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Jul 24, 2009 21:41

Somehow, (with perhaps bending the laws of narrative physics), it is possible to fit a griffin into the mostly-enclosed piloting station at the stern of the ship that Wellard's been working on for ( Read more... )

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conglomerelda September 12 2009, 02:32:52 UTC
"Henry?" Elda calls over her shoulder. She's half out of sight, her head and front claws crammed into one of the panels. "Do we have anymore chalk?"

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politestpirate September 12 2009, 03:02:03 UTC
"There were a few sticks left, in the bottom of the tool case-"

And, as it is far easier for him to manuever around than Elda in the cramped confines of the Pilot Station, with a careful step and twist around one of the wheels, Wellard manages to hook one corner of the case, pull it closer, and start rumaging through it.

"Does it matter what color?"

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conglomerelda September 12 2009, 03:11:30 UTC
"No, no. So long as it's the softer kind- I don't think the hard ones would mark the wood as well, here. Even if it would give me a thinner line to work with."

One wing twitches in an unconscious reaction. Wellard may or may not get smacked in the shins.

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politestpirate September 13 2009, 06:43:58 UTC
"Careful, there." An absent-minded mutter as Wellard searches the case for one of the larger pieces of chalk.

It's hardly the first bump he's gotten since he started building the ship. Odds are it won't be the last.

He grabs a few pieces, and after setting the case down on top of the bench built into the back wall, kneels down carefully to hand one of them to Elda.

"I could see about getting some different types of chalk pencils, or other marking tools from the bar, if you'd like."

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