2022-06-05 - 🎶 That's A Moray 🎶

Another trip to Seattle to drop off papers at Wilson, Goldblum & Cruz because while posting things is a thing in most places, Ravn does not dare rely on the US Mail. He is not afraid that somebody is going to steal letters and paperwork that need to go from the HOPE Centre to its law firm in Seattle -- if it was that easy, he'd be grateful. His concern is with the Veil -- HOPE is a thorn in the flesh of the dolorphages, and it would be so very easy for some postal worker somewhere in Gray Harbor to have a curious little Dream in which they opened an envelope and added or removed a few things. No one would ever know -- and the consequences could be considerable, depending. Of course there's still such a thing as just rewriting reality and retconning HOPE right out of existence. But so far at least, the dolorphages have played some strange kind of fair, where measures and countermeasures are a thing. Where Ravn Abildgaard delivers official paperwork to his paralegal in person.

It's also an excuse to ask his girlfriend if she'd like to go on a day trip to Seattle; spend the night, maybe? There are things aplenty to see in the city with a population as large as Ravn's own country. It doesn't hurt to see them with someone he cares quite a bit for, and it certainly doesn't hurt either that she can serve in a capacity of native guide.

The weather is bright and not too hot as the vintage motorcycle with its sidecar eats the miles of highway, purring as a well maintained engine will. Ravn has not made any plans per se for Seattle yet because he wants to involve Ariadne in making those plans, and this trip happened a bit impromptu. What greatness it is, to have a metropolis just two hours away -- time enough to agree on what you want to do there while driving, close enough that you won't arrive exhausted, far away enough that the chaos of millions of people is contained at safe distance from your own daily life.

Impromptu plans mean impromptu plans in return. Thankfully, Ariadne's next-door neighbor had nothing going on, so yes, she doesn't mind checking in on Sam and sleeping on the couch. She can do homework anyhow, there's one last final to study for next week with her particular degree. It means Ariadne is free to pack for possibly staying the night and in the sidecar is stashed a small bag with the necessaries. She herself is behind Ravn as the bike purrs beneath them and trees flash by; the countryside blends from forest to patches of hills and distant water to more and more industrial as time goes by.

Ravn gets a gentle squeeze about his waist, pronounced verses the general belting of her arms about him. Her voice is muted if clear through the Bluetooth pieces connected between their helmets. "We'll see what Ana wants to do as far as meeting up with us once we park the bike. It sounds like she's waiting on someone else too, so we might be one of those hi-bye type of encounters where her busy bumblebee self makes sure things are order but then zoom, she gone," the barista explains.

The sun means layering was appropriate and any wise local of the Pacific Northwest knows layering is your trump card in the game against Mother Nature. Her windbreaker is a familiar one, navy-blue, lightweight and yet warm with a waterproofed shell. Beneath this, a scoop-neck blouse in a purple just enough pink to be technically fuchsia, its bishop sleeves again a vintage note in her personal fashion. Pair this with black jeans and low-heeled boots and her feet probably won't die. Probably. There's Advil in the overnight kit. Her hair is braided down her back and lazily whips at its lighter end in the wind of their passage.

Ravn is in his usual ensemble of black jeans and black blazer under the black leather jacket, safely returned from its trip to the first salmon ceremonies without him. He debated putting on something ridiculous such as a three-piece suit -- say, the one he wore to the masquerade ball? -- but decided against it. A joke goes only so far. Also, meeting up with Anastasia might well end up being a twenty minutes affair, and then he'll be stuck in a three-piece suit looking like a cosplayer all day. A snarky shirt will have to do -- black, with the text printed in white: "Just remember, if we get caught, you're deaf and I don't speak English."

"Either works for me," the Dane tells his passenger. "If she zooms past us in passing and just wants to make sure you don't have a neck full of bite scars, fine by me. If she wants to take us home for a family dinner, this is also fine by me. Finding a motel room in Seattle won't be a big challenge -- and a restaurant certainly won't. If it's a short meet-up I suggest maybe going to one of those places we've talked about after."

"I guarantee you that Ana's not going to spring a family dinner on me. She knows better than to do this, even if she's my little sister," Ravn is thus informed; there's a steely note underneath Ariadne's otherwise amused tone. "Family dinners with you are for me to schedule and no one else. Now, is there still a chance we run across other members of my family while we're there? Yes. My dad still takes potential business partners out on the town for dinner sometimes. Depending on where we go, we might enjoy the hell out of sneakily being 'just' another couple at the same restaurant a few tables down. You never know."

Because Seattle is a big city and somehow, a small, small world indeed sometimes.

"It might be best to figure out your paperwork first though before we meet up with Ana? In case it takes time. That way, she's not waiting on us if your lawyer has to check with you about things," the barista suggests.

"Let's start with dropping that off, yes. I just walk in, hand it to the secretary, and leave. They're convinced I'm some rich eccentric philanthropist who doesn't believe in the U.S. Mail service. They can think that, at least it means nothing Veil side interferes with our paperwork." Ravn grins slightly; he's quite accustomed to being considered a little crazy. Or, well, eccentric, because he can afford to not be crazy.

"Can you text while we're driving?" Might as well find out right away if Anastasia wants to meet up, and if so, where?" He can't do it himself for obvious reasons; Lola Bianca is a gorgeous machine but she's not self-driving.

"Whaaaaaaat? You, a rich and eccentric philanthropist? What was that thing you always said, people believing lies that are at least part truth?" Ariadne is all tease as she fishes her phone carefully out of her windbreaker's interior pocket. "I can text her, yes." The sidecar provides stability she otherwise wouldn't trust in, having been a rider on another motorcycle with another driver more prone to...antics, she'll call it. "One mo."

Fingers fly. It can't be heard, but the text goes off and relatively quickly, another comes back, about two minutes later. "She says she figures I'm going to drag you around Seattle again, so where am I dragging you to this time? I figured the aquarium? Unless you want to do something like the pop-culture museum or the Science Center." Hope for the aquarium is betrayed by a slip of appeal in the first option listed. "Either way, we'll probably have to spend the night if we want to do dinner, the weather's going to be questionable after sundown from what I checked."

Ravn is not a cautious driver -- but he is a responsible driver. Somewhere in the depths of his mind, attempted but failed to remain buried, the memory of what the road outside Engelsholm looked like after Benedikte crashed her sports car against a tree. Even after the clean-up, the asphalt remained stained. The police officer who called it a 'mop and bucket job' did not intend for him to hear, but he did. He has no desire to end up in a similar fashion, leaving a similar dark spot on a Seattle road.

He glances over at his passenger and while she cannot see much of his face for the black helmet with the black raven's wing stencil, amusement glitters in blue-grey eyes. "Are you asking me if I'll come look at all the pretty and colourful fish while you tell me wild anecdotes and interesting trivia about each one? What a terrible thought. Are you sure we can't find some paint to watch drying?"

"Ravn, dearheart, I will subject you to the most boring of Seattle if you ask nicely enough," his passenger drolly informs him before laughing into the Bluetooth earpiece. "But the aquarium it is." Ariadne all but singsongs it happily as her thumbs fly across the screen. "We'll say we're intending to catch them feeding the seals so there's time to talk but not too much time. Seal feeding is in the afternoon, sometimes earlier, sometimes later." And the marine biologist is going to use the ambiguity of timing to her advantage mercilessly.

Another thirty seconds. "She says I'm adorable and to show you all the awkward stuff too. Of course. Like you'd be spared that." Thumbs fly again. "I'll say, what..." Sunlight reflects off the visor of her helmet as she looks up. "We're close enough, about twenty minutes to the outskirts now, so an hour or so? To drop off papers?"

"Dropping off papers takes five minutes but traffic is hard to predict so let's go with that -- at worst we get to watch some more fish while we wait." Ravn grins again; life is complicated when you're not all by yourself, making appointments with no one. And somewhat to his continuing surprise, he is finding that he likes it.

Then he smiles. "I have seen that -- seal feeding. There's a maritime museum close to my home, on the west coast, in the city of Esbjerg. They take abandoned seal pups for a large habitat -- a combined rescue operation and educational service if you will. The Sealarium is quite the tourist attraction -- there's also a smaller exhibit of live marine life, but it's the kind of touch a seastar or jellyfish basins used to teach children about the sea. For a while they had a mink habitat right next to the seals, to demonstrate that they're the closest land-based cousins to seals."

"Huh. I wonder what the minks thought of that." Ariadne sounds vaguely distracted, but she's attempting to multitask via her phone and means no harm. "And I'm not a huge fan of the touch-pools unless there's someone standing there monitoring and their filtration system is five-star...and even then, I'm still not pleased. Toddlers pulling sea stars from the rocks means they're literally ripping suckers off the animal's undersides." She's undoubtedly grimacing behind her visor. "Anyways, off my soapbox about that because I'm not ruining my day over it."

Another five seconds. "Yeah, Ana says to meet her at the souvenir shop down the way from the aquarium. That's about a city block or two up and it's always full of fascinating weirdness if you want to poke around inside. There's also a great gelato stand tucked next to it, so we're getting gelato. You are thus informed," she does indeed inform Ravn with a chuckle.

Ravn does not nod because what's the point under his helmet. Instead, he says, "From what I saw there, the touch pools are very carefully supervised -- and they would be, because it's the kind of thing animal welfare organisations will raise a shitstorm about. The minks I know were happy -- rescued from fur farms to live in a large natural habitat with an artificial brook for swimming cutting through it, and a subterranean cave system that you could look into through dark tinted one-way windows. Minks spend a substantial part of their life in water -- that's why they picked minks and not, say, ferrets or stoats."

He glances up at the sun, though. "Gelato in the sun with a beautiful woman at my side. Fates, what have I done to thee to deserve such punishment."

Ariadne easily continues in the vein of the funning, "Whatever you did, it's the absolute worst, woe betide you." Another ping from her phone and she then slips it away into her windbreaker pocket. "Arms again," she forewarns the Dane before wrapping these about his waist again. Mmm, he's warm against the lingering chill of fast-moving air. Cuddling up close to him, she carefully rests her helmeted head sideways against the flat of his shoulder.

"Papers and then gelato and then Ana and then aquarium. Dinner after. Overnighting. This sounds like it's shaping up to be a pretty freakin' good time here, Mister Abildgaard." A pleased sigh can be heard over the Bluetooth. "If they have the rose gelato, I'm getting some. Lavender mixed in. Yes, lavender gelato. A little bit of honey-vanilla in it and oh my god, it's orgasmic."

"And do I need to be counting while you eat it?" Ravn smirks to himself. "I'll go with -- they'll probably have some variety of salty caramel, coffee, and or licorice. Those sound good to me. I'm not so keen on the flowery tastes -- and I don't want too sweet, either. Although if it's proper Italian gelato I will cede that the Italians can do things with fruit and gelato -- I had the most amazing watermelon and honey melon gelato in Florence. You know, speaking of orgasmic."

He's happy to have Ariadne behind him on the motorcycle. Sure, she could ride in the side car if she wanted to -- but the way she understands his special needs re: touch makes him want her close to him all the more. As if somehow, she's making up for a lifetime of people who failed to understand that yes, it means make him aware every single time. The barista makes him feel -- well, like he's not a weirdo with a proximity problem.

A sensible family SUV slides past. The driver looks back at them in the rear mirror and Ravn can't help but notice the look of raw envy in the man's eyes. Sorry, bud. You signed on for a nine to five job, a sensible car and two point one kids. It's hard to not feel at least a little smug.

The industrial areas give way to residential areas, increasingly dense. Ravn has driven this way often enough that he suspects Lola Bianca can do it on autopilot by now. He is not familiar enough with Seattle to know the name -- official or colloquial -- of the district in which the law office resides; it's one of those not-quite-downtown areas where not-quite bigshot companies have their offices, dentists their clinics, accountants and lawyers' offices -- the light commercial districts of the middle class. He deliberately picked a law firm catering to the middle class and, he suspects, a number of not quite legitimate businessmen. Silence is golden, and the best silence is bought from a lawyer who knows that you're the firm's wealthiest patron and they definitely do not want to lose you.

The Veil fights dirty. So does Ravn Abildgaard.

"Eh, I could take or leave watermelon, but the honeydew melon sounds amazing. They'll definitely have coffee, it's Seattle, and it'll probably be pretty damn good, with actual espresso in it if it can be managed," Ariadne informs her lover as she continued to lean against his back. With her face turned the opposite direction from the SUV, she misses the driver's reaction to their mode of travel. She's busy watching the sunlight play across the natural spaces slowly and inevitably blending into civilization.

This doesn't stop her from coyly adding, "You can count later, mister."

The traffic also increases, which means sitting upright and attentive behind Lola Bianca's driver now. Ariadne's ready to flip the bird and snarl through her open visor if need be; nobody bumps the bike or anyone associated with it, thank you very much, even if she has zero part in ownership. They do safely make it to the parking along the street outside of the law firm's office and Ariadne remains astride the bike. "You go do your business, dearheart, I'll watch the bike," Ariadne tells Ravn after emerging from her helmet for some time of open air and non-squished cheeks. He's blown a kiss if he won't take a brush to the lips.

"I count all the time," Ravn returns because a good pun must never be wasted. Then he swings his leg over the saddle and hangs his helmet on the handle; his hair is something else, but then, it always is, and no one who knows him will look twice. There are people who pay a small fortune for hair that untameable and that 'just jumped off a bike' look.

Up the stairs he is, and it's a mere five minutes before he's back down too; like he said, all he did was hand the large envelope off to the receptionist -- nothing the mail man could not have done, provided Ravn did indeed trust the Veil to not own a mail worker here and there. It certainly speeds things up, too, not having to find a parking garage and walk over.

He takes the chance to snatch a quick hug before plonking his helmet on and getting back on the bike. "Now I need you to give me directions to some place we can park this lady and either walk or use public transit to the aquarium. I have no idea what traffic and distance is like -- but I don't mind a walk if it's not a marathon."

Untameable hair is given a pleased, proprietary look by the barista. Well...down and up as he walks to the building in order to deliver papers and she sits almost primly, helmet rested in her lap. Ariadne pulls out her phone otherwise to check on email and other message while she waits, comfortable as she is astride the bike with boot-heels angled rested on the road itself. Nobody disturbs her, thankfully, and she patently radiates I don't want a random conversation like a pro in turn.

And there Ravn is again, papers delivered. The hug is warmly returned with a nuzzle of barista nose against Danish cheek and she too pulls her helmet back on once the man is astride the bike. "Parking garage is on 5th just down the way here, take a right at the light. It's about two city blocks down to Alaskan Way after that, though there's a hill for part of it. We can't get around that. I don't think it's too crazy though. There are spots to step aside if we need to catch breath on the way back up."

Always an adventure, parking in Seattle, but nobody gets dinged or dented or scratched. Parking rate isn't too bad but still city-appropriate, ugh. With her bag stowed and locked away in the sidecar, Ariadne then leads the way down 9th street. It becomes a marked slope (e.g. do not think you're walking down this during the winter without your tailbone at great risk) about halfway down, but nobody dies and crossing the trolley tracks past the underpass of the viaduct above means they're safely on Alaskan Way. The tourists are out in force, though not thickly yet -- that's July and August.

"Gelato is this-a-way," the barista singsongs as she sees about obviously moving to take Ravn's arm in escort-ship. "Are you going to mix anything in with the coffee or just straight coffee gelato?" A glance up at him as they begin walking towards Pier 62. The Sound and its boats of all sizes are to their left given this is the closest sidewalk to it; seagulls haunt above in the air and perched on surfaces. Pigeons coo in little coteries on the sidewalk. Bicyclists ride in relative safety along the sidewalk in the designated lined zone. There's a pretzel stand doing fairly good business and the scent of a city heavily laced with saline in every breath.

"If they have salty caramel I'll brave mixing the two." Ravn grins slightly and opens his leather jacket -- it's cold to be front rider with an open jacket on the highway, regardless of the season. Ariadne gets to confirm that she's taught the Dane a new game: Snarky t-shirts under the blazer. It's too hot for turtlenecks now, after all -- it's either one of those and no blazer, or a blazer with something lighter underneath. Pockets win, every time.

He shoots the Sound a fond look -- after all, it was just over there on the other side and a bit south that he spent a remarkably pleasant day and night recently. Can't see the islands from here but, close enough. You don't forget a day like that anytime soon. The scent of ocean on the air does not bother him -- he's Danish. While his home is not by the sea, the town it's just outside is, and well, let's just face it, very few parts of Denmark are not near one or ocean or another. The air is decidedly salty in places -- and when it isn't, it's bracken or fresh, because there's always water somewhere in a country that's old sea floor barely above the waterline.

His hand finds Ariadne's; kidskin against soft skin, fingers curled around fingers. There's a certain bliss to a city of millions; no one has the first damn idea who they are and no one cares, and he can be a bit freer with his affections than he would be anywhere he expects to get recognised. (His late mother would not approve).

Almost impossibly anonymous, these two, one of many along the sidewalk of Alaskan Way, and Ariadne too is pleased for it. There's something to be said for the comfort of a smaller city (town?), but here, one can be a face in the crowd and mind their own business in the comfort too of relative privacy. Her fingers interlace with his gloved fingers in turn. The stretch of sidewalk, hemmed in on one side by industrial cross-wire fencing framed in sturdy wood to keep people from falling thirty feet to rocks below, is fairly open between the aquarium (behind them) and Pier 62 (ahead of them).

"That wouldn't be a terrible combination except for why the hell are you putting salt in caramel? Ravn. Dearheart. Just no," the barista idly argues with a smirk in his direction. "No salt in my sweets. Never. I know what you're going to say: it accents the sweetness, Venelite, and makes it sweeter. Yeeeeeeah, still no. Ever had a really badly made salted caramel something? Where it might as well be half-gargle water? It'll wreck you for life, just wait."

"It's actually more that it reminds me of a candy I used to love as a kid -- extremely sticky salty caramel that a little boy inevitably would get everywhere. They never get it quite right, though -- it's always too sweet. The one I remember was only just so sweet it did in fact not taste like eating salt." Ravn grins slightly; ah, fond childhood memories of getting sticky fingers on antique furniture, and the resulting screeching. "I have tried these salted caramel frappés and whatnot that are so popular now, and they are indeed entirely too sweet."

He smiles and looks a little sheepish; a little shy, even. "You know something? I like that we don't like the same things. I know it sounds silly but -- it always feels so forced when you're with a couple that has to agree on everything. You can't help wonder how much both of them are lying in order to not break up the illusion that they are one soul in two bodies. I like that we are two people coming together, not one entity with two voices."

"Hmph." Even if the image of a young Ravn running about with sticky fingers is adorable as hell mentally, help, Ariadne isn't convinced to try anything involving the salty-sweet treat. It doesn't mean she doesn't continue listening as they walk, acting the part of subtle guide to avoid people brushing against the man holding her hand. "Those frappés are questionable anyways," she agrees of the drink.

When Ravn glances over, so does she, and thus meets his eyes with brows lifted. Her smile is soft as well. "Yep. It's how it should be. You grow beside one another, not so closely intertwined with one another that you can't find some air. Everybody needs air. Everybody needs time to detox. Sure, it's all...bunny-humping and twitterpation at first and look, I'm not going to say that I'm not twitterpated, because..." And really, her sigh is absolutely twitterpated as she continues looking into Ravn's face. "Damn." So much said in one admiring word. "Besides, it also lets us figure out if we like new stuff. I'd never order some of the things you'd order off a menu, but maybe I try a bite and I like it. Or I play a piece of music you actually like but never admit it because heaven forbid something appeals to you if it was written past 19...what. 1960 or so?" she teases now, grinning up dimples.

The gelato stand tucked into the lee of the Pier 62 building seems not terribly busy, though there's a short line. Ariadne inserts them into it.

"1980." Ravn laughs softly. "And that's not true, you know. I'll readily admit that most of my preferred modern music is -- well, our parents' generation, maybe even our grandparents. But there's newer stuff I like as well. What I like is -- how to put it, passion. I don't like dime-a-dozen pop music made to hit the top hundred and then never be heard off again. I don't like the seventies version of those either, nor the sixties, nor the eighties. I like music that feels like the writer and composer really meant it. I will listen to anything you want me to hear -- I just don't promise to like it. But then, I also don't expect you to fall in love with every bluegrass or folk band I worship."

He cants his head. "That actually reminds me. This is going to sound crazy -- I lost my violin. I had it with me in a Dream and Emperor Fucking Nero the Neckbeard of Rome stole it from me. I need to buy a new one and I have some ideas. While the final decision will be based on what they sound and feel like, would you like to look at designs with me later, perhaps?"

Truly, by the way Ariadne inhales, she's intending to continue to fondly banter with the Dane about his taste in music, but his segue disarms her entirely.

Blink. Blinkblink. "Ravn," she breathes, insulted and concerned for him about the loss of the violin and the manner in which it happened. "What the fuck?!" Quietly said as to not bother the family ahead of them. His gloved hand gets a squeeze while her brows quirk in empathy for a lost instrument. "Oh my god, uh -- of course, yes, I'd love to look at designs with you. You're in contact with a maker here in the city? I'm so sorry, your violin."

She knows it's one of the other babies not qualifying as herself -- was one of the other babies. It's solid proof she's mostly acclimated to Grey Harbor by the way she doesn't linger over the how of its loss. Fucking Veil.

The Dane offers his girlfriend a small smile; he appreciates the sympathy but while he's not happy about it, it is not a disaster. "My violin is -- was not like Rosencrantz'. His Limon is a custom piece, made for him personally, with a great personal significance. Mine was a quality instrument, but not an old, valuable one with a history. I knew I would be at risk of losing it, having it stolen, or simply damaged somewhere when I went travelling, and I did not want to have to worry myself sick about it. So I bought a new, good instrument -- which means losing it sucks, but it's not irreplaceable the way Limon would be. What I need to decide now, really, is how high I should go, in terms of quality -- buy a violin that already exists, or have one built, new or old, and for that matter, should I go electric?"

"Um." Trust the scientist in her to start weighing variables. The line scoots forward by a family. Two groups to go and then it's their turn to order.

"I think electric is too...limiting? Or maybe would affect the sound quality...? If it has to be plugged in to get maximum quality of play. A standard violin doesn't. But I don't know a ton about the instruments," Ariadne readily admits. "But you get to play with paint design and shape with the electrical ones, this much I know, sooooooooo..." Shoulders shrug. "I know that the older the standard violins are, the richer their sound in turn. Like, they mellow out with age. I feel like you'd maybe have to drop some money for a quality modern violin? So if you're not wanting to be worried about it being irreplaceable, mid-line cost...? Which if cost is the modifier, it's still you could go either way, a sturdy modern one or a sturdy electrical one. I'd buy one that already exists though, I think. Some of mid-range quality. That way, all that you need to worry about it the cost of upkeep after. Not that you'd have to not worry about that with a custom one, but -- I'll stop now, I'm rambling," the barista laughs.

Ravn laughs softly to himself. Then he nods, still smiling. "All that is true. But the real consideration here? If I buy an electrical violin, Rosencrantz will make me eat it. And also, an electrical violin would not have saved Una and I from Emperor Neckbeard since Rome anno 64 did not have a lot of electricity outlets. I have to admit that some of the designs are extremely visually interesting, though. If we have some down time one of these days, let's look at gorgeous designs together, geek out completely, and then I cave and buy an existing mid-range violin that's good enough to not annoy me but not great enough I need to lie awake at night worrying about theft or losing it to some crazy Roman."

His order? Coffee and salty caramel, indeed. If anyone in the queue is eavesdropping out of boredom while waiting they'll likely either assume he's a writer or a method actor -- or for that matter, a LARPer. One of the benefits of the Veil in action right there: Since time travel obviously isn't real, a conversation like this must be working from a make-believe premise.

A smile as he pays for their gelatos -- and don't you argue, miss -- and looks around for a free bench somewhere nearby. "Why is it, though, that ice cream or gelato on the boardwalk is fantastic whenever it's not your own home town? Sweet Retreats has excellent ice cream on the boardwalk back home, and yet I rarely go there."

Ariadne's order? Rose and lavender with a twist of honey-vanilla, as she'd previously proclaimed. Ravn also gets no guff for paying for the treat -- he'd been quicker on the draw anyhow with his wallet, what with the barista momentarily distracted by someone else in line. An accent. Italian? Huh. Out-of-towner. She takes her cup of gelato with spoon stuck into the treat and too glances around. She hazards there's a wish for seating.

"Variety. Novelty? Sweet Retreats will always be there, but a visit to someplace not your home town isn't every day? I haven't been to Sweet Retreats on that note, so something for me to do once the weather gets really nice." A tilt of her head and Ariadne begins to lead the way over towards one of the benches tucked up along the boardwalk's fencing. "It might also be the company." Dimples are aimed in Ravn's direction in an easy flirt.

"You have a point about the standard violin verses the electrical one and I feel your plan is sound," she adds, circling back to the previous discussion. "We'll peek, geek, and you get a mid-range instrument which speaks to you. I'd sound-test and all if I could, y'know? If you can. Or they'll let you. Do they let you do those things in the instrument shops?" Ariadne perches on the bench and a perch it is; she seems somehow still ready to flit from sitting on it at any moment.

Might be because Anastasia has a way of suddenly appearing.

Ravn settles on the bench next to her and chuckles. "Well, that depends on how much money they think you're capable of spending and how service minded they are. If you're a parent coming in with a hopeful child a good shop will help that kid get the right instrument because that kid is tomorrow's customer for a better one. If you look like you might buy their finest pieces for some kind of collection they'll treat you like a prince -- because obviously, who doesn't want to make a big sale. Usually, for something like this, you tell them the price range you have in mind, and they'll show you instruments in that range and some above it. A passionate seller will help you find what you were looking for, and maybe a little better. I don't want a piece that belongs in a concert hall or in a museum. The way I lost my old one is why. I only play for my own amusement so while I could afford higher quality, I don't want to purchase a beautiful piece of art only to hide it in my garage for no one else to enjoy."

Life is really very complicated when you can afford to make those decisions, isn't it?

He's slightly less Anastasia paranoid -- possibly because he doesn't know her that well yet, possibly because what's there to see but the two of them? The plan to take forest photos with cloaks and fake fangs fell through (thank you, Green Knight) but it may still be re-enacted, depending on whether the penny drops for Ariadne's little sister this time. And then it may still get carried out anyway, just for shit and giggles.

Ravn explains and the redhead perched on the bench beside him enjoys her gelato. She's one of those parsimonious eaters of sweets, apparently, inclined to make it last as long as possible by the size and slowness of her bites.

"You have a good point. Something more pricey, and priceless in the same vein, would be difficult to enjoy because...well...shit happens." Her spoon circles off to one side. It needn't be said: damn you, Neckbeard Nero. "I'm glad they let you test drive. I'm the one who finds the nearest keyboard or piano and tries them out in the musical stores, but I'm sure that's also the bane of every poor sap working behind the counter. I imagine a place which sells honest-to-god quality violin is not just going to let someone saw a bow across the strings."

If only you knew, Scullins, what the Dane and Una had seen.

Her phone goes off. Plucking it from the interior pocket of her windbreaker, Ariadne squints at it. "ETA about ten minutes, apparently," she informs her boyfriend with a cursory glance-about anyhow.

"Just enough time for me to finish this gelato and then place myself downwind of you for a quick cigarette." Ravn nods. Ariadne has actually not mentioned her tobacco smoke allergy to him that he recalls, but he's got eyes -- he's seen her try to avoid exposure, and he has no wish to make his mild addiction her problem. It does help him destress -- and if he has to be honest about it, he is perhaps a little concerned. Anastasia Scullins is no grand judge and jury over his lifestyle choices but he does want to make a decent impression -- after all, if this relationship works out, there's a lot of shared holiday and dinner dates on the calendar to come, and those are decidedly much more fun when your girlfriend's family does not hate you.

He finishes his gelato and moves to position himself where he's not troubling the barista, before taking out his old zippo with the battered coat-of arms on. For once he pauses to look at it -- and then chuckles. "I really should buy myself a modern zippo, maybe some raven motif or something, shouldn't I? Truth is, this was my great-grandfather's and the only reason I have it is that my father loved it and I stole it from him out of spite."

While Ariadne indeed hadn't mentioned the allergy, she gives her boyfriend a pleased and grateful smile nonetheless. The taste of it on his lips, she could leave or take; the smoke, unfortunately, not so much. She also understands the need for a steadying nicotine hit. As such, he's given no guff in this case either as his treat is finished (finished!) and he finds his space. There's still gelato to finish in Ariadne's case; she spoons through it to mix the floral and sweet flavors and glances over at the Dane again.

Eyes fall to the lighter in question and then rise to the man's face. "You succeeded at stealing it since you have it. Why keep it?" The manner of her asking, quieter, grants the question a gentler facet of curiosity and silently communicates no necessary response if Ravn wants to divert from it.

Still no Anastasia suddenly out of the woodwork. Or street-crowd, as it were.

"Nostalgia, I think. Or maybe it's just the historian at me that thinks throwing away a family antique is wrong. Besides, it does its job -- these old zippos are practically unbreakable." Ravn looks at the old lighter again, and then pockets it. "I stole it to watch him search the house for it. To annoy him. Out of pure spite, after yet another of those why can't you be a real man with the interests of a real man speeches of his. But I didn't mean to throw it away -- so I just kept it. The historian in me resents destroying something like it, I guess. Besides, who doesn't want to lug around the family coat-of-arms in their back pocket?"

He smiles and looks up at the sun. "It all feels like a very long time ago. Living in Denmark, spending the weeks in Copenhagen and every other weekend or so back home at Engelsholm. It's been four years but it feels like forty."

Ariadne watches her beau as he replies. A quick glance up at the sky, where the sun is partially hidden by cloud. Quick, sunbreak, pinch yourself and break out the tanning oil.

"I know what you mean, in a way...at least about the perception of time. I feel like college was yesterday and that I could blink and walk into my old house down in Colorado and nothing would have changed. But everything changes -- and yeah, a lot can change in four years." Suspicious that she's nearing a nerve, the barista asks nonetheless, in the same mild curiosity, "You ever thinking about going back? Ever? Or only if you have to?" There's nothing in her expression indicating plans revolving around this.

Anastasia remains on the approach from some direction and god only knows which of the boardwalk, north or south.

"Sometimes but -- my life is here. If I go home some day it will be because I want to withdraw from the world. And if I want to do that -- why do it there?" Ravn hitches a shoulder. "When push comes to shove -- I mean, you've seen Engelsholm, even if it was in a bizarre summer of 1968 Dream. You know how big it is. Keeping all that space for one person, or maybe one family? It's insane. It makes a lot more sense to me to have it function as a school or museum, or something else that's useful. All I need is a place to sleep and a place to stash books. And well -- it makes more sense to have that somewhere I have people I want to spend time with, doesn't it?"

Like here. Where he has a bed and a book stash on Oak Avenue, and a bed on his boat on the marina to boot.

You've seen Engelsholm. In a Dream, the barista walked the grounds, and so she nods back and forth in acknowledgement. Yep, been there, done that, somehow missed out on the shirt.

"I'm not going to argue against your logic there given you're near enough to me on the regular," Ariadne replies with a gentle grin. "That's...a lot of space if there's not regular staff and a larger family and...yeah, I'm good for my apartment, even if it's kind of cramped on the darker, grey days. I guess that's what happy lamps are for." She lifts another bite of gelato and at least gets it into her mouth before, on high:

"Arrrrrrrrrriiiiiiiiiiiiii!" -- we trilled through the R in this iteration for some reason.

Watch Ariadne twitch and look in the direction of the call. It is indeed her sister, on the approach, her hair done up in some fabulous explosion of tighter ringlets to drape across the shoulders of a brilliantly-green light pea coat. Beneath this, a dress in asymmetrical-patterned blue and yellow and black which somehow works in its blockier cut on Anastasia's frame. Long legs in black tights tuck into high heels. Ravn gets a long-suffering smirk from Ariadne before she sets her gelato aside and rises from the bench.

<<Hey you, long time, no see.>> Hungarian for Anastasia, which she returns along with a big hug.

<<Too long as always. Weeks. It was forever. Let me see you.>> Holding her older (slightly taller) sister at arm's length, one can see Anastasia's teal-blue eyes strafe really only from Ariadne's collarbone and up and each side.

It takes a moment of frowning confusion for Ariadne to understand why she's being so closely observed and she then blurt-laughs loudly. "Ana! NO!" Anastasia's hands are swatted away with an accompanying, "Ugh! Seriously, you!"

"Hey, it's for science. You always say it's for science, right?" Anastasia smirks.

Oh Ravn. Now the eyes are on you. "Where are your fangs, mister?" the younger sister then asks. "I don't see any hickies. You skimping on your hobby here?"

Cue Ariadne splutter.

Ravn watches and manages to keep a straight face, and thank you, literal teachers in deportment for drilling that ability into him as a kid. Then, without a word, he dips into a pocket only to produce -- yep, the plastic fangs. "I don't wear them in public," he tells Anastasia. "It's a little embarrassing. And people always want to take pictures, and you know how vampires feel about pictures. It's so embarrassing when someone comes running forty years later and says, isn't it funny how much you resemble your father."

Are we doing this? We are doing this. "However, if you happen to be a nice Type O, let me know, right?"

One can almost see the gears whirring behind Anastasia's eyes. Ariadne has a hand over her mouth and she's squinting up at the sky like she was praying for all the deities in mankind's vast history EVER to aid her in not laughing like an utter buffoon.

Turns out the Scullin eyebrow loft runs in the family. "I'm type A, so unfortunately, you're out of luck." Was that...a blood type joke and a personality joke in one?

Ariadne coughs loudly once. It makes Anastasia glance over at her with a Cheshire Cat smirk. Both siblings know their word play, apparently.

"You don't want to swallow a fang eating gelato anyways, that's a very awkward trip to the ER," Anastasia continues in what appears to be honest helpfulness. "And if anybody shows up telling you how much you resemble your dad, just say it's in the blood."

"Oh my fucking god, Ana," Ariadne mutter-titters from beneath the shading of her hand to her brow to cover her eyes as well as hide her face. Beam from the younger sister.

"Though speaking of dad! Mom says we should figure out a family dinner." And on that bombshell, Anastasia whips the conversation around.

The corner of Ravn's mouth twitches; it's a good thing he grew up learning that polite laughter is quiet laughter because only a boorish buffoon laughs out loud. At times like this, that skill comes in quite handy, indeed. He tucks the fangs back in a pocket and says, amused, "I'll admit, I've never tried eating anything with a mouth full of plastic fangs. And I did not ask for whatever flavour is the darkest red either. I'm very sorry to disappoint."

He glances at Ariadne when that last remark drops; her reaction is going to determine a few things in turn. "A family dinner, is it? Goodness. Here I thought a man had to woo a lady for at least a year or three before he is considered to have made enough of a commitment to go ask her father's permission to officially court her." Running his mouth here, while trying to determine how Ariadne feels, because if she hates the idea, or thinks it's too soon, it's quite remarkable how many complications can pop up. The Count Abildgaard can be surprisingly busy -- and it doesn't hurt that the world outside Gray Harbor tends to forget or ignore the existence of the world within.

Anastasia leans to see around Ravn's (impressive) height (compared to her, she an inch shorter than her sister). "Should have asked for pomegranate. Or raspberry-blackberry. You would have been safe from stains too, with your get-up. Nice t-shirt," the younger sibling notes of the Dane's clothing in her hummingbird-like manner of delivering a compliment and then zipping off to the next topic at hand.

Ariadne is squinting at her sibling as if she's attempting to calculate something at a very high speed. "So, does Mom say this or do you think Mom says this? You think Mom says this," the barista ends up asking of Anastasia.

"I think it's a brilliant idea. You should just get it over with before it becomes this whole fiesta where Mom pulls all the strings or Dad sets it up to be some extra fancy place where he takes his work buddies and all. You know the places I'm talking about, you'd have to wear a dress for once and I know that would kill you," Anastasia replies. She gets flipped off for it and laughs. "Look, you're wearing boots right now, I'll give you half-credit."

"Your dress looks like someone thought it was a good idea to see what a half-empty printer cartridge looks like," Ariadne retorts drily.

"Jealousy's not a good color of green on you, sister." Anastasia returns her attention to Ravn. "Just don't tell the parents about your biting kink. Ari's good with her make-up, but only so good, and she's still the baby girl."

"ANA!"

Ravn's smile widens just a bit. "Why are we assuming that it is my biting kink? She may have picked me for a reason."

Somehow, he manages to not blush, saying it. Then he nods, a little more seriously. "If it's all the same, I'd certainly rather just an intimate affair. I am not much for crowds, and fancy places tend to be all hot air and very little substance. There is a reason I live in Gray Harbor and not in Seattle -- something about seven million people in one and eighteen thousand in the other."

He finishes his cigarette and tucks the butt into a pocket because littering is something he tries to avoid. "Not kidding about that. I really do loathe crowds."

Ravn gets a look vaguely betrayed from the barista. "Hmph."

Anastasia, however, is pleased to have someone play along with her ploy for revenge for...something her older sister did years ago and she's family and well, what else is family good for other than embarrassing you in front of your significant other in various ways? -- lovingly, of course, though Anastasia's earning herself one hell of a pinch at this point.

"It takes two to kink," the younger sister notes airily, " -- and that's fine, I'm sure Mom and Dad can grill you just fine at the kitchen table verses some affair with white draping and a basket of sourdough bread or something. I'll let them know that you like the idea."

"Ana. Let me talk with them about this." Now Ariadne has some noticeable tension in her voice, as if her patience was being strained.

"If you'd call Mom, sure," Anastasia shrugs. That makes brows meet in earnest.

"This is a battle I will stay out of, my ladies. I was taught to never engage in battle unless I knew the terrain and the enemy." Ravn's smile remains where it is as he settles on the bench again, next to Ariadne -- not quite reaching for her hand because public displays of affection do not come naturally to him, but settling close enough that he hopes that she will feel his presence and the support it implies. "I look forward to meeting your parents. You do come across like a very tight knight family, and I like that."

Perhaps he's genuinely interested. Perhaps he's trying to get Ariadne off the hook a little. Perhaps he's trying to get himself off the hook a little. "I know what Ariadne does for a living, but you? When you're not impersonating a lost Romanov, that is."

Ariadne, standing stiffly by the bench, has her arms crossed beneath her chest now in what is plainly disapproval for this entire affair. Anastasia's either oblivious or playing what has to be the best hand of false naïve innocence this side of the Cascades.

"We're tight-knit, I'll give you that, even Ari can't escape." More barista glower. "Remember your face will get stuck like that if you keep making it," the little sister informs Ariadne. Another bird flip. Teal-hued eyes flick to Ravn. "And aw, you're sweet if a giant geek. You hear that, Ari? He said I'm like that Black Widow chick from your comic books."

"He doesn't mean the Black Widow chick," the barista mutters mostly to herself.

Anastasia continues regardless of peanut gallery: "I'm in telecommunications," Ravn is thus informed by little sister. "Liaison between the major companies around here." That must be jargon for something, but whatever it is remains a mystery for the moment. "It's great, I know a lot of the big names and faces if through a friend or coworker and all. Some of the football players are really nice."

Ariadne shrugs; there is that.

Ravn's lip twitches again. He suspects he's meant to be at least a little impressed; Anastasia knows people, and who doesn't want to know important people? Ravn, that's who. He decides to not comment; he has no particular reason to rain on her parade, after all, even if name dropping tends to have somewhat the opposite effect than intended on him personally.

Instead he chuckles. "I actually do mean the Avenger. In the same way that Stan Lee, or whoever else came up with her back in whenever, meant Anastasia Romanov, turned into Natasha Romanov for your English tongues. Anastasia Romanov was the one girl of the royal family of Russia whose body was not found when the zar family was executed during the revolution. Several impersonators have claimed to be her, but none of them turned out to be the real deal. I find it quite amusing that one sister is named for the Russian princess and the other for the Cretan. Hi, I have a PhD in history."

Ariadne gets one of those sisterly looks which wordlessly implies that she's found a total gem slash someone more than appropriate for her in turn. It's fenced off with a flat look and continued crossed arms. Somebody isn't going to play nice at this point.

"Hi, our mother loves her research on royal families, real or not," the little sister retorts in amusement to Ravn. "I know about the Czar's daughter, yeah, I was testing you."

"Technically, Natasha Romanov has little to do canonically with the Imperial Family," Ariadne can't help but chime in. It's her niche geek zone, after all.

"Right, right," Anastasia agrees. "Anyways, I've got to run, I've got lunch with somebody in about twenty here down the way at Anthony's, so it's good to see you both." She sweeps in and air-kisses Ariadne before the barista can do more than straighten in place in surprise. Ravn too get an air kiss-kiss though at a farther distance since he's seated. "Show him the vampire fish, Ari!" Anastasia calls over her shoulder as she then zips off down the boardwalk in a brisk click-click of her own heels.

"...oy," sighs Ariadne, taking a moment to pinch the bridge of her nose.

"Oh, I always assumed the Black Widow was supposed to be Anastasia Romanov but keeping her head down." Ravn hitches a shoulder with a small chuckle. He is definitely not the comic book nerd present. "And I'm assuming she means lampreys?"

The Dane glances at Ariadne; he's got a keen eye for the little tells and at the present, he's aware that Ariadne is annoyed but not perfectly certain of the specific irritant. Anastasia's giddy teasing, covering up for sly attempts to catch him in a lie, or at least in ignorance. It gives him pause; this is one option he had not yet considered. He looks after the little sister as she skips on out of earshot. "Why exactly is she testing me, you think? I'd be perfectly delighted if she'd forget that whole title business -- does she think I'm some kind of grifter?"

He chuckles. "I am some kind of grifter, of course, but you know what I mean. However, your mother, however interested in royals she might be, will not find my name in those annals unless she goes back to 1180 at which point an Abildgaard was seneschal to the king, but not part of the royal bloodline."

Ariadne too watches her sister disappear down the boardwalk until she's hard to spot, even with the brilliantly-green pea coat.

"You'd think I'd know why she used that wording about 'testing' and maybe I do, but there are multiple options and she makes me tired. I'm going to get a text or phone call later anyways," the barista says with a sigh. "It's just...not really a conversation I want to have right now. I'm sorry." Rolling her shoulders and neck, Ariadne then seems to paste a smile on her face with the stubborn intent to enjoy herself, damnit. "She actually means the deep-sea vampire fish. They were keeping one for a while, but that was months back. They're not easy keepers. The atmospheric pressure needed in the tank is difficult."

Reaching behind herself, the barista takes up her mostly-melted gelato. "I'm done with this anyhow and you can't bring outside food into the place." It gets tossed. "I'll make sure to show you the vampire fish. But we need to see the eel garden too -- and the wolf eel, we might catch them feeding him. He's great. Ugly, adorable critter." Now her smile is more honest. She offers out a hand for Ravn to take and makes to walk back down the boardwalk towards the aquarium.

Gloved violinist fingers curl around ungloved pianist fingers as Ravn falls into stride on the boardwalk. "I do like morays. There is something inherently likeable about them. I had a dive instructor in Egypt explain to me very carefully that there were morays on this reef in the Red Sea, and I should absolutely keep my hands out of nooks and crannies because they have the bite from hell -- but he also said that they have no interest in picking a fight with a human diver unless you bother them, and they can in fact appreciate a careful headscritch if you know what you're doing. He strongly advised us to simply keep our distance because they're like wolverines, they do not let go."

Ravn's lip twitches again. "And then I stayed on the surface, much to my father's chagrin. Because trying to breathe through a snorkel is in fact not all that fantastic when you're asthmatic and I could see all the pretty fish and corals just fine from up there, thank you very much."

He squeezes Ariadne's hand. "Don't let your sister upset you. Whatever it is, it's no skin off my back. Your mother wants to grill me? I've sat through worse. For a few weeks I was the most interesting socialite in the country back home -- the one whose beautiful fiancee died in a car crash, and did I cause it or not? Believe me when I say, I've fielded worse."

Maybe Ariadne's relieved sigh is more relieved than she wants it to be. Ravn still deflates her irritation by a goodly amount, especially by the counter-squeeze given and the way the barista's shoulders visibly drop from being higher in some form of unconscious self-defense.

"She'll grill you and I'm sorry for it. I know it's a thing of parents, but at the same time, like you said, you've fielded worse. Why should you have to field not-worse too? Why can't they just butt out? Gnnfff." A short, foreshortened growl and rub of palm along her brow to down one side of her face. "Okay. No. I am enjoying this because we're going to the aquarium and I'm going to show you the wolf eel, damnit," the redhead insists as a personal pep-talk. "You can pet wolf eels too, apparently, but yeah, I'm not about to go trying it. They're larger than morays and have stronger jaws. I like my fingers very much."

The entrance to the aquarium is a set of double glass doors, one after the other for an interior zone for waiting out of the rain in case of a need for taxi or bus. Entering into the main lobby means the immediate scent of clean carpeting and faint saline more controlled than the wildness of the Sound. Ariadne inhales and sighs, her smile now soft and pleased. "I have a membership, so we're basically good to go," she informs Ravn. Is anyone surprised of this membership? Nobody should be surprised. "Do we need to get a lock and key for a locker to stash things? Or do you just want to wear your coat or have it over your arm or something?"

She has to release his hand in order to shrug out of her windbreaker. As such, the fuchsia-colored blouse with its low-scoop neckline and bishop sleeves is fully revealed. About her neck, the orca necklace, with its pink-and-white-seashell diadem nestled nearly in the divot of her collarbones.

"Let's get a locker for both our coats so that we can worry about absolutely nothing but the beautiful fish." Ravn smiles lightly. He doesn't mind carrying his leather jacket -- but it's no secret that a place like this is a haven for pick-pockets (he should know), and it can get warm if one has to wait a bit in a crowd somewhere.

As they head for the lockers -- he trusts Ariadne to know where they are -- he studies her demeanour and then points out, gently, "Your family is going to be grilling me because I'm not just the boy from five houses down the street. Because I'm a foreigner who may have all kinds of ideas about what our relationship means and where it is going -- and not have thought to tell you because where I'm from, everyone thinks that way so why wouldn't you? Because apparently I boast some posh title, and for all they know I pulled it out of my arse to impress people -- and no one wants to see their daughter deceived by some pretentious grifter. Because I may not be a grifter, and everyone knows about Prince William ending up resigning his position at the British court because people wouldn't stop giving his wife a hard time, and they don't want to see you caught up in something like that."

Grey eyes sparkle. "But we don't keep women in locked-up harems in Denmark, I am not a pretender, and I am also not royalty -- so I doubt the concerns will last for more than, well, one grill session or two."

"Locker it is." It's not difficult to procure a lock and single key-ring to go with; the locker number is written on the bottom of the lock. Ariadne transfers her phone to her jean pocket as she glances over at Ravn. Another big sigh.

"I know," she says quietly of all he tells her. Her tone implies that yes, she does know to a good if not total extent, but appreciates hearing his thoughts. Then Ravn goes on to tease about harems and it makes the barista snort-giggle despite herself. "Maybe two sessions, but you're forewarned by both of the children now, so...you're about as prepared as you can get. It'll be fine, I know, just...I'm going to get grumpy about it regardless and you're also forewarned about that, so it's nothing personal, okay?" An obvious hand reaches for his own for another squeeze; she even brings up his gloved knuckles for a kiss pressed upon them. "Let's get these stashed and then? We're loose."

Oh dear god, loose upon this place.

Run free, fish lovers. Jackets stashed, phone transferred to a pocket, and anything else worth stealing left in the locker, Ravn smiles a little. "I don't like that you have to get grumpy. You realise that they do it because they love you and want to keep you safe, yes?"

He is quite happy to hold hands as they walk. It's a luxury to a man who is not accustomed to be able to share touch at all; most people forget, far too quick, that it does mean making certain he's aware every time you're going to pull on his hand, whether to turn your head to look at something, or getting a step in front or back, or just swinging your hands back and forth because why not.

Nonetheless, the Dane pauses and pulls slightly on his girl's hand; a subtle nudge so that he can brush his lips across her cheek. "Don't be upset. Whether your parents hate or love me, we're still good. And from what I've seen and what you've told me, their concern comes from the right place."

"...yeah, I know," Ariadne grumbles under her breath, barely audible. Yes, her family is absolutely coming from a place of love and care and want for her safety. Lock clicked, key stashed deep in a front pocket, and they able to start meandering down the main hallway towards the exhibits. It's decorated on either side with basic information about the Sound and its biospheres, with reflective silver cutouts of salmon in raised reliefs against a wall otherwise painted with current motifs and swaying bull kelp and the lighting projects slow-moving ripples as if the sun were shining down through some surface above.

At the subtle tug of hand and wordless signal to pause, Ariadne does and glances over curiously at her boyfriend. Ah, a kiss, a gentle pressure there and gone and true as the dawn. Again, she seems to deflate and relax all the more for it. "It is...and I know it's from the right place, it's just...it's a story for another time. I'll tell you, just not today, not while I'm trying to figure out where the hell to start in here because I want to show you all of the things, but that's...probably a little exhausting, so I have to pick my favorites." Having built up to this level of controlled enthusiasm, Ariadne still manages to return the gesture with a press of lips to the corner of the Dane's mouth in turn. "We're good and I want to enjoy us being good."

A kiss received, and another kiss returned, along with a leather-clad thumb gliding over one cheek. "We are good. And it is not the last time we are here either, so show me some of the things you like and take your good, sweet time -- and we'll see more things next time. Good things should not be rushed, and I go to Seattle almost every week. I will say this: I can see how Anastasia must sometimes be exhausting, flitting around like that. But then, she's not the one I'm going on day trips with, so it'll be all right."

Another quick kiss, and whoever's looking be damned; Ravn will never like public displays of affection a whole lot, but sometimes, what you need to say is more important than who's looking, regardless of his upbringing. "When an eel bites your thigh and you want to die, that's a moray..."

Ariadne's eyes are soft indeed now off to one side in the hallway. They're just another pair of people out on a date at the aquarium for all nobody reacts; there are children to chase, after all, or grandkids depending on who's heading the party. Ravn's gloved thumb will pass over a dimple.

"Ana can be tiring," the barista agrees privately after the second quick kiss. She's about beginning to melt in against him now, surely charmed by these display because, absolutely: that the Dane is even indulging this in the first place is a rarity and she's going to enjoy the soft pecks just like she is leading him about the maze of displays to her favorites.

But that...is an honest-to-god snort -- snort -- laugh from her at the lyric-shifted line from the song she knows well enough. "When you have extra jaws like that Giger guy draws, that's a moray?" she sings quietly back before giggling again.

"Well, they do -- don't they?" Ravn laughs softly and is quite happy to be dragged towards wherever the wolf eel and any other Aliens extras might reside. "Extroverts are like that. They can be draining. They recharge from it; introverts like me tire out from it. It is what it is, she's not the one I'm dating. Or seeing casually. Or whatever term you prefer."

One last squeeze. "Come on, fish girl. Show me the competition. Time to go measure. Pretty sure he'll have me beat on length, girth, and number of teeth, but damnit if I will not give this contest a shot."

Give Ariadne a moment, she's got a hand over her mouth and she's helplessly laughing as quietly as possible because how forward of Ravn to insinuate in that manner!

"Oh my god," the titter finally escapes. "Ahem. Yes. Ahem. He'll have you -- shit, can't, nope." More giggling. At least the lighting is low enough to hide most of her pastel-pink blush on her cheeks. "Ahem." Attempt number two. "Remember, it's the vampire fish you have to be concerned about. The wolf eel just wants his daily ration and to sit there and look fugly-adorable. But first: the octopus." Ariadne does lead the way into the large, relatively open area of the aquarium more dedicated to the younger generation. The touch pool tank is off to the right and manned by two volunteers, but the marine biologist avoids it. Instead, she walks towards the isolated cylindrical tank in the middle of the room; it seems to connect via tube to other sections of this third of the large room's wall.

"Let's see...ah, there she is." A Giant Pacific octopus sits in the corner of the tank and seems to be watching people walk around rather than interact with the toys in its tank. Ariadne stops before it and tilts her head. "They're so...cool and alien. And big. She's maybe...one hundred and something pounds. Not the biggest one they've ever fostered here, but close. I think her tentacles are about twelve feet across or so. She's a big girl."

"Well, that's certainly just about what my eel wants too, thank you very much." Ravn lets himself be swept away by the current of optimism.

He wanders up to the glass to look thoughtfully at the octopus; she is quite a sight, after all. He does not know much about these life forms -- and most of what he knows, he realises, he knows from literature. One author, most of all. "There's a short story by Jack London," he says softly. "I don't recall the title -- it's in a collection of animal stories, most of which are very sad. This one's about a giant octopus who is in a tank in a zoo -- and the keepers think she looks bored, so they toss a sea turtle in there. The two fight until finally, in the end, the octopus wins. And the moral of the story, of course, of all the stories in that book, is that keeping wild animals in captivity is bad. But I'll say this for Seattle Aquarium -- it's probably a hell of a lot more comfortable than any zoo exhibit at the time of Jack London's writing."

Nose wrinkles at Ravn. "I can guarantee you there's no incidental pit fights around here between her and anything else, and thank f...goodness for it." Children are around and Ariadne would rather not scald ears even if in adult company, she's notoriously blunt. "Jack London had an excellent point for the time though. The knowledge the zoos had relied so heavily on people sharing what they discovered and well...people were still going on about the sea serpents on ye olde maps." 'Yee old-ee' maps.

"But dude, my favorite fact about these guys: if they can fit their beak through it? They can fit their whole body through it. I'm going to guess her beak is the size of a...lime? So any hole a lime can fit through? Bam. So can she," the marine biologist explains with a gesture at the tank. The octopus continues observing by the manner of its eyes turning about.

But Ariadne hasn't forgotten: a lean in to Ravn's ear and it curls in warm breath, "I'll take care of your eel later, don't worry one little bit."

"I don't remember much of the story but I do remember that that is one of the points in it -- that the octopus can get through an impossibly small opening somewhere. She ends up eating the turtle." Ravn nods his agreement; Jack London wrote in another time and age, and he honestly doesn't really want to know what a deep sea animal tank might look like at that point in history.

He dusts pink a bit at that quiet little whisper. "I'm sure you'll leave it jellied. And content."

"And I even know precisely where it might want to hide," the marine biologist adds in her coy whispering before she pulls back, seeing if she can get the pink dusting to deepen. Her expression is far too innocent. "Here, let's leave her be, I want to show you the dwarf cuttlefish too. Oh, and the seahorses -- and everything in the nocturnal/abyss half-loop." A tilt of her head presages the way she then threads through the pockets of families and pairs not too unlike themselves.

Over on the opposite wall is a play area with a replica set of shark jaws of a very large size. They're probably the same source as Ravn's story of the Maltese shark line-caught. Children run around willy-nilly there. Ariadne avoids it, instead bringing Ravn into what appears to be a circular path around a central and large, large tank. It's full of fish and seaweed local to the Sound. Ariadne's already looking, her eyes narrowed, at the crevices.

"The wolf eel is in here somewhere," she mutters.

"He's going to lose the contest of warmest, most comfortable nesting place," Ravn observes oh so casually. "But he'll win the rest, and we'll both feel luckier for it."

He glances at the plaques and texts -- not that he expects he'll remember much of it. Marine biology is not his field -- and he's not going to pretend otherwise. He likes looking at the creatures of the sea -- feels a strange kinship with them, in the fashion of someone born in a country that's barely managed to keep above sea level. Someone who has learned that one kind of freedom is cutting loose from a pier and setting a course for the second star to the right.

And Ariadne's passion he does understand. It's the very same passion, after all, that drives him towards long nights spent reading accounts painstakingly taken down in the late 19th century and before, comparing them to older sources and to newer, to work his way into an understanding of what those myths represents, what instructions they try to convey.

Ripples from the habitat lights above the large upright and cylindrical tank, several thousand gallons and at least thirty feet in diameter, wash across the faces of all close enough to it. This includes Ariadne, she also sporting a continued blush that a sharp-eyed grifter might catch; his return sally landed well.

"Where are you, buddy," she still murmurs to herself. She's not about to smush her face against the glass, but she's terribly close to booping its surface with her nose-tip as things stand. With hands folded at the small of her back, she searches the central pillar of formed rock, coated in live sponges, anemones, species of seaweed, and a few live sea urchins. A little rock forward and back in her low-heeled boots as her eyes then begin to wander.

"It's beautiful, you know," she asides to Ravn, smiling mostly to herself. "Like...look at the number of species that can be comfortably kept in this tank and then think about the size of the Puget Sound -- and then think about the size of the Pacific Ocean -- and people think we should be exploring space." A soft laugh to herself. "We don't know even a quarter of what's down there in the water. Oh!"

Finger tip smush to glass. "There." A truly adorably-ugly little snub-jawed head pokes out of a crevice in the central rock formation, mouth mildly agape, sporting dull darker spots on a steel-grey base and two reflective piscine eyes. "Guess what."

A smirk at Ravn as if she holds the world's biggest secret and thus shares: "...that's not an eel."

Come here. A wishful thought in the direction of the creature -- and it makes its way out to ribbon up and over to the glass, looking inquisitively at Ariadne while she looks back with plain awe on her face.

"I'm not sure what the definition of 'eel' is," Ravn admits. "I figured that morays and wolf eels aren't technically eels, because while they're eel shaped, they don't return to the Sargasso Ocean to breed, do they? Or is that just me being speciesist on behalf of the kind of eels we eat -- or would eat, were they not critically endangered?"

He does not share Ariadne's enthusiasm for the ugly fish itself; he does however have a great deal of enthusiasm of his own for hers -- he likes watching her getting all worked up like this over some little creature of a marine nature. The passion of it, the excitement -- those he understands, and shares, even if his are about other things. And well, let's be honest: The wolf eel is ugly enough that it's hard to not like him. With a face like that, no wonder he's popular. There's ugly, and there's alien-hideous.

He leans in a bit to watch the fish. "It makes you wonder why space tugs so hard at us while the ocean doesn't. Whether it's some kind of deep feeling that we've dumped our crap in the oceans for thousands of years, while space is pristine? An urge to start over, somewhere else?"

The wolf eel watches Ravn right back. Ambient light gleams in a bright, alien-green through its eyes as it does. "I dunno about starting over. Maybe a combination of being so stymied by needing better tech and a lack of understanding. Anyways...the ocean tugs at me."

Since Ravn asked: "Morays are actually eels, yes, while these guys..." She lifts a finger which the ribboning creature watches as it hovers, still wondering why it was called out of its cave. "Pectoral fins. Those fins behind their heads? Those are indicative of fish, not marine eels, which are morays. So she -- he? -- is just a long and skinny fish. The world's such a wonderfully weird place," Ariadne laughs softly. "Hey, buddy." A soft coo for the creature. "The juveniles are bright orange with purple spots, by the way, and then they fade into into this more natural color. Their spots are like a leopard's spots too; you can identify them by their spot patterns."

"I read about Elon Musk and a couple of other billionaires talking about escaping to Mars and all I think is, well, that's one way to escape responsibility when they've sucked the last drops of life out of this planet. And that their fan boys are quite optimistic to think they'll be considered for any role on Mars besides, possibly, soylent green." Ravn nods and looks at the fish; he -- or she -- really is remarkably ugly, so ugly it's fascinating. "But I do think that's the psychology in play -- space is starting anew somewhere else. The ocean is finding out how much damage we've already done."

He smiles lightly. "Personally? I'd rather explore the deep sea in some kind of underwater base than get shot into space where almost inevitably, any slight calculation error means certain death."

"Right? What a way to go, crumpled like a can. No thank you...not that you wouldn't get crumpled like a can if you misjudged the Marianas Trench," Ariadne notes in her general vein of realist lens. Tremulous spider-threads of connection break and now the wolf eel, gauging how the alien life on the outside of the tank has no food, ribbons back away and into its crevice. Silvery salmon make their circle around the tank before continuing on through one of the large tubes leading to another section of the aquarium, where their ilk elects to travel about.

Making an obvious show of her hand moving to take his own, the marine biologist then leads the taller Dane around the tank and towards the nocturnal/deep-sea section of the habits. "This is a cool section, they've got some great stuff, including your vampire fish." Eyebrow waggle at Ravn. "I also need to show you the cuttlefish."

But alas: a sign hung across the entrance of the nocturnal section states UNDER CONSTRUCTION.

Cue pout from Ariadne, complete with lower lip sticking out. "Damn. Alright, cuttlefish," she decides, tilting her head in the direction of these tanks farther down the length of building.

Ravn is quite delighted to be taken by hand and lead along at the pace that Ariadne wants; he'd stand here all day watching the wolf eel if that's what she wanted to do.

"There's one difference between the Marianas Trench and say, orbiting Venus, though." Because nerd boy's got to nerd. "If you're stuck on a station in either and they need to shoot supplies to you on short notice -- let's say there's a miscalculation. Stuff's still going to sink so assuming you have access to some kind of underwater, pressure-resistant vehicle, you can sod off out there and get it, even if it landed a mile to your right. On Venus, you're moving because you're in orbit, the station you're on is moving, and the cargo is moving. Too many variables, too many things that can go wrong. Here, at least nature agrees with you on what gravity means."

Dimples and a giggle for Ravn. "You're not wrong. It'd be much easier logistically to deal with supply drops off-target -- unless the giant squids decided to come check them out because it gives me the heebie-jeebies knowing that they really are as big as the stories. There's this great footage they've got of one in the wild where you watch it and you can feel your eyes go steadily wider and wider because those tentacles are still passing the camera after three whole seconds, thus implicating the sheer size of the thing."

Reaching a medium-size tank tucked out of sunlight, Ariadne then drops Ravn's hand to bend at the waist. Her palms rest on her thighs. Her grin is a mile wide now. "But these wittle cutiekins are too small to do more than nip the tip of your pinkie finger off." Little mercies, one supposes. "Dwarf cuttlefish. Lookit 'em!"

And they are wee indeed. No longer than a pinkie finger at most, the small cephalopods hover in their alien-like ways about the coral. "Their blood is green because it's copper-based, by the way. Ours is red because it's iron-based. How frickin' cool is this? Wittle cutiebean, lookit yooooooooooooou," the marine biologist quietly squees as one comes up to the glass.

"Fighting the Kraken for my box of screws still sounds like a better prospect than sitting and hoping that sometime this millennium it, I, and my space station will miraculously meet up on three synchronous orbits, long enough for me to get the screw I need." Ravn smirks a bit. "More so knowing that giant squid are intelligent animals who are quite likely to bugger off and find easier prey if you make noise enough, or turn out to be annoyingly difficult to kill. No natural predator risks its own survival if there is any kind of alternative."

He leans in to look at the little animals and muses to himself how much they remind him of butterflies -- and he recalls somebody or other saying once that the fish tank in their living room was an indoor garden where the flowers swam about. It's not entirely wrong -- almost regardless what shape or form, marine shallow waters life is a feast for the eyes in terms of colour and brilliance.

"Speaking of aliens," the folklorist agrees. "Have you considered how green blood is a marker for 'alien' in contemporary story telling? The little green -- or grey, or whatever -- men have green blood, always. It's interesting to consider how our ancestors have known about the green-blooded marine life since pretty much forever -- and it's become a marker for creatures from a world we cannot understand, that we cannot survive in. It makes you think of real aliens too -- if we were to meet them in space, how different they will be. There's a trend in recent years to assume that any life encountered out there will likely be humanoid like ourselves because the design works -- but all you have to do is look at these little guys to think, what do we have that they don't? They don't have prehensile thumbs but their tentacles can do the same thing. And it makes you wonder why did we evolve into using tools and re-designing our environment -- and they didn't? What's missing in the picture for them?"

Ariadne barely stops herself from wiggling a finger at the cuttlefish. They merely continue at their little life-tasks, colors shifting about per whim or need. A glance over at Ravn while still wearing her little smile.

"Nothing's missing in the picture for the cuttlefish. They have their niche in the environment where their genetic material passes on most easily to continue the species' survival. They needn't evolve to survive. We had a different niche and process and environmental challenges along the way. It's pretty accurate speculation that the African continent underwent a series of drastic environmental changes where the trees thinned out. What was in the trees either had to fly or deal with being on the ground. Seeing over the grass was critical, otherwise predators got you. It freed up your hands which already had opposable thumbs used to manipulating fine objects. Searching for food became a thing as the environment further changed and creating or using shelters was paramount to survival. Those who created the best shelters and found the most food lived to reproduce. Fast-forward a couple hundred-thousand years and boom: two thumbs up."

Indeed, two thumbs up. "Science," Ariadne beams. "But also, beware of curious and intelligent creatures. It's not that I'd be afraid of being eaten by a giant squid. It's that they're curious enough to come check you out and they're strong. Accidental oopsies are fatal at that depth. Think about how sharks will mouth objects which happen to be human and it's a mouthing, but the human still bleeds out because we tasted funny but are also squishy."

"No environment is entirely safe in that regard," Ravn points out, smiling. "But the odds of giant squid deciding to become man eaters because we're easy prey aren't great. It's like lions and tigers -- they only go for humans if they're too old or weak to hunt down faster prey. And when they do, they go for single humans in compromised positions -- attacking us while we sleep or ambushing us when we're alone. We're just not worth the risk for a healthy predator, unless it is indeed a matter of chewing on us to find out whether we're worth the risk."

He's still amused at the lecture. Sure, nothing there he didn't know, technically -- but for the passion. It's the same passion he applies to obscure folktales and he loves watching that fire burn in Ariadne's eyes as she speaks. Sure, they may have very different fields of interest -- but the passion, the love of their field, the driving curiosity, is the very same.

He glances back at the cuttlefish. "You're probably right about them having no need to evolve, though. A bit like sharks -- to the best of my knowledge, some of the species of shark we have around today, were also around when the first mammals appeared. Because they had no need to evolve further, either -- and now that we are such a major threat to them, they're not evolving fast enough."

"Nope, evolution keeps its own tally-mark count. Either you evolve fast enough or you don't. It's a terrible truth," the barista sighs. One of the cuttlefish takes a moment to flawlessly blend into the coral and then appears again, looking about. Ariadne squees softly, "God, that's so freakin' cool."

She straightens out of her bend to give Ravn an approving little grin. "And you know your stuff about the sharks. Well done, fellow geek. They're such a beautifully-adapted biological design for their environment, god, it's just cool to consider -- like the green blood. I'll have to go back and look up the research on the biophysics of the blood itself, how it moves oxygen around. Copper's an excellent conductor and electron carrier, but I wonder how the process is different. Ah, well, research, woe is me." She laughs. "Now, let's go see...hmm. Seal feeding isn't for a bit still, we have about an hour, give or take. Shore birds or salmon tank?" she asks the Dane.

The Dane shakes his head, throwing one last glance a cuttlefish who is quite happy with his or her position on this anemone, and on the evolutionary ladder, thank you very much. "I'm far from an expert on sharks or anything else in the animal kingdom. I do have a mind for random facts though, and sharks play a number of roles in folklore -- modern horror stories but also a lot of older creation myths. They're an ancient, unchanging presence in the ocean just like whales, and the peoples who depended on the sea knew that. In various myths outside of Europe -- where we don't really have that much shark presence barring the Mediterranean -- sharks are dualistic; they represent nature. Sometimes, nature gives, sometimes it takes. Sometimes, shark kill you, sometimes they guide your boat to better canoes. I suspect Mikaere might have a story or two, and I need to ask him about it."

He curls his fingers around Ariadne's and then suggests, "Salmon tank. Because I see the sea birds when I take the Vagabond out, and while I'm not at all disinterested in them, I don't get to see the salmon in the same way unless I jump into the Bay in scuba gear."

"Good point -- and salmon tank it is. I'd be curious to hear of what Mikaere shares with you, if I don't get to asking him myself. I admittedly don't know many of the wonderful stories of his culture and I know I'm missing out for it."

Ariadne, pleased to have a gloved hand once more, gives this a gentle squeeze and then leads the way out into what appears to be a semi-open air hallway. To the left, it begins to slope down under cover; to the right, to head towards the shore birds exhibits. "They keep the salmon down here," she explains as they descend along the gentle curve of the walkway. "The exhibit itself is on surface-level with the Sound itself and some of the Sound water feeds in after it's cleaned via the filters. They keep other fish in there too, orange garibaldi and rockfish, surfperch, and a leopard shark or two. Juvenile salmon too, which are they released out into the Sound. They've got an entire system where these babies can return and hop the ladders and breed in optimal, controlled environments."

Opening the doors at the base of the sloping curve of walkway lets them into an exhibit darker but for the ambient light falling through water. Windows line one entire side of the broad and carpeted walkway, at least twelve feet tall, each allowing visitors to watch the meanderings of the aquatic life within. Live bull kelp sways in growth points and fish dart in and out and around it.

"Tell me your favorite folklore-tale about sharks then," Ariadne asks, giving Ravn a grin as she pauses by one of the large glass windows.

"Well, there's an obvious solution to that -- we ask him sometime we're both there. Maybe sometime Jules is around as well, since I'm sure she has a take too. In fact, sounds like barbecue on Oak Three and Five, with partners. I could be up for this." Ravn grins slightly.

Then he contemplates -- possibly in an attempt to pick a story that has some meat on its bones, so to speak. "There's an African one I like. It's not my field -- but it's still a fun story, a bit like Aesop's fables. There's a monkey living in a fruit tree by the sea. The monkey sometimes shakes fruit loose and it falls into the water where the shark eats it. Over time, they start talking. The shark claims he owes the monkey for the food so he offers to take him to a feast under the sea in return. However, the real reason the shark wants to make friends is that the shark king is sick and asking for a monkey's heart to cure him."

Ravn's gaze follow the silver of a salmon's side, and the flash of red as he -- she? -- turns. "Needless to say the monkey isn't keen on handing over his heart to the shark king. He claims he left his heart for safe keeping back at the fruit tree. So the shark takes him back to get it, and once on dry land the monkey rushes up the tree and stays there. The moral of the story is that a wise man trusts neither shark nor monkey because both must do what they were made to do."

"Ooh, I do like Aesop's fables." Ariadne falls quiet to listen, watching Ravn's face as he shares the tale. When his eyes go to track one of the many salmon schooling through the giant exhibit shaped roughly like a horseshoe, she too looks to watch the fish return to its school and the entire glimmering coterie move on down the tank towards one of the other broad tubes allowing them travel to other hidden tanks behind the scenes.

Ravn's gloved hand gets a squeeze. "That's a good one!" she chimes quietly when he's finished. "One of those...you called them 'just so' stories. I don't think I know any good stories. I know lots of reports and stuff, like someone catching a bull shark and finding a medieval shield in its stomach because they're not very picky about what they eat. Or was it part of a suit of armor. Anyhow, shiny enough to merit swallowing, apparently. Should I text Jules about the idea of the BBQ then? With partners?"

A pause and far more shyly, looking up into his eyes, Ariadne amends, "...with my boyfriend? Make it official-official?"

Ravn grins back down at her at that look. Then he leans in to press a kiss to her forehead in one of those awful, unacceptable public displays of affection. "Make it with your boyfriend, yes. I'm not quite convinced Mikaere and Jules are at that point yet -- they both individually made sure to stress that it's just a casual thing. They'll get there but we shouldn't push them."

He watches as she finds her phone. "Fables are 'just so' stories. It reminds me of the famous one -- an actual Aesop, the one about the scorpion being carried across the river by a frog and stinging him mid-stream. Because he can't stop being a scorpion. Leopards don't change their spots. I never thought they'd eat my face, says woman who voted for leopards eating faces party. It's all the same story -- people are who they are, and when they tell you who they are, you should believe them."

Even the lower lighting and ripples strafing across everyone's faces is going to hide the pleased blush to pink up Ariadne's cheeks. His kiss lingers like an invisible tattoo of affection upon her forehead as she does indeed fish out her phone. Thing is, she also happens to meander up into Ravn's personal space at a deliberate speed and align herself against his side, perhaps looking to see about an arm wrapped about her as well.

"I remember the one about the scorpion, yeah...and I'd say you're majority right, about people. I think people might lie too, so maybe...everything with a grain of salt?" Her thumb works across the phone's screen. "I'm not looking to push Jules or Mikaere with any ideas, no, god. That's presumptuous and rude as hell of me. Now, tease Jules mercilessly because my one goal in life is to make her blush? I'll fully admit this. She's got such wicked comebacks anyhow, I can hardly keep up sometimes," the barista laughs to herself.

Ravn is happy enough to slip an arm around Ariadne's waist. Something about the place, perhaps -- no one is going to stand here admits the flashes of silver, the flickering, wavering ambient light, and the beautiful silver-and-pink fish and watch two random people touching each other in an entirely decent fashion. Not even if one of them is pretty tall and the other has galaxy-coloured hair. It's Seattle, Ariadne's hardly the first person around here with an unnatural hair colour.

"I've yet to experience that Jules," he observes. "We kind of started out bad -- she and Irving were talking about Irving's ancestor and where he may have stashed the stolen artefacts. I pointed out that if we want to try to figure out where he may have stashed them, we need to think like him -- which means, he's done nothing wrong. She thought I meant he's done nothing wrong -- but I meant that he would not think he had."

The Dane cants his head a bit. "We've cleared that up but I'm still wary of pissing her off. She's got a lot of temper on her, and I am very uncomfortable with shouting, angry women."

"That would be understandable, wanting to keep peace at the very least. But I've heard nothing from Jules indicating she's carrying any bad feelings towards you, emberem, and remember she's had little to no filter lately." Glancing up from her phone, Ariadne gives the Dane a small, cajoling smile. "You just said you cleared it up. Good. It's in the past and I don't get the impression it's going to come back to haunt anybody -- that, and you two very recently had to work through Veil bullsh -- shtuff via teamwork. Maybe you'll see Jules be ridiculous one day...and maybe you won't. I don't get to see all of Mikaere either. It's what they choose to share and it's not judgment on you or me in turn." She shrugs. "Not everyone's going to see all of me. It would be tiring, sharing that much of me all the time...if that makes sense?"

Ping -- off goes the text and she slips her phone back into her jean pockets. A bit more of a lean into the Dane's taller body and she sighs, watching the leopard shark swim past their window. "You've seen some of me I haven't shared with anyone else," she says quietly. "You'll see more as time goes by."

"I look forward to it." Ravn kisses Ariadne's forehead again. "And you're quite right. There's a lot of me that no one has seen in a very long time, if ever. There's a lot I've only shown to a few people. You've certainly seen things I haven't shown anyone else. And in time, we''ll see more."

He smiles lightly. "My fear of shouting women has nothing to do with Jules Black. It has everything to do with my ex. I have a literal PTSD diagnosis, and I'm not afraid to use it. But it does make me maybe sometimes get very diplomatic in my attempts to not say something that may come across offensive -- also because I don't mean to piss her off. And it's very easy to do so, when you are in fact the rich white boy that she hates, figuratively speaking."

Just another couple enjoying the serenity of the underwater display of the kelp garden, silhouetted against the glass; Ariadne leans more into him until there's no doubt whatsoever that she's the other half here. Her lashes briefly close for the kiss to the forehead and she opens them almost dozily afterwards.

"Nothing wrong with diplomatic," the barista notes quietly. "But she's also not your ex, dearheart, and I don't think she's hunting for reasons to get mad at you. It doesn't mean I don't understand though, okay?" Reaching to obviously gather up a gloved hand, she brings it to her lips to kiss at his knuckles while leaning against him. "We'll have a BBQ and have fun with it and there will be stories and laughter and good times."

"I'm for it." Ravn smiles a little more. "I'm not afraid of Jules Black, Venelite. I'm afraid of angry women. And I get the impression Black thinks I'm walking on eggshells around her, and she finds it to be a little funny. It is what it is. I'd be delighted to do a backyard barbecue, talk about everything. There's been a lot going on lately. Wouldn't hurt for all of us to get one another up to speed, either."

He thumbs over her cheek while his hand is in the vicinity of Ariadne's face anyhow. "Jules Black has a whole lot more important things to do than keep an old argument alive. I don't blame her for hearing what I said wrong. She's heard that kind of coloniser attitude all her life, why'd she assume I meant it any different? Water under the bridge. Besides, she pulled my asthmatic arse out of the Chehalis, so she must think the world's still a better place with me in it, yeah?"

"I mean...I might have some serious bias in matters, but I sure as hell think the world's a better place with you in it." Ariadne grins lopsidedly up at her beau in turn. A kiss for his thumbpad if she can reach it. "I've already told you to not walk on moat ice, so no more falling into rivers unexpectedly, okay? Gonna give me early grey hairs and I want to keep my hair the color it is for as long as possible."

Suddenly, a little body hugging her outside leg. Making a sound of surprise, Ariadne glances down to see a little toddler, only barely old enough to walk, grinning up at her. "Fishie!" proclaims the little one and points.

"Fishie, you got it!" the redhead agrees brightly. "Where's momma or daddy?" The kid, still clinging to her jeans, points back towards the stroller. Mom and Dad are briefly in discussion about something, more than likely lunch. "Go tell them about fishie?"

"Fishiiiiiiiiieeeeeeeeeeeeee," the kid squeals as they bumble away back to the stroller and are immediately distracted.

"Whew. I've had to escort kids back to their parents around here," the barista shares, " -- but it's under control. Alright, come on, let's see if the leopard shark pups have hatched. They always keep the egg sacks in a small tank around the corner here."

"Let's," Ravn agrees and quietly thanks his maker that the little one hugged Ariadne's leg by surprise, and not his. A grown man yelping out loud and falling back like he'd burned himself on hot coals -- it's difficult to not attract attention like that. Probably scare the kid senseless, and the mother too. This is the kind of behaviour that gets you thrown out of places for creating a disturbance.

He still smiles after the little one. Ravn may have many reasons to be wary of kids -- such as surprise hugs -- and he does not understand them well. That does not mean, however, that he dislikes them. If anything, he admires the open minds and hearts of children who have yet to learn to not trust strangers.

"You can't keep me in bubble wrap for the rest of my life though," he tells Ariadne as they walk along. "My mother tried. My father tried to get me out of it. Neither of them had it right. I can look after myself, and I need to make mistakes just like everybody else. But I'm not made of glass."

Ariadne nods. "I might be your girlfriend, but I'm not your babysitter. I mean that lovingly. You've got to be you, decisions and consequences and all. Now, am I going to share my relentless and impeachable wisdom with you? Yes, I am, but...never assume that I'm totally right. Just that I'm right most of the time," she winks shamelessly at Ravn.

Rounding the corner of the hallway, this time solid for a length of space before it becomes pocketed by more small habitats and learning displays, the barista leads the way to a particular little tank. There's not much going on in it save for three shark egg-purses curled around faux-seaweed planted in the gravel. "Oh, man, they're close, but not just yet. You can see the pups inside, look!" she breathes, pointing at one of them. The faint shadow of the little creature within its egg membrane can be seen. "Mermaid purses." A quick grin at Ravn.

"We used to find those on the beach on the West Coast," Ravn agrees. "Well, not leopard shark -- but, same kind of funny little bags. We'd always find them empty of course -- they drift to shore when the baby sharks are done with them." He smiles -- perhaps the sight brings back memories of running around on the sandy beach as a boy, touching things his mum -- or his nanny -- didn't want him to be touching.

He leans forward to look closer. "It reminds me of a time when I thought mermaids were a cool legend. A fantasy of sailors, a manifestation of the lure and the dangers of the sea. Not literal man-eaters hunting in the Bay for tourists and careless divers."

"I wonder what species the sharks were," the marine biologist murmurs softly while Ravn smiles at the little egg-sacks. She straightens and glances over at him again when the subject turns to the local mermaids.

Ariadne's lips flatten and she rubs the outside of her arm with her free hand. "Yeah...I had no idea either about the mermaids. It was one of those...more things in heaven and earth, Horatio, moments when I realized what I was seeing. It was almost...so uncanny that it was hypnotizing. Like, I didn't want to react because they were so alien, they required more observation for me to decide what the hell to do."

"Dogfish," Ravn replies. "We have a lot of different cold water sharks, but dogfish are the most common. They sell them for consumption -- smoked meat, though they brand it 'royal eel' because no one wants to eat shark. At least we eat the whole animal, not just the fins."

He looks back at Ariadne, and for a moment a cloud crosses the sun. "They are very alien. And it can be argued they're just trying to survive. But they don't belong in our world. If I find a way to send them back to wherever they do belong, I will do so. It's too easy to just relax and think, well, at least they don't eat us who shine. But that's still Ned McNealy's Robert who went missing last month, and it's the harbourmaster quietly telling me to not ask about the tourist couple who didn't come back on a foggy day. It's the whale safari captain who has taken to bringing sides of beef to sea for no reason he wants to share."

It's hell to feel quietly ashamed at the amount of relief coursing through her thoughts right now; Ariadne is pleased the whale-watching captain decided to take up Mikaere's suggestion.

But how much too late is it for those like Robert and the tourist couple? Too late indeed.

She nods and swallows, unable to look Ravn in the face for a second. "If you find a way to send them home, please do. I can't do diving out in the bay because I know better than to take anyone else with me and solo diving is too dangerous around here. I'm not about to be responsible for leading someone into a lion's den without them knowing better."

"I guess you'll need to find a diving partner who shines," Ravn agrees. "I can take you out there -- but I can't go down with you. Asthma and snorkeling is not a good mix. If I get a coughing fit down there, well, that's not a good idea."

He falls quiet a moment. The fact that there are things he cannot do because of his disabilities never is an easy pill to swallow; there's been too many times he disappointed others that way, and himself. "It wouldn't surprise me if Black or Hastings were into diving, though."

"That's a good point, actually, about Jules or Mikaere. I'll ask." Ariadne isn't so distracted as to miss the shadow crossing the Dane's face yet again. Reaching up with her free hand, she gently thumbs across his cheek. "And there's no one I'd feel safer with on a boat than you, mister. Take me out there?"

It's meant to be an innocent question, but then again...wording.

"If you go diving with them, somebody does need to stay top side. Mind the weather reports and more importantly, mind the Sunday drivers flitting around on the Bay like they don't know what a divers in the water flag means." Ravn nods slightly. "I can definitely be that bloke. Might be better to go out on Hasting's boat, though -- it's larger, and it has a shower for afterwards."

"Oh, I had no idea Mikaere's boat had a shower. Yeah, if he's a go for diving, I'll see about borrowing his boat. I think he'd let you drive it, he's seen you before on the Vagabond. They're such a cute couple." Ariadne grins mostly to herself; she's referencing the time the two sailboats crossed paths out in the bay.

But expect her stomach to weigh in on things. A softest gurgling is caught by her own ears. It's probably because someone's got a bag of popcorn they bought out on the boardwalk and snuck in via fanny pack. The volunteers are going to chide them for it, no doubt, when they're eventually caught.

"Hmm. Maybe an early dinner? I ate kind of lightly this morning before we left since I wasn't sure about how things were going to pan or or where we were going to eat. Actually, where should we eat? Something not sushi this time, so...what. Could try to find some place that's surf and turf. Or hell, Italian or the like. I'm craving garlic, I think," she shares with a glance up at Ravn.

"If we can find a place that's either genuinely Italian or gone all the way to fuck you, we're Americans, and the only thing we have in common with actual Italian pizza is the shape of the dish." Ravn nods his agreement. "I like either, but I don't like those half-assed attempts at faux Italian. Chicago deep pan, I'm in. Four Seasons of Miserabelissimo, not."

He chuckles. "Also, no. I don't think Hastings will let me sail his boat. But he might well go along with taking us all out on it, and I can monitor a radio as well as the next bloke over."

Of Mikaere's boat? "That's fair. It's his baby too just like the Vagabond is your baby as well."

Warning of the gentle thug to follow, Ariadne tilts her head towards one of the hallways leading back towards the front of the aquarium. "Let's get stuff from the lockers and I'll do a quick restaurant check on the phone. I think I know where to go, but I'll check the reviews and menu just in case since half-ass simply won't do and I'm never one to half-ass anything."

Including swanning along on Ravn's arm. Swan princess indeed.