2022-04-01 - Hair Dye Isn't Just for Danes

About half an hour ago, Ariadne had arrived at number five on Oak street with a bag full of hair supplies and a medium-sized, still-warm Tupperware of what must be her goulash. Ravn knows it, at least. The kitchen quickly becomes redolent with its spice-and-meat heartiness and, of course, anyone is more than welcome to a bowl of it. There will surely be leftovers unless someone suddenly develops a black hole where their stomach used to be.

In the bag with the hair supplies, everything needed to see about a panel of peacock color. Arctic Fox is the brand name on the boxes of dye and now, seated in a chair with a towel draped around her shoulders and most of her deeply-auburn hair up in a messy clipping atop her head but for the section of under-hair meant to be dyed, Ariadne is busy appearing torn between uncertainty and amusement. "Look, I know it should be bleached paler first, but seriously, fuck it. I'm being impulsive and I accept it. Besides, think about the color gradient that it's going to show up as with the red beneath it. Could do just the blue though if it's easier?" She's probably talking to Una unless Ravn's suddenly gotten gloves on to handle dye bottles. "It's going to turn this deep, luscious shade of purple and ooh."

Little shiver of delight from the barista. Clearly, no argument there.

Ravn always wears gloves but he seems to have no particular inclination towards handling these kinds of chemistry. He turns a chair around to sit on it, arms resting on the backrest, and watches with eyes that sparkle grey with amusement. "All of this is magic to me. I dyed my hair black once or twice when I was a teenager but that was just -- wash your hair in this and leave it in for forty-five minutes. It didn't take very well either -- kind of just became a weird shade of purple-grey that washed out towards weirdo-ginger. I've had a bit of highlighting done a few times, but always by a hairdresser."

He's got every intention of getting goulash and a show, though.

There's been some redecorating going on at 5 Oak: some painting down the hallway where the marks left by now-removed 'artwork' have been covered by a coat or two of good, solid paint. It's unlike Una to be so restrained in her colour choices (white? really?) but at least the roller-work looks clean, which is a promising sign, surely, for this evening's festivities.

The kitchen is the heart of Una's home (no surprises there), and Ariadne's goulash ("Yum!" said Una, with enthusiasm at the sight-and-smell of it) only serves to enhance that ambiance: everything is cosy and comfortable, even if the paint is peeling in places, and the appliances are old. Now, with plastic gloves on her hands, she stands a few paces back from Ariadne and considers that fall of hair.

"Why does it not surprise me that Ravn died his hair black," is amused, verging on delighted. "Look, it'll do something, anyway, even without the bleach, and honestly, bleach sounds like a right pain in the ass. I looked this up on the internet: it's all about the blending. Which is fine. It's the same as decorating a cake. I think we can do this. You ready, Ariadne? Pumped up, excited?"

"I could die of not-surprise," agrees the barista under her pseudo-smock. A smirk over at Ravn and then roll of eyes back, as if she might see Una by dint of this despite the haphazard fall of hair nearly into her face. "I'm ready. Let's do this." Said, of course, as any hero in one of those overly-testosterone-laden action film characters might, but like the woman can get anywhere near a proper basso voice.

"Also, did Ravn bring rootbeer for those of us who want to drink toxic sludge or is it non-rootbeer bottles tonight?" Able still to turn her head, she considers the Dane a-stride his chair as if he were to be in a saddle instead. In continuation of the concept of 'coziness', she's sporting a pair of old black running sweatpants, loose and comfortable, and a light plain t-shirt beneath the old grey sweatshirt seen worn when de-barnacling Ravn's sailboat. Nothing's going to get spattered with dye and then be the worse off for it. Her socks are, in fact, pastel-plaid, and a complete if charmingly-fluffy eyesore.

"I brought various forms of soda, I bought cherry Coke because I love that stuff, and as a testament to how much I apparently like you people, I did in fact bring root beer. I have no idea whether it's a good brand because there is no way under God's green sky and blue Earth that you are going to get me to drink that stuff. If I was alone in the salty and sandy desert with nothing to drink but root beer, I'd eat sand to make the pain stop faster." Ravn has Opinions.

He doesn't comment on the hair dye rib. Of course he dyed his hair black as a teenager. Of course he had an emo period where he couldn't uglify himself enough in the attempt to horrify his parents and his aunts. It worked. He didn't get asked for any social occasions for nearly six months on grounds of not being presentable.

"You're the best," claims Una, with a pleased little laugh. "For making that sacrifice for us. Your gesture is acknowledged, though I have questions about the 'apparently'. You only apparently like us? Despite our excellent taste?" For someone who definitely has not been drinking yet (clearly not; not when there is hair to be dyed), she's relatively bubbly and relaxed. Perhaps it comes down to being in her happy place, or being in her happy clothes (such cosy, cosy sweatpants).

Or goulash. That may help too.

"Okay," she says, reaching for the first bottle of dye, along with a brush for applying it. "Let's do this."

Una's not precisely confident about many things, but she's not exactly hesitant about this. Maybe it helps that it's not her hair. Maybe she's just done lots and lots (and lots) of research. Either way: the dye is open. The dyeing can begin.

Ravn and his Opinion just makes the barista laugh, probably to no one's surprise. "Holy shit," she cackles. "Death by sand impaction over rootbeer? Damn! I'll have you know that Coke is made of the sorrowful tears of industrial waste though, so you can keep your cherry Coke." Droll eyebrow. "But like Una says, thank you, we'll enjoy the rootbeer in your name." Grin.

"Let do this," echoes the barista of the dye application. She can feel her hair being lifted and prepped, smell the dye itself after the bottle is opened. "I am going to need someone to snag me one of those bottles of rootbeer though. Ravn, sugah-pie, would you mind absconding off to the kitchen for one post-haste? I shall return the favor with a cuppa blackest coffee next we gather in the café." It's a deliberately bad southern accent, hoity-toity-est of the belles, and Ariadne then grins like a fiend. "Since I'm stuck in this chair now, what with Una and her goin'-ons at my hair."

Ravn obediently scuffles off his chair and towards the hoard of soda. "Anything for you, Una?" He is having a Coke Cherry, thank you very much. If you're going to drink weird, sweet stuff, at least get the most syrupy, molasses-like, artificial fruit flavour available. He likes cheap apricot soda, too. He liked Urge.

He's back soon enough, too. "Now, if you two need me to actually do anything but take embarrassing pictures, you'll let me know, right? I did bring my camera, as it happens. I figured that once it's actually done, you might want to try for some proper pictures? I'm no experienced photographer, but my fiancée was, and she did teach me a trick or two."

"Rootbeer for me too, thanks Ravn," says Una, without looking up: she's got dye in her hands, and that's serious business. "Also, Ariadne? That accent is awful. Awful. Don't use it too much or I'll start giggling, and then you might end up with a blue handprint on the back of your head. Which..."

A pause.

"I mean, it'd be a statement, right?"

She shoots Ravn a glance on his return, the corners of her mouth twisting up with genuine mirth. "Are you going to Friendzone them in retribution?" she wonders. "The embarrassing ones. Though, of course, it's Della you'd have to really get back at there. I'm 100% innocent." Except for the people she sent that photo to directly, hush.

"Thank you, Ravn," the barista singsongs lightly of the retrieved and opened rootbeer now in her hands, gone back to her standard accent.

She still laughs at Una's thoughts on matters and retorts, "No blue handprints on the back of my head! That's like some reverse Hand of Saruman nonsense and nobody would get it. Nobody."

Sipping at the rootbeer, she finds it good and makes a small sound to prove it. "I'm actually totally innocent in that endeavor of glitter bombs as well as pics and I want it noted. I only saw the pictures because social media plus a city this size plus I happen to be a barista working at a coffee shop. Y'all think you hear gossip." Her brows flick. She keeps her head still while Una works, not wanting the dye anywhere it's not supposed to be. "That's a sweet offer of you though, Ravn. If I feel bold, we shall do pictures!" Ariadne proclaims with a lift of her rootbeer bottle.

"You know, I can't even blame her. I looked ridiculous. I'm just going to be a good sport and pretend it never happened." Ravn nods firmly and sips his Cherry Coke; sweet, tooth-pain-inducing chemical goodness. "I did think maybe something low key -- the kind of photography where we make it look like you step out of the big black nothing. It's a good style for sharp colours, and well, colour is what this about."

He watches with interest. This is one of these girls-only rituals that he doesn't recall being privy to in past years. He's not certain what exactly he expected. He's relieved to find that so far, gin has not been brought up, and no one is parading around in underwear, either.

There have been no pillow fights, either! Sexy or un-sexy. Really, the movies have it all wrong...

Una continues working the first colour of dye through Ariadne's hair, and without looking up, promises, "No blue handprints. I mean, I would get it, but I appreciate that's probably not enough to make a statement actually, you know, work." She's being very methodical about this: no hair will go untouched, except the hairs that aren't supposed to be touched, which will... remain so. Hopefully.

"Being a good sport is wise. Della's not home at the moment, but that doesn't mean she won't be, and... no, actually, she's harmless. Mostly harmless."

"I promise to do my best Blue Steel rendition. My duck lips will be on-pointe. I shall stand boldly and jut out my chest and own my motherfucking space like I mean it." By the way she's grinning, Ariadne's half-testing to see if the Dane will stick to his guns on the offer. Somebody, secretly shy to be on camera? Possibly the barista. She carefully unfolds and folds her legs again, idly letting her lifted foot draw no particular set of patterns in empty air with a fuzzy toe.

"I thought all Dellas had a +10 advantage in all encounters against Ravns anyways? Let's not test if she's harmless or not. One Della has already attempted to make your blood run like syrup...make that 'attempts', present tense," Ariadne amends with a titter.

"Della seems like a decent person to me." Ravn sips his Coke and hitches a shoulder slightly, resuming his wrong-way-around seat on the chair. "I haven't spoken with her a lot, and she had a lot of questions -- which makes sense, I'd try to learn as much as I could too, if I was her. This whole thing, this whole town -- it's a rude awakening."

He winks at Ariadne. "Of course, anyone named Della does seem predestined to be my nemesis. Coffee or pictures. Different weapons, same amount of suffering."

Is that a camera bag right there, at his foot. Why, yes, it is. And as he reaches down to unpack it, that's a semi-professional class DSLR Canon camera and a bag of various lenses and optics. Sorry. He might be quite serious.

"You should see the collection of k-cups this Della keeps," says Una, with a theatrical shudder, though she's currently looking at her drink, so out of reach while her hands are otherwise occupied (not to mention covered in dye). Ah well. It's there for later. "Raspberry coffee, that's all I'm saying. That, at least, seems to ring true across the both of them. She's-- she's been a good sport about all of this, anyway. I mean, she accidentally burnt half her hair off, and she didn't cry."

Una sits back, all the better to examine what she's done so far. Evidently she's not quite satisfied, because she leans again, adding another layer of the first colour with quick strokes.

"You're really not kidding on the photography stuff, huh."

Ravn's wink earns him a snort and a little eyeroll. Ariadne agrees: the weaponry might be different, but the infliction remains the same. She still eyes that camera with more contemplation than perhaps she wants to let on -- not like it's some poisonous snake, but as if she were just concluding that the Dane isn't joking.

Cue side-eye. Cue squinty side-eye. Cue squinty side-eye while sipping rootbeer.

"Raspberry coffee isn't terrible, though I'd prefer the syrup in a mocha myself," the dye-gaining redhead opines. She continues to keep her head very still, the better to let the brush apply its bounty for another layering. "I'm glad Della's able to talk to you for answers though, Ravn. I remember...seeing a little bit of something in her. She must have realized it? No more amnesia?"

Distract from the camera. DISTRACT.

Ravn smirks. The master of social awkward and ridiculous anxieties, not notice someone trying to draw attention away from something as obvious as the camera he is holding? Not happening. "I'm not taking any pictures without your permission," he tells Ariadne. "And I'm not publishing any, either. That's for you to decide, whether you want them out there."

He glances at Una, and then nods at the mention of raspberry. "So K-cup is for ... Keurig. Right." Because he's a bloke, and that's not where his mind went, and he was just about to ask if that requires a wheelbarrow for walking purposes. And also wonder at the connection because Della -- either Della -- is on the slim and, well, able to walk unaided side. "But yeah -- she was asking me about how it all works, and what kind of powers I have, how to stay out of trouble."

"Raspberry coffee is the devil," insists Una, who, granted, doesn't even take milk in hers by preference. It's not her fault the raspberry coffee that was fed to her, once, in her very own kitchen, ended up all over the floor. Accidents, after all, do happen.

Sadly, she has only a blank stare in response to Ravn's Keurig comment, because, yes, what else would a K-cup be in this context? It's probably for the best that her brain doesn't get where his does.

"No more amnesia," is what she says, instead, as she sets down her dye application brush (on a nice, plastic surface). "It was-- oh, hm. Do you remember that Dream where we were animal spirits at the beginning of team, Ariadne? Stealing Fire? It was right after that, or during that, possibly; I'm not sure. And now she's manifesting powers that I don't have... not that I'm super powerful in all ways, but. Jules and I felt a little out of our depth to answer some things, so we nudged her towards Ravn, who-- thank you, Ravn-- chatted to her."

"I appreciate that." Ariadne manages the tiniest of nods and returns his smirk. "I didn't come prepared at all for pictures." A gesture for her ratty sweatpants and equally well-loved sweatshirt. "Plus, this dye has to get rinsed out, so...hopefully you have a blow dryer, Una? I only ask because I lost mine when I packed stuff up and I've had to let my hair dry overnight these days."

How she manages to not snort-laugh at Ravn's realization is sheer willpower. There's still a fluttering of lashes and deliberate stoppering of mouth with rootbeer. No laughing. No. Honest confusion. Her eyes roll back as if she could see Una again. "I remember the Dream about stealing Fire, yes." Where she'd been an osprey on the wind, wild and free and bold. "Wise of you, nudging her towards Ravn. You know...just about everything, it seems, bud." Her golden-hazel eyes slide to the Dane again. "Seriously, not a bad thing, and yes, take it as a compliment, please."

"Nicest way I've been called a know-it-all so far." Ravn smiles slightly and puts the camera bag down by his foot again. "Also, two tricks for a good portrait photo that doesn't need to be date stamped by its fashion choices? One is, back to the camera, topless -- you'll get hair and shoulders, and nothing that you don't show on the beach on a summer's day, unless your photographer is an asshole, and he isn't. The other option, wear a single-coloured piece of cloth like a shawl, same effect -- nothing to distract from the hair. Back to the camera, look back over your shoulder. Focus will be on your eyes and hair."

"This is a household of women; of course we have blow dryer. And a straightener, and... well, you get the story. I'd half not be surprised if there were a crimping iron around somewhere, just because someone could." Probably none of these belong to Jules, though, but Della and Una...

"But don't go anywhere yet. I want to try and layer in a second colour for you." She's already reaching for another dye bottle, another brush. This is serious business, and can't be rushed.

She shoots a glance at Ravn, and then begins to giggle. "Is that your attempt to get Ariadne out of her clothes, Ravn?"

"Oh good. I'll borrow the blow-dryer then," Ariadne tells the dye-mistress working at her hair. Again, her eyes roll as if she might see Una while she sips at her rootbeer. "Go for it." The second layering of color, that is, and the barista seems to settle more into the chair, all the better to hold still for it. The gentle tugging at her scalp is soothing as things stand; there's always something about someone playing with her hair.

And then, there's Una pointing out the nuances of photographic suggestions and the barista blinks. Is that pink on her cheeks?

It's pink on her cheeks.

"Well...I mean...he's not wrong from a purely technical perspective," the barista says, trying to be diplomatic and save Ravn and probably not doing a great job of it. "Those poses and...states of...dishabille or not would isolate the hair as the subject of the photograph. I can do a great look over my shoulder too, you just watch. Rowr," she then faux-growls very theatrically, intending to use humor to smooth out this conversational kink.

Let's just admit it. If Ravn had considered this strategy, he'd have kept his mouth shut.

"I think that if we do this, the shawl is probably the best idea," Ravn murmurs, and tries very hard to pretend that he's not contemplating just getting up, walking out, and never acknowledging either woman ever again. Or any other woman. Or in fact, just give up on humanity altogether. LIve in a cave, talk only to the rocks. The male rocks. "A sheet, maybe. Though something dark would give the best effect for low key photography -- not black, but, dark."

It's a good thing Una has not started dye-the-second, because she has to stop and contain herself: the giggles do threaten to break through, and her eyes are distinctly bright.

At least, when she glances back at Ravn, she's managed to contain most of it, with just the faintest twitching of her lip to suggest she's still battling mirth. "I'm sure there'll be something in my closet," she offers, generously. "If Ariadne decides she'd like to try this. I spent too many years working in thrift shops not to have collected a whole range of appropriate pieces of fabric, intending on turning them into clothes."

See? Now she's fine again. Now she can get back to painting dye onto hair, quite as if nothing happened at all. Quite.

"Dark or black shawl or sheet it is." Ariande would nod curtly -- it's a battle-plan -- but Una's got the brush with the second color and that's asking for an accidental swipe of whatever hue of Arctic Fox it is on her sweatshirt if the towel about her shoulders has slipped. Tucking the rootbeer between her thighs briefly, she adjusts the towel more to cover the garment and then relaxes again.

"Navy-blue?" she then muses aloud, glancing over at Ravn again. "Forest-green. Hmm...burgundy. See, I'm saying all of these colors and remembering how I used to have a cape as a kid and how, in the depths of my heart, I'd just freakin' love a nice, heavy-grade cloak with a big ol' hood on it. Just to have. Like, to wear around the apartment when I'm feeling swishy because do you know gratifying it is to swish around a corner like some super-villain? It's totally gratifying, let me inform you of this," she does of her comrades.

"Burgundy would give a very nice contrast. Kind of wine-red in the dark, against the blue shades of your hair." Back in artist mode; safe footing acquired (phew). "Navy blue could work too, but then we should probably get you a strong, warm shade of lipstick, to make sure the cold shades do not get to dominate -- unless you want the ice queen look."

Feeling swishy brings a smile. Not a familiar one but, on some level, yes. Ravn gets that; we shall not talk about childhood fantasies about ninja costumes or early World of Warcraft fantasies about being a rogue with a red Defias Brotherhood bandana.

If he has to be honest, he did go with the black costume. Just needs the red bandana.

"Forest green, though, I'd save for daylight photography. In low key, it's prone to turn kind of muddy. Same applies to other bright, clear shades -- sapphire, for example, ends up looking kind of grey."

Una, too, has to smile for 'feeling swishy'. "I didn't have a cloak," she relates, "But I did have a... hm, petticoat thing? Like a whole body one, so it felt like a tutu or something. And I loved nothing more than to pretend I was a ballerina and dance around the apartment. I'm not sure that thing was ever worn under anything, as designed, but I think I wore it to pieces even so. I do think you could rock a cloak for winter wear, though, if you wanted to, Ariadne. Maybe not especially practical, but-- still awesome."

To Ravn, she adds, "You know a fair amount about this colour stuff, huh? Though it's definitely likely to look amazing with this hair, once it's done."

Ariadne listens and by her expression, she is interested to hear the logic. "Hmm. Jewel tones in the daylight, for the most part, is what I'm hearing."

"And Una gets me." Another glance failing to actually see Una but designated for her fellow redhead nonetheless while the barista grins. "I have no lipstick on me, Una, I'd have to borrow something if you're okay with that? I totally get it if the rule is no sharing. I'd want to use a q-tip to apply the lipstick anyways, but, again, your call and I totally respect if that's squicky. I don't think we want the ice queen. Y'all haven't seen the ice queen look." Her lips purse in a smile just a hair foreboding. "Nobody wants Ari, Ice Queen."

Beware the temper of a patient woman and all.

"Like I said -- my fiancée was into fashion photography. I was trying to be a supportive partner and take an interest in her field. You can only stand around a photo studio for so long before things start to click." Ravn offers a lopsided smile from behind his Cherry Coke. "But I do get not wanting to be photographed, and given that Ariadne is not my partner, I see no reason that she should agree to go along with it for the sake of domestic peace. Ask me about the horse picture. No, in fact, do not ask me about the horse picture."

That last comment makes him look up at Ariadne, and then shakes his head. "No, I don't think I want to, actually. I prefer to not argue with my friends."

"I'm not sure I much care for the idea of going along with things for domestic peace, either," muses Una. "I never really understood that. It's fine to want to, but also fine to... have your own hobbies and whatever and just go off and do your own thing, right? But--" Her little shrug, even if it won't be visible to Ariadne, says it all: not her area of expertise.

She does not ask about the horse picture.

"You're welcome to lipstick, and q-tips. And burgundy shawls-- I actually think I do have one of those, you're in luck. I'd suggest setting something up in the library, except you're just likely to bug the asshole, and no one wants to do that. Pity; it'd probably make a good set. Okay, I think I'm done now, Ariadne. Now you just need to wait to let it sink in. Which means..." Una makes a show of peeling off her gloves.

"I finally get to drink my rootbeer. Though I suppose, now, I could move on to something harder."

"I mean, I prefer to not argue either. I highly doubt any of us will ever get to levels requiring me giving the 'ice queen' look. It's exhausting. I hate doing it," the barista explains bluntly before sipping at her rootbeer. "It's weapons-grade irritation on my level. Not worth it for anything short of a mortal insult."

She shifts in the chair now, released from holding still for dyeing, and a careful roll of her head relaxes neck muscles with a deep sigh of relief. "Whew. Alright, I marinate -- and I'm fine with the pictures, the whole set-up sounds like it's not going to besmirch my reputation or anything. Una's hard work will be shown off, Ravn can show off his skills, and I get to sit and pretty." Eyelash flutter. "I think let's see how this dye job turns out this time? No more dye for now? If it takes well, we'll add more later," she replies to Una's question.

"However, if you think you're going to say 'don't ask about the horse picture' around me?" An obvious tuck of chin, as if Ariadne were now looking at Ravn over an invisible pair of glasses. "At least give vague details, bud."

And then she glances back at Una again, squinting. "Wait. What's harder? More dye for my hair or....?"

"I brought you that damned root beer, you drink it. Or least you make me not drag it back home," Ravn grouses, though he's smiling.

Then he sighs. "I figured I might as well bring it up myself since it's already made the social media rounds here last year and the instant someone says 'Ravn' and 'photography' in the same sentence." Out comes his phone from a pocket and tappety-tap -- voila, it is indeed a somewhat older picture of a skinnier, younger Ravn looking just as unhappy as the skinny horse he's being made to pose with. The horse wears more than he does. Mercifully, the picture does not dip below the belt. One might entertain the fantasy that he was allowed to keep his pants on, at least. And wonder how it feels to have your nipples muffled by a bored horse.

Una's gasp of laughter comes out like a choking sound, her face going red; she wheezes, then, abandoning her continued attempt to remove those gloves in lieu of waving her hands in a gesture of 'omg omg omg' before she seems to remember that they are covered in dye and this could be dangerous, even if they're half inside-out at this point. "Oh my godddddd, that's the funniest thing I've seen in-- well, at least since I watched you get covered in glitter and paint," she says, once she can breathe again.

"And I meant harder-as-in-alcoholic, not harder-as-in-more-dye, promise. We're done with the dye! At least until we see how it comes out."

"Ohhhhhhhhh, beer."

Ignore the barista, she's confused and a little sugar high off her own drink. Sipping at it and attempting to look anything but mildly foolish, she redirects her attention to Ravn scrounging up this fabled picture in his phone. He displays it and Ariadne's first response?

"...okay, that's adorable," she says, unashamed of her own opinion in matters while Una cackles away. "Photography contest?" Her eyes dance as they find Ravn's face and she smiles, quickly glancing at Una and back to the man.

"I really prefer being the bloke holding the camera." Ravn can't help a laugh; he probably does realise exactly how ridiculous he looked, back then with the horse, and the other day with the paint bomb.

Then he shakes his head, still chuckling because there are really only two options here, and the other is to be a huffy bastard which he likes to think he's not. "I have no idea why women love giving me a hard time but -- hey, at least it's funny. Mac really thought she'd crushed my ego posting that damn picture. All it achieved was everyone asked me how the horse was doing, and was he out of therapy yet."

This time, Una actually manages to get the gloves off, dispose of them, and claim her drink. She hops up onto a convenient surface, bypassing anything so plebeian as an actual chair, and grins.

"The horse does not look best pleased, that's for sure. But then-- neither do you. You're, hm. An easy target? But a good natured one. You blush, but you don't huff off. Cheers to being a good sport, I guess?"

Unable to help from laughing at the quip about the horse's own psychological state, Ariadne puts a hand over her mouth and closes her eyes. A careful shake of her head is mirrored with a twitch back and forth of the neck of her soda bottle. She then rotates in the chair in order to shift her legs back to how they were at first, crossed, and then slings an arm along the back in a sideways slope against its cushioning.

"Look, for what it's worth, I've seen pictures far less flattering than that. I think we all have. It's not some pornography shoot -- and what Una said," she adds, pointing at the other redhead off of the bottle. "You're a good sport, plain and simple. If you weren't a good sport -- and you didn't blush, yeah -- people wouldn't target you. As Una and I always insist though, you let us know if we ever go too far. We don't want to, that's for sure. There's teasing and there's being an asshole, unintentional or not."

"Oh, no, nothing pornographic about it. My fiancee would not have wanted her name on anything questionable, and she wouldn't want anyone else to look at me that way, either. She was aiming for an artistic moment -- man meets horse, communication across species, whatever. What she got was man meets horse, both wish they hadn't." Ravn chuckles and then regards what's left of his Cherry Coke. He'd be open to the idea of trading it for a whiskey. A decent whiskey. He'd even be willing to go get a decent whiskey from next door. He knows he's a snob.

He pushes off the chair. Decent whiskey isn't going to go get itself. "I don't mind -- the teasing, I mean. People don't need to be told when they're assholes -- they know that. You prank someone hoping even just a little that it'll teach them a lesson or show them their place, you're an asshole."

"That's artistic in its own right, surely," comments Una. "The uncomfortable meeting of man and beast. The acknowledgement of how far man has come, for better or for worse, from its animalistic beginnings. Something about facing our own inadequacies, I don't know. There's definitely a take that would work, surely." She wiggles backwards on her perch, eyeing Ravn's movement though it doesn't get a comment.

"That's true. There's a distinct difference in the two. Teasing to probe at something, or make a point, is a whole different game to teasing out of affection. I think the problem only really comes when you inadvertently hit on something that's a sore point, and then... but that's just communicating, isn't it? Waving the white flag of 'this isn't fun anymore, please stop'. And I'd like to think we're all good for catching that, and acting accordingly."

She tips back her bottle, drinking down a fair swig of the delicious, delicious rootbeer. "I have cake for later."

Don't mind the glitter of amusement in her gaze. It's just cake.

"Una's got it right. White flag, clear communication, accidental assholery ceases." A tip of the rootbeer bottle in Una's direction and then a finishing sip from it. Ravn's departure from his chair earns him too a second pair of curious eyes, but from what minute body language tells Ariadne can suss out, this isn't a full retreat.

Or maybe it is. Cake is mentioned. It makes the barista titter. "Look, if it's not tiger-striped, I'll be vaguely disappointed," she shares with her fellow redhead, then laughing harder. "I think I've marinated enough though, so! With your good grace, Una, I'm going to borrow your shower and if you have some old towels you don't mind getting blued here and there, I'd like to borrow those too. And the blow dryer. I'll be back in a jiffy," the redhead announces as she rises from her chair. Seems like a thing of good timing anyways; Ravn has something to fetch, perhaps.

Give an Ariadne some ideas and she'll want to dye her hair. Give her some hair dye and she'll want to rinse it out at one point. Give her means to rinse it out and, about twenty minutes or so later, the sound of a blow dryer can be heard. Granted, if anyone's going to linger by the bathroom door, they will hear her singing to herself in spurts and making little pleased cooing sounds. Whatever the result is, it must not be half-bad!

As such, the wooden flooring of the hallway means she can pull something like a fluffy-socked Fast and Furious sideways sliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiide into view again and then jazz-hand out to the sides. "Observe! My mane." Turning about, she shakes out her hair. Una's done good work: where the natural auburn parts, a gradient of blue just one shade richer than royal-blue at the roots fades through to a purple seen at the cusp of dusk, down to the tips of her hair. "Una, I love it, eeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!"

Yes, Ravn, now you have heard the ambient sounds of a gathering of females.

It does not take Ravn twenty minutes to walk literally next door to pick up a bottle of Glenmorangie. He has no idea whether his two buddies are whiskey connoisseurs, nor does it matter -- he is. He picks up a pack of ice as well -- because rocks are a thing, whereas adding water, no, just, no, don't do that, you absolute horrible barbarian who should never be given anything to drink but prune juice.

He's back a bit before Ariadne's re-emerging, sniffing around Una's kitchen for glasses. When the sound does carry? He laughs because bloody hell, where is David Attenborough when you need him?

Then he walks in there, bottle in one hand, glasses and ice in the other, and leans against the door frame. "That's one hell of a look. Whiskey first, and then we decide on whether we want to take pictures?"

Nah, that was not a retreat. That was a supplies run.

Of the interior to Una's cake (or indeed, the exterior), no comment is made. That's a surprise that will have to wait, though Una's beaming smile suggests that she thinks it's a good one.

Towels and hot water there are plenty of, and the blow dryer is a decent one-- and in the surprisingly enormous collection of glassware, courtesy of Una's grandmother, there are even some appropriately-shaped whiskey glasses (whiskey, not whisky; we're definitely not barbarians). While her companions are off on their various errands, Una's got things to tidy up: empty bottles to put in the recycling basket, stained gloves to throw away, towels to put into the laundry.

Ravn's return draws an amused smile from the redhead. Ariadne's? Outright delighted laughter. "Oh, it looks amaaaaaaazing. Ugh-- so good! That's going to photograph incredibly well too."

One squeal, it's true, tends to beget another. It's basically impossible to help. It's basically required.

"Whiskey it is. A toast to peacock-coloured hair, and Una," talking in the third person, of course, "not fucking it up, hurray!"

Spinning about on a lift to her toes, Ariadne has both sets of fingertips to her mouth briefly in giggles. Thirty-three in not too long here? Nonsense. Eternally young at heart, this one. "It'll photograph beautifully," says she, implicitly granting permission for near-future attempts to capture the newly-dyed hair in posterity and framing.

Now meandering over to her comrades and their collection of whiskey-filled glasses, the barista does rather dubiously eye the amber-colored liquid. "Just a shot's worth for me, please," she requests and then laughs. It's probably graded as a sipper. Watch her bolt it, Ravn, and cringe. "And I heard there was cake, right?" Trust Ariadne to be interested in the cake. She just finished a bottle of sugar-water as it stands. A sweet tooth? The newly partially-dyed redhead certainly has one.

Ravn distributes glasses and shots -- generous but not ridiculous. "So we need that burgundy cape thing. But first, we apparently need cake?" He grins; unlike Ariadne, the Dane does not have a sweet tooth as much as one that's got horrifically expensive tastes for a teacher's income, and he's actually kind of embarrassed about it.

Time to hide that embarrassment in downing that first whiskey and pouring another, and then rummaging through the camera bag. It's not just a camera; it's also what lens to use, whether to apply any physical filters... Ho hum, yes, very busy here.

"Cake," agrees Una, though not before she's accepted her glass, and lifted it to her lips, first to sniff it with interest, and then to take a sip of it. No shotting whiskey! Una's not an expert whiskey drinker, not a connoisseur, but she is a reader, and books teach all kinds of things (just don't ask her to pronounce a lot of obscure words that don't normally come up in conversation; everyone will laugh and laugh and she'll feel terrible). On the other hand, she's clearly drunk enough whiskey to know what to expect from the taste, and to even like it.

"Cake, and then the shawl-- sadly, I don't actually have a cape, although now the capes have been mentioned... I do have a sewing machine. Because of course she does: Una, goddess of hearth and home.

She sets her glass down, with a flourish, and lifts one finger to instruct her companions to wait, while she fetches the cake.

The cake! It's a small, but relatively tall, and atop the plain, white frosting is a decorative sweep of what is probably intended to be dark red hair, cascading down one side. Una presents it with a flourish, and offers Ariadne the knife: "Now we wait and see whether the inside worked," she says.

With luck, the insides of the cake are an appropriately peacock-hued ombre. With glittery frosting between the layers, because... because. Because why not. Because edible glitter.

"Ooh, the cape is actually going to be a thing." Said into the whiskey glass, Ariadne then returns to sniffing at the liquor. Like this is going to give her a truly accurate rating of the drink, but she trusts Ravn to have his druthers and the pocket book to not be phased by these in turn. It smells...like whiskey, but not like noxious Sharpie fumes. A glance at Una is silent curiosity: is there a burgundy cape around here? Ah, a shawl, but there's apparently a sewing machine! Future capes. They may be a thing. Still, whiskey is sip-tested and the redhead visibly mulls that little droplet of taste about her mouth as she frowns lightly down at the drink.

A shrug. Back it goes, one fell swoop. This one might be a loss for whiskey tasting exercises.

Ariadne's putting down the glass when the cake appears. "Oh! Holy fuck!" Palms clap to her mouth. Cheeks go pink. "Holy shit, Una, wow! Lookit -- " Gesture at cake's frosting design ends with a hand returned to over her mouth and another titter. Offered knife is then taken and after another few seconds of giggling, the innards are revealed as the barista cuts a thin slice -- and then just about turns into a wiggling display of sheepish amusement. "Ravn! Ravnnnnn!" she calls out. Surely the man can see, no need to squeal for him, but -- "Look! Oh my god! The colors! Glitter! There's glitter in the frosting!" Una gets another bright grin and then, really just running with the moment, the barista executes a theatrical, arm-sweeping courtly bow, frosting-smeared knife in-hand, over one extended leg.

"My LADY Una, goddess of the kitchen and purveyor of all heavenly things baked, this creation is a thing of majesty!" comes the proclamation.

"Now that's what I call a cake," Ravn says with a lopsided smile, and selects a lens that will lend a vignette effect -- soft, round fade to render razor sharp focus to the centre. The focus will be the hair, after all -- not anything in the room behind Ariadne. He wants to capture the colours and the glory of that hair, that joy of colour for colour's own sake. Where the portrait is taken, when it is taken, does not matter. On some level, it does not matter who the portrait is of, either -- it will be a picture of colour. A statement.

He has to smile; somehow, he can almost hear Benedikte lecturing him on it. She would insist on the perfect make-up to go with it; capture nothing but the most beautiful, at its most beautiful. It's funny how women tend to have a better eye for feminine beauty than, well, men. He reckons it has something to do with their instinct to compete with one another. Like male gorillas thumping chests to establish territories, but more graceful.

The squealing, though, that's just plain funny. He can't help another grin as he confirms, "Why, yes, it seems there is. Edible glitter, what will they think of next." Edible gold leaf. He's had it. It tastes like chomping on tin foil.

Una, having presented the cake, steps back to her drink, nursing it in her hand as Ariadne does the unveiling. She's clearly as pleased as anything: truly, reactions to her work-- her art, if we're being honest-- are worth any amount of hours in the kitchen (though those are fun too).

"Why thank you," she says, not quite managing to add anything more courtly to her words, though the pink in her cheeks and that smile that threatens to split her whole face apart go a long way towards expressing the rest of it. "It seemed... appropriate? I'm relieved it actually came out and didn't all-- well, colours are tricky."

She casts Ravn a glance, too, but doesn't seem bothered by his preoccupation with his camera, instead of her work of art; maybe Ariadne's reaction is enough. Maybe she expected nothing less. "Does chocolate cake go with whiskey? I guess we'll find out. It's a darker chocolate, so not too sweet, anyway."

"Fuck yeah, chocolate cake goes with whiskey -- and if it doesn't, I'm making it go with it," Ariadne yet again proclaims. Her slice has been cut and chosen and now plated, so she offers the knife out again to both of her friends, glancing between them as to who seems most accepting of the implement at the moment.

"But seriously, Una, this is so pretty. I feel half-terrible for cutting into it, it's so gorgeous. The thing of getting that color gradient in the cake batter itself is always just...mind-boggling to me. Seriously, how does it work? I really do want to know. Reveal the mystery to me." Surely someone's taken the knife by now; if not, it's placed beside the cake because there's edible glitter to eat and her tongue will probably be stained with it afterwards, but really, who cares? There's more whiskey to drink -- and edible glitter!!!

Ravn holds up the camera. "Now cut a slice so we can see the insides -- but cut it away from the wave decal. Going to need to preserve this for posterity, mm?"

Portrait photos of a cake. Why not? It's a beautiful cake.

He raises the camera and adjusts the lens. "Also, good, dark chocolate goes just fine with a good Scottish whiskey. A bourbon or a cheap blend can be too sweet. Glenmorangie is dark and rounded."

Una will take the knife, and will cut herself a slice, and then another-- much thinner-- one for Ravn, whether or not he wants it. "Ah, that's the great mystery, and I'd be giving away my secrets if I told you the truth," she declares, with a wicked grin for Ariadne. A girl does need to keep some secrets for herself, right?

She also, dutifully, arranges both cake and cake slices ready for photography, then steps well away to let Ravn in for his shot. "There we go. A good whiskey and a piece of cake; perfect combination. It's like I planned it, and not at all coincidence, nope."

A beat later. "Of course, you know else would go with cake like this? A good dark beer."

But probably not root beer.

"For posterity." Is there an echo?

No, but there is an enabler.

Ariadne steps back and out of range of the potential photographing zone, having found a fork in order to piece out the first bite of cake. She takes a moment to still look over the innards and the richness of color there -- how the light plays off the minute mica-like winklings in the middling layer of frosting -- and then gives Una a coy smirk in return. "Alright, alriiiiiight," drawls the barista, waving her fork about despite the bite of cake attached to it. "You keep your secrets. I'll wonder. Fair is fair."

First bite eaten. Happy sound made. "This is really freakin' good," murmurs Ariadne to herself, having hipped up against the kitchen table now. Una mentions -- "Dark beer? Hell yes, hit me up, I'll take one." Someone's jonesing for a hangover now: sugary soda followed by strong whiskey and then a dark beer probably tipping 8.0% ABV bare min? Living la vida loca tonight, this one.

"No." Ravn's response is quiet but firm. Dark beer does not go with anything. Anywhere. Ever.

It does, though. He makes a mental note to somehow introduce these two alcohol pagans to a couple of Danish traditional dishes that require beer thick and dark like molasses. Some other time. When he finds out how to cook them.

He kneels down in front of the cake and the glass, allowing himself the time to find the right angle for the light just so. Photography is one tenth equipment and nine tenths patience. Don't rush yourself. Get the angle just right. Click.

The picture appears in freeze-frame on the display. He glances at it, and adjusts the camera just a little -- getting the line of the plate to be perfectly horisontal for a calmer finish. Click.

Then he looks up. "There we go. Now we eat it. And I'll run these through Photoshop to remove any traces of the background because we want the focus to be completely on the cake. Low key photography does require stronger front lights to require no editing whatsoever."

"Yes," says Una. Dark beer goes with everything. She hops back down from her perch in order to fetch them (just two, because Ravn is Ravn), handing one over to Ariadne before she reclaims her place (and her cake).

"You're a star, Ravn," she adds. "The day I decide to start selling my cakes-- ie this side of never, that's way too much pressure-- I'll hire you as my official photographer. In the meantime, I'll still enjoy showing off my work to anyone who wants to see it."

She makes a very pleased sound as she bites into her first mouthful of cake: pure satisfaction. Washing it down with whiskey (the beer will need to wait until she's finished sipping)? Pure heaven.

Dark beer obtained, the barista lifts the bottle in salute to their hostess. "Thank you kindly," she says to Una before sipping at the beer. Mmm. Yes. In her private opinion, it goes beautifully with the slightly-bitter chocolate of the cake, bringing out the ghostly sweeter notes in turn.

"What I saw on the camera screen for a second there looked promising. I'd hire Ravn in a heartbeat if you ever do want to go public with your cake making, Una. You really could make some serious money with it. You're pretty damn good at it to start with," -- a gesture at the cake with its jewel-tone innards by her fork. " -- and I know a lot of folks in Grey Harbor would go gah-gah for a cake like this in general, especially with that glittery middle layering. Seriously, cute little surprise, irresistible. I will pay you in the future for something fun. My birthday's in May and I like to bring stuff to work on the day, since it's a fun way to celebrate with my coworkers."

"Oh, you're a May baby as well?" Ravn murmurs absentmindedly while checking the photography display to make certain he has the shot he wants before the cake, uh, disappears.

Then he shakes his head. "I have a decent camera and my fiancee was a professional. I am not a professional. If you do decide to get serious about something like this? That's not where you should save money. World's full of not-too-bad amateurs, the patrons can tell." Quoting said professional photographer? Possibly.

He puts the camera down for a few, though, to receive his slice of cake. No objections on his end on finding that it is a small slice; if anything, the look he shoots Una is grateful because returning three fourths of a generous slice to the kitchen would be a bloody crime. This, there is a chance that he may manage to eat. And more so given the dark tones of chocolate, a flavour not quite so likely to stick in the throat and overwhelm the senses as something purely sweet.

"Yeah, but I know you, and I don't know any professionals," points out Una. "But no. Seriously, you don't want to know how much money goes into baking most fancy cakes. You need to be buying every ingredient in serious bulk before it's even remotely economical, because most people do not actually want to spend, like, 50 or 100 bucks on a super fancy cake when they can go to Safeway and buy something much less fancy, but still edible, for like 10 or 20. Besides," she's quick to add, probably slightly embarrassed by putting numbers to her work, even in the abstract, "I like baking for love rather than money."

She licks her fork clean, then adds, "But I'll be happy to bake you something for your birthday, Ariadne. Think about what you might want, and I'll plan it."

Ariadne pauses at Ravn's distracted question. Her fork rests half-removed from her lips, inverted, as she blinks at him. "Yyyyyyes, May 20th. You?" More cake is enjoyed while she glances between her friends. At one point, hipping against the table becomes a little back-jump up onto the table itself. We're all adults here, right? Nah.

"Ooh, eee," the redhead then squees softly, beaming at Una. "It's a plan indeed, my peepskillet. I can tell you that my initial thoughts were something coffee-related, but it's a coffee shop, soooooo...maybe something that compliments coffee rather than being coffee-related. It'd also have to be organic and...I think dairy-free. Someone's allergic to diary, if I'm remembering correctly. See my reasoning for wanting to pay you for it? It seems it's going to get fussy fast, y'know?" She wince-smiles at her fellow redhead before taking another bite, this time one brimming with glitter. Mmm, glitter.

"Bit earlier," Ravn murmurs and then glances at the beautiful cake. "That sounds like a great idea, though I'm not sure Vicky Barrett is also an employee. Also, she's not allergic to dairy, she just thinks we're mean to cows."

There might be others, Ravn. Most of them are just not quite so loudmouthed about their various opinions.

Tables are meant for sitting on. So are bench tops. These are the rules in Una's kitchen.

"Two May birthdays, mmm? I'll have to keep that information up my sleeve. If we don't get a date, Ravn, we'll make some firm conclusions of our own and act accordingly. I don't know about you, Ariadne, but I am all about making sure birthdays get their appropriate celebrations."

She digs her fork back into her cake thoughtfully, but is quick to add, "Fussy just makes things more interesting. Organic is easy enough; dairy free-- well, that just takes a few alterations. All doable. I'll give it some thought, see what we can come up with. Though... Vicky Barrett is adorable, Ravn, you're just being ungenerous." Liar. "She's passionate. And we probably are mean to cows, I just haven't managed to wean myself off the stuff."

"Respectfully, Vicki gets none of my cake because she doesn't work at Espresso Yourself, she merely shows up as a Customer With Opinions." Ariadne hmphs to boot. There's probably literally an acronym there used amongst the staff for this situation. "Now, are her opinions wrong? Not necessarily. But I have no horse in this race because she doesn't give facts with sources. The day she does? I will go inform myself." Thus sayeth the science major.

"Also, we'll assume Ravn's birthday is in the same week and call it good?" A questioning glance towards Una in particular. "I still think the tiger-striped cake needs to happen. You don't have to do the writing on it, but if you manage the actual tiger-striping somehow? My hand to god, I will fall out of my chair laughing my damn ass off out of delight."

"Vicky Barrett volunteers at the centre, and I deal with her pissing people off every day. I like her and I adore her zeal but man, I wish that just once in a while, she would shut up." Ravn can't help a small laugh. "The world would be a better place if we had more like her, but you can think that and still wish that she'd tone it down just a little."

He makes no comment on the birthday plans. After all, if there is one thing Ravn does really, really well, it's ignore inconvenient or embarrassing things until they go away. Ask a certain couple of people around town who have tried very hard to engage him in flirtation. There are rocks at the bottom of the Bay who are more easy to engage in flirting games.

"God, Vicky Barrett with sources sounds like a nemesis worth having," says Una, pausing in her cake-eating in order to take one final sip of her whiskey. The beer comes next, and she's clearly looking forward to it. "She's going to be a real force to be reckoned with, in a few years. I look forward to seeing it."

She wiggles back, all the better to make her perch just a little more sturdy, and grins around her fork. "Tiger-striped cake is on my list; we'll see what I can come up with. And a shared birthday in the middle of May sometime is a go. I shall lord my continued youth over you both, see if I don't."

"Seriously. Vicki is going to change the world and I too cannot wait to see how it happens. Just...for the moment, yeah, she can take it down by about...four notches." Ariadne holds up a pinched space between thumb and forefinger of minute space to accentuate her point. Just a little. Little bit. More cake is then consumed, this process interrupted by a long swig of dark beer. Her sound of contentment is practically melodious.

"And you, young thang, you shush," she adds, circling a fork towards Una even while she's laughing. "It's not 'old', it's 'dignified', please, and I don't even qualify for that, let's be honest here. A cake for Ravn, a cake for me, and folks to share them with. That's really all I ask. It's the simple happy things." Her fork scrapes her plate of frosting and she eyes the cake. "...look, I want another piece, but then there's this beer and I'm only so much stomach verses my eyeballs and tongue which are both quite convinced I need more cake."

"Let's not overdo it," Ravn injects with a small smile. "Tiger stripe cake sounds like it's plenty work, and more so with special ingredients."

He, of course, has room for more whiskey. It has to do with eating his cake slowly and deliberately -- it's a small slice, and surprisingly, he is in fact not demolishing it, dissecting it, or otherwise violating it. "Vicky's one of us, you realise. That's part of why I try to be patient with her. She's clicked that the way we view the world can change the world -- very literally in Gray Harbor's case. She feels fucked over. So she's trying to make the world be nicer. I like that attitude."

"Cake for friends is not work, though," insists Una. "It's pleasure. But we'll see. It really depends on what the pair of you do in the next six weeks to promote my inner artist's passions." Her smile is brightly innocent, but a warning, too: it won't be her fault if life happens in ways that are best commemorated via cake. "You can always take cake home with you. I'll end up feeding some to the fae regardless... I hope they're okay with glitter." Too bad if they're not.

"Vicky claimed, the other week, that she used to be black. That her parents are black." She eyes Ravn cautiously, brows lifting in a question. Is this true?

Ariadne gives up and has another slice of cake, though her slice is thinner than before in what appears to be some lingering logical wish to not be sick in the morning. She's also slowed down quite a bit on imbibing her dark beer, as if this too seemed a wiser idea in the long run. Returning to the kitchen table again, she backs up onto it again and takes up a swinging of crossed ankles. Otherwise seated with a straight spine, she glances between Una and Ravn.

"I am taking some cake home, please," the barista requests after giving Una and her artistic passions another sly smirk. Never give the barista ideas. "Annnnnnnd...I want to know this answer too?" Golden-hazel eyes flick to Ravn. Vicki what now?

"Well," Ravn admits, "I did go pay her parents a visit. They run a greengrocer shop off Spruce Street and they are definitely both of African-American descent. But whether that means she's adopted or -- well, that she was once black. I mean. For three or four months I was a Swedish TV celebrity chef. So I'm not going to say that Vicky is lying, not in this town. She might be telling the truth, and she might be the only person who remembers the truth."

Oh no. Please get ideas, Ariadne. Una wants those ideas. Her delighted smile insists on it. (That delight is probably also linked to that second helping of cake, which is a true sign of appreciation.) "Please do," she tells Ariadne, after licking the tines of her fork one more time.

"I... hm. I mean, I know that you were a Swedish TV celebrity chef. I've heard you say this. I believe it. It's just hard to believe-- well, no. It's hard to get one's head around, rather, that kind of change. I mean, she's white. She's so clearly white. I can't imagine what that would be like, for a kid. Being a teenager is hard enough, body-wise, without that sense that it isn't even the body you were supposed to have."

Ariadne blinks. She hadn't heard about the incidence of Ravn being a Swedish celebrity chef just yet and Vicki changing so very completely? The barista's brows knit.

"No freakin' kidding," she agrees with Una, feeling her heart flipflop in equal parts sympathy for the young woman and bone-deep horror at the idea of...reality being...written over? This, she voices aloud, not truthfully wanting to hear the answer, but knowing she needs to know in turn like what's beneath a Bandaid due to be ripped. Rip. Ouch. "Sooooooooo...you're telling me, things just, like...reset themselves around here like the Matrix blipping or something...?"

Ravn toys with his spoon. "It happens. Fortunately not frequently. But there is a Veil entity whom we call the Revisionist, yes. She can do that. And if she gets it into your head that your life is boring and really could do with a bit of interesting, run for cover. It's how I got into lobster fighting -- I appealed my role, and she assigned me to running an illegal lobster fighting ring instead. This is why you can find workers at the lumber mill who claim I have done so for at least a decade though in fact I haven't even been in town for two years. They'll get a headache if you try to point that out, because they remember."

He nods at Una, though. "That's what I figure. If she's adopted, that's rough. If she's telling the truth? That's rougher. So I cut her some slack."

"Yeah," says Una, frowning, her expression nothing less than deep, deep sympathy for the poor teenage activist. "I can't imagine. It helps explain a lot about her, though, you know? Whatever she's feeling. So-- a little bit of slack, at least. It makes me enormously grateful I didn't grow up in this town."

She picks up her beer, shifting it from one hand to the other rather than drinking from it. "The reality bending will never stop breaking my brain. I'm enormously glad that particularly Veil entity is sitting quiet for now." Beat. Her free hand, currently the left one, hurriedly taps at the wood cabinet beneath her arse. "Touch wood. Not that I'm superstitious, and indeed, becoming less and less so, here, but... Yikes."

"No kidding." Simple, concise agreement with both of her friends. That's tough no matter how you slice it...and not cake at all. Ariadne quietly chews through a bite of cake, her eyes downcast upon it, as she too considers how lucky she is not to have been born here -- to have drifted in like a tumbleweed even if she'd gotten caught up in it all at this point. Hell, there's an apartment to move into starting on the weekend.

Her own knuckles knock thrice on the wood of the table. No Revisionist interest. None. Ever again. "I'm enormously glad too. It could have been a hell of a lot worse than a lobster fighting manager in your case, Ravn. Speaking of that, just off-handedly, when does that get up and going? I'm...look, I'm curious," and the marine biologist rolls eyes at herself.

"Sometime this month, closer to May. Ultimately depends on the weather." Ravn nibbles on a bit of cake; he really does like it, and he really does like that Una has caught on to the fact that he struggles to eat a lot at once. "You're welcome to come over for it -- but I feel like I should at least mention it's a lumber mill worker kind of crowd. Flannel shirts, beers, manly men being manly. Which is actually kind of very weird and typical of the Revisionist -- because there are absolutely women working at that mill, and those blokes aren't really like that anywhere else. A lot of them struggle with it because they actually think making animals fight for their amusement is not quite right -- which is how the whole thing has kind of descended into some weird-ass who can tape the strangest 'weapons' on his lobster contest."

"I-- see, actual lobster-fighting has no interest for me, and frankly makes me second-guessing eating the damn things, but. But. Taping weapons onto them? That mostly sounds adorable, even though I'm still not entirely convinced I want to see it. I'm kind of fascinated by the contradiction of it, mostly. The Veil has cast them in this role, and they know it's not quite right, but they can't see through it to-- know better."

Beat. "'Know better' is not what I meant, that's hella condescending, isn't it? But you know what I mean." Words. One flaily hand demonstrates how much words are not doing what Una wants them to do, at this particular moment. Words are tricksie like that.

"We know what you meant," Ariadne reassures flappy-hand Una, she of the excellent cake and hair-dyeing skills. More of the aforementioned cake it eaten, albeit still at this slower pace. The barista still seems thoughtful, but not overly much. Between the whiskey and about a third of the dark beer, her musings are sloshing about comfortably. Still on the table -- success!

"I want to know what the most ridiculous 'weapon' has been taped to the lobster. I'm...not entirely behind the concept either, nor would I eat one, but my curiosity's eating at me. Has someone ever taped a ghost-pepper enchilada onto one of the lobsters? I feel like that would be very unexpected." A sage, slightly wobbly nod. Licking at the tines of her fork, Ariadne glances between her friends. Enchilada?

"I think that so far, that prize goes to the guy who taped fireworks -- you know, those Roman candles. I had to veto it -- I can watch only so much animal abuse in one sitting." Ravn chuckles. "He claimed he'd built a dam buster."

Una casts Ravn a look, the kind that speaks of absolute betrayal, even if it isn't exactly his fault.

"I want to see an enchilada," she agrees, with a laugh. "And in the meantime... pictures, yes?"

And maybe more beer. Or whiskey. Because why stop while you're ahead? If this even counts as ahead, which... let's be honest, it may not.

Cake.