2022-03-18 - Get Her Ready, Cap'n!

Like sea birds emerging from their dark caves, Ravn thinks. Except sea birds migrate rather than hibernate -- but then, who's he to let fact get in the way of a good metaphor. Spring on the marina is like sea birds popping out of the dark places they spent the winter, readying their wings and waiting to be released on to the ocean winds.

By sea birds he means yachts. It's too early for most of the small boats to return to the water, but it is one of the first bright spring days, and voila! The yachting tribe coalesces with brushes and soap water buckets and tool kits. Now is the time to make inspections and repairs. Scraping the hull comes slightly later, when the wind and the water is warmer, but make certain nothing was damaged by frost or rain during those long dark months the yachts sat under their tarps on the marina? Yes, sir, aye aye, sir.

Ravn of course is among them. He goes over every plank and screw of the Vagabond meticulously, watched by the small black cat that's scampered up to sit in the prow. Kitty Pryde doesn't care if the yacht is still on land. It's her place.

"Ahoy, matey! Yarg! Shiver me timbers! Tie off the mizzenmast! Batten the hatches, you feckless ingrates!"

Ariadne announces her approach with the possibly most ridiculous piratical sayings she can dredge up from memory. It's one of those days requiring still a windbreaker jacket, but one over a t-shirt rather than a long-sleeved thermal. Jeans and sneakers and a picnic tote slung like a courier's satchel across her body completes her outfit. Her hair is back in a mess bun as appears to be habit, but a cream cloth headband loosely stretches across the top of her head to keep further wispies out of her face.

"Oh, hey, check it, it's actually Kitty Pryde. Holy crap, girl, I thought you were a figment of my imagination. All hail, your highness," and the barista now standing on the dock by the boat mock-bows in the direction of the cat seated on the prow. "Is your butler doing his job then?"

Stoic cat is stoic. Stoic cat is cut from the darkest ebony wood to sit at the prow like a tiny, dainty galleon figurehead. (Stoic cat at least doesn't have naked boobs with which to distract Poseidon from churning up the seas with his trident). Stoic cat makes no pretence of even acknowledging that she is being spoken to. Stoic cat is back where she belongs, after years and years of endless, agonising winter stuck in a comfortable craftsman's house with two doting bachelors who routinely feed her large amounts of tuna.

Ravn's head pops up over the railing of the relatively small yacht and he chuckles. "Free beer for you if you can actually pinpoint the mizzenmast."

It's a trap. The Vagabond does not have a third aft mast. The Vagabond does in fact only have one mast, and a rig for a front sail if the wind allows.

"And a pleasant fuck-you to you too, furry madame," Ariadne mutters with a smirk under her breath. Sam, at least, would have turned an ear in acknowledgement, unlike Queenie McI'mTooGoodForYou over there on the prow.

There's Ravn, appearing with a grin, and the barista returns it. His question has her arching a brow and her grin takes on a sly twist. "Oh-ho, is this, like, some hazing ceremony? I can't get on the boat otherwise? Hmm," she then says, tapping an obvious finger to her chin. "Gawrsh. Golly gee willickers. It's like, if you break down the word 'mizzenmast', it implies more than one mast by proxy of 'middle', and you've got only one mast there, Cap'n Bathrobe. I'm going to tell you that you don't have a mizzenmast. Dark beer, please, and make it a good one, you whiskey snob. Permission to come aboard?"

"Granted, but be careful -- mostly because she's propped up on a boat trailer. Don't want to fall off, and it's a lot easier to lose your footing than when she's actually in the water." Ravn chuckles and ducks under deck.

There's a small seating area in the back; large enough that some six people can sit there if they're pretty friendly. Poking a head through the door to below decks reveals that the seating area in there converts to enough flat space to bed those six people too -- and still provided that they're on very friendly terms. Four on the seattee, and two up under the prow, and none of them better be claustrophobic. A tiny door hints of some kind of toilet facility, and the 'kitchen' is a sink, a bit of flat counter, a small fridge, and a small cooking area. If there is a cargo hold of some kind, it's probably under that seating area.

Ravn emerges with two bottles -- one is a pale wheat beer, and the other dark and syrupy. "I try to have a few bottles of either kind," he confesses. "Never know who decides to drop in on a summer night. And you're quite right about the mast -- only got the mainmast and the -- whatever you call them in English, I call it a spiler rig." He pronounces it 'speeler' -- might be an adopted German word, maybe.

"No dying, gotcha." With that, Ariadne goes around to the short ladder on the back of the boat and carefully ascends into the seating area. She's duly cautious, having seen many folks not make the ascent into a boat enough times whether on land or water, and she's setting aside the small picnic hamper by the time Ravn shows up again. "Oh, hey, thanks muchly," she says of the proferred beer. It's a microbrew porter, apparently with hints of caramel and coffee, and she won't say no. A part of her is glad to have eaten an early lunch; beer on an empty stomach is only so wise of an idea.

Another glance up towards Kitty Pryde and then back at the boat's owner. "Speeler rig. Hmm." A thoughtful sound for the foreign word. "Cheers," she then adds, looking to clink bottles. "I brought some more food. We had extra sandwiches at the café and since I'm the poor sap still trying to move into that place on Sycamore, the staff had pity on me. There's also a soda or two and some apples, the general boat munchies. I'm not so cool that I brought cheese and crackers, though maybe next time. How're things looking?" she asks of the boat's status as a whole.

"She's built to traverse the Atlantic so a winter snoozing it up here on the marina hardly has been a challenge." Ravn laughs softly and clinks wheat beer against horrible molasses concoction. "I probably don't have to dry dock her in winter. I still do because no small yacht is built to get picked up by a gale force wind and slammed against the pier. Freak storms happen."

Freak storms, supernatural hurricanes, summer in winter, yanno, the usual.

"I'm not really surprised that Eleanor may be trying to feed you, your dog, and the starving family of poor relatives that no doubt depend on you for a living." The folklorist laughs softly, and then plonks himself down opposite Ariadne. Now's as good a time for a break as any. "How's the whole Sycamore venture going? I take it the barbecue didn't scare you off? Hawthorne's kind of quiet but he tends to make a very good impression -- the whole nice, quiet older bloke who won't give a girl a hard time type."

Ariadne nods as she sits down on the moderately-comfortable (more functional) cushioned seat. "Yeah, I remember one year when my dad's rented boat got popped against the pier a few times because a storm blew through. You're a wise man, dry-docking the boat even if you don't need to. Better safe than sorry."

Ravn then asks after moving. The barista can't help the quiet, rueful scoff. "It's been more finding the time to move. We're not necessarily short-staffed, but we're a small staff. I can't leave people hanging, y'know? The barbecue didn't scare me off, no. I didn't see anybody and by what I could read in the body language, the ghosts were just...normal ghosts? Or supposed to be there, something like that." Crossing her legs, she idly twitches her sneakered toe in empty air. Hawthorne seems like a nice guy, yeah. I feel like I could go to him and be like, yo, a pipe is leaking, and he wouldn't hem or haw about getting it fixed. It's a relief. I've dealt with some asshole property managers before. Rotten apples. The worst."

Shaking her head, she tips the bottle to her lips briefly. "Mmm, not bad for somebody who professes to hate anything with actual flavor in it." Smirk at Ravn.

"You're the one drinking it, not me. Mine's a regular IPA." Ravn chuckles and holds up the bottle; yup, blandest of the bland, pale ale, wheat, bubbles, piss-coloured.

Then he nods. "I imagine that you could. Hawthorne's kind of -- introvert, I figure. Even more than me. And he's got that cool older dude vibe that a lot of women go crazy about, too -- without being a jerk about it as far as I am aware. I have to detest him for actually knowing how to use a tool box, of course. Yacht maintenance is just about the only kind of maintenance I actually do know how to do. Aidan's the handy man back on Oak Five, because you don't want me near a wrench."

"Well, you only really need to know how to do yacht maintenance then, right? If Aidan's the handy man back at the house," Ariadne observes, shrugging with a tip of her beer bottle. She's gone and leaned back against the seating now while her other arm rests along the hull of the boat. "Aidan's probably not going to volunteer to try and fix your boat. Generally, boats are the babies, like motorcycles and airplanes, the vehicle class. We don't let the hoi-polloi with their grubby, inexperienced, well-meaning hands near the babies." Unable to help laughing, she adds, "My dad's been on the receiving end of that before. He's tried to fix some things on the rented boat, meaning well, and the dock staff basically slapped his hands away since he doesn't have twenty years experience owning a boat."

Another glance up towards the prow. "Kitty Pryde looks like she's right at home. You weren't joking about it."

Ravn glances at his very stoic cat. "She really does keep me around for the boat and the tuna. I have no idea why she loves the boat so much. I think maybe it's simply that it has food and warm places, but it's not a house with doors."

Then he chuckles. "Vagabond is rented too. I mean, I don't own her. I rent her and I get her cheaper for doing the maintenance. And if I do decide to buy, I'll get a lower price for the work I've done, or so I was promised. Nothing was put in writing, though. It just seemed like the easiest solution when I came into town and decided to stay for a while. Clean up an old boat, and if you want to keep moving when you're done? Buy her, and sail away on her. Thought I might sail down the west coast and maybe sell her again down south."

"Definitely not an indoor cat," agrees the young woman, following again Ravn's line of attention to the cat seated at the prow.

Another long sip of her drink and Ariadne nods understanding as to the logic presented. "Makes sense to me. Are you thinking about buying her at one point or another? She looks good, honestly. I mean, I'm not a boat renter or owner, but I've been on enough sailboats to say she isn't a mess." Her golden-hazel eyes travel the length of the boat and then up the mast, considering the rigging and sails in the process. "How far down south would you go? Southern Oregon? Or you're talking the California coast?"

"At the time I was thinking Florida. Sell her somewhere in the Keys, proceed on land. I was heading for Tierra del Fuego, after all." Ravn sips his beer. "Now? I might never go. I guess it makes very little difference whether I rent her or own her, as long as I maintain her. She's not being sold to someone else -- the owner isn't particularly looking to make a buck. He agreed to rent her to me because I know this model -- it's a Finnish model, but it's the most common sailboat in Scandinavia. I grew up on boats like this one."

He chuckles. "It's probably how she ended up here. Someone sailed her from Scandinavia, through the Panama Canal and up the west coast, and then sold her here. Most of these boats, if you find them elsewhere, that's what happened -- someone doing the sea trip of a lifetime, and financing it by delivering the boat to a potential buyer in the tropics, the West Indies, or the US."

"I had no idea, about how the models like these ended up here, but again, makes sense. I haven't really sat down and considered how a boat might make it from Europe to the west side over here." Ariadne takes a moment to do this and tilts her head back and forth. Huh. Setting her beer aside, she then unzips the picnic cooler next to her on the row of seats. Out comes an apple and another is offered towards Ravn. They're honeycrisp, large and tart-sweet, blush-pink and light-gold in places, larger than your average red delicious.

And loud. Crunching into it, the barista laughs in plain delight at the sound. "Tierra del Fuego is pretty damn far though. I can't imagine sailing that distance. It seems...I mean, not daunting, but a task. I think you should stick around, but that's just me. You're a good guy, plain and simple. Folks need and accept your help. You're like..." Looking at Ravn with the open measure-gauging of a scientist, she decides, "The watchman. The place needs a watchman."

"Not me." Ravn shakes his head. "A watchman is someone who has power. Someone strong. Someone who can be humanity's shield. Me? At least I'm humanity's absentminded professor who talks too much. A librarian, of a sorts. For a watchman, you need someone who can take a punch and pay it back in kind."

He leans back a little, and accepts the apple with a smile. "Distance was the point, though. When I ran out of Europe I went to the States. I figured that when I ran out of North America I'd go to South America, and from there, maybe New Zealand and then Australia. Oceans are good. There's a lot of mileage in ocean, when the thing you're running from has to walk."

"Ocean's sure as hell going to stop anyone who thinks they're going to walk and track someone." Ariadne gives her friend one of those lingering looks, the kind where it's crystal-clear she's attempting to put puzzle pieces together. Just as quickly, the shared gazes break as she looks towards the prow again. Kitty Pryde hasn't stopped observing her kingdom, dock and bay alike. It makes the barista smirk to herself.

"Side note that librarians are powerful people are well," she says, her attention returning to Ravn again. "Ever seen the show, 'The Librarians'? I bet you'd love the hell out of it. The point of the show is that knowledge is power. It fights back against the darkness caused by lack of knowledge, willful or not. Even if Robin Williams had a point with his comedic line about 'Knowledge is power, power corrupts, learn much and be evil', knowledge is nothing to be undercut." She takes a big bite of her apple as if to impart, so there by it.

That lingering look is caught in passing. Ravn shakes his head. "It's -- the ocean only stops someone who needs to breathe. I was running from someone who didn't. Or who doesn't, because there's no way to really tell whether someone is truly dead this close to the Veil -- or whether they were ever really there at all. Protip: When someone's really mad at you, don't let them die near a thin spot."

He throws a lingering glance of his own at Kitty Pryde, the cat who is dead and haunting Gray Harbor -- and alive to go romping around the neighbourhood with her ghost slash lynx-sized buddy. The cat would give Schröedinger the headache of a lifetime.

Then he nods. "And knowledge is power. Hell, sometimes it feels like knowledge is the only kind of power that makes a lasting impact here. When we compare notes and share information, we stay a step ahead. But even so, we still need some big, strong bloke -- or blokette, equal opportunities and all -- to hold the dragons at bay while we search the archives. If I have some kind of label in our community here, that's probably who I am: The librarian. And even that is questionable because there are people in town who have spent an entire lifetime trying to figure it all out. They know a lot more like I do. Someone like Hawthorne? He's spent, what, fifty years here, taking notes, reading old records, trying to quietly piece it together. I've been here about a year and a half, and I'm only scraping the surface. It would be extremely presumptuous of me to think that I am somehow smarter or better at solving the puzzle than the many who went before me."

"And I'm going to point out, as someone who's done a fair amount of research herself, that somebody can hunt for answers for hundreds of years and all it takes it someone else scraping the surface to find this answer because they're a different brain entirely." Ariadne rolls her wrist out to the side with bitten apple gleaming in the wan sunlight of the late morning. "Nobody's saying you're presumptuous for claiming to be a librarian -- and who knows? You could be better because you weren't raised here. No ingrained assumptions or nurtured habits because you're one door down from a house now haunted and you knew the occupants until you were eight or something." Her brows lift as if daring the Dane to counter this argument.

She crosses and uncrosses her legs again, taking a moment to now look beyond Ravn briefly along the collection of docks and boats. The masts almost look forest-like, their spearing heights interrupted by branches of tacked-up sails and lines. "Note to self, don't let anybody die near a thin spot." It could be construed as mocking with the wording, but Ariadne's tone makes it anything but. It appears that in regards to anything ghostly? She's sincerely beginning to believe Ravn.

"That's going to be impossible," Ravn points out. "The entire town is one, and people die here. The important thing is to not let them die mad at you. Don't give them reason to come back. A lot of people died in my family's house back home too -- not because we're particularly murderous, but because it's been there since fourteen hundred and something. A lot of my family hangs around after death. But none of them have any issues or scores to settle with me, so I never really thought about it until someone died who did."

Is he pulling her leg? No, from his expression he is not. The Dane is as serious as a man can be when he is relaxing in the aft end of a dry docked boat with a cold beer, on one of the first proper spring days. "But I think that might be good life advice anywhere -- thin spot or not. Don't leave a trail of angry people. The Veil just forces us to face it a little more head on, maybe."

Nodding, Ariadne takes another bite of apple. She considers the wisdom of the advice and finds it sound. "Pain in the ass, how this Veil makes it more difficult to kick people in the shins and get away with it," she muses in a spate of dark humor. "But now you have me curious -- if you don't mind sharing." The addendum is honest as she shifts on the seat. It's not the comfiest place to sit, but then again, durability accounts for a good portion of the composition of the material.

"You've got family hanging around. Is it like...so, the Disney movie 'Mulan'. Historical and cultural inaccuracies aside, there's a part where her family's ancestors show up again and they all seem to have advice. Did you get, like...bizarre or useful advice from your family ghosts? Or was it all more like...dude, Uncle Bob, back the fuck off, I'm trying to do my homework in peace?" she asks, golden-hazel eyes intent on Ravn.

Ravn laughs softly and shakes his head before sipping his thin, pale excuse for beer. "A bit of both? It varies a lot depending on which ghost. Some of them are on record -- haunted manors with their white ladies and hell hounds and whatnot. Most, though? They were just memories -- not even really present, just the buildings remembering people and moments. Some were just -- hanging around, for whatever reasons. Most of them never interact. They may nod at you -- or well, me -- in passing if they feel like it, kind of one generation nodding at the other in passing in some hallway. A few of them are talkers -- but they're stuck in their own time frame. I'm not convinced all of those even realise that they're dead."

He looks out over the railing, casts a glance around -- perhaps copycatting Kitty Pryde, the statuesque figurehead, in surveying her realm. "And now that I live here, and have learned what I have learned here -- I am not sure they're even real. That those are real ghosts either, I mean. Maybe they're just Veil constructs -- memories, emotions given form. Either way most of them are pretty harmless."

Ariadne briefly follows the Dane's attention. Nothing to be concerned about by the way he continues talking. Congratulations, Ravn, you're now the local spooky barometer, at least in an unspoken manner and by the barista's estimate.

"I'd actually...be kind of disappointed that they weren't real ghosts. Or more than memories, if it were me, not going to lie. Sure, I can imagine their advice is massively outdated -- god, especially in the case of your ancestors back in Europe, good lord. No, Great-Great-Great-Great-Great Auntie Gertrude, I do not want to use belladonna to make my eyes look prettier, that's probably part of why you died so young," she says as example. "But maybe some of it would be useful long-term. Some...forgotten tidbit. Like, oh, hey, thanks, Great-Great-Great Uncle Bob, I don't mind you interrupting my homework to tell me where your little box of coins was hidden in the wall, that'll be useful one day. I imagine you can't pet the hellhounds though, so...loss there." Shrug.

"Oh, I've only actually seen him once. The hellhound that is. He tends to not show himself unless there is a reason. He built the house -- and he's destined to tear it down again some day, too. In the meantime? He'll stick around, guarding the house and the family. So if you see him -- well, either you're a threat to the family, or you're part of the family and under threat." Ravn thinks back. "I saw him in that strange Dream where we were trapped in 1940. He tried to warn us about the bloke with the falcon head cane, just before he went to shoot some Wehrmacht officer."

Ravn seems unaware of his new station as weirdness detector. "I don't think most ghosts are really ghosts, not in the sense you mean. Most are just memories. If they walk up for a chat, though? They're probably real. Memories just do whatever it is that has been recorded. Not that that doesn't mean they can't be dangerous. We have a white lady who will attack any young men walking a certain path at night because that's where her faithless lover abandoned her, that sort of thing."

"Poor thing. The white lady, I mean. For that to be the way the memory got recorded...or however that works." Ariadne shakes her head, sympathetic. "But it's nice that the hellhound is a guardian, in a way. I remember you mentioning how he's tied to the grounds, yeah, and whether or not the place remains standing. You think maybe the Dream about the guy with the falcon cane has something to do with your family's history then? I'd hate to get isolated out like that, especially with the crazy shit I've seen so far around here, but...I mean, the hellhound warned you?"

Another long sip of her dark beer. "And the rings in the casino Dream. You wearing one. Are you not telling us stuff, Ravn?" 'Us' being his close peers, assumedly.

Ravn shakes his head. "Not that I know of. The falcon rings in that casino Dream looked like some kind of fraternity thing. I am to the best of my knowledge not a member of any fraternities -- not even a college chess club. And falcons are not in our heraldry, either. I looked up falcons in Danish heraldry and there was actually a family named Falk -- but they went extinct in the 1400s. It's a first name, still -- like my own, Ravn. And the German version is pretty common -- Falch. But I did not see any direct correlation, no more than concluding that you must be Cretan because Ariadne is King Minos' daughter."

He steeples those long fingers under his chin and looks thoughtful; in the prow Kitty Pryde actually blinks and looks back in a fashion that almost might suggest that people around here are prone to overthinking things. "All we really know is that the falcon cane bloke shot a Nazi. And the falcon ring wearer shot a Saudi prince. Both were the top dogs in the story -- but apart from that, we don't know anything they had in common."

"No, we don't." Ariadne's agreement is resentful in the way of the scientist not having all of the variables available or discovered. She contemplates for a minute, chewing through another bite of apple as she watches another boat owner down the way by a few docks arrive to start checking their boat.

"But it makes me think of some sayings. One time is coincidence, second time is chance, third time is something funny. Also that correlation doesn't equal causation." Again, the Dane is under the scrutiny of those clear, keen golden-hazel eyes. "I shouldn't be assuming it's you influencing the Dreams with the falcon rings only because you're in them all of the time. Maybe there's something there you don't know about, but...it could just be the Dreams yanking chains. If you see the falcon symbol again though, it might be time to hit the books. Or a solid Google search. I bet you don't know all of your family secrets. I don't all of mine."

"I am absolutely positive that I don't. My family's history spawned my interest in history and folklore -- but we have eight hundred and fifty years of it on record, and I'll bet you good, solid money that a great part of that history was not recorded. Upper crust doesn't stay upper crust by means of kindhearted generosity. By modern standards, my ancestors were dicks -- and many of them were by contemporary standards, too." Ravn unsteeples his fingers long enough to grab his beer and another bite of the apple, before returning the latter to balance on his knee.

He never drops anything. Some people just don't.

"I'm an academic as well, remember?" The folklorist chuckles. "I know that correlation is not causation. I try to keep these things to the bare essentials: We know that the two dead men were in positions of power. And that's presently all we know. Falcons are not, to my knowledge, creatures of particular omen in any cultural tradition I am well traversed with."

The Dane leans back and glances after the bloke carrying a bucket and brushes towards another small yacht on the marina. He can't remember the man's name. He's pretty certain he's seen him at the fighting ring, though.

Then those blue-greys fixate on the woman again. "We talk a lot about me, though. And not very much about you. I know I'm supposed to be a self-centered dick by means of breeding and all, but I am actually more curious about you than I am about myself."

Slowly, as if acknowledging a point in a fencer's duel, Ariadne smiles without showing teeth. The curve of lips becomes puckish in passing, just a touch droll.

"I mean, you're not wrong. I know a lot about you now. It's one of those things I can do, make small talk. It helps with being a barista. People like to tell me things." She explains this like she was explaining why her hair is the color it is, or why she prefers coffee over tea: with an accepted ease. "It means I know a lot more than most people think when they look at me. It's kind of my super power, in a way. But, hey...you have a good point. So. What do you want to know? Ask."

She finishes the rest of her beer and sets the bottle down on the deck of the boat, off to one side where it won't be kicked.

Ravn chuckles and even looks a little sheepish. "It is a good talent to have. You are a good listener, too -- I don't usually talk all that much of myself unless there is something that requires it. And yet you make me talk about my family ghosts and whatnot like it is no big deal at all. It is your super power, I agree. And you know what they say -- want a man to feel comfortable, pretend his life story is the most interesting thing in the history of mankind."

Former grifter. Right. He'd know.

Then suddenly he laughs softly and looks away. "I don't know what to ask. Don't get me wrong -- I am very interested in knowing more about you, but I don't know what to ask that doesn't sound either intrusive as hell, or like I'm just pretending to return polite interest. You're a marine biologist and you're a martial artist, and I keep thinking, that's one hell of a combination, and what the hell does either of them want here."

Lifting her shoulders in a shrug seems to signal agreement with Ravn's observation. Ariadne's smile doesn't fade in the least. It's entirely true: evince interest in what someone has to say? They're bound to say more -- one of the base, unspoken habits of all communicative humankind.

Her head tilts a little as she then watches the Dane demur and eventually decide what he wants to know. Her brows flick. At first, Kitty Pryde gets another glance, as if checking in on the status of the cat were more important. An experienced grifter will mark this as someone organizing their thoughts and cherry-picking rather than blathering on about the first thing which comes to mind.

"Firstly, I can tell you're not just being polite. Body language." Another quirk of mouth to the grifter. "Secondly, those aren't necessarily intrusive questions, why the combination and why am I here. At least, they're not intrusive to me. I'm a marine biologist because I always liked playing in the rivers when I was little in Colorado and the ocean was this magical thing we didn't have. We move to Seattle and voila: the ocean's not far away at all and I spend my weekends puttering around the rocky beaches with my parents, turning over rocks and poking anemones and catching gunnels. Orcas? Twist my arm. I went off to University of Washington and hey, look at me now: I get to study the orcas if they decide to come into the bay and report my findings. Also squeal."

A laugh and she then continues. "Martial arts, but more self-defense, is because I'm only so strong and a few people have tried to fuck with me over the years. Tried," Ariadne then emphasizes, her smile going colder. "Why not be prepared for trouble if it happens? Also, it's cardio and keeps my joints flexible, so my body is healthier for it. Win-win in my book. I'm here because...well, Sam and I needed a place to rest overnight on our way to the coast and suddenly, a day is a week and a week is going on a month and I'm moving into a place over on Sycamore. I guess it became a new home when I blinked. Or something. It's hard to explain," she then says, a little more quickly and uncertainly, gesturing with her apple. "Ever just...felt like you needed to stay in a place? Like, you had something more to give and you know the place needed it. I guess that's the best way to describe it."

The Dane nods, slowly, watching Ariadne go through the motions in turn; from carefully picking what she wants to put on display and speaking smoothly and confidently, enthusiastically even -- and then the change that always, always comes with 'tried to'; defiance, anger, the resolve to not be a victim. He agrees with that, fervently, even if his solutions to avoiding victimhood did not involve a fighting sport. If he had not had certain medical issues, it very well might have.

And then that questioning drift at the end. It prompts a smile and a commiserating nod, which promptly causes a lock of hair to escape down into his face. "Yes. Yes, I know that feeling very well. That's exactly what happened to me. I came through -- didn't even intend to stop here, but the driver I was hitching a ride from got mad at me and tossed me out in the middle of Main Street. Figured I'd stick around for a day or two, hear a couple of local stories, hitch a ride on towards Portland. A month later I ask myself why do I have a job and a boat. Why does it feel like I was going here all along."

Ariadne laughs, the sound lacking some truth because of the discomfort of confronting an uncertainty. "Right. I keep asking myself 'why' and then finding explanations. I wonder sometimes if they're 'excuses' and not explanations, but I guess...they're reasons in the end. Granted, there have been a few times where I have thought about leaving, but you picked your song well when you needed a name for the pep talk you give the new arrivals around here, Librarian."

One can tell how she subtly capitalizes the title. Her mild half-smile only cements the perception. Another bite of apple and she glances up, squinting. The gulls are in fine form today by how they wheel, ever on the look-out for freebies or suckers both.

"Anyways," a shrug to accent her clumsy shift back to the topic at hand. "Got more questions of me?"

Ravn reaches into a pocket for his pack of cigarettes; here, at least, he can smoke if he bloody well wants to, even if he does check the wind direction first, as to not blow smoke into the face of his companion. His old zippo with the engraved coat-of-arms comes out to light it.

Then he cants his head. "I don't want to make this into some kind of interrogation. I'm curious but you don't owe me any answers at all. A lot of people end up in Gray Harbor because they're hiding from something or running from someone, and a lot of them don't particularly feel like spilling all the beans to some stranger they met last week. Maybe instead, we could take turns asking questions. Or talk about something else entirely, of course."

Ravn's cigarette is eyed with a tired censure; yes, please, no smoke into her face, she likes breathing. Ariadne then composes her face as he continues speaking. Suddenly, she can't help the little hiccup of a laugh. Her hand comes up to her lips as she closes her eyes a second, as if needing to tamp down more amusement yet.

"God, you are so polite and it's refreshing as hell," she explains, giving Ravn a twinkling smile. "Look, bud, this isn't an interrogation. What a strong word to choose. It's a conversation. If I didn't want to tell you something, I wouldn't. Even if I didn't want to be here, I wouldn't be here. I know I don't have to tell you anything at all and that I don't owe you these answers, not ultimately, not when things come down to brass tacks. Privacy is everyone's right. Now..."

A squint for the Dane. "It sounds like you're asking if I have baggage. Yeah. I'm not a spring chicken, I've been around the sun long enough to have baggage. Nobody gets access to that yet. Maybe one day, I'll have a reason to share it. Am I an axe murderer? No. Did I ever commit fraud or have a felony? No. Am I involved in heavy drug or alcohol use? No. Relationship issues? Sure, everyone has them, and my first ex was a real wreck, but nothing like I'm running from one. I'd have the authorities involved if that were the case. No job scandal, family drama is...I dunno. Everybody's family is different, I can't compare apples to oranges." Rolling wrist to shrug with the apple in question. "My uncle got arrested for having mob connections. Does that count? I don't know anything more than that, since it happened when I was very young, but there's a skeleton in the closet, I guess."

Ravn chuckles. "Polite, am I? I get called a lot of things, but that one was new."

Then he shakes his head, still chuckling. "I suppose I was asking that. Because baggage has a way of catching up here -- at least if it's the kind of baggage that the Other Side can benefit from. Running from boredom and a shitty job in Seattle? Not likely. Running from an abusive ex-partner? Yes. I have seen that happen. To me, to someone else, and in both our cases, that person was supposed to be not only not pursuing us, they were dead. So my question is -- not so much plain nosiness as it's trying to warn you, perhaps, to try to resolve matters with those skeletons living rent free, if you can."

Then he leans back a little and hitches a shoulder. "Fraud and felony, though? Eh, who hasn't." Another chuckle. "Nothing major, though."

"If I have skeletons, they're in specimen containers preserved like sea creatures," the red-head drily observes. "I mean, like I said, I haven't committed fraud or felony, but the way you say that, you've apparently done something similar if not those things precisely." Ravn is now privy to one of those classical Ariadne squints. "Whatchu hiding in your closet there, bud? And...yes, I'm perfectly aware of how nosy I'm being. You do not have to answer," she reminds with gentle firmness. "I don't gossip. I don't like pulling answers out of people as if they were teeth. I don't have the plyers or the gumption to do it."

She then blinks. "Wait a second. Your ex was dead. Wait, she was a ghost? Oh, god, right, Rosencrantz, he helped, I remember now. Sorry, long days at work lately. Right. Well, I have no vengeful exes coming after me as ghosts, so we'll be in the clear there."

"Oh, I don't know if I'll claim to be hiding anything. It's not exactly something I keep secret." Ravn laughs softly and finishes his apple. He nets himself another glance from Kitty Pryde at the sound; the cat seems to think that if her tuna can operator is laughing, something's off. Or possibly it's a portent of food to happen, one never knows.

He leans back, resting one arm on the Vagabond's railing. "Made my way down through Europe and across the States doing small time grifts -- the cups and shell game, things like that. Nothing serious. Picked a few pockets when I was desperate -- again, nothing serious. Still, qualifies as fraud and felony, I believe. When I was a kid I did worse -- stole cars, even did a bit of burglary. Nothing ever came of it -- never does when the kid's dad can afford to lawyer up. It's one of those things -- you don't want skeletons like that in the closet in a town like this. So I put mine on the lawn and if some dream does require a thief, no one will be shocked to find out I used to be one."

Ariadne doesn't seem terribly surprised to hear about the cups and shell game. Same in the case of the pocket-picking. Grifter and thief, yes, these are skeletons put out on the Dane's lawn. There might even be a top hat or two on them. But --

"Stole cars? Burglary? Whoa." Nearly done with her own apple, the barista pauses to see about fishing out a napkin from the picnic hamper. One is offered towards Ravn, just in case. "I wouldn't have pegged you for doing that. But you were young? Rebellious stage? I..." She thinks. "...totally...drove my sister to her house without a driver's license one time. And...trespassed once. I think." She can't help but laugh at herself. "I really wasn't that adventurous as a kid, I guess, or rebellious. Had to be the good example."

"I was all about showing my old man he wasn't the boss of me. And then it dawned on me that as long as I kept getting in trouble and the family lawyer kept getting me out of trouble, the only thing I was showing him was that he was still in control. So I decided to find other ways to be an asshole, and that's why I studied in the humanities instead of law or finances." Ravn chuckles. "That's the short version, anyhow. In reality, it took a couple of years' worth of arguing."

He accepts the napkin and dabs his lips with it; juicy apple is juicy. "It's not really something I feel like bragging about but the skeleton rule applies: If you can afford to out them, they can't be sprung on you as a nasty surprise, later on. I have a few in the basement still that I'm not done disarming. I think everyone does, whether we realise it or not."

The seagulls circle overhead. Kitty Pryde watches them, stoic and entirely indifferent to the behaviour of the humans in the aft end. As far as she is concerned, there is only one reason to engage with others of one's own kind: To fuck them or fight them, or both. Her tuna can operator never seems to do either, and on the whole, he'd be a massive failure as a cat. Even when he is a cat, he's a failure because he still won't do either.

Humans. Useless but for opposable thumbs.