The Comedy of Errors

"Architect, Minoth, you smell...ripe."

Addam had great expressions. His range and facility for contorting his face into arrant joy and pride, sorrow and snide smirks was truly a gift. Minoth had never actually told him so, and didn't intend until such time as it might prove necessary in order to recruit a tritagonist player, or something like that, but he did keep it in back of mind and even study it, from time to time.

Just now, it was perfectly clear from just his eyes, just his mouth, just his nose, and certainly all three together, that Addam was disgusted by the haggarding swamp creature that presently approached him much more than he'd ever been taken aback by one of Mythra's special meals.

Minoth knew what he was walking into (rather, out of). He knew to expect some ridicule, or at least some reaction. How could he play with this, though?

He slowed his walk, exaggerated a repetitive hulking slump up-down of his shoulders. "For the picking?"

"For the fertilizing," corrected Addam, now physically pinching shut his nose and wincing even to breathe in through his mouth. "What did you kill?"

"Mesmer Tlaloc." Minoth made a show of brushing together pointedly undusty palms. "Ever heard of it? I think I've got some cocktail of Seed Bombs and Sweet Juice going, here."

"And you'll be the only thing going for quite some time, I'm sure. Go wash up, I beg of you."

Oof, harsh. But Minoth went to the edge of the spring as requested and yanked off a boot, theoretically clean where shielded by the cuffs of his pants, with which to scoop some (mostly) unsullied water.

"You'll kiss me when I'm all clean, won't you, my prince?" he called back to where politer company was waiting and wallowing in abject dis-ease.

Eugh, gods, no. Imagine kissing a Blant's beatifically smiling face. How could you do it, even if it was polished to a high shine and disinfected to Morytha and back?