[P] [LCSS] we're pushing a stone up a mountainous waste

[Lieselotte Temple]

Every day, save for Wednesday, Dusty is monitoring the Bosque's Ladder - perhaps, not so much, because it needs monitored, but because he worries it serves as a health hazard. The wooden-rung ladder, suspended by rope, tapers to points and is anchored to the ground before it stretches (thankfully at low altitude) to a thick, wooden post. In order to break the inevitable fall, straw has been strewn about on the ground. It would seem Dusty is on standby to attend the inevitable bruised egos and bloody noses that go alongside this Sisyphean challenge.

She plucked another piece of straw from her rump and tossed it to the ground. The straw was everywhere. It was endless.

"Well, if I can't do that, I don't think anyone can," she said to Nazario, bringing her tail round to check for any more stragglers. "That's a rigged game." Most of the games, it seemed, were tricky like this. It was different from anything she'd encountered in her entire tricky life, and Lottie felt a giddy, earnest loathing of her own growing addiction. She knew that the moment she tried to clamber back on that rope ladder, it would twist her right around and spit her into the hay, and that only made her want to do it more. Some of the thinner, lankier folks made it higher up, but for a curvaceous creature like herself, she'd be lucky to see herself past the first few rungs.

"I can't imagine anyone making it to the top." She looked the Rey up and down, eyebrows raised, pointedly implying her challenge. She threw in a grin too, not realizing a piece of hay had been missed in the gleaming mess of her auburn hair.

(—) |
For Despi/Rio!

[Nazario del Bosque]

OOC: LADDER LADDER LADDER LADDER LADDER || WC: --

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They had spent the better part of a fifteen minutes here, he was sure, attempting to puzzle out the physic mystery of the ladder.

At least, he had watched while Lottie had bravely, and stubbornly, made her ventures only to twist about on the rope and plant herself right into the straw below, and each time brought forth a round of hardly contained laughs with the occasional boom that he wasn’t even certain that was really him, only for the Rey Salvaje to reign in his mirth at her poor misfortune. He reached over and helped to pluck gold fibers from her umber hair.

”Oh, c’mon now, it can’t be that hard, right?”

At the scathing look in her molten, coppery eyes he cleared his throat, and waved away the mere suggestion with a little pinch to his lips, and sought to immediately right the wrong he’d enacted, taking his place at the first rung, stepping onto it. The ladder sagged beneath his weight, enough so that the rung was practically cemented to the ground, and he reached up to grip one of the wooden rungs ahead of him. Easy.

Slowly, steadily, he made his climb, but no more than three dowels later, the supports began to wobble wildly. Nazario’s grip tightened on the rungs, his arms going tense and body rigid as though he could will it to still. One moment, he had been staring at his target – the next rung up.

The next, he was looking up at a rolling white cloud through the blue sky, and the ladder swinging up as it deposited him, uncouthly, on the ground, and then swung back around on a downwards trajectory to whack him on the nose.