Logs:Makeshift Tart Meadow
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| RL Date: 29 July, 2015 |
| Who: Faryn, T'mic |
| Involves: High Reaches Weyr, Telgar Hold |
| Type: Log |
| What: Berries are picked, and two types of romping occur. |
| Where: Foothills, Telgar Area |
| When: Day 23, Month 5, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Mentions: Farideh/Mentions, Yesia/Mentions |
| OOC Notes: Sex, but nothing graphic. |
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| "Just trust me," T'mic had said, somewhere in the process of not really describing to Faryn where they were going, or why he really wanted her to please hold on to that adorable little basket that he found somewhere in the bowels of the Weyr, probably through some sort of weyrbrat connection. (At least it's not all sticky.) On the other side of between is that surprise place he was so excited about. It's mountains to the north and east, foothills below, a river to the west. As Jorrth circles down, with some small dramatic flare or aesthetic appreciation, the bit of ground he's aiming for comes into better focus: an expanse of grasses, a bit of water that's more creek than anything, with some bushes growing along it. There's a wind that ripples the grasses and makes it not quite comfortable to be without a jacket, even though, here, the sun shines, interrupted only by the occasional cloud. It's a good day to be here. Probably why T'mic's face has cracked with such a broad grin. Close enough to perfect for him. There's a brow arch and a bemused expression, but when isn't there with Faryn? T'mic, at least, gets cooperation along with it; she takes the not-sticky basket -- doesn't even peek, that's how good she is! -- and she gives Jorrth only a minimally suspicious look as she climbs up, apparently content that T'mic has earned her trust after all this time. What she has for him, then, is just, "It'd better be warm," before they are up and away, and she is not entirely disappointed on the other side of between, though she doesn't seem to get it. Even so, his grin is contagious, so he gets one in kind, with mock-disappointment as she observes, "This is not a tart forest." Jorrth drops and drops, and lands rather gently, rather purposefully, in the grasses, near the creek and those bushes, but with plenty of space for his wings and everything. That huge blue takes a breath so deep that those riding up between his 'ridges should be able to feel it. "Well- no," says T'mic, hands coming down onto his dragon's hide as Jorrth hits the 'exhale' part. "I guess it's not even really a forest." Though there seem to be some trees nearby, north and east. "But trust me." Then he's unbuckling straps, leading the way, hopping down, and holding up a hand. To help Faryn, to hold the basket, whatever. He's there. Faryn's moods with Jorrth still border on fickle, but today her spirits seem good enough so she takes a deep breath as he does, sighs it out in tandem, mocking him playfully. She's automatic in passing the basket down, freeing her hands so she dismount and reach for it again. "It's my charge," she explains as she tries to pluck it from his fingers. "I'm starting to think your tart forest is a fiction. Woe." Despite her complaints, she doesn't act terribly put out, swinging the basket like a pendulum at her side, incongruous with her general demeanor. She looks like a child, doing that. Jorrth leans a little in as Faryn gets down, just enough to help her along. Nudge her along. And then that great big head is swinging around. T'mic doesn't seem worried. And he takes very good care of the basket while he has it, and then offers it right back, a strong up-and-down-once nod of approval. Yup. Her charge. With contents that shift a bit, back and forth, but with no audible breaking or crunching sounds as it goes. "I think I'd call it more like... a hope?" A hand gestures up and over his shoulder, and he turns, and starts toward that little creek. "Come on." But he's started grinning all over again. Jorrth, at the very least, will wait until everyone is well cleared before he flips over and wallows himself a big flat patch of grass. Straps and all. "Fiction," Faryn confirms, falling into step behind him, still swinging that basket like she's weighing its contents and trying to decipher them from the movements they make. "It's a good one, though, hope or fiction." That's the end of that particular concern, though, and she's quicker to move on to the meat of their circumstances. "Why here? And," as a follow-up, "where? We have a place like this outside of Reaches." Her assessment is barely fair, given that the meadow outside of the weyr is still recovering from winter, likely, and not green or temperate. " "Hope could always turn out true," says T'mic, glancing sidelong at her, still grinning. He can't help it, okay. "Come on," is said again. "Down there." And he points to where those bushes begin, not all growing in a massive clump right away, but here, there. "It's like this, but it's not like this. And besides, we've been there before." Jorrth has started making snorting noises, because this grass, is awesome. Almost as good as hay. Almost. "And they've got these." Both arms are held out in a 'taadaa' sort of way. At a bush. Yup. Not much to look at, from afar, but the bluerider remains super proud. "Probably not about fancy things you tell weyrbrats to keep their imaginations going." Faryn's arm stops swinging, the basket coming to a stop with a couple bumps against her hip. That she's attempting to be impressed is clear; that she's not doing a great job is also probably pretty clear. Her eyes narrow at T'mic, at the bush, but she ultimately decides, "There are definitely bushes," even as she steps forward, keen on finding whatever is making him grin. "Yup," says T'mic, unwavering. And then he leans down, and pinches an adorable little something in between one great big thumb, and one great big finger, and presents it to Faryn with his own dramatic flare. "With these growing on 'em." A moment to puff his chest, and then, "Taste it." And, again, "Trust me." Jorrth has stopped rolling and snorting, and is watching, half-reclined in the flat he's made for himself. There's that suspicion again, Faryn reaching for his gift and pinching it between her fingers to squint at it. "Berries?" sounds surprised, but it wipes the suspicion out full-stop and she puts it in her mouth, even though the sour-puss must still point out, "T'mic, these could have been poison. You really shouldn't eat wild berries, even when they're really good, like this one is." It's perfunctory responsibility at its finest. "Berries," confirms T'mic, releasing that little thing to her, uh, custody, and bringing his arms to cross, satisfied, over his chest. The chiding just earns a renewal of that grin. "Yeah, but they didn't get any weird taste to them when I held 'em in my mouth. And I'm not dead yet." Which makes him think to uncross his arms, and twist around, and grab himself a little berry, all the while waving back with his free hand. "Open the basket." Which promises to contain little triangles of pastry, not layered or folded around anything; just scraps that were cut into bite sizes and baked along with the rest. Faryn sounds the littlest bit appreciative when she says, "Look at you, sticking possible poison in your mouth." A curious expression crosses her face, her eyes squinting down for a moment while she studies him. "Just like a rider." Down goes her voice a half-octave, not mocking anyone in particular, but definitely an affect of someone male, "I'm not afraid of no poison, garr." And yes, that might sound more like a pirate, but she's not belaboring the point. Instead, she's still following orders so well, looking into the basket and saying, "Almost enough for a pie," she decrees, but she's taking one of those pastries out now, popping it in her mouth, and making a sound of appreciation before she takes another, this one offered out to him. "Makeshift tart meadow. It will do." Just like a rider. It makes T'mic tilt his head, that grin turning more into a simple smile, faintly thoughtful, though his good mood isn't shaken into gloom. "We definitely talk just like that," is even playful a bit. "And I think you mean 'wingleader'." The first berry is popped into his mouth. "I'm glad you like it," goes to Faryn with a nod. And then he starts to gather those little berries, one hand cupped, the other, picking. Jorrth's interest is renewed. He's back on his feet, and making one big bound over, springing surprisingly high on those silly little feet of his, ever enthusiastic. "'s how my mum talks," Faryn exaggerates, her brows up, daring him to challenge that. Jorrth's bounding is still alarming; certainly T'mic's grown used to it, but maybe Faryn has a more vivid recollection of when the big blue didn't have complete control of all those limbs, and so his rediscovered interest has her stepping closer to the bush to warn the dragon, "You don't have the delicacy for berry picking, don't stomp it." It does at least sound like she is being playful. Mostly. As for T'mic, and his rank? A snort. "You're not my wingleader, sir." She brings the basket closer now, though, setting it beside him and saying, "There's room in there," as she starts picking too. She's slower. Because she's eating every second or third with relish. "Do you like it? Wingleading?" "Making her voice all low?" The smile turns more crooked, more playful. Jorrth snorts at her (some might call it affectionate), and makes a point of obviously tip-toeing toward one of those bushes, of extending that hulk of a neck of his, of making like to nibble at the berries. Even if he gets a whole branch. T'mic dumps his first collection of berries into the basket, and presses a shoulder into his dragon as he swings around, a bit more toward the creek, toward more bushes. "Yeah. I mean, it's not what I want to do when we grow up," him and Jorrth, the thumb jut indicates, "but... We're doing our best at it, and I want to do it right, and Jorrth's really, really good at it... and I think I might kind of like when you call me 'sir', so." "Yes. She sounds like a man, most days." Faryn's eyes are on Jorrth, warning, but when he manages to pull a branch she lays off in favor of a laugh; silly dragon. As he moves off, Faryn makes haste to pull off more berries, quickly, and keep them in her palm, popping them into her mouth before she follows. "You were good with the kids, it makes sense that you'd be good at monitoring everyone else." In goes a berry as she tilts her head, one brow arching high before there's her slow, cheshire smile. "You never struck me as that sort." The branch is never ripped off; what leaves the dragon's mouth is chewed leaves, and notably few berries. Or dropped berries. Or crushed berries that are stuck on twigs. But he seems well pleased, anyway, and tiptoes on to the next one, as only a bulky blue dragon can. T'mic tries really hard to look macho for a moment, making a scowly face that suggests he has no idea how to look macho, and puffing his chest, and trying to put his hands on his hips, but one's got some new berries in it so it's hard. It lasts a good couple seconds before he puffs out a laugh, and shakes his head. "Okay. That might've been a... fiction. Anyway, it's mostly Jorrth who does the real monitoring. I help people more I think. But it's good. It works, you know? And I made sure to get the stricter ones for wingseconds. Besides, that Quinlys asked us?" Now there's some real, T'mic-style pride, to rival the makeshift tart meadow. That tiptoing is cartoonish, engaging Faryn's attention until she ends up snorting a laugh -- at both of them, as it happens, because T'mic is being absurd too, and she's surrounded by it. It's too silly even for her to completely stifle her laughter on. It comes out as a puffed scoff. "We need to work on your intimidating face. We could hire someone. I know Jorrth is blue -- and that's fine," is an aside for the dragon in question, "but you should really be able to have a mean face to go behind all that new muscle." She bumps him with her hip as she passes him to the new bush and again her help is minimal. She's busy munching, and she has a thoughtful sound for the mention of Quinlys. "She's good. And you are too. She's got good taste, good judgment. From what I can tell." That she laughs - scoffs - makes T'mic laugh for real, and properly. He gives some sort of little shove after her, directed at the hip that's just brushed him. Nothing is said on intimidation. Because he's dumping his latest gathering of berries, filling that basket on his own. Jorrth just looks up, the tip of a branch in his mouth. Why wouldn't blue be fine? "I think so, too. Some of the weyrlings didn't like her at first, but... she puts a lot of thought into things. Senses stuff. Keeps it simple." T'mic is licking at one of his fingertips when he comes back, to settle in alongside Faryn, and wait until there's anything in her hand. Which he proceeds to try and steal, albeit not very sneakily. No reason, blue is fine. "I like her. I imagine, maybe, if she was my boss, I wouldn't? Or, would like her less? But when your point is to break people down and build them into something else, something better, well." A shrug, and then she's batting at T'mic's hands as her hand reflexively close around the berries she's got. Which, of course, crushes them. "You tried to steal them," she says, dismayed, opening a purple-stained palm. "And now they're dead." "But everyone's lives had just changed. There wasn't any breaking down. Not by her, anyway." The look T'mic gives to Jorrth is one of relief. T'mic, clearly, hasn't changed at all through weyrlinghood. T'mic, who goes on to give Faryn a little 'tsk' the way he might to comfort a weyrbrat. Just as he goes to swipe at some of that berry goo in her hand with his index finger. Fast, this time, lest she try block him, a swoop from hand to mouth (as it were). "They're still good," comes in time with this. "Well, yeah, but you've all changed." Schwing. "You had to, because everything else did. So I take it back. Maybe she just rebuilt you, but that's hard too. What if you just don't want to be what she's trying to build? You're different," that's established without room for argument, "and you're easy, and good natured and kind. It was probably easier for you." She pulls a disgusted face at T'mic when he moves, and it deepens when he licks his finger. "Gross," established evenly, "I'm not licking my hands. I know where they've been." "It's what suits your dragon, though." But any softening of T'mic's expression for her saying such nice things about him will have to wait. There are more important things at hand. Such as, "Tastes good to me," which answers back, and then makes a grab for her hand, and dips his head in after it with tongue extended, laughing again. Jorrth happy-hops over to the next bush, leaving one dishevelled in his wake. Faryn defers with a shallow shrug, her mouth opening and ready to explain some outside perspective he'll never have the opportunity for again, when he grabs her hand (a thing she allows rather easily, these days) and starts aiming to lick it. This is the closest she becomes to a panicky girl, ever. "Ew! No, ew gross!" is not established evenly, but if he were to describe it as a shriek, she would probably do him bodily harm (however accurate that is. She pushes him with her other hand, yanks with the first, "There's a stream, I'll wash it, ewwww!" It's that near-panic that makes T'mic lose it. Any purpose in licking her hand, in even having his tongue out, disappears. For now he's just trying to keep hold of that one hand, and grab the other one that's pushing him, and giving 'hoo hoo hoo' and 'ha ha ha' kind of noises, literally, and grinning so big his cheeks threaten to hide his squinty-closed eyes. "You're being a girl!" manages its way out finally. The shriek has Jorrth's attention, but he's not coming to anybody's rescue. "I am a girl, you idiot," Faryn says, still tugging away, but she's laughing too, as she tries to pull her arms into her chest so she can protect her hands from him. It successfully reels her in, because she's curling down on herself too, protectively. "I'm just not a Girl--" emphasis on the capital letter, followed by a grunt of exertion as she really tries to yank herself away -- "Farideh, or --" another, accompanying a sharp twist of her body -- "Yesia." Maybe, T'mic is afraid that all that afore-mentioned muscle might actually inflict some sort of injury; he keeps hanging on for the first jerk, letting his arms be pulled out from himself, but not loosening his grip. On the second, though, he releases, even if he's still got aftershock chuckles going through him. Even if he then turns those big hands up, fingers outstretched, reaching, but not grabbing this time. "I did notice that, you know," as it fades back into a smile, this one, a bit lopsided and less toothy, and affectionate too. "Both those things." Faryn staggers, of course; that's what happens when you're fighting being licked and someone just stops, but she at least doesn't quite fall. At once she begins rubbing that palm on her thigh to get rid of the berry juice and in doing remove any temptation, even though she's still puffing laughs too. "Yeah, well. You sounded surprised. I had to make sure." She studies his hand, then the stain on her own, raising an eyebrow. "Bleh," is decided eventually. "You are terrible." "Notice it lots," says the bluerider, suddenly all honest and innocent all over again, even if there's a quick relived quirk of the previous silliness over his face. His fingers aren't without stain of their own, though it's not the mash that was hers. "Thought I was nice and kind and good-natured and stuff," almost-remembers T'mic, just before that hand is brought up to his mouth. Lick. Then, it's wiped on his hip. Then, held out to her, fresh and clean. Ish. "You were. But like I said, you've changed. Now it's sham," Faryn declares. "More the fool me. I should have known." She's still smiling though, rubbing her palm more fervently against her thigh for good measure, even though the creek isn't far off. She's softened overall, everything about her easy even when she recoils dramaticlly from that sort-of clean hand. "Gross," again, as the word of the day, and she bypasses his offering entirely, the better to step right up to him, take his shirt and tug him down all that way for a kiss, as she tip-toes up to meet him. That's a lot less gross, by any estimation. "Really should've," agrees T'mic, ironically enough that it shows even on his face, in a bit of an arched eyebrow. That all drops off when he's hauled down, no resistance, answering readily first with lips, and then, with (gross?) hands moving for her hips. Less gross, except by Jorrth's estimation. He's at least used to it now, though. Forget the watching he'd been doing. He's got more berries to pick on tip-toe, hops subsided with the end of the clowning. T'mic, he's not like to let go, even when that kiss ends. "I'm glad," he says then, "that this didn't change." For Faryn, it's all less gross now; she can be drawn in easily, and there's no batting or protest anymore than she seems terribly concerned that any lingering purple might stain the shirt she's wrapped her hand around. A girl who puts on a show when it suits her, then, maybe more a Girl than she likes to admit in that particular regard. "Tricky," she calls him, with a chaste kiss for punctuation, not withdrawing so long as he's holding her there. She's gotten terribly good at ignoring Jorrth in these moments, and now is no different; the logic seems to be that if she doesn't acknowledge him, maybe he'll just stop being upset by it, like when people let their children cry themselves to sleep. It seems to be working, unfortunately for those bushes. "Ah, I wouldn't say that. I'd just say it's for the better, in the long run." Or at least get used to it enough that it's not such a big, terrifying curiosity. Which does, yes, seem to be working. T'mic flexes his fingers thoughtfully in answer to that little peck, shifts his shoulders back, and if it gets her right close, well. Berries everywhere. It makes his nose wrinkle, to try and track change, in himself, in them. After a moment he blinks, and then drops his head forward, a Jorrth move of pressing forehead to forehead, but it's one that's got to be second-nature to the rider now. "Well I'm glad for that, then," precedes the third kiss. This one, he doesn't mean to have be quite so chaste. Closer she is, then, as he shifts back. "Bonk," she says with a laugh as they bump foreheads, but she's definitely present with the same appreciative sound she had for the berries when he kisses her a third time. Ignore Jorrth it is, as she presses closer - if that's even possible - and glides both hands up, her touch feather light as she considers, and a preface for wrapping her arms around his neck; she can't get higher, and thus must keep him lower to kiss him with zeal, and her eyes close with another low humm. Yes, good. Ignore Jorrth, so long as Jorrth is ignoring them. That kiss goes on, or maybe breaks into another - who even keeps track of these things in the moment, really? He might be more familiar with her curves now then he was, but it's not looking to stop T'mic's exploring them all over again. This goes on. And at some point he needs air, and Jorrth, too, has taken a break. At this same point, the bluerider's eyes close. Hands aren't stopping, though. "Hey, Faryn." Not Faryn, who doesn't doesn't need air, if the sound she makes is any indication: frustrated and wordless grumbles when they break, even though she does wind up taking a few deep breaths once she curtails her attempt to chase him to resume. She moves her mouth down instead, to set upon anything she can and kiss there instead. Pliable and the least bit wiggly, Faryn exhales warmly when his fingers trail somewhere that tickles the slightest bit, and luckily can't actually move any closer now. "Mmmmm? Yes?" What's there? A jaw. A neck. A... shirt. Oh well. T'mic opens his eyes again, but turns his head toward his dragon as best he can. If it has the added effect, hunched as he is, of a chin or cheek finding the top of Faryn's head, he's fine with that. "What would you, um." A blink to Jorrth, who lowers his head to chew another branch, but still watches his rider right back. "Think of here." The probing is replaced by a nervous grasp, arms tensing from shoulders down. He straightens up his gaze, back to her. Faryn doesn't kiss shirts, at least. She lingers above the collar of them, her kisses slow and considering, until he turns and makes it that much harder for her to reach, stretched already as she is. His question at least has her opening her eyes again, to pin him with an intent look, half expecting him to be grinning at her. Gotcha, etc. Luckily, that isn't what meets her gaze, and her cheshire smile curls slowly, starting at the corners of her mouth. "I think here is nice," she says, faux-dismissive in the face of his uncertainty. "Lots of grass - and berries - and the stream - and privacy." "Yeah," nods T'mic. "All that stuff." That smile shows nerves all over again, as do wide eyes. But he traces his hand up and along her side, and takes a breath, and leans at her a bit, leans on the physical side, which is far less concerned with all the what-ifs just now. "Didn't think about a blanket or anything," is a bit rushed. "Less to do with berries." Once, carefully, Faryn will look past him at the staring Jorrth, as expressionless as she can. No warnings, no worries, just a look to make sure he hasn't up and abandoned them, which would make things easier. T'mic gets her full attention after that. She unwraps her arms, draws her hand down again. Her hands slide under his collar, rubbing the fabric between a thumb and forefinger before she lets her fingertips trip over buttons. "Grass is fine," she says confidently. "It's better than sand. Or snow. Or -- " Her lips purse and she tilts her head, laying off. "If you're sure. We could always go back, but..." Again, no conclusion. Just a quick adjustment, so she can kiss him again, quickly, with an encouraging smile to try and temper his nervousness. Jorrth is looking right back, as keen-eyed as ever, with a bush leaning toward him, pulled by the branch that he's still chewing on. Slowly. T'mic takes another breath, tracing that same path with the one hand, the other content to settle at her waist, ready, but unmoving in this moment. "No," has a bit more decision in it. "No, it feels good here. Now." Significant. He pushes into that kiss, maybe a bit sloppily, but with a similar purpose. And Jorrth watches. And chews. Faryn only nods her agreement, and then she disengages from the kiss eventually, just enough to cast around before deciding without context, "Whatever." Finding his hand, she twines their fingers and sits, abruptly, tugging him still further down in the movement with the order, "Sit, c'mon," with a modicum of urgency. That she sits in a way that puts her back to Jorrth is neither here nor there. When he does join her? She finds him quickly, leaning in for another kiss - gentle, slower than the others, less urgent than her words. "Okay." T'mic follows, and sits, obedient, facing his dragon. But whatever's going on between them, it's almost certainly put on hold with the next kiss. T'mic closes his eyes, kisses her right back, looks for his hands to find places to rest, ready... as much to follow her lead as to go forward. His inexperience will just have to be made up for in instinct and willingness, especially once those nerves have a chance to subside. And Jorrth? At least his tiptoeing a bit closer and watching doesn't seem to derail his rider any. Out, out damn Jorrth. Leave him alone a minute! Or several. Faryn is not shy - as they all well know by now - and she says, perhaps as some comfort, "Just let me...." She stays close as she moves nimbly, up and over, setting into his lap to push him down. She'll guide him, of course, making up in the areas he lacks, for now; her fingers don't trip over buttons or belts, or fabrics when it becomes necessary to work through them. And with Jorrth at her back, there's no distraction for her, either. T'mic was right about at least one thing: it's good here and now. T'mic is not so nimble, of course, though once they're past those first few kisses, even with any awkward fumbling on his part, there's no shyness to him. Even with Jorrth (practically) over Faryn's shoulder, T'mic is present in the moment, emotionally as much as physically. It's what he has to offer in return, really; it's what keeps those big arms holding her when they're done, what, after a moment of regaining his breath and no doubt answering many questions from Jorrth, brings that dumb smile to his face and urges him to crane his neck to try and butt foreheads once more. Even if he also has to bring one hand away to swat at that blue snout in a request for space, when Jorrth leans in a little. "Worth waiting," comes on a bit of a laugh, relieved, in so many ways. In the wake of it, Faryn fits quite well against him, curled up with her eyes closed, soaking in the sun, or what little she can get with Jorrth looming overhead. There's the bliss she's soaking up, too -- that's clear in the little sighs, evident now that her breathing is even. With her eyes closed, his craning jostles her, and the contact of their foreheads comes as a not unpleasant surprise that makes her crack one eye open and smile at him -- and take in Jorrth at the same time, her smile steady for him, too. She's swatted at him plenty so far, whether T'mic noticed or not. When his curious proximity got too close, Faryn still maintained the presence of mind to make sure the nosy blue knew it. That he keeps coming back would be cause for annoyance if she had the energy to be, but alas, she does not. There's another sigh and a small and content wiggle for his words. "It's the build-up," she murmurs, sounding sleepy. "It only gets better. You'll see. Now you see why I was so annoyed." Jorrth snorts in answer to that smile, and swishes his tail. What. But T'mic's got a well-pleased grin to aim at his dragon, next, and that, at least, seems to put a lid on the intrusion. For now. "Build-up," is repeated, the grin staying put, the arm jostling her a bit, playful, but not so energetic as the earlier battle of the smashed berries. "Yeah," is agreed, next. "Yeah, I'll see. You know," and his head's still so close, so he's talking softly without even thinking to, "we could even go home, and maybe," only the slightest pause, "you could show me again." "Mmmmm," sounds agreeable enough, even though Faryn doesn't move at first. Their clothes are there, probably even within reach if she feels willing to disengage her limbs and just pat around in the grass, but she doesn't. This brand of Faryn is chill. "You think you can even manage that?" she says, sounding dubious. "You might hurt yourself, all this learning in one day." There's a long pause, and then Faryn stretches like a cat, lengthening her spine and finally rolling slightly so she can grab the first garment that she touches. Success! It is her shirt. "I've created a monster. I can live with that." The next thing she finds is his, and she dumps it on his chest with a grin. T'mic, rather than trying to pull her in closer after that comment, makes like to give her a little push. Except it's not much of one, not to help her on her way in the gathering of things. Both hands go to his - oh, look, pants - and he sits up, shaking them out, righting a pantleg gone wrong. "Good," comes next, with some mock authority behind it. "'Cause this? It's all your fault." Jorrth has turned, those little feet moving off, a last little nibble going to a branch. "Oh, right," his rider is reminded. "Gotta make sure we bring the basket and berries." "I take full responsibility, both for your predicament and the education that we now have to undertake because of it," Faryn says solemnly, dismissing the importance of her pants just long enough to raise a hand in oath. Then they're on, and she is not as solemn about, "I'll get them. We can eat them in bed. After. Or before. Or in the middle bits. There's a lot to teach you," she adds by way of explanation. As quick to dress as she was to undress, and the basket still her charge, she all-but skips to the discarded thing and plucks a couple berries to pop in her mouth before taking it in hand and rocking back and forth. "So many things." T'mic and Jorrth, they both just watch her as she skips. Jorrth flicks his wings and tail. And T'mic, he gets up and follows after, and has all of, "Heheheh, okay," to say to that. |
Comments
Alida (21:39, 30 July 2015 (PDT)) said...
Delightful!
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