2022-06-27 - The Sounds of Discord

Addington Park. A lovely place with a vintage children's carousel and a black peacock who largely glares at people and then steals from their picnic baskets. There is a gazebo in which local musicians sometimes perform, to the varying levels of delight of the local folks; some manage a pained applause from Aunt Agatha, and others put on performances worthy of a high end lounge (and some do both; the piano lounge on the Casino Island recruits local talent). Today's performance is modern jazz. And what the two boys with the keyboard and the electrical violin lack in actual musical talent they make up for in enthusiasm.

Gravel paths lead around the park and the gazebo, dotted with park benches upon which tiny brass plaques identify who donated them. Some people claim the texts sometimes change. They are obviously joking.

Sitting on one of those benches is a tall copper blond in black -- leather jacket, jeans, boots, and gloves, all of it but the print on the t-shirt, reading, Let Me Put This In Spanish For You: No." A cigarette dangles from a lip and he seems to be watching the duo at the gazebo -- making up an audience of one (1) person, because everyone else has fled out of earshot. These boys may need a bit more practise in their parents' garage.

Una's sundress might be better suited to a day that is actually sunny, but it's not particularly cold and anyway, who cares? Waiting for sun in this state may mean you're waiting for a very long time, and who has time for that, really-- clearly not the redhead in question. Off at the edge of the park, she clambers down off of her bicycle and wheels it towards the conveniently located bicycle rack, chaining it up with a careful flick of the combination lock (it then gets a good solid tug, too, just to make sure that it is as secured as it is supposed to be: it is).

Bicycle stowed and her canvas bag rescued from the basket at the front, the inappropriately-dressed-for-cycling redhead turns away, slinging bag over her shoulder and taking her first steps into the park. There may not be many people in close proximity to the musicians, but the park's busy enough otherwise-- maybe that's half the reason she meanders in that direction, because it doesn't look like she catches sight of Ravn until she's well on her way (at which point even she is wincing at the quality of the music on offer).

"You aren't... finding this incredibly painful?" she wonders, approaching.

The park is as good a place as any to be outdoors. Or rather, far away from any and all actual doors. The usually cheerful young man is looking a little short on sleep these days. The button-up layered over the simple black t-shirt is looking a little rumpled. As he wanders the park mindlessly, he gravitates toward the gazebo... Not because the music is worth hearing, but because of the handy fact that it has driven away most other people.

As he starts down the path, so lost in thought that he's not really paying attention, he doesn't quite notice Ravn until it's too late to avoid passing him without it being extremely conspicuous. So he tightens his lips in a vague, forced smile, and walks a little faster.

"It's torture," Ravn tells Una with a heartfelt wince. "But how are they going to get experience if no one will listen to them, and give them honest feedback? The violinist is not bad -- he just gets too excited and then he gets sloppy. And the keyboardist thinks he's in Depeche Mode."

The keyboardist is sixteen. He's probably never even heard of Depeche Mode.

The younger man wandering past is just that -- until Ravn happens to glance his way and goes through his mental Rolodex; there are only so many people in Gray Harbor who have that special little shiny something about them, and he can't place this one right away.

Hang on. Glitter. Seth Monaghan's bloody glitter bomb. Right. That was a while ago.

He raises a gloved hand in a friendly little wave. "Long time no see." Because no one is oblivious to subtle social cues like Ravn Abildgaard. He's kind of infamous for it.

"Ah," says Una, crossing her arms as she lifts her chin to consider the musicians at work. She doesn't really know what counts as good-- but she knows that this is definitely not it. "Generous of you."

She's busy enough watching them play that it takes her a moment or two after Ravn to identify who he's talking to (since it clearly can't be her!)-- and to then frown. "Oh-- the guy who finds things. Afternoon!" She's a little more aware of subtle social cues than Ravn is, and that's visible enough in her slight frown, though the frown is rapidly chased away by a smile.

"I've forgotten your name. If I knew it. I'm so sorry."

Robin keeps his distance, though he's polite enough to at least return the wave, glancing between Ravn and Una with a distinct wariness incompletely hidden behind the same tight smile. "Robin. We only met in passing, I think." He glances to Ravn, and a brow quirks upward slightly. "I /think/ I remember you. Round Applebottom, something like that? You look better in glitter."

Ravn's lip twitches a little; he's been called worse -- but not much. "Ravn Abildgaard, yes. I'm afraid the glitter was a one-time event -- or so I hope. It's been months and I am still finding bits of glitter in the shower and on my cat's fur. That stuff is the herpes of crafting. I feel like I've cleaned away twice as much as was in the bloody package. Robin, wasn't it?"

He glances at Una. "I think I made a great first impression. Nothing says 'hi, I'm the friendly neighbourhood historian' like being covered in paint, glitter, and gummy dicks."

"Robin," repeats Una, with a bright smile that promises she's committing it to memory, this time. "And I'm Una."

Her mouth twitches with undisguised mirth as she admits, "It was pretty memorable. Just think of it as good practice for when Aidan finally gets around to painting your whole house... less glitter, maybe, but just as many rainbows. Glitter, though-- it's true, it's absolutely the worst. I keep being tempted to bake with the edible stuff, and then I remember that I like my kitchen, and by preference, I'd rather keep it as it is."

Robin tucks his hands into his pockets, head tilting slightly as he glances between Ravn and Una. "I don't know. I kind of like glitter. And rainbows. But I suppose you could set fire to the whole thing." He gives another of those tense little smiles. "I hear fire keeps the shadows away, too."

Ravn checks the wind direction -- perhaps to avoid giving anyone a face full of smoke as he draws on his cigarette. "So my room mate tells me. He likes fire. And fire likes him. He's planning to paint the house rainbow paisley, but I don't think he intends to burn it down, though. At least I really hope not, because I rather like having access to a bookshelf and a shower."

He glances at Una. "I hope you don't mind living next door to rainbow paisley because once Aidan gets an idea in his head. Don't think he'll get done within Pride month, though."

"I like rainbows too," says Una, blithely. Robin's being tense, and she's being distinctly conciliatory. Rainbows! Everything's fine! Whatever the problem is, it's actually fine!

"Which means, no, I have no objection to living next door to rainbow paisley. He's only got a couple of days to go, so... never mind. Maybe for next Pride? Burning it all down would be pretty inconvenient. It'd do a number on the value of my property, too... not that I'm looking to sell."

To Robin: "I'm still trying to think of a way to out-do whatever Aidan decides to do. Oak Avenue is never going to be the same again, it's great."

Robin blinks a few times at all that, glancing between the two. "Paisley's a pretty complex pattern to paint on a house. But if he's the one responsible for the glitter, I imagine he'll find a way to do it. Sounds like a guy I'd like to meet." He takes kind of a half-step back. "Anyway, I'd think the critters in the back yard are probably a bigger problem than the glitter paisley."

"Nah, that was a friend of mine who felt he had something to tell me that was best delivered by paint bomb." Ravn makes a little face. "But yeah -- Aidan Kinney's the kind of bloke who will undertake an endeavour such as painting an entire facade paisley. You can't miss him on the boardwalk this time of year -- dresses like a peacock, lots of brown curls, and usually, one or two fashionista girls lurking nearby hoping he'll turn his back on his latest gorgeous coat find. The man's a thrift store genius."

Then his smile fades and he nods slightly. "You mean the faerie. Have they been bothering you? We're trying to work out how to remove that faerie circle from Oak Three but we don't want to piss the faerie off in the process."

"I need him to teach me his secrets," grumbles Una. "I thought I was good at thrifting, but... Aidan's got everyone beat, I'm convinced of it. And better yet, he can carry things off that I wouldn't dream of, and I like my outlandish clothes just fine."

She hesitates, making a face at reference to the fae. "We're going to pay them off, or similar," she confirms. "Let them go on their merry way. No more out-of-season lawns. I remember you weren't so keen on the idea-- you found something in Ravn's yard, didn't you? A while back? They're mostly harmless, but they still don't belong on the yard, so. It's time."

Robin wrinkles his nose a bit. "No. I'm not dumb enough to get close to them once I know they're there. Messing around with the shadows is how you end up... What did you locals call it. The Veil, right? That's how you get stuck in the Veil." He lifts his shoulders, maybe slightly less tense but still keeping his distance. "If I were you, I'd give up painting the house /or/ getting rid of the faeries. I'd move. Maybe burn it down on your way out."

Ravn turns his cigarette over. "To be fair, the faerie haven't bothered us. They've done everything they agreed to do, and nothing more. The trouble we've had -- has been humans thinking they could use the power of faerie for their own ends. But they do need to go, so we don't have anyone else thinking they can control the uncontrollable."

He cants his head and glances at Robin; a bit of a searching look, perhaps. "They're not the same, though. I don't know what to really call the faerie besides, well, faerie. Maybe they're cut from the same cloth. But the shadows -- the monsters, are different. And if they had a portal in my backyard I'd torch the portal, the house, the street, and probably the town."

Una's brown-eyed gaze slides from Robin to Ravn and then back again, a certain amount of quiet hesitation and uncertainty visible in her expression. "Hubris," she agrees. "Hubris is what caused the problem, and we're past that, now. It doesn't mean the fae should stay, so they're not going to, once we're done with it."

She opens her mouth to say something further, watching Robin again. "The Veil creatures are definitely not to be trusted. And we don't. We absolutely don't."

Robin snorts faintly at the distinction between faerie and monsters. "If it quacks like a duck, start making yourself some orange sauce. If it came out of the Veil, set up a portal in your yard, and started trying to make deals... It's a shadow. The pretty ones are bad enough. If they're pretty /and/ they try to be helpful? Those are the worst of all." He rubs at the bridge of his nose, and glances toward the source of the quite awful background music. "It's good you're planning to get rid of them. Pardon me if I'm skeptical about how easy that will be, but it's not /my/ tail in the fire, so do whatever you want."

Ravn puts his finished cigarette out and tucks the butt into a pocket of his leather jacket. "Speaking as a folklorist, you're not wrong. Better to err on the side of caution. I've had no bad experience with Petra and his lot, but sidhe play a long game. Either way, I'll feel better when they're gone and don't prove neither threat nor temptation. The trick for us figuring out to make them leave, without invoking some kind of parting curse on the town. Celtic faerie aren't known to be forgiving and they are known to be proud as all hell."

Up on the gazebo the boys come to a break in -- whatever it is they're playing. Ravn turns his head and manages to offer a small applause without openly grimacing.

"I'm pretty sure we made the deal with them, rather than the other way around," points out Una after a moment's hesitation. "But I'll concede the point, otherwise."

She follows Ravn's cue, offering a quick, cheerful few claps for the boys, turning a smile in their direction. Encouragement, yay!

To Robin: "I can't blame you. There's lots of awful things that can happen. In this town; in general. That's why we try and stick together. And why we're trying to make sure we all... watch each others' backs, I guess? Point out the things that may be dangerous, but don't seem it, when you're there, in the moment. Arguably, even using our own abilities can fall into that category. That's the problem."

Robin rolls his eyes when Una gets to the topic of abilities. "Show me a tool that /can't/ be dangerous, and I'll show you a useless piece of crap. Maybe they're dangerous, but so is a wood saw. And I'm not going to stop building things just because a saw can hurt you if you're stupid with it."

He does gives a lazy few claps for the musicians, if only to encourage the youths on. "Do you even have a plan for getting rid of them? Or are you just going to talk to them nicely and hope they agree?"

"Talking to them nicely is plan A. Plan B probably involves cold iron and other traditional methods." Ravn nods slightly. "Might end up taking them clothes shopping."

He picks another cigarette out of his pocket -- oh wait, no, that's a plastic toy cigarette. Maybe he just needs something to twirl between gloved fingers, because that's what he does with it: Dancing along his knuckles, spinning between slender fingers. "A wood saw is dangerous and useful. But you probably wouldn't use one to fan yourself or let your five year old make cardboard cut-outs with one. I'm not advocating not using our powers -- but there is something as being responsible with them. Of course it's ultimately on people themselves -- the more you light up the night using your magic, the greater the chance that something out there spots the fire."

Una presses her lips together, tightly, with a little flare of irritation. "I said 'arguably'," she points out. "I'm not advocating not using them, either. Just-- what Ravn said, really." She's still got her arms crossed, and now, both hands lift so that they can rub at the shoulder of their opposite number, a gesture that is quietly protective.

"I'm hoping we can avoid the cold iron. I'd hate doing that. Whatever their provenance, they've not done anything to us worthy of that."

Robin looks pretty skeptical of all this, but he finally waves his hand. "Whatever works. Maybe put up a fence before you lose a neighbor kid."

Then Ravn goes and waxes eloquent on the top of abilities as a tool, and Robin's eyes narrow defensively. "I'm sorry. Did you just equate me to a five year old doing crafts with a hacksaw? Screw you, dude. You don't even know me."

Ravn blinks. "No. I suggested that letting a five year old do crafts with a hacksaw is a bad idea. But you're not a five year old, and it's not my place to pluck the handsaw out of your hands or try to tell you how to use it. And we should probably all be grateful for that given that I have ten thumbs, and the five year old probably handles a hacksaw better than I do."

Una straightens, sharply. "Do you always immediately think the worst of people?" she wants to know, chin lifted as she regards Robin.

It's unusual; she's not usually known for her temper. But right now? The redhead seems quietly irritated.

Robin shoots a look between Una and Ravn, eyes slightly hooded. "Uh huh." That's about the most skeptical-sounding agreement possible, but Una's question just earns a little snort. "I don't know, is your friend always kind of a pretentious dick?"

Ravn hitches a shoulder. "Yeah. Or at least so I'm told." Not a whole lot else to say to that.

Una drops her arms, but mostly so that she can wave them in disgust, and for emphasis. Dramatic, much?

"Oh for fuck's sake," she says, exasperated. "Can we start again, and not wave our dicks around, please? Or we can just end this conversation and move on. I don't care, except that given this place? I'd rather be reassured that people aren't going to hate on each other and cause shit in the middle of the worst possible moment for it."

Robin gives a blurt of humorless laughter. "Look. You can start over as many times as you want, and we'll still reach the same conclusion: I don't trust you." He starts to open his mouth to say more, then presses his lips together. After a beat, he abruptly agrees. "You're right. Why am I still talking to you? You guys go... have fun farting around with your bedtime stories. Maybe I'll go feed the ducks."

Ravn quirks an eyebrow. "Okay. You've decided I'm a pretentious dick. Not the first to reach that conclusion, so fair enough. But what did Irving do to you besides exist?"

"Oh, forget it," says Una, disdainfully... though really, she mostly looks hurt, so there's a good chance she's just putting that on. "Just pray we're never thrown into a situation where we have to rely on each other, since apparently we can'e be trusted. Have a good life." She's gone pink, flushed as far as the eye can see, and her arms have gone back into place around herself, hugging her shoulders.

Robin blinks rapidly at Ravn. "Who the hell is Irving?" A beat, then he waves his hand. "Nevermind. I don't care. /Bye/." And off he goes. Presumably to feed the ducks with the bread he absolutely did not bring with him?

Ravn's brows shoot higher up. "The woman you're yelling at," he murmurs, well aware that the other man a) probably doesn't hear, and b) probably doesn't care.

A gloved hand wanders up to rub his neck as he glances at Una. "I have -- no idea what that's about. But, sorry, I guess? I seem to have a knack for pissing people off lately and not even realising it."

Una opens her mouth, but doesn't get as far as responding: Robin is off, and she's... well, it's a little like the wind has been knocked out of her sails.

Ravn, after a moment, gets a glance. "I don't think it was you," she says, with a sigh. "Or rather... I don't think it was anything you did, specifically. I think he was determined to hate on something. Never mind. He's been in town for months, and I've only seen him around a couple of times... chances are we won't have to worry about him again."