[It's a beautiful morning in Luceti. The sun is shining, the grass is green, and there's a small dot hurtling down from the sky which is neither bird nor plane.
The "dot" slams into a large oak tree near the centre of the village, whose branches groan in pain as they bend to absorb the energy of the landing, then fling her back up into the air. Now
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His eyes widen and he makes a slight, unintelligible sound from the shock. The journal resting on his palms slips from one hand and dangles off of the other. The bloomers -- he doesn't mean to stare.
. . . It is incredibly difficult to look away.]
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[Well, that would explain why the "owie" sounded exceedingly familiar. His cheeks and ears feel hot. He snaps the journal shut and lowers his head, keeping his glasses in place with his free hand. He can't bear to watch anymore.]
Just what exactly are you doing!?
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[Flail flail flail.]
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No way.
He still refuses to look at her.]
. . .
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[Flail flail flail!]
Pretty please with sugar on top?
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. . . That's enough! Keep moving your foot. Whatever it takes, you can do it yourself.
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[Flail flail flail.]
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Maybe he can just shoot the branches. That should work, right? Except there's that guardian of the forest to consider. He has to be nature friendly.
He can't climb the tree. That would look undignified. Then again, Pascal wouldn't care about dignity. It's not like she has any.
But heaven knows that that grunting is bugging him.]
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[Can she even hear that from her height?]
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[Let's take advantage of his willingness to help all for the sake of continuity. Asbel probably climbs trees better, anyway.]
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