2022-04-29 - And You Thought You Were Safe From Crabs

The tide had been low not so long back. Today?

It's even lower, meaning the rocky beach is crowned by its collection of boulders while the receded waters have revealed a veritable wonderland of turf usually at least two feet underwater if not more deeply covered.

> > Tide's out, we're going out. Rocky beach! Bring gloves, bring your sunscreen, prepare for crabs.

Of course Ariadne would text such a thing. As such, out on one of the gleaming flat and rock-free patches of ground, there she is, meandering along in her professional knee-high boots. Jeans tuck into them and disappear under the hem of her coral-pink windbreaker. Beneath this, a plain forest-green camisole against retained heat; she's got the windbreaker unzipped enough to show décolletage as things stand and surely sunscreen's been applied there as well as cheeks and ear-tips. Her hair is up in its perennial messy-bun, flashing deeply-auburn and gemstone-hues of sapphire and amethyst in the bright sunlight. A baseball cap, the one sporting the Avalanche hockey team's logo, keeps the worst of the glare off of her face as is.

A wave when she recognizes faces. "Watch for clams, they'll getcha!"

Goddamn sand-lodging, assassin-squirt-gun mollusks.

Trust Ravn to possess sensible (black) boots for walking -- the man walks a lot, after all, and often on this very beach. He's pulled his torn-sleeve leather jacket on -- really, the sleeve looks like he's been dragged after a horse while wearing it, and then shot. The injuries are old and he's brushed the jacket with shoe polish; the edges no longer flash a paler colour and one might not notice the damage in passing. It's a good jacket that he had sent from Florence, and he doesn't want to replace it. Florentine leather is just that good.

Also, it cracks him the hell up that Rosencrantz thinks a jacket like that ought to be bad boy babe magnet. It has not quite managed to live up to expectations so far, and Ravn doesn't have the heart to point it out to the New Yorker; it's who's in the jacket, buddy, not the condition of it.

He raises a hand to both women, wearing his usual black kidskin gloves. A tote bag on arm clinks; he probably assumes that Una will be carrying food enough to feed a small army, and thus it's on him to bring drinkables. Today's selection is sparkling mineral water and Pepsi Cola because hey, we're tidepooling, not partying.

Does Una have food enough to feed a small army? Well. Does the pope-- wait. Well. You get the drift. Indeed, the shorter redhead has accessorised her jeans, boots and jacket combination with a backpack, all the better to carry her bounty within, and her gloves-- new, because the last trip out here proved that gloves really are useful, if not necessarily enough protection against stray crabs-- are tucked into her pocket, just hanging out ready to go.

She's a little slower, having had to pause to chain her bicycle up against a convenient railing, up by the nearest car park, but not-especially-long legs carry her at a hurried pace across the sandy beach towards her fellow tidepoolers. "Clams better leave me the hell alone," she calls, voice pitched to carry, and distinctly amused. "I'll bake 'em, otherwise. Clams be warned."

Now that her helmet is securely stored, hanging from her bike's chain, she pulls out her floppy sunhat, usually seen gardening, and jams it onto her head in preparation: the sun will be no danger today, for lo, she is prepared.

"I think I saw a few of them flee! Such viciousness!" calls out Ariadne in good humor towards her fellow redhead as she pads across the gleaming sandflat. Side-stepping a squirt from the sand, she shakes a fist down at it. "Except that fucker there." Experienced steps bring her to the tidal edge, where a blanketing line of kelp and driftwood marks the highest point of tide. "Did we want to set up camp in this area here instead of wandering? It seems easier than carrying the totes and having to continually put them down and pick them up if we wanted to turn over rocks, etcetera.

She then waits patiently, her own gloves not donned yet and peeking from her windbreaker pocket by a finger. Ravn gets a gleaming grin in particular. "So this is the leather jacket I've heard so much about." Tilting her head to one side, she can't help the slight in-suck of air through a sliver of teeth and little wince. Sleeve spotted. Golden-hazel eyes find his own. "Yiiiiiiikes," she drawls quietly. "Let's not do that again, huh?"

"That might be an idea," Ravn agrees and decides on a flat rock; congratulations, flat rock, you are now a table. He plonks the tote bag down on it. "I'll be first to admit, I don't actually know a whole lot about the wildlife here. Never too late to learn, right? And somebody did threaten me with geoducks. Selfies with geoducks need to happen, along with all the bad jokes."

He glances at his sleeve and for a moment a shadow brushes over his face. Then it's gone, like a spring shower. "I'll do my best to not get shot at. I usually do. In fact, not getting shot is somewhat a priority of mine."

And then, a side glance to the pools. "So basically, if I find a colony of clams, I get baked clams?"

"Yeah, well: they should all fear me, for I am fearsome," insists Una, all bright eyes and mirth, she who is far from fearsome in truth. "That one there-- well, he's just slow off the mark, right?" Her agreement with this plan is demonstrated with her shucking off of her backpack, which she sets down just alongside Ravn's tote.

"I am also against people being shot at. Guns bad, avoid. And-- look, if you find clams, I actually have absolutely no idea how to cook them, but the theory is good. What's this about geoducks?" Beat. "I mean, I know what they are. I've seen pictures. But is it seasonal? Please tell me we might find one, please?"

"Not getting shot is a good priority to have." Lingering next to the Dane, Ariadne waits until Una's nearby and the totes are all collected before she grins.

"Ah-hah. I see how it is. Looking for the G." Of course, the pun is off of another letter entirely and given the nature of the geoduck's shape? Well. It can't be helped. Somebody slap her wrist. "It's absolutely plausible that we'll find a geoduck, but we'll have to dig like mad meerkats to get it out before it gets too deep. Maybe we can find a lazy one. Or one that's not paying attention. I'm fine with moving some sand around. The flats are also good for sand dollars," she adds, thumbing over her shoulder towards them. "But the rocks are where the pools of water are, so stuff hides there."

And attempts to remove barista fingers, as Una observed not so long ago. "We'll stay in line of sight for the totes and go see what we can find?" Ariadne's expression is brimming with composed excitement. Who knows what washed in today?

"Sounds like a plan," Ravn agrees, laughing softly. "Come on, you got to give me a chance to measure here. You can't promise me geoducks and not give me a chance to make all the god-awful jokes. I'd have my membership card to the male half of the species revoked. At least I'm not making clam jokes, all right?"

He saunters along happily. Truth to tell, the Dane is happy to be outdoors on a beautiful day, in good company. Geoducks or no geoducks. Sand dollars. Crabs. Little fishes in pools. Anything.

Una's blurt of laughter may well be the first of many, if the jokes are going to happen and keep happening. It's a thing; it's fine, and she's happy, and the jokes are good.

"Oh, the clam jokes are probably inevitable too, aren't they? The moist depths-- it's all just asking for it, really. Let's go, absolutely. I want to see more things! Sand dollars, geoducks, whatever it is we can find today." Or nothing. Nothing is just as good, when the company is companionable, and the day is nice.

Cue similar blurt of laughter. Ariadne waves a hand off to one side, the bill of her cap momentarily dipped like her chin.

"Oh my god, I can take neither of you anywhere," she chuckles. Who's going to care anyways, the seagulls? Screw you, Bob, no fries for you. "First one to make me sit down on my ass in the sand wins, okay? Though don't think I don't have commentary of my own." All the awkward, awful scientific commentary. Grinning, the barista tilts her head out towards the flats. "So, my entrepreneurs. How does one find a geoduck." Cue lecture voice while still smirking. "Geoducks like eelgrass, which is this stuff right here." She toes at the sea-grass clump as she walks by it. "And they clump in twos to fives usually, sometimes more. The squirts." Heavy, deliberate pause and look over invisible glasses at the other two. " -- are larger than clams, so it's obvious. Sometimes, their necks stick out above the sand too, so you know where one is. Spot one of these guys? Dig around it like a fiend. They retract fast and deep into the sand. Questions?"

A beat. "COLD!"

Clam squirt on her pants. "You fucker," she mutters at the little mollusk hidden in the sand.

"To me, eel grass is something I expect to find on half a metre's depth and down, on sand banks." Ravn grins slightly. "Thus named because, well, eels hide in it."

He kind of hopes that Ariadne will not actually give a detailed lecture on the geoduck and its resemblance to other things; the puns might be unbearable. He also kind of hopes that she will, because the puns will be unbearable. He should follow up on Una's moist depths with a line about fuzzy clams. He's going to refrain, at least for now.

"I have a question. What are those things? The geoducks, I mean. In pictures they look like sea slugs, but they're not, are they?"

Poor Ariadne. Una tries not to laugh that 'cold!' but... well. She does anyway, and looks apologetic for it, but-- but.

"They're clams, aren't they? They just have... an extra... appendage." She hesitates before choosing that particular terminology, not that it stops that grin: it's still there, still bobbing along merrily in this exchange of mirth.

"But-- okay. Eelgrass. Dig like hell. I guess that means we... sand watch, for now?"

"We sand-watch as we walk, yep. If we're being brutally honest -- and not necessarily adults -- they're big enough that their necks -- "

Those appendages indeed.

" -- look like half-dollar-sized wet puckers in the sand where they meet the surface." Such a droll glance give to her comrades. "They're still mollusks, they have shells. Just...they get somewhat bigger than their shells. But ooh, speaking of sand and things hiding." Pausing, Ariadne crouches down and slips on her gloves. What she carefully fishes out is one of those sand dollars mentioned earlier. It's not pale-ivory like the husks seen sold as desk decor. It's a pretty mottling of charcoal-grey and even purplish hues like wet ink. "Check out the underside, they're related to sea urchins." Turning the gleaming disc over, one can see the thousands of tiny legs wiggling about. "Cute," the barista murmurs, grinning at these.

"It looks like how I feel when too many people are staring at me," Ravn observes. Nothing but frantic feet trying for a getaway, any getaway, indeed. "But that's not one of those, right? If it is, I don't see the resemblance."

Yep. He's never actually seen a geoduck. Or for that matter, a sand dollar. Neither are native to his native habitat. He keeps his gaze on the eel grass and murmurs, "I wonder if we'll see those little fish -- hang on." Out comes his phone in its pink Hello Kitty casing -- not for pictures but for translations, wikipedia to the rescue. ". . . Sticklebacks? That's not what we call them. Anyway, says north-eastern Atlantic, so, I guess not." Phone goes back in pocket. "Back home, we'd catch them. They're tiny slender fish that live in the eel grass."

'Necks', pfft. Like any self-respecting adult would call it a neck, honestly. Puckers, on the other hand? That earns another little titter from Una. This is going well!

"That's-- is that a sand dollar? They don't look like that when they're all dry and dead." She's a little uncertain, but determined to show as much knowledge as she can, less out of a sense of competition and more out of-- well. Who doesn't like to feel like they know something, occasionally? "They're so much prettier alive, if so."

She's got a less certain expression for Ravn's question. Sticklebacks? Nope, not familiar.

"Yeah, they're definitely prettier like this," the marine biologist agrees with Una. "And definitely not related to geoducks." Ravn get a quick smirk. "They're filter feeders, hence why it was kind of sticking up out of the sand at an angle." If touched, the top of the sand dollar feels like wet, hard velvety sandpaper. Ariadne glances up at the phone's appearance and waits. A shake of her head confirms the lack of sticklebacks. "Not those around here, yeah. Maybe a sculpin or blennie or gunnel-fish, but no sticklebacks."

Back the sand dollar goes, tucked into the damp sand at an angle once more.

"We might find some whole scallops too and those can be pretty," Ariadne continues as she straightens and leads the way further out onto the sand flat. As she does, one of those sneaky puckers feels the vibration of her feet. Thing is, this is a much bigger mollusk than a clam.

SQUIRT -- hope you can dodge, Una!

"You'll have to show me," Ravn agrees because he has no idea what those fish are -- at least not until he sees them. He could look the names up -- but who goes to the beach to stare at their phone? There are several little fish he expects to see -- and he reminds himself that while the climate is reminiscent of home, this is not the Atlantic Ocean, and all bets on what to expect are skewered. There is an ecological niche for little fishes, but they may be quite different little fishes.

And then something is squirting from the sand and he takes a step backwards, surprised, and looks down to find out what it is. Sure, the oysters and blue mussels back home do that too -- but not with quite so much gusto!

Can Una dodge? She's not slow in her reaction, but she's equally not entirely agile: despite her efforts, there's just no way for her to get out of the way in time and the result is: "AUGHHHH!" Cold. Cold, cold, cold, cold, cold.

"MOTHERFUCKER," is not language usually employed by this particular redhead, but, well-- needs must. She squeals, too, just for good measure.

COLD.

"Ooh, you little shit!"

Look at the barista dart down like a bird of prey (osprey, anyone?) and dig those gloved hands into the sand with a fervor. Dig-dig-dig-dig -- "Shit, it was too fast," she then laughs while she flicks damp sand from her gloves. A glance up at Una and Ariadne can't help the sudden blurt of giggling.

"Aw, they like you, Una," she all but singsongs, being nowhere near an adult about the fact of the giant clam's retreat mechanism. "Looks like you're next, Ravn." The Dane is given a cheeky smirk. "No wood for me to knock on to avoid cursing it, so..." The drawl is everything troublemaking. "You're screwed." Standing up again, she gestures for her friends to follow. "Come on, that cluster is rocks is going to have some of the good stuff on it. It's normally about five feet underwater. I bet we'll find some anemones at the very least." She points towards an outcropping about two yards further out still, a depression of clear seawater lurking about its base.

Ravn's lip twitches because he can't, he's got enough teenage boy on the inside that he just can't. "As long as I'm not expected to return fire."

He plods along cheerfully. It's fascinating to him how much an ocean changes -- he's seen a number of them, and not two are alike. They're not even alike if it's the same ocean but in two different places. The English coast? So different from the Danish, and that in turn nothing like the Canary Islands -- and yet, it's all the Atlantic. Granted, the Atlantic is kind of big. Almost as big as this one.

"You know me," laughs Una, and really, what can she do but laugh? "Bringing all the clams to the yard. Motherfucker."

She gives her damp leg a little shake, but ultimately gives in-- it's not exactly helping-- and traipses on after Ariadne. It could be worse. It could be many hundred times worse. "Anemones, excellent! And fish, hiding in them? Or is that too much to ask?"

Is that Ariadne blushing just a little? It is her blushing just a little. The sun is warm today, don't worry about it. She can't help the ghost of a smug smirk anyways...and the faint titter.

"Are all the other mollusks, like, it's better than yours?" A beat and she ends up laughing at herself with a toss of her head. "God, that was bad, I know. There might be some fish! We don't have any clownfish around here, but remember the Spanish Shawl? Might find one of those guys if there's an anemone under the water still." The brightly-colored sea slugs with their golden fringes do tend to congregate on the anemones. As they walk, another geoduck decides to shout GET OFF MY LAWN.

It misses Ravn by an inch by happenstance. Ariadne glances over at the Dane and smirrrrrrks -- told you so, your time is coming. She knows she was too far away to dive after that one. But --

"Ooh, lookit!" A quick stoop before something tries to disappear and she holds it up carefully. A scallop, pretty in pale-cream and pink bands under the sand, has its shell parted to show all the little bluish dots that are its eyes. "Checkit. It's staring at you guys right now."

Ravn glances at the shell and then, pointedly, runs his gloved hands through the mop he calls hair before winking at it. "If you're going to check me out. . ."

Pause. Then he laughs. "I can't. I was going to say something about how Una's geoduck brought all the boys to the yard but I can't quite find the right wording. You win this round, shellfish. May all your days be merry, and if you are ever caught, may you induce shellfish allergy in the person whom the plate belongs to. Thwip free, little dude. Grow many pearls."

"Alas, we do not live... off of Australia? Or whever. No clownfish. No fancy tropical reef." Woe, etc.

Her snort of laughter is for the geoduck, and its attempt to mark its territory (men!)-- and the laughter just continues from there, even as she's stepping closer to see what Ariadne's found. "I can't find anything helpful either," is full of disappointment (and mirth). "But I think we all know the intent, and can smirk at ourselves anyway. My geoduck is mighty, thank you very much, and that? That is gorgeous."

Upon being gently tapped by the barista's glove-covered finger, the scallop snaps shut.

"Fussy little thing, unimpressed with your bedhead," she says to Ravn through her own laughter. Clams. Yards. "Are we really measuring mollusk sizes? Look, let's be honest, I'll have the biggest mollusk before this trip is out. Y'all haven't even gotten your gloves wet." The scallop is given a little divot dug up in the sand and covered again, pat-pat. Up she stands and takes a few more steps out into the sand before --

ASSASSIN GEODUCK SQUIRT, GET OFF THE LAWN, DANE!

Ariadne is close enough to throw herself aside from the squirt like a startled cat, shriek-giggling as she does.

How Ravn manages to dodge that squirt begs questions. Maybe he's got a past as a male escort.

He does, though -- and only then does he realise that he did, and bursts into quiet laughter. "Did you see that? I swear, I saw just the tip and it -- "

Ravn, aged five. He doubles over, hugging himself, laughing. Lord, why did you make creatures this ridiculous, were duckbilled platypii not enough?

Una's fingertips slip towards her gloves which are, indeed, still hanging from her pocket and not anywhere useful (like on her hands, see). But equally, she doesn't seem to be in a huge rush-- the beach is full of things, but which ones should she touch? Still a mystery!

The dodges of both her companions draw a giggle that turns into an outright laugh. "The tip, huh? You saw the tip and were frightened away?"

More giggles.

Like Ariadne was going to handle this event with anything like aplomb.

She wraps arms around herself as well and starts laughing hard enough to bring some serious color to her cheeks. A stumble back is unknowingly towards another small collection of the large bivalves.

YOU GET OFF THE LAWN TOO, LADY!

Cue startled yelp as the geoduck's fast retreat under the sand gets Ariadne straight up the back of the leg, from bend of knee to back pocket of her jeans, and she dances around spluttering because what are words, HOW RUDE?!

Ravn looks at Una. Quiet, shy, easily embarrassed, self-declared ace Una Irving. He gapes. Perfect goldfish impersonation for a moment there. Then he throws his hands up. "You win. I got nothing. I'll be over here, blushing like a teenage girl who's just seen the tip, yes."

And then Ariadne is doing the chicken dance of cold water and helpless laughter and it's just too much. Ravn just... finds a rock to sit on while laughing into his hands, laughing, laughing, laughing.

Like many people in this world, Una can dish it. She can't take it, but dishing it? Fine. Easy. No problem. Ignore her belated blush, and the giggles that she really can't control anymore.

(Ariadne has contributed to them, too. Oh goodness, has she contributed to them.)

"Can't... stop... oh GOD."

Breathing is hard. Laughing is forever.

Who needs breathing?

Nobody. But everybody needs expletives while Ariadne meerkats after the geoduck like she means business.

"Think you can get me, motherfucker?!? I'll dig your ass out and show your dick-neck to the whole world!" We're laughing throughout this tirade as wet clods of sand fly. "Get you and then you'll be like, noooooooo, sunlight, augh, daystar, humans, my dick-neck is too big to retract into my shell!" Dig-dig-dig-dig, man, she's really going for this one.

Ravn eventually manages to stop laughing long enough that he's ablet o lean over and murmur to Una, "She really wants to show us her dick, it seems. And not just the tip. Help, I'm five years old and I think I need an adult."

The problem is, that murmur? It sets Una off again, though not so much that she can't ask, "Do I need to give you two some privacy? I can. I know some things are best shared in private, and it's fine!"

It would work better straight-faced.

Alas.

Ariadne has no idea of the murmuring and consequential hyena-fest because she's getting closer and closer to getting this damn thing out of the s --

"WAH-HAH!" Victory cry. Yoink, a quick under-scoop of her hand, and the marine biologist straightens up with her catch. It would look like a round-ended scallop but for the fairly large-sized body and neck both protruding from the shell itself. It requires two hands, to say the least. "Observe, my students: the geoduck," announces Ariadne, pleased and pink-cheeked with the results of her efforts.

And yes. The visual is entirely appropriate to their vein of joking.

Ravn stares. He has in fact not seen one of these things before.

Several things go through his mind. Most of them proceed to jump out of his mouth, too. "That's the biggest -- I mean, wow -- okay, if this is a contest I'm throwing in my towel right now. And cringing in fear at the way you handle it, too. And people eat those things?"

Una, too, stares. She goes pink, even, just... staring because, well, holy shit.

"I mean... that is definitely a thing. Holy fucking shit."

"I know, right?" Ariadne agrees with all commentary from both parties. She turns the thing around, eyeing it with the nonchalance of the scientist who knows this is a bivalve despite its appearance. "You can eat them, yes, just like you would any clam, though these guys are rarer. More expensive for it. I guess they taste more mild than clam? So the emphasis is on the seasoning with them."

And maybe it's hysterical how deadpan she can inform them both of this.

"Also, contrary to popular opinion, it's not going to bite." Beaming because she's an evil little shit, the barista then holds out the geoduck. "You know you wanna touch iiiiiit," singsongs the redhead with a puckish grin. "Come on. Just poke it, it's only a giant clam."

"So this is what that bloke who dropped me off in Gray Harbor a year and a half ago meant when he told me to eat a dick." Ravn manages to keep a straight face. "And the expression to go eat a bag of dicks is actually a wish of fortune for the recipient, that he can afford a whole bag of these things?"

He fails to keep it up. Laughter bubbles up again as Ariadne is asking him to touch her dick. No. He doesn't even like oysters.

"I'm told they're a delicacy," comes with the oh-so-innocent smile-- oh, who are we kidding? Una may not want to have sex, but she's quick enough with the jokes, when they don't involve her. "People are just gagging for that--" Dick. It's a dick.

Ravn may be lost to laughter, but this time, the baker steps forward gamely, wiggling her hand into one of her gloves before she reaches out to give the poor, made-fun-of geoduck a tentative poke. And then another. "That's... definitely a thing," she says.

Visibly, Ariadne frets her bottom lip against more laughter. Oh yes: please, come touch the giant clam she holds. It's fodder for jokes for years.

When Una pokes the geoduck gently, the thing squirms a little, but doesn't do much else. "Squishy, right? A little firm. Salty. Your general state of being for a di...vided-shell clam. Bivalve." So educational, much wow. "We've bothered it enough now, so I'm putting him back." This process involves digging out some of the settled sand in order to plant the giant mollusk shell-down. It disappears just as soon as can be managed, taking advantage of the sand piled up overtop it.

Patpat. "And...lady and gent? I...have the biggest mollusk," Ariadne claims, thumbing at herself. Shift to a pair of fingerguns. "Boom." Then tilting her head, she starts making her way towards the rocks. "We still need to check this out!"

Ravn stares after the creature -- the speed that that thing can dig -- with --

Yeah, no competition here. And yet he can't resist one final quip: "If digging head first into the sand like that is the reaction you get from touching someone like that, mind, you might need to refine your technique a little."

He glances at Una. He mouths quietly 'we're doomed'. He gets up and follows Ariadne towards the rocks. So very doomed.

Dick-fish knows how to find a nice, warm hole.

Wait, no.

Dish-fish... nope, that doesn't get any better.

Una begins to giggle again, both for what Ariadne has to say, and then Ravn, too. So many giggles. All the giggles.

Doomed? Yes, says her sharp nod, the gleam in her eyes. Doomed, doomed, doomed.

"Can anything beat that, though? Really?"

Laughter chimes out from the barista. "Britney Spears had it right when she sang, there are two types of guys in the world: ones that can handle me and those that are scared." Lifting her chin and smirking, she thumbs over her shoulder at the disappeared geoduck. "Latter category." How those hazel eyes gleam like topaz in passing.

The seawater collected about the rocks gleams flat and still with little wind to disturb it. "I dunno if anything can beat that, really," she echoes of Una. "Another Spanish Shawl would be cool. Or maybe one of the deeper water fish stuck here. Another dogfish shark would be excellent. We'll just have to see what the bay left behind for us!" She immediately crouches down and makes a soft delighted sound. "Ooh. Check it, spiny red sea star."

The creature is precisely as described, about the size of a pancake, partially hidden under the shelf of one of the rocks. "And these snot-balls are anemones." Poke. They retract and ooze ocean water.

"I'm going to tell Rosencrantz that I went hunting for dick with Irving and Scullins and nothing you can say can stop me," Ravn murmurs and gets up. "And that's when the dick jokes will truly begin."

He wanders over all the same to see the little sea star. Starfish are familiar from home, at least -- though there are probably species variations. "I thought sea anemones were more -- ball of white tentacles that clownfish live between if you're in Australia?"

"The Spanish Shawls are gorgeous," confirms Una, whose tone is vaguely wistful: she wouldn't mind seeing another of those. Not penis-shaped, but beautiful (in a way that penises are... largely not).

She's still got a glove on one hand as she crouches down in position around from Ariadne to get a better look at the sea star (and the snot balls too). "Apparently we have anemones here too, just they don't tend to be as fancy. Ariadne taught me that last time. 'Snot-balls' is a great descriptor, though."

Beat. "Also, please do tell Itzhak that, and then share his reaction."

"I too want to hear what Itzhak has to say about this claim," Ariadne agrees with a bright grin. "But you're not wrong, either of you. These are anemones, yes, but they're hidden away right now. They fold their little tentacles inwards when the tide is too low or the water's too warm to keep themselves safe." The marine biologist wiggles fingers in a tentacle-ish manner before curling them away. "It's why they look like snot-balls right now."

She leans in more and squints. "Ho shit -- look but don't touch." Using her finger, she points out a worm slowly making its way along the surface of the rock. "Bloodworm. If you get nailed by one of these guys, it's like a beesting. It hurts." The worm itself is pink and aptly named, so innocent-looking, about four inches long.

"Oh wow." Ravn admires the worm -- without any urge to touch it, or the sea anemone, or anything else. He's paid exactly enough attention those times his father insisted on dragging him diving to know that in the ocean? Everything wants to eat you, just assume that and you might make it back to the ship in one piece.

And as a murmur, "He's going to start cracking dick jokes at you both, just to see if you can keep pace. Consider yourselves warned."

Another glance at the worm. "I don't know if we've got those back home -- never heard of them, so probably not. We've got -- greater weavers, I think they're called. They're about the same league -- ugly little fish whose poisonous barbs are about the same level as a bee sting."

'Snot-balls' is still funny. Bloodworms, however, are new and interesting, and understandably catch Una's attention-- though yes, she's very happy to follow directions and look rather than touch. "Ow," she says, out of sympathy for anyone who has accidentally ended up in contact with one of these. "But it's so cute!"

Brightly, if quietly: "I look forward to this. Bring it on, Itzhak." Liar. She'll blush, and blush, and blush. But isn't that half the fun?

"The sea is clearly full of things that want to hurt us, but... interestingly. Or maybe it's just interesting because it's foreign? The land feels like our environment, somehow, whereas the sea..."

"Imagine me doing a Morpheus bring-it hand gesture." Indeed, bring it, Itzhak.

"I mean, not everything wants you drowned and dead, but...yeah, many of their survival mechanisms, whether it be for hunting or self-defense, are definitely going to be geared towards their environment. The bay. The ocean, the Sound...saltwater in general. We're definitely geared towards the land. I mean, think about what lives and could live in the Marianas Trench. That's practically the moon for all we can tell. I haven't heard of greater weavers though." The barista looks up from under the bill of her cap at Ravn, remaining crouched down next to the depression of water around the rocks. "Little fish? Like, you can catch them with your hands or they're deeper water so hook or net only?"

"Little shallow water fish. They're kind of sand coloured and so ugly that where I'm from we call them Copenhageners because no one likes people from Copenhagen unless they themselves are people from Copenhagen. I nearly stepped on one a few times. If we had tide pools like this instead of sand beaches, they'd be in them." Ravn half-grins. "But I wouldn't catch them in my hands because they do have those venomous barbs."

"I bet there's a thin spot in the Mariana Trench," murmurs Una, not without a hint of-- well, maybe not amusement, but something distantly related to it. A step-cousin's sister's boyfriend, anyway. "And that's where all the creepy things come from."

This doesn't stop her from having a snort of laughter for Ravn's description of his Copenhagener fish.

Redheads must share a braincell now and then: Ariadne snort-laughs too at the description of the angry little frog-faced fish.

"Oh snappity-snap," comments she. "I'll make a note to never catch those guys without a net if I ever see a fish with a Copenhagener's face. In fact, I might scream and run a few feet back because, at that point -- speaking of thin spots," a glance at Una, " -- it'll probably be in a Dream and things will only escalate in weird from there."

A point about herself and squint at the sky. "Not giving you ideas, you fuckers," she grumbles to the general reality of the area.

Ravn cants his head and thinks about it. "I actually -- don't think so? The Marianer Trench is hella deep and dark but it lacks the one ingredient the rest of the known thin spots seem to have, human suffering. Show me a stretch of ocean floor full of sunken ships, on the other hand, there's probably something. And I sure as hell am not going swimming if it means ending up doing a backcrawl with half the passengers of the Titanic or the Lusitania. I don't even like walking on certain stretches of the west coast of Jutland because of all the beached ships there -- and the cute little historic tradition of beaching them. You tie a lantern to a horse's tail and from the sea it looks like the lanterns of another ship -- so if that ship is closer to the coast than you are, then everything is safe, right?"

He shakes his head. "That said? If a Dream wants to toss me in the Marianer Trench, I've been a fish in Dreams before. And I'll say this for yellow-finned tuna: They got speed, man."

"Human suffering," murmurs Una, and of course, Ravn has a point there. "Point taken. Also the shipwrecks. I hadn't thought of that, and-- ugh. Like most former teenage girls, I had a thing about the Titanic once upon a time, and now... that's exceptionally less a thing I want to think about too much."

At least she manages to grin. "It's a good reminder that not all weird things are Veil-related, anyway. And also-- the Veil is just likely to make them super weirder, isn't it? Part of me would love to be a fish, just for a little while. Or a bird! But. Not that much."

By the concern on Ariadne's face, she'd never actively considered what a ship graveyard might feel like to anyone sensitive to it. It brings a shadow to her face having nothing to do with the bill of her cap. Ugh. Her gaze shifts from Ravn to Una and lightens at the idea of considering (instead of massive human suffering) the off-chance of being a fish.

A little laugh. "I'm reminded of Sword in the Stone, Disney's take on things. I can share that being a bird is...fun? If you're not fighting pine trees. But fish? I like how you think," a point at Ravn, " -- but let's up the game a bit more. How about speed and self-defense? Sailfish. Or a marlin. Though sailfish have been clocked at seventy miles per hour, so they're faster. Plus, the bill on those things? Nobody's coming after you if you're one of those."

"Oh, one of the others in that dream was a marlin," Ravn murmurs with good humour. "Grant Baxter, don't know if you've met him. Skateboarder kid, artist, boyfriend of Vyv Vydal."

He pauses. You can see the nerd in him claw its way to the surface; he tries so very hard to not always sound like somebody's schoolteacher and yet he fails. "You do know that Sword in the Stone -- those sequences in particular -- are lifted pretty verbatim from T. E. White's The Once and Future King, yes? Definitely worth a read, he gets through the entire Arthurian cycle."

Una goes for a slightly different strain of nerddom, murmuring, instead, lyrics from the musical Camelot, "And what of teaching me by turning me to animal and bird? From beaver to the smallest bobolink. I should have had the whirl to change into a girl, to learn the way the creatures think!"

Beat. "I always wanted to be able to fly, as a kid. It was my superpower of choice, as it happened. I'd take a marlin. Or a sailfish. Anything, really. Dragon."

Ariadne beams up a pair of dimples to challenge any known to man. She's surrounded by nerds and geeks -- life is good.

"But, in the vein of Disney's take on things -- I will read those books, Ravn, I promise muchly -- no pink dragons, right? Only purple dragons, since Mad Madame Mim said, 'no pink dragons' in that wizard's duel," the barista grins. "Best damn part of the movie, by the way."

Ravn laughs softly. "I am sorry to report that Madam Mim was invented for the Disney version. But I think you will enjoy some of the fish experiences in particular. Wat -- that is, boy Arthur -- spends a lot of time in several animal bodies, learning to be them. From a small river perch, through a hawk and a goose, hell, for a while he's part of an ant hive mind. It's beautifully written, truly. And so very light-hearted. The cycle does somewhat fail to maintain its humour as it progresses because as you know, it's a tragedy that ends with pretty much everyone dying." He hitches a shoulder. "It's the version I've read that's stayed with me the most, though. Poor King Pellinore and his dragon. And an absolutely horrific take on Gawain and his brothers hunting a unicorn, and we're never reading that one to Rosencrantz."

"There's no way for that story to end up going well, is there?" muses Una, nodding quickly to assert her comprehension. "Not without destroying the whole point of the story. It's absolutely a tragedy."

She straightens, now, but mostly because crouching is not comfortable for long periods (at least, not for Una). "Poor unicorns. I always feel bad for them. It's not their fault they're pure and innocent and-- well, sometimes just attracted to people who are. Whichever. It's just biology."

"Yeeeeeeah, let's spare Itzhak and others the take then." A scrunch of her mouth in disapproval and agreement with Una's stance. It's a damn shame the creatures, innocent as dawn, are always treated as they are in the stories. That one of their fellow friends happens to take on the form in the Mindscape only lends more of a sense of outrage.

"I really will read this when I get the chance though. I have enough time between shifts and on down days where a little reading won't go amiss. I'll break out the hammock on the back porch, read, nap a bit. Sam would love that, we haven't done that in a long enough time." Her smile is fond for the dog. "Okay, let's see what else we can find here..." Rising too with a little grunt, the marine biologist walks around the far side of the rock cluster. "Ooh, brittle star. They're like sea stars, but with all these little hairs on their legs. I'm reminded of...shit, what's the movie."

Sandy-gloved finger nap. "By Miyazaki. Spirited Away, that one, the little soot balls? With arms." A point: there, on the rock, indeed sooty-black, is one of the brittle stars, delicate as its name.

"At least our resident unicorn is anything but pure and innocent." Ravn smirks; he's not sure what kind of rope would be required to tame Rosencrantz, but it'd probably take a lot more than virgin's hair, medieval definition. Might be more successful with a bottle of good whiskey on a string.

He wanders over to see the little soot ball. "Aren't these the little soot demons from My Friend Totoro? The little things that live under things and in dark corners, but are adorable and harmless?" And then a glance from one woman to the other. "Also, am I hearing backyard reading afternoons? Lemonade, hammocks, good books, hours between anyone actually saying anything? Because I'm up for those."

Itzhak-the-unicorn definitely takes a few leaps for Una to get to; watch, the expression on her face shifting from thoughtfulness to outright amusement, one beat at a time. Is she feeling bad for Itzhak-the-unicorn now in particular? It's not impossible.

Of the soot balls, "I think they're in both movies. Soot sprites. Adorable little things, and-- I'm not sure I entirely see the comparison, but maybe. I guess. These are pretty cute too, in a hairy kind of way." She's leaning down to study them, too, and is still leaning, not looking up, as she adds, "Well, I'd never turn down an opportunity for an afternoon like that. Best way to actually hang out without needing to actually, you know, live up to anything."

"Yeah-yeah, the soot sprites." Another pleased glance at her cohorts. Pop culture reference, achieved! Ariadne doesn't go about attempting to fetch the brittle star off of the rock itself. Instead, she continues crouching and watching the spindly arms move noticeably faster than the standard starfish in turn. "These guys are adorable, yeah. Also, I forewarn everyone that if we're reading and hammocking, I'm going to do about ten minutes of the first thing before giving up and napping because hammocks just put me to sleep for some reason. Out. Like a light."

It's when she's looking at the head-tilted angle she is that the furtive movement is spotted. It'll be easy to see the marine biologist squint. Was that a piece of eelgrass or...?

"Wait a sec." Shifting in her crouch, she shuffles rather smoothly to one side of the rock collection to get a better angle. "Hold on, don't move, I have no idea if we scared it or not, I just have to find it again...god, they blend in like magic."

Ravn falls statue still. He likes nature. He would have enjoyed those trips to the woods with his father a whole lot more if the command to not move usually had been followed by 'come and watch this awesome thing'. Unfortunately, nature walking for his father tended to involve hunting rifles with long scopes -- but on those days at least that the pheasants were smart enough to stay in their cages and the deer to stay the hell away, he enjoyed himself.

Ariadne's still talking, though -- and it makes sense enough given that whatever is down there probably can't hear what happens above the water's surface anyhow. "I might go for a sunbed or just the lawn myself. Hammocks have this nasty habit of turning over and dropping you at the first wrong movement. However, lazy book afternoons in good company sound like a treat. We'll just put our books on you as we finish them, and wait for the dramatics when you wake up under a mountain of literature."

"You haven't seen how fast I read," puts in Una, vastly amused. "An hour or two, and you'll literally be buried." An exaggeration (surely), but still a funny mental image. "I'm not sure I've ever actually sat in a hammock... I tend to just put a blanket down on the grass."

Like Ravn, Una freezes on cue, her body all-but-vibrating in silent, mostly-still anticipation. "What is it?"

It must not be hyper-critical to be quiet in this instance, though Ariadne still evinces the stillness of a patient heron herself as she squints into the shadow of the rock shelf. She still can't help the chuckling.

"Y'all, seriously, I'll bring my stand-alone hammock and you can see how many books you can stack up on me once I'm passed out," she tells the others with another gleaming and amused glance from under the bill of her baseball cap. "I'm not trying to make anybody's knees cramp up, so move if you need to. It's a red octopus, a juvenile, and it's definitely curious about us too. I don't think I can encourage it to come out and they can still nail you through your gloves, even at this size, but..."

A beckoning gesture as she shuffles to one side. "I might be able to point it out still. It's still young enough to be working on pattern camouflage."

She then points near to a cluster of underwater eel grass, where a scallop shell or three has bunched up and one discarded crab top is inverted. There, tucked and visible via one paused and curling tentacle, more easily spotted by its brick-red-mottled blob of a head, is a little octopus indeed. It would fit nicely in Ariadne's single hand. It sure as hell is not going to do this if it has its druthers.

"Aw, he's adorable," Ravn murmurs. There's something inherently cute about octopu... pi... octopussies. He knows they're pretty fierce predators. Doesn't matter, adorable. "Don't catch him. No need to ruin his day."

Una's, "Oh!" is one of surprise and unbridled joy too. "I've-- that's like the one at the aquarium, isn't it? The one who communicates, and--" She's not a squee'er, but this is probably as close as she gets to it; she's unmistakably pleased.

Beat. "Wait. How does it nail you? Do they bite or sting or something?"

"Oh, yeah, no, not reaching into there and trying to pick him up." A nod of agreement with Ravn and a half-smile for Una. It's possible the marine biologist is thinking about how much an octopus bite hurts; she has to extrapolate having only ever seen another unfortunate soul be subjected to one. "I shouldn't say 'him', I have no idea, too small to identify right now -- and you're right, Una, well done." Ariadne's fellow redhead gets a big grin now. "Same species, yes. The one at the aquarium is about three years old right now. They normally live about five years in the wild, though we could be wrong. The staff of the aquarium leads dives into the Sound during better weather to see about studying the local octopi. It's very cool."

Another lean-in and squint. "They also rehab octopi there, believe it or not. If the critter came in hurt, staff keeps them for ten months or so before releasing the octopus back into the Sound again -- and hell yes, these things bite. They actually have beaks hidden away in the center of their limbs, like a parrot." Holding up a hand like a beak, Ariadne closes it sharply. "Snip. There goes your finger, depending on how big the thing is."

"They bite, don't they? I seem to remember something about them having beaks as powerful as parrots. Which, given how big they can get, can be quite a big parrot, I suppose." Ravn squats on his haunches, to watch the small animal. There is something so inherently alien about them -- like a glimpse into another world entirely.

This creature would probably have felt at home in some of those underwater realities he has seen. That he's visited.

He looks back up. "I know the blue-ringed ones in Australia are deadly, but this little bloke is just grumpy, right?"

Pleased, Una returns Ariadne's grin. Score one for those occasional trips to the aquarium or the science centre, all efforts to broaden her mind while trying not to drown in the mundanity of her life-as-it-was-then. She adjusts the positioning of one foot, the better with which to watch the tiny creature without stiffening up (or worse, overbalancing), tracking it through the eel grass.

"That's so cool," she declares, firmly. "The rehab, and the rest of it too. Not so much the beak-- well, no. I guess the beak is also cool, just not something I'd like to actually experience, I think! Australia has deadly octopuses, really? Figures."

"Oh yeah, our species here in the Sound will nail you hard. I would not want to piss off one of these guys, but no venom. Just a gnarly bite. The blue-ringed ones are..."

Ariadne sighs and looks incredibly sober for a second. "How to put this. You're dead if you get bit. That's it. You have one minute to pray to whatever god you pray to and that's it. No anti-venin exists. And yet, I came across, last week, a picture of some swimmer just...HANDLING ONE WITH BARE HANDS. Like. LIKE. Excuse me, it's -- just -- I can't with that level of idiocy. Like, hi, Grim Reaper, yo, over here, I've got all my glowsticks lit and a target painted on my back and I care about impressing someone more than living to do it again! I can't." She lifts her palms up and blows a hard sigh. "Just leave the things alone. In fact, leave the area. Don't touch the octopi, no matter the species, ever."

The little red octopus' eyes can be seen to turn and consider them in turn. Ravn isn't wrong: there is an alien intelligence there, just shy of sentiency.

Ravn looks up again. "I was warned in not at all questionable terms, about them. The guide was very specific. As in, touch those things, you're dead, lean over and kiss your neighbour goodbye because it's your last chance to kiss anyone. I think he wanted to say kiss your arse goodbye, but there were ladies present."

He looks down at the little guy again. "Also said that they don't go looking for trouble, though. If they don't perceive you as a threat -- maybe that's how those guys do it? Have to admit, I wouldn't want to gamble my life on a small, almost alien intelligence maybe deciding I'm not a predator. With mammals, at least you have some kind of shared frame of reference. These guys might as well be from Jupiter." Pause. "Or more likely, one of Jupiter's moons, aquatic and all. You catch my drift."

Ariadne's passion for this subject makes the corners of Una's mouth curve upwards, though there's something serious in her expression nonetheless: yikes. "I am never going to Australia," declares the woman who has never been further than the state border. Except, also, "Though I don't think I would be stupid enough to just... randomly pick up an animal of any kind, anywhere, so maybe I'd be safe."

Which is more or less what Ravn has said, if differently, and his words earn a nod in reply. "Mammals are from earth, sea creatures are from-- no, no, I know that's not right either. I mean, just generally, I think we tend to be too quick to assume we're the top dog, and forget that this is a big world, and there are a lot of things that just want to do their thing and not be interrupted by us. Why should we get in their way?"

It doesn't mean she's not tracking that-- yes, definitely intelligent-- little red octopus with her eyes. Just in case. You never know, particularly in this town.

Is Ravn getting stared at by the little red octopus?

He's getting stared at by the little red octopus. Look at that tentacle pull back in and curl around a scallop shell. Excuse you, gigantic thing, this is MY shell, you may go be a landlubber elsewhere, GET OFF MY LAWN. Sassy little thing.

"Well said, per kissing one's neighbor. Very diplomatic," Ariadne agrees in dry, dark humor. Her one-sided dimple deepens at Una. "Oh, not everything in Australia wants to kill you. Just...mostly everything. That's still not everything." Only, like, eighty-five percent of all life there.

She pauses, eyeing the little octopus. "...I think it just waved at me."

"No, I'm pretty sure he's giving me the finger. The tentacle. Look, buddy, that's a measuring contest I think I can win." Ravn smirks at the small creature -- and then takes a step back, assuming quite correctly that he'll be out of its range of vision. The predator moving on, losing interest. You get to keep your shell.

"More than enough for me to plant my flag in 'not ever going there'," insists Una, with a shudder. "Snakes and spiders and jellyfish-- I mean, jellyfish are cool but I still don't want to run into any-- and now creepy, deadly octopuses too. Thank you, no."

Beat. "Could be it's waving at Ariadne, and telling you to be on your way, Ravn. I mean--" Big smile.

"Entirely possible it could be both greeting and flipping the bird. Who knows what these critters think from time to time." Ariadne gives the juvenile red octopus a last, lingering, scientist's look right back -- it's definitely briefly hawk-like -- before she too rises to her full height with a grunt. "Man, that's hard on the knees after a few days at work," she laughs before walking herself and her shadow out of the octopus' line of sight. No need to frighten it more at this point.

Looking between her comrades, she thumbs back towards the tide line of washed-up kelp. "Anybody want a break for some water and food? I haven't turned over any rocks, but dry mouth is definitely a thing."

"I'd be up for that, though after our earlier experiences, I'm going to stare oddly at anything that resembles a wiener or a stalk of celery," Ravn says with a laugh. "I'm sorry. You've ruined my brain for the day. I heard Irving make dick jokes. I mean, I regret not bringing a video camera, get me some evidence, because no one will believe it."

He turns with one last glance towards the pool and its irritable little occupant. How like Gray Harbor it is -- there, beautiful in its own way, and so very alien. He wonders if there are giant octopussies in the Marianer Trench. Probably not, it has to be too deep for them to find anything to eat there.

"Sadly, I didn't think ahead and make geoduck cookies," says Una: this is clearly a failing on her part, and will absolutely need to be rectified, post-haste. "Or tentacle'd ones either. I'm sorry to say, my offerings are sadly non-phallic. Lack of imagination on my part, clearly."

All of which is a roundabout way to say: yes, she's very happy to take a break, eat something, and avoid interrupting the wildlife for a little while longer... though the seagulls are almost certainly going to interrupt them in turn.

Also? "Don't ruin my cover. My dick jokes go down so much better when no one expects them..."

"Oh yeah, no ruining the cover. I want to see the expressions on people's faces when Una says things like that. It's half the fun," laughs Ariadne as they begin trekking back across the sand flats. It's still pocked with little clam holes and larger geoduck puckers. Whether they'll make it across without further harassments proves to be seen. "Though..."

Surely the barista's Puckish tone forewarns even before her faux-innocent glance towards Una does the same. "What if you made those cookies after all...? I mean. Who's really stopping you?" Lo and behold, her Wisdom stat temporarily hogtied off to one side. "Nobody's stopping you. They'd be delicious sea-dick cookies." What's being a dignified adult?

"I might choke for real on mine," Ravn murmurs. "Not that you should let that stop you. I'll die laughing."

"See, you say cookies, and now... I just think choux. You want the structure, not just the shape, I think."

Look at Una. Look at Una's eyes glisten with mirth, her mouth twitch.

"And I absolutely want to see people open their mouths wide to eat my cream-filled choux dicks."

Surely seagulls take off somewhere. Sandpipers lift their head in startle. Clams and geoducks alike retreat further into their burrows. That little red octopus bubbles 'WTF' in cephalopoda.

Because that's Ariadne clutching her stomach and howling. Una gains bonus points for making the marine biologist actually pink up at the audacity --

-- and the potential!

"Help, my ribs," is all the redhead can wheeze as she stumbles along, nearly taken down by the visuals her brain is providing.

"I want," Ravn says and fights hard to maintain his dignity, "I want to see you suggest to somebody ... that they eat your... cream-filled choux dick... Please, Lord, let me be there with a camera because this must be saved for posterity. Please don't ask me, I'd probably panic and stuff all of them into my face right there, to hide the evidence."

He still offers Ariadne a hand, though. Gentleman gonna gentleman, even when working very hard to keep a stiff upper lip.

Una beams.

Making people laugh, and at something that was deliberate and not an accidental, innocent comment that turned out to be something more? That's such a satisfying feeling. She may as well be walking on sunshine here, people.

"You mean, at the barbecue this week? I should hand around my plate of choux penises," somehow, that term makes her cheeks pink in a way that 'dick' has not, "and so-innocently encourage people to eat them? I'll do my best."

She's going to laugh her ass off, too.

Nope.

That's it.

Ravn's semi-dignified response has the barista plopping down to her butt on the sand, damp be damned, and continue laughing. She'll need that hand up, but give her a second, please, for the love of god, she can't breathe.

"Oh my god -- do this -- please -- camera -- barbeque -- do it -- "

Half-blindly, still holding her stomach, Ariadne feels around in the air for the gloved hand she saw offered earlier. "I don't know who wins, but here I am, ass in the sand, so somebody wins," she admits of the statement she'd made before they'd gone exploring.

Ravn manages to stop laughing long enough to raise his gloved hand towards Una. "Shared win? Highfive."

Well, a gentle one, because there is no way in fuck this man is slapping his hand hard against anything. Still, it's the thought that counts. "We get to go home and tell the world we had Ariadne on her backside in the sand too, I suppose."

High five. Una is thoughtful enough not to put her weight into it-- really, it's barely deserving of the term 'high five', but fine, it's the thought that counts. She grins, watching Ariadne, watching as Ravn offers her that hand. Just... grins.

"Oh, we'd absolutely better," she agrees. "It's the whole point of the game. Don't die, Ariadne. Breathe."

"Nooooooooooo-ho-ho-ho-ho-ho, you JERKS!"

Ariadne has now pulled her windbreaker hood up around her baseball cap in order to flop on her back on the damp sand. It's the whole point of the game. There she is, incapacitated by blush and humor both, more than likely drawing the attention of one seagull. Collapsed human? Free fries?

"Okay -- okay, god, I can -- I can breathe, shit, my ribs," she says after another few seconds of helpless laughter. Ravn's offered hand is then taken as carefully as possible, given he'll need to put grip and some tug to aid her to her feet, but there, Ariadne's standing again. She doesn't even brush the sand off of her pants because she knows it's a futile effort when damp. "Oh, my god," she then laughs before huffing. "If you both get to say that, I'm going to note that I still have the biggest mollusk and you were both so jealous, you couldn't contain yourselves."

Ravn's grip is firm; he has a touch disorder but he's in good shape overall (never mind the asthma). He's certainly capable of pulling Ariadne to her feet. "We admit our defeat. You have the biggest dick. You are the Webster's poster girl for big dick energy. And yet we got you on your arse."

Cue all the questions at innocent moments, about where sand goes.

Maybe those dicks need some of that sugar that looks like sand, too.

Ravn shakes his head. "You two are a disaster to a man's dignity, and I love it."

"Look," says Una, still grinning. "We aim to please. Ariadne-- yes, fine. Biggest mollusk. I'll make sure and save the biggest of the choux geoducks just for you, I promise, in honour of your superiority."

But now? Now she's gesturing towards their bags because while she does not have geoduck cookies, there's bound to be something delicious there anyway.

"Anyway, dignity is overrated. Dignity is boring."

"'eyyyyyyyyy, dignity disaster! Ding, level up, gurl!" Una is offered not only a sandy-gloved high-five, but a friendly hip-check. Boom. Ariadne then flexes because, well, big dick energy, ladies and gentlemen. She's proud to have it, even if her pose deflates with laughter not so soon after it even comes into being. Like Ravn was going to be left out of the friendly shows of affection: her gloved hand rises and drops, easy to be visually followed, before it brushes along the back of Ravn's hand in turn. Hell, the whole barista brushes past him like a cat winding across the shins of a favored person, there and gone as her strides take her across the sand. Una leads, she follows.

"Dignity is terrible fun to poke fun at, is what it is. Breaking it in order make the person laugh is, in fact, the best," claims she as they approach the totes. No mollusks have attacked again. Apparently, their reputation as bivalve wranglers precedes them now.

"I'm going to remember this day and this conversation word by word," Ravn promises. "And next time my aunts ask how I am doing over there in God's own country -- read, among the unwashed and culture deprived barbarians -- I will recount it, accurately. And then show them pictures."

He curls a finger around Ariadne's for just a moment. Gesture appreciated. The clear visibility of it, and the lightness of it, also appreciated. "Now, however, allow me to be a real man for at least the moment, and ask, where's my sandwich?"

No, he's not looking to get slapped with a geoduck. He'd probably forgive anyone who did, though.

Ooh, well then: another high five! This one is a little firmer, and the hip-check earns a grin, too. And then, yes: all the giggles. "Dignity is made to be destroyed," she insists. "That's what makes it fun. There is no dignity. And if there is, your friends aren't really being your friends, because..." Because.

She pauses, then, half-crouching towards her backpack, and now lifting her gaze towards Ravn, brows raised. "I think, and I don't entirely understand this joke, but it's the one that people use, the correct phrase would be 'sudo where's my sandwich'." Linux jokes, going too far? Probably. "Sit your ass down."

She does indeed have sandwiches-- with a range of fillings, too-- and the ever-to-be-expected cookies.

A whoop of laughter.

"Awwww sheet, Kitchen Cleric done banished your ass to a rock." Like Ariadne's going to do anything else but laugh more anyways, good god. She finds a nearby rock and sits down in order to see about removing her wet gloves. It's a process and she's in no huge hurry to collect up a sandwich until she figures it out; nobody really wants to eat sandy sandwiches. There's a pun here, wait until she figures it out. "You've got to let us know how much pearl-clutching your aunties do though, Ravn! We're probably dragging you down, heaven forbid, into the morass of the ill-mannered." Una is given a conspiratorial grin.

Geoduck cookies, after all.

"I think it depends on whether they latch on to the part where Una is a skilled baker and cook. At that point they might just announce our impending wedding. Finally, Ravn, you've found a woman who knows how to be a lady!" The Dane rolls his eyes lightly. "I mean, there's a reason I want to send them a picture of that damn thing."

Pause. "I can probably find a truly giant one on Wikipedia. And claim I ate it."

"Whole?" wonders Una, innocently. A whole geoduck?

She settles herself, grinning abruptly. To be fair, she hasn't stopped grinning, but there are ups and downs in the process, and this is definitely an up. "Fuck, if I count as a lady, you'd definitely better not send them photos of my forthcoming baking experiments. How many aunts do you have?"

How primly Ariadne sits on her boulder, spine straight, picking the finger of each glove loose in order to finally get the whole damn things off. Sticky sand is awful and she knows she left her little handkerchief in the car, damnit.

Still. Smirk. Fingergun at Una. "Whole -- and send the photos anyways, I want to see if I can hear the distant ocean-crossing screech of dismay at their nephew having fallen so far." Wink for Ravn. "But yeah, how many of these nosy nits do you have wanting to get into your business and needing a nice swat for it?" After all, the barista has staunchly informed that privacy is something she cherishes deeply.

Ravn cants his head and thinks. "I have two immediate aunts -- sisters of my father. And then half a dozen not so immediate relatives and another baker's dozen of not very close relatives, and the only reason any of them cares is, well, the family. Tra-dish-un, you know? If I'd been my own cousin no one would pay any special attention." A shrug. "It's not something I really care about."

Sandwich? Sandwich. How can this man handle food and other sticky substances with those kidskin gloves on, and never get a stain on them? There has to be some kind of cheating going on there.

Una picks herself out a sandwich (even the bread is homemade, because of course it is, nice and fluffy), but she holds it rather than immediately eating it, giving Ravn a thoughtful glance. "Lots of family," she concludes. "And lots of pressure, too, I guess. But less, when you're here, and no one else cares, right?"

Now it's time to bite into the sandwich, and to chew, thoughtfully.

"Distance does work well with convincing family to butt out." Ariadne knows she has no weight a trad-dish-un lingering like a dratted stole about her shoulders, but a sister who wants to know all the gossip yesterday -- and the better to tell their mother in turn? Yes. Quite well, she knows this. Gloves taken off, she then rises and meanders over to the tote to see what the offerings are. A soft 'ooh' because someone does recognize homemade bread when they see it.

Sandwich plucked. "Just know that Una and I would definitely go to bat with you verses these aunties. I like watching the pearl necklaces break and scatter. Very validating." Bite of sandwich, happy little sound. "Damn, Una." Compliment leveled despite chipmunk-cheek of food.

Ravn couldn't chipmunk if he tried; but he takes a good bite, and that if anything is testimony to how relaxed he feels in present company. "Mm, this is good," he confirms; home baked bread is just love, pure and simple. He chews, and swallows, and hasn't even broken anything off to crumble between his fingers. "I have a pretty easy attitude towards it all, not going to lie. Some day, I'm going to get married and have kids -- or I'm not, or I'll get married and not have kids, or whatever. I don't know. Time will tell. And until it does? It's none of their fucking business. If I marry two blokes and retire to a gay ass commune to grow weed up a mountain north of Seattle, it's none of their business. If I die childless, it's none of their business. Somebody else gets to do the familial duty then, and I still don't care."

Big grin. "Easy, innit?" Another bite.

"No questions asked," confirms Una of taking up arms against the aunties, complete with a half-smile that seems to encompass both approval in being in the position to, even hypothetically, support with this-- and seriousness, in that it sucks that even the discussion has to happen.

(She's also smugly pleased at the response to her bread, not going to lie. Ravn even took a bite! Today has been made. As if it hadn't been already.)

"Right," she adds, then. "Yes, exactly. None of their business. No one's business but yours. I imagine that kind of pressure gets easier to deal with with time, yes?"

Given Ariadne does want to hear Ravn's answer about this particular question, she chooses to take another bite of sammich and make another soft sound of contentment. Mmm. If salt air encourages eating pizza, tide pooling must encourage enjoyment of sandwiches.

Golden-hazel eyes under the bill of the cap shift from Una to the Dane as is while she stands easily, hips cocked, her head slightly tilted. A seagull lands a rock or two down from the group and gives them measuring looks. Who's the sucker today? Not the chick with the baseball cap by the look the bird gets. Bring it, fry-burglar.

"Yeah, it does." Ravn nods and glances at the sea gull. Buzz off, this sandwich is his, at least until he inevitably will have to give up halfways (but halfway is better than nowhere for sure). "I worried a lot about it when I was younger. It's hard to not feel like a failure when your friends are all finding girlfriends. Suddenly the blokes you used to share a dorm with are moving into apartments with their girls, a couple of them start to spawn, all that jazz."

He hitches a shoulder. "These days I mostly laugh my arse off on those rare family Skype calls when my uncle and my grandfather are all, it's fine, Amalie, a man can have a son when he's seventy, let the boy have a good time in the States already."

Nor is Una willing to-- no, that's a lie. She breaks off a piece of the crust of her sandwich and tosses it at the seagull because she is exactly that much of a soft touch, of course she is.

"Nope," she says. "That feeling's not even remotely familiar. Every single one of the girls I went to school with have kids already, some of them more than one. It's only been seven years!" Her incredulity is audible. "And here I am... well. It doesn't matter. You're right, of course. You can have a child almost on your deathbed, so no pressure, no rush."

Because she is who she is and scientist, Ariadne cannot help it: "It's true, age never has to be a stopping point. AI is a thing." And no, she doesn't mean artificial intelligence.

That gem being tossed into conversation with all the audacity of a glitter bomb, the barista continues more seriously, "Sounds like we're an entire party country here. I'm down with it." Her grin contains so much dimpling. "And...you're not alone anyways, either of you. Me, over thirty, no kids? What on earth am I waiting for? The parents need grandchildren. Ugh." A grunt of disapproval and she then buries the rest of her thought in her sandwich. Chew chew chew, no feeding the seagulls, go away, Bob.

"No, that's the point," Ravn laughs and looks at Una. "Who the hell thinks becoming a parent at seventy is a good idea? They've missed the point by a mile. If I do end up having kids, it'll be while I'm young enough to be a parent to them -- and I have honestly not even given it much consideration yet. My biological clock is still at 'fresh out of university', I think."

He glances at Ariadne and obviously doesn't get the reference. "AI? I'm not planning to have robot kids."

Firm nod from Una. "Turkey baster," she says. Who said sex was required for procreation?

She's aiming for serious, but-- look, it's not happening: she lets out a giggle instead.

Then, more seriously, "That's valid, of course. What's the point in having children if you're not young enough and healthy enough to actually raise them? That said, the idea that we need to have had them by, what, twenty? That's ridiculous too. There's still plenty of time."

"Turkey baster," echoes the marine biologist with all the scientific sangfroid she can bring to the confirmation. Kids can appear even at seventy.

"And agreed entirely. What ever happened to the idea of waiting until you're not only established enough to support them, but also wise enough to make sure they're raised to common sense, at least? I dunno. I know I'm biased on a few things from how I was raised, but still. Like...do what's best for the kids if you're going to have them. They're kids, not status symbols or wishes," she insists quietly before disappearing into her sandwich again. The food itself is sure to disappear before Bob the Seagull gets any of it. Una is given a beady-eyed look. Hey you, got more?"

A snort escapes the Dane at the thought; turkey baster, oh God. Stuff her well and good.

Ravn sneaks a bit of bread to the sea gull; reward ambition and all that. "Well, that's the thing -- at least to some extent, they are. I don't need to listen to my uncle or grandfather for long to be reminded: A man in my position should have a couple of healthy sons. There's a whole lot of unspoken machismo there: Prove the equipment's working, prove yourself. And it's fucking ridiculous. Not only are we in twenty fucking two, I'm also pretty sure that even in 1950, a man did not run the family business with his dick. Or if he did, it was certainly a different kind of family business."

Whatever, thinks the seagull. You gonna eat the rest of that?

"Mom graduated in June and had me in September," says Una. "I love my mom, but I am very, very pro people waiting until they're settled and can support a kid, physically and emotionally, thank you very much."

Yes, the seagull can have some more bread from Una, too. It's a veritable feast for the gulls today!

"I don't want to be anyone's status symbol. Symbol that-- what, you successfully jizzed?" It sounds especially crude coming from this particular redhead, particularly when layered with her scorn. "That's just gross."

"For real." A firm nod to echo Una's sentiments in particular.

"And nobody needs to prove anything to anyone, not in the long run. That just stinks of a power move and no thank you. Just...we're all adults, we can do as we please with our bodies, whether it's wise or not. It's our choice. Done. That's it. No questions asked. We are the architects of our own demises." She almost, almost, flings her sandwich accidentally talking with her hands. Realizing this, Ariadne visibly composes herself with a throat clearing. "Sorry, soapbox, I'm stepping down from it." Bite sandwich, eat sandwich, ignore seagull. Una's got that covered.

Ravn grins lightly and nods before taking another small bite. "I think that's an achievement most boys have down just fine at the age of thirteen. It's really not a major accomplishment."

He shoots Ariadne a glance; sore spot? Noted. Do not walk on with stompy boots. "Nobody owes their body to anyone else. That's it, that's the tweet."

"That's... yeah, that's pretty much it," Una agrees, nodding in answer to Ariadne's rant, and likely Ravn's confirmation of it, too.

"I think the growing a baby part is pretty impressive, though. Not as a status symbol, because that's gross, but-- biologically-speaking. Because generally, anyone who judges anyone by what they do with their bodies... well, that's what you've already said. So. Yes."

Una eats her sandwich (or what's left of it).

Ravn does earn himself a soft snort despite the topic at hand. Teenagers. Nodding, the barista finishes off the rest of her sandwich and dusts crumbs from her hands even while she's leaning to see what's been brought in terms of drinks. Ooh, soda water, essence of cherry, done.

"Well, in spite of everything, I think we've all turned out just fine, thank you very much," Ariadne claims as she lifts the uncapped bottle in a toast. "...even if y'all have smaller mollusks than me." A bold, brave mouthful of her drink after saying this because...well...retorts are a thing.

"Still not offering to drop my pants and measure," Ravn says, amused, and surrenders yet a bit of sandwich to the enterprising sea gull. "But yes -- of course having an entire child grow inside of you, and then getting it out, I mean, yes, that's one hell of an achievement. Biologically too, even in modern medicine. That's something to be proud of accomplishing if you choose to do it. And that's kind of key too -- that you choose to do it. Teenage boys don't choose to make an effort and cause a miracle -- that shit just happens."

"Just wait until you see my pastry--" threatens Una, which is brave of her since said pastry does not actually exist yet. Can choux be shaped into the shape of a geoduck? Jury's still out, the internet doesn't know, but this is one experiment the Kitchen Cleric is absolutely up for.

"Choice, right. Choosing to be a parent. Choosing to put your body through that. Choosing to handle the geoducks, or similarly shaped things. All the choices!"

Look, there's something about measuring pastries and then Ravn's threatening to drop trou -- no, claiming he won't drop trousers.

Ariadne chooses to attempt to find a proper way to breathe again, given she's inhaled some of the bubbly water. Hack hack wheeze -- it's super sexy, check it out -- wheeeze cough hack hack -- hairball, anyone? -- she'll be fine in a minute by the way she sets her bottle aside and holds up a finger. Please hold, sparkling water down the wrong tube is a ticklish like a hand grenade.

"Choice," the barista then laugh-grits before coughing a few more times. "Yep, that's the most important part. God, y'all are trying to kill me!"

Ravn blinks; the folklorist kind of missed what was the funny there. Was it something he said? It was probably something he said. "Need some water with your water bottle?" he asks innocently, because when you have that kind of effect unintentionally, you might as well take credit.

Una's answering laugh is a merry one, and since she hasn't gone for anything to drink just yet, it's happily not inclined to make her choke, either. She does manage an apologetically concerned glance too, but it-- to her shame-- definitely comes second-fiddle to the whole laughter thing.

"We are, I'm sorry. It's all been an elaborate ploy, and you've just slipped through our fingers yet again. I'd better up the cyanide dose in the cookies."

Turn-about's fair play, right?

For once, Ravn isn't doing the flipping off. It's Ariadne, complete with coughing chuckling into her fist. Touché.

"You were so close! But again, my constitu -- " Cough cough. "Constitution remains strong! At least sic a dragon on me or something, I'd rather go d-down swinging. Cyanide is so boring," the barista claims with what appears to be a final few coughs and a cleared if tickly throat.

"Be careful what you ask for," Ravn murmurs. "They've only just finished repairs to the high school gym after a sixteen tons dragon had a rage fit on it. In this town, dragons are real."

He winks at Una. "But, let us be attentive students. I vote we kill her with kindness."

"Dragons," says Una, sounding halfway happy about it, too. Bets that Una was one of those dragon-loving little girls? The odds are good. "Though I'd prefer my dragons not to be taking off the roof of the high school gym... on the other hand, I never did enjoy gym class."

She peels off another piece of bread from her sandwich, ready to toss it towards the seagull and agrees, "Killed with kindness, yes. I'd argue that's probably one of my specialities. It's a plan, then."

"Oh god, death by kindness -- spare me!" Melodramatic barista hand to brow before she grabs up her sparkling water again. Ariadne notably doesn't take a sip, however, more than likely suspicious of another friend-razzing attempt to make her cough it up again. Sometimes, karma comes after the troublemakers and enablers! "I'll take a dragon over kindness! Kindness is downright seditious," she laughs.

"Still, imagine how a dragon might assist in gym class. How fast can you run that mile? Smaug says FASTER." Trust it to be a Lord of the Rings reference. Now Ariadne risks a sip.

". . . That's almost enough to make me consider taking up PE as a teacher." Ravn blinks. Oh, the uses. Yes. He can see some options here. "And imagine getting funding for research. Smaug says you will give all your gold to the university, and you will thank him for the opportunity."

"... this has potential. That's it: I want a Smaug of my very own. How do I get one, please?"

Una's grinning.

"But it's still death by kindness, I'm sorry to say Ariadne. There's just no escape."

The marine biologist's laugh chimes out over the beach. This time, it doesn't scatter up any seagulls. It doesn't mean there isn't still sand all over the back of her pants.

"I like the idea of twisting the Veil towards good. Kids get healthier, university gets money for further research, I apparently die slowly of kindness. What a way to go. Also, I'm pretty certain your Smaug would be pink, Una," Ariadne notes, grinning still. Another little cough because sparkling water does tickle.

But hey, at least they're all safe from geoducks now. Let the mollusk jokes forever be blackmail and humor alike.