tampered | Log; Ongoing

When; Sept. 18 (mid afternoon)
Rating; PG for lulz?
Characters; Fran

e_meritus, Scholar

bigmamasboy
Summary; A date with a bunny angel is just the thing Scholar needs to get over his 'fear of flying.'
Log;

Running from the non-existent cops, digging out bullets from his beloved sister, acting as a buffer between black widow and she wolf with Richard, the War of Rage... Far be it for Socrates to deny himself the simpler pleasures of life. All he wanted to do was enjoy the sea, enjoy people's company, eat good food, and as much as he didn't want to believe the motto, F.E.A.R. Rejecting Gaia's way had greater consequences where he and Saya came from, here he had nothing to worry about entertaining a woman who otherwise should have been his dinner.

Scholar broke through a crest of white on his koi-covered board with an enthusiastic shout. His hair was sufficiently soaked, his skin mildly browned from the afternoon sun on his bare shoulders. Despite the gray and electric blue shorts tied at his waist Scholar had a completely even tan, but this was his secret. One would've thought this was Newport and not the City. There was a boat he'd 'chartered' from the East Shore, tied to the dockside near his wood and bamboo beach shack.

All in all he was prepared to show Fran how to parasail, if she kept their date.

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

Hardly a difficult task when her ears were half as long as her arms, but it did take a moment before he hopped off his brightly colored board and took to tugging it towards the beach. Scholar shook his head now, to flick away the remaining saltwater in his hair. It was layered and chin length in some areas, more than likely in need of a trim soon unless he wanted to look like a hippie vagabond.

Scholar tucked his board into the sand then jogged towards the stretch of dirt that separated the forest from the beach. The first thing he noticed about her--make that the second thing he noticed about her was her armor. That was no way to dress at the beach, and definitely not for parasailing where the metal alone might weigh her down. Nevertheless the blond offered her a hand for a firm shake.

"Fran, 'ey? S'pleasure to meet you," Scholar greeted with a chipper smile. His accent was far more prominent in person than on the network.

Fran watched him mull about with much more interest in the board he carried and speared into the sand, rather than the way he carried himself or acted. She was not unaccustomed to the actions of humes, men at that especially, to say the least, and though she was curious after his nonchalance, the equipment he had was of more value. Vaguely, she wondered if it was what they might be flying on.

Her attention, however, was diverted as he approached her and extended a hand. Ah. Good-natured, as she had expected, as he had seemed. Yet appearances could be deceiving, just as Fran had proved time and time again with a handshake firmer than anticipated.

She minded her nails, years and years of practice put to good use, and nodded, an ear twitching as she adjusted to his accent, not unlike the pirates at Balfonheim. As for a reply she only inclined her head beyond his shoulder and remarked, "Your sail. This is it?"

He on the other hand knew nothing about Viera, much less Viera women. To Socrates Fran was just like any other lady bird; pretty, intelligent, charming, and generally good company across the board. Speaking of, he tilted his head briefly, noting not only her strength and claws but also her gesture. Scholar had to keep himself from cracking too loud a laugh. He released her hand with another grin.

"No that's me stick, for mullering about in the waves," Scholar said cheerfully, "I could show you how to do that too, if you're up to task." He winked then looked her over from head to toe and back up again. "We've got to do something about your threads. You'll rust like a bloody beat up Chevy if that gets in the water," the blond nodded.

"Lesee what Scholar's got in 'is shack," he gestured for Fran to follow then paused, "you don't mind changing, do you? I mean you'll kind of'ave to for the beach." He scratched at his chin thoughtfully.

Though she was unfamiliar with the term 'beat up Chevy,' Fran knew a great deal about rust, especially where and when armor was concerned. She nodded in further understanding and noted his grin, as he seemed to be doing it quite a bit. Either he was jovial by nature--likely--or he was every bit as capricious as most men she had crossed paths with--just as likely.

Still, Fran followed after him, her shoes sinking further into the sand as she attempted to keep herself composed. She only stopped when he did, quirking the same ear in such a way that might have been read as interest. Attempts at masking discretion, it seemed, were proving difficult to master.

She shook her head, neglecting to wait for him to start again once more as she continued in the direction they had been making for, and replied, "I do not mind, if you think it wise. However, I would inquire after what you would have me wear, if not my armor and shoes."

"Oh I've got just the thing, luv," he smiled.

Jovial by nature he'd like to think, but what Scholar thought didn't always match the general majority. He jogged towards the beach shack then, to reach it before Fran could, and likely successful considering those heels. They looked like they could stab holes in his board. The blond pushed a few palm fronds aside for the box at the back of his shack, next to the shower and bathroom.

Scholar dug out a t-shirt, a pair of board shorts, and a sports bra. The latter had to be Saya's, maybe Lupe's, who knew. He eyed the feminine article then looked at Fran, back to the sports bra, back to Fran. She should fit, it was worth a try! He offered the items to her--no wait.

"Moment," he nodded to the woman then searched his drawers for some scissors. With a pair of shears he cut off at least five inches from the legs of his vibrant green and blue board shorts. "There all better," Scholar handed the clothing over, "you can leave your armor in'ere, nobody ought to nab it."

Despite said shoes, Fran was more than able to keep up. Though she was walking, her long legs had always given her an advantage before, why not now? She, however, was in little hurry, interested more in the scenery and the prospect of what he might fetch for her to be in any sort of a rush.

She heard him call out to her--something about a moment--while she observed and studied what she supposed was his current claim to residency. Fran chose to remain outside, only having to stifle the urge to glance inside once, when she heard the distinct sound of ripping fabric.

Not a moment later was she handed a bundle of bright clothing, little of which made sense with practicality in mind. Fran was familiar with the bottoms, in a way, and the top was not difficult to figure out either; however one item gave her pause, and she fished it out of the pile.

"And this?" she asked, holding up the piece of fabric in question--the bra, that is--so that he would not miss it.

Log; Ongoing

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