(Untitled)

[almost_arabian]

Lawrence is currently sitting at a chair somewhat near the fire, thick-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

There is a worn copy of Arabia Deserta by C.M. Doughty in his hands. Still his favorite of Doughty's books, he'd told him that over and over.

Do bother him - he won't mind too terribly.

Comments

[vs_nuggan]

Maybe Lawrence's ear will be distracted by the quietly crying infant, or his eye by the babe's exhausted mother rocking him to sleep by the fire.

Or maybe not.

[almost_arabian]

Lawrence doesn't have much of an eye for exhausted people, but the crying child does cause him to perk a little.

"Miss?" He sets the book down into a pocket of his robes and then smiles just a tad.

[vs_nuggan]

She glances over, smiling a little apologetically.

"Sorry sir." she says quietly, dark marks visible under her eyes.

[almost_arabian]

He frowns, walking over to the edge of the fire.

"Are you perhaps doing any better? I assume you've spoken to Mal about her recent actions."

His fingers itch for a smoke, but he assumes she'd probably frown upon it with the child around.

[bad_as_he_is]

He bounds over, a bright smile on his face as he skids up in front of Lawrence.

"Mister Lawrence! Mister Lawrence!"

[almost_arabian]

And Lawrence stares.

"Yes, Tom? Are you quite all right?"

[bad_as_he_is]

He nods at near-sonic speeds before grinning at him at nigh-sun bright levels.

"I've a job, Mister Lawrence, with Mister Gimli at the forge out back. He said I'm to start sometime today and he said he'd teach me how to do forge work as I go!"

[almost_arabian]

Ah, he's seen that sort of energy before.

He grins. "I should think you're quite fitting to such a job, Tom. Though I'm not familiar with smithing myself, nor have I met this Mister Gimli."

He sets the book aside for the moment, in order to give Tom his full attention.

[not_one_drop]

Mal has been sitting nearby for quite a while, a sketchpad in hand, trying out designs of swords. She's moved off her usual rapier, and has been experimenting with curving scimitars.

At least, before she started sketching the hand and arm attached to the scimitar, complete with robes. Occasionally, she'll glance up, trying to get the texture right.

[almost_arabian]

Well, Lawrence has been drawn before and he can feel eyes watching him, so he simply stays mostly-still even while he sips his tea.

How odd.

[not_one_drop]

She moves upward from the arm, now drawing from memory, trying to capture whirling robes and graceful steps.

Her hand slips, and she swears quietly, erasing a line.

[almost_arabian]

He won't peek, but he does walk over to her and sit some distance away.

"Artistic difficulties?" He lofts a brow.