WHO: Edgard and YOU WHAT:One Job, and some opens WHEN: NOW WHERE: various places NOTES:Goat herding hijinks closed to whoever gets there first i guess (run!), everything else open! All in comments. Wildcards also welcome.
Edgard continues to stand with his one foot in the mud. He is very unsure of this man's intentions and instincts tell him to not push it. Silence reigns. He then shrugs.
Dumas takes a step closer, one of his own boots now crossing the threshold to sink into Edgard’s muddy territory. He’s spot check clean, but smells about the way you’d expect a man of his size in a heavy jacket to smell under the direct sun, sharp with sweat and a bit of horsey stink.
“It’s not like you’re standing out here in the courtyard with your sock off squishing your toes round in a filthy mudhole like some kind of pervert.” He scoffs. “Let’s see how clean you’ve got it, eh?”
Edgard keeps his foot right where it is. All precaution vanishes at the word lad.
"If you really want to know, mud is very good for you. It can solve so many problems. It's relaxing, it's good for digestion, it can cool you down, it can help your skin, its even good for your eyes. C'est vrai, the healers use it, I've heard. And when you find yourself in an awkward situation you can just-"
Edgard stomps the bare foot as hard as he can and mud splashes up toward the man. "--use mud."
A shotgun blast of mud peppers up his front, thickest up to the knee, with a splash across his gambison and a few enterprising spatters even making up it up into the grizzle of his beard. He flinches, but he flinches in place, eyes shut, jaw ground and set.
When he opens his eyes again, they are as bright as the sun-touched glint of steel blade where his sword sits in its scabbard.
Sylvester Dumas reaches up to give Edgard a prod with his off hand, right square at the center of his sternum. It’s like being jabbed with the end of a stave.
“But now you’ve got mud all over, don’t you?” he pitches his voice up, exaggerating the lilt, as if he’s speaking to a puppy, or a baby. “And that won’t do, will it?” Higher still, shrill from the diaphragm to carry across the courtyard, only to twist down into a growl that’s for Edgard's ears only.
Regaining his balance after getting nearly shoved off his feet, Edgard's eyebrow raises. This is rather unexpected. For one very long moment of hesitation, he considers it.
But as the shrill voice rebounds from the walls of the courtyard, he knows there is only one course. He leans onto the foot in the mud, kicks Dumas in the shins with the other and then runs for it, mud splashing in his wake.
Giants lobbing boulders at adventurers is a trope for a reason.
Dumas stoops (faltering on his fresh-kicked shin) to heft a fish-sized lump of loose stone from the yard, and follows through to hurl it with deadly force at Edgard’s fleeing back. Fortunately he does not have deadly aim -- it explodes against the flagstone in a shower of gravel and dust well off to one side.
“THIS IS AN ISLAND YOU FILTHY RAG,” recedes in bellowed volume as Edgard runs -- Sylvester isn’t giving chase, limping round in a circle to work through the red hot spike of anguish through his bone instead. Tears sting his eyes, half from the throbbing pain, and half from the laugh he’s struggling to stifle while he weighs the benefits of self-administered amputation:
Edgard dodges out of the way of the debris and runs full speed towards the other side of the courtyard. Once he is what he deems is a safe distance away, he stops to catch his breath. As Dumas bellows, Edgard shuffles a little on his feet (unbalanced from one shoe being on and the other off). He's definitely created a big problem for himself.
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no subject
"Well, you have to start somewhere."
no subject
“It’s alright, nothing to be nervous about, lad.”
Dumas takes a step closer, one of his own boots now crossing the threshold to sink into Edgard’s muddy territory. He’s spot check clean, but smells about the way you’d expect a man of his size in a heavy jacket to smell under the direct sun, sharp with sweat and a bit of horsey stink.
“It’s not like you’re standing out here in the courtyard with your sock off squishing your toes round in a filthy mudhole like some kind of pervert.” He scoffs. “Let’s see how clean you’ve got it, eh?”
no subject
"If you really want to know, mud is very good for you. It can solve so many problems. It's relaxing, it's good for digestion, it can cool you down, it can help your skin, its even good for your eyes.
C'est vrai, the healers use it, I've heard. And when you find yourself in an awkward situation you can just-"
Edgard stomps the bare foot as hard as he can and mud splashes up toward the man. "--use mud."
no subject
A shotgun blast of mud peppers up his front, thickest up to the knee, with a splash across his gambison and a few enterprising spatters even making up it up into the grizzle of his beard. He flinches, but he flinches in place, eyes shut, jaw ground and set.
When he opens his eyes again, they are as bright as the sun-touched glint of steel blade where his sword sits in its scabbard.
“What’s your name, twinkle toes?”
He’s dropped the serrah.
no subject
"Twinkle toes is fine."
no subject
A FINE NAME FOR A FINE LAD.
Sylvester Dumas reaches up to give Edgard a prod with his off hand, right square at the center of his sternum. It’s like being jabbed with the end of a stave.
“But now you’ve got mud all over, don’t you?” he pitches his voice up, exaggerating the lilt, as if he’s speaking to a puppy, or a baby. “And that won’t do, will it?” Higher still, shrill from the diaphragm to carry across the courtyard, only to twist down into a growl that’s for Edgard's ears only.
“Take your fucking pants off.”
no subject
But as the shrill voice rebounds from the walls of the courtyard, he knows there is only one course. He leans onto the foot in the mud, kicks Dumas in the shins with the other and then runs for it, mud splashing in his wake.
no subject
Giants lobbing boulders at adventurers is a trope for a reason.
Dumas stoops (faltering on his fresh-kicked shin) to heft a fish-sized lump of loose stone from the yard, and follows through to hurl it with deadly force at Edgard’s fleeing back. Fortunately he does not have deadly aim -- it explodes against the flagstone in a shower of gravel and dust well off to one side.
“THIS IS AN ISLAND YOU FILTHY RAG,” recedes in bellowed volume as Edgard runs -- Sylvester isn’t giving chase, limping round in a circle to work through the red hot spike of anguish through his bone instead. Tears sting his eyes, half from the throbbing pain, and half from the laugh he’s struggling to stifle while he weighs the benefits of self-administered amputation:
“Do you think I won’t find you?”
no subject
"uh, nice meeting you!" He calls.
Probably too little too late.