originallutece | ic contact;

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...

Trying singing to it.

[She nudges his arm, just in case he's too fixated on the dragon to hear her.]

See if it's old enough to imitate that. I wonder if they all will . . .

Ah...

[If he weren't so preoccupied with the dragons, and actually had the time and focus both to think about it, he might've ended up a little more self-conscious about the prospect of suddenly singing on command — but as it is, her suggestion is more than imperative enough to sway him, and he regards the little dragon for a minute to make sure he's holding its attention while he considers.

Then, at length, he softly sings a pattern of eight notes and waits to see if he can get the dragon to repeat them.

It's only after it does, and he's gotten it playing with those same eight sounds over and over again, that he starts singing the vocals proper.]

[To his credit, the dragon does his absolute best to keep up. He acts as a counterpoint to Robert for the first half of the song, echoing his notes half a beat behind, which creates a lovely echoing effect. But he's only a baby, and that's an entire song . . . so soon he contents himself with simply wriggling around in the sand, nuzzling against Robert's hand and letting out little chirps and the occasional sung note.

Rosalind, for her part, simply turns her head. She sighs softly, hooks her arm through his, and buries her face against him, her eyes closing as she listens.]

...It sings...

[That's what slips out once he's finished, breathy and full of awe and wonder as he continues petting and rolling the fat little dragon in the sand, using the movements of his hand to tempt it into wriggling around and putting on a little show for the both of them.]

Remarkable...

[He may well explode from delight.]

Not bad for a first time, wouldn't you say, my dear?

Not at all. Oh--

[Because it's like a small explosion just went off. Joy, rosy-golden, floods through both their minds; Rosalind gasps from the force of it. Joy, because that was most definitely a compliment, the dragon knows it was, he's clever enough to sense intent and emotion from people already (isn't he a clever boy?). He chirps eagerly up at them again and again-- but oh, no, he wants more of those compliments, and soon he's hoisting himself back onto his feet, all the better to more clearly warble out that eight-note ditty that starts the song.

He pants up at them afterwards, waiting for his praise.]

[This is the one, Robert knows instantly. This is it, this is the dragon that's going to come home with them, this wriggly little blue menace who was so brave in the face of the unknown, so determined to seek out attention and to perform for approval. This is the one that's going to be theirs — his, to be sure, but what's his is theirs, that's just how it is — this rambunctious little baby of a thing, enthralling Rosalind with its talents and Robert with its charm.

So this is the psychic connection they can make, he thinks, and it's nothing short of overwhelming, the blast of such pure raw positivity all but bowling him over when it hits. It's a few seconds before he notices that his cheeks are starting to hurt, and it's only another few after that when he realizes it's because he's started grinning, and doesn't actually know when that happened.]

...I did say we'd keep the best one, didn't I? I do think we may just have found him, my dear.

Yes.

[She's normally not that inclined towards handing out praise like that, but this little man deserves it. She's smiling: not as brightly or as fiercely as Robert, but rather quietly pleased, her eyes trained forward as she tips her head to rest against Robert more fully.]

Good god, I should think he wouldn't even need feeding to follow us home. What do you want to call him?

[The dragon edges closer, nipping gently at Robert's fingers.]

Do you suppose it'd be a bit too ill-omened to call him Phaéton? "Though greatly he failed, more greatly he dared", and so on.

[GOD IT'S NIBBLING AT HIS FINGERS HE'S GONNA DIE it's fine he didn't need those fingers anyway.]

Or is that wishing the worst from the start on such a little thing?

Certainly it would fit him. Though I think you might be asking for trouble in a city like this.

[At least he won't hurt Robert. He just wants to cozy up to him, and soak up all the attention, and incidentally maybe edge closer to those little baggies of food . . .]

What about something from Shakespeare?

Hmmm. Speaking of potentially ill-omened names.

[Idly, he reaches for the little dragon's midsection and gives it a little push, disrupting its center of gravity just enough to topple it playfully over into the sand.]

Let's see. Oberon? Lysander?

Oberon would be acceptable.

[Rude? The little dragon hoists himself up and screeches up at Robert, obviously deeply offended by that move? How dare he? How dare he, and he struts up his hand again, huffing and puffing as offense rings through the Lutece's minds and he enlarges himself as best he can. Given he's still a baby, he really doesn't manage to enlarge himself very much at all, but it's intent, not execution, that matters.]

I think you've annoyed him, dearest.

...No, I've got it. A Shakespearean name and a fitting one for his temperament.

[He's beaming down at the crabby little dragon now, even more delighted than before, even as indignation washes over him like a wave and he finds himself wholly unable to take his eyes off its antics.]

Look at him. He even acts like a Lutece when you seek to knock him down a peg — gets right back up and spits in your eye. So, Robert, Rosalind...why not "Robin"?

Yes.

[Yes, that would fit perfectly, wouldn't it? Rosalind laughs as the little dragon nips firmly at Robert's thumb, one last sign of indigence, before flopping down on the sand. Robert may pet him now.]

Our second child. Our Robin. Who might just bit your fingers off if you keep indulging him like this, Robert.

Puck for short, of course. D'you suppose that makes us Oberon and Titania, by extension?

[...You know, the fairy assholes whose feud over a baby started this whole mess of mistaken identity shenanigans in the first pl— OH LORDY.]

Perhaps I ought to give him a meal to chew on, then, instead of my limbs.

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