[AW+] Whittling, Neigh, Sculpting
Ooc here

[Image: Ezsm.png]A chair was placed outside for him, and Ezra took it up happily. Fiorenza had left it there for him, so that he could get some sun, which he was grateful for. Not that the sun was much out these days anyways. The grey slate sky drew on for what seemed like forever, but that wasn't something Ezra minded. The cooler weather was a treat, and the breeze that drew by him was fresh with the scent of damp earth. It was far better than being cooped up in his room all day. If he could walk, he would, and that was just what he did.

Until he came down the steps and found himself tired. That was why he'd taken up the chair, and in his hands he held with him something to do. Putting the cane to lean aside the chair, he opened his little satchel of tools, and from it, plucked a little chunk of softwood. With that in his lap, he then took a knife from the bag, and then set the bag to the earth.

There, sat in the chair, he put the knife to the wood and started shaving away at it's edges. First, the corners came away, and soon he cut away at a quarter of the weight. At this point, it could be just about anything that he was whittling away at, but the image he had in his mind was one that he'd not whittled in quite some time. Bit by bit he chipped away at the wood and shavings began to pile around him, in his lap, and off away into the wind. It wouldn't be long now until he was done with the form, but the details were where the most work was to be done.

The faint image of a horse was now held in his fingers, and he held it up to judge it against the sky. It was a little bit of cedar brightness on a cloudy day, and upon seeing it come to life, he grinned. Pulling it back into his palm, he put the knife to it once more, and started working away at the mane, tail and facial features of the equine totem.

OOC: wordtober - spider. This is the post that never ends. Yes, it goes on and on, my friends... | WC: 466

This whole meeting people thing was difficult. It wasn't that he'd come across anyone who was particularly unfriendly. He just had a difficult time striking up conversation. He was used to not having anyone, or to how it was in his old pack where canines would come up and talk to him whenever they wanted, usually to yell at him for something or other. Battle told him that he needed to talk to someone today. He couldn't just go off into the pack lands and ignore everyone. It wasn't like he was doing that without contributing in any way. He hunted, added meat to the pack's stores, and was getting together a setup so that he could process pelts from the prey.

But really, he needed to talk to someone? Who did Battle think she was? His mom? Not that his mom would have been taking an interest in his wellbeing like this. Still, the thought of just walking up to someone and talking to them made his chest feel tight. For some reason, he didn't want to disappoint her, though, so with a sigh, he'd headed out to find someone.

As he walked around, his porcupine, Spike, ambled along behind him. Petrichor kept his pace slow and on one glance back at his companion, he realized a spider was somehow crawling around on Spike's quills. Great. It wasn't like he could explain what he needed to do to the porcupine. Well, he could, but not in any words that Spike would understand. Hopefully this wouldn't end up with him having a bunch of quills in his hand. With a sigh, he gingerly reached out and flicked the spider away, and was only rewarded with one quill stuck to him.

"Thanks, bud, just what I wanted," Petrichor sighed and cringed before pulling it free. As he tossed it aside, he noticed someone sitting outside who seemed to be whittling something. That could be a conversation topic, right? Either way, it would count. With a fortifying deep breath that he was embarrassed to need, Petrichor walked closer.

"Uh, hey there-" he started and then his mind stuttered. Should he introduce himself? Probably, yeah. "I'm Petrichor, joined a few months ago." Was that necessary? Probably not. He mentally cringed at himself. Then Spike brushed against his leg and Petrichor looked down, alarmed, but the porcupine was just sitting on his haunches like this was the most normal thing. "This is Spike." It often seemed like Spike liked being introduced, too. "Saw that you were whittling, so I thought I might come see how it's going?" Petrichor wondered if he could be more awkward. Could a hole open up below him and swallow him now? No? Damn.
Ooc here

[Image: Ezsm.png]Lost in his carving, marbled eyes focused deeply into the little details of the wooden horse that was finally taking defined shape. Two little eyes carved with the point of a knife, and nostrils, too. A like drew across the muzzle of it, forming a mouth as well.

It wasn't until the voice came from the side that Ezra looked up, ears perked and a bit surprised after being so lost in his work. Nevertheless, the startled lift of his brows faded quickly and a smile found his narrow maw, “Hello there, my friend!” Enthusiastically, he greeted his new company, and bunched everything that he was working with in one hand so that he could lend the other out for a shake. Any Cavalier was a friend, and this Cadet was no different.

Petrichor, a name Ezra had never heard before, was a fresh breath of air, “A pleasure, Petrichor,” He responded, unable to remove his eyes from the halo of quills from the creature that rested at the greyish wolfdog's feet, “And Spike,” A laugh slipped through his maw, “I couldn't imagine where a name like that had come from,” The jest was just that and after a longer look at the strange animal, his eye finally returned to Petrichor.

“Oh this little thing, here?” Separating his knife and his carving between two hand, he offered the little horse up for the wolfdog to inspect with those steely blue eyes, “I've been whittling for quite some time. Seasons come and go, but carving small figures in wood has never left me. It's a good pass of time, especially for an old man like me,” Another laugh slipped through his maw as he shook his head at the notion. He'd never considered living until a ripe old age, but it had certainly snuck up on him.

With the blade of his hand, he brushed the slivers of wood away from his lap, then picked and flicked the bits off of his shirt to look more presentable in his company. He'd not noticed how much work he'd gotten done, but the shavings here certainly gave him an idea, “What about you, friend? Settling into the land of Cavalier's well?” It seemed the proper thing to ask. With the Cadet only being within the ranks for a couple months, by his explanation, surely there was still a bit more settling in to do before he found his calling. That was only normal, Ezra had found, being a friend of the Cavaliers for longer than he inherited their ranks, and ultimately aging out of the rise, "If you have any questions, I'd be happy to answer them to the best of my ability."

WC: 376

Petrichor shook the offered hand, pleased that he would be able to tell Battle he met someone and shook his hand. That would surely please her. He thought that he really shouldn't care as much as he did about what she thought, and yet here he was.

"I haven't done any whittling, but I think it looks good," Petrichor said. He had seen the works of a few different canines, and this was definitely one of the better ones. Petrichor couldn't help but shuffle his feet then while trying to come up with something else to say. This was always the problem. He could start a conversation, sure, but continue it? Yeah, that usually didn't happen and it only made him more anxious when he anticipated this point of it where he didn't know what to say next. Thankfully Ezra did know what to say next.

"It's going petty well, I guess," Petrichor shrugged. "I'm not great at this whole living in a pack thing. My last one, uh--" He caught himself about to overshare. That was progress, too, right? Sometimes he would just ramble and other times he would clam up completely. "Well, things didn't go too well." There, getting the idea across without going into too much detail, even if it was really an understatement. Be he didn't really need to go around telling everyone that his family had kicked him out. That would make them wonder if he was going to do something bad enough to get kicked out of here, too, even though he didn't think that defending his sister had been bad, despite it being what led to him being given the boot.

Questions about the pack... he had a few but of course as soon as the opening came, Petrichor's mind went blank. For a beat too long, he floundered and then finally thought of something.

"One of my skills is to treat pelts to use for fur clothes. I don't tan them into leather." For some reason he had always liked how clothes looked when made from furs rather than leather. "Do you know if there are any skills I could learn that would be helpful, too?"
Ooc here

[Image: Ezsm.png]“Thank you, very much,” Ezra spoke kindly, delighted that Petrichor thought well of it. With all his years of whittling, it still made him happy when someone complimented his work.

“Oh, that I'm sorry to hear,” Brows lifted apologetically. The poet himself was no stranger to the concept of packs going awry, be that cast out, disbanded, or stuck in the throws of combat. All in all, Ezra couldn't say that he didn't miss his first home in Eastern Canada, but his residence within Casa's boundaries wasn't too much to complain about. Aside for the trouble that seemed to happen within the pack, rather than coming from without, “You and I seem to have a bit in common,” A warm smile played on his maw after his words, allowing the man to know that he didn't have to share, but if he ever needed a friend that knew loss, he could find one in Ezra.

There was a brief moment of silence after Petrichor's words that broke their conversation a bit, but Ezra wouldn't push. Fiora was a woman that spoke in her own time, as well, and the poet was familiar with it. He'd not let the silence bother him or shake the grin that was meant for his company away from his muzzle.

“Well, that seems just fine for Casa di Cavalieri,” Marbled eyes grew bright after the Cadet spoke his skill. A lot of the Cavaliers wore furs, as well as the cloaks themselves being lined at their crest. Petrichor would be at no shortage of work.

“If you work with furs, there's quite a bit you can do with that,”
Ezra mused for a moment, but his eyes turned away as his mind got to working, “The Cavalier's are a strong people. If you don't know much about combat, surely you might be able to find someone to show you. Not only this, but if you're not versed in riding, that would be a crucial skill to learn here, as well,” A hand came down and patted on his knee, “I'd show you riding, but this ol' leg simply won't allow it.”

WC: 577

Petrichor had expected a bit of prying for what happened with his old pack, but instead he received understanding that he was not quite sure what to do with. Still, it was comforting to know that he was not the only one in this pack with that sort of issue. Sometimes it was difficult for him to remember that he was not unique with those problems--not that he wanted to be. He was also pleased to hear that the skill he was already good at would be useful, which meant he needed to find out where he could fit those skills in with things that the pack needed. Already he had seen quite a few cloaks, so maybe he could help with making those or something. If nothing else, he suspected that he could add things he made to the pack's storage for anyone to use. First, though, he needed to get things set up for processing skins again since he did not carry those things with him when he traveled. Maybe there was already something like that in the pack and he just had not found it yet.

Fighting and riding. Petrichor knew that Battle knew how to ride, though she did not currently have a horse. He knew that she also knew how to fight. It was no wonder she wanted them to join this pack; it seemed like her skills fit in quite well here. The idea of being up so high on a horse seemed terrifying at best. What if the horse took off on him? What if he fell off? Surely a fall like that would lead to injury. Also the horse had a mind of its own, so what if it did not obey him? Just the thought of all that made his chest clench with anxiety, which he tried not to show in his posture. Glad that he would not have to turn down the offer of horse riding lessons, he instead changed his focus to fighting, which was something he was more familiar with.

"That's alright, I can find someone." Maybe, he refrained from adding. "The most fighting I've done is just tooth and claw," Petrichor admitted, lifting his hands unnecessarily to wiggle his fingers. He quickly let them fall back to his sides when he realized what he was doing, and then crossed his arms, suddenly not sure what he should do with them. Just because he was familiar did not mean that he was highly skilled. "I definitely want to learn something else, though." As he said it, he was surprised to find that it was true. He wanted to be able to defend himself rather than relying on Battle to literally fight his, well, battles, for him.

"Maybe I should start with something that isn't pointy." He did not want to manage to hurt himself. He was accustomed to holding a knife for skinning, but using it as a weapon was different. "Battle, my friend who I joined with, knows how to use a club." Swinging a club around seemed like it would pose less of a risk of hurting himself. "Who do you think I should talk to about other weapons?" Petrichor knew he would have enough trouble walking up and asking for help from someone he knew used a particular weapon, let alone working up the nerve to ask around now that he had managed to talk with Ezra.

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