Funtimes at the Faire (Backdate: April 17th, evening)

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Funtimes at the Faire (Backdate: April 17th, evening)

The glitter of Proserpina’s own unique brand of teleporter fades out, and the world fades in, and Julian breathes a sigh of relief to feel himself in one piece. He hadn’t wanted to say anything before, but he’d been terribly worried that, like the replicators, the teleporters might be finicky, broken, or otherwise unreliable. While not-quite-right food was something one could generally live to laugh about later, being not-quite-recomposed correctly was an entirely different matter. And he isn’t even half as bothered by transporters as people who actually have phobia about them.

Having little to no idea about where they would end up, he finds himself pleasantly surprised by their surroundings. Costumes bedeck the walls, in all sorts of sizes and colors, for men and women alike. Hats are hung from racks around the room, complementing some of the designs and clashing with others, and the nearby buzz of conversation and celebration is seeping in through the walls.

“Well,” he says, reaching out to feel the sleeve of a heavily brocaded overcoat in green and gold. It’s stiff to the touch, and seems heavy, but it does look to be a final layer meant to go over several others. “How do you feel about borrowing some of these?”

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"Well," Shepard says, running a hand over a darkly-colored dress with an uncomfortable-looking neckline trimmed with a heavy white partlet. "Don't see what's wrong about borrowing them for awhile. We're going to have to fit in if we're going to get anything done."

That said, Shepard begins her search -- looking for something that's both comfortable to wear and also in her size. That immediately eliminated most of the female clothing. Thankfully, she comes across a black jerkin and a white satin doublet that looks like it should fit her. A pair of shorts -- if they can even be called that -- along with some matching padded hose are found soon afterwards, though with considerably more effort.

"I guess there's not a changing room in here, is there?" Outfit in hand, she begins to look for one; she's not exactly familiar with 1600s-era clothing stores.

“I am in agreement,” Arturia nodded towards a shelf of clothing, “I imagine if we were not meant to change into something more fitting the occasion we would not have appeared here.” She moved to look through the clothing, not even bothering with the dresses. Most tended to be cumbersome in both size and range of motion. She would never understand how anyone could go around wearing such things and still maintain that they were comfortable.

She lightly touched the various trousers and tunics, looking for something simple but elegant. She paused, pulling out a garishly tacky chartreuse jacket with a salmon lace pattern on the shoulders. Clearly the seamstress for this outfit was colorblind. The look on Arturia’s face was something between bemusement and horror that such an article of clothing would exist. She quickly shoved the offensive article back into the rack, silently praying it would never see the light of day.

The high collared navy vest with golden accents next to it however, was something she could and would wear. She pulled the vest, white trousers and a white tunic with pearlescent threading from shelf, draping each item over her arm carefully. Her eyes scanned the shoes a moment before she finally decided on a pair of black knee-high boots. “Perhaps they never had a need? This looks to be more of a storehouse than an actual storefront.”

Arturia set the clothing she had chosen on top of one of the crates to pick through the jackets. “We could just dress here,” her fingers lightly brushed a cerulean coat with golden yellow piping up the high collar and down the sleeves. The buttons on the sleeves and up the front were a lighter gold, small and elegant with a sword pattern stamped on each one. It was short in front, long in the back and it had darker blue accents with an almost pearlescent pattern starting at the shoulders and working down the sleeves in a complex lattice of vines. With a sharp intake of air, she’d chosen her jacket.

With a turn she started again, “It would me most efficient to change here. The shop seems to be empty aside from us and Mister Bashir is a doctor.” She turned to the man “I assume you see nakedness frequently in your field, yes?”

While the two women seem to have some idea of what they’re looking for, Julian finds himself a little lost for ideas as to what he should grab. For the most part it doesn’t seem men come in his height in this era.

He is lost somewhere in the midst of one of the further back racks of jackets and doublets when Arturia speaks up, suggesting that they simply change right here. Of course, she’s right that nakedness is not especially considered to be taboo in his time-- in fact, Betazeds like Lwaxana or Ferengi women go around in the nude quite often, publicly-- but that doesn’t mean that he himself is entirely comfortable with the idea of seeing his ladyfriends in the nude when he doesn’t have to be looking.

He stammers, “Oh, ah-- well, yes, but there’s no reason I couldn’t turn my back, if you prefer!” and grabs an autumnal orange and brown colored jacket with matching tights, slit pants and an undershirt of pale yellow linen. “I- I’ll dress over here,” he adds helpfully, hiding a little behind one display so he needn’t offend anyone’s honor.

Shepard doesn't particularly have any qualms with changing in front of Bashir, but she wasn't exactly sure how Arturia or Bashir would feel about that. After all, it was years of life in the military that acclimated her to changing with others in close quarters. The last thing she wanted was to make someone else uncomfortable by changing right in front of them.

Thankfully, Bashir volunteers to bury himself in a display, allowing Shepard ample time to pull on her new outfit. It's more than a bit unwieldy; she's used to wearing clothing with far less fabric involved -- but it's still eons better than what she could be wearing.

Shepard glances at one of the dresses as she tugs on her hose.

Before long, Shepard is dressed. A simple pair of shoes -- more sensible, but also more ordinary than the outfit of her choice -- and a hat are chosen. Shepard examines herself in a mirror, straightening the brim on her head.

If someone would have asked her last week what she thought she was doing, dressing up in Victorian-era clothing to infiltrate a European city probably woudn't have been the first thing to come to mind.

"You done?" Shepard asks, turning to the blonde behind her. She was interested in seeing what both of her companions had chosen to wear. And until Arturia is fully clothed, Bashir will not emerge from his hiding space.

Arturia didn’t quite understand the doctor’s need to hide around one of the displays but didn’t question it. She pulled off the station standard clothing and started pulling on the more elaborate outfit. She started with trousers and the tunic, carefully tucking the tails of the shirt into the pants.

“Well enough that my modesty is not a concern,” her answer comes over her shoulder as she pulls on her vest and buttons it up then moves to pulling the boots on and tucking her trousers into them before working at the various buckles and laces that secure the boots in place.

The blonde searched the dresses carefully until she found one that matched the color of her jacket. She carefully worked a ribbon free from the dress and returned to the crates where she’d been changing. “Have either of you worn clothing like this before?”

This was asked through the ribbon in her mouth as she worked her hair into a careful braid, looped in a circle at the back of her head.

For his part, Julian is mostly relieved that the outfit, while involving more layers than he’s accustomed to, makes sense enough that it isn’t difficult to assemble. In years of trying out bizarre holosuite programs with Chief O’Brien, he’s had the opportunity to get stuck in any number of wildly difficult costumes, some of which were more trouble than the end result was worth.

Unfortunately, it turns out that this one is difficult for other reasons: namely, it doesn’t quite fit, being large but not quite tall enough to drape properly. With an exasperated sigh, he slips back out of the costume, puts each piece back contritely, and tries again.

This is how it goes for two more tries before, finally, he comes across a simple blue-and-green tunic, patterned in stripes, with a high collar. The matching shirt is white, as are the tights, but he doesn’t really care about color at this point-- size is a matter that is pressing enough.

“I always forget,” he mutters to himself, as he’s cinching the belt for his costume about a waist much narrower than that of the intended owner of this costume. “That people of ancient era were generally shorter due to malnutrition. But then, I’ve never actually been in the past, so I suppose it’s my own fault for not thinking.”

He steps out with a sigh, relieved to have found something, at least, and lifts his chin a bit, clearly uncomfortable with the press of the shirt’s collar to either side of his neck.

“Doesn’t have quite the same charm as a tuxedo, but I suppose it will do,” he sighs, glancing at his companions. “Oo, hats. Are you going to wear a mask, Arturia?” There are masks, as well, around the shop. As for himself, he seems to be in accord with Shepard’s hat plan, and luckily finding one of those is a much easier task. He settles it on his head with a chuckle.

“All right, ready.”

Shepard has never been to a costume party -- and though "costume" for her is regular dress for probably everyone they're about to encounter, it's still difficult for her not to feel uncharacteristically excited about the whole thing. But that excitement doesn't quite register on her face; she looks every bit as collected as she normally does. At the mention of a mask, Shepard slips one on, a simple but elegant white mask that covers the space around her eyes and upper cheek.

"Never worn anything like this before," she admits. "Do I look okay? No stray straps dangling anywhere, are there?" Shepard turns around in place, trying her best to get a better look at herself.

Arturia had just finished tying her braid back with the ribbon she’d pilfered when Julian had mentioned the masks. She turned, slipping on her coat in the process before perusing each mask. “I think a mask is a lovely idea,” she smiled at the thought of a costume ball. She’d attended several in her time and they were always fun.

Digging through one of the bins yields her an elegant tarnished silver mask. It’s lightly etched with the same vine pattern that adorns her coat. She holds it up and it covers nearly her entire face, leaving only the area just under her nose and her mouth exposed. There’s elegant trim that matches the vine and leaf pattern that trails down her cheeks, feathering off the main portion of the mask. It contrasts perfectly with her outfit.

With the mask in hand she rises to her feet turning to face Shepard, “It appears that you are all tucked in.” She carefully looks over the other woman’s outfit before nodding.

“I do hope I am adequately dressed for the occasion as well.” She looked down at herself assuming that to be the case.

“Yes, you look fine,” Julian agrees, once Arturia has confirmed that Shepard is suitably dressed. As for himself, he secures a simple mask that just covers his eyes. It sprouts whiskers, however, over his cheekbones and the ribbon that ties it behind his head has stuffed cat ears. Ordinarily, they’d look completely false; but as they are partially stuffed under his hat of choice, they don’t stand out quite so much as strange.

He adds, with a nod to Arturia’s outfit and a smile, “You both do.” The outfits remind him, somewhat, of the Three Musketeers, and that reminds him of the bundle, which he’d set down. “Oh, yes--perhaps there’s a string somewhere?”

He finds a cord, which is the next best thing, and some sashes, which he commandeers to ration out the medical supplies and food Shepard had packed, Just In Case. With the sashes turned into sacks, he offers one to each of them, taking the third for himself and tying it at his belt. “There we are, right as rain.”

"You look good," Shepard says confirms, looking over Arturia to make sure all belts and straps and buckles are properly secured. They are. Arturia's probably better at putting on clothing like this than she is; though they hadn't really talked about it, Shepard imagined that this Earth was more like Arturia's than it was hers. There weren't many people who still fought with swords after the advent of the gun. And while it was likely muskets had already been invented, she doubted common folk had access to them as readily as she did back in her reality.

Shepard's eyes twinkle as Bashir finishes off his own costume with one final accessory. "Your mask looks cute," she says, with a hint of a smile.

Shepard turns around, eyes searching for something that -- for once -- isn't clothing. "I'm sure there's got to be a back exit somewhere." She's fairly sure that the shop is closed and that they'll definitely draw unwanted attention from someone if they take the obvious route out, given the large number of people out in the streets tonight.

It takes some searching, but before long, she finds it; the exit's blocked by piles of fabric, stacked one atop the other. It seems that their outfits -- however gaudy they might be -- are actually the product of the store owner herself.

Shepard wordlessly pushes the fabric aside and opens the door. And before they know it, the Three Musketeers are standing outside, basked only in moonlight.

"So," Shepard says, turning to her two companions once the door is closed behind them. "What do we do now?"

Arturia admires herself in the mirror for a moment, the corners of her mouth pulling into a small smirk. She looked every bit the king she was and this pleased her greatly. The only thing her outfit had been lacking was a sword.

The woman watched Julian pack up the various items into 3 carefully packed bundles while Shepard searched for an additional exit. The bundles she felt were unnecessary, they were in a city full of people and supplies. Could one be overly prepared? Perhaps it would come in handy but the medical supplies would be lost on her; she was a warrior, not a medic.

Stepping across the threshold to the back door Arturia paused thoughtfully, “I strongly feel we should acquire weaponry if we are to be adequately prepared here.” Her eyes searched the courtyard across from the shop carefully. Three very drunk men were stumbling around the court, one of them passed out next to the fountain while the other two stumbled nearer to the wall.

“I believe then we can head in the direction of this party,” she motioned to the flow of people. It seemed like the best course of action to her.

Lucky for him, Julian’s mask does wonders at concealing the tell-tale flush of color to his cheeks at being complimented by a lady (even if said lady has expressly made it clear to him already that she was not interested in his romantic affections). He clears his throat, and follows Arturia and Shepard’s lead out of the store, glancing about in a mix of wonder and caution. Every now and then, he can’t help wondering if they are in fact in a holodeck of some sort after all-- now is one such time. Certainly, they have been teleported but-- could it really be Venice, as Lady Grantham suggested?

“That sounds as good an idea as any, I think. Though I don’t know my way around a sword.” In fact, he can’t help wondering if he wouldn’t be more of a danger to himself if armed with one. “Er-- a dagger, maybe, for me. You’re both a bit more capable in melee than I am.”

He smiles self-deprecatingly and gestures for the others to take the lead. “If the party is one more centered around revelry than fighting, however, I might be able to fit in.”

Shepard glances over at Bashir, a wry smile tugged across her face. "You should have come to Arturia's swordfighting lessons, then." Shepard didn't think those lessons would come in handy, but there was a chance that she might have to put those newfound skills to good use here.

Shepard just hopes that it doesn't actually come to that.

"We should probably try and get supplies while we're here, too. There's no telling when we'll be planetside again."

If they're ever going to get off of here, anyway. Spock had brought up a good point earlier, though Shepard was determined to maintain optimism.

"I think we should make an appearance at the festivities. There's no telling the next time we'll be able to enjoy good alcohol."

Shepard proceeds forward in the crowd, occasionally glancing behind her to make sure Bashir and Arturia are staying close. "You think we can barter with the things we brought?" she asks. "I'm not sure how easy it'll be for us to get work here. Or what kind of work we could do to begin with." Thievery is apparently not an option.

“If you are not trained in weaponry, I would not recommend even a dagger, doctor,” a small frown touched her lips. She had seen men grievously wound themselves attempting to showboat with a new or unfamiliar weapon. “If you would like lessons in how to handle a blade, you are more than welcome to join Shepard and I,” she added after a moment. Her eyes still on the drunk men in the courtyard. Another one had passed out but the third seemed to have his attention on a young woman.

It had been a very long time since Arturia had partaken in any sort of spirits (or a party for that matter). Her eyes moved briefly from the courtyard to Shepard when she asked about bartering, “I am sure doctors will be interested in the medical supplies and generally any merchant will be interested in food.” One would be crazy to turn away good food, “But I do not believe the items we brought with us will amount to... much...” Her words trailed off carefully as her attention on her companions waned as her focus was drawn to the man in the courtyard.

“Excuse me,” she waved a hand as if to say ‘go on without me’ and moved away from her friends toward the courtyard. “I’ll return shortly,” this hastily over her shoulder, almost as an afterthought.

Meanwhile, the man in the courtyard had become more aggressive with the woman he was attempting to woo. He grabbed her arm as she tried to walk away and shoved her into the wall as she struggled to pull from his grasp. Arturia wasn’t yet close enough to hear the conversation as she crossed the gate into the small yard but she imagined it wasn’t good, especially when he shoved the woman into the wall again with some force.

Arturia heard him call the girl (as now she was close enough to see she couldn’t have been older than sixteen) a whore. Anger flashed across the blonde’s features and tinged every word she was about to sputter with disdain.

“Sir, you will unhand that girl this instant.”

With a wan smile, Julian seems about to agree that he’s not generally the best choice for physical combat when Arturia draws his attention to the man accosting the young lady. Like Arturia, he’s hardly about to stand around and let something happen to the poor girl, and follows, looming behind Arturia’s shoulder quite unintentionally, seeming unaware of the fact that moving as a group makes them look intentionally intimidating.

While the besotted lout turns to face Arturia’s challenge, Julian has his eyes on the young lady, who looks to have knocked her head against the wall and is clearly doing her best not to show it, lest the man see it as a weakness and take further advantage of her.

Says the drunkard: “Will I? An’- An’ what if I don’t, popinjay?” He wheels to face Arturia and laughs in her face, his breath reeking of wine. He wavers where he stands, his attention focused on the potential for a new confrontation with a little more vigor to it, and sneers, his bulbous nose wrinkling as his lip curls. His right hand strays to his belt, seeking out his weapon. “Young lad like you-- I’ll bet your mother cries when they find your body tomorrow! Haha!”

Stepping aside, Julian hastily gestures for the girl to come to him, and gently leads her a few more steps away from the battle. He whispers to her, “Are you all right, my dear?”

Blinking up at him, she makes a soft sound of distress and presses herself against him quite without warning. Stammering slightly, Julian responds by patting her back and trying to soothe her.

“Um-- perhaps we should have a look at your head very quickly. To- to make certain he didn’t hurt your head too badly when he got violent with you--”

“Oh, sir!” the girl cries, peering up at him with brown eyes that remind him strongly of Molly. She certainly seems as young, and he tries to pry her off of himself, motivated by the thought. Or by the rather hilarious image of Chief O'Brien defending his daughter's honor. “Thank you so much for rescuing me!”

“Don’t thank me,” he laughs, patting her shoulder and smiling at her, keeping his tone gentle. She seems fairly unsure of her balance, and is probably drunk. “It’s Arturia there who’s fighting for your honor. I just want to make sure you’re unharmed.”

That’s either the wrong or the right thing to say, depending on how one sees it, however; the girl falls back into his arms and very nearly knocks them both over.

Shepard follows suit behind Arturia, if only because she doesn't want anyone to get separated. There's no telling if their communicators will actually work down here -- and she hasn't had a chance to actually test it herself. Normally, communicators like this would require some sort of tower in order to function properly, and Shepard somehow doubted that such towers would be present in this day and age.

"She's not interested," Shepard says, stepping in line with Arturia. She folds one arm over the other in front of her chest. "Your attention is clearly unwanted. I suggest you do as Arturia asks and find yourself another female companion for the evening."

Shepard's lips curl into a frown. He'd need an awful lot of luck to find a woman willing to hang off his arm for an evening with a charming personality like that.

"And if I don't?" he asks with a sneer. Clearly, he hopes to intimidate. Unfortunately for him, neither Arturia nor Shepard are the sort of people who are easily intimidated.

"I suggest you and your friends be prepared to deal with the consequences."

Their reaction is immediate; within seconds, weapons are unsheathed and exposed in one last attempt at intimidation. Shepard glances sidewardly at Arturia, pulls the single training sword from her side, and tosses it into the blonde's hand. Shepard's not particularly looking forward to using her fists to fight steel, but if there's anything that she knows, Arturia's damn better at a sword than she is.

She'd prefer the expert to have their hands on their only weapon. If their sword can even be called that.

Arturia matched Shepard’s sidelong glance, offering a small nod as thanks for the weapon. This was clearly going to be trouble, especially with the disagreement starting with only the one group having real weapons. It appeared that the man by the wall and the other by the fountain were not as unconscious as originally assessed. Her grip on the practice sword tightened as the the leader of the little gang took a step forward.

“Shepard,” the smirk on Arturia’s lips said she wasn’t nervous, “I believe these men have put themselves in a precarious situation.” False bravado, though the woman wasn’t worried for herself. Her concern lie with her compatriots and the girl near the wall. This would need to end quickly before the drunk men aimed their aggression in the wrong direction.

The leading knave scoffed bitterly, it was clear his posturing wasn’t working on the smaller women, “Says the boy with the toy sword?” With that he lunged forward with an uncoordinated jab. Arturia wasn’t sure where he was aiming, the sword seemed to flail wildly at her shoulder. She easily dodged the attack with a sidestep and a deflection with the practice sword.

Shards of wood splintered off the weapon. This was going to need to be quick, else the small practice sword wouldn’t be of use anymore.

The man lunged again with a forward strike. This time Arturia let him get close and caught his blade between the wooden slats that made up the false blade of the practice sword. With twist and a light crack of bamboo snapping she wrenched the sword from the man’s hand. His drunkenness made the task far more easy than it should have been.

In one swift movement, the broadsword was in her right hand and pointed directly at the leading drunk. The practice sword rested casually in her left hand, pointed at the ground. She glanced over her shoulder to check on the red head.

“Shepard?” her tone suggested that she was inquiring if the other woman needed assistance.

As he is quite occupied with the young girl, Julian notices very little of the combat. He is busy staring into her eyes in the dim light and confirming that her pupils are dilated about equal amounts, first; then he leads her away from the wall and the drunkard’s compatriots, so that Shepard and Arturia stand between them and the aggressors.

“Oh, please, sir; tell me your name?” The young girl stumbles, gulps, and looks a bit green, and Julian smiles awkwardly, trying to keep her hands from his waist. Not quite successfully, either.

“It's hardly proper to reveal one’s name in a, um-- masquerade such as this, isn't it?” Struggling to get her turned around, he does manage at the last second, aiming her at the street. She retches for a few moments, and he holds back her hair for her, grimacing at the smell.

When she's finished, she stands back up, wiping her mouth and wobbling again. He offers her some of his water, which she takes gratefully.
“Oh, my!” She turns wondering eyes on him, then takes another, deeper sip. "It tastes just as if you'd fetched it from the mountains! Are you a traveler, sir? Are you from a distant land?"

She advances on him, leaning in to try to steal a kiss. Or possibly trip and nearly knock them both over again? He catches her, trying to get her to lean against the wall of a bakery nearby. Seeing her opportunity, she tries again for the kiss, murmuring, "Would you take me with you when you leave? Away from this sad place?"

“My-- young lady, I am old enough to be your father,” he answers briskly, chastising her a little. “And if I were the father of such a lovely creature as yourself I should never forgive anyone who would take advantage of your intoxication.”

The sharp split of bamboo cracking slices through the air, and they both look up in time to see Arturia, now armed with a real sword alongside her makeshift weapon. Julian grins, calling to her,

“Good show, Arturia!”

It's times like these that Shepard wishes that she still had full use of her biotics. Handling guys like this -- even with weapons -- would have been easy back in her own reality. But here, she had neither weaponry nor biotics. All she had was herself.

Apparently, the man's cronies are not content to watch as Arturia takes on their companion; one falls down before he can even reach her. The other's movements are so clumsy from liquor that it's almost too easy for Shepard to avoid the attack.

With one swift gesture, she swings a fist into the man's lower chest before sweeping a leg beneath him and knocking the man off his feet. Seconds later, he scrambles back to his feet and races off into the crowd, leaving his drunken companion still on the ground and the other with a sword at his throat.

"I'm fine," Shepard says, turning back to Arturia. "Good work."

Her eyes flicker down to Bashir, her lips curling into a small frown at his banter with his lady companion. "You normally flirt with your patients, doctor?" she asks, tone disapproving.

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Funtimes at the Faire (Backdate: April 17th, evening)

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