2020-08-20 - International Karen-Bothering Qualifiers

The sign on the road leading into Gray Harbor proclaims the town's slogan to be, 'Everything is fine'. Not only is that a blatant and obvious lie -- if anyone in Gray Harbor is fine it's because they're either pathologically oblivious or have been hiding in their basement for a decade. It's also a gross misrepresentation of the most important asset of the town: Gray Harbor has a waffle shop, and no one told Ravn Abildgaard until now. Unforgiveable.

Ravn is a lean fellow, and the black-clad, copper blond European does not immediately fit the stereotype of a man addicted to waffles. He has not let that stop him from ordering one of those and one of those and one of those and one of those and one of those, much like a man who hasn't had proper breakfast for a week or two, or possibly just a man who doesn't usually fill up on junk food, but when he does, oh boy. He wanders towards a table with an expression little short of glee. Maybe he's just one of those men who can tuck away anything yet remain string thin; you know the kind -- the kind that other men, sweating at the gym to lose a few pounds, quietly conspire to murder.

Sparrow's been here for a while already, sunk down comfortably in a booth with her back toward the door. Her laptop is open in front of her, currently displaying a spreadsheet of some sort. It's not as eye-catching as her purple hair which contrasts brilliantly with her bright orange tee shirt, the front declaring Stardust Stardust Stardust Stardust Stardust unseen from the current angle. A half-eaten breakfast sandwich sits next to a half-picked-at fruit salad and a half-empty cup of coffee, but she's not paying attention to any of that right now.

No, her attention is on a middle-aged woman at the counter who keeps turning disparaging looks her way while gossiping with the older lady beside her. Sparrow calls out, "Mind your own business, Karen," to the woman--who might not actually be named Karen--and gestures her way, arm extended out into the aisle beside her table while her index finger circles, instructing the lady to turn around. Her point might be better made if her arm didn't shove out right in front of Ravn on his way past, potentially hitting him right in the hip, earning a panicked withdraw of her limb and a muttered, "Shit. Sorry," to the guy caught in the crossfire.

The blond guy manages to convince his tray to remain horisontal and his waffles to remain upon it, a feat which clearly takes some acrobatic skill -- or a lot of luck. He flashes the purple-haired woman a relieved grin as his breakfast is indeed saved, and proceeds to stoically ignore Karen's death glare. It's entirely possible that no matter where in the world you travel, there will always be somebody like that, and where Ravn comes from, the odds are pretty good that her name actually is Karen; it's a very common Danish name.

"No worries," he laughs and congratulates himself that not even the teaspoon fell of the tray. "At least I didn't drop a plate of jam and whipped cream in your laptop, right?" The accent is obvious; he's either British, or whoever taught him the language really wanted him to be.

"The way my summer's been going," Sparrow murmurs at the prospect of losing her laptop to too much sugary goodness; it really wouldn't have surprised her at all. Lest the cheerful stranger think her nothing but negativity, she flashes a bright, if somewhat rueful, smile. "But yeah. Impressive bit of juggling there. I'm grateful for your grace." Her hand presses to her chest as her head bows a bit, a faint nod to formality at odds with her otherwise entirely casual posture. "Lemme buy you a chocolate milk or something? To say sorry?" And maybe to fuel Karen's moral outrage at the supposedly twice-married young woman buying a total stranger a drink, if the tight little grin she angles thattaway is any indication.

Annoying Karens might just be an international sport; at least Ravn decides against politely declining because of that death glare. Why yes, I am a man of thirty letting some hot young thing buy me a drink, madam -- jealous much? He doesn't even know about the two marriages and the thirteen kids yet; all he sees is a chance to annoy someone who, back home, inevitably would have been a member of his mother's tennis club. Revenge is almost as sweet as the maple syrup on that waffle.

"Sure thing," he says with a smile. "I can buy the next, perhaps." Then, without further ado, he pulls out a chair and claims a seat at the girl's table because hey, why stop at mild moral outrage when we can take it all the way to Karensplosion? "Hi, my name is Ravn Abildgaard. Just found this place. I'm in paradise."

Karen-bothering is even better as a team sport. Sparrow's smile grows by quite a few degrees, though the warmth to it might be more for finding someone she doesn't know well who isn't judging her for... what? Some rumor started on Friendzone? It is really inexplicable how the whole town has just bought into that weird little lie. Whatever. Ravn is clearly above such bad behavior, and that alone makes her morning. With a look to the waitress behind the counter, she holds up a hand and asks for, "Two chocolate milks please?" which earns a weirdly sympathetic, "Sure sweetie," from the server.

"Sparrow Jones," is offered in answer to his introduction. "Phil for short." With a quick couple of keystrokes, she saves her work and closes the laptop, pushing it aside to clear some space and invite conversation. "I'mma assume you mean the Waffle Shoppe, in which case, yeah. Totally fantastic most days." The emphasis is clearly added for Karen's benefit, that pair of words delivered at a slightly higher volume. "Though it sounds like maybe you just found, uh. All of Gray Harbor, too? Unless--" Blink. Her head cants as a memory clicks into place. "Wait. Uh. Fuck. Sorry. You know Dante Taylor, yeah?"

Grant comes in late, face flush from having skated across town. Yup, with a stamp on the tail of the board popping it up into his hand he grabs it like it wants to be picked up (funny that). Oh there are some looks from the townspeople as he comes in and without looking makes a little gesture with his finger like Turn around, Karen and the woman's seat swivels on its own. What a coincidence!

He's tired. Skaterboy got no time for this as the Hour of the Waffle is nigh.

He turns and warms a grin to Ravn, "Heeeey! Sup mer-bro?" He's angled for Sparrow's table though greeting her with, "Well I'd ask what their problem is, buuuuut they live here so if you need a lawyer I'm here." He's a lawyer now? well... he passed the bar in the dreaming. Apparently. Veil lawyer? He asks with some concern, "How you holding up?"

"I spent an afternoon bolting through the woods with Dante Taylor last week, does that count? Lovely bloke, so British I'd expect him to bleed tea except I personally can testify that he doesn't. Good to meet you." He flashes a smile at Sparrow; the waitress' tone does not go unnoticed but he decides to let it go at the moment; this is Gray Harbor, and even two weeks in, Ravn knows what Gray Harbor just doesn't do normal.

He waves at Grant as he in turn pops in, purple heads now outnumbering coppery golden two to one. "Hey there, more flamboyant fish than me. Tail still straight in the water?" With another grin, Ravn answers Phil's question: "Kind of new to the whole town, yes. Came in two weeks ago. Still getting my bearings. Also, trying to cope with a few personal issues so if someone turns up with a camera and starts suggesting that you and I are on a secret date, feel very free to punch them in the face or drop the lens on a hard floor."

"He's a friend," Sparrow says of Dante. Which earns an indistinct murmur from Karen which, for those who hear it, pretty plainly indicates that Dante is more than a friend to the purple-haired punk. Did she say husband? Phil certainly wasn't listening. She doesn't pay helicopter-mom any attention until the squawk which accompanies the sudden swiveling of her stool. That gets a curious look and a giggle when the source of that well-timed turn-around comes into view. When Grant settles down beside her, she wastes no time leaning right on in to wrap her arms around him and pursue some snuggling. "I'd introduce you to my husband, Grant Baxter, badass lawyer of both sea and space, but." Well, it seems they're already acquainted. In a softer murmur against Bax's shoulder, she tells him, "It's been a real shit week," like maybe she wants to talk about it, but now's not the time. "BUT!" Brighter. "Gigi's back. Like. From the literal dead, I think. In the ICU right now, but. Alive, so." That's good news! "And she's getting married." Definitely good news!

As she pulls away from her fellow purple-haired punk just a little, just enough to regain some conversational politeness, she refocuses on Ravn. "If I'm being honest? I'm way more likely to lean into it and kiss you, so." Sorry, man. Scandal's just gonna get worse in her company right now. "But Dante mentioned you to me. Said you were a... historian?" And maybe something else, but she's gonna feel this out first.

Grant cracks a wry grin to Ravn with that infectious good nature, "I can't quantify that. My Brit only bleeds sarcasm." Oh the exaggerated body language that goes with this to make the 'disdainful and withering Vyv-face' aimed at the Karen-at-the Counter is priceless but can't stop him from cracking himself up signing to Sparrow , 'sorry'. He's behaving! ... okay he's 'Baxhaving' which is close, and failing while trying really really hard.

He answers Ravn sitting up proud of himself, "Baby, I ain't ever been straight in my life." Oh he's funny today. Sparrow though gets a hug that hangs on there a moment with that total vibe of I will hobofight soccer mom if I have to. To Ravn he points to the other side of the table. Funny thing is Karen's stool seems to be hard locked into making her face forward. "Come join us. This is my very best friend in the globe and best dream-wife ever. Vyv says hi, Something about a conspiracy with a French pastry Chef with taste up his ass and malignant bonbons. I missed the rest. I'm gathering it work is busy."

There's news. There's the forewarning of spite photo-bombing which gets a nod from Bax. That's... definitely more likely to happen. The news that Giada's in the hospital gets a play of emotions across his face until he looks worried and aghast saying "I need waffles and coffee, thankyou." That poor waitress might think he's lost his damn mind. Some argue that boat has sailed. "Married? Oh bad ass I'll have to make her something. What room is she in and who is the lucky lady? I met her? Can I?"

Between the two younger, purple-haired individuals, Ravn is certainly the odd one out -- the black jeans and t-shirt under a ditto blazer might make him look edgy in that Steve Jobs or escaped art director style somewhere upstreet but here? Combined with being a few years older he's practically the designated responsible adult present. Karen no doubt is trying to remember who he is so she can direct her ire appropriately. Let's hope for Karen's sake that she remembers that Ravn's show is supposed to be Gordon Ramsay-style, before somebody forces her to slap a waffle on each ear and call herself an idiot dessert.

Pity that he doesn't feel particularly responsible at the moment. "I have had to sign six pairs of boobs in two days," he murmurs, settling next to Grant and tucking into that maple syrup covered waffle of paradisical proportions with obvious delight. "Two of those women just jumped into my lap, ripped off their shirt, and handed me a sharpie. At this rate, nothing anyone can do can possibly surprise me. For the record, I am not a Swedish celebrity chef. I'm a Danish folklorist. Which does include a fair bit of historical research, yes. Also, when I first met Grant we were both fish, so I suppose that if you're his dream wife, I'm his dream tuna."

The name of the hospitalised person does not ring bells; but this is Gray Harbor where people being sent to hospital is apparently a weekly thing and the Dane nods his sympathy. It seems that he can in fact be serious -- though Karen's muttered something something probably another lover was the name Ginny nets her a blue-grey glare that contains quite a surprising amount of steel.

"Kaaai," Sparrow sing-songs in answer to Grant's inquiry about Giada's bride-to-be. And, in case he's never met her, she adds, "Super-hot." Which is about the depth of her interaction with the near-stranger. A couple of casual run-ins at crowded bars with lots of shots doesn't allow a lot of opportunity to really get to know a person. Sparrow murmurs a friendly, "Thank you," to the waitress as she brings over two glasses of chocolate milk and a cup of coffee, explaining that the waffles will be a minute. Before leaving the table, she hesitates, looking to Ravn with concern, like she may well expect him to go on about how awful the waffles are; when he doesn't, she just flashes a tentative smile and continues making her rounds.

Phil looks a bit confused about the boob-signings. Nobody's told her about the celebrity chef in town. And gods know she's been avoiding social media of late, in absolutely no mood for all the bullshit rumors circulating about her. "I mean. The Swedish chef has a mustache." Her confusion is low-grade, at least, easily set aside as she follows the rest of the thread. And the joke. She snorts a laugh and declares Ravn, "Delicious," as if she were welcoming him into the family. And probably not currently moved to eat him. "What does a folklorist do? I didn't even know that was an option. I mean, it's not an option I woulda picked, but it sounds neat as hell."

Grant arches an eyeborw "I met Kai. I liked her." He pulls out his phone and kicks off a text to Gi now that he's thinking about it to get her room number and states, "Well it's been more than 2 months so I assume they moved in and shit." He's hilarious. Still there's the concern as he tentatively asks, "How... how'd she get hurt?" If he does nothing else... okay he's usually doing everything but he really does care about his friends being all in one piece.

Still Ravn's plight earns a commiserating, "They really don't take marker like you'd think they would, do they?" The further comments about dream-tuna win an approving small smile, "You can tune a piano but who said you can't tuna-friend?" Being terribly pleased is cut off when he looks at Sparrow to murmur, hands indicating a crowd or gathering and maybe a book. "It's stories about people. Lore of the folks." He really does miss a lot doesn't he?

"What does a folklorist do," murmurs Ravn in between bites of maple syrup bliss. "Well, that depends on whom you ask, I suppose. If you were to ask my professor back at Copenhagen U, he'd tell you that a folklorist researches the stories people tell -- older legends and fairytales, but also modern urban legends that will pass into folklore eventually. If you ask anyone else, though, it's one of those Humanities studies where your diploma reads Do you want fries with that? What I actually do to pay my boat rent is clean tables at the Two if By Sea."

The waitress does gain an odd look. One that begins with what was her problem? and proceeds to the realisation of Oh lord, she thinks I'm going to start yelling at her about the waffles not being up to Swedish standards or something. He shakes his head slightly and murmurs, very quietly, "I almost feel like I should tell that poor waitress that waffles are a Belgian thing and Sweden probably doesn't even have a traditional recipe for them. But given how this week has been, I'd find myself trying to improvise a recipe for Swedish flatbread next, and believe me, I'm the kind of person you don't even want cooking you an egg."

"Lore of the folks indeed," the Dane murmurs with an amused smile. "It is, though. Stories, as people tell them. Or in my case, told them, seeing as that I specialise in 18th century Scandinavian folklore."

"It's been six months," Sparrow notes quietly to Bax, though she's very certainly talking about something other than Gigi and Kai's courtship given the gravity in her tone. Her volume drops considerably to keep nearby Karens from catching the details as she explains, "The forest took her. Literally. Remember the day in the blanket fort back in February? She went right back to the trees after leaving my place, and the trees took her." Is that a note of guilt in her voice? Maybe. "She looks like she hasn't eaten in six months. I don't even know how she's alive. I don't even know if she's alive." With that, she turns a look toward Ravn and warns way too casually, "Best to stay away from Firefly Forest," with a flat smile. They might be caught in a folktale right now.

With a glance toward the waitress--who is busy mustering as polite a smile as she can manage as she listens to Karen unload all the local gossip on her whether she wanted to listen or not--she says, "First? I'm pretty sure that any talk of waffle traditions is gonna sell the picky chef thing more than the folklorist thing, so." Yeah, maybe skipping that is for the best. "Second?" She flashes a smile. "I got a couple of friends who work at Tibs. Theoretically. Ashtrid?" Do they still work there? Look, she's had a lot of her own life to keep up with, okay? "It's a good place." Her smile fades, a frown briefly tugging at her lips. "Sad I missed karaoke this week." But life's been weird. She moves on with a shake of her head and a resurgence of her smile. "Third? Uh. How do you feel about psychotropic drugs?"

Grant arches an eyebrow and takes the plate of the loaded waffle he affectionately is calling 'a good start'. There's a faint smile with a slow nod. "Well if you need a gal witha oujia board my roommate's almost-ex-wife has one. I think we can borrow it. Probably still at our trailer. You can ask them." He pauses stabbing a separated hunk of breakfast onto his fork. "I mean I dunno how else you'd interview 15th century people about what's up." There's a pause and he considers, "Time travel? Maybe? I'll have to ask the librarian if it will work." Looking to Ravn he sais with some consideration, "I'll ask for you."

He doesn't always make sense, but he tries like hell in earnest, don't he? "The Forest is fine. The trees got an issue though don't they? Seriously you want to see it I'll show ya. I grew up in the damn thing." Which may raise or answer a lot of questions. "How's the new job going so far?"

"Never actually tried anything harder than pot," Ravn murmurs and applies disturbing amounts of raspberry jam to waffle number two. "Generally holding the opinion, though, that people should do whatever they want as long as they don't harm anyone else doing it. Two weeks here have definitely opened my eyes to the idea that people might need some kind of vent or escape. This place does a number on one's sanity."

Powdered sugar follows jam. How does this man possibly stay as lean as he is? "I haven't gone near the forest or the sawmill," he confirms. "I tried get a look at Gray Pond and ended up in a church shooting, then chased by the Headless Horseman with Dante Taylor. I may try to up my running game a little before I try that one again. But you're quite right -- this is very much folklore coming to life all around of us, and there is no way in hell I'm leaving this town anytime soon. I don't know an Astrid but I haven't met everyone at the Twofer yet -- Bennie, Vic, a couple of the other bartenders. Karaoke night wasn't my shift so I missed out on that one, too."

"She's just trying to get on the show," Karen declares to the waitress and scowls in Phil's general direction. The unfortunate employee tries to get her to keep her voice down but what can you do when the employee code says that the guest is always right? "She's a bad example! Imagine if your little Tammy acted like that!"

Ravn, meanwhile, is studying Grant with some of the same interest he displayed the first time he met the man -- interesting fish -- and the second -- I still don't understand half of what he's saying, is that even English. "The scary part of that sentence," he eventually concludes, "is that you probably can do exactly that in this town."

Sparrow levels Bax with a terribly stern look that very plainly says Don't make me rescue you from the hungry trees. "I've always got my cards," is what she actually says, though, an alternative to the ouija board and time travel options for contacting long-dead spirits. "And I've still got a spare room. If the trailer situation is unstable?" Which almost-ex-wife makes it sound like it could be. "AJ's still in that program, and. I mean. Even if he comes back early, it's not like he isn't in my room most nights he's home anyway." She's half-way to finishing off the last bite of her sandwich--ham, egg and cheese on a bagel--when she pauses to add, "I could use someone else paying rent," both to express her personal interest and to clarify that she's not offering free crash space as she has, occasionally, in the past.

It's all sorts of scandalous by Karen's measure. Not only is the mother-of-many trying to get onto the scary chef's show--almost certainly because she's a shameless hussy who just likes the attention--but she's talking about some other guy sharing her bed while inviting her old high school boyfriend to move in with her. How do her husbands even put up with this!? Nevermind the talk of drugs. Someone really should call family services!

Sparrow is well-beyond paying any mind to that woman and her nonsense, too happily distracted by her current company. "See." She tips her chocolate milk glass toward Ravn. "It's not escape that I'm thinking about. I've got this theory about oneirogenic substances and all the weird dreams we get around here, and I've been meaning to run some experiments." With that, she looks to Bax and notes, "Which we're gonna need to push up and getting moving on, cuz Gigi means to go back in to save Ember, and she's hoping maybe we're able to figure something out about getting somewhere specific through our testing, so."

Grant arches and eyebrow at the mention of the room for rent and really considers this. Hell he's been living with Daisy, Greg and sometimes random roomie du jour for a while but everyone is out of town. A lot. and strange things have been afoot at the Circle K. Thoughtfully he nods and says "Let me... get back to you on that actually."

There is an eyebrow as he eats about Ravn and the church shooting. "That must have been the thing Mr. Roen got caught up in." He murmurs to Sparrow around the waffle, "My Daisy's-plant-fixer-guy." That one. When Ravn notes that the very probable improbable solution posed if frightening there is a sloooow nod of agreement until the word sawmill is mentioned and the colour runs out of his face like watercolour in a flash flood. The multi-hued punk sits stone still with a haunted expression until his hand, trembling just so slightly, sets fork and waffle bite down. He works up enough to say, stone sober looking to Ravn, "Don't... go....to the sawmill."

The folklorist slash waffle face stuffer pauses a moment in emptying a bottle of maple syrup on waffle number four. "You're talking about lucid dreaming, aren't you? I know people who have experimented with that -- therapists sometimes recommend techniques for people who struggle with recurring night terrors."

With a side look to Grant, and indeed noticing the colour change on his face, Ravn nods. "The sawmill is the place everybody has warned me against. I'm not going to declare myself the smart-ass academic from out of town who thinks he can just walk in and scoff in a very British fashion, trust me. Not going near that place. I'm curious, not suicidal. And also, I'm a books kind of guy, not a chew gum and kill monsters kind of guy, don't worry."

The rumour mill is fed another pound of grain; whatever is going on at that table, it is obvious that the young, rainbow-haired man fears for his life. Karen will die safe in the knowledge that she at least told anyone who'd listen that the Jones woman arranges for accidents for her husbands. A veritable black widow, that one -- and that terrified punk kid, he is next. You heard him. He's her dream husband. That poor kid.

"Gray Harbor's Official Bear King," Sparrow answers Grant's aside about August. Yes, she's familiar. When Bax goes all scary-pale, she sets her drink down and leans in to comfort him, undoubtedly only selling the image of a manipulative murderess to the onlooking Karen as she assures her BFF that he's alright. She even gives his cheek a kiss. Possibly of death. The arm she keeps tabled with his may well be evidence of imposed control rather than continued comfort.

"You'd be surprised how many people feel like diving in is the best option only to end up exploded or hunted or haunted or..." She could go on, surely, but she just flashes a tight smile instead. Oh gods, is that a threat? No, Karen. Stop it. "But yeah. That's pretty much exactly it. Lucid dreaming. Psychedelic therapy. Kinda the direction I'm heading with my actual studies. Forgot to mention I'm a chem major, didn't I? Adding in some psych this semester with the intention of ending up somewhere that's exploring therapeutic applications of psychedelics, but. Also curious to see if there's any practical application here. Where dreams aren't all in our heads." Beat. "If you're interested."

Grant sits stone still listening to Ravn promis he's not stupid or suicidal. Hell Grant might be rumored to be that guy on the Jackass reboot and the world might be right on that, but this is serious. After a long hesitation his eyes close and lets Sparrow console him and to all the talking. (*much like a spider wrapping up her next fly? Everyone can hear you thinking it, lady!) It's enough to note he's actually lost his appetite. There's a nod of endorsement from him apparently noting her skill set.

When it falls quiet he finally speaks, "I can tell you what's in there. You should just thank me that I'm not." But he can feel it, the staring. And he looks to the woman blinking, maybe innocently and says all very polite, "Uhhh, ma'am? You have something... on your shoulder?" He looks back down.

Grant by nature is neither cruel nor malicious. It stands to reason to point out he's also not one to just sit still when fuckery is afoot. It starts with just a couple strands of hair moving, and her hand moves to swat. Then a couple more as what is (hopefully illusion) a few earwigs. He doesn't have to make them crawl around. Seeing two and feeling your hair move? Yeah that'll get the mind doing the rest.

And here's where he turns his hearing aids... off. There's the faintest of grins that tells the table enjoy that. He takes another bite of his waffle now. Somewhere his boyfriend must my terribly proud of him.

"Interested enough to hear your theories and ideas at least," Ravn agrees with the younger woman. "Anywhere else I'd probably decide to be the responsible adult in the room and tell you not to play with pharmacology but -- this isn't anywhere else. This town has some very serious boundary issues when it comes to separating dream from reality. I think my main concern would be how you'll make certain to not make that worse -- but I suspect that if you're seriously looking into what's effectively deep psychotherapy, then you're already aiming to tackle that problem."

And then the screaming begins. The hysterical flailing, the demands to see a manager, the absolute hysteria.

Ravn looks back at the woman. Then he looks at Grant. He didn't sense a thing -- but the fact that the younger man pointedly touched his hearing aids before Karen exploded does offer a few pointers. A slow, feral grin spreads across the older man's face and he oh so relaxedly pours sugar on the last waffle. Children of the, er, waffleria, what music they make.

"I'm not playing," counters the chemistry major with an off-center grin. "Between school, conferences, first-hand experiences..." She almost certainly means to delve into her qualifications, but that comment from Grant to Karen which is followed so soon thereafter with panicked shouting steals all of her attention. Look who gets to be judgy now, lady! And oh! How well Sparrow wields that disapproving look! How could she bring such icky bugs into a nice place like this? For shame.

She makes a show of sheltering her drink, lest one of the insects go flying this direction, then happily sets about ignoring the nonsense. Nevermind the quick, 'Thank you,' signed to Bax for his skillful handling of that relentless pest. When she refocuses on Ravn, she doesn't pick back up where she left off, instead explaining, "I'm not sure there's anything I can do to guarantee safety. We're gonna try to mitigate some of the risk, but." Shrug. "We won't know if it'll help or hurt until we try. The theory is that oneirogens which aid with lucidity and control in normal dream states might lend themselves to better control and authority in the stranger transportations we experience here, but." Again, she shrugs. For all the expertise she had begun to assert, this is definitely entirely new territory. For her, anyway.

Grant is smiling so proud of himself! Look he alerted the nice lady to imminent danger! He's helping. Grant is a helper. Of course he's helping Sparrow specifically, but this whole situation just vastly improved as he eats his pancakes that taste like retribution and denial trying to push his flashbacks on the sawmill as far the fuck away from him as he can.

The small thank you is given a wink in return and he goes back to the conversation at hand. Nope, not the one about how Sparrow is using her degree in a long game to make this city more manageable to live in. He's listening to the woman at the counter call for life's manager. Well he's reading the subtle notes. Sound drones in a watercolour of indistinct modes. Her rigid body language and the dance away from her stool, her face flush with horror and the tears and fury all tell her story he simply penned the writing prompt for. That there's people moving away from her and the tiny pests seem to centralize on her? Well that's something else.

Eyes fall to the woman who is now the scene of people whispering, the mood in the room shifting just so to give her the eye and skirt her. Grant pants things. his art is an instillation to make people examine now and how they perceive things. He's started a revolution in the veil this way. He'll challenge people who think they can look down on his people the same. Like his her Banksy he doesn't even need the damn credit for it. The ripples changing the world in a small, important way are enough to feel his purpose. And Sparrow is smiling. He doesn't know what the hell she's talking about as he doesn't know the words coming out of her face to apply contextual probability; she is confidant, and relieved, and knowledgeable with what she's saying and that is all he really needs.

His hand reaches over and gives her knee a squeeze before he takes another drink of his coffee.

"You probably can do very little to make the dreams here safer on their own," Ravn agrees and pauses in his deconstruction of the final waffle, waving his fork as he speaks. "I'm thinking that with properly researched psychotropics where you somewhat know what to expect, it's not a completely crazy idea. It's not something I know a lot about, either. I do recall reading about experimental use of LSD in the 1960s, in psychiatry, that's... about the extent of my knowledge in that field. But I am inclined to think that lucid dreaming techniques might actually just work on at least some Dreams, particularly if they're combined with an understanding of how human story telling archetypes work. The dream I shared with Taylor followed the fairytale rules: Third time's the charm, ghosts cannot cross running water, things that everybody knows on some level -- because they are indeed part of our western hemisphere folklore heritage."

Nerdboy loves to talk about, well, nerdy stuff. The more empathic part of Ravn's mind reaches out and taps him on the shoulder. He backs up and glances at Grant. "And I'm giving speeches while you probably can't make out half of it due to my accent. Sorry."

His blue-grey gaze wanders to Karen and a slow smile reclaims his face once again; there's a few grain of sugar in the man's carefully trimmed, very short beard, but they are nowhere as sweet as the revenge inflicted on the woman. Ravn has no idea how Grant did that, but good lord and all the little saints and angels and every latter-day saint in Utah too, it was well deserved. He doesn't even know the story of Sparrow Jones, Black Widow and Triscerato-something Mum -- but he knows a cold, narcissistic bitch when he sees one, and Karen absolutely, definitely qualifies. Grant is best fish.

Sparrow lifts her hand to waggle a cheerful wave at Ravn when he states the limits of his knowledge in this particular field. She's perfectly capable of picking up where he left off. If she weren't contentedly listening to him ramble. Really, she doesn't look the least little bit bothered by his babbling. Or confused by anything he's said. Hell, she looks entirely engaged. Of course, that wide smile might be in part due to Grant's on-going performance art right over there, but she hasn't spared a single glance for Karen after that one judgy look. When Bax's hand retreats, hers follows, settling lightly on his hip to keep casual contact.

"That's kinda what I hate about 'em," she admits when Ravn gets to the end, no comment at all offered on his accent. "It feels like there's always a very specific narrative, and you have to play your part to get through it. There's a disregard for the players in favor of the roles they're meant to play. It's like we're stuck in a play we gotta perform to--" She looks down as she catches her phone silently light up with an incoming call. "--entertain some unseen audience. They know the story, and we gotta figure it out. And it's dumb. And I hate it. And I gotta take this call, sorry."

With that, she's pulling away, taking up her phone so she can step outside for a few. Eventually, she'll surely come back in and collect her things--and pay her tab--but she clearly trusts the pair enough to leave it all behind for the time being.

Grant eventually gets around to turning his hearing back to on but only after he can remember what the 'mood' sounds like as it ebbs again and the 'Karen' , now traumatized and inconsolable leaves. There is a sign You are welcome that is the coda on that drama. When Sparrow sets her hand on his he grabs his coffee with the other instead and lets her keep it. The call comes and it flips over giving hers a brief squeeze.

Did he miss lal fo that? yeah. Did he mind? Nah and the catch up or acknowledgement helps. It's okay I was just taking care of something. You know she's getting her degree in this stuff? Helped me out once when I was very... eeeh not myself? Tooootally helped me get the zen back. She's so much bigger than this town deserves some days, and yeah while I guess things are scary and we're kinda confined o a role? It also means we can pull off some great edits on the script."

"That's the theory I'm working on," Ravn nods at him and leans back on his chair. The man is stuffed full of waffles and now intends to drink that chocolate milk of apology he was given before it turns entirely lukewarm. "That at least some of the Dreams follow some kind of narrative causality that's basically taken out of our minds. If whoever they really are shape their stories based on our subconscious then inevitably, there will be cultural rules. And perhaps those can be manipulated."

Neeerd.

Grant listens and a flicker of a smile warms his face. "You, um... you ever have a cat or a dog or a pet piggy or something?" He asks as he eats the bacon off his waffle. "You know it's a wild being and over time its been domesticated through trust and working out who needs what like I need food and you, human, need to bitch and cry into something super absorbent because humans kinda suck? " That's his take on it anyways.

Leaning forward, forearms against hte edge of the table he gets into his point in his round about way that may end in apology later. "You know how if they need something they will headbutt you or try to hop up for a cuddle and get your attention and want to be put downright away and you and there like what the shit? But you follow them and then they'll take you to something hoping your dense human brain can understand what their basic need is? Sometimes it makes no sense and sometimes all they know is 'I need water!'." His head wobbles as he points with his bacon, "I have a working theory that the other side is like that. When we dream, someone trying to ... get us on to something. Maybe it's reacting cause it's the dog that got kicked and we need to look for the kicker? I dunno. I think there is a communication tho."

Ravn cants his head, considering this. Eventually he nods lightly. "That's not a bad take. If you're right, though, then storytelling archetypes become even more important -- because they'll be the language in which we can communicate with this thing. If we can teach it to talk to us in a language we can understand. People claim that they don't understand how stories and gestalts work but they do know that it's the youngest brother who gets the princess, that a black cat is ill omen, and that if you hang out your laundry, it'll bloody well rain. Not in real life, obviously -- but in the stories. Imagine if we could institute some kind of arrangement like that in the Dreams -- hit me twice with some minor choice so I'll choose right the third time, that sort of thing."

Grant tilts his head and considers, "There's got to be something compiled online. What you need is a collection of people's stories and a team that can like take your data set and then start looking for themes and stuff. Get a list going of shit in common. Getting people to talk is not easy. You need a hookup for Ritalin you lemme know." He's not a researcher, but it can pan out!

The other man laughs softly. "I'll just never sleep again. The thing about stories is, though, it's really the same stories over and over again in slightly varying reiterations. Ask any fiction writer, they'll tell you that there is no such thing as a new story -- there's only how you tell it, and to whom. I don't think I've got the key to everything right here. But if I have more of these Dream experiences I'm sure as hell going to keep working on that theory, that it's all about archetypes."

There are many good and tasty things in the world, and some of them are waffles. Some of them are not, but are ON waffles, at least if you go to Waffle House. So Aidan has! Or is. Whatever. Either way the door opens and he wanders in, in a hawaiian print sarong and flipflops and a white t-shirt that asks WWJD? in big letters and 'for a Klondike bar?' in smaller ones underneath. He starts toward the counter, glancing around as he goes, and brightens further on spotting Ravn and Grant at their booth, trajectory adjusting their way. "Hey!"

Grant grins in amusement and murmurs, "Not to scare the shit out of anyone you do know you don't habe to be asleep for things to happen soooooo nap while ya can man." He's so laid back about it! "I mean if we learned anything today it's that assuming htings leads to hypothetical child support."

And there's Aidan sauntering in, "Suuuuup, cuz?" He does the introductions, "Aid' this is Ravn. He's cool as hell." Turning to his breakfast mate he says, "This is Aidan who iiiiis my cousin on the Baxter side like....eeeeh 6 relatives over? I dunno. There's a chart. He does magic out on the boardwalk. " He pauses and tries to remember, "And a friend of- oOOOoohhh yeah." Let's not bring up that. OH LOOK! His face has a waffle in it. Oh darn. No more answers out of him.

Ravn is so, so stuffed. And so, so content being stuffed. He's very much the sort of man who neglects or forgets to eat because cooking is boring, grocery shopping is boring, and ordering take-out is expensive and boring. When he does treat himself to an orgy of grease and sugar, it does indeed become an orgy. Those four waffles went to a good place. At least one of the guardians of Sparrow's laptop and stuff is a very content guardian.

He waves to Aidan as the other man turns up. "I actually stayed on Aidan's couch for a few days until I managed to get a place to sleep of my own. Amazingly, he didn't murder me in my sleep for snoring, either. I still abuse the hell out of his offer that I can use his shower because my bathtub is the bay and I absolutely hate washing my hair in salt water."

"'sup!" Aidan replies brightly to Grant, the grin widening, and he nods to the first part of the introduction, with that 'about to confirm acquaintance' look as he opens his mouth, but it closes again with a blink and a puzzled tilt of the head as the skater goes on. "Wait, what?" Another blink. "I mean, yeah I know Ravn and he's awesome," the grin appears for him, there, "and now I wanna know who's a friend of who but hold up, chart? We're actual cousins?" Yeah, he's been assuming that was just in the 'fam' and 'bro' genre as an address these last few times, apparently! Also this is a thing for which one needs to sit down, so he does, dropping into the closest unoccupied seat at the booth regardless of whether or not anything's on the table in front of it. His eyes widen further, "Wait, wait, so like a family tree thing? Who does it say my parents are?" This is important. More important than waffles even!

Grant boggles in that bewildered manner shoveling more food on his fork, "Dude I totally did. I mean I totally remember meaning to tell you or whatever but, I mean, yeaaah?" He is almost biting his food and then scoots the pancake remainder protectively aside to hold onto in case Aidan Houdini's him out of the booth to go look right now. Yeah I mean that technically makes you related tooooo Isabella, and me, and Tor, and Time an- oh And Alexander." He hashes his fingers in a wave by his throat as in 'cut'. "Yeah don't call him cuz, tho, bruh, cause he's like really sensitive to like where he's wedged into the tree and all like a nut crammed in there by a tripped out squirrel." Looking to Ravn he endorses, "Alexander's the best. He's like one of my two heroes."

"I've met him," the Dane says with a light smile and upends his chocolate milk; a manly drink for manly men. "Gave me a speech on not obstructing policework. Probably the reason I'm not a murder suspect at the moment, so I certainly don't hold it against him. He seems like a decent fellow -- though a very busy fellow, too. From what I can make out, everyone in this town who has this shine as Lyric calls it, are pretty much running to him and August Røn whenever the manure hits the windmill -- which is about six times a day in Gray Harbor." He pronounces the latter man's name in a sharp, one-syllable fashion that is most assuredly not of English origin.

Then he stands and says, with a hint of regret, "I'd like to stick around and swap stories but I'd better get my backside down to the library. I have half a mind to see if I can run into that librarian, Ms Price, again. She was very helpful and heaven knows I'm so neck deep in Sumerian burial rituals that at this point, I need a shovel to get back out. What do you two say, we get together sometime during that bonfire festival, light a fire on the beach and watch stars all night, or something?"

"Nuh uh, you totally didn't!" Aidan insists, "I would definitely have remembered that!" A tiny pause. "I mean, if you told me, not if you meant to, I don't go around all the time trying to check what people are-- I have cousins?" Another blink and he beams at both of them. "That is awesome. Though." It dims a bit. "I mean, technically technically I dunno if it does? 'cause I mean I'm kinda guessing it's through one of my adoptive parents? So it's probably not by blood I'd guess? Though if it's NOT them I really need to know 'cause I... kinda came back here to find out who they were but I don't actually know how to do that, so like, if you have it written down that'd kinda help. Or I might maybe go try what Mr. Clayton said. Unless you guys know how?" Surely this is the skater's or the foreign folklorist's bailiwick!

Either way, he still looks a bit thrown and rather pleased by the idea of being related to people one way or another. "I mean I guess burial rituals do sound like the kinda thing you might need to dig out of once you're neck deep. Is this about, um... the sandcastle thing?" He probably doesn't really know Sumerian from Sumatran, but he knows burial and things around here one wants to investigate pretty well. "But yeah I'm totally down for a bonfire!"

Grant just shakes his head as Aidan goes on aaaand on. he's not impatient, he's chewing. It's different. Still if there's one thing that he's vulnerable to, well, family questions are one of them and having them be off in fuck knows where? So Bax's answer? He turns and snugs up a hug on Aidan. "Yes. I will totally be your family. Also? My birthday is Friday." Talk about convenient timing.

The rest? Eh it's a tall order and he shrugs, "We can hunt down Tim and Aunt Rose and she's got the book Isabella made a copy and I think... OH SHIT, I took a pic on my phone but it's charging at the shop SO if we eat and you give me a ride and remind me when I get there I won't forget. Deal?" Looking up to Ravn he lets go of the bombarded Aidan and points with an ear to ear grin, "Yaaaaaah buddy! We are doing this! You surf? We really got shit for waves and sometimes squid monsters but like you and I totally showed em who is boss so C'mon on. We'll light everything on fire." Uhhhh "Like that's supposed to." Better.

"I'm just trying to wrap my head around the sandcastle thing, yes. And I'll gladly fill you in -- I mean, you were there. Just, maybe not here where everyone thinks I'm a celebrity for some screwed up reason, and the walls have ears." Ravn stands and stretches in the fashion of someone who just had the best waffles of a month. "I talked to the couple earlier -- Geier, the locksmith, and his wife, Maggie. We talked about maybe lassoing you and Itzhak Rosencrantz, pooling our knowledge and resources, something like that."

Then the saronged youth nets a kidskin-gloved poke. "For now, though -- cousin talk with your cousin Bax while Uncle Ravn goes to bury himself deeper yet into conspiracy theories." He grins at both younger men and adds, to Grant, "Surf? Dunno, neved tried. Gotta be a first for everything. Don't let Karen back in if she bothers Phil again, all right?"

Then he wanders off, into the brightness of the day outside. Life in Gray Harbor is toeing the line between sanity and insanity, life and death, but hey, there's some pretty damn good waffles in there too.

Aidan is not difficult to hug. In fact, it was probably going to happen in the near future one way or another, so really, Grant just makes it sooner rather than later! He gets thoroughly hugged back, and the moreso at explicit agreement to be his family. He has a relative! "Friday? Okay I'll find you a thing, then. Or make one. How old're you gonna be? Mine's April 1st. No foolin'." It's less like an attempt at a joke and more like heading off one he got used to hearing real young.

He makes a bit of a face about being there, nodding, and though he looks a touch confused about the celebrity thing, he nods to that as well. He is apparently behind on the weird rumors, but no one's been looking at him any more strangely than they already were so probably there aren't any about him, yet. Or they just aren't odder. "Okay!" he agrees to both the pooling and the talking, and grins at the Dane again. "Later, Uncle Ravn." Questions about that first bit can wait, for now. He's got a lot else left to cover, and only one person left to cover it with! Plus, "I can kinda surf." And he can't help brightening a little at the part about lighting everything on fire, though he agrees, "All the bonfires," to make a clear specification, either to them or himself.

"I have an aunt too? Kick ass. I kinda know Alexander and Isabella, like, I went tree-fighting with her? But I dunno any of the others, I don't think. Or Karen and Phil. Who're Karen and Phil? And do we have, like, family reunions? Or thanksgivingy things?"

Grant pauses and does the math. "I'll be 22 on the 28th. Karen is a gossipy entitlement elemental. Phil is Philomena Sparrow Jones; accept no substitutes. My bff and dream wifey. She's bad ass. " On the family side of things however, "Yeah like once upon a BAxter there were a bunch of siblings. I think you and Isabella are from number two, Alexander is number one and Me, Tim and Tor are like number three or somethin. It's been a few huuuundred years or somethin like serious early 1800's shit so it's not weird." The mention of a family reunion brings a silent pause and a glance to the side and back,. "I mean... I want one but I'm told these things never really seem to pan out."

There's a full stop pause and he hesitates to ask drawing a deep breath, "Did you, um, back in winter have this really terrible shit sawmill dream?" Talk about hesitation in asking.

Sparrow isn't as psychic as her well-timed return to the inside of the Waffle Shoppe might imply. It's coincidence, really. Her call just took a bit longer than anticipated. She might still be working through some of the details of that conversation in her head given her distracted approach toward the earlier abandoned table and her belated realization that Ravn has been replaced with Aidan. Full bodyswap. Blink. Cue up one confused, "Hey," that gets even more perplexed as she tries to place him. And fails. Ish. Sort of. "Dreamskates? Treads?" Something like that. Whatever the case, she mutters a quiet, "Sorry that too so long," to Bax and starts packing up her laptop. "Sorry I didn't get Mr. Folklore's number. Did you need a ride anywhere?"

"Oh! Sparrow I know," Aidan says, so at least that clears things up on HIS end, "I mean, unless there's more than one, which I guess there could be? But--" And there she is! Nope, same one! "Musical art shit where you're a werewolf and weirdass tarot cards," he replies to her confusion, adding, "Aidan," to see if that helps with memory jogging. It is, to be fair, a less memorable name than 'Sparrow'. "Sorry about the entitlement elemental. I think I'm taking him to a shop to get his phone so he can show me a family tree?" A look to Bax, to confirm this is the correct plan, and he adds to her, "You could come if you want! Apparently we're cousins. I mean, me and him, not you, probably." He might be a little be excited about this turn of events. Even if reunion things aren't in the cards. "...also if you wanna talk to Ravn, I have his number. I could text him yours if you want."

He gets back to that hesitant question then, going thoughtful as he runs through-- memories, maybe, but something in his head at least. "I... don't think so? I mean I had some really shit dreams in winter but... I don't think there was a sawmill one. Not then."

Grant miles so proud of himself. "It's okay because I do aaaaand my phone is at the shop-" He looks to Aidan, "Or he can give it to you. The number. I mean." He makes another gesture like he's dialing a rotary phone and another person looking over is forced to mind their own plate. Mmhmm.

"Yeah I forgot to tell Aidan. we're like- he was on that family tree I found with all the Baxters on it. The Baxter Basass Berry Bush or whatever. Isabella's got a lot of the rest of teh story but I'm supposed to get with Tim and go take a trip." Looking to Adian he invites, "Shit, come with. your story too man." Those warm honey brown eyes look to Sparrow concerned, "eeeeverything a'ight??" His face looks to her so he doesn't drop details, "You need me to hold your hair back while you slap some sense into someone?" So thoughtful.

Sparrow beams a bright smile at Aidan when his memory confirms her own, nose scrunching apologetically as she echoes, "Aidan." Look, it's been a while, and bird memories aren't great. Not this bird's, anyway. She pulls her backpack on once everything's packed up, looking between the pair and explaining to the less familiar of the two that they might in fact be, "Cousins-in-law. By dream." So not really. Nevermind how certain she sounds of this, like dream cousins and dream marriages might actually mean something. "But yeah," to Bax. "I'll come with. No hair-holding, Karen-slapping necessary. Was just school stuff. One of my classes got pushed to a time slot that conflicts with this semester's labs, so I had to work out an alternative." She makes a sour face down at her wallet, making it difficult to determine if it's about her course schedule or her ability to pay for breakfast. It's brief either way, disappearing as she smiles to Aidan and nods, "But yeah. If you don't mind." Plan A. Texting her number to Ravn. Consent given. Then she's off to the till to pay for food, assuming nobody else has seen to the tab yet.

Aidan hasn't even managed to see to having waffles yet! He might have to get them to go. "Cousins-in-law-by-dream," he's perfectly willing to confirm, the dream-wifey remark earlier helping him to follow along with that one, at least. Once he has Sparrow's number (or did he already? It's hard to keep track, some days), he forwards it on, "I am on board for a trip," he says, giving his newfound cousin another bright smile, "especially for stories and family stuff. I mean. I still wanna find out who my birth parents are but the Kinneys were, you know, my family longer than anyone else. And I mean, on my birth certficate that's what it says. So." A nod. So. "...how come you wanted to know about the dream thing?" Maybe he's not actually as hungry as he thought he was when he decided to come in.

Grant shrugs and furrows a brow, "Aidan you don't even want to know. Just some people fucking with a bunch of us and... yeah." His expression warms and eases up no longer on the subject for everyone's sake. If anyone were to ask him if he remembers ever being mad at Sparrow he'd be confused and laugh and ask How is that even possible?! and the smile sows it now. "Well they should rearrange the world for you because yoooooou are fucking-" He stands up and smooches her cheek, "marvelous. Also I don't know when we're looking at doing a beach party but ya know if we did one every night I wouldn't be sad. Park a yurt out on teh beach. Be bad aaaaass." He glances around with an impish grin up to no good. "Make people think you moved there for more space. Read cards. GOD damn I really really want one now." He stands up looking to them when Aidan places his order, "Ooh I want one too. Please. Thank yooooooou" the waitress gets heart hands. He does admit, "I might be hungry on the way."