Bobby is actually part Irish, so he's wearing an
appropriate t-shirt (or so he thinks). It's somewhat obscured by the sling holding up his left arm, but it still counts.
He's going to sit at the bar and drink/eat green sugary things and watch the crowd. Approachable.
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He'd meant to go down to the armoury and had passed through a group celebrating a particularly beautiful afternoon in the meadows. Thus the wreath.
But now he was here instead and that suited him just as well. He notices the predominance of green glothing - and faced with a young man wearing a piece of clothing with writing, he cannot help reading it. Words on clothes are such a strange concept.
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"Hey. How's it going?"
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"Pretty good. Are you new around here?"
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"How's your arm doing?" He smiles at Bobby and looks at the damaged limb, musing about how that could have gone a lot worse.
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He wiggles the fingers dangling from the edge of the sling.
"I went back to the institute and got an x-ray and the bone is totally fine. The professor wants me to wear the sling for a few days so my shoulder doesn't decide to pop back out or something."
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"It...how? You just...iced it up and it was fixed?"
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