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[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.

Do you want to conduct your experiment with Punnett?

[Punnett who, by the by, is not happy about being stuffed in a backpack. Spitting and whining can be heard, and it won't be long before he eats his way free. But the little dragon-- Robin, now-- having not been immediately pet, is edging closer and closer to those baggies, so Robert ought to make a decision quickly.]

In retrospect, prompting one of these to imprint on a carnivorous predator plant might not be among the best of ideas.

[This liar. He just wants Baby Robin all to himself.]

I do think, however, you and I should feed him together. A modification of the experiment, if you will — he was quite clearly projecting to both of us a minute ago. Perhaps he'll imprint on both of us as well.

All right.

[Liar, but she's as selfish as he is, so she's perfectly fine with that arrangement. Rosalind grabs for one of the bags, tugging out a baby carrot and snapping it in two. She offers one half to Robert, ignoring the way Robin has started wriggling around eagerly at the scent of food.]

On three, then?

On three.

[He's so excited. This is going to be so magnificent. And he's got his bit of the carrot all ready, perfectly poised for the —]

One...two...

Three.

[They offer their hands at the same time, perfectly in sync, and for a long moment it seems as if Robin is overwhelmed. Two choices, how is he supposed to choose between two? The little dragon squeaks, dances nervously on the sand, and then darts forward, snatching both pieces out of their fingers and keeping them firmly in his mouth. He looks like a bloody chipmunk, both pieces shoved into his cheeks, but at least he's gotten all the food offered.

And it seems their ploy worked: soon a feeling of contentment settles through both their minds, and Rosalind smiles.]

There we go . . . now how are you going to eat those, my lad?

Edited 2017-05-16 20:46 (UTC)

Very carefully, I would imagine, and greedily at that.

[Unable to resist the psychic urge, Robert sighs contentedly himself — like a yawn following a yawn.]

...Think of the tests we'll be able to run, Rosie. Seeking to replicate that sort of empathic transmission...won't that be a delight?

Not to mention the effect on one's brain repeated transmissions might have.

[She reaches for Robin, scratching him gently against his side. The little dragon seems to have come up against a vast problem; he can't chew without spitting one out, but he doesn't want to spit it out because then someone might take it.

He throws Robert a rather agonized look. Help him.]

How dragons fly, and what chemicals they have to ingest in order to breathe fire . . . good god, we could spend a whole year on him alone.

[Poor little guy. He flattens his hand and holds it palm-up underneath the dragon's mouth, inviting it to spit — ugh — and remedy its situation. Robert is its new buddy; perhaps that will exempt him from suspicion?]

We'll have to get hold of some of the, ah...whatever it's called. "Dragonstone", or whatever it is. The mineral they eat; one lad on the network mentioned it briefly.

And come up with a substitute ourselves, once we discover its properties. It oughtn't be too hard.

[Not that they really ought to encourage Robin to breathe fire around their home, but the prospect is too intriguing not to test out.

Robin, meanwhile, seems to have long since learned to trust Robert. He promptly spits out one carrot bit and starts chewing furiously on the other, that same rosy joy pervading their minds once more. Good, that's the feeling here. Good good good, he's getting fed and there's more food on the way and he's with his Luteces, so all is well in the world.]

Oh, disgusting. Put that in the sand, good god, you don't know what his saliva contains.

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