(no subject)
Week Name/Date/Time: 'Countdown to Darkness' / Monday, Oct 24th / 10:15 a.m.
Location: Library
Open to: Audrey
Currently involving: Jory
Truth be told, Jory preferred composing letters outside because it just seemed like a peaceful sort of outside-ish activity; although, to be fair, writing a letter to his grandmother was anything but peaceful. It was bloody stressful, actually.
But the library was quieter than the common room and warmer than outside, so there he was, at his favorite table (if he had a favorite table, and it was suddenly occurring to him that he didn't have a lot of favorite things in this world, how troubling), with a blank piece of parchment (save for the words "Dear Grandmother" scrawled at the top), a quill, and a bottle of ink in front of him.
Instead of writing, though, he was staring at the ancient ceiling of the library and tipping his chair back so that it rested on the back two legs. This was more fun. He wasn't sure he had ever taken a nap in such a precarious position, but naps were on his very short list of favorite things, so perhaps he needed to branch out. He debated, for a moment, taking a nap in the library where people could look at him and try to tip his chair over and, if they so wished, steal his quill.
Never mind on the nap. He stared at the ceiling. Never mind on the letter, too.
Location: Library
Open to: Audrey
Currently involving: Jory
Truth be told, Jory preferred composing letters outside because it just seemed like a peaceful sort of outside-ish activity; although, to be fair, writing a letter to his grandmother was anything but peaceful. It was bloody stressful, actually.
But the library was quieter than the common room and warmer than outside, so there he was, at his favorite table (if he had a favorite table, and it was suddenly occurring to him that he didn't have a lot of favorite things in this world, how troubling), with a blank piece of parchment (save for the words "Dear Grandmother" scrawled at the top), a quill, and a bottle of ink in front of him.
Instead of writing, though, he was staring at the ancient ceiling of the library and tipping his chair back so that it rested on the back two legs. This was more fun. He wasn't sure he had ever taken a nap in such a precarious position, but naps were on his very short list of favorite things, so perhaps he needed to branch out. He debated, for a moment, taking a nap in the library where people could look at him and try to tip his chair over and, if they so wished, steal his quill.
Never mind on the nap. He stared at the ceiling. Never mind on the letter, too.