2021-12-16 - We're getting ice cream!

Early afternoon in a new city means getting settled into it, and so Monroe is getting the lay of the land. Monroe is dressed in boho chic finery, wild curls bouncing with every vigorous step. At his side, shorter and with more reasonable hair and fashion sense, is a kid of between 11-13 years of age, excitedly pointing out architectural features of various buildings as they walk. On spotting the community center, the pair share a look and a shrug. There's no denying they're siblings, despite the age gap and ethnic differences.

"Let's check it out!" says the mini-me, Alfie, and so Monroe gestures grandly with a smile. The pair step into the warmth of the building, Alfie curiously, Monroe blinking a little from the change in lighting, looking to see exactly what they're dealing with in this town, and what to expect, since there wasn't a welcoming committee at the RV Park the night before... probably because they got in so late.

"Stick close, just in case, yeah?" Monroe says softly to kid.

The place is obviously not one of those high end charities where rich people go to buy clean conscience and good karma; those tend to be a lot neater, and have matching furniture -- or at the very least matching coffee mugs. Here, in comparison, there is a veritable rainbow of mismatched mugs -- and entirely too many of them are dirty presently, which explains the tall guy in a black turtleneck who's gathering them up on in a plastic tub for washing. Neither he, nor the older guy with the white crew cut look all that posh, though at least the older guy is playing with a graphics program on a not too powerful computer sitting on the kitchen table that makes it out for the reception area.

"I can't find the right shade of blue," the older guy complains. "They're kind of blue, but also green, and grey, and also, kind of neon."

"Use the paintbrushes, see if you can create a scale for reference," says the tall guy patiently and then turns around, tub and all. "Hey. New faces? Welcome to the centre. I'm Ravn Abildgaard, currently designated washer-upper."

"I'm the Photoshop expert," says the other guy, over his shoulder. Apparently Photoshop experts don't have names.

Monroe's smile crinkles the corners of his eyes just a bit. "Nice to meet you, Ravn Abildgaard, Photoshop Expert. I'm Monroe Lane, and this tiny terror is, Alfie Jones." Monroe rests a hand on Alfie's shoulder, relaxing a bit now that it's clear that there's no CPS immediately going to try and snatch the kid. The accent is strong, Received Pronunciation, unchanged (rather stubbornly) after a decade in the US.

Alfie waves, and suddenly Photoshop Expert suddenly has a kid looking over his shoulder curiously, as Alfie has moved away from the Boring Adults to observe the man and his computer skills.

"He's my little brother." Monroe offers by way of explanation, glancing around the building with a smile, "I've got to be honest, a Community Centre is the last thing I was expecting to find here... but it's a nice place."

"We're a pretty new affair," Ravn agrees, his own accent obviously European -- the kind that wants to be British, secretly or not so secretly, but doesn't quite make the cut. "Opened up over summer, and as you can probably see, we're still sort of in the process of renovating, getting things sorted out, and generally figuring out what we're doing. But that's the fun part of community -- the anarchy."

Definitely not run by some well organised charity, then.

"Denny," Mr Photoshop Expert murmurs to Alfie. "You know anything about mermaids, son?"

The look Ravn shoots both young redheads is scrutinising -- a bit more, perhaps, than is really polite. Then he puts the tub o' dirty mugs on the table and gives Monroe a second glance. "So -- new in town. Anyone give you the welcome speech yet? Hotel California, you can check in but you can never leave?"

"Should come up with something catchier," Denny murmurs.

"Mermaids? I've never met one. There were fairies around Gran's house but they weren't very nice." Alfie responds to the older man, smiling.

Ginger brows raise and Monroe glances back toward Alfie, shifting subtly to keep the child in view. One gets the feeling Monroe's done a lot of child wrangling in his life. "No speech as of yet, but... we're not planning on going anywhere for at least the school year. If it were just me..." Monroe shrugs slightly. "But no speech. Is there a particular reason everyone sticks around, or is it just good old American hospitality?" his tone is wry, but his expression is a little more concerned.

Denny sucks in his breath. Alfie, you are about to hear about mermaids. Boy, are you about to hear about mermaids. And forget Disney poster girls -- when Denny talks mermaids, he talks about dangerous women who lure people out to sea where they . . . disappear, yes, because Denny at least remembers that he is talking to a child, and maybe, just maybe it's not a great idea to go into great technical detail about how exactly sirens rip the flesh from human bones like they did his pal Roscoe last summer down by the boardwalk, and -- yes. There's a lot to be said about 'Mermaid' Denny, local homeless loon, but at least he doesn't try to induce horrible nightmares in kids. Just warn them away from the water front and any singing ladies with fish tails.

Ravn glances at the two; making friends right there.

Then he glances back at Monroe. "Gray Harbor likes people who have a bit of an affinity for the unusual. Maybe you've been around long enough to notice. The town tends to attract -- and keep -- people who are a bit extraordinary in some way or other."

The speech about avoiding the water front gets vigorous agreement from Alfie, because he already knows the dangers of water, first hand, though the kid doesn't go into it, just yet, with a stranger.

"I've noticed a lot of... extraordinary... people walking around, yes." Monroe admits, shifting his hips slightly. "I've got family in the area, apparently, so we thought... we don't really have anybody, and it's not easy on a kid growing up without their parents." That's a voice of experience, right there. "Figured we'd make a go of being a settled family for a bit, before we get back on the road come summer... but from the way you're sounding, I might not get the choice." he speaks softly, not wanting Alfie to hear. For him, the strangeness in the world is still magical and wonderful, but Monroe knows better.

"Sounds like I don't need to start at 'convince this bloke that unusual exists'." Ravn chuckles; he's not sorry about that. Then he nods. "Well, we always tell people -- get back on that bus, keep moving. But no one ever does -- whether it's because they think the locals are exaggerating or it all sounds exciting, or, more commonly, life just doesn't work out that way. You already got a job or a place to stay, just packing up and moving on is not as easy as just that."

He hitches a shoulder. "Myself, I could have -- came in with a hitched ride, could have gotten on a Greyhound and moved right on, but it all seemed too interesting. Figured I could stick around a week, maybe two, make a little money for the road. That was more than a year ago and I'm still here. Ended up buying a house with a friend so I'm probably not about to leave, either."

"We're both already registered for the coming semester... and I need the loan money to keep us afloat." Monroe says softly, glancing back at Alfie with concern. "Are the schools safe, at least?" he twists the strap on his canvas messenger bag, a nervous gesture. Green eyes rest on the child, who's lost in conversation with Denny. He's animated, cheerful, happy go lucky sort of kid. His accent is fainter, more Americanized, certain words rather than full sentences.

"I'm not going to let anything happen to him. I promised mum a long time ago I'd always look after him."

Ravn glances at the boy and then back to Monroe. "It's not -- people. Gray Harbor is no better or worse than any other small town in that regard. Sure, we've got some less than friendly locals and a couple of nut jobs -- any town does. Does he have -- any talents? The more you can discourage him from drawing attention doing strange things, the less attention he'll get from the other side too."

But nothing is indeed ever guaranteed is heavily implied in the Dane's tone there. "We try to generally -- look out for one another. Not everyone who is unusual, but most of us. This is not a good town to be a child molester or wife beater in; too many empaths, too many people who'd figure out what you're doing."

"A little bit. Not like me, he... moves things. He's not very strong, though. I'm trying to teach him it's nothing to be afraid of but it's also not something to do lightly." Monroe nods softly, curls bouncing as he does.

"Glad to hear that part, at least. I've never had to hurt someone, but I would for him." and damn the consequences, apparently. "Well, any nut jobs I should outright avoid, or are they more the 'conspiracy theory tin hat aliens abducted my goldfish' sort? Everybody knows aliens don't abduct goldfish. It's the Fair Folk."

"I do a little of that," Ravn says, as if that's a perfectly normal thing to discuss. "Moving things. I'm not very good at it. When you've been here a while you start to be able to tell at a glance -- some people describe it as a light or sparkle, some hear music, some feel heat. I'm the latter -- but whatever you perceive it as, I haven't got a lot to make do with. It's not a bad thing -- not having a lot. The unusual things do seem to happen at a higher rate to the strong people."

He shakes his head and reaches for a couple of mugs. "Instant coffee? Luke-warm Pepsi? It's what we've got. I think I can actually say that our known tinfoil hat people are the ones you should be listening to. There's a private investigator whom the Gazette and the police both have tagged as nuts -- he's one of the most knowledgeable folks on how this words, Alexander Clayton. Denny here?" He nods to the silverhaired bloke entertaining Alfie. "Supposedly a paranoid schizophrenic and local loon. Also right. Think the best advice I can give you there is to not assume someone's crazy, just because they sound like it."

"Pepsi would be wonderful, thank you." Monroe smiles, perfectly comfortable discussing the weirdness of the world. "As long as they don't try to convince me Big Foot is going to steal my hubcaps, I'm sure we'll get on fine. I prefer to think of that type as 'eccentric'. My gran was eccentric, ran the local book store, saw the Fair Folk, that sort of thing. Still not sure how much of that was real and how much was her being entertaining for a bored child, but she swore my mum was the daughter of a Faery King, and that's why Alfie and I have freckles." he laughs softly, clearly fond of that particular memory.

"It could happen. We're in Gray Harbor, don't be too surprised." Ravn chuckles and pours luke-warm but still fizzy Pepsi into plastic mugs -- a bright pink one, and one that reads World's Best Grandma. He offers one to Alfie and one to Monroe, but seems to stick with instant coffee for himself. "I grew up in a haunted house and I tend to see ghosts off and on so I am certainly not going to tell anyone that Bigfoot or faerie aren't real. Had a coven of sidhe witches turn up here in summer for the hurricane, who are we to argue?"

"Thank you." the mugs are accepted, Alfie taking the pink one and leaving World's Best Grandma for Monroe, who rolls his eyes at his little brother but grins all the same. "Well, unfortunately for Big Foot, some tweaker in Silver Lake already got two of them, so he'll just have to do with a mismatched set. No idea why he'd want hubcaps from a '77 Chevette, but..." Monroe laughs, tapping his mug gently to Alfie's, who rolls his eyes in turn and goes back to hanging out with Denny, whom he's apparently decided is cool.

"I grew up in an old house not too far from a couple castles. It wasn't haunted, though, and I've never seen a ghost. Are there many around here?"

"Oh yes. As haunted towns go, Gray Harbor is -- remarkably haunted. The vast majority are just memories, though -- images and shades of times past. There are a number of self-aware ghosts around as well but most of them don't give anyone a hard time. My room mate's got a poltergeist who's more than a bit of an asshole." Ravn continues to sound like this is all perfectly par for the course, and that such a speech would not absolutely get him declared the town loon anywhere else.

He glances in the direction of the quite preoccupied kid and lowers his voice just enough that Alfie might not pick up everything. "Firefly forest is pretty damned haunted in places -- stay clear of the old lumbermill there. Gray Pond, same -- a few too many bodies have been dumped there over time, so if you're sensitive to that sort of thing, there are better places to go for a picnic. I tend to bump into folks regularly near the old catholic church, but I haven't met anyone there who was unfriendly."

"We... tend to avoid water, much, anyway." Monroe responds in an even softer voice, hugging his lanky frame absently. "Our parents... our mum and Alfie's dad, they drowned over the summer." he shakes his head slightly, "It's just us, now. Well. Unless Abildgaard is a branch of Baxters. Trying to find my bio-dad." Monroe laughs, perking up a bit. "Might swing by the old church some time, just out of curiosity... but I'll stay clear of the lumbermill."

Ravn glances at the younger redhead again. Then he puts down his coffee mug and reaches for a notepad and a ball pen. "Going to give you a few names -- Baxter's one of the two families that sort of constitute this town's history. Might as well give you some names of people like us, who are also related to them in one form or other."

Alexander Clayton. Kailey Holt. Aidan Kinney. Grant Baxter.

He offers the note over. "There are more, but those four all take an active interest in sorting things out. Holt and Kinney both are looking for lost family members. Kinney's my room mate, incidentally."

"Right... well, feel free to give them my name, too, but... I'll reach out to them. As far as I know, Alfie's no relation to the Baxter side of the family, except through me, but... it'd be good to meet family." Monroe smiles wistfully, taking a sip of his lukewarm Pepsi. "Caffeine. We need to pop down to the Safeway in a bit and get our little fridge stocked back up after the drive up here."

"You're probably going to hear some pretty awful stories." Ravn glances at the note. "I wish I could tell you otherwise but the Addingtons and the Baxters spent nearly two hundred years playing Hatfields and McCoys. It's pretty much done with now, though of course there's some lingering discomfort."

"I'll... keep that in mind. As long as nobody holds it against us. Alfie's not part of it, and I don't even know who my father is yet. Mum was out at a club, met a guy, had a bit too much fun and apparently both birth control and condoms can fail." There's a little shrug from Monroe, "Trying to find out info before I just show up all, 'Surprise, remember that wild romp you had in London? You're a daddy'. Or worse, finding out he's been happily married thirty years."

Ravn can't help a small chuckle; yes, he can sort of picture that. "Well, you're in luck -- what are you, early twenties? The only man on that list who could be your father would be Clayton, and he'd have to have gotten started early, not that that's not possible. Grant is probably younger than you are. No guarantees about parents of course -- I actually don't know any of their parents. Grant's probably a safe bet again -- from what I've picked up, his home life is quite solid in that regard. Kinney and Holt are both adopted kids, not knowing about their Baxter heritage until later, so you might find kindred spirits there."

"I'll be twenty three in a few months." Monroe says easily enough. "I'm just glad to know I've got some cousins. Gran didn't have any family, Gramps was an only child... Mum was an only child..." he shrugs lightly, smiling, "I'll definitely talk to them both about that... So what about you? What brought you here? You're a long way from... Denmark?" he hazards a guess, based on the name and the accent behind the accent.

"Denmark, yes." Ravn smiles, a little surprised - and then not, because on the whole, Europeans are a lot better at guessing European accents than non-Europeans, and maybe that's not really very strange at all. He rests a hip against the kitchen table, not really prone to find something to sit on.

"I was hitch-hiking across the States. Came over from New York to Seattle. Was going to work my way down towards Portland and then the general idea was to continue south until I hit Tierra del Fuego, then find a boat for New Zealand." He offers a small, wry smile -- the kind that screams this town, man. "Was running from my ex. Who was five years dead at the time but since when does that stop an angry woman. Pretty obvious now that I was going here all along, but that's Gray Harbor for you. People come here to find lost relatives, or they come here because of the power, drawing them here."

There's a faint note of surprise on Monroe's face, as if he was guessing a bit in the dark. "I'm an art major. Nicolai Abildgaard was the father of Danish painting." he offers by way of explanation, "Only place I've ever really heard the name before today."

"... You're making me very glad I have no romantic or sexual attraction toward women." Monroe mutters, shaking his head. "I take it she's at rest, then? I'm not sure if condolences or congratulations should be offered."

"Ah, yes." Ravn cracks a small grin; historian does appreciate it when someone else has a bit of historical flair. "Not a direct relative -- though given the name, there's probably a common ancestor somewhere. Some of my ancestors were very prolific; there aren't a lot of us now but at times, the name has been pretty common."

The question about the ex earns a nod and a hitched shoulder, in the fashion of someone who doesn't really care to go over the gruesome details but also considers the inquiry valid. "A bit of both. I don't think she enjoyed following me here, either. I do think the Veil is what brought her back, to chase me here. The Veil is the local term for -- well, all of it, the other realities, the supernatural."

"There's something to be said for being prolific. There's also something to be said for being an only child... or one of two." Monroe smiles fondly at Alfie as he walks Denny through something on the computer, now. Probably teaching him to use TikTok.

"Right. Sorry she's passed, glad she's no longer chasing you around. It would be rather frustrating to buy a house then have to leave it because of the unquiet dead."

"Oh, I don't mind haunted in itself. I see ghosts, as I said. You get used to it -- unless they have some kind of score to settle with you, that's another story entirely." Ravn smiles a little; the glance that Monroe sends his brother does not go unnoticed, and just because he is not a family man himself he is still quite capable of appreciating affection between others. "Most ghosts are -- really quite indifferent. And the vast majority are not aware at all -- they're just memories. Emotions, images trapped in time, repeating the same few moments over and over until they fade away. Nothing to be afraid of."

"Is... seeing ghosts part of what you do, or is it just something any of us can do with practice?" Monroe asks softly. "Also... should I be worried about the RV park? Killer cannibals in the woods or anything of the like?" he shivers a little, shaking his head slightly, sending his curls bouncing about again.

"The park's prone to flooding in bad weather. I stayed there last winter -- no one bothered me. Saw a couple of kids selling drugs a few times, that was about the extent of the excitement." Ravn shakes his head. "It's not as bad as it's cracked up to be. People hear 'trailer' and immediately assume you've moved into a meth den."

He shakes his head again; a stray copper lock seems intent on falling into his eyes. "I'm not sure about the ghost seeing part, to be honest. It doesn't seem to be a common thing. But, there are things a number of people can do. Movers, well, we move things, manipulate matter. There are people who heal, or set things on fire, or talk to trees. And empaths, people who read objects, memories. And in between, every so often, someone's got a thing that's kind of their particular little thing. Not all movers can do all the moving tricks; not all healers can create fire, and so on."

There's a slight frown about kids selling drugs. He glances over at Alfie, concerned. "Yeah, they hear 'I live in a converted bus' and assume I own a meth den, or at least have a weed hook up. I've never even smoked, let alone done anything harder. I don't care if other people do, I just... don't want that for Alfie, and always wanted to set a good example in that respect at least." Monroe shrugs slightly.

"I can heal, I can hurt, I think... and I can make plants do what I want, a bit. I try not to do any of it, though... bad things have a way of happening." his voice drops. "I don't know if it's because of using it, or just because I can use it, but I've noticed that when I do something big, like when I was keeping Gran healthy, something bad seems to follow eventually."

"Holt and Kinney are both like that. They can heal, and they canstart fires. Another name that's got nothing to do with the Baxters is Roen -- August Roen is like that as well. Several others. Most people here are very talented in one way or another, and then there's a few near-muggles like me." If being a near-muggle bothers the Dane he doesn't show it.

"It's not my impression that drugs are a big problem here," he notes, glancing towards the new best friends at the computer. "They exist, of course. But at least among people like us I tend to find -- most of us hesitate to lose control of our faculties to that kind of extent. It renders us too vulnerable."

"I can start fires, too. Make fireballs." Monroe adds, with a bit of a grimace. "I try hard not to do that one. It's a bit... it takes me to some very negative emotions I don't like feeling, when I do it." there's a little shrug from him. "I don't like losing control, in general. Too many bad people in the world to let your senses flee. A lot of good people, too, but..." another slight shrug and a smile.

"And none of us come with a declaration of contents, and when we do, there's no guarantee we're telling the truth. Ayup, I get you." Ravn cracks another little smile. "I lived on the streets for a couple of years. Being male and six foot three helps, but there are still a lot of people out there I wouldn't trust with a rusty spoon, never mind anything of actual value."

"Traveled a lot the last few years. Stopped picking up hitchhikers for that exact reason. Never know who you're letting into your bus. Or, well. House. Definitely not going to happen now that I've got this little monster. But... we should probably get back to the car and get our groceries for the day. Thank you for the Pepsi, and the welcome... and the names." Monroe smiles, stretching his arms up straight. "Love the hair, by the way. It's the best color. Excepting silver, of course." He winks at Denny.

As it turns out, Denny is the kind of man who turns crimson at compliments -- any kind of compliments. The kind of man who will shout in your face about mermaids but flee at a run if someone tries to be nice to him. The kind who will entertain a kid at a computer for hours, but has no idea how to talk to most adults. Maybe the reason he and Ravn get along pretty well is that in fact, they rarely say a whole lot to each other.

Ravn pretends to not notice; maybe that's also a reason they get along. "Take my number while you're at it." He scribbles that on to the note too, before handing it over. "Pretty much everyone who's like us in town has it -- that's kind of what I do here, I try to connect people. Don't be a stranger -- it can be a hell of a ride, and well, you got someone else to look out for."

The note is accepted, and Alfie reluctantly says goodbye to Denny with a smile and a wave, but doesn't put up too much of a fuss. Kid's probably already hungry again. "Thanks, Ravn." Hey, he says it right. Or, as close as a non-native tongue can manage. "It was nice meeting you both. I'll text you in a bit so you've got my number."

Turning to Alfie, he drapes an arm over the kid's shoulder, grinning. "Come on, I'll let you pick out dessert."

Alfie is easily bribed, it seems, because he beats Monroe out the door. "We're getting ice cream!" he announces to no one in particular, and in spite of the cold.