wynne-york, gwenaëlle. (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
trouvaille) wrote in ![[community profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/community.png)
middaeg2020-06-02 09:48 am
trouvaille) wrote in middaeg2020-06-02 09:48 am
Entry tags:
open. i have ridden in your cart, driver,
Who: Gwenaëlle Wynne-York + OTHERS, YOU?
When: Early Iuneril
Where: Aefenglom, the river, Daenerys's farm.
What: Local merrow goes walkabout mostly without feet.
Warnings: Nudity.
Having been invited by Jorah to spend a couple of days with her dog at the farm, it takes a little while to actually find a few free days in her schedule of mostly work and moping; when she does, it is mainly as an afterthought that she leaves a note with the perishables in the upstairs kitchen for Viren:
In this weather, it's a relief to strip off the sun-dress at the side of the river that she'd worn this far, stuffing it into one side of Putin's burden and leading him close enough to the edge that, if absolutely necessary, she could reach him with her tentacles. Which she has, a moment after diving into the blessedly cool and cleaner water, just one merrow among a variety of them, the gleam of her jeweled waist-chain sparkling enough to make her easy to track if, somehow, the rainbow-shine of her milky skin and additional limbs somehow wasn't enough.
She isn't in a rush. They have time. This is the most relaxing thing she's done in at least six months; she floats on her back, prism-slit pupils narrow with ease, half of her tentacles clutching and dragging along the side of the river as Putin variously sits nearby or trots alongside.
They follow the river out of the city, which is slightly less relaxing, and Putin has grown accustomed to the periodic investigation of one long, damp tentacle ensuring he is still there, or the way she circles him protectively when he drinks from the river, or that her investigative checking on him tends to result in water dripped on his head. Probably, if he were not carrying things she needs to keep dry, there would be splashing involved; that may come later.
Arriving at the farm, Gwen—
doesn't have a towel. She walks the last distance to what must be the farmstead alongside her enormous dog (arguably, large enough to obscure her present state of undress from some angles), water streaming from her hair down her back and beginning to dry in the air. Probably, she figures, she can borrow one and dry off enough to put some clothes on.
When: Early Iuneril
Where: Aefenglom, the river, Daenerys's farm.
What: Local merrow goes walkabout mostly without feet.
Warnings: Nudity.
Having been invited by Jorah to spend a couple of days with her dog at the farm, it takes a little while to actually find a few free days in her schedule of mostly work and moping; when she does, it is mainly as an afterthought that she leaves a note with the perishables in the upstairs kitchen for Viren:
Yᴏᴜ'ʟʟ ᴘʀᴏʙᴀʙʟʏ ᴡᴀɴᴛ ᴛᴏ ᴜsᴇ ᴛʜᴇsᴇ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ɴᴇxᴛ ᴄᴏᴜᴘʟᴇ ᴏꜰ ᴅᴀʏs. Aᴍ ᴏᴜᴛ ᴏꜰ ᴄɪᴛʏ, ɴᴏᴛʜɪɴɢ ᴛᴏ ᴡᴏʀʀʏ ᴀʙᴏᴜᴛ, ʀᴇᴀᴄʜᴀʙʟᴇ ɪꜰ ʏᴏᴜ ɴᴇᴇᴅ ᴀɴʏᴛʜɪɴɢ. Hᴀᴠᴇ ᴛᴀᴋᴇɴ Pᴜᴛɪɴᴋᴀ ᴀɴᴅ ʟᴏᴄᴋᴇᴅ ᴜᴘ ᴍʏ ʙᴀsᴇᴍᴇɴᴛ. G.That accomplished, it's mainly a matter of ensuring that what she does need to take with her can be neatly and not-too-heavily packed into the saddlebags she's made an addition of to Putinka's leather vest, tying a pair of shoes in between with their laces, and holding Putin's enormous head between her hands and assuring him that he is an extremely good boy who is going to get a treat at the other end. (Nature of treat unclear. Might have just created work for Jorah.)
In this weather, it's a relief to strip off the sun-dress at the side of the river that she'd worn this far, stuffing it into one side of Putin's burden and leading him close enough to the edge that, if absolutely necessary, she could reach him with her tentacles. Which she has, a moment after diving into the blessedly cool and cleaner water, just one merrow among a variety of them, the gleam of her jeweled waist-chain sparkling enough to make her easy to track if, somehow, the rainbow-shine of her milky skin and additional limbs somehow wasn't enough.
She isn't in a rush. They have time. This is the most relaxing thing she's done in at least six months; she floats on her back, prism-slit pupils narrow with ease, half of her tentacles clutching and dragging along the side of the river as Putin variously sits nearby or trots alongside.
They follow the river out of the city, which is slightly less relaxing, and Putin has grown accustomed to the periodic investigation of one long, damp tentacle ensuring he is still there, or the way she circles him protectively when he drinks from the river, or that her investigative checking on him tends to result in water dripped on his head. Probably, if he were not carrying things she needs to keep dry, there would be splashing involved; that may come later.
Arriving at the farm, Gwen—
doesn't have a towel. She walks the last distance to what must be the farmstead alongside her enormous dog (arguably, large enough to obscure her present state of undress from some angles), water streaming from her hair down her back and beginning to dry in the air. Probably, she figures, she can borrow one and dry off enough to put some clothes on.
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