2022-04-14 - So About Those Macaques

Waking up nearly late for her shift after wanting to lay a smackdown on some peanut gallery monkeys hadn't put Ariadne in the best of moods. Neither had her ankle twinging afterwards. But she'd survived as well as managed a short walk for Samwise after to make sure he did get some outside air. A good night's sleep with no Dreams and she'd awoken right as rain. Mostly. Now she wants nothing more than a run to clear her mind and prove to herself that her ankle isn't going to stop her.

Samwise, after doing some crazy laps around the apartment, decides he's going to nap in a tiny donut of fur on the couch -- one of the superpowers of sighthounds, changing from nothing-but-legs to shockingly small balls of dog. It leaves Ariadne to depart from the Broadleaf and take up an unhurried jog. In a pair of sleek jogging pants and a light-weight jogging sweatshirt over a t-shirt, she's the one all in black today save for the undershirt (baby-pink) and the sneakers (pale-blue with sporty markings). Her ponytail swings back and forth as she covers ground, slowly gaining speed over the blocks of travel.

She's not difficult to spot on the approach to the docks proper, not with the beautiful gradient of color in her hair's underpaneling. Her headphones are in and whatever she's listening to, she's jamming along. Her steps are timed to the beat of the music. It's not impossible to hail her, not with a wave -- a shout won't do at the moment.

Is that Ravn Abildgaard? Yes, it is; that tall figure in black with the mop of auburn on top is hard to miss in an environment where everyone else favours shades and combinations of white and blue (if they are posh yachters) or jeans and flannels (if they are regular folks just workin' on the family boat).

"She's looking fine," he tells Jack Pescado from the lumber mill. "Florrie just needs a bit more exercise. Maybe walk her around the lawn, build some muscle. Then hire a jazz band and throw a rave at the Casino Hotel for her. Buy her some nice lipstick and she'll be right as rain."

The older man nods solemnly as if this is in fact very good advice from a marine biologist specialising in crustacean health, and returns Florrie to her kitten carrier. Florrie is not a kitten. Florrie is a large, blue crawfish.

Ravn raises a hand in a wave as Ariadne zooms past. Then he glances at Jack and adds, "I have to go see her about a macaque and a bad dream."

"Give my regards," says Jack who heard something else entirely, something which pertained to lobster fighting. That's how it works. The Revisionist assigned Ravn to be the lobster fighting guru, and he will be, and it doesn't matter one bit what he actually says.

"Will do," says Ravn and heads off in Ariadne's direction.

Almost completely lost in the rhythm of her loping run, the barista nearly misses Ravn's wave -- but that's the way to catch her attention. She turns her head to look and upnods at him, flashing him a distracted smile. She's blown past him by a number of yards by the time she has some space to swing about. The options were either risk falling into the water (no thank you, already Dreamt about that recently) or curve out into the street (also unwise even if the road is visibly clear -- it's Grey Harbor).

As such, the marine biologist has completely missed the discussion involving large blue crawfish. She slows from her lope to a jog and then a brisk walk, heading back in Ravn's direction at a pace sure to reach him sooner than later.

"Hey," she calls out, appropriately half-airless because of her workout. "Out for a walk?" Earbuds are removed from her ears and pocketed with music paused for the moment.

"Like most mornings but a little slower than usual thanks to last night's work-out," the Dane agrees. "And the lobster season starts tomorrow so quite a number of gents need me to take a look at little Florrie or Murder Macho Machine to make sure they're ready for the season. Don't ask me how a lobster or a crawfish looks ready, I have no idea. I can't even tell if it's a lobster or a crawfish. How are you?"

He did see her rubbing at her ankle last night. Not to mention the amount of anger with which Ariadne attacked a dojo wall and twenty mocking macaques with a stick.

Ariadne blinks. Season? Murder Macho Machine. It takes her another moment to remember about the lobster fighting ring and how Ravn is the official-unofficial-reluctant manager of it all. Her grin returns, a quiet parting of lips.

"Well...lobsters are generally much bigger and live in saltwater. Crawfish live in fresh water." She blows another sigh as her steps come to a stop in front of him. Hands rest on her hips as she looks up into his face. "How am I?" Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug, eyes flick consideringly to one side and then return to him. "I slept. Took some Advil for my ankle. Nothing's busted in it, you saw me running. I mean...good...I guess? What about you?"

Gloved hands in blazer pockets, bouncing lightly on his heels, Ravn looks okay in the way that he usually does -- a kind of casual indifference that probably takes more work than it looks like at first glance. "Well, it was an experience. Funny. Not going to forget the look on your face when you came up out of the duck pond with a lily pad on your head. That was pretty hilarious. Remember the good things, right?"

And forget the bad things. It's the way to survive.

"Oooooh, you jerk, you would remember that." Ariadne's smirk is still edged, not totally amused yet. It hasn't become Type 2 Fun: funny later. Type 1 Fun is funny at the time. "I rather liked the expressions of abject terror on those monkeys' faces when I busted through that wall like the avenging ghost of some stick-swinging lunatic."

No ghost needed there to make the impression she did.

"Nifty trick with the wall though. And the walls came tumbling down," she then says, more than likely quoting some literary sampling or another. "Is your side alright? I remember bumping it." Of course, she also remembers slamming into him like an unfortunate human sand-bag, but it doesn't matter if no one says it. It still happened. Still ouch.

"Shaka when the walls fell," Ravn murmurs because geek's gotta geek. Then he nods. "It passes pretty quick. There is no actual damage done, after all. Just my brain misreading the situation. Once the visuals start to process the pain subsides. A bit like dreaming you stab yourself -- and then you wake up and you're holding the book you were reading rather than a knife, there is no blood, and no one is screaming, you just blinked hard while reading in bed."

A wry smile and one last wave to Jack Pescado and little Florrie as they drive off in Jack's truck. "How are you -- otherwise? That Dream managed to get you in the emotions too, that was obvious."

"Still sounds awful," she notes quietly. Ariadne can't remember if she's ever done something like that, fallen asleep and thought a book was murdering her, but it sounds unpleasant to wake up to. Her gaze tracks the departing truck before she glances back at Ravn again.

His question prompts another sigh and a fidgeting of fixing ponytail. Maybe the hairband was too loose. It means she doesn't necessarily have to look him in the face anymore, given one must tuck chin a little to get the correct angle of tightened band. "I'm fine." Of course it's the first thing out of her mouth. A tug of this to one side and she then mutters something under her breath in what must be Hungarian. Apparently, the ponytail isn't right.

"...I dunno, I'm still moping. It was mean. Juvenile. And it hurt. And I hate it. So I'm not exactly feeling totally chipper today."

"Try to just let it slide off you," Ravn advises. "Like the Zorro dream. Me turning up as a Catholic priest who'd very obviously just given some very private kneeling time to the brothel girls was meant to embarrass the hell out of me, no doubt. But I didn't put myself in that situation -- the dream did. They can cast us and force us to play a role, but it's still not really us. What happens on the mountain stays on the mountain."

"It's easy to say, Ravn." Tugging her ponytail's fall briefly in half to bring the band tight to her skull, the barista huffs and glances off to one side. Beyond the path-side dock, the bay water jumbles in light and dark where the waves have been stirred up by wind. She can hear it hit the retaining wall in echoing, muffled splashes.

"But I know," she insist then, sounding convinced of it. "Give me a day, I'll be over it. It's just...my first time dealing with it. I can't be expected to get over it in a snap. The run was supposed to clear my mind. It's working. I'll be better by the time I get back to the apartment." Her golden-hazel eyes return to his face again.

"Yes. It is easy to say." Ravn has no urge to try to sound chirpy about it. It's a fact -- and it sucks big, hairy macaque balls. "Maybe it comes easier to me because I've done it for a long time. Some of them get your emotions in a twist and you need to take a couple of days on your own to cry into a whiskey bottle before you can put the mask back on and go back out there and make like everything is fine. It is what it is."

He does have a small, lopsided smile to offer at least. It's not much but it's all he's got. "At least when it's somebody you know -- you know that they're the same, that we just play the parts assigned to us. Last night's theme was embarrassment. It succeeded pretty well. Maybe they'll give us a little downtime now. Give us time to sort things out. We're more fun to break when we think we've got our stuff sorted, after all."

Wagging her chin, the redhead looks out across the water again. "They're total fuckers. Yeah...yeah, they would wait until things settle to kick the pot again. Fuckers," comes the hiss under her breath. Another scoff, ugh, and sweep of her vision off to the opposite side now. Arms fold beneath her chest and it becomes crystal-clear to anybody who can read body language that Ariadne isn't going to deal with this without retort and repercussions as she can manage them.

"I've got no whisky bottle, but maybe Debbie has it right." She of the ghost-memory who eats out of a tub of ice cream when she feels like appearing in the apartment. "Some ice cream. A movie. Sam cuddles. I'll figure my shit out," she grumbles. "I'm glad it was you and nobody else. I saw it, the whole parts-playing. You're the same." A nod.

"I find it helps to think of it like I am an actor," Ravn says quietly. "The pay check sucks, of course. We get a part and we play it on stage, and then we walk off, and nothing that happened up there is real. Hamlet took his anger out on Ophelia bad enough that she went mad and drowned herself. But when the curtain falls, they get back up. One puts down the poisoned blade and the other wrings out her hair, and they go home to whatever their own lives are like."

He purses his lips and looks out over the bay. It's going to be one of those gloriously bright, if crispy spring days where the sun has power while you're in it, but the cold of winter still lingers in the shadows. "For what it's worth, though, I'm sorry. Dreams aren't fair, and it was bloody unfair of them to throw you into one of mine like that."

Ravn's wisdom makes sense. It brings her to look at him, though in time to catch his face by profile rather than eye contact. She follows his attention out onto the bay. A few more cutters are out than usual. Spring's more mild (though conversely abrupt and wicked) weather is here in earnest now. Time to fish.

"I'm just glad it was you and not someone I didn't know. Or that we're not actually each other's arch nemesis. I can't imagine actually having to face off against Darth Ravn." Her smirk is dry, still only semi-present, her arms not yet uncrossed. "You showed that wall what for. I was just swinging a stick. It was impressive. Maybe one day, I'll be able to manage things like that...bringing down walls. Pulling things out of people's hands." Her lips purse. It's an idea.

"You probably will. You can move things. Big blasts of energy are fairly simple." Ravn nods his agreement. "Precision work, harder. I'm still working out the fine points but I've sorted out how to -- well, lash out. Smack into things hard, like that stone wall. Then it's just applied physics, hit the bottom and the rest will follow."

He glances back to Ariadne; there's still a trace of concern in those blue-greys. "I don't think it would have worked with a stranger. I mean -- you'd just be a little embarrassed and then forget about it. The whole point of those humiliation dreams is that it's wrong. That it draws out things you wish you could keep a lid on, forces things out in the open, but wrong. So you have a beautiful scene and an audience calling for a romantic comedy, but it's the wrong bloody person. I kind of expect to end up in something similar with Perdita next, just to salt her wounds about her break-up, you know?"

"Science," Ariadne murmurs mostly to herself, sounding amused by her spoken thought. Indeed, applied and Newtonian physics were all over that Dream -- and how.

Now she meets his blue-greys. Her own golden-hazels are sans eyeliner today, just fringed by darkened lashes, and more green for the bay's reflected lighting. They drop and she nods, her posture silently empathetic. "I really hope it doesn't happen like that. Dita doesn't need that, not right now, not so soon after breaking up, yeah. It'd be a dick move and it makes me wish I could influence whether or not a Dream could happen, but...that's like, saying you're going to stop it from snowing. Hah, nice wish." Rather than shrugging with her shoulders, she lifts her fingers up off her bicep in a fan before setting them down again. There's a moment where she looks away again; her jaw grit-grits back and forth.

"I...don't...think I'm explaining this well already, shit." A sharp huff, as if to berate herself. With resolve writ on her features, she meets his eyes again. "I don't think it was the wrong person. I think it was the wrong timing and the wrong circumstance. It was a Dream. You're right: you don't make decisions like that based off of Dreams. You, Ravn, are gorgeous. You're funny. You have your baggage and I understand it. You also have a lot going on right now and so do I. I think something could happen in the future. Can we agree about the potential for the future and just continue with now, knowing things may change?"

Stupid ears. Stop pinking.

Ravn is quiet for a moment or three; that cutter out there must be extremely interesting. Maybe it's the way the seagulls circle around it; cleaning nets, probably, providing lots of food for enterprising winged thieves.

After another quiet moment he finally says, "I did not see that coming. I thought -- I don't know what I thought. That you and Irving were hitting it off. Something. None of my business."

Another quiet moment. Words are hard, and more so for someone who is a) not really accustomed to discussing personal issues and b) blindsided. "I think I'd like that. Not falling into things head over heels because a bunch of macaques think it's funny. But maybe -- considering the idea. Seeing how things work out nice and quiet, see where it takes us along the way? I do have lots of baggage. A list of issues so long I could probably scare most women off just by handing them page one. I'm babbling slightly because I really did not think -- I mean, we could just start with friends and see what happens. Maybe you change your mind. Maybe you don't."

"I'm insisting we be friends first even though we have been friends, good lord. No macaques, no head-first bullshit, nothing, and I'm also insisting minds can change because time changes all things. If it works, then it does. If it doesn't, then there's no loss because there's the history of having the friendship and I'm content with this as well. This is not me asking about a date or anything. This is merely a discussion at a table...minus a table." Ariadne then gives the Dane one of those circumspect yet curious knit-brow looks.

"Una and I are friends, yes. I wasn't aware of anything more going on. Did she tell you something I don't know?" Might as well ask given he brought it up.

Ravn shakes his head. "She didn't. She's just seemed -- well, she really likes you from what I've seen. And given how nice she is, I guess I assumed things. I'm not good at this. I'm notoriously bad at this. This has been kind of the story of my life -- around the time it starts to dawn on me that a woman might be potentially interested, she's already gone through feeling rejected by me not noticing her interest, and moved on to someone else who has a few more clues, maybe."

He ventures a glance back, hands in blazer pockets, grey eyes reflecting the blue of the sea. "We are friends," the Dane circles back slightly. "And I would like to be more than friends. It just didn't occur to me that you might feel that way. But I'm also terrified of consequences, or of you realising what kind of mess you're getting into. Which is -- really not the romantic enthusiasm you deserve, I know and I apologise. You're beautiful, smart, and honestly? You can do a hell of a lot better. But if you want to -- well, take it one step at a time, then that would make me very happy."

Nodding, Ariadne shifts her weight from one foot to another to keep legs from cramping. Her arms haven't uncrossed still, but their obstinate tenseness has lessened. Her brows continue to furrow as she listens, squinting on and off.

"Glad to know I'm not missing something. Una and I are friends, yeah, she's made no mention or move otherwise. I respect what you're saying about consequences though, I do, which is why I brought up baggage." Unfurling her hand off her bicep again, she leaves the palm up as if offering her explanation in turn. "I know about the ghost of your ex. I know about how rough it's been for you. What I don't want happening here is it being thought this is about pity -- because it's sure as fuck NOT about pity." A pointed finger at Ravn is stern but not without empathy. "I will decide about doing better or whatever. It's about shared interests and wanting to know someone better. If it means staying friends, like I said, fine. One step at a time is also fine with me. Again, not asking after a date. Merely hearing what you have to say about it."

"No pity." Ravn offers a small, lopsided smile in return. "Do I come across that desperate, that I might think someone'd date me out of pity? Don't answer that, I probably won't like the answer."

He unpockets his own gloved hand and raises it to touch a fingertip to Ariadne's, in some strange E.T. phone home parody. "Dead ex. Neuropathy. Oblivious. And the whole gentry circus which is honestly a lot less romantic and a lot more bullshit than most people realise. You realise that one of the things I love the most about Gray Harbor is how fame and notoriety alike seems to fade here. Celebrity writers, influencers, they all fade from the public eye here. And so do I."

"Eh, you said don't answer it, so I won't." Trust the science major to be pragmatic about such a thing.

Boop. Fingertip touches fingertip and her momentarily-deepened frown lessens as Ariadne realizes it's just a connecting touch. Not just. She leaves her finger there at boop-level. A small smile softens her features as she glances up at his face again. So tall. Oy. "It's fine to fade into the wallpaper...to be a wallflower. I think the ones who mock it don't understand how important it is to listen sometimes....to not be the focus, but to let someone else be the focus. God...does it ever allow for unimpeded, unbiased observations." Says, yet again, the science major. "And even if I work in the public sector, I don't have any interest in tabloids and gossip. I'll listen to gossip, sure, for the sake of information and calculation, but otherwise...no fucks given. It ain't my business to butt into. And besides..."

Her gaze, having momentarily drifted to touching fingertips, rises to his face. "...you don't know about my baggage." Little shrug, openly admitting it.

"But I'd like to." Ravn's smile turns a little more lopsided yet. "I'm not one for the tabloids and I never have been. But yes -- that too is part of my life, at least when I go home."

He doesn't lower his hand, either. Small touches. They count. "I don't ask -- if people think I should know, or it will help them to tell, they will tell me. Maybe now I will ask. And you'll decide what you want to tell me, and what you don't. We live in Cowslip's Warren, after all. No one's in the habit of asking too many questions. Unless they're close enough to ask all the questions."

The smile wides a bit more. "And maybe we get to have that conversation without macaques."

Disbelief makes itself known on Ariadne's face in the quirk of her brows and uncertain cast to her smile. Someone wanting to know about baggage? Her gaze falls to their touching fingertips. Slowly, she uncurls her other fingers to offer up all five, just in case. It seems appropriate.

About that conversation: "Yep, just maybe...and fuck those furry little fuckers," comes the mutter about the macaques. Her smirk about them is still cold and vengeful, in a way; if she sees them again in a Dream, there will likely be a reaction. "And you really like your literary references." Glancing up at him again, the barista flicks her brows. "Cowslip's Warren was creepy as fuck. Honestly...rabbits dying and nobody talking about it. Uncomfortable. I refuse to be a rabbit." This said with a steely note, her golden-hazel eyes raptor-sharp for a passing second. "But...yeah," she sighs, "Baggage. I have it. I can...at least tell you, here and now, since we're standing in public and I have a run to finish out, that I have trouble trusting people. Think."

Placing emphasis on the word, she pauses before continuing soberly, "What do you really know about me? Other than what I do. That I have a dog. That I'm from Seattle. Anybody could learn that if they asked me at the café. Anything else is extrapolation and potentially full of errors. Everyone tells me everything. I don't return the favor." Her faint smile contains a knowing sadness.

"I like the literary references that saves me spending hours trying to describe something. Anyone who's read Watership Down knows exactly what I mean. That's what Gray Harbor becomes if we don't make like Fiver and reject it. When we stop asking where or how or what and just accept our fates. Write shitty poetry about being the rabbit of the winds. Worship art that no one understands but it's a way to kill one's thoughts." Ravn acknowledges this like of his, easily.

Then he carefully curls fingers around the other four on offer; a light touch, but more than he usually offers anyone. "I don't know much about you at all. And while I'd like to know the rest, it's your call what you want to tell me. Everyone's got a hold full of skeletons. Not every skeleton's ready to come out. You know how little I tend to tell people of my past. We are not our past. It only explains to others how we came to be where we are now. Trust is hard. I find it fairly easy to trust people in the 'look, we're all on the same team and we all want to survive' sense. And very hard to extend trust further than that."

It's instinct to squeeze back after those long fingers close about hers. Ariadne looks down at them as if they were still utterly foreign; in a way, they are, both proverbially and literally. Danish. A rare gift. She doesn't squeeze back. It might hurt.

Instead, she curls her own fingers in turn, no more pressure than a bird's foot upon a branch, as it were, and her eyes rise to his face again. "I think you've told me an awful lot about your past, bud," the barista replies with gentle correction further softened by her lingering smile. "I know about your standing in society. The name of your family home. About how you didn't get along with your parents. That you were a hooligan and used your powers young. How you've traveled and ended up here. You don't like guacamole. The reason you wear black. Many things." A little tilt of her head without losing their shared gaze.

"You don't know my favorite color. My favorite genre of music. What weather I hate the most. Whether or not I get along with my parents or my sister still. Whether or not I have a criminal record. If I can shoot a gun. You just accept what you know. It's appreciated. That there's no pressure to just...reveal it all...I'm grateful for that. Thank you, Ravn," she says quietly.

Ravn's eyes widen. Then he laughs softly. "Well, there goes my self-perception as silent and mysterious."

He chuckles again. "It's true. I don't usually mention the standing bit because I don't want to be measured by it. The rest -- skeletons on the lawn where people can see them and they can't be used against me. I do tend to keep things private, but maybe those are more thoughts than facts."

The Dane's gaze wanders to the cutter out there again; the circling sea gulls and boobies (the bird kind, sorry). "I'm not saying I don't want to know more about you. But I am saying that these are all things that you have no right to ask of another person. If they want to share -- they will. And maybe they won't, and then you need to respect that because it means they don't want to be judged by it. Just like I don't want to be judged for things I had no influence on or control over. We aren't our background. We are the sum of our actions."

With a half-hearted, friendly apology in the gesture, Ariadne shrugs. Indeed, not as mysterious as thought!

"I don't think I'd be judged for my favorite color," she muses, then following his gaze out towards the water again. Looks like a few black-headed gulls mixed into the bunch out there. It is spring migration, the marine biologist muses to herself. "But a criminal record, if I had one...yeah. Knowing how to use a gun. I guess even if I hated my family -- which I do not." Her other hand remains tucked to her ribs and partially under her arm for warmth. Still upraised, her light mirror-hold about Ravn's fingers in turn.

"Somebody could judge me about these, sure, but I'd shrug it off after a bit. Words are words. Actions influence reality. We decide what to do with the hand dealt to us, as the saying goes. I was telling Una that not too long ago," the barista shares, looking back at Ravn again. "That she has power and can use it how she sees fit. Let no one tell her otherwise. Be empowered by it. It was good to see her smile, y'know?" A thoughtful beat. "I hate grey mornings the most, by the way. It makes coffee extra imperative and I struggle to get up and going. It feels like an extra challenge somehow."

"I think she feels -- she said something, not so long ago. Made me think she feels like all she contributes is cookies. This is obviously not true. But I can relate somewhat -- in part because for such a long time I was the powerless one. You feel inferior to these powerful people who throw fireballs and make trees walk. And in waking life, the action types, the leaders. I've felt similar a lot -- I'll just be over here, bending a spoon. It's a brain weasel, obviously, but it's a nasty one. Our culture doesn't reward being the one who keeps everyone together. Feels a bit like -- well, I am reminded of a housewife being asked what she's got to be tired about, all she does is stay at home all day with the kids." Ravn glances down a moment; prolonged touch is unaccustomed, and he finds that it is soothing.

"I don't think Una realises it but she is the Oak Avenue crowd -- or well, at least the part of it with faeries and summer. And I'd like to help her feel less like she's just the baker. Without making her stop baking, obviously, because bloody hell, that woman can do a brownie."

"Can she ever bake a brownie. Remember the cake?" It was delicious cake and extremely well-decorated too. "I told her I'd get her a t-shirt that said 'kitchen cleric' on it, but your point is valid. I need to let her know it's in celebration of her skills, not her place. She's not the only one who feels like the powerless one. I showed her what I could do and ended up flipping a spade point-down into the grass. Super scary," Ariadne notes sarcastically of the gardening implement flying willy-nilly. "And then she goes and makes a potted plant bloom. I certainly can't do this."

The barista's fingers riffle slightly in the grip and her smile deepens by a few degrees, as if to say look at that, eh?

"She also made me realize that I can...apparently talk to people...in their heads? Just talk. No mind reading. I'm...I still haven't tried it because it's...it seems invasive...? And startling." Her nose twists and by the cant of her chin, she appears tempted to look away from Ravn now. "Can you tell me anything about this?"

"I can tell you that I can't talk in someone's mind. But I know people who can. It's not as uncommon here as you think. And with permission from someone like me without that power, you can read my silent answers too. Rosencrantz will be able to tell you how to do this. He's not the only one who can, either -- it's a common talent." Ravn smiles lightly. "Most people seem to have a mix of power. Mine is all moving, space folding, though, nothing else."

He hitches a shoulder lightly, without pulling his hand back. "You realise that at the right angle, you can behead somebody with a spade? It's not so much that we are powerless. It's more that people like you and me -- and Irving, it seems -- come into this town with no idea of what we're capable of, what the limits are. People like Brennon who grew up here with the full textbook make us feel impotent. But we're not -- we're ignorant, and that is something we can resolve. We should sneak up on Irving's baked goods and do some practising together, maybe. Heaven knows I have a lot to learn too."

Dubiousness colors her features. Behead someone with a spade? It seems too...finessed to Ariadne when she thinks of vectors, speed, all the variables and weighs them against her self-perceived level of talent. Still: "Twist my arm for delicious baked goods and figuring more of this weirdness out. We talked about that too, me and Una, about wanting a textbook and how not having one is such a royal pain in the ass. That we're glad for the support system around here while we flail in learning what can be done. Yeah...I'll see about talking to Itzhak too," she then sighs. It's not put-out, merely the exhale of someone attempting to get ducks in a row, as it were.

"I'm actually glad to hear that a lot of people around here can do it. I don't feel...weird and too singular. But the fact that I've also not sensed it or seen it before -- or maybe I have, I wouldn't know, I guess -- it makes me think people are actually more respecting of personal...mental space, I'll call it, than I would have guessed. There's my pessimistic streak." A shake of head at herself and finally, she does look away, down to one side and out towards the waters again. A gentlest squeeze of her fingers in his. "I'm learning to trust, I am," comes the quiet addition as she glances back at Ravn.

"Let me know when you figure it out, I could stand to learn too." Ravn offers a small, wry smile back. "So apparently I talk a lot more about myself than I realised. I'm not good with trusting people. I like people, but I've learned to not depend on them. If you don't need others, the time they give you becomes a gift, not an obligation."

He squeezes back, just as gently; a man of feather light touches, this one. "I think most of us clock very early on that if we don't respect boundaries, we're going to do even worse to each other than the dolorphages. And that what goes around comes around. Also, someone told me once you can't read minds. You can project, and receive what others project to you. So theoretically, if I let you into my mind, you'd be able to tell me things and pick up my emotional responses. But I don't think you'd get words from me, because I have no such power of my own."

Ravn's little smile is echoed. From across the waters comes the horn of a boat. It makes the barista look out of idle curiosity; she's unable to identify which boat, but it does mean turning in place. Without losing the contact of unwrapped fingers, her arm is unconsciously dropped to hang more neutrally now.

"That's...I mean, it's a big relief to hear, that there's no mind reading. That would be truly invasive." Back Ariadne's attention returns to his face. "Una and I wondered about setting up the equivalence of a 'do not disturb' auto...response in your mind -- proverbial you. Probably another question for Itzhak. Like how you can set it on your phone and when a text comes up, you don't have to reply immediately to it because of the auto-reply in turn. More of a privacy barrier yet. I really hope no one pulls a 3am sudden shout in my head because I...can't imagine doing anything polite about it. I like sleeping," she laughs, mostly at herself. "But...I heard you right? Even if I can talk at you in your head, because you don't have that power, you can't form words back?"

"A telepathic autoresponder." Ravn chuckles. It makes sense. It makes disturbing amounts of sense. The number you're trying to reach is presently sleeping, please leave a short emotion after the snore.

Then he nods. "That's how I understand it. In one of my first Dreams we were mermen -- and because we were underwater, talking wasn't really an option. The others who were there could talk in each other's minds. And they could talk to me, but I could not answer. I imagine you can pick up emotions still, so that's something. Just have to keep it to very yes-no things. Feels good, feels bad. Want, do not want."

Another little smile. "We really should get together with Irving, the others. Just get in the habit of practise sessions. Swap information and tricks. Networking, Gray Harbor style."

Beat. "Although all things considered, I'd also like to spend some time with you, just you and me."

"Of course." To what? The possibility of habitual practice sessions? Paired sessions with the Dane? Apparently both. Ariadne sighs again, seeming far more settled than when she'd paused her run and cooled down to have this conversation with Ravn in the first place. "Want to start with group sessions with Una? Like I said, I can't do the whole growing plants thing she does, but there's the mental communication stuff. You could work on fine-tuning these emotions? The yes and no and do-not-want stuff? I mean, this is all I can do right now."

Her nose scrunches as she looks up into his face. Lines appear around the corners of her eyes.

And then, like some weebly-wobbly kitten flailing around for a toy and half-snagging it only to tumble off the couch comes the mental missive: Hi how ARE YOU is this WORKING can you HEAR ME NO --

The power cuts off as she seems to retract it all away quickly with another little wince. "...if it was loud, sorry, I don't know how to do the volume yet."

Ravn startles; of course he does, suddenly there's the equivalent of a stumpy-tailed horror flopping into his mental space on three feet and where does the fourth go, bump, thud, meow. Then he smiles lopsidedly and simply feels, acknowledgement.

And because he is uncertain as to whether Ariadne is actually picking it up he says aloud, "I heard that. And it's amazing. Think about it. A month ago you were desperately trying to work out how the invisible strings on a plush pig worked. Now you are talking in my mind. I would love to practise with you both. I like Irving. Although, to Dr Brennon's apparent disappointment, not that way."

Ariadne does pink at her ears and yes, it's visible. The praise hits her in a soft spot with more vengeance than she would have expected and there's a roll of eyes off to one side as she attempts to accept it with grace. It's instinct to defer, to claim she's barely got any idea what she's doing and she'll get better, but thanks anyways. For now, she smiles up an apple-cheeked silent gratitude as she looks back at Ravn.

Look at those brows lift. "Oh really?" How to resist a line like that? "Apparent disappointment. Does she fancy herself a conductor of blind dates or something?" Left, right, the barista tilts her head. "I can see her being this. I don't mean that meanly, I don't, I can just see it. She's sweet to try it, at least, though I'm hoping she's talking to both parties before she attempts these things. Kind of awkward if not, even if it's well-meaning. Want me to text Una and see about getting together? You bring...something not whiskey, since we probably need to be sober to focus, and I'll bring...something not goulash because I swear, I can make other things than goulash," she laughs, this time brightly.

"She absolutely does. Also suggested I gun for Perdita now that she's on her own." Ravn laughs. "I think our good Doctor wants to see everyone pair up. Some people are like that, it gives them pleasure to arrange."

Then he nods and the smile turns a little lopsided. "I think that sounds like a plan. I am absolutely sure that I can bring interesting things that aren't alcoholic in nature. As for food? You know me, I'll eat anything. Or rather, I'll try hard to eat anything and leave most of it on my plate anyway, and feel kind of bad about it."

"Gun for Dita." How thoughtful, how amused, Ariadne seems at this echoed idea. She merely smiles to herself. "I think you're right, about someone feeling good for doing it. It is helping, in a way. But alright, I'll text Una and we'll see about getting together for a practice session sometime soon."

Her next thought dies on her tongue and she frowns, looking down to one side before back up at Ravn again. "Though...didn't you say one time that if there's too much use of these powers at one time or in one place, it draws attention...? How do we do this all...clandestine-like? Or...maybe it's not possible to hide. If there's any true malevolence to the Veil, it's going to take notice. Kind of like a campfire in the woods at night, I figure." Her shoulders slump in anticipated disappointment.

"It's both. Use your powers, it attracts attention. If you don't know how to use your powers, you're screwed when you inevitably draw a bad Dream and don't know how to use your powers. I think the wisest choice is to accept the increased risk, and then know how to deal." Ravn nods again; it's somewhat a damned if you do, damned if you don't kind of arrangement, and he's not going to pretend otherwise. "There are malevolent things in there. Even if you do nothing they will find you from time to time. I feel better tackling them head on, myself."

Then he smiles slightly; perhaps even makes an attempt to be reassuring, all things considered. "Dita's smoking hot. And I am extremely fond of her. But I don't do casual hook-ups, and I don't see us as a couple. This is definitely one of those don't break the friendship for a quick lay situations."

"It's true. Dita is smoking hot. No wonder the fire department is always involved." Barista smirky-grin, fond for her fellow friend in turn. "But yeah, better to save a friendship than break it all to hell. I am looking forward to the day, though, where I can break a Dream all to hell. Wait, no, that's your job. You break the Dream all to hell. I'll...fling...various objects like they're actually dangerous or...something. Mage Hand, think Mage Hand."

Chaos. Absolute chaos.

Another gentlest squeeze of his fingers. "But I'm going to need to go shower before this get-together and make food if Una's game for this at all. I'll include you in the text chain, yeah?"

A last squeeze back, and Ravn lets go. "That sounds like a plan. And we can work out something later in the week, you and I. Take Vagabond out and look for killer sea gulls, something. Nice and easy, nothing to work up to anxious about."

Talking to himself there, obviously. "I'll see you -- later in the day. You'll like Kinnie. That's not a girl or a cat, it's a Maltese brand of soda."