2021-12-20 - It's a club, not a cult. Unless it is a cult.

It's not that Ravn Abildgaard considers himself a regular at the Pourhouse. It's more that the Pourhouse's owners consider him a regular, a fact which manifests in one curious feature: They've always got one bottle of high end whiskey under the counter -- and he's also the only one who asks for it. This is a dive bar, a watering hole frequented by lumber mill workers and other good bluecollar folks (none of whom seem to mind the sometimes rather curious choices of background music).

The Dane wanders in tonight looking his usual; black jeans, turtleneck and leather jacket that now looks like it's not only been dragged over asphalt but also shot at. The bullet hole coincides with the fact that he's got one arm in a sling, and it draws a few curious looks from the (other) regulars: "Lobsters fighting back these days, Abildgaard?"

He chuckles and murmurs to Davis the bartender about the usual before scampering on to a tall stool at the bar. The usual appears to be twelve year Glenfiddich.

With her threadbare flannel shirt and jeans (even if those jeans do have multiple layers of brightly-coloured patches on them), Una's not especially noteworthy amidst the usual crowd-- unless, of course, one counts her newness to town. She's also at the bar, her stool separated from Ravn's by one spare; she's nursing a beer, using a sheaf of papers as a coaster in a desultory kind of way. Her moody gaze might be enough to set them on fire (and hey, that could be literal, in this town), but she's distracted: a side-long glance takes in first Ravn, then the sling, and then, finally, the drink itself.

"Doesn't that high class stuff belong somewhere with... I don't know, whatever it is. Ambiance?" She lifts her beer by way of greeting, mouth quirking into a half smile.

The Dane raises his tumbler in a half-salute back; the lopsided smile on his face is genuine enough. "I suppose it does. Everyone needs to have one hill they will die on, though -- and mine is that I will not drink inferior whiskey. Look, they even give me ice with it."

They probably also charge him extra for it. Fancy airs like that, in a place like this.

He half-turns on the chair, with a bit of effort -- that sling and all -- so that he's facing Una properly. Not nosy enough to actually lean in and read her papers he nonetheless quirks an eyebrow. "Getting settled in enough to already be swamped in paperwork?"

"I... can respect that. I think. I'm not sure I have a mouth fancy enough to properly taste the difference, but if that's what works for you... good for you." Una takes a good, hearty swallow from her drink to punctuate their shared salutes, then sets it back down atop her papers: another condensation ring to join the several others already in place. A coaster really would be more effective.

"Resumes. Settled in enough that I need to think about getting a job, rather than living off my inheritance. Turns out the week before Christmas isn't the best time for it, go figure. What happened to your--" She gestures. Arm. Shoulder. Whatever.

"I'm not very good at ducking in time," Ravn replies over the edge of his tumbler, with a small, not too concerned smile. He glances along the bar; nah, not too many people within earshot who do not have that special something that means they might actually not consider him a complete whack job. He lowers his voice a little all the same, for the benefit of the mill workers in the nearest booth. "One of those crazy things that only happen here. A private investigator asked me to come see him about a case he's on, and while I was there, gangsters from the nineteen thirties decided to shoot up the place. I want to look shocked but it's really -- not so unusual for Gray Harbor as it should be."

He glances at the sling. "And I am really not very good at ducking."

'I'm not very good at ducking in time' has Una cracking an actual smile, one that stiffens and sharpens slightly as the rest of the story becomes clearer. Her shoulders draw back, posture straightening in a way that confirms the interest already visible in her expression. And then she groans: "I wish I didn't believe you. I mean, really, part of me wants to say that that sounds like the coolest thing ever, except for the whole," she gestures at the sling: the whole being shot thing. That minor detail. "That bit's less cool. But... you're ok? I mean, obviously you're ok. Just. You know."

"I'm fine. It stings a bit but, nothing terrible. As it happens, my room mate is one of Gray Harbor's most skilled healers, a fact for which I have often been grateful." Ravn smiles lightly. "Aidan Kinney's the name, in case you find yourself in need of that sort of help. Good bloke, works as a street magician on the boardwalk over summer."

He toys with the glass, tracing the rim of it with a gloved finger; it very pointedly refrains from making a high note the way a genuine crystal tumbler might -- and if it had, it would have been even more out of place at the Pourhouse than the whiskey it contains, too. "I don't want to make it sound like this is normal for Gray Harbor because obviously, getting shot at is never normal. But things turning strange is. So wolfmen with guns, dressed up like prohibition era gangsters is kind of normal, for a local value of normal."

"So healing really is a thing," murmurs Una, sotto voce; she seems pleased. That name is clearly being filed away for future reference.

More beer is required for this conversation, and Una takes another healthy swig of hers, turning her glass in her hand. "Right. Given value of normal, perfectly fine. I'm beginning to get a feel for that. I've only been here, what, ten days? It doesn't seem to take long. I'm pretty sure my house has a ghost. But the wolfmen gangsters still feels demonstrably weirder."

"I see ghosts, if they want to be seen." Perfectly normal things to say to a near-stranger in a bar for five hundred, Alex. "I can come over some day, see if there's something there that wants to talk. If you have something and it is aware enough that it can communicate, and it wants to communicate -- there are never any guarantees of either. Most ghosts are just memories, though -- a situation or an emotion that keeps playing out until it fades from the memories of the living."

The Dane taps a little rhythm on the glass and all of its failure to resonate appropriately. "And of course then there's this town and the Veil. A lot of people have died here under strange circumstances, and there are a lot of quite genuine ghosts. Add to that that the Veil loves screwing with us, so there are just as many not-genuine ghosts. It can be very hard to tell them apart. I'm not sure it matters a whole lot which kind is pursuing you through the woods, either."

It's entirely possible that Una threw in that ghost comment in hopeful anticipation of being reassured that, no, there's plenty of weirdness in this world and this town in particular but ghosts ain't part of it... the way she wrinkles her nose, she's probably disappointed, though seems otherwise resigned. "Yeah? Ok. Memories I can probably do, if that's all it is. That sounds like a better option than the whole Veil thing. It seems to like the library." The way she says it, it's possibly more bewildering to have a library in her home than a ghost.

"I might take you up on that talking thing, though. Just need to make sure my new roomie isn't around. She's not... she doesn't... you know."

"Yeah. I know." Ravn nods and then glances at his arm. "When this happened? One of the people there did not have the shine. And then -- somehow, he still saw what the rest of us saw. That happens -- but usually, they forget afterward, or they somehow manage to make up some kind of rationalisation. He didn't. It stayed with him -- and he used power of his own. It's the first time I've seen someone come into it, right in front of me."

A small smile finds its way to the man's face. "He handled it pretty well though. I guess it helps to be with law enforcement -- probably seen a lot of really awful and strange stuff already, that there was nothing magical about whatsoever. Tell me about your -- library. That's an unusual thing for houses to have, unless you're telling me you found some manor somewhere. Most houses settle for a den or a study."

Eyes wide, Una's silent for several long seconds as, presumably, she works this information through her head. "That's... interesting. Do you think most people have this ability and just never come into it at all? Or is it just some of us, and we're just... triggered, eventually. Most of the time." The way her gaze ducks away, it may be that there's an uncomfortable memory in there, but not one she volunteers.

Instead, without waiting for an answer to her question, she barrels onwards. "I've been calling it the library, anyway. Maybe it'd be a study, except there's no desk, just lots and lots of shelves. Books, and like sculptures and art," and shit, her tone suggests; this kind of thing may be beyond her understanding and appreciation. "This house just has so much stuff, it's unreal. I used to work in a thrift shop, and I know what people are like with collecting things, but even I..." She shakes her head.

Ravn cants his head and studies Una's face for a moment. "You said you're on Oak Avenue, right? Or did I get you mixed up with someone else?"

He sips his whiskey, and savours the taste for a moment. "Oak Avenue is not Bayside, but it was a pretty well-to-do neighbourhood back in the day. I'm surprised that you'd be taking over the previous owner's belongings though -- that seems to imply something screwy might have gone down? Or did you buy the house, knowing that? A lot of old things -- lots of memories, lots of things that might have lingering imprints. Or even genuine ghosts."

Una's nod confirms it: Oak Avenue.

The notion of buying the house makes her crack a smile - and shake her head. "I inherited it," she explains, running her fingertip in circles around the condensation on her glass. "My grandmother lived there. As far as I know, my mom grew up there, though she doesn't talk about her childhood. I didn't even know her mom was still alive until so recently. So:" she gives a rolling shrug of her shoulders. "Anything's possible, I guess. At least it doesn't seem dangerous, as far as I can tell? It's just... there."

"Oh, that explains it of course -- you inherited all of her belongings along with the house." Ravn nods again -- and winces a little because now that it's being said, he's actually pretty certain Una already said as much before, and really, goldfish memory. "It's important to keep in mind though. Not all ghosts are bad. When they are aware at all, which most are not -- they are people like us, or were. Some are hostile. Most are just -- sticking around for some reason or other. A lot of them have something they want to see or do or did not finish. A lot of them just haven't gotten around to getting on with things yet. It doesn't have to be awful."

He winces a little, again. "Of course my room mate has his very own poltergeist whose sole pleasure in the afterlife seems to be bouncing things off his head and whispering to him that he sucks."

Nod, nod, nod: yes to all of this. Una's expression suggests relief, and even the beginnings of a smile -- everything's ok! maybe ghosts won't be the worst thing to happen this year -- and...

"Bouncing things off his head and whispering to him that he sucks," she repeats, and this time? She bursts out laughing, then immediately covers her mouth with her hand and looks horribly apologetic. "I shouldn't laugh."

"Well, it is kind of funny. In a kind of not so funny way. The guy's an infantile asshole. The ghost, not Aidan." Ravn can't help smiling as well, Una's laughter catching a bit. "It's honestly more tedious than scary. I've tried to strike up a conversation a couple of times but it refuses to acknowledge me. It's very singleminded -- the only purpose it seems to have is to make Aidan miserable. And by now, I suspect he's kind of indifferent, if mildly annoyed when his soda bottle goes flying."

"Only Aidan? It's not interested in you at all? Is that... normal?" Una is clearly trying to bite back any residual laughter and focus more on the intellectual curiosity side of this story, though that hasn't stopped the still-visible gleam of amusement in her eyes. "I guess that's what you've been saying: the only normal is that things are liable to be weird. So why shouldn't it work like. It's still interesting, though. Sucks for your roomie, though."

"Hell if I know what's normal for a poltergeist." Ravn's grey eyes sparkle with amusement as well; the absurdity of it, combined with how dangerous it after all isn't, lends itself well to a chuckle. "I don't think it ever cared about anyone else. And it seems to have some kind of weird decorum too -- after all, if it really wanted to make him miserable, it had its chances. He has a girlfriend -- imagine what a poltergeist can do to a relationship? I don't even want to think about it because I'm not sure I'd be able to ever keep a straight face around them again."

Nor can Una keep a straight face: she bursts out laughing again, loud enough that she earns a few bemused glances from other patrons of the bar. That seems to be reminder enough to moderate her tone, because after biting back further mirth, her reply is distinctly quieter. "I'm sorry, but that's_hilarious_. I've never met either of them, as far as I know, but I'm already imagining-- sorry, that's just weird. I'm being weird. Ok. Moving on."

"Yes," Ravn agrees with a sheepish grin. "It's one of those places where your mind takes one look into a dark alley and then you decide that you're just gonna go right on down Main Street, saw nothing, heard nothing."

He straightens up a bit. Yes, we're all very serious here, ahem. "Where on Oak are you at anyhow? Kinney and I are at 3 -- don't hesitate to come over if you need something. He's got the kind of talent that can repair anything. Me? I'm great at making coffee."

The glance Una aims at Ravn is grateful, punctuated by a nod - and a silly little smile - that clearly agrees with his summary of things.

"Oh, wow. We're 5, so we really are neighbours. That's cool. So he can... repair things and also people. But not himself, right? Or is it just that I can't?" Hastily, "Coffee is also important. I'd go so far as to say 'vital', even."

"No, that seems to be more or less the general rule. We can't really do much to ourselves." Ravn toys with his glass, a little apologetic. "I wish it was different. I can only imagine how frustrating it must be, to have the power to heal others -- but when it's yourself lying here with a broken leg all you can do is pop a few pain killers."

The Dane smiles. "I can't do anything of the sort. I can move small objects -- and that is literally all I do. People tell me that the longer you stay here, the more likely it is that your talents will increase. Mine seems to -- have missed that memo. But you should definitely talk to Aidan if you get the chance. If you're a healer too, get together, talk shop. Kailey Holt and August Roen, same business. Word gets out, you might find yourself very popular."

Una's shrug seems to suggest that, somehow, she finds this unsurprising: the universe is full of frustrations like that. "I'm definitely better at things than people. But I feel like I could be better at people. Like it's right there, and I'm just not quite seeing it properly, so I could be better than I am? So yeah, maybe I should talk to other people. Aidan. Kailey. August." The names, one by one, are repeated, likely in an attempt to commit them to memory. "It's still weirding me out a bit that there's people I could talk to. Is it weird," and lots of things clearly are weird, "knowing about all of this, but not being able to do much?"

The glance she gives Ravn is thoughtful, but also a little probing; she's studying him.

"It is a little weird." The Dane swirls his tumbler and looks at the liquid inside for a moment; it is the exact golden shade of amber and liquid fire that any amateur fan fic writer will describe whiskey as. "There have been times and situations where talking fast just didn't cut it. Where I was more of a liability than any actual use to anyone in terms of survival. It's not a very good feeling. I try to remind myself that in any group of people, there will be someone who is less qualified for the task at hand, and in my case, well, that someone is usually me."

He sips the whiskey and studies Una back over the rim of the tumbler with blue-grey eyes that seem friendly enough. "Learning more about how to use what you have is a good idea. The Veil often wants you to use your abilities -- there are things in there, that feed on that power. But also because it is something you control. It's tempting for someone like me, for example, to pack a firearm -- just for self defence. But half the time, I'll find myself somewhere with only what the Veil thinks I should have, in which case, owning a gun is no use if it's not there with you."

A glance towards the sling. "And if you do have it -- anything that you bring into a dream can be used against you too, and I for one have been shot enough times in my life as is."

"The observer," Una supposes at a murmur, running her finger over one of the wet patches she's left atop her no-longer-useful stack of resumes. "Rather than the... protagonist is the wrong word." Whatever the right word is, though, she doesn't seem sure; and if there's more to that thought-- which there is, surely, given her still-intent expression-- those words don't come easily to hand, either.

"Guns freak me out, which I feel I really shouldn't be saying in small-town U.S.A-- god, it's hard to believe Seattle is only a couple of hours away. Anyway, I'm going to declare it a good thing that the Veil's not particularly interested in me just yet, thanks very much."

The Dane shakes his head; a stray lock of coppery brown falls into his eyes, and he shakes his head again to get it back in place. "I'm from a country with much stronger restrictions on firearms. The way you can just walk into a shop here and buy a piece, and carry it around -- as long as it's not concealed it's perfectly legal. I find that to be -- not very safe? The Veil is not the only reason people can act erratic, after all. I do own a small firearm because apparently it's the norm but, I am far happier to leave it in its box at home. The times somebody has shot at me, it would not have made a difference anyhow."

He smiles a little. "It's better overall to not get noticed a lot. But not all dream experiences are awful. Some of them are just hilarious, or even heart warming. I've been in a few that were so bizarre they were just fun. I make a very convincing Maid Marian, I'll have you know. Down to and including the whalebone corset that never existed in actual medieval times, and being rescued through a tower window."

Una, born and raised in this fine country, can only lift both hands (and her shoulders with them) into an exaggerated shrug. She might have further comment on that topic, except... "Whalebone corset." Beat. "Maid Marian." And the upwards flick of a glance as if she's mentally attempting to replicate the image. Given her abrupt peal of laughter, whatever she's succeeded in conjuring is doing a fine job of entertaining.

"Ok-- that just sounds delightful. Right down to the historical inaccuracy. It's curious. I suppose that means it all... I mean, it must get fed on what's in our brains, directly or indirectly. Which is a super weird thought, when you stop and consider it." Ah yes, because of the rest of this is so normal. (She seems to have registered this, because she lets out a little huff of a laugh, shakes her head, and reaches for her beer again.)

"Oh, it absolutely plucks ideas right out of our heads," Ravn agrees, chuckling. "And I can assure you as a historian that it did not pluck its ideas about medieval England out of mine. But those dreams were pretty funny. There are people on the Other Side -- entities, I should say, because we don't know if they really are people. Some of them seem to have been people at some point but aren't any longer. Some of them -- rewrite things. The rewritten things are often very bizarre from what I have seen. Has anyone mentioned the Revisionist to you yet?"

Una's grin, twitching at the corners of her mouth, suggests vast amusement with the idea of Ravn being fucked with by historical inaccuracy. It fades, though; from amusement, to thoughtfulness, and then outright seriousness, her brows knitting. She takes a moment, lifting her left hand to use the back of it to wipe her mouth, waiting until she's dropped it back to the slightly-sticky bar top before she says, "Nooo, no I don't think so. And I'm going to hazard a guess that it's not a good thing, what with... well, rewriting things doesn't sound great."

The folklorist lets Una have it; that moment of envisioning his -- let's go with displeasure, displeasure is a good word -- at being stuffed into a whalebone corset and a cone hat with a veil. He even inserts, "Seven. Inch. Heels. With curly toes, medieval style." Because what mental picture is complete without, indeed.

Then he shakes his head. "It's not bad. Most of us think the Revisionist was human once, and that she is just trying to give people a bit more interesting lives. It's just that what she did was the equivalent of hiring the worst soap opera writer on Earth -- and giving them the power to edit reality. We had people who were suddenly known by everyone to be Russian spies, or in my case, a Swedish celebrity chef, or in the most absurd case, a girl of twenty-something had twelve kids by two fathers. All of the worst tropes you can imagine, except for a while they were real -- and that's what can be deceiving. The Revisionist genuinely seemed to think she was helping."

Despite the more serious turn of her thoughts, Una's mirth shows in her eyes: that spark of joy, and yes, the renewed twitch of her mouth.

But; "See, that still sounds bad to me. Kind of... fucking with the fabric of reality kind of bad. Maybe I'm just not used to this shit, and that's why it makes my skin crawl. This stuff," a wiggle of her fingers: glimmer stuff, "that's one thing. That's like... ok, here's the world, but some people can sit kind of outside science. But changing things, that's... that's just creepy. And I get that it's all linked, and..." She huffs a breath out between mostly-closed lips. "I don't know. Has any of it, I mean any of it, resulted in anything outright positive for your life? That's probably a ridiculously personal question, sorry."

Ravn fails to resist a smile. "Yes. All of it. But I think I'm an unusual case. I used to be -- not in a very great place, in terms of mental health. I find I thrive here -- in spite of getting shot a few times. And if living here means that thanks to the Revisionist I'm now paying a lawyer to deal with the occasional police attempt to investigate my secret, illegal lobster fighting ring -- yes, that's exactly what I said, lobster fighting ring -- then I'm still in a better place than I used to be. Most people seem to view the Veil either as an adventure and thing to be studied, or as the enemy. I guess I'm firmly in the former group."

He nods. "It's often dangerous. There are monsters out there, definitely. But it's also built a community where we have to actually give a damn about each other, and I find I like that very much."

The short, sharp incline of Una's head acknowledges Ravn's explanation, a seriousness that abruptly results in another exhale-- sharp, caught between a cough and a laugh-- at mention of the lobster fighting ring (I mean, really. Really?)

"Actually," she says, finally, after a moment of obvious consideration. "That's actually very reassuring... lobsters aside. I guess there's nothing that helps you bond with people like dealing with weird shit. Except when it pushes you apart. But," she gives Ravn an abrupt, but largely cheerful, smile. "That's life, isn't it? Thanks."

"I have about forty guys in lumberjack shirts, most of them who are regulars at this bar, who take their lobster breeding and fighting extremely seriously." Ravn half smiles, half grimaces. "All I do is turn up. I even tried to stay away but people somehow believed I'd been there anyhow, so I might as well go. We eat the losers, that's the good part."

He upends his glass; goodbye, Glenfiddich. "You'll never have time to get bored here. Probably make a number of good friends. You might find that something that was a weakness anywhere else is a strength here, you never know. "

"Well, I mean... as long as there's lobster-eating at the end of it, who am I to judge?" Una's whole stance has relaxed, now, and if she still looks thoughtful-- well, there's a lot to think about, isn't there? "I wanted to shake up my life. What's that old saying? Be careful what you wish for?" It's her turn to finish her drink, the rest of the beer drained, the empty glass adding a new circle to the artwork on her papers.

"Hah, yes. I wanted to find somewhere I might fit in, find some kind of purpose with my life." Ravn grins, a lopsided, slightly wry affair -- be careful what you wish for, indeed. "People will tell you about how evil and horrible this town is. And it is. But it's more than that, or at least it has the potential to be. Or maybe I'm just the kind of white knight personality who's only happy when he's got an enemy to gang up against, and people to defend. Either way, Gray Harbor certainly is something else, but it does not have to be bleak miserable Hell."

The corners of Una's mouth turn up again. "The worst things, bringing out the best things. Or the best in people, maybe, I don't know. That's kind of comforting. If everything goes to shit, at least people seem to care." She nudges her empty glass away with one finger, then straightens. "You don't tend to get a lot of care, in the city. In my experience."

"It's very easy to be alone in a crowded room. Here, there's what, a hundred people like us?" Ravn chuckles again. "I don't know everyone who has a streak of the shine -- but most of us are connected some way or other. We have to be. And hey, we're neighbours now, right?"

"And when you can pretty much immediately tell that someone is one of us," it's cult-like, when she puts it like that; Una seems aware of that, and rolls her eyes merrily. "that helps. Instant entry to the club, as it were. But - yeah. We're neighbours. So here's to that, too." She'd raise her glass, but, well. Empty glasses don't make for good toasts. The point stands.

"Here's to that, too." The toast is returned with a similar empty glass and a small, lopsided grin. "It's Gray Harbor's blessing and its curse. Like everything else here, a very mixed bag. The good news are that you don't need to sniff around carefully for weeks to find others like yourself. The bad news are that the town is full of people like yourself, and there are reasons we were all drawn here. It is a bit cult-like."

"Nothing like a cult to make you feel like you belong," laughs Una. "I'll take it."