(Untitled)

[fighting_mad]

The first time that Plourr walks in the door, she finds herself wearing a long, antique gold gown, with a low, square neckline, intricate embroidery, and utterly useless flowy sleeves. There is a crown on her head, above tightly-gathered red hair

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[fighting_mad]

Paused in her quest for alcohol, Plourr glances at the other woman appraisingly, and then she grins, brief and broad. "Woman after my own heart," she says. "Let me guess -- some pointless Earthian holiday, and it got you, too?"

[fighting_mad]

She spares the bar at large a speculative glance. "Looks like the whole bar got caught, this time around, not just the people in it," she says. "Finally, some justice."

[notthatpotter]

"How come you got to wear that?" asks a young boy nearby.

He got landed with an outfit that makes him look like a bit like Christopher Robin.

[fighting_mad]

"Because Bar knows I'd shoot her if she stuck me in a dress," says Plourr, matter-of-factly.

This is, most likely, not the case. However, she is less likely to want to shoot things, dressed like this!

She settles in on a stool. "And because I came in and out a couple of times, til I got this."

[notthatpotter]

"You could do that?" he asks, referring to coming in and out of the bar before getting a new change of clothes.

He'd try it, but he isn't sure whether the door will even open again. Or appear at all.

"You can control your door, then?"

[fighting_mad]

"If you're mad enough, apparently," says Plourr, a little dryly. "I don't know about controlling it, but my husband and I have got a regular door that always opens here. We don't keep anything in that closet."

(Plourr doesn't believe in talking down to kids.

This occasionally gets her into some trouble with parents.)

[politestpirate]

Wellard has been watching with a bit of amusement, at all of this. (And if his clothes have not been touched by the time changes- his shirt, waistcoat, trousers and boots are pre-Victorian. There is not much that can be done to them.)

"Considering what a lot of people have felt about their outfits, I'm surprised they haven't tried that as well."

[fighting_mad]

"It's because people just sit and take the shavit this place hands out," says Plourr, a little sour but not unfriendly. "They're a bunch of nerfs."

[politestpirate]

Thankfully he has a lot of practice in picking out the context of words he is unfamilar with. Wellard raises an eyebrow, and nods slowly.

"I suppose, for the most part, people just decide how much they'll put up with, and what exactly they won't."

[fighting_mad]

"That's a charitable way of looking at it," says Plourr, begrudgingly. "I happen to think people ought to just stage a damn revolution against all this costume nonsense, but your way works, too."

[eiattu_pride]

When Rial walks in, he, like Plourr, double-takes dramatically. The difference being that he carefully inspects his new clothing, takes a moment to dodge into the bathrooms and examine himself in the mirror, then wanders back out into the bar with a distinctly smug look on his face.

And why not? He's looking pretty dashing in natty blue trousers and knee-high tan leather boots, his shirt of a sturdy cloth and belted nicely just above the waist. Crossing his chest is a bandolier holding some sort of ammunition, and there's an elegant sword with a flashy handle sheathed at his waist. The tan leather jacket that covers all this is warm and waterproofed although slightly singed at the edges, and the pockets are deep. Completing the outfit is a black bowler hat tipped forwards at a cheeky angle.

Oh, and the mustache. That's right - the facial hair is back, and judging by the smirk on his face, he's pretty pleased.

He slides onto a barstool next to Plourr, and raises an eyebrow. "What's a girl like you doing in a bar like this?"

[fighting_mad]

Plourr doesn't so much as look at him, but with a rasp of metal on leather, Rial's mustache will find itself staring down the barrel of an unfamiliar ray gun.

"Shooting that damn facial hair off her husband's face," she says, matter-of-factly. "A bourbon, Bar, and make it a double."

[eiattu_pride]

Rial blinks, staring in a slightly cross-eyed manner at the barrel of the gun. Slowly and carefully, he raises both hands in the air.

Pauses.

Slowly and carefully uses his fingers to tweak the edges of the mustache upwards.

"We surrender."

[fighting_mad]

"Tell that thing to keep its hands where I can see them," says Plourr, as her drink materializes.