2022-06-02 - Gray Harborites in King Arthur's Court

Breezes off the bay cut through the otherwise warm fall of sunlight through the clouds. It doesn't stop Ariadne from sporting a Mediterranean-blue sundress on her way to the Vagabond. Strapless, ruffled around and beneath the bust, it falls otherwise in a simple almost Grecian affair from her hips to her ankles afterwards. Plain sandals on her feet, a knitted cream sweater to keep off the mild chill, and a rise of voice to announce herself. She'll have to be closer for her perfume to be scented, its usual affair in wood ouds, nectarine, and vanilla a thing light and sweet and promising.

"Ahoy-hoy! Yar! Shiver me timbers! Hoist the mizzenmast ye don't have!"

Yeah, she's present now, and laughing as she reaches the dock stretching out to where the Vagabond is berthed. Adjusting her courier purse across her chest as she walks down the dock, she inhales and sighs appreciatively of the saline air. It's been a busy few days and now? Calm must be taken advantage of.

Busy days here and there. Calm days on the Marina -- or as busy as always. The tourist season is in the eye of the beholder -- the old salts who live here all year round think there's bloody tourists and Sunday leisure captains everywhere, the hot dog vendor thinks it's awesome, and the tourists largely think that it's such a quiet and quaint little harbour. On the Vagabond, everything is quiet. Kitty Pryde has moved to the aft today -- as she often will when the sun is out and hence the pier walkers are out, and after the fifteenth instance of Aw, what an adorable little cat, are you friendly she inevitably retires out of tourist reach. And usually, the tourist doesn't lose too much blood in the encounter.

Next to her, the lanky bloke in army green cargo shorts and a long-sleeved, loose shirt -- white. Much as Ravn has preferences and opinions on his sartorial choices, even he cannot argue with the strong sun of June. He's got his laptop and a stack of books -- pen behind one ear and a coffee mug long since empty. Oh yes. It's finals time in Denmark. No wonder he looks so relieved at the sound of a familiar voice. "You're a sight for sore eyes, Venelite."

"Aw, shucks, little old me?"

A cheeky question followed by a cheeky blown kiss in the Dane's direction. Ariadne doesn't pause long at the minor gap between dock and boat; she's becoming more familiar with how to cross it now. Plucking up the hem of her sundress in mock-daintiness, she endeavors a little leap over for the sake of amusement. Landing softly, it's no more than a step or two down into the cockpit and no more than a step or two again to reach Ravn with his pen behind his ear. The air-kiss must be accompanied by a physical kiss, of course, this one gentle alongside a visually-obvious lift of hand to cup the man's cheek in passing.

"You're a charmer, emberem," she murmurs, hazel eyes soft. "Must be finals week," the barista then comments of his trappings.

"Panic week is the official designation, I think." Ravn stretches his legs -- and shuffles to the side to make room between himself and the small and hairy queen of Gray Harbor. "I left Dita's in the morning after and I've been pretty much buried under work since. Which is probably not a bad thing since it's kept me from going and sticking my nose into business that doesn't concern me. I have promised myself another dance, though. I feel we missed out on the opportunity to dance as much as we wanted to. Coffee? I can put on water for more instant."

"Ah, panic week, yes," the barista echoes with what must be a fond laugh at memories of things she no longer needs to worry about. When the spot to sit is offered, it's taken and Ariadne makes a point to be obvious in her intent to snuggle up roughly into his armpit in turn. Her head ends up rested on the Dane's shoulder, forehead tucked to his cheek.

A soft sigh. "You know me and coffee, I can't say no. Hopefully there's some sugar around? Creamer? A girl can dream, right?" She knows it's a boat and food expiration dates matter. "And twist my arm about another dance. God, that was like...okay, call me ridiculous, but remember the animated film, Bambi? How Owl is talking about being twitterpated and walking on air? That. It was like that while we were dancing. You're such a pro at it, I felt like I knew what I was doing. I hear that's what a good lead does though."

"I have the white creamer powder stuff, is that what you mean? And sugar, indeed." At least he doesn't insist on artificial sweeteners. Now watch the lazy sod gesture at the door to the below deck -- open for the nice summer air -- and watch both jars float out, along with a spoon and an extra mug. Ravn is the man who will tell you to not over-use your powers in a frivolous fashion. He's also the man who's not getting up to fetch when his girl has just settled against him. Priorities.

"I'm not a very good dancer," the folklorist says earnestly. "A good dancer will know variations, make the dance his own. But the basic waltz that got drilled into me as a kid -- I can do that. And with a partner like you, I even enjoy it."

"Ravn." A gentlest chide in her voice as Ariadne glances up from resting her head on his shoulder. Her smile is intimately fond. "You gigantic dork. I can't waltz to save my life and I'm going to insist that you're good at it, okay?" Another brush of a kiss for him to further soften concerns. At this point? Anything Ravn does involving the aspect of telekinetically fetching things garners no more than a thoughtful lift of brows from the barista.

Such a long way from startle-squeaking at rocks moving of her own power's accord.

Plucking both the jars out of the air to set them aside on the surface, she grabs the extra mug and looks around for the liquid coffee. Pausing as she realizes about earlier's state of coffee, the barista glances over at Ravn. "Oh, no, wait, you said instant coffee. I'll go get the kettle on?"

Ravn points at the seat on his other side. "Electric kettle. Battery. Think I'm going to get up every five for a refill when grading? It's for a car but whatever." Next to it, a large bottle of fresh, not sparkling water, for refills. Somebody has a system here. And a caffeine based system shock in the making. "The only thing I haven't worked out yet is how to get real coffee and not instant. This is my master plan -- date the barista, and then buy an espresso machine for her."

And a larger boat for it to fit into, no doubt.

Ariadne's laughter blurts out at the revelation of the master plan.

"Oh my goddddddd," she drawls while reaching for both the instant coffee and then the kettle afterwards; its water is still hot enough per her druthers. Dried creamer powder is then spoon-dropped in as well as two spoonfuls of sugar for a slow stirring of beverage after. "Look, if you want to get me an espresso machine, I'm not going to say no, but it had better be a small one, okay? It doesn't need all the bells and whistles. You drink pour-overs or carafe-based coffee at my place anyhow. Not good enough for you?" she teases with a grin as she taps the spoon on the mug before setting it aside. "Maybe I need to start kissing you before I give you your mug in the morning. Positive reinforcement. I'll train you yet," Ravn is thus informed airily and with another giggle.

"Get a girlfriend, they said. Learn to sit and beg and shake, they said. Be the best trained potential husband in town, they said." Ravn pretends that his murmur is dark but his eyes are gleaming with amusement. "Also, honestly? I prefer filter coffee but I'll drink any coffee that isn't full of all sort of other things." He's probably got the sugar and creamer for other people's consumption rather than his own.

An arm slinks around Ariadne's shoulder. This is a welcome break, and the best company for it. "We should do some of the things we've talked about. Those nature trips Jules recommended. Seattle. Speaking of the latter, has your sister stopped screaming yet?"

"How funny you should ask about Anastasia."

And look at the quirked smile on that redhead's face. Ariadne fishes out her phone and thumbs through messages now that she's got both coffee and the return of cuddling up into the Dane's shoulder. "Observe, oh Twi-hard."

It's the text from after Ariadne had sent the selfie to her younger sister: OMG OMG OMG OMG OMG YOU WEREN'T KIDDING HE'S WEARING FANGS ARI WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU THINKING IS HE REALLY THAT WEIRD CALL ME RIGHT NOW

Followed about ten minutes later with: SERIOUSLY CALL ME RIGHT NOW

Followed another seven minutes later with: Oh wait you're at a party, CALL ME WHEN YOU GET HOME

Followed the next morning by: YOU DID NOT CALL ME, DON'T MAKE ME TELL MOM

Followed by Ariadne texting back: Oh my god, you're so dramatic, give me time to make coffee first, christ chex.

"Anyways, we still have her convinced that you're a die-hard Twilight fan. Next, a pic of you playing violin by moonlight. Maybe we go hiking and you bring it in your bag of wonder and you can even be dramatically perched on a fallen tree while moonlight filters ominously down through the branches." Finger twiddling gesture to mimic this falling moonlight and chuckle.

"Better yet," Ravn says with a small, smug smile. "We go on a nature hike and bring your new cloak and your make-up kit, and then we snap a few pictures of you looking pale in the moonlight, with my violin. And then you gush a bit about sharing your new boyfriend's hobbies."

He cants his head. "The penny will have to drop eventually. Don't you think? Or do we need to photoshop a unicorn in there?"

Ariadne sips her coffee with the smuggest smug smuggery this side of smug-city.

"I like how you think. Clearly, there's a reason we're together," she says of Ravn's suggestion regarding the cloak and accompanying accoutrements. "You take those pictures with my phone and I'll absolutely send them. Maybe we'll let her know we've been pulling her leg after that round. Maybe. But let me tell her, if she's going to be pissed, let it be at me. Then she'll see you and be like, ah ah ah, you played along, you're perfect for my sister, you asshole. She'll call you an asshole lovingly, you're forewarned."

"I have most certainly been called considerably worse, and in a tone decidedly less than loving." Ravn's own smile widens; he can do smug too. He reaches for his own mug and the kettle, to prepare himself a cup as well -- one-handed, because his other arm remains around Ariadne's shoulder, and if that means the spoon has to float, so be it.

"It's hilarious. I am greatly entertained by those panic texts you're getting, and I'm not going to pretend otherwise." He smirks. "And once the penny does drop? Once she's done screaming at you or at us, she'll certainly be past any hang-ups about so-called 'proper' behaviour and other weird ideas."

Now, the floating spoon surely used to stir the coffee powder into the water earns itself a considering look. Ariadne is admittedly impressed by that one. The multitasking on display is masterful; Ravn must have been practicing when grading for some time now.

"Oh yeah, Anastasia isn't going to linger on it. That's one of the nice things about her: on to the next. It comes with being in the city, I think, because there's such an influx of people and information and ideas. Linger too long on something and you might miss an opportunity and all. She's hard to slow down, never stops to smell the roses as the saying goes. But man, is she a time when she's got your hand and she's leading you around. She's got connections now that she's older and it's nuts. I mean, she's truly that person who has a friend-of-a-friend of some actor or something."

Ravn laughs softly and sips his coffee. "In other words, you're telling me she's the kind of social butterfly I'd usually do my very best to avoid. Those people are terrifying -- the true extroverts who can't move fast enough around large enough crowds. If you try to keep up with them you run yourself ragged and end up sitting in a corner, gasping for breath, while you wonder why that Croatian film maker keeps talking to you about shoes."

He smiles lightly and glances up at the blue sky. "We could do it right away, you realise. I could do with a break, and we can get quite far in short time, whether on Lola Bianca or on the Vagabond. Stop by your place to pick up your cloak and maybe a lot of pale foundation, and there we go -- some suitably scenic backdrop in the woods. One of the old factories could work too -- those red brick dinosaurs from the first half of the 20th century that are quietly disappearing beneath vines and time."

Another long sip of her freshly-made coffee only breaks because Ariadne can't smile this hard and sip it without risk of spilling down her front.

"I'm not opposed to seeing about those pictures. It's my day off and Sam's had his jog. He'd probably stir a little when we got back to my place, but I'm sure I can convince him to settle down with a frozen Kong toy. I'm intrigued at the idea of these old factories too. I'd forgotten all about them. I was always trying to convince Ana to go with me and check them out, but yeah, she was busy being a butterfly back when she was in high school and in her early years of college, so no go."

Another brush of a kiss for the Dane before she then rises. "I'll go put this in the sink and we'll get going." Her sandals take her the short distance to the equally short descent into the galley. As she passes the frame of the doorway itself, a tingling begins to wash over her skin. Her eyes go wide.

"RAV -- "

Silence.

Fuck.

Ravn knows that tone of voice very well. Add to that that from where he is sitting he can see Ariadne -- she steps through the door to the below decks and then -- well, then she is not there. It's a small area. He can see the entire interior of the Vagabond from where he is sitting. There is no nook or cranny large enough for Ariadne to slip away to hide behind, unless you count the very small loo.

He jumps to his feet and runs, more than walks, to where the woman was before she poofed out of existence.

It has to be a Dream. It happens like that, sometimes. You step through a door and come out somewhere else. Usually, no one else sees -- but maybe that rule is off when he too has the ability to see? Or maybe he's meant to follow?

Maybe he is, and maybe he isn't. Either way, he does. He flies towards the galley and only as an afterthought does his hand whip through the strap of the shoulder bag that Ariadne has dubbed his Bag of Holding.

Air. Wide open air. High. High? A hill. Green grass beneath her knees. The coffee cup is somewhere. Come back, coffee. The sky is so blue but it's chillier than on the water. Why does her dress suddenly itch.

Left mildly nauseated at the abrupt shift from one place to another, Ariadne keeps holding her own arms. Wind lifts her hair from her shoulders and cuts through her cream knitted sweater. Should have packed a better sweater. It floats inanely across her mind. "Fuck," she breathes to herself as she looks around again. The land beneath the high tor spreads out for miles and miles of low-rolling grass-coated earth broken by patches of pristine deciduous wood. The clouds reflects in patches of lying water. Marshes? Bogs?

"Ravn...?" she asks very pitifully to the soft whistling of the wind from the dull grey skies above.

It's but a moment later that Ravn appears out of -- nowhere. One moment there's nothing but the unassuming scents of cowslip, cornflower, and yarrow. The next, there's a folklorist still carried forward by momentum, almost running into Ariadne on sandalled feet, shoulder bag in one hand.

He cuts such a striking figure, cargo pants, white shirt and hiking sandals. The coffee mug still in the other hand really is the final touch. Or maybe the expression on his face is that -- the final touch: Concern mixing with utter relief at seeing Ariadne, then washing into confusion at what she's wearing, surprise bleeding away to finally give way to frustration. "Bloody hell, what's this?"

He pauses. He looks around. "When is this?"

Because when push comes to shove, there aren't a whole lot of meadow marshlands with familiar, North European flowers and not a single car in sight, never mind an asphalt road or at the very least, the masts of power lines. He cannot yet put a finger on the details but this is definitely not Kansas, Toto.

"Ravn...?" The next iteration of his name is far more tremulous. Hazel eyes well up because Ariadne didn't ask for this. All she wanted to do was go take pictures and send them to her sister and laugh with Ravn and now she's god-only-knows-where and god-only-knows-when --

As such, Ravn suddenly there makes her yelp and that's the startling straw which breaks the camel's back. What is this, he asks. When is this, he inquires. Like the wind's going to tell him. A soft sob from her equal parts relief and complaint.

"I don't wanna be here...!" A pitiful sentiment plain and simple and accompanied by a look up at Ravn with two tear tracks glistening on her cheeks. It's very hard not to assume this is the Veil life-sentencing one to being Lost. Assumption is currently running loose like wildfire all over logic's generally cool composure.

The shoulder bag is almost absentmindedly hoisted up on one shoulder because Ravn needs both hands; he wraps them around Ariadne and pulls her close to him. A moment of breath; an aligning of hearts; a brief moment to allow their souls to catch up from Gray Harbor to wherever this is. Is Veil lag a thing? It definitely ought to be a thing.

"Breathe," he tells his lover softly. "And hold tight. There's always a story. We just to find it and work through it, and go home. Besides, as Veil places go, this is far from the worst I've been. We're somewhere in Northern Europe -- or something that could have been Northern Europe. We might even be lucky enough to speak the language or be able to find somebody who speaks one of ours. Besides, not all Dreams are awful."

Just the majority. No need to reiterate that, right now.

Reaching hands mean safety. In something like a checked lunge, Ariadne buries herself against the taller Dane with her face squished into the flat of his chest. Her arms around him are tight as she trembles and deliberately blinds herself. Maybe if she can't see it, it's not real. It's too much at first -- too much right now -- and his words help to an extent.

A shivering inhale. "I can do Northern Europe. I can do English. They'd better speak English. I think Hungarian is too foreign...or, fuck, maybe it's fine. I don't know." Marine biologist really hates not knowing. Another sniffle-sob. "I can't remember right now, it's too much. Something about the Germanic tribes. God, I don't know!"

"Oy!"

Gasp-squeaking in surprise, Ariadne dares to look past the outer line of Ravn's bicep towards the hailing.

And god, is that a lanky kid. Boy? Girl? Who knows, the loose fit of the clothing doesn't afford much of a hint at this age, appearing around ten or so.

"What are you, some kind of fairy?" This to Ravn. It might mean literal Fae. It might mean something else. But the historian is going to get a better idea about the time period by the clothing as well as the breed of horse being led along, an old gelding in chestnut by the looks of things.

Ravn is just about to point out that Hungarian is by no means even close to the Germanic tongues but as a matter of fact, Danish and German (!) are, and he speaks both. Then there is shouting and he mentally goes never mind.

It's a kid in a peasant's shift. Male? Female? On the lowest rung on the social ladder, what's the difference? It's a simple tunic-like affair reaching to the knees, with bare feet underneath. Rough, un-bleached, un-dyed homespun cloth. Caucasian skin burned bronze by outdoors life. Feet with soles like thick leather. Hands, similar -- short nails, thick calluses.

Roman era to late medieval.

The kid speaks, and in modern English at that. So the Dream is providing translation services -- that's something, but it also means that their language offers no clue as to where or when this is supposed to be. Europe, or a faux-Europe. If it's genuinely England? Somewhere to the south -- Cornwall, Dartmoor, the marshlands or at least not too northern enough to be the heather-clad highlands.

His gaze travels to the horse. Ravn is no expert on horse breeds per se, but he knows his medieval paintings. Whatever this old nag is supposed to be, it's a small, shaggy affair. Bred for work on farms or in mines -- or on the moors, all that peat doesn't carry itself to town.

"I might be," he replies and tries to aim for a mix of haughty (as some kind of fey entity might be) and approachable (because he bloody well wants to not scare the kid off, they're the only source of answers around here). He also seriously does not feel like a medieval fairytale prince wearing a loose shirt and cargo pants, but maybe -- maybe it will actually work. The Romans wore short leggings and loose tunics, and sandals, after all. "It might depend on who is doing the asking."

It's traditional, after all. Faerie never give a straight answer, in Danish tradition and otherwise.

Ariadne remains oblivious to all musing as to time period as well as locale other than Northern England. She's still clinging to Ravn with eyes gone somewhat wide and mascara somehow resisting the tear tracks...for now. Modern make-up magic, that there.

The kid squints at Ravn.

"...look, I'm expected at the market to sell this old horse and I don't have time to banter with the Fae. If you don't want to tell me your name, fine, but don't think you're going to start curdling our milk or spreading the pox or try and steal my baby brother away -- and don't you dare turn into an owl or I swear by God almighty, I will find a stick and defeat you in single-hand combat."

Ariadne breathes quietly against Ravn's arm, "What the fuuuuuuuuuck."

Ravn blinks and tries very hard to hide the twitch at the corner of his mouth. "Well, maybe you can give me directions instead, Sarah. What way to the nearest town from here? As you can see, I left my owl skin at home, along with my crystal ball."

He wonders whether whatever Veil entities come up with these Dreams watch Netflix and chill too, or the Labyrinth references were lifted out of his own and Ariadne's minds. A philosophical quandary, for later.

"I wandered here from another realm, struck by the beautiful eyes of this maid," he tells the kid instead -- Sarah, or more likely, Wat, or Rob, or Damn Brat, or That Waif. "Can you blame me? But to win her I must woo her, and that means going to the human settlements."

Coughing suddenly overtakes the barista. It draws the young person's attention for another confused scrunch of face.

Ravn will know it as Ariadne trying very, very hard not to laugh because literally, what else is there to fucking do in this situation?! It's an improvement from quiet sobbing.

"My name isn't Sarah and the power of Christ compels you." Ravn gets the sign of the cross etched into the air at him now. "You leave that poor maid alone!"

At least it's not terribly hard to figure out where the market is. A collection of low buildings in the distance, if one squints, can be spotted per the rise of smoke from chimneys.

There's two things a man can do here -- point out that given his face isn't melting he's probably neither sidhe nor devil or just go along with it. The folklorist in Ravn can't help but observe that the kid whose name isn't Sarah nonetheless made numerous Labyrinth references, and hence, that's probably the theme we're going for here.

Which means, he takes a step back and looks annoyed, as if the ward causes him discomfort. "The maiden is free to go where she pleases," he returns. "And if she pleases to wander where I go, that is her choice, is it not? I will win her as a mortal man will. You go on your way now, Sarah, and good luck with the horse."

A faerie's blessing is no small thing, after all.

It's equal chances of why Ariadne continues clinging to Ravn's shirt. Option one: if she lets go, everything's going to go topsy-turvy again and she's terrified of getting Lost in this time and place. Option two: she has to play along and pretend to be besotted by this Fae lord who apparently intends to win her over. Either way, she doesn't have to try too hard to appear mildly confused and insistent upon remaining in his personal space.

The kid continues scowling at Ravn. Wasn't this Fae thing supposed to evaporate like frost from the grass or something? Or screech and run away? Or explode?

"I thank you for your blessing, Fae." Dark eyes fall on Ariadne now. "Lady, you can ride the horse to market. It's unwise to continue to dally with this creature, he's dangerous."

"I...want to keep dallying with him, thank you very much," the barista tries as evenly as she can manage.

The kid's face scrunches. "Look, I know he has pointy ears and he's tall and all, but he's going to steal your soul. You want to keep your soul, right?"

"Hit the road, shortcakes," Ariadne then snaps, making the kid take a step back and lift a hand. A nerve has been trod on there.

"Alright, alright, your funeral," the kid mutters. "Don't come crying to me when you find out he's an owl!" An addendum over a lean shoulder as the old gelding then placidly continues following the kid down the road barely visible in the growth of grass.

"Raven," Ravn murmurs, indignant, and bites his own cheek to keep from laughing out loud.

He waits for the kid to be well out of earshot before saying, "Looking at that kid and at those houses down there, I'm going to venture a guess and say somewhere in former Roman territories but after the fall of Rome. Given the geography of Europe, we're looking at the Germanic forests -- which this clearly isn't. Gaul is possible but France seems too southern for this kind of moor. So I'm going to go with post-Roman England until proven wrong. Which means we're going to be talking to Celts who will eventually be driven off by the Saxons, to survive in what will become Wales."

Thank you for the history lesson, nerd boy.

The historian takes a breath. "If I'm right we're in an early Christian society of small kingdoms perpetually at war with one another, trying to maintain Roman standards. Most nobility still thinks of itself as Roman. Most nobility may still be Roman because we might well be before 410 AD."

"Ravn!" Ariadne has to bite her own cheek to keep from laughing as well because...well...irony is irony and the poor Dane suffers mispronunciations and allusions often enough. At least he can fun at it!

She watches the kid and the horse make their way down the long slope of the tor itself while Ravn explains what he's surmised. It makes the barista sigh heavily. A swipe of her wrist across her face and grunt of annoyance. "I know nothing about this time period except for what the movies have shown me and I know those aren't perfectly historically accurate, sometimes deliberately for the sake of entertainment."

Ravn also gets strafed as the redhead finally dares a step back, her hands remaining on his arms. "...and you're wearing cargo shorts, dearheart. Your knees are showing." How primly she says this as she looks up into his face. "You're not going to blend in at all." Not that she is either, what with the dyed underpaneling of her hair showing. Maybe it was all in the angle of her hiding, how the kid didn't notice.

"Well, if the Romans are still around, or their fashions are, at least I'm not indecent -- just exotic. It's worse if we're up in say, the 800s where Alfred the Great would probably have me burned at the stake for indecency -- or for being a Dane." Ravn hitches a shoulder. "We have one thing working in our favour, at least -- we're both too well fed and not weather worn enough to be common labourers in this period. However fucked up we look to them, we also look like upper class."

He squeezes her hand and tugs at her; might as well get walking before it's suddenly nightfall in a world without street lights. "Also, about knowing nothing -- we're kind of on equal footing there, because everything I know works on the assumption that this is history. But Dreams usually aren't -- they're mock histories, alternate realities, sometimes even obvious parodies. Remember Los Angeles as Zorro's bride? I mean, not exactly authentic, that."

Ariadne nods as she listens carefully to the historian expound upon the potential time period they might have been rudely drop-kicked into. She's not going to fight him about playing little lost tugboat to his lead in the least; he tugs and she falls into place beside him, making sure their fingers are solidly interlaced.

"Yeah, how could I forget Los Angeles? It's weirdly hyper-vivid still." Like all proper Dreams should be. "I can still feel the phantom landing spot on my butt sometimes," she frowns. "I don't think that kid meant to be referencing David Bowie because they drew all of that from some part of folklore. Maybe just weird coincidence. Did they even keep track of time in this time period? Who would. Um. Monks. Monks?" she guesses, looking again to Ravn in concern.

At least the tor itself has the slowly-leveling slope to it so she can do this without risk of tripping and tumbling down it.

"Yeah. The Romans brought Christianity here, as the state religion -- and with it, the Roman Catholic church. Or what's going to become the Roman Catholic Church, if we're before 590 AD, I think." Ravn frowns lightly as he walks. "I'm not an expert on England at this time -- but it's a safe bet that the peasants here do exactly the same thing they did in Denmark until universal education when it comes to tracking time: They used an elaborate system of markings on a staff, each date having its special symbol to remind you of the oral tradition that goes with it -- tracking the duties around the farm, pretty much, and trying to predict the weather."

A small smile from the folklorist. "I doubt the kid's heard of Jareth the Goblin King but Brian Froud drew heavily on Celtic faerie folklore in the designs for that movie. It's no coincidence that there's metric buttloads of fan fiction depicting Jareth as some kind of sidhe. Personally, I vote he's a sylph but that's because I know more than one word of Celtic folklore."

He glances back towards the town. "Here's to hoping we can pass ourselves off as foreigners, maybe. Or do you think it's safer to pretend to be a sidhe lord of some kind? After all, we actually do have magic."

"Guess we find somebody with a notch staff or something," the redhead sighs to herself. The tor levels out to grass stretching for at least a mile before the rise of woodland. Before this, still at a distance, smoke rises to mark humanity. Maybe the kid went another direction; the old gelding and its rider can't be seen now.

Ariadne's eyes slide to Ravn again. "I have no inclination to get burned at the stake for anything here, so...are they actually going to respect us if we pretend we're Sidhe? Or are they going to come after us with pitchforks and torches and it's going to turn ugly? I really have no idea about this time period, Ravn," she insists with a flicker of earlier's panic in her tone.

"I think we may have to play that by ear when we meet them," Ravn says, earnestly but also regretting it because he really wishes he could offer something more comforting. "In real history? I'd say it's a coin toss. We're too early for witch burnings but not too early to get stabbed with cold iron. Or if they're a superstitious lot, get treated like royalty. I think our best bet here is to be a couple of good grifters and let them tell us who we are. If they sound and look friendly while they suggest it? We roll with it. If they look suspicious or fidgety? We're definitely not that."

"I mean...we really can't do much else than roll with it. Aaaaauuuuuuuugh!"

Ariande flails her free arm into the air in an irked gesture. "Just...fuck it, I just wanted some nice time with you! A day off and this happens! FUCK YOU, VEIL!" What a resounding shout across the vast expanse of undeveloped land surrounding them. A flock of doves takes off three yards off in a whistling of wings. Red deer lift their heads from browsing and stare. Somewhere, a mage pauses in grinding something up with a mortar and pestle and squints.

"...but okay, the flowers are nice," the barista grumps of the spread of wildflowers in their patches of color. It really is wild, most of the area surrounding them, and this beauty is enough to penetrate her sour temper. "And the butterflies are very friendly." She leans back as one of those white cabbage butterflies veers past her face -- and then another -- and another -- and another? -- and another -- and now they're starting to try and land on her and Ravn both. How many are there? Where did they come from?! "Ravn, the butter -- " Blowing a butterfly from her lips, the barista cringes a little. "I like butterflies, but this is a bit much! What the fuck?!"

It's like a sudden snowstorm of butterflies.

"Augh." Ravn frowns and does his best to pluck butterflies off Ariadne's face -- it's hard to breathe through them, for one, and they probably don't taste all that great either. "What -- are you carrying or wearing anything that you didn't wear back home?" Pluck, pluck, frown. "Celtic myth claims that butterflies are the souls of the dead, looking to find their way to Heaven. They borrowed that from the Hellenistic period. I'm pretty sure these are just butterflies though." Thank you, nerd boy, we really needed to know that.

He leans in to sniff his lover -- yes, he likes her perfume, but her perfume does not have that effect on butterflies back in 2022, and frankly? There's a lot more wild flowers and scents around in whenever this is than there is in 2022 where pollution has decimated butterfly populations worldwide.

Also, cabbage butterflies are called that for a reason. Ariadne definitely does not smell like, well, cabbage.

Ariadne smells like her perfume and a light layer of stress-sweat. Nothing else.

So why are the butterflies starting to clump around Ravn as well? Beside him, the barista continues to squint and gently brush butterflies away from her face. They cling to her clothing now with enough weight to be felt by their number. Their myriad little feet tickle and a few are definitely stuck in her hair. Ravn's about to have a very large number trying to see about decorating him as well. "I can't talk to dead people! That's your schtick! I'm just here! I lost my coffee cup, I have no idea what -- " Pause to blow butterfly from lips again. " -- what the hell is going on!"

The volume of butterflies increase now until vision for the both of them is beginning to become subsumed by the winged insects.

"I'd like to note that -- blugh!" Ravn spits out a white winged cabbage butterfly who probably is worse off for the experience. "That these things are not talking anyhow."

Memo to self. Add bug spray to the bag.

He looks around, as much as one can when trapped in a blizzard of white butterflies. It's a very localised blizzard, isn't it? Not a veritable swarm crossing the land -- just a veritable swarm crossing the two of them. This makes no sense -- at least not in a mythological context. The only kind of sense the folklorist can make of it is that -- well, that maybe the butterflies are the souls of the dead, and they think the time travellers are either psychopomps or lost souls that have somehow not transformed into butterflies too.

Neither sounds all that likely.

He looks down and around them -- is there anything that might for some bizarre reason serve as an insect attracting device? Are we standing in the best and greatest cabbage in the history of mankind here? "Maybe we should try to run a bit," he suggests, in between blocking his mouth with his free hand lest more of the little beauties decide to die in there.

"Running sounds great, but -- " Pause to puft another butterfly away from her lips. She tries squinting at Ravn through the swarm of tiny white wings. "I don't want to hurt them!" Figures the marine biologist wouldn't want to, with her heart dedicated to the vouchsafing of creatures of the water. Butterflies are sweet little things as is, legend aside, in her opinion.

The swarm increases in density! Now it's all a flutter of a million small wings whispering in creation of their own wind and against skin and displacing hair and Ariadne closes her eyes tightly with her hands over her nose and mouth against accidentally inhaling one of them. She heard Ravn cough one up as is. "Ravn?!" It's muffled in her hands, but it's his name nonetheless. She isn't going to try running, not blind like this, but stumbling to one side is an option. It brings her away from Ravn by about five feet or so.

Slowly, surely, the maximal flow of the butterflies move on. Their wind stirred up comes to a stillness. Only a few remain, clinging to clothing and hair and yes, to Ravn's ear because...well...pointy?

And a figure wearing a forest-green cloak stands on the road now before them very quietly, simply observing.

Ariadne risks opening her eyes. A soft 'eeep!' escapes her upon seeing the figure. Quickly enough, shedding a few white cabbage butterflies as she goes, she's next to Ravn again.

"I think we found a genuine faerie, perhaps." Ravn's murmur is quiet -- though if that is really a genuine, real sidhe standing there, they probably hear it easy enough.

He slips his hand down to Ariadne's and curls his gloved fingers around it protectively. Not much of a scrapper, this white knight -- but he will do his best if necessary. "Well met, neighbour," the folklorist calls out -- for what are the faerie called if not the good neighbours?

Here's to hoping that not harming the butterflies -- barring the one he nearly ate -- proved some kind of point, and that it was indeed the right point.

Interestingly, the figure in the green cloak laughs quietly beneath the fall of fabric. Its masculine sound immediately identifies it as such and the broad shoulders jouncing certainly assist further.

"Well met indeed." A pleasant baritone. "Know you where you are and where you walk?"

Ariadne's mouth works a few times before she tentatively volunteers, "Ennngland? In...300 AD?" What a very modern response. The hooded figure cants its head slightly as if intrigued to hear it.

"There's no such thing as England yet," Ravn murmurs very softly. "The Angles haven't gotten here yet. Or well, they're in the business of getting here." A bit louder he says, "We are travellers who have lost our way. Are we in Dumnonia? Who reigns as king?"

Not that Ravn is by any means an expert in early English kings but at least some of the names stand out. 'No, asshole, you're in Wessex and Alfred the Great is king' would give him a pretty precise idea of when and where, and to keep his own nationality very, very quiet. By about 300 AD, Dumnonia is half of what what he thinks of as England. By 700 AD, it's the west end of Cornwall, nothing more.

"...oh. Shit." Watch the barista's face pink up in a pastel hue. Ariadne decides it's better to let the folklorist do the talking at this point and remains tucked close to him, fingers happily intertwined with his own. They stand beside one another even like this, having each other's flank in turn. It's very dignified, even with one last cheeky cabbage butterfly clinging to her hair above her own ear unbeknownst to her.

Attention shifting from Ariadne to Ravn is palpable in the case of the figure wearing his green cloak. "You walk in the lands of Pendragon, neighbor." Ravn will feel the squeeze of his hand in surprise at the name. Someone's read a book or two in her spare time. "I travel to Camelot as I go to speak with King Arthur and his court. Wish you to attend as well? Your custom is exotic enough and you will please with your magics." Ariadne glances carefully over at Ravn.

It's not the name, Pendragon -- Ravn knows that one, and he's not really all that surprised, either. Dreams love myths and legends, so why not the Arthurian cycle -- hell, hope for the Arthurian cycle because it could be the Merlin TV show with Anthony Head as Uther Pendragon the medieval Nazi.

It's the Green Knight. He knows this story -- and frankly, if he didn't, he should return his PhD for a refund.

Not the worst travelling companion -- with a few important footnotes.

The Dane nods with a small bow of respect; the man's title warrants it, after all. "You are most kind to travellers, good sir. It will be our pleasure to accompany you. Perhaps we might have a trick or two to entertain and earn our bread and bed as well."

And stay the bloody hell away from sharp axes.

Ariadne isn't so enamored with the (also palpable) mystery surrounding this green cloaked individual to miss the way Ravn bows his little bow. A beat late, the barista plucks at her skirt with free fingers and tries for a curtsey without letting go of the man's hand. It's not going to be anything to please the Dane's aunts and probably amuses in its vein of 'My Fair Lady' ineptitude in the gesture of respect.

The Green Knight doesn't seem overly concerned. After all, they're just travelers -- or so Ravn claimed them as such little importance other than conversational companions.

"I am certain you have a trick or two." Not remotely foreboding, this observation from the figure of legend. "But where are your mounts? You did not walk here from your homelands?" the Knight asks in his languid voice.

Arthurian legend, is it. Let's go full Mallory on it then. (Possibly not the part where Thomas Mallory wrote the thing because he was locked up in a tower as a punishment for rape). Morte d'Arthur. Full of witches, faerie, and sorcerers. And a certain Green Knight who doesn't mind having his head cut off every now and then.

"Alas, good sir," Ravn ventures, because he has to say something -- and if you're going for the supernatural, go all the way. No one believes an unlikely story. Any grifter knows that you need to make your lie so ridiculous that you have to be telling the truth because no one'd make up something that implausible -- right? "We went to sleep in the fields of Normandy and found ourselves transported to this tor. Perhaps it is the Lord's will that we should be here. Perhaps it is the doing of such good neighbours as a poor peasant boy thought we were."

"Think you of mine ilk?" This amuses the Green Knight; he laughs not unkindly, but the fact of his stature and hooded face still lends the air of mystery to keep Ariadne from wanting to join in. She thinks it's hilarious that Ravn was thought to be Fae, much less some variant on the theme of the Goblin King. It still seems prudent to be quiet. Demure? Perhaps. Ravn probably knows better, how this silence from the barista isn't submissive: it's calculating.

"What a lark. I cannot tell you of how you arrived," -- thus implying someone else around here can. " -- but given you have agreed to join me and haste must be made, upon foot will not do." At his hip, a hunting horn carved from the ivory of some impossible creature. Pulling it from its sling, the Green Knight then brings it to his lips. Clear, strident, the sound which then echoes out across the tors and glens and wends through tall tree and glade.

It's definitely a summoning of some sort for something. Ravn then gets another dubious side-look from the redhead beside him.

"We live in a time of wonders," Ravn says tentatively and hopes that Ariadne will catch his general drift. "There are stranger things afoot in Dumnonia than to travel by magic to the court of King Arthur."

You're looking at one of the stranger things. Oh well. At least it's presently being friendly.

Then he smiles lightly at the Green Knight. "My lord, it is not for us to wonder whence you came and what land bred you. You are kind to strangers in need of safe company, and for that, you have our gratitude and our lack of questions."

Drift is caught -- or at least, the general nuance of it. Don't cross-examine the Green Knight. This seems like a wisdom, the barista muses, especially as she's looking around for whatever the hell the entity intends to summon with the ringing call of the hunting horn.

"You may ask your questions. It is foolhardy to assume I would not grant answers." Whether they liked it or not and in the manner of the Green Knight's choosing. This earns the entity one of those vaguely-warning looks from Ariadne, but again, she remains quiet and calculating rather than attempting to mince around in a field of lacking knowledge. Movement behind and beyond the Green Knight draws her attention. Her brows quirk as she leans slightly into Ravn to look past the broad-shouldered Knight.

"Uh. That's..." It needn't be continued, her thought, because that's obviously two large red deer headed their way. Very large red deer. American moose-sized red deer. Wearing saddles? Saddles -- and bardic tacking somehow plainly-beautiful with designs burnt and stamped into the leather itself and tassels of pine needles hanging in clumps from the reins.

And then, with a disturbing ease of vertigo, the two Grey Harborites find themselves astride one of the creatures. Ariadne clutches at the saddle-horn and finds her balance because this particular fine-woolen skirt-dress-shift isn't going to allow anything but side-saddle. At least Ravn can sit normally. The Green Knight seems expectant if patient, the darkness of his hood aimed at them as he sits upon his more placid mount. It seems unspoken: shall we away?

Hope your license covers driving large ungulates, Ravn.

If only these were horses. Sure, there are tribes in the north of Siberia who ride reindeer -- but these aren't reindeer. If anything they're supposedly extinct giant Irish deer. The first thought that goes through his head is something along the lines of don't lean forward because if that head swings quickly, those antlers are going to take your face off.

He sends Ariadne a wince. Hold on. It's all we can do. And then he grasps the reins. "To Camelot," he murmurs just in case -- because of course there are also faerie folktales in which mounts of such a nature carries people off to the faerie mountain, or to Hell itself. Words have power, and he can but hope that if such ill intent is at play, the words bind the stag. "To Camelot, my lady and I."

Ariadne reads the wince as clearly as day. One hand remains gripped white-knuckled around the pommel of the saddle; her other arm ends up wrapped around the Dane's waist, her shoulder tucked against his chest. The Green Knight seems to smile -- or at least project approval from within the darkness of his cowl -- at Ravn's words to the giant red deer. The thing does toss its head and the antlers barely miss limbs before it seems to bunch its hindquarters for take-off.

No, not a walk. Not a trot. Take-off.

Maybe it's a mercy how the entire reality temporarily blurs like a watercolor left in the rain. Can oneself be stretched over several miles? Maybe dozens of miles.

It's abrupt, the stop in what appears to be a cobblestone courtyard surrounded by high walls and large brasiers burning and the milling of stablehands and staff coming to a very shocked halt. Ariadne rocks in the saddle and is able to keep upright by mercy of stiff-arming the saddle pommel and her arm in a vise around Ravn. "Glrk." It's an unhappy sound of motion sickness, but hey, at least she doesn't vomit!

Behold the awkward. Ambling along in a gentle canter on a well trained horse is one thing. Clinging to the back of a large stag, hoping to not have a face collision with its antlers, is quite another matter. Ravn needs to somehow have one hand on the reins and one arm around Ariadne who has to sit sideways. This leaves him decidedly out of arms for things like holding on to the saddle, relying completely on his own balance.

His balance isn't bad per se. In fact, it's pretty good. That's probably what saves him from the embarrassment of not stopping when the giant stag does. Saves him from not landing entangled in its antlers, with Ariadne skewered on them, at that. All he has to work out now is how to dismount and get Ariadne safely down too, and hopefully not make the entire courtyard of Camelot keel over laughing. Riding in sandals, good grief.

The folklorist feels a passing urge to kneel down and kiss the cobblestones once he feels them under his feet. He doesn't; he raises his hands to help his girl down instead.

And then he looks around. Because Camelot.

It ought to (be nothing because it never existed) be a late Iron Age/early medieval era hall built from timber -- or possibly, built in the fashion of a Roman grand villa, depending on which influence is greater out of Celtic and Roman. He expects Roman -- because the Pendragon line is said to have roots in Rome in legend. What he expects? Norman castle anno about 1300 because fuck you realism, and Hal Foster did make it look just great in Prince Valiant.

Ariadne absolutely requires help dismounting. Damnit, skirt. Damnit, motion sickness. She's not the most graceful on the landing from on high (because Giant Irish deer, oh my), but Ravn's steadying hands keep her from otherwise face-planting. This was definitely an option. She remains half-leaned on him as she too looks around, curiosity fighting a valiant (not princely) battle with vertigo.

Probably to annoy the local historian, Camelot appears to be...half and half. Timber-based architecture is found in the main hall itself, but the breadth and length of it, courtyard and all, is decidedly Roman. There's even a statue or three in strategic places. Wealth is in the little details, at least outside where the elements can touch things; no frescos or paint. It's probably incongruent for the high stone walls surrounding the courtyard to be as they are, with narrow windows betraying interior tunnels and towers at each corner with the triangular tops. Maybe a wizard resides in the highest one or something.

The Green Knight dismounts with practiced ease from his ride and lets go of the reins with little care for whether or not the creature is going to wander off. Have fun stabling this thing, stablehands. "I am not expected," he then informs his two tag-alongs without a care in the world. "But let us enter hence. Whatever cavorting may be in motion will stop."

"Lead the way, my lord." Ravn plasters on his best this is normal, this is fine smile and attempts to steer Ariadne along.

He's secretly a little relieved to find that Camelot at least makes some kind of sense, in terms of architecture. Dumnonia's builders imitating the Roman overlords who abandoned them but a generation ago -- but wisely doing so with the materials available here, for this climate. What will some day be Cornwall has beautiful, sunlit summers as befit a land that dips its toes in the Gulf Stream -- but it is also the wall that the winds of the North Atlantic crash against, after having gathered their momentum from distant, American shores. It gets hot here in summer, cold as the Devil's arse in winter, and when it rains it pours. Not a country for terracotta and burnt tile -- not until the high medieval monks will brick making be up for the challenge, and even so, bricks will not become a building material for regular folks until the 18th century.

Timber, clay, and stone. Materials that can withstand the climate, beautiful but sometimes harsh as it is, compared to hot Italian summers and gentle Italian winters.

Looks like they're set to be party crashers after all. It might not be Christmas, but it's close enough to the summer solstice. The longer days mean more time to gather from the fields and prep for autumn's bounty -- this, and when chores are done? Cavorting. Ariadne finds that walking and the breeze is clearing up the mild nausea of motion sickness and she's grateful for it. Ravn being present and clingable helps as well. So much for entering the Court with some decorum. Maybe she can plead travel weariness if this doesn't clear up, the barista muses to herself as they approach the main doors.

Behind them, cursing starts up. Stablehands don't need to mind their language and Giant Irish deer don't need stablehands in their space. It's like watching a kid try to take back their lunch money from an older bully. What reins. These reins? Jump, motherfucker.

The Green Knight, ahead of them enough that hearing conversation is difficult, seems to be barred only for a second by the guards at the villa-castle-whatever's main door. Apparently spooked enough for it to show on their faces, the two guards then let the Knight through. It's also apparently assumed that Ravn and Ariadne are part of the entourage. They're not accosted. But when did the Knight suddenly have a very large, very sharp-looking war-axe across his back? Blink and it's there. Ariadne finds herself almost mesmerized in fascination at this effortless instance. She's not paying too much attention to the interior of the castle-not-quite-villa-place. Torches offer light where windows cannot. It's a matter of passing through another short hall and the Green Knight being less than challenged again.

The main interior doors open now upon a scene of merriment. The Court is at hand and it's a minor celebration of something worth celebrating. The air is thick and close with ambient body heat and humanity in general. Conversation flows and ebbs and grinds to a very awkward halt like a record skipped to silence. The Green Knight walks in by a dozen feet and stands there as he looks to the left...and to the right...and dead ahead, stance otherwise neutral.

From one of the smaller side tables, "...what the hell."

That little walk is the breath of air Ravn has been hoping for. He keeps up -- because who wants to be barred access to the grand hall of Camelot when they can drift in in the Green Knight's wake? He also leans in to whisper a few hurried observations in Ariadne's ear. "I know the poem we're playing out here. It's going to get very nasty for Sir Gawain, and the Green Knight has no mercy. We're happy to be on his good side and let's make the hell sure to not get caught up in what's going to be a very long epic poem spanning more than a year's time."

He straightens his back and slips into what he privately thinks of as the Count's way of walking -- drilled into him as a child, that walk of somebody who is somebody. John Masters described it perfectly in his autobiography about his life as a British officer in India, before and during World War One: The regiment's adjutant walks as if obstacles do not exist and he does not need to look for them; the sergeants and the yeomen remove anything in his path -- his only duty is to embody the regiment's spirit, to impress visitors, to be the British Army embodied. Replace adjutant with count, and that's pretty much how that dance goes.

Not that cargo shorts, sandals and a loose fitted shorts are exactly the costume suited for the job. Somewhere in the future, Ravn can feel his mother sighing.

Thankfully for the two Gray Harborites, the Green Knight has a magnetism which far outweighs even Ravn's knobbly knees. It means Ariadne listens and then manages to whisper back, "Sounds great to me because I have no idea what the FUCK is going on. I know the usual stuff and some variants of it, but the side stories are not something I can repeat from memory." Bummer for the barista normally so quick on the trivia draw.

"Who arrives at the King's court?" Ariadne looks over with brows lifted as one of the men attending the high table rises to his feet. He certainly looks the part of a Knight of the Round Table; impossibly well-groomed for the era and how spin-and-span is his cream-colored tunic under chainmail and heraldry. Who wears chainmail at the table?

"The Green Knight," replies this particular Knight with a step or two further into the main chamber itself. Ariadne swallows as she hears the doors close behind them. Trapped? Trapped, in more than one way. She doesn't look back over her shoulder to check because that looks guilty.

"Seek ye a fight?" this same speaker asks with stern disapproval at the idea because, dude, we were partying.

Leaning in to Ravn again, his girlfriend whispers, "Give me a short synopsis of what goes down here."

"Our green companion challenges the king who is shamed into agreeing to a duel. Sir Gawain insists on taking his place and lobs the knight's head off. Our buddy picks up his own head and tells Gawain he'll return the favour in a year, and then there's three hundred more pages of complications." Sir Gawain And The Green Knight, the Cliffs Notes edition.

Here's to hoping they're here to watch the story. Not, say, take Gawain's place. You there, well-groomed cream tunic dude, you better be Gawain. Orkney, represent!

One last whisper to Ariadne, under his breath: "The real question right now is, do we fake being retainers and hope to blend in, weird as we look, or do we try to declare ourselves a visiting knight and his lady as well? The latter will protect us against some indignities but it also may mean somebody here has to answer a challenge or otherwise prove himself a real knight."

Such a loft of red brows. "...dude picks up his own head." Ariadne chooses that piece of information to retain of the initial explanation and nods to herself thoughtfully as the poem continues to unspool. The Green Knight starts talking smack in a most polite, roundabout manner, and the King -- who must be Arthur, look at that glorious short-beard and circlet and Guinevere really is a stunner with her braided blonde hair and buxom figure -- politely smack-talks back.

"Go big or go home?" The redhead then glances over at the Dane and wince-smiles. "You're always telling me how people will believe a bigger lie than a smaller lie, right? I can be fancy. I can own it." Maybe. Sort of. She's already breaking rules whispering to her escort - husband - fiancé? - bodyguard? -- as is and being way too familiar in his space.

Turns out the guy in the cream tunic is Gawain because he defies convention and informs the room that he, not Arthur, will be able to lay the beatdown, bring it on, verdant dandy. The Green Knight then removes the war axe from his back -- and pauses -- and turns to look back at the two Grey Harborites. "Mind ye hold this briefly? I must affix my boot the better."

...his shoelace is basically untied. Ariadne stares and then sighs. "Sure."

And with that, Ravn, your girlfriend is holding that very sharp battle-axe as carefully as she can manage because GOD, THIS THING IS HEAVY. The Green Knight then takes to one knee to fuss at his boot.

"Let me take that," Ravn murmurs and reaches for the axe -- not because he really wants to heft the damned thing either, but because this is a time and era where Ariadne might well end up scorned for carrying such a weapon. Or worse; shield maidens are a thing, and they're a thing in a culture that King Arthur famously spent his entire life fending off. Were the war chiefs Hengist and Horsa real? Ravn kind of doubts it; with names that translates to modern-er Danish as hingst and hors, stallion and mare -- well, let's be honest here, the Venerable Bede or whoever was basically calling the Norsemen gay assfuckers, complete with allusion to who got to do the topping and who got to be bottom.

Prince Valiant left that part out. And his mind is reminding him of this now, of all times.

The folklorist is not fool enough to try to wield or swing the ridiculous blade -- seriously, no one ever used an axe like this outside of ceremonial purposes. Not until halberds -- in the 15th century.

Focus thy shit, nerd boy.

He stands legs slightly squared with a mildly bored, mildly polite expression. Nothing to see here, sirs -- just another faerie knight attending to his liege lord, here to have his back in case the knights of Camelot decide to be treacherous curs.

Gawain himself seems to sigh at the delay and brings his saintly self down from behind the high table regardless while the Green Knight fiddles with his shoelace. Bootlace. Whatever.

Meanwhile, Ariadne squints at the Dane. Modern sensibilities VASTLY outweigh this concept of 'only men can wield weaponry' in her mind. Instead of noting historical inaccuracies, her own thoughts drift to Tolkien's insistence of a woman warrior wielding a short sword and her own power to bring down a true terror.

So, "Excuse me, I was doing just fine holding it," the barista informs Ravn in a tart whisper before reaching for the axe. Thing is? Ravn's taller than she is and that blade of metal is fairly hefty. Grabbing it where she does along the shaft of the weapon makes for an unwieldy attempt to get the weapon back.

The Green Knight speaks as he glances up from affixing his lace. "And who are ye to accept my offer of a g -- "

Wow, that axe is SHARPER THAN REGRET -- which surely what the Gray Harborites feel as the clumsy mishandling lops off the Greek Knight's head before Gawain can even enter proper combat range.

And the staring now.

"...uh." Not even 'fuck' from Ariadne who's gone a shade or two whiter. She still holds onto the axe's shaft out of shock.

Ravn's eyes go wide.

Somewhere deep in his grifter soul he finds the number one rule of grifting: Never, ever give the audience time to think.

Meaning, he doesn't have time to think, either.

He turns to look Gawain straight in the eye. "What is death but a trick that the Devil plays upon us? Art thou bereft of a challenge by the hand of a woman? Saved, perhaps, from the indignity of dispatching an unskilled opponent? Perhaps it is all trickery and mummery, my lord. What knight rides a giant deer to court, cloaked in green and shrouding his face from sight?"

Okay, O'Greene, you can pick your head up and take your axe back now, please.

Gawain seems taken aback by the earnestness of Ravn's sudden barrage of questions. His hand, having been gripping the pommel of his sword, relaxes from it after a moment as he frowns at the seemingly-frozen figure of the headless Green Knight. Up at the high table, Arthur and Guinevere both look at one another, the latter with a handkerchief against her mouth. In another reality, they're pulling their script-books from under their seats because this doesn't feel right.

"It is true, the Knight offered a dare of challenge without challenge itself in it," Gawain muses before sighing in the most noble manner possible. "Still. He dared to insult my mother and while I do not attend holidays in her presence, it is offensive." And a bit messy.

He gasps when the body of the Green Knight suddenly twitches. Ariadne yelps and drops the shaft of the war-axe entirely because DEAD BODIES AREN'T SUPPOSED TO MOVE. Ravn had explained earlier, yes, but there's words and there's watching this happen. The Knight feels around for his head, finds it, picks it up by the hair, and then slowly rise-turns to look at the Grey Harborites.

"...what trickery is this," the headless...head? Body-less head growls, very unamused.

Ravn manages to find a straight face somewhere in his grifter's bag of tricks. He knows how this story is supposed to go. Probably best to get it back on the rails.

He bows lightly. "An' it please thee, good Sir Gawain, an insult to the Queen of Orkney must be answered. Only a knight of true heart and virtue may strike down this lord of the forest. Were I to simply tell thee thus, wouldst thou not think me a scoundrel and a lying knave? But now thine very eyes hath beheld the power of virtue and sanctity; I am not that knight who may take such a life. A humble sinner am I, and no match for Orkney's honour. Willst thou accept the Green Knight's challenge, knowing the true nature of the test?"

And if you won't, now's when we start running.

The Green Knight's face still expresses a great, great amount of disappointment and threat where it floats alongside the Knight's ribs. Ariadne swallows again. This is beyond weird for her now, into the realms of conveniently forgetting about only to be revisited in nightmares weird.

Ravn makes an eloquent point. Gawain visibly considers and then speaks up: "I accept your challenge, Sir Green Knight, given it appears these retainers were not part of your retinue by your reception of their clumsiness."

"They are guests of the Court by proxy of their welcome and presence," notes the majordomo lurking by the high table. He's got quite the plume in his cap, look at that, must be compensating for something.

"So mote it be." And isn't this an awkward, gravel-grinding agreement from the Green Knight. Somebody's words got a little questionable there and apparently, the entity accepts, for better or worse. Look at him squish his head back into place, cowl and all, and then stoop to take up his battle-axe as if it weighed nothing more than a stick. "One year hence, I shall expect to deal the blow of recompense. Let cowardice not shame this Court."

Guess you'd better step aside, Gray Harborites, the Green Knight is going to leave and he's going to bowl your asses over if you don't. Irksome little shits, these maybe-sort-of-Fae-people!

Oh no, you don't, you faerie asshole.

Ravn fails to jump out of the Green Knight's way. He keeps looking straight at Gawain as if he is still pushing the issue of fair play on the Green Knight's behalf, but it's the faerie lord he's trying to bind by words. "So mote it be," he echoes. "One year from now, the Green Knight and Sir Gawain shall meet, and the honour of Orkney shall be defended." And only with those words spoken does he step aside -- and elbows Ariadne to quickly follow suit.

Because there is no way in Hell he's letting that green bastard wiggle into turning up in Gray Harbor a year from now.

It appears the Green Knight is too annoyed to argue the fine text of Ravn's claim. He simply strides on and only the Dane's quick side-stepping keeps Ariadne from being bowled over as well. She still trips on the hem of her skirt-dress-shift-garment, needing to momentarily cling to the Dane. Like everyone else, the Green Knight's departure is watched until he's entirely left the building. Maybe the stablehands are done trying to catch the Giant Irish deer's reins by now?

Gawain then gives both Gray Harborites an inquisitive look. "Who did you say you were again?"

Ariadne whispers shakily, "I think we should go now."

"No one of consequence, my lord." Ravn offers a bow to Gawain that is -- well, not quite as submissive as a servant's would be. What's one popular trope that's repeated over, and over, and over, and over some more in the Arthurian Cycle? Yep -- knights who refuse to identify themselves but while they may be disguised as stable hands or even bears, they are obviously carrying themselves enough as nobles to be recognised for their true nature.

So, he's not a knight. Count will have to do, at least he knows the exact kind of faux humility the situation requires.

"I take my leave of thee, good knight, and of thy noble king and queen. The Lord above bless Camelot and its knights." And on that note -- a hand on Ariadne's arm and then we're out of here before anyone pauses to ask if his name is Gareth or Lancelot.

No one of consequence, Ravn says.

Taking leave of the court, Ravn states as he moves to escort the redhead (with her impossibly dyed hair, wait a SECOND) towards the interior doors still open from the Green Knight's departure.

Gawain squints. Something's rotten in the state of...some place which doesn't exist yet. These foreign knights, so sneaky and yet in their sneaking, they give themselves away as something more. Still, it seems the knight of the Round Table has had enough of mysterious visitors today. "And may the Lord's blessings fall upon you and your lady in your travels," comes the counter-wish. Ariadne just about totally blows their cover with a nervous, jaunty salute of two fingers off her brow at the knight.

At least she doesn't send them off with a zingy one-liner.

Walking through the doors comes yet again with the sensation of too many butterfly wings and vertigo and...oh. Hand to her chest as she sighs harshly, Ariadne blinks in the sunlight beaming down into the cockpit of the Vagabond.

"Ravn. What...?" Her words wobble again.

Whoa, whoa, whoaaaa -- aaahey, it's the Vagabond. Watch Ravn more tumble into than sit gracefully down on the aft seat. He takes a deep breath, and then another, -- and then curls up with his hands around his knees, laughing helplessly. Give him a moment.

When he can breathe again he looks up to catch Ariadne's eyes. Explanations are warranted, yes. "That was -- Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. It's an epic poem from the 14th century, though probably based on something older. No one knows who the actual author was, but Thomas Mallory referenced it heavily in his Morte d'Arthur. Short version? It's three hundred pages of chivalric blank verse about a faerie lord and his attempts to screw with the court of King Arthur."

Ariadne's found herself a seat along the side-interior of the cockpit and still clutches at her cream-knit sweater. She has her sundress back now! Little mercies, that wool was itching in all the wrong places and let's not get started about under -- we're not going to get started.

She stares and blinks and remains pink at her cheeks. "Right. Yes. Epic poem. I saw his head come up when we -- with the axe -- did we just fuck up the entire poem? Oh my god. Gawain. Is he still going to go be noble and stuff or is, like, the ghost of this Mallory guy going to cross centuries to screech at us?" It's a vaguely hilarious idea because she's clearly trying to either not giggle or cry or maybe both because the Veil is only going to take this entire instance to the next level whenever it gets the chance.

"If the Green Knight turns up on my boat a year from now, I'm turning her around real hard so we can find out whether he can swim in chain mail." Ravn makes a face. "I hope I managed to get it back on the rails -- it was Gawain who was meant to chop his head off, obviously, not us. If I didn't -- then maybe, yes, maybe something comes of it. Or it was just another crazy Veil Dream where we got to leave once the story had played out. I mean, King Arthur's court never actually existed, and the Green Knight definitely did not. It makes as much sense as the Zorro Dream."

He looks at his hands. "Can't say I liked it, though, lobbing off a man's head. Next time I'm just going to let you play shield maiden in peace."

Lesson well learned, nerd boy. Maybe you'll need to remember it -- if the Green Knight does indeed decide to make an appearance a year from now. In which case there's really only one thing to say: Rock beats scissors, Glock beats axe.