2021-06-01 - Irish Weather

Barflies gotta fly, right? And this one has come to rest on his usual stool, facing the windows, with his usual (well, one of them) parked before him on the bar. Tonight it's a local cider, rather low on the How Drunk Joe Gonna Be scale of things. The pilot's idly spinning a coin before him, seeing how long he can keep it going before it slowly comes to a stop - lazy diversions much better than toying with his phone.

Being told there are only two proper bars in town, Caed's exploration leads him to the second, even if it was on foot and the round about way coming up the beach. A quick stomp of his feet to free his loafers of sand on the deck, he pushes inside, almost immediately ducking his head as if trying to stay off the radar. A familiarish face at the bar leads him that way like a beacon, and he hoists himself down onto a stool with a quiet, "Evening, Mister Caomhánach." A finger raised to gain a bartender's attention ordering himself up a shot of the cheapest Irish whiskey they have in stock.

That the newcomer gives his surname the original pronunciation makes the sailor smile. Lines fanning out around his eyes, as he tips the bottle in salute. "Evenin'. I like that you know how to say it," he congratulates the Irishman. "My dad speaks the language, but I don't." Apparently he migrates from one bar to the other, like some sort of bird.

"Oh, tsch, I'd be a shite Irishman if I didn't. Not knowing a bit of Gaelic is right up there with not liking potatoes or a match of footie. I'd be booted straight out of the provinces. Your da from there, then?" He does some mental calculation of currency before pulling a ten spot out of his wallet and sliding it exchange for the shot.

A shake of his head. "Nah, this branch of the Cavanaughs came over during the Famine," Joe says. "It's more that he loves learning and decided in his retirement that he was gonna learn it. He's taken courses, been over there a bunch of times. Went over with him a time or two myself," Joe allows, before taking a long pull off his drink. "Real pretty. What part're you from?" he wonders, as he sets the bottle down.

Caed nods along with the explanation and bit of story, his attention solely focused for that moment on the man at his side. It's when conversation turns back to himself that his attention goes back to his glass of whiskey, turning the tumbler of a modest two fingers on the top of the bar. "Kilkenny by birth, more recently from Howth, Dublin where I was stationed."

For all that his expression is one of sober inquiry as Caed answers, that grin returns after. "I've had a few nights in Dublin. Some of 'em I can even remember," he adds. "And those were delightful. Stationed? You were in the Army?" They do say Americans are friendly - this one seems to be, at least.

Caed gives Joe a tight sort of smile, "I was called to a different sort of service." He gives a little lift of his drink, and a muted, "Slainté." Before taking a bit of a sip from the dark liquid. "So it's the call of the Other Side that drew you here, then? Like a siren's song, destined to pull us in until the waves can dash us all against the rock?"

That has Joe cocking his head like a bird, expression inquiring. Apparently he doesn't understand. A beat where he's clearly deliberating if he'll press the point or not, before deciding against it. "Now that I've been here a while, I understand that's what it was," he says, slowly. "Siren song is a good way to put it - the shine, the glow, the art, the song, however you wanna name it...."

He's speaking slowly, halting, scratching at the scruff that's just on the verge of becoming a proper beard. "There are intelligences over there, and many of 'em don't mean humans well at all. It's a cliche to warn the newcomer that the town is haunted or cursed....but it's also true. I got that warnin' when I came here...." At least the scars on his arms don't look recent enough to have been garnered here.

"Actually that's precisely what brought me here. The curse, the haunt. The intelligences, as you call them. So consider your warning heard and appreciated, but unnecessary. I came into this with eyes wide open, following the crumbs of bread as it were." Caed presses his lips together in thought for a moment. "Would you mind a rather forward question of me?"

Joe shakes his head. "You haven't met them all yet. Ghosts and spirits and echoes are one thing....and maybe there are other spots in the world as thin as here. But this is the closest to the wellspring, and even the power itself is an intelligence. Almost a god, and even one in three aspects," he adds, with a faintly whimsical note in his voice. Then Joe inclines his head. "Ask. Can't promise I'll give a full answer, but I won't be mad about the askin'."

"If you want the purest water, you go straight to the font." Caed seems to dismiss further warnings by intimating that's precisely why he's here. The invitation to ask is enough for the Irishman to pitch himself slightly closer to Joseph. "You're touched, yes? Which were you gifted?"

He can't really argue that. The sailor thinks he's done his duty as gatekeeper, apparently, and leaves it there. Warnings didn't do him much good, in his turn, and those that are meant to stay will stay. He does hesitate, however. "Some of all," he says. "Movement mostly, that's the most powerful. Little of the mind, and only the barest trace of healing. 'bout you?"

Caed's weight shifts again, this time to pull a small notepad of unlined pages out of the pocket opposite his billfold. A tiny nub of a pencil is taken from the wire coil, lifted with a question, "Do you mind?" Hypothetical it seems, as it takes a few notes. Tomorrow it might look like gibberish, but sometimes things make it past the night. "It's been called many things, I suppose. A seer, a psychic medium, retrocognitionist. Augur o vate in Latin, fáidh in Gaelic." He motions in a roundabout gesture.

"I don't mind," The American's face is guileless. But then, what secrets does he have now? Caed's bought into the insanity, that's clear....and Joe looks sincere enough. "Oh, you read objects, right? Impressions, memories? That's....that's part of the Mind art, I think. I can't do it myself, but I know some who can. If you hadn't noticed it already....you'll find that this place is crammed full of those who shine. Not all of 'em, but a much larger percentage than I ever saw on my way here."

"Aye, that's right. Psychometry, you mentioned it the other day. Is this person you know that..." Caed flips back a few pages, "Roen, of Branch and Bole? What I'm particularly interested in is those of your persuasion, like Ellery. I'm told they're able to open a certain sort of doorway to the Other Side."

"I don't think that's Roen's skill," Joe says, after a moment's thought. "No. Maybe de la Vega....I'll have to doublecheck. Movers can open doors in the Veil, it's true. I think it's a lot harder to open one to come back though, that's the issue. But I've seen it done. Hell, that I've done myself. I'd be very careful about doing it wilfully. I mean, you're an Irishman - you don't go kicking in the door when it comes to Faerie, right?"

Caed works his jaw from side to side then gives a solitary noise of mirthless laughter. "Well that would right depend on if the fae had someone I loved dearly, wouldn't it then? Some doors are worth a bit of boot heel." He scratches down the name de la Vega with a question mark then turns back to his drink.

Memory supplies argument in the form of Itzhak Rosencrantz doing exactly that...and Joe can't help the grin that plasters itself across his face. "A'right," he concedes, with a tip of his cider bottle. "You gotta point." Now that he's remembered said cider, he finishes the bottle in one long pull, and then looks around for the bartender. "I mean, I haven't heard of anyone having to go full metal Tam Lin here. Most of those that go there willingly and intend to stay just stay, I think."

An eyebrow arches, a rare slice of smile forms. "Your father speaking through you again, then? I haven't heard that reel in ages. But, nah, I don't think she went there willingly or she would have told me where she'd gone. We were thick as thieves, and I didn't come all this way to find out she'd been turned to a tree. But enough of the solemn notions, if you drink while you're sad, your liver'll turn black." Caed slides his empty glass forward, tapping the rim to quietly request his own refill.

"More like any number of my ancestors," Joe says, a little ruefully. "Collective memory, I guess." But that musing makes him pause even in the motion of lifting his new bottle to his lips, and he sets it down gently. "You have someone here you're lookin' for specifically? That you think came here and got lost on the other side?" The idea clearly horrifies him.

There is a shake of Caed's head in the negative. "She went missing back in Ireland, but the thin spot there closed or...shifted and I lost the scent of it. I've bounced around a bit before Ellery heard of Gray Harbor on his search for cryptids. Shot me email and now here we are."

It's been -- quite some time since Ravn Abildgaard stepped into the Two if By Sea. He hasn't been here since handing in his apron and walking away -- not because his departure was unpleasant as such, but it definitely met his criteria for awkward. On a more personal level he's the sort of guy who's more inclined to seek out a quiet waterhole of a dive bar than a flashy tourist place -- but something in the weather drives him up here tonight. Literally -- the freak weather reports are the talk of the marina, and he's curious as to what other yachters might be thinking about it. Other yachters don't slink off to the Pourhouse, they go here.

The tall Dane wanders in, dressed in his usual black jeans, shirt, and blazer combination, and heads for the bar, commandeering an empty bar stool. With an upnod to anyone familiar on either side of the counter he requests a scotch, old enough to be legal in Kentucky, on the rocks, and settles to wait for it to arrive.

If Glimmer is a thing you're, like, totally into, the first thing you'll notice about the blond who walks in (aside from her impeccable posture, perfect unblemished skin and beautiful everything 💅🏽) is that she has none of that shiny stuff.

Anyone who frequents this place can tell you she comes in often and prefers it to 'that shit hole in the shitty part of town that everyone likes but totally sucks'. The atmosphere at TIBS is just /cleaner/. And Cassidy is clean.

The woman makes short work of the distance between the door and the bar. She just taps on it and says, "Lemondrop" and the bartender gets to work.

"I don't know what it's like when you stay over there long term," Joe says, quietly. "Haven't been to Ireland since I developed this sight. I come to it relatively recent - just a few years ago. But this is a good place to research it all in general, if you need to know more," They're at the bar, the sailor with tattooed fingers wrapped around the neck of a bottle of cider.

As Ravn come in, he lifts his free hand to wave. "Hey, Abildgaard," he says. "Long time no see. Speakin' of - you seen that lighthouse?" The one that was not there all along. "Ma'am," he says to Cassidy, politely. A scruffy contrast to her clean-cut and put-together self.

"Saints preserve her, she's been gone on two years now." There's an unfamiliar face sitting next to Joseph tonight, one who speaks with the telltale lilt of the Irish. Caed politely falls silent as Joe greets some newcomers, giving congenial nods of acknowledgment.

"Sailed past the other day, looks like a lighthouse to me," Ravn murmurs with a side glance to Cassidy behind her back that makes no secret of the fact he's leaving things out. "We know there's a storm coming, I figure the lighthouse marks the spot it'll hit."

The bartender -- an unfamiliar face but then, that's what seasonal work is like -- slides his requested drink over and the Dane's gloved fingers curl around it. He returns Caed's nod with one of his own and raises a gloved hand in a lazy wave to Cassidy. "Ravn Abildgaard, resident professional slacker. Evenin', Cassidy."

"Ma'am?" Cassidy says to herself with eyes widening a touch. She digs into her purse for her make-up mirror, "Jesus how old do I look right now?" She spends a few moments scrutinizing her face in the mirror and ultimately decides she doesn't look old at all. Muah, mirror-Cassidy. Then it's tossed back in her bag right as the lemondrop arrives.

She picks it up with her dainty hand and takes a sip while looking at Ravn. The three fingers that aren't absolutely necessary for holding the glass lift off its stem to wave at him. When her lips come off the rim to leave a pale pink stain she says, "Hey Rav."

Joe's answer to that is a little shake of the head, as if in answer to a question that Caed didn't ask. Sympathy in the long face. "I'm sorry to hear it," he says, quietly.

Then he's noting to Ravn, "I was out there the other day with Roen and de la Vega and McCloud. Full of fucking goblins...and everything in it was made of something that those with the Gift had touched," he informs the Dane. "Hadn't thought of that, though. I guess I'd assumed that it was meant to guide something in."

Cassidy's reaction makes him chuckle. "It's not an age thing," he tells her. "It's not like drinkin'. You old enough to drive, you qualify, least where I'm from."

Caed starts scribbling notes into a little pad again, Joseph close enough that he can read bits of it, though it seems to jump between several languages. Clearly he's making notes about lighthouses and storms as the conversation bounces around him. "Caed McCullen, bit of a vacationer, I suppose." He introduces himself when prudent, then murmurs low as an aside to Joe's condolence. "Worry not, my child, I have faith in spades."

Warmth touches Caed's expression as he looks to Cassidy, "Would it please you better if I called you lass?"

"Those gremlins, goblins, the little green monsters that steal things and get people killed? I hope you brought a flame thrower." There must be some kind of joke or movie reference in here for that to make sense; Ravn isn't (at least from the looks of him) the kind of man who does live re-enactments of Bruce Willis movies very often. If anything, his looks and pronounced accent says 'educated European guy slumming it'. "I've tangled with them a number of times. Kind of hoped we were done dealing with them. Guess there's no such thing as a happy ending."

He runs a slender hand through that mop he calls hair and glances at Caed. "Vacationer. Welcome to town, then. That's what I said back in August -- just coming through, probably staying a week or two. I'm still here."

Cassidy's eyes slide from doting on Ravn to frowning at Caed calling her 'lass'. "Fuck off," comes the haughty response.

In Cassidy's world, goblins only mean one thing - and Ruiz was involved? Definitely only means one thing. "I didn't hear about a drug bust." She reaches for her phone and begins to send a text.

(TXT to Ruiz) Cassidy : There was a drug bust at the lighthouse?

(TXT to Cassidy) Ruiz : What the fuck are you talking about

That earns Caed a dry look. "Good," he says. "'cause I left mine behind a good long while ago." Ravn's question makes Joe nod. "Yeah. I'd heard of 'em before, but that was the first time I'd met 'em face to face. No, not with them. And I don't guess we are."

Cassidy's reaction makes him bristle, "Hey. There's no call to be rude about it. Lass isn't an insult, especially if you're feelin' touchy about your age. Drug bust, what're you talkin' about?" He looks at Caed and then at Ravn. "I mean, god knows I'm not at all current with whatever slang is out there, but.....since when does goblin mean narc?"

(TXT to Ruiz) Cassidy : Dude at bar said you rounded up some goblins at the lighthouse. Is this like a video game or something?

Caed's blue eyes just look at Cassidy with a look of utter shock for a moment, before he crosses himself and mutters, "Jesus, Mary and Joseph, I haven't been told to feck off since I was banging about to Flogging Molly in the Underground. I'll have to remember that some Staties don't take that as an endearment." He shakes off the rude comment with a little roll of his shoulders. "I'm to be sure that's a common occurrence here, the coming and the staying of it." Is goblin slang for drugs? Don't look at him. But it goes in his little book.

"To me, goblin refers to a small creature from Celtic folklore," Ravn murmurs to his scotch. "And a gremlin is a similar creature, although invented fairly late -- the term refers to a small, imaginary creature that sabotages airplanes. It was invented by British airforce pilots during the Battle of Britain in order to explain seemingly random malfunctions on planes, typically due to poor maintenance -- which is not surprising given the pressure those blokes and their repair crews were under." With a glance to Caed he adds, "I teach folklore. I tend to get carried away sometimes. If the term's got another meaning in police speak, I'm not familiar with it."

(TXT to Cassidy) Ruiz : What dude in what bar? You nearly made me burn my fucking churros. and no, that is not a euphemism for something.

Cassidy looks up from her phone at the trio of clueless men and her expression is one of 'really?'

"We be steady mobbin'..." organized crime, anyone? "...what's a goon to a goblin? Lil Wayne?" No? Nobody? She vibrates with an annoyed tension and then settles when she looks back to her phone.

"You know what? Nevermind. Why don't you two call Ravn 'babycakes' or 'pretty boy', or something. I'm sure he'll take whatever names you want to give him and be a perfect gentleman about it."

She reads her text and at first is like 'what?' And then she laughs once and giggles. Now she's texting back. Bar dudes might as well not be there at all.

(TXT to Ruiz) Cassidy : Churros! I fucking knew it! Save me one. I think I just met your LARPing buddies, then. No worries. Sleep well! <3 <3 <3

"Good taste in music," Joe asides to Caed. "Which I guess doesn't surprise me." He's shaking his head in disapproval. "I hope you're makin' notes for future translation. I s'pose I should be."

Ravn gets a long finger levelled at him, the D on it bright ocean blue. "There's a kids' book about 'em, by Roald Dahl, if I remember right."

Cassidy's quote is greeted with a blank look. "No, not familiar," he says. "And no, I don't give Abildgaard here any such thing."

(TXT to Cassidy) Ruiz : Vete a freír espárragos, huevon. <3

"Now you're sucking diesel! Theology." Caed is obviously countering Ravn's interests with his own. "There's a great deal of cross over, I'm sure we could craic on for hours." The Irishman seems to be warming up a bit, no longer looking like he wants to slink into the corner. Thanks, in part, to the whiskey he's sipping at. "What doesn't surprise you, Caomhánach that I have good taste in music or I'll toast any day of the week to one of Ireland's shiniest treasures?" His eyes stray to Cassidy again, but his only retort is a bit of ruddiness to his cheeks.

Cassidy's statement prompts Ravn to first arch an eyebrow and then smirk a little. "Pretty boy? All right -- first off, I've heard that one before. While working at the Twofer, in fact -- 'Bennie's prettyboy', that was me cleaning tables and restrooms here back in winter. Second? Nice to know you appreciate my looks, happy to brighten your day by being in it. Third? I don't give a flying fig what people call me. Whether I answer to the address, though? That depends on whether I like what I hear."

"I can't quite recall at the moment, but it's the sort of thing Dahl would write about. It's a good name for these things -- they do seem to act out of sheer malice, like those fighter pilots used to complain about." He nods to Joseph and then to Caed. "Theology is not my forte except as applied from a historian's point of view. You do need to cover a fair bit of it in order to understand the mindsets that created the legends, and the function of those stories in society. Can't really go into, say, medieval thinking and leave out the church."

Cassidy's eyes widen at her phone while Ravn gets on his roll. She waggles her head from side to side as he talks and her mouth might be moving a touch as well until a text comes in and she cackles happily, bouncing into a proper posture in her chair. "Vete a la chingada, de la VeRga..." she whispers to herself, smiling in good humor.

She drops her phone in her purse and takes her cocktail glass and is suddenly eyes back on the men and their conversation, looking like nothing just happened. Theology is /definitely/ not the attorney's forte, and Joseph called her 'ma'am', so she's silent for now.

"More the taste in music, but the other doesn't, either," Not one of those evenings where Joe's lunging for drunkenness - he's nursing that cider deliberately, even though he only has to talk a little ways to get home.

"Like a cat," he teases Ravn. "And we still do use the term." He's nodding along to the reply to Caed, and says, "C.S. Lewis actually did a really good book about the medieval mindset, and how it interwove with the theology of the time. The Discarded Image was the title, I think..."

He's close enough to partially pick up that murmur, and he gives Cassidy a sharp look. But he doesn't pry. Not for now.

Caed makes a noise into his glass as if he has something to add, "There was a section of Lewis' book that was intriguing. The bit about torture and the mindset and belief systems of the torturer. And also what is religion if not just a belief system stymied from folklore? Take for instance the great flood. Christians speak of Noah's Ark, Hindu mythology had Manu and his giant boat. Plato wrote of Deucalion being warned by Prometheus."

"Meow," Ravn agrees and sips his scotch. It's not the first time somebody compares him to a stray cat, either.

Then he nods at Caed's observation. "Both belief systems enforce the rules of a society through narratives that you don't need a degree to understand. We can argue about the specifics and whether we approve of those rules, but from a purely social dynamics angle, religion and folktales are about enforcing order -- whether on groups of people or on nature itself. It's a set of rules for the survival of the society that created the rule set."

The Dane glances to Joe and Cassidy and then adds, with a small laugh, "And if we march onward down that tangent, we may put everyone else to sleep. Sorry. So, freak weather? Last weather report by that bloke sounded like we should be dry docking our boats and moving to higher ground."

Cassidy doesn't seem to register the sharp look. But she does yawn. Then the weather comes up as an alternative. "Oh yeah. That topic is way more exciting." Cassidy rolls her eyes at Ravn, but it's with a smile. She finds the attempt to make things more interesting cute.

"Are you going to come to the Pourhouse on Friday, Rav?" You know...for the TRUTH OR DARE KARAOKE. "Don't worry, I won't make you sing." She tilts the rim of her cocktail glass until it touches her lips, eyes on Ravn.

"I'm amazed to find someone else that's read that book," Joe notes, mildly. "Surprisingly readable, considering that subject matter." The rest of the cider vanishes in a few swallows, and he sets the empty glass down with a definite thump. "I should be gettin' on," he adds, as he hitches his way down from the bar with a certain gingerly care. "Rosencrantz has custody of de la Vega this evenin', but I promised I'd be up early tomorrow to take him sailin' on his day off, and time, tide, and angry Mexican cops wait for no man." He flicks a few bills on to the bar - more than generous, but maybe he wants to keep the staff there sweet. "Y'all have a good night."

Caed raps his knuckles on the bar, "Right. Which officially means I should be getting about finding my way back to the Motel, because not only do I lack a proper ark to withstand the coming deluge, I'm out an umbrella too. Joseph, always a pleasure. Mister Abildgaard. Missus Lady Ma'am Lassy."

"The weather is interesting when you live in a boat that might get smashed to bits against the pier if it gets as bad as the doom guy pronounces," Ravn returns with a small smile before pausing at the question he is offered in return. He is distracted by the other two men getting up and saying their goodbyes, though, buying him at least a minute. "I'll be seeing you around, I reckon. Small town, small community, hard to not bump into folks all the time. Don't get washed away by the rain."

He looks back at Cassidy as they get up to leave, and then shakes his head. "I don't think so. Karaoke nights -- are crowd nights. I'm not good with crowds. Even if everything else goes smoothly, there's the touch issue. Hard to make sure no one accidentally elbows you in a crowded bar room."

Cassidy casually raises a crooked arm, folds her fingers over and raises the middle one at Caed. She does it without looking at him. As far as her face is concerned, nothing has changed, she's still looking at Ravn with a fairly placid look. She then puts that thing away and reaches for her glass. "Come on Rav. It will be fun. You know what fun is, right?"

A small lopsided smile plays on Ravn's lips as he nurses his drink. "Yes, I do. Fun is not curling up on the floor screaming because somebody shoved you by accident. That said -- I've never really understood the attraction of the whole bar hopping game. Feel free to educate me if you like -- it's not like either of us are busy at the moment, and I am open to the idea that sometimes I am wrong."

Cassidy starts giggling outright and has to put her drink down so it doesn't go sloshing over the edges of her glass. "OK! First of all," she extends her index finger upward, other fingers curled loosely and touching her thumb, "bar hopping is going to several bars, bar-to-bar, getting drinks at each one throughout the night. So this isn't that. And two," another finger goes up, "just sit at a booth you big baby and three," she swats at his shoulder, "it will be /fun/!"

"That right there is actually the core of my problem," Ravn points out. "I have a disability. One that can be crippling. But it's an invisible disability, and because of that, a lot of people either don't take it seriously or tell me to just man up. Either way, I end up in extreme pain, which I don't find particularly amusing."

The speed with which he attempts to avoid that swat bears some testimony to his words. The man seems to really not want to be touched.

"Okay but it will still be fun." Cassidy juts her head forward, gives it a little shake and widens her eyes a touch when she says 'fun'.

She rolls her eyes and finds her bag. Digging in it, "Come on let's go smoke." One hand finds the cigarettes and the other hand grabs her drink to finish it off. Then she's off the stool without waiting for any agreement (as she does) and on her way to the deck outside.

"... Could do with a smoke, sure." Ravn gets up and wanders off in the attorney's wake, drink in one hand. The deck is nice enough even in rough weather, and he's in no particular rush to get back on his boat. Even stray cats like him enjoy company at times. He heads for one of the fire pits and plops himself down on a lawn chair, one foot casually on the edge of the pit. "So tell me what's so bloody fun about it? Finding some guy to flutter your eyelashes at, watch him make an idiot of himself to get your attention?"

"No I have you for that," Cassidy says after the cigarette is in her mouth and it bobbles when she speaks. The lighter is out, too, and it does its job before it's dropped into her bag.

Cassidy inhales the first drag and holds it for a good two or three seconds before letting it out. "I like to sing. And people are there and they're singing too. And you can spend a few hours not worried or thinking about stuff that pisses you off. And you're all there just having a good time."

Ravn takes out a cigarette of his own and lights it with that old monogrammed zippo of his. "I make an idiot of myself regularly but not for that particular reason. What I do to unwind like that is take my boat out, or go walking. Be alone in my mind, just enjoy the quiet. No one around to worry about but my cat. Although I've got a few friends here in town who make me feel the same way -- that I can unwind and relax around them."

"You're always so defensive, Rav. Admit it - you love me and my eyelashes." Cassidy says with a smirk as she blows out the next stream of smoke toward the water. "What makes you so important you can't take a little teasing?" She shakes her head, "And that's not unwinding. That's, like.....self-enabling." Cigarette goes back in her mouth.

"Why does it matter to you in the first place?" Ravn raises one eyebrow, genuinely curious. Then he shakes his head and watches the smoke curl upwards, into the rain-laden evening air. "I don't mind teasing. I just don't see the point most of the time. Women do this -- but it's usually got nothing to do with the bloke in question and everything with their need to feel desirable. Which is all well and good, but there's nine out of ten fellows happily playing along so why give a fuck what the last guy thinks?"

Cassidy motions around to the guy-less surroundings. Then she speaks in a little girl sounding voice, "Because I'm a super special cupcake and I need the last guy, too."

She takes the next drag of her cigarette and doesn't wait for the exhale before she starts talking again, "You think I have a need to feel desired Rav? Have you seen me fucking talk to people?" She shakes her head and rolls her eyes.

The folklorist looks skywards; the stars are up there, somewhere, behind the cloud layer. "Serious question, serious answer? I have no idea what you need or want. I don't really care a lot, either. If you want or need something from me, well -- here I am, ask me. I don't play these games. That's part of why I don't particularly like crowds and the kind of situations that most people associate with having fun. I don't understand those games, and I don't enjoy them much."

Cassidy scoffs, face almost offended. "It's not a 'game' Rav. We're just hanging out. Jesus fucking Christ. Forget it." She puts her cigarette back between her lips and the arm bent at the elbow with her hand waiting nearby indicates she intends to just do the job of smoking it in silence.

Ravn shakes his head. "It's never just hanging out. Everybody wants something from somebody. You send extremely mixed signals and you act insulted when I can't read them. Want something from me, say it straight. I'm the kind of guy who keeps getting ribbed by his friends for not noticing something's up until the manure not only hit the fan but covers three city blocks."

"Well right now I just want you to sit there and shut the fuck up so I can smoke my god damn cigarette." She pinches it out of her mouth with her fingers and stuffs it out in the ash tray while blowing out the last stream of smoke and shaking her head.

Then she's back to her purse looking for another one, "Like, seriously. You're fucking paranoid." She fumbles to light this one with her lighter - hands shaking. She closes her eyes and takes a single breath to make the lighting possible and then throws the lighter back in her purse.

Then she shakes her head again and starts smoking this next one in silence. One might actualy wonder which storm is worse: the one actually coming on the horizon, or the one brewing behind Cassidy's silence?

Maybe it's simply that Cassidy did in fact say it straight; at least Ravn decides to not answer. He leans back on his chair and keeps looking up at the sky with its portents of bad weather coming. When he does finish his own cigarette he sends it flying in a small arc, into the fire pit where it will be consumed the next time it is lit; better than littering.

Cassidy stares at the cherry of her cigarette. She slowly releases a billow of smoke and watches it light up and burn brighter. Her eyes lift to the horizon over the sea and after a breath or two the cigarette is back for another drag.

"Gonna grab another drink," Ravn murmurs and gets to his feet. "Want one, or do you prefer to be left alone?"

"Just shut up." Cassidy mutters. Her eyes are still out there. "No."

She shakes her head like coming out of a daydream and looks at him, "What? Oh. Okay. No. Thanks."

Ask two questions, get one answer, pick for yourself which question it applied to. Ravn shakes his head a little as he heads back to the bar to replace his geriatric whiskey; whatever else might be said of the man's expression of style (or whatever he thinks passes for style) he's got good taste in whiskey and is willing to pay for it.

He wanders back out a few moments later and settles on the chair again, one foot on the fire pit's edge. Maybe there's no one in the bar room proper that he wants to talk to -- he did come here to see other yachters about the weather, but it's apparently not that kind of evening. Maybe he figures the conversation is on hold, rather than over. Maybe he just likes watching the night sky.

"Sorry," Cassidy murmurs. She's still looking out to the water. Her cigarette is burning in her right hand with her arms folded across her chest.

"It's fine." Ravn fishes another cigarette out and lights it, shutting the zippo with the audible clack of its closing mechanism; there is no such thing as a noiseless zippo lighter, at least not if it's a couple of decades old or more. "Everyone's got their baggage."

Cassidy may have started to say something else but that last sentence out of Ravn's mouth has her not. Her lips thin a touch. She leans forward and stabs out her cigarette. "See you around Rav." Then she's leaving.

And on her way out she may have told the bartender the drink was on him. 👀