2022-02-22 - The Morning After the Night Before

Ravn Abildgaard feels like a ten year old who drank most of a bottle of red wine just to see what the fuss was all about. It tasted awful, but the worst did not come until the day after. Headaches such as this should not be legal. Neither should bad, half-fermented Spanish wine. Or is that American wine? Zorro was set somewhere in California, he remembers that much. Just, this was when California was still a Spanish viceroy, and Los Angeles was a five houses, two communal outhouses kind of town somewhere on the coast.

He took a shower after waking up and then shaved -- and then took another shower. The feeling of awful wine hangover won't stop camping on his tongue. Can you shave a tongue?

Oh well. Clean shaven for once but otherwise looking like his usual self -- black jeans, shirt, jacket -- the Dane parks his vintage motorcycle outside (no cat in the side car this time) and beelines for the counter. Because there'd better be an Ariadne there, serving proper black coffee -- and not a Della the Day Manager adding the insult of a sugary dessert to the misery of his dream-induced hangover.

It's after showering as well, wincing and muttering curses under her breath, that Adriane shows up to work in time for her morning shift. Mornings are admittedly not her favored shift and it's to the tune of three Aleve and a double-shot latte that she finally seems to be functioning like a human being rather than a sore, politely-cranky doppelganger. Weariness still lingers around the corners of her eyes and wisps from her messy bun as she distractedly makes a simple mocha. Thank god it wasn't anything fancy like a triple-shot macchiato, no-sugar caramel syrup (one pump) with skim milk, no foam, no whip, at exactly X number of degrees.

She wouldn't have been unable to help quipping about entitlement at that one.

It's as she's cleaning off the milk-frothing spigot that she hears the shop bell ring. Glancing up, her flat expression morphs into something more ruefully amused. "Hey...if it isn't good ol' Darth Bathrobes. Hair of the dog, right?" she jokes, thinking too of the Spanish red wine that has finally disappeared from haunting the back of her throat due to serious coffee imbibing. Razzing aside, she looks around for Della and, not seeing the Day Manager, goes to begin pulling a proper black coffee. "We expecting Una?" Her golden-hazel eyes slide over towards the door again curiously.

Speak of the Una! Alas, she's a few seconds too late to to hear Ariadne's question and make an appropriate quip, though given the dark circles below her eyes and her general pallor, perhaps a quip really would be asking too much anyway. She's even eschewed her usual bright colours for a more understated grey puffer coat, hands shoved deep into pockets and shoulders hunched forward.

Shuffling forward, the door swinging shut behind her, the redhead draws up to the counter alongside Ravn and makes eyes at Ariadne. "In commemoration of our epic love story... coffee?" This may have to serve as greeting, at least in the short term, because having made her woeful request, Una seems not-quite-able to follow it up with anything more polite.

"That has got to be a yes." Ravn raises a gloved hand in a lazy wave to the shorter redhead as she approaches. "And I think all of us need all the coffee."

He slumps onto a chair in his usual fashion, turning it around so that he sits with his arms resting on the backrest, supporting his chin on his hands. Somebody looks (and feels) like they've been roughing it all night and then gone home to scrape off the worst, but beneath a thin layer of soap they feel like roadkill warmed over.

Then laughter begins to bubble up in the folklorist in spite of himself. He looks from one redhead to another, and pictures them to his mind's eye in their period costumes -- Una in particular, in her dainty gaucho hat and half-mask. He pictures the woman they dubbed Hammershark Hallie, lounging against the door frame of a Californian cat house, and he pictures fat Sergeant García stomping off victorious, like for once in his life the comedic villain got to score a point.

"It was -- pretty funny," he murmurs. "Apart from the falling and the bad wine, it was really pretty damned funny."

"We'll even toast to this epic," Ariadne agrees from by the coffee dispenser. She'd been able to lift a hand off the control for a quick finger-twiddle at Una and now arrives at the counter with a plain ol' pull of black coffee, steaming and set to scald the tongue unless left for a minute or two. Opening her mouth to ask after what Una wishes for staving off the post-Dream hangover, she pauses when Ravn begins to laugh. A blink of golden-hazel eyes at him, lift of brows, and then a glance over at Una.

Oh, good, it's not hysteria. Behind the counter, Ariadne can't help but chortle softly too, shaking her head. "God, it was really...farcical," the barista decides. "I can't believe the horse was named Blanca. I mean, only Snowflake would have been more trite. And your donkey -- no, burro and you riding that burro in your bathrobes, Ravn. And you with your sword and the lantern, Una." It seems for all that the barista was initially shell-shocked at being swept into this Dream, she's compartmentalized it beautifully. "Hell, I might start keeping a journal if these things keep happening. But what's it to yah, kid?" This particular bartender-like drawl is for Una, wondering about her coffee order now.

Laughter is universally known to be contagious, and Una is no more immune than most, no matter how tired she is (probably even less so when she's this tired, let's be honest). Ravn's laugh, followed by Ariadne's chortle, eventuates in Una's guffaw-- and at least, once she's recovered herself enough to stop that, she manages to be a little more verbose. "I mean-- fuck, yes." But possibly not particularly erudite.

"It wasn't so funny at the time, but now, in retrospect, it really, really is. Even if everything hurts and I want to die. Just coffee, please." Please-and-thank-you says her expression, aimed at Ariadne: appreciative and relieved.

"So that was your first?"

"My very first Dream actually came after my first reason to consider getting the hell back out of town," Ravn muses as he curls long fingers around his coffee cup (take that, Della!). "It was one hell of a day. I'd met this girl upon coming into town -- looking back, I think she was kind of sort of feeling around for whether I'd be up for a flirt but I'm the kind of guy who never notices those things until long after the girl has lost interest anyway. She took me to see St Mary's -- as a historical site, you know? I'm a historian and all that."

He sips his coffee -- and scalds his tongue for instant regret. "Couple of other people were there for whatever reasons. One of them pulled a gun and put a bullet through another man. Everyone kind of dog piled the bloke -- and then, when I walked out the church door, I found myself in some kind of 18th century version of Gray Harbor, chased by the Headless Horseman. There was the owner of the Casino restaurant and me, running for our lives through the woods. After that day, I figured, bloody hell, at least I won't be bored here."

Ariadne's chortling intensifies as Una ends up laughing as well. It's contagious, the relief. "Just coffee it is," she confirms before drifting back over to the coffee machine. Pausing to fiddle with the tie of her apron behind her neck, she finds herself frowning in amusement. It's a sixth sense, it appears, knowing when the freshly-pulled brew has just burnt a tongue, and she gives Ravn a quiet sympathetic wince. Ouch. Didn't need those tastebuds anyways.

"You're way too much of an easy target for a Headless Horseman, geez, Ravn." Lifting a hand to designate his height, she adds, "Clearly you know how to duck, so, bonus points for that, at least. I'd like to not be subjected to the Headless Horseman though, thank you very much." And if the barista mutters this while furtively looking around, she might be addressing the general Reality of Grey Harbor. Una's coffee, plain, room for cream and sugar, arrives in a café mug not a few seconds later. "With Dreams, yeah, it was my first though and I mean, you know what they say about your first."

She then laughs faintly before grimacing. "...I actually don't know what they say about your first, but there's some saying there and just roll with it."

Una half turns, allowing herself to look in Ravn's direction as he relates his story, though Ariadne and the coffee pouring has more than a little of her attention too: priorities. "Ah yes, the traditional Washington legend of the Headless Horseman," she laughs, albeit with an edge to it: that's one experience she would definitely prefer to avoid.

When her coffee arrives, she reaches out with both hands, grateful in expression and backing it up with her, "Thank you, thank you, thank you." This manna from heaven gets carried to Ravn's table, where the redhead makes herself at home.

"I don't know what they say about your first, either, but rolling with it? That definitely sums things up."

"I think they say your first is always embarrassing. It's probably true. We made it out alive, though, and thanks to that girl giving me her version of the Hotel California speech before things went down, I didn't even have a nervous breakdown about it. I also promised myself to try to make sure everyone else gets that speech before the Veil gets to them." Ravn tentatively tries to sip his coffee again -- and scalds his mouth again. "And it made me appreciate just how much of this whole mess runs on folklore, familiar stories and tropes."

A bright smile. "And it so happens, I'm a folklorist. I literally have a PhD in this stuff."

A friendly snort for the claim of a PhD in folklore. "Bonus point multiplier for classing in correctly, that's for sure." Glancing around, Ariadne then seems to get to making a third drink. Behind on an order? Doubtful. It's likely her own. If it happens to be decaf for the sake of her sanity, then that's another matter entirely. It doesn't take her long and she glances up again from her work.

"Yeah, I can thank the Hotel California speech for at least giving me an air bag for the wreck I was when I woke up. Three Aleve. I never take three. My back is killing me and not in 'I had a fun night, but maybe I won't bend so far that way next time' kind of way," she says drily.

"It's like you were born for this shit," says Una, with a laugh: PhD in folklore, how very convenient.

"The speech is definitely important. It's not quite enough to really prepare a person, but it's a good damn start. Is it making you want to turn and run, Ariadne?" The shorter of the two redheads grips her mug, breathing it in rather than attempting to sip from it-- which has already been proven to be a bad idea. Twice. "Though at least you knew you were you, and you had two people you knew alongside you. Do people end up in Dreams with people they don't know?"

"Huh." Ravn blinks. Then he sips his coffee and looks thoughtful for a moment. "You know, I have never thought of it that way. But that's a very good point, actually. Grew up in a haunted house, came into what little power I have young enough that this stuff feels normal to me, got a degree in cultural history. You're right -- it's almost like I prepared for this place from my first four-legged escape from the nursery."

He laughs softly as the thought settles. "I should obviously have spent more time learning actual survival skills. I did go to the draft but they rejected me on health grounds. Suppose I could have taken a few courses in shooting, self defence, general badass urban superhero skills."

"Nah, no running yet. We'll see how the cards get played," Ariadne replies to Una after she finishes frothing the milk. Must be a decaf latte of sorts under her creative purview. It's a good question, however, about the statistics of 'who' ends up in Dreams. The barista glances over at Ravn, but he, in turn, brings up the very unsettling point of fate -- Fate? -- the Veil -- potentially...breeding to type, as it were, even at the distance of another continent entirely.

Was she prepared for this place without her knowing? Frowning to herself, Ariadne dismisses the thought firmly. That's a spiral of musing nobody needs to be doing by themselves.

"I dunno about who gets sucked into those Dreams, but I'm sure I can find someone who knows a bit about the martial arts aspect of self-defense if it's a matter of defending everybody in a Dream. She's kind of familiar, you might know her." Una and Ravn both get a theatrical wink and then an obvious finger turning like a compass needle towards Ariadne herself. "But even if they call me 'Snow-Spider' around here, no guarantees about sudden radioactive spider powers. There's a dojo, right? Wait, no, gym...? -- in the city?"

Una's nod is approving (and a little amused, too). "Pre-planning. Useful." The logical conclusion to this, the idea that there might be outside forces influencing this kind of preparation, does not seem to cross her mind; sometimes being tired is a blessing.

Being tired means it also takes her a few moments to get her head around what Ariadne is implying, and when she does get there, it's with a comedic, "OH," that is immediately followed by a flush. She's slow, ok. It's fine. "Is there? I mean, I'm sure there must be. I'm glad someone has some kind of... combat readiness for these things. I'm not even sure I'd be very good at running away from danger."

"Oh, yes. There are two gyms and a dance studio. I go to Kelly's boxing gym myself -- he's the high school coach. Rough type but, his advice has done more for my asthma than most doctors I have seen." Ravn nods. "I went to him hoping to learn the very basics of self defence. He suggested I start by building up my stamina and get some strength. And told me pretty bluntly that a man like me, I get one chance, one hit, so I better be prepared to think out of the box and make the most of it. If either of you are into that kind of thing I'm happy enough to stand around, look pretty, and try to learn something."

He catches Una's glance, though, and shakes his head. "Learning to defend yourself is good. But keep a few things in mind: Whatever you bring into a Dream, someone can use against you. I own a gun. I don't carry it -- because it can be taken from me and used against me, or it might not get brought into the dream at all. It's a balance -- we need to be able to defend ourselves, but also to not assume that violence is the answer every time. There's always a bigger fish, if you'll forgive me for quoting pop culture."

"Dude, a dance studio?" Ariadne immediately perks on the other side of the counter, having drifted there now with her completed decaf drink. It scents of vanilla and something else, not overly sweet but just sweet enough. She shoots Una a quick, sympathetic grin and lifts her own mug to indicate that imbibing the coffee will help stave off this Dream-hangover. A sip. Tastebuds lightly scalded, but mmm, deliciousness. Her nails do a quick tickiting run along the ceramic surface of her mug.

She tilts her head back and forth. "Ravn's got a point though: there's always a bigger fish. Now, Una? You're right. Sometimes, running away is the answer. The most...important thing I learned in self-defense is if you have to use more than one of your moves? You're in trouble. It's disable your opponent and then get away. The longer you're engaged, the more likely one of you gets seriously hurt with repercussions that can last a lifetime. Broken joints, scars...I know, who cares if the cops get called because somebody attacked you first and hopefully the bastard ends up behind bars, but also, hopefully you got your one shot in. I'm a big fan of a throat punch. Or elbow to the kidneys. Or you know the underside of your arm here?" Setting aside her mug, Ariadne dictates the soft skin between elbow and shoulder opposite of the bicep. "You dig in nails there? They're going to release you. Way too many nerves there. And now? Now you know a few ways to use your own body as a weapon and not a gun because..."

Fingergun at Ravn for a little irony: "If what you bring into a Dream can hurt you too, guns are probably not the best choice unless you're trained in them."

"I'm pretty sure I know how to use a gun, now, thanks to a Dream I had," Una's wrinkled nose suggests she's well aware of how utterly bizarre that sounds. "But that doesn't mean I know how to use one well, so I think I'll avoid them, thanks all the same. Particularly as-- well, everything you've both just said." It all seems logical, and really, Una seems relieved by it: guns are bad, mmkay. Guns are quite possibly more terrifying than Dreams.

"Ok. Running away, good move. I'll work on building up my endurance a bit, maybe. Otherwise--" she squints, perhaps attempting to visualise each of the options Ariadne has outlined, the vague shift of her hands suggesting she's half-practicing at the same time. "Those sound like better options. Ok. Ok." Repetition is the name of the game and, now that a few more seconds have passed, so is coffee: black and bitter and perfect.

"But you're right, Ravn. Violence hasn't been the answer in any situation I've been in so far. Or not the only answer, anyway. I suppose I could have battled the sergeant last night, with my sword, but I didn't need to."

"I can help you learn how to use a gun. I can also introduce you to people who are far better at using a gun than I am." Ravn chuckles and holds his coffee cup like it is the most precious substance in creation. "I learned how to use a hunting rifle from my father. Seth Monaghan ran me through the basics of a small firearm."

He waits a second. Nope, new folks to town probably don't recognise the name Monaghan.

"It was a mess, to be honest. We were all high as kites. The local dispensary blew up and the Veil seemed to think it was funny to let the resulting -- cloud -- linger for a week. A lot of very strange friendships were formed during that week. Among them, Monaghan, Clayton and me, going off to the woods to shoot things. Chief de la Vega baked brownies. Hell, a friend accidentally sexted me, which was honestly hilarious at the time."

Ariadne does not, in fact, recognize the surname of Monaghan. She sips her decaf latte and glances over at Una, checking to see if the other redhead knows it.

Ravn's story, however, has her squinting. "...okay, so...this...force, whatever you're calling it, decided to make the local dispensary blow up and then folks were accidentally toked up every time they went outside? For a week? And there were brownies and sexting." Tilt-tilt of her head back and forth before her face scrunches into a helpless giggle she fails to hide behind a closed fist against her lips. "Man, I miss all the fun shit," she grouses in amusement, glancing over at Una. "Were you around for this?"

Una returns Ariadne's glance with a shake of the head: nope, means nothing to her either.

The other redhead's summation of Ravn's story makes Una snort with laughter, and there's no attempt at hiding it either. "No, that definitely pre-dates my time in this town. I'm... not sure if I'm relieved by that or not. I can't think of anything more Grey Harbor, though, than accidental airborne highs."

"Also, the idea of trying to learn how to shoot a gun while high is... something else again."

"Several maple trees were injured in the making of this tall tale," Ravn returns solemnly.

Then he sips his coffee. "I have been practising since. I am not a great shot, far from. But I can use a firearm if I have to -- and I have been in at least one Dream where that was the only solution. I hope I will never find myself in that kind of situation again, but if I do? I want to know what I'm doing. I don't advice people to become superheroes or super soldiers. I'm happy to teach anyone how to pick a lock or a pocket, or murder an innocent tree. Just -- well. I don't know how to put this but."

He hitches a shoulder and looks a little helpless. "We're not warriors. We're human beings. If we lose sight of that? We become what some entities in the Veil wants us to be -- cattle for the farming, ready to do whatever it takes to survive. I don't want to die, but if push comes to shove? I wouldn't have voted for dropping nukes on Japan, either."

"Thankfully maple trees and nothing else," murmurs the barista before sipping at her latte. Her disapproval stems more from the irresponsibility and potential danger, not an aversion to guns themselves, it appears. Setting the mug to one side, she looks around for a rag in order to do a quick wipe-down of her workspace. Some syrup lost to quick pumps at busy times finds its demise by rag and pure elbow grease while Ariadne listens, glancing up now and then.

"I don't think anybody with a soul would have voted for those bombs, but that's just me. But I have a question, Ravn, which you do not have to answer if you don't want to. I know I'm being nosy with it." Her golden-hazel eyes flick briefly to Una and back to the academic. "In the Dream, when I landed on you, you pushed me away. I get that, it was abrupt, I was in your space. But I saw your hands, they did this...trembling reaction like it stung more there -- and your gloves." A nod to them. "If your hands hurt, why try to use a gun? Pragmatism?"

For Una, the idea of using guns while high is funny-in-a-oh-shit-that-could-be-dangerous kind of way, but something about Ariadne's response draws a more serious expression onto her face, and she holds back on further comment, likely as a direct result.

Ravn's speech makes her more thoughtful again, and her mouth opens in preparation for a response-- but Ariadne gets in first, and it would be weird and probably inappropriate to dive in over the top of that question.

But it would also be weird to look at Ravn, too, and put more attention on him in the wake of a personal question, so her gaze drops towards her coffee instead. Safe. Good coffee.

Ravn sips his coffee before replying. "It's not -- my hands that hurt. I have a neuropathic condition -- everything hurts if I don't see it coming. Unexpected touch is not very pleasant. Having someone land on me, even less so. Wasn't your fault that you did, and I did not want to say anything about it. But that's the reason -- it hurts. When I fire a gun, I know what I am doing, and my nerve system is not surprised by the sensation."

He half-smiles. "I guess that also explains why I was told I get one hit only and I need to make it count. I'm really pretty damn useless in a fight, always have been."

Ariadne listens and nods. That spattering of praline syrup -- the very syrup she'd threatened as a pox while covered in snow -- finally completely comes up off the counter and she returns to the sink to wash out the rag, sighing.

"Well, I know it's a bit late and it wasn't my fault, but my bad, okay? I take no delight in know that hurt you, landing on you. Still...your friend is right. You kind of have to make that one hit count. It means that throat punch has to disable or your shot with your gun has to be a good one. Yikes," she adds sympathetically, brows quirked. "I'm glad it's something where if you know about it, you can prepare for it -- and now I get why you're not interested in combat. It wouldn't be your forte. But on the other hand, you -- and you," Ariadne notes of Una, glancing at her, " -- if you're both not interested in actual fighting? It means you're good at diplomacy or maybe looking at a situation and knowing when to nope out while someone like me or someone who knows how to use a gun might accidentally start a dumpster fire because they don't consider noping out. I'd say, don't sell yourselves short."

Una's wince is one of sympathy, though she chooses not to linger on the realities of Ravn's condition, or indeed on natural fighting disadvantages.

Her half-smile is more wry than real. "I'm not sure about the diplomacy, but... well, we all bring something, you're definitely right about that. Sometimes it just needs to be as simple as genre awareness, right? Knowing what was expected was half of what we needed to do, last night."

She lets her smile curve just a little further, look just a little more genuine. "We did pretty well, all things considered. Bumps and bruises notwithstanding."

Ravn nods his agreement; if the idea that his manly self is more useless in a fight than a three year old girl with a sharp stick bothers him, he chooses to not let it show. "That is what I keep telling people. Do not try to become a super soldier. Do not think that you can fight yourself out of everything. Sometimes? Sometimes, violence is the answer. Often, thinking outside the box is the answer. And even more often, finding out what the narrative is -- and then playing through it with a minimum of casualties. This is what we did -- we sorted out what it was this narrator on the other side wanted, what motions to go through. And we were rewarded for it with a minimum of risk and discomfort. Sure, I took a fall but -- that happens."

He smiles again; the folklorist has had this conversation in some form or other a number of times. Not everyone is quite so willing to grasp the idea that not every problem can be solved by beating it hard enough. The smile turns wry as he thinks of his best friend; love the man but, Rosencrantz certainly seems to think getting into something's face is the best way to get rid of it.

"I think we did damned well. One of the things they do is humiliate us. Put us in situations that make us awkward and embarrassed. Being able to -- just take it, and leave it behind, is not a small thing. What happens in a Dream stays in a Dream is sometimes a very healthy proverb. So, are you ladies saying we should schedule a time in Coach Kelly's ring?"

"I mean, if the narrator power thingie is going to put us in embarrassing situations, fine. I dropped a mocha on my feet last week and accidentally threw a croissant at one of my coworkers., embarrassing is not new to me." A beat and Ariadne then admits, smirking, "Okay, not an accident. Anyways. If there's going to be danger like that, where maybe sometimes violence is the answer? Yeah. Some time in this Coach Kelly's ring isn't going to be a bad idea. Even if you're not good at throwing a punch, learning how to do it will be helpful. Once or twice, you're going to get it right and it's going to hurt the other guy enough for you to split. Proverbial you."

Returning to her mug, Ariande sips deeply of it. It's at a temperature where scalding isn't an option. "Still. Fistbumps all around, boom, whoo, fireworks." She mimes the fistbumps at Una and Ravn before twiddling her fingers about with a soft explosive sound. "We did pretty well indeed even if my tailbone hates me."

"Part of me wants to run and hide myself under a pile of pillows, but: yes, ok, some time in the ring is probably a good plan. What's the worst that can happen?" Don't answer that. Una has probably already come to a number of terrible conclusions, all on her own.

"I think I can deal with the embarrassment." Una pauses. Then: "She says, while trying not to cringe at her own ineptitude. No, no, I get it: things happen in Dreams, they're not real, we move on. Humiliation is not my jam, but I'm willing to deal. It raises all kinds of questions, though, about the nature of the narrator. Do all Dreams have the same one? Surely not? But-- it's just interesting."

Ravn shakes his head. "Heavens, I could lecture for hours on this. I'll try to keep it short."

Deep breath. "We know some of the entities. Some of them occasionally communicate with us. Some of them, you can go have a talk with, if you can cross the Veil on your own power -- some people can. Most of those aren't hostile as such -- but they are very alien, and they don't always understand us, nor us them. Those are the ones we call the -ists. I've met the Exorcist who used to be in charge of ghosts and the like -- I say used because I literally watched her table flip and quit, just before that hurricane last year. The Revisionist -- who rewrites people's dull lives into soap opera. There are others."

Ravn glances at his coffee. "Then there are the -ors. I only know the identity of one -- the Doctor. From what I heard, he ran an asylum on the other side. One that lived up to every awful movie trope you can imagine. Those are very likely the same creatures we call Dark Men or dolorphages, or just below them. They are not friendly."

He sighs a little and sips his coffee again. "All of those have the power to throw us into things, if not always the interest. Add to that that we have infinite overlapping realities in which are creatures that are trying to communicate with us, or are just wondering what the hell we're doing in their backyard, or don't even notice us at all. The more existential a Dream is, the more likely that is. The more narrative -- the more likely an intelligence is behind it, trying to tell a story."

Like the good science major she is, the redheaded barista sets aside her coffee and presses her palms together before herself, brows again quirked, in order to recite back what has just been revealed.

"Okay, lemme get this straight. There's a Veil, it's a boundary. Behind the Veil are Things," -- insert air quotes here -- "which go by -ists and -ors. Friendly and/or questionable verses murder-hugs. Reality overlaps itself and sometimes, we're Barbie dolls on their little stage or sacrificial lambs because they're bored."

Ariadne lets out a shuddering sigh and puts a hand against her face. "...jesus," she whispers. "Where's whiskey for my coffee."

Some of this is new information for Una, but not all of it; she nods along, though her expression gets more and more thoughtful as Ravn's whistle stop tour continues.

Ariadne's summary draws a more rueful, sympathetic look. "It's definitely enough to drive you to drink, isn't it?" she agrees. "But-- that sounds like a good summation. A Dream like the one we had, then, that was definitely an intelligence. Using us like puppets-- Barbie dolls, yes-- to tell a story. Which we did, more or less to its satisfaction, thankfully. What would have happened if we didn't play along?"

"Not going to lie -- I drink a hell of a lot more now than I did when I got here." Ravn hitches a shoulder with a smile that's almost wry in nature. "Someone told me that -- after my first Dream. I went to check on them because they came out of it injured and I didn't. I asked them, if this is normal here, how do people cope? How do you handle not knowing what reality you're going to walk into?"

He sips his coffee. "Bloke told me, in his very posh British upper class accent: We drink a lot and we have a lot of sex. I've gone by, well, the first half of that."

Una is given a lingering glance. "I'd say it depends on who's got hands on the narrative wheel," she replies as to what-ifs. Ravn has her snort-laughing a second or two later despite her morose air and thank god she was only nosing her latte, not sipping it. Might have gotten a spray all over the counter and then another mess to clean up.

"Y'know, there are worse coping mechanisms." She coughs delicately once before clearing her throat. "I bet the liquor stores around here get some good business and not just from the visitors who pass through on their way to Ocean Shores."

Quietly, "And how much power they're putting behind their narrative intentions." Una's thoughtful in that, but rather more jovial afterwards: her laugh is genuine, at least.

"I can't argue with that. Though I'm putting in a definite preference towards drinking something-- anything!-- better than that wine we had last night, gross. I have to say, my sugar intake has gone up since I moved here, too: post-traumatic cinnamon buns or pancakes are becoming a norm."

"There's obviously a reason we tell people to get out while they can," Ravn cedes. "But much as this all is traumatising -- it's also interesting. Sometimes I ask myself why the hell I'm still here. Then I remind myself that yes, this town is dangerous -- but people get killed all the time from crossing the street or getting mugged on the subway. I can't help feel that if I were to leave, I'd be giving something up. I'd be resigning myself to going home, living out the plans my parents had for my life, waiting for old age to relieve me from my boredom."

Ariadne now leans her elbows on the counter, mug still held before herself, and smiles in a sad, regretful manner.

"Wonder if these things are taking advantage of the need for the bird to fly the nest," she murmurs before taking another long sip of her drink. Her glance over at Una is nothing but mischievous, however. "But cinnamon buns? Una, my mask-wearing, sword-swinging blossom, I'm your wife. Why didn't you tell me about these cinnamon buns? Gurl -- you text me next time you make 'em, I'll haul ass over and bring some coffee over to go with. I dunno, maybe Ravn too, I'll have to see if I feel like sharing cinnamon buns." She shoots a grin at the Danish academic nonetheless.

"I can't argue the interesting. My life is ten times more interesting-- and more satisfying-- than it ever was in Seattle. I'll take the humiliating and distressing with the rest. And the community." This, more than anything, may be the real selling point for Una.

Her smile is bright, her mirth barely restrained, as she adds, for Ariadne, "You married me even without knowing about them! A woman needs to keep a few secrets for the marriage itself. I promise, the next time I bake I'll let you know. Ravn's just over the fence and has a standing breakfast invitation, but... I promise, there'll be enough to go around."

"You'll wake up one morning after a night of dramatic and intense love making. You will walk out on the porch. You will look up at the beautiful stars and the sky, and you will treasure the feeling of morning on your skin. And then you will realise -- there is a sound." Ravn makes a dramatic pause and sips his coffee. "It is a scraping sound. Low and repeating."

He looks at Ariadne. "You look around. You slowly realise -- it's a grown man and his cat, taking turns scratching at Una's back door for free rolls."

And this time, Ravn gets the spit-take he wants of the barista. Surely it's amusing, watching her dubious amusement grow and grow like a filling balloon and then when it pops?

She directs the spittle-cough of latte back towards the counter and hiccoughs a few times in an indecorous squeaking sound of near-choking. The mug clunks down while she clears her throat and then breaks into muffled guffaws behind her hand, cheeks gone quite red. Thank you, genes.

"You frickin' dork," she levels at Ravn before coughing into her elbow a few more times, eyes watering. "Seriously, after I get laid? That's a helluva way to wake up. Don't ever install a cat door, Una -- actually, install a cat door, I want to find Ravn stuck in it with his head and shoulder on one side and the rest of him on the other. Blackmail for yeeeeears," Ariadne drawls while she wipes up her mess.

Oh, it's more than amusing. It has Una in stitches, not that Ravn's initial storytelling didn't get that off to a good start. Happily, this redhead was not drinking from her coffee when this started; happily, she makes the decision not to even try until the laughter has actually died down.

"Fuck me," she says, apropos to the conversation as it turns out.

"Ravn, that is both terrifying and strangely poetic. And yes, yes to the cat door. With a security camera for better blackmail material. Seriously... fuck."

"Yes, I think that was the prerequisite for the story," Ravn observes blithely to Una's exclamation, and sips his coffee. If nothing else, this man must have a terrifyingly efficient poker face. "Also, ladies, really, I've been blackmailed for far more bizarre situations than getting stuck in a cat flap. Remind me to tell you some of the more bizarre stories from my wild and misspent youth sometime."

He cants his head. "And now, of course, I am far more dangerous. Now I have a side kick and her name is Kitty Pryde. Or maybe I'm the side kick. We're sort of still negotiating that part."

"Fuck me too while we're all at it," mumbles Ariadne very much under her breath to herself, certainly not loudly enough for anyone to hear while she runs the sink water to rinse out the rag. She's still smirking as she teases at it, given the vein of conversation, and glances up between her two companions.

"In the future: story time with old man Ravn. It's on my calendar. However, that's the past, and now that you have Kitty Pryde? This is new blackmail in a new place with a new reputation to establish." She rubs her fingers together while she picks up her mug again with her other hand. "Currency, baby. That's what blackmail is. Seriously, Una, bait the cat door with a cinnamon bun, this needs to be a thing," the barista adds to the other redhead before she laughs again.

Adult that she is, Una sticks her tongue out in Ravn's direction. The poker face is horribly unfair. (Unfair? Extra amusing? One or the other.)

"Note to self, next time we both-- all! you'll have to join next time, Ariadne-- end up at the Pourhouse on a Saturday night, or any night for that matter, ply Ravn with alcohol and hear the best-slash-worst of these stories. But for now: the cinnamon roll lure is a go. Of course, chances are the fairy ring creatures will get there first, but at least I'll have tried."

Una's pink cheeked and a little embarrassed, but not so much that she can't contribute to the general mood of the conversation.

"And this is the kind of conversation that ten years from now will prompt a story along the lines of, so there I was at the coffee shop with a few friends, and ten minutes later it's at, so there I was, wondering exactly what I was supposed to do with the Crocodile when I realised that Captain Hook, Tinkerbell, my neighbour, and that new barista, were making out under the coffee table. It was highly problematic -- I had promised my house mate that the new shag carpet would not get any weird stains like the old one." Ravn's poker face remains in place. Academic lecturer may have made a habit of sometimes drawling on and changing the subject just to see whether anyone in class actually would notice.

Then he holds out his cup. "I don't suppose there's a refill for a tired and lonely old story teller?"

"Hey, it's about the effort of putting that cinnamon bun out there," the barista notes 'sagely' and nods towards Una. Ravn, when he starts speaking, is given a droll glance and the coffee mug is deliberately set down, mouthful deliberately swallowed. No way, mister, not another spit-take, not today!

Her face ends up in her hands again as she leans elbows on the counter and just laughs, shoulders jouncing about. There's some muttering in Hungarian? -- before she appears again, lips pursed against a smile-that's-totally-still-there. A pointer finger is shook in Ravn's direction.

"Look, I don't have any pirate kinks there, buddy, but what I do got? Booty. So." It can't be seen, but her lower torso then seems to evince a little shimmy. "I can imagine I'd catch the Captain..."

She leans in.

"Hook...line and sinker."

A point at the glass jar near the register. "Tip jar's over there, thank you, ladies and gentlemen, I'm here all week."

The laughter, it just keeps coming, and coming (and that could be a sex joke, but it's not, thank you very much). Una tries to cover her mouth with her hand, as if that would help anything, and ultimately gives up: she just laughs, shoulders shaking, cheeks pink, and likely the corners of her mouth hurting from the exercise. "That's awful," she accuses, pointing a finger first at Ravn, then at Ariadne. "No cinnamon rolls for either of you."

A moment later, as she recovers her composure (more or less): "Note to self, take Ravn to the casino the next time we need to raise some cash. That is one fine poker face."

"Oh, no. I'm a shitty poker player." Ravn laughs softly and shakes his head. "I don't do well in crowds and I detest dressing up. I've never felt comfortable with the rich and powerful, most of them tend to be assholes. Get me a back door key and I'll clean out their hotel rooms instead if we ever get that desperate."

"Aw man, no Casino Royale stuff? And here I've wanted a reason to get all fancy and dress in one of those Bond-girl full-length mermaid gowns and go drop some money. Una, you'd go with me, right? Come on, girl's night out, we'll dress to the nines and go have drinks there one time when we're bored and we've got extra spending money. Just for the hell of it." She grins at Una, lifting her brows. "If that's not your style, that's okay too. Just an invitation and a whimsy."

She glances at the register, but one of her coworkers has snagged the latest arrival plus order. She gives them a thankful little smile. "Poker night another time so we can test this poker face, yeah?" she asks of the two other customers she's served recently.

"In that case-- that sounds ideal. Ariadne and I will distract the patrons, and Ravn will clean out the hotel rooms. Everyone wins. I suppose keycards make lock-picking slightly less helpful?"

More seriously (though 'serious' is probably a stretch), Una adds, directing her words to Ariadne, "No, seriously, let's totally do that. The drinks and dressing up bit, if not the crime caper. And crowd-free poker, absolutely."

"I've been to Monte Carlo. It's all very glamorous." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "And it is fun -- in a way. As long as you can immerse yourself in the fantasy of glitter and bubbles and nothing is ever really serious. But most of those people treat the wait staff miserably, half of them are cheating on their spouse with the other half, and every other man you talk to turns out to be in organised crime or a Saudi millionaire trying to get into it. It's like -- a beautiful golden apple, but when you take a bite, you realise it's rotten to the core."

Oh right. This was not a serious conversation. Ravn kicks himself mentally over the shin -- don't always be a damned downer, jackass. "Could go for the local casino, though. Figure it's a bit more accessible, particularly outside the tourist season when they're pretty desperate to rent out those one thousand rooms they've got out there."

"Local casino would be just fine," agrees Ariadne as to the locale of the glitz and glitter and questionable behavior from customers. She seems less than bothered by the concept since she falls under no part of the category of despicable clientele Ravn describes. "Poker game at one of the bars and pubs, night out at the local casino, looks like my week is booked and I can't complain. Excellent. Now."

Finally, finally, she takes Ravn's outstretched mug. "And yes, more black coffee for you because I am magnanimous and merciful and Una's sitting there, so I can't be a terrible person and besmirch my angelic reputation." Eyebrow flick, smirk. "However, I'm still not sure about sharing cinnamon buns. We'll have to see. I might change my mind."

That being said, black coffee is delivered. Eventually. Free of praline syrup. This time.