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sixthiterationlogs2017-02-07 10:44 am
warriorborn) wrote in sixthiterationlogs2017-02-07 10:44 am
(no subject)
WHO: Benedict Sorellin-Lancaster
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: February 7, midafternoon
OPEN TO: Peggy Carter, Credence Barebone
WARNINGS: none at the moment
STATUS: open
With lunch made, consumed, and now tidied up, Benedict is at something of a loss for what to do. There aren't nearly as many chores for him to tackle in the dead of winter as there were when he first arrived, which means he winds up holed up in the Inn common room, near the fire, with one of his blankets from the gifts he'd been given and his very fascinating copy of Tarzan of the Apes.
It is set on the Surface, in a thick jungle rife with wild animals that could tear you limb from limb if they so chose, and Benedict is both horrified and desperately intrigued as to how anyone could possibly live there. The fact that he, himself, is also living on the Surface is something he tries not to think much about. He's still half-convinced it's only a matter of time before a nest of Silkweavers overruns the habble and they'll all be horrifically murdered before any sort of defense can be mustered. Without his gauntlet here, or even his sword, he knows he won't be much of a match for a real opponent, let alone a contingent of them. Murderous fauna just one more entry in the long list of things that are apparently out to kill them, behind the weather, it seems.
The door is open, allowing noise and heat to seep in and out of the room, so Benedict isn't completely shut off from the rest of the community, glancing up from his book every time someone passes by to see who it is in case they require his assistance.
WHERE: The Inn
WHEN: February 7, midafternoon
OPEN TO: Peggy Carter, Credence Barebone
WARNINGS: none at the moment
STATUS: open
With lunch made, consumed, and now tidied up, Benedict is at something of a loss for what to do. There aren't nearly as many chores for him to tackle in the dead of winter as there were when he first arrived, which means he winds up holed up in the Inn common room, near the fire, with one of his blankets from the gifts he'd been given and his very fascinating copy of Tarzan of the Apes.
It is set on the Surface, in a thick jungle rife with wild animals that could tear you limb from limb if they so chose, and Benedict is both horrified and desperately intrigued as to how anyone could possibly live there. The fact that he, himself, is also living on the Surface is something he tries not to think much about. He's still half-convinced it's only a matter of time before a nest of Silkweavers overruns the habble and they'll all be horrifically murdered before any sort of defense can be mustered. Without his gauntlet here, or even his sword, he knows he won't be much of a match for a real opponent, let alone a contingent of them. Murderous fauna just one more entry in the long list of things that are apparently out to kill them, behind the weather, it seems.
The door is open, allowing noise and heat to seep in and out of the room, so Benedict isn't completely shut off from the rest of the community, glancing up from his book every time someone passes by to see who it is in case they require his assistance.