2020-10-17 - The Gray Harbor Blue Book

Now that the tourist season is at an end, or at least very close to it, things tend to be pretty quiet in the mornings and early afternoons at the Two if By Sea. Not to say that there aren't patrons -- just, most of them are locals who go there for a beer or a drink, possibly for something to eat, and some quiet time. They may come back in the afternoon and expect more action, but at this hour, bartenders just mix drinks and everyone more or less minds their own business. Ravn Abildgaard is just coming off his shift as barback and allround clean-up guy, swapping yellow latex gloves for black kidskin ditto, and tossing a grin at a tired kid whom he entertained earlier by pulling tater tots out of her ear (the toddler girl's mum was less impressed but hey, make your kid not scream up the place or somebody else will).

He scoops up a plate of those tater tots -- the Twofer's, not the little girl's -- and heads out on the patio. Sure, the autumn wind from the sea is chilly in October but he's got a leather jacket and a Scandinavian indifference to cold. More importantly, it's pretty quiet out there now because the time of year where people lounge around the fire pits is indeed over. The perk of working here? You get to eat before you go home, instead of having to worry about take-out later.

Alexander isn't quite at the bar, yet, although he seems to be heading in that direction. Instead, he's on the beach nearby, standing near the foot of the stairs and looking out over the gray waters of the harbor. He's dressed as Alexanders usually are - in a ratty old sweater and worn jeans and stompy workboots, instead of the rare occasion of suit that Ravn last saw him in. His hair is disheveled from the wind, and he instinctively looks up and over when someone walks out on the balcony. Seeing Ravn, he raises a hand in tentative greeting, and starts to walk up the stairs to the deck. "Hey," he says, when he's in conversational range. "You okay?"

Ravn settles at a table near the railing and raises a fork in greeting to the other man. There's not much difference in his attire now or that recent evening at Addington House; it's another turtleneck, maybe, the shade of black is a little more washed-out. Danish guy keeps it simple everywhere. He gestures at the table he just claimed and replies, "Yeah. How are you? Pull up a chair, I can get you something if you like."

And then, with a slightly more wary expression the Dane murmurs, "So, that was... an interesting tour, don't you think? I mean, apart from the bit where I clearly didn't get the memo about dressing up for the occasion."

Alexander shakes his head. "Thanks, but I'm fine. Ate before I came out, and I don't drink much." He does take a seat, though, settling into it and studying Ravn, head cocked to one side. At the murmur, he nods. "That's Addington House for you. Patrick once hired me and Bennie to hunt a murderous Elf on the Shelf in the attic. And the holiday party turned into a giant snowglobe that started filling up with water with us inside. And there was a lovesick monster who vomited in my mouth while I killed it, because it thought I was in love with Patrick." He clears his throat. "It's an interesting place."

The Dane's eyebrows shoot up and he can't help a small laugh. "Sounds like it's a veritable magnet for odd occurences. Haunted to hell and back, is it? I was so busy wondering why exactly anyone'd invite me on the fancy clothes tour of all things that I didn't even catch on to the tour guide being -- well, dead. I guess I should have wondered but on some level it'd not be unusual to give a tour in costume, I guess."

He cants his head slightly. "If you're not in a rush to be on your way, I wouldn't mind -- I honestly have no idea who half the people we were talking to and about even are. Or were."

Alexander returns the laugh with a brief smile of his own. "It's fucked up, yeah. Apparently there are parts of the basement that will eat you. Keep meaning to go down there, but," he shrugs, "I've been picking up enough injuries on my own to not need to go chasing new ways to get hurt." He blinks at the last. "...no, I don't mind. It's mostly town stuff. Wouldn't expect you to know it. Don't mind talking about it, though - you might have a new perspective. Any specific questions you wanna start with?"

Ravn nibbles on a tater tot while thinking a moment; he wants to start with all the questions. Eventually he settles on, "Gohl. There's a name I've heard a few times. In the churchyard, just before that guy tried to shoot August Røn -- there is a grave in the graveyard that's not there anymore, I gathered that much. Some dead mass murderer whose ghost possessed Erin Addington's uncle and started over on killing people. Do I have this down just about right? And more importantly, is this guy still an issue?"

Alexander grimaces at the mention of Gohl, and sort of hunches down a little. He rubs at his eyes. "William Gohl. Early 1900s, he was a Union worker here in the Harbor, who apparently murdered over a hundred people, mostly dumping them in the Harbor, or burying them in the woods. Kill them, take their stuff, essentially, preying on immigrants and migrant workers, chiefly. One of the most prolific serial killers in American history." He licks his lips. "Also my great-great grandfather. He was captured by Sheriff Addington, and imprisoned at an Asylum on the other side of the Veil. Things were done to him, and he eventually died. But apparently his spirit was still locked to his bones. Other relatives of his, sharing a bloodline of the Baxters, had his bones removed from the Asylum and brought back. The bones were lost for a while, but the spirit remained, imprisoned in the mind of Thomas Addington. Until it got free, and started murdering a lot of Addingtons and Baxters. We, uh, put it to rest. Really to rest, like sent on to...wherever souls go? So he's not an issue anymore."

Ravn nods a few times while Alexander speaks, listening with the intense focus of a historian listening to a first-hand source. Only when the other man is done outlining the story of Gohl does he note, "Him being your great-great whatever is not your responsibility, though. If I was responsible for all the crap my ancestors got up to, I'd be neck deep in trouble, I can tell you that much."

He taps a gloved finger against his lower lip, taking mental notes. "That's another word on my list, though. The Asylum -- and Veil City Hall, and Veil Library, and various other names like it. There's an entire... parallel city over there, isn't there?"

Alexander shrugs, awkwardly. "It's bad blood," he mutters, clearly uncomfortable. He clears his throat and moves on. "Sort of, yeah. I haven't seen much of it - I can't make doors on my own, and when you go to the other City Hall, it's usually through this City Hall. It's a huge place, though, filled with...things. Weird things." He runs a hand through his hair. "Not malicious, but dangerous. The Archivist and the Exorcist seem to be based out of there, while the Vivisectionist apparently had her own company - FCN? It apparently made magical things out of ground up Veil creatures."

Finger number two joins the first as Ravn's smile turns a little wry. "And those are... the rest of the list. Who are those people? I gather that the grandma escaped from a nineteen-eighties sitcom was the Exorcist. But, it's just the name of an old movie to me. I know what exorcists do -- but she didn't look like a Catholic priest, either. Are you telling me that there are people -- or things that look like people -- on the other side that are actually playing for Team Humanity? Or not actively against it, anyway? Because I imagine that on some level, that changes our playground here quite a lot. I had the impression that this was all very much an us against them kind of deal."

Beat. "Not that I'd be sorry to find out that there are things on the other side that doesn't hate us." The copper blond cants his head. "I found out last week that there are -- humans who play for the other team. It would balance things out in my mind a little, finding out that there are aliens batting for ours."

Alexander thinks about it, then shakes his head. "Now we're getting into the part where I don't have good answers. Just speculation. Not enough data. It appears that if you, as a person, die over in the Veil, then you might be offered, or placed into, a 'job' working for one of the three -ors - The Doctor, The Collector, or The Director. Those three are not human, and I don't think they ever were? Isabella and the Revisionist suggest that they're the source of our abilities. I met The Doctor. He exploded a woman's head and made me feel it." He frowns. "Not really a fan? But I don't know that they're...hostile. Exactly. They seem to have some sort of purpose. The Exorcist seems to have some sort of power over souls, and an understanding of ghosts. The Revisionist says she has to change memories, or else things go wrong. The Vivisectionist appeared to be studying people with abilities. But none of them really are the kind of people to sit down and have an informative chat with you. And I don't think any of them are actually on our side. They're on their own side, which just happens to be neutral to ours."

"So maybe it's safer to view them as the competing firm," Ravn suggests, quirking an eyebrow. "They're researching the same things. They won't tell us anything they don't have to, lest we get the break-through first. But it's not personal, just business. All right. I can work with that, kind of. At least it doesn't make me sick to the stomach the way I felt upon being told by some bloke that the best choice in a dream sequence is to push someone else in front of the train and run."

Alexander mms. "I think it more like the classical idea of angels, the ones who have to shout fear not when they appear, and who do God's inscrutable and dirty work. They're not competition. I don't know that they even really care about us, mostly. But yeah, just business works." A brief smile, that fades immediately as Ravn continues. "No. Don't do that. Help people get through it. That person is wrong."

"That's what I said. Possibly along with a few unflattering epiteths." Ravn picks out another tater tot. "I'm not the kind of guy to go looking for fights but there are a few things I won't sit and listen to. I did kind of start to suspect that maybe they weren't all evil, with the whole... lobster thing. I knew I was putting myself out there for an epic smack-down in terms of story archetypes when I wrote the Revisionist about the whole celebrity thing. But what I got was actually pretty much what I wanted. I mean, yes, the idea of somebody raising combat lobsters and arranging secret fight club meetings is ridiculous. But no one gets hurt from people laughing at me. I didn't expect something quite that... benevolent, to be honest. At best I hoped for only myself getting hurt in my name, rather than other people."

Alexander chuckles. "Yeah. Mine wasn't...mine wasn't bad? Objectively. But it was disturbing to me. I didn't like people remembering things about me that just weren't true, and weren't anything that I had in my life. So she changed it to something that, uh, still isn't true? Exactly? But is CLOSER to true than it was. And people don't call me Crazy Clayton anymore, which I'm still getting used to." He looks away, his expression sheepish. "I don't think the Revisionist or Exorcist or Archivist are malicious. They're just odd. Probably from living over there."

"So what is it now? I can't help wonder how much of what I think I know about you is no more true than the idea that I spent my youth training combat crayfish in our lake back home. It's all a little... I've kind of started to just assume that if somebody's story sounds like they ought to appear regularly in the morning press it's probably not true." Ravn leans back a little, and looks, perhaps, a little speculative. "I'm not sure how much foreign and new perspective I really can offer, to be honest. It's pretty clear to me that -- this place has a history. Something happened in the late 19th century which caused all of this. Probably tied in with the Addington-Baxter feud -- everything here ties back to them, it seems. But what? I couldn't begin to guess. Usually, in stories like that, there'll be something fairly specific going on, tied to a location or a bloodline or an item. But here? It's like all of reality is a ball of yarn that has been played with by an angry cat. Everything is one big, confusing snarl."

"Apparently I'm a really good investigator - which is true. And I'm a raging coke fiend who once snorted a whole family's cremation ashes thinking they were cocaine, which is not. I don't use drugs," Alexander says, like that's the important thing to take away from this. "And it's actually been helpful. Um. People are hiring me for things. Some of them try to pay in cocaine, which is awkward." He listens intently to Ravn's speculation, then nods. "Yeah. It's, um. What little we know is that the Baxters used to own a lot of land around here. Somehow they sold it to the Addingtons, and then pretty much disappeared. Except not really. They were erased. By the Addingtons. Apparently, when someone with Baxter blood dies around here, the Addingtons steal their body and feed it to a magic sawmill which shatters their soul and keeps them from going on to...wherever the souls go. Which I presume contributes to the general fucked-upness."

"So the story is still getting fed." Ravn resumes tapping his lip. "I mean, that does tie in with your traditional ghost story -- the insane person is still at it, dead or alive. I'm going to venture a guess that the body snatchers are dead. I have a hard time picturing Hyacinth Addington dragging off Grant Baxter's body for eternal damnation, for one. But I don't have a hard time envisioning the remains of these dead Baxters being very unhappy about this situation, as a matter of fact. If anything of them remains, it's no bloody wonder this whole place feels like pain and rage and anger."

"Margaret's still alive," Alexander says, with a shrug. "She was definitely driving a lot of it, with her brother, Thomas. But there were angry, shattered spirits going back to the 1800s, and she's not that old. I dunno who, if anyone, in the younger generation is participating in the family tradition. Or who might, if it somehow ties into the Addingtons having strong abilities, and being powerful and rich. Wouldn't be the first time people were fed to the mills for profit," he remarks, dryly. "Although usually not so literal."

"Ain't that the truth. My family used to own land. Be in a bit of a similar position to the Addingtons, I suppose. I'll bet you a substantial sum that my great-grandparents didn't lie awake at night worrying about social injustice, either." Ravn winces slightly. "Just, my home may be haunted as all hell but it's nothing like this. Reality there isn't twisted the way it is here. So tell me how come this Margaret has not been forced to -- well, stop. I imagine the Veil is doing its thing and hiding her from public view but you know, and from the sound of it, you're not the only person who knows."

Alexander shrugs. "No one ever got rich or powerful without someone fucking over a lot of innocent people along the way." Growing up in a failing timber town can give you an almost fatalistic appreciation for economics, and Alexander sounds more resigned than angry about it. "I don't know that she's physically capable of it, now. With Thomas dead, a lot of her...energy went out of her. She's holed herself up in her house, become a recluse. I won't say she's not dangerous. But I don't think any of us are really at the 'murdering old women' stage."

"Containing them, maybe. Or at least, watching out for the living Baxters. I rather like Grant, would hate to see something happen to him because of all of this." Ravn glances at Alexander at that. "Did I get that right -- you're a Baxter as well, just, not the direct line? I know Aidan Kinney is one as well. I have this idea that on some level, all of you people who were actually born here and have power are somehow connected to either family, or both. Which really just fuels my firm belief that something went down in the woods here, a long time ago, that broke reality."

"Not everyone. But maybe a lot of the stronger people, yeah. Baxters are hard - I get the impression a lot of them changed their names, married into other families, or were erased. At least, the good things they did were erased." Alexander fidgets his fingers against each other. "I don't think Easton or Bennie are, and they're strong. Or Byron. His family married into the Addingtons and I don't think that would happen if they had any Baxter ancestry."

"Marrying into the Addingtons still qualifies as tying in with either of the two founding families," Ravn points out with a small smile. "Byron is -- the man the other night? The one in the tuxedo? I think somebody told me he's the local wealthy bloke. Which is fitting for the Addington line from what I've seen -- they do have that 'local gentry' air about them. It fascinates me on a more personal level, but that's speaking as a historian rather than as someone trying to piece together what's actually going on here."

He shakes his head slightly; nerd boy would love to compare notes on European feudal traditions contra modern American ditto, but maybe this is not the time. "There are a lot of people here from out of town who seem to have been brought in widely on matching at least two out of three criteria: They've got this... power, shine. They're warrior types. Or they're artists. I imagine some manage to match all three."

"Byron isn't an Addington," Alexander says, and it's almost a snap, his eyes narrowing. "He's not descended from the person who married into the family. No real relation." It's very firm. "But, yeah. The Addingtons have always been the big dogs, locally. Names on everything, tend to be mayors and sheriffs and all of that." He shrugs. "And maybe. I'd more say they're survivors. People who get back up after the world kicks them. The people who don't, just disappear. Or end up under the boardwalk."

"Isn't he, though, by that definition? Or are we assuming that there needs to be a literal blood tie?" Ravn continues to tap his lip; it's very clearly a give-away that he is thinking. "I don't think Aidan Kinney is an actual blood relation to the Baxters either, but he's still viewed as one. That said... being survivors is good. Just, not at any price. Back to the whole shove someone else in front of the zombies thing on that. If this place really does run on a story, so to speak, then there are very definite rules in place about sacrifice and self-sacrifice. You have to be a good boy, Disney hero style. Hell, that's probably the best reference frame I can give off hand -- Disney logic."

"No." It's blunt, and brooks no argument. Alexander looks away, and mutters, "You'd have to ask Isabella about the Baxter thing. She's the one who's put together the most complete family tree that I've seen. And I don't...know that it runs on a story. You're not a designated hero, or villain. It's just a fucked up place, and people get caught up in it."

Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "And Isabella is -- your partner? Somebody mentioned that. I'm sorry. There are literally hundreds of names I've had to learn in less than two months. I get them all mixed up all the time. I found myself unable to tell a reporter from a detective the other day -- both are dark haired women with similar sounding names to a foreign ear. I am not very good with faces or names."

Then he straightens up a little and settles his elbows on the table. "See, I get that. That it's pretty much just... screwed up. But to me, there has to be some kind of underlying story here, because that's what I do. That's the perspective I can offer. Not as a historian -- you've got those. But as someone who looks at how stories work in the contemporary, and how they affect us enough that we still play by their rules even when we think we don't. Maybe I'm wrong, and I'm just trying to find a pattern in chaos. But then I guess I'll be wrong and still trying to find ways to do the right thing, I guess."

"Girlfriend. She's an archaeologist. You should probably talk to her; I think the two of you would hit it off." He offers a brief smile. Then he adds, almost apologetically, "I know that's how you want the world to work. But I don't know that it is how the world works. I think maybe some people see more...fairy tale dreams, or things, because that's what really affects them. So the Shadows use it as a tool to terrorize. But, like, the first big group Dream I got sucked into was a play on Gilligan's Island, except that Gilligan was a giant meat puppet driven by the Professor, and he threw exploding Gingers. And there were the Harlem Globetrotters." He shrugs. "I don't think it makes sense, except that the Shadows are trying to figure out what matters to us, so that they can feed better on us."

"That does make sense, though. That they try to find our triggers, the cracks in our armour, so that they can wring the most misery out of us. I'm pretty certain that that part at least is established -- that they try to make us suffer." The Dane hitches a shoulder slightly. "What's up in the air for me is the underlying why. Whether this is some Greek tragedy of hubris and revenge, or something else. Either way, that's a philosophical debate of the kind that probably should happen over a sixpack sometime. I'm entirely open to that idea, just -- still wrapping my mind around the Exorcist being essentially non-hostile. I think I am -- a bit more optimistic, because of that? And wondering if there is somewhere I can look up these people on the other side. Is there a list or a file, or someone who's the human equivalent of a walking who's who over there, do you know?"

Alexander thinks about, then shrugs. "Maybe that's why the -ors pick dead humans for the -ists? Because the feeling I got from The Doctor is that he didn't have much of a problem with wiping us from existence, but that he didn't have much...malice, for us, either. I don't think we matter enough to him for malice. I think he liked the Vivisectionist, though." A pause. "When Lilith and Isabella killed her, it did something to their brains. We're still trying to figure that out."

"Vivisectionist is a word that comes with some pretty terrifying implications," the Dane murmurs. "I'm guessing I shouldn't be sorry that she's dead? It's still a little disturbing to have conversations that involve 'when they killed somebody' but I suppose that's Gray Harbor for you."

He lays his hand down on the table again, possibly to keep them quite still. "That's... Actually the other thing I feel like I should take this chance to ask you about. I mean, I'm sorry to... practically shove you up against a wall and bury you in questions, just, these things really are important and you are the bloke in town everyone keeps telling me to ask. I had a... discussion, the other day. With someone who knows a hell of a lot more than she's willing to share. But one of the things she did have an opinion to share on was new people like me. That we should not be told about all of this, at least not until something happens to us. Because if we know, then odds are we use our powers, and that in turn makes something happen to us. Do you think it's possible to be here and -- have the shine, but be so ignorant that you just live an ordinary life?"

"It's good she's dead," Alexander says, firmly. "And if it's true that -ists are made by dying over there, then I guess she was already dead, so they didn't kill her after all?" He's not quite sure of his reasoning on that one, but offers it up anyway, in case it makes Ravn feel better.

There's a slight smile at the apology. "If I didn't want to answer, I wouldn't. You can't make me. It's fine." At the question, though, he grunts, then nods. "Probably, yeah. Life in Gray Harbor sucks, whether you have abilities or not. People who don't have abilities, who don't know anything, do get pulled into Dreams. It's just more rare, and they kind of haze over it afterwards. If they live. If you have abilities, you remember it. But you don't have to...get involved? Some people seem to attract more attention than others. At least one person I know says that the Dreams are punishment for using our abilities, and if you just stop, it'll be fine. I don't know that I believe him. But I think that if you left the town, and also didn't use your abilities, it'd be fine. You might have weird feelings, or the occasional dark moment, but you probably wouldn't die."

"But for some reason most of us just don't. Leave town, that is. I mean, I should know. I'm someone who never stayed a week in one place for three years and I got stuck here in spite of telling myself for a month that I'd pack up and leave any day now. I've come to terms with the idea that I'm staying the winter, at least." Ravn smiles with a trace of wryness. "I can't really convince myself that I'm not being manipulated on some level. Everything I've done here is... so very much not me. What's frightening me the most about it is that I feel this good about pretty much rewriting my entire modus operandi."

Alexander stares at Ravn in an uncomfortable silence. There's an intensity about his expression that suggests that he'd like to crack the man's skull open and root around inside. Finally, he says, "Maybe you like having the excuse to do something that you really wanted to do for a while, but were too scared to."

The other man's blue-grey stare back is firm and, it seems, not so bothered by the silence. Ravn does seem to have that awkwardness around himself at times as well that might just make him more understanding -- or ignorant -- of such matters as when a silence becomes loaded. He waits and eventually nods. "I think so. But I also think that I was not able to, before. And whatever or whoever is running the show here changed that."

Alexander thinks about that, too, then shrugs. "Maybe. Which probably means you really should leave. Nothing that comes from over there is good."

"And that I won't. Or can't. Can't-won't?" Ravn nods. "I'm a fly stuck in a honey trap, I suppose, but at least the honey is good. What about you? Why are you still here? What keeps Alexander Clayton from just packing a suitcase and getting out? You're a highly intelligent man. A skilled investigator. There's the coke thing but, even if people do believe it, a lot of people have or have had a drug problem and I doubt that it would stop you from opening a PI agency somewhere far away. So why don't you?"

Alexander sighs, but it's clearly the answer that he expected. He looks - disappointed, and a little worried, but not surprised. The question in return makes him blink. "I...don't have a license. Or any relevant work experience. I don't...I'm broken, and crazy. In Gray Harbor, I serve some sort of function. Outside? I'm just a middle-aged lunatic with a resume that includes things like 'confirmed that the Illuminati were not stealing a man's creativity through his penis'."

Ravn blinks and seems to ponder the logistics of that conspiracy for a moment before shaking his head and dismissing the no doubt quite disturbing mental images. "Are you? Crazy, I mean. I've done time in a mental ward and I don't think of myself as crazy."

Alexander grimaces. "Probably? I don't think about things the way other people do. Even people who are...involved in this shit. I know that. I'm not always safe to be around. I know that. I'm better than I used to be, but I'm probably not, uh, normal. I scare people a lot." He shrugs. "I think some people have bad patches. And some people are just broken."

"I think you're too hard on yourself." Ravn hitches a shoulder again. "Normal is just what society defines as least likely to cause problems. Or maybe I just haven't given you any reason to act scary at me, who knows. Some people are broken. I tend to tell myself that I'm just missing a few pages of the manual. That there's a script to how people work, and they just gave me a copy that's missing chapter four and chapter twenty-three, and I'll just have to wing it sometimes. And sometimes, winging it just isn't good enough. That's why I travelled -- so I wouldn't have to deal with anyone long enough for them to pay any attention to me, or even remember that I was there."

He looks at the other man. "But you're not like that. People here -- at least our kind of people -- don't talk about you to strangers like me that way. People love to gossip and people usually rush into talking others down. I'm pretty sure that in a job like this --" he gestures towards the bar with one gloved hand "-- I'd have heard if people genuinely considered you to be the village idiot."

Alexander snorts with amusement. "Missing some of the manual. I like that." He grins, bright and brief. "I think everyone's missing a few pages here and there. You seem okay." He looks uncomfortable as he goes on, though. "You mostly talk to people who have abilities. That's all. People like that sometimes think differently about me. Don't take it too seriously." He clears his throat. "Anyway. Other questions? For the metaphysics, you probably want to talk with Isabella, or August, or Lilith. It's not really my area. If you want to talk to people who've had good experiences over there, maybe Itzhak or Grant? They don't seem to hate it all the time."

Ravn laughs softly. "Maybe that's why I don't hate everything here. Rosencrantz and Bax are definitely among the people I spend the most time with here. I find their very -- direct approach to things comforting. I'm the kind of bloke who waffles around for an hour before getting to a point, and I weasel out of things that scare me. Rosencrantz in particular sees right through me. It's probably very healthy for me."

Alexander smiles. "Itzhak is a good guy. He's smart, and brave, and still has a sense of wonder about everything. He still feels like he's doing magic, you know? It's nice. I think it'll get him tortured and killed, one day. But for right now, it's nice."

"Certainly is magical when he gets up to sing or play," Ravn says with genuine admiration. "I actually went and bought a suitable jacket and shirt for going to see him at the Eighty-Eight." From the tone of his voice, that was a sacrifice. "I have made friends here. That's why I can't leave, you realise? I can't walk away from people who actually care. The rest of the world sure as hell doesn't."

Alexander's features soften. "Yeah. He plays beautifully. It's not the sort of music I usually like, but it's beautiful, still. Especially how passionate he is about it." And then there's a slow nod. "It's hard to walk away from people who care about you, yeah. I understand that. It's almost a better trap than anything the town itself could devise."

Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "You're an old school rock'n roll bloke. I'm not psychic -- I've seen your shirts. You like music that engages raw emotion and doesn't pussyfoot around being pretentious or tackling deep philosophical issues. Real people, real problems. Same reason I tend to end up listening to bluegrass or folk most of the time. I'm guessing violin is a little -- too classical for you. Although I could introduce you to a few opera metal bands that combine classical voices and instruments with modern metal in interesting ways."

Alexander grins. "I like violin in metal," he says, and doesn't disagree with anything that Ravn guesses. "I like...loud music. Metal, some old school rock. Even more modern stuff, as long as it's, uh, emotional and loud. But I don't think Itzhak likes metal. I was going to give him some CDs that have it, but I thought...he might think that I was saying his music wasn't good, or right, or something. And it's very good, and very right. It's okay if it's not my thing, it's still beautiful."

"I have no idea whether he might," Ravn murmurs and looks thoughtful a moment. "Personally? I like anything that has emotion. Which is why I am equally bored by those classic masterpieces that are basically just mathematical attempts at perfection and by most modern popular music. When I listen to music or play, I want to feel the blood, sweat, and tears. I think Rosencrantz would relate to that part, at least, even if operatic metal might not be his thing. Do you play? I'm sort of picturing you as a bass player."

Alexander's expression lights up. "Yes. That's what I like, too. To feel the emotion when it's not in your head, but just in your ears. I have great headphones. I wear them to sleep." Not that it looks like he gets much sleep. "And he probably would. I just don't want to impose. I, uh, was in a band? Back in high school. Briefly. We were terrible. I sang. I didn't play anything." He sounds and looks deeply apologetic about something, possibly the quality of his singing. "But you play, it sounds like? Why? What do you like about it?"

"I play the violin a little," Ravn says and for some reason it sounds almost like an admission. "Never was in a band or quartet, though, just torturing cats for my own amusement. I started to play because my parents made me. Then I realised that actually, no one wants to be within half a mile's distance of someone who's learning the basics of the violin, and I kept playing because bloody hell, best excuse for some privacy ever. I grew to like it."

Alexander says, "Ahh," Alexander draws the syllable out. "That's one reason you get along so well with Itzhak? I know he loves finding musicians." His head cocks to one side, then the other, as he studies Ravn. "Did you want to be alone that much, as a kid?""

Ravn looks out at the sea a moment, and then nods. "I guess I did. Don't get me wrong, I had everything I needed. My family's not struggling by any means. But my parents weren't happy together, and I frequently felt like I was growing up in a war zone. And that those chapters were missing, you know?" Then he turns back to Alexander with a curious look. "I sometimes wonder what it was like growing up here. I think I met someone from here once... Though I'm not sure. I can't quite piece it together. I remember meeting her but the odds of it actually happening are off the scale. It's a pretty big world and Denmark is pretty far away. But she had this... haunted air about her, and it made me wonder if it was real, and if it was, what kind of absolute nightmare she must have lived through even at seventeen."

Alexander hums to himself. "It's...variable? Some people had okay childhoods. Some people got sent away to the Asylum. Some people struggled. Some people were protected. You know. Things vary." He rubs at his beard. "Most people's abilities don't activate until they're teenagers. Um. Mine came in when I was...five or so? Something like that. The first time I got Lost, I was about eight or nine. My toys tried to cut me open and fill me with stuffing. My parents...don't. They're good people, but they don't stand out. So they thought I did it to myself. I didn't have anyone to explain why I was feeling other people, or what to do about that."

The copper blond winces, and then nods. "I got lucky, then. I've done little things all my life. Used to think it was a poltergeist that liked me for some reason. You must have been terrified. The dream is bad enough and then people thinking you did it to yourself? That's some next level gaslighting going on there."

"Yeah. It was like that...most of my childhood. I'd get Lost, and things would try to murder me. Or get me to hurt people. Kill them, eat them, whatever. A lot of the times, they looked like the people in my life - my classmates tried to tie me to the saw in the shop room, once." Alexander pauses. "It wasn't really them. I think. They said they didn't remember, afterwards. And I killed the ones who did it, but none of them were dead, so I guess it wasn't really them. But it...I don't always know if something is real or not," he admits. "Even now. If things aren't how I expect them to be. It's hard not to, uh, react." He fidgets with his fingers and stares at Ravn. "Was the place you grew up like Gray Harbor? August knew about his abilities, but he was in Portland, and it's thin there. Not as much as here, but there's...something there."

"It wasn't this bad. It's a very old house, and there are -- people in it who have been there for a very long time. I learned pretty early on to not talk to anyone else about them. But they were not dangerous or hostile." Ravn stresses that last bit. "Most of them were more like... an old movie clip. Just doing the thing they'd always done. Some of them were more -- real. They'd walk around or check in on things or you might find them sitting next to you on a garden bench, just looking at you. That's why the lady at Addington House didn't surprise me much, I guess -- I'm kind of used to seeing people in strange period costumes and just assuming that no one else sees them, but it's not a big deal."

"Ghosts." Alexander laughs, softly. "Do you know? My whole life - that was the one thing I never saw until last year. I didn't even know they existed. Figured it was the Shadows just fucking with people. Then the whole Gohl thing happened." He shrugs. "That must have been odd. Growing up. Did your parents see them, or was it just you?"

"Just me. I think my mother suspected that there was something but pretended that she didn't." Ravn can't help smiling either. "It's a little funny. Ghosts are the only thing I thought was real, until I came here. The rest? Bending spoons, moving little things? Friendly ghost."

Alexander chuckles. "See, things vary." He taps his fingers in an odd little rhythm on the table. "I think that will prove to be the major obstacle to any true understanding of the fundamental nature of the phenomenon. So much of it is personal. I can feel the way other people feel. But do I feel it the same way that Byron does? Or Javier? I don't know. I don't even know how to describe how I feel. Could you describe what you do to bend spoons or lift things? I don't have any of the moving abilities at all. I don't know how that feels."

Ravn cants his head a little, thinking. "It's often -- like really wanting something enough that you make it feel like it's real."

He dips into a pocket and pulls out a bright, copper Euro cent which he places on the tip of one gloved finger. It starts to spin. "See, this is not magic. I do this with my fingers. But if I do this --" he turns his hand upside down "-- the coin falls because gravity."

And so it does. The Dane picks it back up and sets it in motion atop his fingertip again. "But if I want this damn thing to stay where it is enough it stays." He turns his hand upside down again and sure enough, the coin just continues to spin in defiance of the laws of physics.

Alexander watches with fascination. "That's amazing. It's...like. Isabella says she knows where things are, almost all the time. She can walk through a house she's never been in blindfolded and never run into things, because she feels where they are." He shakes his head. It's not something I can really picture. Most people who have abilities seem to have a little of the empathy stuff, though."

Ravn pockets the coin again. "Not me. I have the empathy of a wet brick. Half the time I don't even pick up on the perfectly normal, visible cues around me until someone is threatening to kiss me or punch me in the face, at which point I am usually quite baffled because I never saw either coming. I do never lose my keys or not know where I left my book, that much is true. But, in fairness, I am what some folks here call a soft ping -- not very gifted compared to most. Or I haven't tapped into my resources yet -- whichever theory one prefers."

Alexander laughs, softly. "If it makes you feel better, unless I'm investigating a crime, or using my abilities, I'm kinda the same way. Miss things." He stands up. "It doesn't really matter. Don't get worried about being 'strong' in powers. Most of the time they just make things worse, anyway. People lean on them too much. Better to use your brain. You seem to have a good one. Don't die." And then he just...leaves. Head down, shoulders slumped, not looking back.