaking of tequila, why hasn't Javier's refilled itself by now? He collects his glass from the railing while Ava and Joe are talking, tips it slightly, then sets it back down again. Disappointing.

His hand's rifled through his hair, and he snorts softly at mention of tailored Marine blues. "You spent more time thinking about me out of them, if I recall," he murmurs. He crooks a dimpled smile, sucks in smoke, and pours it back out of his nose. "I was married," he clarifies for Ava, meeting her gaze for a beat or two. "In the service."

Barista squeak-laugh! Thankfully none of the beads of his shirt get caught on her own costume, though she does have to straighten her feathered shoulder shrug after being set down.

"Thanks, you too. Mask rates ten out of ten. God, the way it's like stained glass -- beautiful," Ariadne lauds. She can't help but laugh at Itzhak's (potentially accurate) assessment of Ravn's habits at parties. "I meant any other shared acquaintances, but I doubt Ravn's suffering quite like that." But then, there's Una, half-confirming the New Yorker's suspicions. There Itzhak goes again, on a mission to the bar, and Ariadne bids, "Have fun!" at the departing unicorn.

Catching Joe's wave from the balcony area, she waves back and calls out, "I want to see that broadsword at one point tonight!" to the man in the uniform. Taking a moment to adjust her skirting, she then glances over at Una.

"Escaped? Goodness, that bad?" she asks Una more quietly with a fond little grin. "It's not scary. It's just all fancy," she lightly teases the other redhead as she drifts up to meet the young woman.

"I think you can take a fair bit of the credit, Joe," argues Ava with a lazy shrug of one shoulder before she gestures vaguely over the whole of him. "Given the givens." Her eyes drift as she tries to picture Javier in full Marine dress. "I bet that was a sight to see. I'm hoping one of you has a bunch of pictures of the two of you, because I am going to want to see them."

Her eyes meet Javier's at the mention of his being married, brow ticking up as she gives an ah of understanding. "Well, I suppose that would put a bit of a damper on the whole trolling for hotties thing. Based on the nature of marriage, of course."

Itzhak flashes a smile at Una, and doesn't go charging in to inflict hugging on her. Well, he has this tray of shots, you see. "You look great," he tells her, maybe a little shyly, though it's hard to tell behind the unicorn face. Then he's re-arriving on the other balcony, setting down the tray and promptly sucking back a shot of courage himself. He wordlessly hands one over to Javier.

"Well, they did look best on my floor," Joe acknowledges, without missing a beat. "I mean, every time I saw you, you'd gotten a new tattoo in the interim, and I had to inspect it, make sure it was up to my standards."

Utterly deadpan, a deadpan that doesn't even flicker at that clarification. If anything, he's still amused, but there's that hint of an edge behind it - an edge of something like defiance. That marriage is over, one way or another, but he's still here.

Joe catches Ariadne's call, and unable to help himself, pitches his voice to carry and retorts, "Jeez, lady, dinner and a movie first! I'm easy, but I'm not cheap!"
To Ava, he says, in a more normal voice, "I definitely have some of him." Probably on his phone as they speak. "Some of my own somewhere. A few online."

Itz returns with the tray of shots, and he doesn't even bother to ask if any are meant for him. One of those disappears down the hatch with a neat turn of his wrist. One of those little motions that betrays within a fraction of a second just how practiced he is on that front.

"Oh!" says Una, in reply to the passing Itzhak. Also: "Thank you, so do you!" Though with her mask covering only part of her face, it's still pretty easy to see the flush on her cheeks. For the compliment, or for his attire? Who can say. It's not exactly been uncommon, thus far (or in general).

For Ariadne, she has a lower, slightly rueful laugh. "No, no," she says. "It's just-- so many people. Crowds. You know what Ravn's like, and I'm not really that different. It's a little quieter out there, and that's just-- easier sometimes. I'm still enjoying myself, and I don't think he's hating it as much as he'll claim he is. It helps, when your date looks that good, right?" The corner of her mouth twitches upwards, quiet, contented mirth in view.

Spotting Itzhak disengaging from the familiar form of the be-feathered barista, de la Vega absently watches for a few moments. Dark eyes hooded and hazed in smoke as he maintains his lean against the railing, big shoulders slouched under layers of velvet jacket and leather vest.

Then Joe speaks, and his attention shifts back to the older man, tonguetip stroking a canine in amusement. He's apparently not going to speak any further to their very illegal liaison. Joe having clearly been an officer at the time, and he an enlisted Marine, it's probably not something they should be discussing so candidly. Instead, he collects the shot of tequila that's handed to him, and knocks it back without hesitation. The glass is turned upside-down and set on the tray with a soft hiss, eyes on Itzhak's.

Ariadne's quiet grin breaks when she hears Joe's holler back. A blurt-laugh and shake of head before she holds up a finger for Una: one moment, retort forthcoming in the man's direction out on the balcony area. "I'm frugal, so you're gonna have to meet me halfway on that one!"

"And you're a doll, Una," she continues more quietly to her comrade now, eyes returned to her. "I'm all feathers though and here's you, with that train and the trailing leaves and just...really, I'm jealous." A dimpled grin for the other redhead. "Since you're down a Dita, allow me to escort you again? I see you're also down a sparkling wine. I was going to hunt out some ginger ale, come with?" Angling out a black opera gloved forearm, complete with the lightly curved nails within, she idly glances towards the bar. Doesn't look too busy at this point. Itzhak must have grabbed what he needed and moved on. "Did you see Itzhak's mask though? Glorious. The colors."

"That's very important with new tattoos. Making sure they're up to standards." Ava's head bobs along in agreement with Joe's sentiment there. "I only have one, so I can't say from experience, but it's very sound logic."

Joe gets an upward glance and a hopeful smile. "I'm going to hit you up one of these days so I can see those. You've opened a door you can't close, my good sir." But then Itz is returning and he brings shots. Her eyes light up, fingers reaching for one of them for herself without asking and shooting one back without a hint of hesitation. So lady like. "Mmf, so good." The empty shot is set back on the tray.

"Joe, how well are you able to dance with your hip the way it is? Or do you tend to avoid it?" she wonders with a curious tone.

Having had his fun with the gambling and such, it is time for one to return. And so he does, sneaking back in to see who is about still. He knows Ava is...or at least, he assumes slash hopes...it would certainly make for an awkward drive back home to be doing so solo since he did not arrive that way. And so he enters, walking over to the bar to pick up a real drink this time and not some wine, and thus he looks about to see where everyone has made their way to, including his date!

Jules is fashionably late. Or she’s found her own quiet nook for a time. Also possible: her big mouth has gotten her into heaps of trouble, and she’s only now escaping some conflagration to go find her friends. Whatever it is, however it is, she turns up with a glass of champagne in hand, rim stained red from lipstick. This and a vermilion pashmina are the only traces of color in her outfit tonight. She’s otherwise decked out in black: a floor-length, fitted evening dress with a slit up the side that rises thigh-high, feathers trailing along each edge. She’s showing a good bit of skin, between the side-slit and the strapless, sweetheart neckline. For once, her hair is back in a low chignon instead of left loose, and she’s wearing black feathers as earrings long enough to brush her shoulders. Black, strappy heels, and a stiff paper mask complete her ensemble. The bird mask conceals most of her face, but those red, red lips are grinning beneath the paper beak as she comes up upon Una and Ariadne.

“Boo!” Her roommate’s seen the mask, at least, but Jules kept the gown to herself as a surprise. “Hey guys.”

Itzhak has another shot down in the time it takes to tell, and then wheezes into his sleeve, eyes watering a little. "Jesus," he remarks, and then he's enraptured by watching Javier clank his empty glass down. Gaze for gaze, Itzhak so seldom looks anyone in the eye but he does it now, light eyes on dark.

Then he sniffs, and slides another over to Javier. Yep, that's how it's gonna be.

Una turns her head to watch as Ariadne hollers back at Joseph, tilting it to the side just a little to consider the interaction, though she's missed the context of it-- still, she's in a good enough (happy enough) mood not to care, and grins anyway.

"Oh, no, but you look amazing," she insists, accepting Ariadne's arm and the suggestion of a drink. "Mine is just... I don't know. I saw it, and I had to. Something I didn't make for once, though I made some alterations. I'm not sure what it says about my secret self, so it's not really a costume, just a dress, whereas yours..." There's more to say there, probably indeed including Itzhak's mask, but Jules' arrival draws a flutter of a gesture from the redhead who has to let out a little 'eee' sound of her own. "Jules. You look amazing."

Joe's still got that sphinxish look on. Ava may not get it - so many civilians don't, if they're not familiar with military rank structure. He doesn't reach for another shot, glances at the others. As if trying to gauge where this game is going before he insists on round two.

Ariadne's reply gets laughter from him, low and surprisingly piratical. He gives her a thumbs up before replying, "Fair enough. I'm a reasonable man, I couldn't expect a lady to pay for all the drinks I consume in an evening."

He tips his head to Ava. "I'll consider it," he says, pleasantly. The question has ahim glancing away from consideration of the shots still ranked on the tray. "Pretty well," he asserts, with neither shyness nor braggadocio. Itz goes on, and he snags another shot for himself. No fooling around with lime or salt, needed.

Yeah? That's how it's gonna be?

Javier pushes off the railing. Lumbers in closer to the taller, lankier man who's brought him shots. He's already pretty sloshed, but what's one more? Holding Itzhak's gaze, he plucks another one off the tray, and tosses it back, too. Slams the empty shot glass back down with a little clack. "Está bien, hijo de puta."

That's how it's gonna be.

Another chiming of laughter from the barista. "You're fine, Joe, I'll come pester you later. We'll compare swords!" Like closet geeks, no doubt.

Now with Una on her arm, the taller redhead meanders her way towards the bar in no hurry, her attention entirely on her companion.

Jules earns herself a twitch out of the barista; Ariadne immediately whips her face in the direction of the greeter, her darkly-shaded eyes wide behind the white mask. "Oh! Jules, hey!" A gesture down and up her friend and the barista can't help but laugh. "Look at you! Wow! Oh, the feathers." Delicately, she reaches to frizzle at one of them at Jules' hip. "Feathers just might be a thing tonight. Just maybe." Funning at herself in the process, Ariadne reaches back to skim fingertips along her valkyrie-like headdress in turn. "I'm Una's arm-candy currently on our way to the bar. Join us?"

Those red lips curve wide in a pleased smile. “Thank you!” Jules returns, along with compliments of her own. “So do you. Both of you. Everyone was going so fancy, I thought I’d look out of place and underdressed if I stuck to my original plan, even though it was cheaper. So voila, I rented a dress with feathers. Una’s already seen the mask; she helped me make it.” She favors her housemate with another smile, then steps up to claim her other arm. “Lead the way! I want to be Una’s arm candy now too.”

Ava's eyes dart between Javier and Itzhak as the two start their shot-off. She reaches out a hand to pluck one more shot from the tray before they all vanish. Were they meant for her? No. Does she care? Also no. "I do hope your car is big enough to fit both of their drunk asses in it, lopsided," she notes towards Joe before taking that second shot with a gasp. Her head gives a little rattle and her eyes are blinking rapidly. No, shots aren't typically her thing.

"Pretty well, huh? Well, my date abandoned me for the slots." Not that she knows he's back now. "Yours seems a little preoccupied. I was supposed to be saving a couple of dances for someone, but it looks like plans fell through, and I'd love nothing more for but for you to accompany me. Maybe you can tell me about some of your time in space? Or on the water?" Her hand is offered, palm up. "If you're up for it."

Itzhak smirks like ten miles of trouble at Javier. "You're cute when you're mad." Can you purr in an accent that could scrape gum off a sidewalk? Well, Itzhak's figured it out.

He picks up another shot and toasts the burly Chief with it. Head tilt back. Down it goes. He swallows, eyes closing, then theatrically clacks the glass down.

He's swaying in place, but nobody notice.

Beautiful women on both arms? Lucky Una! Certainly, she beams as they make their way to the bar, stepping very carefully to avoid tripping over the train of her dress. "Now I'm regretting my lack of feathers," she teases. "Can we say feathers and leaves are the thing of the evening? Though then we'd need to fit Dita in to that as well-- well, no. I think she stands alone, don't you? You should see her dress, Jules. It's amazing. I have the best date." Date(s), really, given her current configuration.

Jules gets a conspiratorial grin across the way. "Poor Una. You're flanked now," Ariadne teases the younger redhead with another chiming laugh. Gesturing before herself, she signals the trio to move on. "Actually, if feathers and leaves are the thing of the evening, Dita's dress has flowers on it, so she's still in theme, in a way? But yes, seriously, Jules, it's gorgeous -- and the tiara. I have no idea where she managed to find something with cubic zircona so clear. You know how it's always just a little cloudy inside or on its backing where it's mounted in? None of the stones, none of them, have this. She's regal in it -- that, and yes, she's Una's date this evening, so there were some very jealous expressions I saw, I'll have you know," the barista informs Jules.

Upon reaching the bar, her own order is for a glass of ginger ale with ice, please.

This iteration of their conflict is just as rivetting as the first. But Joe's only a spectator, and he has seen it played out before. So there's no hesitation as he replies, "Oh, I don't own a car. We were gonna get rides home." He's apparently capped it at two. Not a sign of the booze he's already had beyond the ghost of a flush streaked across his cheekbones.

He deposits his hand in hers, and says, "Certainly. Shall we?" Already turning towards the dancefloor.

Seeing many of the same faces as earlier, Deacon smiles and makes his way over towards the gathering with Shotfest 2021. Not that he intends to partake, but it's always fun to watch people drink. It's typically more fun to listen to the conversation while they do. Will there be trash talk? Will someone's mother be horribly insulted? Only time will tell. He smiles towards Ava as she heads towards the dance floor with Joseph but doesn't move to interrupt or such. He just takes a sip and casually jokes, "You know, I don't think the slots are designed for you to win. Just saying...craps was a little nicer."

“I saw it!” Jules is enthusiastic tonight, flushed from the party and most likely the wine. “I went over to her place to borrow shoes, and she showed me it then. Have you seen her place? It’s totally bonkers. So is the dress—it’s the floofliest princess dress I’ve ever seen.” She probably means this as a compliment.

The comments have her stealing a look sideways at Una. “Your date, hmm? Are we talking platonic date? I could totally see you being into women, for what it’s worth. You’ve never looked twice at a guy, even if you make great dick jokes.”

Did Itzhak just call the Chief of Police cute? He tosses back another shot, and sidles in close. Closer. Until their noses are practically touching. Or would be, if Rosencrantz didn't have a good three or four inches on him.

And then, tequila still trickling down his lip and leaking into his beard, he tries to wrap his hand around the back of the other man's neck and press a fierce kiss against his mouth. Wet and noisy and it ends with a shove that clatters the empty shot glasses on Itzhak's tray as Javier prowls away from him. "I've got to get out of here." Because he can't stand crowds. And people. And he needs some air. "I'll see you later." A hand's slid over Joe's shoulder as he passes, and his gaze lingers a moment on Ava before he ambles off.

Itzhak is left standing there, frozen in place for a shocked moment. Javier gets to kiss him and stalk off. Round two has a decisive victor.

He then comes back to life and struts after him like he's been crowned king of the world.

"Hey, unicorn guy, you're on in five," an anxious stage manager tries to tell him as he goes past her.

"Yeah make it twenty," Itzhak says without even looking away from de la Vega.

"I actually haven't seen her place yet, weirdly enough. Me and that hot tub have a date though, speaking of dates." Ariadne leans against the bar now with her ginger ale and sips at it, tonguing over her bottom lip at the taste. Deliciousness.

An idle glance in the direction of the balcony is in time to see Javier depart on specific terms and the barista grins her Princess of Foxes grin. A quick yank of opera glove off of her hand by the teeth and after slinging it over her arm, she manages to get two fingers to her lip and inhale.

And don't wolf-whistles travel. Yes, Itzhak, that one's for you.

"Flowers count," Una decides, backtracking from her earlier conclusion to allow this. "And right, that tiara? I've never seen anything like it. Gorgeous." She sounds only very faintly wistful in the saying of that, thought whatever wistfulness is there rapidly disappears under the weight of Jules' questioning.

She goes pink: deeply, deeply pink. "Platonic date," she insists, hurriedly stepping up to the bar to stammer out her order, the glass of sparkling wine likely much in need to cool her burning cheeks. "We're just friends."

Hide your face, Una.

Itzhak does laugh when he realizes Ari is saluting him, stand and die and all that. He blushes right down his neck, but there's not a hitch in his stride.

Ava makes a delighted noise at that aggressive kiss between Javier and Itz. "That's more like it!" Her hands clap together happily before the one she'd offered to Joe is finally slid into his hand. Her face is absolutely delighted. "What do you know? His shot game worked, that boy knows what he's doing." Javier's eyes linger on her and Ava gives a little wink. "You owe me dances," she informs him as he hurries out.

As her and Joe make their way to the floor, she brushes her fingers against Deacon's cheek and grins. "Don't worry, darling. You have the best win of the night, you're going home with me. But I'm glad craps worked out for you. Despite the terrible terrible name."

Normally, Jules would leave it there. She’d tease Una good-naturedly, but back off when the other woman starts to redden.

But Jules has tasted Ava’s oh so delectable, oh so dangerous fruit, and it’s as if the folkloric character she’s embodying this evening has taken over her tongue and is out to raise hell.

“It’s always just friends with you,” she notes as Una orders. “Why is that? You’re pretty and kind and funny, and you could totally get laid if you didn’t always shy away. You should—“ Fortunately, whatever uncensored advice Jules is about to give gets cut short by Ariadne’s piercing whistle, and she spins to spot the cause of it.

Oh, sweet solitude on the balcony off the chamber music lounge. People mill about in there as well, and if Ravn has to be picky about it, that's not exactly chamber music -- which explains the dancing. The stars overhead twinkle with more proficiency than any fireworks, and here and there, a few couples linger on the balcony, talking privately (and in one case making out, but who's counting).

The Dane in the vampire count costume smokes his cigarette and watches the stars and the sea. He'll go back in in a bit. A moment of peace first, though. God, he hates crowds so much. Born and bred for this kind of environment and yet he feels like a goldfish in the Sahara, a creek with a paddle and no canoe, a pony on a unicycle in a porcelain shop.

For his part, Joe looks surprised by none of it....and still intensely amused. No matter how many times he watches that little drama play out, it never loses its novelty. "Of course it did," he says, complacently. "Itzhak is very astute." A last glance for Unicorn and Bull, and then he's laughing at Ariadne's whistle.

Deacon gets a nod in greeting, and then he's leading Ava on to the dance floor. Not lying about being decent at it, especially the more formal stuff, and there's no hint of the limp for the moment. But he doesn't prompt her for her questions, or launch into one of his stories. Must be below the booze threshold for that.

"Couldn't help it," Ariadne admits with zero compunction as to her wolf-whistle and a twiddly-fingered wave at Itzhak red down through his neck now.

Score. Check. Working her way down her personal list at this point.

It's going to take her a bit to get her black opera glove back on and she glances over between Una and Jules at the conversation stuttering like hot rubber on asphalt. "Where's Mikaere anyhow, Jules?" she asks out of honest curiosity (and half to see if she can derail the lack of filter on Jules). "Here, let's get drinks squared away and we'll go find Ravn?" A tilt of her head sets the feathers on her winged headband to shivering.

A sheath without a sword. A bow without an arrow....okay he can't really read Ravn's mind but still!

He smiles though as he watches Ava and Joe, "See if they're dancing, we can't do our duel," he laments again, though with that playful look on his features. He pays attention to the conversations though, listening casually to those who may be in earshot. Hot tubs always draw one's attention cause what isn't there to like, so he looks towards Ari and Una and Jules before watching Ruiz and the probable winner for best kiss of the night before settling down to get off his feet.

Una wraps her fingers around her glass and looks, just for a moment or two, as if she'd like to sink into the floor, become a puddle of gown and embarrassment. That she doesn't is both due to physics and some inner resolve-- and maybe a little to do with being saved by Ariadne's whistle. That she doesn't turn around to see what it's for is probably because she's taking a moment to collect herself; to not say something, to Jules, that she might later regret.

It means that when she does speak, she can do so in a more normal tone of voice, no unshed tears quivering in the edges; in no way over-sensitive. "I'll take that under advisement," is, all the same, distinctly cool. "Yes-- let's go find Ravn. He'll still be outside, I'm sure."

This time, her sweep of the room allows those brown eyes to land on Deacon, and she gives him a cautious glance; not a warm smile, but still: an acknowledgement.

Jules looks curious, watching Itzhak strut out; she’s missed all the context. What she doesn’t miss is Una’s decided change of tone. Bewildered, consternation starting to set in, she asks, “Did I say something wrong?”

Her gaze shifts to Ariadne, questioning, like maybe she has the answer. “Blackjack,” Jules says absently. “I snuck off for a bite to eat. You go ahead, I’ll catch up.” She’s been reminded of her mission now, snacks to soak up the alcohol.

Ava has been training for these dances specifically, so she has that same grace and flow as she did earlier. Only now, she's far more drunk than before so there's a little less concentration on footwork, just letting Joe lead her about and drifting with him delicately. "Very astute," she agrees. "You and Javi have been together since way back when. Why is it that you two never thought about getting hitched?" she wonders idly, her eyes searching Joe's face. Well that's not a question about space or the Navy, at all!

Ava's attention moves to Deacon, catching his attention and then glancing over towards Una and the others. She hooks her head over in that direction. Go talk, make friends. That's what the head bob seems to say.

He's deft enough, leading her through the measures of the dance...but his attention's not really bent on it, either. "What makes you think we haven't?" Joe wonders, voice quiet enough to be pitched only for her ears. "But when we were first talking about anything like that, he was married and homosexual behavior in the military was illegal. We'd both've been kicked out, and I would have done time in the federal pen."

He sounds bizarrely nonchalant about it, but then, that span of time is enough to get someone used to nearly anything. Thankfully, a slow-paced song, so they can both of them drift through it.

On the balcony, Ravn makes it towards the chamber music lounge -- which conveniently puts him in a highly visible, easy to intercept path for anyone else heading that way. He's a little worried about the couple out there getting intimidately acquainted -- but then, there's always one, and surely, the Grand Olympic has a) helpful staff and b) seen worse. It's not on him to fix everything.

He shakes his head and looks around for familiar faces -- well, hairs, people are wearing masks. And another flute of cham--sparkling wine.

Quietly, subtly, Ariadne rolls her lips under and shrugs back at Jules while holding her gaze. It's barely enough motion to make the feathers of her shoulder shrug shiver. The woman in the bird mask then parts off to see about food. "Alright, sounds good," the barista replies to Jules.

"Here, my arm again, Kitchen Cleric." It's a light tone and gentle smile along with the offering of the same glove-clad forearm of earlier to Una. Her ginger ale merrily fizzes in the highball glass held in her other hand. "We'll go get some clean air. Ravn's probably done with his cigarette by now and my throat won't try to close off because of the smoke." Hazel eyes scanning the room again spot the occupants of the dance floor now and Ariadne smiles to herself. She has a waltz to go collect as well as it stands.

But there's Ravn after all and the barista gently steers the path of travel for an intercept. "Did the cool air help?" she asks of the Dane, her smile a gentle one.

By Una's expression, she seems to think Jules requires more than food to soak up that alcohol, but she squares her shoulders anyway, reclaiming all possible dignity as she takes Ariadne's arm and accompanies her back towards-- ah, Ravn. Right there, ready to be intercepted. "I got caught up," she apologises, though it doesn't especially sound as if she thinks Ravn suffered from the alone time. Clearly, she never did manage to find that wrap she intended to get, either, as her shoulders are still largely uncovered.

She very deliberately does not comment further on Jules, and instead just smiles. Everything's fine.

At some point Itzhak wanders back, drunk as a lord and grinning to himself and singing along with whatever's on the PA. "ABILDGAARD," he roars across the noise. "Fuck yeah now's when the party starts!"

Except for those of us for whom the party started several drinks ago.

"That really is some bullshit." Not the things that Joseph is saying, but the fact that he's right about all of it. The consequences of what would have happened. "Thankfully less so the case now. Still not quite as accepting as I'd like to hope it would be." Ava leans close enough to hear the whispers murmur just for her ears, alone. Her own equally quiet as they drift along.

"Why not do it now? Or are you guys too comfortable with how things are now to both changing anything?" Her eyes drift to the yelling Unicorn that wanders in, chuckling to herself. "Point A."

"I honestly don't know if I was going through my career now if I'd be out," Joe's voice is musing. "But it's a moot point. What's happened has happened." A step, a turn, a twirl out and then back in, all at a properly decorous distance. "What'd Javier tell you when you asked him?" he wonders, in that lazy drawl. Like he's genuinely uncertain as to what the answer will be.

Deer in headlights. That's Ravn's expression at that yell. Of all the things he expected to hear next, his name, shouted loud and drunk, wasn't on the list. If he'd actually been the vampire he's dressed up as, there'd have been a little ploof and off he'd be on leathery wings, straight back to Romania.

As it is, he turns just in time to see several familiar faces heading his way (this is good news) and at least one of them drunk enough to yell his name out in front of a crowd. He knows that look on his friend's face. Oh God. Things are about to Go Down.

To be fair, Itzhak has shoved the unicorn mask up into his hair, so yeah the look on his face is quite obvious. Someone is keyed up, dressed like a high fashion tart and ready to make it everybody's problem. "Ya girlfriend is hot!" he explains to Ravn, not using his inside voice.

Never mind clean air and the fact that Una needed to find her wrap (which Ariadne has no idea of).

Nope: that's Itzhak at nearly top volume and the barista turns, brows appearing over the top of her domino mask. Her mouth parts before she barely stifles a snort-laugh; it still squeaks through and ends up stifled behind her hand she's slipped back from Una.

"Oh my godddddddd," she drawls, unable to decide whether or not it's more delightful to see what's going to happen or see about telling Ravn if he crouches low enough, he can hide behind her and her winged headband.

But never mind, it might be her attempting to hide behind the taller Dane. "Ah-hah, ahem," she tries (and mostly fails) to be cool as a cucumber in the face of enthusiasm. "Thank you, Itzhak!" Beam. Pastel-pink blush behind her domino mask. Damnit, Rosencrantz! Touché.

Una's embarrassment, now, so-visible in the flush across her cheeks, is probably mostly on Ravn's behalf (and okay, Ariadne's, too): oh, she knows that feeling. Of course, it doesn't help either that their little group is now well and truly catching attention; apparently those blushes spread all the way down her chest too, as far as the v of her neckline goes. She, too, covers her mouth with her hand, sidestepping away from Ariadne now that the other redhead is in her date's vicinity. She does laugh, though: a low little chuckle, half amused and half embarrassed, maybe even half delighted, though that's the infamous third half that doesn't count.

"I look forward to the 'pluck the chicken' part of my next cooking lesson," Ravn agrees, in a voice as mundane as if he was in fact talking about community centre cooking lessons. The fact that his cheeks are burning -- probably has everything to do with half a ballroom turning to see who Itzhak was yelling at. The perils of friendships between introverts and extroverts.

And Itzhak, bless his heart, is just thrilled unto death to see Ravn. Not like they see each other several times a week and are nonstop texting the rest of the time. "How you doing! You okay? Hey I needed to dance with de la Vega but he cleared out," like a boring old guy goes unsaid, "so Cavanaugh you're next!"

He's supposed to be going on stage but he seems to have forgotten and the stage manager doesn't look inclined to remind him.

"You don't think so? I imagine even with the rules being more lax, it's still easier to stay in. Some people are still stuck in the middle ages. Probably will be for a long time to come, sadly." Ava spins out, that emerald dress twirling around her legs. She comes back in with a laugh, cheeks flushed in exhilaration. Probably a little bit to do with the fact that she's drunk, too.

"I haven't asked him about it yet. I plan to, we just tend to get distracted with him fighting bears, or me nearly dying, or missing people, mind therapy... other stuff. You know how it is." She grins. "You don't have to answer, of course. I'm just a curious little bee."

"Sadly true," Joe agrees, inclining his head. The flush hasn't faded, but there's no sign of the booze in the way he moves. But then, how drunk is he, actually? If at all.

"Well, that's his story to tell, if he chooses," he notes. "And yeah, that's Gray Harbor for you. You find yourself in the strangest situations with people you've never met before." A placid observation, though he casts a glance at Itzhak and grins for a moment. As if eager to see what the mechanic will do next.

Cavanaugh?

Ariadne glances towards the dance floor with her eyebrows still on full display. Isn't -- that's Joseph, right? Her grin is uncertain and she glances over at both Ravn and Una in turn as if to ask, what on earth is Itzhak going to do next here?

"I think we're about to see some rugs get cut, lady and gentleman," she informs their immediate cluster before sipping her ginger ale again.

Sadly, Ravn's comment, so mundane, just makes Una giggle more; she can't help it, probably in part thanks to the alcohol, and the rest just... well, this whole scene is ridiculous, isn't it? And once one gets over the immediate need to flush, why not get carried away with it? "Oh hell," she says, but no, that's really just amusement.

Itzhak sweeps over to Joe and Ava. "Mind if I cut in?" he asks her with a winning smile. "C'mere, Joe, you gotta make up for ya nagushtnik boyfriend."

Well, whether either of them demur, Itzhak doesn't listen. He's getting to dance with Joe! He's happy! Everything is coming up Rosencrantz!

Ravn's lip twitches at the display (and a bit in relief -- Rosencrantz' attention is off him at least). He pretends complete indifference to the half-dozen people still looking their way as if they're hoping that yell a moment ago was a prelude to an argument or at least something exciting.

"I believe I owe at least one of you ladies a dance," he tells Una and Ariadne, in a considerably lower tone than the one his friend uses after a few shots. "And I'd be delighted to offer you both. Shall we, Ariadne? That way, Una has a chance to flee if she has no desire to be caught out on a dance floor with me."

"Well, I'll be sure to ask him tomorrow. If he thinks he's getting out of dancing, he's lost his mind. He'll just have to do it a day late." There's a bratty gleam in those multicolored eyes as Ava smirks deviously.

"So. The whole astronaut thing? Did that come up before or after the Navy?" she wonders, switching to another of her burning questions a moment before the cut in. There's a little huff as Ava's cheeks puff. "I would say I mind, but I technically stole two drinks from you, so I don't think I have a say. Have fun boys. Thank you, Joe." Her fingers waggles at the pair as she sashays away from the pair.

Una's laugh, this time, is outright and complete: it helps that Itzhak is focused on a different set of people this time, which means she can spectate without feeling too much involved (those few people still looking their way notwithstanding).

"Go, go," she encourages towards Ravn and Ariadne. "I can mind your drink if you like, Ariadne. I'll be very happy to watch." That doesn't preclude accepting a dance, but for now: go, go.

"I wish you luck with that," Joe wishes her, still smiling to himself. Mouth open to reply, but then there's Itzhak.

Joe, for his part, takes all this completely in stride. Bisexual disaster unicorns ask him to dance every day, folks. He bows his head in farewell to Ava, and turns to take the taller man's hand. "Thank you," he says to her before turning to Itzhak. Looking up at him, which has got to be a fairly novel experience for someone around six feet.

Wearing a small smile to herself at Ravn's expression, the barista then attempts to smooth it into polite surprise at the Dane's thoughts. "That's right, you do." It can't be helped: Ariadne dimples up with her smile. A quick glance around to see about setting aside her ginger ale on a nearby isolated table and pauses when Una offers. "I'd appreciate you minding it, sure, thank you," she says before she's got free hands. One of them is offered out towards Ravn in turn.

"We'll go do a spin or two and then you can see about making Una's dress-train swirl about." A grin for Una -- like she thinks she's going to get out of this without having a chance to sparkle if possible.

"Two?!" Itzhak calls after Ava. "Shit, I'll buy you two more for turning over this handsome gentleman to me." He smooches Joe on the knuckles, silly gallantry, then whirls away with him, "This is a great party!"

A man who usually seeks to avoid the spotlight -- any light, really. A man who's usually at his happiest when no one is paying him any particular heed. And tonight, a man dressed up in a tailored three-piece suit and fur stole, a vampire count here all the way from sunny Romania, check out our mountain castles, to bedazzle and beguile.

Once a confidence artist, always a confidence artist. Ravn can slip on his upper class persona when required, and he does. Sweeping movements and a grace beat into him by years' worth of classes in dance and deportment, and the swan princess is being floated around the ballroom floor by the Count van Something in Romanian.

Possibly something in Hungarian. He'll have to ask his dance partner later, she actually speaks the language.

"That's what people said about the handlebar mustache photos, but I got my pictures! I'll get my dances, too." Ava grins, giving Joe a little wink as he's turned over towards Itz. "I'm going to hold you to that," she tells the unicorn with a finger waggle during her retreat.

Eyes scan in search of Deacon. He must have found someone to chat with for a bit. Time for her to do the same. "Una! I haven't had a chance to say hi yet." Her dress billows around her feet as she maneuvers in that direction, beaming at the red head. "Did I already tell you that you look stunning tonight? Because if I haven't, shame on me. You look flawless. I am in love with you in this dress."

Una's smile is a warm one as she accepts Ariadne's ginger ale-- you can't be too careful, leaving drinks floating around in a public place-- and steps a little further back, all the better to watch from the sidelines. Dancing threats? Pfft. She looks perfectly fine just standing here, train swooped out behind her, drinking not-champagne as she surveys the dancers.

She glances up as Ava approaches, her smile a brilliant one by way of immediate reply. "You did, but I don't mind hearing it again," she admits, albeit with the faintest hint of a blush (of course). "It was a lucky find, but-- I'm so happy with it. Yours is beautiful too! I love seeing everyone so dressed up and pretty, just for once."

Joe's grinning up into Itz's face. Not a hint of awkwardness. Like the musician's aura banishes anything that might even pretend to be shyness. "'re you flirtin' with me, Rosencrantz?" he accuses, as Itz leads him into the dance.

No 'Fair Lady' is she, but if there's something Ariadne's good at, it's bluffing. Lift the chin, smile a little smile, straighten her spine, and...off they go. Brave of her, not to watch the man's feet as she did in the meadow. There's even a turn or two where her skirting unfurls and clings only to settle again, flashing the black stocking and heels beneath it. Was that a giggle? Yes. Thank god she doesn't trip over her own feet in the process. Being floated along by Ravn's gently-firm hands, it's clear too how the man learned long ago that the lead's unspoken job is to flaunt the follow in turn.

By the time the piece ends, the barista is feeling quite flaunted indeed and pleased for the domino mask. Her cheeks are quite warm beneath it, after all.

Ravn leans in to whisper something in his partner's ear at the end of the dance. One does not need to be a lip reader to surmise that it probably involves more dancing later on -- possibly in private. For now, though? He'll let Ariadne catch her breath and another drink. As they drift back towards the others, he glances at Una and quirks an eyebrow in a silent question; he if anyone understands preferring to not be asked and being made to have to decline.

Ava sweeps a bow towards Una. "Well thank you! I absolutely loved picking it out. The dress was easy, the mask was a lot harder. You'd think it would have been the other way around." Her tongue gives a little click of amusement as she turns to glance back towards the others. "Everyone looks so amazing, honestly. I really don't think that I can pick a favorite. It's all too gorgeous. Luckily I've snagged a couple of pictures on my phone here and there throughout the night.

"Apparently our secret selves are all exceptionally glamorous," agrees Una, mild but not without a smile. As Ariadne and Ravn return, she offers the former's drink back to her, and sets down her own empty glass (that went quick) on a nearby time. Silent question draws silent pause, as Una deliberates; two glasses of bubbles has done a fair amount to ease her natural inhibitions, but... no, apparently the answer is no, she's quite happy to stay where she is, but thank you. She expresses that much with a quick smile and a shake of her head: she's fine.

"You two looked great out there," is what she says, instead. "Really, everyone has." That includes Ava, too.

"I'm quite amazed at people's creativity," Ravn agrees and then adds, smiling, "I get to say that because I let Ariadne pick mine out. I'm a completely lost cause for these things. I do know how to dress -- it just doesn't interest me a whole lot. Fancy occasions like these? It's such a fine balance between not being a party pooper, and drawing more attention than I actually want. I'm perfectly happy to be a wall flower outside of dancing with my friends. No desire to make an impression on anyone else."

"Well, I've always been a bit of a priss when it comes to clothes, I've been trying to relax my style a little bit. But for this I had to go hog wild, honestly. So, perhaps my inner me is a little more wild than I give myself credit for." Says the mad scientist. Ava grins at Ravn and Ariadne. Ravn gets a gasp. "You? A wall flower? I am both shocked and amazing by this statement." Her head jerks towards Una. "Did you know about this? I had no idea."

Una opens her mouth... and then closes it again. She looks, just for a moment, as if she wishes she hadn't already drunk her sparkling wine and still had a glass to hide her face behind. It's thus a little more cautiously that she speaks up, a few moments later, to say, "I have to admit... I kind of enjoyed getting to feel beautiful. I still don't want to be the centre of attention, but it's still... a little nice, in a way. Cinderalla at the Ball, and tomorrow I'll be back to my usual self, my feet covered in blisters, my squish rejoicing in not being sucked up and away and... being able to eat, too, for that matter. I like being able to eat."

"You look absolutely delightful." Ravn smiles at Una. "And there's nothing wrong with wanting to live out your Cinderella fantasy. If you change your mind about a dance, let me know."

He glances out at the dancers twirling on the floor like so many beautiful flowers floating in circular motions on the surface of a fountain -- look, this made sense in his head -- and picks another not-champagne flute off the tray of a passing waiter. "I think maybe sometimes we place too much importance on the wrong things in these matters. You can enjoy dressing up and dancing without having to be the queen of the ball. You can go to the dance without having to catch the prince. You can go for you, not to see and be seen. Not everything has to be a competition."

A small smile, tinged with a hint of bitterness. "And I have to say that, of course. After all, I spent most of my early years arguing with my mother in particular about it, since her idea of a social gathering was indeed that the point is to dominate it."

"I hate to be the one that have to break it to you, Una, but you're always beautiful. Honestly, as nice as the dress is, I'd say you're the most beautiful when you're cooking and there's a few people in the kitchen eating and you get this little glow on your face because that's when you're the happiest." Ava offers a little shrug with her opinion. Take it or leave it.

"But Ravn's right, nothing wrong with a little fantasy life here and there. We all deserve a night or two here and there that's just fun and fancy." Her nose wrinkles up at Ravn's tale. "No wonder you hide. I can't imagine she ever actually enjoyed herself if that's all she spent her time doing. Or let you enjoy it."

After Joe laughingly begs Itz to have mercy on his shattered hip, Itzhak kisses him goodbye and puts him in an Uber, and then he's swagging his way back inside. A ginger beer for him, and he's strolling past when he sees the back of Una's dress. Hasty swallow of very bubbly gingery stuff makes him turn red, then he's moseying on over in a way he's absolutely stealing from Joe and says hopefully, "Una, hi, you look like you wanna dance?" It's a sign of how flustered he is that it comes out half question and half pfft, of COURSE she wants to dance.

Una's cheeks go pink because despite her words she really wasn't fishing for compliments (well, this is inevitably true: she's not a fisher, though her insecurities could occasionally make it seem so), but it's a pleased flush, and no doubt there's another comment to go with it, probably something deeply profound, or at least expressing approval and confirmation for Ravn's summation of the whole ball experience--

-- But there's Itzhak, and his semi-question and was she blushing before? She's definitely blushing now. "Oh!" she says (squeaks), and apparently, while she can turn down unspoken offers, this one? Not so much, because after a moment's pause she nods. "Oh-- okay, yes."

"Position in society must be earned and then perpetually defended," Ravn quotes from a lecture in his childhood past. "Slip up and relax, and you will find that the ones who patted your back and sang your praises are now looking for a knife to put in your shoulder blades while composing your eulogy." He hitches a shoulder. "There's plenty reasons I live here and not back home. The contempt of the nouveau riche is one of them."

He smiles as Itzhak and Una hedge towards the dance floor and sips his champagne. "Oh, I'm glad he convinced her. I suspect our Una is a fantastic dancer once anyone actually gets her on a dance floor. The quiet ones always have the most fire."

"That sounds like a load of hot garbage to me. You're far better off with us here than you are with them." Ava sneaks a glass from a passing tray so that she can toast to those words with a lopsided smile and a single dimple. "Plus, it'd be super weird without you here, now."

She follows the pair with her eyes, head bobbing in agreement. "Well, if anyone can get someone as shy as her to dance, it's Itzhak. Hopefully she's had enough to drink that she can get out of her head enough to enjoy herself."

Itzhak breaks into a big dumb grin and seriously what does it take to tire the guy out? He offers his arm to Una like someone who definitely was taught to do that at a Hebrew school dance but has since refined his technique, and takes her out to dance. His hand settles on the small of her back--wait, there's missing material, those are cutouts. Itzhak blinks.

Grins like Itzhak's deserve a smile in response, albeit a somewhat timid one, and Una is, thus, led out onto the dance floor (and manages not to trip over her dress in the process, excellent). Of course, dancing requires close proximity, and while yes, absolutely, there is absolutely bare skin on her back-- there's also bare skin on his chest, so. On the other hand, she's also not inclined to stare upwards and try and meet his gaze. She lets out a little laugh and admits, "I'm not especially good at this."

If it's mandatory for the costume to represent one's secret self, then Rhys's secret self is apparently... a casino manager. At least, if you go by the majority of the outfit, which is a quite nice and very well-fitted tuxedo, definitely altered specifically for him. Nothing fits a man his height that well straight off the rack, even if it's a quality rack. If you go by the mask, on the other hand, then his secret self must be a dragon. All the rest is professional-perfect black tie, from shirt studs to cufflinks to the simple white pocket square... until you reach the shoes: burgundy snakeskin dress loafers, answering the mask like a quiet punchline. It's all expensive enough to fit in respectably, but not so much as to challenge the less self-secure of the clientele. He is, after all, not a guest.

And so he's been making the rounds, chatting up the many who are, making sure the myriad little details delegated to lower level staff aren't being neglected, periodically wishing he could offset some of the conversations with that sparkling wine (or, now and then, the shots), and probably running occasional totals in his head of likely amounts raised for charity (and definitely not laundered). So it's nice to spot and recognize someone he genuinely wants to greet.

"Mr. Abildgaard," he declares cheerfully as he nears, a tiny emphasis on the title that could be somehow teasing, or just a matter of rhythm, "Good evening! And your lovely friend." He inclines his head and shoulders slightly to Ava, with that. The odds he knows who the coroner is are fairly high, really, but they haven't yet been introduced, and there's just enough age difference not to have overlapped in high school. "Rhys Evans," he says, correcting half of this, "Casino manager. Everything going well tonight?"

"Mm, I suspect most people enjoy themselves just fine once they manage to let go of the narrative that if you're not going home with the prince or the princess the evening has been wasted. It's a rather silly notion considering that there are generally not enough royalty to go around anyhow." Ravn smiles -- and perhaps he might have said more but then he turns to greet Rhys. "Mr Evans, good evening. The event seems to go quite swimmingly so far. I have yet to hear complaints but for one couple who were indeed making each other very happy on the balcony. How's life on Glitter Island?"

There's beads. That totally counts as a shirt! Actually by this point Itzhak has more or less forgotten he's not wearing a shirt. He's just living like an animal in its skin, sleek and swift, more the unicorn than he was wearing the mask.

"You don't hafta be good at it," he tells Una, resolving to quit being a huge dork (he forgets this immediately, too). "You just gotta... Feel. Feel that beat." His hips demonstrate. "Get loose. Lean into me, it's okay, just don't get your hair caught."

No, beads do not count as a shirt, so far as Una is concerned. But-- okay, she's two glasses in, and she's trying (maybe too hard) to, if not be good at this, especially since she's just been told she doesn't have to be, then at least give it her best shot. "Okay," she says, with a little laugh. "I'll try." 'Loose' is not really part of her repertoire, but with a deep breath she does make an effort, leaning in and, after a moment more, closing her eyes, as if to shut out the inevitable distractions of the world and... let go? Let go.

"Getting my hair caught rather would destroy the moment," she allows, grinning. At least her palms, all the way up on Itzhak's shoulders, aren't clammy.

"Well, luckily I came with a very handsome Knight who seconds as a very dashing Prince. As I plan to also be going home with him, I don't need to worry about finding one while I am here." Ava laughs softly. "Also, I like to think that, on occasion, I can pass for a self-rescuing Princess. Nobody should feel like they have to leave with someone to feel good about themselves. Royalty or not." Her eyes shift to Rhys, hand extending. "Pleasure Mr. Evans. Ava Brennon. You've thrown a fabulous party.

The song ends and Itzhak bends his curly dark head way down to murmur something to her and smile at her to make his crow's feet crinkle. Then he's bringing her back, and swooping down on Ravn. "I heard someone being bitter! Come on, Count Chockula, let's dance, ya dweeb. Hi Rhys bye Rhys!"

Rhys accepts the hand, giving it a firm but not aggressive shake, and gives Ava a bright smile from beneath the mask. "Pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ms. Brennon. And thanks, we try, especially for charity. Let me know if you run into any problems, so I can have them shot." The smile goes to a grin, as he reclaims his hand.

"Sparkly, celebratory, and never, ever coming out of the carpet," he answers Ravn promptly, "So more or less as advertised. And if they were that happy, how many complaints can they have?" That's just a little wry, more clearly so in retrospect, when it's followed by a brief sigh and, "Which balcony was this?" But there's a second violinist trying to steal the first one, suddenly, and he laughs. "Hi Itzhak, bye Itzhak," he replies, and steps aside, adding a sweep of the arms dance-floor-ward to encourage Ravn toward that invitation.

"... Chockula?" Ravn stares blankly. He's heard a lot of strange monikers, and a substantial amount of them came from this very man (unicorn) too, but that one is new. Then he's hauled off and the look he sends Rhys is a mix of laughter and pure betrayal.

"Goddamnit," the Dane murmurs to his friend. "Who's leading? I've never danced with a bloke before? What are we dancing?"

Whatever it is that Itzhak murmurs makes Una both laugh-- and blush. Smile, too, aimed upwards just for a moment. Her, "Thank you," is not especially loud, but it's not a murmur either, and she's happy enough to be deposited back with the group, and to grin, broadly, at Ravn. "Go on," she says. "Have fun!"

She will turn her attention back to Ava and Rhys, the latter of whom gets a nod of acknowledgement and welcome; they've met, after all. "That balcony," she's able to put in, her blushing largely receding now: fingers point. "I assume, given that is the balcony where Ravn and I were standing earlier. Hello."

"Just Ava is fine." Rhys is given a pleased smile. "Oh my. A shooting? Well, I feel honored that you would go to such lengths, but I assure you that I have my own ways to deal with problem people that involve less chance of blood splatter on my new dress." A wink follows that, along with a laugh.

Then Itz is claiming Ravn and her amusement grows before her attention turns towards Una. "Well? Did you have fun? I know you weren't eager for a dance earlier, but surely you enjoyed yourself at least a little bit?"

"Who's leading, I swear you're such a goddamn square. Here, you lead." Itzhak presents his hand so Ravn can grab it, or his sleeve or whatever works. They're the same height, Ravn even taller by a bit. "Count Chockula, look, I'll show you a picture, those pointy teeth are killing me. What're you so upset about? I'm not gonna let you be upset while ya girl looking like that."

Ravn laughs softly -- and then leads, because a childhood and youth spent among the wealthy conservatives of his country means he does in fact dance quite well, thank you very much. Shake it loose on a disco floor? Probably not. Waltz? Prepare to keep up, Mistah Rosencrantz.

Maybe it's the devil in Rosencrantz. Maybe it's that Ariadne is there, watching, and he knows that she'll be laughing her gorgeous backside off. Maybe it's that if you can't beat 'em, join 'em. Either way, the Dane goes all in, and if this dance ends with a deep dip of a unicorn? So be it. If we're doing swagger, we're doing swagger -- con man can, if con man will.

Itzhak lights up with glee. Swagger? You ain't even seen swagger until you've seen him waltzing with Ravn and both of them being ridiculous and dramatic with the kind of telepathy that comes only from being close friends and not from any weird psychic powers. By the time Ravn dips him, Itzhak is laughing so hard he's red in the face. He would make a terrible con man.

"You're the worst," he tells him as they get back upright. "I hate you so much. We gotta do that again."

But again will have to wait because Itzhak is dying for a smoke and vanishes out to the balcony.

"Ava," Rhys agrees with a small nod and another quick, bright smile. "Oh, letting that happen would be terrible customer service. Fair enough, though; it is fantastic. It'd be a shame to spoil it." He turns the smile on Una, "Yours, too, Ms. Irving. We should have masquerades here more often; it does wonders for the decor." A glance the way she points, eyes narrowing slightly, and he nods once. "Thanks. Having a good time?" The men on the floor get a slight lift of brows, and a touch further as he takes in the attention going to them from various points in the room. Well, no complaints about that.

"It's all beautiful," agrees Una. "A lovely night."

She blushes prettily (again), and lets out a little laugh. "Yes," she'll allow. "It was fun. It would've been wrong to avoid all dancing, I suppose, at an event like this." She shifts her position just slightly, so that she can glance back at the two men dancing, and for this, her expression positively dances with mirth. "Look at them." So impressed. Such swagger.

One moment you're dipping a unicorn in a ball room sequence worthy of some Disney movie; the next you're a single vampire on a dance floor, surrounded by ladies who wouldn't mind some stranger to do the same to them -- aaand that's Ravn quickly retreating to familiar faces. He's had his moment in the spotlight, thank you very much. Some other fake fang-wearer go seduce the hopefuls, he's out.

"I need a drink," he murmurs, and plucks yet a sparkling wine flute off a tray. Down the hatch it goes. "Think I won that challenge, though."

"Terrible customer service maybe, but so much fun to watch," Ava advises with waggling brows beneath her mask. It's obvious from the way the mask wiggles on her face. "It would have been wrong," she agrees easily with Una. "You had to show off the dress and the lovely woman inside it. Even just a little bit. Right?"

As Ravn returns, her hands come together in light golf clap, careful not to spill her wine. "That was fantastic. I think we all won with that show, to be fair."

"I'm debating whether I should try to bribe Itzhak to make that happen at every event," Rhys notes to Una's impressed remarks, with a small nod, "Not sure Abildgaard would volunteer otherwise, but the needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few." This is a very solemn declaration, aside from the way the grin returns when it's done, albeit not quite as sharp as the one that met Ava's waggling brows. Clearly amused by that reply, even given the mask; does it get the coroner a beat of extra consideration? Possibly.

"Glad you enjoyed your dance," he says to Una, the smile softening a touch, "The pair of you looked great out there too. All making me almost envious." It's back to the grin when he spots Ravn retreating their way with his desperate need for sparkling wine. "I'd say so, but I can check with the betting desk for an official ruling if you want." Another flicker of a glance toward the balcony Una indicated before, and he lifts a finger. "One moment." Not a far moment, though; he steps and turns aside, and once he's appropriately out of the way, the same finger sneaks up under the side of his mask and he speaks quietly to no one obvious for a few seconds.

"Do you really think he'd need bribing?" counters Una, with a laugh. "It's definitely quite the show." With no glass in her hands, she's got nothing to do with them, and eventually her hands end up clasped behind her back, held there as if that, alone, will give her something to focus on. Ava's words earn, in turn, another nod, smile clearly visible-- and then there's Ravn, and for him she has a far broader grin.

"I'll definitely agree that's a win, whatever the bookies say. That was-- impressive, well done. We'll let you stick to your corner now, I promise."

Ravn resists the temptation to pick the false fangs out of his mouth and pocket them; he promised Ariadne he'd do this, and in his book that means until the end. The looks he got on his way over have nothing to do with him, he knows that -- and everything to do with how little Itzhak is wearing, combined with people's supernatural romance fantasies. Thank you, ma'am, I will not be your Romanian count for the evening.

He smiles at Una and nods. "My corner is mine, and I will defend it with the sandwich fork I stole off a waiter earlier." He holds it up -- a small plastic affair with which to spear olives, or the butts of crowding people. "That's Rosencrantz for you, though. Always pushing my limits." The man's tone suggests that he might just be well aware that somebody ought to. Some day, Itzhak and Ariadne will ally, and that's when he'll be truly doomed.

"Sometimes we need people to push us past our limits," Ava offers with a lazy shrug. "Sometimes we need people to reminds us that limits are there for a good reason." While Ravn may tend to need the first, Ava tends to need the second. Una may get a slight toast at the second part, because she's a good friend when it comes to those gentle reminders. Even if Ava isn't the best at listening to them.

"That's a mighty weapon, Ravn. How many people do you think it can hold off before it breaks?"

Una's gaze drops from Ravn's face to his fork and she begins to giggle, hiding it-- not really hiding it-- behind one hand, her eyes dancing with irrepressible mirth. "I believe you'll do just fine," she tells him, once she's composed herself enough to do so. Alas, this means that her hands have come unclasped, one falling to her side while the other hovers awkwardly, first by her mouth and then in the air, as if she doesn't quite know what to do with it.

Ava's toast earns a solemn nod, and she adds, "Limits are important. Sometimes we push them," Una danced! "and sometimes we step back over them. And in both cases, sometimes we need a person on hand to make sure we know which step is the right one."

The observant might notice, when Rhys returns to speak to the others, that down the room a bit there's a faintly chagrined-looking security guard (nicely dressed, of course, but it's clear who they are -- at least, the ones that are meant to be seen) heading toward the balcony in question. Very likely too late to stop or even run into the mentioned couple, but someone's supposed to be interrupting these things before they get that far. And this being a casino, there are probably cameras that will let them handle what was missed, later. They might also notice the glance that clocks Una's anxious hands, and possibly the way it catches a gaze some distance across the room next, with a tiny lift of the chin, before his attention returns to the group.

"Theft, Abildgaard? Theft and threats of bodily injury? I'm shocked," he says, shaking his head at the tiny fork. "And you looked like such a respectable vampire." Would Una like a glass for her hands? Because there's a waiter near her elbow now, with a tray of them right there, and a friendly smile for them all as he makes his offer.

"Look, I needed to be able to leave piercing marks on somebody's butt if necessary, and I'm not actually going to bite anyone." Let's take the vampire joke all the way, indeed. "Don't worry, I'll politely return my little plastic fork to the kitchen before anyone notices it's gone missing."

He chuckles and sips his sparkling wine. "Truth, though? Rosencrantz makes a habit out of pushing my limits, and it's probably extremely healthy for me. It's not that I don't know how to dance. It's that I tend to trap myself in memories of the past in situations like this. It's good to have help, overwriting those bad memories with new, good ones."

"You could bite me. If you wanted. Vampires are almost as hot as faeries. Not quite, but almost." There's a chortle before Ava studies the fork again. "I don't know if the kitchen is going to want back a plastic form, Ravn dear. I'm pretty sure those go in the garbage. But he's right, you have to leave the man something to defend himself with. Look at him." A hand gestures over him, her face a picture of amusement as her eyes flicker towards Rhys.

"Overwriting bad memories is fantastic. Too bad it doesn't actually get rid of the bad ones." There's a look of appreciation as the tray arrives at Una's side, and she ponders another drink. "I do believe if I have another glass, I will not be able to dance anymore, because I will be on my back. While Deacon does like me on my back, he rather insists that I also be conscious when doing the enjoyment of said back-being.

Does Una notice all those things that happen as Rhys returns? Likely not. Certainly, she seems just a little surprised when that waiter shows up, and if she hesitates, just for a moment, it's probably only because she's calculating her drinks and whether this is really a good idea. Evidently it is, because she reaches for one with a grateful smile, and a murmured, "Thank you," because wait staff deserve people being polite, always.

She positively splutters for Ava's comments, hastily turning her attention away and saying, instead, "And now," to Ravn, very firmly, and distinctly more comfortable now that she's got something to do with her hands, "you have two good memories: Ariadne, and Itzhak. I think that means you've won your evening."

"If you did bite someone's butt I think a number of observers might approve, but okay, I admit we'd probably have to step in anyway. Keep the fork," Rhys decides, giving Ravn a nod. The waiter gets a small approving nod on arriving, and he takes a glass as well, though he doesn't actually drink from it. He does, however, laugh at Ava's reasoning for not taking one. "Well, I'm sure we can get you something safer, if you like," he offers, and the waiter nods, pausing to see if the woman has a request. It's both that and the drink -- and probably the arrival -- that gets the 'thanks' from Rhys; the waiter gives both him and Una a smile and, "Of course."

Rhys pauses suddenly, head cocked as if he were hearing a noise -- which, very likely, he actually is. One indication this is the case is that a moment later there's an exhalation that's like the baby cousin of a sigh, and another quick smile, more apologetic. "No rest for the wicked. Have fun, and let Sean know if you need anything. Hopefully I'll be by to bother you again soon. If not? Good to see you, and thanks for coming." He toasts them with the glass, taking a very small sip, and then he's off, sliding through the crowd with quick, purposeful strides.

"Keep her steady in the water, Evans." Ravn nods a goodbye to the Casino manager -- and no doubt references his boat, moored just a few berths down from Ravn's own. The Offshore Account is practically the Vagabond's neighbour.

He chuckles at Ava's comment slash offer and notes, "I think a fair number of people might misunderstand the situation entirely if I were to start biting people. I might find myself surrounded by garlic and sharp objects -- or worse, surrounded by Twi-hards. In either case, I think the whole experience of biting somebody with plastic teeth might be dramatically overrated on both sides, too."

Then he clinks his flute against whatever Una's holding and smiles a little. "Here's to good memories. I have to say, I am enjoying this rather more than I ever did similar balls back home. And I am a little relieved, perhaps, that the local jet set largely confined itself to their private lounges, too."

"I do believe the teeth would break long before my skin would," laments the brunette with a throaty chuckle. "Alas, it's only Hollywood magic and fantasy novels that make it quite so charming, isn't it?" Ava grins, eyes sparkling.

A hand lifts to wave Rhys off as he departs. "It was a pleasure meeting you." With that, she glances towards the others and takes in a deep breath. "I think it's about time that I go and find my darling Knight before I can get into any more trouble tonight. I think he must have run into some friends around here somewhere." She offers a brilliant smile to the pair. "You guys really do look great. Have fun, yeah?" Fingers waggle before she drifts off to find Deacon.

Una's flute is lifted into Ravn's clink, as her free hand waggles after the departing Rhys and Ava, off to their separate concerns. "I've never been to anything like this before," she admits. "I didn't go to prom. So-- I have no bad memories to excise, except, well, no. I have the bad memory of not going and resenting it, I suppose, which means I need to be grateful to Dita for convincing me." Wherever her date got off to. "I'm glad too. It's been more fun, just all of us normal people," of which she includes Ravn, clearly, "living it up for one night only. I will go home content."

"I did not go to prom because prom isn't really a thing in Denmark," Ravn muses. "There are various other high school and university affairs, though, and I could not manage to dodge all of them. This -- is different. I mean, yes, Ariadne is also my girlfriend. But even if she wasn't -- we're kind of going as a group of friends. Dita's found herself some pretty face somewhere, no doubt -- and I have no idea where Ariadne went off to, but that doesn't mean you and I are left to sit in a corner and feel like we're an inconvenience. It's a hell of a lot more fun this way, when it's not some kind of twisted popularity or social influence contest."

Then he smiles. "I could use some air, though. Preferably before those girls over there decide to find out if the brunette dares ask a vampire for a dance. Would you care to step outside for a few so I can have a smoke, and we both can hide from that lot?"

"Yes," is Una's immediate agreement: firm and determined. "We are. And that-- makes all the difference, doesn't it? No status symbols, no queen bees, just... people, enjoying each others' company. By which I mean," she gestures towards the balconies. "Lead on. Let's escape again. Ariadne'll know where to find us when she's ready."

A cigarette on the balcony, and then Una drifted off to find her wrap and Ravn to find another glass of something alcoholic. He's got a surprising tolerance -- but then, he probably drinks a bit more than he really should. Tonight is not the night to decide to go dry -- if anything, he needs to be a little intoxicated to tolerate these crowds at all. (Never mind waltz like the king of the world and dip Itzhak Rosencrantz as if he intended to kiss the man next).

(A number of the ladies watching were probably hoping he would).

(The thought makes Ravn want to brush his teeth).

(He feels a little bad about that).

Now he's prowling back towards a quiet area, perhaps in the chamber music area, where a man may steal yet a not-champagne flute.

Aside from that brief diversion at the blackjack table (a man with a beautiful woman on his arm has to live up some kind of James Bond fantasy, right? It's arguable, but sure), Mikaere's been a diligent date. He knows how to play a room, and though he's here only as a guest, old habits die hard. Still, it's not really his scene, and Jules is... well, even Mikaere (maybe especially Mikaere) has noticed how little filter she has tonight, and though he's likely put it down as sheer exuberance, somewhere a little quieter is, perhaps, in order. "C'mon," he says, drawing her towards that self-same chamber music area. "I need a real drink."

Maybe it's nerves. Maybe too little food and too much bubbly. Maybe it's just the fact that, as she's said at least once (and probably more times by now), Jules has never been to a formal tux-and-gown affair.

Mikaere has undoubtedly heard any number of inappropriate comments from his date tonight. Fortunately(?) it's not a first date, so at least some of those inappropriate remarks at least have context, even if they're ideally not expressed in public. The worst (or best, depending on one's perspective) of it at least came prior to making an appearance, and here we are: Jules brightly smiling up at her date and asking, "What's your poison?"

And there, at least, are familiar faces; the tall Kiwi and Ravn's neighbour. Blissfully unaware of Jules', ah, condition, Ravn moves in to greet them both; three piece suit, burgundy fur stole, domino mask, and silver-tipped walking cane, topped off with plastic fangs. Because he was accused of being a vampire fan boy, and Ariadne took it, ran with it, and dialed it up to eleven. At least the man knows how to walk in a suit and with a cane. Small mercies.

"I don't suppose I might hide behind sane people for a few?" he ventures with a small smile, and tries to pretend that a few people aren't pointing his way and whispering. Itzhak Rosencrantz has many friends, and he's known to be well, rather flamboyantly bisexual, so who's the man in the vampire costume that he got up to dancing so flamboyantly with?

Ravn is going to regret that dance for a while. It's probably healthy.

Where's Ariadne? Good question, but thankfully not hard to answer.

There's Ariadne, having become sucked into the lure of socializing by appearances. Her conversational partner is an older woman behind the mask, her costume theme by color rather than specific trend (orange and blue in a surprising amount of harmony, not too unlike a tropical fish); the dress is an old-world affair even if her own faux-fur stole is dayglo-orange in turn. Black-gloved fingers twiddle at Ravn as well as the recently-arrived Mikaere and returned Jules.

"You danced well!" A compliment to Ravn in a husky voice from the older woman, as if she'd been a chain smoker all of her life and never felt one bit bad about it. Her hair catches the light of the room in its steely hues. She's all crow's feet about the corners of what can be seen of her dark eyes and smile lines about her lipstick-sporting mouth. "That unicorn, he really had you jigging."

"Thank god for phones, right?" Eyebrows waggle in the direction of the trio, insinuating that someone might have been holding 'record'. "Mrs. Radulescu's one of my regulars."

The woman sips at her sparkling wine and asks with a good-natured tartness, "How about a proper introduction, eh, young lady?" It makes Ariadne glance at Ravn again. How much of a Count are we tonight beyond the plastic fangs, sir?

Despite his insistence to the contrary, Mikaere's suit is blue, but it's not 1970s wedding blue, so it's probably forgivable. He's abandoned his mask somewhere along the way (it itched), so he's pretty recognisably himself, especially with Jules on his arm. "Whiskey, I think," he tells Jules. "Do you need something more?" Does she need any? It's so hard to tell.

He turns, though, at the sound of Ravn's approach, and the voice that goes with it; his smile's cheerful enough, not quite relaxed but still in reasonable having-a-good-time mode, though there's a tip of his head for that question, one that rather quickly turns into wide-eyed mirth as Mrs Radulescu's words hit home-- and suddenly help things make a lot of (actually, not at all) sense.

"Oh holy shit, that was you? I didn't really recognise the other guy-- I think I saw him once, but we weren't properly introduced-- and... Jules. That was Ravn, with the unicorn!" It's possible they were a little distracted at the time.

(Hello Ariadne.)

Mercifully, Jules just requests, "Would you mind getting me some sparkling water?" It's not her normal beverage, but bubbles mean fancy, so sparkling water it is. She lifts her own mask to perch atop her head, for one cannot drink easily with a paper beak.

"Oh my god, it was!" The revelation of the unicorn's dancing partner, now with Ravn before him in all his faux-vampire glory, has Jules falling into laughter. "I never would have known you had it in you. This is my vision of what a gay club must be like: bare-chested men swooning over each other."

Ravn looks down at himself. Vest, shirt, blazer, and fur stole -- hardly bare chested. So why is he blushing? He pretends that he isn't and says, "I can't say I have a whole lot of first hand experiences with gay clubs, nor with swooning over bare chested men, but you're probably right."

Watch him slink over to stand next to Ariadne. Everyone look at the beautiful swan princess. Nothing else to see here that matters.

Ariadne manages to hide most of her smile behind the rim of her glass of ginger ale, but not all of it. There's a significant look at Mikaere as if to silently question how he's fielding this new-found lack of filter in his date; her hazel eyes shift to Ravn now. She can tell he's blushing beneath the domino mask even if it might not reach beyond the edges of the mask itself. Mrs. Radulescu just chortles as if she's had a few drinks (spoiler alert: she's enjoyed quite a few flutes of 'bubbly' this evening).

"There's way too much clothing here for this to be a gay club, though I understand if you swing that way now and then, lad. I'd have swung for...how do the Americans say it." She gives Ariadne a squint as if the barista's supposed to know the answer. Ariadne appears torn between being tactful and being helpful, her mouth half-parted in held thought. "Swung for the other team if it was acceptable back then. Still, nothing like a nice chooky bird even if the curtains are dusty." Cue cough into ginger ale. "You still haven't introduced me, young lady!"

"Please meet Mister Ravn Abildgaard." It comes out in a tumble like Ariadne was desperately trying not to laugh.

"And you two? You get to introduce yourselves, she's god-awful at it," Mrs. Radulescu then informs Mikaere and Jules both with an airiness of sparkling wine.

Mikaere's silently widened eyes are probably indication enough: he doesn't know what's up with Jules, except that... except that. On the other hand, Mrs Radulescu is not much better, and she's not intimately connected to him, so... he smiles, offering her one of his hands to shake and says, "I'm Mikaere Hastings, Mrs Radulescu, wasn't it? And this is Jules Black. Such a pleasure to meet you; don't you look stunning. I'm about to go and get her a sparkling water; do you need anything more yourself?"

Look at him, being so charming. Maybe, just maybe, it'll at least distract some attention from Ravn for a moment or two.

"No no no, your friend is the bare-chested one." It's important that these things are clarified. "And you're the one doing the swooning. You've got the whole tall, dark, handsome, and mysterious thing going on, except for whatever dead animal is hanging around your neck, but that's cool, it's like a boa."

Jules is ready to introduce herself, but Mikaere beats her to the punch, so she just offers Mrs. Radulescu a smile. "Pleasure to meet you." She's unfamiliar with the older woman's expression -- and this is probably for the best.

"I do feel terrible about all the little nylons who had to die to create this stole, indeed." Ravn glances at it. It's really quite hideous. Then he tentatively offers Mrs Radulescu a smile and his gloved hand. "I am going to venture -- Romanian? I fear I am only faux-Romanian and only for the night. On regular work days I'm Danish, and also, not a vampire."

Then he glances at Jules. "My friend is Itzhak Rosencrantz. He lives to push my buttons. It's probably why he's a close friend -- or, as he likes calling himself, a bisexual disaster unicorn."

Mikaere will find his hand firmly shook indeed; it seems Mrs. Radulescu can mark a charmer when she sees one. Intrigue flirts in and out of her eyes. Ultimately, the man will be spared nosiness due to the number of glasses of sparkling wine the older woman has had -- the idea of prying is there and gone in her mind. "Lovely to meet you both," and she does seem fairly truthful in her opinion. "You make a darling couple. I'm good for now though, young man, thank you," she says to Mikaere in particular. "Jorge would be more jealous than he is if he saw you getting me anything. Though there's something to be said about a little jealousy in the bedroom. You young people always like to talk like you've invented all of the antics."

Ravn's question prompts a shift of attention in his direction. "Yes, I married into it. My husband is from Brasov."

"She's given me some tips for goulash," Ariadne also shares.

"You'll make a good pot of it one day, young lady," Mrs. Radulescu laughs and the barista wrinkles her nose with a quick smirk. It's clear she would have stuck her tongue out were it not for this being a customer. "But I need to go pry Jorge from the blackjack table or else we won't have money for Sunday brunch. We'll see you afterwards, kicsi." An air-kiss for Ariadne which she returns and then, the older woman swans off. Lots of swanning this evening.

Ariadne blows what must be a sigh of semi-relief and sips at her ginger ale again.

Just look at that charming smile Mikaere aims at Mrs Radulsecu, the one accompanied by the bright nod (not to mention the hand on Jules' arm that is perhaps not actually intended as a 'hush now' but may well serve the purpose, for better or for worse). "And you," he says, so very warmly.

The moment Mrs Radulescu is gone, however, he nudges Jules towards the bar. "We'll be right back," he promises Jules and Ravn, sounding more than a little apologetic. Hopefully they can't get into any trouble just getting a drink, right? They'll be back.

Ravn breathes out as the older woman swans off through a sea of by now quite drunk revellers. His hand travels to rest lightly on Ariadne's arm as he murmurs, "Are you still enjoying yourself? The night has certainly been something else, but I have actually enjoyed it a great deal more than I thought I would. It seems to make quite a difference to go to an affair like this with a handful of people you actually like."

He leans in to whisper something into her ear, and then offers his arm. "Shall we see about finding another drink as well, perhaps something light?"

...disaster unicorn. Della'd been enjoying the other side of the floor during the eminently viewable partnering in question -- Itzhak and Ravn's, not her housemate and Mikaere's -- as part of making the rounds from one area to the next, dancing, dancing. Now she emerges just in time, laughing, kohl-lined eyes bright beneath her mask of intricate coiled wire. Her halter-style gown's a deep red, sleek rather than poufy, dipping to a deep vee in back. She gives way for the departing Mrs. Radulescu, though, and look --

“I need a bisexual disaster unicorn in my life!” Jules cannot be silenced, and she shorts a meaningful look at Ravn before she’s steered towards the bar. “You need to introduce me to your friend, stat.”

Also overheard as she walks off with Mikaere: “I really don’t think anyone should be encouraging my jealousy streak, even if the point is for hot sex.”

"We'll be here," Ariadne promises Mikaere with a quick grin and it's probably not a lie. This particular stationing in the room allows a nice view of the people watching as is. Jules' commentary has the redhead's brows appearing beyond the edge of her own plain white domino mask. Her own costume remains comfortable in the body-warmed atmosphere of the chamber music room, though she's tempted to find a balcony for air at one point or another -- or perhaps simply for the novelty of 'finding a balcony'. It's very tempting to raise her voice and tack on to Jules' comment. No doubt it would be something like, 'mmm gurl GIT IT'.

Though speaking of people-watching: Della is just in time to see Ravn pull back from his date's ear and wow, is that a shade of pink to betraying spread down the back of Ariadne's neck, it's so intense. She can't help the titter of laughter and while she might raise her drink as if to save herself by sipping at it, it's not going to help; realizing this, she simply gives in to the sheepish giggling. Whatever's he said has clearly tickled some fancy. "Ravn!" she breathes in equal parts censure and pleasure both at him. It fails to be a chide in the end.

"Oh, Della!" Look at the barista visibly settle feathers and mostly succeed by her crooked smile. "You look gorgeous! I was wondering if we'd see you."

Jules is not a bisexual disaster unicorn, but she is a disaster right now: watch Mikaere steer her away so determinedly, asking, beneath his breath, "Jules... did you take something before we came tonight?"

Also, "No one's encouraging your jealousy streak. Not intentionally." It's so very soothing; so calm. It may look, for a moment, as if he's in some kind of deep deliberation: mental xanax time? No. That would be rude without permission, and clearly Jules doesn't seem to think she needs it. But... But.

"A sparkling water," he tells the man at the bar, easily, despite any internal conflict. "And a whiskey on the rocks, thank you."

"Good evening, Della." Ravn smiles -- and then reaches up to remove his domino mask because it's really getting quite hot behind it, and also, he's forgotten entirely about the guyliner Ariadne convinced him to wear earlier; no wonder a few people think he might be leaning towards a unicorn ride. "You look gorgeous indeed. Burgundy is a very good colour for you."

He glances at Jules and says, with a small smile, "I'll be happy to introduce you to Rosencrantz but I don't think he's actually looking for complications at the present. Bloody fun bloke to hang around, though."

"Likewise! Pink looks good on you," Della declares for Ariadne, solemnity warring with mischief and, in the end, offering its throat. Her brows' arch angles to include Ravn as well, the more so for the unintended synchronicity; "And thank you." No further questions, not at the moment, though clearly she's attentive over her sip of bubbly: Jules. Rosencrantz. Whispers. All of that.

"What?" Jules looks stricken, first, though it rapidly shifts towards indignation. "No. No. Why would you think that?" She's still clueless just how much she's letting slip past her lips without a second thought. "I mean, I've popped E before once or twice, but not in a long time, and I don't have a problem occasionally smoking pot with friends, but no, why would I? You think I'm on something?" This is not flattering in the least, and Jules draws back like she's offended, crossing her arms over her chest until it's time for her to take her drink from the bartender.

Ariadne chimes helpless giggling again for just a second at Della's observation. Like the curse of all blushes, the color in question cements itself for a minute or two more based on being acknowledged.

"Thank you, you should see when I wear pink as a fabric," she replies to Della with a dimpled grin. Glancing over at Ravn turns into a double-take because, oh, he's removed his mask now. No more mystery if there was ever any in the first place -- but hey, the guyliner is staying! How pleased, the barista's smile to herself into her sip of ginger ale. Kohl was the way to go; it'll even wear down artfully with time.

But that's Jules sounding...less than enthused. Ariadne hazards a look in the direction of the pair with as much subtlety as she can manage. A grimace is for Ravn and Della -- uh oh.

Mikaere... freezes. It's enough that the poor bartender has to clear his throat several times to get the tall man to register the readiness of his drink, which he picks up ultimately on auto-pilot, still watching Jules with a very hesitant, unhappy expression. "Yes," he says, finally, and curse those ethics that mean he's not going to interfere with her mentally right now. "I think something is up."

The poor bartender is going to have to witness this. It's probably not going to be pretty.

Look, he says, finally, but it's his mental voice, not his physical one, maybe because it's so much easier to express himself: it's hard to obfuscate mind-to-mind. It's hopelessly unfair, of course, when the target has no power to talk back... not his problem. Something is up. I don't know what it is, but it's like you say everything you think. It's unusual, and unexpected, and maybe you're just excited but something feels wrong. I'm worried, and if you want to tell me to fuck off and die, well, that's completely up to you. But I'm genuinely worried.

And he is: that much is obvious.

Do you want a distraction, Mikaere Hastings? Because here comes one -- at top speed, heading directly for the group. She's tall, she's hawk-faced, she carries a Gazette press card tucked in under one spaghetti strap of the short dress she is wearing, and she has a kid with a camera in town: Alice Hampton, society reporter extraordinaire.

She's probably watched that dance too. And wondered who they were. The one woman in town who wouldn't recognise Itzhak Rosencrantz on sight, and who can be confused as to who the vampire with the domino mask was -- until he took it off, just now. "Miiiiiiister Abildgaard!" Sharp look at Della and Ariadne. "How is Miss Bennet?"

"Hot pink or soft?" While she's at it, "It's good to see you out and about." The latter words are for Ravn, but Della's laughing-eyed smile brings Ariadne back in, lingering as though imagining -- until she's looking too, out of the corners of her eyes, and takes a half-step closer to the pair. Uh oh, indeed.

Make that, uh oh times two. She smiles at Ms. Hampton, discreetly, no teeth.

There's a good moment where Jules is completely silent. It's the first time tonight. It takes her brain a moment to catch up with the rush of emotions, but when it does, she speaks in the disjointed way of someone who's trying to process when there's simply too much going on to make cohesive sentence. "What the-- you actually think that I'd-- I'm fine-- aren't I? Don't gaslight me, I do not need that again-- oh shit, shut up Jules."

Her eyes, already accentuated by eyeliner and mascara, look very wide. She snatches her glass of sparkling water and almost conversationally tells Mikaere, "I could throw this in your face if I were so inclined-- wait, what the fuck am I saying?" Even Jules has started to pick up on the fact that she's off, now, and it sends her hurtling towards panic. "Shit, shit -- oh fuck off, now is not the time!" This last is directed at the society reporter as Jules storms past, fleeing towards the nearest bathroom.

There's a large portion of Ariadne which wants to step in and inform Mikaere of why she thinks Jules has no filter, but hesitation means it's far too late --

-- this, and the arrival of the society reporter everyone's been dreading for the last few hours. There's no confusion with how close the redhead is standing to Ravn, no way someone with black gloved fingers unconsciously having gripped up the outside of his sleeve doesn't have a more intimate connection to him. Shit. Shit shit shit no spotlight no no no.

Jules, however, in her filter-less state, manages to convey what's bubbling up behind Ariadne's tongue with succinct volume. A wide-eyed look in the woman's direction and then at Mikaere and then at Della and, lastly, at Ravn. It very much conveys HELP before the barista can compose her expression further.

"Who are you again?" This to the reporter whom Ariadne has never seen before in her life and a much more polite variant of please fuck off.

"No--" Mikaere begins, back to using his out loud voice, but it's too late, and Jules is making a run for it. He looks genuinely distressed for it, too, though he's ever so quick to try and compose himself as he spins on his heel and strides right back to the group.

To Della and Ariadne, a mental door knock: hi? And then, Could one of you go after her, please? Reassure her? I'll-- shit, I've walked into something here too, haven't I? I'll try and step in here.

Pushing away his concern, he puts a warm, bright smile onto his face instead. Politics; he can do this. Charm, too. "Hello," he says, coming up alongside Della (sorry Della). "What a beautiful dress. Have we met? I'm Mikaere Hastings, fresh in from En Zed."

Sorry Jules.

The logical thing to do here? Tell Alice Hampton that there is no 'HOPE International', Cassidy Bennet is not Ravn's lover, and fuck off back to the rock you crawled out from under, in pretty much that order. Ravn knows it. What he does is freeze. Like a deer in headlights. He could probably be used as a convincing picture of somebody whose cognitive functions just flicked off like a switch.

Alice Hampton does not notice. She barely notices Ariadne's attempt to intercept and brushes right past her -- because why, hello there, that's one tall, dashing, strong, and foreign looking gentleman right there, and where has he been hiding? Better yet, Mikaere doesn't seem to be accompanied by any of these ladies -- Della's surely his cousin or something -- and do excuse her if she swoops in.

"Alice Hampton, Gray Harbor Gazette," she breathes up at the New Zealander. "My, I'm sure I've seen your likeness before. What brings you to our little piece of Pacific Nowhere?" You can almost hear the mental rolodex -- who is this guy?

Clearly the reason why Della abandons the group with a murmured, "Excuse me," is the prospect of Mikaere-breath coming within three feet of her, and not because her housemate's running off, upset. Had she even heard? As soon as she's past their immediate vicinity, she picks up speed: a sort of dancing, gauging paths, when to pause and when to slip past. Jules. Can't lose sight of Jules.

At least, even if Jules isn't the only dark-haired person in a dark dress, she leaves a wake.

(For Mikaere's sake, one might hope not a literal one.)

Jules does exactly what women do when they're upset and don't want others to see: she hides in the bathroom. She's not so lucky to have the whole restroom to herself. More than one woman throws her a wary look when she plants her hands at the end of the counter facing the mirror and starts talking to herself. It's a mixture of the following, on repeat: "Calm the fuck down, do not cry, your mascara will run, where did I put my mask? Now would be a great time to hide my face. What is wrong with me?"

One of those high society women, exiting with her friend, murmurs behind an upraised fan, "They just let anyone in here, don't they."

Ariadne did catch the Kiwi's request and again, a portion of her struggles to immediately offer help -- but poor Ravn appears to be tongue-tied before the reporter and she can't let him become a sacrificial lamb. Her mouth is open to interrupt yet again, but then, there's Mikaere in action and using his charming super powers for good!

As she brushes past the barista, Alice Hampton is not elbowed in her narrow ribs. Give the barista a cookie.

It'd be a shame if she suddenly spilled her ginger ale in the reporter's direction though.

"If you want to go find some air on the balcony, dearheart, now's the time, go," she whispers into Ravn's ear with her hazel eyes resting firmly (and soberly) on the reporter. Nothing like a hard stare to get a point across should Hampton glance this way. "Della's got Jules as best she can."

Mikaere smiles, all teeth. Such dazzling white teeth. It's a different smile to the one he wears with, say, Jules, or indeed anyone else he knows in the area; that doesn't mean it doesn't have the potential to be effective. " Kia ora, Alice," he says, low voiced and charming without being too bent on flirtation. Just a little. When in doubt, go for the most widely-used phrase in your ancestral language, the one he doesn't even often use himself, likely out of pure stubbornness.

"Oh no, I can't possibly imagine why a woman of the world such as yourself would know anything about me, from a tiny little country so very far away. I had a little boat trouble," he explains, and oh, such a sad story! "And you have such a lovely town here, I thought... I might stay for a time, ay? For the summer."

Go, go he suggests, still smiling at Alice, though he's aiming the thought at Ariadne. I'll distract her a little while.

Somehow, somewhere, Ravn finds at least one functioning brain cell that isn't cowering in a deep and dark recess of his mind. Maybe it's Ariadne's soft whisper. Maybe it's seeing Mikaere running interference, and hence buying him some time and maybe even an escape.

Whatever it is, he's going to take it. He's no use to anyone standing here like an oxygen deprived catfish, frozen in some bad memory. He spins, and walks fast enough towards the balcony that it's almost a run. Please, Alice Hampton, be preoccupied.

Alice Hampton is very, very preoccupied. She's not an unattractive woman -- pale, in her late twenties, with a cascade of brown curls and a heart-shaped face. Those long lashes can flutter -- and presently they do, because while she is realising that she has no idea who Mikaere is, her reporter's gut feel tells her he's somebody. It's the way he carries himself, the way he smiles -- this is the smile of someone who's handled press before.

A challenge. And a good looking one at that -- the very best kind. "I write for the local newspaper," she informs the New Zealander. "You must tell me what you think of our quaint little town so far. Boat trouble, you say? You sailed here? I have a lot of readers who would love to read a piece on that -- one man against nature, standing tall against the storm, it will be marvellous. And you are so photogenic, too." Butter 'em up, always gets them talking about themselves.

The bathroom door opens -- another society woman?

The murmured excuse-me is in Della's voice, though, and when she spots Jules, her relief is palpable. But all she says is, "Hey, J," no names in this public space, not now; she has Jules' back. She stands to Jules' back, a barrier for the eavesdroppers, not that there's not that wide mirror. "Hey, hey." Calm. Nothing unusual's happening here. She has a hand for her friend's shoulder, too, once -- if -- it looks as though it mightn't send Jules into outer space instead.

"Della." The relief is palpable. "Thank God it's you. I don't know what's going on, but Mikaere thinks I'm on drugs." At least one of them is calm. Jules takes a deep breath, looking at Della with wide eyes via the mirror. "It's like I can't shut up. Am I going crazy? Do you think I'm going crazy? What's worse, looking jealous or crazy?" The last is, in fact, a snatch of song that apparently floats across Jules' mind. And that's how she winds up singing Beyoncé in the bathroom.

Good, Ravn makes his escape. As Ariadne sighs to herself before a long sip of her drink, her eyes still linger on Hampton. Mikaere seems to have things under control.

Thing is, she doesn't like this reporter. This reporter made Ravn scamper. This reporter is stopping Mikaere from beginning to figure out what's up with Jules. This reporter didn't even have the politesse to respond to her own question earlier -- who the hell are you. That cements it.

So sorry, wait-staff.

"Mikaere, I'm going to go see about..." Her black glove reaching to patpat the Kiwi's shoulder retracts as her nose wrinkles. A sharp preparatory inhale and the tickle lodged in the back of her skull from earlier's cigarette smoke worn by Joseph is accessed with a vengeance. "KzzSHNT?!"

And those damn nails, just shucks: the glass of ginger ale is fumble-bumbled in Hampton's direction with a sparkling slosh of sticky, sugary carbonation and Ariadne manages to at least cat's-paw its descent so it doesn't shatter on the ground.

Bummer about those shoes too, Hampton.

"Shit! Oh my god, I'm so sorry!" the barista squeaks, pressing her gloved wrist to her mouth with wide eyes -- at her own audacity. Maybe the blush at this too will help be convincing. "Someone's wearing something I'm allergic to, oh, I'm so sorry, let me get you a napkin -- "

Life's hard when you're allergic to bullshit.

Look. Mikaere was going to play this by the book: answer a few questions, smile a few smiles, eventually make his escape with the implication of Secret Business that must be attended to, and-- well, then Ariadne does that, and what's a man in a tuxedo and shiny, shiny shoes supposed to do, but to step hastily back.

He mostly manages to sell his exclamation of concern, though it's perhaps a moment too late. "Oh no, that lovely dress. I'm so sorry, Ms Hampton. Perhaps you'd better go and get cleaned up, and we'll have our little chat another time?"

Watch him perfect the disappearing act in the meantime, though.

Air. Quiet. No one looking his way. Ravn's pulse is pounding in his ears as he finds the railing outside and counts backwards from one hundred just like he regularly reminds his students to do when the flashbacks are trying to take over. Different cause; same issue. No roadside bombs in Afghanistan for him; just the perils of high society.

He does not see Ariadne's stunt. It's a pity because he'd have admired it very much in his capacity of a grifter. Excellent distraction, 10/10, would ruin a reporter's day again.

And ruined it is. Alice screeches -- mostly in surprise. Her camera boy titters. This is the first time the entire evening that's been even remotely interesting as far as he is concerned.

The reporter huffs and -- well, drips as she offers Mikaere the limpest little handshake in the history of mankind. "I will be sure to come see you on the marina," she tells him. Then Ariadne gets the look of death. Not a word. Just, death. You, madam, are dead.

And off she is, trailed by the laughing camera kid who makes sure to get half a dozen excellent shots of raging, soaked boss.

"'Hold up, they don't love you like I love you,'" Della murmurs, only a little teasing in her voice. She doesn't lift her mask, but she leans in, if only so someone else can get at the paper towels. Easy, easy, nothing to see here, move along: it's not something she does consciously, not mentally, just in the way she projects herself with the way she stands, the tone of her voice. "We'll figure it out. Deep breath, that's good." She's right there; she's got her. "And in the meantime, are we talking 'looking jealous or looking crazy,' or 'looking jealous or being crazy'?" That's very matter-of-fact, and familiar: this is how they talk. This is for figuring things out.

"Oh good, you got the reference." Because that's what's important here. Jules' own paper mask is still at the top of her head, and she doesn't dare pull it down lest either tears or splashed water from the sink get it wet. "I think we're mostly talking about the crazy part because the jealous part was just a joke. At least I think it was, though there's always a kernel of truth in jokes, isn't there?"

The glass of sparkling water is sitting right there, nestled into the corner where no one will spill it, and Jules retrieves it now for a long drink. She's looking calmer by the time she lowers the glass, though still quite clearly unhappy. "This wasn't how it was supposed to go, Della, me running off to the bathroom to try not to cry."

"Really, I'm so sorry, look, just let me -- "

There's no more point in attempting to find a cloth napkin when the dripping reporter storms off with her tittering camera boy in tow. Watch Ariadne drop most of the arc and curl herself a pleased, briefly cruel smile. Worth it. "Don't let the door hit you in the ass," she mutters to herself. A flick of her gloves almost cat-like to see about getting the damp of spilled ginger ale off and she sighs as she looks around for a busboy with an empty tray. Waving him down, she explains she needs to borrow his arm towel -- yes, please, she'll clean it up, her mess, if he'll take the empty glass? Thank you, nice-off ended -- and she stoops to see about getting the splotches of soda up. The busboy lingers to take the arm towel as is and Ariadne briefly banters about the joys of customer service -- yes, she works in a coffee shop, stop by sometime.

And now, to find Ravn -- but firstly, in Mikaere's vague direction: Maybe find Della? She's probably found Jules.

Which balcony, which balcony? Ah, the one occupied by the tall and lean figure in faux-fluff. "Hey," softly for the Dane. "If it makes you feel any better, I accidentally sneezed my ginger ale down her front."

"I'll look forward to it," promises Mikaere, his handshake so firm in contrast to Alice's limp one. It doesn't mean he doesn't positively smirk after her departing back, or grin wickedly in Ariadne's direction, his little nod acknowledging a job well done.

The bigger nod confirms her suggestion, though this time he doesn't expend any effort in mental response; that goes towards Della instead, as he meanders his way away from the scene of the crime, so nonchalant except for how internally, he really isn't.

Can I come find you guys? he wants to know. Or should I stay away? I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset her, but... I'm really worried, Della.

There's a soft sigh from one Phoenix Monroe Lane, who tonight is playing the part of, yes, wait staff. Money's tight, it's a one night gig, and it's not like the casino didn't need the extra help.

Long hair is pulled back in a high bun, though a few unruly ringlets keep trying to escape. The cocktail dress they're wearing isn't particularly flattering to their thin, angular body, though the fishnets look nice enough, paired with the kitten heels, but... it was that or an equally unflattering monkey suit.

Monroe kneels next to the mess, knees together primly, and begins scrubbing at the mess with a towel, before some patron steps in it, slips and falls.

And then they're up, towel held carefully away from their body, and finding their way back to the staff area to dispose of the soaked towel and question their life choices.

"Just need a moment to breathe." Ravn focuses hard on the water and the stars. "I have -- issues with crowds. I think I've said. Hampton terrifies me. Not because of who she is, but what kind of mess she can get me in, should she ever decide to spend three minutes Googling my name."

He takes another deep breath. Then he reaches for Ariadne's hand and braids his fingers into it. "All right. I'm good. Let's go find the others. Jules looked like there was something up there too. Damage control time."

Little does he know that he might have to help Mikaere crash the ladies' room to do so.

"Mmm, not always," says Della for the kernel of truth -- again matter-of-factly, again warm, always warm: they've got this. "Sometimes it's just wordplay, or free association, and not necessarily association with anything here -- " she could wander on along this path as much as any bedtime story, and might have done, with her own youngest sister. It fades easily into Jules' sips, into her own sip; a little less easily into a wry, "Of course not. But this always happens at prom. We can watch movies when we get back, or tomorrow, or whenever."

She doesn't blink when the words come; she does wrinkle her nose, as though figuring things out. Her glance at her wrist is a little too staged for semi-public, but the Veil can take care of such things, if it wants. "Just heard from Mik. He says he's sorry." And if Jules seems up for it, "Wants to know if he can visit or if he should back off, he's worried." It's not a direct question; Della adds, so Jules can know, "I can text him to hold his horses."

Jules can't help but roll her eyes. "But I didn't go to prom and you'd think I could hold my shit together better than a seventeen year old. Did I already tell you that story? How I skipped out because I was too busy making out with my dumbass boyfriend? I thought I was soooo cool." She draws out the last two words to heighten the sarcasm.

That train of thought comes to a halt before she can regale Della with further tales of seventeen year old Jules and her questionable decisions, thanks to the text (or what Jules assumes to be a text). "Just tell him to give me a minute," she says with a little shake of her head before she takes another sip of water. She empties the glass, then turns on the tap to refill it. "I'm not mad." Not now, anyway. "You can add that. Just a little freaked out. I don't want to be crazy."

Where in the world has Perdita been during all of this madness? Mingling among the yachters, of course. One can never have enough wealthy people who assume you're one of them and, thus, invite you along on their trips or to come see their yacht or slip you their number while their wives are flirting with the waiter.

Or maybe she, herself, was flirting with a waiter and found a quiet alcove to get to know him for a few moments.

Whatever kept her occupied, she's back now, not a hair out of place, make up perfect, and the ridiculous poof of her skirt undisturbed. She breezes up toward Ravn and Ariadne, smiling. "I just saw that annoying reporter go running from her photographer who I think was snapping photos of her. Why was she drenched?"

Hmm. Spilling ginger ale all over Alice Hampton doesn't seem like the wisest decision in retrospect now. Unless the reporter was so dazzled by Mikaere that she forgets about Ravn's presence entirely... It makes Ariadne sigh to herself even as she listens and braids fingers in turn. At least it's the driest of the two black opera gloves, dastardly nails and all.

"Yep, time to see about damage control," she quietly agrees with the Dane. Thing is, Mikaere's suit might not be from another period of fashion, but it's still blue and he's easy enough to spot when the pair happens to meander off towards the lady's powder room.

But is that -- "Dita!" Ariadne sounds relieved to see the fashionista in her glorious dress. "The...reporter was...my fault, yisssss..." admits the redhead with a shrug and half-smiled wince. "Bitch wouldn't nose out. I was done with her."

Mikaere has at least tracked Della and Jules as far as the door to the ladies room. He won't cross the threshold, mind (not without an invitation), but he can loiter outside of it, back up against the wall, arms crossed, eyes closed. This is not the evening he'd planned either, but there are people all around him, wandering this way and that, still having a ball-- so that's something?

"See, exactly. You hadn't filled your quota yet," Della reasons, a smile tucking up the corners of her mouth: apparently eye-rolling Jules is that much closer to back to normal. And with that, she pulls out her phone -- another nice thing about this level of dress is its cleverly concealed pockets -- and tap tap taps. "Done." As though it's all that easy. She rewards herself with another sip of bubbly easy-to-assume-it's-wine.

"I didn't see," Ravn admits and doesn't look at all sorry to be flanked by Dita as well. Between those two gorgeous ladies in all their glory, he's all but invisible, and it suits him fine.

Setting a course in, accompanied by both, he scans the room for that tall blue suit -- and manages to catch a glimpse of it disappearing out that door over there. "Hastings is going to the ladies room, I think. Maybe we'd better follow. Just in case, you know, he actually needs to go in there."

Eye-rolling Jules is better than panicky Jules or pissed off Jules, so at least there's that. Fewer expletives, for one. She downs that glass of tap water, and apparently that is enough to make her announce, "Okay for reals hold on, now I gotta pee." Whether that's no-filter Jules or normal Jules is anyone's guess.

"Fine, but then it's my turn." And Della still has a glass to guard, though her phone has magically disappeared again. Arrangements have been made. And when Jules is ready to go -- to leave, rather -- they'll leave, welcoming party be damned.

"Excellent work. Next time, have something that stains red. She deserves it." Perdita offers, walking along with Ravn and Ariadne, completely unbothered. "Where, exactly, are we heading? The ladies?" she asks, companionably, not like she's anxious to get anywhere. She's not anxious to get anywhere in that gown, except maybe home so she can strip off the layers of fabric and boning and horsehair braid crinoline and tulle.

Not that any of that is showing on her face.

Dita's sangfroid about the ruination of fine clothing via a far more permanent liquor is enough to make Ariadne laugh despite herself. It's a quiet but honest sound. Her fingers, interlaced with Ravn's in turn, give his hand a gentle squeeze as they make their way towards the hallway and its more private rooms.

"The ladies, yes. Hastings is Mikaere, if you've met him. Kiwi," the barista informs Dita. "He's here with Jules tonight and Jules is having some trouble. Della went first to check on her, but we're damage control if needed." A gesture between herself and Ravn sans his mask now (but with delightful guyliner) designates them as such patrol.

Mikaere's got his phone out, but hasn't answered Della's text: maybe the read receipt is enough (he does leave those turned on). Back against the wall, arms no longer crossed because of the phone, he still looks a little perturbed-- not much like the charming foreigner who was so skilfully dealing with that nosy reporter just minutes ago. He lifts a hand-- the free one-- on catching sight of the approaching trio, Dita given an acknowledging nod as well.

"She wants a minute," he says. "So I'm waiting." And not barrelling in through the door, though it is right there and wouldn't that just make it easier? But no. "I have no idea what's wrong. It wasn't just me, right?"

Ravn glances at Mikaere and admits, "I did not see what went down. I was -- distracted. I have a bit of a social anxiety problem, and a place like this -- is not where I need to be dealing with a society pages reporter who thinks I'm a gold digger trying to leech off Cassidy Bennet's perceived fame. If you tell me you have no idea who that is, I'm going to just shrug and say, see? There's no damn fame to leech from, she's just an assistant district attorney who can't remember what happened to her a week earlier because she doesn't shine, and also, I'm running my mouth out of pure adrenaline shock, give me a moment."

That's a nice chair right there. He's going to sit on it now.

Stepping out of the general vicinity of the swanky bathrooms -- to be more precise, the men's room -- is a big guy in what looks like a bull's mask. Horns, red eyes, the whole shebang. He stops short when he notices the trio headed his way, and Mikaere with his phone out, looking perturbed. "There a problem?" he wants to know, gruff voiced. Bit of an accent in there, Hispanic something something.

Jules is good. Really. She's far calmer when she exits the restroom, now humming the best of the Beyoncé catalogue. It keeps her from blurting out other things. She's taken her raven mask off altogether, letting the ribbons dangle from her fingers.

"Mikaere thinks I'm on drugs," she announces matter-of-factly, returning just in time to hear Ruiz' question. "And I swear I didn't do anything. If I find out who slipped me something, I swear to God, imma shank a bitch, and there will be blood."

Della stays masked -- intricate coiled wire, edged somewhere between art nouveau and cyberpunk -- with her deep red gown. Wryly, "She means it."

"That's probably for the best that we're damage control, because I am not fitting through that door. I had to convince a waiter to let me have access to a hotel room just so I could use the restroom." Dita pauses, "I was on my best behavior. I didn't even steal the tiny fancy soaps."

Mikaere gets a smile and a slight tilt of her head, and then Perdita's lowering herself gracefully into a sitting position next to Ravn... does she have a chair hidden under that dress? She wasn't joking about it. Legs are crossed, and she sighs contentedly, then smiles at Della and Jules as they step out, admiring their outfits... only for it to sour slightly.

"Wait, someone roofied you?"

"I can't believe you didn't take a little soap. Candies and pennies," insists the barista to Dita, unable to help it, even in the face of Mikaere waiting patiently (possibly for his doom) and Ravn needing to find his own chair (which makes her wince despite her domino mask covering most of the expression).

Jules remains sans-filter as she was before she'd retreated to the bathroom. Rather than answer Javier directly, Ariadne gestures at the woman in the black dress with the raven mask she currently doesn't wear -- that's the answer. Someone will be shanked. She gives Della a droll if rueful glance. Della's just beating her to the commentary there. It's impossible to avoid drifting over to stand beside Ravn in his supportive chair. She's there, quiet in white, offering out a gloved hand just in case it needs to be taken while she looks between all present.

Ravn's stream of consciousness is... a lot, and possibly a little concerning for Mikaere, who gives him a look as if to try and reassure himself that, no, that's just anxiety, and not the complete lack of filter that Jules is currently subject to. At least he nods, sympathetic, though his comment is forestalled by Ruiz, and then by Jules and Della in turn. He looks genuinely relieved, giving Jules a glance that is wholly apologetic-- aside for how concerned it is.

"I think something is wrong," he'll allow, though yes, he was the first person to suggest drugs. His is also a foreign accent: something about the vowel sounds.

"I'm positive there are several high end dealers present on the premises," Ravn murmurs and takes Ariadne's hand in his own. "Because there always is. Was Jules alone at some point? Did someone have access to her drink? It's never the dealers who start trouble -- it's the bored boys will be boys and where's your sense of humour crowd, every damn time."

He's attended his number of these affairs, after all. And nothing is a greater threat to common sense than a bored, rich, white boy with mates to impress.

The cop is, admittedly, distracted by the sight of Perdita sitting on.. what the hell is she sitting on? He stares at her for a good six or seven seconds. Then tugs off his mask and rifles his fingers through his curls with a sigh.

"Question," he ventures toward Jules, completely unperturbed by her bluntness. Which, for any who know the Chief of Police, will not be much of a surprise. "Did you eat any, uh. Weird fruit recently?" Hell of a question, that.

"There always are." Perdita mutters back to Ravn, clearly at least a little disapproving. "But they don't randomly roofie people, it's bad for business, no matter what those DARE shows tell you."

"Jules, do you still have your drink?" she asks, head tilting to one side ever so slightly.

"I am, in fact, announcing my criminal intent to an officer of the law," Jules carries on in that same neutral tone. "I'm not supposed to be doing that, am I. I was by myself earlier when I saw you guys," meaning Ariadne and Ravn, who she indicates with a tip of her chin. "I swear, if I find whatever punk-ass slipped me me something, they're going down." She's got water with her, and she holds it out to Perdita. "It's just tap, I filled it up in the bathroom."

Her stream of consciousness cuts off when Ruiz asks his question. For a moment, she looks at him. "I was over at Ava's the other day, and I had a plum. You were there, you ate an apple. Are you telling me she lied about her goddamn Veil fruit?"

Now her anger has a target. This is the point where Jules purposefully distracts herself by returning to her songbook. This scrap of song includes the line bow down bitches.

"Veil... fruit?" Ravn echoes, well aware that no one's likely to fill him in right now.

"... Are you FUCKING KIDDING ME?" That's Mikaere.

Ariadne very quietly swallows and rolls her lips under.

So it was the Veil fruit after all.

She hates being right sometimes -- and maybe holding her peace against unconfirmed evidence wasn't the wisest way to go about things.

There was much searching, but someone is drunk, and as drunk as Ava is, she could not find Deacon. But that's okay, because he'll find her. For right now, she'll just dance and hang out with her friends and try not to drink anymore. Spotting a group of them gathered over yonder. That's her name! But that's her name said with such such anger. It's a shame that she doesn't have a care in the world right now. Not even about her own safety.

"The fruit! It's so good. You guys should try it. It's in the pastries right over there." She points to the table that people have been eating from all night.

"... Ava... did you... fucking roofie people. With VEIL FRUIT?" Perdita's standing up, now, dark eyes blazing behind that pretty blue and pink mask of hers. The pretty french tip manicure is pressing into her hands, and her jaw is tightening, every line of her slim frame tense.

And that's her cue.

"I'm grabbing Jules," the barista hisses to Ravn before she steps over and very firmly links arms with the other woman. "Jules, come with me, I need some air and we need to talk, please."

It's one of those 'pleases' which doesn't offer much wiggle room for denial. Mind you, Ariadne's also quite good at frog-marching people a few inches shorter than her, heels or not. Looks like there's going to be some furious, thunderous (frumious?) swanning off at this point. If smoke or lightning is left in their wake? Hopefully no fire sprinklers go off.

And Della? She can spare one second for an admiring look for Perdita, and then she's singing backup to Jules. Literally. She waves at everyone even as she invites herself along: onward.

“I am going to fucking murder her — do you hear that Ava? I am talking about you and I mean it!” That’s Jules as she’s carted off, breaking off from song to yell across the ballroom. Exeunt.

"You're probably not supposed to do that, no," de la Vega replies with a little shake of his head and a sardonic twist of his mouth. Could be a smile if he tried harder. But the man's not so much amused, as wary. Lied? He shrugs a shoulder. "Didn't say that, nope. Just asked a question." Like cops do.

But then Ariadne's pulling Jules away, and he steps aside to let her go, dark eyes traveling to Ava as the other woman shows up out of the blue.

Mikaere's all set to join the group escorting Jules away, right where he should be, but-- but.

"Wait, wait, wait, PASTRIES?" There may need to be more yelling, and apparently, for the moment, yelling outweighs doing something about the pastries that should not be there. The look Ava gets? It's pure disdain, pure distilled fury. That's she's clearly under the influence is not even remotely important right now.

"You brought fucking Veil fruit pastries to a public event and handed them out? You... I... What the actual fuck?"

"... On it." And that's Ravn up and taking off at a run. Rhys Evans kindly pointed him to Sean, security officer, earlier. Sean is about to be told that somebody may have fucked with the canapés, and it might be a very good idea to swap the buffets for fresh ones before somebody ends up suing the Casino for some drug crazed shenanigan or other.

Ava laughs. "Don't be ridiculous. I put those fruit through so many tests. I've eaten every single one of them myself before I let anyone else eat even one. There are no side effects." If eating one is bad, eating all of them can't be great. "Vyv even checked them out with his own gifts first. You think he'd make them into pastries for the whole town if they were dangerous? He thought they were delicious, too."

Her expression is strangely unbothered by Jules' yelling. "She's so pretty when she gets all fierce." She should be worried, but it's just not -there- for some reason. None of her normal concern is and anyone who knows her should realize it. Her eyes drift to Mik, that lazy smile still in place. "Have you tried them? They're so yummy."

"You... idiot." There's a little surge of power as Perdita presses her nails into her hands. "You fed people Veil Fruit without their consent." oh, look, the pastries are floating. And all the food items, the flowers, all the little items that aren't nailed to the tables or floors, all told about three hundred and twenty pounds of food stuff just hovering in midair.

Dita is pissed. Dita is pissed. And she very, very clearly wants to turn that rage on Ava, but... all of the food goes sailing into the closest trashcans, slamming into the bags so forcefully that several of the cans, in turn, get knocked over and left spinning.

"You're finding a new place for your office. I will not have someone who works with those THINGS in my home."

Well, this is sure turning into a Situation. And for all Perdita's anger is warranted, there's still the very real issue of Ava's own altered state to deal with. Javier sighs heavily, and shoulders his way past the others, mask still dangling in one hand, making a beeline for the veil fruit-obsessed coroner.

"Come on," he murmurs, reaching for Ava's arm. "Do you know where your boyfriend went? Need me to give him a call to come pick you up?" That's less a question than a statement, truth be told. This is what he'll be doing, if Deacon isn't still on the premises.

Perdita's display of power? That's pretty impressive. So's her tightly-wound anger. Mikaere lifts his chin in answer to her; an acknowledgement of sorts.

His glance towards Ava, though? Positively withering. This time, he doesn't even accord her so much as a reply; just a dismissive look before he turns away and stalks off.

Mikaere, out.

Ravn returns a moment or two later, having alerted Sean the security officer -- just in time to see pastries fly through the air in what the Gazette is no doubt going to label another unlikely gas leak explosion, or maybe some very fancy and attention grabbing food display -- some kind of performance art -- yes, that's probably going to be it, performance art.

He couldn't care less. This certainly explains a few things. The couple fucking on the balcony. Alice Hampton, all but starting to undress Mikaere on the spot. Bloody hell.

The Dane nods at the Chief -- damage control. Then he looks at Perdita. "I think we'd better head out as well. What you just did was impressive, but it's bound to draw attention you don't want. How about you walk me home or I walk you home, and neither of us are here when the entire press corps turns up in a bit?"

"You're all so stressed out. This is a ball, enjoy yourselves." Ava's eyes watch in fascination as the pastries all lift into the air and then slam into the trashcans. It should make her mad, but instead, Ava just squeals and claps her hands in delight. "I don't think I've ever seen you use your powers before. That was amazing!" Bright eyes flicker back to Dita in awe. "You're amazing."

Then Javier is taking her arm, distracting her. "Hi Javi! You owe me a dance or two, you know." Her head tilts. "I was just looking for him, but I didn't even think about calling him. That would have been smart, huh?"

Perdita allows herself to be drawn off by Ravn, though those long nails of hers are still digging furrows into her palms. The pain, it seems, is keeping her from doing something even more regrettable than letting herself go Carrie at prom for a second. She's steered away from Ava, muttering under her breath in Kalderash.

"That... sounds like a very good idea. I'm going to text Una and let her know I had to leave, but that the limo is hers to use for the night as she sees fit... and to avoid eating any of the goddamn food, because who knows what else that stupid-.... person... has tainted with Veil Fruit. And then tomorrow we're going to burn down Vyv's pastry shop for going along with this."

"Later," Javier assures, as far as dancing's concerned. He keeps hold of Ava's arm, and steers her toward the elevators while digging his phone out. He, of course, has Deacon's work number, which will have to do for now.

"Calm the fuck down," he tells Perdita, not unkindly, but certainly a hair away from using his cop voice. "She's clearly not herself. Who the fuck knows whether she was drugged when she came up with this scheme in the first place, yeah? We'll get this situation sorted, but you lay a finger on that little ponce's shop, and I'm bringing you in." He knows she's not going to do it, but he says it anyway. Because he's been dealing with people all night, and social events make him snarly.

"No one's burning anything. C'mon, girl, we're getting you home as well." That's Ravn attempting to steer Perdita away as well -- because this whole mess can only get messier if these women aren't separated just about right now.

He'll be texting Ariadne later that he's staying the night at Dita's and making sure she's all right. It's going to be a long night, listening to an angry woman but -- that's what friends are for, isn't it?

"No dancing? Boooo." Situational awareness? What's that? Ava is easily led by the arm as Javier drags her around, giving him puppy-dog eyes for the moment. "Wait, do you think I was drugged?" She laughs at the thought of that. Because that can't possibly be. "I haven't had any drugs since college! Oh, except for that one time recen-- since college." That's followed with a giggle, carefree.

"You're so cute when you get all bitey. You know that?" A thumb reaches up to brush his cheek. "You're still going to owe me dances. Just so we're clear."

"Mintha amúgy is rajtam tudná tartani a mandzsettákat." Perdita mutters to Ravn, not that he understands, tossing her hair over her shoulder as she walks... which just so conveniently turns into a middle finger directed backward at de la Vega, as well. Damn, her her manicure is on point tonight. Still, she allows herself to be steered, because it's either that, or she's going to find out if she can lift people telekinetically by their hair, tonight. Which sounds uncomfortable, at best.

She's not even going to show off how she can fly, because she doesn't want to leave Ravn alone to deal with the aftermath, right now.

"Tu y que ejercito querida?" retorts the Mexican to that middle finger aimed his way. Chuckling, he pushes Ava into the next elevator over with a murmur of, "Behave yourself," as they disappear inside.

It's not too much longer after things have calmed down before Monroe steps back out from the staff kitchens with a tray of fresh hors d'œuvre in their hands... only to see most of the trash cans knocked over, guests looking confused, and flowers all over the place.

"Oh, what the fuck." It sounds vaguely wrong to curse in such a posh accent, but Monroe has about had it, officially. The food is set on a table, and Monroe shoves open the door to the kitchens. "We're gonna need a lot more hors d'œuvre! Some bloody daft children threw them all in the bins and I'm not fishing them out and serving them to guests now. Becky, get your arse out here and help me right the bins and empty them."

And so it is that Monroe and Becky, a fifty something woman in a dapper tuxedo, set about righting all the bins and arranging the flowers again.

"I hate this damn town." Becky mutters.