Freida hesitates outside, both her fists locked around the handles of a large shopping bag. Mikal's gift is inside, still waiting. She desperately wants to hand it over. The thought of making Spindle's eyes light up...
Ridiculous. It's supposed to be for Mikal.
"I'm such an idiot," she mutters, spinning on her heel and heading off down the corridor. She stops at the nearest bulletin board, intent of swiping a piece of paper so she can write a note on the back of it. Instead she finds Spindle's own posting. "Repairs, huh?"
Grabbing another advert that's weeks overdue and using the fabric pencil still tucked behind her ear, she scribbles:
S-- Ended up busting my boombox and need music to work. Think you can help me? --Freida
Then, smiling, she heads off to slip the note under Spindle's door, pretty sure that she can do a decent job with a hammer, too.
Sometime late that night, Spindle unlocks his door. Glancing about, he sees Dain is off again. He's been working, I know that. But not in the shop and I haven't seen him about town... so where the fuck is he hiding out?
He drops his bag and bundle onto the bed and flicks on the radio. The sounds of a violin fill the room quietly. The radio still needs a lot of work, especially with the language problem, but it seems to have been trained to know what stations it's master prefers. He sits in his desk chair and rubs at his eyes. Probably bloodshot... again. After a moment, he stands and hangs his haversack from the back of his chair. The long bundle he props up inn his closet, which of late seems to be storing more of his work materials than clothing. Then, he flops facedown onto the bed. Pretty smegging early, but, hellsleet!, I'm tired. He starts to drift off
( ... )
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Freida hesitates outside, both her fists locked around the handles of a large shopping bag. Mikal's gift is inside, still waiting. She desperately wants to hand it over. The thought of making Spindle's eyes light up...
Ridiculous. It's supposed to be for Mikal.
"I'm such an idiot," she mutters, spinning on her heel and heading off down the corridor. She stops at the nearest bulletin board, intent of swiping a piece of paper so she can write a note on the back of it. Instead she finds Spindle's own posting. "Repairs, huh?"
Grabbing another advert that's weeks overdue and using the fabric pencil still tucked behind her ear, she scribbles:
S--
Ended up busting my boombox and need music to work. Think you can help me?
--Freida
Then, smiling, she heads off to slip the note under Spindle's door, pretty sure that she can do a decent job with a hammer, too.
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He drops his bag and bundle onto the bed and flicks on the radio. The sounds of a violin fill the room quietly. The radio still needs a lot of work, especially with the language problem, but it seems to have been trained to know what stations it's master prefers. He sits in his desk chair and rubs at his eyes. Probably bloodshot... again. After a moment, he stands and hangs his haversack from the back of his chair. The long bundle he props up inn his closet, which of late seems to be storing more of his work materials than clothing. Then, he flops facedown onto the bed. Pretty smegging early, but, hellsleet!, I'm tired. He starts to drift off ( ... )
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