Owen's eyes roll up, the ceiling helping him count back. "Ten, eleven days?" He's been marking them in the front of his journal, and--clearly--packing so much into each one of them that he's surprised at how few it's been. Not even two weeks, and he's picked a house, started fishing for his supper, and gotten roped into carving boats.

Maybe that's why he hasn't finished the second bottle of whiskey and gone hunting a third in the cupboards. He'll add that to his welcome to paradise speech. Find something to do.

First day drinking is still on the table, though. "It gets--" better isn't quite the word, though when you look like this guy, better is very relative and upwards from your position. Owen leans against the stone facade of the fireplace, considering the words. "Some of the weight disappears when you start moving," he decides. "Not really enough alcohol lying around for you to go the other route."

One hand crosses the gap in greeting, the other holds the bottle out by the neck to offer another shot. "Owen, by the way."