tampered | OPEN LOG

Blue is in costume; he's dressed in bright blue plate armor he found in the back of his closet. Who knew that he had it (oh, wait, it was from a curse, oh well). Miss Alice had said he would make a good knight, and he does. He has altered some of it; mostly so he doesn't clang, and so it's not as heavy as it was originally.

And he can take it off if he wants to dance. He's promised at least two ladies a dance, and Blue was never one to go back on his promises. Tonight is about celebrating the end of October, and welcoming in winter, in a way. Even though he's fought the Snow Queen (and even though it seemed that the White Witch was back) he doesn't mind natural winters. He just doesn't like being cold much.

He's serving drinks and making small talk, and enjoying himself.

She had promised to be the one to open and close the dance floor and Angela has already gotten the first part done. Her feet hurt after being tugged around by a Chinese takeout box, Purple Rain-era Prince, and a zombie who just might have actually been a zombie had it not been for the copious amounts of cologne to throw people off his tracks. But the pain is welcomed as a sign of fun and after a quick glance across the room, Angela shuffles along for a refreshment break.

"Blue!" Angela shouts over the music, quite possibly a little intoxicated already. And the blue knight gets a tight and friendly hug over the bartop from 1986's Academy Awards Cher, gigantic headdress and all.

Blue is a little surprised by the tower of feathers and flesh headed towards him, but his smile is contagious. He returns the hug fondly and looks her over. "You know, that's really impressive," he tells her with a smile. "You look fantastic!"

He had seen her earlier in the night, but he hadn't really looked her over very closely. The costume really suited her, even if Blue did think that Cher was possibly one of the oddest mundies alive.

"What'll you have?" He asks, ready to prep anything.

"You're not looking half bad yourself, sweetie," she replies with a pinch of his cheeks. The headgear is as heavy as it looks but Angela carries it off with a certain amount of style and grace, especially considering this is her second time wearing the get-up. "Find any princesses to save tonight?"

Angela hops onto a bar stool and leans over, eyeing Blue's handiwork that all the other guests are enjoying. She's on her second drink of the night and the good part in all this is that everything in the City is in walking distance. Lord knows she won't be in any condition to remember her name by the end of the night, much less how to drive.

"I haven't claimed my freebie drink yet." Her tone is one of a joking reminder sort because she's waited this long for it. If anybody was going to fix her liquid cherry cordials, it would be Blue.

A man in black stalks the room. In black from the tip of each shoe to the guard for the rapier that hangs at his waist (and may be costume shop fare or borrowed from someone in the city who actually knows how to handle one), to the shirt left open several buttons at his neck.

Black meaning the mask he wears across his eyes and over his hair, only a few stray strands of blond edging out from under it's confines. Beneath said mask? Eyes like the sea after a storm.

Yes, the Dread Pirate Robert (http://i37.tinypic.com/aai0cy.jpg) is abroad. Actually he's currently standing at the bar sipping dubiously at a cocktail intended to represent candy corn, and debating whether ordering a beer would spoil the atmosphere.

Perhaps it's too much to hope that there's only one Dread Pirate abroad this evening. Cameron is taking her chances. For once luck-- or perhaps just the crowd-- is on her side; she manages to sneak up behind Chase shortly after spotting him from across the room, moving slowly to avoid anyone treading on the train of her dress.

"I don't want you to get the wrong idea," she says quietly, in a tone that does nothing to discourage that wrong (which is in fact, not wrong at all) idea, standing on tiptoe, chin nearly resting on his shoulder, laying one hand on his upper arm.

Having been privy to his plans, Cameron has decided to play along, dressed to match, a gleaming circlet sitting on her newly blond hair. Trick or treat.

Lucky for Blue's floor and Chase's dignity that she did approach from behind; had he caught sight of her without a moment to prepare himself he might just have dropped his glass. Under this arrangement he simply starts slightly when the general jostle of a crowded bar is replaced by a more deliberate touch, and thinks he knows that voice.

The tone, though. It's been a while. "Maybe you should tell me what idea not to get," he returns, turning his head just enough to catch her face in profile along with one white, beaded sleeve. Could be modest enough, in fact in a room full of scantily clad vampires and the type of nun that might have convinced him to stay at Seminary school one white sleeve seems almost demure. So he should definitely check out what's attached (and if she weren't pressed so close behind him he'd be a lot less reluctant to move).

He's looking down when he finally turns, expecting to be met with something other than a wedding dress. At the very least higher (or lower) cut. So there's a slight crease of confusion etched between his eyebrows as he follows the lines up, fading into a blank canvas of astonishment when recognition starts to settle in. Here is probably where he should play it smooth, perhaps throw in a pertinent movie quote to make her laugh. Except he can't quite believe she's actually come dressed to match him, and all he can think of is the line about perfect breasts.

So he stutters, and manages a half incredulous, "Did you dye your hair?"

Blue accepts the pinch with as much grace as someone who is over a millennium old can muster, which is a lot. "I'm always saving princesses," he explains, "Well, not as often as some but not all of us can be Prince Charming."

He seems genuinely pleased, and when she asks for her freebie he begins to mix up the chocolate cherry cordial in booze form. "Well, here we go, my lady, just for you," he says, serving it with a slight bow, just of his waist. He's definitely smiling at her.

"Are you having fun?"

Edited 2009-10-30 23:13 (UTC)

Rosella's favorite part of the evening is doubtlessly the costumes. (Well, and the fact that there's no curse to force them all to turn into whatever it is they dressed up as, of course, but that's beside the point.) Many of them she doesn't recognize, but there are a few here and there that she can pick out, and it's such fun to see all the people dressed up that she hardly even minds when the meanings behind most of them are lost on her.

Her own costume is nothing elaborate--a white dress (http://weddinginspirasi.kopiblog.com/wp-content/uploads/2009/07/pronovias_grecian_wedding.jpg) and gold sandals--with flowers and bright autumn leaves for decorations instead of jewelry. Oh, yes, and her pomegranate, of course. The only piece slightly out of place is a filmy scarf around her neck, but that is serving a practical purpose, rather than a decorative one.

She's sitting near the end of the bar, swinging her feet and enjoying the music, and watching the festivities go by around her. Perhaps she'll go dance in a while, or get one of the candy-flavored drinks she's been promised, but right now she's content to sit and watch the party as it unfolds.

She grins, raising a hand to brush a strand back behind her shoulder. The question answers itself, but she's charmed that he's stunned enough to ask it. Settling back onto her heels (because there are painfully ornate shoes to match, of course,) she shifts a little closer to the bar, out of the way of reckless werewolves and angels rushing past with colorful drinks.

"If I hadn't, how would people know who I am?" There's a sly note to the question. On her own people still might not be able to tell-- an excuse for him to stick around. She doesn't ask if he likes it. She doesn't really have to.

An hour in and Angela's lost a handful of feathers from her headpiece not from dancing, but one insistent Elvis, who's been begging like a hound dog for a duet in the dark corner over there, plucking them for souvenirs.

"Before you ask again, I am not going to sing if I Can Turn Back Time." She holds up a hand, effectively stopping The King before he can start remixing the tune he's performing to include whining. Who knew that a song asking if she was lonesome tonight could irritate Angela so much? "And no I Got You Babe either. Go overdose in your bathroom, Elvis."

Her final words to him are accompanied with a listless wave of a hand as she slumps on a stool next to a stranger in black that looks like a Zorro reject who, as far as Angela knows, blends in with the rest of the festive crowd. She's hoping nobody else has any musical requests for her tonight.

At least not before they buy her a drink.

"Don't they have 'hello, my name is' labels around here?" Chase turns his head to look, but can't quite drag his eyes away. "It suits you. You look really good."

And she does. He can't put his finger on it exactly, perhaps the lighter hair is deceptive in making everything seem brighter, or maybe that's just the smile she's accessorising with but she looks less like a girl whose idea of a night out is re-filing library cards. Plus the rest of the outfit... who needs naughty nuns?

Shaking himself, he drops a light bow and looks up at her, eyebrows raised behind the mask.

"Can I get you a drink, Highness?"

"Not all of us can sleep around like Prince Charming."

A little assumption on her part, not knowing the guy but from Blue's stories. "I'd flash my ass like Cher does, but I'm not wearing a leotard and fishnets, so a verbal thank you will have to do," Angela grins, plucking the cherries from the drink, chewing thoughtfully.

"Yes, I am. I'm happy you put this together. I haven't been able to get out much lately." Though being able and oddly not wanting to are two different animals. Long story that Angela wants to forget right now.

Blue leans on his hand, his elbow firmly resting on the bar. "Well, who would want to, really?" He quirks Angela his own charming smile, just for the fun of it. He doesn't really flirt, Boy Blue, but sometimes he seems like he is, just by being himself.

He turns to look at the dance floor and the band, which is clearly going to need him at any moment. "Well, I'm sure that any kind of that behavior would require me to chivalrously turn my eyes away so it would be for naught."

He beams a little at hearing that she's happy. Blue never got to spend a lot of time in bars when he was in New York, and he never thought that owning one could turn out to be so much fun. He really loved his job, his bar, his friends. "Well I'm glad that it's working out for you, Angela. I'll be playing in a minute, you know."

From this vantage point (masks being almost as useful as shades when it comes to watching people unnoticed) Chase isn't sure whether Angela followed through on her plan to embody Cher for the evening, or changed her mind and went with the stripper turkey option. It could be some early Thanksgiving sideline he's never heard of.

Leaning over, he reaches to straighten one of the feathers in her crowning glory before it takes someone's eye out. Perhaps that's how Cher takes care of her enemies.

And then, since she doesn't seem to have clocked him for who he is, he lowers his voice and tries his patented all-American accent out for size. It worked great when he was pretending to be from the CDC. "Howdy, Ma'am. Can I ask what a nice girl like you might be doing in a hole-in-the-wall like this?"

"That's okay," Angela replies as she leans in to fluff his hair, "I won't tell the princess that you peeked." He's adorable in that 'why didn't boys look like him when I was in high school' kind of way to her. If he ever appeared to be flirting with her, she'd just entertain it much like the way she entertains Chuck's flirting.

"Taking any requests?" If he is, maybe his playing can get all the people asking for her Cher renditions to get off her half-bared back.

Blue laughs. "Well considering the princess is seven, I'd be grateful for it." The princess is also safely not at the bar, where Blue can't be completely sure of her safety. And Blue could tell Angela stories about high school, including being cornered in various places and kissed when he didn't want to be kissed.

"Well, I usually do, but I'm notoriously picky about them," he says with a laugh. "Probably because some songs just aren't meant to exist, in my opinion."

It's a sad thing that Robert Chase has come as a Dread Pirate and not a peg-fisted one. He is wearing black gloves, though, so there's always a possibility that one hand might be a peg in disguise. Spotting Rosella, he crosses the room to lean against the bar next to her, which the sheathed rapier at his belt chooses to announce by slamming loudly against the polished wood and making said Dread Pirate jump in a most undreadful manner.

She should have seen him trying to sit down, earlier. He's just not used to wearing a sword.

"You haven't eaten any," he observes as soon as he's recovered, masked eyes looking down to the fruit in her hands, "decided to stay with us for the season?"

If he thinks her a turkey, perhaps he'll one day be a witness to her gobbling act.

Angela stiffens up a bit, expecting another feather to be stolen, before she relaxes when the masked man leaves her costume in tact. All the work she put into in just for it to be taken apart in a few mere tugs.

"Same thing everybody else is doing," Angela answers with a nod to the bartender sliding a holiday-themed cocktail her way. "By the way, that is a terrible Southern accent. You must be from up North." Way to make her ears bleed, Mr. Not-Quite-Zorro-Not-Quite-Whatever-You're-Supposed-To-Be.

Cameron's allowed to have a little fun, now and then. Not necessarily scheduled half a year in advance. And though more often than not she tries, at work, to mute her looks, she's always enjoyed the opportunity to dress up.

But really, all things considered-- the hair, the smile, the fact that she's dressed as his true love-- Chase could be forgiven for taking it personally. If Cameron can be forgiven for enjoying his attention.

"You may." Any haughtiness is merely for effect. Of course.

"Seven'll get you thrown in jail, sweetie." Angela laughs along with him before dropping her voice a few levels. She's glancing from side to side, as if some secret spy from the real Cher's camp is in the area.

"How do you feel about Cher and doing me a favor?"

"I'm only her champion. I've already done the court thing once, never again." He pauses. "Except I was the minor." He pauses again. "And it was a big misunderstanding because...oh, nevermind, suffice to say no one was guilty, it wasn't dirty, I'm going to stop eating my foot now." Blue reaches down for his trumpet and comes back up to lean on the counter, the trumpet in his hands.

"Well. Did you want to sing?" Blue looks a little thoughtful for a moment. Not confused or concerned, but like he's running through a list of the songs in the jukebox in his head.

That entire spiel gets a wide-eyed suspicious look from Angela who doesn't even want to begin unraveling it at the moment. Or pretty much ever, for that matter.

"No, actually, I want these idiots to stop asking me to do her songs. Just because I'm dressed like her doesn't mean I can sing like her. Nobody's asking the zombie nurse to take their temperature." She rolls her eyes with feigned annoyance that, if the night continues on like this, will turn into the real deal.

Of course she's allowed. Chase's cracks are never because he thinks she shouldn't get out more. Anywhere but monster truck rallies and dates with their boss.

He can also count on one hand the number of times he's seen her in a dress, and is starting to think that number is horribly disproportionate. It's a very convincing true love costume, one he could be taken in by. And it's still incredibly confusing that she's wearing it. Allison Cameron, more mixed signals than a radio on the blink.

"A Liquorice Whip for the lady, please. And I'll have a Corona," he says, because yes, he's giving up on the candy corn. And a quick check, as ordering for her is always edgy, "You like Anis, right?"

Blue shakes his head as if to clear it.

And he considers it. "I can sort of do some Cher. It won't sound exactly right, most of her songs aren't done on a b-flat trumpet." He eyes the piano. "I guess I could get on the piano and just crank something out for you, though."

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