Duck Lake pluja

'ow are you feeling? elodie asks @Lestan, calling over her shoulder to him. she wades in a shallow curve of the lake, submerged up to her hips, preening at herself here and there in the hopes of finally getting rid of the dreeadful swamp-stench which had been permeating around her.
shardik (@Swordfish) was likely nearby, though at this point ellie could not tell whether he was staying or going. he seemed preoccupied, despite his, in her opinion, general hard-to-read demeanor. was it her place to ask if he was okay? decidedly no; she'd done enough of that with lestan, and now she was trying to rid the air between them of the palpable awkwardness. she knew too much. she knew too little.
you know, zey say zat bat'ing can be a stress reliever.

"l-like w-warmed over t-trash," the mayfair moaned. he'd had another episode, another falling into himself wherein he could not talk to his companions. instead lestan had babbled about violent deer and golden wings, a bird of fire and a cat which struck with french claws.
at her suggestion, he stood miserably and then waded into the lake, settling only when it lapped the middle of his back.
it was only then that he smelled himself; ears planed and he sank slowly beneath the surface, leaving an oily ring of traveldirt rippling gently on the clear water.