2021-11-15 - London Leatherboys and Spanish Nobility

Meeeeeh.

And that just about sums up how Ravn Abildgaard feels about trying to operate the coffee machine. It's right there on the counter of what used to be a butcher shop's front room and is now the reception area slash open office slash coffee corner slash whatever else might need, look, there are chairs. It's more that it's actually kind of painful and complicated to go through the process of filling kettle, finding a cup, dosing instant coffee -- when both your hands are in bandages.

On the up side, for once in his life he's not wearing gloves.

A few muttered curses in his native language and he can lean against the counter, waiting for the electric kettle to be done. He does so, rolling his eyes at himself because the next step of this plan involves checking the centre's emails and if operating an electric kettle is hard, just wait until you try to type on a tablet.

Isi is smarter than Ravn in this particular endeavor. SHE went to a coffee shop and has a wonderful large cup of joe in her hand. And miracle of miracles, she has one for Ravn too.

Walking in though, she's not going to give it to him right away. She's going to tease him first. "You look like you're in pain - what happened? Something nibbled on your fingers?"

Yes, she is wiggling that cup as she says it.

Ravn can't help laugh. He knows Isi well enough by now to expect nothing less; the acerbic accountant likes giving him a hard time.

Then he shakes his head. "I fell through a glass table. Well, technically I got thrown through one. By a cow. That I was trying to ride out of a restaurant. Because Gray Harbor, you know? I probably owe Leontes a date, too -- one where we eat vegetarian and make terrible jokes about steak. How are you? Anything particular bring you past us today, or were you just feeling like a chat?"

"Well, that sucks." Isi says after a moment of thought. She actually does sound like she thinks it sucks. She goes over to a table and sits down the extra coffee on the table.

"Yeah, actually, you keep mentioning you don't know anything about First Nations, so I asked my grandma to write down a story so I could bring it to you."

Dangle coffee and stories in front of a folklorist with bandaged hands? Don't need to ask twice. Ravn is on a chair across the table from Isi before she's finished that second sentence.

"I do know some stories," he says, almost apologetically. "But I'm pretty certain the stories I know have been -- how to put it, white washed? Retold for a European audience. I know how I feel about Norse mythology getting turned into American comic books. I can only imagine you must feel similar when some guy with luminescent white skin starts lecturing you on how your ancestral myths are supposed to go down. So I try not to -- really prefer to only speak with confidence on things that are actually within my field."

Alexander slinks in the front door like a criminal about to case the joint. It's a weird sort of heist, though, because after he looks around, he leaves again, then comes back pulling a little red wagon, which has been piled high with building and renovation supplies. The wagon squeaks as he drags it to a place beside the wall, and starts unloading the supplies. All without a 'hi', 'hello', or even 'do you want this stuff?'. Maybe he stole it from a construction site and needs to offload it quick. His hair is mussed, and under the olive green jacket, he's wearing a faded Metallica band shirt, so old that the logo can barely be made out.

"... dang boy." She says as Ravn seems to momentarily get the gift of flight. She pushes the coffee towards him and tturns to dig through her clothing for some folded pieces of paper. The story itself is written in really scratchy writing that even Isi has to frown to figure out. "Grandma wasn't super happy about writing it down for me - there's a lot of resistance to putting down an oral tradition into English. The number of people who even speak Sahaptin are pretty low, even though they've tried pushing into the schools a little. IT's not 'traditional."

Poor Ravn is going to have to wait for the story because when Alexander walks in Isi's expression turns to a frown. "Every time I see you I think you can't dress worse- and then you do. That must be your talent."

Hello is overrated.

"Hello, Clayton." Ravn in turn doesn't look very surprised -- he's either used to Alexander's dress code, or used to Alexander's antics, or both. He raises a bandaged hand to wave -- look, no gloves! -- and seems happy enough to see the older man. "Did you empty a construction site on your way in?"

Not much surprise to see someone lugging supplies in here. Repairs and renovations are ongoing. They will be for a while yet, given that everything is volunteer based. Far more surprising how the Dane manages to get the lid off his paper coffee cup with hands like that. Surprising enough that he realises it and looks up, and murmurs, somewhat sheepishly, "Where there's a will, there's a way?"

Cheating bastard used his shine, no doubt.

"Fuck you, Ms. Cameron," Alexander says, although without much heat to it. He unloads the last can of paint, brushes his hands on his jeans, then wanders over to where Isi and Ravn are sitting. He avoids the auditor, but hovers near Ravn, looking over the man's shoulder at the paper with absolutely no shame for the eavesdropping. "No. The sewers back up on Elm every fucking time it rains. The storm ruined my carpets. Had to replace them. That stuff is what I didn't use." A frown. "What happened to your hands? And what is this?"

Isi smiles at the 'fuck you.' This is nice solid ground she's on. "Isi. If you're going to give a fuck about names meaning shit to people, use the one that is me."

Pulling up a leg Isi gets real comfortable by wrapping her arms around it and settling her chin on her knee. It's a precarious and unbalanced position, but comfortable. "It's one of the stories of the Spilyáy - showing that he's not just a trickster, though that's part of him."
Enjoy: https://cpb-us-e1.wpmucdn.com/blogs.uoregon.edu/dist/5/13162/files/2016/12/3-shana-brown-3.2_Spilyay-Breaks-The-Dam-15ajmtk.pdf

"Oh, you two have already made friends, sounds like." Ravn chuckles and twists the paper a little so Alexander can see, too. "Please tell me these were the old carpets -- the mouldy ones? Be a shame to replace new ones."

He glances at his bandage-gloved mitts. "Bad dream. Found myself on a fancy date with Leontes, a girl I know I've met but can't remember the name of, and a girl I'm pretty sure I've never met before. Ended with me trying to ride a bull out of the restaurant, and getting thrown. Ended up going through a glass table. The only nice thing I have to say about it is that at least the hideous calf-length pink trenchcoat I was wearing suffered more damage than me."

The folklorist glances back to Isi. "That's Coyote, yes? Let me guess -- he's only a simple, laughable trickster figure in the white washed version. Just like Loki."

"I don't think we're friends," Alexander tells Ravn, bluntly. He moves to take a seat, careful not to actually brush against Ravn - for both their sakes - as he maneuvers around. One eyebrow goes up. "Three girls at once? Ravn, are you sure the injuries happened in a dream, and not when Hyacinth found out about the dream?" His voice is light and teasing, for once, the smile lightening his features. He glances at Isi, then says, "Fine. Isi," before turning his attention to the story.

"Basically," Isi responds, but doesn't say much more. "Even grandma goes back and forth saying Coyote and Spilyay. Mother doesn't speak the language at all. She was one of the last at the boarding schools set up to reeducate the natives into proper Christians." Yes, there is a serious bite in Isi's words as she names the religion. There's some animosity there.

"Oh, two of the girls were apparently issued with dream dates who turned out to be cows in disguise." Ravn hitches a shoulder; dream logic. "I was there, apparently, with Perdita -- we figured we were a couple given that her dress matched my coat and the wait staff certainly seemed to assume we'd be seated together."

He pauses. "I kind of wish Hyacinth'd been there. She'd have been able to give that place a review so bad even the Veil creatures would hand in their resignations in shame. Better business bureau, something. Also, she'd have laughed her ass off at the idea of Leontes and me, together, I think. We are far too alike to get along that way -- it takes a thief to catch a thief, sure, but you'll never catch a thief trusting another thief."

The sharpness in Isi's tone breaks the Dane out of his mild amusement though, and he nods. "I can imagine. I know how I feel whenever white supremacy groups appropriate Norse myth and art. It's bloody insulting, that's what it is."

"The residential schools were horrors," Alexander says, quietly. It's all he says about it...but it's worth noting that Alexander's bar for 'horrible' is set pretty damned high. He finishes reading the story, and his mouth twitches upwards. "That's a good story." He sits back, eyes flicking back and forth between the two of them. "That's...a weird Dream. Even for Gray Harbor, that's a weird one. I wonder if the Shadows have intoxicants. Sometimes they definitely seem stoned off their ass when they make these things."

"Yeah - but I can't help but be envious sometimes. At least the stories are being remembered - even butchered." There's a wistfulness in Isi's words and she deliberately does NOT look at Alexander in that moment of weakness. "Being here..." but no, moment over. She shakes her head and refocuses on the conversation about the dream.

"Thief?" This is new information.

Ravn sips his coffee with obvious pleasure; maybe this is the first he's managed to acquire with those bandaged mitts of his. "I used to be a thief and a low key grifter. Perdita used to be -- well, I haven't asked the details but she's got a history. Enough that we'd be more likely to swap tips and tricks of the trade than sweet nothings if trapped together in a dark corner."

He says it with complete innocence, too, -- as if confessing to a past criminal career is a perfectly normal thing. Then he nods at Alexander. "It sure seems like it sometimes. Makes you wonder if a lot of it is just randomly pulled out of our heads, kind of like those dreams you have two minutes before your alarm goes off. The nonsensical ones with no real continuity or purpose, just sort of weird random things."

Alexander gives Ravn a look for being so open about his criminal past, and sighs. He doesn't say anything about it, for once. Instead, he tackles the issue of Dreams. "I think it's multiple people," he says, after a moment. "I never had really weird dreams when it was just me. They were strange, or fantastic, but linked strongly to my fears. I could see where they were coming from, even if I can't do anything about it. But I think when multiple people get Lost together, it's harder to 'catch' the right emotional resonance. Sometimes you end up with something horrific. Other times, there are singing fish or mermaids or something. I think."

"Fuck - it's like I just feel into a philosophy lecture again." Isi says at their musing, shaking her head slowly. "Occam's razor says that the simplest explanation is probably right. Whatever 'they' are like fucking with us and the only way to get maximum enjoyment is to keep us guessing."

"I have no idea what you're referring to, Mr. Abildgaard." comes from the doorway as Perdita slips in. Dressed in a glittery dress, faux fur coat and a pair of ankle high stiletto boots her dark hair falls in waves to her hips. Someone broke out the remy hair extensions and spent even longer than normal on her appearance this morning.

"I tried swapping sweet nothings, but you were utterly oblivious." she, too, has come bearing gifts, a large box of donuts in one hand and one of those big 'My office is throwing a party and we want take out coffee' style thermoses. "You look like shit." she tells Ravn, sympathetically.

"Sounds plausible enough to me." Ravn hitches that shoulder again. "To a -- "

He turns around, laughing. "Being utterly oblivious to that sort of thing is what I do, surely you've noticed that by now. There's a reason it took Hyacinth three months and losing patience with waiting for me to make a move." He's clearly not even the slightest embarrassed about his lack of romantic aptitude, either.

"I feel like shit too," the Dane beams back. "And if you think making coffee like this is hard? Try showering."

"There's nothing wrong with philosophy lectures," Alexander tells Isi. "And Occam's Razor says the simplest explanation that accounts for all available evidence is usually the right one. But they do like fucking with us. They want to eat us." He twitches as Perdita enters, turning to give her a suspicious look that only abates when he recognizes her. "Perdita. Hello." He stares at the dress, frowning. Then he turns back to Ravn, and shrugs. "Trick to showering while injured is a chair. But not one that rusts. Foldable plastic chair works okay."

"Except that a philosophy lecture is fucking boring and never solves anything?" Isi returns at Alexander, snorting before turning to look Perdita up and down.

"I wish so badly you swung for the other team when you dress like that." She says, letting her leg drop to the floor. For showering, she's got something, but see how she closes her lips and DOES NOT SAY IT?

Progress people. Progress.

"Ravn, was that an invitation to shower with you?" Perdita asks, her voice breathy, lips parted ever so slightly as her head tilts to catch the light. The slight metallic sheen of her nude eyeshadow and the gloss of her lips both catch the light. It's a little overexaggerated, playful, rather than earnest... but maybe she should have tried that tactic from the start. She turns that look to Alexander with a raised eyebrow, "Do I have something on my dress?" she asks the man... and then the gaze turns to Isi, with the same slight smolder. "You never asked if I do. Donut, anyone? They're vegan." she sets the box and the coffee down, shrugging out of the coat and draping effortlessly into a chair. Someone is definitely feeling her oats, today.

"See above, injuries, girlfriend finding out," Ravn returns, laughing and raising his bandaged hands, coffee cup still balancing between them. "But don't anyone complain if I whine at them about having to sponge bathe until I can peel the bandages off. Also, please don't buy glass tables. And if you do, don't keep bulls in the kitchen. Did you manage to escape unscathed, Perdy?"

Irritation snaps in Alexander's eyes as he looks at Isi. "Philosophy isn't fucking boring," he mutters, and when she turns look Perdita up and down, he makes a face at her. Very mature, for the oldest person in the room.

He subsides at Perdita's look, and shrugs. "It's a very shiny dress," he says. "Seems wasted on this town. Why are you here?" The rest of the banter seems to fly over his head. Or maybe he's just in full Nosy Mode, now.

Sorry, Isi's focused on the only part of the conversation that impacts her right now. Perdita's sexuality. Everything else stops right before her ear.

"Don't fuck with me on that - Ravn managed to convince me that Cassidy was gay and that blew up in my face."

"Do... you need me to heal you?" Perdita asks Ravn, more seriously. "I'm fine, I hid under a table with the remaining twin. Something about... if they get eaten they get to go to heaven...?" she shrugs slightly, turning her attention to Alexander and the question.

"It's... a long story. But the quick version? I have an angry, abusive ex boyfriend looking for me, and nobody would ever believe I was living here, now. Which is ridiculous, because this town is charming, despite the... you know, hell goblins, slow rot and aggressive cisheteronormality."

Isi gets her full attention for a second, her expression sympathetic, apologetic. "Women are... complicated... for me. Bottom dysphoria's a hell of a drug, and... having had partners with the configuration I 'should' have... it causes intimacy issues."

"Oi, I said absolutely nothing of the sort," Ravn protests. "You're the one who decided that. I just whined about people thinking we were dating, because of that silly picture. Besides, anything with Cassidy Bennett involved blows up, it's practically a law of nature. The woman gets off on arguments."

He blinks. "This has got to be the first time I've heard anyone complain that Gray Harbor is too straight. A lot of people call the place Gay Harbor, you know? Used to be a joke here for the longest time that I was the one single, straight man in town. And I'm not even -- I mean, I honestly don't really care what is in a pair of pants as much as I care who is in them."

Alexander has a sudden fit of coughing which quickly resolves to barks of laughter. "The Assistant DA? Guessing that didn't go well." He waves at Ravn's words. "That. Or. I think she gets off on crushing opposition." A pause. "She definitely doesn't like people texting her on her home number without permission."

He clears his throat, hastily, moving on from that particular faux pas, to studying Perdita. "Mm. Want me to keep an eye out for the ex?" He glances at Ravn. "Most people in Gray Harbor are straight. Most people in Gray Harbor don't like anything that isn't normal. It's not a great place. But," he pauses, "the people who are weird, sort of stick together. These days. Didn't use to."

Perdita's honest response has Isi looking away, and nodding slowly. She even apologizes, "Sorry. Didn't mean to hit that button." She's not always an asshole. Unless someone's name is Alexander, then gloves off.

She's not quite sure what to say, so that coffee of hers gets some serious attention for a bit. Man, is that nutmeg? Hum, so flavorful.

"There's a difference between heteronormality and cis-heteronormality, Ravn, but... this isn't Twitter, I'm not going to bore you with the details. Suffice it to say this is the last place anyone would ever think to look for Le-" Perdita snaps her teeth shut suddenly, as if realizing what she was about to say, a name she's tried very hard to forget over the last few years.

"Anyway... sure. He's older... Mid forties, now, I guess, built like a linebacker. Goes by Eddie. I doubt we'll ever see him here, but... keep an eye out for other investigative types. Nobody knew I was coming here, and I have a good friend who's... really good at erasing things, so if I'm found it's because I fucked up."

Isi gets a sympathetic smile. "You didn't. But trust me, the moment I get that shit worked out in my own head, I will let you know." So the interest is there, it's just... not able to be acted on just yet.

"I don't mind learning new things," Ravn points out. "Though I'll admit that the finer points of sexual attraction is a topic I never paid a lot of interest to in the past because it never really was relevant -- barring one exception I wasn't exactly the dating type. Hell, I'm still not the dating type -- every time Hyacinth gets an invitation to something that requires a tie, she takes Vyvyan Vydal along as arm candy instead. And I thank them both for it. I have yet to meet the in-laws and I'm honestly not sorry about that, either. The longer Margaret Addington figures Hyacinth's just slumming it a bit, the better."

He tentatively reaches for a donut -- vegan sounds good this week, really -- and glances at Alexander. "I like that we stick together. People like us, I mean. What have we got, if not each other? I firmly believe that trying to go it alone here is borderline suicidal."

Alexander stares at Perdita, silently memorizing the description. "Okay," is all he says, but anyone who doesn't think that there's not going to be a concentrated round of snooping that's going to make local hotels very irritated doesn't know Alexander Clayton very well. For right now, though, he slumps in his seat, listening. There's a snort when Margaret Addington is mentioned, but he allows, to Ravn, "It's better. It's just new."

Now Isi just feels awkward as fuck and it just makes her uncomfortable. And snappish, which is why Ravn's comment draws a sarcastic, "Or better to be alone. Have you noticed that weird shit happens frequently around you?"

"Eh, it's a topic for another day. Donuts." Perdita leans forward, snagging one for herself. "Sticking together is the way to go. I don't intend to get dragged into the Darkness by monster children... and I don't plan to let any of you get dragged into it, either." She turns sideways in the chair, draping her long legs over the side.

"Which reminds me. Do any of you need furniture? It needs restored, but the cops finally cleared the crime scene tape from my first floor, and there's... so much midcentury kitsch. Office chairs, dining room tables, desks... I think that building has been everything, including, from the saltire cross, an underground BDSM club in the 80s... or a leather obsessed church devoted to St. Andrew with some really weird sacrificial habits..."

Ravn chews on a bite of his donut -- really, no, not the same, fry these things in hot pork juice, damnit -- and throws Isi an amused look. He finishes chewing before replying, "Of course I've noticed that shit happens frequently around me. It's because of this place. When it was just me being some socially awkward barback no one really noticed, not much happened. Now that I somehow seem to have been turned into the poster boy for this place whenever de Santos isn't around to take the spotlight? Yes, things happen to me. Because this centre is a pain in the ass to the dolorphages, and they'd very much like for me to decide to give up and go home."

He shrugs. "Unfortunately for them, I come from a family with a tradition of picking ridiculous fights and returning home triumphant dating back to the first half of the 13th century. Each generation of Abildgaards has its war to fight. This is mine."

The folklorist pauses and looks at Perdita. "I'll gladly help redistribute anything you don't want -- several families still trying to get back on their feet after the Chehalis washed several properties away during Storm Cimaron. Have to ask though -- really weird sacrificial habits? Are you telling me next time I visit, we all get hauled into some nihilist's wet dream, 1970s Marvel comic book edition? Do I need to go in humming London Leatherboys?"

You do that, Ravn. Odds are not a whole lot of Americans will recognise the admittedly very characteristic thumping bass of a mid-80s German heavy metal hit.

"Leave Ravn alone," Alexander snaps loyally at Isi. "He's probably going to die horribly and be forgotten, but he means well," he adds, as if these are compliments. "Besides, we don't really get to choose. You don't decide to get Lost, or who you get Lost with, if anyone. It just happens. You can choose to go over to the other side, if you have the right ability, but going to the Veil isn't quite the same as going in a Dream. Still dangerous, though."

"No furniture," he tells Perdita, "but the thrift stores will buy some of it from you. And I like that song." He is absolutely capable of humming a bit of London Leatherboys, and does so.

Isi says, "Fuck you Clayton. Don't call me out on shit then throw the same fucking shade." Isi thinks exactly THAT much of Alexander's loyalty. She pushes herself to her feet - not so forcefully as to tip the chair over, but there is a distinctly high pitch squeak as the legs scratch the floor."

"I'll keep that in mind... for now, like random people in Spain with no training, I think I may take up restoration." Perdita jokes... one hopes. "Nobody is dying horribly unless they have a permission slip that's filled out, dammit."

As Isi stands, Perdita shifts in her seat, looking up at the other woman with concern. "I... think he means that there are things at play that actively target people like Ravn. The super altruistic types."

Ravn glances at Alexander with new respect and then chuckles. Yes, of all the people in Gray Harbor, the one man most likely to know 1980s European heavy metal would be Alexander Clayton, indeed. Possibly with August Roen as a runner-up. Walking down the main street, I see a city's face, boys dressed in leather. . .

If the other man's predictions of his miserable end bothers him he doesn't let it show. "Clayton's not throwing shade," he tells Isi. "It's a quite accurate calculation. Screw enough with the Veil -- as I am doing -- the Veil will eventually squish you like the bug you are. He's just stating the most likely outcome. But until it does, well, I'm going to be the most annoying bug on the windshield. It's a calculated risk, and one I've decided to accept."

Beat. Side glance to Perdita. "You're not allowed near my house back home. Not until you prove you're not from Spain." He's seen those pictures too, and bloody hell, the art lover in him has been screaming in silent horror since.

There's a moment where it looks like Alexander is absolutely going to escalate this; anger snaps in his eyes, and he almost pushes himself out of his seat to match Isi's motion, a muscle jumping in his clenched jaw. "I never said it's better for him to be alone," he almost growls back. But as the other two offer their own interpretations, he sighs, and the anger deflates out of him, his shoulders rolling down and in. "Sorry. Didn't mean to throw shade on anyone."

Isi's pride seems super strung now, despite the seriously kind way all three of them put it - even Clayton. It molifies her enough so that she doesn't just flip the bird and leave, but she does snort and say, "Whatever. That's for you to keep," her pointing at the spidery writing upon which is the traditional Yakama story. Abrupt change of topic there, as she turns on her heel and heads for the door. Over her shoulder, "If you want any others I'll see what I can coax out of Gran."

Looking between Isi and Alexander, Perdita raises both eyebrows slightly, but doesn't say anything. They'll either kill each other, make out, or sort things out themselves, after all. She's only playing peacekeeper if things start actually getting violent!

"I told you, Ravn, I am la Vizcondesa de Vielha e Mijaran." She finally takes a bite of her donut after that, saluting Isi with it as she starts to head off. "If you need any furniture..." she smiles at the other woman, as gently as she can manage... before looking down at the donut. "... Veganism is... like making out with a drunk stranger in the men's room at a gay bar. Ultimately unsatisfying."

Ravn does not try to stop Isi from leaving. If there is one thing Ravn Abildgaard generally tries to avoid, it's being an obstacle in the path of an angry woman. But he will bug her for stories later -- of course he will. What kind of folklorist would he be, if he didn't? "I'll see you later, Cameron?"

He manages to suppress a laugh at Perdita's observation, and just smiles beatifically. "Not an experience I can claim to have had, personally. And you are definitely not allowed near my house, señorita la vizcondesa. Both for what you'd do to the furniture and for how quickly my family would start ringing the wedding bells if I were to bring a viscountess home."

"Don't die," Alexander snaps at Isi as she leaves, but he still looks sort of guilty. He slumps in his seat, arms crossed grumpily over his chest while he turns his attention towards Ravn and Perdita, the latter's claim grabbing his skeptical attention despite his irritation. "Are you really?" he asks, his stare a bit challenging. Ravn's reply makes something like a smile twitch over his mouth. "But if she did things to the furniture, maybe they'd write off you ever finding someone suitable and stop bitching about it?"

"I like how you think I've never been to your country. Prince Nikolai is very eligible, Ravn, and I've always been upwardly mobile." Those dark lashes flutter as Dita takes another nibble of her donut, more because she feels bad wasting food than because it's particularly good. It's good's next door neighbor.

"I mean... technically there is now a Vizcondesa de Vielha e Mijaran, who is me... Just... don't go drawing a ton of attention to it. I spent a lot of time and money investing in that identity, and I intend to retire to Vielha, someday." Dita arches her back as she sits up. "Providing I survive Gray Harbor."

The lopsided grin on Ravn's face doesn't diminish much. "I'll take your word for it. I met him once. He was sixteen. But give my formal regards if you go courting." Apparently, the royal court of Denmark isn't exactly where Ravn spends most of his time. But then, neither does, presumably, the prince in question -- who is the son of the younger brother of the Crown Prince. Still, seventh in line, in a family with a tradition of marrying outside their own ranks -- his mother is a businesswoman from Hong Kong.

He glances to Alexander. "The fun thing about European titles is that they don't really mean a whole lot except to a few families that desperately cling to past glory. You can buy them if you want to pay enough. And sometimes, enough really isn't very much."

Alexander stares at Perdita, looking absolutely unamused. "Oh. It's a con." There's disappointment, there, although it doesn't seem attached to the reality or validity of the title, in itself. He glances at Ravn, and shrugs. "I suppose there are a lot of them. Some people like nobility. Some people like ducks. I like murders." A pause. "Solving them. Not committing them." Just in case there was doubt.

"You could always help a girl out with a formal introduction next time you're back home." Perdita teases Ravn, "I'd say 'we're' but I'm pretty sure if you brought home anyone at this point they would try to marry you off, male or female, just so they could start hounding you about grandbabies... from what you've said." Perdita rises, snagging a paper cup and pouring herself some coffee from the to-go-container, the rich scent of quality dark roast filling the space.

"Nobility is a confidence game, Alexander. You tell people your blood is somehow more worthy, more divinely chosen than the commoners, so it's only right that you rule benignly over them. Am I a vizcondeza by birthright? Absolutely not. I'm not even from Spain. But I'm just as fit to claim a title as he is." she gestures to Ravn without malice. "I... like shiny things. Nobles have shiny things. It is hardly my fault that many noble families are more concerned about the security on the grounds over than the security within their manors."

"Most Danish nobles have nothing but the right to put a funny coat-of-arms on their stationery," Ravn points out with a chuckle. "We legally stripped the gentry of all privileges in 1849. The families that still cling to past prestige are the ones that managed to hold on to their wealth -- which is to say, not the majority."

He reaches for another donut. "My family doesn't actually care a whole lot. They just wish I'd either settle down and start spawning, or pass the title to someone who will. So I don't. Mostly out of spite, mostly because I honestly don't care enough. It is a con, just one that happened a very long time ago."

"It's still not true. Doesn't matter if there's power attached to it or not. It's a lie," Alexander points out, flatly. He frowns, and now it's his turn to rise to his feet. Although he doesn't look particularly angry at anything in particular. He nods to Ravn. "Hope the supplies are useful. I'll come back by when I have time to do some of the work, if it's needed. Don't die, either of you." And then he turns and walks away without another word, heading first to his wagon, and then out the door, squeaky wheel and all.

"That funny coat-of-arms still holds a little weight, though." Perdita offers, "Maybe not in country, but outside of it..." she shrugs, "The royal family in my family's country was the Hapsburgs. We... definitely aren't related. That family tree was a telephone pole, just... a straight line. Or maybe a topiary ouroboros."

There's a nod from Perdita at Alexander's comment that it's a lie. "That's true. Unfortunately I've had to lie a lot, the last decade or so." Perdita says, softly. "You don't die, either, Alexander. You're a good man." That, at least, is definitely not a lie.

"Don't be a stranger, Clayton." Ravn smiles at Alexander as he gets up; the Dane's quite accustomed to the investigator's abrupt departures by now -- and to his hatred of half-truths and obfuscations. "And stay alive, too."

The historian can't resist quirking an eyebrow at Perdita's comment about the Hapsburgs, though. "They died out in 1740. And the Spanish War of Succession from -- what, 1700 or so, to about 1720 -- was about who got to take over when the last direct descendant died childless, I think. I could look it up but -- point being, the royal family of Spain is pretty much French. It's all bloody pointless, though, so you're not getting a rise out of me on it -- the only reason I care about my own family's history is as a historian with first-hand access to interesting sources."

"I meant the Austrian-Hungarian line." she points out, "My European heritage is a bit north-east of Spain, after all." Perdita winks at Ravn, before leaning back to look up at the ceiling, "Is it weird that I am really craving a cheeseburger but also utterly repulsed by the idea of eating meat, right now? ... also... do you need healing? I'm pretty sure I can, like... zap you with magic healing crystal powers now, though I haven't really tried it yet."

"Maybe what we should do is set up a play date where Aidan Kinney can give you a few pointers on how to do that?" Ravn smiles. "I appreciate the offer -- I just don't want to be turned into a newt. We could go for cheeseburgers in the meantime -- with chicken, maybe. I am definitely having a non-beef week myself."

"... maybe vegetarian. I don't need any weird dreams where chickens are trying to seduce me into eating them, either." Perdita mutters, closing up the box of donuts and twisting the cap back onto the coffee. They'll keep for a while, anyway, and it's not like she wants anymore vegan donuts. "Seriously, though, I feel bad for the other girls. Their dates were hot... then they were cows... though why did the one want Arby's so much?" she asks, rising out of her seat and slipping back into her faux fur coat, leading the way out toward the street.