Jude doesn't recognize the man as the rangy hermit he'd seen on his way out of the fountain. Truthfully, the encounter is almost entirely gone from memory, a tense thing with rocks at the ready and paranoia crawling his skin that had built into a headache, strobed into a dance of shadows on the wall, cast by a sun that wouldn't set--and ultimately disappearing from his mind.
He's back in the hall, his injuries mending well enough and his strength returning with sleep on an actual bed and regular meals. There had been an actual sketching pad in the supplies strewn against the back wall, and no one had challenged him when he picked it up, or the set of colored pencils. A tired young man had watched him for a moment, then shrugged, telling him to at least put them to good use.
He doesn't know if sketches qualify, much as they're the point of the thing. It's a sturdy volume, one he might recreate with his paper project if he could find some twine and salvage the covers off the destroyed books. He'd have to make two, he thinks: one for Sam, and one for Credence.
The thought is almost stranger to him than what the man is talking about. Jude has taken a seat nearby, not entirely to listen--the same rocks, it's ridiculous, and falls squarely in the I don't want to think about it pile, but Jude's been drawn over by the man's clothing. It has a drape and color that he finds interesting, certainly more so than scrubs, and he likes the way it moves with the man's gesturing arms. The book open on his lap, he has more than one sketch to fill in, the man in pencil and his clothing in its respective colors, graceful lines implying the shift of the cloth.
no subject
He's back in the hall, his injuries mending well enough and his strength returning with sleep on an actual bed and regular meals. There had been an actual sketching pad in the supplies strewn against the back wall, and no one had challenged him when he picked it up, or the set of colored pencils. A tired young man had watched him for a moment, then shrugged, telling him to at least put them to good use.
He doesn't know if sketches qualify, much as they're the point of the thing. It's a sturdy volume, one he might recreate with his paper project if he could find some twine and salvage the covers off the destroyed books. He'd have to make two, he thinks: one for Sam, and one for Credence.
The thought is almost stranger to him than what the man is talking about. Jude has taken a seat nearby, not entirely to listen--the same rocks, it's ridiculous, and falls squarely in the I don't want to think about it pile, but Jude's been drawn over by the man's clothing. It has a drape and color that he finds interesting, certainly more so than scrubs, and he likes the way it moves with the man's gesturing arms. The book open on his lap, he has more than one sketch to fill in, the man in pencil and his clothing in its respective colors, graceful lines implying the shift of the cloth.