2022-03-15 - Look, I Just Wanted to Eat My Goulash in Peace

The very first thought to go through Ravn Abildgaard's mind is prosaic: What happened to my goulash?

Give him a moment. He is not actually obsessed with food (he is in fact so not obsessed with food that he has been monitored for an eating disorder on several occasions). It's just that one moment he was eating goulash while hoping to prompt the goulash maker to dip into her tank of funny sea stories; she's a marine biologist, she's got to have some. The next moment, he is at sea (sans goulash).

At least this time, it's a modern era ship -- or large yacht, Ravn is not actually certain what the proper designation is for a powerful, large catamaran of this kind. He's been dragged around on similar vessels enough on the Red Sea and at the Great Barrier Reef back in the day to recognise the kind of boat: It's a floating science station, the kind that his father would tour with for a couple of days of playing philanthropist. It's a fast vessel; powerful engines can take her from island to island, reef to reef, in short time, a storm at sea is not usually a concern, and she has the sonar and deep sea listening equipment required to search deep, deep beneath the waves.

He looks around. Blue in every direction. Impossible to tell which ocean except that it's not the North Atlantic which is notoriously gray most days. It's too warm for the North Atlantic because sure, temperatures on the Faroe Islands, on Greenland, on Iceland can soar -- but the cold sea winds coming down along the Gulf Stream keeps the air from turning scorching.

This air is. At a guess, somewhere in the tropics.

And maybe that's why no one is wearing a lot of clothes. Ravn looks down at himself; even he has found lighter clothing -- a pair of cargo shorts, sneakers, and a loose hanging shirt, in order to minimise the amount of exposed skin someone can accidentally brush past. The gloves stay on. It's sweltering inside them. He feels ridiculous in the floral shirt but several other people on deck are similarly dressed. It's hot.

The sun is setting. The ocean is almost mirror still. And next to him is Ariadne -- also goulash deprived, and no doubt starring as the junior marine biologist assigned to keep the philanthropist busy and make him feel like anyone actually cares about his opinions (and not just his donation).

Oh well. That could be worse. It'll probably be worse in a bit but for now? This glass of white wine will have to stand in for lost dinner.

A similar flutter of wonderment passes through Ariadne Scullin's mind: what happened to my goulash and where the hell am I?

Her eyes and inner ear immediately tell her boat -- a large yacht, one with quite a number of instruments at the main panels and any further number scattered either on display or packaged along the inner walls of the main deck. Oh, it's a research ship, yes, she recognizes that particular brand of instrument. In her hands, a clipboard with columns indicating dates, times, and in her other, a pen for marking them down. She's monitoring a...hydrophone, okay, yes, she's done this, but what species are they tracking out here in the warmer waters of not-the-Pacific-Northwest?

...that's not 'orcas' listed. Or porpoises. Or anything logical.

It's 'mermaid/siren(?)'.

Dressed in a pair of grey cargo capris (all the pockets!) and a white tanktop beneath an unbuttoned florally-patterned surf-shirt, the kind with fabric thin and UV-protecting nonetheless, she's comfortable on-deck with the light cross-breezes blowing. On her head, a wide-brimmed hat (not made of straw this time) to keep the worst of the sun off of her; her hair remains in that braid down her back.

"...Ravn," she whispers loudly at him after reaching up to remove one of the headphone cups from her ear. "...what the fuck is going on?!"

"Besides me dressed like an idiot?" Ravn's murmur back is intended for Ariadne's ears alone as well. He can't see the clipboard in her hands; he has yet to make the connection to their conversation-over-goulash so rudely interrupted. "We're at sea. Some kind of research vessel. You're a marine biologist and I am -- I don't know, some idle asshole."

He looks around, surreptitiously. No one seems to pay them any attention. Of course they don't; junior member of the research team is on babysitting duty while everyone else is trying to get actual work done. He knows this setup. He's seen it before. Though most of the time he was a lanky kid following his father. One of those trips to bond, father and son. It never worked. Maybe that's why he hates this dream already.

"I suppose we just -- enjoy the sunset and the quiet while it lasts?"

Brows knitted, the barista looks around the ship once more. Yes, a research vessel, and she's no doubt on task recording something possibly worth catching on the hydrophone.

"I'm not sure why you're labeling yourself the 'idle asshole' but I'm going to at least agree that I'm trying to listen for a sound," she murmurs back. "I haven't been on the hydrophones in forever. God, I used to do it all of the time when I was listening for -- " Abruptly, she stops talking, giving Ravn another concerned look. "This is a Dream. It has to be. Look." Her pen indicates the species listing. "Mermaids, Ravn. Weren't we just talking about the species of mammals living back in the bay?"

The Dane gets an even more concerned look now. "...didn't you say that the homeless guy, Danny -- er, no, Denny, he talks about mermaids a lot? And they're not nice mermaids...? I can't enjoy the sunset until I know whether or not I'm going to have to start leashing people to the grabrails."

"They're Greek sirens. Fish women with sharp teeth who sing sailors to their deaths. And it's bloody obviously a dream -- which means in waking life we must be face planted at the kitchen table. Aidan will get quite a sight if he comes home while this goes on." Ravn can't help a small amused smile at that. "But yes. Denny is quite the expert. He somehow managed to convince some of the tourist captains -- the way to fight this, is to drown out the noise. Like Odysseus did -- only, we don't use candle wax. We use rock'n roll."

Bet the marine life loves that.

The flowery shirt flaps on the breeze. Ravn reaches down and tries to at least close it, button it up. Maybe he feels conscious about some of the scars and marks; red lines and marks on his body that he does not really want the world to see.

"So...some of the tourist captains just...play rock and roll on their boats no matter what back in Gray Harbor." It's fairly obvious Ariadne's attempting to continue to have a sane conversation. The idea of scaled females with far too many teeth and a desire for man-flesh does not nicely fit away on any notecard she keeps in her scientifically-inclined brain. "Okay," she sighs, using the clickity-end of the pen to scratch at her temple where the hat and sweat make for an itch. "Yeah, okay, so, sirens, right. Teeth. Mmm, yes, uh, I...really don't want to tie people to various poles around this boat, soooo...I should go see about convincing the professor to turn this boat around or so help me god."

She's about to put the hydrophone earphones aside when something comes through beyond the general ambience of the ocean around them. "Wait." Her eyes dart off to one side now while she focuses. "There was...something."

Cue mysterious musical sting.

It comes through again and to her ear, sounds not too unlike the melodious warbling of a humpback whale, but in a far different key -- just a blip with an upkick of intonation at the end. Her human brain marks it as a questioning tone. "Holy shit, Ravn, there's something out there!" she breathes, giving him a wide-eyed glance. A point at the headphones asks if he wants to listen too.

Ravn doesn't. "You're safe," he murmurs. "You're a woman. Let's find the stereo. Ship has to have some kind of music system on board. Just have to show them we won't play."

He turns around -- and then turns around again. "We're not in danger. We shine. But the others -- they are."

"That's pretty assumptive, buddy, thinking a woman's not in danger," notes Ariadne even as she makes herself remove the earphones from around the back of her skull. "But shit, yes, get to the main instrument panels, there should be a way to get the radio going or something easy-peasy." Pen gets slung back on her shirt again and the clipboard tucked under her arm. "Just have to get past Professor Hawkins."

Yes. She of of the apt name, 'hawk kin', sharp-eyed and sharp-witted and nobody to mess with. She's more than likely at the helm with some of her cohorts discussing lab results and sonar readings.

"Shit, wait, she's going to ask why we're turning the music on if I'm supposed to be listening for them! Uh. Uh, shit, uh." Her eyes fall on the power cord's insert to the machine itself. With a wince, she grips there and yanks hard enough to leave a mild red mark on her own palm. "I'm going to regret that later, but it's now broken, yaaaaay, gotta let the boss know it's not working, we can play music, can't take a hydrophone reading!" she says with forced cheer as she then travels in Ravn's direction. "Time to save some Muggles."

Ravn nods. "It's the myth. They only go for men."

Then he heads towards -- Professor Hawkins, is it? How easy it is, playing the role of the rich idiot when you have no idea who people are or what they're supposed to be doing. He closes his eyes a moment. Focus. Find the character. If you tell yourself you're just acting you can do it.

"Professor, ah, Hawk, was it? I do fear the listening device is broken. Terrible shame, really, frightfully shoddy." He tends to have an accent that wishes it was British. Now he affects it deliberately -- the idle tongue of the idle rich. The archetypal European with too much money and too much time, and far from enough brain. "Really quite terribly disappointing. I expected better. Ah well! I suppose we might as well find some other way to pass the time. I don't suppose this tub has a well supplied bar?"

"Good point," the barista allows of the folklorist's reply. Now to figure out whether or not the myth is the usual plating of trouble or an extra heaping because the sirens play for all the cards, not just half the deck.

Professor Hawkins, up on the bridge, is in the middle of a tirade about the results of the sonar. The paper rattles as she shakes it at fellow junior marine biologist Todd, who winces in agreement, and then there's Ravn speaking up. The woman, steel-grey of hair meticulously pulled back into a bun, gives Ravn a look better suited for peeling wallpaper for a split second. Just as quickly, her expression shifts to a severely-strained politeness.

"If you want more white wine, Mister Abildgaard, the kitchenette on the main deck should have some chilling in the fridge still. We are roughing it a little out here," she observes, her northeastern American accent shining through. "What's this about the hydrophone?" Now her eyes land on Ariadne.

Gulp. "Something about the power cord, m'am, the insert into the machine itself. I saw a spark and it fritzed out." Ariadne shrugs, her lips scrunched. Sparks plus sea water equals bad; everybody knows that.

"Ugh." Hawkins has a helluva glower. "Todd, go help her figure it out. If it's unsalvageable, go dig up the spare from the closet."

"Yes'm." Todd must be from Australia originally by his accent. "C'mon, Ari, let's go see if we can get it running again." He's about as tall as Ravn, which puts him inches above Ariadne, and the barista gives the Dane a significant look as she follows her fellow research peep in his departure from the bridge. It leaves Ravn with Professor Hawkins.

Mister Abildgaard, is it. Ravn sighs on the inside. Another of those dreams, then. He hates them. He hates them enough that he is in no doubt whatsoever that at least one Veil entity has realised he's a buffet of hatred -- if not, after all, why would they keep happening? All he wants is to be a normal bloke who works a job to pay his rent, has a beer with the boys on the marina on fight night, and draws no attention whatsoever. Perfectly achievable goals, when there are not monsters feeding on negative emotions by seeding strange and entirely too revealing hallucinations.

And he's stuck with Professor Hawkins. Ravn caught that look from Ariadne; he wonders if it meant 'distract the damned professor' or 'how lovely, this Dream comes with a cheerful young intern who speaks Marine Biologist too, and could you like, stay out of the way until anything happens, please'. He shrugs mentally; if he'd been in Todd's boots, he'd certainly rather spend time with sassy, interesting Ariadne than Professor Hawkbeak here, too.

"Goodness, we are, I don't know how you bear it all year round," he drawls in his best (worst) imitation of Oxbridge Meets the Peerage. "I'll just toddle down, see what I can find, won't I?"

He's a grifter. He knows there's nothing more dangerous near expensive equipment or on a boat than someone who doesn't know what they're doing. He's that someone, and he's on a boat with expensive equipment. And he knows that Professor Hawkbeak knows it. He slams the door a little hard, followed by a slightly too loud, "Whoops, haha," to make sure to keep her focus.

After all, if he's meant to distract her, nothing is more distracting than having to watch that asshole not break everything in his pursuit of a champagne bottle. She'll follow him or her attention will at least be on him, and either way, he gets to look around the interior quickly for anything that looks like a sound system that can be used to deafen out siren song.

Ravn does an amazing job of the intention of the look: distracting Professors Hawkins. If only Ariadne had been able to see the woman's expression after the door's audible closure. The barista would have had to beg to hide behind a wall and laugh silently until her ribs ached. As such, that particular door opens again after two seconds and here comes Professor Hawkins like the avenging angel academic she is. God forbid that man touch any delicate instruments on his quest for the second wine bottle in the fridge!

"Was Ariadne able to explain to you what she was listening for?" the steel-haired woman asks of Ravn as they reach the main deck from the stairs of the bridge and turn towards the small kitchenette tucked to the interior space beneath the bridge.

Meanwhile, Ariadne stands off to one side with her thumbnail in her mouth and very nearly committed to a fate of being nibbled-to-death. She shoves her hands away under her armpits again while she watches him manipulate the machine (now unplugged, thank you, common sense) and frown at it. "Thing's pretty well busted," he mutters to himself, glancing up at his fellow junior biologist. "Too much tugging, wave movement and all. I mean, I heard something when I jiggled the cord around, but nobody's gonna want to be shocked over 'maybes'. Looks like we get the spare like the prof said."

"Fine by me," Ariande totally and completely lies. No, it's not okay, Todd needs to be nowhere near the hydrophones. There's the sensation of being watched anyways. It brings her to glance towards the waters surrounding the boat. Behind her, the sun has just touched the horizon, its glowing disc beginning to go liquid near the bottom. Is that...? Todd is busily winding cord upon itself and meticulously checking every inch of it while the barista drifts towards the railbars lining the boat's low walls. She dares to peer over the edge --

-- and makes direct gaze-lock with somebeing's deeply-dark and alien eyes. Just beneath the surface, by about a foot, lingers a freakin' siren. Ariadne freezes up instinctively while her mouth just falls open.

WHAT.

The objective is to keep Professor Hawkbeak here distracted. Take one for the team, Abildgaard.

Ravn turns around with the guilty expression of someone who was absolutely not about to push that button to see what it does and smiles brightly. "Oh, I'm jolly well sure she tried, professor, but -- you know how it is, haha. Gorgeous young thing like her, a man gets distracted, I'm sure it was some kind of fish."

If he's lucky he won't get slapped. If he's lucky the poor professor will scream for half an hour, buying Ariadne a lot of time. Taking one for the team, he figures; it's a grift, after a fashion, and he's the distraction. He would feel bad about it because no doubt, this poor woman has had to deal with people exactly like this far too many times, to keep up her research grants. He feels less bad remembering that he and Ariadne are trying to save lives here.

"Hah-hah." It could not be a more false iteration of a laugh. The audience, unseen, is cringing for Ravn. The man himself receives a look from the Professor so withering that if he feels his skin prune up, he might end up as part-mummy when this conversation is finished. "It was probably some species of fish, yes, though there are various large mammals who might investigate a hydrophone. Take, for instance, seals foraging out in these depths. That is the point of this expedition, to prove the sightings of sirens are seals, not mythical constructs of human imagination."

And she all but spits on the idea of living myth in the process. There's the fridge, however, and Hawkins sweeps in to gather up delicate instruments laid about on their charging cords. The items and locations are varied as befits a busy, distracted science team.

Ariadne, meanwhile, is trying to make herself do anything BUT stare. The siren's hair is beautiful in a way, moving about in long tendrils like sea grass, and her limbs barely shift with the natural ease of remaining right where she is beneath the surface effortlessly. It's a bit like staring down a waiting pike. Finally, finally, a garbled sound bubbles up from the barista and she makes a flaily waving motion back towards Todd. "Get -- Hawkins!" Words! Words are a success!

Unfortunately, Todd, consumed by that same streak of curiosity present in all scientists, comes to the side of the boat rather than retrieving the Professor. There goes the hydrophone, clunk. "Croikey...she's beautiful!" breathes the young man, already leaning out two-thirds of his torso over the railbar. It comes softly, melodically, a sweet whale-song-like greeting, from the siren. Ariadne is now busily staring at Todd.

WAIT. SHIT.

Ravn bites back hard on the urge to point out that actually, akshually even, he's got a bloody PhD in folklore, he's from the country of the Little Mermaid, and he fucking well knows that mermaid legends are largely based off the sightings of harbour seals and other marine mammals -- except when they aren't because he's also from Gray Harbor where carnivorous mermaids are also real.

He can't really tell the professor either. He has two objectives here: Find a radio or music player, and keep the professor from getting herself killed. He can only hope that Ariadne is having luck with hers -- and the awareness that Todd is more likely to end up as a fish girl dinner than the professor is eats at his mind.

Out of some distant memory comes the Americanism: Finna smak a fish girl. He can't remember where from.

"Well, let's get some music," the supposed folklorist slash philanthropist slash actual academic beams, pretending to not even notice the withering glare. "If the hydro-thing is ruined? Let's do it the oldfashioned way, haha? Jolly good, old bird, let's live a little -- those things sing, do they not? They love music. Let's invite the mermaids over for a song and dance, shall we? Splendid."

It's a radio. Let's crank it up to eleven. Hopefully it's Norwegian screamy death metal.

"TODD, GET THE FUCK BACK!" Ariadne has a double-hands' worth of death-grip on her fellow junior biologist's shirt now to keep him from all but tumbling into the embrace of the winsome siren. She's busy melodiously charming him as is her modus operandi and man, the kid's caught, hook, line and sinker. One bad shift of weight and it's into the drink to never be seen again, no doubt.

But then.

But then.

HEY NOW, YOU'RE AN ALL-STAR, GET THE SHOW ON, GET PAID ~

Nothing like some Smash Mouth to ruin a siren's serenade. She shrieks and executes a turn-about to dive away from the boat at a shocking speed and agility. Todd blinks and his sudden lack of resistance means both biologists tumble backwards into a tangle of limbs and "OW!" and "FUCK?!" and "ELBOW!" and "SORRY!"

Hawkins pinches her lips in Ravn's direction, now outright scowling. "I hope no one had the hydrophone's earphones on when you did that," she mutters, sparing at least a little sympathy for her junior cohorts.

"Oh my," drawls Ravn and smiles the beatific smile of the rich and dimwitted. "That's rather loud, isn't it? Oh dear. Not the music I would have chosen but it's certainly something different, don't you think? Come on, old girl, let's vamoose up on deck and watch the show, shall we?"

He tries to half make his way past the professor, half herd her ahead of himself, up towards the deck. Get the women on deck. Yes. Good plan. And maybe manage to grab that other intern, haul his arse downstairs, out of the range of the sirens. Ravn may be a target for being male, but Todd is male and he does not shine. He is screwed. Just not in the way that he was probably hoping for.

Hawkins isn't concerned about the volume of the music now. She is, however, concerned about the sounds of sudden impact and the younger voices yowling about this sudden impact. Leading the way out onto the deck, she stops and stares.

"SCULLIN! HENDERSON!"

Todd, red to his ears, is busily trying to extricate himself from sprawling atop Ariadne -- she, in turn, is attempting to stiff-arm him off of her person as quickly and kindly as possible. Yes, he takes a palm to the face and grunts, falling over onto his side per misplaced balance. Ariadne gets to her feet and yanks her shirt down, hating how her cheeks are all but miniature suns right now.

"There was a siren, m'am, and Todd was too close! I had to pull him back!" Total truth. Too bad it sounds like total bullshit. Hawkins scowls thunderously.

"My, somebody is having a good time, how exciting!" Ravn's Oxbridge drawl could win awards for bad movie acting, of this he is certain. "I suppose that's a way to attract a mermaid too, give her a show she can't resist!"

No, he doesn't think Ariadne grabbed the chance to make out with Todd the probably-a-Veil-construct the first chance she saw. He just wants Professor Hawkwind to think so, or at least feel defensive enough about it to start yelling. Angry people in loud music don't have time to get sung at from the sea.

And maybe somewhere in that mess, he can get away with setting a course for the land.

Ain't nobody got time to get siren'd at, not with the ragingly-cheery sounds of Smash Mouth singing about glimmering gold and flashbacks to everything 90s.

Hawkins gives Ravn another withering glare and then barks at Todd to relocate himself to the kitchen, the extra battery for the sonar is NOT recharging, find out why IMMEDIATELY. Ariadne gets another command to figure out the damn hydrophone, go get the EXTRA, FOR FUCK'S SAKE -- "Pardon my language," Hawkins asides to Ravn in a tone completely lacking apology.

Todd scurries, there he goes, look at him go. Ariadne replies with an uncomfortably loud "YES, M'AM!" a la near-boot camp and the Professor then stomps off back to the bridge to see about interpreting readings because, once again, the rich philanthropist is with the babysitter.

On Smash Mouth plays and Ariadne gives Ravn a flat, flat look. "Stop being gross," she mutters as she too stomps past him, no doubt headed downstairs to the small storage room onboard the ship.

"Love," Ravn drawls, still sounding Britisher than the actually British, "You ain't seen nothing yet. At least not if it comes to saving the life of Todd the bloody good looking American intern. I don't care if it takes you snogging him or me, but I'm not throwing him to the fish girls."

The glare he shoots at Ariadne's back comes with a frown. "I'm not trying to be creepy. We don't want him to get eaten alive. And we do want your boss to be mad because loud and angry and not in the mood for the snuggles is exactly where we want Todd to be. So let's get her to yell at him somehow, shall we?"

"She's going to rip him a new one, I promise, Todd is set for life as far as boner-killers," Ariadne retorts over her shoulder, her look still vastly irritated in Ravn's direction. "And Todd's Australian anyways. Just...come on. I have to find the spare hydrophone and I can tell, at this point, that Hawkins expects me to keep an eye on you for whatever dumb-ass reason. I know you're not an idiot. I have to break this hydrophone too because the last thing we need is Todd, blue balls and all, waltzing over to the edge of the boat again because he was thinking he'd see about hearing that sound again in high def."

Down the stairs, she goes, footfalls heavier in her embarrassed mood. It takes a moment to locate the spare hydrophone and just one more moment to see about bending a wire dramatically out of place where the batteries are. The headphone jack, where it inserts into the machine? That gets bent. Everything's bent out of shape down here! For good measure, Ariadne makes a point of burying the headphones away in the middle layering of a box of a set of spare parts, like some other intern off-handedly tossed it in there and forgot. Whoops. What a shame. No extra hydrophone!

"Somehow, Todd the Handsome Australian's love life is not my primary concern here," Ravn mutters. "More making sure that he gets to have one. We need to piss Hawkface off. How do we piss Hawkface off? Can you go scream at Todd for trying to grope you, or whatever? It doesn't matter that it isn't true. It matters that he is watched like a hawk, and that he's not given a moment of silence to start thinking about blue balls and hot fish girls."

He pinches the bridge of his nose. "I can't believe I*m saying this but -- go kiss him, then slap him. He'll hate you, but, he'll be alive to hate you. I'll finish the rampage here and pretend I was just trying to get it all to work but fancy that, I'm just that incompetent, toodle-o."

"Hawkface is pissed-off, Ravn, she's furious. All I need to do is accidentally drop the hydrophone Todd dropped into the water and that's it: he's grounded for life. I don't even need to kiss or slap him. Do you know how much those things cost to somebody trying to do research? And we lose the memory card inserted into it with a week's worth of recordings. Jesus flying fuck, I can't believe I'm actually thinking about doing this and it makes sense," Ariadne then growls, rubbing at her eyes with her fingertips. Mascara nearly goes everywhere for it. "I hate myself already."

She then squints up towards the deck through the ceiling and back at Ravn. "At least you turned on something I can get angrily stuck in my head later. God, this Dream is a fucking asshole." Ravn's dealing with his discomfort at being rich and useless. Ariadne? Her anger at being forced to be the bad guy for a long-term benefit.

"Save the equipment, snog an intern?" Ravn makes a wry face. "Look, the only other thing that might land Todd in forever watched hell is if he slaps me one. And with all due respect -- I'm not really up for making out for the cause. I'm not very good with touching people, or for that matter, getting punched by them."

He shakes his head and tugs at his shirt. "I hate this outfit, I hate this place, I hate that we can't ever just have some nice, quiet moment. Want me to make a mess here and claim I was just trying to help, or want me to go pinch Hawkface's butt?"

"...make a mess," Ariadne decides, her expression equal parts irritated and rueful now. The Dream, apparently, must have its due. "I'll go dump the hydrophone overboard and complain to Hawkins. Go, team, go," she adds in a tone so painfully dry.

Needless to say: between the 'accidental' mess and Todd's 'honest mistake, m'am, I swear!', the good ship First Star to the Right is full of rageful Hawkins. First, broken equipment, second, horny interns, third, idiot rich guy? She can't handle it. Cue screeching, much screeching, and a demand to turn the goddamn boat around, they're going HOME. Weirdly enough, there's the sensation of time skip. Whatever due the Dream wanted, it got.

Ariadne blinks. They're still on the large yacht, yes, but Hawkins and Todd are nowhere to be seen. It's past sunset now and despite being docked, the view out onto the waters is beautiful. Wherever they've docked is tropical indeed, or at least semi-so, and at this point, the barista realizes she's settled into a partially-reclined deck chair with her own glass of...sangria, thank god, not white wine. It's intelligent, her initial reaction: "Uh."

Ravn does a slow blink. And then another. And then one at the chilled sangria he is holding. The engine hums softly. Not a fin in sight that's not meant to be there.

"O-okay," he says, slowly. Then he leans back. "I am going to make it my headcanon that your professor suddenly saw how handsome Todd the Australian Intern is when he's whimpering, and he saw how hot she is when she's furious, and now they're both below deck having some very kinky fun and being entirely safe."

He sips the glass, and savours the taste. "And if that means we get some quiet time too, fine by me. Kinky fun optional."

"...see, even if this is a Dream, I work with these people and I can't unsee in my mind's eye what you just said, Darth Bathrobes, UGH!"

Ariadne can't help but bust out into belly-laughter at this point. Relief mingles with a tiredness springing from the stress of the Dream's previous arc. She still feels terrible for Todd. And Hawkins. But, apparently, there's sangria as a balm for this.

"But...god, yeah, some quiet time." Sighing, she leans her head back against the chair and considers the horizon. It's a stereotypical display of colors and clouds, worthy of any postcard, and she can't complain. "The sangria's not half-bad too. I'm kind of a snob about it, but...this'll do." Another long sip. "Kinky fun optional, huh?" Ravn gets a cheeky grin. His friend isn't going to let that one slide unanswered.

"Eh, knock yourself out if you're in that mood. Don't expect me to sign up to get slapped around, though. Really not my cup of tea. Glass of wine." Ravn leans back in his deck chair and looks up at the moon. It's big and pale and gorgeous, and he has a vague notion that this is a setup for something.

He'd probably have excused himself, mumbled about going to bed, if Ariadne had had any kind of way to have arranged this. And then spent the night in his bed, trying to decide whether he's just seeing ghosts. And praying, indeed, to not see a very certain ghost. The thought, even now, is enough for him to glance around.

There is no one else on the deck. He closes his eyes. "I almost wish this part was real. When the season allows, I want to go out on the bay, sit like this, and, well, just do nothing. Look at the moon. Relax."

Having teased as is her wont, Ariadne simply smiles quietly to herself and then returns her attention to this moon. It is, in fact, a grand thing against a blanket of stars stretching from horizon to horizon, each of these little pinpoints of light growing brighter as the sun sinks lower on the horizon. The boat rocks gently back and forth in its mooring. Sleepy gulls fly by overhead on their return to nightly roosts.

"It'd be nice if it were real, yeah," she murmurs back, dozily recrossing her ankles. "Nothing stopping you from doing it once the season's around back in the real world. I still stand by the plan of bringing a fake blue gemstone necklace because that joke will never die -- er, never let go." Bland correction for the sake of a Titanic reference is followed by another sip of sangria. Merciless, this one.

"Nothing stops you either," Ravn points out, eyes still closed. "Granted, Todd may be a figment of our imagination but he's probably not the only handsome intern in the world. In fact, come the tourist season, the marina will be full of handsome sailor boys -- and some of them might even be able to tell a cod from a plaice if you slap them hard enough with both. Or girls, if that's your preference."

Then he chuckles, softly, to himself. "Just, if you want to go out on the bay with me, don't bring a bottle of wine. Girls have, twice. And both times, I've had Rosencrantz very patiently explaining the situation to me."

He adopts the New Yorker's drawl -- not perfectly, but well enough to be recognised as a New York-ish accent at least. "Ravshka, when a hot young thing turns up on your boat with a bottle of wine talkin' 'bout watchin' the stars, she's not lookin' for the stars. God, that was so embarrassing."

Ariadne ends up laughing again, hand on her stomach. She holds her wine glass out to one side so it doesn't slosh onto her person.

"Wise beyond his years, this Rosencrantz. I'd make a crack about him being like Yoda, but he's not short enough." Little puckish smirk. "But yeah, no bottles of wine. I have a thing about drinking on a moving boat anyways. It only takes so much to pull the wrong rope or turn the wheel in the wrong direction and kaploosh. In your drinks and in the drink. We're moored here. I have no issue with a glass or two of sangria because we're moored."

"If you do sail, the idea is to sail where you want to go, drop the anchor, and then you drink." Ravn is nothing if not practical; sailing a yacht inebriated is a recipe for disaster. "See, I've got that part worked out just fine. The part I didn't get was the one where someone tells you they want to hang out, look at the stars, drink some wine and talk -- does not in fact mean any of that."

He chuckles and then opens his eyes again. "Both women left kind of disappointed. The penny dropped for me when Rosencrantz asked me about it. Because one of those women was with someone else -- a friend of Rosencrantz' at that. Could have turned out pretty bad, never mind the fact she was also my boss at the time."

"Oooh," winces Ariadne. "Yeah, ten out of ten for awkward, would not do again. That's a whole other kettle of fish, involving your boss. Well...I'm glad nothing really bad came of it, at least? You learned, they learned, crises were averted..." She shrugs against the back of her lounge chair and sips at the sangria again. "I can't say I'd go out drinking with my boss regardless of gender or sexuality though, that's...that's just an HR disaster waiting to happen, either immediately or in the future. Nope." She pops the short word off her lips.

A series of waves rocks the boat a little harder. It's extremely soothing, the sounds of the water brushing against the hull, and the manner of the lilting motion back and forth, back and forth. "Work parties are awkward as hell anyways. Like...who wants to get drunk in front of your coworkers? That's just a bad idea."

"Even if someone is not your boss -- you should avoid relationships with an unequal power dynamic. A teacher has no place screwing a student, no matter how the student might be offering, an employer should not screw an employee, and a rich patron to some hotel shouldn't be making offers to pay for a little extra to the wait staff. It may be consensual but it's still toxic as hell." Ravn nods and sips the sangria. "It still means taking advantage of a position of power. The other person cannot truly feel certain that saying no will not have consequences -- even if consequences 'just' means losing out on a tip. You might need that tip money and really, would it be such a big deal?"

He pauses and looks up at the sky. Then an apologetic look ends up tossed Ariadne's way. "Sorry. I think I said, my mind goes off on tangents. I've lived on the street for a while. I volunteer at a community centre. I've been in some situations, and I have heard about a lot of situations where someone feels or felt pressured into being friendlier or more accommodating than they wanted to -- not necessarily in a sexual way either. Someone getting pressured into working eighty hours weeks so their boss doesn't have to, that sort of thing as well. Betcha Professor Hawkface back there knows well enough how to guilt trip an intern, too."

"I'm sure Hawkins does, but given I haven't spent any more time with her than this Dream, I wouldn't know if I'd been subjected to it." Ariadne moves a hand to rest on her stomach now. She idly tips the sangria glass back and forth to get a circular sloshing of drink going within it, eyes lazily on this.

"You also don't need to apologize, but I hear you and accept it. Tangents are a thing and I'm not categorizing your thoughts as tangents. That's not kind to you or me," the barista notes gently. "Explaining thoughts is clear communication, it's just as simple as this. It's valid, the experiences you're sharing. I haven't lived on the street and I'm lucky enough to have been in very few of these situations with unusual power dynamics if only because I can see them and avoid them like Legos on a dark room's floor." She pauses as a seagull flies over lower than has been standard; any bombardments? No, and thank god for it. Her segue comes as, "So, we're on a boat, motherfucker -- " - break for brief titter-fest, throat clearing - " -- so tell me about your best memory with being on a boat."

Ravn resists the urge to argue that his thoughts can get quite tangential. Instead, he closes his eyes a moment and thinks back. He's spent a fair bit of time on boats.

After a moment he says, "I think my best moments have been either being by myself -- just me, the seagulls, the stars. A lot of my sailing has been about getting out of reach, basically. Not going somewhere far or exotic, just out on the fjord back home, drop the anchor, do absolutely nothing. I'd claim it was to get peace and quiet for studying but really, it was very much about just being by myself."

Then he looks back at Ariadne and smiles slightly. "After that? Not even going sailing in Gray Harbor, just being on the damned boat. I live there when the season permits. And friends sometimes come over -- with a bottle of wine or a sixpack, and no unspoken intentions. Practising my violin or watching Rosencrantz practise, at the aft end. Instant coffee in the morning when the air is fresh and smells of salt, and everything is quiet. It's not really about going places -- it's about quiet."

Feeling the Dane's eyes upon her, Ariadne glances over from marking what stars she recognizes. Only a few if them if any at all. Guess she's in a different hemisphere after all -- or a different time -- or a different reality entirely.

"That sounds great," she empathizes, smiling back. "There's something about peaceful quiet, yeah. I used to be able to do that on the back porch sometimes at home, moreso when I got older. Little sister didn't let me have much peace and quiet. Let's see, my best boat story... My aunt and uncle live in Tasmania, off of Australia." Her smile grow reminiscent as her gaze does distant past him. "They've got a small sailboat they putter around in the bay there. I went there to visit them when I was an older teenager. They live off of the land, in a way, with a gill net and sometimes, my uncle goes out spear-fishing for flounder. We went out at sunset into the bay and oh my god, the number of creatures I saw...but the best part was the tides were right. After the sun set, my uncle told me to reach out and run my hand in the water. I did and it turns out the tide had brought in some of those glowing phytoplankton. The kind that glow like blue starlight in the water. It was like..."

She falls silent to consider. "It was like drawing on the heavens themselves, to be poetic." A soft laugh. "Only a few more things in my life have been more beautiful than that."

"Going somewhere to see the bio-luminescent tide is on my bucket list," Ravn murmurs, picturing it to his mind's eye. He has seen pictures. He does not expect that they do the real thing much justice at all. "On video it looks surreal -- the colours are so intense that it almost looks like a strange cinematic effect because nothing real can be that intense."

He reaches for the sangria bottle and tops up his glass. Professor Hawkbeak travels in comfort, it seems. Or maybe he does, and Professor Hawkbeak figured that keeping him pleasantly sozzled for most of the trip would keep him out of the way and in a good enough mood to write a substantial check.

"Have you heard of the Wading Sea? It's just about an hour's drive from my home. National park now, world heritage site and all that. The tide shifts for literal kilometers. It's a passtime there to catch plaice and flatfish -- but not with spears like your uncle, but with your feet. You walk barefoot in the shallows, and when something wriggles -- you stand on it hard until you can pick it up by the tail and toss it in your bucket. There's a local dialect term for it -- trinne båter -- that doesn't translate into neither German or Danish, it's just -- stepping on flat fish."

"The blue glow is surreal and your brain goes, no way, but then again, you can feel the water through your fingers. Unbelievably cool." She reaches for the sangria bottle after Ravn is finished, the better to top off her own. It is good sangria, after all, why not enjoy it while she can. Shaking her head as to recognition of the Wading Sea, Ariadne then listens and finds herself eventually smiling out of pure appreciation at the idea of this place.

"Wow," she breathes and then laughs. "That sounds amazing. Oh my god, the -- all the species you could find there and just, walking around with waders. Or bare feet. I would probably screech the first time I stepped on a flat fish, no lie. Those fish get big too, so I'm sure a few times a month, somebody steps and it's like a rug pulled out from under them, shwoop!" Accenting her sound effect with gesture of hand, the barista chuckles. "I like that the name doesn't translate either. There's something...special about that, y'know? You've been out fishing there? Er, wading if not fishing."

"The Wading Sea is literally the wading sea -- the wades refer to the process, and to an area that you can wade in. It's a fairly dangerous place because the tide comes in hard. There's a couple of drowning incidents every year -- mostly tourists. Because you have kilometres of open beach ahead, just drive -- on the sea floor. And then, suddenly, the tide comes in and people are stuck. If they're lucky they're at a high place where they can sit on the roof of their car and wait for rescue. If they're not, the current takes them."

He thinks back and smiles at the memories. "There are islands out there -- one of them, you can reach by car at low tide. The others, one you go to by ferry where they've dug a canal deep enough to stay submerged all day, and another has a very long bridge across a shallow area. The tide difference, it's two or three metres in most places. It's the main feeding ground and resting place for most migrating birds as well, so it's an incredibly important and vulnerable area. And very sought by tourists because, well, Germany has almost no coastline and we sure as hell have enough to go around. There's endless amounts of seals, porpoises, marine wildlife."

"Minus the unfortunate decisions by some folks, that sounds amazing, Ravn. Man...I'm jealous you got to do that." Chuckling to herself again, Ariadne returns her regard to the sky above. While they were talking, the sun managed to dip beneath the horizon. Frowning and sighing, the barista shakes her head at herself. "Damnit, missed the Green Flash," she mutters. "Next time." She still can't complain overmuch; the moon is full and bright and the stars are coming out more brightly with each passing minute. The wind off of the waters isn't cool yet, but experience tells her another hour or two and she'll want a light sweatshirt she has stashed away in the main kitchen area.

Sitting up more in the lounge chair, she reaches to tug down one of the hems of her cargo pants. "Consider this Wading Sea part of my bucket list for someday when I'm rich enough to afford a plane ticket out there. Otherwise, puttering around the bay back in the real world will have to stand in. But hey, if there are orcas, I can't complain. When are you thinking of taking your own boat out?"

"I figure that April is when I give her the work-over and get her back in the water. Then, well -- as soon as I don't freeze my tail off in doing so, I'm back to living on her until fall." Ravn smiles -- and then quirks an eyebrow. "What's the green flash?"

He's probably going to need to pull something on as well -- that flowery shirt does little in terms of preserving modesty or body heat. He figures that if he's playing this role? He probably has a suitcase somewhere that might even contain a full dress-for-dinner set of slacks, blazer, and captain's cap. Because what rich asshole yachter doesn't?

"It's funny. It's always things far away that we think about when we think about places we want to see. The Wading Sea is unique and it's kind of in my backyard. So who's surprised I thought seeing Puget Sound was amazing?"

Ariadne nods. April. "Not too far away," she notes of the upcoming month. Her brows immediately lift, however, at the lack of recognition of the Green Flash. Golden-hazel eyes rest on Ravn again.

"Wait until you see the Green Flash off the bay back in the Harbor then," she replies, grinning in a manner of hometown-pride at his awe in the Puget Sound. "You need a pretty big body of water to see it. So, the Green Flash. God, it's the most amazing thing. It's what happens when the rays of the setting sun bend just right on the horizon. The atmosphere of earth refracts like a lens at the very lowest point of what we think is the horizon, where the sky meets the sea. If you watch the sun very carefully, that very last instant before it disappears on the horizon? The colors of the sunlight rays coming through shift all the way through to green. Your eyes tell you it's a neon-green flash and then the sun has set. It has...so many cultural connotations, but my favorite sailor's spin on it is that it marks that moment where the wall between the world of reality and the world of spirits is open -- just that split second." She snaps her fingers to accent her point. "A hanging breath and boom: gone and done. Beautiful."

"And here, near the thin spot? It very well might be a literal gate between worlds." Ravn glances out at the ocean and thinks back. Has he seen something like that.

He's pretty sure he has not. "That does sound amazing. I wonder why I never heard of it or saw it -- Denmark literally is the country in the world with the most coast line per bit of dry land, we have a lot of ocean. Doesn't ring any bells though. Makes you wonder if it applies to all oceans or just some -- the North Atlantic, for instance, looks like quite different from the Mediterranean, due to the salt content of the latter. Hell, you can even see the literal colour change in the water at the north tip of Denmark where the Baltic and the North Atlantic meet. Different shades of green-gray-blue."

"Given all that's required for a Green Flash is a water-based horizon and a sunset, you can see a Green Flash anywhere on the planet as long as you have a big enough body of water. I think you've just either been distracted, unlucky, or had a lot of clouds going on. It's very aptly named. It's literally no more than a flash. You blink, you miss it." Another snap of fingers and more sangria enjoyed. "I've only seen it once because I did not blink. I've never captured it on camera and I know I've missed it the other times because I've blinked."

Ariadne then pauses. "Oh, wait, right, Pirates of the Caribbean. In the...second...one? No, third one. One of them, the Green Flash signals a soul coming back from the dead. It's part of the plot. I won't ruin it for you if you intend to watch the movies. They're charming in a grandiose way." Her smirk is friendly still.

"That makes sense. A lot of cultures associate the horizon of the ocean with the land of the dead, after all." Ravn gestures in what he hopes is a vaguely westward direction, holding his glass up. "The North Atlantic west of the British Isles supposedly crawls with sunken kingdoms, after all. It's a stubborn myth -- an endless sea is too vast for our minds to comprehend, there has to be something beyond the horizon -- even if it's the land of the dead. Just like now, we can't wrap our minds around the idea of an infinite universe. We have to think -- all right, but what's on the other side, then?"

Then he laughs softly. "So, when you ask when I get the Vagabond back in the water, does that mean you want an invitation? I thought I already said you're welcome -- but in case I didn't, you're very welcome. It'll be an interesting trip for me too that way -- as a marine biologist you must know things about this region and the marine life that are worth hearing. Even if we don't see orcas or great whites or for that matter, sirens, there's still a lot going on. Just, well, in the light of my recent confession, rest assured that if you turn up with a sixpack saying you want to look at the stars, I'll hear 'she wants to look at the stars'."

Ariadne can't help but laugh. A hand is waved towards Ravn as she replies, "Look, I'm not bringing alcohol, it's not happening. I don't drink on boats which aren't moored, period, and I'm still not comfortable about drinking out on the water itself." If there's a story, she's not inclined to share it at the moment. "And I know I have an invitation that's standing. I mentioned bringing the blue-gem necklace, after all. I'll be along to enjoy the ride as well as company, yes, but also yeah, to see what shows up in the bay. Call me selfish, but I can't just serve coffee all the time. I'm going to go get my feet -- well, waders, wet as soon as I can on the regular. I'm still in contact with one of my professors back at U.W. and she won't mind some updates now and then on local seabird populations, how old the clams are, etcetera, etcetera."

Another sigh and her attention returns to the starry sky. "I've never dove on a wreck, but that would be another thing on my bucket list, speaking of underwater kingdoms of the dead. Wrecks are just the coolest little microcosms of their own. All the anemones...and I bet there are some big wolf eels around the bay, ooh, yes." Already, she appears to be musing about where to rent a scuba suit.

"There's wrecks here in the bay, I know that. Though whether they're real -- I suppose that's up for debate. The storm sucked enough water out of the bay last summer that we saw an old Spanish galleon -- which makes no sense to me, because bloody hell, what a detour it would have had to take to get here, around the tip of South America." Ravn frowns lightly. "The bay has been used for goods hauling since pioneer times, there are bound to be wrecks that aren't strange or otherworldly, too."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Maybe you could get in touch with the park services? Marine life is part of the national park too, I figure. They might need people. The shape of the bay here makes it unusual as far as I can tell -- it's not properly a fjord, but almost. There has to be a lot of interesting things going on down there, where the fresh water of the Chehalis comes out into the salt water of the Pacific."

It's pretty easy to read the barista's lips when the revelation of a Spanish galleon wreck is shared: What the fuck. "No kidding," she agrees aloud with Ravn's wonderment at the massive detour necessary for a ship like that to end up in the bay.

"That's a good idea though, talking to Parks and Rec." Even if there's a flicker of hesitance through her face, Ariadne still nods. "I bet they'd have any official wrecks marked out too on a map somewhere. Or maybe someone else has gone and dove around them before. It'd have to be timed very carefully. The waters aren't the clearest in the Pacific Northwest, period, no matter where you're diving at. Hell, diving in the Sound is very, very dangerous sometimes because of this and yet folks still do it. Less than ten feet visibility?" She shivers. "Ugh, no thank you."

"Might even have a position to weasel into, whether full or part time." Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "I mean, if you're looking to get back into it once you get settled in. I can't imagine that Gray Harbor is on top of most people's top ten places I wish to study marine wildlife at -- simply because the town isn't. I don't imagine they get swamped with hopeful candidates -- around here, wouldn't they be up at the Sound, indeed?"

Ariadne lifts a waffling hand. "Eh...yes and no, I'd bet, about folks from here wanting to be up puttering around the Sound. The Sound is still a lot of commercial water. Big boats mean refuse, stuff floating around, yellowish foam up against the rocks sometimes. It's not a pristine environment. Maybe if somebody wants to study humanity's effects on the Sound, sure, that's your go-to place. I prefer the places where maybe humanity's touched a few things, but wildlife still goes along as it has for the last epoch or so."

Another sip of sangria. "Plus, if nobody's studied deeply around here? Imagine what hasn't been discovered. I could write a paper which could blow the lid on some previously-thought scientific fact. Or hell, uncover a new species of fish or mollusk or mammal. Or find a new, unrecorded breeding ground. The opportunities are amazeballs." She then tucks her chin and shakes her head a little at herself. "Talk about tangents. Anyways. If you ever want to go dig up geoducks or moon snails, you let me know."

Spelled 'geoducks', but pronounced 'gooey-ducks'.

"I have no idea what either are but it sounds like fun." Ravn laughs softly. "I'll be the first to admit, I don't really know the first thing about marine biology. But I do know that being out on the water is good, and almost anything is worth doing in good company. And I am curious as to what's actually down there, rather than what the Veil tells us is down there. Spanish galleon full of selkies and crated childhood treasures? Not so likely. Lots of potential for 19th and 20th century wrecks, though, and this is where I point out I'm a historian, and that you have all my interest."

He laughs and sips the sangria. "Someone who doesn't mind me going off on bizarre tangents and rambling about weird things -- she does the same, but with sea slugs and underwater bugs? We'll have a party."

"At risk of me sounding very juvenile, wait until I find you a California sea cucumber to hold. You'll see why it's so damn amusing once you do."

And given she's a glass and a half into her sangria, Ariadne just cackles like a teenager would. Because reasons.

"But seriously. Clam beds. You walk on them and startle the clams and suddenly, it's a quick little water show. Maybe water goes up your pants. It's hilarious. Or finding a big Dungeness crab, those fuckers you don't mess with. One time, I found a baby octopus. It was the wee-est thing, like, no bigger than this!" She holds up a space of about an inch between thumb and forefinger. "Oh, and the little colorful...shit, I forget the species. The sea slug that's purple and gold and just beautiful. And the baby flounder. Oh, and the sandpiper chicks, oh my god, just -- "

The barista stops herself with another laugh. "It's a playground for a scientist, I swear, Veil fuckery aside."

Ravn laughs softly. "And are California sea cucumbers the things that the internet so smoothly have renamed as penis fish?"

Then he nods and smiles. "Once, I was wading barefoot off some islet or other back home. I had a blister on my ankle from my boot so I had a bandaid on. And I look down because something is kind of feeling weird -- only to see this crab the size of my hand plus legs trying to peel the bandaid off. I jumped a mile high, the crab went flying -- with the bandaid -- and my foot went back in the water, and I nearly stepped on a sea scorpion. Then I decided to just go back to shore because clearly, that bit of beach hated me."

The Dane cants his head. "Fishing sea scorpions was a thing when I was a kid -- in May. They're not really big enough to eat. They're fish -- they get the name because of their poisonous sting but really, it's no worse than a bee. You catch and release -- the whole game is about which one is prettiest. They come in every colour in the rainbow during mating season. Bright, irridescent -- orange, purple, emerald, you name it."

Somehow. Somehow. Ariadne replies calmly to Ravn's question with a very innocent, truthful, "No, they are not the same as what the internet remembers."

But close enough. He'll just have to see for himself.

His tale of the crab and sea scorpion fish, however, has her laughing all over again. "Oh my god," she manages, "I can see this. The flailing. I'll have to look up these fish though, sounds like something pretty I don't know about. Your childhood game also sounds like how my dad would dare his brothers to catch bees and hold them as long as possible without getting stung. What's the best color they come in then? Did you ever win?" she asks, grinning.

"My favourite was the emerald or the dark indigo. They stay this drab brown colour on top, very well camouflaged. And then, on the belly, gorgeous colours. All about flashing their tummies at passing females." Ravn chuckles. "But only one month a year. The rest of the year? They're just small things you shouldn't step on, because bee sting. And they have hideous faces. We call them Copenhageners in our part of the country, for that reason. I bet people from Copenhagen call them something along the same lines - Swedish fish or something."

He stretches long legs, largely uncovered by cargo shorts. "I don't remember whether I won, honestly? I think maybe I didn't care very much. I just liked their colours. When I think back now, I think it may not have been so great that we'd catch fish only to look at them and then release them, but you don't think about that when you're eight."

"Ohhhhhh, the belly," murmurs Ariadne as the explanation unravels. She can't help but laugh at the mocking name the fish are given. Fair enough, she thinks to herself as she takes another big sip of her sangria. She's rapidly reaching proper inebriation at this point and probably going to wobble once she gets up to fetch that light-weight sweatshirt. "Hey, it doesn't matter when you're little, you're right. Biologists do the same thing anyways, if in a less...clumsy manner. Maybe at one point, you wanted to be a marine biologist and you didn't know it."

A grin and then she kills the rest of her drink. Two full bulbs now, oof. The glass is tucked beneath her chair and she then makes to get up out of it.

It's a task. Wobbly? More than a little. Combine the gentle rocking of the boat and she's lucky to not faceplant just getting to her feet. "I'm gonna go get my sweatshirt, you got something stashed away down there?"

"I probably do. If I'm essentially being my philanthropist dick of a father, writing a check to get dragged along on adventures, I've probably got some designer coat that's worth three months of Professor Hawkgut's pay, and I'll go oh dear me, I guess I better toss this old rag once I get a whiff of sea spray on it."

Who's bitter? Ravn's not bitter. He's also not getting up. He doesn't want to know what's in his suitcase. Particularly not if his earlier predictions are right, and it's a pile of high end designer's 'yacht wear'. Sailsportsmen? Ugh. He'll just quietly turn blue, thanks.

Ariadne can't help the sympathetic little quirk of lips. It's not quite a smile. "I'll be sure to burn whatever fancy coat I find down there," she jokes lightly before making her way towards the stairs in question. There's the sound of her bouncing off the wall once -- "Oof, fuck!" -- but no disastrous, more painful outcomes in her quest for her sweatshirt. The barista returns wearing her sweatshirt, an amethyst-purple affair sporting a big UW on the front in gold, and with a picnic blanket over one arm.

The blanket gets tossed in Ravn's direction. "Bet your legs are cold," comes the comment as she then attempts to gracefully sit back down in the lounge chair. It's definitely more a flail-splat. "Where's my glass." Oh, derp, under the chair. Fetching this, she also fetches herself more sangria. Mmm.

Ravn looks a bit sheepish as he unfolds the blanket and wraps it around his legs. The sea wind of night does have bite, and he is probably going to appreciate it very much in short time.

He snuggles into it. "Think we'll wake up in each our bed at home, with a strange feeling like we had entirely too much sangria, and an urge to maybe not drink wine for a few days? I can live with that. Far happier ending than Todd is siren chow."

"If being Dream-hungover or watching my fellow biologist get chummed up are my options? Yes. Hangover is preferred. I have the day off anyways, like lounging around for a bit hating myself is going to kill me." Lackadaisically, the barista waves her non-sangria glass-holding hand. "I figure that maybe it'll be my own bed. That'd be nice. If it's your kitchen table with my face not half-submerged in goulash? That's fine too. I'd prefer not to be burbling away in my goulash."

A pensive frown. "I feel like I'd be visibly struggling if I was, and I'm not, so odds are good here."

"If it's my kitchen table, we'll take turns showering and then you'll sleep over." Ravn chuckles and sips his sangria; he's warm and snug and comfortable, and perhaps a little sloshed. "Aidan has this couch in a room upstairs -- we keep books there. It's the guest bed. He calls it the Most Comfortable Couch in the Universe. I lived on it for a week when I first came into town, he's not lying. Sleeping over is definitely an option, and one that comes with a door you can close for privacy."

Ariadne smiles again and the expression on her end is definitely heavily buzzed.

"That's sweet of you, Ravn, but remember I've got Sam to deal with. Depending on how many hours we've been out, I have to get back and check on him. Hungover is not the same as drunk, so...figure I'll be able to drive back to the motel and hate myself, but do it legally and without risk. Now, if I find a way to make it so he's comfortable for longer than a few hours? Yes, absolutely. I will take you up on the guest room with the door that actually closes for privacy. I sincerely appreciate the offer." In true friendliness, she then offers out a fist for what must be a fistbump.

A careful fist bump returned, gloved hand to ungloved. "That's a fair point. I suppose we should petition dreams to bring him so he too can emerge up there. Kitty Pryde isn't afraid of dogs so she wouldn't mind -- unless he annoys her, in which case I suspect she'll teach him better manners."

He leans back, and lets his head fall back so he can look at the unfamiliar stars. "I thought about that, you know? When you said you were staying at the murder motel. Thought, I could offer her that couch. It's there for that reason -- in case somebody needs a place to stay for a week or two. And then I paused to check my privilege, you realise? Because I can go stay on some guy's couch for a week and not be particularly terrified but most women can't. I didn't know you're a martial arts geek. I just thought, bloody hell, that would sound like the worst and most pathetic pick-up line in the history of mankind. Hi, wanna come test my super comfortable spare bed?"

"I guarantee you that Sam is mildly afraid of cats. They're full of pointy ends. He learned young." Ariadne chuckles quietly to herself.

She then leans back as well, dozily blinking at her fellow boat-mate. "Well..." Visibly, the barista considers. "I can see someone interpreting it like that. But honestly, being in retail as long as I've been? I would have taken the offer at literal definition and probably still gently told you no because I didn't know you very well. Plus Sam. I'm not going to randomly subject someone to a dog, not even one as well-behaved as Sam. I still like knowing that's available now though, in case I need to retreat away for a little bit or my power's out or I'm nearby and tired and have Sam with me or something. It's the thought which counts," she smiles at the Dane.

"Well, today I wouldn't think twice about bringing it up given that you do indeed know me." Ravn nods, and does not stop staring at what he's pretty certain is Polaris. Maybe. Possibly. "But we keep telling women to not go home with strangers, to not become dependent on strangers. And regrettably, it's good advice. There's no such thing as an Actually A Decent Bloke certificate."

He pauses. And then says, with a bit more force, "It pisses me off. That it's like that. That wherever you go, you have to be on guard. The same applies to men on the street so I do know at least some of what I'm talking about. Don't trust the helpful guy offering you a place to stay. Don't take food or drink from strangers unless it's in the original wrapping still. Don't think 'he's probably just drunk, he didn't mean to put his hand on my thigh.'"

Ariadne's smiles lessens until it disappears entirely. Eyes downcast, she nods and then attempts to follow Ravn's line of attention to the skies above. There are a lot of stars. Maybe it's that brightest one he's looking at. The north star? She has no idea; astronomy isn't her forte, not beyond some odd trivial facts here and there. That constellation could be the Little Bear, but her sangria-sloshed brain isn't making heads or tails of the collection of stars. Another hemisphere entirely? Maybe.

"Yeah, it's a bitch." At first, it seems that might be all the buzzed barista has to offer. She then sighs heavily. "It's part of why I'm so interested in self defense. I've had a few close calls in my life and no, I don't feel like discussing them. I find it's better to be over-prepared than under-prepared. A lot of times, yeah, it's broken trust. You thought the person was safe and suddenly, they're not. And respectfully, anybody offering a place to stay who's done this on the streets? Run the opposite way as fast as you can into a place with lots of light and other people. Major, major nope there. The world isn't safe. It's one of those lessons you hate to see others learn. It breaks your childhood's innocence like a china plate. Crash. Pieces everywhere. But I always hope the parents did their best to prepare their kids for that rude realization -- and if not? There's you, and there's me, and there's hope. And HOPE. Hope's important."

"I'm not asking," Ravn murmurs and upends his glass. "Generally, if people want to discuss their personal trauma, they'll let you know. Otherwise, mind your own."

He hitches a shoulder, just a bit. "Mind your own is good advice most of the time, anyhow. You can't save everyone. Start with the ones who actually ask for your help. I never needed to worry that I'm useless in a fight until I came to Gray Harbor. I stabbed a man in the fork with a fork when I was seven -- without touching the fork. I learned early on that if people can't believe what they just saw happen, you can get away while they're still trying to sort it out. It's only in a town where one in ten can pull stunts like that, it's nothing much."

"That's...a thing," murmurs Ariadne with a moderately-disturbed thoughtfulness. Telekinetic attack by silverware a la Stephen King. "I can't imagine you getting away with that around here. Me neither, but...then again, I haven't really seen anything come of what Glimmer I have." Granted, the barista hasn't actively tried; every instance has been unconscious and in defensive fright. "But yes...that's one the damnedest things about teaching self defense, not being able to save everyone. There's always the one who doesn't take it seriously. The one who doesn't practice at home. The one who gets a boost in self-confidence, but not enough. Every brain is different, every body is different, and...sometimes, it doesn't work. And that fucking sucks," Ariadne growls with a pained emphasis.

Her sangria doesn't seem delicious anymore. It might also be her body's way of telling her, gurl, you gonna reeeeeeeally hate yourself if you keep going. She puts the half-full glass on the deck beneath the chair instead. "But it's something rude that life teaches you, how you can't help everyone. But give everybody help? That, you can do, and at least you did something."

"Or you teach them and they get too confident and think they're Bruce Lee? I remember someone telling me that at the gym -- just 'cause you decked Monaghan once doesn't mean you're not going to get your ass kicked in a fight. Nor that the mugger may not have a gun." Ravn nods; a little carefully because while he is accustomed to drinking whiskey in surprising quantities, wine and whiskey are not the same, and wine is a sneaky little minx.

"Don't try to reach everyone. Be there for the ones that come to you. One of the social workers at HOPE told me that. From one of those plans -- drug addiction, alcohol addiction, I don't remember. Point was, you can chase after each addict but they won't come clean or sober until they are ready. So put your effort where you get something out of it."

"Right...the social workers are right. You can't reach them all. People have to choose to change. They have to choose not to be overconfident or scared still." Ariadne still sighs and rubs at her face in the manner of one inebriated. Wine always makes her too warm, but her hands and toes are cold -- this is homeostatic bull, she thinks to herself in the manner of a drunk scientist. "And it doesn't mean we both didn't help somebody. Somebody got helped. That's what counts more than anything el -- "

Vertigo sets in as the stars above melt and blend together.

As rudely as a sudden meter's worth of drop, both Dane and Seattleite are back at the kitchen table. With a groan, Ariadne lifts her pounding head and her spine makes a quiet pop as she straightens in the chair.

"...I hate these Dreams," she croaks, then squinting down at her cold goulash as if it had personally offended her. "But my face is not in my food. Thank fuck. Little wins."