2022-05-16 - Venelite

It's been a rough few days for everyone involved in the escapade to the 1850s. This evening? This evening bodes well, weather-wise. Early summer is sneaking up on Grey Harbor with a lessening of rain and deceptively high swing in temperature. It means the air around the bay itself is softer if still starkly saline.

Ariadne's not in wading boots today. She is in a sturdy pair of sandals definitely meant for traipsing along pebbly if not rocky beaches as well as hiking. Not cargo pants either, nope: a backless maxi-dress in a periwinkle blue, halter-necked and backless, its patterning in daisies and violets and lavender flowers asymmetrically bunched across the garment itself. It's an easy wear, breezy and playful in the breeze itself given the lower thigh-high slit up the left side of the dress itself. Across her chest, the strap of her courier purse.

She walks in no terrible hurry, letting her eyes rove across the beach itself for those fascinating odds and ends. No gloves today, so she's not overturning rocks. It doesn't mean she thinks twice about stooping to see about picking up a particularly colorful scallop shell. "Ooh, Ravn!" Delight twinkles through her voice. "A pacific pink! These are uncommon around here," she informs the man as she turns the half-shell over on itself, revealing its creamy smooth interior lining. Her hair, up and twirled into a clip, riffles loose strands in the wind off the water; celestial hues gleam on display.

No one ever is surprised to find that Ravn Abildgaard's summer attire is -- well, pretty much identical to his winter attire but for the lack of a heavier coat. He's wearing colour today -- a dark purple scarf that dances a bit on the sea breeze. His throat is still raw after trying to inhale the Chehalis; cold sea air stings a bit.

"It is beautiful," he agrees, looking at the shell. "The mother-of-pearl goes very well with that shade of pink. Are these usually more to the south, or deep sea?"

He's not particularly interested in sea shells. He is interested in the sea, in curious trivia, and in things that interest Ariadne. This makes a good combination for small talk and swapping of weird bits of fact and nerdery. The two seem to get along quite well in this regard.

And the tide pools fascinate him, because while this biome is not at all dissimilar from his native, the shallow, sandy beaches of Denmark do not have tide pools in many places. They are a visceral reminder that he's very far from home. They contain a lot of interesting things -- and stories, no doubt. "Remind me to ask Jules or someone else about the pools. There has to be an origins story and it'll be different from our beach stories back home."

Pausing in her perusal of the shell, Ariadne glances up as Ravn joins her. She turns the shell about, outside and inside, front and back, to let him see better the glossy interior and the colors of the textured outer layer.

"They're a Pacific Ocean species, though they prefer more saline and colder water than this. A seagull might have brought this one from the ocean." She squints up and out towards where she knows the bay meets the far larger waters. "Or maybe it traveled a long way on the currents to wash up here. Either way, the colors are just beautiful. There aren't many colorful species out here, not like in the tropics, but these are one of them." Rather than Frisbee the shell back out into the waters, she sets it aside on one of the rocks. It is a bright splash of hues against the otherwise barnacle-speckled grey of stone.

"And I'll try to remember to remind you because I bet you're right. I'd love to hear it if Jules tells you," the barista adds, giving the Dane a fond smile. She offers out her hand to be held before she continues on walking. "How's your throat? Should we head back and find someplace out of the salty air?" Her brows quirk mildly up at him.

"Still a bit sore," Ravn admits. "A bad one always leaves my chest and throat feeling like I've been trying to inhale a cheese grater for a bit. We could amble back nice and slow."

He looks back to the shell, and then out over the bay. "It almost has to have been a seagull. The Bay is brackish -- no wonder, given the Chehalis empties out into it. Sounds like our pink boy here would consider the water both far too hot and far not saline enough. Don't need to go far out past the points to get real cold Pacific Northwest ocean, though."

And then he smiles just a bit as he reaches for a hand to hold. "The tropics are all colour but there's something to be said for the subdued colours of colder water, too. When we have colour in the Atlantic, colour matters."

Fingers interlace; Ariadne gives her captured gloved hand a gentle squeeze and lets her lips curve into an equally gentle smile. She has to divert her line of sight towards walking now, just to make sure open toes don't get dinged on any rough stones.

"I'm sorry you're hurting. I wish I could help more, but I'll see about distracting for the moment. Tell me about these colors which matter in the Atlantic. You're talking, what...territorial colors? Biotoxin warning colors? Perhaps courtship colors?" the marine biologist asks impishly.

And then primps with her free hand at the celestially hued underpaneling of dyed hair with a cavalier pursing of her lips at Ravn. The expression quickly breaks to a giggle.

Ravn snickers and then gives that neck a long look; he knows what he looks like when he's gaping like a distracted goldfish, and he can definitely emulate it on request.

Then he nods. "I was thinking courtship or warning colours, yes. Fish that are a drab shade of sea floor brown sport gorgeous stripes and colour bands during mating season. Venomous and poisonous things tend to be very colourful, too. I think cold water just tends to be -- well, more like the deep seas. The really colourful ocean wildlife tends to be around reefs and relatively shallow water too, right? Once you get further out, life stays in the top layers of the ocean anyhow. There's life further down below too, but it uses entirely different ways of communication, like bioluminescence. It fascinates me how cold water seems to just not need all the display you see somewhere like the Great Barrier Reef."

"Isn't it fascinating? I remember I had a fellow student who wrote a paper on this, how certain colors were scene in species in gradients of depth and water temperature. I can't remember if it was a thing of the temperature itself or something more along the lines of the tropical fish might have shorter lives grouping in a place where predators can more easily reach them. Or...no, was it that they can hide more easily in the reef, so bright colors didn't matter. Which would mean the open water fish need to blend better because less ability to hide. Light on the belly because light above, dark along the dorsal spine because dark below. Think of the tuna," Ariadne offers as example. The fish is famously colored as such.

"But bioluminescence. Eeee." Soft squee. "That's amazing stuff. If I wasn't so enamored with orcas, that's where my studies would have been. How the jellyfish do it. The phosphorescent squid ink. Angler fish lights. God, the number of things bioluminescence does in the deep seas: communication, defense, hunting strategies...and how all the species' brains process this information physiologically speaking. How bright are these things really, to eyes like theirs. Is it like a flare? Like a sun? What waves of light are they seeing that we're not?"

She catches herself with a blink and can't help but laugh. "And...there I go." The folklorist gets a fond squeeze of hand.

Ravn smiles lightly. "Yes, there you go -- just like me when I wander off on a tangent. I saw a documentary the other day about the ultraviolet spectrum and what bees see that we don't. It is fascinating. So much communication going on right around us that we're not privy to at all. It reminds you, in a way, that we're not the centre of creation at all. Which probably goes to explain why so little research has been done in the past -- because man does not like to get reminded that it's not all about him."

He takes a few steps along the path. "In fact, a great deal of our older stories are about that. Pagan world views did not give man a special, elevated place. It gave him as much right to fend for himself as anyone else -- and others the same right. The giants aren't evil -- they just want the land you're on, or you want the land theyre on, and whoever's smarter wins. The idea that we are somehow the lords of creation requires monotheism and a centralised government -- because the whole purpose of it is to justify the divine right of kings."

The manicured nails of Ariadne's free hand reach to comb back a loose strand over her ear. She continues smiling, a touch sheepish despite herself, as Ravn then meanders off into his own fields of interest. No wonder they get along so well.

"Just to convince the commoners that there was a god involved with a power grab. Huh. Humanity is so fucking weird," she bluntly opines of things. Like anyone needed to be reminded, but it required saying aloud after all. "I'm not saying we should go back to the pagan times, but the idea of the equality reflected in the stories? That's more...I dunno. Honest. I'm going to use 'honest'. Refreshing, since today, it feels like it's all about jockeying for position and power grabs and popularity and ugh." Another chuckle. "Pardon, my misanthropy is showing."

"Misanthropy comes pretty easily when we look at how people treat nature and one another." Ravn nods his agreement. "Pagan times weren't better, no. But they were more honest -- which probably makes no difference if you're on the receiving end of the axe. It does -- feel better? Watching politicians and media barf up the same old excuses does make me turn it all off. And our whole attitude towards nature is very much based in this human-centric view -- that we are the lords of Creation, that God gave us dominion over earth and beast."

He shakes his head. "It's going to take a long time to shake that. And we'll be making new stories while we do."

"Yeah...a while," Ariadne agrees on a sigh. "But story time never ends, right. I just find it amazing how old some stories are too. Like...let me think."

And she does as they walk, covering about a dozen feet before she snaps her fingers off to one side. "There's this wonderful poem originating from Sumeria about...two-thousand years ago? Written on stone. Eternally. Like, it's amazing to think how someone can tell a story and leave out an element and now it's not the same, not really, with this next telling. That someone thought to defeat time by writing on an object which would outlive them...it blows my mind. That's immortality." Her sigh is delighted. "Beautiful to think about."

Another squeeze of Ravn's hand. "Oh, meant to ask you. There's this charity ball coming up. Let's go? And what shall we go as? I have ideas," comes the gentle singsong and gleaming light through her golden-hazel eyes.

"I should put in an appearance. For HOPE." Ravn sounds wildly enthusiastic. Then his brain catches up and idiot slaps him from behind. "I mean, you want to go -- together? In costume?"

Yes. He apparently intended to just turn up in a blazer, shake a few hands, and disappear.

The folklorist pauses and looks at the sea. "I, had not considered this. We should go together. Yes. I have no ideas because this literally just dawned on me." At least he's honest about being clueless.

Honesty, as always, is the best course. It might be a bumpy one, but rather this than an attempt to ill-flatter.

Ariadne blinks first at the middle distance before herself. Her eyes then shift off to one side, same with the turn of her head. She doesn't release Ravn's hand but she inhales and exhales through a cycle. Ouch. Just a little sting there. Thus, it's with a pastel-pink blush that she glances over at Ravn again, brows quirked and mouth sporting a twisted smile. "Yes, you giant goofball, we should go together. You're right. It would be good for you to show up to represent HOPE and I can make an appearance because, frankly, I want to. I would go even if you didn't want to, just to inform you. Why not dress up a little? I have a job where I'm stuck behind a counter covered in coffee grounds, sweating up a storm when the plumbing needs to be fixed under the sink, and trying not to roll my eyes at Harold who's bitching me out about not putting another Splenda packet in his drink. I...am going to have fun -- so you come with." A gentle squeeze of his hand.

"And I was thinking birds, actually," she continues. "I stumbled across this great old feather...I think it's a headband from the 1920s. Reminded me of the Swan Princess ballet. So I'm going as the Swan Princess. I've got some time to figure out how the make the costume and find the mask and all." The redhead seems to have regained her composure at this point.

Ravn catches that look. He stays silent a moment and then ventures, very carefully, "I didn't think about it because I don't usually think about events like that as something anyone would want to attend. I don't think you need my permission to go anywhere you want? If I've given you that impression, I'm -- very sorry?"

A small smile. "You'd make a beautiful swan princess. But I'm biased. I can't think of many things you wouldn't look beautiful as."

The breeze off the bay plays around them as they stand there, flirting with Ravn's scarf and the fall of Ariadne's sundress. She tilts her head a little as she looks up into his face, still wearing her own small smile, its cast now a little rueful.

"You don't need to apologize. I assumed too, to an extent, that you'd enjoy this kind of thing if I was there. I know I'm not the perfect bulwark or a reason to attend something. I'm not that prideful. You really don't even need to attend, Ravn, you really don't. It's not required. Now, would I really enjoy it more if you were there? Yes, I would. Also, I'm fully aware that I don't need your permission to do anything and I mean that kindly, I promise. We're not the boss of one another. We're a significant other whose opinions matter more than the standard stranger or friend. But hey, we're also our own people, so there's that to take into consideration."

The shadow flitting over makes the barista glance up; oh, seagull. "But thank you for your bias. It makes me want to be the Paper Bag Princess just to test your theory," Ariadne then says with a flicker of a bright grin.

Ravn reaches for Ariadne's hands, and curls his own gloved fingers around them. "I don't think I'm communicating this well. I don't have any desire to go to an event like that, for my own sake. I don't much care for attention. I have no desire to schmooze it up with the upper crust. I don't want to flirt or be flirted with by random strangers. I'm not -- fun at parties because I really don't feel I belong at them."

He looks down at her, and then at their hands. "The thing for me is, I don't do that sort of thing for me. But I'd do them for you. Because watching you be happy would make it worthwhile for me to go. Do you understand? It would be the reason I need, to have any interest. I won't be offended in the slightest if you'd rather go to a party with someone who is, well, more party minded. But I'd still go, just to watch you laugh."

"Then given I guarantee you I'll be laughing, you should come along? I promise, I'll have more fun if you do. You don't have to get super fancy either. I can't," Ariadne then laughs. Rolling her eyes at herself, she continues, "Barista paychecks only leave me with so much to play around with in turn. It doesn't need to be anything fancy, whatever you want to wear." She seems perfectly content to remain before him now, her hands bundled up within his own gloved ones in turn.

A glance down at them and then up into Ravn's face. She searches his eyes. "I'm not mad at you for not thinking about attending the charity ball, by the way. It makes sense, what you said. I'm still learning you...if that makes sense too. I'm only human. I'm going to stumble now and then."

"I stumble all the time. And I really should have considered the fact that you might want to go. Normal people enjoy parties. Normal people aren't hermits like me." Ravn leans forward and brushes his lips across Ariadne's forehead. "And for what it's worth, I don't want to be a hermit either. Not if I have a reason to go. A reason such as you."

He rests his forehead against hers. "Let me make it up to you? You'll design costumes and I'll cover the price. I know you won't have us walking in covered in diamonds, and finding old useful stuff in a thrift store can be fun. But I don't want money to be what stops you from being the Swan Princess that's your secret self."

Her dark lashes brush her cheeks as she leans into the kiss. Another sigh, this one quieter, soothed despite herself. Ariadne gently nudges up into his touch of temple to temple now. With her eyes shut, the rest of her senses kick in. The breeze feels softer, more present, scents of his cologne on the back-rush along with the water and the wet sand, the pine trees growing along the seaside meadow on the raised, flat section of ground not too far from here.

"How about this, dearheart. I already have half of my costume figured out and bought. I don't mind at all if you want to cover a thrift store trip or two, but save the majority of this money for something else. Something where I'm not half done with my project," she laughs quietly. Pulling back from the connection of forehead to forehead, she's intending to find his eyes again by how she searches Ravn's face once more. "And you can make it up more to me by pulling a 'My Fair Lady' and teaching me how to waltz. How about that? I think that's fair? Every self-rescuing Swan Princess should know how to spin a turn or two on the dance floor, right?"

"The waltz is not that difficult. Particularly if you're not leading." Ravn's smile is small and warm. "I'd be very happy to show you. And thankful that you understand. Benedikte didn't. She said she did, but I could tell that she felt she wasn't good enough. I always told her, then let's not go to places or things where people might look down on you for whatever reason you think it is they do, but she wanted to prove that she had as much value and right to exist there as anyone else."

He shakes his head, dismissing the memory. Then he quickly squats down. "Put your feet like this." A quick adjustment of Ariadne's foot with one hand, and the real reason with the other: Behind him, the pink shell disappears up a sleeve.

And back up he is. "And your hand on my shoulder and the other on my waist. All there's to it is following my steps."

Ravn shakes his head and his redhead smiles her empathetic little smile. Ah, memories, such double-edged blades.

Then, he's down and fussing with her feet. Hands end up before Ariadne's mouth for fingertips to stifle a giggle of surprise. She misses entirely the disappearance of the pink scallop shell, so distracted is she -- a perfect grift. Her eyebrows threaten to disappear into her hairline as he straightens and offers further direction. Her hands rise and move towards the man's shoulder and waist, though they pause without making contact as if she weren't totally certain if he meant right now or in theory.

"Following your steps, huh? And it's a...three...four count kind of deal?" she asks, at least familiar with the dance in the basic sense of having seen it done. A glance down at her feet and little frown at the boulders around them. "Can we try it over there, on the meadow grass? I feel like I'm less likely to scrape up an ankle there."

"Let us," Ravn agrees, grinning. Pink shell, long disappeared further up his sleeve where it will be neither felt or dislodged -- and he feels it move up there and thinks to himself that it's curious he never used to think about the fact that he is obviously using power normal people do not have, to make this happen. He's never had anything drop back out of a sleeve. Sticky skin. Right?

He follows Ariadne on to the grass and then places one hand on hers and one on her waist, arm below hers. "All waltzes follow the same basic one, two, three aaaaand four step. You can make things more complicated but that's all you need. The music will count the beat for you. Do you know a waltz? Hum it, and you'll see."

It's a step-up onto the shelf of earth which forms the terrace of meadow-grass, but nothing too much. Ariadne doesn't need a hand, given her sandals are meant for rugged walking, though she does pinch up the hems of her sundress against getting them caught on roots. A little shake-out of the periwinkle fabric before she turns to look at the taller Dane again, unable to help her thrilled little smile. Nerves? Yes, nerves. It really is a case of My Fair Lady.

Ravn's hands land on her waist and then take up her hand in turn, curling in support from beneath. Biting her lip against smiling (like an idiot), the barista moves her hand to his shoulder in turn.

"Right. Three-step count. Um. I can think of one, gimme a second." Looking off to one side helps; if she'd dared to look up into his eyes, she'd probably forget how a song went entirely. "I...think this is one." She starts humming, a slow and decadent tune both bluesy and sweet. Back and forth, she sways in place a little bit, getting a feel for the beat as she continues singing sans words.

"Watch my feet until you get the knack of it," Ravn suggests, smiling. The smile on Ariadne's face warms him inside; to take such simple, honest pleasure in something that to him is easy -- because it was drilled into him as a child -- and uncomfortable, because it was drilled into him as a child; it is a beautiful thing. Every ray of sunshine, every sparkle in eyes the colour of honey, washes away some of his discomfort. Maybe there really is a point to this, besides going through the motions because you have to.

He likes that feeling. He will never grow to love ball room dancing, but he might come to like ball room dancing with Ariadne.

It's far too early to say I love you. But it's not far too early to say, "I love the way you find pleasure in things."

Not wanting to stop her humming, Ariadne nods to his suggestion. She leaves her hands where they are, anchored, and tries at least to emulate that upright carriage seen in displays by all the greats over the years of silver screen films and beyond. It means tucking her chin is a little bit of an effort, but she watches his feet and ends up mirroring them. It isn't an immediate success. Her brows knit as she watches and thinks, doing her absolute kinesthetic best to follow along.

One-two-three, one-two-three, one-two-three -- If I ain't got you, baby.

At one point, she dares to look up again, admittedly a little hesitant. How badly is she doing this? But Ravn's smiling -- and he then goes on to tell her something so very sweet. Cue pastel-pink across her cheeks. "Well...I can't say stop making me blush because I can already feel it, but...geez, thank you." Her laugh is soft and sheepish, but she doesn't look away from his so-blue eyes. "This is fun. Honest to god fun. I can tell you know what you're doing and I'm trying not to look like a total goob about it and maybe doing okay? I dunno? Maybe?"

Thank god her mis-step is away from Ravn's foot as they execute a slow turn.

"You're doing fine," he promises her. Foot follows foot; her body moves at subtle cues from Ravn's hand on her waist, the way he moves, half pulling, half pushing her along as the lead will.

Then he smiles in an almost conspiratorial fashion. "Also? You will not be the only person who's never waltzed before, believe me. There'll be a handful of people who took dance classes, showing off. And a hell of a lot more people who never did, bumbling along happily, living out their ballroom fantasy, and not giving a fig whether they look silly. I love those. They dance because they want to. What is it they say? Dance like no one's watching."

It's something else, to feel the confidence of motion wherein his touch directs. It sends pleased tingles down Ariadne's spine and these glimmer to in her eyes as she continues looking up into his face. The fact that she hasn't crunched his toes is bolstering her bravery quite a bit, though she'd be fain to admit this as reasoning.

"They do say that," she agrees with a soft laugh. His smile never ceases to make her heart flutter. "And I can do that, but hey, who am I to say no to a proper lesson or two before the big shindig? I guess..." Now Ravn gets a coy look through her dark lashes and equally curled smile. "...since no one knows you're a Count, I don't really have to be all super accurate with it? Just enough to make my skirt do pretty things and feel graceful," she laughs again. Truly, she's not doing terribly. Playing the piano and having an idea of where her feet are going seems to help her hold her own, what with the silent rhythm count and sense of personal space.

Ravn takes a moment to kiss Ariadne's forehead again -- it's right there, in front of his mouth, after all. "A few people do know. Probably more than I think, to be honest -- because as your sister demonstrated, it's not difficult to find out. But the ones who do know respect that it's irrelevant. It's part of why I don't go to things like this usually -- I don't want any enterprising little shit of an event manager to decide to glitter up their thing all, now presenting a real European blah blah. But really, outside of that kind of people, no one gives a damn and that's just how it should be."

He smiles a little. "There are lots of local business people who want the spotlight. Me, I thrive in the shadows. Or in the shadow of you, which suits me just fine."

Down her lashes sweep as the kiss purls and rests there against her forehead. Onwards they waltz in no terrible hurry, sea grass and wildflowers brushing up against pant legs and dress skirting alike. Ariadne has to open her eyes again, however, for the sake of her own sanity. She's still concerned about stepping on toes.

Another glance up. "Are you telling me you're one of those shade-loving plants, Ravn? Maybe some partial sun in the morning? Can I be your little butterfly?" she then asks far less seriously with a waggle of brows. It really is nerves and elation both bringing forth this cavalier attitude.

Lips brush against lips and Ravn laughs softly. "Maybe I am? Maybe I am just a little dark moon orbiting the sun that is you. Not everyone enjoys the light and the attention. Some of us are happier watching you beautiful stars shine like the celestial bodies you are."

His steps are born of the confidence that does indeed come with years' worth of drilling in posture and deportment; from learning to stand up straight, to subtle parental reminders when appropriate -- don't slouch, don't keep your hands in your pockets, don't look away from what's going on, don't make faces, remember who you are, remember what you represent.

He leans in and whispers, "Be my night butterfly; my beautiful little bundle of colours that brightens up the dark."

Ah, kisses for clever smart-assery. Watch the barista learn.

Her look up at him now is fonder if no less cheeky. "Ooh, celestial body," Ariadne murmurs, thanking the Dane for the compliment by her warm tone. It's when he leans in to whisper that her steps noticeably hiccup; thankfully, again, no toes are crunched. Back into the dance, they flow, and it takes the redhead a noticeable amount of time to respond. The blush might be a bit darker too.

"As long as you shine for me with reflected light, I'll flutter my way back to you, colors and all, my lunar wonder," she murmurs back with her own small smile curving her lips.

"I promise." Ravn's smile remains. So few people understand the sincerity of his desire to be not up in front, not at centre stage, not in the limelight -- to just be a face in the crowd, one of the boys. Not unnoticed and left behind -- just not pulled up in front, either. "I'll watch you dance at the ball. I'll hear the whispers -- who is that beautiful princess? I will watch the race to get to you, and I will laugh quietly to myself because the peacocks may try to impress you, my butterfly, but I am the one who takes you home."

Again, Ravn manages to make the bold barista tuck her chin in a brief giggle. Looking up to his eyes again after a second, it's clear she's pleased with the projected possibilities of the ball.

"I dunno. I'll give you that I'm pretty, sure, but I won't be dressed to the nines. Just to the 'creative'. Maybe the mask will do it though. I'll be just mysterious enough that no one will recognize me at all, especially not by my hair," Ariadne drily announces. She can't help the little snort of amusement. Redhead with cobalt-blue and iris-violet undertones? Not exactly stealthy. "But you? You, emberem, can be smug as hell because you taking me home? Absolutely a given." She squeezes their uplifted hands gently.

"I know." And in two small words Ravn tries to communicate that he does indeed know. He'll never be jealous that somebody else is talking to his girl, or that she's looking at somebody else. He'll never feel insecure that somebody else might impress her more, or try to steal her attention away. Because this is who he is: She's either with him or she isn't, and if she decides to stray, then nothing he can do will make any difference. The man is riddled with anxieties but this? This is not one. He is who he is. And who he is, is who Ariadne chose.

"I know you know...and that's wonderful because I'm of the same mind," Ariadne murmurs back. She got the gist of it, the unspoken depths in earnestness without so very many words to communicate. Sometimes, less is more. A white cabbage butterfly flitters past and around them once before going through the narrow space between their faces. Jerking her head back, the barista laughs as she watches the butterfly continue on its merry way.

"Sometimes, I wonder if those butterflies are drunk." Her attention returns to Ravn now. Whatever's floating on the tip of her tongue is enough to make her both soften and twinkle. "I need you to know that this is terribly romantic, sir." Thus is the Dane informed.

"Sometimes I wonder if the powers that be in this place drops not very subtle hints." Ravn looks after the cabbage butterfly; those are indigenous to his home country too. "And I am once again thinking that not all of them are malevolent. It is terribly romantic, ma'am."

He kisses her forehead again. "Maybe we should make secret dances in meadows and glades a thing. Pack a picnic basket and a change of shoes every once in a while. Go amuse the squirrels."

It's nice, the mild chill of his kiss lingering on her forehead, like some form of temporary tattooing only he and she know about.

"I'll take squirrels over those goddamn macaques any day," Ariadne murmurs back while she combats (with no real insistence) the feeling of sliding slowly into the blue of the Dane's eyes. "And I'm very okay with secret dances in meadows and glades. I realize now I stopped humming about a minute or two back, but I've got the beat and you've got the lead and I'd say we're doing alright." A bumblebee has to divert around them to make it to the patch of California poppies blazing up scarlet-red a few yards away.

"I think we're doing very all right." Ravn's fingers on Ariadne's waist are firm and he sees little but the honey gold of hazel eyes. "And if you keep looking at me like that, we're going to get arrested for indecent exposure in a few."

It would be a shame to crush those poppies. And yet, the vision of that galaxy-coloured hair spread out amongst them is doing a thing or two to Ravn's imagination. "I should ask Jules for hiking tips -- somewhere that all the tourists don't go. Or you should."

Trust such boldness from the Dane to strike pleased goosebumps down the barista's spine. Her smile deepens as her eyes darken bit a shade or two.

"I could ask her as nonchalantly as possible, sure. Or you could. I'd love to hear what she tells you because you're a gentleman through and through to most people, I think. But I think we won't get arrested because you can be patient and wait until we get back to my place, hmm? This zipper in the back of my dress is very stubborn. I'm going to need help," she informs Ravn in warm cheek.

Given the dress is a halter-neck and ties in the back at her mid-spine.

"Only to most people?" Ravn's amused indignation is entirely faked; he's well aware that as far as most people are concerned he's about as threatening in that regard as your average cinnamon roll. He chuckles. "I suggest we both ask, and then compare what answers we get. Remember to pretend that we haven't discussed it."

A melody finds its way to his throat; the man's no singer but he is a musician, and a low hum he can manage.

Venelite rider ud fra sin faders gård
Da ser hun bjergkongen frem for hende står
- Tiril liril lilil haugjen min
Og de leged' så let gennem lunden -

A song, six centuries old, about a beautiful maid riding into the woods, only to meet the king of the faerie. And like a Renaissance Persephone she is taken by him, dancing through the glades, until he takes her to his mountain, never to be seen again.

How droll, the redhead's flick of brows -- indeed, sir, only to most people, the wiggling seems to imply. "I can play along," Ariadne confirms. "Pretend we haven't discussed it, roger that."

But then, this? This is singing from Ravn. Watch her smile slacken until it's equal parts wonder and utterly charmed. She doesn't know the language, but assumes it's Danish, and the song has a cadence of an older rhythm pattern. She hazards drums might be involved. "Keep going," she encourages, barely above a whisper, wanting to hear more of this song even if the lyrics are beyond her knowing. Another white cabbage butterfly drunkenly flies past in the opposite direction, heading for a smaller patch of blue lupine flower-stalks half-hidden in the shade of the trees fringing the edge of the beach-front meadow.

"Hør nu Venelite hvad jeg siger dig
Nu skal du til bjerget med hjem følge mig"

Så rider de igennem så mørk og lang en skov
Og Venelite græd hver gang Bjergkongen lo

Ravn hum-murmurs the light melody; it is the kind of song that does not lend itself to waltzing but to far older chain-dances, the kind that survive into modern times as the lancier and square dances. He does not try his luck at combining the two but just rests his hands at Ariadne's waist instead. "It's an old folk song," he tells her, softly. "About Venelite -- little beautiful one -- who rides out to the woods to be taken by the mountain king. And the refrain goes, they played so lightly through the woods. This is what you remind me of -- a maiden of old, with steps as light as the wind, but with more depth than simple merriment; it is unclear from the song whether Venelite wanted to go and whether she wants to give up her entire life as she does."

And if Ravn thought he had the redhead charmed before -- look at the silly little smile now. Sure, their waltz has slowed and all but stopped, but Ariadne's hands haven't left him; they rest on his shoulders now instead.

She listens and nods, her head tilting in that vaguely avian manner. "Venelite. That's a beautiful name...and steps as light as the wind, huh?" Her smile goes bright and playful suddenly, like a glint of sunlight from a passing wave. Pirouetting suddenly, she twirls back from Ravn in a swirling of dress fabric and giggle. The sandals aren't going to let her go on-pointe, but maybe that's not the point in turn. It's far more likely the swish and fall of the skirt. She then bows to Ravn -- and it's the men's half of a bow rather than a curtsey, probably forgotten in the moment. No 'Fair Lady' is she. "And are you the mountain king then, Sir Ravn? Come to whisk me away?"

"I am not," Ravn replies with a small, enthralled smile. "But maybe I am the mountain king who is standing before you, hand extended, offering to walk away with you? I prefer that version -- that Venelite goes with the mountain king because she wants to."

He makes a little face. "Don't ask me to get the horse, though. Please. Lola Bianca will do, right?"

Ariadne's laugh chimes across the meadow. Only a nearby robin on high is louder in its song dripping down from the evergreen boughs.

"Lola Bianca will do, but..." Then smiling her Prince(ss) of Foxes smile to a less intense degree, her hand is offered out. "How about I'm the meadow queen and I've got the offer for you? Walk away with me, Sir Ravn, come play lightly in the woods... I can think of some squirrels who might find a kiss or three amusing." Rolling a step back, she laughs again, the very sentiment sparkling in her golden-hazel eyes. Her hand remains offered out as the breeze off the bay plays past them, setting loose fabric and wildflowers and sea grass to sway.