04-19-2008, 12:44 PM
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The den Tristan had dug was in the base of a hollowed out tree. It was large, one of the older trees in the forest. What made this tree remarkable was that it was still alive—bugs must have gotten into the base, or disease, and made it soft. The space was wide enough for two people, if shifted, though he spent most of his time on four legs. Today though, he was shifted, hands working with a knife on the outside of the tree. One of the truths about his family was that they were all of them artisans.[/html]
Quietly, the red-haired man found form in the wood, letting it reveal itself as he went. A chunk of his long hair fell into his face and he pushed the wavy locks from his face, behind one ear. The design in the tree was becoming a detailed celtic design, one he had seen long ago. Shifting his weight on the rock outside of the entrance, he paused for a moment to brush away the scraps of wood and then went back into his work.