2021-10-26 - The Prince and the Pauper, 21st Century Edition

Every piece of furniture in the craftsman's house that Ravn Abildgaard shares with Aidan Kinney has been picked out for comfort -- and unusual appearance is a boon. A thousand design styles are represented, and somehow, Kinney makes it work. It's the kind of place that should make Ravn wince -- whether he compares it all with the timeless elegance and priceless antique of his childhood home, or with the glass and steel surfaces of modern upscale apartments he has lived in since, every piece of furniture picked out or designed specifically for the location. Maybe that's why he is finding it all so comfortable; there's something to be said for living somewhere you can put your feet up, kick back, and not worry about appearances. Kinney's working miracles with next to nothing. Ravn can think of a number of people -- most of whom he is related to in one way or another -- who could take a lesson or two away, about the real value of objects and art. It's not the price tag, he muses. It's whether it bloody well speaks to you.

Not only did Ravn lost twelve weeks somehow, he apparently spent at least part of those twelve weeks buying some very real estate. Such an investment comes at a price besides writing the check: He has a mailing address now, one that's a good deal more permanent than living on a rented boat on the marina.

The folklorist has done a lot of things lately that equate, more or less, to painting himself red and running in circles around a bull fighting arena. He has drawn the Dark Men's attention over and over in recent months. He's given the Veil the proverbial finger. He's actively souring the dolorphages' crop of delicious despair, trying to inspire Gray Harbor to fight back, to look after one another, to not accept being farmed as livestock. There are entities on the Other Side who have the power to shape realities as they please; some seem to find him amusing but a number consider his actions a declaration of war. He's not very surprised when the letter comes.

It's just an invitation for a party. In New York City, at the Baccarat Hotel. A location which is, according to the brochure included in the envelope, pretty close to Hell on Earth as far as Ravn is concerned.

He looks at the pictures of stainless steel and pristine white interiors; white marble floors and artistic neon lights. The kind of place where wearing a t-shirt or a pair of jeans is likely to get you discreetly guided to the kitchen to become part of the canapées, because this place has appearances to uphold, and you will not ruin the hotel's aesthetic by something as base as being human. At just short of eight hundred bucks per person, per night, outside of special events.

Ravn sighs. It's his cousin's wedding. He's a US resident with a fixed address. The only acceptable excuses for not attending is being dead. And while he's willing to consider extreme measures, that might still be going a little too far. Have to admire whatever dolorphage conceived of this reality rewrite, though: Of all the horrors they could come up with to torture Ravn in specific, this is pretty damned spot on.

He reaches for his old Samsung phone, still residing in its well worn, sparkly pink plastic casing with the Hello Kitty motif. Invitation says 'plus one' and where he's from, plus one does not mean 'bring a friend if you've got one'. It means, 'you will be bringing a date if you have to rent one, and if you do, make sure she can comport herself appropriately'.

Does he want to do this to Hyacinth?

Truth is, she'd probably have a party. The Addington heir sure as hell wouldn't be intimidated by European aristocrats with their heads up their own arse. Might dish out a few life lessons to Ravn's cousins and uncles that they quite frankly are way overdue for. The Gazette may style Hyacinth the Lumber Baroness, but the USA fought a war to get out of from underfoot of European nobles, and Ravn is very certain she'd be more than capable of handing out a quick history lesson. And possibly arrange for having a few people thrown into Boston Harbour in order to drive her point home.

No, he doesn't want to do this to Hyacinth. Not in order to protect Hyacinth but to protect himself. The man the Corporate Conquistadora is dating is a scruffy academic, an ex-grifter who somehow ended up running a small-town community centre. Somebody who drinks at the Pourhouse and thinks owning more than two jackets is overkill. She knows where he's from but knowing intellectually and knowing are not the same thing. Hyacinth Addington's life is not short of rich young men hoping to win her affections. He doesn't want to sink back into the pool of hopefuls, does not want to reveal to her that beneath the facade, he's no different from the rest.

The number he taps is not hers.

(TXT to Itzhak) Ravn : I need your help. Big favour. And by big I mean trip to New York, all expenses paid. I am going to very badly need an emotional support animal and you're it.

(TXT to Itzhak) Ravn : Need to endure my family, an upscale hotel, and a wedding. And frankly, I'm going to need someone to hold my hair when I've drunk too much and end up in the men's room, throwing up out of alcohol poisoning and anxiety. Sending you tickets.

No logistics can't be solved by throwing money at the problem. He'll be at the Baccarat Hotel, in the appropriate apparel, at the proper time. And unless Itzhak Rosencrantz decides to take off without leaving a forwarding address, so will he. That's what friends are for. Ravn really hopes that's what friends are for.

(TXT to Ravn) Itzhak : you're gonna have to tell me if either of my suits are good enough. When are we leaving

(TXT to Ravn) Itzhak : Uh, look though, are you sure about bringing me? Don't get me wrong, course I'm going. Maybe I'm not so sure I ain't gonna embarrass you

(TXT to Itzhak) Ravn : Anyone I bring will embarrass me. That's why I want you there -- I know you'll have my back, and I know you won't give a shit what a herd of rich white Eurosnobs think. With a bit of your usual attitude, half of them will go home to fantasise about you behind each other's backs, and that is a most amusing thought. It's like a trip into the Veil to beat things up, only we beat them up verbally and they're actually blood relatives.

(TXT to Itzhak) Ravn : Don't worry about clothes. I don't have an appropriate outfit hanging around Gray Harbor either, we'll deal with that hurdle in New York. I hear they have shops there.

(TXT to Ravn) Itzhak : Hah, you're selling me pretty good here! We're bringing the violins

(TXT to Itzhak) Ravn : We are? All right, we're bringing the violins. Can always go busking in Central Park for shit and giggles and feeling sane after.

There's shopping, and there is shopping, and then there is shopping. There's walking into a store and finding something nice on the racks. There's walking into a store and letting the sales staff find you something nice. And there's walking into a store and being treated like you're a head of state come to relax at a fine lounge, and picking out clothes is almost a secondary affair.

Ravn knows this song and dance. He doesn't like it very much, but he knows exactly what's going to happen. Two men walk into a gentleman's boutique in an upscale part of Manhattan. They don't feel particularly badly dressed -- Ravn's a bit rough around the edges in all black and worn jeans, but the Italian leather jacket obviously doesn't come from a trash bin. Someone with the sartorial expertise he requires can see that, and rather than guiding them both right back out, discreet questions are asked.

He tells the sales assistant -- too posh here to have clerks -- his name, and drops that he is attending the Abildgaard-Robshaw wedding. The fact that the assistant doesn't need to ask what wedding that is says a lot. So does the speed with which both men find themselves seated comfortably with high end coffee to watch a human mannequin model clothes picked out by the assistant. The Count Abildgaard manages to not wince whenever he's addressed as 'my lord'; his discomfort is obvious to the eye of someone who knows him as well as Itzhak does, though.

The Dane is more than a bit relieved once they manage to exit to the limousine that the helpful shop has arranged for to take them to the hotel. He glances at the screen that guarantees them privacy from the driver -- and then leans back in his seat with an expression that's half exhaustion, half gallow's humour. "Have I mentioned how much I hate this dog and pony show? Within the last half hour?"

Nobody in New York needs to be told exactly where Itzhak comes from. The accent, the attitude, the schnozz--he's a Jew from a very obvious source. He fits here in a way he just doesn't in Gray Harbor. There's people on the street like him. Oh, maybe not exactly like him, God turned him out from a single mold, but certainly close enough. And Itzhak relaxes in a way that Ravn has never seen, when they hit the tarmac at JFK. Relaxes into what and where and who he is.

He spent most of his life here. It's still, in many ways, home.

That said he's a little nervous about all this high end stuff. He's used to being chased off by people dressed like this, or possibly arraigned by them, and Ravn's presence transforms their perception of him from "Lower East Side rough trade" to "probably a tech billionaire or something". Not that they would ever be so gauche as to imply either, not with Ravn lending him legitimacy. But. Still.

But still, he looks spectacular in the three piece. The shop has done its work well, giving him a rakishly skinny tie and a closer cut waistcoat, showing off his long lines and even his personality. Subtle, but unmistakable.

"I didn't know clothes could do that," was his remark on seeing himself in the triple mirrors.

Now, he gives Ravn an expressive roll of the eyes and spread of the hands. "Did they have to my-lord you that much?" Dat much. "It was getting weird. It was always weird but it was getting weirder."

"It's a British thing -- which their American descendants love to pounce on. The list of proper addresses for British nobility is literally pages." Ravn makes a face; Itzhak will get subjected to the Scandinavian take soon enough and in its own way, it's just as bad. "I swear to God, if you ever my lord me, I'll scream. People ask me why I keep this stuff quiet, this is why."

If anything, he's relieved at how unimpressed Itzhak is by it all. Things are only going to get worse, after all, and Ravn is reminding himself that that's the point. This is not a dream experience -- but he's going to convert to fundamentalist veganism before he's going to believe that the timing of this wedding is coincidental. The Veil can dress him up like Maid Marian in her tower and all he'll do is laugh and enjoy the ride; put him back where he came from, though, and the only thing on his mind is how soon he can escape. The Veil always finds a crack in your armour.

His armour is certainly elegant now, though. Slate grey silk so dark it's almost black; his tie a smidgen wider than Itzhak's because part of the signal he intends to send is that he's got no signal to send. To an army of relatives -- his own, his cousin's, and her groom's -- the message Ravn wants to send is that of the quiet, conservative, irrelevant man who may happen to hold the family's title, but really, it's a technicality.

He groans. "Just so you know -- when we turn up together, a lot of people are going to assume that we're a couple, and we're just being discreet by not showing affection in public. Keeping up appearances, all that. A lot of other people are going to somewhat more correctly guess that I brought a friend because I don't have a woman to bring -- so there'll be obligatory introductions to half a dozen debutantes who are no doubt as weirded out as I am, about nineteen-year-olds getting tossed at thirty-one-year-olds. And finally, there's going to be a few who will actually ask, and feel free to tell any of those that actually, yes, I am seeing someone, and when she thinks the world should know, the world will know."

Typical Ravn, really. He may have the title and the position but in his world, it's Hyacinth who's the elevated one, who gets to make those calls. She puts up with him, after all.

"Yeah I figured," Itzhak says absently, looking out the window at the Upper West Side sliding by, hooking one finger in his tie to loosen it a touch. Unlike every other day of his life, he's shaved beautifully, glass smooth, and the line of his jaw is unexpectedly elegant, turned just that way. "Okay not about the debutantes, I ain't exactly sure what a debutante is, but I'm gonna say I'm just a buddy doing you a big favor by coming along. You know, about how you're gonna owe me so much pizza and beer."

Sure, Itzhak, an enormous favor you're doing by going to the wedding of the season, that'll go over great. He doesn't seem to have any idea how that sounds.

"All the pizza and beer," Ravn murmurs. As far as he's concerned, two other guys are very welcome to attend the wedding of the season. "A debutante is -- eh, long and short of it? Girl who's old enough to get hitched, getting shown off in a nice dress for unmarried blokes like me to pick out a wife who can represent and have my kids. They'll be on their fathers' arms, all look but no touch."

The Baccarat Hotel is nothing if not beautiful. Its interiors are timelessly elegant in that way of combining glass and steel with expensive wood and rough surfaces until no one's certain if this is 1931 or 2021. It's the kind of place that will tell you that if you have to ask the price -- then it's not for you. It's not the most exclusive or expensive hotel in New York City, far from -- and that's the point, no doubt. A truly exclusive, entirely private affair, the kind you rent a private island for, would not get the kind of press that the family of the groom desires.

Cameras flash as limousines barf out guests onto the red carpet. People walk inside, two and two or in family groups. A number of the faces are well known enough to attract the attention of reporters and gossip columnists.

Ravn is not sorry to see that. He finds the whole setup to be garish and tasteless in that way he's come to associate with rich Americans; the need to show off and make headlines. He's not sorry at all when reporters and camera men seem to largely ignore Itzhak and himself; the tall New Yorker gets a few glances but they're just a couple of well dressed unknowns and look, is that Liv Tyler?

"Let's just find a corner and a stiff drink and try to stay out of sight, shall we?" There's got to be a bar inside somewhere, and the one perk of this whole trip will be getting drunk on high end whiskey.

Itzhak looks over in surprise at learning what a debutante is, then twists that long face up in a scowl. "Seriously? That's fuckin' gross."

Even he, however, gets a wrench of anxiety at the sight of a sea of popping flashbulbs. A performer he may be, but it wasn't so long ago he didn't love the spotlight either. It took Gray Harbor's unique alchemy to work that change in him, or maybe to make him realize he'd always belonged there. He stares out the tinted windows as the limo waits its turn to discharge them.

"Oy, that's a lotta paps," he murmurs, rubbing over his mouth. "Can't break all their cameras. I guess." Then he grins at Ravn, one sided, and whaps the seat between them in lieu of touching him directly. "C'mon, they won't know what hit 'em."

When he gets out it's with such panache that he does draw some attention. Anybody who rocks on up like that has got to be somebody, right? Who sets a long gorgeous dress boot on the red carpet like he's making it remember his name? And who then waits for his companion, grinning at him, saying something to him, ignoring the attention he just pulled ever so briefly from Liv Tyler? Who is this guy and his, what, boyfriend?

Let's try to stay out of sight. That works great if your plus one isn't Itzhak Rosencrantz.

"Hey whatever you want," he says as they stride up the carpet, long legs taking matching strides.

Was it really a year ago that Itzhak sat in the aft of the Vagabond and casually tapped out a rythm on his own knee, breaking the camera of a paparazzo hiding in the cliffs surrounding Gray Harbor's marina? Feels like less, a lot less.

Cameras flash; some of them Itzhak's way. If a couple of newspaper interns get tasked with identifying the New Yorker and his presumed boyfriend tomorrow, Ravn doesn't feel very guilty. If one of the society pages does manage to mislabel Itzhak as some C-list celebrity and companion, he'll laugh all the louder.

He could slink behind Itzhak, try to hide from the bright lights behind his friend; and heaven knows that he's tempted. This whole setup is a bit too glittery to quite meet conservative European ideals of upper class social events, it's well within the Venn Diagram of Things Ravn Was Raised For and Things Ravn Hates. He knows how to act. He knows that the most efficient way to draw the least attention is to act exactly as expected; and he does. The man who stepped into that limousine was a tall, Danish guy who hates having to wear a tie. The man who steps out of it, behind Itzhak, is someone else entirely; a quiet statement of class and high breeding, someone who doesn't need to draw attention because the world already knows to dutifully revolve around him. Eight hundred years' of privilege says I don't need to tell you who's boss here. You already know that I know that you know.

Doors open. The Harmonie Room of the Baccarat receives the most exalted guests (including our merry protagonists); the room's prismatic glass walls gently reflect the light of sconces and city light, creating the illusion of a pristine, fairytale glass palace. Wait staff circle quietly, discreetly, making certain that champagne flows freely; ripe young daughters grace their father's arms, and the ladies in their gowns resemble nothing as much as beautiful, colourful birds. Opulence means showing off your wealth; forcing others to acknowledge it -- and some of the groom's family do indeed match that description. They're given slightly disapproving looks by men and women who never needed to remind anyone of their status.

Most people present are American; the groom's side of the family. Maybe this is why Ravn could not dodge the occasion -- he's one of few people on the bride's side who are in fact on the right continent at the right time.

The bride -- named, evidently, Marie Louise, Malou to her friends -- is a beautiful blond girl, diminutive of size and slightly awkward; there's little physical resemblance to her tall cousin but for the eyes; the same shade of blue-grey steel. She smiles at Ravn as he pays his respects and says a few things to him in Danish; good to see you, thank you for coming. It's obvious that while the two are relatives, they are not close.

She shakes Itzhak's hand too and whispers to him, in heavily accented English, that she's glad somebody finally has caught her cousin's eye.

It might be overhearing that which makes Ravn head directly for the far end of the room and the open bar.

Here is a mask Itzhak has glimpsed once before. Not in all its glory, though. And the difference between that moment when he realized Ravn hadn't been as honest about himself as he could have been and this moment striding at his side is that now he knows better. Now he knows the same man lives under that mask, a man who hates what he was raised to be. A man who has spent years unknitting what he was forced into by things he couldn't control.

Itzhak can relate.

Marie Louise's tiny hand in his big knuckly paw (can't hide his scars and calluses and why would he want to?), he leans in to better understand her accent. Then up go the eyebrows. "Someone has," he tells her, "and maybe some time you can meet her. I'm just a friend. Hey, great to meet you, mazel tov, yeah?"

And off he swans after Ravn. He's gonna need help drinking up this open bar.

An anthropologist might settle on a folding chair with a notebook to observe the behaviour of these two tribes of humans, forced by circumstance to occupy the same space. Like two family groups of chimpanzees or gorillas -- they look rather alike on the surface but once you start looking closer, it becomes evident that these animals are intelligent enough to have developed social codes and communications exclusive to their own family group. A matter as simple as a greeting to a stranger or near-stranger shines an unexpected light on the differences. Ravn makes it across the Harmonie Room's wide, open floor -- and on his way, he is intercepted, many times. Introductions to members of the groom's family. A polite quick exchange with members of the bride's.

The Americans go through a process of recognition; another well dressed European becomes my lord once they're told his name. A great deal of them get hung up on trying to decide on the proper form of address; my lord, Mr Abildgaard, Count Abildgaard, what's the right cue here?

The Danes all just call him Ravn. Though they do so in a way that somehow seems even more formal. A stranger might get to hide in the obscurity of Mr Abildgaard. Ravn, on the other hand, is an estate, a heritage, and the man upon whose shoulder it rests is just the front figure for eight hundred years' worth of family history.

One of those things that will never make sense to Americans -- and as it doesn't really make a lot of sense to Ravn himself either, he's not going to try to explain it. Nor does he bother to correct anyone -- as always, people can call him whatever the hell they like. He's partial to Itzhak's Ravshka simply because it's unrelated to any of it.

The bartender, American though he may be, recognises the look of a man who needs a stiff drink. He pours a whiskey that probably has a stud book as long as Ravn's own and serves it up on ice, in a crystal tumbler. Ravn accepts it and rests his elbows on the counter, looking back at Itzhak. He called the other man his emotional support violinist in his text earlier, and it wasn't a joke. The temptation to just walk away, disappear, leave everyone here wondering where the hell he went, and whether this means that the house of Abildgaard does in fact not approve of this union --

So very tempting.

Itzhak tips his head at Ravn, to the bartender. "Whatever he's having." So he too gets whiskey of unusual vintage. He tastes it, eyebrows popping up, and he pauses in the unmistakable way of someone very pleasantly surprised. "Damn. That's way too good to get white girl wasted on."

Because that is the plan.

He leans his own elbow on the pristine marble bar top and looks back at Ravn. Hooded, complicated gray-hazels flecked with green and amber regard the other man and for once? It's not obvious what Itzhak is thinking.

"This is terrible." Oh, there it is. Itzhak takes another drink. The single gorgeous sphere of perfect clear ice goes clink. "I had no idea."

"Fucking god-awful," Ravn murmurs back, using language that definitely doesn't go with his appearance and station. "We blow this joint as soon as we can possibly get away with."

White girl wasted is not an expression he's heard before, but he's willing to consider the idea of calling himself Sue for an evening, to try it out. More so when it becomes evident in short time that this event comes with no option -- for him at least -- of slinking into a corner with a drink and just waiting it out like any other wall flower. No quiet acerbic ridiculing the peacock parade for Ravn -- he's the holder of the family's title, and that, apparently, comes with an obligation to greet everyone who thinks they're somebody.

For a man whose hands are prone to start shaking when more than three people are looking at him at once, this is Hell. The Veil couldn't have done it better. Forget dressing him up as Maid Marian, forget carnivorous mermaids, forget dragons or headless horsemen or even being turned into a plastic toy and nearly eaten by a demon cat -- this, as mundane as it is, is far, far worse. Visibly so, in the way he withdraws into himself. Perfectly polite, a facade of smooth, polished steel. Disassociating so hard you have to wonder where his mind went, because New York certainly isn't it. And somehow, he manages to smile, nod, exchange a few words and a careful handshake with every person who comes up to chat about the weather and how beautiful the bride is and nothing whatsoever of consequence.

A garden of peacocks. With as many brain cells being put to use as you'd expect from peacocks. It's a complex social dance in which nothing of value is said or done, and this is quite intentional.

The one bird to stand out is the native New Yorker. It's hard to pinpoint what exactly makes him do so. It's not his looks, unique as they are -- there are other people in the room who stand out in terms of not meeting the perfectly bland west European mold; a couple of mediterraneans, even a black couple. It might be the way his hazel eyes take in everything, and remain unimpressed.

Whatever it is, it's enough to draw the attention of a number of those debutantes and other young people who are probably exactly as bored as you'd expect. This is the most ridiculously dull social function possible as far as they are concerned; nothing to do but drink and eat the canapées and wait while parents mingle and exchange cards and watch each other like hawks to learn whose stars are rising and whose stars are falling. A girl in a peach dress with puffy sleeves slides up to casually occupy a barstool next to Itzhak; her jewellery alone is worth a small house. Next to her, a lanky youth in his early twenties, saying nothing but staring intently into the other man's eyes every chance he gets -- maybe this is what passes for flirting in his world.

He doesn't belong here, and he doesn't care that he doesn't belong here. Or perhaps it's not that. Perhaps it's that he has a mission, and that mission is protecting the scion of the house of Abildgaard (the bodacious, kabillionth of his name). In that way, Itzhak very much belongs precisely where he is: one elbow on the bar, boot heel hooked through a rung of the stool, wearing the absolute hell out of an eye-wateringly expensive suit because he isn't thinking about it. If he thought about it he'd go awkward but he's only thinking about how to tank this. Check his angles. Use available cover. Get out of the fight if it goes bad, push it if it goes well.

"From your lips to God's ear," he mutters into the whiskey.

Then, oh, what have we here? His eyes tick over to the pair of hopefuls, while his enormous schnozz is still navigating not colliding with the ice sphere. He swallows, licks burning-sweet liquor from the corner of his mouth. "Lemme ask you somethin'," he says to them both, turning so he's facing them more, putting himself between them and Ravn. "This party. Is this fun for you guys? Are you, like, into this?"

Ravn glances at the two people whom Itzhak takes it on himself to intercept. Something niggles at his mind -- and then the penny drops and he very quickly sips his drink because this train is off the rails already and the crash might actually be a relief from the mind killing boredom and the soul ripping anxiety.

"It's nice," the girl replies with a small nasal lilt; she's not American either, though what she is exactly -- it's not the same accent as Ravn sports. "Still, New York? I want to get married in Venice. Or maybe Rio de Janeiro, during the carnival. But not New York."

Maybe she likes masks and costumes.

"It's really quite dull, isn't it? The trick is to wait until somebody comes up with something more exciting to do." The lanky man strays a few steps closer and more or less accidentally puts himself between Itzhak and Ravn. He speaks with a crisp British accent -- a genuine one, sounds like. "You're the groom's family, I take it? Good to meet you. Mads Rosenkrantz-Theill."

"Ahh don't fuckin' lie, this sucks." Itzhak could make that sound flirtatious, like he's just been waiting for some bored pretty thing to present him with the chance to whisk her away. But no. He sounds genuinely disgusted. He tips the crystal tumbler up and that is when Mads Rosenkrantz-Thiell makes his move.

By getting in between Itzhak and the man he's protecting.

Bad move, Mads. Itzhak's eyes lock on him. Hearing the last name that's his own makes him blink once. Then he's staring at him, a prison-yard stare, a stare that shouts. All the rules of this place, this party and the money and breeding on display, say Itzhak should make some polite noise and nod along. Whatever the fuck Mads Rosenkrantz-Thiell wants to say to him, he should put up with.

That doesn't happen. Instead, this silent threat, this sudden transformation that makes Itzhak a feral, fanged thing in a gorgeous suit. Ravn is in danger, he knows that to the bone. No creepy asshole gets to put himself between them. Not on Itzhak's watch.

The pretty, bored thing is going to have to find herself some other intriguing clash of archetypes to make eyes at. Itzhak drew her eye due to that strangely alluring combination; a tattooed, sharp wolf straight off the streets, dressed in the most luxurious silks money can buy -- she's not certain what he is, but international spy, drug cartel owner, or secretly the dictator of a small island nation is on her list of suggestions.

The rejection in the man's voice only cements those misconceptions. And reminds her that maybe, just maybe, she's not quite up for realising her fantasies about being whisked away by someone like that. When push comes to shove, rich and dangerous is great -- but she remembers how Scarface and Goodfellas end, too.

Mads Rosenkrantz-Theill must have drawn somewhat similar conclusions. While he is not secretly hoping to live out some bizarre Fifty Shades of Abducted by Bad Boy Millionaire fantasy, he too is hoping to have strayed into the presence of some Colombian drug baron; mostly because he could use a hit to help pass this most tedious afternoon and evening. If he's in any way surprised that Ravn might keep company like that he doesn't let it show. Pablo Escobar's dollars bought as much as anyone else's. Investigations into the whereabouts of certain Nazi fortunes are on-going, and do you know what your man in Wall Street is doing?

Whatever Mads Rosenkrantz-Theill, he of no less than two noble Danish names, is thinking, he gets another good look at Itzhak and decides to think it somewhere else. He turns to Ravn and murmurs something in their own, shared language before absconding.

Whatever it was he mumbled, Ravn did not deem it worthy of an answer. The Dane steps up to Itzhak instead; the one man at the bar who apparently sees no reason to fear a feral, fanged thing. "I need to breathe," he murmurs, voice quiet and strained. "Let's find somewhere we're allowed to smoke before I pick up a cake fork and stab somebody to death with it."

"Yeah." Itzhak's voice almost doesn't make it out. His free hand has gone from casually open to a fist. As he moves to push off from the bar, he notices and forces himself to relax it open again. Last drain of the whiskey and he clacks the tumbler down on the bar. "C'mon, I gotta piss."

He sets off towards the gents'. People make room for him, without quite knowing that they are. That's okay, as Itzhak has hardly any idea he's walking like he's hoping to get to ruin someone's day.

It's for the best. That storm cloud on long, lanky legs cut a swathe through a crowd of people who would otherwise have stopped Ravn at every turn, to ask his opinion about something insignificant, introduce him to their unwed daughter or cousin, or just make sure to get seen with one of the posh Europeans, which one was this one again.

There are one or two of the Americans who recognise that look on the New Yorker's face and consider making something of it. Fortunately they have wives on their elbows, wives who don't want to end up making headlines for having to bail husbands out or just getting thrown out of the event of the season at the Baccarat.

Behind him, Ravn recognises it too and for once in his life he's just grateful for it. He's able to glide into Itzhak's slipstream and somehow end up in the men's room one step behind him. Thank God for small mercies.

He glances around. No one else is there, not even a couple of bored businessmen doing a quick line before diving back in. The Dane quickly reaches into a pocket to take out his battered old zippo with the family coat-of-arms and a silver cigarette etui; a strange display of snobbery, one might think, until it becomes obvious he stashed a pack of joints from back home for exactly this purpose. Ravn has no idea whether smoking pot is legal or not in the state of New York but he's bloody well going to do whatever it takes to keep his anxiety from blowing his brains out.

Hardly left or right does Itzhak look. Only quick acknowledging glances at the few men who seem to want to challenge him, who can't stand the sight of him. Yeah? his eyes say in those microseconds. You and what army, pal?

Nobody takes him up on it. Funny.

He turns at the sound of plastic, and grins ruefully. "Came prepared, huh? Good call."

"Just have to get through this afternoon, then we can get the hell out of here. Don't have to stick around for the formal dinner and schmoozing after unless you absolutely want to." Ravn's expression is easy to read: He definitely doesn't want to. "And I need to not get drunk enough to do something I'll regret. Just have to remind myself no one here gives a fuck what I do or say, they only care that I showed up. And now I've done so, I can bugger off back to the small town in nowhere that for some reason I've decided to live in."

He sighs. "I don't have words to express how much I loathe all of this. The pretence, the putting on airs, the absurd wastefulness of it all. The shamelessness."

"They don't. Christ, they really don't." Itzhak takes care of the whole needing to pee thing, talking throughout the process and washing up. "They don't care who you are. It's like getting arrested. You ain't you. You're some criminal. Nobody gives a fuck what happens to you after that because you're a criminal now and you deserve it. Why on God's green earth would I want to stay through a formal dinner? I couldn't stab anyone with the cake fork, I dunno which one that is! I'd gotta stab 'em with some fork that would be super gauche. Would you light that thing already I'm dying ovah heah."

Kvetch powers: activate.

"It's the one with two prongs next to the -- you know what, forget it. Easier to murder someone by drowning them in the soup bowl anyhow." Ravn can't help laugh as he lights the joint, takes a deep hit from it, and passes it over. "But I'm not sorry to hear you say that. Means we're out of here first chance we get. And then we go ... I don't know, but whatever we do, we do it somewhere people wear jeans and drink straight from the bottle. Could go hit Central Park with our violins for all I care, just get me the hell out of here."

So, probably not a social butterfly at high end gatherings back home, either.

Itzhak takes a nice long hit, then totally bogarts another before passing it back. Exhaling fragrant, heavy smoke, he relaxes some, leaning a hip against the counter. That bristling threat has subsided, but it's never far from the surface, is it? Too dearly bought to be otherwise. Too needed. Especially right here, right now.

He gazes at Ravn with the concentration of the kind of stoned. Then he says abruptly, "Let's go burn these suits."

He's not the only one to take a strong hit or two, and visibly relax for doing so. "Burn them, donate them to charity, throw them in the Hudson. What a splendid idea."

This from the man who usually buys half his clothes from secondhand shops because he thinks a turtleneck is a turtleneck and really, have a little climate awareness.

The Dane shakes his head a little. "I'm sorry I dragged you into this. It's not even bad -- should see these things when people have old grudges, sometimes going back generations. I am glad you're here, though. Makes me feel slightly less insane -- makes me feel like this is insane, not me. It's all so..."

The words taper off. False? Fake? Glittery? Awful? Pretentious?

Itzhak shakes his head right back. "Don't. It don't bother me none. Nobody in there ever had to tank Joey Kelly, there ain't nothing they can do to me. Tell you something though. Everybody in New York knows these things are gross and it's kinda nice to get to see they really are and it ain't just wishful thinking." He claims another hit and lets his head back, sighing. "Now what am I gonna do with you? Where I'd go after this, it wouldn't be where you'd go. I'd find a fight to get into or a street race or a jam session, yannow? Pretty sure you'd hate any of that."

"Could maybe get up for a jam session," Ravn murmurs. It's not home, after all. Anyone he plays with here will have forgotten his name in the morning. Or maybe he's still trying to push back his invisibility boundaries. They're not working very well in Gray Harbor anymore anyhow; the HOPE project has pretty much ended that option since the Veil creatures he's trying to be an arsepain to know well enough where to push his buttons. Ravn is not managing to pass unnoticed in the community very well anymore.

Some might argue it's about time.

Suddenly, a chuckle. "You know where I'd usually go after something like this? On my own, I mean? I'd go to my hotel room and pass out drunk. Or if I felt I could get away with it, I'd go to the nearest train station, get on the first train, and just see where it'd take me."

"Hotel room?" Itzhak pulls a face. "Passing out drunk I support, but hotel room? Boychik, we got all of NY fuckin' C to pass out drunk in. Who exactly is gonna stop us?" He grins at Ravn, a grin that anticipates trouble and is enjoying the thought. "You ready to blow this lousy party and have some fun?"

"I have a native guide and a deep and passionate urge to be anywhere but here. Let's get the hell out. I made my appearance. Happy ever after, blah blah, come see me in Denmark, oh wait, I don't live there, too bad." Ravn makes a face; the last thing he wants is for any of these upper crust people turn up in Gray Harbor. But then, there's nothing in Gray Harbor for them to turn up for besides the Casino, which in turn is not his turf.

He also makes a mental note that if any of them actually do, he's tossing them to Hyacinth. She'll know what to do with useless rich people.

"So, where would my native guide take me, and do we change clothes first?"