I am nothing but an artist, and I'll never understand [OTA, multithreads welcome]
Neal starts the day sitting behind his cabin, shirt unbuttoned, trilby in place, a piece of slate and several bits of charcoal gathered from around the camp sitting in his lap. He doesn't look like he's slept much, if at all. On the slate, there's a half-completed rendering of Vuillard's The Stitch. He stops often, rubs things out, not showing an inkling of frustration over the primitive tools he's trying to work with--just focusing entirely on the piece.
In the library, he's going through the piles of books and trying to put them in some kind of order, throwing debris and broken shelf-bits to the side of the room. He's got the surviving frames of several shelves stacked together to one side, and a rock and some nails he's found scattered about the room piled next to them. Neal reaches up every once in a while as he works to make sure his hat is still in place.
He makes a trip to the storehouse some time around noon, picking up some food to leave at his cabin for Peter and Nill and also finding himself something to pick at. He takes his meal--what looks like some kind of meat jerky, a celery stick and a tomato--and settles under the oak tree. To... not eat. He's considering using the celery as a catapult for the tomato, actually.
In the late afternoon, Neal slips out of the barracks and around to the stream at the south side of the wall. He strips down to his boxers and plunges in up to his neck, trying to figure out a way to get clean while still wearing the damn hat.
He likes hats. Just not having to wear one all the time.
And also, this isn't working.
Finally, frustrated, he takes it off--and spends a few minutes curled up on the shore as a little white fox, trying to shake of the pain and vertigo. He's starting to get a residual ache from changing back and forth so much. Here's hoping that cleaning his stupid fur will at least get his hair clean too.
Later, still at the stream, passerby might happen to see a little white fox, soaked through, playing tug of war with an otter over a hat.
In the library, he's going through the piles of books and trying to put them in some kind of order, throwing debris and broken shelf-bits to the side of the room. He's got the surviving frames of several shelves stacked together to one side, and a rock and some nails he's found scattered about the room piled next to them. Neal reaches up every once in a while as he works to make sure his hat is still in place.
He makes a trip to the storehouse some time around noon, picking up some food to leave at his cabin for Peter and Nill and also finding himself something to pick at. He takes his meal--what looks like some kind of meat jerky, a celery stick and a tomato--and settles under the oak tree. To... not eat. He's considering using the celery as a catapult for the tomato, actually.
In the late afternoon, Neal slips out of the barracks and around to the stream at the south side of the wall. He strips down to his boxers and plunges in up to his neck, trying to figure out a way to get clean while still wearing the damn hat.
He likes hats. Just not having to wear one all the time.
And also, this isn't working.
Finally, frustrated, he takes it off--and spends a few minutes curled up on the shore as a little white fox, trying to shake of the pain and vertigo. He's starting to get a residual ache from changing back and forth so much. Here's hoping that cleaning his stupid fur will at least get his hair clean too.
Later, still at the stream, passerby might happen to see a little white fox, soaked through, playing tug of war with an otter over a hat.