2022-06-15 - Giant Raptor-Chicken vs. Earthen Rage-Ex, GO!

The plains go on forever. An endless rolling sea of green dotted with clusters of leafy trees with a very particular scent. Dots of bright and cheerful colours in the tall grass; unfamiliar clovers, flowering grasses, tufts of seeds leaping on to the breeze. It's pleasantly warm -- and due to become warmer as the sun rides the sky. A gentle land -- at least when no strong winds race each other, with nothing much to impair their speed. A land that sees torrential rainfall in some seasons, no doubt -- but that's a concern for another season.

A land of large predators, no doubt. Ravn Abildgaard finds himself standing amidst a cluster of these not-too-tall trees that give off such a familiar, strong smell. Eucalyptus? He deducts, not unreasonably, that instead of taking him to the small bathroom on the Vagabond, the little bathroom door has sent him somewhere else.

Which leads to two immediate concerns on his part. He needs to take a leak and he has no idea how dangerous the Australian interior is. That's where eucalyptus grow, yes? The interior. Which is mostly desert -- but there has to be a green belt between the desert and the farmland, and that must be where he is. Okay, so, probably no man-eating crocodiles.

It's Australia, though. The grass probably is plotting his demise. This entire continent wants to render Homo Sapiens extinct.

He looks around -- because while it is not unheard of to be alone in some kind of Dream experience, it's not the norm. There's usually at least one or two other people. And while he does realise that it's a very silly thing to be uptight about, all things considered? He wants to take his leak alone, thanks. Not walk around a bush, fly open, and find some stranger there staring at him like he's a flasher jumping out of a bush.

"Thank god, dog, you needed a nap," grumbles Ariadne as she comes out of the master bathroom. Samwise is a hilariously smaller ball of sighthound on the bed right now, eyes barely open, clinging to the remnants of wakefulness. A rinse-off shower for his human after their jog has done the barista a world of good. You know what else sounds good? A beer.

A dark beer.

But that's not what she gets when she walks out into her living room.

Or, rather, not the living room, but into the shade of a tree with striped and peeling bark, glossy leaves, and a scent like eucalyptus but not. It's subtly wrong, but it's a small wrong in the middle of a blaring bunch of what-the-fuckery.

"What the fuck?" she breathes aloud, echoing mental sentiments. Thank god she'd at least had her slippers on, a number with outdoor-tough soles because she hates those damn Ugg lines. Turning around once, twice, in alternating directions like that might change the view of expansive open wilderness, she then presses her fingers to her mouth for a second.

And then that's probably a very recognizable shriek of, "GOD-FUCKING DAMNIT, VEIL FUCKERS?!" from a dozen yards away or so from Ravn still hunting a proper bush.

Things a man does not want to hear while zipping up his fly definitely include: Charging man-eating alligators, spiders sharpening their broadswords, and girlfriends screaming loudly. Never before has a man closed his pants that fast without accidentally circumcising himself.

"Ariadne?" he calls out -- because as far as he can tell, there are no giant drop bears about to descend. He can't see any dingos. He's fairly certain that kangaroos don't try to kill you until you provoke them. And that about sums up his knowledge of Australian wildlife.

Ariadne turns around so fast that it's a wonder her brain doesn't ricochet off the inside of her skull.

"Ravn?!" She doesn't hesitate at all to emerge from the shade of the tree and into the bright sun. The air is so clean, scented of warmed grasses and some flower she's never smelled before in her life. There's even water somewhere though she can't see or hear it. "Ravn?" This next iteration is quieter and more apprehensive; it could be the Veil's just fucking with her again. It makes her heart quail and go briefly cold before she steels her spine.

Ah, a nice boulder. With a few grunts, she clambers atop it and shades her eyes. "Ravn?"

In theory, the redhead is an easy spot now: her sweatpants might be black, but her t-shirt is a pleasant peachy hue and her sweatshirt a brilliant cobalt-blue.

To the surprise of exactly no one who knows Ravn, he's wearing black. At least these days he's got a habit of wearing black shirts with a snarky print on -- to no small credit of the lady currently balancing atop a boulder. Today's edition sports a silhouette of a cat, and the text: Let's Eat Kitty. Let's Eat, Kitty. Punctuation Saves Cat Lives.

He waves up at her and walks towards her. "Over here! Where the hell are we? Who ordered a trip to the outback?"

In a show of kinesthetic prowess, the barista just about pirouettes on the boulder towards the familiar voice. It is Ravn after all, not some Veil fuckery, and she presses a hand to her chest in relief. Apparently not wanting to get down from the vantage point just yet, she takes one knee; it brings her to eye level with the Dane and his own impressive height.

"Thank fuck, it's actually you, dearheart. I thought for a second I was getting my chain yanked." She looks around and shakes her head. "I'm actually not totally sure it's the outback. The trees smell not...exactly like eucalyptus. I've also seen no kangaroos at all and a place like this should be teeming with them. There's too much standing water somewhere."

A short sigh. "We need someplace with a better vantage point." Ravn gets a cheeky smile despite the situation at hand. "Want to climb a tree?"

"My familiarity with eucalyptus trees is limited to a few places in Italy where they have been planted because why not." Ravn nods and looks around. "I know next to nothing except, they grow in Australia, and this isn't Tuscany."

He looks around and tries to spot a tree that might be worth climbing. Then he frowns. "Actually, aren't eucalyptus trees kind of -- not very tall? Or is this another suggestion of evidence that these are not eucalyptus trees after all?" Somebody really isn't in his field of knowledge, and it shows.

He pats his pockets; nothing, and definitely not a Field Guide to the Outback. Not as much as a Terry Pratchett novel about the distant country of XXXX. Screwed.

"I don't think I'm a very good tree climber," the Dane murmurs. "I can climb a drain pipe or a fence, but a tree?"

Ariadne shrugs her own lack of knowledge in this field; trivia is only so useful and her little mind castle isn't full of botany factoids. Where's Roen when you need him?!

Oh yeah, not here, because screw you, Veil.

"Let me climb a tree then," she says, leaning in to brush a kiss against his lips. "You can keep a look-out for...christ chex, anything, since we don't know where we are -- or what time we are." The faintest whift of rose oil rises from her as she dismounts the boulder and brushes past Ravn. So much for a shower after all. She's doomed to grime by the time this escapade is done. Not that tree, not that tree...

That tree. It has a notch where a low-growing limb broke off and that's a good foothold once she can get it there. Alright, let's see... A crouch and back-tuck of her arms in readiness to extend and throw them up, a la something a guard-player might at the net in volleyball. The short branch is grabbed and it's...not pretty, her ascent to get her foothold. Bark peels off and flakes down in flutters. But with a grunt and gritted teeth, Ariadne makes it up into the branches of the tree.

"Ow...ow, fuck...ugh, this stuff is so slick, shit," she grouses. The bark is so delicate as to slough like fish scales and make gripping points more questionable. After a moment, she's about fifteen feet up and peering through the glossy leaves. "I see water that way," a point to accompany the observation. "Otherwise, it's...all plains, distant mountains that way." The opposite direction. "No smoke, no buildings, no nothing."

"What does that even mean, Christ chex?" Ravn watches his girl breeze past him, shopping for -- trees. Climbable trees. Sure, why not. She's the climber. He's the brain. Supposedly.

Time to try to use that brain, then. "Water. It'll have to be some kind of freshwater lake. If we were by the sea -- we'd be seeing a different kind of vegetation. Salt alters the soil and we're looking at decidedly savannah style vegetation here, even if we're not sure where -- or indeed, when. So, assuming we are anywhere that exists in our world -- inland Australia, somewhere. If there is settlement? It will be by the water. Waterways are the main means of transportation well up into the industrial era. I suggest we head that way -- because we'll find out soon enough what kind of society we're looking at. And if there is none -- then animals still seek water, and we may get an idea of where and when we are."

"I like how you think." Fondly, the compliment floats down to Ravn along with some shreds of paper-thin bark and a glossy leaf. "To the watering hole to see who's decided to stop in. Maybe we should grab a large stick. Or rock. Seriously, I ended up in some epoch in the past of Gray Harbor with Della and all I had were fabric shears, it was very uncomfortable how squishy and edible I was."

Branches shake as she descends and then, when she thinks she can drop safely, she does. Thank god for the swing and a chance to roll through her shoulder and not land on her ankle. With a grunt, Ariadne rises and plucks bits of grass from her clothing. "Christ chex is from an American comedian's stand-up routine. The sacrament wafers or whatever, and eating a whole bowl of them while calling them 'christ chex'. Chex cereal like the American cereal. It's easy to say and makes me laugh internally every time." A tilt of head dictates they should get walking towards the distant watering hole.

"Christ on a cracker, then." Ravn chuckles. "I'm usually careful with expressions like that because they can come across very wrong in a language you don't have a native's feel for. Lord on skates seems to safe, though."

At least no one's brained him with a handbag or a crucifix over it.

He nods and reaches for her hand. It's all he has. No shoulder bag full of useful trinkets. Nothing but himself. But in fairness, that's more than he looks like. The folklorist glances at Ariadne. "If you see a good sharp stick -- by all means, pick it up. But don't forget that there's one thing the Veil can't take from you. You can move things with your mind. Anything that's not alive, we can throw. That means rocks, and boulders, and dead trees, and even living ones -- because the outer layer of a tree is dead, Venelite."

The physicalist smiles lightly. "And you can do more than that. The Mind Xanax? Think of what that does to a hostile mind. Time to nap, Brutalis."

"I mean, lord on roller skates is a good one too." The grasslands before them spreads out broad and encompassing. Light breezes dally past and set the unfamiliar bright flowers to waving back and forth. Ariadne intertwines fingers with the Dane's own as they walk. There: a unit, the two of them, automatically identified as such to anyone (anything?) smart enough to make such a connection.

She glances up at him and blinks. "Right," the redhead affirms along with a nod. "I keep forgetting about that, it's almost like the whole...walking into one room and forgetting what you were about to do. I suppose that's logical when you're trying to find your Kindle and then you're suddenly here. I didn't know I could zonk somebody out like that though. Really?"

Ariadne's looking at Ravn. Ravn, on the other hand, is probably going to notice that the boulder over there? It moved a little, like it was either alive or possibly breathing. Thing is, that's already a very large boulder.

"Really. I know because it's been done to me. When I was in the middle of an anxiety attack, locking up and shaking and screaming with fear inside -- and then suddenly there's nothing but warm silence in my head." Ravn nods slightly.

Then his eye is caught by movement over there, in the tall grass, by the large boulders. Remarkably large boulders, really -- enough to make a man wonder what Ice Age glacier moved them here, scouring the land flat and faceless but depositing its captive large rocks here and there. His home country has them -- the occasional huge boulder sitting in the middle of nowhere, left behind by the retreating ice. Sometimes in deep holes in the ground -- because they were still encapsulated in ice that slowly melted away, leaving only its core of rock behind at the bottom.

He squeezes Ariadne's hand slightly. "There's something moving over by those large rocks. Might be some kind of animal. Might be the boulder itself -- if we're assuming it's actually some kind of very large elephant or rhinoceros. Keep walking and let's assume that if we don't make threatening moves, it's going to ignore us."

A hand squeeze does little to stop Ariadne from being immediately torn between curiosity and horror. There's a tree nearby if they must climb something. Thing is, that boulder, now moving about enough to betray it as a living creature and not rock by the gleam of sunlight on thin fur, is already at least seven feet tall slumped over.

When it straightens upon hearing the novel sound of a human voice? It's very big -- and very much a giant ground sloth, slowly chewing through a mouthful of roots it's managed to dig up. Nearly eighteen feet tall and with paws sporting claws longer than a human forearm, the creature placidly continues chewing. It's so large that the wet snuffling of it attempting to scent them can be heard.

Ariadne looks positively owlish. "...holy shit!" she ends up squeaking.

"... An apt sentiment." Ravn gawks.

For a moment he just stares. Then he tries to put things together -- and keep on walking, please, because we do not want to discuss with the very huge sloth with the very huge claws, we definitely don't. "I can't recall the name. And I don't know if we're in Pleistocene or the Ice Age, because this is really not my field. But that's definitely a prehistoric animal which means we're after the dinosaurs. Man is making his way out of Africa -- or he will, in not too long. And everything is freaking huge -- I really hope we don't meet a sabretooth. I have no idea where we are. Climates shifted a lot. Antarctica and Greenland were jungle once, and I have no idea whether then is now."

And all along, keep walking. Because claws. Even herbivores are dangerous, when they have claws like shortswords.

"Uhhhhhhhhh."

Thank god for Ravn and his decision to continue on. Ariadne was very much about to slip into 'Indiana Jones' mode, where curiosity and scientific discovery outweighed common sense. She ends up dragged for only a step or two before falling into place, but be certain she's got nearly continuous attention back over her shoulder. It doesn't seem inclined to follow or harass them; they're scrawny and far smaller, no threat, even if they smell funny.

"Think. Think, Ari," the marine biologist chides herself. "Ice Age, maybe, because of the size of things, but we're around the equator because of the lack of ice. Not North America. Not Antarctica, there's ice on there by now. Uh. Ground sloth. Africa or South America." She grimaces, hating how she doesn't know. "I know my phone doesn't get service, so I'm not even going to TRY -- "

Sudden upswing in volume as something startles up from nearby her feet. She manages to dance around Ravn rather than jostling him, thank god.

It's a cat-sized...unicorn now standing there with tail lashing. Yes. An honest-to-god unicorn, golden-green striped to better blend into the grass -- and it brays at the two Gray Harborites in what has to be extremely smol and angry Unicornese for GO THE FUCK AWAY.

"Don't tell me unicorns lived in the Ice Age." Ravn stares at the animal. "Is this some kind of extinct proto-horse?"

God, he wishes he had his camera. This thing is adorable. And don't forget the teasing he could do with a picture of it. Rosencrantz would never hear the end of it. Cat-sized, adorable. Pocket emotional support violinist.

"Let's ... step around him. He looks quite ticked off. And I really don't want to have to punt a My Little Pony, Pleistocene Edition." There's something so absurd about the little guy that Ravn finds himself laughing. Bloody hell, nothing should be that adorable.

"It's got a horn, I would not go punting it!" Between the visual and the situation (and the stress), Ariadne can't help but laugh as well. It is absolutely cute!

-- and very offended to be laughed at.

The little unicorn brays again and suddenly does a bullrush, horn down! Ariadne drops Ravn's hand to dodge-skitter off to one side and really, that's a shrieking cackle as she does this! "Shit! Demonic little thing!"

Don't laugh at an animal with a sharp and pointy end, don't laugh at an animal with a sharp and pointy end, don't --

These are the thoughts going through Ravn's mind as the little four-legged, horny ball of fury charges. His mind races down half a dozen innuendo lines -- and most of them delivered in a Lower East Side accent for some strange reason. Please, Veil. Let him have this creature, let him take it home to Rosencrantz.

He follows Ariadne to the side and somehow manages to not annoy the critter further by laughing. Instead, once it rushes past, he spreads his arms out to make himself larger. "Git, you! Shoo! Horses are supposed to be flight animals!"

It's a fast little creature, this unicorn in miniature, and it spins in place at the end of its charge to lay back its ears and give yet another ferocious bray!!!!

Thing is, the pitch of the sound is stitches-inducing. Ariadne has her hand firmly clapped over her mouth where she's still slowly retreating step by step, but she's also shaking with silent laughter like a living maraca.

Another short bullrush at Ravn as if to test his mettle and his flaily human noodly arms!

Protip: If you're charging a much larger animal, don't charge it at knee height. Ravn doesn't mean to try to kick at it. He just wants to move his feet out of its way. And he's really not very athletic.

If he's lucky -- or, well, maybe we should say, if the unicorn is lucky -- its horn won't get stuck in a boot.

The small creature full of vast amounts of fury at the interlopers certainly dedicates itself to the charge! Ravn might step out of the way, but that little horn is a swift one --

-- and ends up tangled in the bootstrings of his boot! Now it's like a large fish thrashing at the end of one's foot.

Ariadne's no help whatsoever. It's gone beyond ridiculous and into ludicrous. She's trying to give wisdoms while clutching her stomach as the ferocious little creature all tangled now tries biting at Ravn's pants! "Just -- flail! Scruff it! Grab its tail!" Do something, anything!

There's a very smol and horny -- sorry, horned -- horse chomping at his leg, flailing its legs, and trying to free its horn from his boot. It's absolutely hilarious to watch, even with the concern of one of those flailing hooves slamming into his skin. Ravn stares. Then he tries to get out, between bubbles of laughter, "Please help. If he hits me, it's going to hurt like a mother."

He makes several attempts to grab for its neck -- can you scruff a horse? -- before realising that the little bastard is nimble and agile, and like most little ponies, treacherously strong for his size. He kicks at it, trying to free his foot -- and finally, finally! the angry cousin of a very small eohippus makes a small arc away from him.

Here's to praying it doesn't run right back to get him. Such temper, much wow. "What is that thing? You'd think that if unicorns ever existed, even tiny, they'd be on listicles and clickbait sites every so often!"

The smol equid example of RAEG AND ANGRRR does land with a gentle thump a yard or two away. It seems lightly dazed now as it rolls to its feet and shakes out from horn to rump. Ariadne really does have a hand firmly clapped to her mouth now because when does anyone ever have to physically remove a cantankerous miniature unicorn from their boot? It's ludicrous.

"I dunno, Ravn, it's a Dream, logic's questionable!" she manages, her words still wiggling with barely-controlled amusement. The little unicorn manages one last rush and threatening bray before it seem to dismiss both lanky humanoids. Must have been a territory or space issue. "Maybe we were too near a burrow?" -- and then she gasps, eyes going almost starry. "Ravn! What if there are foals?"

Because of course the Veil would tempt with mini-corn foals at the extreme risk of tetanus via spearing horn.

"I'm very sure these things never actually existed in history." Ravn stares after the equine incarnation of futile fury. "I'm pretty sure we shouldn't try to bring them back, either. Not even if Rosencrantz would go bananas over one."

He rubs his shin; that little bastard got a few good punts in. "Do you think -- unicorns live in burrows?"

No, Ravn, no. No unifoals. We are not importing tiny horny eohippuses -- ii -- ae -- whatever. One eohippus, more eohippies.

But Ravn -- the starry eyed look your girlfriend is giving you!

"I have no idea about burrows, but you know Itzhak would lose his shit over a foal," she agrees as she cranes her neck to see if she can spot where the little creature disappeared to. Once more, it appears to have blended beautifully into the natural height of the plains-grasses. "But...yeah, you're right. It'd be chaos and I'd rather not try to take one of those on without a thick leather coat and some hawking gloves. Maybe a tranq."

She offers out her hand for them to continue on towards the water hole. "I'm reminded of honey badgers. Honey badger don't give a fuck," comes the mimicry of the famous internet video, accompanied by giggling.

"When you say honey badger, I am reminded of the Honey Badger Brigade," Ravn murmurs and takes Ariadne's hand in his. He resumes walking as well. "Those women who align with Men's Rights Activists, to reinstate traditional women and marriage. Ultra-conservatives, usually hiding behind religion. The kind of people for whom you wish they some day meet an actual honey badger in a bad mood. Their closest relatives are elephants. I'm sure you knew that."

He throws one last glance at the furycorn midget -- Itzhak would truly go nuts over it, he knows this. "One thing I hate? How we never get to take pictures. I want a picture of that thing. I'll gladly pretend it's fictional or photoshopped. But I want a poster print of that thing."

"I actually hadn't heard of this variant of honey badgers before and I find myself dismayed enough to further ignore their existence. Honey badgers, in my brain, will remain honey badgers who give no fucks." No convincing Ariadne otherwise, apparently. "You could always see about drawing it up -- or describing it to someone else so they can sketch it out for you? We probably have some good artists around town," the barista supposes.

The grasses seem to get more sparse as they approach the watering hole. There's a small herd of what must be on the larger species of ancient horse sipping at its edge. It's a watering hole not connected to any visible outside source, so likely seasonal, and deep enough to indicate either torrential rains within the last month or so or steady-enough weather patterns.

But that's that, in the distance? Another small herd approaching -- of something -- with weirdly-shaped backs. Ariadne comes to a halt and watches this off to her right. "Ravn...?"

"I live with an artist." Ravn laughs softly. "Gray Harbor is full of creative people, truly."

Maybe he was going to say more on the subject. Maybe not -- because his attention is caught both by that watering hole and that movement towards it. He remembers documentaries about the deserts and plains of Africa -- how torrential rains turn desert into a flowering plain for just a few months a year, until the water holes dry out and the herds move on. The trees here, though, suggest a more permanent presence of water. Unless they have very deep roots and access to subterranean depots.

"Let's stay near those trees," he murmurs. "I have no idea what those are. And I have no idea what predators to look for -- but a number of them can't climb trees."

"Trees work for me." As such, rather than continue on directly to the watering hole, the barista directs their path diagonally and towards the left. There are a few trees here. They're almost to the shade when a cry -- no, a call -- makes itself known -- and this before what sounds like a...hunting horn?

It makes Ariadne startle up to stillness and stare in the direction of the approaching herd.

Not herd -- well, yes, herd, it's a cavalcade of four-legged creatures -- but those are humans riding them. Them being...not horses, no, the necks are too long, and not camels because camels aren't that furry.

"Llamas," Ariadne blurts because...well...yes, giant llamas.

The cloth on the creatures is brightly dyed and the clothing on the humans appears very much...well-made despite the time period. Ariadne could have sworn up and down they were too early for this nonsense. Is that the gleam of a sword at one belt?

This is anachronistic nonsense! The Veil's fucking with them!

Unfortunately, the Veil's also moving these things along fast. It's a coin-toss whether or not either Gray Harborite can make it up a tree before the herd-posse will be on top of them.

"At least we know what continent we're on," Ravn murmurs under his breath. Llamas, with Inca knights? Did the Inca even have knights? Llamas are draft animals -- not mounts. They can probably be ridden at short distances but -- oh forget it, the usual rules obviously do not apply any longer.

"Run," he tells Ariadne, and knows that he can't. A sprint and an attempt to continue sprinting right up a tree? Fat chance. But he can head that way walking slash jogging as fast as he can keep his breath stable. And he can hope those people are friendly.

And if they aren't -- there's a lot of not-alive rocks in the soil they're riding on, and they may be about to find out. Sometimes Ravn wonders if the Veil knows what it started when it made him aware that his power was not limited to floating plushies and lighters.

"Ravn?!" Exasperated fear tinges Ariadne's choke of his name. "No! No, you don't get to White Knight this, you IDIOT!"

As such, the redhead doesn't do more than take a step or two back behind Ravn. She's only got eyes for the incoming hunters astride their llama mounts. It's impossible to make any such distinction as culture at this point, but man, those spears look awfully sharp now that they're readied and aimed like so many chargers on a collision course.

The giant ancient species of llamas don't have excessively loud impact beats as they run, but there's still a noticeable vibration as the group of six hunters splits to start circling around both Ariadne and Ravn at a spear's worth of distance. It's almost hypnotizing how they move like fish or birds around one another, passing by in blurs of cloth and animal, until it's a perfect corralling. Ariadne's gone and tried to back herself up spine-to-spine with the Dane.

"I can't run." Ravn looks at the riders. "I lose my breath and I double over with an asthma attack, and then I'm truly useless. This way, at least I get to stand my ground." He does, back to back, with Ariadne. He knows what the riders are doing -- half intimidation tactic, half trying to sort out who they are, and whether to attack. Who's going to throw the first spear? Is anyone?

No more time to run for cover. They're being looked over for weapons -- of which they have none -- and to assess the threat. Are they a threat? They are outsiders, interlopers. Might they be taken for harmless traders? Probably not, when they carry no packs of things to trade. Travellers? Also not very likely, given they have carry nothing, have no weapons, and have no pack animals.

He realises that the reason these Incas or whatever they are have yet to attack is exactly this: They're not sure what it is they're attacking. People, strangely dressed, with no possessions but their strange clothes. Fearing nothing and needing nothing as they cross the plains. Are they even human?

Maybe the best move here is to play along. He points at one rider and his llama, and gestures as if to say, step aside. And then, he waves almost Matrix-style, as if beckoning something -- or someone. And there it is -- a shower of pebbles, boulders, rocks, a substantial amount, rising up from the top soil, in front of that rider. Change your course, sir, or ride into a shower of stone.

This giant ancient species of llama cannot bank to save their lives. The rider under duress of sudden comet field rides smack into it -- literally smack. Bleating, the mount shoulders through most of it, but the rider's knocked ass-over-tea-kettle to the plains-turf and half-concussed. One down and adroitly so! It makes the other hunters widen their circle and raise their spears in unmistakable readiness to throw.

Ariadne sees this happen and compulsively throws her hands out to either side of herself, palms out in the age-old, cross-culture gesture of, "NO!!!"

Reality shimmers in a half-dome surrounding both her and Ravn, just in time for the first spear to fly. It sparks off the sudden shielding surrounding them and the wooden haft snaps clean in half for the force of impact. It shocks the hell out of Ariadne, but she sure as hell doubles down on concentrating on the shielding afterwards, even if it makes the movements of the hunters outside of the shielding just that little bit misty.

Ravn has no desire to actively harm these people. He's sorry about the headache to rider and llama alike -- but not as sorry as he'd be, if those spears were to have flown unchallenged simply because he and Ariadne both look too strange to compute. He waves his hand in an almost Jedi-like fashion as one spear plinks off Ariadne's shield -- and bless her for that, indeed, what wonder it is to work back to back with someone who thinks fast!

The force field around them strengthens. How long can they keep it up between them? Probably not for hours, but hours aren't needed -- they just need to demonstrate that mortal weapons have no effect.

And that's when the screaming begins.

It starts as a loud, shrill scream of rage. Incoherent -- or are those words? If they are words, they are definitely not in English. Where's the source? Everywhere around the two. A mad howling like a woman being ripped apart -- and then a shape takes form amidst the falling rocks and pebbles, almost as if it builds itself from them.

"That's not my doing," Ravn murmurs, concerned.

Made from mud and pebbles swirling around, the entity shrieks. It points a shaking hand at Ravn -- and then turns to shriek at the riders. Words, unintelligible, curses, accusations -- untameable fury.

Ravn swallows.

Hard.

Again.

"Oh God," he murmurs very softly. "Maybe it is."

Another spear sparks off the shielding and breaks at the haft once more. The riders don't slow down in their circling, but no more spears fly for the moment. It seems this détente is set well and sturdily, not too unlike the now-bolstered shield. Ariadne's divided attention is going to leave her with a monumental headache once reality sets back in, but she's determined to let NO ONE PASS -- as the Tolkienian quote goes.

But this? This sudden vortex of intelligent, banshee-like earth? That's enough to snag her attention and probably the attention of every living creature within a quarter mile. Daring a look around Ravn, her eyes go owlishly wide.

"Holy fuck?!" she breathes. It hasn't occurred to her yet who this might be. Ravn's murmur has her frowning at the apparition even as she feels sweat break out between her shoulderblades. Her arms begin to finely tremble.

The riders almost scatter at the sudden appearance of the golem. Bravery and strength of numbers keep them present and now, spears fly at the apparition!

Ravn has gone sheet white. By now he does recognise the voice and the form -- and the memories of the last time this ghost materialised stays with him still. The Black Bear Diner, spatters of blood and sea water and whatever else on walls, windows and floors. Her heart, torn from her chest, squeezed until it finally stopped beating. Shards of glass from exploding plates and glass counters, taking off her face slice by slice. The smell of rotting seaweed, mingling with that of rotting blood.

No sea water now. No blood, either. Just gravel and dirt swirling and forming the shape of a human woman. A ghost, no longer possessed of a body of her own, using whatever's nearby.

What Benedikte shrieks at those riders had better not go translated. The message is clear enough: Approach, and she will rip them apart. The pointing back at the couple behind the force field makes less sense -- at least until Ravn softly says, "She wants to kill me herself. They're not allowed to take her kill."

Ariadne is innocent of the imagery blazing through the Dane's mind. All she can see is the fury on display and hear the echoing buckshot of continued enraged warning. She has no idea what's being said and especially not with the subtle sound distortion of both shield and apparitional element involved.

But she does catch what Ravn says --

-- and her heart does a frightened flippity-flop in her chest. Cold sweat breaks out at her temples. It takes her only a jumbling mental second to make the decision. Assuming she needs to keep her hands upraised to continue cementing the shield, she steps around in front of Ravn. He's got inches and breadth of shoulder on her, but the barista now plants herself there.

"Not if I have to say anything about it," she manages through gritted teeth and with an odd glassiness to her eyes.

The hunters have thrown their spears. They've gone through the apparition or missed and now the circle starts to fall apart into more of a clumping of imminent retreat. Nobody's got any 'magic' to throw back, apparently, though one hunter is adamant he can take on this collection of grit and noise. He draws his sword at his hip and spins his llama-mount in place, pointing the weapon with his own threat yelled back at the golem.

Ravn is torn in two, in that way a psychologist would reference as hyperfocus in order to focus away. He knows who the earth-and-gravel banshee is -- or was. He knows how deep her hatred of him runs, how she literally walked around the planet from Malta to Gray Harbor, most of that way under the sea. He knows that for some reason she cannot touch him -- and that if she ever finds a means, he's going to be torn apart.

And all his mind is focusing on is, sword? The metallurgy required for swords was not invented in the South Americas, they didn't know any metal sturdy enough for swords until the Spanish swept in.

Thank you, history teacher.

He's glad to see most of them go. And he feels very sorry for the one who doesn't. That'll be the one upon whom Benedikte's apparition is now swooping, like a hurricane of fury walking towards a small tropical island which it intends to reduce to a naked sand bank in the ocean.

"Run!" Ravn yells to the llamateer. "Save yourself, get out of here, go!"

His words aren't likely to translate. But maybe his gestures and the panic in his voice will.

The gestures and the tone are fairly universal: flail like you mean it and pitch your voice higher like that and it's a warning bare minimum. Wheeling the llama about, the swordsman tries one last futile swing of the weapon in the direction of the grit-and-grind apparition before he urges the giant ancient creature onwards and away as fast as possible because ain't nobody got time for this! Whether or not he actually manages to get beyond the rageful spirit is another matter entirely.

Ariadne continues standing there before the Dane, her chin tucked in concentration and sweat beading at her temples now. It's getting very hard to divide concentration with the shielding, but if the llama-riders keep retreating, she can drop it and finally breathe properly.

Run. Run faster, please, faster and farther away.

That's one prehistoric llama setting speed records.

The grit and dirt woman pursues, moving through the ground in a fashion oddly reminiscent of a shark's dorsal fin cutting through the surface of the water; her feet are not visible, and her body is moving without making the appropriate movements -- whatever powers her trajectory seems to be sheer force of will.

Hatred is a powerful motivator, they say.

Look at that llama heading for Tierra del Fuego at top speed. Whatever its rider might want, that llama isn't having none of it. He's going where the good llamas go, which is the hell far away from insane, screaming, running piles of dirt. Give him a good, normal sabretooth tiger any day, but not this.

Rageful fury gives pursuit -- and then remembers where the target of her fury is. The woman figure circles back towards the couple standing still in the centre of the circle laid out by llama feet. Then her attention is caught once more by the escaping figures -- and she chases after them for a hundred metres or so, before once again circling back.

It's clear she can't decide which target to go for. Every turn costs a bit of her mass of dirt and mud, deposited along her track.

Kiss the llama riders goodbye (and assume this particular watering hole is forever marked as haunted, sure to fall into legend over the centuries in this Veil-touched timeline). As the golem refuses to select an individual target, Ariadne simply can't do it anymore.

With a gasp and shuddering exhale, she lets her burning arms fall. Down she goes to one knee first and then to that same-side hip, head hanging limply, her ribs heaving. God, the world's so topsy-turvy now and stars are twinkling in the sides of her vision. Her clammy palm finds her face and holds it. She can't find any strand of ability to further attend upon the apparition torn between vengeances.

And in the shadows of the trees a few yards off, a long-legged observer cranes its head a little farther to the left.

Ravn is torn between wishing the llama would run faster, to get its rider to safety -- or slower, so that the manifestation of his dead fiancee's fury would take off in pursuit and leave the two of them to escape.

He hates himself for thinking like that.

The apparition circles back and forth. Could it catch up to the llama rider now? Maybe. Provided it didn't lose all its dirt and cohesion before getting there. Can it circle back and attack the two of them? Probably. Its fury flares up anew every time it looks that way -- because the object of its hatred is there, right there, and with another woman.

Just like she always knew he would. The instant she looked away, replacing her.

Every time the apparition turns to pursue to the llama rider, dirts and pebbles fall from her, as if she's breaking apart. And every time she looks back at Ravn, she seems to gather up dirt anew.

He's going to need to find a way to deal with this, and the only thing that goes through his mind is, if I drop my focus on this shield, she's going to tear us both apart.

They're gone, their low-lying cloud of dust disappearing even as they do over the horizon. The llama-hunters have tangled with the wrong witches. Mages. Magical beings. Whatever they are, spooky things!

And as if the Veil would leave the Gray Harborites to their uncertainty -- or maybe it's some bizarre manifestation of Ariadne's wishful willpower flailing about like a drunken co-ed before the first football game. Out from under the trees, terrifyingly silent for its size, comes the sudden thunder of fast avian feet. Ten feet tall, strikingly colored in a soft cherry blossom-pink and daffodil-yellow, the demon-cassowary (for how else to initially describe it?) blows past the protective shielding held up by Ravn.

It circles around and breezes past the golem with a quick dart of its oversized beak. PECK, right into the middle of the mass of the earth, sending levitating pebbles scattering. It screeches and comes around again, all but a feathered offshoot of the dinosaurs by how its powerful thighs and talons churn up the pampas ground.

Ariadne looks up at the sound and can't help the choked sound of shock. It's clearly meant to be, WHAT THE FRESH HELL IS THIS.

Maybe it's the colouring of the bird. Maybe it's the fact that there is a bird. Maybe it's that the bird is racing right into Benedikte's trail, using its powerful legs and that incredibly large beak to disturb her soil.

The apparition pauses to stare at it. Maybe she's trying to decide whether this too needs to chased and torn apart. Maybe she's trying to decide whether Ravn is doing this. Either way -- it's distraction, and she is losing more of her cohesion as she does.

"I really hope that one is friendly," Ravn murmurs. He's no more a biologist than an expert on the Ice Age era, but anyone with eyes can tell that the cassowary-like animal is perfectly capable of some serious homicide. Those legs. That beak. Yike.

Ariadne sits up onto her hip better, hand still holding half of her face, while she squints at the fracas continuing beyond the fringe of the shield-dome. "I don't...yes? I think it is?" She doesn't sound confident; she sounds punch-drunk and attempting English.

The pleasantly-colored Terror Bird swings around again for another go at the writhing collection of earth. It can't decide whether or not to go for the punt or the peck and does an awkward jank to one side as it misses its initial attempt, goosing off to one side and away in case of backlash. Quickly enough, however, it comes around and this time, goes for the kick. BYEEEAH! Talons rake through the golem's half-intangible self and then it continues on, screeching again with a toss of its crested head.

"It's at least distracting?" Ariadne mumbles before closing her eyes against another wave of dizziness.

Ravn sinks down to his knees as well; in part because holding up the shield is taking everything he has and more at an entirely too fast pace -- and because he needs to be down there with Ariadne, making sure that she's all right. She does not sound all right.

The giant bird's kick sends pebbles and gravel flying. Benedikte -- or, more precisely, what's left of her -- screams out her fury. The ghost -- barely a ghost at all, as much as a manifestation of rage and jealousy, fuelled by the anger of her death rather than any true intellect or purpose -- flies at the bird, screaming, unaware or indifferent to the fact that those powerful legs can tear through its form. Maybe it's just that its form is already falling apart, and it wants one last attempt to get a blow in before falling apart.

To be conjured up again sometime?

To rest?

Ravn realises that he has no idea. And it's no wonder that his hands are shaking.

If a prehistoric giant bird as mockingly colorful as any spring flower can screech COME GET SOME without actually saying the words?

This Terror Bird manages it.

It seems to be intelligent enough to realize how running the apparition around is making it lose substance and presence alike. Meep meep: it leads the golem in a merry chase, always infuriatingly two strides ahead of it.

Ariadne seems to realize Ravn is there now at her level. She risks looking away from the chase to reach out for him. It's more a light pawing than accurate settling of hand, but she does try to accomplish this in continued attempt to support even if her brain feels like someone crisped it like a crème brûlée and then made her re-explain her thesis, professor's questions and all.

Two people squatting to their knees, arms around one another, watching the scene play out. Pebble by pebble, the rage banshee falls apart. Triumphant, the angry bird circles, taking her apart until in the end, nothing remains but spatters of raw soil on the grass.

And the bird.

Here's to hoping it isn't attracted to anything that moves, and comes for them next. How intelligent are these things? Can one even make a guess, given that sword wielding llama riders did not exist in the Ice Age either, and tiny furycorns certainly did not.

"Please be friendly," Ravn finds himself murmuring, because his hands are shaking, he's two hairs off curling up in a ball of anxiety attack, and he's running out of strength to keep up the barrier surrounding them.

Thundering feet come to a halt. Panting with its beak parted, the colorful Terror Bird cocks its head. Beady, wine-dark eyes blink as it drops its head to look at the clumps of dirt spread out over the grasses. Hah: take that, dirt banshee.

It then begins the process of picking its way towards the half-dome of shielding. Ariadne stares at it through the barrier. She can feel Ravn shaking at least through his hands; she herself isn't doing much better, with a quivering running on and off through her as muscles fatigue and fight this in turn. The bird reaches the dome and, of course, pecks at it. Peck. Peck-peck.

"Hey," the barista breathes, her face contorted to a woozy scowl. Peck. "Hey," a little louder. Peck-peck, squawrk. "HEY!" The Terror Bird takes a step back and resettles its wings, looking down at the redhead. "Alright, enough. Hold on."

Is she mad? Has the overuse of her Shine gotten to her? Ariadne lets go of Ravn and with exaggerated caution, works her way to her feet. "Ravn, drop the shield, I need to talk to it. It wants to talk to me." Because this makes total sense, sure.

It does make sense -- in the way that the Veil often does, where the only guide you have is gut feeling. Ravn nods -- and breathes out as he can finally let go of the barrier.

It's like realising that your brain was in a wrench, and now it's being loosened. He flops down to sit on his backside in the grass, panting, and rubbing his temples. He wishes he could just fall over and lie for a bit, close his eyes, wait for the world to stop spinning -- but he does not dare. On the off chance that giant chicken is not friendly, he needs to be ready to toss that shield up once more. Or toss things at giant bird. Either option will take a lot of energy he's already spent.

Some people make this look so easy. It isn't.

Future Ariadne with her monumental day-long migraine is going to attest for the lack of ease, that's for certain.

Current Ariadne watches the shielding fall apart like mist in warm sunlight and looks up...up...up at the Terror Bird. It looks down-down-down at her, a funny view given the size of its beak in proportion to its skull. Binocular vision granted by the set of those wine-dark eyes means she gets full eye contact.

"What." It's a tired croak of sound from her, though she still tries for an even tone. The Terror Bird brings down its head to her eye level. "Yeah? What about?" Terror Bird head tilt. "Yeah, he's with me." Squawk. "Yes, mine." Squawk? "It's not up for discussion." Nod-squawk. "Yeah, I need to figure out if that thing was his too." Squawk, this one accompanied by a glance at Ravn. "We'll figure it out," Ariadne promises. "Now, what are you doing here?" Squawk beak-clack. "Oh. I mean, you're sure?" Beak-clip-clack, head tilt. "If you're really sure, this is kind of...really fucking trippy." Head tilt. "Trippy means crazy."

The Terror Bird then leans in and in an impossibly delicate manner for its size, preens a blade of dried grass from Ariadne's hair. "Oh...thank you," she tells the Bird tiredly. "Can I?" Dipping its head, the Bird lets her scritch fingernails across the top of its skull. "I need to look up videos of petting parrots, I don't know where the good spots are," she mutters to herself.

"Ravn." Leaving her palm rested on the upper hook of the Bird's beak, she gives the man a weary, resigned look. "This thing belongs to me now, apparently. Somehow. I don't understand. But it does. And it says it's not going to hurt you."

That little conversation -- for lack of a better term -- has Ravn first staring, and then breathing out in relief. He doesn't pretend he understands more than Ariadne's side of it -- but a giant murder chicken that's talking to Ariadne is not quite as likely to try to turn her into kibble at the drop of a hat. Maybe this animal is friendly. It certainly did them a favour in kick stomping his dead fiancee's angry ghost out of here before she managed to tear any llama riders apart.

Or current girlfriends. He barely dares think the thought to its inevitable end.

He looks up at the giant bird with its impossible colours. "It belongs to you," he repeats. "Must be like Finch Celaeno's Clever Girl. She's a Utah raptor -- a dinosaur. I've seen her a few times. I don't understand how it works, but some people have Veil companions like that."

Beat. "What does she eat?"

A very pertinent question from the man seated yet on the crushed pampas grass. Ariadne looks back at the Terror Bird, her hand left to rest on the top keel of the giant bird's beak. It claps its beak once and returns her eye contact.

"She says whatever she can catch." How foreboding is this. It still makes perfect natural logic, especially when one can spring faster than a modern cheetah and has bio-weaponry humans will only conceive of in facsimile several thousand years from now in this reality. "Not us though, because I'm with her now and you're with me." A little frown for Ravn as the redhead glances back over her shoulder. "How did you know she was she?"

The Terror Bird croon-chirps, tilting its head at Ravn.

"I, uh." Ravn actually blushes. Nothing like getting caught your prejudice down around your ankles. "Her colours. They're kind of -- feminine." Because nature has never invented a bird plumage for a male bird that wasn't black and sombre and gritty. Clearly.

He looks up at the bird. "Hi. Pleased to meet you. You can definitely catch my asthmatic self but I'm positive I'm not great eating. Stringy and skinny. Return me to the field to graze for another summer."

The Terror Bird clacks its beak again and takes a moment to scan its surroundings. It can certainly see well enough with its height. Ariadne ends up dropping her hand for a second before it rises to hold at her temple again. Someone can excuse the marching band parading around inside her skull now -- oh, wait, that's her own heartbeat. Please, tone it down.

"I wouldn't have guessed by the coloration, more by her size. Female raptors are larger than the males by build," the marine biologist notes quietly before risking another neck-craned look up at the Terror Bird. "She hasn't given me a name for her and I don't care to consider one right now with my head like this." Bringing her attention back down, the Terror Bird takes the only one necessary step to then swan down to look Ravn dead in the face. Beak clack.

"She says you're way too skinny, yes," the barista reports with a faint laugh despite herself.

Ravn stares back at the bird. "And she's not. Nice thighs. Hella lot of KFC there. How about we agree to not look at each other as food, big girl?"

Another sharp beak CLACK and the Terror Bird turns her face broadside, the better to consider Ravn at that close distance with one eerily-intelligent wine-dark eye. He might even see his reflection in the avian eye, its pupil actively dilating and shrinking to consider him.

"She's not going to look at you as a snack, she knows you're with me," Ariadne reports, extremely lacking in concern in counter to the Dane. "I mean, you are a snack, but in the colloquial, modern-day slang sense of the word." Circling fingers circle off to one side, okay, comment explained. "Though I don't think I'd compare her to a KFC chicken, she's anything but that." Someone's already a little proud of this sudden acquisition.

One can see the shadow cross Ariadne's face, however, and it makes the Terror Bird return attention to her. "But, Ravn...was that...?"

The golem.

Ravn remains sitting in the grass, looking up at the bird. He's very relieved that the big bird is friendly.

And not at all relieved to discuss the subject of land shark ex-fiancees. He shakes his head. "It was her. Benedikte. I really hoped -- well, that she would not come back, after Castro, Roen, and Rosencrantz destroyed her body. That woman -- Gabby? Is that short for Gabrielle? I don't know. She told me there was a blond woman walking after me everywhere. She sees spirits too, like I do. I suspected this might happen."

He sighs. "That's why the dream catchers, the wards, the -- everything. On the boat and in my room. Trying to prevent her from doing anything to you. And here she was, screaming that these fuckers didn't get to kill me -- I'm hers to kill."

Ariadne's expression falls into a facet of exhausted grief.

"Jesus fuck," she breathes when Ravn confirms her hated suspicion. The Terror Bird walks over and sees about very delicately preening at her hair again; the bird's making more a mess than helping, but the redhead isn't inclined to stop the creature, not at the moment. "So...just..." There are too many concepts to formulate for a second and the timpani in her skull isn't helping. "She won't exist without you, so I don't understand wanting to kill you. It ends her existence. But she didn't...she didn't sound sane at all. Like she was just raw anger. She's just here though?"

There's an element of pleading from Ariadne in these words -- here, only here within the Veil.

Ravn shakes his head. His gaze fixes on a sheaf of grass -- hello there. "If she follows me around, unseen to me -- then I'm the conduit. She exists, and sometimes, she can break through. But she doesn't really exist. That wasn't Benedikte. That was the ghost of Benedikte's anger. That's all there's left. Sometimes, nothing remains but the emotion. Like how a place can be haunted not by a ghost but by an emotion. A cold spot where anyone who sits down there feels cold and sad for no particular reason. It's like that. Only she's haunting me."

"Well...shit."

A simple if crass sentiment from the barista. Without directly looking up at the Terror Bird, Ariadne gently pushes its beak away from her hair in exchange for a gentle scritching of fingertips along the underside of its throat. It seems to think this is a fair exchange and stands there calmly.

"I wondered...like, whether or not you were the anchor." A harsh sigh and one can almost see Ariadne pull herself up by her own shoelaces. Composure wraps around her like an armor even if it's thin still. It's better than nothing. "Alright. I was ready to deal with her before and I guess this doesn't change. I'm not giving you up just because some flaily ghost thinks she's got first dibs. She's going to find I'm a hell of a lot more stubborn than I look and woe betide the temper of a patient woman. If she's just emotion? Fine. I've got some emotions to send right back at her."

Breaking away from the Terror Bird, Ariadne walks over and takes one knee next to her lover. "Emberem." Those hazel eyes search for his. "She doesn't define you or your actions and never will. Remember your strength."

Ravn runs his gloved hand down his face and then nods. His legs are still shaking. His hands are a bit as well. "I didn't kill her. She's gone. What remains is nothing but rage and jealousy."

He looks up at his lover. "If she could touch you -- she would have. But I'm not afraid of you. I don't think you plan to kill me. That seems to be the key -- I thought those llama assholes were going to come for us, and there she was, screaming at them about how she'd rip them apart first because I'm hers to kill. I don't know if you even register to her. And I kind of hope you don't."

Ariadne's faint smirk is somehow cold and calculating, one of those intimate insights to what drives the darker corners of her heart.

"Then she's going to get a very rude surprise one day if she tries anything because there's nothing I love more than some well-deserved comeuppance," the barista confesses in a moment of sweet venom. Just like that, she's sighed and banished her moment away. "Still...if we're being brutally pragmatic, she's a good bodyguard against any Veil bastards who want to come after you. It's not easy for me to say, but maybe take advantage of it when you can, since it's only emotion left. There's no feelings to hurt, I guess."

A hand is clearly offered out now as an anchor. The Terror Bird takes its one stride back over and stands sentinel, looking around with soft clicks of its beak.

Ravn reaches up to take the offered hand and lets himself be hauled up on his feet. He looks calm enough -- but his hand in hers is still shaking in micro-tremors; an invisible tremble that probably will linger for some time. "At least you made a new friend. When we get back -- maybe you should have coffee with Finch Celaeno and talk raptors with her."

He looks up at the bird again. "Excuse you."

Because somebody needs a hug and he's taking it from the woman who just told him that any dead exes who want to get to him will have to go through her first. And it's a very good feeling, that somebody knows how bad it is -- and still takes a stand for him.

Rising along with the taller Dane, Ariadne keeps the shivering hand all for herself. Gently, she holds it, and doesn't seem inclined to let go anytime soon. The name isn't familiar to her, but she nods nonetheless. "Finch Celaeno. I'll ask around the shop, see if anyone knows how to get hold of her." If someone's name-dropped, it's probably a good idea to follow up, especially in Gray Harbor.

The Terror Bird looks down at Ravn and takes one step back, cocking its head left and right. Excuse her what? Oh. Whatever. Sentinel time.

For all of how Ariadne's inches shorter than Ravn, she does an awful good job of an honest and encompassing hug. It helps when one plasters oneself as much as one can against their lover and holds arms firmly tight (and not over-tight). "I'm not going anywhere," she mumbles into his collarbones.

Ravn rests his forehead against Ariadne's and tries to take quiet, steady breaths. "I'm okay. It's -- It's hard to watch her like that. Even when I know objectively that she was a shallow, jealous piece of work. That's why I broke up with her -- I came to understand just how unhappy we'd make each other. She did not want me -- she wanted to turn me into that perfect husband she envisioned. And I didn't want her -- I was in love with the idea of being in love. It was doomed from day one and I hate that I ever let it happen."

He sighs. "In a way I did kill her. Or let her kill herself. But there's no sight like hindsight. I am pretty certain there's nothing of her left now but her anger."

"Hindsight's painful...but you're right," the redhead gently reminds Ravn. "Now, nothing is left but emotion. She's corralled by being on this side of things and anchored to you. Okay. So be it. We work around it until a solution presents itself otherwise. For now, I just want to go home, so let's figure that out."

There's a moment where the barista tries to see about a little Mind Xanax, as the saying goes. It frizzles before it barely makes more of a breath upon a windowpane and she winces, an audible whisper of pain leaving her.

"Tried to calm, didn't work," she reports tightly as the headache's agony briefly spikes into icicle into skull territory.

"It's all right. I'll be all right. Just don't let me get into more fights right now, okay?" Ravn's voice may be a little weak and his grin a bit thin but it's there, and it's the effort that counts, right? "Don't use what you don't have. You're exhausted and I am too. We need to find a way out of here."

He glances over at the big bird. (Don't think of her as the drumsticks from Heaven, just don't). "Think your new friend might be able to lead us to anything that looks like a door? Maybe we might manage to find our way home through it."

Another nod rubs her forehead against his chin. Ariadne's sure as hell not trying anything else; Ravn might have to act human crutch if he can at this point, every sense resounds in her skull like reality has been turned up to 11 and someone's lost the dial-knob itself.

The Terror Bird brings her head down to Ravn's level. Tilt left. Tilt right. Her long legs then carry her towards the nearest tree. Beneath the shade, she pecks at the tree once before looking back at Ravn.

Paying attention, stringbean?

The Terror Bird then circles the tree once, disappearing and reappearing from behind its girth, and then squarks.

The stringbean is paying attention. He squeezes Ariadne's hand and murmurs, "Your bird friend is trying to tell us something. I think we should pay attention. Maybe that's the right tree to take us home, somehow. Maybe there's a nice fruit in it. Maybe there's a secret door to Oz. Let's go find out -- and let's do it before those llama herds come back with four hundred cousins to defend the territorial rights of Atahualpa the Anachronistic."

Ariadne dares to squint at the Terror Bird from around her boyfriend. Again, the pleasantly-colored creature steps around the tree and appears again and once more squawks.

"Maybe it's just walking around the far side of the tree," she suggests. "I'm not eating any damn fruit." Cranky redhead is cranky. Either way, she nods carefully and then walks in the direction of the tree. It's bizarre, the way it ends up working: one moment, she's nearly stumbling along with Ravn's hand in her own and walking beneath the cooler shade of the tree. The air begins to mist up and blend like tears suddenly filled her eyes -- but they're dry -- and as she walks around the trunk, it all falls away to the cry of the Terror Bird --

-- which blends into the overhead cry of a seagull.

Oh. Her backyard. The backyard of her apartment. Ariadne lets out a sigh of relief and nearly crumples on the spot. Only pride keeps her on her feet. "Let's go inside and sleep," she mumbles, " -- after a cool shower. My head..."