2022-06-14 - [Door into Summer] Pourhouse Speakeasy

Isolde is standing near the bar, looking a mix of confused and awed. She had come in through the backdoor to start her shift and instead found herself here. Hopefully Leon wouldn’t mind her being late? Though Isolde wasn’t entirely sure how easy it would be to get back. Her jeans and t-shirt had been traded out for a green flapper dress with matching hat and shoes.

Head to the Pourhouse for a beer with Rick and Benny the lobster fight enthusiasts, talk about the new Seattle Blue that somebody is training, and how it will do against Miss Pinkett the Ghost Lobster that reins supreme this season. Find yourself stepping into the Roaring Twenties. The worst part of it is that Ravn's immediate reaction is not even surprise -- he just looks around, and then he looks down at himself to see what he's wearing.

When he dropped into Rome anno 64 AD he was at least dressed like a Roman patrician. When he fell into Pompeii a few years later, he wasn't. It's kind of important for how you handle yourself in this kind of situation. How well you blend in.

He's not really surprised to catch a glimpse of his own reflection in a wall mirror -- there, no doubt, to reflect light and figures, making the room look even larger. Black trousers, black shirt, black vest, black blazer -- and the white collar of a Roman Catholic Priest.

Again.

He pinches the bridge of his nose. Yes. Who doesn't want to be cast as some priest, no doubt hoping to save a few flapper souls at an extravagant party? Probably an illegal party at that -- bloody hell, it'd take a fanatic to decide to stomp into a speakeasy during Prohibition in order to talk flat-chested, frivolous, short-haired flapper girls into putting on a corset, growing out their hair, giving up alcohol, smoking, and dancing, in order to become good housewives and mothers.

He decides on the spot that he's not going to be that priest. Whatever this Dream intends, he's going to be the other kind of priest -- the one who's here to drink too, and be a bloody hypocrite. Because the only thing he wants right now is a drink. And then to find out if he's the only one here misplaced in time -- or there are others. There are usually others.

Finch was just on her way to the Pourhouse to meet up with an old college friend from New York who was passing through on their way to Portland. She tried to tell them the Twofer was a less hole-in-the-wall place, but they insisted. Of course they did. She knows exactly why the moment she steps through the door and winds up in the 1920s. The Veil has a way of getting you to the place it wants you, even if it has to do it subtly because you've become wary as all get out after a lifetime in this town.

Her jeans, Chucks, and V-neck blouse have transformed into a glittery, art-deco 1920s dress bedazzled with black and silver hand sewn beading that today, would cost her half a year's salary. Mule-like heels are on her feet, and she's already cursing them, because she isn't big on wearing heels, let alone ones from the 20s long before women's comfort was ever taken into consideration with regards to footwear. Her long, dark hair has been elaborately twisted, pinned, and finger-waved to pass for the shorter styles in vogue, and held in place with a headband adorned with rhinestones and feathers.

She looks around for her college buddy and lets out a sigh of relief when she doesn't see them. Just bait for her then. That frees her up a lot. She looks around for familiar faces in unfamiliar clothing, and blinks over at the priest. "Ravn?" she calls, trying not to laugh at the collar.

Another day filled with apologizing to people and trying to get things back on track. The woman's nerves are shot, and right now, what Ava could really use is a drink. Maybe a few. A quick text is sent off to let someone know where she's headed before she tugs at the door leading into the Pourhouse and steps inside, focused on her phone. Only, the phone is gone a few seconds later, and that sleek, rather expensive suit she'd been sporting has suddenly been replaced.

The outfit is still rather fine, champagne colored and form fitting down to where it fans out in frill and feathers below the knee. Her hard hair is pinned back in an elegant head piece with that dramatically sweeps across one eyebrow. And a bead of long pearls top off the look. There's a sweeping sigh from the woman as she looks herself over. "At least I'm fully dressed. And I have shoes." Her eyes lift towards the bar. "Plus there's liquor," she adds to herself softly as she starts to make her way in that direction.

Finch's voice calls out Ravn's name, drawing her eyes in the 'Priest's' direction. She hesitates for a second, but takes a breath and keeps moving towards the bar.

Willow has been in New York until just yesterday, having had to deal with family drama, and honestly, no place is like home. She might not be drinking right now due to the tiny human she is growing, but that doesn't mean that she can't go to the Pourhouse to relax. One hand extends to the door and she pushes it open, her jeans and shirt replaced with a black beaded flapper dress, her normally long hair now up in a low chignon. Stopping just as she enters, she looks around in surprise, first at how the room looks and then at what the hell she is wearing.

That anxious look quickly scans the room in hopes that she sees someone that she knows.

Isolde tilts her head, hearing someone say Ravn's name. She knows Ravn from when he comes into the Pourhouse for a drink. She spotted Ravn and blinked a bit when she realized he kind of looked like a priest.

He was already get a few wary looks from people who have noticed so far.

Isolde moved to take a few steps closer to him, and by extension the others that were heading in that direction. "You walked in here too, huh?" She looks back towards the stage and then to him. "This is the weirdest Dream I've ever been in." In the way that nothing was trying to kill her yet and the fact that it all felt very...real. The outfit felt real, the music was right. Even the drinks looked good. She would give a friendly smile to Ava, Willow, and Finch when they got closer.

"It is a Dream, isn't it?" Or did Time Travel become a reality?

Of all the gin joints in all the world, she had to walk into this one. Jessica was just after a place to relax where she could work on the next chapter of her Magnum Opus (not a big bottle of champagne) but, instead, she finds herself back in the Roaring Twenties. And it's definitely roaring tonight. A Dream? When did she fall asleep? Probably when reading her work...never a good sign when the idea is to excite not bore.

A glance down at her clothes shows a tight, form-fitting dress with more sparkling sequins than Liberace's stage clothes. And the uncomfortable sensation that her breasts have been rather tightly bound to meet the fashion of the time. That's changing the second she makes it to the bathroom. It looks like the Pourhouse, floorplan wise, so they should be in the same place. Right? The pen that was in her hand to make edits on a hardcopy she was using is now a cigarette holder with lit cigarette. The papers of her novel now a handbag. They had better change back when this is over!

Time to find the bathroom to make those wardrobe changes.

"I know," Ravn tells Finch, resigned to his fate. "The Veil thinks it's hilarious to cast me like this." He rests an elbow on the bar and looks at Isolde too. "It has to be a Dream. I mean, this is not exactly the Pourhouse I know at least. And well. Look at us. I better order something before I get thrown out for intending to cause a disturbance or something. Also, for the record, Veil? I'm Lutheran."

He rifles through his blazer pockets (and thank you, Veil, for at least not casting him in a full cassock which has as many pockets as your average sun dress) for money. Here's to hoping the lot of them did not get thrown into a 1920s speakeasy without money for moonshine at least. That'd be adding insult to injury for sure.

"Hey, Isolde, long time no see," Finch greets Itzhak's former flame with a small smile that struggles to reach her eyes considering they are in a Dream and happy greetings are reserved for places where things aren't likely going to try and kill them horribly. She squints as she looks around what was supposed to be the Pourhouse. "Definitely a Dream. Pretty sure Leon and Maggie would never want to decorate like this, they prefer their bar to not attract tourists."

She shifts uncomfortably in the heels. At least they're the sturdy sort, and not stilettos a later period piece might inflict on her. "So, I guess we need to figure out what we need to get through to get home," she murmurs.

A friendly smile from Isolde. That relaxes Ava a touch. The friendliness is returned in kind. "I wish I could say this was the weirdest for me. But I think Kangaroo Court having to Prosecution to the Vivisectionists' Defense is too high up there." There's a chagrined look at that as she leans a hip against the bar and starts to dig through the purse at her hip, looking for money. Ahah. A small wad is pulled out. Fancy clothes, lots of cash. Some things don't change.

"Round of drinks, please." She tells the bartender with a hopeful lilt in her voice, setting the money on the bar. She has no idea how many drinks that'll get them, but from the way the bartender looks at her and the money and then grins, it's going to be the good stuff.

"How many times is this as a man of the cloth now, Ravn?" she wonders. To the women she doesn't recognize, she offers a warm smile. "I'm Ava. Pleased to be trapped in the roaring twenties with you."

The scan of the room shows at least two people she knows, so this can't be all bad. Moving towards Ravn and Ava, she does her best to smile, "Hey Ravn, Ava, do either of you know what's going on?" She looks from them back to the room, "I mean, this is the Pourhouse, right? I can't be the only one who thinks it looks very different." She looks down at what she is wearing and then back up to the two of them.

She moves to rest her hip against the table, her arms crossing casually over her chest, "Go figure, come back from a trip home, and now I'm, where." She raises an eyebrow at Ava's comment, "apparently the twenties."

"It's good to see you Finch, if only it weren't in...whatever this is." Isolde gave a smile in turn. "It doesn't feel like a normal Dream though. Which is what's bothering me about it the most." She took up a light lean again the bar to observe the people. They were happy, enjoying the vibe of the bar and the camaraderie of it all. "And you're right Finch, Leon and Maggie definitely wouldn't do this. And if they were, I woulda known about it or had a hand in setting it up."

The bartender looked down at the money Ava put on the table - speaking of money, Ravn does indeed find a few bills in his pocket. He is pretty sure it's some money he had on him earlier except now it just looks...older. "You wanting to buy drinks for the house bar?" He asks, indeed grinning as he picks it up. After all, a little money went a long way in this time. He pours a round of the good stuff out of them all. "Savor this yeah? Last bottle. Might not get another one in for a month or two."

"Do you see anything obviously out of place? Besides us?" Isolde wondered allowed to the small gathering. The truth? There wasn't anything out of place except for the fact that they had walked into the 1920s. There wasn't any of the typical unease, unsettling vibes, or blatantly wrong/odd things that many Dreams had.

She smiled to Willow when the woman joined them. "I don't think it is the Pourhouse at all." Though the layouts of the buildings were very similar. "It..." She took a few moments to listen - really listen to the people around them. "...I think we might be in New York."

"Don't drink or eat anything," Finch whispers to the little group of Gray Harborites. "We still don't know if that can trap you here like in Faerie tales." She frowns at the notion they might be in New York, and she herself pauses to listen to conversations, eavesdropping for accents, mentions of dates or places, in the customers and employees of the speakeasy.

The bathroom was NOT where Jessica expected it to be. What she walked in on was something that made her eyes pop and apologise profusely. She won't forget that image in a hurry. When in need of a bathroom, look a line of women. Eventually she tracks it down and adjusts her bondage. It is soon obvious that these clothes are not made for women with healthy bodies. Hopefully, people won't notice. Maybe she can steal a stole to drape over her neck and obscure things.

It seems that Jessica is stuck here for a while. And when you're stuck in a place you don't want to be in, you head for the bar. Ravn looks a little familiar, or maybe that's just the collar. "Surprised to see you here, Father" she smiles before ordering a drink. A large. Does she have money? Yes, hidden away in her purse that was once her novel. And it's old money too. Not just old in age but in design too. But it works.

"I lost count," Ravn murmurs -- and then doesn't order because Finch is right, much as he hates it. He could really use a stiff drink about now, but maybe it doesn't go too great with the role he's been cast in, either. Money goes back in pocket. Money that conveniently have been turned into 1920s money, almost as if they beg to be used.

He looks around. "No idea where we are. It could be anywhere. I think the Pourhouse didn't open until the fifties? But that doesn't mean there cannot have been another bar there, earlier on. Gray Harbor was kind of known as a town of saloons and whorehouses and speakeasies, because of the lumber trade. It was the largest lumber shipping port in the Pacific at this time. Not the Pacific Northwest -- all of it. Or we might be in New York. I figure that if we don't know, then it may not be very important."

The folklorist slash Father Abildgaard looks around for some kind of narrative cue. Do we have a fight breaking out? A pair of star-crossed lovers making moon eyes at one another from each their table. A group of men with violin cases exchanging sly looks and pointedly nodding towards some rich playboy? All of them at once?

"Why not. We're all parched." Ava's smile is warm for the bartender. Her fingers slide around the glass and it looks like she's just about to take that drink when she hears that warning about not drinking or eating anything. Eyes go wide, and she turns, holding onto the glass, instead, not taking a sip. "Good call. But damn it's tempting."

Finch. The name causes her head to pivot a little too fast towards the woman to give her a once over. Not subtle. Whoops. Willow saves her with conversation. "Willow, hiya. Welcome back. Twenties, possibly New York. Still not sure." Her glass is lifted in a toast. As Jessica arrives, she gets a smile too, but her eyes are quickly scanning to try to answer Isolde's question. "Honestly and surprisingly? No. Everything seems strangely... normal. Given the circumstances."

Finch starts to pick up on what Isolde mentioned. Accents, terminology, it all leads her to the same conclusion. This must be New York. A totally not-evil seeming, Veil influenced New York. Which made it more unsettling some how.

Ravn couldn't spot anything particularly out of place either. Not at first. Though he is the first one to notice when the door to the place bursts open. He notices two things - 1, there's stairs so this must be some kind of basement. 2 - The guy who barged in looks like a newspaper boy that can't be older than 16. "Cops upstairs!" He starts calling out.

The music stops almost immediately and people start scrambling. It's not exactly a panic, but it's like they're used to it? The bartender hops up on a clear space of the bar. Isolde steps back to look up at him. "Back door! Everyone! Get outta here!"

There is another door people are rushing towards. It must be a built in emergency exit for these kinds of situations. As people start to rush out, cops start to flood in, telling people to stop where they are. Trying to grab some to arrest.

"Gogogo!" Finch hisses to her companions, as she races, best she can in those heels, towards the emergency exit. She has no desire to be detained by Veil cops. On the way she spots something she sees that piques her interest and swipes it as she passes.

"Wait, what?" Ravn spins and finds himself jumping behind a table as people suddenly crowd towards the exit like a riptide in a stormy sea. A man with his brand of neuropathy does not belong in such a surge -- and he'd bloody well rather end up arrested than try to survive in a sea of knees and elbows and bad attitudes.

Besides, he's a priest. No one will assume a priest came here to drink, will they? Surely they'll assume he's here to pontificate on the evils of alcohol? Maybe some nice copper will give him a lift home, if he just manages to look the part -- and thank God that he had yet to actually drink anything. At least he doesn't smell like whiskey.

Crowd all trying to trample one another to get out? End up explaining his presence to 1920s era cops? Hell, with a bit of luck those cops are all Roman Catholic Irishmen named Paddy, and they'll hold him for one of their own.

Willow leans close to Ava, arms crossing over her chest, "How am I back in New York." She asks, with a smile, "and the Twenties no less." She shakes her head a little, disbelievingly, and then looks down at her dress, "Would explain the clothing, wouldn't it." She looks up to Isolde and then Ravn, "Wait, cops." she looks around the room, "Is that bad? "

"Doors are all messed up right now," Ava explains to Willow with a shrug of one dainty shoulder. It looks like she's about to offer more when the guy busts in to warn them about the cops. "Crap. Yes it's bad, this is a Speakeasy, they weren't exactly legal back then because of Prohibition. Alcohol is a no no." A hand reaches behind the bar to grab one of the bottles and shove it into her purse. She's going to need that if they're going to be on the lamb. "Run."

That's exactly what Ava is doing as books it for the door with the others and out into the New York City street. In the twenties.

Oh no.

In Finch's dash to the exit, she manages to swipe up a couple books of matches that have the name of the club and its logo imprinted on it.

Isolde is immediately in defense mode - it's not the first time she'd to get away from cops. "Judging by the way everyone's scrambling? I think so." She added to Willow with a soft frown as she took in the goings on as Ava then elaborated. "Come on, let's get out of here." She swiftly starts falling into place with those trying to leave. Unfortunately she's a bit too focused and ends up getting grabbed by one of the officers.

Ava has no problem grabbing the whiskey bottle and stuffing it away. When she examines it later she'll see it's a fairly exclusive brand. One that doesn't exist anymore in the modern world.

One of the cops nabs a patron that's near Ravn and does a double take when he sees Ravn the Priest. "You're in the wrong place at the wrong time, Father." Clearly he has questions. "You wanna come willingly?" He's asking this even as he's cuffing the other patron and send him towards one of the other cops.

Willow can likely predict if she doesn't make a choice soon the cops will make the choice for her. Thankfully the closest one is too busy questioning Ravn and arresting someone else.

Outside is...well, yes. The Roaring 1920s of New York. Getting home might indeed prove to be more challenging than intended.

Jessica is curious at the conversation around her. New York? The Twenties - and she doesn't think they mean the 2020s. Not with the way she is dressed. Has the Veil decided to spring time travel on them now? Interesting. But before she can talk with the others to discover if they are from Gray Harbor too, the Fuzz has arrived and all heck breaks out. That everyone immediately heads for an exit suggests that 1) this is the expected reaction and 2) that she should do the same. Being a Latina in a New York prison in the 1920s is probably not a good idea or conducive to getting home.

Jessica heads for the exit, losing herself in the crowd and then the streets of 1920s New York. What could go wrong?

At least it will make a good story.

Whatever confusion Willow was feeling finally lifts at what Ava says and that is followed by, "well, crap, yes, run." She doesn't try to grab anything, plus it's not like she has anywhere that she can hide it and she moves to quickly follow behind the woman, her hands coming down to smooth down her dress, nothing to see here, they are completely innocent.

Oh god, she really hopes this isn't a horrible idea and that she won't be stuck here now.

Finch sticks close to Ravn, easy to keep tabs on in the priest collar at least, as she grabs his arm to tug him down a side street and then an alley then another street to juke away from the main crowd and the cops in their wake. She finally stops, grunting at how not fun it is to run in heels.

"I go where the Lord sends me, whether it's a speakeasy or the precinct," Ravn murmurs in response to the cop cuffing another patron. And then he's suddenly clenching his teeth and biting his cheek in order to not yelp out loud when a surprise arm in his yanks him away.

Let's just face it, Finch has to more or less steer him in the right direction because for a moment, the folklorist pretending to a priest is dazed and not entirely able to keep up with what's happening. One moment he's getting arrested and the next he's bulleting down an alley with the Celaeno girl in a flapper dress and heels to match.

Don't think. Run. Finch seems to have an idea where she's going. Don't stop and argue. Nobody really wants to arrest a priest anyhow. Right? Right?

Ava has made it out through the door and into the streets. This is certainly not the New York that she knows. Wide eyes take it all in as that bottle is tucked neatly into her bag while she hurries over on towards the next street.

Once she's certain that there's enough distance between her and the Speakeasy, Ava shift and begins to walk in a parallel direction, easy and slow, with the crowd. Her attire is upscale enough that she doesn't seem too out of place as she stops a time or two in order to study a dress in the window. Blend Ava, blend.