Gender: Male
Age: Two
Preferred Rank: I'm not sure if working with leather would be considered a Traditional or Craftsman job...? Maybe Traditional, since it's sort of like sculpting? But either one of those. :3
Currently Played Characters: N/A
Initial Post:
The boy was gone. Somewhere. Maybe getting food? That was possible. That was...likely. Daemon's hands paused their work as he thought about that, and then carefully began bending and squeezing the leather again, working it into the shape he wanted it. A mask, that was what he wanted; something to hide his scars. Something to hide that scar. He'd unwrapped his hands from the bandages in order to work, but the bald, shaking appendages were being worn to the bone--that was the phrase, wasn't it? Working them to the bone? Daemon thought so--and he would soon stop. He would soon venture out into the moonlight and fetch food--there was something nearby, wasn't there?...Wasn't there? How did one get food? Daemon knew the boy got it. Fion, that was his name. "White." "Fair One." He didn't look white or fair. He looked like a scuffed up little runt. But what fur...Daemon missed fur.
Food, though. Now that he thought about it, his stomach had been growling for some time. And he vaguely remembered putting his plate on the bench outside the pelts, outside the wagon--out in the world--what felt forever ago. Was it filled yet? The leather needed to dry; He set it down somewhere it wouldn't slump and wandered up front to see. The plate was still empty when he pulled the pelt back a sliver and peered through, and there was no sign of it being filled soon. The sun was gone, for which he was grateful; he thought he was, anyway. Wasn't it the sun that had caused the scars? No....no, that had been him. Daemon had done this to himself.
Poking absently at the silver dish sitting in the moonlight, Daemon wondered where Boy had gone. He did that often, when he remembered there was a Boy, though more often he did not. Boy had been gone a long time, hadn't he? And Horse was gone, too. He must have had to go a long way, to take Horse--Viv. Daemon frowned a bit; he didn't like anyone riding Vivica, because of the burns on her back. But...no, what was this? There she was, grazing, only a few yards ahead of him. Horse was here, without Boy. Had he taken her at all? Daemon was getting all twisted around, thinking these complicated thoughts. He thought to join the horse, ask her, perhaps, where Fion had gone--and there was that name, again. "White." "Fair One."--but then he remembered horses don't talk. And, for that matter, neither did he. He went back inside and to his mask, and began carving its surface instead. He forgot there was a Boy; he forgot about Horse.
He ignored the scent of the large group of wolves just outside his wagon, and lost himself in his work. Fion, meanwhile, took a nap underneath the wagon--Daemon should be asleep by now, he'd thought. He had yet to catch up with the strange hours his master worked.[/html]