2020-09-04 - Eighty-Eight Rumours

It's midafternoon, which means it's a quiet time. Sitka is closed until dinner, but the piano bar, Eighty-Eight is open. There's a handful of people, mostly people staying at the casino itself. They're enjoying drinks or small plates.

Dante sits at the grand piano, idly tinkling away aimless melodies. He looks distracted, and also not as posh as he normally is. His hair is swept up into its usual quasi-bouffant, but he's sporting a bit of a beard with more gray than black, and a pair of dark-framed glasses. His suit is more muted, in a robin's egg blue with a light speckled gray t-shirt beneath and a pair of boat shoes.

It's probably because it's still early in the day and the evening crowd has not arrived yet that Ravn Abildgaard wanders in. For once not in his usual turtleneck and blazer ensemble either -- he's cleaned up somewhat.

He's not happy about it. This is very much not his scene and very much not his tribe. But the man who got him through his brief tenure as Ichabod Crane hasn't shown himself anywhere Ravn has seen since -- and now he's supposedly the father of six and a half kids. I'd like to meet the half kid in particular, the Dane grouses as he wanders towards the piano, looking around. Dante Taylor isn't the only man in town about whom insane stories are being told lately. Taking up a spot near the piano he waits for the man to finish a tune; it's rude to interrupt.

It takes Dante a few minutes to even realize that Ravn is there. One song runs into the other and he seems completely zoned out. After a moment, he looks up, blinks. "Oh. Hello. How long have you been there?" He smiles politely. He looks, well, a bit tired.

"Just a minute or two," the Dane replies and glances around at the beautiful and atmospheric decor. "Nice place. Very -- up scale, for Gray Harbor. I'm guessing you cater mostly to tourists?"

He doesn't wait for the answer but rests one gloved hand atop the piano, almost as if feeling it -- like an old friend. "To be honest, I wanted to check up on you. Met your... wife in town. You know -- she was pointedly not accompanied by thirteen kids. Just like I am in fact not a Swedish celebrity chef. How are you holding up?"

Dante sighs heavily as Ravn recounts the rumours. "Poor girl. It's a bloody shitshow." It's a lovely piano with a warm sound. It's not brand-new, but it is well-loved. "I've been avoiding all of it, if I'm being honest. It's killing me not to play host like I enjoy doing, but I've gotten sick of the stupid questions." Whatever he's playing has a bit of a jazz-y flavour to it. "And we do cater to a lot of tourists, but I have really been trying to attract locals as well. We're going to have rough winters if we only cater to tourists."

As for how he's holding up? He shrugs. "Well, I'm in one piece. And that's something in Gray Harbor. You?"

"Still in one piece. Actually, doing surprisingly good considering the insane things that keep happening in this place. Phil seems to be doing all right to be honest. I'm sure she's as sick and tired of this charade as anyone else, but she's not -- you know, in trouble." Ravn leans lightly against the piano and reveals that at some point before heading this way he acquired a tumbler of something golden somewhere -- presumably the bar. "What stops you? Just the questions?"

"Mhmm, yes. It's not so fun to play host when people are whispering about you behind your back." Dante has never had a lot of shame, but he'd rather be whispered about for the truth, or at least something less outrageous than a dual marriage and a lot of impossible kids. He nods to the news that Sparrow is all right. "Things are awkward with her right now. I considered reaching out but decided it wouldn't actually be helpful."

"As awkward as me putting on a button up shirt to come see if you still have your head?" Ravn sips his bourbon. "It's insane for all of us. I have signed more boobs than I care to remember, and kicked two different photographers off my boat. I had the freakin' chief of Police visit my boat, to look at the remains of the camera of one of them because they just might actually be CIA agents tailing Joe Cavanaugh instead. And meanwhile, there's half the town telling August Røn that he actually didn't get married because if it happened in Seattle it isn't real."

He shakes his head. "I roll with it now. People want to think I'm Swedish Gordon Ramsay, I'll tell them off in Danish. Not like they can tell the difference."

"Head firmly on shoulders," says Dante. He stops playing and nods to one of his staff, who switches over to pleasant and unobtrusive background music. "I half-wonder if someone who is very good with mind manipulation is playing prankster or somehow amplifying their abilities. People can do that, you know? Alter memories. But it could just as easily be the Veil just being the Veil." He lifts a shoulder. "Whatever it is, I hope it stops soon. I'd like to be able to walk down the street without getting dirty looks."

"I shaved," Ravn grouses, although one could get the impression that he mostly just wants to get it out of his system. "I mean, I don't blame you. I can't imagine what I'd feel like if this thing had set me up with a girlfriend. Or a boyfriend. Or any other kind of friend. What would the Veil get out of this, though, besides suffering? You're the one who told me it feeds on suffering. So if this is making you miserable -- you're kind of enabling it."

"You didn't have to, Ravn," says Dante with a bit of a grin. "We don't have a strict dress code here. People in jeans and t-shirts might look pretty out of place, but I'm not in the habit of refusing business for lack of a suit jacket." He grins one of his toothy grins, "...not that I'm going to complain if it elevates the fashion game of this town. I would like to see more well-dressed people in general."

As to his point about being miserable? He shrugs. "That's only just one part of it. There's some other things going on that I can't quite talk about. And I've been fighting with my editor over the latest round of changes for my next book."

"It's the part you quoted and I'm not going to pry about the other part," Ravn murmurs. He doesn't look nearly as out of place as he seems to feel; get him to straighten up a little, flash a grin, he might even attract somebody's eye. "This is a nice place. And I know you wouldn't kick me out, you said as much. But when you don't want attention, walking into a place like this in jeans and a turtleneck is actually going to attract a lot more attention than just giving up and dressing the part. It's not like I've never seen anywhere fancier than the local MacDonald's."

"Fair enough," says Dante with a little chuckle. "You do look good, by the way." He gets up from behind the piano and motions towards an empty table near the window. It's a lovely day and a lovely view of the ocean. "Have you managed to keep yourself out of trouble or has this town dragged you fully down?"

Ravn wanders along, firmly ignoring a few stares from early patrons. Which man are they staring at? Who knows, and indeed, who cares? He shakes his head, copper blond hair falling down into his eyes a moment. "Let's see -- I've leased a boat and been adopted by a cat, I've been turned into a fish, I'm involved in at least two murder investigations and I think the marina is haunted. So -- business as usual for this town?"

"Business as usual," Dante agrees. Without being prompted, one of his staff brings him a gin and tonic and pauses to see if Ravn wants a drink or anything from the menu. She looks a little nervous.

Ravn in turn holds up his tumbler. "Glenfiddich, not too much ice." Then, caving to the image he's apparently feeling he might as well maintain, he adds, "Hvis ellers du har tid."

Swedish it ain't, but the odds of the woman being able to tell aren't exactly astronomical.

The server nods nervously. What she comes back with is not just a standard 12 year old. It's a 21 year old, and smooth as silk. Though whether that's because she thinks he's a celeb or because he's sitting with the boss is hard to tell.

"Do you feel like half the bar is looking at us?" Dante asks as he glances around and sips from his G&T.

"Half of them are waiting for us to start making out and the other half for me to start yelling at you about the standard of the food here," Ravn murmurs and settles at the table. "And if you think this is bad, you should see the Twofer. Patrons are competing to see what bizarre drinks they can ask me to mix. Except when Vic Grey is on duty -- and thank God for that, the lot of them are so terrified of her it's absolutely freaking hilarious to watch. I've seen her stare grown men down to a point where they literally tried to wish themselves out of existing."

He sips the tumbler and nods his approval, no doubt much to the relief of the server -- regardless, indeed, of which man she is trying to impress, she survived the ordeal.

Dante rolls his eyes at Ravn's assessment of the situation. "It's bloody madness. This town has always been strange but people usually don't ignore logic completely. Not that it's illogical I suppose, to imagine two well-dressed Europeans are entangled." And he's not like some Brits who insist they're not Europeans, apparently.

"If anyone asks, we can always claim we're cousins. We probably are -- fifty times removed or something." Ravn taps his lip with one gloved finger -- there are sacrifices he will not make for fashion, and apparently, his gloves are among them. "It is strange. I get that the Veil does -- Jedi mind tricks on people. The ones without the thing we have, their memories get rewritten. But this is us too. It's as if the only person who knows the story isn't true is the one it's being told about. You never actually did think for a moment that you have thirteen kids, do you? I know I never for a moment considered that I might actually be Swedish."

"God, no," says Dante with a huff. "And fortunately, it seems to be mostly strangers - in particular non-Glimmering strangers who are more apt to believe the ridiculousness." He tips back a little of his drink and purses his lips. "I wish there was a way to stop it. It's already disrupting my life. I feel worst for poor Sparrow though. I know she's been getting pity, which is deeply ridiculous and must be infuriating."

"Well, if it helps any, she was laughing her backside off last time I saw her. Grant Baxter was making some woman absolutely miserable for trying to rag on her. Had her thinking there were earwigs coming out of her head, that sort of thing. Probably a terrible abuse of his powers but eh... Woman had it coming." Ravn chuckles lightly at the memory of the woman in the waffle house, flailing and screaming. "She seems to have friends who are looking out for her. Me, I didn't buy the story because I had no idea who she was -- I had heard about the woman with thirteen kids and two husbands, of course, but I didn't have a face to put on it and when I got one, she was pointing out that it's no more true than me going bork bork bork."

"It's just...so mad," says Dante with a roll of his eyes towards the sky. "She's far too young to have that many children, for one. She was, em," he hesitates, "...she was seeing my boyfriend until recently, which I assume that's where whatever is doing this got the fodder for the rumour mill. But that doesn't seem to make sense in your case. Why would anyone think you were Swedish and a chef?"

"Americans can't tell one European language from each other? They largely seem to think I'm Gordon Ramsay. People literally walk up to me and quote him at me and then look at me as if they're expecting some kind of prize. Maybe they can't tell Scottish from Swedish, either." Ravn shrugs and sips his bourbon, then leans back on his chair. Much as he may want to protest the idea that he could belong in a place like this, he actually kind of seems to -- do so. "I did notice that, though. Remember what you said, that day we were bolting through the woods, about coping? You're absolutely right. Everyone here does seem to be or have been in a relationship with everybody. And I kind of get it now. How you need -- something to hold on to, really. Or someone. Before this place blows your mind."

"Something definitely feels like it's having a laugh, doesn't it?" murmurs Dante. And then he nods. "Something to hold onto. Someone who understands. Someone who makes you feel like you're not alone, and that you have some control." He shrugs. "It makes sense."

"Yep," the Dane says with a bright smile. "So I got myself a cat. There, problem solved."

Dante barks a bit of laughter. "Well, let's be honest. If anything understands this town, it's cats. I've got one as well. Cris got her for me. She's a sphynx because he very kindly understood I wouldn't want something that would shed on my suits. But it turns out they're a surprisingly high-maintenance breed."

"Mine's a black stray that wandered on to my boat, ate a can of tuna and declared me her servant." Ravn continues to grin slightly. "No, I do get it. That's part of why I came over today. Because what you said that day is true -- it's all about there being somebody who notices if you don't come home. Just making sure you still have a head, haven't been eaten by cats, haven't actually gotten thirteen kids. How the hell is she even supposed to walk? Thirteen freaking kids."

"Her name is Diva, which is..." Dante drawls, "...very appropriate." He scoffs gently at the question of Sparrow's ability to walk. "Not to mention she's in her early twenties. I'm not sure how the math on that was supposed to work out." It's clear that he's very uncomfortable with the implication that he and Cris might have taken a teen bride.

"Lots of sixtuplets, clearly. Also, doesn't this country have laws against bigamy? That's the most disturbing part, how everyone just forgets that part -- if this was real, you and the other bloke would both be behind bars." Ravn glances at the piano, and at the employee currently teasing pleasant background music from it. "Do you actually perform? Classical concerts are the one thing that might actually convince me to not let Kitty shed on this jacket when I'm done with it. I could definitely see some kind of chamber music ensemble here, or for that matter, a jazz quartet."

"That's the other thing. Apparently this mass hysteria cares not for basic logic." And it's clear that it annoys Dante greatly. He glances to the piano, nods. "I do. Sometimes alone, sometimes with Itzhak, though his playing really does leave me in the dust. I also have a professional pianist who plays on weekends. Usually I stick the classical over the dinner hour and then we've got jazz or something more up-tempo for later at night."

The local lumber baroness (or villainess if you ask the local Union) walks in with that cadence gait that gives her the silhouette that she might be in the market to look for puppies with dots on them. The acrylic leg is a carved spiral much like an antique banister to match the white linen of the sleeveless sundress, and the white gloves, and the large owlish dark tinted glasses. She casts a look back and informs the host of reservation. "He's parking the car" Of course she expects said host to keep up on this. It's a small damn town and the help has one job to do: be helpful. There is delight, however, miracle of miracles, when they are given a table near the piaco and her smile sharpens without venom to greet, "Daaaaaaaante., Byron was talling us about it and we wanted to come down to congratulate you." About what? the 13 kids?

"Itzhak Rosencrantz' playing leaves everyone in the dust from what I've seen. Not only is he a formidable violinist but he's got showmanship down to a point that wouldn't embarrass a rock star." Ravn nods in the fashion of a man who can indeed appreciate the combination of talent and stage presence.

And then, suddenly, Cruella deVil. The tall copper blond in the black blazer and midnight blue button-up falls silent, quirking one eyebrow over his tumbler of something golden with ice, his grey eyes travelling to Dante -- well, this just got interesting. Also, his eyes seem to ask, is she for real?

"And he would turn absolutely pink if you tried to tell him that," Dante is clearly fond of the lanky violinist-mechanic. "He's pushed me to be better just to bloody keep up with him." He looks up when he hears his name drawn out by Hyacinth. "Hello my dear. Congratulate me?" He might regret asking, but there it is. He glances sidelong to Ravn and half-shrugs.

Hyacinth glances between the men she can at least look in the eye standing and blinks at Dante. There's a boggled look and she says, "The restaurant? We have been busy and haven't had opportunity to come and see for ourselves." Her hand and sparkly talons, er manicure, whips in a small vague circle, "Byron was cooing about it. I was very excited to sign off on the paperwork." Said in that tone as if the approval should matter, well, to a point since she signed off on the zoning she was the approver. Technically. She glances to see if her companion is done dealing with Valet. Two things get her to look back first with her eyes and then with a poised turn of her head, "Mr. Rosenkrantz? He'll be playing better shortly I hope. I just finished his new violin to replace the mess from that Ghol spirit scandal. Ugly mess. I always wondered about honing skills as a luthier though so something did come of it. Rekani coming to play weekends then? Is that what' I'm hearing?" To the complete stranger her eyes light up informing in unsolicited opinion, "He played my birthday. He is quited gifted. Odd but... workable."

"I've had the honour of practising with him a few times," the tall stranger in question murmurs. He's got a definite accent marking him as out of town -- British, maybe, except not quite. Something that wishes it was British, or at least whoever taught him the language did. "I find him quite pleasant. Very American, but then, most people I meet here are -- oddly enough."

"Ah, yes. It's true that not everyone has made it out as of yet. Thank you," says Dante graciously. Despite the fact that he's been feeling off his game, he slips into gracious host mode easily enough. "I do try to coax Itzhak here as much as possible. But I don't think he likes dressing up any more than you do," he inclines his head to Ravn. Then, "Ah, Ravn, this is Hyacinth Addington."

'He' has presumably parked said car, having arrived over the bridge, and also turns out to probably a general lack of shock to be Vyv, striding in with a glance around followed by a brief nod to the host that qualifies as both polite greeting and slightly-less-polite don't-bother-I-know-where-I'm-going. Hyacinth is, after all, not difficult to spot around here. Vyv is also not particularly difficult to spot; today he's in a three-piece wine-red chalk-stripe, perfectly cut as usual, with the boldness of the pattern offset by the crisp white shirt and pocket square. Unusually for him, an open collar, no tie. Cognac brogues, simple bronze cufflinks. He looks faintly irritated, though this is not precisely unusual, and clears up a bit as he nears his destination. "Ah, hello," he greets Ravn and Dante, with a light inclination of the head. "Do you think there's a spot at this casino I could hold a valet's head far enough over the side to drown him without ruining my jacket?"

Hyacinth smiles warmly with all the polish befit of one's family name scribbled on everything. A point to be made, at least she seems earnestly pleased offering a hand to the stranger. She looks at his hands and back curious, "Hmm. You're not a chef." As if confirming suspicion or Vyv's assurance that there may be no Swedes with shows in the Harbor. There's a faint wry turn to the smile that may bite. Setting her clutch on the corner of her chair she helpfully, if not reassuringly points out, "They have a fountain." Which, by her tone might mean it's lovely and also something she argued for with the people running the water lined for it. "Also a coat check in the main casino. Sit. Drink. Kill a bottle, not a valet. No one needs more rumors right now that do not flatter."

Ravn doesn't escape through a window. The thought most certainly occurs to him because Vyvyan Vydal is someone he a) actually knows and b) kind of thinks is a decent bloke and c) has completely neglected to inform of the fact that he is in fact not just some bartender slash busker who sometimes gets stuck to kelp. An ancient Chinese curse jumps to mind, indeed; may you live in interesting times. Things are about to get interesting.

Outwardly, though, he simply returns Vyv's smile and then offers a similar one to the lady along with a gloved handshake. "Afternoon -- and a pleasure to meet you, Miss Addington. Ravn Abildgaard."

Dante rolls his eyes a bit about the valet and sighs. "Was it a young man with dark hair? I'm sorry about that. Frankly, he's the son of one of our managers and we did him a favor by hiring him. But I don't think that's going to go on any longer. My apologies. Can I buy you a drink?" He gestures towards the bar. A server dutifully makes her way over.

"Possibly more rumours as to my willingness to end the deserving and creative use of environmental factors to do so will lead to fewer rumours regarding things that aren't actually true," Vyv retorts to Hyacinth, but sighs, and accepts the seat that is clearly intended to be his. "Yes, dark hair, unfortunate cut, equally unfortunate nasal quality to his ill-chosen remarks. A drink sounds lovely, thank you."

Settling in, he lets that particular annoyance (mostly) go, and gives Dante and Ravn each a closer look for the day. The former has not yet sartorially disappointed, and this suit doesn't either, though a moment's extra focus on the t-shirt suggests that one may be provisional. The latter's outfit gets a slightly different interest, similar to the way the quality of the Dane's 'simple' clothing was assessed the first time he saw it. "That jacket looks inconvenient to travel with," he remarks idly.

Hyacinth wonders, considering, "Abildgaard. Finnish?" It's a guess, though she does catch Vyv's assessment and possible commiseration with, "He has said similar about several members of his own family." compliment, or warning, you decide! Looking to Dante like their knight with shiny Gin & Tonic she asks, "I'm told our bartender can manage a proper mojito with nothing frozen. It would absolutely mean the next fifteen minutes of my world if they could make that happen." Eh, it's a realistic expectation at least. "I had to argue with three people about the name of your restaurant. I swear this town is going stoned or stupid in unacceptable ways."

"Danish." Ravn tastes the bourbon he's holding and hesitates a moment before deciding to just deal with Vyv's observation straight on. "I imagine it is. But I'm fortunate enough that the boat I am renting has an actual wardrobe, so with a bit of luck, my cat doesn't ruin it too soon." Parry. Counter-attack? No. Bad idea. "How's Grant?"

Dante is in fact, not up to his usual standard of dress, but to be fair, he wasn't planning on playing host. He just came to work to do some paperwork and the piano called him. And that would be his defense if anyone had asked. But even his casual clothing is extremely high quality. The t-shirt beneath the blazer is not Hanes, let's just say. Casual, yes, but still designer. He motions to the server to get Vyv and Hyacinth whatever they'd like from the bar, including said fresh mojito. "If you'll excuse me. I'll go and speak to the relevant parties about the valet." He nods to Ravn and says, "Chat later, yes?" And then the Brit is off to have Words about a certain nepotism-placed valet.

Vyv quirks a brow at Hyacinth. "Sorry, had we decided there were acceptable ways of stupid? Did I miss this meeting? This is what comes of unreliable PAs, we're clearly not getting all the notes. Tch. Anyway, I'm not sure whether you meant about unfortunate haircuts or being inconvenient to travel with, but I grant both have been accurate from time to time."

And speaking of Grant. Ravn's claim about the boat's wardrobe has the jacket getting a more narrow-eyed look, definitely slightly pointed around the notably properly-fitted shoulders, but the question makes him smile a little. "He's doing quite well, thank you. Working on something new. I'll tell him you asked after him." He inclines his head to Dante as the man takes his leave, and considers Ravn again. "A wardrobe as in a place to store clothing, or as in clothing provided?"

Hyacinth the question gets a soured expression that brings down afternooncocktail hour marginally, "The ones that have votes, sadly. Those we are stuck with." There is a gracious thank you for the person bearing forth alcohol. Nice of them. With aloof curiosity she hope on Ravn's question and asks, "Vyv, you are making sure no one's permanently harming my park? They and heir medium will leave when that even of yours is complete I presume?" Because what else would be pole be busy with?

"A wardrobe to store clothes in," Ravn murmurs, all too keenly aware of Vydal's scrutiny. "I wanted to check on Dante Taylor. Walking into a place like this, one had better come camouflaged or attract all the attention."

It's not like half the bar isn't watching with interest already. Thank God it's early and the place isn't full of people yet. Who drew that crowd's attention in the first place, out of the celebrity chef and the father-of-six-and-a-half bigamist? Who knows -- but the arrival of the town's It-crowd didn't hurt the show any. Now to see what lumber baroness, master of desserts and sarcasm, and Göran Ramsay make of each other.

Vyv mns. "Yes, I suppose we are, but that doesn't make them acceptable." The bearer of drinks gets a polite thanking from him as well, and he settles in comfortably to have a sip, giving Hyacinth's concerns a dismissive gesture. "Would I allow harm to come to your park? It will be briefly visited by art, inherently ephemeral in nature and broadly complementary to the natural and architectural beauty of the spot. All right? Trust me, darling, you won't hate it." And he does not hate the drink, which gets a second sip. Overall, things are looking up!

"Ah, all right. Good, I'd hate to think of you having to wear cast-offs of the Good Ship Cannabis Discowhore. Really, though, I meant the pre-boat travel. Still." A flicker of a glance up and down the jacket again, and a small tilt of the head. "Well-made things do travel better than cheap ones, I find." As if he owns cheap ones, or likely ever has.

Hyacinth wonders, very carefully, out loud, "Good Ship... Cannibis...Discowhore?" There's a faint grin as that sharp green glance slides between both and smile turns up a titch, "Is this a party we missed attending or one the boat needs to be rebuilt from?" Her head tilts, oh god Ravn has her focus, "Are you into regatta then?" A pause happens and her shoulders relax as Vyv promises her nothing's going to come in harm to the park...again.... again. "I'm holding you to this. So. How do you two know one another?" Gossip is afoot, clearly.

Ravn can't help a laugh into his tumbler at Vydal's spot on epithet for the sail boat he currently calls home. "The Good Ship Cannabis Discowhore. The sad thing is, it fit. I've almost gotten the smell out of the cushions, just -- if you're one of those people who pick up the auras and memories of objects by touching them, definitely wear gloves if you decide to visit."

He's still sporting a crooked smile as he replies to Hyacinth's inquiry. "I am given to understand that the boat I am leasing has an, ah, interesting past. I certainly had to do some redecoration, bring her out of 1984, that sort of thing. I wouldn't say I'm into regatta -- I just happen to have been born in an archipelago where we consider small sail boats to be an option when one needs a place to stay for a while." And then, completely deadpan, "Oh, we met in a kelp forest. He made a lovely betta."

"Both, though he missed it too. All the clean-up, none of the inevitable mortifying photographs. Actually, bit of a lose-lose there, isn't it?" Vyv may tend to keeping things decidedly clean and tidy, but that doesn't mean it's really his idea of a good time.

He has not, one might note, actually made a promise. Well, one might note if one is not Hyacinth Addington. But the intention not to allow any trouble and expectation that there won't be any -- or at least that if there is it will be something unrelated -- is genuine enough. The compliment to his half-fish self gets a low, quiet laugh, and he does look a touch pleased. "My tail fins were fabulous," he tells Hyacinth, "He was a tuna. Quite sleek, very attractive to kelp."

Listening to the explanation Hya cants her head with a side glance to a couple people snapping pics with their phones. Celebs. Great. She murmurs, "Here's to even less privacy than before." Her glass lifts adding with a musing thought, "I've seen a few actually off Tybee Island. Edge of Savannah has high water table and island residences that are fairly hostage by the water ways. There's a few river condos as well that are quite curious I got the pleasure of touring during my study there. There's something a bit freeing about living on a boat I think." There is a pause, "Or the pirate version of living in a van down by the river I suppose."

Kelp forest is taken with the detail any other landmark is granted: it's there and dreams happen as is doing time to buy produce at the Safeway. Hearing Vyv was a lovely betta though has her hand replying, "I don't need the torrid deta-" Well yes she does. And then there's a look not of shock but slight disappointment, "You were fish?" There goes any really deep dish stories there. "Oh you weren't all slimy I hope. Well At least you boys weren't eaten. We would have to fish out the whole harbor to make sure retribution was carried out and it'd destroy a bit of industry, buuuuut... best for everyone you're both safe." There's a warm smile punctuated by the threat of ecological rebuke if they go missing. Vengeance where there's a heart drawn to doe the I's and cross those t's. Awww!

"By attractive to kelp he means that I spent a few hours stuck to it," Ravn grouses and empties his tumbler of excellent 21-year-old Glenfiddich -- that alone was almost worth the visit because he's certainly not got that kind of paradise in a bottle sitting around on the Vagabond. "And honestly, from what I heard, most of those boat parties took place before I was even born. Stoned teenage girls aren't my idea of an ideal date, anyhow."

Getting to his feet in a fluid movement he offers both a small smile (and flat out ignores the flashes of cell phone cameras). "I think I am going to run away now. I''ve just about spent all of this years' Pretend To Be A Rich Boy To Sneak Into Places quota in a couple of hours and I am definitely going to run back to obscurity now. Give my regards to Taylor if he re-emerges?"

Swish. The man is not a tuna now and he's certainly not possessed of the powerful tail fin of one but nonetheless he seems to possess quite the talent for vanishing -- like a fish into a kelp forest, or indeed, like someone who doesn't want to be questioned too much at a high end piano bar.

"Nor mine," Vyv notes dryly regarding ideal dates, and he inclines his head slightly in farewell as Ravn takes his leave. The 'Pretend to Be a Rich Boy' line gets a decidedly skeptical and faintly amused look, one brow arching, but if the Dane's going to get actually called on that, it's not going to be right now. Granted, this may be partly due to the folklorist's ability to so swiftly write himself out of the local story, cell-phone flashes flickering after him.

"Will do," he assures, not bothering to say it louder than a murmur; he'd have to raise his voice for it to catch its target, and that's simply not going to happen. Instead, he turns to Hyacinth, getting comfortable with his drink. "I was certainly not slimy, thank you. But it's heartening to know you'd murder shoals in our names. You should come by and see my fish, really..." Gradually the looky-loos lose interest when the Famous Chef fails to return and Hyacinth's Famous Hubby fails to make an appearance, and things go back to normal, or as normal as a chat in a piano bar allows. Conversation is had, drinks are drunk, and somewhere an ex-valet starts updating his resume.