2021-12-07 - Ride Like the Wind

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : Rosencrantz got me a girlfriend. Want to meet my new girlfriend? She's very accommodating.

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : I swear if you're inviting me to a threesome with your girlfriend I'm going to be IRATE, Raven Applebarb.

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : Well, we can both sit on her ample curves but the front is mine.

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : Photo of Ravn and a motorcycle

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : Okay so that was actually speech-to-text and not just me garbling your name for pique but...

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : SEXY BLACK LEATHER CURVES FREE RIDE

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : Do I need to drag you?

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : I am not getting on your screaming metal death trap, Ravn. Even if both it and you are incredibly sexy in that picture.

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : Aw.

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : You can, however, show it off to me.

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : Deal. I'm trying to find a name for her. So I can tell people I am in a polycule with a single mum of three named Kitty and an older lady named whatever.

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : Are you going through a midlife crisis? I feel like this is the first stage of a midlife crisis. Eddie got a Bugatti, you're getting a motorcycle.

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : Oh, I decided to have one of those just before Storm Cimaron hit, yes. Just had to wait on Rosencrantz to work his magic and find the right machine. I didn't just want whatever sleek and fancy modern thing is available, I wanted something like the old Nimbus my father used to ride.

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : Isn't that a type of broom from the TERF Queen? Anyway, feel free to swing by, I can meet you by the doors in like... 20. I've been stripping

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : Paint from some of this old furniture

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : It's also a type of cloud. And a popular Danish motorcycle which ceased production in 1960. I'll be there, with my baby.

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : You're insane. Be safe.

Some men have their midway crisis in the form of a powerful engine that roars and announces their testosterone fuelled presence to entire neighbourhoods at a time. Some men try to dress it up as being clever -- it's cheaper than public transit, dear, and the design is very fuel efficient. Some go full weeabo and show off something so Japanese and sleek that it probably doubles as a mecha or a spaceship.

And some men love vintage bikes. The machine Ravn drives up in front of the Bauer building eighteen minutes later is slender. It obviously hails from a time in design history when a motorcycle was a machine that transported you from Point A to Point B, and while it did not object to looking fine while doing so, it lacks a lot of the weird chromey trims that more modern engines boast. This is a bike designed for transportation. That it also can double as the perfect backdrop for a Young Marlon Brando Streetcar Named Desire shoot is a bonus.

Young Marlon Brando probably would wear a black leather jacket too, but the sleeve might look less like it'd been through a wringer. And he would have been far too macho to put on a helmet -- though Ravn's black helmet with a very subtle corvid feather design is as gorgeous as a motorcycle helmet can get (it still bears some resemblance to a black eggshell, okay).

He rolls up and dismounts and, pulling out the pink cell phone that clashes about two hundred percent with the black rider image he's got going there, leans against the bike to send Perdita another text.

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : I was born insane, I just hide it well.

(TXT to Ravn) Perdita : Not that well. On my way out.

(TXT to Perdita) Ravn : I have yet to order the peasants to fire the cannons at the sparrows, I'm hiding it just fine.

Stepping out of one of the grand doors of the Bauer Building, Perdita looks like she must have stopped working the moment Ravn initially texted her and rushed to change and get her make up on and look together. A pair of tight black denim jeans, black turtleneck, a long crimson red faux fur coat belted at the waist and a black pashmina scarf as a head covering... and, of course, a pair of ankle length boots with a high stiletto heel.

She cuts quite the figure as she steps out, channeling something of the old glamor of the building for just an instant... and then she speaks. "You really have lost your damn mind. Your life wasn't dangerous enough?" still, she mostly sounds amused... though one can't deny there's an undercurrent of genuine concern.

"She looks like a Lola to me."

Ravn cants his head slightly and splays a gloved hand against the fuel tank. "I was thinking maybe Bianca because of the white -- but Lola could work too. Something eternally young and pure. All the bad jokes waiting to be made, makes it worthwhile, doesn't it?"

This guy enjoys getting ribbed by his friends. Hey, it means he has friends.

"Lola Bianca it is." Ravn beams. "Lola Bianca, where have you been my entire life?"

"Lola Bianca Abildgaard, it is. Or... will you be taking her name at the wedding?" heels click softly as Perdita approaches the bike with a smile, walking slowly around it with a low whistle. "Itzhak rebuild her, or just help you find her already in excellent condition?" she asks, obviously appreciative of the craftsmanship, if not willing to actually get on the rocket of doom.

"Ravn Triumph Bonneville does have a ring to it. Or maybe we can be the Abildgaard-Bonnevilles. Or the Bonneville-Abildgaards. The oldest family name goes last, doesn't it?" Ravn grins, cheekily and lets his fingertips trace the contours of the fuel tank. Is he making it look like something else? The asshole absolutely is. He's going to milk this for every joke ever.

"Rosencrantz found her in some estate sale in Olympia. Took her home and restored her, for me. Didn't tell me -- but I had asked him to help me find the perfect bike. I am useless in a garage." A glance down at the gleaming chrome; the mechanic is obviously not useless. "She's got a side car too. I fully expect Kitty Pryde to claim it, and shred the backside of anyone else who tries to get into it. And then I can be that guy -- the weirdo who drives around town with his cat."

"The Bonneville-Abildgaards sound like they should own a mega yacht that has a pool on it, possibly with a smaller boat in the pool. Typically, when someone hyphenates in the US, their new surname gets added on to the end. For example, I'd be Leontes-Abildgaard, but if you hyphenated mine, you'd be Abildgaard-Leontes. You know... if you wanted to make Miss Lola here jealous and traumatize your parents by bringing home a Romani-Mexican trans woman to claim the title of Countess." Perdita smirks, watching Ravn touch on the bike like he's making love to it. "Is it bad that I'm vaguely jealous of a motorcycle?"

"Well, now you know the way to my heart. Be sixty years old or more. Do not tell Granny Leigh I said that." Ravn continues to smile, lopsidedly. "Also, I know a Rosenkrans-Theil-Bille-Rantzau-Sparre. With half a dozen vons in there somewhere. It's a hell of a lot easier to just flip a coin, which is exactly what I intend to do if it ever becomes relevant -- unless the lady in question insists that her name is worth keeping, in which case I will just take that."

He'd probably get a kick out of ending an 850 years long tradition by becoming a Jones.

"Are you sure you don't want a ride? I am suggesting driving around the marina, maybe -- not trying to break a speed record on the highway. For all my bluster, I'm a pretty careful driver. I like living."

There's a laugh from Dita at the thought of telling Gail that Ravn likes older women, but she shakes her head. "I... won't even try to tell you what my full name would be if I kept to both my parents' naming conventions. Let's just say Perdita Euphemia Leontes is an easier name to remember." She laughs softly.

"I don't like motorcycles, sorry. I was in an accident on one as a child. My báte decided it'd be a great idea to take a six year old on a motorcycle ride to toughen me up. We wiped out on gravel and I spent three weeks with my left arm in a sling because I had an abrasion scab from elbow to neck." Perdita shivers slightly and shakes her head. "Báte had pins put in his arm, so I was lucky."

Ravn is content to simply rest his hip against the saddle of Lola Bianca, one hand still on her fuel tank, one tucked into a jacket pocket. "That doesn't sound like fun at all."

A small wince. "And it sounds like exactly the thing my father did to me as well. Every so often he'd remember he had a kid and decide that we were going camping, or hunting, or mountain climbing, or reef diving -- you name it. I'm probably lucky he loved his Nimbus bike so much I wasn't allowed near it." A thoughtful head tilt as a penny drops. "Probably why I love vintage bikes, really -- something awesome he had and I didn't. He was a very careful driver too, though. But I know exactly what you mean -- I haven't been able to look at a Ferrari again in the same way after my ex had to be scraped off the pavement with a mop and bucket after ramming a tree with one."

"He had my brothers, you'd think he'd have had enough of that masculine bonding bullshit, but..." she shrugs and sighs, "I wish I could say that was the last time he tried something like that, but Mamá forbid him from ever forcing me onto a motorcycle again at least." there's a wicked little smile at that, at least. "I've DRIVEN tri-wheel scooters with no issue, so... I may have issues regarding loss of control, come to think of it." since they're both sharing their trauma, after all. "You've got a beautiful bike, though. Maybe someday I'll be over it enough to at least attempt a slow ride with you."

"And if that day comes you'll tell me," Ravn agrees, with a small smile. "Because I hated it when my father dragged me off for some real man time, and I am not going to do that to someone else, either. Offer stands, but I'm not going to be nudging you about it. Deal?"

He lets his fingertips wander from one handle bar to another; oh yes, he is getting all of the enjoyment out of this. Not usually one to show affection much, maybe he thinks it's funny. Maybe in a way, it is. Maybe it's the kind of joke he'll save for a select few who might appreciate it, because Ravn Abildgaard is not exactly known around town as a physical guy. Skinny nerd with a weird fashion sense, is more like it. "I still don't like driving cars. I can do it, I will do it if I need to go somewhere, but I don't like it. I never loved it -- cars are just, things you travel in. But now I can't not be reminded of how easily you can get yourself turned into paste in one. And I absolutely cannot abide drunk driving, for pretty obvious reasons."

"That's good, because I gave up all claims to 'real man time' around age 14, and officially turned in my membership card at 16." She laughs, watching as Ravn continues to... basically make out with his motorcycle. "Sweetie, do you want to wheel her into the building and find a nice private room with her somewhere? I don't judge."

The comment about drunk driving gets a sympathetic nod. "I like cars, well enough, but... if I had something like that happen, I would... probably hate driving, too, or even being around cars."

"I have a garage at home and Aidan's drum kit isn't jealous." Ravn winks at her. Oh yes. He will milk this to the last drop -- and why not? Guys obsess over motorcycles -- usually stronger, more powerful specimens, built to impress and intimidate. Nerd boy definitely can see the joke here. "I struck a deal with the old man when I was thirteen -- he'd stop enrolling me in fancy boarding schools, and I'd stop running away from them. He kept his promise, I didn't keep mine. I never grew up to be a real man by his standards -- or maybe I did, because I'm pretty damn certain most of his travelling and globetrotting was about getting the fuck away from the women in his life."

"Ravn, if you actually have sex with your motorcycle make sure to clean it immediately or risk ruining the finish. Of the motorcycle. Your finish can ruin the finish of the motorcycle." Perdita doesn't roll her eyes, though it's possible she is, internally. She's good enough at concealing how she feels... "Honestly, who gives a damn what our fathers think. Mine had four kids and three of them ran away from him at the first chance they got, and the fourth stuck around and got thrown out, so..."

Aaand maybe that's taking the joke as far as it needs to go. At least the man has the decency to dust slightly pink (which clashes rather violently with the copper highlights of his hair) and stick his other hand in his pocket too. A bit sheepishly, "Remind me to not try this game at you another time, I will lose." He laughs, softly. Because that too is funny. Not that Perdita called him out, but the way she did -- straight-faced, tone as if asking if he wanted oatmeal or applesauce.

Then the folklorist shakes his head. "Mine had just me, which I assume is because he was under contractual obligation to provide heir, one, male. And then he spent the rest of his life diving in the Red Sea, climbing in the Himalayas, learning to meditate in Nepal, salmon fishing in Alaska, whatever else sounded weird and manly enough, and when occasionally feeling home sick, hunting anything that moved and collecting vintage cars. I think I get my love of travelling from him -- as long as I can travel on my feet with a backpack, on my own."

Seeing Ravn blush, that little crack in the armor... Perdita steps close, intentionally stepping into the boundaries she normally respects, though she's very careful to keep enough distance between them that she can't accidentally bump him or trigger his neuropathy through mere proximity. She tilts her head up, looking at him almost demurely from beneath those thick lashes, biting her lower lip just barely before she releases it to speak, her voice soft and breathy. Ravn has always wanted to see Perdita at work... and this might be as close as he ever gets to seeing the woman behind the mask.

"You will always lose that particular contest of wills, Ravn Abildgaard." Perdita curls those lips into a wicked little smile that is full of promise, tracing one finger ever so delicately over the stitching on Lola's seat. "I had my shame surgically removed when I got my ass lifted and my lips filled, after all."

And as quickly as the charm and sex appeal are turned up to eleven, Perdita is back to her normal playful self, stepping around the bike again, putting Lola between them. "Still... it's always fun to play with you."

"It's not a play I do very well," Ravn admits, chuckling and going a tad pinker. "I'm not interested enough in the goal to sound convincing for long." True enough. For a truly convincing grift, the grifter must be able to convince even themselves, for the micro-tells. If you want to convince somebody you are genuinely interested in them you have to convince yourself that you could be -- at least for a while, at least long enough. "I've never really ventured into the seduction plays because I can't get properly in character."

Yes, let's talk shop. It's a way to change the subject. Yes, good.

He cants his head. "I'm not exactly surprised that you are very good at it, though."

"Who said that was a grift?" Perdita asks, raising both eyebrows slightly, just a hint of that wicked smile playing on her lips again. She got a rise out of him, however slight it might be, and that's enough, for now. Someday, she might make him crack, but that day is not today. "You weren't doing bad, though. And... if one were to have a sexual attraction to an inanimate object, Lola Bianca seems like a good choice. If you're not careful, though, some little hopeful boy is going to think you're a rough trade Daddy Dom looking for a naughty chew toy to punish." Perdita walks around the motorcycle, and Ravn, again, amused.

That, on the other hand, does not surprise the Dane a whole lot. "Wouldn't be the first time. A certain kind of nature see gloves like mine and reaches the entirely wrong conclusion. And if you think college girls are particularly bad about slightly older TAs with fancy names, you are entirely right. I make a very disappointing leather daddy. In part because I tend to not notice what they're actually making eyes at me about until they've either found somebody else or stormed off in a huff of disappointment."

He shrugs. "I don't mind. Punishing people sounds like it might get old very fast. What do you talk about after the riding crop breaks?" Pause. "Wait, don't answer that."

"You don't notice people making eyes at you?" Perdita teases, tilting her head to one side as she watches him.

"But now you've got the jacket, and the boots and all you need is a little cap... You're like a slender Tom of Finland model. Just... don't grow a mustache, you don't have the face for it." Dita shakes her head slightly, smiling. "If you do it right, and take care of things properly, the riding crop doesn't break, because the goal is to cause pain, not inflict lasting damage... but if it does break... that's when the after care comes into it."

"Which part of 'don't answer that' was unclear," Ravn grouses, though the amused sparkle in grey eyes betray that he's not bothered in the slightest. He lets a fingertip trace the contour of the handle bar again, but this time it is just what it is: A tic, an unrealised habit of fingers that are rarely idle, just like when he swipes spoons or sugar packets at the Espresso Yourself and let them dance across his knuckles.

"I honestly don't notice. Maybe it's just that when I meet people, I always expect them to take an interest in me -- if they take an interest at all. Not in what I am wearing or the shape of my nose, but in me, just like I do in them." The folklorist shrugs. "I'm aware that people play these games all the time. What I don't get is why."

"The 'don't' part." Perdita says with a smirk, tilting her head to one side slightly, "I know you don't notice, and you shouldn't be made to feel bad for it, so I apologize if it ever seems like I'm going from good natured teasing to bullying. The reasons people play these games are as varied as the people, themselves. Me? I didn't get enough love in my childhood, and I have severe daddy issues. I compensate by making sure everyone wants me, even if I don't want them."

There's a slight shrug. She doesn't say it like she's proud of it, merely that she has the self knowledge to recognize her motivations. "Especially if I don't want them."

The Dane adjusts his leather jacket, still leaning against the sleek little engine; one sleeve is little more than shreds -- Halloween in Gray Harbor is never boring. "I guess. I went the other route. No one needs me? Well, fuck you all very much, then, I don't need anyone, either."

He pauses, and then smirks. "Speaking of." A gloved hand dips into a pocket to fish out the horrific pink cell phone casing that for some reason he refuses to replace. "You familiar with something named Tik Tok, I presume? Apparently the new thing is to text someone and telling them they're your new boyfriend, or something." He taps up a past conversation and hands it over. "And apparently, teasing me is a thing, too. You should form a secret club, with cookies."

The phone is accepted, and she raises her eyebrows, accepting the phone and trying not to laugh, clearly, as she begins reading. "Yes, I'm familiar with TikTok, in a vague sort of way. I try to avoid most social media, though. Mostly because I don't want to be recognized if I start uploading tons of photos. Cameras are a grifter's worst enemy... unless you're very good at pulling off disguises." Which... she is, but... and then she narrows her eyes at the phone, then up to Ravn, "I do not have a boyfriend."

How does a woman manage to look so much like an irritated cat?

"I'm aware. I didn't want to hear 'Oh, but she's into you' next." Ravn offers a small, lopsided smile. "Because there's always another woman, you know? If you tell one woman no, it has to be because there is another you'd rather have. It can't be that you're simply not interested, there has to be someone better. You don't have a boyfriend and I am not playing gold digger at the Addington fortune."

The look Perdita's giving Ravn is still classified entirely as 'irritated cat', but there's also a dubious bit to it, too, now. "Garrett's not my boyfriend." she states, again, handing the phone back. She didn't throw it at him, so she can't be that annoyed, right? Right? If she had a tail, it'd be lashing in irritation. "Of course you're not playing gold digger, Hyacinth's hot as hell and has plenty going for her besides money."

The look she gets back is still amused. "Let me tell you a little secret: It doesn't matter one bit what I think Garrett is. Not that I really think anything because it's none of my business. I just wanted to nip the idea that you were chasing me in the bud. Can I have my cell phone back?"

He laughs softly and blows air up to remove a strand of stray copper hair from his face. "And frankly, I pity the bloke who goes for Hyacinth for her money, not going to lie. I'm not convinced any attempt to butter her up for a handout would not end with someone getting arrested for murder and being able to afford the bail, you know?"

"Of course I'm not chasing you. Anymore." Perdita smirks, continuing to hold out Ravn's cellphone to him. "Sorry, just... sensitive subject." she admits, shrugging slightly. "I'm... having feelings. I don't like it. Baba Y'ga said that once I started putting down roots I'd find things I don't like the idea of giving up, and she's... not wrong." Dita hugs herself, glancing up at the massive building. "I don't normally let people stick around long enough to leave an impression. For that matter, I don't normally stick around one place long enough to form attachments. Now look at me."

Ravn glances down the street while pocketing the pink monstrosity again. He's silent a moment, looking in the general direction of the bus station. Then his grey eyes return to the present and he nods. "I do know. About not letting people stick around, and about not sticking around. I used to say, never spend three nights in the same bed. Never stop moving. Don't ask names, don't tell anyone yours. Just be 'that Danish guy we met one night at the hostel, did anyone get his name'."

He shrugs, a little uncomfortable. "Baba Yaga. Don't need to give you the folklorist's speech on that one. She told me to stop running from myself. Stop pretending I'm someone I'm not, hiding who I am actually am. Told me that I would find friends and allies against the darkness. And it's -- happening, you know? I stopped actively deflecting or obscuring comments about who I am, where I'm from. I don't go hand out a calling card with my title on, but I don't pretend I have no idea what people are on about, either. And I am making friends. It's eerily precise."

"She told me..." Perdita looks off into the distance, trying to recall the exact words of those many months ago. "I was waiting for a sign that might never come... and that I should give myself over to the experiences of the city... to stop running... and here I am. Not running, roots put down, giving myself over to the experiences of the city." She shakes her head slightly.

"Not to doubt Baba Y'ga's skill, but... it's easy to prognosticate when you speak in vague terms. It's something I did when I was playing up my 'fortune telling' skills for a while, before I got sick of playing into ignorant people's prejudices about my father's people." she shrugs slightly, "But she's right, whether because she's right, or because she's smart about how she phrased things. The woman's wily..." she smiles, though.

Ravn taps a little rythm on the fuel tank, thoughtful. "I believe in her ability to see the future, or at least the probable future. Because that's who she is -- not a fortune teller like you or me, and believe me, I've done the fortune telling grift too. Baba Yaga is a trickster goddess. The Veil conjured her up to fit the mold, but it gave her all the powers of the original concept, and that means as far as we are concerned? She is as real as real gets. And real Baba Yaga portents change. Not taking her advice would be -- very unwise."

He looks back towards the bus station again. "It's a jagged pill to swallow, giving up our independence. But I am finding that at least for me, the trade-off is good. A year ago, I'd never have a conversation like this. I'd never have enough of a conversation with you or anyone else to even know your name. When I think about how much people here know about me, I freeze over inside because I still live in this illusion that I am invisible. I am not suggesting we sacrifice at Baba Yaga's feet like some ancient pagan goddess of old. She is a Veil creation. But the Veil created her close enough to be real that I for one am going to view her as what she is: A herald of change, of rebirth, of tearing down the old to make room for the new."

"I do, too." Perdita admits, shrugging ever so slightly at the admission. "If something is created in the image of another thing, imbued with the same abilities, memories, power... is it not, effectively, the thing itself? If I died, but the Veil created an exact copy of me with all my memories and an identical body, is that not just as much me as me? And... who's to say the she isn't the real Baba Y'ga, merely moved here from the Old Country?"

"The only sacrifices I make are to Saint Sarah, and then only on Her day." Perdita tells Ravn with a wry smile. "Before I met you, the only real friend I had was Jamie, and they never leave their bunker. I think they're a vampire or something."

Ravn can't help a small grin. "It irks me, as an academic. A scientific take, if you will. I don't like saying, she's real. But for all intents and purposes? You're absolutely right, it doesn't matter -- if the clone is exact enough, it's the same damn thing. I don't believe that there ever was a real Baba Yaga. But there is sure as hell a Veil created version now, and she plays by the rules of the original story -- and that's what I need to know. The rest is fluff and speculation."

He ponders a moment, thinks back. Then he laughs. "Rosencrantz. I think that's who made me stay around, if I have to pick one. I liked it here, enough to decide to stay for a while. Veil kept throwing reasons at me not to go. But the one thing that made me absolutely unable to leave for the first couple of months was finding someone else who loves the violin as much as I do, and had so much to teach me about just being a regular guy."

"Truthfully, I doubt there was a chicken leg hut, but I don't doubt there was an old woman named some form of 'Ya-ga' who was probably quite rude to unwary travelers who found their way onto her land and bothered her. She might have been from an ethnic minority, or some form of Queer or Pagan, and ended up villainized for it." she pronounces the name more traditionally Americanized than she normally does, pulling a face, as if to say Americans are butchering the languages of the Old Country, but she shrugs. "It doesn't matter... she's here now, and it's important we treat her with respect... though if she shows up on my roof I may jump."

"Itzhak is a good man. If anyone messes with him or his manfriends, I will snatch wigs." Perdita tells Ravn with a smirk and a slight tilt of her head. "Even if one of them is a cop."

"Oh, undoubtedly," the folklorist agrees. "And given her position as a trickster figure, likely villainized by early Christianity, just like Loki in Norse mythos. They serve the same purpose -- both portend change and force heroes to question the establishment in favour of doing away with it to make room for something new. Loki is literally the beginning and the end of the whole Asgardian cycle -- he is a force of nature, tamed by Odin to be his blood brother, and all of his antics inevitably leads towards Ragnarok and the world starting all over again. Yaga, a little less dramatic -- or, more likely, fewer stories were preserved."

Who doesn't want a lecture on cultural appropriation in the early middle ages?

He reaches the end of it, at last, and grins. "Yes, well. De la Vega is a cop, he's the boss cop at that -- but really? He's got the gun and the badge, but did he ever feel like a pig to you? Never did to me. He's just our guy in copville."

"I've always had a fondness for trickster figures. No idea why." Yeah, sure, no idea. "De la Vega is boss cop. He might not feel like one, but he is. Do I think he might bend things a little for the shinies among us? Probably. But..."

Perdita shrugs, "A cop is a cop is a cop, at the end of the day. I've seen too many abuse their power to ever fully trust one, even one I like. You notice I never hooked up with Deputy Dudley Doright, afterall."

"There's trust and there's trust," Ravn agrees, leaning back a little; he seems to like touching Lola Bianca -- not so much in a sensual nature as earlier when he was quite deliberately baiting Perdita, as a simple fascination, a boyish need to reassure himself that the bike is real and it is his. "I don't particularly trust the police. Have met the fuzz from both sides, don't like either. I don't trust de la Vega as a cop, no more than any other cop. But as a person, outside of his job -- yeah, I kind of do. And honestly, as homeless people and vagrants go, Gray Harbor goes very easy on them compared to a lot of places. I wonder if at some point, some early Addington mayor decided that it's actually really neat to have plenty Veil chow around that no one will miss. Reduces the chances of someone who matters going missing, you know?"

There's a slight smile as she watches Ravn stroking the bike like a horse in need of reassurance, but she doesn't comment on it, now. She's already made him blush, that was the big goal for that particular interaction, and enough schadenfreude for one day, at least.

"Distrusting the police is kind of like breathing for me... and you make it sound like the Addingtons are all assholes, like... genetically. I wonder if assholeism is genetic."

"Honestly? Kind of." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Hear me out. I like Hyacinth, I like her a lot. But her tragedy? It is that she is the heir to that whole pile of toxic shit. People like Erin, they have no idea what's going on, how terrible the family history is. It is horrendous. Margaret, the current matriarch, she is a monster. It's not genetic -- it's just nearly two hundred years' worth of tradition for fuck you all, we're the only ones who matter, and we're keeping this thin point open because it makes us rich and powerful. Hyacinth may change things. She certainly wants to. But for now? Yes. There is a hell of a lot of skeletons in the Addington closet, and they made most of them themselves."

"You're making me glad my parents were poor, far, far from here." Perdita tells Ravn with a grimace, hugging herself, both against the cold, and against the topic at hand and how uncomfortable it is. "Here's hoping she can change it. Money, as much as I love it, isn't worth people's lives, and fuck anybody who thinks so."

"Still not arguing," Ravn murmurs. "My family made its money exactly how you think, and I have nothing to tell the Addingtons in that regard -- except that we at least never had a tradition for shoving the rival family into wood chippers. This town is a mess, 'Dita, you know that. They and the Baxters are why. But on some level it's also all -- history. When Margaret dies, it's the end of it. Because Hyacinth refuses to play along and frankly, her cousins don't have the format. You've met Erin -- she's a nurse who likes fast cars, not a criminal mastermind."

"Wood chipper, literally, right? Because my pápo probably did back in the Old Country, probably half the reason they fled Hungary in the first place, but... I don't think he ever did in the US."

Perdita's expression quirks as she tries to remember meeting an Erin, absently twirling a strand of hair around one manicured finger, before she shakes her head. "I don't think I've ever met an Erin Addington. I've met Hyacinth and Atli, briefly, but the rest of the Addingtons are..." she gestures faguely, indicating a puff of smoke, "nebulous, at best. Any of them cute guys? They've got to compete with the Baxter clan, somehow, right?"

"Yeah, no. Sorry. Erin and Atli are a lot alike. Atli's a bit more imperious. And the boys are all dead. That too seems to be a Margaret rule, no male heirs." Ravn makes a small wincing smile; Margaret, Palpatine, hard to tell them apart. "And yes -- literally. Though usually not the bodies -- just the souls. The Baxter ghosts that were stored at the lumber mill and under the carousel, all bits and pieces -- that's why. Because every time a Baxter passes on -- the Veil closes a little. So they cannot, not if the Addingtons are to retain their power. Do you see the nefariousness of it?"

The folklorist glances down the street, at nothing in particular. "I recommend not talking too much about it. This town -- this is what is wrong with it. And the more we keep digging it all up, the more we encourage the cycle to repeat. Those who want to know, should know. But it is best to not to dwell too much on it, lest we invoke the attention of the real masterminds, the dolorphages who feed on the misery they created here."

"Ravn, I know imperious is just polite euphemism." Perdita points out... but she winces at the male heirs being all dead. "As in she actively hunts them, or... they just... seem to die off?" Dita asks, her expression softening. Because that sounds terrible either way, but very, very much worse one way. "I'm not going to dwell, don't worry. I'm just a dumb bimbo, remember?" her voice goes full airhead with the last sentence, alarmingly so. One might suddenly find themselves wondering how she manages doors.

"I don't know," the Dane admits, earnestly. "The last great -- incident -- was before my time here. A lot of Addingtons died -- the male ones. To open the Veil -- which is what their souls do. It's the perfect devil's bargain."

He shakes his head, and then offers a small, crooked smile. Yeah. Dumb bimbo. And he's just some European nerd boy whose opinion never mattered one bit to anyone, either. "Don't stop asking questions. I won't. But this is a conversation for just a few people to be trusted, not one to be had over beers at the Pourhouse. Don't poke sleeping bears unless we're willing to deal with them, and all that. Alexander and Hyacinth, in the same room, discussing this. I was there. So were you. And while you did not realise it that day, that was the day Gray Harbor began to change."

"That's... pretty fucking horrible, not gonna lie." Perdita says softly, shaking her head, her arms hugging herself tighter.

"I need a drink after this conversation... But I'm not going to go blabbing, don't worry. I intend to get shitfaced and forget as much of it as my obsessive little knowledge hungry brain will let me."