2022-02-13 - Snowscapes!

Ravn Abildgaard does know what Glühwein is. He's mostly quietly surprised that anyone American does -- even when he seems to recall having read somewhere that German almost became the official language of the United States at one point back in eighteen-whatever, and German ancestry is in fact very, very common. His own country's take on mulled wine is the bitter variant known as glögg -- he can't stand it. The German variant, however, is named glow-wine because it does exactly that -- it makes you glow, from the sweet port it's made with. He's curious enough as to whether the Americans can in fact make it to head for a concession stand to find out.

And devil enough to try to order it in German. Which is probably why the kid working the concession stand is looking at him doubtfully, wondering whether this tall guy in black is some kind of weirdass hipster immigrant, or just taking the piss in a weirdass hipster immigrant way.

Una Irving's ancestry is, sadly, likely more Scottish than German, though Americans are, on the whole, mutts, so who knows what else has crept in there. In any case, 'Glühwein' is something she's not even going to try and pronounce-- and that's why (or maybe part of the reason why, anyway) it's a mug of hot chocolate she's got snugly between two gloved hands as she meanders through the crowds.

Ravn's notable enough-- or maybe it's just his use of the proper German-- to catch her attention, and the pink-cheeked, pink-hatted redhead wanders up alongside to remark, not quite sotto-voce, "I think you've lost him. Even most of the people clinging firmly to their ancestry can't pronounce the language. Knowing a second language is for foreigners."

"You tell me this in a country where I am warned that if I ever travel south of Kansas, I should make sure I speak Spanish?" Ravn can't resist a wink at Una; in his experience, just about everybody on this bloody continent speaks at least smidgens of Spanish, it's just that they often don't seem to register that it does in fact count as a second language. That somewhere over near here he's from, there's a country named Spain -- not to mention half a dozen of countries in the South Americas and Caribbean.

He takes pity on the kid. "I asked for a mug of Glühwein. That's ... probably gluh wiener to you."

"Coulda just said so," the boy grumbles and gets started pouring mulled wine into a plastic cup while shaking his head at pretentious foreign asshole immigrant hipsters in general.

Look. There's a not insignificant number of people on this continent who don't believe that 'Spain' is actually a place, either. That's just the way these things go. Una rolls her eyes in return, but in an amused kind of way. "Si," she says, which may well be the extent of her Spanish.

She gives the pour kid behind the concession stand a sympathetic-- well, sympathetic-ish, anyway-- smile, and moves her hot chocolate into one hand so that she can push a strand of hair back behind one ear. "I probably would've just said 'glue wine', and to be honest, that sounds unappetising enough to put me off. To be honest, I'm not sure I entirely understand the whole warmed up wine thing anyway."

"Man, that pronunciation just gave me a headache. Shame, shame." Not Glühwein or hot chocolate for Ariadne, but coffee? Yes, without fail. If the coffee is laced with chocolate, so be it. She's in her pink-and-grey peacoat, knit stocking cap pulled down over her loose deeply-auburn hair, and boots reaching to mid-shin keep the pretty snow from getting into her pretty socks. Pretty and warm. Function over fashion, people.

A little wave for Una after the friendly snark for Ravn. "I'm surprised there's such a big shindig going on. I figured the snow would make everybody screech and hide away because there's more than two inches of it," the native-born Coloradoan adds with a cheeky grin. This is nothing but a dusting to her, in the end. "Samwise is one of those screech-and-hide-away dogs. He's napping in a hairball on the bed."

"It's a cultural thing," Ravn agrees, grinning as he curls his gloved hands around the cup of near-boiling hot red wine plus port plus spices plus sugar equals glowing if you have a few cups. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer got it from somewhere. "To get it perfect, you need to be clustering around a gas heater in some German town square full of noisy vendors and hawkers and stalls full of confectionary and Christmas decorations, but this will do."

He laughs as Ariadne draws up and makes her observations, and then nods. "Denmark tends to be like that. Hello, Scandinavian country, let me tell you about winters -- oh noes, look, it's two centimetres of snow, close everything, declare a national emergency."

"I mean, that sounds... atmospheric." Una's pause does not, in this instance, seem to denote polite dismissal of the idea: if anything, she faints faintly wistful, untravelled youth that she is. "Particularly if there are, like, cobbled streets and old buildings and everything."

She evidently has no shame for her pronunciation, given the way her eyes dance with mirth; her smile for Ariadne is warmly welcoming, though she's quick to jump in and say, "On behalf of PNW natives, may I just say that that we're not that bad... well, okay, maybe we are. If it lasts until Monday, I bet it'll be a snow day for the kids, and those were always my favourite. I admit, though... I figured, Scandinavia, ice and snow all winter. Is that not the case?"

"It never ceases to amuse me, living here in the PNW in the winter." Ariadne seems to agree with Una's own thoughts on matters. "I bet the kids will be pleased to have that snow day. Though yeah, Ravn, what's up with Scandinavia and being allergic to snow?" She drifts comfortably into the conversational circle, one warmly-dressed penguin with steaming drink. Her nose twitches to scent the wine -- that, she might try after the coffee. She's not brave enough right now.

But that stall with the krumkake pastries? That definitely will get a swing-by. Or maybe two.

"Denmark is the south end of Scandinavia, and we're an archipelago nestled between two oceans in shallow sounds and straits. We don't even get snow every winter. It's very rare to see temperatures dip to 0 Fahrenheit. Far more common to be just above or below freezing, and then a lot of rain and sleet." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Northern Germany actually has colder winters because they haven't got the oceans to warm the air up."

The Dane sips the spicy-sweet smelling concoction tentatively -- and then nods. "At least it is the German variant. They make it primarily on sweet wine and port. The Danish variant is made on bitter wine, and it tastes like you left a glass of wine sitting in the sun for a week, then threw in some sugar and raisins to disguise the taste of mold."

Though he hasn't the foggiest idea what Glühwein is, de la Vega's curious enough to be wandering by the stall this afternoon. One hand shoved into his jacket pocket, cigarette scissored between two fingers of the other, baseball cap firmly jammed atop his dark curls. The cop's huddled into a hoodie under his battered jacket, and a pair of worn jeans shoved into scuffed boots, and still looks frozen to the bone. He's not made for this weather, which he'll tell anyone who'll listen; and those who won't.

"I can only imagine what it must be like when, like... Georgia? Florida? I'm not sure how far south snow actually happens, but, you know what I mean. If you think we're bad." The tiniest little bit of freezing rain, and everything shuts down completely! Presumably.

She gives a thoughtful little nod to acknowledge Ravn's explanation of Denmark-and-snow, and supposes, "I guess that's a little like here. With the ocean so near. The inland states, even the ones not further north, get much colder." Geography may not be her strong suit, but at least the redhead is giving it due consideration (though part of it is aimed at her hot chocolate, which may well be the source of all wisdom, given the way she's looking at it).

"That," she adds, "Sounds gross. Why would people drink that?"

"Gol-darn topography," Ariadne mutters in an exaggerated drawl with a theatrical shake of a gloved fist. "Explains it though. If you're not used to it, you don't know how to react to it." I've got cousins in Alabama and it gets hilarious when they get snow down there. Such shrieking, much wow." She sips deeply of her steaming coffee as she looks between the two locals. Mmm, enough chocolate syrup, excellent. The description of the Danish hot wine has her wrinkling her nose and laughing puffs of breath into the cold, bright air. Little gusts of wind bring glittering dustings of fine snowflakes down into the air, bringing with them a sense of delayed winter-tidings.

"Also, yeah, Ravn, that's disturbing. Blugh," and she makes a little blep face complete with pink viewing of tongue tucked between lips. "Talk about a way to ruin questionably-good wine."

"All the more reason to appreciate the German variant. Hello, Chief." Ravn half-turns to look at the shorter man as he draws up -- and then breaks into a small smile. "You look like you need something hot inside you too. This weather's beautiful, but cold."

He glances to the two redheads. "And speaking of, have you met? Ariadne Scullins, Una Irving, Javier de la Vega. We've all got a few things in common. Including, it seems, not being used to Washington weather."

"Frozen toes?" suggests the cheeky teenager working the stand.

Cue a fit of coughing on his mouthful of cigarette smoke as Ravn delivers that little gem. coughsputterchoke. "Hola," he manages curtly at the introduction, grimacing a little at Una and Ariadne in that way he does in lieu of an actual smile. To the teenager manning the booth, "You got any, uh, coffee? I'll take a coffee. Please."

Una? She has a choke of laughter of her own, enough that-- for a moment or so-- her hot chocolate is in danger of spilling all over her knitted gloves (it doesn't; hot chocolate is sacred and deserves protection).

"I think I'm the odd one out on that front," she says, then, recomposing herself. "As a native Washingtonian. But sure, the rest of you can bond. And I will join in for the frozen toes. I always forget how quickly my toes freeze." To be fair, her boots are not of the best quality, and even the thickest socks probably can't really keep out the chill. Her nod in Ruiz' direction is quick and easy: they've met, but only briefly. "If we had snow like this all the time it would presumably lose its charm, right?"

"So this German-variant glühwein... it's passable?" She eyes it up, more maybe-I-should-try-this-in-the-interests-of-Science! than that-looks-delicious.

Thank god she wasn't attempting to swallow any coffee. There's a snicker-snort from the barista as well, a sharp little glittering titter before she composes her face and tries once more to drink her brew without any of it ending up where it shouldn't (like her trachea or gloves or ground).

"G'morning." A quiet, polite greeting for the newly-introduced Chief. "I'd see about some hiking socks or even Army-grade," Ariadne then suggests to Una, golden-hazel eyes upon the other redhead. "Had a friend send me some when he was overseas for Christmas, swear up and down by them keeping my toes warm, even if they're a little big." She then looks back to Ravn, honestly curious about what makes one hot-wine better than the rest. She does like red wine. Mental note-taking is occurring.

The smile on the Dane's face is beatific. The foreigner surely has no idea what he just managed to suggest. "Glühwein is sweet and strong. If you like port wine, you will like it. The Danish variant is made on dry red wine, so if you prefer something dry -- that's what you want."

The kid working the stand rolls his eyes. He got the joke. He's sixteen. He thought adults were supposed to be, like, mature. Humanity is doomed, at least according to the expression on his face as he pours a generous cup of hot coffee and offers it over. "Here you go, Chief. Cream, sugar? Recommend the oatmal cookies because my aunt's gonna yell at me if I don't."

Ravn blows on his hands, cold under the gloves; the true secret of mulled wine, it's for warming digits on. When the concession stand kid's attention is drawn to another customer he glances at Una. "I don't suppose you guys have had any trouble next door? Our yard's full of very small footprints, and all the milk went missing from our fridge overnight."

Surely. Surely Ravn's as pure as the driven snow Javier trudged through to get here, and would never dream of making such inappropriate comments. "Fuck, does anyone like port wine?" mutters the cop, digging out his wallet and fishing out a crumpled bill. To the kid working the stand, "Yeah, sure, give me a goddamn cookie. No, I don't need cream or sugar." He hands over the money, scratches at the bridge of his nose, and waits for his change. And his cookie.

"You look new around here," he comments to Ariadne with a little down-up of his eyes. "Friend of Ravn's?" Coffee collected in a heavily tattooed hand, he sips, and chases it with a drag off his cigarette.

The kid is probably not wrong: humanity is doomed. And Ravn? Una's expression seems to suggest that she suspects shit-stirring; her amusement is clear enough.

"Hiking socks, good idea," she murmurs, blowing a breath over her hot chocolate, though it's unlikely it actually needs it by this point.

Her feelings on different versions of hot wine go unexpressed, because there's a shift in her stance-- a slight straightening-- that comes alongside her quick glance towards Ravn. "Cookies," she says. "Fresh-baked yesterday. I thought maybe one of the roommates had late night munchies, but... they're all gone this morning. Elves again?"

"Sounds like somebody's playing cat's-foot to me," murmurs Ariadne into her coffee in regards to the Mystery of the Missing Milk. The vanished cookies make her frown to herself -- what cat takes cookies? The toothy kind, she decides to herself. The hangover this morning isn't too bad, but she'll need to throw back some aspirin before work. Red wine and a good cry always helps.

Then she's being questioned. Glancing over at Ruiz, she replies with practiced ease, "Newly-introduced as far as friends go. I've been in town about a week or so, staying up at the motel." The Murder Motel. A look for Ravn, who introduced her to the concept, and then for Una, who happened to aid in discovering one of these toothy cats with too many opinions shared to their human minds. "It's...been an adjustment," she adds, then laughing in the airy manner of one confessing a difficulty.

"Sorry. They don't exactly ask for permission. Hello, Chief, I'd like to report that Peter Pan has a portal to Neverland in my back yard and the damned faerie host keeps stealing milk and cookies from the surrounding houses." Ravn sighs. Life in Gray Harbor, it's not even weird by local standards (nor does he in fact expect de la Vega to do anything about it).

He has the decency to at least look a little sheepish. "Ariadne is the new barista at Espresso Yourself. I am shamelessly taking advantage -- I've managed to earn real, black coffee there twice now, behind Della's back." Beat. "And I won't be very surprised the day Kitty Pryde brings home Tinkerbell."

Once his cookie's been procured, Javier collects that too, thanks the kid, and moseys off to join the others. It's bitten into without hesitation, a few crumbs dusting his beard, where they remain unless someone politely informs him of this fact. "The murder motel?" he mumbles to Ariadne. Yes, of course he's going to go there. The cop shrugs a big shoulder. "Stayed there myself when I first rolled into town. I think most of us do. You'll get tired of it."

The elves comment has him looking briefly toward Una, and then Ravn garners his attention again and he gives a rough chuckle at the comment about coffee. More of his own goes down the hatch, but nothing offered in reply. The surly Mexican is not a talker, though; this is not news to anyone.

In come an Isi and her German Shepard dog named Elsa who came with the name but LIVES UP TO IT, bound around the corner. Elsa is a very very happy pupper and keeps veering off course to investigate piles of snow, her tail a flag of joy.

Isi is less excited about the snow but is happy enough to see her dog all !!!!!!!!!!!

"It's fine: I needed to bake cookies more than I needed to eat them, you know?" It's a stress release thing. No one needs the amount of cookies (slash cinnamon buns slash brownies slash pancakes) produced in the Irving-et-al household.

It doesn't stop Una from being amused at this particular summation of the situation: Peter Pan, Neverland, milk and cookies. It would be horrifying, if it weren't... well, just becoming kind of normal. Ariadne's glance, too, earns some amount of wry amusement. "Welcome to Gray Harbor," she says, laughingly. "Where we laugh off the most ridiculous of things, including murder hotels infested with overly-toothy cats."

The face Ariadne makes is one a newbie to town would definitely make. She's amused and bewildered both that in front of someone who must be the Chief of some security around here, Ravn just spouts off claims like that. That the Dane also makes a point of admitting to his shenanigans has her parted lips closing to a sharp smirk.

"Just call me your supplier as long as you can make it worth my while," she says with a laugh. "Della hasn't called me out on it...yet. She's probably wondering who's suddenly developed a conscience or something. I'm just entertained and happy to reward such entertainment. Pigs apparently do fly around here," the barista then informs the little group as a whole.

To Ruiz in particular, she nods. "Yep, the Murder Motel, that bastion of sunshine and rainbows." Una's comment makes her bell out a laugh. "Already regretting my decision. It's probably a rite of passage around the city. I'm looking at a place over on Sycamore."

Sudden movement in her peripheral gives the barista reason to glance over her shoulder. "Oh, yeah, Ravn's mentioned her. Isi...? Don't know the dog's name," she comments to the little cluster as she watches the Shepherd enjoy the snow.

Random bounding German Shepherd might make Ravn the not a dog person wary -- if he did not happen to know this specimen. Elsa is made of glee and sunshine and rainbows, and he'd be hard pressed to find her frightening or intimidating. "Speak of the devil -- well, the devil I mentioned the other day. Isi! Come meet Ariadne. She's got a dog too, the two of you are bound to end up married-by-canine-proxy."

He glances back at the Chief. "I have a literal faerie circle in my backyard. Nothing in this town anymore, I swear. But so far, they're hospitable enough -- and occasionally, they try to recruit people to help look for escaped nightmares. We should make it a requirement to entering town, you have to sign over your sanity at the county line."

Ravn! Elsa rembers him. She is too polite to pull her leash too much to get at her second favorite person. They approach at a distracted walk. Isi's life has improved a lot since Elsa came, the woman has invested in a second-hand coat even?

"Oh?" A glance cast over Ariadne to take the woman in from top to bottom. Before she asks her question there are vague greeting nods at the others. "What do you have?:

The second bite demolishes about half of his cookie, and the Chief doesn't even bother taking a third; he simply crams what's left into his mouth and chews. Dark eyes switch between Ariadne and Ravn; pausing, squinting when the man mentions his faerie circle. Then once he's swallowed, "You're lucky you're Rosencrantz's straight boyfriend or I'd have to disown you." He takes a drag off his cigarette, and eyes the approaching Shepard warily. "Ms. Cameron," he greets. "Cómo estáis tú y tu chucho sarnoso, eh?"

Una is also not a dog person it seems, because her expression is less 'awwww!' and more 'ah' (though at least it's not a terrified 'ah!'). The glance she aims at Isi is, on the other hand, distinctly interested: previously-heard-name matched to face, got it. She smiles, though, so it's less creepy than perhaps it could be.

Idly, around her hot chocolate: "I still have a rope made of virgin's hair, for that damn Peter and his horses. It'll come in handy one day."

In a mutter of general agreement with Ravn's musing about sanity, "At least it's not a signature in blood or anything like that."

And maybe Ariadne has the resentful streak in her to tempt the general intelligent fate of reality in Grey Harbor.

Then there's Isi and Elsa and the barista can't resist a friendly pup. Her closed fist is offered out for sniffs if Elsa is so inclined before she glances up at Isi. "Silken Windhound, his name is Samwise, after the Hobbit. He's back at the motel right now because he's a delicate little butterfly who doesn't like the cold." Sighthounds, man. "We go jogging when the weather's nice, you'll probably see me with him at one point or another." The funning between Ravn and Ruiz earns both men a questioning glance.

Una gets a loud cough-laugh and it's a genuine cough because a little coffee disappears down the wrong tube. "I forgot about that part of the book," she then chuckles.

"Oh, I don't think there are escaped nightmares in Peter Pan," Ravn observes, hands curled around his hot mulled wine. "It's just hard to argue that you've gone off-canon when Peter Fucking Pan himself is sitting right there across the table from you at the coffee shop, telling you that his nightmares escaped and turned into horses, or maybe it was the other way around. That's when all you can do is sigh and remember that in Celtic mythology, rope made from the hair of a virgin can tame almost anything that looks like a horse but isn't."

He winks. "Don't ask about the quest for virgin hair. It was -- an experience. Isi, try the Glühwein -- hot, sweet, German mulled wine, it's fantastic."

It's the dog that Della -- not that Della -- is more-or-less following, the woman possessed of a long camel-colored coat and tall oxblood boots but a distinct lack of scarf. She pauses at a less-trafficked stall, though, staying a pace back even as she leans in to survey the tchotchkes: mugs and the like, a high percentage emblazoned with heart this and sweetie that but others already sporting floral Easter gear. She has no coffee, no glue-wine, only her phone in one gloved hand.

"Again, don't fucking speak spanish," Isi mutters not quite unter her breath as she shoots Ruiz a distinct sour look. There is no heat behind the look, just grumpy.

Elsa sniffs the hand and then bumps it for pets please! She alternates between Ariadne and Ravn who loves him even if he doesn't love her.

For the wine, "No thanks. Comparing the shit of the town today? "

"Della!" Una's bright call of greeting towards her roommate is somewhat belied by the warning glance she aims towards the others: non-glimmering norm approaching. Of course, whether that message gets through or not is, well, just one of those open questions, isn't it?

It does mean she doesn't comment further on the virgin hair, Peter Pan, or any other kind of weirdness. It also means she looks ever so slightly stiff, all of a sudden, and drops her gaze emphatically towards her not-quite-so-hot chocolate.

He knows she doesn't speak Spanish. Possibly that's why he keeps doing it. Amused, de la Vega sips his coffee and smokes his cigarette while the others congregate; the group's getting a little too large for his comfort, and he's looking like he might start edging his way out. Never mind the dog he's got his eye on.

"I can only imagine," murmurs Ariadne drily as to the quest for virgin hair. One gloved hand is now involved in mushing up Elsa's head-fur companionably; the barista has the touch of a practiced dog owner by how she meanders about the Shepherd's head and dedicates a little more time to any place leaned into. Doggy groans are a sign of scritch-mastery.

Una's clarion greeting has the barista looking up and towards the arrival in question. Ah -- so this is Della. The other Della. She's oblivious as to the why of the warning glance given by Una, but it's enough to make the other redhead go attentively quiet. There's a why and keeping silent is probably going to reveal the answer one way or another. Mocha is imbibed and enjoyed as a splash of heat to her stomach. Mmm. Warm. Cold toes are terrible.

"Hola, Della," Ravn calls out to the neighbour he's only met a few times in passing. And it's surely entirely coincidental that his Spanish is so bad that he pronounces the 'h'.

Then he looks down and grants Elsa the ear scratch the big dog wants. He's not a dog person -- but he's also not a dog hater, and Elsa is hard to dislike, in all her joyous bounciness. He only withdraws his hand when he realises he's about to end up braiding fingers with the barista over it -- which might be a little too personal for him, at least the hand quickly returns to a pocket of his leather jacket.

Safe topics of conversation, ahoy. "You're missing out," the folklorist tells Isi instead. "Germany invented one thing I figured you'd like and you're refusing to try it? Psch."

Della's dark head turns; her smile lights up. "Una!" She waves quite unnecessarily -- hello, hello! -- then both quickly and figuratively waves off the stallkeeper and heads that way; rounding the group, reading it, she gives the smoker a brief glance and chooses the path away from him. "We're out of cookies," she says to her housemate mournfully. "Hej, Ravn; hello, everyone."

"Yeah? I'll try it another time." With Elsa firmly distracted by another lover Isi continues to eye Ruiz with ~thoughts~ stirring up and about. Looks about the full group before she abruptly bends, scoops up snow, and tosses it at Ruiz. Maybe she will get lucky and hit him. Also immediately, her finger points at Della. She did it.

Una's expression turns pained, not so far from a rabbit-in-the-headlights look, albeit one that disappears promptly. "I hadn't realised we'd eaten that many!" she says, artificially bright. "Della-- well, you've met Ravn, and this is Ariadne, and..." That snowball goes flying before she gets any further down the list of introductions, and one hand, her free hand, lifts to cover her mouth as she holds back a laugh.

Ash flicked from his cigarette, Javier is just turning to Ravn to point out that, "You know you're not supposed to pronounce the-" H. You're not supposed to pronounce the 'h' in Hola, is what he was going to say. But at that moment, a wet lump of snow smacks him square across the back of the head, rather putting any thoughts of correction of his friend's Spanish out of mind.

"Who the fuck.." His cigarette's dropped and ground out with the toe of his boot, and he whips around to look for the culprit. Which seems to come down to either Isi, Della or Una. "Which one of you was it? Huh?" His baseball cap's tugged off, and smacked against his thigh to get the snow off. More is dusted out of his hair as he looks between the trio.

"Nice to meet you, Del -- "

And then, abrupt snowball mortaring.

Ariadne blinks. "Y'all are merciless around here," she says to the group as a whole, looking about with a beatific expression on her face. "Monsters, I tell you," she informs Elsa while continuing head-scritchies if possible.

"It's all right," Della says quickly, apologetically; she's still flushed when she gives Ariadne a nod, dropping her phone into a pocket. As for the snowball, Della absolutely did it. This Della does everything. It's very suspicious how she isn't looking at Ruiz, or Isi for that matter. At least, until she is. "Excuse me?" isn't asking for absolution at all.

Ravn did see where that snowball came from. Far from it that he's a snitch, though.

The more or less empty wine cup goes on the bench before the Dane bends down and scoops up a clump of snow of his own -- and holds it out to Javier. "Defend yourself. The war is on -- and we're outnumbered four to two."

Elsa is a yes on the scratches till something flies and she barks once excitedly. Yes. Play time!!!!

Isi is still pointing at Della, but the second Ravn reaches down she WILL defend hersself. "Oh hell no," and she gets her own snowball to toss at Ravn. This is happening.

Una lifts one hand (the other still holding on to her hot chocolate) in that universal gesture of 'it wasn't me!' And, in her defence, there's not much by way of snow on her glove, which certainly gives credence to the denial. "I'll make more," she promises, and though her reference may have been cookies and not snowballs... the timing may not work in her favour.

"What, we're going girls-against-guys are we? How very gendered of us."

Maybe it is time for those pink gloves to get an icy coating on them, after all.

Oh, is that how this is going to go? The cop runs his tongue along his lower lip, eyes narrowed as he studies Della and her not looking at him. Then he accepts the snowball from Ravn, dunks the remainder of his lukewarm coffee in a single slug, and tosses his empty cup in the garbage. "All right, ladies, you're fucking on."

Backing up a couple of steps, he packs up the handful of snow a little tighter, then -- grinning -- wings it right at Della the moment he's got a clear shot.

And it begins.

"Oh, motherfucker, newp!"

That's Ariadne shriek-laughing as she scatters from the group arming themselves and darts behind the poor unfortunate teenager's booth, bringing her coffee with her. Sorry, Elsa, you're on your own for flying snowballs! "Newbie immunity, newbie immunity!" comes the further cry, playfully demanding nobody come after her with any barrage of white slush.

On her own, this is fine. Elsa is IN FOR THIS. Ruiz' snowball gets zeroed in and she rushes for it to try to catch it like the ball it is. EVERYONE IS DOING THIS JUST FOR HER!

Seriously. Seriously?! Della had just been turning away and now she's gotten a white splat not on her not-pink gloves but at the collar of her coat and it's trickling down and it's cold and it's really cold and she gives Ruiz such an outraged look to go with it. She heads after Ariadne -- sorry, Una! -- albeit not with a barrage at this point, to assess the situation from behind the booth. Perhaps there's even built-up snow back there.

"One of you ladies could volunteer to be an honorary gentleman for the day," Ravn suggests with a hint of cheek. "Just to even things out a bit, give us poor not-able-to-multitask blokes a fighting chance, eh?"

No one pays him any attention; it's almost like giving a lecture in a classroom, he thinks wryly. And then, because he did see where this started, he lobs that snowball straight at Isi's kisser. More or less. Maybe the front of her shirt too.

Una will put her hot chocolate cup into the garbage later (promise!), but for now it gets dropped at her feet so that she can pull together her own snowball. It's as she's forming it (too meticulous and careful to be a proper soldier in this war) that she aims a look of genuine betrayal after Della and Ariadne.

"It looks like," thanks to the pacifistic betrayers, "things have evened up anyway."

The intention is to aim the snowball at Ravn whilst he's distracted with his own; sadly, this would work better if Una had, you know, any athletic ability whatsoever.

"Fuck that shit!" Isi calls out as she and Una are ABANDONED by CLEARLY THE PERSON WHO STARTED THIS DELLA! As she gets snow right in her face. This is where snowball fights are blind. Snow scooped, and since Una has Ravn, she shoots another ball at Ruiz's exposed butt.

"I have faith in your d -- " Ariadne pauses her projected reply to Ravn from where she pokes her head out from behind the stall. "Your...devious minds!" she decides, unable to then help laughing into her mocha.

Ahem.

"I think we're the wise ones anyways," she then asides Della, who's apparently escaped with her. "There's enough snow back here to bombard randomly and make it seem like we're innocent little creatures who wouldn't dare start -- " Incoming snowball! She ducks behind the stall again. "BETRAYED!" the barista then howls as a battle-cry.

The next snowball flies at Una because...well...nobody's safe, not even a fellow redhead, but the problem is? Ravn's tall. Maybe he'll duck. Maybe he won't. Maybe someone else steps into it. FATE.

As his snowball cracks his intended target right in the neck, Javier isn't wasting time gloating. He's scooping up more, and whipping around to see who else is going for him. Isi, of fucking course. "You want some of this?" he growls at her, holding his arms up. Two steps back, and then he winds up and hurls his next missile at her. Whatever he can hit; he's not terribly picky.

"'Wise'? What is this 'newbie immunity'?" Della demands of Ariadne, swatting at her own neck to try and dislodge any of the snow that's not yet intruded. "Is that even a thing?" She starts to peek out from behind the corner, then hastily retreats. After a moment of hesitation, though, speaking of snow back here -- time to start building up armanents. At least she doesn't put rocks in them.

An undignified yip comes from Isi's lips as she misses and is then hit square in her chest by Ruiz snowball. Ah, ow. One moment as she reconsider her choices. It is fine. This is cool.

Ravn's athletic ability is great -- that is, for everyone else. The asthmatic academic looks back on a life of being chosen last for any team in the schoolyard -- and he doubts this streak is going to change, ever. That his aim with a snowball is meh at best? Also not a surprise.

Ah, screw it. You play the hand life gives you. And life gave him other tricks.

It's just a matter of standing still for a bit and focusing -- looking to others, no doubt, like he's just a little in doubt as to what to do. And then tilt the roof of that concession stand just a little. Enough that a considerable amount of snow slides down the back of it.

Newbie immunity is clearly not a thing, and while Ariadne's snowball may not have reached its intended target, its intended target is not unawares. Gaze narrowed (you know, aside from the bubbling laughter that rather diffuses the whole battle-ready stance), she gathers up another snowball, and this time sidesteps around the concession stand-- only to stop, genuinely cackling now, as the snow begins to rain down.

By comparison, her snowball is... small potatoes, not even worth throwing. (Don't let that stop anything.)

"Oh, I'm new around here. Been here about a week and a half, staying at the Murder Motel. I'm not even going to call it by its real name anymore, whatever," Ariadne explains as she stoops to snug her coffee up to the back of the booth and grab another snowball. "Trying for the pity angle, it's a great advantage if a short-lived one. I don't know if it's a thing, but it's worth a shot, right?"

Poking her knitcap'd head out from around the booth again, she eyes the terrain and its occupants. Who's available for targeting?

"Mercy, Una!" she then laugh-shouts before at least several inches of snow begins plopping down onto her from the roof of the stand. "SHIT! NO! COLD! OH MY FUCK HOW -- " Behold, the dance of the Snow-Down-My-Coat-And-In-My-Boots-And-Somebody-Is-Getting-Murdered. The barista yanks off her snow-crusted knitcap and continues yelping. It brings her at an angle to see how Ravn's just standing there, looking so innocent, and she then points a portentous finger.

"A pox on you, sir! Five pumps of praline syrup in ALL YOUR COFFEE! Cat hair in your toothbrush! Flat tires! Fuck, it's in my PANTS, SERIOUSLY?!" The dance continues.

Elsa tugging too hard on the leash finally decides Isi on a new course. Her chest hurts and so with a upraised arm she and her dog RETREAT from the fight using the distraction Ariadne's tirade provides. Out out out!

"The murder... what?" Della's built up a cluster of snowballs, all set to offer a trade -- jury's still out on the 'pity angle' business -- when she yelps, putting an arm over her head, then both arms. So much snow. So. Much. Snow. Her poor hair! And then, "Cat hair?!" and, despite herself, she's laughing too. "Evil!"

Ravn's blue-grey eyes go wide. Bloody hell. That was the most tactically stupid move he could make. Finally, a barista that would take pity on him -- and then he turns her into an enemy. Ravn Abildgaard, he tells himself, you are the worst self-sabotaging idiot.

And then Isi does a slow fade with her dog and the Dane can't do anything but laugh. He hugs himself, laughing, hard, quietly. It's been a while since he laughed like that, and he rather enjoys it, even if it cost him his coffee privileges that he went to so much effort to win back. He's going to seriously ambush Isi about this later -- start a fight and then run from it, nice.

While the Chief would otherwise be very much inclined to stay and make more enemies out of women he barely knows, his cell phone goes off right around now. And by the sound of it, it's a call he needs to take. Ravn's shot a crooked grin as he ambles off with it, one hand shoved into his pocket, tone shifting to something semi-professional. Must be a lawyer type on the other end. Or maybe that asshole DA from Seattle. Then he lifts his hand in a wave, and he's off, making his way back to the mud-spattered, unmarked Charger parked by the entrance.

Tactically, Una could do a lot better than to just sit there and_laugh her ass off_, but... sorry Ariadne, sorry Della: it is just that funny.

It means it takes her a few moments to register that she's been abandoned by her erstwhile teammate (how convenient that Ruiz departs at the same time); luckily, the snowballs have stopped flying for at least a moment or two, giving her time to retreat around the edge of the concession stand (the poor kid, standing there within it).

"Truce? Can we call truce?

(Where did the snowball come from that ends up directly above Ravn's head and then falls? Out of nowhere? Nothing to do with Una, that's for certain...)

"So evil!" Either Ariadne's gotten the worst of the snow out of her various garments or it's melting now and screw it. She's downgraded from Spastic Jive to Slow Annoyed Cat Limb-Flick at this point. Another good shake-out of her knitcap and she then grabs a lock of her hair to shake snow from this as well. Thank god the pea-coat doesn't have a hood. "Look, buddy, you think you're from the snowy north, but your place ain't got nothing on the Rockies."

A staunch look at both Della and Una while Ravn deals with the sudden plop of snowball.

"Ladies. I suggest we show this poor bastard how you REALLY throw snow." And with that, Ariadne is double-fisting, armed at both hands -- thank you, Della, for the stockpile. She takes aim and, well. Ravn is unfortunately tall and despite being thin, there's a sudden BARRAGE of snowballs flying at him. One of them happens to fly wide into the limbs of a nearby tree. Such snow on those limbs.

Such snow was on those limbs.

She also darts in to see about slamming a snowball against the back of his neck with this terribly hilarious if graceful suicidal leap at the Danish academic.

Della didn't see no stinkin' snowball. Although the aftereffects -- well. What Della does do is offer her newly-arrived housemate some of the snowballs she'd made and then dug back up out of the fallen snow, or at least what's left after Ariadne ransacks them, without even any deal. 'Truce' or no truce.

And then? Time to see the results of Ariadne + Tree 4eva. Witness!

There's a Danish nursery rhyme that goes something like,

Se op, der 'en lop'
Se ned, der 'en ged

which translates to look up, there's a flea, look down, there's a goat, and somehow, this goes through Ravn's head as he looks up -- not to be hit in the face by a flea but by a snowball that by all laws of probability should not be there,

It hits him in the face.

He spits snow and looks around for the possible culprit --

and no, it's not a goat either. Just a veritable mountain of snow descending from the heavens, and some shrieking that's decidedly girly, followed by spluttering and shaking and incoherent swearing in a language no one present presumably understands a word of, with a few German oaths thrown in for good measure, but because no language on God's very white Earth was made for swearing like German.

By the time Una properly registers the snowballs remaining in the behind-the-concession-stand arsenal, even with Della's kind offering of it, it's probably too late: she's caught sight of Ravn's doom, her own effort dramatically overshone by Ariadne's-- and the latter, that just makes her cackle with laughter, dropping towards her knees in the snow so that she can hold on, and simply laugh.

As the only person who has escaped being hit by a snowball, maybe she counts as the winner... but maybe that doesn't matter anymore.

"I think," she says, finally, regaining control over her own breathing and voice, "we might all need more, uh, warm wine after that."

(Victories aside, she's still not going to try and properly pronounce 'glühwein'.)

"Ravn, are you okay over there?"

With exaggerated primness, Ariadne dusts off her gloves and then brings up both arms to flex like a weight lifter.

"Awwwwww yes," she says, then finger-gunning in the cursing academic's direction. "And that's how we do in Colorado. Humans never look up." Not that she did either, which further proves her point. Una and Della are given a grin. "I wonder what he's saying, it sounds so angry."

She knows a bit of what Ravn is saying and those are pretty creative. She can't help but laugh at the whole affair. "Alright, had enough sauce, gander?" she calls out to Ravn from beside the stand. "Ready to let it go?"

The teenager minding the stall groans.

"Just a little," Della agrees about what Ravn might or might not be saying. "Good aim. And I haven't had any wine." What o'clock is it, anyway?

She eyes Ravn, or what had been Ravn, but makes no move to follow up: Una asking after his health is good enough.

Ravn wipes snow out of his face before answering. "No! I have snow in places that I usually reserve for private moments! I'm freezing!" And laughing, helplessly, quietly, so he's probably not about to die as he tries to shake snow out of his hair, his jacket, and his trouser legs.

He dramatically goes brrrrr! and then nods, hugging himself. "I think another cup of mulled wine is in order. Or anything else that's hot. Please. Somebody light me on fire."

"Can you blame him?" Una can't-- but that doens't mean she's not still bright with amusement.

"If I were you," she adds to Ravn, as she gets back to her feet and comes back around the concession stand (and picks up her mug from the snow, because she's many things, but not a litterer, "I probably wouldn't ask to be set on fire in this town, I'm just saying. You... do look cold, though. Four wines?" That last is to the poor teen behind the counter, accompanied by a winning (ish) smile, clearly intended as apology for the impromptu battle fought on his doorstep.

"Thank you," the barista replies to Della as to aim. "I haven't had any wine either, just coffee." Speaking of which -- Ariadne tromps back to go fetch it and finds it lukewarm. Eh, them's the facts of sticking it in snow. She sips at it and comes back into view again, looking still quite pleased with herself as a whole.

"You're still kickin', you'll be just fine after some wine," the redhead then agrees with Ravn, thumbing towards the poor kid stuck observing the 'adults'. Una beats her to ordering the wine and instead, Ariadne adds, "I'll spot you a cookie too because I'm a nice, temporary frenemy." She sets her coffee on the counter and hands over a bill enough to cover four of those aforementioned cookies. She doesn't pick up her wine immediately, rather sets it off to one side on the counter, since she's going to finish her coffee and cookie first before wine.

"Where's a smoker when you need one?" Della asks brightly. She has sympathy somewhere, surely, probably down the back of her neck where she can't reach it. She shakes herself off in a shivery move, then, like a cat that had trod outside and regretted it, and delicately, tentatively steps out of what had been the lee of the stall. "Nice to meet you, Ariadne." Again. "Do you go by your full name? Spider? Snow-Spider? Snow-Cookie?" Everyone needs an epithet.

The hot, mulled wine that the Germans call Glühwein, glow-wine, is sweet and rich and full of port. It tastes deceptively more like a warm fruit soup than something alcoholic -- which may be part of the reason for the name, because if you down several glasses fast you're most certainly going to be glowing.

The teen looks unimpressed. Adults, man. They're fucked up. This town blows.

Ravn is still chuckling as he holds his and tries to warm his hands on it through the gloves he seems to wear, always, regardless of weather or season. "This was fun. I don't think I've done something like this for -- a decade, if not more."

Then he glances at Della. "I'm not going to light myself on fire. That'd be cheating."

Una buys the wine, Ariadne the cookies (alas, arguably not as good as the ones that Una made yesterday that have all disappeared, but that's another story: a cookies is still a cookie), and everyone is happy again (if cold).

"It's been forever for me too," the younger of the two redhead agrees, cheeks pink with cold and recent activity, her hands wrapping around the cup of mulled wine as she draws it towards her face, letting the steam rise over her skin. "But yes: so much fun."

"I vote no one sets anyone on fire, because it's either cheating or just plain rude. There's probably a brazier we can stand around somewhere near, though."

"Please no spontaneous human combustion." It seems agreement is all around: people literally on fire, bad. Finishing her bite of cookie, Ariadne glances over at Della. "It's just Ariadne, I don't have any nicknames around here yet." Yet. There's always time, she's learned. "Snow-Spider does have a nice ring to it though. Sounds like a superhero. Instead of slinging webs, I sling snowballs. Villains beware, Snow-Spider has emerged from her lair. Very Stan Lee."

Another bite of cookie and, somehow politely and around it, she adds, "It's fun, yeah. I haven't hucked snow at people in a long time. You all were good sports for it, thank you." Ravn still gets an eyeing. Evil.

"Cheating. Well, we couldn't have that, neighbor." Della's tone is prim, her eyes bright, despite the lingering snow-sogginess. "A brazier sounds lovely," especially if there aren't, or she can pretend there aren't, any fossil fuels. "I feel that I should be buying something; thank you, both of you. Flowers?" In the meantime, after consulting her pocket, she can discreetly give the stall-boy a tip before accepting the booty. "It's better than 'Spider-Slinger,' I have to say."

Ravn chuckles. "I think I may have to go find a shower. I have snow in places. It is not comfortable. I mean, I need to withdraw to my supervillain lair to ponder my next move, now that I was soundly defeated after my unlikely ally, the police chief, bailed on me."

He shakes his head; more snow goes flying. "If any of you feel like a rematch tomorrow, though, I'm your man. Or we can turn the tables and ambush somebody else together. I vote Isi, given she started this."

The Dane is still laughing as he makes his way back towards the park entrance, plastic cup of wine in one hand, and leaving a trail of, well, snow, on the snow.

Ariadne laughs. "Spider-Slinger sounds like I should be hucking tarantulas and not snowballs. That'd be a sight," she muses. Cookie continues to steadily disappear, interspersed by sips of lukewarm coffee. The temperature is bland. She's definitely eyeing that steaming mulled wine with growing interest. There's still melted snow dripping down her spine. Ravn and his manner of departure have her evaluating her own state. She can linger a little bit longer and then, yes, even the most hard-bitten raised-in-Colorado snow-throwers must go warm up one way or another.

"Take it easy," she calls out after the retreating academic before reaching for the cup of mulled wine. "Glad I didn't throw any snowballs at the police chief. Yikes. See? The newbie immunity angle, it gets you everywhere," she lightly jokes before sipping the wine. Hmm. Not sure about it by her expression.

Given the circumstances, Una can't exactly argue with Ravn's very sensible approach to, uh, super-villainy. "I vote Isi too," she agrees, though it's easy to say that when you've only met the person in question once. Turning back to the two women, she waves away Della's need to contribute, and adds, "Anyway: 'Snow-Spider' definitely has a ring to it. Much better than 'Spider-Slinger', if only because I'm really not down for flying tarantulas. I take it you have some experience in snowball fights?"

She blows on her wine, then adds, "I don't think de la Vega tends to be prissy about that kind of thing. He did join in, after all."

Della glances at the other women as Ravn disappears, allowing the concern to show in her expression. "Which one was Isi?" as long as she's presuming they're not the same person. It's not as though Della's been here long enough to vote. Her demeanor eases subtly at Una's reassurance and she nods once before going back a topic. "Regarding tarantulas, exactly. Although I suppose they could be made out of snow, but that's not nearly as scary. Unless they're huge."

Ariadne nods to Una, taking a second sip of the wine testingly. Alright, it's not terrible, just different. "I grew up in Colorado. It snows a lot more there and the snow lingers for a lot longer. This is a dusting compared to there. Snowballs fights became an art between me and my sister and then verses the neighbor kids." Another glance over at Della and the barista grins. "I don't mind tarantulas myself, but yeah, big snow-tarantulas are now sounding like something truly out of a Stan Lee creation."

A quick scan of the park proves all of their comrades to have departed entirely. "I thought Isi was the one with the German Shepherd? Elsa. Ironically named given the amount of snow and what we were up to. Man, I should have made my Frozen joke earlier, missed opportunity there."

"That's Isi," confirms Una after Ariadne's identification. "Or so I believe. I don't actually know her - just by reputation, a little. Elsa," and she laughs at that, because it is a particularly appropriate name given the day, "seemed to be having a wonderful time."

She shifts her cup from one hand to the other so that she can dedicate herself to her cookie, too (cookies deserve dominant hands, apparently). "You're a long way from home, then. What brought you this way?" After a moment's pause she adds, to Della, "We met last week, when I was applying for a job at the motel. Unsuccessfully."

Alas-not-really-alas. Murder motel.

"Oh, her. I didn't get a good look at her," Della admits; "I was looking at the dog. 'Elsa,' of course," said with a little laugh of her own. She nurses her wine, keeping the cookie in its paper wrapper except for nibbles here and there, and -- after a wry nod to Una -- gives Ariadne an expectant look.

"Yeah, at the motel," the barista confirms of how she ran into Una initially. "I was actually raised here too. Well," a little laugh, " -- not here, over by Seattle. My parents are in the coffee business, so we moved up here when I was about...eh, ten or so because my dad got wind of Starbucks." A wry lift of brows. "You can imagine, they're comfortable now since there's a Starbucks on every corner and within a stone's throw of the next. It's like people like coffee around here or something."

She says. Before killing the rest of her lukewarm coffee.

"But yeah, my youngest years were spent in Boulder, Colorado. It's a great place and I miss it now and then. I've got a degree in Marine Biology from the University of Washington and I've got a vested interest in the orcas of the Sound, specifically. Turns out they've been seen here too, so...I kind of wandered down this way, I guess." And if there's that well-known, unspoken draw eventually recognized by every single arrival to Grey Harbor, Ariadne shrugs about it. "I've gotten the Hotel California speech, by the way," she adds specifically to Una with a wry little smile. "I am one of you all now."

"Ah!" Story checks out. Coffee always wins. Una's nod is a quick, cheerful one. "I grew up in Seattle, too. But Gray Harbor... it does kind of draw you in, yes, and there's something about small towns, after you've been in big ones."

There's a faint tightness to her expression that follows Ariadne's mention of the Hotel California speech, for all that she's quick to add a smile over the top of it. "And you're still here and all! Hotel California strikes again. Come on-- I think I need to move before I freeze, yes?"

Della's openly interested in the story, from Starbucks to degrees, but it's orcas that give her such a delighted smile. But then her eyes round; "Hotel California? Una," she teases, "you're holding out on me. She isn't even rooming with us." She's amenable to moving along, but her brows are still up, awaiting.

Ariadne grins to find a fellow Seattleite in the little group. Another long sip of wine and then she's glancing between Una and Della.

"I'm good for getting back to the motel, yeah, I've got to go get ready for my shift at the café and walk Sam first. But what about what now? Holding out about what?" the barista asks, her own steps beginning but still at a speed which enables conversation.

There's a pink to Una's cheeks now that has nothing to do with the cold, but she gives her companions (both of them!) a smile that at least aims to be easy. She starts walking, and the first few steps at least give her something else to do as she presumably focuses her thoughts and comes up with something to say. "Oh-- just the speech; Della hasn't had it. It's really just... this town attracts people, Della, and for whatever reason, no one ever actually leaves. Ravn's the expert at it. He was hitchhiking through, and look at him now, house and everything."

"Oh, is that all. Though -- " Della blinks, once. Evidently more wine is called for; she sips after they bypass a curb. "Anyway, Ariadne, Una is our landlady. She bakes the best pancakes, and everything, really. I can imagine the town doing that, though, nobody leaving and just growing and growing and taking over the whole state," and it's a joke the way she says it, but there's something odd in her eyes. "Have a good shift! Say hello to... 'Sam'?"

"Yeah, Ravn's the one who's the master at the speech. It's not something I came up with at all. The name's hilarious though," Ariadne adds, chuckling into her cup of steaming wine. She then hums a few bars of the very song and plucks invisible guitar strings before herself with one hand to accentuate. "He even ended up with a cat somehow, which is bonus points and skills to randomly showing up someplace and setting down roots."

She glances over at Della and while she notes the look, she also doesn't wish to pry. "Mad pancake skills from Una. Duly noted. We'll have to compare recipes sometime," she says to her fellow redhead before smiling good-naturedly at the roommates. "Thanks, Della, I will. Good snowball slinging, the both of you." And both women are then offered a gloved fistbump. "I'll convey your well-wishes to Sam and if you're ever bored in the evening, drop in at the café. I generally help close up shop there. Stay warm," the barista then wishes before giving one last cheery wave. Off she goes to walk the dog and then brew coffee, like you do around this weird little town.