THE MORE STEPS HE TAKES FORWARD, the more distance Ariel puts between them. To guard her treasure, yes, but also to guard herself. How many stories had she heard about the dangers of men. Specifically handsome men with charming smiles and – she catches herself. Handsome men who could very well be yielding knives and boats and spears. And lies. Her eyebrow arches. “Eugene Fitzherbert?” Not exactly the sort of name she’d heard from other land-dwellers before. She squints at the letters on the side of the comb to confirm. Huh.
A comb? She matches his laughter, a soft melodic sound. “I know how it’s USED. That’s just not what it’s called.” After all, who is she going to trust: Scuttle, one of her very best friends in the world, or a strange man she’d just met? “And why would he have his name engraved on your dinglehopper?”
HE REALLY DOESN’T WANNA GET HIS FEET WET. Or his clothes. Or, most importantly, his hair. The way she backs away has him a little concerned that he may be coming on to strong, and if he wants his comb back, he might have to dial it back. Probably drop any pick-up lines he had in the works. “Dingle-what ? Sweetie, that’s a comb. Is this just one of those weird cultural things ? Like how some places say pavement and other places say sidewalk, and --- y’know ? I’m getting off topic.”
His smile softens, and though he doesn’t edge any closer to the water, he outstretches his hand. Let’s try the genuine feelings route. “I know it’s... weird. A little suspicious. But believe me, I wouldn’t be bugging you about this if it wasn’t special ! I mean, it’s just a c --- dinglehopper, right ? You can get them anywhere ! That one, though, is special. I’ve had it for a long time.”
