Logs:Muddy Mutterings
| |
|---|
| |
| RL Date: 13 July, 2015 |
| Who: I'dro, N'rov |
| Involves: Fort Weyr |
| Type: Log |
| What: I'dro is up one umbrella. That's not what N'rov is missing. |
| Where: Bowl, Fort Weyr |
| When: Day 3, Month 4, Turn 38 (Interval 10) |
| Weather: Rainy, muddy, the works. |
  |
| Rain means mud. Mud means that the tall man stalking down the Bowl, followed by a considerably larger dragon who's looking very entertained what with the blue eyes and swept-back wings, is getting increasingly muddy boots as he stares searchingly at the ground. And he's muttering. Rain means mud, and grown men might not care for it, but little bitsy greens are having a much better time outside. That tall guy over there might be doing the muttering; a smaller, slimmer figure is huddled relatively near the weyrlings' entrance. He has an umbrella. It doesn't seem to be doing a great deal of good, at least with the fact that there are muddy splatters up his pant legs. The little green out there stomping through muddy puddles is utterly unconcerned with the wet, or the chill, or the dirt. The man's got a hood, if not a hood, and it would do him a lot more good if it weren't half pushed back from a frustrated swipe of his hand. Gray eyes now and again flick from the not-quite-grid path he's searching, once catching on the mud-stomper (is she green or brown by now?) before he moves on. It's the adult dragon who looks longer, with a low, amused bass rumble. The top half of her is green with brown speckles. The bottom is brown with green speckles. Which bits are speckled changes a bit depending on splash patterns. The amused rumble, however, stops Nasmaeth in her tracks, at which point she looks up with quick-whirling eyes. So, it seems, does I'dro, who heads in her direction like he's only just now realized that he's supposed to be keeping her on her best behavior. Better behavior. Close enough. It's mud. The adult bronze lets his jaw loll enough to expose quite the array of teeth, though they aren't wielded at the dragonet maybe a seventh of his length; nor, when he picks up his paw and flexes it midair, does he slam it down on top of her. Or at all. Not from an excess of behavior, but to display how (when he sets down that paw and flexes yet again) mud oozes out from between his talons. Somewhere beyond him, the man groans. "Are there any bronzes here who aren't determined to be a bad influence?" There's something in the rules there about saluting riders. There's nothing about lobbing frustrated accusations at them. Guess which I'dro ends up on? Well, he can't help it. Nasmaeth immediately has to try this oozy-paws thing. « Ooooh. » In contrast to the day itself, her tone is warm, but parched beyond measure. His is no help, the only liquid that of glass, and not for drinking at all. But it's amused, encouraging even. « Try the hind paws. 'Determination is the wake-up call to will,' » that last intoned as a quote, if one that entertains rather than to be followed fanatically. Vhaeryth's rider glances back over his shoulder, "Nah, we kick 'em out." It's a wingsecond-knotted shoulder, fairly freshly so, though it's not like those are so uncommon; it's not, evidently, one that's going to let salutes separate him from the mud. Rather, what's in the mud. Hind-paws. Yes, there's obviously something to that, tail lifted primly along with the rest of her rear end as she squishes her back feet about. I'dro can't have expected a very productive answer to his question, but the one he gets still has him staring at N'rov with tightly furrowed brows, both hands clutching at the umbrella. "That," he finally settles on, "would make a great many things start making a lot more sense." Then, after only a moment's pause: "You can't possibly just be out in this for your health. I'm pretty sure this is the leading cause of pneumonia. At least, according to my mother." "You listen to your mother much?" It gets him a second look, not much longer but with the raise of a quizzical brow. There's not laughter there, not the way there is in his dragon's approving rumble, the way Vhaeryth flexes his wings in a long, easy slide to keep the rain from obstructing her view of hiw paws. Separate your toes out, like this. Lean, like that. Toes separate! Lean like that! Splorch! Oh, Nasmaeth, quick learner, at least of the things she wants to be learning quickly. I'dro has apparently decided that discretion is the better part of ignoring that all this is happening and hoping that maybe that will mean it's not actually happening. "Shouldn't I?" Though his hands stay securely on the umbrella, at some point a few moments later he does think to tack on, "Sir." Afterthought among afterthoughts. "Depends." It's dry. While he's at it, "See a die around here, send it my way. I liked that one." N'rov doesn't actually kick the mud, though the way he's eyeing it, he might... before he and Vhaeryth abruptly turn to stare through the rain. Upward, this time. Above the Star Stones. Where a dragon's appeared out of nowhere, its color easy to mistake. There's no 'later, kid,' just, « Nasmaeth. Keep it up, » kid, before they go. The heavy brows, again with the twisting up. I'dro gives a look down at the mud, and then back up at N'rov. "If you liked it, why would you have been-- no, never mind. If I see one, I'll keep it safe for you." This, finally, he does risk the umbrella, not like it's even that windy, to offer a totally and completely serious salute. Mostly serious. "Nasmaeth, come inside." Guess who she elects to listen to on this particular occasion? He may be a bit about coaxing her in and surely someone is going to be unhappy about how many towels are involved in the de-mudding process by the time he gets her there. |
Leave A Comment