2022-03-22 - Land of the Sandpipers and the Raeg Murdercrabs

The beaches along the bay are not white strips of sand. They are rocky and jagged, and often wind-swept. They are not without charm -- it's just not the copa cabana charm of palms and azure waters and exotic drinks with umbrellas in; this is plaid shirt and solid boots country, rugged and wild. The water is often a leaden grey as the wind plays in the tall pines along the coast and the seagulls cry mournful songs about there not being enough fish in their bellies, ever.

Ravn Abildgaard likes to walk along the coast. He still rigorously keeps to Coach Kelly's instructions about walking for at least an hour a day, usually more. A lot of that walking is done up along the coast, and back through the forest, though rarely straying too close to the old lumber mill.

He's picked a spot today, though. A patch of flat land off the rocky beach proper, where grass and gravel has yet to be conquered by coniferous growth, probably because the wind tends to blow most of the soil away as quickly as industrious underground dwellers can create it. Sheltered from view from the land by tall pines and bushes; sheltered from view from the sea by rocks and reeds.

Perfect place to break things. Mostly because there are very few things to break. This is the place he's sent Ariadne the coordinates for in a text. Time to do this. Let's see what kind of tricks she can do, besides sending coloured pencils flying in a toddler hissy fit, years and years ago.

Inasmuch as Ariadne was raised tucked to the Rockies, she has to admit a fondness for the rugged beauty of the Pacific Northwest waterfronts. The white beach sands are beautiful, sure, almost heavenly, but meant for postcards. Out here? It's wild. It's windblown. The sandpipers skirt along the skurling waves and distantly, sometimes, she's see the shiny black dorsal fins of her favored orcas. Today?

Today has nothing to do with orcas. Today is about developing...whatever it is in her mind which they call 'Glimmer' around here. Peace hasn't been made with it by the biologist, far more used to classifying things by scientific rules and rote rather than this...Jedi-like...magic? Whatever the hell it is, she thinks to herself as she makes her way along the beach to the coordinates. Today, her hair is braided back in a long tail down her back; the deeply-auburn color seems dull today, but the sunlight hides easily away behind a thick marine layer. No surprise there -- what is a surprise is how the morning fog managed to burn off. Knee-high, professional-grab wading boots (fancy arch supports too, ooh) keep her from twisting an ankle or getting wet socks as she picks her way along, hands in her pockets.

"Dunno about this," she whispers to herself even as she looks up in the vague direction of this coordinated space.

Ravn isn't hard to miss. He's tall. It helps.

She travels within earshot before raising a hand in greeting and calling out, "Hey, Darth Bathrobes. I'm here for Jedi mind power lessons. You haven't stuffed Yoda away into a log somewhere, have you? I refuse to cart him around on my shoulders. He's adorable, but seriously. It's enough of a cardio walk across the rocks."

Ravn half-turns from watching the sea and flashes a grin. "I figured we could skip the novice level and you get to go right to carrying me. Except, you know, please don't." He's wearing his wind breaker today, over a thick black turtleneck; this is neither the season nor the place for a light blazer. "I should probably also warn you that I'm the worst possible choice of instructor, given that my power pretty much extends to bending spoons."

And, apparently, sprinklers. And most of the stone railing of the bridge over Gray Pond. He's still working out the logistics. Not to mention, the how the fucks.

He glances around; there's not a lot to see, and in a way, that holds a beauty of its own. These rocky coasts remind him of the West Coast back home -- which admittedly has lots of sand, an entire national park's worth of sand in fact, but given the longitude and lattitude, they're cold and windblown and rough. Just like this. And sandpipers, all the sandpipers, hell, several islets out there sport sandpipers as their mascot wildlife.

Hands in pockets. Figure things out one step at a time, and also, enjoy a pleasant spring day. "So -- you told me once, you moved pencils? Blew pencils up? Something like that?"

To Ravn's claim of skipping a few belts entirely in the practice: "Oh god, you're so tall, seriously, whyyyyyyy." It's a good-natured grumble easily heard as Ariadne finishes closing the distance. The wind off the waters, a little gusty here and there, plays in loose strands of her hair pulled free from her braid. She also shrugs her shoulders as to the Dane's demurral. "Bending spoons is a good place to start."

She ends up across from him, hands still in her pockets, and follows his scanning of the area with idle curiosity. Checking to see if anyone's spying? She guesses maybe. At least the Greater Sandpipers out there bobbing through the rocks are adorable. Her golden-hazel eyes return to him and slowly, she half-smiles. There's still a wariness in her expression.

"Eh...knocked a can of them over. I'm pretty sure it was me, since...y'know. This...Dream stuff. I don't know if everything moving around is me, but...I mean. I don't really know where to start. At all. There's no manual or textbook for this. I don't know at all how to trigger it except big emotions and kind of, like... I'm pretty level as a whole." She shrugs again. "I don't have any history of being bipolar or sudden mood swings. It's been all, I've been in danger, in the Dreams, or in the case of my sister, sincere frustration. I'm not really looking to go home tonight feeling like my emotions were used in a boxing class."

Ravn offers a small, lopsided smile. "I ate my vegetables as a kid? I'm not short, I'll agree, but I think Scandinavians are taller than Americans on the whole. And they do say that the tallest people in the world on average are the Dutch, so -- basically, I'm European?"

Then he shakes his head, somewhat firmly. "No boxing classes. Strong emotion can be a trigger. No question about it. But lashing out randomly is not usually a great idea. Don't ask me about the damage to the railing of Gray Pond bridge, I'm still trying to work out how I did that, and whether I ought to be sending a check to City Hall. I suggest we start with accepting that moving things with your mind can be done. You have done it. It was not a trick of the eye, it was not a draft. You've seen me do it. I can show you again. It's possible."

A passing sandpiper pee-heets at them in passing. Ravn looks after it. "So, the rules, as I understand them, is -- nothing that's alive. I can't move anything that's organic and alive. Not going to pick up that bird or that flower. Living things are for the healers and I am pure mover."

European. The barista snorts in quiet amusement. However, his segue is something different. Ariadne frowns. Gray Pond bridge? She'll wonder, for now, since he did tell her not to ask. Shifting her weight to one side, she continues appearing quite dubious. Extremely dubious. Is she radiating 'dubious' like her own little planetary source? Maybe. Briefly, her eyes track the sandpiper as well before returning to Ravn.

"Nothing...alive." Her lips scrunch. "That makes sense. Pencils. Rocks. Those aren't technically alive. Organic is another matter, but that's...that's for the FDA to argue over," she says, sounding a little tired. Her gaze drifts away again to a rock near to her foot. Bump. Her boot knocks it aside by an inch. "Pure mover. Somebody who can move stuff with their mind. Okay. So...it's matter of convincing me, right? I remember the pig. I do. That was a while ago, so..."

Bending over, she picks up the rock she'd just toed over. "This guy, right here." Closing fingers around it, she sighs sharply. "Lifting it off my palm? Fine. That can also be sleight of hand somehow, or magnets. I want to feel the resistance against my fingers. I know there's no wires and I know you well enough now to know that you're not going to waste your time guessing that I'm going to pick up this damn rock right here over all the other bajillion lying around." Her hand remains before herself and fingers curled around it with visibly not much pressure.

"I can lift that rock." Ravn nods his agreement. "And that's the next thing -- a mover can affect living matter indirectly. I can't lift you. But if you were to hang on to a rock while I lifted that? I might effectively move you too. Thinking out of the box has saved my tail a few times, not going to pretend otherwise."

He opens his own palm. "Now, hold on to that rock, by all means. Feel the resistance. Try and stop it. You already know there are no mirrors, no strings, and that the odds of you picking that one rock I hoped for are infinitesimally small."

And the rock floats as a rock does. Dum de dum da, just floatin', towards an outreached palm.

#somuchdubiousness

If Ariadne had a Twitter feed, she'd tag the picture of Ravn standing there with palm outstretched and quote that entire statement to go with. Still, she readily admits, "Out of the box thinking isn't a bad thing." It has a mildly forced nonchalance.

But then the damn rock twitches -- and tugs -- and frankly, she's startled enough to let go of it with a jittery little sound and shake-out of her hand like a cat suddenly stepped in a puddle of melted ice cube. There it goes, the rock, floating over just like a real-world example of the Force, and Ariadne clutches up the front of her jacket for a second. How wide her eyes are. "Whaaaaaaat the fffffffffffffuuuuuuuuuuuck?!" she breathes out in a higher pitch.

Meeting those blue eyes again, she partially tucks her chin and gives Ravn a readily leery look now. "...okay, what the fuck. What the fuck. The fuck. Fucking fucker fuck. Look, the pig was -- the fuck. You and the rock. You. The. It floated." Captain Obvious here, sharing her observations in a rapid spill of words. "Okay. Um. Okay. Uh. Okay, right. The...rock. Floated. You made the rock float. How."

Ravn turns his hand over and lets the rock fall -- and like Peppa the Pig before it, it stops falling a bit below his hand, and just hangs there. "It's really not that difficult once you know how. A bit like swimming. Once you accidentally kick your feet the right way, suddenly the idea of 'not sinking' isn't magic. It's just something you do."

Then he looks up and blue grey meets gold. The rock plinks to the ground at his feet. "And at some point, you did the same thing, from what you're saying. But you didn't think it was you, or you reminded yourself that people can't do that. So you didn't do it. The tin of pencils just fell down by itself. Much coincidence, such wow."

The rock is just chilling there -- free-floating -- beneath an inverted palm. Ariadne watches it not too unlike a moderately dangerous creature. Distance is fine. It's weird. It's new. It's breaking laws of science she's known her entire life. Her eyes rise again. Plink, rock drops. She jitters a little again and huffs, exasperated at how twitchy she obviously appears. It's just a rock.

"Uh, yeah. Pencils don't fall over by themselves. There's a draft. Or an earthquake. Or somebody bumping the desk. And I know that none of these things happened, okay?" Now she sounds honestly a little defensive. "I don't know how to just...do these things," the barista then continues. "It's freaky. It's not -- there are physics being fucked with here. I can't just...point at that rock, right there -- " The oblong one about three feet to one side with a bright patch of spring-green moss on it. " -- and make it move."

"Well, that's the thing." Ravn chuckles, though without any trace of condescending. "You probably can. But you've lived your entire life knowing that rocks don't float because you tell them to. I haven't. I knew before I could walk that if you want the cookie jar to fall off the shelf and you want it enough, it will. You know you can't walk on water and that you can't fly. I can't either. But looking at that rock? I'm honest to God not sure whether we can't because that's how physics work, or because we've always been told that we can't. And that, I suppose, is the magic."

He bends down and picks up a couple of small pebbles. Tossing them from one hand to another, he juggles them, easily. And that, at least, does not look like magic, or at least it's a kind of magic that is sleight of hand. "So step one for you is to accept that this can be done. Then we work out how to make it happen without the emotional punching bag thing. I'm very much in favour of no emotional punching bag. This week has been a ride already."

With hands shoved back into coat pockets, the barista watches the sudden fidgeting display. She's never known how to juggle. Fun trick, in a way.

Her lips still pull to one side. She doesn't appear mad, but frustrated? That's a burgeoning expression on her features. Her eyes slide to the rock with the spring-green moss patch on it. "I'm really not trying to be an asshole here, but how do you just accept something suddenly defies everything you've ever learned about gravity? Much less the other laws of physics. It's a rock. It's lying there. It's not tap-dancing." Color suddenly blooms on her cheeks as she glares at that rock.

"Look," she then mutters. "I haven't been...bad at anything for a long time -- and if this some mean trick, I swear to god." Ariadne doesn't make eye contact. She doesn't have to finish that sentence anyways. "But y'know what, fuck it. You made a rock move. Okay. Fuck you, rock." She outstretches her hand and glowers at the moss-pocked rock.

And nothing happens. Rock does not care about being cussed at, apparently.

"That's my point," Ravn says gently. "The rock does not defy what I've learned about gravity. Rocks fly. And then, when I got to school, sure, there were adults telling me they don't, but adults say a lot of things that obviously aren't true. So why'd I care? And that's what makes it easier for me to accept than it is for you. If it helps I felt the same way about some of the other things people here can do -- heal wounds with a touch, speak in your mind, even pull you into some kind of mind scape where you appear in a spirit form that reflects your inner self. It takes -- well, it moves a hell of a lot of boundaries, not going to lie."

He glances at his hands. Perhaps he caught that look, too. "This? This, of course, is just moving my hands. Nothing supernatural there. I can teach you sometime, if you like."

"Maybe the juggling one day." Ariadne tries very, very hard not to be curt, but it's positively insidious, the way the feeling of inadequacy and suspicion that she's being punked continues to creep into her thoughts. Rocks aren't supposed to do that. No. Rocks have never flown. They sit there and they're dumb and they're heavy and they hurt your knees and elbows when you fall on them. Her hand closes and she makes her fingers uncurl -- makes her arm remain outstretched and gestured at the rock.

Rocks. Do. Not...

"...rocks don't move." Now she just sounds uncertain instead of frustrated. "Wait." Ravn is given yet another leery look. "There are rocks in Death Valley that move by themselves...or so it's said." The Racetrack, the locals call that part of the environment. "Rocks...move?" She winces as she twiddles her finger at the rock.

And the rock just proverbially stares back at her. Wut.

"I've read about those. It's the wind, apparently." Ravn chuckles again' He's not unsympathetic. It's a process he can't speed up for her, however. As long as Ariadne's own mind is telling her this is not possible, she's not going to be moving anything unless in an outburst of uncontrolled emotion.

He glances around. "Let's walk a little. You pick the direction. You pick how far. And then you pick something -- a rock, a sea shell, a branch, anything that is not alive. And I'll show you that it too can fly. Much as I've got some experience as a confidence artist, I don't think anyone would believe I've managed to prepare the entire beach."

"...yeah, okay."

It's a tone of extremely sad, resentful agreement. Ravn's right. He can't have prepped the whole beach...and this rock hates her anyways. Fuck you, rock. Jamming her hands into her pockets, the barista then all but stomps past Ravn. She's going to walk, damnit, as far as she wants, and then she's going to pick a stupid other rock and she's not going to let him see her cry in the process because now she feels dumb. No. Not happening. Part of her 'local' status to the Pacific Northwest shows in how familiar she is with walking across the beach. There's a learned, partially natural instinct of step-placement, and no rock rolls or shifts under her weight. More of the sandpipers take off with their high pitched cries of disturbance, turning into pale-breasted arrows against the grey skies above.

It's not terribly far in the scheme of things -- about a dozen yards up the beach or so before Araidne finds a break in the natural distribution of the rocks. Sand gleams here where the tide has pulled out far enough. She stops and stares down at what appears to be a fairly pristine white scallop shell, halved, pressed inner face-down into the sand. A pock in its white surface must be where a worm drilled through.

"This thing," she mutters to Ravn, toeing at it enough to leave a wave of sand to indicate it.

Ravn cannot suppress a small, lopsided smile as they walk. He gets it. He really does. He watches the sandpipers in silence, letting Ariadne have the moment to sort through her emotions. They remind him of the oystercatchers back home. Similar size, not too dissimilar in colouration -- black, red, white -- and same habitat. Large flocks of oystercatchers, peeheet, peeheet, the language of the Wading Sea.

He finds himself thinking of the island, Mandø. A small community on an island in that Wading Sea. Accessible by car at low tide. Isolated. Last Chance Saloon, and then it's the North Atlantic and, far beyond, the British Isles. Gray Harbor is a little like Mandø, he reflects. A tiny, isolated community that looks to summer tourism as a source of income but largely sticks to itself like it always has. And remembers that once, before the great flood of the 14thcentury, there was another island out there, a bit further out. The island of Strand sank, and with it, the town of Rungholt. The locals of Mandø insist that on a quiet day at sea, you can still hear the church bell of Rungholt from down there, in the depths.

7.600 dead. Rungholt was no small town by 14th century standards. And then it was just -- gone.

"This thing" pulls him out of his reverie and he looks down at the shell. "And you're sure you don't want one that doesn't have a hole in it, that technically, technically someone could put an invisible wire through?" Because of course he can't resist just a little tease.

And the shell flies neatly to his outstretched hand. Why wouldn't it? It's just a shell and everyone knows that shells can fly.

"It's easy," Ravn says simply. "Stupid easy. And frankly, that bothers me a bit. You're not the only one who's currently sort of trying to figure out what they can do. I've always just -- floated little things, bent spoons, small tasks. And then I go blow up a bridge railing. Night after that, I broke reality so hard Rosencrantz and I both fell out of a dream."

Ravn's left to his thoughts and Ariadne to her own. The woman's churn. Confliction isn't pretty on her; it brings out her sharper edges.

Ravn also gets a sour side-long for his wire quip. Of course there's no wire. That's way too much effort -- and yet: there goes the shell to his hand. She doesn't flinch this time, but there's still a frayed element of disbelief plain about her. How. The Fuck.

"How do you break reality." The scientist in her can't help but ask this with a faintly metallic note. "Is it like..." She still sighs heavily. Okay. Apply logic. "You do stuff in the Dreams and it's easier out here?"

"I don't know," Ravn replies with raw honesty, and for a moment it's not hard at all to see on his face that not knowing is something the academic loathes. "I remember feeling like I was so full of power that I was made of glass. Or maybe reality was made of glass. And then I brought my arms up and then down, hard, and reality shattered. I was falling through the darkness, and then I woke up. But whether that was dream horror, or I somehow managed to tear the Veil open enough that we fell out, I can't tell you. It frightens the hell out of me, because just like you know that rocks and shells don't fly, I know that I don't have that kind of power."

He shakes his head. "A lot of people will tell you that the longer you live here, the stronger you become. Maybe they're right. I just didn't think it would apply to me."

Then he offers the shell over, for inspection. "I don't know how to tell you what to do. I just think move, and it moves. But I'm pretty sure that the first step is to convince yourself that it's possible. Just like I apparently need to adjust my own ideas of what's possible."

The shell, sans wire and full of broken assumptions, is taken from Ravn's gloved hand. Dutifully, the marine biologist turns it over and over. No wire. No magnets. It's half a scallop shell washed up on the beach. She swallows and presses her lips thin, glaring down at it.

"How could it not apply to you, Ravn," she replies quietly, as if she didn't trust it at any higher volume. "I made a crack about 'pigs flying' and you went and floated a Peppa Pig and didn't think twice about it. Of course, if this place is interested in people who shine...Glimmer...whatever the fuck term is, the power is going to be encouraged. Grown. Like something out of the fucking Matrix. I'm glad you're okay," she then asserts firmly after an equally terse sigh. The scallop half-shell is Frisbee'd over into the shifting shallows, plorp.

Habitually, she toes at one of the rocks and a little grey rock crab scuttles out, tiny white pinchers on full display over its carapace. I AM ALL THAT IS TIDEPOOL RAEG AND FURY, BEWARE MY WRATH! Under another rock's collected puddle with a few bubbles and it's gone. Ariadne can't help but shake her head.

It catches her eye. Another scallop, this one appearing intact if empty, tucked by the rock. "Move," she grumbles, pointing a finger at it. It remains inert. Her shoulders slump. Granted, Ravn said think for the thing to move -- not to speak.

"I didn't think it applied to me because until now, it hasn't." Ravn can't help but crack a lopsided smile at the tiny murderclaw of doomydeath as it retreats, no doubt to make life hell for very small aquatic organisms somewhere else. "When I first came into town and people told me this I thought, wow, right, guess something might happen. And then nothing did. I've never been able to do the things some people here can do. I did not magically become able to. So I assumed that there's a limit for how far each of us can go, and mine is just low. Now I'm not so sure."

He sticks his hands in his windbreaker's pockets and half-turns to watch the sea; the bay, and in the far, far distance, the point where the bay opens up to the Pacific proper, too far from here to see. "It frightens me a bit, not going to claim otherwise. Just like it must frighten you now, that I'm standing here telling you that you can throw a seashell with the force of your mind. I glowed in that dream, and I felt like my body was made of glass. That it all shattered -- and then I put myself back together because I was probably going to need my body again sometime. I feel like I touched a great current of power for just a second, and I am so very, infinitely small."

Murderclaw of doomydeath has no commentary to offer. It's probably nice and warm and safe down there under its rock, and there's a part of Ravn that wishes he could join it.

"Right, shattered," she confirms. He's used the descriptor twice now; the emphasis makes her empathize in turn. A glance over at the Dane is openly concerned by how her brows knit. "It would scare me too, suddenly feeling like I had...too much and nothing to do with it. Like an overloaded circuit. Tripping the circuit was the burst of power or something." Her eyes run down and up him and then travel out to the grey spread of bay-water. There are a few white-curling waves teased up by the winds.

Rippling tidepool water from these very breezes makes her glance down again. Movement. So attractive to the human conscience.

The scallop shell. She sighs, breath ghosting. Why won't you MOVE?!

It fillips in place and disturbs more water.

Ariadne lets out a squeaky little grating of sound and stares at it. "Rav -- RAVN?!"

Ravn can't resist cracking a smile at that. Ariadne's expression is what his father would have referred to as a Kodak Moment because when his father was young, Polaroid cameras were still a thing. Then he pulls his hands out of his pockets to offer an amused little golf clap.

"Before your common sense prompts you to ask -- no, I did not do that. You did that." The folklorist smiles. "And the relative ease of it tells me you do know that you can. You just needed an excuse to surrender your disbelief. Which is not surprising, really, given that we spend our lives being told that water is wet and you can't walk on it, so when a bloke does, we create a religion around him."

"Please don't treat me like a goddess."

It blurts from her mouth before it can be stopped and, to probably no one's surprise, the barista's cheeks heat. "You know what I mean," she then mutters while she smooths her palms on her pants. Mmm, sweaty palms. The scallop shell is eyed and Ravn can probably see the internal war.

It moved. Did I make it move? I think I did? Do it again. Again, for science.

Move, Ariadne throws in a thought water-balloon towards the shell.

It fillips again, a little more violently. She titters, hands before her mouth. "Ohmyfuckinggod."

"I promise. No sacrificial hamsters. Only libations of good whiskey on occasion." Ravn can't help laughing -- not at the redhead but with her. He can only imagine what kind of emotions must be going through her -- because in a way, it is like finding religion. The suspension of disbelief. Rocks do fly.

"You'll find that weight does matter, as does size. It's substantially easier to move something small and light. I don't know why it works that way but it does -- you'd have to be very strong to pick up a car and throw it down the street. You figure out the shortcuts quickly enough -- instead of picking up the car, just turn the key in the ignition, and let the car take care of the rest." And that shit-eating grin does its best to testify that yes, he has done exactly that.

"Okaygoodnohamst -- waaaaaaaaaait a motherfucking second then."

Ariadne holds up a finger, not yet able to tear her attention from the scallop. Disbelief is still sloughing away, albeit slowly and with conscientious care to not get ahead of herself -- because christ on a cracker, does she want to get ahead of herself on this one.

"Weight and size matter. We're talking...small things. Shells. Marbles. Keys. Cell phones. Forks." She remembers flying cutlery mentioned. A beat. "...grenade pins."

What the hell is she thinking?! Her expression is thoughtful and just slightly manically amused. Finally, the redhead does meet Ravn's eyes again. "...is this like the Mage Hand cantrip?" A tentative offering in an attempt to better categorize and formulate what's going on.

Ravn laughs. He can't help it. Oh yes, she's caught on all right. "I suppose so? Powerful movers can move strong weights. Me, I always found that it's far easier and far more subtle to go for the grenade pin rather than the tank, yes. Bloke like Rosencrantz probably could throw the entire tank. And where you are on that scale? Only one way to find out. And for that matter, that applies to me too since apparently I have more juice than I ever thought, too."

He shakes his head and then kneels down to gently tap the rock under which murdercrab mcdoomydeath hid. No response; it must have snuck away while he was looking at the sea. "I was thinking maybe -- well, if you want to, we could combine sparring. Kickboxing and Jedi tricks."

Rosencrantz being able to move a tank. The barista thinks back to what she knows of the other man with the mop of black curls and beaky, beaky nose. How appearances can be deceiving.

She watches Ravn crouch down and attempt to summon the ANGRIEST CRAB ON THE BEACH. No go. He does get the disturbed flick of a sculpin though, one of the tiny fish dwelling in the tide pools. "Oh." A thoughtful sound. "Well...sure, I don't see why the sparring and Jedi tricks can't be combined, but...we'd need, like...a padded room and some heavy-duty gear. You were just telling me you broke reality, in a way. If you can suddenly have that kind of power here, outside of a Dream? I mean..." Her mouth twists in a grimace. "I don't think I want to be a guinea pig for that. I'm breakable and I'm not afraid to admit it. That, and I'm just..."

A groan as she tucks hair behind her ear and rolls her eyes. "...a motherfucking Padawan," comes the grumble. Acceptance? Mostly.

"Yeah, both of us, and Mace Windu's not around." Ravn smiles wryly and hitches a shoulder. Acceptance? Mostly. ​"I suppose we don't have to do both at the same time. But, we can give each other a hand up, I figure. If you like."

He looks at the sculpin. It looks back, in that beady-eyed fishy way. His shadow is too large to register for it; he might as well be a cloud blotting out the sun. "They tell me strong movers can open doors from one reality to another. I think that's what I did -- I opened a door for us to get out. But because I don't know what I'm doing, and because I was freaking out badly, it felt like I shattered reality like dropping a mirror. I don't think I can do something like that here -- or that anyone can."

"I sure as hell hope you can't do something like that out here, Ravn, because I don't know how to stop the local authorities and then the SWAT teams from converging in an attempt to stick you in a glass cage for further experimentation." Ariadne too watches the sculpin, having spotted its flicker of movement. "I know that sounds...outrageous, but dude. Seriously. What else is the government going to do with somebody who can just go snap and things just...shatter?"

One can almost hear her thoughts immediately shift towards pop culture references. She reigns herself in. It takes effort.

"But...I'm fine for a hand up," she then sighs, hands in her coat pockets. "I really am. This is...weird and new and...weird and new is hard for me." It sounds like it hurt a little to admit this, but there it is. "Am I just supposed to...go back to the motel and...try and move little things around? Like chord exercises on the piano or something?"

"I would," Ravn says openly. "Small things, easy things. Fine tune your touch. Find the place in your mind that makes this work. It's difficult to explain because we don't really have the words. For me I feel a special way when I do something like this. It's like a part of my mind heats up, and to be honest, I wouldn't half mind seeing that under an MRI scanner."

He flicks a fingertip in the water. The sculpin recognises that as the movement of a potential predator -- and blink! it's gone. "The government won't hear. Think about it -- the death and disappearances rate of Gray Harbor is higher than that of the entire state. Homeless guys disappear a lot, people get Lost, hell, the mermaids drown tourists like the rest of us eat hot dogs. And yet the FBI never sends as much as a single guy with a calculator. It all gets rationalised away. I've wondered if Area 51 is another thin spot but honestly? It's more likely that there is an Area 53 which is, and that's why we've never heard about it."

"Okay." It sounds like Ariadne's at least onboard about moving little things around: coins, pens, her mascara tubes -- options continue unfolding like a field of daisies and she tries to stop herself again from getting too far ahead. Calm. Patience. Trials. Experiments. That's how we do things.

Sculpin goes swish, not too unlike one of nature's sleight of hand tricks. It makes the barista smile faintly to herself to find the connection. "I bet there is an Area 53," she agrees in a tone not necessarily subdued, but heavily pensive. So many possibilities just came into existence. It's like watching the clouds pull back from covering the night sky. How to count them all? "And...right, yeah, you're right, I remember you mentioning this before. The amnesia gig. About practice though...what if..." She falters, tilting her head back and forth. "Give me a few days to figure stuff out and then I can try stuff? And you, you figure out whether or not you need to keep the kiddie gloves on or not and then we try sparring plus the Jedi stuff?"

Yes, glove pun, you're welcome.

"Sounds like a plan," Ravn agrees. "So I suppose what I should ask now is -- want to go for a walk? In a not creepy sense, obviously. It's a nice enough day out."

"I'm good for a walk if you're good for sudden pine cones flying around. Or rocks. Because if you're not stopping me and you're telling me I might not get a headache, I'm going to try again," Ariadne informs the Dane with the first hint of breathless joviality. It's more a spin of color through paint wash-water, pale, but it's there. The initial hurdle is overcome. She gives the tidepool in the shadow of the rock one more glance between starting to make her way farther down the shoreline.

"And...I dunno, you feel safe enough to try something for you?" she then asks, glancing back over her shoulder at him. "Moving something bigger? Or is it too dangerous with me around?"

"I should try," Ravn agrees. "Let's go for a walk, and send pine cones flying until the local squirrels develop a mythology based on two gods that control the food and make pine nuts rain from the sky. And I'll find the -- courage, too, to see about something larger. I've a mind to talk to Rosencrantz, get some pointers. I glowed, Ariadne. Like a bloody star. And I shattered."

He shakes his head. "I don't think I would lose control. But I think not knowing what I can do is what is holding me back. And like you, I need someone to tell me that plush piglets can in fact fly."

"Sounds like Rosencrantz is your man," the redhead agrees as she picks her way more towards the tree line. There seems to be some erosion build-up as sand along the reaching shade of the tall, weather-worn evergreens, easier to walk on than the unpredictable scattering of barnacle-crusted rocks. Nobody wants to trip and bang a knee on these; jeans don't survive. "If he was in the Dream with you, I'm sure he saw and I'm sure he'll have answers. Well...I assume these 'sure' things. I don't know him that well yet. But you seem to have good taste in people."

Smirk. Smirkity smirk shot at Ravn.

An eyebrow shoots up. Ravn's not entirely certain what to make of that. "So -- you know him? Figures, he comes into the coffee shop often enough. And he is hard to miss in a crowd. He's a performer -- and he almost has to be, man has so much charisma he ought to be bottling it and putting it up on eBay."

He kicks at a rock -- with his foot, rather than his mind -- as they walk. "He's a good bloke. You could do worse than befriending that guy. Knows pretty much everybody. Performs at Sitka, in the piano lounge too -- and let me tell you, they love him. I'm still trying to figure out sometimes how we get along as well as we do, because we really are polar opposites. But maybe that's why. He's a sun that draws every asteroid into his orbit, and I'm someone who likes to go unnoticed."

"I haven't met him more than in passing, actually, but he does seem like a good bloke." Ariadne doesn't go on to extrapolate about her own comment. It's gone, hucked into space, missed for the moment. She still enjoyed delivering it. "I remember you mentioning the Sitka, yeah, and how he plays there. Violin. I play the piano, right, and I still intend to go check the place out over the summer. Nothing like a little extra pocket change. Splurge money," she singsongs.

And comes across a pinecone fallen in the sand. "Hmm." Stopping, she toes at it and then sighs, squinting. Move.

ZWHIP -- there it goes. She blinks, watching it bounce a dozen feet away on the sand. "Holy shit." Yeah, it's still new.

"He's had it rough lately." Ravn's voice is quiet at the mention. "It's not really my business to talk about -- suffice it to say, things got complicated between him and his partner. I think he's still hoping to fix it. Please don't spread that around, though -- Rosencrantz is the kind of bloke who half this town wants to crawl into bed with, and the last thing they need is half a dozen hopefuls trying to muddy the waters too."

He shakes his head. "Sorry. I sound like I'm jealous. I'm not. I'm not on that side of the fence. I just don't want to see him hurt -- or anyone else, for that matter. There's been a couple of incidents."

Ariadne listens as she meanders over to toe at the pinecone she'd sent flying. It seems normal enough. Ravn's subdued tone brings her to look back at him, her own brows knitted.

"I'm sorry to hear that, about his partner. I'm definitely not the sort to take advantage of something like that, it's...just despicable to do it. Plus, that makes me a rebound if anything like that were the case and I've got more self-respect than this. I'm also not going to play hook-up-a-friend with him. No way. That's..." Shaking her head, she reaches to tuck that stubborn strand of hair behind her ear where it escaped from wind-play. "Again, just disrespectful. You don't sound jealous," the barista adds. "You sound like a good friend, especially if there's been incidents. I'm not going to ask, but I do acknowledge the incidents."

"You know how it goes. Hot musician, sensitive guy, charismatic, dramatic. Certain kind of people smell blood. Usually the ones who want a wild adventure, but they don't want all that comes with it. He doesn't talk about it a lot but I've seen a few things, you know? Hell, one of the girls kind of checked me out next. It took her about twenty minutes and half a beer to reach the conclusion that I am a very non-dramatic, very boring book worm, and not an exciting and charismatic musician." Ravn laughs softly at the memory. The disappointment truly was epic.

"I don't know if I said. I think I did -- but what the hell, I'll say it again. The first Dream I had -- I asked the other guy in it after, how do you cope with living like this? He looked at me and then said, in this super posh British accent, I drink a lot and I fuck a lot." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Everyone's got coping mechanisms. People do try hard to find someone to cling to. It's frightening being alone with it all, and you feel someone understands, and it's easy to confuse it for a crush, I guess."

Her eyes drop to one side from Ravn's face as he talks; she stands there and waits until he sidles up beside, with her gaze now dedicated to looking out across the grey waters. A distant boat must be fishing; it's too cold for pleasure sailing. After all, the Dane's sailboat had only just been taken out of proverbial storage.

The reminder of the blunt explanation about how to cope has Ariadne snorting and tucking her chin for a second. A flick of her brows before she looks up again, squinting at some seagulls down the beach. They appear to be grazing the tide line. "Yeah...makes sense," she shrugs, sounding philosophical. "Everyone's got their ways. I don't know if I have a way yet. I guess...I'll just have to see what happens. I mean, you understand, but you've got your boundaries. We've talked. I respect. I sure as hell appreciate what you did today and everything you do to help me in the future. All I do is get you black coffee. It doesn't seem like an even trade to me, but hey. If it works for you, I'm down with it." Ravn gets a little grin. "I'm not surprised people want to cling to somebody like Rosencrantz, if that's how he is. It's attractive, plain and simple."

Ravn quirks an eyebrow. Then his gaze too sweeps to the bay and that lone boat out there. Cod? Maybe. "I'm not sure what you mean about boundaries," he says softly. "And I say that because it wouldn't be the first time I have said things that made others think I want to keep everything strictly business, nothing personal. I'm very good at that -- keeping people at a distance. I'm trying to get better about it, but I still get it wrong. I am not Rosencrantz, all heart and charisma -- but I am not clinically cold and professional about everything, either."

Then he nods slightly. "People cling to someone like Rosencrantz because they see that he'll never bend, never yield. He is strong. They think he will carry them through the danger on his hands. He is safety and adventure, in one package."

Pinecone is kicked again. Punt. There it goes tumbling, bouncing off a rock and disappearing behind another. Ariadne is silent for a time, but not uncomfortably so. Only as if she were weighing words.

"Tall-ass package," she first notes of Rosencrantz with a faint curl of a smirk. The distant fishing boat is still what she watches. "Stringbeany. But he seems nice. I hope things get better for him." A cool and brine-laden gust of wind whips past them. "Boundaries. You call yourself a quiet bookworm and how people are disappointed in it. That's distancing yourself. You've said before that you had trouble with your exes...hell, 'trouble' is an understatement. Massively. That you weren't looking. I'm merely reminding you that we're peepskillets. Myself too, in a way. Of course I want to cling. I'm human. This is new and weird and how else do humans tend to react, usually, to stress like this? We clump. Clot. Call up your friends for a bitch-fest. Find your parents for a hug. Go drinking and cry a little with somebody across from you. Fuck and forget for a little bit. I said it aloud though, boundaries, and that we're friends. I know you're not good for hugs, that your skin hurts, so I'm not sure I can hug you."

She shakes her head and then pinches the bridge of your nose. "Fuck me, you might even not like hugs, what I am assuming. My mouth is running, Ravn, I'm sorry." Cheeks pink. "I hope it still makes sense."

Ravn remains quiet a moment, looking at that boat out there. A part of him kind of wishes he was on it, because then he wouldn't have to try to formulate things in a language he feels he will never learn more than the rudimentary fundamentals of.

Eventually he tries anyhow. "Most of those things, I don't do. Some of them because I can't, and some of them because I don't know how. Some because I don't have anyone to fit into that role. Some because I don't really want to. But generally speaking, yes -- this is what we do, this is how we react to the dark: We huddle together. I have friends to call -- and I do. I drink, probably too much. The rest -- not so much."

Another glance towards the boat. "I'm not opposed to the idea of hugs. But I have learned to be very careful with whom I let close to me, because a lot of people either forget my issues, or think I'm making them up for attention. I come across to a lot of people like someone who thinks himself above all of this. I don't comment on someone's boobs in a tight shirt -- I must be gay. Oh, I don't comment on that guy's ass in tight jeans either -- I must be too uptight. I don't sing or dance -- still too uptight. All I do is talk -- so I'm that uptight know-it-all who's great to go to when you need answers, but he probably hates the idea of doing anything fun."

Ariadne listens without having the weight of her regard upon the Dane. She's always thought such a behavior might accidentally encourage hasty responses. She wants to hear him think through it -- to think aloud, not behind the closed mouth and further mystery of his own skull. The distant boat is considered. It seems like the little cutter is going to be the 'safe visual focal point' for the two of them. No wonder, she muses in her own corresponding blip of silence after Ravn finishes speaking. It's so far away. An escape from tender discussion, where it's so easy to step on a toe with steel-soled boots.

"I think...I'm hearing a lot of other people in what you say, and I'm sorry for it. I'm sorry that the world has convinced you that you're those things. That you don't like fun. Because it's not true, I've seen it. You do like fun, it's just not the popular society's expression of it...and it's a damn shame they're oblivious about it. You're also out of your own culture, if I'm being frank. You were raised with manners. Without the American big mouth we're so famous for around here." The barista sounds exasperated at the stereotype and shakes her head a little. "Easy for me to say, but...you can only be yourself, so...be yourself. Fuck what everybody else says and thinks -- and I know, easy for me to say. I know," she repeats more softly, empathetically. "But here's the other thing. I'm not a touchie-feelie kind of person either, but I can recognize a hug for its worth. It's bonding. Soothing. A thing of solidarity. Let me rephrase what I said earlier now that my mouth isn't all burble-burble-burble."

Hand gesture before herself to designate 'verbal vomit mode'.

"I want a way to connect with you like that because you're a good friend. Would it be more appropriate if I gently leaned instead? Not a shoulder check, I know, your nerves. But like...you know how horses do? Lean in passing." A beat. "Or if I'm really just beating my head on a wall here, just let me know so I can laugh helplessly at myself later." Because she's not too proud to not do this, not by the wry little smile she gives the Dane.

"Manners are very much in the eyes of the beholder," Ravn notes and follows the circle of a seagull as it hopefully follows the little cutter. Things happen when the trawl net comes up -- things that seagulls find very interesting indeed. "I suppose we do tend to keep things a little more private where I'm from. Less yelling at each other in the parking lot. More having our lawyers send nasty letters or getting each other banned from the country club. Not so much Nazcar and beer, more Lamborghinis and cocaine."

Way to sell himself. Sometimes, his mouth really should come with a pair of brakes. Thank you, Rosencrantz, for suggesting he learn to open up more. Include learn when to shut up in there too, please.

The Dane takes a breath. "I can. Hug, I mean. I just need to know it's coming. I know, I know -- take away the spontaneity and it's not the same thing. I've had that argument a few times. It is what it is."

"Banned from the country club," mouths the barista silently to herself in a dryly-amused iteration of the concept. Hmm. That's a thought. No more homemade lemon bars from Barbara, she called Katie's ass big and her rose bushes subpar -- them's fightin' words. She doesn't seem appalled or taken aback by Lamborghinis and cocaine. Maybe the European upper class has their own stereotypes she's aware of.

She then nods, watching the seagulls wheel. "I get it, the spontaneity aspect, but at the same time...I'm not huge on surprises myself. I don't mind ones meant well, but the mean ones? The ones meant merely to get a reaction out of me? That's another thing entirely. I know I'm not alone in this, but I'm not so blind as to ignore that I react more badly to these things. And I don't mean to imply that you can't hug. You're not half-feral or something, Ravn. Seriously though, is a gentle lean better for now? I'm really not looking to make this awkward."

Except for she probably has to a great degree and her cheek's light coloration definitely still betrays the steadfastly-ignored conscious realization of it.

"I don't think I'd object to a gentle lean," Ravn murmurs. "I do get it. How frightening all of this must be for you. And here I am, talking about things as if suspending the laws of physics is a perfectly normal thing to do some random afternoon when there's nothing good on TV or you want to scam a barista out of a proper cup of coffee. I don't blame you for feeling out of it. I still feel out of it, about realising I actually don't know what what I can do, either."

He takes a breath. "It's pretty damn unsettling. I have every intention of hunting down Rosencrantz at some point, drink a bottle of whiskey, and scream at him until I feel better. He knows how these things work. He's the most powerful mover I have ever met. Or one of them. There's a couple -- there was a bloke who used to carry the equivalent of an entire fast food joint around in some kind of fanny pack. And the woman who taught me how to make a mojito -- she's subtler, but, also very powerful."

Ariadne tucks her chin and thinks. Does anyone by those descriptions match anyone she's seen at the coffee shop? Nothing comes to mind. She toes at a dried half-scallop shell sticking up out of the sand and purses her lips.

"I don't blame you. I'm glad you have Rosencrantz, if he knows how these things work." A sigh. "Right, well, gentle lean." She forewarns the man and then does, in fact, lean to the left until their arms touch. Another sigh and she lingers for a moment or two, hoping it at least inspires the sense of camaraderie. In a way, it's nice. Commiserating human contact. Simple, primal, done. She leans away again, fidgeting with her fingers in her coat pockets. "Also, you didn't scam me, so get off your high horse there, grifter-peep."

A wry side-glance at Ravn. "I decided to give you one. So there." Phbbt. Yes: tiniest raspberry at him.

"Grifter-peep." Ravn's lip twitches into a small, lopsided smile. "And you regularly decide to randomly hand some bloke a coffee without him doing anything at all to get your attention. Happens regularly, I imagine. Della's wondering why supplies need ordered twice a week now."

He did not flinch at the lean, though. Might even have appreciated it. Might not really have much in terms of how to express it. So he doesn't. The British have their stiff upper lip; Ravn Abildgaard has his poker face. When the world gives you +++ runtime error +++, make like an 80s computer nerd -- sigh and start over. Wait for 3am when you will sit up in bed, startled, knowing the exact right answer to a conversation eight hours previous.

"I'm not really, you know. I mean, I'm not one of those swindle the millionaire types. Mission Impossible style. I'm just a bloke who knows how to sneak a nut away with his mind while people are watching his hands."

Whatever Ariadne mutters in response to Ravn's point about Della ordering extra supplies is in Hungarian and probably translates well enough to WHATEVER.

"I know you're not. I saw you in the casino. There was a lot of things going on, granted, and fuck that Dream narrative, whatever the hell it was saying...but you weren't schmoozing up to ladies in diamonds who then became ladies without diamonds -- or men suddenly missing Cartier watches. Or that safe in the back room was blown open and now the priceless Eye of Bahamut ruby is missing. That's not a real thing anyways," she adds blithely of the ruby. "My point being is...I getchu. I follow. It's okay to be a quiet person who doesn't stand out. Being strong and bombastic means you just get shot at first, if we're being totally rational."

"Oh, stealing jewellery is not that difficult." Ravn chuckles; maybe his professional pride is a little dented. "The difficult part is the distraction -- and people who wear that kind of jewellery tend to employ other people who are trained to spot distraction and not get distracted. Really good grifters don't steal. They convince you to give them what they want. All legal, bomb proof."

He looks back out at the fishing boat; another seagull has joined the first, and they circle like yin and yang, hoping to get first dibs when the nets come up. "The real trick is to have a distraction, such as a nice view -- an opportunity, such as someone leaning against you -- and the ability to keep a straight face. Do you want your keys back?"

"Convince them to give it to you."

Ariadne doesn't hide one bit of her dubious eyebrowing. Who on earth lets a grifter convince them to give up items? Shaking her head as she follows Ravn's gaze back out to the boat. Such persistent creatures, those seagulls.

But then. The grifter strikes. Patting at her coat pocket, she finds it indeed bereft of keys. "HEY!" A scoff followed by a chortle. "Oh my god, you -- SIR. Yes, give me my damn keys back right now." She's blushing through her smirk because yes: caught completely off-guard and when did her keys disappear?! When?! Her palm, lifted, demands they be placed back in it, thank you very much.

"Gold diggers. Confidence artists. Lots of grifters manage to weasel their way into a last will or a good position. A lot of them make a quite open deal -- trophy wife or valet, you look like you can attract a young and interesting partner, they get paid." Ravn shrugs. "It's all perfectly legal."

Then he dips into a pocket and hands the borrowed keys over. "It really isn't as difficult as it sounds. All about misdirection and, well, lack of shame."

"You...are totally shameless," the barista agrees urbanely as she takes her keys and shoves them away in the opposite pocket of her coat.

And moves her phone and wallet to the other pockets as well for good, deliberately-obvious measure, all the while eyeing Ravn with a half-censorious twist of her smirk.

"I'm seriously going to put a leash on my stuff around you." It's a friendly snark. "But still...yeah, yeah, well done. You got 'em fair and square. Weren't you supposed to teach me to pick locks at one point? Just sayin'. My skill tree could use some help there."

"Maybe that's our next play date," Ravn agrees. "We can practise on a lock at my place. You can learn to do it both ways -- though it takes some skill to manipulate a mechanism you cannot see. To do that, you need to understand locks first. And I can definitely help with that.

His hands return to his windbreaker's pockets. A small, wry smile accompanies the look at things being moved to opposite pockets there. "I'm not a thief any longer," the Dane points out. "And even when I was, I did not steal randomly. Spare change, no one really notices. Wallets, if I had to. Phones are useless unless you have a fence. And besides, I have no reason or need to steal."