[ Nikolai doesn't understand the word nor the sentiment.
As soon as Anahid is out of the basket, Nikolai follows. She's in the mud a handful of seconds before he is, his shiny calf-high boots now muddied and covered in grit as one foot sinks into the mud while the other remains on what shouldn't be firm ground.
He laughs loudly.
Mikhail seemingly found the best places to press his feet. His boots are muddied and covered in stray grass blades, but his shoes look as shoes should be when traversing such an environment.
As soon as he pushes on the foot that hasn't sunken into the mouth of the swamp, Nikolai manages to lose his footing and joins Anahid's knees in the mud, although he's not quick enough to stop his hands from burying into the mud, either. Tugging them out with a wet pop, he shakes them, face scrunched up in laughter. ]
Now that's a landing, isn't it?
[ Nikolai bats away Mikhail's offer to try and help him out of the mud, gesturing for him to help Anahid instead. ]
Just in case she loses a slipper. I want to be a prince from the books and fetch it for her.
[ Mikhail rolls his eyes. ] I don't think that's how the stories go, moi tsar.
Then let's get them rewritten. The mud here's quite thick. I forgot this little swamp was here. [ He lets his hands hover over Anahid, ready to assist but reluctant to touch her and get her more muddied.
Some mud's found its way across his temple, on the shoulder of his white shirt (and on the front of it, splattered like paint) and in his golden hair. This is Nikolai Lantsov at his best. ]
no subject
As soon as Anahid is out of the basket, Nikolai follows. She's in the mud a handful of seconds before he is, his shiny calf-high boots now muddied and covered in grit as one foot sinks into the mud while the other remains on what shouldn't be firm ground.
He laughs loudly.
Mikhail seemingly found the best places to press his feet. His boots are muddied and covered in stray grass blades, but his shoes look as shoes should be when traversing such an environment.
As soon as he pushes on the foot that hasn't sunken into the mouth of the swamp, Nikolai manages to lose his footing and joins Anahid's knees in the mud, although he's not quick enough to stop his hands from burying into the mud, either. Tugging them out with a wet pop, he shakes them, face scrunched up in laughter. ]
Now that's a landing, isn't it?
[ Nikolai bats away Mikhail's offer to try and help him out of the mud, gesturing for him to help Anahid instead. ]
Just in case she loses a slipper. I want to be a prince from the books and fetch it for her.
[ Mikhail rolls his eyes. ] I don't think that's how the stories go, moi tsar.
Then let's get them rewritten. The mud here's quite thick. I forgot this little swamp was here. [ He lets his hands hover over Anahid, ready to assist but reluctant to touch her and get her more muddied.
Some mud's found its way across his temple, on the shoulder of his white shirt (and on the front of it, splattered like paint) and in his golden hair. This is Nikolai Lantsov at his best. ]