Logs:Of Mongrels and Morsels (Or, Heightened Awareness)

Of Mongrels and Morsels (Or, Heightened Awareness)
Dramatis Personae Clint, Kavalam, Lucien
In Absentia	2020-06-01 "The world is a terribly inhospitable place, sometimes."
Location <NYC> Washington Square Park - Greenwich Village
Behind a majestic white marble arch, a smaller cousin of the Arc de Triomphe in Paris, this beautiful green space is a popular destination for the young, the hip, and the artistic. A huge circular wading fountain is the centerpiece, ringed by benches, playgrounds, dog runs, gaming tables, and lush green lawns. In fair weather, the park is almost always crowded with tourists, students, chess enthusiasts, and local families come to tire out their children and dogs. The weather's blazing hot today, and the sun shining high. The park has not as yet gone back to its usual liveliness for a variety of reasons, but many of the benches are occupied by locals on lunch break. There's an old homeless woman diligently feeding pigeons by the fountain, a busker taking a break in the shade along one of the walkways, and a knot of college-aged young people doing a protest art build in the grass. There's also a scruffy brown mutt strutting along at very near the end of his purple-and-black triangle-patterned leash, snuffling with great interest in the general direction of a hot dog stand. At the other end of the leash is a scruffy brown-haired man wearing a purple heather t-shirt that reads "Magic to Do!" in glossy metallic red and blue letters, well-worn blue jeans, and brown hiking boots, a sleek gray athletic pack on his back. "So it ended up taking all of lockdown to make a batch that's even remotely flight-worthy," Clint is saying, casually, "and I keep meaning to get out to one of my shooting spots." He glances aside at his companion. "Want to come along and test them out, critique, and/or laugh?" Nearby Arrow, one sleek and very recently groomed black and tan mutt prances along, more interested at the moment in a sprinkling of stale French fries that have scattered underneath a park bench than in the potential of hot dog. Tethered to Flèche, one equally sleek and well-groomed human: neatly tailored dark blue jeans, a mint green short-sleeved button-down. Lucien wraps the end of his black leather leash one more time around his knuckles, gently tugging the dog before she worms her way under the bench (and covers her freshly shampooed and brushed fur with grime.) He only keeps half an eye on the dog after this, partially turned towards Clint. "Mmm. What do you expect the critique-to-laughter ratio would be on such an endeavor?" Kavalam has been sitting on the bench, looking -- a bit more haggard today than he has in days past. His multicolored striped polo shirt is damp with sweat though his clothes are otherwise clean enough; hair rumpled, the backpack he hugs close to his side considerably more dirt-streaked along its bottom. He tucks his feet beneath him at first when Flèche nears, but once she's tugged back, gently pokes a few of the fries closer to the pup with one toe. His presence is far more noticeable to the dogs, most likely, than the humans, odd psionic void quietly nudging their attention away from him. Arrow turns and sniffs, one paw lifted up pointer-fashion though he hasn't actually found anything to point out. Clint's attention is focused on Lucien while he speaks, and his free hand makes the palm-down "so-so" wobble from side to side. "Call it fifty-fifty? You're welcome to mix it up with some boyish glee or silent scorn." His dog, having noticed there are fries suddenly much closer at hand, darts over to snatch one up. Clint seems pretty resigned to this scavenging, but deftly passes the loop of his leash under Flèche's to avoid a tangle. This incidentally leaving him looming over Kavalam, utterly oblivious to the boy's presence. "I will make sure to come prepared with a full complement of reactions," Lucien promises solemnly. Flèche gobbles down the fries she can reach, tugging hopefully at her leash and then sitting when this proves futile. Her eyes fix up on Kavalam, tail wagging and ears pricked hopefully. "Pup," Lucien begins -- but hesitates, brows creasing at that vague mental shifting quietly rearranging his mind. Internally his neurochemistry has already started to rearrange it right back, neatly grooming itself back into familiar patterns. His lips compress, his fingers curling fractionally tighter on the leash. His tongue clicks softly, and though one of Flèche's ears swivels back towards the sound, she doesn't return to him. Kavalam's eyes have widened. He shrinks back into the corner of the bench, looping his arm through the straps of his backpack and hugging it closer. The persistent tug of his power pulls back at Lucien's careful ordering. Quietly but firmly reasserting its entropy. He looks up at Clint with a frown that melts away as he looks back at the pair of dogs. Scrapes a couple dirty and semi-crushed fries from under the bench and closer to the dogs with the side of one sneaker. "{You are very pretty}," he tells Flèche quietly. "{Surely you could do better than this nonsense ruffian.}" Not that it's stopping him from making sure some of those fries get closer to Arrow. Arrow scarfs up the fries Kavalam kicks his way, his tail wagging high. Once the road snacks are gone, he snuffles his blunt muzzle in the boy's general direction--even if his eyes can't quite seem to locate him--his floppy ears trying to prick upright. "Your reactions are top-notch," Clint assures Lucien. "I'll bring some proper arrows, too, in case they're too janky to be fun. This, guy, though..." He eyes his dog speculatively. "...is not a proper Arrow. The bench is not gonna dispense more fries, buddy." Lucien is watching Flèche with slightly narrowed eyes as she watches Kavalam. Her tail wags faster; she noses down at the boy's shoe eagerly, slurping up the fries once they're pushed close enough. His jaw clenches -- just a little bit. He lifts a hand to his temple, rubbing there lightly as his mind yanks itself sharply back, determined, into order. "I think he has keener instincts than you. -- {Go on, Flèche.}" His grip on the leash slackens, slightly. The dog perks up at this permission, pressing forward to nose hopefully at Kavalam's knee. One of her ears pricks up, head cocking to one side as her tail swooshes. "Do you have more food?" Lucien asks, eyes lowering -- somewhere just past Flèche's gaze. Kavalam holds his hand out towards the dog, leaning forward slowly to pat at her head. "{I'm sorry}," he says in quiet Malayalam, "{I don't have any more food.}" His stomach growls softly as he admits this. His eyes widen when Lucien speaks; he looks up sharply, eyes fixing on the man. "Wait. Can you see me?" Even as he asks the question his presence is coalescing into further clarity for Lucien. He shifts uncomfortably on the bench, squeezing at the strap of his backpack. Slightly defensive: "I do not have food." Arrow seems to take Lucien's instruction Flèche as permission to pull harder on his leash. Clint doesn't offer much resistance, allowing the mutt to go snuffling at Kavalam. His eyes hesitate as they pass over the boy, but he still looks past. "That's true enough," he admits, "could be the motherlode of fries down there." He frowns at his friend's question. Then frowns down at the bench. One of his feet slides back half a step and he sucks in a quick breath, but shows no other outwardly sign of surprise. "That's--unusual." "Well. I do now." The breath Lucien expels is quiet and quick; his weight shifts back slightly on one heel, eyes refocusing properly on Kavalam. Briefly flicking aside to Clint before looking back to the boy. "Ought I not?" He reaches one hand gently to Clint's elbow, lightly nudging the other man back away from where he looms over the bench. "Apologies. Flèche lives in hope. She is generally quite happy to get attention, with or without food." With more attention drawn to Kavalam it becomes easier to notice him sitting there. He scratches slowly behind Flèche's ear, relaxing as he looks down at the dog. "I like your dogs," he offers first, in lieu of a proper reply. "I am sorry that I distracted them. Most people -- do not pay me much mind." Clint slides back at the prompting, and pulls Arrow back with him. Only now do his eyes properly focus on Kavalam. "Hi there," he says casually, though his pupils are wide as he glances aside at Lucien. "No harm done. We're not on a timetable, and both these pups have eaten worse things than stale fries." His mouth tugs to one side, a small smile. He does slacken his grip on his leash again, though, letting Arrow horn in on the pettings in progress. "Distraction would imply that the dogs had a set goal in mind. Aside from soliciting food and attention, I am not certain they did -- and you have provided them both." Lucien glances to Kavalam's backpack, and then to the dogs as they soak up the pettings. "I admit I would likely not have paid you much mind, either, had Flèche not been a good deal more attentive than I. Were you trying to avoid notice? Certainly, we can leave you in peace again. The pups have a very short attention span. Their disappointment will be short-lived." "I don't -- try. Only just a natural talent." Kavalam's lips twitch up, briefly, but the smile is short-lived. His eyes widen as Lucien talks; his fingers scrunch into the dogs' fur. "No --" tumbles out quick, before he catches himself. Swallows, sits up and hooks his arm back through one strap of his backpack, hands folding in his lap. "What did you say their names are? The dogs. They are no bother. I also -- am not on a time table." "If the dogs have a long game, they're sure putting us to shame." Clint's smile returns, kindly and less lop-sided. "That's a helluva talent." He looks very much like he might have more to add, but does not--though his eyes take in Kavalam's attire, his backpack, before dropping back to the dogs. "The ugly one is Arrow," he replies, indicating the dog at the end of his leash, whose floppy ears half-perk at the sound of his name, "and that graceful lady there is Flèche." "That is quite a talent." Lucien's voice is quiet, thoughful; his eyes have drifted aside, straying toward the nearby hot dog stand. "For better and, I imagine, for worse. Still. I can think of many a time in my life that a little bit of obscurity would have gone a long way towards my next meal." "Arrow," Kavalam echoes, quietly, scritching under that dog's chin. "And Flèche. They are very good dogs." He hesitates, a deep frown pulling his brows in. Looks up at Lucien, eyes flicking skeptically over the older man's neat-tailored clothing. He fidgets, dusts just a little self-consciously at some of the dirt gathered on his backpack. "In your life?" His mouth twists to one side. Clint doesn't look back to Lucien until the man had already begun to spoke, and he shuffles back another half step--it looks casual, almost like a natural shifting of weight--to adjust his sightline. "That is very true," he agrees, quite seriously, with Kavalam's assessment of the dogs. "I try not to let it go to his head, though." His smile is still gentle, and comes more readily, at that last skeptical question. "Mine, too. There's all kinds of surprises in people's lives you wouldn't think of, to look at them--including yours, I'd guess." "Many a time," Lucien re-emphasizes, with a very small incline of his head. "The world is a terribly inhospitable place, sometimes. I think many of us have had to rely on --" His hand turns up, fingers splaying. "Whatever tools we have at hand to make it survivable." He glances back down to where Flèche has started snuffling at the sidewalk again, ever hopeful even though only the linger ghost of fry-scent remains. "Goodness, but we've neglected their hotdogs. Would you care to join us? Like a small recompense for the fries." "Tools," Kavalam echoes, his eyes slowly shifting between the two men. "I had not thought of..." He trails off, his brows knitting -- but the question pulls his eyes open wider. The look he darts toward the hot dog stand is quick and eager, but there's a beat before he answers. Careful, measured in tone even if his fingers are already grasping at the strap of his bag. "Are you certain? I do -- like the sausages." "Imagine it it's probably a nuisance, too," Clint drawls. "Can be hard, finding a way to make use of something you're used to seeing as a disadvantage." The corner of his mouth twitches up, a small smile. "Sure we're sure." He twitches Arrow's leash, and the brown mutt perks up and trots on ahead. "You can score a lot more than hot dogs slipping into the right places, but this'll be our treat. C'mon."