2022-06-04 - Breakfast at the Black Bear

When in doubt, go drown all your problems in greasy diner food and decent milkshakes. Fern has been around, more or less, mostly struggling with her sobriety after that weird year time skip where she fell off the wagon. Currently she was seated at the diner counter, eating a cheeseburger for breakfast because she's an adult and no one can tell her not to! Her hair is pulled back in a loose ponytail and she's wearing a pair of black yoga pants with an oversized gray sweater, purple shirt peeking out underneath.

The best thing about the <s>Grizzly</s> Black Bear Diner is that it's literally right around the corner from the marina where Ravn Abildgaard's Vagabond lies at berth. He's a tad infamous in certain parts for being a picky eater -- but it's the kind of picky that leaves most of everything on the plate, not the kind that prefers fancier foods. He strolls in now, sleepy-faced, heading for the counter to order coffee and some sandwich or other, please. In his black jeans and black turtleneck ensemble the man is easily recognisable anywhere, shoulder bag over one shoulder, and the usual two day stubble.

Glancing around he spots a familiar face; one that pops in at the HOPE Centre often enough though often, when one is arriving the other is leaving. He raises a gloved hand in a lazy wave and wanders that way. "Want company?"

Una Irving? She's a woman known mostly for her kitchen, these past six months since she rolled in to town. Still, there are some foods that taste best when cooked by someone else, preferably a line cook sans pep, and sometimes the stomach wants what the stomach wants. She arrives a few minutes after Ravn, missing him at the counter by at least a moment or two: enough that she doesn't immediately notice him as she heads up to place her order, specifying all the good things: hash browns, yes, sausages, absolutely, bacon, duh, and yes, okay, some eggs and toast as well.

And coffee. Always coffee.

Fern looked up towards Ravn when he approached and offered up a smile, though she looked tired. "I'd love some." She agreed, giving a little wave of her hand to motion for him to join her. "I feel like I see you at least twice a week but we never get the opportunity to talk, so it's nice to see you Ravn." She gave a soft chuckle before taking a sip of her soda. "How have you been?"

As Fern spoke to Ravn, her eyes caught the arriving Una - an unfamiliar face as far as her mind told her, but if the woman looks their way she does offer her a smile of greeting and a, "Good morning."

Another hand goes up in a small wave at spotting Una. "Howdy, neighbour. Come over, meet one of my co-workers at HOPE? Fern Michaels, Una Irving -- Una's my neighbour on Oak Avenue." Ravn plonks himself down and curls his gloved fingers around the coffee mug. His sandwich can get here when it wants to -- the important part has been achieved.

He cants his head. "It's been a couple of months, really. You know how this town is. On one level nothing ever happens in Gray Harbor, and on another, entirely too much. I've spent the week mostly looking at my students back home though -- it's final weeks and a lot of pep talks need to be given over Zoom."

"Oh-- good morning!" Una's a cheerful kind of person, and her smile is warm and bright, first for Fern and then for the far more familiar Ravn. With her own coffee in hand, she meanders over, hoisting herself onto one of the stools so that she's on the opposite side of Fern: a Fern sandwich, if you will.

"Nice to meet you, Fern. I'm the one who keeps bringing down boxes of vegetables." And cookies. Endless amounts of cookies.

"Pleasure to meet you Una." Fern chuckled, sitting up some so it was easier to focus on her two new meal companions. "Well I'm certainly not complaining - we all need more vegetables in our lives." She grinned. Until they started turning on you, but that hadn't happened in a while right? At least not to Fern. "I help out with most of the AA and other sort of support groups we offer. Then any odd jobs or set up that may come up."

She nodded to Ravn's sentiment about nothing and everything happening. "You got that right. You know, I opened my closet this morning and instead of my closet I saw what I'm pretty sure was the inside of a space station? So I just closed it and walked out of the house and came here." She figures if Ravn and Una are friendly then Una probably knows about the weird stuff in the town.

"A . . . space station." Ravn blinks. Then he shakes his head. "Well, why not. I can do that sometimes -- look into other realities that just happen to overlap ours for a bit, and heaven knows I've seen some pretty strange things. Why not a space station? Was it more the ISS or the U.S.S. Enterprise, then?"

He sips his coffee. "Although that reminds me -- if we get donations of fruit from someone, anyone, who isn't one of the people we usually get fruit from, toss it. There's some kind of Veil fruit in circulation -- I'm told it looks and smells positively alluring, but it fucks hard with the minds of people who actually eat it."

Having dispensed with introductions, Una focuses her attention temporarily on her coffee-- and promptly splutters, staring back up over the rim of her cup owlishly, somehow both amused and horrified. "A space station?" she repeats, echoing Ravn unintentionally. Though a moment later, she frowns. "Come to mention it, I'm pretty sure the door to the library in my place opened up to the same place, maybe a hundred years ago, the other day. We had a whole conversation with a little girl who I'm 99% sure is related to me somehow."

Ravn's mention of fruit draws a pursed draw of her lips, as if she's just eaten a particularly tart fruit. "Yeah," she says. "Get rid of it, any way you can. That stuff's done some nasty things."

"I think it was more ISS. If it had been more like Star Trek I might've been tempted to actually go in and see what was going on." Fern mused, eating a fry. There's a look of interest towards Una when she mentions the library. "Well, that's pretty interesting. So I guess we just need to be careful about our doors, huh?" She gave a shake of her head. "Just when you think the town can't get any weirder."

The talk of the Veil Fruit has her pursing her lips though. "That doesn't sound good at all." A look between them, "Have either of you experienced it yourself? Or have you just seen what it's done? Either way I'll definitely be on the look out. Anything from the Veil is just bad news."

"I've seen somebody act entirely -- well, like a drug addict looking for their next fix. And someone who seemed unable to stop themselves from saying anything that comes into their minds. But basically? That. Anything from the Veil is just bad news. So at least for now, if someone turns up at HOPE and wants to give us baskets of gorgeous, wonderful apples we politely decline for whatever reason we can come up with, and if we can't, we toss them real quiet afterwards. The last thing we want to do is create a generation of addicts -- and I don't even want to know what the Veil entities are trying achieve here. I just remember Vydal telling me about the Vivisectionist's experiments with Veil flu. It feels -- the same way, you know? Like somebody, or rather, something is experimenting on people." Ravn has a lot of opinions about it, one might suspect.

"Yeah," says Una, more than a little wryly. "Because doors are absolutely something we can avoid, right?" Oh, Gray Harbor. Never change.

She turns her gaze down towards her coffee, studying the black, creamer-free depths with a frown. "My housemate's only just barely back to normal," she agrees. "It took the better part of a week after she ate one piece of fruit. It's been--" Something. Not something good, either, by the weight in her voice, or the look on her face.

"I don't like the idea of us being guinea pigs. I mean, even worse than the initial reaction, it implies there may be a bigger plan afoot. Something worse."

"That's awful." Fern frowned, listening to both their tales and nodding. "We have enough things to worry about in this town without it involving Veil-Addicted people." She agreed, eating another couple of fries, mulling it all over. "It could be something bigger. Some kind of test. But I just wonder what the end game would be. Unless they just want a bunch of minions they can control with fruit." Her brow furrowed. "Which sounds terrifying and we definitely need to not let happen." There's a shake of her head. "Could it be this Vivisectionist again? Trying a different tactic?"

"Hell if I know," Ravn replies quite bluntly. "The original seeds came from August Roen. Where he got them, well, that's for me to wonder and him to know. They're in circulation -- and that's all we need to know, really. Like the poem says -- beware the fruit of goblin men, only, well, replace goblin with Veil. If it looks too good to be true, it's probably better to have another bag of doritos instead."

He sips his coffee and beams as his sandwich is called out -- because this is Gina Castro's diner where food is only brought to the table if the waitress feels like it, and the folklorist gets up to go get it. "I'll bring yours down too, Una. And I'm glad to hear Jules is doing better, not going to lie. She looked about ready to commit murder last I saw her."

"Thanks, Ravn," says Una, acknowledging the Dane's offer with a toast of her coffee mug. "Yeah: she had a tough week, I think. It's better for everyone, but especially her, that she's past it now."

Her coffee gets set back down upon the counter, and she turns her attention towards Fern again. "I've admittedly only been here a few months," six months still counts, right? "but so far, it seems like things are rarely easily linked to anything else. Maybe this is all just to fuck with us again, and distract us from something else. The whole Doors thing could be more of the same, for that matter."

At the mention of the fruit and of August, Fern turns thoughtful. "You know, I still have a pear in my freezer that was from something odd. I don't really remember the details of it...it was over two years ago now I guess if you count the weird time stuff. I wonder if it's similar to the fruit circulating now." She probably wouldn't take it out to try and find out but it was a passing thought.

As Ravn went to get the food, Fern looked towards Una. "I was born and raised here - thought I could get out but then I ended up back here a few years ago anyway." She gave a wry smile. "But you're right - it's all very convoluted. The doors, the fruit, whatever comes next. We just have to be vigilant of anything larger that might be on the horizon. Make sure we're not too distracted with the other stuff."

"Honestly? If in even slightly in doubt, toss the thing. It's just a pear. There are other pears." Ravn shudders. The idea of hypnotic fruit making you want to eat it does not sit well with the folklorist who knows entirely too much about the whole 'don't eat the food of faeries' trope.

He settles back down with his own sandwich -- cheese and a slice of ham -- and Una's order on a tray. "That said? Fucking with us is what the dolorphages do, and if it's not this, it's something else. At least the abductions seem to be slowing down -- the ground must have gotten hot enough under Haggleford that he's giving us a chance to breathe, or else he's up to something else. No one's seen the nightmares for a while -- that is, literally horses that use your worst fears against you. And it's been a while since anyone got turned into animal spirits. I guess we're about due for the next big drama."

"Why would you put a pear in your freezer?" Una wonders, genuinely-- not accusatory, but with a little thoughtful interest. "I've heard that a lot: people getting out, then getting pulled back in. My mom got out, but maybe it skipped a generation, because here I am."

There's Ravn with her food, then: a helpful interruption, at which she makes grabby (if appreciative!) hands. The food's good here; and everyone likes an opportunity to eat something they've not made themselves, no matter how good a cook may or may not be, personally. The runny yolks of her eggs are popped, the rest of it cut up, and she makes a happy sound.

Still; "That's a good point. In a lot of ways, things have been quiet. Vigilance is always warranted. There's always another drama. I'm just... it's the loss of personal agency that bugs me, I think, with the fruit. I like feeling as if I have some control over something."

"Well, I wasn't going to eat it. But I didn't want it to rot away. I figured freezing it was a decent middle ground." Fern mused, but nodded towards Ravn. "You're right though. I should probably just toss it." She finished off the last bite of her burger.

"I've been lucky enough to not ever get lost, or get actually taken. Anything I get pulled into I've been able to get out of." A light frown graced her lips. "It's definitely worrisome. If I hear or see anything out of place, I'll certainly let you know." She finishes off her fries too and then moves to stand up. "I need to go see if I have my closet back and then get ready for today's clients, but it was good chatting with you both. I'm sure I'll see you around." She gives a smile to them before settling up her bill at the register and heading out.

The Black Bear Diner is a place she's heard about but never set foot into. Even the proprietess, Gina, has a reputation shared by staff and explained more than once to the barista. The milkshakes are apparently legendary and that's what brings Ariadne to step in through the front doors. She must have either worked a morning shift or slept poorly, one of two options, because the air of needing just one more cup of coffee is palpable around here. In a t-shirt of olive green sporting cream script of 'Love Street Coffee Shop' and a pair of jeans, her courier-style purse across her body, she wanders in and over in the direction of the counter.

Of course the redhead scans the place. Ambient light catches in the underpanel of her dyed hair, this in somehow still-bright hues of cobalt-blue and iris-purple.

Oh, hey, people she knows. Fern catches her eye upon departure, but Ariadne knows she can inquire after the new face. There was a discussion she'd just missed, apparently. "Well, everything looks and smells good," she comments as she meanders over to the table occupied by Una and Ravn. "Hey y'all." A lazy, warm greeting and obvious lean-in to kiss the Dane's coppery curls. "I'm here to see about a milkshake for Kerry. She had some dental work done and she's alright, but her mouth is still very sore. I figure if she's going to work a half-shift, she's got to have something in her." A seat is taken and the barista sighs, taking a moment to rub at the outside of her eye.

"Take care, Fern -- and toss that pear." Ravn raises his cup in a lazy salute to his fellow volunteer as she makes her way out.

Then his smile widens as he spots Ariadne making her way over and -- look, where he's from, public displays of affection Simply Aren't Done, so give him credit for just smiling very sheepishly (and a little bit appreciatively). "Good morning, Venelite. Have time to have coffee with us before you go deliver milkshakes to poor Kerry? You just missed Fern -- one of the other HOPE volunteers. I made sure to warn her about the bloody fruit since I know she's got something or other to do with those Veil seeds in the first place."

Una lifts her hand in acknowledgement of the departing Fern, though it easily does double duty to greet Ariadne as well, along with her cheerful, "Ari!" More than that will need to wait a moment, though: she has a forkful of eggs and bacon and hash browns on its way to her mouth, and that takes precedence. Besides? Let the couple have their little moment of cuteness.

"Have coffee with us," she agrees, firmly, having chewed and swallowed. "Or steal some of my toast, if you have a yen for it. Everything looked good, and now I've probably over-ordered. You're a good coworker, bringing milkshakes, where required."

Una's toast is eyed. "Tempting," Ariadne comments as she leans forward with arms folded on the table now. Another glance over her shoulder towards the front counter and there's a part of her which wonders why the waitress isn't coming over until she remembers, yet again, how this isn't the way the diner runs. Another blown sigh and rub of hand down half of her face. "But coffee, yes, please, I'll go order it in a second, I've got time. Shift isn't for another hour."

Her hazel eyes flick momentarily to the front door, where she can see the departing figure. "Fern. Great name. I'm sad I missed her, HOPE volunteers are good people. Thank you for warning her about the fruit. You beat me to it. Jules is feeling better, I've seen it myself." Una still gets a questioning look given she's roommates with the woman in question and could confirm or deny this opinion in turn.

"I'm glad. She seemed murderous at the ball. Can't say I blame her either -- I mean, Perdita's not wrong, it's not that different from tossing rophanyl in the communal soda fountain." Ravn hitches a shoulder and winces at the memory. "I spent all night with Dita, talking her out of bloody murder. I didn't ask but I get the feeling she's got some history of that nature."

He shakes his head. "What's done is done, though. I don't feel it's up to me to try to mediate between Brennon and Dita. Whatever happens there, it's on themselves to sort out -- but it'd probably a good idea on Brennon's behalf to open with one hell of an apology. Whether she was under the influence herself or not."

"Yeah, she's much better now," Una agrees. "And less likely to spout things about burning down Ava's greenhouse, though I'm not exactly suggesting I think she's wrong in the desire. I think Mikaere helped a bit, too."

But since she's not met the man in question, that's all supposition and second-hand information.

"I've not really... spoken to Ava. I don't know how I feel about it. You're right, though; apologies are vital. It's-- poor Dita. It's not at all what she wanted out of the ball." Nor what any of them did, but clearly her thoughts fall towards the other woman in particular. "It makes me pretty uncomfortable, knowing those fruits may still be growing there, for all I know. More of them."

Nodding at Una's confirmation makes a lock of Ariadne's hair fall forward; she habitually combs it back behind her ear as she glances over at Ravn.

"I think Ava was unfortunately under the influence and it was a hell of a spiral to start falling into. The faster she can get out of it, the better, because...yeah. There's some conversations to have and they're probably going to be uncomfortable. That, and we don't need the Veil mucking about in our business. Ever. Really ever-ever." She's not quite so caffeine deprived as to flip the bird at the general reality around them, but one can see it in the warning look she aims at the ceiling and general atmosphere. Fuck you, Veil.

There's a moment where the barista seems pensive. "Lemme go get my coffee, but I want to know about ideas on how to permanently get rid of this stuff when I get back. We're talking like the seeds even." With that, she pushes back from the table to meander over to the counter. Excuse me, if there's a mocha around here, it has my name on it.

Ravn shakes his head. "I haven't seen hair or hide of her for weeks, outside of that night at the ball where she was acting decidedly strange. Fortunately de la Vega seemed to have her in hand -- and I managed to convince Dita to not claw her face off. I have no idea what's going on there -- she's gone to ground pretty hard since that kid fell out of her greenhouse. I assumed she was busy, the way new mothers tend to be."

He makes a small pause as Ariadne gets up and looks after her. Then, a little sheepishly, the Dane adds, "I kind of stayed away a bit as well because honestly, I'm not good with kids. They have needs I don't understand, they're inevitably grimy, and new parents talk about nothing else."

The folklorist reaches for his coffee cup and sips from it, waiting for Ariadne to drift back into earshot. "But I'm thinking that one thing we can do is get rid of the faerie circle. Petra has shown he can get in touch with us if he wants to. He has a circle at number six as well that few people know about. And ours is the source of a lot of the strangeness -- the seasons, and the influence on that greenhouse. I think we should consider finding a way to close it, cut off at least one magical influence."

Una's brows draw together in a way that suggests quiet discomfort and admits, "I hope her dad has Nimue, if she's still under the influence. Whatever's going on. I used to babysit occasionally," of course she did: Una the over-helpful, "but not this week. I don't know how she can possibly manage, though, between the clinic, the morgue, and the baby, and that's without all of this."

There's no judgement in her expression as she glances at Ravn, just an acknowledging nod that still prompting, because there's more food still to be eaten.

Reluctantly: "I hate to lose the garden, but... I expect you're probably right. We just need a way to do so that isn't going to make them angry, because I'd hate that, after they made the gardens so pretty for so long. It's been nearly six months since he warned us about the nightmares... maybe someone else has solved that whole issue anyway."

It doesn't take long to scrounge up a mocha. Ariadne even lingers there since she remembers how the food doesn't necessarily arrive at your table. You get the food. Accepting the mug (and eyeing the amount of whipped cream on top, holy crap), the barista makes her way back to the table. Again, she sits, and with a sigh of relief. Caffeine, sugar, company, let's do this.

She's in time to hear about the nightmares and the name Petra. Petra... Her brows meet. Oh, right, Faerie Prince. "I think what needs to be taken into account, if you're closing that circle, is what the Fae were getting out of having it open. What is being taken away from them by closing it. I'm not trying to be unkind, but gardens will continue to grow, right? Maybe they need a little extra tending now. And the summer temperatures were nice and all, but it's also June. Summer's here in earnest any day now." She gives one of the diner windows a Look; 'summer' is technically some mythical thing around the northwest anyhow. "So closing the circle is the way to stop the trouble then? Including the seeds?"

"Closing the faerie circle will not fix everything. It's just one magical influence. The Veil seeds do not come from there, and I know Brennon's mentioned growing some of them in the woods too, in places that August Roen marked for her on a map." Ravn shakes his head. "But I feel that this -- this allure of these fruits, that's faerie given. You remember the poem? Don't eat the fruits of goblin men. Every folktale ever, Celtic, Scandinavian or Germanic, warns you against eating the food of the good neighbours because they may trap you with it, bind you to them. Maybe it's coincidence. Maybe it's not. The question is, can we afford to assume that it isn't?"

He shakes his head again. "Petra told Una and I that the circle was to allow us to stay in contact if we were to catch the nightmares. To allow us to send them back. But there is another, in number six, that few people know about. We can still get in touch if we need to. Another question to consider is how long we can keep up having our own micro-climate without seriously fucking with nature? Pleasant as it is in January to have your summer garden, maybe it's time to say, well, that was fun, and then let nature take back what's hers."

Una chews at her lip, apparently thinking all of this over. Her nod is deeply reluctant and comes, ultimately, with a sigh. "You're right of course," she allows. "Seasons shouldn't do that. Winter is supposed to be cold and miserable, and the plants... they need to be able to die, or hibernate, or whatever. Better that it happen now, when it is just about summer, than in the middle of winter when we'll miss it more."

Still. Still.

"How do you think we do it? Do we need to communicate with the fae, somehow? I've talked at the circle half a dozen times at least, probably significantly more than that, and they've never responded outright. They just... take the cookies."

Lifting a hand in a mimicry of a war-circle or lecture, Ariadne notes drily, "I have never in my life interacted with this circle or another circle or this Petra, so I have no idea whatsoever how to go about this."

She sips at her mocha and licks away the whipped cream mustache (a wee one) before adding, "This is the optimal time to turn down the thermostat, as it is. It's not winter so it won't be a shock. If anything, it'll drop like the temperature swings around here and the plants go on doing their plant thing as they normally would this time of year."

"I honestly am not sure how to go about it." Ravn picks a piece of his sandwich off and nibbles on it; as usual, he'll probably leave half for the birds. "But it's worth keeping in mind that presently, the faeries are maintaining the summer temperature because we pay them to. It may be possible to simply thank them for their cooperation and end the contract of service. No hard feelings, job well done, we'll call if we need another summer landscape."

He hitches a shoulder. "And it's entirely possible that Brennon does exactly that. That she takes over the arrangement somehow, and keeps it in her own yard of Oak One. She's entitled to do that -- we don't get to tell her what to do. If she asks my opinion I'll tell her I think it's a bad idea -- but I don't imagine she will. She's sharp and ambitious, and let's be honest here, not really the type to heed the warnings of cautious and scrawny academics."

Una opens her mouth, ready to jump in with something to say, but something seems to tick over in her head because she pauses, instead, setting down her fork in order to reclaim her coffee. "Right," she agrees, then, rather more firmly this time. "Ugh, I hate doing that. I could write them a note, I suppose. It would have to be worded very carefully, to make sure there's no implied promise of anything, but... that's doable, surely. One final batch of cookies, one note of thanks, and then we let them go."

She makes a face. "Midsummer would be the ideal time to do it, too, I bet, but maybe we can skip that and just do it sooner."

Of Ava, and any future faerie gardens she might maintain, the redhead has no comment.

"Mmmf." A short sound of minor disgruntle from Ariadne, now with her elbows on the table and mug cupped in both hands. She sips and listens and looks out the diner window rather than directly at anyone, as if she were quietly turning over possible options and answers like a dragon does its hoard of gemstones.

"Ava gonna do what Ava gonna do," she muses with a nod. "And I'd vote Midsummer too except for with some serious research done first because an awful lot seems to happen on the summer solstice as a whole across many, many cultures. Last thing anyone would want to do is go to pull the plug and find they're not grounded enough, you know? Or reach in and all of the sudden, you're on the opposite side of the circle because it's Midsummer. Or you're overcome with a need to cavort in aaaaaaaalllllllllll manners of cavorting." A droll little smirk for both occupants at the table because pragmatic is blunt in the case of the barista. "So maybe sooner is better. Or after, even, if it's a matter of letting some...metaphysical power wane or something."

Ravn sips his coffee and nods. "That's a good point. The solstice is a night of power. It may be wise to not invoke that power, lest we end up with all kinds of other issues. It would not be unlike faerie to pull one last prank, and we don't need the power of solstice invoked there, either. I think it's a fairly simple matter -- stop feeding them and they stop doing whatever it is they do in return. Can also go with the option that Harry Potter mocked -- give them their pay in the form of clothes or other solid goods."

He smiles a bit. "There's a logic behind it that most modern authors forget. In medieval times and earlier, a suit of clothes was valuable and often part of the pay for hired labour. A woman hiring out as a maid on a farmstead might get food and board, and the right to spin wool for her own use a number of hours a week. She might be paid in so much fabric at the end of the year. Cloth and clothing has heavy cultural significance, whether worn or sold on. That's why we have the story of the shoe-maker whose wife sews jackets for the elves who do his work -- and then they go away. They were paid. Faerie operate on an economy of owed favours and payment -- and farmers often did too. In Denmark, for instance, farmers would never thank each other for help on the farm -- because thanking somebody closes the debt. You want the other farmer to owe you -- that's why he's going to come running to help when you need it."

Another bite of his sandwich. "Anyway, detour. Point here is, give Nobby a sock."

That twitch of Una's mouth? It's for Ravn's Harry Potter reference, though she holds back on outright laughter-- or comment-- until after he's finished. It gives her more food for thought, though she takes the moment to eat another piece of sausage and some more bacon.

"Dobby," is what she says, instead of anything more eloquent. "Give Dobby a sock. Point taken, though. Okay. Clothes, and we release them, and hopefully the garden goes back to normal, and... we can move on."

Dark eyes consider Ariadne, then Ravn, then her coffee mug again. "So, sometime before the solstice? Ideally not on a night of the full moon."

A gleam of a pleased grin for Una remembering the fine details of the children's book series. Ariadne had, after all, grown up appreciating them for their worth.

"Sounds like we owe them a pair of silk stockings or something of the like." Oh-so-innocently suggested. "Some clothing of finer worth based off tradition -- and I'm inclined to vote after the solstice based on the premise of power waning, but if it's critical to close the circle sooner than later, we just...prepare for potential craziness, I guess. Not on the night of a full moon either. Or a new moon. I know just enough about folklore to know better than to try at those times."

"That sounds about right. I don't think it needs to be a sock either. Just, something solid, something that signifies a final payment. We could try to wring our heads a bit about what Peter Pan might want -- might be best to simply give them a pile of good, beautiful, green cloth, and not try to pretend we know what cuts they prefer. After all, when we met Petra at Espresso Yourself he was dressed just like any other kid." Ravn nods. Research will commence. "I think the timing is good though -- after the solstice, under a waning moon, make sure there is no cultural importance to the date picked."

He shakes his head again before nibbling on his sandwich. "I don't think it's critical to close it right this instant. For what it's worth -- the damage is done. If the faerie circle influenced the plants in Brennon's greenhouse -- the fruits grow, the baby grew. We're trying to prevent future complications. The current situations -- well, to be a little blunt, they're for Brennon to sort out. And at least in my case, she hasn't asked my help or my opinion so I do think that except when others are threatened, it really is none of my business to go poking around in. The woman's entitled to her privacy, after all."

The grin that answers Ariadne's is an equally pleased one. The Harry Potter generation, indeed.

She nudges her plate away now, apparently defeated by the goodies there. Her coffee's mostly gone too, but getting up to ask for more is too much work, so for now, she stays where she is, nursing what's left. "After the solstice, then," she agrees. "I can see about the fabric. The moon's waxing at the moment, I think, so... hopefully we can find a good night where it's waning nicely, soon after, and then we can be done with it." Research, yes.

Chewing at her lip, she considers the rest. "That's true," she allows. "I wouldn't be surprised if hers is a separate bargain to ours, by now. And that's not-- well." Twitch of her mouth. "I'm not sorry to have a whole yard in between hers and mine, sorry Ravn. I really don't want to see what's in there, these days. Not now. But she's an adult; she'll sort it out. Hopefully before we get this sorted, too, given... well, we're still a couple of weeks until the solstice anyway."

Una's goodies become Ariadne's nibbles. She's not shy about reaching out and stealing a slice of toast -- nor about stealing Ravn's knife, the better to spread butter and then a little tublet of jam across it.

"You know me and research, peeps. I'm not for throwing myself into this Veil shit willy-nilly. It's drawing from humanity and its imagination. To the books and the more we learn, the better. What would Peter Pan want though...?" Crunching into the toast, she chews and thinks, eyes flicking between Ravn and Una. "A nice pair of goggles for when he flies. Aerodynamic clothing. The latest and greatest leather jacket to make a statement to the pirates?"

Having spoken around the small bite of toast, the barista swallows and adds, "There's time to figure this all out. It'll settle. Things always do, one way or another."

"The long and short of it," Ravn tells Una, "is that it's none of our business what Ava Brennon does in her own yard. We can have our reservations but we have no right to tell her what to do with her own property. I don't much like it. I want to tell her to stop playing mad scientist. But the truth of the matter is, she's lived here all her life and survived somehow -- and that means either she does in fact know what she's doing or the dolorphages consider her useful. I dread that latter thought -- but sometimes, people do seem to be doing their work unawares, and they certainly will encourage it."

Una helpfully nudges her plate a little closer to Ariadne, and gives her suggestions a thoughtful nod: things to consider.

But it's Ravn's comment that has her drawing in a deep breath, one that she exhales reluctantly a few moments later. "That's all-- true, I guess. I hadn't thought of it in those terms, but of course it is. Until or unless her greenhouse starts impinging on your property, she's... it's hers, and she can do what she likes." The redhead does not need to like it, but she accepts this, evenly enough.

"I hope she's okay. I mean-- I'm mad at her. But I still hope she's okay. Ariadne's right, though. It'll settle. Everything's going to be fine, or as fine as it ever is around here, I suppose."

Una's last piece of bacon also belongs to Ariadne, apparently. Pinching it from the plate, the redhead now nibbles alternatingly between toast and breakfast meat as she glances too between her tablemates.

"Place is still standing." She shrugs a shoulder and gestures with the bacon not too unlike a conductor at a podium to indicate the sprawl of Gray Harbor beyond. "Nothings gone too crazy." The woman does not add 'yet' to this statement. "Where do we start looking up information about the faerie rings though? There are so many sources if we're taking into account the various legends surrounding them across many cultures. That's...shelves and shelves of books," she says with a bit of a sigh to her words.

"We can narrow it down somewhat. Petra is obviously the inspiration for Barrie's Peter Pan. He's a Celtic sidhe. The original Goblin King, if you will, stealing children away to his kingdom underground. I can testify to this first hand because I went there when I was seven, and I remember it quite vividly -- though I'll admit I thought it was just a child's dream until I met him again here in Gray Harbor." Ravn upends his coffee and also decides against going up to acquire another right now. "Meaning, we don't need to consider every culture in the world -- just the Irish take."

He picks up the marmalade knife and toys with it, balancing it on a gloved fingertip. As usual, his kidskin gloves somehow aren't tainted by the grease of marmalade or butter -- a small, subtle application of his power, keeping the two separate. "But most of all, Petra is reasonable as far as I am aware. He's tricky and he's certainly got an agenda -- but he's not malicious. I will do my research but the vast majority of these stories aren't about how to get rid of helpful faerie -- they're about things people do wrong so that the helpful faerie leave. Which makes our job easier because it's practically a manual on how to get rid of your good neighbours."

A hitched shoulder. "The only tricky part is that we want to stay on good terms. Otherwise, toss cold iron in there or mow over the mushrooms, voila."

Una's reaction to the very idea of tossing cold iron or mowing over the mushrooms is utterly horrified: an outright gasp, a shudder. No, she knows that's not the plan-- that's not the point.

"Ugh," she says, shaking the thought out. "No. Definitely not that. Aren't we lucky we have Ravn in our corner for this, huh, Ariadne? Master of folklore that he is."

Still, as she glances away, gaze sweeping out over the diner, she looks more than a little wistful. "Now who am I going to bake cookies for, huh?" Aside from... the rest of the town.

Bacon disappears quickly because bacon. How to resist it? The toast is halfway gone by the time Ariadne notes, "There's always HOPE? And me, don't forget me, with my deep and abiding appreciation for snickerdoodles." Una gets a bright grin.

"But yes, no...destruction. Let the Fae themselves close the circle after business is concluded. Little mercies that we only have to go dig around in the Irish take on things." It's one of those things where belatedly, a comment cements itself into formulation. Ravn now gets a moderately wide-eyed look. "I'm sorry, wait, you said this Petra guy stole you when you were seven? What? Wait. I haven't heard this before." A look at Una as if to ask if she knew this information. "This could complicate things, he knows you, Ravn."

"The faerie circle in number six," Ravn suggests with an amused smile at Una. "Who says you can't keep slipping them baked goods? It'd be a different bargain so whatever arrangement they have with Kailey Holt and Everett Woods, you'll be reinforcing it. That can't be a bad thing."

He glances at Ariadne and smiles a little. "Stole is such a strong word. I was seven and I ran away from home yet again. I crawled through the hedge but instead of ending up on the road outside Engelsholm's grounds, I found myself in his faerie barrow. He did ask me if I wanted to come in for milk and cookies, and seven year old me obviously said yes. I spent that entire days talking to living toys and Petra himself, and eating all kinds of wonderful treats. And when I asked to go home, he let me. And that is why I maintain that he is not malicious. I did all the things that would make me his by any faerie tradition. And he still let me go when I asked."

Una's nod acknowledges Ariadne's look: she did know this information, thanks to having met Petra in the flesh all those months ago. It doesn't mean she's not quiet for the explanation, nor thoughtful in considering it. "He let you go. That's-- the important thing, absolutely. He let you go, and I hope that means they will let us go now, too. Close the circle, focus their attentions elsewhere."

Of cookies, and with a slightly brighter expression. "HOPE, Ariadne's mouth-- ooh, number six. That's always an option too. Or I start offering them to Espresso Yourself and maybe make some cash off of them, to pay for the lawn service I'm inevitably going to end up needing."

It turns out not to be a tale of any great questionable intention or indeed maliciousness. Ariadne sighs relief despite the tale also being couched decades in the past and the man sitting right next to her.

"Yes. Cookies to the circle at Kailey and Everett's place first and foremost, maybe, just to make the point that we're not ungrateful for the closed circle's influence while it lasted. You know, in case the Fae gossip and stuff. I have no idea if they do, I've never wandered into anyplace I shouldn't have -- I amend this: I haven't wandered into anyplace belonging to them. If you're thinking seriously about the coffee shop though, Una, let me know? I can pass on your contact information to Eleanor?"

She sips at her temporarily forgotten mocha. "Though if you need lawn service, I bet you can get a discount around here knowing people? Gotta keep that grass nice and short and puffy, since Ravn's going to get his ass handed to him again the next time we practice sparring." Puckish little smirk at the Dane.

"There's got to be companies that do that sort of thing," Ravn agrees -- and then laughs softly. "And maybe we can hire in together because I'm not doing lawn work, either. I live on a boat all summer, I'm not going to be on Oak Avenue pushing around a lawn mower. If we can't find a decent service? We hire some of the local kids, I mean, none of us have greenhouses or herb beds that need special care and attention. My mother had orchids. I have sworn to never own an orchid."

"Isn't that how all this started? The two of us, not wanting to do lawn work." Full circles. Una leans back in her chair, now, exhaling lightly over her coffee which is, in fact, all gone. Sadly, there's no magic to refill her mug (or if there is, it'd be a pretty messy process, forcing the coffee molecules to travel in an orderly fashion from coffee pot to mug, without causing a commotion). "Let's look into that."

Thoughtful, she adds, "Yes, definitely keeping the fae happy. It doesn't need to be a daily gift, if they're not doing a service for us, but-- an acknowledgement. A pension." There's a little bit of pink in her cheeks when she admits, "I am thinking about it. Coffee shop, anywhere else really. I don't know. I could start small, and see how it feels. To do it properly, professionally, I'd need a professional kitchen; that's a big upfront expense. And maybe it'll take the love out of it for me. But... it's not like I'm not used to baking daily batches, now. So if you think Eleanor might be interested..."

"Maybe find someone to do proper lawn work and not hire the Fae." It needn't really be said, but Ariadne laughs quietly as she 'suggests' it nonetheless. Full circle indeed. Her toast is gone, but her mocha is not, so she sips again at it. Mmm, the whipped cream has melted into it now, and it's entirely too sugary for anyone's taste but her own.

"And I do think Eleanor would be interested, yes, in small batches. We already order in a lot of the pastries, so it's a thing of room at first, I figure. Like a chance to test drive. Maybe it stays at your small batches and they get sold and we get more customers who want to snatch up some of the pastries from the small batches, hmm? I'll ask her the next time I see her," the barista promises her younger redheaded friend. "Remember I've got to take a milkshake in for poor Kerry anyhow."

"To be fair, we never did hire the fae per se." Ravn cracks a lopsided smile. "We were in the habit of leaving them a bottle of milk and the occasional plate of cookies because you want to stay on good terms with that kind of neighbours. And then Brennon got involved and somehow managed to negotiate the whole micro-climate thing. Which is why we also need to respect it if she manages to keep that arrangement on Oak One. She's the one who talks to trees, not me."

He returns the butter knife to the nearest plate. "One way or another -- I think we might have all learned something here. Don't bring in or encourage more supernatural influences, we've got plenty as is."

"Also, they were stealing the cookies anyway, so it seemed polite to just hand them over," points out Una, remembering. She has time to stick her tongue out at Ariadne, too: you hush.

"Lesson definitely learned," she agrees, though there's still some wistfulness there. "I will miss it, but also-- no, no, this is absolutely the right thing. It's not as if our lives aren't entirely complicated enough already, it's true."

She gives Ariadne another pleased little smile, acknowledging her promise. "When you see her. No rush. And it's absolutely fine, if the answer is no, too. It's-- more of an idea than a plan, if that makes sense."

The barista is absolutely not laughing into her mocha. Absolutely not. Una raspberrying might as well have been equivalent to Ravn's past inclination to flip the bird. Check: off the weekly list.

"When I see Eleanor, which..." Out comes Araidne's phone. Her nose wrinkles in passing. "I gotta get that milkshake to Kerry before I run some more errands. Man, adulting never ends. Ugh. I didn't sign up for this," the redhead half-complains before killing the rest of her mocha like a boss. "You both linger, don't get up on my account. Text me if a study party happens, I'll bring my pj-pants and some hot cocoa. No more enticing anymore supernatural stuff today." And Ariadne would absolutely do this. Rising to her feet, she presses another kiss to coppery locks. "Text me later, you," she murmurs there to Ravn. A blown kiss to Una and then the barista is off like a sylph to see about ordering at the far end of the counter for a milkshake, please and thank you.

"Kill that espresso machine," Ravn tells his girlfriend for a farewell. He's seen her fight it. It's haunted, he's sure of it. He'll probably do public displays of affection sometime in his life, too -- but that time isn't now, and it's not in a diner. He does not judge others (might even envy them a little) but where he grew up, such demonstrations are exactly that -- demonstrations, putting on a show. One must hope for Ariadne's sake that he's less restrained in private.

He glances after her as she leaves (maybe he's a bit proprietorial about that particular backside). Then the Dane looks back at Una and smiles lopsidedly. "That could be fun, you know. Pyjamas party like we're teenagers. Study together but make it a cocoa and pee jay pants session. I volunteer your house because that's where the good midnight snacks are."

Una raises her hand after Ariadne, and though she watches the other redhead leave, it's not about studying her butt (sorry(?) Ariadne).

Ravn's glance back to her turns her attention, though, and his comment? It makes her grin, abruptly broad and bright. "My house is absolutely open to this. If the basement were properly finished, I'd set us up down there for extra-appropriate pj party fun-- at least, that's what the movies always suggested to me-- but I'm sure we can make do in the living room." With cookies, naturally.

She nudges her mug away, still grinning. "Between fake-prom and pyjama parties, I feel like I'm redoing high school, but significantly better. I'll take it."

"I'm going to assume that by extra-appropriate pee jay fun you mean things like watching movies all night, eating all kinds of unhealthy things, and trying on each other's clothes. And I'm going to maintain that I absolutely did not think of, ah, more adult play rooms first, the way you said that." Ravn manages to keep a straight face, somehow. Maybe it's the thought of what such a play room might entail, at the Irving residence. Lots of whipped cream, no doubt.

Then he hitches a shoulder and smiles. "Honestly? My teenage years sucked. If this means we're doing them over and better, I'm for it."

Oh look. That's Una's face, suddenly frozen, except for the way it turns bright, brilliantly red, and she looks as if she wants to sink under the table and into a puddle of goo and never be seen again. She rallies, though-- mostly. She doesn't run away; she doesn't hide. She closes her eyes for a moment, squeezing them shut, and then she begins to giggle.

(It goes without saying, then, that his assumption is absolutely correct.)

It takes her a few more seconds to compose herself, and then, as she does, a knowing nod. A deep breath to banish those giggles, and then: "Mine too. I think that's the point. I don't ever want to go back to high school, but if we can reclaim some of those rituals and... do everything better, I'm in."

"With whipped cream." A small smile goes with that; it's the kind of joke Ravn would never make if he thought there was any risk whatsoever of the woman in front of him thinking he actually wants that to happen. He knows it's not the case, though, and that means -- well, this is a thing now. Whatever happens at Una's? With whipped cream. Coffee? With whipped cream. Solving world politics? With whipped cream. Banishing faerie? With whipped cream.

He leans back on his chair and nods. "I hated -- well, not high school but our equivalent. And it hated me -- I was a moody loner no one liked, probably because I did my damned best to chase anyone off who approached me. You know how teenage boys can be -- convinced that they're unlikeable, and that they'd better make sure to prove it lest anyone get it in their head to try anyway."

'Whipped cream' just makes Una giggle all over again. It's true: this is just the way it is now. Stay away, those with lactose intolerances.

That other thread of the conversation, though, is much more serious, and her nod is slow. "It's such a shitty time. My mom used to go on and on about how the real world wouldn't care about conformance, that being a little weird was better for me in the long run, but all I could see was the fact that I didn't fit in properly, and it made me absolutely miserable. I was-- less anxious in those days, I guess. But still, such a mess. I suppose she was right, my mom, that eventually I'd hate myself a lot less for being who I am, but... it took a while. I mean, not as if I put myself up as a poster child for confidence now, either, but it's better."

"I get that." Ravn shoots Una a sympathetic glance. "And you're right -- being you is the best choice. The world is full of people trying very hard to be cookie cutter copies of whatever they perceive success to look like. A lot of them remind me of Stepford wives."

He looks at the butter knife. "My mother drilled my position into me. Never forget who you are, never forget your breeding, your heritage, your position. Never go slumming. We don't associate with that kind of people. And there I was, running off any chance I got, to hitch-hike around, doing odd jobs, picking pockets, selling pot. Every time she picked me up at a police station somewhere, or I got dropped off by some social worker, she managed to hush it up. Because people of our class and station do not do that sort of thing."

Una makes a face to suggest that she's not particularly fond of the Stepford Wife model of being human, but it doesn't mean there's not a wistfulness there; a recollection, perhaps, of that childish eagerness to belong.

"Your mother-- well, no. I'm not going to be bitchy about her. I do think it's pretty fucked up, though. It's no wonder you rebelled. No wonder you were miserable." She lets her mouth curve up into the tiniest of smiles. "And thus, why we are recreating our teenage years in our adult ones, because who says we need to live a certain way? We get to make the choices now."

"We do. And if you ask me? If we want to re-create our teenage years the way they should have been, maybe that's worth a decade of therapy." Ravn smiles again. "I have had therapists aplenty tell me I had a controlling, emotionally dead inside mother and a largely absent and avoidant father. Knowing it explains a lot, but it does not change how I feel about it all. Overwriting some of it with new and better memories might. I guess I am the poster boy for how growing up in a castle doesn't mean you're happy."

He glances towards the counter and then lowers his voice a bit. "I wish Gina Castro was still around in person to run this place. She and Perdita would hit it off like fireworks. Her mother was a grifter too, the black widow type. Gina and I don't actually get along very well but that one thing we bonded over -- rich society parents suck."

This prompts a bigger, more honest smile from Una. "I can't argue with that," she agrees, firmly. "Knowing is absolutely not the same as changing, or feeling. If it were as easy as all that--"

It's not. They both know it. There's some solemnity to that, too, but mostly, Una seems more inclined to keep this on a more positive note.

She takes a glance around and admits, "It's hard to imagine this place being owned by someone from that kind of background, but that, I imagine, is the whole point of it. Why should background matter? It shouldn't. It doesn't."

Ravn glances at the counter again. "I always got the feeling Castro opened this place largely to kill time. And that she runs it the way she does because that's the point. Customers leave? Fuck 'em. She probably has the most loyal retail employees in the history of mankind because here, the customer is only right when he's actually right. It's kind of refreshing in a way, don't you think? It's not like it kills us to get up and fetch our coffee ourselves, and the food is inevitably fantastic."

"I really can't argue with that," Una admits, grinning. "Why should the staff have to bend over backwards to suit the whims of the customers? As long as they get the food they're paying for, the rest is--"

Hush, Una. You're sounding increasingly European. Next you'll be saying that living wages and no need for tips is the only way forward.

"Anyway, the quality is the food is definitely the most important thing, yes, and this was, as always, excellent. I probably need to ride my bike to the far end of Hoquiam and back a few times to make up for it, but... that's the price you pay, right?"

She probably won't actually do that. She probably will have another cup of coffee first, in any case. That's what mornings like this are for, right?