Arrow Lake Bring along a good strong umbrella capable of handling falling animals

“Dragomir!” The admonishment was as gentle as ever, half-chide, half-call. The silver had roused a while ago, when belea had squalled for and against a bathing to be exacted upon her; and some time during Isi’s rilesome protests, balaur had deemed fit to take to prancing in puddles — and eating dirt, as Aurëwen now found, picking her way from the thicket and over to the boy.

Surely there was no harm in a bit of dirt after all, but you couldn’t ever be too sure; once, when she was a yearling, a tenant had arrived and ailed by way of drinking from a puddle  ( infected )  and nearly succumbing to its effects. The only thing that had saved him had been endless eating, drinking, and ambling at his medic’s insistence; all this, to get it through said tenant’s system. They never did find out what had inhibited his drink, to leave him so weak and fading... but he’d left Rhaesuial as a survivor.

Aure came to a willowy halt at her child’s side, hesitantly sniffing towards him, and then at the mud which he’d sampled, and the puddle that he’d thrashed about him. A worried murmur left her, yet she was anything but furious with him.

Instead, she proceeded to wriggle her nose into the mud Dragomir’d laved at, and gave him a wry crease of eyes and tone of voice: ”You and ze earth are inseparable, ah?” Then, with an impish notch in her brow, she shoved her muzzle and chin into the mud and began to inch it deviously his way — as if on a playful prowl.