2020-07-27 - Scoping Out a Place on the Beach

Regardless of where one is -- Europe, the US, probably Botswana -- it is generally wise to have an idea of what you're signing, before you sign the contract. Ravn is not quite certain whether actual contracts will require signing if he does end up offered temp work at the TIBS -- what kind of name is that anyway? -- but he is keen on at least seeing the place before tying on the apron, so to speak. Americans do things in unfamiliar ways, more so than anywhere else he's visited, and the most confusing part about them is that their ways seem very familiar until they turn out to not be. The curse of television, Ravn tends to think of it. You watch enough American movies, you end up thinking they actually are like that.

Thus, the tall Dane's feet take him along the bay until he finds himself standing on the deck, admiring the waves, and feeling, perhaps, the slightest bit of home sickness; Denmark is an archipelago, and even when trying very hard, one is never more than an hour's drive from the coast. He rests his elbows on the railing and watches the waves, a lone man dressed in black from top to toe -- jeans, boots, turtleneck, blazer and all -- though whether he's in mourning, colour blind or trying to make some kind of bizarre fashion statement is of course up to interpretation. Whatever he is, he's a new face to Gray Harbor.

"Thank you, darling. Coffee would be lovely. I'll probably be here long enough to move into beer or cocktail territory if I happen to be productive." Those words come from a tall, dark-haired man, speaking in a distinctly received pronunciation accent. Dante's also deeply overdressed, though the robin's egg blue linen suit and crisp off-white button-up is at least appropriate for the season. Tucked into his suit jacket pocket is a pink and white paisley pocket square. No tie - never a tie. No socks, canvas boat shoes and aviators complete the look. Well, that and a signet ring on one hand and a rather posh watch. He settles into a table near the patio and open window - dry from the rain, but still able to enjoy the sea breeze. He opens a silver Macbook. He hasn't noticed the newcomer juuust yet, but he's a nosy sort. Give it a minute. That is, if he isn't noticed first.

Eventually, Ravn does tire of staring at the ocean; perhaps reminded that no matter what ocean you're looking at, they're all really kind of similar. Wavy things, oceans, and barring the Mediterranean, they tend to be the same shade of leadish grey-blue, too, a colour mirrored by his own eyes. He picks himself off the railing and wanders inside, straying towards the bar while taking in the appearance of the place -- another give-away that he is indeed a newcomer to Gray Harbor. Eventually he runs out of floor and orders a cup of coffee -- "Americano, please. That is, whatever passes for percolated coffee here, or hell, half and half espresso and hot water. As long as it's not full of syrup and whipped cream."

It's an okay sort of day, the weather in Gray Harbor was always iffy. So, over her jeans and black shirt with writing on the front, Lyric's got on a genuine yellow rain slicker. It's what she does! Mostly because she's always out walking somewhere. While she walks, she whistles, some unnamed tune that's playing in her head that others can't hear. There's a few lilts in it that may remind anyone who was listening of an old Guns 'n Roses song about Patience. Hands press into her pockets as she notices ahead of her along the docks and TiBS, the popular name for the bar on the beach. There was activity! There were people! A friendly sort herself, she meanders along in that direction too.

Dante tugs off his aviators and tucks them into the front of his shirt, then perks up at the sound of an unfamiliar voice with a familiar intonation. Well, more familiar than the PNW tinged-American accents that dominate around here. "The coffee's actually rather decent here. As long as you, yes, stay away from anything pre-sweetened. I'd also ask for a double-shot of anything as the coffee is smooth and misses a bit of a kick. Flavour is generally decent."

The Johnny Cash-impersonator (or whatever else he might fancy himself, wearing all black) glances back at the voice and offers a smile. "What the gentleman said," he tells the lady at the counter, indeed speaking with an accent that is very much not American; it is not quite similar to that of the gentleman with the laptop but there is a familiarity -- as if the blond man's voice wishes it qualified for a proper British accent. "I've learned the hard way that in this country, 'coffee' tends to mean 'dessert in a paper cup', indeed."

All that coffee drinking! Lyric comes along finally and without checking out any sort of menu or anything, orders tots and a beer on tap, whatever was served. Digging into her back pocket, she tugs out a twenty and slides it across the counter to pay. "Coffee isn't that good, it's kinda bitter no matter where you order it." Way to butt into the conversation. A crinkled nose accompanies the comment and she looks between the fellas with all that coffee!

"Mhmm, not always. But often when you go for anything with milk. But fortunately you're in one of the few American places that does take its coffee culture seriously. Not quite like the Italians, but the roasts don't tend to be garbage, at least. Ah, cheers," says Dante as his own coffee gets delivered, black, with just a kiss of milk and a dusting of sugar. "What brings you to Gray Harbor?" No question that he's new-ish. It's a small town. He motions to Lyric's beer. "So is that, sometimes. I've found there's almost as many varieties of beer as there are varieties of coffee."

"Some of the beers are quite good," Ravn agrees and turns around to rest his elbows on the counter, back towards it and facing out into the room at large. "I am just passing through -- except that people tell me I won't be, and I am starting to think that I might indeed not manage to get a Greyhound to Portland one of these days. In fact, someone suggested that I should check this place out, as they might be hiring. You're both locals, then?"

He glances at Dante and amends, "Well, for a value of local. You certainly sound more British than I ever managed, much to the perpetual grief of my teachers."

He was right! Lyric tilts her head a little and regards Dante with a lopsided smile that holds a touch of ruefulness. "I guess I never thought about it but yeah beer can be bitter too. Sometimes it's just pretty gross." A dip of her head before she reaches for that beer as it's placed on the counter.

Wrapping her fingers around the glass, she turns her gaze to the man in black to regard him as if waiting for the answer to the question the other guy had asked him. His response delights her though and she laughs outright, "People come yeah. Most people only leave.. involuntarily." She doesn't exactly expound on that though. "I was born here and lived here forever. Did you already get a place? Just don't stay at the murder motel."

Dante chuckles and picks up his coffee, eyebrows raising as well. "Mhmm, well, let's just say I was where you are about a year ago. And now I have a flat and have sunk a significant chunk of my life savings into a restaurant. Gray Harbor does have a way of trapping anyone who lingers more than a moment." He sips his coffee. "I came here to research a book. But I seem to have put down roots."

"I've been quite fortunate, as a matter of fact -- my first night in town a very nice lady at the art gallery offered me a couch to sleep on, and the very next day, a fellow I met at the library extended a similar hospitality." Ravn nods. "Now my curiosity is piqued enough, however, to ask -- the murder motel? Is that like the haunted cemetery and the abandoned sawmill? I've heard quite a few wild tales as it is, though no one seems quite clear on what it actually is that supposedly is turning this town into Castle Rock, Maine."

He glances to the other man with mild curiosity. "You're a writer? Fact or fiction, if that's not rude to ask? I write myself, though I should hurry to assert my humility and mention that I have yet to see anything published, much less establish much of a readership on my blog."

Eyes widen at the mention of the sawmill. "The Addington Sawmill. Yeah never go there. Ever." Lyric has a healthy respect for the horror stories of that place, apparently. "People can be nice here. Most people. I'm glad you found a place to crash. I share a whole house with my bandmates. We use the garage to practice." The murder motel though? He gets a slight shrug and a motion of her head down the boardwalk towards the motel there. "Just a lot of bad things that happened there in the past year."

Like Ravn, Lyric drifts a look towards Dante, "Oh a writer! Is that what brought you here? You don't look like someone familiar enough to have lived here forever, but you kind of do look familiar."

"Both," says Dante. "I'm a horror writer primarily. But I've also a nonfiction series about myths, legends and haunting stories of various places. Hence," he motions around, "...what brought me here initially." He grins at Lyric, "About a year now. In fact, almost precisely a year I believe? Certainly not forever, especially by Gray Harbor's measure of 'forever.'" A beat, "And I second anywhere the locals tell you not to go."

"I'm a folklorist myself," Ravn murmurs. "I suppose we might end up talking shop at some point, although the only thing I have indeed published in any formal capacity was my phd." A small trace of envy in his voice, perhaps, but it's gone soon enough as he looks over at the blond woman. "You're in a band, you said? Let me guess -- indie rock?"

The tater tots come and she, of course, adds ketchup in a small glob beside them before adding pepper to the ketchup. She has a seat on one of the stools at the counter and replaces the beer there after having a sip. "Band, yeah, not indie rock. We do so many things. We even have a fiddle player. Itzhak is the best, ever, and we play most everything. We don't really want a label for us. Not yet at least. Blues, bluegrass, all the fun things. Yeah there's rock and I do a little country when I solo here for the events and all, but it's all fun. Do you play anything?"

A grin is given to Dante in response to his. "Welcome to Gray Harbor, both of you, then. I'll have to read something you wrote."

Dante twitches a grin at Itzhak's name. "Mister Rosencrantz and I have been jamming for a few months now. And he plays at my cocktail bar on occasion. I actually just had a rehearsal with him the other night. I can barely bloody keep up. The man's a dynamo." Then, "Pardon my manners. Feel free to join me if you'd like." He closes his laptop and motions to the seats across fro him. Then he lifts brows at Ravn. "Folklore, hmm? I studied lit. I've toyed with the idea of getting my PhD one day. If this writing thing peters out and I want to indulge my academic pursuits."

"Pleasure to meet you both -- name's Ravn." The Scandinavian pronounces the name in a way an English speaker would probably spell Raown or similar -- close at least. Then he nods to the girl and says, "I've taken a few violin classes in my time. Enough that I was able to earn a bus ticket a few times." He wanders towards the proffered seat, cup of strong, black watered-down espresso excuse for an Americano coffee in one hand. "Don't think I've visited a cocktail bar yet -- well, there's an excuse to do so, then, if you've got an expert musician on staff."

"Itzhak is amazing isn't he?!" That's probably rhetorical, but Lyric grins as she responds. "I'm really glad he got a gig at your place. I've never been to the casino, really. I'm always DJ'ing when I can." There's a genuine fondness in her voice and expression when she speaks of Rosencrantz though. The invitation is accepted and she walks over with the tots and beer to slide gracefully into one of the empty seats. "Thanks for inviting us. I'm Lyric Bates. Do you play the violin often? Music is life. What music do you both like best?"

"Dante Taylor," says the be-suited Englishman. It's a name that isn't unknown among devourers of horror, but by no means a household name. "My place is called Sitka, and the piano bar attached to it is called Eighty-Eight. And yes, it's out at the new casino that's just recently opened." He sips his coffee and shakes his head with a grin. "Itzhak leaves me in the dust every time we play together. But he's also pushed me out of my jazz rut."

A random thought appears to wander in to figuratively tap Ravn's shoulder and whisper in his ear. He glances to the horror writer and says, as an afterthought, "Rosencrantz, you said? As in Rosencrantz, the Danish noble house?"

His attention turns back to Lyric's inquiry. "I think I am somewhat of a bluegrass man, inasmuch as we don't really have that tradition back home. Grew up listening to Creedence Clearwater Revival, and John Fogerty's solo records. It's... a very free kind of music. Rebellious against the establishment, in a sort of understated, let's not make a big fuss kind of way. I like that -- and indeed, I do travel with it, but I am merely someone who occasionally busks for fare and a place to spend the night. I'm certainly not confident enough to go on stage with a bow in hand."

"CCR is great. We did Bad Moon Rising and Midnight Special. I like Stevie Ray Vaughan too. I guess I like all sorts of music. Most sorts." Lyric gives him a conspiratorial smile at the rebelliousness of it. "There are open mic nights. I challenge you to play at one sometime." Eyes alight with the challenge of it, whether he would accept or not. "I could even accompany on my guitar, if you wanted, but I bet you could do it alone and shine."

Lyric bobs her head to Dante, "That's why your name is familiar. One of my roomies likes your books and was reading it. I'll for sure have to read it when he is finished." After a dip of a tot, she pops it into her mouth and chews and swallows before speaking again. "I heard about the grand opening, I don't think I have clothes to go to somethin' formal like that. It sounds super nice."

"Rosencrantz, as in a very Jewish, very New York mechanic-slash-fiddler. I think it would be news to Itzhak if he's got noble blood." Dante's clearly picturing the man in some kind of royal wear and it makes his dark eyes dance with amusement. "I'm trying not to have the restaurant be too formal. Date night rather than, you know, New Year's Eve or something similar. If my place is to survive, it needs support from the locals as well as the big spenders Mister Thorne hopes to tug in."

Ravn laughs softly. "Let me assure you, Rosencrantz is a noble name -- though admittedly, one that has spread out for centuries. I believe it hails from the 1500s? Not entirely sure, I'd have to look that up. Folklore back home is often tied to the old noble families, though most of them are quite... well, either dead or so interbred that their names have nine hyphens. Most are just... gone back into obscurity though."

He shrugs, dismissing that line of thought. "Anyhow -- does one indeed need formalwear for a cocktail bar? I can't say I've been backpacking with a tux."

"Well if like, a skirt and stuff are okay, I'll go. I'd like to see what it's like. Maybe I can drag Park with me, she's another of my bandmates. I don't see any of them often though, they're all really busy. Park has a girlfriend, I think, so she's with her lots." Lyric goes back to eating a little, unabashedly listening to the conversation surrounding them at the table.

"Noble huh? That's kinda cool. He speaks an odd language. Words in Yiddish, I think." Considering that a few moments before giving smile to Ravn. "It's a nice cocktail dress Julia Roberts wears in Pretty Woman to go to a cocktail bar. So maybe not formal so much."

"No, not at all. I don't kick anyone out for a dress code, but you might feel out of place in jeans and a t-shirt. Slacks and a button-up would do well enough, or a basic dress or slacks and a nice top for the ladies." Dante raps his fingers against his mug. "You'll have to tell Itzhak that. I'm sure he'd be interested to hear it. I know I've some noble blood myself, not that it's brought many advantages other than a crumbling family estate."

"Is that so?" Ravn glances at the other man and for a moment his lip twitches slightly in amusement. "I get the impression that the British take their gentry quite seriously, though. For us -- if it's not royalty it doesn't matter. There's a few social occasions you're expected to attend but no one gives a flying fig if you don't." He shrugs lightly. "I can definitely go shopping -- wouldn't want to miss out on the opportunity to hear a good violinist perform, that's worth buying a proper pair of pants for."

"There are really good second hand stores too. I go to those pretty often. They have the best old band shirts and hoodies. I could look for a dress." Lyric slides the tots more to the center, but careful of the laptop there, not wanting to ruin it or anything. "Have some tots," she offers around while bringing her beer closer so she can sip it. "Are you really royal? Both of you? That's kind of cool. I'm not. I don't guess."

"Clothing options in this town are sadly lacking, but I'm sure you could find some slacks," says Dante. But then, he's clearly got high standards when it comes to his outfits. "And yes, to a point. My father actually sold our estate a number of years ago because there weren't the funds to keep it up. Fortunately it was bought by a heritage trust. But I went to boarding school, so I haven't too many memories of it in any case." He grins at Lyric and inclines his head. "Not royalty, but landed gentry. Or formerly landed. I believe we've sold most of it except the gameskeeper cottage my father stubbornly holds on to."

Ravn laughs softly. "Heavens, no. I'm certainly not royalty. I'm a count, very technically, though that means... If I ever should decide to go out in a blaze of pretentiousness I could put a coat-of-arms on my stationery, not that anyone'd recognise it." He seems a bit amused by the idea that this would be a subject of interest to anyone; it probably isn't where he's from. "We've only got the one upper class twit boarding school in Denmark and I did attend until they kicked me out. Went to a quite public school after that, and I doubt I missed out."

"So, if I want to dress decently, do I need to actually get on that Greyhound to Portland?" Ravn loses interest in all things feudal and looks from one to the other, though eventually his grey gaze settles on the writer, probably based on some vague notion that he is in fact male and quite neatly dressed to boot.

"A count though, that's kinda cool. And landed? I've never met anyone else like that before. I'm glad you still have part of your lands. Since your famous now though, can you buy back your stuff there?" Lyric looks hopeful at the idea of it, getting it back in the right hands.

It takes very little time to finish her beer so Lyric pushes that aside and just sits there listening to all their fancy things of nobility looking suitably impressed.

"As an Englishman, I can say that we have cornered the market on upper class twit boarding schools. And I in fact went to the most classic of those." By which Dante means Eton, but he doesn't bother mentioning it by name. You either know that's what he's referring to or you'd have no idea. He doesn't sound like he's insulted by the 'twit' thing. He's a self-aware ponce. To Lyric, he says, "Mhmm, no, no interest. The landed gentry is an antiquated thing and I'm not certain it's worth holding on to. And in any case, I haven't got that much money. Especially not since I bought a bloody restaurant." He eyerolls at himself.

He turns and considers Ravn for a moment. "I'm not exactly the best judge when it comes to need and clothing. But, I am of the opinion that one doesn't have to spend a great deal of money to dress well. As I said, a button-up and a well-fitting pair of slacks would do you, especially in summer."

"Famous?" Ravn glances at the woman. "I'm Danish. Unless I was the queen herself I wouldn't be famous just for getting born. Continental Europe crawls with people who claim some title or other -- Germany in particular, they practically pave roads with freiherrs and ritters. I think it's pretty safe to say that our British friend here comes from the one European country that still cares to any great extent."

He sips his coffee and offers a crooked smile. "Funny thing is, you'd get a hell of a lot more attention back home for being a musician. Artists matter."

Lyric doesn't bother trying to hide the disappointment in her features, "Yeah but you have a family with a long past that you know about. I'd really hold on to that if I were you. The whole world changes, people change, the past gets lost and then forgotten. It'd be something to remember and have others remember about you. The past is what makes you and when you don't have much of one, you don't really feel connected to things." A light shrug, but she doesn't push it further than that.

Ravn effectively distracts her from that landmine and she grins, motioning towards Dante, "I mean he's famous. A writer and stuff." Fiddling around with a napkin, she folds it and messes around, making it into a rose shape as she listens before peering back to Ravn. "You're an artist. A musician. What else do you do?"

"Even now, it's changing. The various wars did a number on the old system. And honestly, good riddance. I'm not very fond of systems that elevate people based on their birth. It's caused a lot of pain throughout the whole bloody world. Imperialism isn't something we should be fighting to save, as far as I'm concerned." Which might seem weird coming from Dante, who is every inch the stereotypical English gentleman.

"I'm a folklorist," Ravn replies good-naturedly, leaning back in his seat. "I go wherever my feet take me and I've lived in a backpack pretty much since I got out of university. Haven't really figured out what I want to do with myself in life yet, so I might as well see the world while I mull on it."

He glances at the other man and then, upon hearing that little tirade against the establishment, nods his agreement. "Good words to live by. Half this planet seems to want to pick up and start a fight with the other half on most days. I just want to wander, listen to people talking, hear a good concert once in a while, and if there's coffee in the morning my day isn't going to be all terrible."

"Not so much that," Lyric says quietly. "Just a connection to your past. Something.." she tries to find the word, tangible would fit but not exactly in her vocabulary on a casual basis. "Um.. something you can see, or hold, or touch." Another light shrug and a wry look. "But I guess if you're avoiding your past, you'd not want somethin' like that."

"Folklorist." Lyric tries out the word and nods, "We get lots of travelers through here, but only a few leave. Maybe you'll find something you want to do here." Then something he says brings another smile. "I thought most people from overseas liked tea better." Stereotypical!

"I do like tea, but I'm a writer. Tea isn't bloody strong enough," says Dante with a grin. Then he stands. "I hate to take my leave, but it's getting towards dinner at the restaurant and I'd best go and prepare. Do feel free to come by, and don't let the lack of fancy duds keep you away." He scoops up his laptop and slides it into a slick leather bag - because of course.

It's Vic's day off from bartending at Two if By Sea, so why the hell is she here? Tater tots. Nobody does them better. Also keeping an eye on Easton Marshall's establishment in his absence as part of her 'other' job. The woman walks in past the departing Dante like a long, tall, drink of polluted water. Looks mighty fine, but her insides are all kinds of wrong.

She's in jeans, a tank top, and a light blue chambray work shirt that is left unbuttoned, with tactical boots. She moves to the bar and slides up onto a stool near the conversationalists. She gives an upnod to whoever is tending today, and orders a bottled beer and some loaded tots, before her cold blue eyes sweep over the patrons, studying them.

"Tea is for the British," Ravn murmurs and winks at the Englishman present. "Brits cry when they see what passes for tea in Denmark."

He watches Lyric thoughtfully a moment and then decides to answer the unspoken question after all. "You're not wrong. I've got a few things back home I don't particularly care to go home to. I will, some day. Just -- not in any rush. Competent people minding affairs quite fine without me, and all."

As Dante stands Ravn looks up at him. "You know, I think I will. If for nothing else, then just because this means I'm not the only European in this strange country where they pour syrup and whipped cream into coffee. Have a good one, mate."

"I hope you got lots of inspiration here for your next book. I also hope you do a book signing when it comes out, It's more fun when you can meet the author and have him sign it and stuff." Lyric watches as he stands and puts the computer away before drawing the remainder of her tots back towards herself and popping one in her mouth. As he moves to leave though, she bobs her head, "I'll come by too sometime. It was nice meeting you."

Ravn, now as the only table mate left, gets the full brunt of her attention for the moment. "Everyone mostly has things they don't talk about. It's okay not to talk about it. Some things just are really hard to say." Her expression pretty solemn at the moment, a far cry from her easy grin before, but she's more studying him then, than looking introspective. "I think you'll fit in here. In this town, I mean."

At the movement from the bar, she glances over and notices the off-duty bartender. Sotto voce she adds, "Also, when you order drinks from her," referring to Vic, of course. "She won't give you what you order. It's kinda fun though. A roulette of bar drinks." Casting a smirk towards the woman in question. A smirk that borders on a genuine smile.

"Have a good day, both of you," says Dante with a grin. When he stands, his jacket is habitually buttoned. And then the tall Brit is out the door, and off to Sitka.

Vic accepts her beer and wraps a bar napkin around the bottle, using another to wipe the rim of it before she drinks from it. She's a bit....ah...paranoid about being poisoned and/or leaving fingerprints and DNA around. Go figure. She takes a sip, eyes narrowing at Lyric, as someone she very vaguely recognizes from being a patron there. She gives a slight nod to the woman and her companion.

The Dane glances at the new arrival whom he just watched order beer and taters. "Don't think she's working? Might want to try that later, though, just to see what I get." He nods back as the bartender-in-potentia nods at him, offering an easy smile -- never hurts to be polite.

"You know, it's funny," Ravn then says to the pale woman across from him at the table. "Everybody keeps telling me that. I'll fit in fine here, I'll never leave -- I ought to, but I never will, that sort of thing. It's almost as if there's some kind of secret set of criteria you have to live up to, and if you do, the town adopts you. I'm still wondering what they are."

Vic is given a similar nod, and after hearing that order pops a tot in her mouth too, after dipping it in ketchup. While the attention there is brief, Lyric allows it remains just long enough to finish her own tot before turning it back to Ravn.

"Everyone needs a friend. Especially in this town. Also, one without expectations and stuff to make things awkward. If you ever need a friend or anything, I can give you my number. Questions or anything I can help you with. I don't know that there's a set anything to meet or whatever, but some people just.. shine. Some more than others. You shine a little so you definitely fit in here. You'll do good, I imagine. Just avoid those places people told you about. Especially the Addington sawmill."

Don't wonder about it Ravn, that leads to bad things. Such bad things. Like massive mutant undead bears tearing a hole in your back while you flee through an impossible forest. Ask Vic or Joe about that. Homerton is kind of a dick. With big claws. Vic is the opposite of a pale woman. She looks like she's sporting a tan from lounging around in front of her trailer, keeping an eye on her other boss' interests at Huckleberry (aka his girlfriend).

Her hair appears to be light brown, but her roots are growing back in blonde. She's gonna need the woman she's been charged with keeping alive to touch that up soon. She gives the faintest of smiles back at Ravn, then squints at him, because she hasn't seen him before, and she's on high alert for strangers. That might be a little disturbing, she frowns pretty hard when she does that. She looks tempted to come over and introduce herself, but she doesn't have her tots yet. Priorities.

The darker woman's somewhat intense look causes the foreigner to look away, almost as if he isn't entirely certain what's going on there and thinking it better to avoid saying or doing the wrong thing; in fairness, he's a man in the company of two young women and at least some men would misread that situation entirely just by being in it. He focuses on Lyric's words instead. "Shine, huh. Is that some kind of euphemism? Shiny happy people?"

Then he dips a gloved hand into a blazer pocket and takes out, of all the non-manly hideous things, a cell phone in a bright pink Hello Kitty protective cover. "Sure, I mean, I'll take your number -- and your name, for that matter. As long as we're clear that I'm not trying to pick you up, yes? Life's complicated enough as it is."

Vic's tots get set in front of her, loaded up with cheese, bacon, sour cream, and chives. They come with a fork, because they are way too messy to eat with your fingers. She sweeps up the basket and her beer, and moves over to Ravn and Lyric's table. "You new to town?" she asks the man bluntly, eyes settling on the Hello Kitty phone case with a twitch at one corner of her mouth. Amused.

"Brand new, barely left the box yet," the man replies without a trace of embarrassment at his glittery accessory. "Blew into town two days ago with a trucker who decided that he wasn't sharing his front seat with a European shitmonkey all the way to Portland and tossed me off in your main street instead."

He does have an accent; one that isn't quite British but probably wishes it was. "You work here, then? Somebody suggested that I should look into asking for a job here, actually. Name's Ravn."

Vic grunts something that might be understanding at the man's story. "Portland would have been a better end to your trip, for sure." She's from there. She just can't go back. "This place? Has a way of getting it's hooks into you. A brow arches at his words about working there. "Good place to work. You'll have to talk to Bennie, she's running things since the owner is," telling pause, "out of town." Way out of town. Lost somewhere in the Veil.

As Lyric heads off to the ladies room, Vic settles into a chair at the table. "You have bartending experience?" she asks flatly, doing a bit of pre-interview for her day job boss.

"Hah, no. Never even been on that side of a bar once in my life. But I'm perfectly fine washing dirty plates and sweeping floors, and I'm not afraid of learning new things or getting my hands dirty." From the looks of him, that's a mixed truth -- the way he's dressed in all black seems at once very casual and quite carefully studied, and perhaps a little pretentious for someone starting literally on the ground floor, as in, with their nose in it washing floorboards. "Bennie was the name I was given, yes -- I was talking to a bloke named Aidan? Does a bit of stage magic, carries a bizarre chicken tote bag?"

The rain's a constant, in a town like this. Perched at the edge of the world, where it meets the blustering ocean and at the mercy of temperamental summer storms. Ruiz should be used to it by now, and in truth, he is; but it doesn't make him look any less irritated about being drizzled on, on his walk over. A cigarette's being ground out under the heel of his boot as he holds the door for a young woman headed out, dark eyes trailed after her briefly. Then a sniff, as if to clear the dampness from his nose, and he shoulders his way inside. A smattering of people, some of whom he recognises. A few, he doesn't. Those are the ones he watches as he prowls on up to the bar to place an order for whatever's on tap, tonight. Nope, no tequila for him. Seems he wants to be able to think straight.

Vic shoves her fork into her tots now that they are no longer the temperature of fresh lava and then relays them to her mouth, chewing as she listens to Ravn give the rundown of his qualifications to work there. Which are pretty much none. But he seems willing to work, so there's that. "So where are you from, originally? And why were you heading to Portland?" she asks. There is something in her hard gaze that reads the opposite of 'bartender' and much more like the man that just walked in. Cop. She has the stare of a cop. Or an ex-cop.

That sixth sense police officers have has her eyes moving to the door whenever it opens, so she doesn't miss the entrance of the Interim Chief of Police. Something in her eyes goes a bit flinty at Ruiz being there, but she doesn't comment, just sends a faint nod his way. They are sort of on the same team, while totally being on opposite teams at the same time.

Quite unaware that he is being scrutinised simply on the pretext of not being possessed of a familiar face, Ravn toys with his coffee cup and answers the question of the woman by the counter. "I'm from Denmark, actually -- and I'm pretty much just seeing the world. Came out of Seattle on a truck but... Well, let's just say that I learned not to discuss politics with burly men wearing red baseball caps and leave it at that."

He looks a bit thoughtful a moment. "That was two days ago, and people keep telling me to keep moving, that I'll fit in fine, and that I'll never leave. I mean, by now I'm thinking I want to stay, mostly because of all the stories. I have this feeling that if there's a square foot of non-haunted country here, it's hiding somewhere under the pavement and hoping no one finds it."

The cop - and he's most definitely a cop, never mind the ratty tee shirt, snug jeans and an ex-convict's worth of tattoos up and down both arms - takes a casual lean against the bar while he awaits his drink. Vic's nod is returned with the slightest hitch of his chin, acknowledgement in the meeting of dark eyes to blue for a beat or three. And then they're roving on again, back to the unfamiliar man she's conversing with. Thoroughly shameless in his perusal. This guy? Mexican with the prison ink? Totally the kind of guy that trucker in the MAGA hat wanted to build the wall for.

"Gracias," is accompanied by a brief smile for the 'tender as he collects his beer, and makes his way over to the table where Vic and her friend are seated. "Te importa si yo..?" He looks from her, to the empty seat there, gestures with his glass.

The red hat comment gets a rare bark of a laugh out of Vic, and she shakes her head ruefully. However, Seattle is north, and that makes him coming from the possible direction of the gang trying to take over Felix Monaghan's turf. The overseas origin, however, moves him a step or two out of that column. "Been to Canada in your travels?" she asks, conversationally, other than the flat tone of it, and the expression that resembles an interrogator.

As to the rest she shrugs. "Gray Harbor seems to get into people's blood." Or their Glimmer, either or. "I've been told you can leave, but you might feel drawn back. Kind of like being homesick for someplace you aren't from. But I think plenty of people leave in their own time." In body bags or, you know, disappear, lost forever in the Veil, but she's not specifying.

Then Ruiz is plonking his ass down in those too tight jeans and she smirks at him, sipping her beer. " ¿Te importaría si lo hiciera?" she replies, before idly shoving her loaded tots basket within his reach. "I didn't catch your name," she says flatly to Ravn, predatory eyes still on Ruiz.

Ravn is from a country in which policemen either walk around in very nice black and light blue uniforms with the word POLITI embroidered in tactical places -- or so plainsclothes he'd never know he was speaking to one. He just looks at the other man, taking his appearance in but drawing no obvious conclusions.

"Not yet," he replies to the woman's inquiry, and if it bothers him to be interrogated he doesn't let it show. "I was thinking my feet might take me that way eventually but -- there's no particular place I need to be, or any particular time I need to get there. This place does have a kind of thing, doesn't it? Anyhow, my name is Ravn." He pronounces it something along the lines of Raown -- definitely not an anglophonic name. "Don't think I caught yours either, while we're at it."

As a captain, and a man fairly far removed from even detective duty, not to mention patrol, Ruiz aims more often than not to blend in with the local populace. So he likely fits in more with the latter group, from Ravn's past experience. When not in full uniform for some sort of press conference or other PR duty, that is.

The brunette's given a slanted, mildly curious look at her response, though he does indeed sit his ass down when he hears no objections. It's a lazy, comfortable sprawl. Knees spread apart, beer sipped from and then set in front of him as he listens to her give the newcomer a twenty second rundown of Gray Harbour and its strangeness. He doesn't take his eyes off her until he's good and ready, which is after he's popped a tater tot into his mouth, chewed it into smithereens and swallowed, and has to go hunting for a napkin to wipe his fingers off with.

"Just visiting, or planning on staying a while?" He's not going to attempt to pronounce that mouthful of a name. Not when he already has trouble with his share of English words.

No Canadian vacation, so that's another mark in his favor. Also the guy has a pink Hello Kitty phone case, so she's seeing his threat level as either very low, or it's meant to be a cover and make him seem harmless, which makes him a serious danger. He'll bear some watching. She'll let her real boss know and he can put someone on researching the man. "That's an interesting name, how do you spell that?" she asks, blinking.

As for her name. "I'm Vic. Only been in town a short while myself, but I'm a Pacific Northwest native." Vic stabs her fork into her tots just a split second after Ruiz removes his hand from the basket. These two, there is definitely something going on there. They're either bitter enemies or exes.

"R, A, V, N," Ravn says good-naturedly; she's clearly not the first Anglophone to ask. Then he looks back to Ruiz and says, "I don't know, actually. I thought I was just getting on the next Greyhound but people keep telling me I'm not -- and now I actually don't feel like going. I was told to talk to the owner of this place --" he gestures at the room in general "--maybe see if they need someone to wash floors, that sort of thing. Might look into finding somewhere to stay for a bit too, though I was just adviced against the 'murder motel' in rather strong terms. You're both locals, then?"

"Sound advice," Ruiz agrees, with a slight curve at the corners of his mouth that suggests it might want to be a smile. Just for a moment, there. His phone buzzes, and he digs it out, still with half an eye on Ravn. Not quite ogling him, per se, but it's that look small towners give to people they haven't seen before. Like, who the fuck are you and what do you want here? "Me?" he murmurs in response to the question pitched to them both. Chuckles low. "Yeah. Real local." His accent is.. not. No matter how much he's tried to scrub it clean from the influence of his homeland, it's clear he wasn't born in the States. Tijuana gutter trash, to be precise.

"Yeah, staying anywhere dubbed the "Murder Motel" sounds like a terrible idea." She mentally notes the weird spelling. "So like Raven minus an 'e', but not pronounced Raven. Interesting. That's what nationality you said? Denmark? Man why the fuck would you want to leave there to come to this shithole?" she asks with a bitter chuckle and a swig of her bottled beer.

Vic smirks at the question and Ruiz's answer. "Local-ish here. He's not, though he's lived in the PNW long enough to almost be accepted. Almost."

Ravn's question seems to be genuine enough; it's entirely possible that to him, the Tijuana accent is no more non-American sounding than Boston, Los Angeles or for that matter, Flint, Michigan -- that he honest to God doesn't have the ear for the language to tell.

"Denmark, yes. It does mean 'raven', in fact -- it's a fairly common, if somewhat old-fashioned boys' name where I'm from." Ravn looks at his coffee cup with incrimination; it's rude enough to be empty. "And I'm guessing that you got to see a place before you make up your mind it's a shithole."

He does shoot the other man a mildly sympathetic glance at the woman's last comment. "You know, where I'm from, they have this saying -- seven generations of residence or you're an outsider."

Denmark it is then. Vic's eyes slide to Ruiz, cool and flinty. She is clearly asking him to help her make sure this guy is not here as a plant to wreck more stuff. "Is it a family name?" she asks, still looking at the Captain a long moment before her gaze moves back to the stranger. Like my name is a family name. My grandfather was a Victor, so I was named Victoria." She nose wrinkles. Clearly calling her that will result in BAD THINGS™.

She tucks a lock of light brown hair back behind an ear, the blonde roots coming in making the whole style look a bit off. She doesn't seem to care much about her general appearance though. She wears very little makeup and fashion is clearly not a priority.

"Not in particular, no. Old-fashioned names were fashionable in the 80s -- I went to school with three different boys named Thor-something. Thorfinn, Thorvald, Thorulf -- and there was a girl named Thorgunn. It was just a thing." Ravn trails a gloved finger along the edge of the coffee cup idly, toying with it. Then he purses his lips, looking at the woman again, and asks, "So-o, you definitely don't sound like a Victoria. What do people call you? You'd be a Vicky where I'm from."

The expression that blooms on Vic's face at the name "Vicky" resembles thunderheads rumbling to life over a live volcano. "Vic. Just Vic. Or Vic Grey if you want to be formal." She offers a hand to shake, in the hopes he'll reciprocate with a last name. Because she's clever like that. Sometimes.

Ravn's shake is firm, and from the feel of it, he's wearing a ring on his pinky finger, under the black kidskin gloves. "Ravn Abildgaard," he says with a small smile, unobservant of the fact that the Anglophone who can spell the Danish 'å' or 'double-a' sound has yet to be born. "If you want to be formal about it -- Vic."

"Lo siento, I've got to take this," murmurs the cop, tossing back the remainder of his drink in one fell swoop before pushing to his feet. Vic's given a wordless look in which any manner of things might be communicated; Ravn a curt nod. He never did give the man his name, though all things being equal, the guy will probably find out sooner or later. Him being the acting Chief of Police and all. Then, phone to his ear, the swarthy fellow ambles off for the deck to take his call.

"Gesundheit," is Vic's response at that mouthful of a last name. Yeah she'll have fun trying to spell that in her searches. But Google is pretty wonderful at filling in blanks if you type in the beginning of something. "Well, welcome to Gray Harbor, Ravn. I'll put in a good word to Bennie for you. What else do you do besides travel?" Because she's rather certain his days of doing that are over. Like anyone who shines, she can see his shine too. This place will keep him close, if it can.

As of yet entirely unaware that he's not the only person on the planet who has a bit of a quirk, Ravn cants his head. "I'm a folklorist," he replies. "If you ever need to ask somebody a question about an 18th century Danish folk tale, I'm your man. Apart from that, though, I -- eh, I can do a few card tricks, I've done some busking, and I write a travellers' blog that no one reads. On the whole, I'm not a very interesting person."

Maybe he has in fact noted that he's being asked a lot of questions.

The blog will be looked at for sure. The card tricks and busking is fairly common for wanderers so it doesn't give her much to work with. The folklore stuff though? Vic quirks a brow and rewraps her beer bottle with a fresh napkin. "Well, that stuff might come in handy for you around here." Because she's heard stories of people running into goddamned myths and legendary creatures on the other side and in Dreams.

Ravn cants his head again. "I don't imagine your woods here are full of faerie and guardian spirits of old," he says with an easy smile. "But if I ever run into a talking rock or a cat that claims to be the king of the elves, I'll certainly be sure to take a picture. Modern American urban tales are very interesting but I'm not going to pretend that they're my area of expertise."

"You might be surprised at the strange stories that seem to find their way into Gray Harbor's lore. But that's something you need to experience for yourself," Vic notes with a smile that never reaches her eyes. "And I'm sure you will. Eventually." His shine is a bit weaker than her own, so he might escape Their notice for a while. Possibly. "Definitely avoid the Murder Motel though. The trailer park is pretty reasonable to live in. Whatever Bennie pays you should be able to cover something small there at least."

"You're the fifth or sixth person to tell me this in two days, " the Dane replies with genuine interest. "And the second to warn me against the murder motel. I'm going to venture a guess that that's not it's actual name? I'm honestly still trying to figure out if you've all got some kind of communal funny going on with outsiders here, or I've accidentally wandered into some sort of real life Hotel California -- you can check out but you can never leave, that sort of thing."

"I think it's called the Sea View? Or something like that. Before I came down here, a friend in town warned me about it. Lot of murders happened there. Some pretty recent. I think the former owners were murdered in the lobby or something?" Vic shrugs and shoves some more tots in her mouth, at least polite enough to swallow them down before continuing to speak.

She fixes her eyes on him, narrowly. "You had anything...odd happen in your life? Might have been just weird; might have been downright scary, but not normal scary. I'm not talking getting mugged by a guy in Hell's Kitchen or simple deja vu. I'm talking stuff you'd be afraid to talk to people about, for fear of being put in a padded room with a coat that ties in the back."

Ravn looks at the window a moment, thinking. Outside, the rain continues to fall, not exactly inviting him to make a quick excuse and escape out into the great blue yonder. Eventually he looks back, "Eeh... Not really. I'm good with my hands. You work here, you say? Think you can spare me three paper cups?"

That's a yes. It's so very much a yes, but he has no idea. Vic smirks and gets up, shoving her chair back and striding towards the bar in the ground-eating manner of a woman who is just shy of six feet tall. She taps on the bartop and the tender comes over. A quick word and she is heading back with paper cups from the back, the ones they use to serve water after last call.

The cups get set in a stack in front of Ravn as she slides back into her chair, lounging to watch whatever he's going to show her.

The foreigner looks a bit sheepish, as if he thinks this whole thing a little embarrassing, maybe. "I'm going to venture a guess that you know this game," he says and places the three cups in a row on the table. Then he swipes a small packet of sugar from the bowl and places it under the middle cup. "Just try to keep up with my hands, and tell me where the sugar packet is when I'm done, yes?"

Round and round they go. He switches one cup for another, hands moving very quickly, almost at a blur. At no time are any of the three cups lifted from the table before eventually, they come to a stop.

It's really, really hard to trick a Physicalist at the shell game. She can sense the use of his Glimmer, and so she reaches out with her own to feel for the sugar packet. He can sense it, a surge of power around her that tastes like his own, because she does nothing to hide it, just simply moves a pointed finger from one cup to the next until she goes right past the cups and is left pointing at his pocket. "You're like me. Not as strong, but like me nonetheless."

Ravn's blue-grey eyes widen. Then, slowly, he nods. "You know, I've never met anyone else who could do that. Never. Made a fair bit of money from that trick along the way though."

He procures the infamous sugar packet from its hiding place in his jean pocket. How it got there -- only his poltergeist knows.

"Be prepared to meet a lot of people like you here. And people like you but in different ways. What we can do, there are other flavors. I have a little bit of one, but not the other." Vic presses her lips together in a tight line. "It's why you're here. It brings people like us here. And using it? It draws Their attention." The emphasis on their is clearly something that is a capital letter. "Check your folklore. No one knows what They really are, but They appear everywhere in myths and history. Bits and pieces of Their agents at least. If you have a weird Dream, one which feels oddly real? Fight for your life, and go through to get out. Don't get Lost in it, you might not return. And they can hurt or kill you."

Is she fucking with the new guy? Maybe. But in Vic's eyes, she's clearing her conscience rather than letting someone else go jogging in Addington Park and wind up in the Veil being chased by an ursine nightmare.

The folklorist frowns. "You're talking about the faerie -- or whatever the local equivalent is. Different names, same myth anywhere. Some kind of parallel realm, an Avalon lost in the mists, a place that can be paradise or hell, but the one constant is that it sucks people in and they don't come back, or they come wandering back fifty years later and don't understand what happened. Is that the kind of thing we're talking about?"

His tone is very different now, almost as if the laid-back wanderer is a bit of a mask for someone who takes at least some things very, very seriously.

Vic nods slowly. "All myth is based in fact, whether we want to admit it or not. A Faerie realm or a parallel world, or an alien race, it's all the same really. It's Other. And we have a little bit of what powers that Other in us. And they want to feed on our misery as fuel." She leans back and sips her beer. "Or I'm a total crackpot and fucking with you." She winks.

"Myes," Ravn drawls. "And I'd probably be thinking exactly that if you had not just shot down a game that I've never ever lost before. Nevermind the fact that if this is some kind of joke you are all in on it, too. I get that it's common to take the piss out of outsiders but this is ridiculous. You all say the same thing, unprompted, and none of you make the typical rookie conman mistake of adding a bit here, shining the story up a bit there. I don't know what to think, to be honest, but at this point I'm curious enough to stick around for a bit."

"Smart man," Vic replies with a quirk of a wry smile. She flicks her finger in the empty air and a sugar packet lifts out of the holder and slides across the table to him. Subtle, and no one around seems to have seen it. "Just be careful, and I recommend sleeping with pajamas on, and at least socks. Because if you get pulled into a Dream in the altogether, it's really not fun trying to fight your way out starkers." She gets up and without so much as a goodbye, she heads for the door and out into the rain.

"The heck is a dream..." He wants to ask and rather strongly suspects that the hard-eyed lady was not referring to curling up with your favourite teddybear and entertaining nocturnal hallucinations about being late for work or getting laid. A trip to Fairyland, is that what she meant?

Ravn taps a few notes on his cell, to remind himself of things he needs to do.

Talk to 'Bennie'.
Look up that Aidan kid and ask him more questions.

Find out what the hell is going on here, because you really do seem to have found the fuckin' Hotel California, he thinks. Always hated that song.