(no subject)
It wasn't much of a desk.
Ian had woken up a week ago to a wooden box heavy at the foot of the bed and, when he'd opened, his eyes had widened. He'd spent a long while up in Fraser's Ridge putting together a box similar to this, a box containing all of the tools which a man who wished to work with wood would rightly need. He'd made furniture for Auntie Claire, as well as for Bree and Roger, Fergus and his bonny lassie.
Seemed that God, or the island, had decided that Ian Murray could be of use with his hands once again.
Evey appeared to have moved out of the Mohawk hut and, while Ian wasn't exactly sure what he thought of that, it didn't stop him realising that, within sight of the treehouse, the wee hut was perfect as a workshop, and it hadn't stopped him setting up shop.
Ian looked up from the wood that he was planing, and his son was looking at him from the wee rocker than Ian had made for him. It seemed to him that, already, only two and half months after his birth, Jamie had got that dubious look of his mother's exactly down pat.
"Aye, well, laddie, practice makes perfect, ken," said Ian, blowing sawdust and smoothing the length of the wood with the flat of his callused hand.
ooc: yet another NDPD post. Ian's canonically not a bad hand with a piece of wood, so anybody who's looking for furniture can feel free to drop by. He'll be advertising (I think) in the times, but this'd be an excellent time to make an informal acquaintance.
Ian had woken up a week ago to a wooden box heavy at the foot of the bed and, when he'd opened, his eyes had widened. He'd spent a long while up in Fraser's Ridge putting together a box similar to this, a box containing all of the tools which a man who wished to work with wood would rightly need. He'd made furniture for Auntie Claire, as well as for Bree and Roger, Fergus and his bonny lassie.
Seemed that God, or the island, had decided that Ian Murray could be of use with his hands once again.
Evey appeared to have moved out of the Mohawk hut and, while Ian wasn't exactly sure what he thought of that, it didn't stop him realising that, within sight of the treehouse, the wee hut was perfect as a workshop, and it hadn't stopped him setting up shop.
Ian looked up from the wood that he was planing, and his son was looking at him from the wee rocker than Ian had made for him. It seemed to him that, already, only two and half months after his birth, Jamie had got that dubious look of his mother's exactly down pat.
"Aye, well, laddie, practice makes perfect, ken," said Ian, blowing sawdust and smoothing the length of the wood with the flat of his callused hand.
ooc: yet another NDPD post. Ian's canonically not a bad hand with a piece of wood, so anybody who's looking for furniture can feel free to drop by. He'll be advertising (I think) in the times, but this'd be an excellent time to make an informal acquaintance.