2022-05-10 - Teams, Choices, Decisions

The Pourhouse. It's one of those bars -- a genuine dive bar, the kind that's been here since the 1950s or earlier, when Gray Harbor was a roaring, busy industrial port.

It's still a busy industrial port. Largest coastal shipping port north of California, as it happens. Just doesn't feel that way a whole lot because the shipping happens from the new docks over on the far side of Hoquiam town, not here.

Place like this serves two kinds of crowds: The local folks, flannel shirts and denim, working on the docks, the lumber mills, the various blue collar jobs around town. And the others -- the weirdos who stay around town and seem to have kind of their own little community within the community. The Pourhouse is off Main Street, you can breathe out here, and not have to worry whether any new face right off the bus is -- well, one of your kind. Lost, confused, and badly in need of some help getting settled in, and a hell of a lot of explanations.

Ravn Abildgaard likes it here because the Pourhouse is literally right across the street from HOPE Community Centre, where he volunteers as an organiser. Also, he's buddies with a significant number of those flannels and denim jackets blokes. He's nursing a half-eaten sandwich -- ham and cheese on wheat -- and a pale ale and just kind of lounging in a booth because the tourist season just started and the amount of people who think community centres are actually tourist information offices is surprisingly high.

Food. Because everyone's got to eat, right? And true, the food at the Gas R Up would be deeply discounted due to her employee status, but Charity feels bad enough having to serve the slop to the truckers and tourists unfortunate enough to stop there. No way she's eating it herself. Cast as much doubt on her sanity as you wish, there are some things not even a lunatic would do.

Stepping inside, she peels off the tan long coat keeping the misting not-quite-rain from soaking her slender form, revealing the avant garde ensemble of a pair of low-rise, hip-hugging jeans and a baggy black t-shirt that has the words "En Pointe Studio" in small white text over the left breast and the same in larger font on the back.Running her fingers through her damp, nearly black hair, she glances around for an open table where she might get something hot and filling that doesn't come with a side of salmonella.

Green eyes land on Ravn enjoying his meal and a smirk forms on her face as she wanders over his way. Stopping across the table from him, she raises one finger and taps the air in his direction.

"I know you, right? I know I do. I never forget a face." The smirk fights to stay neutral, though it's obvious it will become a real smile before long. "Mind if I join you?"

Food. Because everyone does have to eat, and now is, indeed, the time of day for eating. Una's some steps behind Charity, opening the door to the Pourhouse after it has closed behind the other woman. She makes her way straight towards the bar, having failed to glance around the room on her arrival, and lounges her forearms atop the slightly-sticky wood as she cheerfully makes her order: just a sandwich, just a soda.

The redhead's wearing black slacks and a dark purple shirt, today, more on the 'professional' side of casual wear. She murmurs something to the person behind the bar, and grins and the response she gets.

Out. Anywhere that is not home. Anywhere there is liquor instead of formula. It was suggested that she get a babysitter, and so that is what Ava has done. A sitter she knows and trusts from the hospital has been found, and now it is time for Ava to take some time for herself and drink all of her thoughts and emotions away. Food? Yeah, she supposes some of that will do as well. She's dressed a little more oddly than usual. To the nines, of course, but there's a little more skin than would normally be shown in the tan, gold, and deep copper outfit that she's sporting today.

The coat is slid off as she steps inside, heels clicking as she heads right for the bar to order. "Hey Una. Great minds must think alike, huh?"

"I forget faces all the time," the tall copper blond returns. "Don't let that stop you from taking a seat, though. Charity, right? Fresh off the bus but a returning prodigal child."

He raises a gloved hand in a friendly wave to Una as well; hard to forget your neighbour's face. Inasmuch as anything is hard to forget in this town where reality does occasionally get rewritten because Somebody, capital S, 'feels like we need more interesting lives'.

He stands out a bit here, black jeans and turtleneck, black blazer, black gloves and all; the man's probably not a lumber mill worker. Next to the last lady to arrive, however? Part of the wall paper. Ava gets a wave as well -- and a half-dozen glances go towards all three because none of them, to be blunt, look like mill workers at all.

"Hot damn, I'm moving over on Oak," mumbles flannel shirt with a salt and pepper bird in the first booth over.

"Don't tell Mary," murmurs his companion, amused.

The blonde girl behind the counter simply asks, "What'll you be having, ladies?"

"Chelsea sick today?" asks Salt and Pepper, distracted.

"Might be, might be none of your business," replies the blonde bartender whose name apparently isn't Chelsea.

Now Charity does lose that fight and a wide grin spreads across her face. As she pulls out a chair and drapes the coat over the back, she glances over in the direction of Ravn's waving and spots the other two women who make up about 90% of the people she's actually talked to since returning to town. Tossing the pair a friendly wave of her own, she lowers herself into the seat and looks back to the man across from her.

"Thanks. So, what do you recommend here?" The question is followed by a careful observation of the crowded room, as if sampling each of the other patrons to see if they're a part of the in-crowd or just average joes enjoying a bit of meal and drink. Then her gaze returns to Ravn. "This is okay, right? I mean, your lady seemed like a cool person, but that doesn't mean she might take offense at the new girl sharing a table with her guy."

Small shoulders shrug just the slightest bit. "Wouldn't be the first time my presence got someone's dander up."

"It's lunchtime, and I'm hungry. Besides, I was getting caught up on some filing at the clinic," because Una takes the work seriously, even-- and perhaps especially-- while Ava's attention is, by necessity, focused on her other priorities. "And I needed a break. You look gorgeous today. How are you? And Nimue?"

To the blonde girl, firmly: "Just a sandwich, cheese and turkey, maybe? And tomato? And a soda."

Now she glances over her shoulder, and wiggles fingers cheerfully towards Ravn and the new arrival-- Charity, yes. Name remembered.

Una's an old hand to the millworkers around here; used to their comments, enough so that most of the time she doesn't even blush. Small steps... or maybe large ones.

"Oh, that reminds me! I had an overnight, emergency clinic visit with a patient a couple of nights ago. I have to write up a list of what I used so we can file that with the supply list stock. I took three of the Oxycodone, so I want to make sure those are accounted for in inventory, especially." Ava smiles at the compliment. "Thank you. I needed to hear that. We're both doing okay. Her maybe more than me."

"Burger, medium well. Cheese, bacon, pickle. Biggest glass of white wine you can muster. Thanks." She grins at the blonde before glancing towards Ravn and Charity to raise a hand in greeting towards them.

The millworkers get a quick glance and a smirk, but nothing more.

"It's fine," Ravn murmurs with a small smile. "Believe me, I know what you mean. My ex-fiancee used to feel like that. It gets problematic, given that about half the people on the planet happen to identify as female."

He glances at the girl behind the counter. "The food's honestly not why people come here. The sandwiches aren't terrible. They have the usual bar foods. Main attraction for the place though? It's right across the street from where I work, and it's not a tourist kind of place." There's plenty room for two more at the booth, and Ravn would probably have made the invitation if he had not been distracted -- by Charity's inquiry, perhaps, or by the man who's walking in the door just now.

In Seattle, he'd probably not have stood out, or at least not have warranted much of a second glance. Tall, mid-twenties, pale. Ice blue eyes touched up with kohl, an elegant three piece suit in coal black, and a top hat to match. A silver earring sparking on one ear -- a tiny bat with ruby eyes.

Mostly, though, it's the way he walks. People dress funny here, that happens. People walk into the Pourhouse and take one look around, and then scoff like they've certainly seen better?

Well, it happens too. Just, not as often.

"Took a wrong turn from the Casino, bud?" That's Salt and Pepper from that first booth, and he sounds decidedly unimpressed.

Charity laughs and nods her head. "Well, I didn't step in thinking I'd get a four-course, Wolgang Puck designed meal. Though, to be honest, that wouldn't completely be out of place in this town, would it? Hell, that'd probably be the least unnatural thing when stacked up to the other stuff I've been hearing since my return."

She turns in her seat, looking at the door as if to see this place Ravn says his job is located, then faces forward again. "As long as I'm not going to get food poisoning, I'm sure I can stomach whatever this place serves. Plus, if I add enough whiskey as a chaser, I'm sure it'll kill anything that survives the cooking process."

The arrival that causes more than one person around her to look at the door leads her to looking as well. After a few seconds of taking in the appearance of the young man who decidedly looks less like the rest of the crowd than the dancer herself, she turns back to Ravn with a curious expression.

"Someone I should know?"

"Ah!" says Una, nodding quickly-- very quickly, very enthusiastically-- in reply to Ava's information. "I'll check on that as soon as I've finished with lunch, promise. The oxy, and if I see anything else, but we can add it properly when you get that list done. There's a few things that need re-ordering, too; I'll get on top of that."

Her coke gets slid across the bar towards her, and she accepts it graciously, exchanging drink for cash and turning, just in time to see Mr Top Hat enter. "Whoa," she says, sotto voce. "Seen him before? That's a hell of a suit."

Wine glass poured, Ava takes it with eager hands. For someone who used to claim that she didn't drink a lot, she sure has been drinking a lot lately. Things change. Money is placed down, a nice tip included. "I'll be over at that table," she lets the blonde bartender know. "Just call out in that direction when it's ready if you don't want to haul it over and I'll come grab it."

"You're a lifesaver, Una. Thank you." It looks like Ava's about to head over to join Ravn and Charity when the suited man walks in. A brow arches, taking in the outfit. "The suit is divine. The hat is too much. Unless you're going to a formal ball or wedding, there's no occasion for it."

"Not somebody I've seen around," Ravn returns to Charity, equally quiet, and then looks at his beer instead because really, it's rude to stare.

The man really does look dashing. Dapper, even. A small fortune must have gone into the fitting, and the accessories -- the sterling silver vest chain, the lorgnette that dangles from a pocket, the lapis lazuli and silver brooch on the hat's silk band, in the shade of a tiny peacock, the smooth silk gloves.

He fixes blue eyes on Ava. "Live life like every day is a special occasion, madame." A small flourish, and he adds, "Raven Dearheart, at your service. Pray tell, what is possibly worth drinking in this -- place?" The accent is indeterminable. Not quite British, not quite Boston, not quite Central Europe.

In his booth, Ravn quickly focuses even harder on his beer in order to not laugh. And in the first booth, Salt and Pepper mumbles, just loud enough that everyone hears, "Your tears, bud."

Charity nods in response to Ravn's acknowledgement that the dapper dressed man is as much a stranger to him as he is to her. Turning back around in her seat, green eyes focus on the out of place individual, examining him from shiny shoes to outrageous top hat. She tries to keep her face set in a completely neutral, non-judgmental expression. However, Ava's comment causes an amused grin to form. One that Charity hides by turning away from the man.

Composure is further complicated by both the stiff, uppercrust response from the stranger but also the comment coming from the gruff man who decides to answer the stranger's question. She doesn't exactly laugh per se. Mostly because Charity's response is to fold her arms on top of the table and bury her face into them.

Una, all set to trail after Ava, hesitates, giving the newcomer a quick up-and-down as if to reassure herself that, no, this really is exactly what she's seen. "It's more of a beer place than anything fancy," she puts in, managing to keep a straight face despite the ridiculousness of the man. A quick glance to Ava follows, the other woman probably being better suited to answering this question. "Una Irving. I'd recommend the Lion Tamer porter, if you don't mind a beer; it's a good one. Otherwise..."

"Dearheart. That is quite dear," Ava offers with a charming smile, the picture of etiquette. "A pleasure to meet you Mr. Dearheart. I'm Dr. Ava Brennon. This is my dear friend Una. I'm not sure she wishes her last name to be given so freely, so I'll save that for her to introduce. I'm sure a gentleman like you will understand." Wine glass in hand, she glances back towards the bar.

"Una is right, the place is know more for it's beer than anything else, honestly. I'd go with her suggestion for beer. If you're a whiskey man, you'd ask my friend Ravn over there, as he's a bit of an expert on the subject. If you prefer wine, like myself, go with the house white." She offers a cheers gesture before taking a sip. It helps to hide the faint smirk.

The look Ravn sends Ava goes to the tune of why me, how could you.

The man in black takes a look at the other man in black. His face twists momentarily as if he'd accidentally tasted something reprehensible and had to swallow quickly lest he offend the hostess; maybe it's the fact that some would consider the other spelling of the same name even more edgy.

"Yes, thank you," he brushes past. "I'll take the opinion of this charming young lady. What, pray tell, would a flower such as yourself recommend to me, on such a beautiful day in such a mediocre little town?"

"Who, me?" The blonde behind the counter blinks. "Look, I'm not even the regular bartender. I don't know jack about whiskey."

The gentleman draws a gloved hand over his face; his expression reads loud and clear, "Do people in this town even want to make a sale? Pour me one on ice before I lose my temper, girl."

"What the fuck is wrong with this guy?" That's the salt and pepper-bearded man getting up -- he can't do a table flip given the booth tables are riveted to the floor, but it's certainly close enough.

Charity still has her face pressed into her arms, but from the way her shoulders shake, it's more than apparent she is laughing and doing her damnedest to not be loud about it. A feat compounded when she hears Ava suggest that Mr Dearheart speak to Ravn about whiskey selections.

The silent guffawing might have gone on for a bit longer. However, when the voice of the new arrival changes into a less cordial tone, and the local nearby expresses his displeasure, the shaking immediately ceases. That's when her head comes back up, swivels over to look at the bar, and the jovial expression drops for something that is much less ... Charity.

Una's smile, initially so pleasant and warm, falters somewhat as the edgy newcomer brushes past and turns his attention to the poor girl behind the bar. She lifts her gaze to eye Ava, wide and wary, then shrugs, and continues on towards the booth where Charity and Ravn sit, coke in hand. "What a weirdo," she murmurs, sliding in to the booth alongside Ravn. "Weird in dress, and now, just plain rude in attitude."

Another glance, over her shoulder. "Think we're headed for trouble?"

It's the morning, so where else would Willow be, why the bar, of course, this woman really has a problem. She pushes open the door, stepping fully through, the cigarette that is held between her lips moving to her fingers as she brushes some of the drops of rain from her jacket. Her gaze falls over the room, a nod given to those she recognizes, though her steps take her towards an empty seat and if she has anything to say about it, a pint of beer.

Ava shakes her head and goes to follow Una, but there's a sudden pause at that less than friend 'girl' comment that he just made. Ava takes a sip of her wine, and anyone watching her face can probably see the numbers counting down in her head as she tries to find her calm. Find iiiiit. Nope. It's not there. She's had a bad week. Half of that glass is finished as she turns on her heel, voice still eloquent and soft, "Oh, I do hope that wasn't you talking to a lady in such a manner, Mr. Dearheart. I had the impression you were a gentleman. A true gentlemen would never be so crass."

They're headed for trouble.

In the second booth, Ravn glances towards the redhead who just appropriated a chair at the counter in order to place her order; there are only so many people in town with that special something about them, and he likes to try to keep at least some kind of track of who's who. This face is not familiar. He needs to remedy that at some point except --

"The fuck you say?" That's the salt and pepper-bearded mill worker from booth one. It's a somewhat stupid question because the man in the top hat and the outrageously expensive three-piece suit hasn't managed to say anything after his last yet. Maybe it doesn't matter; somebody has had a bad day and some faces are made for punching.

Mr Dearheart -- if that's even the man's real name -- shoots Ava a glance of contempt and a hint of disappointment; the only person here dressed with style and then she has to go be a party pooper. He inclines his head stiffly at her. "I suppose when walking among the mentally destitute, one must not use too complex words."

His attention shifts to the blonde at the bar. "What are you waiting for? I ordered."

"Sure," says she. "And I told you I know jack all about fancy whiskey." She turns around and reaches for the top shelf -- a random bottle, though at least in the high end of the price range. Southern Comfort is expensiver than the local Dead Skunk which is brewed by Mr Martin over in Hoquiam, on a license that may or may not be legit.

"Sit your ass down, Jake," says one of the mill worker's friends. "Snot like that don't come in here unless as they got something up their sleeve. Ain't worth it, don't fight some Seattle kid out blowing daddy's money."

Those green eyes narrow dangerously as she studies Mr. Dearheart's back. Almost as if trying to decide where the best place to stick a sharp object might be. When Una places herself across from her, however, Charity's head turns and the emotion swirling around in her eyes seems to soften a bit as some bit of color spreads across her cheeks.

"What an asshole," she murmurs. She doesn't exactly yell it across the room, but she's also not bothering to whisper either.

A flick of her eyes to the right brings Willow into focus. The redhead is recognized from the docks the other evening, when Charity was talking to a couple of new people. She'd left before Charity could introduce herself and so Willow gets just a simple nod of acknowledgment.

But then the stranger is turning that ire onto Ava, someone who's re-welcomed Charity to this strange town and that anger returns. One tiny hand balls into a fist as she looks from the scene to Ravn, one brow arching as if to ask if they are going to get involved or not in the incident. For all she knows, crap like this is not unusual and the pretty doctor is more than a match for whatever is coming.

"Asshole," agrees Una, who swings around properly to keep an eye on what's going on, her drink coming with her: she sips at it, frowning. Willow is vaguely familiar, but honestly, most of her attention is on Ava, the strange man, and the poor girl behind the bar. "Tourist? But a fucked up one. The clothes alone... and then the attitude."

Oh, is there an argument in progress? Maybe that's why Nicasia pushes through the door at this particular moment in time, like the patron saint thereof. She looks only the tiniest bit disheveled, hair slightly everywhichway in a curlygirl problem sort of way possibly aggravated by an attempt to comb it with her fingers that she at least realized was just going to make it worse. She gets inside and then stops a step or two in to look around, the slow roll of her gaze picking out the familiar quick enough. Familiar faces, yes. Familiar moods, maybe. For this moment she stays there though, perhaps deliberately, perhaps deliberating.

"Yes, well, since I'm sure you just used up all the complex words you know in that one sentence, I'm sure you'll fit it just fine with the rest of the crowd from here on out then. Hm." Ava tilts her head a little at that, her expression full of condescension as she takes another slow sip from her glass. "Well. Perhaps not. The folks in here are hard working, salt of the earth, good people. You. Well." Her eyes trail him up and down again.

"Trash with no manners in a nice suit and all the money in the world is still just that; Trash."

Ava has made sure there's enough distance between her and Raven that she can make sure he doesn't get too close before she can act in case he decides to try to pull something. But for the moment she stands just where she is, sipping her wine, looking quite vexed with the man. "Since we clearly aren't to your taste, and you clearly aren't to ours, I'd be happy to pay for your drink. Then you can be on your way. I assure you there are other establishments around better suited to the type of person that you assume that you are."

Beer claimed, cigarette back in her lips, Willow turns and watches as chaos unfolds, pure enjoyment shining in her eyes, New York has nothing on this place, that's for sure. She however, doesn't get directly involved, probably because she has no idea what the hell is going on, but she can still enjoy the show. One leg crosses over the other at the knee and she leans back, waiting to see what will happen next.

The blue eyes of the man in the top hat widen. Comically. For a moment he gapes like a goldfish. Whoever he is, whoever he thinks he is -- it's not someone who's used to being talked to like that. There is not enough aloe vera in the universe to mend that burn.

It causes Jake -- the salt and pepper-bearded mill worker -- to hug himself, laughing like a hyena. He got up to throw down and that posh doctor slash coroner beat him to it, and it's worth every cent. He's going to be telling his grandchildren about that time at the Pourhouse, shoulda seen the fucker's face, that's what a man looks like when he's being verbally emasculated.

You could hear a pin drop. Easily. It wouldn't even have to cough to get attention before jumping.

Ravn doesn't get around to replying to Charity's quiet inquiry because he is chewing his lip to keep from laughing out loud; that's going to smart in the morning.

And Mr Dearheart?

After another few seconds he manages to do what he apparently does very well: A bad decision.

"How dare you? Who are you supposed to be? Do you know who I am? I could buy this place and have you fired!" Apparently the man thinks Ava works here -- never mind the fact that she's just now receiving her glass of wine like the patron she very obviously is.

The girl behind the counter blows bubble gum. The pop is loud like gun smoke. "I'ma have to call somebody?"

Una's still watching; she's silent, now, though Ava's retort has pushed an undeniable grin across her face: go Ava, go Ava!

It's definitely nothing to do with her, the way that whiskey knocks itself over, sending sticky liquid spraying in Mr Dearheart's direction. (Throwing it in his face might be more fun, but possibly a little too dramatic).

Una's mouth twitches, merrily.

"That poooooooor man."

Charity seems ready to get up and apply her own version of customer service on Mr. Dearheart. Of course, that's when Ava unleashes a verbal smackdown on the snotty jerk that leaves the newcomer with a set of wide green eyes and a jaw that immediately goes slack. Is this the same person who welcomed her onto the porch and treated the unknown arrival like a friend?

Mental note, do not get on her bad side. Charity wholeheartedly agrees with the assessment.

Then the gruff man starts to laugh. Guffaws, really. And when she looks over at Ravn, she sees he's doing his best to not follow suit. A few more blinks and then she's sniggering behind the slender fingers of one hand. The titter's volume increases when the dandy man begins with the "Do you know who I am spiel".

However, the whiskey splatter that follows definitely causes her laughter to cease abruptly.

Familiar, familiar, top hat, familiar, stranger, stra... top hat? There's a very obvious doubletake on Nicasia's part and she comes back to the fellow in the weird get-up just about in time to see the whisky tumbler tumble all over him and her head tilts very slowly to one side. She just sorta stares for a moment before finally giving up and making for the bar. The other side of it. And then Mr. Dearheart is talking and she grinds to a halt again to eye him some more. This isn't even casual, this is straight up staring, like she'd be cutting him up if she had a knife.

"Oh gosh." It looks for a moment like Ava might apologize. But no. "I didn't realize you were that daft. Do I need to speak more slowly for you? That does explain the top hat, I suppose." A hand lifts, gesturing. "Doctor. Doctor Ava Brennon. Do you remember that? From a few moments ago, when I introduced myself? Or did you think I had my PhD is mixology?" Her lashes flutter as she studies him, giving him just enough time to stutter, but not enough time to actually answer.

"/I/ could buy this place. That means nothing. To me or to anyone here." Another sip of wine as those bright eyes stare at him over the rim of her glass. Refueling.

The drink goes tumbling, and Una's voice calls out, letting Ava know exactly who was responsible for said tumble. Thattagirl. "Oh. Goodness. Even our alcohol wants nothing to do with you. You really should just go. Though. I suppose if you really wanted to stay and fight..." Ava tips back the rest of her wine and sets the glass to the side, staring at him. Then she carefully steps out of her heels. "I'd be happy to emasculate you a little more in front of the crowd. Winner keeps the top hat."

Whiskey goes flying. Dearheart stares -- really, that man ought to change his moniker from Raven to Koi -- and gapes, and stares. He is very obviously not used to somebody talking back at him. He's also very obviously not used to the person talking back not giving a flying fig what he thinks he can or can't buy.

"Place's not for sale," says the blonde bartender laconically and pops her bubble gum.

"I'm gonna tear this fucking -- " Jake bristles, but his buddies haul him back down a second time. "Watch the show, man," says one. "Sounds like she had a shitty week too, buddy," the other agrees. Don't get between an angry redhead and the piece of meat she's about to chew up; sound life advice right there.

Who threw that whiskey?

Nope, not the bartender. Nope, not Ava. Nope, not the ceiling. It threw itself, it seems.

And then the door opens again, and a light -- bubbly, even -- older woman's voice announces the arrival of a woman in her early fifties; she looks so remarkably normal that she's almost invisible; mom jeans, a nice blouse, a nice coat, a pair of flats suitable for playing tourist in a strange little town, and a camera hanging above her little fanny pack. "Daaarling? Rodney, dear, stop bothering the nice locals. We have a ship to catch."

Willow blinks, giggles, bites her cheek to keep from full out laughing, okay, that doesn't work. A sip of beer, nope, and soon she starts to laugh quietly. This couldn't get any better, except when the wife comes in, which causes her to laugh louder, even though she desperately tries to hide it behind her mug of beer.

The scene is getting more farcical by the second. Charity looks from the jerk to Ava to Una and Ravn and back like her head is on a swivel. Then Ava unleashes another volley of verb abuse on the man and now Charity is laughing. Loudly and unabashedly. She's not worried about her friend's safety. Even if Ava couldn't back up her words physically, Charity has no doubt Jake and a few others would be more than capable of defending her. So Charity just enjoys the show.

The arrival of Rodney's ... companion, gets her to pause long enough to look over at the woman. Then she turns back to spot Willow giggling behind her beer and the dark-haired girl loses it again. Burying her face in one hand, she waves the other around as she shakes her head. "I .. can't... even...." Is about all that can be made out through the cackling. Who needs alcohol? This is so much better entertainment while being sober.

The arrival of Mrs. Dearheart is the cherry on the cognitive dissonance cake. Nicasia's gaze shifts slowly from the strange suit to the cliche tourista and she stares there for a few more moments like she almost but can't quite place her. It's fully ten or fifteen seconds of this before she finally moves again, finally gets to the bar. There's no one in particular to ask, but she asks anyway, "So really if this were some crazy ass Dream, capital D, one of you would tell me, right?"

For whatever reason she finds none of this even remotely amusing. Uncomfortable, maybe. Disturbing, sure. Something about Raven - Rodney? - keeps dragging her attention back and not in the let's be friends way.

Una's little snort of laughter is for Ava's retort, though she largely controls herself... right up until the older woman arrives. That's when the giggles escape in earnest, to the pint where she has to drop her head to the table to try and bury it.

Raven -- make that Rodney -- Dearheart has just one thing to say. From the depths behind that handsome young face rises a petulant: "MOM!"

"If this were a capital D dream, and I just wasted all that energy on some fake asshole, I'm going to be so annoyed. I'm fairly certain it isn't, though." Ava is slipping back into his shoes. "You take care now, Rodney. Rodney's mom, pleasure to meet you." She offers a genuine smile for the mother. There's a click of her jaw as Ava starts to stride with her empty glass over towards the bartender, leaning against the bar and setting the glass on top.

She's avoiding the spilled whiskey of course. "Top me off, please. Round for bar on me, too. For having to put up with that ass. Don't worry, you can put a nice tip on there for yourself for the trouble."

Once she's got her drink, she gestures with her chin towards the table that Ravn, Una, and Charity are at. A sign for Nicasia and Willow to follow.

Willow reaches up to wipe the tears away, okay, that was awesome. She hops off of the stool after putting out her cigarette, bringing her beer with her, and walks over to the indicated table, sliding into a new seat, "That was one of the funniest things I have ever seen." she offers to those at the table, her eyes still full of laughter, even if she has managed to get the sound under control.

The expression on Raven -- Rodney -- Dearheart's face is crestfallen. You ever wanted to see a man invest hours and money into building up an identity, to convince even himself that he can actually pull off being -- whatever it is he's cosplaying as, probably some kind of vampire -- only to have his bloody mum walk in and call him out on it.

The humiliation is real. Buy stock in aloe, friends. There's going to be a market for years.

He gapes.

He searches for words.

"Rodney," says the woman who is his mother, a bit determinedly, and glances at her watch. "Rodney Smith, we have to be on that cruise boat in an hour and you are dawdling. Go wait in the car, I'll pay your tab."

Defeat has never slunk off so fast, so -- well, defeated.

Poor Rodney. If Una were paying attention (and she's not), she might even feel a little sorry for him.

Instead, there's the sound of Ava's heels on the floor, and this brings her face up off of the table, the giggles still twitching about her mouth. "Ava, that was incredible," she says, and as she does, turns a smile towards Willow as well. "I almost feel bad for the guy. Almost. Who pulls a stunt like that, though, seriously? I don't care who anyone is... I mean, he deserves everything he gets, right?"

Whatever specifically Nicasia orders, it's some kind of whiskey - probably not the stuff that ended up spilled all over Rodney - and measured out with three fingers, because apparently today is going to be that kind of day. Worse, she swallows some of it down and then waits for what she drank to be replaced before she abandons the bar and goes off toward the table, almost as worse for the wear as the poor kid in his costume.

She nabs a chair from an adjacent table, hooking the leg with her foot and nudging it until's come forward enough that she can sit down on it that way, can lean forward against its back. "Do you get a lot of costumed nutjobs or should I go buy a lottery ticket?"

"He was lucky it was me and not Jake or he would have gotten pulverized. Dumb guy." Ava doesn't feel bad. She's just glad the guy didn't make a move towards her, because that would have gone poorly for him. Then she would have felt bad when she realized what all of his posturing actually was. This was just a nice lesson in humility.

"I'm glad you guys got a kick out of it, though. That was very therapeutic." She smirks at Nicasia and shakes her head. "First time I've seen something like that, myself. I just thought he was some prick."

"I might need another moment." Ravn manages to stop biting his cheek long enough to get the words out. Then it's back to laughing silently, helplessly into his beer and his half-eaten sandwich. "Christ on rollerskates, what an entitled arse."

He smiles at the redhead whose face is still unfamiliar and then manages to calm his laughter enough to get out, "Hi, Ravn Abildgaard. That's Ravn. Definitely not Raven. Means the same thing but unlike poor Rodney there, I am baptised that way."

The copper blond sips his beer and scoots further into the booth to make room for everyone. "It's a tourist town. We don't get a lot but it happens. People go away to somewhere, act out their fantasies in a place they think no one's going to take pictures or talk about back home. Most of them don't ... bring their ... mother to cover their bills." Excuse him a moment, back to snickering.

A new smoke is put between her lips and she lights in, inhaling and then blowing the smoke to the side before answering, first to Ravn, "Willow Jacobs, just moved here a couple of weeks ago, and I must say, this town has proven to be entertaining if nothing else." An easy smile staying on her lips, she looks over the other people at the booth, "Nice to meet everyone, or re-meet as the case might be."

Ravn's continued laughter means that Una, too, keeps letting out little bursts of mirth as well: it may take a little longer to get past that. "That's the first mock-vampire I've seen in town," she adds to the conversation, resting both forearms upon the table surface and shaking her head in continued amusement. "I guess it makes sense, though. Try out your new persona somewhere away from your usual life. I just... I think he may need to work on that one a bit more, you know?"

Una acknowledges Nicasia with a drop of her chin, and the faintest hint of recognition, then reclaims her coke for a sip through the straw. Still, she pauses at that, too, turning a hesitant look at Willow. "You do know it's illegal to smoke indoors in this state, right? I'd really appreciate it if you... didn't."

It's like there's an in-joke here that Nicasia just isn't getting, but look, someone at the table has to be serious. Maybe she just hasn't had enough to drink yet. Maybe she's had too much to drink already. Somewhere in that balance, anyway, she shakes her head. "Well. If you all are sure that one was actually just a pretend vampire who needs his mother to bail him out of bar fights, then... that one was actually just a pretend vampire who needs his mother to bail him out of bar fights. But hey. Aren't we all here trying out new personas any from whatever counts as normal life?"

"Oh, absolutely. There's -- deciding to give yourself a little personality make-over, maybe change a few things you don't like, not making a few of the usual mistakes," Ravn suggests. "And there's making up a new name, a ridiculous costume, and walking in with a stereotypically fake East European accent, though."

He winks at Nicasia. "I mean, my name is Raven too, technically. And I wear black too. I even have an accent. But I promise you that unless you get a necromancer involved, my mum's not going to turn up to cover the bill for me. I'll have to clean up my own mess."

No, she didn't realize that, and she quickly puts the cigarette out, smiling meekly, "Sorry, I didn't realize." Blushing in embarrassment, she just concentrates on her beer, oh look, bubbles. Fingers come up to smooth back her hair and she looks from her beer to the table, to the rest of the room, falling silent again, going back into listening mode.

"Let's go ahead and not involve any necromancy. I'm good as long as that stays a myth. Okay, thank you." Says the coroner with big eyes. Ava's head just gives a firm shake. Her mouth opens to say something else before the phone chimes. She glances down. "Oh, that's the sitter. I have to take that." The wine is left on the table as Ava waves and scampers outside to take the call where it's a little more quiet.

"It's fine," says Una, quickly, her smile a reassuring one, whether or not Willow sees it; she looks just a little apologetic, particularly when the other woman seems so discomforted by it. Una knows exactly what that feels like, after all.

On the other hand, that's not enough to stop her from leaning in to the conversation, which mostly means leaning back against the backrest of the booth's bench seat, both hands wrapped around her glass. "There's changing up a few things," she agrees, "and then there's standing out like a ridiculous Hollywood cliche, and throwing your weight around. It's funny, I think. Of all the things in this town... I'll take my moments to laugh, I think."

Nicasia lifts two fingers in a kind of wave at Ava before asking, "Where do you find a babysitter for a blue baby?" It's almost a rhetorical question, and she's almost out of whiskey already and may be regretting not having stayed at the bar. There is a sidelong look at Willow, briefly assessing, but it has nothing to do with the cigarette and more, "See, you say this, and yet if I think about the odds of two incidences of random cosplayers in top hats and two incidences of inconvenient people with not-quite-British/not-quite-Bostonian... what do you call it? Trans-Atlantic? accents in the span of about a week I'd end up with a headache and a nose bleed. I'm professionally paranoid."

Ravn throws a searching look Nicasia's way. Something clicks. He nods. "Don't think this arse is connected to the situation on the docks. He was certainly outrageous enough but -- Veil creatures don't tend to bring their mum. Grendel possibly excepted."

What? He's a folklorist, sue him.

"Wait," says Una. "Two? Situation on the docks?" 'Grendel' earns a twitch of her mouth, even so. Someone has seen at least one of the films, because chances are she hasn't actually read the poem.

"Her dad's been helping, but I'm not sure who else she's hired," she adds, presumably referring back to Ava. "Aside from me, and I'm clearly not currently babysitting Nimue."

"Unless his mum is also a Veil creature and came to round him up before he got his ass kicked," Nicasia counters. She is not a folklorist. She may not even know who Grendel's Mom is.

Her fingers spider over the rim of her glass like she's debating whether another round is worth all the trouble it'll cause before she allows, "There was an attempted kidnapping or something down on the docks the other night. Some of the local thuggery. A Serbian or two. And some dandy motherfucker in a suit and a top hat with a swordcane and two, count them two, goons in colorful jumpsuits, like extras loaned out of some B-grade super villain lair." This would be funny if she were just a little bit amused. But she's not.

Also this is maybe not the important part because, "And apparently one C. Haggleford maybe sounds an awful lot like that kid." Another thought occurs to her, winning Ravn another look. "Wait, is he like the boogyman? If I say his name three times in front of a mirror is he going to appear?"

"Haggleford is some kind of other side asshole who traffics people." Ravn keeps it blunt. "I was talking to Mikaere this morning about it -- via text because the ICU wouldn't let me in to see him since I'm obviously not his mum. By now I think it's pretty safe to assume that if somebody looks like a Hollywood cliché displaced in time -- yes, they might be his goons, trying to blend in. But they're usually more determined, and quite frankly, don't hang around bars to try to impress the bartender. There's a job to do, in and out, that kind of thing."

He sips his beer. "As for the Serbians -- there's a gang in Spokane that keeps getting involved in this, somehow. Don't think they have any idea what they're dealing with. Hired hands."

Charity returns to the table from the restroom, where the peals of laughter the situation brought had sent her. Sliding back into her seat, she glances around with green eyes that are slightly bloodshot from giggle tears at the rest before looking over at Una.

"Did Ava leave?" She asks, though the question is rather moot. She didn't see the doctor in the ladies room and she's not at the table or at the bar. Ergo, she left, genius.

Leaning back in her seat, she worries at her lower lip as she tries to catch back up to the conversation.

So Una's good humour? It has slipped away through her fingers, disappeared as much as one 'Raven Dearheart' has: she frowns. "Ava's Haggleford? The one... well, fuck. Okay, so we actually should be more cautious around people who look like that." It's an uncomfortable conclusion, one that has her glancing over her shoulder at the door through which poor Rodney disappeared, though it's safe to assume that he was, indeed, completely ignorant of that connection.

She's disrupted from that train of thought by Charity's return, and gives the other woman a somewhat wan smile. There's less laughter, now. "She had a babysitting emergency," she explains.

Pulling out her phone from the pocket of her jeans, Willow shoots off a quick text, the phone then getting placed back down on the table. She, however, beyond that continues to listen quietly, all of the information about void creatures and boogie men sparking her interest, now only if she had her paper, hopefully she will remember it all.

"Hence why I'm trying to figure out if I just have really spectacular luck meeting the well-dressed weirdos, or if the well-dressed weirdos are all in some sort of inner circle of strangeness that I was just missing out on," Nicasia allows. Since it's the latter - or seems to be the latter - she relaxes a little, folding her arms along the back of the chair instead.

She looks up when Charity returns and offers a little lift of her chin by way of greeting. The babysitting emergency excuse is allowed to stand. "It's fine. This is all fine. I wasn't using my liver anyway."

Ravn upnods at Charity as well; there's still room at the booth. "I suppose that according to some, I am one of those well-dressed weirdos but I assure you that while I have an accent, it's not fake-Romanian." He still seems amused; maybe if you stay around here long enough you learn to grab your laughs.

He toys with his beer bottle; the sandwich is probably not going to be finished unless somebody else volunteers to clean his plate. "You guys stopped them from carting off those kids, though. I mean, it's easy to lose track and feel like we never win. But we do. Those five kids are going to go home and have normal lives and not end up in some pool of lost, disembodied souls in another world, because of you guys." He looks at Nicasia. "May not have saved the world, but I'd argue you saved their world."

"Oh," Charity says with an obvious note of disappointment. "Guess I'll swing by and talk with her later." Of course, she does not elaborate on what the subject of said talk might be, but instead returns Nicasia's upnod.

"I don't believe we've met yet. I'm Charity." She then smirks at Una and Ravn. "Original resident back after an extended absence. Though I'm starting to wonder if that's good or bad."

A concerned look is given to Ravn when he mentions a stopped abduction. "So that story is true? Something from Outside tried to take some kids?" A visible shudder runs through her slender frame.

"Your... concern makes more sense now," says Una, wrinkling her nose and acknowledging Nicasia's explanation. This is serious; her concern is genuine. "I hadn't heard. I guess I should pay more attention to the local paper, huh? Fuck. Ravn's right, though: if there are kids that got away," and this is all new information, so she's picking it up as she goes, "then that's absolutely something."

And, for Charity: "Just roll with it." It's rueful. "That's all you can do, I think."

Nicasia lifts one shoulder in a shrug that angles to be dismissive, like it was no big deal. "Honestly, if..." oh thank you Ravn "...Mikaere," see she finally got it! "hadn't put on his white hat and stepped out to parlay it probably would've gone down a little bit differently. I can't say that all's well that ends well because it absolutely did not end well for some people and..." And she trails off there, gaze sliding away. A long, long, long away away.

It comes back so that she can focus on Charity. "Ah. Welcome back. Nicasia Aldrich, also an original resident, back after an extended absence. You let me know if you figure out whether it's good or bad, huh?" There is finally an attempt at a smile, though it is a little bit sharp and a little bit crooked.

"Mikaere did say he'd gone and made a target of himself." Ravn nods. Then he shrugs. "I mean, what are you going to do? Whoever did call the cops in probably saved lives. They had to get the hell out of there and leave no supernatural evidence."

Looking at her phone, she sighs and puts it back away, "So, what actually happened?" She finally speaks up, enough listening. Her gaze falls over the different people at her booth, waiting for some kind of answer that might sate her curiousity.

"As soon as I know, I'll let you know. As long as you'll do the same." Charity nods at Nicasia, as if sealing a pact. Then she looks at Ranv. "Kids going missing wasn't a new thing fourteen years ago. Though, most of them time we thought it was just said to scare us into behaving. If it really is an Outsider, I want to help."

She shrugs. "If I don't offer, we might as well go back to Memphis."

"Is that an implication that it would have gone better, or worse?" Una wants to know. She's still only sipping at her coke, sadly sober, but the girl from the bar is on her way over now with Ava's burger and Una's sandwich both. The redhead hesitates, then steals a fry or two from Ava's plate, before picking up her own sandwich. Alas, the perils of being sensible.

"No, you should definitely offer to help, Charity," she adds, including the other woman in the conversation, and acknowledging Willow at the same time. "He's from the Other Side, we think. Stealing people for... reasons of his own, I guess. Kidnapping. Murder, basically. I'm against that kind of thing." It's a statement of the obvious, perhaps, but Una's voice is intent and intense.

What did actually happen? Nicasia is quiet for a moment, reflecting on that, but after a moment she shakes her head. "Honestly? I don't think anybody got out. Except for Myles and maybe that girl." Whoever that is. It's incidental. "Near as I can tell everyone else got bussed out, our side and theirs, though more of theirs were bleeding. Or. You know. Smoking." Oh thank goodness the girl from the bar. "Hey, can I get another one of these? Thanks."

Then, "Is he really from the Other Side?" This rouses her curiosity. "Or is he from here, and somehow got Over There? Because he's been here for a while. One of these days I'm going to tie Ava to a chair and she's going to tell me what she knows, but we got a hit on him from 1915 or something. Or is this common for Veil-things?" That headache she was talking about might be settling in. Her hand comes up so she can scrub at her face, anyway. "Naw, don't go back to Memphis, you'll miss all the fun."

"We don't know a whole lot about why." Ravn also steals a fry; didn't even finish his own sandwich, the arse. "Some of us got to see the place they go to -- but it was a parable, not the real thing. Like a dream? Translated into terms we could understand. Looked like an old fantasy novel from the eighties, a wizard's tower and alchemy lab. I wish I remembered more details from it, but I was a cat in that dream, and I had cat concerns. Something about needing the bodies for their own souls, something about a plague."

He looks up. "Maybe cat me didn't care a whole lot because no matter what their excuse is, they're taking people. There's no way that 'better them than us' can be justified. It may be a tragedy for them, but that doesn't mean they get to rub it off on us."

The folklorist nods at Charity. "There's no organisation as such to join. Just people here, trying to look out for each other. Find out what's going on. Have each other's backs."

He was probably going to say more but, "Nineteen hundred fifteen?"

She still doesn't look like she believes much of what they are saying, seems this poor girl is going to have to experience the truly horrible herself before her mind will be changed. She does, however, nods to the explinations, "Sounds almost unbelievable. And some poor kids almost got taken by one of them?" See, she was listening. Her beer is finally drained and she offers the glass to a passing waitress.

Charity's eyes only continue to widen as Nicasia, Una, and Ravn provide more details and even more questions. A quick glance over at Willow seems to reveal the redhead is just as out of the loop as she is. Apparently there is a lot more going on in Gray Harbor than even her pre-teen self realized.

That's not entirely true. Remember that time when ...

Her head actually snaps back slightly as another long-forgotten memory snaps into place. Despite the fact that it's been happening for months now, the effect is no less jarring. The hairs on her exposed arms stand up all at once, and her body follows in less than a second.

"Okay, yeah." She stammers, grabbing her coat from the back of the chair. "I need to go. Something came up." The pointed look she gives Ravn and Una probably doesn't do a damned thing to clear anything up. "Not really hungry anymore. Uh, bye."

Then, just like that, Charity is rushing out of the Pourhouse.

"... 1915," repeats Una. This is a story she's only peripherally involved in, but peripheral involvement is still involvement, and it has blanched her face as good as if she were knee-deep in it. "I need Ava to tell me more about that Dream, too. Though, yeah, you have a point Ravn: there's no way that 'taking people' isn't seriously bad shit."

Una picks up her sandwich, but before she manages to take a bite from it, Charity is off and away-- and it leaves her frowning.

"... that was weird."

Willow looks up as Charity suddenly runs off, an eyebrow raising in question, "Yes, that was weird." She looks back to those at the booth, shrugs and stands up, "Though I should really be getting going too. I need to pick up a key, do some investigating, you know, can't write a book without the evidence." Standing up, she puts some money on the table to pay for her beer, "See you around." Is offered to the group, and then she makes her way to the door, though not nearly at the same speed as the fleeing Charity.

Nicasia can't quite help a tiny wince at the expression on Charity's face. "That was the part where I was supposed to ask if she wanted us to stop talking, huh?" Oh well, too late. She looks wholly sympathetic though, at least until the woman is gone. Until she's got another glass of whiskey to drink like it's tapwater. And then Willow is packing up and she lifts an eyebrow at the bit about the book writing, but eventually she shakes her head.

"Taking people is pretty seriously bad shit," she admits. "Especially when it's stupid teenagers whose only real crime against humanity is being stupid teenagers. We're all guilty of that." RIGHT? "But yeah. 1915. He was on the manifest of a ship caught smuggling firearms out of the harbor in World War 1. Which is curious, since he was apparently still in the firearms business in the late '90s."

"I've seen the man. He's in his late fifties, early sixties. He is not more than a hundred years old. Or, I should say, if he was human he wouldn't be. So if it's the same bloke, that kind of proves he's not human." Ravn makes a face and glances after Charity as well.

Then he shakes his head. "Just have to assume she has her own issues. Her own trauma. She'll come around -- or she'll get back on the bus and get out. You don't get to stay undecided around here for long."

"I figured, since she grew up here..." but Una shakes off that thought, even if she's still frowning. It's clearly not necessarily true that those who grew up here are comfortable with all that happens.

She does, however, set her sandwich down again. Another of Ava's fries is stolen. Something about her antsy hands suggests she would quite like a drink right now, but she's being good and sticking to the cola she ordered.

"Well, fuck," is her conclusion. "Yeah, taking people is bad shit. And... 1915, that's also bad shit. That's... I mean, we kind of knew he wasn't human, I guess? But that proves it. Which is going to make it all the harder to work out how to get rid of him, huh?"

Don't worry Una, Nicasia is going to drink enough for two people, at least. Liquid lunches are the best. "Hey, I grew up here. It didn't help me the littlest damned bit." It's fine. This is all fine.

"How's that work?" She presses, though. "If he keeps going off into some other dimension, maybe time passes differently there? The last person I spoke to... hey, hang on. Cross your fingers." She fishes in a pocket for her cell phone and mumbles at it, another variation on don't be fucking dead which probably sounds more ominous than it actually is. There's relief when the phone actually lights up though, and she flicks around a bit before producing a picture of a picture: a framed photo of two very young women and a man with a generous silver beard. She sets it on the table so they can both see, but angles it slightly toward Ravn. "Is that him?"

"It might make it harder," Ravn agrees and not very subtly nudges Ava's abandoned and untouched glass of white wine over to Una. "It might also mean that now we know to set phasers to kill right away, and not bother trying for the diplomatic option. I'm the historian at this table and I don't really feel like giving him an interview."

He leans in and looks at the picture. Then he nods. "Yeah. That's him all right. And I'm going to venture that that picture wasn't taken yesterday either, from the looks of those girls. Looks like late nineties?"

Una hesitates, and then wraps her fingers around Ava's glass. In theory, she's on the clock (on Ava's clock), but... fine. It's fine. She'll take the glass, she'll sip at it, and then she'll slide the burger and its fries closer as well. Who wants a sandwich when they can steal their boss' burger?

"Well shit," she concludes, leaning in to get a look at the photo, though there's no recognition in her expression for it. "Then... yeah. Set phasers to kill, and let's get him out of here, if at all possible. This town is plenty fucked up without the whole kidnapping and murder bit by some immortal being from another dimension."

It clearly makes her uncomfortable. Probably that's why she takes a gulping sip of her (Ava's) wine right now. "Immortal, or time passing at a different speed? I'm not sure if that's important to know, but it's a question, right?"

"Yeah, the diplomatic option didn't seem to go over real well." Understatement of the week. Nicasia waits for confirmation of the photo before taking her phone back and firing off a text, then pockets it again. "Late nineties, early aughts. He's been in the business of making people disappear for a long-ass time, including one of those girls, who supposedly ran off with him and is in Europe. Less kidnapped, more still sending her twin sister postcards on the regular. Which is really fucking strange if this guy is a bodysnatcher, because why bother?"

It's a very long, round-about way to get to, "Maybe skip the interview. Maybe a bit of interrogation. If that's a thing. Seems like there's a lot of I don't know to go around and how are you ever going to learn if you don't pull out a few fingernails here and there?" Uh. "That's a joke. I would never seriously suggest anybody do that." Which may actually not be sarcasm, but she's drowning the idea in whiskey really, really shortly. "It probably is important to figure out if he's genuinely immortal, or just extremely long-lived." Which brings her to, "Your faerie things. Are they immortal, or just close enough to being that for us mayfly people to think it's the same?"

"You mean the ones on Oak Avenue? Hell if we even know. The faerie circle belongs to some kind of Celtic faerie lord who calls himself Petra or Petre. Think Peter Pan, the original story. He told us it's here so he can stay in touch because his nightmares escaped into this town somewhere." Ravn reaches for his beer because bloody hell, this town. "Those are literal monster horses, to no one's surprise. Anyhow, he's a pretty decent fellow. Which is not me telling you to trust him because Celtic faerie, even when friendly, are slippery like eels."

Another few years of this and he's going to be as gray haired as Haggleford. You wait and see.

He empties the beer bottle. "Truth moment? I'm a humanist. I firmly believe that a confession extracted under torture is worthless. I also firmly believe that any way we can frighten, cheat, or deceive these assholes into helping us out or buggering off is justified. But I'm pretty certain that those aren't connected at least -- because Petra also abducts people. Literal kids -- and unlike Haggleford, he gives them back. I know several people in town who have at some point as kids paid a visit to his realm, myself included. And, well, we're still here."

Una's frown has embedded itself deeply into her brow, that furrow all-but digging for gold in these hills, given how deeply set it has become. "The nightmares," shudder, "are absolutely real, and so is he, in as much as anyone or anything is in this town. But I've still never met any of the fae beyond him, so everything else is... conjecture, I guess? I'm still not eating their food, though they can keep eating mine, if it means my garden keeps growing."

That's small fry (punctuated by the eating of another real potato fry, not to mention another sip of Ava's wine, and here's hoping she's absolutely not intending to come back). "I'm not sure it would be easier, or not, if it were all connected. Maybe not, which it doesn't seem to be, because it's another layer of something terrifying to think about. I don't know that I'm all that much use in a fight, but... I don't think I'd hesitate to burn that fucker alive, if that's what it came down to. Haggleford."

"Literal monster horses. Of course they are." Why the hell not. Nicasia's eyes narrow a little bit at the notion that the faerie lord is also stealing people, regardless of whether or not they get to come back, but that wasn't the original reason for her interest but merely incidental. Adjacent. Somehow.

She ends up shaking her head. "I doubt he's related to the fae, unless you want to lump all of the Veil-things into the same category, in which case it's all connected and we're just flies stuck in a giant web. I'm a little but curious about his top hat and jumpsuit rent-a-goons but I don't think any of them are going to be answering questions any time soon. But I suppose, then, I should inquire as to whether he's the sort to, you know, take revenge for his fallen... whatever-they-ares."

"First time I saw this bloke he was with a labcoat in goggles, waving a crossbow. And the literal puppeteer out of Pinnochio. From what that last guy said once we cornered him, he doesn't really care. They're just hired hands. They don't know much. The good side of that is that they don't tend to be willing to die for him, either." Ravn nods slightly and continues to toy with his bottle, empty as it might be. Maybe he wishes he'd ordered something stronger too. This lunch started out funny, with the goth idiot and whatnot, and now it's decidedly less amusing.

"One thing I've learned here is that there's a lot going on. It's tempting to think it's all connected -- but it isn't. We just happen to live somewhere a lot of realities overlap. That's the thing that connects everything, we're on Grand Central Station as far as other worlds are concerned. I really doubt Petra and his faerie circle has anything to do with Haggleford. But Haggleford is probably a hell of a lot more dangerous than most of these things because he's savvy. He knows our world. He knows to hire local people, like that Serbian lot out of Spokane. He understands us."

Una's shudder is unfeigned. "I hope I never run into him," she declares, firmly. "In goggles, or any other way. It's bad enough hearing about all the things he's done-- thank you, no."

This requires another long swig of Ava's wine, which really, at this point, probably can't be called anything except Una's wine. "I think that's what scares me most, yes. The nightmares were terrifying, but they followed... basic tropes, I guess. We'll catch them the same way, when they pop up again. But Haggleford... he's using us. Isn't he? It's a lot more terrifying, when that's the case. Where it all connects to the real world."

She gives both her remaining companions a considering look. "Do we just have to wait for Haggleford to pop up again? Not," she's quick to add, "that I'm suggesting I will be taking him on."

Should've stuck with the goth idiot. Oh well. "Other worlds, as in multiple?" For a moment Nicasia looks like she might be tempted to pry there, but then her expression briefly twists in the direction of whatever mood Charity was wearing when she ran for the hills and she lets it go instead. Takes a breath, takes the rest of her whiskey, and closes her eyes.

"It does sound like he's been doing business here for a long time. Over a hundred years, and that doesn't even begin to address the question of how long prior to that he was at it: in a hundred years I have three," she holds up four fingers, "hits on his participation in our version of reality aside from what you all have been finding, so either he's very good at staying under the radar, or reality keeps covering up for him. Or both, I guess. Ava did say something about wanting to go look for him."

Ravn's customary smile turns a bit wry. "Well, we can go to him. There are people who can open doors. So it's just a matter of hitting the right reality out of infinite options. It's a thought worth hanging on to, but I think we still need to work out how. I do a little experimentation of my own with doors but while I can sometimes look into other realities if they happen to overlap -- any doors go to the Other Side Gray Harbor. I haven't dared take more than a few steps in and then back out before it closes, not going to lie."

"I'm going to venture a pure theory. A few things from that tower Dream stuck with me. One of them was, the bloke we talked to there was pretty clear that he wasn't human. I don't think we're the only reality they hit. Too much heat here, Haggleford just lets things cool for a while. No one lives to be a hundred and stupid, after all." The folklorist lets go of the bottle and steals a fry to toy with instead. "Not at all surprised that Brennon wants to take the fight to him -- and if she finds a way, I'll probably sign up, too. It's an interesting thought. How does he navigate?"

"Ava looks for trouble," is Una's assessment of the doctor, her friend, neighbour and boss. It's so very fond, and equally, so very dubious. Except; "If she can figure a way to do this, without-- right, wandering through places we shouldn't be at random, just... doing any of it at random. Then yes. Yes, of course that's how it has to go. But we need more information first, don't we?"

She picks up the burger. It's probably already getting cold, but still: burger is better than sandwich, and still-slightly-warm burger is better than stone-cold burger. And yet, before she actually bites into it: "That's a very valid question. How does he navigate? And where... did he come from one of our worlds," clearly accepting there are multiple worlds is not a stretch for the redhead, despite her frowns, "originally? Or from wherever he's operating from? How the hell do we figure that out?"

Beat. "Would the city hall on the Other Side have records?"

This is all way above Nicasia's current pay grade. Oh, she's listening. Trying to track this, but with nothing of use to contribute she doesn't even speculate, only looks between one and the other... until the important part comes up. "There's a city hall on the Other Side?" Cue another face rub.

Then, "I suppose after you've been doing whatever he does for as long as he has, you learn how it goes. Though Ava said something about him leaving crypids he'd grown here, or something? Things he could kill to open his exit portal?" Something like that. "Maybe they work as beacons, too."

"I've heard say the Other Side keeps very tidy records. The trick is getting there, and getting access to them. And then we still don't know if they keep tidy records of their Gray Harbor and ours, and wherever Haggleford's tower is. The Other Side Gray Harbor seems to be kind of a mirror version of ours, so wherever he hangs out, it's probably not there, unless there's a wizard's tower in this town I've missed." Ravn glances at the cigarette Willow put out earlier. He's not picking it up and lighting it, but the urge is certainly there.

"You know what I wish? I wish that people had gotten in the habit of talking to each other a lot earlier. There's so much stuff we ought to know, but the people who do know left town or forgot, or they're not talking. I know it's how the Veil protects its secrets -- but it's bloody frustrating." This is what a grumpy Dane looks like, apparently.

He sighs and backs up a bit. "Yeah. We're not sure about the cryptids. Whether they're created as a byproduct of his transport mumbo jumbo, or he creates them to be killed in some kind of ritual. Brennon's done some research on them. I got the impression off her they're not actually real."

Una sets the burger back down again, having managed no more than a single bite; her expression is mutinous, with an edge of sulky. She wipes her hands on a napkin, and sighs. "I guess that's probably about right," she says, probably in relation to the city hall. "It'd be too easy, if we could get over there and just get all the answers. But it still feels like... maybe there's something there. About the cryptids, maybe?"

She's pulling at straws, frustrated not quite to desperation, but certainly further than her usual easiness. "Real enough for their blood to exist to be added to her greenhouse," she adds. Then? A darker, deeper frown.

"Nimue's not a cryptid, right? That is not a thing. I can't believe I even just said that. No. Nope, moving on. Not that I would ever."

It's a few more moments before Nicasia shakes her head. "I couldn't even really begin to speculate, I guess. As eager as I probably sound to try and help you solve your mystery, I still feel a little bit like somebody standing on ice so thin that every time I look down all I can see is a giant black shape that probably isn't actually the water." It's fine. This is fine.

What's not fine is her glass being empty but she doesn't try and summon another one; instead she nabs one of the unclaimed fries and eats it, tentatively, as if debating whether cold salty grease sticks are going to help or not. Probably not, because she doesn't go for a second one. "Can't really blame people. This information doesn't seem very easy to categorize. Where would you even start? With one piece at a time, probably. Maybe this Haggleford asshole is the first piece. The first bag of pieces."

Ravn shakes his head. That much relief he can grant, at least. "There aren't any cryptid tales I know of, of blue plant babies. And the kid is clearly real. Brennon described the Mothman as a blank canvas, mentally. I'm going to be a nitpicker here and say, if it's real it stops being a cryptid -- on basis of, well, cryptids are per definition not real. Coelacanth? No longer cryptids. Herring kings and okapi? Same. Once they are found they aren't cryptids any longer."

He looks up and for a moment it's hard to tell if what passes through those blue-greys is compassion or pity. Then the folklorist tells Nicasia, gently, "It's not our mystery. It's yours too. These things don't ask if you want to play. You're going to find yourself -- well, like you did. Pulled in, whether you wanted to be or not. Steeped in Veil fuckery. But sometimes, we get to punch back. And I am tempted to suggest that the Other Side might have records to match that picture of yours. If the Archivist really is all that -- he or she, no idea -- the older folks here say, then there just might be something."

Una's tiny little nod acknowledges Ravn's dismissal of her terrible, horrible, no good, very bad chain of thought, though she's not entirely eased back from the discomfort for it. She pushes the plate away, that poor burger destined to languish in its grease, bread growing steadily more moist as the moments past. "I get how you feel," is what she says, however, giving Nicasia a tentative little half smile. "It's an absolute trip, ending up in any of this. But Ravn's right: it doesn't just go away. It belongs to all of us."

She swallows. "Okay. So someone needs to plan a trip to the Other Side. Someone like Itzhak, who can confidently make the doors? And see what they can find out. That... feels like a better plan than just waiting for something else to happen. I think," she gives Nicasia a nod, "that's right. The first bag of pieces. But there's some missing, and we need them in order to put it all together."

Punch back. Nicasia looks down at her hand, flexes her fingers a time or two, then drops both arms off the back of the chair so they're down under the table someplace. "Well. Maybe it'll get a little easier. And maybe I'll read a book or take a CPR class or something." Something practical. Opening doors to the Veil? Right.

"It's a little weird and a lot contradictory; how does something stop being one thing once it's real and turn into a different thing? How is it not real? What is real? Something you can punch in the nose, versus something you just have to imagine you can?" Cryptids are also kind of above her pay grade, but at least she hasn't packed up and run off yet. There is a glance in the direction of the exit, but no movement otherwise. "It's definitely a trip."

"I can open a door there," Ravn says and toys with his fry. "Sure, no problem. Go to a corresponding place on this side -- like, outside of city hall. Open a door behind a bush, nip through, no big deal. The fun part? It's a lot harder to open a door back out. I guess it makes sense, for this pitcher plant of a town. Easy to get over there, and get lost. Back out? Ha, no, not so fast."

A small chuckle, wry as a wry thing. "Yes. It definitely is a trip. I'm a folklorist. I'm a historian specialised in human stories -- and you know where I like for my stories to stay? In the books, around the campfires. The part about other realities to explore? I love that part. The part where things and people like Haggleford treat us like their happy hunting grounds? I have a very big and real problem with that."

Una's nod is firmer this time, likely because Ravn's words are not news to her: harder to get back again, check. Noted. Very aware of it.

"It's a mess. I've been here... five months now? I think? And it still does my head in. Constantly. It keeps changing on me; I keep finding out new things. It's all fucked up, but... somehow, it gets easier to roll with it. Well." This time, the redhead actually laughs, though it's more rueful than light-hearted. "Sort of, anyway. You just kind of expect things to be fucked up, and deal with it accordingly. 'Real' stops meaning much of anything."

She pushes away the wine glass, and gives it a stare. It's mostly empty. How did that happen? "Alcohol helps, though."

"Yeah, I can't say I'm real comfortable with the idea of anyone or anything doing that. Drugging dumb teenagers and kidnapping them is bad. Drugging dumb teenagers and taking them into some other reality to do god-knows-what to them like some kind of interdimensional body snatcher? Worse. Just..." There's another thought there, but Nicasia doesn't press very hard on it, doesn't share it.

She does give Una a wry smile, though. "Oh, don't worry. Jack and I are old friends. Anyway, now that I've totally ruined lunch," poor burger, "I should probably get on getting on. Thank you for the..." Again she trails off, but this time because how do you categorize this conversation? Her hand reemerges and she makes a little finger-curl of a gesture before standing up.

"Come July it'll be two years for me, and the place still blows my mind." Ravn nods his agreement with Una. "I'm glad I ended up here because a lot of good things have happened, too. But this fuckery? I don't usually condone violence. I'm a pretty quiet bloke. The kind who's happy with a good whiskey and an even better book, or puttering around his sailboat. I'm definitely not a hero type or a scrapper. And I am still going to say that if I happen to have something suitable in hand when I see this Haggleford bloke next? I'm taking the shot."

Ravn hitches a shoulder; it all is what it is. "Keep information flowing. It's the only thing no one tried in the past. Don't be a stranger. We're all in this together."

The corners of Una's mouth twitch upwards. "Yeah," she says. Because, really, what else is there to say? "Have a good one, okay?"

Her nod echoes the rest of what Ravn's got to say, and though she doesn't say it outright, the hardening of her gaze suggests that she may not hesitate either.

"And yeah: don't be a stranger. Fucked up though it is... we're all in this together."

Nicasia's smile remains slightly wry. "I'll hold out some hope that maybe there'll be some good things coming up soon; something to weight out the weird. Because this shit is really fucking weird. But I am all about information. Maybe not possessed of the habit of oversharing some folks have, but also not going to sit on anything if I think it's useful. Even if it ruins lunch. Not sure I can get any stranger."

And then she'll be off, door-bound.