2022-06-02 - Intercontinental Carousel?!

I THINK IT IS FINALLY WEARING OFF THIS IS A CAUSE FOR CELEBRATION

The text is accompanied by gifs of praise hands. Then:

I feel like doing something stupidly silly for said celebration. Like riding the carousel in the park for the hell of it. Want to come?

I've actually been meaning to check this place out, so twist my arm about the carousel.

Ariadne sends a gif of a cat throwing confetti along with this.

But yes, let's celebrate! What time?

3? Are you free? Totally flexible based on your work schedule.

And when the time comes, that’s where Jules will be, eyeballing the carousel and the happy squealing children as they bob up and down on the horses. She must be in the partying mood, because she’s broken out her little black dress for the occasion, paired with leather sandals.

3pm it is, see you then!

And Ariadne, in theme for the occasion, shows up in a floral sundress. Sporting an A-line cut and chaste scoop of neck, the fun comes at the length -- not too short, but just short enough to flash knees. She's in hiking sandals as it were and with her hair pulled up into a lazy if pretty twist-clip, she lifts her hand towards Jules once she spots her.

"Jules! Hey-hey. That dress looks both familiar and good on you. Feeling better?" she asks once she's in better, more private conversational range, her smile a mild one.

Jules turns at the sound of her name, looking up from her phone. Dress has no pockets, so she drops it into the tote bag she's carrying. "Oh my God, yes, hallelujah!" Her beam is bright as can be. "I think I've got it under control. Look, la la la, I'm thinking about sex right now, but I'm not telling you all the explicit details." Her voice is pitched so it won't carry to the children on the carousel, but a parent standing nearby does turn and give her a look. Jules doesn't seem to notice.

Ariadne notices the look given to Jules by the parent. Her eyes flick back to her friend and remain slightly wide under her lifted brows.

She can't help it: a cough escapes her which can be nothing other than an attempt to not laugh. "I think maybe you're almost there? At least you're getting the good stuff if that's what's on your mind," she adds more sotto-voce and with a more wicked little grin, there and gone. More nonchalantly: "Either way, this is the carousel. Huh." The barista takes a moment to watch the flashing of the various mounts bisected by poles and the rampant giggling of children. "It's great, it has this...timeless feel to it," she decides.

“I can neither confirm nor deny,” Jules declares, though the way she’s grinning, cat-in-the-cream self-satisfied, certainly gives some indication.

She slings her arm through Ariadne’s, comfortably familiar, as she turns to look at the spinning ride. “Right? I’ve been running through here, but I haven’t actually poked around. And there’s a fancy theater over there, too.” Her other hand lifts to point at the brick facade of the Daydream Theatre, grand in its late 19th century way. So I was thinking, carousel, then maybe go see what’s playing over there? They’ve got to be putting stuff on for summer.”

Equally comfortable with the gesture, Ariadne bends her arm to lock elbows gently and even goes so far as to patpat Jules' arm in a friendly manner. Her hazel eyes flick to the other woman and she grins.

"I'm down with this idea. Popcorn's on me if you'll get drinks? Maybe there will be some movie themed with the place. It looks dignified somehow. I can see people in fancier get-up, like maybe the 1920s, waltzing in there to watch a reel," she shares with Jules. "But carousel first. Dibsies on the palomino." This dibsies sounds as a singsong as she begins to lead the way across the short distance to the carousel. Its rotations are beginning to slow and signal the end of this particular ride-round.

“I want the black stallion!” says Jules, before she immediately starts giggling. She detaches her arm when the carousel comes to a stop and even waits patiently for the children to disembark, because she is not, all appearances to the contrary, seven years old.

“I’m liking this theater idea. Or maybe they’ll have a murder mystery night and we can all shriek and pretend to be terrified of our doooooom.” Her fingers wiggle dramatically.

"Oh man, I bet it'd be some film noir murder mystery with Clark Gable in it or something if they did that," laughs Ariadne as the children filter back to their parents or are escorted from the ride by parents in turn. Once their preferred mounts are up for grabs? The barista gestures. "To our stallions!"

Like she has any volume filter for that one. Someone liked ponies when they were young too. The palomino carousel horse in question lifts a front hoof proudly and sports a wreath of pink roses with green leaves about its lower neck; the reins are painted in a ribbon of red. Careful not to flash anyone, the redhead gets up onto the saddle and side-sits upon it in order to better see Jules.

"Do you think these things have a fifth gear?" she jokes, grinning.

“Our noble steeds!” Jules joins in, and off they go. The black horse she’s picked is just behind Ariadne’s chosen mount, on the inner ring. He’s snorting, nostrils flared, with pale blue ribbons festooned in his mane. Jules clambers onboard with a little squeak of excitement.

“Maybe if we put our minds to it and make a wish, magic-style, it’ll come true!”

The carousel begins to creak into motion shortly after Jules is settled. Ariadne's horse first begins to drop. She laughs and holds onto the pole with one hand.

"Yeah? What wish are you thinking? You first," the redhead suggests over the sudden upswing of music piping in through speakers hidden in the ceiling of the broad roof. Mirrors begin to flash and reflect motion. The bulbs glow in their ordered rows. A kid lets go of her parent's hand to start running along the outer fencing opposite one of the other horses, a chestnut with a lighter mane and a scarf about its neck in pastel hues.

Meanwhile, Jules’ horse rises in opposition. “Oh, I just meant— go faster! Fifth gear! Gallop away!” She pats her mount’s neck as if encouraging him. “But if we’re being creative, oh, I don’t know— break free of your chains, you magnificent creature! No one can contain you! Certainly not this pole!” She laughs at herself, then turns it back to Ariadne. “Your turn.”

"Well, hey, I'm behind that idea." Ariadne pats palomino's painted mane with her free hand. The carousel begins to go faster now, picking up speed. "My turn, my turn, what would I wish..."

She thinks and then shrugs a shoulder. With a laugh, "Yeah, for these things to be real and to take a ride because it'd be exciting. Who knows where they'd go, right? As long as it's nowhere portentous and full of skulls, I'm down with it. Mary Poppins, eat your heart out."

And maybe the Veil heard this.

The carousel spins faster and faster still. The park around them blurs into streaks of green and brown, and the twinkling lights of the ride pop bright as flashbulbs.

It isn’t supposed to go this fast.

Children are still shrieking, merry instead of fearful, but the sound converges into the wail of wind through a tunnel. It is a tunnel, growing darker by the minute as those lights burst one by one. Suddenly, before them is the yawning maw of a clown, garish mouth open wide to swallow them whole.

There’s no stopping this ride. The horses tumble them through, and then they’re falling onto a stone floor. The horses have vanished as if they’ve thrown them; everything’s vanished, except the stone arch of the open door behind them. The park is still visible, but it’s hazy from this side as if obscured by thick fog.

Everything else is dark.

Fast is fun and at first, Ariadne laughs. Then the speed increases into something ludicrous (and thankfully not plaid). It requires holding onto the carousel pole with both hands. Her vision doesn't blur, but everything else around the ride down.

"Jules!!!" A yelp of the woman's name.

Stone bangs up her knees and elbows and more yelps leave her until Ariadne comes to a halted sprawl. A pained grunt as she looks up and around this new space. "Jules?" she breathes in the weirdly-still silence around them.

“No no no no no no—“

Jules has landed hard, but that’s not what makes her curl up hugging her knees. She’s breathing fast and shallow; the fast excitement has given way to panic. “This can’t happen Ari, we can’t get Lost, I can’t get us back, Ravn’s not here, this is bad bad bad.”

It’s the kind of babbled stream of consciousness that she was just celebrating having been able to control.

There's Jules. Wincing at what's sure to be a nasty bruise forming on her knee at some point or another, Ariadne gets up and limp-walks over to the woman curled into a ball.

"Jules -- Jules, hon, slow down, I don't -- " Laying a hand on the woman's shoulder, she looks around the space again. How dark it is other than the muted glow of the open doorway. "Jules, there's a door right here. A Door. We're not Lost, we're okay," the barista insists as calmly as she can manage. Her own breathing is still elevated. "Jules, I can try and help you calm down, but you're gonna need to help me too, okay? I don't know what's going on."

And it scares the hell out of the marine biologist to admit this.

Because if Ravn's not here to get them out of this? To get them back? The chance of getting Lost is very, very real.

The hand on her shoulder helps. Jules manages to sit up and struggles to take deep breaths. Seeing the door just there helps, too. They can still hear the carousel, even, muted though it is.

“I don’t have my possession stick with me.” Jules’ eyes are very wide as she insistently communicates this last piece of information, looking up in the dark. “Where’s my phone. Do I have my bag? Sweet Jesus thank you, I still have my bag. Phone. Light. Here we go.” She pulls out the device she’s looking for and turns on its flashlight. This, too, helps.

"Shit, I didn't think about the phone at all. You look around, I'll try calling somebody."

It's an excellent plan from Ariadne who remains kneeling beside Jules. Thing is, when her phone comes out? Zero bars. Not even the peep of a signal. No Wifi, no 5G, no nothing. Nada. Zip. Zilch. Thinning her lips down at the screen, the barista carefully swallows. "There's no signal," she reports even as she looks up and around again. Maybe she's in time to see the sweep of Jules' phone-light acting as temporary flashlight and what it reveals.

And maybe she thinks about crawling into Jules' lap, propriety be damned.

"...fuck," she breathes, eyes wide.

“Now that I need my goddamn possession stick, of course I don’t have it,”Jules mutters meanwhile. She waits, but not quietly; her mind is busy churning, relapsing.

“Something like this happened the other day at home. The library door opened, but it wasn’t the ghost, there was a little girl, and she came through and talked to us. Can Veil creatures even do that, Ari? Cross over? Because she did, and we think she was Una’s ancestor, her five year old ancestor. What?”

Now she too looks up to gaze at their surroundings, sweeping the weak beam of her phone flashlight in an arc around them. “Oh shit.”

Trying to be quick and efficient so I’m not up until midnight!

Never mind Jules' lap. Ariadne ends up finding an arm and gripping to it to pull herself hip to hip with the other woman.

Skulls. So many skulls. Rows upon rows of empty eye sockets in very organized layers taller than both of them, from floor to ceiling. Carefully, the barista swallows. A deep inhale of the air tells her this place is still but not too still; it has a musty undertone that isn't so undisturbed that there's not a way out somewhere.

The Door.

"Jules...can we go back through the Door? Like the little girl you talked about?" asks the redhead very, very quietly into the stillness of the place they're in. "This is...fuck, it's some...some catacomb?"

"Whoa." Jules stares as the phone's light illuminates the skulls. It makes the pits of their eye sockets seem even blacker. "Where the hell are we?" she murmurs to Ariadne, still as she processes these surroundings. "A catacomb? Like a massive tomb?"

She takes a deep breath, willing herself to keep hold of that tenuous grasp of self-control. "Yeah, the little girl just skipped back on through, and the Door shut behind her. She was going to go get me a book. So as long as it stays open..." Jules trails off there, glancing back in the direction of the misted-over gateway into Addington Park. That's the question. How long do they have.

"...I don't even see why we have to figure out why the fuck we were dumped here in the first place." Bluntly, the barista opines this even while her eyes keep scanning what she can see of the layout. Darkness looms beyond the fringe of phone-light. None of the skulls seem alive...or feel alive, which she calculates is far more important to moral at this point.

"Let's just go home, Jules." Uncurling herself from against the other woman, Ariadne rises shakily to her feet and starts to walk towards the Door.

And it seems to pull farther away from her. She stops, losing a shade of color to her face. "...oh you fuckers, you CAN'T DO THIS!" It's almost leonine, her frustrated shout at the innocuous Door tantalizing with hazy and safe imagery.

Jules readily agrees with this opinion and shares the sentiment with a fervid, "Hell yes, let's get out of here." She clambers to her feet as well, right at Ariadne's heels and headed for the Door.

Doors are not supposed to recede. Doors are supposed to stay put.

"What the ever-living FUCK!" Jules yells right after Ariadne, voice rising with a shriek. "Don't be a fucking TEASE!" This does not help, well, anything.

She stalks forward a couple more paces, expression murderous. The Door does not oblige. "Jesus fucking Christ. What the hell. Okay, so." Jules spins and marches back towards Ariadne, still looking like she'd like to strangle something. "That's not going to work. So what do we do? Are we supposed to do something here? Things happen for a reason, right? There has to be a reason. Beyond just someone wanting to fuck with us. There must be something we have to do in order to get out and go home."

The Door sits there like a pile of donuts at a children's party, just out of reach, so tantalizing, sugary in its sweet lure of normality.

And flips the bird at the two women.

Ariadne barely averts shrieking again out of pure frustration -- barely avoids pulling a skull from the wall, ancestor respect be damned, and hucking it at the portal.

"If this is a Dream wherein I have to do something like dip-kiss you, Jules, look, I'll do it to get back, but I have no breath mints in my purse either, so you'd get coffee breath. FUCK YOU, VEIL BASTARDS!" Another shout at the Door just out of reach.

"I'll forgive you if it gets us home." Jules has exhausted her yelling, at least for the time being (because really, this is Jules we're talking about). She currently has nothing of value to add. The woman in the black dress just turns and stares at the Door, stewing.

"I want coffee." Where did that come from?

"I want coffee too."

A valid complaint all around. The skulls don't seem to care; no comment from the body-less peanut gallery surrounding them. Ariadne blows another hard sigh and grips up her hair with both hands as she turns to look back at the corridor stretching away into darkness. Ow. She must have scuff her palm on landing. Frowning down at it, she shakes out her hand as she mutters, "Fuck it. Jules, let's...let's just look around. We need to Hansel and Gretel back to this Door though. Any ideas?"

She eyes the skulls. "...I'd say lay down a trail of skulls, but there's just enough common sense in me to be leery about touching them."

"That was my first idea," Jules admits. "A skull trail. But you're probably right. Last thing we need is to disturb a burial site and have angry ghosts pursue us, even if we promise to put them back."

The light drops away from their surroundings as she begins to rummage through her tote bag again. "I've got a charcoal pencil in here; I brought my sketchbook. I've started carrying it around with me lately. I told you I'm taking an art class, right? Starting next week. Anyway, here we go." She locates the pencil (capped, so it doesn't mark up the interior of the canvas bag) and shines the light around the catacombs once more. "We can mark the walls or the floor? Thank God it's not the kind of pencil that can break, that it's wrapped so you can just peel away more paper when you need more charcoal."

It must be a remnant of the hindbrain, how Ariadne feels cold squiggle through her guts as the phone light briefly darkens. It leaves the dim glow of the hazy Door alone and she finds herself watching the many empty eye sockets...just in case. Frickin' eye sockets.

"God, Jules, you're a smart motherfucker," the barista breathes in relief. She nods at the revelation of the charcoal pencil. "Yes, mark the walls with an X or something as we go. X definitely marks the spot. If we're supposed to find our way out of here..." The Door gets another glower. "Maybe that stupid thing will show up again at the exit to the catacombs or something. We should get moving though. I have no idea how time is working right now and I don't want to be stuck here a week or something insane like that."

The very idea has Jules turning towards Ariadne with big, wide eyes and blurting out, "Oh my God, no." A week stuck among skulls? No thank you. She steps to the right-hand wall and draws a big X on the stone in between two rows of skulls.

"I'm damn lucky, that's what I am," she declares. "Okay. We better move. We don't want it to close on us while we do whatever it is that we're here to do. Which way?" The tunnel before them branches, and Jules is paralyzed by decision making.

Somehow, the sight of the charcoal X on the wall of the catacomb -- not on the skulls, this is important -- makes Ariadne's stomach settle. It's a plan, if an uncertain one, but knowing there's at least these things to follow back settles her stomach enough for her to better focus.

It makes her the decision maker about the branching tunnel: "To the left," she says after a moment of stalling to find her own phone for its flashlight app and a deep inhale. "The air smells fresher over here."

A beat. "Thank you, Fellowship, for making me think about that. Otherwise, I'd be struggling here. Weird how helpful movies are sometimes," she comments to Jules with a glance over at her.

Left it is. "Funny the things we remember," Jules remarks, and with that, she ventures forward. Another X immediately joins the first, this time on the branch that they've picked.

More skulls, grinning back at them and watching their progress with their missing eyes. The air is fresher, however, and it isn't far until they encounter a short flight of stairs leading upwards. "Yesssssssss!" Jules hisses her s' happily, marking the wall again for good measure. "You are a good sleuth to have along for weird Veil shit like this. Oh, look." When she glances at Ariadne, turning her head, something catches the corner of her eye enough to make her pause.

The Door is following them.

Look, Jules says. Ariadne turns in place with her phone remaining uplifted in the direction ahead of them.

"...oh, fuck you," she mutters at the Door following at its placid, ridiculously impossible closeness. "This is just a dick move. Fine, we continue on even if this thing is still on our heels. There's something we have to do here and I don't know what it is yet. I'm not Sherlock, but I've watched enough movies to count for something?" she laughs faintly as she glances over at Jules again.

"Wait." Going dead-still, the barista tilts her head, eyes slid to one side. "Do you hear that?"

"Fuck you and yo' momma too," Jules chimes in. "Though could be worse. At least it doesn't seem like it's going to leave us. I'm still marking the walls." She rolls her eyes, then begins to walk forward again.

Only one step is taken before she too halts, turning towards Ariadne inquiringly. "No? What is it?" It probably doesn't help either of them identify it when Jules is speaking. She presses her lips together tightly -- no verbal vomiting right now, please and thank you -- and stays still to listen.

Holding up her spare hand in an almost saint-like manner before herself, Ariadne silently bares her teeth as she looks back down the way they came from. The Door blocks most of the view, but not the sound itself.

It floats and echoes weirdly because what else does sound do in catacombs? -- someone singing...? No, crying. No, trying to sing while crying, as if to console themselves.

The difficult part is there's another set of dark-maw tunnels stretching to the left and right here as well, making it a place of four corners and a veritable crossroads in the catacombs. Ariadne stares wide-eyed at Jules. "Do you hear that?!" she hisses again even as she makes to step closer to the other woman.

Now Jules hears it. She indicates it with a nod, eyes widening. She's still holding herself silent, her own head tilting just a little as she tries to locate the direction of the sound. It's hard to pinpoint, but after several long seconds, Jules lifts her hand to point right.

"I'm not sure," she says, finally letting herself speak, but keeping her voice low, "but I think it's coming from this direction. Come on, let's go see who it is."

"...I'm pretty sure all horror movies start with us going and seeing who this is, but okay!" Ariadne tries to sound cavalier and mostly succeeds; her words are still breathy with adrenaline. She sticks beside Jules rather than behind the woman, unable to countenance anything suddenly getting Jules first. Let them tackle this as friends, not as poor sacrificial lamb and screaming survivor.

To the right then. Ariadne's phone light continues to shine and illuminate about fifteen feet ahead. Skulls line the walls in uninterrupted rows as they have all along.

The sound gets louder and louder and abruptly stops. It makes Ariadne stop too and grab at Jules to keep her from traveling further. "What the fuck...?" she breathes in the silence to follow.

“We’re not in a horror movie,” Jules says firmly. She throws a look behind them at the trailing Door. “Hear that?” she tells it, raising her voice a touch. “We’re intrepid explorers, and this is very Indiana Jones-esque, and he always comes out without a scratch on him. Which means it’s probably a damsel in distress. Or maybe someone who just needs a friend. Yeah. Let’s go with that.”

They don’t need any dastardly villains, kthx.

She stops when Ariadne does, held back by the hand on her arm. “Maybe they heard me. Hello?” She lifts her voice to call out. It echoes.

To herself, Ariadne decides how silence which unspools like a ball of yarn down and down a long hallway, seemingly never ending? This kind of silence is not cool. AT ALL. She doesn't let Jules go further, but not by gripping hard, simply by leaving her hand resting on the woman's forearm.

On the silence continues. The Door behind them hazes its glow softer than the reach of phone-light farther yet.

Then, very softly, it comes back from the darkness beyond the reach of the phone-light. "...hello?" Is it an echo?

Ariadne turns her face to stare at Jules with owlishly wide eyes. The FUCK?! she mouths, looking back at the darkness ahead of them and wanting very, very badly to beat feet -- but she can't ditch Jules, she just can't. Lingering against the screech of her lizard-brain is the course taken.

Jules isn't inclined to stride off into the dark by herself. Instead, as she waits, she crouches down to scratch out a little message with her charcoal pencil: Jules wuz here. It's inane, immature, and exactly the kind of silliness that keeps her sane when her world's been upended.

She stands quickly when the voice returns to them, attention laser-focused once more. "We should find out what's going on," Jules softly tells the woman she's with, reaching for her hand with every intent of giving it a quick, reassuring squeeze. She sees the flight instinct in Ariadne's face, and now Jules is the one to try to pull her friend out of it. "It's fine. We're going to be fine. We just have to figure this out, like a puzzle, and then the Door will let us go back. Okay? You with me?"

Who knows how long the charcoal might linger in the still cool of the catacombs? Time might prove its discovery by another intrepid explorer entirely. Who was this Jules? What does her calligraphy tell the one wondering? Why use 'u' and 'z' when the grammar of the time was 'a' and 's'? Mysteries abounding. Some future archaeologist is thrilled.

Jerkily, Ariadne nods. How she's still fighting adrenaline is unapologetically writ in every line of her body; she seems uninclined to release Jules' hand now that her own is given a squeeze. "Right," she says airlessly. "A puzzle. It's a puzzle. Gotta solve the puzzle." The darkness beyond phone-light still makes her skin crawl. "We can do this. We got this. I'm with you." Forcing her gaze back to Jules, she nods yet again.

And yet again from the darkness, small and quiet and like an echo: "...hello?"

Jules keeps hold of Ariadne's hand, holding on tight. It undoubtedly makes her feel better too, having that human contact in the creepy catacombs. "Hello!" she calls back brightly, forcing her voice to sound cheery amidst this gloom and uncertainty. "Stay right there, we'll come to you."

One step forward, then another. "We got this," Jules affirms once more, sounding far more confident than she likely feels.

"...we got this?" The small and quiet voice sounds a bit closer now even as they too walk further down this particular hallway. Skulls continue grinning their empty smiles along both sides.

Ariadne can't help but frown at this. "Jules, are we being duped by an echo?" she whispers to the other woman as she follows alongside. Her palm is admittedly a little sweaty, but she's not about to let go of the other woman's hand either.

"NO, YOU ARE NOT!" Whoa, the voice is suddenly right there and Ariadne can't help clearing the ground with a frightened 'EEEEP!' Given she's holding into Jules, she doesn't scatter like a startled flock of quails. Half-hiding behind Jules seems appropriate, however.

And that skull there, off to one side, seems to be glowing internally as if someone had trapped a large firefly within it.

A shriek makes its way up and out of Jules' throat too. It's the surprise that startles it out of her, but this quickly gives way to fascination.

"Holy shit. What are you?"

"What are you?!"

The skull tucked into the wall, appearing to be filled with fireflies, fires this back at Jules with affront. Ariadne can't help but lean in a little as well. If Jules isn't running away screaming, it must be fine, right?

"You're kind of a little asshole," the barista notes in an undertone, pulling her lips to one side in a hesitant smirk.

"You're kind of a little asshole," the skull retorts. Ariadne glances over at Jules. This thing is full of echoes...? Or something.

Jules steps closer and reaches out as if she’s going to pick the skill up, hesitating at the last second. “I probably shouldn’t touch, should I. It might be disrespectful.” So she bends to eye level to examine the skull up close, where it sits in its very own catacomb cubby.

She’s waiting, too, an expectant look on her face.

Interestingly enough, the lights mulling about inside the empty skull seem to coalesce as two bright points inside the sockets. They also seem to focus on Jules now kneeling down before it.

"...what?" the skull asks petulantly of the woman. "I was singing, what do you want?" Ah-hah: so it's not only echoes.

Ariadne remains standing behind Jules with her arms crossed; it means the phone-light's beam is off to one side now. The skull's interior glow is all the brighter for it in comparison.

“Well, you sounded like you might be crying, too. So we thought we’d come check it out and make sure everything’s okay.”

Carrying on a conversation with a skull? Sure, why not.

While she’s at it, Jules adds, “We’re lost in here. Maybe you can tell us how to get out?” She looks behind her at Ariadne at this point with a baffled, comically exaggerated what the hell is going on here look.

Jules' look is returned in the same vein and intensity -- major what-the-fuckery, agreed, is eloquent all over Ariadne's features.

"I'm fine," the skull informs Jules tartly. "And of course you're lost in here, we're all lost in here." Who's 'we'? Ariadne wants to ask, but the skittish part of her does not want to hear the answer to the question. Naivety is so nice in instances like these, where they haven't bothered anything or anyone else.

She hopes. Immensely.

The skull continues, "You get out by following the light."

Ariadne thins her lips. Thanks, Dream, loving these creepy pop-culture references.

“Well, I’m glad you’re fine, even if you’re lost,” Jules answers back. Another look shot behind her, this time with rolled eyes.

She goes back to studying the lit-from-within skull, frowning too. Jules opts for the most literal understanding of what it has to say: “Well, we don’t see any light besides what we brought with us.” She holds her phone a little higher to demonstrate, casting its light to one side, into the gloom. “And whatever is lighting up your eyes.”

Not eyes. Eye sockets.

The skull seems to consider Jules and her phone. "My light can't move, you're right. But your light can. So you could follow that light."

"Okay, but, that's just physics. The light moves with us when we move because we're holding the light," observes Ariadne drily.

"Then you have your answer right there." If a skull could beam with little apple-cheeks, it's clearly doing so by that tone.

Ariadne still frowns. "Well...sure...but you said you were lost too. Do you want out? Do we need to take your skull with us?"

The skull seems to consider. "I mean...I'm not stopping you..."

But the leading tone definitely has Ariadne squinting. Another glance for Jules.

“That’s so helpful.” Jules drips with sarcasm. She straightens up and steps back, moving to stand alongside Ariadne. “Why don’t you just tell us what direction to point our light in, hmm? Which way will lead us out?”

Under her breath, she tells the woman next to her, “I ain’t touching that thing. If it wants out, it has to say so and tell us where it needs to go. If there’s one thing I know from generations of Americans fucking with native burial grounds, it’s that you don’t disturb the dead.”

"You don't have to convince me, I'm not touching it," Ariadne whispers back to Jules with a confirming shake of her head. Nope. Nope. Not taking the skull with, nope.

"Hey! Whispering is rude!" The skull isn't wrong.

"We're going to follow our own lights, thank you for your sage advice," the barista says as a calm if less sarcastic tone than Jules' earlier observation.

"Oh, so you're going to ditch me because I'm a spooky disembodied voice trapped in bone. I see how it is. The living are the worst." Is the skull pouting?

Ariadne asks evenly, "Left or right here, Nearly Headless Nick?"

Skull be pouting.

“Oh for fuck’s sake.” Skull be irritating Jules. “If you want us to take you with us, you have to say so. We can’t read your mind. Are you just trying to keep us here so you have someone to talk to?”

Admittedly, Jules would probably do the same if she were a disembodied voice trapped in bone.

“Is there somewhere else you’d rather be? Are we supposed to free you somehow?”

The two little eye-lights seem to shift to Jules now instead of off to one side in skeletal pouting. "Maybe I can't ask you, ever thought of that?"

Ariadne's brows unknit and lift. "Cursed?" A question for both the firefly-green lights inside the skull and Jules both by the way she glances at the latter.

"Geeeeeeeeeee, I wonderrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr," the skull drawls.

Jules is not the type of person who consumes fantasy novels for fun. This kind of curse would not have occurred to her. Thank goodness for Ariadne.

“Aw, fuckit,” she declares, sighs, and then steps forward to pick up the skull without further ado. “Alright mister. Unless you’re a lady disembodied voice. Are you a girl? Or do you even have a gender if you’re just a voice? Whatever. Tell us where to go. You can do that much, right?”

Please say yes.

"Jules!" A sharp hiss of shock from Ariadne; she reaches out and tries to get hold of the other woman's arm before the skull is removed from the catacomb wall, but alas: skull is now in Jules' hands. It appears pleased for it.

"Ooh, yay, I get an adventure now. Take me with you! Also, if you're itchy suddenly, I'm sorry, you might be allergic to the curse," the skull informs Jules airily.

Ariadne gapes and retracts her hands against her chest, swinging her phone light off to one side incidentally. "The fuck!"

"Can't help you with that one, though from what I can see, you're doing just fine." The skull's commentary makes the barista turn a comely shade of pink and stutter because HOW?! "Anyways. To the right and the left and another left and straight on until morning."

“Oh Jesus.” Jules automatically shifts the skull to one hand and lifts the other for a frantic scratch-scratch-scratch at the base of her own (flesh-covered) skull. She sneezes for good measure.

Then the skull actually makes her laugh, turning to Ariadne with a grin. “Oh good, you’ve moved past the holding hands phase. I am all for getting laid.” We know, Jules, we know.

Jules seems to think she’s done well by the pair of them, because that grin turns self-satisfied. “Thank you for the directions, sir-or-ma’am.” Right it is. She steps forward confidently, with another glance at Ariadne. See?

Yes, observe, Ariadne, the talking skull calling you out on your more-than-platonic relationship is in cahoots with Jules. CAHOOTS.

A little splutter before the barista finds her composure and at first is only able to comment with, "Ugh!"

The skull giggles. It might be male, it might be female, but this information isn't forthcoming. What is: "You're welcome. I've always liked being carried around. It feels like flying. The last person to carry me around just stuck me there and it's been boring for..." It pauses to think. "...a very long time, I have no idea how long. Hard to tell when you're underground and can't see the sun."

"Someone else was in here?" Ariadne asks in a deliberate attempt to deflect the skull from ever asking about or referencing her personal relationships ever again.

"Oh yeah, people wander into here all of the time," the skull replies, little eye-glows shifting between her and Jules. Ariadne gives the woman a significant look. "They just don't wander back out because they don't take me with them."

SEE, Ariadne?

The last remark has Jules returning Ariadne’s look with one of her own. “Do they scream and run instead?” she wonders, making conversation. It’s what you do while you’re carrying a talking skull and looking for the way out. “Why was the last person carrying you?”

As discreetly as possible, she scratches the nape of her neck.

"Yes, it's pretty sad. They think I'm human and when they see me, they scream and run, just like you said. The last person carrying me was..." The skull thinks as they walk. Ariadne, at least, paid attention to the directions: she takes the next right when possible. Behind them, the Door continues floating along like the consummate stalker.

"Was what?" the barista finally asks, impatient in the otherwise stillness of the catacombs.

"I dunno, I don't remember. I bet they were like you though, asking too many questions," the skull replies. Ariadne thins her lips. "I don't think they liked how I answered them."

A little sound from the barista: "Hmph." The skull's eye-lights slide to the barista, who attempts and mostly fails to look innocent.

Jules smirks at the skull’s final response, but it doesn’t stop her from continuing to ask her own questions. “Were they the one that cursed you? What were you, before you got stuck in a skull?”

Her pace quickens; she likes making progress.

“Because I’m guessing you weren’t always like this, right? Or am I wrong on that one?”

"Oh, I've always been me, even before this little debacle," the skull airily informs Jules. "Nothing can change who I am -- just where I am and when I am -- but I guess those don't matter either because now I'm with you!"

A beat and the skull adds with a disgruntled reticence, "...yeah, okay, with you too."

"Thanks," Ariadne replies drily. Now the left turn. Is that a whift of fresh air? The barista inhales testingly to herself.

"Anyways, this isn't a curse, it's a choice, since having a choice is a curse too. Nothing like too many options! And too much information. It's better to keep things simple, like a mouse in a maze, right? Work through maze, eat the cheese, and then the maze is reset. Easy."

None of this makes much sense to Jules, going by the look she turns on Ariadne. One part does catch her attention, though.

“Is this what this is? A maze, and we’re the mice?” Muttered beneath her breath: “Please don’t tell me we’re going to reach the end only to have to start over. I hate Groundhog Day.”

"I hate Groundhog Day too, very boring. If you've seen it once, you've seen it again and again and again and -- "

The skull catches sight of Ariadne's particular expression and stops. Cue skeletal throat clearing. "Anyways. This can be a maze and if it gets reset, at least you have cheese more than once? This is France after all, home of the good cheese."

"Ohhhhhhhhh. Parisian catacombs. Holy shit, we're in Paris?!" Ariadne all but squeaks, eyes wide at Jules and her handful of skull.

“Holy shit, Paris.” So says the woman who’s never even travelled to the East Coast of the United States. Jules looks a little awed— no, excited.

“Okay, now for real I want to find our way out and eat the cheese.” Maybe playing the role of mouse in the maze isn’t so bad after all. The next turn is upon them.

“Do you happen to know what year it is?” Jules asks the question only to reconsider it. “Probably not, given how long you’ve been down here. What’s the last thing you remember? What were people wearing? Does it matter if I don’t speak French? Hey, you’re speaking English!”

This latter realization has her pausing so she can turn the skull upwards to face her and address it directly.

Bright-green firefly-lights in the skull's sockets land on Jules' face.

"Or are you speaking French? What is language anyways? We could communicate and not speak at all! Well. If I had hands, we could, but I'm a little limb-less right now," the skull admits. It continues, "But let's see, what's the last thing I remember. Togas. No, not togas, um. Tights. Breeches? There was a guillotine at one point. Lots of bodies with black spots on them. Something about a tower being built or planned to be built, I dunno."

Ariadne leads them around the second left. "You just touch on...like...hundreds of years of history there." The skull gets a frustrated squint. "It sounds like you talked about the French Revolution and then the Bubonic Plague and now you're talking about the Eiffel Tower."

"Oooh, they're going to name it that? How do you know these things?" Curiously, the skull looks between the two women.

“Am I speaking French?” Jules returns curiously.

It’s not the point, not really, and she steers her mind back on track as the skull rattles off notable events spanning the centuries. “Because it’s in our past,” Jules says, trading a look with Ariadne. “Or this is present-day Paris, and you’ve just been here that long. At least that means we should be able to communicate when we get out. And get something to eat. And text people from Paris.” Her own regular non-glowing eyes shine at the prospect.

"Or we're in the past still," Ariadne notes pragmatically and seems to mildly frustrate herself doing it. "Because we're the odd things out in this place."

"You really are. You're so...alive," the skull agrees.

"And we intend to keep it that way, thank you very much. We have people to get back to and we're not stopping until we do this," the barista states with a stubborn certainty. "You said straight on until morning?"

"I did," the skull gleefully chirps.

Something about the skull's tone makes the redhead slow down and squint at it again. "...what time is it right now."

Eye-lights wiggle. "Just before sunrise. They're going to open up the main doors any time now. You were locked in, duh."

Jules has a totally different question: “How do you know what time it is, when you’re shut in by yourself down here?”

In any case, she’s quite happy to speed up again, given the prospect of getting out of here.

"That's an excellent question! You ask so many good questions," the skull lauds. "You'd make a good skull. Do you want to hang out with me down here? We can ask questions to pass the time. We could get all philosophical and not even need to be drunk to do it. There's no wine down here anyways. There's no cheese, but hey, when you're a skull, you can't taste anything anyways."

Ariadne sighs to herself quietly.

“Uh, no.” Jules is quite definite on this one. “No thanks. I like being mobile. And I definitely like wine and cheese and getting drunk. Not drunk-drunk, but just a little tipsy is fun.”

This somehow reminds her to turn to Ariadne and complain, “I didn’t get to dance at the ball. All the tipsy without any of the fun.”

"Aw." Sad skull is sad. The catacomb continues to extend on, but is that...a sense of an end ahead another football field's worth of distance? And more fresh air?

Ariadne glances over at Jules and pulls her mouth to one side in sympathy. "Uh, yeah, none of the fun. That's lame as hell. When we get back, you go ask Mikaere for a dance? I mean, why the hell not? I danced with Ravn in a meadow by the bay. You can dance anywhere you'd like, theory," she notes. "Or hell, we get out of here and I'll do a jig with you."

"But I'll miss yooooooouuuuuuuu!" the skull then wails and starts crying. Ariadne, taken aback, nearly loses her eyebrows in her hairline.

Jules, on the other hand, starts giggling. The skull’s cry of overwrought misery strikes her as comical. “Hey now, it’s okay,” she comforts it. “After all, we’re not abandoning you in here, are we? We didn’t scream and run away, we brought you to the exit, and there’s bound to be stuff out here that will entertain you.” Until the French passers-by freak out, because talking skull.

“He said we’d make up for it,” Jules says then, returning to the earlier stream of thought. “We did go up to Kalaloch and have a pretty awesome day. And given how I couldn’t shut up, I count it as a win that he’d even want to hang out with me like that.” With that, Jules looks pretty pleased. It’s a reminder, too, that she has found ways to control her tongue, even when her brain doesn’t want to cooperate.

She’s humming as she scents the fresh air and hastens along.

"Oh good! I'm glad you two were able to make up for it, in a way." Ariadne's sincere in this and even enough to grin brightly at her friend. She adds overtop the skull's tearless blubbering, "And I suspect Mikaere's smitten enough with you that he'd put up with a lot of lack of filter. Patience galore."

"I don't wanna be left behind again!" the skull wails. Ariadne gives it a sympathetic look.

"Hey, we're taking you outside of this place, okay? Like she said, there's going to be a lot going on out there. You'll never be bored again. You can ask all the questions and people will ask you questions back and all the questions!" Like this is going to be absolutely optimal for their bony companion.

Skull sniffles. "You think so?"

Smitten. It’s not a term Jules would use, and she wrinkles her nose a bit. By the way she has a little smile to go along with it, though, she doesn’t find it objectionable. “He hasn’t sailed off yet, so I guess I’m tolerable.”

Leave it to the skull to interrupt these all-important conversations. “Dude, just think of all the different people you’ll encounter. Much better than just being stuck with one person. You’d probably get bored after awhile.”

A glance goes to Ariadne. Jules might not just be hypothesizing for the skull’s sake.

"Or hey, you could find one person who's a hell of a lot deeper than they appear and feel like you want to hang out with them all the time because there's new things to discover every day! You never know. There's options and options are excellent." Together, the two women make an amazing pep-talking team; the skull sniffles a few more times and then seems to nod. It even shifts about in Jules' palms.

"Yeah...I guess so. I'll be brave!" it declares.

"Good! A good plan," Ariadne agrees.

An aside to Jules, "You're more than tolerable, I've seen how he looks at you." Brows flick and the barista smiles a slightly foxy little smile.

“Brave is good,” Jules tells the skull. If she didn’t have her phone in her other hand to light the way, she’s likely be patting the skull on its bony cranium in reassurance.

As for the side conversation, Jules has this to say: “Yeah, well, that might be, but it’s still not going to last. Not to sound fatalistic, but at some point he’ll decide to set sail again. It’s just the way it is.”

Up ahead, it's obvious there's a grated door right out of some Ye Olde Dungeon. Through the latticed window in the top third of its portion, one can see dim but true light -- sunlight.

"Maybe," Ariadne allows, still wearing her faint smile. "And maybe not. I guess you'll have to see. In the meantime though, he looks at you like you're the best thing and I'm going to appreciate that as your friend and cheer squad." She'd offer a fistbump, but Jules' hands are indeed full.

"What are you whispering around?" the skull asks, no longer crying.

"Stuff," Ariadne deadpans.

"Whatever. When you get outside, put me someplace where I can see all the things!" the skull demands in delight.

A smile’s creeping into place, whether Jules wills it or not. “I’ll take it. And the same goes for you, you know. I’ve seen the way Ravn looks at you.”

The light comes as a relief, and Jules let’s go of a relieved sigh. “All the things,” she repeats agreeably. “It’s the least we can do for you, with you helping us find the way out.”

"Oh, sure, I figured if you carted me around long enough, you'd figure out how to get out and me too in the process and we all win," the skull singsongs.

Upon finally reaching Ye Olde Dungeon door, Ariadne grips and pulls on the inner ring. The door doesn't move...at first. A grunt and more effort and creeeeeeeeeeeeeeak. How atmospheric, those old hinges. Beyond, what appears to be a forked dual-exit of plain hallway out onto an open space. She sighs and looks at Jules, momentarily overcome with relief.

"Jesus fuck," the barista breathes and rubs a hand against her face. "Okay, so...there's still that thing back there." A thumb over her shoulder at their stalker-Door still sporting the hazy image of the carousel behind them.

Jules skips out of the way, hanging back from the (normal) rusty dungeon door. If you need a hand, I can set stuff down,” she offers. Skull has been relegated to stuff.

“Maybe this is what we’re supposed to do?” A look back at the (abnormal) Door. “Rescue our friend here, find ‘em a good place to sit, eat some cheese, then pop back over.”

"I mean...I like this plan?" Ariadne shrugs, looking only a little bit apprehensive.

"Ooh! Ooh! I like this plan! Me! Put me down outside, I want to see sunlight again. It looks so bright. I forgot what it looked like," the skull shares.

"Alright, outside first. Cheese. And then back through the Door." Nod-nod from the barista and she leads the way out through the now-open Ye Olde Dungeon door. Stepping into morning light on the paved entrance zone to this section of the catacombs, she sighs heavily and looks at her phone. "Okay...signal's good. I don't...it seems hasty for me to text Ravn right now, but before we try the door to the carousel, I will."

“Nah, text him. Be like, hey, bitch, I’m in Paris!” Jules is gleeful as she scoots out behind Ariadne, blinking rapidly at the sun.

She messes with her own phone, shutting off the flashlight and possibly following her own advice. “Alright, where do you want to be?” Jules asks the skull then. It’s the first point at which she looks up to properly take in their surroundings.

Paris.

(TXT to Una Della Ariadne Ravn) Jules : Guess who’s in Paris, bitches!!!!!

(TXT to Della Ariadne Ravn Jules) Una : Wait, what?

"You know, as tempting as it is to use those exact words, I'll probably go with a different phrasing when I text Ravn." Ariadne can't help but start laughing in relief. Outside, yes -- open air -- modern humanity -- no more rows upon rows of sepulchral stillness.

"Ooh! Ooh! Put me on that fountain over there! I can talk to the pigeons too!" the skull tells Jules. There's a small fountain across the rue with water freely flowing, decorated with artistic interpretations of fish; the water falls from their mouths.

Ariadne's phone then goes off in her hand. She stops laughing long enough to look at it and only peals out more laughter in turn. "JULES?!"

(TXT to Della Ariadne Jules Una) Ravn : Paris, Ohio?

(TXT to Una Della Ariadne Ravn) Jules : PARIS FUCKING FRANCE

(TXT to Della Ravn Una Jules) Ariadne : The town carousel decided to be a bitch and dump us in the Paris catacombs. We have a way back, don't worry! I promise! I think!

(TXT to Della Ravn Jules Ariadne) Una : ... okay. Will you be home for dinner, Jules?

(TXT to Della Ariadne Jules Una) Ravn : ... Let me know if I need to wire you money for a plane ticket.

(TXT to Della Ariadne Jules Una) Ravn : And stay away from the damn carousel, it's haunted by at least forty different Baxter ghosts in at least four hundred pieces.

(TXT to Della Ravn Una Jules) Ariadne : I mean, the talking skull was a surprise, but it's kind of air-headed, so we're fine. I do think we have a way back through to Grey Harbor via the first Door we went through. Note to self: no more carousel.

Once Jules starts laughing, she can’t quite stop. “Look, it’s awesome, I am totally gloating here. To the fountain!”

She stops texting long enough to grandly sally forth. At first, the skull is held out triumphantly before her, though Jules thinks better of it given that it’s no longer just them and tucks it under her arm after a moment. “Pigeons are bird-brained,” she points out, and then that has her giggling all the more.

(TXT to Una Della Ariadne Ravn) Jules : Probably yes but I plan to stuff myself on French cheese first so don’t make anything for me, if you’re cooking! And Ravn, NOW you tell us that

(TXT to Della Ravn Jules Ariadne) Una : Texting us is probably costing you a bomb. Tell us more when you get home? And bring me some cheese. Wait. Can you bring me cheese? Forget that. I'm confused.

"Yeah, maybe the pigeons are, but they gossip like nobody's business. I'll never be bored," the skull seems quite certain of this. "Put me on the fountain, put me on the fountain!"

Ariadne looks at her phone again and then has to find the nearest bench to sit down. Her ribs are starting to hurt and her cheeks are pink from the exertion of her amusement. "Oh my fucking god, Jules," she wheezes. "I have no idea if we can bring cheese home, but let's at least try, damnit." She elects to remain sitting on the bench while Jules sallies with her skull.

Movement makes her look towards the catacombs. She sits up straight. "Uh."

Owl-eyes find Jules. She wheezes the woman's name and hisses, "Look?!"

It's...two horses. Their carousel horses. Alive. Standing there by the catacombs, pretty as can be with ribbons and roses, their eyes glowing dimly.

(TXT to Ravn Jules Ariadne Una) Della : Pictures. I want pictures. And video!

(TXT to Della Jules Una Ravn) Ariadne : We will try to bring cheese and pictures and video back!

(TXT to Ravn Jules Ariadne Una) Della : Are you bringing back any bones?

(TXT to Una Della Ariadne Ravn) Jules : NO BUT THE CAROUSEL HORSES CAME TO LIFE CAN I KEEP MINE?

(TXT to Ravn Jules Ariadne Una) Della : What do carousel horses defecate?

(TXT to Della Ariadne Jules Una) Ravn : Unless you want that carousel horse to take you back to 1850 and make you watch Baxters get shoved into wood chippers, I really recommend not making too close friends.

(TXT to Una Jules Ravn Della) Ariadne : They look like they kind of want to eat our souls, Jules. D:

(TXT to Ravn Jules Ariadne Una) Della : Or eat, I suppo- ... Well. That answers that.

Jules does just as the skull asks. After a brief hesitation, she kicks off her sandals and climbs into the fountain, like the crazy American she is. This way, she can find a perch for the skull where it’s more likely to be thought part of the architecture and less, well, as human remains left on the ledge. “That okay?” she asks as she affixes the skull in a crevice, mindless of how her dress is getting wet.

Ariadne’s hiss makes her turn back to look. “What?” Oh. Oh.

“Maybe we’re supposed to ride them back?” she ventures. “In which case, we better go buy some cheese, fast.” More frantic texting as she starts splashing back to the brim of the fountain.

"I'm so happyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy!!!!" Such glee from the skull. "Thank yooooooooouuuuuuuu!!!!"

And apparently, that's that, given the skull quiets down to wait for the pigeons to land nearby and tell it all of the city gossip.

Ariadne continues dubiously considering the carousel horses-come-to-life. "Maaaaaaybe?" she drawls in answer to Jules' question. "I'd...like to hope it's as simple as getting the cheese, getting onto their backs, and riding them back through the Door...?"

Maybe it's that simple. Maybe.

“Excellent.” Jules looks pretty satisfied, herself, with the arrangement she’s made for the skull.

The horses receive a look of greater caution, this time, between the texting, Ariadne’s skepticism, and a longer consideration of just how those horses appear. “Maybe we try the Door without them first,” she decides. “I choose life. I also like going back to the right time period.”

"Yeah, I'm with you. Let's get the cheese and try the Door without them. I trust Ravn, especially about the Baxters and any history involving the carousel. I still know pretty much jack-shit about the long-term history of Grey Harbor, but if the historian says it's not wise? I heed the historian."

The horses whicker and paw at the cement, their glowing eyes surely fixated on the two women, almost siren-like. Oh, come on, what's going to go wrong? We're just pretty, pretty ponies.

Ariadne wrinkles her lips in censure at the living carousel horses. "See a cheese place, Jules?"

Hypnotic siren-esque things that shouldn’t be are just enough to set Jules on edge. “Oh hell no, I’m not falling for that shit again,” she mutters. The black horse of the pair, her chosen mount, gets the stink-eye. “You stay right where you are, buddy, and don’t try that on me. Come on.”

She’s climbed out of the fountain by now and slipped her sandals back onto her wet feet. Yes, she’s dripping, but this is the least of her concerns. “Let’s find us some cheese. Maybe a baguette to go with it.” It is early morning, after all. Who better to open early than a bakery?

Jules' black horse tilts his head and whickers. But -- but -- I'm so much better than cheese!

The palomino Ariadne originally chose tosses its mane and a single rose petal falls from the wreath about its neck. So much better than cheese!!!

"Good plan. Maybe even coffee. I guess...I guess we hope they take American currency because that's all I have," bemoans Ariadne quietly as she fusses through her courier purse for her wallet. At least the weather is warm enough for them to be comfortable in their sundresses? "I...super vaguely know French, but maybe that's a bakery?"

She points down the rue by a building or two. It looks like that's bread in the windows?

“I don’t know any,” Jules declares cheerfully, ignoring the horses and pointedly turning her back on them. “But we spoke to the skull, and people might know some English, and if all else fails, I know how to point. There’s probably an ATM around, and I’ve got a credit card on me if it comes to that.”

To the bakery! Jules is clearly excited, looking to grab hold of Ariadne’s hand and pull her down the rue.

Ariadne's hand is an easy grab with her befuddled and bubbling combination of relief and rue and general acceptance of what-the-fuckery about their situation -- and her stomach rumbles at the idea of food. How long had it been since they'd been all but bucked into the catacombs?

She catches up alongside Jules easily enough in a step or two, keeping their held hands, and sighs to herself. "Oh yeah, people will know English, there are a lot of poor English-speaking saps like us in terms of tourism," she has the stubborn positivity to note. "I guess we actually can bring this cheese back too, holy shit. This is totally normal, standard modern-day Paris insofar as I can tell."

“Cheese, cheese cheese cheese cheeeeese,” Jules all but sings. “I’ve never had real French cheese. Ooh, ATM.” She abruptly veers off towards the other side of the street. “That’s one problem solved. How much should I take out? Twenty bucks, or whatever the equivalent is?” Jules drops hands to rummage around in her tote for her wallet.

“This is a kind of celebration, in the end,” she concludes as she punches in her details. International ATMs have options for English, score. “Maybe not the one we were thinking of— and we should totally still check out what’s on at the theater over the summer— but it’s not every day you get whisked off to Paris. I’m pretty okay with how this has turned out.” Euros in hand, it’s time to go shopping.

Yoink -- Ariadne goes with the sudden redirection of travel with a little skip-hop and 'eeep'-laugh.

"Yeah, don't take out too much. International fees and all." Even with her naturally (if mild) chariness about this whole affair, siren-ponies and all, the redhead too waits until Jules is done before doing the same. She pulls out about fifty dollar's worth of American-to-Euro currency and then returns it to her courier-purse. "A la bakery, oui?" the barista asks before laughing, her hand offered out to Jules again. Apparently, she's happy to play little tug-boat to wherever the other woman wants to go for the moment.

“Oui!” says Jules without even an attempt at an accent. She’s That American.

The bakery is also That American’s dream come true. Baguettes, yes, but also a display case full of flaky croissants and pastries and a huge rack with freshly baked bread. “Can I have one of everything?” Jules asks Ariadne as she contemplated the selection. “Or two. Or three! We’re not cheating on Una if we bring back samples for her to try so she can try to recreate it.”

Her twenty Euros will be gone in a flash, even when the price of baguettes and croissants is ridiculously low in comparison with their American equivalents (or rather, poor substitutions: the French have opinions on these things.)

"I'm not stopping you if you want to take one of each, but we have to carry it back somehow, so just get ready to carry bags o' bread around until we get home again," the barista laughs as she remains at Jules' side. The interior of the bakery is homely in a way and balanced between salesmanship and local pride; shelvings do display freshly-baked loafs and behind glass, the more delicate or air-weak pastries hide away to be grabbed per request.

Meandering a short distance down the glass, Ariadne points. "And some cheese, look at this, ooh. There's not much, they're just sixths of wheels, but what...two or three types? One slice of each type, maybe?" she asks of Jules. "I do smell coffee as well."

Because of course she would.

“Yeah, do it,” Jules agrees where the cheese is concerned. She’s too distracted to come look herself, busy putting together her order with the help of the middle-aged woman working behind the counter.

Madame seems thoroughly amused by this excited American, and fortunately it’s early enough for them to be the only customers in the shop thus far. Otherwise her patience might wear a little thin, given how Jules deliberates over her decisions. Madame rings it up as she goes. Jules is determined to squeeze every last penny (centième?) out of her twenty Euro bill.

Ariadne is content to be patient while the order is rung up, bread by bread in turn, and waits by the glass counter with her hands almost primly before her waist. While she does, she eyes the chalked board detailing information behind on the wall.

It's in French. Alas. She'll need to speak with Madame about it.

"You know, I bet Ravn has some absolutely bomb wine somewhere that would go with the bread and cheese," the barista idly notes with a glance in Jules' direction.

“Ooooooh.” Jules draws out the vowel, turning from the till to beam at Ariadne. “You all were talking about how you needed to educate me in the finer points of wine. By which I mean, something beyond ‘well it’s either red or it’s white.’ Should we try to find a wine shop while we’re here and bring something back?”

It’s probably a good thing they’ll only be here a limited amount of time. Jules sounds determined to blow through her paycheck.

"If that's going to make you happy, Jules, to bring home a bottle of French wine, absolutely." Ariadne can't help but laugh at the enthusiasm because it's absolutely catching. Madame gives her a small, mostly-hidden smile for it, surely understanding more than enough English to get the gist of it. "Would you happen to know a good place to look?"

"Oui. Up the rue and to the left, there is a small shop. They also sell olive oil, but do not buy this. No good. The wines? They are fine, but a little expensive," the matron of the bakery warns with a mellifluous accent while she finishes packing up Jules' selection of bread.

“No olive oil, check. Thank you,” Jules says warmly. “Uh. Merci?” Currency and baked goods exchange hands.

Jules is going to break off the end of a baguette right then and there while she waits for Ariadne to make her own purchases.

"Merci," the matron replies with an amused warmth. With Jules and her bread acquisition complete, Ariadne then steps up and talks through the cheese options. The matron has mercy on her in turn and explains each cheese type as well as what should go with each. In the end, as initially mused over, three sixths of blocks end up packaged. Ariadne hands over Euros, receives her change, and then turns to Jules.

"Alright, wine shop? Also, the toll for my beautimous presence is a hunk of that baguette, sunshine," she jokes lightly at Jules while holding out a hand even as she walks to exit the bakery.

Jules can share the wealth. She tears off a largeish hunk and hands it over. “I’m guessing that because it’s France, all the wine here is good? And even if it’s a little expensive by French standards, it’s still got to be less than what we’d pay for it in the US, right? So I’m thinking just look for a pretty label in the not too expensive range. Unless you happen to know what kind of wine Ravn likes, in which case I’m leaving it all up to you.”

"Ravn is a Chianti kind of guy, though that's...Italian wine, if I'm remembering correctly? Wow, this is good," the redhead asides after taking a nibble of the baguette chunk she's given. "So I think...a nice red blend probably won't go remiss? A Cabernet Sauvignon, maybe. Those are two different things, which gives us options. I'm down with options. I really hope we don't played as tourists though..."

She does glance back towards the bakery as if wondering if they were just played as tourists by being sent to this shop rather than elsewhere. At least the air is balmy this morning as they walk along the sidewalk. "I'm just not a white wine kind of girl, every one of them has either been too dry or too sweet for me. I might as well drink grape juice in some cases."

“Right?” Wandering around in the catacombs has made Jules hungry, and the fresh-baked baguette hits the spot. “We’re totally going to get played,” she announces cheerfully. “Whatever, we didn’t have to pay for a flight. I’ll survive.”

The bell jingles when they reach the shop announcing VIN in curly cursive. The selection is enough to bewilder Jules, especially when nothing clearly proclaims Cab Sauv. It’s all regional, and she sure doesn’t know her wine regions. Looking at labels and price tags it is.

As they approach the shop and Ariadne finishes her hunk of baguette, she nods to herself. "I mean, point, about the plane tickets." Nobody paid for them. More money for souvenirs.

After entering the shop, the barista too looks around with moderately-evident confusion. Wine selection? Not her forte. It looks like labels and price tags is truly going to be the option. If anyone comes over to assist? They'll be given the quintessential answer of 'just looking for now' and 'if we have questions, we'll ask' -- the better to avoid sales pitches. "Well..." She pauses and squints at one of the bottles. "There's always a quick Google search. Ugh, my bill this month," the barista mutters as she pulls out her phone.

Wine regions for cabernet sauvignons in France. "Ohhhhhhhh. We're looking for a 'Bordeaux', Jules," she informs her friend, glancing up from her phone.

It isn’t so hard to find the Bordeaux section. Jules butchers several of the names she skims by: Cotes du Rhone, Languedoc, and don’t even get her started on Châteauneuf-du-Pape. “Here we go,” she says, drawing Ariadne’s attention this way, not that way. And then it’s just to pick a bottle based on price and label, while the wine merchant looks on longingly, just dying to come help these hapless Americans.

“This one’s pretty.”

Oh, the poor Frenchman.

Ariadne isn't much better in pronunciation as she follows in Jules' wake, her own eyes dancing across the various labels and tags. Jules speaks up and it brings the barista to step up beside her friend to see just what's caught attention.

"It does have a lovely label." Truly, it does: a thin layer of faux-foiling in scrolling designs all across it, like ruby-colored vines and leaves stylized to fleur-de-lis against a field of navy-blue. Golden lettering proclaims it to be a Bordeaux indeed, from a 'Chateau Sainte-Bellegrave', and she glances over at Jules. Brow rise; "I think this one's just fine unless you've got other ideas?"

Watch the poor wine merchant twitch behind the front counter.

“Nah. Let’s do it. Unless we want to ask for recommendations—“ A glance at the shop keeper, who leaves well enough alone, since the pair have made it pretty clear they’re ‘just looking.’ “Let’s go ahead and do this one. Is this good?” This time, Jules does address the wine merchant, lifting the bottle.

He settles on, “Oui, madame,” and is just about to launch into an explanation of its profile when she merrily says, “Great!” and moves to the counter, bottle in hand.

“You must decant one hour,” the merchant rather urgently tells them as he rings up the purchase. “It is better with time. It is much better this way.”

Somehow, Ariadne manages to do nothing more than roll her lips against a smile and cough once into her shoulder as if to stop a sneeze.

It's so to stop a laugh. Jules' enthusiasm is not only infectious, but amusing as hell to the American. The wine merchant must be at least half-pleased to sell something, even if it's leaving out the door with a less than complete explanation as to its delights and how to handle it. At least he gets in the notation about decanting?

"An hour to decant," the redhead is sure to echo and make eye contact with the merchant, ensuring his wisdom is heard and acknowledged. "We'll be sure to do this, thank you, I appreciate the forewarning! Here," she then adds, handing over the wine's sum to Jules in Euros.

“Oh! You got this one?” Jules is all set to pull out a credit card when Ariadne forks out the cash. She doesn’t argue with it, just passes the Euros along and turns the change back over to Ariadne.

Now with wine in hand — well, stored safely in her tote bag — Jules takes her leave of the store, stepping back out into the Parisian morning. A happy inhale. Paris even smells different.

“I think it’s croissant time,” she declares. “And then maybe we should try the Door. Unless you feel like wandering around first, seeing the sights. I wonder were we are in the city.” Jules isn’t exactly eager to leave, here in her first trip abroad.

"Yeah, let me, you got the bread." Ariadne's glad for no guff given and once the wine bottle is stored away, she departs with Jules. The wine merchant is given a beaming wave goodbye; he probably sighs in slightl disappointment after the Americans leave. So much to tell them! But alas! They must be on a timed itinerary or something of the like.

Once outside, the barista too inhales. Now the sun has risen and it's warm beneath the fall of it. While she'd been annoyed in the catacombs at being in a sundress, now Ariadne is anything of the sort. It's the type of warmth which bodes a hotter day. "Well..." She does take a moment to scan their surroundings. It seems like it's a sector of Paris not too far from the main drag. Wherever they came out of the catacombs, it...appears to be not a very well-publicized access point, probably for the sake of general sanity. There are many smaller store windows to peruse, all of them quaint in comparison to the flashier ones meant to draw tourists. "You've got croissants in the bread bag, I assume? And I guess we could linger a bit longer, but not too long. The...I'd feel badly if someone got...like...bitten by the horses...or something." An awkward sentiment with a mild grimace in Jules' direction.

Demon ponies did tag along with them, after all.

“Just a bit longer,” Jules happily agrees. “Do you think we can get to the river? Maybe the horses will, like, blend in better down there.” As if.

She pulls out her phone again to load Google maps (the data will be an ouch, but again— no plane fare) and orient herself. Striking out in a direction meant to lead them to the Seine, Jules says, “I got a bunch of croissants. Enough for us to have one here and then still bring some back. Some of them are filled, I think. And some kind of little apple tart, and something with raisins, and then I don’t know what, but the lady said it was good.” Here, at least, Jules is willing to take directions from the proprietor.

"Uh." One can see Ariadne's response in her face long before it leaves her mouth; after all, the horses appear to be doing this...very unsettling manner of...teleporting? -- where they're right there, not feet away, in the nearest shadowy section of city layout not easily picked out by mortal eyes. The black horse whickers and flutters its lips at Jules; more rose petals fall from the palomino's wreath. Both blink those sweetly-bright eyes.

Come along now, little humans...come along, come ride, we'll carry you hence...

Thank you, Jules, for bringing up the type of croissants. Ariadne rips her attention back to her friend and nods, catching up to fall into step beside her. "Uh. Apple croissant for me, please, holy shit. Um. Coffee, we have to figure out coffee too? Please. It's either this or alcohol for me and I'd rather save the wine for later. Plus, public intoxication in Paris. I don't need to be calling Ravn from a jail phone for that."

Right on cue, Jules turns and yells at the horses.

“STOP IT.”

Firm instructions work for trained animals, right?

Jules starts going through her veritable treasure trove to find what Ariadne’s requested. “It’s a tart, I think, not a croissant,” she says apologetically. “Right, coffee. Not Starbucks.” The green mermaid is right there across the way, as they hit a main thoroughfare. But so are other cafés, with little metal tables lining the sidewalks. “Take your pick!”

Pause. “For the record, I think public drunkenness just counts as being French.”

Both horses flick back their ears and widen their sweetly-glowing eyes. That human has LUNGS. They end up standing there, giving each other looks, while the two women continue on down the rue...and then vanish in a waver of self melting into shadow.

Ariadne blinks and gives Jules a temporary startled stare -- but hey, it worked, and as such, the barista doesn't linger. Bye, ponies, don't let the door hit you in your pony ass.

"Public drunkenness is probably extra frowned-upon when you're American in France, so...saving the wine," Ariadne manages to reply with dry amusement. "I'll take a tart." And thus, she does, not afraid to eat it sans napkin. Jules is correct though; more than one small café resides in this section of the rue, some small and valiantly standing against the might of Starbucks. "And let's go to the...last one on the sidewalk here. The one with the rooster on it? The...Coq de la Promenade?"

She probably butchers it...and is going to laugh her ass off at the translation later, once someone deigns to inform her.

Jules herself looks surprised. And then self-satisfied. “Hey, it worked. For now. I suspect they’re going to turn up again.” That’s a problem for another day. Now, she just shrugs and turns back to survey the cafés.

“Onwards!” she declares grandly. To The Cock of the Walk it is.

The interior of the little café is, perhaps to no one's surprise, themed after chickens. It's bright, sunny, and appallingly adorable if one isn't a morning person. Ariadne could care less: there's the smell of freshly-ground coffee. A small line wends back from the counter and she joins it, glancing over at Jules.

"Bet you...well...coffee that they're going to turn up at the Door back at the catacombs again," the barista murmurs in an undertone to the other woman. "They do belong back in Grey Harbor and all."

“I don’t want to take that bet,” Jules says ruefully. “I’m sure you’re right.” They’ll deal with it later. Jules can’t really read the menu beyond café au lait, and that’s exactly what she orders.

It looks like latte is an option and that's what Ariadne orders, fully aware it's going to be somewhat bland without flavoring, but she's not brave enough to try and try to explain exactly how many pumps. This is one of the truly local cafes where English is difficult to parse all around.

"Well...let's get our coffee and we'll drink it as we walk and maybe by the time we get back to the catacombs, we'll be caffeinated and ready to take on whatever fresh hell the Veil has to subject us to," the redhead says again quietly to Jules as they step off to one side to wait for the to-go orders to show up at the pick-up counter.

The poor French, catering to these Americans who expect their coffee to go and won’t engage in long discussions about wine. This is what it means to become a tourism destination.

“I wouldn’t call this hell,” Jules protests as they wait for their orders to come up. “As weird stuff goes, I’ll take it. You sure we have to go back already?” Look at Jules, so hopeful with her big puppy dog eyes. “We haven’t seen the Eiffel Tower!” Which, of course, is on the other side of town.

"We haven't, yes, but what if there's a time limit on the Door, Jules?" Ariadne quietly asks, her lips thinned. "I want to wander around as much as you do, but I also can't pay for a plane ticket...and I'm too proud to be calling Ravn to ask him to do that when I could have watched the time and not loitered, y'know? The Veil's probably waiting to distract us with that one more thing and then slam the Door shut. Think about it. The Veil would pull this kind of shit: strand us somewhere unfamiliar and then inflict a bunch of misery on us while we're separated."

The sustained whispering is garnering her odd looks from the others in the café, but so far, no one's thinking about butting in. It's more than likely because it's English than anyone actually able to tell what Ariadne is saying.

Ariadne’s right, and Jules knows it. “Yeah,” she sighs, disappointed but accepting. “Okay. We’ll get our coffee and head back. At least we’ll have cheese and croissants to show for it.”

And just like that, their order’s up. Jules collects her café au lait from the counter and takes her first, testing sip. She’s no connoisseur, but she knows enough to tell that it’s good. “Alright. Door time.”

"I know, it sucks," Ariadne agrees in honest agreement. "But you're right, we've got some things to show for it, and they're good for sharing to boot." Jules' order arrives and the barista's latte shortly after. She sips hers and nods; it'll do, nothing too fancy, she misses having the whipped cream on top, but oh well, she's made her coffee bed and now she'll lie in it.

Outside, the sun's risen and warmed the air even more. "Yep, Door time. The catacombs were back this way." A tilt of her head and the barista walks in a back-tracking direction. "You think that skull's going to be okay? Just...chilling on a fountain and talking to pigeons?"

“It’ll be fine. Skull is probably going to have the time of its life. Or death, whatever. Suspended animation.”

Jules doesn’t look like she’s worried about it, walking along under the Parisian sun in her little black dress. Amazingly, she’s not an underdressed tourist on this occasion.

“Now the real question is: are the horses waiting for us too?”

Jules' wording makes her friend laugh. "Suspended animation," Ariadne repeats in droll amusement. The question is a pertinent one and sobers up the redhead once more.

"I...really do think they'll be waiting for us, Jules. We arrived in the catacombs on them, I bet we're going to have to go back through the Door on them. I don't think we can call a cab on this one." Taking a right back onto the main rue they'd arrived on, the distant fountain can now be seem down the road itself and off to one side. There too, the lesser-known entrance to the catacombs themselves, still weirdly free of tourists as if the place somehow radiated go the fuck away for several square yards.

“So saddle up,” Jules says grimly. “Maybe if I offer them a hunk of baguette, they’ll cooperate.” She isn’t parting with the second apple tart.

"Yep. Saddle up." Ariadne's agreement is about as sober. "And you might as well give it a shot. I'd rather feed them and get home than think we can get away with just hopping back into their saddles without making nice first. It sucks, but it's diplomatic...ugh."

She doesn't have to like it. Those horses are just this side of Uncanny Valley: too smart, too much intent in those sweetly-glowing eyes.

And lo and behold: there they both are, waiting like death and taxes in the shadow of the catacomb entrance's overhang. The black horse flips its forelock and chews its bit. The palomino shakes out its mane and bleeds more rose petals to the ground. Hello, ladies.

“Might be better if we stopped at one of the stores and got apples, but oh well.” Here they are.

Jules approaches the horses with more confidence than she actually feels. “Hey, you there,” she says, adopting the stern tone that seemed to get the job done earlier. “You’re gonna play nice, or you’re gonna see a side of me you really won’t like. Got it? You take us home, no funny business, to the same place and time where we found you. Hear me? And then I’ll give you both a treat, but only if you do what you’re supposed to. Got it?”

"They might not even like apples," the barista notes in an under-murmur back to Jules, but too late anyhow, they're walking up to the creatures. Ariadne takes solace in Jules' projection of confidence and mimics it with relative ease. Stern glower. This, she can do, and arm crossing too despite the cheese bag and wine bag and her to-go cup of coffee.

One can see the horses give each other a dry side-look. Humans. Thinking they can dictate. It's adorable. But nonetheless, Jules makes her point -- or perhaps the Veil decides to plant trust by having the horses continue to act as entities rather than malevolent dictators. Was that a human-like nod from each? It was. More rose petals fall to the cement. Both horses then turn sideways to present their stirrups and saddles. Up we go, foolish mortals, hope you can hold your lunch down. No ruining the upholstery.

Jules keeps her forceful attention on the pair until they seemingly agree. “Here we go,” she murmurs to Ariadne. With a slow intake of breath, she steps forward to the black stallion and mounts up.

Reader, take note: Jules does not know how to ride.

Ariadne hasn't gone on a trail ride for some time and she hates being in a sundress for this. Neither horse is helpful either. Getting into the saddle means scrunching up her dress to the point of flashing her knees and almost losing her coffee, but hey, the barista manages it.

"Alright, you asshole, play nice," the redhead mutters to the palomino. It simply sidles in place and rolls back sweetly-glowing eyes to consider her.

Jules' horse turns in a slow circle and leads the way first towards the Door. Beyond it, the haze of the carousel continues to exit like some frosted freeze-frame.

Hope everybody holds on. It apparently requires a very abrupt forward rush by each horse to get through the Door!

No more latte for Ariadne and that was QUITE a yelp!

Amazingly, Jules manages not to fall off. She’s clinging to the pommel, thighs tightly clamped around the horse’s sides. Her coffee isn’t going to survive the ride, either, but Jules is mostly finished. For this one instance, she rids herself of her qualms about littering and lets her paper cup fall by the wayside. It’s more important, now, to hold on with both hands and lean in instead of lurching wildly. Her patisserie payout will make it back with her; it helps that she’s stuffed her baked goods into the tote she has on her shoulder.

The rush for the Door coaxes her own surprised sound out of her throat, but then it turns to a giddy, breathless laughter. There’s something to be said for barreling through the Veil on horseback.

Definitely a YIPE and definitely no more latte for Ariadne. She barely clings to the palomino's mane as is while they barrel into the Door's haze and through the kaleidoscopic mess that is the Veil in passing.

And then, it's like reality snaps into place as rudely as a rubber band once more.

The carousel is continuing around in its merry circle, twinkling music and lights, and Ariadne is clinging to the pole of her mount like a startled cat.

"SHIT!" she squeaks, looking around. "Are we back?!"

Jules jolts forward, banging her forehead into the solid metal pole. “Ow,” she exclaims weakly. “Much ow.” Her bag smacks against the horse’s neck, too; good thing she’s not the one carrying the wine bottle.

“Yeah,” Jules says, lifting one hand off the pole to gingerly touch her brow. That’s gonna bruise. “I think so. Not sure how I can give them the treat I promised now, though.”

"I hate to say this, Jules, but the Veil's probably going to hold that against you," Ariadne mutters in tired exasperation. The carousel starts to slow down now, signaling the end of this particular ride. Sitting upright carefully, the redhead makes to check each bag she has. Cheese, intact. Wine bottle? Thank god that's intact, it was pricey.

Coffee? Lost. The lament comes, "I wanted to drink my latte, it was an honest-to-god Parisian latte...stupid Veil fuckers." Grr.

Jules gets a once-over. "You okay though?" Forehead is being tested, after all.

Just to test it out, Jules breaks off a hunk of her second baguette and leans forward to offer it to her now motionless horse. “Want this?” She sounds hopeful. Alas, the carousel horse is inanimate again. “I guess that means the horses are gonna come looking for me at some later date,” Jules surmises, looking to Ariadne with a grimace. “That’s okay. I can deal. And I’ll keep my bargains.” On this, pretty much all the mythologies agree: do not attempt to weasel out of deals you’ve struck.

“I’ll be fine,” she says of her forehead. “No concussion. We’d know.”

What a big sigh from the redhead. The carousel comes to a complete stop now and its various passengers depart.

"Okay...whew. Um. Okay. I...probably need to get this cheese to the fridge at home, so can we raincheck the theater for another day?" Ariadne asks before sliding off the palomino horse with its wreath of roses about its neck. No falling petals red as blood-drops now. "I kind of either need a strong drink or a nap too, maybe both. Can I drive you home?"

“Yeah, I think we’ve had enough adventures for one day,” Jules says wryly. She’s happy to slide off her horse, though she gives it a final pat on the rump just in case the animate version is somehow aware. “Thank you,” she tells it gravely. “I’ll get you that treat next time I see you.” With that, Jules hastens off the carousel’s platform, relieved to be back on solid ground. “I’m just a few blocks away,”she answers Ariadne, “but given the way this day has gone so far, I’m gonna say yes, please.”

It does seem wise to do the same to the palomino; Ariadne patpats the horses's rump and then departs with Jules.

Grass. Normal grass and gravel and it appears they've been gone...what...minutes? Instead of hours and past another sunrise on another continent. She has wine and cheese now. What the fuck.

"Yeah," Ariadne sighs as she goes to fish her keys out. "It's been that kind of day. I'll drop you off and then text you later tonight. We'll figure out...what to do if anything needs to be done, but after my brain settles, I beg you."

“Deal,” Jules agrees.

Back home. To their nice, normal houses…except with French food in tow.