2020-11-19 - A Walk in the Woods

Fall in the Pacific Northwest isn't all gray skies and bone-chilling rain. Sometimes it's big, heavy cloud and brisk, bright winds driving them along, like today. The bright blue sky that's been a memory since late September peaks out, rendering everything in bright, saturated colors. The dark red of maples, brilliant yellow of aspens, and dark green of conifers makes the whole of Firefly Forest look truly lovely. There's a brisk bite in the wind that promises snow soon, and the smell of the Pacific is heavy in the air.

The trails are soggy, though not impassable. The majority of the park's campsites are shut down for the year, which tends to funnel hikers and hunters on a specific set of paths. Botanists, too.

August was out hunting earlier, but he's done with that for the day. Connie was kind enough to offer to drop his birds off to be processed, leaving him to walk a bit in the forest. She and her brother Greg have been hunting grouse and turkey with him for years, since their days in Olympic working together, and she knows when he could use some time in the woods.

So here he is, strolling along one of the game trails that forks from the main path, a black leather workbag that's seen years of use worn cross body. He's in a black cord jacket with a dark blue and green flannel lining, denim jeans, his heavy hikers, and a brick red waffle Henley. He's got what look to be black, fur-lined gloves stuffed in his pockets, hands bare so he can give a vine maple a closer examination.

It's a good question what someone so obviously not a woodsman as Ravn Abildgaard might be doing all the way out here. Maybe some longing on a level far down, for his homeland and its few but very old forests? The woods of the national part here look a lot more like a Danish forest than the gradually warmer and warmer climates of Europe he travelled through over the last years. It's possible that even Ravn can feel some kind of bond with the land he grew up in -- nevermind that this land just looks like it.

Here he is, at least, wandering along the path, hands deep in pockets of his wind breaker, a tall figure in black against the beautiful shades of green, brown, and fire. There's a serenity to be found here that the streets of the town don't offer, and the tranquility calls to him; not so surprising, perhaps, for someone who regularly complains of having a head full of noise, someone who tends to bolt from any social function involving more than three people -- or retreat deep into what he considers his 'stage personas'. The charming hustler. The others.

For now though? It's quiet. And even in the weed haze that is Gray Harbor of late, quiet is good, and deeply needed. The trailer park is not quiet.

The only noise in this forest is the wind in the trees, the very rare, astonishingly fat squirrel out looking for a few last seeds to stuff in itself for winter, and the birds that don't migrate: kingfishers, jays, corvids. That's more than enough, as it turns out, because one particularly glossy, proud raven, perched on top of a lightning-struck fir's remains, croaks at Ravn. BAWK. BAWK. 'Hey everyone! Look who's impersonating me!'

A jay scolds the raven, annoyed. The raven bawks some more, to prove its point.

August doesn't look over at this ruckus or its cause immediately; he's passed a couple of fall hikers like himself already, and the animals are forever up in arms about whatever they feel like. Only when the black shape registers in his periphery does he glance up, one bright, ruddy leaf half-turned between his thumb and index finger. He smiles to see Ravn, straightens and gives him an up-nod.

Ravn in turn stops where he is to watch the birds with an expression of amusement but also amazement. He does so for a while, before he spots the other man and raises a gloved hand in a slow, careful wave back as to not interrupt the little drama. Then he drifts over, still moving slowly as to not disturb the corvid court there, and murmurs, "I haven't seen one of those since Greenland. Are they common here? They used to be in Denmark but they kind of were driven out by the industrialisation. That's why they're all over our myths but you never actually see one."

Up close, August is looking a little worn, with dark circles under his eyes. Yet he's calm and collected, even thoughtful. It's good to get out of the green haze that's left him goofy and paranoid by turns.

He shifts to watch the raven and the jay argue. "Yeah, but only outside the cities. Like you said--industry drives them out. Not the crows, though. There's a massive murder up around Seattle, some ten thousand strong last count. They fly from Discovery Park to the wetlands north of the Bothell campus every day." He shakes his head at the memory. "We've still got enough open country you'll find ravens in a lot of the national parks."

"Rooks, back home. Everywhere. Colonies of thousands. They're a problem in some places. They make a mess and they eventually kill the trees they live in, and they are ridiculously noisy. There's a colony at my home -- not a large one, fortunately, or no one would ever sleep. They've probably been there longer than the house, which means... pretty much since the Ice Age, I think." Ravn looks at the raven.

It looks back. Cants its head. There's not a lot of resemblance, for all that the two share a name. Not except for their preferred colour of plumage anyhow, but the bird wears it better.

The Dane reaches up to rub his temple with a couple of gloved fingers. He too looks red-eyed and more than a little tired. "You look much as I feel, Røn. This week's certainly been... interesting, hasn't it? I find myself doing things that would never have occurred to me under normal circumstances, and that bloody green cloud makes them feel perfectly rational. Like going out in the woods to shoot guns. Or boxing lessons. At this rate, I think I only need to pick a knife fight in the Cabaret before I can consider myself a real man."

August continues watching the raven, who's taken to shuffling about on the blasted fir, much to the annoyance of the jay, who's gotten closer, now perched in a nearby aspen and making a fine racket. His rapid-fire, high-pitched calls layer over the raven's occasional croak. He nods at Ravn, expression a little sad. "Same thing's happening here. They even allow open hunting of them, though hunters don't care to shoot them. They're not any good for eating." Unlike, say, Eurasion collared doves, which are invasive and tasty, and so in Washington it's open season on them year round. Speaking of shooting guns in the woods...

On a wry smile, he says, "That's how I get most of my meat: shooting guns in the woods." The smile shifts to incredulity, and he sizes up Ravn, plainly dubious. August is known in the town (if not to Ravn) as a guy who, despite how he looks, never throws a punch. Not ever. So it could be like recognizes like in this instance, because he says, "Boxing lessons, from de la Vega? Kelly? I hope you're not paying them to smack you around."

"Seth Monaghan at first. Then Joey Kelly, and then Alexander Clayton. And now, apparently, de la Vega as well." Ravn sticks his hands in his pockets and watches the raven too, a small grin dancing across his lips because the situation honestly is a little ridiculous. "I think it's more a case of -- adoption? I'm the gym's pet bunny? Either way, I asked Monaghan for some tips because of the dreams. The one on the beach, with the Aztec goddess and the zombies, where I was -- let's be honest, I was defenceless. I can't rely on everyone else saving my tail every time. Somehow 'a few tips' escalated. I'm really not someone to try to solve conflicts with violence, but in this town? Violence is probably unavoidable."

He pauses a moment, then looks sheepish. "This weed cloud, though. I got so worked up I decked Monaghan and broke his nose. Don't ask me how, I have no idea. But if it means I'm not a sitting duck next time some Meso-american trickster god decides to play games with us, all the better -- and I have to admit, I am somewhat enjoying the..." The Dane makes a small all-encompassing gesture. "The spirit of things. I hope it's not all just this bloody green haze. Never would have pegged Clayton and Monaghan to make friends, and here they are, wanting to engage in a crazy scheme to sell fried waffles to the world."

"Eh, well," August shrugs in that helpless manner of his, "could be worse. And they're all capable, so maybe between the four of 'em something will stick." His mouth flattens at the mention of violence being unavoidable; he doesn't gainsay it, though he does comment, "You don't have to learn how to hurt someone--you can just learn how to not get hurt yourself. That alone is a major benefit."

But August can't help it; he cracks up when Ravn admits to clocking Seth Monaghan (of all the people) and breaking his nose. It takes him a second to get himself under control. "You, ah," he clears his throat, "you really broke Seth Monaghan's fucking nose." He's still a moment, then laughs a bit more, half turns in embarrassment. "Sorry, just..." He shakes his head. "I'm trying to picture it. How surprised was he, on a scale from 'the ship sinks' to 'Luke, I am your father'?" Mention of waffletacos makes him shudder. No, just no. The green haze has much to answer for, that most of all.

"Almost as surprised as I was," Ravn replies with a small grin. "I very much doubt that I could do it again. But it was kind of life to let me have this. I will treasure that memory forever. Not because I decked Seth -- I rather like him. But because I decked somebody for once. Let's just say I wasn't the schoolyard bully as a kid."

He wipes that grin off his face about at the same time as the other man stops laughing. "I don't particularly want to hurt anyone. I just want to not be a liability, so that others don't get hurt having to pull my bacon out of the fire. That's what I asked them for help with. Seth's a good guy, in his own way. I'm not blind -- there's a few people in this town who are deep into things I want nothing to do with. But when the Veil shit hits the fan, you definitely want them batting for Team Humanity. Sometimes -- people just have made bad choices in the past, and now they're stuck with what they've got. I try to not judge, someone might judge me right back. I'd have had a criminal record too, if my family couldn't afford good lawyers."

"Mmm. Feels good to pop someone in the heat of the moment." August sounds like he's speaking from experience. "I can't really do that sort of thing anymore, but back before Bosnia," he ends that comment with a shake of his head. "Well, I can say I'm glad life let you have it with someone not likely to try and knock your teeth out in response."

He nods down the trail, eyebrows up, heads that way. He seems to expect Ravn will follow. "Some people who're into bad things are still good to have by you in a fight. But it is worth knowing if you can trust them in general. Because it's not always about humanity versus them." He looks askance at Ravn. "Plenty of people are on 'Team Me'. They might be hell in a fight, but might also leave you to die." He makes a face, shrugs. "I'm just saying, your can judge but keep it to yourself. That's an option."

Behind them the raven is still croaking from his throne. The jay has given up, headed off for less raven-y environs. "I definitely woulda wound up in jail more if not for my family and friends. Less, money and lawyers, more, getting smacked for being a dipshit." He smiles as he says it, so this may well have been metaphorical smacking.

Ravn falls into stride -- maybe he wasn't going somewhere in particular anyhow and doesn't mind having company on one of his many walks around the town and the woods. He's always been the kind of fellow who walks around a lot to see things and places; having Joey Kelly lecture him on stamina and overcoming asthma hasn't decreased his need to walk any.

"I've met a few of those in Gray Harbor as well, yes." He nods. "Bloke lectured me on how, if he and I ever ended up in the same dream, he'd definitely toss me to the zombies and run. That conversation was the other reason I decided that I need to learn to look after my own backside in these things. Had a long talk with Ignacio de Santos about it, shattered some of my illusions about this place. I was still believing that it was all very much an us against them deal. De Santos made it clear to me that there are absolutely people on our side who either bat for the other team, or just are very willing to throw anyone else under the bus in order to not inconvenience themselves."

The Dane pauses. "That conversation also made me decide to not be one of those people. I'll just go on pretending that I have no idea what sort of things some people are involved with otherwise, if it means keeping them on the team. Because to me, this is an us against them thing. The Veil doesn't care whether you can afford a good lawyer, but it does seem to care whether it can make you give up parts of your humanity."

August looks askance at Ravn, frowning in an amused sort of way. "I ah, hadn't realized you though most folks here were...on our side, so to speak." He's trying, very hard, to not exude an aura of 'oh my sweet summer child'.

He turns his attention to the trail in front of them instead; not much more than a strung together series of bare patches in the forest floor, more-trampled-than-usual leaves, and lacking ferns or vine maple. Ruts have been carved into it be rain runoff, thanks to a wet summer. "It's like anything else in life--sure, there's extreme ends, but between those various points, a whole lot of gray." He lifts a shoulder in a half-shrug. "People who think we shouldn't use the power at all, ever. People who think it's fine to use it in a way that keeps Them off us. People who try to use it to fix the things that get fucked up. People who just want them and theirs to be okay and the rest of us can fuck off." No judgment in his tone for that last group.

He falls quiet a moment. Then, "Who was it, who said he'd toss you to the zombies to buy himself time?" He gets a thoughtful look. "Cruz?"

"People keep telling me to not have faith in other people," Ravn says quietly. "But in every dream experience I've had so far? They prove otherwise. Nothing stopped you fellows from tossing me to the zombies back on the beach, with Quetzalcoatl -- but you didn't. I'm sure that there are people in town who would -- but most realise that it may be their backside on the line next time, and we need to pull each other out of the fire."

He nods and pockets his hands deeply as the two men walk. "I'm not sure where I stand exactly on the issue of using our power. I don't have a lot of it in the first place but what I have, I've had for all of my life and suddenly not using it feels a little strange, too. I think I am trying to be a little less frivolous with it -- not so much for me, but for other people watching. People like Seth Monaghan who glow like a lighthouse yet managed to live to thirty-something without knowing anything about any of this except that once, fire happened around him and no one knew why. He needs to be careful to not attract attention with that shine of his, so I need to set a good example and not wave my magic wang around him like it's nothing. Responsible use, something, something."

That last question prompts a shrug though. "Somebody's boyfriend. Not sure what was going on there -- felt like she was trying to make him jealous by fluttering her eyelashes at me, and he was trying to impress her by acting tough at me. I got up and walked out. Some conversations aren't worth having."

"Eh, well. Maybe you're just lucky." August can't help but follow that up with sly smile. "Or you're hanging around the right people." He frowns a little, though, when Ravn mentions tossing him to the zombies. "Nothing prevented us, accept, we wouldn't be people worth knowing if we'd done that. But," he sighs, "you're right--a lot of people do probably help only because they know it's the best way to get help in the future." His expression suggests he knows names he can put on that list. "That's just life in a nutshell, though. The best you can do is be cognizant of what kind of person you're dealing with."

He mmmmms, pondering the topic of being a proper role model. "That's the catch. Sure, it's fine for me to say that I'll take my lumps, but what about people who see me doing that and then run off to, thinking 'how bad can it be'?" He's quiet a few steps, then, "The answer is, real bad. Killing your soul, leaving you an empty shell, scarring you for life bad." He stops next to an aspen and sets a hand on it. A proto-grove spreads beyond the edge of the trail, younger trees that won't reach maturity for another decade, all crowned in gold for Autumn. "On the other hand, we can't be expected to live our lives a certain way so they won't do anything stupid. That's on them. They're adults, and we're not their parents." The other side of this coin hangs in the air, unvoiced: and if--when--he becomes a father, what then?

But first. "Mmmmm, the jealousy song and dance, with a special Gray Harbor twist." He looks askance at Ravn, between moments of studying the tree, "Sorry you had to deal with that. Never a fun thing to run afoul of."

"People will be people, here or elsewhere." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "As you say, with a Gray Harbor twist, but still people. Some of the veterans I used to work with told me that one of the hardest things to adapt to about coming home is that the world stops being black and white. Out there, they were a unit -- and if someone in that unit was an asshole, then they worked around it and got him to shape up and pull his weight all the same, because it was them against Afghanistan. At home though? No one cares, everyone's in it for themselves, and no one understands. I feel that way about Gray Harbor -- that while it's a hellhole in some respects, it teaches us some very important lessons about being human."

He rests a gloved hand on the bark of that very same aspen, looking up at it curiously; Ravn is no botanist but he does like the outdoors and spends a surprising amount of time in it. "It's teaching me a lot about myself, at least. Some of those things were probably a bit overdue as well, given that I am thirty years old and it's about time I grew up and started taking some responsibility. Gray Harbor does that to someone like me, you realise? It forces me to look at myself and ask myself who I am. Because the other side certainly will, and anything in there in the shadows will come out. Best to know your demons before they shove you up against a wall in Main Street."

Under Ravn's glove there's not much to feel, though perhaps his mind can supply some ideas for him, built off faint memories: the smooth, white sections of bark interspersed with ridges of black, a sheen of gold from the sunlight streaming through the brilliant amber leaves. The trunk's not very thick; August could span it with both hands. This is an aspen colony at the start of things, gearing up.

August considers the comparison to Afghanistan, nods. "Yeah, I'd say there's some of that. They don't care about any differences we have between one another. We're crops to them. So if we don't take that seriously, well, we just weaken one another and make the harvest that much easier for them."

He smiles, then, faint and bitter. "Another way it's like war. You don't get to gently graduate to adulthood on a battlefield. You sort it out, or you and other people die." He looks out into the forest, beyond where this aspen has decided to get the next few hundred years started. His gaze goes thousand yard; he's seeing shelled out buildings, roadways lined and paved in rubble. A different forest, an uglier one, though not necessarily more deadly. Differently deadly. "Those are your choices. And war doesn't care if you like them or not, it just gives you a few seconds to decide before it decides on your behalf."

He looks askance at Ravn. "It gives you whole new demons too, though." Now there's some morbid, wartime humor for you.

"No doubt about that," Ravn murmurs and looks into the grove as well -- and like August, looking at other forests, other times. His is not a war zone -- and with that, and the knowledge of that, comes the nagging sensation of guilt; some people have real problems. He dismisses it; attempts to rank one man's experiences against another's, to decide which kind of emotional trauma is the more valid never goes to good places. "Ever noticed, though, that new demons don't really need excuses to appear? You bury one, another spawns. But you can hope that the next generation is more tolerable."

He runs his fingertips down the bark of the young tree, feeling its texture through the fabric of his glove. "I'm not really prone to seeing the world as a dark and dismal place. I don't know that I'm an eternally optimistic fool seeing the world through rose tinted glasses either, but sometimes, people here go looking for the darkness without seeing the light. You can't have one without the other. The dark here in Gray Harbor is certainly dark -- very dark and very real. But it makes the light shine that much stronger too. I have lived and travelled in many places where it's entirely possible for a man to just disappear. Places where someone might live for a lifetime alone, and no one would notice if they died until the other tenants started to complain about the smell -- any big city, anywhere. And then there's here -- where people check up on each other because they bloody well hope that others will do the same for them if the Veil takes them or injures them so bad that they can't get to help on their own."

Ravn looks back at the other man. "It's a war zone. But in some ways, it's comforting to me that the demons here are real and tangible, because Veil monsters? I can stand my ground against them, with the rest of you. Loneliness, greed, indifference, carelessness -- you can't fight those. Or at least most people aren't willing to even try."

August makes a low sound of agreement. "Sometimes they are," he says. His tone is one of confirmation and assurance, on the off hand Ravn needed it. "But sometimes, they build on what's passed before, and they're worse." He makes a face, shrugs that aside in that casual way of his. So they've made him relive Bosnia a few times. So what.

He snapes his fingers and points at Ravn. "But you can fight those," he says. "It's not easy to do. It takes a kind of effort--like you said--most people don't want to put forth, or maybe just can't. It's definitely easier, though, to fight demons when their molecules are," he reaches out with a hand and makes a fist, "right there for you to shred."

A glance up at the aspen tree's crown, then he's walking again. "People definitely go looking for darkness," he says, mouth twisting. Oh, he could name names. "Some of us maybe can't help it. It's how we cope. Others are just too damned curious for their own good." He eyes Ravn. "Which you think it is in your case?"

Ravn considers his answer for a few moments before replying. He walks along, falling into stride, frowning. When he does reply, his voice is quiet, contemplative. "I'm curious. I'm a historian and a folklorist -- of course I'm curious. A lot of what happens here is literally my field of study coming to life around me. But most of all I am -- I think I go looking for this kind of darkness because it's a tangible, visible enemy that I can take a stand against. But I also think that I want to take that stand because of the people I've met here."

With a somewhat self-deprecating little smile he adds, "I always used to simply leave. Walk away from conflict. Never had anyone depend on me, or care if I was still there with them when the manure hit the fan. Gray Harbor was a game changer for me. Not just -- with the Veil, but also with people. I've gotten into arguments here -- and not walked away. It sounds like very little but it's a rather great deal to me."

August waves the notion of any of it being 'very little'. "Maybe it's very little to someone else. What really matters is, what is it to you. Sounds like you've found a way to change yourself, in a way that's maybe for the better." He tips his head, smiles sidelong at Ravn. "That's not little at all."

They get a few more steps, then August stops, extends an arm to probably signal Ravn should do the same. His eyes are on a spot in the brush a hundred yards or so distant; seconds later, Ravn can already begin to see what's snagged August's: a wolverine comes padding out of the folliage.

It's easily sixty pounds of dark brown and tan fur, and a good meter or more long. This is no stoat or badger; there's no question, given the size of the claws on its huge, broad feet, why it's called a 'skunk bear'.

Ravn's lips form words that clearly are 'holy shit' or something along those lines. He freezes solid and just stares.

He's seen wolverines before. Stuffed, or in enclosures. Never before in the wild; they only live in the north of Scandinavia, where they are considered to be so fierce that even the bears don't want to tangle with them. There are stories about wolverines and their blood thirst; and who paid attention to these stories, if not the folklorist?

Definitely standing very still. It's a beautiful animal -- please stay beautiful over there.

August's reaction is less awe and terror, more calm caution. The wolverine looks their way, sniffs, promptly ignores them. It's sniffing along the trail, on the scent of something, and paws at the ground. Eventually it makes its way across the path and into the underbrush on the opposite side, methodically checking rocks, bushes, and trees as it goes. Something has its attention.

Without looking at Ravn, August murmurs, "It's fine, we're too big to be anything but annoying to him if he's got the scent of something else." His eyes narrow. "Might be following a lynx trail, hoping to cash in on what's left of its kill." Which implies there's a lynx about as well, but that's neither here nor there to August.

Except... "Did anyone tell you about those huge lynx cats we had running around last winter?" He keeps using that same low, soft voice. They can hear the wolverine shuffling around, gradually moving away.

Ravn watches the small predator with the grand reputation saunter off like two humans mean nothing at all; a humbling experience, all things considered, and probably one he will not forget for a while. Sometimes you get to see something that stepped right out of the stories that you've spent your life collecting -- and while that admittedly happens a lot more often in Gray Harbor than in other places, it's still a fascinating experience. More so when for once, it happens on its own, rather than as the result of the Veil deciding to screw with somebody's head.

He thinks for a moment, then slowly nods, still looking at the place in the undergrowth into which the wolverine disappeared. "I think it was mentioned in passing -- very briefly. When I told Aidan Kinney that a cat had adopted me, he insisted on coming out to my boat to make sure that it was a cat -- and not something else that just looked like one. I've heard a few other people talk about Veil cats as well. I don't think I've heard the whole story."

Only when it does fall entirely quiet in there, and the wolverine clearly shows no intent of coming back, does he look back to the other man. "I got the impression that the Veil likes cats. Something about the same nature -- cats playing with their food and being right little assholes sometimes."

August's head remains tilted towards the wolverine's track. Like Ravn he makes no sound until he's sure it's gone. "They only just started coming back down here into Washington," he says. His voice is low, like he's worried he might break the spell of the recently departed beast, and undo what they just witnessed. "We hadn't seen one in Olympic for over a century. Fur trade wiped them out."

Eventually he shakes the spell off. It's probably not a surprise August is a man who chooses to live in Gray Harbor, if he's reacting to seeing a wolverine with awe rather than fear. (What has he to fear, in truth--he could kill it with a thought. Not that he would unless a limb was at stake.)

"Well, if the Veil's like Alexander says--psychomorphic--then it stands to reason because we like cats, it does too." He coughs a laugh at Aidan's concern, nods further down the trail and gets moving again. "I mean, if there's any place where that's a legitimate concern..."

After a second, he says, "These were huge things, like lynxes but the size of a car. Something about...clothes, someone said. Trading clothing made it leave them alone." He's frowning like he wants to set that aside as nonsense, but this is Gray Harbor, so he knows better.

"In some faerie traditions, faerie lose power over you if you give them something of your own, or you disrupt the natural order of appearances by turning your coat or vest inside out," Ravn murmurs. "If it's psychomorphic -- I agree with Clayton on that theory. From what I've seen, the Veil very much lifts stories and archetypes right out of our minds. It doesn't play by the rules every time -- not enough that I can lean back comfortably and assume that every apparition follows the cultural archetype it's cast from. Sometimes, it seems to almost deliberately break rules. But on the whole -- if in doubt, ask what would Disney do. That is, assuming that Disney is a psychopathic clown on methamphetamine and an addiction to human suffering."

He shakes his head and falls into stride, sending one last glance back to to where the wolverine sauntered off, indifferent to human curiosity and fascination. "I have a theory of my own -- one which Clayton very kindly helped me confirm, at that. I think that the Veil draws in three specific kinds of people, and that we're all some combination of the three. There's the obvious which we all share: The shine. Without it, there is no point."

"The second is some kind of artistic expression. Whether you do murals or play an instrument or secretly write bad poetry, or for that matter, decorate cakes or grow flowers. It's all creative expression -- you make something. The Veil needs people who have imagination -- it cannot siphon dream juice from us if we can't play along. And finally," the folklorist says, "there needs to be a darkness inside, something that makes us susceptible to suffering or causing suffering. Latent sadism, depression, various personality disorders, PTSD, past abuse -- any of it. Something that the Veil can sink its teeth into and use like a kid sticks a straw in a milkshake. I have yet to meet anyone here, who has the power, and does not meet the other two criteria as well. Not a single one person."

August can't help himself; he bursts into a laugh that startles more than a few birds out of their shelter in the few evergreen shrubs and undergrowth. This only makes him laugh more, but he takes a second to set a hand on an obliging spruce. "Psychopathic--clown." He clears his throat, shakes his head. It takes him a bit to recover, during which he points out, "Clowns are evil, of course, so maybe that's not far off."

He finally sobers enough to take all of that under serious consideration. He makes a low sound at the three points Ravn describes, bobbing his eyebrows. He fall squarely under all three, of course. Perhaps not so solidly in the creative sense, though that too might be debateable. It all depends on how one thinks of plants, gardening, and forest stewardship. "So," he eventually says. "Scars, some form of creativity, and the power." He's quiet a bit. Then, "I suspect you can have the power without bad shit. But maybe you can't have much of it. Mine wasn't so strong until Bosnia." He licks his lips, runs his forefinger along his wedding ring. He's thinking of people with similar circumstances, of course, but not naming names.

His attention returns to Ravn. "I guess that leads to a question. Do those things make you more likely to have the power? Or do you have the power, and those two things make it stronger?" He pauses, adds, "Or both?"

The folklorist thinks for a moment; August's laughter is catching and he's grinning a bit too. "I'm not sure," he admits at length. "It's all theory crafting anyhow. I think maybe the power is something we either all have to some extent, or it's like genetics. Some people have the gene for blue eyes, but brown eyes are dominant and thus, you need the right combination of blue eyed ancestry to have them -- and blue eyes come on a scale from hazel where they're mostly brown still, to this kind of bright cerulean blue that makes you wonder if somebody somehow managed to photoshop their own face. I think what makes us -- us -- is the combination of those three randoms, yes. But of course, unlike blue eyes which are predominant in Northern Europe, the shine doesn't care about geography or ethnicity."

He thinks a bit, plodding along, hands in pockets, watching the birds settle again -- at safe distance from annoying humans who disrupt everything with their silly barking. "I think that at least in many cases -- but probably not all -- trauma can amplify it, yes. I had it as far back as I can remember, but my life's been pretty sheltered, and I don't have a lot of Veil juice. If I'd gone through deployment to a war zone, maybe it'd have manifested much stronger like it did for you. Considering the kind of things Gray Harbor puts people through on occasion, the idea makes sense -- a lot of people here have told me that the longer you stay, the more likely your power is to increase."

August mmmmms, thoughtful and low. "It's interesting you mention eye color, because," he smiles a little, taps at his own eyes, "green--really, any color not blue or brown, comes from genes working out of band to their usual patterns. That's why they're not as common as brown and blue; there's more than just the genes. There's how they're functioning, regardless of how they should function, on paper." He raises his eyebrows a half-second, considers the annoyed birds.

"It might be like radiation, a little," he says, finally. "You can have variance without it, but the more radiation, the more variance. The more variance, the more shit gets out of whack. And the longer you're around radiation, the more this snowballs." He nods to himself, liking the comparison, for numerous reasons.

He might be about to go on in this vein, but glances up at the angle of the sun. "Well. I need to get back to the car. Gotta get back home before dark, get some work done around the yard." He calls his couple of acres a 'yard' as if it wasn't festooned with aspen, birch, maple, goats, and numerous types of barnyard fowl. "Need a lift?"

Ravn nods thoughtfully. "That's not a bad analogy, actually. More so because radiation can be good for you -- under the right circumstances and the right dosage, it's fighting fire with fire but fire is still being fought. Something about growth, but uncontrollable. Too much will definitely kill you. That's disturbingly accurate for this power, to be honest."

The Dane chuckles. "I'll walk back. Coach Kelly is rather adamant on me walking every day for a couple of hours. I want to whine about it, but I actually do seem to need my inhaler less, so maybe the man's got a point. Not like doctors haven't told me that for years but Kelly's got some kind of way of saying things that somehow gets through. Salt of the earth kind of bloke, no ribbons and no glitter, just 'get out there and fucking walk'. Might drop around sometime for a chat, though."

Ravn clearly has a different impression of the big gym coach slash mob thug than most people. Or maybe he's not picked up on the second part of that job description yet; for all the chaos and suffering the Revisionist and her ilk caused, at least some people seem to have gotten a bit of a second chance in the public eye.

August arches an eyebrow. "I think what you mean is he has a way of calling you out in front of God'n everyone. Which is usually what it takes for a hard case." He doesn't seem to mind Kelly, given his reaction, or at least, doesn't hold the 'thug' bit against him too much. Well, how could he; a couple of different turns in his life and August would have been the same sort of person. And so here they are.

"Long as it's for a good cause and not to punish yourself." He grabs a sprig of spruce that's fallen, heads down a fork in the trail which loops back to the parking lot. Over his shoulder he calls, "Don't let one of these idiots run you over in the dark." And then he's gone around a bend, lost between naked aspen and heavy hemlocks.