"It's alright," Robby reassures the sheepish point. He's got the bowl for the man, though it is awkward to hold up to catch his blood inside it. Which do manage to plop into the mix when they land as each drop hardens--at least the contents is more paste-like than watery, and they stay inside at the introduction of the coldblood.
Robby brings the bowl then in front of himself, holds out his hand to take the clippers next. Probably a little...icy, and if Daniel doesn't, Robby will take the sleeve of his overshirt to wipe them off (...the concern should be the blood, but it still counts if the blood is ice, too, right). The blade is no less cold against his skin once he rolls up the sleeve proper, exposing the area just above his wrist to dig in and puncture a hole, hovering his arm just above the mixture. More blood comes out, easier than for Mister LaRusso, with the smell of tar drifting up as the rusted-gold blood drips down. Robby feels the sting, but ignores it until he's sure that there's enough for the mix, before dropping the clippers and putting his hand over the small wound.
Briefly, for a few seconds, before he picks up the mortar and starts to crush, and mixing everything into--and there's a shimmering to the contents as they start to come together, becoming more sludge-like.
...but a little better smelling than actual sludge, fortunately.
"I got the familial bond with Mob," he admits--awkwardly, but only some. "It was, uh, because of his powers, in case he ever changed into a beast. You tell what the other's feeling. The friend bond doesn't do that."
He's not sure if Mister LaRusso knows the differences, talks as they come closer to the decision of what to do. The nerves starting to creep in, apprehension for what's about to occur.
But it feels silly, the position he's put himself in; but Robby goes along with it anyway, a small huff of a chuckle before he asks, "--You want the familial one?"
...yes, by the look on his face--and considering their entire conversation today--he knows how dorky and dumb this question is. Future dad.
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Robby brings the bowl then in front of himself, holds out his hand to take the clippers next. Probably a little...icy, and if Daniel doesn't, Robby will take the sleeve of his overshirt to wipe them off (...the concern should be the blood, but it still counts if the blood is ice, too, right). The blade is no less cold against his skin once he rolls up the sleeve proper, exposing the area just above his wrist to dig in and puncture a hole, hovering his arm just above the mixture. More blood comes out, easier than for Mister LaRusso, with the smell of tar drifting up as the rusted-gold blood drips down. Robby feels the sting, but ignores it until he's sure that there's enough for the mix, before dropping the clippers and putting his hand over the small wound.
Briefly, for a few seconds, before he picks up the mortar and starts to crush, and mixing everything into--and there's a shimmering to the contents as they start to come together, becoming more sludge-like.
...but a little better smelling than actual sludge, fortunately.
"I got the familial bond with Mob," he admits--awkwardly, but only some. "It was, uh, because of his powers, in case he ever changed into a beast. You tell what the other's feeling. The friend bond doesn't do that."
He's not sure if Mister LaRusso knows the differences, talks as they come closer to the decision of what to do. The nerves starting to creep in, apprehension for what's about to occur.
But it feels silly, the position he's put himself in; but Robby goes along with it anyway, a small huff of a chuckle before he asks, "--You want the familial one?"
...yes, by the look on his face--and considering their entire conversation today--he knows how dorky and dumb this question is. Future dad.