2022-04-17 - The Second Rule Is Bring Your Own Butter

The old Ellmore Packing Co. clam and salmon cannery building still sits on the old industrial harbour like an early 20th century relic in red brick and wood that has gone too many decades without a fresh paint job. It's nothing to look at from the outside; just a dilapidated old industrial building from an era when Gray Harbor was known as 'The Hellhole of the Pacific' and 'The Port of Missing Men' -- largely due to its amount of saloons, whorehouses, gambling establishments, and very high murder rate. This was the town that spawned William Gohl, after all.

Not so now. Gray Harbor is sleepy, tired, and badly in need of tourist money. Maybe somewhere in a probably quite hot afterlife, Billy the Ghoul is secretly pleased that the new Casino Island is bringing tourism back. The saloons and whorehouses will surely follow in the wake of the new gambling establishments, and the very high murder rate -- well, that never really changed, did it?

As the day draws near its end and dusk creeps across the old harbour, men in flannel shirts turn up. Denim jackets mingle with bomber jackets. An occasional GHPD logo on someone's back, a park ranger in his uniform jacket. Salt of the earth people. Locals. Men who like a cold beer and a friendly argument at the Pourhouse on Fridays, and a good bet.

How long as there been an illegal lobster fighting ring in Gray Harbor? As far back as anyone can recall. Run by that Danish guy, Abildgaard, as far back as anyone can recall. He must have taken it over at some point, though, because he's only been in town for a year and a half. Maybe whoever ran it before just was better at keeping his head down. No one really cares. It's just beer and fun, man. Officer Penn of the GHPD owns last year's champion and yeah, he's probably supposed to put an end to illegal gambling, but chill, man -- it's just boys and lobsters. Bring your own butter, we eat the losers.

Here's little Johnny Mackenzie with his Big Blue Murder Machine -- a large crayfish who has had flames carefully painted onto his carapace, and dulled knife blades attached to his claws. Here's Officer's Penn's Mac the Claw -- a large brown and gold lobster whose waving and threatening game is legend. Here's Susan Trejo's Miss Pinkett -- a large, white of the kind the locals call 'ghost lobsters' though they are very much fresh water crayfish and only caught in Gray Pond. Here's all this year's hopefuls; lobsters, crayfish, even a couple of crabs.

Ravn Abildgaard hangs around as dusk settles. He watches a couple of blokes set up a table; they're going to sell beer over the counter and moonshine under it, and no one's going to care (not Officer Penn, either). The Dane keeps his gloved hands deep in the pockets of his leather jacket with a bullet hole in one sleeve, a cigarette dangling from his lip; a year later, and he's still not decided whether all of this should make him laugh or cry. He's the only man in the room -- at least as of yet -- who knows for a fact that the lobster fighting tradition is just one (1) year old, and that it was all pulled out of the arse of a semi-benevolent Veil entity known as the Revisionist.

None of these people shine. But word's gotten out during the winter, about all of this. Ravn will not be surprised to see people like himself turning up -- if only to see what the fuss is all about. And the masquerade must go on -- and it will, no matter what he does about it. He's the lobster ring guy, whether he wants to be or not.

Salt of the earth people. Locals. And now-- one tall foreign Kiwi, in his usual sleeveless fleece, shorts and boat shoes, because that's pretty much how he rolls. Word gets around about these things, and as little of a fan of animal cruelty as he is, there's something... well, okay, there's something about this whole crustacean extravaganza. Who can resist?

Showing up alone doesn't bother Mikaere, who lacks that gene for social awkwardness. He doesn't know any of the men (or women), but it's easy enough to buy a beer, promise to make a stake, and wander. Ravn's familiarity is what leads him in that direction, in time, the Kiwi giving the Dane a crooked smile. "You weren't kidding," he says, with a low laugh. "This is quite a thing."

When you hang out at all the weird places that Gabby does, you're likely to pick up all kinds of gossip. Lobster fighting ring was a strange enough piece of gossip that it was worth looking into. What do you know, it wasn't a strange euphemism that she was too young and naive to understand, it's actual lobsters. Fighting.

The redhead seems to blend pretty well with the crowd in a pair of blue jeans, work boots, a tank top, and a flannel shirt unbuttoned over it. A lit cigarette dangles loosely from her fingertips as she scopes out the fighters with a curious look on her face. Every now and then it gets lifted for a drag, but mostly she seems preoccupied with the crowd and the crustaceans.

"No kidding."

Suddenly, an Ariadne on the other side of the tall Dane in question, erstwhile and reluctant manager of this crustacean circus. Manicured hands pull back a hood. She's in a deeply-hooded sweatshirt beneath a lighter flat-fabric vest, her hands deep into her pockets. With professional wading boots reaching her knees and jeans beneath them, the barista's deeply-auburn hair is up in a messy bun; it showcases the celestial underpaneling of dye ranging from cobalt-blue to iris-purple.

"And here I left my Dungeness out in the bay. Damn. Looks like it's no fighting for me tonight," she adds, glancing over at the gents with golden-hazel eyes lined in kohl and a cheeky grin on her face. Her attention otherwise travels the crowd, searching for familiar faces. An upnod for Gabby in greeting; hello, fellow siren-fighter.

Ravn nods his agreement with Mikaere, and then a greeting to all three of them. "I mean, I wish I was kidding. Now you get to watch me do absolutely nothing all evening. I can't even tell a crayfish from a lobster unless it's one of those big white ones like Miss Pinkett, and knowing what I know about those, I'm very worried that Miss Pinkett is even here. I'm going to be drinking beer, walking around, hands in pockets, and somehow, the story is going to be that I run this show."

He hitches a shoulder. "People have fun, though. And it's not horrible -- they decorate the lobsters like angry little war machines but all they actually do is sit there and posture at each other until the audience decides which one goes in the pot."

"At least they get eaten," is Mikaere's firm conclusion to all of this. It's less cruel, if it's for food. Even when you boil them alive. "Ravn. Ariadne." Did he end up getting Gabby's name at any point? It doesn't matter: Ariadne's nod draws his attention, and that means she gets a nod from him, too. The shiny people continue to congregate, then.

"What's the deal with the white ones? I've never seen that kind of thing before. Not something we have, back home."

Lots of red in that direction. Gabby's eyes pull up towards familiar faces, and hair. Spotting the upnod from Ariadne, Gabby offers a quick wave in return. The greeting from Ravn as well, then Mik is enough to cause her to drift over in that direction. The girl doesn't know a lot of people in town, might as well say hi to the ones that she does.

"You guys all came out to see the showdown, too, huh? You put money down on any of them? Got a favorite?"

"Actually, I'm pretty fond of Miss Pinkett, even if Big Blue Murder Machine has the best paint job this side of the strait," Ariadne replies to Gabby, then nodding in the direction of both crustaceans. "I'm not for betting though, not in this instance. I just want to see what everyone brings to the table. I'm more interested in the species." Marine biologist and all.

A glance over at Mikaere and Ravn. "The white ones are the ghost 'lobsters'." Air quotes. "They're large crayfish. Creepy little fuckers, if pretty. Ravn knows more about them than I do."

"I want to say that Mac the Claw is a pretty sure bet, but -- Miss Pinkett." Ravn glances in the direction of Susan Trejo -- a middle-aged woman in jeans and a flannel shirt, and a bit too much mascara. She seems to be having a great time talking to a couple of other guys; from their gestures, pre-fight razzing is happening.

He nods at Ariadne's comment. "They're a little strange. They're all females. Kind of large for crayfish, and white. They breed by parthogenesis, they're all clones of each other. But what creeps me out about them is that through careful negotiation, August Røn and Aidan Kinney were able to convince them to go live in Gray Pond instead of at the cemetery. I have a bad feeling about lobster champions who can negotiate."

Bayin has been keeping a low profile since returning to Gray Harbor. But hearing about a fighting tournament sparks a fire in him that he has not felt in a while. Yeah, it's taking place in the shadiest part of town. But that makes it authentic! He arrives onto the scene dressed like a Streets of Rage character made their way through a local thrift shop - open lumberjack style flannel over a white tank with shredded jeans and boots. Like Gabby he doesn't really know anyone here but he oddly does recognize Ariadne. At a big shindig like this, might as well start with what's familiar-ish.

He waves over at her. "Hey! Forest girl! Err, well I guess you're actually Coffee girl, huh? Remember me?" He walks up to her, adjusting one of the straps of his handwraps. "I didn't expect to see you here. I heard there was like, a tournament going on. Are you here to fight too?" He asks looking up and down at the rest of the gathering group. "I mean, look at this guy! He looks like he could put someone through a wall!" He says, playfully nudging Mikaere with an elbow, like he already knows him.

"I'll leave the betting to the experts," agrees Mikaere, easily enough. "But I'm not going to lie: I'm fascinated to see how this all goes down."

Ravn's explanation of the ghost lobster draws a rather more dubious expression from the Kiwi, but before he can comment on this-- or indeed, on anything else-- there's Bayin, and that elbow-nudge, which draws a raised eyebrow - and then a laugh. "Last time I checked," he says, in that accent that is definitely not local, but could be some variety of Australian/New Zealand/South African/possibly even British (unless a person is well versed in such things), "I'm not a lobster, but sure. Hello?"

"The crayfish negotiated?" Gabby takes another pull from the cigarette, making sure none of the smoke gets in anyone's face as her other hand tucks into her back pocket. "What'd they get out of the deal, do you know?" Her attention drifts back to Miss Pinkett. "I'd guess she's a shoe in after all that. Go ham, little lady." Bayin isn't a face she recognizes, whether he's a semi-famous face or not, but he still gets a head bob of greeting from the girl.

A nod towards Gabby. "Apparently, they negotiated. Nobody needs negotiating lobsters." Sage nod from the barista.

Being hailed out of the blue, however, has her turning to look towards the semi-familiar voice. "Oh. Hey, Forest Dude," she says by way of returned greeting to Bayin. "Coffee Lady works just fine, yes. I'm here out of idle curiosity, no betting or anything. I left my crab in the bay." It's turning into a joke, that line -- she'll say 'back pocket of her other pants' next.

Her glance at Mikaere is amused. "Are you going to fight Miss Pinkett then? Watch out for your fingers, she's pretty wicked."

"I was there, yeah. They literally negotiated. Røn, Kinney and some ghost in black and white who didn't want his remains eaten by hungry crayfish. Ended up using Kinney's truck to drive the whole contingent of lobsters down to Gray Pond. It was bloody ridiculous." Ravn can't help laugh softly at the memory. "So the deal was that they get to be left alone. I talked to Mrs Trejo about it, she says Miss Pinkett volunteered."

Pale, achromatic crayfish volunteering for a fighting ring sounds entirely normal and legit. Doesn't it? Of course it does. Somehow. This town.

The tall copper blond throws a curious glance at Bayin; the kind of haven't I seen your face before, somewhere look at that the man is likely more than a bit accustomed to. "Ravn Abildgaard. I don't think we're met? I'm the bloke in charge of this ridiculous venture." Voice clearly suggests, whether he wants to be or not. "Got a fighter of your own, or are you fighting?"

Bayin raises a brow in confusion at Mikaere and Ariadne, Then he takes another look at the venue. "Wait. I thought this was a fighting tournament. I figured we were the Gray Harbor Lobsters. And we're supposed to be fighting like, our rivals? Is that not what's going on? I think I got some wires crossed here." He says, fiddling with his hair a bit before shrugging it off. He offers a smirk in Ravn's direction, "You know what? If Miss Pinkett wants to throw down, I'll throw down. What's the prize for winning?" He asks with an almost childlike enthusiasm. "Like yeah, I used to do those PETA commercials, but Gordon Ramsay once told me that crabs can't feel pain. The screaming is just stream coming out."

He offers a hand for Ravn to shake. "We haven't, but I'm always looking for new friends! I'm Bayin, and why not make it interesting?"

"... I am definitely not consuming a crayfish that negotiated," decides Mikaere, whose expression suggests he's not quite entirely following this-- though at least he glimmers enough (more than enough) to find this less unusual than he could.

"I'm also not fighting them. Nope, no way. Miss Pinkett is going to have to live-- or die, I guess?-- without knowing whether she can best me. It's a sorry thing, but it's just the way it's going to have to be. Hi Bayin-- Mikaere Hastings."

"My money's still on Miss Pinkett," Gabby offers with another drag of her cigarette and an amused look. "I don't know what the prize is, but the lose gets cooked. So you'd better make sure you win. I'm not trying to because a cannibal tonight. That's not on my bucket list until much much later in life." It's delivered so flat and dry that it's a little too difficult to tell whether or not she's entirely kidding.

"Well, I run the lobster fighting -- theoretically," Ravn murmurs. "Theoretically because I don't do shit, and the Veil can't make me. But it won't surprise anyone that of course there are blokes getting drunk and then inspired by the whole fight club thing. Gonna have people making bets on people fighting people too, as soon as a bit more of McConnelly's moonshine has made its rounds. Apparently this town has a hundred years' long tradition for the kind of saloon fights where both blokes strip to the waist, tie their left wrists together, and fight. Last man standing wins."

He hitches a shoulder. "Can take the lumberjack out of the woods but not the woods out of the lumberjack, I suppose. Personally I put twenty on Miss Pinkett simply because anything that can indeed negotiate and volunteer also understands the words 'soup pot' and has every intention of not ending up in it."

A snort-laugh from the barista at Gabby's comment. Whether or not the ghost-speaker is serious or joking, the noise has slipped, no going back. Yes, no cannibalism, please, the sound seems to say.

"Ariadne Scullin," she then introduces herself with a friendly grin for Bayin. "Barista at Espresso Yourself, Coffee Lady, yep. If you want to risk your fingers, go ahead. I'm still betting on Miss Pinkett. Nobody should underestimate negotiating crustaceans." They'd all just agreed on this anyways, right?

She glances at Ravn now. "Wow, you actually bet? Alright. You're officially officially the ringmaster here now."

Bayin tosses a bit of sly eye Mikaere's way, "Aww c'mon. People eat dolphin and they're way smarter than !" He chuckles, "Nice to meet you too, Miki. You've got like the best accent ever by the way. I gotta learn how to do that. My Kiwi always ends up sounding Aussie."

Bayin nods at Gabby with a bit of faux stoicism on his face, "So either you get paid or you get a delicious lobster dinner. I see your game. Playing both sides to always come out on top." He wags a wary finger at her.

His own Glimmer is visible as a faint spark within him. It's almost negligible in energy level. But as he prepares mentally for the possibility of a lobster battle, something happens. Those sensitive notice it begin to 'vibrate' and releases the faintest bit of orange light, almost like a popcorn kernel preparing to explode. But it's not hot enough.

"Alright then, put me in up against her. I'll wreck as many lobsters as it takes to feed those orphans!... The lobsters are going to feed orphans right?" He blinks, "Usually these kinds of things are done for charity."

A wry grin is subtly offered in Ariadne's direction before it's hidden behind Gabby's palm as her hand comes up to partially cover her face with another draw from that cigarette. It's down towards the end of it's life, now. "Oh, uh, Gabby." Her name was never offered before now, but now they have it. No last name is offered, though. That's not really a habit she seems to be in.

"Lots of people use vaseline to make the punches roll off the facemore easily. But, you might as well start preparing yourself now and just go ahead and use butter. Just smear it right on those cheeks," Gabby offers playfully. The question of orphans comes up, and she points the now mostly filter at Bayin. "Technically? At least one orphan. Does that help?"

"People should definitely not eat dolphins," is Mikaere's opinion on this subject. The bland expression he aims at Bayin may have something to do with the nickname-- that's even worse than 'Mik'!-- but it softens, too, when his accent is correctly identified. "It's all in the vowels. Fush and chups. And so on. You... do accents?"

He's noticed that flux in Bayin's power, yes. Not enough to be wary; enough, at least, to be watchful. "I think this one is more for casual betting than charity, as far as I'm aware." A glance around to confirm. "Though there was talk about a run in heels for charity... there's always that option."

"I'd love for this to be for charity," Ravn murmurs. "Unfortunately, I don't really get a say. I get a cut of the profits, and that goes to the community centre, at least -- through a couple of hoops which we politely shall refrain from identifying as money laundering."

Then he whistles and waves at the lady in the flannel shirt with the cat carrier. She looks up, quirks an eyebrow, and walks over. "Got a fight for me, hoss?"

"Not quite," Ravn says and then laughs softly. "Well, maybe. People, Mrs Trejo and Miss Pinkett. Bayin, was it? This is who you'll fight -- if you can convince Miss Pinkett."

"Fight a human?" Mrs Trejo looks Bayin up and down. "Do we have to eat him when he loses?"

"I think that part is optional," Ravn murmurs.

The cat carrier's front opens. And out pokes the -- face, for a value of that word -- of a large, white crayfish. Antennae wiggle. Bayin is studied.

"There are, in fact, plans brewing for a charity run in heels. Can confirm," the barista shares as she scans the shiny group having clumped in one corner of the area. Birds of a feather and all.

She watches in amused silence as Mrs. Trejo brings over Miss Pinkett and then...rather absurdly...makes a little squeak of delight at seeing the antennae of the ghost lobster move about. "God, you're cute as hell, lookit you," coos the marine biologist. She even bends with hands on her thighs to better look at the creature in the cat carrier.

"Do I do accents? Does the shore fill up with blokes when the tides are choice, mate?" Bayin replies to Mikaere in a Kiwi accent that appears to be mirroring his own. Although it rapidly devolves into a messed up cockney/australian mashup, "I think I'll avoid the race. Knowin' me, I'd be the dumb bint in every horror picture who snaps her stilletto and then ends up slashed." He frowns and drops his accent, "See what I mean? I had it for like, one sec there."

Bayin rolls his eyes at Gabby's butter comment, "You're saying you want to get me all oiled up? If you wanna do the honors, I won't stop you." He shrugs when she mentions the orphan status. "Well, that's good enough for me. The orphan girl needs feeding and every basketball and break dancing movie I've ever seen starts at a community center."

He nods at Ravn and says with a wink, "Yup. And no worries, I know all about how sometimes money needs a bit of cleaning." He walks over to the cat carrier and bows before Mrs. Trejo. "Hey there. I'm gonna be killing your pet and feeding it to you today. But it's for the orphans. I hope you understand." He strikes a battle-like stance a good distance away - being wary enough to respect his opponent. And he gestures for the Lobster to approach him. "Nothing personal Miss Pinkett. But it's you or me. What do you say? You want to fight to the death with honor? Or will we have to drag you screaming back to hell?" He says, taking on dramatic tone as he initiates his staredown with the crustacean.

"Mrs Trejo," greets Mikaere, all warm, easy charm. He's probably not even trying, specifically, to be charming: it just happens.

At least the Kiwi seems more amused than offended at Bayin's attempt at his accent, which is, all things told, not too bad-- at least to begin with.

"My money's on Miss Pinkett-- sorry Bayin. It sounds like a good fight, though."

Gabby stares at Bayin for a moment before her face finally cracks into a grin. "If I had butter on my right now, I would so smear it all over your face. But that would make a mess in my bag. But now I have to start carrying butter. Damn." Her tongue clicks. She watches him and Miss Pinkett for a moment, before leaning in towards the others. "I'm going to go put money on the crayfish before it's too late. Catch y'all later." The cherry of the cigarette is put out against the bottom of her shoe, but she keeps a hold of the filter for the moment until she can find a proper place to dump it.

Into the warehouse stomps one Jules Black, looking a bit worse for wear (the stomping probably doesn’t help) but nevertheless shouldering her way up to Ravn, once she’s paused to scan for him and picked him out among all the flannel. “Hey. Ravn. You’re in charge of this right?” Make way, it’s a black-haired woman who looks rather pissed. “These,” she says accusingly, “are invasive species.”

Miss Pinkett actually appears to -- deliberate. It -- she -- shoots her owner a dubious look. How can you tell that a crayfish's expression is dubious? That's a very good question. We're glad you asked. Any other questions?

"You realise my girl is going to make you rip your own face off and stuff it up some orifice you're not presently using?" Mrs Trejo tells Bayin, quite pleasantly. "She's just four pounds but she's fierce."

The crayfish -- ghost lobster -- seems to nod. It -- she -- looks at Bayin. She raises a claw. She does the Matrix bring it beckon, Morpheus style.

Ravn on the other hand looks startled; probably because sudden Jules. He glances down at the white crayfish and says, "Well, I'm in charge though not by choice. I don't actually know whether ghost lobsters are considered invasive -- they are local. They just don't occur outside of Gray Pond."

"Smol but fierce," Ariadne quotes of a movie in a Russian accent. She's still sort of wiggling a finger at Miss Pinkett while the crustacean's owner trash-talks back at Bayin. Ooh, lookit it do the little claw wave thing! A dominance display! So fierce!

"Oh, hey Jules." She's in time to greet the newcomer before she straightens in mild surprise. A glance over at Mikaere and then at Bayin. "I'm with him," she says, thumbing at the Kiwi. "Money's on the ghost lobster. She's got actual brains behind those little antennae. I'd be straight-up nervous fighting her."

Bayin watches the lobster's expression change, his own eyes narrowing as she finally agrees to the battle. He watches her every movement as if she might suddenly snap faster than the human eye can perceive.

"I understand, Miki. Look at her. She's a natural born killer." He says, eyeing her warily. He nods at Mrs. Trejo's boasts, "Four pounds is enough to feed a lot of people."

Bayin chuckles as he decides to take the Lobster's invitation for the first strike and he charges across the ground, leaping into the air and bringing both of his fists together downwards into a hammer strike aimed at the lobster. "You fool! I'm trained in Crab style! I know all your moves!"

Mikaere's attention is captured away from Miss Pinkett-the-ghost-lobster by the arrival of Jules, the very much not-a-lobster. She's easily identifiable for her racial and cultural identity, and the Kiwi, though he does not immediately comment on it, seems interested, at least, in what she has to say.

On the other hand? There's Bayin, and... well. How can a man look away, really? "Good luck?" he offers the other man, though his nod is for the ghost lobster in question.

Get him.

“Did some idiot set them free there?” This is not the face of someone who is easily going to cede ground. Jules would make one mean fighting lobster. A tilt of her chin for Ariadne, but she’s on a roll here (a lobster roll) and it’s no time to stop and say hi. “The water isn’t warm enough for lobster here. It won’t be until, like, 2040 thanks to climate change, so they pretty much only show up in the wild due to idiots.” Implication: someone in this warehouse is an idiot.

Sudden martial artist coming down hard and fast. It's a good thing that poor crayfish has a carapace -- and there is no doubt whatsoever that that hurt. If fists were sharp, that'd be blow to crack a shell. Lucky Miss Pinkett -- Bayin does not have pincers the way she does.

Miss Pinkett has something else, though -- and maybe this is the secret to why this ghost lobster is the up and coming champion this year. Miss Pinkett looks up at her assailant. And somehow, despair emanates from the little sea creature (lake creature, technically). Grief. Guilt. Hurting a poor, innocent, defenceless creature whose only crime is to exist and not be a nice shade of blue like the real crayfish? This poor little miserable freak of nature who never harmed a soul? Who isn't even worth eating? Doomed to a life in the mud in the shallows of Gray Pond, feeding off dead ducks and the bread that little old ladies throw at them? A creature so miserable that even living in a cat carrier and being paraded around as a fighting toy was better?

HOW CAN YOU?

There's a crack as Bayin smashes the lobster. And suddenly, its like her feelings pour directly out of her soul and into his. Bayin gasps in shock and awe as he looks down at his hands. "Oh...no. What have I done? I've harmed one of nature's most innocent creatures. A humble bottom feeder who's done no wrong, and now I've cracker her carapace..." Tears begin to well up in Bayin's eyes and his voices cracks and chokes up. as he walks over to her and picks her up, cradling her gently "I'm so sorry, Miss Pinkett. Can you ever forgive me?" He sniffles and a pair of tears far from his face down onto the wounded lobster.

And to those attuned to that sort of thing, Bayin's inner glimmer suddenly POPS with a loud snap, sending bursts of spectral light almost light tiny solar flares from him. The tears now glow as they work to knit the lobster's wounded shell back together.

Mikaere can't help the wince that follows Bayin's attack on Miss Pinkett, but it's what happens afterwards that really grabs his attention: Bayin glows, and Mikaere glows himself far too much to miss that.

"Ah, fuck me," he says, taking half a step backwards.

“The fuck?” Jules hasn’t been paying attention to the action in the ring, but she is now. She turns to look, eyes wide. Bayin’s sudden coming into a new kind of being pales beside Miss Pinkett’s outpouring of emotional manipulation. Of course Jules, already attuned to the life of seas and streams, takes the side of the lobster. “Look, what are you even doing, disrespecting the poor creature like that?” Her questioning has turned from Ravn to one and all. “Can’t you see how you’re torturing it?”

"The ghost lobsters are crayfish, technically." Ravn nods at Jules. "The regular lobsters -- I have no idea. I mean, I don't know shit about crustaceans. If you tell me they're not native to North Bay, I believe you. And I want to ask a couple of blokes where they got theirs."

He pauses. And then waves at a tall man in a GHPD jacket. "Hey, Penn! Where did you get Mac the Claw?"

"Seattle," the man returns, unbothered. "Bought him off a deli." The big, golden-brown lobster next to him is definitely a lobster -- not a crayfish of any kind. It has a screwdriver duct taped to each pincer. Another, smaller blue crayfish sits across from it, and honestly looks quite terrified. That one is probably a candidate for the pot in a moment.

Ravn drags a gloved hand down over his face. "The sad thing is, for this? That made perfect sense."

And here's Miss Pinkett, looking as smug as only a faceless crustacean can, while her carapace knits itself together, somehow, under Bayin's hands.

"Told you," says Mrs Trejo, equally smug. "So are we eating him? He's a mouthful to be sure, but I think I'll settle for a victory kiss. You owe me, young man."

Ariadne winces. Wow. It did escalate to the point of actual sparring. With a ghost lobster. She's dubiously impressed --

-- and becomes more dubiously impressed when the lobster appears to influence Bayin on a guilt trip, round-flight tickets and all. She glances between Mikaere and Jules, then to Ravn explaining where on earth Mac the Claw came from.

Mrs. Trejo makes her blurt-cough though. "I mean." Hand gesturing, just a little awkward, shrug.

Bayin suddenly snaps back to reality and begins to control his crying, wiping his face on his sleeve. "Wha-? He looks around wildly before setting his gaze on Mrs. Trejo. "You're not worthy of my love and you're definitely not worthy of Miss Pinketts'!" He says, throwing his head upwards in a huffy manner. "She deserves better than this. Which is why I'm returning her to the drink! Come, Mrs. Pinkett! Freedom awaits! I am your Underwater Railroad!" It's hard to tell if his brain is still scrambled from the psi-lobster or if he's just naturally like that. Probably a little of both. He dashes for the door, holding the lobster in arms still. He stops for a brief moment in front of Ravn, and the rest of the group, "Hey guys. Sorry about the feast, but it turns out Gordon Ramsay was wrong. When lobsters scream, it really is screaming!" And with that, he takes off running toward the river to go toss the invasive crayfish back in.

Penn earns himself a glower from Jules. “Just be sure to eat him when you’re done,” she calls over to him. At least Ravn’s taking her seriously. Her tone is more moderate when she turns back to him to explain. “Only signal crayfish are native, so unless this is a new species, it’s invasive, and that’s seriously a big problem for the ecosystem—not to mention the economies related to the waterways. Like salmon fishing.” This is pointed, like Ravn should know what she’s getting at. “We should check this out with Fish and Wildlife.”

Then, “What the— oh hell no!” And here’s Jules, taking off after Bayin with every intent to tackle him and stop this little revolution.

Mikaere--

Mikaere--

Nope. The tall Kiwi throws his arms up in utter bewilderment. Between Bayin running off with the ghost lobster, and Jules following, and--

"Fuck me. I don't even-- fuck me."

Mrs Trejo blinks. She opens her mouth. She watches her ghost lobster fighting champion disappear. "Well, if Miss Pinkett wanted, she could drive that boy like a cheap truck," she reasons. "Maybe she just wants to go for a swim." On the whole, the champion's owner doesn't look very worried.

Ravn does. But that's probably because he knows Jules. And more importantly, he knows Jules' temper.

"Everything okay?" asks Officer Penn, owner of Mac the Claw. The blue crayfish is nowhere in sight now. Presumably, there's going to be gumbo cooking out back in no time because Francois DuChamp from the lumber mill is from Louisiana originally, and boy, can he do a gumbo.

"You say that too loudly, someone's going to take you up on it, Mikaere," the barista leans in to mutter to him not quite sotto-voce. "The rules around here appear to be generally, to cope, you drink or fuck." Wisdom of the not-too-much-newer for the newer, you're welcome. Granted, she's just as bewildered at Bayin suddenly absconding with the champion ghost lobster and Jules hauling ass after him. Sticking her hands back into her vest pocket, she nods to herself as she watches that fiasco continues at its growing distance.

"Is it?" So sorry, Ravn, Ariadne's looking at you, as the unfortunate ring manager, to answer the good officer's question. She's just here. Hanging out. Admiring the specimens of crustacea.

Bayin continues out running around the cannery, rounding about towards the river, carrying Miss Pinkett like a football, hell bent on liberating the lobster. He hears footsteps hurrying behind him and he looks behind, spotting Jules in pursuit. "Ahh! An orphan! And she looks hungry!" He prepares to hurl the lobster towards the water...

Now, those in the know may be aware that Jules was recently in the hospital and had minor surgery. It’s not as if she’s perfectly healthy and hale. Yet somehow, she puts on a burst of speed—no doubt adrenaline induced—and manages to pluck Miss Pinkett out of the air. She makes it look effortless, like she’s a pro football receiver. She even manages to catch the ghost lobster without herself hurtling into the river, teetering on the edge above it while she regains her balance.

Later, this will all hurt. But for now, she puffs out a breath and still has enough to yell, “You’re a fucking idiot!”

"Well, I keep trying!" Mikaere tells Ariadne, with a laugh: he's rather less quiet, and far more amused, except for the way those dark eyes keep flicking off towards the exit, the way Bayin left, and Jules followed. "No one's taken me up on it yet."

He doesn't have an answer for the officer., just a shrug of his shoulders.

Is anything okay? Ever?

Jules is evidently loud enough to be heard inside-- or maybe there's just a convenient dimming of noise inside, just at the right moment. It makes Mikaere laugh. It makes him grin.

"... At least today it's not me she's yelling at," Ravn murmurs.

"She yells a lot, does she?" Mrs Trejo has opinions on what it means when a woman yells at a man.

Ravn looks at her in horror. He resists the urge to yell back to Officer Penn that everything is absolutely not okay and just thumbs-ups instead. Everything is fine. It says so on the sign by the freeway.

Bayin scowls as Jules catches the lobster and then has the nerve to call him an idiot. It's not HIS fault she can't see Miss Pinkett's glory. "I'm an idiot? You just blocked a perfectly good shot!" He says, huffing up a bit. You don't have to cuss at me just because you're hangry! We can all see you're skinny, but does it have to be lobster? Are you such a spoiled primadonna that you can't just go to McDonalds like everyone else?" He asks , walking over to her and putting a hand on the lobster. "Just let the poor thing go, she's been through enough."

"Oooooooooooooooooooh."

Yes, it's exactly like they used to do in grade school when someone got called to the office over the intercoms. Ariadne can't help the little lip fret and lean-out, as if she might better see what happened with Jules suddenly raising her voice. There was no splash. Maybe the lobster didn't make it into the river after all?

"I'd be a terrible person if I started a bet on whether or not Bayin escapes unscathed, wouldn't I?" she asks in a tone begging someone to be the Wise Person and tell her this is, in fact, a bad idea.

"No," is Mikaere's answer. To be honest, he seems more and more impressed with-- presumably Jules? Probably Jules. Go Jules!

"My money's on the woman. Who is she?"

"Five bucks on the girl!"
"Five on the guy!"
"Five on the lobster!"

It's a gambling place. Do not suggest bets can be made and expect no takers.

"Jules," Ravn murmurs. "She's my neighbour on Oak Avenue. Quinault, and one hell of a temper. I like her but I sure as hell don't want to be the guy she's mad at, if you know what I mean."

Oh no he didn’t.

“Get out of my face before I make you move.” Jules tucks the lobster under her arm, football style, turning the opposite shoulder towards Bayin and putting her body between him and Miss Pinkett. Her face darkens with anger as she looks up at Bayin. He’s taller, but she’s not intimidated. “Who the hell do you think you are? Back off. You get one warning.”

Bayin puts his hands up in a 'don't shoot' gesture. "Relax. I'm not gonna fight you, but I can't let you put that lobster to boil. Not after all she's been through. Look, what if I take her home and put her in a tank, that way she doesn't have to die and you don't have to go all Carrie on everyone okay? I mean, is it really her fault she's invasive? She never asked to come here."

Della, emerging from around the corner: those sunglasses just don't hide her laughter. (Or how her phone's up.)

"Jules," murmurs Mikaere. "Oh-- right next to you, two doors down from me? Quinault."

There's such temptation to wander outside and see what's going on, but Mikaere is sensible, and stays where he is. That doesn't mean he's not listening.

“What makes you think I want to eat her?” Jules looks mildly aghast. This is Miss Pinkett, after all. “I was going to put her back in the pond. Not the river. At least until I can check with Fish and Wildlife to see if we need to set up traps to remove the crayfish.” Now she’ll face Bayin properly, and after a long, narrow-eyed look, she nods. “Fine. Keep her in a tank, and don’t release her. You obviously have no clue what you’re doing.”

"Yeah, money on Jules," comments Ariadne, leaning out a little more now to observe the conversation -- nay, confrontation. She's about as amused as Miss Pinkett, no doubt.

Sudden laughter makes the barista straighten. "...oh my god," she then laughs behind her hands. Oh dear. Time to check social media within the next day or so. "Ravn, I think that's Della." Observe, the not-smile worn by the redhead. Not smiling. Nope. Not at all. Only in the eyes. Glitter. Glitter dicks, sir.

"Here's to hoping they resolve it peacefully," Ravn murmurs, much to the consternation of several people around them who absolutely hope for the opposite, blood thirsty buggers that they are.

Something in Mikaere's voice causes him to glance at the man and then say softly, "Handle with care, mate, she's got claws." Don't go pick a stupid fight with Jules if you'd like to pick fights again, ever.

Bayin blinks, "Oh? I thought you were with the crowd. Everyone else is here to eat." He shrugs, "No... I don't think that will be necessary. I think we might have been on the same page the whole time and just didn't realize it." He shakes his head and its like the lobster's spell over him is slowly wearing off. "I'm sorry, I think I might actually be allergic to shellfish. Something kinda came over me in there." He backs away from her a bit and lets her have control of Miss Pinkett. "Listen, I should go. I think I've made enough of a splash for the day. But I have a feeling I'll see you again, so like, try to be less scary in the future."

Della, listening? Yes. So much yes. "Witness," she calls out cheerily.

Is that a lift of Mikaere's brows, answering Ravn? The quirk of a smile? Maybe a little. "I'm only interested in hearing what she has to say," is easy enough, more or less the truth. "But duly warned. I don't want those claws aimed on me, that's for certain."

There don't seem to be sounds of a fight, but Mikaere's still watching, just in case.

“Try not to tell me what to do,” Jules counters. “That’s hella close to telling me I should smile more.” No bloodshed, not today. Sorry, spectators. But Jules is returning victorious with Miss Pinkett, so someone’s winning some money.

"Nah, no early deaths. We have enough of those around here," Ariadne commentates in a brief sparkle of dark humor. Thanks, Grey Harbor. It does sound, however, as if the general fracas is coming to an end and she nods to herself. "Alright, who bet what?" she then calls out to the gathering of flannel wearers and their various crustacean fighters. "Nobody's dead."

Someone in the back makes a nearly inaudible sound, "Aw", into their beer.

"My dude." Sternly, Ariadne says this in the general direction of the sound, frowning. "Tsk."

"Nice job, Jules," Della calls from behind, aiming to catch up with her with phone in hand; "Think I got some of it on video, even. What is that, why do you have it, and what are you going to do with it?"

Mikaere, more focused on the triumphant return of Jules than on the ill-advised bets of the lobster-fighters, grins broadly. "Oh, well done," he tells Jules, in that not-quite-Australian accent of his. "I didn't actually bet," so maybe he is listening, casting a glance that includes Ariadne and those others around the room, "but I did say you were going to come back triumphant. She's ok?"

At least one observer slaps Jules on the back as she returns. Her wince is visible. Ow. “Della? When did you get here?” She doesn’t immediately answer the questions, instead looking for the crayfish’s owner, who was apparently a lot less concerned about Miss Pinkett’s absconding than Jules was. “Thanks, I think,” she tells Mikaere; apparently now, at the center of attention, she has the sense kick in that maybe she should be a little embarrassed. “She’s fine. I just didn’t want her to end up in the river. Especially if she’s got eggs. It’s a kind of crayfish from Gray Pond,” she now explains to Della. “They’re likely invasive, or at the very least have a limited habitat, and these waterways don’t do well with non-native species.”

Ariadne smiles to herself. A good decision, she thinks, all in all, returning Miss Pinkett either to the pond or to her owner, the better to fight claw-fully in the future.

"Ghost lobster, the city apparently calls them," the barista further explains to Della. "But yes, like Jules said, they're actually crayfish. Charming if spooky little shits." She reaches out and very gently twiddles a finger against one of those little antennae. So cute. Little buggy eyeballs. "They can stay in their pond. We don't need them anywhere else around here." Jules gets a small smile and nod. Indeed, good call.

"Not long ago. Not long enough ago," Della says, noting the wince, and while she doesn't go to step on the observer's foot, she does warn a quick and considerably darker, "Careful." Back to her housemate, with a pleasant-if-passing nod to Mikaere and -- "Ariadne! Good to see you about. ...So you rescued this chunk of the ocean, Jules, basically."

Mikaere's polite-enough smile answers Della's nod, as he inserts himself into the conversation between housemates. "Invasive species can really fuck a place up," he agrees. "Mikaere Hastings. We have the same problems back home-- New Zealand. Ravn said you were Quinault?"

It's not that he's not also paying attention to Della, but Jules has caught his attention. "I'd love to talk sometime. See where your cultural beliefs converge with mine."

The ridiculousness of it all is tempered by the others’ approval, and Jules smiles back at Ariadne before Mrs. Trejo descends to pluck her little champion lobster from Jules’ hands.

“I know, I probably popped something back open,” she tells Della. With both hands now free, she reaches to her side to assess the damage. “Hi. I’m Jules.” Which Mikaere probably knows by now. His introduction has her raising her eyebrows just a bit. “Uh, sure.” Let’s face it: Jules isn’t quite sure how to answer here.

Something about what Mikaere says, or how he says it, or his rugged presence -- or possibly his nose? she hasn't met Itzhak yet -- finally draws Della's own interest; she stays back with Jules, and behind those sunglasses she's attentive. And not bothering to hide a smile. And also not interrupting; at least, until she hears about the re-injury.

With a second look at her friend, she spreads her stance and elbows enough that other passersby wanting to congratulate Jules, or just wanting to get by, shouldn't bump into the other woman. "How bad is it?" Della questions, her voice low... but not as low as if his glow, and some of its implications, hadn't registered.

Mikaere's bright enough-- or is it, sharp enough?-- to register that something he's said has gone awry, and attempts to explain himself. "We'd say... ahurea tuakiri. It doesn't matter. I'm staying a few doors down, at 1 Oak? But I'd be interested. I've only really experienced mākutu-- the supernatural?-- in relation to Māoritanga."

No, that's not helping. Not helping at all.

He casts a quick glance at Della, and only now seems to realise what she's said. "I should let you go on. Unless you need help? Now's clearly not the time."

Mikaere’s bright too, in that Glimmer-presence sort of way, and Jules can’t help but notice it, especially when the unfamiliar words roll out. “Māori?” She repeats, because that’s the word she picks up on and knows, though her pronunciation’s off, Americanified. “I think—I get what you mean. Yeah. We can talk sometime.”

As for her injuries—she’s poking herself enough to grimace before she stops. “I’m okay,” she says, but she’d say that regardless. Unless she needed the hospital immediately. “It was just stupid of me to take off in a sprint. I, uh, got in a fight with a tree,” she adds for Mikaere’s benefit. “It fell on me.”

Still with the not interrupting, not with the social side. "I saw that face," Della says sternly. Only, since Jules has shared that much, "It was a remarkably feisty tree. Mikaere, you said? How'd you meet Ava? I'm Della, Jules' housemate." Which is to say, though she's still eyeing said housemate beyond a brief peek at him, not Jules' roommate. "Ice might be good."

"Māori," Mikaere agrees; not that it's really a question, is it? He's already said as much. "Good-- thanks." That smile blossoms, so bright and brilliant, just short of outright charming. "I think the comparison could be interesting."

"Mikaere, yes. Ava? We met at Espresso Yourself, and when she heard I was staying at the Murder Motel, she offered me a room, temporarily. I'm waiting for my boat to be repaired. Nice to meet you, Jules, Della. That sounds like some tree." He's sympathetic rather than surprised, and goes so far as to admit, "It does seem to be the way of this town. Of course, we have places like this back home, too, where the worlds sit too close. Do you want me to go and find you some ice? Or a beer? I can do that."

“It was a jackass tree is what it was,” mutters Jules, a still-bruised aside. She can’t help but smile back; Jules is admittedly susceptible to charming smiles, along with good suggestions. “Ice sounds amazing. And I wouldn’t say no to a beer.” She glances at Della, a bit of a question in her expression, beyond the one she outright asks, “What about you? I know you just got here. Beer and lobster is basically the order of the day, from what I can tell. Did you see the ring?”

"I did not see the ring! Nor have I tried the beer; but," Della must be somewhat reassured by Jules' reaction -- and certainly the Ava connection must be a point in Mikaere's favor -- for her eyes are amused on her housemate behind those sunglasses as she asks, so casually, "Should I go check out the ring now, before it's all over?"

"Beer and lobster: a winning combination," declares Mikaere. His head tilts, those dark eyes considering Della a moment. Has he read something in to that so-casual question?

"I'll track it down," he promises. "Ice and beer. I'll be back soon, I promise." It's an open promise, delivered to both women, and followed fairly prompt by his departure: beer. Beer and ice. And hopefully further conversation to follow.

Ravn has managed to find a beer somewhere; put out two arguments; reassure Mr Romaine that he doesn't have to offer little Pringles up for eating, it's okay to take your pet crayfish back home and release it in the garden pond, really; and now he's kind of catching his breath off to a side.

Mac the Claw is still winning. With Miss Pinkett gone, last year's champion's odds are suddenly looking great. Mean Blue Murder Machine tasted excellent.

Una was supposed to meet her housemates here, but here she is, and they're nowhere to be seen (or maybe they're elsewhere in the crowd, sure, too busy getting caught googling New Zealanders), and fine: it's fine. She's not a great mingler, but she can do it-- and she's spent enough time at the Pourhouse, these past months, to have been introduced to at least some of the guys.

She, too, has ended up with a beer in hand, and even if it's the watered down crap she usually avoids, it's fine: she raises it in toast to a losing lobster, and her weaves her way on through the crowd. You'd think she'd eventually find the people she's looking for, but in fact it's Ravn she stumbled upon first. "How's life as the orchestrator of all this?" she wants to know, acknowledging the Dane with another lift of her can.

Ravn shakes his head in a gesture of half amusement, half what is this even I can't. "It's crazy," he admits. "I mean, look at me. All I do is literally be here. I have flat out refused for a year now to actually do anything. The whole affair doesn't mind. Fights are arranged. Dates are set. Things are organised. And somehow, I get the credit. I don't do a damned thing. I guess I'm stuck with it."

Gabby has been here for a while, smoking, drinking a little. There's even been some chatting with people both alive and dead. Granted there's no telling the difference for her until she would get an odd look from others that usually meant that she was talking to open air. But at that point it's rude to just ditch the conversation. Especially since ghosts are often splendid conversationalists.

Somehow she's wound her way back in this direction with a glass of the moonshine in hand. "This really is all making me hungry."

"A dubious honour," concludes Una, with a quirked little smile. "Usually I'd say it's nice to get credit for something without having to do any of the hard work to get started, but--" Of all the things one could want credit for, maybe this is not the first choice of most people. Then again, why not? Everyone seems to be having a good time.

The redhead's in black jeans, bright purple boots, and a flannel shirt with iridescent thread woven through the purple stripes, her coat draped over her arm. She pauses in what she's about to add in order to acknowledge Gabby with a cheerful enough grin. "Invasive species or no-- Jules was ranting about how the water's too cold for the damn things at home, when she heard about this-- they're pretty tasty, right? Hi Gabby."

"There's some bloke selling corn dogs somewhere. We could try to find him." Ravn nods his agreement, amused. "And yeah -- the social aspect's neat enough. I do have a few issues with the whole idea of capturing wild animals for our amusement -- but I'll also cede that they aren't being abused more than lobsters are at a restaurant. Then we can argue over whether they die instantly when dropped in hot water. I'll admit I have no idea but I haven't ordered lobster at a restaurant since I heard about that dropping them in alive thing."

He shrugs. "They say it's just air escaping the carapace but. Alive. Hot water."

"Hi guys!" Gabby says with a grin as they greet her. Her cheeks have a hint of pink in them which probably means that there's been a fair amount of drinking in the time that she's been roaming around. Of course, the smile slowly begins to get replaced with a look of horror as she hears the conversation at hand. "Alive?" That came out as a tiny word, horrified. Gabby doesn't really look like the type who has ever had a lobster in a restaurant in her entire life. "They do that?! How would they die instantly? I can imagine it probably takes a little time to die from boiling. What the hell???" Her voice gets a little shrill. Yup, she's been traumatized.

Good going, Ravn! Her innocence!

Oh. Oh look. Una's quite out of her element when it comes to food-related trauma; Una, who probably hasn't ever cooked a lobster herself, but has almost certainly watched plenty of cooking shows, and has definitely eaten a lobster roll or two (or more).

"Uh," she says.

"Every chef I've talked to assures me that they die instantaneously from the shock. I'm still not eating lobster. You can't make me." That last bit was probably directed at the Revisionist, whose handiwork this entire setup is. Ravn shakes his head. "I can't. Just on the off chance. But at least lobsters and crayfish aren't really aware enough of their surroundings to make like cockerels. You toss two cockerels in a ring, they will try to find out who's boss. These? They mostly just lie there. No one takes all of this very seriously."

Except Mr Romaine who is rushing home to release his poor, defeated Pringles before anyone eats him. Or Susan Trejo who is going home tonight fully expecting to hear a scrape on the kitchen door one of these nights; one does not just throw Miss Pinkett back in the pond.

"Shock? Oh. Well, I guess that makes sense. But still, how would they even know that? That sounds like some human bullshit made up to make themselves feel better if you ask me. Poor lobsters. That sucks!" There's a little blinking from Gabby for a second. "I don't know what a cockerel is, but I like it because they sound like they're fierce. Also, it has the word cock in it. I can get behind that." Her drink lifts in a cheers gesture.

"A young male rooster," Una says promptly, bypassing further talk about what happens to lobsters to focus on that, even if she clearly likes the idea of cock fighting even less than lobster fighting, because, well, Ravn has a point. "Honestly, I'd prefer people just fight each other, if they really need to fight something. I don't like boxing or wrestling or whatever, but at least we know that people are consenting."

She swigs from her beer, and makes a face. No, it's really not her preferred kind of beer. "I do appreciate that this isn't taken seriously, at least. It's fine. It's even fun!"

Speaking of cockerels, Itzhak shows up, all too-tight jeans and swag. "Who's winning?" he says, swinging into the door with his violin case over his shoulder.

"To the best of my knowledge there's also some kind of human fight club thing going on somewhere." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "But given the Revisionist did not pin that on me, I'm staying the hell out of it. The less I know the better. Gray Harbor does have a tradition for some pretty violent entertainment, and who am I to tell people to knock it off? I like how this part -- the lobster fighting ring part -- at least has become kind of a little underground party. For a value of underground where it looks like Patrol Officer Penn is taking home the trophy. Again."

The Dane grins at Itzhak as he appears. "Officer Penn's Mac the Claw is the current champion. Miss Pinkett the ghost lobster was expected to win, but she got in a fight with a human. The bloke lost."

"Oh. I don't want to see chickens fight, either." Gabby's nose wrinkles up in distaste. "Why are people such dicks? Can't they fight their own battles? I fight my own battles. It's more fun that way." There's a sage nod at that, followed by another swig of moonshine. "Wait, there's a fight club here? How come I haven't heard about that in my snoopin' yet? The hell?" Itzhak gets an upnod of greeting before attention's back to Ravn. "Anyway you can point me vaguely towards who might know about fight club? The human one."

Una lifts her can of beer in greeting towards Itzhak. "Of course there is," is said between giggles. "This town, man. This town! I think I'll skip that one, though-- at least this feels community-friendly."

Beat. "Sometimes it does feel like this town never quite grew out of its wild west beginnings, huh. Hi, Itzhak."

Itzhak says nothing whatsoever about any human fight clubs. Instead he whoops, "Get it, Penn!" and swaps high fives with the officer. "I made three hundred bucks last month but now nobody will take my bets," he gripes cheerfully as he sets his case down and flips it open. Out comes his violin, a gorgeous instrument inlaid with pomegranates and a Star of David on the back. He sets to tuning, violin tucked under his chin. "'eyy yo!" In response to Una and Gabby.

"I honestly don't know anything about human fight club beyond that every now and then, somebody turns up looking a traffic accident and everyone else is all shush, hush, don't talk about it, but the next round is on me." Ravn laughs softly. "Knowing the audience, though -- my bet's on lumber mill workers and the harbour crew. There are a lot of old derelict places on the old industrian harbour."

Like this one. Literally. Abandoned old salmon cannery. Still smells like fish.

He glances at Itzhak with a lopsided grin. "Going to be playing for us? About time -- I've been telling people you perform at the piano lounge forever. Show us how it's done."

"Everyone knows the first rule of fight club is you don't talk about fight club," points out a voice that turns out to belong to Rhys, strolling up at just the right time to catch Gabby's request. "Second rule, too, for that matter," he adds cheerfully. He's definitely at the 'scale-model lumberjack' end of his appearance repertoire today, the beard neat but definite at present and the outfit right in the flannel/t-shirt/jeans/boots arena. The flannel's open and the t-shirt references a sci-fi book rather than being plain, but, y'know. All the same.

Ravn and Itzhak get the little upnod of 'hello, people I know!' with an extra little approving look for the violin, and Gabby and Una get a bright smile and offered hand. "Rhys Evans," he introduces himself. "Here to bet on lobsters and chew bubble gum?"

Gabby squints at Ravn, lips pursed and head bobbing. "Yes yes. That is enough to point me in the right direction at least. You're a peach!" The stuff about murdered lobsters and fighting cocks has been forgotten that easily it seems as she goes to leaning against Una's arm and offering her some of her very strong smelling glass. "Did you want some? It's very good? I've never had moonshine before, but effective is an excellent word for it."

Itzhak pulling out the violin has her head tilting. "Oooh, gonna play something crustaceany? Crustaceanish? Crustaceanary! Yes. That's the one."

Rhys hand is looked at for a moment. Why does everyone keep doing that? Itzhak did that, too. Just like with him, Gabby tries. Her hand goes in, and the shake is firm, but far too big and with way too much arm motion. But, it's an attempt. "Gabby. I don't have any gum, sorry."

"That's a gorgeous instrument," murmurs Una, who may not know much about music, but knows what counts as beautiful in her book: the dip of her chin confirms it.

Gabby's lean draws her attention away from the instrument, and a hesitant pause results. But-- well, why not? What's the worst that can happen? "You should probably not have any more," she suggests, lightly, taking the cup out of Gabby's hand so that she can try a tentative sip (and wince: UGH).

Now she has a beer can and a cup in her hands, which leaves her no hands free with which to greet Rhys, though he gets a quick glance, and then a knowing smile as she identifies that t-shirt; nicely played. "Una Irving," she offers by way of reply. "Mostly here to drink beer, actually, and marvel at the rest, but-- sure, fine. Hello."

Itzhak smiles winningly at Gabby. "I don't remember your name, but kinda yeah I am. Rhys, is that you, I hardly recognize you bro, it's like your whole outfit cost under four figures." Clocking the way Una is admiring his violin, he smiles at her too, a little more secretive, a little less showman, and tells her, "Her name is Rimon. It means 'pomegranate'." Just like the full color sleeve on his left arm.

Ravn reaches to pluck the moonshine cup from Una's fingers; pass that stuff to somebody whose refined whiskey palate will appreciate it (or, let's be honest, have nightmares about it for three weeks, that's the whole point). He tosses a grin Rhys' way. "So, when is lobster fighting going to be an official recognised event on the Casino Island? Poker tournaments, live concerts, crayfish betting."

Got to play the part the Revisionist assigned to him. Might as well. It's going to play out either way.

He sips the cup (ugggggh!) and hands it back to Gabby. And as an afterthought he adds, "I need to talk to you sometime, Evans, speaking of. Had a brush with some weird blokes wearing silver falcon rings, wondering if that's something you've seen out there on your glittering paradise island."

"Of course I should have more, I have to finish my glass. I bought two, I finish two. You don't let food or drink go to waste. Otherwise it's a-- waste." Obviously. Really, Gabby probably shouldn't have anymore, Una is correct. But she's walking and still coherent. The glass is shared with Una, eyes attentive as that sip is taken. The ugh-face gets a giggle. "Oh come on, it's not that bad! It has bite, but it's not that bad."

"Yeah, Ravn, you try it." Him too? "I'm saddened by both of you. Saddened and dismayed. Also, other words that mean sad." The cup is accepted back. "Gabby," Itzhak is reminded when he doesn't remember her name. "So, instruments are girls, too? The way cars and boats and motorcycles are? I'm learning so much today."

One brow lifts faintly at Gabby's version of a shake, but Rhys returns it with perhaps a bit more emphasis likewise than he otherwise would. It starts out as a decidedly businesslike shake, but apparently what the hell.

"I do," he replies to her apology, dips a hand into a pocket, comes up with, indeed, a pack of gum. Mint. A little shift of fingers at the base of it has one wrapped stick poking out a bit further than the rest, like a cigarette tapped partly from the pack; the grin suggests he's entirely aware of this resemblance. "Crustaceous?" is his offering for what kind of music, "But I'm kinda hoping for Vincenzo Shellini."

"Nice meeting you," sounds entirely sincere with the glance to both Gabby and Una. Itzhak gets a fft, however. "I'm not at work, I'm allowed to be comfy. Plus lobster spit never comes out of wool. Really. It's a crying shame. And shortly after we get the wagering rules hammered out, Abildgaard. 'Loser gets eaten' is delicious but hell on setting the odds." Not that this stops him betting on it here, mind. Weird blokes wearing silver falcon rings, though? A tilt of the head, considering. "Maybe. You've still got my number, right?"

"It's exactly that bad," Una tells Gabby, but at least she's grinning.

"'Rimon',"she repeats, thoughtful and apparently pleased. "Oh, that's lovely!" Eyes on Itzhak and his violin makes it very easy for Ravn to pluck that cup away from her, and though she lets out a little squeak of surprise, it's not as if she's sorry to lose it. Even weak-ass beer is better than crappy moonshine.

It's Ravn's mention of falcon rings that narrows her gaze, drawing a speculative glance that hovers between the Dane and Rhys, though the latter gets a somewhat shuttered look, edging on a frown.

"Strings are girls, I can't speak for any other sections. Gabby, right, I knew that." No he didn't, but does it stop him?

Itzhak shoots Ravn a sidelong look at the mention of blokes with falcon rings. It's fast, a mere flicker. He's otherwise engaged, his violin humming and singing as he draws his bow across the strings. She's getting proper admiration and Itzhak practically preens. "Fun fact, also means 'hand grenade.'"

He sets to fiddling in earnest, swinging right into a very nautical sounding song, bow poised perfectly in his fingers. First the intro, then he's singing.

There once was a ship that put to sea
The name of the ship was the Billy of Tea
The winds blew up, her bow dipped down
O blow, my bully boys, blow...

"Yeah, I know where you live. I'll come out and see you some day when I can't put off wearing a tie anymore." Ravn makes a face. He hates ties, so much. "We relaxed the loser gets eaten rule slightly tonight. First off, poor Mr Romain didn't want to kill his darling Pringles, and second, none of us really wanted a bite of the quite human guy who lost a fight to Miss Pinkett."

A booted foot taps; who can resist a sea shanty, least of all another musician? "I can't speak for the rest but my boat and my bike are girls. How'd I make jokes about Lola Bianca being my girlfriend otherwise?"

"You're back on your boat, right?" Rhys asks Ravn, "Just drop a text and walk down the pier to mine, I only require ties from visitors I don't like." A fleeting consideration, but whatever seems to have briefly amused him there doesn't make it to speech. Partly because of that look from Una. Hm. Could be for the terrible pun, but he's not about to apologise for that. Given the timing, though, he explains, "I manage the casino." Among other things, but let's stick to the relevant one.

The change to the rule gets a laugh. "Yeah, I saw. Weird fight, that last one. Won me a decent bit, though, so I'm not about to complain." He listens to the music with a very faint shift to the rhythm, mainly as a nod; maybe not a song he knows, though. "I guess I need to improve my Hebrew so I can start making pomegranate/grenade puns." 'cause that comes up all the time!

"Oh, the casino, huh." Una's response to Rhys is vague, though it comes with a very slow nod and an expression that is still-thoughtful.

'Hand grenade'? That earns a merry snort of laughter, albeit one that she covers beneath her hand as Itzhak begins to play. She's decidedly not musical, our Una, and so though there's a temptation to tap her foot along-- it tries, once or twice-- she refrains: there's nothing like missing the beat for embarrassment, particularly when the musician in question is good.

But her grin is broad; delighted, really.

"Strings are girls? I wonder how that came to be a thing?"

Oh, but then music starts, and Gabby is drunk. Things like that don't mix. Everything else is sort of lost in the swirl of music. She does exactly the kind of thing that you probably shouldn't with the remaining moonshine in her cup and chugs the rest of in back in a couple of swallows. The cup is given a couple of shakes to dry it out a bit before it's set nearby and wrapped with the flannel shirt she's now peeling off, leaving her in just the tank top and jeans. It was getting hot in the drunken red face anyway.

The sound of the violin and the singing washes over her as she starts to dance. It's natural, easy, and without a single care in the whole world.

"I mean, Kinney, Røn, and I have all been telling everyone with an interest in wildlife or crustaceans that the ghost lobsters taste awful and make crap fighters too, but what can you do." Ravn sighs. "Miss Pinkett wants to be a champion. Who am I to argue with a lobster that obviously has a competitive streak as wide as a barn."

And the ability to communicate its wishes. Maybe that one's better left for a conversation for shiny people only. There are only two rules about Lobster Fight Club and neither says anything about the combattants relying on supernatural abilities. Even the Revisionist probably did not predict self-aware, shiny mutant crayfish.

The Dane's eyebrows shoot up and then a lopsided smile claims his face. Dancing? Why not? If anything, this whole affair is taking seven mile strides towards the kind of tradition that will be marketed as the Gray Harbor Annual Crayfish Faire ten years from now. By which point, hopefully, he'll be off the hook.

"Wanting something and being willing to go get it'll get you most of the way anywhere," Rhys says with a more directed nod, apparently finding the idea of Highly Competitive Crayfish an entirely reasonable one. Still... yeah, probably better to keep the 'psychic' part of that out of things for now. Don't ask what he thinks happened in that 'fight'.

A faint wince for Gabby downing the rest of that drink -- yeah, he's tried the moonshine, thanks -- but he breaks into a grin when she goes with dancing. Doesn't jump in himself, but does clap along. A shanty almost demands it, right? That or a stomp, and that goes better seated.

Una opens her mouth to speak, but really, it just ends up hanging open: she's watching Gabby dance, and that's distracted her from whatever it was she was going to say anything. Her grin, though? It ends up being broad and bright-- and it gives her reason to whoop out a cheer, and applaud, because that does not require keeping to the beat, so why not?

"Next time, there should be an actual stage," she suggests. "And... I don't know, stalls. Cookies." It's always cookies with Una. "Less 'lobster fight club' and more 'look, what a charming traditional festival we have'. Tourist dollars."

Clearly, her mind works the same way Ravn's does (in this, if nothing else).

Clapping, dancing, music? It does start to draw a bit of a crowd. That's sort of the point of busking after all. The cup that's wrapped in the shirt has gotten a handful of donations already. Who doesn't love a good show? Especially one where the dancer is drunk and doesn't seem to mind pulling the crowd into it. Gabby grabs someone here and there, dancing with them for a few moments, then switching, then partnering people together to leave them dancing before bouncing back into the crowd to do it again.

She appears to be leaving a wake of other dancers in her wake.

"I'm for it," Ravn murmurs. "Anything that turns into 'tourist dollars' ends up too mundane for me to keep being tied to it." That last bit might not reach Rhys' ears -- or might somehow become generic grumbling on the way.

He does make certain to not accidentally get pulled into the freestyle conga. Music is great. Dancing is great. He likes participating one of the two. Hint: It's not dancing. It's still fun to watch though, and the Dane taps the rhythm with a booted foot. Shanties, they require participation -- if nothing more, then at least that much.

A side glance to Una. "So, if we are doing a run in heels for charity, does that mean we are making it into some kind of street food festival on the side? Because the way this is headed, Gray Harbor is about to have a lot going in the tourist season."

"Um," says Una, scrunching up her face as she tears her attention away from the dancers and the music to consider Ravn and his question. "Yes, yes I think we are. What charity is this for? We'll need to tie it all somehow, and make it a thing, which... that's going to mean going through city hall, isn't it? Official permits and such. I'll have to dig into it, but it can't be too difficult, right? And, of course,"

She turns her attention on Rhys, ever so sweetly. "I'm sure the casino will be happy to make a donation to such a good," as-yet-undecided, "cause."

"We could probably use more charming traditional festivals," Rhys agrees, "One this time of year wouldn't be bad. Balance the ancient traditional Autumn one we've had since year before last." That part might be a joke, albeit a fairly deadpan one, but he does look genuinely thoughtful about this overall idea. "Lobster Days." Did Ravn's mutter reach his ears? Did it get adjusted? Or did it just come off as the Danish aristo being a little snobby about being involved with 'touristy' things? WHO KNOWS. Rhys isn't giving any clear direct reaction.

"What charity's the run in heels supporting? Unemployed orthopaedists?" At least it's cheerful smartassery. And the first question's genuine, right about the same time Una's replying to Ravn. Smaller grin for that, brow arching as the attention's turned on him. "I dunno, pretty sure the orthopaedists I've met've been doing fine without a subsidy," he answers, and there's a clear and intentional switch to Professional, "but of course the Casino makes a point to support good local causes wherever possible." Faint smile remains, the regard of Una just short of a challenge, if still a cheerful-looking one. They can play if that's what she wants.

The busking continues on for a bit, as does the pulling people into dancing until it's taken on a mind of it's own. Eventually, Gabby grows tired and dances her way back towards a full cup. Strangely, despite a couple of drunks eying the cup, none of them seemed to be able to make a move towards it. Whenever they got too close towards it without trying to put something into it, it was almost like something was slapping their hand away. Like an overprotective something or other watching over it.

Gabby reaches down for the cup. "We good?" she murmurs with a grin to open air. The cup seems to wobble by itself for a second, but it's probably just her nudging the shirt wrapped around it, right? Cup and shirt are lifted as she takes slow steps back towards the others. Did she just fist-pound the air? Nah. The cup gets a shake. "Now that was fun. What are we talking about?"

Ravn cracks a small smirk at Rhys. "So, the ladies have decided we are all running in high hells. For charity. They haven't decided on which charity because the point here is that we'll all look ridiculous. They've got their priorities straight."

He extends the grin to Una. "There's multiple charities in town that could use some attention, whether it's HOPE, the women's shelter in progress, or something else. Hell, could make it a thing that charities apply for a share of. If the issue here is milking tourists, why not let everyone have a piece of the cake? Most of Evans' esteemed clientele out there on Glitter Island can afford it."

The Dane grins at Gabby. "Think you may just have started a tradition. Well done. Also, I have to ask: Are your insides lined with stainless steel?" Trust the whiskey snob to be amazed at anyone who can down two or more cups of Farmer Ray's Hooch.

"We'll do the inaugural high heel run in June," Una decides, her shoulders squared and her expression now both serious and determined: Una Irving, on the case. "For-- yes, we'll get the local charities to apply for a share of it, and that way everyone can feel like they're donating to a cause they care about. Not the unemployed orthopaedists," she adds, to Rhys, with only the faintest hint of a smile. "Which will make it very easy for you to sign up to support, I'm sure. The official lobster festival will, of course, end up being in April, right at the start of the tourist season."

'Event planner' is probably not the most obvious career path for Una, given 'socially awkward' is a not-unfair description of her, but she sounds determined, and also pleased.

"What's the autumn one? Welcome back, Gabby. We're planning street festivals, and high heel charity runs."

Rhys notices a lot of things. He notices people making their busking donations, he notices what the current 'fight' in the lobster schedule is, he notices the furtive look Mr. Tanner gives around just before doing something to his lobster Professor Pinches (and makes a brief mental note to investigate further and possibly adjust his wagers), but somehow he does not appear to notice the signs of Gabby's invisible assistant, or the woman's interactions with it. He's not the only one, on that front. Even the repelled drunks mostly just look confused and then swiftly realise they were on the way to get another drink.

Which isn't a half-bad idea, actually. Rhys continues not to have a beer and that's starting to just be a shame.

"How'd you do?" he asks Gabby on her return, and nods to Una's reply, "Street festivals and ancient traditions. Best kind." He's filing the suggested event timing away for later. "Well, they'll probably be in favour anyway. And don't worry, it's not that difficult to get plans like that through City Hall." Definitely not if you know the right people. "Harvest Masquerade," Rhys answers, "Sort of a Fall/Hallowe'en focus. Some of the shops downtown really get into it." He's not going to argue that plenty of the casino guests aren't great targets opportunities potential guests for these things. In fact, "Get things looking professional enough, I'm pretty sure I could arrange some interest from the esteemed clientele." Exactly how is now being mulled. "Keep me in the loop, I might have some thoughts."

"I've never been a part of a tradition before, much less started one. Go me! Here's hoping I remember in the morning," Gabby giggles. There's a little pat to her belly, head shaking. "Nope. Last I checked, which was never because gross, I am lined with people parts." Her face is even more red than when this whole thing started. "But let me tell you a secret," is offered in a voice that is probably intended to be more quiet than it's actually coming out. "Once you've spent a good while bunking in a Brooklyn alleys and drinking Jungle Juice out of a whino's trash can lid, this stuff ain't gonna kill you." There's another giggle.

"I'm gonna suffer tomorrow, though. Ooohboy." Rhys gets a grin when he asks how she is. "Starving! But totally not for lobster. Never for lobster ever probably. Now that she knows how they are cooked. "I should go find food. I'll probably be back. When that guy is done playin' tell him I owe him his part of the money. Gonna get food."

"I like that idea," Ravn says thoughtfully. "Run the whole thing through HOPE, encourage everyone to pitch in, everyone gets to support the charity of their choice. HOPE's gain will be the contacts we make, the networking would be pretty invaluable. A lot of our people might get to put some 'event planning' and similar on their C.V.'s right there."

He smiles and sips his beer. "Let's be honest. This town is like any other small provincial town. There are three ways to wrangle permissions to do whatever you want to do: Have the right name, the right size of bank account, and keep harping on the fact that anything we do draws in tourists, and tourists mean money. City Hall wants the same everyone else wants: To fleece the Ocean Shores folks and other wealthy yachters."

The Dane can't resist a smile at the parable about bunking in alleys. Yes. He's done his fair share of life on the street as well; and he's quite aware that no one not familiar with his personal history would believe it from looking at him. Prissy euro-hipster does not look like he ever had to bunk with three Puerto Rican guys for a week in the back of an old Sedan without an engine. (It was a cold week. He did not like it).

For Rhys, this time, a brilliant, beaming smile. Una says, "That's fabulous, thank you. I'll do that. I'm not imagining it'll be difficult with City Hall, no-- a bit of paperwork wrangling, and that'll be done."

The redhead pauses to take another sip of her drink (nope, the beer still sucks), watching Gabby go with a mild wince that she can't quite hide: that's not a great story. Not a great story.

"Running it through HOPE sounds ideal, yes. And giving people something for their resumes is perfect. Community-building, money-raising, and helping out individuals; who could object? Everyone wins, even the people whose money we... redistribute."

Clearly, everyone in this area under 5'6" has to be a redhead. It's some kind of hitherto unknown lobster-fight rule. The male specimen of the type looks amused by the mention being lined with people-parts, and maybe a touch less so at the secret. "There's enough alcohol in the 'shine it's probably gonna disinfect you anyway," Rhys says matter-of-factly; whether this is the case for Brooklyn Alley Jungle Juice, he can't speak to. He flashes her a grin in return for her own, and shakes his head a little. "Missing out," is his lobster opinion, "Hit Fried Fish though, their special's always good. And the pastelitos."

"You left out charm and a winning smile," he notes of Ravn's three ways, "Though knowing who to aim it at helps, too. If you run into any trouble, there's a couple people I could point you at. But I don't think you will." Una's beer may suck, but at least it exists. On the other hand, it doesn't not-suck enough to drag him away from the conversation for his own just yet. "I fully endorse appropriate redistribution. They get the warm satisfying glow of doing good, and what's a better prize than that?"

"I'm Danish. Tourist fleecing is a thousand year tradition. First we fleeced Europe as tourists. Now we fleece European tourists." Ravn nods firmly. And mentally includes himself in the ginger club, even at 6'3. Everyone else does, after all.

He hitches a shoulder and sips his beer. "If we can get some festivals and market faires going, everyone wins -- from local shop owners to the Grand Olympic. I may have to start supporting the motion of banning tourists from the Pourhouse just to have one tourist-free area but as long as that's the only down side anyone can think of, you know?"

Ginger is clearly where it's at. (And only a ginger can call another ginger ginger, so.) Besides, lobsters are red (when cooked; hard to know what happens to gingers, and experimental is not required). It's just the way it goes.

"The Pourhouse is surely enough of a dive not to attract the most of them. It's not like there's some tourist experience that you only get by going to a local place-- not like kissing the fish in Newfoundland or whatever." Una clearly approves of keeping the Pourhouse out of tourist hands: her nod is determined. "But they can have the rest, if it helps keep the town afloat, and then helps out some individuals, as well."

Una smiles. The evening is a success, even if she hasn't watched so much as a single lobster battle. "Robin Hood'ing the tourists. Seems fair to me."

There are hot dogs! They are kind of gross, but there's cheese on them, and that kind of helps. Also, the whole drunk thing really helps. Gabby has returned with a hot dog in each hand and precarious balance. Somehow the fourth of the red heads seems convinced that she is using the hot dogs as some kind of balance. It appears to be tricking her brain into working well enough to keep her steady on back to the group.

"Hot dogs!" Both hands lift in a tada gesture. It's hard to know how much of this will be remembered in the morning. "Anyone want some? They're okay. Ish."

"You'd be surprised how many people want 'the authentic experience'," is Rhys's remark on the Pourhouse situation, and he nods again to the fairness of the fleecing. "Really, that's what tourists are for. They're like those crabs they trap, remove the big claw from, and throw back so they can grow it again for next year's harvest. Only cash extraction's a lot less likely to get the ASPCA on your case." Tourists may well want 'the authentic experience', but since as yet they don't seem to have discovered this one, the casino manager can probably get away with saying this.

"Hey, welcome back!" he greets Gabby, and looks for a moment like he might actually take her up on the okayish hot dog offer -- but something catches his attention across the room, and his eyes narrow slightly. "If you guys'll excuse me... something I need to deal with over there. Oughta be back in a few." There's a quick, bright grin for them, "Don't forget to keep me updated, either way," and then he's heading toward the heart of the crustacean combat zone, a man with some sort of mission.

"I'm pretty sure Professor Pinches is on some kind of methamphetamine," Ravn calls after the diminutive accountant. There's no rule against it. There are laws against methamphetamine possession, granted.

He fishes out another cigarette and lights it with that battered old zippo of his, coat-of-arms and all, and then looks after Rhys. "There's a good bloke to know if you ever need to get things done in this town. Man manages the Grand Olympic Casino. His name isn't Addington, but City Hall pays a lot of attention to the town's largest tax paying business."

And other reasons. We will not discuss those.

Una turns down the offer of hot dog with a shake of her head, possibly because she, too, is concerned that Gabby may lose her balance if one of them goes. It's a precarious situation, truly. Her gaze flicks after Rhys, too, studying him in his departure; thoughtful.

"Very useful," she agrees, glancing back at Ravn. "Particularly if we're going to be running festivals. It's all about who you know in this town, isn't it? Or what you can leverage. And he seems willing to help, which is even better."

"They do what to their claws!?" Poor Gabby. That was the wrong part of the conversation to come back to. All sorts of dreadful things learned today. But how much will stick in memory? Well, we'll see in the morning, won't we?

"I haven't been to the casino. I don't really get money enough to risk it big like that. A little betting here? Yeah, but there? Nu uh. Too risky. Might be cool to go in and look around though." A hand lifts to bring one hot dog to her mouth for a bite, wobbling just a little as she does. There's a giggle as she tries to line it up right, theeeeeen got it! Bite taken.

Around that bite she mutters, "Are you guys really gonna run in heels?"

"It's all about who you know anywhere, I suspect." Ravn pockets his lighter again. "I don't want to sound like the horrible cynic I absolutely am but, money talks. As for Evans, he likes making money and he's a local boy who likes to see his town staying afloat. Those two goals are by no means impossible to reconcile."

Voice a bit more sotto voce he murmurs, "It's a pity the man doesn't shine. He'd be one hell of an ally."

Then he laughs at Gabby's outburst. "I'm sure as hell not going to run in heels, but I'll gladly place a few bets on the people who are. Also, the Casino isn't millionaire only. I think the main income bracket for the yachters it's built for is middle class who want to fancy it up for vacation. The real jet set goes to Vegas, Monte Carlo, Dubai."

"I don't know if I can really say I've been to the casino," murmurs Una. "I'm not sure if my visit counts. I'm not especially sure I have a desire to visit properly, either-- maybe. Not so much for the gambling as for the experience. I don't know if I'll be running in heels either, but I will absolutely organise the hell out of it. I wonder if I can get some shoe donations."

Those brown eyes of hers track after the now-out-of-sight Rhys again, as she nods, just faintly. "It's a pity. I tend to... forget that not everyone with influence in this town does. Not by half. I'm just-- insulated, I think, by most of the people I see regularly being... like us. Do you think those falcon rings are a real world thing?"

"Middle class. I just danced for money in a moonshine cup so I could buy okayish hotdogs. I barely hit lower class." There's a smirk from Gabby at that as she takes another bite of dog. There's no roughness in her tone as she talks about it, it's just stated as fact. Because it is fact. "But you should do the run! You got time to learn. Be the underdog and bet big on yourself," she cackles.

Her thoughts are clearly bouncing from one topic to another. "Oh yeah, you were talking about bird rings. What are those? Jewelry thing? Shiny thing? Not if you were talking to that guy, I'm guessing?"

Ravn throws another glance after Rhys' back. "If Evans has heard about or noticed the falcon rings -- and it does seem like he might have -- then they are a real world thing too, at least. I'm not sure how I feel about that."

Then he nods. "We do tend to stick a bit to our own kind, don't we? It's easier that way. When you can openly discuss the weird and the strange, and not have to worry how it comes across to them, or what might happen to them if they do manage to put some of it together. It's protecting ourselves but it's also protecting them."

Ravn decides against discussing what constitutes lower or middle class. Maybe he doesn't feel quite qualified. Instead he adds to Gabby, "They're rings. Or rather, symbols. Silver falcons. We saw a walking stick with a silver falcon in 1940, and silver falcon fingerrings in the Casino -- both times, in Dreams." Capital D. "And both times, somebody was murdered by the people wearing them. No one was sorry about the guy in 1940 given he was a Nazi but, we don't know about the other guy."

"I hate feeling like I have to watch what I say," agrees Una. "It was such a relief when Della woke up, and I could stop worrying about that. I know the Veil protects itself, but--" She shudders, a little theatrically.

"One silver falcon is interesting, but not alarming. Two, and with bad things happening both times-- it's a trend. If it is real, I'm really not particularly happy about that either. I'm not a fan of assassination, even when people deserve it. I'm not sure people really ever deserve it, come to think of it."

"Ooooooo. Do you think the Dreams were actually memory things? If so, maybe we should go to the casino? Dead guys could still be there. Ya never know. Might have an idea why they were killed." Another bite is taken as Gabby wobbles for a second before finding her footing. "But what do silver falcons have to do with anything? Are they, like, bad omens here or something? Family crest or whatever?"

"I'm not a fan of the fact that in the second Dream I wore a silver falcon ring," Ravn says quietly. "If there is some kind of secret society that I joined, I didn't get the pamphlet. I hate supporting things I don't know what are. Also, they killed a bloke."

He shakes his head. "I have no idea. I can tell you that they're not my family crest at least? It almost certainly means something but we don't know what. I'm pretty certain that at least the 1940 incident didn't actually happen -- that sort of stuff would have been on record, in local history and in family stories. You can't keep something like 'oops, we shot a German colonel' secret."

"It's a mystery, and I don't like mysteries," concludes Una, with a sigh. "Maybe we'll be lucky, and they'll never show up again, and we can just forget about it altogether."

Clearly she does not actually believe this is likely, especially now that Rhys has indicated what he has.

She shakes her head. "Anyway. Not an issue for now, right? Tomorrow's problem. Or next year's. The Veil takes its time with these things, it seems."

"I mean, the Veil could also just be messing with you, right? Making you think stuff happened that didn't happen to make you go all crazy and get in your head. Then you get all like this." Gabby waggles the hot dog at them with big eyes. "I-unno. You guys know that stuff better than me. Ghosts are my jam, Dreams don't bother me much. Dunno why."

She blinks, turning to look at something. "No." To the dead air. "No, I'm not, I'm fine, I'm eating hot dogs, see?" Hot dogs are lifted. "Noooo." Green eyes are rolled as her head pivots back towards Una and Ravn. "I have to go. Apparently I am very drunk and should walk home before I get so tired that I fall asleep on the side of the street even though I haven't done that in like three years." Her head jerks back to look at the air. "Yu-huh it's been that long, shut up! No you shut up. UGH." Another eye roll. "It was nice seeing you guys again. Tell violin guy I owe him his half of the money. See you guys soon."

She shoves at the air next to her and almost topples for a second before catching herself and starting to wobble off back home.