here, friend: one meticulously chosen stick

"Psst" is a noise that's easy to mistake for being yet another piece of the ambient backing track Leo provides for one's thoughts. It's also one that's easy to interpret as being quite out of place; especially when its repeated ("pp-psssst, pspspst") and punctuated with the noise of an... absolute butterball tumbling face-first into the clearing and in front of the stranger that it has, unfortunately, been "stalking" for a little while now.

Ryoto doesn't check its own state of being— now coated in various bits of leaf litter and with grass stains on its fuzzy knees— though, more concerned with that of what'd been held to its chest before the great fall. It rolls to its haunches with the aid of its tail (curling the limb around itself when that's said and done) and focuses its sights downward. Wrists roll, padded fingers smooth over the surface.

All clear—... !

A worn-smooth branch longer than the stranger (friend, it hopes!) is tall is held forward in two palms, ears tilting forward with a toothy grin. "Sti-ck," it chirps helpfully and descriptively, however quietly.

At first, Yvan doesn't even flinch at the noise. Extension of it draws an ear to flick back, soon followed by slow, mismatched eyes as he looks to take in the crashing party. He'd been walking for some time now, muttering to himself about sticks much like the one this— ...

Well, he doesn't quite know what this is, but he knows what it's holding isn't a sword.

Stepping back to give it room before cautiously pacing closer, Yvan looks between the stick and Ryoto, face painfully neutral as he studies both gift and gifter. It's obviously being offered to him; he can tell that much, at least, but why him? Clenching his teeth, he leans in to inspect the stick in detail.

If it's a stick, then it's definitely not a sword. ... right? "It's too long," he abruptly deadpans, looking away towards the direction he'd been meandering. Eyes search and ears prick for a moment until he returns his attention onto this person. "It'll break." Wary eyes look up to meet Ryoto's when he goes to take the stick and wield it in both hands.

The tip rests on the ground, even as he makes a show of swinging it away from the stranger. "See. Too heavy. It'll break. One wrong hit and—" he makes a show of a minuscule explosion with one hand, completely with the sound to go with it— "It'll shatter."

Curiously, he doesn't seem all too inclined to hand it back. Instead, he continues on, still clutching on to it. "We can find a better one." An invitation? Sort of. He needs another set of eyes to find a proper weapon amidst these fakes, anyway.

Every microcosm of expression's studied to the finest detail, and every sign points toward disapproval; which, would be a bit of a problem if Ryoto were at all sensitive to or even aware that such a thing could exist, much less be emotionally damaged by. To it, all that the stranger is offering is objective fact and observations— all of which the puffball absorbs like a sponge.

It rises from its haunches, finds itself needing to look down, and proceeds to state an objective fact of its own: "Too short." Hooked claws wave through the air above Yvan's head to indicate the point, barely reaching at all.

"Too short"... in comparison to the stick it'd offered. Had the others inspected over the past few days not been too short for him, though? Ryoto thinks that it'd perhaps made a miscalculation there. … or not yet found the sweet spot. But, that's the honor it's seemingly been invited to seek, isn't it? It thinks so.

An excited wag of the tail swishes over the grass. It drags the limb behind itself as it trots to walk at Yvan's side with doggish glee. More of its attention falls on him than it does any prospective sticks, though; on him and the similarities between the two of them— scaled forearms and lower halves, teeth and claws. A magnetism between curiosities—...

... it kind of wants that stick back, though, if its first new friend doesn't agree with its dimensions. They seemed fine enough to it.

Ryoto holds a hand out into the space between them as they walk. "... give stick back? Can h-hold it."

Yvan doesn't mean anything by it, of course. It was objective fact, and the stick is simply not a sword. He does close his eyes in avoidance of a flinch as Ryoto comes to close to his head, brows furrowing as he side-steps away. "I'm not short..." The defense is mumbled away from it.

At least he can bury himself in searching. Focused eyes don't pick up on much— stray leaves, rocks, but no good sticks. Not sticks, swords. Not perfect ones, at least. A few are close, long enough, but they aren't as good as what's in his hands already. At least this stranger is here to help.

His ear flicks back before his gaze does at its request. Give... it back? Lips thin as his brows come together again, half-stepping around to face it. "... you want it back?" But it just gave it to him. Isn't it his? Tightening his grip on it, Yvan runs his fingers back and forth before huffing forcefully and holding his arms out as far as they'll go. Sulking eyes glance away. "Fine." He wasn't going to keep it anyway.

He's not particularly upset at this, he knows this, but his tailtip twitches despite that fact. "It's not a sword anyway." It's the best one he's found, but it's just not right..! "It needs to— ... not break, and not be longer than me. Okay?" He's certain Ryoto is watching out for swords, not him. Why would someone watch him anyway? There's things to find, things he promptly turns back to looking for once he's rid of the stick.

A few more observations, things to note: Yvan doesn't appreciate the comment on his height; seemingly doesn't appreciate the gesture, either. Ryoto will just keep its hands mostly to itself, then— or, at the very least, not above his head. It's not entirely sure that it would particularly like that move either, reflecting on it.

No use lingering on past mistakes, though. Yvan's holding one out for it to take.

Viridescent eyes make a quick study of his disgruntled expression, the huffing of his chest; and, this time—... ! It connects the dots between that soured look and unwillingness to easily comply. Fuzzy ears vanish into the ruff of its mane, and it averts its own gaze with a shake of the head.

"... d-don't have to— give it. Just want, mm..." Ryoto's voice trails off as it pushes the stick toward Yvan's chest and turns its sights upon the ground. A particularly uninteresting pebble's gathered up in its claws, and thumbs immediately make a rhythm out of smoothing over the surface. Round and round it goes. "Hold sum'n. 'n keep you… um, hands-empty. Keep stick."

Well, does it want it or not? Gritting his teeth and screwing up his face, Yvan clutches the stick closer as he glares down at it. This is confusing. Yvan doesn't like it. And he's fine carrying the stick.

"I have two hands. I just wanted to keep it 'cause you gave it to me. Do you want it back or not?" He's huffy, impatient as he tilts the stick back towards it again. "I don't care if you hold it." He'll will himself to not care.

Yvan sets his jaw to use the sternest face he can imagine on Ryoto. It looks a bit goofy with how he's over-exaggerating and pushing up his nostrils way too far, making him look more disgusted at a bad smell rather than angry. Either it takes it, or it doesn't. He can drag the stick if it's adamant about holding onto the rock it's decided to pick up.

They don't have time to waste on this!

Unfortunately, such a stern expression (no matter how… constipated it looks) is a rousing success; Ryoto folds with all the alacrity of a lawnchair— easily with a very physical bowing of the head. It shakes its muzzle this way and that, frowning hard. "Nno, I don't…" Yvan's shown its rock for a brief instant before its owner returns to poring over the ground cover.

The tail hanging at half-mast and curling between its legs wags somewhat, at least, when it spots a new stick to put up on the auction block for friendship and attention. In comparison to the first, it's simply... far too short, far too thin. Soft, fresh wood, too— it's pliable under the mere force of gravity as Ryoto stoops down to pick it up. Hardly a good fit for Yvan's mysterious purposes.

Not that Ryoto is aware of what exact parameters such unknown reasons require. The small (not-an-olive) branch is offered freely as a result.

Yvan pauses for a long moment, the expression turning from... whatever it is, to one of concern. Did he really look that mad? Eyes glance away sharply as he draws back a step, right after the barest glimpse to its newfound stone.

He still looks to the next stick offered, but he tries to not be so mad this time. He really does! Even forces himself to look at it neutrally, but he's still glaring a little bit, even sighing out the tiniest puff of air. "... too small." He picks it up anyway and wobbles it in his hand. "Is this even a stick? Um— well, it is smaller and less likely to break. Somewhere between this one and the other one." Given another stick to carry, he tucks it into the same hand that holds the first, with the longer stick partially tucked back under his wings. "It needs to be sturdy. Wieldable. Long enough to— ... to uh... to do things with. Not a twig. Not a branch. You'll know it when you see it."

He can trust Ryoto this time, right? Yeah. Breaking his attention away from it, he resumes the search as he pads along. A stick here, no... There's something, but it's not what he's looking for— There! Dipping over, Yvan snatches up what's almost a sword. It's dry enough to stay in place, thick enough to not break upon a single hit.

Only, "This one's short." He holds it out for Ryoto to inspect. "It must be a dagger." His palm's up, in case it feels like taking this one. "We're getting closer. It needs to be like this, but longer."

Ryoto's beginning to think that there's a bit too much passion behind this search for sticks to really start a burgeoning friendship over it. That hypothetical is reinforced by the way the stick wobbles and sways like its enthusiasm. Viridescent eyes remain fixated on the movement regardless, and despite swelling annoyance—... It still soaks in Yvan's words, narrowing down that vague definition of the "perfect stick" with each successive failure and subsequent demonstration. Such a thing counts for something, right?

Another example is presented— and it's as if a lightbulb's gone off in the child's mind: Its initial offering hadn't been so terribly far from the mark after all! Smaller hadn't meant infinitesimal; it'd just meant... smaller!

Spurred on by an invisible force named "progress", Ryoto nods and firmly plants its attention on the forest floor. Toes kick aside a smattering of leaves, and it gasps as it kneels to pull a prospective branch from the ground...

... ah. Just a root. Still attached to a nearby tree.

It bares its teeth in a frustrated scowl, giving up only to redouble its efforts in turning over every (metaphorical and literal) stone.

On and on they go, with no results, huh? Ryoto hasn't taken the dagger, so Yvan holds it with his free hand as he continues his sweeping gaze.

He gives pause to sort of... watch Ryoto look around. Why is it helping? Brows furrow as he tilts his head just so, eyes studying it over once, twice. He never even really got a good look at it. Scales, hair— a lot of hair, more than him. It's missing legs, too. He's more like the other creatures he's seen that it is. Is its tail working as a leg? No, it was grabbing it, but it looks heavy, so it should help..?

He's staring. Glancing away sharply, Yvan turns back around and continues staring to the forest floor, barely even looking. He's too preoccupied by mulling over this being's existence. It's the first thing that's even looked like him. Are there more? Why doesn't it look him even more? His teeth click as he sets his jaw, hands clenching around the sticks in either hand.

His mouth hangs open for a long moment until he speaks, not even turning back to Ryoto. "Why are you helping me?" He can't make sense of it; it can't even be much help. "You don't even know what a sword is, do you?" One ear tips back towards Ryoto as he half-turns his head, still not looking yet, still scanning the ground in waning hope.