Not, probably, a bad place

[praiseandglory]

This was, definitely, an odd place. But not, probably, a bad place.

Porthos had been exploring the building for the last couple of hours, and that was the conclusion he had come to. A huge, sprawling building that would have seemed more like a particularly vast hôtel particulier than a hotel to him, but there was no denying the fact that it was open to all sorts of people. And not quite people, for that matter.

Most of them, people and not quite people alike, tended to stare at him a little, probably because he cut such a dashing figure in full Musketeer regalia, fleur-de-lis, hat, boots, sword and all. Aramis would have been jealous.

But it was all quite a bit to take in, so after snagging an apple from the buffet in that place called the Bistro (odd name, that), he found himself headed outside to find a place to sit and munch on the fruit. A few minutes of fresh air, and a chance to let it all settle into his mind.

Including the most pressing problem about this place: how to leave it, and return to Paris. Never let it be said that Porthos could be kept where he didn't want to be.

Comments

[temperamentalsteel]

"Porthos!" d'Artagnan cried. He'd only just come down to breakfast and very nearly missed the familiar shape of Porthos' retreating back. How many times had he seen those broad shoulders, the riveted collar of his coat? The pauldron?

"Porthos! It's you!" d'Artagnan rushed at his friend for an embrace.

[praiseandglory]

Now, there were a few voices Porthos would have recognised anywhere, and that one was most definitely one of those. He turned around with a frown and a confused, "D'Artan...?" Then he broke into a grin and opened his arms wide to welcome his fellow Musketeer. "D'Artagnan!" he cried out, clasping him to his chest in a warm embrace. He pulled back from it, hands on the smaller man's shoulders, his joy unmistakable. "I never thought I'd find you here!"

[temperamentalsteel]

It was a crushing hug, one that cold bruise a lesser man, but d'Artagnan cared very little, too happy to see another friend in this strange hotel. "I've been here for weeks! How long have you been in this mad place?"

[praiseandglory]

"Weeks?" Porthos echoed with a frown, then shook his head. "No. I saw you hours ago, back in Paris." He didn't want to argue with d'Artagnan's description of the place, however. Mad certainly covered it.

[temperamentalsteel]

"Weeks," d'Artagnan repeated. "Athos and I were confronted with similar confusion when I arrived wearing my pauldron." Trying to understand time in this place was a confusing and wholly useless business.

"We had only rescued Constance from Sarazin, when I turned and here I was."

[praiseandglory]

"But that was..." Porthos trailed off, frowning. "Wait. Athos is here?" His stay here was looking up. "Aramis?"

[temperamentalsteel]

"It's been only Athos and I here for those may weeks. He's been able to return to Paris, I think, but doesn't remember what I have."

He scowled. In comparison, his experiences with the doors had been far less pleasant.

[praiseandglory]

Porthos's countenance fell a little at the news that Aramis wasn't around, but only for a second. There were three of them here; things were much better now than Porthos had believed them to be mere minutes ago. He did not understand all of that about them remembering different things, but there were some things Porthos knew better than to try and understand, so he just accepted it. "So he's been able to return, but you haven't? This place is stranger than anyone could dream up."

[temperamentalsteel]

"Truly," he agreed. "And to be perfectly honest, I've been wary of doors as much as I want a way back to Paris as some of them are..."

Embarrassing? Transformative? Cruel?

"Tricky."

[armedagainstlove]

He had, at first, thought that perhaps he had been imagining things. After all, the alcohol is quite good at deluding his mind into thinking that he's seeing things that he isn't. And, of course, Porthos has been on his mind of late, what with the Court of Miracles nearly having reclaimed the man after so many years away. That said, prolonged looking informed him that he was, in fact, not mad.

"You had to haunt my footsteps even here?" he remarks calmly, settling his bottle of wine down on some of the steps beside him. He curls his cloak a touch tighter around himself, chilled despite the drink.

[praiseandglory]

Porthos looks over at the oh so familiar voice, and monotone, hope written plain on his face. Plain, at least, until it is replaced with unequivocal joy at the sight of his friend. And who but Athos, for such an apparently unenthusiastic greeting to be met with such joy inside Porthos's chest.

"Athos!" he cries out, apple forgotten and cast aside without a thought as a few strides bring him close, and he claps his fellow Musketeer on the shoulder. "I hardly could've left you for very long on your own. We know you despair without us."

[armedagainstlove]

So it is him, then. Athos tamps down the smile of delight that wants to do its best to appear on his face at the sight of Porthos, raising the bottle of wine to hold between two slack fingers, approaching and allowing himself to be embraced with such strength. He doesn't quite offer much back, but raises one arm to briefly touch to Porthos' shoulders, grateful for his presence.

"I know you believe yourselves to be ever important," he concurs. "Have you brought Aramis in your footsteps or is he waiting to assault me with greetings later?"

[praiseandglory]

"Hopefully the latter," Porthos assures him, making no such effort to hide his delight at the unexpected, familiar company. He claps his hand on Athos's shoulder again, probably hard enough to jostle a lesser man. "I thought that I was alone here."

[armedagainstlove]

Athos lets out yet another grimace though he tries his best not to allow the pain to show. "You're not going to let me go until I acknowledge you," he realises with a long sigh, returning Porthos' affection with a nod of his head, giving him the slightest of gentle pushes to Porthos' shoulder to get him off.

"You're not alone. D'Artagnan and I are both in this hellish abyss, though I'm happy to say they are flowing in liquors."

[praiseandglory]

Porthos might have taken that obvious lack of enthusiasm quite personally, were it anyone else. But this was Athos, and all things considered, it was quite a welcome. Coming from him. Taking pity on his friend, he shifted back at the slight push to his shoulder, dropping his hand to his belt. "D'Artagnan is here as well? This won't be as bad as I feared. Is there really no way back home until this - place - lets us go?"

He has been told this by a few people, but of course, if there's anyone he's going to trust on the topic, it's going to be Athos.

[armedagainstlove]

"I've been able to come and go quite freely," Athos admits, though he finds that every misadventure he has in Paris usually comes, now, with time spent here in the Nexus and for every door that leads him home, there is one that inevitably leads him to some other horrifying place -- always the future. Porthos would enjoy them, he fears. Excitement, action, and a great deal of bad ideas to indulge in.

"Though there is tale of others who are, as you mention, stuck. I'm sure if anyone were to find a way around it, it would be you," he concedes with a deferential nod.

[praiseandglory]

"Your faith in me's touching," Porthos tells him, baring his teeth in a grin. Now he almost hopes that this place will try and hang on to him, for the challenge of it. "You've come and gone freely, you say?" He would have hoped that Athos would have told them of such a place - although, come to think of it, he probably wouldn't have believed him if he had.

[the_dawnster]

One of Dawn's favorite places to read was in the Gardens outside. When the weather and circumstances permitted, she found herself there often. And when the weather and circumstances didn't permit, she tried the greenhouse. This was one of those days where it was actually pretty nice outside aside from the cool chill in the air as a light breeze smoothed past her skin and whipped her hair into and out of her face. She was bundled up well enough in boot cut jeans, some ballet flats, a tee with the phrase 'DO NOT READ THE NEXT SENTENCE!' and then beneath that 'You little rebel. I like you.' on it.

Right now as she made her way back inside she had that nice afterglow that a book lover had when they finished a book, still lost in a fictional world and either unable or unwilling to come back into the real world. She even still hugged the book to her chest even though she had a perfectly fine leather messenger bag hanging from one shoulder and bumping lightly against her hip as she walked. The book, for those interested, was Jane Eyre by Charlotte Brontë.

This was why she was almost on top of the man sitting outside when she noticed him. She just stops herself from walking awkwardly close to him, her feet stuttering to a stop in the grass just a couple of feet from him. "Oops. I almost stepped on you. Not that I weigh that much but... Yum! Fruit sounds good. Where'd you get it?"

[praiseandglory]

Porthos had been lost in thoughts of his own, so he'd only noticed a little too late when the oddly clad maid had nearly, as she proclaimed, stepped on him. But almost everybody he had come across in this strange place had been oddly clad, so he wouldn't hold it against her.

At her first words, he was ready to do his best at a courtly apology, despite knowing he would never rival with Aramis (and honestly, he wouldn't really want to). But then she provided a superb distraction from anything courtly. "The Bistro?" he offered after swallowing his latest bite of apple, hoping that he was pronouncing it right. "They give a lot of food away for free." And wasn't that something incredible. But he would believe it, of course; he was just eating a free apple.

[the_dawnster]

"Ahhh the Bistro. I should have known." Of course she had known. But there were sometimes when the Hotel left platters of food around the hotel for the guests at the desk or in the lobby. So accommodating that they were almost too accommodating. At first Dawn had questioned it. Now she just accepted it as the way things were here. What good were people in a hotel if you left them wanting, after all?

Of course now that she has paused she has a moment to notice the man's dress as well, which is also odd. Perspective, right? As for Dawn though, she also thought it pretty neat. The man looked like something out of a historical novel or movie or TV show or play. Whatever the medium, he looked out of his time. For someone like Dawn who tended to romanticize historical things, it was something she had to appreciate.

"So you're uhm..." And she would apologize for this assumption later. Maybe. "Like... going to a Ren Faire? Nice costume." It's a compliment, really.

[praiseandglory]

While Porthos had very little idea at all what a Ren Faire might be (but fairs were, as a rule, a lot of fun), he could always recognise, and appreciate, a compliment aimed at his attire. He did prize himself on dressing well, better than any of the others, in fact, for all that he didn't go out of his way to draw attention to it.

"Thank you," he told her, genuinely. "What sort of fair is a Ren Faire, if you don't mind me asking? I'm new to this place."

[the_dawnster]

With as long as Dawn had been in the hotel, it was practically criminal that her first thought so rarely went to the fact that people frequented the place from all different times and worlds. There might as well have been a big neon flashing light stating the fact once he asked about what a Ren Faire was though. A man dressed in awesome garb like that and not knowing what a Renaissance Faire was? Yeah, there was something definitely fishy about that. And thankfully Dawn was quick to pick up on it.

"You mean this is authentic?" Personal space has never been one of Dawn's strong suits. So this is where she reaches out to touch. Just briefly. She quickly pulls her hand back again and nods her approval. "Coolness."

But about that Ren Faire... "A Renaissance Faire would probably sound pretty stupid to you. But in my time it's a gathering of people who try to reenact that historical period where people... dressed like you're dressed. It's fun. I went to one once during my Freshman year at Berkeley, but I didn't have a cool costume so I was kind of out of place. I ate a whole turkey leg with my hands though. And this one guy taught me this dance that was like something right out of a Jane Austen novel."

[praiseandglory]

Porthos grew confused with her reactions - including the part when she touched him. He knew better than to think she meant it quite that way, after all, but while his clothes were very nice for a Musketeer, if he might say so himself, they were not that nice either. He wouldn't want to look like a puffed up dandy.

Her words didn't help him very much, and his confusion was evident on his brow. "You're from a - time," that was the first issue, wasn't it, "when people dress like this in fairs. For - fun?"

[the_dawnster]

To Dawn who was used to all things cotton and modern (modern for her time, to be fair) Porthos's attire was something of a novelty and might as well have been the finest in the land, for all she knew. But then Dawn was so distanced from the time when such fashions were prominent that they were all just 'cool' to her, none of them nicer or better than the next.

"Yeah, and it's really super cool. I mean, for people who are huge history buffs. It's like a big party to celebrate a simpler time when everything wasn't so bogged down with technology and too many people." She tries to explain. And then because she's Dawn and she's a professional at embarrassing herself. Her eyes light up and she smiles brightly before saying. "Renaissance. Par-tay!" Yep. She'll be embarrassed by that in a minute or so.

Her shoulders lift in a shrug. "But you know. This hotel's like a pocket dimension that pulls people in from all times and places and worlds and what have you. I'm from the year 2013. You're from the year...?"

[praiseandglory]

Now, Porthos had been told this. None of this was news. But it was one thing to be told there were people from all times and places (some of them not even the world as he knew it) and another to meet someone from the future. 2013. That was enough to make even a Musketeer pause.

"1625," he answered, mechanically, after a beat. Then his astonishment made way for, predictably, curiosity. "2013? What are things like by then?" But he realised that he still hadn't introduced himself, and the done thing was to start with that. He could almost hear Aramis berate him for his lack of manners in front of the fair sex. An arm bent in front of him, he gave the young woman a small bow. "I'm Porthos, Musketeer to His Majesty Louis XIII."