2020-09-16 - That's Not What Skin Is For

Even though the day is warm, Bennie has a long sleeve hoodie thrown over her usual colorful choice of outfits, the heather gray outerwear not exactly matching her bright sundress covered in sunflowers she's got going on. Maybe the normally sun-seeking blonde is preparing for cool evenings ahead after the sun sets. With a potted little succulent garden chosen carefully from among nearly a dozen identical ones from Branch & Bole hugged in her arms, she walks among the moored boats squinting at the scrawled names on their bows to see if one strikes a familiar chord as the one that belongs to Ravn. Finally, her flipflopped feet stop dead on the wooden decking and she just leans her head back and yells. "Raaaaaaaaaaaaavn. Come out, come out, where ever you are!"

That's one way to get a man's attention. At least it causes the copper blond to spawn from below deck on that blue and white sail boat over there. A rather huge grin appears on his face at the sight -- and turns a little sheepish as everyone else on the surrounding boats and yachts also turn to look. He's pretty laid back on his home turf -- no blazer over the non-print t-shirt, though the omnipresent gloves remain.

"You'd better come on board, Lady Sunshine," the Dane calls. "If you don't, somebody else is going to abduct you, and before you know it, you're an accountant in Portland. Any special occasion, or did you just feel like finding out what brands of beer I've stashed?"

"Olly Olly Oxen-oh! There you are." Bennie's smile turns on full blast, all engines go, making her eyes scrunch up and a little 'x' appear over the bridge of her nose wrinkles it. "I don't get abducted! I get...willfully taken against my will. Here, hold this so I don't fall teacups over teakettle." And thus she's thrusting the pot in his direction so she can set onboard and not accidentally hurt herself on an errant rope or thin air. Once she's on deck, she sweeps her hair back from both sides of her face simultaneously and around the shell of her ear. "House warming present! Boat warming, whatevs. And yes to the beer, please and thank you." Not that she doesn't have a fully stocked bar right over there, but who's counting?

"Heineken work for you? I tried my luck with a local wheat beer this week, but honestly, it was so terrible that if the microbrewery ever sends someone to try to sell you on it, I'm telling Vic they looked at you wrong." Ravn cracks a lopsided smile and gestures at the back end of the Vagabond -- an open bit of deck with seats. A cat sleeps there -- a small, black thing that opens one eye slightly to throw Bennie a green, questioning look. Then, having decided that she is in fact neither a tasty tuna nor any apparent threat, it goes back to sleep. "And thank you! That's very sweet!"

The little succulent finds itself situated next to a tiny potted black hellebore. "I think those two are going to be best friends until I manage to kill them both, don't you?" Ravn chuckles. "I'm not exactly Mr Green Thumbs. But this one's lived a week so far so there is hope still. It's good to see you in a chirpy mood, you realise? Everything's been a little hectic lately -- take a seat, let me find those beers and you can tell me how life is treating you outside of the office?"

"Heineken is fine, I'm easy like an...easy thing." Bennie tugs the left sleeve of her hoodie down over her wrist, clamping it there with a curl of fingers as fiddles with the fabric, following after him to the little seating area. Poor kitty, he's about to be invaded by the leggy blonde who loves all things furry, as she wedges down into the seat next to it and tries to haul the little black bundle into her lap for pets, making herself right at home by kicking off the foam and plastic monstrosity of footwear invention and curling her legs up in the seat with her. "The wonderful thing is you know someone who can juju them back to life. I still have a pineapple from a year ago that has yet to rot." Is she kidding? Well, maybe not, but the enigmatic smile doesn't reveal much.

"I'm always chirpy! It's my default setting. Didn't you know I consist of rainbows and unicorn farts?" But as to how she's doing, she'll leave that until he returns with the brewskis.

It's not a far walk, below deck of the not very large boat, and back out with a couple of Heinekens. Ravn leaves the door open -- both because a cabin can get stuffy, and because his cat might want a quick escape. And sure enough, the black feline is off like a rocket when Bennie tries to touch her.

"Oh, er, she's -- she doesn't trust humans enough." Ravn looks after the black bolt of lightning as it hides somewhere under a bunk. "She came on board a few weeks back. I think somebody hurt her, though, or she's a real feral. She's happy to let me feed her, and sometimes she even sleeps in the foot end, but try to touch her and she's gone -- just like that."

He settles on the seat across from his employer and offers over a bottle. "Rainbows and unicorn farts and hangovers, from what I've seen. Not meaning to pry. Just going to say, you need to yell at somebody some day, I can hire a guy."

Bennie gives a little thanks as she takes the beer, "Oh, I'm not offended. I'll eventually win her over. Animals are much harder than people. I'm still not entirely on the square with Luigi - that's Alexander's birdie. But I made him a fez and gave him an over abundance of treats when I was occupying Alexander's bathtub when he was in the hospital."

Her nose gives a little twitch at the mention of hangovers plural, covering up her momentary discomfort with a quick sip of beer. "I don't need to yell at anyone, but I appreciate the offer to outsource." She rubs at her face with the heel of her fabric covered palm, thinking how to change the subject. "So, I got Dreamnapped by our Serial Killer! That was fun. And by fun, I mean not."

"Well, better some other sucker than me," Ravn murmurs with a hint of cheek. He uncaps the bottle and gives Bennie a somewhat searching look. "I'd ask about the bathtub but the rest of that statement is a lot more concerning. Are you all right? And what exactly do you mean, Dream napped? You're talking about the Sumerian bloke? I thought he was -- you know, human? Veil creatures go to the bloody library now?"

The idea is clearly offensive to an academic. The least monsters can do is stay in the bloody woods.

"Tell me about it? I had a ... pretty bizarre experience relating to that last night, too. I'll tell you after?" Ravn sips his own beer, blue-grey eyes still not very inconspicuously scanning Bennie for hints of injury.

Bennie makes a little flapping gesture with her hand, dismissing any concerns further with an oh so reassuring, "I'm fine. I'll never look at Lewis Carroll the same way again after Alice Through the Looking Glass took some very dark turns in Dreamland, but." She shrugs. "Yeah, it was him, only as the Cheshire Cat. And he is very human and very Shiny. A mover...like...you." Something notion makes Bennie's brow knit for a moment, but she looks determined to whisk it away with another sip of her beer. "Anyway, he says he's doing it to save our kind. Sate the Quencher he calls it, before he kills us all. Odd though, it was Quencher singular but then he used the plural 'they' later. Some others think he's referencing the Dark Men in general."

"Sounds like I was right when I told the police that he's killing people based on some insane idea that he's ritually protecting humanity against old gods." Ravn looks not so much proud of his deduction as just tired; sometimes, finding out that you were right all along is an overrated experience, particularly when the death toll is up to at least three that he's aware of. "It would make sense, though -- if he's convinced himself that the They are in fact old, Sumerian gods. That he'd try to appease them the only way he knows how. The kind of dark, twisted sense that would tell anyone rational that this is probably doing their bloody work for them."

He sips his beer before giving Bennie a slightly odd look. "I'm not... very shiny, though. I know I'm new in town and he's supposed to look like me, and that some people find me a little suspicious with the gloves and all, but I promise -- I'm not a serial killer. Or an any other kind of killer. I feel bad about murdering spiders."

"Oh god no." Bennie leans over and sets her beer down before she just drains it. Of course that leaves her fidgety hands with nothing left to do, so she scratches at her unseasonably warm long-sleeved forearm. "You're nothing alike. I mean, don't get me wrong, you both have that studious hot thing going on, but his aura is like way different. So you could be a serial killer, just not that one." She gives a quick, 'that's not what I meant to say' shake of her head. " Which you aren't, obviously. Gloves aside. But why with the suspicious gloves. What's the deal with those?"

"Studious hot thing," Ravn echoes with a smile that's half relief, half amusement. "So basically, we're both peacock academics. Here, try this." He dips into a blazer pocket only to produce a small, metallic coin of some foreign denomination. It spins on his knuckles a moment before he offers it over. "I don't carry a fidget spinner, but fiddling with something helps me when I feel a little stressed out."

"I've got a disorder -- touching things without some kind of protective layer is a little too intense most of the time. Like how I imagine it feels, sticking your fingers in an electrical outlet." His smile turns a little sheepish in the fashion of someone who has answered this question many times before; someone who does realise how neurotic it must sound to some. "I do realise that most people probably assume I have raging OCD and need to talk to somebody about it."

"That's ridiculous. People who are HSP are much more likely to have ADHD not OCD." Bennie talks as if this falls into the No Big Deal category for her, not just to put him at ease. She takes the coin with a little loft of the shiny disk by way of thanks. "Alexander is like that, though some of it stems from the fact that he's a," She taps her temple with the coin to indicate Mentalist without putting a word to it, so she might a well mean Crazy Pants out of context. Examining the face of the coin now, she runs her thumb over the relief. "Must be hell on the love life. And no mean feat to be able to do the," She must use her hands to fill in for words a lot, because now she's twiddling her fingers to indicate the way he just made it dance across his knuckles. "Most people rely on touch for prestidigitation. No wonder you and Aidan get along."

"CPS is the medical term, I think. Some kind of central nervous system damage, I'm not really sure -- I've had it pretty much always so for me, it's kind of the normal." Ravn smiles slightly again; whatever it is, he doesn't seem to feel that it's a big deal beyond the part where people look at his hands funny when he wears gloves on a hot summer's day. "Not that I haven't been examined for OCD, ADHD and just about every other thing in that book at some point."

He grins at the mention of Aidan though and nods. "Yeah, we hit it off pretty much instantly. I met him at the library and before either of us knew what was happening we were swapping work stories. He's a lot more serious about it than I am, though -- he actually performed on stage and whatnot. I've just done a bit of boardwalk hustling, that sort of thing. I'm starting to think that maybe it's the -- moving thing. I never thought about it before, but it would make sense, wouldn't it? Take someone like Itzhak Rosencrantz. He's got the kind of spatial awareness that he was able sit where you're sitting now and feel that some jackass was taking pictures of us with a telelens from all the way over there." Ravn points back to the coast, to a large rock outcropping. "If he can do that, then I suppose it makes sense that I can be aware of where a coin is in my hands, even if I can't quite feel it right."

"Mmhmm. Easton could feel the weight of a bullet in a revolver." Bennie's smile stays plastered on, even at the mention of the bar's former owner. She speaks about him now in past tense, the 'missing' picture has been removed from the bar, but she knows the stories will never stop. She tosses the coin up and lets it drop into her palm. "You'll get stronger. We all seem to have over time. So, next question. Why are you working in my bar? Surely there is a job better suited to your talents than trying to graduate from urinals to mixing drinks...hopefully with a change of gloves between."

"Well, for one, the bar was what I was offered when I thought I was just going to be in town for a short time and just figured I'd replenish my travel funds a bit." Ravn decides against commenting on the disappearance and whereabouts of the man he's never met; he'd have to be deaf, blind and highly insensitive to not have realised that this is a very painful scenario for the woman who was left behind, willingly or no. "And -- it's been fun. It is fun. I like meeting all those people, getting to know the town like that. I don't really have any useful qualifications otherwise. I mean, I've done some lecturing as a TA, but I'm not very good at it. I hate having every student in a classroom staring at me, and they in turn think I'm fifty shades of mind-numbingly boring. I do realise the season's kind of drawing to an end and you probably won't need me over winter when the tourists migrate to warmer waters, but for what it's worth, it's been fun."

The Dane shakes his head with a small chuckle. "I haven't really thought ahead far. Obviously not planning to get on the next Greyhound out now that I've settled with a boat and a cat, but apart from that, I'm pretty much taking the days as they come. Much like everyone else here. No one seems to plan ahead much in Gray Harbor, maybe that's part of the reason I feel at home here. Everyone lives in the present. Even when the present is hell, sometimes."

"Well. I'm glad you came along. Not to sound like some Hallmark card which I'm totally about to do, but I believe people are put in our paths for a reason. The fact that you get along with Vic alone makes you a commodity that I wouldn't dream of giving up. Besides, this is Gray Harbor. Not only do we live for the moment, but we take care of our own. " Bennie picks up her beer, but there's a swallow in her throat before she even goes to take a sip. "So. Stay. I want you to stay." Her smile flickers, less brilliant than before but somehow more genuine before she polishes off the last of her drink.

"I'd ask for a tour, but I'm pretty sure I can see the entirety from the hatch. "

Ravn laughs softly and makes a grandiose sweeping gesture. "Welcome to my kingdom indeed. It's not hard to keep an eye on everything. Also, Vic isn't hard to get along with from where I'm sitting. I get that she's got issues but she's never snapped at me. She mostly gets in the face of people who treat her like she's part of the furniture from what I've seen."

In a more quiet tone the Dane adds, "I'm not going anywhere unless you lay me off because the season is coming to an end. I meant what I said. I like the bar. A hell of a lot more than I would like applying for some tutoring position at the high school, or finding some desk in Seattle. That make me a weirdo? Probably. But at least now you have amusing stickers in the urinals, right?"

Stay may just be about the inconvenience of finding some new table cleaner. Or stay might be about not seeing more people vanish down the road or into the Veil. Ravn seems to have decided to at least entertain the second option there.

"Thing is, if you're a weirdo, you're in good company. Pretty sure we're the definition of a melting pot, considering the Hot Spot draws in people from all over with backgrounds of all over. Rich, poor trailer trash like me, educated or high school drop outs. If you're Shiny, you'll end up where it's thin eventually."

Bennie waggles her empty beer bottle like their annoying patrons asking for a refill. "I'm going to help myself to another, y'mind? Then you'll have to tell me about your weird Serial Killer experience before I get out of your hair." Is it an excuse to get a peek at his inner sanctum? Absolutely.

"Hell no, I don't mind. Want to literally help yourself and sneak a peek below deck, feel free, or I'll get it for you. Cat might faint when you walk past the bunk she's hiding under, but she'll need to get used to people some day." Ravn offers a small, lopsided grin and definitely lets her get away with it. "Kind of like me."

The below deck of the Vagabond is indeed rather cramped in the fashion of a boat that can bunk six -- if they're really good friends. It has a central cabin which includes a stove and sink style kitchenette, and up front in the prow, another area that can serve as a sleeping space for two of those six. From the looks of it, he's claimed one third of the U-shaped bunk slash seating area at the kitchenette for a bed -- and it's probably no surprise to anyone who knows him a bit that the bed roll is neatly packed aside for now. Because people might need that space -- or something. Or maybe he just doesn't want a certain cat to leave hair all over it.

You could absolutely cross the Atlantic on this boat. If you felt really adventurous, were not prone to sea sickness, and didn't mind making really good friends.

"She's pretty old," Ravn says from the door. "1978, I think. Still one of the most popular models in Scandinavia, though. I was surprised to find her here but of course rich Swedish yachters go sailing around the American coasts too. Reckon most of them will be further south though."

"Mm." Bennie responds noncommittally with that little noise. Not that she isn't interested in what he has to say, but she's slightly distracted, running her hand over the sliver of counter that edges the sink. Tactile creature that she is, she must find some tiny groove or seam or minuscule divot that the pad of one finger seems to fixate on like a worry stone. "And you're going to weather out the winter here? The water can get choppy. You're better off lifting it for the season so you don't get battered to splinters on on the pier."

"No, she needs to go on land when it gets really cold. I'm thinking I'll find somewhere to rent for the winter months -- I don't need a lot of space, it can't be that hard. Might be nice to have my own shower, too." Ravn watches her explore, leaning against the door and looking quite relaxed -- more so here than he does at the bar where being perky and upbeat is the face one presents to customers. Particularly the chatty ones who really need to know his opinion on how to make the perfect sauce or sautee leeks just so (he has no idea, he keeps telling them he has no idea, they keep thanking him for the advice).

He cants his head a little thoughtfully. "You know, trailer trash is such an odd expression. Like there is something wrong with living in Huckleberry. I have a friend in town who does -- the guy whose shower I keep borrowing. Wonderful bloke. Nothing trashy whatsoever about him or his girlfriend."

"You talking about Aidan and Bay? Yeah, I used to live right down the row from them. And I don't find the term offensive. I rock it, even if I don't live there anymore. And for some it's a choice, not just a lack of funds for something better. In some ways, Huckleberry was my family when my own kept dying off or disappearing. You should meet Geoff and Harper too, good people. Even if I haven't seen them much since..." Bennie glances back. "Don't. Don't see that as an opportunity to feel sorry for me. Please. Sympathy is the one thing that'll shut me up faster than a duck's butthole in water. Besides, it's not like we don't all have equally painful stories of loss. It sort of comes with the gig."

Then, as if realizing she's let that sunshiny vibe falter for too long, she stops touching his personal things and heads for the fridge. "You need a cold one while I'm in here?"

"I wouldn't mind another, sure." Ravn nods -- and then shakes his head. "Not sorry. Or, well, not like that. It's the expression of 'trash' I don't get -- but I do get claiming it and rocking it. I'm the new kid, but even I get that Gray Harbor's about celebrating every day you're alive -- not falling into pity. Or self pity because yes -- some kind of sad story does seem to come with the shine, doesn't it? And then we make it work anyway. It's part of what I like about this town so much. Sure, it's hell, but people actually give a shit, if you'll excuse my French. I've come to know more people here in one month than I did in years back home. And I've got you to thank for that a long part of the way."

Bennie grabs two more Heinekens out of the fridge, bumping it closed with her hip until she hears the latch click to make her sea worthy again. Hands full, she just opens his beer with her teeth and with the silver disk of the bottle cap in her mouth she hands it up to where he's lurking in the doorway. One he takes it, she spits the cap out into her palm and pockets it, then opens her own in much the same fashion. "If you thank me I might punch you with my tiny ineffectual fists." A pause. "I like you like this. Not working."

And instead of heading back up to the deck she merely leans back against the counter as if she's easily made herself at home by claiming that little bit of space to occupy. "So tell me about McHot Killer? The more we spread our knowledge around to the others, the better picture we'll be able to paint. As much as I adore our Police Department, this one is outside their purview. It's going to be up to Us to stop him."

"You know, we have an expression for that in Danish. A slow death, like being trampled to death by geese." Another lopsided smile; tiny ineffectual fists indeed. Ravn accepts the bottle from one of those tiny not so ineffectual fists providing beer. "Never managed that trick, by the way -- can open a bottle with a lighter or a key, but not with my teeth."

He straightens up a bit and wipes the grin off his face. "McHot the Sumerian Killer, huh. I do know Harper Price -- well, sort of. She's the one who told me that one of her employees described a bloke as 'looking like me'. Guy was reading up on Babylonian stuff and I think it's pretty established by now that it was our bloke. Leon Gyre -- the locksmith, you know him? He followed up on some other clues and did some readings of things the killer has touched. Matched the description. His hair's darker, and we're not identical twins, but apparently we give the same first impression to people -- tall, thin bookworm kind of look. Do you know Detective Wilkerson? She's -- one of us. I handed everything I could deduct from the first deaths over to her, but I'm given to understand that there has been more bodies found since. Clayton seems to be leading the real investigation?" The last is a question, more than a statement.

"Trailer Trash Barbie. We learn how to do that as soon as we have the teeth to manage. Besides, if you know enough people like Aidan or August, you'll never have to go to a dentist."

Bennie makes a little head wobble when he talks about their physical similarities, already having established she doesn't give that much credit, but then again she looks at people differently than most. The list of names she nods along with until he gets to Detective Wilkerson and she makes a face. "Shoot, Esme. I keep meaning to follow up with her when I'm on shift, but plum forget the second I'm in the Firehouse. It's like I click into work mode and forget that, y'know, I've been toting around her card for DAYS now." She rubs the lip of the bottle against her own in thought, then huffs out a little bit of laughter as Alexander is mentioned. "That's who I'd follow. It's because he's the smartest. And, he's had a lot of practice."

"I kind of get the impression Clayton knows what he's doing, yes. Which is more than I can say for myself so I have been -- well, I did the deductions I could on the body in Spokane and the one I saw here, and that's... " Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. "It's not that I don't care, because I do. It's more that I wouldn't have the first idea what to do, where to do it, or why I'd have any business doing it. I mean, I'm a school teacher if you want to be generous. A boardwalk hustler if you don't. Sometimes -- it's better to back off and leave things to the pros and the skilled amateurs, you know?"

He shakes his head lightly. "At least Wilkerson didn't entertain the idea that I'm McHot the Sumerian Killer for more than a few seconds, I think. Would have to be awful stupid to look her up at the station anyhow if I was."

Manners catch up with the man at long last and he glances towards the U-shaped seating arrangement that's currently occupied by one violin case (on top), a few books (also on top) and one cat (under). "You can sit if you want -- up on deck or down here, either works for me. I usually have better manners, honestly, I'm just -- I haven't lived anywhere for a few years, I'm still readjusting to the idea of having people come over to my place. Even if my place is a boat."

"I think in another life he was a homicide Detective. Probably would be now if he didn't have a ...thing about authority." But who doesn't! "Like you, I help out when I can, sort of a hobby I guess, but he's my BFF and it's how we bond. Believe me, your willingness and the fact that you do care will go miles. Sometimes it's more than most."

Bennie glances over her shoulder at the table and pushes off her lean to go slide into a slot there, not seeming to care one way or the other but he's making an effort and so she'll oblige. "Half the time I end up sitting on the floor. I'll make myself comfortable where ever, so don't go through any trouble on account of me. I sort of like it down here, though. Kinda like a giant bathtub. Only with the water on the outside. Soooo, you told me about everyone else's experience, what about yours?"

"My experience with the killer? I don't have one. I mean, I was there when Rosencrantz found the body in the sand but... Apart from, er, "Ravn coughs lightly, "lifting the dead bloke's wallet and photographing everything it before handing it in to the police, I haven't really been -- personally involved. I recognised some of the writing on some of the cards in Fitzgerald's wallet and that sent me researching the Sumerian and Babylonian stuff. I'm a folklorist -- I don't know if I ever actually said. Old legends and myths is what I do, or used to do -- though I'll admit that the Middle East is not my area of expertise. Still, if my notes helped Wilkerson then I'm a happy camper. This guy needs to be put away -- he's bloody crazy, and he's not going to stop."

The copper blond walks over and settles across from Bennie , shuffling the violin case aside lest he sit on it, looking at her. "I'm pretty happy to help anyone, really, who wants my help. It's not some kind of Jesus complex. More -- this town has been very kind to me. I've had a few of those very strange dream experiences. Seen how people here have each other's backs. Check up on each other afterwards. Look out for each other. I've never felt this much at home anywhere else. I have wondered a few times how to tell you that. You've gone through a rough time -- and you don't need some white knight to pick you off the floor, I know that. But if you feel like talking, or watching the stars, or just... anything, really. It's that whole paying it forward thing. Making friends. Looking out for each other."

Another shake of the head, probably at himself. "Also, I'm really great at peopling. Can you tell? I can make any situation awkward, just give me five minutes to stick my foot in my mouth."

At the mention of the writing, Bennie sheepishly pushes up the sleeve of her hoodie, revealing why she's chosen to wear long sleeves when she's normally worshipping the sun as much as possible before the rainy season. "Lemme guess, it looked like this?" She asks, revealing the cuneiform that's been sloppily scratched into her skin. It's already show signs of healing, scabs turning towards scarring for having occurred just last night. "Don't worry, I did it to myself so I'd remember from the Dream, but I don't want to walk around looking like some Satan worshipper or something. Odd though, that the writing was found on cards in the man's wallet and not inscribed somewhere on the scene itself like at the body bonfire I found, or at the eviscerated Caterpillar."

Bennie's hand stretches out on the table, but she doesn't make any move to touch him directly. Just a light tap of her fingers on the table's top in an approximation of it. "That's just about the sweetest case of mouth foot I've heard. The beer and the chat...that's a nice start."

"Goodness," Ravn murmurs, eyebrows shooting up at the sight. It's entirely possible he was going to elaborate on foot in mouthing but somehow, that subject just fell off the table, pretty hard. "You... cut it into your skin? Speaking as a historian I really appreciate the dedication to remembering detail. But speaking as someone who has skin of his own? That's about the most terrifying thing I've seen in Gray Harbor so far. We really need to come up with some way for those dream experiences to include a standard adventurer's satchel with a note pad, some chocolate bars, and a first aid kit."

The Dane collects himself enough to not stare at the cuts; in part because they are indeed not bleeding, inflamed messes that require immediate medical assistance. The scars though...

Bennie's hand gets a light gloved touch at that. A pretty awkward brush of fingers that speaks volumes about thinking somebody needs a hug except somebody else is really pretty awkwardly inclined, and the first somebody literally has cut holes in her skin and they probably hurt like hell.

"Right. Er. Yes. The writing was on Fitzgerald's body too. I think the cards were his note sheet. That he'd written the word Kur out a few times in advance to be sure he'd get it right for the sacrifice. Kur being the name of the Sumerian underworld or the goddess of it, sort of depending on who, or more correctly, when you ask." Then, possibly missing the capital C in Caterpillar, the man looks up again and says, "The eviscerated what now?"

Bennie just sort of bites her lip sheepishly, gnawing on the corner at his reaction at seeing the markings, "But see, that's the thing about Dreams. Sometimes you're entirely not yourself at all, much less the clothes you were wearing or the belongings you had on you at the time. Sometimes you can't even trust your memories when you're spit out of them, but the one thing that always remains consistent is that if you get injured in a Dream, it stays with you. It was the only way to ensure I got the message back correctly. And considering the way out of the dream was to smoke weed out of a Hookah, it was a good thing I though ahead. Besides, I know a host of Healers aside from myself, so that and a little Vitamin E oil and in a few weeks, you might never know it was there. Failing that? Make up!"

She looks as if she's going to turn her hand over at that little brush of gloved finger tips, but then her hand slithers away from the table's top entirely. For someone so open and apologetic about life, a blush is rare but there is a slight pinking of her skin on the apples of her cheeks.

Nothing a quick clearing of her throat and a gulp of her beer can't fix! "Yeah, sorry, did I not mention? It was like a twisted Alice in Wonderland Dream, hence the Carroll reference earlier. Wait, back up. Fitzgerald was the victim, right? But you're saying..wait, whose wallet did you find? I'm confused."

"I'm still getting used to the idea that people can do things like healing," Ravn admits. "I see broken limbs, I think people out of commission for five-six months. Not, you know, bouncing back two weeks later. That's another amazing thing about this community. Aidan did tell me it's hard to do, though. In the same breath as berating himself that he couldn't make someone bounce back from an axe to the chest in one day."

Ravn draws back as well, occupying his hands with his beer bottle and refocusing on the subject at hand. "Fitzgerald was the first bloke we found. The one Rosencrantz found on the beach during the sand castle competition. I believe he was a friend of August Røn's, at that. I, uh, lifted the wallet off the corpse, on the scene, before the EMTs arrived. Not to -- you know, steal it. But because the park ranger who was herding everyone else away was all -- he didn't herd anyone away who has the thing we have. He pretty obviously wanted us to take a quick look before the police arrived on the scene. So I thought, well, at least we'll know who this bloke was, where he shopped, what his wife looked like, anything that might give us an idea who he was and why he was murdered. I did hand the wallet in, I mean. I'm not that kind of thief."

"Oh, you're not that kind of thief." Bennie throws a quick tease out there as if in a knee jerk reaction. It's really not the kind of thing you want to admit to your boss, but she's not pointing that out at the moment, kind of glad to leave the 'boss' label behind at the bar.

"Right. So Fitzgerald was the dead guy, and in his wallet you found cards with the writing as if...he was going to do the sacrifice? I mean, I don't see why McHot Murder Man would then go ahead through all the trouble of writing it down and sticking it on the body..." Bennie's head tilts suddenly, "The writing was never a message for Us. It was a message for Them. Part of the ritual. It wasn't a breadcrumb for us to follow, that's why the killer didn't care if it got washed away at the bonfire. It's part of the ritual!"

"That's a more plausible theory than 'Henry kept the funny triangle things because he thought they might make an interesting tattoo'," Ravn agrees. "I think you might very well be spot on with that one. I thought at first that McHot the Library Assassin was sending us messages -- leaving bodies with cuneiform writing cut into the skin at a public contest and whatnot. But the other bodies that I know of don't match that. The guy in Spokane, found with writing on the wall, sure. But not the guy in the woods, or the gas station attendant -- I don't even know where they found the last one, so at least if there is a message, it's been kept very down low and out of the papers. He's communicating, all right, but indeed, not with us."

At least he has the decency to wince lightly about the thief thing. "I'm not the kind of thief who steals things," the Dane clarifies, with all the logic of the world and thousands of years of philosophy in his voice. "I'm a hustler. Well, sort of. I do things like run that three cups game where you have to guess at where the nut is -- and then swipe the nut so you'll be sure to lose. Used to steal my parents' car keys as a kid. Probably swiped a few chocolate bars when I was little. I move things, small things. But I'm not the kind of bloke who'd nick some dead guy's wallet just to make a few easy bucks while waiting for the police, that's what I meant."

"I shouldn't really be proud of making that connection, I'm sure the others have, but. Jeeprs, it feels good to know I have some brain cells." Bennie slumps back with her beer, marveling at that for a moment with a little 'huh' of wonderment.

"So a shill, not a thief." Bennie says with a little head clearing shake, "Yeah, you don't read that way, as the bad sort of thief. You're all very..." She makes a wavy gesture to indicate his general person, "Safe." Quick to add. "Not in a bad way, just. Even your edges aren't very dark for someone who Shines, that's all. But you know our Shines...they shift. Like Healers. Was a time before I could basically snap my fingers - speaking of axes to the chest that's how Aidan and I met - and poof. Life saving, back from the brink of death and you'd be hopscotching the next day. But after rather, um, Large Incident in the Veil...ever since then Healers haven't dulled down, but we've slowed. Normally there wouldn't be any trace left of an injury. Now it's like...we just encourage healing like a giant steroid shot, instead of clicking things immediately back into place. Though that still works with inanimate objects! Talk about parlor tricks."

The shill comment teases forth a lopsided smile. "Yes, I suppose that's the word. I'm pretty vanilla. Pretty boring as mysterious strangers from abroad go. Bookish bloke, no criminal past -- excepting parental car theft. No history of violence or substance abuse or -- anything, really. Maybe that's why the shine is not very strong in me -- I have got the impression it correlates to past trauma for many people here."

Then Ravn's attention wanders back to the things that matter to anyone but his possible injured pride at being quite mundane -- things such as healers not being able to do quite as much as they were once able. "Bennie, people here... get torn to pieces. And a week later, they're walking. I mean, I get it. It used to be the day after. But for people like me who come from a world where a broken arm may take a year to really stop hurting -- next week is amazing. I do get that slowing down or losing your perceived edge is bad news. Heaven knows people get injured here a lot, but we could have nothing but medicine and nature taking their toll, you know?"

Bennie isn't just full on jumping on the train about Shine theories, she's throwing on the conductor's hat, shoveling the coal and punching the passenger tickets. "See, that's the thing. The Dark Men, they thrive on our pain, right? They feed off the negativity, but the thing is, that's what makes us stronger. Which means there's more to feed off of. We're stuck in this perpetual loop. It's a symbiotic relationship, they're not trying to destroy us at all, because there goes their food source, but they need to knock us down once in a while so we don't throw off the balance. It's the classic good versus evil story. It's not a battle with each other its a battle to keep things in alignment. You can't have one without the other. So it's not that you're 'Vanilla', you just haven't been thrown on the scale yet, that's all."

"Farming us like cattle to a dairy farmer from what I've seen." Ravn nods lightly and taps his gloved fingertips against his lip. "Not that I'm all that eager to expand my repertoire if it means having to go through some of the things I've heard about here. I used to feel pretty sorry for myself, that I'd been dealt a pretty bad hand. But I haven't, not compared to some of the stories I've heard here. I haven't had my uncle be possessed by a dead serial killer and leaving a trail of dead bodies through town. I haven't been involved in gang or drug wars. I haven't spent half my childhood in institutions that may not even be real. I'm just a pretty sheltered white boy who felt sorry enough for himself to go wandering off in a sulk that lasted three years so far. And honestly, if the Dark Men don't mind, I'm perfectly happy to not develop the big fireworks if it means I don't have to suffer the way some people here in Gray Harbor have suffered."

And it's only then that Bennie's smile turns a little sad, "Thing is, none of us have that choice." She looks down to her beer bottle, rotating it on the table so it leaves little wet rings of condensation. "So what were you sulking about, Pretty Sheltered White Boy? Was someone mean to you on Twitter? Because that's what you're making out whatever life altering event had you uproot your life, venture over seas to a foreign country and take up with our lot. I'd bet dollars to de la Vega's donuts that's not the case."

Ravn cannot help a small laugh at the suggestion that maybe somebody called him a poo poo head on social media. Then he shakes his head. "I was -- getting around to breaking up with my fiancee. We argued. She got angry drunk and rammed a tree doing a hundred twenty per hour. Died in the car. Left me feeling I was to blame for the way she died. So I had a pretty severe breakdown about it. When I came out on the other side I couldn't cope with the sympathy and people telling me I needed to get back in the saddle, chin up, you'll meet someone else, life goes on, time to start taking responsibility and think of a suitable career, Mr Abildgaard -- all that. So I took off. And pretty much just kept taking off until I ended up here. I'm not saying it wasn't bad. Just not... your undead uncle fills the Bay with corpses then disappears from his grave and will probably come back to do it all over again kinds of bad."

"Oh." Yeah, that manages to shut the talkative blonde up for the moment, sort of half-stunned into silence and no doubt harboring a little bit of guilt now for that Twitter comment. "Yeah, see, no. You'll fit in just fine around here."

Cue the incredible awkward clearing of the throat again. "Well!" Bennie pipes back up after a beat of uncomfortable silence. "I really should be going, and give your kitty a chance to come out of hiding, but this was really swell." And yes, she's perfectly comfortable using the word in her daily vocabulary. "Thank you so much for the beer, and sharing your space with me for a while. Happy Boat-Warming!" And then she's shifting out of the seat clumsily.

Ravn gets up as well. It's a really long walk to the above deck, she might get lost. "Anytime. I mean that -- you've done me a very big solid, Bennie. You need anything at all, even if 'anything' is just a deck to sit on while stargazing, come on over. I'm not exactly Mr Outreach but -- you know. I don't cook either. But I promise to always have a beer in the fridge and a traumatised cat nearby. Thanks for coming over."

The man looks as if he contemplates patting an arm or something along those lines -- and then remembers that those arms are a) personal space and b) covered in incisions. It's probably a good thing that he's not the kind of hustler that relies on smooth charm and keeping a straight face because awkward has a long list of names, and Ravn Abildgaard is definitely on it somewhere.

"And I will absolutely be taking you up on that!" And so they're left doing an awkward little dance of parting, because Bennie's first instinct is to hug someone goodbye and she sort of shifts in that direction before remembering his spacial boundaries and so she just sort of offers out her fist for an air-bump, even blowing it up afterwards with a cringeworthy bomb noise. "See you around, Vanilla Shake."