[There's a small ruckus at the lake-splashing, and then perhaps a quieted (but strangled none-the-less) intake of breath. Not the sound of pain, but of air refilling tired lungs. Wolfwood, clad in rolled-up pants and a T-shit-what an image, him in anything other than a suit-would walk just far enough into the water to feel the sensation of losing
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[no wait]
[Wolfwood leans in over toward this strange little crab, blinking.]
Huh, hey little fella-what kind of animal are you? ...Reminds me of a scorpion...
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Either it's trying to communicate in Morse Code, or it just hasn't caught onto that animals-can-talk memo.]
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...He ponders if he should take a stick and poke it. It has claws, so it's definitely not safe to just prod at with a finger... Aw, hell. He picks up a stick and pokes at the claws.]
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