2021-06-25 - Convo with Addison (Ravn)
Rumors have been spreading about dreams people have been having of Addison McNeely since her body was found a little over a month ago. There is even a Friendzone group dedicated to "Convos with Addison".
This is Ravn's.
IC Date: 2021-06-25
OOC Date: 2020-08-31
Location: Spruce/The Pourhouse
Related Scenes: 2021-05-23 - Cold Case Thawed (Exposition)
Plot: None
Scene Number: 5982
It's The Pourhouse, except it's not The Pourhouse. The walls are a little too close together. The tables are arranged just slightly askew. It's said that a person has an innate sense of compass direction, even if they are not attuned to it. Whereas The Pourhouse bar typically faces the South, the bar here faces the North.
But it is The Pourhouse. Just not exactly.
The people milling around are of the usual description for regulars at the Spruce Street staple. The smell - a mixture of alcohol and stale cigarette smoke - is familiar. The music playing is nondescript. It's rock'n'roll of a familiar sort but putting the finger on the song is difficult. It could be any song, really. It's every song, but not a specific song.
Ravn appears here with maybe a sense he should be and that he's been here for some time. He might even have the urge to order another drink as the one he's been working on is now running low.
"The usual," Ravn tells Not Quite Davis the bartender and hopes that if he's dreaming -- or more likely, Dreaming -- then at least the dream will show him the courtesy of remembering that Leon Gyre started stocking a bottle of twelve-year good stuff for his sake. Because Ravn may live like a tramp and dress like one too a lot of the time, but no one, no one makes him compromise about his whiskey. People pick odd hills to die on; not drinking shitty whiskey is Ravn's.
He settles on the bar stool and looks around. In spite of living in town for less than a year, how many times has he told someone to look for the story? There's always a story, there's always a narrative that needs to play out, and the only way is through. No point in trying to dodge it by getting up and walking out, or pointedly ignoring everything -- the story will make you its pawn one way or another. Better to tackle it head on.
And if his gloved fingers tap against the glass of a whiskey tumbler that feels slightly unreal in a bar that feels slightly wrong, it's definitely not in anticipation of trouble -- trouble that he knows he's not likely to be able to handle on his own; of all the bright lights that shine in Gray Harbor, Ravn's talent is by far the dimmest he's seen, and he knows it. Not nervous. Waiting. Because something's going to happen, and the only way is through.
There's what he expects, what he wants and then there's what he gets. The bartender has a bottle ready near the till. She reaches for a whiskey tumbler. Into it poured a couple fingers of Yamakazi single malt - aged 25 years.
The glass and the bottle are handled together. The glass is placed near Ravn's dominant hand. The bottle is placed within his easy reach.
The bartender only comes into focus once the drink is selected, poured and delivered. After Ravn ganders at what he's been given he may come to find he's being served not by Davis, but by a young woman. She is easily 18 but clearly too young to be serving alcohol. She's almost recognizable. If Ravn follows these things he might recognize her as the young woman who has been in the news recently - not for anything spectacular or daring, but because she was missing for twenty years and her dead body was just recently found.
Her hair is a straight, shiny black. Her eyes are a soft brown. She's dressed in a simple white blouse with a thin black vest over it - as a bartender might. Around her neck is a black velvet choker with a gold chain and pendant. She's only wearing one amethyst earring.
In spite of how busy this place is at this hour, no one is vying for the single bartender's attention. And hers is just resting on Ravn. There's something placid and calm about her. She just looks at him. She's smiling a very easy, restful smile. She's attentive only to him at the moment.
<FS3> Ravn rolls Research: Success (7 7 5 2 1 1 1) (Rolled by: Ravn)
Oh. It's one of those.
A strange calm settles over the folklorist as he sips (and appreciates) the high quality drink. Ravn studies the girl. He sifts through memories -- his own, and those told to him by others, in this very place. His mind eventually settles on a recent newspaper headline and a picture of a girl -- something about a cold case, and a body turning up unexpectedly. One of those, indeed. If he ever gets tired of volunteering at HOPE he could open a twelve-step plan for lost ghosts of Gray Harbor, meeting every Tuesday at 8pm, Mrs Neely will bring her good biscuits.
Ravn studies her a moment longer, and then leans back on his bar stool a bit. "I see ghosts," he says quietly and checks his inner calendar; pop culture reference is within the expected timeframe. "The kid in The Sixth Sense? Like that. I'm going to go out on a limb here and make a guess -- you have some blanks to fill in about your situation. Hit me."
Addison's kind eyes grow a touch wider when he speaks, like she's holding back a youthful exuberance behind that serene stare. "You see ghosts?" she asks sweetly. There is an intense interest behind her question. She wants to hear him and know the answer. The rest of the bar and its patrons might as well not exist (which, of course, they /don't/ - but they also do).
She's interested in the movie, even, but especially she wants to know about the ghosts. Then it's his request to 'hit' him and she looks confused for the shortest moment. She shakes her head and smiles again, regaining that interest with the exuberance behind it.
"But you don't like to be touched."
Ravn can't help a lopsided smile as he's misunderstood; usually, the Danish expat is the one not always catching an American expression in passing. "I see ghosts -- when they want to be seen," he confirms. "I can't make them show up unless they want to."
He cants his head and studies the girl; committing her appearance and apparel to memory. The one earring is likely not coincidence -- whether it means the other is to be found somewhere, or it's some sort of visual cue to those in the know. Nothing is ever truly coincidental in these dreams; that's his take, at least -- like Freud or Jung analysing the gestalts of a dream, he tries to memorise every detail because you never know which parts will actually matter. "I'm not fond of being touched," he agrees. "I have a neuropathic condition that makes it painful for me at times. But we're not here to talk about me, are we? That's a lot of effort to go to, if you just wanted to strike up a chat with a stranger in a bar."
"It must be hard for you?" Addison prompts while looking at the blond Dane with ever curious eyes. Every word he speaks seems to only draw her interest in him closer.
The patrons and time around them seem to blur. Each person and every moving thing exists as only a peripheral blur unless looked directly at.
Addison's brown eyed serenity doesn't seem to notice this shift.
Ravn's grey eyed wariness, however, does. Ghosts tend to want to tell their story -- not hyperfocus on that of somebody else. They don't (usually) get trapped or decide to stay around after death just in case of meeting some random guy to take an interest in; there's a purpose, a story -- a narrative. And narratives, after all, is what the folklorist specialises in understanding and applying.
"We're not here to talk about me," he reiterates gently. "At the risk of sounding like a horrible cliché -- what's a girl like you doing in a place like this?"
Addison's face starts to fall slowly. The general atmosphere seems to grow more dense and lights fade in parallel. "You don't want to talk to me?" she asks while tears well up in her eyes.
"I do," Ravn replies, taking note of how the atmosphere of this not-quite-Pourhouse seems to shift with the mood of the ghost. Is she aware that she is a ghost? He's starting to suspect that she might not be. "I want you to tell me about yourself. You haven't told me your name yet -- hi, I'm Ravn. Nice to meet you. Is this where you work? You seem a little young to be a bartender."
Time to make a mental note; find out who this girl was, and what her official story was. And why not? It's not like he's not researching several other seemingly ordinary people who died in this town and stayed anything but ordinary after death. looking at you, Muriel Vernon, and your haunted carousel.
The young woman looks confused, "I don't have a name" and the room grows gradually darker up until the point where Ravn introduces himself. And then he says it's nice to meet her. Her dismay upgrades to a faint smile and The Pourhouse seems to follow suit by brightening back up considerably. "You can't be afraid when it gets dark." Addison tells him.
She's back to watching her 'customer' with that same placid, attentive and curious face she began with. She places him a glass of whiskey next to his dominant hand and sets the bottle within easy reach.
"You see ghosts? It must be hard for you? You don't want to talk to me?"
A fragment of a memory, stuck in time. Repeating itself because it likely does not have the focus or awareness to spread itself out further. It's difficult to not feel pity for a girl who died twenty years ago -- a memory, a sliver of identity somehow caught in the nets of time. Limited, perhaps, in her ability to interact and communicate. Often, the very things and concepts that a ghost keeps returning to is the key to its returning.
"I see ghosts if they want me to see them," Ravn confirms a second time. "I can't make them appear if they don't want to be seen. A touch disorder is inconvenient, but as disabilities go it's in the light end, I just have to wear gloves and be careful. And I do indeed want to talk to you -- I just think we should talk about you, and not me."
The image of Addison hangs on every word Ravn says. His explanations seem to breath life into her. The room gets brighter. The activity in the bar becomes more crisp.
Right up until the point he doesn't want to talk about himself.
Addison's easy smile disappears once again into a shadow of frown and the bar dims, and the life in it dims. "Why? I like hearing about you."
<FS3> Ravn rolls History And Folklore: Great Success (8 8 7 6 6 6 5 4 3 1) (Rolled by: Ravn)
Index of creatures and entities that feed on the emotional energy and/or sense of self of mortals. Cut down a forest for me, this is going to be a long list.
Is that what this girl is? Some kind of energy vampire, using the gestalt of a dead woman? Play along, or stop playing. Stop playing and there is no information to be learned. "I don't think I'm very interesting," the folklorist replies. "But if it makes you happy to hear about me -- what would you like to hear? We can play a game -- I tell you one thing about me, and then you tell me one thing about you?"
Here's to hoping.
Addison disagrees. Ravn is very interesting (to her) and it shows on her face and that youthful exuberance. She watches him expectantly.
A stolen glance about; fuck Washington State law and not smoking indoors -- what's going to happen, de la Vega steps into this dream to write him a citation? Ravn fishes a cigarette out of a pocket and lights it with that old zippo of his. "All right. I go first, then?"
He holds up the zippo. "This used to belong to my grandfather. He was a very self-important bloke. Had his family coat-of-arms engraved on it just to remind everyone under his command who he was. Military man -- cavalry officer. Bred very fine Oldenburgers -- and half a dozen kids whom according to my father he never learned the names of, though I suspect my father may have been exaggerating."
Oh Addison is so very interested. She looks at the zippo and then back to Ravn. She looks like she's just seen a magic show, and wants to see more.
Grandfather was in the military? So interesting. Bred horses! Oh she loves horses. She doesn't quite get the humor of the old man spreading his seed, but she smiles like she understands.
"Wow..." she quietly intones. "Tell me more."
"Your turn," Ravn points out as a gentle reminder. "I tell you something, you tell me something."
"I like talking to you," Addison shares happily. "You can't be afraid when it gets dark," she tells him.
Very simple like, now she's watching him again with expectant eyes.
The bar has become lighter. It feels lighter. The proportions that were off seem to be correcting themselves and the activity in the peripheral view is more clearly defined to give a better illusion that there might be actual other people here.
Ravn acknowledges this. It's not the kind of 'something' he wanted to hear, but it is a something, and likely significant.
His turn, then. "When I was a kid I used to be afraid of the dark. There was a lot of dark in our house. An old wine cellar, and even a family crypt. I used to be afraid that there would be monsters living down there. My grandfather sometimes would tell stories of a hell hound who lived in the cellar, and must be kept appeased. He has a little bed there, and it must be made every morning. Once, a maid forgot and the dog shook himself so hard that the wall cracked. Now, I've never seen any hell hounds, but the bed is real enough, and it's family tradition to make it -- mostly because it's such a good story, though."
It's something, and it's on theme. Ravn glances at the girl. "What are you afraid of, when it gets dark?"
The atmosphere seems to brim with a sort of happy feeling energy. Addison seems to have a glow about her. Not a glowing luminescence, but a sated sort of glow.
"The hell hounds," she answers. "People don't always think what they're thinking."
The main door to The Pourhouse opens and in walks a giant shadow that drapes a dark human form across nearly the entirety of the fall wall and a third of the ceiling.
Addison draws back. She is breathing deeply and steady. Her face is contented and serene. Her soft brown eyes slowly gaze to the door and the shadow. When she looks back to Ravn it's a sadness. It's the way one looks at something they won't see again. "It's raining. You have to go."
And then he does. Ravn finds himself where he expects to be - having dozed off in some secluded area of Addington High.
At least he's not waking up next to a boardwalk bum to whom the idea of 'shower' means 'take your hat off in the rain' this time. Small mercies.
Ravn sits up and scratches his three-day stubble (probably should consider shaving at some point).
What are the odds? A murder mystery surfacing? This happens. A murder mystery surfacing at right this time, with a supernatural storm washing across multiple realities, and a haunting that speaks of darkness and rain?
He resists the urge to face plant. Of course it's not coincidence. And in Gray Harbor, you never get to be investigating just one mystery.
Tags: addisonconvo