2022-03-28 - A Long Way From Home

Most of the time, the firepit on the pebble beach is a blackened circle within a ring of chairs and log sections and flat stones for sitting on. Someone keeps it clean, there's rarely trash to be found, and often a stash of wood waiting, sheltered in a little covered rack.

But this evening, someone's gone to the effort of building the fire, and now sits slouched in one of the faded resin chairs. Regarding the flames with a calm, rather somber look on his face. An older man, old enough that the mass of bronze curls is threaded with silver, on its way to grizzled. He wears a blue flannel shirt over a white t-shirt, dark jeans, and worn boots, the soles of which rest on the little ring of stones that corrals the fire. There's a bottle just to the side of his chair - root beer, by the look of it.

"Sam! Sam! You fuzzy little shit, you get back here right now!"

The sun hasn't set entirely yet, but it's on its way down on the western horizon in hues of resplendence. Along the beach, happily lolloping along, is a red-brindle-colored dog. Feathery of fur, it looks rather like a Borzoi in miniature. Given the long snout and doe-brown eyes, legs for days and sighthound build, the dog certainly isn't distracted by his nose and the scents. It's the seagull disappearing off over the water instead. The dog stops along the water's edge and then considers the firepit before curiously padding over to it. Fire isn't new to him. The man in the chair is.

Still, friendly as is his wont now and then, the dog -- apparently named Sam? -- minces over and, deer-like, leans in to stick a nose in Joseph's direction.

"Sam! Good lord, you furry asshole." Here comes the owner, a young woman in a windbreaker and khaki pants. Quality wading boots keep sand out of her socks and reach to her knees. "Sorry, he's friendly, I promise." The wind's pulled some of her red hair from the messy bun and she tromps over to gently take the dog's collar.

The advent of a fuzzy visitor has Joe looking up from his contemplation of the embers, then offering tattooed knuckles for the dog to sniff. His right hand, the knuckles read 'HOLD' in shadings of black and ocean blue. "Hey there, buddy," he says, amiably, before glancing over at Sam's human. "Oh, hi. No, I like dogs," he specifies. "I'm Joe." His accent doesn't fit at all, for all that Joe's apparently gone native in terms of garb and grooming: his hair isn't quite long enough for the classic PNW man bun, and he has scruff that doesn't quite make it into beard territory. He's got a lazy southern drawl, and an affable, crooked grin.

Knuckles are sniffed and then Sam is leaning up against his human's leg companionably. By the content way he blinks, he's done being a furry asshole for now. His owner laughs quietly as she squints down at the sighthound.

"You're too kind, Joe. He's not normally that impulsive, but he hasn't seen seagulls in a while. They were always his weakness." Her own accent is traditional PNW but for a Midwestern twang and something else around some of the vowels. Time to squish-rub a triangle-flopped ear. Sam doesn't seem to mind. "Ariadne, and this is Samwise. Yes, after the hobbit." A swish-swish of that feathery tail before Sam settles again, looking out over the waters. "I didn't know there were fire pits out here. I guess I didn't see them on my ride by the first time." In the firelight, her eyes are an indeterminate color other than light-brown and they rest on Joe.

That has Joe laughing, softly. "Sounds like a good name for a dog," he says. "New to town?" It's a reasonable guess - she, too, doesn't sound like she's native. "Theseus just get pissed and drop you off?" he wonders. His own are a faded blue, pale enough to catch the firelight like crystal.

Joe's quip about her name's origins has the redhead snorting. "Man, been a while since I've heard that one." Still, she doesn't seem any more intolerant to it than the sound and the dry smirk. "Haven't you heard? Taking up with Dionysus is all the rage now. Theseus has his head on wrong, ditching me. Yet another reason to have a dog: loyal as can be." Sam gets another gentle cheek-scritch which he leans into with a quiet, pleased groan.

"New here though? Yeah. Been about a month or so. Helluva month," she then says on a sigh. "Surprised I haven't seen you around the coffee shop; Espresso Yourself, I'm one of the evening shifters there. I feel like I see everybody there at one point or another, even if you're a tea kind of person."

Pleased with her response - he gives her a purse-lipped, puckish little grin. "He always sounded like he'd be way more fun to hang with, god of wine, and all." Joe nods at the empty chair across the fire from him, in wordless invitation. "They sure are, dogs," he agrees.

"Been outta town for a bit, visitin' family," he explains, before turning in his chair to nod lazily at the apartments that overlook the Harbor. "I do like coffee, though."

Wordless invitation taken. This time, Samwise follows sedately as his owner takes up residence in the chair opposite the fire and then settles in a sit leaned back between her legs. Her fingernails take up lazily combing through the feathering on his white chest, this bright lack of color stark against his otherwise tiger-striped splotching.

"Been a while since I've seen mine, but hey, they know where I am. They're back in Seattle, so not too far off if I have to pop back for something or they want me to help out." With business, it can be assumed. Ariadne takes a moment to pull the collar of her turtleneck up around her neck more against the light breeze coming off the bay. It might be purple, the color, but the firelight doesn't help yet again in aiding this determination. "If you like coffee, drop in, yeah? I have to drum up business somehow before tourist season starts up and I get tired of hearing about these frappachinos we apparently can't make right," the barista explains drily. Ah, food retail. "Where are you from originally then, if you don't mind my asking? Definitely the southern United States, right?"

"Oh, I will," Joe agrees. "I just tend to get sweet stuff. I've got no palate for real barista-made coffee, be honest with you. Too many years of crappy instant." Apparently he burned out his taste buds. "Me? I'm from the opposite coast, almost as far away as you can be and still be in the lower fortyeight - Savannah, Georgia."

Ariadne tilts her head in a shrug. Fair. She can think of times in college where instant coffee did the job, even if it wasn't the best thing. His revelation of where he's from gains Joe a smile, this one friendly and openly so.

"Wow. No kidding -- and definitely about the part about being about as far away as you can be. Alaska's practically the only way you can get farther from there in this direction. Savannah. Huh. Boulder, Colorado for me. I was born there." She laughs as she adds, "Lots more rain here than there, that's for sure." Her expression then goes more circumspect and almost searching, even if her smile doesn't diminish entirely. "Did the Veil bring you out here?"

There: quick and easy proof that someone, at least, has filled her in on Grey Harbor and its weirdness -- and that the amnesia of the Glimmer-lacking hasn't struck her, therefore implying she Shines in her own way, subtle though it may be yet.

That question raises his brows, makes him purse his lips in another manner entirely. Ariadne gets a long, considering look from him, as he turns the question over. "Yes, you could say that," Joe says, finally. "It was a pull, right about here..." And he taps himself, a few inches lower than his heart, around the solar plexus. "Like a compass needle, I suppose you could say. At least, that's how I imagine it feeling. Or the the magnetic sense of migrating birds. Anyhow, it pulled me from Savannah to here." A beat, and he adds, with a flicker of that former humor, "Took the long way."

Holding the other man's gaze across the distance of the fire, Ariadne doesn't seem wary of it. Only measuring in her own quiet way. Her fingernails continue working through Sam's chest-fur, bringing him to a total lull in his sit; his doe-brown eyes slowly blink.

His answer makes her smile to herself. "Nothing wrong with the long way sometimes. It lets you think over things as you go. I can't say that anything like that drew me here, that...compass needle feeling. I'm still figuring it out, for what it's worth." She shrugs. "I'd like to think it's something noble or maybe luck, but what I'm learning so far is nothing's pure luck around here."

Joe looks wry, as his gaze falls to the dog's contented face. "Well, a few things mighta been easier if I'd gotten here sooner....but overall, taking the long way was worth it." He tips his head a little to the side. "I certainly don't feel noble, but....I know I'm not. You're absolutely right, though, about luck. It's not that everything is rigged and there's no free will here, but that there are patterns to apparent chance or luck." He makes a face. "I'm starting to sound like a conspiracy theorist."

"Nah, not at all. You're nothing like Denny. I've heard a lot about him around the coffee shop, but haven't met him. His thing is mermaids." Ariadne, however, doesn't sound like she's dismissing Denny at all. Quite to the contrary, her lips relax from a momentary concerned thinning. "Which...I'd...like to not run into at some point, but...knowing my luck..."

She rolls a palm up off of Sam's chest before returning to skritch it gently. "Which is far less 'correlation does not equal causation' than I want it to be...mermaids will happen any day now. So, no, you don't sound like a conspiracy theorist. I've already been involved in a Dream or three. I used to think I could explain everything as a science major, but at this point? I'm willing to concede that I can't explain it all away." She slowly shakes her head, eyes falling to the fire. "And for some reason, I still want to stay here. Maybe I like suffering, who knows," comes the musing with the faint laugh.

There's that broad grin, again. "Well, being Gray Harbor.....yes, mermaids aren't as crazy a thing to be focussed on as they might be elsewhere, right?" Joe settles his hands comfortably in his lap. "And yeah, being afraid of whatever you see that seems weird, even if it's benign at first glance, is good policy." He waves a hand to waft smoke away from his face as the breeze shifts for a moment.

"I feel your pain. I'm an engineer by training myself. I still do believe that science can explain it away, but that the science in question is way beyond what we've currently got on earth, is all."

"Engineer, nice. Yeah, everything so far -- I shouldn't say everything, that's melodramatic," Ariadne amends. "Many things so far have solidly fallen under the category of 'more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, than are dreamt of in your philosophy.' I feel like I need it on a t-shirt now. Marine biology," the redhead then shares as she shifts in the chair, stretching out a foot more towards the fire. The heat won't get through it except with some time she may or may not have, but oh well. "I'm glad the bay is out here. Somebody told me about seeing orcas last year, so I'm intending to at least keep track of them out of idle curiosity if not via a future grant."

Sam lifts his face to the air and sniffs, not privy to the fire smoke just yet. "I'm sure you know Ravn, or have heard of him -- Danish guy, tall, skinny, gloves. He gave me the Hotel California speech when I'd first arrived here and unfortunately, it's starting to make a little too much sense. I'm fine with keeping a twenty-foot pole between me and whatever weirdness decides to come my way around here, but man..." Her gaze lands on Joe across the fire again. "If someone had told me about the things I was destined to have seen so far? I'd have asked where they're keeping the good shit."

There's that delighted grin again, the one that takes years off his face. "Oh, there are plenty of orcas out there. I tend to see more when I get the boat out to real blue water, so I honestly suspect what I'm seeing are Pacific deep water wanderers, rather than coastal pods."

He's sat up in his enthusiasm. "Hahahaha, Hotel California speech, oh, that's good," Joe laughs. "I do know Ravn. He's good people. Yeah, it fucks with you, don't it? Makes you wonder if they dosed the municipal water supply with acid." He gives a shiver that's a combination of unease and pleasure. Mufasa, Mufasa, Mufasa.

Ariadne can't help but respond to the enthusiasm to an extent. Her smile deepens, lips parting enough to show teeth. Even Sam seems to come up out of his semi-doze to consider the man across the fire, given he's gone and laughed about something now.

"Sometimes, yeah, I wonder a little bit what's in the water supply. You know what's really the mindfuck though? That if you get hurt over there, you're hurt over here. It's like the Matrix except possibly worse. Possibly. Probably, actually. What kind of boat do you have though? I'm starting to sense a trend with folks around here and owning boats," the barista observes, tilting her head in order to rest her folded knuckles against her cheek.

Joe turns in his chair to indicate a little white sailboat moored at the docks, sail neatly furled. The name painted on her bow reads 'Surprise'. "That's her. Sailed her from Savannah to here," he explains.

Then he turns back, rises to pick up a piece of wood from the stack by the firepit, lays it carefully amongst the flames. "She's a Catalina 36 mark II," he explains. "Got her when I retired. Lived on her for about a year and a half, until I got here."

Lifting her cheek up and off of her knuckles, Ariadne cranes her head to see the sailboat designated by its owner. She nods, committing the name to memory. 'Surprise'. There must be a story. She settles back into her chair again and watches Joe add wood, her eyes flicking up to his face again as she returns to her leaned posture upon her fist.

"Must have been a hell of a journey," she notes. "Panama Canal, I assume? Or did you go the long way?" Down and around the tip of South America, infamously dangerous territory for all of humankind's insistence to travel past it. "And you're not living on it now, I assume. Unless you do it seasonally like Ravn apparently does?"

Someone else's story, truth be told - naming your boat as fanfic. Joe flops back down to meet Sam's accusing look. Human, you picked up a stick but you did not throw it. The dog gets a sheepish grin, before he looks up and says, "Yeah, I took the canal. No way in hell I'd take something that little around Cape Horn. Easier ways to commit suicide." He runs a hand through his hair. "Nah, I don't live on her now. Got an apartment in Bayside. Just take her out for short trips."

Ariadne nods and again considers the boat, though this time as more of an idle glance than anything truly curious. "Wise idea, not going around the Horn. Not in that boat. Sorry, boat," she then drily says in the direction of the craft, surely implying that it's only so sturdy and the Cape chews up tankers like a pitcher does a cheekful of Hubba Bubba.

"I'm looking at a place over on Sycamore. The Broadleaf apartments. Know anything about them, since you've been here for a while now? Any local secrets or feedback? I know it's near enough to the Firefly Forest and I've been told to be wary about that place, even with the cute little glowbugs which make...no sense whatsoever being there." Cue little bemused frown. They clearly go in the same category as the mermaids.

"Hell, not in any boat I've ever seen," Joe says, amused. "And I used to live on aircraft carriers. Haven't heard anything about the Broadleaf places that I recall. So, Boulder, huh? This the furthest you've ever been from there?"

"Nah, not the farthest. I spent a little bit of time in Europe, nothing overmuch. I've got family back out that way," the barista explains. "But yeah, Boulder. My parents moved up here for business reasons when I was younger, around eight or so. They're in the coffee business. I know, barista, you're so surprised. Scullin Roastery, it's a little place in Seattle. We cater to the private selectors and many of the restaurants. I shouldn't say 'we'," Ariadne then laughs quietly to herself, sounding a bit wistful before she reiterates, "My parents made it happen. I just grew up liking coffee."

A sigh. "Boulder was nice though. Four seasons, people were friendly and not as stoned as often as one might think. The mountains were beautiful, so many parks to go walk around. Denver was cool. I miss snow. We don't nearly get enough snow around here."

"I feel like opening a coffee roastery in Seattle takes a special kind of daring," Joe notes, grinning at her across the fire. "People take that stuff real personal on this coast, don't they?"

"Colorado is lovely," he adds, as he settles back down to that comfortable slouch. "I don't know that I've ever been to Boulder, though. Just Denver..." He shakes his head. "Not me. I'm not real fond of snow. I lived in Russia for a few years, and that was more snow than I ever wanted to see."

"Real personal," echoes the redhead across the fire in a faint mimicry of his accent. She then smirks, nodding to boot. Sam shifts in place between her legs and she realizes she's forgotten to scritch at his white bib; her bad, Windhound, immediately amended. He seems pleased for it, slipping back into the contented slow-blink state of relaxation. A little shift back and forth in the chair as she listens. Her smirk was lessening out of concentration.

It disappears in a parting of lips in obvious if still somewhat reserved surprise. Something flickers through her eyes afterwards. "Miért voltál Oroszországban?" Ariadne then asks, and the source of her subtle other-accent then becomes apparent. 'Why were you in Russia?' Granted, the language is Hungarian and it's truly testing.

"My accent isn't even the one in this town that's the most out of place," He's kicked his boot soles out towards the fire again, as if he's going to absorb more warmth that way. "There's a garage in town called Steelhead, run by a guy named Rosencrantz, who is a New Yorker, and you can hear him coming blocks away."

The question....he looks like nothing so much as an aging German Shepherd that's heard a command he can't parse. Polite but intense interest, and some surprise. "I'm sorry, I don't speak whatever that was," he apologizes. "I'm fluent in Russian and I can kinna guess at Ukrainian, but......you got me there."

"Ah. My mistake, I assumed," replies Ariadne easily enough. She waves her hand off from under her jaw for a second to further dismiss her folly. "I wondered how far you'd traveled. It was Hungarian, my mother was born there. I know Rosencrantz -- god, it's so weird calling him that -- Itzhak. I've met Itzhak. Didn't know he ran a garage though. Huh."

Looking thoughtful for a moment, as if she were filing away this information into a mental tab labeled 'LOUD NEW YORKER', she then asks: "Why Russia?" The question she'd asked in Hungarian now in English. "Either you're good at languages or somebody made you sit down and study for the language. It's not your natural accent at all."

Now.....now he gets a look in his eyes like she's made a joke and not realized it. But Joe bites it back. "Ahh," he says, nodding. "Cradle tongue, then. Yes, Itzhak. A musician and a mechanic, a man of many talents, including fluent Yiddish obscenity."

There's that gleam again. "Why Russia? Had to, for work. Languages come easily to me, but I've done a lot of studying...."

Joe gets one of those vaguely disbelieving looks across the fire, the one where lashes half-lid eyes and eyebrows rise to further accentuate the contrast. One side of her lips curls. "Alright, alright...for work. I won't pry. I can take a hint. Barista habit, my bad. A few of my mother's friends speak it, so I know some Russian, but no more than necessary to limp around. Now, Itzhak and obscenities?"

The manner in which Ariadne nods is markedly droll. "He was minding this kid he babysits, Hunter, while I was jogging around the park. Hunter calls somebody a 'schmuck'." Tilt of head without losing eye contact with Joe. "And Itzhak laughed when the kid's mom came over like, do you know what your child called mine?! I certainly know. Hunter called him out on it after he was like, yo, kid, you can't call people that. Hunter said 'But you do!' I probably laughed harder than I should have, but...out of the mouths of babes, y'know?"

He lifts one tattooed finger, as if to ask her to wait. "Speaking of Itzhak....I want you to do me a favor. Ask Itzhak what I used to do for a living. Tell him I wouldn't admit to it. I promise, his reaction will be worth it."

That story makes him chortle. "I love it. Yeah. I got him this mug for Hanukkah - it's covered in Yiddish insults. He knew all of 'em, of course. Explained to me the ones I didn't know. I can totally see him teaching the local grade schoolers to cuss like Brooklyn mechanics. Itz is really good people."

"I'd be shocked if Hunter doesn't end calling half of the city something terribly creative in Yiddish soon enough," the barista muses before she laughs softly. "But yeah, Itzhak, he seems like good people. Rough around the edges, but...oh god, right. Ravn called him a jellybean." Her mouth twists in amusement, but she continues nonetheless. "Polished and hard on the outside, squishy on the inside. I don't think I'll be calling him a 'jellybean' to his face, but hey, it's a compliment in a way."

She then eyes Joe across the fire. "But ask Itzhak what you used to do for a living and then tell him you wouldn't fess up." Squint. "Why, is he going to pull some furious Yiddish cursing if I do this?"

Joe's leaning over the side of his chair to try and pick up the long neglected bottle of soda....and nearly falls over the arm when she conveys that description of Itzhak. "Oh, my god, that is perfect. Ravn is a smart cookie, and exactly right in this case. Me, I am gonna call him that, sometime."

He finally snags the bottle, topples back to his former seat. "Yeah," he says. "He's gonna lose his shit and it's gonna be funny. He'll turn bright red, I promise you, and curse my name."

"Whatever have I done..."

Ariadne doesn't say this overly loudly, almost more to herself, but she watches Joe fetch his soda and smiles half behind the relegated rises of her knuckles. Sam yawns and blips his nose with his pink tongue, then glancing over at something down the surf line.

"Alright. Next time I see Itzhak, I'll mention we've spoken but you wouldn't fess up. It sounds like it's going to be amusing. If you're retired, I assume you don't work in his garage then?"

"Only as a pain in the ass, and that's not a paid position," Joe retorts, sunnily. "No, I've got my pension and am wasting away in Margaritaville, just as you see here." Because the grayest town in the PNW is a tropical paradise. He takes a long pull off the bottle, and looks inordinately smug. "Maybe you should take pictures when you say that to Itzhak," he suggests, turning the bottle in his hand, picking at the label.

Learned in Russian and Ukrainian. A pension. American. Ariadne knows she'd figure this out with a few more pieces of the puzzle, but as is her habit, she decides to be patient. After all, people talk to baristas. It's practically part and parcel of the job description: make coffee, make small talk. She watches his fingernail work at the paper plastered around the glass bottle.

His reply still makes her snort. "P.I.T.A.," echoes she with a smirk. "And...take pictures? Wow, you're making this out to be some cataclysmic event. Am I going to need HAZMAT gear or something to deal with the outburst?"

"Not if you're strong enough to deal with what you've already seen from him," A strip of the label yields, and he starts working on the next fraction of it, before looking up. "Well, for my benefit. I love the guy, but I also enjoy needling him, because he's got a temper like Yosemite Sam. No harm in him, but he'll pop off. You'll see," Joe nods sagely. Another swig of soda, and he taps his nail against the glass.

"I guess I will. If I remember to have my camera out, I'll see what I can do."

Sam huffs in a manner of alerting to something down the surf line. It's barely a sound and frankly about as loud as the Windhound gets unless he's in full fury. Triangle-flop ears perk as he stares. Turning her head and leaving her fist upright if at a lazy cant of wrist, the barista squints in that direction. A glance back at Joe. "...alright, so, these mermaids. Are they everywhere in the bay or just in certain areas?"

That has Joe peering in that direction. "I don't know. Never seen one. I'd say they're more likely in a recurring Dream in this area, you know? Though things do come across the Veil, from time to time, or so I hear." He sets down the bottle at his feet, spreads his hands. "The Forest is definitely a place to be careful of. Veil is thinner there, I think. Also, ask Rosencrantz about this stuff when you see him. He's far more of an expert than I am. Same goes for a guy named August Roen - you know him?"

Fingers strong despite their delicate appearance make sure to have a good grip on Sam's martingale collar. The Sighthound is notoriously curious and fast enough to turn heads. Ariadne does not want him chasing mermaids. Or more seagulls. Neither, please.

She returns her attention to Joe and shakes her head. "I don't know August Roen, no, and I haven't heard his name either. A friend of yours? Or of Itzhak? I've heard enough about the Forest to know better than to wander around it, yeah."

"Roen runs a pair of businesses - Out on a Limb, and Branch and Bough. Garden supply and arborists. He's also good people, and knows far more about the Veil and its creatures and environs. He and Itzhak are good friends, and I count them both friends. Worth talking to him, checking in with him."

He scuffs a foot along the gravel of the beach. "I'm glad you aren't just blowing me off on this," he adds, after a moment, "Even if I do feel like every doom-saying old man in ever horror movie ever."

Out on a Limb and Branch and Bough. Both sound familiar, in a way, and Ariadne nods, noting to listen for them in conversation around the coffee shop if not ask her fellow baristas about them. Her eyes fall to the place where his foot might be; the firepit with its flames obscures it, flickering away as the wood merrily burns.

"I had Ravn to break me in first. You know him. You know how blunt he is," she replies, regard twinkling now and aimed properly at Joe. "Nothing you've said has startled me yet. I'm sure if we talked long enough, we'd get to that point, but I'm...I'm getting used to it. I'm not thinking of it as doom-saying anymore. I'm considering it warnings; common sense and logic. Don't press the red button. Don't use your powers too much. Don't pass Go and collect two-hundred dollars. You get the gist. I'm not going to blow off what most people would say sounds like pipe-babbling."

"Well, you're gonna do better'n most then," Joe's clearly pleased by the prospect. "I've done the best I can do, in terms of pointing you at the guys that I know of who know the most and haven't been made crazy by it." He grins. "Yeah, Ravn doesn't mince words, and he's also an excellent guide. Just less experienced than those two."

"Well, hey, I appreciate the pointing. You didn't have to do it, but here you are anyways." Ariadne pauses a moment and gives the older man a pleased slash of a grin. "Thanks," she emphasizes gently but firmly. Sam whines again and tries to get up, yanking the barista's attention to him. "No way, buddy." Click: the leash clip of despair. Alas: no chasing whatever the hell is down the beach.

"I should get going though, he's getting to be an antsy asshole. It's probably time to get him to rest. Joe?" The barista rises to her feet and dusts off the back of her thighs with no compunction. "It was nice to meet you. Stop by the café sometime and I'll let you know what happened when I told Itzhak about what you said." It sounds like the redhead is at least considering actually doing it at this point. "You take it easy until then." Bidding the man this and farewell in one, Ariadne then begins making her way back down the docks towards the parking lot. There must be a car. Sam seems content to go now. They leave the man to his thoughts and the beach fire for now.