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Date: 04MAR2011Setting: Cercatori d'Arte→Thornbury Time: Mid-morning. Character Form: Optime |
3+ Near Orin's shop and Mars' house.[/html]
She'd done it. For the first time in a long time, she'd finished filling the pages of a blank book with stories told by her father in her youth. Children's stories. Not that she had any children to offer them to, but it was a start; perhaps she could pawn them off to pack members, or to strangers, in return for furniture or other items for the Russo household. Her white-tipped fingers rifled through the pages of the handmade literature, studying her handwriting with narrow eyes. She always scrutinized her own work, noticing where the 't's weren't properly crossed or the 'i's properly dotted. No one else ever seemed to care.
Pink eyes moved from the pages to the ground to the trees. Winter was there, but winter was starting to leave. Of course, with the snowstorm, it was out like a lion. She just hoped no more snow would be piled onto the world. It was bad enough that she was left in such a cold place with only Bartholomew as a friend, it would be made worse if she was left homeless too. A sigh escaped her, head shaking slightly; she brought her shoulders up to hide her neck in the warm leather of her jacket. There was still so much to do, and so many people to meet, and then maybe she would be comfortable living on her own in the strange pack.
Turning her mind from darker thoughts, the Californian mutt plopped herself down on the snowy ground, digging through a bag that held empty paper and empty bindings. Time to make another book, for another story, that would sit on a shelf until some wandering puppy managed to get a hold of it. Out came pages that were shoved into a leather shell, followed by thick thread and a needle to sew with. "Here's hopin' my hands don't go numb, eh?"