#rivervale_lodge

"Sluagh don't like.... I... I won't bother you, I know I'm too much."

A brow, pathetic by Troll standards. "I'm the one out here buggin' YOU."

"Because I made a mess. I lost it on Sylvi."

"I shouldn't have done that."

"Sluagh don't like a lot of things. We're like cats. Secretive, skulking. But also nosey A.F., and attached to our people."

He nods slowly. "And Sylvi shouldn't have baited the bull. I think she knew full well what she was doing. She may act like a ditz sometimes, but she's a cunning fucker. Not that I'll admit it to her face."

"I'm sorry I ghosted you yesterday."

"I shouldn't have done that, either."

"And I'm sorry I ghosted you for an entire semester." He offers out a slender, somewhat clammy hand, open.

"Not that the two are equal. But, I'll make it up."

"You don't..." She falters.

"Don't leave me hanging." He says, a touch plaintively. Hand still outstretched.

"Loki stabbed Thor, probably more than one, but they're still buds."

"I can stab you, if that helps?" He offers.

"You don't have to do anything." Weakly.

"Friendship isn't about obligation. I know I don't have to do anything. I'm here because I want to be. Because it's where I belong."

"Exactly. No obligations." Latching on to that.

The moments stretch on, and his hand, outstretched, hangs there like a limp fish.

She pries an arm loose, to gingerly take his hand.

A small smile curls across his face. On Symon, he might as well be overjoyed. The dank fingers grip, unpleasantly like squeezing a moist, sticky... better not to think about it too much.

"Sorry. Haven't found an antiperspirant that works on the palms. Might be something to do with my fly-fingers."

"The vaulters have this powder..." Trailing off again.

He does look less sweaty/dank than usual. At least in his mortal mein, there's only so much magic and science can do.

When he let's go, there is a nearly audible pop pop pop, like tentacle suckers releasing.

"Vaulters?"

Curious

"Pole vault. Track."

"Oh. I was thinking of that Ailil Squire the Chief picked up. I'm still catching up on lodge gossip. Anne Marie talked my ears off."

A small wince.

"Oh, Valter. Yeah, that's partly my fault."

"Hey, this place could use a bit more unseelie influence, now and then." A glance over Dagmar. "Somewhat. You wear summer better than winter, though. Suits you."

"Gwydion."

"I think... I think winter is afraid. Afraid of losing something, all the time."

"And being afraid all the time isn't... isn't the best thing, maybe."

"...yeah."

"And even if part of you knows it's... stupid..."

"It doesn't..."

"You're not less afraid."

"You just... you start makin mistakes, and they... they snowball. Maybe. Kind of."

"Fear is only cool if I'm on the giving end." He commiserates/complains.

A dry chuff of a laugh. "Right?"

"Right."

A few moments, and he says, "The intensive was.. intense. You know they normally only offer that for internal or pediatrics? But turns out there's a dearth of forensic and mortuary pathologists because the old school is retiring and it's not as compelling as other paths. Fitting a 4 year curriculum into an accelerated three years is rough though. I did have a lot of school work, that wasn't a lie, not really."

"Did you get to dissect things?"

A wide, toothless grin. "Even better, on off hours, if I bring something in, there's no one there to tell me I can't dissect it with their facilities."

A shaky laugh, but a genuine one.

"As and Bs, huh?"

"Yeah. The team has a dedicated tutor."

A faint snort. That used to be HIS job.

"So she'd make sure I did my homework, and do test prep..."

"I am going to have to stop being undecided, though. Fall I'll be through the last major gen-eds..."

"I did like the study sessions we did, early on. Those wings are pretty good once they get loose enough that the cartiledge breaks down, and the flesh falls off the bones..."