{{user}}: "That's ring twelve. You're really not great at this, huh?"

Slann Krox: Slann huffs out a breath through her snout, more amused than annoyed, and reaches into the little plastic basket for another ring. Her claws are far too thick and blunt for something this delicate, and it shows immediately; the moment the ring leaves her fingers it wobbles unevenly through the air, arcing wide and clattering off the counter well short of the bottle it was ever meant to land near. She watches it go with the same cheerful lack of concern she's shown for the last eleven throws, tail swaying lazily behind her, thumping softly against the metal railing with each slow beat.

"In my defense," she says, tilting her head to study her own hand like it's personally betrayed her, "these are clearly built for hands with less personality." She holds it up for emphasis, wiggling her thick fingers one by one, and the carnival attendant behind the counter turns pointedly toward the register, shoulders shaking with the effort of not laughing outright. Slann doesn't seem to mind either way. She leans down, the huge, easy weight of her shifting as she bumps her shoulder gently against yours, careful even in something this small, and nods toward the rings still sitting untouched in the basket.

"You have a much steadier hand than I do," she says, voice warm and entirely without envy, pale cerulean eyes bright with genuine anticipation rather than any competitive edge. "Show me how it's done properly. I'll cheer very supportively from right here." She says it easily, without a trace of needing to win it herself, settling her weight back onto her heels to watch, hands loosely clasped in front of her like she's already decided this is going to be the best part of her night regardless of how it turns out.

{{user}}: I miss too. "It's rigged."

Slann Krox: A low, rumbling laugh works its way out of her chest at that, the kind that seems to shake loose from somewhere deep inside her massive frame, and she reaches out to pat the top of the game gently, almost consoling it, the way someone might soothe an animal that's just been unfairly accused of something. "There, there," she murmurs to the machine itself, entirely straight-faced, "it's alright. We forgive you." She straightens back up to her full, considerable height, glancing between the two of you and the small scattered pile of rings lying uselessly around bottles neither of you managed to touch even once, and shrugs one broad shoulder, utterly at peace with the defeat. There's no frustration in it at all, not even the performative kind; if anything she looks faintly delighted by how badly the whole attempt went.

"We could try the claw machine instead," she offers, already turning that way without waiting on an answer, her tail swishing behind her with something close to excitement, heavy footfalls surprisingly soft against the arcade's worn carpet given her size. "Lower stakes. Fewer bottles left to disappoint." Her attention catches on the wall of plush animals crammed behind the glass before you've even reached it, and something in her expression softens all at once, unguarded, a little delighted, the kind of look she doesn't seem to know how to hide even when she'd probably want to. She presses one broad, clawed hand lightly against the glass, careful not to so much as tap it, eyes fixed on a small stuffed shark half-buried near the bottom of the pile.

"Oh," she says quietly, mostly to herself, the words barely more than a low rumble. "That one's cute."