closed.

[jalan]

WHO: Daenerys Targaryen and Arthur Pendragon.
WHERE: Heropa.
WHEN: Right now!!
WHAT: They go jogging. That's it that's the log.
WARNINGS: Everyone's cute, here.

Daenerys arrives readier than one might expect, in good running shoes, coordinated figure-hugging athletic wear of breathable microfibre mesh panels in fashionable slate grey, her hair tamed back into a single silver braid. Barely visible in the dawn light, the imPort tattoo signals her as a registered hero.

None of this makes her any better at sustained jogging than the next royal.

But she has energy, and a competitive streak, and the air is still cool from the evening at this hour, filling her lungs as they make their casual run down empty sidewalks. There will be hours, still, before she must make an appearance at work, and the only rush she is in is seeing that her bouncing steps keep pace with Arthur's, while her braid swings like a restless pony's tail. Her mind might be elsewhere, if she were not so conscious of the burn of her breath in her lungs and the songs of protest plucking at her ligaments.

She glances at her current companion, judging his pace and stamina against her own. They're very nearly at the end of their route, which is something of a small mercy. Nevertheless, by the time they close on the final corner, the innercity green in sight, she launches off into a full run.

Comments

[hardcut]

Jogging is its own kind of hell, but in absence of daily rounds all over his corner of the city and practice at George's, it's what he's doing at a minimum. That he has company today is a bit of a surprise, but that's apparently what he gets for underestimating Daenerys's dedication to being in the ideal shape to learn how to punch people--

A breathless laugh escapes him as she bolts ahead.

That's one way to be done when you want to be. Arthur has to navigate around some slower-moving pedestrians who've appears in the span of seconds that separate them, but he pushes ahead at a faster clip to be at her heels, ground beneath their feet transitioning from pavement to grass, crackling and kicking up lingering morning dew. The invisible finish line is a patch of shade off a path and within exhausted-crawling-distance of a drinking fountain, quickly coming into view.