2020-07-29 - One of Those Days

It's been a weird summer. What with all the violence, fire, death... Yeah, just really superweird, even by Gray Harbor standards. Weird summers absolutely demand a little bit of imposed normalcy now and then, and what is more normal for a warm summer evening than booze by the beach? Oh, sure, clouds out over the water threaten storms that haven't yet arrived, but Sparrow isn't gonna let that rain on her parade. Possibly not even when the rain actually gets here. Only time will tell. For now, the purple-haired rocker is chilling down on the lower level of Two if By Sea in one of the chairs near the fire pit, even if it's too early and too warm for a fire to be going yet. Her black boots are the heaviest thing she wears, but they complement the dark galaxy-dyed jean shorts she wears with a loose black tank top with a large crescent moon on the front. The fabric of the shirt is thin enough that her purple bra can be seen below, even if it's really the straps peeking out that give away the color. With a beer in one hand and her phone--with which she's been texting Cris--beneath the other, she waits watching the distant sky light up with threats it hasn't made good on yet.

At first he was trying to pass off the notion of joining Sparrow, dancing around the subject by changing it repeatedly and noncommittally. Finally though, he decided that whiling away the evening on the deck with a hot little number in jean shorts didn't sound like a half bad idea.

Cristobal doesn't arrive through the TiBS, rather coming up the shoreline without his beloved Fairlane driven and parked in the lot. Either he stashed it somewhere further away, or he walked the entire way from Elm. He finally lopes up the stairs in jeans and a white tank, his cowboy boots announcing his presence before he calls out in greeting. "Hola, chica." His frame leaning over hers to drop a kiss to her purple crown.

Sparrow might've worried about her powers of persuasion and the magic of tempting selfies if Cris hadn't given in. Hell, there may even be some very small chance that she's still not sure he's gonna show until she sets eyes on him. The thunk of his boots against the stairs pulls her attention from storm brewing on the horizon, an easy smile spreading across her dimly purple lips. Dark lashes dip low as he leans in, as she tilts up into that affection. "Heya, gorgeous. Wasn't sure you were actually gonna make good after the fight you put up." One eyebrow cocks curiously as she asks the entirely unnecessary question: "Everything alright?"

There's a noise rumbled in his chest, like he wants to disagree with her, but he doesn't want to risk voicing a bald faced lie. Cristobal drops into a chair next to her, hand going to her knee immediately, like he can't be within touching distance and NOT be touching. "You know it isn't." Hell, the proof is written on his skin, fading bruises and healing scratches. "You hear about Joseph Cavannaugh?"

Bruises and scratches are nothing new on Cris, and Sparrow knows it. She is determined to not read Big Huge Horrible things into this new set. And she's doing alright at it, too, her easy smile holding as her fingers, damp with condensation from the beer she's abandoned for the moment, set atop his greedily. Even the confirmation that everything's very much Not Alright doesn't cause that good mood to falter. But the question which comes after? Yeah. That does the trick. Her fingers tighten as her expression flattens, head shaking while she shifts her weight to pocket her phone. "No," comes quietly. "What happened with Joe?" The rise at the end implies optimism, like maybe the lead-in was misleading.

This is true, marks on Cris are never a good gauge of the temperature of things. He turns his hand over in her lap so that he can lace fingers with hers. "He was dating the wrong man at the wrong time. He was left bloodied, tortured, and near death on Ruiz' doorstep as a message. So no. I almost didn't come tonight, because if anything like that ever happened to you because of my actions or who I am...I just...I couldn't, Sparrow."

Sparrow's fingers fall easily into that tangle, quick to resume their tight hold in this new position. Similar tension sets into her jaw when he leads with that particular phrasing, her eyebrows scrunching together and angling downward in what might be an odd flare of anger. Defiance, more likely, given the way she looks at him with her chin tilted forward like that. "I get it, but you're wrong." She sounds unduly sure of that. "You don't get to shoulder the blame for some other asshole's actions. Just like it's not Joe's boyfriend's fault for what happened to Joe. Or Mac's fault for her place burning down. Or the dead guy's fault for his funeral turning into a firefight. Allathat falls squarely on the shoulders of the fucking monsters pulling this shit, alright?" Eyebrows all up at her bangs like that? She means it. But she doesn't wait for an answer. She just asks, softer, relaxing a smidge, "How's Joe doing?"

Cristobal's eyes roll heavenward as if asking for guidance and he slumps back in his chair, that means either Sparrow has to let go of his hand or be tugged along with him, but his fingers go slack in hers. "Just because you don't think it's my fault, doesn't mean it couldn't happen. And fuck if I know, I've been ghosting him just as much." A hand lifts to his brow, giving it a rueful rub. "I saw him at the Pourhouse, he's hurting."

Sparrow hesitates to let go of Cristobal's hand, but only for a second. With his fingers going slack within her own, she surrenders that weight, letting him draw his arm away. And then gets up and out of her own chair to follow him into his slouching. He gets a little bit of warning to either clear his lap or fend her off before she's trying to settle in sideways. Possibly in direct, intentional defiance of whatever it is he's afraid of. "It's not your fault," she reiterates, bucking against the implication that it's just her opinion. "And I get it. I get that these jerks have literally zero regard for anybody or anything. I get that being close with you puts me in danger. But so does being friends with Joey. Or spending time with Mac. Or Rhys." Right? She might be fishing with that one, nevermind the casual delivery. "Too much of my life is tangled up with too many people caught up in too much of this, and I'm pretty sure there's fuckall I can do about that, so." Her expression softens, and, if she's been let in close enough, she leans in near enough for a kiss without making contact. "Besides. Anything happens to me, we can blame Joey. Everybody's doing it. He can take it. Alright?"

Cristobal tolerates Sparrow slinking her slight weight into his lap with a sigh, but his arms twine around her hips regardless and tug her in close. "Babe, I can't keep up with who else you're dating." Like a champ, he tries to play off that list of names, acknowledging none more than the others or connecting them besides that comment. "Were some of them at your party? I just remember buying drinks for a whole lot of kids that looked underage." He grins mirthlessly, and does his due diligence to take advantage of that leaning and plays his lips lightly against hers. "Speaking of, I need some booze. Wave down a waitress if you see one. I'd get up, but..." He has a lap full of Sparrow.

And she has a pair of arms wrapped snug around her hips. Sparrow lingers close for a moment on the wake of that almost-kiss like she's considering going in for something more substantial. And maybe she does, if the quick, light nip to his lower lip counts, as playful as it is bratty. She pulls back quickly, as much to evade any counterattack as to make good on his request, peering about for a server. She spots one helping some other customers and waits. "Mac's my old boss. Before the shop got burned to the ground. Along with her apartment above it." Putting on her best smile, she lifts her arm to wave the server down, appending in the few seconds it takes for them to close the distance, "And none of my friends are underage, old man."

Ruiz probably isn't fooling anyone with his tee shirt and jeans and leather jacket and ratty old ballcap look. But it's become his gold standard for blending in with the civilians, so that's what he turns up in tonight. Hands jammed into his jacket pockets, he shoulders the door open and holds it for a couple headed out. Briefly watches them depart before prowling his way inside. A glance goes to the deck and the smattering of people seated around the firepit, though it's hard to say if he recognises any of them from here. A detour to the bar to order himself a drink, wallet fished out of his pants pocket as the 'tender goes about pouring him a glass of tequila.

Cris' eyes narrow as she nips at him, and as she withdraws out of lippy retribution range, he just lifts a hand from her waist and tugs at a purple lock of hair. "Yeah, I kinda got that one. Odd, that her place burned down like that right after she disappeared for a bit and shuttered the place. Trust that she didn't do it for the insurance money?" No one can play dumb like Cristobal, or maybe he doesn't actually know? Speaking of, maybe he spies Ruiz through the window, or maybe he's just felt like they've skirted danger enough for now with the PDA, he gives her hip a pat and upnods towards the chair she abandoned. "You're sittin' on my nuts, babe."

Sparrow calls, "Bullshit," on the excuse offered, angling a flat look his way, but she obliges all the same. She's on her feet and stretching like she was the one who was uncomfortable when the server pulls up and asks what they need. She asks for another beer for herself and leaves Cris to order for himself. Plucking up the half-empty bottle she abandoned earlier, she settles on the edge of the firepit, facing Cris and, subsequently, the building, her smile gone as soon as the server heads off to get their drinks. "Nobody sets their whole life on fire for the insurance money," comes dry and quiet once they're alone again. "And she didn't need the money. Girl makes bank. How do you think she was able to pay me so well working in a dead industry in a small town?" Wait. Wait. Realization dawns after she gets all of that out and clarification follows: "She streams. And does resto work online. More money in repairs than sales."

Glass collected, the cop dawdles a little at the bar, caught up in some small talk with the guy slinging drinks tonight. Which culminates in, heard you were involved in that shootout down at the casino, which garners a chuckle of non-response, knuckles rapped on the bar in farewell, and the Mexican prowling off for the open deck door. He leans a shoulder against it, tips his glass to his mouth, and observes the pair at the firepit with that dark, steady stare for a time.

Cristobal orders a light what-passes-for-Mexican beer, his hips shifting as Sparrow stands after giving him that look. He's fishing in his pocket and pulling out a little plastic shaker that looks like a beer bottle itself. "Nevermind, That was just my Twangerz." He shakes the lime flavored salt with a wry grin, but he's leaning forward and propping his elbows on his thighs. His tongue poises on his back teeth as she explains about Mac. "Uh-huh." Letting that just hang there, about aaaaall that extra money she pulls in. If Sparrow can sleuth out the truth without his help, then he can't be blamed when she starts connecting the dots. At this point it'd be awkward not to acknowledge Ruiz, so he tips two fingers off his forehead in a wave before muttering at Sparrow. "Fuck me gently with a chainsaw."

Sparrow rolls her eyes at the little bottle pulled out and follows it up with a look anywhere-but-here, casting her attention back over her shoulder at the water, at the cloudy sky that hasn't quite caught up with them yet. A quiet, "Whatever," dismisses his two-syllable response to Mac's income streams. "Only reinforces my earlier point." She slides a sidelong look back his way just in time to catch that sorta salute and follow it up toward the building. Her smile's not as genuine as it could be, but maybe the friendly finger-wiggling wave that goes with it compensates. "I'mma be a whole lot of pissed if it turns out you're doing--" Her hand then waggles Cris' way nonspecifically. "--this to push me away, so. I'mma be generous and assume you're just in a shitty mood." Brows pitch high as she looks at the blue-eyed man in front of her and asks directly, "Why'd you come out tonight?"

Sparrow's smile may not be thoroughly genuine, but Javier's is wholly absent. He's got that inscrutable thing going on tonight, brows slightly furrowed as he considers the pair - and that little two-fingered salute from Cris. Probably he missed the chainsaw fucking comment, though, or he'd not be pushing off and approaching them slowly while digging for his pack of cigarettes. "Buenas tardes," he greets, low-voiced, tapping one of the kreteks loose and tugging it out with his teeth so he can light up.

"For fuck's sake, doing what." Okay, so maybe he's just in a shitty mood. Or /also/ a shitty mood. Why's it gotta be one or the other? Cris looks away, shaking his head and may be about to answer her question or spew some more expletives when Ruiz approaches. He chews back whatever words that were never born with a tense of his jaw and a grind of his teeth. And then he smiles. Big and full. "Acting Chief de la Vega. Why don't you come, sit. Maybe your presence will diffuse the PMS bomb that's about to explode."

Sparrow's hands spread towards Cris indicatively, like he's already answered his own question by asking it, though one's more an extension of the fingers not essential to holding her beer. She keeps her eyes on him even as she lifts her beer toward Ruiz, the gesture far more cheerful than her increasingly contentious expression. Grim amusement curls her lips, tugging leftward sharply at the optimistic observation Cris offers up to Javier, another eyeroll accompanying an all too sweet mutter of, "Option A then? Fuck you, darling." Her smile's more of a smirk when she finally looks up at the cop and explains, "Some people don't handle worry well. How're you holding up, handsome?"

Ruiz hesitates a moment, like he's not entirely certain he wants to chance the PMS bomb that's about to explode in his vicinity. Not that Cris's toothy grin allays those fears much at all. The bouncer's given a look over, top to toes, with a slow raking of dark eyes. And then they crinkle with a slight smile. And he does. Sit, that is. Thump, right next to the bouncer, knees spread wide like he doesn't give a shit how much space he takes up.

"Nobody's tried to kill me," he tells Sparrow, tipping his glass toward his mouth. "Nor sent me any threatening emails." A drag off his kretek follows, and he qualifies that statement with, "today." Then another sidelong look to Cris. "You look like shit. Someone kick your ass?" He himself has a purpling bruise just under the neckline of his tee shirt.

"Maybe in a little while, Pajarillo. Let me finish my beer first." Perhaps the use of his nickname for her will soften the arrogant ass response that takes that 'fuck you' as an invitation. Right on cue, the waiter brings his beer over and he exchanges it for some bills, never running a tab and always paying in cash. Cris pops open that little bottle of salt with his thumb and sprinkles an ample amount down the neck of the bottle, turning the amber liquid reddish at the top with the little flakes. "You know, that's a coincidence, Javier. I feel like shit too. Probably why they tell you to never drink the water in Mexico. You never know what kinda shit you're going to catch."

August comes into the bar, looking like he had a rough day on the beach. He's in a purple hoodie, black cargos, a gray slub tee, and urban hikers, all of which bear signs of some sort of situation: they're patchy with dampness, and sand clings to them here and there.

The bartender gives him a sympathetic look, and he just sighs, shaking his head in a 'it's so not worth explaining' gesture. A few bills later he has a black and tan and is heading out to the deck, ready to relax a bit before Eleanor's shift ends.

"Now he's an optimist," Sparrow clips quietly in indirect response to Cristobal's interpretation of her words. At least she's not looking at Ruiz when she says it, no expectation for him to participate in whatever nonsense is going on between them. When she does look his way, it's to flash a smile even less convincing than the last and dryly remark that his relatively uneventful day, "Sounds pleasant," as if pleasant were a bad word. Which ... no, that's not right given all that's been going on. Her expression promptly resolves into something awkwardly apologetic as she, more softly and sincerely, mutters, "I mean, yeah. Actually pleasant. Good." There was another word about to come out of her mouth, but she makes good, prompt use of the fresh beer delivered to replace the near-empty, taking a hefty swig as she turns her attention back to the beach, toward the incoming storm, oblvious to sandy bears and bruises and anything else involving looking at other people for the moment.

It isn't so much that Javier's oblivious to the subtext going on between the pair he's seated with. It's more that he's got a glass of tequila, a whole bunch of other shit to worry about that isn't threatening emails, and the wind's blustering in no small amount of rain to boot. He nudges the brim of his cap a little lower with an inked thumb, sinks down in his seat, and downs more liquor. His kretek smokes away lazily between two fingers as he snorts at Cris, and watches August approach.

"Yeah, well, you know what they say. Day ain't over yet." Maybe that's in response to the notion of him being an optimist. Maybe it's about Javier's life not being threatened. Half of one and six dozen of another. Cris takes a swig of his beer, then tips it in the direction of August. "One of those days, amiright? Practically counting down the days until your bachelor party my friend."

"Ah, some of my favorite people," August says. He sips from his beer, scowls at it. "You've got to be fucking kidding me," he mutters, shaking his head. He points the pint at Cris. "Yes, and yes. I was turned into a fucking mer-person, and now all I can taste is low tide. So the sooner I get to go to a strip club and dance on stage like an idiot while drunk off my ass, the better." He settles heavily in a chair, gives his black and tan an accusatory glare. He glances at Sparrow, noting her distant demeanor, shifts his gaze to Ruiz, whom he's well aware has been having a much worse time of it. "How's he doing," he asks, not bothering to specify who he means.

Sparrow's empty hand comes up to rub across her mouth, holding there for a moment as a new voice joins the circle. If she was trying to wipe the sourness from her face before looking August's way, she didn't quite manage it, the smile she flashes him tight-lipped and tired. Even if he misses it while his focus is on Javier. She angles a sympathetic look his way, but it doesn't linger. Nah, for the moment, it's more silence, sipping and looking anywhere but here.

The cop cuts a bit of a dark look Cris's way when he makes that crack about the day not being over yet. Like Javier needs a reminder. He sips, chases it with another drag off his smoke, dark eyes sliding over Sparrow briefly before returning to August and his talk of mer-people. It's a testament to the fucked-up-ness of this town that he doesn't even bat an eye at it. "You're getting drunk and stripping? News to me." He probably also doesn't know who the man's referring to with that question, so doesn't bother answering it. However, "I'm having a hard time picturing this." The stripping, he probably means.

"The Boatswain's fine, I was out drinking with him. He'll survive. He always does. Because the other option is six feet under." Cristobal, asshole that he is, fills in the blank for Ruiz. Even if it's the wrong blank, he's going to go ahead and scribble in it. Because his mood is also a testament to the fucked-up-ness of this town. He shifts a glance to Sparrow, and it must be some trick of the light and the incoming storm, because for a second he almost looks apologetic. But that can't be right, can it? But as a small favor to them all, he gloms on to the notion of August stripping. "Yeah, man. Javier's right. Having a HARD time picturing this. Mainly because I'm still wondering which half of you was the fish part. Top or bottom?"

August catches the movement from Sparrow, watches her a second. He seems about to say something, but Cris answering his question gets his attention. He arches an eyebrow. "Drinking already, eh?" He sighs; it's not like he can blame Joe for wanting to put a few away the second he could.

He scoffs at Ruiz. "At my stag party? Of course I am. Who passes up a chance to let everyone know what's not longer available? Certainly no me." He flashes his teeth for Cris' choice of emphasis, follows that with a drink of his beer. Which unfortunately has him grimacing. Being a mer-person is officially bullshit.

"Bottom," he says, smiling in a sweet, 'I know what you're doing here' way even as he says it. He sobers almost immediately. "Some kind of, big, spiny fins like fans." He gestures. "Dark purple and orange and white. Couldn't swim for shit like that."

Sparrow demonstrates all of zero receptivity to that implausible apology she might have briefly caught in a sidelong look toward Cris, the angle of her eyebrows issuing doubt and challenge in lieu of anything even remotely sympathetic. She takes a long pull from her beer, the bottle still almost half-full when she sets it down. The eyeroll at the might-be-flirtatious exchange between Cris and August--which would surely be entertaining on just about any other day--likely goes unseen as she gets to her feet. All she mutters before she starts off toward the door back inside is, "Thanks for helping Mac, merman."

Sparrow's departure is observed with but a tick of Javier's eyes thataway, but no accompanying movement from the rest of him. He's in full-on slouch mode, apparently, and intends on getting good and drunk tonight. Which is why he's on his third tequila, set in front of him presently by the waitress who swings by from inside. "Don't think I've ever felt the urge to take my clothes off to prove a point," he grumbles. Which is patently false, because August goaded him into precisely that in this very bar, not too long ago.

As for the rest, "You were out drinking with Cavanaugh?" Cris is leveled a slightly sharp look. Might be a tetch of possessiveness in it. Or might just be that, given the givens, he's extra protective about his boyfriend.

Cris mutters something in his beer that sounds suspiciously like: one down, two to go. Maybe he just meant what his drink limits are tonight, as he sets down the empty, eyes trailing after Sparrow as she departs. "You know. I kinda figured bottom, but I wasn't sure. Maybe in your next Dream it'll be switched up, yeah? No fun only living half a life." He kicks out a cowboy boot, one ankle bulging more than the other. Because wearing his weapon on his waistband was totally ruining the silhouette of his outfit. As to Joseph? Well that gets a sly grin. "I was. Walked him out too." The last sentence is dragged out sugary sweet and long.

August watches Sparrow get up, smiles a little at her murmured thanks. "You're welcome," he says. "Take care, yeah? There's something dragging people into the ocean." It's a serious moment amidst the joking commentary about stripping. As annoyed as he is, he can't forget the sight of kids being dragged into a dark, undersea city.

He's about to say, "I'm pretty sure you have," but there's another tequila, and then that tone about Cris taking Joe out drinking. Instead, August opts for, "If you think I'm going to pass up a chance to relive the glory days of being thirty and without shame, you don't know me." He has another salt-and-sea-laden drink of his beer, ponders switching to something nastier. He won't be able to taste it, after all...

"Can do worse than living the bottom half of a life," he says, bobbing his eyebrows. He flicks a glance at Ruiz to see how he takes that taunting reply. Is it going to be one of those nights?

Sparrow's jaw clenches as she bites back the entirely inappropriate response she wants to clip back at August's well-intended advice. No need to go spitting venom everywhere just because she's in a bad mood. There's no look back, no goodbye, no coming back after she's cooled off. She's got more pleasant places to be.

The cop shifts slightly, glances back at August and his almost-reply about the stripping. But then there's a glass of tequila magically appearing, and he'll be damned if he's going to let it go to waste. It's collected in a set of inked fingers, and lifted toward his mouth. And paused a hair's breadth away when Cris can't resist pointing out that he walked Joe out. "He get home all right?" is murmured in return, voice that low, silken purr of a cat on the hunt. Angry? Not really. He knows they have a thing. It's hardly something he's going to get his panties in a twist about. Down goes the tequila, dark eyes on blue as he awaits a reply.

Cruz'ing for a bruising is hardly anything new, could be the man is looking to get his teeth knocked in after being an ass to Sparrow. Could be that Ruiz ruins his fun by not taking the bait. Cris plants his hands on the arm of his deck chair and stands languidly. "Dunno. We never got that far." Which is true, in all respects, as Cris really did just walk him out of the Pourhouse and then split off. He passes August, clamping the man on the shoulder as he goes, telling them unceramoniously, "Gotta drain the weasel." Before he pulls the good ole Irish Goodbye like Sparrow.

August relaxes as Ruiz doesn't rise to the bait. Not that he'd have minded trying to break up a fight between the two in some awkward and hilarious way, for example by totally on accident and without even trying spilling his black and tan on one or both of them.

But fortunately Cris seems to be giving up on his attempts to get into a fight, so August doesn't get to cover the two with sand and then tell them they had it coming for being children. (Speaking of fun being ruined.) "Night Cruz. Take it easy. Try not to get killed." He frowns, realizing he sounds like Alexander, shrugs it off.

As some people move out, others move into the bar crowd and disperse to varied areas in the establish, one of which is Lilith Winslow. For whatever reason this evening, she's flying solo instead of walking at general latch by a certain tall, dark, and handsome side. Wearing a pair of high-waisted, lace up black shorts and tied ankle sandals, her burgundy wine colored swing tank has embroidery with open weave knitting at the back, dark hair piled and pinned to show off the decorative little summer garment asset. With mere accent flush of cosmetics, the woman seems to have a bit of a glow that's all her own as well, she's been like that lately. Vacation obviously did her some good.

That and... well. The thing that sparkles on her ring finger when she wanders up to put a hand down on August's familiar shoulder, eyes cutting to Ruiz with a twitch of lopsided smile greeting, "... knock knock. Steal a seat?"

"You sound like Alexander," Ruiz isn't above pointing out in a low murmur, around another sip of his tequila. When he looks up again, Lilith is inviting herself over for a sit down. He cuts his eyes toward the spot recently vacated by Cris, then back to the brunette with a trademark lack of warmth in play. Then a flick of his fingers to indicate she should feel free. "No, but you can have it. Our gift to you. Stealing's against the law, querida." She gets a wink. And no, he's way too fucking tired to get into a fight with Cruz tonight. Never mind that he pretty obviously already did that, given the bruises on the guy. Or, well, someone did. Someone whose name ends in Vega.

August gives Ruiz a Look for that, though it doesn't last. "Yeah, yeah," he mutters. "Who can blame me." He sighs, runs a hand through his hair. "At this rate I'll be lucky to make it to my wedding in one piece."

He glances at the hand on his shoulder, eyeing the rock on it. That set someone back a pretty penny. His eyes move up the arm to see Lilith, which has him smiling. "Hey girl. How was your trip? Aside from, ah," he can't help it, bobs his eyebrows, "engaging."

He hooks a foot under the chair Cris left, pulling it out for her. There! No longer theft. The approaching storm in the distance flickers with lightning every now and then, and a cool, damp breeze wafts off it. August's clothes still have a smattering of sand, but the damp spots have dried. "Sure thing. You two just get back?"

"I don't care about the law, I'm taking the whole chair home. Pelea conmigo, azada!" Lilith tells Ruiz with a chipper little dry deadpan as she drops down into the indicated and recently vacated place by the pair of men. And yes, she just told the Chief of Police to 'fight me, hoe!' but it sounds so much more fun in Spanish, doesn't it? It's clearly something she's picked up from sassy bitches in a Miami salsa club, she's full of Spanglish gems she loves to pull out in company that can understand them.

And yes, that ring did set someone back a whole luxury car. It's not gaudy huge, but it's sizeable and brilliant cut with facets shining off of the oval shape, solitaire set in a platinum band for rich elegance and swank over tacky. Very definitely Tiffany's or some other designer, knowing the source of that ring placement.

Sighing a bit happily, she orders a Dos Equis dressed with salt and lime, preferably one that is sized nicely to fit her damn bottleneck as she tells the bartender. Apparently, it's her pet peeve when the limes are cut too small and fall right in or are chunked too big to fit, "We got back a bit ago, it's just been a lot of catchup after being gone for so many days. He did it in Monaco, on a dinner yacht top deck, under the moon and stars out on the water and it just... I had no clue. Now I'm learning all kinds of ridiculous things about myself. For instance..."

After drawing in a sober breath and looking between the two men like this is a dire development, she declares, "I've been looking at table centerpieces on pinterest."

"Tu español es terrible. Dónde aprendiste a hablarlo, gringo?" The admonition's leveled at Lilith with the slightest of smiles in accompaniment. It slivers his eyes for a moment, and leaves an apparition of crow's feet at the edges long after the expression's faded. An insistent buzzing of his cell phone finally gets him to dig it out of his jeans pocket, and after checking his messages quickly, he grumbles, "I've got to go." The remainder of his tequila's knocked back, and he leans forward to gesture at Lilith with his empty glass. "Felicidades de nuevo, Lilith." Then it's slid onto the edge of the firepit, and he taps out a quick reply as he pushes to his feet slowly. "Hey, Roen, you need to send me your fucking wedding registry. Yeah? Unless you don't want shit."

August's response to Lilith's deep dark admission is a wince, and since he's already making a face he has some of his beer that tastes like low tide. "Center pieces? Lil, don't turn into a housewife on us now." He mock shudders, softens it with a sly smile.

"Now that sounds lovely and romantic. I'm glad he pulled out the stops for it, too. Your man can afford to do nice things for you, so he should. Mazel tov."

He coughs a laugh at Ruiz's response to the challenge. August might not know much Spanish, but 'gringo' and 'terrible' speak for themselves. He gives Lilith an apologetic look as chokes down his reaction by clearing his throat. "Eh," he says of his wedding registry, waving his hand. "We don't need much stuff, but I'll send it to you. Ellie might appreciate some things." He's getting the only thing he wants. "Come to the wedding and the bachelor party and enjoy yourself, that's a good enough gift." A little more seriously, he adds, "Stay safe, yeah?"

"Miami. It's a mash up 'round those parts, made me messy. People exist in Spanglish down there, everyone's a heathen." Lilith explains to de la Vega with a certain proud unapologetic flair for her bad Spanish with intermittency where she finds it to suit. Honestly, she just understands it better than she's ever going to speak it, but at this point, it's habit with present company for kicks, "My salsa dancing makes up for it, I believe I'm what's called... en fuego on the dance floor. I've given Itzhak a run with the legs and footwork before, he can totally attest to it."

Then her beer arrives, and while the interim Chief is saying his farewells, she sweeps a loose piece of hair from updo back behind an ear and takes her beer to make that critical lime smash into the bottleneck to catch. After a good lick of salt from the side of the bottle, she drinks long, then toasts the beer with tip of cheers and 'thanks' to the congratulations on the way out, "Thank you, we're pretty thrilled about it all around, I think, everything else be damned. Take care, though, huh? See you around."

While Ruiz heads out, she watches him leave for a pensive moment, then leans some to ask August quietly, "... are him and Itzhak like... together together? I might be a little slow about coming around to that."

August listens to Lilith's description of Miami with interest. He's done little in the way of real travel outside this little corner of the world which is the Pacific Northwest, not even within his own country of residence, and he loves to hear about other places. "Oh, I bet you gave his scrawny butt a run for his money," he says on a grin. "I'm only so-so. I can ham it up, but that's," he waggles a hand, "not the same."

He raises his glass to Lilith, the better to properly congratulate her...and she catches him mid-drink with that question, which makes him cough on his gross-tasting beer (because being a mer-person sucks). "Damn Lil," he says, reaching for one of the tasteful as hell paper towels off the roll that serves as a source of napkins out here. "You timed that perfect." He wipes off his beer, nods on a soft laugh. "Yeah. For a little bit, now, but they weren't being out there so," a sympathetic look, "don't feel like you were being blind." He nudges her chair. "Table center pieces. Please. You two thinking house, or the penthouse more your thing?"

"I was big into clubs for general distraction and networking the five or six years I lived in Miami. Lots of men wanted to show the white girl how to dance salsa and... I took dance classes for years when I was younger, picked it up like a charm. But hamming it up with enthusiasm can cover a lot of missed steps, don't discount all that." Lilith explains to August, chuckling some at the memory of why she was giving Itzhak a run for his money, "But yes, Itzhak was a little stunned once I let loose on him. I was trying to distract Byron while he was training boxing bare knuckle with Joey, so we did that in the backdrop."

Her expression of humored amusement grows when her bottle is reached out with return raise and August starts to gurgle his drink with choked laughter. Still grinning, she takes her own drink and then comments, "Well, I mean... it's weird, but not in a bad way, just... I don't know. The tempers and tough with... hell, I bet they have some fun blowouts." Pause, "And blowoffs. Hey-oh." Her hand comes up then as if she needs to stop before she just gets worse with the play on words. August might know what she's trying to explain, though, it takes a little mental adjusting to from the outsider perspective.

"Anyway, glad to know I'm not totally missing the whole sky for all the stars in my eyes..." Lilith's grin turns into a softer smile then with a fond look down at her finger, quietly saying, "I really didn't expect it. We used to have weddings as kids, we joke we've been married even while apart. Now it's really... mm. I'm being such a girl about all of this." Her eyes turn a bit thoughtful as she looks back up at August to consider his question, "You know. I'm not sure. I think we'd stay in the Penthouse on principle, it's very secure and good for work location between the casino and home office. But... a house in the trees with a yard and all of the privacy also sounds... like something to have as 'ours' too. Something to talk about, I suppose. What about you?"

August makes a soft 'ah' sound. "Makes sense--that once you know the basics of dancing, you can apply it to all kinds of styles." He toys with his glass. "And that's an excellent use of it. You could teach him some, you know. I mean Itzhak, he'd probably love learning that kind of thing." To dance with Ruiz in public? Yeah, probably. (Definitely.) He chortles at her jokes about Itzhak and Ruiz's fighting (and their 'fighting'), needs a second to master himself. "Honestly? Itzhak likes 'em that way. Fierce. Not just that way, but it's a big draw for him. So, I bet you're right--the fights are probably epic." As well as the make up sex, etc.

He raises a hand. "Nothing wrong with being a girl about it. Ellie and I have been having all kinds of fun oooing and ahing over flowers and bands and chuppahs and you name it." He tilts his head, expression growing fond at the ring. "It's okay for us to have some joy, you know? We put up with enough bullshit in our lives," a glance up at her, indicating he means far more than what Glimmer costs them, "we're allowed some little joys."

He shifts, momentarily uncomfortable at the house question. "Ellie's place is great, but, I keep having trouble in town, with..." He gestures. "The everything. So, right now we're out at the cabin a lot, except when she needs to be in town overnight, or I need the hot tub." He tries a drink of his beer. Nope--still nasty.

"Honestly, a nice and posh cabin home in the trees as a new construction made how we want it... might be an attractive home or weekend option. Not too deep in the murder-woods, of course, but..." Suddenly, Lilith huffs out a quiet, disbelieving half-laugh at the very idea of her and Byron casually having two places to live between just in the area for the sake of ambiance change during the weekend.

"Okay, nevermind, that's excessive, I think. I'm getting too accustomed to the idea that literally anything is possible with him. He was always going to be like this, though, hard work for good return and an eye for opportunity. He started young, would do errands or work for anyone. Probably fed me more than my father ever did with a good chunk of that money too, for a while..." Lilith smiles more openly at August and drains her beer to switch out for another, "I worried a little that this place kind of pressured him into it. But he was so earnest. So earnest." She pauses and looks down at the ring again, "He took care of me then. He takes care of me now. He'll keep on with that. It's good and we deserve good, you're right."

Lifting up a finger to point at August with sudden reminder, she says something before inquiring, "Speaking of bullshit, I have some to discuss with you. But first-- neither of us are stupid enough to get married in this town, so where's your destination going to be?"

A figure familiar to some and not to others wanders up and past the people on the deck, nodding politely in passing to anyone that happens to look up as he walks past. Heading inside, he emerges again in relatively short time, picking an abandoned glass off a table over there, spiriting away someone's abandoned napkin and glass from the railing, and generally doing the sort of things you'd associate with whoever's got the lucky job of cleaning up and keeping the place decent looking. He's not an intrusive sort, but clearly quite content to be doing what he's doing; one could get the impression that perhaps this is not the worst place in the world to be, and that the dark-clad man is quite content to be there.

"'Murder woods'," August echoes, reproachful. "No one's been murdered within a couple miles of my place, at least." He's offended on behalf of the patch of fir, spruce, and aspen around his cabin, which haven't (yet) murdered anyone. He points at her, makes a sort of 'eh' gesture. "I mean, I wouldn't call Ellie or I rich, and we've got two places between us. Main issue with using both is just, me, and my animals." His goats, ducks, geese, chickens, and pigs.

He listens to her description of their history with interest, because in the end this predates August by a good couple of decades. Eleanor no doubt knows it, but not him. He's curious about what she wants to discuss, but first, "Oregon. A little working farm, they've got a nice orchard for an outdoor wedding, and an indoor setup if it rains. Gorgeous grounds, great catering."

He'd go on, but then Ravn is wandering by, cleaning up. He's a new face to August, especially as someone working at TIBS, and that has him curious. Particularly since he can see the shine on Ravn, plain as day. He cuts a look at Lilith, maybe checking for familiarity.

"Sounds fitting and lovely for you two. I don't even know where to begin looking, myself. I'm not trying to sound like one of those women, but honestly, I have at least learned that having unlimited options does not make it any easier, it just gives you more to agonize over when choosing." Lilith hums out a little noise in her throat before shaking her head some at August with dismissal, "But we're not in a hurry, of course, so everything is fairly preliminary right now as far as planning and ideas go. I assume since you've chosen an orchard, you're leaning toward fall season?"

Lilith isn't in a huge hurry to discuss the 'bullshit' conversation option with August, but she knows it needs to be done. However, when Ravn wanders by cleaning up, she does a bit of a double take before settling against the back of her chair to wave, "Hello there. Did you decide to stay around and pick up work, or are Scandinavians just very helpful and compulsively tidy?" To August, she explains, "I met this guy in Ellie's coffee shop the other day, he's fresh meat and foreign besides. It's basically an invitation to yank his leg about things."

The brunette flashes a sorry-not-sorry smile over at Ravn, and she might have been a little off with the name pronunciation, but she tried, okay. Gesturing to her seated company, she tells Ravn, "This is August Roen. He's our town greensmith. Owns Branch and Bole out on the fringes, his lady owns the coffee shop we were in."

The Scandinavian raises a hand in a polite, laid-back wave to both. "Pleased to meet you," he says with an easy smile and an accent that, while not obnoxious, clearly marks him as a non-native speaker (and indeed, the 'v' sound in his name is probably the greatest challenge for an Anglophone). "Ravn Abildgaard, very freshly minted junior manager of floorboard hygiene and empty glassware disposal. And, I think, allowed to get you something if you tell me exactly what you need and how to serve it because they haven't officially let me near the bar yet."

He doesn't pretend to recognise the local references but then again, what fresh arrival would; nor does Gray Harbor's reputed ill omen and foreboding nature seem to have taken their toll on the man yet. He's positively cheerful.

"We're getting married in August, of course," he says, guileless and proud. Does he enjoy saying he's getting married in his month? Yes. Way too much. Eleanor's probably going to want to move the date to September in another week. "And the stag party and bridal shower are in a few weeks here, so, keep an eye out for invites. Those are also not in town. Probably Seattle."

In a tone is as fond as it is dry, he asides to Lilith, "Let it never be said you go easy on the new people, Lil." His attention shifts to Ravn, and he raises a hand in response, manages a tired smile. He's pleasantly surprised and a little curious about the accent and name. "So that's... Norwegian? Danish?" The offer to fetch them new drinks just gets the half-finished black and tan a forlorn look. "No, but thanks. Everything tastes like brine and seawater right now, no need to ruin good booze on my fucked up sense of taste."

"Oh. I feel like an idiot for not even thinking about that. It's so obvious and also fitting." Lilith tells August with a sudden huff of laughter trailing from the woman, tongue clicking a couple of times, "When we were in Champagne recently, drinking champagne, I found it far too amusing at the idea of drinking it there. But then again, that also might have been the champagne in Champagne giving me the ridiculous giddy giggles with beautiful man company." She tips her head solidly at the party planning bit, then slants a lopsided grin at the words from the botanist she's apparently deciding to take as a compliment.

"And no thanks on the fetch offer, if I go past two beers, it turns into about six beers and... then I risk a cranky Byron, depending on how rowdy I get inclined to be." Lilith replies with tiny shake of head to Ravn's offer of branching out away from table clearing to get them a drink anew. After swigging from her dressed bottle of lime-kissed beer to work it toward finish, she looks at August with a vague tilt of her head when the bottle lowers. The brunette's quiet for a brief thoughtful spell, allowing the two men to have a bit of exchange before she asks, "Why's your palate broken? Sounds wretched. Did you pull an Izzy and eat something weird?"

It's entirely possible that Scandinavians come with an addition to the human genomen containing an extra dose of neatness; at least Ravn seems quite content to stack used glasses -- and balancing them with surprising ease -- and wipe down the table they were on. "Danish, yes, though I'd hardly expect anyone here to be able to tell the two languages apart," he agrees with a smile and drifts off to a side to be a good cleaning fairy but not an intrusive one. Patrons to the bar are, after all, not there to talk to him but to one another.

August takes a second to preen, promptly admits, "If she was named June or April there'd be a problem. This works out perfect." He huffs a laugh about champagne in champagne in Champagne, adds, "Next time you need to have some bourbon in Bourbon. Less likely to make you giddy or goofy."

He makes a low sound at Ravn's comment about the differences between Danish and Norwegian. But Ravn's off doing his job again, so August focuses on Lilith once more. "If I'd eaten something I could at least have that as an interesting event to report. No, I just got turned into a mer-person." He sounds tired merely relating it. "So, you know, be careful down on the beach."

Lilith briefly twists her lips off to one side and then makes a bit of a face at August that's somewhere between jealousy and general 'ew' about the whole idea of being turned into anything! It's certainly not a look of disbelief, though. After a moment's pause to simply process that bit of information, she tells August, "... it probably wears off? I had trouble tasting things right after some weird ah. Race with lava cakes and... you know." She keeps her voice down for that last bit because entirely frickin' insane to say those words aloud, even though it happened pretty much that way.

After grazing her bottom lip with her teeth, she tells August with a glance at her handbag, "I don't have what I should probably have to show you for the conversation I should seriously have with you. Therefore it's not worth broaching right now, but... here in the next day or two, I'll show you and we'll talk about what it might mean. I'd like your opinion." She clarifies then with a little tap against the side of her head with her free hand, a brief gesture, but it's probably enough of a clue for him to catch on what this information must be about, given what he's seen in the past regarding... well, the woman's head.

She takes to watching Ravn then with a considering expression, her voice still lowered while he moves around to catch up on some work around the tables and bar area, wondering of August, "... am I an asshole to wanna lay down bets on how long it takes for him to get really confused and spooked?"

If one was indeed a mind reader, one would already have won that bet; part of the attraction of doing something physical, something that requires you to touch things, move dirt from surface to rag, dirty glass to table inside, and so on, is in fact that it's so very mundane and real and down to Earth -- unlike floating paper straws or the sensation of being stapled to your chair with your own shirt. It's been an illuminating couple of days for a man who thought he was the only person bending spoons, stealing keys, and generally doing stuff that everyone knows isn't real.

Of course, in Gray Harbor, it's entirely possible that one is a mind reader. Fortunately for Ravn's sanity, he is yet to be made aware of this.

He whistles quietly to himself as he washes down a table, applying a bit of force to a particularly stubborn beer stain, and the only things about him that seem -- off -- is his cheerfulness, and the fact that he wears gloves while working with water.

"Oh it had better wear off, I am NOT going the rest of my life tasting this." August, meanwhile, is unconcerned with discussing such things where he can be heard. He's already a weird old guy who lives in the woods marrying a conspiracy theorist, what's he got to lose? He does, however, make an effort in Lilith's behalf. "Lava...cakes?" It's Gray Harbor, August is assuming she means actual lava, not chocolate. He shudders.

He's concerned, at first, by this talk of the other topic, seems ready to go over it right now, until she taps her head. Understanding lightens his features. "Ah, right. Got a scan done? I've got one, from after the trip to the Asylum. And I've my old Army records." He raises his eyebrows in a silent offer to compare them, nods in agreement that they can do that at a future moment in time.

He watches Ravn with her, thoughtful. "I guess it depends on how much he's already been through. Never know, maybe they've got some spots in Denmark like here." He checks his watch, sighs and eases out of his chair. "I should get back to the coffee shop, Ellie's shift is about done. Swing by either shop any time you want to discuss that other thing, okay? I'll be at one or the other between appointments." Reluctantly, but with determination, he finishes off his beer, sets the glass down on the table. "This had better be gone by tomorrow morning," he murmurs to himself. Dusting off a but more sand, he says, "Evening, Lil, give my best to Byron," and heads out.

"Sure thing. See you, tree-hugger." Lilith calls after August with a bit of grinning fondness with the term of endearment. But look, the man does hug trees when he climbs them, these are also facts. Settling back in with her beer remains, she eyes the bottle as if considering whether or not to have another, then turns a little bit in her seat to watch Ravn with the same kind of passive consideration. Conversationally, then, she asks, "Did you set up a room at the Sea View for the short term and work this out with Bennie for temporary cash, or did you make it a point to stay for a while?"

Then Lilith adds disclaimer, hand waving around before she drains the rest of her beer and pulls the lime out to put between her teeth after speaking, "You don't have to answer to my nosiness, of course, but you were waffling a bit around the idea last time we spoke, so I'm follow-up nosy." Her eyes catch on his hands still in gloves, though, and she gets downright nosy again, "Why in the world are you wearing gloves to do all this? Germophobe?"

From the Dane's chuckle it is blatantly obvious that Lilith is not the first to ask about the gloves, nor the tenth, or the fiftieth, and possibly not even in the first hundred. He wanders over to collect her companion's abandoned bottle and, seeing as that there's no one else about and not really a lot for him to actually be doing, rests his palms on the table behind himself, leaning quite casually against it a moment. "I've got a thing -- oversensitive touch, not sure what you'd call it in English. Not comfortable touching most things without some kind of protection."

Then he shakes his head, a stray lock of blond hair falling down to obscure a grey eye. "I haven't really sorted out my living situation yet -- I was hoping to look into that today, maybe. Borrowed a couch off a guy but I'm not going to be staying in his living room forever, of course. But hey, people tell me this is like the Hotel California, you can check out of Gray Harbor but you won't be leaving -- so I figured I might as well set up and stay a while, find something to do and take a good look at the place. It's certainly been... interesting."

Having exchanged messages with Lilith from work around half an hour to forty-five minutes ago, Byron decides to surprise her, having just recently gotten out of a meeting with a couple of business associates. For many who live in Gray Harbor, Byron Thorne is a prominent enough figure in town. It's a small town, for one. He was born and grew up here. He's also one of the wealthier citizens in a town with such a flagging economy.

Those in the parking area will notice the dark Rolls Royce Wraith pull up next to the building. It's the only one in town.

Coming in straight from work, Byron is dressed to impress, wearing an expensively tailored dark suit. By looking at him, one doesn't usually think he was a kid who grew up in a small lumber town. The way that he dresses, the aesthetics he chooses, down to the slick way in which he wears his hair and the neat trim of his beard might mistake him for a city boy. Hell, some people forget that he was born here!

On entering the establishment, he immediately runs into a few familiar faces, flashing that winning smile of his and exchanging brief words as he scans the room to find Lilith situated at the bar. Excusing himself, he makes confident strides in her direction, gracing her with a smile and this look of 'Surprised?' when their eyes meet. "I was hoping that you were still here." He says in a light tone, leaning in to greet her with a kiss. It's then that he notices the stranger behind the bar, his posture straightening. "Bennie's new hire?" He'll go ahead and make an introduction , extending a hand in Ravn's direction, "Byron Thorne. I'm friends with the owner." The original-ish owner, but Bennie's a friend too.

"Hotel California, hm? Fitting. I suppose the man you're couch crashing with told you that, who's that happen to be? It's quite the metaphor." Lilith wonders after noting the fellow's answer about the gloves, giving them another considering once over once he's near to lean on the table and take a spell for conversation. She seems about to ask another question on top of that, but she seems to have some kind of sense for Byron moving into the bar area, because she turns like she smells his suit and cologne coming. Maybe it's just the way the room is responding with familiar smiles and waves or the occasional look of envy for the moneyed.

Abruptly, she breaks into a smile that lights her through and through, setting the brunette woman aglow as she tips her face up to catch the kiss, "Mmm, I love how... you get all done with work and meetings, but still smell and look like you're on top of everything in radius." She doubles up on the kiss, in fact before the man reaches to extend the shake and introduction with Ravn, "I'll let him say his own name, I think I mangle it."

She turns a look of good-natured apology on Ravn with that bit, then goes a bit serious as she tacks on with aside to Byron, "I was talking to August while here, mostly. Kind of kept an eye for Bennie, though, don't think she's here, meant to check on her if I happened a run-in."

The new hire clasps a towel quickly before returning Byron's handshake with a gloved (and hence, potentially rather wet) hand; his grip is firm in spite of his fingers being quite slender. Compared to the fine tailored elegance of Byron Thorne his look is one that can best be described as deliberately casual; jeans, boots, turtleneck sweater, and blazer, all in shades of black and dark grey. He's the kind of bloke you'd expect to find hanging out at a New York watering hole for art directors and other people who fancy themselves artists regardless of their actual talent or lack thereof.

"Ravn Abildgaard," the man says good-naturedly, grey eyes glittering with amusement at Lilith's hesitation to even try. "I think I'm technically Vic's new hire -- I've yet to meet Bennie." Definitely a foreigner, with that accent.

If Ravn's gloved hand is still damp, Byron makes no mention of it. Nor does he let on in any other way, keeping to that friendly-enough smile. Turned slightly towards Lilith, he responds to a comment that she'd mentioned on his arrival, "How else do you think I'm able to close the deal with investors? My silver tongue?" Yeah, it's that. Or a combination of everything. Giving the young woman a fond smile, he presses his lips against her forehead before deciding to order a quick drink before heading out. "Well, R.." There's a false start, but he does his best to mimic what the other man had said his name was as he tries to place the origin, primarily by accent alone, "Well then, Ravn. Welcome aboard." There's this look of interest that flashes in his eyes at the mention of Vic's name, slowly nodding to that. The ponderous expression quickly shifts into a smile, "You'll love Bennie when you get a chance to meet her. She's still... coping with managing this place on her own, so I'm glad to see that Vic's lending a helping hand with that. The hiring anyway."

There's a thoughtful pause, before he just has to ask, "Are you from Norway? Is that the accent I'm picking up?" He's a businessman whose met clients and investors alike from all over the world. The accent is somewhat familiar.

Returning to Lilith again, he blinks at some of the information she relays. "August was here?" This is followed by a quick sweep of the room around the to see if he can catch sight of the botanist.

"Bennie's been through a lot recently, but... I think she's still plenty able to dole out a lot of Bennie when inclined. It's just how she tended to be, always was like that, wasn't she?" Lilith looks at Byron as if for confirmation that she's remembering school Bennie right while trying to detail for Ravn, recent showings aside. Then she shakes her head a little bit before tipping her chin with weighting, "Anyway, Byron's not just being polite, you will adore Bennie, it's likely inevitable."

And since Byron is ordering a quick drink to have while doing a surprise fiancée pickup/meetup, the woman stays seated for the time being. She doesn't order another beer, herself, instead she gets a couple of cinnamon altoids from her handbag to pop in her mouth for sucking on and killing the beer on her breath. But with the dark-haired and dark-eyed man so close nearby, it's a bit like a magnet and she starts to lean over against his side a few degrees, practically nudging like a cat to get an affectionate arm around her now that he's off for the night. In fact, it even seems unwitting and mindless, the way she just feeds into a bodily draw between them.

Briefly, the woman turns her head toward the doorway and interjects to explain after the men have had a moment to talk and exchange, "He left just before you came in, wouldn't be surprised if you pulled into the lot when he was turning out. We're going to do a visit and chat with him soon."

"Denmark," Ravn replies, quite accustomed to the fact that Americans cannot tell the two accents apart; a fact that rarely fails to amuse actual Danes and Norwegians who -- while separated only by a small strait of ocean -- often hilariously fail to understand a single word each other are saying in spite of their languages technically being two dialects of the same tongue. He pronounces his name something along the lines of Raown though. "And thank you. Everyone's been surprisingly welcoming so far, along with the casual warnings of impending doom, insanity, and financial ruin." As an afterthought he adds to Lilith, "Fellow who offered me a place to sleep is named Aidan, by the way. Didn't catch his last name. Carries an absolutely horrendous but very attention demanding chicken tote bag."

Vic may not yet have granted the Dane a license to operate the bar but at least he juggles tableware and glasses with casual ease and considerable manual dexterity. He lets the person actually on bar duty fulfill Byron's request; which, all things considered, is probably better for Byron's continued health, too.

Despite the suit and everything, Byron orders something simple. A local beer! So the actual person tending the bar slides over the bottle. "Denmark! Right." He shows some relief to being told of the man's origin so it's no longer a mystery. "I should've guessed correctly by your last name, but I took a gamble." Here, he clears his throat before lifting the bottle to his lips for an initial sip. "Not that I've profited from gambling as of late." God, how he hates Black Jack!

He then tries to remember high school Bennie, "Bennie was... mostly the same, I guess. I think she really grew up in the end. She's a force to be reckoned with when it comes to her infectious sweetness."

Feeling Lilith's slight weight leaning against him, his closest arm reaches to drape over his shoulder, forcing him to use his left hand if he wants to drink. He's also glad that Ravn pronounces his name again, this time to better allow the others to understand how they should say it. Or try to still. "Ravn." He repeats what he'd said earlier, but better.

While he doesn't know Aiden personally, he sort of knows of the man. "That's good of him." However, hearing that people have warned Rawn of financial ruin, the entrepreneur and business ownder has to laugh, "Let's hope that last part isn't true." Pause, "Unless you plan to spend all day at the Grand Olympic." The casino. "Then be my guest, welcome your life as financially ruined. I kid. Though, I am curious, what brings a Dane to Gray Harbor?"

"Oh, Aidan, yes. He's more someone that I know 'of' but don't really actually know." Lilith makes an 'ahh' noise of recognition for the name and person, at least, nodding a couple of times with acknowledging to Ravn, "Better than sleeping on a random woman's couch, you're in America-- people love to make up things for lawsuits. Not to say she would specifically, but if you're going to be moseyfooting around the US and taking it all in over time, trust me with that. That or they think they've snagged a hot accent for the long term, regardless of what you think or want."

Lilith is full of all kinds of warning about people in general. She somehow suspects that there's certain decorum differences and ways to leap to reactions that don't quite translate socially given the foreign country origin. But also, she might be a little jaded by the news and general reality as she knows it. While she's leaned at rest and glowing for the male company at her side, her conversation tactics are still a little... full of warning about this and that from time to time. The other half of the time, she might be yanking his leg, like talk about diving for dead bodies in the pond as a pastime. Though pretty as a picture and no doubt a familiar to polite money circles that talk about fluff, that's clearly not her, the filter on her mouth is a little too askew. But she's amiable enough about it, at least.

And while Lilith has heard the story of Ravn's arrival specifically, she listens to hear what he tells Byron as his potential motivation for coming, aside from the strange arrival method.

"Literally delivered to main street by a trucker in a red baseball cap calling me a European shitmonkey and tossing me out on the curb," Ravn says with a short laugh that implies he might not really care to any great extent what some random American bigot thinks of international travellers. "I'm going where the wind blows me, really. As it turns out, the wind thinks I need to stay here for a while -- or rather, it thought I needed to go here, and everyone else thinks I'll be staying a while." He winks at Lilith, indeed the very first doomsayer he met.

"So far I've been warned off on the woods, the murder motel and the pond, and invited to a second hand store, a strip club and now a casino. I met a professional illusionist, a dee jay girl with hair the colour of snow, and an Eton man turned horror writer -- I mean, small town America isn't dull." The foreigner's grey eyes glitter with amusement; it's entirely possible that he has yet to grasp the severity that the more long-term residents associate with Gray Harbor's situation. Or worse, he may simply be a natural optimist.

Lilith's comments about law suits gets her a look though. "We do kind of joke back home that suing everyone is the American way of saying hello. That said, though -- the accent thing, I've heard that but it's never actually happened. That someone tried to pick me up because I've got one. Closest I've been was that truck driver who did indeed not appreciate it."

"Who doesn't love Europeans?" Byron says with light humor in his tone. "Except for France, of course. They think we're uncouth, we think they are baguette munching snobs. I say this after having taken Lilith for a week long vacation traveling France. Lovely country." Despite how he truly feels about the town in which he was born and grew up, Byron, as a man who thrives on luring unsuspecting investors to his town because he owns a luxury apartment building and now the casino, will sometimes try to paint Gray Harbor as something shining and brilliant. "If you still happen to be here come Halloween or so, this will be our second year holding the Masquerade. It's basically several days of masked figures and celebration... I like to say that it's modeled after the Carnivale of Venice, but you do what you can with the locale."

When Ravn rattles off a few individuals in town by description alone, Byron believes he knows most of whom the Dane speaks of. There's a moment where the suited man looks thoughtful again, observing the newcomer for what could be a long, quiet moment. He then moves on, taking another long swig from his bottle, head tilted back a little. "People, for some reason, tend to be fascinated and, for some, perhaps, smitten with the new, the exotic. Which having a foreign accent could be considered. It makes me wonder though, as I don't hear it, do /we/ come off as having accents to you?" When he says 'we', he means himself and Lilith. And the people of Gray Harbor. That small town Washington State accent. Whatever that is.

Reaching into his trouser pockets for his wallet, he pulls out some bills and slips them beneath the now empty bottle. All with his free hand too. "Lilith and I have a dinner date, but it was nice meeting you, Ravn." His pronunciation is getting better! "Maybe Gray Harbor is a place you'll call home. Or maybe you'll blow away like that leaf passing on a breeze before we know it. Either way, I wish you luck in your endeavors."

Tugging Lilith in close against him for a brief hug, he helps her collect her things and to stand from off the stool she was seated on.