2022-02-10 - When Pigs Fly

It's starting to dawn on Ravn Abildgaard that maybe in settling down and getting a real job, he's actually missing one thing about life in a backpack It shames him a little to admit it, even to himself: He seems to have been missing the admiration of a willing audience. It's the only explanation as to how come he's once again rummaging through a Hoquiam thrift store. It can't be a Gray Harbor one -- Memento Mori is more, well, pricey antiques, for one. What he needs is -- well, not junk per se, but cheap stuff somebody donated. The kind that a thrift shop will place in a bin near the counter so that someone's bored kids will dig it out and insist on getting too. It's the only explanation as to why a grown man will be having a quiet Eureka! moment -- and then go pay for his plush Peppa Pig with a smile. Who doesn't need a plush Peppa Pig in their lives?

Kitty Pryde, queen of black cats, second of her name, she of the sharp claw and sharper temper, stares at him like he's some kind of moron when he emerges from the thrift store and drops the plushie into the sidecar of the vintage Triumph motorcycle that he fondly refers to as Lola Bianca. This is not unusual; Kitty Pryde usually looks at her can opener slash personal driver like that. A couple of girls go ooh and aah in passing -- look, Jenny, there's a cat sitting in the side car and it's not even on a leash. It fails to dawn on Ravn that this might be a way to meet girls; his only concern is to get back on the road before either of them decides to try to pick up the cat for a cuddle or a photo, and ends up losing fingers.

He pulls into Main Street, Gray Harbor, and parks the bike. "You can head on home if you like, or take a nap in the side car," he tells the cat.

"Mrr," says Kitty Pryde. It can mean anything from 'I'll just take a nap here, thanks' to 'I'm going to go down to the boardwalk and see about beating up a couple of loose dogs'. It probably contains a lot of swear words. Ravn has a vague idea that if he spoke Cat, he'd learn a lot of new anatomically related expressions.

He picks the plushie up, tucks it under one arm, and heads into Espresso Yourself. Hopefully that new barista is working this shift. Bloody hell, he has missing having an audience. Maybe he should go play cute assistant to Aidan on the boardwalk, come summer.

It's just about the end of the new barista's shift. Morning shifts are not her favorite, but sometimes, sacrifices must be made. The off-set is more time with Samwise, a nap, and the rest of her day do with as she pleases. It's not a bad potential, she muses, as she wipes down the empty tables with a sanitized rag. Today's ensemble is a (candy apple) red thermal with her black jeans under the Espresso Yourself apron and a long braid of deeply-auburn hair down her back. She glances up as she draws the back of her wrist against her temple and straightens in place, openly surprised to see the Danish academic entering the café again.

Goodness, he must really want that plain cup of black coffee.

A little wave of her rag-less hand towards the man in question before she blinks -- and snorts, tucking her head for a second. "Darth Ravn, you grace my presence again. Is that really a -- it really is." The pig, of course, her brown-hazel eyes rising from the toy and up to his face. "I'm starting to think you want to turn all my assumptions of this place over my head. Or are you here for another cuppa?"

"You told me to show you flying pigs. And I told you I'm not driving some unfortunate real porker downtown. This is what we call compromise in my country. I am aware that the concept is alien to many Americans, particularly politicians." Ravn winks and claims a chair near the counter, plushie still tucked under one arm. No one who knows him ever so lightly will be surprised at his ensemble: Worn black jeans, black turtleneck, matching boots and leather jacket with a hole in one sleeve. If this guy ever wears anything else, the world probably ends.

Maybe the purple scarf counts. It is cold outside. It's so dark it's nearly black, too.

He turns the chair around so that he sits on it backwards, resting his arms on the backrest and watching the barrista. She is working, and he doesn't expect her to be able (or willing) to drop everything just because he fancies showing off for a bit. He also feels a little -- a little! -- guilty; what he's about to do is going to either make her realise that there's more 'twixt Heaven and Earth, Horatio -- or convince her that he really is the next David Copperfield.

"Ooooh, hey now." Ariadne still laughs even if she shakes a finger in Ravn's direction. "You're painting with a broad brush there, buddy. That's how you got yourself into Candyland and maple syrup-praline lattes with two pumps vanilla and whip. Politicians is right, I'll give you that one, but I compromised well enough here. You got your drink when getting reamed was a possibility for me." She still glances around, just in case Della's within earshot. Whew: nope. There is a brief wonderment at whether or not Della noticed how the Danish academic showed up and never ordered anything, but the last time he was here, Della was fairly busy. Maybe his presence never registered. All the better, perhaps?

There are two more tables to wipe down and the barista continues at it, swinging around to lean and swipe thoroughly. Crumbs are collected as she goes. "But your timing is pretty good. I've got about...what...five minutes here? I can meet you outside?" She glances up as she asks this. "There's the table off to one side, out of the wind if you're cold." Yes, she did note the scarf.

"Maple syrup lattes sounds far from the worst I've had to sample in this place," Ravn murmurs and glances furtively around for Della, too. Please, Della, do not screw with his plans to quietly insert himself into at least one barista's good graces. Coffee depends on it, won't somebody think of the coffee? He remains seated and nods with a lopsided smile. "Works for me."

Then the observation about cold parses, and he looks down to touch the edge of the scarf with a gloved finger. "Oh, this? Oh, uh -- it was suggested to me once, by my Sith Bartender Emperor, that breaking up the black might make me look less like the angel of death. And it's warm, I guess."

He shakes his head, amused. "It's not a fashion statement. I'm used to living in a backpack. Black is practical -- you can toss everything but yourself into the same laundry machine instead of having to run four different washes lest you end up with salmon coloured everything thanks to your new shirt."

Down to a last table and the barista seems relieved for it. None of the customers were terrible today, but mornings at a coffee shop are always busy and she was not totally mentally prepared for it. She glances over at Ravn again in time to see him dictate the scarf in particular.

"Hey, makes sense to me. Either you're practical or you're somebody who spills stuff all over themselves and you don't want anybody to notice. Proverbial you," she notes before adding, "With things like bluhd." Yes, it's a Hungarian accent to learned ears, but to many, many others, it's something out of a Hammer horror film. Ariadne smirks, softening the tease. Danish academic is not murder-hobo. "Your Sith Bartender Emperor had it right though. A little color never hurts anybody." Says she of the candy apple-red thermal. "Also, if you've ended up with a salmon-colored shirt, you didn't read the laundry labels. Cold water, not hot," she notes lightly with a grin.

Last swipe of the table and then, handful of crumbs and all, she walks towards the back, tossing over her shoulder, "Gimme two." Minutes, that is.

"I'll let you in on a little trick that's passed from one first year student to another around the world: You have three options: Date a girl who does laundry, wear pink shirts, or learn to do the bloody laundry. In my case I picked door number four." Ravn smirks lightly. He has no reason to assume that Ariadne has not gone to college; it's more that the Danish educational system doesn't include college. There's high school which kind of stretches out to cover the first year or so, and then university takes over for the rest. Meaning, moving into a student dorm is something you do if you attend university -- and not otherwise.

He keeps the jacket on. Might as well. When Ariadne re-emerges he gets up and juggles Peppa Pig a few times in one gloved hand. "Ready to fly, my adventurous porker?"

"Hey, it's wise," calls back Ariadne again of option number four before she disappears entirely with the damp rag and handful of crumbs. It's about two minutes, give or take, before she does appear again. Her apron's been swapped for a knee-length peacoat in pink-and-grey plaid, buttoned to her neck which sports a black scarf. Hey, she too is cold, people. No purse to her person; her wallet's probably somewhere inside the coat. No muss, no fuss. Her sneakered steps bring her over to Ravn and in time to see the pig toy jounce about.

"She's smiling, she can handle anything. A bit of a terrifying thought," the redhead jokes of the toy as they head out of the café. Nonchalantly fishing around in her coat pockets for something, Ariadne glances up at the motorcycle. "Ooh, somebody's got a nice bike holy crap, there's a cat in that sidecar." She blinks. Indeed, there's a black cat just chilling as if it belonged there. "What is it with cats and being in unexpected places around here." A step or two towards the side car attempts to both confirm the cat is there, the cat is comfortable, and to not disturb the cat by getting too close.

"You have no idea," Ravn murmurs. "That one, though -- is just a cat. A very bossy cat, but just a cat."

Of course it is. What else would the black cat be? Some kind of toothy monster that gets stuck in motel freezers?

"She's mine," he adds, and heaven only knows if he's talking about the vintage motorcycle or the feline. "Or, well, I'm hers. I get the honour of opening her cans of tuna and cleaning her litter box, not to mention drive her around town." The cat, then.

Then he holds out his hand and places the Peppa Pig plushie on it with his other hand. "Is there anywhere in particular you'd like to watch a pig fly? I wouldn't want you to think I'd prepared magnets or invisible strings somewhere, would I?"

"Ohhhhhhh, that's Kitty Pryde. Well, hello there, your highness." Ariadne doesn't curtsy to the black cat, but the droll amusement she takes out of Ravn explaining his duties as butler is one known to her. "My parents had a cat for a while, I remember him from when I was young. You're staff to a cat." A sage nod. Peppa Pig being moved in her peripheral vision brings the barista to glance over and then at Ravn.

Well, up at Ravn. Man's inches taller than her and for some reason, now, this occurs to her. Damn, he's tall.

"I guess off to the side here is just fine. Not like anybody's on the street and going to elbow into you while you're trying to puppet that thing," the barista replies, smirking. She does appear absolutely convinced there's going to be magnets or fishing line involved. Whatever she's feeling around for in her pocket is found and remains there as she stands, hands tucked away, waiting patiently to begin the process of debunking his claim.

"Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn," Ravn intones with much solemnity and a perfectly straight face; maybe he's just reciting a recipe for chicken paté in his native language (in which case, Danish involves an amazing amount of spitting and hissing but then, who says it doesn't?). He moves his hand back and forth in the air over Peppa Pig -- perhaps to demonstrate that it is in fact not getting caught on invisible string.

"Now you see a pig, and now -- well, you still see a pig," the Dane grins. And she does -- because here's Peppa, neatly taking off from his palm to levitate a few centimetres above it. Then, almost thoughtfully, the plushy pig flutters over to do a slow circle around Ariadne's head before returning to hover in front of her face.

If the smile on Ravn's face is anything to go by, he's enjoying himself entirely too much. In her side car, Kitty Pryde cracks a yellow-green eye open and then yawns -- displaying a normal amount of kitty needles.

Now, Ariadne? She's enough of a pop culture buff to start immediately stifling a snort-laugh after she catches 'Cthulhu' in particular. One can see her mouth to herself while his hand moves about, exasperated and amused both, 'oh my fucking god', like Ravn has now lodged himself firmly in the metal organizing filter of 'utter geek'. The snort-laugh ends up successfully averted by this whisper to herself and then the pig is floating.

Her brows lift. Okay, yes, cool. Her fingers twitch against the plain ol' iron nail in her pocket. What better way to test for magnets?

But then the pig does this...UFO-like circumference of her head and Ariadne watches it go with eyes slowly growing wider. Okay. Okay. Still could be magnets. Except the nail never twitched in her coat pocket. Her mouth parts and, as probably highly expected, her hand lifts to do its own circling about Peppa the Pig. Nothing on the sides to catch her skin. Nothing on the bottom or the top.

Her very-wide golden-brown eyes now lock onto Ravn's face. Forget Kitty Pryde; the cat doesn't factor into things at all right now.

"Uhhhhhhhhhuh-huh-huh-hah," she starts off as a deeply-concerned sound to break it into an awkward, uncomfortable laugh. "Sooooooo...how are you doing that?" It's so incredibly pressed into normality, her voice, almost singsong. Hands get stuffed back into coat pockets and she literally rocks back and forth on her heels.

Behold, the smug face of a confident magician. Ravn smiles, widely, lopsided and holds out his hand for Peppa to land on. The plushie looks no worse for the wear.

Then he smiles at Ariadne. "It's no different from unbending the spoon. Once you figure out what I'm doing you'll be slapping your forehead and telling me to stop taking advantage of people. I'd roll out the old line about how a magician never reveals his tricks but honestly, I'm not even going to try. It's magic."

Ariadne shifts her weight and purses her lips after uttering a soft "Ugh" at the explanation. It's not an answer -- well, it is, but it isn't and it annoys the scientist in her.

"If you're talking magic like, any science that can't be explained might as well be magic, then sure, okay, I guess. But if you're talking, like, actual magic?" She shakes her head, her braid slithering along her back. "Sorry, no go. That stuff doesn't exist. But come on, how did you do it? Do it again," she then asks, as if this time, she's going to see those fishing lines or the iron nail is going to react to magnetic forces.

Or maybe she'll swat the pig out of the air like Kitty Pryde might a feathery toy.

"What is actual magic?" Ravn's question is part philosophical, part rhethorical. What he does might qualify as magic by some standards, he supposes. "I tend to go with the Arthur C. Clarke paradigm: If we can't explain how it works it might just as well be magic." More geek points.

He holds his palm out, plush pig and all -- and the plushie rises up, gently. It weighs very little and offers no resistance whatsoever to his manipulations; and even so there is a niggling voice at the back of his head that reminds him, this should be harder.

Obviously, it's just getting to show off that's giving him a spurt of extra energy. Heaven knows he doesn't get to often -- because his little parlor tricks pale in comparison with some of the things people in this town do quite casually. Doors to parallel dimensions, anyone? Hummingspiders?

"Well, yeah, Clarke has a point," grumbles the barista. She watches the pig plushie rise up again and, this time, brings out the iron nail next to it. Nope. No twitch of the nail, so no magnets. A wrinkle of her nose. After pocketing the nail, she then feels all around Peppa once more, three-hundred and sixty degrees, as well as reaches far into Ravn's personal space about his arm. No strings. No forced air channeling. No delicate if strong glass rods. No...nothing.

She then pokes gently at the plushie, wondering if she's going to be zapped in the process. Or something.

Peppa Pig fails entirely to do anything exciting. She yields a little to the pressure of touch and then just -- hangs there. Like hovering in front of Ariadne's face is a perfectly normal thing to do, when you're a children's toy plushie.

"Open your hand," Ravn encourages. "Hold your palm out."

And sure enough. In Gray Harbor, pigs not only fly -- they also land on barista hands.

Dubiously, Ariadne does as suggested. Her open palm, up flat, makes a perfect landing zone for a hovering plushie pig. There's a visible flinch, like she's waiting for some other sensory input, but it's...just a plushie. Normal weight, dimensions, no extra sudden static shock like socks across a carpet in winter. Her other hand pinches at ears, at legs, as she frowns, clearly befuddled.

"Okay, so...you're calling whatever this is magic." Hazel eyes now more golden in the bland winter sunlight of the day flick to Ravn's face. "Like, magic because it can't be defined because Clarke guy, etcetera, etcetera. What are you defining this as...whatever it is? Like, what are you doing to make this happen?"

"Honestly?" Ravn hitches a shoulder. This is where the penny drops -- or she throws the plushie in his face and calls him a fraud and goodbye, black coffee ever again. "I want it. When I was a kid I used to think it was poltergeists or spirits reading my mind and doing things. Now I know that the proper scientific term -- if you can use scientific terms about the paranormal at all -- is telekinesis. I think about it. It happens."

And with a small smile he adds, "I told you that it is deceptively simple. A lot of things in this town are, once you get a look behind the scenes. There are no smokes and mirrors and invisible wires. Just, well, magic."

Such an arched brow, followed by the other, as Ravn explains the 'what' of the trick and attributes it to the entire city of Grey Harbor.

Ariadne blinks. "Sooooooooooooooo..." The word is strung out like faire taffy until she presses her lips together, still squinting at the Dane. "You're like...Jean Grey...from the X-Men." Because somehow, that quantifies better in her mind than just 'magic', in which the spectrum of definition strains credulity.

You're welcome, Kitty Pryde, for that reference -- even if you're busy with one back leg lifted and grooming in an unfortunate place at the moment.

Ravn blinks. Then blue-grey eyes glitter with amusement as he replies, "I don't think I cut quite as good a figure in green and yellow spandex, not going to lie."

Then he shakes his head. "Well, kind of. Sort of. But nothing that powerful. I can make plushies fly and I can unbend a spoon. You won't catching me reading minds or levitating cars. Or for that matter, trying to set fire to the solar system. And I will say this -- it's easier and usually also better to perform a trick with your hands if you can."

Kitty Pryde glances up from her comfortable position in the side car. Meh. No one is talking about tuna. Irrelevant. Ravn glances back at her, and then returns his gaze to the barista. "But I hope that whether you believe me or not, that was worth a cup of coffee at least. Don't think too hard about it -- I've spent about thirty years trying to work it out, and I haven't gotten anywhere."

Thank god for good composure. The mental image which filters through Ariadne's inner eye of the tall Dane in green and yellow spandex is a startling one which she will, later, laugh helplessly at while Samwise wonders what's making his human chortle.

She still listens, mouth silently parted, head slightly turned away without losing critical eye contact. Ravn seems...truly in earnest about this entire thing. "Uh." It's not an extremely intelligent response, but it is an honest one. This whole thing is...mind boggling. She's glad it's the end of her shift and not the start because nobody needs to be dropping heavy coffee prepping tools on their toes randomly in distraction.

"It's...definitely worth a cup of coffee. Or two," she allows, somehow feeling those are numbers too small. "You can...do this telekinesis thing. Okay." A hand rises to rub the side of her face before she shakes her head. "Okay." It has the sound of her forcing this new facet of reality into her understanding. "You've known about this stuff since you were a kid?"

And now there's something more defensive and open both in her regard of Ravn.

Ravn's gloved hands wander into his pockets as he rocks lightly on his heels; the gesture gives him a slightly defensive air as well -- the kind that pre-empts trouble and seeks to disarm it; look, his hands are safely pocketed, he's definitely not about to do anything. It's a signal, perhaps, that a man travelling with a backpack and a violin case, from shelter to bus station, might need to send to a woman on occasion; more so when that man is 6'3. Saves on the potential screaming.

"I can't remember not knowing about it," he says, quite earnestly. "It was never a very big deal. I'm sure my nanny sometimes wondered why this kid never seemed to toss his toys or dummies out of the pram but it's not like she'd complain about it, I figure. I must have figured out pretty early to not do things like that around other people, though. I have always been very discreet about it -- well, until I ended up here."

"I...hadn't considered that. Throwing the toys from my crib..." muses Ariadne, sounding abstracted as she looks to one side and back into her own memories. Thing is, that's too far back; the older brain doesn't keep good track of that age span unless trauma is involved. Nothing there for her to bring forth. No, what comes to mind is the rattling of the Crayola pencil box when she'd been screaming at her sister. Her golden-hazel eyes land on Ravn again.

Peppa is turned over once in her hands as she continues speaking, as if she still might find some clever non-metaphysical trick to the plushie. "So...telekinesis. Like, moving objects with your mind. Like...if you thought you got mad enough to make a collection of colored pencils rattle once because your sister was in your hair too much." Another glance up at Ravn isn't quite sullen. Fearful, maybe, a little. It's a brave thing to do, muse over this aloud, but...the Danish academic is claiming powers which sound similar and insofar as Ariadne can tell, nobody spiked her coffee with any drugs.

"I don't have a sister," the Dane replies, still smiling a little, hands still buried deep in the pockets of his leather jacket. "But I do remember being angry or sad as a little boy. And how things would fall off shelves sometimes. But I remember more being a few years older and wanting to leave my room -- and the key would turn in the door, on the other side, or the latch on the window would open so I could sneak out. That's how I learned to use it at first -- to open doors and windows. Even if I thought it was some invisible friend helping me out until -- well, until I moved to boarding school at age ten or so, and it still happened when I wanted it to. Didn't figure I'd be bringing some family house ghost with me."

It's on the tip of Ariadne's tongue to sympathize with the Dane about not having a sister; it's both a task and a joy and tends to get easier as age progresses, the barista has learned over the years. But then, there's talk about keys turning in locks and windows opening and her brows climb up her forehead. Peppa the Pig stops rotating in her fidgety hands.

"Wow." Plain and simple, wow. "You've known about this for a long time then. Wow," she repeats with more emphasis and shakes her head, still eyeing Ravn. "I, uh...kind of... I haven't done anything like that. I don't even know if what I did was actually...what it seemed, you know? Maybe we had an earthquake or something. We're on a fault line," she shrugs. "I mean..." Laughter then slips from her as she brings a hand to her forehead; it sounds tired and stretched, not necessarily truly amused. "God, it's like...you can move stuff with your mind. Like literal Jedi powers. And you're like, you just do it. And me, I have no idea if I really have them in the first place and here I am telling you this and I probably sound...god, a little batshit nuts."

"When you came into town, did you notice the sign by the highway? The one that says Gray Harbor: Everything is Fine? If you ask me, we should change that to Gray Harbor: A Little Batshit Nuts." Ravn nods lightly. If he thinks the barista is indeed a little guano loco, he keeps it to himself -- and well that he does, considering that he's the man who claims to make plushies fly for shit and giggles.

He shakes his head a little, the little lopsided smile sympathetic. "Or maybe I should just say, welcome to Gray Harbor. At some point the weird piles up enough that you stop being able to rationalise it away. It's an unusual town, and it attracts unusual people. Most of them not aware that they are unusual -- or like me, thinking they're the only unusual one."

Pert lips pull to one side in resentful acknowledgement of the rapidly growing IRONY that is the 'Everything is Fine' part of the town sign. Everything is, in fact, not fine. Well...it's mostly fine, nothing's on literal fire right now, Ariadne decides in her ultimately pragmatic manner. She still eyes Ravn as if he's going to tell her yet another thing to undermine her perception of the town as a whole -- and he doesn't let her down.

"Is this the...Hotel California speech I was warned about by somebody?" Una, as a matter of fact, but the barista isn't going to name-drop lightly. "Because somebody told me you give a mean Hotel California speech."

Ravn glances at her, and then dips into a pocket for a cigarette -- and this one is the real thing, not a faux plastic toy. He produces a battered old zippo with some kind of coat-of-arms engraved on the side to light it -- and then says, "I suppose I do. I've given that talk a few times at least. But I usually don't give it to people who don't seem to know what I'm talking about -- they'd only assume I'm crazy. Gray Harbor does its thing to them soon enough, and they become a little more willing to consider the idea that everything is in fact not fine, yes."

He's not a mind reader. It's just that almost everyone who sees that sign ends up commenting on what a ridiculously awful joke it is.

Positioning himself so that the smoke drifts away from Ariadne rather than into his face, the folklorist hitches a shoulder. "You know the song. You can check out but you can never leave. That's the speech -- you should get back on the bus that you rode into town on before you get tangled in too deep. And you won't -- because that happened when you first stepped off the bus. We always tell people they should keep right on moving, and no one ever does."

"Ah. So the Hotel California speech is the speech where people are politely informed at how screwed they are, especially if they ever thought, even once, that they had some sort of weirdness to themselves," Ariadne summarizes fairly drily. Peppa the Pig is being turned over and over again, doomed to a tilt-a-whirl of fidgeting unless removed from the barista's hands. She sighs, looks down at the toy and then away, across the street to the other businesses. The place seems normal on the outside.

But maybe it's more like a rotten coconut. You crack that innocuous outer shell and then the innards spill out most regretfully.

She wrinkles her nose at the idea of a rotten coconut. Ugh. The faintest wisps of cigarette smoke reach her and she glances over, admittedly a little confused. An asthmatic smoking -- but she decides it's too early to comment on such a thing without risk of it being taken as an attack. Working in the general public has taught her this well. "I had a cat talk in my head...or something....I guess. At the motel. I'm already wading into the weird," she mutters.

"Don't you get ideas, I have enough noise in my head." Ravn throws a grey glance at Kitty Pryde in her sidecar (and is ignored in favour of an itchy toe bean that requires immediate nibbling).

Then he shakes his head and pockets the zippo. "It's more the 'check out but never leave' thing. You're here. You're one of us, and like us, you're probably not going to get up and leave now that you've realised. Almost no one ever does. Is it good or bad? I suppose that depends. A lot of strange and alien things happen in this town. A lot of them aren't great -- that's the definition of 'alien', after all, something which we do not understand and which does not understand us. There are hostile things in the dark here. And there are fun things, exciting things, and people who are like people anywhere -- some of them are assholes, some of them are not. I like living here. I don't blame anyone for thinking I've lost my mind, though."

"Ah, so it's more like, you should drink the rest of your glass of Kool-aid now, one sip isn't enough and you're going to find that you want to drink the rest of it anyways." Now it's her braid that gets fiddled with; Ariadne pulls it over her shoulder and begins fussing with the paintbrush-tip of it. Ambient light brings out more of the lighter red in it than the café's interior bulbs managed. Another huff of a sigh and Peppa is offered back to Ravn.

"Here, you made her fly, she was yours first," the barista says, smiling ruefully despite herself. She was unable to disprove how the plushie managed its unmanned flight and it remains a thorn in her side she can ignore in this moment. "But...alien stuff? Aliens." Her brows meet. "You all are salting this Kool-aid to make everybody want to drink it more," she then laughs uncomfortably yet again.

"Maybe you should keep it in at the counter, throw it at anyone who tells you that anything is impossible. Because in Gray Harbor, pigs do fly." Ravn smiles, a little wryly, and does not reach to accept the pink children's toy.

He draws on the cigarette and then, a bit more soberly, shakes his head. "I'm sure that's part of it -- look at all the awesome things we can do. But it's more than that. Life here is -- it comes with its own risks and dangers. No one wants to see a newcomer end up in hot water. Particularly not if a few words, a bit of advice, could save you the trouble. Do you want to tell me about the cat? I have yet to meet a talking cat here, but the town is home to several feline entities, some of them more mythical than others."

A stray glance to Kitty Pryde, curled up now with her dainty little tail tip arranged neatly over her dainty little nose, and the folklorist murmurs, almost darkly, "And they do tend to sneak up on you."

Peppa the Pig remains in the barista's hand, having been gently rebuffed as an offering. Ariadne considers the little plushie now and what might come of it. Perhaps it could indeed be the counter's mascot: 'Hear that, Peppa? Somebody wanted (insert impossible drink order here). I guess they'll get it when pigs fly.' -- no doubt followed by, 'Look, Peppa thinks I'm funny.'

She glances up from the toy again after beginning to fuss with one of its ears. "The fact that you can ask me that question so calmly means you must have seen one of those toothy suckers before. God...too many teeth," comes the complaint and nose wrinkle. "Like something off the bottom of the Sound. It ended up in the freezer of the motel after somehow getting into the kitchen. One the locals -- I mean, I'm going to guess she's one of the locals, Una -- she and I...heard the thing...talking? -- in our...heads. I guess it belonged to the front desk lady's neighbor? Something like that. He had a home. Tommy? Tommy. Tom cat, yeah, she'd called him Tommy. Too many teeth and eating frozen burger, like you do when you're some...alien cat."

Kitty Pryde does get a suspicious look regardless and this look transfers to Ravn. "Tell me she's not an alien cat." A blink and Ariadne adds quickly, "Wait a second, mythical? Dude." A look at Ravn now. "That's not a Cat-Sith, is it?"

"Una Irving? Short redhead, sharp?" Ravn smiles lightly. "I know her, yes -- she's my neighbour on Oak Avenue, as it happens. And definitely one of us, though she is still adapting to that."

He trails gloved fingers along the lines of a jaw that could do with meeting a razor yesterday; maybe it's intentional -- he does look like someone who might in fact prefer their chin fuzz to be that exact length, no longer, no shorter. "I can't say that the name Tommy rings bells. But I do know the cats you mean, yes. Most of them are -- quite harmless. They are in fact just cats, though they're cats with funny abilities. It's a bit of a story -- but the tealdeer is that they were kind of crossbreeds of cat and weird supernatural things. And that the ones that ended up staying in Gray Harbor decided to go with their cat inheritage -- but the supernatural still shows, sometimes."

He glances back at Kitty Pryde again. "She's their mum -- in a sort of not too literal way. Kind of. It's very complicated. I don't mind telling you but, you'll need at least half an hour and a whiteboard. They're not faerie -- more, horror of the mists gets tangled up with stray cats."

Ariadne nods to herself -- duly noted, Una is neighbors with this Ravn guy. She'll put that in the notes section under the fellow redhead's name in her cellphone's directory. Her eyes wander to Kitty Pryde again as she's educated on just why Tommy-cat had far more teeth than necessary (or technically anatomically possible for those jaws) and she finds her brows twitching, undecided as to frown or try to hide in her hairline. Peppa the Pig ends up held against her stomach in an unconscious display of uncertainty.

"Sooooooooooo..." Again, the word gets elongated. "Your cat is the momma cat who got knocked up by this alien force and Tommy is one of her kittens. That's the simplest way to define what's going on here...? Shit," she then cusses under her breath. "Wait, is this the same thing as Dreams? Or, what, it causes the Dreams Una mentioned?"

Ravn shakes his head. There's a small, wry smile playing on his lip as he looks at his cat, now soundly asleep and looking about as harmless as a small cat can. "This is the part where you'd need the whiteboard."

He draws on the cigarette and leans against the motorcycle, resting a hip against the saddle. "She's just an ordinary cat, who got knocked up in the fashion of an ordinary cat, by some other ordinary cat. And then tossed from her home because unwanted kittens. And then something on the Other Side decided to get involved and created a kind of ghost version of her -- or maybe it took her form, who the hell knows. We call that one the Uncat. And the kittens -- there were three, except somehow, possibilities and mind fucks, there are actually twelve, just, it's the same three repeated four times, and if you saw one of them downtown it was probably one of the Evergreen kittens. Those three know they're not cats but they've decided to live cat lives. If you ever meet the Uncat you won't be in doubt -- she looks like Kitty here, but she's the size of a lynx."

"You know, I actually follow what you're saying in the most...basic premise of it. So, Kitty Pryde has a Cat-Sith clone and somehow, because 'weird', there are twelve kittens and a portion of them are spooky little shits with too many teeth who still manage to act like cats."

Ariadne nods to herself yet again, brows lifted, eyes a little wider in a form of grudging acceptance. "God, this place is trippy," she breathes, looking around again like some clone of Tommy-cat would walk into view on mere mention. At this point (or maybe after a bottle of red wine to herself), she would be surprised, yes, but only mildly terrified instead of screaming and trying to find the nearest object to put between herself and Jaws-Cat. "But about those Dreams Una mentioned. This creepy supernatural force is responsible for those too?"

"I don't think the Uncat turns into a sidhe, but barring that, that's pretty spot on." Ravn looks at his cat again, and then back at Ariadne. "You pick this up fast. Most people require a little more -- time to stumble into it all. Unless they're like me and already suspected that there's sometimes strange things going on around them -- you are, aren't you?"

He chuckles. "Not that you're obliged to tell me anything, I'm just small town nosy. There are four litters of kittens -- who are adult cats now, I suppose. One litter has no idea they're not cats, and we're not telling them. One -- the one I think you met a boy from -- knows they're not, but they've decided to be cats anyway. And one was sent away to the Other Side and are definitely not cats. We have not managed to find the last litter, but they're out there, somewhere."

Kitty Pryde opens an eye briefly, then tucks her tail over her nose again. Whatever. They're adults now, no longer her problem.

"We call it the Veil, or the Other Side." Ravn nods. "It's the source of the weird. Gray Harbor sits where there is a hole in the barrier or whatever you'd call it -- between realities. What we call the Veil. Other realities meet here, they overlap and interact with each other. Some of them will take you into Dream experiences where you are literally somewhere else, maybe even somebody else. And sometimes it's something weird that strays into our reality, like cats that have too many teeth and sometimes open tuna cans with their minds."

"Hmm." A short little sound from Ariadne at the compliment. She takes it dubiously. There's being composed in the face of new information and then there's sobbing into a bottle of wine later, wondering why the fuck she ended up here in the first place while struggling with the idea of being directed by forces not only beyond understanding, but beyond her control. At least Samwise will be there for pets and snuggles.

What Ravn then tells her about this Veil, the cause of the Dreams, makes her sigh and hold the plushie tighter to her stomach. Jesus fucking Christ on roller skates. On a cracker. With a hockey stick. Yes, this is going to require a bottle of Little Penguin Cab, if she can find it, and hopefully waking up before her next shift tomorrow. Thank god it's a closing rather than an opening one. Little mercies to go with the Sauvignon du Little Penguin.

"This is pretty fucked up, Darth Ravn," she eventually says into the silence, sounding quietly boggled.

"Sounds like you're starting to pick up on why we tell people that the smartest move is just getting back on the bus," Ravn murmurs. He nods. "It is fucked up. It's sometimes very dangerous. And sometimes, it's exciting, exhilarating, fantastic. I'm a folklorist, a historian, I study myths and stories. Here, I get to live them. But I'm the odd one out -- I don't have anyone who relies on me, no one else I need to worry about."

He finishes the cigarette and flicks the stub into a pocket -- no littering here -- and looks back at the barista. "If there's anything I can do to help you settle in, let me know. In spite of how that sounds, that's not a come-on. People like us tend to -- stick together, here. A community within the community, so to speak."

It's a big, cheek-puffing kind of sigh to leave the barista, enough breath to mist slightly in the air before her. "Thankfully, I don't dream when I drink enough wine." A nod. Yep. Definitely going to go find that bottle of Cab. "Might as well get your phone number too then, since Una said the same thing." Peppa the Pig gets tucked under an armpit while Ariadne then fishes for her phone in her jean pocket. Her kingdom for a pair of jeans with deeper pockets than this -- might be time to see about that local thrift store for some small men's work pants in black.

"And that's not a come-on either," she adds distractedly while she thumbs the screen to life and then gets into the phonebook again. "I'm also not proud enough to think I can spell your name, so how do you spell it?" Golden-browns meet those grey-blues, her expression decidedly solemn yet.

"It's spelled exactly as it's pronounced," Ravn offers with more than a bit of cheek, and fully aware that there are very few people in this state who can pronounce it. Helpfully, he spells it -- all four letters.

"Una's good people," the Dane adds. "She lives with a couple of room mates -- one of them has the shine too, the other doesn't. It's a bit of a show, sometimes, watching the two of them try to not make it too hard for the third." He pauses. "That's another important thing, you need to know that. People who don't have -- well, whatever you want to call it, there's no one consensus. Art, song, shine, glimmer, magic, power, gift -- pick one. Anyhow, people who don't have it don't remember. The Veil makes them rationalise away the implausible, the supernatural -- it's a kind of mental self defence. Same reason the FBI isn't all over the place, or for that matter, every ghost hunter on the planet. If you didn't have this -- ability -- you wouldn't remember Tommy now. Or rather, you'd remember that there was a cat in a freezer and you let it out, but you wouldn't remember that there was anything unusual about him."

Flat golden-brown look. As it's pronounced, he says. Ariadne then thumbs in the name after it's spelled, all four letters. Ah-hah: she'd wondered. Ravn doesn't offer a last name so he ends up as 'Ravn, Darth Lord and Guru' in the barista's phone. She types and listens, giving Kitty Pryde another idle glance. No extra limbs or ears or tails there, the black cat still appears entirely normal as claimed. She still squints for a second. Thank god Samwise is just a good old boi with his normal dog behaviors and physiology.

Her thumbs pause as she glances up from the screen. "Boy, kind of a double-edged sword if you're a...plebe -- wait, HOLY SHIT." Stare. "I remember Tommy. The teeth. You're saying I sparkle?"

Like a vampire out of Forks, baby.

"Abildgaard," Ravn offers at the hesitation; maybe he's guessed why Ariadne paused a moment. "Also spelled exactly like it's pronounced." Assuming, of course, that you speak Danish. "3, Oak Avenue in winter, the Vagabond on the Marina in summer -- in case you need to find me sometime. Usually at HOPE during the day hours."

He falls silent a moment and then offers the unfortunate barista a look that is sympathetic at first -- he remembers what this felt like, about a year and a half ago, how he felt, how much he wanted to just get on the bus and keep going but for some reason he didn't, and then suddenly he had a job and and a boat and what the hell happened.

A glance which then turns wry. "I am firmly Team Abildgaard, and if you're going to be choosing between vampires and werewolves, I recommend a combination of garlic and silver bullets in the same shotgun."

Fingers moving without looking at the screen, Ariadne notes the last name (spelled like god-only-knows-how) and the locales of each season. Given she's not actively watching her thumbs, the spelling is sure to be questionable.

Ravn's opinion, summoned up by her word choice, has her suddenly coughing; the sound rapidly turns into a spluttered laugh and then a throat clearing. Not exploding into hysterical laughter: success. That'll come later, after she tries to come to terms with the fact that she sparkles -- glimmers -- has powers -- is somehow not subject to forced amnesia. Very quietly, a corner of her brain is keeping up a consistent high-pitched scream.

"Man, haters gonna haaaaate," she then drawls, considering what's she written in her phone. A frown. Hmm. Spellcheck really hates 'Abulgard'. Oh well. "Look, I know the editor for the original Twilight book, she's not a fan of it either. I read 'em, not impressed. Not enough depth. I'm more a fan of Stoker and the True Blood stuff anyways. And now...I need the number," the barista notes, glancing up at Ravn yet again.

Ravn cites it. "And text me back so I have yours?"

Then he chuckles. "I have actually not read Twilight. I'm a folklorist. I read the reviews and that's all I need to know. I'm amazed that the local First Nations communities are not burning Stephenie Meyer in effigy. I am all in favour of modernising stories and myths -- but have some kind of respect for the original material. Anne Rice did a number on vampires, but at least she reinvented them -- they were still monsters, even if they were now sexy monsters. They were still predators. Meyer's mash-up -- there's nothing left of vampires in it but a blood drinking kink and immortality. I'll let the resident Quinault and Yakama rant about the werewolf parts."

"Pinged you back," mutters the barista just after Ravn asks. Indeed, a text shall reach him shortly citing 'Ariadne Scullin, barista'. The Dane is left to add whatever else he feels pertinent in his own cellular notes. Away the phone goes into her pants pocket and she sighs again, sounding exhausted somehow.

"You've got a point." A further nod of agreement. "In bad taste for sure. Anne Rice did do some good stuff too, yeah, now that I consider it. The movies are hilarious to watch, so...dramatic." Lips twitch into a wry smirk, there and gone. "Granted, I'm just watching and reading as a consumer, I'm not a folklorist in any form. But...god, so these Dreams..." Teeth fret her lip as she looks down the street, far down it, as if she were seeing into the distant greenery of the wilds surrounding the town. "If the Anne Rice stuff is applicable, like...fuck." A expletive of lingering disbelief dying a slow, slow death.

"Stories change. Geeks hate it, but stories change and evolve with the times they are told in. If we want to get really purist about it, Bram Stoker fucked with the original Slavic myths. What we think of as the real vampire myths -- right, I'll spare you the lecture." Ravn grins slightly, sheepishly -- he's well aware that once he gets started talking on a subject dear to his heart, he tends to have a lot to say about it.

"For what it's worth, I've yet to meet a vampire or anything that resembled a vampire here. I'm sure it'll happen eventually, though. My theory is that a lot of the strange that happens here is taken from our minds -- that's why it often seems familiar, why it's sometimes lifted right out of contemporary pop culture. It's our stories as we think them and tell them. And on that note, I really, strongly recommend not developing a taste for horror stories and movies, because you may in fact end up in them."

A twitch of amusement flickers through Ariadne's face. She knows an averted rant when she hears one, even if Ravn outwardly confesses it.

Still. "Well! Thank god I have zero interest in hacker-slasher or zombie or jump-scare shit." Ariadne blows another relieved sigh. "Last thing I need is zombies shambling after me. Ugh." Her shoulders twitch in a literal if mild shudder. "Knowing my luck, it is going to be vampires or dinosaurs or some giant Pacific Octopus out of the Sound or..."

She fades out, looking around for a second before her eyes land on Kitty Pryde. Suspicious cat is suspicious.

"...I feel like talking aloud is going to give this Veil ideas," the barista then mumbles, holding Peppa to her stomach with both hands now.

"Myeah, kind of, -- thinking it can. Once you think about it, though ... that ship's already sailed." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "I think the most terrifying experience I have had has been something as technically mundane as sky diving. Without an instructor, without anyone telling me if I'd put on the suit right, or when to pull the string. I'm amazed both of us survived that trip. Fear doesn't have to be supernatural -- in fact, I find it easier to cope personally when it is. Monsters? All right, give me a weapon, let's do this. But your own deep, buried fears -- mundane and petty as they are -- that's another story."

He shakes his head. "Or things you're ashamed of. My great-grandfather collaborated with the Nazis in World War Two. Things you really want to be taken on a guided tour of, with your two not-white buddies."

Ariadne makes a soft, high-pitched sigh and leaves her eyes wide. Thinking about it can give this Veil ideas?!

FUCK.

"...that's just really fucking horrible," she says quietly. "What the hell."

"The Hotel California speech is starting to make sense, is it?" Ravn chuckles again, though the mirth is not entirely faked. He does like it here -- contrary to any and all common sense. "It's not that we loathe strangers and want them to keep on moving. It's that staying here is -- a choice, with consequences. Or an opportunity, but a risky one. All depends on how you look at it."

His grey eyes search Ariadne's face, weighing things she has said previously; the folklorist talks a lot but that never stopped him from listening quite well, too. "You've had experiences in the past. Nothing decisive, nothing that made you give up and just believe in the supernatural. Nothing like me, using it. But enough that once things here started to seem weird -- you found yourself open to the idea. You're willing to consider that we might be telling you the truth, that it's not some kind of elaborate prank."

Then he grins slightly. "I thought that at first -- that it was the local tourist attraction, telling spooky stories to travellers. And I've spoken to people who were firmly convinced that it's all some kind of hoax, some kind of attempt to put a declining little lumber town back on the map. Neither of which sound half as implausible as the truth, if you have to be honest about it."

Within Ariadne's face lurks the stubborn facet of a scientist's cold logic. Facts. Evidence. Hypothetical situations put to the test for repeatable results. Yet, also, there's another facet there as well: a reluctant wish to understand why she was drawn here, the outlandish and potentially dangerous reasoning be damned. This is a woman who, if presented with unicorn blood and hard facts, would readily agree that unicorns exist based on solid proof, even if the rest of the world prefers them as neon-rainbow posters more appropriately viewed while on acid.

Ravn isn't wrong though and the barista is ruefully impressed that he was listening. So few people listen. "If it's a prank, you all in this entire town have worked so long and hard to make it happen that it would be awful of me to not at least humor you," she finally says. Her gaze falls to one side. "I'll...entertain something totally off the charts at least once, maybe twice. I'm fair like that. If it all pans out to be real, then..." Her shrug is half-hearted somehow, like she's still not sure if she can accept what she signed up for. "I guess I get used to it." There's then a faint laugh as she looks up at Ravn again, seeming to steel herself. "You and Una might get a lot of texts, you're forewarned. A lot of them might be just WHAT THE FUCK. All capitals."

"So basically, you'll be -- like the rest of us." Ravn can't resist a small smirk. Then he tabs to another text conversation on his phone, and holds it out to show her.

(TXT to Ravn) Isi: First impression with my boss after that fucking dream has boss not impressed, coworker is driving me to the hospital. You need a lift?

(TXT to Isi) Ravn: I think I'll just bleed out quietly in bed. I'm not really injured as far as I can tell -- not besides feeling awful and hurting all over. May have sprained an ankle, not sure. Did you start a new job? What happened to working at town hall?

"This is -- us, waking up, after that unfortunate sky diving experience. Trust me, in this town -- frantic 4am texts are normal."

"One of us," the barista intones in a dry mutter before allowing herself another little smirk. "Drink the Kool-aid, Ari..." Her sotto-voce fades out as she leans in to read the short tidbit of conversation, squinting. "Hmm. Isi is another person around here, okay, noted. If 4am frantic texts are normal, excellent. I'll work on redefining normal through a bottle of wine. Maybe two. Mmm, yes, bathtub and wine," Ariadne decides aloud, nodding and then suck-popping her lips off her teeth.

Another suspicious look at Kitty Pryde -- the cat will always get these looks, it is now a habit. "Time to hit up Safeway. Right. I'd personally not like to do un-guided sky diving, that'd be great -- if you could note that, general area malevolence, that'd be spiffy." She really can't help looking around again as if she might catch sight of some ephemeral butler taking these very notes. "You sure you don't want Peppa back? Sam might de-stuff her if he gets hold of her," the redhead then notes, giving Ravn one of those apologetic little smiles.

"Then Peppa dies a noble death, for someone who genuinely will appreciate her. Kitty Pryde won't look at a plushie with anything resembling interest." Ravn nods and glances at his cat too -- not that the feline notices because wherever her dreams have taken her, it's somewhere that invites little twitches of paws and tiny movements; there are probably juicy mice there.

He tucks the phone back in his pocket -- it's really a rather remarkable piece of eye catching, a sparkly pink casing with a cheerful Hello Kitty stencil. "And yes -- Isi Cameron is one of us as well. She's First Nations -- Yakama, as it happens. Works as an accountant at city hall. You might end up meeting her out walking -- she's got a German Shepherd for an emotional support dog. Might be yours would like to meet her."

Ariadne might have managed to tear her attention from the phone case before it could qualify as 'staring'; it's quite the contrast to its owner with a sartorial interest in black. Peppa the Pig is then stuffed into her coat pocket, one ear sticking out from beyond the pocket's hem.

"Alright, Peppa, you may go to you doom, but it will be quick if so. Cute," she then comments of the wee flicking toebeans belonging to the black cat. Her smile is unhelped, even with the weight of the last few minutes of conversation on her mind. At least this cat appears to be entirely normal. This, she can handle. "And we'll say hi if run into Isi and the German Shepherd, sure. Sam doesn't have that kind of job, so if the Shepherd's on duty, we'll be quick about greeting."

"Elsa is a very large, very friendly, and very happy dog." Ravn chuckes, recalling the German Shepherd who, to his mental view, is practically a pony-sized hurricane of enthusiasm. "I am not a dog person se -- but she is a fine specimen, and while I'm not sure I'll agree that she's a perfect therapy dog in general, she is the right dog for Cameron. She's got some PTSD issues, and something large and friendly that discourages a mugger by its very looking like a German Shepherd does, is the right dog for her."

A small smile flits across the folklorist's face and he glances at his cat with a fondness that he'll never admit to, because if there is one constant in Ravn's life is that women boss him around, whether they have two or four legs. "The thing I love about this town -- apart from getting to study stories in the proverbial flesh -- is the way we look out for one another. Most of us are troubled in some way or other. And most of us are good at trying to look out for one another -- you have to be, to cope with some of the things that happen. That's a very big deal to some people, myself included."

Ariadne doesn't know it yet, but that's definitely not going to be the only time she gets to hear the Ravn Abildgaard pep talk. Somehow, this man keeps right on firmly believing that as long as people take a stand together, it will make a difference.

"Sam's not the best about large bouncy dogs in his face, but hey, who is when it comes to somebody suddenly there and much bigger than you." Ariadne shrugs. It'll happen if it happens and Sam gets to set his boundaries. She finds herself smiling reservedly at the way Ravn clearly adores his cat and for the little speech to follow as well. Peppa's ear gets plucked at again as the barista nods, looking over her shoulder at some sound down the way. Just a door opening and closing at another shop, with a conversation ending just on the sidewalk which started inside the place.

A last little sigh, mostly to herself, and the redhead looks back at Ravn again. "It's good to hear people are caring around here, that they've got each other's backs. Probably going to need this at one point or another. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for if somebody's floundering in turn. Best thing I can do in turn right now, I guess -- other than get home to Sam, he still needs a walk," she notes, tossing her head in a long-practiced manner to get her braid back into place along her spine. "Thanks, Ravn," Ariadne then says after some time spent looking through his face. If she's found what she's searching for, there's no indication of it. "You didn't have to tell me any of that, but you did, so...thank you. I feel a little less...weird."

Does she wave? Is that what to do now? Nah, that's too formal. Instead, the barista turns and as she does, she upnods with a grin at the Danish academic. "You earned that coffee. You know where to find me."

Either at the Murder Motel or Espresso Yourself and odds are, Ravn won't find the coffee he wants at the motel. Toothy cats, maybe, but not good coffee.