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But of course. My wicked streak is your wicked streak.

[Ah, blessed freedom from The Plant. Casting a wary eye at it anyway as he's relieved of its charge, he takes up the snacks as bidden and extends an obliging arm to her.]

The one to the east, I think, on the far side of the woods. Unless you'd rather the other? There's always both, if you'd like to compare the lay of the breeding grounds before we render our ultimate verdict.

The other. I've seen the east beach, we might as well discover the other together. Are you hoping for a particular color?

[She'll be fond of the little dragon, of course, but just as Punnett is primarily Rosalind's pet, the dragon will be Robert's. Rosalind shifts, propping the bag on her hip and taking his arm. A beat, and her hand snakes down, her fingers interlacing between his.]

I want the best color, of course. And I shall have it, once I've seen how "best" is defined.

[Cheeky. He gives her hand a light squeeze, loops their arms a little more tightly-wound together, and in the blink of an eye, they abruptly cease to be in their manor, and suddenly begin to be at the beach.]

[She doesn't even have time to pull a face before they're suddenly there, standing in the sand, wind whipping at her skirt and the waves crashing hard against the shore. Setting Punnett down, Rosalind grabs Robert's arm to keep balance and tugs off her boots and stockings, a process that takes an awful lot of effort.]

We're going to have to stock up on all the usual items one takes to the shore. Towels and the like, I mean.

[He eyes the Big Bag O' Plant for a minute, suspiciously, as though he's half expecting Punnett to wrench itself free and take off running down the sand like some sort of dog let off its leash — but the majority of his attention is on helping to keep Rosalind supported, both from the posture and from the unsteadiness of the sand.]

Meaning we'll be returning here often, I presume?

I'd like that.

[She can't very well push all this into the backpack, not if she wants to wear it again; after a moment, she simply stuffs the stockings into her boots and carries both in her hand. Punnett is once again slung over her back, and she takes Robert's hand once more, far more comfortable.]

We'll be the only ones here. We can try it with people around, of course, but I'd rather like our first official trip to the beach together to be on our own.

. . . not least of which because I've seen what women are supposed to wear. I'm going to have to commission Miss Everett for a swimming costume.

[Wordlessly, he shuffles his own cargo about long enough to reach for her boots and knot the two sets of laces to each other, making a little handle of sorts for her to use to hold them rather than having to keep track of them by the sides.

The secondary bonus is, it gives him an excuse to keep his face tilted down, which is helpful in light of the mention of swimming costumes. He recalls the pictures he'd been shown; imagining Rosalind in one of them is both scandalous and nervewracking.]

A proper one, I hope. The contemporary variety aren't at all fit for...well, anything, really.

[HUFF HUFF VICTORIAN SENSIBILITIES]

We're by far her best customers by now. Surely she'll agree to something appropriate.

Oh, no, Robert, I'd fulled intend to wear little more than fifteen centimeters of cloth on my person. I simply hoped she'd make it to my tastes, that's all.

[She's joking, obviously, though most wouldn't be able to tell it from her expression: she's kept it entirely open and helpful, a pleasant correction to his assumption. Isn't that nice of her?]

[Most wouldn't be able to, but most people aren't literally her with a chromosome flipped, either. So if she's going to play with him, then very well; he's perfectly willing to play right back.]

And what would your tastes involve, precisely? Ruffles, polka dots?

Oh, nothing so ostentatious. Red or white, which would you prefer?

[Look at these two fucks, mildly bullying one another as they stroll down the beach. Truly, this is love.]

[Red, of course.]

White. Pure and feminine — like a sacrificial lamb.

[She laughs and steps in closer, til she can bump up against him as they walk.]

Is that how you're going to be looking at me? As some kind of innocent?

Certainly not.

[He gives her hand a squeeze, flashing a half-conspiratorial smile in her direction.]

I simply think that if you're going to be biting your figurative thumb in the direction of Columbia's standards for modesty, you might as well make a mockery of their fanaticism while you're at it.

Edited 2017-05-15 18:33 (UTC)

Ah. Then of course it'll have to be white. Though really, I'm going to have to ask Miss Everett how on earth they make it so those don't turn translucent the moment one hits the water. Simply for my own edification, you understand, I'm certain there's something wonderfully tricky about the fabric.

Perhaps there's nothing tricky at all about the fabric, and you'll simply have to take your chances.

I suppose I shall. Certainly I know you'd enjoy that: me soaking wet and with practically nothing on, I should think--

[In other threads, in other comms, they would go on. They really would, and it would be disgusting, and so it's probably good that Rosalind breaks off as something catches her eye.]

Ah. There's your dragons.

[Somewhere out there, in some universe, Henry is rolling his eyes in disgust and abject disbelief at how abruptly Robert's attention swerves from the topic of bathing suits onto the topic of dragons, not just making his head snap up to look in the direction Rosalind has indicated, but causing his voice to leap up a pitch or two in his enthusiasm as well.

But she's right; there they are, dragons, milling around in the dunes and chattering at each other in soft chirps and tones, stirring up the sand with the prints from their feet and tails. There are several unhatched eggs yet, as well, but plenty of already-hatched dragons to examine.

Delightful.]

Would you look at them! There's so many!

[Despite herself, Rosalind feels a little thrill run through her at the sight. Good god, look at them: brown and blue and green, waddling around as two larger ones stare out over their brood. There's other nests dotted behind them, and Rosalind takes note of that: they live in clusters, apparently.]

They've got wings, Robert . . .

[She murmurs it, not wanting to startle any of the babies off. They're already examining them (or him, really, they must be able to smell the food on him; a few braver ones are already edging closer, chirping up inquiries and nosing against his shoes).]

I wonder if they breathe fire? Ah-- behave--

[That's to Punnett, who's begun wiggling excitedly. With a little huff she starts tucking his tendrils into the backpack, intent on zipping him up while she examines the dragons.]

They do have wings.

[Good lord, they're like average people who've just been brought within close proximity of a cat, their vocabulary and intellectual quality of their remarks are both dropping like a stone.

LOOK AT YOU, YOU'RE A DRAGON, indeed.]

Ah — I think I heard an account that they have the capacity for it, but not naturally. There's some catalyst to allow for the, er, fire.

[HE WANTS TO PET THEM...]

The color variation is astonishing...

[He should pet them. He most definitely should pet them, and that's not just encouragement from the general narration: one particularly bold dragon that's waddled up to Robert's boot is shouting out his eager desire for attention. Pet me and feed me and love me are all intermingled there, a nonverbal golden cloud that's sent telepathically up to the Luteces, and which boils down to: pay attention to me.

The dragon-- blue, and a little fatter than his siblings-- butts his head gently against Robert's ankle, then looks up hopefully at him.]

To say the least. I've seen green, but never blue or brown. Do you think they have different capabilities, or that it's a purely aesthetic change?

Edited 2017-05-16 01:49 (UTC)

Ah, I've seen a brown before. A young man on the network had one — as I recall, it was rather fat and lazy in...temperament...

[A little struck with wonder, Robert carefully lowers himself down to a crouch and extends his hand, unaware that his mouth is hanging slightly open as he does his best not to startle the little blue dragon.]

Rosie, look...

I see.

[Double-checking to make sure Punnett is safely contained, Rosalind kneels down in the sand, watching with interest (and, beneath it all, a little awe). The dragon is pleased; he all but throws himself towards Robert's hand, eager to be pet and fed.

A little ways away, one of the larger green dragons snorts. The other hatchlings chitter, but Robert's blue dragon ignores them; he has attention, and that's all that matters.]

[Attention he certainly has, and he's not soon likely to lose it, either, with the way he's sucking up to Robert; he's holding his palm at an angle that gives the dragon the perfect opportunity to butt up against his hand.]

Hello, there...

[He whistles softly, utterly charmed.]

Friendly little bloke, aren't you...?

[Oh. Oh, oh, and the dragon glances up. A moment later, and he echoes the sound of that whistle: higher pitched, to be certain, and far louder in his enthusiasm, but an exact echo of Robert's noise. At his side, Rosalind laughs softly in delight.]

...Did it just...

[Oh, oh, oh!]

That was a perfect imitation...! You heard it too, didn't you? Not even the slightest bit sharp or flat, it's incredible...

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