2022-06-03 - Under-Dressed, Societally-Displeasing Hooligan-Women

The afternoon sun slants across the downtown street, or what passes for downtown around here; the shady side's a good place for walking, less glare while window-shopping, particularly if one has eternal Summer in one's yard and gets all the sunshine one could want. "Is that where you found Jules' dress?" Della is asking, bright-eyed, steps already angling towards the braced-open door --

-- but inside, not only have they changed out the inventory, they've gone all out in dressing up for the tourists, haven't they?

"Yes, this is the place," confirms Ariadne as their walking brings them abreast of the store in question. "It was one of those spur of the moment things, where she'd noticed it and I felt like it would work and what can I say, I'm full of good ideas." In jeans and a teal-blue camisole beneath a light-weight sweatshirt left unzipped, the barista's all nonchalance in her sneakered steps.

Until they reach the door.

And it's more than a door. It's a Door.

She stares, mouth parted. "Uh. Della, those hats look like they're from the early 1900s." Someone can at least pinpoint via cinema, thank you, blockbuster movies. "Like...England in the early 1900s." The wide-eyed look is turned on Della. "Are you seeing this?"

"Does Ravn need a top hat?" Della distractedly inquires, but then she's looking on the wrong side of the store. The store that may no longer be a store. "The bowler would look too much like he's trying to look inconspicuous... This is a great idea. What do you think we have to do in this Dream? And did it start just now or back when we decided to come here, or before that even? I want that coffee to have been real, at the very least."

"...I'm more concerned about what people will think about us wearing jeans," the barista mutters under her breath in Della's direction.

Because the way the shopkeeper behind the front cashier-desk in her prim and proper garb, from the dress's corseting up to sleeves and high neckline and up-do is staring at both women as if they'd just walked out of some other time per -- wait.

"Excuse me, m'am, we're lost." Not Lost, but just misplaced...right? "My ankles are covered, I promise."

But that's still a camisole, barista.

"...Americans?" the shopkeeper asks in a vaguely airless question.

"For our sins," Delia murmurs, eyes downcast until she lifts them again to the shopkeeper -- admiringly, because look at that. Her own airy blouse, deep red to complement her sandals and nail polish, has three-quarter sleeves; gleaming wirework bangles adorn one wrist. ...Maybe her lipstick's worn off at least? No?

Less audibly, meant for Ariadne alone, "Well."

Meant for Della alone, "I suppose we'd have to be Americans because I'm not wearing a skirt and your ankles are showing." A beat. "I need a cookie for not laughing like a fucking idiot," she adds still sotto-voce.

Clearing her throat, Ariadne at least tries to affect something a bit more demure towards the shopkeeper. "Yes, m'am, and still lost. We came in to ask where we are. It's Tuesday, right?"

It's so not Tuesday by the pinch of the shopkeeper's mouth. "It is Thursday," she clips out briskly, "the third of June, and we do not service women dressed like you." The barista's head jerks back and she slides a centimeter towards Della in silent alliance. "Get out of my property right now!" The woman doesn't have to raise her voice, she's quite serious enough.

"...maybe we should go," Ariadne murmurs with an open grimace towards Della.

A quiet chuckle answers that not-laughing, to which she adds an equally quiet, "At least."

With that, Della could just as well be playing a game of pingpong, looking between the two women, giving Ariadne the lead -- the more so because the shopkeeper is very white. Nothing like a tan for her.

Until, dulcetly, "Yes, ma'am. We expect a higher level of servicing." Butter wouldn't melt in Della's mouth, and certainly her demeanor is all contrition as she sidles for the door -- the Door, not that she knows it -- and hoped-for escape. So long as it doesn't overly impede Ariadne, she allows herself just one more look at all that fashion --

What a gasp from the shopkeeper who would be clutching pearls if she had any about her chicken-like neck. She literally splutters. Ariadne can be seen to fight through and against the instinct to immediately blurt a laugh because damn straight, Della has it right.

But then again, this is a period fraught with assumptions and societal cliques.

"Yes, unfortunate that we'll have to report a dismissal like this," she adds, lifting her nose in additional defiance. "We intended to spend a good amount here in American dollars, which, as I'm sure you know, carry more weight than your current coin, but..." She shrugs. "We'll have to take our business elsewhere. A shame. We would have happily worn many of the things here."

The barista might be stalling because she can see Della attempting to at least eye-peruse and really, the shopkeeper is still spluttering. The chance of being physically bounced off the premises is very, very small.

Can someone look simultaneously horrified and appreciative? Della stalls her sidling to gauge the woman's reaction --

-- just in time for someone to barge in, muttering about the heat and how they need to keep things cool, lower the shades, missy, musn't let the wares fade. The manager, presumably. The door shuts behind her, not that Della thinks anything of it; this is a Dream, right? Turning back, she's focused on complimenting Ariadne with a murmured, "'Americans behaving badly' never looked so good!" right before she re-opens the door and steps back out --

-- into more of 1900s England. But this is still a Dream, surely. All good. "Where to next?" At least Della's seeking to draw them out of the way of an oncoming cart, but beyond that, she's pretty blasé.

"Look, I'm not going to take that bullshit just because I didn't wear a skirt today," mutters Ariadne back to her comrade. "But thank you kindly nonetheless."

Let the shopkeeper splutter away and complain the matron-manager of the property because what-ever, they're out of here. Nobody needs that kind of abuse.

Out on the sidewalk, the redhead comes to an abrupt halt and looks around with blatantly-wide eyes. "Della, the fuck," she breathes. "Next? That's -- " An early automobile passing the trundling cart they thankfully didn't walk in front of, courtesy of Della's watchfulness. Remaining close to Della in solidarity, Ariadne's mouth works silently for a little bit longer before she swallows. Man, some people are staring and some are just breezing by like we didn't notice those WEIRDOS, come, Bertrand, we're late for tea, DON'T STARE.

"Uh. Next. Another door? Another Door," the barista decides more firmly after a second. "Pick a door?"

"'Pick a door, any door!'" Della murmurs, standing close to Ariadne likewise. "Well, then, how about we wander along, see if anything looks appealing." She offers the redhead her elbow, the better to amble and not be separated, her other hand guarding her purse. "So, what do you think this is based on? It looks very 'ye olde British-y' and anything else that could end with an extra 'e.' Possibly 'pickpocket-e.' Points to whoever spots more Alice in Wonderland."

Ariadne can't help the cough-laugh and shake of head to follow the comment about Carroll's famous book.

"If we spot a Bandersnatch, I'm finding the nearest door no matter where it leads and going through it," she tells the other woman as she takes the offered elbow. Might as well: there's zero inclination to get Lost around here in this time period anyhow.

"It's British, yeah, listen to the accents. Majority British." As they walk slowly (Ariadne makes them keep a slower pace due to her looking around and up), the barista adds quietly, "Signs are for sales in pounds sterling. Top hats. Bustles. Maybe it we can find a newspaper stand? Wait." Shaking her head, the woman tries to avoid eye contact with the world in general. "A newsboy handing flyers out? Isn't that how it works right now?"

"The Bandersnatch wasn't so bad, was she? She tried to make things work, admittedly to her advantage, but who wouldn't; or, is it that she hangs out with the making-things-disappear creature?" muses Della as they walk -- slowly, fine, she can do that. For Ariadne. And also for not stepping on... yeah, not that. "Good idea, the stand or flyers or whatever. The real question: do any of those bustles have chairs like Dita's. That was amazing." A few steps later, "Ooo, look at that cake in the window!"

It's not that Della goes full-on teenager -- or toddler -- during Dreams and Dream-adjacent scenarios, exactly, but sometimes they do seem to slip past her reserve in a way she wouldn't countenance were she actually a tourist. "Do you suppose this Dream gave you any period money -- " a snicker makes that, "period-suitable money? If you want to pull over, I'll check mine."

"Oh god," laughs Ariadne helplessly despite her general discomfit about everything. Period-suitable money -- "Yes, we need to check. American money isn't going to have any worth if it's nothing anyone can recognize."

It isn't wise to step up next to a building as it might be in modern times. Street cleanliness is for the path trod by the monied, not by those leaning back to smoke a cigarette or slouch against the wind or piss on it because one too many pints at the local pub or really who knows what else. As such, tucked as carefully as possible between the sidewalk and the cobblestone street, Ariadne reaches into the interior pocket of her sweatshirt. Her wallet comes out and she parts it to frown at its contents.

"Well...the bills didn't change, but the coins did?" Plucking out a coin, she turns it back and forth. "I can probably do small things if we're buying anything, but nothing grand."

Certainly Della's less aware of the subtleties of old tyme wall-issues on a general basis, and hasn't perused details of these, but there are several less-than-hygienic neighborhoods in their own time that she's been in... and walked quickly through. More importantly, she's happy to take Ariadne's cue, and keep a sharp eye out for thieves while she's at it. "Well, that's something, and if it's still gone when we get back, I'll pay you back."

And once the redhead's settled her things, "Watch out while I check? I don't know if I have any coins at all, but I can try. And the next question: do coins here equate to their buying power back home, or their face value.... Ariadne. Maybe our goal for the Dream," which this is not, "is to set up monetary exchanges -- no, a stock exchange! I can see it now. But one would think we'd have been given accountants' clothes, whatever those are here."

Unable to help herself, even as she keeps an eye-out for potential pick-pockets, Ariadne notes, "That's my name, don't wear it out."

More seriously, she continues, "You don't have to worry about paying me back. If the coins stay like they are, I'll keep them. They might come in handy sometime for another Dream. You're not wrong though." She breaks watching the clumps and singles walking along the sidewalk to quirk her brows at Della.

"No accountants' clothing. I doubt the Dream wants this. I'm assuming it's the general bent of things: make us as uncomfortable as possible. Case in point with crotchety pearl-clutcher back there," she thumbs in the direction of the clothing store they just left. "I couldn't guess about the buying power simply because if we're in something like the early 1900s? I have some vague memory about the presidents on the bills, my American bills, and not only that, but think about somebody reading the date they were printed. I hand off a one dollar bill printed in 1996 and suddenly, boom: me, jail, counterfeiting and insane."

Della's snicker is positively unladylike; as for the coins, "Fair enough." She actually does have a few bills in her wallet, not just driver's license and cards and all that, but coins... only a couple to click together, which she shows Ariadne on her palm before pocketing them and putting away the rest.

Resuming walking, should the redhead be similarly inclined, "Mmm, that makes sense. Goodness knows I've never felt as fish-out-of-water in my own clothes before... plus or minus the odd small town off a freeway. And no, no jail for you." There's a slight pause that isn't just for the scenery: what are those kids up to? "...Of course, now my brain wants to come up with reasons why we might actually want that, good and virtuous or at least interesting reasons, so I have to distract it. So. Where would you like to go? Just promenade and be stared at, or venture into another shop to find another pearl-clutcher or two? Or..."

She glances at Ariadne. "Is there anything you've always wanted to investigate? Even if it's not real."

"Yes, no jail for me, please, don't make Ravn have to open a Door to here to bust me out. He might argue the bobbies into the ground and then get arrested too for whatever reason." It's just funny enough of a mental image, the skirmish between Dane and police, that it makes Ariadne smile faintly despite her concerns. What are those kids up to...? She gives them a stern-enough look and wants dearly to mouth, stop staring, but that's drawing more attention than they already have.

The attention drawing appears to be significant enough to warrant someone actually stopping a traffic minder at the corner of the street ahead. Such a beetle-browed frown. This guy can't arrest them, but he knows someone who can. He just needs to detain the two under-dressed, societally-displeasing hooligan-women until Policemen Hastings and Kilburtle can come 'round the corner of the block. "Oy!"

Ariadne blinks and comes to a halt on the sidewalk. "Don't think promenading is an option. I think we need to find another Door. Shop." Ravn and Dita, grifters extraordinaire, must be rubbing off on her. "Pick a shop, any shop," the barista singsongs while she attempts to steer Della in the opposite direction of the traffic-minder. "If I were dressed to fit in, I would investigate to my heart's content. Right now? He might blow a whistle on us."

"Does he have a way to find you?" inquires Della, hopefully. Practically. She might follow up, but -- oy indeed, and she's being steered and then there's another corner and eenie meenie miney...

"Ooh." It's not a clothing shop. It's a fabric shop, and there are buttons and ribbons and Della walks right past the stationery store to slide right in, not at all stationary, quite as though she owns the place. Or ought to. "Perfect." Which is to say, or ask, "Better?"

"I honestly don't know if Ravn can find me or not, but let's not test the need to consider it!" Ariadne sounds far more cavalier than she might feel inside, but look at them beat feet away from the traffic-minder. Nobody can catch them now, they're wild and free, and the corner is taken and Della steers them into --

What appears to be a perfectly normal fabric shop! The interior is colorful by proxy of product and separated into the various types of goods at hand. Ariadne slows down near to the entrance and releases Della to her druthers, especially if that appears to be looking around the place. It's still of late 1900s standard and fabric choices as well as styles, but there's minor intrigue to be had. The barista meanders over to feel at what appears to be patterned sack-cloth and makes a soft, "Huh."

"I think we were fast enough that the bobbies aren't going to find us in here. They're probably going to think we scattered down an alley when noooooooooooooobody in their right might is going to go down an alley willingly around here." A glance over her shoulder and the barista squints at the front window of the shop. "Della, did...the...the wall outside beyond the window. Wasn't there not a wall? It looks...very natural." And lo, it does, with the small side street and bustling English city-life replaced by a bland, naturally-textured sheet of what appears to be rock. "Hello?" A call out into the fabric shop by the barista meets with silence.

Della gets a silent look of uncertainty.

Fabric choices. The lightest of lawn, resplendent in its deep pastels, through to darker, practical suiting: the way they feel, fresh from the mill, has Della dallying by the bolts, comparing and contrasting. "Here's hoping." She didn't snicker for bobbies, maybe she's read various British novels as well as all that sf, but there's certainly humor curving her lips. Or maybe that's for the ribbons; certainly she's started towards them, adding distractedly, "And no one with any sense would just go shop some more. Unless they have too much sense, like we do," obvs., "but then we get into the iocaine dilemma," and now she's just shy of laughing.

Until her name's called. Until she looks: at Ariadne, at the wall. At Ariadne again.

At the ribbons, just a peek as though memorizing before moving with new resolution to approach that wall, to touch that wall, to see if it leaves dust on her fingertips. "So-o, about that technique that Ravn may or may not have. Ignoring security concerns for the moment, it seems as though that could be useful. ...Because seriously, what on earth is this doing here?" As long as she's still investigating the rock, "It would be hil-arious if this were one-way glass." Which is to say, given her flattened tone, not so much.

Flatter yet: "There's bound to be an exit in the back." There had better be.

"Yeeeeah, I want there to be an exit in the back. And no land wars in Asia." Speaking of iocaine powder.

Ariadne can't help but also reach out to touch the rock wall. Perception translates to absolutely and convincingly like natural granite, complete with a spackling of thinnest lichen here and there. She frowns. "It feels colder too, Della. Feel that?" Like someone had left open the door to a giant freezer and only now comes the realization of the chill seeping in through...you guessed it, the back door behind the empty counter. Ariadne sighs and gives the door a suspicious, level look.

"I bet if you wanted to grab a bolt of something, nobody's stopping you. Literally." Gesturing out to her sides with both hands at the otherwise empty place, the redhead's mouth then twists slightly into something akin to an apologetic smile. "It's just a Dream, after all. I have no idea if you'd be able to bring it back with you or what, but what's going to happen if you can, y'know? It's fabric."

All at once, Della shivers. It's not the sliver of lichen on her thumbnail; it's not even the actual cold. Or not just that.

"To keep us warm, you mean? Just in case?" Because they aren't dressed for what that feels like. "That over there," she points, keeping her voice low, "felt like wool. One each, let's say, and if we get there and we don't need it, we can leave them behind." They can. If they want to, by then. "I mean, we aren't here just to make off with their stuff, right? We could really get in trouble."

Their stuff like that pretty, pretty ribbon that Della gives a longing look, right before she heads for the wool. Which is nice wool, surely, good quality and all that, but it's not the same.

Not the same as the ribbon, no, and while Della acts the truly more responsible of the two of them, Ariadne eyes the ribbon.

A short sigh. "Nobody's going to miss a ribbon...and it can always be left with the wool if need be. That cold though?" It's persistent, the cold, seeping around ankles now in invisible curls of goosebump-chasers. "I think we're going to need the wool. Here, let's..." Frowning, the barista then walks around until she finds a pair of fabric shears left sitting on the counter by a notepad, currently blank. "Not the entire bolt, right? Just enough to wrap around each of us and a little more," she suggests as she brings the shears over to Della.

"The shopkeeper would. Though I suppose a Dream-construct wouldn't? It's just going to dissolve when we're gone." Still, "I'd rather see if we're going to need it and then cut if we'll have to. Come on, bring those, let's hurry." Della snags out a couple bolts without too much cloth on them, though surely Ariadne could pick out a substitute if she likes, and then... and then Della drops by the ribbons on her way, because Ariadne's also right that they could leave them behind, and talk about vintage. She admits meanwhile, "It could be foolish to care, what with the dissolving. It's just, when I've brought things back before it hasn't been on purpose, or from a store, and this... what if the dolorphages want us to bring the shopkeeper grief?"

But it's also getting colder.

"I have no idea what those dolorphage fuckers want, but I'm not about to face down whatever's beyond the back storage room door over there without another layer of something on. We can always leave some coin? Remember? The Dream changed over the coinage to something local?" Ariadne still has the fabric shears, sharp of blade, and carefully slips them momentarily into her jean pocket in order to fish out her wallet.

Coins gleam silvery on the counter now along with a five-dollar bill because, "Five dollars is a lot of money for nineteen...whenever we were, so that should cover everything, including the ribbon. Brr." Palms rub at the outsides of her arms as she looks over at the storage door again. "Here, let's get some of the wool cut so we can at least go through the door wearing some of it first? It seems silly to cut it after we see what's going on, y'know?" Shears gleam again in her hands.

"Mmm, good point. I hope it's enough." It means that, after flopping one bolt open enough that her ally should have a good portion to cut off, Della eyes the bill that didn't change over... but doesn't argue. She adds her own few coins, but something about her expression suggests she knows she's taking advantage. While flopping out the second length, "Any idea how long kilts are? Or are we just looking at a portable blanket? I really would've liked to see what's going on first, to prepare, but if it's this cold with the door closed..." well.

The supple silk ribbons are exquisite, at least: one jacquard-woven, somewhere between geometric and lavishly floral, and the other a faille that shimmers from one color to the next.

"Maybe bring those shears too."

"I was thinking blanketing myself, since we already have clothing. It feels like it's quality wool and it should be fairly waterproof. It's not the treated stuff, but maybe we should be happy for that. If I'm remembering correctly, it's sheep's fat used to treat it and the stuff gets a bit rank over time," Ariadne says with a little grimace.

The shears in question get to work, cutting off a large portion and enough to wrap around herself plus a little more. "And I'm hella bringing these, yes," she agrees, snip-snipping the shears to accent her point. "They're sharp. I don't know what to expect. Forearmed is best." A length enough of wool is cut off for Della and Ariadne carefully pockets the shears again.

"Okay," she sighs. "Door." Wrapping the wool around herself, she pauses. "...do you think there's a safety pin somewhere around here? I don't have any cloak pins myself." Makeshift cloak, as it stands.

"Lovely." That for the sheep's fat.

"Tell you what. I'll look. Quickly." And while she's at it, "Do you see any other ways out?"

'Quickly' doesn't get her safety pins -- probably Della's looking in the wrong section -- but she does find brooches behind glass; this may not be a jewelry store as such, but apparently they have some geegaws, simple golden metal in various shapes with, "Ever heard of 'Mizpah'?" on them. Then she's clutching on the wool drapery, not even worrying about which side should be out, and adding a brooch or two of her own.

"I...don't think I've heard of the word before. I can guess that it's a Jewish phrase by how it sounds? But that's it." There's a bit of hesitance in how Ariadne takes one of the brooches and pins her own bundling of woolen material roughly closed around her shoulders. It's not a perfect draping to cover her front, but it's better than nothing. She can already feel it keeping a noticeable amount of the cold emanating from the stock room door away.

"And I don't see any other way out, soooo...I guess it's this door or bust," she adds, grimacing at it. "Ready?"

"Insert Oregon Trail reference here," Della mutters back, stashing the ribbon in her purse. "I have a sudden urge to grab all the things that could possibly be useful, but no. We're doing this."

She holds out her hand for Ariadne, too. Just in case.

Even with the situation, Ariadne can't help the little snort-laugh. "Oh god, right? Hope our oxen survive fording the river," she quips as she stares at the back storage door. Noting Della's hand, she looks at the woman and then takes it with a curt nod -- we got this.

-- and then reaches out to open the door. Door.

It opens inwards for them, outwards onto...a whole other place entirely.

Waist-high sagebrush pockets a and open land otherwise glacially devoid of anything except large, tumbled boulders. It's as cold as promised by what temperature was seeping through the door, maybe in the low forties, and beyond down the slope runs a river larger than anything Ariadne has ever seen. Large chunks of ice float in it like miniature icebergs. The cataract stretches at least as long as a city block, maybe two, and water thunders over its edge into the river below. Ariadne hasn't taken another step further because she's staring like she's seen a ghost.

And in a way, she has because that? That is a wooly mammoth at the river bank, trunking water into its mouth.

Welcome to Washington State, era? Pleistocene.

Della outright stares past Ariadne's shoulder. "Now that's exciting." And also cold. "Last time I saw one of those, it was Shadow of the Colossus. 2." There's an odd tone to her words, but perhaps that's just... seeing a mammoth.

And perhaps that's why she's quiet for a time: look at that.

Even when she does speak again, her voice is low. "Let's not fall into that river. Sure you want to head that way?" If she knew about Doors, she might be extra concerned -- what other Doors are out there in an age like this? -- but as it is... it's just cold.

And possibly stompy.

"...holy shit, right? I remember Shadow of the Colossus 2. The visuals were epic, but then there's this." Ariadne's subtle gesture towards the behemoth creature is about as subtle as it can get; no need to attract attention here! "Seeing is believing."

Distant sounds are heard even overtop the murmur-roar of the wide cataract-falls. It makes the mammoth look up from drinking and the redhead goes hilarious still, as if it might hide her and Della behind her all the better. Back the creature goes to drinking.

"No, no river water. It's glacier melt or at least more than half glacier melt. That's a killer temperature." Glancing over her shoulder, she sees the storage room door in an odd discordance with what appears to be an otherwise natural cave in a lifted bunching of rocks pushing up from the plains-turf. "I...think that's still just a one way? Like, it'd lead us back to the dead end of the fabric store. Maybe...okay, doors. Doors. Another cave? Maybe it's another cave we need to find?"

Another sound overtop the river's roar and the mammoth lifts its head and looks off into the distance. Did that sound like a very large predatory cry? It did. Ariadne swallows carefully.

Della's low cough of a laugh agrees: it is believing. She's nodding for glacier melt -- of course it's glacier melt, and good thing Ravn and Jules hadn't wound up in that -- "Another cave, we can try for that." The realization of those rocks not only out there but right here, something like a wall, something like 'not completely out in the middle of stompable country' seems to reassure her, even; "Here." She crouches to wedge a smaller rock in the door, just in case. With Dreams, one never knows... but then, it shouldn't hurt.

Should it?

She's slower to stand, and slower yet to lean out from the rocks and try to look. Murmured, "Maybe what we're supposed to do it witness. Maybe what we're supposed to not do is play 'dodge the creatures.' I am trusting that we won't actually have to climb and stab them."

Ariadne has just enough curiosity to counter her fear to have poked her head out into clear view. That thing is just...ginormous. The skeletons she knows are big, yes, but they've always lacked the mass of muscle and thick fur coat as well as trunk. Behemoth is apt.

"Uh...we're not enabled at all to take down one of these things without something like a long bolas because stabbing it isn't going to do jack-shit. I'd take it out by tangling up its legs, personally, but again...suuuuuuuuper not looking to engage. No aggro. None."

Yet again, another one of those predatory calls and the mammoth looks antsy now; its large skull swings left and right before it starts backing up to turn and wander on down the riverbed. Each step literally shakes the earth nearby. It makes Ariadne duck down mostly behind the rocks but for her owlish eyes.

"I'm wondering if it's get from point A," she thumbs at the propped-open door -- good call, Della. " -- to point B," and then points in the vague distance of more outcroppings of rock. "Thing is...whatever's calling out, it's making my gut do funny cold things and even though we're from 2022, I am very inclined to listen to my gut. Make a run for it? Or wait and see if something shows up and hope we can hide?"

'No aggro,' and Della laughs again, even quieter now. "No, no, save that for the game." It's huge. Della can admire it, even, from their little refuge: the slant of its spine, the curve of its tusks.

And bolas, tangling: it's the combination that jogs her memory. "Are those the ropes with weights on either end? I remember reading about them as a kid, couldn't tell you which book. Maybe something with horses, or an ostrich. Do you know how to use them?" They could be in the backyard of 5 Oak right now instead of huddling, and in Della's case shivering, and hiding.

As for Ariadne's gut, "I'm very inclined to retreat and pile up all the fabric against the door to keep the cold out, and wait until it's gone. Or... walk in a way that mightn't attract as much attention. But. You want to run? I'm game." She re-tucks the wool around her, even, hiking it where she mightn't trip; checks her purse; checks the footing. Glances at her companion. She can go.

"Mmm...shit," hisses Ariadne. Indecision means the mammoth stops in its turn and seems to be scenting the air with a lift of its trunk. She now ducks down and remains out of immediate sight like Della. It's definitely the wiser option; whatever sound the mammoth is making is only barely high enough to register to their ears, but certainly intense enough to literally vibrate in their rib cages. It makes Ariadne's eyes go wide and mouth part in surprise as she stares at the other woman. 'Holy shit!' is mouthed at Della.

The sound stops and the barista blinks a few times, rubbing at her sternum through the fall of wool. "Let's wait, yeah, it sounds like it's getting antsy. I don't want to be drop-kicked. You're right about the bolas though, it's meant to wrap around legs and trip up the target. We'd need a helluva set of bolas to get past that thing though, hence waiting is probably the best idea."

But then -- because nothing can ever be simple when the Veil is involved --

That predatory call is waaaaaaay closer now...and it kind of sounded a bit like a lion.

But there aren't any lions around here, not at this latitude in this epoch.

Ariadne goes visibly pale. "SHIT!!!" she spits before slapping a hand to her mouth.

Wide eyes, fervent nodding: yeah. Yeah. Later, when and if they're safely back and sharing the play-by-play, she might liken the feeling to being way too close to stage subwoofers; now... Della's trying to be quiet.

She is.

It's just that, 'Set of bolas,' particularly a helluva set of bolas, threatens to get a snicker out of her anyway; she can stifle it to barely a squeak, but that's sure not saying much. "SHH!" is reflexive, but too late: Ariadne's already silencing herself.

Which means that Della has to peek. Yes, she does. Very slowly, intended to keep from drawing the attention of something looking for prey... but yes. Which doesn't do anything for her scent, but... maybe being so secluded helps keep them from the breeze as well?

Another predatory call resounds before Della's vision breaks the top of the boulders otherwise secluding them from the impending interaction between the lone mammoth and whatever's on approach.

She'll see the mammoth begin to look anxious now, its trunk a S-shaped curve as it continues scenting the air. Turning in place, it also reveals its issue: an injured limb. It can't put much weight on one of its front legs and when its head swings around, it reveals another wet, dark patch on its front fur along with a broken tusk. This one lost a rutting contest in the worst manner possible.

No wonder it's attracted visitors.

Over the knoll to the left, the first of the Smilodon appears. At this distance, it doesn't look too big...but those teeth are apparent even from here and so is its interest in the lone mammoth. How beautiful, the light spotting over its coat to help it blend into the glacial-plains environment. One becomes two...becomes four...becomes seven...becomes nine -- and now at this distance, it's apparent these creatures are tall enough at the shoulder to reach either woman's lowest ribs.

Ariadne dares a look over the boulder too, her hand still pressed indented over her mouth. Her eyes go wide at the Smilodon as they begin to filter down the hillside in rolling approach to the mammoth. It rumble-trumpets and turns to threat display. It's titanic when bluffing. Thing is? It's still bleeding and it's injured. The large cats, working as a unit, are aware of it if still very wary of the size of the mammoth.

One seems to pause and lift its nose to the wind, whiskers wrinkling.

Ariadne ducks immediately and squinches her eyes shut. NO NO NO NO NO --

Della's looking anxious too: it's one thing to have a mammoth be trotting along, and it's still another to see it injured and increasingly disturbed and hurting. She tucks the long side of her hair, the side that's not clipped decoratively up, behind her ear -- but she's also gotten out her phone again, because pictures. It's one way to navigate the anxiety, to bring herself back. Plus, it's amazing.

The more so with the big cats. This could be a card, a book cover, a jigsaw puzzle; she'd just have to touch it up so it looked created. Video, too, for the way they move. But even as one sniffs the air, she's ducking too. She reaches for Ariadne's shoulder, one finger going to her lips: shhh. As though it hasn't even registered that Ariadne hadn't said it out loud.

And then? The mammoth is so huge, but there's also that literally-alluring blood-smell; if the cats' sounds seem focused there, she can use her phone to peek in a little while. If there are sounds coming their way, rustling the sagebrush... a glance calculates the angle to take, to sweep them both inside, just in case.

And all the while, the cataract thunders on.

It hasn't crossed Ariadne's mind to take footage of this incident. Della will have some unbelievable recordings one way or another! When Della's hand lands on her shoulder, the redhead jolts in place and stares at her. Had she made a sound?! Her hand is over her own mouth! A nod nonetheless, reactively, just in case she had peeped.

The mammoth rumbles again and continues attempting to look as defiantly large as possible. One of the Smilodon snarls on approach, its amazing teeth bared and ears back. Nine in the pride should be sufficient for taking down the giant herbivore, even if it isn't immediate. The one sniffing the air is pulled back to purpose by the others growling in agreement -- and the hunt is on. The feints at the creature's large limbs begin, dust and loam being kicked up. The mammoth back-steps its hind legs into the glacial river with tremendous muted splash-thumps sounding not too unlike underwater grenades. Another trumpeting and swing of its long trunk; the sweep of its unbroken tusk rips up sagebrush with shocking ease.

Flinching at the loud sounds, Ariadne sees if she too can cheat via Della's phone. Clever! She's just projecting at top volume unknowingly. Run, need to run next, run while they're distracted.

It isn't the easiest to aim the phone to show what they're looking for and still be able to see as well, especially with all that dust -- for both of them to see -- but Della aims for it; she glances back at the redhead's exclamation, starting to shush her, then finally realizes and has to shush her own adrenaline-filled laugh. Wild. This is wild. "If you're sure," she whispers just as quietly as she can and still be heard. And it must be hard to leave their little hideout, with a door that ought to shut, but... "Go. When they're all busy, go. I'll follow you."

Nod, yes, Ariadne is sure. Lingering here feels like asking to be cornered. Nod-nod, yes, follow her, yes, oh god.

One can see her throat work as she moves with rusted joints to the edge of the boulder collection, needing to inch around Della to do it. All the while, the ground continues rumbling nearly consistently; the mammoth is dancing to avoid having its hamstrings attacked. The Smilodon are eerily silent in comparison and choose to reserve their wind for their efforts, not for making sound. Water splashes in geysers up and onto the shoreline, drenching more than one large-toothed cat.

Steeling herself, the barista exits from behind the boulders and tries to keep the lowest profile possible. It helps that the sagebrush clumpings are thicker through here and naturally taller due to the environment not stunting them. Atop this, the wool itself isn't any gaudy color! It seems for the immediate moment, Ariadne trying to make it to the next large outcropping is unseen by any of the creatures embattled on the riverbed.

Della flattens herself to the rocks, making room for Ariadne as best she can; along the way, whispered, "Remember your shears." She hasn't any, but while the redhead takes those first trial steps, she reaches down for a rock of a good size to throw. Just in case.

And then comes following Ariadne, both in direction and in method, aiming for neither too fast (attracts attention) or too slow (won't get there in time). Deliberate. Not too purposeful-seeming, not just in one straight line). Follow the footing.

(Those cats. Those quiet, quiet cats. It's hard to not keep checking again and again and again.)

When she has time, she narrows her eyes at that upcoming outcropping, searching for a way in. A way out. And if not there, whatever lies beyond. This would have been a good time to have worn closed-toe shoes.

Checking again and again is wise. The Smilodon are engaged in full now, but it doesn't mean movement isn't attractive to a predator settled into full attack mode. Again and again, they harass the mammoth; it seems a stalemate for how the gigantic herbivore has back its hind legs deep into the glacially cold waters. If the Smilodon are smart, they'll be patient. Cold saps heat from any living thing, large or small.

Shockingly, the shadow of the outcropping is reached without realization by the feline predators. Ariadne stumble-crawls into the lee of a particularly large boulder and allows herself a shuddering sigh of relief which almost comes out as a hiccup. Almost.

"I forgot about the shears," she whispers at top speed to Della, eyes wide and countenance pale. "Cave. We're looking for another cave." At this point, they're downwind of the Smilodon and risk no discovery. "Gotta look around these rocks."

Della, by now leaning awkwardly against its neighbor, holds up a finger; then she's bracing her foot on her opposite knee. Someone got a thorn in her paw.

It requires some craning for her to get it out, but then she pockets it (and its tiny amount of blood) and picks her throw-worthy stone back up. "Let's hope you don't need them," Della whispers back. "Cave, we'll do that." If it's there, she doesn't say. In the moment, in this moment, she's not panicked; she's aiming to meet Ariadne's gaze, aiming for reassurance. "We'll just watch our footing, don't want to disturb any rocks." In a deliberate imitation of Una, her eyes smiling, "It'll be fine."

One more deep breath she allows herself -- this isn't that other desert with the camel-riders and their blue, blue robes -- before slinking out to gradually round the outcropping, searching, trying to keep all that rock between her and Ariadne and them.

Ariadne has a sympathetic wince for the thorn, even with the sounds of the stand-off continuing behind and dozens of yards beyond. The ground continues to rumble in its unpredictable cadence of mammoth feet trampling turf. No Smilodon has yowled yet; it almost seems an impending threat of sound. She nods agreement with Della's plan and falls in behind her. Thank god for sneakers even if her camisole isn't warm at all.

Unfortunately, this particular outcropping seems to be mostly one big solid if malformed lump of granite. Any holes considered big enough to be caves are too small for humans to shoulder into. Something squeaks inside the darkness of one hole.

Ariadne risks another look at the scuffle down the slope. A Smilodon is hanging off of the mammoth's shoulder like a toothy burr and aiming for a bruising by the incoming swing of trunk. She doesn't want to see this. It means ducking back down and shuffling low over to Della again.

"I don't think it's here," she whispers loudly with a grimace. "Maybe it's that one?" Option A. Or Option B or...damnit, there's a lot of outcroppings. "Can you think of a way to somehow...find it? Like using a radar to ping? Or seeing something?"

Waiting for the ax to fall --

Della's eyeing even the small holes, but she definitely isn't sticking her hand into one, especially not the one that squeaks. She does follow Ariadne's look, though... and looks a little longer. And winces, before she turns away.

Finger held to her lips just as soon as she can hear Ariadne talking, she keeps her own whisper down. "Not especially -- well, hm. At the risk of being Asami -- you watched Legend of Korra? -- here." She gets out her phone again, careful, careful: time to zoom, and not the magic way. Ariadne can peek over her shoulder if she likes, or watch for creatures. "Sadly, our magic device only lets us see one side at once, and even then, just clues."

-- But that's a big shadow-shaped clue, right there.

The biologist in Ariadne knows how the battle royale is going to distract enough for them to be safe(ish), especially at this distance. Thus, she cranes her neck to see Della's phone screen too.

Her brows meet. Hazel eyes rise to look at the outcropping in question and then back at the phone screen. Her senses are telling her this outcropping has a standard shadow; the phone is saying something else.

"Son of a bitch, Della, that worked! That's got to be it." That outcropping there.

Across wide open space. Two city block's worth.

It looks too easy. Ariadne swallows. "I mean...we could make a run for it," she suggests ruefully because what other recourse is there, really?

"A fast run or a slow run?" Della only half-jokes. "A quiet run?" Is she stalling? By her expression, she knows it. She runs her tongue around the inside of her mouth, then swallows.

Eyeing the sagebrush, "If it wouldn't make a noise, we could break some off and Birnam Wood the suckers, except retreating." But as it is, the not-biologist supposes, "We could creep. Like creepy creepers who aren't too creepily slow. The others are too far to have decent res."

Also, right before she pulls up her wool like a hood and starts for it-- unless Ariadne forestalls her, anyway -- "My back's going to kill me." If nothing else does, first.

One can see Ariadne's mouth shape the words, 'Birnam Wood'. She knows it, and she knows she does, but between adrenaline and the sudden ear-ringing trumpet-roar of the enraged mammoth, it's not rattling into place. Curling up a shoulder at the volume of the sound not terribly blunted by the outcropping, she nods and palms the shears like a dagger, point down and readied.

"Let's hope nothing else does," echoes the barista of the sentiment about spines.

Out they go, breaking cover, and again, the color of the wool behooves them. For how fantastic the sheer square miles upon miles of wild bereft of humanity, the colors aren't found here right now on the glacial plains. Spring's flowers are gone and the berries of autumn are yet to show. If anything, they're two creepy creepers doing their creepy thing at not-too-slow a creepy pace towards the distant outcropping.

And a nearby herd of ancient bison, even larger than their modern counterparts, watch these two creeper-creepins doing their creepy thing with a remarkably placid interest. Probably for the best; some of the mothers still have calves.

Della's sure covering her ears at that trumpeting, but that's the luxury lent someone who doesn't have to deal with not stabbing herself (or her companion). ...On the other hand, that's also someone without the tools of wool destruction.

Della creeps. If she peeps, it's only to take a look, and not the sort of thing that a baby bird (or bison) might do. Really, it's a good thing the ground's not too steep. She's careful with where she steps, even if that means getting more dirt in her sandals, plus one too-quick sidestep away from future coprolites. It takes forever.

At least they're almost there. Almost. Close enough?

It feels like an eternity's worth of a crossing between the potential of the bison and the sounds of the ancient battle still ongoing. There's a panicked-sounding trumpet from the mammoth; one of the Smilodons must have landed a painful blow -- though almost in retort, there's quickly a startled YOWRRRL afterwards, as if the furry behemoth had counter-scored in turn.

Ariadne can't help but goose into the long, over-sized shadow of the glacial rock outcropping at the large cat's roar in particular. It's one thing to hear it on TV; it's very much another to have nothing but wits and distraction between oneself and the creatures in question.

Tucking herself up against a flat shelf of vertical rock, she outstretches her hand for Della. There's no real reason to do it, no lurking menace or need to pull her up -- just a simple human connection, come here quicker! There's an odd sensation lurking in the back of her mind anyhow. It feels...more electrical in this area, like a forcefield or magnetism.

Good for the mammoth. Della looks back --

-- and doesn't turn into a pillar of salt, so there's that. One, two, and there is no three, because she's back in time to see Ariadne's hand and quite naturally she takes it. Quicker. She can do that. She does do that, leaning up close to Ariadne and the rock with its cold minerally smell, the hint of sagebrush still clinging to the wool. She breathes in, deep, filling her lungs with the air of this epoch.

In the shadow of the outcropping, there truly is a breathless sense of potential. Ariadne too inhales in unconscious social mimicry and lets it out in a shuddering exhale almost relieved. Almost. She can dare a tiny bit.

"It's got to be around here, another Door," she murmurs. It seems unwise to speak any louder when Della's right there; even if the mammoth and its attackers could hear through their own scuffle, they're far too involved. Another trumpet and another yowl -- ouch. somebody got backhanded cross-court, Wimbledon style. "Thank god the bison just thought we were weird and not a threat. Here, come on, we'll circle around." Now that there's distance, Ariadne seems more confident in her ability to navigate the environment. The fabric shears certainly haven't left her other hand anyhow. She starts to pick her way around the flattest possible sections of rock nearer to the base of the outcropping and doesn't drop Della's hand unless absolutely necessary.

The yowl makes Della flinch, where the trumpet hadn't. Though she's no biologist, may not even have noticed the animals' reaction, "Definitely." Best if nothing sees them as a threat.

Under her breath as they go, words dipping in and out of her whisper, "...go first / and I will follow. / Category is..." She's that much more careful, not less, for staying linked up with Ariadne: best she not trip and take the other woman with her; best she stay stable if Ariadne trips, to help her up. The leeward side of the outcropping is less sere, lichens and other plants growing up against it, even one with buds that show a trace of red at their tips... but nothing that jumps out at them. No surprises, not even the sweet-smelling types, except in that this all is.

"...I feel like I've heard that somewhere before." The whisper floats back from ahead, where Ariadne kneels on a slightly-inclined flat of granite rock. She certainly looks the part of someone attempting to be furtive, what with the drape of the wool and the attempt to hood it up and over her brighter hair. A glance back at Della and faint smile. "Is it something like I Spy? Because I do spy with my little eye..."

A circling gesture of the fabric shears: "What looks like a cave right there."

It can be seen by the natural fall of rock forming a bulwark against the wind. Darkness within is naturally deep in comparison to the sunlit afternoon. The mammoth screams now, a sound of success for the Smilodon. It makes the barista wince despite herself -- the sound will carry for miles. They've got to get out of here.

I Spy, "Also perfect for little nieces," Della murmurs back, only to narrow her eyes at the cave in question. The mammoth's outcry doesn't spike her adrenaline; instead, even more quietly, "That should keep them busy. Here." She crouches, setting down her rock just long enough to pick up a pebble and toss it, underhand, gently into the dark area.

Rather than banging off a darker stone barrier, some natural trompe l'oeil, it rattles and then comes to a stop. But there's no squeak as from the other, smaller dark hole, no squall from something outraged, not even the quieter meow of an ordinary housecat come to see what's up. "Let's give it a go." She offers her hand back, too. Just in case.

Nodding approval for the idea of the stone, the barista's eyes track its thrown path. She listens just as hard for the sound of something being vastly irritated by a sudden barrage, but...nothing.

It bodes well, especially in a time like this.

Della reaches out and Ariadne takes her hand again. "Yep, nothing for it," she agrees. A short huff of a preparatory sigh before the young woman begins working her way down towards the cave entrance. It takes a bit of a slide down the last tilted slab of natural granite, but it deposits them right outside the cave. "Alright." Another glance at Della and fretted lip. "Here we go."

Boldly, far more brave by appearance than in truth, Ariadne strides into the darkness.

Down they go. Della's wincing when they slide -- some of those rock bits are sharp -- but she recovers herself and gives her companion a firm, reassuring nod. They've got this. "Once more unto the breach," she murmurs. "Into."

And as they enter -- first fully into the outcropping's shadow and then under an irregular archway that they have to duck to get the rest of the way past -- the rock underfoot fragments to gravel, while peculiar moss fluoresces dimly along the walls that lean so close to either side. Then, the more-crevice-than-tunnel turns sharply to the side and that odd, electrical sensation -- that forcefield --

-- disappears.

But not before it zaps.

There's a tiny part of her which wonders at the bioluminescence of the moss. How beautiful, dim as it is, even if it sheds nowhere near enough light to do anything more than look delightful and not spare anyone's toes from denting into an unseen rock. At least the rocks do feel smaller and steadier? She hasn't let go of Della's hand as they've traveled along and doesn't do so through the sudden angle of the cave's passageway.

It takes almost both physical and mental will to breach the forcefield, but then --

"EEEEP!!!!"

It's a bit like being hit in the butt-cheek with a cattle prod -- thank god at lesser voltage than an actual prod.

But how Ariadne yelps as she springs forward in reaction. It leaves her shifted from cave-darkness to Gray Harbor afternoon in a dazzling flash to the senses. She's got a death grip on Della's hand still. Hopefully Della's shoulder is still intact!

Della's protest is guttural, torn from her throat -- she might have stepped back if it weren't for Ariadne's grip, and if her shoulder winds up sore later, worth it. But it's so bright --

And crowded, people complaining to get out of their way --

But in English, their English, and the smell of pizza is in the air.

She should let go. She can't right away, but then she does, staring at Ariadne in absolute wonder and never mind the tourists agitating for a bite to eat. "What was that?"

Oh, wait -- they're -- they're in the way of the door to one of the smaller pizza parlors along the window shopping route they'd been engaging in before -- before -- England and changing currency and rocks and mammoths and --

Ariadne leads Della off to one side, away from the door, while the tourists give them odd looks. Is there a LARP convention nearby? Those are the worst Hobbit costumes ever seen.

"Oh, thank god, we're back," the barista breathes in a wave of relief so deep that it threatens to steal her sight and constitution of knees both. Leaning a shoulder against the outside wall between two store windows helps. "Door. Door, had to be a Door, you..." She holds up the fabric shears and looks rueful. "...Veil let us bring stuff back again, damnit." Ariadne, at least, is also still swathed in wool, sporting a pin at her throat.

As is Della: hot wool with bits of sagebrush stuck in, dust, the occasional bit of moss that just looks like dirt in daylight. Let's not look at her feet. (The scrapes might be taken for hobbit-hairy.) "That is wild."

The air smells different here. Different than Olde Englande with its smoke and closeness; different than than Mammoth Country with blood just a little too distant to be on the wind. There are tourists, crowding and talking and buzzing, but it's not the same as the cataract. The sidewalk is steady underfoot, crafted for humans to walk upon and not be run over. Humans are expected to pick up what their dogs have defecated.

"Door? Those doors you were talking about before -- you weren't talking about normal doors, were you." Was she? "My sixth-grade science teacher would have loved it." Did Della? She doesn't say, maybe doesn't know, this soon after. "I didn't feel that zap on the way in, did you? Just the way out." She starts to reach back with both hands, to run them through her hair, then realizes she's still holding that nice throwable rock. Of all the things to bring back -- "I like the sound of ice cream." Maybe it's the shape. But also, "Sam. When we were skulking through the sagebrush, I couldn't help but think about Sam, how it might have been like if he were there."

Mild horror passes over Ariadne's face, then followed by another facet of relief. "I...can't imagine how that would have gone, with Sam there. He's a dog, I wouldn't have expected him to be quiet at all -- and he's all of thirty pounds, that's nothing compared to any animal there. I would have been more scared than I was." She pockets the shears now in her jeans and just takes a moment to stand and breathe normal Gray Harbor air.

"I can't believe we still have all of this, with us. Nothing came back with me when Ravn and I somehow managed to walk through a Door into a King Arthur's side-story and Jules and I ended up in modern-day Paris, not in alternate-reality Paris, so the bread and cheese, that's all normal." Trembling fingers try to remove the pin from at her throat, but they're shaking too much to do much at first. "But -- Doors, yes, Veil traps as far as I'm concerned. The Veil being a bastard and just letting us walk through to somewhere else we didn't agree to go to. Easy harvests for the dolorphages, with the freak-out and despair and anger and all."

Della's nodding -- and then, while Ariadne's breathing that normal air, she's digging out her phone and... there's a sigh of relief, of absolute relief, and a murmur of its being the same day, no, they've only lost, what, fifteen minutes --

And then she can concentrate, or try. "Doors. Veil traps. So they're doors into Dreams? Or they're like Dreams but not? Here..." She can help with the pin, or try, and suffer her own wool casing that much longer. It's taking a little while to thaw. "It's funny how sometimes things come back with people and sometimes not. You'd laugh at how often I have to wash my sheets."

One can see the belated self-consternation cross Ariadne's face. Oh yeah: she's got a phone too, duh. Her relief is equally palpable.

-- but it's hard not to feel like a teenager before the big Prom when she has to give up trying with shaking fingers and let Della fuss with removing the pin. It means canting her face upwards and scowling up at the topline of the buildings next to them. "I seriously can't imagine, what with how this shit works half the time..." she grumbles of needing to wash sheets. "I've been lucky enough to need to do it only...thrice." Reaching out, she knocks knuckles on a convenient storefront windowsill framing of wood. "Dreams but not, I think, another variant of them. Not needing to be asleep for them. I hate it something awful, but I bet that's half of the point: some new way to torment and the cookies are whatever we manage to bring back. Good humans, be happy with the things and that you're not dead instead."

Even just that glimpse before Della really settles in to work -- has she seen Ariadne scowl, ever? Her own brows tuck in, but at least her fingers are deft when it comes to pinning on the corsage -- er, removing the not-so-petal-like wool wrap. The greater difficulty is extricating the pin from the wool itself without snagging but then... then. A faint smile returns to her lips, and it's not just for the touched wood; "There you go." She steps back, presenting the pin on her outstretched palm. "You sound like Ravn," she says affectionately. "At least, that's the resonance that came through, not to imply that came from him. Well, I'm glad to know this exists; I just wish... I could put it on my calendar, you know? What if we lost lots of time instead of just a little bit? We still have the whole day ahead."

"Though I for one could use a shower. If only those Doors came with neon signs."

"Thank you." Ariadne takes the pin back and shrugs out of the wool, glancing up from hanging it over her arm. Della's comment makes the scowl break to a startled (and pleased) chime of a laugh.

"Well...kind of been hanging around him lately. It's been enlightening, what can I say?" she shrugs and smiles a little crookedly. On a sigh to follow, she agrees, "But a shower sounds amazing. I drove out here, do you need a ride back to Oak street? I know those shoes weren't the best for dealing with...all of that."

Y'know: mammoths and Smilodons and glacial plains...and that was after having to scarper from the bobbies, as it were. Della's poor feet get a wince of empathy.

And then Della's laughing too, not without relief: that could have gone wrong. She tilts her head, tugging a bit of sagebrush out of her hair, and starts to drop it on the ground before sticking it in her jeans pocket instead; unpinning herself will take a little longer. And she doesn't look at her poor feet. "I'd love one, thanks. Time to live in sneakers? Except it's summer and my toes want to be free." She starts to wiggle them, winces, and then laughs all over again. "All right, off we go. And when you get home, give my best to Sam, he of the silky ears. I imagine he'll have a lot to sniff, and be very, very glad you're back."