Chem never minded the rain so much – but he loves water, truly, for lounging, for swimming, for soaking – he loves it. The River is still a place he refuses to let go of, still visiting it frequently, following it down from his home and often into the Field or Meadow; just because. Sometimes he will find someone interesting but a lot of time it is just him, his companion and maybe a soul or two that wants to come along. He enjoys passing the time listing to the ghost of his long dead grandfather tell him stories in a thick accent resembling Irish. Using ancient words and scaring the birds with his booming laugh. Today Mohan doesn’t float beside him, he travels alone, and arrives in the Meadow just as thunder cracks across the sky and a downpour starts. He stops, a smirk on his black lips, the cold rain washing off of him in a dirty brown across his white patches. He looks up to the gray fast moving sky, standing in the open for some time, until the rain starts to wash clean across his white – a frigid bath of sorts.
He shakes like a wet dog, as if it matters (there’s more rain coming), and starts walking toward a clump of pines just ahead of him. The rain lets up just a bit, still steady but not moving down in great sheets blowing sideways. He finds a bit of shelter only to find another scowling there already. He doesn’t move in too close but dips his head in under the thick boughs of conifer to ask her, “May I join you?” he is smirking still, somewhat deviously. The aggression is palpable.
@[Melia]
