Early Sunday morning, Week 5, WhiteOak (Sept 28)
Breakfast? Spindle glances over at his desk clock. Damn. Cafeteria isn't open for another freaking hour. Lazy slacklobs. Spindle glances over at the remains of the carrots and honnied apples he had eaten late last night. Traditional, I suppose, for Rosh Hashanah, but not very filling.
Leaning back in his desk chair, Spindle continues to whittle at the small block of rosewood. The light of dawn comes in through the open window, accompanied by the sound of mourning doves and crows. I could make this out of copper sheets and bronze welding rods a lot easier, but I need the practice on working with wood. The slivers of wood scatter themselves across the half finshed essay. It had started out as one of his English assignments, a review of Poe's "The Angel of the Odd", but somewhere along the line it had morphed into a comparison of the tale to Plato's concept of an ideal world, and from there into a discourse on nocker freeholds. It would probably be an excellent paper if he could a) figure out which class he could use it for and b) get around to finishing it.
I wonder if Freida's awake yet? 6:23 am. Hmmm... no, doubtful. Maybe she'd like to go to breakfast with me? Spindle frowns for a moment, an expression that often looks more natural on a Nocker than smiling. The knife ceases, as Spindle thinks.
She keeps asking about nightmares... Ailan and Aidan, I know, they've had night terrors since I've known them, probably longer. Hell, if it wasn't for all of those midnight meetings last year I probably wouldn't ever have know what good guys those beanpoles are.
Setting down the knife, he leans forward and grabs his coffee mug. The coffee has gone cold, but the drink wets his throat. After a moment, he stands and heads over to the bookcase. He pulls out his books and notes from Chimerical Physics, along with a worn leather bound journal from his days as an Apprentice. Dropping them onto his desk, he clears the wood shavings into the trash and sets aside his homework. As the sun rises, Spindle begins to compare various sections of the notes. And he writes...
Leaning back in his desk chair, Spindle continues to whittle at the small block of rosewood. The light of dawn comes in through the open window, accompanied by the sound of mourning doves and crows. I could make this out of copper sheets and bronze welding rods a lot easier, but I need the practice on working with wood. The slivers of wood scatter themselves across the half finshed essay. It had started out as one of his English assignments, a review of Poe's "The Angel of the Odd", but somewhere along the line it had morphed into a comparison of the tale to Plato's concept of an ideal world, and from there into a discourse on nocker freeholds. It would probably be an excellent paper if he could a) figure out which class he could use it for and b) get around to finishing it.
I wonder if Freida's awake yet? 6:23 am. Hmmm... no, doubtful. Maybe she'd like to go to breakfast with me? Spindle frowns for a moment, an expression that often looks more natural on a Nocker than smiling. The knife ceases, as Spindle thinks.
She keeps asking about nightmares... Ailan and Aidan, I know, they've had night terrors since I've known them, probably longer. Hell, if it wasn't for all of those midnight meetings last year I probably wouldn't ever have know what good guys those beanpoles are.
Setting down the knife, he leans forward and grabs his coffee mug. The coffee has gone cold, but the drink wets his throat. After a moment, he stands and heads over to the bookcase. He pulls out his books and notes from Chimerical Physics, along with a worn leather bound journal from his days as an Apprentice. Dropping them onto his desk, he clears the wood shavings into the trash and sets aside his homework. As the sun rises, Spindle begins to compare various sections of the notes. And he writes...