2022-04-09 - Dark and Serious Meets the Devil

Spring may have allegedly sprung, but it's still pretty miserable outside today, and what's better than a bookshop to forget about that (and anything else that might be bothering a person)? Una's gathered up a pile of books (mostly fantasy novels, but one or two pieces of historical fiction) and claimed herself an armchair off to one side, books stacked on a table in the middle of the cluster of chairs, whilst another-- this one a hard-cover, full-picture history of the PNW-- sits open on her lap, being flicked through one page at a time.

There's not much of a crowd in the bookstore today: just a few people browsing, here and there, and one or two queueing to make their purchases at the register.

The Abildgaard book collection might in fact occupy the kind of room that a pretentious real estate agent would refer to as 'the library'. It's certainly large enough, and old enough. It's also currently crated away in storage back in Denmark, and the vast majority of Ravn's research material lives in epub or pdf format on his laptop, or in the virtual vaults of universities worldwide. He's also a frequent library visitor -- the other kind of library, the public kind.

Every now and then, though, he indulges himself with a purchase of fiction which inevitably ends up passed on to someone else or donated when he's done with it -- not a surprise, given the Dane's preference for living in a backpack or at least ready to pack up and go in a few hours' time. Today? He's hunting through the tourist section, picking out a collection of Paul Bunyan tales. Take the folklorist out of Copenhagen U, you cannot take the researcher out of the folklorist.

He plonks himself down near Una to thumb through the book -- not that he hasn't decided to purchase it, but to see if it will require other purchases. Writers of historic material inevitably assume that everyone else has a PhD in their field too. And while he does, Ravn thinks wryly, that won't cut it. To get the full picture of Paul Bunyan you need to know about logging camps and mountain men of the region in that era. His deep familiarity with the farm and nature spirits of the same time frame in Scandinavia avails to pretty much nothing when it comes to burly loners named Francois, sailing up the rivers to trade with the Athabascan, Algonquin and Salish speaking nations.

Rewind. Near Una. Right. Belatedly, the folklorist lifts a gloved hand in greeting. "Fancy meeting you here. It's almost like we imagine we have time to read."

Whatever it is she's currently skimming through, it's captured most of Una's attention: enough so that it takes until Ravn actually speaks up for her to register the presence of the Dane in her vicinity. The expression as she glances up is half-apologetic and half-guilty, or perhaps just shy, as if she's ever so slightly embarrassed. "Oh!" she says, in an immediate and probably involuntary expression of surprise. "Hello, not-actually-a-stranger. Look, I had days and days of basically enforced idleness, and that meant books, and-- sometimes the library is just too slow."

And then other books leap off the shelves and demand to be considered. And then they invite their friends. And then... It's a terrible spiral of bookworm-y doom, all things considered. A tragedy.

"How's life?"

This weather is enough to drive one to distraction, especially when one has curls that are sensitive to changes in humidity and temperature. So it is that one Phoenix Monroe Lane steps into Likely Stories with his trademark curls looking rather... frizzy. He's made an attempt to tame them with a wide, bright yellow silk scarf tying them back, but some days there's just no taming the frizz, and you just have to rock it.

There is no mini-me in tow, another one of those blissfully child free moments which means... Books. He pauses to breathe in the scent and smiles, heading deeper into the store, a book on car repairs soon finding its way into his hands, followed by one on gardening... only for him to spot two of his karaoke friends... and suddenly there Monroe is, in a third chair, grinning. "This is a really small town."

Ravn cants his head and pretends that he has to think about it. "Apparently a number of my friends got beaten up badly in a Dream and ended up in hospital and I only heard about it when one of them was released and needed help moving because stitches."

Consider yourself scolded.

"Let's see -- Leontes installed a hot tub and obviously this means we all need to do turn up in swim gear expecting horrible, fruity drinks with paper umbrellas and girl talk, being a girl not actually a requirement." He thinks. "And Denny is occupying an entire floor of the HOPE centre with his posters and stickers he's making on the printer, warning tourists about the mermaids because the season officially opens in less than three weeks."

Then, suddenly, Monroe. The curly ginger gets a grin: "Small town for sure. Where's the small you today?"

Oh look: that's Una's guilty and apologetic face. There are things she could say ('well, that's what you get for abandoning Oak!') but they'd all be distinctly and undeniably flippant, and wholly unserious, and clearly that's not where Una's current mental status is. So: guilty. Apologetic. No longer haunted, at least, but that's another part of the equation.

It's hard to tell if she intends to answer it, and to offer that apology in words as well as expression. What ends up happening is one Monroe, and for him she can offer a smile that is a little more certain (no guilt here!) even if she's not wholly cheerful. "Smaller than small. Can't go anywhere without running in to you people." Woe, etc, except again, not so much with the flippant, today. "Hi, Monroe."

And, because she's not going to completely ignore what's been said already: "I am pro hot tub, and anti mermaids, I think. And very anti mermaids-in-hot-tubs, but that's less likely, right?"

"... Is anyone still in need of... medical attention?" Monroe asks, looking quite worried, now, as he looks Una over like she's suddenly made of spun glass. "Has anybody given you a little extra assistance?" which might sound like a come on in other circumstances and from someone else.

"Alfie is at a friend's house, playing video games." he sounds mildly shocked, but pleased, "He's having a much easier time adjusting to a new town than I did at his age, and apparently he's quite the sniper in Fortnite, so... look out." he laughs, cocking his head toward Ravn slightly.

"I somehow doubt the tourists are going to worry about the mermaids, sadly. Especially if they look something like... was it seals?"

"The mermaid legend originates with harbour seals and other large marine mammals," Ravn nods. "It's not really a surprise that as rationalisations go, tourists going missing at sea get chalked up to bad sailing, bad weather, and accidents, but at least we have a lovely amount of local wildlife." He shrugs lightly -- it's not that the Dane thinks mermaids preying on yachters is a good thing but he has to accept on some level that this is not about to change. Mermaid Denny has tried for at least a decade, and he's probably saved a life here and there, but in the large picture? Nah. And then, when he is being honest with himself about it -- it's still far more dangerous to cross a busy downtown street on foot during rush hour than it is to go sailing on the bay on a bright summer's day. Realistically speaking, man's greatest predator is -- man.

Una's awkwardness is observed, though, and filed away. What he makes of it is hard to say. Maybe best to follow the Way of Cowslip's Warren: Never ask, because you won't like the answer.

"I'm fine now," Una promises, faithfully, and the pink in her cheeks? That may be because of whatever else has been going on in her head, or it may be because she's exaggerating the truth-- though if she is still injured, it can't be badly. "I think we're all fine now. Physically, anyway." The hand still sitting atop the book in her lip twists, though, fingernails drawing in against her palm. No, she's absolutely fine.

"No, I'm sure the tourists won't. But--" But what? Una can't quite seem to articulate this, either, and ultimately shakes her head. "I mean, if it isn't the mermaids, I guess it's the haunted places, and whatever else. It's just-- just. You know."

"All we can do is warn people, and if they don't listen... At least he's made an impact on Alfie. He doesn't even want to go near the water, now. Not that I blame him." Monroe gives a little shrug... and glances from Una to Ravn and back. He seems to note something is up with Una, but also knows he doesn't know her well enough to pry.

"Well... listen, if it's ever an urgent situation, come find me." his voice drops a little, "I try not to, but sometimes people need help." He smiles, sympathetically at Una, and to Ravn. "It's a lot, from what I've seen. Fairy circles, ghosts, horrifying sewer monsters, mermaids... and I heard they're trying to get a Walmart in."

"Oh God, not the Walmart. I can handle mermaids and dragons and faeries, but not late-stage capitalism." Ravn makes a face.

Then he shakes his head. "Alfie should be safe from the mermaids. He's got the shine. I have never managed to work out what the deal is exactly, but Denny's pretty insistent that they target males who don't. In a pitch, females who don't. And only then, if neither are available, do they touch us. It's some kind of bargain that he's in on, but he refuses to talk to me about the fine print. Of course there are all kinds of other, mundane reasons to not let a kid into the water on his own so maybe you don't need to stress that to Alfie."

The Dane throws Una another glance. All fine now, physically. Why yes, that's about the Gray Harbor experience in a nutshell.

"Walmart," groans Una, whose opinion on this topic clearly out-weigh whatever else is going on behind those brown eyes. "There's always a Walmart. You can never escape them for long."

Focusing on that doesn't mean she doesn't give Monroe a little nod of acknowledgement. It's not a 'yes', but it's also not an outright 'no'. If she notes Ravn's glance, she shows no sign of that at all.

"So they're mostly-straight mermaids, go figure. I'm relieved they're not after us, as a general rule, but that's not great for the tourists. I'd love to know the details, but... that's intellectual curiosity, not more than that. I'd be perfectly happy never to see one of the things, that's for certain. Is there anything else that only tends to come out in the warmer months a girl needs to be aware of?"

"I don't think it has to do with sexuality. It's predator and prey -- they're like deepsea catfish, they flash bait and we stupid men who cannot resist the song and boobs, go for it. As far as they are concerned, we're just meat." Ravn nods. It's a small comfort, he knows that. Still, in some way, knowing that makes it feel less -- well, personal, at least to him. You get eaten not because somebody has a grudge but because somebody needs to eat.

The Dane stands and upon consideration, decides to purchase both Paul Bunyan and the book of local early settlements. "Glad to hear no one was seriously injured beyond, you know, needing to go to hospital and get stitched together. Still regretting that I don't seem to have an ounce of healing talent to offer but, need any spoons bent, I'm your man." He throws a lopsided smile at them both, and then heads towards the counter to pay for his purchases. Must be a busy day in academics.

"I imagine there're probably rusalka and other such things, if there's mermaids. It only stands to reason. Bloody hell did I pick a bad town to raise a kid in." Monroe mutters, glancing down at the books in his hands, before shaking his head, "Well, if you're dumb enough to get eaten because you're distracted by boobs and music... I mean. That said, if I had to deal with Gaselli I'd be ruined because I do love a good dance around a bonfire."

Ravn gets a wave and a smile as he heads off, and then he turns those bright green eyes to Una, expression softening. "I mean it. I know a strange person offering to help has got to be uncomfortable, especially since society says I'm a man and I should be pursuing you as a mate or something... but if you need healing... or just someone who's seen their fair share of things to talk to... the door to my bus is open. Just... don't bring anything dangerous around Alfie."

'Just meat' draws something of a smile from Una, who is not comforted, per se, but certainly can accept the point. The redhead watches after Ravn, choosing not to comment on his final words before he goes, though there's something shifting in her expression all the same; something shadowed.

Finally, she glances back at Monroe, and gives him another of those quick, uncomfortable nods. "Nothing dangerous around Alfie-- that's one thing i'm 100% on board with. It's--" She pauses again, and runs one hand through her hair, pulling idly at those reddish waves as if attempting to pull the thoughts out of her head. "Society doesn't know what it's talking about. And it's not you. It's not really anyone. I woke up from a Dream with chest wounds, and aside from waking up my housemate to get a ride to the hospital... I don't know. I didn't reach out to anyone. Is that weird? It probably is weird. But thank you."

"It's not weird." Monroe says with sincerity, "We live in a world where asking for help is considered weakness. But humans aren't meant to be entirely self sufficient, we depend on each other. Someone grows our grain, milks the cows, they even cook the food and package it up nicely for you in a paper wrapper someone else made. We're all interconnected." He smiles, a little sadly. "You're not a bother. Especially in situations where your life is in danger."

"And that's from the one who spent most of a decade cleaning up after his mum's messes. You're allowed to need help and ask for it, yeah?"

Una's solemnity carries her through Monroe's comments, his sad smile drawing one of her own, though there's a twitch, too, of something else as he says, specifically, 'you're not a bother'. Cut straight to the thing that is bothering her, why don't you?

"Ha," she says, on an exhale. "I mean... yes, I get that. Logically, I understand that. Intellectually, of course that's all true. And even so, you would not believe the amount of times I planned out the text I was going to send in my head, and then just didn't write it, or did write it, but didn't send it." She scrubs at her face, this time, and finally shakes her head.

"Human brains are the worst. They're also the best, but... the worst, too."

"I'd believe it." Monroe retorts, with a little quirk of his lips. "It's hard to advocate for yourself when you've spent the better part of your life looking after the needs of others." He absently strokes the cover of book, which is all about how to fix cars prior to 1985. "You learn to accept less than you deserve because at least it's something," in an otherwise rather posh accent, that word was just pronounced 'somefing', "and it's better than nothing."

"But you're allowed to ask your friends to do for you, too. I bet you do a lot for them."

Now, Una's brown eyes hold something like-- or perhaps exactly like-- sympathy as she regards Monroe, the corners of her mouth twisting up in acknowledgement. "Well," she says. "I bake cookies. And I helped to heal some of them. I think I'm just always afraid that I'm imposing. I spent a lot of time, as a kid, because mom always had to work, and..." And once you've been that independent, for that long, it's so hard to step back and allow yourself to rely on anyone else.

"But you're right. Yes. It's so hard, and... I feel ridiculous about all of this. We all deserve better than that. And maybe it's not always the case, but here, I know people do care, and will help, and won't mind."

She makes a face, then shakes it away again. "So I guess... I mean, I acknowledge your offer, and I promise I will try, if I need it. And if there's anything that you need... I'm good for that too."

There's a nod from Monroe, the understanding of the Latchkey Kids of the world. "Una, imposing is showing up for dinner unannounced or asking someone to give you a ride to the airport with no notice, not letting people know you've been stabbed in the chest." Monroe's expression is slightly amused, like he can't believe he has to explain it, knows he sounds absurd saying it... and hoping that she sees it sounds absurd, too.

"I appreciate the offer." there's a certain wryness in his smile that indicates he'll probably be about as bad as Una about taking the help. "I honestly don't understand why we can't just heal ourselves. Who makes these rules, anyway? I know it used to work better... back in the day I could heal people and absolutely no scars... now I can just make sure the scar heals well..."

"It was blunt-force trauma to the chest, thank you very much," says Una, airily, as if this makes all the difference (and as if there isn't rueful mirth twinkling in her eyes: yes, okay, Monroe's right, this is completely ridiculous). "But I take the point. I just... what if someone heals me, and then later someone else comes along and needs it more? I realise that's also ridiculous, I'm just... I'm just making excuses, aren't I? Okay. Okay."

"Also, that offer? It's not just related to things like healing, okay? I know you probably won't take it, but... it's there. Even if it's just a desperate need for cookies."

Her fingertips tap idly upon the book open in her lap, this latter point drawing a furrow in her brow, and a distinctly thoughtful expression. "I never really thought about it," she admits, "but you're right. Surely we'd have even better insight into our own bodies? It would definitely make things easier. The change-- that happened when, uh, Gohl was buried, right? The door closed. And Ava wants to fix it, if she can. Which... would be good, I think, as long as it doesn't result in something worse."

"Oh, right, blunt force trauma to the chest, silly me." Monroe states, in his absolutely blandest tone, which still manages to sound slightly sarcastic. "As for someone else coming along and needing it more... There's always someone else who needs healing. I did EMT training and... there's always someone else. But there's also ways you can help until you can heal someone. If you've already healed someone's broken leg and someone else is bleeding out from a cut, you use mundane methods until more help can arrive, whether that's an EMT or it's another healer... but it helps when we know each other and can refer cases." he smiles a lopsided smile.

"I'll definitely take you up on cookies. Alfie's an almost teen and that boy is growing like a weed suddenly. I think he'll be taller than me in a year or two."

"... Gohl, I know that name." Monroe mutters, biting his lower lip. "Wait, he was the horrible Baxter I might be related to."

"Courtesy of a tree," adds Una, just to make the whole thing even more ridiculous. She's not quite laughing, but the mirth is there: lingering about the edges of her smile, and showing in the glimmering dark of her gaze.

"You have a point, though. And maybe-- maybe that tells me I should learn some basic first aid, too, because these things are going to happen, aren't they? And we can't just sit back and decide we're going to deal with everything through our mystical superpowers. There does need to be a phone list, though. Maybe there already is: people who can heal. I'm not that strong, I don't think, compared to a lot of you. But it's more than nothing."

She may not say anything further about cookies, but there's satisfaction in her expression: Monroe and Alfie can absolutely expect a cookie delivery in short order.

"Mmm," she agrees, with genuine sympathy for 'oh yes, my horrible ancestor' though hers, at least, is not a serial killer (as far as she knows). "It's all tied up into that. I'm not sure I 100% understand it, but that's the theory. Something happened after he got his funeral, and now we are where we are."

"That... sounds about right." Monroe admits with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. "I've heard some people can make trees come to life and move out here, so... why not in a Dream?"

He strokes the back of his book again absently. "I've still got my medical books from my EMT training if you'd like to borrow them. I find it's a lot more helpful to know how to heal someone if I know how everything is supposed to go, too. No accidentally knitting bones back together at the wrong angle." He tilts his head and Looks at Una, nodding to himself, "You might not be as strong as me at some things, but I can't Move things, and my head is positively empty."

"I'd like that he stays buried very much, I think."

"Having actually dug into the story of Billy the Ghoul a fair bit, I think we all would prefer for him to stay dead." Yep, that's Ravn, returning with his books in a package under one arm. He was leaving, no doubt, but trust a folklorist to have an instinct for, well, folklore.

Not all faeries and leprechauns and mermaids. Local serial killers are also folklore. It's lore, passed down by folks. Literally, folklore. Yes.

Una's mouth twitches in obvious, if not overwhelming, mirth: something about the trees, given the timing, but she doesn't get so far as to explain what she's thinking before there's Ravn, back with his packages, and rejoining the conversation.

This time, the smile she gives him is rueful, though at least she's meeting his gaze, and-- well. Given the subject matter? A brighter smile might be (would be) deeply inappropriate. "I'll say," she agrees. "Poking into things is one thing, accidentally re-opening things that should stay closed? That's completely different altogether. In a way... if making healing less powerful is the cost of getting rid of him? Maybe it was a worthwhile cost. I don't know."

She's not forgotten Monroe's offer, or missed the rest of what he's said; a sidelong glance goes towards him, after she finishes speaking, and there's a quick nod there, too.

"Bloody HELL!!!"Monroe gasps, quite loud, his hand going to his chest, half falling sideways into his chair. This, of course, gets him several looks of either concern or irritation from other patrons and sales staff. He's not normally a jumpy person, but he apparently did not hear Ravn returning, with his back to him...

"I'm putting a bell on this one." He mutters, his freckled face red with embarrassment now, though he's also quietly laughing, so... no harm done, providing he doesn't get thrown out. "You don't just go sneaking up on people when they're talking about serial killers."

He takes a deep breath and exhales it, then looks back to Ravn, smiling warmly. "Couldn't stay away from your fellow gingers?"

"I'm fairly certain I don't match the criteria for serial killer," Ravn murmurs, amused at Monroe's reaction. "I may meet most of the movie tropes for brooding European vampire but I'd like to point out that it's day time and I have in fact never bit anyone who wasn't my nursemaid, and I'm sure she got over it."

He plonks himself down in the armchair he vacated a couple of moments or five ago. "Why are we talking about William Gohl, and what is it that I'm missing, with all my usual sense of tact and picking up on subtle cues?"

Una, who clearly was at an advantage with the positioning of her chair, promptly bursts into giggles as Monroe reacts: it's certainly a nice break in the seriousness of the conversation, even if she does immediately lift an apologetic hand to her mouth as she attempts to re-compose herself. Sorry, Monroe.

"We were talking about healing, mostly. Well--" the redhead pauses, backtracking through the conversation and turning only very faintly pink. "We were talking about not imposing on people because of fear of being a burden, first, and then about healing, and how healing has changed. And Monroe is going to lend me some EMT books so I can learn more about how the human body is put together-- not because I want to take it apart, mind-- and... well, the healing bit segued, naturally."

"Listen, there's some vampires that sparkle in sunlight, and by now the whole town has seen your sparkle." Monroe points out with a cheeky grin and a tilt of his head.

"Yes, well... if you need to take the body apart it's good to know how to do that, too, I suppose." and then there's the annoying buzz of a cellphone up against something hard. Monroe rummages, pulling his phone out of his messenger bag.

"Speaking of serial killers, I've been informed that I am to drop off a meat lover's pizza that my brother's friend has ordered, lest they devour each other in their hunger... which means I'll need to sort out my meal, as well." He flashes a smile at Ravn and Una, rising to his feet.

"Well. I suppose that's more cannibals, which is another story. I'll drop by with the books later today, Una." and then he's heading to pay for his books, and he isn't going to return and terrify any other gingers.

"Knowing medicine surely can't hurt," Ravn agrees. This, after all, is common sense, even to a bloke who has no healing talent whatsoever. The guy who knows basic first aid is of more use with a first aid kit than the guy who reaches for the thoughts and prayers option first.

He raises a gloved hand in a lazy wave to Monroe. "Tell those kids to not eat each other. We have enough problems in this town without adding cannibals to the list -- and definitely not teenage gamer cannibals."

Then the curls are gone and have taken their human with them, and the Dane returns his attention to Una in her chair. "You want to spend more time with somebody but you're worried about imposing on them. Yes, no?"

Una's, "Thank you!" trails after Monroe, and comes accompanied by a genuine smile.

She pauses, however, before answering Ravn. "Not so much that, no. I was trying to explain why I didn't, I don't know, ask Ava to come and help heal me, or let you know what happened. Or basically talk to anyone, this week, without being specifically drawn in. And it's one part irrational fear of being a burden, or asking for help, and another part just... wallowing, probably." A rueful smile, for that. "And Monroe was reminding me that it is okay to need things. Which is completely logical, but--"

But.

"Never got into the habit of asking for help because there wasn't anyone to ask for help." Ravn nods and adjusts his glove. "It's a difficult habit to break -- being used to being on your own. I'm not very good at it either. Rosencrantz yells at me about it. Sometimes I feel like I can set my watch by when Rosencrantz gives me a dressing-down for trying to do everything myself, or somebody thinks I'm single because I think I am unloveable. It's about two weeks between each, repeat."

He hitches a shoulder. "Monroe's absolutely right. Doesn't mean it's easy. Doesn't mean you stop asking yourself if you're being too bloody demanding. And at least for me, it has a lot to do with being used to living alone, travelling alone, keeping my own company."

"Exactly," agrees Una, allowing the corners of her mouth to tip upwards in a way that suggests some measure of relief, albeit probably not surprised relief, that Ravn 'gets' it. "Yeah. I can well imagine Itzhak yelling at you about it, yes. And I understand the 'single because unloveable' assumption, too-- or rather, not the people assuming it. But that people do, if that makes sense."

She shifts, wiggling backwards in her chair, and closes the book in her lap. It's not a move to leave, though: just an adjustment of position. "It's a hard habit to break. Hard to trust, and just hard to learn how to ask. Watch me: first person to offer help, last person to ask for it. Easier to just sit at home in pain and pretend everything is fine. Human neuroses are ridiculous, aren't they?"

"It's not just asking. It's also -- sometimes it's simply easier to not ask." Ravn nods his agreement; he does in fact understand quite well. "Also, Rosencrantz is a bloody hypocrite because he'll pretend everything is fine and dandy while the world burns around him, but bloody hell, he's fine, yep, fight him."

Then he nods again, because something resonates quite deeply. "Hard to trust, yes. And so much easier to just -- let it go. A lot of things you probably should ask for help with come with the potential risk of things getting complicated and dramatic, and hell, maybe it's just as easy to just ignore everything. Ignore a problem long enough, it will disappear, no?"

Una makes a face, but nods anyway. "I think most of us are hypocrites," she concludes. "About one thing or another. Because we all know better, with a lot of things, but we still can't convince our brains to let us do it. The disconnect between logic and emotion is ridiculous."

Her fingertips slide over the glossy cover of the book in her lap as she continues, "-- Yes, and that too. Sometimes getting other people involved comes with pitfalls. Sometimes I don't want to know the answer. Ignorance is bliss, after all, right? I've managed just fine on my own thus far, so, who's to say it needs to be different now."

Beat. "Also, if I reach out to someone and they don't respond, they probably actually hate me, and really, isn't it better if I don't reach out at all and risk finding that out?"

"I'm the poster boy for that sentiment so I don't think I get to say a whole lot about it." Ravn offers a weak smile; oh yes, the hypocrite recognises his own hypocrisy at least. "But that also means you've already heard the whole spiel about making choices to include people in your life, and that no man is an island. I disagree with parts of it -- quite a lot, even. A man is perfectly capable of being an island. It just means that he must accept that there are a lot of good things in the world that he's chosen to pass up. So that's the real question people should be asking in this situation: Are you content with the things you've chosen to let go and let pass you by?"

He glances after Monroe for no particular reason. "It's when we pass on things and then feel miserable for missing out we're doing it wrong. If you want the thing, go and get the thing. If the risk of pain and hurt seems too high for the possible return -- well, the business world calls that risk assessment, and encourage you to look before you leap."

"And if I don't reach out, I can't feel sad that no one has reached out to me," agrees Una, without any particular ruefulness or indeed any emotion in particular. "Well-- I could, I suppose, but I'd have to acknowledge my own part in that too. Part of me thinks distilling human interactions into risk assessments is pretty sad and clinical, but it's also... I mean, it's valid. Every time we make a decision we're performing some kind of risk analysis. I did when I decided to move here. I'm not saying I spent particularly long on it, but I did. But ideally, eventually some things stop feeling like a risk. I hope."

That's when she shakes her head. "I do need people. To some extent, at least. I value having friends, and people around me whom I care about. But that, as a broad statement, doesn't necessarily mean that any of the rest of it isn't true. I'm willing to own my contradictions. They're mine, and I'm pretty used to them by now."

"Some people can do this emotionally, lightly. They're the ones who learned how to. And then there's the rest of us who do not have this skill, and we just have to find another way. Risk assessment is not the best way -- but if you've got a leaky floor and a nail, you're going to hammer that nail in with a rock if you don't have a hammer. At least that's my take on it."

He studies the redhead's face for a moment. This is a far more personal conversation than he usually engages in, with people who are not very close to him. The risk assessment is not difficult to see; it would be easier to just excuse himself and walk off with his books, rather than risk having to deal with emotions and other complicated human stuff.

After a moment the Dane adds, "I don't need people. I am perfectly capable of living entirely on my own, moving from place to place like some transient, nameless hustler. But not needing does not mean not wanting. I enjoy having friends. I do not regret settling here, and connecting to people. I'm also aware that you do so at a price. Some people learn these things easy as kids. And some of us don't."

Una's cheeks hold the faintest trace of a flush, as if she, too, is aware that this conversation has threaded its way into the personal (and in a public space to boot). And yet...

"Right," she agrees. "And I think... it's probably difficult for people who don't think that way to grasp it. Because they've never had to pay the costs. For them, it's not something that... comes due. Or something like that. You know what I mean. I imagine that makes it significantly more difficult to understand why some of us hesitate."

This time, she offers up a rueful little smile. "So, anyway. I'm learning. Figuring out the balance of how much risk I'm willing to take. And trying to be generous to myself, when my risk aversion gets in the way of other things. Trying to make sure I'm a good friend, but not a... giving tree-level friend."

"It's not just on you." Ravn nods. "I don't know if you've noticed, but the people who will tell us to be less solitary tend to come in two groups. One is genuinely trying to help us, based on their own experiences -- social network is good, make one. The other -- well, they think they are helping but they don't reach out to you, either. So what they are saying is 'make friends' but what they actually transmit is, 'you may submit an application for my friendship and we'll see if it passes muster'. The latter, I have very little time for. If people want me to reach out to them -- it goes both ways. I am content enough on my own to not feel any need to convince others that they have to endure my company."

Una's nod is a quick one, and firm. "I hate that," she agrees. "I've been in that position... well, more than a few times, probably. Because I do want to belong, and it feels like such a-- not an easy win, as such. But if I just do what they tell me to do, it'll work out for me, and I'll have that friend I was looking for. Even though in effect it comes down to 'have I passed the test' and we shouldn't need to pass tests for that."

She exhales in a huff.

"I don't need to be anyone's best friend. I don't want to be the heavy focus of anyone's attention. But I'm definitely learning to enjoy being part of a group. So-- that's something. A positive thing, I think, so long as that continues to function."

"For what it's worth, I feel that this little community of ours -- shiny people and whatnot -- does offer options in this regard that I have not found anywhere else." Ravn tosses out a little, lopsided smile. "I've never had conversations like this one outside of a therapist's office, before I ended up in this town. Maybe it's that we get put through the wringer enough that we all have to learn to be one another's therapists."

He steeples his gloved fingers as he's prone to do when thinking aloud. "Obviously, I am not best friends with every single shiny person in town. To the vast majority I'm just the bloke from HOPE -- or that history and folklore geek. A small number I'm closer to -- I'll check on them regularly, and they check on me. And an even smaller number I'd sit down with a bottle of whiskey and discuss deeply personal things. People tell me I am too independent and that I miss out on a lot, or that I'm quite honestly a stick in the mud -- don't sing, don't dance, don't really have any loud or flamboyant hobbies. I don't mind. What I do mind is when somebody decides either that I must be so lonely I'll be grateful for their attention, or that they need to save me. Is it something along those lines you're struggling with?"

Una's, "No," is, at least, immediate: of this she is sure.

"I think I agree with you on the being therapists for each other, to some degree. And that everything we go through does make us instantly feel more connected to each other-- at least, with the people in our immediate orbits, the ones we meet more than as a one-off in a Dream. I suspect the real issue is the pressure I'm putting on myself, more than anyone else on me. I'm the one who is over-thinking how I interact with people, and absolutely no one, regardless of what we've been through together, needs to have to deal with that for or with me."

Beat. "Mostly, though, I think I'm just feeling sorry for myself because I got beat up a bit, and that makes me retreat and-- apparently-- overthink everything and anything. I'm sure I'll get my cheerful back sooner or later, and probably sooner."

"You don't owe it to anyone to act cheerful if you don't feel cheerful." Steel grey eyes are, well, steely on this. "Polite, yes. Getting shit done if stuck in a Dream with others, yes. Faking a smile and a chirpy attitude? As Rosencrantz would say, fuck that shit and the Chevy it drove into town in."

He lightens up a little, allowing a small, lopsided smile. "When I feel like that, I go on the water. Just me and my cat if she deigns to come along. I play my violin out there where no one listens or judges how bad it might sound. Probably confuse the hell out of the occasional porpoise. Sometimes I drop the anchor, and then drop half a bottle of good whiskey. Because you're right -- loneliness, and overthinking, and making mountains out of molehills is behaviour that I need to work through, but I don't need to subject everyone else to it."

And then, a sideways glance. "I've a bad habit also, of assuming that everybody actually wants my opinion. Comes with being an academic, I think. Now you have it, but you are obviously not under any obligation whatsoever to make anything of it."

It's what Rosencrantz would say that makes Una laugh, which has the benefit of drawing her out of her little funk-- at least a little.

"If I didn't want your opinion, I promise I am not so passive as to sit here and listen to it without interrupting or changing the subject," she points out, mildly, and with a twitch of a smile.

"I get that. I think it's the one thing I'm hyper-aware of, sharing my house with Della and Jules. I have my room, and it's a bigger room than I've ever had before in my life, but it's still-- next door to other people. Across the hallway. Maybe I do need to take up hiking or something, so I can start seeking out alone places. I don't want to bury those feelings, because they're my feelings, and they're valid parts of me, even if I know they're not based on actual reality. So-- yeah. Funk in progress, but it'll be okay, I think. I'll be grateful to avoid Dreams for a little while longer, because, whoa, trauma, but I'll be okay. How is life on your boat?"

"Wouldn't mind having a string of those fun dreams for a while -- Zorro, Perdita Hood, the light-hearted stuff." Ravn returns a wry smile over steepled fingers. "I don't mind waking up laughing and reaching for my phone to text somebody that they looked bloody hilarious in that dress. If there's some Veil creature out there that can feed on that? Be my guest at the buffet."

He glances at his book parcel and taps on it with a finger, pok pok pok. "Life on the boat is not really all that different. I don't have a wild social life in winter, either. Kitchen facilities are a bit more cramped, my cat is less grumpy. Still go back to Oak Avenue once a day as a minimum given that that's where the shower and the washing machine is. But I do like listening to the ocean at night, just me and the sound of the waves against the hull."

"Those ones I quite enjoy," Una agrees, with a grin that is not quite of wattage as high as it often is. "Full of minor what-the-fucks, the occasional bruise and bump, but mostly just... interesting. "I wish they'd be satisfied with those, and stop with the nightmares and killer trees."

Of life aboard Vagabond, she nods. "I imagine that's-- well, the sound of the ocean is so distinctive. And peaceful. So I can respect that. I've been taking naps under an umbrella in our yard and listening to the bees, and I've been enjoying that too. White noise, totally a thing, I guess."

"Familiar noises that we associate with peace and quiet. Sailing has always been a kind of 'free space' to me. It's a lot of waiting, a lot of doing nothing but exist. I didn't enjoy sailing with my father a lot as a kid, until I figured out that when the men got to the wine and solving world politics, I could sneak off and just sit somewhere on the deck, and listen to the seagulls. It's a kind of safe space."

Ravn smiles a little. "I can see how bees in the garden may have a similar effect. Bees don't want anything from you. Bees do in fact give very few shits about you, just like sea gulls if you're not holding a sandwich."

A little wistfully, perhaps, "I kind of enjoy transience. Invisibility. It's very -- tranquil. Nothing really matters. Bad day? Tomorrow will be better. Asshole giving me a hard time? I'll never see him again so I'll just tell him to fuck off or walk away, leaving him with empty air to yell at. And then sometimes you want something more than that, and you kind of have to either opt out entirely or accept that having friends is sometimes hard work."

The sea may not specifically do that for Una-- or maybe she's just not experienced enough with it to have a frame of reference-- but clearly something in this resonates, because her nod is a quick one, and her smile a contented one.

"Exactly so," she agrees. "And I made sure there are plenty of flowers in the garden for them-- well, I mean, I added to the ones Ava put in in the first place, I guess-- and so it's nice to know they're there and happy. I helped create a space for them."

Those brown eyes seek out Ravn's expression again, thoughtful. "Mm. Yes. There are advantages to just... floating through life. And putting down roots is hard. But. Yeah." Her smile is more crooked, now. "Once you have roots, though, I think it's easier to want more of them, even though they risk some of the other things you like. And it's a quandary. For me, anyway. But then, I always did have a deep desire to belong, despite valuing my independence. Contradiction is part of life, right?"

"It very much is. And you'll note that for all of my talking about transience and rolling stones, I am here." Ravn cants his head; that trademark lopsided smile of his, he's very aware of his own hypocrisy. "I get the feeling there is something you're struggling with, still. Not going to push you further on it. Just going to say what Rosencrantz would tell me -- get off your arse, Abildgaard, get 'em before they're gone. Whether them is a person or a doughnut, same logic."

That, yes, makes Una's smile broaden, and it may be rueful, but it's still genuine. "Fact. All of it. Probably even the bit about me still struggling with something, though damned if I could articulate what it is, exactly. Not that you're pushing, or that I'm desperate to get it off my chest, whatever it is. I appreciate the listening ear, though, and the reassurance. In a world full of seemingly well-adjusted people, it's always nice to have the reminder that we're not all the same. Normal is relative."

Beat. "Though I am 99% certain I sat in the rain with a woman who doesn't realise the friend she lives with is actually dead, the other day. So my life's not so messed up."

"That happens to me pretty regularly." Ravn laughs softly. "I mean, not that I think Kinney is dead. But that I don't realise that the person I'm talking to is dead until they make some cultural reference that's thirty years out of date. Most of the time, though, you can tell -- if it's more than a decade since they died, there are cues in clothing, language, pop culture references. And of course, if they're carrying their head in a shopping bag, that's also a somewhat direct hint."

He can't help a small smile. "That said? Living with dead people does not have to be a horror movie. I grew up in a place like this -- not quite as thin, but, thin enough. Substantial number of my ancestors still hang around. They don't bother anyone, I never bothered them. A few of them liked the occasional chat. It's how I got into history in the first place -- bit hard to ignore it when it's sitting on the next chair over."

"The problem in this case," Una says, explaining further, "is that the woman was alive, in the first place. But I'm pretty sure she's not anymore."

Beat. "Have you met a ghost who carries their head in a shopping bag? I admit, that would possibly freak me out a lot. Ghosts, in general, not quite so much. Not now. Most of the time they don't seem to mean any harm, and... I mean, some of them are sad. Lonely. Grateful to have people willing to talk to them. I can see how that'd draw you into history, though. So many primary sources, right there." A grin.

"I can see how that's a problem if it means there's a dead body lying in a bed or in a basement somewhere." Ravn frowns lightly. "All else aside, that's a considerable health hazard. I mean, if the ghost itself is happily carrying on as usual, it's not a disaster for them -- but family and friends might want to know, and decomposing bodies do a number on real estate, which possible heirs or landlords might want to know."

Indifferent? No. Practical? Yes. Then he nods. "I've an uncle -- great, great and so on if we get technical about it -- who carries his head around. Lost it in the French Revolution. He was just staying with friends but apparently, not very politically savvy."

"Yeah," says Una, wrinkling her nose. But despite raising it in the first place, she does not seem particularly inclined to continue the thread of conversation.

"Fuuuuuck," is what she says, instead. "That must be inconvenient. Even for a ghost! If I were to end up a ghost, I'd at least like to do so in a way that is... well. You know. Whole. I'd probably also rather be a ghost as a twenty-or-thirty-something, and not... old, but I also don't especially want to do, so. Well. Hopefully I don't end up one at all, I guess. Do you know what it is that makes some of them stick around?"

"Most ghosts aren't ghosts at all, not the way you mean. They're just memories -- more like a bit of film that keeps playing for a while. The ones who are genuine presences? They seem to generally have something they need to do, or which they want to keep doing. Most of ours back home either have some unfinished business they don't want to talk about, or they want to keep an eye on the family. I suspect most of them would not be ghosts in the first place if Engelsholm was not a bit like Gray Harbor. A little too easy to get stuck, also for the dead."

Ravn hitches a shoulder. "I used to think I was going to join them. Now I'm not so sure, given the distance. But then again, distance means very little in the Veil."

"I'm still really glad I can't see any of these lingering memories or ghosts. It's much less confusing."

The front door's shop-bell jingling a few minutes back? That was Ariadne, apparently, clad in jeans and sneakers and a svelte black fashionable cross between a hoodie and a tunic, one long enough to reach mid-thigh and complete with deep if light-weight hood -- and pockets. Because pockets, seriously. She's got a book in-hand as she comes around the corner, grinning like she's the cat come across two little twittering mice, and she meanders over with a friendly twiddling of free fingers. Her demi-dyed hair is braided today down her back in a cascade of complimentary colors.

"On the note of Zorro in particular, let us take a moment to imagine...the Three Musketeers." Lo and behold, the book she holds up: an English translation of the original French tome. "You hear that, you Veil fuckers? Three Musketeers," she then hisses towards the ceiling, maybe looking...a little crazy, but since Una and Ravn are locals, it's more the barista flipping the Veil the bird. Like you do.

"If the Veil wants you back there, presumably you will be," agrees Una, though her agreement is tinged with uncertainty, and more than a little ruefulness. There's an unpleasant topic, really: the control the Veil has. What it-- or they, really-- want.

She glances up, then, breaking off from her thoughtfulness in order to grin at the other redhead. She looks a little tired, but the smile is genuine enough. "What, are you putting in requests, now? 'Please, Veil, give us something fun and not terrible as a treat, because we've been so good'. I mean, we were saying-- it'd be a nice change, to have something lighter. Come and sit? Ravn's made his purchases; I'm still sitting on mine."

Ravn hitches a shoulder. "What is it the Spanish say? Que sera, sera."

He nods up at Ariadne. "You seem to be in quite a good mood today?"

"You can tell me to buzz off too," the barista notes with a gentler smile. She would indeed buzz off if told to do as such; instead, she finds a place to settle and crosses her legs at the knee, one sneakered foot dangling in empty air. "The weather was good for a jog this morning, so I gave it a shot. Bit nippy around the edges and I can still feel where stuff used to be, but..." Her eyes flick to and linger on Una. "I had a good friend see about those wounds." The other redhead gets a grin.

Still, this fact she says more quietly, as to not to alert any of the other book-browsers. "And I'm going to get the stitches out later today, hopefully to no necessary explanations by the nursing staff." A glance at Ravn. "I wasn't able to tell while I was at the hospital. Does the Veil do the whole...amnesia thing there too...?"

"Whatever will be, will be," murmurs Una, but other than that, she's willing to let that topic go.

She returns Ariadne's grin, though hers is more akin to a smile than anything more, splaying her fingers idly over the cover of her book. "I'm glad those stitches are going. Given no one blinked an eye at our ridiculous cover story, I'm sure you'll be fine. Anyone who knows what's what will presumably know better, but... I imagine they've seen a lot worse than a few quick-healing wounds."

"Whatever actually got you, what's going on record will be something quite mundane. Mind, neither of you have actually said anything about what happened, so I can't guess at what the official story will be. Probably traffic, or walked into a door. People walk into doors a lot here." Ravn looks down at his parcel of two books, wrapped in brown paper. "But yes -- the Veil supplies the story, but thankfully, at least it also nudges people to buy it. Me, I keep getting into boating accidents. Gun-related ones."

"I bet the hospital staff has heard some insane things around here," Ariadne murmurs on the tail end of Ravn's explanation of his own totally normal but not really normal accident records. She winces about the corners of her eyes and looks down at the copy of the Three Musketeers in her lap.

"I got my ass kicked by a pine tree while I was a bird. An osprey. Tree bough got me in the ribs and the leg, hence the stitches I was complaining about when you were over a day or two ago," she replies in particular to Ravn, looking up at him now. "I am bird, hear me roar, but more like eeeeeeeeeee. Note to self: birds do not win verses trees." Now she can laugh at it and does, quietly, more than a little ruefully.

"It was," Una explains, after Ariadne finishes, and with the faintest hint of a flush coming back, "another of those Dreams that was a Native legend. Fire was stolen again, this time from the Pines, and we had to stop the Pines from getting it back. Bodily, as it happens. I think they kicked all of our asses, truthfully."

A rueful shake of her head follows. "I liked being Squirrel more when I was just throwing nuts at people."

Ravn cants his head a little. "I have never been an animal besides a cat. I can't quite imagine what it is like. When I am a cat I am still me -- I just have four feet and a tail. I have not been a cat mind."

He cannot relate. Too literal a mind, perhaps, or maybe just not American enough; if his ancestors had a culture revolving around spirit animals, it was forgotten long before the beginnings of the oral tradition that the Romans and later on, the Christians subdued. The only remnants are stories of Norse gods wearing bird or animal shapes, but inside the feathers or the fur, they too are still the same people.

"I mean, Una was ferocious for how she was Squirrel. I would have balked if a red squirrel suddenly shouted murder and pelted me with various things as well as threw...fire?" A glance over at Una as if to double-check what was seen in the Dream itself. "But it wasn't like we were entirely the animal's mind -- I shouldn't say that, you might have had a different experience than me." Another nod towards the other redhead before Ariadne looks back to Ravn again.

"I just...yelled loudly and dive-bombed the trees. I'm more useful verses non-wood combatants though, sooooo...hopefully if I dragged into that Dream-line again, it's non-wood stuff. Otherwise, what am I to do? Like...shriek obscenities? Well. I could carry folks and drop them from above. Sudden aerial bombardment." Her expression goes thoughtful.

"Encouraged fire to exist within a nice, flammable tree," suggests Una, with a wrinkle of her brow, as a slightly more accurate descriptor of the events. "I was-- I mean, I did feel a bit like Squirrel. I was worried about my squirrel friends, about the impact a cold winter had had on our stores. But I was still enough me, too, that I knew I was me as well. I think. It was all a bit confused, and made more so once we were actually trying to defend ourselves."

A beat, and a smile, too. "Sudden aerial bombardment would work. It was a bit ridiculous, being clobbered by trees, when surely we were all faster than them. It-- I've become pretty fond of squirrels, after these Dreams. Even after this one. Because I do feel connected to them, somehow. Which is... weird."

"You both have considerable power, and from what it sounds like, the ability to use them in animal form. I doubt you were quite as helpless as you thought." Ravn nods. And then admits, "I have to say, being chased by angry trees is not on my bucket list."

Then he offers a small smile while picking up his parcel. "You get used to it. Most of these Dreams, there are people with amazing power, people who can do terrible and awesome things. And then there's you. There's something in you the Dream wants, even if it is not obvious. I've spent a substantial amount of Dreams just standing somewhere, watching the powerful people do their thing and feeling terrible about not pulling any weight, but it's how it is. We are not born equal. We cannot pull equal weight."

Ariadne shifts in her seat, her small smile still wry. Fingernails drum across the book's cover while it remains settled on her lap.

"I dunno what the Dream wanted other than to have a pine tree kick my ass, but hey: if that's what it wanted, it succeeded. At least...I mean, I thought Beaver made it away?" Another glance at Una is accompanied by a thinning of lips. "But I don't think it's odd to feel camaraderie with the squirrels now. I..." A huff of a laugh and the barista tilts her head back and forth. "I might have been spending more time seeing if I could spot some ospreys around the bay on my jog today. No luck yet, but hey, they've got to be around here somewhere."

A shrug of her shoulder. "Y'all know my grudging about the Dreams. If I knew what to do, I'd do it. Maybe that's why they suck me into them. I get so annoyed not knowing what to do because I need the answers. Or something. I'm just really, really glad when you're all there with me, power levels aside. It means I'm safer because I've got back-up."

"It probably gets off on our frustration at not being able to do as much as we'd like," says Una, with a snort, though her nod quickly acknowledges what Ravn has to say. "Leila took down a tree with one burst of flame, I think, and that was real flame, not like mine. But-- we did okay. We survived, all of us, and Beaver got away, which was," this time, a nod towards Ariadne, "the point of the exercise."

Her smile is brief, but bright, for Ariadne's admission. "I hope you find them," she declares. "Ospreys of good luck."

"I'm always grateful to have you guys there too. Familiar faces. People I know can be trusted. But I agree, wholeheartedly, on the knowing what to do thing. I'm willing to play a part, willing to do my bit, but... you've got to give me a clue, first."

"Fear and frustration are valid emotions for them to harvest." Ravn stands, and tucks the parcel under one arm. "I have spent so many Dreams -- the worst that I recall, there was a literal zombie horde and two Aztec deities needing killed. All of them. Everyone there had firearms or axes, weapons. Everyone knew how to use them. And all I knew how to do was throw myself on the ground and hope no one noticed me."

He glances towards the door. "Another, several others in fact, be under assault from the sewer gremlins. Same situation -- others have weapons or they light things on fire, or at the very least they can heal. And then there's me, just trying to not get in anyone's way. It's a terrible, useless feeling. I hope they choke on it."

"It'd be nice if they'd choke on it, huh?" Wry agreement. One big, hairy, gnarly ball of choke-inducing frustration. She can manage this, that's for certain.

Another sigh and Ariadne glances out the shop window. "No zombies, please." A shake of her head. "Ospreys of good luck? I'll take those instead. Isn't it nice though that the Dreams sometime...like...bite off more than they can chew? Too many human brains in one place and sure, we're practically an electrical field of deliciousness, but also? We're a force to be reckoned with. I'm not surprised, ever, by any of those memes about how humans are persistent, creative, ultimately...kind of terrifying things. Like...the Veil should harvest at its own risk. Seriously."

Una's gaze lingers on Ravn, and there's something sharp in her expression: a frown that hasn't fully formed, perhaps, but whose impact is there.

"An absolutely shitty feeling," she agrees, instead of commenting on whatever it is she's thinking. "I do like the idea of them biting off more than they can chew, though. Of us-- being more than we seem, particularly when we work together. Power or no power, we're powerful in different ways."

Beat. "Or the whole thing has us convinced we are, anyway, just enough to keep us going. No, I'm not going down that train of thought. I'm trying too hard to keep my mood from dropping again."

Ravn offers a wry smile Una's way as he stands there. "You want to know what someone told me, not too long after I'd come into town? I was talking to another bloke about this feeling -- this fear of being the weakest chain when push comes to shove. This other bloke walks up with his girlfriend. I've met her a couple of times before, she works at the library, she greets me because that's what polite people do. Bloke looks me up and down and then he tells me, in so many words, if we ever meet Over There? He'll throw me to the zombies and run. Because that's what weak people like me are for -- obstacles so that the powerful people make it out safe. This bloke is shining like a lighthouse, he's definitely not weak."

The Dane shakes his head. "So I walked out, and so did my friend. We went to the park across the street and that's the day we decided that we were going to open the HOPE Centre. Because that kind of thinking? The weak are fodder so the strong may survive? That's what they want, that's what they feed on. More of us than they can chew. Having each other's backs. Standing up for each other. That's how you fight back."

"Knowledge is power and so is numbers. That's basic survival right there, not even counting proper battlefield logic." Ariadne nods as if in staunch agreement with her own take on things. "I'm sorry you had to deal with a bottom-feeding sewer-sucker like that, Ravn, but I'm not sorry that HOPE came of it. That's the proper way to flip the Veil the bird. You know..."

The barista glances down at her wrist. "If I ever get a tattoo, I think I might do that. Hope. Because that's the light in the darkness above all else -- the caged bird that still sings. Angelou had it right. We'll not only sing, we'll turn the 808s up to eleven and we'll rock them." Suddenly, if quietly, the barista breaks into the chorus by the famous Queen song: "We willll, we willll, rock you." Stomp stomp. Stomp stomp. She grins and then lifts up both hands, apparently unashamed.

Una's expression says what she doesn't quite manage to, at least immediately: that? That is fucked up. (To the max.)

The shorter of the two redheads does not join in on the chorus (look, even chanting a chorus like that may be beyond her vocal reach), but it does interrupt the seriousness and discomfort of that expression with a smile that is not cheerful, but is amused. "That's true," she agrees, not in the least (at least superficially) embarrassed by being with someone who is singing in a bookshop (better than a library, after all). "And I'm glad that HOPE came out of that too, because being more powerful clearly doesn't make a person a good person, or a better person. And we're none of us any better than how we treat other people."

Clap-stomp-stomp. Clap-stomp-stomp. And the lyrics, perfect for the topic at hand; Ravn cannot sing but he can mumble.

Buddy, you're a boy, make a big noise
Playing in the street, gonna be a big man someday
You got mud on your face, you big disgrace

Whatever else Ravn is, he's a musician -- and that is a beat at once so unusual in modern music and so very familiar, that he follows it without thinking. Inevitably, his parcel, tucked under one arm, falls down.

He looks a little sheepish as he picks it up. "Not all of us were meant to be people people. But the very least we can do, yes, is not exist at the expense of other people." Beat. "Let's not talk about late-stage capitalism, though."

Score: dropped parcel.

Observe: Ariadne's Prince of Foxes grin. Got you, Dane.

"Kicking your can all over the place," she notes, continuing Ravn's mumble. "We're not talking about late-stage capitalism. I will agree, however, that actions can be stronger than words. Talk a big game, awesome. Follow through on your big game, terrifying. Loki had it right in the Avengers when he smarted back at Fury, you are nothing but words." Her brows flick. A glance down at her own book as if she were considering buying it.

Observe, too, Una's abrupt burst of laughter, less for the dropping of parcels (books, dropped books! Sound the alarm, the books are being mistreated!) and more for-- well. Someone got the Dane to sing, ish. Mumble. Whatever. Well done, Ariadne!

"No, let's definitely not talk late-stage capitalism. I don't think my soul can take it, not right now. Words are-- well, there's power in words, clearly. But yeah, definitely: actions speak louder and all of that." Una curves her fingers around the cover of the book she's still got on her lap, and has half an eye towards the stack on the table in front of her, but, well. She's not moving yet.

"I was going to say, I'd rather be a good person than a strong one. But I think that simplifies both words. Or-- maybe it's just that 'good' doesn't really mean anything. And strong can mean so many different things."

"Words have power. But without actions to back them up, they lose the power." Ravn nods his agreement with Una. "Good and strong are not the same, and neither need to have anything to do with our bodies or our power."

There. Rational observation made.

Ravn sucks his breath in and stares at Ariadne. "You had to. You had to bring up Marvel comics in front of a Scandinavian folklorist. So, first off, the one thing that Tom Hiddleston has in common with the actual mythical Loki? Male. That's it. Loki is silver-tongued and smooth. He's a trickster, a liar. He is Odin's blood-brother, not his son, not his adopted son, either. He is Thor's uncle by friendship bond. And he is a jotun, the embodiment of chaos -- even in the ordered world of the Asar, chaos lingers, ready to wreck it all if the gods are not vigilant. He is the father of the forces that destroy the world as the Asar know it -- Fenrir, Jormundgand, and for that matter, Sleipnir. He is not an emo pretty boy with a smart mouth. He is the embodiment of corruption within -- good when he makes us question those good, strong words that mean nothing if you don't back them up with actions, and bad when he blinds us to the needs of the world and makes us fight one another. He is not Edward Scissorhands with a green coat. If anything, he is Lucifer, beautiful and deadly, and conniving enough to watch us destroy ourselves."

And this bloke claims to be too asthmatic to sing.

"I like that too. There's a literary quote there about good and strong not being the same thing, I swear. It should belong on a t-shirt." Ariande then snaps her fingers. "Right, t-shirt," she adds, pointing at Una in particular. "What color should the base be? I forgot to ask you."

But then.

Oh then.

Ariadne gives Ravn the most innocent look possible ever in the ever of everdom forever-est -- and it's fooling no one whatsoever. Her fellow redhead gets a furtive, amused look while Ravn expounds. Some of it, the barista knew; some of it, she did not, and she nods in honest interest despite the lingering foxy grin on her face.

"You do realize that the MCU makes Loki out to be this beautiful, deadly, conniving son of a bitch...? And I thought he was associated with fire anyways, not ice, if we're really going to get to the nitty-gritty. Serpent venom to the face. Bad news bears."

T-shirt! Except.. except.

Una's giggle starts small, and is quickly covered with one hand, though that doesn't mean it has stopped. She giggles all the way through Ravn's single-breath lecture, spurred on by that look from Ariadne. At least she keeps it quiet, making sure nothing interrupts that flow of very, very important words.

She's also definitely listening, though, because despite the laughter there's a distinctly studious tip to her chin that isn't fully masked by that hand.

"All I'm taking from this is that Hollywood, much like the Veil, has absolutely no understanding of how these stories actually go. Which-- there's a mind-fuck for you."

Ravn can't help laugh softly, and then nod at Una. "Pretty much. Although at least Marvel does not try to pass their fantasy off as fact. They're more, inspired by. Take a show such as History Channel's Vikings -- that has done some serious damage."

He nods, still chuckling, at Ariadne. "Loki is a seductive trickster figure, yes. But less fuckable pretty boy and more this sounds like a great plan until you realised that by signing, you sold your soul, your canary, and your Camaro, and all you got was a 'you may have won in this book raffle' from some prince in Nigeria." He hitches a shoulder. "Also, Loki is not affiliated with ice. He's a relative or distant kinsman of Surt, the prince of the Fire jotun. There aren't actually a whole lot of ice anything in Norse myth because ultimately, the jotun's lives reflected those of mortals, and who the hell would be stupid enough to go live on the ice?"

"Yep, as I said: Loki is associated with fire, not ice. I had to give Marvel the credit for taking it in a different direction though," Ariadne shrugs as she sits, prim and proper and not in the least dismayed by the information she's wrung out of the folklorist. The cat isn't sorry for knocking the mug of coffee off the desk, no, she is not.

Una gets a big grin now. "I think you've hit it in one. The Veil goes off by what our brains think should be right and it is a mind-fuck, but at the same time? Say a Dream decides to bring a Loki into play. Here's hoping it picks MY brain because I know all the canon weaknesses to his MCU iteration. If it's not that iteration? Ravn knows all the weaknesses to the historical-story figure. You? You can control fire, girlfriend. You've immediately, potentially, got an in. Boom." The barista lifts both palms again. "Look at us: prepared for trouble of the silver-tongued trickster type."

"Vikings isn't based on truth? You lie!" Una's not serious. She's so very, very not serious that she can't keep that grin from twitching into place upon her face. At least this means she's-- for now-- been drawn out of her earlier funk.

"I mean, not that the damage bit is funny," is a somewhat hasty after-thought. "Your logic..." Ariadne, this time. "I'm not entirely convinced there aren't massive holes in this logic, but also... sure. Okay. We're ready for any of these incarnations of Loki, and if it happens to be a different one-- because I know I've read fantasy novels that incorporated Scandinavian mythology, and I'm pretty sure a lot of them were liberal with their interpretations-- well. We're adaptable, right?"

Even so: "'Control' is still a big word, mind. Fire may let itself be egged on by me, but that's not control. That's... bullying."

"We're not ready for Loki because no matter what incarnation or implementation you meet, Loki is the smart and seductive serpent in paradise, and no matter how smart you think you are, he is smarter. That's his narrative function. When he is brought low, it is his own hubris that fells him -- not man's." Ravn hitches a shoulder (and nearly drops his books again).

Then he offers what he probably intends to be a reassuring little smile. "The Veil does not bring us into Dreams in order to curbstomp us without a chance. If it did -- well, we'd only get one each. I've met Aztec gods so I am not going to say it's impossible. But I will say that I very much doubt we'll be going toe to toe with gods often. The gods we did meet -- one wanted to see if we dared to fight gods, and the other wanted us to kill her because that's how the Aztec viewed the world: The goddess of fertility and crops had to die with the corn at the harvest, so that she may be reborn with the seeds in spring."

Having heard about this fiasco with needing to eliminate a goddess before, the barista grimaces. "Yeah, no Loki or any other gods, please and thank you." Shaking her head brings her braid around front and Ariadne takes up playing with the paintbrush-like tip of it with her fingers. "Especially with him potentially being a fire god."

She glances at Una. "But if 'control' is an issue, why not 'direct'? That's not bullying, is it? Or 'aiding' it." She does seem curious about the interpretation, as if to hear the logic to follow might explain a thing or two about her fellow redhead.

Una's nose wrinkles again, and she agrees, firmly: "No gods, thank you very much. I'm staging a protest, just generally: no more curb-stomping Dreams for a bit. I know," a nod towards Ravn, "it's not supposed to actually break us, just womp us around a bit. But I've been womped plenty, for now."

She's slower to answer Ariadne, running her fingers through the loose waves of her hair, from forehead and all the way back in lieu of immediate answer. "Direct, maybe. Encourage. I don't know. I'm grateful to have fire to use offensively, but I'm not going to lie: it freaks me out a little. And after those particular dreams... if Squirrels are personified, and Pines, then why should Fire do what I tell it to do? Or what I encourage it to do, anyway? But that thought process leads to veganism and then probably breatharianism. I'm overthinking again."

"If you ask Fire, you're kind of past that problem, though. Don't order it, ask it nicely." Ravn nods. He's not about to lecture anyone about overthinking. "Another suggestion might be to take it less literally -- to look at things like story archetypes and gestalts. Fire is not a sentient being with a mind of its own. But it can be in a story, when it has a function in a story that requires it to be. In which case, it's not really fire you're dealing with, but the story."

Metaphysics. There's people employed full time at universities sorting through this stuff, and the only thing they tend to agree on is that everyone else gets it wrong.

The folklorist tucks the books back in under his arm. "Anyhow, I got what I came for. Glad to see that you're a little happier now, Irving. Let me drop a pop culture reference I'm pretty certain at least Scullins will get, and make a quick exit: He's a devil, she's a detective, they fight crime. Don't overthink it."

And off he is, before anyone can throw a book at him.

"Eh...not overthinking. Being cautious, sure, but I guess... I wouldn't deny yourself growth in that power? It's cool, plain and simple, and could be useful. Why not learn to better direct the fire now so you know in case you need it later? I'm being pragmatic, I know, and sometimes it might seem a little cold." Ariadne's shrug towards Una has a hint of apology in it, just in case. "Like Ravn said, ask it nicely?"

She glances to the tall Dane as he excuses himself, but -- the manner of his departure, especially the forewarning of her surname, has the barista sitting up straight. "Wha -- "

Oh, that pop culture reference.

"Ugh! Sir!" It follows Ravn out of the door instead of a book. "Smart-ass motherfucker," Ariadne mutters, smirking to herself as she eyebrows at where his silhouette at the door used to be. A glance over at Una is droll. "I made some comment about swapping my barista job for lording over Hell for a time before taking a vacation and running a club and now, apparently, I'm the Devil. Call me Lucifer Morningstar, pleased to meet you," she then mimics in the crisp accent of the TV show's iteration of the character.

Una's mouth opens with immediate-- albeit thoughtful-- reply to Ravn, but he's off, and whatever she was going to say, she changes it up to a, "Thanks, Ravn," that even in and of itself almost gets bitten back, because of Ariadne's reaction-- which in turn gets an unrestrained giggle. "I was going to say, arguably there are worse things to be, but I'll admit I don't know the show more than in the basic sense, and I guess the Devil is not actually the best of things." This doesn't stop the amusement, or the glance Una aims after the departed Dane.

"But no, pragmatism is probably the way forward. I'm a bit in my head this week, I think. Too much time spent on my own, dwelling. At least I'm out and about again now-- that's already making a difference."

"Out and about is good. A bookshop is a nice place to be anyways," Ariadne says as she rises to her feet abruptly. Not to leave, however, it seems; more to drift towards the shelves. She tilts her head for Una to follow if she likes, attention still on the other redhead. "Nice and quiet, composed, not at all full of random bursts of singing."

A quick look around. "I'm actually surprised nobody came out of the woodwork to tell us off for stomping. Bonus points for sneaking. But I am going to play...this is hilarious, but devil's advocate and note that in the tarot, the Devil reversed? It's about freedom and breaking from addictions. Empowering, in a way, instead of just temptation. Maybe I'm the Devil Reversed instead?" She grins and looks, frankly, a little smug for turning what could have been a friendly joke into a compliment. "But eh, I'm also full of shit and we know it," the redhead adds knowingly with a laugh.

"I feel like this is the second conversation we've had this week that harked back to freedom and breaking from addictions, of a sort," muses Una, who stands in reply (look! she can do so without a wince of pain! Hallelujah!).

"So I buy it. Devil Reversed. Ravn was half-right, and now I'm afraid it's just established fact, full of shit or not. And-- yeah. Bookshops are nice places to be. This one is a particularly nice one, too, and apparently very gracious about stomping, which I consider a vital thing in a book shop."

Her book gets added to the stack on the table and in turn, the stack is given a little pat. She'll be back for you later, don't you worry. (Probably).

Una's observation about conversational topics brings her fellow redhead to an honest-to-god check by the bookshelf where she'd found the Three Musketeers. Ariadne pauses in putting the tome back to blink at Una. "Holy crap, you're right," she murmurs back, sounding surprised as...well...all hell.

That Ravn is half-right, however, and it's an established thing? "Ohmygod, Una, whateverrrrrrrrrrr," laughs the barista as quietly as possible because bookstore. It's not really a defensive drawl on her part; if anything, she's pleased and attempting to deflect for humbleness' sake. "Maybe next time, we do the...Cha-Cha Slide in here and test your theory?"

Yeah, nope, this one's the Devil, watch out for her and her terrible ideas.

"Am I getting this book or not?" she then asks of Una, twitching the book back and forth in her hand. It never made it to the shelf after all.

Una seems pleased by that reaction, pausing though she has in front of one of the shelves: she's already seen another book she may want to look at, and only pauses halfway into taking it out so that she can meet Ariadne's gaze with a delighted, and ever-so-slightly smirky, grin. "No no, you need to own it. If I'm the kitchen cleric, you can own this too."

Curse the Devil and her evil ideas. "Ooh-- Cha-Cha Slide flashmob? I mean, I bet the owner's seen worse. Have you seen the occult section upstairs? I'm 99% certain..."

"Yes, you're getting it. It's a book. You can't put them back. Or-- I can't. That's why I try and avoid bookshops."

Ariadne just...laughs -- and it's not quiet, for just a second, before she controls herself by clapping a hand over her mouth.

"Okay...alright, okay, I touched the book, it's mine now. I'm taking it home and I'll enjoy it, I will. I love this story." The Three Musketeers is tucked under her arm now; indeed, all hers. "And if you really want to start a Cha-Cha Slide flashmob, I mean..."

Slow, obvious shrug. "Nobody's stopping you," the redhead singsongs, grinning. "Just like nobody's stopping me from getting you the Kitchen Cleric shirt. I'll order a shirt too. It'll say...Speak of the Devil. It'll be brilliant. So vindicating to walk into the room when someone's talking about you. Worth it in spades. Alright, you get your book pile while I pay for this guy and we'll go get coffee. Free drink on me, I'm allowed to do it once a day." Wiggling the book again now, the barista heads to pay for it.

It's true: no one leaves a bookstore without a book. It's a curse...but a delightful one.