Calan
Calan takes the warning exactly as seriously as it deserves, which is to say immediately and with great ceremony, his eyebrows lifting before he gives a stern little nod. "Not looking," he promises, and because this seems like the sort of rule that might become important later.
Going that way begins as a lurch, then becomes something like walking through sheer accident, and then turns into running because running. Calan’s feet slap against the boards his arms windmilling, and when someone shouts something about clothes, he twists just enough to call back, quite sincerely, "do you have any?" before nearly tangling his own legs together trying to keep up.
The stitch in his side arrives like betrayal, and Calan stops with a sharp little howl, veering sideways with all the grace of a dropped sack and slouching against the nearest solid thing. "Ow," he complains, one hand pressed to his ribs while he glares down at himself.
Only then does he notice what he’s leaning against.
The cannon is enormous from this close, dark and solid and fixed at the end of the dock like it has been waiting there for exactly the sort of boy who should not be allowed anywhere near it. Glancing at the pull cord hanging innocuously down over a sign that advises anyone caught tampering with or firing the cannon improperly would be dealt with under the full extent of the law, Calan's expression changes all at once, pain shoved immediately aside.
"What do you think that does?"
Going that way begins as a lurch, then becomes something like walking through sheer accident, and then turns into running because running. Calan’s feet slap against the boards his arms windmilling, and when someone shouts something about clothes, he twists just enough to call back, quite sincerely, "do you have any?" before nearly tangling his own legs together trying to keep up.
The stitch in his side arrives like betrayal, and Calan stops with a sharp little howl, veering sideways with all the grace of a dropped sack and slouching against the nearest solid thing. "Ow," he complains, one hand pressed to his ribs while he glares down at himself.
Only then does he notice what he’s leaning against.
The cannon is enormous from this close, dark and solid and fixed at the end of the dock like it has been waiting there for exactly the sort of boy who should not be allowed anywhere near it. Glancing at the pull cord hanging innocuously down over a sign that advises anyone caught tampering with or firing the cannon improperly would be dealt with under the full extent of the law, Calan's expression changes all at once, pain shoved immediately aside.
"What do you think that does?"
I've never been one to half-ass shenanigans.
