2022-02-14 - The Consequences of Poor Tactical Decisions

It's still snowing. Some generous god has glanced at the generally tired appearance of this small lumber town in decline and decided to dress it up for one last ballroom dance. Everything is pristine and white; snow crystals sparkle like teenage vampires out of a certain franchise the name of which makes the First Nations people of the region twitchy, and the sky is a brilliant shade of azure that looks like it should be warm but definitely isn't. There are sounds of children's laughter, peals of glee, from every direction; the younglings -- anyone's younglings -- are out having snowball fights, sledding down any incline, and building snowmen.

And because it's Gray Harbor, some of those snowmen would make Calvin and Hobbes proud. Ravn takes mental notes as he makes his way towards downtown; every snowman that seems to represent som eldritch horror with a carrot for a nose might -- might -- represent not a kid with a twisted sense of humour, but a kid who has the shine. Some of those terrible displays are inspired by things some of those kids have seen, he's sure of it.

In case of the horde of snow goblins in one yard he's sure of it. He's been chased by those little assholes too. His jacket sleeve still has marks from when they dragged him after them on the asphalt, back at Halloween. He makes a note to go see that kid, later. Drop a hint about swinging past HOPE, maybe, meet others who might have had -- experiences.

He swings past Espresso Yourself. After yesterday's snowball fight at the O.K. Addington Corral, he might as well find out if the new barista is going to make good on her threat of five pumps of praline syrup to every cup from now on. The thought occurs to him that maybe he should find that kid with the goblins and bring him or her -- it'd be vengeance of the highest order, a traumatised kid with dark fantasies they don't understand, fired up on pure sugar.

It's still snowing. Sam hates going out in it because cold toes and he's a delicate little butterfly of a sighthound, but at least he's got a long coat. Ariadne is more and more pleased she brought the flirt-pole along with her and hadn't left it behind at her parents' house. What better way to burn off the spastic spurts of energy the Windhound has when they're both cooped up inside?

Granted, at the current time, Sam is asleep on the bed back at the motel and Ariadne is finishing off refilling one of Espresso Yourself's large grinders. She's up on a short stool, grunting with the effort of lifting one of the many-pound-weight bags of roasted coffee beans carefully into the small funneling point. The front door rings and she glances up, puffing a sigh to make the loose tendril of her hair bounce against her cheek again. That tall, lean form is beginning to be fairly easy to recognize. The redhead pauses, allowing herself a slowly-forming grin.

"Well, well...if it isn't Darth Ravn," comes the exaggerated drawl. "Here to try your luck? How was the cat hair in your toothbrush?" she asks, referencing yesterday's attempted pox. An entire coffee stand roof's worth of snow had been brought down on her head by the man and his powers, after all, though Ariadne would also be pragmatic enough to admit that all is fair in war and...snowball fights.

"I couldn't taste the difference from any other day in the week," Ravn replies earnestly. "I have been suspecting for a long time that Kitty Pryde goes to sit on my toothbrush just to be a nuisance so maybe I just wouldn't notice. I thought I'd look in, see how you were doing -- and yes, to find out if I can digest five pumps of praline syrup, or it's going to get me hospitalised."

Diabetes in a cup for sure. He tugs at his scarf and opens his jacket lest the winter cold get the better of him once he departs the warm coffee shop again. The gloves stay on. "Also figured I'd make sure nothing more has happened at the murder motel. It tends to fail spectacularly to live up to its moniker, but that doesn't mean the place isn't the first and only stop for a lot of quite mundane issues. Nevermind the supernatural aspects, it's also got all the usual issues that small motels deal with."

Drug deals, no doubt. People on the run for half a dozen reasons. People stranded in town with a flat tyre and a worse temper. All the things you expect from the town's only cheap motel. And maybe even a couple of confused tourists who saw 'boardwalk' and 'by the coast' and proceeded to think that the weather here would somehow be warm and sunny -- in February.

There's a friendly snort from the barista after she's done thinking about why on earth a cat would deliberately sit on a toothbrush. Such nefarious little creatures. Beans continue rattling into the grinder's hopper as she listens, glancing over again to see Ravn loosening up winterwear due to the warmth of the café. Her brows lift.

"Gosh, you...really didn't have to check in on me. That's awfully nice of you considering I recently threatened to jack you up on so much sugar that the Keebler Elves would disown you." She finishes dumping the bottom of the bag out and then carefully pulls the plastic free of the mounding of beans. A pop of the flat of her hand to the side of the hopper and the beans settle, allowing her to snap the lid back firmly into place. "Lemme see about getting the dust off my hands first and I'll think about whether or not anything weird has happened lately," Ariadne adds as she steps down from the short stool, folding plastic as she goes. A finger -- one moment. It's off to the sink for a quick, brisk scrub and drying after.

Returning to the section of counter at which Ravn stands, still wiping her hands off on a clean white towel, the redhead then shrugs. "Other than the trio of college kids showing up in various states of dishabille after what was probably a pretty wild bender in one of the rooms -- I mean, seriously, somehow, ducky arm swim-floaties were involved -- I can't think of anything particularly interesting."

"Sounds like the kind of exciting Saturday night in a cheap motel that you want. That is, one with nothing weird happening, just drunk kids acting like drunk kids." Ravn chuckles and turns a chair around so that he can sit on it, arms on the backrest, facing the counter. "The place is pretty haunted -- but all hotels seem to be. Which is not really a big surprise when you think about it -- the more people go to sleep somewhere, the higher the odds of someone not waking back up. To the best of my knowledge, none of the spirits lingering there are malicious. I had a lengthy conversation with a lady there once who was very upset about the Nixon court case, which is what clued me in to the idea that we might be operating on slightly different time scales."

If nothing is normal, then everything is normal. Maybe that's the Dane's tenet.

Then he chuckles. "I'll say that if I had to pick -- I think I'd prefer the ghosts of the murder motel to any hanging around the Casino island. Odds would be far higher there of something angry and vengeful. I have Opinions about rich people coming here to play at being cosmopolitan jet setters -- in part because the real ones don't come to the middle of nowhere like here, and the wannabes are always the hardest pretenders."

Haunted. Why she's surprised at all is, in itself, a surprise to the barista. She reminds herself of its nickname, Murder Motel.

Ariadne can be seen to sigh as she hangs up the white handtowel off to one side and then decides to do a quick counter wipe-down. There's a wry little smirk for Ravn about the folks who arrive with bills in hand, expecting to be entertained by the town and the casino itself.

"Yeah, that grade of ghost sounds less terrifying as a whole, especially if it's any type of Casino Royale out there." Ravn gets one of those leery looks. The Bond movie had made it quite clear in an aggrandized manner of the dangers of mucking with casino owners. "I'll take somebody ranting about a court case over somebody who decided they were going to try and fleece a casino. Man, why'd you have to go and remind me that people died there?" she then laughs. "Ugh. It's creepy. Sam hasn't reacted to anything though, so I guess they don't need my help with anything around there."

Ravn taps his gloved finger against his lip. "I don't want to speak poorly of local businessmen. But -- yes. It's a casino. There are a lot of people coming through with too much money and a need to see and get seen, fancying themselves all that. And there are people making money off them. I've never heard of a casino that wasn't kind of -- well, like that. I've never been a regular at one, either, I should add. Don't like ties, don't like suits, don't like the kind of people who tend to go places like that. The more expensive car a man drives, the more of an asshole he tends to be."

A second passes, and then the folklorist allows himself a grin. "And I, of course, drive a motorcycle, so there's that."

Water from the sink backsplashes onto Ariadne's apron and while she squeezes out the newly-rinsed rag, she brushes clinging droplets from her café apron.

"I dunno that the motorcycle makes you a monied asshole, but it grants an impression, I'll give you that," the redhead says across the counter, flashing a quick grin. "You'd need more scruff though, maybe a tattoo or two. A leetle leather vest for Kitty Pryde. Or maybe you could wear a tie and a suit to really stick it to anybody wanting to put on airs. Imagine, Ralph Lauren in leather." And the barista actually takes a moment to imagine this by the way her eyes go briefly distant beyond Ravn's shoulder. A thoughtful hummed note. "I mean, not a terrible look, but a statement no matter what. The helmet might clash, unfortunately."

Ravn can't help a soft laugh. "The point I was trying to make was, I am not an asshole. I don't own a car, ergo, I am not an asshole. That was the joke."

He shakes his head. "While I'm sure Kitty Pryde would in fact love to wear a spiky collar just so she could slip out of it and leave it on people's chairs, I don't think I'm going to aim for the bad boy look. People always tend to expect you to be able to back it up. And it never has quite the proper intimidating effect when some gorilla with hair between his teeth asks me who I think I am, and I say, a school teacher, sir."

He does have a kind of style; it's certainly not Ralph Lauren, though; Steve Jobs with a depression, Seattle art director, Johnny Cash loving hipster, it's a little hard to place.

"Oh, pfft, well." Says the barista who owns a car. Rather than razz Ravn about the observation, she tosses the rag over the edge of the sink for the next person's use and then looks around the back-counter. Is she caught up on everything? Apparently, by what she can see -- and then she's laughing again, brows knitted in confused amusement. "Wait-wait-wait." Lifted palm. "You just said, 'hair between his teeth'? What the hell does that mean? I've never heard that turn of phrase before."

Hipping into a lean against the counter, the redhead then folds her arms under her chest and awaits an answer, her crooked smile inviting it in spades.

"Oh, I suppose that expression translates poorly." Ravn chuckles. "It's a Danish expression, for a giant, brutish person -- a gorilla with so much testosterone he's even got hair growing between his front teeth. Basically, a large, unshaven, hairy Neanderthal of a man."

Not that he's anyone to speak about unshaven. That perfect two millimeter chin fuzz must take careful planning.

He shifts his position a little, stretching one leg and resting his chin on a hand, elbow on the chair's backrest. "So, what are my odds of actually getting a cup of coffee and nothing but today? I believe you still owe me one from before all that snow accidentally fell on you and Una."

"Ah-hah. An extra hairy asshole. Got it." Ariadne smirks to herself. Ah, wording. The way Ravn then positions his chin on his hand makes the barista unconsciously recognize what might be the beginnings of a ploy to --

Yes, the cup of black coffee.

"Oh reeeeeeeally," she drawls. Her grin is bright and admittedly challenging. She tilts her head without losing their shared eye contact and lets the academic see how her lashes nearly close in a dubious squint. "Accidentally, is it. That's quaint. 'Accidentally', he says," and this is accompanied by a one-handed set of air quotes. "You're lucky I have a sense of honor and lack a petty bone in my body, buddy -- that, and I got my revenge, so." Her tree-snow barrage was witnessed. "You can have your promised cup of plain black coffee with no praline syrup."

Thus is leveled the judgment from the purveyor of the brew. She hips up off the counter to go about making it. "Della said anything to you yet? Here, I mean," Ariadne amends, remembering that there are, in fact, two Dellas in town.

"Oh, I don't think we've ever really had much of a conversation besides that first, fateful one," Ravn says with a chuckle. "Della is more the silent, patient kind of killer. She has let me flail in the web for a year and a half. I'm certain she sees this as granting me a little hope before my inevitable doom. Has she said anything to you?"

The Dane watches the simple -- compared to some of the desserts in cups here -- making of his request, looking comfortable. "And now you've met the other Della, Una's roomie. Did you notice how the rationalisation works?"

He leans back a little on his chair and explains, "When we were talking about milk and cookie stealing fairies? Della has not seen any unusual footprints in the snow -- those were just blackbirds and mice. And while the cookies are gone, it must be because someone ate them faster than expected. Nothing unusual happens in Della's world because she either has not got the shine at all, or it's dormant in her. The Veil simply makes her perceive the supernatural as normal things and strange but mundane coincidences."

"Nope, Boss-Della's said nothing to me." A concise if true report from Ariadne as she glances up from making the cup of coffee. It is indeed one of the simplest things to make around here other than a glass of water. It arrives in front of Ravn, steaming and sans all else but brewed beans, and the barista then steps back to listen, fingernails idly tic-ticking on the counter before her stomach. Her brows meet. Away from the man, her eyes slide, and she visibly considers.

It seems to click and her brows part to lift.

"Oh, wow, you're right. Holy shit," comes the sotto-voce curse. Ariadne meets his regard again. "That's...oh god, no wonder she was confused. This is..." A hand rises to rub across the top of her hair; it's back in a simple ponytail today. "Man, I pity and envy her at the same time. God...poor Della." Her lips squinch for a second. "I joked with Una about the 'Hotel California' speech and Una did great, played it off like the speech newcomers get because we all tend to stick around. She never said why we stick around. Della had this weird look in her eyes like she was trying to understand but couldn't. That's what it is? The amnesia?"

"Yeah. That's what happens. A number of people in town are like me -- we don't really have a lot of power, but we have enough that our memories don't get edited. The ones who don't -- you can't convince them. Trust me, people have tried. When you count drifters and homeless people, and all the ones who end up in dreams but we never got to them in time and they have no idea what's going on -- Gray Harbor has a deaths and disappearances rate that's through the roof compared to the rest of the state. And yet the FBI never turns up because no one seems to notice." Ravn curls long fingers around his coffee cup; half the pleasure of it seems to be exactly that, the heat that radiates from the mug.

Then he nods, approvingly. "Una's new in town too, but she's picked up fast. She kind of had to -- the house she inherited came with an ancestral ghost, and her neighbour's yard is full of fairies. Sometimes I debate whether it's better to leave people in the dark, thinking maybe if they don't use their power they don't draw attention -- but it doesn't work like that. Once you're here, well, if you have the gift, latent or not, things will happen. Della -- Una's Della -- has it, but hasn't realised it yet. We know she does because she did get pulled into a dream experience with Una and Jules at least once."

Ariadne certainly doesn't look more comfortable for having correctly guessed the reason for the haze in Della's eyes. Utilizing this energy manifests in needing to catch up on some of the dishes at the small sink with a small chorus of sounds beneath the rest of Ravn's conversation. She glances up now and then while she places aside clean utensils and nods, putting pieces together too. It's not that she's concluded the place is normal -- it's not normal in spades. It's how deeply abnormal Grey Harbor is and somehow? She's mixed up into it.

"I bet Della thought that was a helluva lucid dream," the redhead then murmurs, setting aside one of the smoothie blender parts. "And I don't think I envy her, if or when her powers crop up... God. I actually just said that out loud. This is something out of a comic book." It's a way to compartmentalize it and Ariadne's running with it. Soberly, she continues washing out a steaming jug. "I hope my place over on Sycamore isn't going to be haunted. The landlord didn't seem to insinuate that it was, but if Una has a fairy ring in her backyard, I guess I should be ready for...brownies in my cupboards or something in my eaves, I guess. Maybe it'll be benign, who knows. Some...minor...light-hopping elemental...thingie."

A dry glance up at Ravn. "I feel like I'm still giving the general atmosphere ideas and it's the worst."

"No, the fairy ring is in my backyard. I'm Una's neighbour." Ravn chuckles and nods; he definitely understands the emotional turmoil Ariadne is going through -- a year and a half of here under his own belt, and he has definitely yet to finish processing; every time he thinks he's getting there, something new drops.

He sips his coffee (bliss!). And then, with half a heartbeat's worth of hesitation, the folklorist says, "I could come take a look. It's no guarantee -- there are never any guarantees -- but I do tend to notice when places are haunted. And that, at least, seems to have nothing to do with this crazy town, and everything to do with growing up in a haunted house. I know, I know. I sound like the town loon. I'm about ready to just make myself a tinfoil hat and own it."

"Ah." A little sound of understanding; the fairy right is in Ravn's backyard. She finishes up rinsing off a handful of spoons and sets those aside before turning around multiple times behind the counter. Where is the --

-- oh, on her shoulder. As nonchalantly as can be managed, she plucks the white handtowel off of her shoulder and dries her hands. She totally didn't just pull a stunt like 'my glasses are on my hair and I can't find them'. Nope. Not her. Ravn's offer has her tilting her head and then smiling by a degrees.

"Just make a tinfoil flatcap for creativity's sake and call it good," the barista blithely replies. "Sure. You seem to know what's going on around here and I'm not going to say no to an extra pair of eyes, especially with how this place works. If it's haunted, I'll...look at a new place, I guess. Or see about sage-ing the place...mmm. Nah, I'll have someone else sage it, someone who knows what they're doing. Stuff works, you know. I used to work at another café where if we forgot to sage at the start of every month, there was a ghost who moved stuff around and freaked out the newbies."

"Sometimes, you can just -- ignore them." Ravn hitches a shoulder -- not dismissively as much as an unspoken agreement that strange things happen, and the idea of a café ghost playing tricks on the greenhorns sounds entirely plausible as far as he is concerned. "My room mate has a poltergeist -- he's really rather a pain in the arse, likes to throw things at Aidan's head and call him names. Can't quite manage to get rid of him, though. My home, in Denmark? It's haunted enough to have a four page entry in a prominent listing of haunted sites in the country -- and it always cracked me up because they only scraped the surface. There's been a house on that location since fourteen hundred something as far as the records go, so it has had time to accumulate a lot of spirits."

"...that must have been a helluva childhood then. I can't make fun of any concept of imaginary friend in your case," Ariadne notes, her lips thinning in concern. "And yeah, a place around since fourteen hundred something? That's more than enough time to gather up a little handful of spooky shit. Grim grinning ghosts would definitely come out of socialize."

Disney pun of the day: check.

"I've got your number, so I'll text you when I'm intending to go give the place one final look-over. I'm thinking later this week, but we'll see how the shifts pan out. Might have to be the weekend," she notes as she hangs up the handtowel on one of the many mounted hooks.