Daemon wasn't usually up at this time. It was easier to sleep through the hottest hours of the day than to suffer them under a cloak. But today he hadn't been able to sleep. It might, perhaps, have been due to their new home in Thornbury; Fion had been helping him cover the windows for the past couple days, and it was finally done, well enough that he enjoyed being holed up in his home. At night, he usually opened the doors and pulled back the pelts covering the windows, letting in the fresh, crisp night air and the moonlight to keep everything from getting musty. FIon, especially, enjoyed this; it let in the warm summer air when the stone walls would otherwise make it cold and damp. Daemon enjoyed it because the moonlight and the air came from all directions, instead of just a crosswind from one to the other; the wagon, while his home, had never been as perfect as the house they'd claimed was.
Daemon, in particular, enjoyed his bed. It was mostly large, soft blankets, and a firm leather mat he'd made himself, just to keep between his body and the floor, but it was much better than sleeping on leather alone; much softer. He tended to curl up without his bandages among all his blankets and play dead to the world. He'd tried to do that today; it hadn't worked so well. He'd ended up lying awake, listening to Fion snore on a mat similar to his own, and watching a sliver of sunlight fall across the other boy's face, not disturbing him even when it glistened over his eyelids. Daemon watched for a long time, until he finally had to creep from his own bed, shaking off the blankets irritably and finding his cloak. He refused to be unproductive, even if he refused in simpler words than that; he would go and find something to do, perhaps craft something simple--a few simple pouches, or a belt, maybe.
He was stopped from this train of thought as he came to realize all his things were still in the wagon, and the wagon was by the stables, with Vivica. He stood in his doorway for a long time, hesitating, before he stepped out, forgoing the mask in favor of simply ducking his head and taking quick steps. Even through the heavy, dark wool, he could feel the sun's heat burning his delicate skin--he'd need another touch of salve soon, and some painkillers, by the time he went home. The road was hot beneath his feet, and he did an odd hop-and-step as he walked, his mind wandering from thought to thought without settling on anything--until he came across someone working on their steps, and he paused, curiosity over-ruling manners. He stepped closer, his feet burning on the dirt and what was left of concrete and asphalt, and he peered at the stone tools curiously, or what he could see of them, and then reached out to poke at the one working on them, making a curious, "Aaahhh!" noise.
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