2022-05-20 - No Such Thing As Too Many Healers

Morning - the early side of the day here on the Pacific coast - probably means the coffee place is extra busy. Lots of people getting a fix before going off to their wage slaving. It's not the time to be holding up the line. It's not the time to be indecisive. And yet right about the time the office assistant with the six-drink order standing behind Nicasia in line tries to hurry her along the look she gives him almost makes him abandon ship entirely. It's almost not fair: she finally just orders a large, very plain black coffee, this after staring at the menu and food case for too long.

On the other hand maybe she's just pacing herself, conveniently timing the progress of the line to ensure she gets that table right over there when it empties out, a spot against the wall where she slides in and hunches over the cup without actually drinking any of it. But once she has the coffee, once she has the seat, she can watch people come and go like other folks might watch waves roll. Most of the people just don't really hold her attention, but it saves most of them whatever expression made the poor office gopher almost get demoted to mail clerk.

Table by the window; where Ravn tends to end up with his sleek black laptop, free wifi, and some strange beverage. Today's bizarre concoction is a strange shade of pale green and kind of creamy. He's eyeing it with a disturbed expression as Della the Day Manager hands it over. By now, after a year and a half, the Dane has given up on ever wringing a simple black coffee out of the woman.

"It's called an Avolatte," she tells him.

"I don't even like avocados," Ravn murmurs.

Della smiles at him. Ravn's girlfriend works here. She probably mentioned.

He sighs and withdraws to the table with his -- well, avolatte, apparently. It truly does look rather horrific.

Willow slips into the familiar room, for once not working, though comes in just as she hears Ravn's flavor of coffee, which causes her to let out a soft laugh, poor guy. She waits her turn and then walks over to the counter, ordering herself a decaf and a scone to help wash down the taste. "Want me to grab you anything, Ravn." A look is slipped over to the man, her credit card in hand, ready to pay.

Yes the table by the window. Yes, Nicasia is already there. Fite her. No actually don't fite her. She spots Ravn as he passes, gone to get his daily abomination, and saves the raise of her hand in a sort-of wave until he is indeed headed that direction. There's room: she has no laptop, no paperwork, no visible phone, no nothing. Just the cup and she's not even touching it. Yet.

Likewise, she offers the same little gesture to Willow, but ordinary coffee really is just not the conversation starter like an avolatte is. Morbid curiosity compels questioning. Specifically, "Has she ever made you the same thing twice?"

"I'll pay you out back for a regular black coffee," Ravn murmurs to Willow. "But, you know, don't lose your job over it."

He plonks himself down on a chair across from Nicasia. "Been a day or two. Been off chasing interesting people? I want to think that all your jobs are wildly exciting but I'm guessing most of them just involve turning up at someone's door and telling them to turn up in court or else."

She laughs softly, "If they fire me over giving you a black coffee.." she shakes her head a little, though shrugs, "suit yourself." A glance at the green coffee makes her shiver a little, "best of luck to you with that." She offers a nod to Nicasia, though she doesn't follow Ravn's choice and instead chooses a table for herself.

"Been off, alright," Nicasia admits. She straightens up a little so that at least she looks slightly less like a vulture crouched over some roadkill. "I never thought I'd see the day when I was glad that most of my job is in fact turning up at someone's door and telling them to show up or else, but here we are. This place really doesn't take any prisoners, does it." This isn't a question, only mused commentary on any number of things. Maybe even the coffee place because she goes back to staring at the abomilatte again for a few moments. "Do you know," she wonders, then. "How is Ava? And..." There's a vague gesture with one hand, like maybe he's supposed to fill in the blank, figure out what she means through the worst round of charades ever.

It's a moment before she looks over at Willow again, brows lifting. "I promise all of my vaccinations are up to date." It's not exactly an invitation, but also not a dismissal, either. It is, however, the prelude to her finally pulling the top off of her cup and having a sip.

"I haven't talked to Brennon in about a week, I think. Last I saw her, she had a blue baby she grew in a greenhouse and her life seemed a bit -- hectic in the way of a new mother. She seemed worried as hell but, for all I know, the boyfriend hadn't heard about the blue kid yet." Ravn draws a hand over his face. "This place sometimes really does hit you in the vulnerables and then run away laughing, yes."

He picks at his glove. "I had a dream last night. Well. Honestly thought it was a normal dream until I woke up clutching a feather that was in the dream. It was weird because usually, in dreams, you know who you are. But I was someone else entirely in that dream, and that someone else was a right little fucker."

"Yeah, I still can't quite wrap my head around that. How do you grow a blue baby?" This is mostly rhetorical, something Nicasia can't entirely fathom and clearly doesn't want to try. Much. She does sip from the cup again though, and takes a deep breath so that oxygen can chase the caffeine.

Because.

"A feather." There's a particular flatness to that which plays along the time of how she's sitting, and the way her gaze slides on out the window, out into the street to play in traffic. "Does that..." She stops, straightening up. "Does it happen, often? The bits about winding up in dreams where you don't really know who you are, or who other people are? I. We," that's better, "I think we were all there. It fucked Myles up real bad; we ended up in the ER."

"Sometimes you're in the role of somebody else, but most of the time, you have an awareness deep down that this is a role you're playing." Ravn nods. "Most times, I think, you're just yourself. The Veil does have a fondness for casting me as a Catholic priest for some reason -- but I always know who I am, behind the curtain, so to speak. This time? I was some teenage brat indigenous boy."

He ponders. "There were others there but I can't place them -- I'm guessing that if we were in the same dream, though, you were the warriors? I remember there were two -- men, both of them, wiser and more experienced. And I wanted very much to impress them but, even the fucking monsters weren't impressed."

"Oh, you impressed them, alright. It always makes an impression when you go charging off into danger like a..." Yes she was there. It is a vague attempt at humor but the mirth is absolutely absent, not even to be found in the cup. Nicasia picks at the rim of it with her fingernail. "Myles was the big guy who almost got himself scalped by that fucking bird. I was the tracker. I think Ava was there, too. The healer. She didn't answer her phone at all so I'm hoping she's okay, you know? I don't know who the others were." Which may now inform her attempt at charades.

She's quiet for a moment before shaking her head. "I swear I am capable of having a conversation that doesn't spin off into a thousand terrible questions."

"I feel like I ought to recognise the others but I didn't. This kid, Heron, Peacock, whatever his name was -- too full of himself." Ravn looks at his avolatte as if he's genuinely considering it for a moment -- and then decides that no, he's not going to try this, he bloody well can't stand avocado, it's not going to get better by adding espresso and milk foam. "Brennon has a lot going on, I know that much. I'm not really up to speed on what she's doing -- I had the impression that between blue baby, boyfriend, her clinic, the morgue, her attempts to re-establish the Historical Society, she's got her hands full. And then of course that Haggleford bloke -- we all want a piece of him but it's personal for her, I think."

Ravn steals a sugar packet from the basket at the centre of the table to toy with; it dances around on his gloved knuckles much like a magician with a coin. "Are you okay? Ending up in the ER is never a good thing."

And here comes Jules to join the line, an actual indigenous person instead of whatever gleeful conjurings the Veil produces that may or may not have any semblance of historical accuracy. She's toting a backpack, and before she heads for the counter, she commandeers a spot at Ravn's table, whether or not he actually wants the company. It's busy, and she wants a chair. "Mind if I join you?" she asks after the fact. "Just for a few. Class."

There's almost a smile; it's a sharp, barbed wire twist of a thing. "If it's any consolation," Nicasia offers, "I didn't recognize you. "In fact I don't know if I would ever have guessed that was you. You don't seem especially brash. But maybe I just don't know you that well." How is she? It's a good question, one that sets her into peering down into the dark pool of her coffee for a moment. "I'm fine. I got away with a bad scratch, didn't even need stitches. But between that and what happened on the docks, I think my moral compass might be broken."

She's momentarily quieted when Jules shows up in the line, less in the manner of recognition, more just that she stands out in the crowd and not just for being indigenous; there's a hand-lift-wave when she comes over, which turns into a gesture at the now not all that empty table. "Teaching, or taking?"

"Hey Jules." Ravn tosses a smile to his neighbour and then chuckles, and shakes his head. "I'm really not very brash. That kid was an idiot. I'm amazed I came out of it without a scratch. I'm amazed no one else clubbed him even if the monsters decided he wasn't worth their time."

He ponders. "Moral compass -- not sure what to say. You learn to live in the grey areas in this town. When Cthulhu's chasing you down Main Street, it's not really time to have moral qualms about the fact that the guy who pulls you to safety is a known criminal, you know? This mess sometimes tends to take precedence. Surviving takes precedence."

Pause. "Which reminds me, in a roundabout way -- say, Jules, how do the Quinault feel about what's-her-name, Stephenie Meyer?"

"Taking," Jules says promptly, though she's old enough to be teaching, but such is life. There's a quirk of her eyebrow -- she's caught some of the conversation, and it's clear that there's more, and that it's probably more interesting than whatever class she's headed towards -- but she holds any prying questions for now.

Ravn's just asked one, after all. She gives him A Look. The kind of skewering look that suggests she'd like to run him (or Stephanie Meyers) through with a spear. "How do you think we feel about her?" She shrugs though, dropping the act. "I mean, whatever. More tourists, yay, and they don't know the difference between the Quinault and the Quileute, but who cares when they're spending money. Okay, coffee." She eyes whatever monstrosity Ravn has. "Coffee all around, I'm guessing."

"Surviving takes precedence, but at what cost?" Also a rhetorical question, one Nicasia doesn't leave much space to answer, skipping ahead on her own with a shake of her head. "I hope it gets easier. Or more bearable. I don't think my bank account can support the amount of alcohol that seems to be required to deal, otherwise."

At a glance it's really clear she has no idea who Stephanie Meyer is: there's no faking that level of bafflement, but it passes in short order. "Coffee," she agrees. "Or hopes and dreams of coffee. Hi, I'm Nicasia. And somewhere there's a life lesson about how if they did know the difference they wouldn't be tourists anymore."

"Sounds like at least there's one thing we agree on," Ravn tells Jules with a small, lopsided grin. "I ask because somebody's little sister is convinced I'm a Twilight die-hard fan. I was kind of thinking to pull her leg and let her believe it until it becomes too stupid to bear."

He hitches a shoulder lightly. "Truth of the matter? I drink more than I should. But, the thing that really makes a difference here is not trying to go it alone. It's not just practical -- survival in numbers and all -- it's also psychological. No one's able to deal with all this shit on their own."

"Jules," the other woman replies with a quick smile. The warmth reaches her eyes. "Nice to meet you. And really, who am I to tourist-bash, when they help keep our economy humming along." That smile turns into an all-out grin when Ravn mentions a certain someone's sister and her suppositions. "Amazing. Let me know if you need me to take pictures of you sparkling in the woods. I'm more than happy to oblige."

With that, she scoots off to claim her spot at the counter. The line has died down, and in that lull, Jules takes advantage of the opportunity to walk straight up to the register and order two coffees, one black and one with room for milk. Della the Day Manager probably suspects something's up, since she dumps several packets of sugar into the supposedly black coffee. Surely it's better than an avocado-latte, though, and that's what Jules passes off to Ravn when she returns. "Here. Don't ever say I'm not nice to you."

Nicasia's eyes narrow ever so slightly. "How..." Ahh and then there's the Twilight admission and something clicks. "Because of the gloves?" She hazards a guess, then snerks quietly. "I suppose there are worse things for her to suspect that you might be. I'm not sure what those are, off the top of my head, but there must be something. I guess how bad it is depends on whether or not this little sister is also a Twi-hard."

As Jules goes skipping off to get coffee she leans forward again, settling back into her previous hunched sort of posture, one arm on the edge of the table, shoulders slightly lifted, frozen in an unfinished shrug. "Safety in numbers," she murmurs. "You really believe that? That you wouldn't be safer by yourself, if you were somewhere far away from here?" It's not a line of questioning that will fall off even when the other woman returns to the table though, given that she follows it with, "Would you have wanted someone to show up and tell you - warn you - before you really walked face first into the wall?"

"You're very nice to me when you're not staring daggers at me," Ravn tells Jules with a small grin. He accepts the coffee -- gratefully -- and makes no comment whatsoever on how sweet it is. Even syrupy black coffee is better than the avocado foam horror. "I don't think she's a fan. I think she thinks I am a fan -- a vampire impersonator, something. I've half a mind to turn up in Seattle for the first meeting Ariadne's family in a slightly old-fashioned get-up, faking a Romanian accent, and complaining about the sunlight and how dangerous it is to be beautiful. I've never actually read the damned books but doesn't that just about sum it up?"

He hitches a shoulder and then gives Nicasia a more serious look. "I don't think a warning would have made any difference, to be honest? I feel like I was being pulled here all my life. I'm pretty certain I won't be leaving. So yes -- there is safety in numbers. Not as in, better odds the monsters pick off the others. I mean as in, we have an idea what each other can do. We have people to talk to, about the crazy. It helps you stay sane, not carrying it all alone. Because these are the things that end you up in a psych ward if you try to explain them to people who don't see things like we do."

"I read them," Jules declares unrepentantly as she drops into the chair she's claimed. "At least, I read them until I got to the part with the werewolf Indian falling in love with the vampire baby. She's a shit writer, but I'm a shit reader, and I was bored."

She's silent for a minute, sipping her milky coffee, then pipes up again to volunteer, "Ravn saved my ass last week. Safety in numbers, hell yes." She says it brightly. It's almost as a quip, given how it's peppered with curse words, but there's nothing playful about her expression. It's far darker, verging on troubled, before she drops her chin to busily concentrate on her phone.

"Going to steal a page from the book that kid in the bar the other day was reading from? That wasn't a Romanian accent, though. Romanian is more Dracula, isn't it?" Like Nicasia has any idea, if she has to go that far back to even get a functional vampire reference. Jules sort-of explains but gets a vaguely horrified look for her trouble. Then, totally randomly, she suggests, absolutely deadpan, "If you like lusty lycans, You really oughta look up Jane Connaught."

The whole not ending up in a psych ward thing is a different problem. "Yeah," she admits. "I had no idea how to explain what happened last night. Fortunately they didn't ask very many questions I couldn't field with a blank stare." Her gaze shifts to Jules, and she watches the brooding for just a beat before shaking her head. "How much is right time right place, and how much is phoning a friend after the fact?"

"And next week you'll be saving mine, no doubt." Ravn hitches a shoulder again. "It's how it works around here. Besides, you pulled me out of the bloody Chehalis -- pretty sure I couldn't have pulled myself out."

He quirks an eyebrow. "Jane Connaught? Don't think I'm familiar -- but 'lusty lycans' sounds like I probably don't want to be, either."

Nicasia's question is legit. "Sometimes, a blank stare is all we have. That dream last night? I wasn't even me. If I met that kid? I'd slap him upside the head and call him an idiot. It terrifies me -- that I can be turned into someone else, that that somebody else might get me killed. But it's how it is here -- there's always a new twist, always a new take on the terrifying and on the absurd. It really does help to at least not be trying to sort through it all on your own."

"Depends on whether the werewolf porn is part of the whole badass semi-savage Indian schtick," Jules replies; at least she can joke about this.

"What happened last night?" This has her looking up sharply, gaze intent as she looks between Nicasia and Ravn. "Does it have anything to do with Una and me finding Della passed out and half-dead on the floor?" Whatever she was doing on the phone is suddenly a lot less important.

"Are you more the faerie king type?" Nicasia inquires of Ravn, arching an eyebrow and looking pointedly at his avolatte. She holds that look for just a second before there's a twist of smile to follow, the moment of levity clung to even as she wrangles her cup again. To Jules she explains, "I hate to disappoint. It's just werewolf porn. Not particularly savage."

But it does dovetail neatly into the other matter, to the rubberband snap of her gaze from the cup to the other woman. "Della?" There's no recognition save the spark of coincidental timing. "Did she have a wicked concussion?" Because "We," she makes a general loopy circle in the air with her free hand, "apparently had a common Dream last night, wherein we were the badass semi-savage Indians. Only less badass and more like we got our asses handed to us by some birds, such that I had to take my ex-husband to the hospital because I woke up and found him half-dead on the floor. I don't even know what the dream was about. There was a longhouse, and... a giant? Two giants?" She doesn't remember she was busy trying not to get harpooned by the crane.

Ravn scratches his chin. "Two, I think. And two or three big birds who wore masks. It might just have been the cause -- there was a woman who could be Della, if you squint. A young girl? I was some snot-nosed pup of a young warrior who -- well, please don't tell Della that, but he was kind of focusing mostly on impressing her. If that really was Della, I'm going to feel remarkably awkward around her next time we talk because while I like Della just fine, I don't like her that way."

And then what Nicasia said catches up with him and he actually blushes a little. "I don't know that I'm a faerie king but my girlfriend does seem to think I fit the trope to some extent. Probably because I keep telling her old faerie stories from my home country. Pretty sure that when I'm not Dreaming and I'm not being talked about to little sisters, I'm just a bloke from Denmark, though."

"My roommate. She had a stab wound in the side, among other things." Jules puts her coffee down altogether. "Birds and giants," she echoes, piecing it together, and then turning to pin Ravn with that intent stare of hers. Faerie stories are entirely ignored; she's looking far too aghast as a further line of questioning occurs to her. "Was it the story my grandma told you, when I took you up to visit? Did we bring it back?"

Nicasia lets out a little breath. "I doubt she's going to remember that part. If that was her." She kind of gives up on the coffee at this point, laying her other arm on the edge of the table too and leaning all the more. Then she straightens up. "Brought it back?" Her eyes narrow as she looks between them. "Is that a thing? Please tell me that is not actually a thing."

Faeries are a different subject all together and picking fun at people's taste in literature is lumped into it soundly. She's far more worried about this problem.

"It could be that story, yes." Ravn nods. "The things further into the Veil than the tamanous. Names I won't even try to pronounce. But -- and this is a pretty big but, Jules -- we did not bring something back. It was already here. The things that inspire fear in us in our Dreams are here. Sure, they rummage around our heads for new and interesting plot twists. But they'll find something no matter what. So, maybe we inspired them to go Quinault flavour this week. For a while, I had Dreams that were straight out of Danish folklore. But there'll be Dreams no matter what, so don't take that on your mantle. They'd love for you to do so -- the more miserable you feel, the happier the dolorphages lapping it up."

He sips his sugary coffee. "Our stories can give them ideas, no doubt about it. But the bad Dreams happen anyway. If anything, knowing how the story goes can be an advantage, sometimes."

"So we brought it back." Ravn insisting otherwise doesn't change Jules' conclusion. "And whatever it is that makes us Dream picked it out of our brains. Mine and yours and Una's and Della's." She does not look happy about this. Although Ravn's last point prompts her to ask, "So did it help you?"

Of course, hearing and seeing how badly some of them have been hurt--

That realization prompts Jules to turn towards Nicasia again. "Is your ex-husband going to be okay? Do you need one of us to go visit and help speed the healing process along? Della's going to be okay, I think, but Una and I both got there pretty quick."

"So anything and everything can and will be used against you," is Nicasia's take-home interpretation of that. "Great. Just. Fucking. Great." She doesn't look particularly happy about it either, but directs most of that ire out the window again. "Knowing how a story goes could be an advantage, maybe. Or the plot twist can be that they also read that script and decided to do the opposite."

The question about Myles has her shaking her head. "He's... I guess he's going to be okay. There was a doctor in the ER who patched him up. How does that work? Can you just keep doing it until everything's all healed up?" And the kicker question, "How do you even do that? Is it something you can teach? Because no fucking way do I want to not be able to do anything about that again. Once was bad. Twice was worse. Three times is going to be too many."

"If I had had my wits about me and not been busy staring at Della's arse, maybe I might have recognised the damn bird and been smarter about it." Ravn nods and ignores his own flush. "That was a nasty trick to pull -- not knowing who I was. That kid was an idiot and I suspect I'm very lucky to not be in the ER too."

Ravn puts the sugar packet down and curls his long fingers around the coffee mug instead. "Some people can heal. It's my understanding it's pretty limited -- they can do a lot but only so often. I can't do anything like it at all. People who have some kind of relationship with living things or fire are often also healers, if that gives you any pointers."

"Jesus," Jules breathes, an all-encompassing word aimed at everything and nothing at all.

The more direct question gets her to focus, along with Ravn's own explanation. "I honestly don't know," she admits. "Ava Brennon is the most powerful healer I know, but Una and me can help some, too. I don't know if it's something you can teach. Ava did offer to try to teach me more, though. For me, it's like -- I can see how someone is supposed to be, and then nudge the body towards remembering it. Except I don't see it. I feel it. Same way I can feel how fire is alive and what it wants, and then suggest another way for it to burn."

Nicasia shakes her head. "Smarter about what? Not following the bird into an obvious trap? I wonder if we hadn't gone after it if they would just've come to us anyway." After the fact she might analyze it to death. Might find some answers in her cup. Might not.

"There has to be something," she murmurs. "The problem is that's the second time I've pretty much just been able to stand around and wait for the cavalry to arrive. Both times it was an ambulance. They're gonna start wondering." They're not but she can't maybe help thinking it. "Even a little bit would be better than nothing. Maybe it's just a bandaid on a chest wound, but better that than just standing around watching somebody bleed out. So. Anyway. I hope Della's going to be okay. She got hit real hard."

"Might have gone straight for fighting instead of trying to show off and impress whoever Della was supposed to be. That'd have been a good start." Ravn hitches a shoulder lightly. There's nothing he can do about it now -- and he doesn't really feel guilty since he had no memory of his true self at the time.

He looks at Nicasia, and then shakes his head. "They don't start to ask. That's the most frightening thing here if you ask me. The people who don't remember, they always find some rational explanation. I've recovered from being shot through the lung and nearly dying in a matter of days. Doctor just wrote that I seem to have a good constitution. No one thinks twice. No one asks."

"She'll be okay," Jules says, as much to reassure herself as to communicate this to Nicasia. It's not nothing, waking up to find your housemate lying flat on the floor and bathed in her own blood. "Here. Why don't I give you my number," she offers, now with a real use for the phone that's just sitting there in front of her. "And if you ever do need someone to drive over real fast before the ambulance arrives, call me. I'm not the best, and I can't do that much, but I can hopefully keep you breathing until better help gets there."

"Maybe," Nicasia murmurs. "Let me hope they don't, because there's no good way to spin calling 911 because you have a giant black man bleeding out in an upstairs bedroom in the small hours of the morning. Even if he is your ex-husband." She pauses for a beat. "Especially if he's your ex-husband."

Which isn't entirely beside the point. She straightens up when Jules makes this offer. "Yeah, that would be good. I tried Ava because she was the only one either of us could think of, you know? But I figure she was equally indisposed at the time. Our elder remains unaccounted for but he essentially kicked all the ass and took all the names so he's probably fine." Or so she's going to tell herself. She does not immediately pull out her phone, though. Instead she fishes around in her jacket pocket and pulls out a couple of business cards and a pen. Two cards are slid towards Jules, one towards Ravn. Both advertise Safe Harbor Bail Bonds. "I can't do much about keeping anybody breathing, but we're pretty good at solving other sorts of problems."

"I know basic first aid but that's about it." Ravn accepts the card and pockets it. "What I'm good at is people. Knowing who's who. Knowing somebody who knows somebody. I volunteer as an administrator at the community centre. I talk to a lot of people. If you have a giant black man bleeding out upstairs, call 911 first -- but call me too, since there's a pretty good chance I know the ambulance guys, or one of the on-site cops, or at the very least, I can be the white guy getting in front of the black guy. It sucks that it has to be like that but -- it is like that. We need to have each other's backs, also against people being stupid."

He sips his coffee and thinks. "Let's see -- Aidan Kinney, my house mate. Also a healer. August Roen -- also a healer. There are others but I don't know if they're around or they'd want it known. Something happens, use the jungle drums."

When Jules picks up the card, the first thing she does is to plug in the number and send off a text message with her own number, marked 'Jules Black.' Only then does she stick the card in the back pocket of her jeans. "Good to know about Aidan," she notes. "I only met him once, at the barbecue. But if Una's not there, and Ava can't be reached, the more people you know, the better." This time, when Jules presses the side button to wake up her phone, it's to note the time. "I better get going," she says. "Class. Finals. And then maybe I'll be able to take a week of vacation."

One shoulder is lifted in what isn't quite a shrug. "People are pretty stupid," she agrees. "Fortunately, like you said, they didn't ask too many questions. This time. Hopefully not next time." Apparently there is going to be a next time, a reality that she isn't quite prepared to deal with just yet. Her phone buzzes in her pocket but she doesn't immediately go for it, only rounds up her cup one more time. "I appreciate it, though. I'd say I'd try and keep the panicked oh-dark-thirty phone calls to a minimum but that's kind of out of everyone's control, huh?"

That, and, "Was nice to meet you, Jules. Good luck with your class. I should probably get on getting on, too, so Ravn here can get some work done."

"Good luck," Ravn tells Jules. "And thanks for the caffeinated rescue. I'll get you pictures if I end up impersonating sparkly vampires."

He chuckles and upends his cup. "I should get moving too, to be honest. I have a date with a small aircraft, a marine biologist, and a pod of orcas in Puget Sound. And hopefully, nothing supernatural will interfere, because that'd be rather disappointing when for once in my life I'm going on a literal date."

"Jealous!" That's for Ravn's date. Jules grins as she gathers her things, the half-drunk cup of coffee and her backpack, now returning to its rightful place over one shoulder. "Have fun with that. And nice to meet you, too -- I suspect I'll see you around!" With that, out heads Jules to brave the wilds of Grey Harbor: the college classroom.