2021-12-03 - The Graffiti of Mine Is Bigger Than Yours

(TXT to Ravn Alexander) Perdita : The basement's flooding is finally fixed, and I'm planning to go dumpster diving in my own basement. I've got a ball of thread. Who wants to travel with me? You're not allowed to abandon me on Naxos, though.

(TXT to Perdita Alexander) Ravn : Actually, sunny Greek island sounds kind of nice this time of year. Be right there. Will consider getting abandoned.

(TXT to Perdita Ravn) Alexander : I'm upstairs. Working on the office door and hallway. Be right down.

It's not a far walk from Oak Avenue to the Bauer Building. It's an even shorter walk from Spruce Street to the Bauer Building. In truth, there aren't a lot of places in Gray Harbor that are a far walk from the Bauer Building unless you count remote suburbia and outskirts. In which case, it's a slightly longer walk.

In other words, it doesn't take Ravn Abildgaard that long to materialise. He wanders in and heads basement-wards pretty much right away, looking for any kind of light or other indication of where the other two might be. And this time, learning from past mistakes, he's brought a torch.

Alexander is dressed for some of the cleanup and repair work he's been doing on the hall outside his office, so he's in sturdy, thick flannel, jeans, sneakers, that old army jacket, and work gloves. A small flashlight is attached to a belt loop of the jeans, slapping against his leg as he takes the stairs down to the basement, humming to himself. There are spiderwebs in his hair, because he stuck his head into a hole in the wall further down the hallway, checking to see if anyone had stored anything interesting in it. Sadly, no more bodies.

Waiting in the hall just before the basement, Perdita Leontes is once again dressed to explore in a sturdy leather jacket, tough denim jeans that look to have at least a bit of spandex in them, and a pair of sturdy hiking boots that don't have a stiletto heel on them, surprisingly. Look at her, dressed all sensibly, with a scarf and even gloves! A backpack is strapped over her chest, held tight to her body. "I've got bottled water and sandwiches, just in case." she explains, with a smile, "And rope... and a first aid kit."

"And I did not bring a firearm this time," Ravn murmurs. "Because whatever we might find? I figure that if we were going to get set on by grues and cave trolls, it would have happened last time. I really don't like lugging weapons around. If we get surrounded by 1920s gangsters, I'll finally find out if I can lift a tommy gun without anyone noticing it missing." Confident pick pocket is confident.

Beat. "You got spider web in your hair, Alexander." It's an observation; the Dane doesn't appear bothered by it.

"I have a hammer," Alexander says, pointing at the hammer shoved into his big jacket pocket. "And a knife, of course." He unclips the flashlight and gives Ravn an approving nod. "Guns aren't needed. You should see my office, Ravn. Miss Leontes rented it to me, and it's very nice." He spins the flashlight idly in his hands, and smiles at Perdita. "This should be fun."

"The only weapon I have is the claws." Dita holds up one hand, indicating her jet black stiletto nails that are... surprisingly shorter than they usually are, too, though sharp as ever. "You can just call me Perdita, Alexander. Or even Dita, if you like... though I know you aren't fond of nicknames." She gestures toward the stairs, then begins heading down them, carefully. "I got the leak fixed and a new pump installed, should it start again." The basement has been cleared of some of the furniture from before, though the... armoire... is gone. Probably taken by police for evidence, and not requested back because there's only one person Perdita knows who might want something like that.

"You'd better have some kind of reception or office warming so we can bring you potted plants and awkward plushies to sit on your office shelves," Ravn tells Alexander with a small grin; some things are Traditional.

He falls into stride behind Perdita. "I don't like weapons because, like a few people have pointed out, they can be used against you, too. But I have been in a few situations where someone with a firearm saved the day. Remember the flesh factory, Alexander? I sure as hell wasn't sorry that Seth Monaghan is a crack shot. Wouldn't have gotten out with just a meat cleaver in one arm otherwise."

The missing armoire is noted; and Ravn is definitely not going to ask if he can have it. "We should probably look at the rest of these things sometime -- old papers, clues to the whereabouts of other old, missing people. And somebody needs to give me some women advice while we're doing here too."

"Most nails aren't all that good for close combat," Alexander tells Perdita, quite seriously. "Usually, they're flexible enough that they'll bend or break, which can distract you in a fight." He grimaces at Dita, looks away for a moment, but instead of ranting about names, he says, "Perdita. It means lost."

Then he glances at Ravn, smiles, and shakes his head. "I don't like parties. Too many people. But if you want to come by, I'd be happy about that. There's a naked frog man holding up one of the lights, and I've already moved some plants there." He shrugs at the mention of the flesh factory. "Seth's a good shot. I'd expect it. But anyone can miss. Once you miss, you can't control where the bullet goes. Sir Isaac Newton is one vengeful son of a bitch." He looks around the basement, perking up visibly at the mention of old papers and clues, and blissfully ignoring the concept of women advice.

"There's a reason I don't carry a gun. If I get into a situation where I need one, I've messed up bad." Dita points out. "Women advice?" she asks Ravn, glancing over her shoulder at him curiously.

"It does." Perdita agrees, only mildly surprised that Alexander knows what her name means. Knowing him, he probably knows her full name, and... might have figured out that it's an alias, by now. "Báte gave me a good Shakespearean name, then got mad when I tried out for drama club." she laughs, shaking her head. Without the water, the place is less oppressive, and the smell of wetness has been replaced by cold stone, rusted metal and old wood furniture that either needs to be restored soon or disposed of. Seeing Alexander's face brighten, she smiles, "You're welcome to poke around down here whenever you like, Alexander. Your front door key should get you in and out of the basement, too."

"Yeah, not going to disagree. I don't like the idea of walking around armed. Any other town, I'd be adamantly not a gun owner. Here, it can be harder for me to rationalise not needing to defend myself. Might be I should consider learning some kind of proper self defence." Like the boxing the Dane has been trying to pick up for six months; it's not going all that well because asthma and combat sports really aren't the greatest mix.

"I'll drop by -- you know me, I'm not exactly Mr Social Butterfly either." The Dane actually shudders. "I had to attend a wedding at the Baccarat in New York a while back. I consider Rosencrantz my designated emotional support violinist, so I brought him. He nearly decked my great-cousin. I enjoyed that part. Anyhow, yes. A little old lady moved in across the street from Aidan and me -- she thinks we're a couple, but that's not the problem. Her granddaughter, however, seems hell bent that we're going to be dating. Me and her, not Aidan and I."

Alexander studies Perdita for a moment, then smiles. "You seem like you'd be good at drama club. Stylish." He gives a quick, but grateful, dip of his head at the permission, and looks around with a keener interest, as if deciding where to start. He prowls towards a pile of boxes and begins poking through it with one hand and his flashlight. For a moment, it seems like he might have forgotten the other two even exist, before he says, "I don't know what the Baccarat is. Wasn't there a game called that?" A brief frown. "And just tell her no. Telling people no and meaning it usually works."

"Your not-so-great-cousin deserved it from what you said before." Dita mutters... before turning slightly to look back at Ravn with a raised eyebrow. "Is she short? Blond? Incredibly pushy-but-amusing?" she asks, head tilting slightly, "What was... Gabriella. Alexander met her the other night in a Dream with me. Broken Harmonicas." A slight shudder.

"It's a hotel, Alexander. Extremely fancy, crystal chandeliers in the bar, exquisite cut crystal glasses, surprisingly high end luxury for something built within the last decade. Rooms are around a thousand dollars a night for their low end, and their private residences... Three million for less than a thousand square feet?" Perdita asks Ravn, turning with a wicked little smile on her lips that says that she's probably seen the inside of one of those suites for herself.

She starts leading the way down a hallway, past a brick room marked 'UTILITY' on the door. Probably from when everything was heated with steam.

"Telling women no and meaning it never works." Ravn makes a face. "They think it means try harder. My usual go-to tactic by now is to be so bloody boring they can't be bothered in the first place. The Baccarat is an architectural nightmare in New York that considers itself very fancy. The groom's family insisted on it -- apparently it was an impress the neighbours kind of thing for them. I wouldn't have gone if I wasn't the only other member of my family in the country at this time, not counting great cousin Rosencrantz Could Be My New Coke Dealer."

He blinks and looks at Perdita. "Oh, you met her? Well, whatever she thinks, we are not dating."

Alexander looks up, over at Perdita. "Oh. It sounds nice." There's a brief, wistful moment that passes over his expression before it slips away. He abandons the junkpile to follow her down the hallway, flashlight flicking here and there. "It always worked for me," he tells Ravn, quite seriously. "I usually didn't tell anyone to go away, if they wanted to have sex, though. They'd do that on their own." Ah, the differences in the lives of the chased nobleman and, well, Alexander. He grimaces at the mention of Gabriella. "Oh. Her."

"I quite enjoyed the pool... and the penthouse. There was a mirror over the bed." there's a subtle 'mm' from the young woman at that, apparently a pleasant memory or two. "The bar had a sort of... Kubrick meets giallo charm." she doesn't comment on whether women like men who play hard to get, instead activating the little flashlight clipped on her backpack strap, now, the slightly blue tinged LED bright.

"It's the sort of place nouveau riche business men take naïve young women to impress them with grandeur..." and if they fall asleep and leave their cellphone for said young women to find and unlock...

"She's not the type to take no for an answer. Tell her you're castrati. Or that I've got you locked in a chastity belt and won't give the key back to you because you've been a very bad boy." there's a note of amusement in her tone at that idea. "You're not dating her, or you're not dating the androgynous hottie you live with?"

"I'm not dating either, and the androgynous hottie I live with has a girlfriend." Ravn smirks. "Sounds like you know her? Anyhow, I told her I have neuropathy, that's effectively castrati. Tends to drop my sexual market value, such as it might be, to about minus fifty points." The nobleman doesn't get chased a whole lot either. He shakes his head. "I didn't actually see much of the hotel. We attended the wedding reception, paid our respects. Then we got the hell out of there, changed into normal clothes and went to play violins in Central Park. Spent the night with Rosencrantz' family on the East Side."

The Dane readies the torch and slips its strap around his wrist before flicking it on to the lowest setting; no need to illuminate the basement like a third degree interrogation and risk blinding your companions in the dark. As the definitely not a cat burglar he never was, nope, absolutely not, he prefers a light that is just enough to see what he's stepping on, and nothing more.

Alexander's lips quirk upwards. "If you really want to make her go away, then you should tell Hyacinth that some out of towner is trying to make moves on you. She's an Addington. She'll probably feed her to the sawmill." A pause. "But I still think that just saying no and not engaging with it further would help." He does not turn his flashlight down to the lowest setting, but seems adept at keeping it well away from where the other two are - mostly, he's using it to illuminate the floor, since you never know when one of these hold buildings has had something eat away at the foundations. "Pools are nice, though. I like to swim."

"Your sexual market value, yes, but that type is more interested in what you can buy her. Have you told her you're Count Dracula, yet?" Dita asks, amused. The narrow hallway finally lets out on the other side... and there's even more furniture.

"Holy shit, the previous owner was a hoarder." she murmurs. Most of it's mid century mod that's... not in good shape... And yet, in the far end of the room, the light glints off something. Briefly, as the trio head into the room, gleaming eyes catch the light of the flashlights... only to disappear behind another of those armoires in movements that can only be described as... skittering.

"Nope, nope, hell no, nuh-uh."

"The name is Elmo," Ravn says, so calmly that there is no question that he saw that. "Count Elmo von Count. Romanian accent required, ah ah ah."

He waits a moment, women trouble forgotten.

No barrage of coconuts, abandoned whiskey bottles, plastic dolls, garden implements, or dead rats ensue. This is a good sign.

"I guess we better find out who your other lodgers are," the Dane murmurs and shoots Alexander a glance. He's the local and the missing people expert. "So how are we on local missing tribes?"

"Oh, these are interesting," Alexander says, approvingly, to the heaps of furniture. "Some of this could be repaired, either with tools or abilities - if anyone wanted to tempt Them to do so." He hums. "Bennie might. She likes repurposing stuff." But that skittering sound immediately moves him from intrigued to defensive. He doesn't reach for his knife, yet, but he does say, "Stay behind me. Both of you." A quick, sidelong glance at Ravn. "If there's an entire tribe down here, then it's going to be a legal nightmare," he points out, with the faintest hint of amusement. But then he's walking forward, stalking the skittering.

"You go right ahead. I'mma go back up to my penthouse apartment, pack my cat, get the hot roomie, and we're gonna go stay in a damn hotel." Dita says... but she's not backing away. Baba Yaga told her to stop running from her problems, and Veil creature or not... it's good advice. "Wait, missing tribe, like... Yakima tribe? How far back missing are we talking here, like 20-30 years or like 'holy shit we're plague bearers to them'?" there's a soft groan. "It's always something with this building..."

The skittering has scuttled off into the distance, and the armoire is blocking wherever the creature went to. "I hate thiiiiis." Perdita whines... but then she's conjuring another of those fairy lights with just a hint of focus. They shouldn't mind that, right? With the rest of the room dimly illuminated in blue tinged light, it's clear there's a lot more clutter, a lot more stuff, and a lot more basement. She groans. "We're going after it, aren't we?"

"It's always something with this town," Ravn corrects her -- and lets Alexander take lead as he wants because out of the two of them, Alexander is both the better fighter and the more experienced dream walker. He does not relax; what runs from you in front might well be circling around hoping for an opening at the rear -- and that is where he is. A torch can be used as a club in the absence of something better, and if push comes to shove, it will be.

Darkness seems to be holding its breath too. Not a sound of skittering. Not as much as a mouse claw tapping out a rhythm on a floor board. This -- this is exactly what bad writers refer to, when they talk about a loud silence. There's probably going to materialise an elephant in the room next, just to stick with the awful metaphors.

"Thanks," Alexander says as that faint light is conjured. It lets him shut off his flashlight and attach it to his pants again, freeing both hands so he can approach the armoire. "We should probably follow it now, see if it's something to be dealt with, rather than let it ambush us at its convenience," he suggests, as he gets two hands around the piece of furniture. Grunting with the effort, he starts to carefully walk it backwards and turn it to one side, just enough to make a way to get around it. It's heavy enough that even that movement has Alexander panting hard by the time he's done - and he's not a thin or flabby guy, despite being in his early forties.

Watching Alexander moving the armoire, Perdita does take a second to appreciate the show of strength, her head tilting slightly as she watches. Is she just... always on? She's always on.

Behind the armoire, which is heavier than it should be, (please let it be vintage clothes and not another dead body) the red bricks look like they've been... CHEWED away by something, into an opening roughly human sized, leading to a tunnel system that leads away and down from the building in a steady slope. It's a little too low for either man to stand up in without a concussion, but Dita, being a bit shorter, will likely only feel like she needs to crouch.

"... If I just brick it back up they'll eat right through it again, won't they."

"Unless you have a really powerful mouse trap," Ravn agrees. He looks a little dubious too. "Although, it fled from us. It may not be hostile. If it's like a rat in temper, it will not be dangerous unless we corner it. I think we should at least find out what we're dealing with."

He steps forward, silently offering to take the lead -- not because he particularly wants it but because somebody has to, and he just made the suggestion. Also, his torch is still on, however dim. "My bet is on either a secret community of were-rats or a secret community of 1920s gangsters who were told to hide from the police until further notice. They're all very old except for the children of Tony the Gun and Molly the barmaid."

Alexander goes to one knee once the hole has been revealed, reaching out to run his fingers over the chewed brickwork. Fascinated and wary, he traces the outline delicately. "Mm. Probably," he tells Perdita, without looking back. There's a slow nod, agreeing with Ravn about finding out what they're dealing with, even if he looks a touch skeptical about it not being hostile.

But he shakes his head when Ravn steps forward. "I'll take the lead. I'm best at short range. If something hits us from the front, I'd rather be there. Perdita...the light. Can you keep it close but not in our eyes in this tun--" there's a sudden snort of laughter at Ravn's last suggestion. "The lost rumrunners. Nice." He grins, and then starts to move into the tunnel.

"No mousetraps, but a growing urge to go get a can of hairspray and a lighter and improvise a flame thrower because I've seen what happens in the Alien franchise, thank you... I don't think it's going to be 1920s gangsters. Probably. Though... I've been wrong before."

Asked if she can keep the light close without blinding anyone, the young woman nods, bringing the light down to hold it in her hand, the light spilling from between her fingers. The light tinges to red, like in an old fashioned photo studio. Looking to Ravn, she tilts her head. "You want to bring up the rear, or should I? I've got a bit more fire power... but I've also got the light."

"I've got a light of my own," Ravn reminds, and nods at the torch. "And of the three of us, I am probably the one most accustomed to working in the dark. You watch Alexander's back, I'll watch yours."

Amazingly, that wasn't even a come-on. Talk about missed opportunities.

"At least you know it's not methheads," Alexander jokes, and pokes at the chewed brick as he passes. "Their teeth aren't that strong." There's an approving nod as the light comes down. With both Perdita and Ravn having sources, he chooses to keep his hands free over reaching for his own flashlight again. He hums to himself as they move slowly. Something with a driving melody that really needs a heavy drum line to accompany it.

"You're right, I do look amazing in these jeans, and you should get the chance to enjoy that." Perdita teases, with just the slightest eyebrow quirk before she starts heading down after Alexander. She doesn't need to crouch, but she does, slightly, cupping the light in her left hand at about shoulder height. The dim redness spreads out over the tunnel as they head down.

Echoing up the tunnel, far away, an animalistic shriek is cut short, followed by the sound of pebbles striking solid stone from closer ahead.

"I'd pretend to not notice you flirting at me again if I wasn't so busy worrying what that was," Ravn murmurs. "Either our skitterers from before are not vegetarians -- or they met something that isn't. And that is a bit worrisome on either account."

He reaches into a pocket in his wind breaker for the one thing he always keeps on him in case of just about any emergency; one of those tiny knives that the Scottish call sgian dubh -- the blade is too short to do much except at very close distance and very good aim, but unopened it fits right into a closed fist, and lends it the weight to do surprising amounts of damage with a decent punch. If he's got anything else to say he bites back on it; possibly in order to not alert any were-rat or smuggler-eating aliens up front to their presence.

Alexander's humming stops when there's the shriek in the distance. Alexander also stops, holding up a hand as warning so that Perdita doesn't risk running into him. "If it's an animal, we're not in any danger. I can handle animals. But if it's not..." he frowns, and two fingers go to his temple as he reaches out towards the sound of pebbles with his mind, feeling for other living creatures in the area, and their general emotional states.

"Oh, so you were pretending, before." Perdita comments, softly, keeping her tone light... but there's a tension in her shoulders as she pauses behind Alexander, frowning, slightly.

"If it's not... we should probably run." she whispers, sounding, well, serious. Who knows what the hell is down here?

Ravn finds himself wondering if he is possessed of at least crude intelligence; the things in the dark are at least smart enough to skitter away from danger -- unlike him. "We either continue and find out what you got -- or we run and seal the entire basement off," he whispers. "Because whatever is here clearly is capable of eating through woods. You might have to flood the basement with concrete."

"Running isn't gonna help, if they're getting into your basement," Alexander points out, his brow furrowing as he feels forward. "...I don't know what's up there. Not animal, exactly. Can't command them. But not really human, either." If he liked fiction, he might make a joke about CHUDs, but since he is a sadly uncultured creature, he just says, "I want to continue. But you both don't have to. If you don't want."

"Wood... brick... Are we sure these tunnels are even natural?" Dita asks. They certainly look it, but who knows. "But you're right. Running isn't going to help... and if something's hurt down there and we can help it, we should try... if it's not hostile. Maybe we can make friends with Tony and Molly Junior's inbred mutant murder babies... Let's go on."

"I want to see what creature we're dealing with," Ravn admits with honest sincerity. Folklorist can't go home not even knowing which mythology he's running away from here.

And of course there's that little Gray Harbor specialty where the only way out of a dream is through. Skittering were-rats and mysterious tunnels that never end might very well mean having crossed over to the Other Side and just not noticed in the dark. In which case turning around means nothing because there is only one way, no matter which way your nose is pointing at the time you try to make a decision.

"Not human, not animal. That sounds -- spirit, maybe, or some kind of skin walker or shape changer?"

"There are a lot of tunnels around Gray Harbor. Smugglers used to use them. Maybe still do," Alexander says, then huffs out a breath. "It's more than one, so we're probably Lost, rather than a Veil manifestation. So they could be anything. They're not real. They won't be in your basement if we survive this. We just got Lost." He hums under his breath. "But it also means we have to get through whatever it is." After a moment, he says, "My bets on rat-things. Rat-things are scary."

"See, this is why people of color always die in horror movies. Because we listen to the dumb white people who tell us they need to see what we're dealing with. I don't have what it takes to be a final girl, Ravn. I'm the slutty best friend who gets murdered just when you see she actually has a heart underneath the bitchy, promiscuous exterior."

Still, Perdita's following after Alexander, letting out a sigh when he announces they're Lost. "I... we're going to get our faces gnawed off by inbred mutant rat people named Killer Kiki and Tommy Gun Teddy. It's like being back in Appalachia."

"Yes, well, I am the gangly nerd who dies in some stupid fashion because he can't find his asthma inhaler and goes back for it," Ravn murmurs. "Congratulations, Alexander. You're the only one of us who's going to make it out here alive -- tell me, you're not wearing a red shirt, right?"

He doesn't sound all that frightened to be honest. Maybe he should. After all, there is such a thing as invoking that which you ought to have been afraid of, and more so in a reality that writes itself based on story tropes.

Cling-clang-cling goes the sound of something metallic being dragged along a concrete or stone wall -- just like a bored child dragging a stick along a fence. That's not at all ominous.

"We're not gonna get our faces gnawed off," Alexander says, attempting to be reassuring. "Probably. I think they go for the soft organs first if they can." So much for reassuring. He looks down at his flannel, which actually does have a fair amount of red in the plaid. "I don't think that's right. Even I know it's always the woman who survives the horror movie. So Perdita will be the last survivor." A firm nod. He goes quiet when he hears that sound, his nostrils flaring. Now he does reach to the small of his back for the hidden knife, and brings it out as he creeps forward.

Ravn might not sound afraid, but Dita does, as she whispers, "Only if she's not slutty and Queer!"

Are they seriously giving whatever's running this ideas?

"I'll make sure to tell your loved ones that you, you know, love them. And also that you willed everything to me. So now you have to live, too." There. Dita's going to grift being Lost.

Why didn't she at least bring a knife? Perdita creeps forward after Alexander, wondering, again, why she thought to bring lockpicks... but not a knife.

"None of us can die," Ravn points out with the logic of every 1970s and 80s horror flick. "None of us are virgins and none of us are easy for a teenage boy to identify with. Which means none of us is the designated survivor, and then what's the point? This is clearly one of those three troubled jerks work together to survive stories."

Is he being cheeky? Yes. It's a way to keep panic attacks at bay, after all. He's also kneeling down a moment to look for anything that might work as an improvised weapon. If whatever is out there has a metal stick, he wants one too -- but all he can find, alas, is mold.

Well, mold is very dangerous. If you inhale enough of it. Maybe the were-rats can develop respiratory problems over time or something.

Alexander heaves a sigh. "If you don't stop yammering, then we're all going to die," which is Alexander-speak for 'I have no refutation for your excellent points and therefore am going to be grumpy about it'. Bright side, grumpy Alexanders are better at stabbing things. He continues to move forward through the tunnels, knife out and ready.

"... Oh, so more 'Deliverance' less 'Friday the 13th' meets 'The Descent'. Got it." Dita whispers, glancing over her shoulder to wink at Ravn... but she does fall quiet after that, following Alexander's advice.

The tunnels seem to continue on for some distance, but there's a gradual raising of the height, until finally all three members of the party are able to stand fully upright, comfortably, which has got to be a relief to the two men... and even Dita can feel more comfortable now that she's not one good stretch from conking herself out on the ceiling.

Somewhere up ahead, something clanks. A grate falling shut -- or being tossed aside. Or a metal door closing. Or maybe someone tossing the lid of a garbage can down the corridor, letting it roll until it falls. Another sort of wrenching clank follows. "I don't know what the first noise was," Ravn murmurs, barely loud enough for the other two to hear. "But the second was a large, old fashioned lock."

Trust a thief to recognise certain sounds. Or a locksmith. Either. Both. Leon Gyre would have known, too.

He runs fingers across the cave walls, feeling their texture through the kidskin of his soft gloves. "This isn't brick. It's carved out of the bedrock. One of those old smugglers' tunnels you were talking about, Alexander? Maybe the joke about lost smugglers is not as far off as we thought. And maybe they are in fact as scared of us as we are of them."

And with the timing of a dream, another door shuts up ahead, accompanied by a hushed whisper, "Be quiet! They'll hear us!"

Alexander straightens with several pops from his spine and knee joints; crouching isn't the joy it used to be. He gives Perdita an exasperated look, opening his mouth to violate his own advice towards silence--and then there's that clang. He steps forward and slips back into a defensive posture, putting himself in front of the other two, knives at the ready. A quick nod to Ravn; smugglers' tunnels would be his bet. Then, when that whisper echoes, he sighs, and calls out, "We do hear you. You might as well come out. We aren't going to hurt you unless you try to hurt us."

There's a wince as Alexander's snap, cracking and popping, an expression of mostly sympathy but also, probably, a vain youthful thought that she'll never get that way. Little does she know.

"Well, now we know that they know that we're here." Perdita murmurs, shrugging slightly. She holds the light ball up once more, dimming it slightly and casting it up toward the top of the tunnel, so as to better light their path. Secrecy isn't much of a concern now, after all.

"That's almost zen," Ravn murmurs at Perdita's comment. He remains alert and the little Scottish knife remains curled up in one hand, unopened. Alexander's choice is not a bad one as far as he is concerned; whatever is down here knows that they know that it knows that th... Never mind.

Whisperings, hushed voices. A clink, as if someone tests a door or a lock to make sure it stays closed.

All the silence.

A sneeze.

More silence.

"Maybe we should try to move on," the Dane suggests quietly. "Whoever they are, they're trying to hide from us too. Could be another group of explorers for all we know, or some kids having found a cave to make out in."

Alexander...waits. For a few minutes, until he sighs. "Then they should go home. It's not safe down here." He makes no effort to lower his voice, although he doesn't shout it, either. Then he relaxes, and glances at Perdita. "Maybe you should put a waystation in the building basement. Shower, bottled water, jerky, something like that. For wayward wanderers."

He glances around, looking for another corridor to explore.

"We might as well continue forward, but... keep an eye out for traps, trip wires, stuff like that. Wouldn't surprise me to find out people set something like that up down here."

"A way station? I... don't know how I feel about encouraging people who are wandering around down here... but it might not be a bad idea, in case someone who's lost finds their way there. Might keep a repeat of... the kid." Perdita pulls a face, somewhere between sympathy for the child who lost his life and being grossed out at having found the body.

"Wouldn't it be ironic if it turned out all you have is were-rats who are terrified of you and horny teens?" Ravn can't help chuckle as the little group begins to move again. He remains alert; if there are multiple corridors meeting down here, someone who knows the place well could easily slip around them for an attack from behind.

Were-rats, if that's what the skittering things were, can likely be problematic. Ravn has a fairly relaxed relationship with rats insofar that he is not afraid of them -- but he vastly prefers to meet them either out in the woods or in a cage in a pet shop. Not skittering out of sewers with bacteria-laden little feet and peeing everywhere to leave scent trails.

Alexander shrugs. "It's just a thought. Since it seems to be fucking busy down here," he grumbles, shooting a look at the darkness where the door sounds have come from. But despite the urge to pick a fight, if only to see what's THERE, he chooses another, narrow tunnel, and falls silent once more. Heeding Perdita's words, he slows, trying to look for traps - although he is definitely a melee Warlock, and not any kind of Rogue. "I'd think the mold and wet would kill the mood for horny teens."

"Better terrified were-rats and horny teens than horny were-rats and terrified teens." Perdita points out with a slight shudder... and then she follows after Alexander, once more, trying not to frown as she does, "It's been a few years since you were a horny teen, apparently... trust me, a little mold and wet aren't going to dampen the spirits of teens that intentionally come down here to have sex... especially not if it's two guys looking for a little rough trade on the DL." those words were certainly all English.

"Believe me, it doesn't kill the mood in the slightest," murmurs the man whose family residence contains one rather large basement, five hundred years old, with all that includes of mold, dampness, and ghosts. "Sneaking into ours back home is a bit of a sport for the local kids. A dare kind of thing. The hell hound usually chases them out."

A pause. "Do you want me to go in front, Alexander?" He is the party rogue, sort of.

"There are better places for rough trade. Half a dozen cabins that are empty most of the year up in Olympia and Firefly. And they have beds. Or walls that aren't fetid, if that's your preference. They're even easy to outfit with restraints and secured rooms, if you need," Alexander comments, absently. When Ravn offers to step forward, he hesitates, then nods - all the empathy in the world won't pick up on a tripwire before you bumble through it.

He falls back to replace Ravn at the rear.

Watching the men trade places around her, Perdita's expression waivers between vague irritation and amusement, because on one hand, Ravn is a lot bigger than her, at least vertically, and more experienced as an actual thief, but on the other... Perdita packs quite the punch, telekinetically speaking. Still, she doesn't comment on that... though she does turn to look back at Alexander, both eyebrows up. "Do I want to know how you know what rough trade is?"

"Restraints and secured rooms," Ravn murmurs, blissfully unaware of Alexander's recent use of exactly those. "I keep forgetting you used to be in that cult. But, better than a basement full of spiders, dust, wine, and the occasional haunting."

Glance to Perdita. "Sex cult." Hey, it explains a lot, and from what he's been told, it's one of those things everyone local knows about so no great secret to spill, either.

The Dane secures his dim light under one elbow, using his toes to feel ahead -- and his fingers on the walls. He does seem to know what he's doing -- unlike in a combat scenario -- testing odd angles, cracks, and other subtle give-aways that something might not be completely what it tries to pass itself off as.

When he does drop into a couch to dip a fingertip into something on the ground it turns out to be, "Sand. Very fine, white sand. Perfect if you want to conceal something on the ground. Do either of you do anything, I don't know, gust of wind, telekinetic blast, something?"

Alexander sighs. "I'm a private investigator with an encyclopedic knowledge of the history of crime, and one of the most powerful empaths probably in the world, who can pick up high emotion moments from random objects or people even from a mile away," he points out, patiently. "There's not much people can do to each other that I don't at least recognize." Then Ravn pipes up, and he waves a hand in that direction. "Also, I was in a sex cult in college."

He quiets as the Dane moves forward to test for traps. There's a shake of his head. "I'm not a mover at all. I could hit it with a lightning bolt but that, uh, can have unintended effects." He looks to Perdita.

"Wait, there was a sex cult? Was it, like... a fun sex cult, or did it turn all... dark and twisted?" Dita asks. Yes, that's what she picks up on. Not the empathy, not the encyclopedic knowledge, because she'd already thought of those. The sex cult, though... It's clear from her reaction that she's at least a little intrigued by the idea.

Looking around the space, she tilts her head slightly. The red light above dims and flickers like a candle in a mild draft as Perdita's focus shifts to pushing the sand away from what it's concealing beneath.

"I didn't realise you did lightning," Ravn murmurs back at Alexander. "Or rather, it'd slipped my mind somehow. Remind me to talk to you about that later, I have questions."

He looks at what Perdita's gust of telekinetic wind reveals. "Now I have more questions."

It's a petroglyph of a sorts. A carving in the stone floor, no deeper than it is easily concealed with a thin layer of sand. And it is unmistakably male in nature, and in a quite good mood at that. Surrounded by little etchings and patterns that might or might not be some kind of words or symbols, it, uh, salutes the intruders with cheer.

"It was a fun sex cult," Alexander assures Perdita. Then frowns. "Well, for me. Apparently the inner circle was using it to gather blackmail material and power over the careers of everyone who involved themselves in it then went on to be prominent or powerful." He falls quiet again to watch the sand just move by itself. It's the aspect he has no affinity for, and therefore is endlessly fascinating to the investigator.

The petroglyph, on the other hand, just makes him laugh, softly. "Some things are eternal." A brief nod to Ravn about his questions, then Alexander edges up to get a better look at the symbols around the glyph. He's no Isabella, but sometimes his brain has retained strange things.

"That's... always the problem with sex cults, I'd guess. Some people just want to have fun, others... want power of some sort, even if it's just to control who's hooking up with who."

"If your erection lasts more than four centuries, please consult your old timey plague doctor." Dita quips, quirking a brow.

"Folklorist, why do they always depict them so... out of proportion... when it comes to the rest of the figure?"

"Fertility," Ravn murmurs back. "Fertility or masculine power, often both. The Romans, for instance, used the winged priapus as a sign to ward to ward off evil spirits. Before Christianity, a powerful ability to procreate was not viewed as a questionable thing -- so what we have here is either yay, baby maker, or evil things, stay away, our dick is bigger than yours."

"And guys just tend to really be obsessed with their dicks," Alexander murmurs, not without a hint of a grin. He squints at the symbols. "They aren't Greek or Egyptian. Don't think they're from local tribes, either. Gray Harbor had a large Finnish, Russian, and Norwegian immigrant population in the 1900s; I've seen a couple of these symbols on old timber and things. Might be from some of them. I think they're protective." A pause. "So, stay away, our dick is bigger than yours."

"So the graffiti in the boy's bathroom in middle school was just... 'beware, our dicks are bigger than yours'?" Perdita asks, both eyebrows raising slightly, before a bit of a laugh escapes from her at Alexander's initial response. "I hadn't noticed." Yes, that was sarcasm.

"This... can't be under my building, right? We're Lost? So... is it possible it's from some group that hasn't ever even been on Earth, or hasn't been for thousands of years? Presumably if a group of people got Lost, and were able to survive out here..."

"Tony the Tommy Gun and Killer Kiki might turn out to be Karolus the Knife and Elusive Emma instead," Ravn murmurs, a little amused. "Also, don't look at me, what I wrote on bathroom walls at that age had nothing to do with dicks and everything with selling pot and stealing cars."

He looks up at Perdita. "I don't think we're under your building anymore. We could be somewhere randomly in the Veil, or in a tunnel system under the town. We've walked too far to still be under the Bauer Building -- kind of silly none of us thought to bring a compass, maybe have an idea of our bearings. But the real question I think we should be asking ourselves is this: Who or what needs to get told to stay away on pain of a solid dicking?"

Alexander grins at Perdita's laugh. "Most graffiti is basically that. I'm here, and I'm more badass than you explains pretty much all gang tags. The dick is either stated openly, I'll fuck you up, or implied." He quiets, but clearly agrees with Ravn's thoughts on their movements. He does add, "We should find out. To be able to get back to real places, or just to keep it from finding us."

"Oh, I have a compass, it's in my bag." Perdita states, seriously, before unsnapping the bag from her chest and bringing it down, opening it and pulling out the small compass and holding it up. "After I got lost in the woods, I figured it'd be a good idea to at least buy a compass in the hopes that the Veil might be kind and send me through with it... I suppose it doesn't help much now, but..." she offers it to either of the men, before she goes about snapping the bag back into place, cross-body.

"Good thinking," Ravn notes and also mentally notes to do something similar; or maybe just a satellite app on his phone, though he suspects that an old fashioned magnetic compass might be a lot more reliable on the Other Side.

He glances over Perdita's shoulder and then looks absent a moment, trying to triangulate their position -- how far they walked, the direction. The folklorist is no wilderness girl though, and the best he can come up with is, "I think we might be headed down towards the bay?"

"Sometimes compasses point different places than north," Alexander says. "Doesn't mean they're not useful, though. Just that magnetic north isn't a thing on the Other Side." He looks down the tunnel, and nods, slowly. "The bay would make sense. Most of the smuggler's tunnels lead there, to little caves and coves where they'd load rum and shit like that. Let's give it a shot?" He puts away his knife, now, sliding it into the sheath at the base of his back.

"So back the way we came is presumably the city, this way is heading toward the bay... wonder where the other tunnel went..." Perdita murmurs, eyes narrowing slightly as she looks back that way, before she stands back up, shifting her pack to get it settled again, looking to Ravn. "Lead onward." she gestures for him to take the lead once more, concentrating on her light and making sure it's nice and steady red, once more.

"So let's hope, indeed, that our big dick energy was directed at rival smugglers. And try to not think too much about who covered it up." Ravn nods and resumes his position in front; if there are more or matching petroglyphs he wants to see them before stepping on them (and same applies to tripwires, pitfalls, and other entertaining ideas, thank you).

He is disappointed, at least for now. The sand on the ground is too thin and too scarcely spread to be covering anything; it forms small piles, kicked aside by running feet, but too thin, even, to reveal foot prints. The one thing he does find, and pauses to point out to his companions, is a half-smoked cigarette.

"It's not warm," the Dane murmurs and picks it up to sniff. "Pot? I think so. Point to horny teens."

"Horny teen were-rat playroom," Alexander suggests to Perdita, deadpan. He takes up the rear, scanning regularly behind the three for anything that might be creeping up in the dark after them. He looks back around at the cigarette, and smiles. "These days, could be a fifty year old PTA mom named Mindy." But then he laughs, softly. "Maybe not down here. But pot's a good sign. Crackpipes or something would be more worrisome."

There's a grimace of distaste as Ravn lifts it to his nose, Perdita shaking her head slightly, "Oh, that is foul. I can smell it from here." she actually brings her sleeve up to her nose, blocking her nose off, for the moment. "... horny were-rat playrooms are fine, as long as they stay down here, or pay rent if they come up into the basement. The basement's for paying renters only, after all." Dita points out, then grimaces all over again, "Ugh, I'm turning into a capitalist."

"Welcome to the club. We try to not talk about our exploitations." Ravn smirks because how can he not; he feels just as uncomfortable with the idea where he himself is concerned, and he was technically born as one. "Also, I kind of want to meet Mindy now. Hear her stories about how she'd roll up with Joe Thompson, he used to look like a young Marlon Brando. Yes, Thompson, the fat guy who drives a schoolbus now."

Pause. "I'm not about to go talk to Thompson myself though. He's still mad Seth and I stole the schoolbus."

Alexander gives Ravn a Look. "...did you return it after you were done with it?" Because that's the really important part here. "Also, Joseph Thompson never looked like Marlon Brando. He did try to do this 80s lead sneer that looked good on guys like Christian Slater, but just made him look like there was a whole piece of broccoli stuck in his teeth."

There's a thoughtful silence, then, "I bet that kid who used to own the weed shop would know exactly what strain of weed this was, and who it was bought from. Shame about his shop."

"Aww, I wanna steal a school bus... but with my luck I'd get the one from Speed." Dita mutters. She slips past Ravn, keeping her eyes moving as she does, keeping a eye out for trip wires, hidden doors and the like, but clearly needing to get out of the immediate vicinity of the scent.

"Of course we returned it. What would either of us do with a school bus? We just needed a ride to the Laundromat in the storm, and there weren't a lot of other cars available at the shelter during the storm." Ravn chuckles. "You'd think the part that would get me in trouble there was breaking into the bloody Laundromat, but no one ever complains about that. We did leave money for soap and use of the machines, of course."

He keeps an eye on Perdita while he grouses. While not expecting more curious or dangerous things to appear, it is never good to let one's guard slip too much. And when the air takes on a quality of salt and rotting seaweed he glances at her again, expecting to see relief -- because while the smell of rotting seaweed is not exactly pleasant, it's not the smell of tobacco at least.

"You can do a lot with a school bus, if you tear out a couple of benches," Alexander points out. He follows along behind then sniffs the air at that salty rot touches the air. "Ah, good. Be careful," he murmurs to the two up front. "It gets slick; some of these caves are only even exposed during low tide. If it's high tide, we could end up swimming." He shudders. "It's too cold to swim."

"If it's high tide, we go back and try to find our way back through the tunnels, rather than risk drowning. I'm an okay swimmer, but I'd rather not try it while freezing my ass off." Perdita says softly. And indeed, there is relief on her face as she keeps moving, watching her step. Gross rotting plants clearly are more pleasant to her than whatever was back there. "This has definitely been... interesting, to say the least."

"I was born in an archipelago, in a house surrounded by a lake on three sides. I can swim." Ravn nods. "However, I vastly prefer to swim when I don't expect my balls to turn into ice cubes in the attempt. Let's find out how the tide is, and whether we can get out safely -- and head back if we can't." He leaves the second part of that unspoken: Then Perdita doesn't have to go past something that made her deeply uncomfortable a second time.

"If we get out, though, we should take good notice of the spot so we can go back and explore some other time -- from out here. I imagine that you'll want to repair the basement after all?" He glances at Perdita again. "Might I suggest putting up your own big damn dick on this side of whatever wall you put up, to deter the horny were-teens from pulling it down again?"

It becomes clear very quickly that the tide, like the odds, is not in their favor. The tunnel slopes downwards, and Ravn's feet soon start splashing in freezing, salty water, and it looks only to get deeper from there. Alexander looks forward, and grimaces. "Won't be able to go that way. Even if we wanted to swim, some of the currents around these places can be treacherous. Let's go back." He turns around, and starts trudging back the other way.

There's a mild groan of annoyance from Perdita, but she brings her sleeve back up to her nose and trudges back with the others, hurrying past the stink, before letting the menfolk take up their positions as they see fit once more.