2021-04-17 - Very Soon Now (Said Grandma and Her Assault Goose)

Why would Ravn Abildgaard stroll around the park of Gray Harbor on a cold and overcast spring day, gloved hands in the pockets of his leather jacket, a vision of -- well, black and bedraggled against the backdrop of grey and very early spring? For some reason the man has settled on a bench near the merry-go-round with its painted wooden animals. A cigarette in one hand, he seems to be staring quite intently at a black wooden horse with flaking paint, almost as if he expects it to suddenly come alive and talk to him.

Stranger things have happened. Probably. Somewhere.

The backdrop of not too great weather seems to suit the few people roaming the town park on a day like this. It's too early in the year for the tourists out of Seattle and Olympia, and the town is nothing if not sleepy. Too far from Seattle to really strike it big as a suburbia by the sea; not far enough away to be truly independent. It's very obvious that once, this was a thriving lumber community and now -- well, the lumber mill still operates, but a lot of town is dilapidated, and a lot of town seems to hibernate in winter when the tourists migrate elsewhere.

Maybe that merry-go-round is testimony to an older time, when Gray Harbor was still an important if small lumber port, shipping its goods by sea. It looks old and vintage enough; it's certainly got a rustic charm, the kind that makes you think of candied apples and a certain kind of music, and peals of laughter from kids picking out which animals to ride.

Habits are quit to set it when one lets them do so, and running through the park has swiftly become one of Isi's. Even on this not-yet-raining-but-maybe-it-will-maybe-it-won't-bitch-just-try-to-do-stuff-outside day Isi has gone on a run. Her clothes are enough to keep off the chill so long as she keeps moving, but chances are she'll get cold quick enough if she stops for very long.

Which, of course, she's going to do when her jogging path crosses Ravn's pathway.

"Did the horse steal from you Ravn? or are you expecting theft and it just hasn't happened yet?" Her tone is one of why amusement and purposeful AVOIDANCE of the obvious topic - picking up from the last time they met and the unexplicable thing Vic did.

Among the various individuals roaming about in the park is an old woman walking with...a large black goose. It's definitely a goose, and not a swan, though one could be forgiven for assuming it's the later if the differences between geese and swans aren't in one's purview and one must go with the usual understanding that large, all-black waterfowl are always swans. However its beak isn't red; the body shape's all wrong for a swan. This is a goose, night black with an orange bill and feet and hard, dark eyes.

The old woman herself is nothing more or less than might be expected, if one didn't recognize her: she's bundled up in an old, black, woolen peacoat, a lovely shawl wrapped around it for a splash of color, hands in fingerless knit gloves of green and gray. Her white and gray hair's neatly braided into a crown at the back of her head, emphasizes her angular, sharp features and wizened skin. Her eyes, watery blue, survey all around her with shrewd calculation. She could be anyone's grandmother, with her odd bird pet.

She could be, except Ravn knows this trouble-maker, this granter of poorly-considered wishes. Which is no doubt why she and her goose-that-shouldn't-exist are gravitating right towards him and Isi. She's coming from the direction of the carousel, pauses to pet the peacock, stroke its feathers.

The Dane looks up as Isi approaches him and strikes up a chat. He smiles a little and shakes his head. "No, no. It bit my hand and scolded me for groping it last week, though. Turns out it has quite the feisty temper." Does he realise how crazy he sounds? Probably; he's pointedly nonchalant about it, at least.

He might have been about to say more. He very likely would have -- but then his eye is caught by the old woman and her cormorant. A curious sight at any time, somebody walking a large seabird like it was a toy poodle; a far more ominous portent to someone who knows the identity of the old woman and the cultural significance of the bird. He glances at Isi and realises exactly what drew the crone here today. Fuck.

The Dane stands. "This is going to be interesting," he murmurs. "Remember when we talked about meeting things out of stories in the street? I'll say this for the old lady, she does one hell of a tarot reading and her advice is sound. Just don't give her anything of yourself -- hair, or the like."

Does she hear? Probably. At least Ravn isn't trying to speak covertly. One could get the impression that these two have bumped heads before.

Isi doesn't speak right away because there are SO MANY WORDS she could say. She finally settles on, "Well. You should keep your hands to yourself and not grope statues. Especially when high or drunk." It sounds VERY MUCH like she's trying to convince herself that whatever she saw the other day was the result of some high she'd never realized she had.

His change in expression makes her wary though, and she tenses as he rises. Turning about she notes the goose and the woman, neither of which are actually strange by themselves but taken together equal a whole bunch of 'wait, what?' pinging about the woman's mind. Her hands find her hips and she squares her shoulders. "Right. Old lady, goose, tarot. You know I don't put any stock in tarot right? Wrong tradition."

The old woman nods at the peacock like it's said something of great importance; her goose picks at the spring grass stubbornly poking up between cracks in the walkway. She stops and looks right at Ravn when he warns Isi against her. Her lips purse, she waves a hand at Ravn as though to dismiss him.

"Pay no mind to the Count." Her voice is papery and weathered as the rest of her. "He's a superstitious sort, seems set on blaming me for everything strange around here." She draws closer, the goose in her wake. The bird starts to move towards Ravn, head tilted to it can watch him with one of those hard little eyes. No, this is no cormorant; this is a barnyard goose, full of a child's spite and twice as vicious as any guard dog.

She considers Isi, smiles and shrugs aside concerns of whether or not Isi believes in the cards. "You don't have to put stock in something for it to be real." Her pale eyes flit to Ravn a half-second, back to Isi. "This place is proof enough of that. But, for a better example--you can decide to not put stock in what the weather wife tells you. Storm rolls in, or not, regardless of your feelings on their expertise." She winces, takes a seat on the opposite end of the bench from Ravn. The goose stalks closer. "And I'm just a weather wife, at the end of the day," she says on a groan.

"Actually," Ravn says with a small, slightly strained smile, "I have been advising people to take your advice, Grandmother. While we can debate the origin, your counsel is solid. I don't blame you. I credit you as a portent of change. But I do advise people to not give you their hair, and that I intend to keep right on doing, indeed."

He is slightly distracted by the ... goose. A nagging thought at the back of his head keeps telling him that this bloody beast ought to be a cormorant. It's obviously not a cormorant, and really, that's just not playing by the book, is it now?

The way it eyes him is not very friendly.

The Dane glances back to Isi and adds, perhaps for her benefit, "I don't put a whole lot of stock in the tarot myself -- under normal circumstances. I study the supernatural -- I don't really believe in it. But the usual rules don't apply here, where the Veil plucks stories out of our heads and make them real. I can't explain the power that Baba Yaga has -- but I can also not deny that she has it."

There are so many things that Isi could say right now, but none of them are QUITE right. The smart thing to do is to just keep jogging. But Isi does not. Instead she takes in a deep breath, counts to three, then on the next says, "I suppose my parents would say the same. lmamá," it means old woman, the closest the player could find to grandma, a new dictionary needs found, "should I be wary of you and," eyes flick to the goose, "Your goose as this man," gesture at Ravn, "seems to imply?"

"Posh, what harm could come of giving a bit of hair or Art to an old woman?" She raises her eyebrows, daring Ravn to claim she's anything other than an innocent, doddering old lady who like to tell fortunes in exchange for odds and ends.

The goose sidles closer to Ravn. The old woman makes a low sound in her throat. "I'm not sure she likes you." This supposition is borne out as the goose's head snakes forward in an attempt to nip Ravn on the leg.

She studies Isi, shrugs in that way all old people perfect. After a hundred years or a thousand, what do they care? "You should be wary of everything--anywhere, but here most of all, Isi Lynn. This is where the ocean meets the shore. Solid, reliable reality gives way to something far more malleable, and so infinitely more capricious." Her lips twist in a sly smile. "This all said. Shall I draw three cards for you, tell you what they say? My fee's quite reasonable."

Ravn yelps and shoos at the goose. "What did I do to you? Get off me before I turn you into a belated Christmas dinner!" He tries to wave the big waterfowl away. "Don't make me start reading recipes for goose drumstick aloud from my phone, you miscoloured monster."

He can't help laugh though. There's something so inherently undignified about this whole scenario. Sit quietly on a park bench trying to have a mental argument with a wooden carousel horse, get assaulted by waterfowl. Of all the ways Ravn Abildgaard might picture himself assaulted, death by goose nip was not on the list. Until today.

Isi visibly starts when the old woman says her middle name. She hasn't told ~ANYONE~ her middle name, beyond her legal records. "How did you -" she's about to ask the most obvious question in the horror genre but stops and shakes her head. "You'll just say it's some kind of weirdness." The You there is the universal, for Ravn who is getting goosed by a a goose, and the old woman.

Back to the old woman more directly. She'll stay respectful as she says, "lmamá, I do not have anything I can give you. I'm so far in debt it's amazing I can make payments." Because the woman is of ~course~ talking about money, right?

Whatever the goose hisses back at Ravn, it can't be friendly. She nabs him by the pants leg, just barely missing his leg proper. A swift shake of her head, a flap of her wings, then she sidles back. 'You think you can cook this goose? Come get some, big man!' She honks for good measure.

The old woman clicks her tongue. "Now you've done it. Threatened to make her into a supper. She'll have none of that, Count Abildgaard."

Her attention returns to Isi. "I will say precisely that, and what's more, it'll be true." No judgment for Isi calling it such; in fact, there's even a note of sympathy. "You're in debt, and yet rich as can be. Why," she gestures at Isi, "look at that Art milling around in you." She waves this talk of poverty aside. "Anyways, I don't accept vulgar money. An item of modest significance to you is all I ask. In fact, you could give me a drop of your Art, your Song. Or a lock of your hair. Or some other trinket you have on you. It needn't be irreplaceable or something you can't be without. Of course," she casts a pointed, lingering look at Ravn, "the more significant the item, the stronger the effect. But," her gaze returns to Isi, "I don't ask anything other than it not be garbage. The rest, is up to you."

Isi's brow is furrowed deeply as the woman speaks, the picture of someone who isn't quite understanding what is being offered or what is being asked fully.

"Okay.... Well, I'm not a terrible singer..." Which she demonstrates with a few bars of a currently popular song because WHY THE FUCK NOT. Randomly breaking into song can't be any weirder than an attack goose and an old woman asking for parts of her body. "So... take the song? I guess?" A glance at Ravn to see if that is right. It isn't her hair or whatever.

"By Song she means the -- thing that you have, that makes you able to see and remember these strange reality shifts. Given your conviction that this is all a marketing scam anyhow, maybe it's not such a great loss. What's valuable to us depends a lot on who we are, and where in life we are -- and the Veil speaks very much in symbols and allegories," 'Count Abildgaard' explains, and continues to try to keep the potential Thanksgiving dinner at arms' length. "Sod off, you, before I tell you about that excellent goose drumstick I had in a sneaky little restaurant in Kreuzberg, Berlin. Lovely place. Lovely goose."

"Mmmm, the Count has the right of it. However," the old woman pulls a deck of cards out of her pocket, "I've accepted a song, when it's given as a thing of value. Of personal worth." She smiles at Isi. "Perhaps something sung to you by a loved one as a child? A tune you remember only in sorrow for the loss it brings to mind?"

The backs of the cards are a dusky purple with a pale art nouveau border; at the center are a quartered pair of cicada wings and two peonies. The edges of the cards are gilt in rose gold.

The woman sets to shuffling. "He's not wrong, that since you don't understand your Art, it's not as much a thing to be without." She holds up a wizened hand. "Not permanent. The Art's not like that. It's a part of you, yes, but in the way your blood is. Rooting it out can be done, but," she fixes Ravn to the spot with a look, "that's not my way." Her eyes hold him for a moment, return to Isi like that didn't just happen. "And it would do me no good, to take it all. A small donation from you will replenish in time." She resumes shuffling. "Or you may sing for me, a song of importance to you. Or...something else." She cuts a glance to Isi's hair.

The goose opens its wings, honks a challenge at Ravn. Absently, the old woman says, "Have you considered she can be bribed, dear Count?"

"Shaken with a bit of flour and garlic," Isi mutters, figuring she can get away with some snark seeing as the goose has decided Ravn to be its feather in ther cap.

"You two aren't making a lick of sense - you know that, right? " Isi cuts her gaze between them before shaking her head. "Most of my songs aren't particularly sorrowful, so I guess take the art?" Having gotten lost in her confusion Isi forgets the respectful honorific this time.

"I'll make a note to never leave home without a bag of -- what do geese eat, chick peas?" Ravn continues his staring contest with the beast. Then he adds, for Isi's benefit, "Nothing here makes any sense until you start looking at it like reality itself is worn thin. It's fluid. Everything here runs on narratives, on stories. Everything has a story it wants to tell, and which ones get told depends on how good they are at dragging you in. Once you start looking at it all that way -- it stops being quite the mindfuck it is, and then becomes the mindfuck of oh god, endless possibilities and realities instead. This is literally why everyone's telling you to just get on that next bus out of town."

He pauses (and shoos at the goose). "And because you have that art, that song, that shine -- you won't be going. Apparently, no one ever does, myself included."

The old woman stops shuffling. Her eyes are bright with surprise. "Your Art," she echoes, tipping her head at Ravn. There's no mistaking that capital letter; she's not talking about Isi's ability to draw or dance or carry a tune. Or if she is, she means it in a way Isi doesn't comprehend. Not yet.

She sets the deck of cards on the bench next to her, feels around in her pocket. Eventually she pulls forth a Zippo lighter and a sewing needle. "It's true we often don't know the things we possess until we no longer possess them." She flicks the lighter open, lights it, holds the needlepoint under the flame until it blackens, then turns red hot. She pulls it away, lets it cool back to dark, burnished metal. Holding the needle out, she says, "Touch the tip of a finger to this. Don't pierce yourself--I've only sterilized it in case you push too hard. Just the barest touch. Nothing more, nothing less."

Waiting for Isi to decide if she really wants to do this, the fortune teller continues to speak, voice low and soft. "Some do leave. They make a choice, or it's made for them. Like the birds whose minds change with the seasons, thus shifting their songs into something else entirely, they change, and lose their Art. Or drop it, or let it wither within them. No matter what, they go. Sometimes they come back. But sometimes, they forget. Those notes of the Song die unsung; the seeds molder in the rotting fruit left on the vine." She half-shrugs. "So it goes." Here she stops, eyebrows raised. Waiting.

The goose continues to watch Ravn, head weaving back and forth. Where is my bribe, Count?

Isi looks at the needle, then Ravn, then the woman.

Finally she looks at the goose, the ubsurity of which makes her laugh and shake her head. "Fine I guess?" She reaches out to touch the needle, tensed in case the woman stabs her.

Ravn explores his pockets in the hope of getting this bloody walking Christmas dinner to leave him alone. What he comes up with in the end is -- a pack of tic-tacs. He empties it out on the ground in front of the bench and stares the goose down. "That's all I got. Unless you want a cigarette, in which case, where the hell is Seth Monaghan when I literally need a goose cooked."

Maybe there's a reason this man did not become a farmer. Maybe it's better this way. It's probably better this way. Look, cats like him at least.

The goose folds in her wings when Ravn begins digging around in his pockets, watches the tictacs bounce around on the ground in a tumbling pile. She steps forward, head turned so one eye is on Ravn and one on the mints. Her neck snakes out, her beak flashes. A few TicTacs disappear. She stands there a moment, throat and beak working, perhaps deciding if this is acceptable or if Ravn will be surrendering some of his own flesh and blood.

She continues eating them. Thus are the old woman's goats not the only thing with the ability (and inclination) to eat whatever they've a mind to put into their mouths.

When Isi's finder tip touches the needle, she feels only the slightest, sharp pinch, as she's expect from touching something with a sharp point. Not enough to draw blood, just enough to be felt. But something wells up out of her, gathering on that fingertip like a drop of blood when the old woman lowers the needle. It flickers and dances, a spark of amorphous sound and negative radiance. Even Ravn can see it there, hovering, gleaming.

The old woman sweeps her thumb over Isi's finger in a deft motion, catching up that droplet of power and rubbing it onto a small, black, embroidered handkerchief she's produced. The handkerchief vanishes into a pocket along with the needle and lighter. Isi has a sense, for a moment, of having given something, like she might feel after a blood donation. The light she sees in Ravn is dimmer than before, less distinct. Her sense of the world--which she of course doesn't believe differs from others anyways--is dulled in some way. She's dimmer to Ravn, as well, the same way those who encountered the Psalms and gave to re-power it were for some time after.

"Much obliged, Isi Lynn. Don't worry, you'll be fine in a day or so." The old woman shuffles once more, pushes the deck to Isi. "Now--cut the cards, and think on what you might like to know, if anything. You need not tell me, nor even have a question, if you don't."

Isi feels that lightness after the pinprick almost like when one stands up too quickly that has her reaching out to steady herself even though there is little need to do so. It only feels a little bit like she might fall over, not actually will fall. It means her eyes catch on Ravn and she squints at him. "Did it suddenly get darker? You look..." It's confusing, because she hadn't quite realized that Ravn was glowing before that moment.

That's too confusing, so instead she is going to refocus on the old woman. This is easier to do. The handkerchief of... whatever it was gets followed until it disappears again. She isn't sure what to say so the first thing she does say is, "I haven't heard Isi Lynn since I was a little girl and my Xwísaat," the closest the player can find to 'grandfather' "would call across my yard."

It's a fond and bittersweet memory, and that's what Isi's thinking of as she reaches out and lifts up part of the cards to cut them, not a question.

"I do not see light," Ravn murmurs in response, having managed at now to keep the goose from eating him -- definite improvement there, worth the sacrifice of a packet of tic tacs. "To me the awareness of the power is -- heat? A warmth, a bit like a magnetic pull. You pull a little less on me now, yes, feel a little colder. I know a guy who hears it, like music -- though I think the most common is to see light, yes."

He chuckles a little at Isi's comment about her middle name. "She did that to me as well. I was ready to write her off as a fraud and a grifter at first but, Grandmother does in fact know things that yes, she could probably figure out with internet access in short time -- but she doesn't have internet access right here, and she'd have to be pretty damned certain who she was going to be bumping into at random to pull that one on memorisation alone. Doable, definitely -- but a hell of a lot of effort for very little."

Then he falls quiet because Baba Yaga is about to work her magic, and Ravn at least has come to realise that whatever these cards will actually say, paying attention is a very good idea.

The fortune teller gestures at Ravn. "And so does the Art prove to be as much about perception as reality. It is Song, and Heat, and Light, all at once. The past, the present, and the movement from one to the other, occupying one space." She re-assembles the deck and turns over the first card.

Like the backs of the cards, the deck's imagery is in an art nouveau style, with a wood-grained, filigree frame around each card image. This first one is a painted lady butterfly, her brilliant orange and black winds spread for all to see, resting among stalks of goldenrod. A waxing gibbous moon shines above her, and an elegantly carved wand of blond wood completes the image. "Mmmmm. The Queen of Wands." The old woman glances from Isi to the butterfly and back. "Though you might not feel it so, this is you--or, you as you could be, if you wished. The Queen of Wands is a woman of will and energy, she is undaunted by obstacles. The warmth of her personality and the ease with which she relates to others draws people to her." Another pause, then the fortune teller nods. "This is a call for you to insert yourself into a community. You need not be a," she touches the Painted Lady, "social butterfly, but you should no longer hold yourself apart. You are among those who will befriend you, if you allow them to. You share a calling with them, and can learn from them and teach them in turn."

She pulls the next card, which is more gently colored; a mackeral tabby cat lounges amidst a stand of cat mint, with three golden coins piled on the ground near her and a half dozen more overhead. Yet the cat is alert, watchful despite her safety; as secure as she is, her ears are forward, her eyes scan the area for threats. "The Nine of Pentacles. You are an interesting one, my dear. You see," she taps the coins on the card, "these would normally indicate wealth. Though of course, you've admitted to debt. This isn't a material wealth, then, but a wealth of the heart, or mind. An education, a calling mastered. Like the cat, you've put in hard work and now are given leave to rest and let down your guard. But like her, you're wary still, not having forgotten the trials which have just passed. You know you're in no immediate danger, which is hard to accept." After taking some time to ponder the card more, she continues, "This, too, is a card directing you. Your hard work is behind you--the truly hard work of deciding what would make you happy, to strike out on your own. You've found a place to pause and reclaim your energy. Doing so will bring you wealth--of friends, of personal power." A small shrug, and she grudgingly allows, "Perhaps financial wealth as well."

The final card is starker than the first two: apples, one torn open and rotting, lie on the ground, devoured by yellowjacket wasps. Five sowrds pierce the fruits. "The Five of Swords." She gives a small sigh. "This is a card of strife. Of bitter battles where this is no victor, only loss on all sides. The means fail to justify the ends; the risk is too high for the reward." Her pale eyes meet Isi's. "This is a warning. A dangerous time is coming, and you will need to choose carefully how you proceed." She indicates one of the apples on the card, the one which is intact. "This fruit has not yet rotted. But see how there is still a wasp on it, still a sword run through it? Despite being the best option here, it's a dangerous one none the less." She shakes her head. "So too will you be given difficult choices, none of which will feel right. Yet you will still need to choose--to not take an apple and go hungry, or attempt to grab one, and accept there might be pain in the attempt." She rests a hand on the first two cards. "Hold on to the potential and promise of these cards. It can guide you through these decisions, help you weather the storm which is coming, or that may already be upon you."

She slides the cards back into the deck and pockets it.

Isi glances at Ravn a few times as the old woman speaks, an eyebrow stretched upwards in what could be a disbelievers doubt or one looking for confirmation. It is pretty clear she isn't sure what to make of the old women's words.

She looks like she is going to interrupt a few times but catches herself and clips her lips closed again. As the woman comes to an end Isi lifts up a hand and runs it though her hair in her pony tail leaving the end draped over her shoulder. Finally when it seems like the silence is too painful to keep up, "I'm afraid I'm not sure what to say. lmamá, it sounds like a lot of mysticism. I mean, I know I should get more acquainted," a but lingers in the air but it is a self pitying one so Isi draws back and leaves it unsaid. "And yeah, I'm done with my degrees - a fat lot of good they did me. I don't really want power though, you know? As for danger?" Isi looks about the park and shakes her head. "What could possibly be that dangerous? "

"Life is dangerous," Ravn says and tosses the last tic tac at (not to) the goose. "You'll see for yourself soon enough, though you probably just bought yourself a week or two of respite -- the brighter people shine, the more risk of them attracting the creatures that feed on pain and power. Or, well, the more you annoy them, but annoying them is my game, not yours. They're probably not aware that you exist yet."

He looks up and smiles lightly with a glance to the old crone. "She advised me to stop wallowing and hiding. Sound advice so far, can't deny it. Also advised me to continue to look for the right kind of people for a very particular task -- and that I am doing. Whether you're one of them -- well, that's something only you and time can answer."

The old woman shrugs at Isi. "There's no need to say anything. After all, it is a bunch of mysticism." She grins, face bright with fierce humor. "What you do with it, that's what really matters. Nothing, that's a reasonable course. So is something." She gets up, stretches as though sitting like that made her stiff. "Personal power and power aren't the same thing." A snowy brow ticks up. "Power may be used on others. Personal power only applies to oneself. Self confidence, conviction, generosity, these things are personal power."

The goose accepts the final TicTac, snapping it out of the air. The old woman dusts off her hands and resumes her walk. "As the Count says, life is dangerous. Especially here--but, you'll find that out soon enough." She pauses at the edge of the carousel, looks from Isi to Ravn and back. "All of you will. Very soon now." She pats the peacock once more, shuffles off with the improbably black goose by her side.

"Nothing, huh?" Isi says that more to herself than to either of the others and shakes her head slowly. "I guess it isn't particularly bad advice." She breathes out slowly as she watches the woman, peacock - she's imagining that right? - and goose take themselves off. When they're at least a few yards gone Isi turns to Ravn.

"What did she mean by power? I mean, that personal power, that makes sense. But the other Power? And why did she keep caling you count?" There's a distinct movement of Isi's eyes up and down Ravn's clothes. "No offense, but you look nothing like royalty."

Ravn too looks after the old woman and her goose; he looks more than a little worried. "Very soon now are words I really wish I had not just heard from a trickster deity portending change," he murmurs. The peacock remains; maybe it belongs to the park rather than to Grandmother Yaga.

Then he shakes his head and snaps out of it a little. "She means the power that we use to do the things we do," the Dane explains. "When I float a lighter, or Seth Monaghan lights your cigarette or heals your burn -- that's the power she was talking about. You have it too, even if you haven't noticed it yet -- if you didn't have it, you would see these things and then... Well, you'd forget, or rationalise it away. That's why the rest of the world does not know about places such as Gray Harbor. It's not the only place of its kind, but no one ever hears of them -- because the vast majority of humanity does not have this ability, and without it, reality edits itself back to the normal for them. It's very much a 'no one would believe you if you told them' kind of thing."

That last comment prompts a small chuckle, though, and the Dane shakes his head as he gets off (and brushes dirt off his jeans where the goose nipped him). "Well, for one, counts are not royalty. Second, she does it for the same reason she called you Isi Lynn -- to show me that she knows things about me that I don't usually go around talking about. Which is unsettling as heck, but also goes to remind us that she is not just very good at cold reading."

The old woman continues her stroll, hands back in her pockets, odd-colored goose by her side. For a half a second, out of the corners of their eyes, Ravn and Isi might think they see not the black goose, but a cormorant.

Then the fortune teller and the bird are gone around a hedge, lost to sight.

Isi's eyes wander until they settle on the peacock and she'll just... look a while. "Alright." There's a decisiveness in that word. "I am going to go and... process this a bit."

Isi shakes a bit of the cold off of her. "I'll come find you at that place you were making - the center - over my lunch break." Time to shower, eat, think - all that stuff. And also work, because bills don't pay themselves. "See you." And she's off, jogging a little bit faster this time like she's trying to leave something behind.