2021-03-18 - The Matchmaker

Pâtisserie Vydal -- a posh little place in the middle of Main Street. A place where food (particularly of the confectionary kind) is not merely something you ingest for survival. Food is art. With its gleaming clean, steel and glass interior, Vydal's sends a clear message: If you're looking for a cheeseburger you are not just in the wrong place, you might possibly be on the wrong planet. Whoever did the interior design of the shop knew that the true connoisseur wants not only their palate made love to, but also their eyes. This place is a greater threat to the waistline of a chocolate or dessert lover than an entire row of concession stands, and they serve coffee as well. Real coffee -- not the pre-made stuff you get from a vending machine.

This is an upscale place. Unsurprisingly, Ravn Abildgaard looks a little too low class to belong to its regular clientele as he strolls in at the appointed hour. Wearing his usual black jeans, turtleneck and blazer ensemble, he can possibly pass himself off as some pretentious art director or Steve Jobs lookalike trying to be street in a certain hipster fashion. It's probably a good thing that he replaced the leather jacket -- the old one had a cut from a meat cleaver on one sleeve and a couple of bullet holes, and really, it did not match the decor.

He slides into his usual chair in the corner; the Dane eats lunch here often enough -- he knows that the place serves various little lunch menu items, possibly as an excuse to get to the dessert part of a meal. He knows that the quiches are delicious, and so is the coffee cake that he personally tends to settle on. And he knows that turning up around this time tends to result in a certain Vydal popping out of his kitchen to join him at lunch because the two men get on just fine in spite of their very obvious differences. And this, of course, is what Ravn was banking on when he suggested to Perdita Leontes that she might join him for lunch here today.

It's not that he usually plays matchmaker. It's just that he totally does, and that he knows Vydal is open to the idea of perhaps taking on a new personal assistant -- and that Perdita, as a newcomer to Gray Harbor, might need a job. It can't hurt to introduce people who conveniently have converging needs, can it?

For it being almost Spring, you certainly wouldn't know it from outside. Between the thick fog and the cold, Perdita's having a morning of it. Still, she arrives precisely on time, in a plain black leather jacket over a white bohemian minidress paired with black striped pattern stockings in a vague sort of acknowledgement of the cold, and a pair of boots that mingle the aesthetics of a combat boot with a wedge heel. Her long hair is up in a high ponytail, save for her blunt cut bangs and two little wisps of hair on either side of them, and large gold hoop earrings dangle from her ears, her unicorn pendant sitting just below her collarbone. As always, her make up is flawless, winged liner sharp enough to wield in battle and the touch of gold highlight on her cheeks bringing a little more color on this gray and dreary day.

"Haven't kept you waiting, have I?" Perdita asks, head tilting slightly as she approaches, mischief in her smile as it so often is. Shrugging off her coat, she moves to take the seat across from Ravn, crossing her ankles primly, knees together

"Not at all. I got here -- maybe a minute ago?" the Dane replies with a smile. He's still shrugging out of his leather jacket so odds are even in favour of him not just being polite. "I admire your weather tolerance. Even with stockings there is no way whatsoever I'd wear a dress until this weather clears and turns warmer. How are you not freezing solid?"

It's a questions that men have been asking themselves for a long time. If they'd ever wear them, maybe they'd realise how warm they are. Alas, silk stockings went out of male fashion around 1850.

"I am partial to the coffee cake," he announces. "However, everything here is not only top quality but you can get a side order of a speech on every ingredient and its origin and careful preparation if you're a foodie. Myself, I just eat things -- much to Vydal's regret." He winks. "I drive him nuts. I'm a slow eater, and I think he takes offence on his perfectly good cake's behalf."

"Beauty is pain. Beauty is also bloody cold, but the trick is to layer tights. A pair of flesh tone tights under the patterned sheers and you're at least a bit less cold. Besides, it's not as if I were running a marathon in microshorts, I just had to get from the car to here... and I have heated seats." Because of course she does.

There's a bit amusement at the explanation of the quality, and she takes a moment to look around and appreciate the room with an obvious eye for décor that many of the locals probably lack, "Whoever decorated the building wasn't paid enough." Perdita murmurs, one eyebrow raising slightly with a smile. "I can see why you like it, it's very sophisticated." The 'for a town like this' isn't even added, because were this building placed in Paris, she's sure it would still be high end.

Some days lunch happens here, it's spontaneous, more or less -- one of a particular selection of people drops in, and one of the counter staff slips into the kitchen to alert the chef, in case he feels like emerging for a lunch break. Others, it's planned; those frequently hit on his days off, and as well as his whites go with the place, he arrives in his less work-oriented clothes. Today makes an odd combination: he emerges from the kitchen, but it's in normal clothing. At least, normal for him, which is to say that in deference to the chill and fog his suit is tweed despite the imminence of Spring, a brown Prince of Wales check, today with a chocolate-brown knit vest rather than in the form of a complete three-piece. Checks repeat themselves quite small on the brown-grey shirt and rather larger and diagonal on the silk tie, which features gradients from the lightest to deepest of the browns to be found elsewhere in his attire. The pocket square is unchecked, but in similar gradient, and the detail oriented might notice not only the warm brown monk-strap shoes but the simple rectangular gold watch on its leather strap and the uncut tiger-eye cufflinks. He does not, in short, look as though he has any business being in a kitchen today, unless one counts the fact that he owns it.

He looks faintly annoyed as he strides out, but it subsides a touch on spotting Ravn, brightening and then suggesting some curiosity as he notes the tablemate, one brow arcing slightly. Both of them get an appraising look-over as he approaches the table. The verdict is-- probably positive? Yes, probably. "Good afternoon."

"Perdita, meet Vyv Vydal, and the other way around." Ravn inclines his head at them both in turns; he does not get up to formally offer handshakes as if this was some kind of business arrangement, staying lazily on his chair instead. "Vyv's a good friend of mine. Perdita's new in town -- we're making the rounds a little, getting Perdita introduced to know the rest of the team. This town can be a pretty overwhelming experience -- all things and local madness considered."

Unlike himself, Vyv burns bright on the Glimmer spectrum; the team is probably not an Oxford river punting crew, even if Vydal dresses the part and has European accent enough for Oxford and Cambridge. Next to him, Ravn sounds positively rural.

"It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Vydal. Please feel free to call me Perdita." Ravn may not rise, but Perdita does, moving with the ease and grace of one utterly used to walking in towering stilettos, though today's wedges are positively mild, adding a mere four inches to her height. Not quite enough to be directly eye-to-eye with most men, but enough to draw attention in a town where most folks seem intent on wearing normal shoes.

She doesn't bother to mention that they'd at least seen each other previously, as that wasn't the most pleasant of days for many people involved. "I absolutely adore your pâtisserie. It's like being back on Rue de Seine." She extends one well manicured hand, palm tilted in such a manner as to indicate that she'd be equally comfortable shaking hands OR being bowed over, as the man sees fit.

Ah, a better look at the outfit. And it's a shake, as it turns out -- firm enough to be pleasant but without any extra force. Vyv's hand is quite well-manicured as well, though admittedly probably not in quite the same way. It's the remark about the pâtisserie that gets a faint smile, with a small inclination of the head.

"How do you do," he replies; the tone says statement, rather than question. "You're welcome to call me Vyv, if you prefer. And thank you. Have you spent much time there? Please." A gesture to the chair she'd claimed explains the request, or perhaps offer, and once she's seated again he settles into the third of the chairs of the table, the dark green velvet setting off the browns of the suit rather nicely. Though surely that isn't why he chose it instead of the red one on the other side. He glances over to Ravn, then back to add, "What brings you to Gray Harbor? Aside from, by the odds, a car."

"Ah, Paris," Ravn murmurs. "Hated it. Mostly because I don't speak the language -- while many French certainly understand German, they don't much like people who sound German. Which is to say, anyone with a Scandinavian accent as well. Got better when I made my way south."

He picks up a cake fork and starts toying with it, spinning it between his leather gloved fingertips in a subtle little display of finesse. "At least today we meet under somewhat more pleasant circumstances, nichts wahr? I'm positive that Atli Addington still has nightmares about having her laundry aired out in public, but -- life is hard. Hyacinth is absolutely on the right track there, trying to turn all of that mess into something everybody involved gets a say in. One big family, whether we're related by blood or not, and all that."

The dress is something off the rack from a higher end shop, though tailored, and if the gold jewelry isn't real gold, it's a very convincing fake, and the tones are perfectly matched to the slim line of gold on her French tip nails. "Sadly, only a weekend with a friend for work, but it was a wonderful weekend." The smile on her face somehow manages to convey both innocence and the fact that said friend was probably a... gentleman caller, or at least that she got up to something that weekend. She returns to her seat, once more crossing her ankles, knees primly together, which is ever so important in a dress of that borderline immodest length.

"I needed a change of scenery, and it reminded me of the best parts of my hometown on my way through. A stop for the night... and now I've been here for weeks." She laughs softly, watching Ravn toy with the fork, one perfectly eyebrow raising slightly in amusement which changes not in the slightest as Ravn mentions the uncomfortable party he encouraged her into crashing. "No one enjoys having their laundry aired, especially when one has an image to uphold." There. Perfectly polite.

All these details are noted and filed away somewhere, and while that's not made actively obvious, neither does Vyv seem to feel the need to conceal it. Everyone at this table too has an image of some sort of uphold, after all. It'd be a shame to ignore the efforts.

"Aber ja," Vyv agrees dryly regarding the circumstances; he's actually got a fairly decent German accent when he switches languages. "I'm not entirely sure I want to be related to everyone in this town, to be honest. Not beyond belonging to the same species. Arguably, in a few cases. But yes, she is right; they really can't keep pretending this is simply an Addington concern. And if this isn't at least somewhat more pleasant then I'll really need to start reconsidering the decor." Not that he sounds genuinely worried on that front. "Eating something might help." The lack of menus suggests that generally one would order at the counter, but he glances that way and catches the eye of a young woman working there, who begins to approach.

"Seems to be what happens to a good portion of the populace. Aim to head through, find oneself staying indefinitely. Like a particularly scenic roach motel. Where's the hometown?"

Ravn decides to fall back slightly -- he did after all contrive to introduce these two people to each other, so their focus should be on each other. Does he feel a little guilty about match making like an old aunt? Maybe. But, he tells himself, he's not setting them up for a blind date -- he's just connecting somebody who needs a job, with somebody who might have a position that needs filled.

The young woman at the counter knows him, at least. She nods slightly towards the coffee cake with a raised eyebrow, and Ravn nods back just as slightly. He does like that coffee cake. Enough to get it every single time he's here. It may not be the healthiest lunch a man could make a habit of, but then, no one has ever accused him of having healthy eating habits. Look, a diet of whiskey and random junk food has sustained many a writer, surely it works for a folklorist with blogger aspirations as well.

There's the slightest hesitation on Perdita's face as she debates how much to give away about her past. Truth is decided on. "Little town called Alexandria Bay. My family were ... outsiders there, but I loved being near the water. Lots of little islands, plenty of places to sneak away and have a quiet moment. Gray Harbor's like the good memories, without, so far, the bad. I'm certain it doesn't feel that way for locals, though." She smiles, a little wistfully, memories of a life left years ago, despite her apparent young age. "And eating would definitely be good, I'm positively famished. I've heard amazing things about the coffee cake and the croissants, after all."

She gives Ravn a sidelong glance, indicating he is where she's heard most of this.

The young woman at the counter at present is Carmen. She knows what every regular is likely to be interested in, and Ravn is easy as that goes. Always the same thing. It's a financier, really, the traditional small 'ingot' shape, light and moist with a rich nuttiness from the beurre noisette -- and, in this case, the chopped walnuts as well as the subtler input from the almond flour. Beyond that, this one is quite literally a coffee cake, deeply flavoured with espresso. The icing is a caramel-coffee glaze, smooth and perfect on the top with nice organic drips just the right distance down the sides, and decorated with a single walnut half and a fine dusting of ground espresso. That, and a cup of absolutely unadulterated plain black coffee. He's barely got that tiny nod off before she's plating one and pointing her coworker at the coffee. He looks more startled about it than a guy who works at the counter of an eat-in bakery really ought to, glances the way she was looking, sees the table, and hops to it. It is possible he's not the swiftest on the uptake in town. He is distinctly decorative, though. And, as it turns out when Carmen reaches the table, can make (or at least dispense) an absolutely acceptable cup of plain black coffee.

"Alexandria Bay," Vyv echoes in the meantime, thoughtfully, "Don't think I know that one. But that sounds ideal, the best bits of where one grew up without the bits that made one want to leave in the first place. Not that Gray Harbor can't provide its own reasons to consider other waterside venues, granted. But especially for a small town, it's," a very tiny pause, "got a surprising amount of room for outsiders. You've been travelling for a while, have you?" Might be the particular way she mentioned her time in Paris that gives him that impression. Or perhaps Ravn's mentioned it?

Carmen sets the cake and drink down in front of the Dane, giving him a smile, which she then turns on the others, addressing Perdita first: "Hope you don't mind me bringing his over early. Frees up my hands for when I come back." A flicker of a glance toward Vyv before adding, "Do you know what you'd like?"

"How famished is famished?" Vyv inquires of Perdita, "Do you actually eat, or do you mostly redecorate your plate like he does?" Yes, Ravn gets shot a sidelong look from him as well, with that. "You did hear correctly; the coffee cake's quite good, and you won't find better croissants before you hit water in any given direction. You're welcome to both, or whatever else you'd like to try. If you want a proper lunch, I'd suggest the pear and goat cheese galette today, which," a glance to Carmen, "is what I'll be having." The young woman gives a small nod and a murmur of "Yes, chef," that makes one corner of Vyv's mouth twitch upward slightly, then looks back to Perdita expectantly.

"I redecorate my plate in a highly artistic and appreciative fashion," Ravn murmurs and winks at Carmen, blue-grey eyes glittering with amusement. Has his habit of dissecting a cake rather than actually eating much of it annoyed the chef before? Oh yes. They do this verbal dance of pastrycide and disapproval at least once a week. So far, Ravn has only murdered the coffee cake. So far, Vyv has not murdered him. Negotiations in this regard are on-going.

The handsome counter candy has not been murdered either; a man who can provide Ravn with a good, solid cup of unadulterated just bloody coffee, black, thank you very much, deserves to live long and prosper. Take that, Ella the day manager at Espresso Yourself.

Ravn picks up the spoon and with a slow grin to Vyv cuts a teeny tiny bit of frosting off his cake with it, only to bring it to his mouth very slowly and very pointedly nibbling on it. Because what are friends for, if not making them miserable?

"I've traveled for a few years now. I do love to keep moving. I've bounced around a lot of cities in the US and a few in Europe. Miami was a great place to disappear for a while, then It's been interesting, but there's something to be said for putting down roots, however temporary." Perdita admits, without apparent reluctance, "I quite liked San Francisco, but Seattle was my last port of call."

"Famished in the actual sense of the word. My mamá raised me to clean my plate, and if she found out I'd left one with more than a bite of food left on it, she would hunt me down, and the galette sounds heavenly, and I would love coffee as well." She smiles at Carmen, with a longer smile for the eye candy, before glancing sidelong at Ravn, tilting her head to regard him more fully as he makes a production of enjoying his food, "'Slowly, slowly, it's too nice a job to rush.'"

Desecrator. Of. Art. Vyv gives Ravn such a narrow-eyed look. Because what are friends for, if not being needled by? Carmen, on the other hand, looks amused back at Ravn, that glitter of shared enjoyment in making a friend or colleague suffer (you monsters), and the counter-candy (Daniel, for the record) returns Perdita's smile, ducking his head a touch when it slides properly into 'longer' territory. They both look pleased with things for the moment, which perhaps makes up for Vyv looking somewhat less so.

"I'm reasonably certain it doesn't know how to Madison," Vyv notes dryly as Carmen whisks off to get the other food, though he does allow, "Though generally speaking, no, it oughtn't be rushed. It simply oughtn't be dissected as though one were a lecturing anatomist in an 19th century medical school." Ravn's shot another Look, there, and what proportion of sincerity to banter is in that might be difficult to precisely judge, even for retired grifters... because (they may well suspect) the man himself might not be able to say for certain. Whatever the portions, however, both are almost definitely true. And the assurance that Perdita indeed intends to eat 'properly' is genuinely a welcome one.

"I've not spent much time in Miami," the chef admits, "but San Francisco and Seattle are quite good, yes. Travel's much to recommend it." He considers her thoughtfully for a breath, but whatever he might have said is cut off by Carmen's return, with a cup of coffee for Perdita, a cup and individual pot of tea for Vyv, and sugar and cream for the table -- which in practice appears to mean Perdita or no one, really. There's barely time for a, "Ta," before she's zipping off again, back to the counter for the galettes.

There may be a budding friendship in the making between Ravn and Carmen. Both like Vyv; both are easily amused by the levels of indignation that being a slow and picky eater can bring out in the man. Ravn's slow dissection of his coffee cake does not appear to be entirely malicious in intent, either -- the man is thin, and anyone who's watched him eat a few times will be ready to testify that at least part of the reason is that he tends to leave most food on his plate. He appreciates good food, but either can't or won't consume it in any great capacity.

"Maybe I was a lecturing anatomist in a 19th century medical school in a past life," the Dane reasons, amused. "I am a lecturing folklorist in this one, might just have changed my chosen field of nerdry. Nerdery? Nerddom? Nerdification?"

He twirls his cake fork around a finger a few times in a neat little display of sleight of hand prowess. "I didn't make it to San Francisco or Miami. I did intend to come through both eventually but then I got kicked off that truck here in Gray Harbor and the rest is history."

There's a soft laugh of amusement from Perdita as Vyv understands the reference. Daniel gets another amused glance from the young woman, before she mouths a thanks to Carmen, wrapping both hands around the mug to absorb a little of the heat from it. Though she breathes a little deeper, subtly appreciating the scent, she makes no move to drink any of the coffee just yet.

"In my experience, Miami is best enjoyed in small bursts, rather than a long stretch, and best if you intend to have a wild weekend full of sun drenched bodies in tiny bathing suits, loud clubs with pounding music, and more than your share of alcohol. Not many go to Miami for the PAMM or places of cultural note, it's very much about sun, sand and... surf." She smiles, finally bringing the coffee to her lips, taking a sip before deciding she won't dilute it with either sugar or cream, either.

"San Francisco has its party scene, but people are less likely to openly stare at you in confusion if you frequent an art gallery or go on a tour of Alcatraz or stop and listen to the Golden Gate bridge singing a very disturbing whale song." she, again, smiles.

"I like 'nerdification'. It's even got 'edification' in it... along with a few extraneous letters. Perhaps... nerdcraft?"

Slow eating is fine. Far preferable to wolfing it down without tasting. It's not eating that's the problem -- that and willfully tearing the careful construction apart! Handily for Ravn, the pâtisserie does not go in for the wide-spread US tendency to compete on massive portion sizes, but instead aims at delicate perfection, so when it comes to the desserts, no particularly great capacity is required. The galette, when it appears, is of a somewhat more robust size, suitable for one person's lunch, along with the light salad that's served alongside. But it isn't designed for a second meal of leftovers.

Pear and goat cheese are definitely the stars of the thing, unless one counts the pastry itself, which possibly one should. They're supported by rosemary and toasted pecans, and a fresh drizzle of honey over the top. Oddly rustic in appearance for a place this curated, but it really just makes it clearer that this is how it's intended to be. "Thank you, Carmen," Vyv murmurs to the young woman as she drops the plates off, and she returns to the counter looking generally pleased.

"N and r," he notes, glancing to Perdita before, "So I suppose the edification involves either nurses or unrated films. Both apropos to anatomy, depending how one looks at it..." He checks the tea, but apparently deems it not quite to his preference yet. "'Nerdcraft' does have a certain something. Nerdosity. Nerducation. Boffinology." He runs through the the thoughts idly, the amusement lurking beneath that surface like... I dunno, an assassin with snorkel. "Mn. Take your pick."

He picks up his silverware and cuts a bite of the tart, though he doesn't immediately eat it. "Every proper city has its party scene. Though only some can regularly pull off that sun-drenched bodies in tiny bathing suits portion." Most would say this doesn't really sound like his scene, in any case. "Whale song as in the sounds whales make, or a song about whales? Because either one could be distinctly disturbing in that context. But perhaps it's lonely and calling to other bridges in search of a mate. Or at least a decent chat."

"Nerdcraft it is," Ravn agrees with a good-natured laugh as he picks through a bit of the excellent frosting on his cake. "I did look forward to walking through San Francisco humming Summer of Love, of course -- but on the whole, I am not in tears that I never made it there. No one can see the entire world, there's just too much of it. I've certainly seen quite a bit -- my father used to get these 'now I shall teach you to be a man, son' notions where he'd drag me off somewhere to photograph lions or scuba dive, or some other wildly exciting activity that was very definitely not geared towards a kid with a relatively severe case of asthma."

A small chuckle from the man who wears turtlenecks and gloves almost always. "Sun drenched bodies and bikinis will probably never be my scene, no. I'll spare people the risk of going snow blind if I pull my shirt off. I have been told that humpback whales come down this coast area quite often, though, and I am still hoping to chance upon them at sea sometime. One of these days when the weather improves a little, I'll get cracking on scraping barnacles and getting the Vagabond back in the drink. I miss living on a boat -- although not as much as my cat. Kitty Pryde hates that trailer."

"I am sure there are plenty of nerds who would appreciate a nurse edifying them." Perdita's smile quirks ever so slightly into mischief. She's probably worn a naughty nurse uniform once or twice in her life. A polite nod to Carmen, and then she, too, is cutting into her tart, before bringing a small bite to her lips and savoring the blend of flavors, the flake of the crust and the way the sweetness of the honey mingles and heightens the other ingredients.

"Absolutely lovely." She murmurs, clearly appreciative. Her attention is pulled back to the conversation, "Whale song as in the sound of whales singing. The hand rails on the Golden Gate bridge were channeling the wind like a giant instrument, producing a beautiful, haunting sound for a while.

Glancing to Ravn, Perdita smiles, "We'll have to see about you getting some sun, this spring and summer, monigote de nieve. I've heard tanning can actually help with a lot of things, and I can't imagine anyone gets much sun during the winter, here... especially not with The Mist running wild out there." she gestures vaguely. "You had a cat living on a boat and her name is Kitty Pryde? Like... the mutant?"

The odds seem somewhat against Vyv having worn a naughty nurse uniform, but there's a hint of similar mischief in the way the corner of his mouth twitches upward, nonetheless. "Mm," he agrees, "and I'm sure they'd appreciate it being unrated, too." Which could be taken at least two ways, though probably none that aren't at least equivalently dirty to the implication. "You can still go visit San Francisco sometime, Ravn, just don't expect to leave your heart there if this place has laid claim. If anywhere might feel the need to make it literal... Regardless, I see the scuba issue, but what was the problem with photographing lions? Were you intended to chase them down first?"

He eats that first bite of the galette, and looks quietly satisfied with it; this improves to 'quietly pleased' when Perdita tries hers and murmurs her appreciation. A tiny inclination of his head serves as both acknowledgement and thanks, for now, though they're clearly genuine. "I still vote looking for a mate. How long's that bridge been standing there, now? And not a single other bridge wandering by, I'm sure. That's what virtually everything else sings for, after all..."

Ravn's claims regarding his paleness get a quick little exhalation through the nose, a breath that might've once sat next to a proper laugh on a train, and the plans have him glancing sidelong toward the Dane. "Kitty Pryde is feline of taste and refinement," he notes, "...or at least as regards that trailer. And I suppose to a cat a lack of shower facilities is a plus. As far as I'm aware, tanning largely helps with skin cancer and wrinkles, but a bit of sun does have things to recommend it. Still, you're not that pale in any case. You were shirtless the first time we met, and not a single one of us went blind that day. I didn't even spend the next few hours blinking at an oddly-coloured chest-shaped splotch when I glanced at walls and such."

"I have a cat living on a boat," Ravn replies, smiling. "A little black stray who wandered up one day, ate my food and decided that now she owns me and the boat I live on. She hates wintering in the trailer park. And indeed -- like the mutant. I had to call her something and she seems quite -- prideful. Imperious, even, but Katarina the Great sounded a little bombastic for something that weighs five pounds at most, probably less. It is a pretty awful pun, I know."

He actually blushes slightly at Vyv's observation about their first meeting. "I didn't have a choice. What is it with dreams and me ending up naked in them all the time? Although as I recall, we were all a bit busy in that one, staring at your beautiful, colourful fins, my good fighting betta who somehow could breathe salt water."

"Now I feel sad for a bridge." Dita murmurs, looking amused at Vyv.

"Well, I suppose not everyone can handle their melanin. I, for one, intend to age like my abuelita. Look twenty until you're sixty, look forty until you're eighty... and then wake up on your 80th looking like you're a hundred and twenty." Perdita responds, looking amused. If she keeps up the skin care and Botox, she just might avoid aging entirely for a while. "But it's my understanding that a certain amount of sunlight can help with chronic pain, anxiety and the like. Not that I'm going to tell you to do yoga and go vegan, mind." she tells Ravn, taking a sip of her coffee before returning her attention to the generously sized galette with obvious enjoyment.

"It doesn't do to question why Dreams do what they do, unless we want to face the music when it comes to who actually controls them. And I, for one, am just grateful to have survived the ones I've been pulled into."

Vyv inclines his head slightly to Perdita's bridge-pity as if in thanks, or at least acknowledgement of due appreciation. Not quite the same as a response to his baking, but they might meet at a family reunion every few years.

"What's choice got to do with it?" he inquires of Ravn, sounding a touch amused himself. "Are you somehow paler when your shirtlessness is voluntary? Neat trick, if so. Unless you're using, I don't know, clown white for the purpose. And I suppose technically we were naked in that one, weren't we? Hm. August had the colourful fins, though. Mine were simply a pleasantly iridescent black. They were rather fabulous, though." This is a fact that pleases him. If he's going to be a merperson, voluntarily or not, being one with fantastic fins is better than not.

Not entirely unrelatedly, "I'd like to sign up to age like your abuelita too, please. Well. Perhaps not the 80th-onward portion. I still vote for the painting in the attic technique, I just haven't managed to get a proper magic painting yet. Nor an attic." He has another bite, chewing it thoughtfully. "I do rather want to know who actually controls them. You don't?" he asks, before glancing to Ravn again to note, "Actually, I quite like Katarina the Great for a creature who could curl up in my glovebox. Theoretically." She's never been in his car. Even if he does like cats, he's probably still okay with this fact.

"I'm Danish. I don't believe in sunlight," Ravn murmurs drily. "In my home country we still debate the existence of this mythical 'day star'. My issue with involuntary nudity has to do with my touch issues. I do not enjoy having to exist in a semi-permanent state of panic that a leaf might drop and fall on my shoulder, or some fly lands on my neck. I am also somewhat resigned to the fact that exactly because of this I am going to spend a substantial amount of those dream experiences wearing a fig leaf if I'm lucky, and less if I'm not. The dolorphages want me to suffer? Starting me out with a baseline of 'highly uncomfortable' is a piece of cake."

He pokes at his long-suffering coffee cake with the spoon, thoughts elsewhere. "Knowing who controls the dreams is -- probably not a healthy retirement plan. The Veil can and has rewritten reality on a global scale on several occasions. Writing somebody out of the story is not beyond its scope. If you ever learn enough to become a serious threat -- I wouldn't make long term plans."

The cake nets another poke; possibly because 'learning everything' is pretty much the unofficial job description that Ravn has assigned to himself. He smiles lightly. "Might be worth it; at least you'd know. But, maybe not a good hobby to pursue for anyone who has family, obligations, that sort of thing."

"Oof, clown white should never be used, unless you're planning to paint for the back of the club... or planning to be an actual clown." a subtle shudder. Someone, it seems, is not fond of clowns.

"Trust me, sunlight exists. Not that you could tell it around here, of late." she gestures vaguely toward the fog outside, "But I choose to believe it will release us sometime soon, and not bombard us with various gigantic horrible bugs and Cloverfield monsters in the mist..." she hopes. Another bite of galette, another little sound of delight.

"I don't want to know who controls them. I remember what you said about your friend Ignacio."

"Well, how would you make him paler when the disrobing was intentional?" Vyv asks Perdita, arching a brow. A vague gesture Ravnward, imperious despite involving a fork in that hand, "Ravn, take your shirt off so she can assess and advise." Okay, the odds are probably decent he does not in fact expect compliance with that directive, this being the sort of shop that thinks the no shirt/no shoes/no service rule goes without signposting and him being even slightly acquainted with Ravn with or without the remarks just made, but there's no evidence of that in his tone, or the expectant look he gives the Dane. Aren't you glad you have friends, Ravn?

"Anyway, knowing who controls the dreams is probably fine. Said beings knowing you know might be iffier, granted. But unless knowing means we can do something about it, why should they care, really? In fact, unless it does, they ought to be in favour. Point up our helplessness in the matter. Much as I dislike not knowing things, at least currently I can retain hope this might change, perhaps even usefully." He checks the tea again; it turns out to be drinkable now, and he takes a sip. "In any case, at present my retirement plan appears to involve an interdimensional library, so..."

"I need to try to find out insofar that the proverb about knowing your enemy is true," Ravn notes over the edge of his coffee cup. "The more I understand the nature of the enemy, the better I can work against him. I do realise that yes -- that does in fact put me on the spot right next to Ignacio de Santos. It's not a position I particularly enjoy but it's something I can do. Understanding narratives is literally what I do for a living. I'm not a fighter, I can't heal, I don't rally and lead people. I know things. And I try to pass on what I learn so that when I inevitably make a bad choice and suffer the consequences, what I know will not be lost."

He shrugs lightly. "That sounds so very gloomy. It's not meant to. I'm quite content to be where I am, doing what I do. It's the first time in my life I've been trying to do something that I wanted to do -- not just doing whatever seemed right or at least not too inconvenient at the time. My retirement plan involves wandering off in there some day and getting too distracted by something interesting to remember wandering back out. Much like Gray Harbor, really."

Is he ignoring Vyv's suggestion? Would Ravn ever ignore a remark of that nature? He probably doesn't even hear it, the oblivious sod.

Perdita snorts a laugh at the suggestion, seemingly amused. A glance at Ravn to see if he even remotely intends to comply, though there's clearly no expectation of that. "Genetic intervention. Make him faintly bio-luminescent, tie it to his blush reaction so that he literally glows. Not that I know how to do any of that, but it sounds distinctly less sticky than clown white." She sets down her fork, absently wiping her fingers against her palms as if she can literally feel the clown white paint on them.

"My retirement plan includes a house in the mountains near Vielha, a well proportioned gentleman friend and loads of surgery to stave off the effects of aging... and not angering anything bigger or stronger than me." which implies that she tends to do that, at the moment.

"Yes, but clown white is much simpler and he won't be letting us touch him in any case, so unless he's sitting on our furniture does it really matter if he's sticky? That said... I would endorse a slight bio-luminescence if you sorted out the arrangements. Think how he'd light up our lives." A glance toward the Dane, as if checking on this, and he idly observes, "Ravn, your shirt is still on," before taking another sip of his tea.

"Mm. Switch out the house near Vielha for an interdimensional library..." ...and you essentially get back to Vyv's plan, really. Arguably with Ravn's thrown in and possibly less surgery. Possibly not. May depend how that magic-painting scheme goes. "Though to fully enact the strategy I suppose said friend would also need to endorse not angering anything bigger or stronger, and, mn." Another flicker of a glance toward Ravn, though this one's different -- not so much checking his current state as, well, the Dane likely knows more or less why that sentence ends the way it does.

"Does Mr. de Santos know particularly much, then? Regarding the nature of said proverbial enemy, that is."

"Who says I wouldn't let you touch me?" Ravn assumes an air of nonchalant innocence that does not appear very convincing to anyone who's aware of how the man can yelp if somebody accidentally elbows him in the supermarket queue. "Every man has his price. Mine might be quite steep. And the shirt does indeed stay on until you convince me it's worth my while taking it off. Although I'd be willing to hear your proposal where bioluminescence is concerned."

Prima donna much, Ravn?

He sobers a little at Vyv's inquiry, though. "Yes and no. I'm not actually certain how much of the technical stuff de Santos keeps track of. The creatures, the patterns, the titles things on the other side give themselves. What he's got, though, is gut feeling. The man is just -- good. Pure benevolence. He genuinely just wants everyone to get along and be the best they can be. And this -- really does a number on some of those creatures. I've seen him literally care big scary things with too many teeth right down to where they come visit him to get milk on his porch. This is why he's the right man for the job. I'm the scientific mind, I want to catalogue it all -- and I want to fight back. De Santos wants peace so hard that you bloody well can't fight him on it."

"You mean to say Ravn doesn't already light up your life with his charming presence?" Perdita asks, with a slight head tilt and a smile for both men, a slight quirk of one eyebrow. Ravn is easy on the eyes, after all, and good company.

"Absolutely not, if I wanted to spend my eternity in a library, I'd be a mousy little librarian... and probably still a virgin." she laughs, softly. Clearly, she's been in a few libraries, or at least this one.

"Sadly, I'm neither scientific nor peaceful. What I am is scrappy, sassy and resourceful. I hope none of that gets put to the test, however." another bite of the galette, another moment of silent, eyes-closed enjoyment.

"It wasn't a suggestion," Vyv notes to Perdita, "it was a statement: switch that out and it's remarkably close to my plan, really. Though," a glance just short of sidelong, the far brow slightly arched, "I will note I'm neither mousy nor a virgin and have no intention of adjusting either regardless of where I end up. The glasses and cardigan look doesn't suit me, and it's not really the sort of place that rewards timidity, in any case. 'Interdimensional' is a fairly important adjective. Last time we were there, we ended up having to kill some cow-sized silverfish." His brow furrows slightly as he lifts his cup. "I was a cat at the time. Why do I let Bax talk me into these things, again?" Well, the place is full of a ridiculous amount of fascinating information he's not going to find at the Gray Harbor Public LIbrary. Though there are likely more specifically Baxian factors in play as well.

A sip of the tea, and the corner of his mouth quirks upward again. "Mm. Yes, he gives me hope to carry on. Lights up my days and fills my nights with song." It's spoken with a slightly dry casualness, and there's a faint pause before his nose wrinkles. "I feel ill just quoting that. Anyway, you say you wouldn't let us touch you. Words aren't everything, much as we may love them. But if the de Santos thing is his innately peaceful and caring nature then, a) good, I'm safe, and b) he's not particularly relevant to whether or not knowledge of who or what is running this show is dangerous, really, is he." He watches Perdita eat that bite, with the faintest mirror of her enjoyment reflecting back.

"Out of the three of us, I think the obvious candidate for mousy and reclusive librarian is indeed me," Ravn agrees and picks at his cake. "Not the worst fate, spending the rest of my life chained to research in a well-stocked library. I refuse to dress the part though -- I don't need glasses, and I don't much like cardigans. When I do wander off into the mists some day, I wouldn't entirely mind ending up as some kind of Veil librarian. At least I'd get a lot of answers."

Would Ravn be the kind of man to get lost on the other side never to return, spending his afterlife haunting the knowledge repository of infinite, overlapping realities? A quiet life of never-ending research and knowledge, unbothered by social obligations and the complications of having to deal with human relationships? A more proper question to ask here might be, why has he not done so yet? And the answer probably is, he doesn't know where this mythical other-side library is.

Although maybe now, after seven months in Gray Harbor, he might actually find himself missing sometimes dealing with people.

"Lights up my days and fills my nights with song," he repeats and thinks. "I know that that's a quote but for some reason I cannot place it at the moment. It's a good one though. Can't say I can relate to it, but it does describe the way I'd like to feel about somebody, someday. Something to strive for."