2022-03-01 - Booping Snoots?

The text flew:

>> Look, if you're going to teach me how to pick locks, at least let me see about learning you a few kickboxing moves. I remember you mentioning something about the high school guy and the gym and making your hits count. I've got that self-defense background. You name the time and place and find yourself a pair of light-weight boxing gloves. and headgear.

The time is now. The place is Ravn's backyard, off to one side of the dubiously-eyed fairy ring that...really does look like a goddamned fairy ring. Ariadne's still stationed more towards the back porch as things stand, clad in athletic sweatpants and an Under Armor long-sleeve against the cold; otherwise, she's aware that she'll be moving about and this will keep her warm. She's busy checking over her own gloves, a pair of MMA-style ones in greyed-white and hot pink. They've seen some love, but they remain sturdy.

"So...I'm not looking to knock you over like a tree, but we're not wearing pads, so it goes without saying that we'll be pulling punches." Ravn is given a look with lifted brows as she awaits confirmation for this rule set down.

"Right," Ravn notes. The tall Dane stands in front of the white picket fence, laced with flowering clematis that seen to have decided to turn up about four months too early -- in fact, this yard is taking straight out of a Disney movie, all it needs is somebody singing a duet with the birds. Everything is almost too green and verdant, too neat -- from the tinkle of a dew drop in a spider's web (plink!) to the wild rabbit sniffing around in the dandelions at the far end of the back yard. The trees down there are full of lush, green foliage offering shade and shelter -- while their counterparts everywhere else aren't even budding yet.

"Don't mind the seasonal whack," he murmurs, almost sheepishly. "It'll go away in a few days, I'm sure. Doctor Brennon was showing my neighbour a few tricks of the how to garden with magic variety." Ava and Una, bossing nature around for shit and giggles. Oh well. The rabbit certainly doesn't mind that the abundance of summer came early.

He's picked up a padded helmet and wrapped his hands the way he would in the boxing gym. A pair of sweatpants and a long-sleeved, cotton shirt completes the outfit -- both black, of course. The running boots, however, are white. Maybe they don't come in black. "I think this is where I mention in passing that I have a neuropathic condition. That means unexpected touch can be very unpleasant, even painful. This is why I have to try very hard to make my one punch count, because I won't get a second chance."

Ariadne absolutely noticed the extremely verdant state of the backyard. She hadn't commented on it yet simply because maybe this was normal for this backyard -- or Grey Harbor in general. Why complain about clematis anyways? The flowers smell lovely and add a bright bird-flip of spring to the cling of grey winter. Look at those little bunny ears. She glances away from watching the creature nibble on greenery and nods at Ravn.

"I mean, the seasonal whack is charming. I hope it hangs around for a while longer, honestly. You're missing a deer with cherry blossoms in its antlers at this point." Disney reference for the week, check. She checks the straps of her own gloves, not cinched yet, and slips on her own helmet first. "I do remember you have the condition, yes, hence my comment about pulling punches. Pain is awful enough when you know it's coming. The point is not to hurt you, it's only to learn how to hurt others. Maybe a double-standard, but I'm not in the hobby for the agony it can cause. Just to keep myself safe if I need to. You sure you don't want my other pair of gloves? They're men's size, they'll protect your knuckles and wrist better." A tilt of her head towards the black pair off to one side on the table.

"Sure." Ravn is not about to turn down protective gear out of some kind of misplaced machismo. Can Ariadne kick his arse to the curb? Very likely. That's the whole point of taking tips from her, after all -- that she can, and he wants to learn. He accepts the gloves and puts them on; fortunately not too small -- he has large hands with long fingers, but they are at least slender hands.

He glances at the end of the yard with an expression as if he would not even be all that surprised if Bambi's mum was to stroll up, kid in tow, any moment now. "We are hoping to kind of strike a bargain with the faerie circle. Neither Una nor I are garden type people. So it's that or hire a landscaping service and warn them against faeries -- so maybe it's better to strike some kind of deal. Bread and milk for lawns tended? Something like that." The Dane can probably hear how silly it sounds.

And with a wry smile he adds, "I'll probably have to find a way to get my cat to stop eating the pixies."

Then the gloves are on and Ravn nods. "Self defence is the point. Check. Not that I disagree -- I detest violence but I've come to learn that in this town at least, sometimes there is no other answer. I want to be able to get one hit in and make it count. I won't get another -- because the instant somebody hits me back, I'm done."

"Right, you only get one shot in," Ariadne confirms. "I'd like to see if I can figure out a way to make it count the first time."

Count. An amused glint in and out of her golden-hazel eyes before she again glances down the yard towards the rabbit before back and closer to them, at the fairy ring in particular.

"And I thought milk and bread was a...they're called brownies, right? The little things inside your home which might clean up if you're nice to them? I guess you could twist that to work with landscaping. But...you've said enough about Kitty Pryde to make me think that's going to be the biggest speed bump. I haven't seen her yet, by the way. She's indoor-outdoor?" A mild question for confirmation more than anything else. The barista has seen the large black cat ride in a side car. Nothing's keeping the creature inside, she assumes.

"Oh, all of the Celtic faerie have a thing for milk. It's a funny distinction between them and their Scandinavian counterparts -- something about how forces of nature are viewed, I suppose. Ours just keep faerie cattle. Heck, the sand dunes of our west coast are said to originate from the bulls of the merpeople scraping in the ground and kicking up a storm -- literally. Farmers with poor stock would sometimes lead their cattle to the beach that time of year, for the merpeople's superior bulls to impregnate them."

Ravn jabs at the air a few times, testing the feel of the gloves. What little combat training he has done previously, he has done at Kelly's boxing gym. He's not very good at it (in fact, he's bad enough at it to stubbornly cling to the memory of that time he accidentally decked Seth Monaghan). "I'm surprised Kitty hasn't shown her face yet. She's -- wherever she want to be. I don't tell her what to do most of the time. She's Veil touched enough to be just that little bit smarter than your average cat -- and to have a wicked sense of humour. I did think about getting her a collar with a bell on, like you do for bird hunters -- but she let me know in no uncertain terms that sure, somebody in this house could wear a collar if they wanted, but it's not going to be her."

Did he catch that pun? Maybe. Did he choose to respond to it? This guy has a pretty impressive poker face, it seems, when it comes to pretending that things did not happen or were not said. Maybe that's why people seem to love hazing him a little, to see if it cracks.

Ariadne watches the academic pop at empty air a few times and sees what she can glean from it. It looks like someone at least coached him on the jabs, maybe one of the hooks. She nods to herself and finishes fitting her own gloves on. Fingers stretch and she rolls her wrists a few times, making sure they're sitting correctly.

"Lucky cattle, I guess." It's a weird thing to consider, but the redhead does recognize the logic in it when science wasn't yet an established line of thought. "I suppose that when Kitty Pryde decides to grace me with her presence, I shall greet her," the barista then laughs, breaking her temporary refined tone. She remembers her parents' cat from when she was very young. Cats have their Cat Ways and the Cat Rules and the human are but butlers-with-thumbs in charge of the can lids and crunchies. "Good luck on convincing her not to eat pixies." A flick of brows. "Okay, so, kickboxing. It's a mixed martial arts deal, but we're focusing on self-defense, not on the actual sport itself here. You let me know if you want otherwise. Now, we'll go with offense first since you sound like you want to land a hit and then book it."

Gently popping her knuckles off themselves, she walks out onto the plush grass of the lawn and then looks levelly at Ravn, unable to help grinning. "What have you learned at the gym so far? Explain it to me so I'm not repeating myself."

"You get one punch so make it matter. Dodge. Duck. Duck a lot. Also, just bloody duck." Ravn can't resist a small smile. "Actually, every time I spar with someone there, they kind of take pity on me and invite me to hit them as hard as I can, and that's how I broke a guy's nose, once -- more or less by accident. I haven't really gotten to you hit me back, yet."

Definitely not a scrapper, this one.

"On accident." Ariadne is openly surprised. "I'm...dubiously impressed, well done. I'm not going to give you that option here, a free hit to my face, but I'm good for you socking me in the shoulder, for example, if we get to that point. Ducking is also a good point. Obviously, it helps keep you from being hit. Less obviously, your attacker is probably already pissed off enough in the first place. Think of what it takes, mentally, to be absolutely certain you want to use violence against another human being. That's...hard to consider, but you can also use this against your attacker. Duck or dodge and their momentum's probably going to carry them through and past you -- at that point, you book it. No more punching, it's all on wind sprints into a crowded area at this point."

At this point, the barista begins a series of short stretches to loosen up muscles and joints. "Also, I'll be teaching you a low-kick. Aim it at a knee, land it, and your opponent is down. That's it. Fight over unless they have a gun. Nobody's chasing you after you fuck up their knee."

"Now we're talking." Ravn nods quite solemnly. "Any fight I get in, I get in to escape. I don't mean that to say that I'd bail on a bad situation and leave everyone else to the monsters. I mean that I go into a fight wanting to end it and get out alive. Which is a somewhat important focus to keep when you're a neuropathic, asthmatic nerd boy without much of a fighting instinct."

He nods, again. Anyone with actual martial arts experience can read, with ease, how he feels about all of this: He wishes he was over there, on a chair, with a cup of coffee, watching. Not here, as one of the two people involved.

And that it's not really up for debate. It's a bit like watching a guy go to the dentist for a root canal. He knows he's gotta. Doesn't mean he wanna.

"We all have a fighting instinct," Ariadne muses quietly. "It's whether or not we nurture it in ourselves that it comes out, I think. Would I hurt somebody to save myself? Yes. Would I hurt somebody to save someone else I loved? In a heartbeat. Would I feel guilty afterwards? ...probably." A shrug. "But I'm assuming that somebody I'm hurting had it coming, had done something to earn my anger like that. Like I said: it's not a normal person's first instinct to go to violence."

Shaking out her hands, she then adopts a basic ready stance, both gloved fists up. "I just want to see what you can do. Go on and swing. I'm just ducking, I won't swing back."

Go on and swing. I'm just ducking.

Famous last words when Seth Monaghan said them. Ended up on his arse with a broken nose.

Maybe Ravn remembers. Maybe he thinks he can pull that stunt a second time. If there is a merciful god, surely he can? Let him have this? Please? Give the asthmatic academic a break?

Ha. No. Don't be silly.

Ravn's gloved fist comes at Ariadne's head and of course she bloody well ducks, and his fist just keeps on going, and the rest of him follows, and somewhere in that his legs forgot what they were doing, and this is how he manages to fly right past her, to end on his knees on the ground, very undignified and wincing because his kneecaps did not see that coming, and bloody hell, that stung. "Ow."

A duck and a side-step and Ariadne watches as the very thing she had just discussed about momentum comes to be. Thank you, physics, very predictable. There's a sympathetic wince as she watches knees jar despite the plush green of the grass.

"I mean, that's what happens when you miss." She walks over and very gently boops the back of his skull with her glove. "And you're down for the count. Too much force behind your swing there. Need a hand up?" She then offers out a forearm to grip in case his knees are panging enough to merit it. If there's another one of those cheeky twinkles through her eyes, it's there and gone. Count. Again. Sucker.

The rabbit at the far end of the lawn lifts its ears and head, mouth a-wiggle with another blade of grass. Humans are so weird.

Ravn winces. Whether it's at the boop or the pun is hard to say. Maybe both. Maybe it's at his own rather embarrassing display of martial prowess. "I did tell you I'm not very good at this, right? I'm pretty sure I said. This is me, hearing my long dead father's face palm in the distance."

He's not too proud to take hold of Ariadne's forearm and hoist himself back up, though. "Oof. Yes. You proved your point there. Didn't even need help taking out my knees. This is actually what I want to do. Just to someone else."

The knees of his black sweatpants are grassy. Give it a few, his backside probably will be too. If there is any justice at all in this world, Ariadne will get at least a few grass stains on her shoes.

"Right. Let me try this again. Do me a favour and at least pretend I'm a potential threat. Male egos are fragile, yanno." Ravn can't help laugh. The situation is ridiculous. He in a combat context is ridiculous. And he's still continuing to try to learn because there's been many times he needed to put 'em up and stand his ground anyway. Telling the zombie hordes that you've got to sit this one out because asthma just doesn't seem to do the trick.

His next attempt at least lets him stay on his feet. He jabs out towards Ariadne, keeping it simple the way Seth's reiterated several times. Don't get fancy. Don't try to feint or pull something complex. Just aim for the face -- it's human instinct to duck, and that duck should buy you time to run.

Standing firmly as the aid for the taller Dane getting to his feet, Ariadne nods and ends up quietly giving the man a lop-sided smirk.

"We'll work on aim too while we're at it," she notes of Ravn's intended target -- which was not the lawn, despite all appearances. Setting up again across from him, her laugh joins in with his own. "Oh, I don't think male egos are that fragile. Everyone's got their weaknesses. The grass just wants to hug your face." She shifts her weight back and forth on the balls of her sneakered feet and watches the immediate area of his upper torso, still smiling to herself. "Everyone's a threat at one point."

Here comes the punch and, indeed, as predicted, Ariadne bobs and weaves away from it. She takes a second to wait for Ravn's arm to retract, noting the skill level, and then throws a counter-punch for the taller man's face. She's not intending to make contact, merely feint at it. From an audience's perspective, it'd probably look somewhat ludicrous and like a kitten leaping to swat at a big dog's face. Inches count here, ladies and gentlemen.

A kitten jumps up and (with less random aim than it looks like) suckerpunches a big dog where it absolutely did not expect a kitten to be. That eye's going to sparkle in all the colours of the rainbow, Ravn. It's going to clash horribly with your usually so sombre attire.

The worst part? She pulled the bloody punch. And then he ducked the wrong way. There's incompetent and then there's Ravn. How he ever managed to floor anyone in a boxing match -- well, let's just say, there was a lot of cannabis in the air that week. And now he's going to shine in all the colours of the rainbow, and he'll probably stay at home for a week lest Seth Monaghan catches a whiff of the news.

Also, "Ow. I ding I balked indo dat one."

Ariadne intended to avoid contact entirely.

But when your target dodges into the arc of your swing, there's not much to do even if you'd intended to stop an inch from their face. That inch turns out to be occupied -- and the barista is mortified after she makes such solid contact. "Ho shit!" Immediately, she's reaching for the Dane's elbow, wincing, apology writ in every line of her body. "Shit, Ravn! Come on! Walked into that one?" Her laugh is curt and uncomfortable, tan-hazel eyes searching his face. His face sure to color up in the next twenty-four hours.

"Um. Alright, uh, we pause lessons for now. Do you have a cold pack in the fridge or freezer or something? I'm not slapping raw streak on your face, that's just unhygienic," she says, nose wrinkling at the idea.

"Bag of frozen peas?" Ravn can't help laugh. His eye may be stung but his pride seems to survive the onslaught (or possibly he just doesn't have any). "I'm pretty sure I walked into that. Ow. It's not the first time, either. I blame my bloody mum."

What man doesn't.

He still holds a hand to his eye as he straightens up. "Let's go raid the freezer? I promise, our poltergeist doesn't bite. In fact, it will likely ignore you entirely since neither of us are Aidan."

"Look, I'm just going to punch your poltergeist if it takes issue with me," Ariadne boldly claims. Hear that, poltergeist? She ain't afraid of no ghost. Cue Ghostbusters theme. "A bag of peas will do it, maybe some sort of Tylenol or Advil to bring down the swelling. Damn, Ravn." Another soft laugh and she smiles, her apologetic twist of mouth echoing in her words. "I'm sorry, dude, I definitely wasn't intending to put that much pepper into the swing. I know you walked into it -- or ducked into it, whatever you did to put your face there, but geez. I still feel like an asshole."

She's not going to lead him by his elbow, but the young woman is definitely the Dane's shadow as any travel happens towards and into the house proper.

The house proper is quite something, though -- and something means colourful like Aidan Kinney's wardrobe. Nothing looks run-down or broken -- quite far from, actually. It's just that there are nine or twelve different style periods represented, all at once, because Aidan is big on thrift store shopping. And more surprisingly, he's actually quite good at combining it all into some kind of very artistic and chaotic kitsch style that -- actually works.

Ravn must be used to people pausing and blinking on the doorstep, upon seeing the house from the inside. "I can't take credit for a single thing," he tells Ariadne. "All I do is, well, gently protest when there's too much pink sparkle. But he makes it work. And I love it, in part because I know my parents would hate it."

Ariadne doesn't fail to fall into the category of A Guest Being Shocked. She does indeed pause and blink when she steps into the house. "Whoa." Toeing off her sneakers by the door, the redhead continues looking around, her expression full of curious amusement. "Uh, yeah, I think my parents might twitch at this and they're pretty open minded," she comments of the sheer amount of...just...joyously irreverent interior decorating. "I'm digging the cuckoo clock, that's awesome."

Following Ravn into the kitchen area, she then makes for the fridge and particularly the freezer. "Have you got a dish towel? It shouldn't be directly against the skin."

"Sure do, and one for every shade in the rainbow." Ravn laughs softly even as he holds a hand in front of his poor, injured eye. "Aidan expresses himself artistically in everything. If it had been up to me to decorate a house -- I still don't even know why I bought one in the first place. I'd have gone by some catalogue, generic, impersonal. I never had to decorate a home before. I wouldn't know where the hell to begin."

The cuckoo emerges. It goes 'Pleepchoo!' Maybe it needs language lessons.

A quick dive into the freezer reveals frozen peas as well as assorted other frozen things. Someone in this house seems to actually do things in a kitchen. Someone is probably not Ravn.

Despite the lack of Ravn-influence in the kitchen, there's still a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a dishtowel the color of fresh spring leaves -- chartreuse, one might hazard -- and these are offered in Ravn's direction.

"It's delightful as hell. I don't think I'd decorate like this, but...it has its charms," Ariadne agrees as she looks around again. She'd heard the cuckoo clock go 'pleepchoo', but had missed what the bird itself looked like. Or if was even a bird. Maybe it's a wooden hamster going 'pleepchoo' for maximum confusion. "I'd do more of a theme around a thing if I had to, light colors. Airy. Light blue and lemon yellow and white. Maybe some red thrown in there. Apples," she muses, then leaning against the counter as she picks at her glove straps. "We'll see. I've still got to move into that place first. Since Sam didn't react to the memory of the place, I'm going to put down the deposit for it. We can still do pizza and deer and stuff as planned."

"Sounds good to me -- on both accounts." Ravn grins slightly. "I like the sound of pizza and deer -- not on the same plate, thanks -- and I like light colours. The current fad in interior design back home is some kind of strange minimalism that has to have a lot of white, empty surfaces and black, functional furniture. It reminds me of a dentist's front office. Bonus points for motivational calligraphy."

He shakes his head. "Compared to that, I actually prefer the late Victorian and early 20th century furniture I grew up with. At least a Chesterfield is actually comfortable."

"I've heard of deer eating pizza crusts, but I'd rather not encourage that behavior in any way. I bet the complex manager doesn't want them interested in the porch plants. Plus, deer turdlets. They get everywhere," the barista notes as she peels off the first glove. It gets set on the counter beside herself and she starts to work on removing the other. "I definitely think of a dentist's office too, yeah. That doesn't sound...cozy, ew. I like cozy. Lots of blankets, big windows for lots of light, rugs. Maybe one day, a place with a fireplace. That'd be cool, but I also like space heaters. Cold toes suck."

Glancing up at Ravn again, there's still a sympathetic note to her smile. "Any better, with the peas? Also, what's a Chesterfield?"

"It's going to sting in the morning." Ravn rests his hip against the kitchen table, laughing softly and holding the peas to his eye. Then he chuckles -- no, actually, Ravn, not everyone knows what a bloody Chesterfield is, way to come across like the snob you secretly are.

"Chesterfield's a type of sofa -- or armchair. Very old brand -- Victorian. They're obviously not all made in the VIctorian age, but I don't think they've changed the design since then. Leather, typically black or burgundy. You'd know 'em if I showed you a picture -- sort of little buttons in indents? They're exceedingly comfortable and durable, is the point. And my parents did not believe in modernising anything."

Until Ravn hits the point of describing the upholstery of this 'Chesterfield' furniture, Ariadne's brows knit. Then her mouth forms a circle of understanding and she nods. "Ah, yeah, my dad's uncle had those around his house. I was always thrilled to sit on one -- or nap on one when we visited his house. I was pretty young. My dad's aunt used to cover me with a blanket and let me pass out there. I ran myself dead to the world around their huge backyard. Maybe one day, I'll have one of those pieces of furniture."

With both gloves removed from her person, she then pockets them in her sweatpants. "Why not modernize things though? I get maybe keeping comfortable older-style furniture, but you make it sound like your parents didn't believe in anything beyond gas stoves and oil lanterns." Her smile definitely holds some tease to go with her curiosity.

"I may be a little biased," Ravn grins. "But that's actually a pretty apt description. When everything has some family history -- Great-uncle whoever brought this home from wherever -- it becomes difficult to toss most of it. I mean, I could but then I'd have to work through who else in the family has some kind of claim or think they should have, and these days it's all sitting in a storage facility in my home town because bloody hell, no. The house is rented out."

He adjusts the bag of peas; that eye is going to shine in all the colours of Aidan's wardrobe in no time. "Enough about me. What about you? What soil did you grow in, and what made you decide to pull up your roots and blow this way on the wind? It's a big decision to make, just pulling up and going to some remote, barely-on-the-map town a few hours out of Seattle."

The barista's curiosity only deepens as she listens. Great-uncle whoever, hmm? Some kind of claim. A storage facility and a house rented out. All of this and the instinctive introduction in the casino-Dream of 'count'. Her darkly-lashed eyes narrow.

And enough about me, is it? Having worked in the public for over a decade now, she recognizes a redirect when she sees one. Patience behooves her and she knows this; it won't save Ravn from more razzing, but still, the redhead falls quiet and thoughtful, her eyes resting on some point in the living room beyond both her host and the kitchen itself.

"Funny thing is I really can't tell you why I ended up here," she finally admits, sounding uncomfortable if still smiling mildly. "Now, the soil bit? Colorado, one of the Four Corners states. Boulder, to be exact, tucked up against the Rockies. All four seasons, wildlife, tourists, skiing, fairly good coffee, and the people there are...different. Not like here, in Grey Harbor, but they're more open-minded. Modern-day hippies, pretty good-natured. There was a lot of weed smoking before the laws changed, I'm sure everyone's enjoying the hell out of it now," she laughs. "I, however, didn't make the decision to leave. Family moved with the job. Coffee's the family business and now that there's a Starbucks on every corner, it's proof that Seattle was the place to be when my mom and dad moved us up here." She sighs, her smile sobering and golden-hazel eyes skating off into the living room again. "Still, why here? I dunno."

Ravn is considered now. "Ever just..." She rolls her eyes and pinches the bridge of her nose in passing. "It sounds stupid as hell, but 'followed your heart' is the closest thing to describing it. I had an instinct that I had to be here and Samwise came with because he's my good boy. Maybe it was the orcas in the bay. They deserve a good studying for being so bizarrely out of place. Maybe I just wanted some space from my family. I'm not really sure. Everything's pretty new and...yeah, it's lonely now and then, but that comes with new territory. I'm not stupid enough to assume I'd be welcomed with open arms...not after what I'm learning about this place. It'll be good to move into the apartment on Sycamore," she says with a firm nod.

"It makes perfect sense." Ravn shifts his weight against the kitchen table. "You'll be surprised at how many people in town feel like that -- they got pulled here, maybe it was destiny. Or they came through, like me, and just did not manage to get back on the bus, like me. This place pulls, Ariadne. Not in a poetic sense -- but very, very literally. It draws us in from all over -- people come from all over the damned world to end up here, and most of us have no idea why until suddenly we're in the reality two steps over, wondering what the hell just happened."

The man's steel blues (in this light -- they're greys outside) seem sincere enough. He's been there. He's still kind of there, only he got a bit used to it. Accepting, maybe, that this is a one way trip, and deciding to sit back and enjoy the ride. "I didn't make it that far south -- obviously. Came into New York from Europe. Worked my way across to Seattle and then turned southwards. I was going to keep on going until I hit Tierra del Fuego, and then see about New Zealand, maybe -- but obviously, that didn't happen. So did I come here because the Veil dragged me here? Or did I just stop moving because my foot was caught in the snare? Hell if I know."

Eloquent, her lift of brows. "Tierra del Fuego, dude, damn, that's south," she laughs softly. "Which reminds me: if you're ever bored, look up the guy who did a cross-continental bike ride from the northern-most point of North America down to Tierra del Fuego on a tandem bike. He'd have people ride with him for a few miles at a time, but he did it all on bike. At one point, he had to cross the Andes and he was drinking straight...olive oil...for the calories." Ariadne wrinkles her nose and makes a little blep face. "I'm impressed, but straight olive oil? Texture. Blech."

A lift and wave of her hand. "Anyways...yeah, so...I'm here. If you ever figure out what cat dragged you in, you let me know. It might help me untangle some of my own thoughts on matters."

"Well, that was the whole point." Ravn chuckles behind his bag of frozen peas. "To just -- keep going until I ran out of land, and then move on to the next continent. Hell, if the next boat from there went to McMurdo Base, I'd have gotten on that. Just had to keep on moving." He makes a face, though. "Olive oil. Yuck. I'll take mine with a nice salad and a bottle of white wine, thank you very much."

Then he walks over to the fridge, to fish two beers out. Neither are the dark syrup that Ariadne professes a fondness for, but at least only one is actually a pale ale; the other, some kind of mid-darkish local brew, probably from some fancy micro-brewery upstate where you need a secret handshake and a reference from Uncle Jim to be admitted to the back room. He's that kind of guy. "Think we earned this. Let's call it first aid. Anyhow, right -- have you ever read a lot of novels from the thirties, forties? There was a whole new world opening up to western readers -- not just the aristocracy and the soldiers travelling the world and exploring. They made a big deal out of explorer's societies, mountaineering. Some famous mountain climber or other got asked why so many people went to die on Mount Everest -- and his answer was, 'because it's there'. That's how I feel about this place. I have to be here, because it's here."

"Or on bread," Ariadne agrees of olive oil. She then watches quietly while her host goes to rifle around inside the fridge. What's he looking for -- oh, delightful. Taking the offered bottle once its metal cap is removed, she sniffs at it before looking over the label. Hmm. This sounds familiar, but maybe she hasn't had it before. Microbreweries are becoming a dime-a-dozen here in the Pacific Northwest and well she knows it.

"Because it's there." A faint laugh and something of a shrug before she looks back at Ravn, she still leaned on the counter in comfortable nonchalance. "I mean, guess that's reason enough. I don't know if I'd lump myself into that category, but again, makes sense. It'd be so cool to be a member of an explorer's society though." Her little sigh breaks into a self-castigating chuckle. "I know, it's romanticizing the idea, I'm aware of it, but still. To travel. See things. Meet people who are so different that you have to figure out how to interact with them. I'm way too poor for such a thing, but a gal can dream." Now, a sip of the medium-dark beer. "Mmm, not bad." It passes muster.

"You can travel light in Europe and the US," Ravn observes with familiarity. "But that won't get you out where you have to find a way to communicate, no. I thought about it when I ran out of Europe -- head south from Malta, into Tunesia and on south. I decided against it in the end. Travelling with just a backpack and a violin is all well and good in a country where you look like a lot of other people, and speak a language that most cops understand. You know the basics of the dos and don'ts. I wouldn't be able to pull that off in Tanzania or the Congo -- wouldn't speak the language, wouldn't look like everyone else. And a lot of those countries are poor enough, or have large enough impoverished populations, that being a white guy hitch-hiking on the road very well might end with a kidnapping and a ransom attempt."

A thoughtful pause and then, slower, a nod. "It would be fun. And I guess there is a bit of that here, too? Sometimes -- figuring out what the hell the Veil wants, or the entities in the Veil want, or what's going on, I mean, it's a little like that."

Ariadne seems to agree, if grudgingly by her expression, about the Veil entities. "I could do without the sudden yoinks into alternate realities, but...at the same time, once the adrenaline and being startled as all hell settles...I guess, looking back, nothing's been too bad. Yet." A point of finger at Ravn off of her bottle. "I'm also not stupid enough to think it's going to be all mild threat on my life and I remember being thrown off that horse well enough. Since the injuries are to me, my corporeal self? I'm not going to be doing anything ultra brave. Nope. I like me waaaaaaaay too much to try and Tarzan my way into a situation and end up breaking an elbow because I mis-timed my landing."

Another long swig of her beer and she sets the bottle aside to then lightly back-hop up onto the counter. A blink and she notes, "If this isn't a good idea, just tell me to get down. I won't be offended." She then continues, now giving Ravn one of those narrowed looks he might be beginning to recognize as 'Ariadne has put two and two together, god help us all'.

"So. Furniture belonging to a great-uncle. Being from Denmark. Drinking fancy whiskey. Having your arse kissed by better. Look, that imitation was way too accurate. You've heard that before. Also, dude...introducing yourself in that Dream as 'count'?" Her smile slowly appears and she tilts her head, looking positively beneficent. Mostly. "Count Ravn...?"

"I think I already told you, only if you want to be arse-kissingly formal." Ravn chuckles. "Perdita isn't a Spanish countess, by the way -- but she did pretend to be one, once, in a quite successful grift. She's a better grifter than I am -- far better, because she will overplay in the way that people expect. Actual old aristocracy tends to be conservative, even subdued in compared with those Saudi gentlemen and tech millionaires."

He hitches a shoulder. "It's not a secret. Five minutes with Google, and all, if you really cared that much to find out. But it's not something I advertise, either -- particularly not in the US or the UK. Sorry to have to tell you, but the English speaking countries? You go bananas over that sort of thing. I'm not special. I just have a long stud book."

"A...long stud book."

Ariadne's mouth scrunches up like she's attempting to not let the volcanic eruption of laughter burst from her chest. It might still pull an Alien, she hasn't decided yet. Amazing then, how she clears her throat and nods, hiding as well as mollifying herself with a two-swallow imbibement of her beer.

One cough. Just the one. "Hey, I wanted it confirmed. Science major: I don't take things as given unless it's been proven by repeatable, verifiable, level-headed information. I'm not going to go around calling you 'count' because, frankly, I'd laugh every time and NOT because it's me being an American asshole about a title. I'm very, very aware of how much teasing you'd potentially get for your name and title and your penchant for black, my dude. I'd just be beating a dead horse, as the saying goes. Now? You get saucy with me?" She grins, squinting. "I might have to break out the big guns. Perdita's impressive as hell though, and you can tell her I said that. I don't have that level of acting skills. My face is too honest, I've been told."

"Oh, Perdita's really damn good." Ravn smiles lightly; he clearly feels no shade thrown on him by admitting that the ex-high society grifter has him beat in the acting department. "I'm glad I never met her while she was in the business. I'd probably have jumped out of a window to escape."

He sips his beer. "I figure anyone who cares to know, know. Like I said -- it's not a secret. It's just also not something I take pride in because I didn't do anything for it. If I want to shine a light at myself I want to do it for something that I achieved myself, not something I inherited. Also, black is practical. Live in a backpack for a year and tell me otherwise, I dare you."

Ariadne can't help but laugh again. "Look, I'll wear cream for a week while working in a coffee house and then get back to you, just to make you eat your words. You watch me, I live on spite like a broad-leafed plant sucks in sunlight." Putting aside her beer, she continues theatrically with a gimme-fingers gesture by both hands. "I need all of it the spite, let me have iiiiit."

Judging her point made, the barista picks up her drink again and toasts Ravn by lift of it. "I get it though. I'd probably get really annoyed of people giving me laud I didn't earn after a while. It'd be awkward. I don't mind some compliments now and then, but yeah, I'm not a title and neither are you. You're you. I get it. I have no fancy skeletons in my closet though, sorry to disappoint you. Maybe I could claim to be Anastasia if I wanted to look absolutely insane and be some demi-immortal. I'd just tell them it's the coffee. Good PR for Espresso Yourself." Playfully sage nod, sip of beer.

"You'd be fair bit older," Ravn points out with a smile. "You are supposed to have been, what, ten, in 1915? You'd be a great-grandchild, maybe. And why not? One pops up every so often, as it happens. It's very hard to prove that someone is not a Romanov -- or at least it was until fairly recently, I suppose they can do a DNA test these days."

He chuckles. "When we say this place pulls strange and unlikely people from everywhere, it's true. The guy who owns Sitka is in line for the British throne. Granted, he's number hundred and something near two hundred, but he is there. My neighbour on the marina is a retired astronaut. The list goes on -- and there seems to be just three criteria, really. You have to have some kind of creative expression, you have to be a fighter in some way or other -- not necessarily literally though many are -- and you have to have some kind of damage or trauma. Almost everyone here hits all three."

"Yeeeeeeeah, no DNA tests for me. Not worth it." Shaking her head, the barista shifts on the counter to change where the edge digs lightly into the back of her thighs. Toes in her socks -- a brilliantly-colorful mosaic of pastel patterning -- wiggle. "Dude, that's pretty cool, having a neighbor who's an astronaut. I can't say I've met one of those. Some actors over the years, a writer or two, one of my professors is pretty famous, but never an astronaut." Ariadne nods thoughtfully.

Her expression then again shifts pensive and more sober as she frowns down at the mouth of her beer bottle now, perhaps as if there were an answer there or it had somehow offended her. "I'm not sure I qualify for the last one. If...so, like, you said you'd lost your fiancée. That's a special kind of hell on earth. I don't have anything like that which happened to me. Or...maybe it's a kind of trauma which only counts as trauma to the one who received it. That'd make more sense to me...and be pretty awful too," she murmurs, brows knitted.

"I think it's very individual. To some, it's growing up rough, maybe even doing time. To others, it's loss. To some, mental disorders, anxieties. A couple of folks served abroad, came back damaged in mind or body. To others yet, a bad marriage, or loss of loved ones. One man's trauma might be easily shrugged off by the next guy over, and the other way around. I think what matters is whether you feel you had to fight against bad odds at some point." Ravn sips his beer.

Then he smiles a bit. "For what it's worth, I don't lie awake at night crying about her. My fiancée, I mean. It happened back in 2015, and she managed to kill herself drunk driving because I wanted to call the engagement off."

He pauses. "And then her bloody ghost chased me halfway around the world, but that's another story. Suffice it to say, I'm over her."

"Christ on a cracker, Ravn." Ariadne's now giving the man a wide-eyed look, her beer raised but not touching her lips. "Chased halfway around the world? I...god, this is a personal question and you don't have to answer it," she insists before continuing, " -- but how did you shake her? If she's a ghost? I know you can see them. I mean, you saw the lady in my unit when I couldn't. I don't know if Samwise did, but you saw him. He wasn't bothered."

She takes another sip of her beer and sets it aside, attention yet on her Danish host.

Ravn is probably not as nonchalant about it as he's trying to convince himself that he is; a heartbeat's hesitation before answering says a lot. "She found me," he says after a moment. "Here, in Gray Harbor. In conversation with Gina Castro who owns the diner, and a couple of others. Thought I was trying to chat up Castro -- that was the thing we always fought over, she was terrified I'd run off with someone else. She was -- not herself anymore. Not after walking all the way down through Europe after me, and then across the Atlantic."

He shakes his head, dismissing the memory and more so, its graphic details. "Castro, Roen, Rosencrantz -- they're some of the most powerful people in town. There wasn't enough left of her ghost to fill a bucket. I hope she's at peace now, wherever she is."

A heartbeat's worth of hesitation is enough to make Ariadne's brows draw together tightly. She wonders if she's overstepped, but then, her host answers and it's a hell of an answer. She winces and shakes her head.

"Good lord," she murmurs, unable to do more than partially process the idea. "I've had some exes, but not like that. I'm very sorry you had to go through that, Ravn. I can't say I've dealt with any ghosts to that degree. I saw a few in Ireland, yeah, but I wasn't there for very long and they were more...shadows and feelings than someone I could identify." She laughs faintly and tucks a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I don't feel weird telling you that. Other people have given me funny looks, but...I tried debunking what I saw and I can't, so... Why can't it be?" A little shrug.

The Dane can't help laugh softly in spite of the serious conversation. He knows that feeling very, very well, yes. "You can't explain something like that to someone who has not had any kind of paranormal experience. If they've never seen something at the corner of their eye, or had a strange cold feeling at the very least -- you might as well not try. And then there's all those people who have perceived something -- and it was the most exciting thing to happen to them that decade, so they'd better milk it for every drop. Before you know it, somebody's accusing you of trying to get attention. I learned to just keep my mouth shut as a kid, and I doubt I'm the only one."

He hitches a shoulder again, and sips his beer. "There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy. I don't pretend to have answers. I just have ancestors who haven't felt like moving on, for whatever reasons."

Ravn can't help but laugh and Ariadne, after a moment or two, finds herself smiling knowingly again.

"I want that quote on a shirt one day, by the way," she notes. "Because it applies to science too. We don't know everything and maybe we don't need to just yet, y'know? Like you said, nobody has all of the answers. My mom was good about it, when I told her once, when I was very young, that I saw a shadow in the hallway of our home. I think she's seen some stuff too, but she doesn't want to talk about it for the same reason. It looks like attention-seeking behavior unless you caught it on film somehow. Though, you have me curious now. What do you think about those ghost hunting shows? Like, Ghost Hunters and stuff? Is that entertaining or is it all aggrandized to you?"

"Well, a lot of that is fake, obviously. You knew that." Ravn nods and chuckles; heaven knows there are a lot of things between heaven and earth, and a lot of them try very hard to get their ten minutes of fame. "A lot of it may not actually be -- but the journalistic angle is. You have somebody who saw something strange -- and they twist it into some absurd story that the poor person can barely recognise, or 'expose' them as a fraud with claims that were never actually made."

He grins slightly, lopsidedly, and switches hands between frozen peas and beer bottle. "Some of the fakes are interesting, though. I mean, speaking from the perspective of a grifter here. I never did big scale work like Perdita once did, false identity and all -- but I've done enough to recognise that some of those people are really good. Uri Geller, for example -- once you know what he did it's idiot simple, but he still managed to sell that story for twenty years."

"Oh sure, that's the guy with the spoon trick you showed me." Ariadne smirks as she remembers how surprised she was at the whole affair, how convincing the display was. "You definitely earned your cuppa that day." She finishes her beer and hops down to the kitchen floor those scant inches below. The bottle is deposited over by the sink as she adds over her shoulder, "I like the stuff they can't explain though. Things like...the photograph of the White Lady, where the exposure of the camera and the time period would have made it really damn hard to fake. I don't discount seances in this time period, of course, but...things like that."

She then walks over to the freezer and pauses, giving Ravn a sympathetic smile. "Want a fresh bag of peas? You might want to let the skin around your eye breathe a bit. Plus, I can take a look-see and we can determine if you need to make up some outrageous story that's more fun than I leaned into a punch."

"I was assaulted by rabid brain weasels, officer? I mean, at least the Chief would recognise the possibility given he and I ended up shooting brain weasels together during the damned hurricane." Ravn winces as he removes the bag from his eye. "Or may be we can tell some wild story about me taking a .303 bookworm to the eye while browsing in the library."

Ayep. That's going to be a beautiful shiner. Macho points, if only he can come up with a story slightly less embarrassing than the truth.

Ariadne had mentioned having an open face. Accordingly, she openly winces when the bag of frozen peas is removed and the eye is on display.

"Ooooof-fah. Yeeeah. It's already swelling and going red. I don't think my standard approach of 'I was wrestling African honey badgers' is going to cut it here. What if you pulled a white knight schtick? You were helping a little old lady across the street when you were both suddenly accosted by robotic wildebeests and you wrestled them bravely away by their metal horns and only barely avoided being gored, but got clipped in the face anyways with a beastly shoulder? It could fly around here, since you're talking about brain weasels."

She can't help but giggle at that one. Brain weasels. Literal brain weasels. "Here, let's put the bag back for now, while the skin breathes," and she holds out her hand to take the peas.

Ravn's blue eyes widen a bit and then he can't help laugh as the story gets wilder -- and wilder -- and wilder. "Are you sure you never gave grifting a shot? You seem to have the knack for making up a tall tale on the spot and telling it with a straight face. People will believe the most amazing things if you just look like straight-faced enough."

He chuckles, sheepishly, even, as he allows the redhead to take the bag of frozen peas. "I suppose I could pull out my leather jacket with the bullet hole and try pretending that I'm secretly some kind of wildebeest fighting vigilante. I am assuming that these robotic wildebeests come with 9 millimeter guns concealed in their horns? Ah well. It's not like anyone who knows me doesn't think me fully capable of walking into someone's fist entirely by accident. Most of them have seen me in a fight -- which is honestly not very impressive."

Away the bag of frozen peas goes, to no doubt be accessed again in the near future in warding off the worst of ocular ridge swelling. Ariadne straightens from closing the freezer door and gives Ravn her most innocent look.

It's not exactly a successfully innocent look, but she doesn't hesitate to say, "Cross my heart, officer, those wildebeest had nine millimeter horns and if Ravn hadn't been there, that poor granny would have been worse off than the victim of that song about reindeer that everyone loves to hate. She was just visiting town, left the next day, but her last name was Kazinski or something? I can't remember well, I was pretty shocked at the whole thing. Who knew robotic wildebeest with horn-guns would suddenly run through downtown?"

A sudden snort-laugh. "I wouldn't be able to sell it. Something about my eyes," and she gestures towards them.

"Yes." Ravn can't resist a chuckle along. "It's that you can hear how funny you sound, and it makes you laugh. If you wanted to pull that one off, you need to be able to sell it like you really, genuinely believe it. Maybe start smaller -- and always stick as close to the truth as you can, it's easier to remember and easier to sound convincing. I was minding my own business in my yard -- true. I was getting a bit of exercise in -- true. Before I knew it, some lady's fist was in my face -- also true. The conclusion that you assaulted me, however, is all on the listener -- I never said it."

"Oh, hey now." Ariadne lifts a brow, her tone grousing in a friendly manner. "Don't you stick this whole thing on me. I literally pulled my punch until you ducked into it. I still vote the story about the mechanical wildebeest unless you want to go African honey badger because people will laugh at that one and then you can act offended that no one believes you while everyone is distracted by, 'oh my god, African honey badger, do you remember that one meme'. It's a perfect plan."

A glance at the cuckoo clock. She sighs. "And now that you have your plan, I need to scoot. Sam's expecting a walk before dinner tonight and I can't let him down. He's been patient enough with my work schedule lately. You're going to be alright though?" she asks honestly, gaze shifting between his darkening shiner and his normal eye.

"I'll be all right. And I'll tell everyone the pleepchoo hamster did it." Ravn chuckles. "Seriously, though? Can we try again? I mean, once I'm done flying the pride flag, anyway. Hell, Rosencrantz will be so proud of me -- for flying the pride colours and for getting into a fight. I might let him believe I actually got into some kind of scrap. He will be so proud for the thirty seconds it will take him to remember that my usual tactic around muggers is to run faster than they do."

Pleepchoo hamster. Ariadne looks at the cuckoo clock and laughs quietly again. "Yeah, we can try again, it's a plan. You let me know when. Try and milk that for as long as possible with Rosencrantz, he sounds like the kind of guy whose face would be really worth the sudden realization that you usually book it out." She takes up the borrowed gloves as well as helmets and meanders towards the back door again, calling over her shoulder, "Next time, kicks. Your punches are...they're alright. They'll do if you want to pop somebody and run. But kicks, next on the agenda."

One last look around. "Say hi to Kitty Pryde for me, yeah? I'll say hi to Sam for you. Peas on the face in an hour or two. I'm done mom-ing you know, you're a grown-ass adult, you got this. Text me whenever," she then bids Ravn with a grin. The barista then lets herself out and finds her coat, all the better to head back to indeed take the Sighthound for the daily required walk. Walkies. All the walkies.