2022-05-25 - Isla de las Golondrinas

A cool breeze cuts through the warm air, carrying the scent of the ocean on it, the tang of salt and the subtle scent of ocean life, the golden warmth of the setting sun spilling down on skin more used to the chill of a Pacific North West spring that stubbornly refuses to shift fully toward summer. Voices fade in and out of focus as people walk by, the chatter of a half dozen languages being spoken fluently by tourists and locals as they move over carefully laid cobblestone streets that look new, having seen only foot traffic from the tall cruise ships in the distance.

In the other direction, gleaming hotels with bright windows dot the evening sky, reflecting the sunlight, or glowing with their various occupants enjoying the evening of rest before the nightlife begins.

The sounds drift by the walls of the private estate where this heavenly Dream seems to be set. Which is on the second story of the building, overlooking a pristine ocean view, complete with palm trees rising up from the sand, providing some degree of privacy for the rear of the building. The home is impressively appointed with elegant lines, exquisitely crafted furniture and the most aesthetically pleasing staff dotted about the estate. Music is playing softly from inside, something with a beat you can dance to, but soft enough to ignore in favor of the sounds of the ocean not a hundred feet away.

It's a setting for a party, or for a relaxing evening, whatever it may be, but tranquil seems to be the order of the day.

Perdita Leontes finds herself on the balcony above the pool, overlooking the sea, with a soft smile toying at the corners of her mouth. She's dressed in a loose, flowing robe with a bathing suit beneath it, perfect for an evening lounging pool side, and her long dark hair is loose, in voluminous curls that are parted to one side... a reminder of her first time in Cozumel, it seems.

Below, the fully stocked bar awaits visitors, with a note:

Sorry I missed you, my beauties, but I hope you enjoy your evening.

Love, Ángel

The smell of food cooking is carried by the breeze, too. Not some distant scent, but something from the lower level, the kitchen. Someone is preparing a feast, and Dita's stomach rumbles.

"Ohhhh," says Una, stepping up alongside Perdita in a purple silk playsuit worn over her modest-but-still-pretty bathing suit. She's clearly not yet been in the water, given her hair is dry and pinned up in perfect swoops-- but that's clearly going to happen, sooner or later. For now, she drapes her arms over the curved edge of the balcony's balustrade and exhales into the warm, pleasantly-scented air.

"I remember this place. Oh, I needed this."

This place looks familiar. Ravn Abildgaard strolls toward the figures by the balustrade at a leisurely pace. He's been here before -- and his only regret is that he does feel slightly overdressed for bathing. Doing the millionaire boy on his private yacht again, then, like his very first Dream visit to this place?

Well, why not. The food was good, the drinks were good, the company was good. The Veil must have some purpose with this -- and whatever it is still eludes him. At least it's not 1968 and he doesn't have hair everywere.

Because no Dream ever wants to play predictably (or maybe enjoys some irony), Ariadne is not on the balcony.

Or meandering up from a yacht.

Or haunting the poolside.

She's in the pool -- and thank god there's more of a smooth transition from the slouch on her couch to the wrap of the pleasantly-cool pool water itself about her. A blink up at the wavering sky above and a bubble escapes before she realizes air might be a good idea. Planting her feet on the bottom, she launches herself up and breaks the surface with a gasp. But like the Dream is going to allow her to pull any sort of graceful appearance: her hair's slung all over her face and it requires combing it back as she treads water, looking briefly more water-logged than sexy in any manner. At least her mascara appears to be water-proof? Little blessings.

"Uh." So suave. "This is...nice, what the fuck." It feels familiar and not, like she should be here -- or has been here before -- deja vu a la Veil. Okay, but out of the water so she can figure out what's going on. A few strokes over to the shallow end and the stairs. Her own swimsuit is simple enough and still tied up behind her neck, thank god. The color play on it is maddening: blue? Purple? Indigo? Amaranthine? All and changing with every movement. Glancing up at balcony, she spots Dita and Una and blows a sigh.

"Oh, thank god, hey," she calls up as she squeezes water out of her hair, standing by the pool still. "Anybody else get -- "

A glance over her shoulder. That is Ravn and -- "...that is a scarf, sir." He gets a crooked grin and giggle despite herself.

"You're not the only one who needed this." Perdita murmurs with a smile. The curls aren't even bothering her, today. They're apparently payment for getting to enjoy this weather and beautiful scenery with her friends.

"Ravn. We're in Cozumel. It's like 90 degrees. Why are you dressed like your father, Lord Foppington The Second is waiting in the wings to glower disappointment at you if you're less than perfectly coifed? I have a thin strip of fabric trying to become familiar with my colon."

And then Ariadne's coming out of the water like the comedy version of a 1980s sexy pool reveal, and Dita can't help but smile. "Welcome to Cozumel, la Isla de las Golondrinas."

"Ari!" calls Una, lifting her hand in greeting. "Oh, you both look amazing." It's perhaps for the best that she says that before she's really caught sight of Ravn, because it allows her to be slightly more polite about his attire (which makes her giggle behind her hand, let's be honest, though maybe that's because of Dita's comment about her colon).

"Welcome to Cozumel," she confirms for the woman coming out of the pool, gesturing wildly towards the environs they've found themselves in. "The only really good Dream I've ever had, and don't think for a second I'm not grateful to be here again."

She seems unusually comfortable in her own skin, perhaps spurred on by the warmth of sun on her shoulders, and the slide of silk against her (no doubt perfectly smooth) legs. "Are we drinking?"

"Because these Cozumel dreams apparently assume that I am my father, Lord Foppington the Second, or that I wish I was." Ravn can't help a lopsided smile -- and then he pauses to admire the emerging Venus triumphant because yes, actually, he likes the sight of Ariadne in that swim suit very much, thank you.

He strolls up then and nods his agreement. "I vote we get Perdita a moment of privacy so she can remove thongs and sticks from inconvenient places, and then we find out about something to eat and something to drink. And maybe I'll have to take off my jacket."

Of course Ariadne's going to laugh at the commentary from on high about fops and colons and then the continued elucidation about the removal of various items. Finally able to bring her fingers down from her mouth, she shakes her head fondly at Ravn and then looks up at the others on the balcony.

"Lemme find a towel and I'll be right up. I'm assuming I'm responsible enough to have one somewhere around here. It'd be nice if I'd though of a sarong too, but maybe I was such in a hurry to get wet or something." Ahem. Ignoring her word choice, the barista looks around until -- ah-hah, yes, her memory supplies her that the plush towel slung along that lounge chair there is hers as is the sarong in a flowing riffling of light-weight, translucent silken fabric in ocean-blue. Oh, there's even a hair clip, how thoughtful, Dream-self; damp hair is wound up into a twist on itself and clipped into place, revealing the celestially-dyed underpanel. As such, after toweling down as much as can be managed, Ariadne wraps the sarong about her waist and pauses at the base of the stairs.

"Oh, bar's down here. Well! Descend, yon fair maidens from on high and join me and my erstwhile companion in his froth of scarf." Such a dramatic extension of hand in the direction of the balcony's occupants; Romeo would be proud. "Ravn can have all the pineapple here in Cozumel, I've learned he has terrible taste in beer and fruit. He puts it on pizza, blech." The redhead does manage a friendly cat's worth of a brush along the Dane's body as she passes by him on her way to the bar, giving him a coy little grin in the process.

"So do you." Perdita tells Una, with a smile. "Love the outfit. Hope they let you bring it with you, because it's cute!" Dita saunters around Ravn, apparently unbothered by the fabric riding up, and steps down the stairs. She's actually barefoot, for a change, and unbothered by this, too.

"We are drinking, we are eating delicious food, and we are getting Ravn to strip down to at least a t-shirt and trunks. Ari can rub sun screen on his tender pale flesh."

Dita moves into the open air kitchen, sighing contentedly, "I don't even want to think how much the real estate here is." Indeed, there is an already prepared feast in the kitchen, with a wide variety of both American and Mexican dishes already sitting out and waiting to be carried out as folks desire, or eaten at the bar in the kitchen. Fresh fruit and various desserts are also piled high. Hansel and Gretel, eat your hearts out.

"I like pineapple on pizza. But it has to be thin crust, and have real bacon on it, not ham."

"If that's the worst of the torture they offer..." points out Una, of the Dreams and their assumptions of Ravn. She's pleased by Perdita's compliment, and traipses after the other woman down the stairs, and towards the kitchen and bar. She's equally barefoot, pale legs gleaming white as the silk of her playsuit swooshes around her limbs; this is not a problem, not even a little.

"Pineapple on pizza is gross, sorry to both of you, but pineapple in cocktails is perfectly acceptable," she announces, leaning in to get a better look at the food on offer, and swiping a perfectly ripe strawberry as she does so. "But I'll regally permit everyone to eat and drink whatever is their heart's desire, today, since I'm apparently appointing myself arbiter of this." Her grin is crooked.

"Are we drinking cocktails? I do think that, as much as I love it, this is the wrong climate for a good dark beer."

"Pineapple on pizza is perfectly fine but low-quality spam is not. If we are dressing and vacationing like true Foppingtongs, I expect our pizzas to be top quality, baked in a stone oven by a genuine Italian, and using nothing but the finest ingredients." Ravn even manages that little swagger that goes with words like that -- although maybe it's just Ariadne's brushing close past him that inspires such confidence.

He hitches a shoulder. "Also, I don't think this dream came with trunks for me. But I can do shirt -- not t-shirt, because apparently, Foppington the Third does not wear t-shirts." And true to form he pulls his blazer off; it's a blue, tailor sown shirt with short sleeves, equally fit for a sailsportsman or a fancy ass golfer. Rich kid gonna rich kid.

Beat. "It's always the wrong climate for a dark beer. If we can find the bar, I could do with a white wine -- one of those sweet ones, with a frozen green grape to keep it chilled."

"Then arbitrate that everyone who eats pineapple is a terrible person and should feel terrible," laughs Ariadne from over by the fruit tray. A strawberry for her as well -- two, actually, with one she saunters over to offer to Ravn in turn. "Also, somebody declare that this man is full of crap and he gets a frozen olive in his white wine for bashing my beer." Here, have a strawberry, Dane. "Cocktails are definitely what I have in mind. How about..."

Lingering briefly nearby to Ravn as she nibbles on the strawberry, she decides, "Aw hell, why not. Strawberry daiquiri for me." She pads over past Una, giving her fellow redhead a friendly hip-bump as she passes by, and then arrives by Dita, hip-bumping the other woman as well. "Tell me about what glorious foods I'm seeing. I don't recognize some of the trays," she admits to Dita as her eyes travel over the options. Goodness!

"Pineapple on pizza is delicious if you're adventurous and kinky like Ravn and I are." Dita drops an exaggerated wink at Ravn. After all, she's been there when folks assume the gloves mean 'leather daddy' rather than 'holy shit neuropathy sucks'.

"Oh... that's a... five hundred dollar gold shirt." Dita murmurs, both amused and slightly disturbed.

There's a glance over the foods spread out around them, and Perdita begins naming off dishes. "Enmoladas, they're great if you like mole sauce... Chiles en nogada, uh... poblano peppers stuffed with picadillo and topped with a cream sauce and pomegranate seeds, there's fajitas... taco salad shells," a slightly raised eyebrow at that, "I see burger fixings..." her eyes light up as she spots a dish, "Pozole Rojo de Puerco, it's a pork and hominy soup, my abuelita used to make it when one of us was sick staying with her... frijoles de la olla, uh... pot of beans?" She doesn't sound entirely sure of that translation. "Ah! Elotes. The best way to serve corn, aside from on pizza."

"Why do I always feel like they're subtly trying to shame me for not being more in touch with the Mexican side of the family." She asks, tilting a brow with a faint smirk.

"You're the one sleeping with him," Una points out to Ariadne. Evidently there's something about the sunshine and the warmth and the sheer relaxation of this locale that eases her usual uptightness; she flushes, but it's only the faintest of things, really, and so easily covered by her light, fluting laugh. "At least we know he's wrong, about pineapple and beer both." Bumping hips makes her grin, and so too does the promise of daiquiris-- though Dita's opinion on pineapple draws, in its turn, a dubious glance. There's another one?! At least both the pineapple eaters get a grin as well.

"I've never eaten half of these things," she admits, leaning in to get a good sniff of the food, each item inspected in turn. "But it smells amazing. I've definitely read a lot about this kind of cuisine. Maybe I'll need to have a go at it, once I work out what I like best."

A happy sigh follows all of this.

"I'm going to have to second Irving's opinion on this. I haven't got a lot of experience with Mexican food either but now's a good time to learn, right?" Ravn pointedly turns his head away from the offered strawberry. "And speaking of other things I don't particularly care for? Strawberries and olives. Look at it this way? More for you."

Then he glances down at his shirt. "If this was real, I'd feel rather weird about wearing this shirt. As it is? I might set it on fire. If I'm supposed to be Lord Posh McRichface, that's the sort of thing he would do, is it not? Or do I need to go check if the faucets are proper solid god and the loo is eggshell china enough for my soft and sensitive backside?"

Somebody doesn't have a high opinion of a certain kind of millionaire, it seems.

"Well, more for me then," the barista idly agrees with a conductor's gesture of the second strawberry she's allowed to keep. Listening to the explanation of the food, the barista nods and glances in Una's direction. A smirk for her fellow redhead -- yes, the earlier comment definitely inspired a faint pastel-pink blush. Score, Una.

"I think a little bit of everything sounds good. I see plates, utensils, there are the serving spoons, have at thee." Here's the other half of the arbitrator for the foodstuffs, apparently. Ariadne speaks about her mouthful of strawberry, "And I suppose I'll go scrounge around and see whether or not there's already a blender's worth of the daiquiri made. I wouldn't mind if there were other fruits -- not pineapple -- involved, but white rum. There must be copious amounts of white rum."

She glances over her shoulder at Ravn, vaguely amused. "Are you really going to set that shirt on fire?" Somebody might have to roll for disbelief.

"Wait, Ravn sleeps? I thought he just hung upside down like a bat and drank a lot of coffee. You know, like Counts do, ah-ah-ah." Perdita begins loading up a plate with various goodies, making little contented noises as she snags one of the peppers for herself, "I can teach you some of the basics, but we'd need my sister or Mamá for more than that. Báte didn't like me being in the kitchen 'under foot' too often when there were three women in the house who could do all the cooking." Perdita rolls her eyes. Misogynistic? Her father? Never.

"How do you not enjoy strawberries? They're like tiny little orgasms."

"This smells like heaven. I hope it tastes as good as it smells..."

Una's look is a wary one. Ravn doesn't like strawberries or olives? She aims the look at Ariadne after a moment, as if to really drive the point home: your man! Are you really putting up with this? REALLY?! (She really must be in a happy place.) (The blush probably helped-- it makes her grin, anyway.)

This does not mean she won't-- can't-- doesn't-- flush for Perdita's description of the strawberries, but, well. A person doesn't change completely overnight, right?

She drops her attention to fill her plate instead, but the mood is not lost, oh no. "I bet it's going to taste amazing," she confirms. "Every last bite. I'd love to learn, whatever you do know. The internet is useful, but only so much. It's better to learn from people who know how to do things properly, right?"

"I like American strawberries better," Ravn cedes. "The ones we get most back home are those large, growth accelerated greenhouse ones, and they taste like sugar water and lipgloss." And with a wry look at Perdita he adds, "She'd know how I sleep -- we did celebrate New Years together after all."

He loosens the scarf; it's not exactly cold here. "If we're doing communal cooking I want in. I'm not good at it. I could be better at it. One girl did take it on herself to teach me but she lost interest when cooking didn't turn into sexing. And I will try these strawberries, but I will not budge on olives. They come in a range of salt water to bitter salt water, and don't tell me it's because I've only had the cheap ones. I have had the not-cheap ones."

"Dita's got it riiiii-iiiiight." A two-note singsong from Ariadne who now appears to be returning with a pitcher-ful of blended daiquiri. It appears to be entirely strawberry by the color and density, with its ice finely-chunked enough to make a large straw manageable should someone not want their lipstick mussed. Granted, the redhead also almost spills some of the pitcher's contents after catching the tail-end of Dita's commentary. Giggling rises up.

Poor Anastasia.

"Una, my lovely friend, daiquiri?" she asks of the Kitchen Cleric in her breezy fashion. Somehow, there are appropriate glasses there too, but nobody ask how. Dream logic reigns. Una seems to be getting a poured glass whether she likes it or not -- or perhaps it's a second for Ariadne later. She glances up from filling each glass with the frosty, fruity and boozy slush. "Good lord, Ravn, cooking not turn into sexing." There's a knowing little quirk to the side of her mouth which never quite reaches full dimple-age. Instead, an experienced twist-rotation of the pitcher to keep droplets from hanging at the angled mouth of it.

Someone might run the smoothie machine at the coffee shop.

"I want in on the cooking lessons too, please. I can always get better at it." One of the glasses of daiquiri is dropped off next to Una with another gentle hip-check before she saunters on. "The basics of one style tend to apply in another, according to my observations." What a cute little lift of scientific pointer finger. A strawberry is then plucked off its gleaming pile (of tiny little orgasms) and offered out to Ravn with a fond smirk. Here, try this one then.

"I'd be happy to teach you, if you can get me started baking. Last time I tried to make muffins, they were... very sturdy. I can't imagine anyone wanted to eat them." Dita looks vaguely unsettled. Somewhere there's a population using her baked goods to build tiny homes. They're probably solid structures. Or maybe as boulders in tiny catapults.

"Ravn, I was so drunk I think I tried to get you to have sex with me, cried my waterproof mascara off because Garrett was spending the holiday with someone else, it hurt, I didn't understand why it hurt, then knee-walked to the toilet and probably puked those little toilet goblin bastards into existence. You could have slept hanging from the ceiling like an actual bat and I would never remember."

Dita smiles wide at the thought of group cooking, "Sounds like Una should teach a class at the HOPE center on baking, and I can teach basic Mexican and Roma cuisine. 'Cooking with Una' does have a nice ring to it. We could make a banner. Just a simple one. Only a few sparkles."

"Daiquiri, yes please," confirms Una, making happy, grabby hands for the drunk on offer, and nudging her hip back at Ariadne's in turn as well. It makes filling her plate a little more difficult, but if this is the worst trial this Dream has on offer? Ohnoes, etc. "I'd be very happy to do baking lessons-- name the day. For you guys, and for HOPE too, if there were interest there. That's what I love about cookies: you don't need lots of fancy ingredients, even. It doesn't have to be a big investment."

Her cooking/baking lessons will clearly not turn into sexing either, even if that ends up being a disappointment to others. Good, wholesome fun, promise!

"Muffins," she adds for Dita, "are an absolute bitch to get right. It's ridiculously easy to turn them hard if you mix them too much, but if you don't mix them enough, then you get flour lumps, and-- they're a bitch."

"I think I can guarantee you that there'll be people at HOPE interested in something like that almost no matter when or why. And if not in the baking or cooking itself? Certainly in the product. This town has a disturbing amount of people who get by, barely -- not bad enough off to really register as desperate but just managing. People who don't spend money on cookies for the kids or ingredients they can't be sure will last or that everyone will like." Ravn holds out a hand; daiquiri him up, please.

He glances back at the azure pool and the open, sunny sky. "I kind of hate myself for being in a place like this when I know those people never will. But then I remind myself that this is a Dream -- we're not actually here, we're not blowing money on designer clothes and pool boys named Angél, and the whole point of this exercise is no doubt to get us to talk about our wants and fears for future abuse."

Interrupted, momentarily, to take that strawberry off Ariadne's hand. Ravn bites into it and then nods, thoughtfully. "Yes. This is how strawberries should taste. And no wonder, all things considered, of course Dreamscape Cozumel gets it right. I don't know that I'd go as far as to call them mini-orgasms, but then, I'll fight you for mating rights with passion fruit."

He grins slightly at Perdita. "And honestly, at the time -- at New Years, if you hadn't been so obviously in pain about Garrett, things might have been different. But rebound is a bad place to be, and the last thing you needed was more complications. Last thing I needed too, let me be honest. I'm not good at casual things, I'd have been forty shades of awkward after."

Having delivered the strawberry to the Dane with positive results, Ariadne then turns in a swirling of her sarong's skirting. It riffles and clings to fall about her legs as she makes her way back towards the daiquiri pitcher; a gentle hip-bump for Dita in passing on the way, boop.

"One daiquiri with surprisingly-good strawberries, coming up," she says over her shoulder towards Ravn with a smirk. "Dita, you want a daiquiri?" Since the fashionista is the only one who hasn't voiced an interest in one and might as well double-check.

"And I feel like some of my results will be fine to share with HOPE and I'm very comfortable with this because I know I'll have tried my best. They'll be edible too. I can bake, but not like the Kitchen Cleric over here. All hail Her Greatness," and Ariadne executes a swishing, grandly-gestured bow at the waist with her free arm swinging about and another glass of daiquiri in the other. Nothing spills, drink or out of bathing suit. This time. It's a bit close in the latter case.

"Well, that's good to know, at least. Don't overmix, but don't undermix." Dita goes for the elotes with big eyes that tell of a love story, there.

"This place really exists, as does Ángel. But it's... yeah, we didn't rent it, someone Dreamed it up for us. And I am thankful for that, because damn if it isn't still freezing in Gray Harbor, half the time... and you can have the rights to passionfruit. I'll be over here making out with my strawberries."

"Rebound is the worst place to be, and you deserve better than that, anyway." Dita tells Ravn with a smile.

Ariadne's hip bump is returned with a grin. "I would love a daiquiri, thank you, very much." She then joins in on the bow, though she curtsies, deeply. "All Hail."

"I foresee terrible strawberries and years of Veil rain in our future," murmurs Una, whose plate is now, it seems, full enough to be getting on with; both it, and her daiquiri, are gathered up and carried to the table where she can curl up, one foot beneath her butt, the other hanging idly over the chair, and finally take a sip. Mm, daiquiri.

"Cookies is one thing I can absolutely do for HOPE," she adds, setting the glass down again. "In both lesson and output form." This is easier to say than not-blushing to Ariadne's bow (and Dita's curtsey) is; the blush is deep and amused, and comes with a little burble of laughter that is fond and embarrassed and a little awkward but mostly just pleased. "I think you do that on purpose," she accuses, scrubbing at one pink cheek.

"All hail," Ravn agrees with a grin while trying to decide on something from the buffet; as always, his eyes are hungrier than his stomach, and he knows it. "I am a disaster in a kitchen but I'm perfectly good for washing up. And I figure that if I am useless, then any other bloke coming in doesn't feel quite so bad about being useless, either. A lot of those fellows still have this -- real men don't cook thing going. Which kind of sucks when you're living on your own, to be honest -- I mean, speaking from personal experience, and at least I can afford proper take-out."

Two daiquiris for the remainder of those present. Ariadne, having completed her bow and earned the blush she was hunting for, whisks to pour a second glass of the glistening, icy drink for Ravn.

"Uh, yeah I do that on purpose. Your blush is adorable." Thus is Una informed of the perpetual goal: make the Kitchen Cleric go pink. What a charming jerk, that barista. "And we always do need a dish-washer when cooking, so we'll stick you in an apron and you can make sure utensils are available for use," she tells Ravn as she walks back over to him with his own glass of daiquiri. "That's what we used to do when my mom was cooking. It made it so much more easy to cook and there was less time cleaning up afterwards."

Here, Ravn, your daiquiri. This delivered, the barista lightly clinks glasses with him. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I need a plate." Because some of that food there has her name on it and she might just make those little sounds of happy-food-eating if everyone's lucky enough. How adorably embarrassing.

"As long as it isn't Veil strawberries and terrible rain..." Dita shrugs absently, following Una toward the table and slipping into a seat, leaving plenty of room for Ravn and Ariadne to sit as they so desire, because the interior decorator clearly expected plenty of company in this gorgeous home. "You are adorable when you turn pink." Dita winks at Una playfully, then lifts the daquiri.

"Here's to men who can bake, men who wash dishes, and men who are useless in the kitchen, but trying." She winks at Ravn, then takes a sip of her drink... only to sigh happily. "Oh, that's good."

And then she remembers there's elotes on her plate and bites her lower lip as she looks down at the corn. Men have paid good money to get a mere simulation of the look of desire Dita's giving street corn. She might need a moment alone with the elote.

Una sticks her tongue out at Ariadne and then Dita in turn, a mature, responsible, reasonable adult to the end. "I hate you both," she tells them, conversationally, so-obviously lying through her teeth. "I'm not adorable, I'm fierce and-- okay, fine. Whatever. I'm adorable." It's true that it's a sentiment she's more willing to accept from this group than many others; so much easier, when you know without question it comes from a place of respect and affection, and not dismissiveness.

"Dishwasher and official taste tester, done," she adds, forcefully pushing back into more comfortable ground. "Though we'll get you better in the kitchen, have no fear. I'm going to consider it my mission in life. Oh, this is all so good."

Because eating happens, too. Happy sounds.

Ravn does seem to finally have decided on -- he's not sure what they are, actually, but they're breaded and crunchy and bite sized, which is convenient from his perspective. He picks at one -- because when does this man ever just eat? -- and smiles lightly. "In the words of Discworld dwarves, you're mean and you're turf?"

Good thing he's out of swatting range.

At being told she's possibly the worst?

Ariadne, ladling some of the pork stew-dish into a bowl, gives Una yet another winning smile, dimples and all. She glances in the tall Dane's direction. "Ravn..." It's barely a chide as she's quite certain Una can hold her own in a sass contest; the barista has lost to the younger redhead more than once. "Besides -- I can think of a very well-known tale in which a tall wizard and a tall elf require a short Hobbit and dwarf to save their asses, so."

A circling of spoon at six-foot-three over there and a crooked grin. "Don't make me stick elf ears on you, sir." Cheese and a spoon-tapping's worth of green chili for the topping of the stew and then Ariadne and her daiquiri make their way to the table. A gesture towards Ravn asks him to join as does a pat-pat of the chair beside her: come sit, tall one.

There's a soft, slightly inappropriate sound of pleasure as Dita enjoys her first bite of the corn, barely keeping the juices from dribbling down her chin with the napkin. She wipes at her chin and mouth carefully, chewing and swallowing before speaking.

"You love me." Dita responds, fluttering her lashes at Una, playfully.

"Wait. Did we just get called hobbits and dwarves?" her voice shifts, effortlessly, into a disturbingly good facsimile of a certain hobbit-like creature from the discussed film series, "Because we will bites someone's fingerses off before flinging us into a pit of lava just for the drama and the Precious..."

For a moment, Una looks like she's considering deploying remote swatting-- but she grins, instead, dark eyes flicking from one friend to the next, all the way around the circle. She admits, then, "I'm pretty sure I'm more of a hobbit than a dwarf, though, if we're going to be so very honest. Second breakfast and elevenses, and all the rest. But I'm absolutely a hobbit that goes on an adventure and helps save the world, and don't forget that for a moment."

"And that," she tells Dita, "was an exceptionally good impression, holy shit."

"My dearest, everyone knows that you become a wizard by staying a virgin until you're thirty, and as for elves -- actually, given that I have been accused of looking like Legolas' escaped cousin on several occasions but for the beard, maybe I'll just leave that one where it lies." Ravn smirks and picks out what he hopes is not too hot taco filling. Vanilla Dane is made of vanilla, and hot food is not his forte.

Slender build, tall, with pointy ears, almond eyes under long lashes, luscious hair, triangular face and prominent cheekbones. He does look like an elf. Except for the two day scruff. Maybe this is why the two day scruff.

He cracks a smile at Perdita's imitation and then nods his agreement with Una. "I may be a were-hobbit. Maybe I'm an elf who's really a closeted hobbit. At least the idea of eating delicious home-cooked food six times a day and spending my time leisurely strolling around the pleasant and not very wild Shire sounds quite attractive."

"Holy shit, that was a good impression, Dita." Golf-clapping from Ariadne a chair down with her spoon set aside as to not fling droplets of stew-broth. "If you're ever bored, think about voice acting." A lift of brows. It's clearly a good suggestion in the barista's book.

Ravn gets a droll little smile. "Were-hobbit. That'd be an interesting one." Her eyes rove to the other two. "Hands down, I'm of the Rohirrim and might as well be Eowyn. Remind me to show y'all my prop short sword. I made a joke when I was a senior in college about wanting one to defend myself around campus and my dad took me seriously enough. For my birthday that year? Short sword. True to size and you can take it off the mount. I try not to. It's baby-bundled up somewhere in a box still."

But she can't help it. "Una, you'll stop Dita from biting my fingers, right? I like my fingers." Faux-pout as the daiquiri is retrieved for a sip.

"Don't forget that you then writes it down and tellses the story, Preciou- ahem. Sorry. That voice is rather hard to get back out of." Dita looks only mildly chagrined at continuing to do the voice.

"You can't be a were-hobbit, Ravn. You don't eat nearly enough... though you do appreciate food in small portions, at least." Dita is now looking at Ravn with a slight tilt. One can imagine she's probably applying prosthetic ears and a lace front wig in her mind. "An elf raised by hobbits, though, maybe."

"Fine, I won't bite your fingerses off. I might gnaw on them a little, though, if you get me drunk enough. Good to know about the sword, too. The only weapons I've ever owned are a taser and some bear spray in my purse. For bears."

"A were-hobbit," repeats Una, bemused, though for the most part she's got only giggles to follow-- giggles that she eventually swallows down into her daiquiri, because really, one can only laugh so much.

"I buy Ariadne as Rohirrim," she allows. "Our fellowship is a little short on numbers, but I think we've covered the important bases, anyway. I don't think I've ever owned a weapon of any kind."

That's making her pause, thoughtful. "No, I don't think so. No guns, no mace, no taser, no sword. I suppose I can always burn people with my fingers, but-- I wouldn't know how to use a weapon if I had one anyway. Ugh."

"Elf adopted by hobbits, that works." Ravn nods good-naturedly. "I know basic fencing but, I suspect there's one hell of a difference between flailing around with a fleuret and protective gear, and actually being in a sword fight where somebody is trying to not score points off you but kill you."

He sips his daiquiri and then tentatively pokes at what he hopes is a bit of minced meat, not too spicy. Don't drop anything -- everything shows on pristine white jeans, seriously, who the hell came up with the idea of pristine white jeans. "I can't use fire the way some of you can. But I suppose dropping a large boulder on someone's head does the job too. I'm vastly in favour of trying the diplomatic approach, though."

He looks up at the beautiful sky and its complete absence of as much as a single cotton-tailed sky. "I wonder what we did to deserve this. It makes you wonder, doesn't it? Do these Dreams happen because us talking reveals stuff that They can use against us later? Or are we being rewarded, patted on the head a little, for being good sports? Maybe it's just to keep us from crumbling in anxiety and moving out of Gray Harbor. Either way, keep them coming. Am I going to see the three of you in the pool at once?"

"Oh god, not gnawing on them either!" laughs Ariadne as she spoons up some of her stew. The litany of weaponry is made known and she nods, thoughtfully appreciative, at the gamut.

"So what I'm hearing is between all of us, we could take down an Uruk Hai with mace, fire, and a boulder and that's after we're certain we've tried the diplomatic route first. I'm down with it," she opines lazily. "Here's hoping that never needs to happen." General scowl at surroundings and sky and Dream-moment, fuck you, Veil.

The pool beckons, however, in its blue hues. She's mostly dry under her waist-wrapped sarong and with her hair up at this point. The air itself is so soft, it's impossibly pleasant. "You'll see me in the pool, at least," the barista confirms. "I'll probably find a blow-up lounge-float and catnap in the sun with my daiquiri. Also, if anybody flips my lounge-float while I'm in it, I will get you your comeuppance and it will be appropriate," the redhead warns before she adds: "And no, I'm not telling you what this comeuppance might be, your imagination is so much worse than anything I can come up with. But."

And Ariadne holds up a finger. "I want to know what's going down around town for Pride Month. Seattle does an amazing job of celebrating it."

"Well, we'll find the rest of the numbers once we reach Rivendale. I'm hoping Sir Ian will be there." Dita pauses to take a sip of her daiquiri, then sighs contentedly. "Stab them with the pointy bit." Dita tells Una.

"Who needs fire when you can fling canapes at them? Or a boulder, I suppose." Dita arches a brow, a slight tilt of her head toward Ravn, just a hint of a self deprecating smile. "I'm not going to worry about it too much. I'm going to focus on feeling appreciative and thankful and grateful and all the other adjectives and enjoy the way the sun feels on my skin. That's the thing I've missed most about being in Pacific North-West... and I'm down to go for a swim once I've digested some of this feast."

"Well, I've got an Inclusive Pride flag flying from the top of the Bauer Building, which has resulted in one polite complaint, one strongly worded letter and one neighborhood watch lady telling me that I am setting a terrible example of how a good Christian woman should behave... I didn't have the heart to tell her."

"Pointy bit, got it," agrees Una, her laugh light and merry, and so much more relaxed than it often is. "I think we've the makings of a good Fellowship, then: a plan in place! Whatever's coming, we're ready."

All of the foods on her plate need taste-testing, and so far, all of them have drawn appreciative noises. No moans-- she's not that demonstrative!-- but happy little enthusiasms. "I don't care what their reasons are, either, if we get this every once in a while," she confirms, lightly. "I will absolutely be hitting the pool, too. Please don't let me burn, though: that's one souvenir I have no interest in taking back home with me. The sun is wonderful, but my skin has its limits."

Dita's comments on her Pride flag and its resulting reactions draws her corners of her mouth up, wide and wider still. "That's gold. Ari's right: Seattle does a good job of it. The community here, though... I'm sure we can make a bit of a splash with it. I have Pride cookie plans."

"HOPE will have an open house day with a Pride theme, of course." Ravn picks lightly at his meat ball; so far, his throat is not on fire. "We're for all of the community -- also the queer part of it, so obviously, we need to show those colours. I do appreciate the irony of the place being run by a cishet bloke but I like to think we're pretty inclusive even so. I'll definitely take any suggestions and questionable cookies because that's one thing I think tends to get lost sometimes -- Pride isn't only about making a political statement."

He glances around, picking his words carefully -- considering that three out of four people present are technically on the rainbow spectrum as far as he is aware; Demi, ace, trans. "At least in my interpretation -- admittedly somewhat looking in from the outside -- Pride is also about celebrating life itself. Diversity, in all its forms. Love, in all its forms. It's a celebration of the right to be whoever the hell you are. Not an us against them thing like some people try to make it, where it's the gays on one side and the heteros on the other. An all of us can be exactly who we are, and revel in the fact that none of us are each other's clones."

"Vitamin D and cheers to it," Ariadne agrees with all in regards to pool enjoyment and sun intake. A little lift of her daiquiri in salute before she sips.

Her curiosity is answered one by one about the table. Her soft smile lingers; fingers twirl the spoon head-down in the stew slowly, not wanting to splash up broth but surely fiddling for the sake of being contained energy. "Twenty-four Karat, Dita," she echoes of Una's sentiments and grins up a pair of saucy dimples. Her attention flicks to Ravn and she listens for fine details. Surely the corkboard at Espresso Yourself will feature a flyer with this information at some point or another if it doesn't already -- she makes a mental note to check and amend as soon as possible if otherwise.

"It is about love. About self-expression. Loving yourself too," the barista agrees. She looks down at her soup and her smile takes on a cast of memory's lane. "I made sure to be there each year while I was at UW for university...one time with my girlfriend. Samantha." Surprise, y'all. "We were good for each other, but not enough. It was one of those...flings where friendship became something more and then we grew apart as people. I still talk to her, so that's a blessing. I'm just really glad it's being celebrated so openly around here."

"I saw some SPF 10,000 out there, I think. Or at least like... SPF 45 or so. All of us should probably use it when we go back out... and yeah, I miss Seattle Pride, but we'll have fun with Gray Harbor, I'm sure. I've seen pride flags around town in places that I know are run by cishet people, so that's something. It's nice to mostly feel welcomed..."

She then points to Ravn, "Exactly. So long as the folks there don't treat it like a zoo attraction and act homophobic or transphobic, it should be open for everyone. Especially because you have no way of knowing by looking alone who's Queer. People shouldn't gatekeep pride except to keep hateful elements away from it."

Ari's revelation doesn't even get a blink out of the young woman. "Those sorts of relationships are awesome... and I'm glad it is, too. I mean, I know it's a pretty open secret around town that I'm trans, now... at least within certain circles. Knowing that if I did come out of stealth mode most people wouldn't treat me any differently is a blessing."

There's just the shortest moment of surprise, from Una, for Ariadne's comment, but it's a blink and you'll miss it thing that transforms rapidly into a brilliantly bright smile, and a nod of acknowledgement that encompasses all three of her companions. "I like that description," she owns, quietly, but with a lift of her glass. "Loving ourselves, and each other, and in whatever form that love takes. I've got a pinterest board with half a hundred different baking ideas for HOPE's open house-- and that's the least important part, I know, but it makes me happy to be able to contribute something."

She takes a sip of her daiquiri, smiling. "I love that it becomes a community thing, for all ages. I love how many kids are beginning to work out who they are, so much younger. And I love when there isn't a need to gatekeep, because it doesn't matter what relationship a person is in; what matters is what they identify as. All of it. I love all of it. Except when the bigots come out, and that's a whole other thing."

"The argument that straight people aren't welcome is bull. As Dita says, don't treat Pride like it's a zoo to gawk at, and you're as welcome as anyone else. Besides, anyone who's bi is straight about 50% of the time, no?" Ravn nods over the edge of his daiquiri. Then he hitches a shoulder at Ariadne's little revelation. "I don't think I'm bi? I got kissed by a bloke once and I can't say I enjoyed it -- but it was also a bloke I'm by no means attracted to, and in front of a woman I was very much attracted to and didn't want to have the wrong idea. Not going to say I couldn't be convinced to try on another man if I was fond enough of him and he of me. Maybe it's a demi thing, but I have this idea that configuration of plumbing is the least of my concerns."

A fond look towards the ex-girlfriend of Samantha. "Not that I spend a lot of time recently worrying whether I should look to the other side of the fence for company."

Then the folklorist nods to Una. "Don't sell yourself short with the cookies. It's the little things like that, that shows we're a community. Normal, down to Earth, every day living in Gray Harbor people, doing little things for each other. As opposed to some chain charity with twelve step plans and subscription fees."

The lack of reactions to the ex-girlfriend is something Ariadne is grateful for; she glances up and around, still wearing her small smile with a more relieved cast now. But baking ideas? She's grins for Una and makes a mental note to check out this particular board out of curiosity and enthusiasm both.

Her daiquiri is sipped and set aside. She glances over at Ravn and returns the hitch of shoulder with a shrug of her own; there, another secret revealed, easily and in good company. "You seem pretty happy on this side of the fence," she teases the Dane lightly before she stirs her spoon through her stew. Another bite brought up and held in lifted stasis as she nods at Dita.

"I'd like to think that if anyone gave you any trouble about coming out of stealth mode, you'd find at least three of us at your side and ready to talk smack if not throw down with whatever pitiful, unsuspecting fool thought to start shit." Her brows lift.

"I'd argue anyone who's bi is never straight or gay, because they're 100% bi, but I get the theory behind it." Dita gestures with her daiquiri, before taking another sip.

"Excuse me, those cookies are the most important part. Because with the cookies comes the excuse for little closeted Queer Babies. 'Moooom I'm only going because Miss Una baked those amazing snickerdoodle cookiessss'." Dita does a surprisingly good whiny teen voice.

"When the bigots come out, that's when we feed them their teeth." Dita says with a too sweet smile to Ari, and a wink. "Besides. It'd be the three of you... and at least a fourth of the fire department who were willing to admit to my... vigorous support of our courageous first responders..."

"Oh, cookies are vitally important," agrees Una, with a lopsided little smile-- and then a little laugh too. "When you put it like that. I'll own it. Miss Una and her rainbow snickerdoodles strikes another blow into homophobia and fear."

She's abandoned her food, now, not because it's not delicious but because her eyes are absolutely bigger than her stomach, and right now, her stomach just wants a few more sips of daiquiri, and a lazy lean back in her chair to promote digestion. "I'd almost pity the bigots," is added, then. "I mean-- no, I wouldn't. But, you know? They wouldn't stand a chance. I like it that way."

If Una can abandon her plate, then Ravn can abandon his (and look a little guilty about it because really, some day he's going to learn to eat in the company of others, promise, scout's honour).

He nods his agreement with Una. "Almost pity them. But only almost. And I really, seriously think anyone giving you a hard time would learn to think twice, Dita. This town has so much going on, we have no time for that shit. It's one of the great things about Gray Harbor: We're so busy with real problems that we can't waste too many spoons worrying about who's sleeping with who, or how. I like that. The rest of the world could learn a thing or two."

"Right?" Easy agreement with Ravn on priorities. Looks like a third individual is abandoning her bowl of stew, but there's only a third left and more daiquiri to enjoy and she has plans which go something like: "I'm going to go enjoy the pool water more and I could use somebody to guard my daiquiri." Ariadne's smile gleams with friendly funning as she rises, half-finished daiquiri in-hand. Back and forth, her ocean-blue sarong swings as she meanders to pour another third's worth of ice-blended drink into her glass. "I'll come back to my food later. It's just...too nice," she explains with a longing glance towards the translucent gem-hues of the pool.

"That, and I didn't get to do a cannonball off the diving board, so -- " She lets that thought hang deliberately. It might be really amusing.

That swimsuit might not survive the impact.

Never one to avoid taking calculated risks, Ariadne, who shoots another cheeky grin at the table's occupants over her shoulder as she walks back out towards the sunlit pool.